The Preacher’s Wife Watched Me Every Sunday

The first time I caught her looking at me was during a hymn. I was standing in the fourth row, the songbook open without much conviction, and when I turned my head I discovered that Mariana —the preacher’s wife— had her eyes fixed on me from the other end of the hall. The moment our eyes met, she looked down, embarrassed, like a little girl caught with her hand in the sugar jar.

It wasn’t a coincidence. I confirmed it the following Sunday, and the one after that, and the one after that. Every time the preacher raised his voice and the congregation bowed their heads, I could feel the weight of her attention on the back of my neck. And I liked it.

Mariana had to be in her mid-forties. She was average height, generously built without being fat, very fair-skinned, with long straight black hair that fell to her shoulders. She had restless green eyes and a wide mouth with full lips that almost always wore a smile. She dressed in long, modest skirts, but no fabric in the world could hide the shape of her hips when she walked down the aisle toward the exit. I followed her with my eyes until she disappeared through the door.

I like older women. I always have. There’s something about the calm of a woman who already knows who she is, the way they inhabit their own bodies, that undoes me. And Mariana, with that blend of sweetness and repression, had become the star of every night I spent alone in my bed.

It took me three months to gather the courage. I knew, because she had mentioned it herself once over coffee after the service, that she spent Sundays alone: her husband stayed in the temple until late at night, organizing, praying, receiving the stragglers. So that Sunday, as soon as the sermon ended, I went up to her before she could leave.

—Mariana, could I walk you home? I need to talk to someone and I don’t know who else to turn to.

She looked at me a second too long before nodding. We walked the four blocks between the temple and her house in silence, our arms brushing by accident, or on purpose.

***

Her living room smelled of polished wood and dried flowers. She offered me a glass of water and sat down beside me on the sofa, hands in her lap, wearing that expression of someone ready to listen to all the world’s troubles.

—Tell me, what’s worrying you?

I lowered my head. I didn’t have to fake the nerves too much; I really was nervous.

—I’m so embarrassed to tell you. I’m afraid you’ll think badly of me after you hear me out.

Mariana took my hands in hers. They were small, warm, with short, well-kept nails.

—You can speak freely. I won’t judge you.

I looked up and, without letting go of her hand, slid my other one until it rested on her thigh, over her skirt. I felt her tense.

—Is it a sin to desire another woman? —I asked softly.

The green in her eyes wavered. Color rushed into her cheeks and she took a while to answer.

—No… it isn’t a sin to desire. It’s natural —she said, and her voice came out rougher than she expected—. Are you attracted to some girl?

—To a woman —I corrected, pressing my palm a little more against her thigh—. I think about her all the time. And I touch myself thinking about her.

I noticed her breathing change. She didn’t pull my hand away.

—And who is she? —she murmured.

—She’s someone from the congregation. She’s married. I don’t think she wants anything with me… though sometimes I catch her looking at me during the service.

The silence that followed was long. Mariana sat very still, her chest rising and falling quickly, and I knew she understood. I knew it by the way her fingers involuntarily closed around mine.

—Do you like me? —I blurted, without taking my eyes off hers.

—I don’t know what you mean —she replied, but the lie trembled on her lips.

—I know you watch me every Sunday. I know you look for me in the crowd. I want to hear you say you like me.

She swallowed. Never, in all those months of stolen glances, had she imagined that the young woman she was secretly spying on would be capable of confronting her like this, in her own living room, with a hand on her thigh.

—You seem… beautiful to me —she confessed at last, almost in a whisper—. I enjoy looking at you. That’s all. I don’t think about anything else.

Lie, I thought. And a sweet one.

I slid my hand up a couple of inches, taking the fabric of her skirt with me, and leaned in until my mouth was a breath away from hers.

—I do think about much more —I said, and kissed her.

***

It was a slow kiss at first, almost a question. Mariana went rigid for an instant and then yielded, parting her lips and kissing me back with a hunger she had kept locked away for years. I took the opportunity to slip my hand under her skirt and trace the inner curve of her thigh. Her skin was burning. When my fingers brushed the edge of her panties, she parted her legs just enough, as if her body had decided for her.

