Sunday at the Vicarage

A new offering from Basil

Thank you to everyone who has commented on my previous stories. They are much appreciated and provide an impetus for me to write more of the same. If anyone has any particular requests do let me know.

The catalyst for this story was the last few sentences of The Village Hall and the accompanying drawing.

Annabel climbed up the familiar loft ladder while the vicar stood patiently to one side. As she neared the hatch, the ladder creaked and juddered under the weighty bulk of the vicar as he began his own ascent, challenging the strength of the rickety wooden steps.

Annabel instinctively gripped the handrails tightly and stopped, feeling that the whole thing was going to come crashing down at any moment. The vicar appeared not to have noticed any possible danger, his attention being entirely taken up by Annabel’s knicker-clad bum just a few feet above his head, the angle of his view lending it a deceptive plumpness at odds with her youthful figure. Annabel’s short skirt did nothing more than frame the picture of cheekily impudent buttocks flaring out on either side of the V of her brief white knickers.

With a grunt of effort, the vicar raised himself up a step and rested for a moment before tackling the next. Annabel felt his hot breath on her calves, and she quickly clambered up through the hatch. The vicar continued his laboured progress upward getting more out of breath until finally, with the help of a sturdy oak post he hauled himself into the loft space to join the girl.

Still holding the post he waited for his breathing to slow, telling himself that all his effort would be worth it in the end. He nudged the hinged loft cover with a toe of his brogue until it slammed down with a loud bang. A single bare 40 watt bulb only dimly illuminated a small area around the hatch and the contents of the rest of the substantial loft were all but invisible.

Then the vicar clicked down a switch on the post which flooded the loft with fluorescent light, the most conspicuous object now visible was a tall wooden stool in the middle of the boards.

The vicar reached up to take a crook-handled cane down from its hook on a rafter, smiling as if greeting an old friend.

‘Well then, let’s see if you learned your verses, shall we… hmm?’ the vicar questioned with a gleam in his eye, running his fingers along the length of the shiny yellowish rattan.

Three floors below, in the large kitchen, Mrs Benbridge, the housekeeper was in the middle of preparing a Sunday dinner for the vicarage. She liked to put on a proper spread for the vicar who is very appreciative and, in truth, she likes showing off in front of his girls. They may have their pretty looks now but a proper gentleman will always be back for his Sunday roast. It does, however, eat into her household allowance and so reduce the amount she can siphon off every week for her own little indulgences. Still, for the rest of the week she can serve up meagre, bland fare to the vicar’s girls, as they generally eat separately on school days. They should be grateful for that, she thinks — after all, the vicar is such a kind hearted man for taking them in. And so dedicated, giving them all extra bible study lessons, as with Annabel right now. Two girls at the moment and another due to arrive in time for dinner. Another one to feed, but another she can get to skivvy for her while she puts her feet up.

Up in the loft it was evident that Annabel had not learned her verses, at least not to the satisfaction of the vicar, who had just zipped the cane into the meatiest part of her naked buttocks. Her position, with hips and lower tummy balanced across the top of the tall, slim stool and hands stretching down to grip the low cross-piece between the stool legs was somewhat precarious, given that the vicar’s application of the cane tended to cause her to squirm and gyrate her bottom from side to side. Instinctively, to prevent herself falling sideways, her legs slid further and further apart to provide some additional stability, which was most agreeable to the vicar although he didn’t see that he should deduct any strokes for that, rather that she ought to be given extra for such a provocative display.

Annabel has abandoned all attempts at modesty, only aware of her poor bottom, proffered up for the vicar’s further attention, the bright pink lines across pale flesh indicating that it has already received his attention seven or eight times.

The homely smell of the Sunday roast permeates into the loft and the vicar consults his pocket watch: 5:26. He does a mental calculation: still time for a few more strokes.

In the kitchen Mrs. Benbridge was rather pleased with herself, the timings were perfect and she’d have everything on the table for six on the dot. She does like to impress the vicar. The doorbell sounded out and she cursed at the interruption. The new girl, of course.

Up in the loft there was a pause in proceedings. From her upside down viewpoint Annabel saw the cane replaced on its hook on the rafter and the vicar moving out of her vision.

