Torments of the Widow McWorter Ch. 07-10

There is a name who for a woman who services a man for money. WHORE!

That was what Miss Maebelle made of me on those nights at the roadhouse bar. Altho our monthly trips to that awful saloon were not the only occasions when my mistress sold my body, those Friday nights were the most degrading of all because they were so blatantly crude and commercial. Monique and I would put on the show, the bar's owner would rake in the money from his trash customers, and our mistresses would take home a share of his profits. I was simply a whore serving my pimp! No other description of me is possible!

The four of us always arrived just after midnight. Our mistresses would lead Monique and I out of the car naked on our leashes, and through the back entrance into the one room saloon. For those of you unfamiliar with the sleazy side of the South Carolina back country, let me describe for you what a honkytonk on the outskirts of a jerkwater southern mill town is like.

The customers are to a man redneck white trash, semi-illiterate, unshaven, badly in need of a bath, and for the most part, either truck drivers or mill workers. The air is thick with cigar and cigarette smoke, but perhaps that was just as well. The tobacco masks the stale stink of spilled beer, sweat, and urine that otherwise permeates the filthy room. Over in the corner a jukebox blares out hillbilly rock and roll at about a thousand decibels.

A couple of bleached blonde waitresses, overweight and slutty in their short shorts and halter tops wade thru the drunken crowd serving pitchers of beer. The tattoos on the arms and upper breasts of the waitresses suggest that they are every bit as tough as their customers…, and they are! Otherwise they couldn't survive the wandering hands that grab for free feels of their female anatomy as they push their way through the crowd.

Our horny audience were always expecting us, and always impatient for our arrival. The rowdy crowd never failed to greet Monique and I with a bawdy cheer and crude comments about our bare tits and shaved pussies. Our performance never varied, and although Monique and I put on pretty much the same show as we did at every stag party, the rough surroundings and crude audience made what we did seem exceptionally degrading.

We are lifted up onto the bar. We do a little dance, flopping our tits at the audience, then I stretch out on my back along the length of the bar. Monique straddles my head with her thighs, and drops her body down on me full length. Her sex covers my mouth, and her mouth is over mine, as we eat each other's cunt in a classic 69. The cheers that ring in our ears only make our humiliation worse as we steel ourselves for the more degrading parts of our performance yet to come.

After 10 minutes or so of licking each other's pussy, Monique rolls off me, but immediately crawls back between my legs in the opposite direction. As she changes position she stuffs her pussy with one end of a double ended dildo. On top of me with her breasts pressed against mine, she pauses with her ass raised over my groin. The unused end of that dildo hangs there, threatening my slit, until I reach between us and slide it inside. Once we are joined with that make believe cock, we two whores rock and hunch our hips at each other, furiously fucking ourselves on the opposite ends of that two woman plastic dick.

Before we arrive, the bar patrons have bought their tickets in a lottery in which Monique and I are the prizes. Some have purchased two, or five, or ten, such chances. When Monique and I have finished our little show, we each draw a number from a hat, and the lucky winners climb up on the bar to join us. The men strip off their pants and underwear, and lay down on their backs. Monique and I suck their unwashed cocks until they are hard and ready, although if that was really necessary at all, it seldom took very long.

Once their erections are standing tall and rigid, Monique and I straddle their hips and slowly ease our cunts down over those stiff male poles waiting under us. I always encourage my man to reach up and play with my tits while I pump myself up and down his fleshy member. Usually he shoots his wad too quickly and I am left hanging, on fire but unsatisfied. God but that is awful! Once in awhile, however, I am lucky enough to draw a real stud who will give me an orgasm or two of my own before my lucky winner fills my pussy with his cum.

Looking back, my time as Miss Maebelle's slave girl is a blur of penises and pussies, although I distinctly remember Monique's pussy as the sweetest of all. Whatever else I may have learned in the years of my college education, I certainly left South Carolina as a fully trained sex slave and whore, and as things turned out, Miss Maebelle was only the beginning. Shortly I would begin a far harsher postgraduate course in female submission with my husband to be, the Right Reverend Alexander McWorter, as my professor.

