A Lughnasa Liturgy

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This story is intended for adults only. It contains depictions of forced nudity, spanking, and sexual activity of preteen and young teen children for the purpose of punishment. None of the behaviors in this story should be attempted in real life, as that would be harmful and/or illegal. If you are not of legal age in your community to read or view such material, please leave now.

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1. Entry

Midnight. August 1st. Lughnasa.

We entered the Chapel, walking barefoot, single file: Father O’Toole, and the three altar attendants: Sean, Patrick, and me (Brendan). The organ was playing. No electricity was being used, so the organist had a helper tromping on the bellows with his feet to provide air for the organ pipes. The big crucifix behind the altar was hidden with a large cloth. This really was a Pagan service.

The four of us walked up the center aisle to the front of the congregation. We three boys were swinging the censers, casting sweet-smelling smoke into the crowd. There were no females allowed at this observance, so the congregation was men only. I wondered whether the smoke had some drug effect.

We reached the front of the room, and processed onto the platform there. The only lighting was a row of closely-spaced candles along the front of the platform. All those candles lit us so the congregation could see us clearly. I could only see the first row or two of the congregation: beyond that was just shadow.

Father O’Toole extinguished our censers. We put them on the rack at the side. The organ was silent.

We all stood on the platform, facing the congregation. Father O’Toole, and to his right: Sean, Patrick, and me—in order of height. We were wearing the special Lughnasa robes: Made with no artificial fibres, undyed, hand-woven in one piece, laced up the back, with a leather thong, and a pull-cord hanging from the nape of the neck. Our hands held the anjali pose—palm-to-palm, index fingers just below the chin.

Father O’Toole pronounced a formal greeting to the congregation.

We three boys sat on our bench to the side. The first part of the service was much like we have at the Sunday morning services.

There was even a homily. Father O’Toole began with the phrasing he had used with us outside: ‘In tonight’s rite, we acknowledge that this place is part of us who live here. And we are part of this place. And we are part of each other.’ He continued from there. But (unlike tedious Sunday morning homilies) it took only about five minutes.

On Sundays, many in the congregation might drowse in their seats during the homily. But tonight they were not drowsy, despite the late hour. They seemed attentive. I wondered again whether there was a drug in the smoke that kept them awake.

Finally, instead of the Mass, we enacted a Liturgy for Lughnasa, which I had never seen before. But with my experience as an altar attendant, and following the others, it went quite well—at least to start.

We stood in the center of the platform as before. We adopted the anjali pose. Father O’Toole signaled the congregation to stand.

He began with an invocation. It was not in English, though. It was in Irish. I had learned some Irish in school, but not enough to understand anything except a few words here and there.

Then Father O’Toole held out his hand toward Sean.

‘Acolyte the first,’ he intoned, ‘Sean Callen Biggins.’

‘Welcome, Sean,’ the congregation responded.

The organ began playing. It was something loud with strange sounds. Perhaps ancient Celtic harmonies.

Next, I was amazed. Father O’Toole stepped behind Sean. He grabbed the wooden knob at the nape of his Sean’s neck and pulled up; the attached leather thong was unlacing. Father O’Toole grabbed the thong with his other hand and pulled back. The lacing of the robe was completely removed. The back of Sean’s robe was open.

Sean took a deep breath. He shrugged his shoulders. The robe fell to the floor. Sean was naked! Earlier, in the shower room, I had just taken a few peeks at Sean’s willy. Now I could stare all I wanted—everyone in the room was staring, too. It was stunning and thick.

Sean stepped over the discarded robe to the front of the platform. He held is arms up in a Y. He slowly rotated in place, going around two or three times. The colouring on his bum matched the colouring on his face! This was because of the body make-up we had applied before we came in.

I thought how embarrassed he must be! But in fact he was not. He was smiling proudly. At one point our eyes locked, and he waggled his eyebrows at me.

The music stopped, Sean stood still. He adopted the anjali pose.

Father O’Toole intoned in Irish: ‘Sean, we admire your willy.’ At least that is what I think it was. I did not know the Irish word forwilly.

The congregation responded: ‘Sean, we admire your willy.’

Next, Father O’Toole stepped behind Patrick.

‘Acolite the second: Patrick Robert Lee Murphy.’

‘Welcome, Patrick.’

The organ resumed its plaintive music.

Father O’Toole pulled the lace from Patrick’s robe. Patrick let his robe drop. I gawked at his willy. It was exquisite—short and sticking out. His goolies were tight but plump.

Patrick stepped forward beside Sean. He put his hands behind his head and did some ‘Elvis Presley’ gyrations of his hips. He seemed to enjoy showing off “everything” to the audience . His eyes were closed, he had a little smile.

I was mesmerized by the two naked boys. The ‘make-up’ effects were great in that candle-lit environment. The red on their lips. The pink on their cheeks. Matching red on their nipples. Matching pink on their bums.

The music ended.

