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Preface
The good folk of the isolated farm village of Emmittsborough, in a remote mountain valley in the temperate central belt on E21, a backwater planet of in the farthest wing of the Aeschylian Great Corridor, cleave to their strict, fundamentalist faith, called Agropadronism, which decrees that the farm head is Master of all he owns, from acreage, real property, and animals to wife and offspring. The farm-Master is champion and caretaker of life on the farm. Procreation and sexual Mastery are his prerogative. The villagers and farm folk in the bowl-shaped valley, split by the Emmitt River and dozens of meandering creeks, harken to the old ways. The cunt-wives submit to their husbands’ will in all matters and produce copious offspring, though the cunt-moms might wither and die from their efforts—not to mention the marauding of their husbands.
The Agros, as they call themselves, prompted by the word of their God, revere and protect their young children, for they will become the next generation of Masters and cunt-wives, thenceforth supporting the community’s production of crops and the husbandry of the farm animals, ensuring the existence of their way of life for the next generation. Sexual service to father, older brothers, all their designees, and the farm animals, from the age of majority at fifteen, is commonplace; after Presentation in the Service Rite that initiates fifteen-year-old Agros, all children’s service portals (the cunt hole, because it is the birth path, most of all, and including their ripe, young anuses and tender mouths) become available for sexual service, with the exception that the Blossomed girls’ first vaginal penetration must be performed by their husbands following the onset of the cunts’ first menses. To ensure their children’s virginity until the collaring ceremony that deeds girl children to their husbands’ families, the cunt-wives administer potions blended from ages-old clan recipes designed to delay the children’s sexual-genital development and hormonally inspired rebelliousness. At the fifteenth birthday, the hormone injections cease and the proud father presents the child to the congregation in a ritual. The newly awakened larval-stage adult’s life changes completely from that momentous time.
Chapter 1: Alyssa Alvarez and the Rite of Service Presentation
As the last offspring of cunt-wife Alice Alvarez and her Master-husband, Alonso, I grew up knowing my birth had cost my mom her divinely mandated ability to procreate. Dad could still fuck her, but I’d wrecked her womb: after me, it only made stillbirths and miscarriages. That made mom and dad both pretty grouchy most of the time, so I grew up believing my fifteenth birthday would be a doorway to a better life—a life as cunt-wife to a loving Master. My dad had a powerful and righteous love of his animals and his eight children, his wife, and all the creatures of Alvarez-Alliance Farm.
As a protected child, I was mom’s helper in the house and the kitchen. On good days, I was her little puppy. She petted me and cooed over me, fussed over my stick-straight, palest blonde locks, which were always long past my waist. She called me her “blue-eyed porcelain doll” and doted on me on Sundays, plaiting my hair and scrubbing me all over, “Outside and in,” as she liked to say. My older brothers, Alan, Alex, Alron, and Albert, attended to the needs of the animals and, after their Presentations, dad. I suppose his frustrations over mom’s empty womb made him crave the service of his sons’ adolescent backsides and mouths. I was fourteen when Alex and Albert, seventeen and eighteen, left for outside—the way of close to 80% of Agro offspring—and fifteen when Alan, aged seventeen, enlisted in the marines. By then, my oldest cunt-sister, Almyra, had wed and begun her duties to her Master, leaving only myself and Aliya, older than I by a scant eleven months, still at home. Still young and protected, I wasn’t supposed to be privy to the violation of my brothers’ virgin assholes, but I was a curious, overly adventurous child. As the youngest, I sometimes slipped through the cracks, which meant I could sneak out to the barn or the fields and watch the animals. I liked to watch them copulate. It made odd and highly pleasurable things happen to my body. I had to hide my interests, of course, because such things aren’t meant for the un-Presented. The young faithful of the Agros aren’t permitted questions about sexual function and portal service, but I snuck about, kept my eyes peeled, and learned quite a bit all on my own.
