Touching Cloth.

Blue sky, white fluffy clouds and a gentle breeze that caused the bunting to flutter. The smell of freshly baked cakes and mow’n grass reached the Vicars nostrils as he surveyed this quintessential scene of life in rural England. THE VILLAGE FETE.
The weather was warm and summery and regarding their dress sense a lot of the younger women threw caution to the wind , see through chiffon skirts and revealing unbuttoned cheese cloth shirts were the order of the day.
Children played freely, running and screaming amidst the adults, loving the day.

The Vicar was young and loved his trusted position within this wonderful community.
After indulging his senses of pride and happiness he used his handkerchief to mop his brow of the light perspiration caused by the summer sun, or was it caused by the sight of the village librarian and her slightly over exposed tanned skin, enhanced in beauty by a fortnight in Spain. She was a true pearl.

The Vicar turned his back on the jovial gathering to face the quaint stone Church, he entered through the arched oak doors into the cool interior of Gods house. He walked slowly along the Isle, laid-back like, letting the finger tips of his right hand ride over the smooth back’s of the empty pews. He felt alive and blessed, he had it all, his newly wedded wife, his own Parish, he lived in a world of total satisfaction, he was in control of his inner self.

Half way along the Isle, the privacy of his thoughts were disturbed by the soft click of a closing door. The sounds of the fete were instantly muted, he was cocooned in the echoing silence.
He froze on the spot, a trickle of sweat ran down his spine and he felt the goose bumps rise.  “Hello Vicar”. He recognized the voice instantly.

He turned slowly to face the voice, there she stood, only 10 feet from him, framed by the closed oak doors. The Liberian, and she was steaming hot.

The Vicar backed off one small step at a time, his gaze fixed on the slowly advancing Liberian. His progress was suddenly halted by the large stone font, he reached backwards with his trembling hands feeling the fonts familiar form, the scene of so many happy family memories, crying babies and proud parents.

The Liberian was very soon toe to toe with the  Vicar. She placed her hands gently on his now slightly heaving chest and let her fingers climb his rib cage and found his nipples, now sticking out as she tormented them with a delicate squeeze.

To prevent loosing his balance the Vicar released the font and placed his hands on the Liberians hips. Nice hips, a bit bony he thought and found himself exploring further enjoying the softness of chiffon and buttocks.
His pulse quickened as his fingers scrambled underneath the flimsy skirt and found bare flesh and the satin smooth texture of her knickers. She leaned forward  and licked his lips with her tongue whilst she stroked his swelling groin. Feeling the slight resistance of elastic he pushed his hand inside the panties to feel and fondle the forbidden fruit of her femininity.
He wanted more, desires of lust now controlled his every action. His fingers now searched frantically for her wetness……..”Holy shit! What the fuck?” screamed the Vicar as his clammy palm wrapped around the throbbing shaft.
The couple glared into each others eye’s, the Vicar felt rage and disgust rise from the pit of his stomach, quickly, he grasped hold of the Liberians testicles and squeezed for all he was worth. The Liberian let out a scream filled with pain. “Bastaaaaaard”.

The scream was so frighteningly intense it caused Mrs Pettigrew, the Majors wife, to drop the cup of tea she had been holding ready to give to the Vicar. It fell to the floor, shattering and spilling it’s contents in a dark stain across the cold stone.
Three pairs of eye’s flicked around the scene, Mrs Pettigrew cupped a hand to her mouth.”Vicar!” She gasped, horrified by what she had seen. She composed herself with a brisk rub down of her garment and turned to face the exit. She wanted to return to the sanity of the Village fete, she took one step, then another, she wanted to run but she remained calm, her pace quickened slightly as she passed the once pillars of her world, she spared the scene a momentary glance and then decided to run.

Her attempt to run was cut short by a heavy blow to her head, sending her sprawling to the floor. The red liquid of life leaked from her wound, the stained glass window reflected on it’s surface, silence prevailed, the scene seemed to freeze.

The large oak doors opened, and there, framed within a scene of idyllic  bliss stood the Vicar’s wife. The assailant let the gold candelabrum fall to the floor, the metallic sound filling everyone’s ears.

Jesus hung on his Crucifix, the silent witness.

 

 

 

 

Categories: Burning the Midnight Oil

thestork245

I'm a disabled ex-Soldier, just entering my Autumn years. I write purely out of enjoyment about anything and everything. My main interests are Nature, especially birds and history. I enjoy reading, fiction or non-fiction, it doesn't matter, any genre pleases me.

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