The Damsel in the Congregation: Part 1.
James's heart was dry, but Rosalie's eyes flooded his soul.
Based on a post by KikiKisses. Listen to the ►Podcast at Explicit Novels.
It is Well with My Soul.
She looked like a poem. That's the only way James could think to describe her.
In that moment, as she stood in front of the church, the wind blowing gold and rust colored leaves around her, her dark ponytail swinging softly, her arms crossed over her chest, clasping as though she was facing not only the gusty air but an invisible army, her full maroon skirt pulled tight against her and billowing behind her like a cape. Her cheeks were flushed, her lips red, and she glanced over at him.
He already knew exactly what her eyes would look like. Enormous, brown, fringed with dark lashes and an even darker sadness gazing out. Even when her face lit up with a smile, and her laugh rang out like silver bells, the sadness spilled out and flowed invisibly, somehow pouring straight into his veins, where it would run hot through his body and pool in his heart, causing it to ache and overflow as her unspoken grief mingled with his own.
He didn't know what she had to be sad about. No one really did. She appeared a year ago, taking a job as a Dictaphone typist for people who could not afford to hire their own. Doctors, lawyers, businessmen of all kinds would drop off their tapes and she would listen to them, typing up their notes, and they would come pick them up.
It was a job that required the strictest code of conduct, for she was the keeper of everyone's secrets. She was quiet, professional, sober, and as far as anyone could tell, very alone. She was the sole employee, and her boss was a small, gray man who was indifferent to the startling splash of beauty she imposed on the musty office and indeed, the whole town.
She attended church regularly, which is how James met her. She sat in the middle of the pews, by herself, singing so quietly she might have only been moving her mouth. She smiled when it came time to greet one another, and there was truth in her face. Every Sunday she made a point to walk up to the organ and shake his hand during the passing of the peace. No one else ever did that.
He would pause his playing and look up and there they were. Those gigantic brown eyes running over with a deep sorrow. The first time she did it he almost fell off the bench. He eventually learned to steel himself so when the river began to rush, drowning out everything but his own heartbeat, he was able to cling to the organ like a piece of flotsam, lest he drown. Her hand was small and soft, but her eyes;
The single young adults in the church would often socialize informally outside of services or choir practice, and she was immediately invited to outings for milkshakes and mini-golf. She accepted their invitations with restrained enthusiasm, and was welcomed in immediately. She was rarely not in attendance to these activities, and grew friendly with the girls. But she was not one to join in the joking and teasing, but sat off to the side smiling. She never went out with any of the guys, even though she was asked. She was well-liked, but remained a bit of an enigma.
"Rosalie." James whispered to himself as she turned her eyes towards him, and he felt her eyes propelling a current straight into his. She held her gaze longer than normal, and his heart pulsed sideways. Suddenly he came to his senses and offered her his jacket, tucking it around her shoulders as she thanked him. "Where is your coat?" She walked a mile to get to church, and it was such a blustery day.
"It was warmer this morning. I wasn't expecting this wind," she replied.
James didn't drive either. It was hardly a necessity in this town. "Why don't I walk you home? My house is so close to the church, I could go get another jacket, and then I can take this one with me." It was hardly a ploy for him to be alone with her. He had no designs on her, because he had decided long before he ever met her that he would be eternally alone, and there would be no point in pursuing a relationship with anyone.
It brought him a sense of freedom. He didn't have to force himself into small talk, or find the courage to ask a girl out. He got to keep his meager salary as the church music director and spend it on himself. He enjoyed quiet evenings reading and playing the piano. There weren't any men in the town he could see being a true pal, and so he refused all invitations to play cards or darts, and eventually they stopped asking. He assumed they were only being polite anyway.
They walked quietly, the crunching leaves and whistling wind were pleasant and kept the silence from feeling oppressive. They stopped at his house and he reached inside the door, grabbing his heavier coat and offering it to Rosalie. She was petite, and it swallowed her up. "Is it too heavy?" he asked. The weight of the wool pushed on her shoulders and her modest heels sunk into the mud. "I'm afraid so," and Rosalie blushed as they switched jackets again.
