3 comments/ 44822 views/ 18 favorites Missionary Position By: justtheone EDIT May 2015 1. It was like her life had turned into a nasty joke: A white twenty year old missionary girl takes a bath by herself in a little lake in the forest. Then when she's done, she finds one of the native men has snuck up and got hold of her clothes. Now he stands there on the shore grinning at her, and with his penis poking through his loincloth. And what is she supposed to do about this? Hadn't been smart to come out to this place alone. Thought it would be all right because today was the market day in the village, so everyone was occupied with that. And she didn't feel comfortable bathing with the native women, on the mornings they did. They always used the river, right in front of the village—right in front of all the men. Privacy and modesty had little importance for these people. Mostly she kept herself clean with sponge baths in her hut, using a basin. Only there's only so much you can accomplish like that. Today she decided she needed a proper soaking. To be able to fully immerse herself. Hadn't been able to stop thinking about that, feeling itchy all over. She was not supposed to be working all alone in this place. Her three companions had fallen severely ill, and had to be sent home. An army helicopter came to fetch them and carry them off. Their replacements were many, many weeks overdue. Instead all she'd got was a letter informing her that the three people who were supposed to be on their way had actually never left the States at all. They had each backed out of the commitment at the last minute, for various individual reasons, and after that there was further complicated difficulty finding replacements for the replacements. Problems with passports and inoculations. Who knew how many more months she'd have to continue things completely by herself? In fact Courtney was not the only white person in the village at present. There was also a group of anthropologists staying here. She did not get on well with them. She didn't approve of them, and they didn't approve of her either. The anthropologists made fun of the somewhat old-fashioned dresses she wore, but Courtney believed it was important to maintain a certain formality in her appearance and behavior. She had not come to this place to blend in, after all. She was no tourist. Courtney was a representative of her church, and she had come to teach these people. To widen their world and improve their lives. Also, she'd read not long ago that it was actually much healthier in this kind of climate to keep your body covered as much as possible. This was counter-intuitive, but then, consider the Arabs in the desert. Sheeted from head to foot, and often in dark colors. Well, whether it was healthier or not, it wasn't comfortable. She sweated buckets, which she'd expected, of course, but hadn't been prepared for how bad she started stinking all the time, despite how much deodorant she slathered on, and she also itched all over—the broiling prickling heat never let up. Seemed to squeeze her lungs. She was tempted on a few occasions to ask the anthropologists if she could borrow some shorts and T-shirts from them, yet managed to keep resisting those impulses, so far. She knew those spoiled college kids would have helped her if she broke down—they would also have been awfully smug about it. They had no respect for her calling. Seemed to think that if she succeeded in converting this tribe, she would be doing harm to them. It was nonsense, but this is what kids are indoctrinated to learn in the liberal-dominated schools nowadays. "Polluting the native culture." That was how one of the fussy ridiculous young men put it, with his crooked spectacles and unkempt beard and ragged sandals. Not to her face, the coward, but she had overheard their little group talking trash about her one night when she was passing by their tents. She'd smelled pot, too. Yet they dared accuse her of pollution! In any case, tedious physical discomforts like an itchy smelly dress were something she must simply learn to accept and endure. Best to think of them as tests of one's devotion to the cause. And as if to underscore that fact ... look what happens to her when she takes an opportunity for a quick private bath in the forest ... look what happens when she gives in to the urge to pursue an entirely unnecessary and impractical luxury ... It only leads her into trouble, that's what happens. Peril, rather—peril was the word, not trouble. Her weak-spirited indulgence had put her at the mercy of this lusty heathen savage! 2. Gumu was his name. Well, something like that; their guttural language was extremely difficult to pronounce. She knew he was considered one of the village's best hunters. This reputation had gone to his head. He was terribly arrogant. A swaggerer. Also the village Lothario. Yesterday afternoon, there had been an embarrassing misunderstanding between the two of them. Courtney had been trying to teach him about prayer. Demonstrating how you were supposed to put your hands together—make a church and steeple with your fingers, like she was taught as a child—and kneel down. It was the kneeling that he misinterpreted. Although she was still uncertain if he had genuinely got confused, or only pretended to, in order to make crude sport with her. When she'd knelt down in front of him, he'd acted as if this was an invitation, or a proposition ... Told her all the other girls in the village liked to do this with him the same exact way. She had been pleasantly surprised when he said that, for she had observed no such behavior among them. Of course he wasn't talking about prayer. Because instead of kneeling down next to her like she wanted him to do, he had tugged his loincloth to one side and exposed his manhood to her. It had been erect and he had waggled the hideous appendage in face, trying to get her to take it in her mouth. He was apologetic after she jumped upright and slapped him. Only kept saying "Why did you kneel down like that? What does this mean?" And then he held up his clasped hands as if she hadn't explained the whole business properly at the start—which of course she most certainly had. But Courtney did not argue the point with him, not then. Her patience had failed her, and she just stormed from the hut in thunderous exasperation. Felt ashamed about that, once her temper calmed. If she was going to get through to