Of The Flesh
Part 1
Part 2
Original Fiction
Rating: NC-17 and a half
Warnings: Slash, slight age difference, teacher/student (in a monk sort of context), uncomfortable conflation of sexuality and religion (though seriously not Christianity)
Summary: Sebastien is a monk, famed for denying his flesh in his worship of God. His new acolyte Jean-Benedicte is not so strong.
All men are priests in the eyes of God. The lowest charrieres and the sons of kings are called to restraint, to discipline, to the honing of the mind, to the fulfillment of a wife or a lover; but it takes a certain kind of man to tame his flesh to the rigid discipline of the temple, and a rarer kind to give up that flesh altogether. Thus, Sebastien knew what kind of man stood in his great chamber, head bowed humbly, even though the new initiate’s dark hair curled forward to hide his eyes.
“Come to me,” said Sebastien, tall and thin and ramrod-straight on his ash-plank throne. The initiate still wore linen, as if he had come of age so recently that he had no proper clothing yet. In the cool air of the stone hall, Sebastien could hear his breathing-excited, trembling, fearless.
“What are you called? Look at me.”
The boy-not quite a boy, but neither a man-met Sebastien’s gaze, arresting green eyes in a laughing face, and replied: “My name is Jean-Benedicte.”
“And you wish to be one of God’s most sacred disciples, one of the Undefiled?”
“I do.”
“You understand what you are asking?”
“I came of age a month ago,” replied Jean-Benedicte, and for the first time his face showed a trace of apprehension. “Nearly a month ago, that is. I have-I know what I’m giving up. I want to, Most Holy.”
Sebastien considered him for a moment: a beautiful boy, an honest boy, the first bloom of manhood still growing in his face. His passions would run hot. And yet… nearly a month. Sebastien understood this; he, too, had given himself to the discipline of the Undefiled before his day came again, clinging to the purity that had been his bastion throughout his youth.
“Tell me, Jean-Benedicte, do you have a temper?”
“Yes.” Oh, the honesty in this boy, it would be his salvation in the eyes of God.
“And you wish to conquer it here?”
“Most Holy, I wish to rise above it entirely.”
---
Jean sat on Sebastien’s floor, an easy cross-legged tangle on the coarse mat beside the fire. He practically vibrated with excitement, holding his face calm by sheer force of will. Sebastien sighed and joined him, ignoring the chair, but his posture was perfect and his ankles rested on his knees in a fluid teacher’s pose. He did not envy his fellows the experience of teaching Jean.
In the corner stood Sebastien’s pupil, Roderich, a honey-colored whiplash of a youth, quick in eye and finger, serving as scribe. Perhaps it was wrong of Sebastien to rely so much on his student, but the deep calm that had never come easily to Sebastien seemed to abound in Roderich, and if Roderich preferred to keep his own counsel, Sebastien preferred silence to endless chatter.
Not that Jean was chattering, exactly. He was just… paying so much attention. He knew his scripture when asked to recite, but didn’t show off, and he hung on every word from Sebastien’s mouth. He believed.
“There are three types of men who join this order,” Sebastien said, closing his eyes to shut out the distraction of Jean’s unflinching green-eyed innocence. “Some men come to us seeking absolution, a challenge, and freedom from the burdens of the body. For them, this is an endless war of penitence.
“Some are pretenders,” and here he opened his eyes to find Jean’s gaze firmly fixed on Roderich, and Roderich staring back with all the unsettling calm of a cave pool. Annoyed, Sebastian cleared his throat; this was a good part of the speech, very ominous. Jean’s attention snapped back to him. “Some, as I said, are pretenders. They wish to enjoy… certain privileges of our order, and delude themselves that they can enjoy themselves however they wish and keep their elders ignorant of it. The training and practice you will receive, though, cannot be counterfeited.” He lowered his brows and gave Jean his most terrifying glower. “They are always caught.”
“And the third type,” he carried on, now gentle: “They are pious, Jean, they long for holiness and the fulfillment of God more than any longing of the flesh, and they leave behind even the allowances God makes for man’s weakness in their search for perfection.”
