Girl's LOVE

[kiasusam]

Chapter 6 - Ablution

"Morning, Mother Leah," my favourite acolyte said cheerfully as I entered the vesting-room. Typical Julie—I had just arrived at church, and she was already vested and ready.

We offer two Sunday services at the Episcopal Church of St. Mary Magdalene, both of which are Rite I, meaning that we use the Elizabethan language in our liturgy. (I guess you could say we're more than a little Anglo-Catholic; some other churches affectionately refer to us as "Smoky Mary's".) The 7:45 service is a fully chanted Eucharist with incense, and the 9:00 am service is a spoken Eucharist without incense. Because my rector is profoundly tone-deaf, I am always the celebrant at the early service. Father Michael and I alternate weeks celebrating at the second service—whoever is not preaching that Sunday celebrates the Mass at the 9:00 service.

Not only does Julie serve in many capacities on Sunday mornings—she's an acolyte first and foremost, but she's also a trained lay Eucharistic minister, lector, intercessor, usher, cantor, and a member of the altar guild—but she is incredibly involved in the life of the church outside the Sunday service. She helps lead youth confirmation classes in the spring, and she was recently inducted into the Order of the Daughters of the King as our chapter's youngest-ever member. She's also the person who trains acolytes, Eucharistic ministers, ushers, lectors, and intercessors, and schedules people to serve in each of these capacities every week. Oh, and on top of all of that, she's also a full-time college student.

(If you don't speak Episcopalian-ese, allow me to translate: she's a liturgical superhero, and she makes the lives of her priests so much easier by her willingness to serve cheerfully in whatever capacity she is needed.)

Above all else, her immense reverence and love for the liturgy, and for the God she serves, calls us all—clergy and laity alike—into a deeper sense of awe and wonder at God and all His works. I have a sneaking suspicion that Julie may be called to the priesthood herself. Although she's made no indication as to whether she's aware of her possible priestly vocation, Father Michael and I are in agreement that there's likely something there.

"Hi, Julie," I replied.

After some brief pleasantries, she excused herself and slipped into the hospitality room to snag me a cup of coffee. Three creams, two sugars, just the way I take it.

"Did I ever tell you that you're my favorite?" I teased, taking the Styrofoam cup from her and proceeding to guzzle its contents rather ungracefully. "Praise be to God," I said, and she chuckled. The coffee was lukewarm in temperature and weakly brewed—an occupational hazard with church coffee—but it was certainly better than nothing.

"Would you go into the sanctuary and light the altar candles, please, Julie?"

"Yes, Mother Leah," she said, bowing her head respectfully to me before grabbing the long brass taper and scurrying off to the sacristy to look for a lighter.

As the coffee made its way to my brain, it occurred to me that today was the fifth Sunday of Easter—still part of the Easter season. I called after her, "You need to light the Paschal candle, too, please!"

"I know."

Of course you do.

When she returned, having lit all the candles, and bearing a second cup of coffee for me, she straightened out my stole and clipped on my body mic before helping me get my chasuble on.

"You look really beautiful," she said when I was fully vested, which made me blush and look away. She reached out to touch my arm, her delicate hand resting on the lacy sleeve of my alb. "I mean it. You do."

It's hard for me—especially since my 32 year marriage ended in divorce, which happened a year before I began serving at St. Mary's—to see my body as anything other than a vessel or a container for the rest of me. I've gained a lot of weight since my marriage started to fall apart, and rarely wear makeup beyond a bit of concealer and some chapstick. I don't feel connected to my body. It's just the shell where I live. I used to get manicures and expensive haircuts and put a lot of thought into what I wore, but that just isn't me anymore. I'm not repulsed by my body, necessarily; I'm just incredibly apathetic about it.

[kiasusam]

I look quite unmistakably German—very fine blonde hair, ice-blue eyes, and fair skin. Not to mention, I have a rather prominent nose, about which I'm somewhat self-conscious. There's not much else remarkable about me.

Julie, on the other hand, is drop-dead gorgeous. She's about my height—around 5'8"—and very slim, maybe 140 pounds soaking wet. She has deep caramel skin, curly mocha-brown hair, and very large hazel eyes laced with flecks of amber. She knows how to play up her best features with just the right amount of makeup, and her elbow-length ringlets are always flawless. She isn't vain by any stretch of the imagination, but she's always well-dressed and well-put-together.

