The Vicar of St. Dunstan's Ep. 16

"Well, I'm flattered. Is that why, oh, I shouldn't. . ."

"I know about the session when Jenny came over with Mrs. Button before she got engaged to Derrick. She told me all about it; I was on the verge of an orgasm with every detail, and I wassojealous. You fulfilled her deepest fantasy, Al, and she was ready to move on to Derrick after you made her dream come true."

"Did you date many boys when you were in school?"

"A few, nobody got very far. As you Yanks say, nobody got past first base. I used to slip my Gran's dildos out of her room and use them, imagining it was you between my legs, making me wet, driving deep into me. Jenny used to do the same thing with her Grandmother's cucumbers."

"Did she miss them?"

"Not after a certain event in the Quilting Room over a year and a half ago. Jenny and I didn't figure it out until we went on the cycling tour of Wales with our Grans; away from here, they said a few things at the wrong time when they thought we weren't listening, and we put it all together. That was a great trip, we really bonded during that bike ride and we felt they were finally going to treat us like women."

"Well, they showed me the pictures of you riding topless around Wales. Didn't that seem a bit immodest?"

"Oh, we've never been very modest in my family, and Jen and her Gran used to drive old Mr. Button crazy walking around the house in warm weather with little or nothing on top. I think they used his embarrassment to keep him away; he was pretty rough on them. Gran and I've gone to Spain almost every summer to get a good all over tan. And of course, wewantedyou to see those pictures of us topless, and our Grans were self-confident enough in themselves, in you and in us that they let it happen."

"All right. When did you lose your virginity?"

"Depends on how you count that."

"When did you first sleep with a man?"

"It was on the Great Plains of Kansas, beside a pond by a windmill."

That stunned me.She was a virgin until age twenty two? She saved herself for me?"But you seemed so experienced."

"Gran went over everything with me, and I was prepared. I even practiced taking a dildo up my bum so you could sodomize me. As for the rest, I just gave myself over to pleasing you, whether you were with me or with Gran. Watching you fuck Gran was really hot, by the way."

The rest of the story. How many other young women in the parish are fantasizing about me, I asked myself. It was almost like the legend from mediaeval Europe ofDroit du Seigneur, where the local lord had the right to deflower every virgin in his land on her wedding night. ."I'd better be careful," I said at last, "I could get into all kinds of trouble if more girls had your ideas."

She wriggled up close to me, getting as close as possible. "I'm going to be the Doorkeeper, and nobody is getting close to you other than the Quilting Ladies from now on. Anyway, Jen and I didn't have close friend among the kids who grew up here, and we never told a soul other than our Grans about our fantasies about you. Mrs. Hazelton has some granddaughters around our age, but they live a long way from here, and don't come round very often. Our cousins aren't usually around either, so you're safe as far as I know. Of course, Niall would be just rapturous if you'd try his side of the street. . ."

Sighing I said: "Well, that's like trying run a ordinary Mac program on Windows: it won't work."

Suddenly she bounced out of bed and started putting on her robe. "Hey, are you as famished as I am?"

My stomach reminded me that it had been since that light snack last night that I had eaten. "Yes, I guess we got sidetracked."

She giggled, covering her mouth. "Why don't I whip us up a grand, big English breakfast?"

"Have you got everything you need?"

"Oh yes, I had Jen drop off a few things yesterday afternoon while we were out. Before the storm hit."

"Well, if you do breakfast, I'll do you a classic American staple for cold weather."

She did a double take. "You, cook?"

"I did it when I was growing up, you should see me at the grill. I picked up a chili recipe in western Kansas that'll put hair on your chest."

"Oh?" Opening her robe, she took a look at her chest, pulling it open so her breasts peeked out. "I don't think I need any hair there."

"Figure of speech, Perk"

"Well, then, let's call it a plan. Let me get started, and come down in about fifteen minutes."

I took a quick shower and checked the weather on the Internet: it was going to last all day, all night and not finish until sundown the next day. A look out the window was a grey swirl swarming with huge, white flakes. No one would be out today, and probably not tomorrow either. I put on my silken robe and slippers; this was going to be a lovely day with a lovely lady, and a tingling uncertain excitement came over me as I contemplated the possibilities.

There was enough wood upstairs to lay another fire after a scooped up last night's ashes, and I programmed the iPod with Tchaikovsky, Rimsky Korsakov and other Russian composers of that time. I didn't do heavy late Romanticism often, but today was different.

