The Vicar of St. Dunstan's Ep. 18byNigel Debonnaire©
Stories about avoiding sex are rare on Literotica, I'm sure, but I hope this one gives you some chuckles in the delay before it delivers gratification.
Why the hell am I doing this, I asked myself as I pounded down the streets on Holy Saturday The air was a bit brisk, but not too bad, clouds hung heavily but didn't threaten rain before my morning jog was over. It had rained just before I started: the streets were damp and the air still hung heavy with moisture, fresh and clean. It seemed like a good idea six weeks ago, I said to myself again, giving up sex for Lent. I talked it over with the Quilting Ladies, and they all agreed it would be a good idea. At least, that's what they said to me directly. It had ended up a marathon of temptation and titillation, but I've endured it.
Could I help it if I wanted to get control of my life again? After all, I have a wonderful life, and most men would be envious. I'm having sex with four wonderful people rather regularly, a wonderful parish that really doesn't care much what I do as long as I take care of them and I'm happy, living Britannia that I adore, friends, intellectual stimulation, crocuses. For a thirty seven year old Vicar, an Anglican Priest in his prime, it just couldn't be better.
But, I was worried. It seemed that all I thought about was my next sexual encounter. My menu was too big. I could have Mavis' endless energy and massive mammaries aching for stimulation, Mary's dignified yet intense passion in a still perfect package, Barbara's epicurean secret fire in her hidden retreat, Agnes' round dewy freshness. If I was tired of them, there was wealthy old Lucinda's Cinnamon fired gummers, or Sheila's relentless quest for pleasure. My homilies were feeling flat, my scholarship veering off kilter in delay, my attention to the rest of my parishioners easily side tracked. A celibate Lent would surely get me back in focus, get me pointed the right direction. For the most part it did, but my resolution wasn't universally respected.
The worst was the daily porn as my computer started up. It started the day after Ash Wednesday: I hit the on button and was treated to a full screen of a lovely young lady, fully naked, touching herself for thirty seconds. It was just a torso; image ended at the neckline and just below the crotch. She looked familiar: I could have sworn it was Mother Mary Rufus herself (Barbara) who was gently stroking her own thighs and tweaking her nipples, but Barbara's bush was as blonde as the hair on her head, her fingernails lacking the black color of the model's, and this woman's pubic hair was a dark spiderweb. Once it ended, the program shut down and the clip erased itself before I could find out where it came from.
The next day, I cornered Agnes in the kitchen. She had just gotten up, and was wearing a pair of pink silken panties, huge blue bunny slippers, a white t-shirt, and no bra. Her pierced nipples stood up against the chilly air under the shirt, and I had a difficult time starting the conversation with the serious tone I wanted to take. "Agnes, I've been treated to a private show as I started up my computer the past two days."
"Really, Alfie?" she said innocently. "What kind of show?"
"A brief, thirty second clip of a naked woman stroking her body."
"My gosh, can you show them to me?"
"No, they self-destruct before I can do anything."
"Pity. Was she hot?"
"Can you tell me anything about where they came from or how they got there?"
"No, Alfie dear, I can't tell you anything. Remember: I don't know what your passwords are, and I'm not able to write computer programs. Do you know who the woman is?"
"Not for certain."
"Then I need to sweep and dust the upstairs rooms if that's all you want right now."
She flounced out the door. A new clip popped up on Saturday morning: the woman had parted her nether lips and was gently stroking her clitoris, creating a glisten of dew. Sunday was clear, then the series resumed on Monday where it left off on Saturday, with gentle fingers caressing a moist slit. On Wednesday, a large, green dildo appeared and worked its way into the model's cunt for the rest of the week. The next Sunday was off again, then a new model started appearing the second Monday of Lent. I could have sworn it was Agnes, but the model's fingernails were painted green, her nipples were unadorned and her cunt shaven bare. I tried everything I could to stop the playback, but it was fruitless trying to control it and again it self-destructed before I could find out more about it.
My entire Monday off was spent in a fruitless search for the origins of my persecution. I knew enough about my file structure and my programs to make me feel as though I was on the verge of finding it, but it remained elusive. Sure, I could have asked for help, but Agnes and Barbara were likely co-conspirators despite their protestations of innocence, and trying to explain the problem to someone else could be quite embarrassing, as well as revealing some relationships I wanted to keep concealed. So I chased Wild Geese and slept frustrated. Another show greeted me the next morning.
