A Kind of Communion

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Author’s note: This story deals with a taboo relationship, the nature of which is quickly apparent. I would have submitted it to the Incest/Taboo category, but those stories seem to be exclusively about incest, which this isn’t. But please take this as notice that the couple’s relationship would not be approved by society, generally.

Also — thanks again to Rustyoznail for editing assistance.

I hope you enjoy, and I appreciate any comments or feedback you choose to leave.

Thanks

Belle

*~~* *~~* *~~*

I went to his Mass late, on purpose. I walked in and sat near the back. My heels clicked on the hard floor and I paused in the aisle just long enough for him to notice me. I wore a simple black wrap dress, tied in the back, and not much else. Low, conservative pumps. My hair pulled up in a loose ponytail. Tasteful make up. I half listened to the service. It was only the second or third time I’d been in a Catholic church; once was for a wedding. The music was nice, the incense smelled interesting. But I was really just biding my time.

The service ended; everyone shuffled out. He walked past me, never looking at me. I heard him talking to the parishioners as they left. I waited, looking over the pews at the few people who were also staying. I assumed they planned to go to confession. He walked back in, greeting them. He’d paused near me, for a split second, but then kept going.

He genuflected near the altar and went to the Confessional. A few moments later one of the waiting parishioners stood and went to the other side. I saw the little door open and close. The other parishioners moved closer to the booth so I moved with them. I kept an empty pew between me and the four or five who waited. I smiled briefly when one or the other of them looked at me.

We sat in silence. It was very calming. One by one the rest stood, made their way to the booth, and went in. Each time a pew cleared out I moved closer. By the time the last person stood up I was directly across from his side of the booth. I smiled sweetly at the lady as she walked over. She was old, her face a tapestry of wrinkles that hinted at the history she’d lived through. Her hair a fluffy white helmet. She walked stiffly but steadily in a dark blue skirt and matching blazer. Her only jewelry a wedding ring and a string of pearls. In the few moments that I observed her, she radiated a kind of steel determination. It made me wonder what she could possibly have to confess.

I sat there alone. I looked around the church, staring at the elaborate crucifix hanging behind the altar. The typical Jesus, all long stringy hair, six pack abs, and tattered loin cloth on the verge of falling off. A sadist’s wet dream, with the crown of thorns and the blood dripping from his palms. Not that I was in any position to judge, of course.

The lady took a lot longer in there than I expected. I guess she had a more interesting life than I imagined. Eventually, though, she came tottering out. She looked peaceful, and the smile she gave me was genuine.

I waited some more. I knew he knew I was here. I assumed he was wondering why. I wanted him to be tense, to be a little rattled. Was that evil? Maybe. I was angry. Hurt. I’ll admit I hadn’t considered all the consequences.

I reached behind me to untie the dress, leaving the belt hanging down as I finally rose and went over to the booth. I opened his door. I stood in the space. I stared in his eyes as his mouth opened and closed on words that wouldn’t come out. His deep brown eyes, widening. His lush wine red lips working deliciously. His dark eyebrows raising and lowering as he started to shake his head. The booth was dark and cramped. He sat on a small, armless, chair, pressed hard against the back. His vestments hung between his legs, his black pants such a stark contrast to the white and gold.

I stood with my legs spread and slipped my hands down the front of the dress, easing it open. Folding the fabric behind me. Exposing myself to him. Underneath I wore only a thin white lace half cup bra, and a matching lace thong. They were both practically transparent. My nipples poked out, hard and tight above the edge of the lace cups. My trimmed bush darkened the lace just at the front of the thong. I held the cloth behind me and stood there while he drank me in.

Oh, he didn’t want to at first. He closed his eyes tight; he leaned back in the small space. He pressed his beautiful lips together. He raised his hands, shielding his face as though warding off a demon. I don’t know; maybe he was. Then he dropped his hands, opened his eyes, and looked at me. He looked at every part of me. His mouth opened slightly, and I saw the barest tip of his tongue dart out and retreat. He breathed in deeply and his nostrils flared. I knew he was smelling my scent. Smelling my arousal. Smelling my intention.

When he finally managed words he said, “I should tell you to leave.”

I shook my head.

“I sh–,” he started. He bahis firmaları breathed in again. “I can’t.”

