Incest at Prarie Divinity School

A comic sardonic adventure of man attempting to follow God's Law in defiance of his family's tradition of incest, upon which he makes a lasting judgment.

INCEST AT THE PRARIE DIVINITY SCHOOL --CONTINUING BUTTERWORTH SAGA

Dear Reader, This article is a tribute to the Butterworth family, famous in history, song, and legend. Why? Because, beloved readers, as you know from reading previous incestuous Butterworth stories, a Butterworth male is a unique species of humanity. Butterworth men have sperm that tastes like freshly churned butter. Women will testify that swallowing Butterworth's sperm is like a trip to the candy store or the dairy. This article is a remembrance by an American Butterworths, a practicing physician. This document was found sequestered in his bank vault after his demise at the age of seventy-eight. He passed on in the middle of a tryst with his surgical nurse and two of his patients. If the nurse had only scooped up a handful of his jizz and placed it in his mouth, the dear doctor would still be with us. On with our story.

In the year of our Lord, 1953, I was proud to be accepted for study at the Prairie Divinity School to become a minister. My name is Kenneth Butterworth Jr. I was the first Butterworth desirous of following the Lord as a lifelong occupation. I had just turned eighteen and had defied my private school friends by refraining from masturbation from the time my school chum Peter Cleeland demonstrated what dick stroking was all about. His high-flying demonstration forced me to wipe off my shirt and forehead and was rather disgusting.

There I stood, as pure as my face was white, except for a few zits, and my large dick was as straight as a unicorn horn, although it had some dark spots courtesy of my great grandad, the civil war black Union surgeon, Col. 'Ike' Johnson Butterworth. Details of 'Ike's accomplishments in the war fields and bedrooms of the conflict (1860-1865) will soon be published.

My Dad, Dr. Kenneth Butterworth Sr., was an active Gynecologist who worked at the University campus in our capital city. Dad said to me, in no uncertain terms,

"Why the fuck, you don't go to school here is beyond me. We have the finest pussy in the state, and I've seen most of them up close. If you went to med school, as I've tried to encourage you to do, you'd spend a lifetime wallowing in pussy, and believe me, some girls love to be wallowed. As for the ones who don't, best to leave them alone."

In unfounded charges, it was alleged that my Dad had broken more hymen than any GYN before him. Eventually, Dad was cleared of all charges and returned to his finger-prodding exams undisturbed.

Dad had taught me to bathe often, pray every night, and keep quiet about our family's proclivities‌. Dad taught us that incest is the bond that ties a family together.

Every night, I read my dog-eared bible carefully. I know what the Lord requires of us, but there are some sections of the holy book that need my further study. I knew the Lord was displeased by the act of masturbation, but God encouraged Onan to fuck his brother's wife. Kinda like what goes on in my family. I had spotted some negative comments on the Pharaohs marrying their sisters, but no problems seemed to develop in their offspring. I knew a stranger visited Sarah, and thereafter, she was pregnant. Was it a real angel or a horny homeless person? If it was an angel, how was he able to fit his expansive membership into the old lady?

Do angels have feathers covering their enormous genitals? I guess we will find out when we get to heaven. Were the burning bushes that Moses found in the desert, actually a reference to hotties? We know Esther performed a belly dance in a thong and saved the Jews. There was that other belly dancer, Salami, who cut off John the Baptist's testicles, leaving him un-nested. Lot sent his two daughters to be gang raped by a disorderly crowd in order to save their home, proof of the magical power of pussy.

.

I read how Jesus saved a prostitute from being stoned, and I interpret this as a sign the Lord is against drugs. I could go on and on, but the bus taking me to Prairie Divinity was getting closer, and the guy in the aisle seat next to me, who said his name was Orville Whooperfopper, had been playing grab ass with me for most of the trip.

Orville had a small tape recorder with an amazing rendition of 'Funiculi Funicula' performed by The Grateful Dead. Orville played the song for me when he accompanied me into the bathroom during a bus stop. At the conclusion of their performance, he suggested we embark on a performance that seemed un-Christian. What was that all about? He had a button on his red shirt that said, 'Blow Sinners.' The writing on his button was so tiny I had to squint, so I wasn't sure exactly who the sinner was, but I could plainly see his hand inching closer, intent on playing with my dick.

"I forgive you, brother," I shouted as the bus roared into the college's red dirt driveway. I pushed his hands off my fly, grabbed my suitcase and pocket bible, and ran to the head of the bus.

"Behind the line, you idiot," said the driver, "Stay seated until the bus stops."

