Missionary Position

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 even glimpse her before she made it safe inside her hut—Market Day was still going on, after all, keeping everyone occupied. The whole reason she'd picked this time to bathe in the first place. Even if 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. If Gumu hunkered down in the bushes for an ambush and tried to mess with her some more along the way, she could just scream, and help would surely come. The 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.

Even if thing 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, 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, thanks to Gumu's juvenile prank. 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.

"Good," he said, "Nice body. I told you. Very nice. You all wet. Drip-drip-drip."

How did he know? God! But wait—he just meant from the lake. 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."

"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."

"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 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. 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.

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—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 mud at his feet, with his prick stuffed down her throat. When he'd come and she gulped it all right down, 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.

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.