Mist

An allegorical fantasy that has a boy and a man as the central characters, though there are other men who feature in the boy's life and make use of him to gratify their sexual needs. The Author is therefore obliged to issue notice that this allegory should not be read by those not permitted by Law to read it.
Further, the Author makes no apologies for some sentences being written in a language that the vast majority of potential readers will not comprehend.

Mist

An allegory by Ivor Sukwell

 

The Lord of Abercwenny had had boys before, of course he had. He was a lord, not a particularly important one, but still a Norman lord with a manor and a few page boys who provided a pleasant change from his regular diet of kitchen maids and servant girls.

Page boy arse was a nice tight fit, and being used now and again kept them in their place, but even the youngest of them – he was ten – didn't give the same satisfaction as getting his cock wet and deep in the slit of a young girl, provided of course that the girl was young enough.

That was before Harri.

Now he had Harri the kitchen maids and servant girls had to make do with his page boys, and those boys, to the relief of some and disappointment for others, found their lord had no further use for their arses.

The Lord of Abbercwenny drove his cock hard and deep into the black-haired, pale skinned boy he was fucking relentlessly, each downward thrust bringing with it the slapping sound of flesh on flesh, the grunts of an adult male in heat and the pants and gasps of an adolescent one as his arse was ruthlessly ravaged.

"Take it deep, boy," the lord hissed as he drove home again and again.

"Deeper. Harder, Master," the boy panted, forcing his arse back on the cock driving into it, meeting each forceful thrust with a push back to make cock go deeper still inside him, fill his insides even more.

The boy was on his stomach, his lord on top using all his mature body weight to ram his cock in as hard and deep as he could. At times like this the Lord of Abbercwenny wished his cock was the length of a clothyard arrow so the head was so far in the boy it would come out of his mouth as he was being fucked.

Before this boy came, the Lord of Abbercwenny had only liked flesh that was young and hairless; girls who had not even the beginning buds of breasts and boys with undropped balls, but Harri had come and now the lord had no desire to fuck any but him.

Harri was young, but not young as the lord's pages and kitchen girls were young. Harri had a cock grown almost to man size and balls that had long ago dropped, though he was still somehow hairless and was the best fuck the lord had ever had, be that a fuck with a girl or a boy.

Harri was pale skinned and slender, and smooth as a boy of ten, with long black hair that grew over his shoulders, and though he was a boy he was more effeminate than the girls the lord had fucked before he came, so the Lord of Abbercwenny had the best of both worlds, boy and girl rolled into one.

He had no idea where the boy had come from, he'd simply appeared out of the mist one morning, and before the lord could utter words to tell him to be off, which is what he always did to beggars and such as they, he was overcome by the desire to fuck without knowing why.

"Stay and be fucked," were the lord's words of greeting.

"That is my fate," was the boy's response, and so it was.

 

"Pwy ddiawl wyt ti?" Gethin said to the strange boy who was standing in front of his remote cottage at the end of the world in the west of the world in the west of Wales. "O ble y daeth y fuck?"

The boy looked puzzled, as though he hadn't understood Gethin's questions, but after a few seconds he managed to answer.

"Mae fy enw i'n Harri a dydw i ddim yn gwybod."

The boy's Welsh was halting and his accent strange, `Probably from the east, Welsh learned a bit in school,' Gethin thought and switched to English, thinking that would be easier for the boy to understand if he came from the English speaking east.

"So you know your name," Gethin said, not unkindly but definitely a little unwelcoming, "But you don't know where you've come from."

The boy looked puzzled again and Gethin wondered if English was even more incomprehensible to the boy than Welsh.

"No and yes," the boy said, "Yes, my name is Harri, and I come from here but I do not know how I got here."

The boy's English was less halting than his Welsh, though Gethin couldn't put his finger on the accent, or make sense of what he said.

"Wel, os ydych chi'n dod o'r fan hon mae'n rhaid i chi wybod ble rydych chi ac os ydych chi'n gwybod ble rydych chi, rhaid i chi wybod sut y gwnaethoch chi gyrraedd yma."

