She-Devil In Church

My name is Theo. Well, I was born Teodoro Juarez, but everyone calls me Theo. I'm a bricklayer.

And I'm married. Recently married, in fact. I married Sofia three years ago, long enough to get comfortable with married life, but we're still in the honeymoon phase. We have a son. He's not quite two. I keep telling myself this: I have a son and a wife and I love them both.

I remind myself all the time because I recently betrayed her and it's really bothering me. The woman I'm seeing is toying with me. She's a dangerous goddamn whore. She gets under my skin in ways that - oh! I can't put it to words. I never thought a woman could turn me inside-out like she does.

I don't love her. But she's intoxicating, like some motherfucking bad-ass drug. And I met her in church of all places! Yeah.

I'm from simple country folk. A Mexican cowboy in Texas, really more of a Tejano. I was raised in a protestant, Spanish-speaking church in Houston. That's where I learned my trade.

But the company I used to work for had a lot of work in Austin and I really liked the town. And that's where I met my wife. Crazy me, I asked Sofia to marry me. I quit my job and started my own business. Yep, independent contractor. But I needed contacts for business and that was another advantage to marrying Sofia.

I married into her church, another protestant, Spanish-language church. This one was in the suburbs south of Austin.

When we married, I was 26 and Sofia was 22. I'll let you do the math.

From the start, I noticed a woman there. She was so beautiful, but mature. I would have guessed in her mid-30s. I learned later that she was 33 yrs old at the time of our first meeting. She had two young daughters.

I didn't know her name, but I'm like any guy in that I like to look at a pretty woman. And that she was, and is. And not in a slutty way, at least not in public. But in private, oh my god.

She has a beautiful face, a strong jawed, broad-nosed, noble face with high round cheekbones and a symmetrical forehead. Great symmetry throughout the face. You can see she comes from Mexican-Native Indian stock. Thick, wavy, long black hair.

Tall for a Mexican woman, about 5 feet 8 inches. I would've estimated her weight at 175 pounds. Curvy and athletic figure. Muscle-toned arms and legs. Hairy arms, and I would imagine her shaving her legs. I guess that's how she made my cock twinge the first time.

Measurements of 42D-32-44. Dark brown eyes and clean, fine-line eyebrows. Heavy eyeshadow with colors that always matched the dress she wore. And she wore dresses and skirts, never saw her in slacks.

High-heels and nylon stockings with rose petal embroidered seams up the back of her sturdy legs. Her dresses were always knee-length but well cut. They hugged her thighs and hips.

She wore sleeveless blouses and buttoned up the front and she always showed cleavage with a gold cross pendant resting - when it wasn't jiggling - on her chest.

This woman had a gait to her walk that was mesmerizing. She strided by as if she were gliding. There was a steady, purposeful balance to her walk. Confident, like a big cat. Predatory once you got caught in her eyes. She seemed to always be taking the measure of people around her - men, women.

She had no female friends from what I could tell. She came in every Sunday and sat with her two young daughters. No man sat with her and the women didn't talk to her. But she was involved

in church.

During the music program, she would go up with the band and strum the electric bass guitar. The other musicians were young men, boys really, all of them in their late teens or very early twenties. They seemed to look up to her and whenever I happened to see them rehearse there was an easy-going banter between them.

Friendly, but innocent.

I was curious about her, but not enough to ask my new wife or anyone else. I watched her from afar.

But there was something odd about the dynamic in that church. Some of the men leered at her, I thought, a bit too obviously. And the woman always

acted like she wasn't there. Looking away from her, keeping their children away from her daughters. Sometimes I'd even hear disapproving whispers.

I chalked it up to jealousy - she was younger and beautiful. They were fat, or old, or old and fat, prudish, long past their prime, and poorly dressed in clothes that exaggerated the covering of the body to the point of baggy and altogether sexless.

The woman alone had breasts that were unbearably heavy with delicious chocolate milky sweetness and her ruby painted lips were full of tantalizing promise. She had an endearing way of pouting with her lips as if she were trying to smirk and kiss at the same time.

There were other women in church that were pretty, but they were plain next to her. Even my sweet little Sofia.

