Week 3 — Wendy’s Pink Lipstick Conversion, Phase II — Sunday at Sara’s and Church


    “Songs for life’s lost lovers
    Bittersweet their healing
    Their prayers prayed under covers
    Need not kneeling”

Ian McCulloch
* * *


Wendy woke up with her arms wrapped around Sara’s body, Sara’s back faced Wendy as she cradled Sara’s breasts in her outstretched fingers. Wendy snuggled her face closer to Sara’s neck, breathing in the aroma of Sara’s wonderful clean hair, the scent of Sara’s body. Wendy kissed Sara’s earlobe, playfully nibbled it, and ran her hand under the blanket, across the curve of Sara’s body lying on her side, her hand trailing the slope of her chest, the downward sweep of her waist, the rising landscape of her hips. She swept the palm of her hand over the soft flesh of Sara’s ass and remembered last night.

Oh, god. How Sara fucked her with that dildo, making her scream into her satin pillows and claw at her satin sheets. Over and over and over again until her body trembled, perspired, and collapsed against the mattress, extinguished, exhausted, and satisfied. Wendy pulled away the strap of Sara’s nightgown and kissed her bare shoulder before quietly slipping from beneath the covers and out of bed to float almost mindlessly to the bathroom. Oh, god Sara. What are you doing to me?

Odd as it seemed to her, only now that she spent the night did Wendy fully take stock of her behavior. She stood in front of the wide mirror hanging above Sara’s huge bathroom. Mottled terrazzo with golden brown specks covered the floor, giving the bathroom a bronzed, golden hue. The countertops were of a golden sandy colored granite, with two large white basins each with a tall, bent brass spigot sat on the either side of the wide counter. A large glass shower, with two wide, round, brass shower heads on either side and room enough for half a dozen occupants, with a dropped floor stood on one side of the bathroom. To her left, through an open archway, Wendy beheld the largest walk-in closet she’d ever seen. Easily as big as her own bedroom, when she walked into it, she saw polished mahogany shelves holding shoes, purses, bags, and inevitably, as Wendy inspected further, sex toys.

Dresses, blouses, blazer and trouser outfits, hats, caps, lace, undergarments all hung from rods or were folded neatly on open shelves. Drawers had been built into the walls, but Wendy dared not open them. I’m intruding enough, she thought. But she did check the hanging clothes, some of which were risqué in the extreme, some of which looked like strange and bizarre costumes for a strange and bizarre science fiction movie.

Wendy moved to the sex toys. Lined up neatly on a shelf, they ranged from small chrome vibrators, to tidy little dildos, to fantastically large cocks which didn’t even look human, couldn’t possibly be human. She touched one of them, a mottled, black and white, flexible rubberized dildo, at least two feet long, with a head that flared out almost flat at the end. Wendy picked it up and trembled, imagining that monster inside her. What kind of person was Sara? Funny she had never bothered to ask. But then again, she had done a lot of funny things this past week.

One week. One week ago, she didn’t even speak to Sara, much less masturbate together over the phone. Or get herself gussied up for a date with her. Or spend the night impaling her groin on a pink dildo. Fucking a pink dildo. One week to use the word fuck.

Huh. When she thought about it, she couldn’t recall ever really using that word before. It’s just not something that would have crossed her mind. She knew she wouldn’t have ever done any of the other stuff. Not in a million years.

Not with a girl. I mean.

She supposed she would have eventually. She supposed that she would have done so eventually in college, tried alcohol, tried drugs, experimented with girls.

I mean, that’s just what people did, right? I mean.

What did she mean?

First. No. She’d never do drugs. Not in high school, not in college. She knew better, she knew she had to study and study hard if she wanted to get that scholarship, to go to a good school, to get out of Edge City. And that meant no drugs. No alcohol either. She hadn’t done it before, and she didn’t plan on drinking in the future. Still. I mean. One did. People did. And she was a person. So.

But lezzing out with one the most popular girls in school? Did people do that? I mean. Did they? She looked at herself in the mirror doubtfully. Her long blond hair straggled over her shoulders, matted on the side where she slept on it. Her breasts bounced loose beneath the sheer fabric of her sheer pink babydoll nightgown, which barely hung past the bottom of her ass. Her nipples no longer hard, her dark areolas showed through the thin fabric clearly. If she shrugged, you could see her mound. But you could see it anyway, because she wasn’t even wearing panties. Not even a G-string so beloved by Sara.

She saw the tears pooling in the corners of her eyes as she stared at herself. Her mascara ran, a blaze of blue smudged eyeshadow hung over both eyes, and pink lipstick was smeared over the edges of her mouth, her lips having spent a night in arduous passion with Sara. I’m only sixteen, she thought. I’m only sixteen, and I look like, god, I don’t even know the word for what I look like. Prostitute? Whore? Slut? She half-turned and, stretching her thighs and calves, raised her ass a little higher. I think I look nice, though. I mean. I think it’s a nice body. Sara seems to.

Who the hell was Sara, anyway? How had she come into.

Am I a lesbian now, Wendy wondered. I mean, it seems pretty obvious. But I don’t feel like a lesbian. I still like boys. At least I think I like boys. I’ve never even dated a boy. But they look nice. I really like being around them. Except when they’re jerks. Which is all the time. But, you know. It’s nice when they smile at you. Like when Brad smiles at me.

Oh, god, Wendy he’s already got a girlfriend.

But he asked me out for tonight. So that means.

He cheats.

He likes me.

No. Not a dyke. And except for Sara, not even bi. And she was pretty sure she could find an excuse for her behavior with Sara. Besides the fact that Sara got under her skin. She couldn’t have been more of her puppet if Sara stuck her hand up her ass and moved her mouth like a ventriloquist’s dummy.