Gethin spoke in his native Welsh without thinking, but before he could get round to translating the boy answered him in English.

"I don't," he said, "I don't know how I got here."

"Arglwydd uchod, bachgen," Gethin said before remembering to use English, "You didn't just drop from the sky."

"No," the boy agreed, "I'm not hurt and I would be if I fell out of the sky."

Gethin was about to utter a few choice words, both in Welsh and English, to the boy for being cheeky, but managed to restrain himself.

Something about the boy intrigued Gethin, something apart from his accent and the fact that he'd just appeared, seemingly out of nowhere. Something about the boy himself.

Gethin was not, and knew he was not, immune to the charms of boys, particularly to the charms of teenage adolescent boys and this strange boy was definitely an adolescent teenager. `About sixteen,' Gethin thought, `Quite decent and could be legal with it.' Not that being legal mattered all that much, not this far so west of anywhere.

Didn't really matter at all to Gethin now; so long since he'd enjoyed boy company he was long past expecting to ever enjoy it again.

"You're a boy," Gethin said, showing that his powers of observation at least were still working, "So you must be hungry. Boys are always hungry. Don't have a McDonald's here, I'm afraid," Gethin smiled at his own attempt at humour.

"McDonald's?" the boy looked puzzled again, "There wouldn't be. This is Abbercwenny, not Scotland."

"Funny boy," Gethin just avoided grinding his teeth at the boy's cheek, "So you do know where you are. That makes two of us. Probably the only two."

"There used to be a manor here," the boy stared around into the mist, "It's not here now."

"No," Gethin permitted himself a touch of sarcasm, "I think I'd have spotted it if it was."

"It was here," the boy insisted, his English becoming more confident.

The boy was right, there had once been a manor house here, in fact Gethin's cottage was on the very site of that long disappeared manor, but even Cadw hadn't come digging around, a minor manor house, one of many razed to the dust by the English at the time of the last War of Independence being too insignificant for them to bother with.

"Eight hundred years ago," Gethin said, wondering how a teenage boy could possibly know of it.

"Six," the boy corrected, "It was here when Owain was Prince."

"Was it indeed?" Gethin looked at the boy with even more interest; a slender teenage boy was interesting simply because he was a slender teenage boy, and a slender teenage boy with flowing black, shoulder length locks that seemed to shimmer in the mist was more interesting than the average, but he wasn't just physically interesting, he knew his history as well and that made him unusual in more ways than one.

"Llewelyn yr olaf, was the last Llewelyn, but he wasn't, as some say he was, Llewelyn ein tywysog olaf, Owain was crowned Prince as well."

"He was, boy, indeed he was. And disappeared into the mountains, never to be seen again. Perhaps you know where he went?" Gethin couldn't resist more sarcasm. Sarcasm distracted him from another thought, one that was both inappropriate and impossible.

Not completely inappropriate, Gethin had a wry mental smile, which, even if it did appear on his face the boy wouldn't know the reason for it, but definitely impossible.

"Better come in," Gethin said.

Not much in the way of any cover, the Hon. Archibald Jervaise looked around, a few bushes to offer some small concealment, but concealment wasn't really necessary. There was no-one else within miles; he could get all he wanted from the boy right here, out in the open, and he intended to get all of what he wanted.

He gave the dark haired boy another appraising look, judging how much to pay him.

The Hon. Archibald was a true man of his times, rigidly upright and moral in public, utterly debauched in private, and well aware that it took only a few small coins to get a boy from the lower classes to satisfy his needs.

The Hon Archibald was no stranger to the pleasure of satisfying his needs inside a boy; Italian boys had required only a handful of their worthless lira and the boys of India didn't even need paying and provided wonderful satisfaction, just for the honour of being used by an important man of the Raj.

The Hon. Archibald took two whole shillings from his pocket, a fortune for the boy, and held it out, confident that though the boy seemed to speak only the incomprehensible gibberish of his backward people, the money alone would convey what he wanted.

The boy did, took the shillings and made his way behind the bushes, lowered his tattered breeks when he got there and lowered himself, face down , on the moss.

