The Widow At Number 56 Chapter One
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The Widow At Number 56 - Chapter 4 free porn video
Chapter Four
Claire begins the short walk from the horse-drawn carriage to the church. The frozen breath of the two black stallions hangs thickly in the air as the falling snow catches on the wind and swirls around her. She wears a long scarlet coat over her wedding dress to protect her from the cruel winter’s night.
Inside, the old gothic church is illuminated by countless lit candles. Many of them stand in rings perched on tall pillars at the end of each pew. The church organist strikes up a slow rendition of XTC’s “Dear God” as the congregation all stand in unison, waiting for the bride to arrive. She makes her grand entrance through the solid oak doors, following a naked boy who swings a thurible in front of him, as billows of incense fill the church.
There is no one with her to give her away and no bridesmaids to support her. She is alone. At the end of the long unending aisle, she can clearly see her husband to be, standing with his back to her, facing the altar.
Passing the rows of well-wishers, they appear to her a strange collection of characters. Her children’s teachers are present, as are many of the parents from school. Work colleagues, both past and present are there, some she hasn’t seen for years, and some that she knew to have died long ago.
Two women from the checkout of the local supermarket stood next to her old headmaster as well as Sam’s football coach, who curiously is wearing his full training kit. All smile at her as she continues to make her way along the smoky candle-lit aisle.
Finally, as she arrives at the chancel, she is greeted by the Vicar, but confusingly it isn’t Jason that stands next to her. The dark, imposing figure beside her, wears a full morning suit but has his features obscured by a large black hood. The nameless, faceless man, for she is sure it is a man, takes her hand.
After a short ceremony when not a word appears to have been spoken, he places the golden wedding band on her finger. He then leads her up onto a raised platform where she is reluctantly forced to stand and face the congregation. She looks out, over the bizarre assortment of faces as,unceremoniously, the spectre begins to tear the ivory wedding dress down her back.
Starting at the neckline, he cuts the seam with a knife, scattering the hook-and-eye fastenings, until her bare back is exposed to him. The dress hangs precariously from her shoulders, making her shamefully aware that even the slightest movement would leave her vulnerable in front of the congregation.
The phantom begins slowly to inch the material down over her shoulders, and she closes her eyes, she feels the material tumble down displaying her breasts before finally revealing her naked body to those gathered.
She tries hopelessly to cover her humiliation from the suddenly spiteful and jeering crowd as the spectre lifts her helpless body up on to the cold stone church altar. A sense of panic courses through her and she desperately reaches out to remove the black hood, hoping to uncover the phantom’s face, only to discover a void, a dark black emptiness inside where his face should be.
Ropes tie her wrists to heavy gold candlesticks at the head of the altar, pinning her body down as an old wizened woman appears by her head. The hag is seen to rifle through a beaten-up carpetbag before retrieving a pair of old rusty scissors. She lifts them above her head, much to the delight of the frantic rabble. Their repeated chant of ‘adulteress’ echoes loudly around the ancient church walls but suddenly, coming to a halt at the sight of Claire’s severed locks falling to the ground.
Only Claire’s hysterical sobbing can be heard, as the old witch proceeds to shear the hair from Claire’s head. The ghost appears at her feet, now wearing a loose black robe, with a belt around the waist. Bursts of brilliant light shower around her as those gathered take photographs from old fashioned box cameras.
The flash-bulbs crack and hiss, smashing on the stone floor below as they are used. The Vicar appears behind the spectre and helps him disrobe. The naked figure before her canclearly be seen to be human but his face is still indistinguishable. Two members of the congregation gleefully come forward and force her legs wide apart, holding her helpless and exposed, as the apparition draws near.
His large unsheathed penis hangs down between his legs. Claire catches a glimpse of her mother and Karen amongst the throng. She cries out for them to help her as they huddle together, laughing at her embarrassing predicament. She looks down, screaming and shaking her head, as the huge, andnow fully erect cock comes ever closer.
The angry, distended veins run like a jagged country lane along its length. She looks wildly to the people holding her legs open. They are grown adults, that is very clear, but their features appear younger. Their faces are unrecognisable, but she intuitively knows them to be her own children. Their faces are a mixture of distress and disgust, as they stare down at her.
