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Showing results for tags 'holding for a goddess'.
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Male desperation vignette(s) set in an ahistorical fantasy of the Ancient Middle East _____ When the sun rose over the desert, a shaft of light from a small window in the east illuminated the obsidian face of the River Goddess. She cast her grand, blank, imperious gaze over twenty young priests who were kneeling directly on the cold stone floor, their hands clasped behind their backs. They faced one another: ten on one side of the aisle and ten on the other. In front of each of them sat a round ceremonial pot. The River Goddess was a great lover of beauty, and the priests had clearly been chosen for their beauty, at least in part. They all had angular and lovely facial features, and their kohl-rimmed eyes could have broken the hearts of girls from the outside world. Their smooth skin came in all shades of honey and nut brown. The body and facial hair of their early manhood had been shaved off, while the hair on their heads was trimmed into short bobs, shiny with fragrant oils. They were slim but strong from their temple duties and spare diet. They wore white linen skirts that fell to their knees, plus intricate golden usekh collars set with lapis lazuli, garnets, and emeralds. Two older priests kept watch over them, monitoring but not intruding. The young men appeared still, but if you looked closely, you would see signs that they were profoundly uncomfortable, even abjectly suffering. Their jaws were clenched, their breaths sharp and shallow. The muscles of their thighs twitched. Their eyes darted pleadingly to the gold disk under the navel of the obsidian River Goddess up upon Her pedestal, checking to see if the sun had illuminated it yet. You would also notice that their bladders were cruelly swollen in their slender bellies, pushing out against the waists of their skirts like the bellies of women four months pregnant. Once a week, from the age of twenty to the age of thirty, the priests had to hold their water from dawn of one day to dawn the next. These young men had spent the previous day drinking cup after cup of a special herbal tea their elders prepared, and then the previous night tossing and turning in a disturbed sleep as the pressure in their bladders increased to bursting. An hour before dawn they had rolled out of bed, squeezing their penises and groaning in frustration, and hobbled to the inner sanctum in anticipation of relief. This, like different days when they had to deprive themselves of drinking water, was a tribute to the River Goddess. It was to demonstrate to Her that the people of the Kingdom understood that when water was not permitted to flow as it was supposed to, humans were simply undone. Thus the River Goddess knew Her worth. It was taboo for the priests to let out so much as a drop of piss before the appointed time. It was unthinkable. It was a transgression against the River Goddess that might cause a drought, a famine. They held it no matter how much it tortured them. While all of the young priests were anxious for the tribute to end, the one seated at the far left end of the line looked particularly miserable. He was the youngest, the most beautiful, and the least experienced with the more severe aspects of ritual in the Temple of the River Goddess. He was sucking air through his teeth and rocking slightly. His silken, tawny skin was bathed with sweat. Tears filled his long-lashed green eyes. The sight of his heavily distended bladder would move anyone to pity, but the River Goddess was not anyone. At last, the sun illuminated the golden disk on the belly of the River Goddess. One of the elder priests sounded a small gong, and the young priest on the right side closest to the Goddess hiked up his skirt, seized the pot before him, and started pissing into it, sighing involuntarily. The sound echoed in the stone hall. A perceptible ripple of anguish passed through the remaining nineteen, but none was so overwhelmed by the first priest’s splashing than the young man on the far left, who whimpered and grabbed himself through the folds of his skirt. They had been instructed not to squirm like this, but for the young man it was clearly a choice between disappointing the elder priests and angering the River Goddess Herself by voiding on the stone floor. One by one, the young priests were allowed to fill their ceremonial pots, the next in line not starting until his predecessor had finished. They proceeded in a stepwise fashion: top right, top left, next right, next left. Their streams were as fierce and strong as they could make them, both due to their own urgency and consideration for others who were waiting, but it still took each of them over a minute to empty. The poor priest on the far left had to tremble in agony for over twenty minutes, listening to his brothers pissing. He squeezed his thighs together and sat on his heels, kneading his cock and mouthing silent prayers to the River Goddess to please, please, please let the others hurry up and let him keep the seal on his bladder until they had finished. He was pale with terror; he sincerely believed that if he leaked a mere drop he would cause a drought and the children of the Kingdom would starve to death in their cradles. At last, at last, he heard the last of his brothers on the right side discharge the terminal spurts into his pot and set it down. He scrambled for his pot and managed to get the tip of his cock just over the lip before he exploded. “Oooohh, ooohhhh, ooohhh,” he cooed like a dove as he gushed all the pain and fear of 24 hours into the pot. The Kingdom was saved! After prayers were concluded, the elders transported the pots to the back of the sanctum for their own secret purposes. The other young priests crowded around to praise the youngest for his endurance, and to reassure him that it got easier with time. “Well, a little easier…” said one. “You almost learn to enjoy it…” said another.
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- no wetting
- intense desperation
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