The Long Line of Suc Session

Author's note

I've deliberately kept this one short as it's a slow burn and doesn't contain a huge amount of actual sexual activity. The story is written through the eyes of a journalist who is following an 18-year-old girl as she prepares to undergo the village blowjob ceremony.

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In the year of our lord, 1304 a great famine hit the Welsh village of Llanslebog. Not a morsel of food was to be found and once all the cats, dogs and children had been eaten the village faced starvation. Then the lord heard their prayers and said, "Owen, thou shalt be a fountain from which all will drink." Owen was blessed with erotic eruptions that filled the bellies of the faithful and so the village was saved.

Well, that's the story everyone in the village of Llanslebog knows. There are of course sceptics of the official story, and the Vatican refuses to canonise him, but there is some proof. The male line of his family still resides in the village, blessed with well-endowed penises that produce a generously unnaturally large volume of semen. OK, not enough to fill your belly but enough to overfill a shot glass if the locals are to be believed.

Scientists say it's just a genetic abnormality, but the village isn't taking any chances. That's why on the first Sunday after their daughters turn 18 they whip them straight over to the village square after church to be blessed with a mouthful. Every girl in the village has undergone the ritual for over 700 years and now it's the daughter of the Page family's turn and this is her story.

I must confess I was sceptical of the ritual when I first heard of it. I had travelled through Wales on many a summer holiday and never even heard of Llanslebog. Perhaps with so many villages beginning with "Llan" I could be forgiven as an Englishman for it not standing out. Llanslebog lies far from the major trunk roads and holiday destinations. Few go out of their way to visit the place.

I first became aware of Llanslebog and its ritual last year after a chance meeting in a Gwynedd pub with a colourful, if intoxicated, local character. Naturally, I thought he was pulling my leg but I couldn't resist the long drive down winding B-roads to visit the place myself.

I found an unremarkable village, a couple of shops, the obligatory church and a single pub. As a journalist, I felt I had to put at least a little effort into substantiating the rumour and so called into the church hoping for answers. Thereupon a small stained glass window, I saw it, Owen and his fountainous phallus feeding the faithful. The vicar was kind enough to fill me in on the details, to my amazement everything was true. I asked him if any families would be willing to be interviewed and after several months he put me in touch with the Page family.

Their daughter was fast approaching 18, I was invited to spend time with them upon her 18th birthday until the ritual 4 days later. After a four-hour drive to the village Satnav forgot, I was welcomed into their cottage. Like the village, the family appeared unremarkable, the father Dewi, the mother Beca, and two daughters Bethan 20 and Ella 18 looked like any other decent British family found in any street.

Morning birthday events had long passed, it was now late afternoon and after a meal of lamb shank and tatws popty, the two daughters prepared for a night out celebrating with friends giving me time to interview their parents. I opened up by asking what the myth of Owen's penis meant to the village.

"I wouldn't be calling it a myth around here," replied Dewi, "People can be a bit sensitive about outsiders looking down on our beliefs. Is it any different to Christ feeding thousands with two fishes?"

I acknowledged I had made a mistake and pressed on with how they got around the sexual nature of the story when it came to the younger generation.

"It's tricky," replied the mother, "The story is important to the village but we still have a responsibility to shield the younguns from the sex act. Are you familiar with the biblical story of Mosses?" I nodded I learnt it as a child.

"As a child did they teach you Mosses ordered his followers slaughter 3000 of their friends, brothers and neighbours in Exodus 32?

I admitted that was the first I heard of it and she continued, "It's the same here, we omit the more adult parts to protect the young."

The father added, "They do a yearly school play but Owen shoots tea from his magic finger instead."

"I'm a little teapot,

Short and stout,

Here is my handle

Here is my spout

When I get all steamed up,

Hear me shout,

Tip me over and pour me out!"

"Not as innocent as you think, Is it?" asked the mother.

It was clear that for the family and the village, the story had great significance but I was interested as to why they felt the need to send their daughters off to perform fellatio in public.

"No one wants to break a 700-year-old tradition," replied Mr Page, "No girl wants to spend her life known as the one who never kneeled."

