A Sunday Stroll

Sunday morning and the walls of the house are closing in. It’s a decent day, so after breakfast you head out for a stroll.

It’s still early. The town centre is only just starting to wake. The supermarket rolling open the doors, the coffee shop smelling of a fresh brew, a few locals sitting there drinking whilst they read the papers, the newsagents reeking of desperation.

You walk down the wide street heading out of town. At this time during the week, it would be filled with cars and buses, but not on Sunday. Its silence allows you to enjoy the sights.

Not that there’s many sights. The shops grow drabber the further from the centre you walk. Restaurants and takeaways, a veneer of the special, occluded by age. An old shop converted into a pensioners’ meeting place. Another into a kids play area. Several boarded up, interiors hidden by poster riddled wooden boards. Flats reeking of mould and desperation above. Pavements splattered with the expulsions of the night before.

Past small houses that try to ignore the main road. You come to your old school, fences higher than you remember them, buildings smaller and grubbier. It’s been nearly ten years since you left it, but the emotions it stirs have not changed. You can still hear the ghost of the school bell in the air. You still recollect the call of children in the playground.

Past the school is the old Anglican church, only a faint stirring of life inside it, the stained-glass windows mottled by modernity, a billboard imploring you to enter easily ignored. The path to it is besieged by bushes and grass.

A few hundred meters further down the road is another, busier church, St Paul’s Roman Catholic Church. The lawns are well-tended, the façade clean. To one side is a small carpark, bustling with life. The crowd that leaks from it join the others walking to church; old couples walking in their Sunday best, a few families escorting children, a sense of expectation and reverence.

All spoilt as soon as you see Anissa. She’s stepping out of a light blue Renault Clio in the carpark, dressed in regal formality. She has a white blouse with a ruff that sits on and emphasises her breasts. Over this there is a black jacket. She has a long black skirt that mostly covers black stockings. She had on heels so high she totters. Her black hair is smooth and luxurious and spreads out from beneath a broad brimmed hat that sports a light white veil that does nothing to obscure her face. Even if you didn’t know her you would have paused to admire her beauty.

You’re not the only admirer. Men in suits flock to help her from her car; old men who should know better, young men who have been hanging around waiting for her to arrive, fathers and husbands momentarily distracted. Even the priest, greeting those coming, vows of celibacy momentarily forgotten.

She moves like only a woman can, sinuously from the waist, her plump ass swaying, her large breasts a counterweight to its movement. What is infuriating is knowing that she’s ignorant of the effect she has on men. She greets each admirer with an innocent smile and a personal greeting, her thick French accent oozing sex appeal. This is a body built to drive men wild with lust. And she wants to become a nun.

You shake your head. You can’t be caught gawping, when all you want to do is to keep on looking. No, all you want to do is rush up to her, rip off her clothes and bury yourself in her flesh, your face in her breasts, your hands in her thighs, your dick in her pussy. You can feel your dick stirring at the very thought of it. You can feel it taking over.

You shift uncomfortably. You feel the prickle of attention. The priest at the door of the church is looking at you, the only male in the whole area not looking at her. He’s like a vulture, thin face with a long, sharp nose, sharp chin, sharp cheekbones. His gaze makes you feel like an intruder.

No, no. You turn away, although turning away is painful. You walk away, although walking away feels like running. You reach into your pockets and shift the stiffening monster in your pants. You walk down sideroads, where no traffic can spot the outline of your desire. You look at houses and gardens until your lust fades.

At least you know where Anissa now goes to church. Although what you can do with that information you don’t really know.