A Charitable Act

A Charitable Act

Summer 1820 Louisiana

Pastor Josiah Slyte groaned hugely, his slender, pale white frame quivering, as Madame Montagne once again took hold of his incredibly distended manhood and jerked her hand spasmodically up and down the iron hard length, artfully running the ball of her thumb agonisingly over the slick, weeping cockhead.

The naked cleric moaned deep down in his gut, as he nursed frantically at Madame Montagne's broad, dark red nipple, greedily swallowing down her hot sweet milk. As the cleric suckled, the long narrow fingers of his right hand gripped the fat, sweat covered breast, clenching the heavily veined flesh cruelly to help maintain the precious flow to his greedy lips.

Madame Montagne hissed with undisguised pleasure, arching her back as far as her bloated condition allowed, offering herself up, as Slyte's avid mouth worked greedily on each of her overfilled teats. While the cleric gorged himself, his left hand slid lower down to roughly massage the French woman's massively swollen, pregnant belly. His spread fingers gliding over her sweat soaked skin, kneading the red hot flesh as if it was so much baker's dough.

Madame Montagne ran the fingers of her free hand through the cleric's thinning hair, her nails scratching at his scalp and dragging at his hair, as Slyte's hand worked lower and lower toward her sopping crotch.

Desperate for release after the intense mauling, Madame Montagne squirmed her broad rump deep into the sweat soaked sheets of her marital bed. The French woman was completely helpless with lust, as she began to flex her wide hips back and forth, before crooning hotly, "pump me, Josiah, pump me with your hard cock. Oh God! I need your rock hard cock so fucking bad."

The pastor let the inch long nipple fall from his mouth, his tongue flickering out to wipe up the precious beads of milk that immediately began to ooze from the suddenly abandoned teat.

The pastor lifted himself into position above Madame Montagne's enormous, taught belly. He panted as he manoeuvred his narrow, shaking hips between the perspiring woman's obscenely spread thighs, his monstrous cockhead bobbing and dripping with his ball-aching need.

Madame Montagne slipped her hands behind both knees and spread herself as wide as possible, as Slyte moved his dripping, purple glans into her slick, red, pouting sex.

In the distance, a sudden, shattering crash of thunder sounded in Pastor Slyte's ears. The thunderclaps kept coming, one after another. The noise growing louder and closer, until all the cleric could hear was a God awful banging and then, between the thunder-claps, the sound of his name being shouted over and over.

Slyte lurched upright in his narrow bed, mouth open, eyes staring wildly around in the darkness, as the banging continued to echo through the house and again the voice calling his name.

Slyte hurriedly mopped the freely running perspiration from his face on the sweat dampened sheet and reluctantly swung his legs to the cold floor. Cursing silently, the cleric staggered to the window, struggling to push the erotic remains of the dream from his mind and also ignore the ferocious erection making a tent out of his nightshirt.

After steadying himself against the wooden sill and taking in several shaking breaths, Slyte raised the window and peered down at the sheriff's deputy standing below him at the front door.

Slyte struggled to gather his thoughts together after being so rudely pulled out of a deep and all consuming sleep. "You down there! What in God's name are you doing pounding on my door at this hour for?"

"Beg pardon, Pastor, but there's been a murder out at Evergreen Plantation," the deputy shouted back. "The Skipper, that's Captain Carlin, he sent me to fetch you quick like."

Slyte resisted the urge to inform the deputy that as a priest, he was hardly likely to be of any use in a murder case. However, as the owners of Evergreen were undoubtedly the wealthiest and most influential of his parishioners, not to mention the family whose wealth had built both the church and presbytery in which he preached and lived, it would be prudent to be on hand to offer what obsequies condolences he could muster.

"I'll saddle your horse, Pastor," the deputy shouted over his shoulder as he headed around back of the house to the small stable beyond."

"Which poor soul has been murdered?" The pastor asked, as he swung himself up into the saddle.

Now that Slyte had managed to recover his composure and shaken off as much guilt and confusion as possible after his irregular and unforgivable dream state, at least he could present a proper semblance of christian interest in the misfortunes of others, or so he chided himself.

"Lars Olsen, head overseer at Evergreen," the deputy said over his shoulder as he led off. "Got himself stuck real good by some nigra he had there doing day work at his place."

"Lars Olsen was a big man," the cleric opined in an impressed tone, "his assailant must have taken him by surprise, or from behind I suppose."

"Well, Pastor," replied the deputy, "I don't know about no 'assailant', but it looks like old Lars managed to put a pistol ball in that nigra's forehead straight after he got stuck, so that saved us a hanging at any rate.

"So what does Captain Carlin think I can do to help with his murder," Slyte asked genuinely nonplused. "I barely knew Lars Olsen. He never attended my church, in fact, I don't think he came into town that often."

The deputy pulled up on his reins and swung around to face Slyte. "It's Lars' daughter, Ingrid I think her name is. She was the only other person there, or at least thereabouts. She was a witness the Skipper thinks, but she's just sitting there, head down, staring at the floor, silent as the grave. Won't say a word to anyone. Been like that for hours. Looks like whatever she seen made her flip-her-lid, her Daddy dying like that I suppose. Least ways, that's what it looks like to the Skipper."