these people, she would need to try much harder. Persistence was essential. Now on the shore of the lake, with her dress bundled up under his arm, Gumu had put his hands together in front of his chest like she showed him before. Church and steeple. He did not kneel down, though. "Come out of the water," he said. Instead she had retreated a few clumsy steps toward the middle and huddled down again, so the surface of the lake was even with her chin. "I don't have any clothes on," she said. He had nodded and laughed. Then he had unlaced his loincloth and let it fall away. "Me too," he said. "Hang my dress back on the branch where I left it," she commanded, "and then you must turn around. You must not look at me until I put the dress on." "Why not?" he asked, "There is nothing wrong with your body. It is a nice body. I noticed before. It makes me harden." He waggled his hips. "See?" She could see, all right. "This is not proper behavior," she said. "Come out of the water, woman. Do not be afraid or ashamed. I will not harm you. Why would I wish to harm you?" "Go away! Leave me in peace! I wish to be left alone!" "That is sad," he answered, and then he picked up his loincloth and walked away through the trees. Taking her dress with him. "Wait! Wait! Don't take my dress! Don't you dare!" "If you want it, woman, you must come out of the water. Come out now. Come." If she refused ... if he left her ... well, it wouldn't be the end of the world, exactly. The village was not far. Less than five minutes' walk. Why not simply wait a while, and then run back as she was? If she was quick and if she was lucky, nobody would glimpse her before she made it safe inside her hut—Market Day was still going on, after all, keeping everyone occupied. Whole reason she'd picked this time to bathe in the first place. If now, thanks to Gumu's juvenile mean-spirited prank, some people did happen to catch an eyeful of her for a moment or two, it wasn't going to kill her, and she had plenty of spare dresses in her hut. And if Gumu should slyly hunker down in the bushes for another ambush further along the path, hoping to mess with her some more before she reached shelter, she could just wallop him a good one, and scream if she had to, and help would surely come. These natives were very good about that, very conscientious, what with the threat of predators—she'd seen the whole population rushing to give aid whenever someone made a loud noise. They never assumed it was none of their business, like most of us prefer to do in the so-called civilized world. If things went bad one way or another and absolutely everyone in the village ended up seeing her like this—without any clothes on—was that really very dreadful? Couldn't she just laugh it off? Well, frankly, no. That was the principal issue. She wasn't the sort of individual that could bear that sort of humiliation. It would be extremely traumatic for her—as well as, and more importantly, a severe setback to her work. By maintaining such strict, nearly Victorian standards of costume and deportment, she had cultivated a persona of elevated dignity among these people—a dignity which she remained convinced was not only appropriate but essential to her mission here. Now all that might get instantly overturned. She would be reduced to a laughingstock. And it wasn't only the natives she would have to deal with—perhaps if it was, she might have been able to face this, despite the harm it might do to her work. It wouldn't be easy—far from it—but she recognized the fact that nudity didn't have the same significance for them. Thus, her humiliation might not render her work entirely unrecoverable in the long term, provided she had the fortitude to stick with it ... But there was also that damnable anthropology team to consider. They would also witness her disgrace—or at least soon hear about it, even if they didn't happen to be on the scene if/when it occurred. And she knew without doubt or question, they would all take malicious joy in this. She could vividly picture their jeering, scornful faces. They would certainly spread the story, too. Back home. Just thinking about the possibility was almost shattering. Courtney could not allow that to happen. Too much humiliation. It would destroy her utterly—she'd come too far in the last couple years, to fall again so low. She wouldn't be able to endure this. Simply didn't have it in her. That was that. "What do if I have to do," she said, "to get you to let me have my dress back?" "Come out of the water," was the reply, "I keep telling you." "And then? What will I have to do after that?" "Pray," he said, "Pray to me." "I can't. That's ... that's blasphemy." He probably didn't even recognize the word. "Pray for your dress back. You must pray to me to give it back." "Don't make me do that. Please." Again, he turned and started to leave. And again, she called him back. "Wait! Don't go! Gumu! Don't!" "Come out of the water, mission-woman. Come out of the water now." She did, trembling. Dripping. The surface of the lake or pond seemed reluctant to let go of her. Close to the shoreline it had a lot of leaves and seed pods floating on it, and some kind of algae, which made the water feel thick and clingy. Also the mud on the bottom and on the shore itself, just as bad, it gripped and sucked on her feet, fighting to keep hold of her every time she took another step. The water didn't want her to abandon it. Neither did she, of course. But she had to. "Good," Gumu said, "Nice body. I told you. Very nice." She was shielding her front with her hands, as much as she could. He didn't complain, he didn't mind. He could still see plenty, and her modesty—her embarrassment, bluntly—was amusing to him. Despite the shade of the surrounding trees, soon as she left the protection of the water it felt like she was standing inside a furnace. The heat had turned much, much worse than earlier, the worst it had ever been. She felt her start sweating instantly, before the water from the pond had got done evaporating off her skin. It wasn't the jungle, actually. Not this time. She realized what she was feeling was internal heat, coming from inside her body, her own skin. Radiating like a thunderous blast furnace. "You all wet," remarked Gumu, "All wet. Drip-drip-drip." What? How did he know? God! But wait—he just meant from the lake, and her perspiration, taking over from it. Of course. He had just meant the whole of