The Vicar of St. Dunstan's Ep. 23

PUBLIC BETA

Note: You can change font size, font face, and turn on dark mode by clicking the "A" icon tab in the Story Info Box.

You can temporarily switch back to a Classic Literotica® experience during our ongoing public Beta testing. Please consider leaving feedback on issues you experience or suggest improvements.

Click here

A pause. "Yes, I'll be here tomorrow."

"Good. Come see me."

"I'll think about it."

Nurse Jenkins went back to the wan light of her desk and picked up her sewing. The stars shone bright in the cold night as they wheeled overhead and she kept her watch on her soldiers, but a strange warmth she'd never known before lasted until daybreak.

The next night was almost identical in every way; the hospital was running a skeleton staff over the holidays, so there were be no traditional Boxing Day observance. Nurse Jenkins was sitting alone in the ward again. Periodically, she would put down her work to restoke the coal burning stove in the corner, only tonight she added a little more than usual. Just after midnight, there was a stirring in a familiar cot.

She went over to see Captain S. J. McCoy trying to scratch his itch, but when she took his wrist to stop him, it was clear he was shamming for her benefit. The hand went up to rest on her cheek, much to her surprise, then traced her facial curves. "Captain McCoy, what is the meaning of this?"

"I wanted to touch the face of an angel. How are you this evening, Nurse Jenkins?"

His hand was strong and rough: obviously he'd done a fair bit of manual labor in his life. She relaxed at that: he was from a social class near hers at least. Many officers had professed their undying admiration for her in the ward, but they were all of the aristocracy, and she knew what happened when aristocratic men got involved with women from under the stairs.

"I'm all right, Captain McCoy. How are you?"

"Fine, thank you. Did you have a good Christmas?"

"It was adequate."

He gave a low laugh. "Yeah, of course, adequate considering you're in Hell's antechamber and you're working on a holiday."

"You're cheeky, Captain."

"Pardon me, ma'am. The past three Christmases I was in the trenches, and that is Hell on Earth. This is the best one I've ever had over here, actually, it was the best yet."

Hesitantly, she brought her hand up to touch the hand on her cheek. "It's seems rather blunt to call this clean, quiet field hospital Hell's antechamber. We do our best here to give you a quiet, restful place where you can heal from your wounds."

"This place isn't bad at all. Your face is the loveliest thing I've ever touched."

Her skin grew warm under his touch. "You're most kind, Captain," She stifled a sniffle. "No one has ever said anything like that to me before."

"You're welcome. I wish you could call me Stoney, and I could call you Barbara."

"Oh, maybe sometime when we're alone, if we're ever alone. It depends on how soon you recover. What did the surgeon say today?"

"Oh, same thing, it'll be a couple of days before the bandages come off. I see light through my bandages, so I'm hopeful. My leg still hurts, but it's getting better. Probably going to bother me like my Paw's did."

"Your father was shot in a war?"

"Yeah, but a different one than this. In 1861, he rode over the state line to enlist in the Army of Northern Virginia. Got hit in the thigh trying to cave in the south end of the Union line at Gettysburg, and taken prisoner by Chamberlain. Used to say if the Minnie ball was one inch farther to the right, my brothers and sisters and I wouldn't have gotten here."

"I see. Your father was a Confederate, a rebel?"

"And damn proud of it. Survived Fort Douglas in Chicago, which was every bit as bad as Andersonville."

"Sure," His hand stayed at her cheek, his fingers toying with the brim of her headpiece. She resisted his touch as long as she could, but within a couple of minutes, she welcomed it. "Your hand is very strong."

"Many years working the farm."

"Yet you're an officer."

"When I was in school, I went to a one room school in Pike county Kentucky, and I won a statewide essay contest. My teacher encouraged me to go on and further my education, so I work hard and put myself through High School and a couple of years of college. Came home and taught at my one room school for three years."

"You taught young children?"

"Oh yes, enjoyed it greatly. Of course, I relied on intimidating the older boys that wanted to play rough, but once we got past that, everything was fine. More kids won awards in my school than any in the county; one boy got a scholarship."

"That's so wonderful. It hardly seems likely a tough man like you in a rural schoolhouse"

"Yeah, it was so different from here, seems like another world now."

"How did you end up in the Canadian cavalry?"

