by Percy Quirk
You can imagine from the brief glimpse of Mr. Creasey’s appetites that I have so far allowed you that the acts I was subjected to, and ordered to perform, were acutely humiliating, deeply sexual, and imbued at the same time with an impersonality that stripped me of the dignity even of being a victim. He drew my lust out while at the same time acknowledging me as nothing more than an object, at best a pet; a panting dog waiting for the click of his fingers.
At the same time I followed publically the path of a dutiful Vicar’s wife: visiting my neighbours when they were unwell; offering a childcare service on Sundays for those that wished to attend mass without distraction; tending my husband and his, our, Mr. Creasey’s house. These duties led me, a few short weeks after the reality of my position at the Vicarage became clear, to the preparation of the fete where I was to encounter the wives of the Vicars from the neighbouring parishes, along with Lady Creasey.
“She’s a wonderful woman,” Mrs. Heffer giggled nervously. As well as being the wife of the Reverend from St. Bartholomew’s, she was one of the longest serving volunteers on the fete committee, having been in the area for ten years. She took me under her wing, introducing me to the other volunteers, and was now leading me across the hallway of Creasey House to the drawing room, which doubled as the headquarters of the planning committee for the upcoming fete. She opened the door and stood back against it, although it became immediately apparent that my squeezing past her would be embarrassing for us both; she was, let us say, on the larger side. She flushed a beetroot red and carried on through the door so that I could enter.
“Lady Creasey,” she announced. “This is Mrs. Evans”
I found myself confronted by a small semi-circle of seated women, all focussed on a single, high-backed chair, rather like a throne, in which sat the most coldly beautiful woman that I had, and have, ever encountered. Her dark hair hung sheer like a black curtain down her long, straight back. Her cheeks were touched with rouge, but otherwise her face was pale and fine, although not delicate — it was fine like the sharp edge of a razor. She offered me an amused smile and I was immediately struck by a sense that she could see into my thoughts, knew everything, could see me on my back, my tongue out, slicking her husband’s anus, as if she had been there herself. And, rather than appalled or sickened, she was merely amused.
“Do sit down, Mrs. Evans” she said, offering me her hand. “We’ve saved you a seat.”
Not knowing the proper way to behave I took her hand and risked a small curtsey. This gave her cause to laugh, and the other women present immediately joined in.
“There won’t be any need for anything like that, Mrs. Evans,” she said. “You are already doing me an incredible service just by being here. You all are,” she added, looking around the room. All of the women there smiled coyly, fingers over their mouths, and looked down at the burgundy carpet.
The rest of the afternoon passed uneventfully enough, with Mrs. Heffer providing the tea. She did not seem to want the servants to wait on her, as if it made her uncomfortable. So, with Lady Creasey’s permission, she shooed them away and catered for us herself. It obviously gave her pleasure, somehow, to be servile, particularly to Lady Creasey.
As for the Lady herself, I was entranced and puzzled. Although I was, and still am, an attractive woman, it did not seem credible that a man with such a wife should take pleasure from the company of someone like me. I found myself strangely flattered by Mr. Creasey’s attentions, that he should have selected me for such attention when he had this exquisite creature with whom to share his marriage bed. And at the same time I felt no competition with her, in fact I felt defeated from the start. She was the sort of woman that men die and kill for; she had that kind of beauty, that kind of poise, that kind of aloof sensuality and mischievous intelligence.
“Didn’t I tell you she was wonderful,” Mrs. Heffer said to me as we were leaving. “We’re very lucky to have such a Lady as part of our group. She gives the kind of steady leadership we need and we simply couldn’t do without her.”
I nodded silently, not really clear as to why seven grown women needed leadership, but then Mrs. Heffer was not a leader herself. She was the type that was grateful when someone told her what to do, as it took the burden of responsibility away from her. She was a one of those unimaginative, kindly women that one immediately likes and immediately despairs of. I bid her good night and went home to my husband, who was brooding in the sitting room.
