Diary of a pastor’s son episode 5

Diary Of A Pastor’s Son

Episode 5 🔞🔞

Written by: Frank The Writer

❌ Do Not Copy or Repost ❌

“Please, can I get a cup of water?” Bukola requested.
“Gimme two minutes.” I left the Sitting room and headed towards the kitchen. I returned with sachet water. “Thank you,” she said when she took the water from me. She opened the sachet water and—water splashed all over my body, my shorts mostly. “Oh! Please, I’m sorry.” She touched my short and suddenly felt my machine. I felt some kind pulse and she noticed. She looked me in the eyes lustfully that I felt she wasn’t even thirsty. She seemed to have it all figured out in her head and I was weak to resist her. My flesh was ready to dance to her tune. Agatha had influenced me, too.

Well, one thing lead to another, and before she blinked again, I grabbed her and we started kissing. I noticed we were not good kissers just like Agatha. We exchanged our tongues and bit each other’s lips.

Then I made her lie down on the longest couch in the sitting room. She was breathing deeply and thought about what I was going to do next. I continued with her lips. She simply had the best lips. It was so soft and looked like plums. The moment I kissed her, she kissed me back. She was literally eating me up like anything. It got so intense really fast. We kissed for long and she seemed to be a kiss freak. As I kissed, I was having my hands on her hips. I was pressing it hard. She moaned but in a silent way.

My heart was pounding fast. I started kissing her neck, lips, and forehead. We started kissing each other aggressively. Bukola got up from the couch and put me down. “I want to stay on top,” she said. I obliged. She was on top of me, kissing and running his hands on my chest. She was wearing a light top that revealed her navel. I pulled her top with the speed of light revealing her blue laced bra. Her gigantic melon was all I could see behind the bra. Those were real big boobs. Hers was quite bigger than Agatha’s. I placed my hand over her right boobs, it was soft and spongy. I tried to unhook the bra but I had a tough time unhooking it. “Why is it taking long?” she said. I finally unhooked it and her boobs popped up out. I couldn’t control my urge, I made a gasping sound. It was deep.

She bent down and her breast were on my face. Like she knew what was in my mind, she signaled me to suckled on her boobies. And just like a hungry lion, I sucked on her boobs and played with it. Bukola was still on top of me and the feel of her boobs in my face was heavenly. Her dark nips were so hard like they could cut like grass. I bit them while she let out a soft moan. I equally played with it, using my fingers. She was moving up and down making her boobs move on my face.
I grabbed her by her hips and pinned her on the couch. It was my turn to stay on top. I started kissing her whole body. It was then I realized every girl has a weak point. I think one particular place for all girls is a very sensitive spot. For Agatha, it was her ears, but for Bukola, it was her stomach. When I touched her down her belly, she was so sensitive, and she wasn’t able to tolerate it. So I started licking her belly gently. I made a circle with my fingers around her navel and she was moaning, Ugh.. ugh.. ugh.

It was about thirty minutes of foreplay with her boobs and stomach. Then she tried to pull my shorts. “Please, stop.” I said and I quickly noticed she was puzzled. “Why?” she asked.
“I haven’t done it before and…” I paused.
“And what?” Her countenance changed.
“We can’t do this without protection.” I broke the awkward silence.

I watched Bukola as she hastily wore her clothes back and when I tried calling her back, she left angrily and banged the door. My parents had high expectations from me, and I didn’t want to disappoint them. Two things scared me; one was the possibility of getting her pregnant and secondly, what if she has STD? And it was when she left that I thought of how she stooped so low and wanted to have me badly. Could it be she had been waiting for such opportunity before or perhaps she had another secret agenda?

Later at night, I texted her on WhatsApp. She read my messages but didn’t reply. I didn’t relent. I kept texting her like she was owing me some huge amount of money. It was late in the night and I was the only in the Sitting room. It was twenty minutes later she finally replied back. Bukola said she was pissed off I stopped in the middle of the whole mood, only for me to tell her I haven’t done it before and needed protection too. She said I probably took her as a slut or some sort of run girls. I tried texting her back but she went offline and my messages had just one tick.

