A gentle mist lay in the valley as the sun rose between the hills that looked down over the village. As it crept steadily higher on that September morning, its rays struck the Big Stone that stood upright at the woodland edge of the Top Field, making it seem to glow as it absorbed the new day’s light.

Down in the village, the same first light awakened Alice as she lay dreaming. Usually, she slept until the rays of the sun were high enough to strike the wall opposite her bed, but she had slept fitfully that night, and now lay listening to the sound of her brother breathing, and the first twittering of the birds in the tree outside the window.

She had been looking forward to this day for much of her life, with a mixture of excitement and apprehension. Her birthday, September the 15th, was barely a week before the Feast, which was always held on the second of the two dates in the year when night and day were the same length: once in March, when the village was emerging from winter; and again now, at the time of harvest and preparation for the cold months to come.

As soon as she was old enough to enjoy the festivities, her mother had told her that one day she would be the village’s Harvest Queen. It was an honour bestowed on the girl whose sixteenth birthday fell closest before the day of the Feast, so it had been easy to work out that one day it would be her. Every year since then she had watched and enjoyed the rituals of the day, knowing that in a decreasing number of years it would be her turn to take that special role.

And now the day had come. She felt her body tingling with excitement, and hitched up her rough gown to place her hand between her legs, burrowing through the dark mass of rough hairs, using her fingers to touch and dip into the wet little entrance to her cunny. Her maidenhead was still intact, but that didn’t stop her playing with the little folds of flesh, stimulating the wetness that dribbled out onto the rough straw mattress on which she slept.

She watched as the room slowly became lighter as the sun rose on that special day. Her older brother began to stir in his bed, and she saw him push off the blanket and sit up, letting out a loud fart as he did so. His tunic was bunched around his waist and she could see the curve of his half-erect prick between his legs as he yawned and idly scratched his balls. Ignoring her as usual, he went out and she heard him muttering to his parents in the other room.

Alice knew it would soon be time for her to get up, and shortly she heard the sound of whispering and giggling outside. The other village girls were waiting for her, ready for the day’s events to begin.

Her mother stepped into the doorway.

“Come, Alice, they’re ready for you now,” she said with a smile.

Alice pushed off the rough blanket and got up from her bed. Her two best friends, Margery and Agnes, came inside, giggling, and took hold of her rough gown. She bent over and stuck out her arms to help them pull it off over her head. This left her naked, and her friends now escorted her to the door and took her outside to where the other girls were waiting. Others of her neighbours had risen early to see this first part of the day’s festivities, and they looked approvingly at her bare body; her large breasts and firm thighs and arse the signs of a strong, healthy woman.

Surrounded by giggling girls, the naked Alice was harried down the path past the small village church to the stream. When they reached the pool under the old willow, she made the traditional attempts to resist, before they pushed her into the cold water with a splash. As she emerged gasping and dripping, water running in rivulets off her bare breasts, her friends waded out into the stream and with scraps of cloth washed the worst of the accumulated grime from her body. She enjoyed the feeling of their hands on her breasts, and was happy to allow her friend Margery take special care when washing the area of her cunny. Margery’s fingers felt even better than her own when they rubbed against the hard little bud between her legs.

Once they judged her to be sufficiently clean, the girls dragged Alice back to the stream bank. She stood there, water dripping off her and pooling around her feet, while they produced the traditional Harvest Queen’s robe, preserved carefully from year to year for this one special day. Decorated with patterns of flowers and fruit, together with strange swirling shapes and symbols that non-one really understood, it was rather a tight fit for Alice. Margery had problems trying to lace the front across Alice’s chest, and in the end it didn’t meet in the middle at all, with only the laces themselves stopping her copious breasts from spilling out. The girls giggled at the sight.

Finally, one of the girls held out a circlet of wild flowers, freshly picked that morning. Alice bent down while this was placed on her head, and adjusted so it sat firmly over her hair.

By the time they got back to the village, more of the villagers had gathered outside the small church. The young priest, Father Hugh, was there in his best robes, holding the church’s aspergillum of holy water. He had been in the parish for fewer than nine months (his elderly predecessor having succumbed to the cold during the previous bitter winter), so this would be his first Harvest celebration, but he had been well briefed by the churchwardens regarding his specific duties.

He smiled at Alice, shy but welcoming, and took his place behind her in line. And so the villagers set out, up the single dirty village street between the rows of cottages and along the rough hedgerows towards the Top Field. At last they reached the highest point of the village lands, up against the edge of the wood. There they gathered round the Big Stone, where Father Hugh sprinkled it with holy water from the aspergillum and spoke a few words of Latin. The villagers crossed themselves and muttered their own equally unintelligible invocations.

