Sacrificed Under the Full-Moon

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Big Tits

At the full moon preceding the winter solstice, they would make the sacrifice.

If the sacrifice pleased the creatures that inhabited the forest then, he lived, and the villagers round about the great forest knew that the coming year would be fruitful. If the sacrifice displeased the forest dwellers, well the sacrifice was rarely seen again. If he was, it was usually only odd bloody bits of flesh left in the clearing, or occasionally they had found some unrecognisable wild eyed, insane, and mutilated remnant of the young man they had left there.

And when the sacrifice didn’t please the forest dwellers, the villagers ate less of what they had put by for the winter and readied themselves to work harder in the spring and summer and to go hungry the following winter. And they prayed to the spirits of rain and sun to placate them, so that they might survive till the next harvest.

“Last year was satisfactory but not so good as it could have been, and that I can say for the last several years. We need a bumper harvest to build up our stores and to feed more cattle,” the village chief, Yulga, said, and the other chiefs gathered in the holy place half a moon before the full moon before the winter solstice murmured their agreement.

“For three years now the sacrifice has pleased the forest dwellers. But not as well as he might have. All have lived,” Yulga continued, and there were murmurs of–may it please the great spirit. “But the last two have returned to their villages broken men, and the crops for the last two years had been but adequate,”

“It is as you say, Yulga. So, holy man,” chief Hangas of the largest village, Rottsnest, asked, “who do you suggest is to be taken into the forest this year?”

“This year we need a sacrifice of the highest standing and greatest manliness,” the holy man, Argath, said quietly in his deep resonant voice. ” Only the finest will satisfy the spirits now, for they are tiring of what we have sent them.”

“So, which of the young men you have seen in your journey through the villages will go for us all?” Hangas asked.

And all the chiefs leaned forward, hungrily willing the holy man to choose one who would truly please the spirits.

“He must be a young, unwed man of eighteen years and fine proportions,” the holy man said. “And of the clearest skin. With strong limbs and of a good height and a willing nature.”

“Yes?” Yulga asked.

“I have travelled to all the villages, and I have found one I believe will please the spirits greatly. He has all those physical advantages that most please the forest dwellers.”

“Yes. Yes, so tell us, so we may ready him for the ceremony,” Hangas demanded excitedly. “If he is so perfect, why do you hesitate?”

“For many years I have made the selection, and I know that this year the sacrifice should be Naroc, the Fair.” There was a gasp from the ring of chieftains. “He is tall handsome, and strong. He is what the forest dwellers seek,” the holy man continued.

“Naroc? My son?” chief Yulga cried in shock.

“Yes, Naroc, that most manly, tall, golden haired, and handsome son of yours.”

Yulga was torn. His son, his great pride and hope for the future of his village, set bağdatcaddesi escort against a bountiful crop. And perhaps still a son returning to his village to honour them, but a changed son, if he had pleased the forest dwellers greatly. A son who would leave to become a holy man such as Argath. A man who would most likely never lie with a woman and father children.

“My son,” he mouthed the words. “My son.”

“You must be honoured,” said Hangas, turning to him. “Naroc the Fair shall be a fine choice. Yes, for he is one of the tallest and strongest, and the most manly.”

Yulga returned to his village in the foothills and told his wife the news. Then with a heavy heart, he had the villagers come together and announced to them, “My people, my friends, and fellow farmers, the holy man has decreed that it shall be my son, Naroc the Fair, who will be at the heart of the ceremonies at the solstice. It shall be Naroc the Fair who next goes into the great forest as sacrifice to the forest dwellers.”

Naroc’s mother wept from the first day she heard the news of his choosing, even as she combed his golden hair out. When her son’s preparations began, she left her home each day while Naroc was bathed by his friends in water she had heated over the fire that burned in the centre of the family roundhouse. His body was bathed all over thoroughly, his manhood handled and lengthened by the hands of the finest of the young men of his village, so that he moaned often, and they stroked his manliness until he shook and his seed sprang forth. His manliness was so great that some of his companions needed both hands to cover its length. Then his manliness was bathed again and his sac was washed and each ball stroked and rubbed with oils. His companions also spouted their seed each time they bathed him, on all but the last day of preparation. And he had scented oil rubbed into the skin of his body also, all this done with great attention by the chosen young men of his village. Each day, for ten days, this was done, his seed spouting from him and his skin polished so that he glowed in the light and his body smelt of all the flowers of the forest. All this to ready him to please the forest dwellers.

The holy man, Argath, had followed Yulga to his village and provided the sacred scented oils. And as Naroc was prepared by bathing, the holy man looked on and gave instructions and smiled his approval of all he saw and added his seed to that spouted during the cleansing. And then Argath set up charms and wove incantations over them to make Naroc more desirable to the strange horned half-men god’s, called satyrs, and the other powerful creatures that inhabited the great forest. And at the end of each bathing, he had the companions part the cheeks of Naroc the Fair’s round, muscular rear, and Argath himself rubbed the most sacred oil about his hole and fingered it into his entry.

Meanwhile, the village maidens wept for Naroc the Fair, for not having him to choose for a husband in the spring. So that the hum of preparations, the murmurs of the men, and the tears of the women folk filled the village and, if anything, increased, as the solstice approached.