her, not ... that part. "You should stay this way, mission-woman," he said, "All the time, in the village. Much nicer." "No. I can't. I couldn't possibly." "Why not? Village women all say they'd hate to wear dresses like this. Too hot, too heavy. Cumbersome. You should try our women's dresses. They loan you some." "That wouldn't be right." Native women had made her this offer before, from time to time. What he called dresses were actually just thin wraps they wore around their waists or draped over their shoulders. They were not much wider than scarves, and many—most—were woven so thin they were practically transparent. Clothes that hardly covered you at all—hardly counted as clothes! He shrugged. "Our women's dresses nicer. Much nicer. But I will let you have this one back if you want it. If you like it better. Just don't know why. So heavy and hot!" "I know it is, yes. I need it, though. It is ... well, it is the will of my Lord. He doesn't like to let men like you see me this way—to see so much of my body, I mean, uncovered. It's not right, unless we are married." "Your Lord is not very nice, mission-woman. It is mean to make you hide your body all the time, in a hot place like this. If you were my husband, I would not make you keep it covered so much. What is the harm of other people seeing it?" "Please don't say such disrespectful things, Gumu. You don't understand these matters." "Then explain. Teach me." "I will. I will try, but later. In the church. Let me have my dress back now. Please let me cover myself." "I will. Later. First, kneel, mission-woman. Kneel and pray. Pray me for dress." "I mustn't. I cannot." "Just for one minute. One or two." "I know you don't understand why it's wrong, but it's blasphemy. You're asking me to commit a sin." "No. No sin. Asking you to kneel and pray. You like praying! I know you do!" With a sigh and sniff, she knelt and clasped her hands. "Oh Lord, forgive me." It was such a small action, and yet it didn't feel that way. Not at all. It felt horribly huge. It took enormous effort, lowering herself down like that in front of the young black man, like shifting a massive crushing weight on her shoulders, and then it turned into a giddy trembling strain to stay in that pose, that parody of prayer, making her legs ache, and her spine and her stomach. It left her breathless, with a sensation of whirling in her ears, and an itchy constriction inside her throat. She thought she might faint, or have to throw up. Because she knew what she was doing was terribly horribly wrong and shameful. She was committing a great sin. This native's ignorant willfulness was no excuse for her weak behavior. Giving in to his bullying like this, in light of her relatively selfish squeamish reasons for doing it, made it sacrilege. She could feel the stern regard of the Lord in her heart, and upon her soul. Not just her imagination, surely not. "Pray to me. To me, mission-woman! To me! Pray me!" "I know, I hear you. I ... I pray to you, let me have my dress back now. I'm praying to you for my dress, on my knees ... naked ... Oh dear God, forgive me. And forgive this heathen, in his ignorance and lust. And forgive my own cowardice, above all, she thought, but did not speak aloud ... Please cure me of the self-importance and vanity that made this surrender necessary to my survival, or seem that it was. "Me! Pray me!" "Yes. I am. Please Gumu, mighty huntsman of your tribe, I pray you, let me clothe myself. Look upon me on my knees in my nakedness, and pity me, and heed my prayer, I beg you." Why was she surprised, when as soon as she knelt down, he stepped closer? Why hadn't she realized what he was intending all along? He had told her to pray to him, so she started to pray—but as he had already demonstrated to her once before, the word didn't mean the same thing to him. She shouldn't have been shocked when he shoved his penis in her mouth. She should have been prepared for that. She wasn't, though. Couldn't have been more stunned if he'd kicked her between the eyes. Courtney had not always lived a good life. Only recently had she turned herself around; found new purpose and stability. Before, in her wild unguided youth, for years and years, she had been indulgent and self-destructive—the word she used at the time was "experimental". Lots of drugs, lots of boys. Bad boys, rowdy boys. She'd done lots of damage to herself. She'd been big into the rave scene. Electronic music gave her nightmares now ... She had put all that behind her. She had locked all that away. Now she lived a rigid and virginal life now, but Courtney was no virgin. She'd taken penises in her mouth before. Many penises. She knew what to do with them, to make them spurt. To make the men attached to them howl with delight. She used to be quite good at this, and used to enjoy the act a great deal. Though always, each and every time, the very first and the very last, she'd felt guilty and ashamed as she'd done those things ... both of her talent and her enjoyment. In those days, she dealt with her own filthiness and wickedness by just wallowing abjectly in the feelings, rather than striving to resist and conquer and transcend the pull of sin. There is a giddy joy in despair, when one embraces its depths. She'd got over it. She had opened her soul at last to religion and reinvented herself. With Jesus at her side, she had learned to conquer sin's attractions, and to transcend them. Or she thought she had. Now with Gumu's penis in her mouth, she learned different. She kept her hands clasped together over her breasts, tight as she could hold them—she had to make a great strain of it, in order to combat the temptation to lower her hands to crotch and rub herself, like she used to do before whenever she performed this act for men. She knew she must not allow herself to extract any personal pleasure in this moment of debasement. She would not fall as far as that. Nor would she lie to herself—the urge existed in her. The pull of sin, achingly familiar ... Desire for the pleasure had awakened and it was dreadfully strong. A host of vivid sexual pictures flooded her imagination. She'd thought such urges were dead in her, long dead, and safe. Gumu and his penis had brought them back to life. And almost in a single instant. 