The Vicar's Wife Ch. 02byVictoriajohn©
All of my stories include descriptions of sex scenes that could cause offence to some people. Please do not read this story if you are offended by perverse sexual material, or if you are under the legal age of consent for your own country. These stories are pure fiction and are not based on anyone living or deceased.
Well I guess if you're reading this you have probably already read part one of my story, and know how I suddenly, at the age of twenty-three became aware of how wonderful sex can be. If you haven't read part one, then a lot of this story might not make any sense. Right, so where had I got to? The rescuers had now departed from my life, and for my part, I hoped and prayed, that I'd never see or hear from any of them again.
I showered, and then dressed, and for the first time, I wore jeans to go to work, mainly to avoid anyone seeing the marks on my inner leg. Silly now I come to think of it, the marks were from about a couple of inches above my knee, right up to my crotch, all the way up my inner leg. So with the skirts I normally wore for work being fully flared, and always at least knee length, there wouldn't have been much chance of anyone seeing the marks anyway.
But regardless, dressed in jeans and blouse, I said bye to Michael who was just getting up, and set off to work. As normal when I arrived, I opened up the farm shop, and turned on the bell. On the door jamb of the farm shop was a bell press, and there was also a rubber tube laid across the entrance to the farm yard. Both of these were connected to bells that were located in most of the buildings around the farm yard. So I'd know if any vehicles arrived; or if people call to the shop on foot, they could ring for attention using the push-button.
As customers only ever started coming in dribs and drabs until lunch time, and then again around four in the afternoon, the rest of the time I had various other tasks to get on with. Egg collecting being normally my first, so once the bell was turned on, I picked-up my egg collecting basket and went on my rounds.
I searched around all the places I knew they normally laid their stray eggs, ending up at the chickens own properly made roost. Then with my basket full to overflowing, I carefully made my way back to the shop. We'd had no customers while I'd been away, which was about normal for a Monday, so I then began to sort the eggs into their sizes.
I think it was around ten o'clock, when with all the eggs sorted; I took a walk into the potato shed. This was definitely not my favourite job. The potatoes were loaded by tractor into the first floor of this building, so from down here, the roof above my head was loaded with tons of potatoes. In the corner of this shed was a sack filling machine. This was old and like most things about this farm, due for replacement.
It was supposed to take the potatoes from above, into this big wooden box, and then through a chute, into the potato sack. The whole of this big wooden box was connected to a mechanical shaking device, which was driven by an electric motor. The chute had a closing flap that was operated manually with a very big long lever.
The theory was simple. First place an empty sack onto the chute, and wrap the metal retainer to hold it in place. Second, the motor needs to be turned on, so the big box vibrates, this not only keeps the potatoes from jamming, but helps to make the flap open easier. Next pull the lever, letting the potatoes into the sack. Then as the sack is filled, push the big lever back, stopping the potatoes.
But in practice, once this machine is left overnight, or worse still over a weekend, moving that lever is nigh on impossible. So there is a wooden beer crate stood on end by the side of the machine which you have to climb onto. Then leaning as far across the top of the machine as possible, and using the lump of wood that is always laid on top of the machine. You try to reach around behind the upper chute, and thump the lever pivot boss (well that's what the farmer says it's called; I just know it's that lump of metal sticking out the other side of the machine).
So I approach this job knowing the first time I try to get that lever moving, I'm going to have a real struggle on my hands. I get a paper sack and attach it firmly to the chute, and then switch on the motor. The whole building starts to drone, and clouds of dust begin to float down from the timber boards that make the ceiling. I heave with all my weight against the lever, but as I expected, it doesn't budge an inch.
So now for the dreaded ritual, I carefully climb onto the wooden crate, holding onto the side of the vibrating machine for support. I've done this hundreds of times before, but never before have I noticed the vibration being so intense. But I try to put that out of my mind, and I now lift my left leg across, placing my foot on the lever. Then I take hold of the lump of wood from the top of the machine, and holding it stretched out in front of me. I lean forwards onto the top of the machine, to attempt to get the pivot pin within my reach.
