Chapter 1

 

Rose petals blew around the graveyard, gathering around their feet.

'What a waste,' Rosemary thought, 'although, they do smell fantastic.'

The son of the deceased, the 'Remains Disposal Engineers', previously called 'Grave Diggers', and her friend Susan attended the funeral. That was all, except Bill the gardener, tender of the grounds and odd job man who was standing by, to direct the Remains Disposal Engineers.

'Thank God that's over,' she thought, 'I hate funerals, especially the ones where the only people there are the undertakers and next of kin of the deceased.'

It was so awkward. In this case, the son was the only next of kin. She didn't know what the mother had died of and it wasn't important. In her opinion, God didn't judge us by what we died of or what we did but how well we did it and how much we made of the opportunities we were given in this world.

He didn't cry. Looking at him, she wouldn't have expected it. He didn't seem the type anyway. He was certainly bedraggled but not like some, she could recall. She'd seen some relatives turn up in jeans and a T-shirt, looking as if they'd been dragged through a hedge backwards. Although this one looked as if he hadn't had a shave for a week or two, his clothes were filthy but good quality; as if he'd been living rough for some time. He wore a dark suit, a grey-black overcoat with the collar turned up against the wind and a shirt that some weeks ago would have been white but now was almost as grey as the overcoat. Not overly tall, average build, difficult to say with that heavy coat but 'charming' in an old fashioned way; if you looked past the outwardly dirty appearance and the dirty fair hair. He'd said a few words, quite well she thought, which suggested that he wasn't the usual out of work, underclass. Throwing soil onto the coffin, he bowed his head and looked down. He did all the things that he was supposed to do.

He didn't look the type who wanted sympathy and she didn't offer any. It was inappropriate somehow. As the labourers filled in the hole, she offered her hand and he shook it. It was strangely clean; his nails looked as if they'd been recently scrubbed, perhaps for this funeral. An odd sort of chap really. His handshake wasn't as some men tended towards, with a bone crusher, or others, like a wet fish. It was firm and dry and he lingered after the shake. If she didn't know better, she would have said that he was testing the water.

Somehow, he didn't seem the type to stand on ceremony. Even though she was the wife of a vicar and a lay preacher, she was probably about his mother's age when the latter had died. However, that wouldn't have been a barrier to him; oh no, not that one. He had other things on his mind but if she knew his sort, this was habit; this was how he 'introduced himself'. He was a lady's man. Even so, there was something brooding and controlling about him. It occurred to Rosemary that he managed to disguise the latter as 'deep and thoughtful' but the hint of it was there nevertheless. He was like a distant storm on an autumn night, beautiful to look at from a distance but slightly menacing up close. It was a man woman thing, electrifying, compulsive, irresistible but duplicitous.

She'd shaken thousands of hands, male and female, some she'd have preferred not to have shaken but she was a lay preacher, so what could she do? She could hardly ask if she could check the hygiene of the hand that was offered, to see if the bearer's cleanliness was up to standard, could she? She couldn't ask if she was likely to get a handshake that would leave her paralysed from the wrist down. No, in this business, she had to take the rough with the smooth, the soggy with the firm and the dirty with the clean. However, this one was definitely clean and firm. A hand she would happily say 'hello' to again. He didn't offer his name, so she imagined him to be a 'James', he looked like a 'James' sort of person, strong silent, utterly irresistible to women and he knew it.

Susan said a few words to her and squeezed her arm.

"I have to go Rosemary. Shopping you know and George needs looking after." She glanced over in 'James's direction. "He looks a bit of a sort to me. In need of a good bath if you ask me."

She smiled back at Susan and raised an eyebrow. Preparing to leave the rest to the 'Grave Engineers', she looked back at James. Yes, he was a bit of a sort that was certain. She watched as Susan, faithful Susan, strolled out of the cemetery. They'd been friends for more years than she could remember but never soul mates. Susan was older than Rosemary by a few years and not exactly athletic, more the 'built for comfort not speed' type.