I squatted in the aisle, and as the bus stopped, I got up from the floor, having finally arrived at my promised land, unlike the prophet Moses.

"God bless you, Driver," I yelled as I stepped into the soft, damp red clay.

"Go fuck yourself," said the driver, what a kidder he was.

Once I dismounted from the bus, I saw a grizzled older woman holding a large wooden sign,

'Divinity students line up here.'

Since I was the only one to arrive, I was at the head of the line.

"Hello, Ma'am."

"Hello, youngster. Are you here for the divinity school or on the wrong line?"

"Oh, I'm here to become a minister. "

"Okay, I gotta ask you three questions,"

"Okay, ma'am."

"Are you a virgin?"

"Yes, Ma'am, very much so."

"Do you accept Jesus as your rock and salvation?"

"Yes, Mam, I certainly do; he is my rock star. I'm not sure if he played the guitar?"

"Did you wack off last night?"

"No, Ma'am, I've never touched the naked buzzard except to aim pee in the pot; otherwise, you might slop up the wall."

"Okay, you pass; follow me."

She took me into the divinity office, where there was a clerk. He was an obese man whose desk had a placard, which I assumed was his name.

"Good morning, Mr. Calhoun."

"I'm not Calhoun."

"Well, your nameplate..."

"Sonny, don't believe everything you see."

"What do you want?"

"I want to serve the grand master on high and his sacred son, Jesus.

"Never mind that. You got your registration money?"

"Yes, here in an envelope pinned to my underwear."

"If that envelope touched your asshole or cock and balls, you might as well put it right in the trash can," and he kicked the metal can to show he meant business.

"It's okay; it's taped to my thigh."

"Hold on," said Calzone, or whatever his name was, and picked up the phone. I heard the person at the other end say,

"Massage Parlor."

"Is Miss Tiffany free at 3 o'clock?" said Calzone.

There was some mumbling, and he hung up the phone.

"Going for a massage?" I foolishly said.

"This is a private phone. Forget whatever you think you heard."

"My ears are pretty good. Didn't you say something about 'getting your rocks off?"

"Your ears are not very good. I called for my mosaic class and asked if the instructor, Roxie, was off."

"Oh, I'm sorry, I guess my ears ain't so good after all."

"Okay, Butterworth, fill out this paper and fork over the loot. We don't tolerate any deadbeats making late payments."

I rolled up my pants leg, pulled out the cash envelope, and forked it over. Calzone put the envelope in his pocket. I filled out the form as best I could and returned it. He took a long time reading it, then removed a pair of thick glasses from his jacket pocket and reexamined the form.

"It says here your father is a pussy doctor."

"He's a GYN."

"Same thing. Has he been charged as a molester?"

"No, sir, he's a good doctor."

"Okay, we'll take your word for it since your hearing ain't so good. Go upstairs to room 204 and see Dr. Peter, the Peter doctor. He'll check out your hearing loss and the length of your dick. Ha, ha, just kidding ya, not. Well, why are you standing there? GO!," and Calzone pointed at the stairs.

Since there was no elevator in the ancient building, I climbed the stairs to the second floor, where I found room 204. The nameplate on the door was covered with a piece of white surgical tape, scrawled upon it was 'Doc. Peter Cronkite, Osteopath.', The Doc was an elderly man, probably in his late seventies, which means he should have retired years ago. His gray hair was shoulder length, and his face was so creased he looked like a Greek fisherman. He finally noticed I was standing there when I started tapping my foot rhythmically to a tune I could not get out of my head, 'Funiculi Funicula.'

"Okay, boy, get your dick on the table. Afterward, you can join the choir."

I unzipped, approached the examining table, and laid my penis on the brown paper that looked like a shopping bag turned inside out.

"Doc, what's an osteo-pathetic doctor?"

"It's the one you're unlucky enough to find today," said Cronkite, and then looked down at my cock.

"Oh my God, your dick is circumcised, and it is enormous, and it's a golden yellow color. But I gotta tell ya, sonny, we don't want no Jews around here."

"I was born in an Army hospital, and that's how they do things."

"Well, it's actually disgusting; a gal likes to feel soft foreskin when she sucks dick, not a hard bone. And I gotta tell ya, a dick that color means you're gonna end up with dick cancer, as sure as you're a Jew.

"But I am a Christian."

Army brat, you say. "Let me check your balls."

"He reached out and sunk his fingernails deep into the tender skin of my testicles.

"Ouch!"

