The hideous stone idol grinned down, its features illuminated by flickering torchlight.
All around the chants of worshipers reverberated within the walls of the ancient temple,
the sound rhythmic, hypnotic. Incense, thick and choking hung in the air as hundreds of
men knelt abjectly before the god, watching, waiting- Waiting for Kaghli to show his
approval of the offering and take the beautiful, naked young woman impaled on his stone
phallus.
It was an ancient ritual of the Temple of Hinja Punt. A rite of worship devoted to the
god Kaghli, the deity of masculine lust and voracity. The sacrifice at this ceremony was
an Indian woman, with an incredibly lithe figure and perfect, light coffee skin. Her black
hair hung to the small of her well-striped back as she clung to the god, pierced to the
core by an eight inch rubber phallus mounted on the end of the idol’s member. The girl
herself squatted awkwardly on the tip of the much larger stone erection. Her small hands
and feet gripped the huge stone penis, which stood taller than a man and stuck up rigidly
from the colossal statue at an angle of rampant erection. The effect was both grotesque
and fantastic. A beautiful human woman ravished by a giant/god.
The girl found the perch difficult and precarious and she struggled to maintain the lewd
position. She looked back at the priest with an expression of pure terror and
helplessness, knowing that if she fell, or allowed the god’s maleness to slip from her
vagina the consequences would be horrible; a long, methodical caning that she had seen
drive other dasi to the brink of insanity.
The priest of Kaghli, the Baugwan, stood before the worshipers and raised his hands. The
chanting ceased instantly and every eye was trained expectedly as he spoke. The hapless
girl also listened- and waited. He mouthed some incantations and took a long flint knife
from a dais at the idol’s feet.
Gesturing to the woman, the Baugwan spoke and the intoning hum from the crowd of men
began anew. She writhed with pain and fear on stone rod, straining to hold herself in
position. She had been told that she must please Kaghli, offer her body completely, fuck
the god to fulfillment. The frightened woman was more than willing to put on a good show
to save her flesh from the whip or the cane, but she simply did not know how she was going
to coax an orgasm from Kaghli. It was just a carved piece of stone!
She knew it couldn’t have real thoughts or feelings. But the whips behind her were real!
If she didn’t perform well for these men they would be used on her tender skin.
The Baugwan stepped up to the hapless girl, raising his hands. The worshipers stilled
again.
“You belong to Kaghli,” he said to her, stroking the flesh of her rear cheek. “You must
serve him as he demands- with your soft young body!”
Then he spoke louder, to the crowd of followers. “Kaghli shares his bounty with those who
serve him! This woman is being infused with the potency of Kaghli, with his essence. She
will be offered to all of his faithful. Use her body to worship Kaghli!”
The Baugwan turned, speaking once more to the girl. “Now. You will please him. You will
move as you have been taught.”
The girl began to rut on the phallus; up and down slowly, trying to establish a
convincing coital movement. She wanted to get the horrible act over with. Besides, it was
easier on her strained muscles to be able to flex and pull. She closed her eyes and thrust
with her back, but the thing inside her was motionless, the idol too inanimate and inert
to provide a sexual focus. Her movements were both stiffly mechanical and hesitant.
The Baugwan made a motion and a powerful looking African man stepped forward carrying a
whip. Without warning he lashed the girl’s back brutally and she screamed. But something
inside her made her body hold back. She was strong willed and the thought of giving
herself totally to a dead, stone god in front of a few hundred primitives touched a
defiant chord within her. She did move a little more, hoping to appease the priest enough
to cheat the god of her complete surrender.
The Baugwan was not having it however and the black man lay into her with a will,
striping her back with lashes in quick succession. Each stroke brought screams of agony
from the woman to punctuate the intoned, rhythmic chanting from the crowd of men.
Finally the girl gave in. She began fucking the idol with desperate alacrity, moaning and
bucking on its smooth, hard penis as if it were a living being. She hooked her heels under
the colossal rod and looked up into the snarling face adoringly. Anything to please the
Baugwan and escape the blows of the whip.
The Baugwan allowed her to writhe and churn with enforced carnal motions for several
minutes, watching her build an expectant heat inside, despite the horror she was feeling.
Then he brought the knife to her face and she screamed with terror. The woman began to
fuck the stone idol with frantic passion, thrashing wildly and salaciously. He waited for
her to climax, hearing her gasp out with passion, not knowing or caring whether her orgasm
was real or an act meant to placate him and end the torment.
