A New Jungle Goddess

6.

When she finally made it back to Novobbo's, she didn't want to tell him what had happened to her. She didn't want to have to relive it all right away. Except he seemed to know all about it, somehow. Had he been watching? He must have been.

He didn't have to say anything. She could tell immediately from his expression. From his frown.

She expected to be pissed at him. She thought she'd tear his face off. She thought she was looking forward to that. Instead she felt guilty, and she froze up. She started to shiver and then she started to weep. It was like she'd failed him. Like she'd let him down and let his people down. Their cause was noble, about as noble as a cause gets—ending a horrible war—and she hadn't been able to do it.

She didn't want to think about the other explanation. She wasn't ready for that. She closed it off from her mind. It was in her head, already, of course. She ignored it. She deliberately, cold-bloodedly buried it. She would keep it buried as long as she could.

First thing he told her was: "It's my fault. I didn't prepare you right. I must have made some mistakes in your initiation. It's complex. I must have moved us along too fast. The power of the spirits wasn't with you as strongly as it should have been. We can fix this together, if you'll give me the chance. We can try again."

Well, she let him. Worth a shot, was what she told herself. Just to make sure. Maybe what he was telling her was true. God oh God how she hoped what he was telling her was true. Or at least had some truth in it. Even if it just turned out to be a tiny shred.

Some weeks went by.

Quinn and the medicine man performed several more weird rituals. There was one for purification. There were different ones for different levels or aspects transformation, both spiritual and physical. She bulled diligently through them all.

Just to make sure. Just to find out. She wanted it to work, to be real. She wanted it so fucking bad.

Finally she was supposed to be ready. She put the costume back on and went out to meet the warriors. She tried a few different approaches. She confronted the tribes separately instead of together.

Things never played out any better than her first try. It wasn't all absolutely horrible. There were ups mixed in among the downs. It all got a bit blurred and bewildering.

There was a great deal of running around. A great deal of messiness. Some men helped her out, sometimes. Yet every one of those guys changed his mind and turned against her on later occasions.

The one and only constant she learned she could count on: Things always ended pretty much the same way. Things were always gonna end like that, as long as she kept doing what she was doing.

7.

Deep down in her heart, by now, in her guts, she knew what was what. For all her impulsiveness or foolishness, Quinn was not a complete idiot. The truth of the matter had got through to her. Took longer than it should have. She'd fought it off as long as she could. Nevertheless, it finally won through.

It was possible, just barely, that the medicine man had not deceived her deliberately and cold-bloodedly. He might have been deceiving himself at the same time. Perhaps he was deluded. His beliefs had proved to be superstitions, utterly useless mumbo-jumbo; that didn't mean he didn't genuinely believe in them, even now.

Only that notion didn't quite hold water. Nope. As much as she still wanted to, she couldn't accept that interpretation. She couldn't keep herself from remembering his expression, the last few times she saw him. It had changed a whole lot from the early days. Now what stood out strongest was the amusement on his face, and the smugness which accompanied it. He no longer bothered to hide it from her. Not anymore. He'd stopped trying, stopped caring.

The man was not some primitive ignorant innocent. What he'd done, he'd done consciously and willfully. He was a con man and he had conned her. Worse than that, he was a pimp. There was no better construction that could be placed upon his actions. He had pimped her to the men of the jungle. All the men of both rival tribes. A naïve entitled white girl, leggy and blonde, real good hearted and good looking, not very bright ... He had served her body up to them like steaming meat on a platter. All the warriors had feasted. All had taken their fill of her.

Furthermore, he meant to keep on doing this. What had happened would keep happening, over and over. It would continue as long as she stayed in this forest in her skimpy leopard bikini. As long as she continued to permit it. To play along.

She'd been very stupid, very gullible. Arrogant, also. Very full of herself. She'd been so eager to think she was special. Gifted. Superior. A Chosen One.

