I Let the Choir Take My Virginity in the Vestry

I was brought up to be a good girl. I didn’t really have much choice in the matter. I was the daughter of the local pastor and a pupil at the church school in our small Ohio town. My upbringing was strict, as you can imagine. My parents drove me hard. My mother checked my homework every day. There was no chance of skipping it. Top of the class was the bare minimum they would accept. My enforced diligence and plain looks didn’t help me make friends either. The girls thought I was a swot. The boys showed no interest and went after my pretty classmates instead.

Still, like every other young woman, I had hopes and dreams. My parents reinforced them. Marriage, a nice home, and a family. They told me over and over, “Stay pure, be kind, and the right man will find you.” So I did, and he didn’t. As I expected, I ended up alone. Over the years there were boyfriends. Some I would have been more than happy to marry. The words my parents had drummed into me held me back. There was a certain amount of kissing and feeling, but when the men realized they weren’t going to get sex until we married, they left. I got the distinct impression after a while that they only sought me out because someone like me must be desperate.

Hidden Desires Surface

Like everything else in my life, my parents’ influence was all-pervading. With no male company, I resorted to masturbating to relieve the tension. I had been told that touching myself that way was sinful. The guilt afterward was hard to deal with. It became an infrequent activity. Months rather than days or weeks separated my attempts. The feeling it produced was still hard to resist. Everything about my life seemed out of my control. My future appeared preordained. My parents had visions of me as a great leader, a high court judge, or the person to find a cure for cancer. The reality was far more mundane. University, medical school, and a return to the town where I grew up as the local doctor.

Even at university, all my hang-ups prevented me from having the wild time everyone else did. I graduated with a first after just the occasional night of drinking to break things up. So here I am back where I grew up, with most of the issues I had before I left. My father got moved to a parish on the south coast, so there is a new pastor. Even though a lot of time has passed, the church continues to exert an influence on my daily life. I appear incapable of breaking away.

I had always been a member of the choir. No choice. My parents sent me for singing lessons so I would potentially be better than the others. On my return I rejoined and am now the mistress of the choir. Not quite what it sounds like. I lead, conduct, and instruct the others. So where are my ramblings leading, you may well ask. I’m getting to that.

When I was in the choir in my father’s time, it was made up primarily of young boys and girls. Religion is on a bit of a downturn, although secular choirs are on the up. That means our number is made up of a few youngish men around my age but mostly older men. I’m not sure why the women in the congregation don’t join. Perhaps they are more reserved than their male counterparts. The robes we wear haven’t changed in decades. They are long dark red robes with about thirty small buttons down the front. Over the top is a white cotton surplice. We change before and after the service in the vestry, a tight space with low bench seating around the walls and a series of metal hooks on the wall to hang up our garb. Nobody ever unfastens all the buttons. It would take ages. Normally we just undo the top two or three. We pull the robes over our heads. Our normal clothes are beneath. These are normally light, or you get much too hot.

It was during one such Sunday that things took a dramatic turn. Everything started off as normal. The service had ended. The pastor was at the church door seeing off the congregation as we got changed. I don’t know if I was wearing anything particularly different from normal. When I started to lift my robe, my skirt was almost glued to it. My hands were way above my head. I could feel a draft. All of a sudden, with my head in the dark of the cloth, my hands were held, keeping me confined. At the same time more hands, I don’t know how many, were feeling my bottom and stroking over my panties. One, maybe two, even reached around the front.

Should I have cried out? Possibly. Would it has achieved anything? I have no idea. All twelve of the choir members were either involved or saw what was happening. My arms were released and I immediately reached back to pull down my skirt. Free of my robe, I looked around. No sign from anyone that anything out of the ordinary had happened. You can’t throw around accusations with no evidence. Although I probably should have asked who did it. Maybe they were all involved.

My medical training and all the reading I had done had long since swayed me in favor of masturbation, despite my upbringing. I am a thorough convert to the use of fingers and vibrators. I didn’t even wait for the evening to indulge myself. I had barely got inside my front door before I had my hand inside my panties. I stood in the hallway, my back against the inside of the front door. With my knees bent slightly, I stroked my labia and rubbed my clitoris while my other hand stroked and pinched my nipples. The orgasm was so intense my legs gave way and I found myself on the floor.

