I have spent the last few weeks engaged in a passionate affair with a 19-year old university rugby player; not the most moral thing for a respectable married lady in her late 50s to do – especially if she also happens to be, as I am, a Church of England vicar. It's not that I don't love my husband of more than 30 years standing. It's just that we don't really do much more than cuddle anymore. When Peter seduced me in the vestry of my church one sultry, sweaty evening he unleashed a hungry, wanton sexuality in me that I had never known I possessed. I had never sucked a man's cock until that night, but now I love chewing on Peter's after he's given me a good, solid fucking, tracing my tongue along the throbbing vein which runs up it, smacking my lips around the head as I gently nibble, stroking his hairy balls. nnHe likes having me in all positions, but the one he likes best is what he calls the 'literal' missionary position – face-to-face with me wearing my dog collar. He does it slowly then, withdrawing his cock gradually before thrusting it back in with all his power, to watch my face contort in lust and hear my gasps of pleasure. Each Sunday in church he sits in the front pew with his father and sister while his mother, my closest friend, plays the organ. It can sometimes be difficult to concentrate on my sermon, especially when Peter catches my eye and runs his tongue slowly, lasciviously, around his lips. It was especially hard one Sunday, just days after Peter had fucked me from behind in the very pulpit from which I was preaching to my respectable congregation!nnI see Peter every Tuesday evening, and will continue until he goes back to university in a few weeks time. I was thinking about that, wondering how I would ever cope without my weekly rogering, last Thursday as I sat in my vestry in my clerical garb, trying to concentrate on the sermon for Sunday. Something about adultery perhaps? No, I didn't think so. Suffer the little children to come unto me? Definitely not! I was miles away when I heard a polite cough. Standing before me was Peter's sister Julia, the Head Girl at the local school who had recently reached the age of 18, though she looked younger. Blessed with the sweet, innocent face of an angel, I normally only ever saw her in her school uniform, or one of the pretty pink or yellow dresses she wore to church, her long chestnut hair held back with a colour-coordinated Alice band. She looked very different tonight, wearing a very short black halter-neck T-shirt – I believe they are called boob tubes – and a very short white tennis skirt, her hair hanging loose about her bare shoulders.