The ceiling was impossibly high. Stones climbed into the heavens in a near perfect spiral. The sense of space was enough to give Sara vertigo. She gave in and let the grandeur of the castle's great hall sweep over her while the priest delivered his speech. The words sprang off his lips in resounding, booming tones of confidence and gratitude. She regarded his tall figure standing behind the lectern, as he reached with his hands as if trying to send his words farther than he could intone them.
Paul was fidgeting beside her, maybe bored or maybe anxious. He had planned this trip for them, a weekend in a medieval castle in rural France, a chance to relax, reconnect, and hear a speech by a respected international figure. It bothered her that she could not read his thoughts. He uncrossed his legs again and shifted in his seat. But he did look like he was attentive. She decided to ignore the issue.
Waiters were busy bringing after dinner drinks to the dozen or so circular dinner tables that dotted the floor of the stone chamber. Still, it bothered her. Was he as intoxicated with the lightness and spaciousness as she was? Was he thinking of fucking her? She reached under the tablecloth and put a hand between his legs. He glanced up and gave a surprised smile. He hadn't been thinking about this at least, but he was now.
The priest was telling stories that had everyone laughing and inspired at the same time. She wanted this priest. Did Paul know she had thoughts like this? She imagined herself behind the lectern with the young priest's pants unzipped. Fumbling to free his hardening cock and giving it a long slow trace with her tongue while he struggled to retain his concentration. He would be uncontrollably hard when she would stop, sit down and sweep her fingers over her soaking pussy, stroking her clitoris. The priest would have to look at her every time he glanced down at his notes. Mercifully as she drew close, she would reach up and stroke him - an impassioned few minutes of using her hands to pleasure both of them. Unexpectedly he would stop his speech for a moment, look down at his notes and orgasm with power enough to propel his semen across her body. This would be enough to send her over the edge, and she would orgasm still feeling the pulsing of his rod in her hand.
What was Paul thinking? She wondered again as she saw him stand up to applaud with the rest of the audience. His tall, lean form gushing honest appreciation. He could be so naively cute sometimes, she thought, with his touchable hair and smile of authentic joy. He looked at her and, with his eyes, told her he loved her. The hall was loud with the reverberation of enthusiastic applause.
The guests milled about mumbling to one another the collective judgment that they had witnessed a great man give a great speech. Sara glanced around the crowd, seeing the throngs around the priest. Paul was meeting his own colleagues and greeting some of Sara's as well. She decided to duck out to the bathroom, a feint to avoid the trivia.
The employees directed her down the corridor towards the bathroom. Lit by torches, the stone hallway led to a modern bathroom. Dimly lit but enough to see her own reflection in the irregular mirror hanging over the basin, she recognized the feeling of unreality, the sense of electric possibility in the air as in a desert landscape lit by moonlight. Whatever her usual doubts about her place in the world, this was a moment frozen in time, a break from her own mortality, when life was both vivid and unknown.
She slipped back into the corridor and caught sight of the robes of the priest going into the men's room. Without deliberation, she ducked back into the bathroom where she could just see enough of the corridor to pull it off. When the shadow of the priest reappeared, she stepped out, a leap of faith, bumping into him.
"Oh, I'm sorry - I just didn't see you there."
"Oh no, it's my fault really. I'm Sara, and I loved your speech." She searched for reaction even as she said the words.
He looked like he was genuinely glad to meet her. "I am afraid that I am very tired and would probably not even see a moving truck pass in front of me right now."
They wandered back down the corridor together. At his urging, Sara told him about her own work. Her dress brushed the stone floor as she stepped confidently, listening and talking. He began to bid her goodbye and head down the corridor that led to his room. As the guest of honor he was staying in the main bedroom. He is so naive, she thought. He has no idea. And he did not. He accepted her request for a tour; she seemed so interested in this medieval castle.
