Some days, David Blake enjoyed the daily railroad trip from Chicago. He could read with breaks looking out the window at passing scenery. This was not one of those days. His seatmate knew the men sitting across from David, and the chatter was too frequent to allow him to really get into his book.

For that matter, the book was a long, slow, slog at the best of times. He'd half-written a book on Paul's teaching about marriage before he'd begun being counseled for his own upcoming marriage. Reverend Campbell's advice, not surprising in itself, piqued his curiosity. Where had the parts of Christian teaching about marriage that postdated Paul come from?

From that single question, the book he would call Christian Marriage, Evolution of an Ideal had grown like Topsy. (At least he would call it that if he could find a publisher. David Blake's opinion on Paul was one thing; he had a PhD in New Testament studies, and taught the Epistles at Garrett-Evangelical Theological Seminary. David Blake's opinion on church history wasn't worth shit, and he knew that; he had no credentials in church history.) The Middle Ages had been fascinating, as had been the Reformation. Now he was on the nineteenth century, and the sources proliferated as their tendentiousness grew even more rapidly. One thing you could say for the distant past: enough sources had been lost that you could really get on top of what was left.

So he was disgruntled about the long-term project that had taken him two years now; he was disgruntled by his fellow passengers; he was disgruntled with the rain which soaked him while he left the train to find his car in the parking lot.

When he got in the car and started the cassette he'd recorded of some psalms, the tape broke. This wasn't the first time, and it was no great disaster. His wife, Jen, helped him study the Old Testament several times a week. The recordings of the Psalms were simply supplementary. He made the recordings himself and played them on his way to and from the station. When he figured that he knew those Psalms, he reused the tape. It shouldn't have disturbed him, but it was the last straw.

When he got home, Jen greeted him with: "Guess where we'll be next year?"

The way his day had been going, it had to be: "Moline?"

"Close. A three-point charge on the Mississippi south of Moline." From her face, this was a joke. "However, Aldersgate is likelier."

"Aldersgate?" If that was what he thought she meant, his whole day had changed. "In Evanston?"

"In Evanston. The one in London is taken."

"Darling. You're so kind to me." And she was. He'd been worrying about himself; both his worry about the book and the book itself had been self-indulgent. And she'd been worrying about providing him with an easy commute. Commute? Hell! Aldersgate UMC was an easy walk from his office on campus. He didn't know where the parsonage was, didn't even know whether they had a parsonage, but getting there couldn't be considered a commute.

His kiss, which started out expressing his gratitude, quickly turned into something much earthier. When they broke, she reminded him, "It isn't decided yet, you know." She added, "I'll meet their Staff-Parish Committee two weeks from Thursday."

After dinner, she left for a meeting of the Finance Committee. Having been pastor of a local church once himself, he thought the inclusion of the pastor in every business meeting was simultaneously an imposition and a temptation. But Jen was leaving Independence soon enough; there was no reason to suggest any change in structure.

While the front of his mind was supervising his cleaning up the dining room and kitchen, the back was playing with the structure of his book. The problem was that there had been an incredible assortment of twists and turns over the twenty centuries. A little of that had remained; a lot had disappeared. If he reported only what had remained, the book would give the impression of a triumphal progression of ideas. If he reported all the quirks, the book would contain enough words for several volumes of an encyclopedia.

Maybe he could alternate: 'In this period, here are the competitive doctrines; in the next period, there were as many competitive doctrines, but these three remained when the others were forgotten.' Well, whatever he would do, he needed to get on top of the material. And he needed a sound body to hold his decreasingly sound mind. Finished in the kitchen, he went upstairs to change into a track suit before settling down on his exercycle to pedal away with the book held open on a board in front of him. Maybe Jen's good news had changed his mood, maybe it was being able to pedal faster when the book got too smarmy, he made better progress than he had on the train.

"Love you," Jen said some time later. The meeting over already? Must be; he had got more than half-way through the book.

"Love you," he answered. And he wanted her, too. The book he'd been reading had involved sex. It hadn't quite mentioned it; but all the euphemisms, all the cautions against imposing too many male desires on the pure female, had evoked pictures in his mind of the desirous female who shared his bed. He pushed himself to get to the end of the chapter.

She was in bed waiting for him. He hung the track suit in the closet and joined her. Conscious that he needed to give them a chance to warm under the covers, he kept his hands to himself while he kissed her. Her tongue welcomed his. "Mmmmm. I do love you," he told her, "and in Evanston -- if we're there next year -- I'll have the energy to show it."

She laughed. "You mean you're planning to wait four months to use this?" She touched his phallus. Her grasp completed its hardening.

"Nope," he told her. "I have energy enough to show my lust, just not enough to show my love."

