THE RITE OF SPRING
by the Black Monk
On the feast of First Fruits, there would be no market, nor sale of any food. There would be no aroma of drying meats or fermented vegetables that the people lived on through the winter months. Gone were the craftsmen and merchants with their wares, the witch doctors with their potions, and the idle women with the latest gossip. Instead, the whole city (or so it seemed) assembled in the square to watch the selection of the young men who would bring forth the harvest. After being collected all through the day, the First Fruits would be blessed by the priests and given as an offering to the gods. The best guarantee of a good harvest, no farmer who wished for an auspicious crop in the autumn would dare put seed in the ground before the First Fruits had been blessed and offered.
The buzz of the crowd in the square was so loud that Anortas could barely hear his mother as she admonished him to hurry along. He felt his father's arm guiding him through the chaos as they approached the portico of the great temple. He recognized a few of his friends and classmates among the young men standing at various points between the columns, clad only in small loincloths, being questioned and examined by the priests and their assistants.
His mother turned to him and frantically kissed him on the cheeks. The coarse linen of her headscarf scratched against his face. "Anortas, my son, bring honor to us! Bring honor to your family!" Anortas thought she might start to cry.
Embarrassed by his wife's display of emotion, Anortas' father placed his hands firmly on his son's shoulders and nudged him up the steps to the portico. "Of course he will bring us honor," he said faithfully. A young man in white ceremonial robes stood at the top of the steps. He seemed not to be one of the priests, but perhaps one of the novices, and he glared at Anortas and his father with a haughtiness that he perhaps did not yet deserve.
"Who is this?" he asked in a strong voice.
"I am Anortas, son of Ingan," the boy intoned with pride.
"Anortas, son of Ingan, how many summers have you seen?"
"Sixteen."
The robed man turned to Anortas' father. "Ingan, father of Anortas, the almighty and gracious Pyrapos, Giver of Plenty, has blessed you with a son. Do you willingly present him back to Pyrapos to render the First Fruits?"
"I offer my son to Pyrapos, Giver of Plenty, and to his people."
Anortas felt his father grip the back of his tunic, and with a single, swift pull, it fell to his feet. He stood before his father and the robed man, wearing only his sandals and a thin cloth cradling his privy places. The breeze grazed his buttocks, and he became aware of his near-nakedness. There were gasps and murmurs from the crowd as they marveled at his body, impressively hardened and shaped for one so young. The priests and other novices attending to the other young men turned to drink in the sight, some of them smiling approvingly.
The novice reached down and grabbed Anortas' pouch, feeling the organs within. Anortas stood, stoic, but his mettle faded quickly. Eventually, the man pulled the pouch down, exposing Anortas' organs and squeezing them curiously. The crowd gasped and murmured again, as curious onlookers in the square below maneuvered around to steal a glance at the boy's organs. The endowments of the young men would naturally be the subject of gossip at market the next day. Ingan positioned himself between his son and the novice, trying to preserve some shred of his son's modesty from the leering crowd.
"Father..." Anortas protested, his gaze shifting nervously between his father and his maleness.
Ingan put a hand on his son's bare shoulder. "It's alright, my son..."
"Anortas, son of Ingan," said the novice, grasping the appendage, "do you swear that you have not yet entered woman?"
He regained his composure and remembered the words his father had taught him. "I do not know woman."
The novice released Anortas' maleness. "Blessed are you, Anortas, son of Ingan. You are worthy and pleasing, and you have been chosen to deliver the First Fruits. Pyrapos, Giver of Plenty, awaits your offering. Come." He turned and strode vigorously toward the entrance to the temple.
Anortas turned to his father quizzically as he secured his pouch, but his father gestured him to follow the robed man.
"Anortas!" he heard his mother crying hysterically behind him. "Anortas, my son...!"
He followed the novice through the tall main doors of the temple into a forecourt. A considerably more peaceful place, the din of the square receded behind him, and the tall walls of the temple shielded the forecourt from the blaze of the sun. A few priests bustled to and fro carrying ceremonial vessels, their quiet movements echoing softly off the stone walls. The novice led him to a bench against a wall, and motioned Anortas to join a number of other young men sitting on it nervously in their loincloths.
"Your sandals – remove them," he ordered, pointing to a place along a wall where the other boys had left theirs. Anortas obeyed, placing his sandals with the others as the novice floated off.
