Sacrifice to the Emerald God (23 page)
The man allowed her several desperate, deep breaths and then he reentered her. This time, anxious to bring and end to her cruel use, Margie opened herself to the thick, penetrating instrument and let it slide through the back entrance of her distended mouth easily.
While Margie cried, the cruel Indian took his time in reaching his pinnacle of pleasure. Each time that her oxygen threatened to run out, she would tense and squirm underneath him and he would slowly ease himself from between her lips until she was able to gulp down more of the life sustaining substance. A hand began to stroke her messy, still burning labia and then commenced a slow, circular massage of her clit. Despite her mortification at being throat fucked by the cruel, patient, brown skinned man, her lusts began to grow. The feel of the thick cock traversing her widely parted lips, the taste of the meat, the familiar aroma of the man’s arousal, once she had gotten over the displeasure of having her throat callously filled, began to drive her passions higher and higher. She gave out muffled whines and moans as her need for release built up inside her pussy, the agitating hand that caressed it making her body yearn for just one more pleasurable explosion of lust. When the man’s cock began to pump its hot spew directly into her open throat, her sex exploded and her body convulsed. She was still moaning with pleasure when the man pulled his softening member from between her lips.
The Indian leader dismounted from Margie’s head and, for a moment, knelt beside her, gazing at her with a new appreciation and stroking her long, reddish blond hair. Margie looked back at him miserably, knowing full well that he would repeat his exercise in pleasure again and again. He contemplated her frowning, unhappy face for a moment and then, retrieving the offensive gag that he had made for her, casually placed it back between her lips and tied it off behind her head.
After about an hour, the scout returned, huffing and puffing from his exertions. Margie had lain there limply and forlornly, ruing her dismal fate. The men had released her ankles and, drawing her feet down the length of the poles beneath her, retied them so that her legs were again fully outstretched and her ankles mounted on the sides. The returning scout looked at her loins and noted the dried evidence of her use by the other men. He protested when the leader arose from his crouch and signaled that it was time to go. The leader waved the man off in a gesture that the unhappy white woman interpreted as, “Later!” Two of the men, preparing to get back on the move, hoisted her poles in the air and settled the ends of them on their shoulders. Margie cried out from behind her gag as she felt herself stretched and the weight of her body pulling at her bonds. Within seconds, trundling their dismal captive five feet above the ground, the troupe of savages resumed their march deep into the jungle and away from any hope of rescue for their beautiful, accommodating, white prisoner.
Chapter Ten
An Old Fashioned Welcome
The procession of booty laden, brown skinned men trudged through the lush, overgrown rain forest for three days. They took a break from their marching every two or three hours or so to rest for a short while and drink water from the gourds that they kept in their packs, and head on. Margie’s body swayed and bumped on top of the primitive palanquin. Every time that they stopped, her bearers, as a reward for their efforts on behalf of the group, were permitted to make use of her, one between her plump, hairless nether lips and the other at her mouth. The men were insistent at their right to the use of her, but were never brutal, taking their time to ensure that she was shivering with lust before they finished themselves inside her. Once she had recovered from her shattering, enforced orgasm, she would be given a splash of tepid water from one of their gourds to wash down the spunk. Her gag reinstalled, new bearers would lift her into the air eager for their turn at her flesh, and they would be back on their way.
At twilight, the men made camp. The leader, having gone ahead with his bow and arrows, would be waiting for the troupe at a small clearing, crouched before a fire and cleaning the small jungle creatures that he had killed for their meal. Margie cried with gratitude each time that she was released from her bonds and allowed to eat with the naked, tired men. She cringed as she tasted the flesh of the strange animals but ate the small pieces that they gave her heartily. After dinner, Margie serviced all of the men, one by one, on her back amidst the effluvia of the jungle floor, or on her knees, her legs spread wide, her breasts squashed against her knees. Despite her fear and her hopeless state, she would, to the amusement and satisfaction of the men, be driven to relief several times. The sessions always concluded with her mouth on the leader’s cock, its thick mass seeking purchase in her throat while one of the other men stroked her burning pussy to climax.
