Fellation Initiation

One of the younger warriors, Binya, came by and beckoned me. There was something he wanted to show me. Akum was not around to translate but I followed along anyway while we went along a path to a clearing, perhaps ten minutes from the village. I looked around to see what Binya sought to show me.

He said the word 'mimga' or 'arrow-head'. I stiffened. This was the word often employed to denote 'penis'.

As if to demonstrate, Binya removed his own penis-gourd. He was small, tightly-built, animated. He had a short, thick member. He pointed to me, then his mouth. I looked at his wrist, he had one of the red bracelets.

Even to this day I cannot entirely reconstruct my thinking process at that moment, only recalling that it was quite confused, that events overtook me.

But I found that my boots and trousers were removed, my back placed up against a nearby tree to support me while I squatted, my penis grown erect in front of me, with Binya fellating me. This was earth-shattering on so many levels my head swam.

His tongue was wet, warm, inquisitive. It travelled my whole length. He licked my testicles. Enclosed a tight grip over my cock-head with his lips. Movement and attention varied, I grew impossibly aroused.

His small, brown-skinned body crouched in front of me, eager mouth at work.

I looked around at the forest, the trees coiled by lianas, then at Binya down at my groin, my penis going in and out of his mouth. My hips would begin to move on their own and he would alter his motions, keeping me hard but not allowing me to ejaculate.

He would turn his head to suckle my testicles, and I looked down, my erection pointing straight up at me, penis-head seeping fluid and shaft glistening with saliva. The feeling was intense, perhaps accentuated due to the unanticipated nature of the event.

My hands gripped the trunk of the tree, it was becoming harder to stay balanced while I squatted. Binya rarely opened his eyes, his focus was entirely on my member. The sensations were becoming unendurable.

A last balls-suckling, a more rapid in-and-out of his mouth. My hips were quivering with desire, my knees trying to uncoil. I felt my anus contract, then my hips thrusting. A violent up-welling of fluid from inside me was unleashed. Binya sucked harder, his lips tightly around my penis. Six times I pushed, my anus contracted, my balls squeezed, my semen rocketed forth. Not a drop remained when done.

Finally, after several minutes of continued, but slower sucklings, I had to withdraw, and my penis slopped out of Binya's mouth. My cock-head was red, small, almost any touch an agony.

It was only then that Binya looked at me. He indicated thanks.

I retrieved my clothes and I returned to the village and my normal anthropologist look.

I was relieved that Rupert was not at the tent when I returned. I laid down on my cot for a rest.

For the next stretch of my stay in the village, I was fellated nearly every day, sometimes twice. There were a few times when lengthy village activities intruded, but a parade of young men came after me in turn. The event always took place some distance from the village, a different path and location usually chosen by each of my various suitors.

The ritual never altered. I was teased by mouth and tongue to erection, then I squatted back on haunches with my back to a tree, legs spread wide. The warriors never touched my 'arrow-head' with their hands, always just lips and tongue. Each warrior was slightly different, each supremely competent.

I probably filled the mouths, and gullets, of a half-dozen different red-braceleted men. As my time of departure from Niguru drew near, I was almost relieved at the prospect of leaving. I was spent, my energy depleted, even as I enjoyed every single act of fellation that occurred. Never in my life had so much semen departed me in such a short interval. In a three-week period I recorded nineteen ejaculatory events, or 'EE's as I abbreviated them in in my private notebook.

All indications suggested the same was happening for Rupert. He disappeared daily on different trips with a variety of initiates, declining my presence even when I asked. I looked for some sign of guilt or sense of illicitness in Rupert's demeanour but could find none.

Our own interactions remained slightly formal, I continued to do my work, provide him with the field-notes book, although not my own personal one, now bulging with other, rather more discursory annotations. I still have that notebook, never shown to anyone.

Ruth Singleton, from Durham, came to replace me on the twenty-fifth of August, along with another month's worth of supplies. As a female she would be privy to data unavailable to Rupert or myself. I shook hands warmly with Rupert in farewell and returned with the same group of porters who had delivered Ruth and the supplies, and retraced the long journey, this time thankfully downhill and down-river, until I was back home.

*****

During Michaelmas term Rupert and I had written up our research and submitted it for review. In March we got an acceptance letter from one of the top journals in the field, with a request for only minor revisions. The paper, with me as second author, which along with a fine letter of recommendation from Rupert, was deemed sufficient enough an accomplishment to gain me admission into a doctoral programme. When my companions in study asked about where, I told them it was to be at the 'other university' and they laughed, since that was how we were referred to by them. In any event, Rupert had been warm in his congratulations and instrumental to my career's advancement.

It was one of those magical May evenings in the south of England, air warm and balmy off the fens after the long winter, when Rupert had invited me to his college quarters to go over last revisions to our paper. His window was open, overlooking the court, the spring ivy thickly green on the college building walls. We sat at his desk and wrapped up the final draft, his desk-light casting a warm glow over his dark wood-paneled room.

