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Balkan Ritual

Balkan Ritual

Sexual initiation, gay incest, heterosexual, sexual ritual

A Croatian teenager reluctantly meets his sexual responsibilities to his village.

(inspired by actual rituals)

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Balkan Ritual

1655 Cigoc , Croatia

Franjo stumbled from his bedroom towards the back door of the small farmhouse he shared with his younger brother and his parents. He was not good in the mornings, despite having risen at 5am most of his life, and he was finding it even harder to get up lately.

The back door was already ajar. Franjo passed through it, and shuffled towards the wooden outhouse wearing nothing but a cotton smock. He was too sleepy to notice, but his erection tented the front.

As he approached the door, his naked father exited the outhouse. He smiled.

“Morning Franjo.”

“Mnnnning tata,” Franjo said, his words slurred.

Stjepan looked down at the small tent pole raising its head in his son’s sleepwear.

“Morning mali.”

The word meant “my little one.” It was a joke he had been repeating for the past year but it still made Franjo blush.

“Tata!”

“No need to get upset son. At least a part of you is wide awake.”

Franjo grinned bashfully at the ground, then passed his father to use the lavatory.

 

Ten minutes later, he sat, at the wooden dining table with his family. He had changed into a pair of loose cotton underpants that were nothing more than a vaguely butterfly-shaped piece of material – wide at the ends but narrow in the middle, with simple ties at the sides.

His mother had already served up a bowl of corn mash and a mug of water, and she prepared bread and cheese for their midday meal.

Franjo and his brother Nikola chatted with their father about the day’s work. Nikola had been helping in the fields for several years, but he was as likely to be given duties helping his mother and  grandmother. Today was one such day.

Their father said, “Nikola, I want you to stay home and help your mother grind the wheat.”

“It’s a nice day, can’t I come and work with you and Franjo?” the boy asked.

“No, not today lima,” his father said, using a term of affection, “Franjo and me have something important to do.”

Franjo looked up.

“Important tata? What do we have to do?”

In answer, his mother dropped a pile of clothes on the table next to his bowl. Franjo stared at them without moving. He swallowed slowly then he looked at his father with a look of fear on his face.

“Already tata? But I’m not ready. Can’t I leave it another couple of years?”

“The harvest won’t wait a couple of years Franjo,” his father said.

Franjo frowned.

“But… but I can’t. Not yet. Not in front of everyone.”

His father reached out and squeezed the teenager’s shoulder firmly but not unkindly.

“You must.”

 

Franjo thought back to when it was Ivan’s time. Ivan was one of the toughest boys in the village. He was nicknamed Bear by the other teens because he was so strong and well built. Yet, when he walked through the village last year, he wore an expression of utter humiliation. It had shocked Franjo how small Ivan appeared as he walked, purple faced, his head hanging down, his usual confidence gone, unwilling to catch anyone’s eye. Franjo made a special point of standing where Ivan would pass him. Ivan glanced sidewards, his head still down, and their gazes met just for a few moments. Franjo remembered that Ivan had looked so angry at him, as if Ivan’s humiliation was Franjo’s fault.

And now it was Franjo’s turn.

 

He picked up the trousers. They were made of black velvet – a ridiculously impractical material for their daily lives. He lifted them by the heavy, brocaded waistband, allowing the three-quarter length pantaloon-cut legs to unfurl beneath. There were two metal loops woven into the sides of the waist band. Belt rings Franjo assumed. His mother had doubtless spent weeks or even months making the trousers. But it wasn’t the waist he was interested in; it was the crotch. Or rather the absence of a crotch. Where his bulge would normally be supported, there was a large hole, trimmed with more brightly woven brocade. Franjo frowned imagining himself in the trousers, his genitals dangling through the hole.

Then he noticed that the seat of the trousers was also completely absent.

“I can’t wear these. I’m not ready,” he declared.

“Yes you are,” his father said, “I’ve heard you pulling it every night in your bedroom, and your peg is hard every single morning.”

Franjo blushed.

“I can’t help that!”

“And you even sneak away to pull it when we are working in the fields.”

“It…” Franjo struggled for the words, “it tickles. Aches. In my balls. If I don’t, it makes my tummy feel strange all day. I just have to.”

His father smiled.

“I’m not scolding you. I know exactly how it feels. It means that you’re becoming a man. And that means that you have to do your part for the village.”

“But I’m not ready yet. I can’t.”

“I’ve seen the stains in your underwear Fran,” his mother said gently. “You’re ready.”

His grandfather smiled kindly at the revelation.

Franjo knew that there was no point arguing any more. His parents had cut off all his verbal escape routes.

