George Russell 8x Race Winner Apologist

He had always been so good with the church kids. It was one of the big reasons why he captured your heart all those months ago, luring you into that silly little crush you held for him like something sacred. Even now—a few short weeks since starting your salacious little agreement—watching him with the kids made your heart feel fuzzy. 

As you helped him to stack the chairs back up, you said softly, “That went well.”

He smiled at you, still housing that sweethearted persona that he carried flawlessly for the congregation, “It did. It was nice to see Ernie speaking up more; he’s always been more of an observer. I’ve been working on getting him out of his shell.”

“He had some pretty profound thoughts.”

“He does. He just has to be given the courage and the space to share them.”

“Well, I think you did just that wonderfully.”

George placed the last chair on the stack and then set his hand on his hips as he turned to you with that calm air of confidence about him, “Means a lot coming from you.”

The church fellowship hall was incredibly quiet in the late Thursday evening. Being the lead pastor’s son, George was entrusted with the keys and would know how to lock up once everything was tidy. There wasn’t a soul around. The thought both terrified and thrilled you all at once. 

He drifted past you easily and grabbed the last few unopened juice boxes from the buffet table to return them to the fridge in the kitchenette. There wasn’t much else you saw that needed to be done so you lingered awkwardly in the middle of the room, watching him through the pass-through dividing the hall from the kitchenette. George closed the fridge and gave the counters a final wipe down before flicking off the lights and returning to you. 

It felt almost magnetic how he reached to take your hands in his, those piercing blue eyes staring into yours as he said, “I have to polish the silverware for tomorrow night’s mass. Care to help?”

More time with him 1-1? You certainly wouldn’t say no. 

George closed up the hall and you followed him up the stairs into the main church. Most of the lights were already shut off; all except the spot lights shining down on the raised chancel and its formal altar beneath the sculpture of Christ on the cross. Truly like a beacon. 

It always stirred something warm in your chest when you had the permission to ascend onto the chancel, where Pastor Steve conducted his worship and where the light of the Lord shone down. George navigated it like it was no more than another room in his house—well, after his quick kneel and sign of the cross at the bottom step, of course—removing the silverware from the sacristy off to the side. 

You took your time to kneel before the altar, until your knee touched the marble step, head bowed as you performed the sign of the cross. Then, you walked up the steps slowly to join him in his chore. 

George emerged from the sacristy with an armful of silverware—chalaces and bowls and plates—and arranged them out on the altar table. Two polishing clothes were in his hand and he held one out to you with a smile that was as close to innocent as you could have thought. 

Neither of you spoke at first as you got to work, selecting a piece and rubbing it until it shone in the lights of the church. It felt domestic, in a way, like you might have imagined yourself at the sink in your martial home, washing dishes after supper while your kids watched television in the adjacent room. It was easy to fall into the romance of it all. Especially while going through the monotonous motions of polishing a wine glass. 

Your fingers clutched the cloth around the stem and rubbed it tightly up and down the length of it, your mind half zoned out in your daydreams. You hadn’t realized just how distant your mind was until you felt George suddenly crowding into your space. 

His arms went around you and his hands covered yours on the wine glass almost too smoothly, slender fingers wrapping around yours. His breath was warm against the shell of your ear, “Little faster. The silver is stubborn.”

You swallowed as he guided your hand to pump around the stem of the silver chalice faster, gripping it just a little tighter. It wasn’t lost on you what the motions mirrored, thinking back to how he taught you how to touch him in his childhood bedroom a few short weeks ago. With his chest pressed right up against your back, the memory was ever-present. 

And then he dusted a slow, barely-there kiss to your neck and you shivered. 

George removed his hands from yours to, instead, caress down the shape of your body, over your hips and then back up to your chest, feeling you over your shirt. You kept the chalice and polishing cloth in your hand, now motionless, your teeth sinking into your bottom lip as you stayed stiff beneath his implication. 

It was only when his hands started to slip under your shirt did you set the chalice and cloth down and reach to grab his wrist, stopping him, “I…can’t tonight,”

George took a half step back, letting you turn to face him as he asked simply, “Why not?”

“I, uh…” you shifted awkwardly in place and looked to your feet, hands clasped behind your back. Did you want to admit such intimate details to him so forwardly? Stealing yourself, you said finally, “I have a girl problem…”

George quirked his brow and leaned in, caging you against the altar as he set his hands on the edge of it on either side of your body,  “A girl problem?”

Your voice was barely a whisper, “Yeah, like…my monthlies.”

“Your monthlies,” George echoed with an amused chuckle, “You’re on your period? So what?”

“So it’s gross,” you mumbled and looked to the side. You could feel your cheeks blazing. No doubt he could see the blush on your face too. 

George didn’t answer you. Instead, he crouched down just enough to grab the backs of your thighs and hoisted you right up onto the altar table. You gasped in surprise as your feet left the ground and your arms flailed across the tablecloth to try and steady yourself just before you were plopped right down on top of it. A rouge wine glass rolled off the edge and clattered loudly onto the floor, echoing through the empty church.