When they reached the converted Victorian house where she rented an apartment from Mrs. McGregor, she paused at the door. He had come up on the porch just to make sure her key worked, and he turned to leave. "James, would you like a cup of tea to warm you before you walk home?" James felt confused. He had never accepted an invitation the entire five years he had lived here. She had been here an entire year and had never seemed to catch on to this fact.
Every time the young people discussed their plans for the week in the pews after church or choir practice, Rosalie would call out to him as he packed up his music and straightened the organ bench. "James, the rest of us are going to the movies on Tuesday. Would you like to join us?" They all laughed and told her he would never say yes, but it didn't stop her from asking. It was the only time her voice carried. He would lift up his head and give a smile that did not reach the corners of his mouth and give a quick shake of his head, walking back to the church office to file his sheet music, and then out the door.
On this day, he was surprised to see Rosalie standing there alone. But she often did things that the others thought queer. The young people were all straggling towards the parking lot or walking home, but she was facing the wind, looking into the distance at; something. And then she turned to him, and she was not looking past him, or towards him, but into him. And perhaps that's why he accepted an invitation for the first time ever, and stepped inside her cozy little apartment.
Rosalie went to the kitchen, and James looked around at the cheerful flat. She had lots of books, a radio, a record player. The walls were adorned with framed embroidery samples, crewelwork, and small paintings of flowers. She had a couple of houseplants, one winding its way up the tall window, and a scattering of afghans and throw pillows. It was colorful, and there was a sweetness to it. He stood uncomfortably, and caught a glimpse of his face in the mirror above the fireplace.
"Average," he thought. Maybe even homely. He was a timid young man, 27, with unremarkable brown hair, eyes that couldn't decide what color they wanted to be, and a bit of a weak chin. He wore glasses. There wasn't anything precisely right or wrong about him. He just was. Not tall, not short. Not thin, or fat. He was neither something, or nothing. He existed. He did wear glasses, which gave him a curious look, but that was an adornment. He favored simple clothes in drab colors so he didn't have to think about what to wear, he could grab any shirt, any trousers, any tie and it would be perfectly fine.
The tea kettle whistle snapped him out of his dull reverie. He realized he was still wearing his coat, and hung it up on a hall tree, over the jacket he had lent her. A fluffy black cat was twirling its tail around his leg, and he bent down to give it a pat. "Do you have pets?" Rosalie asked as she poked her head out of the kitchen. "No," he replied with no further explanation.
"Do you take sugar? Cream?" He came into the kitchen to pour a little dab of cream. It was a very small galley kitchen, and she was very close to him. He caught a whiff of flowers as she turned to put some butter cookies on a tray. He carried both cups of tea and set them on her coffee table, and the black cat jumped up to examine it.
"Now, now, Mr. Rochester, you know better," she scolded softly as she scooped the cat up and buried her face in his fur before setting him back down on the floor. James suddenly felt uneasy; he would very much like to be that cat. He didn't know what to do with feelings like that. They weren't even thoughts. They weren't in his head, his brain. They seemed to originate in his heart and flow downward.
"Please sit," she said, and he realized he was just standing there, like a dimwit. He wasn't going to drink his tea standing, after all. They sipped quietly for a few minutes, then Rosalie asked him how long he had lived here in town.
"Five years."
"Where are you from?"
"Oh, you've never heard of it." He paused, and she gave him a look that indicated that she still wanted to know. He told her the name of a town even smaller than this one, and she smiled. "You are right. I've never heard of it." He asked her where she was from, out of politeness, and she told him. It was a larger city than this one, and he wondered why she would want to leave it. But he didn't ask.
"So, what brought you here?" she asked.
"I finished college and took the first job I could get. It's not easy to find a job with a music degree. I didn't have any grand ambition. So this was as good as any."
He found himself distracted by her eyes, once again.
"Do you like it?"
"Hmm?"
"Your job. The town. Life in general?" She smiled, almost teasingly.
"Well yes. It's a perfectly agreeable place. And the job is fine. I have no desire to be rich, and I like playing the piano and organ. And I'm capable of leading a choir, so it's no skin off my nose."
"What about outside of work?"
Rosalie was polite, and knew how to carry on a conversation. It wasn't that it was difficult, but James was out of practice. He had purposely curated a dull life so he would never be disappointed, but it also left him with little to say.
