Sunday Service
"She's the pastor's wife. He's the new youth leader. What happens in the church basement is anything but holy."
Grace Memorial Church.
Sunday morning, 11 AM.
I'm standing in the back row, watching Pastor David deliver his sermon on temptation, while his wife sits in the front pew looking like temptation incarnate.
Her name is Ruth.
Fifty-three years old. Married to Pastor David for twenty-five years. Mother of three grown children, pillar of the community, chairwoman of every church committee that matters.
And she is thick.
Not just big—thick. Built like a woman from a Renaissance painting. Hips that fill the pew, breasts that strain against her modest Sunday dress, a belly that curves beneath fabric that's trying desperately to be conservative.
She's everything the church tells you not to want.
I want her more than I've ever wanted anything.
I'm the new youth leader.
Twenty-six years old, fresh out of seminary school, hired three months ago to revitalize the teen program. Pastor David has been mentoring me. Ruth has been welcoming.
Very welcoming.
She brings me casseroles. Invites me to family dinners. Finds reasons to be in the church when I'm working late.
At first I thought she was being motherly.
Then I noticed the way she looks at me.
"Beautiful sermon today."
After-service coffee hour. Ruth approaches with two cups.
"I noticed you in the back row," she says. "You looked distracted."
"Just thinking."
"About temptation?" She smiles. There's something in it I can't read. "David's favorite topic. He's preached about it a hundred times."
"And what do you think about it?"
"About temptation?" She hands me a cup. Her fingers brush mine. "I think it's easier to resist when you don't know what you're missing."
"And when you do know?"
She holds my gaze.
"Then it becomes a different kind of battle."
It happens during the women's retreat.
Ruth is organizing. I'm helping—moving boxes, setting up chairs, doing the physical labor while she directs.
We're alone in the church basement. Everyone else has gone home. The building is dark except for the work lights.
"That's the last of them." I set down a box of hymnals. "Anything else?"
"Yes." She's standing by the door. Her hand on the light switch. "Close the door."
I close it.
The lock clicks.
"Ruth—"
"Don't." She walks toward me. Each step deliberate. "Don't pretend you haven't felt it. These last three months—every time we're in a room together—"
"You're the pastor's wife."
"I know what I am." She stops in front of me. "I've been the pastor's wife for twenty-five years. I've been faithful. Devoted. Invisible."
"You're not invisible to me."
"I know." She touches my chest. "That's the problem."
"This is wrong."
"Yes."
"We shouldn't—"
"No." Her hand slides up to my neck. "We shouldn't. And yet."
"And yet."
She kisses me.
It's nothing like I expected. No hesitation. No tentativeness. She kisses me like she's been thinking about it for months—because she has. Her mouth is hungry, her hands gripping my shirt, pulling me against her.
"I've prayed about this," she breathes between kisses. "Asked for strength. Asked for guidance."
"And?"
"And all I hear is your name." She pulls back, looks at me with eyes that have made a decision. "I'm tired of fighting it, Marcus. I'm tired of being good when being good means being empty."
"What do you want?"
"I want to sin." She starts unbuttoning her dress. "I want to sin with you. Right here. In the house of God."
Her dress falls away.
She's wearing white underwear—modest, practical. But her body is anything but modest. Her breasts overflow her bra. Her belly rounds out soft and full. Her hips are wide, her thighs thick.
She's glorious.
"I haven't been touched in five years," she says. "David lost interest when I gained weight. Said I let myself go. Said—" Her voice catches. "It doesn't matter what he said. What matters is that you're looking at me like I'm worth looking at."
"You're worth everything." I pull off my shirt. "Every look. Every touch. Every sin I'm about to commit."
I unclasp her bra. Her breasts spill free—massive, heavy, dark nipples stiffening. I cup them, lower my mouth to taste.
She moans.
The sound echoes off the basement walls.
We don't make it to a couch or a chair.
We sink to the floor—the cold concrete of the church basement, surrounded by boxes of hymnals and folding chairs. She pulls me down on top of her, legs spreading, making room.
"Now," she gasps. "I need you now."
I push her panties aside and slide inside.
She's tight.
Hot. Gripping me with a desperation that matches my own. Five years without touch, and now she's taking everything she's been denied.
"Yes," she moans. "Marcus—oh God—"
"Don't say God," I grunt. "Not right now."
"Then fuck me. Make me forget every prayer I've ever prayed."
I fuck her on the floor of the church basement. Hard and deep, the way she needs it. Her breasts bounce. Her belly ripples. Her moans fill the space where hymns are supposed to live.
"Harder—harder—"
I give her harder. Her nails rake my back. Her legs wrap around my waist, pulling me deeper.
"I'm going to come," she gasps. "I'm going to come in my husband's church—"
"Come for me, Ruth. Let go."
She shatters.
Her whole body convulses. She screams—catches it in her throat, muffles it against my shoulder—and I feel her pulse around me in wave after wave.
I follow her over.
Explode inside the pastor's wife on the cold floor of his own church.
We lie there in the silence.
Breathing hard. Sweating on the concrete.
"I should feel guilty," she finally says.
"Do you?"
"No." She turns her head, looks at me. "I feel alive. For the first time in years. I feel alive."
"So do I."
She sits up. Starts gathering her clothes.
"We can't do this again."
"I know."
"David can never find out."
"I know."
"And yet—" She pauses, dress half-buttoned. "The retreat is next weekend. I'll be here late every night, preparing."
"You'll need help."
"I will." She meets my eyes. "I'll need a lot of help."
The retreat comes and goes.
We sin every night. The basement. The storage room. Her car in the empty parking lot. Every space becomes sacred in a different way.
"This is unsustainable," she says one night.
"I know."
"He'll find out eventually. Someone will see. Something will slip."
"What do you want to do?"
She's quiet for a long moment.
"I want to leave him."
She leaves him.
Cites irreconcilable differences. The congregation is shocked. Pastor David is devastated.
No one suspects me.
She moves to an apartment across town. I start visiting openly—just the youth leader, checking on a church member going through a difficult time.
Six months later, I leave the church.
Six months after that, we stop pretending.
"This is a scandal," she says, curled against me in her new bed.
"Let it be."
"People will talk."
"They already talk." I pull her closer. "Let them. We're done living for them."
She kisses me.
"Amen to that."
Some sins don't need forgiveness.
Some sins need celebration.
Ours does.