Sacrifice to the Emerald God

by Paul Blades

  When Margie felt the fat head of her assailant’s cock press against the small hole, she moaned again. She felt it slide forwards, its way eased by the lubrication that the girl had applied there. But the lubrication, while it made the man’s entrance easier, did nothing to alleviate the pain that she began to feel as the tender tissue of the brownish ring started to stretch and crack.

  “Oooooooooooouuu!” Margie moaned. Her ass felt like it was on fire. Slowly, the man sank inside her. Margie moaned with shame and humiliation, but not without pleasure, as she felt the sensation of her bowel filling with the man’s cock. The penetration had been the worst part of it. And although her delicate ring of tissue burned and protested as the man began to rasp his hard cock along it, there also arose, at the same time, a gradual, but inexorable, excitement in her loins.

  Armando had wrapped his long, thin, muscular thighs around the outside of hers and had draped his slender, but firm frame over her back. He wormed his hands under her chest and took hold of her dangling orbs, grasping them tightly and squeezing them intently as he plowed her rear. Margie felt totally dominated by the man as he encapsulated her body with his. He had taken ownership of her like no man ever had before. The sawing of his cock within her rear, the heat of his flesh on hers, the callous manipulation of her breasts, all drove her further and further into passion.

  Margie tried to fight off her impending crisis, but could not resist her body’s will. The idea of being used like the meanest whore excited her despite herself and she started to moan and cry with pleasure. She heard the man give out a long, deep, guttural grunt and his body contracted around hers as he dumped his spew inside her. Her cunt began to convulse and contract. “Mmmmmmmmmm! Mmmmmmmmmmm! Mmmmmmmmmm!” she called out as she felt the intense, hammer hard convulsions of her womb.

  * * *

  There was no particular routine to Margie’s life as Armando’s sexual thrall. He would use her, or Carmelita, as he pleased, sometimes during the mornings or afternoons, and sometimes at night. He never whipped her again, he didn’t have to. The blond American complied, if not with relish, then alacrity, with every demand and desire that he expressed to her. He rarely spoke to her, communicating his wants and commands with a snap of his fingers or a gesture of his hand. The long chain that confined her to the rafter reached just to the edge of the wall that surrounded the veranda and just to a foot or so away from the wall of the house. Armando did like to have his blonde gringa give his cock a long, languid suckle while he drank his thick, black coffee in the mornings, and he used her ass often. He had been dissatisfied with Margie’s reticence to accept the length of his hard, long wand into her throat and, rather than beat her, he merely had her lie prone on the rug while he knelt on either side of her face and forced his meat lower and lower into her esophagus while she choked and coughed and fought desperately for air. After a few sessions, Margie was able to consume her master’s cock down to its hilt, holding her breath for extended periods, accepting his hot discharge directly into her bulging throat.

  When Armando was out, and that was often, Margie was given free rein to wander the veranda as far as the length of her chain would allow. A naked, bound prisoner, she spent hours peering wistfully over the wooden wall at the town and river below or at the dense, mysterious jungle behind the hacienda. Sometimes tears would come to her eyes as she saw the people freely and gaily walking the narrow streets, or the boats chugging along the winding, meandering river, on their way back to civilization and freedom, the hot, tropical sun shimmering on its surface. The town extended for about a half mile along the western bank of the river and was maybe four or five blocks deep at its widest. It was called by some “The Devil’s Scuff Mark,” as it appeared to be gouged out of the surrounding, thick jungle like the mark of a boot on a polished floor. Margie often wondered who the people were that she saw wandering about and if there was a single one who would take mercy on her and send word down river to the authorities so that she could be saved.

  Although in the deep tropics, the veranda never became unbearably hot. It was shaded by the roof and high enough so that there was almost some kind of soft breeze running through it. On days that it rained, and that was for a little while at least almost every day, Margie could hear the downpour drumming on the roof above her and watch while the water cascaded off of it in broad streams at its edges.