Alice then stepped forward, and one of the girls unlaced the front of her robe, pulling it away from her breasts so they hung free and bare. The warm sun felt good on them, and her pink nipples were already hard. She stepped up to the stone and pressed her breasts against it, putting her arms as far around it as she was able. The stone was almost unnaturally warm, and its rough surface felt good against her bare skin. After a few moments, she stood back and her dress was laced back across her breasts.

As the procession moved on, the villagers surreptitiously laid their own offerings around the Big Stone; wild flowers, hedgerow fruits, scraps of rabbit fur and even small pieces of meat.

The procession progressed around the boundary of the village, getting more and more raucous as it went. Although it was still before midday, some of the men and women had brought jugs of strong rough cider and home-made beer for refreshment, and there was much rowdy laughter as one of the younger men, unable to hold his cider, spewed copiously into the hedge.

Several more times during the procession, they paused at smaller boundary stones and there was more sprinkling of water, stone-hugging by a bare-breasted Alice, and deposition of harvest offerings. Any little boy who ventured too close to one of the boundary stones to peep at Alice’s breasts had his head ceremoniously knocked against it, the knocks getting harder as the day went on.

Eventually, they arrived back at the Big Stone, everyone a bit tired and many of them already drunk. One last time, Alice bared her breasts and hugged the stone, even warmer now. The procession then descended back to the village, where the more drunk participants lay down to sleep it off before the evening’s main celebrations began.

Alice took the opportunity to take a short rest; fortunately, her key role allowed her to escape the jobs of preparation that would otherwise have come her way. She was well aware that every time she had bared her large breasts the men had craned forward to get a good look, and this had only served to arouse her further. She felt underneath her robe to see how wet she already was.

While the procession had been doing its rounds, those who had not followed it had been preparing the recently-built tithe barn for the evening feast, dragging rough wooden chairs and tables from the nearest cottages to provide seating for the more prominent villagers, and piling up sheaves of straw for the rest.

As the sun began to go down, the villagers assembled at the barn. By the time Alice arrived, led in by the girls who had acted as attendants all day, the food and drink had been brought in and placed ready on the tables. Prominent among the arrangements was a kind of throne of straw at the head of the table, which was to be Alice’s place during the feast. Sheaves of what had been bound together roughly to form a kind of seat, and her attendants led her to it and sat her down. Father Hugh, now wearing just a plain black robe, then stepped forward and pronounced a benediction over the food.

The feast then began. There was freshly-baked bread and cheese, with pies of rabbit and game. A pig had been slaughtered and roasted, so there was plenty for everyone, as well as ample cider and ale. Alice was served with the choicest morsels, and her earthenware mug of cider was kept well filled. Even so, she ate and drank a lot less than most of those present, wanting to keep a clear head for the later part of the evening. She knew that some Harvest Queens had drunk so much that they could recall very little of the later parts of the evening, but Alice was keen to keep a clear head so she could enjoy it all.

There must have been almost a hundred people in the barn, adults and children. The Harvest Feast was probably the best meal many of them would get all year, and some people seemed to be trying to eat and drink enough to last them all winter. But at last the pace of consumption began to slow down. The mothers started to gather up the younger children and shepherd them off to bed, where they were told to remain with the threat of severe punishment if they moved before their parents returned.

Now it was time for the most sacred part of the day’s rituals to begin.

Alice wiped her mouth and got up from her throne of straw. She walked over to the centre of the barn floor, where Johanna, who had been the Harvest Queen the year before, was standing waiting for her. Johanna embraced her with a smile, before starting to unlace the front of the gown that was doing an increasingly poor job of keeping Alice’s breasts under control. Alice signed with relief as she felt the pressure released from them, no longer held in place by the laced bodice. Once the laces had been loosed enough, Johanna slipped the gown off Alice’s shoulders, letting it drop to the ground. Again, Alice was naked, apart from the now slightly drooping wreath of flowers round her forehead. A murmur of appreciation went round the villagers; admiring the sight of her fresh young body.

The chairs and tables had been dragged away from the roughly-bound seat of straw, and Johanna led Alice back and placed her on it. The straw pricked and tickled her bare arse. With a whisper, Johanna showed her how she was expected to sit – parting her legs, exposing the pink folds. Johanna then leant over and parted Alice’s soft lips, making sure that those closest to her could see the thin fold of skin that guarded the entrance, showing that no man had yet had her. Alice’s pink flesh was glistening with the juices that seemed so naturally to form there.

“Why Alice, your cunt is wet already,” whispered Johanna. “I hardly need to prepare you.”

