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Jenna, the Vicar’s Wife: Part 2
Dinner with the Archbishop of Canterbury
By Blacksheep. Listen to the Podcast at Steamy Stories.
On Monday afternoon, a letter arrived at the vicarage that took Reverend Morris by surprise.
"I don't believe this!" He gasped, reading the letter out loud to
Jenna. "It's from Bishop George. He says that Justin Welby, the
Archbishop of Canterbury is planning to visit next week."
"Whoa, " Jenna spluttered.
"Yup. You and I have been invited to dine at Bishop George's place.
Apparently the Archbishop is visiting several dioceses, and parish
churches, and for some bizarre reason, humble little St. Michael's
church has caught his eye! Bishop George states that I'll be receiving a
letter from the Archbishop over the next few days, outlining the reason
for his visit."
"Wow, what a tremendous honor for you, Simon!" Jenna smiled, flinging
her arms around him. "Well you're the best vicar ever, so he obviously
wants to give you some sort of award!"
"Hmm, maybe?" Reverend Morris re-read the letter. "This is totally unexpected, and a bit bizarre. I can't get my head round it."
"I remember seeing Justin Welby give that speech when we were
watching the Queen's funeral." Jenna said. "And to think, we're going to
get to meet him! This is really exciting!"
"I wish I shared your optimism my love, but I can't help but thinking that there's a catch."
A few days later, Reverend Morris' fears were confirmed when a second letter arrived.
"I don't believe this!" The vicar lamented as he read the
Archbishop's letter. "It has come to the Archbishop's attention that
there is a big plaque in St. Michael's church that commemorates a local
man called Henry Barrington-Smythe, who died in 1695 and worshipped at
the church. According to the covert research conducted by the
Archbishop, Henry once owned a horse that he sold to someone whose
second cousin twice removed, was involved in the slave trade."
"I can see how that could be seen as quite triggering in this day and
age," Jenna said. "But I'm sure the horse wasn't bothered."
Reverend Morris slapped his forehead. "Oh this is a nightmare. The
Archbishop recommends that the plaque is removed. It's not that simple
though. It's actually carved into the wall, near the organ pipes. To
remove it, would cause terrible damage to the wall! Our little church is
so old, and we've worked so hard to fundraise to repair the roof."
Jenna narrowed her eyes, seeing how distressed her husband was. This situation needed rectifying immediately.
"Simon, try not to worry. When we dine at Bishop George's place, you
will have the chance to put your point across to the Archbishop. Has he
made this information about the plaque public?"
"No," Reverend Morris replied. "To be honest, I know hardly anything
about this Henry Barrington-Smythe chap. I Googled him once, and
information was really scarce. Nothing on Wikipedia. A few obscure
paragraphs on the parish register. He was vicar here during the 1670s
and left a lot of money to the church in his will."
Jenna smiled. "Oh good. So what we have here is a controlled situation."
"For now. I expect he'll tweet all about it after the meeting."
We'll see about that, Jenna thought to herself.
The day of the meeting arrived. Reverend Morris anxiously fiddled
with his clerical collar and kept checking his watch. Nearly time to set
off to Bishop George's house.
Presently, Jenna came breezing into the sitting room, where her
husband stood, gazing out of the window at the front garden beyond. In a
pale pink gown, pearl cross earrings, and her red hair swept back, she
looked more suited to a red carpet event in Hollywood than a sober meal
with the clergy.
"Do I look alright?" She asked, knowing full well what Reverend Morris' response would be.
"Oh my God, wow, you look absolutely beautiful as always, Jenna. Right well, we'd better get going."
"Try not to worry, Simon." She said, kissing him. "It might not be as bad as it seems."
He sighed. "St. Michael's church means so much to me. I treasure its
heritage. You and I, we've both worked so hard to build up its
congregation, raise money to restore the roof, the stained glass windows
and to fix the dry rot in the vestry."
"And we shall continue to treasure it. Don't you worry. Things might
turn out alright. I'm sure an acceptable compromise can be reached."
"I hope so."
They headed to the car. A plan was forming in Jenna's mind. Justin
Welby isn't the best-looking of men, she thought. Mind you, I don't plan
on looking at his face,
Bishop George was stood at the door of his home when Jenna and Reverend Morris arrived.
"Great to see you both!" He smiled. "Can't say I'm happy at what the Big Boss is proposing here."
"You and me both, George," Simon sighed. Jenna winked at the bishop.
"Right, do go in, make yourself comfortable, there are refreshments
waiting. Dinner shall be served at six. Bishop Finch was supposed to be
here too, you remember him? Alas, he cried off. Dishonest and he drinks.
Good bishops are so hard to find these days, eh?" Bishop George ushered
him in. As Jenna walked past, he winked back at her.
"I've got your red lace panties on tonight," he whispered.
"A great choice!" Jenna whispered back.
Reverend Morris sipped a sherry as he nervously awaited the
Archbishop's arrival. Five minutes later, there was the sound of a car
door being slammed shut, and Bishop George could be heard welcoming
someone.
"He's coming," Reverend Morris gulped. "Why do I feel like a little kid about to be sent to detention?"
"God is with us," Jenna replied, patting his thigh.
Bishop George entered the room. "It is a great pleasure to welcome
our Archbishop of Canterbury, Justin Welby, to dine with us this
evening. Jenna and her husband stood up.
"Oh good, he's come alone," Jenna smiled, fearing that his wife might
have accompanied him. He was clad in a grey jacket, with black shirt,
black trousers, a clerical collar and a large cross round his neck.
Everyone shook hands. "Ah, Reverend Morris," the Archbishop began. "The vicar of St. Michael's. Nice to meet you at last."
"Thank you, Your Grace. And this is Jenna, my wife."
Jenna was quick to offer her hand. "I've wanted to meet you for such a
long time, Your Grace. You're sitting next to me at the table!"
