Fletcherloyal

"Thank you, Mother. I shall make a point of monitoring her actions this afternoon."

* * *

The Ecstasy

Sister Eulalia was arranging a bunch of mixed flowers, stretching up to reach a vase on a plinth in the church, when the Vicar sidled up silently and stood behind her. She trembled at the closeness of the contact, and he swiftly assured her. "It's all right, Sister. It's only the Vicar." He put his hands on her hips towards the front and pulled her back tightly into him. She could feel the bulge of his erection pressing into her buttocks and became aware that his fingers were slowly gathering up the skirt of her habit. She held her breath, transfixed.

The Vicar continued murmuring in her ear. "Look at those roses, Sister. See how soft and smooth and silky the petals are. Think of them slowly opening to admit the tongue of a hovering bumble bee, seeking to sip the nectar contained within those soft pink lips. Do you not find it a thrilling thought, Sister?"

She was breathing now, hard swift gasps, as the hem of her skirt reached the Vicar's crawling fingers and she felt his hands on her bare thighs. He stroked them gently up and down, whispering, "Some blooms have long stems, long silky smooth stems." His hands moved higher, until at the top of each stroke his thumbs bumped against her crotch. He reached higher, across her plain cotton drawers, and found the tapes that held them up. He twitched at the knot, and her knickers fell to her ankles. His hand immediately cupped her between the legs. "And here we have a patch of moss, a moist mossy mound, damp with dew." As he spoke, his middle finger was gently probing her slit, which responded by pouting open wetly.

"But we mustn't forget the bulbs, must we?" the Vicar continued, and he slid his hands right up inside her habit and grasped her breasts, delighted to find that they were as full and shapely as Mother Amelia had suggested. Sister Eulalia gasped hoarsely as he scissored his fingers to tweak her nipples, which hardened at the treatment.

His hands fell to her waist and he steered her across the nave towards a table. She shuffled awkwardly in front of him, her knickers still around her ankles. At the table he pushed her forwards across it and lifted her habit up to her waist. He stepped back briefly to get his cock out of his trousers and to admire the view of her bare buttocks. He advanced one of his feet between her shoes and gently pushed them apart, revealing her downy slit.

The Vicar sighed as he slowly inserted his prick. He was not well endowed genitally, and had sometimes doubted his ability to raise enough rigidity to enter a tight vaginal tunnel. It was for this reason that he had hitherto preferred to plunge his member into her ladyship's yawning moistness. But the thought of Sister Eulalia's ambivalent virginity excited him to a new level of stiffness, and he confidently eased his cock into her tight cunt.

"You've read of Saint Teresa, I suppose, Sister," he rasped, "and the ecstasy she experienced when visited by an angel with a spear of gold tipped with iron, which he plunged into her very entrails, making her moan with the sweet pleasure of it. Now feel it for yourself."

Sister Eulalia was indeed familiar with Saint Teresa's story, and had frequently fingered herself to a climax looking at photographs of Bernini's pornographic sculpture depicting Teresa's post- orgasmic bliss. She particularly remembered the clinging garments of both the angel and the nun, and how the angel brandished a phallic spear with one hand, while the other gently eased Teresa's robe open. Or was he closing it to cover her previously exposed body? Above all she was impressed by the look of fulfilment on the face of the swooning nun. As the Vicar thrust urgently at her, she began to understand Teresa's experience more fully, and when he gave a great shout and ejaculated into her with three or four fierce thrusts, she came herself and shared the saint's ecstatic swoon.

As the Vicar stepped back with spunk dripping from his slowly wilting prick, Mother Amelia entered and took in the scene. In typical fashion, she took command of the situation. She disentangled Sister Eulalia's knickers from her feet and stripped off her white cotton stockings, which had not escaped the joint fluids of the Vicar and the young nun. Mother Amelia used Eulalia's discarded underwear to give the Vicar a quick wipe down. "Off you go now, Reverend, and see to yourself," she ordered. "I'll look after the girl."

The Vicar hobbled away, pulling up his trousers as he went. Mother Amelia lifted Sister Eulalia upright. "I'll help you back to the Convent now, dear."

