I was bathed in the freshwater pool, fed and dressed in a red skirt and fitted with a fabulous cape covered with colorful feathers. I was a tropical red bird, the spirit of the sky. I was curious that the men were still absent, usually by this time of day I was being prepared to be strung up and violated. Only women were in attendance, showering me with dances and songs. I began to think that maybe Smasher and Basher’s brother wouldn’t show up today, maybe I wouldn’t have to perform sex acts hanging above the ground. Or maybe if the men weren’t going to show, would today be an all-girl affair with the goddess inhabiting my body?
Going by past history, by mid-afternoon I was swinging from the rafters, moaning and screaming my soul out, taking the shaft of either Smasher or Basher as they fed my secret grotto with their sacrificial man meat. So far, today was different.
New to today’s preparations, one of my attending maidens sat beside me with a vessel of viscous herbal liquid after I was placed on my back on a woven mat. She lifted my red skirt, moving her hand between my thighs as she worked the cool jell over my labia, fingering up inside my pussy as she applied the stuff deeper inside my worked-over opening. Afterward, attention was given to decorating my hair with feathers and massaging my skin. I was enjoying a return to a tropical spa day.
I knew what to expect if and when the men returned — but I wasn’t feeling ready for it. I wasn’t nervous like the first day, nor was I excited like I was yesterday. My girl juices were just nowhere close to heating up, much less boiling. I could conjure up nothing when it came to a feeling of arousal and playtime with my sanctified vagina. I debated whether this was going to be the time to fake an orgasm. I gnawed on this concern as I was pampered by my girls, when I noticed a strange thing happening to me.
If my head was at first filled with worry and distracting ideas, I now was filled with a relaxed sense of peace and the distractions left my mind. Notes of smooth jazz flowed where once I had anxiety. It was more than mental, I was surprised to feel my sex parts had wandered onto the dance floor. I smiled to myself, that vessel of jell she’d rubbed over my clit and labia was laced with something from the cannabis family. I was having a buzzed high. I underestimated these primitive ladies. These women knew just how to make a girl come out and enjoy herself, even if she was thinking she couldn’t make it and would have to fake it.
Late in the day, the witch doctor and his troupe of drummers and dancers arrived in girl’s cove. Body, mind and libido had been prepared. I was ready for my close up. Two girls came to me as I stood at the center of the sacred space as the men watched me from the edge.
I waited to be handed the bowl of spirits to imbibe. Once empty, the inebriating effects of the bowls’ contents mixed with the intoxicating lube permeating my absorptive tissues. The bowl was placed in front of me and broken to smithereens by the swift, clubbing stroke of a strong champion whom I decided to call ‘Thrasher’. The destruction of the vessel signaled the start of the familiar rapid beat of the master drummers, impregnating the air with anticipation.
The priest came crawling across the sand, finishing his inspection of the splatter pattern with a pronouncement that brought in the naked boys. They danced with zeal in their iridescent bodies of blue, green and red. They produced a good show for everyone, warming up the audience for the main event, my deflowering and hypnotic recitation of the goddess’s oracle.
Two girls removed my beautiful feathered cape, showing off my bare chest with my pair of enlarged nipples to all in attendance. I was prepared when a couple of robust guys entwined me with the rigging hanging from the rafters. I could see that today’s ropes were rigged in a more complex form than the last two days. My curious and adventurous side got the better of me, wondering if I might find myself enjoying today’s sex swing position as the embodiment of the sky goddess.
The red skirt was taken from my hips by an officiating matron. If today’s prophetic ritual was to forecast fortunes from the sky, I was thinking that I should expect to be painted sky blue. The paint pots came in the hands of my regular attendants, dipping their fingers into the pots and coating me in persimmon red. The shaman looked through their colored fingers as they held their hands against the glowing sunset. The sky is not always blue; the shade of red-orange was a good match to this evening’s fading orange-red light. It was a good omen.
I found my face, neck and right breast covered in a brilliant red. A red spot was painted over my clean-shaven pubic region, with extra attention given to finger painting my fancy pussy lips with a good slathering. I imagined I looked fabulous wearing nothing but red body paint.
This time I didn’t turn red with shock as Thrasher’s cock came out from behind his tiny crotch covering cloth and was swallowed with eagerness by a kneeling maiden. I watched as Thrasher’s long, thin penis was swabbed in and out of her lips. She hummed as she sucked him hard, taking him in with healthy gulps administered with enthusiasm. I watched in fascination as her tongue circled his skyward pointing pole. I could tell her fingers enjoyed caressing his balls while she stroked him slowly with loose fingers at first, then gripped his cock in her fist as she shucked him with rapid strokes. She worked him quite well and I thought that this was not the first time these two had explored one another. Perhaps they knew ahead of time that they’d be selected for today’s ritual and had decided to practice together. But there was more chemistry with the pair than merely performing a preparatory oral engagement. They were lovers. I wondered if she had any qualms about provoking his prick, only to have him come and fuck me, the pale-skinned foreign girl chosen through a sacred rite to be plowed by her boyfriend’s aroused tool tonight.
The sun sat low over the calm waters, the equatorial sky was lit in brilliant hues; flaming reds, yellows and oranges. I watched the shaman as he watched the setting sun. The dark-skinned girl continued to play with Thrasher’s long dong as the sun sank below the horizon at his back.
When the last of the day’s rays shot across the tops of the sea’s small waves, a command was given and the naked painted boys spread out to light dozens of torches placed in a circle around my vine harness. The long shadows were about to fall fast in my jungle sacred enclosure.
The torch light danced in synchronous rhythm with the drums. The play of the light and sound excited me as I stood red-faced, naked and strapped in for a carnal exercise that would transcend into the spiritual and sublime. That is, if I let Her spirit come into me as I was penetrated by Thrasher’s decorated dick. My tissue had absorbed the giddy-up gel that had been put inside me this afternoon, coaxing me into an animalistic mood. Aroused, rough and ready, I wanted to dance upon Thrasher’s cock, roll my hips and hide him deep and full into my steamy cavern. I wanted to hold him captive far inside me with my sex muscles, squeezing and palpating him until he came in me, flooding my slit with his seed, hot and sticky. Tonight looked to be my last, holy fucking – I wanted to make it a good show, shouting out grunts, screams and moans from the secret goddess abiding within my sex and showering these people with blessings from above. I wanted to be a great white fucking oracle. I aimed to be a perfect embodiment of their goddess who came to them from across the waters and left them with a prophecy to remember for generations to come.
