Chapter 13

Teabags! Who the hell runs out of teabags? I can’t blame Harry, he only drinks coffee. I knew we were getting low. Rita would have told me, surely, if she’d used the last one. She sometimes makes herself a cuppa after she’s finished cleaning.

So, that’s how I found myself in the village shop talking to Helen. To be fair, at one time that would have been close to my worst nightmare. Well, maybe not my worst. But it wouldn’t have been on my bucket list. But after the lock-ins and Imogen’s party I’ve seen her in a different light.

“Would you believe it, I’ve run out of teabags?” I said.

Helen replied, “Worse things happen at sea. I’ve just made a pot. Sit down and I’ll bring it over. Or would you rather have coffee?”

“No, tea is fine, thanks. Don’t let me go home without buying some.”

We were the only ones in the shop. Helen sat opposite me and said, “I’m glad you’ve popped in.”

“Shit, here we go again,” I thought.

“No need for that frown, I don’t want anything. This time,” she told me.

“The shop and tearoom are doing rather well. Mostly thanks to your generosity. Because our overheads are so low we’re making a reasonable profit. W.I. funds are looking healthy. In the past I’ve had to bend over backwards to raise money for them.”

“And forwards, too,” I thought.

Helen went on, “We were thinking that we could pay you some rent for the place.”

“No, I won’t hear of it. The shop was sitting idle for years. It gives me pleasure to see it in use,” I said.

“There are two young teachers moving into the upstairs flat next week. They work in a village school on the other side of Dorchester. From what I’ve heard they are pleasant girls,” I added.

“I’ve suggested to Trev and Jem that they may want to be around to help them move their furniture.”

“Not up to your usual matchmaking standards. It sounds a bit traditional for you,” Helen said.

“As you know, some young women need coaxing. As they get a little older, they just want it kinky,” I said.

“I hope you’re not referring to me,” Helen laughed.

“No, not just you. There are quite a few more mature women around here who have a taste for the exotic.”

Helen smiled, “I must admit the prospect of ‘straight’ sex leaves me cold.”

“I used to get the impression that you were very conservative, before I knew that you were a pervert, that is,” I added.

“It’s the whole W.I. thing. I can’t help myself. I just feel the need to organise things properly.”

“I’m different, I feel the need to organise things improperly,” I laughed.

“And very good you are at it too.”

She dropped another heavy hint about her sixtieth birthday, which I managed to dodge.

Recently, Helen had shared the secret of her and Gerald’s Bournemouth adventures with me and I had to pretend that I knew nothing about it. She told me a few of the more unusual requests that she had received. One punter made her take her stockings off and push them into her fanny before he fucked her bum. It was all very well but she could only get one of them out again. Gerald couldn’t retrieve it either. In the end he had to pay a Portuguese chambermaid, with small hands, £300 to pull the missing nylon out.

Another bloke paid one of the waiters to give her one while he watched and wanked. She suspected that he had to pay him more than he paid her. Helen told me that she didn’t mind, the less she got paid for sex the dirtier it made her feel. Because she is normally so bossy, it gives her a real buzz not being in control and having to do exactly what she’s told.

I asked her how Gerald felt about the whole thing, especially the rigid rules. Helen revealed that all of it was his idea. She wasn’t sure to start with but now she loves to play the cheap whore. She had even considered hanging around on a street corner and getting picked up by kerb crawlers but thought it may be a bit too dangerous.

It pains me to say it, but for her age, Helen is not a bad-looking woman. She has a good figure and a fine head of nearly black hair. I complimented her on it once. She said that it came from her grandfather’s side of the family. He was French.

My opinion that it was nothing to be ashamed of these days rather went over her head.

It has been several months since Imogen’s party. The lock-ins were still going well. Helen had stopped monopolising things. It was quite strange, a different one of the girls – myself included – sort of took centre stage each time. It rather depended on how they were feeling that evening. As soon as I saw how they were dressed, I knew who it was going to be. Women’s intuition, I guess, but the others knew too and let them get on with it. Nobody really missed out so it was OK.

One morning Glenda popped in to see me; she had some news. Rita joined us around the kitchen table.

“Craig and I have set a date for the wedding,” she announced.

Rita and I went wild, jumping about like schoolgirls. That was until she added, “It’s in five weeks.”

“Five weeks?” I said.

“Five weeks?” Rita said.

“Are you mad?” we both said.

“Do you know how long it takes to organise a wedding?” said Rita.

“It’s OK, I don’t want anything over the top and I thought you two could help me.”

Rita said, “Where are you thinking of getting wed?”

“In the church,” said Glenda.

“Does the Vicar know?” I asked.

“Oh yes, he had that Saturday free but he said he needed to have a serious interview with us both first. There are strict rules about these things. Who knew?”

“How did that go?” asked Rita.

“Well, we were a bit nervous. We weren’t sure if we qualified. I told Craig that we had better be on our best behaviour.”

“I made him dress smartly. I wore a pretty dress and I even put on tights instead of nylons. Craig wanted to have sex in the afternoon but I wouldn’t let him in case the Vicar found out or something.”

“We sat in the Vicar’s study. He asked us if either of us had been married before. Obviously, we hadn’t, so that was OK. We both live in the parish so that was good too. Then he explained about the banns being read and all that.”

“I asked him if I could get married in white. He said that there were no rules about that.”

“Craig wanted to know about the vows, particularly the bit about forsaking all others. The Vicar said that there were strict wording rules that had to be said but in regard to ‘forsaking all others’ he always left that to the couple to agree between themselves exactly what that meant.”

“Personally, he thought that it was nice if they kept something that they only ever did with each other.”

“It all went very well and we were quite happy.”

“Then the Vicar asked me when I had last had sex. I thought maybe there was some sort of rationing system when you’re married. I told him yesterday. So he said we had better do something about that.”

“He made me bend over and suck Craig’s cock. The Vicar lifted my skirt. I thought that he would pull my tights down but instead he took a letter opener from his desk and made a small hole in them just big enough to slip his knob in.”

“Then the Vicar did something really stupid. He said to Craig, the last one to come is a sissy.”

“Craig is so competitive and he can’t resist a challenge.”

“The Vicar was gripping my hips and banging away at my nylon-covered arse while his bent dick squeezed through the tiny hole in my tights. Craig had hold of my ears. He kept fucking my mouth with short strokes trying to keep, I don’t know what you call it, that nerve under his helmet against my tongue.”