A Kind of Communion

She leaned over and stuck out her hand. "And who are you, hon? St. Andrew's new church secretary?"

I took her hand and shook it. "No, I'm just a running buddy of his."

"Oh," she said. "A running buddy." I could hear the air quotes as she repeated it. "How interesting. Well, I suppose he's got to take care of himself. So much has happened lately."

She nattered on for a few more minutes. I stopped being able to hear her. I just stared at him. He kept glancing between me and her, his expression pained. Eventually she wandered off, back to the table she'd been sitting at. I saw her leaning over and whispering to the other ladies there. They looked over at us and then quickly down at their meals.

When I looked at Joseph, I couldn't read his expression any longer. I sat back in the chair. I was suddenly furious. I felt stupid and ashamed.

His mouth opened and closed.

I leaned forward, my elbows on the table. "Let me ask you," I said, hearing the hurt in my voice. "That commandment about not bearing false witness. A lie of omission is still a lie, isn't it?"

He swallowed hard. "Yes. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I didn't tell you. I'm even more sorry you found out like this."

Then I said the meanest thing I've ever said to anyone. "Why, were you planning to wait until after we'd fucked to confess?"

I didn't let him answer. Not that there was anything reasonable to say to something so irrational. I stood up and left. When he called me the next day, I didn't answer.

But when I went running the day after that, he was there. And we ran together. I was still angry at him, but I longed for his company. Afterward I was able to listen to him. He explained that he liked knowing I just liked him as a person. That I hadn't had any expectations of him, or preconceived notions of how he should act.

He said, "I have to admit, I liked that you just saw me as a man."

I still saw him that way. I still wanted him. I still dreamt about him. Knowing that I wasn't supposed to want him didn't change that. Knowing that he wasn't supposed to want me didn't change my belief that he did. Weeks went by. It was different, but it was similar. We talked. We joked. We ran. We laughed.

Then after a longer run than usual, at a pace he'd set that was faster than usual, we collapsed onto a bench. It was his turn to pour his heart out about something that was bothering him. Desires he was having. He was trying to break up with me. Trying to end a relationship before he crossed a line. Before I dragged him over it.

I heard him out. "You're not getting rid of me that easily," I said.

The next day, he didn't show up at the park. And he didn't answer when I called. I should have let him go. I should have respected his wishes. I don't have a good excuse. I don't have an acceptable reason. All I can say is that in that moment the prospect of losing him devastated me. The idea of not seeing him again stabbed in my soul life a poisoned knife.

It was two Sundays later that I showed up to his Mass.

*~~* *~~* *~~*

Two weeks after we'd fucked on his altar, he called me. He came to my house and I made dinner. He tried to break it off again. We wound up in my bed, making love until we were both exhausted. He fell asleep on my shoulder, and I held onto him until dawn. I lay awake under him knowing the wrongness of my actions, and sure in my heart that it was right, too. In the morning he sat at my table, having put back on the same clothes he'd come over in. I made him breakfast, wearing nothing. I made him look at me. I saw the pain in his face, the growing shame, and the scale started to tip in my mind. He left while I was in the shower.

That Sunday, I went to his Mass again. I got there early. I sat in the very first pew, closest to the pulpit. I didn't move, and a few people gave me looks when I didn't follow along with the standing or kneeling. I was wearing my same black wrap dress, the conservative heels, the red fingernails. My hair was up in a tight chignon, with a red comb sticking out.

I was impressed at how smoothly he got through the service, considering that I was staring daggers at him the whole time. He finished up. He greeted his parishioners. He walked back through the church, and I knew that several people were waiting for confession again. He stopped in front of me and I stared up at him.

"Are you planning to seek absolution?" he said, nodding toward the confessional.

"No, Father. But I'd like to see you when you're done." I said it loudly enough that he couldn't refuse me.

He nodded and moved away. I stared up at the crucifix. I replayed the other night, remembering the feel of the cold stone against my thighs, and his hot hard body behind me. Remembering the sounds we made, with our mouths and our bodies, and thinking that it was a much better communion than some unleavened bread and a sip of wine.

Eventually he reappeared next to me. He knelt and crossed himself and I felt dangerous. He walked in front of me and sat down in the pew on my other side.

"Now what?" he said, sounding like a normal exasperated man.

I looked at him. "Take me to the vestry. Bend me over your desk."

"Eve, really."

I put my hand on his mouth. I stared at him. "You want this. You know you do. You want to fuck me, not just once, but every day."

He closed his eyes. I dropped my hand, held his in both of mine.

"Last time, Joseph. This will be the last time, unless you come to me. I won't come here again. I won't bother you again. But I want this, and I need it this way."

I did. Somehow I needed our last time to be as close to blasphemy as possible. I needed it to be as unholy as it could be, to erode my justifications. If I'd been able to crawl up there naked and blow him while he was giving the sermon, that's what I would have done. If I could have taken his cock deep in my cunt while he was passing out the wafers, that would have been even better. But I was serious too. I planned to leave him alone, to just go about the rest of my life.

