Getting to Know the Pastor's Wife

Getting To Know the Pastor's Wife

by Peter_Cleveland

The opinions expressed by the pastor's wife are her own and do not necessarily represent the views of the author. Let alone the views of the church officials who sign her husband's paycheck. She does sound like a fun date, though.

* * * * * 1

The pain in my shoulder came out of nowhere. Saturday I played a reasonably good round of golf with the guys; Sunday I could hardly move for the pain. "Arthritis," the doctor said on Tuesday, staring at her screen. "A bad flareup. Welcome to middle age."

She typed an order for a cortisone injection and prescribed my treatment for the near term. Heating pad, Tylenol, avoid stressing the shoulder as much as you can. No more golf. Don't even fantasize about tennis, basketball, or skeet shooting. I was going to say, "Pole vaulting okay?" but decided not to risk it. Somewhere, far from Hartford County, Connecticut, there must be a doctor with a sense of humor.

Miniature golf's a possibility, she continued; probably swimming. Bicycling maybe: try it and see. Then the doc was off. She worked for The Man, just like the rest of us, and she had a quota to fill. Three minutes later, an underling came in to give me my shot. She was young and pretty, with a lilting Caribbean voice--so I eased up on my grumbling.

"I feel like Marilyn Monroe," Cathy said, a week later. My girlfriend was just back from another business trip. She was naked, above me, fucking me cowgirl-style. Not one of our usual positions. The view was lovely, though. I admired her cute face, her short and stylish dark hair. Her breasts, brown-tipped and beautifully shaped, swayed prettily as she moved.

"Poor President Kennedy, with his bad back," I replied. "Forced to just lie there and let Marilyn do all the work. Thanks to the miracle of arthritis, now I can really commiserate with him."

"I wonder how Jackie felt," she said.

"I think the elite don't consider adultery a calamity, the way we plebeians do. Probably they see marriage as a strategic alliance to preserve family wealth... not the source of all fulfillment, bliss, and other Hallmark Channel stuff. Jackie probably envied how much the press and the opposite party let her husband get away with.... You have prettier nipples than Marilyn."

I came and Cathy didn't, so she wanted cunnilingus. She lay down on her back, opened her legs wide. Glad to oblige... normally. Tonight, though, my sore shoulder was having none of it. Every time I brought my body even close to a workable position, pain stabbed me hard.

"I can't do it like this, Cathy," I apologized. "I could get back on my back, and you could squat over me. Or do a 69 position."

"Neither of them ever works for me, Martin."

"My fingers all feel strong and healthy."

Cathy sat up and kissed me. "You're a sweetheart... but I think the moment has passed. I should be getting back, anyway. I have an early meeting tomorrow.... I'll call you tomorrow, see how you're doing." She kissed me again. "Love you, hon."

"Love you too."

Soon she was gone. I got up, looking for the Tylenol and the heating pad. Next time I'll take the pills before the date.

* * * * * 2

The bike shop replaced my Trek's handlebars and some related parts. Now I could sit more upright, taking most of the weight off my shoulders--at the cost of more wind resistance as I rode. The trade-off was worth it.

Without golf, I had some leisure time to fill... preferably with something involving other people. Cathy's free time is limited. My short-term memory sucks, so that ruled out card games. I always enjoyed reading, though, so I gave the town library's "Book Club" a try. It met every third Thursday, early evening, in a pleasant lounge at the library.

My first visit, there were ten of us, six women and four men, ages maybe thirty to seventy-five. Apparently most of us had finished the book, John Updike's great but depressing novel, Rabbit, Run. A couple people apparently had begun it but not finished. One old guy might have skimmed the entry in Wikipedia... or maybe just wandered in off the street. A library staff member did her best to guide the discussion.

One participant caught my interest: a woman, probably in her late 30s, blonde, pretty, conservatively dressed in a dark skirt and jacket, white blouse. Despite the slightly prim attire, she was fairly lively, and her speech was a bit earthier than you would expect. She was clearly very bright, a good reader, and not hesitant about sharing her views. Jennie, her name tag said.

At one point we were discussing a puzzling scene in the novel. Young Harry Angstrom has left his wife and baby and is living with another woman. The pastor of a local church, about Harry's age, makes it his mission to befriend Harry and guide him back to the path of virtue. One Sunday, Harry walks the pastor's wife, Lucy, home after a church service. There she makes a pass at him, telling him she finds him attractive because "You're not afraid of women"--unlike her husband. Harry declines her offer.

I wasn't sure what to make of that scene. Most of the group found the scene unrealistic. Lucy's behavior is too outrageous for a pastor's wife, too improbable.

"No," said Jennie. "It's realistic. Updike nailed it."