‘Come on then,’ the vicar said, expecting her to know what to do without being told. Annabel rather wished she didn’t know what to do. She got up and looked over to where he was waiting at the far end of the loft, her feet didn’t seem to be able to move and her hands went to cover her soft brown bush in belated, pointless modesty.

‘Come on!’ he repeated, this time sternly, impatient at her hesitation.

Annabel shuffled reluctantly over.

‘Get up!’ Now there was urgency in the vicar’s voice.

‘Up’ was the seat of a heavy old church pew. Unlike the stool she had been over, this was very solidly constructed, and looked unlikely to move under any normal usage. The narrow seat was padded which was fortunate for Annabel, since it was her knees that were up on the seat, although Annabel didn’t consider there to be anything fortunate about the position she was having to take up, the upright back of the pew, cold against the front of her thighs as she leant over to hold onto the wooden bar that seemed to be a later addition to the ancient pew.

Annabel stifled a renewed sob as she heard various rustling sounds behind her, punctuated by the vicar’s increasingly urgent breathing. Fumbling sounds, a plasticky, crinkly noise, ‘…come on…’ hissed under his breath, several tuts and sighs, and something falls onto the wooden boards ‘…bugger!…’ the offending item is kicked away ‘…damn it…’ More fumbling and plasticky noises and a relieved ‘…aah…’ — a seemingly difficult task has been achieved.

Now the real lesson began, as it had done more times than she cared to remember since fate deemed that a placement at the vicarage would be a suitable guardianship. The vicar’s bony fingers slid round Annabel’s hips, stilling her from squirming away, as she was often wont to do when he was about to commence the lesson. The sturdy pew creaks a little but stands firm and Annabel makes a half-hearted ‘N… nngh…’ sound.

The vicar’s sermon of grunts and other guttural noises filled the loft.

----//----

At two minutes to six, Annabel, cheeks blushing furiously, joined the other girl, Nicola, at the dining table. The vicar entered a minute or so later, and smiled widely at Mrs Benbridge. ‘Marvellous spread as ever, Mrs B!’ Mrs Benbridge beams.

The clock ticked round just past the hour before the new girl, Rachel came in looking shyly. Mrs Benbridge formally introduces her to the vicar and she reddened at his gaze. The vicar’s smile threatened to become a grin. Rachel looked even better than in her photo. Blonde tresses framing a softly pretty face. Despite this distraction, the vicar glanced at the clock, noting that the minute hand was clearly past the hour. One would have thought that her pleasing appearance and the fact that she had only arrived half an hour ago might give her some leeway, but the vicar doesn’t believe in making exceptions. No, late is late, two minutes or not, a ready excuse to introduce Rachel to the cane tomorrow after school. The quicker a new girl learned the rules, the better for everyone and he wouldn’t want the other two girls to think he had a favourite. The meal proceeded with little conversation unless the vicar spoke or asked something of one of the girls.

Later, on the third floor of the vicarage in her sparse attic room, Rachel prepared to go to bed. As she went to the window to close the curtains a slight movement at the village hall across the lane caught her eye. She looked again and saw a figure rounding the angle of the building, a girl wheeling a bicycle, wearing some sort of uniform. She soon disappeared from sight up the lane. Then at the other end of the hall a second figure, a man, emerged, his face, illuminated in the moonlight, suddenly looked up and Rachel quickly drew back. She wondered what the two of them could have been doing at this hour, after 9pm, at the apparently unlit building.

In bed she thought about her new placement. Sunday dinner was slightly awkward, the other girls seemed a little subdued. The vicar himself looked friendly enough, if a little formal, asking Rachel the odd question about her journey. At least the food was good compared to the meagre scraps served up by the harsh Mrs Combes who ran the spartan boarding house in that grim industrial town where she was before. And whatever her new school is like, at least she has escaped from the awful Mr Hall, who taught history. Never again would she have to go into his little bookstore for the weekly bare bottom spankings that he reserved for the older girls. And never again that thing you had to do afterwards, the ‘biology lesson’ he called it. All that was behind her and she decided the vicarage was going to be just fine.