by Paul Blades
It was a mile to the emerald mine. After a while, the people had stopped singing and only the drums signaled the advance of the procession. Through her befogged mind, it sounded to Margie like a funeral dirge. She tried to pray for deliverance, but her fevered body, lusting for sensual contact, needing orgasmic release, caused her mind to drift away from thoughts of salvation.
After about twenty minutes, the slow moving parade reached the site of the emerald mine. Margie, who had drifted into an almost catatonic state, awoke with a start as she felt the palanquin lowered. Her eyes darted open and she saw a small hole carved into the hillside. It had been covered with brush to disguise it, but the men had already removed the large branches dense with bright green leaves that had served as its camouflage. The people surrounded the palanquin on which their sacrifice knelt and began to sing and chant once more. Margie distinctly heard the name of the god, Guarito, several times as they repeated ritually the verses of the primeval poem. The shaman came up to her, draped in a broad robe made from an animal’s hide covered with flowers and feathers and bedecked with large, bright shiny emeralds. He was wearing a ceremonial hat made of white bark that rose to a point over his head. The priestess was there too. She wore a colorful headdress that made her seem six feet tall. She sang and she clapped with the other people, a broad smile on her face, watching the captive that she had trained and prepared so diligently.
When the men came onto the palanquin to remove her from it, Margie wailed and sobbed. But the juice from the bladder in her mouth immediately silenced her. She felt the frame moved forwards and then placed on the ground. The crowd fell into a hush. The priestess came up to the victim and waved a large, carved wooden stick over her and muttered some prayers. She then handed off her staff to one of her assistants and took from the other one a bright orange gourd with a long, narrow neck.
When the priestess signaled the men, they removed the strap that kept Margie from disgorging the leaking, mind numbing bladder in her mouth. Fat fingers pried it from her, causing more of the liquid to escape as it was removed. Margie felt a surge of lust and confusion as the drug entered her bloodstream.
The priestess advanced with the gourd and two of the men held Margie’s head still. She placed the end of the gourd between and well past Margie’s flaccid lips and began to pour a thick, brown liquid into her mouth. Margie came awake immediately and began to splutter and choke as the sweet tasting substance entered her throat. She swallowed in self defense as the liquid continued to creep slowly from the end of the gourd over her tongue and down her throat. “Maybe it’s poison,” she thought hopefully. “Maybe I’ll die right now.”
But the substance was not poison. It was another of the priestess’s potions and it had an immediate effect on the young woman. The hallucinations that she experienced from the smoking bark and the lust that she experienced from the milky liquid that the priestess had used on her seemed mild in comparison to what she had just consumed. All of reality began immediately to distort itself. The trees around her and the garishly lit faces of the natives seemed to melt and reform into grotesque forms. The colors around her became brighter and shimmered. The shifting shadows caused by the flickering torches took on the forms of strange, contorting creatures gathered in celebration of her demise. Her body burned with fevered excitement. Her sex contracted as if in anticipation of a sexual climax and her breasts felt near to burst with the blood that filled them. The priestess leaned over the frightened, unhappy young woman and kissed her. She then signaled the men to carry the girl into the cave.
Although the entrance to the mine was small, once inside, it was spacious enough for the men to proceed walking upright. Torches lit the way as the frame containing the body of the miserable young woman was carried down the passageway. Lower and lower into the earth they marched, the old shaman in their lead. There was no singing now, just the huffing and puffing of silent men as they did their duty to the god that made the village prosper.
The passageway twisted and turned. At some points it was so narrow that her frame needed to be turned sideways to pass through. To Margie, her descent into hell seemed interminable, a prolonged prelude to her torture and death. Her limp, defenseless body bumped and swayed as she was carried along. She had given up all hope that she would be granted pardon from her sacrifice and she sobbed softly and disconsolately.
