VESTAL WHORE 1 – 5

Feature Writer:  [email protected] (sir_kraken)

Feature Title: VESTAL WHORE 1 – 5

Published: 14.09.2001

Story Codes: Domination, Con/NC sex, slavery, prostitution, beast, bondage, interracial, masochism, sadism, breast torture, piercing, large breast

Author’s Notes: This is an original work of adult literature. If you are under 18 years of age, read no further. If you are a pious self-righteous adult burdened by a repressive religious upbringing and sexual hang-ups too numerous to count, then you too should pass. This work may be copied for personal use and enjoyment, ONLY. Reposting on any pay sites is forbidden without the expressed permission of the Author at: [email protected] It is a work of fiction. The seed of the story came from BlackDemon’s “Church” series, which landed in my fertile mind and grew like a weed as I added more details and embellishments. This work contains f_M+, s, and whatever else comes to mind.

Vestal Whore 1 – 5

Chapter 1

The flies maintained a droning buzz amid the stifling heat. The mulatto priest stared down the tracks as he heard the the old steam engine in the distance. The Padre Pietro, spiritual leader of a small village to the south, had come to Robore to meet the train. He used a pudgy black hand to wipe at the beads of sweat that seemed to run in a steady stream from his scalp across his jowls and disappeared into his cassock beneath his grimy clerical collar.

The heat, the flies, the stink. He sighed, one never got use to it. One only wallowed it in, resigned to the fact that it was their lot in life. The dusty blackness of his garb clung to his large belly and only added to his discomfort, seeming to soak up the heat and humidity. His cloths seemed to have been designed with penance in mind, to inflict a daily suffering.

As he wiped his forehead his chunky arms drew the sleeve of his cassock taunt. He looked around as the peasants rose from there idleness in the hopes that they could sell something to those on the train as it made a brief pause on its way to Corumba across the boarder in Brazil. Brazil, home, or it was once. He moved to this area of Bolivia to best serve his god and to avoid past unpleasantness. At 54, he now shepherded the illiterate and impoverished members of of the village. A mixture of Indians of the Chaco, some Japanese, a few European and mennonites and Andean Indians, failures all. The Chaco is not kind to settlers. Mostly broken and destitute, their homesteads abandoned, they cling to life in the village called Resorte del Diablo, Devil’s Spring, site of the only water for miles around during the dry months, an island in a fetid swamp during the wet season.

The shrill whistle brought him back to the task at hand. The gringo lay missionaries from the Stados Unidos. The church does its works by any means, he thought. He was sent to meet a Baptist missionary and his family. Lead them to his village and assist them with whatever they needed. So be it. He rose, lifting his sweating hulk, and shuffled toward the platform as the passenger cars screeched to a stop. Shielding his eyes from the dust and he height enabled him to look over the heads of the peasants. His nose wrinkled at the dust and the fetid stink of humanity that rose around him.

He saw the white gringo as he stood in the car’s doorway clutching a bag. Father Pietro waved getting his attention. And began to wade through the small crowd toward the man. He watched as the man, turned to speak to someone behind him. He then turned with a smile as Padre Pietro halted in from to him.

The man presumptuously handed him several bags and leapt from the steps and turned to help a young woman down. The woman clad in shorts and shirt jumped from the train steps, her hiking boots landing heavily on the rotting wood. As she landed the plump heavy bags of her breasts bounced and giggled sloshing within the confines of her shirt.

With a belch of steam the train began to pull away. The trio stepped away from the train carrying their bags, the young woman walking quietly beside them. Reaching a corner of the platform Padre Pietro set his load of bags aside.

“Buenos Tardes”, Padre Pietro said in his Portuguese tinted Spanish.

“Steve Falwell, glad to meet you”, the man said as he extended his hand. “This is my daughter Rachel. She’ll be attending Purdue in the fall for pre-law,” he said smugly.

The beautiful teen raised her blue eyes to Father Pietro’s face as she offered her small hand. Padre Pietro clasped her hand in his, her small white fingers in stark contrast to the black skin of his pudgy hand.

“Hi, My name is Rachel Falwell,” the gorgeous girl said.