—Does your husband make you come? —I asked against her neck.

—He hasn’t touched me in years —she admitted, and there was an old sadness in that phrase—. I suppose I just don’t seem attractive to him anymore.

That confession lit me up. The fact that a man had this woman in his bed every night and didn’t know what to do with her seemed to me an unforgivable waste. I had spent months aching to touch her.

I kissed her again, deeper this time, while my fingers slipped beneath the fabric and found her wet, far wetter than she herself must have suspected. Mariana moaned against my mouth and clutched my shoulder.

I unbuttoned her blouse one button at a time, unhurried, enjoying the way her chest fluttered. I slid her bra straps down and uncovered delicate pink nipples already hard. I lowered my head and took one into my mouth. She threw her head back and let out a sound she hadn’t made in a very long time.

—I don’t know what to do —she whispered, almost apologetic—. I’ve never been with a woman. I wouldn’t know…

—You don’t have to do anything —I told her, lifting my eyes to hers—. Just let yourself go. I’ll take care of the rest.

And in that moment I understood that Mariana needed exactly that: for someone to decide for her. All her life she had been the obedient wife, the woman who made do with scraps. That afternoon she wanted to give herself over, stop thinking, obey. And I was more than willing to guide her.

***

I stripped her completely right there on the sofa and admired her naked in the golden afternoon light coming through the curtains. She was even more beautiful than my fantasies had drawn her: wide hips, soft stomach, full thighs. I wrapped my arms around her and squeezed her ass, pulling her toward me.

—Take me to your bedroom —I asked her.

She obeyed without a word. She took my hand and led me down a hallway to a simple bedroom, with a double bed covered by a woven bedspread. I sat her on the edge, spread her legs, and knelt on the floor.

Before touching her with my mouth, I looked up at her. Mariana watched me with a mix of fear and desire, cheeks flushed, lips parted. Then I tilted my head and licked my way through her, slowly, from bottom to top.

The scream she let out almost made me smile. She grabbed the sheets with both hands and arched her back. I wasn’t in any hurry: I wanted her to feel every single thing her husband had never bothered to give her. I played with my tongue, drew circles, alternated pressure, and when I felt her on the edge, I slid two fingers inside her. She was soaked and so tense she took only a few seconds to shake all over. She came with a long moan that ended in a sob, and stayed trembling, breathless.

—Has this ever happened to you? —I asked, climbing onto the bed beside her.

—Never —she gasped—. Never like this. I thought… I thought I was the problem. That I wasn’t good for this.

—You were never the problem —I told her, and kissed her so she could taste herself on my lips.

***

I didn’t let her rest for long. I made her raise her knees, spread her legs again, and plunged my tongue back into her, searching other corners now, licking her everywhere while I entered her with curved fingers, pressing forward until I found the spot that made her twist. Mariana clung to my head, shameless now, pushing her body against my mouth, begging for more in broken breaths.

—Like that —she moaned—, don’t stop, please, don’t stop…

The preacher’s modest wife, the one who lowered her gaze during hymns, had become another woman between those sheets. And seeing her like that, untethered, enjoying herself without guilt, was the greatest pleasure for me. She came a second time, harder than the first, driving her heels into my back.

When she finally calmed down, she pulled me toward her and, with clumsy, charming shyness, tried to give me back what I had given her. She didn’t do it well, not at first, but I guided her patiently: I showed her where to put her tongue, how to use her fingers, what rhythm to follow. She learned quickly, and the idea of initiating her, of being the first and the best, took me to the brink in no time. I came over her mouth with a tremor that ran from the top of my head to the soles of my feet.

We stayed wrapped in each other for a good while, naked on the woven bedspread, listening to the hallway clock and the distant sounds of the street. The afternoon dimmed slowly behind the curtains.

—He’ll be back in a few hours —she murmured, her head resting on my chest.

—I know —I replied, stroking her hair—. That’s why we’re going to make the most of every Sunday he’s away.

Mariana lifted her face and looked at me. There was no shame left in her green eyes, only a new promise.

—Every Sunday —she repeated, and kissed me again.