by Paul Blades
Table of Contents
Title Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Sacrifice To The Emerald God
by Paul Blades
ISBN 13: 978-1-936173-29-7
ISBN 10: 1-936173-29-8
A Pink Flamingo Ebook Publication
Copyright © 2008, All rights reserved
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without prior written permission from the publisher.
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Cover Image © R. C. Hörsch
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Chapter One
Morning On the Rio Ciora
Marjorie McCall moaned with excitement as she drew her pursed lips down Tom’s thick, hard cock. She had his scrotal sack cupped in her right hand, squeezing and massaging it gently as if coaxing it to produce the salty, slightly bitter elixir that she craved. Tom, her husband of 10 days, was moaning underneath her. She was kneeling next to him, her waist at his hip and he had his right arm outstretched and was stroking her smooth, taut ass lovingly. Margie loved it when he touched her there and she received a little thrill when he dribbled his fingers along the crevasse between her sensitive, rear cheeks, pausing momentarily over her virginal nether hole.
They had been in Cotabaya for the last three days. It was an extended honeymoon. Their real honeymoon had been spent in Aruba, not that they had seen too much of the lush, Caribbean isle. Like most newlyweds, they had spent most of their time fucking like rabbits. Now they were deep into the mountains of Venezuela, combining business and pleasure as Margie, a 28 years old anthropologist from the University of Chicago, sought to make arrangements for a trip to the hinterlands of this verdant country to study some of the still largely unspoiled Indian tribes far in the interior. She had received a $750,000 grant from the Gillespie Foundation to lead a team of scholars and students far upriver next spring. While here, she and Tom had taken the opportunity to explore the surroundings of this somewhat wild, frontier town, visiting some ruins about 15 miles away, attending a local harvest festival and scouring the shops for native artifacts that they could use to decorate their new condo overlooking Lake Michigan.
Tom’s hand drifted between Margie’s thighs from behind her and she spread her legs to give him access to her burning sex. She felt his fingers push away her sparse but wild, wiry, blond pubic hair and trace the outside of her engorged labia, sending tingles of delight through her body. He then gently guided the enflamed folds aside and buried his agile fingers inside her lush, trilling canal. The thin, well formed blonde moaned as he took possession of her quim and she tightened the grasp of her lips around his stiff, hot pole.
The attractive scholar was an experienced cocksucker. During their brief courtship, she had been reticent to display to Tom her talents in this area lest he come to think of her as a wanton slut who had been around the block too many times. Over the last ten days, however, she had given Tom reason to wonder where she had developed such finely honed skills. But modern, American adults knew better than to inquire too closely into the sexual history of their mates. No one expected a vibrant, intelligent 28 year old, American woman to be a blushing bride. It was better to accept and be thankful for the fact that she knew her way around a cock and that, “spread your legs, close your eyes and think of England,” was a thing of the past.
Marjorie let her tongue slide along the thin, reddish line of smooth flesh that underscored the bulbous helmet of Tom’s cock. His hips arched and his thighs quivered as he received the heat of her tongue on his tingling glans. His right hand began to stroke and caress the hardened bud of pleasure at the apex of Marjorie’s flush cunt and the fevered woman spread her thighs wider and groaned with pleasure.
Margie wanted to time it just right. Her lusts were building steadily, both due to the amorous caresses Tom was giving her puss, and because of the thrilling sensation of having his soft textured, but rigid, fat manhood in her mouth. She always got wet when she sucked a cock. The ability to make grown men shiver and quake with pleasure conveyed to her a sense of power that made her juices flow. The taste, the smell, the feel of their meat as it filled her, sent waves of lust through her body.
The woman’s left hand was stroking Tom’s broad, muscular chest as she worked her way up and down his tool with her tight, narrow lips. She was proud of her selection of a mate. He was tall, with dark, wavy, black hair that ran wildly across his head. He had strong, masculine features and he was superbly fit from exercise and ice hockey, which he still played every Monday night with his buddies from law school. He was about ten years older than she was and had recently been named partner at the white shoe firm of Harding, Billingsgate and Wirth. They had given him a full two weeks off to celebrate his nuptials in appreciation of his litigation talents. Tom was everything she wanted, handsome, healthy, fit, successful. And he was witty and considerate as well. How he had been allowed to ripen on the shelf of bachelorhood so long she didn’t know, but their whirlwind courtship had been intense and wonderful and now, here they were, married.
The happy, love struck woman felt her passions growing towards overflowing. Tom was an able, passionate, giving lover and their lovemaking seemed to get better and better as they grew more knowledgeable about each other’s bodies and desires. His skillful caresses of her excited gash were fueling the fires of her passion. His fingers maintained a gentle, but firm rotation on her excited clit while his thumb plunged fervently deep inside her gushing hole.
“Now!” Now!” Marjorie thought excitedly as she felt herself near to crest. She plunged her mouth down hard on the lust giving cock, bringing it to the entrance of her throat and then drew her head up swiftly. Again and again her lips traversed the length of Tom’s cock, faster and faster. She gave a loud, muffled moan as she felt the tell tale tingling of her impending crisis. Tom moaned too, as his loving bride brought his orgasm closer and closer. His free, left hand took hold of Marjorie’s long, silken, blond hair and held it fast as if the need to anchor himself to his lover had overwhelmed him.
