Bikazumi’s Moon Priestess

ADDITIONAL TAGS: Ballbreaking Threats, Partial Public Nudity, Magic talk, Ball Grabbing/Squeezing, Huge Boobs, Crazy Sister In Law, Futa Monster (Oni) Girl, Hot Scarred Bodies

— - —

Shit! Shit! Shiiit! I’m late!

The Barrenblade Temple floors are unforgiving to those not strong enough to bear their hissing touch. The short Bikazumi Oni, Marthew Sawabe, feels every degree of heat through the black wrappings on his palms and the balls of his feet as he runs with everything in him.

Bustia’s potent sandstones have baked under Ka'Jarr's blazing suns for thousands of years, retaining warmth at all times like a living thing. Even at dusk, when the shadows stretch long and thin across the pillared hallways, the golden blond and Orange stones burn.

Marthew doesn’t complain though. Oni outcasts don’t get to complain…

Damnit! I knew I shouldn’t have slept in that shade!

Marthew’s heaving scarred bare chest is pale and pink as exposed bones. His sensitive skin is completely eggwhite and less hairy when compared against the deep reds and bronzes of the other, much stronger jawed, oni who pass him in the corridors.

Plap! Plap! Plap!

The slapping sound of Marthew’s heavy jumbo egg size testicles, and his thick seven inches of soft cock against slim thighs, draw in stares that make him feel exposed. Even though partial nudity has been a part of the Oni’s culture since the beginning of their ancient ways, the Ka'Jarr desert has a way of reminding every gonad owner how gravity works overtime here.

His oversized balls bounce like twin water balloons inside their lengthy sack, refusing to stay tucked between his thighs no matter how fast he runs. The desert doesn’t discriminate; even the proudest Bikazumi warriors walk with a slight waddle when the merciless sun fries them at every angle, forcing their amazing anatomy to betray them with every step.

Ahead, a group of elder Oni with thick white neck beards, gray long hair, and broad shoulders pause their conversation to watch Marthew sprint past. Their own heavy ballsacks swing lazily between tree-trunk legs, glistening with the sheen of sweat and cooling oil to help them from overheating.

One of them, a battle-scarred veteran with horns skinny and sharp like curved daggers, grunts as Marthew’s (much bigger) cock flops sideways mid-stride, slapping wetly against his hip.

"Boy’s got more meat than sense," he rumbles, and the others chuckle, their laughter deep enough to make Marthew’s ears burn red.

However it is true. Amongst his fellow outcasts Marthew was indeed packing a decent set downstairs that didn’t go unnoticed by some of the single red babes.

He’d be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy some of the attention too. But this time the distracting echoes are more than embarrassing. He’d failed to arrive on time to his priestess! A shameful crime to commit as a messager…

His cheeks burn hot but it can’t be avoided like the sinister gazes of his fellow “allies.”

The scowling men’s jealousy and their skull crushing biceps makes Marthew’s day old bruises throb in pain. The hungry eyed women with their massive bosoms and long legs built for daily castrations make his pair want to shrivel into hiding. And all the sex driven futas who are a scary combination of the other two…well he wasn’t too sure how he felt about them still.

All he knows is that he loathes their arrogance and sky high cockiness. Or…is it envy?

Plap-Plap!

Everyone else is a blur but they all just…stare. Like cats, waiting to see who’ll go for the gullible dessert mouse first.

The ones that hurt the most though are the particular expressions that say, “you shouldn't exist and I’ll make sure your spunkmakers can’t make anymore of your kind if I ever get the chance.”

Bustia is a hard place to live in if you’re not at the top of your own food chain…

“Hey, Marthy! Where you going, runt?”

Oh shiiit! Not Philly!

Marthew shudders as his bitchy sister-in-law’s (through two separate marriages, mind you) shadow falls over him like a collapsing house. Phillis “Philly” Battlelock is the type of woman who’s always sudden and inevitable. You can’t escape her the moment she locks her attention onto you.

