The Prayer

The Prayer

She was a goddess about to endure the torment of hell.

The village elder had called her the Prayer--the one who prays. Apparently their
god would hear no prayer unless it was accompanied by the proper sacrifice. He
certainly seemed to be a demanding bastard, but I had to admit that he also had
a certain taste.

The girl, the Prayer, was only just become a woman. Perhaps she could have been
married by now but for the fact that she had been taken by a priest of Los at
the age of five in order to prepare her for the hard life of a Prayer. She
looked to have seen fifteen summers, perhaps sixteen, and she shone with the
glory of her youth even as they began her newest torture.

"A woman of the village came to pray for rain so that we might have a good
harvest," said the elder beside me. I nodded, mostly to humor the old man. He
kept talking, but I stopped listening.

Perhaps the priest's predecessor had died just recently, as he too was very
young: not more than seventeen or so. Clad only in a loincloth and sweat from
his labor and the oppressive midday heat, he was darkly-tanned and well-muscled,
and he strode about the temple clearing as if he, not the god, was in control.
He shot me a dirty look when he caught me looking at him--You're in my domain,
it said. By the way he treated that poor girl, one would have believed him.

She was a picture of absolute submission as she stood with hands bound behind
her back, sweat mingling with the oil that he'd used to anoint her flesh, her
hair tied back so that we could see the full account of her sacrifice written on
her pain-etched face. The youthful priest smiled at her and said a few soft
words before he picked up his flogger once again. She nodded in answer and
prepared herself.

She was going to ride the Spike, I'd been told. I was not sure what that meant.

It was an oaken post topped with a bronze horn that came to about my waist,
though it was far too high for the girl. Even so--

"Surely she isn't going to mount it!" I exclaimed.

The elder nodded, a serious look on his face. "Aye, she is," he answered. "But
this pain, at least, has almost ended. For three days she has been without food
in order to make this sacrifice. For three days she has ridden that awful horn
for an hour at midday. For three days she has endured the sting of the burning
water in her most sacred place. But it has almost ended."

Three days! But what was burning water?

"See there?" he spoke, pointing to the Priest, who now took another flask of
thick red oil and poured it onto the horn. The oil caught in the ridges and
bumps of the finely decorated bronze and I could see the girl's breathing
quicken as she watched. "It burns like a very flame. It will light a fire in her
womb."

But she hesitated only an instant, and only because she needed the priest to
lift her and place her on the horn, such was its height. Immediately her every
muscle sprang tight like a bowstring and her feet clasped the pole, pushing down
in a wild effort to relieve a bit of the pressure placed on her tender hole, now
tasked with supporting all of her weight.

Her hour had begun.

We had but to watch. Myself, the elder, the priest: we did nothing at all while
she was set aflame from within. At first she bore her punishment in silence, her
eyes closed, her breathing even. Her feet would slip a bit and she would clench
her teeth as she adjusted them, again pressing down to relieve some of the pain.
But my little goddess could not long remain quiet.

First the sweat began to bead on her flesh and then to drip down, joined in
salty rivulets by tears that fell from her beautiful face. Her flesh, the color
of polished copper from hours spent in agony in the sun, shone in the light of
the sunset as the first gasps and whimpers of pain were heard.

At last she could bear up no more and her legs hung idle beside the pole, her
entire body supported only by the tender lips of her sex, penetrated by the
curving horn that sought the very soul within her. Her head bowed, her breath
coming in ragged sobs, her hair dripping shining perspiration into the dirt
beneath her, she began to say a prayer.

"Los, hear me, see my sacrifice, my pain.
"I endure, unworthy, to be made pure.
"Make great my pain, make me suffer, break me.
"Tear this whore apart and make the fields bloom."

At that, the priest approached her once again. He took a soft leather strap and
set it between her teeth before he brandished a great four-tailed whip, its
leather blades soaked in oil, and held it before her eyes. His face was hard,
cruel, his mouth turned up with derision as if to say, "You can't be serious."

But the Prayer took one last deep breath, and then she closed her eyes and
nodded for him to continue.

And he did. Her young flesh bounced with each blow and I must admit that, as I
looked on, I longed to taste her charms and my thoughts turned not to her rescue
but to her ravishment. I do not know how many times he struck; I was too
engrossed to count. I do know that it wasn't long before she cried out past her
improvised bit, a tearful moan that cut into my heart. But she sought to master
the pain and banish such pitiful sounds.

Each stroke of the whip was met with a grunt, and then with only a gasp, as the
flogging continued. Finally, she spat out her gag and began to say something, a
low murmur I could not understand. I had to know what she was saying and moved
closer to hear. Close enough that I had to take care to stand clear of the whip,
and close enough that I could feel the sweat splattering off of her reddened and
welted skin.

She flung her face toward heaven and repeated herself. She was repeating her
prayer, over and over, in time to the whip!

Once more it was repeated and when the priest had finished I was sure that her
flesh was not just red but bleeding as well, if only a little. Unable to stop
myself, I stretched out a hand to caress her, to soothe her hurts--or to fulfill
the need that had grown within me--but the elder snatched my hand away.

I watched without understanding as the priest brought forth a bucket and a
brazier filled with burning incense. He set the brazier before the girl, still
impaled on the horn.

The priest looked to the elder and then to me. "The incense is lit and her hour
is begun. We must go now, and return when the incense is gone."

And then the priest poured the contents of the bucket out over her head,
drenching her abused flesh and making her gasp. It was saltwater--I could tell
by the smell--and I could only imagine how it burned in her eyes and in the cuts
on her tender skin.

But the Prayer held her head high, her eyes clear as the pain engulfed her,
gazing into some distance we could not see. She spread her legs, holding them
away from the pole that ravaged her, her body resting solely on her faith and
her sex. Her muscles quivered, flexing hard beneath her smooth, tormented flesh,
and I could see sweat dripping from the bottoms of her breasts, from her toes,
from her chin. She drew in a shaking breath and exhaled, struggling against the
urge to give voice to her agony.

It had only just begun.