A faint haughty smile flitted across Rachel’s lips, her big blue eyes taking in the nappy grizzled salt and pepper hair, the dark eyes, surrounded by the lined face. The Priest’s broad nose, and high cheeks betrayed his mixed blood ancestry. “A mulatto”, she thought with not a little distaste. Rachel knew he had probably descended from a union of African slaves and Brazilian Indians. Her skin crawled as she saw the grimy sweat stained clerical collar buried amid the old Padre’s double chin. She forgot her own discomfort in the heat as she observed the dark sweat stains marking his cassock beneath the fat man’s arms and around his large belly.

Padre Pietro returned the smile, his eyes taking in the beauty of the teenager. Even the remaining indios on the platform were staring at the young woman. Her large blue eyes held his for a moment then looked away as if the eye contact was somehow repugnant. Her light blond hair was pulled back away from her high clear forehead and captured by a tie revealing the small pale shells of her ears. The old Padre noticed that the heat had brought a flush to her high cheeks that was visible under the slight tan that highlighted the upper surfaces of her face. Her delicate nose had a sprinkling of freckles. He studied the perfect face, the startling blue eyes separated by the petite upturned nose, wide mouth framed by the plump lips; the perfect white teeth above the small delicate chin and the clear, flawless skin of her cheeks. This sculpture of perfection was balanced upon a smooth neck, supported on wide athletic shoulders.

“Where to next”, a voice said. The old Padre turned to face the man.

“A few of the men from the village are here with their mules, we load your bags and can be on our way. It is a day’s ride. If we leave now we can be to Resorte del Diablo just after dark. The women of the village were preparing your hut.

The loading of the mules took only a few minutes. Padre Pietro observed his guests as he rested his sweating girth in the shade.

The beautiful young woman stood about 5’7” and weighed about 125 lbs he guessed. She stood watching her father supervise the loading. The Padre for the first time noticed the woman’s breasts, Madre de Dios! The huge mounds seemed out of proportion for the trim figure they crowned. Their heaviness was evident in the tautness of the shirt fabric that sought to restrain them. Little did he know that they were cause of the premature end of her gymnastics career. When she was 11 years old her small buds had burst forth beginning the growth to the firm heavy orbs now before him. Their rapid growth spelled an end to her days of competition on the balance beam and tumbling mat.

Down from her graceful neck was a plain of lightly tanned flesh that sloped outward to form the majesty of her bosom. The Padre could tell from how her breasts hung low that the large bags of flesh were beginning to feel their own weight, but it would be years before she had the stooped posture and sagging breasts of an old woman. The teenager’s long narrow torso seem nonexistent beneath the shelf of her breasts. The slight flair of her slim hips curved round to the prominent globes of her muscular buttocks. Her muscular thighs and calves were clearly visible beneath her shorts. Over the last 5 years she had grown over a foot in height, her long legs now lithe, muscular and firm. She was a picture of trim athleticism mixed with excess sexual endowment.

“Perfectiones de Dios”, he thought to himself the young woman’s mother must have been a beauty with good genes.

Her father was typical gringo he thought, light haired and skinned, medium build with sandy brown hair. In his early forties the Padre thought. A handsome enough man, but not remarkable. Obviously the teenager owed her mother much.

The sweat stained tee shirt beneath her blue shirt barely held her large breasts in check. The dark crescents of sweat marked the undersides. Even in the stifling heat, the impression or her long thick nipples were visible through the double thickness of cloth. The taunt roundness of her firm buttocks was obvious beneath her the shorts hugging her hips. The swell of her hamstrings clearly announced her athleticism to the world. The khaki shorts were sweat stained dark at the top of the crevass that divided the proud cheeks of her bottom. Her broad shoulders filled her shirt, ending in long supple muscular arms. The beautiful teenage girl was the picture or perfection.

The father sighed, “Madre de Dios, to be 20 once again.” Then the sharp pain of long suppressed memories lanced into him as they welled up like pus from a ruptured cyst.

A similarly graced dark haired senorita whom he loved confronting him in her nudity, the sneer on her lips as she reminded him he was mulatto. That she wanted “un hombre magn fico”, not “el esclavo indio negro”, a black indian slave, the words still burned him. He had turned and ran, ran to the church, ran to forget, leaving his manhood and pride behind.

