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 5'7" and weighed about 125
lbs he guessed. She stood watching her father supervise the
loading. The Padre for the first time noticed the woman's
breasts, Madre de Dios! The huge mounds seemed out of proportion
for the trim figure they crowned. Their heaviness was evident in
the tautness of the shirt fabric that sought to restrain them.
Little did he know that they were cause of the premature end of
her gymnastics career. When she was 11 years old her small buds
had burst forth beginning the growth to the firm heavy orbs now
before him. Their rapid growth spelled an end to her days of
competition on the balance beam and tumbling mat.
Down from her graceful neck was a plain of lightly tanned flesh
that sloped outward to form the majesty of her bosom. The Padre
could tell from how her breasts hung low that the large bags of
flesh were beginning to feel their own weight, but it would be
years before she had the stooped posture and sagging breasts of
an old woman. The teenager's long narrow torso seem nonexistent
beneath the shelf of her breasts. The slight flair of her slim
hips curved round to the prominent globes of her muscular
buttocks. Her muscular thighs and calves were clearly visible
beneath her shorts. Over the last 5 years she had grown over a
foot in height, her long legs now lithe, muscular and firm. She
was a picture of trim athleticism mixed with excess sexual
endowment.
"Perfectiones de Dios", he thought to himself the young woman's
mother must have been a beauty with good genes.
Her father was typical gringo he thought, light haired and
skinned, medium build with sandy brown hair. In his early
forties the Padre thought. A handsome enough man, but not
remarkable. Obviously the teenager owed her mother much.
The sweat stained tee shirt beneath her blue shirt barely held
her large breasts in check. The dark crescents of sweat marked
the undersides. Even in the stifling heat, the impression or her
long thick nipples were visible through the double thickness of
cloth. The taunt roundness of her firm buttocks was obvious
beneath her the shorts hugging her hips. The swell of her
hamstrings clearly announced her athleticism to the world. The
khaki shorts were sweat stained dark at the top of the crevass
that divided the proud cheeks of her bottom. Her broad shoulders
filled her shirt, ending in long supple muscular arms. The
beautiful teenage girl was the picture or perfection.
The father sighed, "Madre de Dios, to be 20 once again." Then
the sharp pain of long suppressed memories lanced into him as
they welled up like pus from a ruptured cyst.
A similarly graced dark haired senorita whom he loved confronting
him in her nudity, the sneer on her lips as she reminded him he
was mulatto. That she wanted "un hombre magn fico", not "el
esclavo indio negro", a black indian slave, the words still
burned him. He had turned and ran, ran to the church, ran to
forget, leaving his manhood and pride behind.
The old Padre looked at the man's back as the rode along the
overgrown track. The mules rhythmic plodding tempting him with
sleep. Only the heat and the man's incessant talking about his
relationship with god kept him awake.
Steve Falwell obviously felt he held a rather exalted position in
god's plans, the Padre thought to himself. Well if he was
wanting to save the world for god's greater glory, he would
surely assist him. One thing the good Padre had learned over the
years, god helps those that help themselves, he protects those
that keep themselves out of harm's way.
If he wanted to save those that truly needed saving. He would
send him to the village, Refugio del Muerto to the north. The
village had been beset by rebel guerillas as it sat near a
potentially valuable iron ore deposit along the border.
