Chapter 1
The flies maintained a droning buzz amid the stifling heat. The mulatto priest stared down the tracks as he heard 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 thereidleness 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 border 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 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, theycling 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 aBaptist 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. The Padre 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 5'8" 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. At 18 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 crevasse 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 magnífico", 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 tempted 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 wanted 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 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 awayfrom 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 as the man’s cock fired 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 singsong 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 felt their eyes worming over her probing every curve and crevasse. The thin wet cotton of her blouse was clinging to the large firm cones of her breasts. The dark ruddiness of her aureoles was 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 raspberries. 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 something other than revulsion 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. She struggled to sort them out distracted by the pulsing in her bottom 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 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 nightstand 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 flies maintained a droning buzz amid the stifling heat. The mulatto priest stared down the tracks as he heard 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 thereidleness 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 border 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 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, theycling 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 aBaptist 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. The Padre 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 5'8" 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. At 18 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 crevasse 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 magnífico", 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 tempted 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 wanted 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 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 awayfrom 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 as the man’s cock fired 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 singsong 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 felt their eyes worming over her probing every curve and crevasse. The thin wet cotton of her blouse was clinging to the large firm cones of her breasts. The dark ruddiness of her aureoles was 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 raspberries. 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 something other than revulsion 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. She struggled to sort them out distracted by the pulsing in her bottom 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 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 nightstand 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.