His father said, “Put them on now son. Let’s see how they fit.”

 

With reluctance, Franjo stood and removed his underwear. He was not embarrassed about being seen naked by his family. They all bathed in front of each other, and on the rare occasions that they swam in the local river, it was also done naked, but that was different. His genitals were not the centre of attention. But the ritual ahead was much different.

He pulled on the trousers and did up the waist. They fit perfectly to his disappointment. Now there was nothing to prevent him going ahead with it.

He put on the shirt. It was made of cotton, with a ruffled front and a big floppy collar. A wedding shirt, although it was no wedding he was attending today. There was an acorn felt hat – a kind of slightly elongated skull cap that reminded him of the upturned hull of a row boat. He put it on his head.

“Put your shoes on as well,” his father said.

It was common for Franjo to spend the day barefoot depending on the work he was doing, but today was not a barefoot day. He collected his ankle boots from their place by the door. They were made of wrinkled tan-coloured leather. He pulled them on and fastened the ties.

“That’s it, now stand where we can get a look at you,” his mother urged.

Franjo stood like a child on his first day of school, posing whilst adoring parents take photographs. His arms hung awkwardly by his sides. But he was no little child. He was almost a man.

 

Were it not for the ridiculous pantaloons, Franjo would have felt quite dapper. Nice clothes like these were a luxury, and he’d never had cause to wear such items before.

His family looked him up and down. His two-inch uncircumcised slug dangled through the crotch hole, its soft brown foreskin peeled back far enough to reveal the top centimetre of glans. It rested on testicles that were far too large for it, hanging in a fat, loose teardrop scrotum bulging behind. It was almost the size of two men’s fists. The cheeks of his bottom poked out of the hole at the rear, making the pantaloons look more like chaps at a hardcore gay pride parade.

His brother Josip, looked at him. He was never normally one to miss a chance at some playful banter, but today he looked on in respectful silence, mindful perhaps of the fact that one day that HE would be standing in Franjo’s place, and he would doubtless not appreciate being ridiculed.

Ignoring her grandson’s diminutive penis size his grandmother offered him encouragement.

“Very handsome, and your balls are so large. Weles will be very pleased with you today.”

 

In fact, all the teenagers and men in the village had testicles much larger than the norm. For over a century the men of Cigoc  had been consuming special herbs that made their testicles grow, and although he was only nine, even Josip had testicles as large as the average grown man anywhere else.

 

At the mention of Weles, Franjo glanced at the small stone idol above the hearth. It looked similar to the statues of Easter Island, but it was naked with an erect penis pressed tightly to its belly. Its large testicles bulged, but unlike the rough stone the rest of it was comprised of, its testicles were smooth, almost polished.

His mother Marija noticed his glance and kissed the pas of her first two fingers. Then she reached out rubbed the idol’s testicles briefly, adding to the polish that had been achieved by tens of thousands of such gestures by the members of her family.

Most of the neighbours in the big towns had long since stopped worshipping a pantheon of Gods, slowly switching from paganism to Christianity, but the villagers of Cigoc still believed that their daily lives were controlled by a multitude of gods. Weles was their god of agriculture, and his boon ensured that their crops grew.

In the past, villagers believed that the god required animal sacrifices, but for the past 150 years, that belief had been substituted by the desire for a different kind of offering.

“Praise Weles, may he be generous with our crop,” she said.

“Praise Weles,” Franjo and Josip intoned, automatically repeating the phrase that they had said thousands of times.

His father said, “And today Franjo, you can do more than simply praise him.”

Franjo looked at his father. He knew his duty. The whole village was depending on him and he was not about to let them down.

“Yes tata,” he answered.

 

30 minutes later, they approached the village a mile distant from their farm. Stjepan wore his smart clothes, whilst Franjo was in his ritual attire. The closer to the village they got, the more nervous the boy became.

“Don’t hold your hands in front of your balls like that,” Stjepan said. “Walk proudly with your head up and a swing in your step. Show people what you have.”

Franjo looked at the ground shyly.

“But tata, my pecker is so small. It’s embarrassing.”

“Yes, the men of our family all have small ones, but we have enormous balls and that’s what counts. It means we have more to give to Weles. The boys may ridicule you, but the men and women will know that you are doing more for the village than most; that you have sacrificed your pecker so that you can do more to help the harvest. And they will respect that.”

“I don’t understand. How have I chosen this tata?”

“Our family eats more of the herbs that make our balls big, but that also makes our peckers smaller. We know how important the harvest is to the village, so we make that sacrifice for the good of the village.”

“So you and mama did this deliberately?”