Anortas felt the cool stones of the temple floor under his feet as he surveyed the boys seated on the bench. He recognized his old classmate, Raf-Anul. "Raffu!" he cried out, relieved to see a familiar face, and sat next to him.
"Shh!" Raf-Anul whispered, putting an arm around his friend. "You must be quiet!"
"Why? What will –"
"This is a holy day, and you are in the temple of Pyrapos!" Raf-Anul said. "You must show respect!"
"But..." Anortas lowered his voice. "What is all this? What are the First Fruits?"
Raf-Anul looked into Anortas' eyes, his ignorance apparent. "I do not know," he admitted.
"My parents would explain nothing to me. What am I supposed to do? Does it not seem odd to you?"
Raf-Anul shrugged. "It has always been like this. On the feast of First Fruits, the most prized young men of the land offer the First Fruits to Pyrapos, Giver of Plenty." He recited it like a creed. "In doing this, they become men. It is an honor! We should be proud to have been selected."
"But what are the First Fruits?" Anortas insisted. It occurred to him that his brother had been selected for the harvest some years before, but he had never thought to ask him about it. In any event, it was too late for that now.
A procession of priests and other acolytes assembled before the young men. Maybe they would have the answers. The priests all had shaved heads, and they wore streaks of blue paint under their eyes. Their arms were sternly folded across their broad bare chests, and elegant skirts of azure flowed from their waists. A few acolytes in more modest white robes, among them the novice who had led Anortas into the temple, carried various pots and vessels, including censers from which fragrant smoke billowed. Behind them all stood a man that Anortas recognized as the Archimandrite, archpriest of the cult of Pyrapos. An old man, he carried a long ceremonial staff which he leaned on to support his weight, and his head was adorned with a tall blue headdress.
The boys knew to stand as one of the priests addressed them. "Rejoice, my sons!" His voice was soft and melodic, giving Anortas the first reassurance he had heard since arriving in the square with his parents. "You have been chosen to deliver the First Fruits this year; to give the pure, spotless offering to Pyrapos, Giver of Plenty, on this great feast. What Pyrapos has given us, we render back to him, and so we receive his blessing." He made a ritual gesture over his face.
Anortas huffed. "But what does this mean? What are the First Fruits?" he exclaimed.
"Silence!" roared the novice.
"I..." Anortas mumbled, lowering his head. "I am sorry, Eminence."
"My child, there is no sin here!" the priest said joyfully, stepping forward to hold Anortas' hands. "Of course you want to understand the First Fruits. You wish to serve Pyrapos. This shows that you are wise!"
He turned to address the boys, speaking slowly and deliberately. "My sons, on this great feast, your sacred milk will be harvested from your bodies. The seed of a young, virgin male is powerful, and through the milk of your bodies, Pyrapos will bless the land and make it fertile."
Anortas and Raf-Anul exchanged confused, terrified glances.
Another priest spoke. "Sons, remove your loincloths."
The boys silently obeyed, though Anortas was more reluctant than the others. The row of nervous, awkward young men now stood entirely naked before the priests.
The first priest spoke again, softly intoning his words. "Your male udder will now be anointed for the harvest." Anortas felt the priest was looking directly at him. "There is nothing to fear. It is a most wonderful feeling to give your milk, as you may know. Even when Pyrapos asks us to give, we receive great pleasure in doing so."
A small group of priests and acolytes went to the far end of the bench. Clouds of incense obscured Anortas' view, but the priest appeared to dip his hand into a stone jar held by one of the acolytes and reach between the legs of the boy at the end of the bench, while briskly chanting prayers. As the group made its way down the row of naked youths toward him, Anortas could smell the substance in the jar, and he knew from his father's work that it was the finest spikenard, reserved to the priests of Pyrapos or the royal family.
The party arrived at Raf-Anul. Again, the priest dipped his hand in the jar and slowly rubbed the oil deep into Raf-Anul's member. Anortas looked down, trying to be inconspicuous and respect his friend's modesty, but his curiosity got the better of him. He watched out the corner of his eye in a mixture of fascination and trepidation as the priest's hands polished his friend's organ, from its tip to the sprouting tufts of hair at its base, and gently stroked the bulbs in Raf-Anul's sac. His horn glistened with the oil and became engorged, quickly escaping gravity's hold.
