Boob Assault in the Wintergarden

The wintergarden was quiet, warm with filtered sunlight and the earthy scent of herbs. Tucker sat on the wooden bench, Bible open in his lap, eyes scanning Psalm 51 with the desperate intensity of a drowning man clinging to driftwood. Then came the sound of bare feet on tile, light as temptation itself.

Tuva: “Ohh, wintergarden Bible time. That’s so you.” Before he could react, she flopped down onto his lap with the easy confidence of someone who’d done it a hundred times. Her sheer sundress settled around her thighs like it was posing for a painting, and Tucker let out a panicked squeak.

Tuva: “What are you reading, baby boy?” She leaned in, warm breath brushing his cheek, her chest pressing softly against his. Her perfume—sweet and vanilla-laced—saturated his senses like a sin he was too weak to confess.

Tucker: “P-Psalms. Comfort. Discipline. Purity. Stuff like that.” His voice cracked halfway through “purity.”

Tuva: “Do you find me comforting, Tucker? Or just… distracting?” She shifted slightly, innocently, but her thighs tightened around his.

Tucker: “They’re… present. Very present.” He gripped the edge of the bench like it was a lifeline.

Tuva, mock concerned: “You’re so squirmy. Is it my boobs? They’re not that big. I mean… they do knock over cups sometimes…”

Tucker’s internal monologue: “This is a test. This is one of those biblical tests. Like Abraham. Except instead of a mountaintop, it’s boobs. And thighs. And no escape.”

Tuva: “You want me, don’t you?” Her fingers traced lazy loops on his chest, her voice feather-soft but sharp as a hook.

Tucker: “I—I can’t—I mean, no! I mean yes! I mean that’s not the point!”

Tuva: “Aww, come on. Don’t lie. That’s a sin, right? What’s it called? The Ten Flirtaments?”

Tucker: “Commandments.”

Tuva: “Exactly. So be honest. Do. You. Want. Me?”

Tucker exhaled like he’d just been stabbed. His mouth moved before his brain could intervene: “Yes.”

Tuva squealed and hugged him tightly, practically burying him in warmth and joy: “Knew it! Oh my little preacher crush! You’re so cute when you’re melting!”

Tucker: “But it’s wrong. I—I shouldn’t want you. You make me think… things. Bad things.”

Tuva, mock gasp: “Oh no. Thought crimes. Then we should definitely seal the deal with a little kiss.” She closed her eyes and leaned in. Tucker’s breath caught. Then her lips brushed his—soft, warm, sweet. He should’ve pulled away. He didn’t. Her tongue slipped into his mouth like it belonged there. He moaned against her before he could stop himself.

Tucker’s internal monologue: “Stop. Pull away. This is wrong. It’s amazing. It’s hell. It’s heaven. I can’t move. She smells like flowers and regret. Stop, Tucker. Stop.”

Tuva shifted, body warm and heavy against him, and suddenly every fiber of his shorts was screaming. She moaned softly into the kiss, then gently pulled back and nestled into his chest with a sigh, like the whole thing had been a bedtime routine.

Tuva: “You’re a really good lap, you know that?”

Tucker, barely audible: “I’m not supposed to feel like this…”

Tuva: “Like what?”

Tucker, shame in every syllable: “Like… like I love you.”

She lifted her head in pleased surprise but said nothing. Just curled in tighter. Her leg folded over his thigh, her cheek resting on his shoulder. She hummed softly, like a lullaby for sin.

Then, she kissed his neck—just once, featherlight. It sent a shiver down his spine so strong he thought he might fall apart right there. She giggled, sleepy and naughty.

Tuva: “You’re so sensitive. It’s adorable.”

He didn’t move. Couldn’t. His arms slowly, hesitantly wrapped around her waist, barely touching. His forehead touched her hair, lips whispering the only prayer he could manage: “Forgive me.”