"I; I practice the piano and organ, so I don't lose my chops, I guess. Playing the same hymns over and over doesn't exercise the same muscles as classical or jazz. So I try to play around from time to time to keep limber, I guess."
"I have heard you play. I walk by your house on my way to work, and sometimes I stop for a few minutes and listen," Rosalie smiled at him shyly. "I've heard you play Beethoven, Mozart, Debussy;"
"Oh yes, well, Beethoven and Debussy are especially good for the piano. And Mozart is good in general, just for keeping your brain sharp."
"I don't doubt it. But I felt something when you played." Her sad, brown eyes looked off to the side, as though she was suddenly shy. "It wasn't just someone trying to stay in practice." She turned and looked at him, pouring herself into him. James swallowed hard.
"What do you mean?"
"Don't you feel something when you play those pieces? Especially Clair de Lune? Or the Moonlight Sonata?"
"I mean, they are very pretty."
"More than pretty. They are beautiful, and sad, and full of longing, don't you think?"
"I suppose that might have been the composer's intention."
"What about your intentions, James?" Rosalie's sad brown eyes seemed larger than ever. He didn't understand why his heart felt swollen, and how it had crawled up into his throat, perhaps to escape drowning in her essence that was threatening to overflow inside him, flooding his entire body. Those eyes! What was she doing?
"I don't understand what you mean."
Rosalie looked as though she might cry, and stood to look out the large window that went almost from floor to ceiling.
"We are the same, are we not?" She turned to him. "I can feel it when you play. You are full of something James, and you don't want anyone to know. But it leaks out of you when you touch the keys, the way steam creeps out of the tea kettle right before it screams."
James's temples began to perspire. It was suddenly oppressively hot in her warm little flat. He stood up and began bumbling towards the hall tree for his coat. "I; I must go. Thank you for the tea."
"Wait, James;"
"Goodbye, Rosalie." He turned as he shut the door, to see her staring at him with her huge brown eyes which were now brimming with tears that threatened to overflow and streak down her face.
Rosalie continued to come to church, and James ignored her. Which wasn't terribly different from how he treated her normally. But he stopped acknowledging her with a nod. She no longer greeted him during the passing of the peace. She stopped asking him to join them for bowling, and he noticed one of the young men, Ricky, had started paying her special attention, touching her waist, and putting his arm around her.
If James had looked at Rosalie, he would have seen the discomfort in her face, and how her sad eyes were even sadder than before, but all he saw was Ricky's crinkled eyes and wide smile as he laughed and teased her. His heart felt squeezed, all the juice had run out of him and he was nothing but dehydrated pulp clinging to a hardened rind at the bottom of a bin. She avoided looking into his eyes, and his soul was parched. He didn't realize how much she had filled him up before. It was a kind of communion, he realized it now. But it was too late.
One Saturday he was preparing for the Christmas service when he heard the door to the sanctuary creak. Rosalie entered, wearing a bright green coat with a brown fur collar, her hair down around her shoulders. She was always adorned with a bright spot of color somewhere. She was carrying two grocery bags that seemed to be weighing her down. James left the organ bench and went to her, taking one of the bags.
"These are for the canned food drive. Do you know where we are supposed to drop them off?"
"I'll take them for you, we have some collection bins in the back room."
"Would you help me carry them now?"
The idea of being in the back room with Rosalie made his heart lurch, and he shook his head.
"I really need to get back to working on the Christmas service. If you leave them here, I will make sure they go where they belong."
"You are working on carols? Can I see?" Without waiting for an answer Rosalie set down her bag and shrugged off her coat, leaving it on the back pew. She took off her hat and walked to the organ, snatching up the sheet music. She smiled. "These are wonderful choices. O Holy Night is especially beautiful. Will the choir be singing it?"
He took it out of her hands. "No, I'll just be playing it during the Nativity tableau. No one in this church has the correct range." He turned back to the organ and started straightening the papers.
"James." He could feel her standing behind him. If he turned and looked into her eyes he'd drown. Her eyes;
She put her hand on his shoulder. "James." He slowly turned around, and there she was. She was a slip of a thing, but he wasn't very tall either. She looked up at him, her eyes flooding, and he could feel her tears gushing like a pipeline straight into his heart. He couldn't breathe, he couldn't think. She lifted her face up and he looked at the ceiling as she tried in vain to reach his lips. She stood on her tiptoes, and he stepped back, right against the organ, his ass hitting the keys, and it groaned in reply.
