"Vale of Tears" - A Medieval Erotic Tale - Chapter Eight: The Beginning Afore the End
For previous chapters, please see posts below.
Vale of Tears
Chapter Eight - The Beginning Afore the End
And then there were seven. Abbot Francis kept to his private quarters when not fulfilling his duties. I glimpsed him through the windows from time to time as he stood or lay afore his golden cross, praying in perpetuity. Brother Jocelyn maintained th’infirmary and its permanent residents. Brother Thomas remained in charge of provisions and the refectory, as he had always done. His old bones would tolerate yet the long walk down to the market town of Llangollen but would not gird themselves for flight. Judged hale by our brethren, Brother Rufus and I were charged with the care of the remaining sheep and maintenance of the claustral buildings now the lay brothers were gone.
We wandered the grounds of the silent abbey. The cries of the sheep seemed loud in our ears now and like something to which we must cleave. I suggested we allow the sheep to wander the cloister as the chickens did, and Brother Rufus laughed and said, “Wherefore not?” The tapping of their hooves became most welcome, and oft they came and laid their smiling heads in our hands, unafraid, as we kept them for their fleeces only and ne’er slew them. Yon forbidden places, the lay brothers’ dormitory and refectory, were open to us now. Like children exploring a hidden garden, we crept through the rooms, lifting objects and peering round corners. All th’abbey precinct was ours and slowly my belovèd and I uncovered all its potential.
______________________________________________________________________
Maundy in the cloister. Brother Thomas had gone to market, Abbot Francis accompanying him. Brother Jocelyn hardly left th’infirmary now, claiming Brothers James and Owen took up all his time, though we knew ‘twas because ‘twas th’only place he felt secure.
Brother Rufus finished washing my feet. He took away the bowl and patted me dry with rough linen. Once ‘twas done and the articles laid aside, he began the second phase of his ministrations. Smiling, singular dimples appearing in his cheeks, he pushed my habit up to my waist. My pizzle knew what was to come and he found it standing. Slowly, Brother Rufus rolled back my prepuce and sucked the head into his mouth. After much licking and rubbing of the organ ‘gainst his lips, he grasped it at the base and permitted the full length to penetrate his mouth. With a suction I found extraordinary, he moved his head up and down, much in the way I moved mine own hand in self-abuse. ‘Cepting this was far sweeter. I leant back, turning my head to the side and resting it ‘gainst a window’s fluted white column. September sunshine warmed me.
The first time Brother Rufus caressed me thus, I did not believe ‘twas possible. For years, I had been tormented by dreams of being licked or of doing the licking but to envision a mouth that could draw one in as powerfully as they say a woman’s nether place may do…! ‘Twas almost frightening, the strength of his grip on me.
I looked down. I have always kept my body free from hair when e’er I can. It doth make me cleaner and closer to a newborn babe in the eyes of the Lord. As Brother Rufus suckled, I could see the skin at the base of my pizzle stretching and relaxing, stretching and relaxing. His spittle began to coat the shaft and it gleamed in the light. All at once, he stared up at me and it seemed I saw some malevolent thing look out from his skull. His eyes glittered darkly, their rims turned red and methought his lips grinned around the intruding organ. But marry, I grew not limp at the sight of this devil - it goaded me to further decadence. I clamped my hand to the back of his head and began to thrust my rod into his mouth.
Brother Rufus’ expression changed as he struggled to accommodate the new tempo, becoming more plaintive. Once or twice, he gagged as my rod attempted to force its way down his throat. He was fighting to breathe, his eyes now very round and I had to make myself stop, though ‘twas hard indeed. At once, Brother Rufus began to suckle lovingly again, his face calm and beatific. Yet I could not help, Dear Reader, but jerk my hips now and then as he hit some tender spot.
My peak was approaching. Brother Rufus commenced moving his gripping hand in time with the movements of his mouth, running his other hand up and down my thigh as he did so. Angel he looked now. My seed began to rise. I tapped his shoulder as I had done afore to let him know ‘twas time to turn his head from me. This time, he would have none of it and proceeded to suck e’en more strongly, with more devotion. The heavenly foulness would spill into his mouth! “No, Brother Rufus, enow!” I cried e’en as my bestial nature had me tangle my hand in his hair once more and buck up into his softness. He remained clamped ‘pon my rod as my spasms crashed o’er me. When I had returned from the void, he looked at me most solemnly and swallowed.