Ass. Another word she’d never use.

Hm. Sara’s hand up her ass.

Geez, Wendy. Get a grip.

Breathing deeply, and wiping away the few tears that had formed, she walked to the toilet room and squatted. How did things get this way? Why couldn’t she say no? Was she in love? Did she love Sara? If she loved Sara, that would be different. If she loved Sara, then she would be gay. For her, anyway.

Would she?

I mean, would I really be a lesbian for Sara? Is Sara even a dyke? It’s a funny time to ask now, but I mean. Really. Is this just fooling around? Or is it serious? Is this me? Is this who or what I am?

It was nice waking up to her. God, it was unbelievable. I never knew how lonely I felt. Sara just felt so. And that smell. It’s so. Right. And all the things they did last night. Whatever was happening, that Wendy was gone. That old me. I mean, you can’t just go back to being shy, modest, studious Wendy after getting fucked all night by a girl you’ve only been hanging with a week now. You can’t go back to being a little girl after that. I mean, my hymen’s just gone. And I didn’t even feel it. Not really. Weird. I thought there’d be more blood. God. How long was it? Nine inches? Ten? Twelve? Did I really fuck a foot long dildo? Geez.

She was the youngest.

My friends are all older than I am. Maddy will be 17 before next year. I won’t turn seventeen until May. Maybe it’s just time for me to grow up. Maybe that’s all this is.

She wiped her damp mound with several pieces of tissue, dropped it in the bowl, flushed, stood, tried to smooth her babydoll, felt foolish for doing so, sighed and left the toilet room.

Sara lay curled in a half-fetus, clutching the blankets under her chin, that blessed glow of a sleeping human hovering over her peaceful face. Maybe, Wendy thought, maybe I do. She gently tugged the blanket down, crept over Sara, pressed her lips against her turned cheek and lightly kissed her face until she woke up.

“Good morning, sleepy head.”

“What time is it?”

“I dunno.”

Wendy pushed Sara out of bed and stumbled after her.

“Hey,” Sara protested.

“I’ve got to get going. Church.”

“What do you need to go there for?”

“I dunno. Mom, mostly. She thinks it’s important for my upbringing.”

“What about you? What do you think?”

“I’ve never thought about it. Church. My upbringing. I’ve never even really thought about the future. I just always assumed it was there. Like a town you’ve never been to but plan on visiting one day. I’ve never been to the future. But I plan on it.”

“I try to like where I am.”

“That’s because where you are it’s wonderful. It’s amazing.”

“No. That’s not it.”

Sara paused. A quick expression crossed her face, sat there momentarily, and then fled. Wendy suddenly asked a question she’d been meaning to ever since coming to this house for the first time.

“Hey, Sara. How come I never see your mother here? Every time I come over, it’s just you. The house is always empty, and it’s a gorgeous house.”

“Oh. My mother doesn’t actually live here. She lets me stay here by myself. I guess you could call it my house. Mom stays in the big house in Evening Hills.”

Wendy wanted to respond, but thought better of it, closed her mouth, started to say something else, but changed her mind again. So. Sara lived alone. In this big house. But not The Big House. No, silly, that was in Evening Hills. You know. Where the housekeepers have housekeepers. Even you know about that, you big dummy.

“But.”

“Hm?” Sara asked.

“Why do you go to public school? Why do you even bother with Kid Lester High? You could go anywhere. You could go to any private school you want.”

Sara shrugged her shoulders, walked to her closet, came out with three pairs of shoes, a couple of dresses, and some leggings of hose.

“Meh. I grew up in private schools. I spent my entire childhood at the Henry Darger Academy for Girls. I like your high school. My high school, now, I guess. I’ve been going there since last year. I think the people there are just great. Here, try this one. It’s getting late. Do you want to shower now? Or do you want to eat breakfast first? I’m sure I have something I can pop in the microwave.”

Sara tossed a light pink dress on the bed.

“It’ll look great with this hose.”

“Um. I guess I should shower.”

Wendy stood in the middle of Sara’s bedroom, once again aware of her near nudity, once again aware of Sara’s near nudity. The sheer nightgown clung to Sara’s body, and her breasts, full and upturned where the nipples protruded beneath the thin tulle, stretched the babydoll outward in a gentle swoop that revealed more than covered the round curve and outward flare of Sara’s hips, the bald mound of Sara’s. Well. Sara’s mushed auburn hair, the smeared make-up of her face, mirrored Wendy’s own look. It gave the girl a reckless, lascivious air, a confident lack of concern. Wendy felt a knot tighten in her stomach, descend to her groin, and begin to unwind. A trickle of dew drops collected around her. Well. Her nipples hardened and jutted from her nightgown. Wendy looked away, suddenly shy and awkward again despite last night.

Sara stepped forward, briskly stood on tiptoes, caressed Wendy’s cheek with one hand, clasped her hip with the other, and lightly kissed the side of Wendy’s mouth.

“Great. I’ll be in there shortly.”

And there it was. Just these assumptions, presumptions, and statements Sara made, all the while expecting Wendy to just go along with them. And she did. She just did. She never once said no. Well, that would soon.

“Okay,” Wendy said.
* * *

Wendy sighed as warm water flowed over her, burst over her head, cascaded over her shoulders, splashed around her face, and washed away last night’s grime, her makeup, her juices covering the dildo Sara made her suck after coming over and over upon it, the scent of Sara. Her mind drifted lazily over the past week, this time experiencing it neither as a frightening change nor a dizzying prospect, but simply as memory, alien almost, as if Wendy stood in aloof, indifferent review of someone else’s mind, someone else’s past. The water flowed over her, and as it did so, Wendy found herself once again taking that strange position of equilibrium, of recoil or plunge. But this time she felt no tension, no pull in either direction. She stood waiting.