Ultimately, the narrow passageway opened into a large cavern. Margie had closed her eyes, the sight of the demonic shadows on the walls too much for her to bear and the thought of her impending ordeal too overwhelming to consider. She felt her frame being lowered and felt it lock into a hole in the floor. The shaman stood in front of her while the men placed torches into sconces on the walls. Two of the men were carrying a large basket of food and they laid it down on the floor. The old man held his hands over her and uttered an incantation. Margie cried and made effort to beg and plead for mercy, but could form no words. The image of the shaman drifted and swayed in front of her and the flickering light of the torches made his face seem to assume a different shape every second. Finally, he looked down at her and said, in Spanish, his voice deep and foreboding, “Serve Guarito well.”
The old man signaled the other native men and they began to leave the large cavernous space. Margie turned her head to follow them as they left. She uttered a piercing scream, but the men paid it no mind. In a second, she was alone in the vast chamber.
Margie sagged in her bonds and closed her eyes. “They’ve left me here to die,” she though miserably. “I’m going to starve to death, or die of thirst.” Her mind rebelled at the long, hard course of suffering that lay before her. She wondered miserably how long it would take for the torches to burn out, condemning her to a long, lonely death in darkness. Her mind and body reverberated with the effects of the dark potion that the priestess had administered and her extreme terror was matched by an equal yearning for contact with her burning loins, her bursting breasts. Her mouth hungered to be filled with a tongue or a cock or a cunt, anything that would assuage her unbearable desire.
Margie looked up to take in the contents of her deep, underground sepulcher. And that’s when she saw it. It had been blocked from her view by the body of the shaman when he stood in front of her. It was Guarito himself! He was made of some kind of green stone. His face was hard and aloof, his muscles finely carved on his torso. He was standing with his strong, thick legs wide apart and his hands in the air palms out on either side of him, raised to the level of his head and his fingers pressed together. His head was clean shaven. He stood about ten feet tall, and was standing on a five foot high pedestal, just like in her vision back in the women’s hut. The figure of the wrathful, powerful god was a reflection of the one in her recurrent dreams. And, he was the spitting image of the statue in the store in Cotabaya, with one significant exception. The statue in Cotabaya had worn a loincloth over his intimate parts. But this, undoubtedly more original version of the Emerald God, was sporting a thick, long erection.
Margie sobbed as she viewed the depiction of the cruel god to whom her life was being sacrificed. To think that she, a graduate of the finest schools, a professor at a major American University, an apostle of rationality, would be losing her life in service to ancient superstitions!
But these thoughts were fleeting through Margie’s mind. The drug that she had been given continued to grow in its effect on her. She began to doubt the reality of what she was seeing. Was she really here, deep within a jungle mountain, tied helplessly to a wooden frame? Would she wake up in a little while in her bed in the hotel back in Cotabaya, her loving husband next to her? Although her travails had seemed all too real when she had suffered them, the idea that they had actually happened was preposterous. Even the walls of the cavern seemed to be turning liquid, melting and reforming before her very eyes.
She thought that she detected some movement of the stone figure that towered some fifteen feet over her. She peered at the statue intently, her mind rebelling at the possibil
ity. It was hard to tell, everything in the cavern seemed to be moving. And then she saw it again. The hands had moved, she was sure of it! They were lower now than before. And then, suddenly, the eyes that had been staring straight ahead as if far off into the distance turned to look at her.
“Oh, my God!” Margie thought. “I’m going mad!”
Slowly, but surely, the huge stone figure in front of her was coming to life. His body had begun to glow and a hazy, translucent, green mist had begun to form around him. As if awakening from a centuries old slumber, the green god stirred. His muscles, which had been still and cold, started to flex and flow as if warm blood had been piped into them. He stretched his neck and then his arms, all the while taking in the defenseless, naked form of the female sacrifice that had been laid before him. And then, to Margie’s horrified dismay, he took a step towards her.
Margie’s body began to quake and convulse in fear. “This can’t be happening! This can’t be happening!” she kept repeating to herself. As she watched the green idol step down from the pedestal and approach her, she screamed and begged for someone, anyone to save her.