Stjepan put his arm around his son’s shoulder.

“Of course! What is more important, two or three inches on the length of your pecker, or the whole village starving to death in the winter?”

Franjo thought about it for just a moment.

“Well when you put it like that. But…”

He paused.

“But what son?” his father asked.

“Well, couldn’t we let them go a little bit hungry?”

His father looked at him then roared with laughter. He gave the teen a kiss on the forehead.

 

They walked through along the main street that ran down the middle of the village. As soon as they saw people, Franjo dropped his head and looked at the ground.

“Chin up!” his father said.

Franjo did as his father told him, doing his best to look proud and confident, but like Ivan before him, he couldn’t help but blush furiously as they passed the villagers.

But there was something he had never noticed with Ivan or his friend Andrej who had had his ritual a few months earlier. Each person they passed, formed a fist with their left hand, held just below their navels, and with their other hand they patted the side of the fist, nodding at the teenager as his passed with expressions he rarely saw from adults. He correctly interpreted their actions to be gestures of respect.

 

Franjo and Stjepan passed the full length of the street; a hundred yards. It was the only cobbled area in the entire village.  At the end of the street they turned left and headed along a dirt path towards the river. It was a further half mile from the village.

They reached the river. It was really more of a glorified stream; 20 feet wide, shallow, and not particularly fast flowing. There was a small, steeply curved bridge made of oak planking. It was surprising incongruous for the area. It was approached on both sides by a simple dirt track, yet the planks of the bridge were well finished, stained and even varnished, although there were no hand rails. The bridge was strictly off-limits to any boys who had yet to go through the ritual. Females were forbidden under all circumstances.

 

Another small statue of Weles stood on the ground by the bridge. Stjepen kissed his fingers and rubbed the statue’s balls.

“Stroke Weles so that he will always be hard,” the man said to his son.

Franjo copied his father’s gesture.

He had once asked his father why it mattered if Weles was hard.

“Because he can only give his seed to the land if he is hard, and his seed makes the land bountiful.”

As a boy Franjo had not understood the reply or the stroking gesture, but as he got older, it made more and more sense to him.

 

They stood by the bridge and Franjo noticed that there were seven holes drilled into the treads of the bridge across the fifth plank. Each hole was larger than the one before. The leftmost measured an inch across. The rightmost was five inches across, and the ones in between increased in size going from left to right. There was a depression beneath each hole except the two on the far right, and the edges of each hole, as well as the depressions were smooth as glass. As he looked at them, Franjo couldn’t help but think about the smooth balls on the statue of Weles and wonder what had caused the depressions.

 

His father turned to him.

“Take your shirt off.”

Franjo did as he was told.

“Now pull your prick Franjo. Make it hard.”

“My pecker Tata?” Franjo queried.

“Yes son.”

“In front of you?”

“I’ve seen it sticking up every morning for ages.”

“But… but…”

Franjo looked his father in the face. The man’s expression showed no room for compromise. The boy dropped his hand to his prick and started to pull at himself. His father watched his every move, and despite the strangeness, Franjo also found the experience strangely arousing. Touching himself in public was naughty.

He worked his penis between his fingertips, then as it responded he started using his fist. He looked at it as it got harder, then up to see if his father was still watching. To his surprise, the man was watching intensely, rubbing his own crotch with a flat palm. In a minute, Franjo’s cock was stiff in his fist.

“Make it harder,” his father instructed.

Franjo hunched and pumped his penis faster. As he pumped, his father took his own penis out. It was hard.

“Let me see,” Stjepan said.

The boy stopped pumping and thrust his hips out. His father reached down and pressed down against the stiff four and a half inches that protruded from his son’s body with his fingers. The flesh pushed back. When he took his fingers away, Franjo’s cock twitched and jumped a few times as though craving the touch again.

His father offered him a few small leaves.

“Chew these then swallow them.”

He handed the leaves to his son, and the boy did as he was told. Stjepan ate one of the leaves himself.

“What do they do?”

“They’ll give you fire in your wood and keep you hard.”

“Fire?!”

Stjepan smiled.

“Not that sort of fire. It’ll feel good.”

“Why did you only eat one?”

Stjepan smiled again.

“I won’t need it as much as you will,” he replied enigmatically.

 

The man picked up a pot of animal grease that stood to the side of the bridge. It was a large pot, but had clearly had a great many scoops taken from it.

“Grease your peg,” Stjepan told his son. “Make sure you do a good job.”

He took a scoop and started greasing his own prick from head to root. Franjo watched him then followed suit.

“Good, now put it into one of those holes so that it’s tight but not too tight, like a young girl’s cave.”