Jean’s face glowed in the light of the fire, beatific and wide-eyed, lips parted by holy awe. Sebastian’s heart ached with it. God was here, in this boy, close enough to touch; Sebastian leaned forward to touch his cheek, and it became a caress as Jean turned his face into it.
For a moment, Sebastian felt the presence of God pouring from Jean into him, warm and rising. Then the ghostly memory of a thought sparked to life in him, and the rising warmth was something else, something that snatched his hand away, stole his breath, made him sick. Dimly he heard Roderich asking him something-asking if he was all right-but he was trapped in Jean’s unashamed gaze, reeling with the fire that ran in his veins, crumbling to ash as he watched something awaken in the fire-light on Jean’s face.
Then whatever evil had caught itself between them seemed to wrench free, and Jean smiled at him as simply and openly as before. Sebastien breathed deep, looking away. “You will have your own room here when you are inducted. Until then you’ll room with the acolytes. Sleep well, but not too long, and do not neglect your meditation.” Sebastien nodded to Roderich, who pulled the bell, and shuffling feet collected in the corridor outside. “Tomorrow, initiate, your lessons begin.”
“Will you teach me?”
Another deep breath. “I think that would be unwise. And I have Roderich’s lessons to teach, as well.”
Jean’s face fell. “Yes, Most Holy. Only-”
The shuffling feet were joined by cleared throats and other polite waiting noises. Sebastien ignored them. “Yes?”
“I… admire you, Most Holy. Your faith inspires me, and your life-your control of your body-you’ve only-”
Roderich coughed, whether in disapproval or laughter Sebastien could hardly tell. “-only spilled my seed in pleasure once,” Sebastian finished for him. “That path is not for everyone, Jean. Even the Undefiled suffer failures of the flesh while training-rarely, yes, but this is why you will be trained. Nor is it the heart of our faith. Certainly the Rite is our most public role, but it’s hardly the most challenging. That challenge, you will face alone in your bedchamber, and you must overcome it without the goad of thousands of eyes to watch.”
Jean stood, as abrupt and untrained in his movements as Sebastien was fluid, and bowed his head. “I’ll accept your advice, Most Holy, but I still hope to be your student.”
Sebastien found himself smiling again, mouth twisting beyond his control. “In that case,” he said, beckoning Jean to the doorway, “here is your first lesson: tonight, alone in your bedchamber, begin. But do not finish.” Was Jean blushing, or was it the firelight? “Now you’d best go with the acolytes, before they grow impatient and you find yourself guideless.”
He moved to shut the door behind Jean, and found himself instead watching the shaved heads of fourteen acolytes-barely men themselves-retreat into the darkness, concealing Jean’s mop of curls. Behind him, Sebastien heard Roderich poking at the fire. “He seems promising,” said Roderich, “but more eager than he’ll find healthy, unless I miss my guess. He’ll make a good acolyte, in time.”
“He will be a saint,” Sebastien breathed into the dark.
---
Jean gave him no report of that night; he began lessons immediately, and like all good acolytes he seemed to disappear for a week at a time, and reappear looking haggard and sleepless. Sebastien knew how it was: nights spent in meditation instead of sleep, rigorous memorization of scripture and doctrine, and hours upon hours of introspection and discussion in search of self-understanding. It didn’t change much for a full priest of the order, so it was an excellent way to weed out the acolytes for whom this life would be a misery. But for a boy raised with the novices-free to eat whenever he liked, free to seek pleasure as long as he did so alone, even free to waste entire days if he was a quick study in school-there was a period of shock.
Sebastien kept an eye out for him, at first to make sure he didn’t suffer unduly, and then because it seemed that everything Jean did was a code, a language that spoke directly to Sebastien’s spirit: a laugh with his head tilted back and his eyes closed, the way his throat moved when he drank… There was an element of wrongdoing to watching him, but Sebastien found himself moved by these moments, and his spirit lightened with every glimpse of Jean.
Even when Jean shaved his head, like the other acolytes, and Sebastien found himself struggling to transcend his own inexplicable disappointment, the sight of those green eyes brought back a surge of the faith from that first evening. Jean eventually realized that Sebastien watched him-how could he not-and he simply smiled back, as if greeting a friend across the room, as if they would find each other after the meal and talk.
