A Painful Sacrifice Ch. 01

DISCLAIMER: All characters in this story are 18+ years of age. All characters and events depicted are completely fictitious...obviously.

AUTHOR FOREWARD: This story is going to be a little different than what I usually write. Brace yourself! In addition to kink/BDSM, this story is actually going to have something resembling a serious plot and be set in a somewhat fleshed out fantasy world. Perhaps in an even more bizarre twist, our protagonist/submissive/punching bag in this story is a girl instead of a guy. As always, if you enjoy the story, please rate and comment. That will let me know whether or not to continue with additional chapters.

WARNING: This story contains themes of sadism, masochism, submission, and humiliation. Proceed at your own risk.

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Chapter 1: Dark Omens

"Are you afraid?" Lydia asks in a soft tone, punctuating her question to me with a childish giggle. Between her sweet voice and her beautiful face, it's hard to believe that the young priestess-in-training has such a bad temper.

"Afraid of what?" I respond, trying to sound nonchalant. Deep down I'm terrified...terrified and excited! "I've seen you try to play sports with the village boys. Five coppers says you miss." I watch with satisfaction as Lydia's jaw clenches and her right hand tightens around the miniscule, ceremonial hammer. Being friends as long as we have, I always seem to know just what buttons to push to rile her up. I like to think of it as my special talent!

"Miss that!?" She laughs incredulously, pointing down with her free hand at my exposed womanhood. "I hardly think that's possible." With my left hand holding aside the straps of my leather skirt, and my right hand pulling back a hood of soft skin, I lie kneeling on the forest floor, my exposed clitoris resting on the edge of a large tree stump. As thick as my thumb, and about half as long, I stare down with sudden embarrassment at the sensitive nub of flesh. Is it big, I wonder? I have nothing to compare it against. I feel my face begin to turn red. Everything else on me is big! Between my muscular thighs, wide hips, bulbous round butt, broad shoulders, and enormous breasts, it would be little surprise if my clit were also freakishly huge.

"After years of training," Lydia quickly adds, trying to ease my obvious humiliation, "my aim with thing is perfect. I won't miss." She holds up the tiny wooden hammer, gracefully twirling it in her hands. Lydia and her mother are the only two people in our village to carry such an instrument. Together with a thin, ornate spile, the hammer's intended use is for harvesting the healing liquids of young Lamerean trees, while trying not to damage the trunks of the sensitive saplings. "So, I'll ask you just one more time," she continues calmly, slowly walking over to where I am kneeling, until her slender and shapely 5 foot tall frame towers over me ominously. "Do you want to apologize?"

It takes me a moment to remember just how we got here. It started with me throwing a perfectly aimed Lamerean berry down the cleavage of Lydia's dress. She grumbled something under her breath. Not receiving the desired response, I expertly ricocheted the next berry off the bridge of her nose. She called me a stupid ox, one of her favorite insults when I'm getting under her skin. Biding my time, I waited until she was examining a diseased sapling before taking an extra ripe berry from my harvesting sack and mashing it against her forehead with my thumb. Boy did that have the desired effect! She came at me in a rage, threatening to "smash my berry" if I didn't show her some respect. From there, things escalated quickly!

I look up, locking eyes with Lydia. They're such a beautiful hazel green. I could stare into her eyes all day. "Apologize for what?" I ask as innocent as can be.

"Fine, have your way, you dumb ox," she growls. Hiking up her traditional green priestess dress, she kneels down facing me. "Don't you dare flinch a muscle! I'm going to make sure you learn your lesson!"

"Why would I flinch?" I ask, trying to sound as uninterested as possible, as though my heart isn't pounding wildly inside my chest.

Lydia lets out one last disgusted snarl as she raises little hammer into the air. Despite all my earlier bravado, I can't bear to watch. I turn my head just as the tiny mallet begins its downward descent. A sickening 'splat' sound tells me that Lydia's hit her mark. Maybe it won't be that bad I think to myself for a fraction of a second...

I let out an involuntary shriek at the top of my lungs and crumple to the forest floor below, clutching at my thoroughly smashed berry. The sack around my waist, half filled with Lamerean fruit, sends little red berries spilling everywhere. I hear Lydia break into an uncontrollable fit of laughter as she watches me roll around on my back in the mud, holding my private parts and kicking my feet spastically.