Soon after, as we packed up to leave, I invited her out for a cup of coffee. "Of course," she replied.

* * * * * 3

We took a table in the town's independent coffee shop, a block up Main Street from the library. I sipped a mug of decaf Sumatra; Jennie, a cappuccino.

"An interesting group tonight," she said. "You're new, I think, right? I'm glad you came. You're smart, and you can read beyond the surface."

"And I'm not afraid of women," I joked.

"I know that," she said. "Want to fuck?"

"If I thought you weren't joking I would say, 'With you? Absolutely.'"

Jennie gave me a smile. "If I ever ask you again, it won't be a joke."

We exchanged basic personal information. I do research and writing for a small consulting company. I'm 43, divorced, one child: a girl. During the school year she lives with the ex, a thousand miles away. I have a small house here in Manchester. I'm favoring my right shoulder, as you've noticed, owing to a flareup of some arthritis I didn't know I had. How about you?

"I'm 39," she said. "I live in Willimantic. You've noticed my wedding ring by now. We are unable to conceive a child. My fault, I'm afraid. I've been coming to Book Club for a year and enjoy it."

"Willimantic is a big town," I observed. "With a decent university. There must be a good book club closer to you than Manchester."

"I like to get away," she said. "Back home, I'm on duty most of the time. People know me and have expectations. I have to play a certain role, almost constantly. If I don't shine, it hurts my husband."

"Are you employed?" I inquired.

"Yes and no. I work a lot of hours a week, but there's no paycheck for me. We get housing."

"I give up," I said. "Are you the wife of the mayor?"

"Tom? No. You're in the ballpark, though. I'm the wife of a Christian minister. Harold J. Brixton, Pastor, Grace United Methodist."

"Jesus," I muttered.

"That's our guy! Do you still want to fuck?"

"Yes," I said.

"That was an information question, not an invitation. This time. If I ever ask you again..."

We both smiled, then exchanged phone numbers. Soon we walked together back to our cars, parked behind the library. There she smiled once more, clasped my hand, and said, "Thanks for the coffee."

I thought it would be amusing to say goodbye in the style her husband used at work. I somehow remembered a benediction from the churchgoing days of my childhood. "Go," I said, "... and may the Peace of God go with you."

Jennie looked up at me, her eyes sparkling, a wry smile on her face.

"If only," she said. "But thanks."

She climbed into her Corolla -- revealing a good stretch of pretty legs -- waved goodbye, and drove off, heading towards Route 6.

* * * * * 4

Four days later Jennie called me to arrange another date. The meeting of a church women's group had been cancelled due to illnesses, so tomorrow evening was free. She didn't want to be seen in Willimantic with a man other than her husband. Gossip would immediately start and quickly turn nasty, she feared. But she'd be glad to drive out to Manchester.

The next evening we met again at the coffee shop and had a bite to eat with our coffee. Then we drove to my house, a mile away. In my living room we chatted about life and the next Book Club selection--Updike's comic novel, The Witches of Eastwick. We had some wine, enjoyed each other's company. We even snuggled a little on the sofa, kissed a little. She took my hand, placed it on her breast, and again offered her lips.

I had no idea what sort of physical contact would be appropriate--I was surprised we had this much--so I just tried to pick up on the signals she was sending and not push things. I wasn't used to dating married women, let alone churchgoing ones, let alone ministers' wives. Kissing her lips and fondling her breasts over her blouse--and going no further--made me feel like a teenager again... this time without acne. It also gave me a teenage-style hardon.

We saw each other again at the next Book Club meeting. We flirted a little there, but she had to go home right afterwards. Some conflict or other at the church had to be dealt with.

* * * * * 5

Two weeks after that, as Cathy and I were enjoying an after-sex snuggle in my bed, my phone chirped. A text had come in. When Cathy went to the bathroom, I took a look. It was from Jennie: "Would dearly love to talk in person. Not in Willimantic. Would you be free in the near future?"

I replied, "If urgent, in an hour or two. Any time tomorrow evening or most other evenings. Coffee shop again?"

She texted back, "Tomorrow is OK. Does Manchester have a bar with a quiet table?"

"I'll find one and text you by 1 PM tomorrow."

"Thank you."

The toilet flushed. I set down the phone as Cathy returned to the bed. "Am I missing something?" she asked.

"An acquaintance from Book Club. Something's on her mind, and she wants to talk. We're meeting tomorrow."

"Should I be jealous? Worried?"

"I don't think so," I said. "For one thing, she's married. In fact, she's a minister's wife."

"Is that supposed to be reassuring?" Cathy inquired.