Franjo had yet to experience a young girl’s cave but he had imagined it often. His cock twitched again at the thought. He looked at the holes, understanding now why they were so smooth, and what the cause of the depressions was. He wondered how many thousands of times boys had put their pricks into the holes: so many that their balls had worn away imprints it seemed. The thought of sticking his prick where so many had been before was arousing to him.

He lay on the bridge and stuck his cock through the middle hole optimistically. It was two-and-a-half inches across but he couldn’t feel it on either side of his cock. He moved to the left one place.

“Please let this be tight enough!” he thought.

He didn’t want to have the smallest prick in the village, but his cock was still too thin. He looked over his shoulder, his face reddening.

“Too big,” he explained sheepishly.

He moved across one more place to the second hole. A perfect fit. He exhaled loudly with relief. His father smiled, understanding exactly what his son was feeling.

“Good, now lay flat, and stay still.”

That was unexpected. Franjo had anticipated that he would be ordered to fuck the hole. That’s what he’d been told happened here.

His father went to the side of the bridge, returning momentarily.

He spread the boy’s legs, then he knelt behind him and carefully spread the cheeks of his bottom before slowly pressing his own erection against the boy’s hole.

“Tata!” the teenager queried, alarmed. “What are you doing?!”

“We must give our gift to Weles together, father and son, but I must drive the peg this first time.”

“What do you mean?”

“It will become clear. Stay still.”

Stjepan pressed down slowly against his son’s back. Franjo could feel the man’s prick forcing it’s way into his hole.

“No tata, it’s not right. I’m a boy not a girl!”

He squirmed to get out from beneath his father.

“Stay STILL!” his father commanded in a voice that he rarely had cause to use.

Franjo stiffened, laying beneath his father like a small trapped animal. His father’s prick continued to spread his hole, forcing its way inside, spreading his hole until suddenly the boy could feel the man slide right inside. He let out a moan of discomfort.

“Uhhh.”

He felt his father’s belly pressing against the curves of his rump. The man lay for a while, allowing his son to get used to the feel of a prick inside him. Then he fiddled with something at his left side.

When Stjepen turned his attention to their right side, Franjo asked in a timid voice, “What are you doing?”

“Making us one.”

“I don’t understand.”

Franjo turned to look and he could see that his father was connecting a leather loop from his own belt, and feeding it through a metal ring on his own belt. His father pulled the second piece of leather tight, drawing them both tightly together. Franjo looked at his father with puzzlement.

Stjepan placed his palms flat on the wooden bridge to either side of Franjo’s shoulders, then he lifted his hips. His son’s hips lifted with him. He thrust downwards, and his son pushed down into the hole, drawing the skin fully back off his glans and impaling his cock into the wood, passing through and poking out of the other side. His father repeated the action again and again and again. Franjo felt the friction of his greased, flared glans against the smooth lining of the hole, and the friction of his father’s penis again his own hole and he understood now, why they were connected.

 

His father continued fucking the bridge, using his son’s cock as the weapon. His own cock was deep inside the boy’s hole, held tightly in place. The friction between them was minimal, enabling Stjepan to keep going without climaxing. The leaf kept him hard, and he could feel a warm churning of excitement in his balls, but it was not enough to take him over the edge.

Franjo had his own palms against the bridge, but his head was turned to the side, his cheek pressed against the wood. It was a strange feeling, to be the fucking tool of another person, especially his father. But he bore it, partly because he needed to do his part for the success of the village, and partly because he had no choice. His father was much stronger than he was, and if the man wanted to force him, there wasn’t a thing Franjo could do about it.

He felt the sensitive skin of his glans, brushing repeatedly against the wood. He could feel his enormous testicles bouncing lightly off the wood. Then he felt the familiar surge.

“Nggg,” he grunted as his cock spat its seed.

Stjepan pumped faster as he heard his son begin to orgasm.

The boy repeated his grunt, nine more times, followed by a longer one. He could feel the thick cream rushing along his shaft as his cock disgorged it.

“Unnnnnn.”

As his son finished, Stjepan slowed but did not stop. His son was not done yet. He had to give all that he had to ensure that Weles would look upon his gift with favour.

Stjepan continued using his son as a fuck-tool to penetrate the bridge.

“Tata, I’m done.”

“Not yet.”

“But I just let go. I’m done.”

“No, Weles wants all of your cream.”

“All of it? How much is that?”

“Until you can’t let go any more.”

Stjepan continued pumping. Franjo’s penis was sensitive in the aftermath of his orgasm.

Thump. Thump. Thump. His cock continued pounding the hole.