"Are you..." Lydia pauses, overtaken by another wave of giggles, "...are you alright? I didn't mean to hit you quite so hard."

"My gods," I groan, once the pain has subsided enough that I can finally speak. "I never knew something could hurt this bad!" My response sends Lydia in even more hysterics. It's contagious, and soon enough I'm also laughing uncontrollably as I continue to roll around on the ground in a fetal position.

"Oh my gods...oh my gods...oh my gods," I moan, amid fits of laughter. Between all the laughing and the pleas for divine intervention on behalf of mortally wounded clit, I can barely breathe. After what feels like an eternity, I finally manage to stumble back to my knees. I can feel my bare back, between my skirt and leather top, covered in mud and wet leaves. I grab hold of the stump and gasp for air as Lydia wipes tears of laughter from her eyes.

"So, did you learn your lesson?" Lydia asks, with a big grin on her cute face. "Are you going to show proper respect to your priestess next time?"

I can't quite explain it. There's something about Lydia. She's intoxicating! I want all of her attention...I want to feel her energy...I want to be the object of her wrath.

"What lesson?" I ask, pulling aside the flaps of my leather skirt. I try my best not to wince as I pull back my clitoral hood and rest my aching, red clitoris once again on the tree stump. If my clit wasn't big before, it certainly is now that it's swollen nearly double in size.

"Also, what priestess?" I add. "All I see is a little shrimp in an oversized dress." I know it's a cheap shot. Lydia has always been self-conscious about her short stature. Wearing one of her mother's far too large ritual dresses only makes matters worse. Still, given the circumstances, I feel I am entitled to a low-blow of my own.

"I'll show you, you stupid cow!" Lydia snarls, practically frothing at the mouth. She drops once more to her knees, this time not bothering to protect her dress from the muddy soil. "I'm going to make you cry for your mommy!"

"I'd like to see you try," I say with a soft smile, once more locking eyes with the irate priestess. My gods are her eyes beautiful! I could get lost in them...drowned in them. It's funny, I think I've had a crush on Lydia as long as I can remember. I literally cannot remember a time in my life when I wasn't thoroughly infatuated with her. Speaking of crushes, and things about to get crushed, Lydia lifts the little hammer high into the air with a sadistic gleam in her eyes. By the time I notice the figure approaching us from amongst the trees it's too late. Lydia brings the little hammer down like a vengeful bolt of lightning and hits another bullseye!

"Mother," I manage to croak, quickly clenching my legs together and trying my best to keep my shaking to a minimum.

"Poppy, what are you doing?" My mother asks in an annoyed tone. "Why are you kneeling in the mud? You should be busy harvesting." I silently thank the gods that my mother didn't see the little game we were just playing. My mother has caught the two of us roughhousing before...but not like this.

Despite my best efforts, I seem completely unable to form a coherent response. It takes every ounce of my willpower just to stay upright. I want nothing more right now than to collapse into a puddle at Lydia's feet, trembling and whimpering.

"Greeting sister Thalia," Lydia says in a chipper voice. "Poppy slipped in the mud. I was just seeing if she was ok."

"It hurts," I hiss violently, as I feign grabbing at my left knee. It feels good to be able to express the pain I'm in, but I desperately wish I could cradle the throbbing berry between by legs. "I think I'll be ok though." I hear Lydia stifle a snigger; I can tell the little turd is enjoying this.

"Thank you again for helping us harvest on such short notice," Lydia says, smiling at my mother. "Another three villagers fell ill overnight. We've never seen anything like it. I would have done the harvesting myself, but the priestess tasked me with finding saplings that would be safe to tap."

"Has the blacksmith's condition deteriorated that badly?" I can hear the concern in my mother's voice. Lamerean trees are typically only tapped in the direst of circumstances. Even in the skilled hands of a priestess, driving a spile into the young trees oftentimes kills them.

"It hasn't come to that yet," Lydia answers, her tone becoming more serious. She begins gathering the berries I spilled from the forest floor, returning them to my sack. "Still...my mother would like to be prepared for any eventuality."

My mother nods; I can see the worry written on her face. "We will leave you to you work then, sister Lydia. Come along Poppy." My mother turns around and sets back off into the woods at a brisk stride. My legs feel like jelly, but somehow I manage to get to my feet and stumble after her.