I couldn't envision taking my own daughter to orally pleasure a man in a public square let alone watching the act. But it wasn't my place to judge, I was curious however as to how they broke the news.

"We don't have to," explained the mother, "When they get old enough for sex education at school the subject crops up in class. Teens aren't dumb, they soon pick up on what goes on."

I was relieved that no one was actually forced or anything illegal was going on. The villagers had struck a careful balance between protecting the young and respecting religious beliefs. However, regardless of tradition, it was still a very intimate act and I was keen to learn about how they felt about it beyond just complying with local customs.

"Some new families leave the village soon after arrival when they learn," explained Mrs Page, "You got to feel the need in your blood. Of course we're all a bit nervous, parents and daughters, but we're not embarrassed or ashamed."

Mr Page added, "It's all done very respectfully, no jeering or lewd comments and definitely no sticking stuff on social media. First sign of a mobile phone and you'll quickly be dealt with. There's great admiration among the men for what these ladies do."

With such a shared ritual I was eager to learn how Mrs Page's experience was affecting her now it was her daughter's turn. Surely it must bring back memories.

"It's a mix of pride and apprehension. Remember your first experience of the ritual is when you're the star. It's a bit like playing Juliet when you've never seen Romeo and Juliet, you've got nothing to judge it against. It's not until you see other girls later that you think, hey I did OK."

I remembered that they had an elder daughter, Bethan 20 and wondered how Mr. Page felt at the time.

He sighed for a moment before answering, "I was probably more nervous than she was. Girls tend to bond with their mothers as time approaches and we get our noses shoved out. But when the time comes every father is at his daughter's side proudly looking on."

We bedded down before the girls returned from their night out. I was given the guest room next door to Bethan's room and as I typed up a draft report of the day's unfoldings I became aware of her return. The walls were thin and it soon became clear why her room was so far from her younger sisters. Bethan had brought a young gentleman home and was vigorously entertaining him. As I unwillingly listened to the creaking bed and moans, I became thankful I couldn't understand a word of Welsh.

Breakfast the next morning consisted of a traditional full Welsh, it was similar to the more familiar full English but with the addition of cockles and lavercakes that the mother lovingly made each morning. It was over breakfast that I met the young man who had kept me awake half the night.

What particularly surprised me was how comfortable the parents were with it all, with even the father commenting on how it sounded like they had a good time. I was beginning to think they were more relaxed around sex than they were letting on. Dishes cleared and lover left, I took the opportunity to talk to Bethan about her experiences of the ritual.

"I was really worried about what to wear. My birthday is in November and the weather can be a bit rough. There's a small shelter there but you worry if it rains no one will turn up and watch. Thank god the rain kept off."

I should have been surprised to hear her concerns about the lack of witnesses but after last night's talk with her parents, I wasn't. I was interested in how she felt her parents had supported her at the time.

"Oh, they were great. Mam got me practising kneeling down so I wouldn't stumble and look an idiot. Then we practiced on fat carrots to get the technique right. Mam even made shots of egg white, salt and lemon so I'd get accustomed to the taste."

Like most parents, I've had the uncomfortable bird and the bees talk but I've never had to sit down with an 18-year-old and have her practice fellatio on carrots. I asked about how she viewed her relationship with her father at the time.

"He was very supportive. Told me about how he'd witnessed loads and how the crowd would stand in reverence. Made you feel part of something bigger. Even let me kneel in front of him while he held a carrot."

Finished cleaning up, the mother joined us, "She been telling you about the egg mix? Mrs Jones used to sell it made from her chickens but the William's daughter got salmonella so I make my own. You won't get hung for spitting, but you've got your pride. That's why we go through a lot of eggs."

"I admit I nearly threw up, first egg shot I took. But you soon get used to it," said Bethan

"She did throw up, all over my new tablecloth, " replied Mrs Page.

"But I swallowed on the big day and I'm sure Ella will too."

I had yet to interview Ella. She seemed more preoccupied with her birthday party last night and if truth be told I wasn't that comfortable with asking an 18-year-old sexual questions. I wanted to get more to grips with how the village felt so asked about Bethan's boyfriend.