"That's the way you like it, is it?" Archibald salivated, lowered his own expensive country tweed trousers and arranged himself over the boy.

No preliminaries were necessary in the Hon. Archibald's opinion, a little spit to ease things along, and in he went, caring nothing at all for any pain he may cause the boy.

He was surprised both by the ease with which he sank deep inside the boy and by the tightness of him, which contradicted the ease of entry, but the moment he was inside, the Hon. Archibald was overcome by the need to not only fuck, but fuck hard and deep.

The boy clearly liked it that way, pushing himself back on the cock that drove deep into him and Archibald found he was somewhat surprised that, good as the boys of Italy and India had been, this slender, black-haired boy from the wilds of the west of Wales was the best fuck he'd ever had.

No matter how hard and forcefully the Hon. Archibald thrust his cock inside him the boy seemed to want it deeper and harder and Archibald did his best to oblige.

The Hon. Archibald, though of good family, was a third son and so obliged to earn a living, and this he did as an engineer. He was here, in this desolate place to supervise the drowning of a valley - the growing town known as Copperopolis to the south had need of water - and had not intended to isolate himself in this wilderness, but the carnal compensation offered by the boy who had just provided him with what was undoubtedly the best fuck of his life altered his perception.

No trouble at all to get the workmen to leave the task of drowning that valley for the short time it would take them to construct a reasonable dwelling here for him and he could keep the boy and fuck him whenever he wanted for the next year or so, and so the Hon Archibald resolved.

"I'm going to keep you, boy," the Hon. Archibald announced, fuck completed. Never for one moment did Archibald consider the possibility the boy may not agree; what better future could he hope for than to be servant and bed boy to an English man of means? "No more Welsh for you. You need to learn to speak good English."

"Some work been done in here," the strange dark-haired boy observed, looking around him, "Built in 1852."

How would the boy know that?

"I made it liveable," Gethin agreed, "Shepherd's cottage before, though the shepherd was long gone when I got it."

"Sheep gone too now," the boy seemed to shrug, "No sheep, no need for a shepherd. What you do?"

The question was rather direct, but Gethin took no offence, the boy was too intriguing for Gethin to be offended by the bluntness of his question.

"I write," Gethin said, "Now, sausage, egg, beans and chips do you?"

The boy nodded and Gethin had the odd impression that the boy was more interested in him than he was in food.

"What?" the boy asked, "What do you write about?"

Gethin wondered what to answer and decided to put the boy to a test; his reaction may be interesting if nothing else, so he told the truth.

"Stories some people like to read on trains and planes," he said, watching the boy's face, "Stories about things you may be just old enough to be allowed to do, but certainly are not old enough to read about. You have to be eighteen for that, and no way are you eighteen."

"No, I'm not," the boy confirmed, but did not reveal his age. "Why can't I read them till I am?" he asked, and sounded as though he really did not know the answer.

"Because they're sex stories," Gethin smiled, "Dirty sex stories. Man and boy sex stories."

Gethin waited for the look of shock and horror to appear on the boy's face, for the boy to declare he had to leave right now, but that didn't happen. Instead the boy just nodded.

"Can I read one?" he asked, "While you get the food?"

To say that Gethin was nonplussed would be an understatement, but in for a penny in for a pound, and he directed the boy to his laptop where the story he was writing had just reached the point where a boy was being ruthlessly fucked.

"Try that one," he said, "But don't blame me if it shocks you."

"It won't," the boy declared, and scrolled to the top, immersing himself in what could only be described as very gay porn while Gethin cooked sausage, eggs, beans and chips.

"Not that one!" Legatus Maximus Cassius barked at a legionary who was roping the captured barbarians into a slave coif.

The legionary paused, not relaxing the iron grip he had on a youth's arm, fingers digging into flesh, enjoying the pain he was inflicting.

`Why not?' the legionary thought, `Just another long-haired barbarian. And a skinny one at that. Wouldn't last a week in the mines. More girl than boy.'

"What you want me to do with it, Sir," the legionary asked.

"Tie it up and throw it in my tent," the Legatus responded.