Naroc, himself, was still beykoz escort having trouble accepting that he had been chosen to be the sacrifice for this year. He was young and full of fire, and now the ritual cleansings brought him into a great heat of desire and need. And he dreamed haunted wet dreams of what might happen to him in the forest. Of great creatures giving him release as his friends were each day. And of other things-of more touching him where the holy man stoked the sacred oils.

Naroc told the holy man of his dreams, and Argath said, “Those dreams are true. You see your future, and the sacred oil is to attract the forest dwellers and allow them to satisfy their desires with you.”

“Ah. So, I must satisfy them. In what way?” Naroc asked, eager to be a success and return to his people a great man.

“Your body shall be theirs to use as they please for the night. Willingly give it to them. Allow them to use it in any way they wish, and all will be well.”

“Ah,” Naroc replied, frowning, and having no idea what ways they might use him in.

And Argath did not enlighten him, as it was wrong to do so with a sacrifice.

Now Naroc gazed about him at the damp, short, winter grass. He was woozy and felt cool, as the drug Argath had given him at dusk stopped him freezing. But his companions and the holy man were gone, and he was alone now in the moon’s glow.

If he could have seen with others eyes, he would have observed his oiled and polished body glowing palely pearlescent in the soft light of the full moon. The first satyr had smelt the scent given off by Naroc’s body heat as soon as he entered the forest glade and crept in from the forest, entranced by the sight and smell of him, unable to resist what Naroc has on offer.

He is a small satyr, young and eager, and the organ between his hairy thighs is already long and hard and standing as he approaches cautiously, but it is not so large as the organ of a full grown satyr is.

Naroc is frightened by the creature, but does not show it, instead looking up at the moon and not watching it approach.

The satyr grasps Naroc’s manliness and tugs at it and drops it, then fondles the sacrifice’s sac and drops that, then, being braver now, he turns Naroc over on his stomach and parts his cheeks, and the scent of the sacred oil is suddenly overwhelming. A smell that he caught faintly from the beginning, that drew him on. Now he buries his face in Naroc’s crack and tongues at the hole to get at the oil, and Naroc writhes at the invasion of a long, smooth, and writhing muscle into his passage. He moves his hips as the tongue darts and licks, and the satyr wraps an arm about his belly and lifts his butt up to a more comfortable position so he can sink his tongue deeper.

Naroc in his drowsy state is aroused already and moans, and the satyr, now having got all the oil he can with his tongue, rises up and places the bulbous head of his long organ to the wet, puckered entrance and pushes. Naroc cries out, even drugged as he is. But because he is drugged, it’s a cry of heat and an explosion of lust as much as pain at being entered so roughly.

The satyr holds Naroc up like a soft toy and pumps long caddebostan escort and hard into his channel, his great animal thighs giving him unlimited strength to plow the sacrifice, until he floods him with his alien seed.

Another satyr has emerged from the woods, and from the other side of the clearing two sprites are gliding out. The sprites do not frighten Naroc as much as the Satyr does, but they have not reached him yet, or shown him how they can drain a man of all he has. The second satyr is fingering his hole even as the first one rams in one last time and floods him.

Naroc is on his knees now, and his eyes are closed as the finger stretches him even more and he sighs in relief, but moans with regret also as the first satyr’s phallus is withdrawn. because there has been pleasure in this for him too. But his relief is brief, as the second satyr plunges his engorged tool into the wet hole that now drips fresh-scented juices.

Naroc moans loudly as this new, larger, tool reaches deeper into his belly and stretches him more. The sprites have arrived and lift their billowy robes and guide fine cocks into his mouth, two at once, and pull his head about, each one wanting to be sucked more and in a different way so that he is confused and distracted from the vigorous fucking he is now receiving.

But this fucking has him throbbing so much he reaches back for his own maleness and begins to stroke it. But the sprites want that also, and one moves to apply its narrow, but deep, ridged mouth to the manliness hanging from between Naroc’s spread thighs.

The sprite takes it all in, and sucks. Then slides back and forth, still sucking, and Naroc spouts a great load of his seed into the sprite, as the other sprite fills his mouth with a sweet juice.

More satyrs have appeared, moving in and running their hands over Naroc and nipping at his legs and buttocks and fingering his already-occupied but rapidly stretching hole, watching their fellow’s big tool working in and out, juice dripping from the entrance they are plowing. And sprites and nymphs circle in and move closer. Naroc barely sees them because he is so lost now with another satyr taking him roughly, and three sprites filling his mouth with their fine, long cocks and others lapping at his rehardening manhood and sucking on his balls.

Many hours later a holy silver bell rings in the forest, sending the forest dwellers scattering, and in the last rays of the moonlight Argath enters the clearing.

And he is greatly relieved at what he sees, for Naroc the Fair, lives. He is on his back, legs askew, and moaning and covered in scratches and nips and the seed and juice of the forest dwellers and oozing it from all his orifices. His eyes swim in it. But if he has blood showing at his rear, it is only a small amount. Argath lifts Naroc’s head and holds a flask of water to the sore mouth, and the sacrifice drinks thirstily and opens his eyes and gazes dazedly at the holy man.

“Are they. . . where. . .?” he tries to ask.

“They are gone. And you did well, young Naroc,” Argath assures him before laying his head down.

And Argath now lifts his robe and kneels between Naroc’s thighs and raises his legs and wishbones them and sees that which he has longed for since he first saw Naroc in his village months before. Now he drives his manhood straight into the now gaping, dripping hole of Naroc. The first of innumerable visits Argath’s manhood will make there as he trains his new successor.

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