The Feast of St Cilla

'How are you?' Margaret said. 'I didn't realise that you were Sarah's new neighbour. Well, not until Sarah told me just the other day.'

'I've only recently moved here,' I said. 'Just a few months ago.'

Margaret smiled as if she knew something that I too should have known but didn't.

Jack without clothes was not unlike Jack with clothes. Either he came from stocky stock, or a lifetime in the hospitality business had left its mark. 'Do you want to give me a hand with the cask?' he said.

Louise and Trevor were next to arrive.

'Where should we put our clothes?' Louise asked.

'Well, I'm sure that we can find somewhere for you to leave them inside,' I said.

Louise frowned slightly. 'Yes. Although it may be better to leave them in the car. That way, we won't forget them when we go home. That wouldn't do, would it?'

'Well, up to you,' I said. But almost before I had finished saying it, they too were stripping off.

I guessed that Louise (who reminded me of one of my old primary school teachers) and grey-bearded Trevor were both in their late fifties or early sixties. And, from the fact they both had all-over tans, I also guessed that they were probably nudists, or naturists, or whatever the currently-accepted term is. (Or maybe they just lay out in their garden as Sarah did.)

'We brought some freshwater crayfish,' Louise said. 'I wasn't sure .... Would St Cilla have been a fan of crayfish?'

Would she? I thought about it for a moment or two and then pronounced: 'You know, if they were available, and they tasted good, I think she would have loved them. From what I know of her, I'm pretty sure that she was that kind of girl. Although just my opinion, you understand. Sarah is the authority.'

The last to arrive were George and Harry. Like the others, they also elected to strip off there and then and leave their clothes in their car.

George -- Georgina -- was, like Sarah, a woman whom the years had not treated unkindly. She was a redhead, and just to confirm that everything matched, she was sporting a rather fetching red landing strip.

Harry was slightly younger than George. And seriously endowed. If I said that his flaccid penis hung almost to his knees, I would, of course, be exaggerating. But only slightly. What it would be like when aroused, I could only imagine.

With the guests all checked in -- and naked save for their all-terrain sandals and the odd sunhat -- I went and joined them in the garden and made sure that each had a glass of something. I also made sure that they knew where the copious supply of sun protection was. The long-range weather forecast had been spot on; it felt as though it was going to be a hot afternoon.

And then Sarah appeared, now naked, of course, and carrying two painted wooden panels, each bearing an image of St Cilla, she of the busy fingers. 'Ladies and gentlemen, may I present today's guest of honour, St Cilla the Diddler.'

'Where on earth did you find those?' I asked, as the assembled guests let out a welcoming cheer.

Sarah raised her eyebrows and smiled knowingly. 'From the museum. They're the ones I told you about. I have them on loan for a few days. For, umm, research purposes. I suggested that I might write a monograph.'

With the naked guests gathered to admire the (probably) 17th century panels, Sarah and I retreated to the kitchen to gather up the elements of the repast.

The first course began with a leg of salt marsh mutton, very slowly braised with onions and oysters, and served with even more oysters, more onions, and slices of lemon. And there was a sauce of red wine, capers, and cinnamon. The Tudors seemed quite keen on cinnamon. Accompanying the mutton were several baked herb-stuffed sea bass, and three boned, rolled, and poached eels with samphire and a white wine sauce and still more lemons. And everything was cooked to perfection.

'Use your fingers,' Sarah advised. 'Or a spoon if you want to be prissy. Forks were not common in St Cilla's day -- well, not in England, anyway.'

The second course consisted of the simpler dishes: hashed hare, slow-roasted beef, and Louise and Trevor's freshwater crayfish. And there was the most divine sourdough bread -- at least I assumed that it was sourdough.

Jack's ale -- which appeared to have been somehow slightly chilled for the occasion -- was going down a treat with the naked diners. And so too was the chilled rosé. 'Important to keep hydrated on a day like this,' Jack said to no one in particular. Whether by 'a day like this' he meant a feast day or a warm summer day was not clear.

'The ... umm ... paintings,' Louise said.

Several of the diners stopped eating and drinking and waited to hear what she was going to say next.

'They'd be quite nice to have on a wall in the bedroom, wouldn't they?'

'Inspiration,' George said with a broad grin.

Louise frowned slightly. 'Inspiration? Yes, I suppose so.' And then she added: 'I mean ... if you wander into certain corners of the Internet -- and, occasionally, I do -- it's almost impossible to avoid depictions of masturbation. And yet, when it comes to ... "proper" art' (Louise made little bunny quotes with her fingers) 'you could be excused for thinking that murder and fox hunting are much more common than masturbation. And yet we all masturbate. Don't we?' she said, looking around the table.

The assembled company smiled and nodded. Nobody disagreed.

'I think Trevor and I have some of our best sex masturbating.'

'Are you going to give us a demonstration?' Margaret asked.

'Oh? Do you need lessons?' Louise said.

'Well, probably not,' Margaret replied. 'The first time that Jack and I got together, I didn't think that I was ready to go all the way -- as we used to say back then -- so I let him jack off over my tits.'

Everyone laughed good-naturedly.

'Yes. Well, as you can see, he had a big enough target. Couldn't very well miss, could he?'

It was at about this point that George, who had been paying particularly close attention to one of the panels, pushed her chair back from the table, spread her legs, and tried to mirror Cilla's frozen moment. 'Interesting,' she said.

'Interesting?' Louise echoed.

'Yes. I don't know about the rest of you, but I tend to use my first and second fingers to go inside. Cilla is using her ring finger and her little finger.'

