Tuesday, 27 November 2012

History Lesson 2

‘Everything in the house décor-wise,’ the Rev. Preston is saying as I scribble in my notebook, ‘is a little jaded.  In some rooms, it hasn’t even had a lick of paint in…decades… it seems.  As such, I’ve managed to wheedle some money out of the Church Estates Office to do the place up a bit.  So what I’m after really, is some pointers on colour, wallpapers, carpets, other finishes, that sort of thing.  The furniture, on the whole, is pretty sound although as you will see, the kitchen needs a radical update.’

Already the swatches and sample books were swimming around in my mind’s eye.  I was in serious design mode.  The Drawing Room we were in was a good size- in fact it was more like two rooms combined into one stretching from the front to the back of the house.  It had sofas and armchairs at one end, at the other a large oak dining table in front of some elegant but time-worn French doors.  and as we stood there in the middle of the large room, it was time now to ask the question.

‘…and, err… is there anyone else living in the house…?’

‘No,’ he replied, hands in pockets, glaring at me.  ‘I live alone.’

I allowed myself an inside grin.

He gives me a tour of the house- its bathroom that was so old-fashioned it was now almost retro-chic, the four bedrooms- his was a large front room with a bay window and a battered old chaise lounge in it, and a big double bed but otherwise sparsely furnished apart from a scary old oil painting of some bishop bloke on the wall opposite the door in- the kitchen that was not retro-stylish, just so utterly past it as if it had never really accepted there was no rationing anymore, then back to the Drawing-come-Dining Room.  The highlight of the tour had been one point when he’d asked me to climb some sturdy loft ladders to look into the attic to quickly assess its conversion prospects [though why he’d need more room was beyond me].  He did however use it as an opportunity to blatantly look up my short skirt, which I happily milked for all it was worth, pushing out my backside and making sure he got a good eyeful of my knickers.  Then there was the basement, an unexpected treat of a space, all dark corners and stark brick walls, a table covered in unfathomable contraptions and cupboards full of God knows what, lit by low voltage bare bulbs, and another opportunity to wriggle my bottom at him as I clicked up the stone stairs ahead of him up to the ground floor of the house and the basement door beneath the hallway staircase.

In no time I am following him back into what he calls the Drawing Room.  I stifle a giggle as I suddenly think of Cluedo- Rev Preston in the Drawing Room with the copper piping- and them I am standing by the table as he fixes himself a drink from a trolley next to the door.

I stand there with a finger on the old oak table twizzling my left leg on the toe of my sharp toed pixie boot.  I have for some reason become increasingly coy and girlie during my time with the vicar- don’t ask me why- but I seemed to slip into it very easily, it seemed appropriate, so who was I to fight it.

He finished mixing his drink- looked like whiskey and soda- and walked away from the trolley clearly not going to offer me one.  I suddenly felt extremely disgruntled.  The rude bastard!  I didn’t particularly want an alcoholic drink at that time of the day- it was mid-afternoon and still too early for me to be honest- but it would have bloody nice to have been bloody well asked.

The sun suddenly shone through the French windows at the head of the big table, and thousands of motes of dust glittered in the broken rays.

‘Do you believe in God?’ he suddenly asked me, before taking a slug of Scotch. 

‘Err…yes and no,’ I replied.  He just glared at me.  I probably deserved that glare which suddenly changed to one of utter contempt; it was a pathetic non-answer.  I felt like a silly little girl under that fiery glare.

‘Don’t you have a single coherent thought or are you a complete airhead?’ he spat at me, before pulling out a high backed chair from the table.  I was taken aback and hurt by his sudden change in mood but something, something, held me there before him, held in his contemptuous gaze as it were some sort of inescapable, controlling beam of energy.

‘Sorry,’ I said softly, ‘it was just a sudden Big Question that’s all; I really wasn’t expecting it.’

‘My dear, you have to be ready for the unexpected at all times,’ he replied, sitting down on the dining chair now facing me down the table, and placing his drink beside him.  ‘You cannot rely on your tits and legs all of the time to get you through, although more than most young women can probably get by more often than not.’

He kept staring at me.  It became unclear whether he intended to say anything else.  a silence set in.