As she faced the wall of the shower, enjoying the warm, almost hot pulsation of the water jets pounding against the back of her bent neck, against the base of her shoulders, and down the curve of her spine, she sighed, relaxed. Her body drooped.

I am me.

She heard the door to the shower open as Sara crept in, moved behind Wendy and began touching her, pressing her breasts against Wendy as she squeezed and cradled Wendy’s own breasts, pinching and fondling her nipples, before sliding both hands down the sides Wendy’s wet body, curving around the fleshy mounds of Wendy’s ass. Sara stroked a hand through the crack, sliding her fingers over the rosebud of Wendy’s anus. Wendy gasped. No, she thought. Not now. Not again. She should stop her. She should say something. I’m. I’m not this way. At the very least she should tighten her thighs, close them against Sara’s intrusion.

Wendy, groaning more to herself than anything else, spread her legs slightly, allowing Sara’s exploring hand further access. Sara held Wendy with her left arm, cradling and fondling a breast while slipping her hand further between Wendy’s legs, sliding between the warm lips of Wendy’s waiting gash. Sara kissed the back of Wendy’s neck, the wet skin between her shoulder blades, the top of her armpit, smelling Wendy’s glistening body in the water, the warm water falling over both of them. Lifting herself on her toes, she kissed and nibbled Wendy’s earlobe and flicked the sensitive flesh behind her ear with the tip of her tongue.

“You were wonderful last night,” Sara whispered. “You were so beautifully you.”

Wendy thrust her ass back against Sara’s hand as her fingers entered the canal of her opening pussy. Oh, god, she’s going to make me come again. She’s going to make me come over her hand again. I can’t stop coming on her hand. She’s going to make me do this forever.

Suddenly Sara spun Wendy around. Wendy crouched lower against the shower wall, leaning her shoulders against the tiles as she spread her thighs wider and jutted her groin wantonly at the lust-driven Sara, who worked another finger into Wendy, who gyrated and writhed against Sara’s hand.

“Do you like that, Wendy? Do you like it when I fuck you with my fingers?”

Wendy squealed. She did. God help her she did.

Suddenly Wendy pulled her groin back, pulled away from Sara’s hand, stood up, squeezed her thighs together, and clasped Sara’s hand with both of hers, holding them against her hot and aching mound.

“Sara,” she said. “Wait.”

“Wait for what?” Sara asked, puzzled.

“I just. I need.”

“I know what you need, Wendy,” said Sara matter-of-factly.

“It’s not that. It’s just. Please, Sara. Please. Not now.”

“If not now, when?”

“Later,” Wendy said, catching her breath.

“Promise?” Sara asked, a mischievous smile playing upon the corners of her mouth.

“I promise.”

Sara pulled her hand away.

“We probably need to get dressed anyway. For your church.”

“You’re going?”

“Of course, silly.” Sara winked at her. “It’s just that you get me so worked up.”

Wendy had noticed.
* * *

Sara tossed a pink G-string with matching sheer half-cup bra.

“I can’t wear these to church,” she protested.

“I can’t see why not. You’re going to be wearing the most adorable dress.”

Sara pulled a red bra over her own chest and slipped a red G-string over her calves and thighs.

“I’ll be the only one who knows how naughty you are underneath it all.”

Before they put on their dresses, Sara asked Wendy to apply make-up to her. Foundation, concealer, highlights, black mascara, red eyeliner, and just the hint of eyeshadow. Glossy red lipstick. The effect surprised the both of them.

Wendy noticed the tube of mascara. Not the black and gold tube she had grown accustomed to seeing, but a bright pink tube with the maker’s name embossed in black: Archie Beall.

“I thought they only did nylon products, panty hose, stockings and stuff like that,” Sara said. “They claim not be big on make-up, but they did this mascara all the same.”

Wendy shrugged internally at Sara’s mystifying language of cosmetics and clothing.

“I can’t believe how good a job you do with this, Wendy. I look just perfect. You catch on so fast, you know?”

Wendy beamed with satisfaction. She’d always been an apt pupil.

“Now let’s do you. I’m red, so you’ll be pink.”

Pink. Of course. But now Wendy began to look forward to the color. La vie en rose, she thought. Ma vie en rose. She liked having a pink bed cover, wearing pink dresses, pink undergarments, pink lipstick, pink eyeshadow. A little pink bow with little pink ribbons falling to her shoulders for her pretty blond hair. Do me in pink, she thought giddily, almost hysterically, as she ran her tongue over her glossy pink lips, cover me up in pink flour, roll me over in pink dough.

“Here, sit down on the bed while I put these on you.”

Sara nudged Wendy to the bed, placed her hands on Wendy’s shoulders, and guided her downward to a sitting position. The Sara knelt and, taking hold of Wendy’s right foot, stretched out her leg and carefully unrolled a pink, lace-trimmed hose that reached to her upper thighs. Wendy shivered as Sara ran her hands up and down Wendy’s nylon leg and adjusted the lace, floral-and-paisley-patterned band holding up the stocking. When Sara looked up Wendy’s dress, she smiled at the moisture collecting in the hair around the strip of Wendy’s panties. Then she took Wendy’s left foot, caressed it, kissed her big toe, and unrolled the other hose with soft, deliberate touches as she felt the naked skin of Wendy’s bare leg vanish beneath the nylon smoothness of her pink hosiery.

