Goodness and Mercy


All action takes place over nine days in a new town in Essex, England. The time is 1975 or thereabouts.

* * *

One Friday evening.

“You look a bit down in the mouth, lad,” old Sid said, carefully putting his glass down between the puddles of slopped beer on the pub table. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, and looked at his companion.

“Sorry to be rotten company, Sid,” Ken replied. “I’ve had a lot on my mind recently.”

“Come orf it,” the older man replied sympathetically. “I can see what your real problem is. You’ve not been getting your oats, ‘ave you? Your Doreen not coming across?”

“No fooling you, is there?” Ken replied with a short laugh. “That’s part of the problem.”

“Only part? What’s the rest of the problem then?”

“Well, if it’s confession time, to tell you the truth, even if she was willing, I’m not sure I’m up to it.”

“Not up to it? Good Gawd, man, at your age? ‘Ow old are you? Forty, forty-five? Prime of life! You should be at it ‘ammer and tongs. Blimey, when I was your age, twenty years ago, me and my Flo we ‘ardly ever stopped to draw breath. What’s ‘oldin’ you back then?”

“The trouble is, Sid, I’m a bit small, you know, down there.”

“No need to worry about that, lad. They don’t all want a whopper up ’em. In fact some of ’em are frightened of big ‘uns. Anyways up, it’s not what you’ve got, it’s the way what you use it that counts.”

“That’s the trouble. I can’t use it. It’s not only small, it’s not up to the job. And when I say not up, that’s just what I mean. It won’t stand, well, not for more than a minute or two at a time.”

“Christ, Ken, I am sorry. That must be rotten. ‘Ave you seen a doctor?”

“More than one. They all say there’s nothing wrong physically, it’s only lack of confidence. They say I’ve got to keep trying. But how can I, Sid? It’s so humiliating to let a girl down at the last minute. And of course, once you’ve done that, they never want to see you again. How are you supposed to get your confidence back, with the fear of that happening hanging over you?” Ken buried his face in his glass to hide the self pity brimming in his eyes.

“You need cheering up, mate. Come back with me, and my Flo’ll make us a cup o’ tea.”

* * *

It wasn’t far from the pub to the block of flats where they lived. In typical ‘new town’ fashion, there were several blocks of flats, not arranged in rows, but scattered around courts, connected by serpentine roads. Street maps of the town looked more like diagrams of the intestinal tract. Each block contained only three flats, one to each floor. Sid and Flo lived at No. 34 Brightside Court, the lowest flat, and Ken lived above them at No. 35.

As they entered Sid’s flat, he said, “Take your coat off, Ken. We don’t stand on ceremony ‘ere, you know that.” Ken hung his jacket in the tiny vestibule. Sid shouted, “I’ve brought Ken back with me, love. ‘E needs cheering up. Make us a cup o’, will you? No, ‘ang about. Saturday tomorrow, ain’t it? Ken doesn’t ‘ave to go to work. I’ll get a bottle out.”

While Sid rummaged in the sideboard for glasses and a bottle, Flo West emerged from the kitchen. She was a tall woman, a few years younger than her husband. Her face was not attractive, wide nostrils giving it a somewhat simian appearance, but she had a warm smile which lit her eyes up. She carried herself well and was always smartly dressed. More than once Ken had found himself admiring the rear view of her figure from his window in the flat above as she strolled elegantly across the court to the shops.

“Now then, me dear,” she greeted Ken. “What’s the trouble, eh? Tell Auntie Flo all about it.”

“It’s ‘is Doreen,” Sid interjected. “She’s not giving ‘im any.”

“She’s not? That’s not right. Are you sure you’re warming her up properly, Ken?”

“Warming her up? What do you mean?” Ken asked.

“You know, touching her up a bit. Stroking her tits, outside of her blouse at first, then slipping your hand inside. Sliding your hand into her bra, stroking her nipples if you can reach them. Fondling her bum outside of her dress, after a while slipping your hand up her skirt, stroking her thighs. Then when she opens them for you, copping a feel of her cunt, getting your hand inside, giving her a bit of finger maybe. That sort of thing. Warming her up.”

“Good Lord, Flo, she’d kill me if I tried anything like that. A brief hug and a peck on the cheek is all I get before she pulls away, or maybe a quick dry kiss on the mouth if she’s feeling generous.”

Flo West stood looking aghast, as if she could hardly believe what she was hearing. “That girl needs a severe talking to,” she said, “and I’m the one to give it to her, as soon as I get a chance.”

“That’s what comes of her being a vicar’s daughter, I suppose,” Sid said.