Anyway, unusual as it was and against the Bishop's advice, she'd given 'James' her card, bearing her address and telephone number. The Bishop had advised her that unless the bereaved was in absolute distress, she wasn't to get involved, as simple as that. Nevertheless, 'James', with his young 'Hugh Grant' looks, and sad but sincere smile, drew her in. Even now, sitting in her Ford Focus car and driving home she had to squeeze her thighs together at the thought. She had to say that for the first time in longer than she cared to remember, this 'James' man had awoken something in her that had been so dormant, so repressed, that she thought she might turn into a female eunuch, 'the female eunuch'.

She was definitely damp down there, she was 'rosivating', as she called it. She was also a little more 'bulky' than normal. She squeezed a little harder and felt a tingle and a little pushing out. What the Holy Mother of God was that? She hadn't felt that before.

Oh bugger, she hadn't used that word in decades either, since she was at college with that twenty-something year old. Gosh, those were the days, pert nipples, stretched sexy bits and more sexual juice than she could take. Although in her case, she generally kept herself to herself but she saw plenty and heard about it quite a lot. They'd been happy, if somewhat smelly, days. Anyway, back to 'James' 'Hugh Grant'. Ah yes, what was it about him? Maybe it was the way he talked and that direct but sensual walk.

She hadn't had a romance or even a proper sexual encounter to speak of for years, decades almost. She wondered if after a time, without a good sized 'Thomas', she would start to heal up. God, she hoped not. There might come a time when she needed it. Her husband didn't really count as a 'proper sexual encounter' of course. He didn't count as either romance or sexual encounter for that matter. She'd married Reverend Selwyn Tiplethwaite because it was a good idea at the time. Anyway, he was kind and available. She'd thrown in her lot with him and the church, dark stockings and heaving bosom at the ready.

Graduating from university with a good degree in 'Sport and Fitness', she'd given up her career in order to become his wife, even though he was much older than her and on the understanding that she'd become a lay preacher and help him out when necessary. In return, when he died, she'd inherit his wealth.

Their wedding night, almost two decades ago, had been a quick hand job and ro-ro sex, which was most unsatisfactory. Anyway, what more could be expected from an almost fifty year old man, married to a twenty-year-old woman, with barely suppressed hormones? Well, she'd made her bed and now she had to lie in it.

They'd settled into a routine, sex once a month, lasting under five minutes on each occasion. The rest was self-help, which more or less satisfying as far as she could tell with her limited experience.

Nevertheless, she'd been a dutiful wife. Turning up at church events, joining the 'Women's Institute' and arranging the cake and gardening competitions. Now Selwyn was past it, in his seventies and only able to wear a dog collar and give a sermon on Sundays. For the rest, well there was as much chance of Margaret Thatcher making a comeback than him getting a real erection.

After discussions with the Bishop, he'd agreed that she could assume most of her husband's duties, except Sunday service. In return, they'd only receive one pay packet but they could stay in the vicarage for as long as they wanted for free. Seemed like a good deal all round on the surface but it ignored the fact that she was ambitious and wanted more, much more.

Her whole being screamed out for more than the Women's Institute and lay preacher duties. Her life wasn't full, not even half-full. She was like a dam with a hole in it. Occasionally, she'd put an Elastopast over the hole and beat her bush to prevent it getting worse. However, one day the dam would burst and it would lead to a flood, of biblical proportions.

The problem was that she had no idea what 'ambition' meant for her. Perhaps chairperson of the Women's Institute? The thought of having all those women, most a few years older than her was scrumptious, mirable even. She smiled and hunched her shoulders. She'd have to get a move on; her biological clock was ticking. How long could a woman carry on a fulfilling sex life? No one had explained that to her. In the meantime, she'd continue to try to suppress her feelings.

However, this new encounter, now that was different. He could awaken her any time. Her thighs squeezed together a little harder and she felt a little honeydew oozing. God, she hoped she hadn't peed herself. No, it wasn't pee, it was...well...juice, a little. Her foot slipped off the accelerator, perhaps just as well. She was getting out of control. She squeezed her thighs together, which forced her to twist her foot at a funny angle on the accelerator.