# # #

She sat on the ground leaning against the bronze horned post that had been her
lover only moments ago. She meditated, trying to calm herself and catch her
breath.

"Look at her," said the elder. "Already she prepares for her next ordeal."

There would be more! How could they?

But even as those thoughts entered my mind another supplicant approached the
priest. He brought with him the payment for his prayer, a string of fine pearls
as a gift to the temple, and he told the priest what he desired. I could not
understand his words and went to ask the priest what was happening.

"Stay, friend!" said the elder. "Do not interrupt. The man's wife is sick and
will likely die unless the god intervenes. He has come to ask the Prayer to
pray."

Of course. But what of her sacrifice?

The priest whispered into her ear and she nodded solemnly, rising from her place
against the pole to kneel before him, head bowed.

"No!" I could hear the priest say, but she moved not at all. He gave a cry of
rage and slapped her, and again, hard. Blood appeared at the corner of her
mouth, but she would not be turned from her course. He hawked twice and spat a
wad of phlegm onto her face. "Stupid bitch."

He turned to us. "She says she will fast again until her tasks are complete to
ensure her prayer is heard," he said, "and she will drink only the holiest of
water."

What the hell did that mean?

"Come," said the elder. "We must do what we can to help."

He pulled me by the arm and I followed, coming to stand before the Prayer,
though I knew not why.

The signs of her suffering were many--it was clear by her face that her sex was
still being ravaged by the horn's fire and that her other hurts pained her
still, but she seemed at peace nonetheless as she looked up at us. The thick
leather collar at her throat made me think of a dog--my mind turned, uninvited,
to thoughts of a bitch in heat--and the cuffs at her wrists, at last released
from their bondage, reminded me of things done by lovers at night, things that
made my blood run hot.

Her womanhood, raw and bloodied by its long ride, lay open and gasping,
convulsing as she kneeled before us. I had never seen anything more inviting.
With some embarrassment, I sought to hide the fact that I had begun to rise to
the occasion.

"No," she said, her voice so quiet I was surprised to have heard it.
"Please--may I?"

What was she doing? She removed my broad belt and let my trousers drop, setting
me free. I was powerless to stop her. Was she going to--

As a matter of fact, she was. The priest beside me dropped his loincloth and
began to massage himself as well, using both hands in a peculiar fashion, and
soon the elder joined him.

I had no will to resist, of course, and soon she swallowed my seed. The priest
could not contain himself and scattered his release on her face and chest; he
seemed to get pleasure from covering her with his milk, laughing at her as she
tried to scrape his semen from her cheek and breasts and into her mouth. The
priest was beginning to grate on my nerves.

I stroked her lovely face, gathering the priest's filth, and allowed her to lick
it from my hand. She then turned to the elder and coaxed a gift from him as
well, his old voice rising as he reached his peak.

"I haven't done that in years," he muttered, a smile on his wizened old face.

I raised my trousers and was about to buckle my belt when she said, "Wait," and
placed her hand on mine. "I am still thirsty."

The priest explained what she meant with actions rather than words, annoying me
further still as he let loose his bladder on her. She turned toward him, her
mouth open wide, trying to drink what she could, but he pointed his stream first
at her chest and then her belly and then her hair and this way and that, making
it impossible.

The elder joined him and she took the end of his member between her lips and
drank eagerly, at first losing hardly a drop though her face twisted and her
nose wrinkled at the taste. But she could not long keep up with his pace and
much of his offering spilled out in the end, much to her disappointment. And
then she turned to me.

"No," I said, mostly to myself. How could I do such a thing--piss on such a
lovely creature? Piss-diluted blood still dripped from the corner of her
mouth--how that must have burned! Not to mention how the yellow stream must have
felt on her ragged flesh. "No!" I said again.

"Won't you, please?" she begged once more, and I thought I could see tears in
her eyes as she looked up at me.

"Please, sir--you must do what you can for the man's wife," said the elder. "And
it's the only thing she'll have for the next three days."

"Please help me," she said once again.

How could I deny her? I released my water as slowly as I could so that she could
drink it all.

"Now," said the priest, "the two of you can observe the second part of her
sacrifice later. For now, go, drink, and recover your strength and you can be of
service when she is finished."

So we walked down to the well to slake our thirst.

"She's the best we've had in a long time," said the elder. "There are three
other Prayers at the temple, but none of them are half as good as her. She has
never turned down a request, and she's never failed to make herself heard. The
god holds her in special favor."

This was their favor? How ironic.

"I've never seen any Prayer more willing to give of herself for the good of her
people," he said, amazement plain in his voice. "Such beauty and such strength!
And she has great faith. But she won't last long."

"What do you mean?" She's been a prayer since she was five, has she not? Ten
years already--she must have been a woman of amazing stamina.

"Last Samhain she took her vow and began her true life as a prayer," said the
elder. "It will be a miracle if she sees the next one. And to be released from
her vow she must serve for three years or be wed, which no one will do, of
course. She's too valuable."

"And besides, soon her beauty will be marred with scars, both outside and in,"
he lamented. "The people ask too much of her--she asks too much of herself. I
fear she will die before winter comes again."

The old man was crazy, surely. "No," said I, "she must be smarter than that."
And I spat on the ground, unwilling to believe.

# # #

We slaked our thirst at the well and, as I drank, my thoughts turned for a
moment to the girl we had left back at the temple who now had nothing to drink
but piss and semen. Could she really survive the next three days? And had she
not already been three days without food? Surely she must be nearly faint with
hunger! I tried to pity her but failed. I had guzzled almost an entire pail of
water so that I would have more for her on our return.

The sun was low in the west when we reached the temple again, though the heat of
the day had hardly diminished, and I was torn between anxious worry and
excitement at my beautiful Prayer's final activity for the evening. When we
arrived, however, I must admit that I did not understand what was happening.
Indeed, she was nowhere to be seen.

 "The altar must face the sun for her offering," the elder explained. "She will
move it to face the east in the morning and the west in the evening, and then
she will offer herself upon it once after dawn and once before dusk."

So, the disorganized pile of stone before me was to be an altar?

"She has gone around to the other side of the temple, I expect, and she'll be
back shortly with another piece of the altar."

