Saints Don't Moan
His voice in my ear, his hands on my face, his tongue welding with mine… caressing, kneading, exploring, kissing just about every entry point in my body…
His big hands were on my breasts, touching, squeezing, teasing my nipples…
Clack!
The sound startled me out of my lurid thoughts. I opened my eyes and saw that my rosary had fallen from my wrist to the ground, giving me a rude awakening. My heart raced as I faced the choice to heed God’s warning by picking up my prayer bead or take my hands off my breasts as they held on for dear pleasure.
“You’re a saint,” I said softly, addressing no one but myself, “you’re a saint.”
I repeated the words over and over until I fought my animal urge to rub
Bab Populer