A Charitable Act Pt 02

A Charitable Act Part Two

Summer 1820 Louisiana

Pastor Josiah Slyte arose a little after cock crow. The thin, prematurely balding cleric's night had been a long and turgid travail to say the least of it. Slyte peered into the small mirror above his washstand and grimaced at the reddened eyes looking back at him. The pastor splashed several handfuls of cold water into his face and slowly and deliberately began to lather up the shaving soap.

Slyte had managed barely an hour's sleep after praying fervently for strength and forgiveness on his boney knees for most of the night. Nonetheless, eventually, when the prayers were clearly not working, the tormented cleric reluctantly set aside his well thumbed bible, tumbled into bed and pulling up the hem of his nightshirt, began to masturbate furiously and continuously throughout the remains of the morning.

The perspiring, moaning priest finally fell asleep in total exhaustion, but only after he'd rung three thigh cramping orgasms out of his stubbornly bone hard cock.

From the moment he had been dragged out of a perspiration drenched, super-heated dream about one of his massively pregnant parishioners, to the midnight horse ride out to Evergreen Plantation and the murder scene of the overseer Lars Olsen, the pastor had known no rest. However, the peevish mood Slyte had started out with after being forced to accompany the sheriff's deputy over to Evergreen had vanished in a heartbeat, as soon, in point of fact, as he'd looked into the truly angelic face of the murdered man's daughter.

And now the pastor was faced with the incredibly awkward presence in his church house of the extraordinarily comely and apparently vulnerable blonde haired Ingrid Olsen; probably the prettiest and finest piece of ass in the entire County!

As the pastor ruminated, the subject of his early morning dilemma lay in bed watching the sun come up through the thin cotton window curtains. The fingers of one hand idly stroked the moist, pouting lips of Ingrid's vulva, as she too considered her situation.

The svelte, long limbed blonde replayed the events of yesterday over in her mind, biting down on her full bottom lip and shivering slightly at the terrifying memory of her father bursting into her tiny bedroom, only to catch her mounted on the massive sweating frame of the slave Rufus.

The black's huge hands had been fixed like claws on her large breasts, dragging at her flesh, as the pair humped together at a ferocious pace. Rufus' muscular black ass thrust wildly up from the bare mattress to meet Ingrid's madly thrashing hips, as he sort to cram as much of his huge cock into her obscenely squelching cunt as possible.

No one seeing the sweat covered, rutting couple could mistake the scene for anything other than what it was; two lovers mewing and panting their sex crazed way toward yet another gut twisting pair of orgasms.

And that had been exactly how Lars Olsen had seen it when he returned home early, only to be summoned to his daughter's room by the unmistakable sounds of someone fucking the living daylights out of his baby girl.

Three things happened simultaneously:

Firstly, the door to Ingrid's small box room almost left its hinges as Lars put his six foot six bulk to the door and burst both the lock and vanity bolt from the woodwork.

Secondly, Rufus ejaculated his third load of the morning into Ingrid's sucking sex, his significant, work hardened musculature tensed into a ripped arch of desperate release as he roared out his pleasure.

Thirdly, Ingrid slammed her crotch down on to the erupting cock, as she too squealed out, as her orgasm ripped through her loins, belly and swollen nipples.

Olsen staggered to a halt, arms akimbo, his huge fists balled as he loomed wild-eyed above the couple shuddering together on the small cot and could only eventually croak, "Ingrid!"

Ingrid lifted her head to stare up into her Father's blazing eyes and could only gasp out a breathless, "Oh God! Daddy!"

Rufus shot his last jet of thick seed into Ingrid's boiling hot sex and whether in pleasure, or fear, could only grind out through tightly clenched teeth an agonised, "Oh Fuck!

The three stared at each other lungs heaving for the longest few seconds of their lives before three more things happened:

Firstly, Rufus slipped his hands from Ingrid's breasts into her sweat soaked armpits and hurled her bodily into her Father's arms.

Secondly, Lars threw his daughter into the corner as he lunged after Rufus.

Thirdly, Rufus sprang off the cot and dove straight through the open window and into the chicken run below sending the unsuspecting fowl scattering wildly.

What happened next Ingrid failed to witness, as she lay dazed and disoriented, her thighs and belly still shaking wildly in the aftermath of her latest massive orgasm.

