The Vicar's Wife Ch. 02


That bloody video was going to haunt me for the rest of my life, how many more people knew of its existence? I couldn't see that I had any way out of this, but I tried one last bluff.

"Your so called friends did attempt to abuse me. But my husband thwarted them."

"Don't give me that crap. If they'd struck-out, they'd have been down the clubhouse on Saturday night drowning their sorrows. As it was, they all sat there in that picture with you that the news paper printed, with their thumbs held up high. That wasn't a meaningless gesture; it was a sign by each man to say this one has had my cock up her."

So bluff wasn't going to work, force was useless, so I thought negotiation was my best option.

"Look, even if I was going to let you do anything, it's far too risky in here."

"I'm prepared to take the risk. Now stop gabbing, and get your belt undone."

So much for trying to negotiate, he had me cornered, and knew it. He'd loosed my wrists, and I began to unbuckle my belt. Then I pulled the press-stud open. I'd just taken hold of the zipper when, saved by the bell. It rang aloud, making us both jump. "Shit. Don't think this means you'll get off scot-free. I'll wait around until they go."

I got to my feet, straightened myself up, and was ready as Mrs Kelly walked in the door. "Ah Shirley my dear, how's Michael. I read all about it in the paper this morning. Oh sorry sir, I didn't know she was already serving someone."

"Oh never mind me, I'll be a while yet, I'm just looking. You carry on."

"Oh in that case, I'll have..."

She went on to go through what she wanted, all the time making general chit-chat mainly about what she'd read in the paper, and then I helped her out to her car with all the stuff she'd bought. Just as she was driving out of the yard, I saw Peter, one of the farmer's sons, going into the stable. I called, but he was out of earshot. As I looked back to the shop the old bastard was standing in the doorway looking at me, and beckoning me towards him.

I turned, and ran, as fast as my legs would carry me, I sensed he was giving pursuit, but I didn't try to look. As I crashed into the closed stable door, it clattered on its hinges. The old man, took hold of my wrist and pulled me back. All I'd needed was a couple more seconds to get through the door. "Got ya! Thought you could out run me? You wait..."

"You alright Shirl? Is this man bothering you?"

The old sod had dropped my wrist, like it was on fire, and he now stood a couple of paces back. This was going to be a fine balancing act, if I got this man a beating (which is what he deserved, and I would like to have seen), he'd no doubt punish me with a disclosure of the contents of that video. But at very least, I wanted to prevent him from doing anything to me. "Its ok Peter, he was just going."

Peter reached across, and as his hand took hold of the shoulder of the man's coat, he dragged the man towards him, stopping with the man's face inches from his own. The man looked like he'd messed himself; the look on his face was justice in full measure. "I don't know what you're up to, but if Shirley doesn't want me to feed you to the pigs, then think yourself lucky. But if I even see that car of yours so much as drive past our farm, you'd better start praying. Now get gone before I change my mind."

If I thought I ran down the farm yard quickly to get to Peter, then the speed this man ran back made my pace look like walking. He forgot anything about manly pride, he ran like a scolded cat, without looking back or making any comments. It was such a satisfying sight, but I hoped I wouldn't live to regret it. Then as I turned back to Peter, I saw him in a very different light than I'd ever done before. He stood there like a Greek Adonis, stripped to the waist (this was normal in the hot weather), chest muscles rippling. "Shirley? Are you alright?"

"What? Oh yes. Sorry, I was miles away. Oh Peter thank you for what you did."

"Did he touch you? You should have let me sort him out."

"No he didn't touch me; he was just getting a bit pushy. I was maybe making mountains out of mole hills."

"If he ever comes near here again you just tell us, it don't need to be me, dad or our Jimmy, or the other two. We'll rip his balls off. Oh sorry, I didn't mean to be rude."

"That's ok, I know what you mean. But thanks anyway."

"Ok I'll let you get back to the shop."

"Are you busy?"

"Always busy, but if you want me, I'll make time for you."

"It's that machine again."

"God Shirley. I sometime think you only come and ask for help, so you can get me in that dark shed with you."

I obviously blushed. "Don't say that," but he could tell it was only a half-hearted reprimand.