“Now there is something of thee within me,” he said. He laid my habit o’er my legs, kissed me softly that I might taste what that pagan mouth had done and disappeared from the cloister.
______________________________________________________________________
How lovely is a man’s throat. So much admiration is paid in word and image to the swan necks of women but is a man’s throat any less lovely, less vulnerable? Thick muscle and thin skin, men’s necks are all about the contrast ‘twixt strength and weakness. It may be a powerful structure, and a man’s beard may rasp the skin and burn the tongue but a thrown back head turns ev’ry man into a Saint Sebastian. My lips found the softest spot on Brother Rufus’ neck just below his jawline and sucked on it, absorbing his warmth like some revenant of myth. We were both naked, curled afore the fire in Abbot Francis’ lodgings. We lay on our sides, Brother Rufus’ back to my belly as I feasted on his neck and shoulders, turning his head round to face me so I might kiss his lips and all the contours of his broad, pretty face.
He was prettier than me. More charming, more powerfully built. I wondered at times how he could find pleasure in my sapling frame. I was surely too pallid, too dull a companion for one such as Brother Rufus. Perchance, he should have set his sights on some exquisite beauty like Brother Aidan, whose eyes were such an extraordinary shade of blue.
Brother Rufus would have none of it, said ‘twas Brother Aidan who was too bland for his taste. He admired my mind (but, O, not my sapling frame?!) If I complained too much, he scolded me, said he would punish me for my doubting with the hardness of his rod. Ev’ry time, I abandoned my fears as I melted.
This time, I reached for the goose fat as ‘twas I who would penetrate him.
He was ready for me. I placed my mouth o’er his as I slid into him, feeling him sigh into my mouth. I found the embrace of his bowels a comfort. I wrapped mine arms around him, nuzzled my face into his neck as we swived, wanting to see and feel and hark naught but the pulsing of his firm, soft body. And yea, I did instruct him in how to bring joy to the fuckee, as I reached o’er and stroked his pizzle as pleasure mounted.
We were not always naked together. Sometimes we were clothed in our habits entirely, such as when we sate together in church and kissed. Sometimes, only one of us was naked and th’other clothed. This oft was sweetest of all yet it brought more guilt anon. When we did this, ‘twas no return to the naked innocence of the Garden of Eden. Nor yet was it a defiance of laws that state two men cannot love each other as can man and wife. No, ‘twas purely for erotic delight, that which has its origin in the mind more than the body. Brother Rufus would have me suck his privy member in the dormitory. He would walk into the room naked as a Greek god, walk directly up to me, smiling up in one corner of his mouth all the while, and press my shoulders till I sank to my knees afore him. He would stroke my hair in languorous fashion as I did my best to please him with my mouth, though ‘twas tricky as his member was thick. I grew to like the taste of his seed. I had ne’er liked mine own but when it came from the rod of one so beloved, and entered my mouth warm and in gushes of joy, its consumption made sense at last. When he had finished, sometimes we would retire to a bunk, and kiss and stroke one another. At others, Brother Rufus would then get onto his hands and knees, and present his fundament to me, or lie on his back with his legs on my shoulders as I fucked him. How he loved to be ridden by me, by a monk dressed in all the accoutrements of his calling who would lay down a helpless, naked man on the cold flagstones and plunder his dignity. His face, sunny at any hour, became radiant and as I hit the spot deep inside him, his rod would stiffen again, sometimes spattering its second load of seed down on his belly when ne’er one of us had touched it. He liked to talk. “I die! I die!” he oft would cry.
In our final weeks at Valle Crucis, Brother Rufus taught me the art of kissing with the tongue. I so loved to kiss him. ‘Tis an old convention to speak of lips as fruit. How oft have we harked the phrase ‘lips like cherries’? Yet imagine being one who thirsts and hungers, and has a ripe peach handed to him? Wouldst thou not press it hard to thy mouth, sink in thy teeth, delight in its softness, let its juice flood into thy mouth and hawk it back till its sweetness reached the depths of thy throat? O, there is a singular truth in clichés!
