Why is the forbidden fruit always the most irresistible?

What kind of fucked up creator would design such a plan where failure is not only possible, but—barring some genetic defect—guaranteed?

I often wonder how many of the women around me on a daily basis are either active or former members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints.

As a Utah native, it’s easy to completely lose yourself in the droves of (genuinely) beautiful, chaste, clean, courteous and kind women in this great state.

But sometimes I find myself distracted with the challenge of trying to identify the women who are tight-rope walking the razors edge between chastity and complete moral depravity.

The plunging neckline of an otherwise modest blouse.

A cute, modest little pair of shorts that don’t quite reach far enough down the thighs.

(At least not reliably. Not without some exasperated fussing and tugging.)

We’re getting warmer.

A CTR ring, a wedding ring, AND multiple ear rings?

GASP!

A nose ring? A belly button piercing?

Hotter.

A sneaky sip from a Starbucks cup on the way home from church?

A classy, full length, clean white linen dress on a Sunday afternoon in the grocery store?

The pretty little pencil skirt that goes from PG to PG-13 when legs are crossed and uncrossed during the sacrament?

The silent, dismissive passing along of the tray without partaking?

Uh oh!

Maybe it makes me a terrible person that over the years I’ve made something of a sport out of identifying the slow, gentle, seemingly innocent red flags of a Sister who is teetering on the brink of moral collapse.

What’s the old Hemmingway quote?

“How did you go from being a shy, god-fearing LDS mother, Young Women’s leader and Second Counselor’s wife to a morally bankrupt, degenerate slut?"

"Two ways. Gradually, then suddenly.”

Something like that, I forget.

Anyway . . .

More than that though, the one thing that always fascinated me were the women who could maintain, with near-perfect stoic demeanor, the role of supportive wife, mother, and daughter of God, year after year, all without ever seeming to cave to the temptation of exploring their sexuality beyond the confines of their perfectly staged little LDS homes.

Essential oils.

Leadership positions.

Spotless homes.

Fasting.

Tithing.

Perfect makeup.

Better hair.

Baby bumps.

I continue to find these women mesmerizing.

Hadn’t they ever, just once, dipped their pink little sexually frustrated toes into the fast-flowing riptides of depravity?

Was it even possible to be human and resist such things?

For men? Not a chance.

For women . . . ?

No, of course they hadn’t.

Of course they wouldn’t.

These sweet Sisters; these paragons of morality and virtue “would never”.

Never.

At least, not that they’d ever admit to publicly.

Confessing to getting handsy with a boyfriend in the back seat of the family car after dinner and a movie?

Never.

Porn?

Ewww

50 Shades?

Gross.

Being spanked in the mother’s nursing room during sacrament meeting?

Not in a million years.

Masturbating? While thinking of the next door neighbor?

Wash your mouth out!

A wandering mind and uncomfortably wet garments during relief society?

GOSH

Swiping through a smut-laden Reddit stream that makes your toes curl and your pulse quicken when the husband’s away and the rest of the house is asleep?

GASP

The guilt.

The shame!

These morally upright Sister’s would never admit to even thinking of their bodies in such carnal, worldly ways, let alone actually engaging in breaking the Law of Chastity.

Right?

That was my impression, at least.

And for good reason.

But that was before the summer that Sister Kate waved at me from across the street for the first time.

I could spare you the details . . .

The details about how we had lived near one another as nothing more than neighbors for five plus years. (Hardly waving or glancing in one another’s direction the entire time, let alone conversing.)

All the boring parts about how I had genuinely never thought even a single indecent thought of her during that time. Through her various pregnancies and the myriad physical changes that accompany such periods of life for a young Mormon mom.

How, despite my lack of overt interest in her, I subconsciously had something of a juvenile crush.

A crush that I’d barely admit to myself.

How I’d go out of my way to avoid her when I saw her walking to church in the direction of my house with her “mom backpack” casually slung over her shoulder, her modest little floral dress dancing behind her in the wind, and her blonde bob bouncing atop her square, neat shoulders.

Or how she intimidated me.

All five foot nothing of her.

All 92lbs, fully clothed and soaking wet, including the black flats that her sheer, nude pantyhose would glide in and out of without even whisper.

