Sacrifice to the Emerald God

by Paul Blades

  But if she thought that she had sated the fires that had been lit by the potion the priestess had given her she was mistaken. After a few moments, the ache of sexual need returned to her and she began again to writhe and moan in her bindings. The priestess forced open her lips and returned the bladder containing the concoction that she had brewed to the unhappy woman’s mouth and gave her cheeks another squeeze. Another couple got up to dance and a wave of desire passed through the captive woman.

  Chapter Eleven

  Destiny

  The priestess let the white captive sleep all the next day. She awoke, groggy, her body limp, her sex aching, just about at dusk. The old woman had Margie drink a refreshing, flavored beverage and then escorted her outside so that she could relieve herself in the forest away from the village. When she brought her back, she lay her down again on the smooth, soft black animal skin and coaxed her back to sleep.

  The next morning, Margie awoke totally refreshed. She stretched her long, naked body on the animal skin. The old woman was up already and invited Margie to come and kneel by her. Her arms were still tied to her collar and the old woman, chattering away happily, gave her some fruit and a mash made of ground root to eat. Margie was pleased to consume it, gobbling down each spoonful that the old woman fed her. Afterwards, after letting the white woman pee into a little, brown, wooden bowl, the old woman led her back to the soft animal hide and Margie knelt there silent and content while the old woman resumed her perch and applied herself to the development of another of her recipes.

  About midmorning, one of the young women of the village came in and knelt by the priestess. She laid a root down in front of her and cast a lustful look at the white woman. The priestess nodded and smiled. She rose and brought over to Margie a small bowl containing the brew she had given her the night of the festival. At her urging, Margie reluctantly opened her mouth and let the old woman ladle a spoonful of it into her. A surge of desire flowed through Margie’s mind and body. The woman who had come into the hut happily came over to where Margie knelt and set herself down beside her. She untied Margie’s bound hands, placed her hands on both sides of Margie’s head and kissed her. As her tongue entered Margie’s mouth, the white woman sighed and circled her arms around the young, brown skinned native. Their impassioned bodies intertwined as they sank down on the smooth, soft, animal skin rug.

  And so began the routine of Margie’s new life. In the mornings one or two of the village women would come by and, after making some token offering to the priestess, make love with the white woman. Margie would writhe and moan with lust as a result of the priestess’s potion. She sucked and lapped hungrily at their sexes even as their energized and lusting tongues lapped hers. Her body was stroked and kissed and she returned the favors lustfully. She would be given a break at lunch time and, in the afternoon be made available for the pleasure of one or two more.

  The old woman repeated the ritual of the burning tree bark several times a day. She and the two other old women would bind Margie to the frame where she would be forced to breathe in the tart fumes. They took turns caressing and kissing her until she exploded with pleasure and then left her there in her mesmerized state until her mind had cleared. Margie felt herself being drawn further and further under the old women’s influence. It started to seem to her utterly natural that she should serve as a kind of temple whore for the women of the village. At night, the priestess prepared a large, grassy ball of the potion to refill the small bladder she had used at Margie’s initiation ceremony and placed it in Margie’s mouth. After spending an hour or more absorbing its entrancing and exciting effects, she was led to one of the village huts where a couple would be awaiting her eagerly. The three would spend the next few hours engaged in frantic, energetic lovemaking and then the priestess would return and lead an exhausted, sated Margie back to the woman’s hut for the night.

  None of the natives treated Margie with scorn or disdain. Quite the opposite. She was now a treasured member of the tribe albeit one with a special role. When the old priestess took Margie for one of their frequent walks, or when the young girls took her down to the stream to bathe her, the men and women who crossed their paths, and even the children, would smile and greet them. She had lost all compunctions about being nude but for the shiny brass collar around her neck. When everyone else was, what difference did it make?

  On some days, the priestess took her to see the old man who had spoken in Spanish to Margie on her first day. Using him as an interpreter, the woman would relate to Margie the tales and legends of the tribe, the meaning and structure of their rituals, their family structure and their habits. It was if the priestess knew that Margie was an anthropologist and wanted to pass on to her all of the tribe’s lore.

  Every day, the priestess took Marjorie for long walks in the neighboring jungle. She started to teach Margie the language of the tribe, pointing out roots and plants that were edible, particularly those with medicinal and magical properties.

  Margie passed the days in a delightful haze. The effects of the priestess’s potions never really left her and she needed smaller and smaller portions of them to stoke her passions or to drive her into a psychedelic state. The ritual inhalation of the smoking tree bark and the exchange of lustful kisses with the kindly priestess, brought her deeper and deeper under the old woman’s sway.

  Every few days, Margie was taken to the bachelor’s hut to satisfy the unmarried, young men of the village. There were not many of them, as it was considered mandatory for the young people to pair off and procreate as young as possible for the benefit of the tribe. But there were three or four and they came into the hut on those evenings, one by one, and used Margie’s body to satisfy their youthful lusts. Fueled by the priestess’s potion, Margie would return their passion, reveling in the thrust of their hot cocks inside her needy cleft or giving them long, pleasurable service with her lips.