The vicar's young and stunning wife had certainly caused the
Archbishop to raise an eyebrow. "Am I? Well lucky old me. I am very
honored!" Privately, he was astonished that the mild-mannered vicar of
St. Michael's had managed to pull such a gorgeous woman. He was normally
immune to such things, but found himself rather shamefully gawping at
Jenna's cleavage.
"What a mercy she wasn't at the Queen's funeral," he said to himself.
"If she'd been sat in the crowd, I'd have struggled to concentrate."
The pre-dinner conversation between Reverend Morris, Bishop George
and the Archbishop remained cordial, if not a bit overly formal. While
the three men spoke, Jenna was a constant figure at the Archbishop's
side; laughing at his unfunny jokes, pretending to enjoy his boring
stories of ministry in Africa, inquiring about Westminster Abbey, and
generally hanging on his every word like an infatuated student with her
tutor.
Bishop George suggested his guests seat themselves at the table in
preparation for the first course. The Archbishop took his seat. On his
right was Jenna, and Reverend Morris was opposite him.
"Bishop George is such a good cook, Reverend Morris prattled
nervously. "I've dined here before and his roast dinners are something
to marvel at. I, I enjoy cooking too."
Sensing her husband's discomfort, Jenna cut in. "He's a much better
cook than I am. Most things I cook aren't suitable for human
consumption."
The Archbishop chuckled. "Let us say a prayer before we dine."
The first course passed without incident, but Jenna was hungry for
something else. The Archbishop had launched into a lengthy monologue
about hurtful plaques and statues, and Jenna sensed it was time to act.
Bishop George was in the kitchen and Reverend Morris excused himself as
he needed to go to the bathroom. She was alone with the leader of the
Church of England, the ceremonial head of the worldwide Anglican
Communion. Now was the time for the vixen to catch her prey.
"You've done so many impressive things during your tenure, Your
Grace. Words cannot explain how much I admire you," she continued,
flattering him off the scale."
"Why thank you Jenna. "I appreciate your kind words!"
Jenna continued. "Your Grace, I ask you as a good Christian, would
you not consider dropping this little investigation into this pesky old
plaque in my husband's church? Your letter has caused him a great deal
of worry, you have no idea how much, "
The Archbishop adjusted his glasses. "Jenna, I have no wish to cause
any distress to your husband. I am simply trying to ensure that our C of
E churches are inclusive to all, and devoid of harmful imagery."
He had been quietly sipping his soup. Suddenly, a strange sensation
made him almost drop his spoon. Something was moving up his right leg
and pushing his legs apart, the mystery thing continued to rise higher,
now it was nudging his inner thigh, he realized it was Jenna's hand.
"Are you enjoying your soup?"
"Um, Jenna, what are you doing?"
"As I was saying, your letter has stressed my husband out so much,
that he and I have been unable to make love all week. Can you imagine
how upsetting that has been?" Jenna continued, furtively sliding her
hand across his thigh and squeezing gently.
The Archbishop glanced down and then at her. "Um, well I'm very sorry to hear that."
She smiled back and began rubbing his inner thigh very gently. He
cleared his throat and blushed. She said nothing, but continued gently
rubbing, and moving closer to that treasure she wanted to touch most of
all.
"Do you realize what you're doing? I am a married man!" He whispered.
"I do, but you pride yourself on having a liberal outlook, yes?
Anyways, there is a holy place I would very much like to explore, if I
may be permitted to do so, if I may be so bold as to request permission
from Your Grace, "
"You are, a rather naughty vicar's wife," he whispered back, feeling his cheeks flushing.
"You haven't granted permission, Your Grace."
The Archbishop took a deep breath. Why was he giving in to temptation
so easily? If he refused, would she kick up a fuss? Bishop George and
the vicar could return at any moment.
"Mrs. Morris, you may do as you wish. I am yours to explore, "
This was all the permission she required. Before the Archbishop could
complete his sentence, Jenna reached across the startled man's lap and
quickly unzipped his trousers. He could not believe the dexterity and
speed at which his beautiful assailant nimbly accomplished the task. He
shot an astonished wide-eyed glance at the temptress seated next to him.
Guessing his thoughts, Jenna flashed a mischievous smile and said,
"Your Grace. I heard that there's a name for a bishop's staff. It's
called a crosier. Am I right?"
"Er, yes. That's right."
Jenna swiftly freed the Archbishop's staff from his white boxer
shorts. He may not have been the most handsome of men, but he had a
gorgeous cock. It wasn't a monstrous length like Father Aiden's or thick
like Gordon's, but it was impressive all the same. Definitely holy!
The Archbishop's back stiffened and he caught his breath as he felt
Jenna's soft, warm fingers wrap around his engorged fuck pole. The touch
from this ravishing young beauty in the most sensual of spots sent
chills throughout his body. He suppressed a gentle moan in the back of
this throat as Jenna began to slowly run her hand up and down the shaft.
She knew to vary the speed of her up and down motion, and could sense
when the Archbishop was reaching peak ecstasy. Before he could achieve
sexual release, Jenna slowed her pace or altered the movement in order
to delay gratification. She wanted the Most Reverend's pleasure to
extend for as long as possible. Jenna explored every feature along the
length of her newest conquest's fleshy sceptre. Her delicate fingers
rippled over the veiny surface, massaged the soft foreskin, and gently
squeezed the head. When she reached the shaft's base, the eager filly
worked her slender digits along the Archbishop's inner thigh and cupped
his balls, juggling them with her fingertips.
"Your Grace, I beg of you. I want to go further and worship properly.
However I cannot do this unless you agree to scrap your suggestion that
St. Michael's remove its plaque to Henry Barrington-Smythe. Let him and
his horse rest in peace, yes? Neither of them kept slaves. I'm sure
Henry sold his horse in good faith and had no idea what links the buyer
had. A few years ago I gave my old smartphone to a woman at work who
turned out to be a massive fan of Cliff Richard. Some might say that was
a crime against humanity."