Anortas' mind raced. Would the priest stimulate him in this way? He would be humiliated to stand beside his friend and classmate with his udder exposed and aroused. But his fears evaporated as the priest's silken hands caressed his appendage, bathing it with the oil. One of the acolytes swung the censer near his chest, clouding his vision, and as he inhaled the fragrant smoke, the sensation of the priest's caresses seemed to intensify. Was the priest deliberately trying to arouse him?
"Blessyd be yis uder..." the priest chanted in an archaic dialect, "and blessyd be its melke..."
The priest was definitely squeezing and rubbing his member as Anortas would if he were pleasuring himself, but he had never felt the touch of another on his maleness before. He sighed in pleasure as the priest lightly brushed his fingertips on the low, pendulous sac, teasing the youth.
"O Pyrapos, Gevar of Plentye, machen yis uder so to gev moste bontefullie, yat it maye ye lande inrichen..."
The priests moved to the next boy, and Anortas was disappointed when the soothing hands departed from him. Lingering in the haze of the moment, he slowly reopened his eyes, and as the clouds of incense dissipated, he was horrified to see his maleness at full mast. He instinctively covered his groin with his hands, but when he looked at Raf-Anul and saw his friend trying to do the same, he knew it was futile. It was obvious what Raf-Anul was trying to hide, and Anortas could see most of it anyway. Raf-Anul glanced nervously back at him.
One of the priests approached them. "My sons! Why do you hide that of which you should be most proud?" He gently pushed Anortas' hands to his side, exposing the hardness. "This blessing of Pyrapos, is it not glorious?" he asked, gently caressing the shaft of flesh. Anortas glanced at Raf-Anul, whose eyes were fixed on his engorged udder. The priest pushed Raf-Anul's hands away too, and Anortas returned the gaze, staring at his friend's turgidness, which twitched in the air with every nervous beat of his heart.
"You two..." the priest said, closing his eyes as he searched the boys' minds. "You two are friends."
"Eminence," said Raf-Anul, smiling with respect and incredulity, "you have the gift of reading hearts!"
"Yes, son," the priest affirmed. "You two went to school together. And you..." He turned to Anortas. "You are thinking of the time you saw your friend naked... when you swam in the river... But you have never seen your friend aroused before."
Anortas' face flushed with embarrassment as the priest denied him even the privacy of his own thoughts.
"Then, my sons, rejoice that you are together at this time!" He placed Anortas' hand on Raf-Anul's root. "Feel your friend. Share this moment with him."
Shocked, Anortas looked at Raf-Anul almost apologetically as his fingers reluctantly wrapped themselves around the shaft of his friend's udder. As the priest moved Anortas' hand along the organ, Raf-Anul's eyes closed, and a weak gasp escaped his lips. Then the priest placed Raf-Anul's hand on Anortas' udder, moving both boys' hands back and forth. When they had developed a rhythm, the priest let go and stepped back to survey the sight of the two naked boys stroking each other.
"Excellent... Yes, my sons..."
Anortas and Raf-Anul gazed into each other's eyes tensely; they relished each other's touch, but were shocked at the situation they were in. Even as they grew bolder and their hands wandered beyond, hesitantly exploring more and more of the other's intimate places, they were terrified to look down and acknowledge the reality of what they were doing to each other.
Raf-Anul's hips began rocking, instinctively matching the rhythm of Anortas' hand and gently thrusting himself into it. "Anortas..." he whispered, his eyes flashing with hunger. "Unngghhh!!" Anortas felt the grip on his own member tighten as Raf-Anul's other hand grasped his buttock, drawing him in closer.
The priests were proceeding along the bench again, ministering to the youths. One of them saw the heated embrace of the two boys. "My sons, no!" he exclaimed as he separated their tangled limbs. "You may honor the other's manhood, but you must not draw milk from each other!"
Raf-Anul grunted in frustration as he pulled back from Anortas' slick hand, his dissatisfied member bobbing in the air. By now the priests were ready for him, and he turned to them, proudly presenting his stiff udder for the next step of his preparation. Anortas watched as one of the priests gripped the flesh firmly in one hand and rolled back its hood with the other, exposing the sensitive bulb of pink meat within. Another priest placed a long green leaf, smeared with a rust-colored paste, under the head, and he folded it over the end of Raf-Anul's member, tying the wrapping off with a thin cord. It was an efficient movement, practiced many times over the years.
Raf-Anul raised an eyebrow at Anortas, not knowing what had just happened. Anortas was less submissive as the priest rolled his skin back. "Eminence, what is on this leaf?" he demanded.
