Sacrifice to the Emerald God

by Paul Blades

  The old man’s voice was filled with his venomous hatred of the men who had enslaved him and killed so many. His hands were balled into fists and his knuckles had turned white. His brown face had reddened. Margie quailed at his statement and had begun to cry in fear. It was just as she had imagined it. Her life would soon end in a terrible, ceremonial torture. A great void opened up in her belly and her throat was dried from her terrified angst. She wanted to beg the man to let her live, promise that she would do anything that he wanted, but he had not removed her gag and was disinterested in anything that she had to say.

  All of a sudden, the man’s body relaxed once again and his voice became calm and smooth. “But it seems that the people want you. They value your golden hair and your pale skin. You are a great totem to them, an omen of plenty and good fortune for the village, they say. And so, I will let you live. You will be their slave, and you will use your body to please them. But if you bring bad luck to our village, or if the Spaniards come, I will make sure that your death will be long and painful. Do you understand?”

  Marjorie, tears flowing down her face, relieved and yet fearful of the man’s threats, nodded energetically. The man looked at her and then clapped his hands loudly. An older, heavy set woman came in and, at his instructions, took hold of the rope that led from her collar and pulled her from the hut.

  A small crowd of women were waiting for her when she emerged. They giggled and clapped their hands excitedly as the unhappy captive was towed across the hardened dirt of the compound towards another, larger hut. Some of the men had followed them and the women laughed and pushed them away. After dragging the fearful white woman inside, they closed the door.

  There were, altogether, about fifteen of the naked, brown skinned women gathered together in the hut. They seemed to range in age mostly from about forty to their late teens. There were three older women, with long streaks of grey in their hair and flaccid, dug like breasts. The women chatted excitedly as they brought their captive to the center of the hut and made her kneel on its hard, dirt floor.

  A myriad of hands stroked and caressed Margie’s pale body. Hands tugged through her knotted hair and played with the shiny, brass collar around her neck. To the captive woman’s dismay, one of the women leaned over and took one of her teats in her mouth, sucking at it energetically and circling it with her tongue, until it stood upright and stiff. She leaned back and pointed out her accomplishment to the other women, laughing merrily. Another woman, encouraged by the first, took the nipple of Margie’s other breast in her mouth and toyed and played with it with her tongue and lips until the two teats matched.

  The three older women just knelt in front of Margie and watched. The one in the middle had a ring of colorful beads around her neck and tattoos of some strange design across her chest and over her breasts. Her face was wrinkled and her hands were thin and boney. Margie stared at the woman and felt a strange power in her. Her throat thickened and her belly soured as she felt the woman’s mind piercing hers. Whatever happened to her, Margie felt that this woman would have a lot to say about it.

  One of the women who had been running her hands through Margie’s long, strawberry blond hair turned to the old woman and said something to her. There was a supplicative, hopeful tone to the musical, guttural sounds of her speech. The old woman smiled at whatever suggestion had been made and apparently answered the young woman to her satisfaction.

  The women continued to stroke and caress Margie’s, to them, strange, colorless flesh. Her knees were spread and a young, pretty, woman, hardly beyond her girlhood, with large, black eyes and thin lips, seemingly encouraged by the other woman, tentatively placed her hand between her thighs. Margie stiffened when she felt the girl’s hand trace softly over her denuded nether lips. She had not been shaved there in days and, feeling the stubble of Margie’s resurgent pubic growth, the young woman withdrew her hand sharply, a look of astonishment and surprise on her face. The other women all laughed and shouted out more words of encouragement. The girl, giggling, slipped her hand back between the unhappy, white woman’s thighs and gently laid it upon her delicate mons.