"Oh, Reverend Mother," Eulalia gushed, "I experienced the ecstasy, I really did! I felt the spear penetrate my entrails with its tip of iron. At least it was as hard as iron, but not as cold. I couldn't see the shaft though. Is the Vicar's spear golden, like the angel's, Reverend Mother?"

"Only figuratively, my dear."

"Now that I have experienced the ecstasy, does that mean that I might become a saint, Reverend Mother?"

"No, dear, but it does mean that you might become a mother, and every mother is a saint to her own child, isn't she? Now come back to the Convent with me, and the other Sisters will look after you and explain it all."

Well pleased with her efforts on behalf of the Vicar and Sister Eulalia, Mother Amelia thought that she might spend the rest of the afternoon visiting Old George. As Miss Trimble she used to call on him regularly when he lived alone, but since his niece Hannah had come to live with him, that part of the social round had fallen into desuetude. Time to revive it, she decided.

* * *

Hannah

When Hannah Freberg's husband left her, telling her that she was fat and ugly, she accepted his brutal verdict. She was indeed short and plump, with bulging thighs, protruding belly, prominent bust, big bum, and a fleshy face. Fast approaching the age of forty she decided that life had no more to offer, and briefly contemplated suicide. Then she remembered that her Uncle George was in a like predicament. He had lost his wife and his job and was living in a remote village on his own. The obvious solution, she thought, was for him to come and live with her in the city of Bristol, where there were better facilities for elderly singles.

To her surprise, when she visited him and put forward this proposition, he vehemently rejected the suggestion. Baffled, she had sought advice from the ex-headmistress of the school where George had worked, whom her uncle often mentioned. Miss Trimble's response had surprised her. "Well, you'd hardly expect him to give up his sex life here, such as it is, would you?"

"Sex life?" Hannah exclaimed. "At his age?"

"You must understand, Hannah, that nature plays a very nasty trick on us as we get old. It takes away our physical capability for sex, but it doesn't remove the urges from the mind."

"I do understand. I realise that at his age Uncle George probably suffers from erectile dysfunction. Well, if he came to live with me in Bristol, there are doctors who could treat that."

"Oh dear, you see how our thoughts are led astray by the vocabulary we use. You talk of erectile dysfunction, and immediately your mind turns to doctors and medical treatments. But if you told yourself instead that your poor old Uncle George struggles to get a hard-on, you would realise that the solution is in your own hands."

Hannah hid her surprise at Miss Trimble's blunt language. "In my own hands? How do you mean?"

"Good Heavens, girl, don't try to tell me that you have reached your age without knowing how to arouse a man? You shouldn't need me to teach you these things."

"I am quite aware of the facts of life, thank you, and have been for many years," Hannah said stiffly.

"Really?" Miss Trimble replied sceptically. "Then why do you dress the way you do? Why do you wear those horrible thick woollen leggings, that great flannel duffel coat, and that woolly hat pulled down almost over your eyes?"

Shaken by this unexpected line of questioning, Hannah quavered, "I don't want people to see how fat I am."

"And you think that looking like a bag lady will cheer your uncle up? In a pig's ear it will! I am going to give you some advice now, my girl, and you can take it or leave it as you please, but if you want to help your uncle, you'll take it. First, get yourself a decent bra and top that will emphasise your bust, not squash it. Next, ditch the leggings. Go for bare legs, tight skirt with a slit, short socks. No man can resist the sight of plump bare female leg. And finally, when you give George a hug, make sure it's a really good squeeze. Push your tits into him so he can't ignore them. Pull his hands down behind you onto your bum cheeks. Rub your belly against him."

Hannah looked at her aghast. "Miss Trimble! I couldn't possibly do anything like that. He's my uncle!"

"All the more reason why you can and should. Where better for him to find loving attention than within his own family? What do you think the word means? Your family are the ones you can be familiar with. I've done my best to help him, but it would be better coming from a family member."

"You have been helping him? How?"

"Well, dear, I suppose there's no harm in your knowing. Every so often, two or three times a month perhaps, I have been coming to take tea with your uncle, and when I did I always made sure that I sat with my knees apart so that he could get a good look up my skirt. He used to enjoy that."

"Miss Trimble! Didn't you feel it was degrading, exposing yourself like that?"

