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From: "Spiller -" <spiller48@hotmail.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} NEW: Small Town, Small Street, part three, (MF, not much sex)
Date: Tue, 14 Jan 2003 07:10:04 -0500
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This story is adult material, so stay off, if you shouldn't be here.

Remember: Authors' only reward is your comment. So please take a minute of 
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spiller48@hotmail.com


Small Town, Small Street, part three,

Chapter six, number 9 and 11


	I'm writing this sixth chapter with some reluctance, because it involves 
myself. Earlier I have told that I lived in number 11, but as you shall see 
I couldn't very well write the story about number 9 without involving 
myself, and to tell you the truth, I'm not too proud of my part in that 
story.

	In number 9 lived the younger of our two vicars with his wife. He was a 
tall, skinny and somber man, and from official records I knew him to be 46 
years old. His wife was 8 years younger, and to the eye she was the typical 
vicar's wife, a demure, slight woman, always dressed in the same type of 
outfit: A pleated skirt, often in Scottish clan patterns, a white shirt and 
a cardigan, brownish stockings and sensible, low heeled pumps. Only at a few 
special occasions had I seen her with a hint of lipstick, but otherwise her 
face was always without any make-up under her curly, short hairdo, which 
would have befitted a lady of 60.

	Oluf Lindvig was an unusual vicar. He pretty much stuck to himself, held 
the sermons he was expected to hold and did as little of the public service 
as he could get away with. But never did he mingle socially. He always 
thanked `no' when the odd newlyweds invited him to their party, or a 
grieving family invited him to join them for the coffee party after a 
funeral. I had had a few neighbourly talks over the fence with his wife 
Annie, and she seemed to be a sensible woman, perhaps a little bored, but 
interesting to talk to. Our relationship changed drastically one late 
Wednesday evening. My wife had been taken to hospital by the illness, which 
would kill her a couple of years later, so I was alone at home, not 
expecting visitors, when my doorbell rang.

	It was Annie. "Can I come in for a moment?"

	"Sure, be my guest." I guided her into the living room and showed her one 
of the armchairs. "Do you want a cup of coffee, or maybe a drink?"

	"No, thank you. I haven't got much time to talk, and to tell you the truth, 
I'm not sure I should be here at all."

	"Oh, dear, then you've better get started."

	"You told me a couple of weeks ago that you were trained as a medic in the 
navy. That's true, isn't it?"

	"Yes it is, but that was quite a few years ago, mrs. Lindvig."

	"Please call me Annie. Well, some things don't change. My problem is that 
Oluf fell down the stairs a few minutes ago, and he hit his head badly. He's 
lying on the floor in there, unconscious and bleeding."

	"Oh, but Annie ! You should call an ambulance immediately and have him 
taken to the emergency ward."

	"That's my problem, Anton. I can't do that. To tell you the truth, he's as 
drunk as they come, and I can't let them find out, that he is an alcoholic. 
Would you please go with me and see if there is anything you can do to help 
him? I trust you, not to tell anybody about his condition."

	"I'll keep my mouth shut. But if it's that bad, we've better get going. Do 
you have any medical supplies in there?"

	"Sure, we have plenty."

	Oluf Lindvig was in a pretty bad state, all right. He was lying at the 
bottom of the stairs, an ugly gash in the top of his head, a scratch on his 
forehead, and plenty of blood around him. Plus the unmistakable stench of 
lots of liquor on his breath. While I checked him for pulse and breathing, 
Annie brought a bowl of hot water, some rags and towels, and a big emergency 
box with a wide selection of bandages and all. I knew that type of emergency 
box, because I had one myself. It was given only to elite drivers by one of 
the insurance companies. I knew there'd be everything I needed, including 
`butterflies' to close the gash, so I wouldn't have to sew him up.

	"Phew, Annie, you're right. He's as drunk as they come. I'm sure he won't 
feel much.  I'm going to clean him up a little, then disinfect his wounds 
with peroxide, and I'll use `butterflies' to close up the gash on top of his 
head, and then a band-aid for the scratch in his forehead."