Tuesday morning I went shooting with Colonel Sterling Hyde-Smith.:It was a brisk morning at the shooting range, overcast, and the Colonel was in good spirits. We got to talking about what people gave up for Lent, and when I told him of my resolution, things got difficult.
"Well, lad, good for you. I'm still looking for a bit of tottie, have been for months, but having it and saying no is a sign of true masculine strength. Don't let them think they've got you by the balls, make'em wait for it. PULL." A clay pigeon shattered mid-flight.
"Thanks, Colonel. It's not easy. You've been single all your life, how do you manage? PULL."
My aim was good as well.
"Well, I was married to the Army, lad. India, Rhodesia, Aden, Falklands. Soldiered on through all kinds of weather, snow, rain, heat, cold, mud. You don't get randy when you're hip deep
in shite, laddie. PULL."
"I imagine. When we were getting in the wheat harvest back home, I was so tired, when I got to the house, I had no interest in the stack of girlie magazines under my bed."
"Stacks of girlie mags are a good thing. Or course, it was a combination of wanking myself and prostitutes that got me through the long tours I spent defending the Empire."
I had to pause and reset myself before I shot again. It missed.
The Colonel stepped forward to take his place. "There was a native girl in Rhodesia, black as night, forty years old if a day, tits swinging down to her navel, plate in her lip. Wildest ride I ever had in my life; she fucked like an epileptic washing machine with wobbly bearings. God, she was wonderful. PULL."
Without a word, I took aim and yelled pull. Another miss. "Gave me a big bouncing bastard boy nine months later: became a merc like his old man. Then there was that shepherd girl in the Falklands, Vivien. Used to bite sheep's nuts off, and had thighs that could crack yours if you weren't careful. I lived for danger; God, she was glorious if you were man enough for her. PULL"
I lined up again, and the Colonel continued: "Then, the Indian girl in Darjeeling. Knew most of the Kama Sutra by heart. . ." Another miss and our match was done. "Bad luck, old bean. Would think something was distracting you. Well, well, on to the club for breakfast."
My duties around the parish were busy enough that I didn't have a lot of time to obsess on the campaign of sabotage. The rest of the week was extremely hot self play from the shaven one.
Lucinda Parkhurst-Frazelton was at home for most of Lent. I visited her weekly, but that week was the time she threatened my resolution. We were sitting in her sitting room: I in my formal suit and dog collar, and she in a light blue robe. Sipping tea and amicably discussing Tory politics looking toward the next election in a few years, an odd gleam came to her eye. "Now Vicar," she began, "I understand that you've been working especially long and hard since Lent began. This zeal is commendable, but not very healthy for you. How long has it been since I took care of you?"
"Oh, I think it was last week, wasn't it?" I started squirming; it would be difficult to fend her off. The heavens would understand my need to prevaricate. Fortunately, Willikins was still in the room, and Lucinda never discussed her sexual history or made a pass while he was present.
"Willikins, we shall not need you for a while." I pleaded with my eyes for him to stay, but he shrugged his shoulders and evaporated silently as usual. "Now Vicar, let's get you taken care of."
"How long has it been since you've seen Barbara?" I said as she reached for the Cinnamon Altoids.
"I saw Mother Mary Rufus this morning. Now--unzip your trousers like a good boy."
"How is she feeling? I saw her the other day and thought she might have a cold coming on."
She stopped and thought for a moment. "Barbie looked a little peaked, but she didn't say anything about feeling ill."
I touched her shoulder. "There was some controversy at the convent that she was concerned about. Something about the novices? I didn't hear everything about it."
Lucinda snickered lightly for a moment. "The young girls were playing some games after lights out, all very innocent, but Barbie had to rattle their cages a little. They were playing Texas Hold 'Em; I never played the game myself."
"I played that game a lot when I was growing up in Western Kansas, along with draw and stud."
"Draw and Stud? What does that mean?" She put a candy in her mouth absent mindedly.
"They're kinds of poker. Surely they weren't playing for money?"
"No, no, it was strip poker. Barbie almost hit the roof. Had to give them an angry lecture about boundaries and told them they could play poker during their recreation time for chips, but not in the dormitory after the Great Silence." She settled back, a frail form against her soft cushions, sucking her Altoid, her eyes searching for a lost thought.