Why? In effect I had been sexually assaulted. Yet I found it arousing. My education had taught me that masturbation was good, despite what my parents had said. No amount of reading can change the way you look. I am the only female chorister, and the men had seen my panties. Did that excuse what they had done? The last time anyone had touched me like that I was about eighteen or nineteen. It was one of the prospective husbands I had fought off. In hindsight it was a massive mistake. It set me on a path to self-imposed celibacy.

Thursday Night Escalation

I sat leaning against the inside of the door for about half an hour, wondering what I should do. Should I tell the pastor? That could mean the total loss of the choir. There are no signs of anyone wanting to swell our numbers. Should I confront them all? Or ask just one? I decided on the latter. Because of my job I have close ties with Jake, the local pharmacist. We speak regularly. He phones me to check on patients’ prescriptions or to discuss alternative medication.

I went to see him on Monday morning before we both started work. “Can I ask you about yesterday?”

“Good service, wasn’t it. I think the tenors were in particularly good voice.”

“You know what I’m talking about.”

“Do I?”

“Care to share?”

“You have a nice bottom.”

“Not exactly what I was after, but it’s a start. Out with it.”

“That was you yesterday, bum on display.”

“It was an accident.”

“Then perhaps what happened next was too.”

“You can’t accidentally trap someone’s hands and start feeling them up.”

“Maybe not, but you didn’t complain.”

“I was stunned into silence.”

“Silence is golden. You don’t have a very positive view of yourself, do you? That’s not how everyone else views you. You’re kind, clever, and compassionate.”

“And I look like the back end of a bus.”

“Untrue. Let’s say you have an allure all of your own. Enough ego boosting for now. I’ve got to open up.”

I went back to start my surgery with some answers but no less confused. I’m in my late thirties, have a career, and make a good living. Not bad in the positives column. In the negatives, I don’t look great, I’ve never had sex with a man, my marriage prospects are virtually zero, and the chance of having a family is all but gone. At least I had a constant stream of patients to take my mind off it during the day.

Thursday is choir practice. The bell ringers have the church on Wednesdays. I use the sound system to replicate the organ used on Sunday. We take our places and run through the hymns for the coming Sunday. No robes, just our normal clothes, usually what we’ve been wearing to work. Was there an atmosphere on this particular Thursday? It wasn’t tense, but they appeared to be looking at me in a different way as I conducted and corrected them.

By the time Sunday came around I had hatched a plan. As we got changed, I hoped with nobody noticing, I used a safety pin to connect my skirt to the fabric of the robe. After the service it was as if the previous week hadn’t happened. Nobody appeared to be paying me any more attention than normal. That was until my head was again covered by the robe as it went up and over my head. My arms were pinned again. The hands were at me, stroking my bottom. I let out a little gasp as my panties were pulled down. My feet were lifted to ensure their total removal. The hands resumed their exploration, unhindered by my panties. My buttocks were stroked and kneaded. The crease was probed. My anus was brushed. My labia and pubic hair were at their mercy. It was a progression but not an invasion. Nothing penetrated me, and no attempt was made to bring me to a climax.

On my release I undid the pin and returned to my normal clothes. My panties had been spirited away. There was no sign of them, nor any reaction from the choir. I almost ran home. I needed more than before, not just leaning on the door. Straight to the lounge, I mounted the arm of the sofa and humped it furiously for about ten minutes. Possibly the best orgasm of my entire life. I had no care for what I had just done. I needed it so much. As I got up I realized I had soaked the green velvet. Damn. Mental note: have a towel handy. Why was I more worried about the state of my furniture than what had happened in the vestry and who had my panties?

Another early Monday morning with Jake. I asked him straight out. “Have you got my panties?”

“They’ve found a good home.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? They had one, covering me up.”

“Let us just say that one of our number has a liking for the female scent. From what I understand, his collection is extensive.”

He looked at my face as I struggled to comprehend what he had said. “Knicker sniffing not something you approve of?”

“A little strange, but that’s stealing.”