From outside came the awful sounds of her father and Rufus crashing around the yard violently yelling and swearing at each other. Suddenly, Ingrid heard her father let out a below of blood curdling, agonised rage and then a few desperate seconds later, the deafeningly loud sound of a pistol shot rang out.

The terrified blonde gathered her knees together in her arms and huddled as far back into the corner as she could get. It seemed like a very long time before the naked girl could summon up the courage to pull on her cheap cotton shift and venture outside of her room.

Encouraged slightly by the silence, Ingrid padded cautiously out on to the porch and looked around. The slave Rufus lay dead in the dirt by the horse trough. He appeared to have taken a shot through one of his eye sockets and the back of his head was no longer there.

Beside Rufus' corpse, Ingrid's father also lay with the horse pistol he'd recently fired still gripped in his hand and the blade of the scythe Rufus had earlier been using to cut brush with buried in his substantial gut. Ingrid noticed that her father was still breathing, although from the amount of blood still spurting from his belly and dribbling from his mouth, she doubted he would last very much longer.

Whilst her father gurgled his last, Ingrid sat down on the porch to think. If anything, she was most upset that the particularly well-hung plantation nigra Rufus, had not ducked quickly enough after gutting her father with his scythe. Rufus may have been an ugly bastard, but he had the body of a bull and the stamina to match. Ingrid regretted that their daily fuck sessions of the past few weeks were now most assuredly at an end.

As for her father, there was little love lost there. Lars Olsen was a mean, jealous and bad tempered man who kept his one and only daughter a virtual prisoner in their various homes. Ingrid hated him for scaring away any young man who thought to show an interest in her, and on top of that he expected her to be his unpaid cook, cleaner and washer woman to boot.

Ingrid had often thought that her mother had done the wise thing by dying of the fever well before her bullying pig of a husband had actually succeeded in working her to death.

One useful thing about her father though, was that he had taught his daughter never to talk to strangers, nor express a public opinion. Such teaching had often been accompanied by several strokes of his broad leather belt and if nothing else, Ingrid became a quick learner and to keep her own counsel.

And so it was that when the wagon from the sawmill came to deliver more timber for Rufus, the driver found two dead bodies lying together in the dirt and Ingrid sitting by the hearth, staring blankly and silently into the fire's dying embers. The young girl's eyes seemingly as dead as the two sorry corpses outside.

Ingrid shook her head to banish the horror of yesterday's events and spread her legs to allow her four fingers to penetrate as deeply as possible into her sex, at the same time rubbing her thumb gently over her clitoris. She closed her eyes and summoned up the image of Rufus' naked body with its heavy hanging cock, as she sort her much needed morning relief.

The pastor paused outside of Ingrid's bedroom door with the tea tray balanced in one hand as he knocked gently on the panel. From inside the girl's room Slyte thought to hear a soft groaning and then a long drawn out exhalation.

Slyte knocked again and then slowly turned the knob and swung the door gently open. "Good morning, Ingrid," the cleric smiled at the pair of blue eyes peering back at him over the top of the eiderdown coverlet pulled right up above her nose.

The pastor groaned inwardly, as the girl slowly squirmed herself upright in bed and allowed the covers to fall to just below her bare shoulders before she tucked them securely under her arms.

Slyte placed the tray on the top of the bedside cabinet and poured out a cup of tea. The cleric's hand shook noticeably when he handed Ingrid the cup and saucer. Inside his head his mind was suddenly burning with the knowledge that the girl was obviously nude beneath the thin coverlet, her body still soft and languid with the warmth of sleep.

Despite being drained by his early hours masturbation session, the cleric felt his cock begin to swell and fatten beneath the coarse material of his cassock. Slyte could not help but stare at Ingrid's full, soft red lips as she sipped from the rim of the cup. The girl's thick tangle of flaxen hair fell heavily across the pale skin of her shoulders and framed her lovely face to absolute perfection.

Ingrid noticed the cleric's obvious discomfort and with the knowledge born of long experience with, it had to be admitted, mainly black men, she easily recognised the obvious effect she was having upon him.

Clearly, the pastor was unmarried, she mused, or else his wife would have brought the tea, or at the very least would have not allowed him to do so. And if there was a wife around, he certainly wouldn't have been praying all night and jacking off like a demon since dawn either!