I thought it might have been all that fuck-watching that awakened things in me. From years before my ripening, I fought the compulsion to touch myself, which is punishable, even in young children, by public, pants-down spanking, usually enacted before the gathered family and sometimes, for the more serious infractions—at the tent meetings on Sundays. I should’ve realized mom messed with the recipe for my hormone shots. Her nursing training emboldened her to alter the sacred potion, as Almyra implied before she left Alvarez-Alliance to serve as cunt-wife to Farm-Lord Ferguson’s fourth son, Frankie.
I was fourteen when my next-older sister Aliya had her rites. Curious as ever and adept at furtive movement, I paid close attention to the preparations. We’re supposed to be innocent of such things until our breasts blossom after our mothers stop our inhibitor potions and release us from our restrictive metal chest harnesses, but I’d learned to be quiet as a snowflake landing on the last of the late crops. I found hidden places, cracks between floorboards or the slats of the barn walls, convenient hidey-holes all over our simple wooden farm house and outbuildings. I saw lots of forbidden things, like dad teaching Albert to screw the sows’ cunts and dad and Albert passing on that wisdom to Alex the night of his Rites.
On Aliya’s fifteenth birthday, mom came to our room before dawn and unlocked Aliya’s slender ankle from the cuff that restrained her to the bed on the other side of the attic room from mine. Ali’s pretty as can be, with a pert little turned-up nose, big blue eyes, and wavy sun-blonde hair, but she’s a whiner, a rat, and a cry-baby—which my school friends assure me is true of most older sisters, unless they’re mean, selfish, and jealous.
Mom led Ali down the stairs and into the house’s one bathroom. I thought mom was just going to supervise Ali’s daily enema, but there was a lot more to it than that. I watched through the crease between the floorboards, the same vantage that had made me privy to the sight of my brothers’ young scepters and, after their Presentations freed them to engage with their male members, to the touching I learned from the Internet is called jacking off, spanking the monkey, auto-erotic stimulation, or masturbation. The thick cream that spat out of the little eyes in the ends of their scepters, and the way they breathed so hard, sweated, and sometimes even moaned, all fascinated me. Alan always jerked his hips like pigs and dogs rutting.
From the floor of my attic room, I could easily hear all that transpired in the bathroom below me, but I had just a narrow slice of view when mom pulled Aliya’s nightie up over her head. “Alyssa can have that one now. You won’t need it anymore.”
“Mom, it’s my favorite.”
“Silly child. Today’s your Service Rite. You won’t be using a nightie anymore.”
“Won’t I get cold?”
“Dear child, did they not go over this on girls’ day at school? You must leave your service portals open to your Master-husband’s staff. Doesn’t matter if you’re cold. Besides, the fucking will keep you warm.”
“But Mom, I don’t have a husband.”
“You will soon, probably right after your Blossom Party.”
“When, mommy?”
“Well, let’s unbind your girl-chest and see how far along you are. I was a late bloomer, so we might have to do a few little things to encourage your milk-teats to come forth. Don’t worry. You’ll have plenty to show at the Blossom dance, even if I have to plump them up with injections. I might be able to speed the onset of your menses as well.”
“Mom!” Aliya exclaimed. “You said I was done with the shots!”
“With the inhibitor injections, honey. If you’re slow to blossom your service parts, we’ll just help you along. Could be three, four, even six months until you’re fully sprouted, bleeding, and ready for cunt-service.”
“After her Presentation, Jessica Johnson said her dad used her big sister’s dark portal when cunt-wife Johnson was near term. She said it hurt.” Ali lost none of her petulance on her special day.
I heard a loud crack and Aliya’s astonished cry, then a thump as she stumbled against the wall. “You dare speak of such things before your Presentation? Child, dear child. How could you? And such stupid questions! Of course our Lords possess our portals, all of them—and often. You’ll service your husband, your father, your brothers, should they return, your uncles, all the Farm-Lords of our community and their Presented sons.”