Coming from a much rougher tribe of Oni who’d been hunted for weeks on end by cruel huntsmen from the Gallow Swamps, she’s a bit more spazzy than other Bikazumi women. Meaning she’s looking to break something when she’s dealing with pent up stress…

Before the blond oni can twist away, Philly’s left tattooed arm loops around skinny Marthew’s neck and pulls him sideways into the suffocating warmth of her bare torso.

“Ughhh, h-hey! Just trying to g-get somewhere important!” He blurts out, not trying to drag this unwanted meet and greet.

Her skin smells like gunpowder and a minty oily resin the warriors rub into their fresh and deep wounds. She’d just gotten out of a fight and is still wet between her legs…

Oh great, she’s in one of her moods.

"Somewhere important? Ha, knowing you, you’re probably late. Aren’t you?”

“U-Uh, well you s-see…”

He tries to fight back but despite being an oni, his enhanced strength is half of what it should be. All because he was born different.

“Yeah, I’m totally right.”

She laughs playfully, sending deep vibrations humming through his skull as her right hand slips between his open thighs from behind. Grabbing the neck of his sweaty scrotum beneath his dark loincloth to keep his heavy balls from shriveling away.

“Mmm, look at that. I gotcha pearls.”

“Eeeep! W-Wait! Phil! Don’t d-do this n-now, please!”

“Why not?”

She raises a bushy eyebrow but doesn’t let him answer as she yanks down slowly to force his albino testicles to tremble at the bottom of her fist.

“Kyyyaaahh!”

Her dark, pierced, areolas peek out of her brown leather top and press hotly against his cheek. The left one is still streaked with fresh, healing, ritual cuts from yesterday’s trials.

"Mm, Damn! Your nuts are slippery today. You running a fever, bud? It feels like I’m trying to choke out a greasy sand weasel."

“Nnnmgh!”

Marthew squeals in Philly’s nutcracking grip but knows it isn’t as cruel as it could be. She’s being thorough right now. Using the kind of hold that says, I can crush your stupid balls right now but I’m choosing to let you suffer instead. Be grateful.

“Come onnnn, use your words! I’m not squeezing them that hard,” She jerks her wrist up so she can see the bottom of his twitching testicles in their panicking state.

Two shiny gems with nowhere to go.

"Awwwh! Pleaseee I’ve—Hhhuahh!!! My Nutsss! Let Go Of Myyyyy Nuts!!”

He kicks, his bare heel scraping her shin. Her laugh makes him feel smaller than he already is. The way she manhandles him like a toy. It’s something he’s been fighting against his entire life but somehow he’s still not used to it.

“Hold on a second, I just want to feel something!” She feels herself get wetter as she wiggles her thumb nail against his nut cords and feels how rubbery and delicate they are.

Fuck, it would be so easy to rip these things off, she thinks as she imagines his quivering balls turning mushy as she reallllly digs up, in there…

“Stopppp! I G-Got S-Somewhere T-To Be WITH THE PRIESTESS!!!"

That seems to drill into her head and she stops pushing for her fantasy to become real. His balls just got saved by the bell.

“The Priestess? Huh…”

She shakes his cum stuffed orbs like they’re translucent marbles to be admired…or broken. Lucky for him, she’s feeling merciful today.

“Tsk, fine! Whatever. I'm starting to get bored anyway.”

Philly's death grip vanishing suddenly was more than enough for Marthew to gasp in relief. That is until her calloused palm CRACKS against the back of his dangling sack with a wet—

SLAP!!!

“Ooooohhhh!!!”

His girly shriek bounces off the sandstone pillars, high and pathetic like a little girl who’s been jump scared in the dark. Somewhere down the hall, he hears a group of futa warriors snort into their palms but also wince in sympathy.

“Ouch. I’d hate to be him right now.”

The toe numbing pain blooms fast up Marthew’s orbs and turns into molten lava in his guts, forcing the pale Oni to bend over and cross his knees inward.