Finally, the wraith leans over her, his face now hidden behind a thick layer of white pan stick, his lips a cherry red. His unimaginably long tongue licks her erect nipple before sucking it into his mouth. She can feel the tongue circling before his sharp teeth bite down, sending a spike of yearning through her.
Starting at her breasts, its tongue works its way down her body, sparking nerves endings before eventually engaging an unforgettable sensation deep inside her. The swollen head of the phantom’s huge cock presses against the soft flesh between her legs.
The gathering is now a frenzied mob, screaming insults and baying for retribution. The spirit pauses as he looks down at her. Claire stares up at him before closing her eyes as she surrenders. The apparition gives a deafening roar as his hands grip Claire’s naked legs, and with one violent jerk of his hips, he enters her.
--ooOoo--
My eyes spring open as my body stiffens. My heart is racing, pounding in my chest. The duvet has wrapped itself impossibly around me, restricting my movement. Completely disoriented my eyes explore the bedroom as if for the first time. Sunlight of an early spring morning floods through the billowing curtains. The sound of a lawnmower and the smell of freshly cut grass drifts through the half-open window.
All these activities muddle my scrambled brain as I slowly come to my senses. I can hear my children downstairswatching the television. The cheesy soundtrack of a cartoon programme and their laughter fills my ears. It is an immediate joy to me.
Tiny fragments begin to seep back into my mind, as I force myself to remember the details, trying desperately to piece together the images before they fade and are lost forever from my memory. The church, my mother, the crowd, the dark figure looming over me. All these images are quite clear buthave no context.
It is a mystifying pleasure to feel my erect nipples pressing against the thin material of my cotton tee-shirt. My index finger gently brushes over them making me shiver slightly, confirming this unexpected arousal.
I’m compelled to take it further as my hand travels down beyond the short garment and over my pubic hair. My legs open as my hand explores deeper, feeling the heat and then the wet fluid between as my fingers glide effortlessly inside.
I’m at a loss to explain this sudden but undeniable craving. My legs tremble as my middle finger discovers my already swollen clitoris. Thoughts return to the dream. I am acutely aware that it held a sexual element, but unfortunately, those subconscious images are now lost on me. If only I could recall, then perhaps I’d have some reasoning behind this unquenchable desire.
I then turn my thoughts to this evening. There is anunmistakable quiver of excitement deep in the pit of my stomach as the reality of what today’s commitment may possibly bring floods over me. My god, what I would give to have him here right now. In fact, as my finger works feverishly, bringing me closer, I am so turned on at this moment that I’d happily accept any cock. I close my eyes, sensing the delicious waves start to build.
Suddenly the doorbell rings.
“Mum!” My son shouts up the stairs, ”where’s my football stuff?” I’m quickly snapped back into the real world. Jumping out of bed I race to the window, and there’s Callum standing in his blue football kit, kicking a ball around the front garden.
Shit! Shit! Shit!
Across the road, I can see Jane’s husband Chris closing theboot of his car. Scrambling to find my dressing gown, I curse myself. I knew Sam had a football match this morning, and although I’d laid out his kit in his bedroom last night, I should have known that there was no way that he’d actually dresshimself without my help. I shout for Sam to come upstairs as I hear the front door open.
“Is your mum there.” It’s Chris.
“Just coming,” I lie, as Sam eventually joins me in his bedroom and starts to dress.
“Where are my boots and water bottle?” he whines. I think for a moment. Boots? Boots? Where have I seen them? I rush down the stairs, and to my acute embarrassment find both Chris and Callum staring up at me as I charge down towards them, my dressing gown undone and my short tee-shirt definitely not hiding my dignity.
“Bloody kids,” I fume as I hurry past them, “why does everything have to be a last-minute rush?”
“Oh, Callum was ready an hour ago,” comes the curt reply from Chris. I briefly look at him, waiting for the punchline. There is not even the smallest hint of humour on his face.
“Of courses he was,” I mumble under my breath, picking up Sam’s schoolbag and removing a pair of football boots so caked in mud that they were unrecognisable as footwear of any kind. I hand them to Chris as I rush to the kitchen to wash and fill a disgustingly dirty water bottle.
