The Cougar’s Claws

She was the vicar’s wife, he was a teenager, the son of the local bank manager. In 1959 appearances mattered. (Re-edited and extended)


Her eyes widened, aa a wicked smile played briefly on her full lips. Well now, she thought, who would have believed it? Old stick-in-the-mud and his missus deviating from their routine. She watched as Peter’s parents boarded the King’s Lynne train. It was only Thursday; they usually went on Friday. Yes, oh yes, this was indeed a golden opportunity, the boy would be alone. She felt herself beginning to dampen her underwear in anticipation of the pleasure to come. 

 Returning quickly to her car, Amelia retrieved her binoculars, she could hardly believe her luck. Her heartbeat quickened as she walked down Marsh Lane, binoculars bouncing gently on her pert breasts. Bird watching covers a multitude of sins, she thought, and here’s me, miss goody two shoes who no one would ever suspect on her way to screw the sweetest boy in the village. The thought sent waves of pleasure running through her and her pace quickened.

  Marsh Lane led, as its name implied, to the salt marshes and its myriad seabirds. There were only three houses on the lane and Peter’s was the last one looking across a vast expanse of marsh and the huge Norfolk sky, just before the path leading to the birdwatchers’ hide. She glanced around her. There was no one, the other houses out of sight around the bend. The spring sunshine warmed her as she walked up the drive, her every nerve tingling. The front door stood open to allow the cooling breeze to flow, she slipped in silently. 

   Grinning broadly, she slipped off her shoes thinking I’ll surprise him, the little tinker. She quietly closed the door and crept upstairs. Peeping around the doorway she took in the sight of him, his head stuck in a girlie magazine. Amelia admired his long slender body from the tousled hair to the tip of his stockinged feet. Oh, what beautiful feet he has. Her gaze moved and dwelt on his slim hips and his trouser bulge, oh, god, that delicious trouser bulge.

  Sensing her presence, Peter suddenly looked up, his eyebrows almost disappearing into his hairline ‘Bloody hell, Amelia, you startled me. What are you doing here? It’s only Thursday, I thought….’ His voice trailed off as he saw the raw lust in her cornflower eyes ‘Oh, I see’ he said as a familiar warmth spread to his groin ‘you know about Mum and dad. They won’t be back for ages; aunty Beryl is poorly. Nothing is secret for long in this village.’

  She leaned insolently on the door jamb, folding her arms under her bosom, a forefinger tapping on her bare arm. An electric thrill buzzed through her from hairline to groin where it found its greatest intensity. She shuddered. Peter was just eighteen with the body of a Greek statue and the stamina of a young stallion. 

  She decided to tease him ‘look at the state of this room Peter, it’s a pigsty.’ He looked embarrassed but didn’t reply. ‘Clothes scattered all around, records and books all over your bed, cricket gear and shoes everywhere’ She noticed, too, the huge dollop of seagull droppings smeared across the window. It had been there last Friday and now the sun had dried it into dark brown goo. Ugh, she thought and, turned her attention back to Peter. ‘Have you got our play toys?’

  He leered, looking her up and down. The summer print dress pinched in at her tiny waist was a little too short for vicar’s wife some might say. Hell, it was 1959 for god’s sake, the world was changing. He rose slowly from the divan bed, uncoiling like a sensuous serpent, stretching languidly, knowing the effect he was having on her ‘and if I can’t find them?’  

  ‘Then I’ll have to spank you, naughty boy.’ 

   ‘Oh, yes please, mistress.’

   Removing the bottom drawer from the chest of drawers, he retrieved the riding crop, handcuffs, mask and blindfold from the floor underneath it. 

   Amelia crossed to his wardrobe, fingers shaking as she hurriedly shed her clothes. She pulled on his five-sizes-too- big riding boots. The leather felt good on her calves. Marching up to him, her persona changed, her eyes hardened and her voice became harsh. ‘Give me those handcuffs, boy’ she barked ‘clothes off, on the bed, now.’

  He obeyed meekly soon standing naked before her. She lifted his penis with the crop and inspected its already swelling girth ‘I suppose it will have to do’ she pointed the crop bedwards and he lay down arms stretched above his head. Amelia smirked as she clipped the handcuffs on and secured him to the bedhead. She blindfolded him before delivering a light, stinging slap to his cheek. She slipped on her bandit mask and three-cornered hat. Tapping him on the scrotum she was rewarded by a soft moan of pleasure. Turning her attention to his nipples, she started to strike, gently at first, but with gradually growing force. He groaned.

