I step into the house, your scent still clinging to my skin. Though I'm right on time, my father impatiently waits in the dining room.

Taking my seat at the table across from him, I ask, "Where's Mom?"

"She's gone up to bed," he replies. "Another migraine." His eyes narrow as he regards me. "You've been with that woman again, haven't you?"

Instead of answering, I look down at my hands clasped in my lap.

"Son, she's no good for you. She's almost twenty years older and has been married and divorced twice." His tone holds a note of exasperation. "You should be focusing on your studies."

"I'm doing fine in my classes," I dare to point out. "I made the Dean's List, remember?"

"She will only lead you into temptation," he persists. "If you're not careful, she'll lead you to ruin."

Desperate to be finished with this meal, I begin helping myself to some runny mashed potatoes.

"Wait," he thunders. "We haven't said grace yet."

I settle back in my seat, my stomach growling in protest. When my father bows his head, I do the same. 

I refuse to listen to his prayer, for his God is one of wrath and retribution, while the God I worship is full of love and compassion. 

As my father drones on, I silently give thanks not for the meal, but for you. Where would I be if our paths hadn't crossed in that shop? If I hadn't worked up the nerve to say hello?

I give thanks for your kisses, which start out tender and inevitably grow more passionate. I am blessed by the way you welcome me between your parted thighs, inviting my mouth, and my cock. And for the gentle, patient way in which you've instructed me how to please a woman.

At eighteen, I was still a virgin when I met you. I feared I had nothing to offer. But your smile carried the light of the sun when you settled upon my body and took me into your pussy. The effortless manner in which you rode me revealed all the delights of heaven.

You let me come inside you, shushing my apologies for climaxing far too soon. 

Now, weeks later, and with more practice, I can make love to you for hours. I am intimately familiar with every inch of your skin. So easily, I call forth the taste of your juices on my tongue. 

The memory of your lips circling my cock sends a rush of arousal to my groin. Helplessly, I shift in my seat, but I won't redirect my thoughts elsewhere. No, I sink deeper into erotic reverie, breathing faster. I faintly smile when recalling how you eagerly swirl your tongue around my tip. 

You let me come in your mouth, too. Afterward, I never fail to kiss you in gratitude. I've grown accustomed to the taste of my semen. 

"I'm corrupting you, I think," you sometimes tease.

"None of us is without sin," I reply.

I revel in our fornication. I delight in every transgression.

"Please guide my son," my father prays. "Bestow upon him your wisdom. I beg of you to ensure he stays on the righteous path."

Sitting at that table, I am fully hard, my erection a desecration. Yet I am glad for it, the undetected act of rebellion.

I am righteous in my adoration, and in my fierce desire to one day marry you. It will make my father sick with shame and loathing. He may turn his back on me for good.

Yet even then, I will continue to pray for the man, and to take pity on him, for he'll never know the kind of love you've given me.