Dasheen stared at her. “It is not that you are training her, Marel. It is that you are training her for my father.”
“I have already explained the risk of challenges. With their precarious mental state, don’t you see the wisdom of an experienced Kirabi as her master? How would you feel to wake with Sabra like that, in your bed?” She pointed at the dead slave.
“Sabra would not do that with me. Ask her.”
“We are not willing to take that chance. Once bred with their masters, other girls will be born. You can take one of them, one born in captivity,” Marel replied. “Right now, we can do nothing with them until we allow them their ritual for Seela. We need to get them to the glade by the tipila tree so they can finish this nonsense. We will leave through the back so we are not seen.”
“What of Jarung? Don’t you think he should know?” Masan asked.
“I think it is better for all of us if we let Wilan explain it to him.”
Ranal used a machete to cut a path through the vegetation. The tipila glade was small and rarely sought out. There was no water or any fruit trees near it. Masan carried Seela, covered by a tarp and thrown over his shoulder. Dasheen followed behind to make sure they were not followed. He stared at Sabra’s naked bottom while she walked, and imagined he could still see his handprint from the time he had spanked her.
Seela was laid in the shade of the tree, and the Vastara found a few flowers, some different colored rocks, and a few feathers to place around her. Palla chanted a few sentences that the other two repeated, while the Kirabi women stood on the other side of the small clearing with their arms folded over their breasts but watching for escape.
They also watched their sons’ reactions to being so close to their slaves. The desire and passion sizzled and crackled through the glade while the girls stretched their torsos, raising their arms in the air. My poor son. Marel could not conceal her smile.
At last, the chanting stopped and the girl’s stepped back. “That is it?” Marel asked. “You do not burn or bury the girl?” She was astounded when the slaves shook their heads. “But, she is left unprotected. Animals will descend upon her body.”
Palla said, “This is our way. It is our greatest hope that animals will find her. It is what we chant to the Mother of Life to honor her with. We lay our sacrifice in the shade of a tree so beasts may consume her spirit in comfort. In this way, she lives on with all Mother’s creatures.”
Dasheen whispered to Masan and Ranal, “And they think we are disgusting for eating meat?” The Kirabi even buried the dead slaves to keep them from being disturbed in death.
There was a final part to the ritual where each slave spoke some fond remembrance of the dead girl. Marel paid no attention. As far as she was concerned, it was a wasted slave with a wasted life… and a wasted three hours from her training.
They turned to walk back to the settlement and did not notice the black Fisba eyes staring at the clearing through the thick bushes. She had followed Dasheen to see why he was called to Sabra’s tent. Already, the Vastara sacrifice. We must move quickly. She scrambled back to the settlement just as Marel was sealing the flap door to the tent.
“Do not think we will be swayed again by your spiritual nonsense,” Marel warned.
Sabra shook her head. A small part of her wanted to thank the woman for allowing them to honor Seela. The pain in her nipples and between her legs kept her silent.
“Lay down on the table,” the woman ordered.
Sabra had hoped she would be leaving with Dasheen. Marel had put her hand up to his chest and pushed him away when he tried to follow them into the tent.
Marel tied her in the spread position on the table, and Sabra gave Palla a frightened glance. Anali was directly across from her, and all she could see were her bound feet and the hint of blue shell buried in her mound.
Palla felt like the catalyst between the women. She decided this was why the Mother of Life had swayed her to better understand the teachings. She was never supposed to remain with the daughters, she decided. If she had, she would not have been on the meadow gathering and been captured, and she now would not be able to help her sisters. Palla was still wondering why she could not bring herself to follow Seela’s example. Something convinced her she was supposed to submit to this torturous sacrifice instead.
Sabra watched Marel approach her with a small pot. She dipped her fingers into it and then held them up, rubbing a shiny oily film on her finger pads and smiling. Trembling again, Sabra searched out the Fista. The old woman nodded encouragement. She knew this would be a necessary torture that would ease the little slave in the future.