And indeed that very moment she appeared from the east side of the long wooden
house that served as their temple. On her slender shoulder she carried a great
wooden beam, as long as I was tall and as thick as my leg. She staggered as she
came into view and fell to her knees, the massive chunk of wood threatening to
pound her into the ground or snap her neck as she fell. My breath caught in
horror--

But she caught herself somehow and struggled on. Again and again she made the
journey, carrying stone after stone and three more of the big wooden beams. She
fell time and again, her knees were bloodied by sharp rocks found in the soil
near the temple, her arms and shoulders bruised by the altar's many parts, but
she kept on, unwilling to stop, hardly slowing down--though she certainly could
not move very fast. She would make it! I thought, forgetting that she would have
to do this again tomorrow, and again that evening--three times she would have to
offer herself.

The altar seemed nearly complete, so I followed her to the other side. One large
stone still remained: one of four slabs that seemed cut to sit atop the altar.
They must have weighed twice what all the others had weighed, even more than the
heavy wood she had carried. She had managed to shift the last of them only
fifteen or twenty paces before she collapsed, her breath coming in rapid gasps
like a panting dog.

Her flesh turned pale and the marks of the abuse heaped on her through the day
stood out in sharp relief, and her breathing grew even faster before her entire
body convulsed and I realized that she was retching.

Of course, she'd been without food for several days. Her wracking convulsions
produced only a trickle of yellow-tinged fluid and then nothing, but her body
kept shaking for several minutes afterward. When at last she regained control of
herself, she began to try to rise.

"No--" I began to say, but the elder pulled me back.

"She must!"

"It is true," she said, every muscle quivering as she pushed herself to her
hands and knees. But the effort was too much and soon she collapsed to the
ground again.

And suddenly the priest was there, and he stood over her laughing, a thin cane
in his hand. "What's wrong? Is it finally too much for you, bitch?"

Then he fell to his task with vigor, striping her flanks, her shoulders, her
back, her thighs--it was all I could do to watch without killing him. Fresh
blood welled from the newly formed welts he placed on her fair skin, but it
seemed she could sweat no more so he went to fetch another bucket of saltwater
from the temple. I almost praised the Prayer's god aloud when he left.

"Please rise," I said to her, "can you rise? He'll only beat you more when he
comes back."

She nodded and I let out a breath of relief, but then she said, "Of course he
will. It is his duty to the god." Her shaking arms pressed against the ground
once more, but it was no use.

I bent to help her.

"No!" she shouted at me. "Touch me and this will all be for nothing!"

But I could not sit by and do nothing! Then it occurred to me, the one thing I
could do.

"True," I told her, "but it will also all be for nothing if you do not complete
your task. Now get up!"

As if by a miracle, she forced herself off the ground and remained there
kneeling before me.

"Now," I said with force, "drink!"

And I offered her more "holy water," which she took greedily, thanking me when
she had finished. The elder was about to give her some of his as well, but at
that time the priest returned.

"Ah, you're halfway there," he said, almost disappointed. "Then I can make use
of your front again at last."

Now he was savage! He began to sweat with his effort as he sent the cane into
her breasts and stomach time and again, and so careless was he that one stroke
actually caught her on the throat, though she was--thankfully--protected by her
collar. For a third time he began to draw blood, and only then did he slow his
pace, at last beginning to choose his targets though he certainly did not strike
with less force.

But that seemed to make no difference to the girl. Her mouth opened, her head
raised to the heavens above, now turning purple.

"My flesh bleeds for you, my bones ache, breaking.
"But your whip and your rod, they comfort me,
"Bring me to your throne, throw me at your feet.
"Take me, my pain, or my life, in her stead."

I don't know how much longer he beat her, for I was enchanted by her once again.
She did not cry out even once as he continued, but only repeated her prayer.
Even a bucketful of stinging water could only raise a quiet whimper from her. At
last, she stood again and took up her stone, and she bore it to the altar.

Her altar.

# # #

Night had all but fallen! By the gods, would they not call a halt to this
insanity and allow the poor girl some rest? She looked as if she could barely
lift her eyelids, much less her body, as she mounted the altar.

And what an altar! Even now the priest was building a small fire in its base,
not hot enough to cook her but certainly more than hot enough. And as if weren't
bad enough, she was forced to sit on a saddle of iron set in the middle of the
altar. When asked why such a rare metal would be wasted so, the elder said that
it was so that the saddle could stand the heat. Alarmed, I inquired as to the
Prayer's safety, but the elder promised that it would not get hot enough to do
much lasting damage. Even so, the idea of the metal burning her most sensitive
place was enough to make me cringe...

But it also forced me to adjust my belt and trousers so that I could remain
comfortable where I stood. How could she have such an effect on me? I feared I
was turning into some kind of monster.

The heat rose about her as darkness fell, but she never moved, even when the
saddle became hot enough to make me jerk my finger away when I touched it. No
tears, no sweat, not even a quickening of her breath. At last she began to
recite her prayer once again, begging her god above to amplify her suffering, to
hear her anguish in the heavens.

"He can't hear you," said the priest. "What kind of pathetic sacrifice are you,
anyway? I've seen children's spankings more worthy of his attention. Come on,
make it hurt!"

So she began to rub her sex on the hard iron saddle, the rough ridges and scales
on its surface tearing at her lips and inner thighs like hundreds of dull
knives. I imagined that I could hear the sound of blood sizzling on the iron.
She was panting once again, a whimper escaping her lips now and again. Soon she
forgot all about her prayer. Her eyes closed and her head bowed as she
concentrated all her energy on thrusting her hips forward and pulling them back.
I could hear her arms, tied behind her, slapping against her backside as she
moved.

Still she did not sweat. Something was wrong.

"Bring water," I said to the priest.

"She can have no water," he snarled. "She will ride until she is done, and then
she can drink." He turned to watch her ride once more, ignoring me altogether.

This buffoon had a thick skull, but my hand, applied to the side of his head,
opened his mind to new ideas.

"Water to pour over her! And I don't care if it has fucking salt in it!" I
shouted in my own language, and the elder translated for me.