3. She tries her best to pretend it never happened. At least it's a secret. If Gumu boasted about what he got from her to his pals in the village, he has no proof of it. Some would believe him, or want to believe him—most would not. Not if moving forward she was careful and gave nothing away. Never treated him any differently than she ever had before. She'd sucked him off and swallowed his come—well, some of it. Only the first initial discharge, when he started to shoot. He'd pulled from her mouth so he could spray the rest of it over her face and chest. There'd been an awful lot of the foul reeking slime. And he'd held her by the hair, preventing her from dodging aside from the mess. Missionary Position "Gumu, don't! Please, not like that! Oh! Oh God oohhoohh no there's so much! So much! Yuck! Gumu! You bastard! Ahhuuhnn! My hair too? I just washed ... Ugghhnn gross." It had been pretty horrible. Made her cry. She had not allowed a man to dirty her in that fashion in so long—and there were times she had allowed other men to record it happening, with cameras, taking perverse guilty pride in those performances—and she had vowed never to let it occur again. Now that solemn vow had been shamefully broken. Also, she'd intended to gulp down all of the stuff. In fact by that point, she was actually looking forward to it. It would have been gratifying to do. In her own mind, at least, when she used to do that, she felt it was a way of reasserting control and dominance over the man as he believed he, in his mind, was controlling and dominating her, on her knees in the muck at his feet, with his prick stuffed down her throat. When he'd come and she gulped it all right down, back in those lost days, it was like she was instantly absorbing all his manly power and pleasure through his seed and then just digesting it, conquering it, killing it. Silliness, perhaps—but it was how she used to think. How she used to cope with her misbehavior and justify it. How she used to get herself off, when dirty and unkind men failed to do so, or didn't bother. Well, no doubt it had been a Judgment—an expression of God's disappointment in her. He had allowed Gumu to spray his smelly manseed all over her to deliberately shame her as the mark of her sin. Courtney had got the message. She should be grateful for the direct unambiguity of it. She'd done wrong and God demanded better from her. She must live up to that expectation. At least nobody but Gumu would ever know anything about that moment. And what she must have looked like, right there, with his steaming jizz splashed all over her burning pink cheeks and tits, and her hair shook out crazy like a lion's mane. As savage and primitive and bestial a thing in the jungle as he was, himself. Nobody else but her and God would ever know. And then, thankfully, the native took things no further. She'd feared he would, in spite of what he said, but he had not. The blowjob turned out enough to satisfy him. He had just thanked her with obnoxious politeness, let her have her dress back and then left her alone, after that. She was able to clean up quickly again in the lake, dry off and get dressed, and then stride calmly back to the village with her head held high, as if the whole appalling incident never occurred. Her standing in the village was secure, unsullied. The anthropologists knew nothing at all about it. If eventually they heard rumors of it, they wouldn't take them seriously. She was almost certain of that. Such rumors would have circulated about her already anyhow, from the very moment of her arrival. Similar disgusting stories were no doubt whispered about each of them. Way of the world, sad to say. People are people, wherever you go. People gossip. They talk a lot of shit. You have to ignore it, as much as you can. While she was cleaning her face and her breasts again, after Gumu was gone, she'd been powerfully tempted to masturbate. It was hard to believe, in the circumstances—but the urge had persisted, quite a while. Even after she returned safe to her hut. Courtney had not given in to it. Very difficult not to, especially that night in her cot, but with the help of the Lord, she had persevered. That particular temptation was one she was used to fighting, after all. Not all the time—but periodically, it would return to plague her. It was a bit bizarre and twisted that the incident with Gumu had triggered the desire. Then again, perhaps not, in light of the fact she'd been repressing those impulses for so long. And she knew from painful past experience, sexual desire is a bizarre and twisted business altogether. Selfish and self-destructive. No consideration for safety or for consequences. This was why God created marriage—a system of discipline to help people keep the whole ghastly mad mess under safe and healthy regulated control. Also, to be fair, Gumu hadn't treated her too awful, had he? At least not as awful as he might have. His advances were unwelcome, but he hadn't exactly attacked her. He had been terribly rude, but not violent. His attitude had been playful—the whole thing had only been a game to him. The young man was an uncivilized primitive, after all. Looking back, she felt as much to blame as he was, for allowing it to go as far as it had. If she'd only been a bit braver and more forceful with him, she was pretty positive she could have got him to back down at the beginning. Or if she'd tried crying—if he'd really understood the distress he was subjecting her to, he would probably have relented. "I will not harm you," he had said, "Why would I wish to harm you?" He had imagined she was willingly playing along with him—as caught up in the kinky crazy game as he was. She should have set him straight. Slapped his face or kicked him in his nuts, if that was what it took. Instead she'd just meekly given in and got on her knees in the dirt ... Because her pussy had got wet and tingly, when he made her clamber up out of the water and expose herself to him, head to toe, all she had to offer. Doing that had turned her on. That was the unfortunate truth. He really had got her caught up in the game; she just hadn't wanted to admit it outright, at the time. Well, we're all weak, we all falter. All our souls are tainted with sin; we all need the help and compassion of the Lord. Grace requires constant vigilance and commitment, yet the Lord is always with us, each time we stumble. That was the vital thing to remember. That was the lesson she must take from the experience, putting it behind her with all her other mistakes and transgressions and moving forward. Yes indeed. Praise