The old Padre looked at the man’s back as the rode along the overgrown track. The mules rhythmic plodding tempting him with sleep. Only the heat and the man’s incessant talking about his relationship with god kept him awake.

Steve Falwell obviously felt he held a rather exalted position in god’s plans, the Padre thought to himself. Well if he was wanting to save the world for god’s greater glory, he would surely assist him. One thing the good Padre had learned over the years, god helps those that help themselves, he protects those that keep themselves out of harm’s way.

If he wanted to save those that truly needed saving. He would send him to the village, Refugio del Muerto to the north. The village had been beset by rebel guerillas as it sat near a potentially valuable iron ore deposit along the border.

Chapter 2

The next days were spent settling his new guests into their quarters and introducing them to the villagers. Dinners were spent discussing future plans, and evenings passed writing letters.

Rachel Falwell cursed her father under her breath as she she watched the fat priest stuff another fork full of boiled yucca root into his mouth. The sight of the man repulsed him. It wasn’t that she disliked blacks or Hispanics for that matter, after all she cheered the almost all black football and predominately Hispanic baseball teams on to victory as a member of her high school’s cheer leading squad. She even spoke to the boys on occasion. Hadn’t she mingled with them and even tolerated their futile advances at post game parties? Rachel came from a different world. A perfect world, until several months ago when it had crumbled. Her mother had left unexpectedly with no explanation, and her father had announced they were coming here for the summer. Rachel still didn’t understand why, she only knew she was thousands of miles away from her friends and all she knew and was thrust into a world of filth and brown skinned foreigners.

Steve Falwell in his early forties was a pious man bent on winning a place in heaven. Since his wife had forsaken the path of god and had become a fornicatrice, he had been determined to save both himself and his daughter from the taint of his wife’s sinful ways. His heart still seethed with self righteous rage at the adulterous scene he had witnessed not too long ago.

Coming home early from a bible study session, he found his wife bent slavishly over another man. The man’s engorged cock obscenely stretching her red lips as his hips rose rhythmically from the bed feeding her the vein wrapped length of flesh. He had stood transfixed in the doorway of their bedroom, unable to move or speak. He stood there long minutes watching through tear blurred eyes, ears ringing with the grunts and slurps, the wet smacking sounds coming from his wife’s throat as she swallowed the man’s long thick cock. Sounds that made her sound like a lowly whore. He saw the thick cum oozing in a miniature river from between the swollen lips of her sex, dribbling down the columns of her thighs. So lost in his private hell, he failed to hear the cursed grunts powering stiff jets of cum into the back of his wife’s spasming throat. He saw everything, the beads of perspiration that dotted the small of her back as she labored, the muscles of her back as they flexed, the perfect downward hanging breasts as they bobbed, the flushed mottling of her skin, the surge of her body as she pushed down to capture the entire length of his erupting cock in her throat attempting to make it good for her lover as he spewed gob after gob of his rich load into her throat. It was only when she raised her head licking the thick white leavings from her hands and chin that she noticed him. Looking him straight in the eye, she lowered her lips to give the purple head of the strangers cock a wet lingering kiss….

He pushed the memories back into the shadows of his mind. The forced himself to dwell on the love of Jesus. Let it blossom and fill him mind like some earthly narcotic. He sat for a moment his nerves tingling with his lord’s divine presence.

Yes, he would go to the village to the north there he could proselytize the villagers, the rebels, bring them into god’s fold. He would not be interfered with by some broken down priest and his medieval beliefs. He owed no allegiance to a pope, only to the personal god he carried within his heart. He resolved to leave in the morning.

Chapter 3

Rachel’s eyes were still blurry with tears as the beautiful teen watched her father’s back disappear around the bend in the dirt trail. Composing herself, she thought of what she would do next. Her father had decided it was best that she stay here for the time being rather than face the uncertainty of the village to the north. He said he would send for her.

In the meantime she was to help Padre Pietro minister to the villagers, and help as he saw fit. She would have her own room in the church annex and the run of the village. She turned and walked back down the dusty road toward the old stone church.