“But she said—”
Another loud crack, and Ali started to cry. Mom reminded her, “You’re now old enough for corporal punishment, child, so don’t tempt me to invoke the hand of God. Now bend over and spread before I lose my temper.” Ali yielded to the familiar daily enema ritual. We usually clean ourselves out, but mom likes to supervise now and then. She says it’s part of her duty, and her training as a nurse makes her particularly qualified. Automatic responses guided Aliya’s hands to her firm round ass cheeks. She put her hands together behind her back, slipped the fingers of both hands into her crack, and pulled out hard, as we’d been taught, revealing the prized dark portal. While Aliya was thus bent and open, her face down by her knees by the side of the tub, mom switched out the tiny daily nozzle for a training tube that she selected from the four graduated, metal cylinders in a tray. Ali got the second largest, less than an inch in diameter. Daddy’s staff is way bigger than that. Aliya’s bum hole would still be a tight squeeze even with the new nozzle to stretch her hole. The way he’d been ranting lately about the lack of service—despite the loans of elder, unmarried daughters and sons from his parishioners, I doubted he’d even wait until Ali’d been properly stretched. As farmer and preacher both, dad was doubly blessed with strong seed and powerful manly lust. With the four oldest boys gone and Almyra married and dropping pups every year, his rages and demands had escalated. I figured Aliya better let him take it out on her dark portal or he might remember she’s old enough to punish. I’ve watched him use the riding crop, the thick strap, and the horse whip on Almyra, mom, and my brothers. He broke Almyra’s nose and left inch-thick bloody welts from his strap all over her brand-new tits when she tried to refuse mouth service two days after her Blossom (dad was mad he’d only been offered four thousand for her). Despite the beating, he still fucked her dark portal till it bled and squirted his cream on her face.
Aliya whimpered when the nozzle breached her little, dark, puckered hole. Her slender, round butt clenched. Mom said, “Keep still, child. You’ll be grateful for the extra attention, you’ll see. Just keep it to yourself. He won’t notice if we only stretch it out a little. The burning you’ll feel in just a moment is from an herb infusion that will increase your elasticity so the rim won’t tear too much when he batters your portal with his staff. Oh, do stop squirming, little baby-cunt. Plenty of time for that later.” That was the first time Aliya was called cunt, and the parables make it very clear such language must be reserved for Service-ready women. If mom’s not worried about burning in the unending fires of hell, neither am I, but Aliya with her poor sense of such things, opted to scold. Mom pinched her hard, right between her legs, and brought my sister’s endless whining to a stop.
Aliya’s squirm reminded me of the porn video clips my BFF Jerena Johnson and I found on the Internet. Jerena, the ninth of her dad’s thirteen, is a whiz kid who can hack into any adult site despite parental controls and other safeguards. I like reading about sex, learning what they do outside, which isn’t so very different from what we do, it seems to me. Looking at what they call “porn” (we call it cunt-service) makes me squirm too. As I spied through the slit in the floorboard, I slipped my right hand under my tummy and pressed my fingers over my virginal cleft. I was a good girl—well, mostly, I guess, except for all those pictures and videos on Jerena’s computer and my spying and heated, almost uncontrollable lust. My virginhead was intact. I knew better than to risk puncturing my precious hymen, but I’d figured out that rubbing the front of my girl-mound feels really good. I laid on the floor, eye pressed to the narrow crack, watching my sister struggle with the hole-prep regimen mom inflicted scant feet below. I rocked on my hand. I grabbed a pillow from the bed and laid it on the floor to ease the pressure on my poor wrist. I rocked on my hand and watched.
Mom opened the clamp on the enema bag and let the soapy water drain into Aliya’s bowel. Mom likes a clean child, inside and out. I’d watched her clean Almyra, between Presentation and cunt-contract, with a thick bottle brush.
While Ali held her solution, Mom used the key on the chain hanging from her wife-collar to unlock the clip on Aliya’s chest binding. Dad had sprung for the high-end binding harnesses, which resemble a metal replica of a young boy’s chest, but with no areolas. The modesty device is hinged at both sides, with the hinges on the outside so they don’t dig into our sides the way the old ones did. Mom pulled away the cloth-lined metal device by undoing the crotch and shoulder straps and letting the harness clang into the tub. “That can go to Alyssa too. She’s straining a bit in hers. I hope she doesn’t end up fat like grandma. I’m worried about your little sister. There are things going on in that virginchild’s head that shouldn’t be. I can tell. I know the signs. Best pray her Lord-Sire doesn’t get wind of her arousal.”
