tagLoving WivesThe Vicar of St. Dunstan's Ep. 05

The Vicar of St. Dunstan's Ep. 05

byNigel Debonnaire©

A COMET FOR TWELFTH NIGHT

Another slice of life at St. Dunstan's; for background, please consult the previous episodes Second in a flock of four. Feedback welcome.

*

"Tell me, Vicar, was the Star of Bethlehem a comet?" It was a balmy fall day, and appropriate to have a bit of St. Martin's summer on Martinmas. The choir boys hadn't been very interested in my presentation on St. Martin, and I was filling my time with them before rehearsal by taking questions.

"What makes you say that, Jeremy?" I responded. Jeremy Ploughright was a tall lad in the choir, and at the top of his class in science. He was also one of the most forthcoming, and would discuss anything until stopped.

"Well, Vicar, we just learned in science class that a comet is going to pass by Earth next month around Christmas, and I wondered if that was what the Wise Men saw."

It took a moment to remember what I read about the subject of the Star: I'd done a paper on this for a class at Seabury in my Seminary days. "Hmmm, there's no conclusive proof which astrological phenomena was the Star of Bethlehem. There was a triple conjunction of Mars, Saturn and Jupiter that happened around the years 7-6 BC; Johannes Kepler suggested the this conjunction was the Star. Origen suggested in the Third Century that the Star of Bethlehem was a comet and there's a lot of support for that theory. I don't have a strong opinion either way. Tell me about the one that's coming." Freddie Burkitt's hand shot in the air, begging me to call on him. Freddie was one of Mavis Hazelton's grandchildren. "Okay, Freddie, tell us about it."

"Father, it's going to become visible around the feast of St. Lucy, December 12th, but it won't show a tail until Christmas Eve. We'll see it all the way to Twelfth Night, January 6th, although the best view will be in the Southern Hemisphere."

"Excellent, Freddie." Mavis was always proud of her oldest grandson, who was exceptionally bright as well. The choir director came into the room, and I led them in the Lord's Prayer before they filed out for rehearsal. Curious, I looked up the information on the comet on the Internet when I got back to my study, and refreshed my grasp of the theories around the Star of Bethlehem.

As coincidence would have it, Mavis brought my Tea around that evening. I told her about Freddie's knowledge of the comet and she puffed up with pride. "He's a bright lad, our Freddie. Takes after his father in brains, although he'd better not become the piker the old man is. Leaving a wife and five children on their own like he did, for an eighteen year old trollop! Forgive and forget, the Bible says, but that prick isn't getting any slack from me, in fact, I'd gladly hold open the door to Hades for the bastard."

"Mavis, the Bible doesn't say 'Forgive and forget'."

"No. I could have sworn."

"Look it up sometime. We'll talk about Freddie's dad another time. So Freddie's a talented lad?"

"Oh yes, Vicar, our pride and joy. In a few years, he'll be a scholarship boy, we're certain."

"Grand. By the way, this is wonderful, Mavis. You've outdone yourself."

"Thanks, Vic, flattery like that will get you everywhere." She turned and gave me a broad wink.

"How about some company for a while after?"

"Grand, Mavis. Bring your bag of fun?"

"Always, Vic, always. Thought about a thing or two I noticed last time I was here."

"What?"

"Just wait." I finished my meal, and led Mavis upstairs, my pants bulging in anticipation.

When we got upstairs, she stood on her toes and gave me a long, sloppy French kiss. I took off my jacket and dog collar, but stopped knowing she like to control how much she undressed me, and she liked to be pleased fully naked while I was dressed. Opening her bag, she showed me how she had run a ten foot length of high test fishing line through the chain of her nipple clamps; the far end held a safety pin like clasp at the end. At her bidding, I took the line and ran it up to a hook that was directly over my bed: my predecessor had a flowerpot hung there, directly over where his wife slept from what I understood. She disrobed; her plump, short body bounced onto the bed making it creak frighteningly. I found the length of rope kept in her bag, gave her a long, deep kiss as she lay there and asked her: "Will you have the usual, Mavis?"

"I thought a little variation tonight, Vic. Tie the girls up like you always do, but don't oil them. Put some of the fishing weights from my bag on the end of the line. I'll tell ya when it's enough."