The Archbishop was desperate to come. Sweat had broken out on his
forehead and his glasses were steaming up. "Okay, you have my word," he
sighed. "I'll scrap the whole thing!"
"Thankyou, .dear Justin!" She said, using his Christian name for the
first time. Carefully, Jenna removed one of her earrings. The Archbishop
had to stifle a gasp as she slid out of her chair and under the table.
"God," he murmured, almost incredulous at her conviction and boldness.
Then with almost no hesitation, she dropped her head and closed her
mouth around his throbbing shaft.
The Most Reverend's breathing started to become more rapid and
shallow, an indication Jenna recognized as signaling her oral exertions
would soon be ending. Wanting to provide the head of the church with the
greatest amount of pleasure possible, Jenna's grand finale was to deep
throat his cock and vigorously jerk up and down on it. This motion had
the desired effect within moments, as a muffled groan escaped the
Archbishop's mouth. Jenna felt the holy rod in her mouth recoil as it
shot a mighty stream of pearl-colored ejaculate down her throat. This
first round was quickly followed by a second and then a third as the
Most Reverend's balls unloaded their thick, milky contents. Jenna
swallowed and savored every drop. It is a truth not universally
acknowledged, that the taste of a man, especially a man of God, is the
finest taste in the world, she thought. A final spurt missed its target
and splashed down her cleavage.
Only after the last discharge was launched and the Archbishop leaned
back in his chair exhausted and sweaty, did Jenna finally withdraw.
The Archbishop jolted in panic as Bishop George and Reverend Morris
returned to the dining room. He quickly poured himself a glass of water
and swallowed it. He wondered how to warn Jenna, but she'd already
sensed it was time to return to her seat.
"I'm sorry I was so long," Reverend Morris mumbled. "Call of nature and all that."
"And silly me, I forgot to turn the oven up, but worry not, the roast beef is nearly ready!" Bishop George replied.
"Understood," panted the Archbishop, wiping his glasses.
Bishop George tilted his head at his Jenna's empty chair, and the movement under the table. He raised the tablecloth.
"Oh I say, Jenna. Have you lost something?"
"Just my pearl earring," she calmly replied. "But fortunately, I have now found it."
Bishop George nodded and gave a wry smile. "So I see. And you seem to have gained a pearl necklace too!"
A Ghost Appears at the Methodist Church
"What are your thoughts on ghosts, Jen?" Reverend Morris said as he climbed into bed.
Jenna reclined next to her husband, and ran a finger through his
chest hair. "Hmm, never given them much thought. I keep an open mind.
I've never seen one myself, but I'd like to! I wouldn't be scared. Just
really fascinated."
"I might get to see one tomorrow. I've just had a rather desperate
email from Reverend Marsha Ewing over at the Oakwood Road Methodist
Church. She's at her wits end. Says her church has been haunted by a
persistent ghost ever since Halloween. She's tried walking around
splashing holy water on the walls, saying a prayer of deliverance, but
to no avail. The church has had to remain closed all week."
"Whoa, that ghost must really like the Methodist church then!" Jenna
said. "I haven't been in there since I was a little girl. My gran is a
Methodist. I remember going to a few services. I remember it being light
and airy inside, with the white balcony and pale yellow walls."
"Well it's not just any old ghost that's taken up residence there.
Reverend Ewing is adamant says that it's the ghost of John Wesley."
"What, the John Wesley? The founder of Methodism?" Jenna blinked.
"Yes. That's the bit I find really hard to believe. Not saying that
Reverend Ewing is lying of course. I just can't understand why John
Wesley of all people, would choose to return to this earthly realm. I
mean, he was a true servant of God, a good man, who preached to the
masses and led a long, pious life. Why would his soul suddenly become
restless and earthbound?"
Jenna was fascinated. "Maybe he didn't choose to return. Maybe
someone or something lured him back, and he's got trapped somehow? Don't
they say on All Hallow's Eve, the barrier between the dead and the
living is broken and the dead can pop back for a visit? Or something?"
"Good theory!" Reverend Morris replied. "Wesley did visit the site
where the Oakwood church now stands. The church wasn't built until
Victorian times, but he preached out in the open in the 1770s. The very
spot where he stood is marked by a bronze statue of him. Anyways,
Reverend Morris has decided to ask other members of the clergy for help.
She's asked me to go along to the church tomorrow. Hopefully two vicars
are better than one, and we can help John to return to the other side,
so to speak."
"Shouldn't Father Aiden be called along too? Like in the Exorcist?"
Reverend Morris laughed. "I once watched that movie with some mates
at university. I really regret eating at the time, it put me off soup
for weeks. Bit different though. That was movie about demonic
possession, not a haunting."
Jenna thought for a while. "If you ask me, having John Wesley
actually appear could be a fantastic tourism opportunity for the church.
Think of the visitors it could attract. Maybe he just wanted to see one
of his old worship spots again. I wish he could've brought his brother
Charles along. You know how much I'm a fan of him. Did I ever tell you I
once had an erotic dream about him?"
"No? Tell me more!"
"I was working as a tavern wench, when Charles arrived, weary after a
long journey from Bristol. I led him to a bedchamber. He told me he was
travelling to London, to visit his brother, John."
Jenna rolled over and kissed him. The Reverend's tongue darted into
her mouth, fondling hers. Her left arm stretched across his back with
her hand resting between his shoulders. With her right hand, she reached
down the front of his boxer shorts, slowly tracing up and down the
length of his engorged cock with her palm.
"And, I helped Charles overcome his writer's block, so he was able to write Hark the Herald Angels Sing."
She pulled down his boxers and rolled her tongue around the head of her husband's cock, trying to get every drop of precum.
"Oh, I'll never be able to think of that carol in the same way again!"
Next morning, Reverend Morris headed to Oakwood Road Methodist
Church. It was a small, solidly-built structure, sandwiched between a
row of terraced houses, their brickwork still smoke-blackened from the
days of the Industrial Revolution.