"Oh he's not my boyfriend, just some guy I picked up in the pub last night. He's just in the village to fix the Morgan's roof."

Mrs Page explained, "Around here once they hit 18 we encourage them to get as much dick as possible. It does them good don't you agree?"

I was stuck for a diplomatic answer but Bethan came to my rescue, "He was hung like a horse, wanted to shove it up my ass but I wasn't going to waste a dick that size."

"Dam I wish I'd known," replied Mrs Page. I wasn't 100% convinced she was joking.

"Once you've performed the ritual, guys know you're definitely legal and show a lot more interest in you. Dad got one of his mates around to thighfuck me for practice."

I was shocked, not only by what I was hearing but by how the mother calmly sipped her 8th cup of tea of the morning without batting an eyelid. She could see I was taken back by her daughter's comment, perhaps my face was as red as her hair. Mrs Page went on to explain.

"Most families do it around these parts, helps boost their confidence. You get an older guy to stick his dick between their thighs, clamp them together and give them a good rogering."

"Mr. Harries gave me my first orgasm and I was still a virgin afterwards, it was pretty cool," added Bethan.

I felt the topic was drifting away from the looming oral ritual and wanted to get back on track. I asked if they could take me to the square so I could get a feel for the location. A short walk later I found myself looking at a small stone platform covered by an oak pergola. It wasn't exactly the shrine I was expecting, no one was paying any reverence to it, it was simply a place to sit, yet here on this simplest of platforms, a teen was going to perform a public sex act like countless before her.

Passers-by glimpsed at me, no doubt curious about the new stranger in town. I knew the same people would return to support Ella. When a little old lady hobbled over to ask if we were checking out the square for Ella's big day, then told me she always gets here early for a good view, my hopes it was all an elaborate hoax disappeared. When she asked if I was going to give Ella one I made my excuses and left.

Bethan departed to meet friends, we headed home. I knew I'd have to face interviewing Ella at some point, now seemed a good time as any. Never before was I so grateful for a mother's presence when discussing sexual matters. It felt like she was there more for my support than her daughter's.

Ella was a bright bubbly teen who struck me as highly intelligent. I wanted to know how she felt when she first learned the truth about Owen and his generous penis.

"It gets broken to us in a special assembly in the church at the end of sex education week. We're told never ever to tell the younger pupils. It comes as a shock but you know it's true when the vicar tells you. After that, it's not really mentioned much."

In this day and age, I was surprised the younger generation was so keen to keep up traditions where elsewhere they were dying off. I couldn't help but ponder if the church in my own neighbourhood had promoted oral sex it would still be open and not a trendy coffee shop.

"It's when wake up on your 18th birthday that it really hits you that the clock is ticking. I had loads of guys in the pub last night offer me some practise which I thought was sweet but I turned them down."

It struck me that with such an open attitude towards sex, it wasn't surprising they didn't plaster the ritual all over social media. It was easy to imagine sexual predators descending on the village to gawp or worse. It was a hallowed time for the village and not a tourist attraction.

Mrs Page nipped into the kitchen and brought out two plump carrots and informed me the Welsh word was 'moron', although I didn't speak Welsh it was one of those words you quickly learn on childhood trips. I looked at the fat carrots well aware they weren't destined for a nice bowl of cawl. Mrs Page passed me one and asked me to pop it into my mouth until it poked the soft palate at the back.

I wasn't expecting to be put on the spot and as a straight married 50-year-old man I hadn't exactly contemplated orally satisfying a root vegetable. But how could I refuse when sitting opposite a teen who was soon to perform oral sex for real in public? With two women staring at me, never before had felt so self-conscious about putting a carrot in my mouth. The second it hit the back of my throat I began uncontrollably coughing. The mother smiled and asked if my wife gagged our first time. I began to wonder just how much practice she had before we met.

Ella had a go and faired little better, amusing as it was I couldn't envisage playing poke your tonsils with a carrot with my own daughter. Perhaps I wasn't the good father I thought I was. But as Ella grew more competent with each go and I watched the carrot disappear between her soft young lips I couldn't help but feel a little aroused and more grateful I wasn't watching my daughter practice. I asked how Ella thought she'd feel taking a penis in her mouth rather than a carrot. It almost felt like I was proposing an offer.