"It is a preparation of roots and herbs," one of the priests said smiling. "It is an ancient formula, from the time of the Patriarchs. It will help you to give your milk."
The priests tied the parcel to Anortas' udder, and he felt a warming sensation at the tip of his organ. It seemed pleasant and harmless until he turned to his friend, to find he had sunk onto the bench and was leaning against the wall. Raf-Anul's breathing had quickened and he winced in pain, staring in horror at his udder but unwilling to touch the sacred treatment the priests had administered to it.
"Raffu!" Anortas immediately sat beside him. "Raffu, what is it?"
"It hurts!" Raf-Anul squealed, as his eyes began to water. "Ungghh! Why does it hurt?"
Anortas gazed at Raf-Anul's udder. The shaft was turning a deep red, and Anortas thought it was larger than before. As he stared at his friend's organ, he began to feel a burning sensation in his own. His head lightened, and everything in his vision seemed to glow.
"Oh Raffu..." he said, reaching for his groin, "it burns me too."
Raf-Anul nodded knowingly as he turned slowly to his friend with half-closed eyes, in an intoxicated stupor. He rested his head on Anortas' shoulder. "It feels like it will burst..." His words began slurring together. "Do you feel it too?" he asked, unthinkingly reaching for Anortas' burning root.
"Yes, yes I do..." he croaked meekly. Anortas stared at his turgidness as Raf-Anul pleasured him. He did not know why, but the only way he could think to comfort his friend was to reach for his udder as well. It certainly felt thicker in his hand than it had moments before, and hotter to the touch.
"What is happening?" Raf-Anul whined slowly, as he stroked his friend languidly. "It's so thick now... so thick..." he murmured as he rubbed his friend. "Anortas..."
Drowsiness overcame Anortas, and his head fell onto Raf-Anul's. The smell of his friend's hair mixed with the incense and spikenard into a dizzying perfume, and the courtyard spun above him. He gazed drunkenly down the bench over Raf-Anul's shoulder and saw the other boys similarly leaning against the wall or each other, no longer able to sit upright, moaning in a chorus of disorientation. He fought to keep his eyes open, and his gaze drifted down from their haphazardly arranged torsos to the orderly row of slender, bronzed thighs on the bench. Engorged udders rose from between the legs at defiant angles, their shafts now seeming to grow before his eyes, longer and thicker. Crowned with the exotic green wrapping, they writhed like a forest of mysterious trees swaying in the wind.
When he awoke, Anortas found himself lying on the bench. Only a few boys remained, also sprawled on the bench, but Raf-Anul was not among them. There was no one else in the forecourt. From the position of the sun, Anortas estimated that perhaps two hours had passed. He barely had time to wonder where the others might be before he felt the pain from his udder. It was now so large, it was more than half the length of his thigh. When he wrapped his hand around its base, his fingers could not meet his thumb, and it felt like a bar of hot iron in his fist. The green wrapping was still tied to its head, and a light brown resin trickled from it down his shaft. He dared not touch the substance, afraid of what effect it might have if it made contact with his fingers. He stared in disbelief, barely able to recognize the most secret, treasured part of his body that now protruded, grossly deformed, from between his legs.
He slowly raised himself on the bench and looked at the youth lying senseless beside him. The boy's legs straddled the bench, giving Anortas an unobstructed view of his maleness. His sac was tightly stretched over the engorged glands within, which had turned dark blue, like a pair of ripe plums. His udder, also hideously swollen, leaned to one side, its weight listing the boy's hips with it. Compelled by some unknown instinct in his grogginess, Anortas reached between the boy's legs and caressed the stalk. Like his own, it was rigid and hot.
A priest entered the courtyard and saw Anortas stirring. "My son!" he said, scurrying toward him. "You are awake!"
Anortas quickly let go of the boy's udder, hoping the priest had not seen him.
"Excellent! It is time, we are ready for you," said the priest.
Anortas tried to stand up. "Ready for wha—?" Weakness overcame him instantly as the blood rushed from his head, and his legs collapsed under him.
"No no, my child! You must not stand up," warned the priest. Two acolytes rushed to his side and helped ease Anortas back on the bench.
It took him a moment to regain his senses, but when he realized what had happened, his eyes welled up with tears of frustration. "What have you done to me!?" he cried, gesturing at the wrapping on his member.
"It is a preparation of roots and herbs. It is an ancient formula, from the time of the Patriarchs. It will help you to give your milk," the priest droned pleasantly, reciting a memorized response.
