The Ascension - Chapter 12 - Enter Ingvar

Jonas meets the local Breedmaster, setting the stage for the next phase of his journey.

Jonas was greeted by the scent of roasting boar fat and fermented cabbage as he made his way into the next town, small and quaint, along the southern border of his homeland. After the events of the crowded market, he preferred to venture into a smaller town. As he entered between the wooden palisades blackened by generations of torch smoke, he heard a commotion in the center of the town where the fertility house was located. A crowd had gathered in the square, their murmurs rising like hornets disturbed from a nest. 

Between the shifting bodies, Jonas caught glimpses of bare flesh gleaming with sweat—two warriors locked in combat in front of the local fertility house, their bodies painted with mud and old scars. One was a towering, naked and pale Norseman with a dark brown beard, braided and thick. His features severe, almost as sharp as his cerulean eyes. His massive cock erect and leaking precum, each brutal swing of his axe. The other was handsome, leaner, with medium brown hair, cerulean eyes, pale skin, and also naked as the day he was born. His movements liquid as he dodged, a curved blade flashing between his thighs toward the Norseman's vulnerable groin.

Jonas' fingers twitched toward his own belt, his cock stiffening beneath his weathered loin cloth not at the sight of battle, but at the glint of sunlight on steel—another gelding knife, hungry for cock flesh.

The handsome warrior twisted suddenly—not away from the Norseman's axe, but into it—letting the blade sink into his shoulder so he could drive his own curved dagger upward in one brutal motion. The serrated edge caught the Norseman's sack mid-swing, parting skin with a barely audible “SLICK.” The larger man bellowed as his left testicle bulged grotesquely through the fresh wound, its veined surface gleaming like a wet plum in the midday sun. His scream choked off when the handsome warrior's other hand closed around the dangling gonad, twisting sharply until the spermatic cord snapped with a sound like a dried branch breaking.

The victorious warrior knelt in the mud between his enemy's spread thighs, breathing hard as he surveyed his handiwork. The Norseman's remaining testicle quivered in its torn sack like a trapped animal, its companion still clutched in the smaller warrior's fist—a pulsing, blood-slick prize already beginning to darken at the severed end. Without ceremony, he brought the gonad to his lips and bit down, the membrane bursting between his teeth in a flood of iron-rich fluid that painted his chin crimson.

Jonas exhaled sharply through his nose, his cock throbbing against his belt as the crowd's murmurs swelled around him. The scent of blood and ruptured nut meat hung thick in the air, mingling with woodsmoke and the musk of unwashed bodies. His fingers brushed the weight of Theseus' severed manhood at his hip—still warm, still heavy—as he stepped forward into the crowd.

The giant warrior staggered upright, his remaining gonad swinging wildly in its torn sack like a pendulum gone mad. The smaller warrior moved with the fluid grace of a hunting cat—one bare foot hooking behind the Norseman's ankle while the other slammed upward between his thighs. The impact lifted the giant clean off his feet, his scream cutting off abruptly as his own weight drove his remaining testicle straight onto the warrior's upturned sole. A wet “POP” echoed through the square as the giant's last gonad ruptured against the smaller warrior's instep. The orb flattened grotesquely against the arch of his foot before exploding in a spray of pink chunks, its fibrous outer membrane yielding with a sickening squelch.

Jonas felt something warm and gelatinous slap against his thigh—a tangle of pink seminiferous tubules clinging to his skin. His tongue flicked out instinctively, catching the stray morsel before it could slide away. The taste flooded his mouth—the primal essence of a warrior's vitality. His legacy has ended. Hopefully he bore children before his manhood's untimely demise.

The victorious fighter rose from the mess, his grin widening as he noticed Jonas licking his lips. Behind him, the giant let out a wet groan before collapsing into the mud, his ruined sack gaping open like a second mouth. His spermatic cords swayed in the cold breeze, dripping concentrated seed onto the trampled earth.

