Dorothy is a highly sexed woman, but something happens to her husband, changing him into something she can't possibly have sex with. Infidelity is not an option. Neither is celibacy. Is there a way out of this dilemma?

The summer was glorious and the cucumbers large and abundant.

With a snap of her secateurs, Dorothy clipped one from its stem and took it with her to the vicarage study.

Having placed the cucumber down upon the desk, she settled into the upholstered swivel chair, prodded her big round glasses to the bridge of her slippery nose, and logged herself into the website.

Her magnified eyes gazed intently at the screen while it loaded.

It was www. hotchat.co.uk where Jack waited for her somewhere in cyberspace .

Dorothy had always been partial to the military type, but in recent years she had developed a thing for tough, sweaty, leather clad bikers like Jack.

It was difficult to imagine that a man like Jack would be interested in a woman like Dorothy ...

She was typical of the sort that reside at a vicarage; voluminous Laura Ashley frocks, thick grey tights, sensible flat pumps, no make-up, and her ash hair scraped up to an unflattering bun at the top of her head.

Hardly the toothsome 'biker chick'.

But on-line she called herself Dolly -- and Jack could assume she was exactly that.

Typing at high-speed with one hand, she seized the cucumber with the other and …

Some two hours later, the great church clock struck five.

Goodness, thought Dorothy, how time flies!

Flustered and dishevelled, she signed off from Jack with a quick 'c u 2morrow – kings arms – 7pm', turned off the computer , re-arranged her clothes, and dashed to the kitchen, tidying her hair as she went, the sticky cucumber tucked beneath her armpit.

It was just as Dorothy had finished making the tea that the Colonel came marching down the garden path from the shed and barged into the kitchen, slamming the door behind him with such force that its pane of glass very nearly shattered.

"Absolutely famished!" he boomed, crashing himself down onto a wooden chair at the scrubbed table.

Actually, the Colonel was the Vicar – Dorothy's husband.

For years he had served with the British Army, until being accidentally shot in the head by a corporal who had lost a contact lens.

The surgeons' attempts to remove the bullet proved useless. It was too deeply lodged. He lay in a coma for months, Dorothy at his bedside throughout.

Then, one miraculous day, mere seconds before the life-support machine was to be turned off, his pale eyes flickered open and he told her of a vision; he had seen God and been forced to make a pact with Him.

Cheesed off with the Colonel's warring and passion for destruction, God was going to send him off to the fiery dungeons of hell, where he would be at the mercy of Satan until the end of eternity.

The Colonel pleaded forgiveness, promising to make amends. He would do anything -- absolutely anything -- to be spared this fate.

Anything? mused God.

God prided himself on being fair, and asked the Colonel if he might then consider spending a few more years on earth spreading the good news of Jesus either as a Jehovah Witness or a Vicar. This, He told him, could drastically improve his prospects in the after-life.

The Colonel mulled it over.

Missing Christmas would be dastardly.

He agreed to become a Vicar.

Dorothy was appalled. No way was she going to have sex with a Vicar! With a Jehovah Witness, perhaps. But a Vicar?

And so was her dilemma.

Setting a plate of cucumber sandwiches before her husband, Dorothy said, “I'm afraid something's cropped up.”

“Your mother again, is it?” said the Colonel, poised to attack one of the sandwiches.

Dorothy went to the window and gazed thoughtfully out at the cucumber plants. “She's had one of her turns.”

“In her grave again?” asked the Colonel matter-of-factly, his waxed moustache wagging furiously as he chewed.

Dorothy merely sighed and said, "I'll be leaving tomorrow on the five-thirteen."

***

Dorothy glided on her flats across the Foyer of London's Paddington Station, a little case on wheels trundling along behind. Nobody gave her a second glance -- if one at all, as nobody ever had since she had become a vicar's wife.

She disappeared into the lavatories.

Only the little case on wheels remained unchanged when she reappeared some forty minutes later.

Teased ash-blonde hair cascaded luxuriantly over bare, creamy shoulders. Contact lenses and mascara replaced the glasses. A skimpy black dress revealed an ample cleavage and steely thighs. And six-inch patent leather stilettos raised her height to a good five-feet-ten.

With all eyes upon her, she teetered towards the lockers, where she deposited her case, before descending into the London Underground destined for the King's Arms where Jack awaited her.

***

“Yippie!” cried the Colonel, charging up the stairs to his bedroom the moment Dorothy was out of the door.

He ripped off his mustard cardigan, clergy shirt, and green corduroys, and flung open the wardrobe door, practically wrenching it off its hinges. Like a dog retrieving a bone, he delved inside and hauled out a bulky pile of clothes.

“Damned things!” he panted, squeezing his thick legs into black leather trousers. He struggled with the zip-fly, drawing in his paunch and holding his breath until his face was scarlet. Quite out of wind, he pulled on a black tank-top before bounding downstairs to the garden, throwing on a studded leather jacket as he went.

Gasping and with beads of perspiration pouring down his face, he reached the shed and yanked open its rickety wooden door, and there it was ...

Beside the workbench, upon which perched a laptop, stood a gleaming Harley Davidson.

Mounted resplendent on the bike, he eased on a shiny black helmet, revved up at full throttle, and bellowed his war cry: “Dolly, here I come!”

Thank you for reading!