As she screamed and bucked at her peak he laughed maniacally, then thrust the knife
violently into the center of the dais just below her.
The Baugwan couldn’t suppress a low burst of course laughter as the woman’s eyes flew
open with astonishment. She looked back at him, her face flushed with shock and revulsion.
A warm, viscous fluid was flooding her vagina, running copiously down her legs. The stone
god was cuming inside her!
***
The white missionary wiped the sweat from his brow and tried to concentrate on the crowd
of brown faces around him. It was oppressively hot on this narrow street. The stone
buildings seemed to radiate with waves of heat in the early evening and the air was still
and clingy. He had put in a hard day’s work, trying to reach the people of this village
and was winding down an eloquent, but useless sermon. There were no takers here for the
religion he was selling; only a mixture of skepticism and outright hostility.
Charles McKinna was not lacking in dedication, but he was tired and discouraged. It was
getting late and he finally concluded his message by asking if there was anyone in the
crowd who wanted to convert. As usual, there was no one, at least not in public. They were
too near the overbearing presence of Hinja Punt for any of the locals to take the risk of
openly joining a foreign belief.
McKinna shrugged inwardly. He could scarcely blame the people. It had been his own
greatest fear when he had considered preaching in this city, that he would somehow run
afoul of Hinja Punt. The sect was enormously powerful and unfathomably old, its origins
lost to antiquity. A complex mixture of Hinduism and Buddhism, it was in some respects
profoundly different from both.
The fabulous wealth of Hinja Punt was its Devadasi, the temple prostitutes. For centuries
they had been renown throughout the land of the Indus for their beauty and devotion to the
carnal arts. It was rumored that some of the women were of European ancestry, for many had
fair skin and large breasts. Countless thousands of men had come to worship Kaghli,
indulging in the flesh of his subservient dasi and making offerings of gold, sliver and
precious stones. Still others paid with political favors and the sect was rumored to have
once held sway over all India. There were legends, (scoffed at by most) that it would one
day rise again to dominate the world.
The motifs surrounding Kaghli himself were of strong Hindu influence, but the god and his
temple were pariahs among other adherents to that faith, who nonetheless greatly feared
them. Now as ever the rites of Kaghli were shrouded in secrecy and mystery- as well as
peril.
The missionary made one last call for converts. After waiting a bit, he turned to go. At
that instant, a young woman burst from the crowd and fell crying and trembling at his
feet.
“Please, Sahib,” she entreated desperately. “Take me with you… Take me with you. I want
to convert! Oh please, Sahib…!”
McKinna was used to looking for souls among the outcasts and the untouchables. This girl
was neither. She was well feed and though raggedly and scantily dressed he could tell that
she was no outcast. In fact, she was probably just the opposite. Someone regarded as
property and jealously kept on a short chain. McKinna frowned. He could tell a genuine
convert from a young girl who was simply trying to escape an indenture, or a life of
slavery.
“What have you done girl?” asked McKinna. “If you have committed a crime I cannot help
you.”
“No, Sahib. I am an honest girl who will make a good convert to your faith.”
“I see,” he said suspiciously. “You speak well, from a quality background. Where are
your parents, your family.”
“My husband and family died in the floods two years ago, Sahib. I have no one. Please
take me with you. I am a good worker and I…”
Her voice trailed off and she cringed, holding tighter to his legs and whimpering
pathetically as a huge, imposing African approached. He sneered at her menacingly then
seized her, lifting her effortlessly with one massive, muscular arm. Without a word to
McKinna, he reached to the girl’s head and took her by the ear lobe, pulling until the
terrified girl let go of the white man. Then he tightened his grip on her upper arm and
turned to lead the helpless woman off.
McKinna’s sharp command halted him.
“Stop. Where are you taking this girl? What has she done?”
The African turned to McKinna, a look of hatred and contempt in his eyes. His voice was
low and cruel as he hissed; “She is the indentured servant of the Baugwan Kareesh, Swami
master of the Temple of Kalhi.”
The black man again turned to go, as if the mere mention of the Baugwan’s name was
enough to answer and quell all dissent. McKinna had of course heard of the Baugwan and his
blood ran cold. Here in Tanjore the name was feared by people of all chastes and classes.
His personal wealth was vast and he was one of the most powerful religious leaders in
India. And in India, religion was often more powerful than the government.
The African was a few paces away when McKinna challenged him again.
“Stop.” The powerful black man turned again, this time obviously annoyed and surprised
at the white man’s persistence. His bearing told McKinna that this man was not used to
having his authority questioned, particularly by white skinned foreigners.
