A Package for the Vicarage

Sally didn’t even know how the package had managed to reach her after all these years. It had been sent initially to her parents’ home, of course, but they had both been dead for over ten years now, and the new incumbent must have sent it on to her last known address and it had been forwarded on from there. And now, like the proverbial bad penny, it was here and in her hands. At her den at the vicarage of St Peter’s Gate where she least wanted to be found.

It would be the dawn of the new millennium in just five short years, the end of not only a century but a whole thousand years of history, the transformation from medieval darkness to our present age of enlightenment, as Simon had so eloquently put it in his sermon last Sunday. Sally sighed. One thousand years of enlightenment, and yet, here, in her neat hallway that was still redolent with the scent of the old fashioned lavender polish that she bought by mail order from Country Life, was one moment of madness from 1969 come back to haunt her in the form of a gaudily packaged video tape that had her picture dead centre of its laughably nostalgic cover.

“The Golden Age of Beauty, thirty classic lovelies from the heyday of the glamour film,” Sally mouthed silently, dropping the tape onto her gleamingly polished floor and clutching at her throbbing head. No, no, no, no. This couldn’t be happening, not to her, not to anyone. It was just too much.

Oh, come on, Sally, get a grip, she told herself vexedly, picking the package up from her immaculately polished floor. Calmer, she saw now that there was also a cheque and a short note. “Sally, you probably don’t remember me,” it read it an insincere hand, the script penned in a thick black felt-tip marker that oozed over-confidence and bravado. “I run my own production company these days, but there’s been a big demand to see the stuff we that all grew up with again, hence this release. Here’s hoping that the enclosed cheque will be the first of many - we’re expecting this one to go platinum. All the best, Roger Roget. PS: In case you don’t remember, I’m the one with the cine camera.”

Sally laughed without humour. As if she could ever have forgotten spotty Roger Roget, with his nervous Woody Allen demeanour, grubby Arran-wool sweater and that uneasy squint through the thick lenses of his oversized spectacles. And, of course, the sizable bulge in his jeans as she’d stripped for his camera.

Roger hadn’t been a boyfriend or anything, in fact she’d hardly known him. But grants had just been drastically reduced and times were hard for students of Classical Greek, and her friend Georgina had a friend who had a friend who knew how to make some easy money, and thus she had found herself in the - unexpectedly clean - kitchen of Roger Roget’s flat, taking her clothes off while he circled her like a hungry wolf with his little eight millimetre camera.

As filmed filth goes it was hardly earth-shattering, of course. A three and a half minute monochrome epic ambitiously entitled “Arabella Strips” with Sally herself taking the title, and only, role, and doing what the title implied and stripping in Roger’s kitchen, sliding easily out of her sweater and jeans and then pouting provocatively for a whole thirty seconds on a stool in her bra and knickers - she’d point-blank refused to wear stockings - before flirtatiously losing the bra and showing her heavy breasts to the world and his dog; eventually turning her back on the camera and letting her panties slide slowly down as the little film faded out on a slightly shaky close-up of her dimpled behind.

“There’s no editing,” Roger had explained earnestly, as if discussing an intricate move at his chess club, “so we have to do it all in-camera, as it were. So what I like to do, usually, that is, is block the film out so you know all the moves in advance. Can’t have you trip on your own knicker-elastic or anything, you know. It costs nearly four guineas a roll for the film, so I like to get it all right in one take. Now don’t worry, there’s no sound or anything, so I’ll be able to direct you all the way. So, if we could just have you on the stool there to start with...”

***

And it had helped out financially, of course, with a down payment and then modest royalties on sales for a good few years after until something called Betamax video had come along in the seventies with its gasping soundtracks and penetrating close-ups, effectively obliterating all the little girlie films in their neat black and white boxes almost overnight.

Well, she thought, what’s done is done, and her husband was at this moment sitting upstairs in his study penning a lengthy sermon on the virtue of forgiveness, so she rather had him by the short and curlies if he decided to go all Old Testament on her and choose to have her stoned by outraged members of the ladies’ flower club. And, anyway, she had only taken her clothes off in a film nearly thirty years before, a poor student struggling to make ends meet in an era of permissiveness and social change. It wasn’t as if she had sex with a dog or anything, heavens, she hadn’t even shown her crotch, just her boobs and bottom. Girls on the beach at Brighton bared more on any given Saturday in July.

Ah, but it wasn’t just that, though, was it, a small voice in her head whispered nastily, it wasn’t just the innocent little girlie flick that you’ll pass it off as if anyone ever catches you out, and you know it.

“Oh...... bother!” Sally said vexedly to herself, “now why on earth did you have to go and bring that up again.”

But it was already too late and the image that she had tried so desperately to suppress was back in her head again. Her, standing naked save for her borrowed heels in Roger Roget’s immaculate kitchen, the dying whirr of his cine camera as the little roll of film wound to its end and she turned to face him, and that look of sheer rapture on his face as he stared straight at her ample cunt, high and proud and covered with its thick shock of dark brown hair.

In those days she had been tall and slim with cascading shoulder-length chestnut hair cut in fringe, long suntanned legs and rather large breasts that bounced attractively when she walked. Even today, though slightly thicker round the middle and her long flowing locks pruned back to something more suitable for a vicar’s wife, she was still aware that she turned heads and had caught more than one elderly parishioner gazing longingly at her more than ample bust line.

“Bet you wish you can show all this in your little film, don’t you, Roger the Dodger,” she’d said provocatively, hands on her slim hips, enjoying the feeling of power that being raked by his gaze was giving her.

And he had just nodded, unable to speak, his eyes still glued to her pussy, his big desperate cock fighting like a wild animal to be let out of his jeans and give her the fucking she so craved. And, yes, she finally admitted to herself, she would have gladly have let him have her there and then, right there on his clean and shiny floor tiles that reeked of Mister Sheen and old fashioned lavender wax polish. But Roger had been a perfect gentleman and the moment had quickly passed, and she had gone home ragged with frustration and dropped her trousers and panties in the front hall and masturbated ferociously there and then, cumming quickly and violently, her orgasm tearing through her body like an earthquake, her cunt pulsing like a mad thing, her clit up so hard it was almost painful to touch.

And she had, she admitted to herself, relived that moment again and again over the years that followed. Sometimes even in bed with Simon when she wanted that extra little piece of satisfaction that his normally more than adequate cock couldn’t deliver; more frequently when she was just bored and alone, sometimes even pulling her jeans down in the kitchen and standing in her big sensible panties and pressing her hot randy cunt desperately against the washing machine and reliving her few seconds of supreme dominance one more time...

Oh well, Sally thought, dropping the video tape smartly into the kitchen pedal bin with a satisfying crunch, what’s done is truly done and she had no intention of undoing it at this late stage in the proceedings. After all, no-one could cast the first stone at her without admitting that they, too, had purchased The Golden Age of Beauty themselves, and, even if they did, what of it? Let them publish and be damned, she thought, whoever they may be, I’m big enough to take them on, and, exhilarated by that all-too-familiar rush of power, she ripped off her apron and marched up the stairs to Simon’s study.

The vicar’s sermon was going to have to wait for an hour in the light of some more pressing business with his wife...