He began to walk me slowly back up the yard; I was on his right-hand side, and he'd placed his arm loosely around my back, with his big hand resting on my right hip. "Well I swear every time I get to it. One whack, and its working." As we walked, his hand was slipping lower.

"But you can hit it harder than me." I reached behind me, took hold of his hand, and eased it back up onto my hip.

"It don't take any forcing, so long as you hit it properly. I guess I'll have to try to show you again." His hand had now slipped again, and was cupping the right cheek of my bottom.

"I'd rather you just whacked it for me," and as I took hold of his hand and lifted it once more, "And you can keep that hand under control, you're almost as bad as the old sod you just scared away."

"Aw, don't say that, I was only larking about because I've never seen you wearing jeans before." With that he pulled away from me, and gave me one of those disappointed school boy looks.

"Oh come-on you big softy, you know I'm not angry with you. I can take a joke, but you know I'm a married woman, and if anyone had seen you."

"So I'm forgiven?"

"Of course you are."

With that he swung his arm back around me, and as he said, "Come-on then lets get that machine of yours sorted." He planted his hand firmly around the right cheek of my bottom again.


"Don't get excited, no one is going to see me in here." And as we were now inside the shop building, what he said was correct.

"That's not the point."

With a lot of meaningless chat back and forth, he walked me the length of the shop, and into the potato shed, with his hand going from one cheek to the other. And once or twice, a crafty stroke in between the two!

Well we were now stood by the dreaded machine, and although I'd been fighting him off, and mildly scolding him for his over amorous attention, this attention had my pussy throbbing wildly in my knickers. As he turned on the motor, the dust once again began to descend in clouds through the rays of sunlight that were managing to penetrate the black and filthy windows. The building was droning with the vibration. Talking wasn't possible, it was shouting and hand signals from now on.

Well the first hand signal was him ushering me to climb up onto the box. I tried shouting back, "But I thought you were going to do it to save time."


"I thought you were going to do it to save time."


"I thought you were going..."

I gave up; he was obviously playing silly buggers, and pretending not to hear me. So, as I placed one foot up onto the box, and took hold of the side of the machine, the vibrations going through my arms started taking effect. I only paused for a second, to take stock of my feelings, when I felt his hand under my crotch, assisting me to lift my bottom hence right leg up onto the box.

Before I had chance to turn around and give him any kind of reprimand, he was up there on the box with me, his massive torso towering above me. He lent across, and lifted my left ankle, and placed it onto the big lever, then as he brought his hand back, he gave me the thumbs-up sign, as if to say are you ok like that. I nodded, to indicate I was, and he lent across the machine, above me, but his chest was pushing me hard in contact with the machine, and leaning me forwards.

He started pointing, and as he placed the big lump of wood in my hand, it was obvious he was trying to show me where to hit with it. As I'd said, I'd been shown hundreds of times; I just couldn't make it move. But the wood now slipped from my grip, dropping onto the top of the machine. He picked it up again, but offer it to me as much as he might; my arms were like limp wet rags dangling from my shoulders. My pussy was an inferno of blazing desire and muscular action.

As it pulsed violently, I'm sure it had drawn every drop of strength from all other parts of my body. It was only Peter pushing hard up against my bottom, that prevented me slipping into a heap on the floor. Peter was now beginning to realise something was wrong, and that I couldn't do anything with his lump of wood. But the lump in his trousers, that I could feel pushing hard into the crack of my bottom, now that was something I could use right now.

But he, of course, wasn't aware he had a wanton slut in his power. He still was looking on this as a very naughty game he was playing with the vicar's wife, and probably wondering if he was going to get away with how far he'd gone already. My body was being attacked from all angles, the machines vibration, Peter's manly bodily contact, and my own desire. But the one that brought my orgasm to a climax was my vivid imagination.

I could feel him ripping the crotch of my jeans, and then pushing his mighty cock deep up inside me. Then as he rammed hard, lifting me right up off the box, I felt his warm spunk inside me. This was the signal my body needed; my pussy started its contractions, and spasmic squirting. At this point I drifted off from reality, into a world of ecstasy.

I came to my senses some minutes later, and I was laid on my back, legs parted. Peter was sat alongside me, and as soon as he saw I'd come to my senses, he said, "Oh thank god! That frightened me. I thought you were having some kind of fit. Are you ok?"

