It was early on a Thursday morning when I was woken by the barking of my dog, indicating that the postman was coming up the garden path. I heard a banging as he dropped off my mail. I didn't bother to throw on any clothes but raced to the front door, heart beating erratically, hoping that there might be a new message from Mrs Norte. I was not disappointed.
Standing there in my boxer shorts, stiff with anticipation, I pulled the hand-written envelope open and seized the three photographs that lay within.
The first was a close-up of her little pink hole, filled up with plastic: the purple toy that I had pushed into her backside, only two days prior. The memory made me dizzy with excitement.
The second, wider shot, showed the same thing but also her adjacent pussy lips, pink and plump, filled to the brim with a large, glass toy. They were smooth and shaven.
The third was more of a long-lens shot, of her on her bed, both holes filled and another, cock-shaped toy, in her mouth. It was slightly out of focus, as if she had taken it on a timer mechanism.
On the back of one photo it simply read: "I like to be filled."
The other: "Would you like to fill me?"
The third: "I'm almost ready."
I ate my breakfast slowly, my appetite gone. My morning muesli held little taste for me, given my sole preoccupation. When an elderly parishioner called, seeking advice on the hole in her roof, my replies were mechanical and distracted. Eventually I put the phone down on her, feeling guilty as I did so. As I drained my mug of black, steaming coffee, I decided to get out of the vicarage.
I whistled for Chip, my dog, and set out for the woods, seeking distraction and fresh air. Nothing I had learned at university, where I studied theology (with honours), or afterwards, as I trained to become a vicar, had prepared me for this kind of thing. It was a beautiful day, the height of summer, I could hear wood pigeons in the high pines above and smaller birds - thrushes, blackbirds, sparrows - in the dense rhododendrons, oaks and bushes as I walked past. I wondered whether it was nearly mid-summer, so long and light had the evenings become. The ground was hard and dry beneath my feet and I walked at a cracking pace, the dog rustling through the undergrowth, disappearing and only seldom returning to my feet. I felt in good cheer, my spirits soaring for the first time in ages. As if a weight had lifted from my troubled brow.
It must have been the coffee, but I needed to empty my bladder and left the path, heading for the protection of a large sycamore some 30 yards into the woods. I unzipped and started to pee against the wide trunk, enjoying the sensation. It was some while before I realised that I was being watched, from where I had just been walking. I pulled up my zip and turned, only to see Mrs Norte standing on the path, stroking Chip on his little head. He was wagging his tail as she petted him.
"Hi vicar," she called out, in her bold American tones. "Aren't you going to come say hello?"
I was a little cross, to be honest, at her impudence. "Have you been following me?" I asked.
"No, no, silly, I was just out here enjoying the summer, doing a little sketching, when I spotted you walk past," she claimed. "I was very glad to see you again, and to see your length again..." She pretended to titter. "It's as long as I remember it. You don't know this, but I spotted you, several weeks ago, taking a leak in the churchyard. That's when I knew that I wanted that length in the back of my mouth."
She stopped.
"Did you get the pictures I sent this morning?"