This church is a working man's church. Most of the men are in the construction trades. Concrete formers, tilers, roofers, carpet layers, mechanics, air condition repairmen, sheet metal fabricators, landscapers, a couple of truckers and some farm hands.

They're simple men who for the most part are sincerely trying to be men of good character and do right by their families.

I made friend with a carpet layer. Manuel Palacios. He was my age and also recently married. We'd go bowling together and his family had been in this area for years.

He always struck me as a nice guy, so it came as a shock to me one day when we were sitting next to each other in the social hall, breaking bread as they say - having a communal lunch after morning service.

The beautiful woman walked by and my curiosity got to me. I nudged Manuel and asked him, 'What's her name?'

He looked at me quizzically, like he was looking at me for the first time.

"What?" I asked. And feeling defensive, adding, "It's just a question."

He looked around us, as if to make sure no one was listening, the leaned into me and whispered, "Her name is Isabel Manchaca, and if you know what's good for you, you'll stay the fuck away from her."

My eyebrows did a bounce off his warning and I said, "Hey, sorry. I just see her here all the time and I don't know anything about her. Everyone seems to steer clear of her. What's the deal?"

"She's a whore man, she's a fucking whore."

"What? Come on! Really, why you talking like that?" I was stunned at his harshness. It was such an un-Christian remark. "How do you know what she is?"

He kept whispering, "Because my dad bangs her, and so do a lot of other men around here. She's bad news man. She's like the dirty secret in our

church family. Look, it's your business what you do, but you've got a really sweet wife. Don't mess it up, stay away from the fucking whore."

"Okay, yea. Hey, if you say she's a ... that way, good enough for me." And I let it go. But that piece of news just opened up a lot of questions.

Like, if she's really that bad, why is she in church? And why do the women put up with her? And is it really true that a lot of the men here bang her? Wow! Such a wicked, immoral undercurrent of that in a place like this?

Isabel - now I had a name - had a slight pot belly. It was not enough to make her look fat. It was a motherly, mature stomach. Not flat, but full, the stomach of a woman who had born children and had recovered enough of her form to make her look voluptuous.

But whorish? No. She had a kind face, sometimes it was very kind. She was very loving with children and open and expressive with the bad.

But this knew knowledge, that she was a whore, cast a darkness over my image of her. Was she fucking those boys? Who was she fucking? Was she really as bad as Manuel said? I found myself looking her way more and more. And when she noticed my gaze and looked back, I stopped turning my head away.

I would look and she would look and our eyes would lock for long seconds. What must she think of my curiosity, I wondered. Her expression had always before been obliviously placid, as if looking through me, if she looked at all. But now, she gave me a smile. And my heart raced. Is a whore smiling at me?

Enough! I'd break my eyes off her and fight the involuntary sensation of blushing.

How was she having sex? Where? With how many men? She was married, and still wore the wedding band. She was married with children!

It all seemed so unlikely, so out of whack what Manuel had said. I trusted him, but I had to know for myself.

I strayed away from a Bible study group one day when she walked by. I followed her and caught up with her as she walked up the stairs. I wanted to speak to her but the words wouldn't come.

We got to the top of the stairs and I was right behind her. She stopped at the top, looking over her right shoulder down the hall. I walked up next to her and passed her, afraid to be so obvious as to approach her directly with such an inappropriate question.

Pardon me, but are you a fucking whore? I couldn't say it! Certainly not like that. How then? But I kept walking past her and wondered why she stopped. what was she going? Where was I going?!

I had come up with no other purpose and the hall was empty, if I kept walking, how would I explain my purpose for being up here? Why should I have to explain my purpose? Agh!

I stopped at the first door on the left. It led to the media control room in what once was the mezzanine, but now converted to project images and music on and from the stage of the main sanctuary.

"What are you looking for?"

It was her speaking, but to who? I looked back, at her and asked. "Are you talking to me?"

She smiled and walked up to me and put her hand on the door knob and opened it. Want to go in here?

I blushed. In there? With her? Alone, just the two of us? Oh God.

"Uh, no. I uh I was just uhm," I had no words, I was floundering and blushing.

"You have a pretty wife," she told me. To which I hung my head and sighed and said, "Yes, yes I do."

"You're not ready for me," she said.

I looked up and into her eyes. They looked kind, but calculating. I nodded a yes, sheepishly.