The ropes around my arms and ankles were pulled tight, hoisting me into an uncomfortable L-shape. A mesh swing was shifted under my bottom; my body was lowered into the sling. A horizontal wooden pole hung in front of my titties like a trapeze in a sex circus. My legs were stretched wide, exposing my red vulva to Thrasher’s stiff cock. The ropes around my wrists were left slack; I grabbed hold of the wooden bar as I was raised in a sitting position facing Mister Thrasher. I was held at a height where Thrasher could wrap his hands around my ass and swing me onto his waiting erection. I braced for impact.
With a lustful grunt, Thrasher threw his hips at the red target between my open legs. The pagan priest was busy throwing his bones and feathers at the mystic circles when I let out a whoop as his spear landed in the depths of my creamy cervix. I gave up a small convulsion as he hit the target. Thrasher held his ground, his knees flexed, his fingers sinking into the soft flesh of my butt as he drew me toward him for a second ramming. An exquisite moan floated from my depths as I felt him push far inside my melting pussy. Holding the stick in front of me for support, I leaned back, pointed my toes while my legs remained tied back to hold them open for this man to easily access my hidden sanctuary.
His task was to unlock the future with his anointed key, twisting his rigid key inside my receptive feminine lock. My task was to let fall from my lips sounds that gave utterance to the spirited sensations that were to come rippling out from my uterus.
I didn’t intend to hold back, knowing that my moans had hidden meanings of great import. I released the intimate tensions that we girls sometimes hold tight inside of us; I flooded the torch-lit night air with screams of the sacred voice. I flooded his probing shaft with my womanly nectar. I was hot, wet and possessed.
More than Smasher or Basher, Thrasher was enjoying his preordained efforts. He grunted with low, heavy and impassioned noises every time he entered me. I loved his dedication to enticing my own moans and groans; I rewarded him with strong vaginal contractions that I am sure he noticed enveloping his penis. My internal muscular flexes only made my pussy tighter; Thrasher enjoyed pushing hard into my tunnel, forcing my wet walls apart. My participation brought on involuntary responses of shaking legs and hot waves of desire sloshing through my insides. My eyes rolled back in their sockets bringing a burst of tingling joy that rose to my nipples, jaw and face. We were in synch, Thrasher hammering my vibrating pussy with his long, deep blows followed by his hungry grunts; I returned his manful action with my own girly yelps and lifts of my loins to meet him at each and every turn. I yelled, “Yes! Come get me you dirty old Thrasher. Fuck me. Fuck me. Fuck me. Dig deep and take it from my sloppy pussy. Make me cum! Make me scream!”
The old priest didn’t seem fazed that his prime goddess was speaking in English; or screaming obscenities in English. He seemed to be enjoying the show.
Thrasher was slamming into me as I flew through the air with the greatest of ease. I was the darling young girl on the flying trapeze. In a real sense, I had the sensation of floating and flying to the heavens while I was being driven crazy by Thrashers incessant pounding of my personal parts. He gripped my hips, delivering a hard humping that threw me into jittery convulsions. I craved an explosive Krakatau orgasm. There was a violent volcano building in the depths between my legs. I was filled with hot lava bubbling below the surface. I felt its heat and steam gurgling through my veins. I was destined to explode and then collapse in sweet anguish.
The urge to be blown away grew hotter and tighter with every stroke. I lurched forward in my swing, letting go of the wooden bar and wrapping my arms around Thrasher’s shoulders. I curled my body over his incoming missile, I took control and made sure his searing cock entered my pussy and ground hard along the top. I needed him to poke my G-spot, bringing me to the point of no return. I wasn’t going to lose this orgasm. I wanted him deep. I embraced him tight as he came at me, grinding and humping my wild woman parts all over his knob, trying to get all the stimulation I could. I wanted to melt into him and be devoured by his mighty manhood.
We fell into a tumultuous rhythm, his thrusts parried by my engulfing reposts. I hugged his broad shoulders while his rapier plunged in and out of me in an exhaustive staccato fury. I pressed tight, letting his balls slap at the dripping wet base of my gaping hole. The sloppy, liquid chorus of our fanatical mating made a croaking sound come out of my pulsating pussy. Our rapid breaths mixed in the fire-lit stage as we strained to reach our peaks of intensity together. I grunted over his head with every burning spark of passion that ignited the tight-strung fuses that ran from my core to the tips of my toes and the tender tops of my burning nipples. Thrasher growled as I grunted, back and forth we simpered and sang.
It hit me, not as a surprise, but with an unexpected ferocity. I screamed. He howled as he held himself far inside of me. I caught enough air to match his howl. We shook the dark jungle beyond our circle of lights with the fearsome and dying howls of great jungle cats. We were entwined pussy and cock, goddess spirit and mortal man, transformed into jungle love cats. Our duet, a mutual orgasmic cacophony echoing through the dark. My plentiful sex fluids mixed with his exploded jizz, dripping out of me like hot lava pouring off the peak of a violent volcano. Our male and female fluids flowed together, combined with our sweat and the red pigment of the sky realm, making a glorious mess at the end.
The medicine man had gotten his answer from above and sealed the prophecy with the sweep of a preserved bird’s wing to obliterate the symbols in the sand.
All my sensitive pink parts were rumbling and seething in exhaustion. I had never imagined being abducted and fucked like that. I was a trembling puddle of spent goddess material, a sexually drained piano composition and performing arts student. It had been a holy fucking performance like no other.
The jubilant throng of villagers, who had just witnessed my public sexual performance, gathered the torches and carried them over to me where I sat suspended from the rafters. The fluttering in my weakened body had only just begun to die down when I was plucked from my naughty swing set and dressed in my ceremonial red skirt and covered with the feathered cape. I was paraded by torch light to the boats as the entire cove emptied of celebrants and went to join the rest of the people in the main village.