Carefully, she removed the circlet of flowers from Alice’s head. Dismantling it carefully, she placed the flowers one by one in Alice’s cunny hair, pushing the stalks into the wiry bush. Then, with her fingers she caressed the little hard bud at the top of Alice’s slit, making Alice’s heart beat faster as she felt the liquid inside her cunny well up even more than before. At last, Johanna stepped back, admiring her handiwork, and casually stroked one of Alice’s large breasts, making the dark pink nipple dimple slightly. She then took her place in the crowd next to her husband, her role in the ritual complete.

There was one more part of the preparations yet to make. The villagers respectfully cleared a path for Father Hugh, who was now holding a plain earthenware bowl full of holy water, into which he dipped his fingers as he stood over Alice’s naked body. He flicked the water three times over Alice: once on her face, once on her breasts, and finally once on the pink wet flesh between her open legs. Muttering some unintelligible words in Latin as he did so, he crossed himself before stepping back into the crowd.

For what seemed like a long while, Alice lay there, exposed and naked, her legs still stretched apart, the only movement the gentle heaving of her breasts as she breathed steadily, waiting.

All of a sudden, the doors of the barn crashed open. Although everyone had been expecting it, they jumped even so. In the doorway stood a strange and somewhat sinister figure; human legs sticking out the bottom, but a body and head constructed mostly of straw. The head was a strange combination of pig and cockerel, with a round snout but a green crest of branches, while the body was fat and apparently blessed with two bulbous straw breasts. It most definitely was not female, however, as its most striking feature was a huge phallus that projected from the body, beautifully constructed from straw and interlaced with flowers similar to those in Alice’s bush.

The audience laughed as the creature cavorted around, shaking its monstrous phallus and trying to push it against the older ladies, who protested (but not very hard). The other men kept trying to direct it towards where Alice lay, but it seemed intent on assaulting all the other women first.

But, almost by accident, it found its way over to her. Alice couldn’t help smiling as it pranced around her, its straw phallus bobbing around wildly. Then it turned its attention directly to her, and began to nudge at her naked body, rubbing its head against her legs. She winced slightly as a sharp piece of straw left a thin scratch up her thigh, which started to well with blood, but otherwise she was getting quite excited.

Then the creature stepped back and stood still. Two young men ran up behind it, and began to fiddle with some straps under the arms. The costume seemed to split in two and fall forwards, and Alice realised she had been holding her breath, wondering who was inside.

It was Adam, son of the village blacksmith. His bronzed body was glistening with sweat, but it wasn’t that which drew Alice’s eyes. It was his big erect prick, rearing up from his crotch, as big and thick as one of the hammers he used at his father’s forge. As his two friends gather up the costume and pushed it to one side, Adam stepped forward towards her. Alice opened her legs a little more, showing Adam that she was ready for him. She was worried that her cunny would be too small to take it, but she sensed that it would be wrong to show any fear or hesitation.

Adam certainly wasn’t hesitating. His prick seemed to get even bigger as he took hold of it and knelt down on the straw between Alice’s legs. She smiled at him in welcome, and he grinned back, a big daft grin across his whole face. The round purple helmet of his knob nudged against her cunny, smearing itself with her juices. Slowly he pushed it forward, parting her folds and stretching her entrance. She bit her lip as she felt herself stretch to take him, her wet folds seeming almost to hug his thickness, sucking it in.

He pushed deeper, but now his prick came up against the fold of skin that protected Alice’s maidenhead. Alice knew, and Adam knew, and all the villagers watching knew, that it was going to have to break.

To distract her from the pain that was about to come, Adam leant over and kissed Alice on the lips. Their mouths melted together, every nerve end alive, and she felt his hand on her breast, fingers stroking her nipple, making it rise up at his touch. Thus distracted, she felt one sharp stab of pain as he thrust his prick hard against her maidenhead and it split, letting him at last into the virgin depths of her. She cried out as the skin ripped, and there was a murmur of satisfaction from the crowd. She felt an additional gush of liquid as the blood of her maidenhead mingled with the juices of her cunny, swirled together by Adam’s prick as he now began to thrust it properly in and out of her.

Alice blinked away the tears of pain and began to feel the pleasure of Adam’s prick inside her. Instinctively, she began to move with him, arching her pelvis to meet his thrusts. She let her hand slide down to the hard bud buried in its fold of flesh, knowing that by touching it she could increase her own pleasure. Her breasts were bouncing in rhythm, and for a moment she worried that the straw throne might give way under Adam’s increasingly vigorous thrusts.

