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It was a good thing that Mr. Stevens wanted to lie on his back with eighteen-year-old pub lad, Mark, straddling and riding him in the little room above the Exeter, England, pub, the Black Fist. Stevens was of such heavy weight that he’d crush the young man from on top. Conscious of his weight and the rolls of fat regardless of the vegetable seller’s otherwise good musculature, Stevens liked to remain fully clothed other than the baring of his prodigious-sized cock, but he liked Mark to be naked as the man fondled and tested him with his hands and bounced him up and down on his cock.
Stevens was a regular in the New North Road pub near Exeter Cathedral that Mark’s uncle, Henry, who had given Mark a home and a job after the youth’s parents had died, owned and managed. And he was nearly as regular a customer of Mark’s upstairs from the pub room, where Mark did as bid by his uncle to earn his keep. Mark was a comely and small-for-his age young man, with a mop of blond hair, fetching blue eyes, and a smiling disposition. He had become a favorite of men with a certain fetish and was content with the lot life had dealt him. And it was a certain type of pairing that the Black Fist pub was known to cater to.
Mr. Stevens owned and operated the vegetable shop several doors away from the flower shop Mark’s aunt, Agatha, operated on West Street. Mark helped out in the shop by day. That was where he had attracted the attention and interest of the vegetable seller, who had listened to gossip about the young man and had tracked him down to the Black Fist pub.
Having complete his half hour riding Mr. Stevens and seeing the satisfied man off, cleaned up with the bowl of water and towel at the dresser in the small room, and dressed, Mark descended to the pub to fulfill his duties of cleaning up after the patrons and helping to deliver the ale.
When he set a tankard of ale down in front of a single patron, sitting by the fireplace at the table reserved for the gentry, which was known as the lord’s table, a black-leather-gloved hand, the material silky and the fingers elegantly long, gripped the young man’s wrist and held Mark there ever so briefly at the table before releasing the hand.
Surprised, Mark looked down into the eyes of the well-formed foxy-looking man in midlife. His attention focused on the man’s dark, flashing eyes for the first time. The man was handsome in a way, although the intensity of his look and a certain mix of sensuality and cruelty in his aspect made Mark shudder. The man was dark, his hair—and his eyes—jet black and, beyond the black-leather gloves, he was dressed all in black, the material expensive and silky looking, and a black cape flowed down from his shoulders. He quite clearly was a man of the dark and the night. He had snuffed out the candles on the walls near where he sat, which had put him into the shadows.
The man didn’t say anything before releasing Mark, but the young man trembled at the feeling of being stripped bare and possessed. As he moved about the room, cleaning tables and serving patrons, Mark couldn’t help feeling he was being possessed, and, indeed, whenever he took a glance at the lord’s table, the man in black’s eyes were locked on him, watching and assessing his every move. If the man in black could have been said to have been smiling, it wasn’t a friendly one—and it didn’t rise all of the way to his eyes.
Mark’s reaction was contradictory. He felt both attracted to and repelled by the attention. He thus was relieved when his uncle called him forth to go fetch something from the family cottage on West Street over near his aunt’s flower shop.
* * * *
Long elegant fingers in soft black-leather gloves, gliding over my body, stroking and fondling. Everywhere. I’m cold, so cold, lying on my back on rough marble. Naked. I know not how or why I am unclothed and lying under a man—other than that, at eighteen, I do lie with men when they wish it and have the money to pay for it. A man—or something manlike—hovering over me. Me naked, he covered in black, rich, silky black. The branches of trees in the night above the lustfully leering face. The face of a fox, of a man fox. Familiar, but I don’t know in what way—my head is in a swirl. Too much ale or something.
Long, elegant fingers in soft black-leather gloves, gliding over my naked body, stroking and fondling. Testing and squeezing. Most men covering me will do it and have done. This one is taking his time, his pleasure showing to be more than cock in hole, release, and leave.
“Yes, yes,” I murmur, my body betraying my desire, as I raise my pelvis to his centering fingers, stroking, pressing in, my rocking pelvis going with the rhythm of his penetration. He is just testing, teasing at this point, withdrawing the fingers and gliding them over the muscles and other crevices of my trembling body. He knows that I will yield to him, that he can have me. He knows I want him inside me.