"It made me faint!" Anortas said, tears rolling down his cheeks. "It made us all faint! I can't even stand up now! And where is my friend?" He looked at the priest through a sheet of helpless tears. "Where is Raf-Anul?!"
The acolytes sat on either side of Anortas to comfort him. "My son," the priest chirped, "there is nothing to fear. The preparation has rebalanced your humors, to prepare you to give milk. You cannot stand because your blood is elsewhere." One of the acolytes gently rubbed his udder, to make the point clear.
"Do not cry," the other acolyte said, wiping his tears away. "This is a joyous occasion! We are ready for you now." Anortas sniffled as the two acolytes supported him on their arms and lifted him up. They carefully walked him toward one of the arches, leading deeper into the temple.
"Now we will go to the holy place of Pyrapos," the priest explained. "Your friend is there."
Anortas was too weak to respond, but he was comforted by the thought of seeing Raf-Anul again. His head hanged limply between his shoulders. Only occasionally could he gather enough strength to look up from the udder he no longer recognized, wiggling before him below, to see the maze of corridors and chambers through which he was being led. Finally, they came to an arch covered by a curtain of deep red. Two guards stood on either side of it. They held the curtain open, and its fine silk caressed Anortas' face as he passed into the sanctum of the temple.
The air changed swiftly, and Anortas was roused from his lethargy by the assault on his nose from incense, spikenard, and the unmistakable pungency of male seed. He found himself in a great atrium, with columns lining long walls. A magnificent idol of Pyrapos stood on a pedestal at the far end of the chamber with an absurdly long, golden phallus. Before the idol, under a wide opening in the ceiling, was a stone altar with many bronze bowls and pots. A pair of priests circled the altar with censers, chanting prayers and obscuring it behind clouds of incense. Other priests and acolytes scurried busily about the chamber carrying other vessels or trays of herbs. The soft, constant groaning of young men echoed throughout the atrium.
Two acolytes lumbered toward Anortas, carrying between them a young naked man. As they got closer, Anortas recognized Raf-Anul. His eyes were closed, and his body hanged limply from the grip of the acolytes.
"Raffu! Raffu!" Anortas cried, struggling vainly in his weakness to break free of the acolytes holding him up. But Raf-Anul was whisked past him quickly, and there was no reaction from the boy. "What is wrong with him?"
The priest turned to him and said unconvincingly, "He is resting."
As he was led further into the chamber, Anortas could see what lay in the wide aisles behind the imposing columns of the atrium. Wooden trestles, at about shoulder height, were positioned at regular intervals along the wall. Bent over each frame was a young man, naked like himself. Priests and acolytes attended to the row of bare buttocks, and their hands busily ministered between the boys' spread legs.
"NO!! No, let me go!"
A nude youth stumbled out from the aisle on the opposite side of the atrium. Ropes trailed through the air behind his wrists and ankles, and his swollen udder wiggled wildly before him as he ran, seeming to affect his balance. He was almost immediately set upon by several pursuing priests, one of whom callously kicked his knee from behind, knocking him onto the stone floor. The priests quickly pinned him down and held his legs wide apart, and Anortas saw the boy's udder was bright red like a piece of raw meat, bleeding profusely over his groin. One of the priests knelt between the boy's legs and stroked the udder with such force that he seemed to pull the boy's hips off the floor. The youth struggled against the priests, crying and screaming in pain. "No! Please! Please stop...!!"
"What are they doing to him!?" Anortas gasped, summoning every bit of strength and struggling against the acolytes again. "Hey!" He craned his neck to watch what the priests inflicted on the boy, but the acolytes led him away with haste.
"He must give his milk, as you must now," said the priest. "Ah yes, let us place him here." The party came to an unoccupied trestle. Anortas tried to wriggle away from the acolytes, but he was in no condition to offer any resistance as they lifted him onto the frame. It was comfortable enough, with most of his torso supported on a plank covered with soft leather. His head could hang freely, from which position he had a direct view of the bloated member projecting between his thighs. His knees could support some of his weight as well, though a shelf pushed them some distance apart. The acolytes bound his ankles and wrists to the trestle, immobilizing him on the structure, and the priest removed the green parcel that had crowned his udder for a few hours now. Pausing to savor the beautiful youth in his helplessness, the priest grinned lecherously. His hands wandered gently over Anortas, caressing the udder and grasping his fleshy buttock. Then he and his acolytes departed.