'Stop it! Stop it you're a lay preacher,' that thought stopped her in her tracks. That and the small boy with the dog, walking across the zebra crossing, yards in front of her. The Ford Focus had those 'Anti Lock Braking' thingies that jiggle the car to a halt. Any closer and she'd have been charged with dangerous driving and perhaps officiating at the small boy's funeral as well. That stopped the 'little girl thing' in its tracks and put them back to where they belonged, bottled.

She frowned at the small boy and mouthed 'Sorry'. He looked at her accusingly then gave her the one finger salute and snarled in her direction. She waited until he was safely across the road and carried on at a more sedate pace back to the vicarage. With not a blemish on her driving license and with more than twenty years in the driving saddle, the last thing she wanted was a black mark, to say nothing of a criminal record. All because some lonely and lone stranger at a funeral, had awakened feelings hotter than a Vindaloo curry. Oh, but he was so gorgeous. He was so, so everything that made her hot, in a sort of dirty, sordid, 'I couldn't give a toss', way.

She drove into the Vicarage drive. Just her, her Ford Focus and the image of 'James' 'Hugh Grant'. Just a minute, that's all she wanted, a minute. She squeezed her thighs together and felt that tingle again. That jelly feeling in the pit of her stomach. No, not in her stomach, below her stomach, there, right there. She pushed her hand down along the black fabric of her skirt and pressed between her thighs so that it was smooth and taut across the tops of her thighs. She only had to think about that handshake and she could feel his fingers tenderly exploring her. She wore tights; don't all women wear tights these days? So, impersonal she thought. She'd have to think about changing that. Maybe she was at that time of life, when she wanted change, but stockings and suspenders were so...'difficult', she thought.

She wanted to close her eyes, for a minute, a few moments and she could see him. She could imagine the tenderness of his stroking, the feel of his tongue along the outside of her thigh, her bare thigh. She would come even before he could get to the juicy slippery bit. Oh God, she could come right now, if she wasn't careful. She was blaspheming. She had a rule, no swearing or blaspheming whilst wearing her lay preacher's outfit. The Bishop would not approve. Well, he wouldn't approve anyway, but certainly not whilst wearing her black outfit.

She dragged herself back to reality, opened her eyes and pulled the skirt from between her legs. Smoothing the material, she checked that there were no 'tell-tale signs'. As far as she could see, no one would know that she'd had these thoughts whilst wearing her outfit, except God of course and she'd ask for his forgiveness tonight before bed. Next week she'd make an appointment with the doctor to see if he would change her Hormone Replacement Therapy, to one a little less powerful.

She was about to get out of the car when the car door suddenly opened. It was enough to give her more than a shock.

Her first words to the gardener were, "I'm sorry."

'There's guilt for you,' she thought.

"You alright Mrs. T?" asked Bill with a quizzical look on his face. The look you might expect if he'd dug up an unusual worm.

Bill was in his fifties, no one knew how old he was but he looked fit and active from his outdoor life. He'd been working at the vicarage and the cemetery for decades and more or less came with the house. Worth his weight in gold was Bill. He knew the house inside out and could fix anything. He looked slightly slow but she suspected that if the truth be known, Bill was 'deep'.

"Yes, what is it Bill?"

"You were miles away Mrs. Tiplethwaite. That or you were ill or summat." He held the car door open and watched her as she got out. Her slightly shaky legs and sensible shoes gave no hint, she hoped, of her evil and libidinous thoughts.

"I was thinking about the funeral Bill."

Well, it was true, sort of, wasn't it?

"How's Reverend Selwyn," she asked. It was more to cover her fluster than to find out how he really was. She knew that it was strange but she always called him 'Reverend Selwyn' when talking to strangers and 'staff'. It created a sort of distance, made them aware of her status.

"The Reverend's fine Mrs. T. He's in the front room with a rug over his legs, reading a book. I should warn you, he's imbibed a bit."

That was Bill's code to warn her that her husband was pissed, again.

"Ok thanks for the warning Bill,"

"Pleasure."

Bill took off his cap to show respect, as she hurried past him.

Inside the large Victorian house, she left Bill scratching his head, cap in hand. Perhaps he thought that she was hurrying in out of the cold.