  Slowly, the girl began to work her slender, sensitive fingers over Margie’s lower lips. Two of the women had taken up positions to the side and slightly behind Margie and they took hold of her firm, pale, heavy breasts and began stroking and caressing them. Margie felt her blood begin to rise. The fingers entered her and began to ply themselves along the sides of her cleft. Margie moaned with unhappiness and incipient pleasure. The thought of resisting the women’s abuse of her arose momentarily, but she remembered the shaman’s sinister words to her. She realized that her life depended upon pleasing her captors. If they found her wanting, she would suffer a horrible fate. She was a slave now, in the truest sense of the word. She sobbed once as the fact of that truth came home to her. She was probably hundreds of miles from civilization. She would never be saved.

  The girl was skillfully raising Margie’s lust with her hand. Another of the young women jealously pushed the first girl aside and took her place. Her strokes were more determined and confident and as she rubbed on the hardened point of pleasure above her leaking love lips, Margie gave out a low, anguished groan of lust.

  At that signal, small, strong hands pulled Margie’s torso back until the back of her head was on the dirt floor. Her thighs strained as she was bent over backwards. Her cruel, wooden gag was untied from behind her head and she felt soft, strong thighs on either side of her face. One of the women had mounted her. Margie looked up to see a brown, lustful, pretty face peering upside down at her, shrouded by long, black, shiny hair. The young woman’s small, conical breasts were pointy and her nipples hard with anticipation of her pleasure. She smiled at her captive and then turned and said something to the other women who laughed and shouted encouragement. The young girl then leaned forwards and Margie felt the hairless folds of the girl’s sex slip across her face and settle on her recently freed mouth.

  Margie moaned a protest and sealed her lips together in vain attempt at avoiding the abuse of her mouth by the young woman’s pussy. The girl was mashing her pudenda on Margie’s mouth and the supine white woman could feel its moisture spread over her lips and face. Displeased with her lack of cooperation, the black haired girl leaned back and gave Margie’s face a sharp slap while at the same time uttering a harsh command. Resigned to her mouth’s abuse, when the soft, hairless pussy settled once more on her face, Margie dutifully opened her lips and, extending her tongue, began to gemauch the moist, hot gash above her.

  Margie moaned and cried as she pleasured the girl’s hot crack. The girl was moving her hips and the pungent tasting slit slid back and forth over Margie’s obediently active tongue and lips. The hand that was pleasuring the captive woman’s slash abandoned her only to be replaced by hot, energetic lips. Margie could feel her anonymous assailant’s hands on the fronts of her thighs and her slick hair brushing along their soft, tender inner portions. Despite her unhappiness at being forced to pleasure the active, flowing cunt above her, Margie’s passions continued to grow. The tongue that licked at her fevered puss drove her lusts higher and higher. Her assailant’s lips shifted to her stiffened pleasure bud, sucking on it long and hard as her tongue flitted across it. Margie arched her extended back and her hands writhed in their confinements at her neck. The musky smell and the pungent taste of the woman’s soft, mushy cleft above her made her mind swoon as she began to deliriously pleasure it. She was about to burst into an explosion of lust when the mouth between her thighs slowed and then stopped. Margie moaned with need as hands gently rubbed her thighs and fingers played teasingly across her love lips, letting her pussy’s fires ebb, but not go out.

  The girl who rode Margie’s lips called out loudly and began to drive her cunt hard against Margie’s mouth. The white woman felt the girl’s thighs tense against the sides of her head and could taste a flood of the girl’s juices flow over her lips. The girl’s body shook as she thrust her hips back a
nd forth, determined to enjoy every single throb of her climax and to maximize the friction of her prisoner’s helpless lips against her throbbing slit.

  When the girl atop her was finished, she was replaced by another. As soon as the new woman began to rock her hips over Margie’s mouth, the tongue between the white woman’s thighs renewed its assault.

  Later, Margie tried fruitlessly to remember how many of the women took their enjoyment atop her. She knew that she had come three times. She did not know whether the lips and tongues between her thighs belonged to a single one of the merry, native women, or whether more than one of them had enjoyed supping at the gates of her womb. Her orgasms were explosive, causing her body to shudder and quake and bringing immense enjoyment to whichever of the lusty, brown skinned women was riding her at the time.

