A Church

The pause that amounted to his curious flutter was quiet, but strikingly dislocating.

He looks at you and repeats your choice carefully.

You nod, reiterating it as correct. Charles turns his head to the door. For a second, he says nothing. You watch as he maintains a straight face that in a few seconds was reduced to laughter.

"I didn't take you for the religious type." He rubs his beard. It looks as ancient as a fossil, yet strangely vivid. Like everything in this realm of nowhere and middle roads. His hand is already wrapped around the handle of the door as he slides a cryptic look in your direction. "Alright then." His voice flat. Unsuspecting. And yet flexed with mystical precision, as if there was more he knew and wanted to say than you ever really wished to guess.

He continues assertively, "I'll open the door now. It'll be blinding at first, the light -- but just will yourself and walk on through, understand?"

Then, tongue in his cheek, he twists it open. The door emits a prolonged squeal, and you notice the white spray completely swallowing the air with each increment it's pulled towards you.

A tender strip of goosebumps falls across your skin, and you hear Charles's voice in the midst of your increasingly disorienting daze.

"Remember, lad," he goes, as you go into the miasma of white, eyes wincing closed, fingers tensed, skin crawling, "don't overthink it. It's that simple, you hear?

You feel your stomach lurch. Charles' voice becomes a distant murmur, while you try to withstand the incredible nausea wracking your abdomen. Worse than a carousel, this was.

"Remember."

The otherworldy man's voice recounts.

...

"...it's that..."

...

"...simple!..."

...

"... leeeaning... on everlasting aaarms..."

honk!

"Bless you. And you."

Chirp! Chirp-chirp!

"...from last Sunday, so we'll be pushing it to the week after the next."

When you awake, you're sitting on a bench. Lying across it, rather. In front of you is a street, sparse with cars. An amalgam of buildings, two-story homes and their sort, lined the road, and you notice a handful of pedestrians walking down the sidewalk across from it. A miniature clove of trees decorates the path, and leaves litter the pavement.

You'd call it picaresque. However, its urban-scape sensibility, and industrial echoes... it was more postcard, if anything. Rockwellian, maybe?

Sullenly, you grumble at the realization that you're meandering. Worse, you have no idea what you're talking about.

Calling upon the muscles with which you were gifted, you sit up. You first tried to, before actually doing so.

Wooziness assaults your spacial perception, and you attempt to breathe in, oxygenating yourself. It's a hit-and-miss. The grogginess in your head is foggier than a winter mist.

One look down confirms that you are still in your ordinary body. A pair of unremarkable jeans, plain colored shoes, and a button-up shirt; classic John Doe.

It's only as your ears begin to clear out do you pick up on something else beside you.

Clear.

Gentle.

Feminine.

"...yes. Oh, but I think she'll do fine. Yes, I know. She's an angel, isn't she?"

Cocking your head, you turn it to the side. Through your squint, you are able to deduce that you were indeed correct.

To the right of you, a brown-haired woman probably around her 30's, in a white, frilly sundress is sitting on the adjacent bench. There were even frills on the bottom of her flattering, yet deliberately conservative garb, the hemline stopping just below her knees. Your eyes gravitate to the small expenditure of skin, the glare of the sun reflecting off her smooth calves. One leg is crossed over the other, her eyes fixated forward, as she speaks into what you presume is a cellphone on the opposite cheek.

You take a second to admire the glistening sheen of her arm. Then you remember why you're here.

"Peggy Johnson."

The name leaves your lips in a subconscious mumble. But not out of the blue.

Peggy Johnson is a local who lives in your area. She had come knocking one day, (literally), to get to know her neighbors. You, of course obliged her -- not only was she sweet and young. She fit the classic girl-next-door stereotype to a tee. Ever since, you remained on good terms. One day, however, while chowing on a stack of obtuse biscuits and lemonade, a new subject arose.

That of her church.

Peggy, despite her looks, was as prudent as prunes couldpossibly go. She was a textbook good girl. Even in the wake of her fun, sparkly attitude. she was a blonde bombshell at 5'5'' with a pair of legs and buttocks to die for and perky breasts with a clear stance on where her lines were drawn. No perverse indulgences, no funny business, no sex before marriage and no weird things. Too often, as she'd told you, had she been **** to sit uncomfortably under the undue attention and gaze of guys from all walks of life -- religious or otherwise. But when she finally came to this church, here near the inner ring of the city, with her family, she finally found a community who she believed were as loyal to their beliefs as they were decent people at heart. When she got the chance to move to a new home even closer by, well, it was a welcome relocation.