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8. The Reverend McWorter.

After I graduated from college I returned home to live with my parents in Mobile. My father insisted that I again join the sessions in which he whipped my mother, and once more I found myself naked and suffering under that white Navy belt. I had passed beyond that little game, however, and I wanted no more of it. Still, it wasn't the whipping that drove me away. I was frustrated by being so regularly aroused, and I needed more than that white belt. I needed a release. I needed to be fucked. My father wouldn't do me, and my brother was away in college. When I could stand it no longer, I began to make other arrangements for a place to live.

That wasn't easy. I had no job and no money. I found that there were very few job opportunities available to a young lady with no experience except for a degree in English literature from a backwater bible college. Even with my college degree I didn't qualify for a job as a teacher without the education courses required for a "Teaching Certificate of Competency." It probably would come as a surprise to most Alabama citizens that even the great beatified Paul 'Bear' Bryant would not have been deemed competent to coach a high-school football team anywhere in the state because he never took a college course in how to teach the game of football.

My father came to my rescue. He found me a job as a "gofer", and sometime secretary, in the church where he was a deacon. Strictly speaking, it wasn't even really what you would call a church, just a small fundamentalist evangelical congregation affiliated with the "McWorter Ministries". The job didn't pay much, but it was pleasant and easy work, and it was enough that I could afford my independence.

I kept the church records, counted the money from the offerings, made the bank deposits, and kept the books. I typed whatever correspondence was necessary along with the preacher's notes for his sermon, and generally did whatever was necessary, up to and including sweeping out the store front where services were held on Sundays and Wednesday nights.

All that was well and good, but I needed a man. No more than that, I needed a man between my legs with his cock buried inside me all the way to my womb. Oh how hungry I was to be fucked!

Getting herself fucked, however, isn't all that easy for a young lady employed by a fundamentalist Christian church. True, the congregation had its share of lecherous old farts who would have been more than willing to stick their cocks in me, but I wanted a virile hard young prick, not one that was old, tired, soft, and used up.

There weren't many young men around, and the few that were treated me as if I was the Virgin Mary. I routinely went without a bra, and showed 'em my tits at every opportunity. I shook my ass at them, and lifted my skirts to be sure they could admire my legs. No luck! Nothing worked! They had all committed themselves to 'the one true path' of celibacy before marriage, and I couldn't corner one of them alone under an Alabama moon long enough to seduce him.

Nor could I afford to do much more than I was already doing to advertise I was "available". After all, I was no longer far away on a small college campus in the piney woods of South Carolina where I could openly flaunt myself as sex bait as I did for Miss Maebelle. No sir! At home in Mobile where people knew me and knew my family. Here I couldn't go up to a likely man and announce, "I am Mary Beth the slut," and then ask, "May I suck you off before you fuck me?"

I didn't even dare play the pick-up game in the single's bars the in the usual way an unattached young lady with an itch in her crotch hunts for a willing stud. The men of our church may have been big on 'family values' for public consumption, but I knew that many of those hypocrites were in fact dirty old men who regularly hunted the bars for willing pussy. I would be recognized for sure, and I couldn't afford that.

With no hope of finding an available cock either in a church pew or on a barstool, all that was left to me was my boss, the preacher. Carlin was a serious young man out of the seminary only five years, and recently married. His bride Melissa was a pretty girl who I decided was as much a goodie two shoes as her husband (although later on I would discover how wrong I was about her.) I didn't have much hope for Carlin, but he was a good looking guy and I was desperate, so I gave him my best shot.

For weeks I dispensed with my panties as well as a bra, and never missed a chance to rub my body against his. I wore my shortest skirts to work. When seated, I encouraged the hem to creep up my thighs to give him a good view of my legs. Better than that, I would spread my knees so he could look between them. I'm sure that more than once he must have seen my shaved pussy. Every time I stooped low over his desk to straighten it, or to pick up papers, I made sure the top two buttons of my blouse were undone. With my tits swaying right in his face, there must the been times when Carlin had an eye full all the way to the nipples.