How have I become naked in the woods—no, not the woods, a cemetery? Cold, but istanbul travesti from the marble under my back, not from the wind through the trees in the cemetery. The man’s black cloak, billowing, moving rhythmically with the breeze and with the movement of his body on mine, covering us both, blocking out the stronger wind. Saint Bartholomew’s Cemetery. That’s where I am, where I was walking beside before . . . this.
Head in a muddle. So weak, so weak. I try to move my hands, but find they are bound at the wrist by leather, my arms over my head. He is kissing my lips and cheeks and throat, moving down to my chest, my belly, licking and nipping. This is far more attention to my body than the men I go with upstairs in the pub give. They have me for a half hour. It is as if this man will have me forever. Humming in low tones. A gloved hand between my thighs, gliding up.
Oh, fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck. The gloved hands coaxing my thighs apart, bending my spread legs, placing my felt-booted feet flat on the marble. This is it. He is preparing me to be inside me. I yield to him in everything.
The soft-leather gloved hands squeezing and separating my mounds, coaxing me to push up with my feet and elevate my pelvis to his desire. Experienced in the positions of approach of men preparing to penetrate, I comply. I am not a virgin to penetration, at eighteen. There is nothing in that that is making this strange and exotic—fearfully and yet compelling. Men do fuck me. I do take their cocks inside me and ride them to a seeding.
Do it and get it over with. It’s cold and creepy out here.
Gloved fingers at my hole. Not his cock, not yet his cock. Soft leather gloved fingers in my hole. Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck. Kissing and nipping back up my body. Foxy face pressed into my throat. I feel the sting of the bite, the low whooshing sensation of the suck, the slow onset of lethargy and lightheadedness. Writhing, but as if I were underwater, struggling ineffectually against the hand at my hole. Howling into night as the black-leather-gloved hand penetrates, violates, stretches, fills, possesses, flexes, starts to move inside me. His whole fist inside me, moving in and out, in and out. Slight pain at the throat where I am bitten and being sucked. Greater pain inside, below as I am fucked by the gloved hand.
Sinking into lethargic pleasure, fully possessed by the fist, I rock on the hand, fucking myself on the fist.
“Yes, yes, yes,” I murmur in betrayal of my want and desire.
The hand withdraws and he repositions his still-clothed body between my thighs. His cock is out, though, and he enters me, thick, long, throbbing. I spread my thighs wider and lift my pelvis to his deep penetration. He begins to pump, the kiss of his teeth not losing their sucking grip at my throat. A cadence is set in the sucking of the mouth and the thrusting of the cock, and I move in synchronization, going with the dance of the suck and fuck. I am moving, languidly with his use of my body. Floating. Floating away. Relaxing into the ether. Losing all care. As I relax, I flow into him. And, with jerks and sighs, he flows inside me—releasing again, and again . . . and again.
I black out and when I come back in—only partially, in a drunken stupor, I am now stretched on top of the marble tomb—and know it to be that now—on my belly, the monster saddled on my hips, still possessing me with his reengorging, filling and stretching cock, rising and falling on me, his black cape billowing about our bodies. My wrists are free, but dangling, uselessly in my stupor over the sides of the raised tomb. The leather that bound my wrists now is a many-stranded hand whip. The whip is rising and falling, short lashes on my back and buttocks as the monster fucks me. When he stops, it is to lick the blood off the lashed welts and to lean down into me and latch onto my throat with his sucking teeth again.
A sound and the glint of a lantern on the cemetery walkway, and I suddenly am alone, lying on my belly, naked, on the raised marble tomb. With a groan I roll off the tomb on the other side from where I see the lantern swinging and the watchman whistling.
Next I know, I am huddled, clutching my clothing at the base of the cemetery wall, on Exe Street. Panting, too weak to move for the moment. Throat sore, ass channel on fire. Head in a muddle. Weak, weak, weak.
Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck. I feel so weak, and alone, and violated, and . . . elated and so much . . . inexplicably . . . alive and at one with nature and the universe.
I mourn the loss of the moving shaft inside me.
* * * *
“Where have you been? Where is the keg opener I sent you to the cottage to fetch? Couldn’t find it? I swear, Mark, that you couldn’t find your arse to wipe it if you had to. Speaking of which, Brother Adrian is waiting for you in the room. You’re late for that. Well, get you up the stairs now. The monk’s patronage is right steady. Don’t keep him waiting.”