They slept in the trees and, since Margie was far from nimble enough to climb them on her own, each night they tied her wrists with the rope they had bought from the white traders and hauled her aloft by her hands. To ensure that she would not fall from her perch during the night, they always tied her securely in place. In the mornings, without pausing to take the time to have her service them, they would affix the unhappy woman to her poles once more and begin the day’s march.
Every attempt at communication with the men resulted in a sharp cuff of her face. Margie’s despair grew greater every day. They passed over tall, seemingly impassible mountains, crossed several, strong, torrential streams. Since the heavy, green canopy above them hid the sun for most of the day, she had no idea in what direction they were going. At least once every day a torrid rain poured down upon them, battering Margie’s defenseless, naked body. At times it seemed to Margie that, in fact, the men had no destination, but were engaged in a permanent trek around the jungle that would end only when they had worn her out and discarded her for the carrion to consume.
Each night, as she lay tied cruelly to the branches of her tree, 30 feet into the air, she would lay awake for a long time, able to only sleep fitfully. She could hear the mysterious and terrifying sounds of the jungle night against the background of her captors’ snoring. Her unhappiness at her uncertain, fearsome fate would come to her in waves, bringing on a fit of intense, miserable sobs or a dull, aching foreboding. When she did sleep, her dreams of the green god would come back to her. He was tall, strong and imperious. It was as if he had made some claim on her and she always awoke aroused and disturbed. His power over her in her dreams seemed to be getting stronger and stronger.
It was in the afternoon of the fourth day that they finally reached their destination. Margie had sensed that they were nearing the completion of their journey by the increased energy that the men exhibited as they trundled her along. Suddenly, the men started to shout and broke into a sprint. The poles on which Margie rode began to bounce on her bearers’ shoulders. They entered a clearing and their happy voices were matched by the shouts of greetings of numerous others.
The arrival of the men created a celebratory excitement in the village. Young, brown skinned children leaped and laughed as they ran alongside the men to try and get a better look at their human burden. The men stopped in the middle of a group of large, grass huts and ceremoniously lowered the poles to which Margie was bound and then stood them up so that she lay at a 45 degree angle to the ground. A crowd of jabbering men and women encircled the distraught female, rubbing and pinching her strange, pale skin, stroking her hair.
Margie marveled at the sight of the excited natives despite her fear at what arrival at the primitive village would mean. It was ironic that she had come to Venezuela for the purposes of setting up an expedition to study the unspoiled natives of the interior and here she was. The people all uniformly had deep, brown skin and jet black hair. There was not a stitch of clothing among them. The women were generally small breasted and, like the men, wore no hair anywhere on their bodies except for their heads. They averaged about 5’4” tall and the men a little taller. Many of them sported tattoos etched in their flesh and here and there a nose or an ear carried a gold ring. Their faces seemed child like in their pleased surprise at such an unusual sight as that of the white woman, but Margie knew that their seeming simplicity and amiability could disguise a harsh, unfeeling attitude towards those not of their tribe.
A man’s loud, gruff voice called out to the small crowd of people and it parted to allow a gray haired old man through. He was bent over slightly and walked with a long, thick, ornately carved stick in his hand for support. The crowd had hushed at his approach and he stepped slowly up to the bound, frightened white woman.
He took his time in examining her. He extended a bony hand and felt the smooth flesh of her taut belly and then ran it over her hips and along her thighs. He examined the strange, golden ring around her neck. Margie trembled, her body aching from hanging in her mounting. She knew that this man was the shaman of the tribe. He wore a necklace of feathers and bones much like the man who had been the leader of the troupe who had carried her here, but it was more ornate and colorful. He had tattoos and scarring across his chest and face. There was a large, round scar on his chest just next to his left shoulder, not ritualistic like the others, but disfigured and ugly like some old wound. He reached his free hand up and measured and weighed each of Margie’s large, pale, white breasts, toying with the nipples until they obediently hardened. He then took a step back and made a pronouncement in his guttural, native speech, and the crowd uttered low, murmuring grunts of approval.