I immediately began to flail my fists at Peter, raining down a torrent of blows against his face and upper body.

"You bastard! How could you. I trusted you, and thought you were my friend."

He just sat there looking gob-smacked, and not attempting to defend himself, either verbally, or physically from the blows I was inflicting.

The bell rang, and the expression on Peter's face, looked like he was now the underdog in a fight, who was being saved by the bell. He sprang to his feet, and without a word, he was gone, closing the door behind him. I looked down to my crotch, and stared in disbelief. I had to check with my hands. But it was only now, I realised, my jeans were intact. The crotch hadn't been ripped. They were soaking wet, for at least six inches down the inside of each leg, but I hadn't been penetrated.

So now I began to feel really guilty, I'd imagined him fucking me, and orgasmed almost in his arms. I guess he'd had to stop me from falling, and lifted me down. But neither my blouse nor jeans showed any signs that anyone had attempted to make any kind of entry. I'd let loose with a tirade of abuse and even physically assaulted him. But he was guilty of nothing more than trying to show me how to get the machine working, even if he was using slightly dubious methods. But these methods were the ones he and all of the other men on the farm had used before, and I'd never even thought them wrong, let alone worried about them.

And worse than any of this was my performance, humping the machine, and collapsing into his arms. And then I can only assume writhing around with legs open whilst I moaned in ecstasy. Now he was out there serving the customers I was paid to serve, after I'd beaten him with all my might, for no reason at all. I dreaded him coming back, and I sat there, legs now closed, watching the door.

It opened, and he just pushed his head around it. "Can I come in?"

"Oh Peter, what can I say? Come here. I'm so sorry."

By the time he'd taken two steps into the shed, I had dashed across to intercept him. I reached my hands up high, placing them on the back of his neck, and attempting to pull him down to my face. He at first wondered what was going on, but when he realised it wasn't another abusive outburst, he let his face meet mine. I smothered his face with kisses.

"Enough. Shirley enough. What's happening to you?"

"Oh peter I'm so sorry. I can't explain. I've been so wicked. Please promise you won't tell anyone."

"Enough Shirley, come and sit down. Tell me what the hell is going on."

"Oh god Peter. I feel so ashamed."

"You mean your cuming like that?"

"Yes. I'm so sorry. You must think I'm disgusting."

"Can I tell you what I really think?"

"What do you mean?"

"Just that, do you really want to know what I think about you doing that?"

"I'm not sure I do. But, if you're already thinking whatever it is, I guess I'd be better off knowing what it is."

"Well, and I don't mean to be rude to your old man, sorry, I mean the vicar. But if a girl is that highly strung, it's a sign she isn't getting enough. It don't matter if you're talking women, bitches, mares, or any other animal. It's either not regular enough, or the equipment he's using ain't big enough to do the job."

I was stunned, and at a loss for words, I just sat there looking into his eyes.

Peter broke the silence. "Well, am I right?"

"'s not that simple."

"Shirley love, I've worked this farm all my life. I know you've got an education, but some things in life don't need a degree to workout. I know it don't sound romantic, and you ladies don't like being compared to dogs. But a bitch on heat is a bitch on heat, and we both know, that orgasm you just had ain't gonna stop your craving. So which is it, the vicar isn't servicing you regular enough, or he ain't got the right tool for the job?"

"I really don't think we should be talking like this. Please, I'm so sorry I went berserk at you earlier, that was very wrong of me. And I'm sorry I embarrassed you and humiliated myself. But my private life with my husband is just that, private. I'm going to have to go home to get changed, I'll understand if you tell me you don't want me to come back."

"It's up to you, if you want to take the rest of the day off, then you stop at home and rest."

"No, I didn't mean take the rest of the day off, I meant if you felt you didn't want me to work here any more."

"What? You mean you want to leave us?"

"Well no, I behaved unforgivably. I thought the other way around; you might want to sack me."

"Don't talk like a pudding, sack you never. Given half a chance, I'd give you the fucking you need, but less said about that the better."

"Please Peter; you frighten me when you talk like that."

