I was sorting through the usual parish post-bag one summer morning when I spotted the note. It was not in an envelope and did not bear a stamp. It was hand-written, in a flowery calligraphy. It took me aback and I had to read it twice, three times, to absorb what the words said. Here they are…
I dream of your mouth. I dream of your mouth pressed first against my neck, kissing me there where my pulse beats, and then the sweet lips of your mouth sucking gently on my stiff nipples.
My first feeling was total horror. I only knew one Stella, Stella Norte, and she was a member of my congregation, an American who had only moved to Little Chiselford a few months previously. I was worried, because relations between the clergy and their flock are inappropriate and forbidden. And I would now have to deal with Mrs Norte, knowing that she had sent this lewd message. Maybe it was a mistake, I thought. Perhaps it was intended for another vicar. But that could hardly be the case. I didn’t know what to do, so I went into the empty church for a little conversation with God, to see if he could advise me on how to handle Mrs Norte’s misguided passion. I had heard about this kind of thing – us vicars are not totally unworldly – in the Church of England newsletter. No doubt about it; “relations” with parishioners always ended badly, from what I had seen. I sat at the end of a pew, alone with my thoughts, head bowed towards the altar, hands clasped together. I began to pray for guidance.
And then I began to think about her words. She wanted my mouth. Why? But more importantly, where? She wanted my mouth on her neck… and then… her “stiff nipples”. As I tried to pray to God, I felt something rising down below in my trousers. I tried to fight the stirring in my loins, but in vain. All I could see was Stella, sat on my lap, peeling off her bra, showing me her flesh, offering the hard points of her nipples to my mouth. For me to suck. I remembered how she often wore low-cut tops, which showed off her full, big chest. I wondered how experienced she was; she must be a good 10 years older than me. I tried to blank out this vision with other, more appropriate images; of the Garden of Gethsemane, of how Jesus suffered for our sins. But it was hard to block the sight of Stella, her head thrown back, as she clasped my blond head to her bosom. I began to read out chapters from Psalms, out loud, to drown out the temptation.
When I returned to my office, I composed a note to Mrs Norte.
“Dear Mrs Norte,
I received your letter of Tuesday the 14th and I was surprised by the familiar tone of it. As your vicar, I believe you may have acted impulsively and inappropriately, and I would advise you to desist. You are always welcome within my flock, but I must urge you to avoid such messages.
Sincerely The Vicar.”
I was glad to hear nothing of Mrs Norte and to see nothing of her in the ensuing days. But on Friday evening, while conducting evensong, I noticed her in the congregation. She was wearing a black dress, even more low-cut than normal, which exposed the creamy flesh of her cleavage. She was alone. I tried to focus on the rest of the church, and ignore her. But on the one occasion that she caught my eye, and held it, I saw her run her tongue, subtly, over her upper lip. I was trying to read the sermon, and stumbled over my sentence. Soon I regained the thread of my text, however, and the rest of the service passed without mishap. That evening, as I cooked a humble meal of shepherd’s pie and carrots, I thought about the last woman in my life, Jane, who had left me seven years previously to become a nun. I had never seen her naked. Although once, while she was changing, I caught a glimpse of her in a bra. But we were not married, so we could not enjoy the sins of the flesh, and even our kisses were chaste. That night I prayed to resist temptation, and for God to block out the vision of Stella Norte, breathing heavily as she pushed her nipples into my mouth.
The next morning, the post-bag was full of the usual mail from the congregation, as well as electricity bills and so on. And then I saw it. Another, hand-written missive, in the same pen as before.
I noticed a bulge in your trousers today at evensong. What were you thinking of? Were you thinking of the moist, secret, swollen lips between my thighs and the way I dream of your long, slender finger separating those lips, pushing in deeply, deeply…”
When I read it I was shocked. So explicit. So shameless. So…disturbing. I held the letter aloft, ripped it in two, and hurled it into the waste paper basket. What on earth was she thinking? She knew how wrong this was, to put temptation in the path of one so holy. I sat at the kitchen table, head in my hands, wondering how I could confront her and tell her to desist. And then, temptation overcame me. I removed the pieces of paper canlı bahis from the bin, spread them out on the table, and re-read the message. So she wanted…my fingers…between her swollen lips. I tried to fight the feeling, the strange feeling, of arousal. I felt the stem rise between my legs, unbidden, unwanted. But I was angry too. What was Mrs Norte playing at? She was teasing me; that was what it was. This was a wind-up, surely.