"I've never met the child," said Slyte, "neither she nor her Father ever attended services."

"Well, she's not really a child, Pastor," said the deputy. "More of a young woman I suppose. Must be eighteen, or nineteen at least. Nobody knows much about her. Lars kept her real close ever since him and the girl came to Evergreen to take on the Overseer's job. I doubt she's even been off that shitty smallholding once in the two years she's been here."

"I would have thought Doc Wiley a better person to call upon in a case like this," said Slyte, trying not to sound peevish.

"Yeah, well, the Skipper did say to try the Doc first," the deputy agreed. "I called over there first, but the Doc's wife said he'd be gone all night over at the Montagne place birthing their latest."

The Pastor was suddenly grateful for the darkness, feeling the hairs at the back of his neck bristle and his cheeks flush at the mere mention of the hugely pregnant Madame Montagne.

Slyte scrunched up his eyes, cursing himself bitterly, furiously trying to banish the images that flooded into his mind: The fecund French woman lying in her marital bed, grunting and straining, thighs wide spread, sweat rolling in ribbons down her sides as Doc Wiley freely stroked and squeezed her huge, veined belly and stared expectantly into her well used cunt.

"This must be her third, or is it her fourth child by now?" Slyte asked, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible. The cleric simply couldn't resist speaking about the woman he'd just been about to ravage in his recently and ever so rudely interrupted dream.

"This'll be her fifth," laughed the deputy, apparently glad to switch to a happier topic of conversation. "She's a fine looking woman and that old Monseur Montagne sure does like to keep her knocked-up."

"Motherhood is a sure sign of God's blessing on a good marriage, Deputy," Slyte intoned sternly, feeling the need to define the difference in their relative positions. 'And, I might add, not something to be spoken of crudely, or in lewd tones."

"Beg pardon, Pastor," replied the deputy quickly, "no offence meant by it."

"None taken, Deputy", replied the priest in a whisper, "none taken."

Slyte rode the rest of the way in silence. All the while reciting a long, turgid list of dry, holy verses to himself. Each and every one designed to bolster his christian resolve and assuage the rampant unclean thoughts that seemed never to rest.

Nonetheless, as Slyte trotted on, he could not prevent the devilish images from his broken dream coming back to flit across his mind's eye. Madame Montagne, coincidentally the wife of the Town's most sought after dress maker, or couturier as Montagne liked to style himself, was a frequent midnight visitor, along with a handful of other pulchritudinous female parishioners, who inhabited the pastor's private fantasy world.

Isobelle Montagne was indeed a beautiful woman, perhaps twenty some years younger than her apparently most intimately attentive husband. The Frenchman had brought her up from New Orleans barely six months after his first wife had died of Diptheria.

A move which had caused more than a small amount of scurrilous gossip amongst the more vituperative of the female towns folk. Most of the waspish gossips, it had to be said, hard praying, tithe paying members of Pastor Slyte's own congregation.

The simple truth was that Madame Isobelle Montagne could do no wrong in the cleric's eyes. For Slyte, simply being a handsome young French woman possessed of an enchanting, throaty laugh, an effusive nature, as well as a ripe, hour glass figure was more than sufficient. And, as the deputy had so correctly pointed out, Madame Montagne was so very often pregnant.

It was with evident relief that half an hour later, Captain Carlin led Slyte into the rough wooden cabin where Ingrid Olsen sat by the long burned out fire place. The girl sat motionless, eyes downcast, her expression blank, just as the deputy had described.

"She's been like this ever since we arrived," the Captain said more than a little impatiently. "No one can get a word out of her. Whatever she's seen, or knows is locked-up tight as a drum." Carlin shrugged, obviously at a loss what to do with the girl. "I thought maybe a doctor, or a priest may get something out of her."

Slyte brought a nearby table lamp closer as he squatted down reluctantly in front of the girl.

"Ingrid, my name is Pastor Josiah, from the Lutheran church in town. I'm here to help you, child." As Slyte spoke, he put his fingers under the girl's chin and raised up her face.

The cleric almost gasped out loud when he saw how pretty the girl was. Even in her current state, with her thick mane of blonde hair all askew and her slack-faced, vacant expression, there was a magnetism emanating from her. A lustre about her pale skin, a delicate dusting of freckles over the bridge of her finely chiselled nose, the fully shaped rose pink lips and her eyes! My God! thought Slyte feeling his heart lurch, the most fabulous pair of lustrous blue orbs imaginable.

Slyte stared into Ingrid's eyes for what seemed to the awe-struck cleric like a full minute, but in reality was little more than five seconds. Conscious of the Captain watching on, Slyte reluctantly let the girl's face drop to resume staring at the floor.

The cleric straightened up slowly, puffed out his cheeks and scratched the back of his head in an outward show of indecision. The last thing he wanted was to appear at all keen to take charge of the girl.