"You want it tied any particular way, Sir?" A slow smile crept over the legionary's face as he understood why the Legatus wanted the skinny barbarian youth.

The boy showed no emotion, made no attempt to resist as his hands were tied behind his back, nor did he respond when the legionary whispered gloatingly to him, "Hope you enjoy getting fucked," but then, the legionary spoke in army Latin and the boy didn't understand a single word.

The boy did look directly at the officer though, as he was led away, and very shortly after, the Legatus told his Primus Pilas to take over and headed for his tent.

The legionary was surprised not to hear the shrieks of raped boy coming from the officer's tent; true he was a fair bit away, but in his experience boys were usually very noisy when they got raped.

The dark-haired boy didn't yell, scream or shriek when the Roman officer took him, though he did pant and grunt and moan and push back onto the cock that drove into him, forcing the Legatus to increase his efforts, ramming himself as hard and deep as he could into the boy beneath him.

"By the Gods," the Legatus panted when all was done, "You are a magnificent fuck! Barbarians have their uses!" He contemplated the boy, still on his stomach, arse exposed and leaking Roman sperm; the boy was skinny and delicate, would, the Legatus thought, look most delightful naked.

He would, he decided, keep him, use him as a bath and bed slave for a while. He rolled the boy over onto his back and was delighted to see that there was no need to even pluck him smooth. Not that the Legatus had any interest in the boy's cock, apart from the sight of it, but the smoothness of the boy confirmed his intentions.

Yes, he would take this boy with him when he returned to the south and east, to the new City of the Legion. He would need to learn to speak Latin, of course, not the incomprehensible gibberish the barbarians here used instead of real language, but no matter what sounds came from his mouth, his arse was a wonder.

"Beth sy'n digwydd i'r bachgen? Ar ôl i'r arglwydd ei fucked?" Harri asked between forking food into his mouth, "You haven't finished the story, so what is going to happen to the boy?"

"He gets fucked," Gethin shrugged, "That's all the readers are interested in. A good fuck with all the details is what they want. They don't care about the boy or what happens to him, unless he gets fucked again and they can read about that."

"They should, though, shouldn't they?" the boy stared hard at Gethin, a stare that raised goosepimples all over the man. "It isn't right to just fuck a boy and then forget all about him."

"It happens," Gethin shrugged, "Some men are like that. Get a boy, screw him and forget him."

"Fel Cymru," Harri said, causing Gethin to raise his eyebrows in surprise. He already thought there was something strange about the boy, but comparing Wales with a fucked boy? That wasn't strange, it was weird.

"You're not like that," Harri continued as though what he was talking about was common, everyday stuff, "You wouldn't just fuck a boy and then forget all about him."

"What makes you think I would fuck a boy in the first place?" Gethin said, and wondered why he said it.

"Because I know you want to fuck me," Harri shrugged, "I can always tell when a man wants to fuck me."

Gethin just managed to avoid choking on a mouthful of sausage, and avoidance that was made more difficult as his mind could not help associating sausage with something that looked quite similar. It was a long time since he'd seen one, but he remembered well enough what one looked like!

"So if you think I want to fuck you, why are you here, sitting at my table eating sausage and chips instead of doing a runner straight out of the door and off into the mist where you came from?"

"I don't mind that you want to fuck me," Harri stabbed a chip, "It's natural. Men like fucking boys. And I think you'd fuck me different from the others."

"But boys are not supposed to know that," Gethin almost grinned, "Or if they do, they're not supposed to talk about it with men they don't know."

"Not until they're eighteen," Harri sniggered, "Old enough to read about it."

"Cheeky sod," Gethin did grin this time.

"Are all your stories the same? Just about boys being fucked?"

"Not all of them," Gethin couldn't resist the urge to be wicked, try to shock the boy who seemed so unconcerned about boys getting fucked. "Some of them concentrate on boys being sucked instead. Long, detailed descriptions of a man taking a boy's cock in his mouth; what it feels like to have a boy's cock in the mouth. To savour it and suck it till the spunk comes, and how that spunk tastes and how much the boy enjoys being sucked and spunking in a man's mouth."