The following day, I was upstairs and sighted her washing some clothes while she bent down. The way her breasts moved freely as she washed the clothes was hypnotizing. If at all she was wearing a bra, it wasn’t helping. Her top wasn’t skin tight but tight enough to see the roundness of her big watermelons as they bounced up and down. I felt my machine pulsating in my jeans trousers, and I couldn’t help but stand there for sometimes and feed my eyes on those sizeable boobs. It had been weeks since I had any sort of release. Not even in the dream. The last time I did was when Agatha and I was still doing shit together. She knew how to make me explode in few minutes. I badly missed Agatha’s touch and wished she was right there at the moment. I was gradually turning into something else; always craving for all manners of sexual pleasure. Damn, it wasn’t the old Femi.

A week later, we woke up to very sad news. My aunt, my mom’s immediate sister whom Aramide was staying with, lost her husband. It was so shocking and terrifying. My mom cried for two nights and that really touched me. She kept talking how good and caring the man was—and how he had been a good husband to her sister. If only his good deeds could bring him back to life. He was involved in a terrible accident and died while he was rushed to the hospital. The doctor confirmed he suffered internal bleeding.

Three days later, my father planned that we travel to Ibadan to be with her before the funeral. At that period of her life, my aunty needed people around her, so we all embarked on the journey with my father’s brown Corolla, his second car.

We arrived Friday night and were planning to leave Sunday night after the funeral.
Pleasantries and condolences were exchanged, as expected, that first night. The older folk, including my parents, talked with my Aunt and other family members far into the night. I, on the other hand, decided to turn in early. Shola, Agatha and I were given my Auntie’s husband’s room to sleep—and I found it very hard to sleep. The man had passed away, yet there were traces of his existence all around the room. Shola and Agatha slept off before I dozed to sleep.

The next morning, I awoke to my father’s hand gently shaking me. “Femi wake up.”
It was time for morning devotion and everyone else had gathered in the sitting room except me. Sluggishly, I headed towards the sitting room, and all eyes were on me. I found a seat and sat. “Femi, please lead us in praise and worship,” my father announced. I was still half asleep, but I felt a significant weight lift off my shoulders, both literally and emotionally. My heart pounded faster.

“We are waiting Femi,” he added to my discomfort. There was no single worship songs in my head. I closed my eyes to see if one would drop but nothing dropped. All that floated in my head was the scenes of my illicit activities with Bukola and Agatha. I opened my mouth to sing but my brain went numb. It wasn’t like I didn’t know several worship songs but I just didn’t know what happened to me that morning. I was so embarrassed. My father gave me that disappointing look, and I knew he was really mad at me, as per pastor’s son.
There were other extended family members too.
“Aramide, please help us out,” my father broke the long silence. It didn’t take her thirty seconds, she cleared her throat and began with a Yoruba song.

Throughout the time we spent during the morning devotion, I was completely lost in thoughts. I thought of what my Dad would say thereafter. Of course, he would so talk and talk until I feel worthless. So when finally the devotion was over, I was the first to rush back inside the room. I hated being criticized publicly and my father had A1 when it comes to that. I didn’t even know he followed me as I went back to the room.

“Femi, what was the meaning of what you just displayed there? Ordinary praise and worship you can’t sing. So what if I had asked you to lead us in prayer?” He queried. I was mute and didn’t know what to say. “At your age Femi!” He continued. He went on and on to emphasize on the importance of prayer and he went as far as mentioning the chapters and verses. “The Bible say we should pray without ceasing. Men always ought to pray… Femi learn how to pray before it’s late!” He walked out of the room. I had never been embarrassed in a very long time knowing everyone probably overhead him from the room.

After we had our breakfast, my father returned to the bedroom where I sat all alone in the bed. “Listen Femi,” he said as I turned to see him. “I know lately I’ve been riding you pretty hard and I’m sorry. I know you’ll figure it out and I just want you know that without being prayerful and holding up to God, you’re likely not going far in life.”
“Now follow me, we have some work to do,” he added. I already knew what he meant by that. Every time we visited my Aunt, we ended up helping around the farm. Unlike back home, where the day started at 7 or 8 am, it started at 5 or 6 am here. I got my clothes and jacket and followed my dad and Agatha as we headed out towards the small field behind my Aunt’s barn.

“Brother Femi…,” Aramide called from behind.
“Yes, what is it?” I turned.
“Your phone, Bukola is calling you,” she announced loudly. I felt a lump in my throat immediately.
“Bukola ke? The new girl?” Queried my father.
“Tani Bukola?” He meant who’s Bukola?
My father turned and queried. And when I turned to his direction, Agatha was waiting curiously for my response.

To be continued….
© Frank The Writer

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