For the same reason there also seemed to be no maid and so Ingrid relaxed her arms a little to allow the coverlet to sag and display a few more inches of her ample cleavage.

The effect upon the pastor was immediate; causing his deep brown eyes to flicker nervously over her newly displayed pale flesh and his lips to part and emit an unconscious but audible gasp. At the same time the material of the clerics cassock twitched halfway down his thigh, causing Ingrid to wonder how such an apparently thin and weedy character as the pastor could have a cock that long.

The pastor continued to stare at his charge, uttering a few stilted words about what a fine day it was. How he hoped she had slept well. As well as a few equally banal, pointless encouragements for her to enjoy her tea, whilst trying all the while unsuccessfully to look anywhere but at the steadily increasing amount of satin smooth, pale, cleavage on show.

Eventually, Ingrid handed back the empty cup into Slyte's shaking hand to indicate the show was over and so he reluctantly picked up his tray and departed.

Ingrid smiled as the door closed. The pastor would not pose any difficulty, as he was apparently womanless and so obviously and hopelessly sexually frustrated to the point of distraction. And then there was that unmistakable twitching of the cassock which she had noticed and that was a welcome surprise.

Around noon, the Law in the pot belied, red faced shape of Captain Carlin clopped-up to the presbytery hitching post. Ingrid spied the unwelcome visitor's arrival from her bedroom window and quickly donned the most voluminous and dowdiest of the dresses the pastor had given her from the church charity chest earlier that morning. Before leaving the room Ingrid pulled her hair up into two child like pigtails and let them fall either side of her face.

Slyte greeted the Sheriff on the veranda and after a few pleasantries about the burning hot sun, politely ushered him into the cool of the parlour. Where both men were surprised to see Ingrid seated in a fireside rocking chair, her small feet turned inwards, one foot placed on top of the other as a child might sit. A volume of psalms was open on her lap.

Slyte cleared his throat and broke the awkward silence, "Ah, there you are, Ingrid, I thought you still upstairs dressing my dear."

The girl kept her head down, apparently oblivious to the two men and intent only upon the holy text, her long, slender finger slowly tracing along the small line of print as she silently read.

"I guess you've not got anything out of the child then, Pastor?"

"Nary a word uttered I'm afraid," Slyte replied gently. "But I am hopeful that with time and prayer... well, as I say, all may be well".

The Sheriff raised his hands waist high and let them fall to his sides in a show of resignation. "Well, I suppose that's an end to it then."

"Not quite the end," said Slyte softy leading the way from the parlour, "we're burying Olsen on Sunday and then hopefully that will be the end of it".

"The Sheriff untied his horse and prepared to mount. "Have you found someone to take her in yet, Pastor?"

Having given that very question much thought during the morning, the cleric was prepared for the question. Slyte smiled generously, "I intend to raise that very Christian need with my flock at the end of Sunday Service, Captain. At which time I'm sure there will be many good souls only too keen to offer the child a place".

Captain Carlin beckoned Slyte a few steps away from the doorway and lowered is voice to a coarse whisper. "You see, Pastor," he began awkwardly, "when we found Olsen and the nigra dead, well, there aint no easy way to say it, but her pappy was fully dressed and that big nigra, well, he was buck naked and from the look of that big dark snake of his, he'd been balls deep in something and that girl was the only other living human thing up there as far as we know".

Pastor Slyte's thin pious face lost its good humour and adopted a suitably shocked and outraged expression. "Are you suggesting that Lars Olsen caught that slave raping his little girl and put a lead ball through the devils head in an effort to protect her?

"And got himself stuck good and proper by that big black bastard in the process. Yes, Pastor" agreed Captain Carlin, "that's just what I'm saying".

The pastor nodded his narrow head slowly with growing comprehension. "I must say, Captain, that would explain a great deal, I mean the girl being struck mute and falling in on herself like she has." Slyte made a show of scratching the back of his head as if thinking the matter through still further.

"After all, getting raped by that black devil and then seeing her daddy getting himself killed while protecting her... I mean, in that fashion... and with a scythe". The cleric shivered his thin shoulders, "I guess that would unbalance any God fearing woman, young or old."

"That's the way I see it Pastor."