  Finally, the old woman who seemed to be their leader clapped her hands loudly and the other women brought their assault on the pretty, white, slave woman to a halt. Margie lay back, exhausted. Her pussy burned and her mouth and lips were sore. A coating of pungent, orgasmic slime covered her face. She was lifted back to her knees and she moaned with relief as the pressure on her back and thighs was eased.

  Having satisfied their curiosity over and their lusts on the body of the white captive, the women began to sidle out of the hut. Only the three older women and two of the younger ones remained. The leader, or priestess, which Margie later decided was more a appropriate title, instructed the younger women who nodded respectfully and then brought Margie to her feet. They unfastened her battered and dirty sandals and, after examining them curiously, cast them aside. One of them led her from the hut by her leash while the other carried a bowl of ashes behind her.

  The young women guided Margie between the huts and down to a shallow, running stream that bordered the village. It pooled it one spot and the girls brought Margie there and made her stand next to it. They commenced to cover her body with the ashes, rubbing them into her skin. Margie was too exhausted and dispirited from her recent ordeal to protest. When they were done, their soft, small hands caressing every portion of Margie’s pale flesh, even between her thighs and over her still sensitized slit, they brought her into the water and washed her off. The pool was deep enough so that when they brought Margie to her knees the water came up to the top of her breasts. The cool, gently running water massaged her worn body. The girls made her stand and kneel several times, making sure that the scouring ashes had washed from her flesh completely.

  Margie enjoyed, despite herself, her handling by the now bashful, young girls. They smiled at her friendlily and made soft cooing sounds at her that made the tired woman relax. Once they had her body cleaned, they made her kneel again and loaded some ashes into her damp hair. Adding water to it, they worked the mush into her head and all along her long, reddish blond tresses. When they washed it out, Margie’s hair was clean for the first time in days.

  The girls returned Margie directly to the women’s hut. Having lost some of her novelty, to the women at least, the people of the village took little notice of her as she was marched between the small dwellings. When they reentered the women’s hut, the girls had Margie kneel down and, after working a sweetly smelling, oily lotion into her hair, combed it out with utensils made from bone until it was free of knots and hung down straight around her.

  The three older women were busy putting together a concoction, mashing away at vegetative substances in a broad, wooden bowl, adding powders and chopped leaves into it and a milky fluid from a gourd. They ignored the work of the young girls as they stretched Margie’s body out on a soft, black animal skin and began to rub the lotion they had applied to her hair all over her accepting, relaxed body. They took a long bone that was sharpened on one side and scraped away her nascent pubic growth. The hair from the skin was smooth and pleasant as Margie lay atop it. She was experiencing the first kindnesses she had received since the gentle hands of the pretty Carmelita had bathed her and given her loving caresses back in Porto Vaca.

  When the young women were done, they left the hut. Margie lay languidly relaxed on the soft, black animal fur. She gratefully drifted off into sleep curled on her side, her bound hands folded under her chin.

  She was awoken a few hours later by one of the old women. She had been dreaming of the green god again. She was kneeling in front of him, her hands bound behind her, and he was crouched down before her, running his strong, hands over her breasts and peering deeply into her eyes. Her dream self reveled in the touch of the strange, muscular, green tinted man and yearned for him to take possession of her. She tried to speak to him, but no words would come out.

  The old woman gently, but firmly, brought the groggy white woman to her knees. She had a gourd and let Margie drink from it. It was a strongly flavored fruit juice and Margie welcomed its friendly, sweet taste. The woman also had a bowl of dried meat and she fed Margie little pieces of it by hand. Margie, grateful for the sustenance, chewed each piece hungrily. The meat was tough and chewy and had a strong, smoked flavor. Margie wondered what it was, somewhat fretfully, as she dutifully ate each piece that was proffered to her.