* * * * * 6

The Lodge is an old and classy restaurant downtown--a relic of an earlier age. Its bar room is quiet, softly lit, and expensive. Except for that third item, perfect for our rendezvous. We shared a booth near the back. I sipped my German beer while Jennie shared her frustrations.

"The job really requires a master politician," she was saying, "and Harry is anything but. He tries to please everybody, and he thinks everybody has the church's best interests at heart. They don't. Behind his back they're constantly scheming, doing these petty power plays. By 'they' I mean the lay leadership--the Sunday School superintendent, the head of the finance committee, the outreach committee; one or two of the 'local pastors'--that's what Methodists call our lay ministers. God help us, now some of them want to fire the organist. Little people, each determined to be a big shot at Grace United Methodist."

I held my tongue as she drank some beer.

"Meanwhile," she continued, "the church has big problems not of its own making. For which all the big shots at Grace are blaming Harry. Attendance has been declining for decades--in every church in every mainline denomination. Except the evangelicals. So the church income is 'way down. What new members we're getting tend to be darker and poorer than the old ones. Poorer is a small problem; darker is no problem at all for Harry, me and, I'm pretty sure, God. But there's still a good deal of racism in the Old Guard. Also, Harry tries to be noncommittal on hot-button social issues--he's trying to be inclusive of everybody--but some congregants are pushing hard for our church to take strong, mostly right-wing stances on every divisive issue."

She took another gulp of St. Pauli Girl. "Plus now the price of heating oil is going through the roof. Insurance is going through the roof. The carpet is worn, and we can't afford to replace it. The neighborhood is in decline. Thanks to some past denominational mergers, Willimantic now has two United Methodist churches, both struggling. If the bishop has any sense at all, he'll close one of them. That's an existential threat to the lay Grand Poobahs. So they all blame Harry for everything and get their revenge by undercutting and snarling the good things he is doing--like the outreach to neighborhood teens.

"Meanwhile," she continued, "the assistant minister is playing it cool and noncommittal. I have no idea where he stands on most issues. He's young, and he's ambitious. Apparently he's sleeping with one of our Sunday School teachers. The good news is that neither of them is married, so when some busybody decides to pretend that their affair is a major crisis, the blowup won't be quite as destructive. But it'll be bad enough."

I thought of the hours my parents had forced me to spend in church in my youth. The creaky old hymns proclaiming a joy I didn't feel. The tedious sermons, whose main point, if any, I never quite caught. The weekly perjury of the responsive readings and the Apostles' Creed. And was there ever a minister or a Sunday School teacher who looked like they had even heard of sex? Let alone decided to get together and give it a try! That would have made the place a lot more inviting.

Thirty years ago, had I encountered a church lady like the one I was now having a drink with, I might have taken a very different path.

Jennie finished her glass, signalled for another bottle, then returned to her tale of woe. "And now, I gather, some of the good church ladies have started a whispering campaign against me. Some of what they're saying simply is not true. Some of it happened long before we came to Willimantic."

I had to smile. I wasn't surprised to hear that the gossip, though mean-spirited, was not entirely false. The United Methodist Church does not have any modern-day saints... and Jennie did not look like the best candidate to be their first. I liked her all the more for that.

"How's Harry holding up under the strain?" I asked.

"Okay at first; now not at all well. He's buckling. He internalizes everything. He blames himself for not fixing problems that no individual person could fix. He can't step away and get a better perspective. Can't let go. Can't throw in the towel on any issue. So he's constantly struggling on all fronts.... By now he's angry and frustrated all the time. Fuming. His sermons are getting duller and weaker. God only knows what sort of pastoral counseling he's giving people who seek it. Now he's constantly snapping at me, yelling at me. Yesterday he raised his hand to slap me. Caught himself before he did it, and apologized, but that misdirected anger worries me. I should call the bishop and warn of an imminent clerical breakdown, maybe get Harry some psychiatric care--and I may still do that. But I'm afraid of what he would do if I made that call."

She paused for another couple ounces of beer, then went on. "I try to give him extra love, emotional and physical love too, hoping that would nourish him, soothe him... at least help him relax. But he keeps turning away. He won't let himself receive that gift. Let alone return it.

"I'm going crazy myself," she said, "from trying and failing to help fix the clusterfuck at Grace UMC... from trying and failing to help Harry get sane again... from the verbal abuse."

I felt sorry for her, and her husband too. I took her two hands in mine. "What can I do to help, Jennie?"

"Let me come home with you, Martin. Spend the night. Just for tonight. By tomorrow morning I'll be calmed down. Thinking clearly again. I'll return to Willimantic and act wisely, do something useful. At the moment I don't know what that would be, but I'll know tomorrow.... Can you do that for me?"