"In that case I think maybe we should give the poor girl the space to snap out of it in her own good time, and with the Lord's help and the power of prayer I'm certain, as I said before, that all will be well in the end."

The Captain straightened his hat against the slanting sun and gathered together the reins of his mount. "I just thought it best that you should know everything Pastor, you caring for the girl and all."

"I do appreciate you taking me into your confidence Captain", said Slyte stepping back as the Captain swung up into the saddle. "But I do hope you'll keep your idea about Ingrid being raped just between us two gentlemen," the cleric said, putting heavy accent on the word 'gentlemen'. "After all, we don't want gossip like that following the wretched girl around for the rest of her days. And anyway, we can't be completely certain that's the way things occurred".

"You can rely upon me Pastor," the Captain replied with a tight smile. "The less said about this whole thing the better in my book. Else we'll have a bunch of hot headed folk running around here shootin' nigras every other day just for stepping over a white woman's shadow."

"What about your deputy?" Slyte called out as the Captain started his horse walking. "Can he be relied upon to keep from spreading wicked gossip?"

"I kept Jimmy busy seeing to the White man, Pastor," the Captain called back over his shoulder. "And I never mentioned nothing to him about anything else happening. Jimmy aint the sharpest knife in the sheath anyhow. He thinks those two got into a ruckus after Lars stripped the nigra down for a floggin' for turning in shoddy work, or something like that".

Behind the kitchen door, Ingrid listened to the two men's conversation with a small smile of relief. The girl had hoped to conceal her part in the fight between Rufus and her father altogether. But, being thought the unfortunate and helpless victim of rape was much better than being accused of being caught buck naked riding hell for leather mounted on a big nigra's fat cock when her daddy came home earlier than expected.

Slyte went back inside to find Ingrid now busy at the kitchen table making corn bread. The girl had pulled out her pigtails and tied her mountain of blonde hair back in a plain scarf and cinched an apron around her waist.

Slyte paused in the hall doorway on his way to write this Sunday's sermon and looked back at Ingrid, as she busied herself with the mixing bowl. The girl had pulled the strings of her apron tight, gathering her dress in and making her waist look impossibly narrow. And, as she bent over the table to work the thick mixture, the cleric could clearly see the shape of her full, high buttocks moving beneath the cotton of her dress.

Slyte swallowed hard, his cock once again beginning to announce its presence, as his eyes moved slowly up to linger on Ingrid's youthfully heavy breasts as they swayed ever so slightly to her rhythmic arm movements.

The pastor closed his eyes and groped weakly for a bible verse to fortify what was left of his rapidly vanishing willpower. But nothing came and Slyte opened his eyes to again feast his gaze upon the angelic form of the girl.

His head buzzing, Slyte said, "cornbread is one of my very favourites, Ingrid, thank you for making it."

The girl paused her mixing and turned her head to look at the pastor with what had become her customary blank, sad expression. Then, just for a second the corners of her mouth turned up in a small, tremulous smile and then she turned back to her task.

Slyte turned away to hide his gasp of sudden delight and strode quickly to his book room, where, with the door firmly closed, he liberated his suddenly rock hard cock from his cassock and began the daily ritual of pumping his turgid meat in search of temporary, blessed relief.

As soon as the door closed, Ingrid wiped the flour from her hands and padded softly on her silent, bare feet after the pastor. The girl paused outside the book room door, listening. And there it was, the telltale sounds of a chair creaking and the unmistakable wet sloughing sound of a drooling foreskin being worked.

Ingrid squatted and put her eye to the keyhole. The lovely blonde's rosey lips split into a wide grin, as she watched the pastor flogging his cock for all he was worth, his thin, pale face contorted into a rictus grin as his arm worked frantically back and forth.

Ingrid was disappointed that she could not actually see the pastor's cock, hidden as it was behind the writing desk, but from the way he was slinging his arm it had to be a respectable size. Maybe not as large as poor dead Rufus, but way better than most of the pencil-dicked white boys she'd seen skinny dipping, or flashing her over the years.

"Oh, Josiah," she whispered, "just you wait until I swallow back all that thick sweet virgin cum for you."

Ingrid returned to the kitchen and carried on with her baking, a barely audible gentle humming escaping from behind her pursed lips as she worked happily away.