Chapter 2

 

She hurried into the hall and slammed the door behind her. Why hadn't she taken a coat with her? Even at this time of year, it was almost mandatory. As she walked down the corridor towards the stairs, she saw her husband in the front room. His head was slumped forward and he was snoring. As Bill had said, pissed out of his brain and the day was hardly half way through. Still, it would give her some time on her own.

She made straight for their bedroom. Yes, they still shared a bedroom, even though it was becoming somewhat unpleasant to be in the same bed as an old bloke. However, to move him out would be to create a fuss and it was 'too soon'. It was unusual for her to take a shower at two o'clock in the afternoon but it had been an unusual morning. She slipped out of the neck buttoned blouse and threw it onto the double bed. Down to her tights, she slipped the nylon down her legs and off her feet. The nylons were left on the wooden floor. She looked at herself in the mirror.

"Not bad for a forty year old woman, hardly used, one careless and useless owner," she muttered to herself.

Indeed, she wasn't bad at all. She was five foot seven and under ten and a half stone, well, give or take a pound or two. However, she loved chocolate and that was one of her 'two dirty little secrets'. Nevertheless, with regular exercise on her machine and running and starvation dieting she kept pretty slim and fit. She looked at herself sideways in the full-length wall mirror and she could see a hint of a stomach but no more. Fantastic really.

Reaching behind her, she unclipped her 36C bra and let it drop onto the floor. Her nipples immediately stood to attention. As long as she could remember, she'd had large nipples, like a Centurion tank's starter button. Even at school, before she'd really grown womanly breasts as such, she'd had long nipples. They were not simply long, being over half an inch, but also about the same across. They were the type of nipples one imagines a woman would have when she's breastfeeding. Large and rough to her touch.

She touched the end with her index finger and she could feel the blood pouring into the left nipple, making it dark, almost maroon. It reminded her of a dark stormy night. Those tempests when darkness looms and trees tend to take on a menacing presence. She threw her head back, mouth open and sucked in air, a gust of wind. She could almost feel the waves lashing against her rock hard nipples.

A line of saliva escaped from the corner of her mouth. She could feel herself starting to ride on that storm of passion. Her right hand covered her left breast and she pulled on her nipple. It grew and demanded attention. It wasn't enough. Her legs squeezed together and she looked at herself in the mirror. She felt dirty, and why not? She wasn't wearing her lay preacher's outfit. In the outfit she was 'Mrs. Tiplethwaite', the lay preacher and vicar's wife'. Out of it and increasingly, she burnt with passion, out of it she was 'Rosy with the rosebush'. In fact, she could be who the hell she liked.

She knew that if anyone could have seen her, she would have looked a mess. One breast stretched to its limit by her nipple, which she trapped between finger and thumb. She shook the nipple to see her whole breast shake in the mirror. The image looked so erotic, so sexy. She'd never seen an erotic film but she imagined it being like this. Here, she could create her own film, in the privacy of her own bedroom and her own mirror.

The index finger of her left hand went to her mouth and she slid it between her lips and sucked deep, imagining it as a long thin penis. Her tongue ran around the finger to the first knuckle and she imagined that it was her pleasure probe. Still, it wasn't enough. Three fingers slid into her mouth and thrust. She forced her eyes open and imagined that she could feel a 'Hampton Wick' sliding into her mouth. It felt ...wonderful.

Her fingers found their way to the back of her throat and she could feel 'it' testing the limits of her gag reflex as she stopped thrusting. She thought that she could feel the first drops of man mixture escaping but at a deeper level, she knew that it was only her imagination. Dragging her eyes from the mirror, she threw her head back and thrust with her three fingers to the back of her throat. She needed to see herself in the mirror. Pulling her fingers from her mouth, her hand slid down to the top of her white hipster panties.

