Astarte

They met for coffee at one of her favorite bakeries, across from a park. Someplace public, surrounded by families. Not that she was particularly afraid to meet him, but it was habit anymore to meet for the first time in neutral territory. She tried not to think about the fact that he'd flown a few hundred miles to visit her, which was a decidedly un-neutral act, or how her body had been on fire since she'd laid eyes on him in person. Tried to focus instead on the dappled shadows cast by newly-budded leaves against the sun-warmed brick of the patio wall, the gentle murmur of voices from inside the shop drifting out through the door as it opened and closed with the ebb and flow of business. Soon the edge of nervousness eased as he spoke of his life, his hobbies, his work- but her pulse still quickened every time his eyes, rich golden amber, met hers.

It came up in their conversation casually, an off-hand remark in response to his sharing. It hardly registered to her when she said it, but he focused on it immediately.

"You work for a church?"

She stirred her latte for a moment, disrupting the carefully constructed pattern in the foam as she gathered her thoughts. "Well, yes. Part time. It's not a big deal," she amended quickly, "I don't have keys or anything. I'm just a paid helper, really."

He studied her carefully, a slow smile spreading across his face. "And how do you help?"

"Music staff. With the choir, and in the summer when the choir goes on vacation."

"So you're actually part of the service? Not just behind the scenes?" She nodded. "Seems like a big deal." He leaned back in his chair, and she savored how the fabric of his shirt stretched over his biceps as he laced his fingers together behind his head, the image of repose. "Would you consider yourself religious?"

She laughed and shook her head. "I mean, not really. I grew up around fundamentalists, and I was pretty invested in it as a kid, but..." An awkward shrug, a flush rose to her cheeks. "I realized pretty quickly how toxic it all was when I got older. I'm still working to break some of my hangups..." He dropped his arms, perhaps registering her discomfort; his expression softened, he leaned forward as if urging her to keep talking, reassuring her that it was safe to share. "I'm not sure if I really believe anything anymore," she admitted, responding to his gentler demeanor, "but these folks are alright. Very welcoming and accepting. And the church is gorgeous."

He studied her quietly for a minute. She wondered if his opinion of her was changed now, knowing that she played this dual role: the wanton vixen whose photos he'd admired, and the devoted lay-minister who served the church. As if he could read her mind, he spoke. "It's a lovely contradiction. I find duality to be an interesting thing. The mix of the sacred and the profane..." Again, that slow smile, predatory and thrilling. "Delicious." The hair on her arms stood up at the sound of his voice; she shuddered, tried to disguise it by taking a sip of her coffee, but could not bring herself to drop her gaze from his eyes. She could see the encouragement, the challenge, in his expression.

Emboldened, she rose to meet it. "The sacred and the profane have always been intricately entwined for me." She took a breath, hoping he'd notice the swell of her breasts as she inhaled. "Sexual ecstasy is the closest I get to an encounter with the divine."

"I would be interested to see exactly how those elements are intertwined for you." There it was; an offer of all that had remained unspoken between them, hinted at and described obliquely but not yet proposed directly. There was her chance to accept or decline without it being an outright advance, and therefore without courting outright rejection. Perhaps he was afraid to make an overt move; everything she knew about him suggested that he was probably just trying to be respectful, move slowly, not push for anything she didn't want to give.

There wasn't a damned thing she could think of that she didn't want to give.

"If you'd like," she suggested, "I could show you the church. It's only a few blocks from here." She hoped he could see on her face, in the darkening of her eyes, what she was really suggesting. The speed with which he stood up and pulled the car keys from his pocket indicated that he could. She laughed giddily. "I'll ride with you."

The word "church" was a slight misnomer. It was a cathedral, a towering Gothic edifice made of creamy tan stone quarried a century and a half before and painstakingly, lovingly constructed on the edge of the hill to watch over the city below. She wondered what he thought as he squinted up at the main spire, this man from a city full of stone churches and palatial structures just as old and older. She wondered if he compared her church to those buildings and found it lacking, and if he likewise compared her to the more glamorous women in the circles of his influence. His hand sought hers as they walked across the street and he laced their fingers together, sending warmth up her arm. Comparisons be damned; he was here with her.

She led him through the entrance near the church office, knowing that the chime would ring and alert any staff to their presence. She waved cheerfully at the priest when he poked his head out into the hall, introduced her companion. "I'm just giving him the unofficial tour, is that alright?"

"Of course! It's just me today, I was about to head across the street. Text me when you leave and I'll come back to lock up."

She continued leading him down the hall to the sanctuary, pushed open the solid oak door, turned the corner through the stone arch into the ambulatory...

Walked slowly alongside the backs of the choir stalls, their footsteps echoing softly...

Passed between thick stone columns joined by an arch...

And suddenly they stood under high vaulted ceilings, at the center of a cruciform nave. Late afternoon sun lit the panes of the rose window, projecting sapphires, amethysts, emeralds onto the pews and flagstones. The pipes of the organ, a great heaving marvelous beast, hid in alcoves throughout the sanctuary; she closed her eyes and imagined their swell and rumble and sigh. Though the liturgical calendar was far past the most recent high holy day, one could almost smell the waft of incense, heady and spicy and slightly acrid. Christ and his apostles lined the path to the altar, looking down from windows and creating tie-dye patterns along the stone walls. The altar itself, a broad table of ornately carved white marble, lay bare. It beckoned: Come. Feast. Worship.

For nearly a decade she had spent at least two days a week working in this space. It still had the power to overwhelm her, always when she least expected it.

