Goodness and Mercy

Flo knew she had hooked him as soon as she saw his reaction to the word 'sex,' and she was doubly certain when she saw his face flush when she referred to herself as his daughter. "Oho," she said to herself, "talk about dirty thoughts. You have a few yourself, don't you, you hypocritical bastard. I wonder how far darling daughter Doreen reciprocates them?"

The Vicar had opened the church door again. "Very well, daughter, as you are in such sore need, you'd better come inside and tell me all about it." Flo entered and he closed the door behind them, which Flo did not fail to notice. He led her to a secluded corner, and they sat down. "Now, daughter, what are these thoughts that trouble you? Hold nothing back. I cannot help you unless you are absolutely open and frank with me."

"It's men, Father. I can't stop thinking about men and what they have in their trousers.Their pricks, Father, that's what Satan makes me call them. Especially father figures, Father. My own father, Father." My God, she thought to herself, the man must be an idiot not to see through this rigmarole. "I can't stop thinking of my own father's prick, and your prick too, Father. Even now, as we sit here, I am wondering what your prick looks like. Is it small, or is it big? Is it whole, or is it circumcised? You're not a Jew, so I don't suppose you're circumcised. You're not, are you, Father?"

"No, daughter, I'm not."

That was easy, Flo thought. He doesn't realise he's just been tricked into talking about his prick to a complete stranger. Aloud she continued, "And is it soft, or is it hard?" She laid a hand on his thigh, high up, and whispered, "Thy rod and thy staff shall comfort me. If I lie down in green pastures, your rod will comfort me.That's what the good book says, isn't it? A rod has to be hard to give comfort, doesn't it, Father?" She moved her hand onto his crotch. "Your rod is ready to give comfort, I can tell. Spare the rod and spoil the child. Your child is lucky to have this rod ready for her. Use this rod on your daughter, Father. I'm sure she'll thank you for it."

While the Vicar sat silent, not knowing how to respond, Flo stood and went to the door. "Thank you so much for this little chat, Vicar. It's been a great help. Don't bother to get up. I'll see myself out." She left, closing the door behind her.

* * *

Saturday morning at Ken's flat.

While Flo was at the church, Sid called on Ken in the flat above. "You know, Ken," he said, "I've 'ad a thought. I can see as 'ow it's too risky to try it on with a girl and hope for the best, but why not start by building your confidence in sexy situations what don't involve the actual thing?"

"How do you mean?" Ken asked.

"Well, for example," Sid said, "you'd be embarrassed buying ladies' intimate garments in a lingerie boutique, wouldn't you? So why not use just such a situation to test your confidence?"

"Yes, but there's no call for me to be buying ladies' lingerie," Ken objected.

"Yes there is, me matey-cock. I've promised to get some for Flo, and I'm deputising you to buy 'em on me behalf. 'Ere's the cash and all 'er measurements, so off you go to that boutique in the town centre, and don't come back without a full set of the sexiest underwear you can find." With that, Sid handed Ken a wodge of cash and a slip of paper, and left.

* * *

Saturday morning in the town centre.

Eying the contents of the front window of Chez Lucille ('Lacy Lingerie for Lovely Ladies'), Ken was beset with the uneasiness which assails every lone male in such a situation: were passers-by categorising him as a pervert? Realising that the longer he lingered, the more likely that was, he metaphorically girded up his loins, and entered the shop.

A tall lady swooped forward and intercepted him. "Can I help you, Sir?" She sounded intimidating.

Ken had already decided that rather than trying to hide his nervousness, it would be better to exploit it, and to that end he had devised a cover story. "Er, this is a bit embarrassing for me," he said. "I'm not used to doing this sort of shopping." At this point he smiled shyly. "It's my mother's fault really. She wanted to buy a present for her sister's sixtieth birthday. Her sister is a bit frumpy, so mother decided to buy her some glamorous undies to spark her up, so to speak. But then mother was called away on business, so she's made me do it, and I can't get out of it, because it's auntie's birthday tomorrow, and I'm out of my depth. I don't even know what some of these garments are called."

The tall lady smiled. If Ken had been more observant, he might have detected that the smile was one of amusement, not sympathy. "Let us see what we can do to help you then, Sir," she said. Addressing a shop assistant, she ordered, "Look after the shop, Agnes, while I attend to this gentleman in the fitting salon." Then to Ken she said, "If you will come this way, Sir," and led him through a door at the back of the shop.

