Pastor Herschel P. Whitaker walked in silence though “Nearer My God to Thee” echoed in his head, drowning out the crunch of footsteps on the path to the river. He could not tell if his silence represented a reverent pause before giving the Blessed Sacrament of Holy Baptism, or if it reflected his feelings of dread over whose baptism was under his purview. If the morning’s services were any indication, this baptism would be a challenge, and he prayed for the faith to endure the temptations surely to come his way.

Having been the Pastor of the First Baptist Church of Chataugua Falls for just shy of six months, it had not taken him long to separate the herd from the flock. He clearly distinguished the Sunday go-to-meetin’ Christians that blindly followed every temptation during the week from those that truly were filled with the spirit. Hattie Jean Buckhead was one of the former, and the good Pastor doubted baptism would do little more than get a cock-whore really wet. Nevertheless, he led both flock and herd alike to a quiet eddy near the base of the upper falls in the Chataugua River.

Sister Hattie Jean was, as her uncle Clyde Buckhead described her, a big ol’ girl. Granted, she was a bit gangly and a shade on the tall side, but she’d managed to build a respectful list of clients that included the mayor and several members of the town council. Some say even the governor himself may have had some campaign benefits applied inside his tour bus on a brief stop in the church parking lot last summer. Rumor had it she could suck the rust off a trailer hitch, and even the good Pastor Whitaker, in his role of God’s servant, had to fight a twinge of temptation when he heard of her prowess. The morning’s service had barely begun when Hattie Jean made eyes at him and commenced to make a production of crossing and re-crossing long legs while seated in the first pew. She made a point to punctuate his distraction by moistening her lips with much more tongue and deliberation than appropriate for a Sunday morning. Nevertheless, deliver us from evil resonated within the Pastor more like a personal cry for help than the prayer he verbalized for the flock.

It was apparent Hattie learned at an early age what certain talents could do to generate income. Sadly, her father, Papa Joe Buckhead turned a not-so-innocent blind eye to her propensity to use her body to raise funds necessary to service the still, not to mention repairs necessary to keep their battered 1968 Buick Electra running to make deliveries of his bodacious shine. Hattie Jean did not seem to mind being one of the herd; nor did it seem to bother her that contributing to the family business in this way was anything but admirable. The Pastor had serious reservations that giving her a chance to experience rebirth through baptism would do much good at all. Herschel looked back over his shoulder and validated his concerns when he observed every male eye in the procession locked onto the sway of her generous hips with questionable intent. He noted, not surprisingly, while he led the flock; she led a much more engaged herd down to the river’s edge.

“Sum bitch,” squalled Sam Ledbetter, slapping his neck violently to squash a voracious river mosquito.

Rufus McCormick cackled and spat tobacco juice into the thick blanket of sumac bordering the trail. “Careful thar, Sam. Them skeeters down here’re bigger’n them up by the church. My daddy always said they’s big ‘nuff to stand thar a flat-footed and fuck a turkey!”

Several in the procession howled with laughter, except for Mrs. McCormick of course. She reached up and cuffed Rufus from behind, misaligning his Skoal racing cap. No one could clearly hear what she hissed at him, but it sounded a lot like a threat to miss all 600 miles at Charlotte come Memorial Day. The laughter died as quickly as it erupted with the rest of the wives firing off complimentary looks of warning to their men. The abundant mix of rhododendron and azaleas along the trail conspired to hold the heat as well as the humidity, and everyone began to show signs. Perspiration encouraged clothing to darken and stick to skin; hankies came out to mop foreheads and upper lips. It was hot for one and all, but it felt hotter for the worried Pastor.

Herschel P. Whitaker’s heart began to pound when they rounded a bend on the trail, and he caught a first glimpse of the river. His racing heart had less to do with a warm northeast Georgia Sunday in May than from the daunting task before him. The sight of the calm water did not offer its usual welcome; rather, it sent a chill of foreboding up his spine.

The trail through the dense forest opened onto a wide sandbar that arced outward into an elbow in the lazy river about fifty yards below the spray from the towering falls. Bright sunlight filtered through the misty spray creating a glistening rainbow caused by water crashing and hissing onto a jumble of rocks at the base of the falls. Despite the beauty and glorious promise of the moment, the Pastor felt the presence of more dread than Spirit. He stopped and lifted his face upward with outstretched arms to embrace the sun, hoping his silent plea to receive whatever strength the heavens above could send to protect him. As if on command, the procession fell silent, respecting the Pastor’s silent moment of reverence.

Almost in the same instant everyone stopped shuffling around in the sand, a commotion interrupted the silence. “Oh Lordy!” shrilled Hannah Ledbetter just as her legs folded under her like a tent with no poles, nosing face-first into the sandy ground. Her husband Sam just stood there slack-jawed and stared at her with a confused look on his face.

Rosena McCormack moved him to action with the same cuff to the back of the head she’d delivered earlier to her husband over his mosquito description. “Man, you gonna jus’ stand there and look at her? Lord in heaven, you need to be a helpin’ your beloved.”