Sebastien made a point of attending the acolytes’ first session with the temple’s women, though it was painfully embarrassing to watch so many of them fail-and at a hand’s touch, too!-because he wanted to see Jean’s performance. Jean did not disappoint; though he was afforded (for the time being) the privacy of a cloth over his body, it was clear that he had practiced his breathing. At first the women laughed at each other’s jokes, as if they were laundresses and the acolytes were so many hampers, but as the time ran down and more of them succeeded in their goal, the remaining women focused on their work.
To Jean’s credit, he hardly even appeared to struggle at first, breathing clearly and deeply, even looking around to see how his fellows fared. But the women knew their work, and even though they were merciful, soon even Jean groaned and clasped a hand to his face, breathing deep and fast, thrusting his jaw forward to expose his teeth. He was beautiful in his exercise of will, even if he was making some serious mistakes (you never closed your eyes; what your mind showed you was always harder to resist than what your eyes showed you), and Sebastien silently urged him on: just a little longer, breathe, hold on just a little more…
The timekeeper called out, and the remaining women good-naturedly congratulated their opponents and headed back to their own amusements. A few of the victorious acolytes struggled for several more minutes, and the room rang with low chants and measured breathing; Jean simply lay there, fists clenched, an expression of agony on his face, the shape of his frustration clearly outlined under the cloth. Even as the group slid from their individual benches, groaning over the ache and comparing each other’s techniques, Jean only pushed himself half upright, leaning back on his arms to stare at the far wall with glassy eyes and a clenched jaw.
He was not one the lucky ones, then, whose natural interest in sex ran low. Nor was he as old as half of his fellows; the lusts and rages of youth would still be at war within him. Sebastien watched him strive for self-mastery, watched the way Jean forced himself to dress and walk away with his back straight even though visibly still aroused, and called the burning in his belly pride.
---
Sebastien really had very little to do with the sexual aspects of their training. Like all the other teachers, he had practiced for years before his sudden ascent to the high priesthood. Unlike the other teachers, his time was consumed by duties both sacred and prosaic, and the most he saw of the acolytes (barring special effort on his part) was at mealtimes.
There was also sheet report, in which the head laundress detailed whose sheets were stained and how often in a week, and Sebastien was forced to order surreptitious watches on three of them, including Jean. Two were caught indulging the flesh, and severely reprimanded; Jean lay still as the grave all night, and awoke sticky in the morning. Nocturnal emissions were not subject to censure-the dreams that accompanied them were rarely remembered and never controllable-so Jean was left alone.
And, truth be told, Sebastien was glad of that caveat. Lately he had been experiencing the same unfortunate effect, after years-almost a decade-without. He did not count himself a fool, though, and forced himself to stop attending even the few training classes he’d been observing before. Jean was beautiful, an inspiration in his torment, helplessly clenching and stretching his hands and feet. Occasionally he would even succumb for a few moments, thrusting into whatever heat and friction was provided before jerking his body to a trembling halt, like a fine horse after a hard run. Sebastien loved to watch him, feeling his own body sympathize, letting his own desire wash over and through him in stillness and calm. Sebastien’s fists did not clench, and his face maintained its impassive calm, but these sessions were a challenge to him such as he hadn’t experienced since…
Since the last time he had caught a pretender, and put him through his trial, working the man’s body mercilessly for a mere forty seconds before proving conclusively (for the thousandth or so time in the temple’s history) that one could not counterfeit practice.
It had affected Sebastien powerfully, though. He still remembered with painful clarity the way his victim had surrendered, the spasms of his body, the soul-wrenching moan of release, and the unbearable ache in his own body for months afterward. It was the work of a master to administer a trial, as it should be: ejection from the order was ejection from society. Lesser offenders were sent to spend time in an hermitage. Sebastien wondered, when he let his mind roam, whether the man had finally found a way free of his physical desires, or whether he simply worked the plot of his hermitage, living on food brought by the order, indulging his basest instincts every night. It was a deadly train of thought.
And now Sebastien wrestled something very like it regularly, and felt stronger for it-better able to resist temptation, more dedicated in his faith. But the sticky mornings were not worth the work, and Sebastien was not a fool.
