sss Island

Chapter Two-5

Testing her work and glorying in her daring, she seizes that madly pulsating shaft in her own big fist. Bending me sharply downward, she begins to briskly pump me vertically: seeking to milk me as she would a goat or whatever its equivalent is on this island.

Ah, Goddesses, I have never been pleasured like this! Rooni’s strong grip is as punishing as it is paradisiacal, those embedded barbs tearing at my hooked flesh. Her swiftly quickening rhythm is instantly more stimulating than the Lady Abigail’s most inspired thrusting, and only grows endlessly more so. Her enormous yet exquisitely firm and shapely breasts jiggle gloriously in all their arrogant uplift, the big dark n*****s erected into arrowheads in her excitement. Dark eyes as large and limpid as pools of obsidian gleam with animated glee and she actually giggles as she flogs me: the first sound of mirth from these females not born purely out of scorn or exultation – though these elements are certainly present. As I thrash and cry in blindingly intense ecstasy, her earlier admission again recurs to me. Dimly I realize that I am almost certainly the only male she has ever seen up close, much less touched in the flesh. Perhaps this explains her joyous fascination, and her unorthodox willingness to engage in an act performed solely for the s****l pleasure of one of the banned gender. Whatever the case, her eager experimentation swiftly serves its purpose.

Though I writhe as wildly as under the cruelest bout of torture, moan and cry out continuously with disbelieving delirium, though I shudder uncontrollably from head to toe and though my elaborately bound and bulging balls clench and spasm repeatedly in a fruitless attempt to empty, my insanely stimulated organ simply refuses to spurt its seed. I can only thrash and twitch in a mind-blanking paroxysm of unrelenting exaltation as I’m so madly m*********d. But finally at a word from Moba the still-giggling Rooni reluctantly desists in pleasuring me. With my ordeal-by-delirium unfortunately over, I thrash a bit more out of sheer frantic excess. Then I slump agonizingly sway-backed and sobbing in my bonds.

I have been denied the orgasmic cataclysm my body craved so autonomically despite the far more imperative demands of my insanity. Horribly torn between intellectual relief and a jaw-clenching vexation of sadistically stymied need, all I can do is hang exhausted from my numb hands and feet and wallow in the ever-accumulating miseries of my captivity.

Not that it matters. Satisfied at last with their preparations, Moba straightaway leads her patrol into the jungle: away from the scene of so much appalling epiphany for me and onward toward my unspeakably gruesome doom.

Up From the Beach

As per Moba’s instructions, the patrol begins conspicuously celebrating immediately, with even Nera obediently joining in.

Adding a triumphalism to their march up from the beach that stirs even me, they chant and sing and raise cheer after lusty cheer. Moba leads them in gesturing energetically with their weapons: alternately thrusting their spears rhythmically into the air and whirling their bolas into blurs overhead. For those unfamiliar with this primitive weapon, it consists of a number of cords weighted at the ends and is used specifically for entangling the limbs of running prey – and bringing it down unharmed. Repeatedly they grin significantly at me as they do this. No doubt this is in reference to the surely manifestly unfair ‘hunt’ that makes such an integral part of their rituals. The dread inevitability of this ordeal further pricks my returning excitement. And speaking of pricks, my own pierced and strangled and madly persistent one soon resumes its spastic upward twitching.

Each bob against gravity pulls at its bindings, causing those hooked thorns to dig in deeper. Still stippling the ground with spots of red, I leave a trail of ichor behind me and ride a swelling crest of treasured torment up the path to my execution. Swinging erratically from that pole and jostled unmercifully at every bumped tree trunk and irregularity in the trail, I savor the constantly climbing strain on my contorted frame in perverted gratification still proportional to its increase. As the tight vines cut ever deeper into the skin of my wrists and ankles, this agony is almost as precious to me as the similar constriction of my s*x organs and the unceasing scream of those impaling barbs. Fortunately for me or not, I remain as addicted as ever to every nuance of my comprehensive subjugation. And before long these are being magnified and multiplied in a way I again find exalting beyond belief.

Soon we begin to encounter the first outliers among the people. Hunters and foragers of the forest, drawn by the commotion we make, are first caught between the same joyous exultation that greeted my discovery on the beach and an angry mystification at this celebration of my flaunted criminality. When Moba insists on its great significance and promises to explain all at my ‘trial’ this is readily accepted: clear evidence of her standing among these Amazons. While some of the newcomers race to inform the rest of the populace, to a woman the remainder joins the triumphal procession carrying me to my end. With every new arrival this swells, as does the communal excitement. Meanwhile my own perverse arousal climbs relentlessly apace.

Listening to my captors loudly gloat on the rare and precious challenge Gora has gifted them with and exclaim over my astonishing endowment and perversity is titillating enough. But soon nearly every member of the growing crowd takes it upon herself to not only pulp my bulging balls but also measure my engorgement against her grip and then yank contemptuously on it, slap it about and twist or even whip it with the trophy of my doubled-over belt.

Of course, I only grow outrageously harder at this treatment. Beyond the continuous agony of those thorns gouging at me anew with each successive waggle, yank or slap is my inexplicable addiction to humiliation. The greater the audience for and the more numerous the authors of my subjugation, the more sickly excited I become. And with every step we move closer to the transcendent cruelties promised me, the sharper the insane mix of mortal terror and exhilarated anticipation I feel spurs me on toward that inconceivable apotheosis.

Eventually we begin to pass thatched huts scattered through the thinning jungle, and still the cheering, singing crowd surrounding me grows. Their songs are all paeans to cruelty and bloodshed and the systematic unmanning and eradication of men. I begin to be jostled about unceasingly as well as pulped, pinched, poked, prodded, groped and abused, and soon my equilibrium slung beneath that pole is lost. I slide inexorably from the level until I’m finally hanging face-down from the crook of my knees. From this head-pounding perspective I see the jungle fall away entirely. We are passing through a wide perimeter of dwellings, with penned pigs raising a stink and the rare wide-eyed girl-child watching with mystification.

Soon they will be as eager for their turn as Rooni is, I have no doubt. I even feel a bizarre stirring of pride at the unprecedented example I intend to set them. My sacrifice will be thrilling and satisfying and extreme beyond any in their history! Still our procession grows relentlessly, until this passes the residential sector and pours into a wide central plaza. There it meets and joins a wildly cheering throng of at least a thousand identically tall, sculpted, barbarically lovely and savagely exultant Amazons. The entire people have turned out to revel in the incredible spectacle and opportunity for celebration and vengeance I represent.