I was greeted with song and dance by a welcoming mob of topless women and briefly clad men as the boats came up the small river to the cluster of straw and mud houses. I was also greeted by tears and sobs by Margaret and a very serious and concerned look on Dr. Friday’s face.
Margaret was allowed to rush to me, hug me as she wept hard on my shoulder. Dr. Friday was uncomfortable and he wasn’t sure if he had a role in comforting me or whether he should just leave this situation up to Margaret for a woman-to-woman emotional letdown and landing. The decision was made for him as I was whisked away and paraded as a celebrity priestess who had spoken to the fate of these people.
It was an all-night affair; there was dancing, song and plenty of jungle juice passed around. Even Dr. Friday and Margaret got to partake. Which I think was a good thing, since it helped them both come off the edge of so much worry and concern for me over the last several days. I looked messy, but must have otherwise looked better than their worst fears had led them to believe. I learned a few dance steps and was admired and cheered by all of the adoring natives. The night was long and I was ready to get some rest once the sun rose and the festivities ground to a halt.
In the afternoon I washed up and was the guest of honor at a communal feast. Dr. Friday and Margaret along with Mr. Mahari and the other translator were included as prominent guests. I was honored with the presentation of the feathered cape, a sacred gift. The other two captive girls were given a cape, one embroidered with seashells and one with flowers. The next morning, we foreign guests were escorted to three canoes and set out across the water for a day and a half journey back to the hamlet from which I was abducted.
I sailed with Margaret and tried to keep her from crying inconsolably for most of the first day. Dr. Friday was in another boat, but he could see us two women locked in deep conversation and again, wasn’t sure how he should deal with me. I was thinking he was wishing he didn’t have to find out what actually happened to me. By the looks of Margaret, he must have figured it was pretty bad. I’m sure he was already worried about his academic future once the details of an abducted and abused coed under his watch reached his superiors.
For my part, I wasn’t all that eager to tell Dr. Friday all of the private details either. Especially the thrilling, intimate fantasy part of being an innocent girl tied up by dark, jungle natives and used by Smasher, Basher and Thrasher in a timeless sexual ritual as a way of predicting the events of the coming days for these people hidden deep in the forest. Sex is powerful – sometimes for good, sometimes for evil. I left that island thinking that I had been a powerful, sexual force for good. I just don’t feel like sharing that with Dr. Friday.
Dr. Friday of course cut short Margaret’s research work in Indonesia. We flew out of Jakarta, everyone wanting to avoid the topic of my experience. Once we got back to town, I got a note from Dr. Friday asking me to meet him and ‘sort things out.’ He asked me to keep it on the down low and bring the original notes with me so he could get them back and destroy them. He said, ‘He knew I’d understand the delicate nature of our conversation and that he could not afford to have any unsubstantiated evidence getting out without his consent.’ At least not until he’d fixed up any confusion that I might still have after what I’d gone through. For the record, I am not confused. Of course I detected his bullshit, it wasn’t me he was concerned about.
***
My beer had grown warm. I’d forgotten to take even a sip while listening to Maribeth’s erotic tale of abduction and entrapped domination, while she embodied the spiritual form of a pagan, female deity. I was drawn deep into this hidden world of sex, spirit and prophetic voice by her bold willingness to share her lurid descriptions of her encounters. I found myself imagining Maribeth tied by strong jungle vines, nude and vulnerable as she moaned in exquisite anguish, swinging like a pendulum, propelled by sexual thrusts of her heathen captors. I found myself imagining I was the wildman tasked with breaking her bowl of intoxicating drink and coming into her pussy with my smashing, bashing, thrashing erection; making her moan and sing out with sounds from the realm of the divine. I sat and listened to Maribeth with wrenched balls, aroused by her unabashed tale of gang rape.
I groped for words but found none that I felt appropriate to use once she’d finished her story. Her graphic words painted a complicated picture. She sensed that I was at a loss and didn’t know what to say. Maribeth helped me out, “I warned you at the beginning, I’m pretty needy right now. Sorry if I unloaded too much personal information.” I just smiled, afraid that I’d say the wrong thing at this moment.
“Marco, thanks for being my non-judgmental audience. I really needed to tell someone the whole story; I am glad I found you this afternoon. I think you were the perfect guy to listen to me. Oh, thanks for buying the beer.” She giggled and wiped her lips, “Looks like I drank most of it.”
“My pleasure,” I offered in an understated tone. “I think I got my money’s worth. You certainly painted me a picture filled with wild and scandalous compositional elements as promised.”
Maribeth smiled in return, slipping her foot out of her flip flop, then reaching with her bare foot under the table to run her toes up the inseam of my pants. “And I got an appreciative audience for my story and performance,” she said with a wink as her toes nudged the hard lump straining to break free of the confines of my pants. “Did my neediness to tell you my story please you Marco? Or is that an Indonesian mango in your pocket?”
“It’s complicated,” I grinned, half embarrassed and half excited to have my intimate response discovered. “I am pleased to have gotten some insight into you artistic types and your need and joy of connecting with one’s primal, animal nature.”
Maribeth kept rubbing my crotch with her foot, “Good for you. I’m sensing your primal, animal nature might be ready to pounce, leaving your brainy number-nerd nature behind as you explore my world of craving connections and physical experiences. Maybe you can resonate with my inner goddess?” She gave me a sly smile and a wink.
I stared back at her mischievous dark eyes flashing from behind her draped, wild, brownish-blonde locks. I was trying to decide with my mind if I was detecting a wily invitation by a needy music theory and performing arts lady.
Maribeth held my stare, “I hope you’re not trying to use your quadratic equation to figure out your next move Marco. There isn’t an equation for this. Jump on into a complicated world of feelings and experiences, trespass into my world. I think in your heart you know what I need.” Her bare foot trailed back down my inseam, brushing softly against my calf while she waited for my reaction to her words and her flirting.
I wore a solid, stone-faced expression as she shifted under my steel-eyed gaze. I didn’t give her an answer for an uncomfortably long time. I was pleased to see Maribeth agonize over my silence as she became unsure of the dynamics of our situation. Her eyes darted and probed my face, looking for a break in my exterior as I retreated to the interior workings of my mind. I gave her nothing, though she should have known my male vulnerabilities, already discovered by her wandering foot across my scorching crotch.