I swallowed hard, still stood there before him, neither offered a drink or the chance to sit down myself- if he wanted to see legs, he hadn’t seen me sat demurely flashing my thighs and stocking tops yet- but still stood there in front of him lik, like…a naughty schoolgirl. 

Bloody hell that was it!  I felt like a naughty, errant school girl.  Was that why I was putting up with his comments and insults?  Was I actually enjoying this process of being suddenly, unexpectedly, made subordinate to this peculiar man of the cloth?

Something inside of me was undeniably tingling…

‘Do you want to talk about colours and fabrics?’ I say, trying to break the silence.I have some ideas…’

‘No I do not want to talk ‘colours and fabrics,’ he snaps back.  ‘I’ll leave all that up to you.  It’s what you are getting paid for.   I have no worries about your abilities when it comes of ‘colours and fabrics.  My concern is for more rounded development.’

‘Rev. Preston I can assure you…’

But I am stopped by a raised hand. 

‘Could you pick up a couple of those books for me please, in pile over there by the drinks trolley.’

I glanced over to a neat stack of maybe half a dozen books by the gold brass, bottle –full trolley.  Wishing my heart to stop pounding, I made my way over to it and instinctively smoothing my short skirt down over my bottom knelt down to pick up the books.

‘Good God not like that you silly little tart!’ he shouted and I started, standing up straight again.  ‘Like a proper woman.  Bending down from the waist: legs and back straight.’

Pouting I looked back at him.  He had his legs crossed now, and was nursing his tumbler of Scotch.  Suddenly, no matter the hour, I definitely felt like a drink myself.

I breathed in deeply and did as he asked.  I bent over from the waist, my arms outstretched down to the books, my little skirt riding high up my arse, my panties on full display to him, my legs straight and shapely…for him.

The sexual charge in the air had become thick enough to slice.  My mind was in turmoil; one part of my mind was screaming ‘how dare you let him treat you like this!  You are a modern, independent woman!’  Another part was telling just how nasty and obnoxious this man was, and a bloody vicar to boot!  Get out of there, now!  And then…

…the confusion, the numbed lostness, the wetness in my slit…

Because as I bent over in front of this man my skirt high up over my bottom baring my stocking tops and arse and little white panties to a man I hadn’t even met much more than an hour ago, I felt… empowered.  I felt a yearning energy in my damp snatch with my tingling sex lips barely covered from his view by a slither of thin silk.

‘Do you want me to bring all of the books to you,’ I said over my shoulder to him, ‘or any in particular.’

‘Just the top two.  And be careful with them, I don’t want you smudging make up on them or god forbid, smearing bloody nail varnish across their covers.’

I did as he said and lifted to top two books off the pile.  They were hardback books of a conventional size but it did not register with me what the books were called; my vision at that moment was pretty much a blur.

I straightened, turned and walked over to him with them.  He gestured to me to put them near him on the table and I leaned across to do so, before straightening and standing before him again.

He just glared at me- that bloody glare- with a slight smile on his pursed, shapely lips.  I imagined his cock in my mouth, I could taste it, I could feel his come spurting in the back of my throat as I sucked and licked and sucked…

He uncrossed his legs.  I couldn’t help but stare at his crotch.  I involuntarily put my hands behind my back, I was being that naughty school girl to a tee.

‘Do you like grapes?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘Louder Miss Smiles please.’

Yes, I like grapes,’ I said louder, clearer.  I dragged my eyes away from his crotch where I was sure there was a discernible bulge, to the table where there was a large bowl of fruit.  The Reverend Preston was reaching across and pulling the large silver bowl towards him.  The electricity in the room was now driving me nuts. What next?  Is he going to fuck me or what? If he wanted to, was I going to let him?   If he wanted to, did I have any choice?

I bit my bottom lip, wondering if I was out of my depth here.   I was a new scary world, one where I was actually very turned on by the thought of having no choice in whether he fucked me or not.

He opened his legs and gestured to the floor in front of him between his widened thighs.

‘Kneel there, and you can have some grapes,’ he said.  I did as I was told, sinking to my knees in front of him, staring up at him, my hands behind my back.

‘You are a very pretty little slut,’ he said, lifting my chin with a long, firm finger.  Most delectable.  Open wide.’

