Sating the Reverend’s Daughter.

I had not long been resident in my new house in Yorkshire before the Reverend Banwell arrived at my door metaphorical begging bowl in hand.

As the occupier of the largest and most imposing abode in the village that is after the Vicarage which itself would have been regarded as a modest dwelling only if compared to the Vatican city or the acropolis of Rhodes. It could have accommodated a good half dozen destitute families but only the Reverend his wife and their daughter lived there with a modest crew of about half a dozen servants.

The Vicar resplendent in the splendour of his purple raiment and white dog collar as I termed it proceeded to lecture me on the need for charity. Sobriety, Chastity, and the evils of gambling. I am afraid his words were wasted on me, I had done very well out of gambling and enjoyed the occasional glass of fine wine and chastity, I couldn’t remember far enough back to remember when I was last chaste.

He then had the temerity to lecture me about his daughter, from his de***********ion she was the most godly creature to walk the earth since Saint Francis and it was an injustice that as a female she could not follow him into the church as an ordained cleric.

I didn’t ask why she didn’t go to a convent if she was so pious. It was obvious that she was too fond of fine clothes to consider the life of a nun.

When ever I saw her she was squeezed into a wasp waisted outfit which pushed her bosoms up so her teats reared to the moon and emphasised her backside which bulged like that of a baboon emphasised by a quite ridiculous bustle.

She was not even young, I mean I am no yearling but she must have been thirty if she was a day. A thirty year old virgin. All that passion locked away ready to explode and explode it did, frequently. God forbid anyone rile her, it was not just her horse that she horse whipped.

I set myself a course to keep well away from her, but my plan to bring the new house to life and swiftly sell it was derailed by procrastination by the lawyers and I remained in Yorkshire for several more days which became weeks.

I saw the aforesaid Vicar’s daughter around, quite often sitting on her horse side saddle as often as not instead of astride and rubbing herself on the saddle as the horse galloped as some of my racier female acquaintances were wont to do when their husbands were not on hand to serve them.

Should anyone seduce her it would be like unwrapping a Christmas present, I deduced, such were the layers of finery in which she was wrapped. A Peacock among pigeons and entirely out of place she looked down on everyone myself included, yet she had done no single thing with her life, no work, no children, not even afforded men some pleasure.

Then the Vicar’s wife suggested in passing the girl would make me a wonderful wife.

Wife, I could no more bring myself to fuck that over starched harridan than fly to the moon.

Which is why in my dreams that night I awoke from a dream that I was doing exactly that with my member absolutely rampant. I had to seek out cook to accommodate me and have him safely deflated in her commodious soft slot while gently massaging her monstrous mounds.

The bloody woman herself then came calling. The vicar’s daughter that is. Straightaway she launched in. “Mother had no right to suggest we wed.”

“No,indeed,” I agreed, “Would you like a fuck of tea, I mean a cup of tea.” I stuttered as ber upswept bosoms threatened to cleave my eyes out so tightly was her waist constricted.

“You evil man, you are lusting after me even now,” she snapped, “Well think on, I would not marry you if you were the last man in the world.”

“I think not, you would not marry a Blackmore or a Miner or a Farm worker,” I observed “Perhaps if I were the last Gentleman in the world.