"I'm not done with you," Lydia mouths at me ominously as I depart. The thought that Lydia wants to spend more time playing under my dress sends a shiver of excitement up my spine. I respond by sticking my tongue out at her and flicking one more berry in her general direction.

The harvest takes us longer than usual. It's over two hours before both our harvesting sacks are finally full of the medicinal fruit. Past seasons were never this bad. It's a beautiful, warm summer day though, so I don't mind spending extra time in the woods. Still, it's unsettling to see all the sickly Lamerean trees completely absent of berries. In times of illness and pestilence, these plants are the lifeblood of our village.

Emerging out of the woods and entering the village, my mother turns right on the wide muddy lane that is the main thoroughfare of our little town. "Where do you think you're going?" she asked with an arched eyebrow as I turn to follow her. "To the shrine," I answer in an annoyed tone. I know exactly where conversation this is going.

"Not like that you aren't, covered in mud and in little more than undergarments," my mother responds curtly, as she unties the harvest sack from my waist. My mother tolerates me dressing in my leather skirt and halter top for harvesting in the woods, but she is mortified at my frequent attempts to wear the garments around town. How my mother is able wear a full woolen dress for summer harvesting still baffles me. By all rights she should be drenched in sweat and covered in burs, but somehow neither is true.

"Go home and bathe," she orders with a dry smirk, as she ties my harvest sack to her waist. I scoff and roll my eyes as I turn around and stomp off the other direction down the road. Truthfully, I am thankful not to have to go to the shrine. The thought of so many sick and suffering eyes on me makes me uncomfortable. Given the small size of our village, I know each and everyone one of them by name. The knowledge that some of them will likely not see the fall harvest bothers me more than I care to admit.

Arriving at our little cabin on the outskirt of town, I grab two dry logs from beneath the overhang of our roof. The embers in the hearth are still hot, and I have little trouble getting the logs to ignite. I take a large cauldron from the floor and fill it with rainwater from a wooden basin outside. Within the span of fifteen minutes the water has reached a raging boil. Careful not to burn myself, I haul the cauldron outside and pour it into the large wooden barrel, already half full with cold rainwater, which we use for bathing. Sticking a finger in to test the temperature, I find it lukewarm. I prefer my baths piping hot, but I'm too lazy to bother with boiling a second batch of water. This will do.

I slip out off my skirt and untie my top. Oh gods does it feel good to finally free my massive breasts! My damn udders just won't stop growing, and the two year old leather garment has started mashing the poor things more and more by the day. If it were up to me, I'd gladly run around topless in the woods, but I think if my mother caught me it might send her to an early grave. Plus if any of the townsfolk saw...well, I know the young men in the village already refer to me as 'the milk cow' and 'saggy tits' behind my back. I take special exception to the latter nickname, as it simply isn't true! Despite their enormous size, my breasts are firm and round, and hang well above my bellybutton. Lydia tried to console me once by telling me that the boys were just jealous because they couldn't play with them. That just made me more embarrassed, although there was probably some truth to it. All the other girls my age are already married, most with one, if not two, children. I haven't so much kissed a boy before, nor do I really want to. It's easier for Lydia of course, as a future priestess she is expected not to marry.

I step over the rim of the large wooden barrel and into a pool of warm water that comes up to my naval. With one hand under each breast, I lift up my colossal mammaries in sweet freedom. They may cause me some embarrassment, but I love my large breasts. If nothing else, they are just so much fun to play with! They are also Lydia's primary targets for abuse whenever I irritate her. The little fiend knows they're sensitive, plus their huge and right at her eye level. Looking down, the fair skin on my chest is covered with at least a dozen fading yellow bruises from the last time I angered Lydia. My gods do those boney little fists of hers hurt like hell, though I would never actually admit that to her.

At just the thought of Lydia pummeling my breasts, my right hand instinctively reaches below the waterline and between my legs. I let out a surprised yelp and pull my hand back. How quickly I forget! I decide to give it another try. The poor little thing suffered so much today, it deserves a little pleasure. I start rubbing slowly at first. The pain is almost unbearable...almost. Despite my every intention to be gentle, I find the strokes of my hand growing more violent by the minute. The combination of burning pleasure and searing pain feels...amazing!