Nothing I did worked any better on Carlin than it had on the others I had tried to interest in my body. If he understood what I wanted of him, he never let on, yet I know he was aroused by those indiscrete glimpses of my private parts. He would blush and a bulge would grow in the crotch of his pants, but he refused to act upon the urges I stirred in him. He would simply turn his head, or shift his eyes away.

At the beginning, I felt a certain Carlin would either fuck me, or fire me. I mean, if he wasn't going to fuck me, how could a preacher possibly keep someone on the church payroll he knew to be a shameless slut? I was wrong! The gutless little twerp never said a word. No recrimination, no explanation, no acknowledgement, no nothing! Damn him anyway! I decided I hated him. The worst thing a man can do to a woman is to ignore her.

Later I discovered I should not have been so hard on him. It turned out that he was one of Reverend Alexander McWorter's puppets, a male slave really, who had undoubtedly been told to leave me alone. At the time, however, I had no way to know about the devious ways of the Reverend' web, and Carlin's rejection of my campaign to seduce him was a damned hard blow to my morale.

Months passed when the only sex I was getting was from my vibrating dildo. The man at the hardware store must have wondered why I needed so many batteries. I was becoming so attached to that artificial dick that I was almost ready to name it as a beneficiary in my will. I was desperate. No, I was more than just desperate, I was climbing the walls so starved was my pussy for a real honest-to-god blood-filled semen-spitting penis.

Fortunately, Mobile is not all that big. It was inevitable that eventually my path would cross that of the Right Reverend Alexander McWorter, Alabama's most prominent minister whose "Old Alabama Gospel hour" every Sunday morning on a national television network had made him a celebrity to fundamentalist Protestant evangelicals throughout the state and beyond.

I was having lunch at the Jefferson Davis Hotel dining room when the famous preacher sent a waiter to invite me to join him at his table. The Reverend McWorter was a big handsome man, strong and masculine, maybe 6 feet 5 or 6 inches tall with salt and pepper graying hair and mustache. His voice was deep and resonant. Charm literally oozed from his pores. I was mesmerized from the first words he spoke to me.

He introduced himself quite gallantly even though I'm sure he knew introduction was hardly necessary. He assured me that he had long known who I was, and was familiar with my 'good work for my pastor'. Of course, at the time I had no idea that 'good work for my pastor' probably referred to my failed attempt to seduce the poor sap.

To have lunch with the great celebrity preacher was a young girl's dream. Here was an unmarried stud, sexy, rich and famous, treating me as if he was already a suitor "come-a-courtin'" as we say down south. In my imagination I can already see myself in this man's bed. Or more! Perhaps a regular thing mistress! Even his wife! "Mrs. Alexander McWorter"! Jesus but that really had a nice ring to it. He wouldn't be an easy catch though. I knew for a fact that a great many women in Mobile had similar ambitions.

There were persistent rumors that the Reverend was not unfamiliar with the pleasures of soft feminine charms, and that he had even been known to taste of them. Of course I didn't know at the time those rumors were only the tip of an iceberg in a litany of flagrant sexual misconduct by the renowned TV minister. I warned myself that I should not get my hopes up from one little lunch. It would simply be foolish of me to take too seriously what was probably only the polite attention expected of a Southern gentleman entertaining a young lady at a chance luncheon.

To my delight, however, two days later Alexander called and invited me to dinner. I accepted the invitation quickly, entirely too quickly for the socially popular young lady I wanted him to think I was. It was only later I remembered that I should have kept him waiting while I pretended to check my busy social schedule to see if I was free for that evening.

We went to the Jeff Davis for dinner and had a very nice meal. The Reverend was a smooth conversationalist, but polite, proper and quite conventional as might be expected of a minister. I thoroughly enjoyed myself despite a persistent heat in my eager pussy. I invited him into my apartment for a nightcap hoping that he might take the hint, but he refused and instead merely shook my hand goodnight. That handshake was a devastating disappointment!

Our second date was similar except that we went to the movies, and he did kiss me good night. He held me close and he was a very good kisser. Still, his lips only hinted at real passion, and once again I was left with a wet but unsatisfied pussy. He said goodnight and disappeared into the dark. I went inside and crawled into bed with my goddamned vibrator.