I did a series of alternating figure eights and loops around her huge mammaries, but instead of tying the rope off around her neck, I ran the end up around the poles of my headboard, looping them around to tie them to her wrists. "Ooo, lovely Vic, wish I'd thought of that. Now put the clamps on. Ooowwwww, yes. Tighter, tigher,yes. Now the other one. Ooooooowwwwwwww. Same as the other one: tighter. Yes, yes, yes, stop. Let's get the weights out."

I recognized them from my rural American childhood: simple balls of lead with a small loop at one end to attach it to the line. They were huge, and felt like two pounds each. "Where did you get these?"

"Harry's trawling net. The clip on with a device like that on the end of the line is from it, too.."

"What if Harry misses them?"

"Hasn't gone fishing for fifteen years; hasn't even looked in the garage for seven. He won't miss them, and if he did, he wouldn't care. Clip a couple on the line and let them swing."

My bedroom had a high ceiling, and the other end of the line was hanging at chest height in front of me. Giving it an experimental pull, I stretched her buds a little, just to see how she would take it. She let out a long wail, then puffed and blew several times. "It's grand, Vic, it's grand. What a charmer you are, laddie. Put the weights on."

The weights pulled the chain up, lifting her heavy mounds. It let them swing, clanking at the middle, making her puff and blow to control herself. I took out another and showed it to her; she nodded quickly and pulled her hands down, tightening her tits more. One, two three more, and I could tell she reached her limit. The chain pulled the clamps up; her buds were distended for two inches and her boobs started to turn red from their confinement. Sending them swinging dramatically, I lay down next to her on the bed, almost fully clothed I traced my long fingernails across the stretched skin of her breasts, while licking my way around her huge, seven inch wide nipples avoiding the clamped nubbins. Mavis began to wiggle and squirm, moaning and yelping telling me that she was close to her orgasm. Back and forth the fishing weights went, pulling her nipples and breasts in rhythm as I worked on them with my fingernails and tongue. At last, she began to shudder, crossing the boundary to a massive orgasm, thrashing around regardless of the confinement, that lasted for almost seven minutes.

I released her, and she gave me a deep kiss. Standing me beside the bed, she undid my fly and pulled my pants to the floor, sticking my erection through the flap of my boxers. She gave me a two-handed hand job, going into my boxers to lick my oysters the whole time. The session stimulated me more than I imagined, and it wasn't long before I provided a white flood of spunk to cover her face and coat her tongue. Licking madly and guiding it with her fingers, she got every drop, swallowing it like a fine post dinner prandial.

The St. Martin's summer ended two days later, dispelled by dark clouds and cold rain. The Quilting Ladies were working on a great Christmas quilt, and granddaughters Jenny Button, Agnes Sterns and Betsy Clark were helping to speed the work. This meant fewer passing encounters in the Quilting room, but the ladies always brought my Tea, and when I didn't have an evening commitment, stayed to provide dessert.

Thanksgiving was always a day of absence. I had no real attachment to the other American civic holidays in exile, but the memories of my family gathered at the ranch on Thanksgiving always tugged at me: sitting around a groaning table of traditional Turkey, dressing and fixings to eat ourselves silly; playing cards all afternoon while our dinners settled; a day end horseback ride around the property regardless of the weather, sandwiches and pie around a roaring hearth in the evening. That day I stopped being a happy adopted Englishman and longed for the Plains of Western Kansas. Mary and Sheila did their best to give me the content of the occasion, but it was the 9:00PM call home after the conclusion of the family feast that kept the flame of my heart going.

Advent began its season of longing and hope, and my personal hope to see the comet on St. Lucy's Day was frustrated by cloudy skies and sleet. The one clear night was had was broken by a program at the local grade school; Mary and I looked for vain in the Vicarage back yard for the hairy star for half an hour afterward.

It was a cold, wet December 23. The streets were damp and the sky overcast, lending a peculiar sheen to the night as I walked back from the Sailor's Home Christmas Party. The men were grateful for the company, and that was what mattered to me: I hate the prolonged wallowing in Christmas sentimentality that precedes the feast itself for a month and a half. Thank God for England: it refused to go ditzy about the reindeer and snowmen and sappy melodrama that my homeland likes to snuggle with this time of year. St. Dunstan's had retrieved an ancient Tradition of Midnight Eucharist at my urging, and in three years the attendance had become respectable enough to keep it going.

