Virgin Territory
The heavy oak of the pulpit feels cool against my bare thighs as I hike my skirts up around my waist. The chapel is empty now, the last parishioner’s footsteps echoing down the aisle ten minutes ago.
My father’s sermon still hangs in the air like stale incense—something about temptation and the wages of sin.
My fingers find my favourite spot, the already damp heat between my legs. No need for gentle exploration; I know this terrain like every top spot for fishing on the river. The rough wool of my dress scratches against my sensitive skin as I spread my knees wider on the raised platform. Two fingers plunge inside, curling against that spot that makes my toes curl in my button-up boots.
The slick sounds of my digging, gouging fingers seem amplified in the sacred silence.
“Lord forgive me,” I whisper to the cross hanging behind me, but the words are hollow. My thumb circles my cowl, pressing harder with each rotation. My hips rock against my hand, the wooden pulpit creaking softly in rhythm. The scent of beeswax and old Bible’s leather fills my nostrils as my breath catches,musk.
So close. Just a few more strokes and—
The sanctuary doors swing open with a groan that makes me jump. I yank my skirts down, heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped racoon.
A figure stands silhouetted against the bright afternoon light—tall, lean, dust-covered. Pony Express rider. The distinctive mochila mail pouch hangs from his shoulders.
“Reverend Gallagher?” His voice is young, roughened by wind and dust.
I smooth my dress, cheeks burning.
“My father has retired to the rectory. Can I help you?”
He steps into the nave, and the light catches his features properly for the first time. Dark hair curling damply at his temples, eyes the colour of a stormy sky, jawline sharp enough to cut glass. He can’t be much older than me—twenty at most. Dust coats his worn leather jacket, but underneath I can see the strong lines of his shoulders.
“I need to make a confession.”
He approaches the pulpit, boots scuffing on the floorboards.
“It’s urgent.”
My pussy clenches at his proximity, the interrupted orgasm still thrumming through my veins.
“Confessions are for Saturday afternoons.”
“This can’t wait.”
He reaches the pulpit steps, his gaze sweeping over me. Not the respectful, distant look most men give the minister’s daughter. This is something else entirely—hungry and direct.
“I’ve been riding for three days straight. I’ve done things... seen things...”
His knuckles brush against my hand as he grips the pulpit edge.
His nostrils whiff musk, in the instance I get a heady sniff.
Oh Christ!
Thrills of delight shoots up my arm. The scent of him hits me—sweat and horse and leather and something uniquely male that makes my mouth water.
“What kind of things?” My voice comes out huskier than intended.
His eyes darken. “The kind that keep a man awake at night. The kind that makes him wonder if there’s any goodness left in the world.”
He leans closer, his voice dropping.
“The kind that make a man desperate to feel something pure again.”
My thighs press together instinctively. The wetness from earlier hasn’t faded—if anything, it’s intensified. I can feel the damp spot soaking through my drawers.
“I’m not the person you should be telling this to,” I say, but my body betrays me. I don’t move away.
“Aren’t you?”
His fingers trace the carved wood of the pulpit, inches from where my hand rests.
“You’re here. In God’s house. Close enough to touch salvation.”
His gaze drops to my lips.
“Or temptation.”
The air between us crackles with tension. My nipples peak against my corset, aching for attention. I should send him away, find my father, do the proper thing. But I don’t move. I can’t.
“What’s your name?” I ask instead.
“Jedediah. But everyone calls me Jed.”
“Jed,” I repeat, testing the shape of it on my tongue. “I’m Felicity.”
“Felicity.” His smile is slow, dangerous. “Means happiness. Are you happy, Felicity?”
Before I can answer, his hand covers mine on the pulpit. His palm is calloused, warm, impossibly large. My fingers twitch under his touch. The rough texture sends shivers up my arm, straight to my core.
“I could make you happy,” he murmurs, stepping closer until his body presses against the pulpit between us. “I could make you forget all about sermons and sin.”
He raises my hand. His flaring nostrils take in my girly cavity perfume.