  She and Carmelita became warm friends, although the diminutive, slender girl never said a single word to her other than to tell her when it was time for her bath or to feed her. Armando had given her the key to Margie’s locks, but she almost never released them except for those singular purposes. He had had another chain installed in the bathroom and Margie would stand at the end of her tether while Carmelita attached the other one to her ankle before releasing the chain to her collar. He didn’t want his sex thrall throwing herself off of the roof in a stupid attempt at escape and so he required her to be chained at all times. When the pretty, gentle girl had finished bathing her and allowed her to use the toilet, Margie would stand on the edge of the rug, her terrible gag reinstalled and her bound hands folded in mock prayer on her breasts, while Carmelita reaffixed her collar to the chain that led down from the rafter before releasing the one around her ankle.

  During the day, the seemingly ever happy girl would wash and polish, on her hands and knees, the fine grained, oaken floors and walls of the veranda, clean the soft, thick maroon rug with a carpet sweeper and wash the smoky glass of the kerosene lamps that provided them their faint, glowing light in the evenings. Sometimes, she would just sit and sing to herself, pleasant, happy songs, smiling at her fellow prisoner, awaiting her master’s return.

  One of Margie’s duties was to, for the amusement of her master, make love with the beautiful, brown skinned girl while he watched. The girl’s lips were sweet and pliant and she was skilled at bringing Margie pleasure. Often, while their master was away, the girl would cast off her dress and they would couple on the rug for their own satisfaction. Her hands and lips were adept at driving the American woman to ecstatic extremes of delight and Margie, although her hands remained confined, would return the favor by sucking long and hard on the girl’s delicious gash until she screamed and moaned her pleasure. Afterwards, they would silently huddle together in each other’s arms, caressing and kissing until they heard the sounds of their master returning. Carmelita would hastily return Margie’s gag to her mouth and redo her pretty, thin, cotton dress of the day. Then they would kneel in place, Carmelita erect, her knees spread and her hands on her thighs, Margie, bent over, her thighs clamped together and her head bowed down slavishly.

  Armando required Margie to assume this obsequious pose whenever he was on the veranda. She would wait dutifully until, by a snap of his fingers, he would command her attention for the purposes of use or, if he did not, listen blindly while he ate his meal or gave his attentions to Carmelita. The young girl would moan and cry out when he fucked her and the sound of her passion would cause Margie’s pussy to burn.

  Sometimes, in the evenings, before Armando went out to the bars or, when he did not and had decided to spend his evening at home, he would have Carmelita bring out her guitar and sing soft, melodious, Brazilian folk ballads to him in the dim, romantic light of the veranda. The pretty voice and the soulful tunes often made Margie cry. For although there was an idyllic aspect to her existence, she still yearned for rescue and the restoration of her rights as a human being. Armando never spent the full night on the veranda and always took the young girl with him to sleep downstairs. Margie would be left all alone, her hands bound before her in prayer, her neck confined to the cruel chain above her, her stifling, demeaning gag in her mouth, to wander, ghostlike, the darkened veranda, ruing her dismal fate and pining for her former life.

  Armando would have visitors. He never let them fuck Carmelita, she was, apparently, reserved for him. But the friendly, pretty, seemingly carefree, brown skinned girl would serve her master’s guests pleasantly and willi
ngly even as they ploughed any one or more of Margie’s threefold pathways making her moan and sigh in unwanted delight. Esquella came once to see how the blond gringa was doing and to test whether her offer of purchase could be renewed. Armando ignored her hints, but had the blond haired woman kneel before the plump, jaded madam and service her hairy, loose pussy with her lips before she left.