I would play Tantalus no more. I tasted his lips like fruit. I have writ afore that his lips were full yet I have not inventoried their qualities. Forsooth, Dear Reader, a woman of Afric had not lips more sweet. His upper lip pushed out a little. Perchance the cause was the slight projection of his upper teeth that lent his smile its childlike charm. ‘Twas surmounted by twin curves that echoed the high arches of our church. Such curves might have seemed petulant, none too far from a sneer, ‘cepting Brother Rufus’ perpetual smile. His bottom lip matched the top in fullness. It seemed rolled, as if a finger had pulled it downward thus to expose the delicate inner flesh. With so much of this lip-flesh exposed to the air, it oft seemed chapped, on the edge of tearing. It lessened his beauty not one whit. I’faith, I desired to cradle him in mine arms like a child, smooth salve into those poor lips as I stroked his hair and kissed his eyelids. My boy.
When I did kiss him, I oft would kiss each lip separately, latching ‘pon one and sucking it ‘twixt mine own. I liked to touch the corners of my mouth to the fullest part of his, first the left corner, then the right, wiping my lips ‘cross them. I would push my tongue into his orifice, as he had shewn me, experiencing, mayhap, that same possessive joy a man feels when he penetrates a woman in her wet well. Sometimes I would bite those lips - i’faith, ‘twas more a dragging of the teeth o’er them than a biting in. Brother Rufus liked that. He would quicken during my ministrations, gasp into my mouth, grasp mine upper arms hard and grind himself ‘gainst me. This made me smile and quicken e’en as he had.
Best of all were the moments when we would lie side by side, as equals, our open mouths locked together, our tongues meeting in the middle, gently rolling o’er one another for hours, hours…
Reader, I weep. I know there will come a day when his last moments are not the first to spring to mind when e’er I think on him. That I will dwell instead ‘pon the fleeting paradise described above. But that day is not yet nor soon.
Vale of Tears
Chapter Eight - The Beginning Afore the End
And then there were seven. Abbot Francis kept to his private quarters when not fulfilling his duties. I glimpsed him through the windows from time to time as he stood or lay afore his golden cross, praying in perpetuity. Brother Jocelyn maintained th’infirmary and its permanent residents. Brother Thomas remained in charge of provisions and the refectory, as he had always done. His old bones would tolerate yet the long walk down to the market town of Llangollen but would not gird themselves for flight. Judged hale by our brethren, Brother Rufus and I were charged with the care of the remaining sheep and maintenance of the claustral buildings now the lay brothers were gone.
We wandered the grounds of the silent abbey. The cries of the sheep seemed loud in our ears now and like something to which we must cleave. I suggested we allow the sheep to wander the cloister as the chickens did, and Brother Rufus laughed and said, “Wherefore not?” The tapping of their hooves became most welcome, and oft they came and laid their smiling heads in our hands, unafraid, as we kept them for their fleeces only and ne’er slew them. Yon forbidden places, the lay brothers’ dormitory and refectory, were open to us now. Like children exploring a hidden garden, we crept through the rooms, lifting objects and peering round corners. All th’abbey precinct was ours and slowly my belovèd and I uncovered all its potential.
______________________________________________________________________
Maundy in the cloister. Brother Thomas had gone to market, Abbot Francis accompanying him. Brother Jocelyn hardly left th’infirmary now, claiming Brothers James and Owen took up all his time, though we knew ‘twas because ‘twas th’only place he felt secure.
Brother Rufus finished washing my feet. He took away the bowl and patted me dry with rough linen. Once ‘twas done and the articles laid aside, he began the second phase of his ministrations. Smiling, singular dimples appearing in his cheeks, he pushed my habit up to my waist. My pizzle knew what was to come and he found it standing. Slowly, Brother Rufus rolled back my prepuce and sucked the head into his mouth. After much licking and rubbing of the organ ‘gainst his lips, he grasped it at the base and permitted the full length to penetrate his mouth. With a suction I found extraordinary, he moved his head up and down, much in the way I moved mine own hand in self-abuse. ‘Cepting this was far sweeter. I leant back, turning my head to the side and resting it ‘gainst a window’s fluted white column. September sunshine warmed me.