"On the contrary, dear, it made me feel proud and empowered, to think that I could still excite a man by flashing these old gams at him."

"I can't believe Uncle George had the nerve to ask you to show him your legs."

"Well, it wasn't quite like that, dear. Let me tell you how it came about." And Miss Trimble told Hannah what had happened on the last day of her uncle's employment as school caretaker.

* * *

Old George

Old George, as he was known to all and sundry, was miserable. After the recent loss of his wife his work was all he had, but tomorrow he would lose that too. The local authority were making him take retirement because he was 65. What was he supposed to do then? He could see nothing more to live for. He moped about the school with a hangdog expression.

The headmistress watched him sympathetically. She knew just how he felt, because she too was facing compulsory retirement when she reached the age of 60, which event was taking place in a fortnight's time. She felt a need to demonstrate her feeling of kinship with him, to show him that he was not alone. She gave the matter some thought and came up with an idea. In her study she made a few arrangements and sent for George.

On entering the study George was surprised to see that the headmistress was not at her desk but was sitting at a plain table facing the door. The most obvious difference that this made was that he could see her legs, the table having no modesty panel. He suddenly realised that he may have spent too long in contemplation of this difference, and he guiltily raised his eyes to Miss Trimble's face and asked, "Did you want me, Miss?"

"There seems to be something wrong with the blind, George."

He went to the window where she had purposely unhitched a few slats. It took him only two minutes to rehang them. "Was there anything else, Miss?"

"Oh dear," she exclaimed brightly, "I have dropped a paperclip. Could you pick it up for me, please, George?"

He went to the table and looked around on the floor. "I can't see it, Miss."

"Get down on your hands and knees, George, and have a good look under the table."

He got down on his hands and knees and crawled under the table. Miss Trimble was sitting with her skirt just above her knees, which were about a foot apart. She could sense George moving around and sweeping the floor with his hands.

"I still can't see it, Miss."

"Perhaps it's too dark down there. Here, use this," and with that she handed him down a torch.

Several seconds passed without any sound or movement from under the table. George was wondering why she had a torch on her study table and what use she thought it would be in daylight. He switched the torch on and began shining it around on the floor, using it to direct his line of sight.

Miss Trimble opened her knees a bit wider. "Any luck, George?"

"Not so far, Miss."

"Perhaps it has fallen into a crack. Can you see any cracks or slits down there?"

It was a while before George was able to reply, "No, Miss." His voice sounded husky.

"Perhaps it's under my feet." Miss Trimble moved her feet even further apart. "Have a good look, George. Can you see anything now?"

Miss Trimble thought she heard faint groans from under the table before George croaked, "No, Miss."

"Shine the torch between my feet and between the legs, George."

George's mind whirled. Between the legs? Did she mean the table legs or hers?

By now her legs were as far apart as she could get them, and her skirt was up to the top of her thighs. She could see the beam of the torch wavering as if the hand holding it was trembling. Slowly its focus moved up her shins, and then between her thighs, shining straight onto the gusset of her knickers. She clutched the sides of her knickers through her skirt and pulled them up as tight as she could, pressing the gusset into her cunt lips.

The situation was farcical. The carpet under the table was a plain dark grey. A swift glance with half an eye was enough to spot any paperclip that might be lying there. But they were acting as if they were hunting for a needle in a haystack. George knew that it was a pretence, and he knew that she knew that it was a pretence, but he was still not sure that she was giving him permission to have a close view of her crotch. She slid her bum forward on the chair so as to thrust her cunt closer to the crouching George, close enough for him to have a good sniff if he wanted to. There were sounds indicating that he was taking advantage of the opportunity.

After a few minutes George sighed and crawled out from under the table. As he stood up, a trifle shamefacedly, Miss Trimble exclaimed innocently, "Oh, silly me! Here it is on the table all the time! It never fell on the floor at all. I'm sorry to have put you to a fool's errand."

"That's all right, Miss," he replied, shuffling his feet. "Always glad to help. I'll be off now, then."