Christmas Eve midnight: that was the time to roll out the tree and all the trimmings, to lose oneself joyfully in the celebration of the Savior's birth. The Quilting Ladies didn't quite understand why I didn't let them deck the Vicarage sooner; they thought that as an American I would want all the cheap folderol of my home culture's Christmas. There were a few good natured jibes about "Father Ebenezer", but in the end they respected my wishes.

My dinner was in the oven, with a note from Sheila that she would be by later after her husband Bert went to bed. I listened to the news on the BBC as I ate, and opened the mail. There were cards from home: my parents sent a card with a letter detailing the news about our distant relatives, births, graduations, marriages, divorces, deaths. I went back to visit my hometown of Hays, Kansas once since I relocated to England, and that was three years ago. Thanks to the Internet, I had pictures and albums sent regularly of the family, and the ones that affected me the most was seeing my parents age. After dinner and the end of the news, I went to my study to click through the photos I stored: their faces were now lined and their hair gone grey. Dad had said that he needs to hire a local youth to cut his yard and the trees; he always relished puttering around outside, and this meant he was accepting the diminishment of his abilities. I thought of the Dylan Thomas poem "To my Father", and how one should resist the great, slow fade, but for his sake I was glad he was taking no chances of a fall or other calamity by overextending himself.

Opening my diary, I saw that January was fairly free, but the prices for a ticket on short notice was out of my reach. Mid-June looked promising, three weeks open there, but they were committed to visiting Australia and the sister parish. It would be tough to give up time with the lovely Rev. Brenda Porter. . .

"Cooie, Vicar, where are ye?" Sheila's voice wafted from the back door.

"In here, Sheila."

She came around the door and looked at monitor. "New pictures from home?"

"No, just looking over some old ones."

Coming across the room, she sat on my lap and gave me a long, deep kiss. "You look rather pensive. Do you miss being home this time of year?"

"I don't know," I said, as my thoughts swirled with memories good and bad, old pain, and growing lust. "I never fit in at home: my parents were wonderful, but I was never meant to live on the Great Plains, and I knew that from an early age. When I discovered England, it was my dream to live here, and the past four and half years are a dream come true. I love it here and would happily stay to the end of my days, but looking at pictures of my family makes me want to go back for a while, despite the awful memories, just to look at the sky full of stars from horizon to horizon and see the storms sweep across the landscape once again."

Sheila hugged me and gave me another kiss. "Well then, luv, you should find a way to go back before it's too late. For your own peace of mind, you should go just to be able to say you did."

I kissed her deeply. "You're right, Sheila, I know you're right. I guess I'll have to find a way."

"Grand. Now, why don't you take me upstairs, throw me on the bed, rip my clothes off and fuck me silly."

"Done." I stood up with her in my arms; she didn't weigh very much and I could carry her easily. Mounting the stairs, she giggled like a schoolgirl and licked my ear wetly. We came into the bedroom and I threw her down on the bed. She was wearing an old white blouse and grey slacks, and kicked off her blue flats as she hit the bed.

"Rip my clothes off, Vic, I've got spares in my bag. This lot was headed for the bin anyway, not even good enough for charity." Seeing the look in her eye, I tore her blouse to shreds, buttons flying everywhere. There were a pair of heavy scissors on my dresser; I cut her bra off one strap at a time, turned her slacks into origami, then did the same to her panties. She bounced up on all fours naked, and released my trousers, pulling them down with my boxers to reveal my nine inch member swelling to fullness. As I removed my shirt, she stroked my John Thomas while juggling my oysters, rendering me ready for action. When I was naked, she took the corona in her mouth, running her tongue around the rim hungrily. After her efforts had gotten me fully prepared, she purred: "I'm ready now, Vicar, take me now, take me now. I want all of it." Pushing her down on the bed, I knelt between her legs and thrust my entire length into her slickness at once.

Sheila was usually quiet in bed, but very active, grinding her hips as I thrust into her in a way that made me quiver, but tonight she was a wild woman, writhing, clawing my back, moaning and screaming as she orgasmed. I pulled out and sent a huge stream of white globs across her stomach and breasts, which she rubbed into her skin, sucking a huge glob she scooped up off her index finger. I lay down to rest beside her and recover, as she snuggled into my side, still massaging my seed around on her corpus.

We lay snuggled for a while in silence, gathering strength for another round. I felt at peace and ready for new adventures, while she looked pensive. I gave her shoulder a squeeze. "Penny for your thoughts, Sheila."

