Sacrifice to the Emerald God by Paul Blades Page A

to where he could easily dispose of it, no questions asked. And he had the blond gringa . She had brought them luck. He was glad that he had not slit her throat back at the camp site. He and Pepe would now be arguing over the brown skinned bitch and he might have had to kill him. But since he still had the gringa puta , everything worked out fine. He would make sure, of course, to let Pepe know that he had no exclusive right to the delectable looking black haired girl. But that could wait until tomorrow.
          The happy bandit took another swig from the Black Label scotch. It was smooth and aromatic as it descended his gullet. Not like that native brandy he was so used to drinking. His body felt warm and content. He looked down at the blond haired woman lying on the deck, her ankles and wrists in the air. Her face was turned towards him and she was eying him warily. The orange gag covered the lower portion of her face and so he could not see her expression, but he was sure that she was impressed with the alacrity with which he had dispatched the unlucky captain of the boat and the efficiency of his successful raid.
          He wanted to see her body and her beauteous breasts and so he ordered her to get up on her knees. The woman struggled to obey, twisting and turning her body until she was kneeling before him, her arms outstretched behind her, her slender shoulders arched, her pretty breasts presented for his enjoyment. In the dim light he could just make out the little tuft of blond hair that covered her mons. His cock stirred at the view. A good cigar, a good bottle of liquor and a beautiful woman. What more could he want. And then it occurred to him that was something more that he wanted.
          “Come here, cunt,” he ordered her. He had looked at her passport and her American identification papers, but for the life of him he could not remember her name. What did it matter anyway? She didn’t need a name, puta or bitch or cunt would do. The woman obediently but tediously edged her body over to him, walking on her knees. Her breasts swayed and jerked prettily as she struggled. Her eyes were doleful and wet with tears. He knew that he should slap her around for being so maudlin, but he was in a forgiving mood.
          Once the girl had reached him, he put the cigar in his mouth and then leaned over and released her ankles from her wrists. She gave a sigh of relief from behind her gag. He then unfastened the orange cloth that silenced her and filled her mouth and threw it down on the deck. He unbuttoned his pants and instructed the unhappy woman, “Suck my cock, whore.”
          Margie had been afraid that that was on the man’s mind. She had wondered when he would get around to it. She knew that she had no choice, but the prospect of putting the man’s tool in her mouth was distressing. She was afraid that she would be too good at it and that he would demand it again and again. Also, she knew what her reaction would be when the hard, thick hot meat was between her lips. She couldn’t help it, it turned her on.
          Sadly, the blond prisoner edged herself closer to the man’s waiting cock. He was holding the still soft but hardening member in his right hand while he held his cigar and the bottle of scotch in the other. “Come on, gringa , I’m waiting,” he told her, an edge of threat in his voice.
          Margie leaned over and took the soft, wide meat between her trembling lips. She felt a tear roll down her cheek as she tasted its saltiness and maleness. She could not help but think of the last cock she had serviced with her mouth, Tom’s. It had seemed so wonderful to bring him pleasure this way, something that she looked forward to doing for him for years and years to come. But now here she was, on the deck of a pirated ship, kneeling naked and bound with a murderer’s member in her mouth, pleasuring the same man who might slit her throat and toss her overboard at the