by Paul Blades
Tom bristled at the soldier’s question. He knew all about evidence and shit like that. But this wasn’t a court of law. “Okay, okay,” he answered. “Then let’s tear this place apart. There’s got to be more evidence of her here. I know it.”
“Signor,” the captain patiently replied, “the reports that you supplied me with indicated that the white woman was naked except for a pair of yellow ribboned sandals. What other evidence would you expect to find? Fingerprints? Her bones, perhaps? Unfortunately, I did not bring a forensics laboratory. Believe me, if these people do not want to tell us what happened to the unfortunate signora, they will not tell us. Assuming that the boy’s story is untrue, they could have sold her off to another tribe. They could have burned her up as a sacrifice to their gods. They could have her hidden deep in the forest. It would take months, maybe a year to search everywhere. And as to your assumption that Armando was seeking to recover the blond woman he sold upriver, that is just speculation. He may have come here, if in fact he did since we have seen no evidence of it, for a completely different reason. The appearance of the pretty, little sandals may be pure coincidence. I’m afraid that you are at a dead end, Signor. I’m sorry, but that’s the way it is.”
Tom, realizing that his search to find his lost bride was at an end, suppressed the great sob that had welled up inside him. He clutched at a straw.
“But what about the other village, the one the boy says he bought the sandals from. We could go there. If he’s lying, then that’s proof that these animals did something with her.”
“I’m afraid it’s impossible, Signor,” the officer replied coldly. “The village that the boy described is almost certainly across the border in Venezuela or perhaps even Colombia. I have no jurisdiction there.”
Tom’s head sank onto his chest as a wave of despair flowed through him. So his odyssey to find his lost bride was at an end. He had lost the vibrant, beautiful Marjorie forever to some horrible, cruel fate. And all because he did not go with her when she went to buy that stupid statue. Tears came to his eyes as he fondled he only thing that he had left of her, her silly, Italian sandals that she loved so much.
The captain let the man sulk in his misery for several minutes and then he spoke. “Signor, I suggest that we return to our vessel. Our business is done here.”
Tom, realizing that the captain was right, gave a loud sigh of unhappiness. “Okay,” he said dejectedly. “Let’s go.”
The dismally disappointed American lawyer rose to his feet, clutching the only evidence of Margie’s fate that he would ever have. He moved to walk away but the captain shouted out at him. “Signor! You are taking the shoes. They belong to this girl! You’ll get us all killed!”
Tom turned in surprise. “What do you mean? These are stolen! They belonged to Margie!”
“They belong to this young girl now,” the captain said. “If you want them you must trade for them.”
“Fuck that!” Tom exclaimed.
“Signor,” the captain replied, moving to his feet, “take a look around you. Where do you think that the men of the tribe are right now? They are all around us. It would be lucky if any of us got back to the boat. The men are hidden in the jungle and would cut us down like pigs if we offended them. There,” he pointed, “look up in that tree. There’s someone there. And they’ll be waiting for us all along the trail back to the boat.”
Tom cast his glance where the Brazilian Army captain had indicated. It was at a tall, dense tree that stood high overlooking the village. At first, he could not see anything. And then, when a gust of wind caught the tree’s branches, he could just make out the figures of some people hidden amongst its leaves. For a moment, he imagined that he saw a flash of pale, white skin, but just then, the harsh midday sun glinted off of the foliage and it was gone.
Dejectedly, Tom turned to the girl. He wanted the sandals desperately. He would preserve them until the end of his days, a last remembrance of the only woman he had really loved. What could he give her that would satisfy her primitive desires? And he her thought of it. His ring. He had purchased Margie a large, brilliant diamond ring as her wedding token and she had selected a plain, but elegant gold ring for his finger. He wore it still in his foolish belief that he would find her and reclaim her. He twisted it off of his finger. “Here,” he said to the girl dispiritedly. “Take this.”
The girl looked at the ring with greedy eyes. It was beautiful. She nodded her head energetically.
Tom tossed the girl the useless emblem of his star-crossed marriage to the beautiful Marjorie McCall. It hit the ground in front of the girl on its side and twirled around in a small circle before finally coming to rest at her feet. She picked it up and smothered it in her small, dainty fist. Tom, the sandals dangling from his hand, turned and began his sorrowful journey back to civilization and a lifetime of regret.
Margie had watched keenly while Tom and the army officer negotiated with the shaman. She tried several times to call out to them, but each time that she did, her mouth filled with streams of the mind boggling drug from the minutely punctured animal bladder. The men who were with her in the tree drove her bodily passions by intermittently caressing her breasts, her rear and the furrow between her thighs. She was in a state of intense lust enhanced by the priestess’s milky white potion when she saw Tom stand. She could sense his dejection from way atop her lofty perch. When the army captain pointed at the tree, Tom looked directly at her.
“…om! ...om! …mmm …ere! …mmmm …ere!” she tied to shout as she pulled and tugged uselessly at her bound wrists and ankles. She was rewarded by a blast of dizzying sensations as the drug seeped into the pores of her mouth. Her pussy burned with need and her breasts ached from the hot blood that filled them. She moaned miserably as she saw Tom take his wedding ring off of his hand and toss it onto the ground. She watched, dismally, through a heavy fog of lust, as he turned to walk away, her pretty, yellow ribboned, imported sandals, the last vestige of her former self, swinging and knocking together gently in his dejected hand.
As Margie sobbed in self pity, one of the native men who had been sharing her view of the proceedings below brought his body up behind her. She felt strong, gentle hands encircle her chest and encompass her dangling breasts. The hands gave them a knowing, lust inspiring, gentle squeeze. The heat from them caused a wave of electrified passion to pass through her. All thoughts of Tom and rescue fled from her mind. A cock presented itself to her fevered hole and slowly eased its way into her seeping, attention craving canal. When the man’s motions began, Margie cried out in welcome to his meat’s friction along her fevered tunnel. The image of her lord, her new, unearthly spouse, loomed before her. “Oh, God! Oh God! Oh God!” she called out through her muffled mouth as her orgasm overwhelmed her. She screamed when the man’s hot liquid jetted inside her. “Ohhhhhhhhh!” she moaned, causing a fresh release of the infernal drug within her mouth. “Two days!” her mind screamed. “Two days!” Two days to the full moon and reunion with her Emerald Lord!
* * *
Two nights later, just as the full moon crested the tall trees that surrounded the village, the moaning, delirious white woman was being carried along atop a bier of fresh, colorful jungle flowers, a procession of happy, chanting and clapping villagers behind her. Mounted to her frame, her loins ached with desire and her mind swam with expectation of imminent fulfillment. Her mouth was filled with the lust giving potion of the priestess. Her nose now carried, dangling from her septum, the shiny, gleaming gold ring that the white men had left behind. Marjorie had accepted it happily earlier today as the symbol of her troth to the great, green god, Guarito, her only, true mate. Her neck was encircled with bright flowers, and her loins were forcibly proffered and waiting for her lord’s touch. As her fevered body was carried along, she joyfully thanked the green deity for calling her to him, yearning for the taste of his thick, pleasure giving cock in her hungry mouth.
Other BDSM Erotica by Paul Blades
The Taking of
Cheryl, Book One: Cheryl Captured
Slaver’s Bait, The Taking of Cheryl, Book Two
Comfort Girl No. 4
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