Feature Writer: TeresaJ / [email protected]

Feature Title: CHURCH WHORE

Published: 07.11.2009 / EuropEscort Guide

Story Codes: Religious Themes, Demonic

About the author: TeresaJ is the pen name for a 48-year-old woman living in south San Antonio. She grew up on Presa Street and saw the whores ply their trade in the open through all her upbringing. TeresaJ is a recovering substance abuser who knew personally many of the prostitutes in her neighborhood. Her sister and three of her female cousins are prostitutes. The characters in this story are fictional, but they are loosely based on the lives of people TeresaJ knew.

Church Whore 1

I was standing in front of the last pew, the corner seat by the center aisle, with my daughters to my right, and across the aisle was Mr. Cazares standing next to his wife. Their teen daughter, Amanda, stood on the other side of Mrs. Cazares. Amanda was shame-faced, as she had been of late — not nearly as prideful and arrogant as she had been – and holding in her arms the baby boy she bore out of wedlock.

The congregation sang, as did I while I made furtive glances across the aisle at Mr. Cazares’ shoes, not daring to look directly at him.  I was thirty-one, and my daughters were eighteen and seven years of age. What I am recollecting now happened four years ago.  Mr. Cazares was a womanizer, but that was not well known. What was known was that he was a deacon in our modest church, and he had a wicked sinner’s past.  He spent six years in the penitentiary. He told people the conviction was for trafficking in narcotics. That wasn’t true. He did time for pimping.

He was a ‘reformed’ whore maker, also a lie. He still very much had a passion for turning decent women into whores. To the public eye, he made an honest living these days. He was a construction contractor. He had a crew and he laid concrete foundations. But he was fucking his secretary and pimping her and her daughter on the side. It turned out, although I did not know it that day, that he was also a horrible influence on his very own daughter.

Oh, he did not fuck her himself. But he could not resist corrupting her. He went against his wife when it came to disciplining the girl. He spoiled her knowing full well she would get into deep trouble. He was a habitual enabler. He recruited one of his employees — a twenty-year-old man of ill repute — to date his then eighteen-year-old daughter. Her ‘boyfriend’ was encourage by Amanda’s father to teach her the lifestyle of a party girl, a slut. His employee succeeded unto Mr. Cazares’ wildest dreams.

At her father’s instructions, and with his financing, Amanda’s boyfriend would pay for the motel where they would have sex. Amanda’s mother thought she was spending these evenings with the daughter of Mr. Cazares’ secretary, but that was another ruse. The secretary’s daughter would make the obligatory appearance to pick Amanda up, then hand her off to her twenty-year-old boyfriend.

The boyfriend took her to a cheap motel across the highway from a truck stop. The motel was frequented by prostitutes who ‘dated’ men at the truck stop. It was practically a brothel and early into Amanda’s relationship with her boyfriend she was introduced to several whores with the intent that friendships would develop, and these friendships did occur.

It was all part of Mr. Cazares’ plan to surround his daughter with wicked influences.

While her father helped hide her activities and whereabouts from her mother, Amanda turned into a wild girl — getting stoned and fucking — And she convinced herself with the help of her new friends that there were no serious consequences for having multiples sex partners with the men her boyfriend brought to their parties.

After awhile, and under such bad influences, it didn’t even phase her when her boyfriend suggested that she sell her body. Her prostitute ‘friends’ boasted of the money she could make and it was too enticing. Shortly before she reached her eighteenth birthday, she succumbed to the lure of money and to her own now insatiable lusts for dirty sex. She was fucking all the truckers that her bad boy lover, and eventual pimp, lined her up with, right up until the pregnancy. The pregnancy was a big blow to Amanda’s ego. She was such a beautiful Mexican maiden. She had green eyes, was five feet and six inches tall, one hundred and twenty-eight pounds before the pregnancy, very dark brown in skin tone. She had a 36C-24-36 figure and shoulder length straight black hair.

Getting knocked up didn’t happen right away. She had the good sense to get on the pill. She didn’t have the good sense to remember her daily dose when she was getting stoned. But she fucked around for almost four years – long enough to have ruined her reputation and mortified her mother by the time she was nineteen and eight months pregnant. Now she was nineteen and two months post-birth and back in church. She wanted an abortion, but her mother would not stand for that. But this story is not so much about her. It is about me. My name is Isabel Manchada. And had I known all about Amanda’s life and her father’s role in it, I might not have got involved with him.

I am married to a decent man, or I should say I was at the time. He just happened to have no interest in church. He was also a fat, lazy husband with no ambition, content to waste his life in middle management at a lousy company with lousy pay and few benefits.

