Maiden Duel Chapter 6 – First Evening as Tentboy (Tribal, Brutal)
**Disclaimer**: These stories are a work of fiction. All of the characters depicted are at least 18 years old. None of the events depicted have occurred as they are depicted.
**Intro:** This story concept is based on real tribal "coming of age" ritual's like wearing gloves filled with fire ants, scarification, bungee jumping, or getting whipped at dance parties. You can google those, they are all real. This one obviously isn't, but draws loose inspiration from those.
Previous Chapters
* [Chapter 1: My first duel (Tribal, Brutal, M/M)](https://www.reddit.com/r/BallbustingStories/comments/183z72y/maiden_duel_chapter_1_my_first_duel_tribal_brutal/)
* [Chapter 2: My second duel (Tribal, Brutal, FM/M)](https://www.reddit.com/r/BallbustingStories/comments/1scl76k/maiden_duel_chapter_2_my_second_duel_tribal/)
* [Chapter 3: The Third Duel (Tribal, Brutal, M/M)](https://www.reddit.com/r/BallbustingStories/comments/1si1thj/maiden_duel_chapter_3_the_third_duel_tribal/)
* [Chapter 4: The Tentboy (Tribal, Punching, M/M)](https://www.reddit.com/r/BallbustingStories/comments/1sjuktv/maiden_duel_chapter_4_the_tentboy_tribal_punching/)
* [Chapter 5: Training Day 1 (Weights, Chemical Play)](https://www.reddit.com/r/BallbustingStories/comments/1sok9k5/maiden_duel_chapter_5_training_day_1_weights/)
# Chapter 6 – First Evening as Tentboy
My name is Teeko, and I am the Witch’s tentboy.
I was punished hard all morning. The weighted rope and burning ointment left my balls huge, hot, and aching. I slept through the heat of the day. When I woke, the light outside had turned golden. It was evening.
The witch burst in, announcing to me “The time is now, time to take your place tentboy!”.
I rose to my feet, and carefully placed my delicate testicles into the Hukineekee, then with another sigh, locked them in place, leaving me vulnerable. I grabbed the handles and looked to the Witch, indicating that I was ready.
Without another word, she stepped out, and was gone for only a moment.
The hut flap opened. Two sets of footsteps.
“Welcome, Mira,” the Witch said. “You have come for your maiden training.”
I lifted my head. Mira, eighteen summers, stood in the doorway. Tall, strong-shouldered, beautiful. Her eyes found mine and she smiled, half pity, half amusement.
“Teeko,” she said. “The Thulak. They gave you to the Witch as a practice dummy?”
My face burned. My swollen sack hung naked and helpless in the wooden frame.
The Witch guided Mira closer. “Feel them first. Learn the weight, learn how they move.”
Mira’s cool fingers cupped my balls, rolling them, then squeezing. I hissed through my teeth.
“They’re even more tender after a full day of swelling,” the Witch said. “Good for teaching. Now watch.”
She held up four pain-sticks.
“First, feathers and soft wool. Light. For mercy or teasing.” She handed it to Mira. “Swing it. Try both a straight strike and an upward scoop.”
Mira swung. The padded head kissed my balls. It stung my pride more than my flesh.
The Witch nodded. “Now try chopping down on just the left one. See how different it feels?”
Mira adjusted and chopped. I grunted. The Witch smiled. “Good. You’re learning how angle changes the pain, good painstick design requires an understanding of such things.”
“Second stick,” the Witch said, lifting one with a heavy baked-clay head. “Harder than feathers, softer than stone. Perfect for wearing him down slowly. Try an upward swing.”
Mira swung upward. The clay cracked against the underside of my sack. My knees buckled and I cried out.
“Feel how it drives the pain up into his belly?” the Witch asked. “That’s why you use it when you want him to suffer without breaking him too fast. Clay can also be shaped more, but it is important to keep the shape clear or it will be brittle.”
“Third—brambles and nettle seeds. The thorns break off in the skin and burn for days.” The Witch handed it over. “Ten practice swings. Mix your angles.”
Mira took the stick. The first swing drove thorns into my nuts. I screamed. She didn’t stop. Each strike landed harder while the Witch gave quiet directions: “Try lifting just the right one… now strike both on the downswing… good, feel how the thorns catch differently? The angle of thorns matters, as well as the weight added behind them. This is the most challenging stick to make.”
By the tenth swing my sack was bleeding in a dozen places and I was sobbing.
“Last one,” the Witch said, lifting the heaviest stick. “River stones wrapped in wet clay. This one crushes. Use it when you want him to fold quickly. One practice swing, upward again.”
Mira swung with clean power. The heavy stone head smashed my balls flat against the wood. I howled, head thrown back, every muscle shaking.
The Witch stepped back. “You’ve felt how each one works. Go now, Mira. The sun is setting. Hunt for fresh feathers tonight so you can start building your own sticks tomorrow. The softer ones always need new feathers.”
Mira wiped her hands, breathing hard, cheeks flushed. She looked proud. Satisfied. She gave my ruined balls one last squeeze, making me whimper, then turned to leave.
At the flap she paused and glanced back at me with a small smile.
“Thank you, Thulak. You scream very nicely.”
Then she was gone.
The Witch dipped her fingers into the green ointment and began rubbing the burning paste into my fresh wounds.
“You did well this evening, tentboy,” she murmured. “Every maiden who trains on you will remember exactly how to hurt you.”
I could only moan, hanging limp in the Hukineekee, the spark of hope inside me growing smaller with every heartbeat.
**Author's Note:** I appreciate feedback. Leave a comment if you liked this story. Feel free to suggest future ideas.
This story seems to be my least popular, and I understand that it is certainly out there. It's a fun exploration of world building, and I have a full arc planned involving victory, vengeance, and so much ball pain, but it might not switch to every other week instead of weekly. My next couple of chapters are just Teeko as the Tentboy "training" to win a duel if you have a suggestions for one of those stories, feel free to make it.