“It looks absolutely ravishing on you.” He had given you the skirt just the week prior. No special occasion; a ‘just because’ gift he had insisted on. It was a high-waisted mini skirt with an overlay of elegant black lace that nearly skimmed the floor. The whole length was adorned with gilded floral and celestial accents. The extravagance took your breath away the moment you opened it. “Especially how you have it paired at the moment,” he nods to your barely-there lace bralette. “I hope you’ve decided to forgo the blouse this evening.”
You ignore his comment about the blouse. “Is it too much?” The last bobby pin rests between your teeth, muffling your words. “I’m worried that it’s too elegant for tonight. Maybe I should save this for a more formal event?”
“My love, we’d be hard pressed to find any event that was a suitable match for your resplendence,” he comes up close behind you, his fingertips skimming the exposed flesh then settling against your ribs.
Fastening the final bobby pin in place, you smile back at him in the mirror. He’s always been able to quell your insecurities and doubts with just a few words, leaving you feeling sexy, desired, and confident. Powerful, even. And every now and then, on days when the depth of his laugh lines hold more anguish than fond memories, you’re able to do the same for him.
“And since I quite like it when you’re the most lavish, it’s settled. You’ll wear this tonight,” his left-hand trails down your thigh, the delicate fabric forcing him to keep a gentle hand. You smirk at his reflection, pressing your palm gently against his cheek.
“Jimmy, we’re going to be late as it is.” His eyebrows raise to challenge you for a better explanation. “And I still have to do my makeup. Besides, we can’t fool around in this skirt. It’s far too delicate.”
“I can be gentle when I want to, love,” he nuzzles you, lips gliding ever so softly against your neck.
“Jimmy, come on, I need to get ready.” The sternness in your voice is betrayed by a muffled laugh as you shrug him off your back. You decide a pestering might keep him at bay. “Though I must say, your priestly look compliments my outfit quite nicely tonight. Don’t you think?”
A few weeks back you teased him for resembling a clergyman, with how often he dressed in black from head-to-toe. The only thing missing is the clerical collar, you jested. At the time, he just gave a polite laugh and changed the subject.
But this time he steps away abruptly and cuts his eyes to the mirror. He always put so much effort into his sartorial decisions; this was not an area you should have dared to transgress twice.
“Bless me, Father,” you plead teasingly, trying to redeem yourself. “For I have sinned”
“Well, get on with it,” without making eye contact, he motions to the cosmetic bag beside the sink. “We’re to leave at half six and as you said, we’re already late. I’ll be waiting in the foyer.”
“Yes, okay,” you say quietly, fumbling to open the bag. “I’ll be down in a few minutes. I won’t be long, Jimmy.”
“And love, you better be more careful,” he warns, adjusting his cuffs. “Or you’ll be taking confession on your knees shortly. And you know very well what you’ll be calling me then.”
* * *
When you make it downstairs a short while later, you expect to find him impatient. Instead, he’s standing casually with his hands clasped behind his back, a faint smile on his lips as he gazes out a window. Your steps are delicate, careful not to catch the lace on your high-heels. He seems pleasantly surprised at your sudden presence.
“Oh, darling, good! You’re ready, and every bit as resplendent as I knew you’d be,” he smiles warmly and takes your hand.
The mood during the ride to downtown London is buoyant and, much to your relief, quite brief. If he has any residual ire from earlier, he doesn’t let on. The two of you were meeting a few of Jimmy’s friends for cocktails and aperitifs at Marcus in Knightsbridge, before heading to the show together afterward.
Ross would be there, of course; he nearly always was on outings such as this. And another friend of Jimmy’s you met once or twice. The others you hadn’t met, though Jimmy insisted you’d get on well enough with the group.
Marcus, named after its founding chef, resides within the Berkeley Hotel, which is known for its modern luxury. Unsurprisingly, the restaurant matches the contemporary atmosphere and sophistication of the hotel that harbors it.
Jimmy, Ross and the rest of the table spend the first half-hour reminiscing and catching up: who’s been working on which project, when was the last time you saw so-and-so. Shortly after that, however, you had trouble focusing on the conversation. Jimmy would press his hand onto your thigh, giving a reassuring squeeze when he wanted to check in non-verbally. But without warning, he hooks two fingers under the waist of your skirt, tugging at your panties. You flinch. At first confused, then worried about the delicate hem of your skirt.
“Jimmy,” you murmur, eyes darting frantically to meet his, but he stays engaged in conversation as his fingers venture further. Now his palm presses into your belly, cupping you with four long, demanding fingers. You swat his hand as the waiter bustles around behind you.
Ross’s eyes flicker to yours as he stills mid-sentence, silencing the table.
“Oh, I’m sorry love,” Jimmy says with a grin, removing his hand from your panties and trading a knowing glance with Ross. “Was I kicking you? I thought that was the foot of the table.”
