by Percy Quirk
The Vicar’s Organ
Story 5 of Strummed
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by Percy Quirk
For music lovers, and for musical lovers.
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Sweetmeats
In some ways, there is no greater testament to the joy of the human condition than music and sex. Music can be as soothing as a gentle kiss, or as powerful as an orgasm. The most powerful music can make your heart beat faster and make the hairs on the back of your neck rise in excitement and expectation. Music can make you move, moan, dance and shout. Music is to the soul as orgasm is to the body.
Music and sex are so visceral, so sensual that it seemed obvious to combine them. This book is that combination.
If, as you read, you find your fingers beginning to drift, your body starting to move, and a rhythm rising within you, do not be alarmed. Let the story take its toll until you too sing out loud!
-Kojo Black
Also from Sweetmeats Press
Paperbacks & eBooks
The Candy Box by Kojo Black
Sun Strokes by Kojo Black
Immoral Views by Various Authors
Named and Shamed by Janine Ashbless
Naked Delirium by Various Authors
Making Him Wait by Kay Jaybee
Seven Deadly Sins by Various Authors
Strummed by Various Authors
Made for Hire by Various Authors
In the Forests of the Night by Vanessa de Sade
♦♦♦♦
A Sweetmeats Book
First published by Sweetmeats Press 2013
Copyright © Sweetmeats Press 2013
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing from Sweetmeats Press. Nor may it be circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
ISBN 978-1-909181-26-7
Typeset by Sweetmeats Press
Sweetmeats Press, 27 Old Gloucester Street, London, WC1N 3XX, England, U. K.
www.sweetmeatspress.com
The Vicar’s Organ
♦♦♦♦
by Percy Quirk
Chapter One
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The Accompanist
My husband, unknown to him, would often accompany our lovemaking on the church organ. I would be face down on the bed, my skirt pushed up to my waist with my knickers and stockings bundled down against the backs of my knees, perspiration stinging my eyes as the Right Honourable Mr. Bertrand Creasey would first wet his cock in my flooded, yearning cunt and then work it deep into my ass. It became so that the music, these hymns that had endured hundreds of years as praise to my husband’s God, were a part of the experience. It became so that, after some months of our meetings on a Sunday morning, even the sound of my husband practicing in the week — half-finished melodies, wrong notes, and occasional, playful tunes from the musicals thrown in — would fill me up with wanton sensations, my nipples suddenly sensitive against the cotton of my blouse, my stomach full of butterflies. I would get down on my knees, imagining my face level with the honourable Mr. Creasey’s open flies, his fat, aggressive cock pushing through the open zip, his hand on the back of my head, and my eyes slowly closing as I lowered my mouth forward. Sometimes I could climax without touching myself, but I realise now that I have always been suggestible. I thought no such thing at the time. I felt empowered by my sexuality, like a queen worshipped. But then, this was 1950 and all of us who had never left the mainland during the war were probably naïve.
My husband was the Vicar of St. Valentine’s and, in all but name, was Mr. Creasey’s employee. The church was maintained, as were the church buildings of several other neighbouring and nearby parishes, on the financial hand-outs provided by Mr. Creasey. As you can tell, the financial generosity displayed by Mr. Creasey was not, in our case, due solely to his charitable nature and it was probably six months into mine and my husband’s relocation to St. Valentines that Mr. Creasey paid me a visit to explain the situation. Even then, I think, he had known my husband was absent by the sound of the church organ being played, the music rolling down the hill and over the village.
“Mrs. Evans,” he said when I opened the door, momentarily removing his hat and then placing it back down on his head in a polite way that seems strange, almost silly now.
I invited him in and made him tea, chatting about inconsequential things while he moved around the sitting room, picking up our ornaments, turning them in his broad hands, and setting them back down again. I remember feeling uncomfortable then, seeing his expression of mild amusement as he fingered a picture from our wedding, my husband beaming and me dressed entirely in virginal white. I brought him his tea, after establishing that he took no sugar, and he took it from me. We stood there for a moment and then he slowly, deliberately, poured the tea all over the carpet and, when it was empty, casually smashed the cup in the fireplace.
I do not know if it was shock, or fear, but when it happened I was paralyzed, and could think of nothing to say.
“I’ll keep it brief,” Mr. Creasey said to me, calmly it seemed. “I own everything in this house. The water, the tea leaves, the cups, you…. Everything. And I can do what I like with things I own.”
I was shaking. I wanted to call out but I was held silent. I realised for the first time that in spite of his florid complexion and rotund physique, Mr. Creasey was a large, powerful man. He was tall and broad, so that he did not have to work at that power, had been born with it. Even now, in his late forties and clearly emblematic of a lifetime of indulgence, he could have smashed me down in a second. And, I thought with a strange mixture of horror and excitement, he could have done the same to my slender, bookish husband.