Having spent the last few days learning her way around the village, she knew there were more people than there appeared. Brushing a pale hand past her face to dispel the ever present flies she glanced down the alley that led to the open barn that housed the cockfighting pit. As there had been on her visit with the Padre she could see a number of men lounging in the sparse shadows to escape the building heat. The Padre had said they occasionally fought dogs there too. She shivered at the thought despite the intense morning heat, feeling her large nipples harden and lengthen into the long thick fingers that caused her so much embarrassment. Her short walk had caused sweat to soak her white blouse, making it fit her upper torso like a glove her large heavy breasts joggling within her bra with each step. She knew by the way they felt and from experience that soon her puckered aureoles and long rigid nipples would be clearly visible through the sweat soaked fabric despite the bra beneath. She quickened her pace causing the fleshy bags on her chest to wobble and swing from side to side even more, their liquid weight rippling within the confines of her custom bra.

Half way to the church she passed the open fronted building which sided the river serving as a communal laundry. The wizen old man standing beneath the awning watched as she walked by. She attempted to ignore the lingering stares of the old oriental man. She felt his eyes roam over her like slithering tentacles. She heard the sing song dialect as he called out to someone and soon his eyes were joined by those of hulking figure of his son. The Padre had said the son was slow witted. Neither said a word as she walked past, but she feel their eyes worming over her probing every curve and crevass. The thin wet cotton of her blouse was clinging to the large firm cones of her breasts. The dark ruddiness of her aureoles were clearly visible beneath the fabric as her inch long nipples tented the saturated fabric. Her long thick nipples in all their knobby beauty looked like reddish pink rasberries. A blind man could have read the prominent Braille written by her thoughts across the surface of her puckered aureoles. Suddenly Rachel realized the throbbing in her swelling breasts was being matched by a tingling between her legs. The forbidden realization that the roaming hungering eyes of the men excited her sent a gushing tingle through her vagina. Her face colored as she felt her labia become slick from the excitement of such shameful thoughts. What would her father say if he knew she had felt nothing but repulsion at the hint of what those men were thinking. She started to pray beneath her breath fighting back her evil and shameful thoughts.

Another gushing tingle ran through her as her mind swam at what they might be thinking, what they might want to do to her. It was only after reaching the church standing in the quiet of the dark stifling entryway, that the realization of what she had seen entered her mind. She licked her lips as her breath came in short gasps. Her mind flitted guiltily around the edges of the thought as if it was too obscene to touch, to contemplate. Finally her mind embraced it, the thought blossomed and she accepted what she had seen in the loose pantaloons of the two men. Her vagina flooded and wet the downy curls covering her labia, as she remembered the bulging pantaloons of the men as their cocks had hardened at the sight of her lascivious but unintentional display”.

Her mind was a tangle of confused thoughts which she couldn’t sort out due to the pulsing distraction in her groin and the burning tips of her breasts. Confused and disgusted, she eventually found room in the church annex and locked herself behind the sturdy wooden door. Huddled in the corner of her room she struggled with her feelings, how the gaze of the men repulsed and thrilled her, how she was disgusted with herself, but craved the new feelings coursing through her young body.

In anger and disgust she tore off her shorts to get at the maddening center of her distraction. In anger she grabbed the swollen throbbing nub of her clitoris and gave it a violent pinch, forcing a moan to escape from her lips as she increased the pressure between her thumb and finger.

Several hours later the old Padre knocked at her door to say good night. A muffled response all he got in return, but he was satisfied the teenager was safely behind a locked door. He took his candle and waddled to his room at the other side of the annex. “A Protestant gringo bitch”, he thought, “Too good to even open the door.” Pushing his more prurient thoughts to the the darker corners of his mind. He thought of how he could put the young woman in her place.

The beautiful teen sat on her haunches on the bed, back pressed against the corner of the wall. The flicker of the light on the wooden night stand offered up a dim illumination in the room. The light of the candle was caught in drool running down her chin from her protruding tongue and was mirrored in the wetness on her fingers. Her eyes were blind to the light, screwed up tight, head lolled back, her face creased in dreamy concentration. The room was silent except for the wet sticky sounds coming from the fingers ravaging her vagina. The fingers of her other hand worried at the inch long scarlet nub that was her clitoris. Its sheath pulled back from its blood engorged length, nearly the size of a cigarette filter. She shuddered, her fingers plucking and rubbing the turgid cluster of nerves. A patina of fluid coated her inner thighs, her hands were a mess of rich musky juice. The room smelled heavy of musk. A glimmering ribbon of liquid coalesced at the bottom of her crotch and dripped into the spreading wet spot beneath her quivering bottom. The movement of her fingers increased their tempo, her body pressed tighter against the wall as she stiffened, a low moaning wail dribbled from her parted lips climaxing in a choking prolonged shudder.

