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I Want Him

Posted by: Author: Age: 26 Posted on: 0 comments
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I have masturbated thinking about him. I have joined his choir. I have even met his wife and children, and I know it is fundamentally wrong, but...


I woke this morning hot and wet. Not merely aroused, as I wake most mornings like that. Today, I felt horny, angry, lustful, aggressive all bundled into one. Oh, I know I shouldn't masturbate, or so my faith tells me, but I am becoming increasingly annoyed with the priests who spout celibacy. If they don't play the game, why should they make the rules?

I thought about him. His sexy, lyrical voice and his lovely brown eyes. I kicked my duvet off me, and spread my legs. My panties were, as I already knew, wet and the smell of me filled the room.

I imagined him walking in, seeing my lying on my pull-out bed with my legs spread wide and my cunt covered only by the flimsy material.

I imagined myself tugging the material to one side and feeling his finger press deep inside me, hooking forward to press my g-spot into that exquisite pleasure/pain I love so much. I imagined reaching for his cock and feeling it still moist from his wife.

I thought about how hot it would be to wank him as he frigged me and then to feel another of his fingers pressing right into my ass. (When I was married, I loved being fingered there, and more)

He fingers me in both holes, and I wank him hard and fast. He closes his eyes and spurts all over my face, hair, miserably small tits and over my tummy. In return, I arch my back and clench around both his probing fingers as my orgasm tears through me.

It is now half an hour after I have masturbated over him. I am lying on my bed that will need changing as I have wet myself during the orgasm.

I know. I know now without any doubt. I have to have him and I will do anything to get his fingers inside me. I have seen him notice sometimes if my panties ride up above my jeans, and so I think I will start there. Perhaps a little present tucked away in his music bag?

Oh God! I want him so much.



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