Her parents, she told me, are as white and as blonde as I am, but she herself was adopted from Brazil as a toddler. I met Julie when she began her freshman year of college, which was about 6 months after I arrived at St. Mary's. Julie was already a devout Episcopalian when she joined us, and immediately began seizing every possible opportunity to serve. She quickly integrated herself into the life of the parish by her genuine desire to help out wherever she was needed.

And, dear God, she's stunning. She's the type of woman whom perfect strangers approach to compliment on her beauty. She modestly brushes it off, of course, but it couldn't be more true. Although I would never admit this to another living soul, I can't help but have the tiniest bit of a crush on her, despite the fact that she's younger than my daughters. To be fair, I think most everyone at St. Mary's has at least a little crush on her. No one is disrespectful or inappropriate toward her, of course, but her beauty doesn't go unnoticed.

"Thank you," I muttered clumsily. "Are you... are you ready to go?" She nodded, excited at the prospect of beginning worship. She grabbed the processional cross and we made our way into the narthex, getting ready to process into the church.

Two services later, we were once again in the vesting room. Father Michael, who had joined us for the second service, and six other acolytes were milling about, hanging up vestments and chatting about their plans for the rest of the day. Julie supervised the younger acolytes, making sure they hung their albs up properly and didn't leave their cinctures dangling down to the floor.

"Bye, Father Michael. Bye, Mother Leah." The young acolytes left one by one. Father Michael had to be on his way too; he had five children under the age of twelve and a wife who would be rather unhappy with him if he didn't hurry home. That left only Julie and me.

"Did you lose power after the storm last night?" I asked, trying to make conversation.

"Only for a few minutes. You?"

"Yeah. A huge tree fell on my street, right on the power line. As far as I know, the power at my house is still out."

"Oh," she said. "Well, come eat lunch at my apartment, then."

"Hmm?"

"Yeah! I'll cook for you, and you can hang out for a bit. You can take a shower, too, if you want. Maybe your power will have come back on in time for you to eat dinner at home."

No part of that invitation was even remotely appropriate for me to accept. And yet...

"That sounds great. Thank you so much," I blurted out, before my mouth had time to check in with my brain. "Where are you parked?"

What the hell, Leah? I silently barked at myself. She's a junior in college and you're her priest, for heaven's sake. Do you want to be defrocked? Even though nothing unseemly is actually going to happen, nothing about this looks right, and nothing good will come of it.

We pulled up to her apartment building in her old Range Rover and climbed a few flights of stairs. Her apartment was about like I had imagined—a modest but sufficient one-bedroom affair with a small balcony.

[kiasusam]

Julie went all out with the cooking. She made eggs, grits, and sausage with a small stack of silver-dollar pancakes. And, of course, every college girl's favourite brunch drink: mimosas. I wasn't sure whether she was old enough to drink—I was pretty sure she wasn't—but I didn't ask any questions. I was looking forward to digging into this big, beautiful brunch she'd made. She was a Southern girl at heart, and loved her breakfast food.

One of her favourite days of the year was Shrove Tuesday because of the giant breakfast-for-dinner pancake supper we had at the church. I had never met anyone with a greater appreciation for pancakes than Julie.

"Julie, dear, I have a sneaking suspicion that if Aunt Jemima was a man, you'd want to marry her," I ribbed, as she smothered her pancakes in syrup.

She looked at me a little funny and said, "Well, her being a woman isn't the issue for me. Not being real presents somewhat of a challenge, though."

Oh. Oh. "Wait—you're... wait, no, that's none of my business. I'm so sorry. I'm going to shut up now."

"No, it's okay," she said with a chuckle. "And yes, I'm gay."

The Episcopal Church doesn't condemn gay people at all—in fact, openly partnered and married gay and lesbian people can become priests and even bishops—and I personally don't have a problem with it, either. I just didn't happen to know that about Julie.

I admired the casual confidence with which she said it. For the latter half of my marriage, and ever since it ended, I had Harboured suspicions that I might be attracted partly—or perhaps even exclusively—to women.

