Jenny Hugill was about to embark on a new life; she sat on a bench in the warm spring sunshine, contemplating her chosen path. The week-long retreat at Lawn Abbey had been blessed with good weather; she felt blessed as she looked back on a period of prayer and reflection that had left her calm and ready for what was to come.
Five years earlier, her life had been turned upside down by the death of her husband. They'd been married for twenty-nine years; he was taken from her suddenly by an aneurysm. Until that point, she'd been a schoolteacher, an occupation she had enjoyed in the early part of her career; later, the job had become onerous; the death of her husband had been the catalyst for change in her life.
Jenny and Don, her husband, were regular churchgoers; they were well respected and seen as pillars of their local community. Don had been a church warden for several years; Jenny had often given readings during church services; together they seemed to epitomise the Christian values and lifestyle they held dear. That was until they got into the bedroom.
They had a very active sex life; they indulged four or five times a week. To keep it fresh and spicy they often role-played and frequently fantasised about people they knew. It gave them a thrill to fantasise about fornication with their friends, neighbours, work colleagues and, particularly, church members. They liked to think that their fellow worshipers would have been shocked to the core if they'd known how Jenny and Don used and abused them in their imaginations.
Don got off on fantasising about Jenny with other women; she'd grown to love the thought of it too; they'd focused on it more and more over the years until it was almost all they ever fantasised about. For Jenny, the fantasies were so intense that they had been a feature of her best orgasms. Even though she still enjoyed her husband's cock, she began to define herself through her sapphic desires; she'd often daydreamed about fucking her very attractive young classroom assistant; she'd come close to propositioning her more than once.
Jenny wrestled with her conscience but in bed, her not-very-Christian thoughts always prevailed; she couldn't help herself. Don never did realise the full extent of her deep desire for sex with women; he had no idea that on most weekday afternoons, when she arrived home from work an hour or so before him, she let her vibrator take her on an orgasmic journey whilst she imagined herself with some of the many women she would like to have bedded. Top of her list at that time was the local vicar's attractive wife; she liked to imagine the woman kneeling between her open thighs and eating her pussy in one of the pews at the back of the church while her husband gave a sermon about the sin of fornication.
The first year after her husband's death was an ordeal; she was grief-stricken; she lost interest in teaching; she no longer indulged in sexual fantasies; the only thing that sustained her was the church. Towards the end of the year, she felt a calling; she saw the possibility of redemption, a way to make up for the wanton, perverted fornication stories that she and her husband had dreamed up.
Three years of part-time ordination training and a one-year curacy as a deacon in a parish in a city in the southwest of England had enabled her to become a fully-fledged vicar with a parish of her own. So emerged The Reverend Jenny Hugill, a fifty-five-year-old, widowed ex-schoolteacher; she was ready to tend her flock. Her week-long retreat was over and she would be meeting the Bishop on Monday morning in her newly acquired parish church.
Jenny's busy urban parish was in a neighbouring city to where she used to worship; consequently, she didn't know any of her new parishioners. During her training, she had been determined to serve her God and leave her lesbian fantasies behind; she threw away her vibrator and stopped masturbating altogether. Sexual urges had been subdued; she felt renewed and ready to pursue her calling.
Her only concession to her new life of piety was the two-inch high-heeled, black court shoes she wore with her long black cassock. She'd always worn heels and tight skirts with stockings when she was a teacher, it had turned her husband on, and her too if she was honest about it; she used to love pulling stockings up her thighs, clipping them to a suspender belt and smoothing her skirt down; she'd check herself out in the mirror because she knew that Don liked to see the merest hint of suspender clips showing through her skirt as she stretched or bent over.
What harm could it do to wear a modest heel? Her cassock was long and all that could be seen below the hemline were her ankles, in black tights, and the heels. She needed to wear her vestments when she was officiating in the church and its environs, but she wanted to wear something suitably feminine, yet still vicar-like when she wasn't performing formal functions in her cassock. She scoured online suppliers of ecclesiastical garb and decided on a black and a mid-blue tab collared shirt; the concealed button shirts looked smart with a knee-length black pencil skirt and black tights.
She looked good in the outfit, quite sexy in fact; the white clerical collar with the well-fitting shirts and skirt was to become quite a turn-on for some members of her new congregation. She intended to wear the mid-blue tab shirt for most day-to-day business and the black shirt for more sombre occasions like meeting with the bereaved. She knew she had a figure on which men's eyes tended to linger, but she wanted to be sure that she looked demure when she met the Bishop, so she opted for the cassock. He was known as a moderniser but she didn't want to push her luck too far just yet.
The Bishop was encouraging and supportive; he expressed the view that the parish was in good hands, told her to get in touch if she had any questions or concerns and didn't mention her heeled shoes. She felt slightly disappointed; she had hoped to be seen as bold and feminine; nevertheless, she took it as a good sign; there was no suggestion that she'd overstepped the threshold of decency in her tight skirt and heels.
Like many women in their mid-fifties, Jenny's face showed signs of ageing; there were smile lines at the corners of her mouth and hazel-coloured eyes. Her layered bobbed hair was greying but well-styled, taking years off her. She was a couple of inches above average height and fortunate enough to have a firm, shapely figure; her pert breasts were a good handful and more.
Her first service was relatively well attended; many of her parishioners wanted to get a good look at their new vicar. She looked resplendent in her vestments; as she cast her eyes over her new congregation. Her sermon was well received and there were many compliments afterwards. As she stood in the pulpit surveying her new flock, she couldn't help noticing several attractive women in their Sunday best; some apparently with husbands and family, some seemingly on their own.
One woman in particular caught her eye in those first few weeks of the summer. She would sit in the same place every week, next to the central aisle, at the end of the third row of pews. Jenny found her eyes drawn more and more to the attractive woman. It soon became clear to both of them that Jenny's gaze fell disproportionately on her. The woman would catch Jenny's eye and Jenny would quickly look away, but not quickly enough to save her embarrassment.