No sooner had you managed to settle were his hands already itching up your skirt as he purred, “I don’t think the physical proof of the blessing of femininity and fertility that God bestowed upon you is gross.” 

“George,” you huffed.

He simply hummed in passive acknowledgment against your neck, mouthing against your throat, as his fingers curled into the waistband of your panties and he gave them a tug. But you were never one to deny him. In all honesty—even with your monthlies—you still had that pesky craving for him…the craving that only he could ever satisfy. So you shifted your weight clumsily side to side on the table to let him shimmy your panties down, pad and all. 

Despite your blazing cheeks, he hardly paid any mind as he let them drop to the floor at his feet. His mind was already made up. Neither you nor God could stop him. 

George wrapped his large hands around your thighs and pulled them upwards and outwards, forcing you to fall back on your forearms against the altar table with a gasp. You could feel the cool air of the church against your damp pussy, the mix of blood and arousal making for a dizzying combination. You were sure you looked a mess down there, a warzone. Was it shameful to say that you hadn’t even showered since the morning before?

Despite your swirling mind, George did not care in the slightest. Instead, he held your legs apart and leaned right down to press an open-mouthed kiss to your pussy. Shockwaves of pleasure tore through you at the first touch of his tongue and you shuddered under his tongue. Everything felt just that much more intense. Perhaps you could thank your cycle. 

Although you tried not to think about it too much, the vulgarity of it all, how George was getting his mouth on you while you bled. Your head tilted back to stare up to the vaulted ceiling of the church, mouth agape, gasping and panting as he held your legs splayed wide. 

George just moaned against you, being sloppy with it, the sounds sending a shiver up your spine as he made out with your cunt. When you managed to heave your head up to steal a look at him, his eyes met yours—blue dilated black—and when he pulled away for just a second to breathe, his mouth and lips were smeared in glistening red. Christ Almighty. 

“Oh my goodness…” you exhaled. 

He just grinned proudly and shoved your skirt up higher and pressed a sticky red kiss to your inner thigh before diving back in, smothering himself deeper. You swore your eyes were fucking rolling, toes curling. All while you had a front row seat to stare up at the sculpture of Jesus on the cross hanging on the wall above the altar. 

Part of you burned with shame but the red-hot desire seemed to overpower it in that moment. George’s hands tightened around your thighs and tugged you closer to the edge of the altar table, uncaring of the way the white tablecloth beneath you was smeared in rosy red. 

“You are…unbelievable…” you panted, managing to drop a hand down to grasp onto his hair.

George just moaned against you, lips and tongue smacking wetly before he pulled away just enough to speak against you, “We are taught that Christ’s blood is sacred. I don't see why yours shouldn’t be held to such a standard in His vision.”

It was a mind-boggling comparison: putting your blood and Christ’s on equal footing. If nothing else, it made your heart soar with the realization that maybe he was as crazy about you as you were for him. He had no shame, no restraint when it came to the levels he would go for you. All you could do was toss your head back and praise God. 

George made you come like it was easy, legs trembling where he held them firmly and body shuddering against the rumpled tablecloth. You could feel yourself dripping when he pulled away—blood or cum, you weren’t entirely sure—but it didn’t matter. Because he was standing in front of you with his hair a mess and his mouth stained red, and he was hurrying to unzip his slacks. 

Even though he was no longer holding you in place, you didn’t dare move. You weren’t sure what he was planning but you certainly wanted to find out. The trust you held for him was immense. 

He stepped closer between your spread legs and smeared his hand over your pussy to gather up enough natural lubrication for him to start to stroke his cock. It was dizzying, watching him get himself off with the mix of your fluids, and all you could do was rest there on your arms and let him. 

“Christ,” he swore to the empty church, voice tight, before his rhythm stuttered and he was coming right across your cunt. 

Your mouth dropped open at the sight of the milky streaks staining your flushed and red-stained pussy, just adding to the absolute mess of it and leaking down onto the altar table. For a moment, neither of you spoke as George tucked himself back into his slacks. Then, out of habit, you reached down with a want to touch but George grabbed your wrist tightly. 

“Ah, ah,” he warned, “leave it.”

“It’s leaking and it tickles,” you protested. 

“Yeah, but it’s so pretty, my sweet dove,” George cooed, sliding his hand away from your wrist to, instead, intertwine your fingers as he stared down between your parted legs, “Filthy girl. Just proof of your sin, hm?”

You bit your bottom lip shyly and batted your lashes up at him, “Yes, sir…”

He reached down to the floor and retrieved your panties and held them out to you, dangling from one finger, “Come on now. Get yourself decent.”

You accepted your underwear from him and hopped off the altar on slightly wobbly legs, struggling to step back into them without toppling over. George didn’t help you. He had disappeared back into the sacristy for a moment and returned wiping his face with a damp cloth like it had been nothing more than a delicious feast he had indulged in. 

