Rev. Ajayi knew the knock of opportunity when he heard it. This was an opportunity trying to kick his door in. Both trouble and opportunity walk hand in hand.
Ngozi had requested a private counseling session with him. He was certain that the last thing Mrs. Ngozi wanted was advice. She sat in a chair in her pastor’s office with her hands folded in her lap. This caused her upper arms to squeeze her massive breasts together in such a way that the buttons of her blouse seemed to be straining mightily to hold back the tide of the large amount of flesh beneath.
It was a sight that Rev. Ajayi had enjoyed many times. Mrs. Ngozi and her husband, Ejike, always sat in a pew right in front of the pulpit She always sat in exactly this posture.
He could count on the fact that, by the time he had finished his sermon, she would have undone two buttons on her blouse to reveal a generous amount of her cavernous cleavage. He was always grateful that the pulpit was sufficiently wide to cover up the long, thick erection that her display always gave him.
In the year since he had been assigned to this parish he had never made any overt response to her flirtation. Ngozi and her husband were leaders among the church elders. They were generous with both their funds and their time.
Ejike had single-handedly gave the sum of seven hundred thousand naira, the fund to repair the roof. When the work began he took hammer in hand to help with the work. Ngozi ran the Teen Girl’s club and supervised the refreshments after each Sunday’s service.
The only complaint he had ever had about either of them was that Mrs. Ngozi insisted upon playing the part of the proud church lady, rubbing her position in the parish hierarchy in people’s faces. The pastor had long suspected that there was a burning flame of lust beneath that holier-than-thou deception.
He knew that it was simply a matter of time until he would be able to quench that flame to feed his own boiling desires.
As he sat behind his desk, looking the woman directly in the eye, he listened patiently to her complaint as she said,
“That’s precisely the difficulty, though, Reverend.” She made a gesture as if to fan herself. While returning her hand to her lap she unfastened the top button of her blouse.
“I have always been a woman of great need. It would seem to have increased in recent years. I’m not sure what to do? I’m not sure that I can be forgiven for such sin.”
“I’m not convinced that any sin has been committed,” the reverend said calmly, “What you are feeling would seem to be completely normal for, if you’ll pardon the expression, a woman of your age.”
“What do you mean?” Mrs. Ngozi asked, still appearing unhappy.
“Well, not to be improper,” said the minister, “You are in your mid-forties. At that
“That seems reasonable, but…” she started to say, but her pastor cut her off.
“You, being a highly above average woman,” he continued as he watched her hand unfasten a second button, “are probably finding it more difficult than most other women might.
As your husband’s desire diminishes and, presumably, your sexual activity with him decreases you are finding it harder to keep your desires under control.”
He was having a good deal of difficulty himself. He was hard as a rock and wanted nothing more than to throw the proud bitch down on the floor and fuck her without mercy.
“But what I feel seems so wicked,” she complained, “Is it sinful to feel this way?”
“The answer to that,” said Rev. Ajayi rising from his chair, “May actually lie in the answer to another question.”
“What question?” she asked as she undid a third button.
She watched intently as her pastor walked around to the front of his desk to stand directly before her. As he folded his arms and leaned back on the desk she gazed longingly at the thick bulge snaking down his trouser leg.
“The question that you need to answer is,” firmly as he cupped her chin to raise her eyes to meet his own, “are you a wicked woman or are you a good woman who is having wicked thoughts?”
“What’s the difference?” she asked as she lowered her eyes back to his bulge.
She had fantasized about this for a year. She wanted that thick, cloth covered organ. She wanted it in her mouth. She wanted it in her pussy. She wanted it between her breasts. She might even try it in her ass.
“The difference,” he said as he reached down to unfasten a fourth button on her blouse, “is the difference between words and actions.”
“I see,” she said as her breathing became heavier.
Running a finger down the line of her considerable cleavage he asked, “If you have never acted on those thoughts then you are a good woman who has wicked thoughts. On the other hand…” He let the unfinished sentence hang in the air.
Her breath was becoming heavy. Her breasts heaved with the effort. She could do nothing but stare at the mighty bulge inside of her pastor’s trousers.
“That thing will split me in two,” she thought, “Oh, God, I want that thing to split me in two.”
Folding his arms again across his broad chest he said, “So, tell me Mrs. Ngozi…”
“Ngozi,” she breathed.
“Alright,” he continued, “Tell me, Ngozi, have you ever acted on those thoughts? Are you a wicked woman?”
Ngozi was uncertain how to answer. If it ever got out how many times she had given in to her lust she would be ruined. She was having trouble thinking straight because all she wanted, at that moment, was to be ruined by her pastor’s big dick.
Sensing her reluctance to answer he said, “Nothing you say in this office will leave here. I am forbidden by church law to speak of it.”
He leaned down, reached into the cups of her bra to squeeze her huge breasts and asked, “Now tell me. Have you ever offered these to anyone besides your husband?”
The heat of his massive hands made her shudder.
“Yes,” she moaned.
“How many times?” he asked as he undid the last two buttons of her blouse and began sliding it off her shoulders, “Once? Twice? More?”
“More,” she whispered as she extended her hand to touch the object of her heat, “much more.”
“More?” he asked mockingly.
“Yes,” she murmured.
She stroked his steel-like dick through his trouser with one hand and began undoing his belt with the other.
“I am a wicked woman,” she said, “very wicked.”
He looked down at her as she excitedly undid the trouser button and yanked down his zipper.
“Are you sorry for having been so wicked so many times?” he asked.
“Sometimes” she said weakly.
He unclasped the catch at the front of her bra which caused her heavy breasts to bounce free. Then he pushed her chair back and stepped away from her. He quickly undressed in silence. She sat watching as he stripped himself. He was better than she had imagined.
He was six feet tall with broad shoulders, and massively muscular arms. Black hair topped a square-jawed face with chiseled features. His brown eyes betrayed the intense darkness behind them.
“Strip!” he commanded.
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