‘Patrick, we celebrate your willy,’ Father O’Toole intoned in Irish.

‘Patrick, we celebrate your willy,’ everyone replied. Even I said it, softly.

Father O’Toole stepped behind me. I had not been thinking ahead—I had been too absorbed in the sight of the two naked boys. Now I suddenly realized that I was next. Me! My face flushed.

Oh, no! Seeing naked Sean and Patrick had made my willy stand up at attention. Now it was about to be revealed to everyone. That was not good. Back in those days, a boy would neverever admit that he might be gay; not even to his closest friends. Would my stiffy reveal my deepest secret to everyone here?

‘Acolyte the third: Brendan Follette Pound.’

‘Welcome, Brendan.’

I felt my face flush again. Father O’Toole did the two pulls which removed my laces. My robe was open in the back, but still supported by my shoulders. I knew what I had to do, but I froze. Everyone was waiting.

I shook my head. I couldn’t do it.

Sean and Patrick stood close to me. Because of the loud music, we could talk and the congregation would not hear.

I feared they would remove my robe. But no.

‘We will not force you,’ Sean said. ‘We will only try to convince you.’

It was like a normal conversation. Except that everyone was watching. Except that Sean and Patrick were naked. Okay, it was nothing like a normal conversation. How could I expect to make a rational decision in those circumstances?

‘My first time naked for Lughnasa I was terrified,’ said Patrick, ‘but I did it. And now I am glad I did.’

Sean continued, ‘I was also really looking forward to serving this year.’ He waggled his eyebrows again. ‘I am glad that my voice did not break yet, so I can still do the chants.’

‘Will you do it?’ they asked me. ‘Will you exhibit yourself? Please? Will you reveal everything?’

I shook my head no.

Patrick argued, ‘Brendan, there are fifty men here who want to see your willy!’ My face flushed again when he said that.

Sean waggled his eyebrows, ‘Never mind them,I want to see your willy.’

‘I want to see it, too,’ said Patrick. He swiveled his hips.

‘And I also want to see your willy!’ It was Father O’Toole—I had forgotten he was standing behind me.

‘But,’ I whispered, ‘I have a stiffy.’

‘Even better!’ Patrick argued. ‘Ireally want to see that.’

‘Come on, Brendan,’ Sean said. ‘Give these fifty nice men a thrill! ... Giveme a thrill!’

I closed my eyes. There was no more time to delay. I took a deep breath. ‘Okay,’ I whispered, my face flushing more than ever.

The others stepped back to leave an unobstructed view.

I shrugged my shoulders. The robe swished down. My stiffy caught the neck of the robe. It stopped half-way down. Everyone in the audience knew my willy was stiff, even without seeing it.

Father O’Toole noted in my ear: ‘In show business, this is called: a tease.’

Everyone was still waiting.

I had to use my hands to release the robe. It dropped to the floor.

Naturally, I covered up with my hands.

‘Brendan,’ Father O’Toole said softly. ‘Anjali.’ So I placed my hands in the correct pose.

Everyone in the room was staring at my stiffy. I could not breathe. My eyes were closed tight.

Sean took me by one hand, Patrick the other. We stepped forward. I still had not taken a breath.

‘Brendan, you did it!’ Patrick whispered. ‘I admire your courage. But more: I admire your body!’

I opened my eyes. I took a breath. I thought of Patrick looking at my willy.

‘Yes, I did it,’ I repeated. ‘I am on exhibit.’

My willy felt tingly. The music seemed dizzying. Would I ever feel proud to show off like this?

Even with my eyes closed, I knew what the congregation was looking at. The tingling spread to my whole body. I was encouraged by Patrick and Sean.

Patrick spoke in my ear. ‘Trust us.’

They gripped my elbows, one on each side. They lifted me up off the floor. Then they put their hands on my knees and gradually rotated me until I was horizontal, held between them face down. They walked around me, moving me until the congregation was viewing me between my two wide-spread legs.

No wonder they put body make-up down there, I thought.

Lowering my head, I looked under myself. I saw my belly, lit by the candles not far away. I saw my stiff willy sticking down. It was stiffer than it had ever been in my whole life. Beyond the candles, I saw the congregation—the first two rows lit by the candles, the rest mere shadows.

I noticed something strange in the congregation. It took me a few seconds to figure it out. A spurt of jizz. Someone had shot his load right there while looking at my naked body!

Sean and Patrick put me back on my feet as the music ended. We resumed the anjali.

Father O’Toole intoned in Irish, ‘Brendan, we worship your willy.’

The congregation responded, ‘Brendan, we worship your willy.’ Sean and Patrick said it, too, with their eyes locked on the subject of their worship. They had been right—I was content to exhibit everything.

2. Liturgy

Next, Father O’Toole led us in the Liturgy. It was in Irish, so I did not understand much of it. But we three boys just repeated the words after him.