The first time Brother Rufus caressed me thus, I did not believe ‘twas possible. For years, I had been tormented by dreams of being licked or of doing the licking but to envision a mouth that could draw one in as powerfully as they say a woman’s nether place may do…! ‘Twas almost frightening, the strength of his grip on me.
I looked down. I have always kept my body free from hair when e’er I can. It doth make me cleaner and closer to a newborn babe in the eyes of the Lord. As Brother Rufus suckled, I could see the skin at the base of my pizzle stretching and relaxing, stretching and relaxing. His spittle began to coat the shaft and it gleamed in the light. All at once, he stared up at me and it seemed I saw some malevolent thing look out from his skull. His eyes glittered darkly, their rims turned red and methought his lips grinned around the intruding organ. But marry, I grew not limp at the sight of this devil - it goaded me to further decadence. I clamped my hand to the back of his head and began to thrust my rod into his mouth.
Brother Rufus’ expression changed as he struggled to accommodate the new tempo, becoming more plaintive. Once or twice, he gagged as my rod attempted to force its way down his throat. He was fighting to breathe, his eyes now very round and I had to make myself stop, though ‘twas hard indeed. At once, Brother Rufus began to suckle lovingly again, his face calm and beatific. Yet I could not help, Dear Reader, but jerk my hips now and then as he hit some tender spot.
My peak was approaching. Brother Rufus commenced moving his gripping hand in time with the movements of his mouth, running his other hand up and down my thigh as he did so. Angel he looked now. My seed began to rise. I tapped his shoulder as I had done afore to let him know ‘twas time to turn his head from me. This time, he would have none of it and proceeded to suck e’en more strongly, with more devotion. The heavenly foulness would spill into his mouth! “No, Brother Rufus, enow!” I cried e’en as my bestial nature had me tangle my hand in his hair once more and buck up into his softness. He remained clamped ‘pon my rod as my spasms crashed o’er me. When I had returned from the void, he looked at me most solemnly and swallowed.
“Now there is something of thee within me,” he said. He laid my habit o’er my legs, kissed me softly that I might taste what that pagan mouth had done and disappeared from the cloister.
______________________________________________________________________
How lovely is a man’s throat. So much admiration is paid in word and image to the swan necks of women but is a man’s throat any less lovely, less vulnerable? Thick muscle and thin skin, men’s necks are all about the contrast ‘twixt strength and weakness. It may be a powerful structure, and a man’s beard may rasp the skin and burn the tongue but a thrown back head turns ev’ry man into a Saint Sebastian. My lips found the softest spot on Brother Rufus’ neck just below his jawline and sucked on it, absorbing his warmth like some revenant of myth. We were both naked, curled afore the fire in Abbot Francis’ lodgings. We lay on our sides, Brother Rufus’ back to my belly as I feasted on his neck and shoulders, turning his head round to face me so I might kiss his lips and all the contours of his broad, pretty face.
He was prettier than me. More charming, more powerfully built. I wondered at times how he could find pleasure in my sapling frame. I was surely too pallid, too dull a companion for one such as Brother Rufus. Perchance, he should have set his sights on some exquisite beauty like Brother Aidan, whose eyes were such an extraordinary shade of blue.
Brother Rufus would have none of it, said ‘twas Brother Aidan who was too bland for his taste. He admired my mind (but, O, not my sapling frame?!) If I complained too much, he scolded me, said he would punish me for my doubting with the hardness of his rod. Ev’ry time, I abandoned my fears as I melted.
This time, I reached for the goose fat as ‘twas I who would penetrate him.
He was ready for me. I placed my mouth o’er his as I slid into him, feeling him sigh into my mouth. I found the embrace of his bowels a comfort. I wrapped mine arms around him, nuzzled my face into his neck as we swived, wanting to see and feel and hark naught but the pulsing of his firm, soft body. And yea, I did instruct him in how to bring joy to the fuckee, as I reached o’er and stroked his pizzle as pleasure mounted.