I snatched my hand away from my snatch, then clamped my hand over my mouth. How did she know, I wondered. Maybe the smell, I thought. My fingers smelled like Almyra after Frankie got done with her.
After eleven pregnancies resulting in eight live births (mom had two miscarriages after me, and then my two younger sisters were stillborn, and my oldest sister, Alabama, died from a fall off a horse when she was six, long before I was born), Mom’s aging fuck hole was no longer much good to Alonso, who’s hung like Alcatraz, our Clydesdale–quarter horse cross. My Presented older sibs all knew first-hand . . . and first-mouth . . . and first-asshole, and I know because I watched.
On top of the pain of her worn-out body, mom still endures her husband-Master’s disciplinary measures when things aren’t to his liking—or when he’s grouchy, which is just about all the time since the boys bailed. She suffered in scowling silence, though, as befitting the preacher’s wife, for dad does multiple duty: farmer, preacher, father, husband, upstanding citizen and, for a few years, mayor of Emmittsborough, population 1237 (with the rest of the valley, we have about fifteen hundred from fifty-six family lines). When dad’s powerful backhand and his enormous prick put mom out of commission, her post-Rites children took some of the heat. I’d be the last of the family to serve that way, until Almyra’s children ripened to service (her first was only three)—unless he bought another cunt-wife. That would be difficult, I learned from Jerena—a year my senior and my mentor in all things since we were toddlers—who knew everything and shared it all with me. The locals said daddy’s seed had rotted, and they were all eager to pair their sow-cunts with more fecund, younger men—ones who wouldn’t let their cunt-wive’s birth-tanks become dilapidated and useless. His station as preacher and citizen keeps him in loaned cunts, but of course, you had to catch that service before they married or between births, so the pickin’s are sometimes slim. Agros don’t stay single for long, unless they’re really dogs. Jerena said my dad’s grouchy because he can’t get any good, tight pussy. I always blush when she uses the outside slang word for cunt.
A squeal, then a slap and another squeal from the bathroom below disturbed my reverie. I peered through the floorboard. Mom had stood Aliya up, turned her to face her, and began a careful inspection of my sister’s breast meat, which was evidently tender. I’d heard on girl-days and overheard conversations of post-Rites kids and cunt-moms that blossoming titties can get mighty sore when they’re about to pop out. Aliya turned and I saw she’d sprouted two tiny, delicate nubbins in the centers of her rounded, pink areolas. They looked like sweet little pencil erasers, but puffier. Mom poked at them, and Aliya squirmed. “Be still girl or I’ll have your Sire beat you after your ceremony—in front of the whole congregation. I know you’re sore, and they’ll be sorer still over the next few weeks, but I have to make sure they’re well-formed before we show them around today.” With an exasperated sigh, she opened the front of her frock and freed her wrinkly, saggy teats from their sling.1 “See? This is what they’ll look like when they’re all broken in.”
All my exploring on the Internet had never unearthed a pair of jugs that ugly. The nipples, dark as a mule’s eyes, are the diameter of my forefingers and a good inch long. Her breasts are flat as pancakes, hanging past her narrow waist, those long nipples pointed straight down toward her bony feet. I clapped my hand to my mouth to silence my reaction to the transition from Aliya’s delicate new bumps to mom’s used-up dugs. Dismayed as I was, I stuck my hand between my mound and my pillow and squirmed, pressing the feel-good spot against my wrist bone as hard as I could. Her service had deformed her body, which seems both ghastly and exotic. I throbbed and rocked.
Mom grabbed both of Aliya’s delicate pink nubbins between the balls of her thumbs and the knuckles of her forefingers and gave a good hard tug. Aliya’s a big-mouth and a whiner, but when you get right down to it, she’s actually more obedient—and far more naïve—than I am. She gasped, but she stood there and took it. I rocked.
