I loved being a member of the congregation—one of its leaders. But if I’m honest, I loved the power and attention that came with it even more.
I was a young pastor. The youth dug me. And the old ladies, too. On Sundays, up there in the pulpit, I was more than a man. I was a prophet. And that feeling was better than any drug.
I always came home from church charged with a primal energy. My wife could see it in my eyes the moment I walked through the door. We had an agreement, a silent ritual. She knew that the power God channeled through me to the congregation had to be released. I was usually inside her by 12:42 PM, every single Sunday. Amen.
The better the sermon, the harder I fucked her.
Sometimes she’d be waiting for me in the bedroom, on her knees by the bed, as if in prayer. Sometimes she’d be lying on the bed, head hanging over the edge, letting me fuck her throat while I squeezed her tits. She was completely at my mercy, and she loved it.
This wasn’t a sin. It was worship. God rejoices when we celebrate the flesh He has joined. Nor was it a sin when she begged for my load with her eyes, which I’d then splatter across her face, neck, and breasts like a blessing.
I noticed that Sundays off messed with my routine. My balls had grown accustomed to overproduction on the Sabbath. I realized an animal lived inside me—one with a hell of a sex drive. And my wife was that animal’s keeper.
When I gave counseling to other couples, I was at my best. I spoke about the sexual side of marriage with subtlety but understanding. I encouraged them to tear each other apart—though much more poetically: “Cherish and celebrate your love for God. He has brought you together to procreate with passion… and sometimes, to empty yourselves down each other’s throats.” I could see in their eyes that they understood. Sometimes I saw couples’ faces glowing, knowing they had just fucked each other’s brains out. It was the fruit of my labor.
But then there was this one young couple. In their thirties, about my age. Whenever intimacy came up, the husband would get awkward. His wife, on the other hand… let’s call her Emilia. She was achingly beautiful and deeply repressed. She always kept her small hands clasped tightly in her lap, but her gaze held something raw and primal.
One Sunday, after the sermon, before I headed home to rail my wife… Emilia approached me.
I was getting into my car at the back of the parking lot. I was fastening my seatbelt, already visualizing my wife’s asshole, where in fifteen minutes I’d be pushing my oiled cock. That’s when she knocked on the window.
She needed a ride. Her husband was sick, and the friend she’d come with had left unexpectedly. “Of course,” I said, moving my leather-bound Bible and sermon notes off the passenger seat. She walked around the front of my car in her beautiful sunflower dress, and I felt that familiar Sunday buzz rising in my groin.
During the drive, Emilia relaxed, becoming funny and much less shy without her husband. She laughed at my jokes, loud and genuine. She told me how much she valued our talks. They brought her comfort, the knowledge that passion isn’t a sin.
When she said the word passion, I remembered that by this time, I’d usually have already used my wife like a fuck doll. I pushed the thought away.
She fell silent for a moment. Then she revealed that her husband doesn’t always feel the same way. And finally, she started to cry. Quietly, with dignity. I instinctively placed a hand on her shoulder.
And that’s when she broke down.
I pulled the car over to the side of the country road. I reached my arm across the center console, repeating, “It’s okay, everything will be all right.” Part of me was a pastor. The other part, the more honest part, was just a man.
I found myself stroking her hair. She held on to me tightly, squeezing my biceps. She cried against my neck. I felt her hot tears and her breath on my skin.
And I was rock hard.
“Thank you,” she sobbed as her crying began to subside. But we remained in the embrace. “Thank you,” she repeated. Her voice was deeper now. Clearer.
I could still feel her breath. I could hear her breathing me in, as if smelling me. And then, I felt it. A small, hesitant touch on the front of my pants.
I didn’t move.
It was her finger. Timidly, but with determination, it traced a circle around the bulge in the fabric. She exhaled deeply as her palm came to rest, caressing my cock through my pants.
I said nothing. I let her do it.
I pulled back carefully, just enough to see. I looked down at her hand, gliding back and forth. I looked at her. Her mouth was open, lips slightly parted. Her eyes followed her hand, mesmerized. Instinctively, I pulsed my cock towards her, a single, powerful throb that strained against the fabric. She gasped sharply.
Emilia looked at me with eyes that were a mix of innocence and utter depravity.
I wanted her lips on my cock, right then and there.
Just then, her phone rang. It was her husband. As if struck by lightning, Emilia pulled away, and the shy, small woman was back.
I drove the rest of the way in complete silence. I waved to her husband as I dropped her off in their driveway.
I came inside my wife three times that day. Every time was a prayer, and every prayer was a lie.
