Sunday Obsession

Merril sits among the congregation, pulse quickening, panties damp beneath her skirt. Reverend Elias stands at the pulpit, collar stark white, voice rolling like thunder. A bead of sweat glints on his upper lip, catching the church light. August heat presses heavy, box fans stirring it from pew to pew. His wife gets him every night.

Why should she have him all to herself?

Merril doesn’t need vows or forever—just her share of his flesh, his heat. The thought burns, a vow sealed in her hunger. Can she make it real?

The flock leans in, lips moving with prayers, eyes glazed with devotion. Elias’s hands grip the lectern, veins pulsing as he calls down heaven, his words painting hellfire and eternal torment. Merril has long wanted to pull the truth he hides into the light. If she fails, she’ll fade back to folding bulletins, a woman no one names—erasure worse than sin.

The hymn lingers as she exits, heels tapping stone. The church smells of him—incense and musk. At the door, sunlight spills over his wife and their two daughters, home from Bible college, shaking hands like porcelain dolls. His wife, pale and cool, stands untouched by the heat, her grace rehearsed into frailty. Merril burns for the rawness Elias hides, the fury that might answer hers. Chained to this prude, he lies numb, while Merril’s fire gutters unseen.

“Bless you,” his wife says as Merril passes, her voice smooth as glass. “Merril, we’re so glad you’re our new Congregation Secretary. Elias speaks highly of your work. Come over for coffee sometime—girl talk.”

Merril’s lips, painted the color of sin, curve into a smile. Coffee and chatter would cage her as a harmless friend, never his desire. She moves down the receiving line, greeting the deacons who hired her. “Good to see you. Thank you for your support.” Their smiles are bland, unaware of the door they’ve unlocked.

Outside, parishioners chatter on the steps, their voices clashing with her thudding pulse. His wife is polished marble; Merril will offer what she withholds—heat, surrender. Sunglasses hide the hunger in her eyes as she walks to her car. By the time the noon bells toll thirty more times, he’ll know the difference.

Preparation

Merril wakes an hour early, sleep sacrificed for Elias. The shower runs hot, steam clouding the mirror. She drags the razor slowly—calves, thighs, armpits—leaving skin gleaming, flawless. The towel clings to her body, sharp as a blade. This isn’t work. It’s worship, every stroke for him.

In the mirror, she wipes the fog clear, studying herself. Today must be perfect, her body a sacred offering. If Elias doesn’t see her, he’ll find another altar. On the bed lies a ribbed cotton skirt, modest but slit for control—widened with a touch. Beside it, a cream blouse, buttons poised for precision: one undone in the hallway, two in his office, three for revelation, if he earns it.

She rolls on thigh-highs, elastic gripping mid-thigh, hidden above the hem. No pantyhose—those are for secretaries. Thigh-highs are for seduction. Black lace bra and panties shimmer faintly, matched to spark his imagination. She smooths the skirt over her hips, tests the slit. Enough to tease.

Peach-beige lipstick, demure in church light, turns dangerous on her skin, whispering softness he’ll want to taste. Jasmine oil dots her throat and wrists—faint, deliberate. When she leans over his desk, he’ll breathe it in. One button undone. Later, two. A trace of lace, just enough to haunt him.

Her pulse hummed; the ache was sharp. She used to blunt it

Temptation

Merril’s first week as church secretary yields nothing. Her skirt’s slit parts when she bends over Elias’s desk, papers in hand, but his eyes stay on his notes, voice steady behind a clerical mask. The ache between her thighs lingers, unsatisfied. She hasn’t found the right spark yet. Every move is a rehearsal for when he’ll yield.

Behind his door, Elias presses his palms together. Her perfume clings, Lord. I’ve sinned with Renée before—don’t let me fall again. He writes scripture, crosses it out, words dissolving into prayer. A crack opens in his defenses, the first in years.

By the third week, Merril grows bolder in the copier room, the air thick with toner and dust. She brushes his arm, breath feathering the space between them. “Close enough to hear confession,” she murmurs.

“Only if you’ve got sins worth sharing,” he replies, throat clearing.

She kneels to grab a ream of paper, skirt sliding to reveal bare thigh above the elastic of her thigh-highs. His gaze lingers, undressing her inch by inch. “Kneeling today,” he says.

“Quickest to prepare.” Her smile flickers, fingers brushing the stack.

“Carrying a heavy load?” he asks, eyes burning.

“Until you lift it off.” She smooths her skirt, standing. “The bulletin room—I’ll make it… polished.”

In his office, the door shut with a soft click, Merril leaned over his desk, back arched, papers clutched. Elias’s hand slides under her skirt, warm and deliberate, grazing the bare skin above her thigh-highs. Her breath snags. This is my first station. She wills him to push higher, to make the table groan.