As my tummy presses against the machine, the vibrations start the same feelings generated by that device the men had inserted inside my pussy two days previous. Never before has this machine ever generated anything but feelings of sheer frustration and despair at my not being able to move the bloody lever. But now, before I've had chance to even strike out towards the pivot pin, my whole body is beginning to tingle.
I have to stand back, putting my leg back onto the box, but even the vibrations getting to me via my arms, which I'm using to balance with, are keeping this stimulation simmering. I decide it's just my imagination, I must just have sex on the brain, all that is needed is a firm application of will-power. Ok, here goes!
I swing my leg back across to the lever, and lift myself up to my tip toes, and then slide myself as far as I can onto the top of the machine. Will-power or no will-power, my body lights-up with a glow, which emanates from deep in my crotch. My pussy is pulsing, my nipples are tingling, the bloody machine is driving my body out of control! And now to make things worse, my mind starts joining in the stimulation.
I guess you're wondering what I mean by that. Well like I've said, this is not the first time I've been in this position. And I been perched up here bashing this lump of wood at the pivot pin for sometimes in excess of fifteen minutes. And on several of those occasions, either the farmer, one of his sons or one of his hired workers has suddenly appeared upon the box behind me. They have then lent across me, and tried to demonstrate where I should be hitting the machine.
Never in the past had I even given it a thought, that their leaning up against me, might be some kind of sexual turn-on for them (god! I must have been one green girl). And I'd never known or even considered that maybe these men might have been stood behind me for some time, looking up at my pathetic efforts. Whilst they viewed me with legs wide open, and them looking up from below.
But now, with the machine instructing my body to produce sexual hormones by the barrow load, my mind starts to wonder if maybe one of these men might be watching me. And maybe, he'll have his cock in his hand, and be wanking it. And god forbid, any second now, he might jump up behind me, and ... I turn my head, and standing there is Ian! How the fucking hell has he found me here?
He speaks, "Excuse me, I rang the bell."
Now I realise it isn't Ian at all, in fact its one of the men who lives in the local village, he's a regular customer. I don't know his surname, but I know him as Bob. "Oh sorry Bob, it's the noise of this bloody machine." I'd just sworn out aloud, in front of an almost stranger! What was happening to me? I clambered off the machine, and followed Bob back into the shop. "Sorry about that, but that flipping machine has been giving me a lot of trouble this morning." But as I'm walking along, I can feel the wetness in my knickers, and I'm hoping that it hasn't soaked through my jeans, meaning it would have been visible to Bob while I was on that machine back there.
"That's alright Shirley love, I won't tell. Even a vicar's wife has to be allowed to swear once in a while. I guess you're all on edge after your little adventure this weekend?" God! What the hell does he know about what those men did with me?
"Yes, its all over the middle page of the news paper, looks like your husband put in a direct call to his boss for assistance, and you got a full mountain rescue crew. You were very lucky they chose the same spot as you, those fells can be treacherous in bad weather."
"Oh yes, I see what you mean. But it was only a fractured ankle."
"That's the benefit of having professionals getting you down off the hills, if it had just been you or me assisting him, by the time we'd got him to the transport, his ankle could have been shattered."
"Yes, I suppose you're right. Anyway, what can I get you today?"
I served him with potatoes and half-a-dozen eggs, and he went happily on his way. And one good thing about talking with him, it had taken my mind completely off sex. So much so, my tummy felt quite calm, and all my pussy felt was wet and sticky. But not wanting a repetition of the machine induced orgasm, I decided I'd go in search of whoever was doing milking duties today, to ask for assistance.
So my first place to look was the milking parlour, but as I'd expected, by now all milking was long since finished, and the place was hosed down and silent. I called a few times, but nobody answered. Then I looked in the first building, this was the stables, a very large building made to accommodate at least thirty horses. But it now only had three mares, and one large stallion. Now again, I'd seen these horses hundreds of times before and never have they had any sexual effect on me. Although if I'm being really honest, the first time I ever saw a stallion with an aroused cock, I froze to the spot, and stared in disbelief. But that was many years ago now, and never have I fantasised about having sex with a horse, and in truth, I hadn't even realised it was possible or something some women did.