“Tuh… tuh… tata. My prick’s tingling. No more now please.”

Thump. Thump. Thump. The rhythm continued unbroken.

“I can’t stop yet.”

Thump. Thump. Thump.

His father continued forcing his son’s penis into the hole, two beats to the second, with metronome regularity.

“Please it hurts.”

Thump. Thump. Thump.

“It’ll go away soon enough.”

Thump. Thump. Thump.

“Can’t we at least take a quick rest?”

Thump. Thump. Thump.

“Sorry, but that would not please Weles.”

Thump. Thump. Thump.

 

All the time Franjo tried to negotiate with his father, his cock continued hammering the hole, oblivious to his discomfort. He realised that he was not going to persuade his father to stop, so he lay quietly as his father continued to use him.

For his part, Stjepan looked down at his son. The boy’s cheek had not yet seen a blade, but the vellus hair there caught the sunlight and made the boy’s smooth skin look golden. It contrasted strongly with e blush of his cheek and his short, black hair. Stjepan could easily have leaned down and kissed his son. The boy was so fresh and beautiful, but Stjepen knew that such an act would be stepping beyond the limits of behaviour that was acceptable in this position. Fucking the boy for Weles was one thing, but lusting after him would be quite another.

He raised himself on his hands and fucked faster. Franjo started squirming, then his groans denoted a second orgasm, then a whilst later a third, then a fourth and fifth. The boy was sexually exhausted. He lay, not resisting, completely accepting now. He wondered how long it would go on for. How many more times his father would force him to let go. He had no idea if he was still squirting. It didn’t feel like it, but he couldn’t tell.

 

He gazed unfocussed into the countryside that ran along the river, then he caught a movement. He focussed his vision, struggling back from the peaceful place his mind had retreated to as his father forced his balls to give up their seed time and time again. At first, he saw nothing. Then there was another movement. He thought It was an animal, then he saw it. Four little heads, closely grouped less than 25 yards away. They were watching, rapt, suppressing sniggers. It was four little girls from the village. They were aged about eight or nine. Franjo blinked, surprised to see them there. Then he became very aware that the bottom inch of his erect penis kept thrusting out beneath the bridge. He struggled to rise without explaining to his father why. He had no reason to fear the man’s anger, but Franjo still did not want it turned on the girls. He could feel his plum-coloured glans keep poking into view where the giggling girls could see it like a squirrel repeatedly poking its head from a knot hole in a tree. He tried harder to rise.

“No!” his father said firmly, and pushed his head back against the wood.

Now Franjo had the choice to tell his father about the girls, or simply to lay there taking it in silence. He lay in silence, staring at the girls. He scowled as if to warn them off but they steadfastly refused to take the hint.

Then Franj felt himself letting go again. He had no idea how many times that was. His balls felt extremely tender, but he wasn’t sure if that was from all the squirting or because they had been gently bouncing against the wood for over an hour.

Thick semen dribbled from his penis rather than squirted. He gave no audible sign to his father than he was letting go again, but his father started fucking him faster, sensing the slight clenching of his son’s rectum.

And then his father was the one grunting. After an hour of fucking, Stjepen finally allowed himself to let go. He roared like a bull, then came as hard as he could ever remember, filling the boy’s hole with his seed, and pounding Franjo into the bridge in time with his thrusting and grunting. Franjo lay quietly beneath his father. The girls were still now, no longer suppressing tittering. Their eyes were wide as they watched how a grown man dropped his seed.

 

When he was done, Stjepen dropped onto his son’s back, his body coated with sweat. It formed a slippery film between them. He lay, his stomach pressed to the curves of Franjo’s spine. He had never before noticed how graceful it was, nor how rounded his teen son’s rump cheeks were. He rested his head on the boy’s shoulder and for the first time he saw the voyeurs in the bushes. He stood immediately, furious, lifting his son from the bridge. Franjo’s erection waved in the air as his father turned to the girls.

 

“You there!” he roared. “How dare you spy on us in this sacred place. Go, and never come back. Your parents shall hear of this!”

The little girls stood, revealing themselves, and looking fearfully towards Stjepen and Franjo. They looked at the dribbling semen still dangling from the end of Franjo’s penis. He was only too aware of it, as shocked by his father’s sudden rise to his feet as they were.

The little girls scampered off in a flurry of fearful activity.

“Do you know them?” Stjepen asked.

“Mia and Lucija. Branimir’s little sister and her friend. I didn’t know the others.”

“Damn them!”

 

 

Franjo was still hanging from his father’s belt like a baby in a front papoose. His father’s cock was still buried in his hole, his feet didn’t quite reach the ground, and his hard penis stuck out before him.

