Standing there in my boxer shorts, stiff with anticipation, I pulled the hand-written envelope open and seized the three photographs that lay within.
The first was a close-up of her little pink hole, filled up with plastic: the purple toy that I had pushed into her backside, only two days prior. The memory made me dizzy with excitement.
The second, wider shot, showed the same thing but also her adjacent pussy lips, pink and plump, filled to the brim with a large, glass toy. They were smooth and shaven.
The third was more of a long-lens shot, of her on her bed, both holes filled and another, cock-shaped toy, in her mouth. It was slightly out of focus, as if she had taken it on a timer mechanism.
On the back of one photo it simply read: "I like to be filled."
The other: "Would you like to fill me?"
The third: "I'm almost ready."
I ate my breakfast slowly, my appetite gone. My morning muesli held little taste for me, given my sole preoccupation. When an elderly parishioner called, seeking advice on the hole in her roof, my replies were mechanical and distracted. Eventually I put the phone down on her, feeling guilty as I did so. As I drained my mug of black, steaming coffee, I decided to get out of the vicarage.
I whistled for Chip, my dog, and set out for the woods, seeking distraction and fresh air. Nothing I had learned at university, where I studied theology (with honours), or afterwards, as I trained to become a vicar, had prepared me for this kind of thing. It was a beautiful day, the height of summer, I could hear wood pigeons in the high pines above and smaller birds - thrushes, blackbirds, sparrows - in the dense rhododendrons, oaks and bushes as I walked past. I wondered whether it was nearly mid-summer, so long and light had the evenings become. The ground was hard and dry beneath my feet and I walked at a cracking pace, the dog rustling through the undergrowth, disappearing and only seldom returning to my feet. I felt in good cheer, my spirits soaring for the first time in ages. As if a weight had lifted from my troubled brow.
It must have been the coffee, but I needed to empty my bladder and left the path, heading for the protection of a large sycamore some 30 yards into the woods. I unzipped and started to pee against the wide trunk, enjoying the sensation. It was some while before I realised that I was being watched, from where I had just been walking. I pulled up my zip and turned, only to see Mrs Norte standing on the path, stroking Chip on his little head. He was wagging his tail as she petted him.
"Hi vicar," she called out, in her bold American tones. "Aren't you going to come say hello?"
I was a little cross, to be honest, at her impudence. "Have you been following me?" I asked.
"No, no, silly, I was just out here enjoying the summer, doing a little sketching, when I spotted you walk past," she claimed. "I was very glad to see you again, and to see your length again..." She pretended to titter. "It's as long as I remember it. You don't know this, but I spotted you, several weeks ago, taking a leak in the churchyard. That's when I knew that I wanted that length in the back of my mouth."
She stopped.
"Did you get the pictures I sent this morning?"
I nodded, dumbly.
"Did you like them?"
I nodded, again.
"Good, I thought you'd enjoy them," she lisped. "They were quite saucy, dontcha think?"
The light through the trees was dappling the front of Stella's summer dress, such thin cotton, such wide curves. I wondered how easy it would be to rip it off then and there. To force her on to the ground. To make her take it. To punish her for teasing me so badly.
Instead, I remembered myself, who I was and where I was, and asked to see her sketches.
"They're not here," she replied. "You'll have to come with me if you want to take a look."
I followed her back up the path, and then off into the undergrowth, following some old, unused trail through the woods, the dog skipping happily ahead of us both. It passed over a small stream, through briars and nettles. Eventually we found ourselves in a small clearing, sunlit, surrounded by high, dense trees. It was a truly isolated, secret little spot.
There was an easel propped up, with a few sketches in pencil and charcoal. Stella waited to one side while I took a closer look at the artwork. I was astonished by what I found.
These were not drawings of trees, or woods, or flowers. Instead they were pornographic images of the most unchristian nature, of limbs entwined, of men entering women, of women pleasuring men, some naked, others in unusual costumes and outfits. I flicked through a sheaf of 15 or 20 drawings. Some featured two men with one woman. Others, one man with two women. I was unnerved to see that he was wearing a dog collar and wore his hair in the same style as me. In the picture, he was sodomising one, older woman while she went down on a younger girl. I couldn't help but wonder if it was supposed to be me. Other drawings were of a similar manner. Some showed half a dozen of both men and women, in various stages of congress, in a variety of carnal acts. It took my breath away.