Marjorie’s efforts were soon rewarded as Tom’s cock began to jerk and convulse in her mouth. The warm, tart tasting spew soon filled her and she drank of it joyfully. The feel of the throbbing meat on her tongue and her lips was just what she needed and she felt her cunt explode in a rapid series of hard, pleasurable contractions. “Mmmmmmmmmm! Mmmmmmmmmm! Mmmmmmmm!” she cried as Tom’s fingers rubbed frantically over her electrified clit, her voice muffled by her mouth’s lust giving contents. “Mmmmmmmmm! Mmmmmmmmmm!” she continued, the thrill of their mutual climax overwhelming her.
Tom’s hard body, which had shuddered and twisted beneath her as he came, soon softened and melted in the afterglow of his orgasm. The hand that had been pleasuring his new wife’s fevered slit slowed and dropped away. Marjorie felt the thick wand in her mouth start to lose its firmness as the blood that had held it rigid and firm subsided. She felt a glow subsuming her body and her pussy still reverberated with the echoes of her climax as she suckled the shrinking meat, intent on drawing out every drop of Tom’s precious cum.
When she was satisfied that she had consumed it all, she let the shrunken, wrinkled meat drop from her lips. She placed her
head on Tom’s firm thighs and sighed deeply.
“Oh, Gawd!” Tom moaned. “That was amazing!”
Marjorie did not feel like talking. Her body tingled with the after effects of her orgasm and she wanted to relish it. “Mmmmmmmmm,” was all she replied. She always felt a little embarrassed when one of her lovers complemented her on her oral skills. She had been raised in a family that believed that sex was a rather private, slightly shameful deficit of human nature. When she was 15, her mother, in one of their infrequent discussions about sex, had warned her that the boys would want to put their ‘thing’ in her mouth and that she should never, never let them do it. When Billy Tucker had finally coaxed her into it one night a year or so later, after weeks and weeks of importuning and, that night, two quarts of Colt .45 malt liquor, she had allowed him to breech the outer portion of her lips with the tip of his cock. The taste had been incredible and she soon let him in all the way. She coughed and sputtered, shocked, when he came, but the next time they went out it was her idea to pull behind the darkened windows of the Stop and Shop and park.
The still excited woman finally lifted her head and looked at her mate. His eyes had rolled back and he had drifted off to sleep. It was 7 A.M. and the light of the day was struggling to break through the heavy, beige curtains of the hotel room. This was their last full day in Cotabaya, and Marjorie wanted to make the most of it. They had a tour of the old, Spanish chapel at 10:30 and an excursion to a vast arboretum containing, it was said, one hundred different varieties of jungle flowers at one. It was going to be a full day. There was a little shop down by the waterfront that she wanted to go back to. They had been there yesterday and she hadn’t been able to make up her mind about a cute, little statue that she had seen there. It was of a broad shouldered, muscular, native man with strange, piercing eyes. It was carved out of some kind of hardwood from the jungle and had been painted a peculiar green, almost like jade. She had been fascinated by it. She had felt a strange tingling in her hands when she picked it up, like it had some magical property.
The woman who ran the store told her it was Guarito, the Emerald God. She told her that he was a fierce god of the Indian tribes of the south and that legend had it that every month, on the night of a full moon, a beautiful woman had to be sacrificed to him or he would rain destruction on them. Margie shivered at the thought of ancient, human sacrifices. She wondered how many women had lost their lives to the superstition and how many wars and raids had been conducted to obtain victims for the horrible deity. She could feel its evil power as she looked at it.
The statute was priced at 400,000 bolivars, about 200 dollars in American currency. She believed that the shop owner, an older, plump, black haired Indian woman with a faint, black moustache and long, black hair braided behind her head, would go lower, maybe down to about 150,000 bolivars. It wasn’t unreasonable for the expertly hand carved wood. The face’s features were well defined, almost like an actual person had been the model for it, but a good looking, strong featured man, an Aztec or something like that. As an anthropologist she knew that the Aztecs never extended their reach this far south, but that’s what it reminded her of. Its personality just struck her, especially the eyes which had seemed to pierce her and beckon her. But they had spent a lot of money on this trip and she hadn’t wanted to seem extravagant to Tom. She had thought about it all night, though, and she was determined to go back this morning and get it.
Slipping off the bed, Marjorie went to the large picture window and drew the curtains open. Liberated at last, the sun poured into the room bringing out the gay oranges, reds, blues and yellows of the walls and rug. She could feel its heat on her naked body. The view was a panorama of the mountains to the west of the city and the deep, dark, largely uninhabited jungles to the south. The river, on which they were to leave tomorrow to go back to the coast, was wide and meandering. The Ciora ran from deep in the jungles to the south, skirted the mountains to the west and joined the great Orinoco about 200 miles downstream from Cotabaya. It was a two day trip by local paddle boat leaving at ten tonight. The trip upstream had taken most of four.
