Preachers Daughter Chapter 13 and Preacher Sucks
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Seeing Her Again free porn video
The driver handed my luggage over, one non-descript rucksack and my suit carrier. With both hands full I fumbled his fare out and ended up giving him a better tip than I intended because I couldn’t be bothered to try and count it out better. Money didn’t really matter too much as I had only got back off tour a month ago and I’d saved a good amount – you simply cannot spend money in Afghanistan. In true squaddie tradition I was destined to blow it all on women and drink. It didn’t matter though as I knew I’d be back in the sand in less than four months’ time, and I was determined to enjoy my leave while I could.
The taxi pulled away behind me as I walked up the short gravel path of what used to be a stately home, now turned into a hotel. I had checked out its website while I booked a room. It looked impressive but the prices didn’t seem that high, so I guessed it would be the sort of place that has the veneer of high culture, but has lost some of its lustre over the years. I noted the door could do with a lick of paint as I pushed through it and made my way over to a young looking receptionist.
‘Hi, ‘I said ‘I have a room booked under Rix?’ The receptionist looked a little sheepish and replied.
‘I’m very sorry, sir, but check in isn’t possible until ten A.M.’ I smiled at her because I already know this having read it online.
‘That’s cool. I’m afraid I didn’t have much option with the train times and it was either turn up early or turn up late.’ I gestured at my luggage. ‘Is there any chance I could just hang this somewhere in the meantime?’ Her reply was unsure.
‘Well, sir, we couldn’t take responsibility…’ I am about to say I couldn’t care less I just don’t want to drag two bags around with me for another hour and a half, when an older lady joins us.
‘Is there a problem here?’ She says with an easy smile, quite obviously accustomed to awkward customers. The receptionist, her tag says Rachel, says brightly.
‘Mr Rix would like to leave his luggage somewhere while he waits to check in, and I was just explaining we don’t really have the facility…’ But the lady cuts her off.
‘What luggage do you have, Mr Rix?’ I hold up my suit carrier. One section has a plastic window and it’s obvious it contains a military uniform. I think I see the lady’s eyes soften slightly, maybe a relative in the forces also?
‘I just want to hang this up somewhere as it’s a real pain to iron – the rucksack I’m honestly not bothered about.’ I try and give her my winning smile, aware I really don’t have one. It seems to work and she arranges for my gear to be taken up and hung in my room with the understanding that I’ll still have to wait to access it. I hand both over, sign in, and then go and explore the house and grounds while I wait to see my room.
If I can, I always like to fully inspect my surroundings. I know part of it is because being concerned about security is now second nature to me, but also I am quite an aesthetic person and I like the architecture and landscaping that normally go hand in hand with locations like this. The garden is lovely, and there is a large and well-tended lawn that stretches down to a small stream which has a quaint little bridge running over it. Because I’m here for a wedding, my imagination is taking in all the spots that would make a good photo as its one of my hobbies, and this bridge is probably a banker for the photographer. I try and imagine Hannah and Yogi standing on that bridge as husband and wife, and actually, it’s still a struggle for my imagination to make a couple out of them.
Yogi is one of my friends I have known since time began, we went to pre-school and basically grew up together. He is, in complete contrast to me, a really friendly person. The type that everyone gets along with and no-one has a bad word to say about. His only problem is he’s a little too nice if anything, and when it came to girls he always ended up in the ‘friend zone’. Maybe at high school he was carrying a few extra pounds making him even cuddlier (it’s why he’s nicknamed Yogi) but to look at there was never really anything wrong with him – I guess maybe he never gave off that sexual vibe or he was always too nice to push his luck.
So, it was a bit of a shock when I found out via Facebook, while I was on tour a couple of years back (complete mis-use of satellite technology), that he had started dating a girl called Hannah. For one thing, we had all been close buddies for years. Hannah had started hanging around us when she got to high school – Yogi and I are a couple of years older, and I suppose it was cool for her to hang with older guys. This was fine as we all lived really close to each other and were friends outside of school, but looking back it did give Hannah a couple of points on the respect scale because, at that age, older guys are more interesting. When we left school I joined the army, but because my training was relatively local, I came back often and I’d always be sure to find the two of them drinking in the local pub – Hannah normally with another guy, and Yogi making everyone laugh because after a few whiskey’s he really was quite a comedian.