Jesus. Amen. She didn't see Gumu again until the following Sabbath. He walked into her church about halfway through her sermon. He'd never attended before, since the first Sunday since the church was built. That one time the whole village had showed up, for her debut—the novelty of it. Ever since, she only brought in about a third of the villagers each week. Still a decent size assembly, twenty or so, and the attendance would gradually grow again. One has to give these things time. "Take a seat," she told him, motioning to the pews. He did not sit. Only continued to grin at her ... and then he put his hands together in front of his chest, church-and-steeple. Exactly as before, beside the lake. Yet for a split second, believe it or not, she didn't take his meaning. Did not allow herself to. Clear as it was, or should have been, the suggestion was simply too outrageous for her mind to comprehend. Instead—if only for a moment—she interpreted the gesture as an apology. A way of saying that he'd come to make amends. That this time he'd come to learn to pray properly, just as she'd originally tried to instruct him. Absolute nonsense, of course. Wishful thinking. Idiocy. What he really meant was the same thing he meant the last time he put his hands together like that. He was asking for the same thing. It didn't matter at all to him that she was in the middle of a service. That was the worst part of it; the fact the man wasn't even conscious of his rudeness, and his sacrilege. Or wasn't that true? Did he not care about all the other people in the tent at present, looking on? Or was he in fact encouraged by their presence? Had he chosen this moment to approach her again specifically because there was an audience for it? "Get out of here!" she shrieked, "You are not welcome in this place!" He just stepped closer to the pulpit, toward her, cocking his head a bit sideways and wiggling his eyebrows—that puzzled or questioning expression of his which had become so familiar and infuriating to her. Then he stuck his arms out and brandished his clasped hands under her nose as if to make sure she hadn't simply failed to take notice of them, when he first folded them together. There was a part of her, God alone knows why, that considered doing exactly what he wanted. She couldn't have explained why, and she only felt the inclination for a fraction of an instant. A shameful self-destructive impulse. The influence of the devil upon her, no doubt. She quashed it. Took a deep breath and summoned all the power of her faith, and the Lord gave answer. She felt it, and this allowed her to sweep the foul insane temptation from her spirit under a surge of righteous fury. Now she decided she would smite this arrogant unrepentant heathen. She would drive his filth from her church, and teach him henceforth to respect her religion regardless of the fact he'd proven himself entirely incapable of understanding it. "Be gone!" she commanded, and then stepped from behind her pulpit to kick him in the crotch with all her might. It was a mistake. His reflexes were too swift for her. He caught hold of her ankle before her toes connected to their target. Now her foot was trapped and suspended between them. She found she had not the strength to jerk it from his grip. "Let go of me! Let go at once!" He did not. He lifted her foot higher and higher, and walked forward at the same time. Several determined strides. She was forced to hop backward on her other foot again and again, or else she would have toppled over completely, on the ground. Instead she soon found herself driven against the face of her makeshift altar; the edge of the table cutting into her bottom. Meanwhile, his fingers loosened her bootlaces. "Stop that! What are you doing?" As if she didn't already know. He removed the boot, then started tugging down her sweaty stocking. It did not slide off easily, clinging stubbornly to her calf ... Loosened his clutch enough as he was fighting with it that she was able to tear her foot free of him. Though actually she was unsure afterward if she had really wrenched loose or if he allowed it to happen, since in doing so, she assisted the removal of the stocking, leaving it drooping behind in his hand. Her uncovered toes now curled defensively in the prickly yellow grass—trampled flat, dead and dried to straw inside the tent, for lack of sun. Still managing to jab her foot painfully. Not a nice feeling. She wondered if the natives found it equally uncomfortable. Never had cause to consider the question until this moment. She would have to get this grass removed. A bare earth floor was how it should be, like they had in all their huts. Having taken the one boot and stocking, she knew the man would not stop there. She snatched one of the silver candlesticks from the table behind her, to wield as a club. "Keep away from me! Don't come any closer! I'll smash your head in! I'll kill you, where you stand!" He did not listen. She swung at his face, hard as she could. No use again. Just as when she tried to kick him, he simply caught the candlestick in his hand. Then he twisted it away from her. She tried appealing to the others. "Someone stop him! Please! Help me!" They only stared at her, all of them, mute and solemn. "Won't any of you do something? He's attacking me! Don't just watch him! Get up and stop him! All it would take was a couple of you! Won't a single one of you even try? Are all of you cowards? Surely you have laws against this kind of thing? I beseech you!" Gumu took her by the shoulders and made her sit on the altar top with her legs dangling, so he could stoop to remove her other boot and stocking. She wept, biting her bottom lip, but did not resist him anymore. When she was barefoot, he held both her feet together by the ankles and examined them with a fascinated, bemused expression for what felt like a considerable period of time. It was their whiteness, obviously, since the rest of her body was so much paler than her face and her hands, the only parts of herself she left uncovered to the sun every day. Of course he'd already got to see how ghostly white they were before—and all the rest of her body—but the novelty of the color, contrasted against his own hands, had not lessened for him in the interim. Even to herself, in fact, her own naked feet looked shockingly bloodless in contrast to the rich darkness of his flesh (the natives' skin, much blacker than the