"This part of town never seems to change," Reverend Morris said to
himself, as he parked the car. "They call it the Victorian Quarter."
The vicar of Oakwood Road Methodist Church was Reverend Marsha Ewing,
a jolly, middle-aged black woman. Originally from South Carolina, she'd
emigrated nearly ten years ago, and put her heart and soul into running
the church. Even the dismal British weather couldn't dampen her
spirits. Now for the first time, she looked a little stressed.
"Thanks for coming, Simon," she said as he entered the church.
"Not at all," he replied. "Always happy to assist a fellow person of
the cloth. A most unusual situation this. I've never been called upon to
be a "deliverance minister" before. First time for everything I guess!"
"I've been going out of my mind with this. Ol' Mr. Wesley ain't for
staying' quiet! I've tried everything to placate the guy but nothing
works. I've tried prayer, singing hymns, talking to him. Went through
the whole Ghostbusting routine. I asked Róisín, the vicar from the
Living Earth Free Church to call round yesterday. She's only been in the
role a few weeks, but very willing to help. We both prayed together,
hoping John would find peace. But it didn't work and this morning, John
appeared again, in the vestry. Took me by surprise. Started blowing
papers around. And the church goes so darn cold when he appears.
Actually saw him full-length today. I asked him directly, why is he so
upset? He said he couldn't say why, but there's only one person who can
help him. I pressed him further. He just said the person he needs lives
in this town. Wouldn't say if they're male or female."
"Blimey," Reverend Morris said, rubbing his chin. "That's a bit
vague. It could be anyone. The population of this town is around 100,000
people! How are we ever going to find out who the right person is?"
"One of the wardens suggested I post something on the church's
Facebook page, but I'd rather keep it all as quiet as possible. We've
already had folks making hoax phone calls and posting memes and stuff on
Twitter. It ain't funny. Most of my congregation are seniors. They
don't want any fuss. Some of them think I'm making the whole thing up,
as a sort of viral marketing campaign to increase attendance. Some of
the comments online have been nasty."
Reverend Morris sighed. "I'm sorry to hear that. Well, let's pray
together and see if we can help John. Not sure if I'm the one he seeks,
but there's only one way to find out!"
"Mm, hmm." Reverend Ewing nodded. "John Wesley is very dear to all of
us here. He stood in the very spot where that statue is." She pointed
to the bronze statue in the corner. "I don't want folks thinking I'm
mocking his memory or anything. Must say I haven't experienced anything
like this since the Orangeburg Incident of 1999."
"The what?"
"Oh it was when I was back in the States. So, on the night of New
Year's Eve 1999, Abraham Lincoln suddenly appeared in a branch of
Walgreens. Many blamed it on drug-induced paranoia brought about by the
hype of the coming Millennium."
"Fascinating stuff," Reverend Morris replied. He walked over to the
Wesley statue. On a table next to it, were three large, newly-lit
candles.
"Tell me, does he look exactly like his portrait?"
"Oh yes. Long white hair. Dressed all in black and with preaching
bands. He's a short stack too. Around five foot four? Slightly built. He
looks so miserable though, like he needs a hug or something."
"The state of the world right now, I think we all need a hug,"
Reverend Morris said. "Okay, well I'll try my best. If I fail, I'll have
to give Father Aiden from St. Gregory's a call. Let's start by saying
the Lord's Prayer."
The flames on the candles, which had been steady, flared and writhed,
drawn upward by a draft that the two of them couldn't feel. Salamanders
of yellow light wriggled across the previously dark side of Reverend
Ewing's face. When she looked at the candles, her eyes were as yellow as
moons low on the horizon.
"He's coming."
Quickly the candle flames subsided. The church chandeliers dimmed and
brightened, dimmed and brightened, like the flickering lights in the
classic old movie Gaslight. Reverend Morris felt a growing sense of
fear. The temperature in the church had plummeted.
He tried talking to the spirit directly. "The Lord be with you. Lift
up your heart, John. I welcome to you to this place of worship. My name
is Reverend Simon Morris and I, "
From behind him came not a hand and not, as he might have expected, a
blast of heat, but a hissing cold that first prickled the nape of his
neck and then seemed to drill into the summit of his spine, through the
base of his skull.
Throughout all this, Reverend Ewing remained calm. "Simon," she whispered. "He's behind you."
He didn't want to turn round, afraid of coming face to face with some
eldritch abomination, but he summoned his courage. There, stood right
behind him, as plain as day, was John Wesley himself. At first glance,
he resembled any other living person, save for a faint aura of silver
light surrounding him.
"Um, greetings to you, Mr. Wesley." The vicar stammered. He wondered
why he was so afraid. Of all the dead persons one could meet, John
Wesley was surely one of the nicest, most inoffensive ones.
John's face relaxed into a smile. He put his hands together and
bowed. "I thank you most sincerely. Soon, I shall experience salvation,
for you are known to this person whom I seek. I hope you can bring her
to me soon. I bid you a good day, "
He bowed and vanished. Suddenly, in the space of thirty seconds, it
was light and bright in the church. The lights stopped flickering and
the gloom lifted. Outside, the clouds had rolled back from the sun. The
building was suddenly and unexplainably warm too, as if the temperature
had risen by about five degrees.
Reverend Morris dared to exhale. "Oh! Well, that, wasn't too nerve-racking! He's a very polite ghost isn't he?"
"Simon, did you hear what he said? He said her. A female relative or friend of yours is the person he's seeking!"
"Wonder who it could be? Not my mum, surely. Could be Aunt Susan? I'm not seeing the connection here."
"What about your wife?" Reverend Ewing suggested.
He blinked. "Jenna? Oh of course! it must be her! Her grandma is a Methodist! That must be why John wants to see her!"
To be continued.
By Blacksheep, for Literotica.
