The cathedral smells of incense, thick and heavy. I kneel next to Magdalena on the scarlet cushion. The fraying threads scrape my bare knees, already pink from the cold. I glance up over the smooth wood planks of the pew, between hillocks of bowed heads and the forest of columns to the altar where the priest stands with his attendants. The Latin of the sermon rings out above the congregation and up into the misted vaults of the sky far, far, above.
Magdalena is praying hard. If she prayed any harder beads of sweat would come out on her brow. Her brown hair is tied back in a thick braid. Her round glasses have slid to the tip of her nose as they do when she concentrates. Her white blouse with the little frills on the cuffs is stretched tight, as if her woven fingers and white knuckles are ratcheting every thread to its snapping point. Her skirt, black and heavy, has red and blue wildflowers sewn on the hem, and has bunched around her waist. I lean back a little. I can see her sensible white panties.
I nudge her and pass her a note.
*Come back to mine after?* I like my handwriting. It is like an artist’s, slanty with a meandering large question mark.
She opens one eye and glances at the message. She reads it and her eye snaps tightly shut again, as fast as a mouse that scurries back into its hole when it sniffs a cat. I smile. She has a difficult relationship with sin. The way I heard them tell it, we are born sinners – so how much worse can it get? If the house is already flooded who cares if someone leaves the faucet on. I was never one for overcomplicating things. Magdalena takes a more cautious view. But really, deep down, she knows I’m right. That’s why she keeps coming to my house.
I reach down and hitch my skirt up further. I have white panties on too. Ones that are just a bit too small. I poke Magdalena in the leg. She opens her eye again and sees what I’ve done. There is a curve of brightness between my pale thighs, beneath the lines of stiff grey pleats. Her other eye opens, and then her mouth in a half formed ‘oh.’ She moves a little where she sits on her heels. She nods quickly.
*Yes.* she mouths.
Then she screws her eyes tight and weaves her fingers together and leans her forehead against the little shelf on the back of the pew in front with the prayer book and bible on it. It will make a dent, I know it. But I see her open her eyes again and they drift towards me and I part my knees a little and let her watch.
We return to my apartment at Ostrovní 53 in the rain. I want to hold her hand. Our little fingers touch once or twice, curving towards each other. It is a warming feeling, like beer on an empty stomach. We keep to the kerb, well away from the vans that splash through the autumn puddles and once I pull her into a doorway and hold her to keep her safe from the water, my breasts pressing against her back. Her arse in my crotch.
She follows me up the dark stairwell, our shoes tapping softly on the tiles. They say an arab barber once lived here and brought the tiles from Morocco. Sometimes I think I can smell that sweet hookah smoke, heady and powerful, the stuff that gives you magnificent dreams.
Inside she sits on the sofa, silently in that way of hers while I make tea. The kitchen is divided from the lounge by a counter top. I look back at her between the spice jars and a potted plant and a string of postcards. She is neat. Her hands rest on her knees and she sits upright, like she is still at school, as if someone might come in any minute and test her times tables.
‘Do you want sugar?’ I say, over the whistle of the kettle? She says no, as always. I give her a spoonful, as always.
I sit across from her. The first time I was tentative but this is not the first time. Somewhere outside someone is playing Chopin. The steam from the tea fogs Magdalena’s glasses and they slide down her nose.
I lift one of my knees and the skirt falls up. I reach behind my waist and unzip it and slip it off and put it beside me. I let her watch. She holds her tea and does not sip it. I unbutton my shirt, one, two, three. I did not wear a bra today and my nipples are hard for her. I reach down and stroke myself through my knickers, up and down over the curve of my pubis, feeling the spring of hair beneath. Magdalena swallows though her mouth is empty.
I put my hand into my panties. I gasp a little, surprised at how wet I am. God, I love doing this. It feels so bad. So good. She is so *corruptible*. I reach with my other hand and pull the gusset to the side, showing off. It is the act of a lewd woman. An ace of spades from a deck of cards in the red light district. It is her turn to gasp, involuntarily. She puts the cup down on the side table. Magdalena’s tongue slowly slides over her lips, her eyes fixed on my pink cunt.
Our eyes meet as I start to rub myself, moving my wetness to my clit. I ask questions without saying them aloud:
‘Would you like to touch me?’
‘Would you like to kiss me?’
‘Would you like to love me?’