Sara sat down next to Wendy to put on her own pantyhose, a light brown, nude color. Sara took Wendy’s hand and rubbed her leg with the open palm.

“Feel how smooth that is. Nice, huh? So sexy.”

Then Sara stood up quickly, still holding Wendy’s hand, and led her to the vanity mirror.

“There.”

Sara wore a light green billowing dress that swirled as she walked, the hem hanging just above her knees. She placed four-inch black leather straps heels onto her small feet. Wendy also wore a knee-length dress, light pink with lace frills. A pair of three-inch pink heels completed her outfit. Standing behind her, Sara tied the bow to the Wendy’s hair, offset just slightly in the rear.

“You’re just the most adorable little daughter I never had,” Sara giggled, running her hands down Wendy’s sides and smoothing out her dress.

“Freak,” said Wendy, smiling.

“Do you like me in red lipstick, Wendy?” Sara abruptly asked.

“Um, sure.”

“One last thing for me.”

Sara disappeared into her bathroom, coming back redolent of cinnamon.

“You like girls in red lipstick, don’t you Wendy?” Sara asked the question frankly, openly, affirmatively. To reply no, well, that would just be stupid and wrong. Bad wrong. Of course she liked girls in red lipstick. Who didn’t?

“Of course, Sara. Red lipstick looks wonderful on girls.”

“So much more, um, assertive than pink, don’t you think?”

Now that she thought about it, she supposed Sara spoke the truth. Red really felt, looked, acted stronger than pink. Which made sense. Red was red, but pink was only almost red. Not quite red. But pink was lovely, so soft and lovely. She just loved pink.

Wendy nodded. Sara dropped the subject.

Later, in the kitchen, Sara opened the refrigerator door, pulled out a couple of glass tumblers filled with a pink shake-like concoction. Wendy remembered last night’s smoothies. They tasted so good.

“I only have these,” Sara said. “But they’ll fill you up. At least until you get home.”

Once again, Wendy sipped at the straw a few times before she hungrily sucked up the remaining smoothie, instantly feeling a delightful, euphoric glow spread through her limbs. The very tips of her fingers seemed suddenly to catch an electric heat. Goose pimples burst over the skin on her arms, and she felt the roots of her hair tremble. A charge seared her groin, and she squeezed her thighs tightly together, both fearing and welcoming the flood of her coming orgasm. And just when she thought she would buckle, just when she thought she would collapse clutching at the countertop of the island in the midst of the kitchen, the warp passed, the spasm passed, and Wendy was Wendy again.

“Gosh,” said Sara. “And I thought you liked the first one you drank.”

Holding Wendy’s arm in her arm, Sara led Wendy to her Mercedes in the garage. Sara opened the passenger door, but just before Wendy could sit down, Sara spoke up.

“I saw this in a movie once. Or maybe I read it. Lift your dress up and sit down bare assed.”

Wendy tossed Sara a quizzical look.

“Trust me. You’ll love it.”

Wendy still hesitated.

“I won’t even make you take off your panties. Don’t be so.”

Wendy breathed in, gathered herself, raised her dress past her waist and, rather gracelessly, sat down on the cold leather seat. Her lips formed an O. Sara walked around the car, opened her door, and, smiling at Wendy, showily raised her own dress up and sat down on her seat.

“It feels sexy, huh? It’s even better when you’re not wearing panties.”

Five minutes later, Wendy began to squirm in her seat. Her twat burned, on fire. She felt moisture pooling between her thighs, but it neither quenched nor abated the heat. If anything it inflamed her further. First she squeezed her thighs tightly, pressing them together in a vice grip. She bit her lip and turned her head away from Sara, planting her forehead against the window of the passenger door. She writhed her ass against the leather seat, marveling at the amount of secretion she felt against flat of her butt.

Wendy moved her hand across her thigh, inching it closer to her need.

“Wendy,” said Sara reproachfully. “That’s not very fair, is it? You made me stop.”

“But Sara, I’m so. I’m so.”

Wendy leaned against the dashboard and wriggled her ass against the passenger seat.

“My god, Wendy. Are you humping my car seat?”

“Oh, god, Sara. I can’t help it. I’m just so. I’m on fire, Sara. Oh god, I’m so.”

“So what, Wendy?”

“I’m so horny, Sara. I’m so fucking horny.”

Wendy threw herself against the back of the seat, spread her thighs wide and plunged her hand into her steaming center.

“Careful of your bow, honey,” Sara chastised in a motherly voice. “You don’t want to crush it. Here. Do I need to stop? Do I need to give you a hand? You’ll get a run in your hose.”

But Wendy already began to howl. She pounded her jackhammering hand with rapid thrusts of her hips, moaning, howling, mewling, screaming.

“It’s coming. Oh god, it’s coming.”

“How many fingers are you using?”

“Two. I’m using two.”

“Put another one in. Fuck yourself with three fingers, Wendy. Get yourself off with three fingers.”

“Oh god oh god oh god.”

Keeping her eyes on the road, Sara said softly but clearly.

“You can spray all over my car. I want you to. I want you to soak my car seat.”

Half-standing, half-crouching in Sara’s car, Wendy held one hand against the windshield while she jerked and hammered her pelvis at her hand. Suddenly she shook, her knees trembled rapidly, she raised her ass even further away from her seat and came, her fluid pouring from her pussy in flowing squirts over the leather seat, over the floorboard, all over her hand still caressing and kneading the spasming flesh of her labia, her pulsing cunt, drenching the bottom half of her pink church dress, her juices running down the nylon of her pink hose.