Part 2
Original Fiction
Rating: NC-17 and a half
Warnings: Slash, slight age difference, teacher/student (in a monk sort of context), uncomfortable conflation of sexuality and religion (though seriously not Christianity)
Summary: Sebastien is a monk, famed for denying his flesh in his worship of God. His new acolyte Jean-Benedicte is not so strong.
All men are priests in the eyes of God. The lowest charrieres and the sons of kings are called to restraint, to discipline, to the honing of the mind, to the fulfillment of a wife or a lover; but it takes a certain kind of man to tame his flesh to the rigid discipline of the temple, and a rarer kind to give up that flesh altogether. Thus, Sebastien knew what kind of man stood in his great chamber, head bowed humbly, even though the new initiate’s dark hair curled forward to hide his eyes.
“Come to me,” said Sebastien, tall and thin and ramrod-straight on his ash-plank throne. The initiate still wore linen, as if he had come of age so recently that he had no proper clothing yet. In the cool air of the stone hall, Sebastien could hear his breathing-excited, trembling, fearless.
“What are you called? Look at me.”
The boy-not quite a boy, but neither a man-met Sebastien’s gaze, arresting green eyes in a laughing face, and replied: “My name is Jean-Benedicte.”
“And you wish to be one of God’s most sacred disciples, one of the Undefiled?”
“I do.”
“You understand what you are asking?”
“I came of age a month ago,” replied Jean-Benedicte, and for the first time his face showed a trace of apprehension. “Nearly a month ago, that is. I have-I know what I’m giving up. I want to, Most Holy.”
Sebastien considered him for a moment: a beautiful boy, an honest boy, the first bloom of manhood still growing in his face. His passions would run hot. And yet… nearly a month. Sebastien understood this; he, too, had given himself to the discipline of the Undefiled before his day came again, clinging to the purity that had been his bastion throughout his youth.
“Tell me, Jean-Benedicte, do you have a temper?”
“Yes.” Oh, the honesty in this boy, it would be his salvation in the eyes of God.
“And you wish to conquer it here?”
“Most Holy, I wish to rise above it entirely.”
---
Jean sat on Sebastien’s floor, an easy cross-legged tangle on the coarse mat beside the fire. He practically vibrated with excitement, holding his face calm by sheer force of will. Sebastien sighed and joined him, ignoring the chair, but his posture was perfect and his ankles rested on his knees in a fluid teacher’s pose. He did not envy his fellows the experience of teaching Jean.
In the corner stood Sebastien’s pupil, Roderich, a honey-colored whiplash of a youth, quick in eye and finger, serving as scribe. Perhaps it was wrong of Sebastien to rely so much on his student, but the deep calm that had never come easily to Sebastien seemed to abound in Roderich, and if Roderich preferred to keep his own counsel, Sebastien preferred silence to endless chatter.
Not that Jean was chattering, exactly. He was just… paying so much attention. He knew his scripture when asked to recite, but didn’t show off, and he hung on every word from Sebastien’s mouth. He believed.
“There are three types of men who join this order,” Sebastien said, closing his eyes to shut out the distraction of Jean’s unflinching green-eyed innocence. “Some men come to us seeking absolution, a challenge, and freedom from the burdens of the body. For them, this is an endless war of penitence.
“Some are pretenders,” and here he opened his eyes to find Jean’s gaze firmly fixed on Roderich, and Roderich staring back with all the unsettling calm of a cave pool. Annoyed, Sebastian cleared his throat; this was a good part of the speech, very ominous. Jean’s attention snapped back to him. “Some, as I said, are pretenders. They wish to enjoy… certain privileges of our order, and delude themselves that they can enjoy themselves however they wish and keep their elders ignorant of it. The training and practice you will receive, though, cannot be counterfeited.” He lowered his brows and gave Jean his most terrifying glower. “They are always caught.”
“And the third type,” he carried on, now gentle: “They are pious, Jean, they long for holiness and the fulfillment of God more than any longing of the flesh, and they leave behind even the allowances God makes for man’s weakness in their search for perfection.”
