Sacrifice to the Emerald God (9 page)

      Margie had been fearful that the skinny man would rape her while the head bandit, the one they called
el Jefe
, was away. She was unaware of his Christian name since neither of the other men had used it. When the one that he had called Manuelo came into her tent, she had tensed her body and prepared for the worst. She had been surprised, but relieved, each time when he left. But this time, she knew, he had mustered the determination to violate her.

      She whined as she felt the man lift her ankles and bring them back towards her body. In the faint light she saw the man licking his thin lips as he came forwards to insinuate himself between her thighs. She knew what he was after and the thought of him putting his scrofulous tongue inside her made her skin crawl. She shuddered when she felt its warm, firm pressure on her love lips and then as it traced the gap between them until it rested on her bud of pleasure. The man’s arms had encircled her thighs, pulling them wide apart and she knew that she had no chance of denying him his pleasure.

      To her dismay, in spite of being fucked roundly by
el Jefe
hours ago, Margie felt her passions awakened by the skillful and insistent tongue that lashed at her crevasse. He took his time, burying his stiffened tongue deeply within her and then lashing it up its length again and again. He seized her love bud with his lips and sucked on it long and hard, flicking the tip of his tongue across it until the unhappy, young woman could deny her passions no more.

      Margie’s chest began heaving with the results of her enflamed lust. Her thighs quivered each time the tongue flitted across her rigid, engorged clit. Her breasts ached with need. When her climax came, she groaned and shook, pulling futilely at the bindings that locked her hands to the post above her, squeezing her thighs tightly against the head that owned the tongue that was tormenting her.

      She was still in the middle of her orgasm when she heard some noise at the end of the tent and the man’s head was violently and suddenly pulled away from her. There was a scream, a piteous plea in high pitched Spanish and then a dull thud and then another and another.

      Diego and Pepe had cruised the
Rio Cioro
for hours. The police raft had come equipped with a little box that had policeman type supplies in it, a first aid kit, flares, some nylon rope, notebooks and pens, a small book containing some of the statutes that regulated activities on the river and a large, powerful flashlight. They had used the flashlight to help them navigate down the stream in the dark and then to guide themselves as they cruised up and down the
Cioro
, looking for victims. Perhaps the news of Diego’s dramatic escape had warned off the river traffic, but they had had no luck. When they came into the lagoon on their return, Diego noticed that Manuelo was nowhere to be seen. He knew right away where he was and as soon as he got out of the boat, he drew his
machete
from his belt.

      Manuelo had been too engaged in his favorite sport to hear the putt putt of the boat’s engine as it arrived on the sandy beach. The sound of the girl’s energetic moaning and the fact that her thighs had closed tightly around his ears had deafened him to the sound of his approaching doom. It was with great surprise and terror that he felt a vice-like grip on his ankle and his body being dragged out of the tent. He hadn’t expected
el Jefe
and Pepe back for another hour at least. When he looked up, he saw the shiny blade of the
machete
high in the air. He let out a blood curdling scream. “
Mi Dios!
” was all he had time to exclaim and the blade came down and plunged deeply into his throat. On the third chop, his scraggly head with its contorted face finally separated from his body.

      Margie was leaning up as far as her bound hands would allow to see what was going on. She could just see a little bit outside the tent. When she saw the bloody head of her assailant rolling along the grass, she screamed with terror. Her captor in chief came crawling in, the red stained
machete
still in his hand. New, dark maroon splatters covered his shirt and pants. His face was a mask of rage.

      “You fucking whore!” he yelled at her as she cringed and tried to withdraw her body from his reach. “You let that son of a pestilent whore suck at your cunt!” Margie tried to tell the man that she had had no choice, that it was forced upon her as she felt him untie her hands from the stake. But her muffled protestations were not heard. The heavyset man dragged her from the tent and across the clearing back to the scene of her earlier torment. The distraught woman pulled at the bindings that held her wrists so firmly together and tried to dig the heels of her sandals in the earth to prevent what she knew was coming. The angered bandit just dragged her along effortlessly.

       Margie cried and sobbed as her hands were tied again to the branch above her head. The day had just broken and sunlight was beginning to brighten their little encampment. It was just about 24 hours ago that she had stood at the window of her hotel room exposing her body to the day’s beginning rays, oblivious to the eyes of the world outside, reveling in the post orgasmic bliss of her tryst with her lover and husband. Now she was standing in this clearing waiting for the cruel man to vent his rage on her, her new, vicious lover enraged because another man had touched her. This was so unfair that she had a hard time believing that it was really happening. The man had raped her with his mouth and she was to blame? The injustice of everything that had happened to her came down on her all at once. “
Why! Why is this happening to me! Why! Why!
” she thought desperately.

      Yesterday, the great bandit, Diego Badoya, had been teaching the
puta
a lesson. It was his duty as her owner and a man to put her in her place. He had applied the whip earlier with determination and alacrity, but not with his full strength. But this was different! The cunt had betrayed him, soiled herself, and she had to pay! He picked up the switch he had left on the ground and, without preliminaries swung it at the woman’s breasts with all of his might.

      The sound of the whip when it met the crying and baying woman’s flesh resounded through the small glade. If yesterday’s lashes had been unbearable, this was double, no triple that. It felt like someone had dragged a knife across her breasts and Margie, too stunned and overwhelmed by the pain, could not catch her breath even to scream. The next lash crossed the front of her already red lined thighs and she emitted a low, piteous moan. When the third vicious blow crossed her ass, she was finally able to let loose and her scream punctuated the air even through her gag.

