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.
She had known Nick from a few days after the tragedy, so had seen him naked and in nappies, but it hadn’t occurred to the vicar’s wife that he could be the answer to her prayers. Charles was a crap lover with a small dick and no libido, so she had dabbled sexually with choristers, a local policeman, even her doctor. This one could be trained up and service her.
“Tasty,” she murmured, slithering up him to kiss deeply and then alongside her youthful lover. ‘That’s what you said that day,” he chuckled, nodding at the photograph. “Oh yes. Gosh! I was running with your cum all the time we were in the guildhall. You should have seen my knickers and stockings. I was sure the old bugger would smell me,” she shrieked. “It seemed so evil to be buggered rather than pussy fucked, the day I was meeting his honour the Bishop. He’s a sod for picking the pretty choir boys, mind you he’s often groped me since.” “Yes, you told me. You seem to like pretty boys too darling,” Nick murmured licking her ear. “Only one - one like you,” Doreen corrected sternly. “You’re perfect. You were the first and the only one.” “Maybe I should see what the fascination is then?” he jested, tweaking the enormous dark bulb of her right nipple, set in a three inch diameter areola. “Stop that,” she slapped his hand, but not aiming to curtail its playing. “No little boys for you and that’s an order.” “Oo get you!” Nick mocked. “Little girls then?” “Nick pleeeaease,” Doreen protested. “Well if it was good for you...” “You don’t want to, do you?” Doreen levered up, letting her udders swing below, puzzlement writ on her lined face. She grabbed his limp damp cock, shaking it, threatening him with feigned anger. “Do you?” “Forget it, it’s not going to happen, where am I going to find that?” he replied sternly. “Now let me have a taste of your beautiful hot old cunt before I go away on this trip.”
Nick rolled her onto her belly and slid down between her legs. He loved this rear approach, her chubby buttocks all warm and wobbly. Some elements of the old enemy for mature ladies, cellulite, evident between and below the deep creases and as he gripped her butt and spread them, the dark hairy cave round her arse hole beckoned him. He dived in, his tongue seeking her heavily muscled, protruding sphincter. He remembered when he had first seen it, it worried him that maybe she had a problem, but he had politely continued to rim her as instructed, after all she was the tutor and he was so so innocent. Many years later when they shared digital photographs of their intimacy, he had brought it up. Doreen was quick to advise him her anus had always had this sort of pucker and it wasn’t a prolapse and she had sought other photographs on the internet to convince him.
Nick’s cock was already hardening as he drank in the potent stink of her sweaty bum and the juices from her cunt, mixed in earlier. She had been busy with the parcels, loading and completing documentation all day, He got her to raise her butt, but keeping her arms and shoulders low, her legs splayed wide and enjoyed the view of her meaty mound and vulva. Soon from the thick matt of greying hair, easily as long as those mature Japanese women he knew that had big bushes, the thick inner lips blossomed and started to pulse as Doreen used her pelvic floor muscles. The gash opened more with each pulse, glowing red and pink and dripping wet, until he could see the inner membranes that housed her piss hole.
With a moan of pure lust, his mouth pounced on the orange peel like flaps of her inner labia, then roamed throughout the hairy mess of her snatch as Doreen rolled her sumptuous butt in time with his licks and slurps. His nose kept bumping on her engorged sphincter and he lavishly transferred juices on to it. One of her hands slid between her thighs and flicked at her clitoris and muffled moans could be heard from the pillow. “My arse Nick, shag it please,” the vicars wife pleaded, her middle finger a blur on her love bud. The teenager rose up and levelled his now stiff penis at the inviting bulb of pink and purple skin of her anus and stroked it with his greasy knob end. “Now darling,” she urged, pulsing, making it enlarge greatly and become soft. He aimed and eased into her bum. His cock head was fully engaged and he paused as always, until she started to shunt back on him. Soon he was plunging in deep and hard, little shouts and groans emanating from Doreen as the anal pleasure in the marital bed heightened.
Doreen never orgasmed via the back door treatment, but Nick did and their tried and tested system following, was for Doreen to swivel over, which she did puffing with the effort of moving a large mass body using her elderly and waning strength and frigging her dripping snatch, Nick helping using one of several dildos she secreted in a drawer for linen built into the bed. When she climaxed it was always very voluble and frantic – Doreen’s body thrashing and heaving while Nick knelt back and enjoyed the spectacle of her mammoth, hard tipped boobs roll like a heavy swell on the ocean he and his father would soon be crossing.
