Lower Pidlington Women’s Institute was unique. It had far more members than most rural WIs, numbers having swelled from fourteen to four hundred after Lucy Warner (a village newcomer) took over as Entertainment Coordinator. LPWI was also ‘independent’ having been expelled from the British WI Federation when the Chair of the National Committee, Clarissa Hunt (who nobody liked), spotted her surname spelt with a C in LPWI’s monthly newsletter; a mistake no one admitted to or apologised for.
The incident happened shortly after Lucy’s appointment and was, for her, fortuitous. Freed from National guidelines, Lucy unleashed her creativity on the charitable fundraising events – a move that led to LPWI’s unprecedented popularity.
So how do I fit in? I’m not local and definitely not a member of LPWI. I’m Keith: good looking, muscles I’ve worked hard to hone, and a winning smile. At this precise moment, I’m standing behind a curtain at the far end of Lower Pidlington village hall, taking deep breaths. This is event night and I’m key to tonight’s ‘presentation’.
I blow out my cheeks. The noise in the hall is phenomenal; two hundred women, aged eighteen to eighty, all talking at once. Utterly deafening. The quaint Victorian hall is packed; tight rows of chairs run right to the door, every one occupied. The stench of perfume and hairspray is overwhelming and I can smell alcohol – gin, if I’m not mistaken. Naughty girls!
I concentrate. Time to prepare. Opening my robe, I grasp my cock and give it a vigorous, encouraging tug. I’m wearing nothing but an apron beneath the robe having abandoned my thong. Naked is better. I don’t think oiled muscles alone will be enough for this crowd, they’ve seen that before. A few cheeky flashes of cock are needed. One ‘accidental’ flip of the apron and they’ll be horny as bitches on heat and bless the day they splashed their cash for my twenty-minute set.
Twenty minutes. It doesn’t sound long, but out there… I peep around the curtain, checking that Lucy’s set my props. She has, bless her. The table’s centre stage and upon it are jars, a bowl of strawberries, sugar and various wooden spoons – lots of props this eager crowd will be desperate to use on me. Recruiting volunteers to join me on stage won’t be a problem tonight.
I catch sight of an event poster pinned on the wall and smile. “Jams, Pickles and Preserves” is a title stolen from a WI recipe book, and the poster’s arty picture of jam jars is hideous. Posters are plastered all over town but the wily LPWI members, adopting a ‘what happens at WI stays at WI’ approach to Lucy’s events, do a great job of hiding the truth behind the façade.
I let the curtain fall when Lucy takes the stage to rapturous applause. It’s time. Shedding my robe, I give my cock another stroke. Goodness, why am I nervous? I’ve performed at countless hen nights and this isn’t my first LPWI gig. Anxious or not, I obtain a nice semi. That’s pleasing.
Lucy hushes the crowd. “Ladies, welcome. Before we continue, a few announcements.” There’re loud groans and I imagine Lucy shaking her head. “Oh come, come, ladies, this is important. The substantial funds raised tonight will go to our local homeless shelter. That’s why we’re here, isn’t it?”
“No!” someone bellows and the crowd shouts agreement.
“And don’t forget,” Lucy continues, unperturbed, “tickets for our next event, ‘Complex Knots and Leather Crafts’, will be on sale from Monday. It’s first come, first served, so be quick.”
I adjust my apron, pleased to feel my cock push against the material. Great, they’ll love that… if it stays hard. If not, I’ve requested a jar of pickled cucumbers and, provided Lucy’s remembered, I can tease them with those. Okay… Jam on the skin, wooden spoons for spanking. My excitement builds; adrenaline surging, cock throbbing.
“And finally,” says Lucy, “I’ve booked the back room at the Hare and Pheasant for after show drinks. So I’ll see you there, yes? I like red wine if anyone’s offering.” More laughter. This crowd love everything. “And now, in the tradition of the British Women’s Institute, I present ‘Practical advice for getting the most from your jams, pickles and preserves.’ Enjoy.”
The crowd erupt and, peeping again, I see a pair of panties fly through the air and land on the table… and I’m not even out there yet! I chuckle and, shedding my nerves, wait for my spotlight and Justin Timberlake’s SexyBack, played loud. Any second…
Why do I do this, you may ask – for the money? I’m certainly well paid and once up on stage, I love every minute. The adulation is amazing. So are the perks. I’ll know who tonight’s bonus prize is going to be as soon as I get a good look at the crowd. No-one married (Lucy’s instructions) but that depends what’s on offer. Someone will catch my eye, become the focus of my winning smile, then jump at the chance to shag my brains out. They’re a randy lot, village women.
There’s another reason too – Lucy. She’s my aunt, you see, and I love her dearly. It’s good that she’s enjoying retirement and the money she’s raising is commendable. ’Though she’s not really in it for that. My aunt’s got a naughty side. She gets a kick out of being a talking point so when the local ladies whisper about her, second-guessing her past – maybe a porn star, or perhaps a Madam – she’s in her element.
She’ll sit quietly at the back once my set’s underway. Then, show over, she’ll lead her followers to the pub where they’ll drink like fish before staggering home to exorcise their horniness on bemused spouses. And Lucy will bask in her infamy.
So what did she do before retirement? I’m not telling. If Aunt Lucy wants to be an enigma, who am I to spoil it?
