‘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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