“Good evening, dear,” I said, kissing his forehead. “Did you have a productive day?”
“Very,” he remarked, somewhat drily. “Sergeant Haylock has started his work on the church organ.”
“That’s good, isn’t it?” I asked, removing my coat.
“I’m not sure,” William replied thoughtfully. “I didn’t really see the need, but then he explained some things… Things are less clear.”
He winced and looked down into the fireplace, as if disturbed by some inner torment.
“He writes beautiful music,” William said, eventually. “To play it properly, we need to make some updates to the organ. I’m not sure talent like that can come from God….”
This final cryptic remark I left alone. It was late and I was tired, and I could see that William was also exhausted. Whatever he had been discussing with the Sergeant had taken his toll. I thought it foolish to care so much about a silly piece of music, but it did cross my mind that if the organ were out of commission for any length of time, Mr. Creasey would be able to visit me less. I surprised myself by immediately thinking of ways that I could engineer further meetings, but then stopped myself. I would not become his accomplice.
I had to dress in the bathroom with the door locked so as to hide the marks that Mr. Creasey had left across my breasts and buttocks earlier that week, but William was asleep by the time I had finished brushing my teeth and slid into bed beside him.
Chapter Five
♦♦♦♦
The Maestro
The day of the actual fete was cloudless and hot. Myself and the rest of the committee were expected to be at the green for seven a.m. and indeed, Lady Creasey was there herself; counting us all in and greeting us with a cordial hello and a clipboard, on which we all found fastened a personalized checklist of our duties for the day. All of the Vicar’s wives read them with earnest attention until Mrs. Heffer gave out a small gasp. When everyone looked at her she flushed red with embarrassment, as she so often did, and gave everyone a polite smile.
“Looks like I’m going to be very busy today,” she said. The other wives nodded and continued to look at their own checklists, but for my part there was something strange about the whole exchange. What could have been on Mrs. Heffer’s checklist that had caused such a response? And why did I get the impression that I was the only wife there who did not seem to express in their faces a kind of relieved understanding? Well, perhaps not Mrs. Christie from St. Rudolphs, who seemed a trifle consternated, but then Mrs. Christie was a stick-thin, grey-haired woman, and always seemed consternated about something.
Still, we set about it. My main duties were to man the cake stall with Lady Creasey, something that was both an honour a challenge. As it was my first fete, Lady Creasey wanted to get to know me better, possibly to assess me, but it was also vital (as Mrs. Heffer had explained to me at great length) to assess my abilities in the baking department. The provision of cake to her husband’s parish was a critical task for a Vicar’s wife, and it was understood amongst the women that, as they say about men, the quickest way to the parishioners’ hearts is through their stomachs. Clearly it was the quickest way to Mrs. Heffer’s heart, from her extra pounds, but I could see how this would be also true for the common men and women of the parish. I had so many reasons to be ashamed by now that anything which might help my husband received my utmost zeal, as if a tray of perfectly iced fairy cakes could be set against my infidelity, my lies, and my willing degrad
ation.
We set out the table, Lady Creasey and myself, and covered the cakes with greaseproof paper or cake lids that Lady Creasey had brought from the kitchen up at Creasey House. As we had some time before the fete opened to the rest of the diocese, we took some time for tea and conversation. I was terribly nervous.
“You’ve done such a wonderful job, Lady Creasey,” I said.
“Oh, Mrs. Evans,” she replied. “You have no idea how grateful to you I am. To all of the wives, but to you especially this year. These things are not that savoury, you understand….”
“Well, they aren’t supposed to be are they, Lady Creasey?” I asked, confused. “They are supposed to be sweet.”
“I suppose you’re right…” she said, and then laughed. “Oh, you mean the cakes? Of course, of course. Very sweet.”