“Huh!” exclaimed Flo. “That old hypocrite? He needs sorting out too. I see I’m going to have my work cut out.”

Behind Ken’s back, Sid gave Flo a wink, and nodded towards the kitchen, saying Escort Haramidere “While I remember, love, will you show me what you meant about that kitchen drawer? Will you excuse us for five minutes, Ken? Pour yourself another drink.”

* * *

In the kitchen, Sid quickly told Flo about Ken’s impotence problem, and she murmured, “The poor dear! We must help him, mustn’t we, Sid?”

“Of course, love.”

“Everything in our power? No holds barred?”

“Whatever you think’s right, me love.”

“You’re an old sweetie, you know that?” She kissed him warmly and gave his crotch a squeeze. “You won’t regret it, I promise,” she whispered.

* * *

They returned to the sitting room, and Sid sat in one of the upholstered armchairs of the three-piece suite. Flo stood in the middle of the floor, and beckoned to Ken. “Come here,” she said. “You’re going to get at least one good hug tonight.”

Ken put his glass down and stood in front of her. Her scent put him in mind of satin sheets and frilly nighties. “Put your arms around me,” she ordered. Ken obeyed, with a sideways glance at Sid, who smiled benignly back. Flo wrapped her arms around Ken and pulled him into her. He was astonished to feel a pair of soft tits pressing against his chest. Despite having occasionally ogled her rear view, he had never really thought of her as possessing all the womanly attributes. She was not a busty woman, so her tits had never, as it were, brought themselves to his attention. Now it was impossible to ignore them, nor did he want to, the sensation being all the more delightful for being unexpected.

Flo pulled her head back and smiled at him. Their faces only inches apart, the invitation was unmistakable. He lowered his head to hers and kissed her. Another surprise: her lips were soft and warm and, what’s more, willing. They worked themselves wetly against his mouth in a delicious smooch. His hands slid down her back and cupped her bum cheeks. They were small, but soft, and he squeezed them lovingly.

Ken did not notice that Flo was gradually easing him backwards toward the empty armchair. When the seat hit him behind the knees, he fell into it with surprise. Flo, however, was ready for the moment, and she deftly steered him into the chair, simultaneously turning herself to sit sideways in his lap, with her arms around his neck, and her legs over the arm of the chair, the outer leg outstretched. The hem of her skirt had fallen back towards her lap, showing her legs. Ken was surprised that she had let that happen, and still more surprised when she did nothing to cover her legs up again. His heart beat a little faster to see that she was wearing stockings with suspenders. Her legs were long and her stockings short, so that there was a considerable length of bare white thigh apparent above the stocking top.

Five thoughts flashed across Ken’s mind in quick succession. First, that his jaw had dropped. He quickly closed his mouth. Second, that he was the male half of a classic snogging scenario. Third, that the female half was an elderly woman. Fourth, that he didn’t give a damn about her age. Fifth, that he was in full view of her husband. With some trepidation he looked across at Sid.

Sid gave him a smile and a wink. “Don’t mind me, mate,” he said. “Get stuck in. You’re not robbing me of anything. I’ll get mine, don’t you worry. She’s plenty woman enough for that.” Flo blew Sid a kiss.

With that assurance, Ken gladly put Sid out of his mind, and turned his attention to the armful of woman he had in his lap. His lips closed greedily on hers, and they resumed the sloppy kisses that the chair had interrupted. As they kissed, Ken’s hand roamed across Flo’s front, seeking the tits that had so surprised him. He found them, and once again marvelled at their existence. Flo smiled, and undid two of her blouse buttons. Ken took the hint and swiftly undid the rest. Between them they pulled the front of the blouse wide open.

The top half of her bra cups were made of a sort of filmy net, through which he could plainly see two small pink nipples. He stroked the bare skin between her bra and skirt, and lowered his head to kiss the top of her chest. When he did that, Flo reached up and pulled her bra down, freeing a tit for his mouth to explore. He ran his tongue around the nipple, and felt it stiffen.He sucked the tit into his mouth. He opened his mouth wide and got the whole tit in until the nipple hit the back of his throat. He released it and sucked it back in several times until he felt Flo beginning to jerk her hips in his lap.

The thought that he was turning her on excited him. He moved his hand down to her legs and brushed the inside of her thighs. Flo opened her legs, letting him move higher with each stroke until his thumb hit against her crotch. She jerked harder when she felt that. He rubbed his thumb up and down. Flo was giving little grunts as her hips moved. She was wearing French knickers, and the loose legs let him get his hand inside easily. Her İkitelli escort crack was wet and slippery.He rotated his thumb at the top of her slit, and she started bucking violently. He lifted his head from her tit and kissed her mouth, stabbing his tongue in and out with little fucking movements in time with her spasms. Before long she threw her head back with an “Aah! Aah! Aah!” and her cunt fluids wet his hand. He instantly came in his pants.