So, I took it upon myself to take our daughters to church alone. Our church — I call it the brown trash church. We are predominantly low-income, Mexican-Americans in a small south Texas town near San Antonio. These families scratch a living working on nearby farms, or in the construction or service trades. We are poor and for the most part not well educated.

I finished high school and I finished eighteen months study in a junior college to get certified for clerical work. That makes me one of the most educated members of the church, but not the wisest! I used to work in an office. But now, at age thirty-four, I am just a prostitute — yes, a common streetwalker. I lost custody of my daughters in the divorce. I live alone.

I have always gone to church, although not always to this church I am referring to. It was a protestant church — not Catholic, which most people just assume would be the case because I am Mexicana. I am five feet and five inches tall, and I weigh one hundred and forty-five pounds. I have long black wavy hair that flows down to the small of my back, and dark brown skin. My figure is 38D-30-38. I have full red lips and the high broad cheekbones and broad nose of my Native American heritage. I have a bubble butt and thick, firm brown thighs. I wear a size eight shoe. My eyes are brown.

I pluck my eyebrows and use a brow stencil. I’ve considered tattooing in the eyebrows, but I think that looks too, too chola. I trim my pubic hair into a triangle, and I have a tattoo of a red apple on my left ass cheek; out of the apple sticks the head of a snake with its forked tongue licking the crack of my ass. I got that tattoo after Mr. Cazares put me on the street to whore for him. I also have a tattoo of a small cross on the right side of my neck. And I wear a tongue bar now for the obvious reason — men like the feel of it against their cock when I am giving oral sex. But I had no piercings except for earrings when our sexual relationship started.

Few people dress up at our church. I had even seen married women with children show up there in short cut-off bluejeans, sandals and tube tops. Seriously! I was not that bad. In fact, before I got involved with Mr. Cazares, I dressed very nice to church. But after we started fucking, I started sliding into a sleazier self-image. It was what he wanted more than what I wanted. Why did I keep giving in to him? How did he have such a powerful hold over my emotions? He ruined me completely!

On this particular Sunday, I had been self-conscious that he was always checking me out when he thought no one was looking. It made me so horny! And he was very persistent about trying to catch my eye. He was forty-five years old, eighteen years my senior. I might not have been affected were it not for the fact that despite his age he radiated an earthy virility. He was tall, dark and muscular.  He was five feet – eight inches tall, about two hundred pounds, and kept his hair cut short.

He dressed like a gentleman – never came to church in a t-shirt or even a polo shirt. He was always in a nice, long-sleeve dress shirt and dress slacks, and he had these amazing thick thighs that filled out those pants – OMG! How I loved to look at his thighs and imagine them slapping against me. His black leather shoes always shined and they seemed to call me to my knees, the sparkling of those spit-polished shoes seemed to speak to me.

“Kiss my feet, bow down to me!”

I admit my clothing might have been a little provocative. I dressed to be noticed and I always longed for compliments about my beauty. I was a vain woman! I liked tight-fitting skirts and blouses. But I didn’t show that much skin. I was just proud of my figure and wanted to dress in skirts and tops that were a size too small. It was my vanity, I suppose, but he liked looking at me more than he liked looking at his wife or any other woman in church. That much was obvious.

He would whisper to me, “Ahh, Isabel. You are easy on the eyes — sssuch a beautiful woman!”

I do not know how he got my phone number, but he started calling me at the office. He would flirt on the phone and invite me to whatever construction site he was at.

“For a quickie, what do you say, sweet child?”

I would rebuff him. I would tell him he was married, and so was I, and that this was impossible. But I never had the nerve to tell my husband, or anyone else. I did not want to be causing more trouble.  But he had an effect on me. I had to admit that I was aroused. The very idea of having the opportunity to have an extra-marital adventure, to be naughty with such a virile man – that kept me thinking of him and the wicked things he told me.

Oh, it is not like I was a saint. I was not. I had been sexually active since the age of eighteen And even after I married my husband at age nineteen, I had succumbed to temptation. I had a job early in my marriage where I gave in to my supervisor’s demands for sex; he offered me money for sex and it excited me to be his personal prostitute.

My monthly ‘bonuses’ always involved a trip to his office with the door locked behind me, and me stripping naked for him, me bending myself over his desk so he could fuck me in the asshole because his wife would not permit him to be doing that. For an extra four hundred dollars a month, I gave in to my boss six to eight times a month. It was always the same. Go to his office. Get naked. Bend over the desk. Take his cock up the ass, then kneel and suck his shit-greased cock until he came on my face. He loved to give me the facials and make me wipe his cum with a hanky I kept in my purse. But after having sexual relations with him for six months, guilt finally overwhelmed me and I quit my job.