“My god,” Sara said. “To think there was a time I didn’t even know your name.”
* * *

A chill darted through the mid-September air, poked people on exposed necks, nibbled at earlobes, swept across noses and cheeks, and playfully nipped the legs and calves of those who wore shorts, or skirts, or dresses. In the parking lot of Righteous Kingdom Church of the New Covenant, Wendy and Sara wrapped light knitted sweaters around their shoulders and walked as briskly as the could on high heels over the asphalt. Most of the congregation had already entered the church. A few stragglers remained in the parking lot, finishing a last cigarette, or otherwise less eager for the Word.

Sara tutted at the obvious wet spot on Wendy’s dress. Wendy, after her orgasm, had no other alternative than to sit in the puddle of her own juices for the duration of the drive to Righteous Kingdom, soaking the back and front of her adorable pink dress.

“Whatever will they think in there,” Sara asked, gesturing with her head at the squat polygonal church with its roof gradually sloping toward the center. Above the double doors rose a tall, narrow steeple ending with a white, modest cross. Despite the chill, the sun shone bright in a clear blue sky, illuminating the world with its quotidian brilliance, but either the glass doors were tinted, or the lights of the lobby were dimmed, because the girls could not see far into darkness of the church entrance. But the white cross glinted in the sunlight as a fat gray bird tumbled more than alighted from one of the outstretched arms to the ground below, just a few feet away from Wendy’s clomping heels.

“Pigeons,” Sara muttered. “They go everywhere like feathered rats.”

“Mourning dove,” Wendy replied. “I think it’s a mourning dove.”

Sara shrugged.

“How the hell did your mother find this place?” Sara asked.

“Um, I’m not sure. It’s not so bad. I like the songs.”

Wendy wrapped her sweater tight around her. Thankfully, it hung a little below her waist, so little of the wetness could be discerned. Sara slapped her playfully on the ass, then rubbed it, giving it a final squeeze before crossing the pavement to enter the church.
* * *

Wendy and Sara stepped through the glass double church doors into a dim and empty narthex. Two large wooden doors to the chapel faced them, closed now. Wendy pulled Sara’s arm.

“Hurry,” she said, suddenly alarmed. “We’re late.”

“And?” shrugged Sara.

“Everyone will see us.”

“And?”

“Oh, Sara.”

Although from the outside the church presented the form of a pentagon, its interior conformed to an older, more classical style of church architecture. High whitewashed walls enclosed a more or less long nave holding two columns of pews separated by a wide aisle, with a narrower aisle running along the exterior side of each column of pews. A transept cut across the far side of the nave forming a crucifix shape with the altar and apse taking the place of the head at the very end of the chapel.

A small choir sat on the right side of the altar. A guitar, an amplifier, a drum set, and a microphone stand connected to a small PA system stood to the left of the pulpit, opposite the choir. The church deacons had allowed this monstrous intrusion in an attempt to placate the more strident clamors for modernity. But they remained unused. The deacons took to heart the lessons of appeasement.

High on the walls rising on the side of each column of pews, stained glass depictions of saints, believers, sinners, and angels showed prominent scenes from the Book. Not really windows, Wendy knew if you looked closely enough you could see a back light shining behind the gorgeously colored, wonderfully textured pictures. Besides, the walls didn’t lead to the outside, but separated the chapel from the administrative offices, Sunday school classes, and the private room of the minister, Pastor Flair. So the stained glass couldn’t be windows. But they could still be pretty.

Wendy looked for her mother Mary as she creaked open the heavy wooden door to the chapel. She saw her several rows in front of them, near the front, standing in a crowded pew, smiling and talking to a middle-aged couple, who smiled back, nodded their heads, and prepared to sit down. Mary turned around, making a point of searching for her daughter by raising a hand over her eyes and peering over the back pews. She relaxed noticeably when she saw her, tensed visibly when she saw Sara, and gestured confusedly at the lack of seating space in her pew.

Wendy waved and pointed to the back pew, the only empty pew in the chapel, besides the Back Pew Boys on the other side of the aisle, giggling, laughing, and punching each other. One of them smelled of cigarettes. Sister Temperance Hamer, entirely more audacious than Sister Rachel sitting on the same row number on left half of the chapel, looked back at the young man and glared. Yes, she glared. Then she turned her back on the nasty little creature, gave a final harrumph, settled into her seat, adjusted the floral hat on her head, crossed her arms, and lifted her chin in an open act of utter rejection of that which transpired behind her. In this she mirrored her chief antagonist, Sister Rachel.

Sara bore witness to Sister Hamer’s outraged sensibilities and followed Wendy to the back pew with a thoughtful expression on her face. Only two other people occupied the pew, an elderly couple sitting at the aisle end, so that Wendy and Sara had to excuse themselves as they walked sideways past the man and the woman, trying not to step on toes. Sara resisted the temptation to pinch Wendy’s butt in front of the couple and only smiled courteously as she passed over.

Wendy sat on the far end, but before she could sit down, Sara leaned into her ear and whispered, “You know how to sit now, Wendy. Raise up your dress. Then you can sit. Take off your sweater first.”

Wendy glanced around nervously and nodded. Sara helped Wendy out of her pink sweater as Wendy raised her dress in a quick movement and placed her naked bottom onto the hard wooden surface of the pew. Sara lay the sweater over Wendy’s lap, then, squirming out of her own sweater, she quickly raised her dress and sat down. Then she slowly covered her own lap with her red knitted sweater. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the elderly woman, a Mrs. Lucinda Beebe, looking. But Lucinda Beebe smiled to herself and looked away.