	"All right. Do you want me to clean up the wound?"

	"No, thank you, I'll clean it. I sure hope, that you know I shouldn't be 
here at all, Annie. If anything happens, like a bad infection or some 
permanent damage, I risk a severe sentence for doing unqualified medical 
service. You know that, don't you?"

	"Yes, Anton, and I am so grateful that you'll help. Of course I'd never 
tell it was you. Never."

	Over the next half hour we did not talk much as I patched up the drunken 
vicar. When I squeezed in the `butterflies' there was a small reaction from 
him, showing me that he was not unconscious any more, only dead drunk. While 
I did the last bits of patching him up, Annie cleaned the blood off the 
floor, and finally we dragged him into the guest room and lifted him on to 
the bed. Although he was skinny he was a heavy man, and I am not sure we 
could have carried him upstairs to the bedroom.

	"I want to stay here for a couple of hours, to check on him now and then. 
Him being drunk is not the healthiest condition, if he's had a concussion. 
Would you please make us a pot of coffee to keep us awake? And really I 
could do with a drink of that whisky he stinks of, if there is any left."

	"Coffee and whisky coming up," she said with a smile.

	For the next three  hours we talked, and talked, and talked, interrupted 
every ten or fifteen minutes when I went to check Oluf's pulse and general 
condition. After half an hour Annie lit a few candles and turned off the 
light. "Can't have people wondering what's going on in the vicarage," she 
smiled. During these hours she gradually opened up and confided in me. She 
told the whole story of her sordid marriage to an alcoholic, who refused any 
kind of treatment, but who somehow managed to mind his job, always staying 
sober, when he had duties to perform. At home it was quite different. 
Evening after evening he'd go to his study and gradually drink himself into 
a stupor, and then sleep it off on his couch, only rarely making it to their 
bedroom on the first floor, and never with the intention of making love to 
his wife.

	"How can you afford all that alcohol? It's quite expensive, you know."

	"That's no problem. Oluf inherited a substantial sum 10 years ago, and I 
wish he never had. That's when he lost all control. Every two or three weeks 
he'll drive to Copenhagen early in the morning, while he is still sober, 
with the trunk filled up with empty bottles, and he returns around noon with 
boxes of whisky and brandy which he unloads, when the garage door has been 
closed. The sad thing is I don't really know the reason for his drinking. He 
refuses to talk about it, and most of his mental power is spent staying 
sober when he is needed on the job. We hardly ever talk, we haven't made 
love for 9 years, and thank God we never had children."

	"Why do you stay with him? It seems such a waste of a pretty, young woman. 
This can't be the life you wanted."

	"Flatterer. I know I'm not pretty. And my upbringing makes it almost 
impossible for me to leave him. He wouldn't last a month if I left."

	When I returned from yet another check of my `patient' I found her silently 
crying in her big armchair. I reached out my hand, and when she took it, I 
dragged her up to stand close to me, and I put my arms round her slight 
figure. Apparently that was too much. She leaned her head against my chest 
and started crying uncontrollably. I gently guided her to the sofa, where I 
sat down with her head in my lap while she stretched out. I gently caressed 
her out-of-date curls and her tiny shoulders, and she just cried and cried 
for half an hour or more, I lost track of the time. Finally her crying died 
out, and she turned round to lie on her back, still with her head in my lap.

	"God, I needed that. This is all so pitiful, but I haven't really cried 
about it until now."

	As she had turned over I felt the need for somewhere to rest my left hand, 
so I placed it on her belly, right at the waistband of her skirt. "You know, 
you are very welcome to cry, and I don't blame you. Seems like you are 
locked up in a prison cell, and you make the bars in your own head. Is that 
right?"

	"I guess I do. You know, this is the first time in years I've had physical 
contact with any person? Not to mention that it's the first time I've felt 
like crying with someone present."