I found a notepad and penned another note: This time, it was brief and to the point.
“Dear Mrs Norte,
I must please beg you to desist.
Sincerely The Vicar”
I did not hear any more for a few days, and had started to relax somewhat. This awkward scenario had gone away, of its own accord, I thought. And then the doorbell rang, while I was eating my morning toast and drinking a mug of tea while reading the Bible. I put down the good book and answered the door, only to see her standing there, smiling, in the morning sunlight. Wearing red lipstick and a different low-cut top. Her blonde hair freshly washed. I wondered where her husband was, whether he was on business again. (He never seemed to be around in the village, a peripheral presence, dropping in to tea parties for a few minutes before making his excuses, leaving his wife alone). Before I could say anything, she pressed a letter into my hands, before turning and heading back down the garden path. I noticed she was wearing high heels. What on earth was she playing at, I wondered. I was unnerved as I closed the door and sat back down in the kitchen, my hands trembling. I ripped open the envelope and read the letter: It said,
I realize you are a moral man and the response of your body, to my suggestions, may be distressing to you. We’ll go very slowly. Try not to worry. And you mustn’t worry if the ripe stem of your manhood rises to heated attention when I tell how I dream of sucking you, of kissing the velvet, mushroom head of your cock and then sucking the whole, hard length of you into my mouth. Tell me you aren’t hard now, right at this moment, thinking of it…I cannot desist, Dear Vicar. And you don’t want me to.
I could not believe it! The nerve of the woman, to write such explicit and unchristian words. I wondered whether this was a test, set before me by the Good Lord, just as John the Baptist was tested in the desert for 40 days and 40 nights. I resolved then and there to resist, to reject and above all – to pray. I got down on my knees and remained there for an hour, working my way through Old Testament prayers and psalms. But there were images, unwanted and forbidden, trying to push their way into my head. Of Mrs Norte’s mouth, around my stem, sucking. I realised that my length, between my legs, was once again hard. As much as I tried, I could not stop it from growing thicker and bigger. I felt a strong impulse to touch it, to cave in to physical temptation, but resisted it. I tried to banish the thoughts of her, to remain resolute, and continued chanting and praying. I asked the Lord to remove her from my life, to take her elsewhere, so that I could concentrate all my efforts on doing his Good Work. I then took a cold shower. Afterwards, I towelled myself dry and dressed in my robes and dog collar, preparing for the afternoon sermon. Please, God, I said under my breath, let not her be in attendance…
Some time later…. I still had a few hours before the afternoon service and was at a loose end, so I took my dog for a walk around the village, enjoying the light breeze, the shafts of light coming through the green branches above, the sense of a new season in the air. I tried not to think about Mrs Norte. When I returned, I spotted a letter on the mat outside my front door. The writing on the envelope was familiar. Not again; not another test of my willpower, I thought. I pulled it open, and was surprised when two photographs fell out, onto the ground. One skipped a few inches in the breeze. When I held them up close I was shocked. I looked around to make sure that no one else could see me. And then I looked again. One photograph showed a full pair of breasts, clad in a red and black lacy bra, which had been pulled down to expose them fully, squeezing them upwards like large balloons. Stella’s breasts. I looked closely, and could see that the pinky-brown nipples were stiff and hard, pointing upwards. The other photograph was even more lewd. It showed a pair of thighs, spread open, and between them… the flower of her womanhood. She had on a matching pair of knickers, black and red, which she had pulled to one side with her left hand. With her right hand she was holding herself open, showing off her plump labia, demonstrating the pink hole within. It was framed by a modicum of neat, clipped hair. In a panic, I turned the photos over. Both had writing on the back, in that now-familiar hand.
“All of this is yours for the taking,” said bahis siteleri one of them.
“You can take me and use me in any way you choose,” said the other.