Ken found himself in a room with mirrors on two sides. His guide led him to a lectern on which was a large ring binder. She opened it and turned its stiff pages. It was, he realised, a catalogue, containing glossy photographs of models wearing nothing but underwear. He tried not to look too interested.

"Let us start with the basics, then, Sir. Bras and panties, or brassières and knickers, if those terms are more familiar to you. Panties, now; for styles we have boy shorts, classic briefs (you may know them as granny pants), French knickers, hipsters, thongs, G-strings, tap pants, bikinis, open crotch, high waist, bloomers, and Directoire. They all come in a choice of materials: silk, satin, cotton, rayon, nylon, and in various thicknesses from opaque to see-through. And of course, a choice of colours; white, black, pink, blue, yellow, green, apricot, tangerine..."

"Whoa!" Ken cried. "I never realised there was such a choice. Why, it must run into tens of thousands, if you take all the different combinations."

"No, we don't do combinations, Sir. I would hardly call them glamorous."

Ken was not sure if she was having him on. "Look," he said, "I think the best thing would be if I were to browse through this catalogue, and then ask you about anything I think might be suitable."

"I think that might be the best way forward, Sir."

Ken leafed through the catalogue quickly. He was afraid that if he took his time, he would start salivating over the images of beautiful ladies in their undies. "I notice," he said, "that many of the items come in matching sets."

"That is so, Sir. The items may be purchased separately, or in sets. I'm afraid there is no price advantage in buying sets."

"This set here," Ken asked, pointing to a photograph, "what is this item called?"

"That is a camisole, Sir."

"And this?"

"A garter belt, Sir."

"So you can have suspenders without a corset?"

"We call them shaping garments now, Sir, or girdles or cinchers but yes, you can have suspenders on garter belts, or on other garments, even on camisoles or knickers."

"So," Ken asked, "if one bought two sets of the same items, but in different colours, could they be mixed and matched?"

"Oh, yes. That would be a sensible way for a lady to vary her outfit at minimal cost."

"In that case," said Ken, "I think I shall take two of this set of bra, French knickers, garter belt and camisole. In two different colours. Now what colours would be most effective, for mixing and matching between the two sets?" Ken thought he saw the manageress' eyes light up at the suggestion of selling two complete sets.

"In my opinion, Sir, they should be contrasting colours. Yellow or gold contrasts with almost anything else, black, blue, or red, say. Perhaps if I modelled a few examples, it would help you to decide."

Ken had to use all his self control to reply steadily, "That's very kind of you. It would be a help."

"Luckily, I am the same size as my... " The manageress looked hastily at the note with Flo's measurements on, and continued, "as your aunt, except for the bra size." She stood close in front of Ken. "What do you think, Sir? Would you reckon that I am the same size and shape as your aunt but with a bigger bosom?" She thrust her breasts forward as she spoke, as if to defy him to deny their superior size.

Ken looked her over, and noticed for the first time that she was indeed, very similar to Vera in build, but with a prettier face and a bigger bust. "Yes," he said,"now that you mention it, you do seem to be the same size as my aunt, other than the, er, the, er, the bosom."

The manageress smiled as if in triumph. "Now what about stockings, Sir? Would you want them as well?"

"Rather," Ken replied, "they're essential. I mean, they're the bit that always shows, aren't they? So, silk, fully fashioned of course, with a seam up the back. Oh, and not too long; I mean not right up to her... I mean with long suspenders, if you see what I mean."

"I know exactly what you have in mind, Sir. Take a seat, and I shall be back in a few minutes," and with that she disappeared through a door at the back of the fitting salon.

While she was gone, Ken avidly browsed the catalogue. When she returned his first reaction was to wish that she hadn't been so quick, but when he saw how she was dressed he instantly reversed that judgement. She was wearing a black see-through camisole and a black garter belt, with bright yellow silk half-cup bra and French knickers. That the bra was at least one cup size too small was clearly demonstrated by the amount of flesh overflowing it. Ken hastily sat in one of the chairs, and she pirouetted in front of him, striking the usual modelling poses, and smiling knowingly as she saw that he was speechless. He was glad to see that she had fully understood his incoherent specification, and her stocking tops covered less than a quarter of her thighs above the knees, leaving a long stretch of white skin above, enhanced by the suspender strap running up it.

