The Black Tent

Before she could protest, the whistle came to her ears, the bite struck and she jerked forward. The flogger wasn't heavy or extremely painful, but the shock and the sting brought her to her senses. He was whipping her buttocks and her back. The blows seemed to rain down on her, insistent, constant. And arousing. She was being driven to new heights and depths. Reaching down into her, the punishment brought up old fantasies of being trapped and forced, publicly punished for trivialities, and then displayed for all to see. She shook as the pictures flashed through her mind. Her eyes were open and the darkness of the tent enveloped her as he flogged her again and again. She heard a voice whimpering, moaning, begging for mercy. She felt her arousal grow until it felt as though she would burst.

And then it stopped.

She heard nothing, felt nothing, saw nothing. She was aware of everything around her and he was not part of it. She was alone again. She not been aware of his departure nor was she aware of his return. He moved silently and the first thing she sensed was the blade at her throat. He whispered, "You sacrificed, but not properly. We must correct your error."

She would have screamed, but she knew it could not happen, that he would not dare. Then he cut the leather lashing that held her to the stakes. He pulled her to her feet by her hair as she cried out. And he bound her hands again. Then he dragged her, half-walking, out of the black tent and into the light of the fire he had built before the god.

He pushed her down to her knees and walked before her. For the first time she saw him ... naked, aroused, hard, long and thick. He was muscular and lithe, not slim but certainly not fat. And his skin shone gold in the fire light, from the exertion of the beating he had delivered to her. She moaned, begging him to let her serve him, be his slave, his toy. He moved forward and caught her by the hair. He held the goblet, filled with the god's ale. He bade her drink. As the liquid hit her belly, the warmth in her increased. Then he drank and as the ale took effect, she thought his manhood grew longer, thicker. She felt the hweat and lightness spread through her being. She entered a waking dream.

She did not recognize the scene until much later. Then she vividly recalled her dream of a naked warrior, unclothed and aroused, carrying an axe. She knew him, knew he was the god incarnate, and she willingly took him into her mouth. His cock, huge and throbbing, levered in and out of her, into her throat, her very center, and his hands stroked her hair. Her tresses, fiery red, began to burn in her dream and she was enclosed in flames. Then he was lifting her, offering her to the god and as he took her, his prick exploding in her as her orgasm tore her apart, he slit her throat, letting the blood drain onto the statue.

And now he was taking her, in front of the statue. Her head reeled and she cried out, coming from his very appearance, without a touch. And she begged him to give her his cock.

His hands were in her hair now, her mouth on the head of his cock. She gave her Master head, giving him control of her mouth. He groaned as she sucked on him, the feeling exquisite. He fought with his lust, knowing the god demanded more, needed the sacrifice. And then he withdrew from her mouth and signaled for her to kneel on the grass and spread her legs to the god.

She trembled as she did, looking up at the statue, bathed in the firelight. Its mouth was frozen in a rictus of lust, its cock looked unbelievably large. And then her Master pushed her onto her back and mounted her. He took her, filling her more completely than any man before. He rode her, controlled her, guided her through orgasm after orgasm. And, as he approached his climax, the knife descended to her left breast. The point slipped home as she screamed her final passion and as he filled her with his seed.

* * * * *

It was light again. The night was over. She moved drowsily, free of any encumbrances. She rolled to her side and wearily looked around. She was in a strange tent, a strange bed. She sat up and heard a throaty chuckle. "Ah, my slave stirs. Did you sleep well, sweetling? I thought you might sleep all day."

She knew then that she was in the bed in the Master's tent. She lay back and smiled, then remembering looked at her breast. There was a circular scratch around her nipple. She shivered momentarily. He smiled. "I was very careful, sweetling. The god wants a drop of blood, not a soul. And I gave, too." He stood before her, in his cloak. He opened it and showed her the cut just above his cock.

She murmured, "It must hurt. Let me soothe it." He grinned. "But first," she said, as she reached over head, "shouldn't a slave be bound? We are wont to escape you know." He chuckled and gave up any thoughts of shopping today.