Marel coated Sabra’s nipples and the stip rings. She turned the oil into the open wounds while the girl wailed in pain. She did the same to the piercing through her clit, and stroked oil along the girl’s pink folds. Marel stuck two fingers into the oil and then she inserted her fingers to the first knuckle inside the girl’s channel and rectum. She stroked the slave’s slit and waited for her passion to supersede her pain.
Sabra felt a tingling sensation wherever the oil was applied. She recognized the beginning spasms within her womb, and she alternated her wails with her moans. Her nipples burned, beading in pleasure and tightening painfully around the rings. Her center of light, the small red nub of passion, forced a need she did not understand. When Marel’s stroking stilled at the entrance of her channel, Sabra instinctively pushed towards it.
Marel’s eyes narrowed while she watched the frightened girl experience passion for the first time. “Get me the tipila knob,” she ordered.
The Fista handed her a smooth spindle. Marel had it shaved and sanded smaller than the devices they used on the other beasts. Vison would have a tight squeeze to enter the girl, but Marel decided he deserved at least that pleasure from her.
Marel coated the knob with oil. It was shaped like a penis, except the crown was broader to keep it lodged inside her. Marel noticed the girl had closed her eyes again, not willing to watch her corruption. It did not matter. Soon, the girl would be writhing in desire.
Sabra was shivering. Her nipples demanded to be rubbed and her sex was on fire. She could feel juice of passion dripping from her channel. Although she did not understand what was happening, she did understand her need. When the tipila spindle rested a quarter inch inside of her, Sabra’s knees tried to bend and the ankle restraints tightened.
It took all her strength to push the rod a little deeper and provide a small measure of the friction she craved. Marel fed it into her slowly, cautious of the quick tear when the slave’s womb was opened. Marel used her free hand to caress the quivering girl’s breasts. Sabra tried to roll her breast under the hand so her nipples would be stroked. In the back of her mind, she thought she heard the Kirabi woman chuckle.
Oh, Mother. What is wrong with me? Sabra was well aware of her wanton thrusts and pushing need, but she could not help herself.
Marel looked across the room, to the other girls in crisis. She nodded at the two trainers and the woman bent close to the slaves, murmuring quietly. Marel brushed across the tip of one of Sabra’s breasts, and the girl hissed. She was as mindless in her passion as Marel needed her to be.
“Think of Dasheen. His hands caressing your breasts, pinching your tight nipples and easing the aching throb in your core.” While she spoke, Marel performed all these actions, feeding the spindle slowly into the girl.
Sabra trembled. She did picture the beast rider. To ease the perverse vision of the Kirabi woman molesting her, she pictured his strong bronze hands caressing her breasts, painfully pinching her sore nipples to appease the erotic itch. Her womb wept to have him inside of her. It was a craving she finally recognized. “Oh, Mother,” she cried softly behind her closed lids.
Marel winced at her plea, but continued her caresses. It was such a pain to work through their ritual madness. “His cock is even more magnificent than the tipila knob.” At the mention of the spindle, Marel twisted it a little deeper. She fel
t it push past the slight resistance, but the girl did not seem to notice.
Sabra felt the rod filling her and she strained into it. Marel abandoned her breasts and spread the girl’s folds with her free hand. She stroked her slit while she pumped the knob inside her. When Marel felt it was time, she dipped another small drop of fistal oil on her finger and concentrated on the girl’s clit.
“Oh… oh, Mother,” Sabra wailed, bucking into the hand in frustration. Something terrifying was building inside of her, causing her body to coat with a sheen of sweat from her exertions to end this torture. Suddenly, it felt as though all the blood washed out of her. Every nerve and feeling was concentrated on her sex. “Oh… oh… oh, Mother,” she wailed, and she quivered in a climax, wishing for Dasheen.
Marel and the other Kirabi women left the tent to tend to other chores. The Fisba ran a cool cloth over the exhausted slave while she stared at the pera skin above her. She was silent, until the Fisba offered her some of the flavored water from the nayello flask. “Thank you,” Sabra whispered. “What is your name?”
