Sweat poured over my thin blond brows, stinging my eyes. I strained, veins bulging along my arms and throat. My breath huffed, hot. I thrust with my legs and felt the burn of my tired buttox round and release. I cried out like a gull, “ah!” The chunk of granite I had dragged across the yard arced over the briar hedge. There was a loud crack as it pounded into the stones down below the hilltop monastery.
The Mediterranean sun was hot on my shoulders. I would burn soon, but I had to get this done, and the robe was too heavy for this kind of work – plus the proctor would beat me if I stained it with my ‘excessive sweat’ again. I ran my my hands down the work-trained muscles of my torso. I had become firm, rounded from labor in a way that hunting and fishing in the forests of the North had not done. The sweat rolled in little rivers past the red gold coins of my nipples.
“You seem to be doing quite well, Brother,” the quiet voice of Rector Atto move through me with a smoky note I didn’t know how to interpret. I stiffened. In more ways than one. I turned to face the squat Greek. Long dark chest hairs peeked through the neck of his robe as if pushed up by his massive frame. My gut went warm when I saw him; as always I wanted to make him proud of me, but the warmth went deep.
“Th-thank you, Rector,” I said, lowering my head, blond curls falling in my face, blocking some of the merciless sun.
“The Abbot has emerged from prayer, and he will meet with you,” it was softly spoken from his thick lips, but it was a command. I looked at the bucket of water I’d brought out with me, grimacing at the smell under my arms.
“I can wash and – ”
“You will come now, as you are,” gesturing with one thick hand, the hairs on his knuckles dark and curly. I thought about what his hands could do. He had already turned to walk toward the monastery, and I just stood there, watching the thick moons of his ass appear and disappear under the robe as the real moon does in the sky.
My cock was beginning to uncurl in my loincloth. I bit the inside of my lip and grabbed my robe. Rector Atto was disappearing into the monastery. I raced after him and toward some much-needed relief from the sun.
We were in the Abbot’s tower, high atop the cloister. The climb didn’t give my sweat a chance to dry and I tried to pull parts of the robe away from my body as I entered the receiving cell outside the Abbot’s private chapel. I unlaced my sandals and did my best to brush the dirt from my feet. The abbot’s sandals were next to mine, and a smell of oil and man wafted off them. Although with my northern blood, I was a head taller than the abbot, his sandals were wider and inches longer than my own.
“Father Abbot?” Atto asked, dark eyes under his dark brows glued to the sweat stains spreading through my robe. He mouthed “OFF” to me and made an over-the-head gesture. As I pulled the robe off, hanging it on the hook inside the door, I wished again for hair – like even the other Novices had – to cover myself. I stood quietly, breathing in my own smell, willing the sweat to dry.
“Thank you, Rector, you may send in the Novice and go,” came the rich voice of the Abbot from the next room.
Atto’s thick shoulder muscles bulged as he bent his head and withdrew. Before he closed the door, he ran his eyes over me like a rough hand. I felt him judging my pale skin, the freckles on my shoulders, the betraying blush on my cheeks. I wanted to fall to my knees by the time he closed the heavy oak door.
“Come to me, boy,” the Abbot’s voice drew me toward the smell of frankincense.
It was hot in the Nave. The shutter doors leading into the chapel itself were partly closed. Candles and the smell of beeswax came to me.
The upper wall of the Nave was a stained glass window of St. Michael – the sun behind it burned the room red and gold, and made it hot as a Turkish bath. St Michael held a sword up before his body like a great phallus of burning light.
The Abbot sat on a bench in a prayer booth, eyes hooded, his tall, dark body covered in beads of sweat like worshipers. His hair was cropped short, salt creeping in along his temples and down into his beard like adoring fingers of time. His back was straight, and I could see the small muscles along his ribs holding him upright. His dark feet were planted on the warm stones. My pale eyes were magnets to his loincloth. Sweat had soaked through it everywhere. It bulged with his manhood, edges dangling down over the edge of the bench. I swallowed and prayed for strength as my smaller pink cock continued its lengthening in my own loincloth.
I was so confused by my arousal that prayer was my only refuge.
I knelt to hide my excitement, and kissed the Abbot’s gold ring. His fingers were thick and strong, with much smaller hairs than Atto’s along his knuckles. The smell of his manhood filled my nostrils and my head swam. My traitorous penis began to ooze.
The Abbot’s dark eyes were burning over me when I rose to my knees, back straight.
The length of my cock throbbed with my heartbeat and I prayed to St. Michael for strength, but his phallus seemed to throb too with the sunlight.
I swallowed, my mouth going dry, looking down at the floor, trying to look at anything but the bulge under the Abbot’s loincloth, or the masculine roll of the man’s abdominal muscles above it, the fine, fatless cuts of his body from his fasting and sweating sharp enough to cut my heart.