The headmistress stood up and smoothed her skirt down. She followed him to the door. He was wriggling surreptitiously, and she guessed that he was trying to ease an uncomfortable erection. She stood in front of him and said, "I think that you need to adjust your clothing, George. Here, let me do it for you." Before he could object, she had her hands at his waist. She was glad to find that he wore braces and not a belt. She unbuttoned the flap and unhooked the top of the vent. The waist was now quite loose enough for her to get her hand inside, but she decided to unzip him too, just for the symbolic significance. She took hold of the tag of the zip and looked him in the eye. She held his gaze steadily as she slowly and deliberately eased the zip open, inch by inch.

He was mesmerised as she slid her hand into his trousers, down over his shirt tails until she reached his underpants at his balls. Already she could tell that he had a stiffie painfully twisted to one side. She slid her hand up again, this time under the shirt, until she reached the top of his pants. Then back down again, now inside his pants. She gently wrapped her hand around his prick and eased it straight up against his belly. She gave it a few soft squeezes for luck, and felt moisture at its tip. "I do believe I've come to a sticky end," she murmured. "There now, that's better, isn't it?" She zipped him up again and ushered him out of the door, whispering confidentially in his ear, "You should wear boxers, George. They give more freedom of movement than briefs."

After that Miss Trimble started visiting George at his cottage. She would phone him first so that he expected her. He would make a cup of tea, and they would sit opposite each other. She would open her legs wide and George would stare up her skirt. He always arranged it so that his back was to the light. In the summer she would sit facing the windows so that her crotch was well illuminated. In the winter George put lamps on two low coffee tables arranged so that they shone up her skirt. They didn't talk much; they both knew what she was there for, and they would just smile confidentially at each other while he ogled her cunt and slipped his hand into his trousers and gently wanked his prick. She usually stayed about thirty minutes or so.

When he escorted her to the front door she would whisper, "Let me adjust you, George." She would slip her hand into his trousers and give his cock a friendly squeeze.

He always murmured, "Thank you, Miss." It became a little ritual for them.

* * *

Hannah's bum

After her talk with Miss Trimble, Hannah moved in with her uncle. George was pleased to have her company, and even more pleased that Hannah started to dress in the fashion that the ex-headmistress had advised. Encouraged by the obvious improvement in George's demeanour, Hannah gradually adopted Miss Trimble's suggestions as to her behaviour too. George's delight at this development Hannah had come to expect, but she had not anticipated the enjoyment that she herself would derive from it. When they were together on their own, uncle and niece enjoyed the closest of relationships. Hannah was popular with the villagers, and was taken on as an assistant at the local library.

Miss Trimble had discontinued her visits to Old George for a while, but after her successful handling of the Vicar and Sister Eulalia she thought that she might resume them. Acting on the spur of the moment she called on George without phoning first.

Miss Trimble opened the door of George's cottage, stepped inside, and called "Coo-ee, it's only me!"

Hannah, who was lying across George's lap with her skirt up to her waist and her knickers around her knees, was startled and tried to rise, but George pushed her firmly back down, saying, "Lie still, it's only Miss Trimble." Aloud he called, "Come in, Miss!"

Miss Trimble entered the room and took in the scene with equanimity. "I'm sorry. Am I interrupting something here, George?"

"Just applying a little domestic discipline, that's all, Miss Trimble."

"That's a very fine bum you have across your lap, George." She tilted her head contemplatively on one side, appraising it. "I think I would grade it alpha plus, judging only by what I can see: two perfect hemispheres, full moons, round, not elongated like lanky women have. And a delightful roseate hue in colour."

"Ah, that's because it's been tickled up a bit, Miss. Otherwise it's pure alabaster."

"And how are its tactile qualities, George? What's it like to touch?"

George stroked his fingers lightly across Hannah's buttocks. "Silky soft, Miss."

"And consistency? Give it a pat, George."

George gently smacked Hannah's soft flesh, which responded with a bounce.

"Ah, an excellent reaction," Miss Trimble enthused. "Not hard, like some of those muscled bums, but not flabby either. Just a sweet pliability. It would take a master painter to do justice to that wonderful bum, George."

"A Reubens rump," George suggested.

"Ah, now there I would have to quibble, George. In my opinion, there's always something of the peasant in Reubens' fleshy women. Hannah's is an aristocratic bum. Porcelain compared to earthenware. I would say that she had more of a Boucher bottom than a Reubens rear."