A gentle breeze blew across Anortas' rump and sac. He thought how ridiculous he must look, trussed up like an animal with his hind quarters and privy places displayed to the atrium. What would happen to him in this place? Would his udder be milked raw, like the boy who had tried to escape? And what happened to Raf-Anul? He recalled his father's words to the novice before the temple: "I offer my son..." Were he and Raf-Anul to be sacrificed? Perhaps his friend was already dead. He despaired and his tears flowed again, slow and steady. His quiet sobs joined the background hum of moaning boys.
"Anortas?" said a familiar voice. "Anortas, is that you?"
Anortas felt a soft hand on his leg. He sniffed and looked through his tears and the trestle at the man standing behind him. He appeared upside-down to Anortas, and he wore the blue face paint of the priests, but Anortas recognized him quickly. "Nerius!"
"Yes!" The hand rubbed his leg gently to comfort him.
"Oh Nerius!" he choked.
"Anortas, what is wrong?" asked the priest.
"I'm scared, Nerius!" whispered Anortas through the tears. "I am so scared..."
Nerius came around to the other side of the trestle and ran his hand tenderly through Anortas' hair. "Why?" he said softly.
"Why have I been bound like this? What are they going to do to me?" Anortas cried.
"Well, they..." Nerius hesitated. "That is, I... am going to harvest your milk."
A chill came over Anortas. "You?!" He was mortified. Nerius was his older brother's best friend, and Anortas had known him all his life. And now, Nerius was to milk him. Words failed him as the humiliation of the situation sank in. The young priest went behind him, making the necessary preparations. He uncapped a few stone jars and placed a wide brass bowl on the shelf between Anortas' knees, under his udder.
"You must not be embarrassed, Anortas. I've seen you naked before, you know," Nerius chuckled as he dipped his hands into a jar of oil. "When you were a child you could barely keep anything on in summer! And you used to come swimming with your brother and me. Do you remember?" Nerius pulled Anortas' engorged udder back between his legs.
"I was a child then," Anortas said uncomfortably. "It is different now."
Nerius beheld the appendage in his hands; it had been but a small, immature bud the last time he had seen Anortas naked. "Yes, perhaps it is," he said, smiling to himself. Whatever effect the herbs had on its size, they had also made it excruciatingly sensitive, and Anortas felt every feature of Nerius' fingers and palms magnified many times as they roamed over his organs. "I will look after you, Anortas, I promise. You are lucky to have me, you know. I am very good at this! Not like some of these butchers here. I know how to make you enjoy this..." Nerius massaged the swollen root with his fingertips, teasing the virgin flesh as no one had done before, and the boy gasped in response. "And when it is over, you will beg me not to stop." He stroked the udder, developing a slow, steady rhythm. "There. Is this not pleasant?"
Anortas could only manage an incoherent moan, as waves of pleasure washed the awkwardness of the situation out of his mind.
"What a fine offering you will make, Anortas," said Nerius, applying oil to Anortas' buttocks with his other hand. "Very fine indeed. I wonder what your brother would think, to see me harvesting your milk today. Did you know we gave the First Fruits together, four years ago?"
It seemed inappropriate to think of his brother while he was being stimulated in this way, but the thought would not leave his mind. Anortas imagined his beloved brother, bound naked to a trestle, perhaps even the same one he was tied to, along with Nerius in the same atrium just a few years before. He wondered what his brother's udder looked like when it was aroused. Had he been scared too, as the priests touched his secret places? Anortas abruptly deserted his thoughts as he remembered how vigorous and confident his older brother was. He would want me to be brave and do my duty, Anortas thought.
"Your brother truly enjoyed giving his milk. In fact, after that feast of First Fruits, we would often..." Nerius stopped himself. "Well, your brother and I had no secrets from each other. I am sure he would want us to be the same now."
What was Nerius saying? The thought of Nerius and his brother consumed Anortas. Had Nerius touched his brother in the way he was now touching him? Or had his brother taught Nerius these things?
"He would be proud of you today," Nerius continued, "and I think he would be pleased that I am harvesting your milk."
There was a pause, and Anortas tried to ignore the feelings coming from his udder long enough to speak. "Did you love my brother?" he asked.
"Of course I did." Nerius suddenly sounded very thoughtful, and his grip on the udder slackened. "I think of him every day."
"I do too." His eyes teared up again. "I miss him so much, Nerius..."