She looked round and saw that some of the men were rubbing themselves through their tunics, their own hard pricks straining against the material. One man had actually pulled his tunic up already and was clasping his thick stubby prick in his hand, red-faced and excited at the sight of her fresh young naked body being fucked in front of his eyes.

Adam was thrusting harder now, going very deep inside her. It was strange to feel something so big and so warm moving inside her, filling the hole for the first time, completing her. She could hear the slurp-squelch, slurp-squelch, slurp-squelch sounds as he pulled out, then speared back in. He began to make a strange gasping rasp in his throat, and Alice could sense that his climax was near.

“Oh Adam,” she whispered, as with a last thrust he held his prick inside her as his seed spurted out, splashing up to the very top of her passageway. He held himself there until he was fully spent, flooding her with his seed. At last he pulled out of her, still hard, his prick coated in a pink frothy mixture of blood, seed, and female juices. Alice looked down and could see a similar mixture smeared all over her inner thighs. Most of the little flowers in her bush had fallen out, but a few crushed petals still clung to her curly nest of hairs.

It was now time for the second part of the ritual to begin, and once again Father Hugh stepped forward. As the village’s religious leader, it was his right – his duty, even – to be the first to make his own harvest Offering to Alice’s body.

He pulled up his plain black robe, and Alice saw that he was already erect. His prick was thin but very long. He looked embarrassed, as if he wasn’t sure if what he was doing was right, but his hard prick told the true story of his arousal by the scene he had just witnessed. He stood over Alice and pointed his prick at her round firm breasts, pumping it with his hand. Quite soon, his face contorted in ecstasy, and he ejaculated over Alice’s body, loop after loop of thick, warm, creamy seed. The first loop went over her right breast, coating the pink nipple, while the second went even further, splashing across her cheek. Several more struck her body before he was finished and ran down to form a white pool in the cavity between her breasts.

“Well done, Father,” said a voice, as the priest wiped his prick clean on the edge of his robe. A good first Offering from the priest was an excellent omen. His predecessor had in latter years been able to summon up little more than a brief dribble, but this was hopeful for the future. Father Hugh would find his tithes especially good this year, with plenty of extra gifts to thank him for his virility – something that would undoubtedly help him to accept this curious anomaly in the normal rites of God’s Church.

Now that Father Hugh had performed his part, it was the turn of the other men of the village. The hierarchy of the Offering to the Harvest Queen had been worked out over many, many years, and was as clearly laid out in the minds of the villagers as any of the priest’s litanies. The Lord in whose manor the remote village lay would by common agreement have taken precedent even over the priest, if he had ever visited the village on the day of the Offering, but it was many years since he had done so. It was suspected that he would have liked to have been there, but was prevented by his wife, a notorious shrew.

So, as Alice lay back, breathing in the scent of Father Hugh’s seed as it ran down her cheek, she saw Gregory the miller and his son Edward step forward, their pricks in their hands. She was familiar with the sight of Edward’s organ: he was of similar age to her, and she had watched while Agnes had played with it, both the girls giggling as she rubbed it until it grew hard and he spilt his seed over her hand. Alice had wanted to join in these games, but they all knew that future Harvest Queens were expected to refrain from excessive sexual activity before their time came. But now it was her turn, and she looked forward to receiving Edward’s seed on her outstretched body.

Alice could see her mother watching with a smile of pride as Gregory stood over her and pumped on his engorged prick. The purple head seemed to swell, then a big loop shot out of the end and splashed over her left breast. She watched as more seed splattered onto her tummy, a last few dribbles ending up in her cunny bush. Edward stood close, his prick close to her cheek, and smiled at her as he ejaculated from close range, making sure her face was well coated. Alice opened her mouth and let a few warm salty rivulets run into her mouth, but she knew it was more important to get as thick a covering as possible over her unclothed body.

Two more of the senior villagers came up next, rubbing at their pricks before ejaculating over her thighs and cunny. The younger of the two was still virile, and his seed was thick and creamy, sticking to her thighs in big lumps. The other man’s was thin and watery, but there was a great deal of it and it flew a long way, right up the length of her body and onto her face.

Next, Alice saw one of the more important farmers come next with his son. The boy seemed to be having difficulty getting his prick hard, and Alice could tell his father was angry that his son was shaming the family. Feeling sorry for the boy, she beckoned him over to stand by her. Leaning over, she took his limp prick in her mouth and sucked and licked at it, enjoying the tangy taste. Very soon she felt it swell up very nicely in her mouth, and by the time she slipped it out it was almost slipping down her throat, making her gag. Now that it was erect it was very big, and the boy gratefully stroked his prick until with a cry he ejaculated, huge quantities of seed coating both of Alice’s breasts. The father, who had just spurted all over Alice’s stomach, looked pleased and relieved, and put his arm round his son’s shoulders as they stepped back into the crowd.