Sister Rachel heard the whispering and commotion behind her, but continued staring straight in front of her, waiting patiently for the appearance of Pastor Flair. Life and life’s experience had long taught her against the folly of the backward glance. Did not Orpheus lose her whom his heart held most precious? A pagan, heathen tale maybe, but did not Lot’s wife lose her very life? No, no, whatever transpired, no matter how heinous, no matter how dreadful, no matter how intriguing, the head, the face must remain forward. Let the thief see the back of her shoulders, let the murderer her neck, but she would never, never, show her face to what rose up from behind. Life, life was a matter of what loomed in front, not what lurked in the rear. Let Hamer harrumph, for all the good it did her.

And all the while the faint scent of cinnamon spread through the air over the congregation.

Sara stirred restlessly in her seat, her eyes roaming along the back of the pew in front of her. A kind of built-in rack or pocket held several hymnals, and towards the side of the rack a small stack of manilla index cards with short yellow pencils stuck out from the top of a smaller rack. Sara reached for one of the cards and read it. It turned out to be a welcome card asking for Your Name, Your Phone, Your Address, Your Email, and Your Prayer Request.

Sara yawned, grabbed a pencil and wrote “Is Sex Sex Sex” for her name. She left the other fields blank until she came to the prayer request. She considered for a moment, then wrote down, “For Wendy to see what I see in her.”
* * *

The congregation quieted to a rustling which soon disappeared. A door to the side of the area behind the altar opened, and Pastor Flair walked to the pulpit, head down, deep in ponderous thought. Of Germanic origin, whose last name derived from Flieger or Pflueger perhaps, his congregation had warmed to his earnest, but not too bright, conviction, his plain-spoken demeanor, his insistence on social tradition and righteous living. They applauded his warning against the degrading effects of the acids of modernity and cheered his admonition to maintain a continual vigilance against the entrance of pest and overgrowth into the orchards and gardens they held under their care as good stewards.

First the choir sang while the congregation remained seated. Wendy listened peacefully to the music, and Sara enjoyed casting her eyes over the tops of the flock’s heads, until she landed her gaze on Wendy’s mother, who had turned around to check on her daughter. Sara thought how similar the two looked, how both women’s blond hair seemed to fall in waves and cascades around their shoulders, how much the form of one resembled the form of the other, with this difference, of course. The gravity of years betrayed the one, however slightly, while the other basked in the weightless glory of youth. Mary rose a little taller, stood a little stouter than her daughter, and when she, Sara, had visited her home the week prior, she could not fail to note the lines of care and age that slowly crack the temporal vessel of beauty until all that remains is a fine and fleeting dust, so that not even memory can say what it was that once had been.

The offer of a makeover had not been a simple jest, but a heart-felt gesture, an offer to restore, however momentarily, what had been lost to time’s indifference.

Now the congregation rose for praise, and Wendy stood, and Sara stood also, hand on Wendy’s ass. Wendy tried to wiggle away, but Sara clutched her around the waist and held her close to her. In front of them, Sister Rachel’s head below a large broad brimmed and floral cap, a mate to Sister Hamer’s, twitched and then went rigid. Hell itself could flame behind me, she thought. Wendy held the hymnal for Sara, and tried to remain still as Sara’s hand went below the hem of her pink dress, lingering on the frilly band of Wendy’s hose and stroked the soft and trembling flesh above with her thumb. Wendy’s voice faltered as she sang.

“For the love which from our birth over and around us lies…”

Sara’s hand groped her inner thigh and rose up to encounter the curve of Wendy’s ass.

Wendy stumbled again while the congregations voice rang out.

“Sages leave your contemplation…”

Sara’s hand slithered further inside Wendy’s thigh until, rising, it encountered the warmth of Wendy’s mound. Sara traced her fingers across the moistened cloth of Wendy’s G-string, feeling the wet and warm thatch of Wendy’s pubic hair spreading out from the panties thin gusset. Wendy squeezed her thighs closed and gave Sara a pitiful look. Sara’s hand stayed.

“You promised,” she mouthed.

A finger wriggled against the drenched string clinging to Wendy’s steaming folds. Wendy tightened her thighs against Sara, but the wriggling continued. Slowly, ever so slowly, the thighs’ grip on the hand loosened, and Sara gained increased entrance to Wendy’s aching and needy center.

Wendy’s thighs parted further, and she stopped even pretending to sing.

Sister Rachel felt more than heard a bump against the back of the pew, and her resolution wavered. She heard slapping sounds and frantic whispers, and her head jerked again. One eye twitched, and her jaw trembled against her clinched mouth, but she held firm, staring in furious devotion at the graying hair of Pastor Flair and then at the choir to the side of him. Her hands gripped her hymnal tightly, and she croaked out her hymn in a dry, rasping voice.

“Just as I am without one plea,

Just as I am and waiting not

to rid my soul of one dark blot”

And Sara’s onslaught continued, until finally, sensing Wendy’s approaching orgasm, she stopped, withdrew her hand, and moved it to the band of Wendy’s panties. She caressed Wendy’s naked hip, stroking the palm of her hand over the top of Wendy’s ass from crack to side of hip. Then, gently and slowly, without caring if anybody noticed, guessed, or suspected, Sara began to pull down Wendy’s underwear. A panic-stricken Wendy faced Sara, shaking her head vigorously and mouthing the word “no” over and over again, but she did not resist, and she did not move away. One side of her panties already hung below her hip, at an even level with her groin, and Sara slowly pulled the band on the other side down, until finally, encountering no further resistance of flesh, the garment fell freely to the floor.

“Alas! how poor and little worth

Are all those glittering toys of earth,

Where is the strength that spurned decay,

The step that rolled so light and gay?”

Worship finally ended.