This was a large part of why Charlie and I had gotten divorced. I had always told people that it was because we had fallen out of love with one another, but in my heart, I wondered whether I had ever been in love with him, or whether I was even capable of it. I loved Charlie—don't get me wrong; he was a wonderful husband, an amazing friend, and the best dad my daughters could have ever asked for—and although I had never strayed, I don't know that my heart was ever his. I think he knew that. I had never had the courage to speak the words aloud—to him, or even to myself—but I think he knew. Still, my secret was something I kept hidden as deep inside as I could bury it.

"Thank you for trusting me enough to share that," I said in my best priest voice.

She shrugged. "It's no big deal."

Our conversation turned to other things—her studies, anecdotes from my own college and seminary days, and everything else under the sun. It occurred to me that we'd had very few real one-on-one conversations—mostly just passing chatter as we were vesting together, or group conversations at the college students' group I led. I was enjoying talking with her. It was incredibly natural.

After she had stacked our empty plates in the sink and poured us each another mimosa—her second and my third—she rejoined me in her bedroom and we resumed our talk. We talked about movies—and, as it turns out, we both have the hobby of watching terrible ROM-coms and making fun of them. You know, the cheesy kisses, the bad dialogue, the wildly contrived plotlines... all of it.

Then our conversation turned to the subject of first kisses. Mine was with the only other guy I ever dated before Charlie—the guy who had introduced us, actually—whose name was Bill. Bill and I were about nineteen and in college and he kissed me behind the bleachers during a college football game. Both Julie and I giggled about how ridiculously dorky that was. The first time I kissed Charlie was even more ridiculous—it happened while we were drunk and sitting in the bed of his truck at a tailgate party. Yes, in the actual flat bed of a Chevrolet pickup truck. (Classy, right?)

As for Julie, her first—and last- kiss with a guy was in eighth grade on a dare. Her first kiss with a girl was in tenth grade. Grace was her name, and she had taken Julie's virginity later that year. She was the girl who broke her heart just before graduation.



Out of curiosity, I asked about that relationship. Julie told it was great while it lasted—intense, like a flame—and the sex was amazing. Embarrassed to have blurted the sex bit out in front of her priest, she immediately apologized, and I assured her that it was just fine, and I had heard a lot worse. (Which is true. People tend to think the white collar I wear around my neck is actually a big white screen onto which they can project their home movies, and those movies aren't always G-rated.)

[kiasusam]

"It wasn't even really the sex, though. It was—okay, you know that moment afterwards, where you're just holding each other, and it feels like the whole universe is just you and them, and everything stands still?"

"No...I can't say I know what that's like," I admitted, although I shouldn't have.

"Oh. I'm sorry, Mother Leah. Everyone should know what that feels like. Especially you—you're so sweet. Like, you're just such a good person. You might even be the best person I know. And if anyone deserves to know what it's like to have someone feel that way about you, it's you."

I blushed fiercely. "Thank you. That's really sweet." I couldn't help thinking that if she could hear my thoughts right then, she would not think I was the best person she knew.

"What's it like to kiss a woman?" Leah!

"Soft," she replied with a smile. "Just, amazingly soft. Like rose petals. And tender. Even when it's not gentle—even when you're being rough on purpose—there's still an inherent tenderness to it. It's really special."

"Wow," I murmured.

"Yeah," she said. "Wow is about right."

I felt myself breathing more quickly. I was dizzy, almost, but not in a bad way. I felt weightless and light. My head was swimming. I could physically feel my blood rushing in my veins.

No. No, no, no, no, no. No. No.

My eyes closed, my body leaned forward, and before I could register what was happening, my lips touched hers.



Oh.
It was light as a whisper, and yet, it made everything race inside of me. She put her hand on my chest, over my heart, and kissed me again, this time much longer and deeper. She was right about the rose petals. Her lips were incredible. Her nose brushed against mine as she pulled away.

"You're so beautiful," she told me. "You have the most beautiful eyes I've ever seen."

A rose pink flooded my cheeks, and I couldn't look her in the eye. "Thanks," I mumbled.

"No, I mean it. You're gorgeous. And your lips are perfect. May I kiss you again?"

Rather than answering, I leaned in and kissed her, relishing how soft and plump her lips were, and how skillfully she kissed. All at once, I somehow managed to feel so vulnerable and yet so safe.

I nudged the crevice between her lips with my tongue. When she parted them, I used my tongue to softly groom the inside of her mouth. She was so pliant, so submissive. I wasn't even aware this dominant part of me existed, but with her, it came alive. I took her face in my hands and kissed her like my life depended on it. Her tongue greeted mine, caressing it and swirling around it. It was heavenly.

