He was tipping ash onto one of Mrs Jones’ ugly pink china saucers, and I was gazing at him lovingly.
Improper though it may be, we lay next to one another on my bed. Mrs Jones was out. Mrs Jones wouldn’t have approved, even though we were engaged, with a June wedding date set. And smoking, the smoking was the cherry on top of the cake of depravity.
The words came out before I could filter them.
“Isn’t it funny how shocking it would be if people knew we were lying here like this? Engaged to be married, and we can’t be left alone in a bedroom for fear we’ll behave inappropriately. And it’s worse for you. You have the eyes of the entire parish on you.”
He laughed and stubbed the end of his fag out.
“What brought this on? You know I wasn’t a china doll when I proposed.”
“No, of course not.”
“Are you worried I’ll do something I shouldn’t? Please don’t, I want us to wait. I would wait until judgement day for you.”
He was making it worse. I was making it worse, the words all wrong and I felt as if I was judging him for the other girls he had been with before me, before he had taken orders. He hadn’t asked me about other boys; he hadn’t needed to, that information had been volunteered within days of our first tryst; as if I wanted to prove to him I was good and pure and deserving of him. Because in truth, I didn’t believe I was.
“I… I touch myself.” The words came out in a rush and I looked down at my hands. My hands which I used to type letters, wash pots, cook dinners and pleasure myself to vivid dreams of my fiancé.
I couldn’t bear to look at him. He was laughing though, and his hand was on my belly.
“Is this what kept you quiet all afternoon?”
“It’s not as if we haven’t been… As if there haven’t been intimacies.” I still remember the exact weight of his hand on my breast; his mouth on my neck. Dances and picnics where we held one another closely and his body would shift and thicken against me and he’d blush, muttering that this was the effect I had on him.
“Indeed not.” the hand slid further, into the dip where my waist flared outwards.
“It’s a sin.” I said in a small voice. “It’s a sin, even if you think of your priest fiancé when you do it.”
“Sinfulness isn’t simple. Do you believe what you do is as bad as murder? Or lying? Or stealing?”
Here is his mouth on my neck again. His sweet, saintly mouth.
“Darling…. What can I say to comfort you?”
“I don’t know. I’m scared that I’m impure and not good enough for you. And that I won’t be good enough when you take me to bed on our wedding night. And that I want you so much it makes my head spin. I want to touch you. I want to feel your hands over every single inch of my body. And I hate myself for being unable to control-”
He placed his thumb over my mouth.
“Darling,” he repeated “My own, sweet babe.”
He kissed my cheek, my lips. His body was upon me, powerful and gentle.
“Do not let your desire shame you. Or believe for one moment that I would ever think you weren’t worthy of my love, when each morning I wake astonished that such a kind, sweet, passionate girl is mine.”
“Oh…..” I whispered, lifting my mouth to his, my fingers to the buttons of his collar. I felt his hand beneath my skirt, exposing the flesh between my knickers and laddered stocking tops.
“Tell me what you want.” He murmured into my ear, and my hands reached for his flies. The buttons seemed to come apart like magic. I raised my hips to meet him, and the hardening muscle behind those buttons.
“This. I want to feel you, like this.” and he sank against me, my skirt around my waist and his slacks gaping. Nothing but our underwear between us. He was kissing me again, and to feel him grow and stiffen against me felt odd and wonderful; the way he rocked into the well of my body.
“Is this what it will feel like when we…. fuck?”
“Oh Jesus,” he moaned as the words left my mouth. “Oh Molly,”
“Don’t stop. Keep going. Please.” The pressure as he ground his cock against the thin, wet material of my knickers touched the exact places I had done alone, each night. And the touch of him, the noise of his pleasure made it acute, urgent.
“I couldn’t even if I… Fuck….” He pressed harder; our kisses still sweet and passionate, our bodies boiling through all their layers of clothes and animalistic desire.
“Do it harder, please,” I whined, hooking my legs around his waist to pull him closer, allowing my stockinged heel to slide against his back.
“I’m not sure I’m going to last much longer.” His face looked pained.
“Are you hurting?”
“No, darling. The opposite. The exact opposite.”
“I feel like I’m going to explode into a shower of stars. I feel like nothing could be better than what is happening right now.”
He breathed heavily, laughing, and kissed my forehead.
My gaze grew wicked.
“But I know that when you fuck me it will be even better.” and my words made him sigh and close his eyes.
“A chap could worry he won’t measure up.”
“You measure up, perfectly.” I moaned, reaching between us and placing my fingers firmly around his erection, drawing it up through his briefs. I only passed my hand across the shaft half a dozen times – with difficulty, and with it still held between his body and my own – before he began to moan louder, deeper.
I rubbed against him too, using his arousal to my own advantage. Over and over and over and I felt my thighs tense and my cunt begin to convulse only seconds before he gave a cry and I felt his cock jerking against me, and his own thick dampness soaking through.
I covered my face with my hands. I was weeping, at once consumed with shame.
“Hey, what’s this?” He gently moved my hands away and kissed the rivulets of tears.
But I could not answer him, only weep, held securely in his arms, as he repeated his sermon of trust, passion and the glory of our love to me, knowing that one day I would believe him.