Four deacons, all men of severe countenance, one youngish, appearing to be in late 30s, two middle-aged, and the last older in that indeterminate age between 60 and 75, rose from the front pew and assembled at their respective aisle, the two holding a gold colored collection plate each strode to the outer aisle, the older gent on the girls’ side, and the youngest on the aisle of Sister Hamer and the Back Pew Boys. Each deacon went to the outside pew, delivered the plate to the awaiting flock member, raised an eye at the initial offering, nodded slightly at the additional bill, and gestured for the plate to be passed on. Needless to say, having the quickest exit came with a cost, and no one felt too great a chagrin at seeing the best seat already occupied, when time it came to sit. Let Brother Johnson and his damned family have it. They could afford it. Then the waiting deacon on the other side took the plate, stepped to the next row, and renewed the proceedings.

By the time the old deacon came to Wendy’s pew, his enthusiasm to judge what the flock gave waned. At any rate, he expected little from sinners row (who were always the last in, the first out, the cheapest seat), but he smiled politely at the cute little girl below him, dolled up nicely in pink, and smiled as her friend, evidently a tart by the paint on her face, opened her purse, reached over her friend’s lap, supported herself by placing a hand on the sweet girl’s thigh with a squeeze, and dropped a welcome card and two bills onto the plate. The old deacon grinned appreciatively at the little tart, who licked her open red lips and smiled back with a wink.

Well, I don’t get that every day. Might make hell some comfort, I suppose. I mean if I don’t make it to up yonder, the deacon thought as Sara passed the plate to Lucinda Beebe.

The collection finished, the deacons walked to the front of the chapel and deposited the filled plates somewhere out of sight, but not quite out mind, of the so recently depleted congregation.

Pastor Flair put away his hymnal below the pulpit, retrieving in its place a heavier, black, and zippered Book. Pastor Flair turned the Book over in his hand, traced his fingers slowly over the smooth leather cover of the Book, gently caressing its gold embossed lettering, and carefully, slowly, methodically unzipped the Book, exposing to the eyes of the congregation the bare, white, flimsy pages trimmed with gold.

An anticipatory hush descended upon the flock.

Sara withdrew her hand as both girls settled back on the pew, bare-assed against the oak. Sara collected the sweaters and once again wrapped their laps beneath them. Then, under the cover of the sweater, she placed a hand on Wendy’s thigh, first pulling up her pink dress to touch Wendy’s bare skin. Wendy closed her eyes. Not bothering to squeeze her thighs, she kept her legs slightly parted, neither encouraging nor discouraging Sara’s relentless ministrations. She squirmed in the moisture pooling between her thighs, trickling down to drip on the wood.

Sister Rachel’s mind eased, a little. Well, they certainly are quiet now. I can’t say as I imagine what those two were goofing around so much for. Girls that age ought to know better. Why they’re no better than those boys behind that Hamer. I told her to quit sitting over there, but she said she’d learn ’em. My foot, she’d learn ’em. They’d learn her if she didn’t watch it. Always sticking her nose in someone else’s business. Let’s see where that’d get her. Eyes front and center now. That’s the only way to go.

The congregation approved the man, Pastor Flair. That much was certain. A palpable delight shivered through the flock as they watched his preparations for the sermon. Rigorous but never malicious, he insisted on good conduct and sexual morality. But now a heaviness weighed his heart, oppressing it with a troubled misgiving which rattled his mind and vexed his spirit. Every day on the TV it seemed more and more. Not to mention this new Internet thing. Spreading all that. Besides. The home was a sacred place, and this, this, his wave indicated the larger world outside the walls of Righteous Kingdom, all that, well. They’d find out.

They’d find out. His voice began to rise, his plain-spoken demeanor altered, and the congregation sensed a new word ascending. A new spirit verged towards rising from the pulpit in something close to wrath. Well, not wrath exactly. They didn’t do that at Righteous Kingdom Church of the New Covenant. But a good talking to. Sometimes a heavy hand was called for. Because they’d find out. His voice waxed eloquent, loud, bold, and just short of angry.

It was just so hard to be angry. What was that smell anyway, cinnamon? Ah, but the congregation loved it, loved the way Flair paced up and down, swayed back and forth, marched to and fro, a prowling lion waiting to devour. He flung balled hands to his face, beat against his chest, and jumped three times. The flock loved it. Ate it up. They’d never seen Flair move so much before. Usually such egregiousness met frowns of disapproval, but today. There was just something different about today. They needed to use that air freshener more often is what they needed. But really, ain’t Flair overdoing it a bit? They quickly stifled that thought. No, let the man have his day, go where his spirit led.

Wendy quivered as Sara stroked her wet pussy, her legs now splayed as wide she dared to in church. Sara leaned into Wendy, brushed her blond hair away from her lobe, and touched her red lips against Wendy’s ear.

“Now you touch me too, Wendy,” she breathed huskily. “I want to feel good, too.”

Wendy groaned.

Sister Rachel jerked upright. Even Sister Hamer on the other side peered over her left shoulder, but saw nothing. Why couldn’t that Lucinda Beebe ever keep still? She must be getting on close to 85 now, but she moved about like an eleven year-old tomboy for goodness sakes. What was she doing leaning forward like that? Reading the hymnals? Good lord, woman, worship’s over. And that Matthew. Don’t get her started on that Matthew.

Pastor Flair felt intoxicated. The spirit flowed through him like forked lightning through the night sky, storm clouds glowering. An uplifting exaltation thrilled through his body, words washed over his mind like a pouring rain, a downpour from on high, and he rose in fury, eloquence, and admonishment to his flock. He spoke of the need to repent, cajoled the congregation to declare their trespasses, and with a frenzied look of outraged virtue, called the back-sliding to the altar and the altar’s rail. Such a thing had never been heard before. Not at Righteous Kingdom. But the pastor had faith in the flock, and the flock, responding to that faith, murmured and groaned in approval.