Before Sam could react, Pastor Whitaker pushed through the small crowd and waved them all back before kneeling to feel for a pulse. He nodded silently. “I think it’s just the heat.”

He lifted her by the shoulder to roll her over before looking up into the sun, squinting and speaking to no one in particular. “Someone get me something wet to clean her up.”

Darlene Tucker knelt down beside the pastor and cradled Hannah’s head in her lap and began to brush away the sand sticking to her face. Someone handed her a hanky soaked with cool river water which she wrung out and draped over Hannah’s face. Within a minute, Hannah sputtered and came to and immediately struggled to sit upright, clearly embarrassed by falling out in the heat. The rest of the women closed in and fussed over her; even Hattie Jean offered comfort that was courteously accepted. The pastor looked on noting with satisfaction that a small crisis had done what he could not to blur the lines between herd and flock. Maybe there was hope after all. The good pastor could only wish for such things.

Hopeful thoughts vanished when Hattie Jean looked up at him and smiled. It wasn’t the smile that rocked his soul, it was the way she looked at him and licked her lips again. Herschel blanched under her gaze and staggered back a step as though the devil himself had just whispered ‘like rust off a trailer hitch’ in his ear. He unleashed a silent prayer for the strength to get through this baptism, but his request was rudely interrupted by Rufus McCormack.

“Pastor? You fixin’ ta baptize these folks today or what?” Rufus spat another stream of tobacco juice into the sand and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

Pastor Whitaker struggled to compose himself and shot an unappreciative look back at Rufus, straightening his shoulders and adjusting his robe with an abrupt tug. “Directly, Rufus. Directly. Let’s have a little respect for Mrs. Ledbetter shall we?”

Rufus snorted and glared back at several of the flock as they nodded and mumbled their agreement, giving the pastor a small measure of encouragement.

Eyes turned back to Darlene Tucker as she helped Hannah to her feet with a report. “I do believe t’was only the heat, Pastor.”

Hannah Ledbetter wiped a tear from the corner of her eye, blushing crimson and whimpered, “Pastor, I’m just so sorry for spoilin’ the day for y’all.”

Herschel smiled at her and bowed his head briefly to excuse her concerns. “Not to worry, Mrs. Ledbetter. We’re just pleased you’re back with us. I do hope you’re feeling better.”

“Yes, much better thank you. Thank y’all,” she said, looking around at all the concerned and relieved faces.

The Pastor reached into his robe and pulled out a small bible and turned to face the crowd. “Well then. We’re all here for a glorious reason. Actually, we’re here for two glorious reasons; the first to give thanks for the delivery of Mrs. Ledbetter safely from the depths of unconsciousness.”

A sprinkle of amen’s and a muffled hallelujah followed his comment. “The second glorious reason for being here today is the Sacrament of Holy Baptism, and that’s represented by mindful and heartfelt personal decisions by young Mr. Ronnie Simmons and Ms. Hattie Jean Buckhead on this fine Sunday morning.”

 Rufus snorted again from the back of the crowd and ducked to dodge the cuffing he knew would be coming courtesy of his better half. Though a written list of Hattie Jean’s clients did not exist, the good Pastor had every belief that Mr. McCormick’s name would be somewhere near the top. Good gossip travels fast and rumor held that his hitch had been kept free of rust for quite some time.

Herschel cleared his throat to regain everyone’s attention. “Dearly beloved, we’re gathered here today to celebrate rebirth and commitment of these good church members to God almighty, just as our Lord and Savior experienced rebirth at the hands of John the Baptist to ultimately suffer for our sins.”

The Pastor continued to deliver Scripture from memory, his eyes looking in the faces of everyone present except for Hattie Jean Buckhead. He knew she would give him that hungry look and with great difficulty he hurriedly finished his speaking parts before turning to walk out into the cool water of the Chataugua. The sandy bottom fell away quickly before leveling out some fifteen feet from the bank.

The water chilled him to just over belt-high beneath his robe, offering a welcome though only momentarily distraction from the impending confrontation with the temptations embodied in Ms. Hattie Jean. He turned and nodded first at Ronnie, reaching out a hand in invitation. The young man stepped into the water and walked down to stand facing the Pastor. Ronnie Simmons came from a good flock family, and the Pastor could feel the spirit rising up in gladness with the decision the youngster had made. After confirming that Ronnie had come to his point of decision of his own accord, the Pastor placed his hand over his mouth, pinched his nose shut and lowered him backward into the river. Herschel immersed him completely before lifting him back into the new life with a final blessing.

“Oh praise be to Jesus!” clamored Mrs. Simmons, clapping her hands together with joy.

Herschel always liked it when members of the flock made the decision to dedicate their lives to serve the Lord. It should have made him even happier when one of the herd came to that important decision too, but for some reason today was an exception. He wasn’t sure why, but he had little doubt that Ms. Hattie Jean was filled with anything other than the devil, and those dick-sucking-lips of hers were surely to be his express ticket to eternal damnation. The way she licked them so vulgarly at him were proof enough the devil had reserved him a seat on the next train to the raging fires of Hell.