"I've heard he's got a dick like a water cannon. I'm not squeamish but I want to be prepared for when he blesses me with his semen."

Mrs Page added, "Semen hasn't got a desirable taste, that's why you don't get tubs of it to dip your chips in. Takes a bit of getting used to, especially the texture."

Ella continued to practice, sliding the carrot back and forth with growing ease that would put Bugs Bunny to shame. Mrs Page disappeared into the kitchen for another cup of tea, should Mrs. Page quit drinking then India's economy would collapse. She returned with a teapot in one hand and a carton of egg whites.

"You probably don't know this being a man. But you can buy cartons of egg whites in shops these days. They're crap for meringues, they'll always collapse. Women only buy them to make artificial semen."

I'd seen it in our local supermarket fridge but never in a shopping basket. It got me thinking about how someone once pointed out supermarkets sell tonnes of boxes of tissues when so few have runny noses. Perhaps Mrs. Page had a point. She poured a size glug into a jug, squeezed a little lemon and seasoned generously with salt before giving it a little stir. It didn't take Sherlock to guess what was coming next.

I'd taken alcoholic shots in bars many times, yet knowing what that gooey concoction was meant to replicate I was in no hurry to knock it back. How hard could it be? Most women gobble it down without complaint. I picked up the glass and five seconds later regretted not having a tissue at the ready. Ella grimaced and as she swallowed came close to retching her guts up but held firm. Her mother advised practising every hour. I conveniently forgot.

Ella was undeterred by her mother's creation. It may have all been fun and games at this stage but I was concerned she hadn't fully grasped the big day was a sex act with a man and not an egg and carrot game. I asked what she knew of the man she'd be performing oral on.

"He's in his 40s and Bethan says he's 10 inches long but everyone else says 9 at best. When he comes it's like a champagne bottle gone off."

I was more interested in what she knew of the man behind the penis. Apart from his claimed lineage to Owen and that he was a dairy farmer she knew little of the man. Even Mrs. Page, a woman who knew everyone could only really add that he had a dog called Scamp and he judges the flowershow. One couldn't help but feel if the alleged line was ever broken the villagers would simply repair it with a volunteer.

The following day Bethan taught Ella how to position herself for the big day. According to Mrs Page, there are three options. One may squat down and perch their bottom on their heels, you may kneel on both knees or just one. There was no right way but you were expected to lower in a ladylike fashion and not like a sack of potatoes. The worst possible thing was to stumble and grab hold of him for support.

It wasn't long before I was roped in to help. Mr Page held a carrot as if it were an erect phallus against his groin. Bethan squatted down with perfect form and performed a short oral demonstration before effortlessly rising to her feet. I wasn't entirely comfortable with the borderline incestual nature of the demo. When asked to hold the carrot for Ella, doing so felt the lesser of two evils. I watched her lower herself in front of me over and over, trying different techniques and pleasuring my vegetable. I told myself it was better than going down on her father, it still felt wrong but at least it was only a carrot.

I lay in bed that night, questioning whether I really wanted to attend the ritual tomorrow. I could make my excuses and leave but over my short stay had become accustomed to the family. My thoughts were disturbed by a tap on the door followed by a head peaking round. It was the dog, I breathed a sigh of relief and tried to get some sleep.

The house was abuzz with activity as they prepared for Ella's big day. To the uninitiated, it looked as if the family were dressed to attend a christening. Mrs Page wore a conservative white dress and hat while Mr Page struggled to look comfortable in a dark blue suit that his wife constantly adjusted. Ella looked innocent in a chic lemon short-cut dress that hinted nothing of what lay ahead.

The first order of the day was the weekly church service which ended with a reminder to keep children away from the village square because of an escaped venomous snake. I wondered how many weird and wonderful excuses he had come up with over the years.

The platform in the square had been scattered with wildflowers by local well-wishers and a crowd began to gather. The elderly were ushered to the front while some burly-looking men stood guard up the street to prevent curious kids or tourists from seeing. I pondered how many times I'd been forced on a detour due to alleged roadworks or flooding, Was something else going on in these little villages?