I wanted her. She knew that. She wanted me. She wanted me to pounce. She wanted me to take advantage of her by force. I knew that. I didn’t want her to know that I was enchanted by her sexual openness and aroused by her story and the sharing of her intimate fantasies. I hid my intentions and watched her like a crouching tiger watching and waiting for the moment to pounce, leaping from his hidden jungle perch to capture his prey.
Picking up my warm beer, I chugged it. I looked into Maribeth’s eyes as I grabbed her empty beer mug from in front of her. I picked up her mug, extending it a full arm’s length from me and let it go. It hit the floor, breaking into pieces. I didn’t watch it hit the floor; I only watched Maribeth’s face.
She jumped at the sound. She looked at me in shock at my deliberate destructive act before turning her head to see the glass shards beyond the end of our table. She turned back to look at my stoic expression. “What the hell? What the hell does that mean Marco?”
In silence I shifted across my bench seat, crawled hands and knees on the floor, looking over the broken pieces of glass. I returned to my seat across from the startled Maribeth, “Isn’t this the way it always starts?”
“What? What the hell are you talking about Marco?” She was looking confused and unnerved. “The way what always starts?”
I sat upright, speaking as if I were an instructor talking to a slow student, “You’ve had your plenty from that bowl of intoxicating, fermented juice that I brought to you this afternoon. Now that you’ve finished your drinking, it is time for it to be dashed to pieces. It’s an omen, Maribeth.”
Maribeth took a moment to process my words of explanation. A cute smirk crept across her lips as her eyes ignited with the glow of understanding and anticipation. “Ooh, so you did that on purpose? So, you did that because…”
I interrupted her, “Grab those canvas rectangles. Follow me.” She reached over to the end of the table, picked up my blank painting canvases as I had ordered. I gathered my bag of paints and brushes.
“Where are you taking me?” was her surprised question as I guided her out the door of The Bucket with a shove to the small of her back.
“I’ve just got a burst of artistic inspiration. I’ve received an unexpected prophetic word, and I’m wondering if I am hearing the voice of an Indonesian pagan sex goddess.”
“Real cute Marco. But you’re not answering my question.”
I tugged her arm, directing her down the pedestrian mall. “We’ll catch a shuttle bus at this stop.” I told her, then added, “Don’t try to escape.”
“Escape? Are you playing with me?” I gave her a stern look. I didn’t say anything.
“Marco, are you hearing voices or something? You’re not behaving like the woebegone math major I ran into earlier today.”
“I’ve had a revelation, Maribeth. I’ve been transformed.”
“Transformed by what?”
I looked into her eyes, “Transformed by exposure to a needy, stimulation-craving kind of girl. You might say I’ve had some of my mathematician’s angular edges knocked off. Some animal instincts and primal urges have been unleashed by the descriptions of your role as a bound and dominated prophetic oracle. I’m going to take you and find a way to make you speak like an island sex goddess.”
Maribeth stiffened at my blunt plans. “Doesn’t a girl get a say in any of this?”
“No. You’ve already had your say. I’ve listened to your story and the tone of your voice; I know damn well what you want – whether you say it aloud or not. End of discussion. You are mine. I intend to have my way with you.”
As soon as I heard the whoosh of the pneumatic controls open the doors of our shuttle, I pressed my hand into the fabric of Maribeth’s skirt, pushing her ass, directing her to mount the steps. The bus was air conditioned, I remained hot and horny. Maribeth sat against the window, defiant and stiff. I understood that her posture was making a statement; if you want me, you’re going to have to take me and make me. She wasn’t the kind of girl who was going to give anything away. Maribeth may not have been wholly reluctant, but she was not going to give her consent either. She was a young teaser with her own fantasies.
After the last passenger got off, she asked, “What do you plan to do to me Marco?”
“I’m about to turn my carnal desires into a transcendent experience with a heathen sex goddess. Providentially, I just bought a heathen superstition starter kit and now I’ve got a girl who knows the ropes. She can introduce me into an unexplored world of sensual artists. The gods and goddesses don’t play dice with the universe; we didn’t meet today by a random occurrence. This is a prophetic fulfillment. I was struggling to see a link between my ordered world of equations and the uninhibited world of the arts. I was searching for a portal which would allow me to enter the physical world of emotions and sensuality artists. I believe I’ve discovered that warm and wet portal beckoning me to enter. It is right between your legs.”
Maribeth looked out her window, not flinching at my explicit answer. “Heathen superstition started kit? What the hell kind of nonsense is that?” She sounded tough. She didn’t sound scared. I warmed to the idea that Maribeth was a dirty little tart.
I held up my bag of art supplies and shook it next to her chest as my answer.
Maribeth snatched it from my hands, just as she had done with my framed canvases at the beginning of today’s episode. She looked at the contents, pulling out one paint tube at a time and reading the labels, “Ultramarine blue…,”
“…Blue sea,” I interjected.
“…phthalo green,”
“…Green earth,” I clarified.
“…alizarin crimson and cadmium yellow light, plus a couple of tubes of white.”
“…all warm elements for the red sky.”
Maribeth sniffed as she dropped the tubes back into the bag. “Nice coincidence. I’ll admit, your starter kit collection of colors is a pretty good match to the story elements of my summer seduction.”
“It’s no coincidence.” I said with assurance. “The bone and feather dice have been cast; our fates are intertwined. The once insecure mathematician finds a musician in dire need of connecting to a purpose and a place in her universe through her sensory experiences. You offered to show me how I could connect with artists. I’m taking your offer and in return, I’m giving you the wild, all-stops-pulled-out stimulation you said you craved.”
Four blocks down the avenue, I signaled my stop. I grabbed Maribeth’s wrist, pulling her from her seat as we exited the rear of the bus.
It was a block and a half to my student rental cottage, a converted garage behind the main house. I unlocked the door, pulling Maribeth inside. I left the lights off; it was too hot of a day to have the lights hitting our eyes. I took the frames from Maribeth and leaned them against the easy chair. “It’s sweltering in here,” said Maribeth as she swung her hips as she stepped to look around the thin-shadowed interior. “How long have you had this place?”