She'd sure been chosen, all right. The medicine man had manipulated her brilliantly. He had studied her as she pranced around barefoot with her tight khaki shorts, her loose white T-shirts, her mirrored sunglasses. He knew she was chasing fantasies. She'd come to his land in search of transformation and transcendence. Deeper purpose and meaning. He decided to give those things to her. He had planned and he had plotted. Then he worked his magic. He put a spell on her, just with lies. And then he put her stupid, gullible, lily white ass to work. A lot of work. Jesus Christ, the work she'd done. She'd given all she had to give, and then some.

They'd never be satisfied, none of them. They'd keep coming for her, as long as she was available for them to find. She couldn't hide from them—they tracked her ass down, when she tried that. She certainly couldn't fight them. They always overwhelmed her, every single time. They taunted and teased her. They peeled off her silly bikini, bent her over, pinned her down, and put her lily white ass back to work.

And God, each and every time they did that to her, the things they made her feel ... God oh God, the things they made her say. It went on and on so long. They wore her out.

They only ever let her go to have the fun of chasing her down again, later on. All those times she'd thought she'd escaped, she now knew she'd only managed it because they'd let it happen. Humiliating, but true.

Every single part of it was humiliating, obviously.

There were a few times across the weeks or however long it was when she broke down. She'd crawl into the bushes and curl up into a ball and bawl her eyes out. She'd cry and cry, just wallowing in misery and self-loathing as long as she could ... Almost always when that happened, bugs would eventually find her and start crawling all over, what with being in the middle of a jungle, and the little fuckers would drive her out of her dark hiding place. They'd force her to get a hold of herself again, just by annoying her—they made her get back on her feet and shake everything off, literally and figuratively at the same time.

A couple occasions she broke down in a different way, a weirder way. She had fits of hysterics, where she couldn't stop giggling. She'd laugh so much it would make her pee. One time it went on so long she just about hyperventilated and passed about. When that occurred, it was the sheer ludicrous absurdity of her situation that overwhelmed her, rather than the tragedy and gross trauma of it. Comedy and horror are always quite close together—the exact same shit qualifies almost every time, just depending on which angle you're looking from.

The smart thing to do at this point, now she'd finally let herself reach a level of clarity and acceptance of the ugly facts, would be to leave the jungle altogether. To flee, simple as that. Provided they'd let her. Her best chance of staying ahead of the horrible men was the river. She could steal one of their fishing canoes or if she was too chicken to risk that, she might tie some biggish sticks together with vines or reeds or something, thus fashioning a basic raft. And if that worked, once the current had carried her through the gap in the mountains and beyond their territory, if she could get that far, they probably wouldn't pursue her further. Not if it meant venturing outside the basin. For them a trip like that was like leaving the planet, or possibly scarier.

If she got beyond their reach, somehow she'd have to keep going. Well, yeah, duh ... She could do it if she was determined enough. She could make her way back to civilization and home, step by step. Then pick up the pieces of her old life. There were various good people she could reconnect with that were bound to help her, once she was in a position to contact them again. Lots of folks. They'd take care of her. All she would need to do was reach out.

This was the sensible course, in fact the only sensible course in her situation. Yet somehow she found she was still reluctant. More than a little. She dithered. The more she thought about it, the less ready she felt.

It wasn't the risks of the trip that held her in check. Not really. It was the final goal that she couldn't maintain any enthusiasm for. She didn't want to return to the so-called normal world. She didn't want to have to tell umpteen people the shameful story of what had been done to her. That was going to suck. And even if somehow she could avoid or skip over that part, claiming memory loss or something along those lines, there was yet another problem, a bigger one, a crucial one. Which was that she didn't want her old life back. She hadn't liked it. She'd been thoroughly fed up with it—one of the reasons she'd ended up where she was. No, probably the main one.

Her current life, the present situation, was bullshit. But if she got her old life back, it would hardly count as a victory. It would still feel like a backward step. Why, after all, had she been so eager to come to the jungle in the first place, and then so eager to believe Novobbo's lies? As stupid and silly and plain embarrassing as this fake Jungle Goddess existence had ended up, in many, many ways it still remained an enormous improvement over her original life, her normal life. Her failed, broken career. Her evaporated dreams.