"Of course."

"By 'spend the night,' I mean in your bed. I need someone to hold me, touch me tenderly. Give me affection and accept mine in return. Can you do that for me, Martin?"

The phrase "playing with fire" popped into my mind.

"Of course, Jennie."

* * * * * 7

Behind The Lodge was a large municipal lot where we both had parked. This time at night, about eight-thirty, the lot was dimly lit but little used. We quickly spotted our cars. I assumed we'd each drive from here to my place, but Jennie walked with me to my old Civic.

"May I come in?" she asked.

"Of course." Reaching in, I pushed the switch that unlocked all doors. Jennie walked around the front and let herself in. As I reached for the ignition, Jennie stopped my hand.

"Want to park and neck for awhile?" she asked.

"Sure.... Here?"

"See that nice spot at the corner of the lot?"

I drove over and backed into it. This far corner area was poorly lit. A small wooded patch, behind us and also to our right, hid the car somewhat from public view; so did an SUV parked on our left. I locked the doors, turned off the lights and ignition. We moved our seats back. Then her arms were around me, and we were kissing. She smelled good, I noticed. Clean, of course, and with a touch of cologne somewhere. Tasted good, too: a pleasant combination of female human being, a bit of candy in the lipstick, and a hint of good German malt and hops. And she knew how to kiss.

Jennie's breasts fit my hand beautifully, as they had in my living room, three weeks earlier; and she made nice little sounds as I pawed them--again, over her blouse and bra. I was in no hurry to undress her: she would be naked soon enough, and in a less risky place. I moved my other hand under her skirt. Jennie opened her legs some more, giving me access to everything underneath. Well, better access, anyway, as everything was covered by pantyhose, and the best parts also covered by panties. But her gesture itself, that opening of her legs, was a major turn-on for me. I wedged my hand between her thighs and slowly slid it up to the limit, savoring the increasing warmth of her body and the firm softness of everything.

Meanwhile, Jennie had managed to undo one of my shirt buttons. She slipped in a hand and fondled my chest as we kissed. Our four arms kept colliding, though. So I abandoned Jennie's thighs and focused on her head and breasts; and Jennie abandoned my chest and moved her hand down to my cock. By now that organ was easy enough to locate, even under trousers and in the dark.

"I want to see you, Martin," she said as she unzipped my trousers and went to work on my belt. I glanced about the parking lot. On the other side, a few people were walking, just behind the hardware store. No cars in motion at the moment.

"Help me, Martin. Pull your pants and undershorts down for me. Below your knees."

With a final glance out the windshield, I complied.

Jennie ran her fingers all over my erect cock, staring intently at it. She looked up at me, smiled, and said, "It's pretty. I want a better look." She opened the glove compartment, adding a little soft light to the front seats.

"Sweet," she said, giving the tip of my cock a little kiss. Suddenly I was deep in her mouth, and Jennie was sucking, slurping, moving her tongue around, bobbing her head up and down.

I hadn't had an orgasm in over a week. I knew my body couldn't hold out long against this oral Blitzkrieg. "Jennie, stop!" I said. She looked up, raised her eyebrows.

"I can take about ten more seconds of that before I come, you minx."

"I guess I got a little carried away," she said. "I do want you to come in my pussy, Martin. Though not here in your car. Later, at your home. Can you come twice tonight?"

I mentally checked the gauges, ran the numbers. "Yes, I think so. Eighty percent probability. Do you want to get me off orally?"

"I love giving a man pleasure like that--a man I feel close to. It's been ages.... Can you do this for me? I'm pretty sure you'll enjoy it too."

"Oh, God, Jennie," I moaned, slouching down in the seat and spreading my legs more. "Yes, blow me! Please. Give me your mouth."

First she gave me a quick kiss on the lips.

Headlights moving nearby. Fifty feet away, going across. Not a problem.

Jennie went down on me again, this time more slowly. Her tongue bathed the sides of my shaft, then she gently kissed my cock all over. She took a few inches into her mouth, sucking on the glans then flicking the ridge along its base with the tip of her tongue. I caressed the back of her head, her lovely blonde hair. She brought her hand to my balls, fondling them. Then she began bobbing her head up and down over my cock--gradually increasing her speed and the grip of her cheek muscles. I felt my scrotum contracting.

She offered this to her husband, and he said, "No, thanks"? Unbelievable. That backwards collar must be cutting off blood flow to his brain. Or the man is seriously stressed out.