The passion and urgency of the moment increased as she pulled back from my lips to kiss my jawline, starting behind my earlobe and making her way to my chin. The first time her mouth touched my neck, I felt a guttural moan from deep in my belly escape from between my parted lips. Butterfly kisses in the curves of my neck became deeper and deeper until she was sucking on the incredibly sensitive skin, dragging her lips and tongue from my jaw down to my shoulders and back again, sucking harder and harder each time, leaving little marks in her wake.



OMG.
I had no idea anything could feel like this. I must have sounded like some kind of animal in heat, and I didn't care at all. I just let myself moan. She grabbed handfuls of my hair, digging her nails into my scalp and the back of my neck as she came up once again to kiss my mouth. Her eyes burned wild with lust.

I took the opportunity to grab her by the hair and tell her how much I wanted her.

[kiasusam]

I buried my face in her neck and kissed her roughly, hoping to leave at least one good hickey for her to remember this by. I had never actually given or received a hickey before, but the idea of marking her as mine was extremely arousing to me. She moaned and squealed noisily while I sucked her neck.

Her trembling hands roamed my body, exploring me on top of my shirt—my lower back, my sides, my belly—and as she inched closer to my breasts, she asked, "May I?"

"Of course," I said. I took her hands and placed them on my waiting breasts.



She let out a guttural, "OMG," as she took them in her hands. "They're amazing." When she began to knead them, and squeeze them, I couldn't believe how wonderful it felt. I'd been felt up before, sure, and with some degree of enthusiasm, but never with such skill. I moaned into her neck. The vibration of my lips against her skin nearly sent her into orbit. Before I knew it, I could feel her tugging upward at the bottom of my shirt.

Oh, God.
"Wait," I said between shallow gasps. "My collar. Collar...has...to...come off... before...the shirt..."

I reached up to remove my clergy collar, but Julie said, "I want to do it. Show me how."

I helped her find and undo the metal collar studs on the front and back of my shirt and remove the collar itself. She placed my collar and the two small metal pins carefully on the table beside the bed.

"There," she said, grinning.

She began undoing my shirt buttons, starting from the bottom. The anticipation was such exquisite torture. My heart nearly leapt out of my chest and into her cupped hands as she worked her way up my shirt. When she finally undid my top button and slid my shirt off of my shoulders, she gasped.

"You're so beautiful," she told me. She placed her hands on my pudgy belly. I almost recoiled in disgust, but held still, allowing her to touch the part of me that bothered me most. "You're so soft," she said. "You've got the nicest, creamiest skin, and your belly is absolutely gorgeous."

Gorgeous?
Me?
Hardly.

Still, her nails on my skin felt so good, and when I got over the initial shock of being touched on my stomach, I kind of liked the way it felt. I felt as though even the worst part of me was perfect to her, and that's what I loved about it. Her obvious—if inexplicable—desire for me hadn't decreased at all since she removed my shirt; if anything, she was somehow even more beset with passion.

She moved her hands to my back, working her way up toward the clasp of my bra. Deftly, she unhooked it in a single fell swoop, allowing my breasts to fall free.

Her jaw literally dropped at the sight of them. I don't think they're all that impressive—DD-cups aren't really that uncommon on a woman as heavy as me, and I was of the age at which gravity had ceased to be my friend—but she couldn't take her eyes off of them.



Or her hands, for that matter. There are no words to describe how her hands felt on my bare breasts. Her touch was strong and firm, but at the same time, soft in a way that a man's hands could never compare to. She massaged and squeezed my heavy breasts, caressed them with her palms, and ran her fingernails over them. I trembled under her touch, overcome with the deep desire for this to never, ever stop.

I thought I might faint from the pleasure when her attention turned to my nipples. A current ran through my veins. "Oh, God," I said aloud, so many times in those few minutes that I was certain the Divine must be screening my calls at this point.

Is saying "Oh, God," during sex the prayer equivalent of accidentally pocket-dialing someone?

("Hello, Father," I imagined His archangel-secretary telling Him. "You have fifty missed calls from a very horny middle-aged priest who keeps butt-dialing you while being felt up by an acolyte...")

[kiasusam]

"Holy shit," she gasped. "They're so perfect. I want them in my mouth."