Mark had entered the Black Fist pub, named for istanbul travestileri a figure locally called the Black Knight, who fought at the nearby Battle of Bovey Heath in 1646, in a haze, barely able to put one foot in front of the other. He was not yet much aware where he was and why he was gone, but if his uncle and guardian, Henry, was saying he was supposed to fetch another keg opener from the family cottage, he at least knew why he’d been out. At eighteen, Mark was the evening cleanup lad and the one do everything no one else wanted to do lad for the family pub on the New North Road in Exeter, England, just around the corner and a walk down Exe Street along the Bartholomew Cemetery wall and over on West Street, where the family cottage was and where his aunt, Agatha, owned a flower shop where the lad worked in the day.
The lad’s other duties at the Black Fist—and why he saw evening service here—dealt with “the room” that his uncle, Henry, was sending him up the stairs toward now without waiting to hear an explanation on where the lad had been at such length of time without returning with the keg opener he was sent for. There were store rooms and an office and even two guest rooms to let by the night on the second floor of the pub. But “the room” was a small one and it was Mark, a beautiful, almost effeminate, blond and blue-eyed eighteen-year-old lad, who was rented out in “the room” at “by the half-hour” rates.
When Mark got to the room, he found Brother Adrian, a Benedictine monk from the Buckfast Abbey to the southwest of Exeter, waiting for him. The abbey’s monks, famous for their beekeeping and honey, were more worldly than most, and Brother Adrian, with a fetish for older teenage lads, and for Mark, in particular, was more worldly than most of the abbey monks. The two had initially become acquainted at a fair in the town when Brother Adrian brought honey to the market. Mark had expressed interest in how the honey was produced and Brother Adrian had taken him aside and explained the whole process to Mark. Mark had become fascinated with beekeeping, and Brother Adrian had become fascinated with Mark, had tracked the lad down to the Black Fist, and had discovered what could be had from the lad for few coins for a half hour. Brother Adrien had come from a wealthy family and he had the necessary coins.
When Mark reached the room, the monk was sitting on a wooden chair by the three-quarters bed in the small room. He was perched, naked, on his carefully folded black habit, and keeping himself erect by slow stroking his shaft and thinking sensual thoughts of what he had thought he’d already be doing with Mark. The monk, a young hard worker in the abbey’s enterprises, and fair of face, was strong and well-developed of body. Given the men Mark lay under, Brother Adrian was a pleasure to serve.
He was so intent on keeping himself erect to make the most of the half hour that he didn’t initially notice how listless the lad appeared to be. There was a minimum of kissing and fondling as he stood and pulled the lad’s small, slender body into his, got the lad stripped down, and then turned over onto his belly on the bed. Brother Adrian quickly was immersed in folding his body over that of Mark’s, mounting him from above and behind, getting his cock sheathed, fully possessing and stretching the lad’s sweet channel, and taking the two of them to heaven on earth.
Pleased with the partnering, Mark melded his body to that of the monk and, digging his knees into the surface of the bed to provide leverage, he rocked on the monk’s buried shaft, moving in the rhythm of the fuck, albeit not as active or into the cadence tonight as well as he usually was with the monk.
Placing the palm of one hand on Mark’s belly to hold him close into the fuck and stroking him off with the other hand, Brother Adrian buried his face in the hollow of the young man’s throat and whispered words of endearment as he kissed Mark there, marking this fuck as more one of affection and tenderness than what Mark usually experienced in this room. Mark sighed for him, raising one arm and burying his finger in the thick, unruly hair at the back of the monk’s head and palming one of the monk’s undulating buttocks cheeks with the other. The fuck continued in a slow, steady rhythm.
It was only when he picked Mark up and moved over to the chair, sitting on his habit, putting the lad in his lap, facing him, and pulling Mark on and off his cock, as the lad lethargically helped a bit by placing his feet on the wall behind the chair and using the leverage of those to rock on the shaft, that Brother Adrian realized the lad wasn’t entirely “there.”
It was obvious then that, though willing—Mark was fond of Brother Adrian, one of the few young, fit men who availed themselves of the lad’s sexual services—Mark seemed to be near exhaustion and mentally just not there with the fuck in the usual ability he had to sustain a mood.
Brother Adrian stopped fucking and embraced the lad close. The welfare travesti istanbul of the lad mattered more to the monk than the getting himself off did. “What ails you, Mark?” the monk murmured. “You are so distant and pale. Are you ill, lad?”