“You ask the Vicar,” he sneered. “You ask him what would happen without my patronage, Mrs. Evans. I won’t take possession right now, you see, but you ask him that and see what he says. I have debts to collect elsewhere, so you’ll see me in three days. You ask him before then and see how things are.”
He did not say goodbye but let himself out, leaving me standing there in the middle of the sitting room, shaking, staring at the broken tea cup in the grate and the dark stain on the carpet nearby.
Chapter Two
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The Prelude
I cleaned up the mess, moving the rug over the stain, and made my husband’s dinner. It was not long before he arrived home, musical scores tucked under his arm, and a smile of happy satisfaction on his face.
“Did you hear?” he asked me.
I had to confess that I had not. I did not continue on, to tell him that it was because I had been so preoccupied with Mr. Creasey’s visit, but allowed him to speak instead.
“Not to worry,” he said. “You will hear on Sunday. Some beautiful music, written by a local man. An ex-soldier, I think. Really quite splendid.”
He gave an involuntary laugh, as he often did when he felt pleased with the world.
“I think he was a Sergeant,” William continued. “Royal Engineers. He’s offered to give me a hand restoring the organ.”
“That will be nice, dear,” I said.
I led him into the kitchen and served his dinner. We chatted about the fete, which was due that summer, and how I might get involved in the organisation.
>
“You’ll have to help Lady Creasey,” he told me. “She’s in charge. It’s the only thing that really brings her out into the community, you know, and it’s important we make the right impression with her.”
“Are the Creaseys so important for us?” I asked him. “Do we need to dance to their tune? What if I wanted to do my own organising?”
He dropped his knife and folk. There was a sharp clatter as they fell against the plate, and he fixed me with his eyes, a look of genuine concern passing over his face.
“They are very important,” he said to me, and I felt peculiarly conflicting emotions. “This church, and my position here, could not exist without their charity. We must not do anything to anger them — nothing at all.”
I started to speak but he held up his hand.
“You’ll do what Mrs. Creasey tells you to do on the fete,” he said. “We’ll do nothing to anger them, Alice, nothing at all.”
And so that, as my husband might have said, was that.
Chapter Three
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The Conductor’s Orders
Three days later, on the Friday evening, my husband was scurrying around the Vicarage, looking for his umbrella and his car keys.
“For God’s sake!” he exclaimed. “Why does Creasey have to come up with this idea now? A bloody Vicar’s dinner over in Uphamstead?! I couldn’t think of anything more boring if I tried.
“And,” he added, “It’s not as if Creasey’s bothering to go himself.”
He shook his head with a slight, resigned smile, and kissed me on the cheek.
“You look nice,” he said. “Anyway, I should be back about twelve I guess. Don’t wait up.”
And he was gone.
Mr. Creasey’s knock did not come until an hour later by which time I was frantic with apprehension, perched on the edge of a chair in the sitting room, wondering what exactly our local parliamentarian had in mind. I hesitated before opening the front door, but then realised there was little point in avoiding the act, now that the decision had been made. I had my husband’s blessing, if indirectly, and as far as blessings go a Vicar’s should carry some weight.
He was standing in the doorway, a large black silhouette with the dim lights of the houses and the round white eye of the moon behind him. Not being able to see his face, the shadow that he made across the hallway, the essential darkness of him, caused me to shudder in a way that was both fearful and excited.
“Little pig, little pig,” he said. “Won’t you let me in.” It was not a question. I could hear amusement and scorn in his tone.
“Certainly, sir,” I said, stepping back and holding the door for him. His big feet, smart brown shoes slightly dirty from the wet road, stepped over the threshold and marked the carpet. I could not look at his face, so high above it seemed, but looked downward instead, either from shame or by some kind of natural deference. I saw the muddy marks he left on the floor, and was aware of his bulk as he passed me; an enormous bear of a man. I felt so small, so vulnerable, as I closed the door and followed him obediently into my own living room or, as I suddenly realised, his living room that my husband and I occupied only as tenants.
“I like it when you call me ‘Sir’,” he said. “From now on you can call me ‘Sir’ or ‘Mr. Creasey’.”
His back was to me, but his shoulders started to move up and down and I realised he was chuckling.
“Actually I have a better idea,” he said. “You can address me as ‘Mr. Creasey, sir’, at all times. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Mr. Creasey, sir.” I said.
He turned around slowly and looked down at me, took my chin in one of his large hands, and lifted my face.
“I am not going to treat you well, Mrs. Evans,” he said slowly, calmly, his eyes looking into mine. For some reason I could not look away. “I expect complete obedience. If I receive obedience then you can expect to be treated like one of my horses; groomed, fed, housed, and ridden. If you buck me, if you act up, then you can expect to be thrashed and tamed, like one of my horses. And I love my horses, Mrs. Evans, they are such beautiful creatures — it is only that beauty is nothing to me unless it is in my possession. Do you understand?”