"That will cool the saddle," the elder said, delivering the priest's reply. "We
cannot afford it. Besides, she is nearly done."

The priest disappeared into the temple for a moment and returned with two
fistfuls of green plants, each the length of his arm from shoulder to fingertip.
His hands were covered with leather mittens and I suddenly had a sinking feeling
in the pit of my stomach--his two newest whips were made of nettles, holly, and
rose branches.

"Don't worry," said the priest with one of his wicked smiles. "I won't take my
time."

The Prayer never stopped, never slowed in her ride, but it was clear that the
pain of the nettles had its effect on her. She flung her head up toward the sky,
her eyes open wide, and the muscles in her shoulders and neck stood out like
strained cords with each new stroke, and soon she was in constant, unrelenting
pain from the sting. Her skin turned red and raw from the punishment both in
front and back and, at last, she found her voice.

Her wail rose to the heavens, her voice cracking as she cried, a sound beyond
mere pleasure or pain, older, more primal than any simple human sensation. Her
eyes took on an animal luster, their depths becoming wild, rampant. I could not
look away.

"Burn me beat me kill me hurt me fuck me
Eternal hell, torment, torture, anguish!
Whip me flog me cane me crush me tear me
The life you break, the life you take, is mine!"

Her prayer sang out into the dark shadows of the forest. They could probably
hear her all the way back at the village. Did they know what they were doing to
her? Did they even care?

The priest didn't.

Her last reserves gone, the Prayer's body went limp on the saddle. The elder
lurched forward to catch her but waited to see the priest's response. The
bastard shook his head and walked slowly back toward the temple.

It seemed to take him an eternity to return, but he did at last, with two more
buckets, each at least twice the size of the ones he'd been using for the
saltwater. It didn't smell like saltwater.

"What's in here?"

"Don't worry," said the priest. "She'll love it."

With that, he dumped the first bucket over her head.

She sat up instantly, shrieking in pain. The liquid, yellow by the light of the
quickly-dying fire, dripped from her wounds, scalding each welt, every pinprick,
in turn, washing away the blood, the sweat, the oil, and perhaps the last
remnants of her sanity. She sobbed uncontrollably, her whole body shaking as it
seemed that every pain she'd ever felt returned to her for a moment.

But then, as if by magic, she was calm once again. The priest put the second
bucket on the ground and glared at her. "Promise me," he said.

She shook her head.

In a rage he backhanded her face, opening her bloody lip once again.

"I'm not doing this unless you promise me!"

"What does he want?" I asked her.

"Something I can't give," she said, bowing her head.

I glared at the priest, suddenly realizing what I had to do.

"Are you ready?" I asked her, lifting the last bucket.

She opened her eyes, rimmed red and bloodshot, and she looked into mine. And
nodded.

This time only a whisper of the pain escaped her lips. She was such a beautiful
sight as she endured.

When it was over she said, "Thank you."

# # #

I had never seen anyone so exhausted. The elder had ordered the men of the
village to supply her with holy water and she had drunk her fill, so perhaps
that had helped. But even so...

"Are you sure you're going to be all right?"

She only nodded her answer.

I took her in my arms and carried her back to the temple. I set her down against
the wall and wrapped my shirt around her, sat down beside her. "I've never seen
anyone or anything like you--like what you did."

I didn't really expect a reply.

"How long will you continue?"

Her answer was immediate. "Until my time is done or until Los claims me," she
said. "Or..."  But she never finished that thought.

I think I knew what it was.

"And you're happy?"

She shook her head. "No matter what I do or how hard I try, my work is never
done," she said. I started to voice my agreement, but she cut me off. "If only I
weren't so weak! If I could endure but a little longer, maybe I could--"

I grabbed her mouth to stop her talking. "Never! Never call yourself weak," I
told her. And then something strange happened.

I kissed her.

I don't know what I was thinking, but I'm glad I did. At first she struggled
against me but she was far too weak from her long day, and then I took her
bottom lip between my teeth and bit down. Soon her arms were wrapped around me
and my shirt was forgotten in the dirt as we embraced, and then her shaking arms
tried desperately to remove my belt and I helped her, and we were lost in one
another.

Our coupling was like none other I'd ever experienced--and I was beginning to
get the impression that she was a very singular girl. She was willing enough
that I felt no guilt about taking her, but there was a quiet resistance within
her, almost as if she resented our pleasure. That resistance didn't last long. I
remember our moments together as if remembering a dream, snatches of motion,
sensation, and then something about an ending, and I know the basic result, even
if I don't know how it happened. I do remember that it was amazing. She told me
so.

"Please stop! You're going to ki--kill m--me!" she gasped even as her hands
sought purchase on my back and her hips slammed into mine. My teeth found her
neck and, when at last she stopped moving and thanked me and I felt it safe to
withdraw, I attacked her nipples as well.

"Please!" she groaned again. "I'm so thirsty, would you...?"

Perhaps recalling my disapproval, she seemed hesitant to ask, but I was all too
happy to oblige. I let her have both of my gifts, but much of my semen wound up
on her face rather than in her mouth. I suspect she did that on purpose.

She licked the seed from her fingers as she talked, her voice that of someone on
the edge of the dreamworld.

"You can't save me. Don't try. I belong to Los now, and I believe he wants to
kill me," she said. "So I will let him."

I couldn't think of any reply. And I didn't think she knew what she was saying.
And I liked the sound of her voice. So I let her speak.

"I'm glad you enjoyed today," she said. "Somehow, I did too--for you, I think. I
wanted... to suffer for you. But I'll be glad when you're gone, trader, gone
down the road never to come back. I will say your prayer tomorrow, and then you
can leave."

I caressed her beautiful face and kissed her cheek, kissed her lips as she tried
to speak.

"I gave myself to Los last summer. You're confusing me. I cannot--" she yawned
deeply "--serve two masters. And I don't know..." I thought for a moment that
she wouldn't finish. "...who I would choose."

"Thank you," she said, her eyes fluttering closed. She'd fallen asleep.