"I'd like to read one of those," Harri looked up expectantly, "Find a good one for me."

"I really should not be doing this," Gethin muttered, but still did it, searching for one of his favourites, "You're not old enough and you shouldn't be here."

"I belong here," Harri said simply, "And I was hungry."

The Myrddin looked the boy up and down, his old, experienced eyes missing nothing. Slender and delicate, long black hair shimmering from the damp morning mist the boy looked just as desirable as the Myrddin knew he was.

Already the boy could recite an important part of the Song of Being, he could say with truth he was both man and woman; the Myrddin had entered him more than once, used him with tenderness, used him with passion and always the boy had welcomed the use made of him.

"Tell me again your vision," the Myrddin said, "I would hear it again, just as it was."

"I was not an eagle nor a sparrow, not a lion nor a creeping creature," the boy said sadly, "I was not a fish in the sea and not a worm in the earth. Always I was a boy and only a boy. No use can you have for me but the use a boy can offer."

The Myrddin looked on the boy with compassion, and said silent prayers for him to the Gods of the earth, the waters and the air.

"But you have no misliking of being a boy?" the Myrddin asked, his voice gentle.

"None, Lord," the boy whispered, "Much do I have pleasure in being a boy and of the uses you have made of me because I am a boy. But you had hopes of other things from me than that, and I have failed you."

"Failed me you have not; your vision is a true vision. You are the boy of the people, Yr ydych yn fachgen i'r bobl, and you must take upon you the burden of the people, a rhaid ichi ysgwyddo baich y bobl. What is done to you will be done also to the land of the people.
A boy you are and a boy you will stay. Here you are and here will you stay. Such is your fate and no man can escape his fate."

And what the Myrddin said was true, for the boy stayed with the Myrddin and the Myrddin aged but the boy did not.

"That's a nicer story," the boy finished reading and looked at Gethin, his eyes dark pools in the pale skin of his face, "The man doesn't just fuck the boy because he is a boy and can be fucked. He wants to make the boy feel good."

"And feel good himself," Gethin pointed out, "He likes sucking boys' cocks."

Harri nodded, thinking. "It's different, isn't it? Wanting to suck a boy's cock isn't the same as wanting to fuck him."

"That's fairly obvious," Gethin snorted, "He's after cock, not arse."

"But why?" Harri persisted. "In your story, the boy never even touches the man's cock. He isn't told to and he doesn't."

This, Gethin thought, was really odd. The boy talked freely about fucking, it even seemed like he knew what it was to be fucked, but it sounded as though he knew nothing about the pleasure of having his cock sucked. How was that possible? How could any boy know about having cock in his arse and know nothing about having his own cock in a mouth?

"That's what you want to do to me, isn't it? Suck my cock?" The boy's voice matched the frown on his face, a boy surprised by a new experience in his long boy life and trying to work out what to do about it. "Men always fuck me when they find me here. Why don't you want to fuck me? I expected you to want to fuck me."

Gethin was lost for words. The boy was slim and slender, delicate with it, pure boy but androgynous also, what Gethin in one of his stories would label perfect fuck flesh, but he felt no desire for the boy's arse; not that he could do anything about such a desire these days even if he felt it.

Would he fuck the boy if he could? Not now, not yet. Eventually, yes he probably would, but not now, not yet.

"What makes you think I want to suck your cock?" Gethin found a way to avoid actually admitting that he did. He hadn't invited the boy in so he could suck his cock. Had he? His first thought on seeing the boy, standing outside his cottage in the mist hadn't been, `You look tasty, wouldn't mind getting at your cock.' Had it?

Of course it hadn't! He'd invited Harri in because he was a boy who looked hungry. A boy. And boys have cocks. How long was it since Gethin last had a boy's cock in his mouth?
The boy was waiting for an answer, and Gethin's question was not an answer.

"Yes," he sighed, admitting defeat, "I would like to suck you."

Harri nodded, wanting more information.

"Long time since I even had a boy to talk with, let alone one I could get in my mouth," Gethin's smile was wan and regretful, "Sorry about that, but, tidy boy like you – can't help it if you make my mouth water, can I?"