“How could I be such a filthy whore?” I asked myself.

I was ashamed at how easily he made me enjoy the way he degraded me. The self-loathing ended a few months after I quit, but the urge to do the nasty outside of marriage lingered inside of me. At my next job, I had an affair with a co-worker. But the opposite happened — although, I was excited to sneak around and cheat with him, he got cold feet eleven months into the affair. His wife was suspicious and he ended the affair. By the time Mr. Cazares had started hitting on my, I had been behaving myself for six years. I was so fucking bored with the sex life I had with my husband. I was bored with life in general. And perhaps too predisposed for having a wicked adventure.

Still, to have sex with someone I went to church with! That made me hesitate. It seemed terribly complicated. There were so many people around that might notice, and to have to maneuver around my daughters! I had never had an affair anywhere outside the workplace. I felt very uncomfortable about taking a chance with this man.

But I would not refuse his phone calls. And he knew it. Every time he called me at work, I picked up the phone. I listened to his filthy suggestions. He talked dirty to me, and I would listen. And the more I listened, the more disgusting his sexual descriptions became.

He became so brazen that he would insult me from the first greeting. The phone would ring, and I would lift the receiver and he would say,

“Sos cachonda por mi, puta? Ya estasmojada, verdad?” (Are you horny for me, whore? You are already wet, true?)

And from the start of our conversations, I would blush and my pussy would ache. I suppose, no doubt, it encouraged him to go on, knowing that I would not hang up — at least never right away. He knew I was letting talk his rude voice speak wickedness into my ear until I was so upset that I had to go to the restroom and masturbate.

He would go into elaborate and graphic detail about how he was going to make me crazy for his cock, about how he was going to turn me into a slut. He kept telling me that I was one, that he could spot one a mile away and he knew I was one. I just needed to hook up with the right man to.

“Bring out my inner whore.”

“And you are the man to do this? Hah!” I would say, trying to sound skeptical.

I got into a playful phone banter with him, deriding him, calling him a dirty old man, a pervert. But for some reason, I could not bring myself to insist that he must stop calling, or that he must please leave me alone. His talk would arouse me. I would think of him when I was in bed at night with my husband. I thought of Mr. Cazares as I licked and sucked my husband’s cock. I thought of Mr. Cazares as I rode on my husband’s cock.

I was slipping. I felt myself becoming more and more oriented toward Mr. Cazares’ needs. When he would be near me in the social hall during a Sunday after-service lunch, I would find his hand on my knee and not object. On the occasions where he was close to me in church, he took shameful liberties — pinching my ass, brushing a hard-on against my thigh, slipping a hand up my skirt until — I, in panic, would grab his hand and shove it away. We passed each other by the restrooms once. I was leaving the woman’s restroom and he was supposedly about the enter then men’s restroom.

He put a hand on my ass and invited me into the men’s restroom to suck his cock. I stood there blushing while he squeezed my ass.

He said, “Let’s go. Let me cum in your mouth, Isabel. Now!”

I could see his cock was hard and throbbing against his thick upper thigh; he had adjusted his organ to make the penis fall out of his briefs just for my viewing. I wanted to give in, but I mustered the willpower to pull free of him and go back to the Sunday service. Oh, but how wet I was, thinking of being on my knees for him, milking his cock. How my heart pounded in my chest! Women are only human, and the flesh it is weak.

On this particular Sunday, on the day I finally gave in to him, my willpower had crumbled away. I had decided to give in to him at the very next opportunity. We had been having these exchanges for weeks. I was dying to open my thighs to him. We were in song, and I was looking out of my hymn book constantly, looking his way. It took me awhile to get the nerve to move my eyes up from his shoes to his eyes. He caught my glances and I felt a flood of hot blood to my dark breasts.

He nodded at me, a questioning, “yes?” with his facial expressions and movements of his head.

I bit my lower lip in his direction. I must have looked a sight! So needy. I pressed the palm of my hand to my abdomen and reached down below the cheap black vynil belt at my waist, and I and scrunched the fabric of my skirt into my shaking fist. I pulled up at my short tight skirt, then down. Up and down, up and down, the fabric of my skirt in movement, as if it were being moved around by the physical molestations of a horny man. I made this movement four times. This was the sign he had instructed me to give him.