I didn’t wait for his protestations. I shook my head again, and sank, slowly, down. I eased forward and fitted myself between his legs. I put my hands, under the vestments, on his thighs. He spread his legs wider and flipped the cloth that obscured him off to one side. I slipped my hands along the inside of his thighs, cupping his balls with one, and finding his rapidly engorging cock with the other.

I gently squeezed his shaft. I palmed his balls, working my fingers up behind him, even through the cloth of his pants. I stroked his rod, moving it into position directly behind the zipper. I leaned down and kissed his head, still hidden, and slipped my hands up to unbuckle his belt. The faint clatter of the metal clasp and his hard intake of breath were the only sounds. My blood was rushing, to my head and to my pussy, which was flooded and swollen. I ground myself against the hard heels of my shoes, stifling a groan as I eased down his zipper.

He kept shifting his hands; they’d alight briefly on my head, then I’d see his fists pinned to the outside of this thighs, then palms flat on the walls of the booth. Everything was moving in slow motion and as far as I was concerned the only things that existed in the world were the two of us in this small space. I gazed up at him, keeping his brown eyes fixed, centered, in this little world. The emotions rolling through his face were as intoxicating as the feel of his cock under my hands.

He was the picture of internal conflict. His lips pulled back in what could have been a smile or a grimace. His eyes darted, looking down, then up, then past me. But always finding a home in my gaze. He kept trying to talk, but all that came out were wordless grunts and sighs.

I reached in and freed his cock from his pants and underwear. It was as glorious as I’d hoped. Thick, long, turgid and red, his head bulging out over the shaft, and already weeping precum. I inhaled his scent. I opened my mouth and blew gently over him, and then leaned down to tap the well of nectar at his very tip.

When my tongue made that first contact with his head, he shuddered.

Then he spoke. “This… this goes against everything. Everything I’ve… Oh… It’s.. It’s a kind of blasphemy.”

His voice was low and gruff; hoarse with a deep need and his struggle.

I licked his head, lightly. I stroked his rod, softly. I rolled his balls on my palm, gently.

“How long has it been?” I asked. “How long since you felt this?”

I didn’t wait for an answer. I leaned down again and took his head into my mouth. I suckled him, swirling my tongue around his tip and meeting my lips with my hand. I heard his skull knocking into the wood of the back of the Confessional. Knocking in time to my movements. I let drool drip out of my mouth to coat him, licking down his shaft, preparing to swallow him whole. I pulled off of him, and looked up. His head was back, he seemed to be staring up. I ducked down and kissed his balls, leaving a long trail of saliva on his length. I kneeled up, leaning over him, and slipped him into my mouth. As his glans hit the back of my palate I felt claws in my hair, pulling, yanking up.

“Stop,” he grunted. “Stop. Oh. I need you to stop.”

I dropped him from my mouth. “What do you want me to stop?”

“Stop,” his voice was a whisper. “Touching me.”

“Ok,” I answered.

I sat back on my heels. I spread my knees wide. His rod jutted up from his pants, wet with my drool, and a steady drip of precum welling up and sliding down. He was shaking. I reached up and unhooked my bra, separating the cups and letting my tits fall out completely. I caressed my breasts, kneading my own flesh and twisting my nipple lightly. His gaze never left my chest. I pressed my tits together, squeezing them, imagining his prick thrusting between them. I stared at his cock, twitching with his heartbeat. His hands were pressed to the sides of the booth.

I slid my hands down my body. His mouth opened and closed again, working soundlessly once more. It seemed to have taken every ounce of his control to tell me to stop. He had nothing left to tell me to leave. So I wasn’t going to. I spread my knees even more, kneeling up, leaning back, showing him that my panties were now soaked through. That they were completely transparent. I pulled hard on the front of the thong, seating the slip of fabric deep between my lower lips. I reached with both hands, down, pulling my lips apart, reaching between. I wet my finger with my juice, and held it up, held it out to him. He started to lean forward, to taste me, but pushed himself back.

I shrugged. I stuck my finger deep in my mouth, licking myself off and sucking my finger. I stared in his eyes, and he stared at my cunt. I fingered myself again, two long fingers pumping in and out, coating themselves with even more of my drippings. My other hand working my tits and paying special attention kaçak iddaa to my nipples. I fingered myself hard, fast, and when my hand was covered, I held it out to him again.