* * *

Flo got to her feet unsteadily and looked at the wet patch in his trousers. “Oh dear,” she said. “It looks like you’ve done yourself out of a fuck, Ken. At least, for the time being. Never mind, there’ll be another day, I promise. Anyway, at least we’ve found out you know how to turn a girl on. Your Doreen doesn’t know what she’s missing. Now then, off you go. We’ll have another little chat over the weekend, and I’ll let you know what we’re going to do, but right now I need a good fuck.”

Ken saw that Sid already had his shirt and trousers off, so he waddled awkwardly upstairs, the front of his trousers clinging to him stickily.

* * *

Friday night.

In bed that night, Flo said to Sid, “You know, love, I can’t make up my mind whether to try to reform Ken’s Doreen, or whether to tell him to give her up as a bad job, and find someone better for him.”

“It’s a tough one,” Sid agreed. “In favour of ‘is keeping Doreen is the fact that physically she’s a right gorgeous bit o’ stuff. I wouldn’t mind shagging ‘er meself if she weren’t such a po-faced strait-laced sourpuss.”

“You wouldn’t mind shagging any woman, you randy old sod, provided she’s still breathing, and sometimes I’m not even sure about that,” Flo said, smiling at him lovingly. “But I do agree that she has a very lovely body.”

“Cor, ‘ave you actually seen it naked?” Sid asked eagerly.

“Down, boy,” Flo admonished him. “No, I haven’t, but she has that style of healthy physique that can’t be hidden, even under clothing. When she walks, with every step you can see her thigh moulding the front of her skirt. When she breathes, you can tell the shape of the tits inside her blouse. She doesn’t dress all tarty, like some who think that showing a lot of skin is sexy, but she has that sort of wholesome vitality that oozes sex.”

Sid mused, “There used to be a lot of girls like that, especially around Surrey. You’d see ’em on ‘orses, or playing tennis. They don’t seem to breed ’em like that anymore.”

“I don’t know,” Flo replied. “I think they still do in America, especially in the wilder parts. ‘Corn fed’ they call them; ‘corn fed Daisy Maes.'”

“Perhaps Australia too,” Sid suggested. “Think of some of them lady tennis players. ‘Ere! Wait a minute. Tennis! That remind’s me of something.” To Flo’s surprise he hopped out of bed and went barefoot – in fact bare everything – into the lounge.

In a little while he returned, carrying a slim book. “‘Ere it is,” he announced, climbing back into bed. “Remember that book o’ poetry someone give us last Christmas? It’s in that; poem called ‘A subaltern’s love song.'” He started reading bits from the book. “‘The speed of a swallow, the grace of a boy,’ and ‘I am weak from your loveliness, Joan ‘Unter Dunn.’ That’s ‘er name, ‘Joan ‘Unter Dunn.’ Least, that’s what this Betjeman chap called ‘er, but it’s our Doreen, to the life.”

“Yes, dear,” Flo answered patiently, “but that doesn’t get us any further, does it? Here’s this lovely girl, in the prime of her womanhood, and she won’t give her man a tumble. It’s a crime.”

“Do you think she’s a lezzie?” Sid wondered.

“You men! You’re obsessed with lesbians. You all think that they’re only that way because they haven’t met you, that one glimpse of your willy and they’ll be converted. Huh! Some hopes. But to answer your question, no, I don’t think she’s a lezzie, as you so delicately put it. If I’d have thought there was any chance she was, I’d have been after her myself long since. No, I’ve got a different idea, and I’m going to test it tomorrow. So end of discussion. I want to get a couple of hours sleep before the cock crows.”

“Talking of cocks…” Sid started.

“No! You’ve had quite enough. Go to sleep. Goodnight!” With that, Flo turned her back on him and resolutely closed her eyes.

* * *

Mrs Buxton and the Vicar.

When Mrs Buxton was only a girl, she was teased for being fat, but she matured into that most delightful of adult female conformations, the cottage-loaf figure. An ample bosom rounded out her upper shape, separated from her wide hips and round bum by a fleshy waist that cried out to have an arm wrapped around it. In her twenties she was frequently referred to as ‘bonny Betty’ or ‘buxom Betty,’ and she delighted all aficionados of alliteration, assonance, and tongue twisting when she married Billie Buxton and became ‘bonny buxom Betty Buxton.’

