El-Hani - A Story from Anatolia

El-Hani grows up in ancient Anatolia, where one youth from the 
community is selected to be consort to the High Priestess.  A well-
established culture and religion view the male genitals as 
simultaneously endowed with mystical power - a gift from the 
Goddess - yet greatly at risk; gifts from the Goddess are to be 
used with love and reverence.  "Possession of a penis is a 
privilege!"

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El-Hani – The Chosen – Part 1

El-Hani was nearly 15 before ever even thinking he could be the 
Chosen.  Special things only happened to others – whether good or 
bad, it was always someone else.  It was his cousin who went away 
for a whole spring season with his uncle, a merchant and sailor, 
across the Red Sea.  And then the earthquake two years ago damaged 
most of the mud-and-brick homes around the city, and a boy he had 
known as a child was killed by a collapsing wall.  Well, okay, you 
don’t want that to happen to anyone.  But the interesting life 
always seemed to be someone else’s.  Even when El-Hani tried to do 
something special, the novelty disappeared rapidly, and then it was 
back to the day-to-day ritual, the same old routine.

El-Hani by age 15 was big for his age, strong and brown from the 
sun.  Working the foundation stones and special carvings for 
monuments his father made had filled out his once-scrawny frame 
with muscle, and toughened his hands.  He was handsome in a way, 
but not striking.  He looked older than his years, as much in his 
expression and bearing as in his body.

Every morning El and his father bowed their heads to the omniscient 
Goddess and prayed for strength and good health.  El-Hani did not, 
however, consider himself a very religious person.  His father 
seemed to take it more seriously.  

Every spring when the annual fertility celebrations were held, a 
number of men from the town were called to the Temple.  Like 
everything else about the place, the process of selection was 
mysterious.  Many were farmers from out of town, who would of 
course be the direct beneficiaries of a good crop that year; but 
many others were chosen from in-town families – tradesmen and 
merchants, like El-Hani’s father.

It was no secret, even among the young, that some of the ceremonies 
took the form of sacred union between the chosen man and a 
priestess, or one of the local women who joined the Temple regulars 
for the 10-day celebration.  So when El-Hani’s father received the 
messenger from the Temple last spring, and two days later spent an 
entire night at the Temple, there was some rib-poking and smirking 
among El’s friends, and an unnatural silence and curious sidelong 
glances if his father happened to be nearby.  El-Hani knew his 
father would be faithful to his vow of secrecy and would never talk 
about it – at least, not until El had completed his own formal 
religious training – but that didn’t stop his friends from 
pestering him with questions for weeks afterward.  To El-Hani, his 
father seemed a bit more solemn, looked a little more solid and 
grounded, after that season.  Maybe it was just the process of 
getting older.  But he knew enough not to ask; he would find out 
himself in his own good time.

El Hani – In The Market – Part 2

As he matured and grew in the following year, El’s body and 
hormones took the usual course for a boy in his mid-teens.  The 
regular ache in his loins demanded frequent release; his quiet, 
sweating night-time fantasies seemed to return again and again to 
the Temple and its mysteries.  His privy member grew even faster 
than the rest of him, and increasingly seemed to possess a mind of 
its own.  Sometimes he would pass a girl in the market, closely, 
and her scent would ever-so-delicately waft by, and to his 
consternation he would find an erection rapidly pushing out the 
front of his tunic.  He would try to turn so it couldn’t be seen – 
not easy, in the middle of the market square – or hold his rough 
market sack in front of him, which looked even more unnatural.  

Once, in this condition, he was turning around to look for some 
kind of cover where he could wait it out and let it subside, and a 
woman – attractive, and married, by the look of her jewelry – 
nearly ran into him as she passed.  Her left hand, swinging briskly 
forward as she strode by, smacked directly into the side of his 
nearly-erect penis through the thin cloth of his tunic.  It was 
enough of a blow to be painful, but a shock of pleasure seemed to 
radiate, at the same instant, from the center of his being.

An exclamation escaped his lips, too quickly to stop.  He felt an 
embarrassed blush rush to his face, as she was making apologies for 
being clumsy.  He was afraid she was going to laugh, but she – 
almost exactly his height – simply looked straight into his eyes, 
smiled to alleviate his anxiety, said “Are you all right?  I hope I 
didn’t hurt you.”  And then – seemingly oblivious to several 
hundred busy shoppers surrounding them – she reached forward and 
gave his still-hard erection a firm squeeze.  

Then, to his astonishment, she took his hand and was pulling him 
through the crowd, out of the market.  He was too surprised – and 
far too curious – to resist.  “This way, quickly” she was saying, 
as she towed him into an ally between buildings.  It looked like a 
dead end up ahead, but then there was an even narrower ally turning 
to the left, and suddenly they were in sunlight again, an enclosed 
little courtyard with gardens all around the sides.  Grape vines 
grew up trellises on the walls and converged over their heads, 
dappling them in sunlight.  She stopped in the center of the 
courtyard.

