She was the vicar’s wife, he was a teenager, the son of the local bank manager. In 1957 appearances mattered.
Her eyes widened, and 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 Peter’s parents board the bus to King’s Lynne. 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 park outside the house, but bird watching allowed her to wander down Marsh Lane, binoculars around her neck, without raising the slightest suspicion. A clergyman’s wife couldn’t be too careful, her behaviour was expected to be beyond reproach. Except it wasn’t.
Marsh Lane led, as its name implied, to the salt marshes. There were only three houses on it and Peter’s was the last one, just before the footpath to the bird hide. The spring sunshine warmed her as she walked up the drive, her every nerve tingling.
The front door stood open to allow a cooling breeze to flow in. Feeling impish now, she thought she’d surprise him. Slipping off her shoes she closed the door and crept upstairs. She stood in the doorway taking in the sight of him, his head stuck in a girlie magazine. She admired his long slender body from the tousled hair to the tip of his stockinged feet. Her eyes dwelt on his slim hips and his trouser bulge, oh, 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 lustful look in her cornflower eyes ‘Oh, I see, you know Mum and dad won’t be back for ages, aunty Beryl is poorly.’
She leaned insolently on the door jamb, folding her arms under her pert bosom, a forefinger tapping on her bare arm. An electric thrill buzzed through her and she shuddered. Peter was just eighteen with the body like 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, shoes everywhere.’ She noticed, too, the huge dollop of seagull poo 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 smiled looking her up and down. The summer print dress pinched in at her slender waist a little too short for vicar’s wife some might say. Hell, it was 1957 for goodness sake, the world was changing. He rose slowly from the divan bed, uncoiling like a sensuous serpent, his heartbeat quickening. ‘And if I can’t find them?’
‘Then I’ll have to spank you, naughty boy.’
Taking out the bottom drawer from the chest of drawers, he retrieved the riding crop, handcuffs, mask and blindfold from the floor underneath it.
She made her way across to his wardrobe, hurriedly shedding clothes as she went. She put on his five-sizes-too- big riding boots. The leather felt good on her calves. She marched up to him, her persona changing. ‘Give me those handcuffs, boy’ she barked ‘clothes off, on the bed, now.’
He obeyed meekly soon standing naked before her. She pointed and he lay down on his bed arms stretched above his head. She 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.
Amelia slipped on her bandit mask and three-cornered hat. Taking up the riding crop she tapped him on the scrotum and was rewarded by a soft moan of pleasure. She turned her attention to his nipples and started to strike, gently at first but with 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.
‘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, feeling him thrusting powerfully upwards. The sun shone warm through the window onto her back making her sweat profusely. She climaxed then, crying out with joy, as the orgasms rolled through her one after another until at long last she sank onto his chest exhausted, whimpering softly. ‘You’re a very naughty boy’ she whispered in his ear ‘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. 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. 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 bus to King’s Lynne. It’s an hour’s journey. Even if someone saw me leaving, 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 and licked her lips suggestively ‘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 ‘what about Justin? Doesn’t he suspect anything?’
Her lips twisted in a contemptuous smile ‘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 cheek lightly, 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.’
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’d closed the front door so no one could have sneaked in to spy on them. She dismissed the feeling, 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 sodding Justin and the endless round of tea and bloody scones with old biddies.
Back on the high street, just before the carpark entrance, she almost walked into Mrs James, one of the parish councillors, as she emerged from a shop. ‘Oh, hello Sally’ she chirped ‘so nice to…’ The woman gave her a look of contempt, threw her head back and stalked off without a word. What on earth has gotten into her? she thought as a tremor of foreboding passed through her. She shrugged; bugger her, Sally James always was a moody bitch.
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 in the eye, giving her a lewd wink ‘not as satisfied as you, I shouldn’t wonder, Amelia.’ He shook his head and walked away laughing.
Panic gripped Amelia now, she bolted for the public phone box, fumbling for change as she ran. it seemed an age before he answered
‘Peter, the bird poo on your window, is it still there?’
‘Dunno, is it important?
‘’Course it’s important, damn you, go and check.’
Peter dashed up to his room; the bird poo had gone ‘Oh, my God’ he cried and ran to the window, looking down. There they were, two large holes in the flowerbed confirming his suspicions. He went slowly down the stairs, his head reeling, his parents would go mad. Dad was the local bank manager, Mr respectable. He picked up the phone ‘what’s the date today?’
‘Date? It’s the fifteenth, why?’
‘The window cleaner comes once a month, always on the fifteenth, unless it’s a Sunday. Old man Sillito, the biggest gossip in the village.