She was a girl at the university with me. The third wheel to a couple of others I knew well who were extroverted, loud, and the centre of attention. She was quiet, plain, pretty, always in the background. They were the year above me.

I usually only saw her with them, and she wouldn't say much, wouldn't have the chance, but she always said something to me. Not just idle small talk, but to know about me.

It was a small university; everyone knew everyone. They talked about who they'd like to be with and the many attempted conquests, but never with her.

At my bucks (stag) party, we went to the same pub where her graduation party ended up. Purely by chance. Both parties were in our own room, in a circle, singing and dancing together. She came to me. We danced arm in arm, just for a moment, and then she turned back to the circle and rejoined the singing. She took my hands and drew them around her waist. I kept them there, I held her to me, I was getting married the next week. I kept them there.

We danced and sang. Was everyone watching us? Were my friends watching, judging us, wondering, What is he doing? He's getting married next week.

I convinced myself I could play it off as innocent celebratory dancing. I told myself I wasn't tempted. I told myself she just saw me as a friend. I kept my hands around her waist.

I felt guilty when she leant back into my chest during a slow song. I felt elation when she leaned back. I pulled her to me; she slowly moved and gyrated her beautiful, plump arse against my very swollen cock. Only for seconds, then she sang with the group, reminding them that we were just dancing innocently. Then she pressed again.

Lights dimmed, she leaned back, my party seemed to have all left the room, I leaned forward, my lips to her soft hair, I could smell her perfume. I hardly knew her, but I could feel the incredible intimacy. I kept my hands around her.

She took my hands, guided them slowly up and down her thighs. Over and over. She gyrated; I pushed firmly against her. She drew my hands up her belly. My lips were on her neck, but not kissing. I was due to get married next week.

I stopped at her belly, worried that people might see if they went higher. I trailed them down again, slowly over her crotch. She parted her legs, inviting me to her sex. But I took our hands down her thighs instead. After all, I was due to get married the next week.

At the end of the song, she turned and kissed me on the cheek. She went running off with her friends to get a drink. My friends returned, and it was time to go to the next pub. I wouldn't see her again... that night.

I remember waking the next day, feeling guilty, feeling unsure. What was it about her? We barely spoke; her friends dominated the conversation when we were together. But the few things we did say, I just knew, we had a bond, an unspoken bond. I loved my fiancé, but I was attracted to someone else. Very attracted. I put it down to pre-wedding doubts.

I went to uni a few days later. I'd worked at the library part-time and went to say goodbye to my workmates before the summer break. I knew the library's shutting routine. I used to walk the corridors, check the toilets, and let people know it was closing before we locked up. There were no alarms.

The chapel was attached to the library building, and on my way out, I saw a light on. I knew they were about to close for the night, so I checked in. There was no one there, so I turned off the light. Pausing a moment, I realised how beautiful it was in there, lights out, but the room lit by the full moon.

As I stepped back out into the dark corridor, I almost collided with someone... We muttered apologies, and as we moved to pass each other, the moonlight revealed my companion. It was her.

"I was just returning some books," she whispered. She sounded very nervous.

I was very nervous too; my mouth was dry, and I stumbled over my words: "I was saying goodbye to some friends."

No one else was there, but it seemed we both felt guilty; we were offering our excuses as if we'd been caught together.

"I wanted to apologise..." she started before we heard the voices of my old companions down the corridor; they were saying their goodnights as they locked the doors. I took her hand, and we snuck into the chapel.

We peered through the stained glass windows as they got into their cars and drove away. All the time, still holding hands. We laughed as we turned to each other, "Will we get in trouble?" She asked.

"There are no alarms, and we can pull the locked door shut behind us when we leave," I replied.

She took my other hand. "I wanted to apologise for the other night; I shouldn't have tempted you like that."

"It's ok," I said, "I think it was just the atmosphere, the end of the year; we were both a little tipsy."

We were still holding hands.

We stood nervously for what seemed like moments; it was probably seconds. Then she kissed me, gently, on the lips. Then again, I kissed back. Harder. We couldn't stop. Our arms were around each other, kissing hard, desperately, there was no more nervous talking.

I opened her blouse; she lifted my tee. She kissed my chest and kissed and licked my nipples. My fiancé had never done this; it wasn't so much that it gave me physical pleasure, it was all psychological. She loved my body, she had pent-up passion for me, and she wanted to show me, in this place of worship, that she worshipped me. I could feel it, and I loved it.

She knelt before me, pulled my jeans down, and sucked my cock into her eager mouth. To my fiancée, this was something she did cause she knew guys liked it, but she wasn't particularly good at it, and she had no interest in getting better. But to my lover, this was an expression of passion; she slurped on my member, eagerly explored every inch, read from my movements what I liked—a lick at the right angle and my reflex to push at her mouth, and she'd return to that spot again and again.

I was going to explode. I pulled her up, we kissed again, and I pulled her bra straps over her shoulders. Her breasts were lovely, her skin was pale and seemed to shine in the bright moonlight, and her hard, dark nipples were accentuated by the contrast of her pale skin. I kissed and sucked them till I was sure she was about to cum; they were so sensitive.

She took a hand and pulled it lower, pushing it under her skirt and into her panties. She was soaking, and as I sucked her nipples, I fingered her pussy; she was grinding hard against my hand. She pushed her panties down. I was lost in passion, driven by lust. I lifted her; until then, I hadn't even realised what we'd been leaning on, and when I realised I didn't care, I lifted her and sat her on the altar. I kissed down her belly; it was all happening so quickly. She lifted her legs over my shoulders and moaned loudly, "OH MY GOD!" when my lips met her pussy and I tongued her swollen clit.

She lay back on the altar, a goblet crashed to the ground, she gripped and pulled my hair, thrashed about on my lips. I reached up and groped her breasts and pinched her nipples, and she moaned loudly as she orgasmed.

"Quickly," she said, "I can cum again very quickly." She climbed up and off the altar, took my hand, and sat me on the first pew. She straddled me and kissed me, easing her tight, wet pussy down over my cock. I looked at her; she had tears in her eyes, but she smiled. "Slowly," she whispered, "this is our last time."

She slowly, poetically, writhed and gyrated on me. We kissed tenderly, my lips from hers to her breasts, then back again. She increased her pace a little, the walls of her tight pussy massaging my cock. She knew by my erratic breathing that I was close, and she put her lips to my ear and said, "cum in me my love," and we kissed as we orgasmed together.

We stayed for almost an hour, lying half-naked together, making small talk as we always had. Each of us avoiding deeper questions. Till we conceded it was time to go.

I walked her to her car; she kissed me on the cheek, smiled, and whispered "goodbye."

I haven't seen her since. But I'll never forget her.