  Margie had been Armando’s prisoner for about three weeks when he brought up a visitor whose purpose seemed to go beyond having the pleasure of viewing and using Armando’s golden haired prisoner. He was a rough looking, squat man with stringy, dirty blond hair and an unkempt, mid-length, scraggly blond beard. He was wearing a dirty, white cotton shirt and canvas pants with mud stained, low topped sneakers and a no socks. He was unlike Armando’s’ other guests who had seemed, if not up to Armando’s standards of elegance, at least presentable in mixed company.

  After the man had eaten the grilled chicken and casadinhos that Carmelita had presented, and drunk a liter or so of the dark red wine that Armando favored, the master locked the brown skinned girl in the bathroom and the men had an animated conversation in Portuguese. Margie had been kneeling before them, as Armando had ordered her to, her knees spread and her back erect. Armando had released the chain that held Margie’s wrists in front of her so that the man could have a pleasurable view of her firm, ripe breasts while he ate, and, as he occasionally liked to do, bent her arms up behind her and looped the chain through the ring in the back of her collar.

  It was a pose that caused Margie no little distress, as the pressure of her arms held up high behind her created a painful strain on her shoulders and back and pulled on her neck, making it difficult to breath. Her pretty, full breasts were presented enticingly though and the man’s eyes kept wandering to them leeringly as he ate.

  The men’s conversation clearly involved the naked, blond haired gringa who knelt before them. Armando had Margie crawl on her knees closer to the man so that he could better examine her breasts and thighs with his coarse, rough hands. Her gag was removed and the man put his hand on her face, turning it this way and that to gain a better appreciation of her virtues. He even opened her mouth, his thumb pressing down on her chin, and took a look at her even, white, well maintained teeth. Finally, he placed his hands around her neck in a simulated choke hold and seemed to be measuring its circumference.

  The man had, of course, used her before he left, pushing her back on her bound hands and spreading her thighs. He was rough and callous in her use, not waiting until she was fully ready to accept him in her usually accommodating quim, and thrust himself inside, his cock grating at the dry sides of her tunnel. When he was gone, after shaking the man’s hand in a sign of apparent agreement, Armando released Carmelita from the bathroom and had her clean the sobbing blond girl up. That night, her arms still fastened cruelly behind her, after Armando and Carmelita had retired for the night, Margie cried in the darkness on the little, cotton pallet her master had given her to sleep on. “Why was the man so interested in me?” she thought miserably. Was Armando going to sell her to him? But he had refused Esquella’s offer of twenty thousand and probably could have gotten even more from her if he had been willing to bargain. This man didn’t look like he had access to that kind of money. Her life was going to change again, she just knew it. She didn’t like being Armando’s prisoner, but he never beat her, except for that one time, and he gave her great pleasure with his cock. And she had grown fond of little Carmelita, the solace of her arms and her lips making her odious captivity almost tolerable. Something bad was going to happen, she just knew it. She was still crying when she drifted off to fitful sleep.

  That night, Margie dreamt of the fascinating green statue that she had been seeking to buy when she was kidnapped. She had dreamt of it often since the bandit had stolen her from her life that sunny morning many weeks ago. She had put it down to her regret at her fascination with it that had caused her to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Tonight, the statute had seemed to come alive. His not quite friendly, but still compelling, features had become animated and he was speaking some strange language at her. She was kneeling before him, looking up. He had grown to about seven or eight feet tall and she was wearing the clothes that she had worn that fateful morning. Slowly, as if in a daze, she removed her clothing, piece by piece, except for her pretty, Italian sandals, and then, kneeling down again before him, her thighs spread widely apart, started to caress her already dripping quim frantically. When she awoke, her pussy was pulsing with delight and she was moaning her pleasure into her gag. Her body was sweaty and she struggled to free her imprisoned hands so that she could stroke her burning loins. When her body shaking orgasm petered out, she fell asleep again, yearning for the presence of the green god once more.