Widowed in her fifties, Betty became the church cleaning lady. She soon became aware that the vicar’s Çapa escort bayan eyes followed her as she cleaned the church every Saturday morning. Betty had a heart as generous as her figure, and she did not begrudge the vicar his voyeuristic treats. After all, it cost her nothing. She began dressing and moving so as to afford him ample opportunities to ogle her as she worked. Gradually, over time, they had tacitly developed a ritualistic routine with which she would round off her cleaning session.

On her hands and knees she would start polishing a brass memorial plate let into the floor near the stairs which lead down to the crypt. The vicar would creep up from the crypt, and stop when his chin reached floor level. He was then looking straight down Betty’s low-cut U-shaped neckline as it drooped down from her chest. As Betty rubbed, her big tits ebbed to and fro within its confines, always threatening to break bounds on their outward flow, but never quite doing so, despite the clear absence of a constraining bra.

When she thought that he had had enough of that view, Betty would turn and face the other way, resuming her rubbing motions. She had previously hitched her skirt well up, tucking it into her waistband, so that now the vicar had an unimpeded view of the back of her fat dimpled thighs, wobbling sensuously as she rocked her arse around in a circular motion.

Betty would then rise and move to the end of a pew, taking care not to notice the vicar emerging from the stairs and secreting himself surreptitiously behind a nearby pillar. She would then remove her knee pads one at a time. To do so, she would lift a foot onto the end of the pew, and hitch her skirt as high as it would go. Undoing the straps of the kneepad seemed to involve turning first this way, then that, so that the vicar got a good view of the outside and inside of each thigh. She would swing her knee outward too, exposing the crotch of her knickers to his appreciative eyes.

Once the kneepads were disposed of, Betty would move to the lofty pulpit and start to polish the handrail of its stairs. She would always have one foot on a higher step than the other, inevitably pulling her skirt well up her leg. As she polished the handrail, rubbing it up and down, her hand would somehow get entangled with her skirt and pull it even higher, often waist high. This gave the vicar his last chance to confirm which knickers she was wearing: the French knickers, the granny knickers, the little girl school knickers, or the vintage Victorian knickers with the short frilly legs. Betty had all types, in a selection of colours and patterns. She believed that variety was the spice of life.

Finally Betty would move to the altar table and polish a candlestick. She would take it in one hand, and with a yellow duster in the other, lovingly stroke it up and down slowly and sensuously. Under his cassock, the vicar’s hand would be making similar movements.

To end the session, the vicar would say brightly, “What, still here, Mrs Buxton? I thought you had finished and left.”

Betty would always reply, “Oh, is that you, Vicar? I didn’t see you standing there.”

* * *

Saturday morning at the church.

The day after her bedtime talk with Sid, Flo decided to test her theory about Doreen. She went round to the church just as Mrs Buxton was leaving. She knew all about Betty’s game with the vicar, the two ladies having had many a laugh about it over their port and lemons in the pub. “Hello, Betty,” she said. “What colour did you give him today then? The white frillies with the pink roses?”

“No, it was a special today; I wasn’t wearing any!” Betty replied.

“What? You never! How come?”

“I’ll give you a clue. As I left I murmured in his ear, ‘You didn’t think I’d forget it was your birthday, did you, Vicar?’ You should have seen his face! I bet right now he’s got a calendar out, ready to mark off the days.”

“I might find him in a bit of a state then?” Flo said.

“I’m afraid so. Sorry.”

“Oh, don’t apologise,” Flo answered. “As it happens, that suits me down to the ground.”

“Good,” Betty replied, “but I’d better scoot now. He’ll be coming out soon.” She hurried off down the street.

* * *

Flo intercepted the Reverend George Dribble as he was closing the large oak front doors of the church before going home to the vicarage next door.

“Excuse me, Father,” she said, “can you please take my confession?”

“You’ve got the wrong church, madam,” he replied. “This is an Anglican church, not a Catholic one.”

“I am an Anglican, Father,” she replied, “C of E all my life, but I need to confess my sinful thoughts. They are torturing my mind.” Seeing that he was about to renew his objection, she quickly added, “Such wicked dirty thoughts, Father.” She paused briefly, then hissed, “Sex, Father, dirty sex thoughts. I have to get them out of my system. I have to tell someone all the dirty sex thoughts that run through my mind. You’re the Father to your flock, aren’t you? I am one of your pastoral daughters. Don’t you want to save your daughter, Father? Let her tell you all the nasty thoughts she has, that threaten her soul with eternal damnatiion. Please, Father, please let me open up to you. Let me release all my soul’s innermost secrets that soil its purity.”

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