But back to the present; as I looked around the door, the hind quarters of one of the mares was directly in line with where I stood. She was some five or six feet away, her tail high in the air, and her big pink pussy was pulsing, just like the men had mine doing yesterday. This simple natural farm-yard sight suddenly re-kindled my throbbing pussy. But instead of turning around and walking out, I stupidly walked the few paces along towards the stallions stall, to see if he had picked-up on the signals she was sending. Picked-up on them! Although from his stall he had no way of seeing her, her scent must have delivered her message. That magnificent cock was stretched out so long, it only just missed sweeping the cobbled floor as it kept lunging forwards and upwards, swinging back and forth with a vapour trail of steam following it.
I dashed out of there, as if the horse was about to take a hold of me, and stood at the outside of the door, trembling. It took a few seconds to pull myself together, and then I continue to the next building. But by now, my tummy was simmering, and I knew it would take very little to get me aroused again. I went from building to building, calling out in each one, but I got no response from anyone. Then when I had searched just about every building, and was about to make my way back to the shop, my attention was taken by the farm dogs. I know I hadn't mentioned that we had dogs on this farm, but that is because, after you've worked here some time, you don't even notice them.
How many dogs there are on this farm I don't know, as most of the fitter ones, normally either chase the tractors as they go off to the fields, or get a ride with one or other of the drivers in the cabs. The ones left around the yard are usually the older less fit, or young inexperienced ones. Well this is what had caught my attention, one of last years pups, a small mongrel bitch now about eighteen months old, was being fucked by and old black Labrador. I guessed it was her first time in season, as her comparative human age would be around ten or twelve. And the Labrador was a good nine years old, which would make him fifty plus.
I must have seen the farm dogs mating several times before, and I'd normally just turn my head and ignore them. But this time, it fascinated me, to watch how what was really the equivalent of a little girl, could stand her ground, while this Labrador twice her size, the equivalent of a big man with an enormous cock, pounded away at her. How long I stood there in a trance, just watching and getting more worked-up, I'm not sure. But the old dog had her at least three times, each time his knot preventing him from uncoupling. But my attention was suddenly broken by the cacophony of bells ringing in the various buildings, and announcing the arrival of a car into the yard.
I turned and made my way smartly towards the shop door, watching the car pull-up alongside one of the buildings, and thinking to myself, don't recognise the car, must be just a stranger passing through the village. Then as the man got out of his car, it maybe took a second or two for it to click, but I had seen him before, and his return was far from welcome. It must have been four months ago, and last time, his car was a magnificent Bentley.
But even if the car was different, this was the same man who had come into the shop and asked for a tray of eggs, and a sack of potatoes. Now I know I can lift the sacks of potatoes, and usually do if the customer is a lady. But even if I do venture to lift a sack for most male customers, they invariably offer to carry it themselves.
Now I'm not saying he wasn't welcome back because he didn't offer to carry his own potatoes, although at the time I did think that very un-gentlemanly. But what he did was to carry his tray of eggs out to his car, leaving me to carry the heavy sack. He placed the eggs in his open boot (Trunk), at the very back of the floor space. Then as I approached carrying this heavy sack he said, "Oh, make sure you get them right up to the front, I don't want them rolling against my eggs."
His car was a big old Bentley, and the rear lip of the boot was very high. As I reached the back, I had to strain to get the sack over this rim, and then try to reach deep into his boot, leaning in with my feet almost leaving the ground. Not even thinking about him trying anything, I naturally had my legs parted to aid balance whilst lifting, and being a warm spring day, my skirt, though long, was made of thin material, and fully flared. All of a sudden I felt his hand ram under my crotch, and he gripped me tightly. I struggled, but in that position, he lifted, and my legs were left flailing in mid-air. I screamed out, but with my head buried deep inside his boot, and a deserted farmyard, it was pointless. As it was, another car arrived, and he had to let go of me.