Her feet faltered and she fell towards him, her face landing against his chest, and he caught her around the waist. "James," she whispered. "Why?"
"Why, what?"
"I can feel it when you play. And when I look at you, the music flows right into my soul. Don't you understand?"
He shook his head, his face contorting with unrealized pain. "No."
Her lip trembled, and her eyes screwed shut. "I don't believe you." She opened them, and saw him, staring at her, his face was bewildered but his eyes were not. His soul flowed into hers just as hers flowed into his, and she knew it, and he knew it. But he just stood there. She realized she was still resting against him, and pushed away, standing up straight.
"Do you like girls?" It was an accusation.
"I don't like anybody."
Her face softened. "Why? Do you want to?"
He looked away. "I never; I;"
"You never what? Never thought you could?"
"I never thought; anyone would like me."
Rosalie was still blinking back tears when she began to laugh, and shake her head.
"James. You know where I live. If you ever decide you are worthy of joining the rest of humanity, come knock on my door."
James just stared as she put her coat on and left.
He sat back down on the piano bench. He was shaking. He needed to eat something. He left the church and wandered back to his little rented house. His stomach was sick. He tore through the cabinets, sitting down with a tin of saltine crackers and a bottle of ginger ale. What was going on?
Rosalie. Why Rosalie? Why couldn't some mousy little gal like Mary Lou like him? Women and girls had always ignored him, and in turn he ignored himself. He thought of his erections the same way he thought about using the toilet. Basic, biological, and nothing to concern himself with as long as nothing hurt. He didn't touch himself, and once in a while he had a dream that tore through him and woke him, sticky and hyperventilating.
He tried to never think about them, but he had to admit the truth. This last year, Rosalie had featured heavily in them. It was never anything explicit, he really didn't even know what a naked woman looked like. His exposure to nudie magazines was short and uncomfortable, the images seen so briefly he could barely put them together in his head. When Rosalie appeared in his subconscious it was fleeting glimpses of bare skin, impossible to identify. The only constant was her big, sad eyes, growing larger and larger and looming more closely to his face until he exploded.
What was a man like him supposed to do with a girl like Rosalie? How was he supposed to; match with her? Why did she think they did? Was there something wrong with her?
He was sweating. He took his temperature. It was 99 degrees. What did she want him to do? Kiss her? Make love to her? He could probably figure out the kissing part, but how the hell was he supposed to make love to her? He knew you put tab A into slot B, but that couldn't be all there was. He was suddenly extremely aware of his erection, and for the first time he truly acknowledged to himself that yes, he wanted to use it. He went to take a shower, starting out with hot water and then blasting himself with cold. It would work for a short time, but he had a feeling this one wasn't just going to go away.
He wished he'd prepared himself a little more. Maybe he should have studied those magazines instead of just walking off, feeling sick. Maybe he should have stuck around for the locker room talk. But they always made girls sound like a robot. Like you could turn a key and push a few buttons and she'd do what you wanted. It didn't feel good to him. It was easier to turn himself all the way off then try and figure out what turned him on. But now he knew for certain. It wasn't boys. It wasn't girls. It was Rosalie.
James got dressed, cursing his bland wardrobe. He didn't even own a tie with a spot of color. Maybe his eyes would decide to be blue today. He looked in the mirror, feeling helpless. His hair was lank, his face might as well have been a thumb. His glasses were, well; glasses.
But she liked him. She liked HIM. It was ridiculous. He grabbed his coat and walked out the door.
James banged on her door with purpose, like he was a bill collector or a neighbor coming to complain that her tree was dropping walnuts into his yard. Rosalie opened the door and her big, sad brown eyes lit up and filled with tears at the same time. How did she do that? How did she store so much emotion in just her eyes, and how did she use them to drench his soul?
"James; come in!"
If this was a Hollywood movie he would have grabbed her and kissed her, bending her backwards until it faded to black. And then they'd do; whatever happens after that. But he was James, not Cary Grant. So he stood there, just looking at her.
"So, have you decided?"
