The Saving of Reverend Love
By Montrose
A young mountain girl has a gift


Bartholomew Craven, currently working under the name Reverend Love, tidied up
his money. "These back-woods yokels sure know how to show their gratitude for
a stirring performance," he chuckled. A single oil lamp illuminated his
carefully worn bible, footlocker, safe-box and other belongings, all made for
a life on the road. He was in the back room of his traveling tent, an hour
after everyone had gone home to copulate.

The Reverend Love had been performing up and down the blue grass mountains for
almost two seasons now, delivering blistering sermons that startled the senses
of the locals, inspiring them to empty their wallets into his collection
plates. It was unspoken knowledge that after such a rousing revival meeting,
the rubes went home to fuck with abandon. Bartholomew saw himself as
delivering a service. He brought a spark back into the pathetic lives of these
hicks. They in turn, gave him every thin dime they could spare to "continue
the lord's work."

On good nights, he also managed to gain the temporary company of one or two of
their daughters. They came, alone or in pairs, to his tent at night. He filled
them with the holy spirit, wrapped around his hard rod, shoved into every hole
they offered.

Speaking of which, the alto "ahem," at the door to his tent that he had been
hoping for, finally came.

He checked his reflection in a hand mirror, slicked back his hair, and checked
his breath. "Let's see what we've managed to snare..." he purred. There had
been a nice assortment of eye candy at the meeting. He pushed the tent flap
open. "Yes my child?" he called out into the darkness. He didn't see anyone at
first, but he knew it would be a girl. It always was.

"Good evening, Reverend," said a tall beauty standing out in darkness. "I was
so aroused by your service, I just had to come."

"Then do come in, my dear." He looked her over as she stepped into the light.
He actually had to look up. "My, but you're a tall one."

"Yes sir. Last spring, on my 18th birthday when I saw the doctor in the city,
he said I was six feet two and just over 175 pounds. Paw says I best stop
growin' or there wont be a man big enough to manage me."

"Dear merciful god!" he whispered as she stepped past him into the
tent/office. He was just under five feet eleven inches and 155 pounds, himself
- three inches and twenty pounds less that this shapely young thing. The form
fitting frock she wore (mostly outgrown) testified that she was is in
admirable shape. Strong legs and back. Taut arms dangled bare at her sides. A
large canvas bag hung from one shoulder. Her feet were naked and well shaped.

"Would you say I'm too big, Reverend?" She looked around his tent as if it
were an opulent hotel room. This gave him a better chance to admire her
captivating rump - so full and round. Succulent, seemed to him a likely
description for her overall appearance.

"Foolishness!" protested Reverend Love. He took her hand in his. "You are a
vision of maidenly splendor. Your size only magnifies the effect." For once,
he spoke words even he believed. He bent and kissed her long, smooth fingers.

"Oh, Reverend," she murmured. She stepped closer. "I knowed you was a
passionate man just by the way you strode about that stage and hollared out
the word of the Lord."

Bartholomew Craven smiled up into her eyes, as blue as a mountain lake. He
pushed a wisp of her long blond hair back from her rosy cheek. "The lord's
work inspires me, my dear. I have a great... passion... for my flock.
Particularly young believers such as yourself." He stepped toe to toe with
her.

He watched her breathing quicken. This big doll is gonna fall right over for
me, he thought. He imagined taking her from behind. The idea quickened his
heart.

"I was hoping we could discuss a gift that I feel the lord has bestowed upon
me," she panted down into his face. She licked her full lips.

The gift of giving magnificent blow-jobs, I hope, he thought. Out loud he
asked, "What is this gift, my dear?"

"I have the gift of driving the devil himself out of men, sir." She stepped
closer, pressing her ample bosom into him. Her free hand rested on his
shoulder. She caressed it tenderly.

Bartholomew gulped. His pecker jumped to full attention. "You don't say."

"I do say," she replied. "I done it dozens of times. I even drove the devil
out of the last wondering preacher that come to these parts." She moved so
close that their groins pressed together (or rather, her groin pressed into
his belly - his groin pressed into her thigh). She leaned down and whispered
in his ear. "In fact, I can tell you got a lot of the devil in you. I c'n feel
his presence." She let her full lips slid over his cheek as she stood upright
again, then she winked down at him. She rubbed her thigh on his cock. "A whole
lot of the devil..."