View all episodes
By Steamy Stories
3.6
2525 ratings
Dinner with the Archbishop of Canterbury
By Blacksheep. Listen to the Podcast at Steamy Stories.
On Monday afternoon, a letter arrived at the vicarage that took Reverend Morris by surprise.
"I don't believe this!" He gasped, reading the letter out loud to
Jenna. "It's from Bishop George. He says that Justin Welby, the
Archbishop of Canterbury is planning to visit next week."
"Whoa, " Jenna spluttered.
"Yup. You and I have been invited to dine at Bishop George's place.
Apparently the Archbishop is visiting several dioceses, and parish
churches, and for some bizarre reason, humble little St. Michael's
church has caught his eye! Bishop George states that I'll be receiving a
letter from the Archbishop over the next few days, outlining the reason
for his visit."
"Wow, what a tremendous honor for you, Simon!" Jenna smiled, flinging
her arms around him. "Well you're the best vicar ever, so he obviously
wants to give you some sort of award!"
"Hmm, maybe?" Reverend Morris re-read the letter. "This is totally unexpected, and a bit bizarre. I can't get my head round it."
"I remember seeing Justin Welby give that speech when we were
watching the Queen's funeral." Jenna said. "And to think, we're going to
get to meet him! This is really exciting!"
"I wish I shared your optimism my love, but I can't help but thinking that there's a catch."
A few days later, Reverend Morris' fears were confirmed when a second letter arrived.
"I don't believe this!" The vicar lamented as he read the
Archbishop's letter. "It has come to the Archbishop's attention that
there is a big plaque in St. Michael's church that commemorates a local
man called Henry Barrington-Smythe, who died in 1695 and worshipped at
the church. According to the covert research conducted by the
Archbishop, Henry once owned a horse that he sold to someone whose
second cousin twice removed, was involved in the slave trade."
"I can see how that could be seen as quite triggering in this day and
age," Jenna said. "But I'm sure the horse wasn't bothered."
Reverend Morris slapped his forehead. "Oh this is a nightmare. The
Archbishop recommends that the plaque is removed. It's not that simple
though. It's actually carved into the wall, near the organ pipes. To
remove it, would cause terrible damage to the wall! Our little church is
so old, and we've worked so hard to fundraise to repair the roof."
Jenna narrowed her eyes, seeing how distressed her husband was. This situation needed rectifying immediately.
"Simon, try not to worry. When we dine at Bishop George's place, you
will have the chance to put your point across to the Archbishop. Has he
made this information about the plaque public?"
"No," Reverend Morris replied. "To be honest, I know hardly anything
about this Henry Barrington-Smythe chap. I Googled him once, and
information was really scarce. Nothing on Wikipedia. A few obscure
paragraphs on the parish register. He was vicar here during the 1670s
and left a lot of money to the church in his will."
Jenna smiled. "Oh good. So what we have here is a controlled situation."
"For now. I expect he'll tweet all about it after the meeting."
We'll see about that, Jenna thought to herself.
The day of the meeting arrived. Reverend Morris anxiously fiddled
with his clerical collar and kept checking his watch. Nearly time to set
off to Bishop George's house.
Presently, Jenna came breezing into the sitting room, where her
husband stood, gazing out of the window at the front garden beyond. In a
pale pink gown, pearl cross earrings, and her red hair swept back, she
looked more suited to a red carpet event in Hollywood than a sober meal
with the clergy.
"Do I look alright?" She asked, knowing full well what Reverend Morris' response would be.
"Oh my God, wow, you look absolutely beautiful as always, Jenna. Right well, we'd better get going."
"Try not to worry, Simon." She said, kissing him. "It might not be as bad as it seems."
He sighed. "St. Michael's church means so much to me. I treasure its
heritage. You and I, we've both worked so hard to build up its
congregation, raise money to restore the roof, the stained glass windows
and to fix the dry rot in the vestry."
"And we shall continue to treasure it. Don't you worry. Things might
turn out alright. I'm sure an acceptable compromise can be reached."
"I hope so."
They headed to the car. A plan was forming in Jenna's mind. Justin
Welby isn't the best-looking of men, she thought. Mind you, I don't plan
on looking at his face,
Bishop George was stood at the door of his home when Jenna and Reverend Morris arrived.
"Great to see you both!" He smiled. "Can't say I'm happy at what the Big Boss is proposing here."
"You and me both, George," Simon sighed. Jenna winked at the bishop.
"Right, do go in, make yourself comfortable, there are refreshments
waiting. Dinner shall be served at six. Bishop Finch was supposed to be
here too, you remember him? Alas, he cried off. Dishonest and he drinks.
Good bishops are so hard to find these days, eh?" Bishop George ushered
him in. As Jenna walked past, he winked back at her.
"I've got your red lace panties on tonight," he whispered.
"A great choice!" Jenna whispered back.
Reverend Morris sipped a sherry as he nervously awaited the
Archbishop's arrival. Five minutes later, there was the sound of a car
door being slammed shut, and Bishop George could be heard welcoming
someone.
"He's coming," Reverend Morris gulped. "Why do I feel like a little kid about to be sent to detention?"
"God is with us," Jenna replied, patting his thigh.
Bishop George entered the room. "It is a great pleasure to welcome
our Archbishop of Canterbury, Justin Welby, to dine with us this
evening. Jenna and her husband stood up.
"Oh good, he's come alone," Jenna smiled, fearing that his wife might
have accompanied him. He was clad in a grey jacket, with black shirt,
black trousers, a clerical collar and a large cross round his neck.
Everyone shook hands. "Ah, Reverend Morris," the Archbishop began. "The vicar of St. Michael's. Nice to meet you at last."
"Thank you, Your Grace. And this is Jenna, my wife."
Jenna was quick to offer her hand. "I've wanted to meet you for such a
long time, Your Grace. You're sitting next to me at the table!"