Rachel opened her eyes, moved them furtively around the room, and closed them again and relaxed. Her breath caught, in her throat as the lewd and disgusting thoughts once again spewed through her mind like the stink of some sewer run amok, the thoughts and their vileness pushed all before them. She licked her parted lips as her wet fingers once more began the now familiar private probing….

Chapter 4

An early morning haze hung in the air that smelled of cooking food and the acrid smoke of cooking fires. A parrot squawked from its perch in the tree. A green tree sloth moved in slow motion as it followed the progress of the two pedestrians as they walked thought the twin doors of the church. The church fronted the square, dating back to the first Jesuits in the area. It was a formidable structure, its thick mud brick walls laid out along traditional lines of a naive and transect representing the holy cross and built lying east to west. Better to catch the early light of morning through the church’s stained glass. The glass was now covered with dust and many panes were cracked or missing.

Rachel walked quietly behind the Padre as they crossed the town square and made their way toward the communal laundry. The square was empty now. It would be busy soon enough as it was every day in the morning and evenings, the coolest parts of the day. Rachel glanced back at the church and thought of last night, and a wave of guilty hunger washed over her as she thought of how she had explored, tormented and pleased herself in the darkness of her room remembering the hungry stares of the two oriental men.

When the fat old Padre had told her she would be helping in the communal laundry, her mind filled with indignation, but her stomach pulled tight as she felt her vagina throb in a mixture of excitement and dread at the prospect of meeting the two men whose mere gaze had driven her to do things to herself that she knew were sinful and disgusting. How many times had she touched herself? Four, no five times? Her vagina felt swollen, its fulness pressed tightly against the crotch seam of her shorts. The very motion of walking was a confusing mixture or pain and pleasure. The friction and her thoughts brought a slow ooze of wetness along the lips of her vagina.

She walked as the condemned walks to the gibbet. Within her ripe body she felt the near certainty that something within her was on the verge of dying. The slow death of the fetters of pious hypocrisy had begun by her own hand last night. She saw the first glimpse of the pleasures that might await if she was freed of the restraints of archaic moral superstitions. A part of her secretly welcomed it. She knew the two filthy oriental men would be the executioners.

The heat of the square seemed to lift a bit as they neared the river and the laundry. The fat Padre ducked as he stepped under the thatched roof of the porch that served as the counter area. He peered into the gloom of the back of the hut that projected over the river bank supported by pilings.

“Hatori, are you here?, his voice boomed out? “Hei”, came the reply from somewhere back in the gloom.

Rachel heard the scrape of wood on wood as a shoji like door slid back revealing what looked like a storeroom off the the left. An immense dark shape trundled out of the shadows ahead of a frail and wizen looking man. A black mastiff-dane mix shoved his nose up at the Padre in recognition as the old owner announced his arrival with a wracking cough hawking up a robust wad of phlegm which he spit into a dirty cloth hanging from a rope tied to his waist. Rachel shuddered not knowing if it was from the disgusting display, or the penetrating stare of the man as he addressed the Padre.

“Konichi wa, Padre san”, he said in a low screech, a hint of spittle glistening on his unshaven chin. “This must be the the new helper you promised”. Speaking of her as if she was a new utensil.

“This is Rachel Falwell, she is here to assist in the lord’s work with the villagers”, the padre said.

Rachel a full head taller than the old man. He wore loose fitting peasants garb, stained and dirty with an occasional rent and tear. His longish hair was pulled back and confined in a greasy knot at the back of his head. A few whiskers grew from his chin and upper lip. Two dark penetrating eyes stared out of an otherwise featureless oriental face. His lips cracked into a nearly toothless grin as Rachel hesitantly presented her pale hand in greeting. The old man’s penetrating gaze had never lifted to Rachel’s face but roamed her body as he stepped forward and presented a hand that more resembled a scarred and arthritic claw. She knew that she should feel revulsion at the touch of the man’s scabby hand and his violating stare. Her stomach was turning, but it was a butterfly mixture of revulsion and nasty anticipation.