“I just moved in at the beginning of the month. I couldn’t fit my bed in my car to make the move. I had to buy some rope to tie it to the top of my car to get it over here. It seems providential that I just happen to have some fresh rope, the final element to my superstitious heathen starter kit.”
Maribeth hmphed, “I’m still hot.” I wasn’t sure if she was grumbling or if she was hinting.
“Is that so? Let me see what I can do about that,” I answered in a matter-of-fact tone.
I flipped the window A/C unit on, letting the cooled air filter into the tiny living area and the even tinier kitchenette. “I’m betting that this feels a bit like steamy, equatorial Indonesian; sets the mood for inducing the prophetic moans of a certain goddess.”
“There. Are you still too hot?”
Maribeth folded her arms across her chest, cocking her head and making a non-committal “Hmm,” sound.
“Hmm,” I responded in kind. “I’ll take the liberty to personally address your hot and steamy complaint.”
Walking up behind her, I pulled on her cross-folded arms. She stiffened her arms, keeping them locked. “Hmm,” I repeated, “We can do this the easy way or the rough way.”
Maribeth gave another “Humph.”
I knew she was provoking me. Maribeth’s intention was to make me force her arms behind her. I met her challenge, pinning her wrists behind her with one hand. Reaching over her shoulder with the other hand, I unbuttoned her white, summer shirt, stripping it off her shoulders with a rude tug, throwing it onto the table behind us. Maribeth’s jutting, pale boobs jiggled at their terse unveiling. Her shoulders flinched, making her soft mounds jostle, barely contained behind her low-slung, lace demi-cups of her light-blue bra. I had no intention of waiting for them to fall free from their precarious perch into full view on their own. Brushing her straps of her tanned shoulders, I fought the four eye hooks with my thumb and two fingers, forcing them to separate. I pushed the loosened garment, letting it fall at her feet.
Maribeth’s exposed breasts rose above her tanned skin, surging like a pair of billowy white thunderheads rising above the horizon on a tropical sea. Her smooth, pale curves were as white as my unpainted canvases, an appealing contrast to the bronzed skin of her shoulders and belly.
Sliding across the room to the one, small closet, I retrieved a pair of coiled ropes. Making two loops, each about a third of the way from the end. I lashed one rope end tight to a table leg. Maribeth watched my knot work, keeping any expression off her face.
“Are you planning to use those ropes on me?” Maribeth asked with a voice that feigned disinterest.
I didn’t answer. I thought the answer was obvious. Instead, I grabbed her wrist, hauling her to the edge of the table where I thrust her hand through one of the loops; Maribeth let a small chortling sound escape her lips as I tightened it. Yanking her free hand, I fed it through the second loop and cinched it securely.
With her right arm already fastened to a table leg, I scooped her up, laying her on her back on the rectangular wooden table. I sShifted to her other side, I stretched the rope’s free end taut, tying her left arm to the opposite table leg.
“Did you have to make it so tight?” she asked.
“I did, just like they do it to all the captured sacrificial virgins in equatorial Indonesia.”
“I’m not a virgin!” she snapped.
“That’s no excuse – besides, like I said, it’s good to have an experienced girl who knows the ropes.”
I looked her over, lying tits up while admiring my rope work. “Tight knots make you flex your pecs. Tight knots pop your tits up, proud and pretty. And those tits make me pop up as well.” Maribeth strained against my ropes, struggling and lurching to test my knots, all while making her bare breasts undulate like melting, indulgent scoops of vanilla ice cream about to topple from their sugar cones. I stood and watched her struggle, telling her “Your titties look like scoops of vanilla ice cream – with cherries on top.” I wanted to lick Maribeth’s creamy scoops, but instead I took advantage of my free hands to pinch both of her nipples hard at the same time.
Maribeth roared through clenched teeth at the sharp pleasure that sparked through her nipples and radiated across her chest and throat like fiery billiard balls spreading out after a crisp break. The firm, pink cylinders were tiny, ruby fruits between my thumb and forefinger as I rolled her tips between my fingers. I lifted her plump nips, stretching them to a point before letting them snap back from their lofty extension to form cute, red knobs, pulsing atop her perfect pair of pleasure pillows. Maribeth’s ribs heaved in short breaths as I teased her tits, gnashing her nipples, fluffing her orbs as she gave off fighting grunts of growing sexual desire.
Trawling my fingers from her nipples, off the sides of her voluptuous curves and down her ribs, my fingers skipped lightly over her skin, counting each seething rib bone before I circled her navel and gripped the waistband of her red skirt. Maribeth lifted her hips as my hands dove under the edge to run along her hips. I drew my hands down her legs, dragging the red skirt to her ankles and then off onto the floor.
Her light blue panties matched her lacy bra lying next to the rumpled red skirt below her feet. I pushed her legs apart. Maribeth had made a big wet spot in her undies. Scooping my hand under her ass, I mashed her soaked cloth crotch into her warm wetness. My thumb traced its way up her humid canyon until it bumped into her rigid nubbin at the headwaters. I made small circles with the pad of my thumb, spreading her musky scent across her engorged clit, making her panties drink in the nectar of her excited bloom. Massaging her fragrant syrup into her clit made Maribeth inhale with gasping breaths, then exhaling in trembling murmurs. I was convinced I was hearing the mating call of a pagan sex goddess.
Peeling her pretty panties past her bare feet, I had Maribeth wholly naked with her arms positioned above her head and tied to the table. The second rope was wound around her right ankle, leaving some play in the length; I wrapped it around a table leg before I wound her left ankle with rope and secured it to the other table leg, again leaving my living sacrificial erstwhile virgin with the ability to move her legs a little.
I picked a carving knife off the countertop, plucked her wet panties off the table and slit the crotch, placing the savory scented item on my head. Maribeth looked out from under heavily hooded eyes at my face, “It’s been done before,” she admonished while I noticed her hips making small thrusting actions. She was filled with beer and aroused and probably didn’t know she was making those involuntary grinding motions.