The Pastor steeled himself and extended his hand toward a waiting Hattie Jean. She smiled a smile that could not be described as anything but wicked and stepped into the cool water. Her baptismal smock filled with trapped air as she descended into the river, and as she smoothed it down, ripe nipples the size of muscadine grapes were revealed. Herschel tried not to look, telling himself it had to be the shock of cold river water not her lust for his soul that lingered behind her condition.

The harder he tried to ignore every indication of lust, the more its presence filled him. Truly, she had to be the devil in a woman’s body come to take him down and over the lower falls, plunging him beyond his ability to resist temptation into a fiery death sentence in the hereafter. Against his will to fight temptation, his cock twitched. When she stepped up to face him, she took his hand and squeezed with much more vigor than someone about to commit their lives to serving the Lord. Contradiction about who would be served swirled about in Herschel’s mind in a confusing mix of emotions and a rapidly rising lust. The poor Pastor’s cock stiffened below the waterline, defying the chill of the river water, and as hard as he denied it, there was nothing he could do about it.

Again he asked the words to confirm her decision came from an unencumbered heart. Again he received affirmation that she wanted to be reborn. He placed his hand over her mouth, sealed her nose and laid her backward over his other hand supporting her lower back. Just as her face disappeared beneath the surface of the water, she stuck out her tongue and licked the palm of his hand. Herschel yelped, pulling his hand away like he’d been shocked and struggled to regain his balance. He staggered under the weight of her lying back over his arm and fought valiantly to remain standing. Hattie Jean flailed her arms in a panic, splashing mightily. One hand grabbed a fist full of cloth in the middle of his chest, and her other hand groped blindly underwater, tangling in his robe and wound up with a purposeful grip wrapped around his cock.

The Pastor threw his head back in complete bewilderment and howled. “Oh, Sweet Jesus, have mercy!” Hattie Jean responded by having none of it, showing no mercy whatsoever and tightened her grip on his hardened penis.

“And praise be to God,” shrieked Rosena McCormack, who was obviously filled to overflowing with the Spirit. Rufus just spat more tobacco juice and shook his head, watching the Pastor struggle into deeper water with his hands full of Hattie Jean.

Herschel wrestled with the thrashing woman whose smock once again filled with air when she high-kicked a leg up and out of the water. The Pastor had nearly gotten her back to a standing position despite her still having a death grip on his cock. Every step he took to retreat the closer she pulled herself to him. When he stepped back another stride, he hooked his heel on a large stone embedded in the sandy bottom, and down he went. Hattie Jean, cock in hand, went with him, both disappearing under the surface of the water.

“Somebody needs to help that poor man,” shouted Hannah Ledbetter, looking around for a volunteer to step forward, and when no one did, she hiked up two handfuls of skirts and headed for the river.

Sam reached out and caught her in the crook of her elbow, nearly pulling her off her feet. “Let ‘em be, Hannah. The man’s a professional. He knows what he’s a doin’.”

The surface of the water where they disappeared calmed, causing several in the throng to doubt Sam’s wisdom. Beneath the smooth water, the Pastor and Hattie Jean Buckhead continued to struggle in the tangle of long black pastoral robe and white linen smock. Herschel found the river bottom with his foot and fought to regain his balance. As he began right himself, his thigh accidentally nestled between Hattie’s just as he pushed of the river bed. They broke the surface downstream a few yards gasping for air. Hattie’s grip tightened his cock, and she wrapped a leg around Herschel’s trapping his thigh tightly between her legs.

He heaved mightily to escape her grip but to no avail. His efforts to break free created the exact friction Hattie found as a source of carnal encouragement, and she growled with a hungry lust. Herschel hopped on one leg, still not completely upright as Hattie Jean clung to him like a leech, synchronizing her movement against his leg. Every time he pushed off, she ground down onto his thigh. Her hand yanked on his cock, taking him to a place much deeper than the river’s water could ever be. They bobbed in the deeper water with Hattie Jean rejoicing loudly every time the preacher bounced off the river bottom.

“Hang on to ‘er, preacher!” crowed Rufus McCormack, hooting with laughter then bending over to gag from nearly swallowing the entirety of his chew.

Herschel P. Whitaker began to slip once again. This time his balance had nothing to do with remaining upright. This time he faltered somewhere between the line that separates the herd from the flock. Every rebound off the bottom matched a deliciously perfect stroke on the throbbing cock of a mortal man. Every quiver he felt from this long-legged woman that humped her way to ecstasy on his leg reflected in the strength of her grip. Herschel slipped away from his intentions of keeping his balance and fell into rhythm with her grinding pelvis. His free hand closed on a handful of linen in the small of her back just as he came. His eyes rolled back in his head, forgetting there ever was a line.