Hope, Aid and Fun? in Aleppo
It was fast closing dusk, late in July as John, Nick, Charles and Doreen finally completed loading the seven tonne truck in the car park of the village hall in Little Dickson, Wiltshire, with goods for the refugee families in Syria. They had supplied, in some of their cases, for ten years to varied countries in dire conflict but this would be a virgin run to the troubled state.
It would take John Nesty and Nick as drivers, John being the very wealthy truck owner, they’d allowed two weeks, give or take, to complete the round trip across several, some difficult countries. The load would supply tinned food, clothing and footwear to around 500 needy families and it was sixty five year old John’s tenth trip on behalf of Hope and Aid Direct Charity.
Nick, aged eighteen was John’s son, his mother having died aged forty one – too old her mother had said - giving birth to him, the one and only offspring of the Nesty family. He slammed shut the rear slider of his dad’s truck and wiped his forehead with the back of his wrist as Doreen sauntered round the back, knowing her husband, The Very Reverend Charles Lewry was with John inside the village hall they had just emptied. “Tired sweetie?” she murmured, stepping close. “It’s OK they’re inside.” They embraced and kissed, tongues interlaced, hand searching each others bodies, contrasting bodies - as Nick was a small, wiry teenager and his mature lover was mature, tall, big built and busty. “Hmm! Not too tired then,” she breathed in his ear, feeling his burgeoning erection against her lower belly. “Good, they’ll be going to the pub in a minute so we’re free for an hour or so.” “Mrs Lewry, you are lewd tonight,” Nick gasped, as her hand gripped his cock through his jeans. “What’s a young tee total Christian meant to do when he’s held in such a compromising position with a woman old enough to be his mother.”
“You could have called me grandmother for all I care darling. I only wish I could have suckled you from day one, a sad sad day. I had no milk and you got that bottled stuff. Anyway...” she got off the anguished subject of Nick’s mother dying. “Let them drive off and then come round, park in the usual spot. See you soon,” she giggled, without offence at his age remark, giving him a light kiss and walking away. Nick watched the undulating sway of the sixty-eight year old lush rear in her tight jeans and the way, even with her back to him he could catch sight of the swing of her pendulous breasts.
Farewells were said, kisses exchanged after the hall was locked and unlit and the two men drove away, in convoy with various well wishers to the Cock and Bush pub in the opposite direction from Nick and Doreen. Young Nesty drove his Subaru Impreza to the usual spot and watched from afar as Doreen, having driven her Volvo V60, minutes before him, parked carefully inside the large garage at the side of the large grade 111 listed Georgian rectory. As she clicked the remote to close the garage door, she knew he would be watching her every movement from his hidden place, but gave no reaction or giveaway motion, to preserve the utter secrecy they had maintained since Nick was a lad. She entered her house and lights went on, as always thinking what her cathedral dean father and librarian mother would say about the shenanigans she had used their old place for.
Nick locked his car, trod the well worn public footpath through the copse that surrounded the vicarage and slipped over the back fence. Dodging a pile of scaffold poles, he found the key in its hiding place. Closing the back door, he heard the other presence in the vicarage when a toilet flushed. He entered the kitchen as Doreen walked in from the hall, her jeans belt flapping round her hips and her zip half down. “Coo! Needed a pee desperado,” she giggled. “Gone are the times you could come in by the front door my darling,” she murmured, as they embraced. “Well not as frequently maybe, but the weekly tutoring is above board and Charles knows that,” he chuckled, fiddling with her brassiere clips under her tee shirt. “God! I’ve been horny for you watching you bend over those boxes all day.”
Within seconds, Doreen had hoisted her tee shirt high and off, her tousled mane of straw blonde hair more tousled, as Nick un-clipped her lacy, black, 44GG bra off her shoulders and sank his head into her cavernous cleavage, which was almost level with his face being a smaller stature. With a quick push downwards, she freed her jeans off her thick arse and shimmied them to the floor. Nick turned her and bent her over the kitchen table, undid his flies and snapped out his cock.