When the man turned and left, the crowd around Margie began to disperse. Several of the women grabbed the heavy, bulging sacks that the men had carried for days on their backs and began to drag them off to one of the huts. The others left to go about their business except for a small crowd of children, who circled and laughed as Margie’s poles were lowered to the ground and she was unfastened from them. One of the bolder of them, a boy who looked to be about ten or eleven years old, crept up as the men were untying her and pinched her soft, fluffy breast. He laughed and ran away when the men scolded him, and his friends all ran off too to discover what touching the strange, pale creature had been like.
The leader of the adventurers, once Margie had been brought to her feet, tied her hands together in front of her and looped the end of the rope through the ring in the front of her collar. He towed the shaky, weak kneed woman across the hard packed dirt of the compound and brought her over to one of the smaller huts. Margie stumbled and cried as he dragged her along, certain that something terrible was going to happen to her. She was still wearing her smart, but now, once again, muddy and scuffed up sandals, the only evidence of her former civilized existence left to her.
The man stopped by the small hut and entered it, dragging Margie in with him. Like all of the huts, it was made of long, woven strands of grass cemented together by hardened mud and clay and supported by wooden poles. Its roof was conical and round. Inside it, sitting cross-legged facing the door, was the old man.
The scar faced man who had supervised her purchase pushed Margie to her knees in front of the old man and sat down next to her. The old man had prepared a pipe and, after taking a long toke, passed it to the younger, but still mature man who had entered. There was a gourd by the old man’s side and he proffered it to the younger man who, seizing it with both hands, took a long drink from it. When he passed it back to the old man, he took a drink too and then placed it by his side.
The men sat silently for a while, smoking the pipe and drinking from the gourd. Margie knelt there fearfully, her bound hands held in front of her as if in prayer. She knew better than to try and speak. Her fate was to be decided and she would have no say in it. Tears came to her eyes and she sniffled, drawing an irate look from her captor. The anthropologist part of her noted the numerous animalistic carvings around the hut made of wood and stone. A collection of dark, five foot long, wooden staffs were mounted along the walls with bright multicolored feathers affixed to their tops. There was a large cage made of wood and in it a colorful bird pecked its long, curved beak into a pile of nuts every few seconds or so and squawked.
After a while, the old man gave a signal to Margie’s captor and the younger man began to give a long, musical explication of their adventures. He pointed to the white woman several times while the old man nodded. He pressed and squeezed Margie’s breasts, emphasizing their heft and forced her back and stroked her hairless cleft until it moistened. Margie suffered her manhandling quietly, knowing better than to provoke her captor’s displeasure. After the younger man had finished, the old man seemed to contemplate what he had been told and then spoke to the younger man, urging him to leave with a wave of his hand. Before he left, the scar faced man handed the old man the small pouch from which the emeralds had been produced during the trading with the white men.
Margie knelt alone in front of the wizened shaman, shaking and trembling in fear. She knew that her fate hung in the balance. The old man had not seemed pleased to see her and he looked intently at her, his face pursed into a frown, his wrinkled brow set firmly. He had dark, fearsome eyes which bespoke a hard experience in life and an inner cruelty born of it.
With a wave of his ancient hand, he signaled Margie to come closer to him. He rose to his knees and recommenced the examination of her body that he had started outside in the center of the village. He pressed his gnarled hands on her face and peered deeply into her eyes. Placing his hands on the shiny, gold colored, metallic ring around her neck, he pulled and tugged at it. He weighed and measured her breasts again and then made her bend over, her head to the floor of the hut, while he slid his hands over her long, bent back, over her soft, round rear globes and between her opened thighs. Margie felt him explore her cleft and she quailed and trembled as he brought her to moisture there, taking his time, gently running his fingers along her lower lips, easing them inside her once they had parted and touching lightly the hard bud of pleasure that sat atop them. Margie was panting in lust when he finally withdrew his hand and pushed her back to her knees. He resumed his former sitting position, took a drink from the gourd by his side and then paused, as if to think.
