Droning in voice pressed flat by the tedium of her job, the cashier girl repeated the register’s digital display, “Your total is $93.89.”
My fingers dug deep to the bottom of my left front pocket. I pulled out a few folded bills and put them on the counter, unfurling them along with my opinion; “Shit, almost a hundred dollars for some rough cloth stapled to cheap wood frames, some brushes and a few small tubes of paint? No wonder artists are starving. Who can afford this?” I shook my head in disbelief, “Somebody’s getting rich – and it ain’t me.” The bored cashier girl looked unconcerned for my financial stress.
I worked my way around all four pockets, probing the depths of each and every one. I parted with the dear fifty from the back left pocket. I stacked it on top of the two twenties I’d just pulled out, taking back the ten that I’d first put down. I left a five at the bottom of the stack and pushed the bills across the counter. I held out my palm to collect the $1.11 in change.
“Would you like to donate to the University’s Women’s Shelter this afternoon?” she asked as she sacked my art supplies.
“Sure. Always a worthy cause.” Pulling three one-dollar bills from my shirt pocket, I stuffed them into the jar. I kept the ten-dollar bill along with my change, leaving $11.11 to my name. I liked to have at least eleven dollars, figuring I could make that stretch for three meals. It was good to have a three-meal cushion if I could manage it.
I paused to consider the beauty of the sum of the bills and coins in my pocket; eleven dollars and eleven cents. Eleven is an elegant number, a pair of simple strokes. Two numeral ones standing upright, side-by-side, straightforward without looping crooks in their form. Eleven is uncomplicated. I admire uncomplicated things. I wished the answer to life was 11 – simple, straight and uncomplicated.
The cashier girl smiled at me, “Thanks for your contribution. Art students are always so kind. I think they’re the best kind of people.”
Acknowledging her compliment with a grunt, I gathered my bagged art supplies and arranged the five stretched canvases under my arms, cramming the receipt into one of my painfully empty pockets. I shuffled my way out the University Bookstore, shifting the awkward bundle pinned under my arm.
I wondered what that cashier girl thought of math majors. I suspected that she, like most people, had an uncharitable bias toward math guys like me. I let her believe I was a fine arts major. I don’t like to tell people I’m a student of mathematics. That information always complicates things and I dislike complicated things. It’s best to just let others judge by appearances, allowing their assumptions to go uncorrected. It works better for me, I’ve discovered, if I don’t upend people’s biases by revealing I’m a mathematician.
Stepping out through the bookstore doors was like stepping into a furnace. It was hot, even for August. I looked down the sidewalk, the storefront signs along the street shimmered in the heat, distorted like the surreal melted watches in a Salvador Dali painting. My flesh glistened with perspiration as I stood under the midday sun. I didn’t know much about painting, but I suspected that it was best to not drip my sweat on these expensive canvases tucked into my armpit.
Stopping in the middle of the pedestrian mall, I attempted to rebalance my armload, fighting with gravity to rearrange my purchases. I was an uncoordinated sight to anyone foolish enough to be out under this scorching noonday sun with me. Leaning a couple of the frames against my leg, I readjusted the smaller ones in my arms. I had a loose grasp on the unruly collection, so it was easy for the young woman to walk up behind me and snatch them out of my arms. She turned and stooped, collecting the two larger frames off the ground as well.
“Switch majors over the summer?” She held my canvases in front of her face, but I recognized her voice.
“No. No, of course not. I’m still in the Mathematics Department; but maybe I should switch. Ever notice how people get weird and uptight around math majors, but everyone loves art majors?” Twirling with the grace of a matador, Maribeth avoided my reach as I tried to take back my frames. Her full cotton red skirt flew up above her knees like the matador’s cape taunting the charging bull as it billowed with the waves of hot air rising from the searing concrete.
“Don’t go getting all insecure on me Marco, too early for that nonsense. It’s only August and classes haven’t even started. Besides, I think there’s something for everyone to love among you pointy-headed number types. Listen, math majors are a pretty bimodal population; at one end of the spectrum you have the straight and narrow, solid and serious. At the other end you have those free-flowing cosmic consciousness types who have an eloquent equation to unlock world peace.” Maribeth started carrying my frames down the mall as she finished doling out her opinion on mathematicians.
“Wait! Maribeth, I’m going this way.” I pointed to my left.
“Not if you need these white squares.”
“Maribeth, they’re not squares. They’re simple rectangles.” I chased after her as she headed in the wrong direction. I was thinking she knew damn well they were rectangles. She was just trying to provoke me.
I caught up to her as she continued her strides, “So, if you’re not the next Marc Chagall, then why this armful of empty canvases in the hands of a number nerd?”
“I’m required to take a course out of my major. My advisor recommended a painting class.” I trailed after her as she skipped across the sunbaked pavement, writhing under a beguiling watery mirage in the heat.
“So Marco, I wonder if your advisor recommended a painting class to expose you to a loveable group of art majors in hopes of smoothing off the rough edges of your defensive, unappreciated, numerical personality?” Maribeth had a way of asking sharp, mocking questions. “Am I right, you’ve been shoved outside your comfort zone and forced to mingle with artists? Is that why you’re feeling so unloved and threatened as an equation guy Marco?”
I laughed at the way she poked at me with her questions because it kind of hurt. “No. No, I don’t think that was her purpose; I think she believes that a math mind complements the arts.” I debated as to whether I should open up to her with my feelings, and then I blurted out, “To be honest Maribeth, walking into an art studio makes me uncomfortable. It’s not my element.”
“Marco, if you’re going to go trespassing into the art world, you’ll find that painters are lovable, but insecure and needy. But I warn you, nowhere as needy as music majors.” Maribeth veered into the dim interior of The Bucket. I followed her and my white canvas rectangles inside.
“What makes music majors so needy?” I hoped Maribeth would continue with her insights into those inscrutable inhabitants of the performing arts world. I wanted to know if she could help me make a connection between mathematicians and artisans. Maribeth was insightful, so I hoped she could and would.
“Marco, we’re a very sensual lot. We crave stimulation, stimulation of our senses, stimulation of our body and soul. It’s what makes us feel alive and connected to the universe and people. Musicians are ruled by strong emotions, we need to have our connections constantly affirmed, otherwise we fear we’ll be set adrift in a meaningless world. We need to connect. We need to be tied to our sensory experiences. We’re all insecure and needy in this way.”
Maribeth paused under the air-conditioned relief inside the door of The Bucket, looked around and walked to a dark corner booth. I followed her. She placed the canvases she’d swiped on the table against the wall and took a seat. I followed her lead, sliding onto the bench across the table from her. “Does your innate neediness and desire for connections have anything to do with why you stole my art supplies and made me come in here with you?”
“Could be…” She seemed to be thinking about my question. “It could be that, I suppose. And maybe some other things too.”
“Like what?” I had to ask. I feared this might be a set up by a wily and needy piano composition and music theory upperclassman.
“It could be a mix of things. It’s complicated, now that you mention it.” Maribeth mused with a distant look in her eye.
I sighed, “I was just thinking that I don’t like complicated stuff. But I guess I’m going to have to deal with complicated artists and musicians now that I spent all this money on painting supplies.”
She gave me a wink. “You know Marco, I believe below all that dominant brain mass; you might have a rather perceptive heart.”
I put my bag of art supplies next to the stacked rectangular frames and leaned over the table, “Back to the subject of you and your neediness and why you’ve led me in here. Is it like there are multiple variables with different sets of solutions to explain the way you operate?”
Maribeth snorted in a laugh. “Not the way I would have framed it, Marco. But for you, yes; that is an eloquent way of phrasing it all.”
Feeling yet again judged in a pejorative way as a mathematician, I asked, “So Maribeth, how would you frame it then?”
“You know what? It’s ten-dollar Tuesday at The Bucket. Why don’t you buy us a pitcher and I’ll paint you a picture the way I would frame it. You won’t be sorry. Not if you’re all right with nudes and scandal in the name of social science as compositional elements of this picture. But it is a complicated and highly inappropriate picture.” Maribeth cast her gaze over my head; I could see she was thinking about what she had just offered me in the way of a complex, multivariable explanation of her motives as a woman and an avowed needy music composition student.
“I’ve got $11.11 to my name. That’s three meals. Is this pitcher going to be worth it Maribeth? Be honest, don’t try and mess with me.” I stood, knowing that I was going to buy a ten-dollar pitcher of beer, no matter what her answer was.
Maribeth snapped back into the present. “Guaranteed Marco,” she assured me. “I’ll give you a complex and intimate view of us artsy and musical types as an introduction to the world outside your orderly universe of formulas. And in return, I’ll get my needy fix of sensual stimulation by untangling my story before a live audience. You know I warned you, as a performer, I’m very sensual and very needy. In a way, I crave an audience. And you’re my audience on ten-dollar Tuesday.” With a flip of the hand, she dismissed me to go buy us some beer.
I set the pitcher and a pair of frosted mugs on the lacquered, rough wood table and poured Maribeth’s beer. She watched the head spill over the rim. I asked, “Why are you back on campus this early, or this late, in the summer? I thought you’d been recruited for some exotic, overseas research adventure or something like that.”
Maribeth kept her head down, drinking in the beer’s frothy head with her eyes. I saw the corners of her mouth pull up in a shy smile as she drew out her memories in halting sentences. “Yeah, you could say all of that.”
“I was overseas.”
“It was exotic. Yeah, you could say that.”
“I’ll also say that it was an adventure. And it was erotic as well.”
“Yeah Marco, it was quite a wild adventure; a wild, exotic, erotic, overseas adventure.” She was reluctant to meet my eyes as she wrapped both hands around her chilled glass mug.
I dipped my head to try and catch her downcast eyes. She saw what I was doing and turned her face to the wall. “Damn it Maribeth! You’re being so complicated. First, you stroll up to me and boldly steal my painting class supplies. Then, you lead me to The Bucket and make me buy us a pitcher under the pretense that I am going to receive intimate insight into loveable, yet needy artists and their connection to mathematicians. Now, after I’ve fallen for all of this, you go all shy and coy on me. Damn girl, do I have to whip out my quadratic equation and solve all of your complexity by myself? Or are you going to help me get a grasp on loveable artsy fartsy folks like you promised?”