She felt naked in front of him, felt as if her were peeling the clothes from her one piece at a time, until she envisioned herself naked in front of him. Not just naked, but soul naked, helpless. Her body and mind laid bare.

She pulled her hand back but still he held it, his stare never leaving her breasts. Could he sense the firestorm of emotions consuming her mind she wondered? Her eyes darted to the Padre for assistance, but he stood smiling seeming to enjoy her distress. Hatori ran his thumb in a mockery of a caress across the back of the girls hand. Much to the poor girls distress he brought his phlegm flecked lips to the girls hand in a parody of a kiss. This caused Rachel’s oversized nipples to blossom in an embarrassing display, as blood rushed to fill the rigid probes as her aureoles contracted in sympathy with her leaking vagina. Rachel wanted to die as her nipples expanded in full view of the old man. His smile seemed to expand, his eyes rose to her face as if to acknowledgment her lack of physical control.

Poor beautiful Rachel’s mind was a confused welter of emotions, the disgust she felt toward the old man was mirrored in the contempt she had for how her own body betrayed itself at his touch. This only seemed to cast fuel on the fire of her unexplained lust. Her rational mind fought to rise above the swirling flood, drowning in wave after wave of disgusting, forbidden and sinful feelings. All the while her flesh reveled in it, her over ripe body seemed to revel in the knowledge that a lifetime of teachings were being violated and broken, but only in her mind. She felt wave after wave of nasty pleasure course through her hungry body as her swollen clit protruded between her leaking labia like a fat tongue. Her oversized breasts swelling with the contained heat pushing her distended nipples tighter into the thin fabric revealing themselves to the old man even more.

“Rachel is eager to get started doing whatever it is she can help with”, the voice of the Padre intoned.

Rachel blushed as she pulled her hand free and quickly stepped back crossing her arms self- consciously across her chest. Her clit still tingling maddeningly between her legs.

“Bueno, she can help Maria and Tahio in the washroom.” Hattori grunted, appearing somewhat disappointed. “She can begin now, the work will last most of the day.”

“Rachel”, the old Padre said turning to her. “I will leave you here with Hattori, he will introduce you to the others.” “I will be gone to another village today, but will return tonight.”

With that he turned with an amused smile and started back to the church.

Rachel stood transfixed, feeling lost and vunerable. To her surprise the old man looked at the broad back of the padre as he walked across the square, snorted and turned. He stopped and cast a lingering glance in Rachel’s direction.

“You come with me”, he said with a grin, revealing the stained remains of his teeth, the brown rotten stumps of several were the hallmark of his smile. With that he walked back into the shadows of the washhouse.

Chapter 5

The day was purgatory. The attractive teen had spent her time bent over the wash and rinse tubs and carried wood to feed the fire for heating the wash water. All the while she and Maria had to fight off the unwelcome advances of Conquistador, the large black mastiff mix. His cold wet nose seemed to be everywhere to her embarrassment, but amusement of everyone else. While Maria seemed moved at all by the dogs advances, Rachel burned with shame at the thought that his interest was fueled by the musky smell of the guilty secretions of her drooling vagina.

The old man had introduced her to his son, Tahio, he was her age but a near retard of hulking proportions for an oriental teenager. Taller than the Padre, but not as heavily built due to his youth. The dumb slack jawed look of the teenager, was accentuated by the drool that seemed to perpetually wet his chin. Rachel felt profound sympathy for the boy, as he was worked like a dog by his father. His barefoot hulking form shuffling about from one task to another. Once in a gush of sympathy, the thought had entered her mind in that under different circumstances she….but she caught herself in disgust having to turn away as the youth grinned at her, his tongue probing at a string of green snot that cascaded from his left nostril.

My god, she thought, what has my father gotten me into. Forgotten for an instant were the noble and charitable reasons for her being here. She lost herself in a torrent of self pity. Broken down under the heat and filth of the day, she suddenly fought back tears. The memory to her carnal display and the betrayal by her body was fresh in her mind.