I opened my mouth and he popped a green grape in.  I held it on my tongue, not daring to close my lips.  This seemed to please him and I felt a charge of satisfaction at his pleasure.

‘You may close your mouth now young lady,’ he says and I do as I’m told.  I crunch the grape between my teeth, and the flesh rips open, the juice shooting into my mouth.

‘Good girl,’ he says, with more of a sneer than a smile.  I swallow what’s left of the grape.

With me still kneeling between his knees, he reaches to the fruit bowlagain and starts pulling grape after grape off the large bunch in the middle of it.  He then throws the grapes onto the floor around us.  They bounce on the old thread bare carpet and roll around a little.  He keeps throwing them until there are tens of green grapes scattered around us.

‘There are the rest of your grapes.  Now go and eat them.’

He stands up and towers over me.  His crotch is inches from my face, shrouded by austere, thick black trouser cotton.  I can sense his cock there, hardened, ready, mine.  But when?  I licked my lips slightly in anticipation.  Then he reaches down and without warning pushes me hard on my right shoulder away from him.  I sprawl with silly girly yelp onto the carpet, my left cheek grazing the ratty old carpet which I think in a fleeting moment of detachedness smells stale and beery like an old pub. 

‘The grapes,’ he barks towering over me, ‘eat them.’

I push myself up on all fours and stare at a green grape a foot or so in front of me on the carpet.  I feel intensely vulnerable in this position and not for the first time my rationale mind is screaming: ‘Barbara Smiles how the fuck did you manage to get in this situation?’

But I also know I can do nothing about it now; I’m in too deep.  A potent mixture of fear, trepidation, curiosity and arousal is going to keep me down here, on all fours, my arse in the air with my short skirt displaying my knickers for the world to see as I bend down and clasp my lips around the first grape, until he allows me to get up.

I lift my head and my teeth sink into the grape.  Again the juice shoots into my mouth, across my tongue.

‘The next one,’ I hear him say as he is now out of my vision, he is moving around somewhere behind me.  I shuffle forward towards the next one, dragging my stockinged knees across the old carpet and this time without being told, bend down to take a grape between my teeth.  Then he is suddenly in front of me with his hands behind his back, very close as I raise my face from the floor.  He is looming above me, his crotch inches from my face.  There is a discernible bulge there and I involuntarily lick my lips as I look up at him above me with I know are big, doleful eyes and I realise then that he has me, I am his and he is mine, in that electric nanosecond of our eyes locking and exchanging our very inner most forces our life courses fundamentally changed.

And all I can think about is having that hard cock in my mouth; my thoughts are entirely prick-o-centric.  I can imagine his big, hard balls and I want to suck on them.  After licking off the first drop of spunk oozing from the tip of his prick I want to run the tip of tongue down the long shaft of his cock and then lick and suck on those tight, ready to burst balls.  I am sticky with the thought of it, my cunt feels electrified, I want to suck him and then I want to be fucked, hard, very hard, the world really had become as simple as that.

‘You really are a slut,’ he barks and I shiver, desperately needing to be impaled on manhood.

‘Please….’ I croak and he just sneers down at me before moving away behind me again.  Then I am aware of my short skirt being pushed up to my hips and then I feel my panties being pulled down and left to rest on my thighs, my bottom bare in  full naked glory.  Instinctively I push my hips upward, slightly raising my arse up to him, unashamedly offering my snatch to him, offering his hard cock no questions asked straightforward access to my cunt.

I dare not look over my shoulder.  I am desperate to, I want to so much, but even though he has not told me I mustn’t, I still just know that I cannot.

Then I hear a sudden whoosh!! and without warning there is an intense painful thwack across my buttocks and an all mighty, searing pain.  I squeal out in pain, my long fingernails clawing on the old carpet.  I now know what he had in hi hands behind his back when he was stop before me: a cane.

The pain is intense, red hot and I feel my eyes water.  A spanking had not been part of the plan.  A fucking, yes, but a bloody caning?

Then quickly without warning again another whoosh!! and the cane is hard against the cheeks of my arse and the pain doubles and this time I start sobbing and resting on one arm put my other hand behind me to rub my stinging buttocks.