"Well, I've always read the newspapers closely, and when I read about the German atrocities in Belgium and President Wilson said we weren't going to get involved in a European war, I knew it wasn't right, I couldn't just let it go by without doing something about it. Went up north to Toronto and enlisted as soon as I could get my affairs in order."

"Did your father object?"

"He's dead, ma'am. Lost him eleven years ago. My brothers are tending the farm and taking care of Maw."

"How come you aren't in the infantry?"

"I grew up riding horses, even before I could walk. Used to work at Churchill Downs when I was going to college, rode whenever I could. They gave me a chance to show what I could do, and here I am."

"What a marvelous story. A Kentucky farm boy in the Canadian cavalry. It could never happen in England."

"Speaking of England, how's Parkie doing?"

"Parkie?"

"Captain Parkhurst in the next bunk. We've been buddies since we went through training together. I hauled him back over No Man's Land through mortars and machine gun fire when he got shot at Passchendaele."

Reluctantly, she took his hand from her cheek and went to the next bunk. Captain Charles Parkhurst, Canadian Cavalry, age 28, enlistment date 24 August 1914. Wounded twice before, decorated for bravery, shot in the chest and gassed at Passchendaele 5 November. His recovery was more complicated that Captain McCoy's, but his prospects were looking up. "He seems to be in good shape, Captain."

"Describe him to me."

"I don't know that I should."

"Ma'am, I've lived in the Trenches for three years. I've see men get their guts torn out by German machine gun fire, seen dead men caught on the barbed wire of No Man's Land move again as the rats consumed them from the inside, seen gangrene set in and rot off limbs when soldiers didn't take care of cuts and scratches, so there's nothing you can tell me that's going to turn my stomach. I've seen his ugly mug almost every day for three years. Tell me how Parkie's doing?"

"It must be horrible up there." She took a deep breath and relaxed. "Captain Parkhurst seems to be resting comfortably. He has bandages on his face, but otherwise his complexion looks clear. He's very thin, like you are, and he's got farther to go to recovery since he was shot in the chest, but his outlook is good."

He took a breath and sighed. "Thanks, Barbara."

"Captain!"

"Sorry. That makes me feel better. Parkie hasn't been talking much, and he's normally a motor mouth. I was worried about him."

"All right, Captain. Just remember where you are, you're not in Kentucky."

He laughed. "As if there was any doubt."

She laughed as well. "Is there anything else I can do for you?"

He grew silent and trembled a little. "Well, I'm not sure if I should be asking about this, but, but, could you check my bandage?"

A broad smile crossed her face. "Like I did last night?" A hesitation, then a tentative nod. "All right, Captain, but don't you go telling your mates about your special treatment."

"A gentleman never discusses such personal matters." She lifted the blankets, and reached for his turtlenecked worm. As her tongue tickled the inside of the turtleneck, a strong, gentle hand found her covered breast, milking it gently as her tender mouth milked him.

Over the next few evenings, they shared more of the story of their lives. He was the youngest of six boys and four girls, she was the oldest of four girls. His family had scraped a living in the eastern Kentucky hills since getting off the boat from Northern Ireland three generations before. Her father was in charge of the stables at one of the Duke of York's residences and her mother one of the house staff. Growing up, she worked in the house as well, playing big sister to the Duke's children as well as her own, and as a teenager tended one of the boys when he was invalided with polio. Helping the young man struggle against the contagion revealed to her she liked nursing, and the Duke made it possible for her to attend nursing school, getting her an appointment to the staff of a major hospital in York.

The events of August 1914 created a great need for medical staff in France, and Barbara Jenkins signed up early on, arriving in time to care for the survivors of the Race to the Channel. Since then she had tended the wards at night as her own personal trench, the days and the soldiers blurring together in a grey mass and her work a duty she strove to do without thinking much of why she was doing it. He talked about life in the Trenches: the damp squalor, the rats, and the whizzing death that sang past their ears almost daily as they wanted for the command to go Over the Top.

Every night she would pull back his blankets and fondle him to orgasm under the pretext of checking his bandaged thigh. He would want to touch her, and reluctantly she let him take more liberties with her clothed body. Her breath grew shortly and her mind giddy as he caressed her breasts, hips and crotch through her uniform, but the most thrilling was how he tenderly stroked her hair as she sucked him almost every night.

One January evening she was sewing a new quilt, and a figure limped over to stand in front of her desk. She looked up at his face, still discolored from the months of bandages, but his blue eyes were clear under his disheveled brown hair. "Nurse Jenkins?" the scarecrow asked.