Jean’s face glowed in the light of the fire, beatific and wide-eyed, lips parted by holy awe. Sebastian’s heart ached with it. God was here, in this boy, close enough to touch; Sebastian leaned forward to touch his cheek, and it became a caress as Jean turned his face into it.
For a moment, Sebastian felt the presence of God pouring from Jean into him, warm and rising. Then the ghostly memory of a thought sparked to life in him, and the rising warmth was something else, something that snatched his hand away, stole his breath, made him sick. Dimly he heard Roderich asking him something-asking if he was all right-but he was trapped in Jean’s unashamed gaze, reeling with the fire that ran in his veins, crumbling to ash as he watched something awaken in the fire-light on Jean’s face.
Then whatever evil had caught itself between them seemed to wrench free, and Jean smiled at him as simply and openly as before. Sebastien breathed deep, looking away. “You will have your own room here when you are inducted. Until then you’ll room with the acolytes. Sleep well, but not too long, and do not neglect your meditation.” Sebastien nodded to Roderich, who pulled the bell, and shuffling feet collected in the corridor outside. “Tomorrow, initiate, your lessons begin.”
“Will you teach me?”
Another deep breath. “I think that would be unwise. And I have Roderich’s lessons to teach, as well.”
Jean’s face fell. “Yes, Most Holy. Only-”
The shuffling feet were joined by cleared throats and other polite waiting noises. Sebastien ignored them. “Yes?”
“I… admire you, Most Holy. Your faith inspires me, and your life-your control of your body-you’ve only-”
Roderich coughed, whether in disapproval or laughter Sebastien could hardly tell. “-only spilled my seed in pleasure once,” Sebastian finished for him. “That path is not for everyone, Jean. Even the Undefiled suffer failures of the flesh while training-rarely, yes, but this is why you will be trained. Nor is it the heart of our faith. Certainly the Rite is our most public role, but it’s hardly the most challenging. That challenge, you will face alone in your bedchamber, and you must overcome it without the goad of thousands of eyes to watch.”
Jean stood, as abrupt and untrained in his movements as Sebastien was fluid, and bowed his head. “I’ll accept your advice, Most Holy, but I still hope to be your student.”
Sebastien found himself smiling again, mouth twisting beyond his control. “In that case,” he said, beckoning Jean to the doorway, “here is your first lesson: tonight, alone in your bedchamber, begin. But do not finish.” Was Jean blushing, or was it the firelight? “Now you’d best go with the acolytes, before they grow impatient and you find yourself guideless.”
He moved to shut the door behind Jean, and found himself instead watching the shaved heads of fourteen acolytes-barely men themselves-retreat into the darkness, concealing Jean’s mop of curls. Behind him, Sebastien heard Roderich poking at the fire. “He seems promising,” said Roderich, “but more eager than he’ll find healthy, unless I miss my guess. He’ll make a good acolyte, in time.”
“He will be a saint,” Sebastien breathed into the dark.
---
Jean gave him no report of that night; he began lessons immediately, and like all good acolytes he seemed to disappear for a week at a time, and reappear looking haggard and sleepless. Sebastien knew how it was: nights spent in meditation instead of sleep, rigorous memorization of scripture and doctrine, and hours upon hours of introspection and discussion in search of self-understanding. It didn’t change much for a full priest of the order, so it was an excellent way to weed out the acolytes for whom this life would be a misery. But for a boy raised with the novices-free to eat whenever he liked, free to seek pleasure as long as he did so alone, even free to waste entire days if he was a quick study in school-there was a period of shock.
Sebastien kept an eye out for him, at first to make sure he didn’t suffer unduly, and then because it seemed that everything Jean did was a code, a language that spoke directly to Sebastien’s spirit: a laugh with his head tilted back and his eyes closed, the way his throat moved when he drank… There was an element of wrongdoing to watching him, but Sebastien found himself moved by these moments, and his spirit lightened with every glimpse of Jean.
Even when Jean shaved his head, like the other acolytes, and Sebastien found himself struggling to transcend his own inexplicable disappointment, the sight of those green eyes brought back a surge of the faith from that first evening. Jean eventually realized that Sebastien watched him-how could he not-and he simply smiled back, as if greeting a friend across the room, as if they would find each other after the meal and talk.
