Seeking Criticism for "The Prayer"

[guild762]

Posted below is about half of a story I've been working on. I'm aiming for the perfect 10 (of course ) so I thought I'd try to get some feedback on it before posting it to the site proper.

Looking for criticism regarding plot and pacing, reality checks, and (of course) just how erotic it is. If nothing else, I'd sure like to know what everyone likes most and hates most.

I know I'm asking a lot, so I'll just leave y'all alone from here on. Thanks. Story text below.

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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.”

By the god of pain, three days! But 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.

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For those of you who made it this far, thank you very much. If you're interested, the rest of the story is *nearly* complete--I have one or two scenes left to write to bring it in at around 9000 words, though I do have some major questions to answer first--and further parts are attached.

--IW