My breath hitches. This is madness. Insanity. But my body doesn’t care about sanity. My body wants to climb over this pulpit and press myself against him until there’s no space left between us.
“You don’t even know me,” I whisper, but it sounds weak even to my own ears.
“I know enough.”
His other hand comes up to cup my cheek, thumb stroking my jawline.
“I know you’re not as innocent as you pretend. I saw how you looked when I first came in. All flushed and breathless. What were you doing up here alone, Felicity?”
My face burns with shame and something else—excitement.
“That’s none of your business.”
“Isn’t it?” His thumb brushes my lower lip, and I have to fight the urge to suck it into my mouth. “I think it might be exactly my business. I think you were touching yourself. Right here. Where your father preaches against the very thing.”
My knees go weak. No one has ever spoken to me like this. So blunt.
“You’re wicked,” I breathe.
His grin widens. “Oh, honey, you have no idea.”
Before I can protest, he’s moving around the pulpit, closing the distance between us. His hands grip my waist, lifting me effortlessly onto the edge of the platform. The wood is hard against my backside through my skirts.
“What are you doing?” I gasp, but my hands are already tangling in his hair.
“Something wicked.” His mouth claims mine, and the world explodes. His tongue pushes past my lips, claiming, conquering. He tastes like dust and desire. I kiss back desperately, all my repressed hunger rising to the surface. Months, years of suppressed want and under the sheets dreaming pouring into this one moment.
His hands roam my body, rough and demanding. One slides up to cup my breast, thumb rubbing my nipple through the layers of fabric. I arch into his touch, a moan escaping my throat.
God, how can I tell him, I’m untouched by man.
“You’re so responsive,” he growls against my mouth. “So, fucking hot for it.”
“Please,” I whimper, not even sure what I’m begging for.
His answer is to hike my skirts up again, this time with purpose. Cool air hits my dripping pussy as he exposes me in the chapel. I should feel shame, but all I feel is desperate need.
“Fuck, look at you.” His fingers slide through my wet folds, exploring, testing. “Soaking wet for me. Were you thinking about this when you were touching yourself?”
“Yes, mmm, mmm, mmm.”
His thumb finds my private hood, circling slowly, releasing my clit. My hips buck against his hand. The wooden edge of the pulpit digs into my ass, but I don’t care. All that matters is his touch, his mouth on my neck, the pressure building inside me.
“I want to be inside you,” he murmurs against my skin. “Right here. Where your father stands every Sunday.”
The thought is so blasphemous, so utterly wrong, that it sends a fresh wave of arousal through me. “We can’t.”
“We can.” His fingers work faster, harder. “And we will.”
I’m panting now, legs spread wide around him. The open doors of the sanctuary frame us like a painting—two sinners caught in golden afternoon light. Anyone could walk in. My father could return. The risk makes it hotter.
“Jed,” I gasp as his fingers curl inside me, hitting that perfect spot. “Oh God, Jed.”
“Not God,” he chuckles darkly. “Just me.”
He works me with expert precision, thumb on my clit, fingers pumping in and out. My orgasm builds rapidly, cresting like a wave. I bite my lip to keep from screaming as it crashes over me, shaking my entire body. My pussy clamps around his fingers, spasming with pleasure.
Before I can recover, he’s unbuckling his belt. The metallic clasp echoes in the quiet church. His cock springs free—thick, hard, already leaking at the tip. My mouth waters at the sight.
First time erect meat and its an impressive stiff rigid pole. Dang it looks good.
“Wait,” I manage, though my body is screaming yes. “We can’t. I could get pregnant.”
“I’ll pull out,” he promises, positioning himself at my entrance. “I swear.”
I should argue more, but the head of his cock is already pushing inside me, stretching me deliciously. He’s bigger than I dreamed, the burn mixing with pleasure as he sinks deeper.
“Fuck, you’re tight,” he groans, gripping my hips. “So, fucking tight and wet.”
Well, hell yes, virgin frickin tight.