inaccurately-named black people in America, always reminded her of expensive chocolate back home). Like he was holding a pair of those blind fish that live in caves and never see the sun. In addition, there was the texture of them, equally strange in this world—the fact she had almost no calluses on them, unlike the toughened leathery soles of the natives' feet, with the bottoms of all their toes equally padded. They had feet they could probably stride across hot coals with and not feel a thing. While for her, as she'd just discovered a moment ago, even the dried dead grass in the tent had been an obnoxious torment, regardless that it was all stamped flat. Sad and somewhat ironic that such basic trappings of civilization—a pair of sturdy boots and stockings to go with them—weakened you in your natural state, and left you practically handicapped without them. It occurred to her—and terrified her—that Gumu might decide to tickle her feet. She knew she would not be able to bear that without screeching. His grip was far too tight and powerful for her to pull her legs away from him. She was virtually helpless, as long as he wanted to hold her in this position on the top edge of the altar table. She continued to bawl and gibber. "Why are you doing this? What do you want from me? Why did you take off my boots? Let go of my ankles! Why won't you let go of me? Why are you being so mean? Gumu, look at me! Don't just grin at me like an idiot! I don't deserve this! I know you understand what I'm saying! Don't try to pretend you're dumb! You've no right to come in here and treat me this way! In the middle of my service! I know you're not a believer ... It makes no difference! You have to know this behavior is wrong! I know you do! Can't you see you're upsetting me? Of course you can! Don't you care? Have you no decency in your heart at all?" Gumu made a huffing noise in his throat and straightened up again suddenly. And then he released her ankles so her legs could drop, and he backed away from the altar. All of which hugely surprised her. This was not what she expected, despite all her insistent demands and pleading. He motioned for her to stand and resume her place at her pulpit. It took her a while to understand his gestures. Why did he want her to stand there? She had thought he would continue undressing her upon the altar ... Had her tears moved him to relent? Was it possible? Was he going to allow her to resume her service? Had the spirit of the Lord come upon him, and taught him pity? Was she delivered from further disgrace? Could it be? Praise the Lord! Praise Him! Praise Him! Praise His Power and His Grace! She stood again behind the pulpit, with her hands upon the open Bible, her eyes shining—she felt radiant with the glory of Heaven. It felt a little funny to be standing there barefoot. Not only from the discomfort of the dead stinging grass. It seemed ludicrous and disrespectful, like a wayward child only pretending to be a preacher. Yet then again, she remembered how the burning bush made Moses remove his sandals ... Perhaps God had sent her a message, through Gumu. Maybe this was how He wanted things to be done from now on. She could get used to it, soon enough, if she tried. "Let us bow our heads and pray," she announced. None of the congregation lowered their faces, but she did not see this, since her own eyes were closed. Nor did she see Gumu step close behind her. She had no idea he was there until he put his hands open her shoulders. She was startled, of course. But his touch was gentle. He did not seem to be attacking her again. She chose to interpret it as a touch of support and reassurance. She kept her eyes closed and her head bowed, and said: "Our Father, who art in Heaven ... Hallowed be Thy Name ... Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done ..." And then his fingers curled and tightened in the fabric of her dress, and his hands jerked sideways and down. In a single motion, her white dress was ripped from her shoulders—and then the two halves were dragged downwards ... Gumu must have squatted on his haunches, for he did not stop pulling downwards until the entire dress was puddled around her feet. Except for the long sleeves, which stayed connected to her wrists. The thick pearl buttons of her cuffs had not burst loose. Thus her hands, as the dress dropped, had been snatched from the Bible and forced straight down beside her hips. Now the sleeves of the dress, both pulled entirely inside out, held her hands trapped there at her sides, covered inside the tubes. Like a pair of white ropes anchored to the ground. Or snakes with their mouths clamped over her hands. She could not wrest them free. Gumu could shred her dress like tissue paper—but her own arms simply weren't strong enough to rip from the cuffs. They felt limp as noodles. All power had evaporated from her body. She did not scream. She was too stunned. Too appalled. The native had just stripped her to her underwear in front of her congregation. This must surely have been his intention all along. She should have known. Why hadn't she seen it coming? Because she'd chosen not to. She'd only let herself believe what she wanted and needed to believe. Like a blind fool. She could feel Gumu's erection squeezing against the cleft of her bottom. He had shed his loincloth. She could feel the juices from the tip of his appendage seeping through her panties. She could also feel the juices from inside her body, seeping through the opposite side of the panties, over her passage. And the pressure from him behind her, it was forcing her underwear into her buttcrack, squeezing it deep as the fabric could stretch. His cock was giving her a wedgie. Both in back and in front. Yes, oh Christ, it was wedging into her pussy the same as her bottom! At least none of the congregation could see this happening, because of the pulpit. Nor could any of them see when it was no longer happening, after Gumu peeled the panties down to her knees. They couldn't see when he reached around to the front of her and rubbed his fingers inside her pussy. Stirring its juices. They could hear the sounds it made, though. The sounds her pussy made as he fingered it were very loud. Squelching, squitching sounds. Then other sounds began to accompany them—sounds she made with her mouth. Sounds she was made to make. "Ohh! Ohh! Oh God!" she wailed, "Oh God! God! Oh Jesus! Help me! Deliver me! Save me!" God denied