“Silly boy”, she said, speaking softly – perhaps so her voice 
wouldn’t carry too far through the windows opening into the 
courtyard.  “You shouldn’t be out in the market like that.  You 
could get hurt, sticking way out like that and in everyone’s path.  
Raise your tunic – both hands please.”  He couldn’t believe what he 
was hearing.  He reached down, tentatively fingered the coarse 
hem.  

“Quickly!” she ordered, then softened.  “I won’t hurt you.”  He 
grinned awkwardly and hoisted his tunic high.  The hem caught 
momentarily on the head of his penis, then released it, exposing it 
fully to her view.  For a few moments she was silent, watching as 
it steadily rose to full erection.  He couldn’t imagine what was 
going through her head – or what she was going to do with him.  
Under her attentive gaze his penis felt like it was glowing with 
heat.  She moved to his side.

“Spread your legs more – that’s good.  Keep your tunic up.”  She 
stood very close to his right side.  He felt her left hand reaching 
behind him, lightly slide up the inside thighs, inside his tunic, 
and suddenly it was far up, fingers lightly closing around his 
balls.  Her right hand at the same time was wrapping around the 
rigid shaft of his penis.  The first finger and thumb encircled the 
base, a tightening ring, and the swollen head rose a centimeter 
higher.  She began a steady, methodical stroking, while her other 
hand squeezed and pulled on his balls, or moved back to deep-
massage the hidden length of penis in the perineum there.  His 
whole body was trembling.  He realized she was talking to him…

“And what if you bumped into the wrong woman out there?  She could 
accuse you of assault, take you before the High Priestess and her 
judges, and then you’d be in big trouble.  You know about that, 
right?  What they do to guys that poke their pricks into the wrong 
places?  They take that very seriously there, believe me.  A man’s 
supposed to be able to control his genitals … and you may have a 
little control problem, hmm?”  She squeezed hard on his erection, 
to emphasize the point; he gasped and his knees almost buckled.  
She leaned very close to him, her warm sweet breath making the skin 
of his neck tingle.  

“You have a very fine penis here – and bigger than most boys your 
age.  Someday you’ll make a woman – maybe even a priestess – very 
happy with that.  We would hate to have anything bad happen to this 
fine piece of manhood, wouldn’t we?”  He couldn’t answer, was 
afraid to try to speak.  She resumed hard stroking.  He felt the 
semen boiling deep in his loins – then at the instant he thought 
his ejaculation was inevitable, she stopped abruptly again, still 
firmly grasping his erection.

“You do know, don’t you?”

“Know what?” he gasped.

“What they do to men,” she repeated.  On the verge of coming, he 
realized she wasn’t going to resume her manipulations until she was 
sure he understood.

“No… I don’t know!” he said, raggedly.  “Tell me… what they do … 
and please – don’t stop!”

“Oh – well…” and she began with very slow, firm strokes this time, 
from base to tip and back again.  “ ‘Possession of a penis is a 
privilige’ “, she said, more sonorously, as if gently mocking an 
official proclamation.   She gripped him more tightly and changed 
to quick, long strokes, with a pause between each motion.  
“If you do something bad with your cock…”  she leaned forward, her 
lips now very close to his ear.  He felt the hand in back brush his 
scrotum and leave, and then it was in front of him, fist closed, 
waving an imaginary knife in his face.  Then she brought it down 
slowly, deliberately, until the invisible steel rested on the shaft 
of his rigid penis, at the base.  Her right hand clamped harder 
around it, pulling away from him, almost pulling him off balance. 

Spoke four words softly, directly into his ear, one hard stroke 
accompanying each distinct word, for emphasis:

“They … cut … it … OFF!”  and on the last, hardest stroke her left 
hand brought the blade – he could almost see it flash in the 
dappled sunlight – swiftly down, with a quick forward-and-back 
slicing motion, through his rigid blood-filled shaft, which 
abruptly launched a pearly-white jet into a high arc across the 
narrow courtyard.  

He groaned and sagged, knees buckling; her left hand anticipated 
this and was back under his perineum, resuming the deep massage 
there and, in combination with her firm grip on his penis, partly 
holding him up.  Huge spasms rippled up its length, propelling 
repeated spurts of semen high into the air.  She expertly timed her 
strokes and perineal massage in a way that seemed to redouble the 
force with which he expelled his seed.  

After interminable seconds he became slowly aware again, emerging 
from an almost trance-like fog of pleasure  Strong contractions 
still throbbed the length of his erection, a dribble of come 
continued to drop from his swollen glans.  Beginning behind his 
balls, she pressed upward and forward, stroking the underside of 
his penis all the way out to the tip, expressing more drops, which 
joined the scattered pattern on the cool courtyard stones.

Two meters in front of him, semen from his initial spurts dripped 
slowly from the grapevine leaves.  She moved around to face him 
and, pointing his penis straight up, bent down quickly and kissed 
it on the end – he felt the tip of her tongue taking the last drop.

“Wait here five minutes until it’s gone down”, she said quickly, 
then walked past him, out of sight.

“Wait …” he turned to say something, no idea what it would be, but 
that quickly, she was gone.  He had dropped his tunic hem.  He 
looked down; the fabric was bunched on top of his erection, and his 
glans peeked out from underneath.  He signed, pulled it forward and 
down and waited, heart still pounding.