He could have told me to leave. He could have denied me, walked away, and I wouldn't have chased him. Maybe he was desperate, too. Maybe he needed something from me that he couldn't speak of in the same way I needed it from him. Maybe he saw that I was telling him the truth about ending this illicit relationship that had rushed up and overwhelmed us.

He nodded and we walked to the back of the church through a heavy door, down a short hallway. He opened another door and led me into a small office. A large wooden desk, with a laptop and piles of papers. Bookcases filled with Bibles and theological texts. A large painting of Jesus, and another of Mary. A collection of candelabras in one corner. A wardrobe.

He opened it and removed his vestments, hanging them reverently in the armoire while he murmured a prayer under his breath. I moved the cross and his nameplate off to the side of his desk, clearing out a space for my ass. I undid the belt to the dress and let it fall open. He turned to me and unfastened his belt. He pulled his shirt out of the waistband of his pants but didn't take it off. His collar stood out, white against all the black of his clothing.

When he got to me, I unzipped him and pushed his pants down. His cock sprang free, hard in my hand. He pressed his forehead to mine and then our lips met. We devoured each other. His fingers dug into my skin and mine dug into his as I gripped his ass and pulled him to me. He reached between us and the head of his cock slipped into me. Then he froze.

I looked at him. He stared at me with such intensity, such need, and such despair that I quaked. I breathed out and shifted my hips; I guided him into me. I dragged him, once more, over that line. When his thighs rested against the backs of mine, and his balls bounced against my lips, he finally relaxed.

"Fuck me, Father."

I don't know why I said it that way but it unleashed something in him. He pulled out and shoved back into me with an abandon that was exactly what I needed. His thrust rattled the items on his desk, the cross falling over as he pounded into me again. And that unleashed something in me. I clawed at him, digging into him, pulling him deeper and deeper into me.

He yanked me off the desk and we collapsed onto the floor. I straddled him and rode him for a while, slamming down onto him while he used my tits for handles. Then he rolled us over, and I hooked my ankles at the small of his back and he rutted into me like a wild animal. I came, hard, clenching around him, sucking him into me. He paused, and my pussy grabbed a hold of him, pulsing and pulsing while I shuddered under him and muttered profanity.

Then he started fucking me again, faster, but not as rough. Neither of us was speaking. We were both just groaning, moaning, our sounds lilting up and out and bouncing off the walls. I arched my back, and pinned my knees to his ribs, high, near his shoulders. He ground into me. His mouth found mine again, and our tongues danced together. I tasted his sweat, and then I realized I was crying. I reached between us and rubbed my clit.

He whispered, "That's right, Eve. Cum for me."

I did, squeezing him tight until he paused again. Then, when I finally relaxed, he pumped into me a few more times and erupted. I screamed and he shouted. My heels beat on his ass as he twitched and shook. He collapsed down, rolling off of me partially in the confined space. We lay there, panting, our chests heaving. I wanted more. I spun around and locked my mouth onto his cock, sucking our juices off of him. He didn't try to stop me. I licked him clean, hoping to arouse him again. When I was done I sat up, leaning back on the wardrobe.

He managed to sit up. His penis flopped onto his thigh. My dress hung down from my elbows, and my bra was shoved up near my collar bone. My panties were nowhere to be found. Sweat dripped down my chin. He was flushed, sweat shining in his hairline and on his stomach. His pants bundled around his ankles.

We stared at each other. I was memorizing what he looked like, what he smelled like, what he sounded like. He leaned his head back onto the front of the desk. I drank him in. I sealed him in my heart. My pussy clenched again, sucking his seed deep inside me.

I managed to get to my feet. I covered myself, put my dress on properly. I straightened my clothes, looking down at him, more naked than not.

"I meant what I said, Joseph. This was the last time, unless you come to me. You won't see me here again. I won't call you again."

He nodded. He closed his eyes, dropped his head to his chest, and sighed. I left. I made it to my house, and collapsed onto my bed. I cried myself to sleep.

I week later I got a text from him that read: "I won't be contacting you again. But I am glad that we met." Followed by emojis of a man running and a woman running. And a broken heart.

I was true to my word. I didn't text back. I never showed up at his church again. I started running in a different park. But I'll always have him with me.

It was a complete shock, something I'd thought was impossible. But forty weeks later my life changed again. This time in more ways than I could have imagined, but all for the better. She's the light of my life, all bouncing blonde curls, and laughing brown eyes. I named her Josephine, after my husband. And her father.

*~~* *~~* *~~*

I waited until just after her first birthday. I'd started a part time job, inching my way back into my career. I'd made some friends, kept running, started some hobbies. I was fully living life in a way I hadn't in years. I had a portrait made of us. After I made sure he was still at St. Andrew's, I wrote Joseph a long letter. I introduced her and explained why I'd waited to contact him. I explained that I just wanted him to know about her, that I didn't expect anything from him. I tried to make it clear how grateful I was to have her, and that I was grateful to him for her. I wrote that I knew our brief relationship, however difficult and fraught it had been, was a major factor in my finally healing. I told him that I would not jeopardize his life and would respect whatever decision he made about being involved in our lives. I included my contact information, and left it up to him to decide what to do next.

He called me the day after he got the letter. He's coming over to see us.