She'd been lied to, manipulated, and exploited by the natives. She'd been humiliated over and over, and fucked a whole lot, and it hadn't been consensual when it happened. It was always rather rough.

She hadn't exactly been suffering, though.

She'd never been bored.

To be perfectly honest, hard as this might be to face up to, all the sex had turned out extremely enjoyable for her. As rough as they were with her, as hard as they made her work, they never really hurt her. Well, they hurt her feelings. They made her feel ashamed and stupid and weak. But then again, one of the biggest reasons Quinn was left feeling so weak and ashamed after each of those sexual encounters was because of how much raw carnal pleasure the men succeeded in making her experience, regardless of her reluctance and resistance. They could always compel arousal from her, and sustain that desire (both physical/emotional and psychological) until it culminated in multiple shattering orgasms. They screwed the sweet bejesus out of her. Not once had they failed to do that, when they subdued her. Their skills were undeniably formidable (abetted all along of course by her own self-destructive, masochistic tendencies). Once they got cooking, the bastards sure knew how to put the come in "overcome".

A good number of people say they believe in God because the alternative is too scary for them or too sad. A lot of these same folks will admit that the idea of God and how He is generally supposed to operate, according to the stories, doesn't hold up to scrutiny. There are all sorts of serious, troubling logical holes in the various versions. Odds are, it's all horseshit. There's nobody up there and when we die, we just die. Of course that's too much to take on for lots of folks. Way too much. They stick with the lie. Deep down they know it's a lie, but they stick with it anyway. The other path is just too hard. Too depressing.

Quinn's parents used to think that way. It always bugged her that they did. It was weak. It was ridiculous. It was dishonest, too. And now, with her present dilemma, she could finally see where they were coming from.

8.

Once she made her decision, once she settled on a new strategy and committed herself to it, things flowed pretty well. At least at first.

She found a pair of hunters, exactly like she hoped. This didn't take too long, either. Quinn just roved around at random while she waited, keeping as quiet as possible. Sort of exploring or scouting, but not really. Mainly she'd just let herself wander or drift. But she'd taken the precaution of smearing mud from the riverbank all over herself, a thick coating with bits of leaves stuck in it here and there, for camouflage. She would never have attempted any proper, methodical tracking. She didn't know the ins-and-outs of that, and it wasn't necessary anyway. She believed the basin was small enough and overcrowded enough that men would come along soon enough without her having to search them out. The tricky variable was how many they'd be when it happened, and she got lucky that time for a change, since it was just two young guys, two buddies obviously looking for their dinner, not another big riled-up war party. They weren't painted or masked.

The snakes tattooed on their biceps were red.

Quinn jumped them from behind, and also from above—pouncing from a tree branch just after they'd passed beneath. She knocked them both flat on their faces with the weight of her body, and stunned them pretty good too, though without knocking either one out altogether. Then she got their hands tied behind their backs. Thankfully they didn't struggle much as she did it—they could have made things a great deal harder for her if they'd thought to try. For one thing, she only had one cord to use—the very same cord that had been tying her own hands together not very long ago—and it wouldn't reach long enough for both of them. So with the second guy, she used her top to get the job done. Couldn't think of a better solution.

When she stood up off the guys and let them roll over, she forced herself to keep her shoulders back and both her hands planted on her hips like a proud superheroine. A proper Jungle Goddess, radiating self-assurance and courage. She had to pretend it didn't matter in the slightest if her breasts were bare again, dangling invitingly, her nipples swollen stiff and aching. Thanks to the filth coating the rest of her body, their exposure was heightened. Their paleness had already contrasted dramatically with her suntan; now that contrast seemed doubled or tripled. She suddenly remembered how her grandpa's favorite euphemism for breasts had been "headlights"—the crude comparison had never been more appropriate. But she had to pretend such a thing had no effect on her. A meaningless triviality, beneath her notice.

The men on the ground would never take their eyes off them. They would never look her in the face, at least not for more than two seconds at a time. They would never stop grinning or nudging each other. Already both their loincloths bulged, and neither of them was embarrassed by it. Neither had a reason to be, judging from the size of the protrusions.