“Our father who art in heaven….” she prayed under her breath, trying to fight back the rush of pity, disgust, and filthy thoughts that fought for her attention. The buzz of her clit and the continuous burning in her breasts and nipples was fought back when she pinched herself fiercely on the inner thigh. She kept from drowning in self pity by looking at Maria her workmate.

Maria was a mestizo, or Castilian indian mix. She was older than Rachel in her early 20’s and was very attractive. Her thick black hair accented her flawless light brown skin and was worn similarly to Rachel’s, pulled back in defense of the pervasive heat.

She was full breasted for an indian with large and dark aureoles and nipples typical for her skin coloring. Rachel noticed that she had what the men crudely referred to as “la colon grande”, the large ass typical of most indian women. The young woman carried herself as if beaten down, standing in her dirty bare feet, her true height obscured by the down trodden posture she maintained. Rachel saw that she never lifted her eyes to the old man and did as she was told. The girl wore the typical loose fitting native garb; a rude calf length dress of loose weave off-white cotton, held close at the waist by a rope or belt. The front 3/4 of the dress held closed by wooden buttons.

Rachel had realized early that it was cooler and more practical than the close fitting blouse and she wore. The old man had given a similar dress to wear, which she had donned to replace her ruined blouse and shorts which had become a filthy mixture of powdered soap, soot and dirt. She found that the dress was not so transparent when wet from her time at the wash tub. The two young women did not talk, but only conversed as their tasks demanded.

During the day Rachel caught glances several livid welts across the top of her ample breasts and the glint of light on metal before the young woman changed position or pulled her blouse closed. Her movements were always accompanied by metallic tinkling of what sounded like little bells.

As she bent over the wash basin arms in the water up to her elbows, time seemed to pass as in fog of boredom and humidity. As her thoughts wandered her peripheral vision caught movement behind her. The dog, she told herself, and prepared for the inevitable assault with a wet nose. Rachel froze as she felt the hem of her dress lift and fleeting touch of something against her inner thigh. Simultaneously she felt something push her in the upper back causing her to have to catch the other side of the wooden basin to keep her balance. Jerking her head to the left and over her shoulder she was met by the leering grin of the old man standing at her left hip. His left hand was firmly planted in the middle of her upper back clenching a fist full of her cotton dress. His right hand was busy beneath the lower hem of her dress, his bony fingers worming like a blade between her firm thighs. Rachel was too off balance to offer much resistance, her upper body hanging over the water filled basin, her hands clutching the far side, the near side cutting into her narrow hips. Fighting to regain her balance she moved her feet, this only allowed the old man greater access to her inviting crotch.

Rachel’s mind reeled as she looked to the left in Maria’s direction only to see her disappearing into the rear of the shop. Fighting the increasing pressure against her back, she felt the old man’s bonny fingers digging through the thin blonde curls fringing her labia. The plump soft lips of her outer labia were no match for the insistent probing. She looked to the right with a frightened and questioning look only to to get a silently evil grin that exposed the man’s rotting teeth.

“You have been wanting this, senorita, hei?” he hissed, his rancid breath assaulting her delicate nostrils. “You are wet like del rio, how you say, like a river”, he said with a laugh.

No response was necessary as his fingers slid easily into the tight wet pit of her cunt, its dripping lips announcing her guilty but wordless reply. Rachel wanted to die, the guilt of her feelings burned into her chest, driving the breath from her lungs, her mind a swirl of conflicting life long beliefs and desires. Her mouth moved soundlessly like a waterless fish, small hands clutching whitely at the basin side. Surrendering, she closed her eyes as his fingers probed the fleshy end of her cervix, his thumb strumming the rising nub of her clit! . The beautiful teens body betrayed her as she felt her hips rock as her trim ass raised as she slightly opened her thighs to allow the stinking old man greater access to her, increasing her masochistic shame. His dirty fingers were now exploring the wet confines of her most secret parts, round and round they ran teasing her cervix as it stood like a lonely obelisk. His thumb mashed against the thick stub of the attractive teens engorged clit. At the same instant she jerked as she felt something cold against the back of her leg. In an instance she knew!

“Conquistador likes your wet little pussy too senorita”, the old man said with a cackle.