	"You can use my shoulder any time you feel like it."

	"Are you sure your wife wouldn't mind?"

	"Well, I think she'd mind, but she is in hospital and she is going to stay 
there for a long time, so she never needs to know."

	By this time I was very conscious about my hand resting on her belly, and 
I'd just given it a thought when she moved her hand and placed it on top of 
mine, just resting there.

	"I don't think we have to check on Oluf any more. Right now he's just 
sleeping it off, I think."

	"He's not going to wake up for many hours, and I think he's going to have a 
lovely hangover, when he does." She said this with a little smile, but 
suddenly she closed her eyes, and I felt her hand move on top of mine, as if 
she wanted to push it upwards to her chest. Very quietly I followed the 
slight push she gave my hand, and when I stopped the movement, she pushed 
again, ever so slightly. We had both become very, very quiet, but as my hand 
got closer to her breasts I heard her breathing become harder. Suddenly she 
grabbed my hand, lifted it and placed it directly on her right tit. Lovely 
and firm it felt. Not very big, and of course encased in her bra, but lovely 
to the touch. Her eyes were still firmly closed when she gave me the next 
hint: She moved up her hand to open the top button of her shirt. I got the 
idea, and for a short moment I let go of that lovely breast, only to 
unbutton the rest of her shirt, which was accepted without any resistance at 
all. As I pushed my hand into her blouse to touch her bra I said: "Are you 
sure you want this?"

	"If I didn't feel so insecure, I'd get up right now and rip off all my 
clothes. I'm very sure I want this."

	"I'm certainly happy that you are, it just seems out of character."

	She opened her eyes and looked me straight into the eyes. "It is many years 
ago that I stayed with him for any other reason than a sense of duty. It is 
nine years ago he last touched my body, and I don't even remember when 
someone called me a pretty, young woman. If you are a nice fellow, like I 
think you are, then take me upstairs, undress me and make love to me, and 
don't talk so much." She threw her arms round my neck and hoisted herself up 
to press a trembling kiss to my lips.

	Five minutes later we were naked on her bed. Once Annie got rid of her 
frumpy clothes and her glasses, she was a real beauty, that is, apart from 
her `hausfrau' hairdo. Slim and slender, with beautiful, small and sensitive 
tits and perfectly rounded hips. I kept my promise not to talk, and I also 
refrained from anything kinky or violent. Annie was nervous and eager, she 
was terribly out of practice but very willing, and most unexpectedly she 
came easily and violently that first time.

	Afterwards we rested, arms round each other, and with a feeling of deep 
satisfaction. What surprised me most was the total absence of guilt. I had 
cheated on my poor wife in hospital, and she on her husband in their own 
bed. Given her religious upbringing and environment I should have expected 
her to feel guilty, but she did not. "Ooohhh, it was so lovely, Anton. I 
never knew it would be this good. If you'll leave your backdoor open, I 
shall come to you every evening when Oluf passes out, for as long as your 
wife is in hospital. Are you OK with your feelings about your wife?"

	"I wouldn't have thought so, but yes: I'm OK.  I just don't want to hurt 
her."

	"I don't want to hurt anybody, either. But I don't want to stop living, 
once again."

	For the next 7 months Annie visited me almost every night, and to tell the 
truth I got into the habit of resting for an hour or so after dinner, just 
to have the sufficient strength. Once she got going Annie was almost 
insatiable. Oluf reported sick for well over a week, until I could remove 
the butterflies from his head. He expressed his gratitude that I had handled 
the problem without giving him in, but it didn't stop him from drinking. 7 
months later he held a scandalous service, which still is the talk of the 
town, and he was fired. He and Annie moved to Jutland, and later I heard he 
had been through a Minnesota detoxification program. Then I lost track of 
them.

	If you think the descriptions of sex in this chapter have been too boring 
and not very explicit, write it on the account that they were about myself 
in a not too flattering situation.


To be continued........









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