Looking out at the horizon, the sun is in the process of disappearing behind the hills. The pine forest below gleams in splendor, illuminated by the sun's last parting rays. Letting out a low guttural moan, I squat down in the tub, sinking into the water until it's up to my chin. Closing my eyes, it is no longer my hand beneath the water massaging, tugging, and pinching, but Lydia's. Today may have been the first time Lydia actually saw underneath my skirt, but in my fantasies she's seen, held, and caressed every inch of my body. I bite my bottom lip as my knees begin to tremble. The gratification continues to mount until it is nearly unbearable. I'm just seconds away from...

"Poppy!" My mother's voice coming from inside the cabin jars me out my fantasy so cruelly that I let out an audible whimper. "Dinner is ready!" I momentarily debate returning to the task at hand, but the thought seems thoroughly unappetizing with my mother inside the cabin waiting for me.

I step out of the tepid water and onto the green earth. The wet blades of grass tickle my feet. I realize I forgot to grab a towel. Shrugging, I take one of my big, drab woolen dresses from the clothes line and slip it over my wet frame. I make a halfhearted hearted attempt to wring out my tangled, shoulder-length hair onto the ground below. My stomach growls and I abandon the effort halfway through.

"You're wet," my mother comments laconically, looking up briefly from her simmering vegetable stew as I enter the cabin.

"Yes, bathing tends to do that to a person," I respond with a stupid grin. My mother completely ignores my comment. Clearly my incredible wit is lost on her. Scooping up a big bowl full of boiling hot stew from the cauldron hanging over the fire, I sit opposite my mother at the long wooden table that dominates our little cabin. I can see through the sole window of our tiny abode that daylight is rapidly fading. Dancing in the hearth, the erratic tongues of flame flicker their light against our house's stone walls.

Looking down, I start stirring my still boiling stew with my spoon in attempt to cool it down to an edible temperature. I watch with mild interest as the medley of beans, barley, carrots, and lentils swirl around in the thin brown broth. I would never say my mother is a bad cook, but three weeks straight of vegetable stew for dinner has dulled my enthusiasm for the dish. Under normal circumstances, we would be dining on venison, rabbit, and fish at this time of season, but this year has been strange. Wild game has been exceedingly scarce. Come to think of it, I don't think I've even seen a deer since the snow melted. Stranger still, I realize my mother hasn't said a word since I sat down. Normally, she would already be listing off a litany of chores for the following day.

"How was your visit to the shrine?" I finally ask, unable to stand the silence any longer.

"It was good to see the Priestess," my mother responds with a smile. While my mother gets along with most of the village, Priestess Celicia is the only person I would truly call her friend. When with Celicia, my mother's dour demeanor seems to completely evaporate, replaced with mirth and laughter. "She is extremely busy though with this plague." I haven't that term used yet to describe this recent wave of illness. The mere mention of the word turns my stomach. It's been over 10 years since the last plague ran through our village...and took my father.

"Poppy," my mother pauses, as if trying to find just the right words. "I don't think you should see Lydia anymore." Her words take me by such surprise that a little bit of soup drools out from my slack jaw. My mother has always loved Lydia. Growing up, Lydia was always the golden standard by which I was measured. If I caused any mischief, or beat up some obnoxious village boy, it was always 'why can't you be more like Lydia?'

"It's just that," my mother continues, still obviously struggling for words, "you're not children anymore. You've seen nineteen harvests now, and Lydia twenty. You each have your own paths you must follow..."

"So what?" I ask angrily, cutting my mother off mid-sentence. "Now that I'm adult, your stupid, fat, ugly daughter can't be seen associating with the future priestess of this village?"

"You're not fat," my mother corrects me curtly. I will concede to her on that point. That may have been a bit of hyperbole on my part. Other than my massive breasts and plump buttocks, a decade are farming has turned most of my body into hard muscle. I can't help but notice that she doesn't correct me on my other two points.

"It's just that," she finally continues after leaving me to fume for several moments, "I'm worried about you. I worry you might get hurt."

"Hurt?" I ask incredulously. Once again, I can't help but wonder how much my mother saw in the forest today. "Lydia's half my size!" To be fair, at well of 6 feet tall, most of the village is half my size.