She sensed him come up behind her as she gazed at the altar, felt the contrasting warmth of his body radiating through the cool air, and she eased backward until she could feel him firmly against her back. "I've often wondered," she murmured, "why Christians don't have a fertility god. Why there isn't an aspect of God tied to sex."

"Well, there is Song of Solomon, after all." His lips moved against her neck, just behind her ear; she felt, more than heard, his voice.

"True, but it was written by a man and his lover. Very little to do with God, except culturally." She turned her head until her lips were level with his, their breath mingling. He leaned closer, and stopped at the very last. "But there is no Aphrodite, no Venus, no Ishtar for Christians." She licked her lips, her tongue just falling short of grazing his skin. "No divinity in their fucking." They stood locked together for a moment, blood pounding in her ears, his rock hard member pressed against her lower back- but she wasn't ready to break yet. She turned her head and stepped away from him, walking slowly towards the altar.

"Why is that, do you think?" His voice was smooth, but there was an undercurrent, a rumble of something primal underneath his measured tone. She kept her pace even and the sound of his footfalls kept time with hers as they traveled from the crossing to the apse. The "high altar," it was called, referring to the space that housed the ceremonial stone table as well as the table itself. The space and its core, two parts but one whole.

She stopped directly in front of the altar, placing her hands on the cool marble top, and he came up beside her. She traced her fingers idly, lovingly, sensually along its ridges. "Control." His hands joined hers on the altar, and she noted their size and strength even as she continued speaking. "Sex is vital, powerful. But it's fragile and easily twisted by shame. If you keep people ashamed of something that's tied in so deeply to their identities, to their lives..."

The silence between them was a chasm. The sound of her heartbeat seemed to reverberate throughout the sanctuary, and for a moment she felt alone and afraid again, a vulnerable child at the mercy of the voice from the pulpit who held her soul for ransom and judged her every thought.

But only for a moment.

His hand traveled the miles and years and millimeters to cover hers, setting her body on fire once again. She turned to face him fully, looking up at him for the first time since stepping into the church. The hunger in his eyes caused her nipples to tighten, harden, evident through the thin fabric of her dress. Her sex throbbed with desperate need as his grip on her hand tightened and drew her closer until she was pressed lightly against him. He leaned close once more, his mouth hovering just a hair's breadth away from hers, and growled, "Let me help you break that shame."

The sound that escaped her was unhinged, primal, as his mouth descended to cover hers. Lips and tongues, hints of teeth, she gathered the front of his shirt in her fists and held on for dear life as she drank in his kisses. His hands traveled under her skirt to cup her bare ass and pull her even closer, pressing her belly against the hardness straining to escape his pants. Tongues dancing, he turned them both until she felt the rigid lip of the altar digging into her back. She let go of him long enough to brace her hands against the top, and together they lifted her up to sit on the table.

He paused, stepped back, surveyed her for a moment: a wild pagan deity seated on her throne, flushed, panting, her weeping pussy beckoning, calling the devout to worship. He stood before her, his expression beatific, and she marveled that it was because of her. Her dress bunched up around her waist, baring her lower half to him, the holy eucharist served on a platter. He fell to his knees, bowed his head in a carnal prayer.

The drag of his tongue over her sensitive clit sent spasms through her body. She cried out, her head dropping back in abject pleasure as his beard lightly scraped the sensitive skin of her thighs, his lips moving in a silent prayer against her dripping sex. Her voice echoed off the stone walls; he inserted one finger, another, stretching her throbbing pussy as he sucked and nibbled at her clit. She bucked her hips upward, seeking more sensation, desperate for the adoration of her acolyte. He added another finger and rose, his mouth claiming hers, the taste of her arousal swirling together with the taste of his tongue, the smell of him, the heat and the power and the supplication of his body. His thumb circled her clit, and she felt her orgasm approaching. She whimpered against his lips and he gripped the top of her dress, pulled it down, tugged at her bra, baring her breasts to the air. His mouth traveled down her jaw, her neck. Reverently he kissed her collarbone and sternum, the hollow of her throat, until finally he settled his lips around her taught nipple. The fingers of his left hand played at the other, his right hand still buried deep inside her holiest place, massaging, thrusting, urging her climax ever forward. She arched her back, losing herself in the sensation of his mouth, his hands, the nearness of him. Every inch of her skin buzzed with anticipation, ached for just a little more, and he acquiesced, sinking his teeth into her flesh and pinching her swollen clit with just enough pressure, just enough contact and pain and pleasure

She was falling, flying, transcending this plane

Her walls clenching tightly around his fingers

He the supplicant, she the force of nature

Bathing the altar in a primal baptism

She came

And returned to herself, shaking, his mouth on her neck sending shivers down her spine. She clung to him, the fabric of his shirt soft against her bare breasts as she struggled to catch her breath. He pulled back, his amber eyes baring the depths of his pleasure and arousal and need, and she saw in them for just a moment a glimpse of her own power. He smiled, chuckled slightly. "Are you sure there's no Christian sex goddess? Because I think I found her."

Her giggle echoed through the length of the church as she slid off the altar and adjusted her dress. "I mean, maybe?" Her eyes fell to his erection, still very evident under the fabric of his trousers, and felt her own arousal surge once more. "I really, really want to help you with that, but as hot as this is, I don't want to risk losing my job any more than I already have. Can we take this elsewhere?"

He stepped close and dropped his mouth to hers once more, kissing her deeply and communicating the promise of still more worship to come. "My hotel is just downtown," he offered.

She smiled and took his hand, leading him back out of the sanctuary. "Hallelujah."