Or how the only reason I know that detail is the fact that she had a nervous habit of slipping them off every time her husband would address the congregation from the pulpit. And then slip them right back on the second he’d sit back down.

Or the fact that I had a pretty good idea she knew what her innocent little covert toe acrobatics did to me.

I won’t be a bore by telling you that sometimes she’d glance in my direction and smile with her perfect blue eyes before they’d nervously dart back to the podium. Back to her husband.

I know she knew, because it was these times she wouldn’t immediately put her shoes back on. She’d spend the rest of the meeting grazing her nylon-covered toes along the edges of her shoes, occasionally flipping them over, making a mess of them, giving the impression they’d been carelessly tossed to the side before a really intense . . . family home evening Twister championship?

I don’t understand how, but some women seem to have this secret superpower where they channel their entire body in order to nonverbally broadcast their interest in someone or something, primarily through their eyes.

It’s magical to experience.

For most women, it’s subconscious. But for others?

They learn to refine this superpower over their lives to a degree that should terrify any mortal man.

A shy smile.

An innocent wave.

The nearly imperceptible shift of the hips during a friendly, neighborly “hello” on the corner.

But the eyes.

It’s all woo woo until you experience the thrill of becoming the target of this mystical means of communication for yourself.

But you never really, truly know, right?

Evidence of this superpower sounds about as flimsy as the idea that a “burning bosom” is some divine proof of the Holy Ghost.

But the difference is that one of these entities can physically whisper little admissions into your ear on late summer weeknights when the husband is gone on business, and long after the rest of the family has fallen sleep.

Admissions like how she’s been struggling for months with the law of chastity.

Or how she knew the first time she touched herself while thinking of me that I’d somehow end up in her kitchen, pinning my hips against hers while we’d flirt with the potentially devastating consequences of “going further” while I resisted the temptation to push her thighs further apart.

Or, how through breathless whimpers, she’d admit to me how her garments were an “absolute mess” and how “she’d never felt like this with anyone” as I’d kiss up and down the side of her neck, tasting her perfume, drinking in the forbidden nature of our circumstance, while at the same time, religiously, obediently, keeping my hands entirely to myself.

I was being “good for her”. (Her words.)

Holy Ghost?

Voices in my head?

Sister Kate?

You be the judge.

Or maybe we leave the judgement to God.

But for the sake of brevity, I will leave out the detail where during one of these long, slow, lazy, passionate nights of juvenile re-exploration we heard her garage door begin to open.

And the detail where she sent me scrambling out the back door, but not before lifting her skirt, dropping her garment bottoms, handing them to me, and then kissing me deeply for a half second.

Or how, of all the “immoral acts” we had committed to that point, this gift of her garment bottoms was the most intimately depraved experience we had shared together.

For the many humans that are literally created every day in the church, it surprises me how absolutely naive and innocent and pure most of the women actually are.

(Even after having engaged in the carnal act of being impregnated. Even after having given birth!)

It’s as if they legitimately believe their sole purpose of coming to earth and gaining a body was to be a pleasure-less vessel for The Lord.

A womb.

A handmaid to serve God strictly through procreation.

This was Sister Kate.

But for the few women in the church who somehow gain the vision to see beyond the strictly functional nature of their sexuality . . .

There’s an unmistakable flame burning in the eyes of a sister who has felt such an intense, burning passion deep inside of her.

A flame that few women in the church can successfully hide; and even fewer who want to.

A flame that, unless eagerly and quickly extinguished, will set fire to the creaky foundations of a once steadfast and morally clean Daughter of God’s testimony.

A daughter of God like Sister Kate.

I saw that fire burning in the eyes of this perfect little blonde Mormon mom one night.

The night she thanked me for making her “feel safe” as she sat on the cool edge of her granite countertop, fully clothed, hips wide, her ankles twisted behind my waist, as she pulled me deeper, harder against her, the fabric of our clothing the only barrier between “harmless fun” and a life-changing, covenant-destroying, situation-changing mess.

She knew it.

I knew it.

But I’ll spare you the detail of how Sister Kate had a very strict—but unspoken—set of rules regarding her chastity.

A new moral code she had established for herself as a living, breathing, thinking, wife and mother and modern woman.

A code separate from the church.

A code that allowed for a life beyond a frigid bedroom.

One that allowed for some shameless nuance beyond a life of being the “perfect wife”, the “perfect mom”, and the “perfect family” in public at least.