It was as if the floodgates had opened. I felt a wave of lust sweep through me, I sensed my principles crumble, as if into dust, and I headed into the house, slamming the door behind me. I forgot to remove the lead from my dog, instead rushing into the bathroom, carrying the two photographs. I knew that I was failing God, that I was too weak, but the feeling was just too strong. I propped the two pictures on the shelf, above the sink, and unzipped myself, pulling my already-firm member from my robes. I noticed, en passant, just how long it was, how it looked like a huge slab of pink meat. I wondered whether other men had such big organs. And then my right hand was gripping it, for the first time since my teenage years – a decade and a half – and I felt that familiar thrill as my fingers worked up and down on the stem. The mushroom tip was already leaking with juices, in anticipation. I was fixated on the two pictures, of Stella’s body, all I could think of was her images and her words. My fingers in her womanhood: that was what she had demanded. And my stem in her mouth. Oh God, I could feel, deep in my balls, that familiar sense of no return. I started to pump myself harder, faster, imagining that her red lips were wrapped around me, taking me deep, waiting for me to squirt my juices down her throat. It was too much. I came, shuddering, sending arcs of white spray over the mirror, the taps and the sink, six sprays, seven, eight, it just kept on coming. I felt my knees buckling from the intensity of it all.
I waited for God’s punishment, for the wave of guilt, which I just knew would now overwhelm me. It didn’t come. Wiping myself dry on a towel, I tucked it back into my robes and headed towards the church, for the afternoon service.
The service passed without mishap. Throughout, however, I was aware of only one thing: the presence of Mrs N, at the end of a pew, head bowed in apparent prayer, occasionally looking up at me. Did she know what effect those photographs would have on me? Did she know she had tipped me over the edge? I felt like a hypocrite as I read the words of the Good Book and led my congregation in prayer. For despite my calm appearance of sanctity and virtue, my mind was racing with thoughts of her, her body, and whether or not I could resist her advances. I knew the answer, even then: probably not. I felt the now familiar stirring between my legs again. Later, it was without surprise that, as the bells tolled out the end of the service, and my flock left the church, she was still there, in a posture of prayer (the cheek of the woman!). Waiting for me. I ignored her, and feigned surprise when she entered the room behind me. I was already removing my upper robe and my dog collar. Part of me still urged caution and restraint, to throw her out. But instead, I stood by as she approached and began to manoeuvre me against the wall. She told me she had been thinking about me for days, how she had changed her underwear on several occasions, and was no longer wearing any. Her talk, her immoral talk, seemed to hypnotise me, so that it was with little resistance she held my hand and pulled it, slowly, between her thighs, under her skirt.
I did not know what to do, but she did it for me, pushing my finger deep into her wetness and holding my palm against her little, hard nub. I could barely believe the warmth and wetness emanating from her, the shockingly exciting feeling of touching a woman in such a way for the very first time. For the first time, I wanted more, to take her as a man takes a woman. Would she find it ridiculous that I was still a virgin, I wondered? She was breathing heavily against my neck, chanting words, her neck flushed, as I worked my single finger in and out of her crevice. She clasped my palm against her hub, making me rub her. When she reached a peak, I was amazed, not knowing that women could enjoy the same experience as a man. She breathed harder, moaned louder, and clutched me as she came on my hand. Still hanging off my shoulder, she reached up and gave me a peck on the cheek. “Thank you, vicar,” she whispered.
She reached down and felt between my legs, rolling my length, through the cloth of my cassock, between her fingers. “I thought so…” she said. “So big, so fucking big and stiff.” I expected her to carry on, to attend to my needs, and it was with surprise that I watched her step back, adjust her skirt and head towards the door.
“I thought you might like these,” she said, reaching into her handbag, pulling out a pair of knickers. They were unmistakeable; black and red; the ones from the photo. She threw them to me, and I caught them. I was left in the room, alone, feeling foolish, as she unlocked the door and left.