The vicar's young and stunning wife had certainly caused the
Archbishop to raise an eyebrow. "Am I? Well lucky old me. I am very
honored!" Privately, he was astonished that the mild-mannered vicar of
St. Michael's had managed to pull such a gorgeous woman. He was normally
immune to such things, but found himself rather shamefully gawping at
Jenna's cleavage.
"What a mercy she wasn't at the Queen's funeral," he said to himself.
"If she'd been sat in the crowd, I'd have struggled to concentrate."
The pre-dinner conversation between Reverend Morris, Bishop George
and the Archbishop remained cordial, if not a bit overly formal. While
the three men spoke, Jenna was a constant figure at the Archbishop's
side; laughing at his unfunny jokes, pretending to enjoy his boring
stories of ministry in Africa, inquiring about Westminster Abbey, and
generally hanging on his every word like an infatuated student with her
tutor.
Bishop George suggested his guests seat themselves at the table in
preparation for the first course. The Archbishop took his seat. On his
right was Jenna, and Reverend Morris was opposite him.
"Bishop George is such a good cook, Reverend Morris prattled
nervously. "I've dined here before and his roast dinners are something
to marvel at. I, I enjoy cooking too."
Sensing her husband's discomfort, Jenna cut in. "He's a much better
cook than I am. Most things I cook aren't suitable for human
consumption."
The Archbishop chuckled. "Let us say a prayer before we dine."
The first course passed without incident, but Jenna was hungry for
something else. The Archbishop had launched into a lengthy monologue
about hurtful plaques and statues, and Jenna sensed it was time to act.
Bishop George was in the kitchen and Reverend Morris excused himself as
he needed to go to the bathroom. She was alone with the leader of the
Church of England, the ceremonial head of the worldwide Anglican
Communion. Now was the time for the vixen to catch her prey.
"You've done so many impressive things during your tenure, Your
Grace. Words cannot explain how much I admire you," she continued,
flattering him off the scale."
"Why thank you Jenna. "I appreciate your kind words!"
Jenna continued. "Your Grace, I ask you as a good Christian, would
you not consider dropping this little investigation into this pesky old
plaque in my husband's church? Your letter has caused him a great deal
of worry, you have no idea how much, "
The Archbishop adjusted his glasses. "Jenna, I have no wish to cause
any distress to your husband. I am simply trying to ensure that our C of
E churches are inclusive to all, and devoid of harmful imagery."
He had been quietly sipping his soup. Suddenly, a strange sensation
made him almost drop his spoon. Something was moving up his right leg
and pushing his legs apart, the mystery thing continued to rise higher,
now it was nudging his inner thigh, he realized it was Jenna's hand.
"Are you enjoying your soup?"
"Um, Jenna, what are you doing?"
"As I was saying, your letter has stressed my husband out so much,
that he and I have been unable to make love all week. Can you imagine
how upsetting that has been?" Jenna continued, furtively sliding her
hand across his thigh and squeezing gently.
The Archbishop glanced down and then at her. "Um, well I'm very sorry to hear that."
She smiled back and began rubbing his inner thigh very gently. He
cleared his throat and blushed. She said nothing, but continued gently
rubbing, and moving closer to that treasure she wanted to touch most of
all.
"Do you realize what you're doing? I am a married man!" He whispered.
"I do, but you pride yourself on having a liberal outlook, yes?
Anyways, there is a holy place I would very much like to explore, if I
may be permitted to do so, if I may be so bold as to request permission
from Your Grace, "
"You are, a rather naughty vicar's wife," he whispered back, feeling his cheeks flushing.
"You haven't granted permission, Your Grace."
The Archbishop took a deep breath. Why was he giving in to temptation
so easily? If he refused, would she kick up a fuss? Bishop George and
the vicar could return at any moment.
"Mrs. Morris, you may do as you wish. I am yours to explore, "
This was all the permission she required. Before the Archbishop could
complete his sentence, Jenna reached across the startled man's lap and
quickly unzipped his trousers. He could not believe the dexterity and
speed at which his beautiful assailant nimbly accomplished the task. He
shot an astonished wide-eyed glance at the temptress seated next to him.
Guessing his thoughts, Jenna flashed a mischievous smile and said,
"Your Grace. I heard that there's a name for a bishop's staff. It's
called a crosier. Am I right?"
"Er, yes. That's right."
Jenna swiftly freed the Archbishop's staff from his white boxer
shorts. He may not have been the most handsome of men, but he had a
gorgeous cock. It wasn't a monstrous length like Father Aiden's or thick
like Gordon's, but it was impressive all the same. Definitely holy!
The Archbishop's back stiffened and he caught his breath as he felt
Jenna's soft, warm fingers wrap around his engorged fuck pole. The touch
from this ravishing young beauty in the most sensual of spots sent
chills throughout his body. He suppressed a gentle moan in the back of
this throat as Jenna began to slowly run her hand up and down the shaft.
She knew to vary the speed of her up and down motion, and could sense
when the Archbishop was reaching peak ecstasy. Before he could achieve
sexual release, Jenna slowed her pace or altered the movement in order
to delay gratification. She wanted the Most Reverend's pleasure to
extend for as long as possible. Jenna explored every feature along the
length of her newest conquest's fleshy sceptre. Her delicate fingers
rippled over the veiny surface, massaged the soft foreskin, and gently
squeezed the head. When she reached the shaft's base, the eager filly
worked her slender digits along the Archbishop's inner thigh and cupped
his balls, juggling them with her fingertips.
"Your Grace, I beg of you. I want to go further and worship properly.
However I cannot do this unless you agree to scrap your suggestion that
St. Michael's remove its plaque to Henry Barrington-Smythe. Let him and
his horse rest in peace, yes? Neither of them kept slaves. I'm sure
Henry sold his horse in good faith and had no idea what links the buyer
had. A few years ago I gave my old smartphone to a woman at work who
turned out to be a massive fan of Cliff Richard. Some might say that was
a crime against humanity."