Clearing your throat, you reply, “I did feel something that startled me.”
The conversation across the table resumed and shortly after, the servers placed a few dishes down the center of the table. You barely had a chance to serve yourself before his hands crawl back, more urgently than before. You cut your eyes to him but his glare overpowers yours. “Off,” he mouths. “Now.”
You shimmy in your seat, smiling awkwardly at those beside you, before reaching beneath the table and bemoaning, “I’m constantly having to adjust the straps on these damned heels.”
You ball up the lacey fabric and begrudgingly shove it into his palm. Out of the corner of your eye, you see him fingering the fabric before he tucks into his pocket. By now, your mind has grown too consumed to keep up with the conversation. Mostly you just nod in acknowledgment, slowly chewing your food and pretending you’re simply too polite to speak with a full mouth.
Finally, the servers clear the table and the group leisurely prepares to migrate. While everyone else is distracted you lean close to Jimmy. “We’ll have our fun, Jimmy, at home after the show. You know we will.” Your voice is a loud whisper, trying to sound more steadfast than you really are. But when he doesn’t answer, you know you didn’t convince anyone.
“Jimmy?” you mutter brusquely. “Did you hear me?”
He turns to face you as he puts on his leather jacket “Oh, yes. I will have my fun tonight,” his tone is solemn and domineering.
A slight shudder travels down your spine, leaving you painfully aware of the newly blossomed heat tingling at your center. Despite your stubbornness, Jimmy always had a way of looking at you that made you feel absolutely sinful.
Then, his hand gently presses into the small of your back as he guides you outside, where the rest of the party is already waiting.
“Darling,” he says rubbing your arms, “you’re cold. Take my jacket.”
“Actually, I’m pretty comf-”
“Nonsense, love, you’re covered in gooseflesh,” he rubs your arms a little faster, before draping his jacket over your shoulders and wrapping his arms around you. You feel his hard length pressing into your behind, and realize then why he’d been so insistent. It wasn’t to hide his arousal from the others, he simply wanted to tease you.
“Before we left I reminded her it would drop a few degrees come this evening,” he tells the others as he presses himself into you. “‘Bring a cardigan, just in case, darling,’ Always so stubborn these young ladies of ours, aren't they?” He shakes his head, meeting the group’s accordant smiles.
The cars pulled up and the group- a few of who were sufficiently bibulous by now- decided to share a car instead. Jimmy, one of the only sober ones and usually quite fond of his personal space, bolsters the idea.
He goes in first and, once settled at the far end of the seat, pats his thigh. “Up on Daddy’s lap, come on,” he says with a salacious grin. His right hand never leaves your body, steadying your hips to maintain grinding friction the whole way.
But his other hand. It finds your own, clasps it tightly and forces it to wander under his guidance. He makes your fingers skim the length of his outer thigh until you reach his pocket. Then he slips both of your hands inside it, where he makes a fist around yours; the thin lace of your panties crumpled up inside your palm.
“That was quite a show of innocence at the restaurant,” he whispers, words carried on a hot, raspy breath. You hadn’t realized he made you so wet at the table. But now you can feel the spots you left on the fabric, where your damp warmth had since cooled. ”But, do you feel that, love? We both know what kind of girl you are.”
You swallow hard, suddenly very wet and aware of your lack of knickers in this car full of people. You press your thighs together and wait anxiously for the ride to end.
At the entrance to Union Chapel, you all shuffle out. The prodigious church stands tall, and its overbearing presence makes your eyes grow wide. A bold trio of illuminated Gothic arches beckons your entry. At its peak, a towering spire reaches far into the dark London sky.
“I’ve been dying to see someone play here,” Jimmy says. “This place is supposed to have brilliant acoustics, just brilliant. Besides, it’s an architectural treasure.”
“It is beautiful,” Ross’s date replies. “How old is it, Jimmy? I’m sure you know.”
“Indeed I do,” he holds up a finger, overly eager to indulge them. “Built in 1875 with the intention that ‘every person should see and hear the preacher without conscious effort.’ Noted church architect James Cubitt designed it precisely to that specification. So you can only imagine how these sound qualities would amplify music with today’s technology. Well,” he flashes a whimsical smile, “I suppose we don’t have to just imagine anymore, now do we?”
You step cautiously into the chapel. The nexus of interconnected arches encompass you in a structural tessellation, the expanse of the cathedral seizing your gaze upwards. Somehow, the architecture is both ornate and simple. Imposing, yet homely.
“When you said the show was at Union Chapel, I didn’t realize it was literally a chapel.”
“And a working one at that,” Jimmy affirms as the smirk he was harboring finally comes into sight. “A fitting place, don’t you think, for a little girl desperate to atone for her sins?”