  Being bound and led from place to place, always subservient to the priestess’s will, became natural to the young, white woman. Her life as a sophisticated 21st century academic seemed centuries ago and of little relevance to her now. The bandit, Armando, the men who had brought her up river, all faded in importance other than as having been the vehicles by which she had arrived at her new home. Even being constantly bound or confined, if only by the lead to her collar, did not disturb her. It was natural that the tribe would guard and secure her as an important resource. It was as if her lowliness of status, her use as a focus of the tribe’s sexual life, in fact raised her up as a being, if not supernatural, then at least infused with magical attributes.

  The days quickly turned into weeks. One night, the old priestess took Margie out into the middle of the compound and pointed up into the sky. Margie had never seen the stars as she had seen them since coming to the village. They were bright and covered the arcing night sky like, literally, grains of sand. This night, however, there was a large, bright, round moon in the middle of the night sky. It was almost full. This fact seemed to Margie to have some significance to the old woman who smiled at her ‘little white niece’, as she called her, and told her, “The next day,” the tribe having no word for the term ‘tomorrow’.

  That night, Margie did not go to one of the huts to rut with a native couple. She knelt, with her arms bound behind her, as the priestess and her two acolytes fed her a special meal. There was soft, ripe mangos and melon, a soup made from roots and nuts. One of the men had killed a wild boar in the jungle, and Margie was fed its dark, succulent meat. The priestess poured out for her bowl after bowl of the potent, alcoholic brew that the women made from the fruits of the forest. Bright, beautiful flowers had been strewn around the dining area and a garland of large bougainvilleas was draped around Margie’s neck. There were even little unleavened cakes made from the flour and the sugar that had been purchased from the white men.

  When the meal was done, the old woman let the young girls take Margie out to let her pee in the bushes. When she returned, they laid her out on t
he soft animal skin and, after gently and lovingly stroking her to climax, let her fall off into sleep.

  In the morning, after breakfast, the girls took Margie down to the stream to bathe. They took especial care to clean her thoroughly. Margie sensed that something special was happening in the village as the people were all scurrying around and a large collection of flowers had been assembled in the middle of the compound.

  Usually, Margie spent the morning kneeling on the animal fur awaiting ‘customers’, but this morning she was immediately taken in hand by the priestess’s assistants and fastened to the wooden frame. She knelt there nervously, wondering what was happening. The priestess brought over the bowl of shaved tree bark and lit it. Margie had lost her fear of the cloudy smoke that it emitted since that first day. She had come to treasure her communion with the priestess while under its effects and the explosive, seemingly mutual orgasms that it produced. She voluntarily leaned over so that she could take several large breaths of it into her lungs.

  This time, however, when the old woman put her lips to hers and breathed into her a lungful of her own air, Margie was seized with a terrible foreboding. Her mind was swimming with the effects of the drug contained in the smoking bark. A vision intruded into it. It was the figure of the dark, stern green god that she had seen in that store back in Cotabaya. His face was strong and hard, seemingly vengeful. She was kneeling before him and he was mounted on a crude, stone pedestal. His eyes peered deeply into hers and her body trembled. Slowly, he came to life and, stepping down from his mount, began to approach her. She was bound and could not move, her voice was stilled and she could not scream. He knelt before her, his body towering over hers and took hold of her face. His touch was electric and her body jolted as his energy passed into her.

  It was then that the priestess pulled her mouth back from Margie’s and she lost contact with her vision. She realized at once why this was such a special day, why her routines had been broken. She was going to be delivered into the hands of the green god, the god who provided and protected the source of the village’s wealth. Guarito, the shop woman had called him, the Emerald God. She had talked about the sacrifice of beautiful women to it. Margie recalled the similarity of the statue to the pictures of Aztecs that she had seen and remembered that one of the practices of that culture was to convert a potential victim into a communal whore before she was led off to her cruel death. Was that why she had been passed around the village, sucked and fucked every cock, plied every cunt? A wave of terror arose in her. The old woman caressed her head, which was now covered with a short growth of her restored, reddish, blond hair, smiling, as if to comfort her. But a minor act of kindness was small comfort when she was going to be taken to her death this very day. It was all well and good for the natives to believe that she would be assumed into a kind of celestial paradise where she would joyfully serve their heathen god throughout eternity. She wanted to live. She did not believe in heathen gods nor in sublime paradises.

  Margie’s eyes welled up with tears. She had rarely spoken to the old woman except for their language lessons. She understood the reasons for them now. It was so that she could hear and obey the commands of their god when she became its servant. And learning the rituals and customs of the tribe would be essential so that she could well represent them in the afterlife. Margie moaned. Her mind was still flooded with the aftereffects of the psychedelic smoke. Her lips trembled and she uttered a piteous, low murmur.

  “Pleeeeeeease don’t,” she cried softly to the old woman. She could feel the tears flowing down her cheeks. The green god, Guarito, had called her all the way from Cotabaya. He had arranged fate so that she could be here on the full moon and be sacrificed to him. Of course the village didn’t practice monthly sacrifice, there wouldn’t be much of a tribe left if they did. But the opportunity to appease the god who brought them so much bounty could not be resisted. “Pleeeeeease!” she murmured again. “Don’t do this, pleeeeeease.”

