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Subject: {ASSM} ASS} Vestal Whore: Communion of Degradation Chap 1-4 {Toryu} (fM+ reluc interr degrad oral anal nc/cons bdsm breast sad beast pierc exhib fist inc religion)
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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: toryu88@hotmail.com
It is a work of fiction from my fantasies. The seed of the story
came from BlackDemon's "Church" series, which landed in my
fertile mind and grew like a weed with more details and
embellishments.
This work contains f_M+, Domination, Con/NC sex, slavery,
prostitution, beast, bondage, interracial, masochism, sadism,
breast torture, piercing, large breasts, and whatever else comes
to mind.
Feel free to offer comments and suggestions at the above email.
{ASS} Vestal Whore: Communion of Degradation Chap {Toryu} (fM+
reluc interr degrad oral anal nc/cons bdsm breast sad beast pierc
exhib fist inc religion)
Vestal Whore: Communion of Degradation
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
decended 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 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.
--
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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