“‘Ohhh gods…my balls…fuck my balls…whyyy?”

In Bustia, you can’t avoid a nutcracking if you’re a woman’s target and she’s relentless. Especially if she’s a Bikazumi Oni. It’s why they’re so feared. It’s why they’re seen as demons by the humans…but here’s some advice from Marthew himself.

Avoid getting your spuds reshaped by Phillis by all means necessary. If she smirks after catching sight of your dangling pair, just know: the entire rest of your day is going to be a fucking mess.

"Because, you have the funniest faces whenever I get ya,” she drags one of her black fingernails down his squirming back and she trembles in pleasure.

“Heh, and I got them good that time. Didn’t I?”

He nods and it sends a stronger shiver up her hot sunflower.

Here’s some more advice. Always agree with whatever a woman twice your height says. Your balls will live longer.

“Mmm…Good. Smell you around Marthy," Philly purrs into his ear, her breath scolding the pointy tip, and then she releases him with a rough shove that sends him skidding barefoot across the searing stone.

"Spit-shine those pretty pearls for me or next time you’ll be sorry." Her last grin flashes, all sharp white canines and promises before walking away and shaking her big red ass with each step.

“Uuhhh…stupid bitch…” he believes his brothers have horrible taste in women.

Marthew coughs weakly but manages to swallow his numb nuts back to where they belong and pick up his pace. Keeping his squinting eyes forward.

“Fuuuck, now I’m REALLY late!”

With one hand gently cupping the heavy boys, his thick blonde white hair whips back, slightly untucked from his tied warrior knot. It wasn’t faded naturally like the older men. After all, at twenty-seven he’s considered young to be a prophecy messenger. Most runners are at least over fifty. Their bodies hardened by decades of desert warfare.

But Marthew is fast. Even after having his chalk white balls forcefully examined by a psycho. Thanks to albino onis being built differently: more compact, more explosive, less durable but quicker, his muscles are dense cords wrapped around a frame that stood only 5’9.

Yes, he’s short for his kind. Which is why he’s often the butt of many cruel pranks. Besides the throbbing deep ache in his sack, the black wrappings on his hands and feet are his only concession to weakness.

The temple's inner chambers are kept hot, deliberately so, to keep every warrior’s dangling and swinging assets on display beneath thin loincloths that only help outline the amazing power they carry around with pride.

For a normal Oni with maroon or crimson cherry skin, the heat could become a comfort. For Marthew though, it’s agony.

His inkless skin blisters within hours of unprotected contact. But he ignores all of that as he climbs obsidian staircases with haste, his bare feet leaving faint damp prints on the black glass steps.

“Ohhh…” he groans as the high steps make his aching orbs throb in reminder of their recent smashing.

Third floor. Fourth. Fifth.

The Moon Priestess's tower rises from the temple's eastern wing like a spear aimed at the sky. Unlike the rest of Barrenblade’s complex design, brutal, functional, built for war, this Bikazumi designed sanctum is smooth and dreamlike. Polished white stone veined with silver. No sharp edges. No blood stains on the walls.

Marthew stops at the entrance and gulps when he sees two busty scale-kin guards with short black hair. One is a crocodile woman with scaly green boobs that glisten with sweat and aqua blue stones attached to bronze armor. The other has smoother black skin and wide hips that could crush pelvises with ease.

They cross their spears in front of him and snort, “what do you want small nuts?”

“Yeah, don’t you know you have to be tall enough to even think about getting broken in by our Priestess?”

It takes everything in Marthew not to roll his eyes. Everyone thinks they’re a comedian.

"The Priestess summons me p-personally," Marthew says, blushing without much confidence.

His voice is rough from all the squealing and before that, the disuse. When not in danger he doesn’t talk much. Talking draws in attention.

The one on the left has more jiggle in her chest when she speaks. Her wagging croc tail makes Marthew’s colorless ballsack clench beneath his loincloth in worry as she glances between his legs and insults him.