“A good mother keeps track of her daughter’s development,” mom told Aliya when she blushed and squirmed at the touch of mom’s perpetually icy fingers on the swollen roundness. “You must keep them supple, so your babies will attach strongly, grow, and thrive. This is your duty to your children and your husband-Master, who will own and use your body, your service-holes.” In a sing-song, she lectured on and on about keeping clean and pristine, about servicing her future Farm-Lord, about proper Agro cunt-wife duties and burdens that would soon come to Aliya. “Work your tender spigots. I’ll give you some clamps. Tug them to make your nips longer and to get used to the pain, but be careful not to let them get crusty or leathery. Every night before you go to bed, young lady, you spend twenty minutes training your little faucets to their God-given purpose: your Master’s pleasure and your children’s succor. The life of cunt-service is a blessing, child; never complain about your lot as slave-cunt. Your menses will begin in the next few weeks, judging by the swelling of your young buds. When the flow begins, you come to me right away, and I’ll clean you properly for service and show you how to shield your tender rim from the worst of his violence with some slippery potions I know. Your dad is eager to claim service of your dark portal, but of course he’d never do that until you’re fully ripe—much as he’d like to rip into it right this very minute—so trust me, he won’t be more than a few hours behind your first rag.”
Aliya wept and burst out at least six times with, “Oh, gross, mom, you cannot be serious.” Swallowing man cream or receiving it on her face seemed to upset her more than the idea of a thick, hard appendage entering her holes. After all, we’re farm girls. We’d seen such things. After my electronic explorations of the world beyond our valley with the dazzling Jerena, Aliya’s naïveté astonished me. Where I’d scoped www.facialcumshots.com for hours, it had never occurred to my simple older sister that she might have to swallow her husband-Master’s “seed,” as mom called it.
“Seed? They have pits?” I heard from below.
Mom chuckled. “The seed of his staff, the cream that carries forth the seed that will make a baby inside your womb.”
Aliya rolled her eyes. “Mom, you can’t have a baby out of your stomach.”
“No, dear, but your husband, let us pray God, will have plentiful seed and needn’t worry about wasting it by squirting it on your face or down your throat, if he’s the type who finds that amusing, or humiliating, or just plain hot.”
“Ew.”
“You’re slave-cunt. You do your duty even if it messes up your hair. Honestly, Aliya Alvarez, you’re going to have to stop whining for good, girl, or you’ll be one sore, sorry cunt. Your husband-Master has the right to discipline in any way he wishes, and honestly, if he doesn’t, I might just. You have the right to be judgmental only about your pups. You’re slave, owned property. Without your Farm-Lord to keep you, what do you become? You have no home, no name, no family, no wealth, no property, no children—no purpose, no life. If he turns you out for failure to serve, or for just plain annoying him, you will perish. Your children will be taken from him, shorn by arcane rites of their names, and adopted out to others as mule-slaves with no rights, not even to have children. So, dear child, my advice is to stop your wretched whining and complaining. I want grandchildren, you hear me? You’re a good girl, Aliya—way better than that loose-cunt sister of yours.”
“Mom!” Ali gasped, shocked at the vulgar reference to me.
“Well, she is. She’ll end up run out on a rail not for whining—and they need no more reason than you no longer please them—but for promiscuous behavior. You mark my words. Your sister’s trouble. I see it coming. So you be my little darling, now, Aliya. Assume your burdens bravely. Protect the little ones. I’ll teach you my revisions to the potions, between now and your Claiming, so you’ll have the lore of our long-suffering cunt-mothers to ease your way.”
Mom made Ali hold that enema for at least twenty minutes. Mom lectured the entire time, debunking all the sexual myths of our naïve childhoods.
Aliya quit protesting as her souped-up enema potion took the edge off her fears. She zoned out on mom’s fucked-with recipe. Mom told her to squat over the commode: “Better than sitting, dear. Keeps your thighs strong and shapely.” Aliya released her anal cocktail with a lot of moaning; crying; contorting of her middle; and huge, noisy farts. I almost gave away my peek-hole by giggling, but her flatulence was so loud mom didn’t hear me.
