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. and letters ... and photographs. My mother, standing next to a tall man wearing leathers, a motorbike behind them. Photographs of the two of them walking at the seaside, or in the Lake District; neatly labelled on the backs, date, place ... names. Wedding photos, the groom young, tall, handsome; the bride, though I didn't know it, looking a little like me, literally blushing in white. The order of service for the funeral. I held the photograph of them looking happy together, gazing at it as my vision blurred and I began to weep.Mother was warmly welcomed by the people at church, some of whom at least knew her by sight. She was supported by visits and invitations for meals and offers of baby-sitting; and also caught the eyes of one of the elders, a certain Henry Turner.Henry was a local businessman, with interests all over the country. He was also what some people would call a 'pillar of the church', deeply involved in the organisation and running of the establishment, seen as wholly. Their lips met. Embracing one another with hands roaming, he pulled her blouse open the rest of the way, the last couple of buttons popping off and flying away, lost forever. Her hands pushed his pants off his hips, letting them drop to his ankles. Hooking his briefs and pushing them down, she felt his hardness spring up against her bare stomach. Turning Jane around, he pushed her against the hood of the car. Lifting her skirt, he exposed her pink and beige lace panties, darker with her wetness. Gripping them, he firmly pulled, snapping them and removing the garment from her. Hearing the sudden intake of air as she inhaled from the force of his desire, feeling her own desire growing rapidly inside, feeling it leaking out along her thighs. She reached down between her legs, touching her swollen lips, parting them, dragging her finger along her wet slit. John stepped up behind her, grasping his hardness, pressing it against her soft quivering bottom. Both of them moaning loudly at the.
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