My legs wrap around his waist, pulling him deeper. The fullness is exquisite, the drag of his cock against my walls sending sparks through my veins. He starts moving, slow at first, then faster, harder. The pulpit creaks under us, keeping rhythm with our fucking.
“Look at me,” he commands, and I force my eyes open. “I want to see you when I’m inside you.”
His gaze is intense, burning with raw lust. I’ve never been looked at like this—like I’m something to be consumed, devoured. It’s terrifying and exhilarating all at once.
“Harder,” I beg, I don’t know why, I just do; and he obliges, slamming into me with enough force to make the wooden platform shake. The sounds of our fucking fill the sacred space—skin slapping against skin, my desperate whimpers, his guttural groans.
“OrRGH!” Fuck was that sound me!
“Touch yourself,” he orders. “I want to feel you come around my cock.”
I don’t hesitate. My fingers find my cute pink pea, rubbing in time with his thrusts. The dual stimulation is overwhelming, pushing me toward another orgasm quickly. The stained-glass windows cast colourful patterns across his face as he fucks me in God’s house.
“That’s it,” he growls. “Come for me, Felicity. Let me feel that pussy squeeze my dick.”
His dirty words send me over the edge. I surprise myself as I convulse around him, crying out as pleasure floods my system.
“Aahh! Aahh! Oh Lord! Aahh!”
My vision near sees angels, my body shaking uncontrollably. He keeps fucking me through it, prolonging the sensation until I’m a boneless, panting mess.
“I’m close,” he warns, his rhythm becoming erratic. “So, fucking close.”
Remember his promise, I try to push him away.
“Pull out,” I gasp. “Remember your promise.”
But he doesn’t. Instead, he grips me tighter, burying himself to the hilt as he groans my name. I feel the first hot spurt inside me, then another, and another. He’s filling me, marking me, claiming me completely.
The realization hits me like a physical blow. He lied. He came inside me. Cream leaks from my bushy V.
“Bastard,” I breathe, but there’s no real anger in it. Just a strange, twisted satisfaction at being so thoroughly claimed. Branded in man milk.
He collapses against me, both of us breathing heavily. The scent of sex fills the sanctuary now, musky and primal. For a moment, we just exist in the aftermath, bodies still joined.
“Sorry,” he murmurs against my hair. “Couldn’t help it. You felt too good.”
I should be furious, terrified of the consequences. But all I feel is a bone-deep contentment, his cum warming me from the inside.
Footsteps echo from the vestibule, and we freeze.
“Felicity?” A voice calls out.
Faith Grace. Of course. The church’s biggest gossip and my personal nemesis.
“Are you still here? I came to rearrange the altar flowers.”
Panic shoots through me. Jed pulls out quickly, his cum immediately starting to drip down my thighs. I scramble to fix my skirts as he fumbles with his trousers.
Too late to hide.
Faith appears at the end of the aisle, her nose wrinkling as if she smells something off. Her eyes narrow as they take in Jed’s dishevelled appearance and my flushed face. My crinkled dress.
“What’s he doing here?” she asks, gesturing at Jed with her chin. “Confession is Saturday.”
“Just... helping me with something,” I stammer.
Faith’s gaze drops to the floor, and her eyes widen. A drop of Jed’s cum has escaped, pooling on the dark wood of the pulpit platform.
Her head snaps up, comprehension dawning in her expression.
“You filthy whore,” she whispers, but it carries in the quiet church.
“Fornicating with a stranger in God’s house. In your father’s pulpit.”
Jed decides this is his cue to leave. “I should go,” he mutters, backing away.
“Oh no, you don’t,” Faith says, turning on him. “I’m telling Reverend Gallagher about this. Both of you.”
As she turns to rush out, presumably to find my father, something primal takes over. I can’t let her ruin everything. Not before I’ve even had a chance to think through a lie.
Jed is making his own escape toward the side door, but Faith’s threat hangs in the air. Without thinking, I grab the heavy Bible from the pulpit—my father’s personal leather-bound volume—and swing it at the back of Jed’s head.
