Tribute

Loud noises broke suddenly into her musings—clicks and rumbles, from the side of the room. The bricked-over doorway! She'd assumed that entrance was immovably sealed; seemed she'd been fooled. She should have given it a better inspection. That whole chunk of masonry had come to life and was sliding itself out of the way. It wasn't speedy about it, anyhow. She was grateful for the fact, because now in addition to the machinery she could hear voices from the other side of it. Raised voices of men, shouting at each other over the sound of the ponderous door. Laughing together.

She didn't dare allow herself to be discovered in this place. She didn't have a stitch of clothing on! She'd almost forgotten the fact, until that instant. Now mortification and panic engulfed her—she nearly shrieked.

Shielding her privates with her hands, Marion hunched and scrambled for the exit behind the statue. Cost her another nasty scrape—one of her elbows that time, instead of a knee, and in addition she stubbed a couple toes on the pedestal, making her eyes water—yet she made it into the tunnel safe out of sight before the men came in and caught her. Thank Christ!

She would have run and hid even if she wasn't entirely undressed. The chamber was clearly a temple of one sort or another—sacred ground to somebody. Who wouldn't be at all pleased to find someone like her poking around in there uninvited.

Marion didn't keep running once she was behind the statue. She didn't continue down the steps. Instead she lingered, in a crouch, just inside the dark mouth of the archway, holding her breath as she listened. She wanted to find out who the men were and what exactly they were up to. Besides, it was possible if she had dashed right off down the stairway, she would have given her presence away—the slapping of her feet on the steps might echo up the tunnel and be audible in the chamber, calling the men to pursue her. So she held still and waited. And then, having got away with that much, after another few minutes she'd gathered enough courage to dare further. Crawling out again from the arch with ninja stealthiness, Marion pressed herself sideways against the back of the statue's pedestal for a careful peek around its edge. She kept her head as low as she could bend it, her nose nearly brushing the floor. Balanced on her toes and her fingertips, she was like a cat poised to spring. She might not have held that particular pose had she realized how high her bare hind end was sticking up in the air behind her, and the fact that it was visibly quivering from the strain in her legs—at that moment, she was unconscious of those things, for all her concentration was fixed on the men in the room.

Four of them. One was an old man with a hunched back and a long beard like a wizard. The other three were quite young and quite handsome, all with bushy, tight-curled hair. From their simple and rather ragged clothing, she guessed they were fishermen or shepherds. While the old man, judging from his robe, was some kind of priest. Not a Christian one. Not with what he was saying to the others.

He was speaking Greek, sort of. Marion was good with Greek, yet she could only make out about one word in three. The old man spoke in a mumble and had a stammer, to make it tougher for her. He gestured a lot to the basin on the floor. He was talking about a tribute. Marion heard him say the word "marriages" several times, and "strong sons". At first she figured he meant the men in front of him.

That wasn't it. He was talking about the future. Their future.

The old fart eventually left and closed the heft stone door behind him. When he was gone, and the room was quiet again, the three young men exchanged grins and nods—Marion saw some rueful shrugs and eye-rolling, as well—then they started to undress, much to her astonishment, tossing their things in careless heaps against the walls. They blushed and joked around with each other as they did this, or two of them did, until the third guy harshly shushed them and then they all got serious.

When all three were naked, they knelt on the floor around the rim of the bronze basin. They chanted a prayer, and then they started to masturbate.

Well now, she thought. Gosh. My oh my.

Clearly the idea was to leave an offering in the basin—a very specific tribute. The men were all getting married, if she was understanding the situation right—probably tomorrow—and this silly old ancient ritual was no doubt supposed to ensure they produced healthy sons with their new wives. Marion wondered how seriously men like them took this business. Were they really unsophisticated enough still in this part of the world to believe in a primitive ritual of that kind, or were they just going through the motions for the sake of local custom, to keep on the good side of the old priest, and one imagined, their mothers and grandmothers and so forth?

