It was New Year's Eve and Angelica Hoare was sitting behind the counter of the Worthless & Bollocks antique store in Little Mingeton, counting down the minutes until the end of her shift. She had no plans for that evening. While most nineteen year olds would have been planning wild nights out, involving copious amounts of sex, drugs and alcohol, in no particular order, Angelica Hoare had nothing to look forward to, other than a night of watching Strictly Come Dancing and saying prayers with her elderly parents.
The Reverend and Mrs Hoare were God-fearing people, who'd been pessimistic about the fate of their daughter's soul from the moment she was begat. What terrified them wasn't so much the wicked temptations of the world into which they were about to bring her, but the unspeakable enjoyment that both of them had gained from the act of conception.
Mrs Hoare had done her utmost to think of England as she lay back and allowed her husband to lift her nightgown. But very soon, that green and pleasant land became a place that was surrounded by stars and rhythmic thrusts -- her hips reaching out to meet her lawfully wedded husband as they went forth with loud groans, and multiplied, just as God had intended them to do.
There were no more children after Angelica. After a couple of days of non-stop procreation, Mrs Hoare came down with a nasty case of thrush, which she in turn passed on to the Reverend Hoare. The localised itching made it obvious to both of them that this was a sign of God's disapproval, and once the Canasten had been purchased it was decided that there was to be no more sex in the Hoare household.
There were two consequences to this decision. The first was that Angelica was eighteen before she discovered that it wasn't the stork who'd delivered her, but a gay midwife called Julian. The second was that once she discovered this, she developed an interest in sex that was unrivalled in the history of her village.
It was the moment that her parents had dreaded for a very long time, and was made infinitely worse by the fact that Angelica had matured into a very attractive young woman with pert nipples. The admiring glances cast in her direction by both men and women didn't escape the Reverend and his wife, neither did the seductive moans that drifted from her bedroom at night.
Out of desperation, they sent her to work with an elderly parishioner by the name of Mr Worthless. He was partially-sighted and almost deaf, and had been through so many hip replacement operations that it was a far safer option than enrolling Angelica at the convent, where the nuns were younger and quick-fingered. Best of all was that the people who frequented Mr Worthless' antiques store were almost antiques themselves.
For a spirited girl it was probably the worst scenario imaginable, but for Angelica, opportunity knocked very softly. The hours were long and lonely, and Mr Worthless paid her less than she would have earned at McDonalds. But things had changed in the world of antiques-trading -- so much so that slow-witted Mr Worthless was already behind the times in the '30s. As far as the internet went, it was as much a mystery to him as quantum physics, so he left that sphere in the eager hands of his new assistant, who in turn used it to satisfy her obsession with erotic fiction.
Angelica may have counted down the minutes she spent in that dingy store, but only because she didn't want to let them go. She'd lost count of the number of times she'd orgasmed on Mr Worthless' cherished Georgian chair as she filled her mind with literary smut. It was her last remaining link with the real world -- the world where people had feelings and acted on them accordingly.
Throughout the seasons she clung to every word and entered a twilight world of seduction, beautiful perversion and rampant sexual antics. There were days when her hand barely left her panties, and as she became more daring so she found new uses for relics under her custody.
When she arrived home at night she was often exhausted, and this was when the Reverend and Mrs Hoare felt pangs of guilt about the career they'd assigned to their daughter. But they rarely lasted long. At the end of the day Angelica had managed nineteen years with no tattoos, piercings, encounters with the police, unwanted pregnancies, nor emergency room visits to have her stomach pumped, and that was an accomplishment that would have made any parent proud.
Angelica had experimented with more graphic erotic sites, but was unimpressed by the big hairstyles, over-inflated breasts and penises the size of fire-extinguishers. And besides, watching people hump like animals and fake orgasm wasn't nearly as satisfying as allowing her own imagination to set the scene.
There were five minutes to go before Angelica would reluctantly lick her fingers and be forced to return home. If she read quickly, there might be time for another story. It was hardly as though she had to worry about her food going cold that night. This New Year's Eve, as with every other New Year's Eve of her life, the Hoare family would be consuming supermarket economy bread dipped in olive oil as their main meal of the day.
The Reverend Hoare claimed it was a necessary measure to remind them of the hunger and suffering in the world. Mrs Hoare, however, had suspected for a long time that the excesses of Christmas simply aggravated her husband's constipation, and that this was his way of easing out the old to make way for the new. Angelica never really thought about it at all. She was usually far too busy wondering why men had nipples, and whether the authors of erotic fiction led sex lives as exciting as their stories.
She selected a random story about a lesbian plumber, who'd discovered that toilets weren't the only things she could fit her hand into. The first few paragraphs were promising, and the description at the top of the second page took Angelica's breath away. She was mid-gasp when suddenly she heard a bell ring as the front door was opened and then closed.
An icy draft swept through to the back room, bringing her back to her senses. She got up and made her way to the counter. There was a tall, dark-haired man standing in the store. He was wearing an expensive business suit and had something in a brown paper bag, which he gripped tightly to his waist.
"Can I help you, sir?" she asked, startled to be looking at someone who was actually below the age of seventy.
"I don't want it anymore," said the man, and placed the paper bag on the counter. His gaze moved down his waist, and without thinking, Angelica followed it. Her mouth dropped open in astonishment. The man's pants were straining around his zipper to the point where it looked likely to snap.
"I don't think I want it either, thank you," replied Angelica, aghast.
"No! You don't understand! In there!" Thankfully, the customer pointed towards the bag on the counter, and Angelica peered inside.
It was a lamp. Angelica pulled it out carefully and held it towards the light. Definitely an antique, but it was filthy! She picked up a cloth and started to rub around the edges.
"No!" screamed the man.
Angelica jumped, and the lamp clattered onto the floor.
"Never, ever do that!"
"Why on earth not?" she asked, picking the lamp back up and setting it on the counter.
"Because that's how I got this!" wailed the man, gesturing towards the bulge in his pants. "Just one little rub was all it took..."
Angelica raised one eyebrow and took a deep, steadying breath -- "I should imagine that it hadn't been rubbed for a while, and was just rather sensitive from the lack of stimulation. But as far as the lamp goes, I'm afraid I can't take it until Mr Worthless is on the premises, which might be quite late tomorrow afternoon if his meals on wheels service is running late as usual."
"And what about Mr Bollocks?"
"Our cold climate didn't sit well with Mr Bollocks' constitution," replied Angelica. "He emigrated to Spain last year."
"I see..." There was a note of panic to the customer's voice. "But the truth is, I don't want any money for the lamp."
"Are you sure? It might be worth quite a lot. It looks..." She was about to say 'Persian', but then some letters at the bottom caught her eye. An L, an I, a T... Angelica followed the grubby letters until they spelled out 'Literotica'. She gasped. It was the name of her favourite erotic fiction site.
