Picture a small, ancient, but exquisitely beautiful church in Lower Manhattan. Our little group meets here weekly, after the Sunday service, in the basement. For a mutual purpose... not exactly clandestine, but... secret. Anonymous, shall we say.
We are from all walks of life, Orthodox Jews, Irish Catholics, Muslims, agnostics, even atheists... I was once an adherent to a far older creed. But we have one thing in common.
We have all trainwrecked, one way or another, over the rampant misuse of our God given sexuality.
Some of us started out modestly enough, some were satyrs and nymphs (or both) from our very first awakening. But we all ended up in a similar place. Careers and reputations tainted or ruined, marriages dead, relationships destroyed. This is where we tell our stories, to the extent it's possible, without "triggering" one another: of our fall, and our fumbling journey back to wholeness, to grace, in the light of the Spirit.
You're the rarest of creatures in this demimonde: a woman, and a beautiful one. Most reject this form of therapy, knowing that their very presence causes ripples of disquiet. But here you are.
The sight of you stops my heart. My own ripples hide a tsunami. One I dare not display, lest it wipe out everything around me. Again.
As we go around the circle, sharing our stories, sometimes I can scarcely hear a word. Or look at you. Today, you're seated next to me. The pounding of my blood threatens to drown out everything.
When it's your turn to speak, I regard you, as it's now safe to do so openly. Your voice, pealing like silver bells. The late afternoon sunlight slanting through a window.... side-lighting your huge, crystal-hazel eyes. Illuminating, igniting them. Catching in your hair, raising glints of gold, setting fires. I drink in the sight of your full lips, your long, elegant throat.
You speak of learning the joy of atonement. The simple rewards of sublimation, honesty, integrity. Submission.
Your words are inspiring, but I hear a drumbeat beneath... sweet, deep, thrilling. Unforgettable.
The group rotates responsibilities among its members: opening and closing the space. Cleanup. Locking the door behind us securely. Once a month we pair up two members randomly.
I remember the last time we were together, all too well.
In the midst of our duties, we were talking casually about the insights we'd had, and this drifted into tales from our past. The trust and mutual respect that we felt since our first meeting flowering almost visibly in the space between us. Suddenly you were in tears... there was something you'd dare not tell to the group, or to anyone, ever before. I don't know why you chose me as your confessor. We both knew it was dangerous, that I was... dangerous.
But you did... and fell into me. Moved by your tears, I enfolded you in my arms. Although there was beauty and purity in your release... I could feel your breasts rise and fall under your clothes. Your heartbeat pulsing in your throat.
And you couldn't help but feel the tension building in my core... or the dragon rising from my loins.
You shifted one hip a little.... splaying, ever so slightly. Extending, lengthening a leg, expanding the contact. Your hands, behind my back, pulled me closer. A small moan escaped your throat.
We pulled back a little and gazed into each other's eyes. Here was confirmation of what we'd known all along. Your lips parted, as if to say something.
But we both knew there was nothing to say. Or rather, there was: the truth. There's a reason we get into trouble.
It's better for us than it is for most people. And we're better at it. Our union would be... explosive. Unpredictable. Unstoppable. It could sweep aside everything we've carefully built. Your marriage, for a start.
And so we broke contact. We hadn't spoken since.
And today, it is our turn to close.... again.
There is small talk as the supplicants fold chairs, shuffle out, exchange goodbyes. We gather the books and put them away, sweep up, and prepare to leave. Closing the door behind us, we go upstairs.
We are alone. We stop for a while to admire the great hall. All gold and rose ivory. The hush, sacred. Light, streaming.
Time has passed since our last encounter. it is summer now, and we are lightly dressed. You in a diaphanous sundress, and I in a short sleeved shirt, a little tight across the chest for me: I've opened a button. The curious tattoo on my forearm exposed.
The air between us is burning.
The light beaming thru the stained glass window behind you, silhouetting you, setting your abundant cascading ringlets of golden hair, so like that of a Botticelli angel, all aflame, suddenly transparing your dress... you are all but naked, I see every detail of your form. Your breasts, graceful legs, the light beaming through the small gap at the top of your thighs. You notice, and realize, too late... blush, stammer.... but stay. You raise your eyes to mine, your lips part. We are both transfixed.
Slowly you lower your eyes again, to my tattoo, a remnant of my past. The great god Pan, a goat's head bounded by a pentagram. Then lower. To the ram rising, tightening my jeans, demanding freedom.