For the second time that day, and for the countless time since I had moved to the Vicarage, I felt that there was something that I was missing; some secret fact that I was not privy to. It was strange that I should feel this way, as to the best of my knowledge it was myself who was lying, and myself who was withholding things from Lady Creasey. Perhaps it was my insecurity, or something to do with our difference in class, but I always had the feeling that Lady Creasey knew everything that had happened between her husband and myself, all of my thoughts and feelings, my shame, but also knew so much else besides; that there was another narrative beyond my simple infidelity, and the rather complex sexual cruelty of her husband.
As if on cue at that moment Mr. Creasey himself arrived, escorting a group of young men who were carrying a wide, low-rimmed barrel along the central aisle of stalls toward a big marquee tent at the end.
“Come on, lads,” he was shouting. “Put your backs into it.”
As he passed us he turned and saw Lady Creasey, and then his eyes fell on me. It was extraordinary. At first, on seeing his wife, a look of incredible discomfort crossed over his features, as if he were being subjected to some intense emotional pain but then, on seeing me, his expression transformed immediately into the familiar one of naked, brutal lust. The oddity, the shocking thing, was that it must have been as plain as day to his wife. I quickly glanced at her but she was still smiling calmly at her husband. It seemed that she gave him a sharp, discrete nod, and he came over to us.
“Come along, Mrs. Evans,” he said to me. “There’s something I want your help with over in that there tent.”
I looked immediately at Lady Creasey.
“Run along, Mrs. Evans,” she said. “I’ll be alright here for a few minutes.”
Mr. Creasey took my hand and led me through the stalls to that large tent, where the men were just laying the barrel down on the grass. Also in the tent was a contraption involving a stool and a large white circle with a red dot in the middle.
“Give us some privacy,” Mr. Creasey barked at the men, and they left us alone. The canvas of the tent was quite thick so we were afforded the privacy that Mr. Creasey had asked for and which, like some dog trained to salivate at the sound of a bell, I also immediately craved.
“And how are you this morning, Mrs. Evans?” he asked.
I curtseyed, as I had been trained to do, bowing my head just a little and replying, “Very well thank you, Mr. Creasey, sir.”
“Very good,” Mr. Creasey grinned. “I have some instructions for you, Mrs. Evans.”
My mind, as was usual, sparked with different fantasies. There were so many things I wanted him to insist on, so many things I feared he might do, and so many times already that I had been surprised by the imagination of his wishes.
“Yes, Mr. Creasey, sir,” I responded, curtseying again.
“I want you to hoist up your skirts and piss in that barrel,” he said. “I don’t want you taking a break from the cake stall now. I might want some cake later, and I don’t like queues. More to the point, I won’t have Lady Creasey taxed.”
I must have hesitated, as I remember being momentarily puzzled, and because the long cane he carried around like a baton stung my buttocks with a hard crack.
“Yes, Mr. Creasey, sir,” I said with a trembling voice, eyes watering from my stinging cheeks, and did as I was told.
It felt so base, relieving myself while he stood over, watching. It was also difficult to keep the stream away from the hem of my skirt, my petticoat, my shoes and stockings. I let myself go in small, controlled bursts, and there was something about doing this that made the moment more intimate, and Mr. Creasey’s violation of that moment all the more shaming. I had no handkerchief to wipe myself, and he offered me none, so I merely dropped my skirts, stepped out of the barrel, and curtseyed.
“Good slut,” Mr. Creasey said. “Now point my cock into the barrel.”
I smiled broadly (“Yes, Mr. Creasey, sir”) and unfastened his trousers. At least, I thought to myself, I will get to touch him. I lovingly extricated his long, broad cock from his underpants and pointed it over the rim of the barrel. I kept my face near to it and my mouth slightly open, as I knew he liked that. I hoped too that such proximity might incite him to force something sexual on me, while at the same maintaining enough distance so as not to run the risk of catching some of his piss as he relieved himself into the barrel. His stream made a dull, heavy sound against the wood and it took him a long time to complete. Eventually it was over and I shook him off before, disappointedly, placing his penis back inside his pants.