I had just finished putting my trousers back on when I noticed the priest. He'd
been watching us.

# # #

We slept right there under the stars. I had a few reasons, mind you. I didn't
feel right about staying in the temple myself and I didn't want to leave her in
there alone with those awful priests anyway, and besides she looked so... Oh, I
don't know. Perfect. She looked so perfect lying there that I couldn't bring
myself to move her. Though I did fetch a blanket from inside the temple. We
slept under the stars, under the watchful eyes of the gods.

Actually, she slept. I may have napped a bit, but I don't think so. I didn't
trust that bastard priest to leave her alone while she slept, and I had a
suspicion he wasn't above slitting my throat either. So it was that, sometime in
the early morning, I heard quiet footsteps coming toward us from the direction
of the village. I feigned sleep while they drew near, but I put my hand on my
dagger to be ready.

The footsteps stopped just in front of us and I opened my eyes ever-so-slightly
to see the hand of a shadowy figure reaching toward the Prayer beside me.

I pounced like a wolf on that figure, savagery rising in my veins, and I hurled
it to the ground and pressed my knife to its throat before it could react. "Just
what are you up to?" I demanded in a snarl, but soon my anger faded.

The dagger fell from slack fingers and I sat back against the temple, my
strength leaving me. I had almost slaughtered a young girl!

At first she was frozen with terror, but she regained control of herself and
knelt there before me, her head bowed as if in apology. "I have come with a
request for the prayer."

What the hell? Was she on call all hours of the night now? I wanted to rip the
child's head off out of spite, but I controlled myself.

"She's tired," I told her, "and she's resting now. Can't you come back tomorrow?
Better yet, come back next week when she's recovered a little."

The little girl shook her head. "No! If my mother knew I was hear she'd flay
me!" she said. "I may not get another chance to sneak out like this. It has to
be tonight!"

That was an odd circumstance. "Why does your mother not want you to make this
prayer?" I asked her, thinking that, if it was important, I could tell the
Prayer about it later.

I had to remind myself I would be leaving soon. Ah well--perhaps I could have
the elder pass it along.

The girl seemed embarrassed to tell me about it, but she pressed on. "I want..."
she said, her voice trailing off... "I want to be... beautiful."

What? The vain brat!

She moved closer to the Prayer and pulled back the blanket that covered her,
revealing her shapely form, the swell of her hips and the intoxicating contours
of her chest, the finely toned muscles that made her so irresistible. I tried to
hide the way she affected me. The girl made no such effort, excitement clear in
her voice--and in the way she moved her hand between her legs--as she caressed
my Prayer's tortured but mercifully still smooth skin.

"I hear my brothers talking and I know what you men want," she said. "I want to
have a pair of tits like those. I want hips that make men want to fuck the shit
out of you. I want a body that begs to be raped, just like hers. I want men to
lust after me and abuse me. I want to be beautiful!"

Could she see that my mouth was hanging open, aghast? She wanted to be
beautiful. Looking at the Prayer, I could understand why. She was everything the
girl had described and more. But at what cost?

"Look," I said, tucking the blanket around my beautiful Prayer once again, "I'll
tell her when she's stronger and then she can pray for you, understand? It's
time for you to go home."

"You promise you'll tell her?"

"Of course I promise," said I, glad that I would never see this girl again. "Now
go."

The girl rose and started out of the clearing and I shook my head in wonder.
What would these people do without my little beauty to suffer for their every
whim?

My heart froze in horror when I heard the Prayer's voice. "Little girl," she
said, "wait."

No!

"Your prayer is to be beautiful?"

"Oh yes!" she cried in glee, clapping her hands and running back to embrace my
prayer. "My mother didn't want me to trouble you but I thought since it's such a
small request it shouldn't be very hard to fulfill and I knew that you'd be
happy to help me and I'm so grateful that you're going to help me--"

The poor abused girl at my side groaned at the girl's touch but returned her hug
wholeheartedly while the girl chattered, then she smiled and held the child at
arm's length, putting a finger over the little girl's lips. "I will be glad to
help you," she said.

Los, you bastard! What are you going to ask for this time? If I'd believed in
praying myself, I would have begged all the gods to let this sacrifice be an
easy one.

"But before I can do that, I need to know if this is really what you want," said
the Prayer. "And I want you to watch part of the sacrifice. Do you understand?"

The child nodded, smiling, happy to be getting her wish. The little cunt.

# # #

"Have you ever seen a sacrifice?" the Prayer asked the child.

The child shook her head.

The Prayer nodded. What was she thinking? Did it bother her that the child might
not have been so eager if she knew what sacrifices were like? Was the look of
happiness on her face a front? Or was she pleased to offer this girl's first?
Something in me wanted it to be the latter, though my own thoughts on the matter
were something else entirely.

"Trader, why don't you take her down to the river for a moment while I prepare?"

I could see by the light of the moon and stars that there would be no arguing
this, but I did my best.  "Why don't you go ahead of me? I'll be with you soon,"
I told the girl. And then I turned to my sacrificial beauty.

"Why are you doing this to yourself?" I demanded, grabbing her shoulders. "She
comes to you in the middle of the night with a worthless prayer and you're
willing to... to fucking kill yourself for her! Don't you realize that you could
be putting your life in danger?"

I held her close, afraid to let go.

"I have to," she said, her voice so soft it seemed she spoke directly into my
heart.

There was nothing I could do. Who was I do deny her something she wanted so
badly? So I held her so that I could look into her eyes--I wanted to see the
truth, to see into her soul. "Will it be hard?"

And then what I saw in her eyes scared me.

She nodded. "Los normally ignores prayers like hers," she said. "He dislikes
vanity and punishes beauty, and he doesn't normally like to meddle in such
affairs. This..." She wrapped her arms tight around me, resting her head against
me. "...this will require great pain."

I didn't want this for her. If there had been any other way... But I knew that
there was nothing I could do. Maybe that was why she let me get so close.

"That is why I must do it," she said. "Not just for Los, but for her, too: I
need to show her what life will be like for her."

"But not everyone becomes a Prayer."