I left Maribeth figuratively twisting in a hot and bothered wind as I stepped across the room to retrieve my bag of art supplies and a bottle of olive oil from the cupboard. Pouring a small pool of olive oil on her belly, I dipped a soft brush into the liquid, “We will begin our ritual by priming the canvas; your pussy and your flesh is my canvas. In this artistic endeavor we will attempt to connect the flesh and the physical with the spirit and the emotional.”
“Shall we begin?” I spread her soft, pink labia, dripping with her feminine dew, painting her innermost thighs with gentle strokes of my oil-tipped brush. Maribeth’s legs swung as much as the controlling ropes allowed, her pelvis pushed upward as she arched the small of her back. My strokes on the fleshy doorstep of her inner sanctum were slow and deliberate. I used scribbling, quick touches of a sketch artist, looping brush strokes of Van Gogh followed by flourishes of a fluid-filled brush of a watercolorist.
My subject’s acquiescent purrs of mounting intensity filled my loins with a hard, masculine confidence in the value of my work. Between Maribeth’s mews, I selected a tube of ultramarine blue from my bag. “Now my captured goddess, it’s time for your primitive body painting to connect us with the spirits inhabiting the three worlds: sea, earth and sky.
“First, we invoke the goddess of the sea.” I added a generous dab of blue paint onto a clean paper plate sitting next to the microwave. I smeared the blue blob in small circles, getting a feel for the texture as I stepped back to take a seat between Maribeth’s spread legs. I wiped my finger, tipped with paint, making a streak down her inner right thigh. My bound beauty shifted at my touch; her flat stomach sucked in as I rubbed a second stroke up her left thigh.
I worried the paint was too viscous to be able to make the whole tube last long enough to cover even her pelvic region and legs. I decided to thin the paint with alcohol. I had a quarter bottle of rum and a nearly full bottle of whiskey. “Should I thin this mystical ointment with rum or whiskey?” I asked aloud, though speaking to myself. Maribeth turned her head to watch what I was doing. I answered my own question, “Rum makes you dumb, but whiskey makes you frisky,” then mixed a capful of the Kentucky firewater to the ultramarine.
Loading two fingers with whiskey-tinted blue, I worked my right hand over Maribeth’s firm skin, stroking the fine stubble of her pubic hair that had begun to grow back after her female handlers had shaved her pussy fuzz earlier this summer. Using firm pressure, I massaged her mound just above where her outer vaginal lips met. Maribeth pushed back, arching her hips up to meet my fingers. She bounced her succulent opening in rhythm with my finger-painting application to her skin. I slipped a pair of fingers from my left hand beyond her pink folds, tickling the roof of her pussy from the inside while I pressed down from the outside. Maribeth bucked hard, lifting her ass off the table, wiggling her hips to fuck my hand. The girl was flooding her cleft with creamy excitement. She was sliding toward orgasm too fast; I had only started this paint job. I intended to dominate her here on my kitchen table and I’ll be damned if she collapses into a hot orgasm before I was ready for her.
I withdrew my fingers from her chamber of pulsing vaginal squeezes, concentrating on pursuing my finger painting on her exposed skin. I had been goaded into tying up Maribeth and teasing and tormenting my sex-cult oracle girl. I continued my tormenting and teasing by using the lightest of touches, I applied the cool blue pigment up her silken thighs. Maribeth was tense on the table, absorbing every rippling sensation tripped by my fingertips. My coverage of blue paint across her upper thighs and pelvis was done with firm, circular motions allowing my living canvas to cool off from her earlier sexual excitement.
Having tinted her flesh from above her knees to her waist, I returned to run the thick of my thumb up between her pussy lips, tracing my way with a slow, left hand up to her hard twat. Maribeth responded to my intimate palpitations of her awakened girly parts with a quavering moan. My stroking of the underside of her juicy clit brought her into convulsions. Her legs strained at the ropes around her ankles as she tried to encircle me, flexing against the knots holding her arms. Maribeth had no freedom in her arms and only a few inches of latitude in her legs. The confines of my ropes forced her muscles to work with a hard frustration, focusing her carnal intensity into her vaginal muscles. Maribeth screamed and yanked as I rubbed slow, firm circles around her aching sexberry.
Her rapid breathing betrayed her imminent climax. In a tormenting tease, I backed off, leaving her hips rattling with unfulfilled desire and her pussy begging for penetration that was denied. I let the girl wither into a cool and unsatisfied state as I set the ultramarine blue paint aside.
Picking up the frisky whiskey bottle, I mixed it with my phthalo green paint. “Shall we explore the earth goddess region?” I asked the blue-legged woman tied to my table. Maribeth was motionless as I cut the whiskey into the green dab with my fingers. Answering my own question, “Then again, I guess you don’t have a choice do you, my heathen earth goddess?” This made the girl wiggle her hips a little as if to say, ‘come and take me’.
Starting at her navel with three coated fingers, I rubbed slow circles around her belly’s center, spiraling outward to cover more and more of her soft skin with the goopy green. “I think green is your color,” I told her as I worked my paint job across her lower ribs. Maribeth made a “Hmm” sound, keeping her eyes closed.
I noticed her hips rocking in rhythm to the circular gyrations of my hands inching up her torso. Maribeth’s subtle, involuntary motions indicated that she had some pent-up desires trying to work their way out from her sexually heated core. As a self-confessed sensual and needy woman, I indulged the girl’s sensual needs, slipping my left hand into her succulent cleft and toying with her pink petals. Bumping against her bean, I explored her protruding button, rolling a couple of fingers over and around the petite princess peeking out from behind her hooded folds.
The fingering excited Maribeth. She started bucking and testing the ropes that held her tight while I had my way with her. I pressed her accelerator with my thumb, letting my fingers enter her holy hollow where I pushed deep, bathing my hand in her natural lubricant as I searched for her G-spot. Maribeth’s lips were uttering delicious, sweet moans, her sex muscles were convulsing, gripping my inserted hand with hungry hugs as she thrust toward me as if to devour all of me with her vagina, starting with my left hand.