Now it was my jaw that fell, nearly hitting my lap.

In your mouth?

There was nothing I could have possibly desired more in the world than to let her do just that. Her mouth was so warm and inviting, and her tongue so agile. I couldn't even imagine how good it would feel for her to suck on my nipples.

"Lie back," she instructed me, and I acquiesced without a second thought. Straddling my hips, she bent over me. She placed her tongue just above my navel and began to flick it against my skin. It was electrifying. Everywhere she kissed and licked, my body came alive, my nerve endings rising up to meet her talented tongue. She traced the curve of my hipbone and each of my ribs, licking and sucking my skin, plunging me deeper into the throes of lust.

When her rose-petal lips finally enveloped one of my painfully erect nipples, I screamed. I grabbed her by her hair and told her not to stop. She didn't have to be told that twice. She sucked like she was starving, devouring as much of my breast as she could get into her mouth at once. My oversized nipples, which I'd always been a bit self-conscious about because of my tendency to high-beam, proved to be the perfect size and shape for her luscious little mouth to latch onto. She switched after a while to the other breast, leaving one nipple coated in saliva and exposed to the cold air while she drew the other into her warm, soft mouth. She placed one of her knees between my legs, and my hips rocked against it.

"Ooooh, you're wet," she murmured. "Don't worry; I'll lick it all up in just a little bit."

My body shook uncontrollably as she finished sucking my nipples and sat up again. "God, you look so good," she growled, shimmying my pencil skirt off of my hips and leaving me in nothing but my panty hose.

"Thank you, baby," I said. "But you're a little overdressed."

"I can fix that." She pulled off her dress. Her bra and panties matched—sort of a sky blue with black lace trim. I never in a million years thought I'd care about anyone's underwear, but there was something about seeing her in hers that evoked a very primal, erotic response in me. I wanted to take them off of her. Preferably with my teeth. I was even digging the dangling silver belly ring she wore—somehow totally forgetting the weapons-grade meltdown I'd had not even fifteen years earlier when my eldest daughter came home with one in eleventh grade. Now I was imagining tugging Julie's with my teeth. Oh God, where was all of this coming from?

"Very nice," I said. "You look amazing."

"You too." She caressed my thighs with her manicured fingernails, careful not to run my hose. "Mother Leah? I'd really like to take these off of you, if that's okay."

"Yes," I growled, barely resisting the urge to yank the stupid things off myself. "Please."

She nodded, her own arousal matching mine. Now that she had my consent, she wasted no time getting me out of my panty hose and my white cotton underwear. She stripped them off of me carefully but purposefully. As they lay on the floor beside the bed, I was completely naked, covered by nothing but the blonde thicket of hair between my legs, which was now sopping wet.

She continued to stroke my thighs, gazing at me as though I were the most beautiful piece of art she had ever seen. As her hands went higher and higher on my thighs with each caress, I felt myself begin to whimper, wordlessly begging her to touch me where I needed it most.

"I want you so bad, Mother Leah," she said in a low, sultry voice. The only response I could muster was a visceral groan. She cupped the mound in her hand and I thought my heart might stop.

She ran her thumb slowly up and down the slit formed by my outer lips, telling me she had never seen anything so beautiful. I hardly thought of myself as attractive down there, even before I'd had three kids. I shuddered to think of how it must look now. But she assured me that it was perfect—perfectly soft, perfectly pink, perfectly lovely. I have to admit—as my self-consciousness about my body gave way to her onslaught of praise and adoration, I felt the most beautiful I had ever felt in my life.

[kiasusam]

Every nerve in my body stood at attention, totally enraptured by her tender touch, which became more and more urgent as her thumb probed deeper into the sopping wet crease.

"You have the perfect little pink pussy," she told me. I still wasn't used to hearing her curse, but it was strangely arousing. "It's so soft. And, fuck, you smell so good. Does that feel good? You like this? Good."

"Yes," I responded between jagged breaths.

I could feel my heart pounding in my fingertips and the soles of my feet. My body was overcome with pleasure, like a series of increasingly-powerful waves crashing against the shore. Her fingers cupped my inner labia, applying deep pressure, massaging me in small, tight circles. "Oh, God," I moaned.

"OMG."

Without stopping what she was doing, she told me she wanted to taste me. I shuddered hard, overwhelmed by arousal at that thought.