“When you are ready to be my whore,” he had said over and over and over.

He was aroused. He reached for his groin and adjusted his organ. I could bear this tension no longer. I put down the hymn and told my daughters I would be back momentarily, that I needed to use the restroom. I walked toward the restroom with a choking lump in my throat and my face red with shame; I knew he would not treat me like a lover. He would not be gentle or sweet. He had always been clear that he would treat me like a whoring bitch, and give me “a hardcore fucking!” I walked to the back of the sanctuary and waited behind the baptismal pool in the hallway that led to the restrooms.

Mr. Cazares appeared behind me moments later. I had such butterflies! All my senses were roiling and my whole body was in the turmoil brought on by my raging lust and the knowledge that the moment of my surrender was at hand. He took my hand and led me past the restrooms and into the utility closet. He pushed aside the mops, brooms and mop bucket. He embraced me in the darkness that enveloped us when he shut the door. He had one hand on my behind, squeezing my coffee brown buttock cheek, he had his other hand unbuttoning my blouse. There was no kissing, although I hoped that we might. He pulled up my skirt and worked his right hand inside the elastic of my high-cut pink panties. His hand was bare on the flesh of my buttock. He squeezed it and squeezed it and made me want for more. His left hand deftly undid my bra and he squeezed my 38-D brown right breast.

“What do you need?” he asked.

“You,” I responded.

“Why?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” I said.

“Yes you do! You know! You know that you are a slut! Don’t you?”

“No,” I protested.

The fingers of his right hand dug into the crack of my buttock. He forced a digit up my anus. The finger skin was hard and calloused and it scratched inside my sphincter raw. He pulled me to him hard. I felt his erection throb against the skin of lower abdomen as I pulled up my blouse and unzipped my skirt.

“Puta calientita!” he said, calling me a hot, horny whore in Spanish.

“Nooo,” I groaned, but increasingly, it sounded like the truth.

What was I doing?! I craned my face toward his mouth and offered my lips to his.

“I’m not going to kiss you, you little cocksucker,” he saidm “I’m going to put your nasty mouth on my cock and you are going to do your business, you hear me!?”

His right hand pulled out of my anus and slid around inside my panties to my pussy and he started finger-fucking me furiously.

“Nnnnnn!” I moaned, now intoxicated with forbidden desires.

I actually felt myself needing to hear him call me a whore and in the same instant hating myself for being such an obsessed and foolish woman. He fingered me until I was dripping wet.

Then he said, “Agachate a tus rodillas, puta!”(Get down to your knees, whore!)

And I knelt. I exhaled with the force of my surrender.

“Down! Submit! I can resist no more!”

These were my thoughts. But even then, I did not really believe he would make me a prostitute. For me, it was just dirty talk to make the sex act more exciting. I felt my stocking covered knees press into the hard, scratchy concrete floor. I unzipped his pants with shaking, red-painted fingernails glistening in the dim light. I can still see in my mind my colored fingernails at his zipper. I reached in. I felt his dark, fat, brown, hot, hard cock in my hand. I pulled on it and it sprang out and slapped my chin. I could smell the musk of his organ — Mr. Cazares’ wicked, delicious cock. I opened my mouth and I felt the tip of my tongue against the fleshy, dark and hooded foreskin of his uncut cock. My tongue danced there. My eyes wide open, I could barely see his cock in the darkness.

“Chupame la verga, puta!” he said in a hoarse, crude Mexican baritone voice (Suck my cock, whore!).

I felt him softly fucking his cock into my mouth. I felt the hood pop back as his bulbous cock head flared on the flat of my tongue. He pressed the palms of his hands against the sides of my head. He covered my ears with his hands and the sound of my sucking on his cock was muffled.

The inner sounds passing through my mouth to my ear channel took on a new dimension. I thought this might be what it is like sucking cock underwater. I worked my neck and tongue and bobbed my head on his penis. I felt his large soft testicles soothing against my chin. He returned my motions with fuck thrusts of his own. I was so wet for him!I had never been in the throes of lust to these extremes of emotions. I felt such an incredible urgency to give in, to please him. And, yes, to be his dirty whore. I felt my yellow fourteen carot gold wedding band heat up against his hot, hard cock. And that rich, wicked sense of betrayal that filled my soul during my other extra-marital affairs came back. I felt sin fill me in a seductive and familiar way, but this time with much greater strength. After all, I was a cheating wife sucking another man’s cock in church,

“Voy a meter dentro tu alma un demonio, puta sucia,” Mr. Cazares said (I will put inside your soul a demon, dirty whore!)