“Tata, I feel foolish. Are we finished now?”

Stjepen considered the question. Now that he had let go, he would not be fucking his son any longer.

“Are your balls dry?” he asked.

Franjo looked down at the cum stringer hanging from his cock. He was certain he couldn’t squirt any more no matter how much longer his father forced him to fuck the hole.

“I think so. I don’t want to let go any more. My balls hurt.”

He reached down and wiped the stringer away.

“Then we’re finished.”

Franjo let out a sigh of relief.

“Thank goodness.”

 

Stjepen swiftly unhooked his son from his belt and Franjo put his feet back on the ground. He turned and looked at his father’s penis. It was larger than his, but not by much.

Stjepen walked to the side of the bridge then took a knee and looked underneath. Beneath was a platter, and on the platter was a large puddle of white liquid; his son’s semen. He smiled. The boy had done his duty.

“You’ve done well. Look how much you let go. Weles will surely be happy to receive such a gift.”

Franjo joined him, putting on his shirt.

“That’s all from me?!” he asked, amazed at how much there was.

His father nodded.

“Yes, all yours.”

With a brief incantation to Weles, he scattered the cream into the river. Franjo watched his father discard his juice in a sticky, white spray, and he felt proud that he had done his part.

“From now on, you must come here at least once a week and give your seed to the river. I don’t need to join you again; you can just fuck the bridge and then throw your seed to the water. Do you understand?”

Franjo nodded solemnly and his father ran his fingers through the boy’s cropped hair with a smile.

“Good boy.”

 

Stjepen tucked his own penis back into his trousers. It was still hard but now that it was away from the heat of his son’s hole, it would quickly wilt. He glanced at Franjo’s erection. There was nowhere to hide it, and it would not be gone until late in the evening.

He turned the boy so that his back was to him, then looked at the boy’s rump. Cream was running from between the boy’s cheeks. He reached up and smeared a dribble down the inside of each of Franjo’s thighs, cleaning a wet streak on each side.

“To show everybody that you did your duty,” he explained.

“That means everyone will know his pole was in my hole!” Franjo thought to himself, but he said nothing.

Stjepen put an arm around his son’s shoulder.

“Let’s return to town.”

“But I’m still hard!”

“Yes, that’s how it’s supposed to be. People will know that you are now a man.”

A confusion of emotions ran through Franjo’s head. He opened his mouth to protest but it was an honour to be considered amongst the men. He shut his mouth, and allowed his father to lead him back to town.

 

As soon as they reached the main street, Franjo’s instinct was to cover up.

“Remember, walk tall and stand proud. Don’t cover up!” his father said. “Your peg shows them that have done your part for the village. Don’t be ashamed of that.”

Franjo lifted his head, straightened his back and started to swing his arms as he walked, as though it was perfectly normal for a teenager to walk around with his hard pecker out. But he felt none of the confidence that he pretended.

Again, he was met with nods, smiles and quiet fist claps of approval. He started to believe his father – that what he had done was worthy of respect. Then they came to the town square.

In the square, there was a heavy wooden throne on a raised platform. It had leather padded arms and matching leg suports, like a medieval version of a gynaecology chair. In the middle of the seat there was a greased six-inch wooden dildo. It was much bigger than his father’s penis.

His father lead him to the chair.

“Last part of the ritual Franjo. Sit down on the pole.”

Franjo frowned.

“On that! Why! That’s not a pole, it’s a wooden prick!” he whispered.

“That’s right. It symbolises Weles. He will seed you as we want him to seed the land. And you will sit on it for the weighing of the eggs.”

Franjo was familiar with the ceremony, but he had never associated it with the earlier ritual.

“I’m not sitting on that tata. Everyone will think I like pricks in my hole!”

“No, they won’t. And anyway, everyone can see that you already had MY prick inside you!”

Franjo looked down at the clean streaks on the insides of his legs.

“Tata, please. I really don’t want to do this.”

“I know you don’t. But you will. You must. For the good of the village. Now sit.”

Again there was that tone that made it clear it was not a request.

Franjo looked at his father, weighing his chances of persuading the man to forego his decision. Stjepen’s expression was stone-faced. A couple of villlagers were starting to gather, including a mother with a girl of about 11.

Franjo reluctantly backed onto the chair, then lifted himself using the arm rests. He positioned his hole over the dildo, then slowly lowered himself onto it. It poked his hole and he winced as he felt it stretching him past his limits. He paused for a moment to compose himself before he continued lowering himself.

