The church was non descript when compared to a great City Cathedral but for the village it was their defining piece of architecture. Perched on a hill flanked by an overgrown apple orchard and the dotted teeth of cemetery stones it was a reminder of the past, a reflection of the present, and subjugation of the future.
Tonight however this stage of alters, stained glass windows, and cavernous musty space was being commandeered, swept into a scene of exposition, of surrender to him and a town infatuated by her beauty.
She considered herself to be intrepid her bravery built on the trust they had together, their chemistry that meshed effortlessly. Many times they had wandered down the path of dominance and submission, each time pushing boundaries finding that delicate and delicious boundary between pleasure and pain.
Tonight was different, much different. Tonight there was an audience, voyeurs not participants, and hand picked members of a club that were bound by certain covenants, who filled the front pews of the church.
He had lit the church with one hundred hand made candles with each flame capturing slivers of bricks and stone and wind. Alone one candle might strike fear for the unknown but together they suspended realty, created mystery and provided some protection from the wandering eyes.
Two violinists, a cellist and a flute player, accompanied by a singer who seemed to construct her own language provided the music to lose one into.
She waited patiently in the wings of the church. She caught her reflection in a window. Dressed in a sheer black frock, naked underneath the silhouette of her body would be revealed in the light of the night. The bells of the church went off. It was midnight the end of a day and the beginning of the next. Twelve sounds like a canon.