  The old women let Margie kneel by herself for a while as they continued to prepare the food like substance. Margie thought that she saw their lips moving as they took turns pulverizing a root into it with a wooden pestle, and assumed that they were uttering a prayer. Strangely, she regretted not having her notebook with her. This was what she had wanted to see all of her life, the customs and practices of a primitive tribe virtually uncontaminated by civilization. It was ironic that she was getting her wish, but that she would probably never be able to tell anyone about it.

  While the woman who Margie assumed was the high priestess continued to administer to the soupy mixture, the other women turned their attention to Margie. Margie had begun to feel good about her situation, or at least as good as she could feel under the circumstances. She had been bathed and her skin felt clean and fresh. Her long, blond hair had been combed and it exuded a sweet smell around her. She had been fed and had slept. The young girls had even allowed her to see to her physical needs when they had brought her outside.

  Margie’s hands were still bound together in front of her. The rope that confined them had been wrapped around her neck and affixed to the ring in her collar behind her, keeping them posed, prayer like in front of her. The two women, who like the priestess had necklaces of beads, feather and bone around their necks, although not quite as ostentatious as their superior’s, untied Margie’s hands and drew the rope free of her collar. Taking her by her arms, they led her to the far wall of the large hut and made her kneel down again. One of them held her in place while the other left and returned with a frame of polished wood. It had two, two inch thick, horizontal bars about three feet apart and three vertical bars, one fastened close to each end. The third vertical bar, longer than the other two, ran down the middle. The frame looked like some huge tic tac toe game without the x’s and o’s. There was a hole in the ground behind Margie about three feet deep and reinforced with a hollow, hardened clay tube. The old woman slipped the longest vertical pole of the frame into the hole and it stood up behind the puzzled prisoner.

  Margie knew that something bad was about to happen. Her mouth was uncharacteristically ungagged and she thought of protesting and begging to be spared whatever was coming, but she remembered the fierce slap that the young girl had given her a short while ago when she refused to part her lips for her pleasure, and remained silent. When the women produced long, thin, leather thongs, Margie realized that she was about to be tied to the frame and her heart sank at the portent of future suffering. Her back was pushed up against the wooden structure, the middle bar running along the center of her spine. Too afraid to resist, she began to whine and cry.

  The women paid her no mind as they lashed her body to the frame. They drew her arms over the top horizontal bar so that it lay just in the crux of her underarms. Attaching one end of a thong around her right wrist, they pulled her
hands down, tied them off and then attached them to the middle pole of the frame. Another leather strap went around her elbows and they were drawn forcibly together and bound, making the pale, frightened white woman squeal with pain.

  Margie’s back arched as a result of the pressure of her elbows being fastened to each other. Her firm, round, heavy breasts were forced outwards in presentation. The poor woman sobbed as first one leg, and then the other, was brought up behind her, the back of her knees bent around the lower horizontal bar of the frame. Long straps were affixed to her ankles and then tied off to the horizontal bar that crossed her back at shoulder height. Another strap went around the top of each thigh and fastened the bound ankle to it.

  The unhappy woman was fixed firmly to the frame with only her knees touching the ground. The tightly knotted thongs dug deeply into her flesh. She moaned as the women spread her knees wider apart and lashed them to the vertical bars of the frame at each end. The spreading of her knees caused her weight to rest on the bars that ran under her armpits and she cried out as her muscles stretched painfully.

  Once Margie was properly mounted, the priestess came over to her. She ran her hands through the captive woman’s silky, golden hair and caressed her outthrust breasts. One of the other woman brought out a thin, blade made from animal bone with a ceremonially decorated wooden handle and the priestess grabbed a lock of Margie’s long, beautiful hair. Murmuring a prayer together with the two other women, the priestess proceeded to lop off a lock of Margie’s hair close to her scalp. Margie moaned with unhappiness at the desecration of her lovely growth. But the old woman was not finished. When she took hold of a second, long skein of the thin, reddish blond hair, Margie became overwhelmed with grief and broke out into deep, heartfelt sobs.