"I haven't decided anything. I don't know anything. All I know is that if a girl like you likes a guy like me she might be crazy, but I might be crazy if I don't do anything about it."
It was the most he had ever said to her, or maybe anyone. Not just in the amount of words, but in the expression of his feelings.
He moved closer to her, and she stood there, daring him to try. He bent down and put his hands on each side of her face, and gave her a little peck on the lips. He pulled back and looked into those big brown eyes that were suddenly not nearly as sad as he remembered. He pushed his lips against hers again, and she tilted her face, and they were kissing. It was strange, but he put his arms around her and began to enjoy it, and listening to her little gasps he thought he might even be kind of good at it. Something besides the piano and organ!
She pulled back, gasping, loosened his necktie, and unbuttoned the top buttons of his shirt. He realized he was still wearing his coat and shrugged it off his shoulders. She started pulling him through the living room, to a door off to the right where, in the dark, he spied a bed.
"Uh; Rosalie?"
He sat on the couch and gently tugged her hand so she sat down with him. She decided to let him take the lead, and he went back to holding her and kissing her, opening his mouth and letting his tongue slip against hers. He thought this was something people do, maybe? She liked it, and he really liked it too. Little pleasure sounds escaped from corners of their mouths as their kisses grew deeper. He pushed her against the side of the couch and she laid down on the wide, flat arm, her head on a throw pillow, and she pulled him down on top of her.
He alternated between her neck and her lips, unbuttoning the top of her blouse and covering all of her exposed skin with kisses, trying not to leave an inch untouched. She smelled heavenly, her light floral perfume mixing with the sweet smell of her skin. She bit her lip and nodded, casting her eyes downward. "Oh!" he said, and began to unbutton the rest of her blouse. She was wearing a simple cotton bra, and her nipple outlines jutted against the soft fabric. He realized his erection was pressing into the sofa and it only got stiffer when he saw her tits.
He wanted to touch them, but he wasn't sure how to manage while lying on the narrow sofa, trying to balance on his elbows. She pushed him up slightly and straddled his lap, easing off her blouse as she settled in. She bent down and kissed him and he put one hand on each tit and squeezed. They were so soft they made him feel dizzy, and he let out an involuntary groan. He began to experiment with different touches, finding the ones that made her whimper and grind against his lap. The feel of her rubbing against him was transcendent. Why had he been avoiding this heaven? In his wildest dreams he had never imagined a girl like Rosalie taking charge of their pleasure.
He wanted to see her tits. They were a perfect little handful and he loved playing with her nipples through the soft fabric, the way they made little points like the top of a parasol. She loved it too, gasping and moaning against his tongue. But he wanted to slide her bare nipples with his fingers and kiss them. He reached around the back and fiddled with the back of her bra until she reached around and undid it herself, shrugging her shoulders forward so it fell off in their laps.
He stared, fascinated by her teardrop tits with a little chocolate kiss on each tip. He kissed and licked one, then sucked it into his mouth, seeing if they would melt against his tongue. They grew hard instead, and he kept doing it, fascinated by the shifting textures of her arousal. She ground her pelvis harder against his erection, her full skirt draping over both of them in an expression of false modesty.
They kept kissing, becoming experts in each other's lips and tongues as he touched her hard, bare nipples, switching between his hands and mouth until she grew too hot. Rosalie unbuttoned his shirt and tore it off of him, then his undershirt, rubbing his chest and torso.
"Now are you ready to go in there?" He nodded, and followed her into the bedroom. She switched off the living room light as she pushed his body against the door, then groped her hands along the dresser until she found a small lamp and turned it on. She unbuttoned her skirt and let it fall to the floor, then unbuckled his belt, pushing him back on the bed.
"Are you sure?" She nodded, breathless as she unbuttoned his pants. "I've been ready since the day I walked into the church and heard you play." She stopped and looked at him, her big brown eyes so full of desire that he felt like fainting. "I love you, James. I've loved you since that moment, and every moment after that." James reached up and kissed her. "Explain it to me again."
She tugged off his pants, then stopped and gazed at him. "You looked so lost. Like a little boy who couldn't find his home. You played 'It Is Well With My Soul' so sweetly. I've heard that song a hundred times, but I felt "peace like a river attendeth my way." And when it was over, you looked out, and our eyes met. I knew I was your peace, and you were mine. And that river was flowing through us."