All three were having some difficulty getting themselves stiff. Their expressions were grim and they kept their eyes tight shut. It was amusing—and fascinating, to be honest—to watch their efforts, and their different approaches, as it were. Two cranked themselves as fast and furiously as they could. Their hands became blurred—Marion was almost afraid they were going to do themselves injury. The third man was gentler with himself and had a curious technique Marion had never seen before, and would never have dreamed up on her own. He was using both his hands—one clamping his shaft at the root, staying put down there, while the other massaged the head of his cock with the palm. That guy was actually moving his hips more than his hands—humping against his palm, rather than flogging off in the standard fashion. He seemed to have done a much better job arousing himself than his compatriots. Despite, or perhaps due to, the death-grip desperation of their motions, neither of their cocks looked like it had hardened properly, far as Marion could tell at a distance, and their cocks looked sadly small and feeble compared to the third man's. Both those guys had got very red in the face. And one of them kept swearing in Greek under his breath. The others told him to shut up—he was disrupting their concentration—and he apologized every time they did so. But then real soon he would start muttering feverish garbled curses again the same way. Couldn't control himself.

It was hysterical. Marion had a horrible time preventing herself from giggling out loud. Started to give her a churning cramp in her belly.

And she felt another churning cramp in another place ...

They were quite good looking boys, for one thing. Also at that stage she felt sorry for them. It had made her feel rather ashamed of herself to be spying on them in their current condition. They'd die of the disgrace if they knew she was seeing them like this. They were having such a tough time with their absurd old ritual. She would have preferred to watch them enjoying themselves. Would have been much more gratifying to see. At least the one on the end with his weird style was doing better than his buddies. She wished the other pair would relax. They should slow down or they'd never get anywhere. Obviously it was each other's presence that was their principal problem. Whole set would all have been better off coming in to do this thing in turn, one by one, rather than kneeling side by side, shoulder to shoulder. Poor daft chaps had made each other too self-conscious.

It was a poignant spectacle. It got under Marion's skin.

She put a hand on her crotch and rubbed herself. She did it almost without realizing. Once she started, she couldn't stop. The touch didn't ease her feelings—it had the reverse result. She was shocked to discover how wet she'd become—extraordinarily wet, and excruciatingly sensitive. She had to rub it harder, and she had to do more than that too. She had to curl her fingers inside herself. Deep, and then deeper. And then—God. Oh God.

She was lost, after that. She was no longer just petting her puss in an idle manner—she was committed. She was actively and aggressively fucking it with her hand. Couldn't stop once she'd begun. Not if somebody stuck a gun to her head. Not until she made herself get off.

How on Earth had she got this crazy-horny all the sudden? It couldn't have been more than half an hour since she mostly accidentally had that orgasm under the waterfall. Shouldn't that just maybe have made her less susceptible to arousal? Well, if the world was fair and clean, that would have been the case. Except it never was and never had been. She shouldn't need to come again this bad, her cunt should have been satiated for the day—all the same, it wasn't. Sex-craving had utterly swamped her mind and body and it had happened so fast! Evidently the earlier climax had only got her started for the day. Like the snack you have that's supposed to settle your stomach and then leaves it aching a hundred thousand times worse.

If the boys weren't so good-looking down there, and if they weren't naked and masturbating in front of her ... And if she wasn't naked herself while she spied on them. Maybe she'd have been able to maintain dignified control over herself if all those things weren't true all at once. But they were. And now there was no resisting or escaping her desire. It wouldn't stop or go away until she got to come again.

Too much tension had built up in her body. One of her feet slipped loose behind her and caused her to bang her knee on the floor, same one she scraped earlier. Jesus! As much as that stung, it didn't stop her from what she was doing. It didn't so much as slow her down. She pulled the foot back where it had been, digging her toes into a crack between the floor tiles for firmer support. Which allowed her to hump her hand more forcefully without throwing off her balance. Very good. Very, very good. The urgency built stronger and stronger.

She pressed her other hand over her mouth to keep herself quiet. Otherwise she would have panted too loud, or maybe even moaned, and the men would have heard her. Then she'd really be in the shit. If they caught her like this ... there'd be nothing she could say, no possible excuse she could offer. She couldn't imagine what they'd do. Or then again maybe she could. Vividly.

Oh God - God! Thoughts like that were no help at all in the present circumstances.