The table was laden with Bangers, eggs over easy, tomato, mushrooms, and a black pudding. Despite the blizzard, the paper had made its way to the table, and Agnes poured me a cup of tea as I sat down. Taking a sip, I smiled and said to her: "English Breakfast, how stereotypical."

"Well, I like it and so do you," she fussed from the oven, where she pulled a tray of toast from under the broiler. Her robe slipped open as she bent over, giving me a side view of her left breast, before standing up. "Oh shit, the butter," she said, reaching into the icebox to pull out the butter holder. We said grace, and I began to fill our plates, which I noticed were warm.

Buttering my toast, I looked at her as she took a couple of slices of the black pudding. "I'm still a bit reluctant to try that."

"Then you're still not a proper Englishman," she sneered coyly, "you can't just pick and choose from our traditions; that what you Yanks do."

"Oho, look who's picking and choosing. I've never had brunch at your Grandmother's house, but I know that every morning she had to have her baked beans, and every Diocesan breakfast I've been to has beans as well."

"Don't like baked beans, first thing. Pintos are all right, and chili's all right, but having that heavy crap in the morning makes me feel like I'm carrying a stomach full of lead weights.

Just like those awful grits we had that one day in Chicago."

"Grits are a Southern dish, and I'm not fond of them either. I'm glad that you made an accommodation and fried the eggs over easy."

"I'm glad you taught me that Vic–Al. I always hated those rubbery flat things until now." Her teasing blue eyes grew soft. "You've helped me discover many things."

There was a twitching between my legs, and I turned my attention to the food. We shared the paper and listened to BBC News. I helped her with the washing up, then started constructing my chili. Agnes watched with fascination as I chopped onions and garlic, drained the beans, and browned some chunks of salt pork before softening the vegetables in the huge soup pot with the homemade chili powder.. Fetching bottles of bourbon and tequila from the liquor cabinet, and some tomato paste from the pantry, I started assembling the ingredients.

"Is liquor at standard part of Chili?" Agnes asked.

"No, but I think it adds a special depth and body. If we had some Pilsner beer, I'd put a bottle of that or two in as well."

"Oh, we've got some, you just didn't see it." She disappeared into the study where my liquor cabinet was and brought out a couple of bottles of Corona.

"Why isn't this in the fridge?" I asked testily.

"I don't know. Should it be?" came her innocent reply.

"Typical Brit. Non-English beer should be kept in the fridge, its brewing process is different and it drinks better just above freezing."

"Oh. I didn't know that." She went and brought in three six packs to put them in the icebox; fortunately was an industrial refrigerator with a huge capacity and held them comfortably. I opened the two cars she brought, as I sauteed the Going back, she brought a bottle of Newcastle Brown Ale, poured it in a glass and sipped from it as she draped herself over a straight backed chair. "So is this anything like what we tried in Denver?"

"Beats the shit out of what we tried in Denver," I said as the liquids came up to the temperature I wanted.. It was taking a strong red color from the power I manufactured with love after returning from America from some dried chilies and cumin seed I'd purchased online. Opening the cans of tomato paste, I stirred them in, watching them melt in the seething liquid and thickening it. Backing the heat down to a bare simmer, I put the lid on and came over to the redhead. Kissing her on the forehead, I glanced down. "I can tell you're a student; I haven't had beer for breakfast since I was at undergrad in Hays."

She took a big slug from her glass, and offered me a sip. "Here, it'll put hair on your chest."

I took a generous swallow, and gave it back to her. "Hey, how did you get the paper in? It must have been freezing out there."

"I just walked out to the curb and got it."

"With your coat on?"

"No. It wasn't long enough for me to get cold." The image of her walking through the snow only clad in a thin bathrobe was disturbing and exciting. "It reminds me of something we can try this morning."

"What."

"Well, we can get the old hottub going for a nice long soak. Then, we go outside and play in the snow until we get cold. Back inside and back in the tub; the relaxation is supposed to be amazing."

"Really?"

Nodding her head, she smiled. "It's kind of like the sauna the Finns do. Want to give it a try?"

It sounded crazy, but I was curious. "All right. I need to spend a minute or two longer here; why don't you get the hottub going?"