"Captain McCoy, why are you out of bed? You need your rest."

"My bandages came off today. I can see."

It was difficult for her to look at him. The return of his sight meant he would be leaving the ward soon, another memory as the dull routine set in again. Why did she ever get close to him, knowing he would be gone before long? They never wrote or stayed in touch after they left.

"I'm glad for you, Captain. Obviously, you're ambulatory as well"

"Yes. You are beautiful, Nurse Jenkins, the most beautiful woman I've ever seen."

She blushed in the wan light. "I am not. I've always been small for my age, and at times I'm mistaken for a twelve year old. It is difficult to persuade them otherwise."

"Oh, really?"

"Yes, really. My mother said I'll look like a teenager until I have grey hair and wrinkles."

A shy pause followed, and she looked down at her sewing again. "I-I-I have something for you," he stammered

"Oh." She looked up at him as he reached into his robe pocket.

"I saved up for this, bought it during my last leave in Paris, to send it to my sister Daisy, but now I want to give it to you." He put a thin box on her desk and waited.

Picking it up, she opened it and gasped at what was within. It was a gold bracelet with a thin chain; it picked up the wan light of her desk lamp and glittered wonderfully. "What? How? Why?"

"Because you are an angel. I was right: you have the face of an angel, the most beautiful I've ever seen. You are the light of my life."

"Captain McCoy, I don't deserve this," she stuttered. "You bought it for your sister, surely she deserves it."

"No, Barbara. You do. You're the most important woman in my life, my greatest treasure."

The bracelet continued to work its magic, and she looked at him in amazement. He beckoned her to put it on, and she did reluctantly. Tears began streaming down her cheeks, and she fought to make no sound as she sobbed.

"Don't cry, please. I love you, Barbara, I love you with all my heart," he whispered.

Her glistening eyes met his and held them. After a long sweet moment, she whispered: "I love you, Captain. With all my heart."

Over the next few nights, she spent as much as time with him as she dared, watching carefully for restless patients or those with insomnia. They did not go farther with their affections, since they did not wish to risk discovery. One night, when Nurse Jenkins came to Captain McCoy's cot, his arm shot out to his friend in the next bunk: "Parkie, Parkie, wakie, wakie."

"Now Stoney, can't you let a poor Doughboy sleep," came a muzzy voice from the next cot. "We can go Over the Top and get ourselves killed anytime after sunup tomorrow."

"Stand to, she's here."

The dark headed man in the next cot, sat up abruptly, and blinked. "Hello, hello, hello. You must be Stoney's Lady. And what a lovely bit of crumpet you are, how do you do?"

She blushed very redly in the dim light as McCoy whispered back harshly: "Stuff it, Parkie, she's mine, and she's a classy lady. Keep your hands off, or she'll give you a hot sauce enema you'll never forget."

"My apologies, Sister. I'm impressed that you've made such an impression on our General. Was afraid that he had been a monk in a former lifetime. You are a lovely lady indeed, an angel. It is a pleasure to meet you at last; Stoney's been waxing prolifically about your virtues since I came out of my stupor."

Looking back and forth between the men, she hardly knew what to say. "Look now, Parkie, she's so bothered she can't talk. Who taught you how to treat a lady? You're as bad as a Yankee."

Gathering herself, she sallied forth into the conversation. "General? Why do you call him General? That's an odd nickname."

"Didn't he tell you about how he got his name?" Parkhurst leaned over conspiratorially. "When this pup became the last of his litter, his Paw and Maw had run out of family names to use. So they named him after the great Confederate General, Stonewall Jackson, whom his Father served with such distinction in the Army of Northern Virginia. Our General struggles to fill the standard his great namesake set forth, and the General is a man of dignity and valor whom I would follow gladly through the gates of Hell, which shall not prevail against him."

Parkhurst leaned back over to his friend next to him. "General you're taking advantage of this woman of virtue of breeding, quite obviously. Have you been so focused on making eyes at her that you've failed to reveal to her all your deep, dark secrets? You are a cad, sir, and if you were a gentleman I would ask you to step out."

McCoy looked askance. "Parkie, you are so full of shit your eyes are brown. I treat my lady well, every bit as you treat your fiancee back in Blighty. See the bracelet on her wrist?"