All while being completely ignored in every way behind closed doors.

I’ll avoid boring you by explaining the ways I’d glide my tongue up the side of her neck and over her tiny ears, in my head mimicking the way I’d seen her play with her Sunday shoes beneath the pew, outside of her husband’s glare.

She’d answer back by kissing and licking the salty sweat from the side of my own neck, as if to demonstrate exactly the ways in which she wanted to take me in her mouth, if only she could convince herself to cross the line between harmless (though admittedly unchaste and immoral) teenage kissing and giving herself permission to let me go where no other man had gone, aside from her husband.

But she wouldn’t.

She couldn’t.

The second my hands would begin to wander, or my mouth move below her collar bone, she’d gasp lightly, snap to attention and firmly guide me away.

I won’t tell you how I desperately loved her sense of discipline and her adherence to her unique brand of morality, despite moaning into my ear all the ways in which she missed being pregnant.

It was these flagrant little lustful violations of decency and betrayal of loyalty to her husband, in her own home, in her own kitchen that were responsible for many nights of ruined laundry for both of us.

This was forbidden fruit that, up to that point, I hadn’t known I required. And now desperately.

Let’s skip over the part where we’d kiss until her knees would give out and she’d nearly collapse, half asleep against the lower drawers of her kitchen cabinet, completely lost in the depraved bliss of having the full attention and weight of a man other than her husband between her thighs.

Kate was her first name, but she got the “Sister Kate” moniker at a YW camp one summer, and it stuck after a testimony meeting that seemed designed to re-brand her from “Sister X, the second counselors wife” to “Sister Kate, youthful, attractive, fun, deeply devoted mother and caring, faithful YW counselor.”

She was already hard to ignore, but her new nickname had a way of making her even more noticeable.

Sister Kate would tease me mercilessly, but her guiding principle seemed to be “nothing below the neck”, and she’d admit as much while texting late one night, after another particularly close call.

As I suspected, while growing up, her parents had strict rules, and, good Mormon girl that she always was, the only man she had ever allowed to violate that boundary was her now-husband. And strictly for procreation.

Sexual pleasure and exploration of any kind had been shamed in all of its many various hydra headed forms.

“No kissing. No necking. No petting. No happiness.”

(I added that last one.)

But, details . . .

I’m getting ahead of myself . . .

—

As time marched on, I’d continue to doubt my initial perception of Sister Kate.

She couldn’t be interested.

Not in me.

She shouldn’t be.

My perverted interpretations of her body language, her bare feet under the bench, her wry little smiles, it all had to be distorted.

Had to be.

Our little neighborly run-ins were complicated further by the fact that most of the time she’d be hand-in-hand with her husband.

Pleasant, not necessarily happy.

Kind, but not necessarily friendly.

Always deferring to him.

As she should.

They’d stop, she’d take a subtle step behind him. Stare blankly, shyly at her shoes, distancing herself from the situation while her talkative, cocky, borderline obnoxious husband would railroad the conversation.

It was on one of these walks, sans husband, where somehow we wound up on the same side of the street, walking opposing directions. The thunder rolled above and it was beginning to rain, so we hadn’t hardly even seen one another until we both looked up, only a few feet away.

She smiled and I nodded a greeting, expecting it to only last a moment just like it had all the other times. Surprisingly and very uncharacteristically she started asking about my work and telling me about hers. Turns out she had some issues transferring data from an old computer to her new one, etc, etc…

But I knew that I could help her.

“Fuck.”

Somehow, between her being married and up to that point hilariously and enduringly cold to me—and me being as equally scarce and avoidant—we managed to awkwardly exchange phone numbers so that I could send her a link or instructions on how to fix the technical issue.

It was never discussed or even assumed that I’d in any way physically enter her home.

Nor had I wanted to.

In fact, it didn’t take long to forget all about the little exchange.

Now . . .

I’ve never been one to accept the entirety of the gospel.

I could appreciate the guidance and the structure, but it had been years since I had “felt” any true connection to anything religious, so I had nearly stopped attending altogether.

But it wasn’t long after hanging up my tie after church a week later when I noticed a new message on my phone.

Sister Kate:

Sorry to bug you. Is there any chance you can come help transfer my files?

Me:

. . .

