Life among the scattered wild-tribes of the jungle lands of the Thousand Gods is often nasty, brutish, and short: those few not in the service of the various Made Gods must struggle and fight for every mouthful of food, every swallow of water, each breath taken. Usually these must be taken from another tribe by any means necessary. Raid brings reprisal and counter-raid. And when a tribe fails, it fails utterly.<br/><br/>The Amaranth were one such group, and until recently had enjoyed some success at surviving in the gaps between ideotribes and other exiles. Now there was only one, a red-haired lass who was the next to be sacrificed to the cruel parasitic Made God of their last target. She had been the youngest among her fellows, the least experienced...and now she was the last of them to die. She'd been made to witness the week-long tortures of the others, watched them broken and degraded and humiliated before finally being killed in a variety of lingering and horrible ways. Now it was her turn.<br/><br/>The priestesses into whose hands she was given were beautiful, voluptuous of body and initially gentle of touch, and they bore her away from the cage where she'd dangled, gagged and bound, to see her fellows executed. They forced her into a large tub full of warm water and scrubbed her down, then forced her to bend over and violated her with a nozzle...cleaning out her bowels with a humiliating process that she'd never undergone before and never wanted to feel again. After that, she was dragged back out to the central platform and bound in a spread eagle fashion, ankles and wrists far apart, her lean body utterly vulnerable.<br/><br/>Dangling there, she watched the two priestesses fasten wicked, impudently jutting phalluses into harnesses and slide them up around their hips. Soon she would feel those massive studded and ribbed members stabbing into her young body, made to serve these foe-women as their slavegirl. No doubt they would take her like a boy as well...<br/><br/>But before that, they took up whips made of soft leather and grinned at her with wanton, sadistic lust.  As the first blows fell across her breasts and thighs, she understood that they were not going to hurry her death. Not at all. These were too soft--enough to hurt, enough to mark, not enough to break the skin or injure.