Withdrawing my hand, I left her feminine void begging to be filled as I focused my fingers back on her hot clit. I continued my body painting, working my hand up to her left breast. Her nipples were plump and perfect. Jutting heavenward, her nips were altars standing erect and magnificent atop a pair of sacred high places. My right palm, pushed into her soft mound where I cupped her in my hand, squeezing her ripened fruit into a fistful of pleasure. My fingers left a trail of phthalo green as they climbed the left titty. Reaching the summit, they smeared the gooey color over half her chest, returning to her proud pillar to give it a good, hard squeeze.
An electric jolt shot through her. The hand manipulating her clitoris felt her body seize up and go rigid as her pelvic muscles tightened. Maribeth gave a sharp bark as soon as I gripped her nipple between finger and thumb. Her muscles relaxed and she shuddered, flooding my tabletop with a gush of warm, liquid excitement. I should have suspected that a sensuous and needy girl like this would be a squirter.
The sight and feel of my painted lady strapped to my kitchen table and squirting on my hand almost made me lose my load at that instant. Maribeth’s orgasms kept sneaking up on me; I intended to edge her into a high state of anticipation, only to force her to cool down until I mounted her and made her scream, moan and prophesy in the voice of a savage jungle goddess at the height of her orgasms. I had yet to master my technique; these needy women in the music composition department were jumping into their orgasms before I was ready.
I was concerned Maribeth was somehow having all the fun. I feared she might be finished before I got my chance to control her and bring her to the edge myself. I intended to be the one to dominate, fucking her lights out as she fell from the stratosphere, screaming for mercy as I thrust my cock, hard and deep, into her seething flesh pot. I was bursting at the seams to paint her vulva with my throbbing rod. I rushed to mix up a dollop of alizarin crimson to complete my ritual sex composition.
I kicked off my flip-flops, dropped my shorts to my ankles and flung my T-shirt across the room. Loading my fingers with a glop of gaudy red, I smeared her throat. “My colorful captive, you look ravishing,” I told her in a husky voice, “and you’re about to be ravaged.” Leaning into her face as I gripped her ruby throat, I pressed my lips into hers and bit down on her lower lip, just hard enough to assure her she was alive and physically connected to the universe — just like she told me music majors desired. I opened my teeth, planting a soft kiss on both lips before I finished my painting with a few streaks across her cheeks like war paint and a red dot on her nose.
“Blue sea, green earth and red sky — you are no paint by number my darling, you are complex and an original. You’re my masterpiece. And now I will mount and master your piece.”
Maribeth struggled against the ropes, acting like she was taken against her will and forced to lie naked on my table. I let her believe she was once again held hostage for a savage sex-cult hard fucking deep in the jungle. My ropes brough memories of strong jungle vines that forced her into the sex positions that her captors demanded of her. She had no choice. I watched her squirm and understood Maribeth needed to play like she hated the way she really loved being treated. She was a complicated, sensuous and a needy young woman. She was my introduction into the imaginations and cravings of needy artisans.
“Oh. I almost forgot. I still need to add a tiny clit more detail before I smash, bash and thrash into your sacred oracle orifice.” Reloading my fingers with the crimson, I stroked Maribeth’s innermost thighs, painting her pussy an explosive, hot red, like the bullseye on a target. Working back to rub her twat. Maribeth was primed and painted.
I swabbed my shaft, coating my spear and its bulging tip in red paint. I was aching to throw my hunting spear into Maribeth’s red void. I wanted to hear the voice of the Red Sky Goddess speak to me as I humped Maribeth on my kitchen table.
With rough pressure, I dashed against her magic bean, bringing her into a frenzied state of huffing breaths and heated, grinding pleas to be filled full with my wildman meat. Maribeth’s eyes rolled back in enchantment, speaking in broken phrases she begged, “Oh god I’m so needy. I need you inside me Marco. Take me right now. Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me.”
She was hungry. She was being driven to the edge of the earth’s physical plane, teetering on the rim, about to fall into the abyss where her body and soul would be consumed by primitive spiritual forces. Maribeth was losing control of her fevered mind and about to become someone or something, scrambled by a wild, eternal force welling inside her. Maribeth’s body and spirit lost control to the mystical force with origins in the deep past, coming into her with the power to move the future. Maribeth’s growing pre-orgasmic spasms shook her blue, green and red body as she gasped in halting transcendent moans, chirps and gulps like a woman possessed.
She was in the throes of feminine forces filling her void from another realm. The naked and painted body of the woman before me was only a vessel of sweating flesh, holding beneath its surface a churning brew of carnal desires. I realized that as I looked upon the bared skin, the upturned tits and the vulva leaking girly juice, that I was only seeing a patina covering a greater reality. Beneath the physical flesh, the sexual craving, was an other-worldly mystique that had overcome and captured Maribeth in its clutches.
When it came to ritual fucking a sex goddess, I was green; but I had blue balls and a stiff red-hot rod. I sensed my moment had come. There was a strange force that filled my kitchen, calling me to give in and fall into this mix of sweating flesh and carnal desires resting on my table, Maribeth was a feast for the taking.
The urge to coax the one big, prophetic orgasm out of Maribeth has seized me something fierce. Male and female, flesh and spirit united in a synchronized furry of cravings and madness. I too was out of control, there was something bigger than me forcing events to happen. There was no resistance possible to the all-consuming thing that was compelling us to mate pussy and penis, heart and soul, mind and body, past and future. Maribeth’s flowering void quavered. I felt the irresistible call beckoning my manly wand, drawing it into its depths.
I slammed into my table-bound goddess with a steam-powered vengeance. My rope-work had her legs tied back and spread open. Gripping her arching hips, her animal magnetism sucked my steely strut into the dark, watery depths of her feminine crevasse. My first plunge into my target was deep and hard, driving Maribeth and the table to which she was strapped, across the floor. Yanking with both hands clasped to her waist, holding her pale, flared pelvis where it formed a made-for-fucking handhold; I hauled her back to my stiff probe, pumping her besodden opening with rapid hammerings.