“How may I…” I swallowed, flicking my gaze up at the Abbot, “serve you, Lord?” I asked quietly, unable to look away from the mounds of his loincloth. I licked my lips… to… whet them?
His deep voice like a drum, “Brother Finn, how is the monastery treating you? I see Rector Atto has not spared the labor.”
I nodded, intensely grateful for something to focus on. I was a little confused and my face was a map to my heart, as my father always said before selling me to the Brothers. I nodded ferociously. “Yes, Lord Abbot, I love it here, and…” I felt scrawny and hairless and sweaty, but I saw there was a swell of arms and shoulders that my father’s failed attempts to teach me the sword had not instilled. “Yes, I am getting stronger.”
“Stand up for me,” the Abbot commanded.
I was terrified I’d be thrown out, but I could not bring myself to resist. I subtly adjusted myself, and stood. The bulges of my quads were also new, and the sun had already reddened them. My calves were tight. My modest cock pushed obscenely against my loincloth, resisting my efforts to shove it to the side. It was hidden only by its shortness and the bunching of the cloth around my waist. I turned a deeper shade of crimson.
“Yes, things have gone well for you. You’re 20 summers now, is that right?” he asked, licking his thick, mediterranean lips.
My brows knit, “21 as of this very night, sir,” I muttered, praying to any listening saint to hide my erection that was profaning this holy place. If anything, it made me even harder.
He nodded as though that made some kind of sense I could not fathom.
“You know,” he said, rising suddenly from his seat. I was one of the tallest men at the monastery, my Viking heritage strong in me even if my father disowned me, but he made me feel short, feet shorter than him. He continued, “I was on retreat here for 21 days to pursue an inspiration.”
“I did…not?” I muttered as the Abbot moved past me, illuminated in the golden glow of Michael’s stained glass. I turned to follow him, but he laid one heavy hand on my shoulder, and turned me back to face the prayer bench.
“St. Michael came,” he said close behind me, “to me each night for the last 7 nights.” It was definitely getting hotter in here. The abbot’s big hands were running across my bare shoulders, somehow raising goosebumps. I think I might have gulped audibly.
“He revealed to me many things, wondrous and challenging,” he said against my hair, the fierce heat of his body against mine. He ran his hands down the lines of my lats toward the new swell of lower back muscle above my buttox. He sighed as he ran his hands across my exposed buttocks. I had been asking Atto for a year for a new loincloth and he had just smiled and shook his head.
“Oh, God,” I groaned.
“Yes,” the Abbot said as he slowly massaged his way down my big round pale buttocks, pushing the loincloth down. “He has plans for you. such wondrous plans. And it is my duty to begin getting you ready for them.”
I didn’t know what was wrong with me. I had several women back in our village, and lusted after them hungrily from the time I was 13 to when I bedded Lorna for the first time when we both reached adulthood at 14.
But it had been years since I had been touched by a woman – a lot of years – and over a year since I’d even seen one. And the sweaty cells of the young novices were a constant miasma of man smells. Of course, we were supposed to be celibate, but the funk indicated either we were not all following our vows, or these adult men were having nocturnal emissions. I admit, my sins were many, and although I arrived longing for women, now all I tended to think about was my cellmates all around me, smelling of sweat and lying naked in the dark.
“Oh, my Lord!” I gasped. I had drifted off and my loincloth just hit my feet, all wet with sweat and my precum. It wasn’t my smaller, large-finger-sized cock bobbing free that brought me back. It wasn’t the Abbot’s hands digging fingers into my hip flexors and my high rounded butt cheeks that made me off balance forward a little bit. It was the 21 day beard on the roman Abbott’s face scratching back there between my cheeks as his hot tongue snaked out and licked and lapped against my virgin rosebud.
It was a sweet pleasure I have never known. I tried to contain myself. His tongue lapped and lavished against my secret entrance as the templars called it. My instinct was to hit him, to use my Slavic strength, to run. Instead, my rosebud opened to my Lord. His tongue slipped inside and I bit the calloused ball of my hand hard to contain the whimpers as my other hand braced against the wooden prayer stall where St. Francis was holding his hands out toward me and gazing into my eyes with a look of sweet ecstasy.
My balls shuddered hard and slipped inside my body, and the ramrod length of my cock began to unload. I hit St. Francis right in his halo, splashed across his body, down the nave, across the seat cushion, on the kneeler, and on the floor.
The Abbot’s big hands held me fast and his moan moved deep and secret places inside me. Another line of my seed dribbled from the end of my pulsing pink penis down onto my loincloth below me.