Jonas stood motionless, letting the warrior's gaze travel the length of his body. Skin as smooth and pale as cream except for the dusting of freckles across his shoulders and nose from summers spent under the open sky. The sharp angles of his hips and smoothness of his chest glistened in the sun. His ribs showed slightly when he inhaled, his muscles toned and well-defined. Handsome and athletic, and able to make maidens swoon with his smile.

But most impressive was the beast between Jonas’s thighs, his cock hung thick and heavy, veined along the underside, the head ruddy with a bead of silver precum at the tip. His balls were swayed in the breeze, the weight of them undeniable. 

The handsome stranger's nostrils flared as he stepped closer, his curved blade dripping onto Jonas' boots. His tongue darted out to catch a stray drop of the giant's essence clinging to his chin. "You smell of Greek," he murmured, the words curling like smoke between them. His free hand came to rest on the weight swinging from Jonas' belt—the unmistakable shape of Theseus' severed member, now stiffening again in the crisp morning air.

Jonas didn't flinch when the warrior's fingers traced the veined length, nor when they dipped into the severed end where thick ropes of congealed seed still clung. He merely stood as the stranger brought those sticky fingers to his own lips, sucking them clean with a moan that made Jonas' freshly-regenerated cock twitch against his thigh. "Succulent, clearly of noble pedigree," the warrior gaze locked onto Jonas's azure eyes. "How did you come upon your prey, warrior?" Jonas smirked. "The fool challenged my prowess and resolve, so I took what was most precious to him."

The warrior's grin widened—sharp as the blade still dripping between them—and Jonas finally noticed the bronze pin gleaming at his shoulder: a rearing stallion with oversized genitals, the mark of a Breedmaster. "A worthy trophy," he murmured, thumbing the weight of Theseus' member appreciatively. His breath hitched as Jonas' fingers closed around his wrist—not to stop him, but to guide his hand lower, toward the pulsing heat between Jonas' own thighs. "And clearly, you've not lost your appetite for conquest." 

"My name is Ingvar and I am the town's Breedmaster. Like the Matrons of the western lands, we Breedmasters oversee these land's fertility houses," the warrior continued, pressing closer until their cocks brushed—one hardened by violence, the other by victory. "We ensure strong lineages continue." His free hand gestured toward a timber-framed building where pregnant women lounged in the shade, their bellies round with the Breedmaster's seed. "Only the proven may take the title. Tonight, you'll dine at my table and share how you felled such impressive prey." 

Jonas exhaled sharply as the Breedmaster's calloused thumb found the slit of his cock, smearing precum in slow circles. Around them, the crowd's murmurs rose again—not at the gelded giant writhing in the mud, but at the way Jonas' hips jerked forward, his balls tightening visibly beneath the Breedmaster's knowing touch. "And is that all the Breedmasters do?" Jonas growled. Ingvar chuckled as Jonas's eyes narrowed.

Ingvar leaned in until their foreheads nearly touched, his breath hot against Jonas' lips. "We also geld men who spill unworthy seed in our halls," he murmured. His fingers traced the vein on Jonas' shaft—a barely-there touch that made the Norseman's thighs tremble. "Any warrior who tries to claim women not meant for him... or challenges a Breedmaster's rule..." His hand slid lower, cupping Jonas' heavy sac with possessive familiarity and gave it a playful squeeze. The threat hung unspoken between them, thick as the scent of spilt seed and ruptured testicles at their feet.

Jonas' grin turned feral as his fingers tightened around Ingvar's wrist—not to stop him, but to press the Breedmaster's palm harder against his twitching balls. "And how many would-be challengers swing from your rafters?" he taunted, rolling a his hips to make his cock slap wetly against Ingvar's thigh. The motion sent a fresh bead of precum rolling down his length, glistening in the midday sun like liquid silver and onto the Breedmaster's hand. Ingvar twitched at the feeling of thick and warm beads of precum trickling down his hands. 