He pulled her to him. "Rosalie!" he gasped against her lips. "Your eyes; your big brown eyes were always so sad. I could feel your soul flowing into mine, and it scared me."
"I've always been alone, one way or another. And then, I was sad because I loved you, and you wouldn't come. I asked you and asked you. On the day you walked me home, I prayed that God would move you to see me and speak to me. I was looking to the sky, and you asked me where my coat was. I didn't even know I was cold."
"I'm sorry I never came. I; never hoped. Never allowed myself to hope."
"Why?"
"Look at me! Look at you!"
"I think you are terribly cute. Especially now, with your glasses all fogged up." She took them off his face. "And now, too. I love your eyes. I never know if they are going to be blue, or gray, or green."
"I didn't allow myself to even think about liking a girl."
"Silly boy." Rosalie shook her head and went back to kissing him, gently moving her hands into his boxer shorts and softly stroking his erection. He groaned and put his hand on her arm, panting.
"Rosalie; do you think we should be doing this? I mean, I'm a church employee and you're a parishioner and we aren't engaged or anything."
She stopped. "Do you want to stop?"
"Well, no."
"I think you've been waiting for this for a long time. And so have I. If we'd been like other people, we would probably be married right now. And I don't want to wait another minute. I can't." She was shivering, and the room wasn't a bit cold.
"I don't want to see your big brown eyes ever be sad again."
"Then let's make love, please." Rosalie laid on her back and gently guided James's hand to the front of her cotton panties. He gently stroked her, just enjoying the feel of the fabric bouncing slightly against the hairs underneath, tracing the line that, when finally parted, would show him everything. She kept her hand in his boxers, gently sliding up and down.
She nodded, and he slid his hand into her panties, not sure what to do next, but she encouraged him to keep up his light strokes. He dipped his fingers down a little farther and touched something slippery. Her panties were damp down there, too. "It's supposed to be like that," she whispered. "It's because I'm getting ready for you, my love." She pushed his hand down, and he began to slip his finger into her warm, silky pussy, gently stroking it from top to bottom, and she whimpered softly, clutching his other arm. When he hit the top he felt a little bump, and she sucked air through her teeth.
"Does it hurt?"
"No. It feels really, really good. Can you;" James slipped off her panties and finally looked at her, taking in the dark hairs, and the shiny bump at the top of her slightly parted lips. He had no idea exactly what he was seeing, but he knew he'd been waiting to see it his whole life. She gently put his hand on the little bump, and showed him how to stroke it lightly and slowly at first, dipping his fingers back down into her wetness, and pulling back up. Her face twisted and she pushed her arms against the mattress, and she made so many different sounds that were music to his ears.
Her eyes were wild, but not sad. Never sad. She gasped, telling him to keep touching her just that way, don't stop, no not harder, not faster, just like that yes yes yes; she bucked and her legs closed, trapping his arm for a moment as she threw her arms around his neck and pulled him against her.
"I love you, James," she gasped.
"I love you, Rosalie."
James suddenly realized he was completely unprepared. "I don't have a rubber."
"I don't care."
James realized he didn't care either. He would marry her tomorrow. If he could go back in time and marry her a year ago, a century ago, he would do it.
Together they tugged off his boxer shorts. She spent a few moments admiring his stiff cock, gently touching it. He wasn't sure what to do and neither was she, but together they found her entrance. She was a little closed up, but she was so aroused it didn't hurt terribly when her hymen stretched, and he went slow, as much out of lack of experience as anything else. She gasped.
"Am I hurting you?"
"Just a little. Please, please keep going."
James tried to listen to her sighs and gasps, and adjust to them but it was all too much. He had never felt so alive as when her sweet pink softness sucked his hardness into her. All he could figure out how to do is pump his body into hers and hope for the best. She wrapped her legs around him, encouraged him and told him she loved him.
"I love you, Rosalie. Oh, my darling!" he gasped as he exploded into her. She was full of him, full of his love, and her heart communicated with his as it always did, her eyes, no longer sad, gazed into his, pouring the sweet, cool water of her love into his thirsty heart.
To be continued. Based on a post by KikiKisses, for Literotica.