Sam appears in the kitchen wearing one blue sock and one red. By now I really couldn’t care less what colour they were. My Saturday morning was already in turmoil. Callum is bouncing a football on the wooden hallway floor while Chris is noisily removing the mud from Sam’s football boots by clapping them together on the front lawn. In the front room,my daughter Rosie is singing along at the top of her voice to Ariana Grande.
I stand in the kitchen and survey the carnage that surrounds me. Catching my reflection in the kitchen door, I look like the wild woman of wongo, my hair a tangled mess, my open dressing gown revealing my tee-shirt with the slogan, ‘hello boys’ emblazoned across my tits in red letters.
I can’t help myself from laughing. No wonder Paul looked stunned at the sight of this cavewoman charging towards him. Boobs flying everywhere. But this is my life, this if my family, and I love it. I really wouldn’t want it any other way. I look down the hall to the front door. Chris stands with a now almost recognisable pair of football boots in his hand. His smile tells me that even he’s managed to see the funny side of this morning’s events.
“I’ll take them for a burger after the game,” he says, “if the weather holds and I’ll take them down the park as well.” He looks at me as if I should understand what he really means. And stands, waiting for a reply.
“Okay,” was, I’m afraid, all I could offer him as I have no idea what it is I should know. “I’ll get you some money,” I say, picking up my handbag.
“Don’t worry Claire, I’ll sort it. It keeps me busy. Keeps me out of the way.” With that, I watch the three of them climb into the huge family 4x4 and drive out of sight.
It’s amazing how fast a house transforms itself. With my son out of the way, my daughter has also informed me that she’s going to her friend’s house for the morning. I watch as she brushes her hair in the hallway mirror, oblivious of course to what is currently spinning around in my head.
I’m a bundle of nerves, the intoxicating mix of excited anticipation and anxiety overpowering. But I’m also filled with this nagging self-doubt. If only she knew what was planned. And that’s my dilemma. I know that she’d be horrified. I’m mum. I cook and clean and organise their lives. I’m their rock. If she had even the smallest inkling of what possibly lay ahead for me today, that bond, that trust, would be broken, maybe beyond repair. I don’t even know how I’d start to explain myself.
I say my goodbyes to her as she leaves, closing the front door behind her. Suddenly it’s just me, a cup of coffee and the deep doom-laden chime of Jason’s dad’s old grandfather clock striking eleven o’clock in the hall. I take my coffee to the large bay window in the front room and watch the noisy world outside.
This is a suburban world where my neighbours closely adhere to weekend traditions. Lawns are mowed, hedges are trimmed, and cars and windows are washed. Across the road stands an expensively flashy white sports car parked on the kerb outside Jane’s house.
The closed bedroom curtains come as no real surprise to me, the two almost go hand in hand, but it also solves a puzzle from earlier, as I now assume that this is why Chris is keeping himself occupied with boys all day.
I can’t help but feel a degree of sympathy for him. I can only imagine what was going on inside his head. Picturing the woman that he loves and spoils rotten, being taken by another man. Having to skulk around the park with two hyperactive children. I wonder how it works.
Does she message him, or do they have an agreed time? Does she change the sheets on the bed, or does she make him sleep on the very place where she’s just been fucked? Chris’s head on the same pillow where her lover’s head had been, his scenta constant reminder.
I make the most of the empty house and run a bath. The opportunity to soak in peace and quiet doesn’t present itself very often and I seize the moment with only a little guilt. As the tub fills, I take my newly dry-cleaned black dress from the wardrobe and lay it on the bed next to the recently purchased, matching underwear.
Somewhat recklessly, I went on a shopping trip with Jane on Wednesday. The black bra and knickers, although nowhere near as outrageous as the ones she’d selected, are a lot more daring than I would usually purchase.
I hold the sheer black knickers up to the light and picture Michael’s expression as I undress before him. I’ve played the entire evening over and over in my head. In truth, the whole scenario hasn’t been far from my thoughts all week. From finally meeting him to the delicious moment when he fucks me.
