The Village Church

Someone else’s footsteps echoed around the ancient church and I snapped out of my reverie. “Afternoon, Mark. I don’t remember seeing you in here before.” It was Edward, the local vicar.

“No, I don’t come to services, well except at Christmas. But this is such a lovely, peaceful place to sit and think.”

He sat beside me.

“I think so, too. And the church is here for the whole community.”

He looked carefully at me. “I don’t want to intrude, but is something in particular on your mind?”

I smiled sadly and nodded. “My late wife’s birthday. Well, the second anniversary of her birthday since…”

He squeezed my arm.

“How long?” he asked gently.

I sighed. “A little over a year. Six months ago, well, I could have told you months, weeks and days. Now, it’s a little over a year.”

He looked at me inquisitively.

“Cancer,” I said, “very aggressive, found too late. She didn’t suffer much.”

“And now you’re finding your feet and starting to move on?”

I nodded and swallowed. “As she wanted me to. Actually, she told me to. Threatened to come back and haunt me if I mourned too long.”

He laughed. “As a clergyman, I have obviously have some reservations about ghosts and the like, but she sounds like someone I’d have had some really enjoyable conversations with.”

I smiled. “I rather think so, too.”

I paused. “I’m getting my confidence back, and finding out who I am now. And thinking about what I want.”

I leaned back and looked slowly around the church, the sandstone walls, stained glass windows, memorials, the board naming all the parish priests back to the 13th century. “We stayed near here a few years ago, and loved the village when we stopped off to look around. We talked vaguely about moving here later on in life. And I even proposed here.”

Edward nodded. “I can understand that. My family were delighted with the prospect of moving here. Did you visit the church then?”

I nodded. “We loved it. The tower was open to visitors that day, so we got to see the best view in the village.”

The memories flooded back, like edited highlights from a TV drama. The village had been deserted, not another soul in sight. A hot, still summer’s day. We’d chased each other around the headstones outside. She giggled and squealed when I caught and tickled her. Inside, it was quiet, cool and peaceful. On top of the tower, I hugged her from behind and she wriggled her bum against me until I got a hard-on. Then she whispered. “Want to fuck me? Now? Here? Up on the roof?”

“You bet, get ’em off.”

We wrestled, laughing, as I tried to pull her panties down. “No, no, unhand me, sir. You’re a cad and a bounder,” she giggled.

She gave in, when she wanted to, and leaned forward against the parapet, wet and ready, as I eased my cock into her…

“You come first,” she gasped. I was getting a bit energetic and enthusiastic. “You can lick me out later.”

So I did. She lay back on a pew and I kneeled between her legs, parted for me, so we could make love. I tasted myself on and in her, which got me hard again.

“Yes, yes, YES!” she moaned, her voice echoing and reverberating around the building, a magical moment I’ll never forget.

When she’d got her breath back, I asked her to marry me. “Yes,” she’d said quietly, her eyes moist with tears. “Of course I will.”

Edward brought me back to the present with a gentle bump. “Yes, there’s an excellent view from the tower. And I always liked the acoustics in here, marvellous for a good choir.”

I tried not to grin at him. “My wife and I noticed that, too. A lovely delay on the echo.”

© 2013 Ian D Smith. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.

Bio: I live in the South-West of the UK, with my wife, our dogs and horses. I am a professional scientist who has recently started writing non-fiction and fiction as a creative hobby, with some modest success in being published. Non-fiction is an outlet for my butterfly mind, fiction for my vivid imagination. I enjoy reading and trying to write romantic and realistic erotica.

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