Gulping each others genitals clean like pigs in a sty, they parted, planning for the grand departure in two days time. Nick dressing again and Doreen retiring to the shower, knowing they didn’t have all night. The vicar returned and opted for several glasses of Port, commenting on what a successful collection had been achieved and loaded and how well and rosy Doreen appeared, remarking it must have been the stout efforts she had made that evening. She agreed.
The very different age lovers had no opportunities for a shag before the off and they acted out the usual departure from the village hall, knowing they could keep in touch with their Smart Phones, but not sending explicit photographs of each other, the risks were too great.
As the van left the hall to tumultuous cheers and waves, Rastus Bendigo mused on the pleasures he hoped awaited him. He had had some already in the previous four weeks he had been working on the rectory structure, mainly exterior stonework but also the listed and much admired stone arches and cavities within. Being the local handyman, Rastus did many jobs for many residents, both the permanent homes and also the big payers down from London with posh holiday homes in the much sough after village in Wiltshire.
Two Days Later
“That was good work we did getting this loaded and hitting the earlier ferry,” said John. Nick, being short couldn’t reach the dashboard with his feet and agreed with his dad as they drove across France. He was playing a game on his Smart phone. “I’m amazed how well she does ... you know Doreen, in her sixties,” John added, carefully negotiating a roundabout, the wrong way but the right way in France. “Salt of the earth that one, mind you Charles does well too, they’re a smashing couple. Does she remind you of Jilly Cooper?” Nick glanced questioning his dad. “Course not, you’re too young. Famous author, funny raunchy stories, The Rutshire Chronicles heh heh! Your dear mum loved her stuff and I read one or two, anyway her straw blonde thatch of hair and the gap tooth smile helped make her famous. Doreen is much like her, but bigger I think, amazing energy but Jilly must be older, in her eighties now.” “Yeah I think there’s a couple of her novels in the book shelf, always smiling, yeah.” “Yes, she always has that cheeky smile, pretty in a country way, ruddy face, doesn’t do a lot of make-up and her figure, that’s Doreen all over ... I mean something else, lucky man...” Nick didn’t comment. “Aleppo is in a hell of a state, but I think we’ll get through OK, people waiting for us and this lot,” he gestured behind him. “Should reach the proper folk. Not like that lot we sent, I drove the first batch, to Nigeria. Bloody chiefs. The chap who went with me seemed to think they were fine and enjoyed it. I sort of did but he was taken to some places on his own, I just didn’t want to risk anything, but he came back with big smiles on his face and he was knackered. He said the tribal elders and their families, they had so many kids, you know young girls and things, treated him like a king, offering him all sorts of goodies - gave him everything. He confessed to liking black folk.” Nick hadn’t a clue what his dad was referring to and got on with his game.
Rastus waved to Blodwen, his skinny white Welsh wife off to her weekly bingo session and connected his video camera to the TV. He opened a can of Stella and settled onto the sofa, clicking the play button on a remote. He’d waited three days to get the house to himself and view the results of his other work in the rectory. Before the big send off at the village hall, he’d enjoyed, many repeats of two other video recordings captured at previous houses in Little Dickson during works over the spring and he hoped this show was to be as good. To see a well known Scottish BBC TV political presenter, Laura Koons or something... , he’d forgotten her name, the one with a twisted mouth being shagged strenuously while bound to her bed, was a revelation. Rastus assumed it was her husband but wasn’t interested. Her dirty washing basket was full of interest too.
In the new development on the edge of the village, where the county council leader lived with his boyfriend was of minor interest in that Rastus knew the boyfriend a fey queer black youth who had interviewed him when a building issue went to the planning authority for referring and clearance.
He had only managed to capture the sex antics in those two vastly different houses in the short time he’d bought the minute video cameras, but was looking forward, in celebrity terms of getting some of Julia Somerville, the seventy year old, tall blonde TV presenter who had recently bought a sprawling riverside house, hiring Rastus to gut and rebuild two bathrooms, one en-suite to the master bedroom and the other for guests. That job would be starting soon, once she had surmounted the planning authorities. He could think an easy route for her with that.
Certainly the video tonight would be fascinating because he was more intimate in the sense that he was well acquainted through the building work with the Vicar and his wife. Rastus sat up alert on the edge of the sofa when Doreen and Nick on screen scampered into the bedroom. He’d set the tiny camera amongst some dusty religious books with a good view of the room and the bed. Being a confirmed tit man, he had lusted over the vicar’s wife’s body many times, wondering why the fuck he’d married the vacant, gagging for it, thin daughter of a bricklayer from Porthcawl, but he felt it was the right thing to do, she being pregnant and he jobless and relying on her father for occasional work.
