Dulwich Divinity
"Gospel singer Adanna leads the choir at Dulwich Community Church. When sound engineer Isaiah sets up for their recording session, the divine spark between them becomes very earthly."
Isaiah had recorded a hundred choirs, but he'd never heard anything like Adanna. Her voice could shake foundations, reach heavens, make atheists reconsider their choices.
And her body could make anyone sin.
Nigerian curves in a modest dress that couldn't hide their glory. Thick thighs beneath the hem, full breasts above the neckline, and a face that looked like divine intervention.
"One more take," he said through the studio glass. "For the bridge."
She sang, and he forgot about levels, about mixing, about everything except her.
The session ran late—perfecting harmonies, layering tracks. By midnight, it was just them in the empty church, the choir long gone.
"It's beautiful," Adanna said, listening to the playback. "You've made us sound like angels."
"You already sounded like angels. I just captured it."
She smiled, moving closer to his mixing board. Her perfume—jasmine and something deeper—filled the small space.
"You know what I think, Isaiah? I think you're hiding something."
"What?"
"How you really feel. When you watch me sing."
The first kiss was tentative—sacred ground demanding respect. But fire burns regardless of location, and soon they were tangled against the sound board, her dress riding up her thick thighs.
"We shouldn't," she breathed, even as her hands pulled at his shirt.
"Say stop and I will."
"Don't you dare stop."
Her dress came off in the control room, revealing a body that was pure sin—full and thick and begging to be worshipped. He dropped to his knees before her like she was the altar.
She sang again as he tasted her—not words but sounds, pure emotion translated to music. Her thick thighs framed his face, her hands gripped his head, and she hit notes he'd never heard before.
"Yes! Oh God, yes!"
She came with a cry that could have been hallelujah, her body shaking, her voice filling the empty church.
"Inside me," she gasped. "Now. Please."
He took her on the mixing desk, controls pressing into her back, faders sliding with their rhythm. She wrapped her thick legs around him and pulled him deep.
"Yes... Isaiah... yes..."
They moved together like music—building, swelling, reaching crescendo. She came again, screaming to the church rafters, and he followed with a groan that echoed through the speakers.
Later, dressed but disheveled, they sat listening to the choir recording.
"This changes things," she said quietly.
"Does it have to?"
"No. But it does." She leaned against him. "I've been alone for so long. Married to the music. The ministry. Maybe it's time for something else."
"Something like us?"
"Something exactly like us."
His Dulwich divinity had shown him heaven. And Isaiah intended to worship there regularly.