“I am Mauraucht,” she said. “It means little aucht… little stip. Aucht was my older sister.”
“I’m so sorry,” Sabra replied. “I would have liked to have thanked her for allowing Seela to sacrifice. She could have stopped her.”
Mauraucht sighed. “My sister and I have had a long life with the Kirabi. It is not such a tragedy for us to end it.”
“Why is Marel teasing me with thoughts of Dasheen when it is his father I will go to?”
“No one can predict Kirabi women’s thoughts, Sabra. Trust in your rituals and your Mother. Perhaps you and Dasheen will find a way to be together again.”
“He will forget me,” Sabra replied.
The Fisba heard the pain of loss in the girl’s voice. “He does not forget you, Sabra. My granddaughter is his Fisba, and she has told me how he mourns for you.”
“Truly?” Sabra’s expression turned wistful. “Why should he care about a Vastara commoner?”
“Why do trees keep bearing fruit only to have us steal it?” Mauraucht chuckled. “I imagine your Mother of Life has an answer for that.”
Marel came back twice more, forcing Sabra’s climatic response. The second time, Vison stood by the frame, watching with angry desire. “For all her awareness, I could have my cock lodged inside of her instead of a piece of wood.”
“If you question my methods again, Vison, I will call for a tribunal and all of the men will be thrown out. The women will vote with us, as certainly will the beast riders you stole the treasures from.”
“Perhaps, you should consider using some of the fistal oil on yourself, Marel. It might thaw out your cold dispassion.” Vison stormed out in search of the first available beast he could plunge into.
“And become a slave to my sex?” Marel said to the empty doorway. “I don’t think so, Vison.”
It took three more days of training with the tipila knob before the girl was clenching at the sight of it. Her eyes were fevered in passion. She had stopped pleading to her ridiculous spirit, and she was whimpering Dasheen’s name when she orgasmed. Always, unless Vison was in attendance, Marel mentioned her son while the girl was in the throes of desire. She needed to make sure that Sabra would be pleasurable enough for Dasheen to make the decision to leave the tribe.
The more difficult task would be keeping the rest of the beast riders preoccupied so that their sons could affect the escape. “Fistal oil. Bah,” Marel muttered. “I will not need oil to seduce you, Vison.”
Marel affixed the rod at the entrance to the girl’s channel. Already, she was bearing down on it. It was held tightly in a mounting bough strapped to her thighs. The girl began mindlessly bending her legs the slight amount they could move, plunging the knob in and out of her gripping hole.
Marel lifted the girl’s head and slid the top slat of the table away. Sabra’s head dropped down and her arms hung in the air, with her wrist cuffs attached to the table legs. Marel clapped her hands. “Move it, old beast. You know what I need.”
Mauraucht brought her the bilap stamen. Here was the true sweet essence of the tree, contained in a hollow tubular stem. It was an inch in circumference and ten inches long.
“Oh… oh, Dasheen,” Sabra hissed, wiggling her hips and pushing against the rod.
Marel pressed the stamen against the girl’s lips. Sabra tasted the sweet bilap and stroked out with her tongue for more juice. Marel fed the stamen into her mouth. The husk was pliable, yet sturdy. The girl would not be able to bite through it the way Fistas’ fangs could. Her teeth marks would still scar the skin of the tube, so Marel would be able to punish her.
The girl was sucking on the stem, trying to get more sap. Marel pushed deeper and the slave’s stomach gripped. “Open your throat, girl. Think of the sweet bilap filling your belly,” Marel encouraged.
Sabra felt the plant push against the back of her throat and she panicked. Her stomach retched and she could not breath. Still, the woman pushed deeper. The comforting words meant nothing. Sabra could not breathe. A hand caressed her breast and she pushed her sensitive nipple towards the touch. It distracted her just long enough for Marel to thrust the stamen past the obstacle and she watched Sabra’s neck swell.
Sabra’s hair brushed the floor and she opened her eyes to see Marel’s upside down knees. She had not realized her head was hanging and swinging freely. She screamed behind the gag, inhaling breaths through her nose when she could. Marel kept it lodged deep, until the girl figured it out and settled down.