When I got out of his boot I was so embarrassed, and blushing quite red. Stupidly, my first concern was to try to compose myself before the customer that had just arrived, noticed anything had happened. So with just a few words from me in the form of a scolding, the man got into his car and drove away. I had said if I ever saw him again I'd phone the police, but this all happened about a month before my marriage, so that was about four months ago now. And up until now, he hadn't returned.
I was stood in the doorway, watching him, as he strode towards me, brazen as you like. "Ah Ha. I knew it was you."
"What do you want? I told you never to come here again."
"What on earth do you mean? It's a shop isn't it?"
"It might be, but it's not open to you. You can get back in your car and go before I call the police."
"What ever for my dear?"
"Don't come the innocent with me; you know what you did last time you were here."
"Oh that. Surely you can't still be upset over that. I was only giving you a bit of a lift, to make sure you got the jolly old spuds past the eggs without breaking them."
"I don't care what you say you were doing, if you don't go now, I'm ringing the police."
"Well my dear, you be my guest. But I don't think they'll be very amused when they get out here, to find an innocent old gent like me who only wants to buy a few eggs."
With that he just sidestepped past me, and waltzed into the shop as cool as you like. I walked over to the phone, and picked up the receiver, but it was obvious, I wasn't going to ring 999. And even as I thumbed through the phone book, looking for the number for the local police station, I began to realise I wouldn't have any idea what to say to them. I put the phone back down. "Ok. Tell me what you want, and then I can get you out of here."
"Shirley. That's a nice name."
"Where on earth, who told you my name?"
"It was in the paper, Shirley Grey. The wife of Reverend Michael Grey. I never knew that soft little pussy I had a hold of last time was a vicar's wife's pussy."
"Look stop your foul talk now, and go!"
"But you haven't served me yet."
"Ok then, what do you want?"
He held his right arm towards me, his palm uppermost, in a cupping kind of shape. "What I'd really like is a nice tender juicy piece of meat that would just fit into the palm of this hand." And as he spoke, he was opening and closing his fingers in the same kind of gripping manner he'd taken hold of me last time he was here.
"You dirty old sod," And with that I strode up to him, and took hold of his wrist, and began to pull him towards the door, "Come-on, I want you out of here now. There's no way I'm serving you."
I thought using direct action would take him by surprise, and even with my slight build, I'd hoped to be able to get him to leave. But he just swung me around and overbalanced me onto the stack of potato sacks. As I went down on my back, he followed, falling face down on top of me. One of his hands gathered up both of my wrists, whilst his other went into my crotch. At this point, the jeans were my saviour, meaning his groping fingers were not able to make contact with my flesh.
So whilst he groped, and was now struggling to unleash the belt in my jeans, I screamed and kicked with all my might. It was obvious in seconds, that shouting wouldn't bring help, so I tried talking to him.
"Look you bastard. I might not have phoned the police last time, but if your hand goes inside my jeans, I'm phoning them for sure."
This distracted his concentration off the job he had in hand only slightly, undoing my belt that was, but didn't stop him.
"Are you telling me it's not worth a little feel, to stop your husband seeing the video you made this weekend?"
I froze, my kicking stopped, and he just looked me in the face.
"Ah! So I've got your attention."
"A video made by some mountain rescue men."
"Look pack-up undoing my belt; tell me what you know about a video."
He stopped undoing my belt, and knelt up a bit to talk to me. "Ian Parker is an old mate of mine. He's been doing this mountain rescue scam for a good five years now."
"You've seen it?"
"No not yet. But he's fucked everyone he's helped down so far, and vicar's wife or not, I'm betting you rode his cock like an obedient little whore."
"Even if that was true, why should I let you touch me?"
"Do you want your hubby to know his wife is a slut?"
"Shows how much you know. My husband knows what they did to me."
That was a stupid thing to tell him.
"So, they got the reverend in on the action, god that's even better. So you want the whole parish to wake-up tomorrow morning, to find photo's of you having a gang-bang. I'm sure the bishop will recommend your Michael for a promotion, sharing his wife with all cumers. Very Christian attitude. Anyway, do I need to struggle with this belt, or are you going to undo it for me?"