Agony and Ecstasy

He's not so thin as to appear ill or unhealthy, but it's clear he tends to thinness more than the obverse - his body is wiry in the way of a hare's, the muscle showing very plain on the parts of his body where the fat is lightest - his shoulders, his chest, his neck, his calves.

There is black, curling hair dusting over his chest, and like the dignified streaks of white in the abbot's head of hair, there are scattered bits of whiteness there too, making Abel think of snow on coal.

"I thought you were going to eat me," says Abel. He cannot think of anything else to say, so stunned as he is - his body feels strangely vibrant, as though his body is so taken away with the bizarreness of the situation it might well throb outside of his flesh. This doesn't match up with his idea - his nightmare - of sodomy.

He doesn't tend to speak much with Abbot Thomas, except to answer his questions and do as he says.

Now, Abbot Thomas smiles in that thin, peculiar way he has, the way that makes Abel want to please him - sometimes, Thomas calls him a good and obedient boy, or a well-behaved and diligent child, and although his manner is verbose and wordy in a way none of the officers at sea ever were with him, the praise...

Yes, yes. He likes that.

The praise makes his skin sing, make his body warm, in the way a good officer's - or boatswain's - praise had always warmed him. Such talk is rare on ships and rarer still from Abbot Thomas, but that makes the taste of it all the sweeter.

"Eat you?" he repeats softly. "Foolish young man. You thought I was to devour you whole, and alive at that, and you let me proceed?"

Abel gulps audibly. He feels foolish now, silly, but Thomas laughs softly. His hands might be slightly cold, but his lips are warm indeed. He's been pecked on the cheeks by girls, even kissed on near his mouth by dockside women and once, a flower girl after he bought some violets from her for his mother - this kiss is nothing like any of those.

Abbot Thomas' lips slide against his, and then comes his tongue.

Abel lets out a reedy, helpless sound, feeling the abbot plunder his mouth - his tongue slides wet and hot against his and he cannot help the way he fidgets, restless and overwhelmed beneath the other man's weight.

Abel has gained back the weight he lost while begging and then some, but for all his frame is more plumply furnished now, he's still not a big man - the abbot covers Abel's body almost entirely with his own, and he feels eclipsed in a way that makes his spine tingle.

Thomas kisses him, grazes his lips over the side of his jaw, his neck, and Abel moans as Thomas grips his hair and pulls his head back, repositioning him so that he might have a better angle to kiss and nibble on his neck.

The abbot's cock is hard and searingly hot against his thigh.

He fears it, wonders if this pleasure is simply the precursor to the agony, to the abbot sticking his cock inside him and raping him, as sodomites do to men and boys and animals, but the abbot murmurs against his lips, "Press your legs together, your thighs... That's it, young man, just like that."

Abel obeys, waits for the agony, tries to imagine what exactly it will feel like - is it really, as the men say, fucking someone in the arse? Sticking your cock up there as you might a woman's cunt?

But the abbot forces his prick into the tight space between Abel's thighs instead.

Abel lets out a noise, gasping and overwhelmed at the slide of the abbot's hard cock, smeared with its own wetness, in the crease of Abel's thighs and against the underside of his prick, against his balls.

"Good Lord," whispers Thomas. "What a gift you are, boy."

Abel shudders, his cock aching as it strains to get hard again. It's some of the way there, even having only just spent, and he surges to kiss the abbot again, to kiss him as Thomas thrusts between his thighs with slow, driving movements of powerful hips.

"Down," Thomas orders, and Abel chokes as he's forced down on his back, the abbot gripping at the sides of both his knees and pushing them up toward his shoulders. Like this, Thomas' thrusts slide his cock directly up against Abel's, and it makes his body shake.

Every movement of Thomas' hips is like a lightning strike, cleaving right through him, and he scrambles and scrabbles at the blankets beneath him, arching his back up and into more of Thomas' attentions.

"Down," Thomas growls again.

The arm not banded around his knees goes for his chest, palm spread over Abel's sternum to pin him down, and Abel bites down on his clenched fist to muffle the moans eking out of his throat.

Thomas' hand moves up to his neck.