Her sheer black tights were urgently stretched down below her crotch then he pulled her white, size 14 Sloggi briefs to one side. The village vicar’s wife spread her sturdy legs as much as she could and with one stroke, he buried his six inches up to the hilt in her soaking hairy snatch. The frantic fuck was energetic and noisy, their skin slapping loudly at each urgent thrust, echoing her gasps and his grunts. Cutlery rattled in the two drawers built in the old pine table and a large empty plastic vase, gradually made its way to the edge as the illicit lovers fucked with abandon.
Doreen made to rescue the vase, but her flailing arm missed it as her climax started. The thin, bouncing clatter bothered them not. She arched her back up, arms braced, neck curved back, head high, eyes closed as wave after wave of the ultimate female sensation coursed through her, while Nick pounded at her rump. The cotton gusset of her briefs rasped along his cock, heightening the sensations, as he grasped lumps of her wobbling buttocks, his climax rising and suddenly blasting his cum deep into her cunt.
Gasping, he collapsed against her ample rear as they let their joined genitals soak in a heady cocktail of free flowing juices. Doreen lowered her torso, her huge tits squashed flat on the pine planks that made up the historic refectory table, as her breathing slowed. She raised lightly and flicked away a pesky crumb of brown whole meal bread left from when she made sandwiches for the gang and then wiggled her butt slightly and Nick’s cock plopped wetly out and dribbled onto the massive stone flagstones.
She levered up slowly, turning and grinning widely, he adored her gap front teeth, as he stepped back and then stooped to lower her tights, which she stepped out of after kicking off her trainers. Whilst at the lower level, he buried his face into her crotch, the briefs not managing to capture the wild mess of her forested dark greying pubes. He drank in her scent, sucking the gusset, the mixture of sweat, piss, fanny juice and cum rich to his young nose, whilst she murmured approval and messed her fingers through his long brown hair. “Upstairs quickly Nick,” she told him, as he sucked the soaking cotton gusset. “I want to taste you, but in comfort.”
He rose and cast off his jeans and pants as she jiggled past him having gathered up her clothing. He had his in his hand. Together they trotted up the wide stairs, past some decorators dust sheets, racing to her bedroom and leaping on the vast marital bed. His tee shirt was thrown aside, with his socks and trainers, as Doreen made him lie then straddled his feet. She dipped her head to his sticky crotch and lapped his balls, then explored his flaccid shaft to the rim of his knob which shone in the low light from a bedside lamp. Gurgling with pleasure, her lips enveloped his glans. While she rolled his foreskin back and forth, tasting every morsel of combined juices they had created in their urgent needy fuck, Nick relaxed and grinned at the recent photograph on the bedside showing the Reverend Charles Lewry and Doreen meeting the Bishop of Salisbury at a large function, remembering how he had shafted her bum that morning during one of his weekly cello lessons.
Ah! The cello lessons. He had started with her at about ten years old, one hot summer and turned up wearing a pair of baggy, boy scout type shorts. She had been wearing a loose, knee length, floral patterned Laura Ashley skirt. The introduction to the instrument had been to thrust it between her splayed legs, telling Nick to do the same with the old cello she had handed him. With the neck of the instrument wedged between her voluminous tits, hardly covered by her airy cheesecloth blouse, she proceeded with various fingering movements. For his sake, the view up her legs was captivating, not knowing why, but being motherless and sisterless, his physical contact with females had been nil, apart from cuddles and outings with Doreen who had treated him as if he was her own son.
John had been extremely grateful to her and Charles for the way they had taken Nick up as a surrogate son whenever his huge haulage business demanded a lot of his time. The way her breasts enveloped the cello neck, which in turn caused the crevice of her cleavage to extend virtually to her neck captivated the young and quickly realising lusty lad.
Doreen found his attention wavering somewhat and it dawned on her the direction of his ill disguised stares, but at the same time, with his fidgeting, his cello had pushed up one of his shorts legs and there, for her unadulterated view, was his sweet little pecker. Being a natural cock lover from her early years and well seasoned in paedophilic tendencies by abuse from her father, the Dean of the distant cathedral city they lived in during her formative years, suddenly the opportunity to play with and educate an intelligent but naïve boy with only his father’s administrations loomed large in her mind.
.... There is more of this story ...