Maribeth returned to her beer, hoisting it to her lips without answering me. She tipped her head back, letting her wild, wavy light brownish blonde hair fly off her shoulders. After a big gulp she pounded the partially empty mug onto the table. I stared at her, waiting for my answer. She held her lips in a tortured smirk. She had a residue of foam coating her upper lip. I reached over and swiped my finger across her foamy lip and then tasted my finger.
I smacked my lips in a dramatic fashion, “Hmm. I believe I have discovered a brew that makes women’s tongues go mute. Perhaps I can market this brew to hen-pecked husbands and become very rich. It might pay for these overpriced art supplies.”
Maribeth’s eyes flashed. She took a small sip. She pinched her lips together and propelled a frothy beer-mist in my direction. Maribeth burst into laughter. “Marco, it’s complicated. It’s hot and I needed a beer. That’s my simple start to this. I saw you juggling your canvas squares and I was glad to recognize someone still on campus this summer and I thought we could share a beer. And…”
“…And you need to talk and untangle something – because it’s complicated?” I finished her sentence after noticing she was hanging up on completing her last thought.
“You mentioned something about painting me a complex picture with some wild compositional and inappropriate elements? You know that offer is what got me to spend my last meal dollar on you and this pitcher of beer.”
Maribeth ripped a paper towel off the spindle in the center of the condiment stand and wiped up the mess she had sprayed onto my side of the table. “This is going to be pretty wild. I’m back on campus this early to download my personal experiences and help edit notes from an anthropology research trip in remote Indonesia. The professor who organized our anthropology expedition needs me to tell him all the details from my wild, erotic experiences in the jungle.”
I interrupted, “But Maribeth, you’re not an anthropology student; you’re a self-confessed needy pianist. What would you have to say that’s of any importance to the professor in charge of your research trip? Weren’t you just a hireling? Grunt labor in return for a foreign adventure? I understood you kind of went along for the ride, just helping with some bookkeeping, right?”
“Sure, it was quite a ride that I went along on. And it was quite the unexpected experience.” Maribeth dropped her voice, “I was taken against my will by a band of tribal men. I was abducted and used.”
Maribeth paused; I could see she was drawing some strength from inside herself. “As a captive female, I was forced into this tribe’s primitive ceremony. They made me an oracle; I was filled by…” Maribeth again paused before changing the direction of her story. “I was empowered to speak for, or speak as their goddess in a sacred ritual. I became a prophetess of the future. The presiding shaman interpreted my…” Maribeth’s words slowed, then stopped short, rethinking what she was about to say.
She took a breath, gathering her emotions and continued with a different line of thought. “I’ll tell you it was scary. I had no control whatsoever. I was at the mercy of a group of savage jungle men. It was all kind of traumatic, and sort of sexy and very sensual.” She took a deep breath, “It’s all going to be compiled into an academic article, or several — or maybe covered up as a dark secret. I don’t know what’s supposed to happen. Perhaps my story will be suppressed, never to be mentioned; at least not unless a few of the complexities can get smoothed out. It all depends.”
I could see that something changed inside Maribeth as she finished her last statement. I saw that she had found some inner strength. She became emboldened as she warmed to her story of ‘what I did on my summer break’.
She took another swig of her beer. “Doesn’t matter Marco. I don’t think co-authoring obscure academic articles in The Journal of Kinky Anthropology is the big, true story here for me. For me, it’s all about connections to the universe and finding meaning in my emotions and experiences. I really don’t give a damn about academic theories of social science.”
Taking a deep breath, the girl across from me began, “These emotional, complex and meaningful events all happened to me in a remote archipelago hidden among the islands of Indonesia.”
Maribeth set her jaw. “Excuse me, but I’m kind of needy right now. Marco, I need to paint you an erotic picture of what happened to me. Someday, if I get the nerve, I might write a book about my wild adventure at the hands (and other manly parts) of a band of indigenous people who belong to a virtually unknown forest dwelling people.”
My interest was aroused. “Wow. That’s some introduction. I always thought you were the adventurous type. But I’m sorry; it sounds like maybe it got out of hand? Are you all right now?” I regretted my last question, how callous of me.
Maribeth ignored my question and brushed off my concerns. “Oh, what the hell Marco; I’m going to tell you the whole thing. I need to let it out.”
She took another sip, exhaled a long breath and began her story, “It was totally unexpected. It all happened to me so quickly. Dr. Friday is gorilla ape-shit terrified over this story. He’s terrified that if the dean finds out that one of the school’s female students was abducted and personally compromised during a pagan sex ritual on one of his foreign research studies, that it’ll be the end of his career, tenure or not.” Maribeth brushed her hair over an ear, took a gulp and continued, “I’m back on campus to meet Dr. Friday in private. He needs me to get our stories straight and to alter his reports of the events to third-person anonymous. The plan right now is to pretend that it wasn’t me in that compromised position, but some sweet Indonesian lass who was taken against her will and gang raped. At least that’s the spin angle we’re supposed to hash out.”
I was stunned to hear the hints being dropped about Maribeth’s summer experience as she began telling me some of the details. It sounded like rape. I thought about the three bucks I’d just stuffed into the Women’s Shelter donation jar, wondering if I should recommend counseling for my friend. My guts tightened. This is not at all what I had anticipated when I followed Maribeth in here and bought a pitcher. If Maribeth needed me to help untangle her traumatic sexual experience, I hoped I could muster the proper sympathetic listening ear for a friend in need.
My growing prurient interest in Maribeth’s exotic and erotic summer adventure story made me ashamed of my inner, voyeuristic feelings. It seemed like she needed to unburden herself of some intimate details of her forced participation in an ancient, erotic pagan cult ceremony. Her low-whispered description aroused my interest. I hoped that my aroused interest would not come to Maribeth’s attention, since my arousal was concealed under the table. I was embarrassed at getting a boner under these serious circumstances, but there are some things that a guy just can’t help. I wanted to be sympathetic to Maribeth. I wanted to be her safe, strong confidant. I liked Maribeth – no, it was deeper than that; I had a crush on Maribeth. I just never thought she was interested in me.
“Marco, before I go into details. Do you think you will judge me in a bad way if I tell you about being taken by this tribe and made a central part of their cult sex ritual? It was nonconsensual, I had no choice you know. I was forced into surrendering my body to young warriors and I feel I was also possessed by a strong female spirit.” Maribeth took another sip and watched my face.
I thought that a proper gentleman should be reluctant to hear this story, but Maribeth obviously needed to talk. She didn’t seem all weepy; I felt that was a good sign. If Maribeth could handle this conversation, then so could I. I’m no touchy-feely counselor, but if Maribeth was empowered in the telling of a tale where she was held powerless and used by wild men for their pleasure; then lending my listening ear might be of comfort to her.
I was eager to hear Maribeth’s story. Though, I didn’t want to seem too eager. I lifted my mug and took my first sip of the afternoon. “Don’t worry; I think I know how it feels to be judged in a bad way. I’m a ridiculed mathematician, not a loveable art major you know. If you’re feeling needy, I’ll be your unconditionally accepting live audience. I’m ready to listen with sensitivity and appreciation.” I was being honest. But to be totally honest, my voyeuristic interests were also being piqued. I wanted to hear about the erotic episode from the mouth of the beauty sitting across from me.
After taking another sip, Maribeth topped off her mug and began; “This goes back to last year, my great friend Margaret is doing her anthropology doctorate research in Indonesia. Her professor got a grant to do field work among some of the 17,000 islands in the Indonesian archipelago. Margaret thought my ability to take notes, studious organizational skills and sense of adventure would mark me for a great field assistant. Dr. Friday hired me with some of his grant money for this expedition to document the coming-of-age rituals and transition to adulthood among some of the peoples in a remote group of islands.”
Maribeth leaned over the table and spoke in a captivating hush as she began her story: “We picked up our translator and guide after landing in Jakarta. We traveled by seaplane, a single-engine, airborne rust bucket and a couple of different boats, to a cluster of tropical rain forest islands that had a collection of fishing villages surrounding a larger island with a small hamlet. This was the exotic part; equatorial, steamy, mysterious ancient ways, mixed with some glimmers of 21st century technology, tucked into thick jungles. The people were mostly fishermen, traders and pirates. I was excited to maybe run into some pirates, but Margaret assured me it was not as romantic as a girl might think. But I still wondered if, and hoped, I’d meet a pirate out there.”
“So, did you meet your pirate on this expedition?” I asked, curious if that is where the wild sex part came in.
“No. They weren’t pirates really. But you might say that they were interested in booty. If you let me continue, I’ll give you all the details Marco.” Maribeth seemed interested in drawing me into what she had hinted to be a scandalous anthropology expedition.
Maribeth picked up the narration and I listened, I promised not to judge her nor interrupt.
***
It was our second day in the little remote island hamlet; Dr. Friday had taken a small boat across the channel to arrange a meeting with a local elder, leaving Margaret and me to take care of some business close to the waterfront. There was a noticeable clatter and scurrying among the locals. Some were running away, and a few others showed anxiety and excitement as they came to look out into the channel between the islands. Margaret asked Mr. Mahari, our guide and translator, what the commotion was about.
Mr. Mahari did not know for certain, but he got some vague information that there was a report that a group of primitive people from some other islands were on their way to this hamlet. These purported visitors were a tribe seldom seen by the local inhabitants, known mostly from rumors and legends. It was obvious that some locals, mostly women, acted with fear on the news of their rumored visitation. Most of the young men crowded the rickety wharf in hopes of getting a rare glimpse of these mysterious forest folk.
Mr. Mahari approached Margaret with a furrowed brow, “I think to say to my ladies to not be in this place.” He said in a deferential tone to Margaret.
My friend Margaret looked unconvinced. “Mr. Mahari, it does not look like this is an attack. Why, I see many people looking curious and watching. I think we will be fine.”
Mr. Mahari persisted, “I think to say to you that only men stay here. I think to say to you that my ladies are not to be in this place.”