The young priest sighed deeply. "Anortas... It was the will of the gods," he said slowly, as he absent-mindedly let go of Anortas' udder. "They have a plan for us, and we all have our duty."
Anortas sniffed. "What do you know about the war? How does it go?"
"The Qussari are cunning people," Nerius said mechanically, "and they devise new weapons constantly. But with the protection of the gods, we will prevail."
Anortas stared at Nerius upside-down through the trestle. He could hear that Nerius knew more than the official propaganda he was reciting. "That is what the Elders and the generals say. But there are many rumors..."
Nerius stepped back. "Oh, Anortas." The conversation was heading into dangerous territory.
"You must know, you are a priest! Is it true?" he pleaded. "Nerius, I must know!"
"Shh! Keep your voice down!" Nerius came around to the other side of the trestle. The little brother of his best friend lay helplessly before him, bound, naked, and crying for his brother. Nerius knew he could not lie to him. He drew a sharp breath and chose his words carefully. "The war does not go well," he said softly and solemnly. "The Qussari have cut off our trade routes and blockaded our ports. If this year's harvest is not better than last year's, there will be famine, and the generals fear the Qussari will invade next spring."
The words pierced Anortas like a knife, and he grimaced as the tears poured forth. "He died for nothing, Nerius!" he cried. "My brother died for nothing!"
"Anortas, you must not say that!" Nerius whispered hoarsely. He cradled the boy's head to console him. "There is still hope for a good harvest. If we make a worthy offering to the gods, they will bless us!"
Anortas turned away, hiding his tears from Nerius, as he remembered how he had adored his brother as a child, how strong and invincible he had seemed then. But now, he was dead, conquered and defeated on the plains of Uroq the previous summer. Anortas heard what the Qussari did to their enemies. If his brother was lucky, he was killed in battle. But if he had been injured or captured, his brother's privy organs would have been cut off while he was still alive, and then he would have been slowly, agonizingly dismembered. His brother had been tortured and killed for nothing and his body desecrated, saddling the family with dishonor. And the barbarians that had done this to his brother could destroy his homeland. A volcano of anger seethed within Anortas, and he knew what he had to do.
He turned to Nerius. His eyes were red and puffy from crying, but there was a steely determination in them. "Milk me."
Nerius was startled at the change in his tone. "What?"
"Harvest my milk, Nerius." The instruments of his brother's seed were likely hanging as a trophy around the neck of a Qussari chief, but Anortas still had his udder, and he would give his milk to protect his people, to restore honor to his family, and to make the worthiest offering to the gods. But most of all, he would do it to avenge his brother.
Nerius understood, and without a word, he returned to Anortas' backside. He covered his hands in oil again and resumed massaging the udder. In his youthful impatience, Anortas moved his hips, trying to thrust his organ into the anointed hands and increase the stimulation. Nerius watched with amusement as the boy's shapely buttocks rose off the trestle and lunged back down.
"No no," Nerius chided him, "you must relax."
"I want to give as much milk as I can," Anortas grunted.
Nerius rolled his eyes – the boy obviously knew very little about how this worked. "You cannot rush this, or your milking will be deficient. You must allow your body to render its milk in its own time."
Anortas obeyed and gave himself over to the priest's hands. True to his word, Nerius was indeed very good at milking, and he manipulated the boy's hind quarters with consummate skill. Anortas' entire body was soon tingling and shaking with anticipation. His mouth fell agape, and soft, ecstatic shrieks floated out. As he approached climax, Nerius withheld his touch at just the right moment, denying him fulfillment, and Anortas whined in disappointment. When he relaxed, the stimulation resumed. So it continued for what seemed an eternity, as Nerius brought him to the precipice of bliss again and again, and Anortas' body became a tangled web of pleasure and agony. His male eggs, swollen and hardened from the herbs the priests had given him, were pressing painfully against his pelvic muscles as they receded into his body.
Through it all, Anortas fixed his thoughts on his poor brother, deprived of his manhood and left to rot in an alien land. He dedicated the exquisite torment of his milking to his older brother. Nerius was right; it was fitting and just that he should be milked by his brother's best friend. Together, the two that had been closest to him in life would restore his honor and manhood by this sacred act. Anortas prayed silently to Pyrapos that he would deliver a worthy and abundant load, and he soon felt an overwhelming tightness in his abdomen, as if every liquid and even organ in his body was about to be expelled through his udder.