* * *
Five or six songs pass without incident. By now, you had nearly forgotten about tricks up Jimmy’s sleeve. But as his lips sneak to your ear, it becomes clear what’s been on his mind. “You need to do something for me, love. Sit on Daddy’s thigh.” His hand snakes around your waist. For now, it’s a gentle insistence, but one set to expire should you choose not to acquiesce.
But you do.
“Now, rub your little cunt on my leg,” his voice is a low, demanding growl. “Do not stop until you’ve left a wet spot on my trousers.”
You swallow and place your hand to his knee for support. Without turning your head, you try to see as far to either side as you’re able.
“Your penance, love,” he admonishes. “I’m waiting.”
Keeping your movements slow and subtle, you begin to slide back and forth. Part of you wants to surrender to the pleasure; the other part of you is adamant not to let him win his own twisted game. Fuck, you say to yourself, realizing that either way this goes, he wins.
Behind you, lace bunches up in his lap as the friction creates heat at your center. You’re already wet; it won’t be long before you’ve met his demand. His fingers press into the small of your back and follow along with your rhythm. His touch is reassuring, but the weight of his glare behind you feels like a threat lying in wait.
Your clit is warm and swollen now. Against your will, a soft whimper escapes your throat but luckily the music buries it. You make a few more slow passes across his thigh, certain by now you’re dripping, then you come to still. Within seconds, you feel his breath on your neck.
“You’re soaked already, aren’t you, dirty girl?” You nod. “Well, check. Prove it to me.”
Making sure everyone’s eyes are focused on the stage, you quickly dip your fingers between your legs. You turn and lean into him, but he refuses the fingers you’ve offered him as proof.
“No,” his fingers close around your wrist, pressing your fingers back against your own lips. “Suck them.” You oblige, tongue kneading your fingertips as you enjoy the taste your own arousal, until he releases your hand. “Good girl. I bet you want to come soon, don’t you?”
You swallow hard, your mind is frantic to find the right words. If you say no, he’ll draw out these games even longer, with each one more obscene than the last. But if you say yes, he might make you get yourself off right here in the pew.
“Follow me,” he says, taking your hand and ducking past those seated in your pew with a smile so genuinely apologetic it unnerves you. He leads you to the chapel’s outer hallway, the sharp, urgent grip of your hand belying the leisurely pace of his steps. Once in the corridor, he backs you into the wall.
“Your final act of contrition, love,” with his jawline this tense, his lips move only slightly. And yet, the words the come next seem to hurl off them. “Rub that dripping wet cunt and get yourself off for me.”
For a moment you tread in the swirling, green eddies of his eyes. It’s the soft lines, delicately cradled around them, that bring you back to the surface a moment later.
You find your clit slick, sensitive and having grown as impatient as Jimmy was. You start to rub your fingers in eager circles, chest rising and falling in the forced, unsteady rhythm you’ve assumed.
“That’s it. What a sinful little girl you’ve been tonight. Getting yourself soaking wet in front of all those people, and you liked it didn’t you? Didn’t you?”
“Uh-huh,” you whimper, eyes closing to focus on reaching climax as quickly as possible.
“And in a bloody church, no less! Just look what you’ve done to me because you were so insatiable,” he points to the glistening dampness on his thigh. “Such a filthy, filthy girl.”
His brows furrow with disapproval and disgust taints his lip, and yet you become more wet with each word he spits at you.
“Quickly now. You don’t want anyone to catch you. Or do you?” He cocks his head. “I guess nothing should surprise me now.”
By now you’re so slippery that your fingers can barely maintain their traction, but you’re so close. Your thighs begin to quaver and the sensation ripples down to your toes, leaving your soles shaky and balance uncertain.
"Be careful. Your knees are starting to get weak, love.” His tone is cheeky, taunting you as his fingers assume their familiar post around your throat. “If they buckle, my hand on your throat will be the only holding you up.”
Your next few breaths come as a series of quick, jagged sips, each one bringing you closer to the precipice of orgasm until you’re hurtling past it. Heat floods your body and your breath hangs suspended until his lips overwhelm your own and take your breath captive.
When he finally relinquishes your lips you’re desperate for breath, but already he’s gentler now. He presses his chest against yours, his stable frame an offering to help you regain stability and compose your breath. For a few slow, drawn-out seconds you rest there in silence until your own heartbeat matches the controlled cadence of his own.
“I’m not sure there’s enough penance in the world to restore your chastity,” he laughs softly, your cheek pressed into his chest. “Least not since I got a hold of you. But I guess that’s a start.”
You stand tall again on your feet, your sweet smile turning into a smirk at his last comment.
“But I’d like to enjoy the rest of the concert without incident, my love,” he takes your hand, leading you back towards your pew in the main chapel. “So, I suggest you be on your best behavior for the remained of the evening, is that understood?”
You smile, giving his hand a squeeze. “Cross my heart, Jimmy,”