"Ok girl don't fret, I'll not touch you unless you ask me to. And, we'd not sack you just because your husband isn't doing his job properly. You get off home, and if you feel ok, come straight back, otherwise, we'll see you in the morning."

I dashed towards him, and gave him a big kiss on his forehead. "Thank-you. I really do owe you a lot."

I was soon in my car on my way home, all the way thinking about his simple analysis of my condition. Could he be right? It couldn't be the need for a regular fucking; I'd had more this weekend than most women get in a lifetime. That only left the size of Michael's cock! Well I was now at home, and I had a quick shower. Then I did something totally out of character, I took a big cardboard box from the bottom of my wardrobe. I started spreading the packets, boxes, and loose garments all around our bed; so that I could see them all, and choose which one I wanted to wear.

What are these garments, where did I get them, and why are they in my wardrobe? My brother is two years older than me, and for some reason, our family piety, skipped him totally. He was going around with girls whilst he was still at school, and it wouldn't surprise me if he hadn't lost his virginity before he'd left. Well from my sixteenth birthday, the first day of legal sex in the UK, and on every subsequent birthday, he bought me sexy underwear. It had gone on right through my uni years, and continued to this day. So much so, even my parents used to think of it as a harmless family joke.

But I only ever wore knickers and bras that were functional and covered up properly. That didn't mean they couldn't be pretty, but never skimpy or frivolous. So I had this big box full of unopened lingerie of all kinds and colours. Now for some reason I couldn't explain, either to myself, or to anyone else if they'd asked, I was sorting through them. I selected a very pretty white lace bra and panties set.

I put them on, and stood in front of the full length wardrobe mirror, turning from side to side. My public hair was untouched, and grew quite wild, so it was visible on either side of the lace material. The cut of the panties meant my legs looked longer than I'd ever seen them.

"Yes. That'll do."

There was nobody else in the room, but I still said the words out aloud, maybe just to convince myself I was actually doing this.

I put on one of my normal flared skirts, and cotton blouse, and then I was ready. Oh hang on, I looked around, found a second bra, and panties set, just as skimpy, another skirt and also a blouse, and put them all into a bag as spares. Well you never know. I then put all the underwear back into the box, and the box back into the wardrobe.

So looking no different to normal, but definitely feeling like a tart at the very least, I set off in my car, with a spare set of clothing, just in case. I arrived back at the farm at about one o'clock, normally our busiest time. But in all my years working there, I'd never seen the place so crowded. I couldn't even get my car into the yard; I had to park with some of the other customers cars out in the lane.

As I walked into the shop Peter called, "I'm glad to see you."

The next two hours were mayhem, even people who didn't know me, but who just knew that I worked at this farm had come along to buy food, but mainly to get the full story first hand. It was like being a kind of minor celebrity.

When the rush eventually dwindled, Peter said, "Dad'll be pleased. By my reckoning; we've about doubled our takings today. Don't suppose you can push the old man over the edge again next weekend?"

"Peter!" I scolded, as I pushed him away with my open palm on his shoulder, "That's wicked." Even though, I have to admit I had a slight smile on my face at the same time.

"Well. You can't blame me. Trades picked-up and I've never seen you looking so... Well you know, vivacious and beaming. It's like one of those tricks they play when the twin sister turns up for work."

"Am I really different?"

"Are you kidding me? Today is the first time I've ever seen you in jeans. Then there was that other thing. And now, them panties."

"Panties, what do you mean?"

"You've never worn skimpy knickers like them before."

"How on earth do you know what my knickers look like?"

"You really don't know?"

"No. I'm not wearing a short skirt, and I haven't climbed any ladders."

"But the material of your skirt is so thin, and when you bend down it clings to you, showing the outline of your knickers. And then when you pass the open doorway and you're silhouetted against the sun, it is the most glorious site."

"And just because the underwear I've got on is different to the style I normally wear, you think that means I've changed in some way?"

"No. Not just the underwear."

"Well what else?"

"I don't want you to think I'm being rude."

"Go on say it."

"You're on heat."

I coloured up instantly, "Why do you say that?"

"Because it's true."

"That's not really a nice thing to say."

"I said you'd think I was being rude, but I'm not. You are on heat, even if you are the vicar's wife."

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