‘You really are a pathetic, weak little tart aren’t you,’ he spits and I can hear real anger and spite in his voice and I suddenly wonder where this is all going end, real fear grips me, but, but, but…. confusion floods my senses too, a mix-up of an intense sexual excitement that is undeniably fired by his anger, by his albeit dangerous, frightening but erotic masculine posturing and… the pleasure in the pain he has inflicted on me.  The intense stinging pain across my buttocks translating into what?  Tough love?

Still, although I am rubbing my sore arse, I dare not look behind me, now even more fearful of what he will do I wear to so much as dare to sneak a peek.

‘You come here,’ he says brusquely, danger still strong in his raised voice, ‘all legs and tits and pouts, flashing your knickers, and what do expect, hmmm?  What do you really expect?’

‘I’m sorry,’ I sobbed and I must say now, looking back, I had an inkling there that I was going to get very used to that ‘hmmm’ over the years to come.

‘Take your hand away from your arse,’ he snaps.  ‘Reach round and fiddle with yourself, I know that’s what dirty little bitches like you like to do.  So: finger yourself.’

Well I don’t need to be told twice to do that, as despite the throbbing smarting sting across by buttocks- which in my mind’s eye must have two very red streaks across them- I am very aroused and despite the -or perhaps because of?- the pain I very much want to rub hard at my clit, because another thing I have unexpectedly found out this afternoon, is that a vicar wielding a cane over me with my knickers down dispensing a ritual beating of my arse is very, very sexy and has made me very, very horny.

I rub at my clit with relief; there is no need for tender coaxing, I am way beyond that as I pressure it against my pubic bone pushing hard on it then two fingers roughly massaging my it and I am so wet down there I am glopping over my own fingers and those fingers begin to probe my slit and enter my cunt and then the ‘whoosh!!!’ and another hard thwack on my arse and the sharp pain is intense and the after throb undeniably delicious as I continue to wank myself off my right  arm holding me up fingers grasping at the threadbare carpet nail varnish flaking long nails splintering my other hand at my crotch my knuckles now kneading my hard, explosive clit and I can still I dare not look around but I am desperate too, so desperate to as I can sense the reverend now has his cock out and he is wanking himself I know it, I can tell by his breathing and my knuckles and fingers are making me come and I do as I feel what I know is his spunk shoot onto my buttocks and then again with even more intensity as the next strike of his cane hits my arse even harder than any previously and my whole body shudders with both pain and pleasure as my orgasm sparks through me and I cry out in an unseemly mixture of moans sobs anguished pain and intense sexual pleasure and my right arm gives and my face is on the floor cheek pressed hard against the old carpet my arse still high in the air and I am well and truly spent.

There is a silence behind.  I faintly here the sound of a zipper being pulled up and then I am aware of him walking around in front of me and then sitting back down at the nearby chair by the large dining table.

I push myself up and look at him. I imagine what he sees as he looks down on me: a young woman on all fours, face deeply flushed hair all over the place knickers around her knees red lipsticked mouth parted in post-orgasm panting mascara running from tears eyes bright with pleasure nose flared in pain bare arse red raw from a caning.

The Reverend Preston reaches for the nearby newspaper by the fruit bowl. 

‘Pull your knickers up and get out,’ he says flatly, crossing his legs, not looking at me.   I stumble to my feet and one hand resting on the dining room table do as I am told, pulling my panties up with my other hand.  I suddenly worry that I should not be touching the table without his permission- shit! - and so I pull my hand away and sway a little unsteadily in my heels and he still doesn’t look at me, so I appear to have got away with it.  I smooth down skirt and stand there uncertainly, knowing I shouldn’t do as it will probably only make him angry again, although another part of me is hoping he will do just that.

‘You know where the door is,’ he says opening his paper, still not even bothering to look at me.  ‘you don’t need me to show you out, do you know.  A week should be enough for you to put something together.  We will meet same time next week.  I will phone you the day before, to clarify details.’

And that was it.  I knew he wasn’t going to say let alone do anything more to me from that point.  Silently I picked up  my bag, throw it over my shoulder, and with my arse feeling like it is glowing, make my out of the dining room and I click as nonchalantly as I can across the hall floor and, eventually, out of the front door finally free of the house, but not really sure anymore what freedom actually was.


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