The Archbishop was desperate to come. Sweat had broken out on his
forehead and his glasses were steaming up. "Okay, you have my word," he
sighed. "I'll scrap the whole thing!"
"Thankyou, .dear Justin!" She said, using his Christian name for the
first time. Carefully, Jenna removed one of her earrings. The Archbishop
had to stifle a gasp as she slid out of her chair and under the table.
"God," he murmured, almost incredulous at her conviction and boldness.
Then with almost no hesitation, she dropped her head and closed her
mouth around his throbbing shaft.
The Most Reverend's breathing started to become more rapid and
shallow, an indication Jenna recognized as signaling her oral exertions
would soon be ending. Wanting to provide the head of the church with the
greatest amount of pleasure possible, Jenna's grand finale was to deep
throat his cock and vigorously jerk up and down on it. This motion had
the desired effect within moments, as a muffled groan escaped the
Archbishop's mouth. Jenna felt the holy rod in her mouth recoil as it
shot a mighty stream of pearl-colored ejaculate down her throat. This
first round was quickly followed by a second and then a third as the
Most Reverend's balls unloaded their thick, milky contents. Jenna
swallowed and savored every drop. It is a truth not universally
acknowledged, that the taste of a man, especially a man of God, is the
finest taste in the world, she thought. A final spurt missed its target
and splashed down her cleavage.
Only after the last discharge was launched and the Archbishop leaned
back in his chair exhausted and sweaty, did Jenna finally withdraw.
The Archbishop jolted in panic as Bishop George and Reverend Morris
returned to the dining room. He quickly poured himself a glass of water
and swallowed it. He wondered how to warn Jenna, but she'd already
sensed it was time to return to her seat.
"I'm sorry I was so long," Reverend Morris mumbled. "Call of nature and all that."
"And silly me, I forgot to turn the oven up, but worry not, the roast beef is nearly ready!" Bishop George replied.
"Understood," panted the Archbishop, wiping his glasses.
Bishop George tilted his head at his Jenna's empty chair, and the movement under the table. He raised the tablecloth.
"Oh I say, Jenna. Have you lost something?"
"Just my pearl earring," she calmly replied. "But fortunately, I have now found it."
Bishop George nodded and gave a wry smile. "So I see. And you seem to have gained a pearl necklace too!"
A Ghost Appears at the Methodist Church
"What are your thoughts on ghosts, Jen?" Reverend Morris said as he climbed into bed.
Jenna reclined next to her husband, and ran a finger through his
chest hair. "Hmm, never given them much thought. I keep an open mind.
I've never seen one myself, but I'd like to! I wouldn't be scared. Just
really fascinated."
"I might get to see one tomorrow. I've just had a rather desperate
email from Reverend Marsha Ewing over at the Oakwood Road Methodist
Church. She's at her wits end. Says her church has been haunted by a
persistent ghost ever since Halloween. She's tried walking around
splashing holy water on the walls, saying a prayer of deliverance, but
to no avail. The church has had to remain closed all week."
"Whoa, that ghost must really like the Methodist church then!" Jenna
said. "I haven't been in there since I was a little girl. My gran is a
Methodist. I remember going to a few services. I remember it being light
and airy inside, with the white balcony and pale yellow walls."
"Well it's not just any old ghost that's taken up residence there.
Reverend Ewing is adamant says that it's the ghost of John Wesley."
"What, the John Wesley? The founder of Methodism?" Jenna blinked.
"Yes. That's the bit I find really hard to believe. Not saying that
Reverend Ewing is lying of course. I just can't understand why John
Wesley of all people, would choose to return to this earthly realm. I
mean, he was a true servant of God, a good man, who preached to the
masses and led a long, pious life. Why would his soul suddenly become
restless and earthbound?"
Jenna was fascinated. "Maybe he didn't choose to return. Maybe
someone or something lured him back, and he's got trapped somehow? Don't
they say on All Hallow's Eve, the barrier between the dead and the
living is broken and the dead can pop back for a visit? Or something?"
"Good theory!" Reverend Morris replied. "Wesley did visit the site
where the Oakwood church now stands. The church wasn't built until
Victorian times, but he preached out in the open in the 1770s. The very
spot where he stood is marked by a bronze statue of him. Anyways,
Reverend Morris has decided to ask other members of the clergy for help.
She's asked me to go along to the church tomorrow. Hopefully two vicars
are better than one, and we can help John to return to the other side,
so to speak."
"Shouldn't Father Aiden be called along too? Like in the Exorcist?"
Reverend Morris laughed. "I once watched that movie with some mates
at university. I really regret eating at the time, it put me off soup
for weeks. Bit different though. That was movie about demonic
possession, not a haunting."
Jenna thought for a while. "If you ask me, having John Wesley
actually appear could be a fantastic tourism opportunity for the church.
Think of the visitors it could attract. Maybe he just wanted to see one
of his old worship spots again. I wish he could've brought his brother
Charles along. You know how much I'm a fan of him. Did I ever tell you I
once had an erotic dream about him?"
"No? Tell me more!"
"I was working as a tavern wench, when Charles arrived, weary after a
long journey from Bristol. I led him to a bedchamber. He told me he was
travelling to London, to visit his brother, John."
Jenna rolled over and kissed him. The Reverend's tongue darted into
her mouth, fondling hers. Her left arm stretched across his back with
her hand resting between his shoulders. With her right hand, she reached
down the front of his boxer shorts, slowly tracing up and down the
length of his engorged cock with her palm.
"And, I helped Charles overcome his writer's block, so he was able to write Hark the Herald Angels Sing."
She pulled down his boxers and rolled her tongue around the head of her husband's cock, trying to get every drop of precum.
"Oh, I'll never be able to think of that carol in the same way again!"
Next morning, Reverend Morris headed to Oakwood Road Methodist
Church. It was a small, solidly-built structure, sandwiched between a
row of terraced houses, their brickwork still smoke-blackened from the
days of the Industrial Revolution.
