The Ring

"It's been a tradition in our family for over five hundred years for men to wear them." My father answered. "You must wear one, and you must start now, or it will be too late."

I knew that was true. We studied Sex Ed in school, and I knew about the changes that guys my age go through. Some of the more mature guys were already growing hair down there, and their nuts and pricks were getting bigger. I didn't have hair yet, but my voice was starting to change and my balls kind of itched now and then and it felt good to scratch them. Once a week for the last year father had measured my nuts, and plotted their size on a graph. This touching was not proper, according to what they taught us in school, but father said it was okay for him to do it. The graph started taking an upward sweep just before summer vacation, so I knew that it was time, but I still didn't want to do it.

Father crossed the room to the mantle and removed the ring from its holder. It was beautiful; I'll have to admit that much. It was about one inch long and an inch and a half in diameter with an oval hole through the center. It appeared to be made from solid gold, and had a large ruby inset into one side, but I knew that it had a tunsten-like core that could not be cut. It was several centuries old, I was told, and had been worn by my grandfather and I don't know who all else.

"All males in the family wear one of these when they come of age." Father said, repeating what I had heard many times before. "They are rumored to make their wearers invincible in battle, but I suspect that the real reason no Wasson has ever been taken captive while wearing one is that the consequences of being captured with one makes the warrior fight just that much harder, so he always wins."

This may have been true when guys running around chucking spears at each other fought the battles, but it didn't seem to be much of a help in any kind of war that I would ever be in, where some guy with a pushbutton zaps your ass from five miles away.

"The other reason we wear them is to build character." Father continued, "This ring is worth many thousands of dollars, and not only do we fight with our lived to protect it against removal, but we also realize that it can be sold any time we wish to remove it ourselves."

School had just finished, and father said that I had all summer to 'grow into it', as he put it. That night he had me soak in the hot tub for a long time, and then sit on the edge of it while he oiled my bag and worked the ring over my nuts. It was a pretty tight fit, but didn't hurt once it was in place.

"You'll have to be careful for a few weeks not to let it come off." Father warned me, before pointing uo to something on the ceiling. I looked up to see what he was pointing at when he hit me hard, right in the nuts! "There! Now they will swell up for a couple of weeks, and by that time maybe they will have grown enough to where we won't have to do that again." He told me, as I lay bent over, gasping and trying not to puke.

I matured quite a bit over the summer, and by the time I started the eighth grade the ring was a permanent part of me. I dreaded having to strip for PE on the first day of school, and sure enough Amos teased me about the ring. Amos was sort of a dunce, and had been held back a couple of times and was two years older than the rest of the class. He was bigger than me and very hairy. I just had some crotch and armpit hair, but he had hair on his chest and ass and had to shave every day. I knew that the teasing would only get worse, so I challenged him after school, He never even saw the blow coming that broke his nose, and when his hands flew to his face I kneed him hard in the nuts. He went down and stayed down and nothing else was said, by anyone, about my ring.

I learned to appreciate the ring when I was in high school. The word got out that I had 'something special' between my legs, and I think that every guy in the school came into the locker room to see what it was. Some of the other guys got them too, but none of theirs had the heritage, value, or permanence of mine. By the time I graduated I knew why Wasson men wore the rings: More than twenty girls and two teachers had gotten a close look at the ruby, which stayed hidden from view until I had an erection.

I tried to enlist in the Army after college, but I was rejected because of "Unauthorized Boby Ornaments", so I went to the police academy instead. I think that the ring helped me survive on the streets, as it gave me confidence in coping with the low-lifes and druggies.

My father passed on a few years ago, and the ring that he wore with pride for so many years is now diplayed on my mantle, ready for my son in a few years. My own ring is probably in a museum or collection somewhere, or perhaps it is on a chain around the neck of the whore who removed it from me one night in Chicago when I was passed out drunk. The shame I feel for losing it is even worse than the other loss I suffered during its removal.