her pleas. The pulpit provided no screen for her torso. Nor could she cover her brassiere with her arms. At least Gumu had not removed it—her last remaining article of clothing. It was unimportant to him. These natives did not eroticize breasts, like her culture did. Yet it seemed she jinxed herself, when she had this thought. Baring her breasts might not be very exciting to him, but he must have known it was both embarrassing and erotic to the people of her tribe. And that it would have a powerful affect upon her, whether she wanted it to or not. So he stripped the bra from her, with all the rest. And yes, it made her gasp and whimper, when her breasts were exposed to the crowd and then drooped and swung unsupported, and furthermore when he reached a hand around to tweak her nipples, one after the other, switching back and forth several times, pinching them and tugging on them in turn as they swelled and surged and sparked and tingled. Soon the sensations spread from the engorged enflamed tips through her torso and stomach and beyond until she was sparking and tingling inside all over, and her whole body shuddered from top to toe as if she was being electrified, though it made her bare bottom rub and clench and quiver enticingly upon her ravisher's prodding weapon. She could not prevent herself. Missionary Position She was utterly naked and subjugated in her own church. Forced to commit sacrilege. Forced to bend on tiptoes over the pulpit, and the Bible atop it—her spiked nipples swinging over the pages, beads of sweat dripping off them to smear the ink as they throbbed—while her congregation watched, allowing Gumu to rub his fingers inside her pussy and prod the slimy and scorching-hot head of his stiff penis against her defenseless butthole. And she could do nothing to resist or deny him! Nothing except squirm and shiver, and gasp and whimper and moan. Hearing her own pathetic exclamations of despair and agony, she was disgusted with how weak and useless she sounded, and pitiful ... and wanton, as well. Because by now, all at once, her entire naked body had become enflamed, and her pussy was not just merely wet, but outright flooded and swollen and spastic. His plunging invasive fingers felt good inside it. They felt welcome. Better than her own did, when in weak moments she let herself touch herself that way. His cock felt good, too, against her butthole. It was terrible and horrifying, all of this—but it was also exciting and pleasurable. Sin had poisoned her spirit and her mind, left her reeling and giddy. She was succumbing to temptation. With Gumu as his instrument, the devil had taken hold of her. There was no escaping the wickedness now. "I am a servant of Jesus!" she cried, "Jesus!" Gumu was determined to change that. He would make her his servant instead. He took his fingers from her pussy. A blessed relief, it should have been ... not a disappointment. Of course he'd only removed his fingers to make room for a much greater insertion. To make way for the plunge of his penis. "Forgive us our trespasses," said Gumu. His first words since he'd entered her church this morning. Having said that, he now proceeded to trespass her body. He trespassed her pussy with his cock. Quite a trespass, indeed. Well now, regardless whether God would ever forgive him for this act or not—she certainly wouldn't—he bulled on right ahead with it. He trespassed the Hell out of her—the ultimate trespass. She screamed. She screamed again and again. She could not stop. It had been so long, since she felt this feeling—the distinct sensation of an erect cock entering her, claiming her, pushing itself inside of her pussy. Strangest perhaps was this—how immediately familiar that feeling was, and yet somehow entirely new. Then again, it made perfect sense that it would feel that way. Sex had never been like this, nowhere near. Even her ugliest, most embarrassing experiences, from her previous life. How could they compare? No other fucking could have the significance of this one, in this time and place. Her church, her mission, her very soul at stake, as never before. Despoiled by this merciless savage, and her own lust, uncontrollably quickened in the face of his aggression, and her own defeat and disgrace. The guilt in that recognition, the fear, the humiliation—the sheer frenzy of it, and the power, and the dominion. All her commitments forsworn and nullified. All hopes of salvation shattered, by this dreadful man and his dreadful penis, penetrating her—penetrating her most sacred, sensitive place. And not only penetrating it, but proceeding to pump it. He pumped it and pumped it with all his strength. No other man had ever pumped her pussy like this ... No man—no pumping cock—had ever made her scream so loud. Pumping was only a weak euphemism, of course. What he was really doing was fucking it. Fucking her. Gumu fucked her from behind like that over the pulpit until he made her have an orgasm. It didn't take long for that to happen. She stared at the twenty people in the pews, staring back at her. Her expression was beseeching, but she failed to move them. There was no pity on any of their faces. They only looked thoughtful. She must look so pathetic to them, and absurd, in her pale pink nakedness, glistening all over with sweat, her face flushed and contorted in her agony and shame as she shrieked and squealed and begged for mercy and salvation which she knew the entire time she would not receive. Minutes ago, prim and proper and proud, she'd stood tall and grave behind this pulpit, delivering her sermon to them in a steady, professorial, lecturing tone. Now she was bouncing and juddering on her toes both up and down and forward and back under Gumu's rapid punishing thrusts, while her tits jiggled and flapped, and her hair writhed wild and frizzy in the air from its usual neat braids, like groping desperate tentacles. "Please! I'm begging! Someone! Save me! Get him off me! Get him out of me! He's so—so deep in me! So hard! So harrrd! I can't bear it! I can't bear it! I'm going mad! I'll go MADDD! Why won't anyone help me! Please! Oh God! Oh Jesus! Ahhaahh! Ahhhuuhh! Ahhhaarruuhh!" Why were the people allowing Gumu to treat her so cruelly? Perhaps they shared the same opinion of her as the anthropologists—contempt—and up 'til now, blinded by her faith, she hadn't been able to perceive it. Too horrible a possibility to contemplate. Perhaps Gumu was not solely