All of our early dates went something like that, a nice evening, a tantalizing kiss goodnight, but nothing very passionate, nothing anywhere near what I needed. I knew better than to push too hard, however. If Alexander was careful to observe all the conventional proprieties in our rather sterile courtship, I was no less so. I tried my best to be coy but distant, sexy but at the same time virginal.

I did not understand at the time that this oh-so-proper mating dance was a charade. I had no way to know about his considerable experience with submissive little sluts such as myself. Thus, I completely underestimated what a devious and calculating man my suitor was. Alexander had known from the first that my facade of propriety was a sham. He was only toying with me, playing me like a hooked fish flopping helplessly on the end of his line, until he decided the time was right to reel me in and take me into his bed.

It was on our sixth date that we had a private meal at the estate where he lived alone on 20 acres of pinewoods north of the city. I wore a sexy new dress that left my shoulders bare except for the two thin straps that supported the low cut bodice. The inky black silk was the perfect complement to the snow white cleavage of my braless bosom, and beneath that loose top, my breasts swayed sensually with my every move. The meal was exquisitely prepared and served by Carter, Alexander's black manservant of many years. I drank too much brandy, and by the time dinner was ready I was already a bit giddy.

We had finished our meal, and were sitting side by side on a big leather couch when I surreptitiously allowed one strap of my dress to slip off my shoulder. As my bodice slipped downward, my right breast was exposed almost to the aureole. Alexander made little attempt to hide that he was staring down the front of my dress, and that he liked what he saw there. That was encouraging, I thought.

Alexander dropped his arm a round my shoulders as Carter refilled our glasses for the third time since dinner. My head was already spinning, but altho things were going well, I needed that brandy to brace my courage, and I gratefully gulped it down. Sure enough. warmed by the liquor I was able to stay on course and plunge ahead, totally committed to seducing this man. I wasn't sure of what would happen next, but I meant to get laid this night come hell or high water. There was no going back.

The good news was that for the first time the Reverend seemed interested in my feminine assets. God knows he should have been! Short of showing him a full bare tit, there wasn't much more I could do to offer myself to him. Surely this sexy man could not ignore so obvious an invitation. Surely he would not let this romantic moment pass, and allow my exposed and heaving breasts to go untouched and unused.

My preacher man did not disappoint me. The arm around my shoulder tightened and then pulled me to his chest. As he gathered me into his arms, he kissed me first on my forehead, and then long and deeply on my mouth. This was no chaste and friendly goodnight kiss like all those that had preceded it. This time his lips brutally crushed mine. This time his tongue was in my mouth twisting against my own, exploring, probing, demanding a passion to match his own. This time his hand slid inside the top of my dress to firmly grip a bare breast, and his thumb was toying with a nipple, rubbing it erect.

His hand was still there as he stared deeply, almost hypnotically, into my eyes and dropped the bomb that changed my life forever. "Mary Beth you aren't fooling anyone. You are a slut, a slattern bitch, a tramp and a potential whore. Your pussy is wet and hungry. You want me to fuck you. All that is true, is it not Mary Beth?"

I was shocked, petrified, so much so that I couldn't find the breath to reply.

He repeated his demand, "Admit it! Admit to me that you are a slut and a horny bitch! Admit you want me to fuck you. Say it! I want to hear the words from your own mouth."

His command was so powerful, so dominant, so overwhelming, that there was only one answer I could give. "Yes, I am a slut bitch. Yes, I want you to fuck me."

"Yes? Is that all you have to say? Trailer park trash like you, have you no manners, no respect? Start over slut and do it right! Tell me, yes who? Yes what?"

He was angry with me, and the snarl in his voice was demanding an apology. At first I could not imagine my misdemeanor, but then it dawned on me what a presumptuous little snippet I had been. I quickly amended my answer, sincerely repentant of my failure to show this powerful male the respect he was due.

"Yes SIR! Forgive me SIR. I am a slut bitch, SIR! Yes SIR, I want you to fuck me. Please fuck me SIR."