She's been going here for about 7 years now. 18 years old initially. 24 when you had moved in. 25, now. A lot of that time was spliced as a result of school obligations, but when she had nabbed her psychology degree and completed her dissertation, she was able to come back home sweet home. And supposedly got engaged with a fellow church-mate.

So of course, she invited you. Having taken a liking to to her new neighbor, after all.

"And," you sit back on the bench, "now I'm here."

A tingling surfaces from the back of your brain. You suddenly remember the strange dream you had, and shake your head.

The warehouse... the suits... the... old man who called himself Charles... the door.

"Remember... it's just that simple!"

Just that simple, huh?

A lick of wind caresses your face. You aren't quite sure what had gotten into you, conjuring something as vivid as that. But it was quite something.

Yes...

Speaking of caressing...

Your eyes are suddenly distracted by a motion next to you. You turn and see the brown-haired woman on the other bench, still sitting in the same position, same spot. Like before, she continues to speak delicately into her cellphone. However, your eyes drift downward, and you notice her free hand, her left one, making soft, circular caresses along the skin of her dangling leg, that of which remained exposed under her sundress -- of which, of course, there was barely any.

That begins to change, however, as the woman -- who is fit, and considerably pretty, it might be added -- increases the range of her caressing to push upon the length of her dress. You gulp, look back to her face, which remains animatedly talking to the voice on the other end, then back down, wondering what she's trying to do. Maybe she has a rash, or itch? Perhaps, she's trying not to scratch her skin? Or giving herself a massage?

Your thoughts stutter as the woman suddenly lets the leg down, then brings the other one up over it, aka her left leg, the one on your side. Whereas before, though, she had her dress tidily dropped at its most natural point, just along her ankles, she had now shifted her position in a way that caused the bottom of her dress to be hiked up to above her knee, nearly mid-thigh, and exposing more skin from the lower half as it did. Not only that, but it was pressed tightly against the bottom of her thigh and curvy, delectable tush. You suddenly realize that it's because she's leaning slightly to her right, and the counterweight pushes out her bottom's shape even further. A bottom and a shape which was mightily pleasing to the eye, and your wandering one.

"Oh, she's very blessed, indeed," she went on wistfully. She even laughs, at what you can only imagine was that funny. You miss the rest of what she says, because the next thing she does is lean against the arm of the bench on her side, but by doing so also lifts her entire left leg from the bench. Then, while nodding happily and saying something like 'Oh, sure,' or 'Right, right,' she stretches out her leg. Now, her whole left bottom was practically facing you, as she leaned to her right with her leg extended.

Automatically, your eyes hover up her smooth, toned leg, and you feel yourself tighten as they stopped at the cut-off of her thighs, which were fleshy and just as pleasant-looking. Then, to your disbelief, the woman takes her hand, and pulls her dress up over her thigh. Then, right before you, she begins to stroke aforementioned slab of skin, rubbing it like a smear of sunscreen. Swiftly, her hand progressed from the top of the thigh down to her knee and to the tip of her ankle, then back around, giving it a clean sweep with her hand. She really looked like a model applying lotion for a Dove commercial. Except with a sensual touch, too.

Like... passionate pottery.

You sit there somewhat hypnotized. Acting practically oblivious to her ministrations, she breaks into another laugh, a spirited but professional one. You begin to cool down. Then a second later she brings her hand back up the length of her leg, and slaps the bottom of her thigh, continuing to caress it. With another smiling nod to her cellphone, she squeezed her exposed hamstrings sharply, digging her fingers into her own skin, then finally casually let go.

At this point, the little display is getting you a bit hot and bothered, and you clear your throat, trying to stay focused, to not get caught perving out on this woman doing whatever it was she was doing. And for a good couple seconds, you do.

But like a fly to a light, you still feel aware of her presence. Her conversation. The image of her legs and thighs in your mind. Body parts to a woman you have seen before, of course. That you've always recognized as attractive, if not natural, harmless limbs. Yet... this was not the kind of context in which you'd feel normal about it, so to speak. A woman -- a church woman, at that -- in a relatively conservative sundress, sitting on a neighboring bench, speaking in a phone, while you mind your business. Then the next second, in public, flaunting herself on that same bench and pulling that dress up while pushing her thigh at your direction and feeling her own body, those same exposed parts of it... it's different. You realize that this scenario, of getting a peek at a woman's body, becomes much more titillating in this kind of risque manifestation.

And with her being the one to initiate it without any **** from you.

Suddenly, before you can stop yourself, you look back at the woman, and gulp down.

This time, she had placed her left leg up against the bench, while her right leg remained downward, her foot rooted to the ground. Her left leg is pushing up upon the back of the bench and is bent at the knee, her heeled foot facing you, exposing the entirety of her front bottom half as she continues talking on the phone without any consternation. Not only do you end up seeing her legs in their entirety, however; a bead of sweat forming in your brow, your eyes gravitate down towards her center, and a pair of white cotton panties are visible. Just a glimpse, past her hiked up leg.