      Margie was unable to assemble a single thought as the excruciating pain ran through her. Twice more, once across her back and another across the back of her legs, the lash bit cruelly into her flesh. And then it stopped.

      Diego was satisfied that his honor had been avenged. It was cruel, he knew that. And perhaps even unfair, for the whore was tied up and certainly unable to resist Manuelo’s approaches. But it was the principle of the thing. No one touched his woman, no one, and if her succulent flesh was responsible for luring his
compadre
into his fatal mistake, then the flesh must suffer. What would Pepe think if he did nothing to the girl? He would think that the old bastard was slipping. And if word got out, then everything would be just that much harder. Policemen would lose their fear of him, victims of his escapades might be more prone to resist. Pepe himself might think why he needs this old guy anyway. No. The beating was necessary. But as he looked at the bleeding, moaning, sagging female, he decided that five blows were enough.

      Diego left the unfortunate woman hanging by her wrists for the rest of the morning. He had been up all night and needed his rest. After they dragged Manuelo’s lifeless body to the river and watched the current pull it away, Diego gave the man’s head a long toss. It entered the water with a loud ‘plop’ and the men laughed. “Adios Manuelo,” Diego called out. “You should have kept your
pinga
tongue in your mouth!” He and Pepe then crawled into their tents and fell asleep.

      Margie stood helplessly bound at the edge of the clearing for the rest of the morning, until a little after noon. It was hot and her wounds burned. Flies kept gathering where the blood oozed out of the thin, long lacerations of her flesh. Her throat was raw from screaming and she was thirsty and tired. Although she feared what new torments her captor might devise for her, she was glad when he finally emerged from his tent, stretching and yawning.

      Apparently all was forgiven. They ate some more beans for breakfast and went back to the tent for more fucking. Margie was happy, but surprised, that the man hadn’t made her suck his cock yet and also that he had not yet decided to deflower her ass. His handling of her was just a little more rough, a little more callous when they fucked, but that was all right. She came repeatedly nonetheless.

      That night, Pepe and Diego went out again on the river. Since there was no one to stay behind and watch the
puta
, Diego had taken the rope from the box on the raft and, discarding finally the soft, cotton cloth that he had used to bind her so far, affixed the rope to her limbs and left her in a hog tie in the tent. She suffered through the long night from loneliness and fear. Her shoulders soon came to ache from the strain of her legs attached to them. Eventually, lying on her belly, her hands and feet in the air above her, she finally nodded off, only to be awoken from time to time by some evil sounding shriek in the jungle or rustling in the nearby bushes.

      The men came back empty handed again. Diego slept after letting the female pee and rebinding her in her hog tie. Later, in the afternoon, he gave her a comforting wash in the lagoon. She was grateful for the soothing water flowing over her body, the chance to wash the blood and dried semen from her flesh and the chance to wash and brush her long, red tinted, blond hair.

      That night, as dark approached, the men reached a momentous decision. They were almost out of gas for the boat and other supplies as well. The brandy and cigarettes were long gone. They could not go on like this. Margie watched as they re-stored the tents and the pots and other equipment in the footlocker along with some of the flares from the police raft. When they had reburied it, they came back and erased what traces of their habitation that they could.

      When they were ready to go, the bandit led Margie into the small craft, retied her ankles to her bound wrists and tightened the dirty, orange cloth around her face. She had no way of knowing, of course, but the bandit had experienced a period of indecision about what to do with her. Taking her on night patrol on the river had its risks. She might make some noise to ward off their prey, or make trouble in some other way. Besides he didn’t like getting too attached to a
crica
. They had had their fun. But something about the woman made him want to keep her. He hadn’t fucked her ass yet, nor her mouth, and he didn’t want to terminate their relationship until he had had the chance to do both. He had just been too excited by her wonderful, hot pussy to deviate from that orifice to date. And there was the thought of how jealous everyone would be when he walked along with her in tow in the streets of
Porto Vaca
up on the Brazil border, if they ever got that far. Not everyone could claim possession of a beautiful, blond
gringa
, and it would make his stock go high among the habitués of that lawless town. Besides, if there was trouble, he could just dump her over the side.

      Margie wondered if she was ever to be allowed to have clothes again. She was relieved when she saw that her
hermano
, her man, as she had begun to think of him, dumped her skirt and the white cloth that he had bound her with into the box that contained the police supplies on the boat. Diego sat in the front and Pepe sat in the back by the engine and they scooted off into the stream.

      It was a last ditch effort to gain some loot and transportation up river for the men. The river ran the wrong way and without gas or paddles, they would be helpless. They would have to either float their way back to
Cotabaya
and probable capture or tread through the jungle without food or water for days, probably die. They needed a score that night or else.

      Pepe kept the engine at a low rev as they scooted upstream in the dark. They kept to the middle of the river so that they could watch both sides. They were looking for an encampment or possibly another boat at anchor. Diego was optimistic. For some reason the gods had kept him lucky and alive after all he had been through and he didn’t believe that they would let him die like a dog in the jungle after all that.

      They had been trudging slowly upstream for about two hours when Diego made a low noise and pointed to the southern shore. There was a small boat, still much bigger than their raft, anchored about 30’ from the shore. It had a small pilothouse on the front and a long stern in which boxes of something could be seen piled high and covered with a tarp. Most of the supplies that sustained the border outpost of
Porto Vaca
came up the river and the boat was probably run by one of the vendors who plied it. It was too dangerous to run the boat at night with all the twists and turns in the river, especially the farther you got south. That and the fact that there was probably only one operator of the commercial craft made it advisable to anchor for the night.