Worship leader erotica

Dallas St. John enters the sanctuary, carrying his guitar case, also he is carrying pain, in his heart. Because of love.

Sadie Grace Jasmine sits alone at the piano on the stage, her ringless fingers caressing the keys with a longing tenderness. So many keys, but where is the key that unlocks her heart?

Dallas walks across the stage and gently sets his guitar case on the floor. He is wearing a leather jacket and tastefully distressed jeans, the kind of thing someone would wear if they were very cool but didn’t even have to try. Yep, that’s Dallas, all right. I heard you like reckless love, he whispers sexily.

Sadie does not turn around. But she responds, because she heard what Dallas said, and knows that he is right there. A woman’s intuition. I’m not that kind of worship leader, she says, running her fingertips across her white cami.

I can make you shout to the North, Dallas replies softly.

Sadie’s hands slide off the piano. I’m a big girl, Dallas. I can shout to the North all by myself.

Dallas takes Sadie in his arms and turns her around to face him. Also, he walked over to the piano, where she was. That happened first. He looks deep into her eyes, which are very beautiful, like two precious gems that are the color of Sadie’s irises.

Why did you invite me to Passion? he demands.

Sadie’s heart races; she is overwhelmed by various emotions. Her bosoms heave up and down, but no one can see them, because of the cami and her other layers of clothing.

I’m not a hymnal, Dallas. You can’t just use me once a week for four minutes to get to the songs you really want to sing.

Dallas turns away and runs his fingers through waves of silken hair. His hair. Sadie’s hair is in a messy bun, but not in a schoolmarmish way; in a hot way, like maybe there’s a pencil up there holding it together and when she takes it out her hair cascades down perfectly in slow motion and she’s turning her head from side to side with her eyes closed because of desire or something.

Dallas faces Sadie once more. Also, he has a bandana twisted around his neck like a necklace. And one of those leather cuff watches, the thick ones that cover your whole wrist. He is an amply accessorized man.

I’m not just going to sing like a trained monkey, Sadie. I know we just heard the greeting from the associate pastor, and the teaching pastor is waiting to preach a whole sermon, but before I start the worship I’M GOING TO TAKE THE MIC AND SHARE WHAT’S ON MY HEART

A chill shoots down Sadie’s spine. Quivering, she leans into Dallas. This man was like a set of real, live drums. Not the fake electric ones that they use so they can turn the volume down so the old people won’t get scared. Dallas was real. And there was no use trying to put him in one of those little closets with the clear plastic panels to muffle the sound.

Sadie presses her body fully into his. They are, like, actually touching. Front to front. There is no room left for the Holy Spirit. She lifts her lips to his ear.

Did you feel the mountains tremble? She whispers.

Dallas touches her cheek. This was the kind of woman that would make you trade your trucker hat for a fedora.

I’m raising a hallelujah, Dallas says, still sexily.

*Weekly-ish articles are free; periodic special articles are behind the paywall. Substack won’t let me set the monthly subscription lower than $5, so I made the yearly subscription $30, which is $2.50 a month, which seems about right. Thanks for reading :)