They rose before him, out of the chaos of his utterances, the faces of men, women, young adults, married couples, children all in a great concourse of uplifted countenances, crowded close together in the little chapel. They were attentive faces all, rapt, eager, and faithful. Their eyes bent admiringly upon their minister. They upheld him, straining their ears to miss no cadence of his voice. Flair straightened himself, stretched forth his hand with his fat fingers gracefully disposed and passed it slowly before him from side to side, in a comprehensive, stately gesture. The seated audience seemed to rise at him in a fever of understanding and righteous love.

Wendy’s hand drifted slowly over to Sara’s thigh. Sara grabbed it, raised her green dress above her waist, not caring who saw, moved the strip of her panties aside and pressed Wendy’s hand into the red, engorged and open folds of her boiling, shaven cunt. Wendy felt her heat, her wetness, her readiness to be penetrated. She tipped a tentative finger into Sara’s waiting hole. Sara jerked and thrust her pussy at Wendy’s rubbing hand, holding it tight against her wet groin, visibly lifting her ass off the wooden seat of the pew.

Sister Rachel’s chin lowered.

The congregation moved in a wave. The moment was upon them. Groans and cries arose, and a palpable ferment stirred the throng. The exhortation to sinners to declare themselves, to come to the altar, was not only on Pastor Flair’s lips. It seemed to quiver in the very air, as a sweet smelling spice in a baker’s kitchen, to hang aloft over every exclamation in the clamor of the flock. A young woman, several rows in front of Wendy and Sara, with dazed and startled eyes, rose amidst the body of the church and, hesitating, trembling with a bowed head and blushing cheeks, pressed her way out from the end of a crowded pew and down the aisle to the rail of the altar.

A triumphant ejaculation swelled to the roof as the young woman knelt there, and under its impetus others followed her example. With interspersed snatches of song and shouted encouragements the excitement reached its height only when a dozen or so people, mostly young, tightly clustered upon their knees about the rail. Above the confusion of penitent sobs and moans, the rest of the congregation, viewing kneeling as the business of youth, kept to their seats. Also the Back Pew Boys. They didn’t budge. No reason to. Who could con the almighty?

Sara fondled, kneaded, and caressed Wendy mound, plunging one finger, two fingers, three fingers into her trembling and gyrating pussy, awed by the flow of heat and secretion. Wendy thrust her hips against Sara’s hand, and Sara, delighted and breathless, fucked Wendy’s fingers in her turn as she clamped Wendy’s wrist against the inside of her squeezing thighs.

Pastor Flair’s joy knew no limit. He glanced over the faces of his flock, beheld the rapturous ecstasy, and felt his heart overflow with happiness, the righteous happiness of the redeemed. They had heard him, he thought, they had felt the truth of his warnings, and they had repented. He saw the young people rise to step forward, he saw the old and the no longer young lift their voices in approval, he looked to the back pews, and saw how even those terrible, terrible boys sat still, daring not to move. He glanced over to the Beebes and saw Lucinda bowed and Matthew’s eyes closed in devotion, his face pointing heavenward, leaning his head against the tall back of the pew. Beside them, two young girls, one blonde, one auburn, glowed in the joy of receiving the word, their faces trembled, and perspiration coated their faces, a little too made-up for his liking, sure, but he couldn’t hold that against them. Not now, not during this uplifting moment. He saw the two girls, evidently seized by the spirit, give out a great cry of longing as they suddenly bent forward, almost lurching, to bow their heads below the level of Sister Rachel’s damned hat so that he could no longer witness the fervent devotion of their prayers.

Even Sara had not expected the power of that last orgasm. She felt weak, extinguished, exhausted, and exhilarated. She knew only that her trembling knees kept her from slipping to the floor in a collapsed heap of satisfied flesh. Wendy still gripped Sara’s hand between her thighs in a vice that almost hurt. A wet pool formed around her hand, and Sara pried her arm from the grip of Wendy’s thighs. Beside her, the blonde rocked and jittered, and a strange weeping noise rose from the hollows of her bosom. Wendy wept. And Sara, to her utter astonishment, felt tears running down her own cheeks as she pointed her face to the floor, struggling to catch her breath. This is happiness, she thought. This is finally happiness.

Rachel broke.

She had not meant to. Jerking automatically at the sound of the cry behind her, she turned before she could stop herself, and stared enthralled at the two young ladies behind her with heads bowed, shaking and weeping in the spirit. Ashamed at her own thoughts of a moment before, and turning back to face the front, the severe woman in the large cap muttered to herself.

“That’ll learn you, Rachel Lynde, if nothing else does, not to judge what goes on behind your back. Those sweet little things have got more faith and sense of the word than you’ll ever have. You’ve got no business looking back there, not with your judgmental mind, and you know it. Eyes front and center now.”
* * *

Lucinda Beebe jabbed Matthew awake. The two girls had by this time exited the pew from the other side. Now why didn’t they come in that way, Matthew thought, instead of traipsing all over their poor toes? He slowly stretched his stiff limbs to a standing position and watched as Lucinda seesawed towards the end of the pew. She bent over and pocketed something into her dark overcoat. Matthew caught a flash of pink fabric but couldn’t even hazard a guess as to what that fool woman was pottering about for. Good lord! Did one of those girls have an accident on the bench? Well, I never. Straightening up, Lucinda turned towards Matthew, hooked his arm in hers, and leaned her head against his shoulder as they slowly sauntered out into the daylight to Matthew’s battered pick-up.