  Scooping up his feet, she forced them high into the air ‘You’re a very wicked boy for making me want to fuck you.’ The four-letter word felt good on her lips and she started to spank his buttocks thymically ‘fuck, fuck, fuck.’ As each stroke landed, she became more and more excited, striking harder and harder, her voice becoming a croak. She felt her juices soaking her thighs as her gorged clitoris forced its way out of its fleshy prison.

  ‘Please, mistress’ he moaned ‘I’ll be a good boy, I promise.’ It was the signal that he was ready.

  She mounted him then emitting wild cries of pleasure as she sought her satisfaction, riding him harder and harder, slapping his thigh with her crop, feeling him thrusting powerfully upwards. The sun shone warmly through the window onto her back making her sweat profusely. She climaxed then, emitting cries of joy as the orgasms rolled through her one after another until at long last, she sank, spent, onto his chest, whimpering softly. ‘You’re a very naughty boy’ she whispered in his ear ‘and I’ll have to punish you again tomorrow.’

  After an age, she pushed herself up and removed his blindfold and handcuffs, smiling into his eyes feeling deeply satisfied. Sliding her hand down his washboard stomach she grasped his manhood. Oh, God, she thought, so much better than boring bloody Justin’s and his missionary moves. The thought of her husband’s clammy hands on her and the sight of his pallid skin revolted her. Thank god he only pestered her twice a month. She forced her thoughts back to the present.

 ‘Are you not afraid we’ll get caught out Amelia? I mean, we seem to be doing it an awful lot lately.’

  Her laughter rang confidently ‘but we’re always so careful, darling Peter. I saw your parents catch the train to King’s Lynne. It’s an hour’s journey. Even if someone saw me leaving here, they’d assume I’d called to see your mother about the church flowers.’ She stroked his hair soothingly ‘Tomorrow they’ll go to your aunt Julia’s playing whist, as always.’ She brushed his crotch lightly her tongue darting suggestively over her lips ‘I’ll see you tomorrow my sweet and I promise you a very special treat.’

  Despite her reassurance and sexy promise, worry still clouded his mind. This was a small village rife with gossip ‘what about Justin? Doesn’t he suspect anything?’ 

  Her mouth twisted contemptuously ‘he thinks I’m out and about in the parish doing good works, or birdwatching on the marshes, he never even asks where I’ve been the gullible fool.’

  Peter frowned ‘All the same…’

  She slapped his inner thigh then pressed her forefinger across his lips giving him a reproachful look, the last thing she needed was the best sex partner she’d ever had getting cold feet. ‘Stop worrying, Peter, everything’s all right, we’re too careful to get caught. I’m the vicar’s wife, remember? The daughter of the Bishop. No one would ever suspect me of anything untoward unless you were to confide in anyone, that is.’

 ‘God, Amelia, I couldn’t tell anyone. It would ruin you and there’s my dad’s career at the bank.’

   She got up and started collecting her scattered clothes. As she dressed, she couldn’t help feeling that the room had changed somehow. She looked around, everything seemed normal. She shrugged and continued to dress; she’d closed the front door so no one could have sneaked in to spy on them. I mustn’t let him spook me she thought, I’m thirty, a bright, mature woman with needs. He’s my only relief from boring, sermonising Justin and the endless round of tea and bloody scones with old biddies. 

    Amelia made her way to her car turning her thoughts to the evening meal. Mr Jackson, the butcher, was crossing her path to his car. ‘Good afternoon, Claude, how’s your Sheila?’

  Jackson looked her boldly in the eye, smirked, and gave her a lewd wink ‘not as satisfied as you, I shouldn’t wonder, Amelia.’ He shook his head and walked away chortling.

  Panic gripped Amelia now, Peter had a Saturday job at Jackson’s butchers, he must have confided in him. ‘You dirty little shit’ she cursed ‘you bloody horrible little shit, you couldn’t resist bragging, eh? Her knees sagged and she stumbled to her car, her mind in turmoil. She was ruined, Justin was ruined. If they ever gave him another parish it would be in some inner-city hell-hole on a tiny stipend. What would her father the bishop say? She sat in the car sobbing, tears coursing down her cheeks. How could you do this to me, you stupid little boy? How? Anger started to grow, replacing the sick feeling in her stomach. I’ll have it out with you, you slimy little bastard, you’re not going to get away with this. Her thoughts were dark as she started the car.

