There she sits, ever the image of the lonely widow, the sole occupant of the pew closest to me. Playful draughts lift up from the cool stones and dance in the ermine at her milky white neck. A word from me and she bows her head in supplication. Soft brown curls at her nape tip forward against her exposed collar bone. She suggests penitence in the graceful curve of her shoulders and lowered gaze. Only I know better.
I smooth my fingers along the gossamer-fine pages resting in front of me. I have no need of them. The well-worn words spill forth, sonorous amongst the hushed echoing whispers of choral responses. As I regard my flock, the only reverence I have is for the dark swell of cleavage, just visible beneath her dipped head. From my position, she has provided me with the perfect view. Temptress.
Only moments ago was she on her knees before me, head tilted back at the perfect height and angle to receive. Sweet, smoky incense surrounded us as she parted her scarlet clad lips and gently presented her moist tongue to me. Steady and assuredly, I placed the crumb upon it, holding it there a touch too long, uttering, "the body of Christ, keep you in eternal life."
Deep hazel eyes fluttered open and up at me, encased by immaculate dark lines of kohl and endless fanned lashes. "Amen." The word is an invitation. So be it.
The word resounds again with finality, the many voices wresting me from my reverie. I draw the service to its blessed close. I open my arms wide, embracing all the watchers, saturating them in the peace of the lord. At once, the wave of departures begins to ebb and flow along the aisles but one vision remains of fervent prayer in the front row.
Finally, the next rite can begin.
Silently, I slip back to the vestry: my office, my sanctuary. I check all is secure, removing my outer surplice and stole, closing the vestment wardrobe door tightly. I seat myself at my large, expertly organised desk and wait.
A subtle knock speaks at my door.
"Enter."
For a brief moment, she stands framed in my doorway, a masterpiece to be admired. My gaze takes in her perfectly tailored two piece suit, navy, fur trimmed. A small complementary pillbox hat adorns the finger waves tumbling against her high sculpted cheekbones. Lambskin gloves, pale ivory in colour, clasp both the door handle and the frame, steadying both her teetering stilettos and her nerves. She reeks of expensive perfume and lust: a heady mix.
Almost believable in her tentativeness, she steps lightly over the threshold and asks with her smooth treble, "Are you ready to receive me, Father?"
I lean back in my chair and beckon her inside with a wave of my hand, legs spreading slightly to accommodate the growing sense of urgency pressing against my thigh. So delicious. I turn my eyes from her to look down at a nondescript memo beneath my hand. It would not do for her to see the heat growing my gaze. Yet.
She enters slowly, aware of how she controls every limb and curve she owns to wield them with seductive power. As she pushes shut the door and heavily turns the key, I flick my eyes at her rear view: they travel up the fierce points of her heels, up the lines of her stockings, eventually landing on the wide hips barely contained within her figure-fitting pencil skirt.
Oh, these war widows know how to set us men alight and do so, quite rightly, without fear of condemnation. I consider it my service and duty to ensure certain needs are met in the absence of those previously chosen by God to do so. Luckily, as a well-built single man, carrying my age and stature gracefully, my services seem in constant demand. And I am certainly a man of duty never afraid to be called to action.
"Mrs McManus. How may I be of service to you today?" I ask. I look directly at her now, as she steps forward steadily, removing her gloves slowly, enjoying the attention. She comes to rest opposite me, lowering the tips of her fingers to rest in front of mine splayed on the desk. I meet her sultry gaze. "Is it guidance or do we have some other act in mind?"
She leans forward, her glorious cleavage once again presented to me, stoking my appetite. Her lips part invitingly as she utters, "I was hoping to spiritually and physically find a connection to a higher power. I always feel so...satisfied, and...renewed after our time together, Father."
My hardening cock twitches and my heavy balls tighten at the thought of what is to come. This vixen knows the effect she has. The cassock's heavy fabric betrays no secrets, though her glance is most certainly scouring for the truth of my arousal. Thoughts of her, naked, in bed with previous lovers, her husband, other playthings, flit across my mind: yet, she returns to me. Flattering. And unsurprising. The thrill of the prohibited combined with my prowess is a draw few can resist. Who am I to deny bodily pleasure and comfort as well as spiritual? After all, we are made of flesh.
"Mrs McManus." I push back from my desk yet remain seated. "Your presence here is always a blessing to us both, I feel." My eyes have not once strayed from her ample breasts. "I must tell you though, my evening's intended ministrations to the unfortunate prevent me from spending as much time...seeing to your needs...as I would wish." My thoughts are lost in the idea of plunging my face between them and starving myself of breath.
Her breath quickens slightly, chest rising and falling in tandem. "Then we must not delay." Her fingers remain firmly pressed into the aging green leather of my desk, small indentations forming as her scarlet nails claw gently, as she is wont to do on my back.
