by Velvet Moore
(06/06/07)

I remember now how the colors flowed together along the floorboards as they shone through of the stained glass windows in that old church. When I was five years old, I rode with my mother each Thursday to St. Matthews Cathedral, a humble Catholic church that rests fifteen minutes south of my hometown.

As we passed through the doors of this spiritual sanctuary, I would put my hand out in an attempt to catch the colors and watch whimsically as they floated across the fair skin of my small hand.

From the colorful corridor, we entered a dim room where five small tables hugged the walls. Twenty candles sat upon each table, casting an eerie glow upon the stone faces of the saints and apostles.

Upon entering, I would crawl underneath the table that sat closest to the door and sit shrouded by the gold, linen tablecloth. I liked the way the light from the candles bounced along the cloth's creases and how from this viewpoint, the world was cloaked in fine fabric. I liked how I could feel removed, yet still aware of all things around me, how I could watch the silhouettes of my mother and him from behind my shroud.

He always arrived on time, just minutes after I took my place under the table. I imagined he lived there, slept on the pews and played the organ at night. I was too young to know that in this place of heavenly worship, he and my mother performed acts that were devilishly forbidden.

He always found my mother at the same place, bracing herself against the table near the back of the room, her back to the door, her head down as though attempting to warm her face by the embers. Pace by pace, he slowly closed the space between them. She did not turn or verbally greet him, but the ease of her shoulders as he approached spoke a silent welcome.

His large palm would slowly slip around her hip, down and underneath the skirt that my mother conveniently wore on Thursdays. I watched as the muscles across his broad shoulders and in his back tensed under his T-shirt. My mother's quiet moans filled the air. I watched intently as the flames upon their table flickered with the increasing movement and, finally, as my mother's head rolled back to rest upon his chest.

After pausing for just a moment, he would remove his hand from beneath her skirt and he would delicately sweep her hair to the side to place a kiss upon the back of her neck. The muddy soles of his boots passed by my table's curtain as he exited the room.

My mother would remain braced against the table with her head hanging down for several moments after he left. She would then square her shoulders and take in a deep breath and call me out from underneath the table. Before leaving, she helped me light a candle, then light one for herself. On our way home, I sat in the passenger seat and hungrily licked the ice cream cone that served as my reward for sitting quietly beneath the flickering heat.

Many years later I learned that my mother's affair with my father's best friend had lasted for three years and that no one else knew about their church meetings. Even I was able to dismiss it and scatter it to the wind, drowning out the images with crafty cartoon characters and sugar-coated cereals. Interesting how a moment that so clearly defines another's past can remain but a figment in your own. That is, until it shifts from past to present. Until now.

Now I stand silently in the darkness of the living room, waiting while he lights the candles that fill the space. My skin flushes with the warmth of the candle upon the side table next to me; my head swims with a night of red wine.

He approaches me from behind and I begin to turn, eager to wrap my arms around his neck and lean in for a kiss. But he grabs me by the upper arms to stay my movement. He smoothes my long hair off my shoulders, trailing his fingertips along the skin there. As he leans in, his breath is warm and his words tickle along my collarbone.

"Keep still," he says.

From behind he takes my chin in his hand, turns my head and directs me to stare at the wall in front of me. I tense nervously, feeling like a reprimanded schoolgirl.

"Do not take your eyes off of this wall," he commands. "Watch only our shadows. I want you to watch as I fuck you by candlelight."

My stomach dips low at the thought of him fucking me, pushing his hard dick inside me, making me beg for more. Then confusion swiftly washes over me. How can I possibly watch him do anything if I'm not allowed to look at him?

Then I look again. And I see myself, the shadow of my body cast upon the wall in front of us. I see my strong, rounded shoulders, the dip of my waist that balloons to the curve of my hips, my long legs, slightly parted.

And I see him. Tall and broad-shouldered, standing behind me and moved slightly to my left so that his shadow appears next to mine. Even from this viewpoint I find him manly, dominant and utterly mouthwatering.

He moves to stand directly behind me and I watch as his hands come to caress my shoulders and slide down the length of my arms.

And then it happens.

One simple command, one simple touch is all it takes, all that is needed to rouse the memory from the depths of my sleeping subconscious. Once again I feel removed, yet still aware of all things around me, and once again I watch silhouettes move in the flickering light.

My mind struggles to connect what I am seeing to what I am feeling. I am separated from the shadows on the wall and watch them as though they are someone, something else. All the while, I feel each tickling caress, each rough and commanding grasp. My mind is thrown off balance as it tries to comprehend that the touch and the shadow play are one.

He moves to the side again and our shadows disengage. I see his elbows jut out as his hands sit at his waist. Then his arms move slightly and I hear the clicking teeth of a zipper. His shadow bends at the waist.

I am grateful for the noise. It gives me a clue, a point of reference. From the shadow, I can't decipher details such as clothing; hearing his zipper helps me piece things together. The simple clicking of that zipper serves to make me wet with anticipation.