"Sensitive little fucker aren't you, to have such a big dick. But I gotta tell ya, Sonny, it's only a matter of time before you are going to get a hernia; it's only a matter of time." (He was right about that; I've had two of them)

"If you'd cut your nails, I wouldn't have yelled."

"Bullshit, you Jew interloper."

"But I'm not a Hebrew.

"Oh, okay, but don't let our preacher girls suck your cock. Once they've mouthed a heeb cock, they won't wanna suck on the rest of us. And suckin' on your yella dick might give em throat cancer."

"Turn around while I check your ass. Drop your drawers, Mr. Pathetic Butterworth."

"It's Kenneth, sir."

I had no sooner turned my back when a giant fingernail was shoved deep into my anus. That hurt like a motherfucker, forgive my French, but I kept quiet as he twisted his digit, causing considerable pain until he finally pulled it out.

The doctor carefully washed his hands.

"Shouldn't you have washed your hands first and worn gloves?" I said sheepishly.

"You little jerk off, are you telling me how to check for prostate cancer?"

"Well, is my prostate okay?"

"At the moment, it is, but by the time you graduate, it will have the initials of half your classmates carved in it. You better tell them to wash their dicks first and wear a glove before they fuck you in the ass, you pathetic punk."

"Thanks for the advice, Doc."

"Yeah, and just a hint, shave off that big bush you've been wearing since forever. If you expect one of these preacher guys or gals to blow you, you better clean up that hairy mess.

"I thought big hair was something God likes, like Samson."

"At the end of the story Bozo, Samson did not end up in good shape. He ended up with a seeing-eye dog."

"Get your ass down to room A113, in the basement. Register for classes and your dormitory assignment." As I walked out the door, the Doctor shouted at me, "It's Osteopath, you idiot."

"Yes, sir." As I left, I closed the door, but I could hear Doc. Peter Cronkite laughing hysterically.

There was no elevator, so I walked a mile down the stairs into what looked like a dungeon and had a dank odor. There was Mr. Albright, an obese man sweating profusely who did not grab my cock or stick anything in my ass. There was a wooden box on his blond oak desk that said, "Put your paper here." I complied. Albright picked the paper up and examined it.

"What's your name, son?"

"Ken Butterworth Jr., Sir."

"Are you a Jewish convert?"

"No, sir, why do you assume that?"

"Well, Crock upstairs, put a red J on the top of your medical exam."

"Well, he's in error; I'm a Christian, born and breaded like a piece of fried chicken."

"Well, maybe he's got a touch of dementia, I'm afraid, but it would be uncharitable to fire him; he's been here since Eisenhower went to school here."

"The President?"

"No Melvin Eisenhower, a pitcher for the Ohio Mercuries."

"Oh, I never heard about them."

"No wonder he was on one of the old Negro baseball teams back before they ruined the white man's game; good pitcher, though, and a great minister. Our first black student."

"That's nice he got here."

"The Rev. Eisenhower does tent revivals all across the South. They love him on PBS. He's got an operatic singing voice, and he's worth many millions, not to mention a harem of church ladies."

"Wow."

"Okay, Keneth, we have a dorm room reserved for you with Dicky Prodijian, an Armenian, if I'm not mistaken. If you brought a jalopy with you, that kid can fix anything with a tailpipe."

"Okay, sir, no problem."

"So you'll be bunking in Cabin 6. Dicky asked for the upper bunk bed, so if he's a bed wetter, you best cover yourself with a waterproof tarp."

"Yes, sir. Is there another dorm opening?

"No, we are all filled up. There is only room left for Christians or lions."

I grinned, but it wasn't funny."

The walk to the 'dorms' was over a muddy dirt road. It must have rained the night before. I finally located cabin 6; the sign had flipped in the wind, so I thought it was number 9. My roomie, Dicky, nude, was sitting on the floor playing with matches. I couldn't help but notice his pubes were shaved.

"Hey dude," he shouted, "Hav'in car trouble."

"No, I'm your roomie."

"Nice to meet ya. Wanna do some crack."

"Nope, my crack is sore from what the crazy doctor did to it."

"He fucked ya?"

"No. The Doc fucked me up with his fingernail."

"Oh, I gotcha; you're talking about Cronkeit, the dick-slayer."

"Yeah, Doc nearly ripped my balls off."

"Sorry about that. Well, what's your name?"

"Ken."

"Yeah, Kenny, take a snort of this black tar; it will kill any human pain. They make it on the sly over in the chem lab."