Quinn felt very severely tempted to lift her bare foot and stomp upon those bulges. Not as hard as she could have done, though—she'd be mean but not too mean, which in its own way would be meaner than plain kicking them. Quinn wanted to do it slow and careful, pressing with her dainty perfect toes just hard enough to tease them, not crush them. She held back because she was afraid the men would take the opportunity to kick her other foot out from under her, if she got too close, since she hadn't been able to secure their legs. Also because she was afraid they might just enjoy such treatment, unless she was harsher with them than she was inclined to be, while she in turn might very easily grow too carried away at the same time.

She took a breath and cleared her throat, and when she spoke (using Spanish again, as usual), she tilted up her chin and peered down the length of her nose at her captives with half-lidded eyes, and used the most haughty, aristocratic tone she could muster: "I require you to carry a message to your chief. I wish to meet with him tomorrow at dawn. Tell him to come to the rope bridge across the north fork of the river. Tell him he must come alone and unarmed, or I will not speak with him. If he doesn't hear what I want to tell him, he will regret it. I have carefully considered the things he said to me when we first met, and I have conferred with the spirits of the trees. We have reached a new understanding, and we wish to share it with him. A great change is at hand, if he has the wisdom and the courage to accept what I will offer. Tomorrow at dawn, if he comes."

"He will come," answered one of them, "I am certain he will."

"Hur hur," agreed the other, "Hur hur."

"Very well. I will leave. Bear my message with haste, and give your chief my words exactly as I have given them to you—exactly! Or else the spirits of this jungle will judge you harshly for it."

"Wait, wait, Jungle Goddess! Do not go just yet! Do not leave us with our hands bound! Allow me to return your chest-covering. It has been noticed that the Jungle Goddess is not comfortable with her breasts uncovered before the eyes of sinful mortals like ourselves. Because it shames her, does it not? They are too vulnerable and it distracts and weakens her when they are exposed."

"The breasts of the Jungle Goddess are very sensitive," said the other, "It has been repeatedly observed and demonstrated. Touching them and kissing them easily enflames her lust. Enflame it enough and her courageous spirit falters and becomes submissive."

"Indeed. Very risky for her to have exposed them before us as she has, as if to taunt us with them. But her boldness despite the danger is most admirable."

"And most enticing."

Quinn attempted an insouciant shrug—this was rather spoiled by the redness that flooded her cheeks. "Sinful mortals like yourselves cannot be trusted to behave respectfully in my presence. You must therefore remain bound. If this means my breasts must stay uncovered, so be it. My ... discomfort is a fair price for the protection it presently affords to my liberty." Her breasts were safer exposed than covered. Her top was defending them better right where it was, looped snug around the man's wrists.

"But if we return to our village with our hands bound like this, we shall be terribly shamed. We shall be unmanned. The other warriors will shun us. The women too. The chief may cast us out as exiles."

"What concern is that to me?"

"We will lose our honor and our tribe! We will become living ghosts, scorned by all! Will you show us no pity, Jungle Goddess?"

"As much pity as you warriors have shown me."

"But if you allow this to happen, the chief will not heed your message. I believe he will not even allow us to deliver it. He will not let us speak, and he will not let himself hear our words if we do. Because we will have become unworthy of hearing. Unworthy of trust. If we are no longer men of the tribe, that means we become its enemies. We become no better than beasts or devils! Thus the chief will not meet you tomorrow. We will not be able to convince him. It will not be permitted!"

"But if you untie us," said the other, "we promise most solemnly that your message shall be delivered. We swear it on our honor, and the honor of our fathers. If you spare us from disgrace—if you allow us to keep our honor—we promise we will do what you want."

"Please, Jungle Goddess. We beg most humbly for our freedom and we beg you for our honor. And alas, this is the only way to get us to do what you want. Set us free, and your message will be delivered. If you refuse, if you are stubborn and cruel and unman us, it shall not. The choice is yours. We are in your power."