Margaret listened and then offered her decision, “I think we’ll be just fine with these local men standing near us. I am not worried Mr. Mahari. It is my job to observe these people and I will be very interested to see who these legendary visitors are and what their purpose is here.”
Mr. Mahari shook his head, “I say to my ladies, this is not a good day to be in this place.”
Margaret and Mr. Mahari were at an impasse. Margaret turned to me, “Maribeth, help me remember all that we see and hear. I have a feeling this may be an important anthropological event. We’ll have to write and compare our notes right after this visitation. It seems to be causing a mild uproar among the locals.”
A great murmur went up from the men at the end of the wharf. Townsfolk, mostly men, huddled together and stepped tentatively toward the waterfront to look up the channel. Margaret and I crossed the dusty street to get a closer look as well. There were six specks on the water coming around the nearest island. Some of the locals broke back into town, others looked nervous as they crowded along the shore to see for themselves. Some young women came out of their houses, ignoring the animated commands of their mothers or aunts from inside.
The crowd grew as curiosity got the best of the villagers. They packed close around us in the midmorning heat. Margaret was excited as she whispered her observations of the unfolding drama into my ear, reminding me to help remember what we were about to witness.
We were both taking mental notes as the six sea-faring canoes were paddled toward the beach in front of us. The canoes were large, carrying six to eight men; the important ones were standing, their high status was obvious by the rich colors of their feathered headdresses and animal skins draped over their tawny and brawny bodies. As the boats landed, the villagers gave up a simultaneous gasp then fell into a tense hush.
Three stripped-down men with bodies painted in blue, green and red pigments hopped from their boat and started chanting as they skipped and danced with rattles on the beach. Three more mostly naked young men likewise painted in blue, green and red joined the three on the beach with their drums and began to chant and circle. I observed to Margaret, “It looks to me like this is some kind of preparatory blessing or a form of introductory prayers before they get down to business here.”
Margaret turned to Mr. Mahari, “What are they saying? Why are they doing this?” Mr. Mahari just shook his head with his jaw hanging slack and a transfixed stare in his eyes. He was as dumbfounded as the rest of the crowd.
Mr. Mahari whispered after a few minutes, “I think to say, please, this is not a good place for my ladies.” Margaret and I ignored Mr. Mahari’s whispered warning; instead, watching with curiosity along with the rest of the island’s population.
After the chanting and dancing-in of an appropriate blessing, an elderly and richly robed man rose from the front of the craft and stepped ashore. The folks watching from the shore collectively drew in their breaths at his arrival. The rest of the landing party shouted in unison from their boats as the old man set foot on the island. Margaret again turned to Mr. Mahari, but he knew what she was going to ask, so he beat her to the punch and shook his head, “I do not know this thing.”
The six painted dancers and chanters circled their elder, each in turn pausing in their circling steps to stop and rub his bare belly as he stood holding a long staff topped with strings of feathers, shells and beads hanging below an octopus carved at the top. Mr. Mahari leaned close to Margaret and whispered, “I think to say to you, this man, he is important priest with magic. This man, he tells everyman what they are to do. This man will do his magic to make important decisions for his people. This man has power in his stomach that is being taken by his young men to use this day.”
The chanting stopped abruptly. The remainder of the flotilla jumped out of their canoes and waded ashore. Our island had been properly blessed by their shaman, his mysterious mission was about to begin. The huddled villagers once again gasped in awe as they pressed tighter together, straining to see what would happen next.
The militaristic landing party carried long poles with sharpened tips, a few men had metal-tipped spears and several others carried what I thought were woven reed mats. The chanting and dancing started once again among the six painted shaman’s assistants. They followed their elder as he raised his head and made invocations while the forty or so warriors fanned out and circulated among the villagers. The crowd was parted by the men with poles and spears. The magic priest walked through the island’s populace, reaching into a bag hanging below his stomach, pulling out a handful of bones and a few feathers. The crowd tensed and let out an audible flutter of whispers as they watched.
The shaman knelt to the ground and made a circle in the dust and drew several bisecting lines through the circle. He said a prayer and cast his handful of bones into the circle and let the feathers fall to the ground. He picked up his bones and feathers and walked further into the crowd. The men from the village and a few women huddled in silence as the medicine man moved among them.
Again, the colorful shaman halted and drew a circle and cast his divining elements onto the earth. He stood and gave orders. A handful of burly warriors stepped into the crowd and grabbed a young woman and brought her to the priest. There were shrieks and cries from a few in the crowd, presumably some of her relations. The enforcers with poles and spears headed toward the noisemakers while some of the local men intervened to spirit away the few vocal villagers from the gathered crowd of remaining anxious, yet silent observers.
Margaret looked fascinated; she whispered to Mr. Mahari, “What are they going to do with that girl?”
He answered in a serious tone, “This man very important man. This man is chief priest. This man hears and he sees signs from his gods and this priest tells his people what their gods want them to do.”
Margaret asked, “What do his gods need this girl for?”
Mr. Mahari shook his head, “I do not know this thing.”
The girl that had been seized from within the crowd was brought to the priest. He circled her, sniffing her body and then he smelled her breath. Detecting the scent of approval, he uttered a single word or phrase. One of the warriors carried a woven mat and came to the seized girl and slipped the woven cylinder around her, pinning her arms to her side. The girl was stuffed into a binding that was the equivalent of a stone age cat carrier bag, like one used to transport a kitty to the vet. She started to cry. But if anybody was thinking of coming to her rescue, they were dissuaded by the large band of tough and serious armed men surrounding her.
It was stunning and amazing to me and Margaret that this was allowed to happen in front of the whole village, and nothing was being done. We didn’t understand what was being done to her or why everyone was so complacent. Margaret addressed Mr. Mahari, “Should we help her? Why isn’t anyone stopping this? What is happening Mr. Mahari?”
“This is a custom of these people since a far back time. Young American university lady who comes to these people to learn from them should not interfere with old customs by her not-understanding ideas. I think to say that it is very unwise to cause a problem with these men.” Mr. Mahari seemed resolute in his advice, if not mildly scolding Margaret. “I think to say to my ladies, American ladies best to watch and not do.”
Margaret was conflicted, but followed the advice of her guide to observe and not intervene, as was her research mission and purpose.
The process between the shaman, his rough band of followers and the villagers played out as the invaders wandered through the hamlet. Another young woman was singled out by the roll of the bones and a drop of the feathers. She was encased like a sausage and carried into one of the boats like the first girl. There was some weeping and wailing among the women. A collective murmuring was heard when the maiden was selected and carried against her will to the boats. Yet again, the assembled village settled into their silence. There was no effort made among her own people to stop her from being taken.
After a few more earthen circles and cast bones, it looked like their business was finished. The bold raiders had collected the divinely appointed young female victims. The threatening horde of men assembled at the waterfront as the crowd closed in behind them. The invaders headed back to their boats with two young captive women as bound prisoners.
The priest was on the shore and was about to enter his boat when he stopped. He stuck his nose in the air, detecting a new scent. He motioned with his hands for everyone watching from the shore to part to the side. They swept back, giving him a lane to come back toward the village. At the top of the bank, he got down on all fours and smelled and licked the earth at the edge of the dusty street from where Margaret and I closely watched this unusual ritual.
Kneeling in the dust, he reached into his pouch and pulled out his bones and dropped his feathers without making a circle. He motioned for his men to come to him and gave them a new order. The men rushed across the street. Mr. Mahari became instantly agitated and stepped in front of us. Mr. Mahari was overpowered and forced to the side while waving his arms and speaking rapidly in his native tongue. Mr. Mahari flailed, speaking fierce words as he was pinned to the wall by men wielding their large, sharp sticks.
Margaret was pushed hard against the wall with the shaft of a spear on her throat. She attempted to slap the ruffian, but as soon as she raised her arms, they were slammed against the wall and held there by a dark enforcer. Her feet were kicked out from under her, and she fell into the dust and was held there at spear-point.
Marco, it happened so fast. Two serious men, wiry and strong, seized me by my arms and brusquely escorted me to the shaman waiting for me in the center of the dusty road. I twisted violently in their hands trying to break free. Of course, I cursed them with my most venomous Anglo-Saxon. I was terrified. But I was more angry than terrified. I figured I could take these girl-grabbers if I resisted with a violent flurry of kicks and punches. I would make them regret touching me up until their dying breath. I was ready, then-and-there, to extract that dying breath as I fought to rip their balls off and pull out their guts with my bare hands.
The throng of near-naked warriors pressed into me on all sides. My arms were held in a firm grip, their fingers dug into my muscles with painful strength. Men with poles and spears surrounded me, laughing at my struggles and indignation. I was dragged with my knees just off the ground with my feet kicking out in every direction, trying to crush and kick off the dangling nuts of my assailants. I screamed, spit, cursed and raised as much dust and ruckus as a half-dozen girls twice my size. It was to no avail. I was not a match for these primitive forest hunters.
I can punch above my weight Marco. Believe me, if this was a one-on-one grudge match with a single one of these brutes, my adrenalin and motivation would have shredded the guy. But under the circumstances, the odds of overcoming them were impossible. I was their captured, powerless prey.
I was hauled in front of the feathered leader by my band of abductors. He walked around me as I struggled with my captors, his body glistening in the late morning sun, his colored robe flowing in the humid air. His head feathers twisted as he inspected me with sniffing, grunting and snorting sounds. When he came face-to-face with me, I spit on him. He grinned and wiped my liquid wrath from his nose and lips with a finger and tasted it. He gave a command and one of those tight tubes of woven reeds was dropped over my head.
I couldn’t move. My boobs were squashed flat into my ribcage. I now know how those 19th century southern belles felt after being cinched up in their corsets to display a 16-inch waist. I could barely breathe. I thought I’d suffocate before I could be sacrificed.
I was bound and wrapped tight like a Christmas gift to be presented to some pagan god in need of sacrificial appeasement. I screamed in English, repeating the phrase, “I am not a virgin!” hoping that this would convince these men to release me. I had fixated on the idea that I was to be a human sacrifice thrown into a volcano. I guess my cultural anthropology all comes from watching too many old movies. I figured if they knew that I was not a virgin, then their god wouldn’t want me. It was the only thing I could think of to argue for my release. Of course, it made no difference. It was a silly and futile idea, but it was the only idea that came to my panicked mind – until I ran out of air to scream.