“Yes Mr. Creasey, sir.”
“There’s a good filly,” he smiled. “Now you can fetch me a brandy and undress, in that order.”
“Yes Mr. Creasey, sir.”
He sat down in my husband’s chair as I poured him the brandy with trembling fingers, still careful not to spill any. Something in me was certain that errors like this, like a spilt drink, would not go unnoticed or unpunished. I brought the drink over and he took it from me without a word so that I was standing in front of him, empty handed, in a state on mild shock realising that the next thing I had to do was present myself to him naked. He said nothing, but from the look that was starting to fix on his face I could tell that he was becoming angry and impatient. Almost without thinking, I started to undress.
I started with my shoes, kneeling down and unbuckling each one, placing them side by side next to the sofa. My blouse was next, and his purposeful gaze impelled me not to hesitate with any of the buttons, and when the buttons were unfastened I did not hesitate before removing it completely. I was going to lay it over the back of the sofa when I heard Mr. Creasey say, “Fold it properly. I paid for that blouse.” So I folded it carefully, flushing full in the face, ashamed like a school girl that I had been caught treating my things carelessly, and angry that I had been reminded again of our dependence on him. I unfastened my bra and folded it in two, placing it on top of the folded blouse that Mr. Creasey had paid for, that was on the sofa that we had bought with money from Mr. Creasey, and which sat in a house that Mr. Creasey owned. I turned and dropped my arms, presenting my breasts to him so he could see that I understood; that he owned me too.
“You’re a horny little slut, Mrs. Evans,” he said to me, smirking. My nipples were dark and erect. I could already imagine his hands on my breasts, roughly kneading them, hurting and exciting me. “Get on with it,” he said, gesturing impatiently with his hand.
I unfastened my skirt, again folded it, and laid it next to the blouse on the sofa. I was down to my stockings and knickers.
“Leave them,” he told me. “I will only use your mouth today.”
He set down the drink and stood up. From his pocket he drew out a length of dark ribbon.
“Turn around,” he said. I turned until my back was to him and then felt him take my arms, pulling them together, and the soft ribbon being wound about my wrists until my hands were bound together. He was clever — the ribbon was soft and would not leave a mark. There would be nothing to suggest to my husband that anything had happened. I felt appalled but also something else, maybe admiration — maybe even gratitude.
“Kneel,” he said to me, and I knelt.
“Turn,” he said and, on my knees, I turned.
He was sitting back down in my husband’s chair but his flies had been opened and his erect penis, thick and long, was standing out from his trousers. It seems unfair to compare it directly with that of my husband, only to say that it was in keeping with the general scale of the man; that it was in keeping with his large, powerful physique.
“Mrs. Evans,” he said to me quietly. “The best whores can bring a man to orgasm in seconds using only their mouth. Right now you are probably not the best of whores, a cheap whore if you will, though I expect you to be eager to learn.”
He leaned forward and touched my cunt through the silk of my knickers.
“Dripping wet,” he said to me. “That must be a little embarrassing for you, Mrs. Evans, but you’re not judged here. Your feelings and thoughts, things like pride, are inconsequential to me. I am interested only in your actions, in your performance.”
Again, that strange sense of gratitude. Although his indifference to me was dem
eaning, it seemed preferable to a more personal, a more specific need to humiliate me, which could have been more dangerous. This way, as long as he had no emotional attachment to me, things could remain contained. As long as I did as he asked, my marriage and my position would not be threatened — at least this was my hope, and that hope fluttered gratefully in my breast as he described his lack of interest in me as anything other than a proficient whore.
“So,” he continued, sitting back. “Work yourself over here Mrs. Evans and show me what a good little cock sucker our Vicar’s wife really is.”
“Yes Mr. Creasey, sir,” I replied and moved forward, my mouth opening wide, perhaps a string of wanton saliva running down my chin, focussed on nothing else in the world beyond pleasing my husband’s benefactor, the Right Honourable Mr. Bertrand Creasey, who at that moment was laughing uncontrollably.
Chapter Four
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The Diva
The less I say about the more intimate details between myself and Mr. Creasey the better, however I will confirm that my “training” continued and, following my husband’s unknowing approval, I felt no particular compulsion to resist. That is to say that any attempt I made to resist was quickly quashed in such a way as I eventually came to feel childish in having raised an objection in the first place. Mr. Creasey was very clear on the consequences of disobedience and on several occasions I reached a point where I was convinced that he would reveal my sins to my husband while at the same time ripping away our livelihood, stripping William of his ability to serve God. At such moments the horrible trap I was in became acutely perceived, so that I bucked like a chicken in the arms of a farmer, helpless to stop it’s neck from being wrung. I could almost see the iron bars holding me in. Having been led like a fool into my cage my choice was now to continue betraying my husband, or to bring about his destruction.