Sebastien made a point of attending the acolytes’ first session with the temple’s women, though it was painfully embarrassing to watch so many of them fail-and at a hand’s touch, too!-because he wanted to see Jean’s performance. Jean did not disappoint; though he was afforded (for the time being) the privacy of a cloth over his body, it was clear that he had practiced his breathing. At first the women laughed at each other’s jokes, as if they were laundresses and the acolytes were so many hampers, but as the time ran down and more of them succeeded in their goal, the remaining women focused on their work.
To Jean’s credit, he hardly even appeared to struggle at first, breathing clearly and deeply, even looking around to see how his fellows fared. But the women knew their work, and even though they were merciful, soon even Jean groaned and clasped a hand to his face, breathing deep and fast, thrusting his jaw forward to expose his teeth. He was beautiful in his exercise of will, even if he was making some serious mistakes (you never closed your eyes; what your mind showed you was always harder to resist than what your eyes showed you), and Sebastien silently urged him on: just a little longer, breathe, hold on just a little more…
The timekeeper called out, and the remaining women good-naturedly congratulated their opponents and headed back to their own amusements. A few of the victorious acolytes struggled for several more minutes, and the room rang with low chants and measured breathing; Jean simply lay there, fists clenched, an expression of agony on his face, the shape of his frustration clearly outlined under the cloth. Even as the group slid from their individual benches, groaning over the ache and comparing each other’s techniques, Jean only pushed himself half upright, leaning back on his arms to stare at the far wall with glassy eyes and a clenched jaw.
He was not one the lucky ones, then, whose natural interest in sex ran low. Nor was he as old as half of his fellows; the lusts and rages of youth would still be at war within him. Sebastien watched him strive for self-mastery, watched the way Jean forced himself to dress and walk away with his back straight even though visibly still aroused, and called the burning in his belly pride.
---
Sebastien really had very little to do with the sexual aspects of their training. Like all the other teachers, he had practiced for years before his sudden ascent to the high priesthood. Unlike the other teachers, his time was consumed by duties both sacred and prosaic, and the most he saw of the acolytes (barring special effort on his part) was at mealtimes.
There was also sheet report, in which the head laundress detailed whose sheets were stained and how often in a week, and Sebastien was forced to order surreptitious watches on three of them, including Jean. Two were caught indulging the flesh, and severely reprimanded; Jean lay still as the grave all night, and awoke sticky in the morning. Nocturnal emissions were not subject to censure-the dreams that accompanied them were rarely remembered and never controllable-so Jean was left alone.
And, truth be told, Sebastien was glad of that caveat. Lately he had been experiencing the same unfortunate effect, after years-almost a decade-without. He did not count himself a fool, though, and forced himself to stop attending even the few training classes he’d been observing before. Jean was beautiful, an inspiration in his torment, helplessly clenching and stretching his hands and feet. Occasionally he would even succumb for a few moments, thrusting into whatever heat and friction was provided before jerking his body to a trembling halt, like a fine horse after a hard run. Sebastien loved to watch him, feeling his own body sympathize, letting his own desire wash over and through him in stillness and calm. Sebastien’s fists did not clench, and his face maintained its impassive calm, but these sessions were a challenge to him such as he hadn’t experienced since…
Since the last time he had caught a pretender, and put him through his trial, working the man’s body mercilessly for a mere forty seconds before proving conclusively (for the thousandth or so time in the temple’s history) that one could not counterfeit practice.
It had affected Sebastien powerfully, though. He still remembered with painful clarity the way his victim had surrendered, the spasms of his body, the soul-wrenching moan of release, and the unbearable ache in his own body for months afterward. It was the work of a master to administer a trial, as it should be: ejection from the order was ejection from society. Lesser offenders were sent to spend time in an hermitage. Sebastien wondered, when he let his mind roam, whether the man had finally found a way free of his physical desires, or whether he simply worked the plot of his hermitage, living on food brought by the order, indulging his basest instincts every night. It was a deadly train of thought.
And now Sebastien wrestled something very like it regularly, and felt stronger for it-better able to resist temptation, more dedicated in his faith. But the sticky mornings were not worth the work, and Sebastien was not a fool.