I was lifted to the shoulders of several hunters and carried down the sloping muddy shoreline and rolled into the bottom of one of the canoes. My boat was the first to be paddled several meters offshore. Margaret and Mr. Mahari had been released unharmed and they rushed to the edge of the sea. Margaret was shouting to me, “Maribeth we’ll get you back! Don’t worry! Dr. Friday will call the American ambassador, don’t worry. We’ll call the marines on these bastards! Oh god Maribeth! Please don’t worry, this will be OK tomorrow. I promise we’ll get you back!”
A handful of warriors put up a rearguard action to allow all of the canoes to push out to sea before they quit their watch over Margaret and Mr. Mahari. My dear friend kept shouting encouragement to me as the distance from land increased. I could hear the panic and fright in Margaret’s voice. For the first time in a long time, I had no control over my life. For the first time ever, I was scared for my life.
About an hour into my captivity one of the men in my boat came toward me with a large knife. I thought this was the end, I was going to be cut up and used for fish bait. He drew his knife and slit open my cocoon, letting my circulation return to my arms and air to my lungs. I was offered some dried fish and some fruit along with a needed drink of water.
Near the equator the sun sets quickly, and darkness falls fast. I had a brilliant idea – but it turned out rather stupid in the end; I would slip over the side of my canoe in the gathering twilight. If I went overboard quietly, maybe these cruel lady-nabbers wouldn’t notice. I’d decided to make my move when we came close to one of the dark, forested islands. I’m a good swimmer. I’d race free style to the shore and find my freedom. I’d write S-O-S in large letters on the beach and the promised American Marines would rescue me from my fate as a sacrificial ‘virgin’.
My brilliant plan was doomed to failure. Only I didn’t know it. I was noticed as soon as I rolled overboard into the sea. I was swimming for my life. Without much commotion, my boat swung around following me as I splashed with choppy swim strokes toward the island’s dark silhouette in the late afternoon sky. The other boats changed their course to observe the hunt and retrieval.
My boat paddled alongside me as the crews in the other canoes called out to the men in my boat. They were laughing. My escape was a joke. My dash to freedom was a source of merriment among these men of the forest and sea. My escape was blocked by several boats. I stopped and tread water while many of the men threw verbal jabs toward the leader from whom I’d escaped. Their taunting comments to my handler brought laughter from every boat. I was hemmed in by the six craft. Not only had my escape failed, but I was humiliated that my feeble escape efforts were found amusing by my captors. I was furious.
I dove underwater, swimming under the boats that blocked my escape to the island. I surfaced. As soon as I drew a breath, my captor’s boat pulled beside me. I started to swim but was caught by a strong hand grabbing my shorts, gripping my waistband. I thrashed and kicked violently, intending to escape. I slipped out of my shorts, leaving them empty and in the hands of the disappointed hunter. I kept swimming for my life.
My pursuers were right next to me. Two pairs of arms reached over the side, seizing my legs and one arm. I was hauled back into the boat and pinned to the bottom. My captors were all laughing. The other boats had watched the spectacle and though I didn’t know their language, there was no misinterpreting my recapture as a grand fish story that amused everyone. Only, in this story, the big one did not get away.
An oar was pushed hard to my chest, holding me on my back. I fought with my arms for a moment before my wrists were caught by powerful hands and twisted above my head to make me stop struggling. The boat’s captain looked at me lying in his hull, his eyes flashing as he looked over my drenched form. He reached for me; I kicked, landing a blow on a knee, which knocked him off balance. The other canoes drifting close to us were watching my recapture with amusement. My defiant kick which made the captain stumble, brought more laughter from the fleet.
A swift motion of the captain’s head was a silent order to get his crew to grab my legs. He again reached toward me, stripping my bright pink underwear, printed with tiny black butterflies, off my hips and all the way off my body. He gave the order to tie a rope around each ankle and pull my legs wide like a wishbone. I was spread into a V, each foot lifted and trussed to a supporting cross-piece, opening and exposing my private parts to his crew and all the world as I was left on my back, helpless with my feet shackled to the canoe’s frame.
Taking possession of my pink panties was the captain’s reward for the trouble my escape attempt had put him through. He proudly held up his prize for the rest of the raiding party to see, waving them in triumph. My panties were passed around among his crew; they being a seldom, if ever seen garment. Their color was unique and the butterfly imagery was appealing to the men. Some tried on my underwear as an armband or placed them over their head as a bright headband, eliciting fashion advice from the other boats. My nifty pink knickers were returned to the boat’s leader. He slit the crotch with his knife, admiring the amazing properties of the elastic waistband as he placed them on his head as a treasured adornment. The show was over, the boats got underway in the fading light.
I fumed in silence; angry that I had failed to escape, angry that I thought I could escape. I was mad that I had gotten myself into a position where I was strung out, naked below my waist and was being carried across the sea, humiliated and exposed, presumably as punishment for a girl who dared to fight against these sea-faring bastards. As long as I was roped into this embarrassing, privates pointed-up position, I vowed to piss on the next man who came within range of my upturned pee-shooter portal.
The flotilla landed on a small island before sunset and a camp was set up at the top of the beach. The two Indonesian girls stolen from the village had been freed from their woven tube constraints soon after we paddled out of sight of their homes. They were submissive and were put to use cooking an evening meal over an open fire. I was not used to help prepare the food; either the men didn’t think I was capable of cooking, or I was thought to still be an escape risk. If it was the latter, I was proud of myself; if it was the former, I was insulted.
I was hobbled with a short rope tied to both ankles, allowing me to take only tiny steps, but not walk or run. For good measure, I was tethered to a log with another rope wrapped around my neck like I was someone’s goat. I sat on the log, casually guarded by a couple of tough guys. From my seat I watched the young women cook and serve the men. The chief priest ate first, then the colorfully robed leaders of the boat crews, last to eat were the girls. One of them brought a broth and some fish to me. I took my supper from her and nodded in thanks. She pulled off her blouse, dropping it in my lap to cover up my nakedness below. I was touched by her kindness.
One of my guards barked at her. Using the business-end of his spear, he plucked her blouse from between my bare thighs and thrust it back at its owner. She grabbed it and slipped it over her well-formed, youthful breasts before turning and running back to the cooking fire. It was a signal to me that I was to remain stripped of my shorts, panties and dignity. I downed my meager meal in a hurry, afraid it too would be taken from me.
My watchers watched me more closely after this attempted bit of kindness by the other captive woman. They looked me over, talking under their breath among themselves. I knew I was the topic of their discussion. I feared that since I was deemed useless at preparing meals for the men, in the minds of these stone age brutes there was only one other good use for a woman. I concluded that their talk was all about deciding which one would rape me first tonight.
One of them motioned to me to unbutton my white shirt. I hesitated, acting like I didn’t understand his motions. He grew impatient, stepped toward me from the shadows, reaching for my breasts. I smacked his hands; his partner moved his spear in a threatening manner as he snickered.
With reluctance, I complied with their demands knowing I had no power among these men. I finished unbuttoning my shirt myself, avoiding giving them the pleasure of ripping off my bodice as a prelude to the rough sexual handling I was expecting to begin any moment. Once the shirt was loose on my shoulders, he came at me again, ripping it off my torso. I was left sitting with my legs tight together, tied to a log, dressed only in my white bra. I braced for the moment when my legs would be forced wide, and they would take their cruel male pleasure at my defenseless expense.
Taking my shirt, one guard held it to my unclothed lap, moving it down my legs and then up my body, comparing my white skin to the white fabric. The two seemed interested at how white my bare hips were and curious about the origin of my tan lines. I appeared to be a two-toned woman, having the varied coloration of a forest beast, not the uniform color of these bronze-skinned people of the forest and sea. I was a curiosity, an oddity; all the more fun to fuck I figured. I dreaded my fate.
The discussion of my skin tone ended when there was a shout and the men in camp became alarmed by something they heard. I listened too but heard nothing. The raiding party prepared their weapons, and all kept a sharp watch out on the water. After a few minutes I heard the puffing of a boat’s engine and saw my captors preparing for a fight. A boat with its running lights on came into view. I hoped that this was my salvation, the Indonesian Coast Guard, if such a thing exists. I now know it does not – at least not where we were.
The boat dropped anchor, floating offshore. A man on the boat began calling to the men in camp.
Margaret yelled across the water, “Maribeth are you over there? Maribeth are you alright?”
I stood and answered. “I’m OK. They haven’t done anything to me – yet.”
Dr. Friday yelled to me, “We’ve come with a translator and we are going to get you back. Wait for us to work out these delicate negotiations and stay calm. We’ll get you back, I promise. Maribeth, just don’t do anything rash under these conditions. Just stay calm.” Dr. Friday sounded nervous, more nervous than I was.
Two canoes with armed men launched from the beach and came back with Dr. Friday, Mr. Mahari and the new translator from the village who could communicate with my jungle dwelling captors. Margaret and the reluctant owner of the commandeered boat stayed offshore. The three men who had come to rescue me were escorted back to a lean-to where men of rank and the pagan priest sat. They welcomed their visitors to sit, as a group of menacing warriors stood behind my rescuers watching for any monkey business.
From my captive perch several yards away, I could overhear Dr. Friday asking questions. Mr. Mahari then translated Dr. Friday’s words to the new translator, who then spoke to the chief. The chief’s answers came back through the third man, then to Mr. Mahari and then into English for Dr. Friday. The process was tedious and slow as certain formal customs had to play out, rather than direct question and answer, cut-to-the-chase dialogue normal to Americans. The other two young women were soon off the negotiating table. Serious questions and negotiations revolved around my fate. It was difficult to get the pagan priest and his men to yield. The divine roll of bones and feathers has chosen me. It was hard for my rescuers to argue against divine will.
After many circuitous attempts at gaining my freedom, an agreement was reached. Assurances were made that my life was not in danger. Their deity was consulted and a promise was given that I would be released. Dr. Friday had rescued me – or so it seemed. Once my release was promised to Dr. Friday I was relieved that negotiations had finished so well. Then there came a huge sticking point that got intense.