She could do this thing where she gripped the panties between her legs tight and pulled on the top of them at the front. The material would pull tight between her legs. Even the thought of it sent shock waves through her. The material, flat against herself, would make her wet and open, swelling to receive. To receive what? Her thoughts, her fantasies, that's what they received. She twisted the material at the top of her panties around her index finger and pulled, hard. The material flattened against her 'rosebush'. It squeezed her pulsing flesh but regardless of the pressure on her sex, she could feel her rosepetals expanding and they wouldn't take no for an answer.

'My God, this is good. Soooo good,' she mumbled to herself.

She pulled harder and could feel her juices swelling up, unable to escape her closed thighs. Her right hand rubbed over her left nipple, trapping her right nipple against the inside of her arm. This time, she not only pulled her nipple, she squeezed it hard and pulled viciously until her breast was stretched out from her chest. A gasp escaped her wide open mouth.

"Wonderful. Oh, but never let it end. Please," she murmured to herself.

She heaved on the panty material and tried opening her thighs ever so slightly. Instead of becoming loose 'there', the material stayed tight. She pulled harder. Instead of pushing flat against her sex, the material bunched up and slipped between her rosepetals. It rubbed there. Her cunny honey was starting to escape and trickle down the inside of her thighs. Her head went hack but she remained standing on shaky legs, now slightly apart. She could see herself in the mirror and the sight of 'the rosebush' being pleasured was.... 'Magnificent'. This wasn't the first time she'd tried it like this but this was the best, it was 'beyond'.

The material rubbed right at the entrance of her opening, splaying wide and squeezing her rosepetals out to the sides. At the same time, the cotton material rubbed on her rosebud. She could feel herself hanging loose. She knew that her petals, down there, were swollen, inflamed. They were 'big', even when she wasn't aroused, but at that moment, she was aroused.

Pulling on her panty top, she stretched, pulled and watched in the mirror as her sex was exposed and hanging. Reaching down, she took one rosepetal between her fingers and massaged it. She did the same to the other.

'My God, oh, oh. I've never seen them this big before,' she whispered to herself. She thrust her hips forward so that she could see herself better. Feeling her juices running down her thighs, she shuddered. It racked through her body, as an orgasm transformed her into a tingling heaving mess. As she shook, she let go of her panties and the material loosened on her sex, which hung down provocatively, almost asking for more.

Suddenly, another orgasm took over her senses. She hadn't experienced this one before. It started in the pit of her belly, at her core and travelled down 'there'. She felt it coming and could do nothing about it. She thrust herself out towards the mirror and her juices started to glisten as it dribbled down her thighs, like erotic tears. After another three contractions, she felt spent and collapsed onto the floor, lying there for several minutes, sucking her fingers.

Slowly, she curled up into the foetal position. She slipped her thumb into her mouth and sucked, letting the post-coital dream state wash over her. For this she didn't need a mirror, she was content to slip into a semi comatose ecstasy. It must have been thirty minutes before she'd recovered enough to stand on shaky legs. Standing in front of the mirror again, she looked at herself and blew out her cheeks.

A thought passed her mind. Did her cunny honey taste of anything? Her thighs were all but dry but she wet a finger and slipped it inside. She tasted her finger, out of curiosity, not lust. Slightly salty and musky, but not bad really. She could quite get used to it, she thought. The germ of a plan started to form in her mind and she already looked forward to her next singular sexual encounter.

She picked up her bra and panties and dropped them into the wash basket in the corner of her room. Her panties were still soaking wet but she guessed that they'd be dry by the time her cleaning lady came to collect them for washing. In any case, frankly, she couldn't give a toss if her cleaner saw or even smelt the come stain on her panties. It was only natural after all.

Rosemary showered, her body tingling as the water hit her 'after sex', sensitive skin. Half an hour later, she sprayed rosewater and hyssop on her freshly dried body and especially on her rosegarden. It gave a wonderful, rosy, minty, honey aroma and she loved it. Some said that hyssop was mildly hallucinogenic but she just liked the smell.

She had the spray prepared for her by the village apothecary. Damask roses and hyssop grew almost wild in the vicarage garden and Bill gave her a bag of petals and herbs about every fortnight. He didn't ask questions but each time he gave her the bag, he shook his head. She got the impression that he thought that she was as daft as a brush, but he was only the vicarage gardener.