"Please," Abel gasps out, feeling his eyes widen, and Thomas peers down at him, his head tilting to one side. His lips are quirked in a sort of smirk, his eyebrows shifting into a slight furrow.

"Please?" repeats Thomas softly. His tongue is intrigued. It's the sort of tone he takes on when discussing scripture with the most scholarly of the monks, or with visiting leaders from other monasteries and churches, when discussing poetry or literature, or art, or politics. Curious, interested.

There's an allocation of respect in it Abel doesn't feel he's earned, making him feel like he's been dunked in a freshly boiled kettle.

"Don't kill me?" Abel asks. He doesn't quite mean to phrase it like a question - he wanted it to sound more like a request, or beseeching.

Abbot Thomas laughs. It's not a sound that Abel is used to hearing - he chuckles sometimes when one of the two ancient monks, both of them so doddering and lacking so many teeth and so buried in obscure religious studies that no one else can understand what they say, make jokes.

Abel thinks they're jokes anyway - they're normally singular, dry comments in the course of conversation, and they never seem displeased when Thomas laughs at them, and sometimes laugh themselves.

Thomas also laughs sometimes in a haughty, superior way when he doesn't like a junior's tone with him, or when they're slow to obey.

This laugh is not really like either of those - it's more like the laugh he heard Abbot Thomas let out once, when he was walking in a corridor with Abel and they glanced out of a window, and one of the other monks slipped while playing a ball game and fell facedown in the mud.

"You are almost as foolish, young man, as you are alluring," says Thomas.

"I'm not really alluring anymore," mutters Abel, and Thomas raises his eyebrows, pulling back his legs, and with the other hand grips both of their cocks at once, fisting them together.

"Agree to disagree," Thomas says in clean, dry tones as he strokes their cocks as one, and it's just on the edge of pain, although Abel's nearly fully hard again. The pain is throbbing and aching, and for some reason, he craves more of it. "I'm not going to kill you, idiot boy."

"So—"

"Nor eat you alive," adds Thomas. "Nor hurt you, nor harm you. Do you know what I plan to do with you, child?"

"More of this?" Abel asks. There's hope in his voice.

"Far more of this," Thomas says. "You're here at my pleasure - for my pleasure. For me to fuck."

Abel gulps. "Really?"

"Why in God's name do you look so frightened, boy? I'm fucking you right this moment, and you seem pleased enough with the proceedings."

"Are you?"

Abbot Thomas stares down at him aghast.

"But I mean— but you're not... sodomising me."

"I have a busy agenda, boy, but I'll get to sodomising you."

Abbot Thomas starts to thrust again, keeps fucking him, fucking between his thighs - Thomas is fucking him, he's being fucked, and Abel stammers out, "But I'm not— I'm not a girl—"

"Want me to treat you like a girl?" Thomas asks dryly. "Aren't I protecting your honour by not stealing your maidenhead?"

Abel's whole body quakes at that, his cock rock hard, and Thomas laughs again as he leans over him, gripping Abel loosely by the jaw and tipping Abel's face up.

"A moment ago you weren't certain I was fucking you," muses Thomas aloud, "such a naïf as you are, utterly oblivious in the manner of only the truly rather stupid—"

"Hey!"

"And now you're excited at the thought me of robbing you of your virginity?"

Abel's cock jumps again, his bollocks straining even though there's no way he can come again so quickly, his whole body feeling flushed with blood and somewhat electrified.

"You've never been fucked before, have you? Never even been touched, I would wager."

Abel opens his mouth to answer, but before he can, Thomas slides two of his fingers into Abel's mouth, dresses down hard on his tongue and makes him grunt. The thought occurs that perhaps this is what it might be like to feel Thomas' cock in his mouth, to have it slide over his tongue, and he whimpers.

"By all means, young man," the monk whispers. "Let's get you deflowered."

Suddenly Thomas is off him and Abel feels cold, but then he's wrestled onto his belly, his face pressed into the blankets. He lets out a sharp, bitten-off noise as a glob of spit lands between his arse cheeks, wet against his hole.