  The old woman had brought with her the bladder that contained the potion she used to drive Margie’s passions wild and she proffered it to Margie’s lips. Margie tearfully clamped her mouth closed and shook her head in an effort to deny its admittance. She knew that once she had been administered the potion, she would not be able to put together two cogent thoughts. She wanted her mind clear so that she could think of some way to avoid her fate. And she wanted her mouth free so that she could beg and plead to be spared.

  The other women knelt up and seized Margie’s head, holding it still while the priestess brought the offensive bladder forwards to Margie’s mouth. Strong hands locked on her jaw and pulled down on her chin. The effects of the drug filled smoke had weakened her and she was unable to prevent her mouth from being pried open. She yanked and tugged at the bindings that confined her wrists and elbows so cruelly behind her, at the thongs that married her ankles to her thighs. The rubbery bladder rolled over her bottom teeth and sank into her mouth. The priestess circled her face with a thong, locking the infernal device inside her and then wrapped another one over her eyes, depriving her of sight.

  Margie swooned at the effects of the narcotic. Whatever the drug was that permeated the fluids that it contained, it went immediately into her bloodstream. Her nipples tightened and her pussy began to yearn for contact. The old woman slid her finger along the slit between Margie’s engorging love lips and the young woman’s body shuddered.

  They left Margie mounted on her frame suffering her physical and mental torments for several hours. Her proffered breasts yearned for hot lips to suckle them, her burning slit between her outstretched thighs begged for a hand or a mouth to soothe it. Preparations were underway for the ritual sacrifice and the old women were very busy. Every once and a while, one of the old women came by where Margie knelt despondently to stroke and caress her intimacies until she was huffing and puffing with the need for release. But they did not give it to her. When the skillful hands left her body, Margie moaned and cried with frustration.

  The distraught woman was left in her binding throughout the day. In the early afternoon, the balloon was removed from her mouth and she was fed a thick soup and allowed to drink. One of the girls who had been her bathing attendants held a bowl under her so that she could pee into it. But once she was done, the bladder, refilled with the passion making drug, was forced once more between her lips.

  At dusk the real preparations began. Margie was made to inhale the smoke from the tree bark again, this time for a very long time until she was barely conscious. She had never been given the two drugs at the same time and her mind was lost in a vortex of hallucinations and fear. The face of the cruel, stern Emerald God kept appearing to her. She wanted to scream, to run away, but her limbs were bound and her voice had been silenced.

  The women and men of the tribe were outside, busily adorning themselves with their spiritual regalia, bright plumes of feathers, special necklaces of bone and beads. They painted their bodies and faces in ritualistic designs. A large bower of flowers had been assembled in the center of the compound, ready for their white captive to be carried to her destiny. Torches had been lit and ceremonial liquor had been drunk. They were ready.

  After surrounding Margie’s neck with new, fresh garlands of flowers, the old women picked up her frame and carried her out of the hut. Margie was swooning with the effects of the drugs she had been given and her body was afire with sexual desire. She nonetheless pulled desperately, if weakly, at the thongs that bound her wrists and elbows behind her, struggled to free her ankles and knees from their confining, imprisoning ties. Immediately upon her emergence from the women’s hut, the crowd of people began a ritualistic chant and the drums, flutes and other percussion instruments commenced a rhythmic, steady beat. Margie was frantic with fear as she felt herself carried from the hut. She moaned and made feeble, confused attempts at speech. The thong around her eyes was removed and she saw the smiling, demonic looking people staring at her with undisguised glee. When she felt the frame that she w
as bound to lowered on the bower, its middle pole descending into an awaiting hole, the dull ‘thump’ that it made felt and sounded to her like a death knell. She sobbed and rued the day that she was born.

  Four of the men of the tribe took positions around the bower and it was quickly lifted into the air. With a loud call from the old shaman, the flower bedecked palanquin started in motion.

  The shaman led the parade of chanting, singing villagers. Large torches with billowing flames held by several of the other men lit the way. Margie cried and sobbed as the palanquin swayed and bumped while the men carried it along. The procession left the village and headed into the bush along a well worn pathway. The lights from the torches reflected eerily on the underside of the broad, green canopy overhead. The trunks of the trees seemed to shift and dance as the torches passed by them, their shadows lengthening and shortening. The voices of the people echoed through the forest.

  Margie just knelt and cried. She wondered how she could have been so foolish to believe that the tribe had accepted her as one of their own. Wouldn’t it have been better, she thought, if the bandit had slit her throat and tossed her lifeless body overboard on the first day of her captivity? Had she survived all of her suffering for this, cruel purpose? Her flesh grew cold as she tried to conceive of the way that they would sacrifice her. The Aztecs cut the hearts out of their victims. That at least would be fairly swift, although the vision of her dripping, still beating heart being held up in the air for the villagers to see made her tremble with fright. But some ancient cultures burned their sacrifices alive. She panicked at this thought and frantically and futilely strained at her bonds. She tried to plead for mercy through her stuffed mouth, but the only effect was to release more of the mind numbing drug into her system. Whatever was going to happen to her, she was powerless to stop it.