He turns to the side and the shadow reveals what my senses had assumed. I see a strong, long extension of his shadow at waist level. Void of any real detail, my active mind works to fill in the blanks and I shiver as I envision the veins, the moist swollen tip. He turns again to face me and the ambiguous shadow returns.

Just knowing he is standing behind me with his hard cock out makes me want to turn around and taste him. I want to slide his cock in my mouth and lick the cone of my reward for obeying so properly.

"Strip," he says.

My sight drifts from the shadow of his hips and I am brought back to the shadow that is my body. I fumble with the front buttress of my dress, feeling for the give with my fingers, watching the shift of my arms and shoulders cast upon the wall. I continue to remove the clothes as I watch the shadow perched behind mine. His image is still, hands steady on his hips as I obey his command.

Is he watching my body from behind? Is he watching as my creamy skin peeks out from beneath my pants and as my naked form is revealed? Or is he watching only my shadow as he has commanded me to do? Watching as I watch him, filling in the blanks and relying on sounds for reference?

I remove my bra and dangle it off my finger for effect. I swivel slightly but never enough to face him. I watch as the silhouettes of my breasts appear on the wall, my nipples barely detectable among the shadow, but perking just enough to reveal my nudity.

The shadow speaks. "Touch yourself."

I focus again on the wall as my hand slides up my outer thigh, down the curve of my waist and my fingers find my warm, wet pussy. I begin to stroke. My shadow play is nondescript and I see my arm moving slowly back and forth, my elbow pointed, my arm moving as though strumming a cello. Sounds reveal slippery evidence of my hand's southern activity.

The shadow behind mine comes to life. A sideways shift again reveals his lengthening and a shadowy hand moves to grip it, stroking and pulling back and forth. His shadowed movements spur me on and I watch as my shadowed elbow juts out and increases speed.

The room fills with our sounds: a deep moan, labored breathing, wetness and friction. My sex starts to tingle and I revel in the pleasing burn as it begins its travel along the nerves of my body.

I see him move toward me before I feel him, the shadow on the wall working one step ahead. His hands slink around my waist and he jerks my hips back toward him. His strong fingers wrap around my wrist to stop the movement of my hand. I watch the wall as his arm pushes my upper body downward and my shadow bends at the waist; my rounded rear displays proudly on the wall.

He pauses and I enjoy the way we are joined in the shadow although we are not joined by the flesh. My shadow projects forward as though an extension of him and he looks a Trojan upon his chariot, prepared to ride. I am blind to his intentions. It is unnerving and exhilarating.

I whimper suddenly as he slowly begins to penetrate me from behind. His strong, thick shaft sears my soaking cunt and I feel as though I'm drowning in liquid pleasure.

The shadowman lifts a hand to rub my back, using the other to grasp my hip and to help guide him as he pumps in and out of me. It feels so damn good as he pumps roughly inside my slippery, constricting warmth. I press back into him, as best I can from this angle, my body urging him to go deeper, faster, harder. He grunts deeply with each thrust, he grips my hair in his fist and gently yanks my head back.

My hands grab my thighs to help keep my balance and I close my eyes as I am overcome, the fire licking up my belly rivaling the wick behind me. It's not long before the wave of orgasm lashes against me and my body quivers as I sputter my release.

He pulls my hips sharply toward him and I feel him shoot his warm cum inside me.

We stay positioned moments longer, willing our breathing and our bodies to calm. He slowly disengages his body from mine and lightly cups my shoulders to help me stand upright. I allow my head to roll back and I exhale.

I lean back against his chest, my eyes closed, and enjoy his embrace. It's not long until he brushes his hands up and down my arms and rouses me from my silence.

I turn to see his face and for a second, I am confused. In that moment I am surprised to see my husband's face and not that of the man with tattered, muddy boots. Instead of caressing his cheek as I usually do post-lovemaking, I splay my fingers across his chest. I don't look him in the eyes.

His brows bunch slightly with confusion and sensing my hesitancy he asks, "Some water?"

I smile, still looking down, and shake my head yes. He exits.

Feeling slightly lightheaded, I sit on the edge of the table and watch the light bounce off the edges of the living room as I attempt to evaluate my many feelings. It's odd. You would think I might feel like my mother, escaping in darkness and being commanded by the man I love, but I don't feel like my mother at all. In fact, I feel more like myself than I ever have my entire life. It's like finding something that you didn't know was missing. Like coming upon a note from an old friend or lover, hidden in a drawer that you had forgotten about until just that moment. Then all of those old memories and feelings come flooding back to you like a brisk breeze through a window and you can't remember how you ever forgot about it in the first place.

Returning with my water, my husband flips on the overhead lights and as quickly as it overtook me, my calm completeness slips away along with the flaming shadows in the room. I watch with an unexpected sense of melancholy as he extinguishes the candle, and with it, my church-born desire.

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