“The seven deadlies. Everyone noticed that yesterday was deliberate. You might be able to add adultery to the list.”

“What?”

“You don’t flash your bum at people unless you’re expecting a certain reaction. Are you wanting that reaction?”

“Got to go. You need to open up.”

That was my way of avoiding the question and the almost inevitable answer that what had started as an accident was likely to go way beyond anything I had ever contemplated. My thought process turned to the members of the choir. There aren’t any you’d look at and think pervert. God-fearing, upstanding members of the local community. A solicitor, deputy bank manager, the owner of the local car sales place, Jake. You get the idea. All have been married or still are. Jake is divorced. The wives of the others are normally in the congregation. That made what was happening all the more confusing. Why would they want plain old me when they had someone at home? The illicit nature? The seemingly forced nature of it? Pure lust? I don’t have the experience or professional knowledge to know.

After practice on Thursday evening, a succession of hands patted my bottom as I walked down the aisle on my way out. I gave them no indication that I was upset, angry, or aroused. I think the latter was the closest I could come to how I felt. Hardly anyone had shown this sort of interest in years. Now there were possibly a dozen men who were. Most I only knew in passing. Not that they were ever going to be romantic partners, so why enquire further.

My once infrequent masturbation was becoming an almost daily occurrence. I’d even do it in breaks between seeing patients. On Sunday after church and after Thursday practice I’d do it multiple times. Not that I needed it. My lack of resistance meant that I’d be masturbated to one or more orgasms in short succession by one or more unseen and unknown choir members. Sundays were brief, with wives and the pastor waiting for us to change. My sins were at an all-time high. I’d lost four pairs of panties, so I stopped putting them on. It also sped things up. Although I suppose it removed some of their enjoyment.

Despite there being no need of the vestry on Thursday evenings, we went there anyway. With no congregation or the pastor to worry about and time not an issue, I succumbed to their will entirely. Neville from the tailor’s shop in the high street had circumvented the need for the robe. Presumably away from the prying eyes of his staff and his wife, he had fashioned a hood from loose-fitting black velvet. It felt soft and smooth against my cheeks. At that point they knew they had me. I had taken the hood and put it on myself, raised the hem of my skirt, tucked it into the waistband, and put my hands on the wall near the coat hooks. No need to be held unless that was part of their game. I could probably be struck off for this. Several of these men are registered as my patients.

I tried to imagine what I looked like to them and what they might be doing. The usual hands stroked and felt. Fingers went down my crack. Fingers rubbed. Turned on isn’t an adequate way to describe my feelings. This had to be more than one of them. I came massively. A strong hand on my stomach held me up. Another pushed down on my back. I had to shuffle my feet. From semi-upright my back was now horizontal, my hands still on the wall. For a second I panicked. I could feel the fabric of the hood being puffed away and sucked to my mouth. I was going to be fucked, no, buggered. Thankfully not the latter. Just slightly bad aim.

I’ve seen some results of anal. Women unwilling to go to hospital, needing patching up after over-energetic men forced the issue. I’ve even extracted a few objects that shouldn’t really have been there. I can’t say that it didn’t make me curious what they got out of it, but I’d not even had a penis in my vagina, let alone allowing one in there. The first of these was remedied. A couple of thrusts, then nothing. Emptiness. Again. The same penis, or were they taking turns? The answer soon became apparent. Vibrator size, vibrator size, smaller, larger. I gasped. He must have realized and took his two really slowly. I don’t know if it was the same hand that had pushed me down, but fingers were on my clitoris and rubbing hard, possibly too hard, but with all that was going on behind me I came again. I’d lost count. Was that all of them? I didn’t know or care. Whoever was in me now wasn’t that small, and on his second thrust I was brought off again. From what I could tell, none of them had ejaculated inside me. If they were taking their pleasure, they made sure I got mine too.

A hand on my back held me down. I heard the door and footsteps on the stone floor out in the nave. A hand pulled the hem of my skirt from the waistband and let it fall. “Can’t have you walking about with your naked bum on show.” I recognized the voice. It was Jake. I stood up and pulled off my hood. He was sitting on one of the wooden benches with a pair of my used panties against his nose. “Now you know who and why I’m divorced. Sniffing women’s panties, particularly while they are still wearing them, is not the key to a successful marriage.”