A deacon’s voice breaks through the hall, loud on a phone call. Elias freezes, hand retreating. Footsteps drag past, fading. Her skirt falls back, fabric cool against skin he’s branded. Pulse hammering, she presses the papers flat. “I’ll type these up.”

He nods, throat working, and slips out first. Alone, Merril’s thighs ache, the elastic’s bite a secret bruise. Her plan is working. More will come.

Elias kneels later on his office carpet, praying. Why her, God? She tempts me with every step. Bound to his wife and vows, he’s already stained by monthly trysts with Renée. Merril is different—hunger, not habit. In his study Bible, he underlines: The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak. His pen trembles. Next Tuesday, Lord, give me strength.

Merril doesn’t know his prayer, only his silence. By Friday, doubt gnaws—brighter lipstick, thicker perfume, lower laughter, yet his door stays shut. Is his desire a ghost? Then she recalls Renée’s visits, always on the first Tuesday. That’s when his resistance falters. She plans for next month’s first Tuesday, her hunger sharpening.

Voyeur

Eight weeks as church secretary, and Merril knows Elias’s pattern. First Tuesdays, Renée arrives—his “therapy,” a ritual veiled as a massage for relief of his back pain. Today, Merril won’t guess. She’ll watch, studying his surrender to steal it next month.

Renée glides past at 6 p.m., climbing the side stairs to the robing room. No choir practice tonight. Merril crouches in the loft, hidden behind latticework, jasmine perfume thick against the dusty air. Through the gaps, she sees Renée lead Elias inside. If Renée is cold, mechanical, it steadies Merril—proof she’s just a chore. If she’s hungry, it burns.

They set up the table. Renée strips to bra and panties, Elias to boxers. He lies down, head bowed like prayer. Stained glass fractures light across her body as she kneads his flesh, hands pausing at his groin. Sunlight floods the loft, crimson and gold searing their act beneath Christ’s gaze in the glass.

To Elias, Renée is release; to her, he’s a four-hundred dollar meal ticket. Merril’s plan will claim this room, his whispers shifting to code—quick words for her to kneel, lean, or lie across the table. Her language of stations, hidden in plain sight.

Merril’s hand slips beneath her skirt, circling herself, matching their rhythm. Renée feeds him her breast; his lips close over it. Merril’s hips buck, climax tearing through her as she imagines taking Renée’s place—kneeling in the copier room, behind the altar, ready with five coded words.

Elias penetrates Renée bent over the table, then flips her. Their gasps echo, sharp as knives. Merril shakes with another climax, eyes on the Savior’s unblinking glass. She’s memorized Renée’s schedule: first Tuesday, one hour, cash. Tonight, she’s done watching. She’ll take her place.

Slipping back to the parish office, Merril hears their voices in the hall—Elias paying, booking Renée again. When Renée struts out, lipstick smeared, Merril blocks her path. “What’s it take to be his once-a-month girl?”

Renée’s smirk cuts deep. “More than you’ve got, honey. Name your price.”

Resolve

Renée’s smirk haunts Merril at home, her question pounding: How far will she go to claim Elias? She won’t pay—she’ll steal. Years in the pews, eyes tracing him, made him hers. The secretary’s desk was just a door.

In her bedroom, jasmine oil hangs heavy. “Relax, Elias,” she whispers to her reflection, voice husky. New black lace lingerie clings tight. She drops to her knees, practicing in silence, imagining his eyes widening, hesitation crumbling. This isn’t a rehearsal—it’s code carved into her body. When he asks, she’ll be ready.

Maneuver

After hours, the church is silent. Merril’s fantasy hardens into a plan. Elias’s calendar, unlocked with his careless password “ChurchMan92,” reveals: First Tuesday, 6 p.m.: Massage - R. She deletes it, smirking.

On a burner phone, she calls Renée, voice low and sharp: “Stay away from Reverend Elias. Or your clients get a list—starting with Revered Elias’ wife.” Renée’s sputter is sweet, off-key. One call, and she’s gone. Merril’s in.

Next time Elias hands her a folder, she’ll hear the unspoken question: Which station today? She’s ready with the answer.

Tension

Merril slips into the parish office, routine cloaking her. In the ladies’ room, the mirror is unforgiving. She adds a touch of blush, darker lipstick—subtle, but enough to draw Elias’s eye. At her desk, she shuffles papers, pulse quickening. Across the hall, his door is shut, but she feels him through it, a hidden flame.

What if she slipped in, sank to her knees before he could speak? Would he pull her away—or closer? The thought makes her thighs ache.

Inside, Elias bows over scripture, words blurring with her image—blouse undone, black lace peeking out. Her note with the bulletin draft lingers in his hand: Bare enough for you. What if she kneeled without a word? Could he resist? His pen trembles.

They share an office wall, a hidden door. If he keeps it shut, she’s no one. Pulse drumming, Merril starts toward it, hesitates, and turns back.