Thomas slides a finger against him there and Abel lets out a stunted, shuttered cry, a shuddering wail of fear and uncertainty, expecting the pain, expecting the wrenching agony and the sense of horrible violation, but it doesn't come.

It feels—

Odd.

Familiar, but different.

Not bad, exactly. Not bad, but strange. No one has ever described what it would feel like beyond that it hurts, or that it's dirty, that it's wrong or sinful. No one's ever said it's pleasurable at all.

Two fingers feel strangely satisfying, the sense of fullness, as much as it feels—

"I'm," he whimpers, embarrassed. "I'm going to, um, you have to— you have to stop, I'm going to—"

"You aren't," Thomas replies.

"No, no, I really, I think I'm going to—"

"You aren't."

It sounds more like an order than an argument. Abel's cock is crushed against the bed. The abbot moves his fingers inside him, moves them, thrusts them, and it feels strange but still not bad, and then—

The noise Abel lets out is so loud that Thomas grabs him and shoves his head down with his other hand, pinning him down into the sheets at the same time as he does that again.

Abel squirms, trying to get away from it, to escape the intense, white-hot flame of heat and pleasure and sensation, "Too much," he moans, muffled, "it's too much, I'll die, I'll die—"

"You won't," says Abbot Thomas, which sounds like an order too.

Then he fucks him.

Thomas drives into him so deeply Abel feels as if he can't possibly contain him, no space left in him that's not made of the abbot, and he wails at the drag over whatever part it is within him, the line or organ or whatever it is that fills him so entirely with pleasure when the abbot strikes it with his cock.

Thomas drags at that point within him again and again and again, making Abel writhe beneath the ecstatic onslaught. He's soaked in sweat, his body shuddering out of his control, his lungs aching from gasping and his head spinning. His cock leaks freely beneath him.

"This is sodomy, boy," growls the abbot in his ear. "How do you like it?"

"Very much, I think," gasps out Abel, and Thomas laughs again, his breath hot on the back of his neck.

There's no escape, nor relief, nor relent in the pleasure that the abbot inflicts on him, the way Abel is fucked - he's a fit and hale man despite his age, and he fucks Abel for what seems like hours with no sign of tiring, takes his pleasure of him.

Abel, at some point, comes again, and he whimpers and sobs into his arms and the blankets beneath him, feeling his cock sputter and feeling the wetness beneath him as his cock jerks and then begins to soften.

The abbot's own grunts and moans change in pitch when Abel comes, his hole tightening around the abbot's prick as he spends a second time - but he doesn't sto;.

Abel thinks he'll go mad, being fucked like this, or perhaps begin to understand religion, if he's to be raised to heights of bliss as these ones.

When the abbot spends himself, Abel feels the spurt of wetness within him, feels suddenly even hotter and wetter inside him as Thomas moans against his shoulder, his gasps and sounds muffled against Abel's skin, his chin sliding over the sweat there.

He collapses on top of Abel, flattens him down into the blankets, and the weight of his body is pleasant, actually, nice. Comforting.

"No one ever said it felt good," says Abel quietly. "I thought it was meant to be agony."

"Ecstasy and agony are easily confused by a man with no experience of either," Abbot Thomas murmurs. "I'll bring you to heights of each as it pleases me. That's your purpose here."

Abel shivers. "Yes, sir," he says, thrilling with it.

"Now, hush," the abbot says, peeling himself away and reaching for his robe. "Run a cloth over yourself, then sleep, rest. I have letters to reply to."

"You'll wake me if you need... me? Again?" asks Abel.

The abbot, his hands smoothing down his skirts, freezes for a moment, and turns back toward him. There's something sly, fox-like, in his expression as he smirks, looking over Abel's body in a cursory manner.

"Mm," he hums. "Eager for another go already, are you?"

"I—"

"I might wake you," Abbot Thomas allows. "But then, I might take my pleasure of you as you lay sleeping."

Abel's heart gives a funny, excited flutter that's echoed in his spent, exhausted cock.

The abbot, snorting quietly with laughter, sweeps out again without another word, and leaves Abel fatigued and content in the mess.

FIN.