Yes, I would be released – but not right now. My freedom would come only after some time in their custody. Their deity would have the final say, and she wasn’t speaking right now. I had to remain in captivity until the proper rites of their pagan ritual had played out. What this important ritual involved was unclear, but as I listened in, I got the impression that Mr. Mahari and the other man were not revealing all that they knew about my fate, keeping Dr. Friday in the dark.
Dr. Friday told them that he, his pair of translators, along with Margaret, would not abandon me. He insisted on this point and was soon accommodated. It was agreed that Dr. Friday’s party would be guests among these people, but they were not to interfere with the coming ritual. Afterwards, I would be released back to my friends. The negotiations were finished and the deal was sealed with solemn words and the traditional solemn act of Dr. Friday allowing the chief to hold his testicles while in turn Dr. Friday held the testicles of the chief as a mutual, man-to-man oath was sworn. There was no altering the agreement now. These men had made a sacred pledge and I was left in the testicle-fondling hands of this chief, his shaman priest and their band of fighters.
It was a huge relief to know that Dr. Friday had pledged his two nuts to guarantee that I would be released. My greatest fears were set aside.
“I hope you won’t judge me Marco, but after this negotiating session I felt a lot better. In fact, I was kicked into high gear thinking about this as an adventure. I never really dwelt on it too much, but in retrospect, I had always had a fantasy about being captured by pirates or bad men and made to perform nasty acts for them. I hope you’re not shocked to hear this about me? I warned you that I’m a sensuous and needy performing arts, musician-type. At the time I didn’t dare to let myself think it, but in hindsight Marco, I’ve had this idea that my secret sexual fantasy of being forcibly taken by bad men might be lived out in real life.”
I was stunned to hear the depth and detail of my friend’s experience, especially her revelations about her sexual fantasies. Not that I’d admit it, but I indulge in websites and reading material where women share their real sexual fantasies. It turns me on to get a glimpse into what women think about sex.
I bit back the urge to make her continue her narration, I played it cool. I topped off her beer. “Maribeth, I bet you were still pretty scared since you were not going to be released right away? And you still were going to have to face an unknown primitive ritual of some sort?”
“No actually, I took some comfort in the fact that my great friend Margaret and three trusted men had negotiated to be nearby during this adventurous trial by fire. I liked that these men were in control of my situation now with a safe ending for me guaranteed by a solemn pledge. It was kind of sensually kinky to be handed over to a group of men in loincloths where I had no control. It kind of fit my latent fantasies. Still, I was nervous. Nervous, excited, but not really scared. You won’t judge me will you Marco? I hope you can try and understand this sensual side of me.”
I reached across the table, tapped her on the wrist as I listened; “No risk of an unloved numbers guy passing judgment on you for what you couldn’t even control. No, your story and your secrets are safe with me. Go on if you feel comfortable.”
Maribeth smiled in appreciation of my sentiments and took a small sip of beer.
Dr. Friday’s rescue party spent the night on the boat, while I slept between four guards — or stayed awake all night while my guards slept around me. In the morning, Dr. Friday, Mr. Mahari and the third translator, along with Margaret, transferred into a couple of the long canoes for the final leg of the voyage. But they were separated from me and the other two Indonesian girls. The chase boat and its owner returned to the island port at the hamlet from whence we came. It was a half day of paddling across choppy seas as we journeyed with reluctance into the primitive past on our surprising and forced anthropological expedition.
We were greeted with song by a throng of bare-breasted women lining the banks as our boats entered a small river. Besides the expected captured Indonesian girls, the sight of three pale-skinned oddities plus two Indonesian male strangers was a source of obvious excitement among the welcoming women; it was apparent even to us, even though we had no understanding of their language. Our colorful and feather-clad priest gave instructions before we landed, dispatching some of the women to prepare for the arrival of four unexpected captive guests. Preparations had already been made for us three female sacrificial victims, selected by some unknown deity to play a role in an ancient rite of great importance to these people.
I and the other two females were handed into the care of a group of older women and their younger girl servants. We were separated from Margaret and Dr. Friday and the men who inhabited this island. I wore my bra and tied my shirt around my waist as my only accessory. We were marched through a clearing filled with twenty or thirty habitations built of tree limbs and grasses and mud. We followed a trail over a muddy ridge and down to a pristine inlet with a dark sand beach and a sea of brilliant blue. There were a handful of straw huts tucked in the trees above the beach, facing a large, round open structure draped with beautiful fabric for its walls. Sturdy timber poles supported this open-air building, its thatched roof resting on spokes of log beams.
Our matron handlers stopped us after setting foot in this small settlement, we three hostage girls were stripped of our clothing. Naked, we were led into the sea where we were washed and scrubbed by the younger women of this remote clan. Three attendants were assigned to each prisoner and used pieces of pumice to gently scrape our skin as warm sea water was sponged over our bodies.
I was an immediate favorite for attention, the young chaperons all vied to be assigned to me. My light skin and brownish blonde hair made me an object of intense curiosity. Everyone in this exclusively female camp took the opportunity to come over and caress my skin and run their fingers through my unique hair. I had been brought into their midst against my will, but I was being treated with deference as if I was a princess.
My tan lines were inspected and with a sense of awe as others lifted my breasts and explored the texture of my nipples and skin. There was a lot of chatter and giggling while we captive females were washed. Particular attention was given to handling and discussing the configuration of our labia.
We were led out of the water and onto a shaded part of the beach, having been bathed and cleaned for an expected sacrificial role. We were instructed to lie on a large woven mat face down. Our legs were spread and a pole with ropes threaded through the ends was looped over each ankle, making walking near impossible, much less running away. The young attendants knelt beside us three ceremonially purified prisoners and began to rub our backs with fragrant oil, working our skin into a supple sheen. They rolled their lady prisoners over on our backs, tits up and oiled us from our face to our tootsies. If I hadn’t been overpowered and hustled to this secluded location under force by a gang of muscled bronzed raiders, this would have looked like a tropical spa day for me.
With our bodies glistening, tits to tummy to toes, it became apparent that the leg-spreading pole attached to our ankles were not put in place to prevent our escape — since there was nowhere to which we could escape; but it was for display purposes. Our private girly parts were put on display with our legs spread wide. A matron began to chant as she approached us three naked girls with a knife. I was the first to undergo her ceremonial shave. With plenty of oil drenching my muff, she scraped away my curly hairs until I was slick and smooth with nary a nick while the camp of women offered a song of supplication.
Our pubic hair was collected and thrown into a smoldering vessel shaped like a vulva, flames leapt out of the earthen pussy pot as each offering of our private fuzz was tossed onto the embers within. We were kept on our backs as the camp filed past us, offering hushed comments as they viewed our bald pussies with a reverent interest.
I had been stripped, bound and spread wide open, subjected to group inspection and hushed comments of the camp’s women. There was nothing that I could do about it but wonder what this was all about. I was raw-boned naked. I was powerless under my captor’s gaze. I was pampered and admired. I was conflicted. I found myself enjoying the attention and the idea that I was a ritual guest of honor. I was scared that something dangerous might happen to me. The idea of being naked and in a dangerous position kind of excited me. I was conflicted — did I already say that, Marco?
“Marco, do you think that I’m a bad and sullied girl? I told you that I’m a sensual artisan with a craving for audiences and approval, it gives me that sense of aliveness that makes me feel connected. I was feeling so alive, so adventurous and so very bad for enjoying the exposure and the unknown ritual. I was conflicted — I think I already told you that. I thought, maybe this will help Margaret and science. I was nervous and I was excited by the kinky kindness that was being shown to me. In a way, I wanted to please Margaret and every one of those women.”
After our smooth pussy mounds were displayed before all of the women folk, our leg-spreading poles were removed and we were taken to a freshwater pool fed by a small stream at the end of the beach. We were forced to dip into the cool water where we were once again attended to by three washer girls. We came out of the stone-lined pool and were dried off and were brought into the big round, open structure at the center of camp. There, we were dressed in colorful, wraparound skirts and fitted with flowing vestments that cover our breasts and hanging to our waist with a tasseled hem. I felt honored by the attention and all dressed up. I was sure that I was dressed up for some special occasion, but the mystery remained. The mystery was adventurous and exciting to me with a healthy dose of nerves, kind of like before I’m about to perform one of my compositions for the first time in a recital.
As honored hostages, we were served a meticulously prepared meal featuring several bowls. Some dishes tasted better than others, very few were recognizable to my taste buds. A broth with chopped fish was distinguishable. The fire roasted seafood was good, especially after skimping on meals for the last couple of days. Other meats were cooked well, so I ate them and tried not to think about what they might have been doing yesterday. The mashed vegetable roots and pods were bland but not too bad. I was aware that all of this fare was prepared and served with a ceremonial flourish. The camp women watched us eat our meal. After we finished, the bowls were taken away. As a captive guest about to be sacrificed, I was not expected to do dishes.
I was surprised and very happy to see Margaret being escorted down the ridge trail. She came into the women’s camp just as I finished my meal. She was allowed to sit next to me and she was very relieved to see my situation. We weren’t sure who should open their mouth and unload first. I wanted to know if she was able to understand what was going on from talking with Mr. Mahari and the new translator. Margaret was worried about me and wanted to know what had happened to me and how I was being treated.
I prevailed, “Margaret let me ask you first; why have I been kidnapped? And what can I expect to come out of all of these theatrics?”
Margaret bit her lip and burst out, “Oh Maribeth! This wasn’t supposed to happen. I am so sorry for bringing you into this. I should never have invited you to come along to help with my research. I feel so bad about this and I am worried sick.” Overcome with emotion, my friend broke down and sobbed.
Not wanting to add to my friend’s anxiety by telling her about this afternoon’s pussy parade or the public pubic shaving episode. Using my odd sense of humor, I told Margaret, “Somehow, I don’t know why my lucky number was picked, but I seem to have won the golden ticket for a special tropical spa day here. It’s quite exotic, don’t you agree?”