This went on for years, six years? Christ, six whole years. Hannah had always had a very healthy taste for men, and cut through them with the sort of efficiency you would normally expect from a guy. She would be in relationships, or a fling, or happy enough with a one-nighter if the mood and drink took her. I really respected that about her, she never bowed to that social expectation that girls had to be chaste – although funnily enough one of the few times I’ve been in a church was because she wanted to be christened, or confirmed I think they call it when you’re older. Either way, Hannah ate men up and spat them out with the sort of ease that intimidated many young men in that area. I had slept with her myself a couple of times, and while it was fun, it just didn’t seem right. We were really friends, to the point that fucking each other after a night of drinking didn’t faze us and we would laugh about ‘the time when…’
I had seen Hannah with Yogi together several times over the last two years – not anywhere as often now there were two ongoing warzones to get involved with – but it still surprised the shit out of me that they were an item, let alone about to get hitched. We had all laughed at how weird it was, but the fact of the matter is that they simply fell in love. To me, it felt like the end of an era because they were so happy they’d started to settle down, and I was one of the few people that knew Hannah was pregnant. Part of me wished them well, but part of me wondered who I’d go drinking with now those two were going to have responsibilities.
On the face of it, thinking this way was a little selfish, really I was just being pragmatic about coming back on leave only to find strangers in the local pub. I had been noticing it more and more, as my age group all shacked up and their priorities shifted to family life. Now these two were destined for the same. I felt, nostalgic I suppose, as I stood on the bridge feeling the suns heat finally start to cut through the morning chill. Much of this event, for everyone I suspected, would be about days gone by. Hannah and Yogi had invited so many of our old school friends that I had not seen for years, and it would be interesting to see how everyone had faired since we all parted ways. My mind wandered over all the memories in a wistful way that left a smile on my face and in that moment I felt a deep sense of contentment. Time slipped away and it was only when I started to hear people milling around the house that I decided it was time to get myself ready.
An hour later and I was checking my uniform in a full length mirror that stood in my small room. Although compact even by hotel standards, the room had lots of character, including a very low doorway to the en suite which I had caught my head on twice already. I mused that this would be particula
rly deadly when I returned with a good amount of alcohol in me – regardless of the warning sign on the beam. Everything else was very well laid out, and relatively tasteful – only the mod cons really spoilt the antique look of the room which I thought was a shame. Some people really just cannot live without TV no doubt, but seeing as it was there I had flicked it on to catch the news while I dressed.
I regarded my reflection, and while satisfied that everything was as it should be, I never really could get used to the ceremonial uniform we used for special occasions. It always felt a little fake to be dressed up smartly, a pretence that the world at large expected and the army was happy to oblige with traditions of pomp and ceremony. My real uniform stank and was so grime encrusted I needed a new one by the end of every tour, but that was the one that I liked to wear because it was, in my mind, what a soldier is really about. I couldn’t run very well in the shit I had on, but Hannah had pretty much begged me to wear it and I supposed multi-terrain pattern wouldn’t be that helpful in the photos.
I made my way to the bar as there was still another hour before the wedding was due to start. Hannah had intentionally arranged to have it in the afternoon so she had plenty of time to get ready and the guests had enough time to travel to the venue. Quite a number of people were already there, many of which I knew and some I was related to. I nodded my hellos as I worked my way up to the bar. An older man struck up conversation about our military efforts in the Middle East and how he was proud of our armed forces and the general ’cause’. I politely agreed not caring for a long debate about my friends and I getting blown up to free people who didn’t seem to care for their own plight. People always assume soldiers are madly patriotic and automatically believe everything their government tells them, but the truth is we are no different to the rest of society, some think, and some just follow.