It looked like the corridor would dead-end; there was only an open doorway. She could see into the room before they arrived. Without doors, the tapestries on the far wall came into view first. Then vaguely the torchlight revealed ancient furniture, an armoire, a standing mirror, two spire-like bedposts. The bed was in the center of the room draped in silk and lace. Her heart pounded a little as he strode into the room in front of her. His back was to her, in a posture suggesting blissful unawareness of her lascivious thoughts. She walked into and across the room to the wine rack. Unceremoniously and recklessly she picked a bottle and opened it. Pouring into two glasses without so much as looking to see if he was even interested.
He smiled as he sat down across from her taking a drink from the glass she handed to him. As he proceeded to talk about the award and the night, she looked at his mouth, his lips, his wavy brown hair, the large hands he used gently to hold his glass. Taller than her husband, his form was even a little daunting. She was lost in admiration and in the mystery of him. He repeated - "Well, what do you think?"
"I'm sorry. I was distracted. It has been a long evening."
"No, no. It's my fault. You've exposed the undoing of the prideful - boredom. I have gone on long enough." But just then, he appeared instantly doubtful, then worried. "Oh no, I've forgotten something. I am sorry, but I must go make a phone call. I suppose I have to go back to the great hall." None of the rooms had electricity or telephones. "I am very sorry. Please feel free to finish your wine and maybe we can talk again tomorrow."
"Definitely," she said. "It has been a real pleasure."
And with a bow of his head he gathered his robe, got up and left her alone. Soon after, Sara stood and went to gaze out of the lone small portal onto the countryside below. A slit open to the outside world, it revealed a brilliant night sky. She searched in the narrow band visible past the thick stone for something special, some sign.
----
The priest walked a little anxiously back from the great hall, getting lost a couple of times in the winding corridors. Sara had been so beautiful that he felt guilt at failing to suppress even from his own mind his lust. Only the folds of his robes had hidden his cloistered sexuality from her sight. Every second had been an acute combination of pain, desire, and discipline. The firmness of his manhood was a constant reminder of the pleasure he had forsaken by a promise he made so long ago.
Wrong corridor again. He paused but pretended not to pause by a room where a woman with her back to him was on her knees, naked, mouth full of her husband's organ. The man was lost in ecstasy, eyes closed. He could see the woman's moist sex subtly appearing between her legs as she shifted her weight. He tried not to pause and continued down the corridor straining to hear the woman's moans, the sound of a woman's pleasure muffled by a cock in her mouth.
It was more than he could take. All of these images and feelings would become the fuel for masturbation tonight. He made up his mind not feel guilty about it. He made up his mind to sin. He finally got back to his room, seeing at once Sara's empty glass on the table. Why did he keep denying himself? He removed his robes and the rest of his clothing. Naked and hard, he went around to the side of the bed where the drapes were open and sat down, thinking for a moment. He turned to pull back the covers and stared, dumbfounded.
The pink of her naked body was set off against the brilliant white of the bed coverings. Her arms were stretched above her head and her legs slightly spread. The curves of her hips and breasts, the flow and curve of her legs, all were delicately and deliciously exposed against the white of the bed. He stared at her erect nipples, the slight moisture of her sex. Her subtly engorged clitoris begged him to forget himself.
She had watched him remove his clothing from behind the obscurity of the veil covering the bed. She had had to bite her lip when she saw his muscular shoulders and his broad, smooth back. Now the rippling muscles in his abdomen were in rapid motion as he struggled for breath. Without words, she reached down and began to stroke her clitoris. She smiled and closed her eyes, unable to remember when she had been so wet, when her sex had throbbed so heavily for attention. It felt as if she would come in moments.
He began to get up and dart away. He knew this could not happen. His whole life was built around another purpose, one that meant forgoing precisely this. But he could not. He could not remember seeing an image so beautiful and yet so profane as the one of this stunning, nude woman pleasuring herself. Seemingly without free will, he sat back down and turned to face her. He saw the gleam in her eye as she saw it.