The body of the green giant was within the swirling verdant mist. The closer that he came to her, the more real his features seemed to become. He was ten feet tall when Marjorie first saw him, but as he approached her and began to crouch down towards the floor to get a better look at her, his body seemed to diminish, if not in its terror for the frantically fearful young woman, at least in size. By the time that he took a position kneeling in front of her, he had almost human dimensions, although still large and towering over the kneeling figure of the white woman sacrifice.
To say that Margie had never been so frightened in her life would be to belittle the sensations that were running through her. It was a fear that made her whole body sicken and tore away all pretense at composure or dignity. It was like one of those great life divides where everything that happened afterwards would be colored by the experience. But for Margie, the idea that there would be an afterwards was as far from her mind as the idea that she could escape her fate. The Emerald God, the fierce, prehistoric, pre-Columbian idol who had demanded the lives of untold innocents to slake his thirst, was coming for her.
The frantic woman tried to scream, but nothing would come out. Her throat was dry and constricted and her belly roiling with rebellion. The mist that had surrounded the cruel god enveloped her and everything that she could see was tinted a pale, other worldly green. The god reached out his mighty right hand and brought it towards Margie’s contorted, panic stricken face. She shook and writhed in her bindings in a futile attempt to escape his touch. She leaned her head as far back as it would go against the frame to which she was bound. The hand kept coming closer and closer. And then she felt his large, thick fingers make contact with the soft skin of her cheek.
As the skin of the idol’s fingers made contact with Margie’s face, she felt herself suddenly infused with a warm, comforting flow of the green god’s power. It was so unexpected that her mind refused to believe what her body was telling her. Soothing, comforting messages flowed through her. Her body lost its terror inspired rigidity, her stomach lost its tension, her heart’s intense, body wracking beats slowed. As the hand of the god continued forward and commenced a gentle caress of her face, Margie felt a wave of relief flow through her. His smooth, hot palm seemed to absorb all of her discomfitures. She looked into the formerly, harsh, stern face and saw an expression of affection and kindness. When his other hand moved to the other side of her face, capturing her head in a gentle, loving way, she sighed and began to sob. All of her fear had left her. Nothing in the world seemed better than to be within the ambit of the loving god. His face and skin had lost some of the cold, verdant tint and his flesh had seemed to become more human, not white and pale like hers, but dark and brown, the color of teak. His skin was smooth and soft as if it had never suffered the drying effects of the sun or wind. His muscles rippled and his body exuded a fresh, fragrant, delightful smell.
As his face moved closer to hers, Margie felt an overwhelming desire for union with the emerald deity. He tilted his head slightly and placed his full lips upon hers. A wave of lust passed through her, emanating from the lips of the now all too human god. Not a bone wrenching, jolting, flash of passion, but a lust that reached into her very soul, begged for dissolution of the barrier of her skin so that her being could melt and dissolve into complete union with him.
His tongue entered her mouth and its heat burned deep into her mind and her body shivered with delight. His hands fell away from her face and she felt the bonds that held her mounted for his pleasure dissolve. She fell against the strong, sweet smelling body of her new master, her lord, and her skin felt jubilant everywhere that she touched him. He pulled her away from the confining framework and lay her down. She felt on her back, not the cold, hard stone of the cavern deep within the earth, but on a soft, pleasant layer of warmth, as if she had been immersed in a comforting bath. She moaned with a passion that she had never felt and her hands reached out to caress the exciting, pleasure giving flesh.
The enraptured woman felt the god insinuate himself between her legs and she stretched them wide and raised her knees to facilitate his possession of her. She felt his hot cock brush along her lower belly and then be guided by the god’s hand to the entrance of her burning loins. Their mouths were still joined as his thick, stiff rod eased its way into her passage and she moaned again, yearning to be filled. The man’s hot wand, for he was now a man in every sense, transformed to claim the offering the villagers had left for him, seemed to burn with a lust giving fire as it brushed along the yearning walls of her crevasse, stoking the passions of the god’s new, adoring, devotee.