Jennie suddenly took all of me into her mouth, sucking hard, her skull now firm against my pubic bone, her nose in my pubic hair, a hand fondling my balls, fingers pressing against my perineum. I was now in ecstasy, even before my orgasm. Which came two seconds later. A loud, guttural "Kaaughhh!" escaped my lungs. My pelvis jerked upwards, and I climaxed, hard and for a long, long time--or so it seemed. Then wave after wave of relaxation flooded over me, body and soul.

Somehow Jennie kept her head connected to me throughout the explosion. When it subsided at last, she gently sucked and licked me for another 30 seconds. Then she sat up, looked me in the eye, swallowed, and smiled. Then swallowed again, making a few comic faces. She ran her tongue around her lips and swallowed a third time. Then she put her arms around me and gave me a wonderfully loving kiss. Inside her mouth our tongues danced.

At last I remembered my manners. "Can I return the favor?"

"Oh, yes," she said. "But how about at your place, not here, so I can stretch out and get comfortable? And anyway, I have to pee."

"There's a little patch of trees right next to you," I teased.

"I'll do it there if you like. Did you want to watch?"

"Let's go home," I said. "Do you want to take your car and follow me? Or we could leave it here overnight."

"I'll drive it," she said. "I've got a bag in the trunk with a few things in it. So tomorrow I won't have to borrow underpants and a shirt from you. That would probably feel delicious, but I don't think it would play well back home."

As I pulled up my pants, Jennie turned on the dome light and retrieved her keys from her handbag. I drove her the fifty feet to her car, paused while she got ready to drive off, then led her to my house. All the way home I listened to Taylor Swift's song, "Getaway Car," which for some reason kept playing inside my head.

* * * * * 8

In my living room, I set down the bag and Jennie tossed her handbag. Then we were kissing again.

"I do have to pee," she said. "Did you want to watch?"

"That's okay," I said. "I was just kidding, at the parking lot."

"Okay." She found the hallway bathroom. I saw the light come on, heard the seat go down, heard rustling of garments. She had left the door open, so next I heard her peeing. That triggered an erotic vision: her panties down, legs spread, pussy exposed. She knew what she was doing.

On her return we greeted each other with a little smile. "Kneel for me?" she asked.

Why not? Awkwardly, I got to my knees on the carpet. Jennie moved her crotch close to my face, then lifted up her skirt. Her pantyhose was gone.

Her panties were fancier than I expected: white, silky--possibly silk. Attractively cut; a little white lace here and there. I brought my face against them, basking in the smoothness and warmth, the hint of dampness, the soft, musky, delightful scent. I kissed her naked thighs, kissed her pussy through the fabric.

Easing her undies down, I beheld a sight I had never seen before: a soft, puffy bush made of hundreds of delicate, curly strands of pale gold. Neatly trimmed on the sides. Her golden mound was beautiful. Under and between my fingers her fur was soft, supple. Quite a turn-on.

I went for her vagina with my tongue. Our bodies weren't angled right, but perhaps a half inch of me made it inside her. Enough for me to taste her warm nectar, enough to increase her arousal. She inhaled sharply, pulled my head against her crotch, tried to get me further in. But now the skirt was in our way.

Jennie backed off and removed her skirt. Now naked below the waist, still wearing her floral print blouse, she went to the sofa, put her bottom near the front of a cushion, leaned back, then stretched her legs forward and apart. She had kept her shirttail between her bottom and the sofa, giving her both a gentler surface against her skin and a blotter for all the moisture to come. I wondered if that fornicating Sunday School teacher had anywhere near Jennie's level of know-how. I hope so.

"Lick me, Martin," she said. "Please."

I crawled over and obliged. My shoulder wasn't crazy about the position, but I decided to deal with that malcontent later. Now I wanted only to enjoy that sweet, beautiful pussy and to give pleasure to its owner.

I gave everything a good licking, focusing at first down by her vagina, with occasional licks and kisses above and beyond; then gradually shifting my focus upwards; finally zeroing in on her clitoris. Meanwhile, Jennie had unbuttoned her blouse. One of her hands went to the back of my head, gently encouraging me to keep doing what I was doing. The other hand played with her breasts, sometimes on top of her bra, sometimes inside.

All the while, my own hands were playing with her soft, golden bush, her tummy, her thighs, those lovely breasts. While I licked around her clitoris I might trace her vaginal opening with a finger. Or insert a finger or two. Jennie seemed to enjoy everything. "So good, Martin, so good," she said a half-dozen times.

My shoulder's mood continued to sour. From time to time I shifted my position a little, gaining some temporary relief--but I saw that we couldn't stay like this much longer. My knees were starting to complain, too. But by now Jennie was close to her climax. Time to wrap things up.