Like a flash, she was pounding down the stairs. I stayed with my pot until I was happy that the tomato paste was dissolved, then got into the cupboard to prepare the elements to make cornbread. Looking in the fridge, there was a quart of buttermilk behind the newly cooling beer, and I was already salivating over supper. Going upstairs, fetched my iPod to give our morning some context.

I found Agnes naked in the hottub, and I doffed my robe to join her after setting the player up and starting the playlist. Soaking opposite each other, we floated in the water to Borodin'sPolovetsian Dancesas our bodies surrendered to the warm pulsing waters. When we got to the famous theme, I took her in my arms and danced her around in the tub, buoyant in our crouches to keep as much underwater as possible. Like the lyrics this melody evoked the musicalKismet, we were in paradise.

After the bustling conclusion, Agnes hustled me out of the tub and chased me upstairs and out the back door. The wind was still swirling the snowflakes, the church a faint outline in the haze beside us, the bare tree limbs clicking softly as they danced. She tackled me and rolled me in the snow over and over laughing. Coming up, I reached down to grab handfuls of snow to dump on her: over her head, into her crotch, around her breasts. Laughing, she tried to dodge me, and picked up snow to retaliate feebly. It wasn't as cold as I thought at first, steam coming off our hot bodies, and our exercise prolonged our warmth, but at last my skin was getting very cold and my teeth started to chatter. Agnes was a cold as well, holding her hands under her armpits, his nipples making hard buds, her skin turning very white. I gave her a look that asked whether it was time to go back in.

"I'm tougher than you are, Al. I'll bet you're a wimp." Her eyes flashed in challenge as she started to hop slightly from foot to foot.

Call me an old man, but I wasn't interested in this game. "All right, I'm a wimp, you win. Last one in the water is a rotten egg."

My cock flopped crazily as I set a record sprinting through the kitchen, pounding down the stairs and almost vaulting back into the hottub. Agnes was right behind me, and we shivered for a moment as the heat returned to our bodies. As the chill left, my body tensed and then in a great rush, relaxed profoundly, going limp in every part. A look to the side told me that Agnes had the same experience. "That's almost as good as an orgasm," she said, and wandered over to sit on my lap as I sat in the water. Her hair was pressed against my face; I inhaled a wonderful musk that swept my senses away and pulled my hand around her around her waist.

After a few moments, she jumped a little bit and turned around to smile at me. "I think someone has some new tension here," she leered as she grasped my burgeoning erection and began to stroke it.

"Well, perhaps we should seek some relief," I replied, smiling.

"Care for another snowfight?" she teased.

I shook my head. "Special tension requires special attention."

The love theme of Tchaikovsky'sRomeo and Julietflowed through the air, and Agnes took a deep breath, ducking under the water to lave her tongue around the tip of my phallus. In less than a minute, she came up for a deep breath, then ducked under to continue her soft tongue work. Coming up again, she said: "Unless you have a special oxygen tank around, why don't you sit on the ledge of the tub and let me do this without drowning."

"Next time, I'll ask a mermaid to drop by. I bet they give underwater blowjobs seven days a week." She smacked my shoulder and I lifted myself up to sit as she requested.

Her red hair was slicked back against her head, and drops of water covered her face and shoulders. The gold bars in her nipples gleamed, and as they lifted out of the water, the chill of the air turned the peaks slightly stiff. Her eyes were her most compelling feature: blue pools of hunger and determination, devouring my dick as she stroked it; her tongue licked her lips and teased the corners of her mouth in anticipation that descended to it goal as she let herself down in the water. Toying and teasing, she worked around my upper thighs and nibbled my oysters before ascending to the corona, working it around and around. It seemed an eternity before she engulfed me and began sucking, her tongue flicked electrically all around my member, imparting me with energy. Before she could get me to the mountaintop, she had me stand up and part my cheeks. Moving behind me, she stroked me with her soft wrinkled hand as her face pressed into my backside and her tongue quested my soft pucker. Finding its goal, it pushed in and wandered around, sending another surge of energy, and before long, her delicate relentless hand drew out several jolts of white passion from me that splattered on the ledge of the hottub and ran down the inside toward the water.