Either the old guy realised blowing smoke up my arse doesn’t turn me on, or maybe his family stole his attention, but somehow I am left standing with my back against the bar and an iced whiskey in my hand while I surveyed the throng of snappily dressed people. The drink chills and then warms as I sip it and one of Hannah’s uncles comments it’s a bit early for ‘the hard stuff’. I just laugh and tell him I’m only drinking whiskey because I handle beer like a girl – which happens to be true, but he takes it as a joke and moves off and leaves me to watch the people.
My problem with weddings is that a person is required to be nice, and this comes quite hard to me because I am something of an introvert and my personality doesn’t lend itself to small talk. I struggle to feign interest in people whom I find uninteresting, and just cannot carry off that easy laugh that seems so effortless for other people when somebody else cracks a lame joke. If it’s funny, I’ll laugh along like everyone else, if it’s not then I just think I sound fake. Looking round I can see a good deal of fakery going on, there’s the pretend voices of civil discourse, and the very English ‘weather’ conversation. People telling one another how nice they look when quite clearly last year’s dress seems a little tight this year. Everybody in the room is pretending that the crying kid really isn’t that annoying, and that no-one wants his parents to just take him outside.
I take a walk into the courtyard, which I find really very well designed. It’s light, and sheltered from the breeze – so warm it’s almost continental in temperature. It’s also where all the younger people have decided to hang out, and here at least, the affair seems much more relaxed. A couple of lads that I recognise as my youngest brothers friends start talking to me about the pool table in another room and challenge me to a game. They remember the days I used to spend playing in the pub and are keen to test their skills against me now they’ve improved. I laugh and say that I really don’t get to play that much anymore and I see their faces drop, so I agree to give them a frame or two later on. Judging by the rate they’re drinking I estimate they’ll be lucky to still be standing upright, let alone potting balls.
I bump into one of my old school friends and his wife, and we strike up a conversation about motorbikes as I know he owns a bike shop. It feels good to really relate to someone that’s not also in uniform, and we discuss all the nuances of riding fast, quite obviously panicking his wife about just how fast we can go. He expertly turns the conversation to the idea of me getting a new bike, but I tell him if I get another one it would have to be brand new. I suffered quite a dangerous mechanical failure on the one I have now as a result of the previous owner doing some modifications. Ashley only sells second-hand bikes and tries to assure me they’re all fully inspected, but I tell him I’ve made up my mind about it, although I will certainly let him carry out services and repairs. Before he pens me into a corner about anything else I hold up my glass and say I’m just getting another and hopefully by the time I get back he will have lost the interest to part me from my money.
The bar is pretty busy now as there’s not much time left before we have to enter whatever room they have set aside for the ceremony. I’m trying to calculate if I can get another drink and have time to do anything other than down it when I notice a girl on the other side of the room staring at me openly. It takes me a second to realise it’s a girl I have had feelings for since I met her years ago at school. In some weird way, I have always known she felt the same, and looking at her over a gaggle of heads I can see it’s still there in her cheeky smile and sparkling eyes. There was always something about Kirsty that dragged up something in my core, something deeper than just the normal lust a guy has when he sees an attractive girl – and Kirsty was definitely that.
She was physically my type in every way, petite, lithe, almost nymph like. At school she had long, raven black hair, however it was now cropped short at the sides with the top extending down to her jawline at the front, shortening at the back. It was a little unruly, sharp, and sassy – and it suited her personality perfectly. Kirsty was a real firebrand, fun to the point of trouble, and she was overtly very sexual. Something about the look in her eye, or her body language absolutely claimed men as prey. There was a confidence that could in no way be a front, it was just natural to her, and I think that is what called to me the most. Most girls tended to turn slightly timid around me because I too am a very confident, but Kirsty felt like my equal.
We were both standing grinning at each other, maybe in a secret kinship of finally finding someone we really wanted to talk to. I hesitated a fraction, I don’t know why really, perhaps I was simply that happy to see her I forgot to take it to the next step of walking over. She was smiling at me over a glass of wine and her eyes looked full of joy and excitement. Before my senses came back to me everyone was starting to rise to make their way through to the ceremony room, and my view of her was blocked by numerous people shuffling forward. I caught a last quick glance of eye contact before she was ushered away by her friends. I wasn’t bothered as I knew I’d see her afterwards. In fact, I thought maybe I needed a little time just to centre myself after the surprise of seeing her there.