Jennie's bra was on the thin and simple side--not the sort of over-engineered contraption that Cathy favored. I tugged her bra cups up over her breasts and grabbed a breast in each hand, manhandling them. My tongue flicked rapidly up and down against her clitoris. Both of Jennie's hands now pressed my head tight against her pussy. Her juices increased. Her clitoris withdrew a little: a good sign, at this point. Her muscles tensed. I mauled her breasts harder, pinching her pink areolas between thumb and finger, tugging outwards. With a melodic wail, she climaxed.

When she finally removed her hands, I gave her pussy a parting kiss and managed to climb up onto the sofa beside her. She freed her body from her open blouse and her bra. We snuggled. Jennie retrieved a Kleenex from a nearby box and tidied up my face. We kissed.

Then I took my first good, long look at her entire beautiful body. She was completely naked at last, save for a few pieces of jewelry. Her necklace: a thin gold chain with a small gold pendant cross. On a finger, a small diamond solitaire and a gold band. All this symbolism was feeling uncomfortable, so I focused on all the other gold: her hair, eyebrows, lashes, and sweet curly bush.

At last the Golden Girl spoke. "Time to go upstairs?"

It was. After a quick detour to the bathroom for some Tylenol.

* * * * * 9

Standing by my bed, we kissed some more. Then Jennie knelt and removed my pants and briefs. As I went to work on my shirt, she licked and kissed my cock, balls, and nearby real estate. Both standing again, both of us now naked, we kissed and caressed each other some more.

I did have a girlfriend. I hadn't forgotten. Like many couples, Cathy and I had never explicitly committed to being exclusive with each other. Maybe exclusiveness was just sort of assumed, part of the normal and customary way of doing things. So I wasn't exactly cheating on Cathy. I wasn't exactly not cheating, either. Had Cathy had sex with other people--perhaps on a business trip out of town? I had never wanted to ask.

I decided that Cathy would forgive me for tonight--wishful thinking?--but then request a serious conversation about expectations. Which would probably be a good idea anyway.

And what of the woman whose bottom I was now fondling? The term "another man's wife" never sat well with me--with its grammar of woman as possession. Still, that phrase would strike others as a reasonable way to describe Mrs. Jennie Brixton. And I was definitely going to have sex with Mrs. Brixton. Now. With the lights on. I turned back the bedcovers then led her onto the bed. We embraced.

Since we had each had an orgasm tonight, there was no urgency to have one ASAP. So now we savored each moment. I spent some time fondling her pretty breasts and then, for the first time, kissing and sucking on them. Jennie bathed my own chest in kisses. A nice 69 followed. Cathy never came in that position, but now Jennie did. A small one, she said, but good. The gift of her moist vulva against my mouth was all the reward I needed at the moment.

But Jennie especially wanted to be held and caressed and kissed affectionately--and to give all of that to me. There was something touching... not to mention arousing... in this sweet lovemaking. I did care deeply for Jennie.

After a while, she clasped my penis, gave me a smile, and said, "Let's consummate this." Without waiting for a reply, she rolled onto her back, spread her legs wide, and bent her knees. I crawled around. As I was positioning my body over her, she took my cock again and guided me in. She was plenty moist, so no problem.

Heaven. Those first ten seconds or so inside your lover's vagina, before your penis starts slowly losing sensitivity. All the more heavenly when your lover is new. Jennie's hands caressed every part of me she could reach. "Yes, Martin... yes," she kept whispering.

A minute or two later, I stopped kissing and thrusting long enough to pull back and look at her face. Her golden hair was mussed. Her little cross had slipped to the side. Her breasts still softly touched my chest. She was beautiful... and sweet and vulnerable and actively making love to me. My desire for her was heading off the charts.

I brought a finger to her clitoris and resumed fucking and kissing. Soon she began clasping me tighter, kissing me harder. Then she came. Her pelvis jerked; she let out a small whimper; the muscles of her vagina squeezed my cock over and over. "Don't come yet," I told myself. "Don't! I want this to last...." But it was no use. I came, gloriously.

When I finally caught my breath, I took a look at my lover. She was looking intently at my face. Her eyes were moist but she wore a little smile. She stroked my hair, then brought her lips to mine and kissed me gently.

* * * * * 10

Afterwards, we snuggled in my bed, naked, the lights still on. From time to time she caressed me, kissed me.

Making love with Jennie was a lovely and positive experience for me--overall. But I guess my feelings afterwards were more complicated than hers. She could tell.

"Do you want to talk, Martin?" she said. "I don't mind. Adultery is new to you, isn't it."

"Yes," I said. I decided not to ask the obvious question. After a pause, I said, instead, "You're a Believer, right? A practicing Christian?"

"Yes."

"And you love your husband."

"Very much."

"You don't feel you're being... I don't know... maybe a little unfaithful to him?"