She looked around in time to see the large tongue of the animal make a long swath through the oily liquid coating the old man’s hand and her crotch. Her heart raced as she felt a hardness against her hip through the old man’s filthy pantaloons. The slut in her marveled at the size and hardness of his hidden member which seemed to surge with each new indignity she suffered. The prim voice in her shamed her, when she caught the slut in her wondering what it looked like, and to her thrilling disgust, what it might taste like….!

She tried to pray, to find a reason for her martyrdom, but she found it too nasty, too horribly thrilling to concentrate on virtuous thoughts. Seeming that god wasn’t pleased with the level of her degradation and humiliation, she felt hands on the side of her face holding her firmly to the front. Opening her big blue eyes she saw the imbicilic face of Tahio, the hulking retard. As she whimpered he held her as he moved the stained front of his pantaloons even with her face. As he shuffled forward she saw the outline and caught glimpses of the log of his cock through a tear in the fabric. Standing in front of her he grasped her by her blond pony tail and thrust her face into his groin.

The beautiful girl felt a surge of masochistic delight as her nose brushed against the hardness of his rod through the rent in the fabric. His bristly pubs scratched her nose and cheek, as she caught her breath her delicate nostrils were assailed by the stink and filth of his unwashed privates. A wave of goose flesh rose across her back and arms at the delightful dirtiness of it, the image of her mother and father flashed through her mind, if only they could see me now a little voice cried out!

The attractive teen’s soul burned as she felt her cunt contract uncontrollably at the repulsive touch of the boys organ. She knew the old man could feel her guilty response around his dripping fingers. He knew her inner secret. In a mind searing flash, Rachel realized what she had known secretly all along. Her life as a prim and proper church going deb, was a sham. Just as sure as the facade of her happy family had collapse amid a storm of adultery and betrayal, the lie of her true nature was being revealed by these filthy peasants. The lily white personae she portrayed was as hollow as her empty begging cunt. Here she stood, a depraved strangers hand probing her cunt, relishing the feel of a strange cock against her face, her body betraying her, responding with masochistic delight to the humiliating and degrading treatment at the hands of strangers.

She knew now there was no god. There was no right and wrong, no afterlife, only the here and now, only the cravings of the flesh, only the inflamed and gnawing need between her legs. Her brain the center of her intellect, seat of what she called her soul, repository of her eternal salvation, had surrendered control of her life to the half-inch long bundle of nerves of her clit. The thick blood engorged little bishop, sang like a choir with each touch of the old man’s calloused thumb. Like a tiny alien possessing her body, it now controlled her every craving. Red and swollen from the incessant attention it coaxed her, with wave after wave of guilty pleasure, deeper into the mire and filth of her sexual depravity. Her mind was a willing accomplice as it thrilled to the forbidden acts she willingly allowed others to perform on her virginal body. Her skin burned with the guilt and anticipation, the shame and pleasure of being used like a whore!

Now she needed no coaxing as she pushed her face into the boy’s stinking crotch, seeking out the hard tube of his cock. She thrilled to the feel of it against her lips, her little pink tongue thrusting out in desperate pursuit of just a taste of the sinful object of her lust. The vile tool of rapine and degradation of so many women through history, but holy enough to be the instrument of god’s covenant with the Jew’s. Her mind reeled, that was it, it would be the instrument of a new covenant, between her and her new god, the god of her flesh. She would sacrifice all to satiate her god and to please her. Her life would be cocks, hard, swollen spurting cocks. It was her destiny to service them to please her god, to make them hard and swollen, to coax them to give up their rich hot creamy offering to her god. She would please them every way she could, with her tits, cunt, ass and mouth. Her life would be a long ride of thrusting, rubbing, sucking and spurting cocks!

She felt her legs being swept apart by the old man’s hips, as he raised her dress. His hand gone, the cry of emptiness from her stretched and drooling cunt was was about to be answered. The boy pulled aside the buttonless fly of his pantaloons to free the thick vein choked length of his cock. Rachel nuzzled the length of it against her cheek, drawing back as the boy leveled it with her mouth. He skinned back the delicate foreskin, revealing his encrusted purple glans.

THE END OF CHAPTER 1 – 5