“I don’t know. It all seems a haze,” Mark said. “I have been somewhere and done something, but I can’t remember what it was. I do feel weak and like I am somewhere else. My ears are buzzing and I am sore—no, no, you are fine. I have no trouble taking you in me.”
That registered with the monk. The young man had recently been with a man who was thicker than Brother Adrian was—thick enough to tax a young male whore. The monk had a cock to be proud off, thus, the lad must have been covered by a monster, Adrian surmised.
“I must admit, I noticed,” Brother Adrian said. “I did not wish to pry or seem to make a claim that is not mine, but it does seem that you have been with an overbuilt man. Did you lie under another man before coming to me just now?”
“I . . . don’t know. I don’t remember,” Mark said. “I think so, yes.” And then he seemed to be so concerned about not being fully aware of what had happened to him earlier in the night that Brother Adrian did not press him further on the question. It was a fact, regardless of the feelings he had for Mark that included, but went beyond, sex, that Mark was pimped by his uncle and went with men as required of him. In this time and age, Brother Adrian did not judge or question the uncle’s right to use Mark in this way. Perhaps, though, the uncle had the answer to the riddle of what monstrous man Mark had been with.
Mark shuddered. “What is it, lad?” Brother Adrian asked. But, although there was a glimmer of images of a marble slab, a black-clad foxy man, black-leather gloves, a fist moving inside him, a hand whip, and testing sex, none of the images were coming together to be anything more for sure than high-heat dreams.
“It’s no matter. We will manage,” Brother Adrian said, and, pulling the lad off his cock and reaching down to frot their shafts together, Brother Adrian slow stroked them both to release. It was only then, when post-fuck he was gliding his hands over the beautiful little body as it reposed on his lap, that Brother Adrian’s hands found the red welts on the lad’s back.
“What is it? You have been misused. You have been whipped. Not hard, but enough to raise welts and some rivulets of blood. What has happened to you? Has your uncle been punishing you?”
Brother Adrian could not do anything openly if the uncle was misusing the young man to this extent, but there were subtle ways he could use to rein the man in.
“No, no. He never would. I have only now realized it and felt any pain . . . now that you have touched it. My uncle has never punished me so. I don’t think he would. He is gruff, but he isn’t violent. It was . . . I don’t know who it was. I can’t remember who it was—where I’ve been this evening—what I have been doing.”
Mark was reduced to sobs, and, sliding a hand into the habit underneath them, Brother Adrian came up with a small packet of salve. The Benedictine monks were healers and they never left the abbey without a small supply of folk medicines, which they made from herbs grown in their own gardens.
“Here, let me put some calming ointment on your back and then we will put you to bed here. You must rest. I am most concerned about your paleness and your not being able to remember what you have been doing. I have seen this in this area before, and it is very disturbing.”
Mark didn’t object, and after Brother Adrian put him to bed, he came down the stairs. He sought the innkeeper, Henry, out, not only to pay him for the time with the lad but also to tell him that Mark was ill and that, yes, he would be fine in the morning, but that Brother Adrian had given him a sleeping potion so he should not have any more men visit him that night. It wasn’t true about the sleeping potion, but Brother Adrian knew that Mark would be of little pleasurable use to another man on top of him and fucking him that night anyway—although he knew there were men who thought only of releasing their own seed and would fuck the unconscious to achieve that, if need be.
That isn’t all that he spoke to Henry about, though. “Your nephew was badly used before he was with me.” That had to be said primarily to protect Brother Adrian when and if Henry saw the welts, but, in any event, Brother Adrian was fond enough of the lad to pursue the matter. If the uncle chose to beat the nephew, that was no business of the monk’s.
“Badly used? What do you mean? He has been with no other man tonight but you.”
“He has been whipped. Lightly, but he is a tender lad. It has raised welts and let some blood. I have applied a soothing ointment. I can assure you it wasn’t me who did that.”
“I do believe you, but it twasn’t me neither,” Henry said, aware of where suspicion would lie if it wasn’t the monk—and surely it wouldn’t have been the monk. There was no evidence the monk had anything with him to whip the lad with, and Brother Adrien had always seemed to be a calm sort. “I sent him home to fetch me a keg opener. The one here broke. But he were gone a long time, and he came back without what I’d sent him to fetch.”
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