When he was fully lowered, he could feel the dildo pressing against his prostate. He looked at his father with a pained “So now what?” expression. Stjepen approached and quickly secured the boy’s right arm to the right arm rest using a leather strap that was attached there. Then he secured the left arm. Franjo watched with growing unease.

His father walked between his legs and lifted one, then the other onto the high leg rests, strapping them down. Now Franjo couldn’t escape even if he wanted to. Stjepen stepped away from his son who sat with his legs wide apart then he turned to address the crowd of 20 or so villagers that had gathered around.

“Today, my eldest son Franjo has become a man. He has given his seed to Weles to ensure a bountiful harvest, and now I invite you to weigh his eggs. They are large, like all the males in my family. You know that we have given much to assure the harvest. Now you can feel his eggs, and if you are persuasive enough, you can even take his seed home for your own fields.”

Franjo listened with numb disbelief. He had seen the ceremony numerous times, but he had never believed that he would be the centre of attention.

 

A small boy approached. He reached out and cupped Franjo’s testicles. His eyes widened and he turned to his mother with a smile.

“They’re cold!” he announced, to the chuckles of the crowd.

“Well of course they are,” his mother replied, “Yours would be cold if you’d walked around with them out all morning!”

The woman approached and gripped Franjo’s testicles, then she reached into her breeches and rubbed her hand across her genitals before rubbing her hand across his top lip. He could smell he scent of her. She nodded courteously.

She said, “Thank you for helping the village.”

Then she retreated.

Another villager approached. It was Ivan. He reached out and gripped Franjo’s balls roughly, then he gave the boy a somewhat unpleasant grin. Franjo expected that Ivan would squeeze his balls, but instead, the grin warmed.

“You’re nearly a man. Now you know how I felt. Well done brother.”

With that, Ivan winked at him, then released Franjo’s balls and disappeared to go about his day.

Franjo was surprised at the boy’s expression of camaraderie and compassion. He was still pondering when the next person approached. It was a girl about his own age. Sara. He’d had feelings for her for years, and it seemed like they were finally starting to be reciprocated. But this wasn’t how he wanted her to see him.

She looked down at his small, hard prick, staring for what seemed like forever. Then a wry smile slowly spread across her face.

“Nice balls,” she said softly.

Franjo blushed as brightly as he had ever blushed in his life.

She reached between his legs and cupped his balls, taking the time to gently massage first one, then the other. She lifted her skirt so that he could see her bush, then she rubbed her fingers deep within her slit. Franjo watched, transfixed, temporarily oblivious of the other villagers. Then she smeared her fingers across his lip.

The smell of her was intoxicating. Franjo’s prick jumped in his lap.

“Please Franjo, will you give me some cream for our fields?” she asked sweetly.

She produced a small wooden bowl then she started masturbating him, pumping her fist lightly moving up and down on his cock. With her other hand, she gently massaged his balls.

Franjo would never have believed he could get excited in front of all these people, especially when he had already let go so many times less than an hour ago. But now his breath was coming in shuddering gasps, as he looked into her smiling face. He could feel the fire bubbling in his balls.

“I’m going to shoot,” he gasped quietly.

She released his balls and moved the bowl onto his groin and pumped faster. Suddenly, as promised, a small gush of thick, white seed rose two inches from the head of his penis. It was joined by a series of thick oozing pumps, that dribbled down his cock onto her fist.

Sara carried on until no more came from him, then she carefully wiped the thick cream from her fist into the small wooden bowl. She leaned forwards and gave him a kiss on the cheek.

“Thank you mišiću.”

In a whisper she added, “Maybe we can go to the woods together some time?”

Franjo was awash with emotions. A girl had finally touched his prick, and not just any girl. But she’d made him let go in front of half the village. But she called him “little mouse”. What did that mean? But she wanted to go to the woods with him. He gave her a sheepish half grin as she walked away, leaving his penis jumping and bouncing like a dog encouraging its master to throw a stick.

Several of the villagers laughed. A few of the older women murmured to each other, recognising the signs of adolescent lust.

“There’ll be more between those two, you mark my words,” one old woman commented to her elderly husband.

“If he’s lucky,” the man replied.

 

And that was how Franjo spent the rest of the day. Throughout the day almost 140 villagers approached and groped his hefty scrotum for good luck in the hope that his virility would make their crops fruitful.

Over two dozen tried various techniques to make him let go more cream that they could use to throw onto their fields. He had already ejaculated at least half a dozen times before he sat in the square, so many of the villagers were not initially successful. However, they would return again later in the day, trying different techniques, making a game of it.

In the early afternoon, one of his friends approached. He held a bowl. He grinned mischievously at Franjo then he started to masturbate him as many had already. He was the first male to do so. Franjo frowned at him.