"I don't think so," she replied. "If I spend a day with my mother-in-law, am I being unfaithful to my mother? Are you perhaps confusing fidelity with monopoly? Or maybe confusing marriage with monopoly?"

"You're not worried about, say, both of us ending up in Hell?"

"No."

"The Ten Commandments, and all that?"

Eventually I realized I had just pushed the wrong button.

"Hold on a sec," she said.

She got out of bed, rummaged in her handbag, and returned with an issue of Guideposts, a small-format Christian magazine. "Here we are," she said, climbing back into bed and giving my penis a friendly pat. "The Ten Commandments. Book of Exodus, Chapter 20. For a start, it's really 12 or 13 commandments, spread over 17 verses. Nowhere in the Bible does anyone say that the number of rules here is 10. But never mind.

"Okay, King James Version, Exodus 20, verse 14: Thou shalt not commit adultery. That's clear enough. I'll stipulate that I just violated that one. But does getting mentioned in the Ten Commandments make something a horrible crime and sin?

"Let's try verse 8: Remember the sabbath day, to keep it holy. Ever spend a Sunday watching sports on TV? Or maybe earning a living? Do you worry a lot about you and the clerk at 7-Eleven being cast into Hell for that?

"Omigod!" she exclaimed. "Shall we skip over verse 7, about taking the name of the Lord in vain? Enforcing that one would wipe out half the Millennials and a third of Gen Z. And how long do you think our consumer economy would last if anyone obeyed the command not to covet any material thing? That's verse 17."

"Okay," I said. "I get the point."

"Just one more. Bear with me. Here is my absolute favorite: verse 4. Thou shalt not make unto thee any graven image, or any likeness of any thing that is in heaven above, or that is in the earth beneath, or that is in the water underneath the earth. Period. Got it? That doesn't forbid worshipping such images. Verse 5 does that. Verse 4 forbids making any image of anything in the world or in Heaven, and it elaborates to make sure you get the point. There goes Vogue magazine, and House Beautiful, not to mention all TV, all movies, and every Bible in our church--to say nothing of Rembrandt. Take a selfie at a ballpark on Sunday and you've just broken two of the Ten Commandments!

"So... the first symbol the Christians adopt for their new religion is... a fish! Doesn't that sound vaguely like something that is in the water underneath the earth? That's nothing. Want to come out to Grace United Methodist and admire our big stained-glass window? It's got clouds, sunbeams, sheep, shepherds, angels, the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. It's got the old fish symbol, a cross, and a crown. It doesn't have a kitchen sink: I'll give it that."

By now Jennie was really worked up. Her argument seemed pretty reasonable, but I was taken aback by the passion of her speech. We New England WASPs incline towards cool understatement, not verbal fire and brimstone.

She went on, getting even more wound up. "The Christians are masters at strictly enforcing the small handful of Biblical injunctions they like and ignoring the remaining 99 percent! Not just the Old Testament: they ignore most of what Jesus said! Want to see what he says about how to treat refugees?... There's nothing special about those commands at the beginning of Exodus 20. There's plenty more elsewhere in that book and a zillion more next door in Leviticus. And if one day you broke every single one of the so-called Ten Commandments, how many really, really bad things would you have done? Three? Kill, steal, testify falsely against your neighbor in court. Anything else in there you'd put someone in prison for? God is Love, Martin! Could exchanging any form of love with another person be one of those really, really bad things, a terrible sin? Or is it closer to worship?"

At that point tears--probably long pent-up--started flowing down Jennie's cheeks. "I'm sorry, Martin," she sobbed, snuggling closer. "I just went off on a tirade! I didn't even listen to your concerns. Please forgive me. I haven't been myself lately.... Loving you tonight has been wonderful for me and I hope good for you. You've helped save me, in a secular sort of way. In my heart, I feel that nothing but good happened tonight."

Then we sat silently for a bit. I put my arm around Jennie's shoulders, kissed the side of her head, noticed yet again the beauty of her body. She found a Kleenex. As she turned, her little cross briefly caught the light.

While Jennie regained her composure, I thought about some past events in my life.

She put her hand on my chest. "Do you still have concerns about what we did?" she asked, quietly.

"I'm not really a churchgoer," I said. "I'm not saying I'm an atheist..."

"I understand," she said.

"I guess adultery is a big social taboo I haven't violated before."

"It is. I understand. Breaking one of society's taboos is harder than committing what's considered to be a sin. If it helps, you haven't done anything that will injure Harry. Or me. Or, I think, Cathy.... Was adultery involved in your divorce?"

How did she know what I had been thinking about, two minutes before?

"Yes."