I lie back in the bath and close my eyes, wallowing in the lavender heaven. The blinds are down, and I’ve placed candles around the room in an attempt to calm my frazzled nerves. My phone pings in the bedroom. It can wait. Everything can wait. Nothing is going to stop me savouring this precious moment alone.
Outside, I hear the birds singing and catch the distinctive smell of creosote in the air as Mr Wright next door performs the annual treatment of his fences. I have about an hour and a half before the tranquillity is broken. Surely I’m allowed that.
Forty-five minutes later and I’m padding my wet feet across the landing and into the bedroom. I inspect my scalded, naked body in the mirror. Not bad, even if I say so myself. On Jane’s advice, I’ve shaved my pubic hair, and I’m surprised to admit that I love the way it feels, as I run my fingers across it. Flopping down on the bed I collect my phone, to see who messaged me. There’s a message from Michael.
Hi Claire
I’ve just arrived at the hotel
I have a question and I hope you’ll indulge me
What’s the biggest risk you’ve ever taken sexually?
Michael
I take this to be a test. It’s a strange question to ask someone you’ve never met. It’s an even more awkward one to answer. I’m not a risk taker. Never have been. A pound on the Grand National every year is about my limit.
It was Easter Sunday about five years ago. Sam was only six months old. Jason’s parents were over for dinner. We’d just eaten roast lamb, and I’d left the others at the table that we’d set up in the front room, to clear the dishes and make coffee. I was washing some of the pans that were too big to fit in the dishwasher when Jason surprised me by grabbing me around the waist. His hands rose slowly up to under my breasts.
He’d been drinking and I could smell the sweetness of the wine on his breath as he kissed my neck. The six months since Sam was born had been hectic. His work and me trying to fit a new baby into an already busy schedule. There had been literally no time for us.
I could feel my skirt rising up my legs, and I put my hand down by my side to stop him but my protests were futile. I heard his footsteps on the kitchen floor as he walked away from me, to place a chair against the door. It was like a dream. I knew this was so wrong, my in-laws and children were in the next room, but I was powerless and seeminglyhypnotised.
As he walked back towards me, I reached under my skirt and pulled my knickers down. I handed them to him as he joined me, and we kissed. Nothing was said. It was manic, it was reckless, irresponsible, and rushed. But it was wonderful.
He turned me, pushing me over the sink, looking out of the window, out into the garden. Suddenly, without warning, he drove into me. I was aware of all that was around me, it was fraught with the dangers of being caught, but nothing mattered to me more at that moment than this.
I heard them laughing in the next room and Jason’s mother calling, “is everything alright in there?” Nothing would havestopped us. He raised my top, to reveal my oh so sexy nursing bra, and he tugged at it, releasing my oversized breasts. My silver St Christopher pinged on the sink tap, clinking in time with Jason’s urgent thrusts like a metronome.
I could hear the cat meowing, and scratching at the door as Jason’s breathing became heavy. I held on to the edge of the stainless-steel sink watching milk drip slowly from my erect nipples, bleeding into the water below. I pushed back into him, meeting his strong, steady rhythm.
I don't know how long we’d been in there, I don’t know if we’d been missed, but I couldn’t care. The feeling of him inside me was all I wanted. We weren’t making love, it was way more basic than that, it was animalistic, we were fucking.
We were fucking because we needed it; we needed this release. Jason’s muffled groan behind me signalled that he was close. And then he came, filling me with his spunk. I could feel it dripping down the inside of my thighs and started to laugh. We’d got away with it. I looked at the clock on the wall. Five minutes. That’s all it was.
I sit on the edge of my bed still staring at Michael’s message on my phone. Just underneath is an unsent text of mine from a few days ago. It is short and to the point, but something had prevented me from sending.
Hi Michael
So sorry, but I can’t do it
I hope you understand
Claire
I want it all. I know I do. I want the cake and I want to eat it. I want Michael, I really do, but there was something very unsettling buried deep in my head. The very notion of being exposed and held up to ridicule mortifies me. The thought of my family finding out and hating me, that scares me more than anything.
I read my words again. My finger hovering temptingly over the little green circle with the white arrow inside.
To send or not?
Trish
- 04.03.2022
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