"Enjoy your wife, while you can, the way she is now," she said.

I thought I understood what she meant, but I wasn't sure. It could have had more than one meaning. This place. This church and the people in it, they weren't as simple as I thought.

There were games being played here. Wicked games. And there was something in the woman that made me feel like my happiness existed at her discretion.

"I ... I should go," I said. But I stood there, unmoving.

"Yes," she said. "You should go ... now?"

I couldn't stand it. I had to ask, get to some kernel of truth about her. I was in suspense about who I was dealing with. She seemed to be confirming everything Manuel said. Or was she?

"I uh, I never see your husband. Why doesn't he come?" I asked.

"He doesn't belong here," she said softly. She smiled a sweet but melancholy smile, then she said, "He doesn't like church. He wasn't raised like I was."

"And how were you raised?" I asked.

"Here. My parents raised me here, in this church. It's where I belong, even if some people think otherwise."

"Do your parents still come here? I never see you with them."

"Yes, they're here two Sundays a month. They split their Sundays between this church and another church. They sit on the pew across the aisle from where I sit. We're not as close as we used to be."

Fuck it, I thought, she's open to opening up, I'll just ask it.

"I've heard, and uhm I was wondering, I know I ... huhh ... shouldn't and forgive me if ... are you a, uh sleep around?"

"Am I a woman of ill repute?" she said, only to acknowledge my question.

I nodded and my color deepened.

"I may have something of a libertine lifestyle, but my survival in this community - and this is as much my community as anyone's - requires that

I observe the utmost discretion.

"The least I can do is not be obvious in front of the wives. I try not to flaunt my attributes or my intentions."

"Secret slut, huh?" I said with a grin and as soon as I said it a blur of a hand swatted the side of my head so hard I was stumbling back before I realized what happened.

She stepped into me and I'm a young strong man but I felt intimidated. She knew how to wield power. She bared her teeth and all that sweetness was gone in an instant. "You don't have the right to speak to me that way. You get to say that when I SAY you get to say THAT! Understood?"

I nodded and straightened myself up, trying not to cower. "Yes, yes. I understand. I I'm sorry, it was .... I shouldn't have. I'm terribly sorry."

She pivoted, turned her back to me and walked away.

* * * * *

That evening as I lay in bed with my wife I brought up the subject. "Sofia, what do you know about Isabel Manchaca?"

She was laying with her upper body in my right arm and in the instant I said that woman's name I felt her stiffen and prop herself up on her left elbow.

"Why do you want to know about her?!" I looked and her eyes were accusatory and fearful. I didn't expect such a sudden and strong response but I was prepared to push forward.

"She's there every Sunday and the woman always avoid her, and so do you. She seems like a nice person, I was just wondering. Don't be so defensive."

Sofia gathered herself, sat up with legs folded under her and hugged her arms.

"I have every right to be defensive. THAT! is an evil woman and you need to stay away from her!"

I felt an obligation to change posture, sit up and meet the seriousness of her body language.

"Honey, I was just wondering why there's this, well, there seems to be a lot of tension over that woman and your reaction just confirms my suspicion. Jeez, what did she do that was so bad?"

"Theo, she's a whore. And not just any kind of whore. She's dangerous. She, she ruined everything here!"

"Whoa, wait, wow. Everything? What that hell does that mean?" And now I was recalling how Isabel handled herself when we were alone. I felt a dread come over my soul.

Sofia's lips started trembling. I could see she wanted to speak but the words wouldn't form. Her eyes filled with tears and she pressed her hands into her face and wailed. I hugged her and tried to comfort her. When she settled down, she pulled away from me and jumped out of bed.

She went to her purse laying on top of the dresser drawer and pulled out her photo wallet and hopped back in bed, opening the wallet.

She showed me the portrait photo of a pretty young lady.

"Sniff! see this?" she said as you cleared her nose.

I nodded yes without speaking.

"This is Naomi," she said in a tone that was so pitifully mournful, as if she were speaking of a dead loved one.

"Naomi is Isabel's cousin. But she's near my age. She would be, oh, 23 now." Sofia took a deep breath and went on. "We were best friends."

There was a long silence and the folded the wallet and clutched it to her chest.