"No," she said, and she laughed ruefully. "Only the most beautiful become
Prayers. But even if she does not, life won't be any easier for her. Not in this
place. After all, I won't have to endure much longer."

Don't talk that way! I wanted to shout. But instead I just held her. And I said,
"I'll be back soon."

At the river, I actually considered that my Prayer might be spared all this
trouble if I were to toss the girl into the river and watch her drown. But I
didn't. I couldn't think of anything to say to her, either. We just sat on the
bank, listening to the water, uncomfortable as that might have been for the two
of us. I don't know whether or not she noticed.

"Do you understand what you're asking for?" I asked her.

Her answer didn't impress me and I concluded that she didn't. No matter, I
suppose. She would soon see exactly what she was asking for. All I could do was
hope that it made her sick. We started back to the temple.

"Why do you love her?"

A hunting spear could not have stopped me any more effectively than her simple
question. Suddenly I found myself asking, Do I love her? Then something inside
me shouted, Yes, shit-head, you love her! You didn't think she was just an easy
fuck or a cheap good luck charm, did you?

Did I?

The latter, perhaps, for a little while--or a day's entertainment, since I had
been too tired to continue on my way. But a quick fuck I'd never have to worry
about again? Never! I did love her. Why hadn't I realized it?

But that wasn't what the child had asked.

"Is it her udders?" she asked. "Or are you an ass-man? Maybe her legs?"

I didn't even look at the brat. I don't know what I was looking at.

"Did you fall in love with her cunt? Did she just feel good? Or maybe you just
get off on watching her get fucked up. I bet you love watching her sweat,
watching her bleed, hearing her scream. Do you?"

No! "No!" I shook her, struggling with the urge to slap her for what she'd said.
"I love her because she's the most beautiful creature I've ever met. Any fool
could see that! A blind man could see that!"

Was I crying?

What the fuck was wrong with me?

Fuck Los! I had to get back to that temple!

"But--" the girl interrupted.

"I don't care if Los gives you the most fuckable body of all time," I told her,
pushing her away, "you won't be half as beautiful as my Prayer! Don't you
understand?"

And I ran, harder and faster than I thought I could run. I don't know what the
hell I thought I was going to do when I got there, but I ran.

# # #

When I got there, I knew: I was going to kill that son of a bitch.

The Prayer hung from a swooping branch of a grand old tree at the edge of the
clearing, her wrists bound over her head, her arms were spread so far apart that
the strain from simply hanging there had to be excruciating. Her legs tied apart
as well, roped to stakes driven into the ground. I drew nearer and began to move
carefully, quietly, trying to quiet my breathing before getting much closer. I
could make out the sort of rope the priest had used to bind her: a hemp rope of
the most unpleasant kind, good mainly for tearing into the skin of prisoners.

And he had made good use of it. I had never before seen a woman tied in such a
way. He had made a sort of harness for her from rope, binding her breasts and
stomach, wrapping it round her thighs and pulling it tightly between the lips of
her sex. And was it a trick of the torchlight or did I see some further
instrument of torture pressed inside her there between her legs, a fat wooden
cylinder held in place by the ropes?

Oh yes, I was going to kill him for certain. But not for what he had done to her
already. For what he was about to do.

In his left hand he held the left a flogger with links of copper chain affixed
at the end of each of its six tails. Gods! He wasn't going to use that awful
thing, was he?

Indeed he was; the priest had begun beating the Prayer with the cat, bruising
her agonized body from her abdomen and shoulders to her thighs and buttocks,
coating her with marks that quickly began to turn black and purple in addition
plain red welts. He avoided her most sensitive places at first, but only so that
he could pay them special attention, it seemed.

I took the opportunity to get closer without being noticed only to see that
devil slash my beauty's breasts with the hard flogger, the copper links bouncing
painfully off of her bosoms. And suddenly I thought it odd that she had yet to
cry out despite his onslaught--could her faith be so great? Or, at least, did
she not normally pray when her pain at its greatest?

Then I saw the true reason: he had gagged her, tied a leather strap in her mouth
like a horse's bit, making it impossible for her to do more than moan and
whimper. And moan and whimper she did when he began to swing the horrible weapon
up into her poor cunt, its lips held apart by her position, left open and
exposed to any horror he chose to inflict on it. All this and he denied her the
ability to speak to her god, to make a sacrifice of her pain! What the hell was
he thinking?

At that moment, I knew.

He spat on her, his phlegm landing on one of her nipples. The spittle mixed with
blood that oozed from a welt opened by his copper-tipped whip, making him
laugh--the laugh gave me a chill.

"I'm sorry," he said, "let me wipe that off..."

Crack! --the sound of the flogger as he battered her breast again. She moaned,
her head lolling from side to side, drool running from one corner of her mouth,
blood dripping from the other.

"Hmmm. Looks like I missed."

--Crack!--

My knuckles went white on the hilt of my dagger. I was going to cut off his head
and piss in his throat!

But what of the Prayer? Would she need him to complete her task? She would never
forgive me if...

How could I love anyone enough to sit by and watch them hurt like this?

"You seem bent on killing yourself, slut," said the priest, caressing her fair
cheek. "The people all say they've never seen such dedication to the god. But I
know the truth." His hand moved from her cheek to her bloodied nipple and he
ground it between his fingers as he spoke, making her squirm. "The truth is that
you just love the pain, don't you? You love to ride the whip--you'd have it fuck
you senseless if you could!"

She whined through her gag, forced to give voice to her pain under his cruel
touch. The tears in her eyes became tears in my eyes.

"You'd die under the whip, if only anyone would take you far enough..."

He took something from a sack on the ground--a bullwhip, long, braided leather,
obviously soaked in oil--and held it near a torch. "This is your dream lover,
isn't it." And he held it in the fire for a moment. "Well, my little pain whore,
tonight is your night!"

The whip caught fire and my heart caught in my throat as he dropped the flogger
and laid into her with the now-burning bullwhip, screaming madly as he beat her,
the flames burning bright and hot with each swing as they gulped in air and
belched fire, her flesh twisting and shaking with the agony, the heat, as he let
the lash wrap around her entire torso, scorching her back and tits at a stroke
twice, thrice--eight times in a row!--and then as he let it lick round her
midsection--and again--and her thighs, five times each, so that each time the
tip of the whip--a cruel tip designed to cut the flesh--met between stretched
lips of her pussy....

