Sacrifice

Let me tell you a tale, dear.

The thought may horrify the more enlightened among us, but there are indeed certain isolated rural communities that still practice pagan rituals before every harvest cycle. I myself had the opportunity to witness one such event, many years ago. Oh, but it still comes to my mind, as fresh and as detailed as if I had attended only yesterday.

Now this village, which I shall not name, had been experiencing a very serious drought over the summer. The elders conversed with one another, and all had decided that the situation was serious enough to warrant adding a human life to the annual fall sacrifice festivities. This was a course of action that was rarely undertaken except for the most dire of emergencies. Among the elders, only 3 had ever experienced a human sacrifice themselves.

This sacrificial event was unusual in that it required the death of a young boy, unlike many others that used virginal maidens. The village elders chose their sacrifice by writing down the names of all the adolescent boys in the village on slips of vellum, throwing them into a clay pot, then letting the eldest amongst them draw the unlucky winner.

The boy was dragged out of bed and tied up as his parents sobbed and begged for mercy, to no avail. I was a wanderer back then, and happened to be travelling through the village the day of the sacrifice. I stopped to observe out of a morbid sense of curiosity.

The boy was dressed in only a loin cloth, his naked flesh rubbed in some sort of oil. He was quite handsome, in that boyish sort of way.
His flaxen hair was quite long, tied up in a pony tail. He had a wiry physique, lean and muscular, with his tanned forearms and legs contrasting with pale, creamy skin. I pegged him as being the son of a farmer, which was confirmed by one of the villagers who told me the boy was the youngest of four, from the family that tilled the land near to the mouth of the local river. "The poor lad is only 13", she told me, her face ashen.

They tied him to a post in the village square, placed a pot in front of him, and fed him many rich meats and pastries, which he dutifully took bites from.

As the festivities wound down, and the day turned to evening, the village chief announced the beginning of the sacrifice. Almost at once the village fell into a hushed silence. A beautiful older woman, who I was later told was the priestess of the village, walked up to the boy. She was wearing nothing but a face veil, her curvaceous form exposed for all to see. In her hands was a jar. She dipped a finger into the jar and scooped out a greenish goop, which she forcefully pushed into the boy's resisting lips. He finally opened up and swallowed the gunk. Half a minute passed, and the boy began to pant, his face flushed and sweating.

A low chanting began to emanate from the villagers. Unsettled, I looked back to the boy and noticed a large bulge tenting his loin cloth. The green goop was an aphrodisiac, and it had worked amazingly. The boy's penis stood up tall, almost bursting at the seams. The priestess knelt beside him and gently pulled the loin cloth down, exposing his erection to the world. She grasped his cock and began to massage it, jerking his foreskin back and forth in careful, precise movements. The boy moaned and gasped and as he reached the tipping point, the priestess increased the speed of her massages. Finally, he came, a thick white string of cum bursting forth and falling into the clay pot placed in front of him.

The boy groaned, exhausted and spent.

He didn't notice the priestess holding the small curved knife until it was at his throat. Before the boy had a chance to scream, the blade opened his neck up, left to right. It went deep too, and the priestess wrenched his head back until it was at a 45 degree angle from the rest of his body, letting the villagers and me see both arteries, the esophagus and a hint of the vertebrae.

The villagers stopped chanting and simply watched as the young lad squirmed and gurgled, fresh hot blood spurting and running down his bare chest and torso. His legs and arms pulled at his restraints, fingers flexed mindlessly as he bled out like a pig at the slaughter house. Picking up the bucket, the priestess placed it directly in front of the neck, catching the arterial spray while his heart pounded madly. It seemed like an hour, but it was only a minute before his body relaxed and slumped over, empty of life.

The priestess took the pot of cum and blood and poured its contents into the carved wooden vessel built specifically for this event. She placed the pot down and picked the vessel up, holding it up reverently. Their gods would feast on the soul and mortal fluids of the young boy, and in return the village would enjoy a prosperous harvest later.

Silently, the villagers shuffled past the slowly cooling corpse of the boy, each one ruffling his hair and murmuring a prayer as they passed. I made my way to the body and stood in front of him, thinking about the festival. A young boy ejecting his life seed while giving his life blood, in order to give life to the fields, it made a certain twisted sense. I knelt and pulled his head up. His brown eyes were wide open, his jaw slack. Coagulated blood crusted his chin and nose. Eyes are often referred to as gateways to the soul. I looked into those eyes and saw emptiness. No trace remained of his personality, his memories, only the blank stare of death.

The priestess visited me the next morning, as I made ready to leave. She gave me a small glass vial of reddish fluid. A gift from her gods, she said. It might give me life one day. I still have that vial somewhere, misplaced among all the other bits and pieces I've collected over the years.