She reached out of idly stroke my flaccid penis and tender testicles. "I was thinking about my granddaughter Jenny."

"Oh?" That struck me as an odd topic.

"Well, I feel responsible for her, since we've raised her after her parents died. She's becoming a woman, and I want to help her be happy."

"That's a wonderful thing you're doing, Sheila. I know you and Jenny have a great relationship, and she's becoming a very fine young lady."

"Well, she's been dating Derrick Sterns for three months now, and she's been asking me questions about womanly things."

"Again, it's wonderful she can talk with you about that. There's a lot of mothers that would envy your relationship."

"We've looked at a lot of books about different things, but Jenny's not good at learning from books. She's kind of like someone from that state by your home, what is it, oh yes, Missouri."

"Yeeesss. We're not terribly fond of Missourians where I come from, especially during college football and basketball seasons. . ."

"What I'm trying to say is that she does better if someone shows her. You did a nice thing for young Derrick, teaching him how to be a man, and I was wondering if you'd help me show Jenny a couple of tricks?"

Eighteen year old Jenny was a regular on weekends, frequently tagging along with her grandmother, but the picture that came to mind was a shot of the two of them with Mary Sterns and her granddaughter Agnes from a cycling tour of Wales. They were standing in front of the Wye valley beside their bikes naked from the waist up. All four were gorgeous in their own way, and Jenny had long, conical breasts that stood straight out with big, puffy nipples. There were several other shots of them riding topless they took for my benefit; I still had the pictures on a flash drive of special shots that normally rested in the bottom of my desk. At last I said: "I'll have to think about that."

"You're doing some thinking about it now from what I can tell, luv." My cock was starting to recover and harden at the memory of those pictures. She stroked it gently, giving it a couple of long, slow licks to lubricate it. "It'll be a while before we can do it: Jenny takes a school trip to Brittany next month, so it'll be February before we can think about doing it."

"That's good to know. We'll talk about it later."

Sheila leaned over to give my twin orbs several moments of circular licking before traveling up the length of my shaft to suck me again, working deeper and deeper until it was all the way down her throat. Several minutes of working in and out had my juices building, and she worked her way back off, giving the rim of the head a lot of attention. "All the talk of Kansas makes me think the cowboy would like to take a ride." She switched to an atrocious Western accent: "You wanna saddle up your old grey mare for a ride?"

I guided her onto all fours, and lined up to enter her from behind. Putting the tip of my branding iron against her damp hide, I responded: "Get ready, here comes the cowpoke."

Bit by bit I fed my dick into her, teasing as she eagerly leaned back against me, slick and hot. As I began to buck against her, I slapped her ass and shouted: "Giddeyap."

She whinnied several times, laughing hysterically until her lust quieted them. Sighing, she bowed her head and rolled it around. "Ride 'em, cowboy. Slap my bum again, Vic, this filly needs some encouragement." So I rode her hard, smacking her lovely bubble butt to a light red as I pistoned her from behind, she whinnied lasciviously several more times. Soon, we both found the way to our lusty way skyward.

Christmas Eve was a better day, and I had the time to complete my preparations for the Midnight service. Mavis brought over Tea; she bustled in the door and shook flakes off her coat. "Happy Christmas, Vic, here's your tea. I think it's started snowing outside."

"Thanks Mavis. How's the family?"

"Ooh, I've got a houseful, but it's so lovely to have them all there. Had to get away for a while, the mob is driving my daft even though I adore them."

"How's Harry holding up?"

"As usual; the man just tends to sit on his couch and watch Telly. I think he loves having the house full too, but you'll never catch him admitting it, that one. Last night I caught him with asleep on the couch with our Bertie's three year old Sammy sleeping on his lap with his thumb in his mouth. Just put a blanket over them and left the dears to it."

"And the new baby in Scotland?"

"Plumping up a treat, Vic. A real charmer."

"I'm glad, Mavis. Thanks for Tea, it looks delicious."

"Well, I hate to drop off your food and run, Vicar, but my family needs me at home today. If I don't see you later, Happy Christmas, and give us a good hug and kiss before we go."

I reached down and gave Mavis a lingering osculation that made her shrink within my grasp eventually. "Oh Vicar, you're such a naughty boy. If I didn't have a houseful of children. . ." She bustled out the door into the Currier and Ives scene out my back door..

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