At last, Nerius decided the time had come for the boy to deliver his milk, and he knew precisely how to grant him release. The trestle shook as Anortas' hips bucked uncontrollably, and a primal howl echoed through the atrium. Nerius felt the first spurt of milk pass through the udder, but he was astonished at the volume that blasted out of the angry, purple head. The brass bowl jumped from the force of its impact, ringing throughout the chamber like a bell. The next spasm came, then another, and another. Anortas squealed each time like a rabid animal, as his body surrendered its prize. His rigid stalk jerked violently, but Nerius held it steady to aim it into the bowl, lest a drop of its sacred yield be wasted on the ground.
The climax subsided, and Anortas lay exhausted on the trestle. The deed was done; he had rendered his First Fruits. Nerius watched the rise and fall of Anortas' back, glistening with sweat, as the youth gasped for air, while he coaxed the last drops of milk from the udder. He knew it would remain swollen and bloated for a few hours yet. The priest lifted the bowl off its shelf and marveled at the prodigious load within. He tilted the bowl in various directions, watching the thick essence slide around within the vessel.
"Is it... Is it sufficient?" Anortas asked between sharp breaths.
"Oh, Anortas," Nerius said with hushed excitement, "I knew you would make a worthy offering! Your brother would be so proud!"
He closed his eyes and sighed in relief, whispering a brief prayer: "I did it for you, brother."
His private thoughts were interrupted when Nerius patted his butt excitedly. "Anortas, look who is here!"
He gazed through the trestle and saw the Archimandrite, accompanied by a group of acolytes. The old man gave his staff to one of his train and approached the trestle, leaving the acolytes behind.
Still holding the bowl, Nerius bowed deeply. "Sanctity."
"This boy..." The Archimandrite's voice was thin and frail, betraying his many years, and he spoke slowly with audible effort. "Was this the young one making such sounds of pleasure?"
"Yes, Sanctity." Nerius smiled apologetically. "I pray he did not disturb." He patted Anortas' butt, as if the bound youth were a misbehaved animal.
The Archimandrite raised a hand to dismiss his concern. "No no, nonsense! This youthful exertion pleases Pyrapos. Oh...!" he exclaimed as he noted the bowl in Nerius' hands. "This is the nectar of his body?"
"Yes, Sanctity."
"It is abundant! Very abundant." The Archimandrite took the bowl from Nerius, lifted it to his face, and inhaled deeply as he savored the aroma. Then he dipped a finger into the bowl and brought it to his lips, tasting the warm seed. "Exquisite... a very fine offering," he nodded approvingly. He passed the bowl to one of his acolytes, who carried it away to the altar.
The Archimandrite stepped up to the trestle, reached between Anortas' legs, and grabbed his udder roughly. "My child, you have been greatly blessed by Pyrapos." He took no notice of Anortas' head, at the other end of the trestle, and seemed to be speaking to the udder itself. He stroked it here and there, and rolled its hood back and forth over the head, noting as Anortas shuddered. "Impressive..." The Archimandrite's hands found their way to Anortas' ample, firm buttcheeks, and he kneaded them. "Mmm..." he mused. "Very blessed indeed." His fingers flitted about Anortas' nether entrance where, helped by Nerius' ample anointing earlier, one of his fingers easily slipped inside.
Anortas gasped in a mixture of shock and pleasure as the old man probed his insides.
"Yesss..." The Archimandrite sniggered as the boy squirmed on his finger. "Yes, very good!" He slipped another finger in and thrusted his hand in and out of the opening.
Anortas moaned wildly, bewitched by the new sensations coming from his nether entrance. His hips moved rhythmically, meeting the Archimandrite's fingers on each thrust.
The old priest cackled grotesquely at the shameless display of self-gratification. He withdrew his fingers and turned to Nerius. "This one is very fertile. He has much milk to give."
"Yes, Sanctity." Nerius bowed.
The Archimandrite stepped back from the trestle, and his party moved on down the aisle to examine another offering.
Taking his place behind Anortas again, Nerius put a fresh bowl on the ledge between the boy's knees and dipped his hands in the jar of oil. Anortas stared at him through the trestle.
"Nerius," he asked weakly, "are you going to milk me again?"
"Yes," he said almost apologetically. "The Archimandrite has commanded it."
Anortas paused. "Will you put your fingers inside me this time? Please?"
Nerius smiled. He would do unto Anortas just as his brother had done unto him.
If you enjoyed this story, check out Taking One for the Team: http://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/athletics/taking-one-for-the-team/