I raised the cloth to my nose, and inhaled deeply. The smell, bahis şirketleri so unfamiliar, yet so unmistakeable, of woman. Pure woman. I noticed the material was still slightly damp at the front, just as Stella had told me. I could not help myself as I reached down and pulled out my length, for the second time in one day. There, in the vestibule of the church, the door unlocked, I seized myself and started to jerk off, rapidly, gripping my meat tightly, holding the knickers against my face. Such a tease, I thought. Working me up into this state. As I stroked, I muttered out loud. “The bitch. The fucking horny bitch. Oh Christ she turns me on. I want her. So fucking badly.”
I couldn’t believe my own language, so wrong, so unpriestly. My organ was so slippery by now with pre-come, my hand moved smoothly up and down, and I knew that I could hold back no longer. With my other hand I held the knickers to my mushroom-head, watching the slit open wide as I reached a bone-shattering climax, feeling the surge of liquid streaming out over the flimsy material, soaking it through with my juices. I continued to pump, stroke after stroke, until I was as empty as could be. I made my vow there and then that Mrs Norte would no longer thwart me, that her power over me had to end… that I would take control of her, from now on.
Some time later…. It was two days later and I wondered why I had heard nothing from her. Not a letter, a phone call, a knock on the door. Nothing. I tried to bury myself in work, in the reading and writing of letters, tending to the more vulnerable members of my congregation, making notes for future sermons. I wondered whether the whole thing was a ruse; designed to humiliate me. That she had sought to test my moral strength, and now that she had proved my weakness, she would never return. The thought was depressing to me. I could still, in my mind’s eye, feel the warmth and wetness of her, beneath her skirt, gripping my finger. And it was driving me to distraction.
It was one morning, while I was in one of the back rooms sorting through the embroidered prayer mats, when she turned up again. Uninvited. Unbidden. And there she was, in a flowery summer skirt and matching chemise, curves bulging, unhidden by her flowing garments. I noticed she was wearing larger earrings than before. Her lips were redder, more lurid than ever before, with some type of lipstick.
“Mrs Norte,” I began…
She put a lips finger to my lips. “Hush,” she told me. “You don’t have to say anything. Just do what I tell you to do.”
She told me to fetch the sacramental oil and some candles. I wondered what witchcraft she was up to. I soon discovered. Standing there, facing away from me, she put her hands on the table and asked me to pull down her skirt. Confused by lust, I did as bidden, exposing her bare, plump backside. She ordered me to pull apart the two luscious cheeks, revealing her little pink hole, smaller than the plump-lipped slit beneath. “Spread oil into my hole,” she murmured, sighing as my fingers began to apply the oil, fragrant with myrrh and frankincense, into the tiny orifice. I couldn’t resist her demands; it was as simple as that. She told me to insert a finger, which I did, pressing against the oily arsehole until it slid, easily, within. For a few minutes she allowed me to thrust in and out with the single digit, which seemed to satisfy her greatly. “Another finger,” she ordered, and now I was sawing in and out with two.
I realised that the door was unlocked, that anyone could walk in on us.
I was amazed by how easily I could stretch and open her, how the tightness of the muscles soon gave way, relaxing under the pressure of my fingering. I pushed harder and faster, practically fucking her arse with my hand.
“That’s enough,” she ordered, to my disappointment.
“Now push a candle in there.”
“You must be joking,” I exclaimed. She shook her head.
“Do it, now. But make sure it is properly oiled.”
I took a candle, and wiped oil all over the stem and head, before pushing it against the hole. She looked pink and a little sore. But the white, waxy head soon disappeared up her back passage, its smooth surfaces gliding into the well-prepared hole. I gripped one end and used it to pump her, hard. I noticed that her left hand was between her legs, stroking her clit. She started breathing harder and harder, and suddenly there was the familiar gasp, her body tensed, and she came.
“There was a reason for this,” she told me. “I wanted to prepare myself for you.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I want you to enter me, with your manhood, on midsummer’s night. And I want both holes to be ready to accept you. That is why I asked you to prepare me with the candle. To keep me ready, I want you to swap the candle for this plug, which I will keep inside for the next few days.”
I pulled the white, oily candle from her rear, noticing a little sound as it popped out. Her hole looked stretched, red and gaped open. I wanted to put my engorged cock up her there and then.
Instead I grasped the plastic plug and sank it into her flesh.
She pulled up her skirt and left.