His demonic speak only heated me with the desire to go over another edge. And it was so hot in that confined space, in that wicked darkness — and I have always been a woman believing in spirits — that I believed with strong conviction that there were with us demons helping him seduce me. I was the victim, the sacrifice in some spiritual battle. And he fucked my mouth with such urgency. He was enjoying himself immensely and in the darkness, listening to his lewd whispers and piggish groans, I felt Satan was in him and I was sucking on something more than just a man’s penis. I felt the excitement that comes from knowing I was being completely selfish. I sucked at his root with raging greed. And he fucked my throat with equal intent. He began fucking my throat so fiercely, I thought he would cum down my throat. But he did not. He pulled out and told me to stand, turn and bend over. When I was bent and offering him my backside, he pulled down my panties to my knees and my skirt up across my back and slammed his cock into my dripping hot pussy.

“Ohhhhh,” I just had to moan.

It was so rich feeling him pound my pussy! He slammed into me steadily. I could hear his groin and balls slap against my ass and pussy. It sounded so loud! I was afraid someone might walk by the closet and hear his cock slapping into me. But that just excited me more. His big, strong, dark, calloused hands held my hips tight.

He fucked me and called me a good whore, “Buena puta!”

His left hand left my hips and grabbed my head and shook it up and down to force my agreement.

“Sos buena puta?” he asked (Are you a good whore?).

“Yesss,” I said, finally giving in to his interrogating method.

It was so dark and hot. I felt like I was making such a horrible sin against God that I was just outside the doorway to Hell itself. We both breathed heavily. We both moaned with lust full filled. We both sweated like gluttonous pigs. His driving, demanding, merciless cock moved inside me with unrelenting speed – filling me, stretching me, awakening me to lower and lower depths. He grabbed my hair at one point so hard that my neck and back were stretched so tight the stress was beyond what I could bear.

I moaned, “Aahhh!”

As he fucked me, he bit into my top left shoulder by the neck, then sucked and sucked and sucked so hard that I knew he left on me a big red hickey. Luckily, I thought, my blouse had a collar! His hands roamed all over my body as he fucked his delicious, probing fat penis into my pussy. He was an expert at finding erotic places I did not know I had. He massaged my neck. He pushed and pinched at my diaphragm, then those hands roamed strong and sure up to my breasts and throat. He slapped my thighs with his hands. His thighs slapped my ass and I loved it!

“Dame mas!” I exclaimed (Give me more!)

He asked me again and again if I was a whore.

And with each interrogation, my willing “Yes” came with more conviction and more enthusiasm.

He had control of me, and in my sexual desperation I wanted to give him control of me. I wanted never to have his forceful cock and wicked tongue and confident strong hands separated from me. He rocked his cock into me with more speed. He was more excited with each success at getting me to confess my whoring heart to him. Mr. Cazares told me he was going to cum in my pussy. I told him I wanted him to cum in my pussy.

And as he ejaculated into me, he said, “Cuida mi leche, puta. Toma nena! Perrita! No la vas a limpiar, tonta. Eh? Quiero que te sientas con la congregacion llena de mi leche, cochina!” (Take care of my sperm, whore. Take it, little girl! Little bitch! Don’t clean yourself, you fool. Okay. I want you to go sit with the congregation full of my cum, dirty girl).

And as he spoke each phrase, in my lust I said, “Yes!” I felt his cock pulse and stroke deep, ejaculating sperm into me, “Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes!”

He pulled himself together, then told me to wait two minutes before I came back. I stood in the darkness of the hot closet alone, my clothes all out of place. And all I could think of was when would be the next time? I couldn’t wait to have him use me again. I gathered myself together, then I carefully slipped out of the utility closet and looked myself over in the hall. My stockings were ripped at the knees and my knees were bleeding! I stepped into the women’s restroom and took my stockings off and threw them in the trash can. I was mortified. People would notice that I came to church with stockings and now had none! But it would be even more obvious to walk back into the sanctuary with ripped stockings. I slipped out a rear exit, and walked around the building and came back into the sanctuary from the rear.

I slid as quietly as I could next to my daughters. My heart pounded so hard in my chest! I felt Mr. Cazares semen seep and slip just inside the lips of my vagina. I felt shame. I had returned to my old cheating ways, only this time it was much worse. It was so much worse than anything I had done before. Of that, I was sure. My other lovers didn’t have the effect on me that Mr. Cazares did. I was afraid of him. I was afraid of what he might get me to do next.

THE END OF CHAPTER ONE