Being small, neat, black as the ace of spades and skilled at all manner of masonry and if needed, plain ordinary brickwork, Rastus hadn’t found the cameras as fiddly as his pal Snowy had found. Snowy, his Indian buddy, once had a mane of white hair topping his chocolate coloured portly frame and now sported a circle of white hair- the classic monk look, round his big shiny brown head. He was a retired blacksmith with hands like spades and during a drunken session at his flat, Snowy had revealed his addiction to using them to view illicit videos of various relatives. Rastus had been amazed at the tiny size and superb quality of the videos, not withstanding the quality of the Asian women on screen, in all manner of undress and naked, while changing and bathing. All ages had been videod, some Rastus knew would be highly illegal, never mind the voyeurism, illegal on another count.
Rastus knew he was breaking the law using the camera to spy on unsuspecting women, practising them on his ignorant – in both ways – wife. Certainly she lived up to her Welsh name which meant white flower in one sense, Fuck! she was white, but not exactly a flower, being now stick like with wizened features top to bottom and only fifty two. Their half caste – illegitimate - when he was born, son had long since left home and worked in a hotel Abu Dhabi. If Bloddy had d found her husband out he could have dissuaded her from reporting him, but if Laura Koons? the councillor and now Doreen, the vicar’s wife found out, the shit would really hit the fan.
Hefting his brown cock out of his jeans he enjoyed several replays of Doreen and young Nick on the bed, their energetic exploration and enjoyment of each others bodies, was a real turn on, especially him bumming her, that was something he’d never done ... I mean a vicar’s elderly wife! In anticipation of a cracking view of them, he’d raided the Lewry’s laundry basket, the next morning and smothered his face in Doreen’s still sodden, white Sloggis. Viewing the moment Nick had removed them, he wished he had enough daring to have pocketed them at the time.
The video ran on after Nick left Doreen’s room, but she still provided much footage of her naked roly-poly frame, drying, oiling then relaxing, dressed in a terry towel robe with a glass of white wine until Charles arrived. Rastus giggled at the vicar’s indifference to his wife’s blatantly exposed bare limbs and vast cleavage visible outside the robe as Charles undressed down to a vest, large white under pants and black socks, wandering around chatting about the successful charity appeal, the loading, his half pint shandy at the pub, a hand permanently wrapped round a glass of port. They finally went to bed, the light went off and the camera ceased recording, in it’s motion sensitive mode.
“Sorry Mrs Mendoza, didn’t realise you were in here,” Rastus apologised to the Philipino cleaner entering the kitchen from another door. He had been bent into a low cupboard seeking a mug, aiming to brew a cuppa mid morning and was stripped to the waist, covered in stone dust having been outside in the yard, carving some new stones for a corridor arch leading to the Vicar’s study. His work trousers hung low on his hips, below his white Yfront pants, but all his gear was about to slide to the floor, judging by the two inches of his dark hairy arse crack she couldn’t help noticing.
Mahalia Mendoza had noticed of course and was much in awe of his lean, wiry bare figure. Biceps tight, stomach ripped in a six pack. Compared to Benny her near obese husband, Rastus was the first decent body she’d seen for years having been married for twenty years. “It’s fine Mr Bendigo, I’m nearly finished, do help yourself,” Lia simpered, known as Lia over the years, leaning provocatively against a worktop where the microwave resided. One leg was bent up resting against the cupboard front, exposing a smooth tan knee and four inches of thigh. The diminutive, swarthy toned lady wore a pale blue and white striped, button front, one piece, which was close fitting and knee length. She was full bodied, not busty, everything in the right place and distinctive. Her shapely legs were bare. Her mousy grey hair was cut tight to her scalp. On her feet she wore white trainers. Wouldn’t mind helping myself to your cute little arse – Rastus thought, watching her turn and reach for some mugs that had been washed and offering him one. He noticed the line of what could be a thong the high way it carved over her trim hips. “Rastus please Mrs Mendoza and you are... ? Lets get on first name terms as I’ll be here a few weeks. Mrs Lewry said I might bump into you,” he chuckled. Wishing the strong, lean black man would bump into her, Lia pulled her uniform top together, but leaving the two buttons across her chest open. There was an inch of lacy brassiere still showing but so what, she knew the vicar leered at it and that nice husband of Mrs Kuenssberg.