“She’s into warriors with heavy sacks, boy. And from what I can see…huh, you’re not that bad, I guess. A bit swollen though.”

She’s a bit impressed to see he wasn’t small everywhere at least…

“Please, m-may I come in? My business is very important.”

The larger guard, a scarred gecko woman with one milky eye, stares at him for a long moment and then snorts.

"Ha, Rhona, can you believe what the little guy’s saying right now? He’s being serious. You’re here for something important? A thin twink dick albino?”

“Pfft, that seems to be right. Our priestess must be in the mood for something desperate. Again."

An emotional arrow pierces the short Oni’s heart but he doesn’t talk back. He lets them have their fun…then after a beat that stretches just long enough to remind him of his place, the spears uncross. Marthew steps past them, through the silver-lined doors, and into the Moon Priestess's chamber.

— - —

The sacred room smells like a fresh cool-spring. Scented herbs from beyond the sand, that make you feel like you’re on a remote island, naturally relaxes all the nerves and muscles.

There’s a subtle hint of sorcery that linger behind the scent and it makes the small flicker of Hexx energy within Marthew react, causing a pink aura of energy to shield his swinging oni makers.

“…Sawabe. I’ve been waiting for you.”

The voice emerges from a makeshift shallow pool that's so pure it looks like a mirage. It’s low, amused, and carrying the weight of never ending wisdom and strength.

“Moon Priestess Theresa, I’m s-sorry for my tardiness. I ran into some…trouble.”

The shallow pool at the chamber's center ripples with tiny, self-contained currents that move against Priestess Theresa's hellfire-red abs and glisten around her thick shaft that dips low between her powerful thighs and under the surface.

Her back muscles shift like steel wire as she slowly turns to face Marthew with eyes that can only be explained as horrifyingly beautiful and somehow…emotionless and distant.

“Hm. Did you now?”

Marthew grows a subtle boner the moment the Priestess's breathtaking breasts swings his way. Not because he wanted to, but because they were impossible to ignore.

They’re beautifully massive. Each one is around the size of his head, resting heavily against her ribcage like juicy fruit tethered to her body by thick, ropy scars. The oldest of them ran diagonally from her collarbone to just beneath her left nipple, pale and raised against her steaming devil red skin.

It looks like someone had tried to cleave her in half and failed…

“Yes ma’am. It…was my fault. Please forgive me…”

At seven-and-a-half feet, Theresa doesn’t just occupy space; she redefines it. Her hair, long enough to pool at the water’s edge like spilled silk, wasn’t merely white. It’s the absence of color, as if the desert suns had bleached it into something beyond pigment.

She’s however still older than Marthew. Not ancient by Oni standards, perhaps around forty four years, but the weight of her position has carved deep lines around her moon crest scar that covers half of her face. That one she’s done herself…

She looks between his legs and can see his dangling testicles throb from the nut squeezing his sister gave them. The red fingerprints tells Theresa everything she needs to know.

"It’s okay, you can relax. I just have to let you know something for my father. Tell him…I've had a dream..."

Unlike most Oni, Theresa’s white hair isn’t from age but instead its lack of color comes from her abilities. The kind you earn from a brutal tradition that earns you the title of being the priestess.

“A new vision?! W-What did you see?”

Marthew's dark red eyes widened in concern. Dreams from the Moon Priestess weren't ordinary dreams. They’re visions. The kind of certainty that moved armies and toppled clans.

Before the Two-Year Shizuko War with the Hexxborn Demoness Mori Masher, the humans and elves had their Oracle. A blue eye seer who guided the Silver Circle. She too could see possible futures. They kept things in the balance, despite being on opposite sides.

Everything changed when the Oracle vanished at the end of the war. Without a trace no one knew why she’d gone…But The Bikazumi never lost their seers and despite the “peace” between all kingdoms after the world war, The Moon Priestess existence threatened the higher ups who couldn’t control them.