She reached down and played with Sabra’s clit, distracting her further. Marel heard the slave’s muffled shriek, and her hips began a frantic thrusting. It was not long before she had learned to breathe around the stem. Marel began plunging the bilap while she brought the girl to climax.
Three, was Marel’s magic number. Each new experience took three days to train. Sabra learned that she could have the sweet taste of bilap as long as she allowed the stem down her throat. The tilipa knob was kept at the entrance to her channel, and a drop of fistal oil had her thrusting against it and dreaming of Dasheen.
One morning, Sabra was led from her cage and spread on the standing frame. The tilipa knob was secured to her thighs with a generous coating of oil. She fought the urge to push down on the spindle.
Marel moved the flaming hair to the front so it covered one of the slave’s breasts. She held out her hand, and Mauraucht handed her the cane. The old Fisba had already hidden a lotion with temur crushed into it to treat the welts when Marel left.
The Fisba had their own legends. Their recipes were handed down from the very first to be captured, when the Fisba roamed the forests freely. The herbs and plants they sought brought only pleasure of relief. They had been a peaceful tribe, content in their forest hideaways. They discovered how the fistal increased passion and how the temur relieved pain. The pungent odor could be masked by the fistal petals. Mauraucht felt a primal yearning whenever she worked with the potions.
Sabra felt the burning lash of the cane whip across her bottom. “Aah… oh… oh… oh, Dasheen,” she wailed. She did not see Marel’s pleased smile.
“Think of Dasheen,” Marel encouraged. “As soon as your desire has erupted, the caning will end.” She whipped the cane across the girl’s shoulders, watching the pink line turn to red and raise. “Dasheen,” Marel reminded her.
Sabra sobbed and shuddered in pain. She rubbed her slit along the tipila knob and coated her slit with oil. Even through the agony, she worked the rod deeper, plunging in and out by bending her knees slightly and pushing up to her toes.
Marel lashed her three more times, leaving bruising welts on her pale skin. The girl was whimpering her son’s name, lost in passion while she impaled herself. Her eruption was swift and explosive, and Marel watched her juices travel down her thighs.
By the third day, she was caning the girl’s front. There was a perfect aim across both nipples, and lines reddened her belly and sex l
ips. The slave was still able to lose herself in passion, with thoughts of Dasheen on her mind. She was ready. Marel looked across the room, and the other two Kirabi women nodded.
The old Fistas noticed their agreement. Mauraucht whispered, “It is time.”
Everyone made excuses not to be wandering the settlement. They had sequestered themselves in private meetings in various glades and tents. The leaders discussed how to hasten the training to get their hands on the Vastara slaves.
The beast riders were already forming the opinion that they would steal the women back. They were discussing where they could go and what would happen if the other Kirabi followed them.
The women were planning one of the final stages to their scheme. It required the help of the younger women, and it took heated discussion to convince them.
The most interesting meeting was held in the slave camp, not far from where Aucht was sacrificed. “You can do this, Chaucht? You remember the way?” Mauraucht asked.
“I do, grandmother.”
“Dasheen should be busy with his own plans. We can make excuses as to why he can’t find you.”
“I have been sending Niael to him. He is so distracted by his Vastara that he has not noticed. I have instructed her on what pleases him,” Chaucht answered, pleased that even the young women of their tribe had devised a way to help.
A Jueger man stepped forward, brushing his hands down the long fur on his thighs. His brown, syrupy eyes stared out from a mask of hair. “I will be going with you, Chaucht. I will stay on the far side of the meadow.”
Chaucht looked towards her grandmother. “It may be too great a risk, Plesan.”
“We all look alike to them, and with all the commotion they will not know that I am missing. Chaucht will need someone to carry extra nayello flasks across the desert, and I can make a simple tarp to keep us shaded.” Plesan looked back at his tribe, and then he whispered to Mauraucht, “Please. It is all we can think to do to help. We need to be a part of this.”
The First Tribe Page 9