Bartholomew smiled a crooked smile. His hands wondered down to her full ass
and pawed at it, lifting her frock in back. "I do believe you are right,
darlin'," he replied. "I feel the devil rising in me even as we speak!" He
rubbed his hard-on up and down her thigh. He tiptoed and kissed her.

She kissed him back, passionately. When they parted lips they were both
panting heavily and feeling each other up. "Oh, yes," she gasped with her long
fingers on his shaft. "That's the power of the devil all right. I'd know it
anywheres."

"Damn right, sweet cakes," snarled Bartholomew. "He slapped her firm ass. I
got the devil in me and he wants to be in you!"

"Would you like me to free you from this devil?" she asked as he bit her neck
and groped her tit.

"Oh, yeah, baby. Free the fuck out of me!" His right hand slid into her
panties from the front and wet his fingers in her tight pie.

"We best get started before this gets out of hand." With that, the girl
grabbed Bartholomew in a headlock and punched him in the stomach. "Get OUT you
devil!" she yelled. She punched him three more times. "OUT! OUT! OUT!"

She let go. Bartholomew fell to his knees, gasping. "What the fuck! You
crazy..."

"The devil has a powerful hold on you, Reverend!" she interrupted. "I'm better
squeeze him out."

She dropped down on his back and wrapped her long hard legs around his belly,
locking her feet together. "I been climbin' mountains fer long as I could
walk, Reverend," she said. "If these legs can't crush the devil out of you,
nothin' can."

She squeezed as hard as she could.

"AHHHHH! God damn it, you big fucking cunt! Let me go! Stop, you whore!" he
howled.

"I know that's just the devil talking, Reverend. I aint holdin' it against
you. We got him on the run. I'll just cut him off at your throat." She pulled
his left arm over his neck and choked him with it. She squeezed and choked
until he was red in the face.

Eventually, she let go. He coughed and sucked air as she pushed him off her
leg.

She stood and circled Bartholomew like a mountain lioness. He gasped at her
feet.

"You crazy... mother-fucking... hick bitch!" he panted. "You almost killed
me!"

"Still got some devil in you?" She raised a foot and stomped his neck to the
grass floor of the tent. "I'll have to move on to sterner measures. But don't
worry, Reverend. I got a gift for drivin' out that devil." She wiggled out of
her frock and stood over him in just her panties and bra. Buff muscle sculpted
her torso. "I'll drive that devil out of you if I has to kill ya'll to do it."

From her bag, she pulled out a wooden phallic. It was over a foot long and
wickedly big around, carved from hickory. Engraved on the tip was a cross.
Attached to the base were leather straps fitted with buckles. The girl hitched
this contraption to her ample hips. The result was an enormous erection
sticking out of her decidedly womanly groin.

"The devil appears to be closest to yer mouth, Reverend. I'll attack him from
that end first." Bartholomew made a dash for the door. She pounced on him and
shoved him to his knees.

"No! Please!" he begged as she maneuvered the home-made strap-on cock towards
his lips. She forced the end of the boner into his mouth. It muffled his
screams. When she slid it into his throat, it stopped his breathing.

She drove it deeper and deeper, pushing on the back of his head. "I'll stuff
him down before I attack him from the other end," she grunted. He struggled,
but she held him tight. It took a while to fit the entire shaft down
Bartholomew's throat. She held it there and admired her work as he changed
color.

By the time she pulled out, Bartholomew was purple, and nearly out cold.

"The devil's weakenin', Reverend," she said. "I best attack now - fast and
furious."

She flipped him onto his belly, yanked down his pants, and stuffed her boner
up poor Bartholomew Craven's ass, with no more lubricant than his own spit.
She humped him harder, longer and stronger than he had ever managed with a
woman. An hour slipped by before she pulled out. By then Bartholomew was a
limp, whimpering heap.

The girl panted from the workout. Sweat trickled down her smooth skin.

"I believe I have that devil at my mercy now, Reverend." She flipped him over.
"I believe I can do most any damn thing I want to that devil, now! But look!
You is still hard as a post! Still some devil to work on! Let's see how that
devil likes this." She drove her knee into his exposed nuts, bringing all of
her weight down behind it.