“My parents are going to wonder where I am,” you said simply as he drifted past you, hardly sparing you a glance as you situated your panties back into place despite the uncomfortable wetness between your legs seeping into your pad. You tugged your skirt back down. 

“I’ll drive you home,” George replied, bending down to fetch the stray chalice that had fallen and he returned it to the table, “I’ll finish the polishing up myself after.”

You lingered at the altar and shifted in place, staring at his profile in the warm light. He could feel you staring but only offered you a glance once he had rearranged the silverware on the stained tablecloth. He leaned in to press a chaste kiss to your cheek but when you went to turn your face towards his for a proper kiss, he was already moving away. 

“Come, angel,” he called simply as he descended the steps into the darkened nave, “Let’s get you home.”

You glanced up one final time at the body of Christ hung above you and then followed after George like he could protect you from all you had done. 

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George thinks its so wonderful when he's like "I bought us a yacht!"

She sets the clothing in her hand down, "You what?"

And he comes over and opens up the folder and spreads it out over the laundry basket; showing off the brochure and the pictures and rambling on about it alld excited and proud. But her hand goes right for the invoice tucked in the back.

"Three million euros?!" she exclaims in horror.

"Yeah, I just went modest for us, I—"

"Modest?! In what world is three million euros modest, George?!"

Oh she's seething. And he's SO confused.

"...We have the money, love. I thought you'd be excited. We've been talking about how nice it would be to—"

"You bought a fucking yacht," she says simply, as if trying to get her brain around it, disbelief bleeding in her words, "You bought a fucking yacht without telling me."

"For a surprise." he presses.

"A bouquet of flowers is a surprise, George. A fucking yacht is...it's insane. You're insane." she shoves the invoice back into the folder and shuts it and shoves it at his chest, "And just making a purchase like that without consulting me?"

"It's my money."

That's what gets her.

"YOUR money?! Pardon me, didn't realize our marriage was so irrelevant to you!"

"Oh come on." George huffs.

"You can't just make these decisions without consulting me. I don't care if you have the money. I'm your wife. Did you forget?"

"I didn't forget!"

"Sure sounds like it."

"Why are you making this into a whole thing? You had told me before that you'd like to be out on the water more. I thought you'd be happy."

"Happy about you going behind my back to make this asinine purchase? Why would I be happy?"

"So we can go out on the water as a family! So our son can leave the house and still have some semblance of privacy!"

"It's the principle of it, George! We are in a marriage, we have to make big decisions like this together. What aren't you understanding about that?!"

"I wanted to do something nice for you!" he snaps, "Sorry it was such a fucking inconvenience."

"It just baffles me that you can just drop three million euros in an afternoon like you're buying a coffee."

"It's not that much."

"Ugh, stop it," she literally covers her ears for a second, "You're icking me out."

"Jesus Christ."

"It's bad enough we live in the only place where you can get away with avoiding paying taxes—God forbid—but now you're throwing around money like confetti. It's gross, George. Makes us look so out of touch."

"Who cares what anyone else thinks? We're happy, aren't we? We've worked for this so we deserve to make the most of it. I still donate to charities, you know that."

She presses the heels of her palms against her eyes, "Just stop talking. Please, for the love of God."

"I'm not going to apologize for wanting my family to have a wonderful life. I'm not going to apologize for having money and wanting to spend it. It's not like I'm doing anything in ill-taste with it. I bought a fucking boat, love. Relax."

"Don't tell me to relax!"

"Well you fucking need to," George huffs and turns away, "Can't fucking talk to you when you're like this."

Baby Lawrence is staring at him from inside his playpen, gumming at one of his toys, eyes wide. Without another word, George lifts up the baby into his arms, still holding onto the folder of paperwork, and carries him right out of the room.

He sits himself on the couch to cool down, Lawrence perched on his lap, resting against his chest, unbothered. George opens the folder again and Lawrence reaches for the brightly coloured pictures of sparkling water and shiny silver yachts with a small babble.

"You want a boat, don't you, bug?" George whispers to him, and points to the largest picture in the stapled package, "That's the one daddy bought. You like it?"

Lawrence's chubby little hand smacks against the page and his legs kick.

"Yeah, good man," George kisses the top of his head and flips the page to the interior shots, showing off each one to the baby, "This is where we can all eat breakfast together...and this is where daddy will pilot the boat...and this is mommy & daddy's room...and this will someday be Laurie's big boy room all to yourself. What do you think? You're gonna grow up on the water, hm?"

Lawrence flops back against his chest and tilts his head back to look up at him. George gently cradle's his son's sweet head in his hand and kisses his forehead. For a moment all seems well. Until his wife finally emerges from the bedroom, drops the laundry basket of folded clothes in front of him on the coffee table without even looking at him, and then puts her shoes on and leaves the apartment without a single word.