This was it—this was the moment I had wondered about in the darkest, most secret parts of my mind. This is where my thoughts had wandered time and time again while Charlie had fumbled around down there with his thick fingers, fiddling with my anatomy like he was trying to operate a radio dial. As I worked myself up to yet another Broadway-worthy performance of a fake orgasm, a part of me that I was ashamed of always wondered what it would be like to feel a woman's velvet tongue there instead of a man's clumsy fingers.

Well, you're about to find out.

As tongue replaced fingers, I let out a shriek. I was loud, obnoxiously loud, and I didn't care. Whatever shame I probably ought to have felt had been bound, gagged, and locked in a soundproof basement.

Her lips and her tongue felt better than I could have possibly begun to imagine. She slurped up my juices almost as fast as they could gush out of me. When she came up for air, I could see that nearly her whole face was sticky and wet, and a small trail was dripping off her chin. The force with which my hips bucked against her face would make a mechanical bull jealous.

Her thumb massaged my sloppy, wet opening while she continued sucking and lapping at me with her tongue. Slowly—so painfully slowly—she slipped two of her perfect fingers inside of me. My hips strained against her hand, engulfing her fingers deeper and deeper into me, meeting each increasingly forceful stroke. The harder my hips gyrated, the more deeply her face was buried in my aching pussy—if she can call it that, so can I—and the more ravenously she devoured me.



Her pointer finger joined her ring and middle fingers, then her pinky. The force behind her frantic thrusting continued to increase. Who knew a girl so petite could be so strong?

I grabbed her by her hair and ground my pussy into her beautiful face, humping it like a wild animal. Her tongue matched the enthusiasm of my hips. No matter how hard my body bucked, she kept up fairly effortlessly. Oh, to be twenty years old again.

The room was spinning. Everything was blurry. I could barely breathe. My body was entirely outside my control, as was my voice. Loudly, deeply, I grunted over and over, almost certain I was going to explode from the overwhelming ecstasy my body was experiencing.

I couldn't think. I could barely breathe. So consumed was I by pleasure and desire that nothing inside of me functioned except the force that kept my pussy pressed into her face.



Every muscle in my body contracted violently. With a moan so deafening that I thought the windows might shatter, I came. My first real orgasm ripped through me with all the force of a tornado, wrecking me, emptying me, then filling my abdomen with constellations of glittering stars and phosphorescent.

Slowly, lazily, I found my way back down to earth, guided by the faint sensation of her warm tongue lapping at my opening, licking me clean. I whimpered and shook, totally helpless, having been thoroughly ravaged by my talented, beautiful young lover.

[kiasusam]

My Juliette, my love.

She sat up and stretched out her arms, wiping her come-soaked face on the blanket.

"Wow," she said. "That was amazing. How do you feel?"

I chuckled wryly, not really sure how to answer. "Whole."

"Good," she replied, her voice still husky with pent-up lust.

"Julie, baby? I want to do that for you, too. I'm just worried I won't be any good at it. I've never done anything like this before."

"Start with a couple of little kisses," she suggested. "Go slow. Don't do anything you're not comfortable with—just go with the flow, and see what feels natural to you."

With what little strength I had recovered at that point, I hoisted myself up into a sitting position. "Take your bra off and lie down," I ordered, with all the authority of a priest speaking to an acolyte.

She removed her bra and lay back. I could smell her arousal as I kissed my way down her body. I fondled her heavy breasts, taking the opportunity to suckle each nipple. It was so primal; it felt so viscerally right. It was as if her nipples were designed with my mouth in mind. I could have sucked on her breasts forever and then some.

With her permission, I eased her lacy blue panties off of her. She was completely clean-shaven, which surprised me a bit; I had never seen that in real life. I could see wetness beginning to leak from the crevice that split her hairless mound in two. I took that as a compliment.

She slipped two pillows under her ass to make things easier for me. "Use your thumb and forefinger to pull the outer lips apart," she advised me. "And then do whatever feels right. Just go with your instincts. Whatever you do will feel good, I promise."

My heart filled with the excitement of a child about to open the biggest present under the Christmas tree, crossed with the nerves I felt before preaching my first sermon.