“If you say so.”

“I do. She tried to stab me when she found out.”

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“What happens now?”

“Nothing. I’ll walk you home.”

I stuffed the hood into my handbag. He tucked my panties into his pocket, and we ambled off as if nothing had happened. At my door I think he was about to leave, but I invited him in for a drink. I poured a couple of large glasses of my best cognac and invited him to take a seat. I decided to put him on the back foot, as I was usually the minor partner in our conversations. “Who took my virginity?” I thought he was going to need my professional assistance.

“No names. You’re joking, right?”

“My hymen went years ago, but only vibrators, no men, until just now.”

“I thought you just kept your personal life private.”

“I don’t have one. Never have. I told you, back end of a bus.”

I explained to him about my parents, my early life, and my unfulfilled dreams. None of which involved sex with multiple anonymous men. Just a technicality. Did them just briefly penetrating me count as having sex? I concluded that it probably did.

“Should we be apologizing?”

“Why? OK, so at first it was an accident, but I didn’t stop you. Since then I’ve been playing along just as much as the rest of you. It’s exciting, naughty, sinful. Think of any more?”

“Sexy.” I raised my glass to him. “I’d give you my panties, but you know I’m not wearing any. I suppose I’m going to have to start again.”

“Please. I’ll pay for replacements.”

“Any preference?”

“Thong, tanga, just kidding. Granny pants with a thick gusset.”

“And I suppose the longer I’ve had them on the better.” He just raised his eyebrows.

Changing the subject, I asked, “Did you?”

“Wonder who gave you your orgasms?”

“Should I say thank you?”

“You should.”

“Thank you. More gentle with the fingers next time.”

“Next time. Being a bit presumptuous, aren’t we?”

“I thought they’d want more.”

“Of course they do. I told you before, you have a lot more that draws people to you than you think.”

“That fact that I’m happy to let them.”

“No. You might not think it, but you have a pretty face, handsome, and a lovely body. Particularly for them, your bottom. It’s a peach. You flashing your panties was like a red rag to a bull.”

“They were pink.”

He finished his drink and excused himself, wishing me good night. I poured myself another, trying to assimilate the information Jake had given me with my own feelings. Everything I’d been taught or knew about myself had been put to the test, and I’d failed spectacularly. I had a dream. A nice young man to wine and dine me. We’d marry. He’d carry me to the bedroom. We’d make love, and it would be blissful. Unreasonable? I didn’t think so. Unlikely? I’d come to believe it was.

So my first sexual experience with a man was men. I don’t know how many or which of them took part. Probably all. Blindfolded and submissive, far from feeling violated, I’d actually in some ways welcomed it. A strange feeling of being controlled by them but also having some agency in the act. I drained my glass, took my handbag, and went for a shower before bed. Wrapped in a towel and standing by the bed, I pulled the hood out of my bag. A lot of time had been spent on making it. All the seams were neatly sewn by hand. Double-sided, the nap side of velvet on the inside and outside. I hung up my towel, took out my favorite vibrator, pulled on the hood, and lay face down on the bed. Lying like this with my hand beneath me, it was holding the toy in place as well as giving access to my clitoris. The smell of the cloth brought back memories of the time in the vestry. Is this what Jake got from women’s panties? Only a brief thought, pushed aside as I had another amazing orgasm.

After closing time at the pharmacy on Saturday afternoon I went to see Jake. I used the alleyway behind the shops and climbed the steps to his flat above the shop. He invited me inside. “I come bearing gifts. Just one actually.” I lifted the front of my skirt. “I’ve had them on since yesterday morning.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

He sank to his knees, and I dropped my skirt over his head. I felt a hand on my bottom. Almost simultaneously there were a series of really deep inhalations. He pulled me so close I could feel his nose against my panties. I just stood there as he extracted whatever pleasure he got from my scent. He shifted. With him beneath my skirt I couldn’t see anything, but my guess was he was rubbing himself. I was feeling pleased with myself as he let out a load of loud grunts within a couple of minutes.