"I bet she was really mad."
"No, she was laughing when she told me. There were a few things she was going to do to keep the gals occupied, but I don't remember. . ."
"Do you know where Mary is today?'
A blank look. "Mary? Mary who?"
"Mary Sterns, your solicitor. Wasn't she going to be in Nigeria this week?"
"Oh, Mary Sterns, what a little corker. No, I think Mary dear is in South Africa this week. Got to visit our diamond mines, then the chromium plant in Rhodesia. . ."
"I think it's called Zimbabwe these days."
"It is," she pondered. "Poor Mr. Rhodes."
I looked at my watch. "Lucinda dear, I have to toddle off. Derrick needs help with changing some light bulbs between classes, and I promised to be there for him. Jenny had to take the baby for a check-up."
"Oh, good. Did you like your blow job, Vicar?"
I kissed her on the forehead. "You are a sweetheart, Lucinda. Thanks." As I passed through the hallways grateful for her confusion. Willikins was bringing a tray for her as I was leaving: he gave me a naughty look that turned into a scowl as I failed to respond with embarrassment. So the plot to disrupt my resolution was broader than one person, and Barbara was involved.
During week three both models were working with each other: girl on girl action that I was finding difficult to watch. No faces were seen: the darkpubed girl wore a leather helmet that revealed only eye sockets, nose and mouth, the shaven girl's face and hair were never in view. The week's serial was the leather headed girl teasing her lover's breasts and groin, culminating with very hot tongue on clitoris action. Week four was role reversal: the shaven one wore the leather mask and pleasured her lover's breasts and dark haired pussy in excruciating detail.
I had some good times with the girls during the abstinence; I didn't avoid their company at all. Agnes and I watched a lot of movies and were regulars at the local ballroom dance club; one night we took first place in the Rumba competition. Barbara and I discussed some very abstract theological points that informed my current scholarly project, as well as comparing notes on travels we have taken around Europe and the Holy Land. Mary Sterns looked in one weekend, found out my Lenten resolution, and left spitting venom in frustration. Sheila sent a couple of postcards from Cornwall talking about her adventures with her grandsons there; Mavis spent most of her time with her daughter Sherrel in Scotland as promised.
But toward the end of Lent, as the weather got warmer, Agnes started puttering around the house and garden topless after hours, and gave me pointed looks when she caught me looking at her, daring me to say anything. Barbara dropped by at least two or three per week in the morning to use my hottub nude while I worked out. I asked Barbara about her casual nudity in my presence, and she replied: "My God, Alfie, you've seen me naked a lot. What's the big deal? I can't run around bare arsed at St. George's and I can't justify putting in a hottub for just myself there right now. Surely you're a grown man and not a teenager who pops a boner every time he sees a naked lady. Lighten up."
Monday of week five found me in a discussion of the cultural struggles of the Maccabee revolt, when I asked her out of the blue: "Have you been growing your hair back, Barbara?" Her red head scarf had been looking fuller in the past few weeks.
She paused for a moment. "Why do you ask?"
"Well, I've been getting some, interesting pictures on my computer and I don't know where they're coming from. In some of them, I catch flashes of blond hair and I wondered. Around Christmas time you were talking about growing it out."
"Yes, I was."
There was a long pause. "And are you?"
She thought for along moment. "In Biblical times, a woman's hair was considered very sexually stimulating; that's why women in the Middle East and in Muslim cultures cover their hair to protect their modesty. That's the reason Paul said women should have their heads covered in Church, and also a reason nuns have worn veils over the years."
Another long pause. "Yes?" I asked.
It took a moment, but then she resumed her momentum. "Since your resolution is to give up sex for Lent, I think discussing my hair will possible weaken your resolution to maintain your commitment, and so I don't think we should talk about it. My hair, as awful as it is, might do for you what it did to those ancient Palestinians."
I looked in on Agnes again that night, as she sat on her couch listening to Le nozze di Figaro topless. "Agnes, dear, have you ever shaved your crotch?"
She thought for a moment. "No, Alfie, I haven't. Why do you ask?"
"There's something about my daily clips that has me wondering. Would you mind showing me?"
"Show me what?"
"Whether your pubes are still there?"
I'd never seen Agnes blush so redly. "But it's been weeks. . . " she gasped with a trembling voice. "Are you giving up your Lenten resolution?"