It didn’t take long for me to realize that, while sister Kate hadn’t so much as looked at me once during sacrament, the second counselor happened to be “absent this week on business” and this must be the only reason she felt comfortable asking right now.

Double fuck.

I don’t think I’m unique in this, but I sort of have this “self sabotage” programming that’s always running in the back of my mind. Part protection mechanism, sure. But it’s also part moral programming that comes from having grown up in the church and “being good” for so many years.

He seemed to always be home, therefore she was off limits, therefore I’d never need to even think of her. Clean. Done. Perfect.

But not this week.

Her husband wasn’t in town.

Therefore: no safeguard to protect me from myself.

Or Sister Kate from Kate.

During the coming months, just hearing the words “brother so and so is absent this week on business” would nearly destroy me.

Both of us, in fact.

If only the brethren had any clue what intense feelings that simple little series of words would ignite within me and the second counselor’s wife . . .

If only they had known.

If only they knew.

—

Sister Kate’s lust would manifest that week in sacrament meeting with a gnawing, rhythmic, pulsing sensation at the base of her spine.

She knew that the absence of her husband shouldn’t open up this door to her.

It never had.

It hadn’t.

It wouldn’t.

But there was something that hearing it spoken over the pulpit for the entire congregation to hear—for me to hear— that made her feel . . .

Electric?

Excited? . . .

Vulnerable?

I know this because she explained to me one star-filled night how when I kiss the side of her neck, “just below my ear” she would “feel that same electric pulse” that had made her toes curl while sitting in church that day.

She explained how over the years she convinced herself that these feelings were from the spirit.

The butterflies in her tummy.

The gnawing ache between her thighs.

The burning in her . . .

—

I’ll admit it was a bit disorienting to see Sister Kate walking to church that next week, hand-in-hand with her husband.

She was overly modest, perfectly made up, and entirely aloof as she strode along, this week in a bright, youthful dress.

Mormon women have this fantastic, effortless way of appearing like they just stepped out of a J. Crew catalog.

Hair spray.

Leadership positions.

Sacraments.

Fasting.

Tithing.

Eyeliner.

Raw nipples.

Blush.

Soaked garments.

Aching thighs.

Hymns.

Impure thoughts.

Broken vows of chastity.

Unquenched lust.

Motherly duties.

If there’s such a thing as madness, this is it.

The long valley between all of the “should’s” and the “absolutely never, not in a million years ‘should not’s’”.

Knowing exactly what it takes to be a good girl in the eyes of God.

But wrestling with the excruciating conflict of knowing the absolute mind-numbing bliss of being bad.

Of being naughty.

The gentle pressure of a finger against the silky garments between neglected thighs.

The throbbing euphoria.

The unrelenting ache.

And then the shame.

The biting, delicious torture of what it means to be a living, breathing, daughter of God, and sister of Satan.

Sister Kate could have ended this.

Ended this before it turned into the beautiful disaster that our . . . mutual, neighborly friendship has morphed into over the past year . . .

Heaven knows a good Mormon girl would have.

But instead, she sent me that message.

She dipped her toe in.

She let herself indulge; if just for a moment.

Against her better judgement.

Behind his back.

Whoever “he” is.

God. Husband.

It was all the same shame.

No.

She shouldn’t.

She’d feel the ache between her thighs and tear her scriptures open to a random chapter; a random verse.

Just like she learned in seminary.

She’d “Feast on the words of Christ!”

She’d drop to her knees!

She’d pray for as long and as hard as she could.

She’d beg for forgiveness.

Beg for god to make her husband see her.

Weep.

Tremble.

She’d let her dripping mascara and quivering lips be evidence to the contriteness of her heart.

She’d lose herself in the guilt and shame and regret of ever having let herself feel weak from me.

Every ounce of it.

And when her knees were bruised and her mascara was a mess, and she didn’t know what else to do or say or how else to bargain with God to remove this temptation, this lust from herself, she’d . . .

Get out her phone.

She’d pray a little prayer asking for forgiveness.

And then she’d send me a message.

And she’d regret it.

Just like she had regretted the message she sent me that first Sunday.

I know because she told me she did.

She had to.

Has to.

Every time.

She promises.

Over and over again.

It’s a crucial part of repentance.

She regrets me in the most delicious of ways.

Nearly every day of the week.