Bartholomew shrieked in a high voice and tried to double up, but the girl
dropped down to lie on top of him. Her boner nestled next to his own.

"Pretty weak, I'd say. That ole devil is all but dead." She stroked
Bartholomew's sweating scalp. "You know what I've found out? I found out that
ole devil is a big titty hound. Trouble for him is, I got more titty that ole
scratch can handle. Watch me prove it."

The girl stuffed her massive rack into Bartholomew's face and cradled his head
so he couldn't pull back for air. "Here you go, devil! Come and get some
titty! Come an' get it!"

Bartholomew fought for air, but couldn't budge the big girl. She grape-vines
his legs and held him pinned to the grass floor with her plentiful chest in
his face until he nearly passed out. "Yeah... just too much titty for the
devil." The girl giggled as Bartholomew smothered.

She sat up and turned around. "He likes virgin pussy too, like I got. That's
why them heathens is always offerin' him virgin sacrifices. But by now, he's
so weak. he can't handle what I got. Not even if I let him get a good sniff of
it like this." She pulled the strap-on up out of the way and stuffed her panty
clad clam in Bartholomew's face and mashed it down. Again he was smothering
under her flesh. Again he fought. The big girl hardly notice. She got caught
up in the feel of Bartholomew's nose on her twat.

"Oh yeah... sniff that pussy, devil..." she moaned. Bartholomew felt her quim
grow hotter. Soon, her panties were sopping wet. She slid her moist panties up
and down over his nose. "Oh God be praised!" she moaned. "We got that devil on
the run now!"

After coming a few more times, she turned and laid back down on him. "That
devil might be gone, now. How 'bout it, Reverend? Is that devil gone?" she
whispered in his ear. "Or should I keep workin' him?"

"Gone!" gasped Bartholomew. "Gone! He's gone! Please... no more!"

She smiled down at him. "Told you I had a gift." She sat up into a schoolgirl
pin. Her boner wagged in his face. "Now. How much are you gonna offer me, that
I may continue the good lord's work?" she asked.

"Offer?" A bad feeling crept through Bartholomew that went beyond the abuse he
had just suffered.

"Just as your flock has given generously to you, you shall reward me for
saving your eternal soul from the devil. Of course, saving your soul should be
worth a lot more that just one sermon... arousing though it was."

"Now see here!"

"That there's devil talk!" she shouted and slapped his face. "I thought we was
done with the devil!" <SLAP!>

"Oh god!" he moaned. "I'm sorry. We're done. I promise! No more devil!"

She calmed down again. "That's a right pretty lock-box, Reverend. How does it
open?" She picked up his safe.

"With a combination," he replied softly.

"What is it?"

He hesitated.

She grabbed, and sharply twisted, his scrotum.

"40-25-36," he squeaked.

The girl opened it. "Sweet Jesus!" she gasped and drew out a fist full of
paper money. She got up and poured the collection plates into the safe, then
closed it. "A nice tidy sum. A worthy offering for my work tonight."

"This is robbery," Bartholomew gasped at her feet.

She mashed a foot down into his belly. "Damn that pesky devil!" she snarled.
"Do I need to mount you and drive him out from the inside, again?"

"NO!" he puffed.

"Feelin' cleansed are yee? No more devil?"

Bartholomew nodded. "Cleansed," he gasped.

"I'm glad we had this little talk Reverend," she said as she set the safe
down. She slipped her frock back on. "It has enriched us both." She took off
her strap-on and tucked it back into her bag. Then she picked the safe up
again. "Don't be a stranger to these parts. It aint every girl that can drive
the devil out of a man."

Bartholomew nodded again. He was still having trouble breathing and didn't
want to risk another attack.

"Sleep well Reverend," she said, and then kicked him in the head. Bartholomew
Craven went limp.

When he came to, the sun was high. His head, ass, neck, chest... oh just
everywhere... felt like a horse had run over it. He took down his tent and
loaded everything into his rickety truck. Best to move on as far as he could
go with no money.

He wanted nothing more to do with that mysterious mountain girl and her gift.