He leaned forward and licked the ends of my fingers. He closed his eyes and sucked my fingers into his beautiful hot mouth. His tongue felt like wet velvet, swirling around my fingers, pulling me deeper in. He sat back on the bench, and I moved with him, leaning forward. When he let go, I dropped my hand and slipped the backs of my fingers down the length of his shaft. He jumped as though he’d been shocked, but didn’t say anything when I moved my hand to stroke him softly.

I scooted closer to him; he reached out to touch my shoulder, letting his hand fall onto my breast and glide around my nipple. I leaned forward to take his cock back in my mouth.

“No,” he grunted. “No. I can’t. We…” His hand jerked away from me.

“You want to,” I said. It was obvious to me that he did. His body was practically begging for me to suck him. His cock was throbbing in time with his heart, and his head was purpling.

I kneeled up again, touching my breasts with one hand and fucking myself with the other.

“How long has it been? Since you’ve had a woman? How long since you’ve smelled this, tasted this? You want to. Your body wants this. I want this. I want you.”

My hand pumped into my hole, and the slick wet sound filled the Confessional.

“Let me. Let me suck you off. Cum in my mouth. Let me taste you.”

His answering groan sounded like something breaking.

“No,” he managed. “I’m not. I won’t. Not. Not today.”

I kept fingering myself, fucking myself and then rubbing my swollen and protruding clit. I watched his face, watched him watching me. Watched him take his cock in his own hand, slick from my drool and the precum that kept leaking out. I watched him stroking himself, fast movements, jerking and tugging on himself. I sped up my pace. I pummeled myself with my hand. I squeezed and pulled my nipple in time with his movements. We stared at each other. My gaze was locked on his hand, pumping away on his shaft. When I glanced up to his face, he was looking down, where my hand beat its own rapid time into my pussy.

I came first, grunting and panting, holding onto the wall of the booth for balance, and then leaning down. My pussy clenched hard around my hand and I shook. When the orgasm finished rolling through me, I held out my hand again. He took it, licking greedily, holding my hand to his face while he jerked himself off. When my hand was clean I rested both of them on his thighs. He spread his legs, his hand flying inches from my face. I watched the pleasure and the agony roll through his face. He closed his eyes tight and gritted his teeth.

His cock erupted, his jizz landing on my face, dripping down my cheek. The first few spurts leaving a trail and the last few landing on my tits. He collapsed back, shaking. I sat there, bathed in his cum, feeling it drip down my body, waiting. When he opened his eyes, I took two fingers and scooped up the dollops on my chin. I opened my mouth wide and let him watch me as I cleaned his spunk off me. I smeared the rest over my breasts, coating myself in his scent. Then I refastened my bra and stood. I pulled off my sopping panties, stepping out of them carefully while he eyed me. I tossed them in his lap. I arranged my dress and retied the fastening.

He wrapped my panties around his softening cock and stroked himself.

I stepped backward, out of the Confessional, still staring at him. He was panting, sweat glistening on his forehead. The smell of sex was thick in the air, unmistakably out of place, but commingled with the incense and the still burning votive candles. I stepped into the aisle, and he finally sat up straight. He put his cock away and zipped up his pants. He rearranged his vestments.

He got to his feet and followed me into the aisle. He’d put my panties in his pocket. I leaned on the end of the pew, my hands behind me on the wooden back rest. He stepped close to me, and for a split second I thought he might kiss me.

But he just looked down at me, and the expression on his face was confused.

“I don’t know why I didn’t stop you. I don’t know why I didn’t get up and leave.”

“Because you wanted it,” I answered. “You’ve wanted that since the first time you saw me. When you thought you could get away with a harmless flirtation.”

“It’s not harmless,” he said.

“No,” I said, “it’s not. And it’s not a flirtation.”

I turned to pick up my purse and stepped into the aisle.

“Next time,” I said, “you’re going to fuck me.”

I turned on my heel and walked away.