"My, my, my, you have surely captured this young man's heart, Sister," he said, holding her wrist up to examine the jewelry. "He saved all his allowance to buy this trinket for months. I withdraw all my rude remarks and beg your forgiveness."

"It's all right," she said quietly. "I'm not used to being part of this kind of talk."

"The best is for last, dear," McCoy said, "Parkie and I just got new orders. We've both been promoted to Major and assigned to desk jobs here in Paris. We made it out of the trenches, but we're going over to the enemy. . . "

"Hurrah, hurrah, hurrah," Parkhurst shouted.

"Be quiet," Nurse Jenkins hissed sharply. "There are patients here trying to sleep. Going over to the enemy?"

Parkhurst whispered conspiratorially. "The dread enemy of every good soldier in the front line. Rear echelon."

McCoy grasped her hand and held it to his lips, kissing it firmly. "The doctor says I'll be discharged tomorrow."

Her hand went to her mouth, and a tear escaped the corner of her eye. "But I'm billeted in Paris, so would you see me still if I called on you?"

Tears flowed freely from her eyes, and she wiped some off with the back of her hand. "Why would a handsome man like you want to see a tired old nurse off duty? Women will be fighting over you, especially since you're one of the young, whole and healthy ones in Paris."

"I love you, Barbara. When I give my heart, it's for all time."

"But I work nights, I, I, I, could only see you on weekends."

"You'll need something to eat when you get off shift, and something when before you come to work in the evening. You have weekends free. We'll manage, we'll do what we can. Day or night, the only person I want to show Paris is you."

Her head fell to the mattress to muffle her cries and she wept while his head stroked her hair. "Pardon me while I got back to sleep," Parkhurst mumbled as he turned over away from them.

The next few nights, Nurse Jenkins worked on her sewing as usual while tending the patients. The newly minted Major McCoy always met her coming off her shift and took her for a bite to eat. Since they were going different directions, he to work and she to her bed, they had time for nothing more than a kiss every day. Saturday night, they found a quiet bistro and spent the entire evening talking until closing.

He led her to a hotel, where they found a small, efficient room. It was threadbare, and the bed springs were worn, but on entering the room, S. J. picked up the small woman, swung her in circles and pronounced it perfect. "What do you mean, perfect?" Barbara asked as her equilibrium returned.

"Well, back home we had to sleep on the floor," He gave her a hard kiss. "Let's get out of these clothes."

"I'm not sure I should."

"We have to seize today, Barbara, that's what we have do at the Front."

"But there's still such a thing as a woman's virtue."

"Well, a gentleman always has to protect a woman's virtue."

"I've never done this before."

He stopped and pondered. "Really?"

"Really. None of the boys ever looked twice at me, so small and girlish. They teased me, saying I looked like their little sisters."

"But you're perfect."

"Thank you, S.J. I love you with all my heart, but I can't do this, not before we're married."

Looking around the room, he discovered some stationery and a pen and inkwell. "I have the answer." Turning the writing table around in the tiny room, he positioned it to face the bed. "Ever been an artist's model?"

"No."

"Like to give it a try?'

She sat up and thought. "What do I have to do?"

"Remove your clothes and lie on the bed."

"Stoney!"

"Please, there's nothing untoward about modeling. I'll even pay you a little something. C'mon Barbara, what do you say?"

She thought for a long moment, her shyness fighting her lust for the soldier. "As long as you stay behind your desk," she said at last.

He seated her on the bed facing him, her legs slightly parted and her arms behind her head, her small frame completely unclad. For her size, her figure was perfectly proportioned, her public hair tufted dark and sparse, and her small breasts shoot firm and proud. Taking his place, he began drawing on the stationery. After five minutes, she complained: "I'm a little chilly."

Going to the window register, he turned up the heat and removed his tunic and shirt, his spare torso still thin with his ribs showing. "There, that should do it. I like what the air does to your nipples."

"Keep drawing."

"Will you draw me when I'm done?"

"I have no artistic talent."

"Well, will you do what you did for me in the Hospital?"

She smiled. "I'll think about it."

He went back to his work, then he came forward and pointed between her legs. "What's that between your legs?"

"What exactly are you talking about?"

Pointing between her legs, he asked: "The little red bud at the head of that little valley."

Blushing, she replied: "It's called the clitoris. A source of pleasure when used correctly, according to my physiology lecturer."

"Darn if it doesn't look like the littlest strawberry I've ever seen."

"You're silly. Do you know how silly you are?"