Surrender

First Tuesday, once Renée’s, now Merril’s. Her heart pounds, a guilty verdict with every beat. In the robing room, she bolts the door, stacks hymnals as a makeshift pillow, dust rising. The air swelters, thick with old robes and decay, but her jasmine perfume cuts through, her body primed.

Elias enters, tie loose, expecting Renée. “You’re early—” He stops, setting up the massage table with practiced ease. Then he turns, eyes widening at Merril. “This isn’t—”

His words falter as she steps forward, red lips a promise, black lace clinging like a bruise.

Crimson and gold light spills through stained glass, Christ’s shadow stretching long. A child’s giggle echoes outside, shoes skittering past. Merril presses two fingers to his lips—hush—then to her throat. He tracks them, a penitent before the Host. They hold still until the hall quiets.

“God help me,” Elias whispers, gripping a chair, knuckles white. Merril leans in, lips grazing his ear, hands sliding down his trembling shoulders. Her heat consumes him. He inhales her, raw and sweet, before daring to touch.

“I’ve wanted you since that day,” he rasps, eyes fluttering shut. “Your thigh… it’s God’s way.”

“This week’s bulletin,” he chokes out. “Type it any way you like.”

She pats the table. “Climb aboard, Elias.” He’s hers—no more Renée, no more waiting. By the end, he’s sweat-slicked, trembling. “What have we done?” he murmurs.

Merril fixes her skirt, lipstick still burning. “We’ve started something real, Elias. I’m your Renée now.”

Efforts Landed

The next morning, in his office, he passed me his hand-written notes to key for this week’s bulletin. On top, he’d written a Post-it. To get copier paper, best get on your knees. “I don’t mind kneeling, Reverend,” I murmured, sliding the papers into order. “You’ll guide me when you’re ready.” I shut his door behind me, no longer thinking of bulletins or copy paper. Only in his next homily—kneeling as devotion. Serving a prayer.

The oscillating fan drags side to side, wheezing out a tired breath. Too weak for August, too weak for me. Sweat beads under my arms, slicks between my thighs. That tang rises through silk and lace, sharp and human, then drifts back on the fan’s faltering breeze. It fills my nose. I breathe it in. I like it.

I shuffle papers, but what I’m really arranging are our stations. Kneeling, leaning, missionary and table. He appeared in my doorway with a question. “Pages face to face today?” 

I touched my blouse, shifting it open with another button for his eyes. “Then I’ll press them close—no gaps.”

He swallowed hard, voice rough. “Bound tight.”

“That’s the point,” I whispered, pulling him deeper. He smiled, retreated to his desk.

My mind wanders to the stations of desire. The kneeling is the quickest, convenient. No prep, no undressing. Knees, his hand buried in my hair, guiding me. With his heat thick in my throat. Fast. Anywhere. One swallow—evidence gone, and shame becomes silence.

His door creaks, voice low: “Merril? A word.” I slip in, notes stacked on his desk. He doesn’t look up. “The bulletin… think you can finish it on your knees?”

Heat rushes down. I smooth my skirt. Drop. His hand squeezing the back of my neck. Five minutes of silence, looking up, him looking down, deep in my throat. Each deeper thrust expands my neck. Soon, the nectar. I feel it go down my throat. I pull back for the last drops in my mouth to savor. I wipe my mouth. “Pleased?” I ask him.

He doesn’t answer until he sits down. “Are you?”

“I am.”

“Then I am too.”

Returning to my desk, my mind wanders to the table station, stretched out for him to take. Breezy. I’ll feel free. The pinnacle. Bolted doors, silence thick as incense. Terrifying, exhilarating. The taste of Elias lingers on my tongue, salty and forbidden. 

Between that and the musk of my body, the planning becomes a thrill. I undo another button on my skirt’s slit and spread my cheeks, already rehearsing how I’ll take him next.

What is practical will be the leaning station. Easy to adapt, best for quick urges. When the clue comes to lean, I’ll drop my panties. With them in my pocket I’m prepared. I’m bent forward, skirt hiked, airing out while I wait. His weight crushes down on me as I grip the table edge. Heat builds fast, his breath ragged at my ear, mine fogging the wood beneath me.

The missionary full frontal station spreads me wide, skin to skin. My breasts pressed, moist folds open, waiting. Not quick—time consuming. Doors locked, halls silent. The choir robing room floor is open in the afternoons. Deep inside me he penetrates, slow enough to leave me aching for days.

He thinks he’s still choosing. I know the order—the rooms, the stations until we reach twelve. Then we start over. I stack the papers neatly, a smile tugging at my lips. Savoring the taste of him with my tongue. Waiting for him to hike my skirt and air me out before teaching me more about his gospel. Finally, a job I look forward to working at.

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