I sat back into the water at an angle, as she came up out of the tub and sat on the ledge. Her fingers scooped up globs of my ejaculate, which she massaged into her stomach and on her face, ducking a loaded finger into her mouth to savor it. I started kissing her knee, and teased and tormented my way around her upper thighs and tender crotch, avoiding her clit and circling around it. She squirmed as I gave her false hope of contact; her fluids were already dripping from her oral worship of my body, and her cunt tried to move toward my lips as I worked around, but when it got close I danced away, just out of range.

"This isn't fair," she cooed, "this isn't fair at all." I glanced up to see her head lolling loosely, her neck muscles completely relaxed. My fingers started making circles around her clit; I teased her several moments as she tried to move to get more direct stimulation.

Her eyes met mine for a moment: a symbiosis of animal passion, desire and adoration that took me aback. I responded by plunging my index finger in her vagina, and leaning forward to attack her clitoris with my lips and teeth. Licking like a cyclone and faintly nibbling while my finger worked frantically, I brought her to release within a minute, echoed before the first one faded completely. When she had enough, she slowly fell off the ledge into the water, to put her head on my chest and wrap her body around mine.

Our skin was in the deep prune stage, so I lifted her out and carried her to the double bed that was in semi-storage there, drying her off with a huge towel before drying myself off. Putting her robe over her, I donned my own again, laying down beside her. She drew close and I put my arm over her as we lay together in silence.

Our afternoon was spent listening to music entwined: the Russians were followed by Debussy'sLa Mer, Ravel'sTombeau du Couperin,and Stravinksy'sFirebirdandPetroushka. The glorious smell of chili wafted down to us, and I went up periodically to check the pot, adding a little beer when it got too thick. Around five, I started putting the cornbread together, and Agnes came up behind me to wrap her arms around my waist and lay her head on my back. The windows gave the same swirling dark grey-flecked picture they had all day; the forecast was unchanged for snow to last until the next afternoon. I was afraid we would lose the power or the heat during this day, but we were fortunate. After putting the cornbread in the oven, I made some jasmine tea; we drank it, her sitting on my lap, as the wind murmured its chill song.

After supper, we went back upstairs to light another fire, and as we reclined on the couch, Agnes asked: "What do you think of the Quilting Ladies?"

"How do you mean that?"

"How good are they in bed?"

"Well, that's a little bit personal."

"I've seen you screw my Gran, and Jenny described you fucking her and her grandmother in detail. I've seen you whip Mrs. Hazelton's huge tits and pour hot wax on them, as well as torture another woman who wanted it for almost an entire day; I saw the video. For almost three months I've been cleaning every corner of this house, and fixing some of your meals. We've had sex more than once, and I've had my tongue up your ass a couple of times. Do you think you could trust me with some personal reflections in confidence, now?"

Laughing, I gave her a squeeze. "You're right, Agnes dear, point well taken."

"You're afraid of me," she said flatly.

Ouch, that was too perceptive. Her eyes dug into mine, and I wrinkled my brow as I thought, which she lampooned. At last, I thought of something that didn't seem idiotic to say. "Yes, I'm afraid, but not because I can't trust you. If I didn't trust you, you wouldn't be living in the apartment. We're fourteen years apart in age; you're from a different generation than I am. We grew up in very different cultures in very different places. You're young and you have your whole life in front of you. I don't want you to. . ."

". . .think I'm going to push you to marry me and spend the rest of our lives in domestic bliss. I thought we've been over that, but I guess we haven't."

She rolled over to lay gently on top of me, her hands flat against my chest and her left legs between mine. Her face was inches away, her blue eyes were set. "I've got a career in music to pursue right now: it takes up most of my time and will until I get my Master's. I don't know whether I want a doctorate yet, but the door's open. I have friends of both sexes at school, I socialize with them regularly and although we're good friends in a limited way, I have no desire to sleep with any of them, although I know that several would like to sleep with me. Whether I want to limit my future mobility or not is something I'm not ready to decide yet, and I'm going to make sure I don't have to."

Teasing my chest hair, she continued: "Talking with my friends, I don't think that any of them who had a lover would be happy with getting laid at average of twice a month at the beginning of their relationships. That's what we've averaged, and it's fine with me. I don't know any of them who would share their man willingly, and I came on board knowing that three women had numbers in the deli queue smaller than mine. I adore you with all my heart, and the Church that comes with you, but I'm not ready to be a Vicar's wife yet. You were hurt deeply by Janet and that's not healed: you're afraid that the next person who loves you may not love your job or the baggage that comes with it."