A Sissy Saga Ch. 10

"Parson, you're on the verge of being insolent. Don't forget who you're talking to."

Roper bit his lip. The woman was very wealthy and very strong in the community, and he was in debt to her for more than just money.

There was a pause, then a caustic conclusion from her. "I can't thank you for anything you've said, parson. You're a hypocrite and you've not been the least bit helpful or reassuring. But you may be certain I won't let the matter rest here. I'll speak with the chair of the Education Committee at County Hall."

When an abrupt click on the other end of the line indicated the call was over Roper replaced the handset and drummed his fingers on top of it in annoyance for a moment.

"Was that my grandmother?" asked the young man with him.

Unerringly, Roper's gaze sought and found the person who had spoken, a gorgeous male specimen with dark, tousled hair, striking blue eyes and with the kind of lean, honed body that was ideal for sin. He was dressed casually in an Oxford shirt, jeans and loafers with no socks.

He cleared his throat. "Yes, Alistair, but it was not about anything that concerns you." He stood up and appraised his visitor. He was only inches away from him, so close he could feel the warm of his body, could smell the scent of his woodsy aftershave. A tremor of desire ran down his body and melted into his loins. Alistair was a memory from the past come back to haunt him. He was like wine. A rare vintage with a perfect chambre. It struck him how big he was, how tall and how colossal and awe inspiring the bulge in the front of his jeans was. Just standing near enough to touch the young man made his blood run hot and his own groin tighten in awareness. He liked Alistair. He'd always liked him, liked him in the way a man hungers for a treasure he as never possessed, and right at that moment he had to check that his tongue wasn't hanging out with lust.

"You've grown, my boy. You've shot up considerably from when we last saw each other, and you're you look so mature and strong. Lovely, lovely. Your mother tells me you are now attending the College of Agriculture, but I must admit to being in the same vein as the Duke of Wellington when he said agriculture was something he knew absolutely nothing about."

"It's a college of horticulture, not agriculture." Alistair told him. "Agriculture is about cultivating the land while horticulture is more to do with actually growing things. I intend to specialise in fruit, flowers and ornamental shrubs. I just thought to pop in and say hello while I'm at home. I've left some arum lilies outside. I thought they may brighten up the chancel."

The parson offered a treacly smile. "I missed - everyone missed your voice in leading the choir when you were taken away to attend boarding-school. As a lad you had such a pure voice, oscine - almost angelic - like crystal-clear water tumbling over pebbles in a mountain stream. Your rendition of the Mendelssohn anthem as never been equalled."

The young man grinned as he made for the door. "'Fraid I croak like a bullfrog now. I'll probably see you on Sunday, parson."

Roper's sixteen stone sagged back into his chair as he watched Alistair depart, and then his thoughts veered back to what Mrs Boroclough had said earlier. What was she getting all hot under the collar for? He saw himself as a sensualist, a sexual epicure, and getting all hysterical over a few young men cavorting about in gymslips seemed ridiculous. A lot of people enjoyed observing boys dressed up as girls, they liked to watch pretty sissy-things in skirts pouting and preening. It worked well if the young men were attractive, and Miss Hancock's clutch of effeminates were good enough to have kept himself guessing for a while.

He'd check out Marks and Spencer's the next time he was in Leeds and see what they had in stock for trendy young girls, and maybe Alistair would oblige him by wearing nylons and revealing thong-pants. He fondled the bulge in his trousers that had persisted throughout the young man's visit. No, that was a wrong idea. Alistair was too tall and brawny to look good dressed up like that, and he was perhaps lost to him forever now. Not at all like the drippy and fragile girlish things Miss Hancock had in training. It was a shame Mrs Boroclough became so upset over trivial things. Just how many people really knew what was happening at the Grange? Who else apart from Mrs Boroclough and her po-faced gang of acolytes really cared?

The vestry door opened and Mrs Amos appeared waving a feather duster and dragging behind her a vacuum-cleaner. "I's seen the lad going. Is it alright to do in here now?"

"Well..." Roper began.

"I allus let's you finish what you have to do before I comes in here. That's only right and proper of course, but you hangs about so late sometimes I don't get done meself."

The parson didn't respond. To disguise his salacious thoughts he scooped up a book laying on the table in front of him and flicked it open. 'The Dissolution of the English Monasteries' was a tome large enough to hide in and give some distraction from the ache that still lingered in his trousers. He'd hardly focused before an element of modern-day curiosity caused his head to rise. "You have employment at Fairyfield Grange, don't you, Mrs Amos?"

The woman released her grip on the vacuum-cleaner and it dropped with a clatter to the floor. "I does cleanin' like I does here. Morning's there an' evening's 'ere for you."

"Have you ever been disturbed by anything you've seen there? Does anything upset you when you visit?"

"Only that 'orrible woman Gloria what says I's skivin' if I stops to catch me breath."

"Nothing odd about the students? Nothing - unusual?"

Her eyes narrowed slyly. "I's not allowed anything to do wi' 'em, parson. Folk like me ain't allowed anywhere near." She gave a nearby shelf a desultory flick with the feather duster. "Where's Mrs Roper then? Gone to visit her mum again as she?"

Roper nodded. "The health of my wife's mother is a tragically fragile thing."

"Shame. It'll be a worry fer Mrs Roper, an' it must be a burden for you too, parson. I knows how a gennelman needs to be fussed by a woman, an' you'll be missing that."

The parson observed her with some apprehension. He'd known Mrs Amos long enough to recognise the meaning at the heart of her words, and he couldn't help but quake as she walked around the side of his table. As he turned to meet her he inadvertently made a display of the excitement that persisted in his trousers and the woman noticed it at once.

"I's already locked the door, parson." she breathed as she clambered down before him and became installed between his legs. "That lad jus' now - he didn't stay long, so you'll probably need something done I 'spect."

Roper swelled up like a great toad, unsettled by her intrusive nature and slightly intimidated by her brashness. "Mrs Amos, I don't think..."

"Oh dunna worry parson, it's a real treat for me too."

Her hands went straight down to his trousers and an agonising moment was endured as her fingers wrestled with some obstinate buttons. But finally his fly burst open and she fumbled to release his rigid penis. The swollen purple head of the thick peg sprang forth, its eye already leaking in anticipation. "Mrs Amos, this is lust. That which you contemplate is a Deadly Sin."

"Who sez so?"

"Who said so? Why, I believe Thomas Aquinas said so."

The woman gave a contemptuous toss of her head. "Bloody politicians, allus trying to spoil peoples fun." She didn't wait for directions in any way. She reached for the lolling erection and swung it up to lap its juicy tip, then slid her tongue under the corona of the bloated knob-end before sheathing the clergyman's entire length in her mouth.

Puffing heavily Parson Roper rolled back while the woman made noises in her throat like that of a thirsty labourer guzzling on a bottle of beer. Mrs Amos wasn't at all good looking, he thought, she was rather ugly really, but he'd allowed her to do little things like this for him in the past because along with her enthusiasm her lips had a surprisingly deft touch that was extremely enjoyable.

He panted as her wilful tongue writhed and laved at the tip of his sturdy thrusting column, wet mouth dipping, moist lips dragging up and down, urging him to spill the essence of his excitement. If he closed his eyes he could imagine Alistair making a meal of him like that, and that wasn't at all bad. No, it wasn't bad at all. Mrs Amos was good with her mouth, and however strongly he ejaculated she never pulled away or even flinched, and since much of her own satisfaction seemed to come from the pleasure she provided she was disappointed if the quantity of his emission was anything but enormous.