"By your wife, then. And now I've led you to a place of self-doubt and maybe self-recrimination, haven't I. You're glimpsing that perhaps not every adulteress is an evil homewrecker who has no love or respect for her husband. You've seen that you are capable of doing something very similar. You're now wondering if divorce was your only or even your best option, as it seemed to be at the time. I'm sorry I brought you to this difficult place, Martin, and so abruptly. I care about you, deeply. But you are a smart, sensitive, and good man. You would have arrived at this place anyway, eventually. Wondered if you had done the right thing in ending your marriage. Kicked yourself for not even imagining any other options. Please try to forgive yourself for being a creature of our society, as we all are. If you're having trouble forgiving yourself, call your ex and talk with her, if she's willing. Play it forward by trying hard to understand Cathy."

"Jesus Christ, Jennie!" I had just received my first-ever pastoral counseling... from this most unlikely, beautiful, stark naked, totally unlicensed amateur. I felt like my mind and soul had just undergone a colonoscopy. And I couldn't really argue with anything she had said.

"You ought to be the clergyman in the family, not Harry!" I pronounced.

"Thank you," she replied. "They did that in The Witches of Eastwick, remember? Of course, they were Unitarians, not Methodists. But I'll leave the dirty work to Harry. That's his calling, not mine." She returned her hand to my chest. "Do you want to fuck?"

"Again?... Yes," I said.

"Your shoulder's up for it?"

I nodded.

"How about your dick?"

"I'd say the odds of getting and keeping it up for a while are good. Another orgasm is a long shot, but I don't care. I do want to fuck you."

Kissing me lovingly, Jennie moved her hand to my cock, and we slid down onto the sheet.

* * * * * 11

"So that's the story," I said to Cathy, about three weeks later. She was just back from a stay in Indianapolis, on business. After our fuck, we sat on my bed, legs out, backs against the headboard, our naked bodies half covered by the top sheet. Our post-orgasmic buzz still lingered as I told the story. I summarized here and there, but I didn't omit anything.

"Are you asking me to forgive you?" Cathy inquired.

"I don't think so. Have I done something that needs forgiving?"

Cathy rolled her eyes.

"So what happened with the church?" she said.

"Apparently Jennie woke up the next morning cool, calm, and collected," I said. "She made breakfast for us then woke me, and we had breakfast in bed."

"Martin!"

"It's okay: she was just being nice. Church ladies are always serving people food. Anyway, while I did the dishes she called the bishop and had a nice long chat. Apparently the bishop is a good guy. He's been around the block a few times, and for any possible ecclesiastical malfunction, he's probably dealt with it before. Long story short: Harry is spending some time resting and getting some counseling in a facility the Methodists have, somewhere in the Midwest. Designed for just this sort of thing.

"Jennie is holding down the parsonage, visiting shut-ins, serving tea and cookies when the ladies' organizations meet. Also helping with the youth outreach. The assistant minister is now Acting Pastor and, Jennie hopes, learning a few things about humility and the limits of power. When Harry gets out of the counseling center, he'll probably be transferred to a church with fewer problems or perhaps to some administrative position in the denomination."

"And are you and Jennie still fuck buddies?"

"Since Harry left, only once. Twice at most."

"You got in over your head, Martin."

"Yes. You're right. I can see that now."

"Is there a moral to this sordid tale?" she inquired. "Have you at least learned something from this experience?"

"Methodists are better in bed than you'd think," I said.

Cathy gave me a look.

"Be careful who you pick up at Book Club? Be cautious with church ladies, and especially stay away from pastors' wives?" Cathy's looks were getting darker. I decided I had better stop joking.

"Okay, how's this. If you, Cathy, make love with another man sometime..."

"Sort of like you've been making love with Jennie?"

"Uh... yeah, sort of like that.... If you make love with another man sometime, I won't confuse that blow to my ego with an attack on me personally. I'll remind myself that giving love to someone does not require taking it away from someone else. Not necessarily, anyway. I won't confuse your act with a total rejection of the relationship we've built. I won't get self-righteous and blow up our whole relationship in retaliation. Like I did before, with my now-ex. We'll talk about what we each want, what we each need, what are all our options. Very possibly we'll find some way that will work. By now I've lost the right to cast the first stone--not that I ever had it."

Cathy looked surprised. "She taught you that? In, like, just two months?"

"I guess so."

"She should be the clergyman, not him."

"I suggested that to her. She said no."

Cathy kissed me and sighed. "Let's turn out the lights and sleep," she said. "Tomorrow we can make breakfast together."

* * * * *

Many thanks to the author's wife -- and to Tennesseered and JBEdwards -- for their good comments and suggestions on a draft of this story.