The summer heat in the little church presses down thick and still. I want to run outside where it’s bright and fresher and not so stifling, just to gulp down some clean air. Light from the glass windows slants into the dust-laden air, each fleck catching colour like a stubborn prayer that refuses to settle.
I sit rigid on the wooden bench. The smell of polish and incense hangs around me, almost thick enough to taste. My dress presses close; every inhale is battled, for beneath its grip, it's tight enough that it feels like the room itself wants to take my breath for its own.
I try to listen, to stay with the sermon, but my thoughts slip away, twisting his words into something else. I force myself to follow the sermon, but the preacher’s words tangle in my head, turning into secrets I shouldn’t admit, not even to myself.
I couldn't get his voice out of my head, that slow way he talked, it was all I could focus on.
I wish I could tune him out, but my brain clings to that drawl, stretching it, pulling it through my body like wire.
I was barely listening. His voice continued in that steady, smooth flow, making me feel something inside me that I ought not to have felt.
I see heads bowed, hands folded, faces staying politely blank, but I’ve drifted somewhere else.
I hear him reading aloud from the book of Mark, his words both familiar and new, curling in the air, settling heavy inside me:
“For this reason, a man will leave his father and mother and be united to his wife, and the two will become one flesh.” So they are no longer two, but one flesh. God has joined them together; no one should tear them apart.”
His words crackle through the hush, brushing raw against my nerves. I swallow, my heart stuttering like I’ve done something wrong.
That slow pull of his tone twists around my skin. In my mind, I can visualise the young couple sitting in the pews in front of me, her trembling, him hungry, the two of them not thinking about God or scripture, just need, deep in the throes of passion; she kneels before him, trembling with want, as he slides in from behind, raw need stripping away their hesitation.
He doesn’t stop with Mark. Now, it’s about sin: “Flee from sexual immorality...” And that breath-held pause: “The body is not meant for sexual sin, but for the Lord, and the Lord for the body.”
I wonder if anyone else sitting here feels this tension as I do.
His eyes suddenly lock onto mine, burning brighter than the sunlight that blazes through the windows.
The rest of the church fades; only his stare remains.
But there’s something new, almost uncertain, even a flicker of hesitation. His voice catches for just a blink, and I’m sure he’s reading the thoughts going around inside my head.
Is he pissed off? Is he curious? Is he turned on?
I imagine him seeing through me, right to the skin beneath my dress.
The preacher almost undresses me with his eyes, leaving me exposed and trembling under his vision in this old house of God, under the glow of the coloured glass.
I hunch my shoulders. I want to disappear, sink straight through the floor. But his eyes keep almost stripping me, taking everything off, layer by layer, leaving me raw. My face feels hot, and I’m sure everyone is watching me, knowing exactly what kind of sins are going around inside my head.
I drop my gaze, trying to steady myself, but the spark inside won’t quiet; it only spreads.
Arousal crawls up through me, and it’s all I can do not to shift, not to let it show.
The congregation cries out, “Amen!” The final chords vibrate through the room, but I am caught, entangled in the reflection of his eyes and his words, a coil of need and sin squeezing between my thighs.
The words twist around me: the sacred joining, the forbidden flesh.
During the walk home, the world swims around me; my steps drag, breath heavy. Each step thuds louder, dragging me closer to something unattainable. I am dripping with sweat; my dress is glued to my skin. His sermon goes around and around inside my head, pounding along with my heartbeat.
I close the door and rest my back against it, breath snagging in my chest. My legs feel like they are made of jelly. I’m pulsing everywhere, aching deep inside, all along my thighs, chest, and throat. I want to pretend it’s nothing, but the ache has teeth. It bites and refuses to back down.
Heat blossoms inside me, low and insistent, blooming along my thighs and under my ribs. I pretend I’m fine; my body calls me a liar.
His words go round and round my head as I climb onto my bed. The room is heavy and warm; the weight of everything presses down.
“And the two will become one flesh,” I whisper. The words sound different from my mouth.
I start slow. My hands shake as I peel away my dress, my pink cotton panties sliding down my legs; the bra follows quietly, hitting the floor. My skin hums, alive with an inner hunger.
The sheets press a chill down my spine, but the ache blooming between my legs only grows heavier, hotter, spreading until the rest of me feels useless.
My fingers trace my curves, nervous and excited, all at once. It’s almost as if I were tasting something forbidden, something I shouldn’t enjoy this much.
There’s almost a joy in this act, and an embarrassment, too. 'Hungry' isn’t the right word. I’m ravenous with need.
Each touch fills me with defiant joy, a wild shame tangled up inside. I’m not just hungry; need rips through my body, greedy, all-consuming.
I close my eyes. His face is there, looking at me, behind my eyelids. His hands, strong and careful, grip my arms; his weight presses down, pinning me in place. I shiver, half from shame, half from what could come next.
I touch myself, tentatively at first. Just tracing. My breath skips. Then again, harder, pressing my fingers toward my centre.
My fingertips skim, unsure, at the start. I suck in a ragged breath, and before I know it, my hand moves bolder, chasing that promise deeper, circling where I ache most.
I feel the wetness spreading under my fingers as I go deeper; my hips begin to jerk in search of a rhythm.
My touch quickens, and so do my thoughts. I imagine him all alone, hunched behind his desk. His hand jerking, frenzied. His trousers pushed just enough to allow his cock to slip free. Precum leaking onto his fist, dripping across his knuckles as he groans.
Is he haunted by my shadow the same way he fills my mind? When he shuts his eyes, does he see me, perched on this mattress, desperate and sinful, wanting things I can’t even whisper?
I could swear I can feel his weight, the power of his arms around me. I picture his fingers pressing against my flesh, the heft of his cock pushing at my entrance.
I try to hold back, edge myself. My pulse thrums on the brink of release. Still, his voice and words pound inside my skull: “Sins of the flesh,” “holy union,” “one flesh.”
Still, some part of me shouts, ‘Don’t! You aren’t supposed to feel like this. Not here, not like this, not him!’
But then I picture his face. His hands. I see him, alone somewhere dark, desperate, wrestling with the same hunger.
I picture him gripping, stroking himself frantically, muscles tight, breath catching with every stroke.
I see the curl of his fingers as his body is taut with need. I imagine him jerking himself faster and faster, his erect cock red and swollen, his urgent need to cum.
I rub harder, the slick sound between my legs growing louder, filling the quiet.
I can hear his groans, feel him on the verge, about to lose control, spraying his sticky seed over himself.
It makes my entire body shudder throughout.
I push my fingers deeper, curling them until my hips jerk up on their own. The tremor takes me, raw and unstoppable.
“And the two shall be as one flesh,” I say, my voice harsh, weak, almost broken.
Every nerve is pleading now. I’m right on the edge, muscles drawn tight, aching for release.
But nothing can stop me now.
I almost feel guilty; those years of warnings, those church voices, echo inside my head. I try to push them away to the back of my mind. I picture the preacher’s face: hard-lined, weary, but hungry. Is he fighting the same battle? Does he betray secret vows, just for a moment?
Inside my mind, I can hear his moans, low, uncontrolled.
My fingers work over slick, throbbing flesh; the sound of my body fills the room. I’m not quiet now, and to be honest, I don’t care.
And then it hits me, so damn hard. Everything snaps at once. My muscles seize; air catches in my throat.
My muscles clench hard; it's as if I can’t breathe. A sound, half cry, half gasp, spills out of me. The world just vanishes, nothing but heat, pulse, and noise left inside me.
When it finally ebbs, I’m trembling, catching breath in broken pulls.
That scared girl who walked into that church this morning? She’s gone forever.
