Stories about avoiding sex are rare on Literotica, I'm sure, but I hope this one gives you some chuckles in the delay before it delivers gratification.
Why the hell am I doing this, I asked myself as I pounded down the streets on Holy Saturday The air was a bit brisk, but not too bad, clouds hung heavily but didn't threaten rain before my morning jog was over. It had rained just before I started: the streets were damp and the air still hung heavy with moisture, fresh and clean. It seemed like a good idea six weeks ago, I said to myself again, giving up sex for Lent. I talked it over with the Quilting Ladies, and they all agreed it would be a good idea. At least, that's what they said to me directly. It had ended up a marathon of temptation and titillation, but I've endured it.
Could I help it if I wanted to get control of my life again? After all, I have a wonderful life, and most men would be envious. I'm having sex with four wonderful people rather regularly, a wonderful parish that really doesn't care much what I do as long as I take care of them and I'm happy, living Britannia that I adore, friends, intellectual stimulation, crocuses. For a thirty seven year old Vicar, an Anglican Priest in his prime, it just couldn't be better.
But, I was worried. It seemed that all I thought about was my next sexual encounter. My menu was too big. I could have Mavis' endless energy and massive mammaries aching for stimulation, Mary's dignified yet intense passion in a still perfect package, Barbara's epicurean secret fire in her hidden retreat, Agnes' round dewy freshness. If I was tired of them, there was wealthy old Lucinda's Cinnamon fired gummers, or Sheila's relentless quest for pleasure. My homilies were feeling flat, my scholarship veering off kilter in delay, my attention to the rest of my parishioners easily side tracked. A celibate Lent would surely get me back in focus, get me pointed the right direction. For the most part it did, but my resolution wasn't universally respected.
The worst was the daily porn as my computer started up. It started the day after Ash Wednesday: I hit the on button and was treated to a full screen of a lovely young lady, fully naked, touching herself for thirty seconds. It was just a torso; image ended at the neckline and just below the crotch. She looked familiar: I could have sworn it was Mother Mary Rufus herself (Barbara) who was gently stroking her own thighs and tweaking her nipples, but Barbara's bush was as blonde as the hair on her head, her fingernails lacking the black color of the model's, and this woman's pubic hair was a dark spiderweb. Once it ended, the program shut down and the clip erased itself before I could find out where it came from.
The next day, I cornered Agnes in the kitchen. She had just gotten up, and was wearing a pair of pink silken panties, huge blue bunny slippers, a white t-shirt, and no bra. Her pierced nipples stood up against the chilly air under the shirt, and I had a difficult time starting the conversation with the serious tone I wanted to take. "Agnes, I've been treated to a private show as I started up my computer the past two days."
"Really, Alfie?" she said innocently. "What kind of show?"
"A brief, thirty second clip of a naked woman stroking her body."
"My gosh, can you show them to me?"
"No, they self-destruct before I can do anything."
"Pity. Was she hot?"
"Can you tell me anything about where they came from or how they got there?"
"No, Alfie dear, I can't tell you anything. Remember: I don't know what your passwords are, and I'm not able to write computer programs. Do you know who the woman is?"
"Not for certain."
"Then I need to sweep and dust the upstairs rooms if that's all you want right now."
She flounced out the door. A new clip popped up on Saturday morning: the woman had parted her nether lips and was gently stroking her clitoris, creating a glisten of dew. Sunday was clear, then the series resumed on Monday where it left off on Saturday, with gentle fingers caressing a moist slit. On Wednesday, a large, green dildo appeared and worked its way into the model's cunt for the rest of the week. The next Sunday was off again, then a new model started appearing the second Monday of Lent. I could have sworn it was Agnes, but the model's fingernails were painted green, her nipples were unadorned and her cunt shaven bare. I tried everything I could to stop the playback, but it was fruitless trying to control it and again it self-destructed before I could find out more about it.
My entire Monday off was spent in a fruitless search for the origins of my persecution. I knew enough about my file structure and my programs to make me feel as though I was on the verge of finding it, but it remained elusive. Sure, I could have asked for help, but Agnes and Barbara were likely co-conspirators despite their protestations of innocence, and trying to explain the problem to someone else could be quite embarrassing, as well as revealing some relationships I wanted to keep concealed. So I chased Wild Geese and slept frustrated. Another show greeted me the next morning.
Tuesday morning I went shooting with Colonel Sterling Hyde-Smith.:It was a brisk morning at the shooting range, overcast, and the Colonel was in good spirits. We got to talking about what people gave up for Lent, and when I told him of my resolution, things got difficult.
"Well, lad, good for you. I'm still looking for a bit of tottie, have been for months, but having it and saying no is a sign of true masculine strength. Don't let them think they've got you by the balls, make'em wait for it. PULL." A clay pigeon shattered mid-flight.
"Thanks, Colonel. It's not easy. You've been single all your life, how do you manage? PULL."
My aim was good as well.
"Well, I was married to the Army, lad. India, Rhodesia, Aden, Falklands. Soldiered on through all kinds of weather, snow, rain, heat, cold, mud. You don't get randy when you're hip deep
in shite, laddie. PULL."
"I imagine. When we were getting in the wheat harvest back home, I was so tired, when I got to the house, I had no interest in the stack of girlie magazines under my bed."
"Stacks of girlie mags are a good thing. Or course, it was a combination of wanking myself and prostitutes that got me through the long tours I spent defending the Empire."
I had to pause and reset myself before I shot again. It missed.
The Colonel stepped forward to take his place. "There was a native girl in Rhodesia, black as night, forty years old if a day, tits swinging down to her navel, plate in her lip. Wildest ride I ever had in my life; she fucked like an epileptic washing machine with wobbly bearings. God, she was wonderful. PULL."
Without a word, I took aim and yelled pull. Another miss. "Gave me a big bouncing bastard boy nine months later: became a merc like his old man. Then there was that shepherd girl in the Falklands, Vivien. Used to bite sheep's nuts off, and had thighs that could crack yours if you weren't careful. I lived for danger; God, she was glorious if you were man enough for her. PULL"
I lined up again, and the Colonel continued: "Then, the Indian girl in Darjeeling. Knew most of the
Kama Sutra
by heart. . ." Another miss and our match was done. "Bad luck, old bean. Would think something was distracting you. Well, well, on to the club for breakfast."
My duties around the parish were busy enough that I didn't have a lot of time to obsess on the campaign of sabotage. The rest of the week was extremely hot self play from the shaven one.
