More Coffee, Vicar?

My company had sponsored a village fete and thus I felt obliged to pay a visit, despite the fact that I could think of much better ways to spend a summer’s Saturday afternoon. My wife and children came too, and it turned out to be a pleasant afternoon. I am quite a keen, albeit amateur, photographer and took many pics over the course of the afternoon.

The afternoon ended for us being invited for tea by the local vicar, who I’d never actually met before being asked if we would sponsor the event. He was an extremely pleasant chap, very well educated. His wife was also great fun but I remember (and the snob in me comes out here) that he had perhaps married beneath himself. My wife revealed on the way home that she had formed the same imnpression.

She was a small plump woman in her late 40s with a slightly risqué sense of humour which surfaced after her second glass of strawberry wine. I showed them some of the pics that I’d taken and Eileen (the vicar’s wife) asked if I could email some to her. I agreed, and took her email address.

I got round to sending the pics a couple of days later, and thanked her and her husband for a delightful afternoon and for their hospitality afterwards. Iwas somewhat surprised to get a fairly long, chatty, email back from her and thus replied to that. Pretty soon we were having a conversation through a couple of emails a week.

In the course of that correspondence, she revealed that she was in fact his second wife and that they had met when he was a widower and she had become recently bereaved herself. She told me that she found the job of being a vicar’s wife hard but rewarding, but that she wanted to do something for herself.  She then told me that she was setting up a small business as an aromatic masseuse.  Pretty soon, she invited me to partake in a massage session – free of charge, of course.

I knew what was coming, but agreed anyway. I arranged an appointment for a couple of days later. When I arrived, she made me a cup of coffee and showed me the massage table and the array of oils.

“Am I going to have to get naked?” I asked

“Yes”

“Will you be naked?” I cheekily asked back

“If you want me to be” she replied.

I then leant over to kiss her and she immediately responded. I unzipped her track suit top and discovered she was sans bra and I played with her massive tits as we kissed.  I then ran my hand down her ample belly and into the top of her tracksuit bottoms, which were conveniently elasticated.  No panties either, and no hair. Soon my fingers were probing her damp cunt.

A small digression – when I first started enjoying the delights of the opposite sex I can remember my almost total shock the first time I met a woman who was shaved “down there”. I thought it kinky in the extreme. Today, that shock comes when I meet a woman who hasn’t shaved. How times change!

We never did make it to the massage table. Instead we went upstairs and both stripped off. She took a mouthful of coffee and then proceeded to suck me off. The intense pleasure I got from having my cock inside her mouth, hot from the coffee, was fantastic. It’s a trick I’ve taught many women and men since.

Soon I had her on the bed and was enjoying her fat little cunt. We fucked hard and I can remember being a little concerned as she became extremely red-faced just before she came. 

Over the next months we had some high old times between us. Occasionally we’d meet late at night in my office where she liked nothing better than to be tied to a desk with telephone cabling and have me hold her leg high and wife whilst I stood at the end of the desk and fucked her.

We also experimented a few times with outdoor sex which was becoming known as “dogging”. Particular adventures of note were me fucking her on the bonnet of my car whilst a farmer in a tractor watched.  He ended up fucking her too when I finished. Even better was a night in some local woods where she stripped naked and lay on a picnic table. She was fucked by me and three other men and the thought of her sucking one man and wanking another, whilst I fucked her, is a recurring memory.  That night I also fucked a 20-something girl while she knelt in the tailgate of her partner’s car.

All good things, however, must come to an end. Her husband was transferred to an inner city parish and, although we emailed each other from time to time, the correspondence gradually declined to nothing.