At a pause in our work I hesitated. We never had discussed our sexual involvement with the Warana, although several times during the year I had been on the verge of doing so. But always I hesitated, judging the timing off or just losing my nerve.

I wasn't even positive that he was aware that I knew about his own dalliances, or of his knowledge of mine.

'Mr. Rupert sir, I have wanted to ask about something.'

He looked at me carefully, as if he knew exactly what I would say, but let me continue.

'You ended up being part of their maranga cycle', using the native word for their insemination practices, I finally said, bluntly enough.

His eyes looked at me thoughtfully and he exhaled.

'Yes, and you as well.'

So he knew.

We were quiet.

'This is not just borderline troublesome, although I realise its interpretation is potentially ambiguous. The ethical implications, the possible taint to our work. The professional values of anthropology. This could be highly...' I felt my voice rising, but he put his hand on my arm.

'I know. I know all the arguments. It has gone back and forth in my head many times. In my judgement it does not constitute a sin against the discipline.'

I was at least relieved he had given it some thought.

We talked. We went over all the angles, how what we did could be defended, condemned. We brought up various similar transgressions that had marred other anthropological work, but none of them quite fit this scenario. He spoke in an even tone, rationally.

'We did no harm. We provided them with the capital that they sought within their own unique economic system, and all we acquired in return was intelligence about their customs. In fact, we did not even initiate the contact. They wanted us. Not even quid pro quo.'

He looked at me. 'Far worse has been done. I don't think we would have learned as much if we had not been participants. We just happened to be some outsiders with a welcome surplus supply of semen. Niguru will not be altered because of us and our actions.'

Despite my protestations it ended up a bit of a stalemate.

'Only if one of us were ever to admit to this involvement would there be a problem.' I stiffened, the implication was clear. If any word leaked out it would be on me.

Silence it would be then. I nodded, still uneasy.

He looked at me, perhaps more deeply than ever before in our dealings.

'Did you enjoy the ministrations of the warriors-to-be?' he asked softly.

I was startled. 'Of course. The experience was of astonishing intensity.'

He nodded.

'Remember how they would flutter their tongues on your frenulum just as you were about to ejaculate?' His eyes were a bit wide.

'Yes', I stammered. We were speaking of shared experience.

'The peculiar way that they would cup your testicles with their mouths, from underneath you? Keep your erection on the precipice of pleasure until insemination was inevitable?'

I found that my penis was hardening.

Rupert looked at me, his eyes had an odd light.

'Gerald, you are about to enter a new phase. Doctoral studies. The profession will be enriched. You will have made a mark even as soon as when our study is published.' I flushed when he said the word 'our'.

'Your mentorship has meant the world to me.' I was sincere, although the discussion had thrown me off centre.

'Gerald, you require one thing further. We must solemnise this transition.'

His eyes bored into me, searching, but also with a warmth I had never detected before. He removed his spectacles, and rubbed his brow, his grey eyes suddenly larger, his face altered, more youthful.

He stood up from the desk and I watched him walk partway across his room to his bed, while he faced away from me and it seemed he was loosening his belt.

He slowly turned towards me, and spellbound, I saw his penis extending straight in front of him above his trousers. Long, thin, engorged, stiff.

'Gerald, you need jerungdu. Enrichment from more than just the intellectual sphere. Come', he gestured. 'My mimga beckons', he smiled, a rare enough facial expression from him.

Almost as if I were watching someone else, I found myself walking over to face him. Then kneeling on the crocheted throw-rug at the foot of his bed, staring at his penis. His cock-head indeed appeared as if an arrow, pointed, the ridge barbed, free from its sheath. Then I extended my tongue to the tip of his erection, sliding my lips over him, feeling the smooth skin of his cock-head, the warmth of his member. My eyes were closed, touch and taste were my warrior scouts.

My mind spun. I was suckling the 'arrow-head' of my mentor.

'I have been wanting to do this for ages now' he said softly. 'You were ripe, at the edge of academic manhood, all that was required was the passing of the magic. You will be nourished.'

He slowly removed the rest of his own clothes, I noted how his ribs showed through his smooth, translucent skin, how carefully he disrobed. His narrow chest and limbs.

He had me remove my own clothes. He looked at my slender frame, nearly hairless at that time save for my pubic area.

He propped himself at the edge of his bed. 'Not sure my ancient knees are up for more squatting' he said a bit apologetically. His penis stuck out in front of him with an upward curve. That was fine with me, authenticity would have meant I would not be able to touch his penis with my hands, and at that moment, I desperately wanted to do so.

I caressed his erection from root to tip, my fingertips delighting in its responsive tautness. His penis was so smooth, white and slender, the thumb-finger circle of my hand could close upon it and slide up and down. His cock-head stuck free from his foreskin, the ridge around it called to me.

I licked him from balls to tip, then took him in.