  ‘But Amelia, I wouldn’t tell anyone, especially not that old letch Jackson.’

  ‘Liar!’ she screamed as she whipped her hand across his face ‘There’s only you who could have told him, you stupid little bugger.’

  His face was puce and his eyes blazed, he put his hand to the red welt across his cheek ‘why are you accusing me, you bitch?’ He yelled ‘It’s more likely to be some other bloke you’re screwing’ he shouted ‘Just get out of my house you fucking whore.’

 The red mist descended and her sight blurred ‘What?’ she screeched. Her hand fell on the cricket bat left carelessly on the dresser ‘You arrogant little bastard.’ She lashed out, hitting him over the head. He groaned and fell backwards onto the bed his eyes seemed to shift around the room unfocussed.

 ‘Oh, sweet Jesus, what have I done?’ she started to shake him ‘Peter, Peter are you alright?’ her voice was high pitched, she felt on the edge of insanity ‘oh, dear God, please help me. What have I done?’

 Peter seemed to be looking past her towards the window. He screwed up his eyes to focus then raised his hand weakly, pointing. ‘The bird shit’s gone’ he mumbled, ‘window cleaner, second Thursday, every month.’ he sank back on the bed.

 Amelia turned and looked; the once filthy window was now pristine. That’s what had been different about the room. She staggered over and looked down. Yes, there in the flowerbed, two holes made by the window cleaner’s ladder. Old man Sillito, the biggest gossip in the village. She stumbled back to the bed and fainted.

   When she came to, Amelia was confused, she sat up and looked at Peter ‘oh, dear God. She saw at once that he wasn’t breathing. There were thin tendrils of blood oozing from his nose and ears. She screamed and ran downstairs to the phone.

  ‘Emergency, which service do you require, please?’

  ‘An ambulance, there’s been a terrible accident. Hurry, please.’

   She slowly climbed the stairs hoping to be wrong but knowing she wasn’t. Crossing to the bed, she lay on top of Peter stroking his hair, stunned beyond tears. ‘I’m so sorry my darling, so very, very sorry.’

  She heard the ambulance bell ringing, getting louder. She met them at the door arms sagged at her side, eyes lifeless. ‘He’s up there’ she indicated with her head ‘first on the right, fractured skull.’ 

  The men ran past her and she made her way to her car. What now? Police, court case, scandal, life in prison. She started the car and drove to the village where she parked at the edge of the pond. Across the village green young mothers were pushing prams laughing to each other. Dogs barked and children frolicked. So normal, all so bloody normal. Why did everything still look normal? She couldn’t stand it any longer, she started the car and drove off but where to? Where to now?

  A blue light flashed behind her it was constable Goggins signalling her to pull over. Amelia panicked as wild terror gripped her. She pressed the accelerator the only thought in her head was I must away, she had to escape the unbearable horror she had created. Her car could easily out-pace Goggins battered old police vehicle. Down Sandringham road she sped, the ringing of the police car bell fading behind her. As she rounded the bend the warning lights were flashing on the ungated level crossing. The intercity express was due at any moment. Goggins wouldn’t catch her now.

 Amelia drove onto the crossing as the thundering locomotive sounded its two-tone warning. She stopped on the line and looked at the oncoming monster, vibrations shook the car becoming more intense by the second. The Hee-haw of the Diesel’s horn was deafening as, too late, steel shrieked on steel. In that moment she became utterly calm. Applying the handbrake would tell them she’d done it deliberately, an act of contrition, a final penance. ‘Sorry everyone, sorry God’ she whispered and closed her eyes.

Copyright ©J A Milligan 2019

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

© pronto 2019
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critique and comments welcome.

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Featheredwing
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Wish I could write stories as good as this. I felt like I was watching a film as you described so well the feelings of Amelia and the panic she found herself in, especially with that sad ending.

Good afternoons read.

Featheredwing.

Jolen
Member

I enjoyed the story. I have a few niggles which are mostly in the punctuation area. One thing that I stumbled with a bit was this, “She felt herself beginning to dampen her underwear in anticipation of the pleasure to come. ” To me it sounds more like she’s wetting her pants rather that becoming aroused.

Perhaps something like “as her anticipation rose she became aware of her moistening panties, which only heightened her enjoyment of the guilty pleasure.” Or some such. Anyway, it’s a good story and forbidden fruit is always the sweetest, as they say.

blessings,
jolen

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