Mom cleaned her up and strapped her into the Presentation gown—though that’s a misnomer. It’s not a gown so much as two four-foot squares of pure white, sheer, batiste fabric. The top corner of each is knotted to a braided tangle of blackberry vine, the collar that symbolizes the pain of transition to service for girls (and transition to full manhood rights and duties for the boys), placed around the neck of the Presentee. The sides of the gown are open, but the new cunt is protected from chance flesh exposure on the way to the tent meeting by a thick, many-buckled belt cinched tight around the waist. The sturdy leather extends from the widest point of the hips to just under the teats, like a shorter, tighter version of our chest harnesses, but without crotch or shoulder straps. The collar’s thorns cut into her pale neck, releasing tiny trickles of blood. Ali would’ve freaked if mom hadn’t drugged her. My sister’s a total wuss about blood of any kind, especially her own. Her bare feet were half blue from the cold by the time they got her from the van to the tent, but she never so much as opened her mouth to protest.
I was in my virgin whites, of course, pristine, shapeless, and pure, draped over my chest harness and the thick, padded undergarment with the crotch hole for urinating, befitting the preacher’s daughter and all the un-Presented. We’re not allowed to attend the Presentations, of course, but I’d snuck out of the Holzapple’s cellar where some of the young married cunt-moms entertain the little ones on Presentation days. I’d peeked through a loose flap at the back of the tent during more than one Service Rite. I’d never been caught, but the cunt-wife Holzapple kept a hawk’s eye on me. I think mom must’ve said something about my curiosity about my sister’s Presentation. The view from the tent flap isn’t so great; there’s only one tiny space between the podium and the Punishment Pole, so you can only see one or two Presentee’s shoulders and back (Aliya’s solo Presentation is a rarity), depending on how they’re bound. I didn’t need to watch another one, though I might have tried harder to slip out if the Presentee had been a boy. I was just fascinated by those young boners.
The fun part of Aliya’s ceremony, for me, would be after the inspection and the reception, after we all climbed back in the van and headed back across the valley at the end of the festivities, around sundown, when I would sneak out to the barn to watch daddy’s staff rip into my sister’s tiny dark hole. Jerena said her dad had tied her up and fucked her ass for a good hour, but she said her Presented friend, one of the younger Ferguson girls—Francie and Frannie are twins, and I don’t remember which—said her dad made her brothers, from youngest to oldest—including Almyra’s husband-Master, Frankie—limber her up for him. I mulled that over, while the Holzapple cunt-moms kept the toddlers and preschoolers from destroying the rec room. My theory was that the scepter keeps growing, to a certain age. Perhaps the hand of God in Agro men, their dedication to the stroking of their charges’ holes, keeps them huge and hard so much. When daddy’s massive staff ruptured Ali’s anal cherry in a few hours, I’d be paying close attention to see whether it was bigger than the last time I’d watched him fuck the pigs or mom, and I frankly couldn’t recall which had been last.
I was sad no one would watch when he did mine in twelve months, three weeks, and four days. I fantasized getting Jerena to hide and watch.
I knew from my past spying what transpired in the tent down at the end of the fallow field, far enough from the house that the little ones wouldn’t hear the muffled screams: Daddy-preacher would read scripture and go on about his proud day. Two of the Johnson girls, who always came in pairs to lend cunt-service to dad, would undo the belt buckles and pass the device to mom, who would accept it with reverence for my use in eleven months. Dad would intone, “We’ve had fifteen years to adore this pristine, unused child’s lovely face. Now, we must turn our admiration to other parts.” As he did with all the ripening cunts and scepters, he would lift the front square of fabric, and with it, the thorny collar, until it lodged under her nose, then pull the white sheet over her head and drape it behind her. Aliya’s visible face would be reduced to her sobbing mouth and chin. The thin white fabric would puff out when she exhaled and suck in tight under her nostrils when she inhaled. I imagined Daddy-preacher fitting the ring gag over the fabric between her tender lips and securing the metal device behind her head, which presses the blackberry thorns into the skin. I envisioned the blood of my own Presentation, in a year, garnet over the pale white of my skin, over my lips, symbolizing the blood of my split hymen that will decorate my nether lips on my wedding night.