My thoughts did not wander to the classroom, nor consider much of what I was doing. I stole a few looks at him, his own eyes closed, absorbed in his own enjoyment, and also up-close looks at his erection, his testicles moving restlessly in their drawn-up sac.

Instead it was my tongue that was thinking, my lips ruminating -- reproducing for the first time on another what had been done to me. The exploration was exquisite, and I had enough sense to prolong it. Licks, sucklings, warm warty testicles in my mouth. Dampness, from both me and him, increasing.

He held himself tightly at the edge of the bed, allowing me to bury my nose in his pubic hair to engulf him. Following what I had learned from the Warana, I varied attention to his member, changing speed and magnitude of touch.

I was gratified by his hip movements, how restless they grew, involuntarily twitching. The feel of his penis moving in my mouth, the way its smooth wet skin slid along my lips. The tautness of his cock-head, alive to my touch.

His hands gripped the edge of the bed tightly, a hip thrust into me came suddenly, strongly.

I fluttered my tongue on his cock-head, then took him inside me with the first pulse of semen, which took me by surprise even as I knew it was imminent. Thick, powerful spurts. I closed my eyes and took it all.

At the end I felt his fingertips on my temples, gently pulling me in and out for the last dregs, soft noises coming from his mouth. Finally he urged me off and I stared at the long, depleted, glistening penis in front of me. I recall that first taste of his semen to this day.

He looked down at my own erection, which had developed extensively as I had sucked him, stiff and pointing straight at him from between my legs. My penis felt heavy, my cock-head radiantly alive.

'You have become a bit excited yourself!' he laughed.

'A pause if you will.' He touched me on my shoulder and I quivered. 'Give me a moment, but unlike the Warana I should like to reciprocate with you and take nourishment myself. Replace what I have lost.'

'But first, indulge me.' He rooted around in a drawer and approached me with a penis-gourd. 'It may take a moment for you to subside, but I should like to see this on you first.'

My penis softened a bit, enough to dangle, and he judged it time to place the penis-gourd over me, tying it with a cord. I almost laughed at the sight. The warriors looked quite at home in these, but I was just a narrow, white twig of a man, a pale Englishman of long winters and too comfortable habits, wearing an emblem of tropical primitive virility.

But Rupert admired me silently for some time, from different angles, turning me this way and that, until I found my penis pressing up against inside the gourd, somewhat unpleasantly.

'Very well', he said, and removed it again. 'I should like to preserve another bit of tradition however' and he directed me over to the wall of his room, where he bade me squat back on my heels, knees widespread, using my arms to brace myself, in the manner of the Warana.

On all fours, he sought my penis with his mouth and began to lick and suckle me. It was a sight to see his long, white body stretched out in front of me, his narrow hips, smooth white arse. That mouth which had uttered such profound statements in seminar was now cinching my penis tightly with a vice-like grip.

He mimicked the Warana perfectly. Lips around my erection, wet sliding action with varied tempo and depth. Even the turned head when mouthing my testicles, nudging them, suckling them lovely.

My hips grew restless as he sucked me, but he eased off, took more pains with my testicles. Back to my penis, the pleasure ratcheting up with each cycle.

I grew so close he could not avoid noticing. My hips were pressing forward into him. I felt his tongue fluttering at the edge of my cock-head. My semen shot forth with extraordinary force, all I could do to maintain balance while pressing back against the wall, my anus squeezing, my hips curling into him, my semen-explosion overwhelming.

My panting finally subsided. He continued to nurse at my penis until I had gone quite soft. I dressed and left.

Of course our careers intersected from then on. I would see him at least twice a year at conferences, often out of the country. And we always would rendezvous at his room, wherever it was. The ritual varied little, he always seemed to have his penis-gourd at hand for me to wear as foreplay. He always enjoyed removing it, always inseminated me first. Sometimes we were good for two rounds, but I never spent the night. He never asked and I never expected it.

He remained a good mentor, always solicitous, pleased to see me, but a unspoken barrier always kept us from a closer intimacy. We each accepted this.

Our professional collaboration as authors was limited to that one published study, but it was an important one. Later anthropologists, notably Herdt and Knauft, would document similar traditions in other highlands communities (labelling it Ritual Homosexuality or 'RH') but their analysis did not always coincide with ours.

After my doctoral degree I married and settled into academic life at a northern university. My wife and I never were able to have children. I often wondered if the Warana would have valued my seminal offerings if they had known I did not produce any off-spring. She died some years ago, too early.

Throughout the decades of our connection, Rupert had coaxed my penis into the most extraordinary climaxes, whenever we met. His tongue-work was modelled on the Warana, but in many ways surpassed it. And of the course the fact that we reciprocated made everything better. We seeded each other. He presented me his treasured penis-gourd before he died, I still put it on from time to time.

I never tired of my own delight at pleasuring Rupert, feeling his viscous jerungdu fill my mouth, his frantic, deeply charged hip-thrusts into my face while I drained his seminal glands -- whimpering, holding my head lightly in his hands, nourishing me.