But she says nothing. She looks between my legs. I moan and close my eyes and put two fingers in, enjoy the stretch and how it feels to do it for show, return to my nipple with my other hand. I hear her move to the footstool. When I look again she is there, even closer, blushing as hard as she can. Her hair has come down from the braid. Her fingers are pressing into the tops of her thighs. She watches me play with myself, the flash of fingertips over my clit; the occasional dips into my wetness, the squeezes I give myself, the tiny taps with my palm that feel like sheet lightening.
I want her to respond but she never does. She just watches with a tortured hunger, as if she senses something dreadful will happen if she gets any closer. She loosens a button. I can see her cleavage now. My belly rises as I breathe. I could make myself orgasm but I don’t. I like the feeling of hanging over the edge, of being close enough but not quite there, of the hot dishevelment of arousal. I moan a little more and lean back and lift my hips to my hand.
I watch her watch me. This time it is different. I feel electricity course through my veins. She stands and with trembling but determined fingers undoes her skirt. Her panties are sensible. Substantial. She takes them off. She stands there bottomless, as I lie in front of her. She waits. Glances around. The blinds are drawn. I think for a moment she is going to run in panic, out of the door half naked. I reach up to her with my free hand and she takes it. I shudder as she sits next to me, her thigh against mine.
And then we are kissing, hot heavy kisses with open mouths. Her hand is on my pussy, stroking it over and over, her fingers eagerly penetrating me as she has watched me do five times before. She pulls my panties down and off, easily, smoothly, as if she had rehearsed it in her mind a hundred times. And my hand is between her spread legs, opening her up, feeling how soaked she is and we are moaning and now she is sucking my tit.
Her mouth feels small, precise. Not like the men who have undressed me. She kisses the nipple, draws it in, flattens it with her tongue, pulls it hard again.
I cry out a little in the anguish of met desire, the realisation of having got what I wanted, the knowledge I would not need to want it in that way again. I had not expected this. She is physical, strong. She holds me down and kisses and bites my neck as she puts two fingers inside of me. I buck against her, getting more of her, giving her more of me. She keeps going and speeds up until my rhythm builds and I begin to cum, shaking into her palm as she holds her tongue in my mouth and I flutter my tea-sweet breath through the gaps.
I surface from the deep blue and slide down and kiss her hip. I push her legs apart and sink my face into her bush. I inhale her, kiss her, lick her. Her fingers grasp my hair, pulling me in. I bring a hand and my tongue to action, fingering her, kissing beside her in that space where her leg meets her mound. She wants it. She is straining for her orgasm. Her cries are just that – sharp and sawn off as she reaches in the dark, fighting pins and needles.
Her thighs grip me harder. She wants me closer. I hold my fingers inside her and lick her clit, the hood of her clit, silk smooth and hot and round. Not too fast but steady. Her cries deepen and begin to flow. She shudders. Shakes something off that’s been weighing down on her for a long time. Her hand is on my head, my shoulder, her face, her breast as she comes, as waves of her orgasm course through her.
I slide up as her grip loosens. Twine my legs between hers so we are touching. So our wetness presses against each other. I hold myself against her and kiss her flushed neck. She is only half responsive. Her hand cups my breast, barely sexual, intensely familiar, hugely erotic. I kiss her mouth as she comes round.
It is there still, that old look, the look she had ten minutes before. The uncertainty, the trepidation. I feel fear.
*Was that it,* I ask myself, holding my breath. *That can’t be it.*
But then she relaxes. She lies back on the couch and throws her arms over her head, like exams are over, like it’s the start of the vacation, like the debts are all cleared. I laugh and lay my head on her chest.
I am afraid. I love her; I know I do. I love her so intensely. I do not want to lose this perfect moment, this poem. The rain on the slanted skylight. The steam from the tea in a skein hanging halfway to the ceiling. The heat of our bodies. The impossible possibilities of a quiet Sunday stretching ahead of us. A lifetime, a forever, gilt in Moroccan mosaics of blue and gold. I sneak a glance at her. She is still smiling. She begins to stroke my hair. Everything is going to be OK, I tell myself.
‘Make some more tea,’ says Magdalena, sleepily. ‘And then I will make love to you again.’
Source: reddit.com/r/sexystories/comments/dni8c4/a_show_for_magdalena_ff_religion_exhibitionism
Well written, very sensual, thank you
An astounding read! Thank you for the lesson in true artistry.
Damn, well done.