I started with a small, hesitant kiss. I looked up at her face, and she was smiling, encouraging me to do it again. So I gave her another kiss, this time more deeply. She let out a small noise. I kept going, growing bolder with each kiss, enjoying her response. Before I even knew it, I was sucking on her soft, pink petals, pulling them into my mouth and bathing them with my eager tongue. My ministrations were met with rocking hips and small, rhythmic moans.

I'm eating a woman out.

And she likes it.

I had crossed this forbidden line, gone where I never thought I'd have the guts to go, and yet, navigating this brave new world was as natural as my next breath.

I let my tongue duck and dive among the luscious pink folds, exploring every square millimeter. The intense warmth and exquisite texture—somewhere between satin and the petals of a magnolia flower—made my heart race.
The taste wasn't at all disagreeable, either. I had been worried about that, but the reality was a pleasant surprise. It wasn't fishy or dirty like I had feared it might be—it was very light and slightly sweet with a hint of musk. It was definitely wet, but not slimy on my tongue. "Silky" is a more accurate descriptor. It was heavenly, really.

She likes it.

And I like it, too.

And I love her.



My clumsy lips and tongue began to find a rhythm, and soon her body ebbed and flowed in time with me. Her breathing became increasingly shallow and sharp, punctuated by whimpers. The sweet, silky liquid flowed freely, a libation of rich, earthy nectar coating my mouth inside and out. Her bent knees quivered and her heels dug into my rib cage slightly. One of her hands cupped the back of my head, her fingers tangled up in my hair.

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I paused for a brief moment to catch my breath, and to ask, "May I put my fingers in?"

"God, yes," she gasped. "Please. Yes."

I turned my hand palm-up and began to gently slide my middle and ring finger inside her. Her body offered no resistance at all, engulfing my fingers easily. She was ready for me, slick and warm and aching to be filled.

"Harder," she said. "Don't worry. I won't break."

I happily obliged, letting the twisting and thrashing of her hips guide me. My whole body, mind, and soul were consumed by her—the sound of her hungry moans, her sweet taste, the way her labia felt in my mouth and against my tongue, the lovely warmth and softness my fingers found inside her—and in the moment, the whole universe was contained within her, and flowed through her, and was her.

I became engrossed in pleasing her in a way I can only compare to the way it feels to stand behind the altar, caught up in the great and holy mystery of the Eucharist, calling down the Spirit of God upon the Host and the Cup.

Take.

Eat.

This is my body.

Nothing else I have ever experienced even comes close to the way I felt as my young lover trembled and quaked in response to my touch. Her writhing hips grew more and more insistent, forcing my fingers deeper into her, pressing the balls of her bare feet into the floor on either side of me for leverage.

"Fuck me," she begged as I slammed my hand in and out of her body. "Don't stop."



A shriek about two octaves above middle C poured forth from between her parted lips as her body spasmed violently. I never fancied myself the type of woman who would be aroused by the sound of a noisy lover in the throes of ecstasy, let alone one whose ecstasy took the form of a high-pitched scream. But coming from her, it was music—an aria of passion sung by a goddess to a woefully unworthy mortal.

Her body trembled weakly as the great tidal wave within her crashed aggressively, leaving her breathless. She released a gush of thick, creamy, sweet liquid. I lapped it up gratefully, savouring the taste. I continued penetrating her with my fingers, slow and deep, not wanting this moment to end.

Another great wave overtook her, and again she screamed, her body and voice totally outside of her control. After her third and most powerful orgasm ripped through her body, she was still. I used my tongue to clean her up slowly.

"Mother Leah," she said, in a voice so painfully small that it tugged at my heart a bit harder than I could bear. "Will you lie down with me?"

"Of course, love." I lay on my back beside her, and helped maneuver her so that she was on her side with her head on one of my collarbones, and supported her back with my arm. I felt healing energy flow through my hand onto her skin, as though I had anointed her and laid hands on her for the purpose of unction.

My other hand supported the back of her head, my fingers wading in her dark, soft curls. Her legs soon became intertwined with mine. We rested together, sharing sweet little kisses and nuzzles, enjoying the closeness.



Noticing the scent of my lingering wetness, she reached her hand down between my legs. Cupping the fluffy blonde mound, she repositioned herself so that her head was on my belly, and began to lazily massage me with her hand. The angle was a bit awkward, and she was exhausted, but her touch was electrifying where I needed it most. "Oh, God" I murmured, digging my fingertips into her back. I had no idea how badly I needed to come until just then, and it wasn't long before her gentle but firm touch provided the release I ached for, allowing me to relax completely.