Maribeth twisted and flailed as I forced my shaft far into her humid darkness. With every hearty punch, Maribeth sang out in lilting, indiscernible noises. I was ferocious in my fucking, perched on the balls of my feet; I drove deep inside her, forcing her to absorb my repeated cervix-buffeting poundings. I was the key, she was the keyhole; I ran roughshod into her keyhole, working to unlock her inner goddess and release a secret oracle for my hearing. Tumbling from Maribeth’s lips came an out-of-body chanting and a string of galloping warbles. Maribeth’s sounds were like words spoken by angels.
Stationed between her legs, I reached for her jostling jugs, clamping her buttes with my outstretched fingers, digging the heels of my palm into her hardened nipples. A fiery demon stoked my passion, taking possession of my balls and red-hot poker. The man I was, had dissolved in the fires burning inside, leaving only a raging animal spirit. I growled, clawed, scooped, shoveled and ground my sizzling cock into her wetness. I held my manhood deep inside the woman I had forcibly tied to my table, feeling her strong sex muscles convulse and grapple with my rigid flesh planted inside. The demon within twisted my nuts with a rusty wrench, winding them tight.
The sperm held under pressure within my scrotum, bubbled like magma ready to erupt and rush forth in a river of fire. My churning lava could no longer be contained. I pulled my volcanic loins out of Maribeth’s gripping pussy, hurling it back inside her slit with a roar, slapping my balls against her ass as she flooded my pubic hair at the very instant I flooded her chamber with my mortal seed.
Maribeth bowed her back, pulling her bindings tight as she howled in a high-pitched, staccato purging of the sacred feminine intensity that had built hot in her womb. She released a long moan, slumping back onto the tabletop, her agitated lady parts jumping involuntarily, sending tiny pulses of her liquid orgasms dribbling out in fading squirts from her vulva, bathing my lower belly in warm satisfaction.
I stuffed my member hard into her, grinding for a moment before erupting into her nether region a final, parting shot of surreal joy. I massaged her nipples, one green and one red, letting our love fluids drain to the table and drip to the floor, mixing Maribeth’s squirted essence and my masculine semen. Our girl and boy juices blended like primary colors on a painter’s palette, forming a new, combined creation that was unique, richer than the sum of our two parts.
I grabbed a carving knife, thinking it fitting to release my needy and sensuous captive musical performer by cutting her free rather than merely untying her. Maribeth told me that her type was ruled by strong emotions and craved stimulation of body and soul, explaining that she needed to be tied to her sensory experiences. She needed to be cut free. It was this kind of physical performance element that connected Maribeth to her artistic world.
The exhausted girl moved her arms and legs, but remained on her back for a few moments. Maribeth’s goddess-connecting colors of blue, green and red were smeared by sweat and the rubbing together of our naked bodies. I let her rest as her vibrating naughty bits calmed down. Taking her by her hands, I lifted her into a sitting position where she shed the knots around her wrists and ankles. Easing her off the table, I guided her to the shower, where I worked to wash off my newly purchased ultramarine blue, phthalo green and alizarin crimson. She asked me to go easy when soaping up the red I’d applied between her thighs, “I am not as needy now as I was earlier. Thanks. But I am more sensitive down there than I was earlier. It was sort of supernatural for me, but I need you to be sensitive and careful with me now.”
I ruined my only two washcloths removing the paint from her skin, but all for a good cause. I toweled her off, enjoying treating her with sensitivity, wiping around her bottom and breasts. Maribeth walked past me out of the bathroom, I grabbed her hand as she stepped into the hall. “Wait Maribeth, I’m the needy one now; I need to know how I should interpret your oracle from this afternoon?”
Maribeth looked over her shoulder, gave me a smile but kept her counsel, walking around the corner to search for her clothes. I followed her, asking, “What can you tell me about the meaning of a number nerd being forced to integrate into the world of art folks? I’d hope you’d have an answer for me, I’d hoped you would be my private oracle.”
She remained silent, gathering her skirt and knife-slit panties off the floor. She turned and looked at me from under heavy eyes, approached me and pushed me so that I fell back into a chair. With a purposeful move, she tossed her gathered garments across the room and curled up in my lap. Maribeth wrapped her hand under my chin, turning my head so that our noses almost touched. She looked into my eyes and smirked, flaring her nostrils in a way that I found to be unbearably cute.
“I warned you Marco, music majors are very needy. We crave stimulation of body, soul and spirit. It’s what ties us to the universe and gives us meaning. Without this kind of affirmation I fear I will be disconnected and set adrift in a meaningless world. I need to be tied to my sensory experiences. I’m insecure and needy in this way.” She locked onto my eyes with a serious look and nodded her head with the slightest of movement, asking me to confirm that I understood her needs.
I nodded to confirm that I understood that she had entrusted me with her innermost needs and desires. I knew she had been open with me and was vulnerable. I held her trust as a sacred oath, remembering my words as I poured her a beer, promising not to judge her.
Still peering into my soul, she nodded back, as if to say, “Good. Now that you understand me, I will trust you with all of me.” She pressed her nose onto mine, then backed off. “Marco, I have some complicated needs. You listened to me and fulfilled my needs. It is no coincidence that you just bought those painting supplies. I needed you to hear me, to understand my depths and to take me and use me the way you did. You were quite handy with those blues, greens and reds.” She kept her big, dark eyes open, drilling into me with her stare as she bumped into my nose again to make physical contact.
“You know Marco, I’d love to see what you could do with orange, yellow and purple.”
I waited a moment, pressing my nose into hers. “Why Maribeth, I could find inspiration in purple. My adventures into the art world have transformed me. Painting with purple might just inspire me to become a one-eyed, one-horned, flying purple pussy eater.”
Maribeth had a small smirk creep across her tight lips. She placed her other hand on my cheek, holding my head with both hands, she whispered, “This is my oracle for you Marco: Speaking for the goddess within me; Marco, I see a future for you, the mathematician, where you connect with warmth and passion to the needy performing arts types. Underneath that dominant brain mass of yours you have an artistic heart; and under your heart you have a tool that paints a masterpiece – that I know.”
Our noses touched once again as our lips pressed hard together for the first time. A long, passionate kiss sealed our connection. Flesh and spirit joined, need and fulfillment balanced, music composition and equations united; we and our worlds were one.
I had a feeling that we were bound to be tied together for a long time.