Ingvar's grinned as he jerked his chin toward the fertility house's timbered eaves. Jonas followed his gaze to where dozens of phalluses of varied length and thickness, dangled like grotesque ornaments, swaying gently in the breeze. Each was pierced through with an iron hook, the skin leathery from seasons spent baking in the sun. "Enough to decorate every beam," Ingvar playfully responded, his fingers tightening warningly around Jonas' sack. "The small ones go to the dogs."

Jonas exhaled sharply through his nose—not at the threat, but at the way Ingvar's thumb caressed the length of his manhood, sending electric sparks up his spine. The Breedmaster's calloused fingers mapped the taut skin of his scrotum with practiced precision. "I've no quarrel with your rule," Jonas growled, his cock twitching against Ingvar's thigh. "Only with empty beds."

The Breedmaster chuckled darkly, his free hand gesturing toward a group of well-muscled thralls hauling water from the well. Their loincloths did little to hide the way their cocks stiffened at Jonas's gaze—some thick and veined, others slender and leaking. "Breed whoever you please, warrior," Ingvar purred, twisting Jonas's balls just shy of pain. "So long as their seed strengthens our line... or entertain our men."

Jonas's grin turned wolfish as he rocked forward, letting the Breedmaster feel the full weight of his arousal. Ingvar released Jonas's balls and inspected his band, slick with precum and the Norse prince's musk. The Breedmaster raised his fingers to his lips, tongue darting out to lick them clean with slow, deliberate strokes—each flick catching silver strands of Jonas's essence stretching between skin and saliva. His cerulean eyes never left the Norse Prince’s face as he swallowed with an audible gulp. "Come," he murmured, wiping the last traces from his chin with the back of his wrist. A jerk of his head toward the longhouse sent thralls scrambling to clear a path through the lingering crowd.

Jonas moved to follow, but Ingvar stopped mid-stride—so abruptly that the Norse prince nearly collided with the broad expanse of his sweat-slick back. The Breedmaster turned his head just enough for Jonas to catch the cruel twist of his lips. "One last order of business," he purred, fingers flexing around the hilt of his curved blade. Jonas watched, cock twitching against his thigh, as Ingvar stalked toward the fallen giant now barely moving in the mud, warm breath barely present and fading.

The wounded Norseman's ruined sack gaped open like a bloodied maw, his severed cords glistening pink in the sunlight. Ingvar's bare foot came down on the giant's massive chest, pinning him flat as he grasped the warrior's flaccid cock—still thick even in its softened state—between thumb and forefinger. With one brutal yank, the Breedmaster tore the member free from its root with a wet, sucking pop of parting flesh. Skin stretched impossibly thin before splitting like overripe fruit, the urethra snapping clean as a bowstring. Blood slowly oozed from the wound, evidence that circulation was present but weak. 

Jonas' breath hitched as the Breedmaster held his prize aloft—the severed length dangling limply from his fist, its veins still twitching with residual nerve impulses. Sunlight caught the glistening of the plump glans. Ingvar's fingers squeezed experimentally, milking a final thick rope of seed mixed with blood from the tip. A thrall humbly presented the Breedmaster a hammer and an iron nail which Ingvar took. With three mighty blows, he nailed the fallen warrior's hefty former phallus onto the eaves of the fertility house.

The Breedmaster wiped his crimson-stained palm down the giant's twitching thigh before turning back to Jonas, his smile sharp as the blade still dripping at his side. "Alright now we're done," he smiled as he signaled the Norse prince to follow him back to the inn. The men made their way toward the inn as the sun started to set.

TLDR: After the events of the market, Jonas preferred a smaller town to venture, one with less drama. He sees two warriors dueling and he meets the victor, Breedmaster Ingvar. A Breedmaster's job is to oversee the land's fertility houses so only the strongest lineages continue. They also geld men who dare challenge the Breedmaster's rule or those who try to fertilize a woman not meant for him. Ingvar invites Jonas to his inn in the village.