Right that second, Palm-Humper reached his peak. He threw back his head, sweat spraying from his hair, and howled like a werewolf, while he took both his hands off his cock and let it ejaculate into the basin unassisted. It fired several shots all by itself, and in the proverbial heat of the moment it felt like the sexiest damn thing Marion had ever watched happen in her life. Thus her second climax of the day was initiated.

It was a doozy. She didn't let out any wild cries, despite how much she wanted to, yet in consequence she must have thrashed her hips or her shoulders around too much.

She knocked over the statue that was hiding her. She made the whole damn thing topple forward off its pedestal, straight down on its face. Thankfully it didn't land on the men and kill anybody. Those curved petal-strewn stairs in front of it were wide enough to provide it a safe grounding zone. Safe for the men, that is—not for itself.

When it hit, it shattered to a bazillion pieces.

Wow. Holy fucking crap.

The whole chamber was filled with white dust. Nobody could see anything, until the powder settled from the air.

That only took a few seconds. And then ...

Marion goggled at the men with her eyes popped and her mouth dangling open. The men gawped at her with the exact same expression. White powder was plastered all over their sweat-streaked bodies, from head to toe. It was thicker on Marion than on them. Made her hair as white as her flesh.

She looked like she was made out of sugar.

She looked like a sculpture brought to life with magic.

4.

She didn't say a word. She couldn't think of anything. There was nothing to say.

They didn't look mad, though, like she expected. She was surprised by that. They looked scared of her. Much more horrified than she was. Plus they looked baffled. They looked, in fact, awe-struck.

It occurred to her they weren't seeing what she thought they were seeing. They weren't seeing her for what she was. Because they had a whole different mentality.

They didn't realize she was a trespasser and a spy in their secret sex temple. The idea—that factual truth—hadn't crossed their minds. Not yet, anyhow.

They never noticed the open archway behind her, which perfectly and sensibly and rationally explained how she'd appeared. They were too much taken with the sight of her. The sight of her nakedness. Filled up all the space in their brains, no room leftover. They were men, after all. And she was hot.

Plus of course there was the convenient coincidence that she, with all her hotness, happened to bear a slightly more than passing physical resemblance to the statue of the goddess they'd been in the midst of making tribute to.

Poor daft blokes got entirely the wrong notion. They thought a miracle had just occurred. They thought a living goddess had chosen to visit them.

Marion decided not to ruin the illusion, not to flee. If she had, that would have broken the spell. Instantly. Soon as she had turned through the doorway, reality would have reasserted itself. The men would have got their heads out of their butts.

Anyway, they were so nice looking. Two of them still hadn't got to come.

She sprang upright on the empty pedestal and then stood tall. She lifted her arms wide over her head in the same beckoning pose that the statue had until she wrecked the poor thing. Only difference was she didn't have a robe on, or any trashy jewelry. She smiled at the men and then nodded at them in as much of a regal manner as she could conjure for herself.

The men repeated the prayer they had chanted at the start—they kept chanting it over and over. They resumed jerking off over the basin. Those two that couldn't get themselves big and stiff didn't have that difficulty any longer. And the third guy that had already come—it didn't prevent him from starting anew.

Marion thought about just staying on the pedestal and letting the men make their tributes to her in the basin. They didn't expect anything else from her.

No, she decided. Hell with that.

She took a deep breath to steady her nerves as much as possible—not much—then hopped from the front of the pedestal and strode down the steps to the men. She kept her arms outstretched as she did, and tried to walk with a graceful, queenly rhythm. It was tough because her legs were shaking—her whole body was, in fact. Her teeth were almost chattering. It wasn't from cold—she didn't feel cold at all. She felt electrified.

Cunnyhoney was streaming down her thighs. She felt it reach her knees before she took two strides. Two steps more, and the trickles had reached her ankles. Seriously—her pussy was volcanic, spewing torrents of the stuff. Good thing too—it was necessary to get all the damned stony white grit out of the way.

She had to make sure they got it all off their cocks as much as possible, before they stuck them inside her. She'd help them out with that. Saliva would do the trick, if she applied enough of it. And she would. Liberally. Just watch her. Just you watch.

5.

They don't see her leave, when she leaves. Because they're all sprawled unconscious. Zonked out snoring across the powdery floor. They've all got smiles on their faces in their sleep. She's pretty damn certain she's not imagining it. That's the last she'll ever see of them.