Margaret teared up again as she forced a fake smile. “Don’t worry Margret, I’m sure you’ll get your doctorate and become a famous anthropologist after this strange ceremony is over for me.”
Margaret remained concerned; “Maribeth, I have to tell you that Dr. Friday has been working hard to find out what is happening on this island and why they’ve forced you into this situation. Oh Maribeth! It’s all so very troubling and we really don’t understand much of what is going on with you. Dr. Friday has been led to understand that the omens were all aligned to select you and the other two girls. We think that one of you three will be somehow chosen by a prime female deity of these people to speak as an oracle of future events. Whoever is chosen, she is supposed to forecast the fortunes for these people over sea, land and sky. All we can do right now is wait for this goddess to select someone and possess her and speak to the future. We’re hoping it won’t be you and then you’ll be released.”
Seeing the concern in Margaret’s face, I changed the subject away from me and my unknown ceremonial purpose. I asked in a chipper voice, “So, how are your accommodations at this resort? Are you going to give it five stars? I do hope Dr. Friday is tipping the help well.”
Margaret gave an uneasy laugh. “We’re being treated as honored guests. I have my own hut, as does Dr. Friday. Mr. Mahari and the other man are staying together. We’re fine, but they would only allow me as a woman to come see you. It is taboo for the men to come to this spot where you’re being held.”
The darkness of the tropics descended quickly and Margaret’s escort came and got her to take her back to the main village. We said our goodbyes with Margret promising me that everything would be all right. I watched her being led back into the jungle, I was grateful for her brief visit and information. I was curious as to how and who would be selected to forecast the future. I was beginning to secretly hope that I would be the chosen one. It sounded adventurous.
Any one of us three forcibly removed females had the potential to become the embodied prophetic voice for a goddess, as such, we were pampered every day. Our attendants bathed us in the sea and then in the freshwater pool. Our skin was rubbed and oiled frequently and we were given our choice of prepared foods. Our hair was combed out and treated with some fragrant extract. We relaxed and enjoyed our beauty treatments in the nude, before we were dressed for our meals and then undressed out of our ceremonial garb to be bathed again. Margaret came every evening, visiting my ‘beauty camp’, as we began calling this all-girl cove. Every evening we talked about home and girl stuff mostly, avoiding the hanging question of what was going to happen to us, especially to me.
The morning of my third day in ‘beauty camp’, I noticed some cramping coming on. I was worried how an island girl was supposed to care for herself under these conditions. When I was inspected later in the morning by one of the watchful matrons, she discovered that my period had started. It caused a great stir in the camp. I was whisked away to a waterfall upstream where I was washed and purified by bathing in a blue pool lined with green fern and red stones.
The onset of my cycle was interpreted as the sign of my sanctification by their female deity. I was the chosen one – for better or worse. My periods are never pleasant, but this time my period appeared to possibly put me in peril.
Each morning, just as the sun began to rise, I was stripped naked and made to sit inside a smoky hut for several hours for spiritual cleansing. Outside of my menstrual hut, prayers were chanted on my behalf. I was brought out and given sweet juices, bathed and my skin was oiled for the entire time I was going through my period. To tell the truth, I felt pretty special. It was an ongoing party and I was the special lady guest of these hidden people. The women in the ‘beauty camp’ worked to make me supple and beautiful. I did wonder if this was like the pig being fattened up for slaughter, but I concentrated on the feasting and pampering.
After five days of ritual cleansing, I emerged from an incense-smoked menstrual hut to see that a canoe had landed on the beach. Several men were busy inside the central pagoda tying a web of ropes made of twisted vines to the log rafters. I had a strange feeling that these vines and I were somehow going to become intimately acquainted during the coming ritual. I had no idea just how intimately these ropes and I were going to be used. The men left after they’d finished stringing up the ropes.
Alone again without a male presence, I was dressed and my hair and garments were ornamented with shells, flowers and feathers. I was crowned like a beauty queen. It was like I was Miss America, only I was really Miss Tiny-Remote-Indonesian-Jungle-Island. All of the women gathered around me once I was outfitted and they began to dance and sing on the sand under the thatched roof of the circular temple. It was a merry party, made all the more festive by frequent breaks in the dancing to sip what tasted like the fermented juice of some local root. We all danced. I was serenaded; it was a joyous girls-night-out atmosphere, enhanced by the intoxicating fermented drink. The party wound down that night and I found my bed on an unfurled mat in the middle of the sacred shrine.
I was awakened before the sun was up and given a meal of fish, fruits and a skewer of something that tasted like chicken (I know – but it really did). I knew this was going to be the Big Day. I had been treated royally up to this point, so I convinced myself that the Big Day wouldn’t be a terrible day. Getting drunk on the root juice last night let me sleep; otherwise, I would have fretted all night. I truly wanted to be a good oracle girl for this tribe, but I had my doubts that I could ever live up to their expectations; whatever those expectations might be.
Following my breakfast, I was undressed and led into the sea. My attendants washed me, dried me and oiled my skin. I was wrapped in a new skirt dyed with a vibrant blue, matching the morning sea. My attendants draped me in a cape that was covered in an ornate pattern of seashells sewn onto the back, with the same vibrant blue cloth as my skirt lining the interior. The blue of the fabric and the cape of seashells represented the realm of the ocean. I was being prepared to prophesy as to the coming bounty or the coming hard times for these people from the sea. I was supposed to predict for them either seaborn fortune or disaster; how was I to know? I had no training as an oracle.
Since I was all dressed up pretty fancy, I thought I must have somewhere to go. I was right. They led me to the center of the towering temple. The medicine man was waiting at the far edge of the circle, along with his young men and a few others. The old shaman’s young men were naked, their bodies painted in blue, green and red like they were the day I’d been stolen away from Margaret and Dr. Friday. I was given a bowl of the same fermented juice that induced last night’s feeling of euphoria. I drank all that was in the bowl.
The empty bowl was taken and placed on a smooth stone in front of me. A large man strode up and smashed the bowl with a violent swing of a club. The shattered pieces flew off in all directions. After his destructive stroke, the sound of pounding drums punctuated the air with an excited, rapid rhythm. The pagan priest marched around the circle once and then crawled across the sand to inspect the pattern of the shattered pieces of the bowl. The pattern was an omen to be interpreted. I couldn’t tell if he liked what he saw, or not.
He stood, made a pronouncement and then gave a command. The naked, painted boys surrounded me, chanting as the drumming changed to an upbeat cadence that swelled and then subsided in a percussive pattern.
The bowl of jungle juice that I’d just chugged was affecting my mind and body. I got the sensation of swaying and bobbing on the ocean’s surface. My body swayed to the beat as the painted bodies of the young men circled and sang to me, or over me. The medicine bowl, the hypnotic dancing around me and the heavy drum beats echoing inside my body had me feeling like I was slipping into a trance.
Two of my usual female attendants danced toward me and took the shell cape from my shoulders, exposing my breasts as the pagan priest watched them. Two men slipped up behind me, grabbed my wrists, threading them through a pair of knotted loops in the ropes that were hanging above my head. The ropes were pulled through their rigging, lifting my arms over my head. I was stretched upward, it hurt my shoulders some, yet I could stand on the ground. When I raised my head to look up at the ropes on my wrists, the two men slipped more looped ropes around my ankles, drawing them tight. I was roped securely, standing front and center of the ceremonial house, all eyes were on me.
My blue skirt was unwrapped from my hips and taken away by one of the overseeing matrons. Though I was standing, I had no freedom of movement with either my arms or legs. My two attendants knelt, one in front of me, the other behind. Using blue pigment, they painted my buttocks, pelvic region and my legs. Their hands, loaded with goopy, cool pigment, worked between my spread open legs, painting my soft, personal parts, gliding over the bare and sensitive skin that had recently been shaved clean. Lithe fingers trailed down my inner thighs, around my calves and back up to my hips. My pussy lips were worked with delicate fingers, up and down as she painted me, covering all of my frilly folds. The idea of being tied up tight, naked in front of these people as they watched me get covered in body paint excited me. I was surprised at my reaction. My only covering was blue paint from the waist down. In my exposed predicament I was feeling woozy and a little bit wild. I felt that my body was actually being possessed by their sought after goddess. The mysterious goddess spirit filled me and primed me for this sacred ritual.
My two attending girls finished their body painting, withdrawing to the edge of the circular temple. The third of my usual attendants walked in front of me, kneeling in the sand, facing the muscular warrior who had started the festivities by smashing the empty liquor bowl. My name for him was ‘Smasher’.
Smasher disrobed, handing his loincloth to the young woman kneeling in front of him. Smasher stood naked, his brown skin glistening with oil after his ceremonial preparation. I had no choice but to watch, strung up by all four limbs, naked and vulnerable.
I had been taken against my will. Then pampered and then forcibly stripped naked. And now I was the headlining performer for these people’s sacred ceremony. I grew apprehensive seeing a nude man standing in a trance before me. It didn’t take much imagination to think that in this position I was soon to be forced to yield to him. I was shocked when the maiden kneeling in front of Smasher took his penis into her mouth. She performed a sucking fellatio on Smasher’s erection, intermittently rinsing her mouth with the fermented juice before returning to sucking him. Smasher grew large and hard with the attention while the drumming added a feeling of expectation to the air.
Thoughts were racing through my mind like drunken squirrels, making a scattered mess of my emotions. On the surface, I felt I should be repulsed by the performance going on in front of me. I was witness to an inappropriate spectacle that mixed with fear-tinged worries about my part in the coming ritual. On another level, I was fascinated and thrilled by my voyeuristic view of a muscular young man getting sexually aroused by one of my ladies-in-waiting. I tried to push my messy, complex emotions out of the way, telling myself that I had to take good mental notes of this sex festival for Margaret’s research.
Staring at the couple as the drum beats filled the air, the bowl’s intoxicating contents worked into my system, washing a strange mellowness over me. My inhibitions drained from my mind.
The girl did a marvelous blow job on Smasher. He was stiff and magnificent. She licked his dick as she tilted her head back, letting him come out of her enveloping mouth like a curved scimitar being pulled from its scabbard. Displayed at the height of his glory, she took a pot of blue pigment, dipping her fingers into the goop, painting his cock and balls in the same blue that covered my legs and naughty bits.
