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Subject: {ASSM} {ASS} Vestal Whore:Communion of Degradation Chap 1 {Toryu}(fM+ reluc interr degrad oral anal nc/cons bdsm breast sad beast pierc exhib fist inc religion)
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Vestal Whore

      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:  godegesil@hotmail.com

      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 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 the village.  A mixture of Indians of
      the Chaco, some Japanese, a few European and Mennonites and
      Andean Indians, failures all.  The Chaco is not kind to
settlers.
      Mostly broken and destitute, their homesteads abandoned, they
      cling to life in the village called Resorte del Diablo, Devil's
      Spring, site of the only water for miles around during the dry
      months, an island in a fetid swamp during the wet season.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

       The beautiful young woman stood about 5'8" 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 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.

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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