After a few minutes, the manageress slipped out through rear door again. Ken didn't even bother to resume his inspection of the catalogue, so absorbed was he in reviewing in his mind's eye the entertainment he had just enjoyed. When the manageress returned,she was wearing a similar ensemble as before, but now the bra and knickers were red,and the camisole and garter belt were yellow. Only the black silk stockings remained the same. Ken's mind swam as he was treated to a second modelling display. The first one had been perfect, but the second one was even better, he thought. Better than perfect? How could that be possible, he wondered. But the evidence was before his eyes.

Ken decided to see how far he could press his luck. "Are those knickers see-through?" he asked.

"Oh, no, Sir," she replied. "Although they can sometimes look as if they might be. It's a part of their attraction." To illustrate her point, she stood in front of him with hands on hips, leaning back slightly. She bent one knee, and turned it outward,thrusting her pelvis forward, as if to invite close inspection.

Ken accepted the invitation. He leaned forward and peered closely at her crotch. "I see what you mean," he said. "It's a sort of optical illusion."

"Exactly," she agreed. "You see what you want to see."

Knowing what he wanted to see, Ken replied, "I wouldn't go that far." After a while he cleared his throat and said firmly, "They will do nicely. I'll take all three sets, black, yellow, and red."

There wasn't much of Sid's money left after he had paid for his purchases, but there would not have been any at all had it not been for a twenty-five percent reduction on the sales slip. "What's this?" he asked.

The manageress, now changed back into her own clothes, handed him his packages in a paper carrier bag and replied, "Special discount today only." She slipped a large fat envelope into the bag, saying with a smile, "Perhaps your aunt would like to take an occasional glance at our printed catalogue, available free to favoured clients." Ken did not linger on his way home.

* * *

Sunday afternoon at Ken's flat.

Sunday was Doreen's day for visiting Ken. On greeting her, Ken, his blood warmed by his Friday encounter with Flo, his Saturday visit to Lucille's, and his subsequent perusal of the lingerie catalogue, attempted a closer embrace than usual. "What's got into you?" she snapped testily. "Stop mauling me about! Honestly, you men!"

The visit was much shorter than usual, and Ken was relieved when she left, still in a sour mood.

Flo intercepted Doreen as she descended from Ken's flat. "Doreen, my love, can I have a quick word with you?"

"Oh hello, Mrs West," Doreen replied. "Yes, I'm not in a hurry. What is it?"

"It's about your father, love. I've been talking with Mrs Buxton, who cleans the church, and she's very worried about him. It seems he wanders about the church talking to himself."

"Oh, that's nothing to worry about," Doreen assured her. "He often does that. Probably composing a sermon."

"I don't think it's that, dear. According to Mrs Buxton, he keeps saying the same thing, over and over. And what he is saying doesn't make sense."

"Why, what is he saying?"

"Well, dear, according to Mrs Buxton, he keeps saying 'daughters of lot, daughters of lot.' That doesn't make sense, does it? I mean, you'd say 'lot of daughters,' wouldn't you? Not 'daughters of lot'.'Daughters of lot' doesn't make sense."

Doreen frowned, weighing the significance of Flo's information. "Yes, Mrs West, you're quite right, it doesn't make sense. Thank you for telling me. I'll keep an eye on Daddy. He's probably just overworked. Don't let it worry you. Just leave it to me."

When Doreen had gone, Flo smiled to herself. She knew that Doreen must have recognised the allusion to the story of Lot as told in the Book of Genesis, and the fact that she had pretended not to persuaded Flo that she had correctly diagnosed Doreen's problem.

* * *

Later that Sunday afternoon at the Vicarage.

As Doreen entered the Vicarage, a voice called down the stairs, "Hello! Who's there?"

"It's only me, Daddy," Doreen replied, as she hung her coat up.

The Vicar came down the stairs, clad in a dressing gown. "Hullo, dear, " he said. "You're back early. I was just going to have a bath. I thought you'd be spending more time with your fiancé."

"I'd rather be home here with you, Daddy."

"That's nice, dear. I have been wondering about you and Ken. Perhaps he is not the right one for you. He must be at least ten years older than you. You deserve a younger man."

"Younger?" she exclaimed. "Not likely. If I get rid of Ken, I'd be looking for someone older, someone your age. A father figure. Someone like you."