My head didn’t clear as it had before when I unleashed with Lorna and Detta and other girls – or even alone. Instead, a deeper intoxication moved me. I leaned my other hand against the wall as the Abbot pulled me hard toward him, and buried his entire face between my round, pale cheeks. He was humming deep up into me and his impossibly long tongue was fully inside me and touching something in me that had never been touched before.
I groaned and moaned and found that I was pushing on the wall, pushing back on that big Roman nose of the Abbot, against his devil’s tongue up inside plundering my secret treasures. My thoughts were filled with service to this man, and heat and sweat and light – St. Michael burning in the glass, his great sword throbbing in the open air – like a much, much bigger version of my own.
I was having difficulty thinking – and breathing. I was sweating freely, though surely it could not be as hot in here as it had been out in the sun. I was losing my grip on myself.
The Abbot was up and against me , the hair on his chest scratching my bare white back, the thick hairs of his legs against the slender gold hairs on the backs of mine. I was blinking a torrent of sweat out of my eyes and pulling in several full breaths to still myself.
“Prepare to receive the first gifts the Arch Angel has ordained for you,” the Abbot murmured in my ear with such kindness I just melted back against him. He wrapped his arms around me and I was so happy just to be held, I didn’t pay attention at first to the massive hard object pressing into the cleft of my ass.
I sighed. I could have stayed in this tall man’s embrace, the scent of his oils forever.
Then I realized he was moving against me, holding me close, pulling my head back to rest on his shoulder. I could feel the length of his manhood sliding in all the sweat and spit between my ass cheeks, the arrow of it moving against the lips of my ass and then with a groan from me popping away and sliding up against my lower back.
“Relax, Novice, relax against me,” and his hands pressed my neck backward again so my gold curls fell finally across his deep olive skin. His other hand pressed my chest, and as I had seen Lorna do to herself, two of his big fingers began to slowly roll my left nipple. I’d never known that men’s nipples were like a woman’s, but I moaned against the Abbot’s neck all unwilling as he did that and the most wonderful feelings ran from my nipple down to my still hard penis, making it bob and throb and pulse in spite of release only moments ago.
I had no idea what was happening, and I hoped it never stopped. And then. And then as my whole body pressed and rocked back into the Abbot’s powerful embrace, his lean muscles hard in all the places my young body was soft and lush.
The Abbot’s long tube of a cock, slick with his own excitement and his spittle and my sweat, it slid past the guardian of my anus who had abandoned his post, slipped inside me. The pain was focused and intense.
“Relax, Novice, against me, let me into you, let St. Michael into you,” he murmured, pinching my nipple very firmly so that the pain and pleasure rose together inside me.
Then I was fuller than I have ever been. The Abbot pressed his hips against my hindquarters and he and I were one, like God and man. Like breath and flesh. He was inside me in places I’d never imagined were even there. The ropy muscles of his arms were around me, both working to twist the sensitive bronze red-gold tips of my nipples, holding me up, holding me against him.
His penis entered fully and deeply within me, the curls of his pubic hair grinding against my lower back, his planes and my curves fitting together in a way that would make Pythagoras’ head spin.
He withdrew from me and it was the most saddest thing that has happened in my short life. I was muttering, something profane, something like a prayer, something needful. The Abbot was muttering praise to me, telling me service was my calling and oh what a service I was performing for him.
He moved against me, his sweat was my sweat, his skin was my skin, I was his to use so completely, I could no longer tell where I ended. His pleasure was my pleasure, his movements were my pleasure – the deep thrusting of his member inside me, the way his balls struck my soft underparts. He was throbbing inside me, I was throbbing. He was pressing and pushing and battering away at the last little part of myself that was separate. I was coming apart into red and yellow light and sweat and the beauty of being held by a man.
His hands clamped down on my big nipples, hard and intense. “NOW,” he said.
I came again. Poor St. Francis’ face was covered by my man’s gift now. And the roman eagle on the back of the prayer seat. I heard it hitting the cushion that was still dark with the Abbot’s sweat.
And then. And then. The Abbot clutched me harder to him. He spoke in an ancient Latin I could not understand – my poor learning. He thrust so hard into me, I came off my feet.
Heat poured through me, and I felt him unleash a torrent within. Pleasure, ecstasy coursed through my body. It was too much. His pleasure was literally my pleasure and I could not contain it. There was light and burning sword before me and within me, and St. Michael in the glass turned his baleful gaze from the heavens to me, seeing me, seeing through me, speaking in words I could not hear.
I had never felt so clean, so pure, so loved. The Abbot behind me. Michael before me.
I awoke with a start. In my cell. It was night. I was cool, and I smelled like rosemary. The thin sheet I slept under was tented by my nightly arising. I felt a sweet pain in my nether region as I wondered… did my penis look bigger?