I took a seat near the back and got as comfortable as I could in preparation for a good amount of God talk from the vicar about the joys of marriage or whatever. I could see Kirsty from here, or the back of her at least, her dainty little neck with the halter of her dark green dress across it was making me ache to touch her. I knew she would never turn around to try and catch my eye, it just wasn’t her, but I could tell without a doubt that she was distracted by the way her friends
had to repeat themselves. I wondered what thoughts were spinning through her mind, sure she was thinking of me also. The music started and with it the ceremony. Hannah walked in with her father, and I could see she was tearing up with emotion. I hoped she wasn’t going to start giggling with nerves, that was usually how she reacted for some bizarre reason. But by the time she’d walked her way down to Yogi my thoughts were back on Kirsty.
We had never really gotten it together at school, and I had no idea why other than the situation had just never panned out that way. She always seemed to have a boyfriend, or I had a girlfriend. Or we were at a party and one of us was so wasted that the other just laughed and moved on. I remember crashing on Hannah’s sofa one night and Kirsty was there but she was so drunk Hannah’s boyfriend and I just put them into bed together and carried on drinking. An hour later they’d both come downstairs because one of them, and they blamed each other, had pissed the bed – and I didn’t fancy snuggling up to that so gave up the sofa and slept on the floor. But I did rue another opportunity lost.
The fact is I’d seen Kirsty in all sorts of states and I still wanted her. The closest we had ever come was the summer I left school and were both out in a nightclub. We danced against each other and I thought that was going to be the night. What I hadn’t banked on was Kirsty not telling me she was meeting a guy there. For a moment I thought I was going to get into a fight, but Kirsty told the guy to basically calm down and wait his turn. We had left the dance floor and found a bar. I remember clearly asking her why she didn’t just leave that guy and go home with me. She asked me where I would be in November, and I told her basic training – to which she replied ‘And how will I go home with you then?’ She said she didn’t want me for a night, she wanted more. I couldn’t give her that, and I let her walk away as I turned a bottle of Bud around in my fingers. It was one of the few times in my life I have been so upset I couldn’t drink. I hated having to make that choice, and I hated myself for making it. I hadn’t seen Kirsty since then.
Of course, I’d heard snippets about her on the grapevine. At one stage she was dating a good friend of mine and I felt a little gutted because I thought that would be it for any chance I had. I still hadn’t figured out that maybe I had blown all my chances that night in the club, or I just didn’t feel like admitting it to myself. Over the years I’d thought less and less about her but I never forgot her entirely, and every now and then the memory of her would fill me with a lust that I never thought I would be able to do anything about. Until now perhaps.
The ceremony was drawing to a close, two of my best friends were tying the knot, and I had daydreamt through nearly all of it. Again, one could call that selfish, but the thing about traditions is, once you’ve seen one you’ve seen them all. When it came to Yogi kissing his bride I could see something that was a little different though, they were entirely comfortable with each other. They’d been friends for such a long time that it all seemed so easy for them. There was none of the usual discomfort of being the centre of attention because they weren’t putting on a show, it was all very natural. I think in that moment I felt the happiness that they were experiencing and in a way it was lucky that they had both found such a perfect partner in the other. It was one of the few times I could genuinely imagine them growing old together – they had done enough growing up together after all.
They led the way outside to the lawn and I could see the room where the reception would be held because there were several large doors wide open with refreshments on long tables. People were being informed to help themselves to drinks before we all sat down for dinner, which would have to be somewhere else. The benefit for having everyone here is that they could prepare the dining room, and in the meantime the photographers could get some pictures. I hoped Yogi hadn’t paid too much for the guys they’d hired because as far as I could see they really didn’t seem to know what they were doing. I picked up a glass – some form of punch – and went back outside where there were less people and settled into an internal critique of the lead photographer.
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