motivated by his own lust ... What if, as their best hunter, he was the villagers' chosen champion, and he was punishing her for preaching to them? Proving, in a brutal but ritualistic public fashion, the superiority of their native religion to hers—an unwelcome invader. So he was invading her! Why was the Lord allowing this to happen to her? And to the church she had made here in His name? Why had He forsaken her, in the hour of her greatest and most desperate trial? Was He angry with her for the blowjob she'd given Gumu at the lake? Because she had almost enjoyed the act—or at least she had not hated and suffered from it as much as she should have, as a good and virtuous Christian woman. But then if that was why this was happening—if God Himself were punishing her for that slip, using Gumu and his huge hard cock as His instruments, then why did it feel so pleasurable inside her? She was in agony—but it was an agony of humiliation and confusion, not of physical pain. It was an agony of sin and of pleasure that was too good and too intense to bear, without going insane and screaming your head off—which is exactly what she kept doing. Gumu's cock was going to force her pussy to climax for him. She could feel it happening. It wasn't right and it wasn't fair, but there was no stopping it. His cock had conquered her pussy and made it his very own. Gumu had conquered her body and her soul alongside it. She was horrified and she was mortified—neither of those emotions were going to stop her from coming. Instead somehow they were just going to make her come stronger, when it hit. She could feel it ... It was peaking ... "God! God! Oh Jesus! I'm gonna ... I'm gonna come! I'm gonna come! Jesus God!" This was her Lord's to intervene and redeem her. "Save me! Please! Jesus save me or I'm gonna ..." Gumu snarled in her ear, then, like a tiger, and pulled her hair and slapped her ass. Really really hard. She got the message instantly. "Gumu! Gumu!" He didn't want her calling out anymore to her useless or indifferent God. Only to him—and she would obey. He had earned her obedience. "Gumu! Oh Gumu! Oh oohhooh Gumuuuuhhhuurraahh!" Then he paused, when her orgasm tapered off, and removed himself from her pussy for a minute, in order to steer her around and back flat atop the altar table, so that when he climbed over and pushed again inside of her and set out to make her have the next one, she would be looking up into his face, directly into his eyes. Dazed and dizzy, she let him reposition her like a doll or a puppet, with no more struggle or protest. He had tamed her, but she was not reduced inside her head to the blank mindlessness her face might seem to indicate. She was still perfectly aware of what was happening to her, and it had not ceased to trouble her conscience. In the moment, however, that trouble stood second in importance to the feeling of bereavement and desperate aching hollowness she felt until his cock had returned to her vagina. He first freed her hands from the sleeves of her ruined dress—if only so he could hold her wrists himself, pinning them down to the tabletop over her head. And he pulled her panties the rest of her way off her legs—just so she could spread her legs and her pussy as wide as possible for him. Now he had her properly all the way naked for him again, like she was beside the lake. Like a primitive, like an animal. She suspected she would not be wearing any more clothes for quite some time. Gumu would not let her. Perhaps some of the wispy native wraps. Not that they really counted. She wondered what the anthropologists would think of her, when they saw her like this. When they found out what had happened to her—what she had become. What Gumu had turned her in to, with this "ritual". Whatever that turned out to be—his wife? Or only a plaything? A helpless white sex slave, naked in the jungle ... God, she came again when she had that thought. It wasn't the savage's cock, glorious and mighty as it still continued to feel, that made her burst that time. It was those words in her mind—that terrible filthy depraved concept of herself—it flung her screeching over the peak again, on the instant. "Guuuhh-muuhhaaarrhhh ...huhhnn ... huuhhn ..." She wondered what the anthropologists would want to do about her. Would they try to intervene and rescue her, to take her home? Did she want them to? Did they even have the right, from their own wishy-washy philosophical stance of cultural relativism? She doubted they would make fun of her anymore, in any case. Or Hell, maybe that was wrong—maybe they still would, just as bad as before or even worse. And maybe that was exactly what she deserved. For allowing this to happen to her. Submitting gleefully to her own subjugation. That was what she was doing. And it felt so good ... fulfilling ... When Gumu got ready for his conclusion, and finally put his penis into her mouth, she dutifully sucked on it until he was ready to cover her face with his come. She was eager for the taste of him, and for the feel of his jizz covering her. A ritual of worship. "My lord! All over me! Lord! Ohhuuhh!" The altar table she lay on, this was no longer an altar to Jesus. It couldn't be, after she allowed Gumu to despoil it, despoiling her. He had fucked her upon it made her orgasm upon it, and scream his name. Now this table was Gumu's altar. She lay on her back upon it, panting, with her legs still spread wide as they could, naked and sweaty and steaming, splattered with his semen, so thick on her face she couldn't open her eyes, a filthy irrefutable display of tribute to his power and magnificence. She was claimed by this heathen, and she had allowed him to claim the altar in turn. Either she had failed God or God had failed her, or there was no God at all. No Christian God, anyhow. But perhaps she had found another one to pledge herself to. Not exactly a God, but a man of power. Power that had been proven. Real physical worldly living power. A man worthy of worship. Was it a darker, fouler sin if Gumu was in fact possessed by forces of bedevilment, or if this was only an ordinary man she had surrendered all her virtue to? She could not decide. Still, what she had decided was this ... she would give Gumu her worship, from now on. The worship of her naked white body. Knowing the black brute savage would give her orgasms in return. Altogether a much better, clearer, tangible deal than she ever got from Jesus.