If his hands weren't warm enough yet, she'd let him know. He resumed the kiss. Meanwhile, he caressed all her softness before reaching the hardness at the peaks of her breasts. These called for more than fingers. As his mouth trailed down to the far breast, his hand approached her center. He prolonged his kissing of the smoothness of her breast until his finger was in position. Then he brushed her juices across her nubbin just as he sucked her nipple.

"Oh, David," she responded, "oh, yes."

He sucked and caressed her like that, then kissed a path across to her near breast. He sucked that nipple. Then he returned to the far one while visiting her nubbin more and more often. When she reached for him again, he climbed between her legs, stopping only for a brief lick on the nipple he'd been neglecting.

"Oh love!" he said as she placed him. And it was love, and lust, as he moved into her warmth and slickness. Accepting, welcoming, participating, she held his back and then his butt. The more intimate clasp was even more welcoming. He was struggling to restrain his orgasm when hers flared around him.

"Jen!" he roared. Then he thrust deep into her and pulsed.

When he could, he moved off. They settled into the spoon.

Thursday, two weeks later, Jen came into Evanston and met him at his office. She looked too nervous for more than a brief hug before he took her out to dinner. She ate lightly, more concerned with what was happening next than with the food or his company. He wished her luck with all sincerity before leaving her for a late train.

"It seems to be Aldersgate," Jen said when she finally got home. That took care of one worry.

"Darling!" he exclaimed. Then he asked, "Is there anything that you gritted your teeth and accepted 'cause it would save me a drive?" This was another, almost contradictory worry.

"Not apparent in the meeting. Of course, there will be grit- your-teeth aspects. There certainly are here. But that's part of the job description. The committee chair brought up you, but Metzger quashed that. The pastor's spouse isn't up for consideration."

"Quite right, too. On the other hand, you -- and they -- and the Conference -- are giving me more time. I should give back some of that time. I told you that I wouldn't do anything at Independence, using the commute as an excuse. Well, I'm up for being the good pastor's spouse at Aldersgate." He'd already decided this. Telling her before now might have put too much pressure on her for that decision. "I won't join the UMW, but aside from that...."

"You won't join the United Methodist Women?" She grinned. "The spouse of the pastor always does."

"Male liberation."

She was in a good mood, triumphant even. On the other hand, she looked worn out. He cuddled her to sleep without making any sexual approach.

"Even if," he pointed out on their way to bed Sunday night, "the cabinet decides to send you somewhere else -- and that's very unlikely -- you're approval by Aldersgate is something to celebrate."

"And," she said, "so it is."

Even their celebrations were limited to two Jen orgasms. Still, these -- at least the first -- could be built up to properly. He began with a long kiss standing in the bedroom. Her tongue welcomed his while his hands reacquainted themselves with her clothed shape. Then he undressed her while kissing whatever each removed article of clothing had concealed.

When she got into bed, he stripped rapidly before following her. He knew what kiss he wanted to culminate this stage of the celebration; probably Jen did, too. But there was so much of her to be kissed before that. He started with her mouth, exploring the other warm, responsive, set of her nerve endings.

Then he kissed down her torso, pausing at her breasts. Meanwhile, he built up her tension -- he hoped he was building hers, he was certainly building his own -- with a slow and gradual approach to her center. He knelt between her legs and kissed a line down the inside of one leg until he was close enough to her center to smell her readiness. Then he started on the other leg.

Jen grabbed his head and pulled it against her center. Well, that answered one question, her tension had been built up. Indeed, when he licked where he had been placed, he met satisfying -- and tasty -- juiciness.

"Oh, Jen," he said, before returning to lap up that wealth. He could control himself barely enough to taste her lips as well as her nubbin. When she pulled him against her again, he sucked that nubbin all through her orgasm.

When she released his head, he could restrain himself no longer. Taking the minimum time to get into position, he plunged into her. Her tunnel felt even better than its entrance had tasted, warm and smooth and welcoming. These sensations deserved more than a quick gallop to completion.

He moved his right arm and then his left to support his weight on his elbows while her breasts filled his hands. He kissed her hairline before resuming his motions. He moved back and forth within that sweet welcome, shifted his weight side to side to feel the warm clasp move around him.

Meanwhile, Jen caressed his back and then his butt. "Oh Jen," he said as she thrust up against him. "Oh, sweet!" as her clasp tightened around his phallus.

Then her orgasm pulsed around him. "Jen," he said as he lost it. All of him poured out into her.

When he could move off, he turned on his side. She backed up to him and he hugged her in the spoon position.

Not even the weather, which was ugly again, could spoil his mood the next morning. He left Jen taking the rest she deserved while he made his morning preparations. He blew her a kiss from the doorway of their bedroom before leaving. Before driving to the station, he turned on the cassette recorder on the seat beside him. "Oh, Lord," his voice came out, "it is good to give Thee thanks."

And he joined his voice to the tape's -- okay, to his own voice -- in giving thanks to the God who'd given him -- among other things he felt less thankful for right then -- a loving wife.