"By Jove," thought Reginald Biggs to himself, "Mrs. Pew doesn't half have a backside on her and no mistake." He put on his best smile as the lady in question came up to him with her world-weary husband in tow. The poor sod. Fancy having to service an old battleaxe like that week in and week out. No wonder he looked like he'd seen better days. He was fifty going on seventy.
Reginald pressed his Bible to his chest and took her hand in his. "And how are you this fine day, Mrs. Pew?" he asked pleasantly.
Hilda Pew, the fourth daughter of six with thirty years of marriage behind her, tutted and raised her eyes to the heavens. "Oh, you know, Vicar," she sighed, taking a deep breath which made her battleship bosoms heave enticingly beneath her brown tweed overcoat, "Same old same. Aches and pains. Time of the year and all that," she grumbled as she frowned at her old man and brushed dandruff off his left shoulder, "Loved your service. Let those with sin in their heart and lust in their loins find redemption through the word of the good book is what I say. Isn't that right, Sidney?"
Her husband gave a sigh of long-suffering resignation. "Whatever you say, dearest." he replied as he reached up to adjust his flat cap, "Whatever you say."
Reginald just smiled with sympathy and tried to keep a straight face. You'd never believe these two had produced six spawn between them.There is nothing so strange as some people. That was the God honest gospel truth.
The Vicar watched as Mrs. Pew grabbed her husband by the arm and quickly marched him down the aisle as the rest of his congregation made their way home on this chilly early December Sunday morning. His gaze deliberately dropped to the rather large posterior of his well-upholstered parishoner and he felt the familiar forbidden tingle of admiration and lust in his loins. What he wouldn't give to be able to thrash seven bells of St. John out of that succulent rump with the bendiest cane he could lay his hands on. He'd have her running around her sitting room clutching her fleshy arse like it was on fire. Then he'd grab her, bend her over the back of the sofa and rip off her knickers as he dropped his trousers so he could grab all seven and three-quarters of his honorable member and shove it right up her hairy pus...
He glanced up at the cross beside him. "Sorry," he muttered as he went and collected all the hymn and prayer books left on the wooden benches.