Almost as if they had rehearsed it, Margaret and Louise held up their right hands and separated their fingers into a Vulcan salute. And then, almost in unison, their hands disappeared under the table. 'Yes, I see what you mean,' Louise said.

'I think you'll have to push you chair back a bit,' Trevor said. 'From over here, the table's blocking my view.'

'Sorry.' Louise got to her feet, picked up her chair, placed it beside George's chair, and, after a bit of manipulation, slid the tips of her little finger and ring finger into her vagina. 'Better?'

'Much,' Trevor said. 'Thank you. And are you two going to join in?' he said, looking first at Margaret and then at Sarah.

'Would you like us to?' Sarah asked.

'I think St Cilla would want you to.'

'In that case,' Sarah said, 'I suppose it would be rude not to.' And she and Margaret also took their chairs and placed them next to George and Louise's chairs. And got down to business.

'Well, this certainly beats watching synchronised swimming,' Jack muttered.

'Sauce for the gander,' Sarah said.

'Sauce for the gander?'

'I think St Cilla would probably want you chaps to make your own contributions to this little celebration.'

Jack laughed. 'I'm afraid I've already started.'

'That's fine,' Sarah said. 'But we need you over here where we can see you.'

We all stood up. And, yes, it seemed that we had all made something of a start.

'Much better,' Sarah said. And from the smiles on the faces of the other three women, I can only assume that they agreed.

It was strange. Something had just clicked. I guess it was a combination of the excellent company, the excellent food, the copious quantities of wine and ale, and the brilliant warmth of the sun on our naked bodies.

Everybody seemed sexually excited and yet, at the same time, surprisingly relaxed and not at all self-conscious.

As I glanced along the row of masturbatresses, I couldn't help but reflect on the fact that each of them was different. Different sizes. Different shapes. And each had their own distinctive vulva. Not to mention their own style of getting off.

And the same was probably true of us men. Certainly four distinctively different penises. One a little longer; one a little thicker. And, in case you are wondering, Harry's seemed to be about the same size when erect as it was when it had been flaccid. Trevor's, on the other hand, seemed to have doubled in size. You never can tell, can you?

For ten minutes of so -- maybe a little longer -- we all masturbated away pretty much in silence (assuming that you don't count the sighs, the odd girlish giggles, and the various little grunts). And then Trevor, who seemed to be getting short of breath, called out, with some urgency: 'Tits or tummy?'

Louise smiled. 'Your choice,' she said.

I'm not sure whether Trevor actually chose Louise's tummy or whether he just didn't get close enough in time to spray her tits. But, either way, they both seemed happy with the outcome.

Harry was next to get across the line. Not long after Trevor had, by accident or design, spunked over Louise's tummy, Harry marched up to George, clasped his hands behind his head, and waited while George finished him off by hand. Some people might have considered that this was cheating. But given that the St Cilla's Feast rules were being created as we went along, perhaps not.

Jack's orgasm seemed to take him by surprise. One moment he was cupping his balls with one hand and pumping his cock with the other; and the next he was sounding like a man who had jammed his fingers in a closing door while, at the same time, ejecting at least three impressive ropes of cum.

I should mention that each chap's orgasmic eruption was greeted with encouraging cheers from the masturbating ladies.

Among the assembled todger tuggers, that left just me.

As the new boy, I must confess that I was a little surprised to find myself 'taking part' -- as it were. Nevertheless, I was. And there was no denying that I was deriving more than a little pleasure from the sights, the sounds, the sunshine, and the stimulation provided by my practiced right hand. The only question was: how was I going to finish off? And then Sarah came to my rescue.

'See if you can hit my tongue,' she said.

It was all the encouragement that I needed. Within a heartbeat, I felt as if I could have hit her tongue even if it had been in the next county. Oh, oh, oh, kapow! And kapow again.

'Hey! Have you two been practicing?' George said.

Sarah just smiled, swallowed, smiled again, and poked out her now cum-free tongue.

When the girls had begun their tribute to St Cilla, they had begun slowly, almost methodically. But now, after the fusillade from our side, they had definitely upped the pace. 'What do you say, ladies?' Sarah said. 'Shall we come as one?'

'Count it down,' Louise said.

'Oh, yes!' George said. 'Count us down.'

And we did. 'Ten ... nine ... eight ... seven ... six ... five ... four ... three ... two ... one.

It was not a totally synchronous finish. But it was pretty damn close.

While the girls caught their breath, Jack, like the good publican that he was, walked among us, dispensing wine and ale. And Trevor, his now-wilted cock looking a little reddened by the activities of the past half hour, raised his glass and proposed a toast.

'Ladies and gentlemen, even though my mother was a devout follower of the Church of Rome, I have never had so much as a single second for the sainted do-gooders we are encouraged to admire. But St Cilla is different. St Cilla is -- was -- one of us. Please raise your glasses in thanks to the sainted Cilla, she of the busy fingers.'

'To St Cilla,' a chorus of voices chanted.

'Oh ... and to our hostess,' Trevor said. 'I'm not sure how you came up with this idea, Sarah ... but fucking brilliant.'

'Umm ... fucking?' Louise said. 'No. Let's leave that until we get home. I think I've made quite enough of a contribution to exhibitionism this afternoon.'

Later, when the rest of the guests had donned their clothes and headed home, Sarah said: 'Well, I don't think anyone went home hungry. But there is still a lot of food left. Perhaps you could stay for supper?'

'It's a nice idea,' I said. 'And don't get me wrong; the food was fabulous. But I'm not sure that I have any room left.'

'Umm ... you just need a bit of exercise,' Sarah said. 'You just need to work up a bit of an appetite. Come on. The bedroom's this way.'