"Aren't you glad we've finally gotten started?" he asked her. "Let me make this
very clear. I've wanted you since the day I saw you, since Samhain when you were
dedicated to the god's service. I was mad with desire! But you were off
limits--a slut like you, born to be fucked to death!--off limits! This is my
gift to you, cunt. Savor this moment of peace--it will be your last."

Her chest heaved and I could hear her ragged moans of agony with each breath
that tore from her throat. Saliva hung from her chin and she slung it back and
forth as she shook her head in a pain-mad frenzy as if she could wrench herself
free of her bonds and escape, or at least end her misery by snapping her neck.
My heart leapt to see the sweat that coated her body, streaming from her
cleavage and down her ribs, along her flanks, soaking her entire body. I
realized that, for some reason, I couldn't tear my eyes away.

I couldn't move! I could do nothing but sit and watch my beloved endure her
ordeal, accept her fate! Was she to die because--ashamed as I was to admit
it--because I liked to watch?

No!

Gathering my hatred about me and readying my knife in my hand I concentrated the
whole of my being on gutting that fucking priest and force-feeding him his
entrails. There! One foot in front of the other--he would soon be mine!

I was soon clear of my cover, exposed to anyone who cared to see me, close
enough that only a breath and a heartbeat separated the priest from the
afterlife--

And she saw me.

Her eyes took my breath away and fixed me in place, the way the tears fell from
them, the way the sweat stung them, the almost imperceptible way she shook her
head as if to say, "No: I must endure."

And endure she did, until there was no more oil to burn and his bullwhip fell on
blood-streaked flesh. Until light began to color the eastern sky.

# # #

I was powerless. Whether or not my beauty prayed for death I do not know, but I
certainly did--for hers and mine--and I prayed that the priest be made to
experience a thousand eternities in a thousand hells. But my prayers went
unheard. Dawn came and my beauty was released from her bonds alive somehow. And
she knelt before him to await some new and terrible fate.

"Are you ready to die, whore?" asked the priest.

She shook her head, her body shuddering with the effort required to remain
upright. How I wanted to take her in my arms!

"I thought not," he said with a smile. "Well then, I'll give you a choice. You
can die or you can marry me." He let his loincloth drop to the ground to reveal
his stone-hard dick, already wet with cum. "You have my permission to remove
your gag so that you can give your answer properly."

That fucking bastard!

But my Prayer remained subdued and submissive in spite of his ultimatum, keeping
her head bowed as she unbuckled the gag and as she answered. "I cannot accept
your options," she said, her voice filled with sadness, ragged and hoarse from
her muffled screams. "As a prayer, I still have duties to perform this day."

The priest grunted with rage, raising his fist to strike, but then he controlled
himself. He sighed, shaking his head. "I guess all the trouble I went to not to
utterly ruin your body was a bit of a waste, then," he said, and he produced
from his pouch a ceremonial knife hammered out of black glass. "I hope our god
welcomes you with open arms."

He raised the knife high over his head and my Prayer lifted her eyes toward
heaven, saying some final words...

But then I saw that her eyes did not look toward heaven. They looked toward me!

That glance was all that I required. The fucking bastard was bleeding his guts
out at my feet. I tore off his cock with a little help from his filthy glass
knife and shoved it into his mouth, binding it in place with the band that had
supported his loincloth. "Suck on it yourself," I ordered, spitting in his face
as his consciousness dimmed, his eyes flickering. "Not so hard now, is it?"

Then I brought my heel down on the bridge of his nose. Such was the end of the
priest.

I heard a cry from the forest and footsteps running toward me, a small voice
sobbing as it came--the girl for whom my Prayer had nearly died had returned.

She collapsed in the Prayer's arms wrapped round her with loving care in spite
of the pain the girl's touch awakened and inflamed within her. "It was so
horrible!" she shrieked again and again, disbelief filling her voice. "I never
imagined my prayer could cost so much! Please tell me you'll be all right?"

The girl turned to me, "Thank you so much for saving her! I don't know what I
would have done if she had--if she had--" The girl's voice broke and she could
not say it, but I already understood. The price of her prayer had been high
indeed. "Can you ever for--forgive me?"

I didn't want to. She had shown me my greatest love and nearly taken it away
from me. I wanted to thank her and then kill her on the spot, send her to join
the priest. But the way the Prayer held her, stroked her hair, wiped the blood
of her torture from the girl's face, dried her tears... I could not hate her. I
could not help but forgive her.

I embraced them both.

"Don't cry for me," said my Prayer to the girl. "I want you to be beautiful, you
see? Your prayer becomes my own--I would gladly give my life for you. Do you
understand?"

"No!" the girl insisted. "I've changed my mind! I would gladly be the ugliest
woman in the whole world if it--"

My Prayer pressed a finger to the girl's lips to silence her. "Then your beauty
shall be my prayer for you," she said. "But you must leave now. I don't want you
to see what remains of my sacrifice."

The girl turned white. I was forced to carry her to the edge of the village, for
she seemed bereft of any conscious will.

I felt much the same way when she begged of me, tears streaming down her young,
strangely angelic face, "Please, you won't let her pray for me, will you? You
won't! You must save her! Please?"

There was no answer to give her.

I returned to my prayers side, approaching quietly so that she did not know when
I arrived. She knelt still, but she was bent over with pain, her head near her
knees, her arms were crossed in front of her hugging her breasts, and she rocked
back and forth, crying out with each breath, unable to contain her agony. It was
too much for her! I had to ask her to stop.

Ever so gently, I let my hand rest on the back of her head, rubbing softly
against her hair, to let her know that I had returned. She sat up in shock, now
silent again, and bowed her head.

"I wish you had not seen me like that," she said.

I wanted to tell her, So do I! "Please, my love, you cannot go on! You will die,
and then who will say your prayers?"