I found it hard to believe this was all I had been called for. Did he not want my body? My cunt, my ass, my mouth…. Even just to be brought to climax with my hands or breasts? I was so disappointed and it must have shown on my face.
“Don’t worry, Mrs. Evans,” he said. “I’ll give you a good fucking very soon, just not now.”
“Yes, Mr. Creasey, sir,” I said, bending my knees slightly. It reminded me of our first night at the Vicarage, when he had used only my mouth. He was always withholding, knowing how much my body wanted to feel him, to be overpowered, to be reduced to something bestial. I was excited then, tingling in my stomach, worried not to look into his face in case he mocked my desire, a desire so strong it was becoming almost indistinguishable from…. No, it could not be. We were both married. He felt nothing, nothing for me, so I could not feel real emotion for him. I had to maintain this — whatever this was — on a physical level only.
But as I looked at him my heart was beating hard, and my cunt was so aroused I was sure that anyone standing close would be able to smell that I was in heat. I want you, my eyes were saying, take me and use me and destroy me, only let me make you happy. Mr. Creasey saw my look and stopped laughing. A curious, soft smile fluttered on his lips.
“Come to the old barn a three o’clock sharp,” he said to me, gesturing with his head. “Now run along and do whatever my wife tells you.”
I stood there, my eyes glazed, staring upward into his sneering, ruddy face.
“Do you understand?!” he repeated angrily, and I came back to myself.
“Of course, Mr. Creasey, sir” I said, curtseyed, and left the tent. Whatever surprise had been promised for later there was a new surprise for me as I arrived at the cake stall: I realised that I hated Lady Creasey.
Chapter Six
♦♦♦♦
The Composer
You have probably seen what I did not at that time: that I was infatuated with Mr. Creasey and possibly, probably, falling in love with him. You might think that I had sunk very low, but we are not nearly at the end of my story and I regret to tell you that I sank again, more than once, before the end. At lunchtime, though, my husband came to collect me for a walk around the fete and Lady Creasey allowed me half an hour to do so. Mr. Creasey was there as well, loitering with his lips fixed in a smirk; a look that, at that point, I found strangely attractive. My husband and I passed him as we moved away from the cake stall.
“Good day, Mr. Creasey, sir,” I said, g
iving a very gentle bend of my knee. In truth I was becoming very frustrated, both sexually and emotionally, by his offhand treatment. I had spent the morning with his wife obeying every one of her silly little instructions, playing the good wife, smiling at the customers for the stall and making small talk, but all the time hating her and wanting him.
“You do look flushed,” William said to me as we stood by the hoopla stall. “Are you feeling quite alright?”
I cannot remember what I truly felt at that moment, whether it was annoyance at his scrutiny or something else. I would like to say that his concern melted me, that I was freed from Mr. Creasey’s psychological grip, and confessed everything to my husband. I did not. I may have wanted to but all I can remember from that early part of the day was a sense of heightened sexuality, almost obsession.
At any rate, before I could answer, we were joined by my husband’s friend, the soldier. He was a tall, handsome man with a patch over one eye, presumably hiding some injury from the war.
“Good day, madam,” he said respectfully, and kissed my hand. So like a dog in heat was I that even such a cordial gesture made me want him, or anyone, to take me, there and then, in the dirt.
“Good day, Mr…?” I left the name hanging. I could not remember my husband having told me.
“Haylock,” he said. “Sergeant Adam Haylock.”
“Creasey House used to be called Haylock Hall,” I said, remembering something that Mrs. Heffer had told me some weeks before.
“Indeed it did,” he said, and smiled. I was intrigued by the patch over his eye, and what might lie beneath. When he smiled the creases around that eye, visible in part, created strange and unusual patterns.
“My husband says that you are doing a wonderful job with the organ,” I remarked, thinking that it was expected of me. “And also that you are a wonderful composer.”