“Dubravko what are you doing?”

“Collecting your seed for our fields.”

“Stop it you ass poker!”

“Not until you give me some seed.”

“Use your own.”

“I’m not a man yet. Weles won’t take mine.”

“I’m not giving you my seed Dubravko.”

“It’s not up to you.”

“I won’t let go.”

“Yes you will.”

“No I…”

As Franjo was protesting, his friend gripped his glans with his finger tips. He had greased them and the feeling on Franjo’s glans was electric. Dubravko started twiddling Franjo’s glans and Franjo knew that the boy was going to be able to make him let go yet again. His eyes widened, surprised at how good his friend was at masturbating him.

In a low voice he said, “Dubravko please. I don’t want to let go any more. I’ve already done it so many times. My balls are hurting.”

“Then one more won’t matter will it.”

Franjo was going to protest again, then he noticed a lump in the front of Dubravko’s breeches.

“You’re hard. You’re enjoying this you shirt lifter.”

Dubravko smiled at him and continued diddling his glans.

A minute later, against his wishes, Franjo provided Dubravoko what he wanted for his family’s crops.

“Thanks Franjo!” the boy said jauntily before setting off back to his farm with Franjo’s small donation.

 

Franjo was really not eager to give any more of his seed away. His balls ached and he just wanted to go home, but half a dozen others forced his body to give up its precious juice.

Then in the late afternoon a woman approached who changed his mind. It was Kata. Her young son had drowned four summers ago, and she and her husband had remained childless ever since. She was a quiet, sad woman. She smiled softly at him and held his balls. His penis still stood tall and stiff – the leaves assured that – but he was way past the point when he wanted to let go again.

She pumped his erection, but he looked at her with a grimace. Some of the villagers turned it into a challenge to make him squirt, but each time one of them succeeded, it made it less likely that the next one would, and it was several hours since he had started actively trying NOT to let go for them.

“I know you’re tired Franjo, and probably just want to be at home now, but please she whispered, we’re so desperate for a child to replace Mischa, and we’ve tried so many times. If you could just let go one more time, maybe Weles might bless us as well as the fields?”

He looked at her with new eyes. There was nothing he wanted less than to ejaculate for the 18th time that day, but how could he say no?

He gave her a small, compassionate smile.

“I don’t know if I can any more Kata.”

She looked crestfallen.

“But I’ll try,” he added.

Hope sprang to her face.

Franjo closed his eyes and tried to imagine it was Sara tugging him. Kata was not as gentle. She pulled on him for five minutes, going faster and faster. Then ten minutes passed.

It was late in the day. Nobody else was waiting, and Stjepen was just about to step and tell her kindly that it was not going to work; that his son had no more to give, when a single spurt of cream leapt six inches from his penis and landed perfectly in the small pot she held.

She carried on pumping more gently for a few seconds but it was clear that he had no more to give. His balls had offered up one last gift of charity before drying up.

He opened his eyes and looked down at the splatter in the bottom of the pot.

“Sorry there’s not more. I hope it’s enough and Weles looks kindly upon you.”

She looked at the splat like a nun looks at a vision of Jesus. She was radiant.

“Thank you Franjo. Thank you so much!”

She reached into the pot and scooped up his final ejaculation of the day, then lifted her skirt and rubbed it onto her flat belly, hoping that their God would see where his bounty was most needed.

Then she dropped her dress, and leaned forwards and gave him the tenderest kiss on the cheek.

“May you always live in happiness Franjo.”

He smiled, happy to have helped her, then she left to find her husband.

Franjo turned to his father.

“Can we go now please tata? I don’t think I can take another single person squeezing my balls.”

Stjepen smiled.

“Of course son. You’re a man now, and the village will remember you for many seasons to come.”

He quickly untied the teenager and lifted Franjo from the dildo. The boy took a few tottering steps before falling forwards. Stjepen caught him.

“Tired?”

“Water legs. I can’t feel my balls or the inside of my legs.”

“I’m not surprised. You let go so many times today that I think you’ll have water legs for a month!”

Stjepen reached under the boy’s armpit and supported him as they finally made for home. Franjo’s hard dick still protruded through the hole in his trousers.

“Tata?” the boy said.

“Yes Franjo.”

“My arse is cold.”

Stjepen looked behind his son at the boy’s pale cheeks that were visible in the darkening light of the blue hour. Then he gave his son’s bare bottom a light slap.

“I could warm it up for you?”

“No thanks tata!”

They laughed together and slowly walked home.

 

Two weeks later, Kata missed her period…


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