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.