*~~* *~~* *~~*

I didn’t know Joseph was a priest when I met him. In fact, for almost two months of casual and less than casual conversations, he never let on. When I asked him what he did for a living, he told me he worked for a nonprofit social service agency. Those are a dime a dozen in this kaçak bahis town, so I didn’t think twice about it. I was so excited that this aspect of my life was opening up again. It had been such a bad few years. I’d come into money, in one of the worst ways possible. Everything had gone to shit. The last thing I’d been thinking about was romance.

There was a car wreck. My husband and I driving to see his parents, full of excitement to tell them about their first grandbaby on the way. We got sideswiped by a tractor trailer, or so I’m told. I don’t remember.

What I was told was that the truck hit us, and our car skidded off the shoulder and then into some trees. Both of us had to get cut out of what was left of the car. My husband was in a coma for a while. He lingered, long enough for my injuries to be treated. Long enough for me to be discharged from the hospital and go to a physical rehab. Long enough for me to adapt to legs that didn’t work the way they used to, and hands that shook when I held things, and a brain that couldn’t remember the important stuff. He lived, I guess you could call it, in that coma long enough for me to get discharged from the rehab. Long enough for his parents to be able to drive me to the hospital.

I spent the day with him, talking to him like he could understand me. Telling him that I loved him, that we would work everything out together, and that I knew the wreck wasn’t his fault. Lying to him that I was still pregnant. Promising that I’d decided to name the baby after him. I stayed, past the supposed end of visiting hours, until I couldn’t think or talk any more and his nurses got worried about me. They called his parents, and my father-in-law gently cajoled me to leave with him, promising that we’d come back first thing in the morning. My husband died eight hours later, while I was tossing in an exhausted sleep. Everything changed. I mean, of course it did.

Part of my rehab had been a lot of exercise. I got into it like I never had before. Yoga, Pilates, running. So much running. I had no appetite and it was still hard to hold cutlery anyway. I don’t know how much weight I lost. Physically, I wound up in better shape that I’d ever been. The exercise helped the depression some, and the guilt some. Not much, but some.

My in-laws found a really great attorney. She researched the trucking company and found some irregularities. When she presented her findings they settled for more money than I could have imagined. More than enough money that I’ll never have to work again, that I’ll never have to worry about paying for my ongoing medical issues. Do I need to say that I’d gladly give all of it back, with interest, to have my husband and the baby? No, of course not.

But I did the only thing I could. I lived. One day at a time, one season, one anniversary. The wreck changed me in other ways. Maybe it’s the residual effect of the head trauma. Maybe it’s just having come that close to dying, and being shown just how short and capricious life can be. Whatever it is, I just don’t care as much about convention as I used to. I don’t care about rules or what society says I should care about. I’m a little impulsive. I’m a little obsessive.

Just over a year after my husband died, I moved across the country. About a year after that I moved again, north, to a good sized city where it’s ok to be anonymous. I kept up the exercise, especially the running. Every day I ran a loop in a big park near my house. Five or six miles, depending on which detours I decide to take. I see men looking at me. I’ve noticed them follow me from time to time. I’ve heard the flirtatious comments. I usually just rolled my eyes and picked up my pace. Most of them took the hint.

See, that part of me, my libido, my sexual self, took a lot of damage too. I’d spent a long time mourning my husband. Mourning my lost baby. A long time in pain, physical and mental. A long time in a fog, just trying to get through each day. The idea of flirting back just seemed ridiculous. Until Joseph.

It was a bright fall day, that perfect temperature. It was sunny and still and once I got into the park all I could hear were the birds. I was about halfway through my loop just kind of staring at the guy running about ten feet ahead of me. He had on a dark gray t-shirt and black shorts, gray shoes and some kind of tattoo on the back of his left calf. I realized I was pacing his stride, keeping the same distance between us, even though I’d been running faster previously. He was clearly just taking things easy, and there was barely any sweat on the back of his shirt.

Then I realized that I was staring at his ass. That I was wondering what he’d look like from the front. What he’d look like naked. The thought brought me up short. I stopped in my tracks, standing there, panting even though I wasn’t tired, head down with my hands on my thighs. It was just such a shock.

Much to my chagrin, when I stood up I saw him run to an intersection with another pathway and turn around. He ran back toward me. I tried not to stare, but I’m pretty sure I did. He smiled as he ran past and I smiled back. I walked over to a nearby bench and sat down hard. Then I walked home and masturbated for the first time in months.