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You hadn’t meant for it to come to this, not really, you think. However, your taught faith had seeds of doubt which you’d promptly buried with extra religious obligations. Increasing your involvement with Sunday service to subdue the bubbling fears and polish the tarnishes on your conscience. This Sunday you’d dressed up modestly in a new dress, as if the pale dress could soak up the sins lying upon your skin.
The same pale dress currently bunched around your waist. You think it’s almost cruel. How good something feels which is prohibited under your beliefs. Perhaps another confessional is necessary, you half note in the back of your mind until large hands grope at your hips. Your eyes fluttering open at the sensation. Blonde curls stick to his forehead, reddened cheeks, and parted lips - an angel himself. So pretty. Your hands wrap around his biceps to ground yourself.
“Look at me. Please.” He mumbles breathily before rolling your hips against his.
He’s hot and heavy against your clothed core. Eagerly grinding against one another in the confines of your bedroom. You can hear other churchgoers’ downstairs, your mother hosting a small group including his mother for tea and cake. It’s downright sinful, going against the preaching of the earlier sermon. Eventually, your eyes flicker up to meet his.
Looking at him as well as you can through the haze of desire, you notice his white button up is half untucked, wrinkled, and unkempt. The brown belt unbuckled rubbing against the top of your thigh. It’s so wrong, you think to yourself, but it must be showing on your face as he responds.
“Baby. It’s not- Fuck.” He inhales sharply as his tip suddenly catches on your entrance. His hands squeeze your hips firmly dictating your level of control, toned muscles straining against the fabric of his button up. “It’s fine, you’re fine. We’re not actually doing anything.” He pants out, controlling the momentum of your hips for a moment before one of his hands wander to your covered chest.
An involuntary whimper escapes your throat at him palming your clothed breasts roughly. Every single grind of your hips together adds to the desire pooling at your lower stomach, your clit dragging over his length in a way that has you lowering your head on his shoulder. He promptly kisses your temple while he grinds and gropes you. At this angle you can see the silver cross adorned around his neck, a mocking reminder of your shared faith. You close your eyes.
“Need to be quick.” You manage to whine weakly, your hips desperately trying to find release. “Gonna start wondering…” You trail off referring to the gathering downstairs. Your sense of time has vanished only caring about the sweet release he was so kindly offering you.
If he replied you didn’t hear it, his hands and lower body increasing their ministrations, desperation painting his actions. The wet patches on each of your underwear evidence of the shared sin. He increases the momentum, his length twitches below you, a sign you’ve noticed of him getting close.
“You’re so good for me. Such a fucking pretty thing.” He groans as his hand on your hip moves to grope your ass suddenly. You let out a pleasured gasp. He notices the shaking of your legs and the way you’re trying to babble something out without even being aware of it. You’re so lost in the feeling it turns him on massively.
His strong hands drag your hips against him faster and firmer, desperate for the friction to push him over. He grunts as he focuses on the shared relief and somewhat mindful of the absence they’ve left downstairs. Whereas you’re out of your mind, eyes shut and repeating his name gently like a mantra as you approach what you’ve been craving. You try to let him know you’re almost there by gripping his arms tighter and muffling a moan against his shoulder.
It’s not until he forces past the fabric of your dress and bra, making contact with your bare breast, that you’re inhaling sharply, eyes opening, and tensing against him as you reach your high. The friction on your clit combined with the unexpected sensation of his calloused palm against your breast throwing you into the deep end. He follows almost instantly groaning your name and rutting against you like a pathetic horny teenage boy. The warm patch against his boxers growing as he releases inside them.
He’s still lazily rutting against you when you come to your senses pushing off of him and pull your straps back up. You look down at him as he’s half laying on your bed. He’s too pretty. His gaze stays on yours as he silently does his slacks back up and does his belt.
“You weren’t supposed to go that far.” You murmur quietly now suddenly conscious of the situation and the active ignorance towards your religion. This whole song and dance you two parried had never gone as far as touches over clothing.
“It felt good though?” He asks, not at all cocky, but already knowing the answer.
“That’s not the point.” You counter suddenly aware of how far this is going and how little you want it to stop. “It’s wrong.”
He stands up and gently smooths the flyaway strands of your hair. Every action of his is always so gentle and kind it almost hurts. “Nothing forgiveness can’t fix,” he whispers, pressing a chaste kiss to your lips, “I’ll see you downstairs.”
His touch is suddenly gone as he slips out of your bedroom. The guilt eating your insides as you make yourself presentable for those downstairs. Tonight you’ll have to pray for forgiveness again.