"This part of town never seems to change," Reverend Morris said to
himself, as he parked the car. "They call it the Victorian Quarter."
The vicar of Oakwood Road Methodist Church was Reverend Marsha Ewing,
a jolly, middle-aged black woman. Originally from South Carolina, she'd
emigrated nearly ten years ago, and put her heart and soul into running
the church. Even the dismal British weather couldn't dampen her
spirits. Now for the first time, she looked a little stressed.
"Thanks for coming, Simon," she said as he entered the church.
"Not at all," he replied. "Always happy to assist a fellow person of
the cloth. A most unusual situation this. I've never been called upon to
be a "deliverance minister" before. First time for everything I guess!"
"I've been going out of my mind with this. Ol' Mr. Wesley ain't for
staying' quiet! I've tried everything to placate the guy but nothing
works. I've tried prayer, singing hymns, talking to him. Went through
the whole Ghostbusting routine. I asked Róisín, the vicar from the
Living Earth Free Church to call round yesterday. She's only been in the
role a few weeks, but very willing to help. We both prayed together,
hoping John would find peace. But it didn't work and this morning, John
appeared again, in the vestry. Took me by surprise. Started blowing
papers around. And the church goes so darn cold when he appears.
Actually saw him full-length today. I asked him directly, why is he so
upset? He said he couldn't say why, but there's only one person who can
help him. I pressed him further. He just said the person he needs lives
in this town. Wouldn't say if they're male or female."
"Blimey," Reverend Morris said, rubbing his chin. "That's a bit
vague. It could be anyone. The population of this town is around 100,000
people! How are we ever going to find out who the right person is?"
"One of the wardens suggested I post something on the church's
Facebook page, but I'd rather keep it all as quiet as possible. We've
already had folks making hoax phone calls and posting memes and stuff on
Twitter. It ain't funny. Most of my congregation are seniors. They
don't want any fuss. Some of them think I'm making the whole thing up,
as a sort of viral marketing campaign to increase attendance. Some of
the comments online have been nasty."
Reverend Morris sighed. "I'm sorry to hear that. Well, let's pray
together and see if we can help John. Not sure if I'm the one he seeks,
but there's only one way to find out!"
"Mm, hmm." Reverend Ewing nodded. "John Wesley is very dear to all of
us here. He stood in the very spot where that statue is." She pointed
to the bronze statue in the corner. "I don't want folks thinking I'm
mocking his memory or anything. Must say I haven't experienced anything
like this since the Orangeburg Incident of 1999."
"The what?"
"Oh it was when I was back in the States. So, on the night of New
Year's Eve 1999, Abraham Lincoln suddenly appeared in a branch of
Walgreens. Many blamed it on drug-induced paranoia brought about by the
hype of the coming Millennium."
"Fascinating stuff," Reverend Morris replied. He walked over to the
Wesley statue. On a table next to it, were three large, newly-lit
candles.
"Tell me, does he look exactly like his portrait?"
"Oh yes. Long white hair. Dressed all in black and with preaching
bands. He's a short stack too. Around five foot four? Slightly built. He
looks so miserable though, like he needs a hug or something."
"The state of the world right now, I think we all need a hug,"
Reverend Morris said. "Okay, well I'll try my best. If I fail, I'll have
to give Father Aiden from St. Gregory's a call. Let's start by saying
the Lord's Prayer."
The flames on the candles, which had been steady, flared and writhed,
drawn upward by a draft that the two of them couldn't feel. Salamanders
of yellow light wriggled across the previously dark side of Reverend
Ewing's face. When she looked at the candles, her eyes were as yellow as
moons low on the horizon.
"He's coming."
Quickly the candle flames subsided. The church chandeliers dimmed and
brightened, dimmed and brightened, like the flickering lights in the
classic old movie Gaslight. Reverend Morris felt a growing sense of
fear. The temperature in the church had plummeted.
He tried talking to the spirit directly. "The Lord be with you. Lift
up your heart, John. I welcome to you to this place of worship. My name
is Reverend Simon Morris and I, "
From behind him came not a hand and not, as he might have expected, a
blast of heat, but a hissing cold that first prickled the nape of his
neck and then seemed to drill into the summit of his spine, through the
base of his skull.
Throughout all this, Reverend Ewing remained calm. "Simon," she whispered. "He's behind you."
He didn't want to turn round, afraid of coming face to face with some
eldritch abomination, but he summoned his courage. There, stood right
behind him, as plain as day, was John Wesley himself. At first glance,
he resembled any other living person, save for a faint aura of silver
light surrounding him.
"Um, greetings to you, Mr. Wesley." The vicar stammered. He wondered
why he was so afraid. Of all the dead persons one could meet, John
Wesley was surely one of the nicest, most inoffensive ones.
John's face relaxed into a smile. He put his hands together and
bowed. "I thank you most sincerely. Soon, I shall experience salvation,
for you are known to this person whom I seek. I hope you can bring her
to me soon. I bid you a good day, "
He bowed and vanished. Suddenly, in the space of thirty seconds, it
was light and bright in the church. The lights stopped flickering and
the gloom lifted. Outside, the clouds had rolled back from the sun. The
building was suddenly and unexplainably warm too, as if the temperature
had risen by about five degrees.
Reverend Morris dared to exhale. "Oh! Well, that, wasn't too nerve-racking! He's a very polite ghost isn't he?"
"Simon, did you hear what he said? He said her. A female relative or friend of yours is the person he's seeking!"
"Wonder who it could be? Not my mum, surely. Could be Aunt Susan? I'm not seeing the connection here."
"What about your wife?" Reverend Ewing suggested.
He blinked. "Jenna? Oh of course! it must be her! Her grandma is a Methodist! That must be why John wants to see her!"
To be continued.
By Blacksheep, for Literotica.
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