"Thank you, Julie," I said. "That was nice."

"You're welcome," she said, kissing my lips sweetly before snuggling back up with me. She began licking her thumb and fingers clean, which filled her with an almost childlike delight. "You taste so good, Mother Leah," she told me. "See?"

[kiasusam]

She placed her ring finger and her little finger, still sticky with my juices, in my mouth. I was a bit startled by my own taste—it was very different from hers. Mine was darker, earthier, and muskier. It wasn't sweet, and I didn't enjoy it nearly as much as I did hers. Still, I sucked her long, slender fingers clean, taking my time and savouring the feeling of them in my mouth. It was erotic and soothing all at once. "Good girl," I murmured to her. "Good girl."

Then Julie began kissing me—very delicately on my lips at first, but before long, she was kissing me deep in my mouth, cupping my cheek with her gentle hand that I had just helped her lick my own come off of. Kissing someone who has no purpose or end in mind is rather different, I found, from kissing someone who is quaking with passion and already has their mind in your pants. This was the former. We simply kissed for the sake of kissing, and it seemed to go on forever. She kissed me slowly, deeply, lazily. It was the most luxurious and heavenly experience. I couldn't remember the last time I had been kissed for no particular reason except that someone found me lovely.

Why?

Why would she want me? Why would she choose me?

I'm nothing. I'm...

"You are so beautiful," she told me between kisses, as she caught her breath. "Oh, I could just kiss you all day."

To be an object of lust for a horny 20 year-old was difficult enough to comprehend, but now she was kissing me. Just kissing me, breathing me in, cradling my face in her hands as the light of a thousand stars spilled in through her bedroom window. Now she was simply showing me love and affection, treating me like a princess, loving me for the sake of loving me.

This was the single most romantic moment of my entire life. A burning hot tear spilled onto my cheek as her soft words clashed with the voices in my head.

"Sorry," I muttered, sure that my tears would kill the mood.

"It's okay," she whispered, pressing her forehead into mine and nuzzling my nose and cheeks. "It's okay. You can cry. I've got you." She caught the tear with her thumb, and gently brushed it away. "All your tears are safe with me. You're okay." She was concerned, not annoyed.

Despite the slow, silent tears that continued to fall from my eyes, I let my lips brush against hers again, beckoning her back into that warm and tender place of endless, sweet kisses. "Yes, please," she whispered, and I kissed her again, and again, and again...

I woke up in darkness, naked, my body tangled up with Julie's.

Julie, the most beautiful 20-year-old on the planet, my cheerful little acolyte who served God and the Church with such infectious joy, who always had a hug and a kind word for everyone she met.

Julie, whose body had moved with mine as I made love to her, whose taste still lingered on my tongue, whose shrieks of pleasure I had not only witnessed but caused.

My little love began to stir in my arms, and I squeezed her tighter, hoping she would feel perfectly safe as she awoke. I kissed her forehead and she squealed quietly. She was so comfortable in my arms, and I in hers.

My ex-husband wasn't much of a cuddler. I don't know that I ever slept—or woke up in—his embrace.

My daughters weren't terribly affectionate, either. The last time I truly cuddled with any of them was probably when they were preschoolers. I'm the only really cuddly person in my family, a fact that was sometimes difficult for me. I craved closeness and warmth, even as my divorce, the death of my mother, and other hardships caused me to close myself off more and more from the people around me. I needed to be held, but I had forgotten how to ask for it.

But Julie didn't need me to ask. She didn't need me to say a thing. She simply gave love, and gave it with abandon. I had read about this feeling countless times during the trashy beach novel phase I went through about five years back—this feeling of holding your lover in your arms and not needing to say a single word—but I had never experienced it. The sense of union was incredible—we seemed to live and breathe as a single soul and a single body. I had no idea where I began and she ended. I held her, and she held me, for what seemed like a lifetime, and yet, wasn't nearly long enough.



And the two shall become one flesh.

I remembered sitting at the lunch table in seminary one time with a few classmates, one of whom—the undisputed class clown—half-jokingly wondered aloud just what kind of sex St. Mark must have been having that would inspire him to put it that way.

Now I knew.

Really good sex, apparently.



The. End.....


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