The broom falls from your hand with a clatter, shattering the silence.
The tsunami is near the beach and is suddenly rearing, roaring, forty stories high, ready to fall...
Although I have yearned for months to obliterate the space between us with a sudden rush, I approach slowly. Take your chin in one hand, lift your face to mine. We stare into another's eyes for what seems an eternity, galaxies whirling.
Then my hand snakes behind the back of your head, takes hold of your thick, lustrous hair, and I pull you to me, crushing your luscious lips with a passionate kiss as I've longed to do since I first saw you. I release you long enough for you to gasp for breath, then, pulling your head back, fall on your long, arched, marble-white throat like a wolf: kissing, sucking, licking, biting the taut tendons, finding your pulse, limning your delicate collarbone.
My hands are suddenly everywhere... the flimsy material of your dress sliding, a sensation that excites both of us, but it's not enough. I want your skin, all of it. I pull up the dress behind you with one hand and with the other, explore: your thigh, hip, your ass, grasping, squeezing. I spin you around so both my hands are free to roam, finding your breasts, your throat, controlling your breath, biting your ears, your shoulders, making you gasp: oh, oh, oh. I only graze your mons, barely covered in silk, although I yearn to plunder it: I'm a man, not an animal. But only just.
You back into me, grinding, and I can take no more. One hand still on your throat, I slip the other into your panties, trace your contours, but only the outer, delicately. Then pressing, squeezing, rotating, gently but urgently. My middle finger dips, finds you already wet, brings your nectar to the stiff tip, now demanding its own recognition: and gently encircles it, again and again.
You moan and writhe and I suddenly bend you over a pew. I kneel, lift your dress. Pause to admire your form. Your legs taut, feet pointed and arched in your high espadrilles, thrusting your rounded, firm ass high into the air. The moisture seeping through the tiny burgundy triangle covering your pussy.
I pull it aside and breathe in the atmosphere above your sex, taking in the delicious musk: ambrosia, forbidden fruit, a taste I have denied myself for so long. I lick, up and then down the delicate slit, lightly at first, then parting, probing. Then thrusting, plunging, as far as my tongue will reach.
Laying you down on the pew, I drop to my knees, drape your legs over my shoulders. Slip off your panties. Then resume in earnest. Licking up, to your stiff clitoris, then down again, and in. Over and over.
I slip two fingers in, finding your G spot, and suck your clit with a steadily pulsing rhythm... and that's it. You come, vocally and enthusiastically. When you can no longer bear it, I stop, rising to my feet, pulling you up to face me. We take a moment and I share your taste with you... kissing deeply, soulfully.
Then I look you in the eye, kicking a small, low, padded stool into position, provided in each place along the pew for the purpose of prayer. You are a good Catholic girl... it's part of your story. So I know you know what to do... and you do it.
You kneel before me, in silence. And in the silence, I give the word, my voice low and guttural, echoing in the rafters:
Release me.
You undo my belt and unbutton my jeans, pulling the flaps of my fly aside. Stop to take in the sight filling your vision: a thick shaft, ending in a massive glans, perfect in shape, clearly delineated, pushing against the taut material of my underwear.
Then you peel that down, and I swing free. Pointing skyward, pulsing in space, bobbing slightly with my heartbeat.
I know what I have, because I've been told, by women who would definitely know: one of them had experience in adult films and tried to convince me to go professional - offered to set us up a meeting with a studio (i respectfully declined).
But this is your first impression of me, and I can tell you are a little uncertain what to do with a thing of such proportions. You look a little dazed... then reach up and grasp me with one hand, then add the other, feeling my warmth... and gently squeeze. You gaze, mesmerized, perhaps, as drop of crystal dew forms at the tip and gazes back...
You giggle... your lips part and your tongue runs over your perfect white teeth, slowly and deliberately wetting your lips, and you look up at me and give me that dazzling smile that bewitched me from the start. A growl escapes my throat... you're teasing me, it's all I can do not to take you by force, but I wait.
For you are suddenly troubled. Your hands withdraw, you look away. A shadow crosses your face. You're thinking of your past, of your marriage, your life. Trust. Broken. Failure. Guilt.
I turn your head to face me. We look into each other's eyes. For a long moment. My John Thomas starts to flag, frankly. Because I understand. I help you to your feet. We talk a while.