I mused about Ali’s ceremony, proceeding so close by: Mom would open her dress and walk through the congregation. The cunt-wives would rub her dangling teats for good luck, and the husband-Masters would stroke, pinch, or even slap them for the same reason. If Alan, the youngest Presented male of our family, had been there and unmarried, he’d have been called upon to come forth and bare his staff as evidence that the cunt-mom of the Presentee had produced fecund male offspring. If the Sire passes before a girl’s Rites, then said brother would use his staff to initiate her after the ceremony, in place of the Sire.
I envisioned the lactating cunt-wives in the tent down the hill, opening their dresses and squeezing their teats to express some milk, for good luck, according to the age-old traditions. They would prime their founts, as it says in the scripture, and then follow their Masters to the pulpit to lay hands on the new girl-cunt’s soon-to-blossom teats. The husband-Masters would grab their cunt-wives’ tits and squirt some tit-milk on the Presentee, to hasten her ripening and make her fertile and service-worthy.
Dad would smile. He’d stand behind Ali and place his fingers on the front of her pale neck among dainty rivulets of blood freed by the cruel thorn collar. He would espy, for the first time, her newly popped spigots and reach both hands down, I imagined, from the traditional encircling of the virgin’s throat—a symbol of the continuing power of the father over the cunt-child—to press those tender nipples with his fingers. His swelled manhood would press against her sheet-covered rump, warning her to stillness. “Come, come, Farm-Lords and cunt-wives, all who have been Presented whether mated or as yet unclaimed, come celebrate the addition of our newest cunt-slave to the midst of our God-fearing community. Venaki, Agro Padrones, desei, deseia, Dei: Come, Farm-Masters, Lords, cunt-wives, and God. Come feel the tender nubbins of her blossoming body, the teats that will feed her Master’s pups, the lovely swell of flesh that will grow to great and blessedly abundant milk-sacs, the pure, delicate, and holy folds of her service portals. Set your fingertips on the blessed one and rejoice, then take a moment to remember the pain of service, the price of devotion to Master and God. Cunt-wives, remember your own taking, the stab of your husband’s staff into your cunt, into your dark tunnel, into your throat, the agonies of birth and service. Bless this slave-cunt, no longer a child. Send your post-Rites sons to examine her pristine body, and your coin as bride-gift to her father in payment for the care, training, and sustenance he’s afforded her through her fifteen years of sacred virginity.”
The Johnsons, the Emmitts, the entire Holzapple clan (except for the babies, of course, and the child-watchers), all of the fifty-six devout families of our valley would come to examine my sister the cunt. They would touch and stroke, squirt her with tit-milk, and coax out her nether button.
On girls’ days, they don’t talk about cunt pleasures—cumming, they call it on the Internet. The cunt-wife who gives the girl’s-day talk never mentions what that little pink button does, but she says the spasms of womb and birth-tunnel urge the semen to shoot with great vigor toward the unblessed eggs. I guess we’re supposed to figure out the details when our husband-Master rips open our cunts with their eager rods. I doubted Aliya would get it.
Jerena told me her older brother Jared, newly married with his first on the way, said Aliya tried to cover her swelling clit with her hands. This is a serious breach of behavior standards, a huge embarrassment to the daddy-preacher. He was infuriated, the front of his priestly robes tented as always when he anticipates inflicting Punishment—or even the private kind, with the lowercase. It finally occurred to me, even after watching him deflower all of the older Al’s dark portals, that it wasn’t that dad was such a perfectionist that he found fault with all their behavior on Presentation day, but that he manufactured criticism to fuel his divine rage and his enthusiasm for the violence with which he would then beat and ream them.
I envisioned my father’s rod perched at my virgin hole, one hand at my throat, one clutching and yanking my hair. I felt a weird tap-tapping, quick like mouse steps, inside my own virginal passage. Aliya wouldn’t be the only one beaten if the scent of my shameless virgin-cunt escaped my white Sunday robes.
1 leather , silk, or burlap, depending on the generosity of the Farm-Lord. Halter-around the back of the neck, chest band below tit, an open half cup that leaves upper swell and nipple fully exposed. Older women add extra straps or lower the waistband when they start to sag—usually before 30, by which time they’ve had an average of 12.75 children.
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