The Vicar looked at her in surprise, and was astonished to see that she was blushing. He remembered his strange visitor of the previous day, and what she had said about father figures, rods, and daughters. "Could it be?" he wondered. Aloud he said, "I never really thanked you properly for your birthday present yesterday. Thank you, darling. They're just what I wanted." She had bought him a pack of underpants in various colours.

"I'm glad you liked them, Daddy. I'm sorry I couldn't afford anything more expensive. Still, it's the thought that counts, isn't it?"

The Vicar pondered that trite statement, and wondered if it held any deeper significance. She thought of him, so bought underpants? Hmm.

"Don't let me hold you up, though," Doreen said. "I'll let you get on with your bath." He looked at her without answering, still distracted by his thoughts. She turned away, and without looking at him added casually, "Would you like me to come up and scrub your back for you?"

"That would be nice, dear," he managed to reply. Inside his head, his conscience was shouting, 'That would be nice? You hypocrital wretch! That would be bloody marvellous is what you meant!'

Upstairs, he ran his bath a little cooler than was his wont. He usually liked it very hot, but today he wanted it to be comfortable for her hands. He lowered himself into the frothy bubbles and called out, "Ready, dear."

When Doreen entered the bathroom, he was astonished to see that she had removed her outer clothing, and was dressed in just a petticoat and underthings. Noticing the surprised look on his face, she muttered, "I didn't want to risk getting my clothes wet."

She washed his back with a flannel, sweeping it in gentle circular movements. After a while she let the flannel drift away, and used her bare hand. When she had finished thoroughly washing his back, shoulders, and upper arms, she moved along the bath a little and with her other hand began washing his chest with the same caressing motions. She glanced sideways to see if anything was poking up through the suds, but saw only his knees. She tried gently to push him back into a lying position, but he resisted and remained sitting upright.

"I think I'll have a bath after you," she said softly. "Maybe you could wash my back, too."

"You're washing my chest as well, dear."

"That's different," she giggled.

"I can see it's different," he replied, as he raised his hand and cupped her breast.

"Daddy!" she protested laughingly. "You're making me all wet!"

"Sorry," he replied. "Hand me a towel to dry my hands, then."

She handed him a towel. They both understood the significance of that act. If she wished to forbid groping, there was no need for him to dry his hands. Ergo... He dried his hands, dropped the towel onto the floor, and took hold of her breast again. She did not object.

Now and then her hand on his chest would drop lower, below the waterline, to caress his belly. When she did that, she extended her little finger to just reach the top of his hairline. He thrilled at the touch. Releasing her breast, he rested his arms on the side of the bath and lay back, lifting his nearside leg out of the water. She looked quickly, but his raised leg impeded her view. She still couldn't see what she was hoping to. "Do you want me to wash your legs for you?" she asked.

"You could do," he answered, "but if you're going to do that, you should at least let me see your legs, don't you think? Why don't you take your petticoat off?"

Without demur, she stripped off her petticoat, and threw it towards the wash basket. "You'd got it all wet, anyway," she said. She moved further down the bath, and started washing his raised leg with both hands. Now she could see signs of his member. Looking over his leg, she got glimpses of it through the soap suds. She'd been hoping it was big, but her partial vews gave no indication of its size.

Once the petticoat was gone, the Vicar saw with delight that Doreen was wearing French knickers. He draped his arm over the side of the bath, and stroked the back of her leg up and down. At the top of each stroke his hand went under the leg of her knickers, and he fingered her buttocks. He tried to get his hand between her legs, but she kept them too tightly closed.

Doreen let her hand slide up the inside of the Vicar's leg until it could go no further. She thrilled at the thought that while her palm was touching the top of his leg, the back of her hand was against his scrotum. She moved her hand up and down slightly, and he twitched at her touch. She shifted her hand a little and flipped her fingers outwards, lifting his member out of the water. By God, it was big, bigger than she had hoped. She smiled to see it bobbing up and down, now in the water, now out, as his pulsing blood pumped in and out of it.

He lowered that leg into the water and raised the one further away from her. Now she was getting an unobstructed view. As she washed the leg, at the bottom of each stroke her wrist rubbed up and down his erection. As a reward, she moved her feet further apart, and his probing hand inside her knickers was at last able to slide between her legs.