And so they kept coming forward, family by family, sometimes singly, sometimes in pairs, the order determined by their position in the complex village hierarchy. It was only a small village, but even so there were usually around thirty men present over the age of sixteen. Indeed, it was surprising how many itinerant craftsmen and peddlers found their way to the village on the day of the Harvest Offering. They were made welcome, as their Offerings were valuable too. Indeed, this year the numbers were augmented by four foot-soldiers, travelling back to their own village from London, who brought news of the imprisonment in the Tower of King Richard by Henry Bolingbroke and his supporters. In return for their news, they had gladly accepted the invitation to remain for the Harvest Feast, especially when told of the unusual nature of this particular village’s festivities.

The pricks were varied in size: thick ones and thin ones, long ones and short ones. The best were both long and thick, and Alice thought about how each of them would feel up inside her no longer virgin cunt. Steadily, more and more loops of seed covered Alice’s body. She felt powerful; thrilled as each fresh Offering landed on her. The more that was produced, the better for her, and for the next year’s harvest. She knew that the men were attracted by her large firm breasts, which made them produce greater loads of seed. For days, even weeks, in advance, they would refrain from sexual activity to ensure that they were able to produce the maximum possible quantity of seed.

Even so, some of the men (mainly those had drunk to excess) had trouble getting their pricks hard, and these Alice helped, either with her hand or by taking them in her mouth. Not one of them failed to respond to her treatment, or to contribute their seed.

Moreover, Alice could see that many of the women were as aroused as the men. Johanna’s husband has his hand inside her tunic and was caressing her breast, while she had her hand up the front of it and clearly had her fingers buried deep inside her own cunny. Some of the other men, now that they had spent their seed on Alice, were caressing their wives, and one woman had her husband’s still-hard prick in her mouth.

Finally the last man, a poor peddler with little goods to offer but had an enormous prick, had spent his hot thick seed on Alice’s body. The rich scent of fresh seed hung around her, as it ran down her sides and legs. Her face, breasts and cunny had taken especially heavy loads, but loops and whorls of it streaked across her arms and legs as well, with quite a lot in her hair. The earlier emissions were cooling now, and she felt sorry that there was no more to come. But already the older women were whispering that they had never seen a Harvest Queen so coated in seed before, and what a good sign it was.

Slowly and carefully, Alice raised her naked body from the straw. She could feel the seed start to run down her body, forming droplets from her nose, chin and breasts. Two of the other girls came forward and took her by the hands and led her out of the barn, the crowd of villagers parting to let them pass. Slowly she walked, trying not to lose too much of the seed as she moved.

It was night when they emerged from the barn, but the air was still very warm and an almost full moon illuminated the path through the village. Alice and the two girls walked up between the parallel rows of small cottages, following the same route as the morning’s procession, until the reached the Big Stone.

Here they halted. Carefully, they laid the harvest robe down on the ground by the Stone, and Alice sat down on it, her back against the Stone, facing east. The warm air was drying some of the seed on her body, the dried flakes wrinkling her skin where it still stuck to her. She knew it would be several hours before the first rays of the rising sun struck her naked body and she would be free to return to the village, but it was a warm night and she enjoyed the feeling of being naked in the open air, her body coated in the harvest Offerings. The scent still wafted around her as she rubbed her fingers through the sticky mess in her cunny hairs.

She was pleased to find that she could now push her fingers right up inside her cunt-hole, and although the torn flesh of her broken maidenhead was still tender she felt her body tingle with pleasure. Alice rubbed at her hard little bud until she felt the wave of ecstasy engulf her. Arching her pelvis, she cried out with joy.

Then at last tiredness overcame her, and Alice slept.

The air was cooler when she awoke, the glow of dawn visible over the horizon. She sat up and looked at her naked body. A last remaining pool of seed still lay in the dimple of her belly-button, and an early-rising ladybird was trapped in it, struggling to escape from the sticky trap. Alice gently dipped her finger in, freeing the little creature before licking off the sticky liquid.

As the first rays rose over the hills, Alice parted her legs one last time and opened her cunny with her fingers, showing the sun her pink young flesh. She felt it begin to warm her, drying the final thick gobbets of seed. Then at last, the ritual complete, she slipped the robe back over her head and walked down the hill to the village.

She was looking forward to seeing Adam again.

I have taken the liberty of moving to September a version of the “beating the bounds” ceremony from its more traditional position in May, around Ascension Day or Rogation-tide. The more sexual details of this ritual – and of the harvest “offering” itself – are sadly just the product of my fevered imagination.