We were not always naked together. Sometimes we were clothed in our habits entirely, such as when we sate together in church and kissed. Sometimes, only one of us was naked and th’other clothed. This oft was sweetest of all yet it brought more guilt anon. When we did this, ‘twas no return to the naked innocence of the Garden of Eden. Nor yet was it a defiance of laws that state two men cannot love each other as can man and wife. No, ‘twas purely for erotic delight, that which has its origin in the mind more than the body. Brother Rufus would have me suck his privy member in the dormitory. He would walk into the room naked as a Greek god, walk directly up to me, smiling up in one corner of his mouth all the while, and press my shoulders till I sank to my knees afore him. He would stroke my hair in languorous fashion as I did my best to please him with my mouth, though ‘twas tricky as his member was thick. I grew to like the taste of his seed. I had ne’er liked mine own but when it came from the rod of one so beloved, and entered my mouth warm and in gushes of joy, its consumption made sense at last. When he had finished, sometimes we would retire to a bunk, and kiss and stroke one another. At others, Brother Rufus would then get onto his hands and knees, and present his fundament to me, or lie on his back with his legs on my shoulders as I fucked him. How he loved to be ridden by me, by a monk dressed in all the accoutrements of his calling who would lay down a helpless, naked man on the cold flagstones and plunder his dignity. His face, sunny at any hour, became radiant and as I hit the spot deep inside him, his rod would stiffen again, sometimes spattering its second load of seed down on his belly when ne’er one of us had touched it. He liked to talk. “I die! I die!” he oft would cry.
In our final weeks at Valle Crucis, Brother Rufus taught me the art of kissing with the tongue. I so loved to kiss him. ‘Tis an old convention to speak of lips as fruit. How oft have we harked the phrase ‘lips like cherries’? Yet imagine being one who thirsts and hungers, and has a ripe peach handed to him? Wouldst thou not press it hard to thy mouth, sink in thy teeth, delight in its softness, let its juice flood into thy mouth and hawk it back till its sweetness reached the depths of thy throat? O, there is a singular truth in clichés!
I would play Tantalus no more. I tasted his lips like fruit. I have writ afore that his lips were full yet I have not inventoried their qualities. Forsooth, Dear Reader, a woman of Afric had not lips more sweet. His upper lip pushed out a little. Perchance the cause was the slight projection of his upper teeth that lent his smile its childlike charm. ‘Twas surmounted by twin curves that echoed the high arches of our church. Such curves might have seemed petulant, none too far from a sneer, ‘cepting Brother Rufus’ perpetual smile. His bottom lip matched the top in fullness. It seemed rolled, as if a finger had pulled it downward thus to expose the delicate inner flesh. With so much of this lip-flesh exposed to the air, it oft seemed chapped, on the edge of tearing. It lessened his beauty not one whit. I’faith, I desired to cradle him in mine arms like a child, smooth salve into those poor lips as I stroked his hair and kissed his eyelids. My boy.
When I did kiss him, I oft would kiss each lip separately, latching ‘pon one and sucking it ‘twixt mine own. I liked to touch the corners of my mouth to the fullest part of his, first the left corner, then the right, wiping my lips ‘cross them. I would push my tongue into his orifice, as he had shewn me, experiencing, mayhap, that same possessive joy a man feels when he penetrates a woman in her wet well. Sometimes I would bite those lips - i’faith, ‘twas more a dragging of the teeth o’er them than a biting in. Brother Rufus liked that. He would quicken during my ministrations, gasp into my mouth, grasp mine upper arms hard and grind himself ‘gainst me. This made me smile and quicken e’en as he had.
Best of all were the moments when we would lie side by side, as equals, our open mouths locked together, our tongues meeting in the middle, gently rolling o’er one another for hours, hours…
Reader, I weep. I know there will come a day when his last moments are not the first to spring to mind when e’er I think on him. That I will dwell instead ‘pon the fleeting paradise described above. But that day is not yet nor soon.