"But why don't you want to fuck me?" Harri still frowned in puzzlement, "Men always fuck me when they find me here. Fuck me till they've had enough of fucking me, and then they go away and leave me."

"Duw, boy," Gethin spluttered, "You've met some strange men, isn't it?"

"Were they strange?" the boy asked, "They got what they wanted from me."

"Diafol, boy!" Gethin swore, "No-one should treat a boy like that! Boys are meant to be worshipped and adored, not fucked and thrown away!"

"What do you do with a boy when you've sucked him?"

Gethin could see from the boy's expression that an off-hand answer would not suffice, so he tried to tell it as it was, or as it had been when he'd had boys to suck.

"Depended on the boy," Gethin started, and having started he had to finish, "Some just wanted to find out what it was like. Never minded that, like, boys are boys and need to find things out, and if once was enough for them, well, chwarae teg like, no complaints from me. If they wanted to come back to make sure, fine by me, and if they wanted to keep finding out till they'd had enough, no complaints there either. Always was the boy's choice."

"I've never been sucked," Harri said after a long time thinking, "Is it good? Nice for the boy?"

"Only one way to find out," Gethin grinned, and then realised what he'd said and how it could be misunderstood. "Didn't mean it like that," he hastily tried to cover up his slip, "Don't mean you got to let me do it for you."

"I don't mind," the boy almost smiled, "I know what it's like to be fucked. Sometimes I even enjoy it for a while, even though I know deep down I'm only being used and it doesn't matter to whoever's fucking me what I think or feel. I was meant to be fucked, it's what I'm for. Romans, Normans, the English, they all just want me for what they can get from me, and they just take what they want. Perhaps sucking will be different."

Gethin understood the words, though they made little sense to him. Romans? Normans? What had they got to do with anything?

"I'd like to be sucked," Harri looked hard at Gethin, "Sucked by you. And," he smiled suddenly, "If I like it I'll tell you my story and you can turn it into one of yours. There'll be lots of fucking in it to make your readers happy."

"It would be an honour to suck you," Gethin looked fondly at the boy, who seemed to grow more beautiful and desirable even as he was looked at.

Strange thoughts came to Gethin's mind as he unclothed the boy, who seemed bemused at being unclothed completely, though he raised no objections to it.

"Beautiful," Gethin breathed, admiring the nakedness before him, "Just beautiful."

Gethin was no stranger to the beauty of naked boys, but Harri was something more. True, it was many years since Gethin last gazed upon a boy's nakedness, but it was more than simply the long absence of boys in his life that made Harri so beautiful.

He was more than just a boy, Gethin thought as he gently lowered Harri on his bed, he was the perfection of boyness.

The hard bones of his hips stood proud above the valleys that led downwards to his glory, and that glory a peak of perfection, Moel yr Wyddfa rising above all, though there was no dark forest beneath the pale hardness that was as white as snow.

Harri was as smooth as freshly fallen snow, not a single hair blemished his perfection, not there nor on the slender curves of his thighs, not even in the pits under his arms and Gethin was overwhelmed with the beauty of the boy, and overcome with the desire to worship all with his hands, his mouth and tongue.

The boy seemed surprised, not unwilling, just surprised. Men did not want him on his back, they wanted him on his front so they could mount him, force their way into him, use him for their needs.

This was different; Harri knew from the way Gethin was looking at him, admiring him, that it would be different.

Harri's eyes were shut, but in his mind they were open and he saw, very clearly, an old man with a flowing long beard who clutched a staff of oak in his hand, a staff of oak wound round with mistletoe, who smiled at him with tenderness and love in his eyes.

Harri did not need to open his eyes to know that the old man who had taken him in his mouth and savoured and relished the seed that had spurted there was looking at his nakedness with that same tenderness and love.

"I know the ending now, Myrddin," Harri whispered, "I know how to end my Song of Being."

The ages ancient Druid Song of Being always ended the same way, same, but always different. It ended with the name of the singer of that Song.

"I am Cymru," Harri sighed.

 

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