"No, I"m not. I'm just looking for who's corrupting my computer."
She recovered herself quickly. "Well I don't think I should show you my cunt, even if we have been lovers for nine months now. You've been staying away from it for five weeks now, and the only way I'm showing you my cunt is when you're ready to make it feel good, and not a moment sooner."
On Monday of Holy Week, Derrick and Jenny Sterns came in for an extended review of the liturgies and Jenny's role in each of them from Thursday through Sunday, as well as last minute preparation for their son Alfred's baptism. The weather was warm enough that they dressed lightly: Derrick had on an Arsenal t-shirt, khaki shorts and sandals that hung loosely on his taut body, while Jenny wore a halter top with his short shorts and flip flops. Jenny's nicely rounded ass brought back some fond memories of a year earlier; I ended up holding my three month old namesake and focusing on his red little head to distract me. He was the mirror image of his father Derrick. We were in the midst of reviewing the rubrics on the same side of the desk when little Alfred started squirming and fussing in my arms.
Derrick noticed it right away, and asked: "Does Alfie have a dirty nappy?"
I stuck a finger inside his diaper and found it dry. "Nope."
"Feeding time. Let me take him." Derrick took his son in his arms, but instead of going over to the diaper bag, waited as his wife undid her halter top.
"About time, Alfie, my tits are about to pop," Jenny complained. Alfred was starting to cry as he was handed over to his mother, but settled at his mother's full breast quickly, hungrily drawing milk from her teat.
Jenny looked very lovely, sitting with her bare breasts heavy with milk, her son nursing contentedly at her left tit, and I started sweating profusely. "Hope you don't mind, Vic, feeding little Alfie like this," she said, "but you've seen it all before, so I figured you wouldn't mind. Usually I have to use a pump and put it bottles, but it feels so much better giving it to him this way. It's so peaceful and warm and nurturing; I feel so connected to my baby when he's milking my breast." Derrick smiled devilishly and touched her shoulder. "It's also a great turn on to see Derrick looking at us like that. He usually makes sure I'm empty, and then we fook like rabbits."
"Are you being careful?" I asked.
"We learned last time, Vic," Derrick interjected. "Jen's not Brittany Spears. We're on the Pill."
"Honey, would you take a little from the right one? It hurts so much I can hardly stand it." Derrick leaned over and licked her nipple thoroughly before taking it in his mouth and sucking gently for a minute. I had an urgent need to look out the window to see if any birds were returning for Spring.
"The Vicar is a great man, a man of the world, and it takes more than a couple of bare breasts to bother him." Derrick chimed in. "Now, what do we do after the Gospel on Sunday?"
"Right, yes." I staggered back to the topic and tried to tear my eyes away from the compelling scene. A strong urge to sample Jenny's right tit stuck in my mind, but I had to work around it, since she was Derrick's woman and not one of mine. Derrick was right there anyway, and I lacked the courage to ask if nothing else. It took both breasts to satisfy the little one before he fell asleep on his mother's shoulder. At last, I was able to focus on our business, which we concluded quickly. I showed them to the door, glad my large jumper hid my erection, and after seeing them out, darted to the kitchen to put some ice down my trousers.
Agnes was at the sink washing dishes topless, and observed drily: "I've got a better way to handle that, when you're ready for it." I was amazed that she was so unclad: her skin was goosepimpled in the cool kitchen and her sweet nipples very erect, but her face was serene.
That night, I was at the pub tossing darts with Harry Hazleton, Stan Dover and Percy Whitson. It was very drunk out that night: there was nothing on my calendar the next morning, and I was resorting to extreme intoxication to relax avoid sex. It felt strange doing that since I was avoiding someone I really wanted to screw, like Mary, Barbara or Agnes instead of a witch like Violette, but the last push was wearing on my nerves.
Harry totaled up the score and grinned. "Pay up, lads. Vic, you're game's off."
"I know. It'll get better soon."
"I hope so mate," Harry continued, "the house is a little too quiet with Mavis gone. I miss her so much, I'd almost fook her meself when she gets back." He roared with laughter as his remark, throwing his great head back and his huge belly shaking with glee. "What are ye drinkin', Vic?"
"Irish Boilermaker, Harry, Bushmills and Harp."
Stan laughed. "The Irish didna invent the Boilermaker, Vic, ye'll kill yerself with that combo."