There is a moment that the mystical philosophers speak of, the perfect union of the spirit and the body, when all conflicts and concerns pass away. Call it sartoris, nirvana, bliss, whatever you may, but it is the ideal that all strive for. That is what Margie felt as the god-man’s cock began to slowly stroke itself within her. Her mind, rather than delirious, was finely tuned to the waves of ecstatic pleasure that it brought her. It was as if the god had granted her a more than human power to absorb the pleasure he was bringing her. She had lost all rational thought, all consciousness of the world. There was only the undeniably real presence of her god-like lover, her happy, satisfied body and the suffusing, intense, pure pleasure that was emanating from her loins.
As the god’s cock scoured her pussy’s walls, Margie felt herself transferred to a new plane of experience. Her mind began to yearn for the explosion of her lusts. The god’s hips ground against hers and his mouth fed eagerly on her lips, his tongue feeding hers with a flow of pleasure. Margie felt her body begin to shudder as her climax approached. The small spark of consciousness that was left to her wondered what it would be like to come at the command of her loving deity and whether it would cause her to dissolve into his flesh. She could think of no better fate as her pussy’s receptors began to trill with excitement. And then it came.
Margie screamed into the mouth of her lover as her hot canal began to throb and burn. It contracted like a fist around the pleasure radiating cock that filled it. Again and again it convulsed as jolt after jolt of pleasure shot through her. The man-god groaned and his meat began a dance of delight within her. His cum was hot and the feeling of its splashing against her cervix drove the moaning, writhing white woman into a delirium. Her heels dug deeply into the god’s broad, strong back and her arms clenched his flesh tightly against hers. His well muscled chest crushed her heavy, round breasts against her. His groans of pleasure reverberated down her throat.
Slowly, the pair of lovers brought their feverish rutting to a halt. Margie lay in the god’s arms, blessing his existence. Her mind reveled in the thought that he had called her to him when she had first seen what she now knew was a crude, primitive rendering of him in the small shop in Cotabaya. He had brought her through all of her suffering, all of the travails and torme
nts that she had endured so that she could experience this bliss with him. He had claimed her, she was his. Nothing that she would experience in life would compare to the overwhelming sense of completion and satisfaction that she felt now. She would have willingly suffered a hundred times more than she had, gone through whatever purgatory or hell that her god had demanded, if she had known what lay ahead for her.
They lay together intertwined, savoring the union of their flesh for a long time. Margie softly caressed the soft, brown skin of her lover. She could feel him still hard inside her, but was in no hurry to resume their lovemaking. She wanted to savor the delights that their first act of union had brought her.
But when the god shifted his hips and recommenced the slow, long languorous strokes of his manhood within her, Margie’s mind exploded with glee and she rose her hips to meet him.
Later, Margie thought often on their seemingly endless rounds of pleasure. He took her in every way that a woman could be taken by a man. The green mists that enveloped them seemed to bring continuous renewal to her energies and desires. When he lay back and spread his legs invitingly, Margie happily crawled between his knees and assumed his glowing, radiant cock between her lips. She pleasured him with every skill that she had, kissing, caressing, stroking and teasing his cock until she felt his body shudder and writhe in pleasure. During their seemingly interminable, passionate interlude, she drank down his discharge hungrily more times than she could count and each time that his cock began to throb and convulse within her mouth or throat, her pussy celebrated her achievement with its own intense, body wracking contractions of pleasure.
The men who had brought Margie down to the green god’s temple, had left behind the gourd that contained the thick, sweet potion that the priestess had given her. From time to time, the god administered more of it to her, keeping his devotee’s mind lost in a psychedelic haze. She remembered eating from the basket of food that the men left there, each bite presenting a scintillating sensation to her mouth. It was, in fact, like being in paradise.