You instantly feel distension in a center of your own. You uncomfortably shift on your bench as you grunt at the hardening member. And it was at quite the swell, pushing against your pants like a ballooning experiment mishap. Quickly you push your two hands over it and rub it very slightly. Down, you think, only to be met with futility, down!

Darting another quick glance at the woman, the woman with the very nice legs, you rub yourself a little more watching her and taking in her exposed lower half. The, you successfully manage to push your rod down and conceal it with a strategically crossed leg of your own.

Breathing a flurry of tense breaths, you overhear the woman talking on her phone.

"Okay, Margaret, we'll see you next Sunday. Yes, I'll let them know about her schedule. Say hi to Belle for me!"

After the indistinct beep indicating the end of the call, you carefully look back to her. Almost instantly, you regret it, as the tingle returns to your body potently. The woman is now stretching in a way that seems much more prolonged and touchy-feely than necessary. When she finally brings her leg down, she returns to a prim, utterly normal sitting position. Both of her legs placed together, side by side, and her dress once again over her legs, cutting just below the knee. She picks up her purse from the ground at the side of the bench, returning her phone to it. Then she picks up what looks like a Bible from the bench -- somehow you had missed that -- stands up, and straightens her dress. You continue watching her, for some reason.

And then, as if to bring it to a proper conclusion, the woman places her purse over her shoulder, sets her hands behind her, then lowers them. Then, with the grace of a woman who knew how good looking she was and knew how to use it, she presses her hands against her behind and squeezes and massages her butt-cheeks through her sundress before giving them a handy smack, silkily sliding her hands up to the swell of her lower back.

A car or two zooms by. Meanwhile, you simply stare, agape. So agape, you almost miss the brief pivot of her head in your direction as she looks you over for but a second. A small, wry, nearly indistinguishable smile caps off the corner of her mouth. And then, like nothing had occurred, she turns back forward, her brown hair swishing over her shoulder, and walks away. Towards the church entrance.

The entrance.

To a church.

If there was any shadow of a doubt before, it is completely whitewashed, now. You continue to watch as she walks away, your eyes glued to her lower body, and that womanly behind of hers, which, might've also just been your lustful imagination, but she looked to be wiggling slightly.

You absently cross your legs together more tightly, the mass in between suddenly very, very sensitive. This is abnormal. That was unusual. And you had never quite seen that before... not with utter strangers, anyway. Not even at your best did you look that good to elicit such a response.

At least, you don't think you do. You might have to go check a mirror. Or just return home and, well, get some private time in. A show like that was worth the energy.

But...

You also promised Peggy you'd come here. And meet some of the other church goers. And hang out afterward.

After all, you kinda like Peggy. You'd only known her for a year. But you value her as more than just some pretty hot girl, but a friend.

Suddenly, your eyes go big. It all comes crashing through.

The dream. Charles.

Your 'ideal world'.

It couldn't possibly be happening, could it?

You sit there in contemplation for a minute or two, when you come to a realization. Looking back at the church, you briskly stand up from the bench.

You decide that you should look for Peggy. One way or another, you'll discover the extent of this. And, you did tell her you'd be here. Eyes darting around you with a little more than slight paranoia, you proceed towards the church, then stop at the rumbling of your stomach.

You are somewhat hungry. With a brief peek into the church entrance from afar, you also notice it looks quite un-filled. Perhaps the hour was still a bit early.

And if you are planning on what you think you are planning... you have plenty of contacts on your phone to dial up. And regionals: Jean, your redheaded, porcelain-white friend lives nearby; she works at the local business building a city away, but today she should be free. Though, then again, you could also kill two birds with one stone -- Stella, a short-haired, spunky (and fairly snarky) co-ed that you know from a friend of a friend of the family works at a coffee shop barely a hundred paces away. You rub your eyes. Some caffeine could help.

You look back at the church. Then again, maybe it would be better to wait here for Peggy. And besides, mingling with your inner self might help calm you down. It could be that everything had just been in your head -- following that hazy dream and that even hazier excuse of a coming-to, it was very possible that you were just going nutty.

The sound of a piano trickles out of the church's front doors as you stand at an internalized crossroads.

Maybe that's what you need. Some hymnals to clear the mind. You've never exactly tried that before, but hey, it's never too late. Nevertheless, it might be awkward, coming face to face with that woman from earlier. You feel your manhood returning to life and sigh, weighing your options. She was quite pretty... and getting her little mini-ballet work out of your head is not working. You shake it off, trying to focus.