——

Full disclosure:

This is entirely a work of fiction and fantasy.

I don’t know Sister Kate.

I don’t know what bra size she wears.

I don’t know what the perfume on her neck smells like, or what brand she prefers.

I don’t know how much her pedicures cost, or that she feels more comfortable wearing tights, despite having perfect legs and cute feet and toes.

I don’t know if she’s adjusted her strict moral code to allow for my hands to wander between her thighs “as long as we keep our clothing between us.”

I don’t know if she’d still feel worthy enough to wear The Armor of God after spending an afternoon in her living room during a particularly bad thunderstorm, or what I’d do if she pretended to sleep, cuddled next to me while subtly parting her thighs, or if I’d stop her if she grabbed my hand and rested it between them before rocking her burning hot hips into my finger tips for the next hour, or how disappointed I’d be if she flew off the couch when she remembered that he would be home “sooner than she realized”. And “thank goodness for this storm” because “the roads must be a mess” while she frantically fixed her makeup.

The makeup that I’d undoubtedly make a mess of if she were anything other than imaginary.

A mess like the mess she’d have between her thighs after our every interaction. Not that I’d know.

I have no clue how I’d react if she texted me throughout the workday behind her husband’s back.

Or how I’d respond to messages like:

“Is this bra cute?”

Should I wear this to church on Sunday?

“Come make a baby?”

I don’t know if she still struggles with the finer points of her Latter Day Saint morality, or whether she routinely questions if it’s “more appropriate to wear a bra over the garments, or under them”.

I don’t know whether or not I’d be able to behave like a responsible neighbor if our homes were close enough that, if we both opened our blinds, we practically had an unobstructed view into one another’s master bedrooms.

I couldn’t tell you how her moral compass may be calibrated differently when it comes to performative sexuality vs her in-person, physical sexuality.

For instance: I wouldn’t know if she’d feel comfortable opening her bedroom window and shamelessly undressing to her garments before lying back on her bed, the bed where she sleeps with her husband, before slowly rubbing herself into oblivion while she’d text me photos of herself and smile from across the distance spanning our homes as I’d look on.

Since Sister Kate is entirely a figment of my imagination, I couldn’t possibly know her panty size, much less what fabric she prefers to wear when her husband isn’t home—especially to church on Sundays in his absence—or whether or not she wears them at all.

I wouldn’t know, because she isn’t ever sitting there in “her pew”, across from mine, finding creative ways to secretly angle her legs in my direction before parting her thighs in order for me to steal a glance.

I wouldn’t know that she has a secret obsession with finding little excuses to visit me while her husband isn't only in town, but at home.

I couldn’t possibly know if she ever “needed a cup of sugar” for her famous cookie recipe.

The one that had been passed down from generation to generation in her family.

And I wouldn’t know how to respond if she routinely left little pieces of her wardrobe behind for me after these visits.

An earring here, a mismatched pair of socks there.

Sister Kate doesn’t exist, so she could never stand at my doorstep in a tight, crisp, clean pair of black leggings, with a fresh plate of chocolate chip cookies last night and wait for me to invite her inside.

It goes without saying that I could never know how sweet Sister Kate’s lips taste covered in melted white chocolate.

And I can only imagine in my wildest dreams how it might feel to watch the perfect little blonde Mormon mom next door sip from a sacrament cup while she smiles up at her husband, literally so full of happiness and my cum that she has to leave sacrament meeting a few minutes early.

I wouldn’t know that because she didn’t stop by my house on the way to church this morning.

If she did though, it would be a shame how her husband is always too busy running from meeting to meeting and obligation to obligation to pay his beautiful wife any attention.

And if that were the case, I’m sure he’d be disappointed to know that his innocent, dutiful, god-fearing wife of 8 years decided that today she’d shift her moral compass a few more degrees in the wrong direction.

But of course, none of this happened.

She didn’t start birth control a week ago, and I didn’t wear a condom this morning when she decided to lift her little dress up over her hips and drop her garment bottoms to floor.

And especially if the bishop asks: she didn’t look me in the eye with a serious, breathless smile as she lowered her hips into mine.

I can stand as a witness before God that Sister Kate absolutely did not dig her nails into my chest as she gasped and moaned and begged me to fill her with my cum just before Sacrament meeting this morning.