Theresa is the Bikazumi’s anchor. She’s our warning bell, and reason to sharpen our senses to never be caught off guard by the humans.

Never again…

Theresa steps out of the water and draws Marthew’s stunned eyes to her ostrich-size wrecking balls as they swing side to side beneath a girl cock thicker than his wrist.

Marthew own ballsack shrinks with his shoulders and he blushes, trying to remain serious but he can’t help but feel threateningly outmatched by the bodacious red goddess.

"In one month," she says as she walks past him and walks towards her massive silky bed on the other side of the dark and moody chamber, "A Nakao squad will cross Halgom’s Grimstorm Ridge. They believe their movements are hidden. They believe we are blind."

Marthew's clenching fist tightened at his sides.

The Nakao Clan. Purple-eyed swordsmen. Their oldest enemy. For centuries, the Bikazumi and the Nakao samurai sorcerers had bled each other across the desert's edge. The war between them has never truly ended. Only paused, licking wounds, waiting for the next generation to carry grudges.

"They're coming for something in the southern canyon fortresses," Theresa continues as she takes a small towel and slowly dries off her scarred body.

Marthew watches her be delicate with her puffy nipples. His eyes follow her white fingernails as they dab at her strong slender stomach and muscular thighs. And when she cups her uncut, perfect futa cock and juicy testes he notices the pink scars decorating each jawbreaking orb.

How many close calls has she come to losing her precious balls too? The source of her powers.

When she looks back at him, his pupils shoot up to see her gold-red eyes grow distant. unfocused and…sad.

"There will be around six of them…all Nakao regulars, supported by their Hexx-infused blades. I believe they intend to punch through our outer defenses before the monsoon season and claim the water shrines."

Marthew's heart beats faster and he gulps.

“Grand Regent Zandu won’t be happy to hear that…”

Theresa's lips curled into a smirk that didn't quite reach her distant eyes as she reached for her armored chestplate.

"My father hasn't been happy since his third wife crushed his favorite testicle between her thighs and it didn’t grow back. I’m not too worried about how he’ll take the news."

She balls up her fist too, the scars along her knuckles catching the light as she fastens the first buckle.

“But I’ll give him a nice show he won’t forget…”

The leather groans under her grip from the sheer presence of her tightening the straps. She then turns her back to him, presenting the lattice of old battle wounds across her shoulders.

"Help me with the backplate," she orders, and Marthew scrambled forward, fingers trembling as he tied the leather cords.

“Yes, Priestess.”

His hands didn't falter. Not when he could feel the heat radiating off her like a forge, not when the knotted scar tissue beneath his fingertips told stories of battles he'd never dare to face.

The armor slid into place with a series of clicks that reminded Marthew of locking doors. ones he wasn't sure he wanted opened. Theresa flexed her arms, the overlapping plates shifting like second skin.

Marthew swallows hard. The ceremonial battles were anything but. More like executions disguised as tradition. And Theresa…she fights like the desert winds.

She can be brutal and merciless. He'd seen her destroy a dragon mage’s entire sex life between her knee and his pelvis once. The double pop of the man’s boiling testes exploding still haunts his dreams.

“Do you think...everything will be okay?" He asks, fingers lingering near the last buckle at her hip.

Her large hands hang low, near his stiffening cock that grows with each worried heartbeat. Marthew holds his breath. Whether from fear or the dizzying proximity of her scent, he can’t tell.

"Im not sure but you’ll attend tonight’s melee," she says, not as a request. The way her voice curl around the words makes his thick balls tighten instinctively.

"Consider it…making up for your tardiness."

Marthew’s throat clicks as he swallows and nods. “Of course. T-Thank you for your mercy.”

The Priestess’s fights weren’t spectacles; they were lessons. Brutal, humiliating, often bloody lessons. Especially for those who’d earned her punishment. And while he hadn’t technically pissed her off, the Priestess didn’t do forgiveness without a spectacle.