The exciting, sensual entanglement of the young warrior and his alluring maiden had me entranced. The vibrating sound of the drums and the sight of a sexually stimulated naked warrior standing in front of me captured my wild emotions. I fixated on Smasher’s long erection, marveling at his blue cock and blue balls; a color-coordinated match for my own painted female folds. I immersed myself in the erotic moment, watching the couple while I felt the heavy drum beats overcome me and sink into my core. This primeval foreplay had brought on a spontaneous trickle of girly juice; lubricating myself between my spread open thighs. I guess I should have been wearing a G-string that said, ‘Caution – Wet Paint’.
Enthralled by all of the sensual activity and my inward response, I had forgotten about my precarious and vulnerable position. That is until it all came crashing back to me in an instant; the drumming quit and the ropes around my ankles were pulled, lifting me off the ground. I yelped in surprise and pain as my nude body was jerked in suspension, tits down, gravity pulling uncomfortably on my shoulder and knee joints as I hung facing the ground.
The pagan priest, resplendent in colorful feathers and animal skins, sat in the sand in front of me, drawing lines and circles in the sand beneath my hanging breasts. Men carrying a wooden plank tied it to a couple of free ropes, threading it under my stomach and lifting it to support my prone body. I was a marionette, dangling loose, waiting to be manipulated by my puppet masters. The plank on which I was lying was lowered, tilting my head down at a slight angle while my ass pointed up. The ropes attached to my feet were pulled, opening my legs wide. The shaman crouched on his haunches, chanting to himself and watching me like a spider sizing up its helpless prey, tangled in its web.
The heathen officiant cast his bones and feathers onto the patterned sand looking for a sign to read. Smasher embraced me from behind, wrapping his hands around my airborne hips. I rocked backward in my sex swing as Smasher pulled me to himself with a lusty heave. His blue spear wedged into my inner thighs. His rigid shaft penetrated me. He launched into my opening with a quick, expansive thrust, impaling me on his pointed, painted penis. Smasher grunted as he entered me, his powerful thumbs pressing deep into the soft, rounded flesh of my ass.
I sang out in both surprise at the sudden shock of his entrance and at that first initial spark of ecstasy a girl sometimes gets when she is taken by a man and feels her vaginal walls yielding to his heated intrusion. Smasher held me in his grip, his primitive sex-bone resting solid inside me, filling me full with his plundering, masculine rod. My pussy’s wet walls reacted with spasms of excitement. The intensity of my contractions made me moan in the way girls automatically do when their tight, pink parts are forced apart by the intrusion of a man’s plunging sex-stroke.
Smasher held me tight, holding me skewered on his powerful spear. He stood motionless, collecting his masculine energy from my engulfing vaginal walls. I felt his stiffness twitch inside me as he focused on his ceremonial duty to fill my pussy. Taking a breath, he began ramming me from behind. With each powerful thrust into me, I would swing through the air until I was pulled back for another shocking thump, deep into my throbbing interior. Each hammering jab of his cock fanned a shower of sparks that flickered and flashed through my innards, traveling to my toes. The intensity of his percussive fucking made me moan loud with each and every blow.
Bones and feathers were tossed by the shaman in unison with my moans. My involuntary vocalizations were the channeled shouts, whispers and incantations of the invisible, yet present goddess speaking through me. My moans, borne of intense ecstasy, were her divine revelations of the future. As the oracle, the sex sounds that came out of me while I was being ritually fucked were influencing the roll of the prophetic elements being thrown by the shaman. The goddess spoke through me while I was man-mauled into a state of delirium, my involuntary sex sounds directed the bones and feathers around the lines and circles. Their placement were omens to be interpreted by the holy man squatting in front of me as Smasher induced me to speak as he probed and pounded me from behind.
My titties hung over the edge of the plank, swinging and swirling, slapping against one another with the rhythmic pounding I was receiving between my forced apart legs. Smasher was building up his pelvic thrusts at a furious, fanatical pace. His cock was crashing between the folds of my soft, feminine flesh, driving my intensity higher as he drove deep into my flying pussy.
I rocked through the air, suspended on the ropes and plank, guided by the hands of a highly aroused Smasher. My orgasm was winding tight at my core, I was dizzy. My sexual buzzing felt like confetti bubbling below the surface until it popped and fluttered all through me. The fizzy, whirly feelings pushed me toward the edge of my point of no return. Smasher’s grinding fucking rocked me, every plunge of his rigid organ ratcheted up my excitement. With uncontrollable chirps and moans falling from my goddess-inspired lips, my hot orgasm was rising within my core, growing and heating me up into an over-inflated bubble of craven desire. Once I exploded, I would burst into a thousand pieces as I rattled and flittered down from the heights of my orgasmic state.
Smasher ripped into my nectar-dripping vagina with voracious grunts. I was overcome by the fiery thunder rolling through my body, I gasped for air to feed my orgasmic scream. My lungs puffed, making pleading sounds as my pussy quivered with the twanging reverberations of a plucked spring. Smasher pushed my free-swinging platform away from himself before he brought me back to his waiting prick, harpooning my poontang with a hearty, hard thrust. He tensed his loins, forced himself deeper into my wetness, shaking as he too found release and exploded his masculine seed into my inner sanctum as an offering to the feminine deity who had come and dwelt within me. Sticky, hot semen oozed from my worked over holy pussy, dribbling across my once private places, trailing in cooling rivulets down my belly.
As soon as I bellowed in delighted anguish and Smasher had creamed my quivering quim; the shaman doused his circles and lines etched in the sand with a large bowl of seawater. Erasing the magical marks and sealing the divine prophecy he’d read from my grunts, screams and moans. I did not realize it at that moment, but that was just the prophecy for the realm of the blue sea. It was yet to be foretold as to what these people could expect from the realms of the green earth and red sky.
I was lowered to the sand; my inner delicate parts were still jittery. They felt hot and stretched out, but they were calming down now that the erotic oracle has spoken. All the men quietly disappeared, leaving me wondering if I had been a good oracle or not.
As soon as the men were gone, the women gathered around me, they were in jubilant mood; making me think that I had somehow been a good conduit of the divine and that my mystical message had forecast good fortune for these people. I was lifted and carried into the sea. My usual three attendants came to me and washed my body, cleaning me up in the surf as the rest of the women danced, chanted and sang from the shore. I was dressed and fed as the festivities continued around me. Maybe it sounds strange, but I was proud of myself. I had gained the women’s approval by my actions. I had been a good oracle girl; I had been a great sacrificial fuck. Everyone was happy, even me.
I wondered if I had truly been possessed by the spirit of their goddess. My emotional experience argued that I had never felt anything like that before, so maybe I had been possessed. Or maybe it was the forbidden excitement of being tied up, a sex prisoner of these men and the realization of a latent fantasy of being stripped naked, tied onto a sex swing and fucked voraciously as a helpless, captive girl. I assumed I had had my wild jungle ride and I’d now be released to Margaret and Dr. Friday. No one in my party came to get me that evening. I told myself that I’d be reunited with Margaret in the morning.
I was awakened and rose with the sun. A meal had been prepared for me. I ate it with the expectation that Margaret and Dr. Friday would be allowed to visit me this morning and we could make our way off this island. Instead, I was undressed and led into the sea. My attendants washed me, dried me and oiled my skin. I was wrapped in a new skirt dyed with a rich green, matching the jungle foliage growing around me on the island. My attendants draped me in a cape that was covered in a beautiful pattern made of fresh flowers sewn onto its back. I thought it was the most beautiful garment a girl could ever hope to wear. I was a queen. I believed this was my reward for being a prophetess of good fortune yesterday. I expected I would lead a triumphant parade through the village and then be released with the shaman’s blessing.
Instead, I was paraded to the center of the round sanctuary as I had been the day before. I was forced to reassess my situation. I was relieved that I wasn’t thrown into a volcano, but I abandoned my fantasy of being the flowered beauty queen who dispensed holy omens of good fortune. I was forced to admit, I didn’t understand what was happening to me this morning.
Yesterday I had been ceremonially undressed, bound with ropes and fucked hard by Mister Smasher; I had spoken under the influence of their goddess’ spirit while the pagan priest cast his lots on the sacred sand under my swaying breasts. I was under the impression that the future had already been foretold. I thought we were done – but I was wrong. It wasn’t over for me.
The men had broken the taboo and returned to the women’s cove this morning, standing along the back edge of the shelter.
The familiar fermented juice was handed to me. I drank it from a bowl as I had the day before. The bowl was taken from my hands and placed upside down on the stone in front of me as an offering.
A young, wiry warrior stepped to the stone and with a single, pulverizing stroke of his club, he sent the pieces of that bowl flying. My name for this guy was ‘Basher’.
The feathered master of ceremonies circled the enclosure once before he crawled on his knees over to examine the pattern of the busted stoneware. He took to his feet, having read some import into the random pattern of broken pottery; he uttered an invocation, which was the cue for the drummers to pound out a heavy throbbing bass beat to start today’s ceremony. The intense rhythm synchronized with the growing emotional throbbing filling my chest. Three naked young men, painted in blue, green and red moved toward me, dancing, shaking and spinning. The boy’s beautifully colored bodies swirled and twirled to my delight and racing imagination.
I was swept under the intoxicating spell of the drum beats echoing at my center, the erotic display of the painted young men skipping around me and the potent effect of the bowl’s drained contents on my mind and muscles. It was déjà vu all over again.
Two of the three young ladies who had been attending to me, danced over to me, removing the fresh floral cape from my shoulders, leaving my chest bare. Two men came beside me, pulling my hands away from my breasts as I attempted to cover myself, securing my hands inside a pair of slip-knot looped ropes. The ropes were cinched and my arms hoisted. Separate ropes were fitted around my ankles. I was strapped and trapped for a second day running. My lush, green skirt was taken off my hips, forcing me to stand stark naked in front of the old shaman.