Margie heard Tom stirring on the broad, disheveled bed as the morning light drew him from slumber. “Mmmmmmmmm,” he murmured, shielding his eyes from the light. “That’s bright.”
“You don’t want to waste the day, do you, Tom?” Marjorie asked impishly. “Have I worn you out?”
Her new husband rolled over and looked at her pale, svelte, nude body glimmering with the reflected sun. Marjorie had thin, pale lips and a nose just a tad longer than would be called perfect. Her crystalline, blue eyes were set deeply, giving her a face a mysterious appearance. Her breasts were round and full with delicate, smooth, pinkish areolas and thick, flat nipples. Her hips were narrow and her thighs graceful. Her hair, which went down to the middle of her back was straight and thick and the color of ripened wheat. She considered her derrière to be too plump, but Tom would have given her an argument on that.
“Welllllll…,” Tom answered in a slow, animated drawl, “if you give me a little time I might be able to reach deep down into my reserves and go for another round.”
“That’s okay, honey,” Marjorie replied. “I was going to go down to that shop and buy that statue we saw yesterday. I think it would go great in our foyer. And if not, we really haven’t gotten anything for my mother. She’d just love it.”
Tom had not been that impressed with the primitive green colored carving. He didn’t want to say no to his new bride but he would be damned if the practically naked, male figurine would sit in their foyer, the first thing that people would see when they came in. “Maybe for your office,” he suggested weakly. “You do realize,” he added, changing the subject diplomatically, “that you’re standing naked in front of the window. Half of Venezuela will be knocking on our door within the hour.”
Marjorie laughed. Their room was on the twelfth floor of the hotel and the shops and other buildings looked like something from a monopoly game from up here. Off in the distance she could see the haphazardly constructed huts where most of the people lived, sprawling away from the town center. She imagined the little, brown men holding their hands across the tops of their eyes and peering up at the naked, lovely gringa blonde, their hearts yearning with adoration. Margie didn’t often get the chance anymore, but she liked to display her body to men. She liked to see their eyes consume her with their lustful looks. In her younger days, she had always worn the smallest, most revealing bikini that she could find when she went to the pool or the lake. She liked the fact that Tom was looking at her now and that he was exhibiting a little jealousy at what others might see.
“Oh, come off it, Tom. So what? You’d need a pair of binoculars to see me way up here and even if someone did, all they’d have to do is turn on their TV and they’d get to see a lot more. Did you see some of those TV stations last night? I almost blushed.”
“But you’re my wife, now, Margie,” Tom retorted, half joking, “and all those other guys will have to get their own, beautiful, alluring, naked American university professors to look at.”
Pleased at Tom’s reaction, Marjorie stepped from the window. “I’m gonna get dressed, honey,” she said. “You just take a rest and when I come back I’ll give you another test of your stamina.”
“No,” Tom answered. “I’ll go with you. This is a pretty rough town and I don’t think that you should be out there walking by yourself.”
“Don’t be silly, Tom,” Marjorie answered, a little piqued. She had handled herself pretty well in half a dozen towns just like this one before. She was a firm believer in the principle that you had to establish the ground rules pretty early in a marriage. She had led a very independent life and she wasn’t going to stop now.
Tom, seeing her determination gave in. “Okay, sweetheart, but be careful.”
Chapter Two
The Twain Shall Meet
Fifteen minutes later, Marjorie was strolling down the Calle Major, Main Street, her
new, woven, native pocketbook on her arm and a broad, straw sun hat on her head. The hat she had bought in Aruba and it had two, long, fine cotton straps that wound around above the brim several times and then tied around the chin to hold it on. She had thrown on the long, multicolored, striped skirt she had bought in Caracas when they had flown in and a bright orange, stretch, tube top that was held up by the fullness of her breasts, revealing the pale skin of her chest, the fullness of her mounds and just an inch or two of her firm, flat belly. She had on her round, oversized, UV rated sunglasses and a pair of well worn, comfortable, low heeled, cork bottomed, Italian sandals she had brought with her from Chicago. She knew that she looked the model of an Americana tourista, but she didn’t care. It was a beautiful day and she was looking forwards to a beautiful life. Everything was working out as she had planned. What could go wrong?
The river was an eight block hike from the hotel and all the main streets of the town ran down to it like spokes in a wheel. Every block or so, the street on which Marjorie was walking would merge with another, less important street and become one, the sidewalks forming little triangles at the corners. Most of the area through which she was strolling languidly was bordered with tourist shops and cafes. But even the rougher parts of town had streets leading here and, if you wanted to reach the main dock where the boats going down river came and went, you eventually would run into Calle Major.
Diego Badoya was also walking his way to the river that morning. But Diego was no tourist. And he was not strolling happily along thinking about how wonderful life was. In fact, Diego Badoya was a notorious bandit and murderer whose depredations on the Rio Ciora were legendary. Two weeks ago, an Army patrol had run into him and three of his fellows camping about twenty miles inland. His compadres had been gunned down, but he, as befitted his legendary status as lucky son of a donkey, had just had his head grazed by a bullet. When he came to, he was bound hand and foot and strung over a mule being hauled away to the nearest civilian authority, which was in Cotabaya.