Back down the steps to the waterfall for another wash, her legs wobbling the whole way. She needs this shower much more than she needed the first one. She positively reeks of jizz. Which is only to be expected in light of the fact she just permitted her boobs to be covered with the stuff, with some more on her face.

As good as she still feels, which is quite good indeed, the giddy thrumming warmth of sexual satisfaction to the highest imaginable degree of completion, she is also very weary and sore in crucial places. Agreeably, pleasantly sore, as much as that's possible; very sore for all that—the inevitable aftermath of an intensive and prolonged workout. She's eager to get clean and cooled off, and then get back to her boat as swift as is humanly possible so she can climb into bed on her face and sleep for the next few weeks. Never mind about starting for home; her boat can linger at anchor right where it is while she's comatose. It's a sturdy old thing, and it'll hold together fine even should the weather turn fussy. Men are entertaining and indeed delightful, while the sport lasts, or they are when a girl is lucky enough to find worthy specimens to sport with, but when the games have run their course and the fun is finished, it's equally nice—and necessary—to get oneself well away from the chaps. From the whole gender. Thus one recovers tranquility and balance of mind and of spirit, and furthermore one can take one's time about it. No rush and no worries. No mess.

The pool around her ankles turned milky white, and of course that was on account of the powder from the busted statue sluicing off her skin and her hair, tons of the stuff. At the same time, she couldn't help but snicker like an adolescent at the thought of that color coming from other substances which the chill waterfall was in the process of removing ... Hur hur.

The men had been shy with her at first. Much too cautious, as they all rolled around together. Lot of clumsy fumbling, nobody quite lining up properly. It got frustrating, real quick. They were overwhelmed with her holiness, no doubt. She got them over that. Had to be more-than-usually aggressive right off the bat to get the message across. To set the proper pace.

Dared not try verbal instructions—her accent would wreck the illusion of divinity even if she didn't trip up on appropriate Grecian vocabulary. Instead she communicated by grabbing handfuls of their curly hair and pulling on it (all the men had perfect hair for that, rich springy locks that practically cried out to be seized and tugged on). She slapped and pinched their bottoms, also (the smooth supple perfection of their backsides being both irresistibly slappable and pinchable). Never in a real mean way, just enough to encourage reciprocation, and to stir up their avidity. Like putting the spurs in on horseback. The men yelped and gibbered in the most adorable manner.

As expected, the chalky flavor of their dust-encrusted cocks was problematic. Frequent sideways spitting was required, and the stone grit was reluctant to leave one's tongue and lips. Particles kept grinding between her teeth—not at all a happy sensation. Better in there, though, than against the infinitely more vulnerable tissues within her vagina. Stuff got up her nose too and made her sneeze explosively over and over. This nearly caused her to bite their cocks off, on a few occasions.

One of the men came in her mouth, and very soon. Soon as she started sucking him, just about. It was hardly surprising; she was still disappointed with him when it occurred. At least it was only one of the three. And the bugger didn't take long to get riled up again for another try. His stamina was much improved through the rest of the encounter. That first blast must have taken his edge off.

When she finally had their cocks cleaned off good enough to allow inside her—much as she could manage, anyhow—she had them all lay back flat in a row so she could climb on top of them. Then she galloped them each individually, working from left to right. "Galloping" was how she liked to think of it when she mounted and rode a guy, taking full command and cutting loose, putting her back into it. She only galloped each one long enough for her to come, but not the guy. She immediately slid clear and hopped over to the next one, moment she got done. Her blood was thundering—in the state she was in, it didn't take her long to come. Not much more than a minute, every time. She really had her groove on. When Marion got worked up that much, it felt like she could go at it for a thousand years and never get tired. She could come and come and come, and it took very little further stimulation to set them off. She could come from somebody licking the back of one of her knees, or flicking her earlobe with a fingertip ... Didn't matter so much any longer what specifically anybody did, just so long as somebody did something, applying some motion and/or pressure for her nervous system to respond to. The response would always be the same. It was pretty goddamn marvelous. Transcendent. Of course it wasn't commonplace—this didn't happen to her every single time she got turned on, no way, no chance. Maybe, at best, two other times in her life, so far, years and years apart. More like one and a half.