He goes down with a grunt, collapsing in a heap on the floorboards.
Faith stops dead, her mouth agape. “You... you killed him?”
“He’s not dead,” I snap, kneeling to check.
Just unconscious. A knot rises on the back of his skull.
“And you’re not telling anyone anything.”
I grab the altar candlestick—brass, heavy—and advance on Faith.
She backs away, hands raised.
“Felicity, don’t—”
“Shut up,” I hiss. “You saw nothing. You heard nothing. If I hear even a whisper of this around town, I’ll make sure everyone knows about you and Deacon Miller’s son behind the piggery.”
Faith scowls. Planning, scheming like me.
“Now get out,” I command.
She flees, not looking back. Still, by tomorrow she’ll go to my father.
I turn back to Jed, still out cold on the floor. My mind races, adrenaline pumping through my veins. I can’t leave him here. Can’t let my father find him. Can’t let anyone know what happened.
An idea forms, desperate and wild. Feng. My friend at the Chinese laundry. She owes me a favour. And the back entrance to her shop leads right to the opium den’s delivery alley—perfect for hiding someone.
I grab Jed’s arms, dragging his dead weight across the floor. He’s heavier than he looks, all lean muscle and bone. His cum continues to leak from me, staining my drawers and trailing on the floorboards. I’ll have to clean that later. Polish the boards.
Through the side door we go, into the bright afternoon sun. I pull him behind the church, through the overgrown path to the alley behind Main Street. My heart pounds with every step. If anyone sees us...
The back door of the laundry is unlocked, as always. I drag Jed inside, the scent of soap and steam and opium filling my nostrils.
Feng looks up from her ironing, her almond eyes widening at the sight of us.
“Felicity?” she asks in her accented English. “What you doing?”
“I need your help,” I pant, propping Jed against a stack of clean linens. “And I need rope.”
Feng doesn’t ask questions. She just points to a coil of hemp in the corner. As I bind Jed’s hands and feet, my mind works furiously. I can’t stay in St. Joseph. Not after this. Not with Faith as a threat and my father’s inevitable wrath.
My eyes fall on Jed’s discarded mochila, still slung over his shoulder. His clothes. His identity. A wild thought takes root.
“Feng,” I say, testing the knots on Jed’s wrists. “I need a favour. A big one.”
She raises an eyebrow but waits.
“I need to borrow some of your brother’s clothes. And I need you to keep, Jed here. Quiet. For a few days.”
Feng looks from me to the unconscious rider, understanding dawning in her expression.
“You running away?”
“I have to.”
She nods slowly. “Long time coming.”
As I strip off my soiled dress and change into the spare men’s clothing Feng provides, the plan solidifies in my mind.
I’ll take Jed’s uniform, his papers, his horse. I’ll ride out of St. Joseph tonight and never look back. Let them wonder what happened to Felicity Gallagher.
By the time Jed starts to stir, I’m dressed in his clothes—too big but serviceable. His hat shadows my face, hiding my identity. The mochila feels strange on my shoulders, heavy with mail and possibility.
“Wha—” Jed groans, trying to sit up. He finds himself bound and confused. “Felicity? What the fuck?”
“Sorry about this,” I say, adjusting the hat. “But you shouldn’t have lied about pulling out.”
His eyes widen as he realizes what I’m wearing. “You can’t—”
“I can,” I cut him off. “And I am.”
I lean down, pressing a quick, hard kiss to his lips. “Don’t worry. I’ll deliver your mail. And maybe find a new life along the way.”
“Felicity wait.”
Feng ties and buns my hair. Smears grease across my cheek and collar. Let’s a whisker stick from a dude’s shirt.
“Sweetie, keep your dear departed momma’s locket in your boot, least you attract the thievin’ kind.”
As I walk out into the fading afternoon light, leaving Jed trussed up among the clean linens, I feel something I haven’t felt in years: freedom.
The road ahead is uncertain, dangerous, possibly deadly. But for the first time in my nineteen years, it’s mine to choose.
