Mary Faith watches her husband from their beachfront bure, his white, softly muscled body a luminescent speck in the translucent jade of the sea. He's kayaking out to tiny, deserted Papaya Island to have a chat with God. She hopes he's reapplied the SPF 30 sun blocker or he'll come back a burnt offering.
She showers, worn out from this morning's hike to the Bouma Falls, and then stretches naked on the bed, allowing the fragrant tropical breezes to sweep through the open glass louvers to lift off the heat and lull her. She gives in to the delicious languor and closes her eyes to dream about the feral dogs that patrol the beach.
She wakes up aroused and she cringes to recall her dream of dogs licking her, mounting her, and the pleasure that she took from them, her groin cramped in an exquisite ache. She wipes saliva that has dripped from the corner of her mouth and turns to see the Fijian caretaker outside tending to the flowerbeds and peeking at her through the window. He averts his eyes, but her impulse to cover herself gives way to the intensity of her arousal and the lingering reverie of her dream. She feigns oblivion and touches herself and the notion that he's watching her catalyzes her excitement. She looks again and sees him staring brazenly now, his dark cotton sulu sticking out in front in communal ardor. She beckons him to enter, wondering what South Pacific devil has possessed her to act so wantonly.
She is, after all, on her honeymoon. Her husband is, after all, a man of God.
They didn't have sex before marriage -- Danny had wanted God to smile down on them when they consummated their love. She wanted that, too. She wanted God smiling and choking His Chicken as He watched them rut with blessed abandon. Sexuality was a gift to mankind, that's how she saw it. And right or wrong, the porno movies that she loved; that she watched on cable and rented secretly in Malden before they were married gave her a ravenous taste for it. She secretly learned to pleasure herself, impatient to be married.
That first night Danny's penis nearly made her weep -- childlike -- a boy's boner! The only penises she'd seen on grown men were in porno movies. Danny's looked like a sad, sick joke.
They'd groped clumsily, and then, it was over.
"Did I hurt you?" he'd asked shyly.
She'd mopped up the mess between her legs with the towel he'd brought to bed with him, not sure he'd ever penetrated her.
"Not too bad," she'd said. She'd started to cry and Danny took it as a sign of nervous modesty. He'd kissed her forehead. "Goodnight Mrs. Taylor," he'd whispered, pulling his pajama bottoms back up and handing her hers.
She loved her husband -- she did! -- for his goodness and his faith; for his devotion to her and to God. She prayed to Jesus every minute, to help her with her lust.
The Fijian draws the curtains, grabs her legs and yanks her hips to the edge of the bed. He kneels, lowering his head to lap at her, insinuating his large, flat tongue in a slow rhythm. She covers her face with her hands. If Danny walks in now, so be it. She's devoid of volition.
She comes in violent waves in response to his lingual ministrations; her face contorted like a saint's, her eyes rolled back like giant South Sea pearls. She comes, grunting like a Babylon whore.
Danny has to decide whether or not to assume the position -- the missionary position -- as Traveling Pastor to the outer Fijian Islands. The Fijian Christian Council wants his answer by tomorrow. He's been so impressed by their organization, their dedication and fellowship. He wouldn't admit it but she knows he half expected drooling Fijian cannibals to greet them with forks and knives, ready to plunge into his soft, rich flesh. "The Cannibal Isles," he'd whispered excitedly on the plane. "We are adventurers for Jesus." He'd reassured her repeatedly that there'd been no cannibalism in Fiji for years, not that she had any concerns.
He was reassuring himself.
The Fijian smiles a wide, white smile that misses important teeth. His mouth glistens with her juices and when he kisses her, his lips slither over hers and she can taste herself. His cock is polished ironwood. She feels the silk of its skin and licks the bursting head, tasting the sea, the emerald interior of the jungle. He mounts her, thrusting quickly inside, and she comes again, with the first hard strokes. He fucks her, and littoral visions of wet sand studded with bleached coral, the slap of ocean waves and sparkling waterfalls swirl inside her head.
When he finishes he pulls out, wraps his sulu around his loins and leaves. She showers again, leaning against the lava rock of the outdoor shower, weak with recalled pleasure, trembling with Jezebel shame.
Danny staggers in some time later and she cries out to see his white skin fiery with sun.
"I guess I didn't use enough sunscreen," he says sheepishly. The Fijian caretaker brings spiky pieces of aloe vera and a long, sharp knife. He leaves them on the porch of the bure, pointing to them and to Danny's sun broiled flesh, his eyes leering and cold. She lowers her head, her own face up in flames. A susurrus of voices taunts her to repent.
She slits the fleshy leaves with the knife and goops the sticky gel on his burns, the heat of his skin boiling it. Blood blisters erupt like stigmata on his palms from paddling the kayak. She feels the sulfur spunk of Satan burn inside of her like coals.
A sinner wanting forgiveness depends solely on Christ's work for salvation. "This is My body. This is My blood." She takes the knife and fillets a slice of flesh from Danny's glowing belly. Squatting on her haunches, she chews slowly, oblivious to his screams, waiting to be saved.
[Forever after at http://eyeshot.net/gifford.html]
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