  About two weeks later, in the late afternoon, Armando came up to the veranda with a wooden box in his hands. Margie had forgotten about her fears of being taken away by the gross, uncouth man who had used her so callously that day, but what happened next reminded her that her captor had some nefarious, undisclosed plan for her. He removed from the box a pair of semicircles of highly polished brass. They were tubular except for a small, rounded, squarish bulge on one side. He presented them to her neck as if sizing them. Satisfied, he left, only to return a few minutes later with a brick and a wooden mallet.

  Armando made Margie lie on the floor, her neck over the small brick. She shivered in dreadful anticipation as he unlocked her leather collar and removed it. He then placed one of the round, brass semicircles under her throat and one above it. It took him a few moments to align them correctly and then he married them together around her neck. Using the mallet, he carefully hammered at them until there was a loud ‘click!’ and the two halves were locked into place.

  He then ordered his blond thrall to her knees and examined her. Margie’s eyes were brimming with tears as he ran his finger around the surface of the shiny, brass ring. It was tight to her throat and he was unable to insinuate even his smallest finger between it and the soft, pale skin. Satisfied, he had her lean over again, removed his well pressed, black cotton pants and his crisp, white shirt and fucked her from behind.

  The new collar had rings welded to it in the front and back and, when Armando was done plowing the girl’s fevered cleft, he reconnected the chain from the rafter to its back as well as the chain that ran between her wrists.

  Margie spent that night fretting about the meaning of her new collar. Her master had used her fervently that evening, bringing her to several intense, body wracking orgasms before departing downstairs with Carmelita. Even the young girl seemed to be disturbed by the development and Margie’s last sight of her was a sorrowful, fearful look as she obediently and wordlessly followed her master from the veranda.

  Armando returned early the next day. It was much earlier than his normal rising hour. The light of dawn had just barely chased the darkness from the open aired veranda. Margie had slept fitfully all night and the opening of the door to her little world startled her into wakefulness. Her heart felt full of dread when she saw the pretty, little servant girl was not with him.

  With a click of his fingers Armando ordered the blond woman to her knees. He removed her gag from her head and unleashed his long cock from his pants and stood there before her expectantly. Margie, her hands still bound high up behind her, took the soft, pliant instrument between her lips and obediently began to pleasure him.

  The naked and bound woman tried to push her dread of her immediate future from her mind as she washed her tongue and lips over her master’s hardening cock. She slurped over the round, fat head and then drove his hardness deep into her throat. She tried to delude herself that he would not give up the exquisite pleasures that she had been providing him, but it was no use. She was crying from fear and despair as she serviced him, mindful, however, to devote the expected energetic and artful skills to her duty. After a while, she was able to lose herself in the lust giving sensations of his soft textured meat
flowing over her lips and tongue, the smell of his loins, the salty taste of his skin. Her pussy was wet with her excitement when the man’s cock began to throb and pulse in her mouth. She hungrily sucked down each drop of his warm discharge before he finally withdrew, leaving her passions unspent.

  When he had zipped up, Armando proffered to her the thick fat, leather prong of her gag and she sorrowfully took it into her mouth. He rebuckled and locked it behind her head and left her kneeling in place while he walked to the closet built into the side of the house. He returned with a four foot long, steel leash with a leather handle like the ones they use for dogs. He clipped it onto the ring in front of her new, shiny, brass collar.

  Margie’s legs were trembling as he pulled her to her feet. Armando let the strap fall between her swaying naked breasts. She waited, fearfully as her silent and stern master returned to the closet and retrieved her pretty, Italian clogs that she had worn when she arrived. Carmelita must have cleaned them since the yellow ribbons that adorned them were bright and shiny, like new, and the sides and bottoms had been scraped free of mud and dirt. She lifted her feet unhappily as Armando fastened them to her. When he had completed his task, he stood before her, a sinister smile on his face and gave her left breast a playful, painful tweak with his hand.

  She began to cry when, after releasing her collar from the overhead chain, he led her to the door whose threshold she had not crossed for over a month. He led her down the narrow stairs and out the door and down the long wooden stairway that led to the town below.