"Thanks, Dicky, maybe another time." I was trying to be social and noncritical, but I was shocked.

"So." said Dicky, "your family is in their biz?"

"Whatcha mean?"

"My Dad earns over a million a year, saving souls."

"Sounds like a shoemaker."

"Ha ha, good sense of humor. But at Saddle HumpBack Church, we do several Gospel Nights and a Save Your Soul festival several times a year. He gets people so high you'd think they were all on drugs. Folks love to think they are headed to heaven, and my Dad sells them ringside seats."

"How's that?"

"He makes the believers sign a pledge to donate 11% of their income to the church, and that guarantees them a seat before the heavenly choir. Our family gobbles up the tithes; I spent last year's summer vacation in France; the hookers there are for savings."

"You mean you helped them get saved?"

"No, I mean, they suck your cock and then let you fuck them."

"Is that part of your ministry?"

"I did what I had to, French hookers are like church ladies, ready to fuck on the first night, but the difference is ya gotta pay to grease the wheels. That's where your savings come in."

"You mean their car's wheels?"

"No dummy, their cunts."

"Well, thanks for the info, but I'm trying to keep my dick cuntless if you catch my drift."

"Just because you are a religious zealot doesn't mean you can't enjoy the big dipper."

"To itch his own," I mumbled, trying to sound clever, "Sorry, I'm more into Flying Saucers than Astronomy."

"Don't worry, they are going to teach you here at the college more about economics than how many hairs were in Jesus' beard. If you pay attention, you'll live in a mega-mansion by age thirty."

"I'm hoping to be a good Christian and help save the world. I've had a long day, Dickey; I'm gonna hit the sack."

"But could I ask you one question Dicky?"

"Sure."

"I have a terrible singing voice, and I can't even strum a guitar. When I get to heaven, will my voice improve, and will I be able to play my harp?"

"Sure, Kenny, don't you worry. Heaven is the answer to all our dreams. You'll be fine."

"I'm thinking I should rest a bit. It's been a long day."

"Want me to beat you off? A good creamy climax will help you sleep. I take the top bunk, and when I jerk off, I can usually hit the ceiling."

"I looked up over his bed and could see stalactites of cum growing over the midsection of his bunk."

"Thanks, Dickey, I'm ok."

I fell asleep without Dickey beating me off, dreaming I was skiing down a slalom course made of mountains of cum.

Classes were scheduled to start in about four days.

I was assigned a tour guide to go over the different opportunities the school offers and the location of the various log cabin buildings. My student guide was Shawnee Jackson, a beautiful black student. She spoke with a lisp that she explained was common in crack babies. If crack screwed up her diction, it didn't hurt her 40-inch melon ball tits.

Shawnee advised me it was best to try to sit up front near the teacher and show off my tits. Then she realized I was a guy and apologized. Sorry, hon, my vision falls off now and then.

She took me on a tour of most of the campus. She said the school was proud of the red clay tennis court, which was cordoned off because of the mud. A dog must have walked through it, as paw prints were all over the court.

"Do you play tennis?"

"Nope."

"But you do have balls?"

"Oh yeah, fleshy ones, or do you mean those fuzzy jobs you hit with a racket?"

"Either, you'll find both are in demand at Divinity."

When we got to the end of the tour, she asked me, "Would you like to feel my tits?"

"No, I respected you too much."

Then she admitted that it was a trick question to determine which students were gay and who were straight.

"I check back on them every few months because many straight students turn gay before graduation, but even some of the gay ones like to squeeze my jumbos."

"I can understand that." Then I asked, "Do you know who Melvin Eisenhower was?

"Nope, who the fuck is that?"

Before parting, she wrote down her address and cell phone number, and added,

"I don't care about being a church minister. My family are all rich funeral directors. I just have to bless the corpse. They'll pay me mucho dinero."

I didn't understand French, but it sounded like her future was secure.

"I'm in my third year, and I'm looking for a husband. If you are interested, please hit me up."

"I would never hit a lady."

"I mean, call me up."

"Okay, thanks. I always wanted to marry a woman with big hooters."

"My Dad says if I could bring home a white boy, we could expand our business into a richer clientele and open a new center on the north side of town."

If I were lucky enough to marry Shawnee, it would be a good choice. She'd keep me warm in the winter, and with her wide hips, we could have a brood of eight children, not to mention the fun of playing with her bongos. Of course, after breastfeeding eight kids and me sucking on her tits, they would probably be hanging below her waist. I was very excited at the prospect of serving the Lord and the possibility of marrying Shawnee.