She shook her head. "I can do it," she said. "I must! But... I cannot make the
sacrifice on the altar. I will..."

She collapsed into my arms and I held her, stroking her hair, blowing on her
welts, doing what little I could to sooth her pain.

"...I will go to the tree," she said, "and I will pray for both of them."

The tree?

"You must help me," she said, looking deep into my eyes, piercing my soul. "I
cannot do this alone."

Had I any choice?

"Will you die?"

Her eyes fell shut and I felt a tremor in her body. She could not answer me, but
I knew what the answer would have been.

Could I help her? Did I love her enough... to let her go? In that moment I made
my decision. I loved her more than anything in all the world. And I would help
her.

"I will help you," I said, "on one condition."

She opened her eyes again. Somewhere beneath all the pain, the exhaustion, and
the sadness, I could see the determination that would carry her through to the
end. "I will do anything you ask," she said at last. "Name it."

"You must say a final prayer," I told her. "For me."

# # #

So I hung her on her tree.

Her body was stretched in agony one last time. She hung from her arms, tied
behind her and over her head, holding her raw back against the rough wooden pole
she called a tree. I tied her legs behind the pole as well, resting their bond
on a peg that would allow her to push herself up if she could, relieving some of
the pressure on her arms in exchange for excruciating torment for her trembling
legs. Her position forced her to arch her back and present her breasts and
womanhood for torment, not to mention expose them the sun now rising overhead.
Soon the heat of the day would be upon us. Already she was sweating again--at
least I had allowed her to drink before tying her there.

"How does it feel?" I asked her.

She sobbed when she opened her mouth to answer. "Ohhh! It feels... like I am
being broken," she said. "And I'm so tired."

I nodded. "Don't worry," I said, my hand caressing her between her thighs.
"You'll have no rest yet." I used my tongue to lap at her pussy for a moment,
allowing my thoughts to wander, thinking how smooth it was--and for an instant I
was thankful to the priest for burning the hair from her cunt with his whip.

"No," she panted, "not yet--I--"

Her eyes fluttered shut and I chose that moment to push her next torment into
her pussy--a carved wooden cock, studded with roughly-shaped bronze bumps and
ridges, covered in the burning red oil. It was fitted with a leather strap that
allowed it to be fastened to the pole to 'aid' the sacrifice in her time on the
tree--at least it would give her something to fall onto when her arms and legs
were no longer sufficient.

The cock's entry made her moan in agony, made the muscles in her abdomen stand
out, made her jerk at her bonds and push out away from the tree, trying to
escape the pain--but it was no use. She ground her teeth and I saw her leg
quivering--her exertions had caused a cramp. Slowly I massaged it away, working
the wooden dildo in and out of her cunt at the same time.

"Any further instructions?" I asked her, my tone hard.

She shook her head, her breathing pained. "No. I think you--" I pushed the dildo
in and twisted it, and she screamed "--I think you'll do well on your o--Ohhh!
No! Ahhh!--own."

I pressed the wooden cock deeper into her sex and cinched its straps on the
tree, binding it in place beneath her. Now there was no escape for her; she
would never be able to raise herself enough to get clear--not that I believed
she would try.

"Well," said I, "that's half."

"Tell me your prayer," she gasped, her head hanging low out of exhaustion, "and
I'll tell you what to do. You want a safe journey, do you not?"

I took her by the chin and lifted her eyes to mine, shaking my head as I did so.
"My prayer is simple," I said. "I don't want a safe journey. I want you."

At first there was no reaction--she did not understand. But, slowly, it became
clear to her.

"Will you marry me?"

She nodded, or perhaps she was faint with pain.

"Say it!"

"Yes!" she cried. "But I must ask the god for his blessing."  She struggled to
swallow and I could see the fear in her eyes. "The sacrifice must represent
commitment," she said, "ownership..."

# # #

The sun is falling in the west now. My beloved hangs there on the tree, fighting
for each breath. The tree has carried many prayers to their final reward, but I
do not fear for her. She will refuse to go.

Blood still seeps from the rings that now pierce her nipples and the hood of her
clitoris; the constant attention I pay them keeps the wounds open and weeping as
my gift to her. I hold before her one last great bucket of liquid pain brought
from the temple, the unknown substance that seemed to tear her heart out
yesterday--she nods and I know she is ready. She has nodded, requesting each
bucket full, for each of the past nine hours of her torture.

I lift the bucket over her head and pour it out slowly, watching her tighten and
flex against her bonds as the pain overcomes her and she screams her agony
again. She hangs limp, exhausted, before even half the bucket is empty; she is
simply too tired to struggle.

"Thank you," she manages to gasp, though her breath is so short that it takes
everything she has to say one word, and then she must pant to catch her breath.

"You're welcome," I tell her, kissing her on the lips. "We're almost ready."

"Please," she says, "the whip--the bullwhip. I need..."

She needed me to whip her, to provide her with inspiration. Otherwise she'd
never be able to ride the tree as she should. I nodded, assenting to her
request, and motioned for her to lift herself from the cock still buried within
her as I added more oil for her torment--oil mixed, this time, with sand, to
help enhance her experience.

As the first lashes fell, she began to fuck herself. Blood ran down her sides
again before I was done, joining the blood that seeped from between her thighs
and the tears that washed her face. I stopped beating her, but she did not stop
riding.

"More," she panted, "more! It is not yet enough..."

Who was I to deny her? The sacrifice was at her discretion, after all. And so I
continued. Tits, nipples, cunt, thighs, arms, throat, feet... This time I did
not stop until I managed to land a stroke atop her mound and draw blood, and the
terrible scream of animal agony told me that, at last, it was enough.

"Now," she cried, "the final part!"

The part I had been waiting for. I took the brand from the fire and let her see
its heat, its red-hot pain, ready and waiting to leap into her body and shatter
her, break her, make her finally and totally mine...

"Are you certain that this is what you want?"

I saw my answer there in her eyes the moment before they closed, the moment
before she steeled herself, before she pressed her cunt out at me, offering it
for the brand. Red iron met red flesh, and her sacrifice was complete.

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