May 16, 2008

The Sacrifice

Posted in stories tagged at 12:17 am by littlesubmissions

The ritual had been passed down since the people of the plains had stopped following the beasts across endless prairie and began to plant crops instead. Every winter, year after year for generations, they would find the strongest, the bravest, the most determined man of their village for their sacrifice.

When the first snow fell, the men would fight. A brutal free for all melee in the disappearing summer grass. Kicking and biting, gouging with teeth and nails, they would howl their pain at the open sky as they strove to break each others bodies. The fight would continue until only one was standing. He would be the chosen, swaying and gasping on wobbling legs with blood pouring from a multitude of cuts, holding broken ribs with short, gasping breaths, great chunks of long hair ripped from his skull and smiling teeth stained bloody from split lips.

He would be stripped.

The women would cut his clothes away with long slashes from crude flint knives, the chiseled edges tearing jagged stripes in flesh, pulling him up or forcing him to his knees as they sliced away everything that was not part of his body. Hot breath steaming in the cold as fresh blood traced the lines of twitching muscles down his torso, painting his bruises scarlet.

He would be bound.

Strips of wet leather hide that would shrink and tighten as it dried wrapped around his cock and balls, constricting, holding, keeping him from any release. Knots pulled tighter and tighter until they nearly fused, binding great churning lust in his gut.

He would be caged.

Hauled to the pit, thrown in the ground where the Gods of Death and Winter ruled. Cold, jagged Earth engulfing him and sucking the heat from his bodies. A wooden grates thrown over the cages, secured with mighty stones until the Spring.

He would hunger.

Uncooked strips of bloody flesh would be thrown to him while the wind howled and the snow fell. He would tear it apart with his teeth and fingers and devour the warm meat raw. Goat milk would be poured through the wooden bars while he lifted his eyes to the world denied him, frozen lips open wide as he tried to catch it all, the white liquid running down his face and body, freezing on his skin and mixing with the blood and dirt and filth. The hunger would grow until it became unbearable, pacing in his cage to keep warm, howling in his prison to remind the village he was alive, shrieking in frustration as the leather denied him and his lust grew.

Come the Spring, he would be reborn.

With the dawn looking down his cage would be opened. The boulders pushed aside and the wooden covering moved away. For the first time in months he would see the light and warmth again. He would be roughly hauled out of the cage, hands pulling on his arms and hair, dragged forth from the Earth by the women. His hands and feet torn and bloody from the frozen Earth, the dark soil still staining him the color of the land, he would fall to the ground.

He would be freed.

The knives would come out again, and his legs would be yanked apart, his face pinned down in the fresh summer grass and his ass hauled roughly into the air. Sharp blades at his thighs would keep him on his knees, make any movement a pinprick of sudden pain. While the blades of grass tickled his gasping lips and the women of the village took in his lewd display with jeers and catcalls, the stone knives would cut the leather harness away, fingers pinching and pulling the flesh away from the leather cords and hard stone points working themselves between his flesh and the straps, slicing into both. The harness would fall away, and blood would pour into his cock and balls, forcing its way out the cuts and punctures until he was swollen and bloody.

He would be driven.

Whips of leather and horse hair would strike his back and scrive his flesh. He would fall to the ground over and over, until the pain of the whips grew to be unbearable and he would drag himself further until he finally collpased again. The women would drive him through the village, hard lashes on his back, mighty overhand swings on his ass and thighs, fierce blows rained down on his shoulders as he heaved to pull himself away, dragging himself along the ground like the lowest animal. Starved, naked, bleeding, covered in the filth of the Underworld, fists clenched to protect his torn palms, he would dig his elbows into the ground and pull himself forward, shoving with his knees.

He would be their sacrifice.

The grass would caress him as he passed, exciting him. His lust plain to see, honed by a season of cold and denial, he would drag his flesh across the sweet fingertips.
His desire would grow, until it eclipsed his pain, and he crawled faster, his pleasure growing and forcing him to crawl faster still. His lust and his life would drive him forward until he shuddered to a stop. With the whips crashing down on him in a mad frenzy his knees would lock, his thighs would tremble, and he would cum. Orgasm crashing through the pain and hunger, his life and his blood would spill and sanctify the village, guaranteeing healthy children and many crops.

The land would be sated.

But the Goddess would demand her due.

He would be rolled onto his back, his arms and legs pulled tight, spreadeagled, pinned to the ground and held. He would be fucked then, savagely, mercilessly. After the long winter of denial he would be hard again in an instant, and one of the women would mount him. Riding his hard bloody cock, slapping his face or tearing at his nipples, twisting them to feel his hips buck and roll in pain. They would take turns with him, letting his strength test the might of the Goddess, proving her life and lust would always overwhelm his, and turn it to pain.

Through the day they would ride him, use his cock for their pleasure until he came and his orgasms turned into a white, searing heat. When his throat became too hoarse to scream and his cock lay limp and exhausted after countless orgasms, his balls throbbing and empty, they would finish with his tongue, to make sure he knew his place.

Pulled to his knees, or with the back of his head shoved into the hard ground, they would use his mouth. Slapping his cock and balls whenever he slowed, feeling his screams vibrate against their cunts, he would serve until the last woman was sated. Then he would be left naked, broken, spent…


And for now, the hunger of the Goddess would be subdued. But come the Fall, she would feel the familiar twinges. Leaves would fall, and the wind would grow colder.

And the village would prepare another sacrifice.

Copyright 2008 by Jerry Jones. Unauthorized use is prohibited.


  1. Eileen said,

    I admit, I am a little too exhausted (and drunk, if truth be told,) to give intelligent commentary, but I really like what you’re doing with this site. Please keep it up.

  2. littlesubmissions said,

    No worries, Too Drunk and Tired For Intelligent Commentary will be the title of my autobiography some day.

    And thanks, I got more stuff planned, so hopefully you’ll enjoy it as well.

  3. bitchyjones said,

  4. littlesubmissions said,

    Glad you liked it, Jones.

  5. Elizabeth said,


    What Beej said.

  6. littlesubmissions said,

    Give you that old time religion, huh?


  7. myst3kpyro said,

    Oh my.
    That’s just brutal and pretty and vastly arousing.
    Thank you.

  8. Vague said,

    You’re welcome.

  9. missdarkness said,

    can i use this for my class

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