"If this is what you're drawing," I stammered, "how come you are here, in the woods?"
"Inspiration, dear boy," she drawled. "Tomorrow is mid-summer, when the Earth's powers are at their strongest, where we all feel the magnetic pull of life. It is where we are our most fertile. Your Christian church likes to put humans on a pedestal, above the natural world, but really we are all as animals. Can't you feel the warmth and the energy of this beautiful, summer's day?"
I was about to argue with her but couldn't find the words somehow.
Stella was close up against me, her hand between my legs now, seeking out my engorged penis. Pulling it out from the flies, she dropped to her knees, on the warm grass, and began to lick the stem. I watched, helpless, as she ran her tongue along the length, following the bulging blue vein up to the purple mushroom-head, then back again, back and forth. At one point she pushed her tongue against the crack between the two halves of the head, licking up the pre-come that was oozing out. I reached down and held her head as she licked and sucked. I noticed how large and firm were her breasts, how the profile shifted, braless, under her cotton dress.
I was left disappointed as she moved her head back, releasing me, opening her mouth to show the mixture of saliva and pre-come on her tongue. "I want you to do exactly what I say," she ordered me. "Stay, standing, where you are."
Stella returned to her easel and began sketching, her hand moving frantically across the paper as she watched me, closely. I stood there, arms by my sides, cock still standing out erect, as she drew it. It was over quickly.
She then reached back and unclipped her dress so that it fell to the ground, as if melting away from her body. I couldn't believe the size of her chest, the creamy, pale globes, with their large pink nipples. She smiled at me. Not quite naked, she still wore the black and red knickers I had already seen in photographs. It was the most beautiful sight I had ever encountered. "Christ, you turn me on," I whispered, watching as she sat down on the grass, spread her legs, then lay down on her back. I noticed the way in which her breasts flattened, somewhat, to either side.
"Remember, David, stay where you are," she ordered. It was the first time she had used my first name.
She reached down to her panties, raised her ample bottom and lowered them down, over her legs and past her ankles. Slowly, deliberately, her legs opened further, exposing herself to me.
I had already seen it all in her photographs, but the view still took my breath away. Her large, damp labia, with only a short patch of hair above. The folds of her cunt. Beneath, her tiny arsehole, stretched to accommodate the toy, the purple head of which I could see protruding.
I wanted to take her, then and there. To take over. To make her take it. But I had to follow her orders.
"Come on me." That is what she said.
"I'm sorry?"
"Come on me." She repeated herself. "Not in me, on me."
"I thought you wanted me to fill you?"
"Yes. But that happens tomorrow."
I looked down and realised that my right hand was already wrapped around my organ, moving quickly up and down. It was slippery to the touch. I noticed how the head was such a deep shade of pink, almost purple, because of my arousal. I pumped harder and faster.
"Where?" I asked.
"Not on my face, or chest," she replied. "Between my legs. On my pussy. You'll have to get down on your knees to aim properly." She was idly stroking her swollen clit with the palm of her hand, dipping one finger into her honey pot below.
I did as bidden, so that I was crouched between her ankles, still wanking furiously, pointing my stem towards her. My balls felt so very full they were aching. I had to empty them. On her, not in her.
She encouraged me as I jerked myself off, calling me a "good boy," "good vicar," and demanding that I come as quickly as possible. "That's right vicar," she moaned. "Spray me."
I reached the peak quickly. It was impossible to stop myself. I was chanting her name, over and over again, as I pulled on my huge, distended dick. Watching my fingers gripping my swollen cock, I let myself go, feeling that deep, overwhelming urge spread up from my balls and across my whole body. I witnessed the first stream of white cream, jetting out and onto her stomach. The second landed on her cropped pubic hair, while the third sprayed right across her labia. Further jets, fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh, spattered over her thighs, arse and cunt.
Her eyes closed, head thrown back on the grass, she reached down and rubbed my seed into her skin. She pushed two, then three fingers deep inside her swollen pussy.
"Leave me," she said. "Until tomorrow."
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Fri, 26th March, 2010
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