I didn’t like the way I was being treated. I had an inkling as to what was in store for me, based on yesterday’s experience. I might have been open to the suggestion to play nice and be a proper stand-in for their earth goddess, but I sure as hell didn’t think I needed to be tied up hand and foot like a feral piglet. A girl might be willing to be ceremonially fucked for the good of the village, allowing herself to speak of the future; but I was given no choice but to be dominated by burly men under their customs.
My two girls dipped their fingers into pots of slick, bright green pigment and began painting my exposed skin. Unlike yesterday’s blue paint job, the green color was applied above my waist, covering my back, belly and my left breast. The girl in front added the coup de grâce, she ran her green-tinted fingers around my moistening labia, marking a verdant target between my legs. Leaving my right breast unpainted after coloring the rest of my torso, they walked away.
The third of my attending maidens came and knelt between me and Basher, facing him. She took hold of his loincloth, pulling it away to reveal his thickening virility. I shouldn’t have been as surprised as I was, but I found myself again shocked to see her reach up and take his masculinity between her lips and lavish him with her engrossing, sensuous lips. My first blush of forbidden embarrassment bloomed into the flushed heat of rapt, voyeuristic thrills as she poured her feminine spirit upon his swelling shaft. Basher responded to her strokes with a ready and magnificent erection.
Swift yanks on the ropes hauled me into the center of the action, pulling me into the air where I hung suspended by all fours. A fine-meshed hammock was raised from under me, supporting my back and shoulders several feet off the sand floor. Another tug on the ropes around my ankles pulled my legs apart, exposing my green pussy to Basher and his bobbing, bad boy jungle sausage. It too had been smeared in today’s fashion-forward color, a bright green pigment.
The drummers stopped, a heavy hush fell around the open space. Silence hung in the air along with me, the naked oracle, waiting to give voice to the goddess’s telling of the future. Facing upward, I couldn’t see behind me, but I could hear the chants of the pagan priest as he squatted among his sacred circles drawn in the ground just beyond my head.
Looking beyond my upturned tits, I saw Basher take two steps toward me with his proud, pigmented penis leading the way. I could do nothing but moan as Basher gripped my hips, driving his great green weenie through me. I was filled. I was possessed. I felt swoopy and believed my body had not only been taken physically by Basher, but in his act of driving into my void, I’d been filled at that instant by the spiritual presence of the feminine deity.
Basher’s first thrust wedged apart my feminine flesh. A surprise gasp shot from my lungs, carrying an expansive moan across my lips along with my escaping breath. I paid no heed to the medicine man as he cast his bones behind me; I was only interested in one bone, the enlarged man-bone being cast by Basher as he straddled my uplifted thighs. Basher leaned over me, clutching my jiggling titties with his coarse hands, gripping and mashing them as my sensitized nipples poked between his spread fingers, his knuckles squeezing my pink berries as he flexed his fingers over my sacrificial orbs. His taunting of my taut buds enhanced the erotic swoon that had overcome my body and emotions.
The supporting hammock swayed with every pounding of Basher’s rigid sex muscle as he knocked into my spread cleft. I hadn’t asked to be fucked hard this way, but as a captured woman, I’d been bound up in a position of limited physical leverage, and I definitely had no social leverage. I had no control over what was happening to me physically. As the chosen oracle girl, I was at the mercy of Basher and the rules of this mystical ritual, melding male and female flesh, invoking the spirit of the goddess. I had come to understand my role – accepting or rejecting my role in this ritual was not an option. There was no consent on my part, but neither did I abandon this role that had come upon me, either by random circumstances or by the ordained choice of pagan spirits. At a deep level, I wanted to please and be appreciated by the women of the village and to be a perfect medium, bringing omens of good fortune to the shaman and his people.
Without conscious volition, the needy performer inside of me came to the fore and embraced the intimate connection with not only flesh, but with the spiritual world to which I had become a portal. If there is a female deity who controls the fortunes of the sea, earth and sky; then I think I must’ve been her natural choice to give corporal body to her heavenly voice. The core of my being craves to connect my emotions with all that is around me. I discovered a new, powerful identity as the center of sexual attention. I found that I’d been transformed into a holy vessel and potent spiritual prophetess. This unseen, unknown goddess knew I was a perfect fit for this sanctified performing role. Strange, but I was the last to know what a natural fit I was to be such a great fucking prophetess of the future.
With an instinctive tilt, I tried to lift my hips to meet his hammering blows; but I had little physical leverage to orient my vagina to welcome Basher’s plunging pestle as he ground it into my mortar. I desired to participate; I wanted to give myself over to the ethereal emotion and to the pure, physical pleasure of the moment. I opened my mind and soul, drinking in the masculine energy and hardened form that pumped me full as Basher drove into me, grinding bump after grinding bump.
The sensation of my pussy being stuffed satisfied an animal hunger within me. Only to feel tormented upon his quick withdrawal; leaving me quaking and hot, wanting him back inside. And back he came, with a vengeance; pushing his manhood up inside me. Despite the ropes preventing much movement of my legs and arms, I experienced a detachment from the earth and her gravity. Basher’s aggressive thrusting rocked the hammock and made me feel as if I were floating, exciting my inner girl parts in my core, lifting me skyward in an updraft of steaming desire. Hot waves crashed over my insides, giving me no choice but to vocalize their intense and pleasurable effects on me and thereby influence the roll of the shaman’s dice being cast behind me. In that moment I embodied two extremes: I was both flesh of animal, howling in the heat of passion to be forcibly bred, and also spirit-being of a maternal goddess, pouring out prophecies for the future of her worshippers.
At my center, a warm welling of an orgasm was growing hotter and bigger with every grunting punch that Basher rammed inside of me. My green painted belly flexed as I twisted in my sex hammock under the thatched roof with my legs spread wide by the constraining ropes. The urge to climax was building, inflating my womb with flashes of hot, fluid undulations while I responded with a patter of bubbling sex sounds. Maybe I was trying too hard to reach orgasm and please Basher and the observing witch doctor; but somehow, I lost focus and my orgasmic urge deflated and cooled within my loins.
The concern and disappointment that I was going to fail to orgasm and fail to successfully prophesy good fortune filled my head and made any chance of orgasm turn shy and disappear. I was going to have to violate my principles and fake an orgasm – I could fool Basher and probably the officiating sorcerer; but it might be dangerous to try and fool the indwelling goddess. I heard a voice in my head remind me, ‘It’s not nice to fool Mother Nature’. I was on the horns of a dilemma as well as the horny horn of Mr. Basher.
As if on cue, I opened my eyes when I felt a small hand clutch my green, left breast as one of my attending maidens had come to me and began fondling me. She licked my nipple with a long tongue stroke, a move that settled my distracted mind. She licked my breast a few more times, gently bringing me back into a state of bestial arousal. I concentrated on the stiffness bashing up into my moistening valley, arching as best I could to get him to stroke my G-spot. When I flexed my glutes and arched for him, I felt my assisting maiden’s finger slide over my engorged twat. The magic had returned.
Her light touch on the underside of my clitoris sent fizzling sparks to my nipples and toes. With each back-and-forth swing of the hammock, my clit brushed against her finger. The rhythmic timing of each pendulum swing brought a higher intensity to my hungry little nub as I anticipated the next brief intimate stroke. Her finger passively flicking my clit each time my drooling pussy swung past, her handling was driving me wild.
Basher fastened his hands around my waist, holding tight to his penetrating manroot. I was no longer swinging, but was balanced on his engorged shaft. He jerked, his sinews flexed as he ejaculated. His hot semen flooded my hollow, my vaginal contractions forced his fluids to surge out and drip down my ass.
My maiden reached for my hungry, yet unsatisfied hot button. She massaged me, bringing heated waves of sloshing desires to slap against my womb. Her delicate fingers spread Basher’s sticky cum around my tingling sweet spot. I focused on her touch, letting my hip rise to meet her wonderful subtle care.
I moaned long and slow at first, as my widening orgasmic urge pushed through my loins. My moans then became a series of short screams, followed by a thunderous, bellowing jungle call as my orgasm burst inside of me. Jagged, electric sparks flew around my innards as my vagina contracted and then relaxed with a swarm of twanging reverberations shaking my bones.
She continued to rub me the right way as my man returned to fuck me hard to finish me off in grand style. I wanted to draw in my legs and curl into a ball and wrap my hands over my face as the wicked post-orgasmic vibration rattled through my tied-up body. I writhed in my hammock, pulling in vain on the vines that held me in place, the inability to move my limbs made the tortured intensity of the dissipating orgasms last longer.
I was weak and wrung out as my sex swing hammock was lowered to the ground. The men unbound the vines on my wrists and ankles. I was breathing hard and barely noticed the men disappear after the priest had sealed my prophetic statements by obscuring his sacred circles in the sand with a swipe of a leafy tree branch. I was allowed to recover before the women came and lifted me to the sea, where I was washed clean while songs of thanks were sung from the shore. Again, everyone seemed happy, as was I. I was sure that I’d been possessed by the female deity’s spirit, just as sure as I’d been plundered by Basher. I had been a good fuck and a good voice for the feminine divine.
It is said that things come in threes. I had been painted blue as a prophetess for the sea, colored green as I was induced to give utterances for the fortunes of their island. And to my way of thinking, that left the third realm, the sky and its symbolic color. I was awakened the next morning as had been the custom the past two days. I expected once again to be dressed, bound and fucked to the point of involuntarily moaning out sacred signs to be interpreted by the shaman.
My fate for Day 3 looked like it was lining up like the previous two days. I expected to be dressed in a ceremonial cape before I was undressed and painted in preparations for holy sex. I saw no escape from my honored position until they had finished playing with me. I’d been forced to become this oracle, revealing the future while being subjected to the punishing pleasure of wild men.
I had been ridden hard for two days straight. I was feeling stretched out down there and a bit sore. I had never before experienced so much lusty masculine attention to the delicate region between my thighs. I wasn’t sure if I could give myself over to my role for a third day; being possessed by a powerful female spirit while sexually taken by yet another young man. I feared all of the eroticism had been fucked out of me already by the gang of the medicine man’s ‘get lucky’ squad. I feared I would fail to deliver the fortune signs these people were seeking from me.