The organ played a sustained bass note. Then Father O’Toole in his fine tenor voice did one line of the poem, chanting around the octave above the organ, then held on the last note. Then we three boys repeated the line, in three-part treble harmony above that, as we always did during the regular services. We were loud enough to be heard throughout the room. In the silence following the chant, there was an echo.

Also during the silence I could barely hear panting, grunts, sighs in the congregation, along withfap fap fap sounds.

We did the same thing for the second line of the poem: organ, tenor, three-part treble. The congregation was still paying rapt attention. (Were they listening to the music, or were they ogling our willies? Who knows?)

Additional lines were chanted in the same way, with a pause for the echo following each one.

When we reached line ten, there was a difference. The organ, the tenor, the three boys—these were the same. But there was additional music higher than that! When we paused, the high music continued.

It was a songbird. I looked for it. It was in a gilded cage on the altar behind us. I guess the cage had been covered when we first entered, but now it was uncovered. It was a chaffinch, one of the most common songbirds around here.

When the chaffinch song had finished, we went on to the next line of the chant. The bird sang along with us.

It was lovely to hear the chaffinch. It was singing its heart out. Actually only the males sing, so maybe I should say:he was singinghis heart out. The music was incredibly lovely. I shivered at it. Yes, I shivered from the beauty of the music, not from the cold (even though I was naked).

The chanting was finished. Silence. Father O’Toole opened the door of the birdcage. He reached one hand in, and gently grasped the chaffinch. His fingers were on one side of the bird, his thumb on the other, holding the wings in place. He turned toward the congregation. He lifted the bird high above his head.

Crack! He wrung the bird’s neck.

I cried out in shock, ‘Aaah!’ My knees gave out. I was seated naked on the floor.

There was so much blood! Much more than you would imagine from a bird that small. Father O’Toole’s hands were covered with it. He placed the body in a bowl on the altar.

I noticed that Sean and Patrick now had erections, too. Why? Was it from watching the murder of the chaffinch?

What was that for? I realized: Of course! Such a Pagan rite as this must culminate in a blood sacrifice. We Christians rely on Christ Jesus, sufficient sacrifice on behalf of all humanity for all time. But a Pagan rite cannot.

In the year 392, the Emperor Theodosius proscribed all blood sacrifice in the Roman Empire. In 432, St. Patrick arrived in Ireland, to convert the people to the new Christian religion. So this ceremony of Lughnasa must come from before that time.

The candle-light lit Sean and Patrick. The acorns atop their stiff willies were now revealed to everyone. My eyes remained glued to those willies, despite the shock of the sacrifice

Patrick signaled me with his head. I stood up beside them again.

Picture this: Three boys. Anjali pose. Naked. Erect. Red make-up on the acorns of our willies, matching the red of our lips and our nipples.

Father O’Toole faced Sean. He smeared blood onto Sean’s brow. He said something in Irish—maybe about Wisdom and Knowledge.

Next, Father O’Toole moved to face Patrick. He made a bloody handprint on Patrick’s chest. This time is was something about Love and Compassion.

(It’s good that we are naked, I was thinking;you could never get blood stains out of those robes.)

Finally, Father O’Toole faced me. With one bloody hand he gripped my willy; with the other he gripped my goolies. He gently squeezed and released. I kind of liked the feeling. I guess the pronouncement he then made was about Procreation. My private parts were still in view for the whole crowd, but now covered with blood.

Father O’Toole turned to face the congregation. He lifted his hands, bloody palms forward, and pronounced a benediction in Irish. The organ began playing.

The four of us recessed single-file down the center aisle. The congregation, still standing, turned to face us as we passed. I saw that some of the men still had their trousers down to their knees, or even their ankles, with their willies in their hands.

Father O’Toole turned left, and we continued straight. What a sight that was: three boys—bloody, naked, and erect—walking casually down the hall. Fortunately, no one else was around at that hour.

We reached the Robing Chamber without being seen. Our clothes were not there! But Sean kept walking, out the back door. Then I remembered where we had undressed. The bathroom.

Yes, our clothes were there, where we had left them.

Sean turned on the tap, and used some of its water to wash the blood from Patrick’s chest. Patrick washed the blood from Sean’s brow.

The two boys turned and looked at me. They smiled and waited.

‘What?’ I asked.

‘Choose!’ they replied together. Their erections were quickly returning to full strength.

I was confused. ‘Choose what?’ I asked.

‘Which one of us should wash your willy?’

3. Epilog

In the quietest hour of the night, Those whose duty it was swept up the straw from the floor of the Chapel. The straw now imbued with the life-giving semen. They trundled it (in wheelbarrows, no power machinery ever used) to a farm field outside town. To that field came also Those with the women’s portion. The moss imbued with the life-giving moonblood.

The men’s portion was collected in a single orgiastic night, but the women’s portion was meticulously saved over a period of many months.

The two contributions were spread in the age-old pattern on the ground. Thus was the fertility of the Land sympathetically enhanced. The closing of the Circle of Life once again.

(End of File)