"Well, I suppose I could take her back with me to the Presbytery for what's left of tonight," he said slowly. "At least until one of the female congregants can take her in on a more permanent basis.

The Captain nodded in quick agreement, his relief obvious. "That's very good of you Pastor. I'm sure some charitable lady will find a home for her. In any event, she can't remain way out here all alone with her Father gone. There are far too many trash drifters and runaways wandering about these woods."

Slyte looked around the dismal cabin with its sparse furnishings. "I'll collect up her things and follow you into town."

The Captain motioned the cleric outside before whispering, "there's only the one wagon here and the bodies of her pappy and the nigra are in that. We can't very well expect her to ride in that, the way she is I mean. So, if its alright with you, Pastor, you and the girl will have to ride your saddle horse double-up."

Slyte contrived to put on his most pained expression before finally nodding in reluctant agreement. "As this is a most grievous and unfortunate situation, Captain, then I suppose we can allow some small latitude in public decency."

The Captain nodded heartily and climbed up into the driver's seat with the deputy. "Amen to that Pastor."

Slyte fastened a cloth bag with Ingrid's few possessions to his saddle before returning to get the girl. Thus far, Ingrid had responded to nothing and nobody and the cleric suddenly wondered how he was going to get her up on to his horse.

Slyte squatted and lifted Ingrid's face once again, drinking in the heady mixture of pale, nordic beauty and youthful vulnerability. "We have to go child, its no longer safe for you here all alone."

Slyte breathed a sigh of relief when the girl slowly stood up and followed him to the door and out on to the narrow porch without any further instruction.

The cleric mounted and walked his horse over to the porch. Slyte extended his hand and was again surprised when Ingrid quickly gathered up her dress between her thighs and sprang up behind him. Slyte felt the hair at the nape of his neck once again bristle and his face flush, as the moonlight flashed on the girl's pale inner thighs as she mounted.

Slyte gave his horse a kick and then held his breath, as Ingrid unexpectedly snaked her arms around his waist, both small hands gripping his wide leather belt firmly at the buckle and then laid her head on his back.

Slyte swallowed hard, immediately beginning to feel the heat of the girl's body through the coarse weave of his cassock. It was going to be a long ride home.

Pastor Slyte got no further sleep that night. After hurriedly showing Ingrid to the bedroom kept spare for visiting personages too fine to sleep in the kitchen, or the stable, the cleric swiftly sought the sanctuary of his bedroom. There he knelt on the hard wooden boards, bible tightly in hand, praying to all that was holy by the light of a single candle until the dawn came up. The tortured cleric recited verse upon dry verse, beseeching God over and over to grant him relief from the constant sexual tension that afflicted his every waking hour.

In the next room, Ingrid was also wide awake, mulling the events of the previous few hours over in her head. It had been an easy matter for her to act as if brain-locked in the presence of the Captain Sheriff nuisance busybody fucker and his arsehole of a deputy.

After all, it was not as if she could tell them what had led up to the deadly struggle between her Father and the slave Rufus. That would simply have led to many more awkward questions which the young blonde was very far from willing to answer.

Ingrid looked around the room in the gradually dawning light, stretching her nude, smooth limbed body languorously in the soft bed. The Pastor's house was a great improvement on the overseer's cabin where she had spent the past two years living with her insensitive brute of a father she thought.

Through the thin timber wall, Ingrid had been forced to listen to the constant mumbling drone of the Pastor's fevered praying. Every so often a few disjointed phrases and tortured words could clearly be made out through the thin panelling.

The cleric was having a hard time Ingrid thought, a small smile playing around her mouth, as she slid her fingers over her vulva, slowly massaging herself toward yet another gentle climax.

It was pity about Rufus, the girl thought, as she arched her body and quickened her busy fingers in her increasing wetness. The negro had not been the best looking Evergreen slave, but certainly one of the strongest.

In his bedroom, after seemingly endless hours of solid prayer, Pastor Slyte gave up the loosing battle against endless sexual frustration and put down his bible. The quietly sobbing cleric finally surrendered to the nightly inevitability, dragging up the front of his nightshirt and taking hold of his rock hard, weeping erection.

At once, images of Madame Montagne came flooding back into Slyte's imagination, as he dragged back hard on his foreskin. And then the image of Ingrid's youthful, peerless face began to take over, as the cleric pumped his fist faster and faster. Slyte tried not to groan out loud, his traitorous imagination remembering only too well the heat of Ingrid's body, as she rocked gently against his back on the long ride back to the Presbytery.

Next door, Ingrid listened, fingers now working quickly and firmly over her clitoris, as the pastor ejaculated agonisingly into the folds of his nightshirt, his gasps of desperate, painful, release clearly audible in the otherwise silent house.

Ingrid's own orgasm rolled smoothly over her, making her pale, svelte body shudder in a silent sea of pleasure. Once again the image of the unfortunately dead Rufus swam before her eyes.

'Yes, such a shame about Rufus,' the young beauty told herself, gradually relaxing slowly back into the soft mattress. 'But the Pastor would do for now.'

To be continued if appreciated.