The Saturday morning after Isabel's entrancing soul-to-soul talk with Martha, the she-devil was back in her neighborhood church. Deep purple silk shorts hugged her sloping latina ass. Her gray jersey pin-tucked shirt with the caftan neckline showed the full dip of her breasts. The hem of the shirt clung nicely to her hips, allowing most of her short shorts to be revealed. She walked around in bamboo flip-flops and wielded a heavy-duty push-broom, sweeping up dust and the dried tears of pointless confessions from the sanctuary's floor.
Imelda, Simon's mother, came up behind Isabel with the mop and bucket. Imelda, sad and serious, kept her distance, furtively looking Isabel's way when she wasn't keeping a guarded eye on the men.
She didn't feel safe. She knew this group was the worst of the wicked faction that now dominated a church that had once been such a wonderful and uplifting place, her refuge from a troubled world. But now trouble seemed everywhere.
Imelda had slept fairly well the night before. Friday nights were good nights because her son came home sexually spent from his encounter with Isabel and her husband would not touch her out of his own anticipation for sex games in the morning.
The men present were Imelda's husband Ricardo, Martha's father Jose, and Osvaldo's father Oscar. She could hear them making noise as they went about replacing rotted planks on the old wooden deck that led to the rear entrance of the church.
On the surface, it seemed like a pleasant Saturday. Industrious, church-going people, tending to the needs of an old sanctuary. But Imelda lamented in her mind at how decayed from within the church had become. Every passing month the sincere worshipers seemed more dispirited, discouraged at how long it was taking their God to bring cleansing, to punish the wicked. And Imelda found herself in deep crisis, fighting off the lustful advances of her own son. How could he be so disrespectful and so bold? It shocked her senses and left her thoughts tossing. like a leaf in a storm.
All Imelda had to do was look at that slut and she knew where all her anguish came from. That slut! Look at her, dressed to provoke. Imelda was in a long, loose-fitting off-white x-large t-shirt with a simple silk-screen print of a an armadillo with a cowboy hat. Her slacks covered her and kept her from looking in any way like a woman who would dare draw attention from whore-mongers.
Isabel, aware yet unconcerned with Imelda's views of her, swept steadily, enjoying the mild burn in her muscles. She perspired and her thoughts were self-absorbed, constantly conscious of her beauty. She ran an inner dialogue filled with vanity, thinking of the men as if they were horny drones, ever anxious to attach themselves to her.
Imelda grimaced at the sight of the temptress. And those shorts! There was no pantyline, Imelda observed. Of course not, she thought. Why would that whore wear panties? They're all going to fuck her as soon as I leave, anyway.
The women made their way through the sanctuary, cleaning the main hall, then the stage and the narrow hall in the back and the rear bathrooms. Then they went up front to the lobby, then up the stairs and there they make quick work of the nursery room, the Bible study classrooms - all five of them. They went into the media control room and then back downstairs to leave the cleaning implements in the storage closet.
Imelda and Isabel were both sweaty and they took a break, walking out of the church and across the parking lot. Isabel lifted her keys and opened the door to the social hall. She went in first and went to the refrigerator in the kitchen, took out two diet colas and passed one to Imelda.
"I want a regular cola," Imelda said.
Isabel looked Imelda over with a slight frown, as if to note her disagreement. Imelda clearly could stand to lose more than a few pounds.
"Of course, Imelda."
Isabel put back the diet cola and got a can of regular. As she was about to put it in Imelda's hand, she said, "I tell you what. Take the diet, instead, and I'll see to it your son doesn't lay a hand on you for two weeks."
Imelda's eyes popped and she blushed. A shiver of anger came up from the pit of her stomach, into her throat and made her jaw clench on edge. How did Isabel know?! Was there nothing her son didn't share with this bitch?
"I'm not interested in you, Imelda," the she-devil continued. "It would make life around her more pleasant if I could persuade you to have a more tolerant outlook."
Imelda's blush deepened and she struggled to find her voice. But she had two daughters younger than Simon, girls she desperately wanted to protect from all this insanity. She wanted to say, Go to Hell, you filthy whore. But since that was going to happen, anyway, Imelda dug deeper.
"You're not interested in me, but what about my daughters?"
Isabel smiled. Yes, now we're getting to the heart of Imelda's motivation.
"What about them?" Isabel said placidly. "What would you do for them, to protect them from those men."
Imelda sensed danger in the questions, but she blurted her honest feelings before giving it more thought. "I would do anything to protect them!"
"Anything?" Isabel said, and now again thrusting the cold can forward, this time between Imelda's breasts.
Imelda took the can. And nodded a yes as tears welled up in her eyes. She was 41 years old, past what she thought of as her prime. And no longer fresh and pretty, but still pleasantly plump.
"There is something you can do for me," Isabel said. "Something simple enough. And if you do this, I will protect you from your son and no one in this church will bother your girls."
Imelda felt a dread and wondered who she would have to fuck. Perhaps all of them? But that was not Isabel's plan.
"Martha is falling, she is coming to us," Isabel said.
Imelda felt a sickness in her stomach at the news. She suspected as much, but it hurt nonetheless to have the suspicion confirmed.
"I want any blame that comes from this to fall on you," Isabel said.