“What will happen to the girl?” asked McKinna, his voice as even as his pounding heart
would allow.
“She was supposed to be buying food for the pilgrims of Kaghli,” said the African. “I
was talking to a spice dealer when she disobeyed by sneaking off. She has committed
sacrilege by approaching and touching you.”
“Surely it cannot be a sacrilege to merely speak with me,” said McKinna.
“Her body is the property of the temple and she is forbidden to go near any who are not
the servants of Kaghli,” said the African. “She will be severely punished.”
So that was it. The girl was a temple prostitute. The vocation was technically illegal,
but in this state of India the practice was widespread. He looked at the girl. She was
quite beautiful with long black hair and the dusky skin of the native Indian. He felt an
overwhelming pity and an instinctive urge to save her. But there was also something else,
the tingle of lust in his own loins. He realized helping her would be perilous in many
ways.
A crowd was gathering now, drawn by the novel argument between the two men. McKinna’s
stomach was doing flip flops, but he summoned his courage. “She has not committed
sacrilege! She has converted just now. She is going with me.”
The African scowled, his eyes flashing with rage. “She is the property of the Baugwan,
Swami of Hinja Punt! You dare risk his wrath?”
“No one is the property of another,” said McKinna. “Your master must know the law. I
intend to purchase her freedom. She has converted and is going with me.”
The African was angry enough to kill McKinna. His arm twitched as he considered flaying
the man alive with his bullwhip. He was literally capable, but thought better of it. These
foreign missionaries often had the ear of government administrators. If he killed the man
here, in front of the crowd, there would be inquiries. He knew they could be quashed, but
his master would probably be displeased should he have to trouble with it. It was better
to let the Baugwan deal with this foolish Western interloper.
He released the girl and shoved her toward McKinna. “Beware, badmash,” he spat
venomously, “my master will demand compensation, or the return of the woman.”
“You master will be disappointed, if he expects more than the woman’s indenture price,”
said McKinna. “Now be off with you, before I summon the police.”
The African looked about the crowd. He was seething over the loss of face in such a
public place, but he knew the Baugwan’s revenge would be swift. Then he would be free to
take his own. He turned and bounded off.
McKinna looked down at the girl. She was still hugging his knees, having gone back there
after the African had released her arm. She kept repeating a phrase in Hindi, intoning her
gratitude and relief. He lifted her up.
“What is your name, girl?”
“My temple name is Pashu, but my family named me Swana.”
McKinna was looking nervously down the narrow street. It did not appear as if the
African was going to return, but it would probably be best to start moving on. The faces
of people on the street showed they were none too happy about the altercation and he knew
the Baugwan was profoundly feared here.
Once they were back in the missionary’s truck and headed to the main road, McKinna spoke
to the woman.
“Well, Swana, what am I going to do with you?” he asked.
“I am a convert,” she said evenly. “Your religion is my religion. Your faith is my
faith.”
McKinna shook his head. It wasn’t the type of heart felt conversion he was looking for.
Still, he was stuck with the woman now.
“Tell me about yourself, Swana.”
“I cook meals for the Brahman in the temple of Kalhi. I also repair and wash their
clothes.”
He looked at her, startled. He could tell that she wasn’t lying. Neither was she telling
the whole truth. He decided not to press her however. Perhaps she was so ashamed or
traumatized by her life as a prostitute that she could not admit it, even to her rescuer.
She would probably need time and privacy to come to grips with it.
He was sure that she would be able to deal with it. The temple of Kaghli had a reputation
throughout India. It was a tough outfit, as they would have said back in the States. But
anyone who could live through an indenture there and still have the resolve to escape must
possess an extraordinary will.
“How did you end up in the temple of Kaghli?”
“When my family died in the floods, I was left destitute. My husband and I were married
for two years, but he was a heavy drinker and gambler. When he died his debts were more
than I could pay off quickly. Our house and belongings were taken and I was forced into an
indenture to pay off the rest. That was a year ago. Since then I have lived at Hinja
Punt.”
“They did not treat you well there?” It was as much a statement as a question. Her
tattered clothing and her obvious terror of the huge black man indicated that her’s had
been a harsh life, at least recently.
She looked down at her bare feet. “They beat me, Sahib. The African man you talked to is
named Shakaba. He is the Baugwan’s most trusted servant. I have often felt his whip.” That
much was true. She had the welts on her back to prove it.
| 