"Naomi looked up to Isabel. Like a big sister. She admired Isabel in every way. Her cool confidence and discipline. Isabel is a very strong person. A woman of strong character and she is thoughtful and she can seem very considerate.

"But her heart belongs to the Devil. Everything she does has some ulterior motive that is opposed to God's will.

"She helped Naomi find a boyfriend. She talked Naomi into marrying him. But he was wrong for her. He was only put in her path so that Isabel could manipulate her and lead her into wickedness.

"Naomi's new husband was just another one of Isabel's lovers, but Naomi didn't know that. So it was a shock to her when her husband asked Naomi to invite her cousin Isabel to perform a threesome."

"Naomi didn't want to, but this was her husband so she gave it thought. And because she trusted Isabel, she confided to her his wish, assuming that Isabel would also be shocked and reject it. But Isabel was not shocked. The whore! Isabel gently told Naomi that this was something she would be willing to do to help the marriage."

"'But what about your marriage, Isabel,' Naomi asked. Isabel pretended to be troubled by that, but she concluded that she could live with it. Yes, she could take the risk to help Naomi."

"Once Isabel was in Naomi's bed, she taught her to do things. Wicked things."

"What kind of wicked things," I asked.

"Shameless things, oh wicked things. Naomi would consent to being sodomized. She had homosexual sex with Isabel while her wicked husband would indiscriminately have intercourse with both women. I know this because Naomi would confess it to me in a state of shock and shame. Oh, she was mortified about the turn of events. She was worried, I can tell you!"

"I would tell her to leave him. But she kept going back to him. 'I can't leave him. He's my husband. I love him.' That was always her reply."

"This went on for several months. Then Isabel stopped going to her bed. But she stopped going only because her husband started bringing one of the deacons, another one of Isabel's sex partners. Naomi was having sex with two men, and in her marriage bed!"

"She would come to see me, wringing her hands and filled with guilt and confusion. Sometimes she would admit that it felt good. But she knew it was wrong. She wanted it to stop and sometimes she would tell her husband to at least slow down. Did it have to happen every weekend?"

"Wow, oh God!" I exclaimed, and to my consternation, Sofia's story was giving me an erection.

"It just kept getting worse. So much worse. Some of the men at church would whisper into Naomi's ear, sexually suggestive comments. She walked about with shame, knowing that the men in her bed were sharing their bedroom secrets with others. And after a few months the first deacon was replaced with another.

"And after a few more months he was replaced with yet another. That wicked husband of her's was passing her around, getting her to do threesomes not with just her husband and one other man, but a series of hypocritical horny old bastards. I'm sorry, I'm just so agitated now."

I rubbed Sofia's neck and said, "I'm sorry I brought this up. Maybe you should just drop it. I get the point."

"No, no, no. YOU don't. It gets worse. And you have to know. I should have told you sooner. Because you're one of us now and you need to understand."

"One day, Naomi's husband took her with him to a meeting at church and led her into the conference room. And there to Naomi's terror were the four men Naomi's husband had pressured her into having sex with. And another three men.

"There are eight men involved in Isabel's clique. It's been the same eight men for years. Isabel was there, too.

"And in this meeting, Isabel sat with Naomi and with Naomi's husband at her side Isabel told her that she, Isabel, was a slut and that all these men fucked her all the time. And now they were going to do the same to Naomi. Naomi told me later that she never suspected. As bad as she felt about what she was doing she never thought she was just being used.

"But she told me that her flesh was weak. She had been desensitized to many things and had been given sex in such doses that for her it had become like some illegal narcotic. She was terrified, by virtue of the carnal knowledge she already had, that they would make her into a slut.

"She wrestled against their hold and protested the intentions that they were carrying out. But they stripped her naked and Isabel got naked and lay next to her on top of the conference room table and held Naomi's head in her wicked arms, pressing her face into Isabel's full chest, and making her kiss her, and caressing her hair and every time Naomi tried to kick a man away Isabel settled her down again.

"They took turns. Every one of theme quickly having intercourse with her like some wicked game of musical chairs. Naomi said Isabel would count to 66 and only let each man thrust into her up to the 66 count and then the next man would come into her. And each time a man went in, Isabel would draw a star across Naomi's left thigh with a black marker.