All usual disclaimers apply don't read if you know you shouldn't.

If you do read on it doesn't matter if you like the story or not, please make a donation to Nifty so you can keep reading stories you do like.


What a Boy Must Do

A work of fiction in several parts by Ivor Sukwell.

Part Three: Early Middle

White and Black is for the Hospital of St. John


He was running, running up the mountain. It wasn't really a mountain, no more than a fairly steep hill that led to the cliff top where the waves lapped and sometimes crashed below. It felt like a mountain to the boy, hard to keep running, even more so because the grasses were tall, taller than him and they held him back, made his running harder. But he had to keep running because he had to escape, and that made the thoughts in his blood-pounded brain harder to work out.

What if the cliff edge came suddenly and he didn't see it because he was running through the tall grasses? He would run straight over the edge and be dashed to pieces on the rocks below. He would die. But he would die quickly, and he would not die quickly if the Prior's men caught him. No. He would be taken back to the village and tied to a post in the middle of the village and all the people of the village would be summoned to watch him die.

"A hundred on his arse and a hundred more on each leg," the Prior had said, his voice casual though he had licked his lips to stop the saliva flowing from his mouth as he issued the boy's punishment.

Three hundred lashes from freshly cut hazel canes. It would take no more than ten to cut through his skin; he knew that because he had seen boys caned before and counted on his fingers the number before blood began to seep. But those boys had only been given ten or two more and they were in agony, and he knew he would be dead from the pain long before they finished three hundred, his lower body no more than bloody pulp.

That image kept his legs moving though his heart was pounding as though it would burst and he was not really running now but staggering and stumbling, fear forcing his body onwards and upwards through the tall grasses.

The grass was shorter now and he could feel a difference in the air, a cooler breeze on his sweat dripping face and instinct brought his body to a stumbling stop, his lungs gasping for the sea breeze and desperately needed oxygen. His sight was blurred with exhaustion and his legs refused to obey his command to move, refused even to hold him upright and he collapsed in a shuddering heap, dragging air into his lungs, trying to concentrate.

They would be coming for him, he knew that, the Prior's men, but they would not hurry. They knew he could not really escape and not hide for long; they would find him and catch him and take him back for the Prior's punishment and amusement.

"Fucking bastard," he breathed, "Fucking, murdering bastard."

"Who would that be?" a voice enquired and his shuddering, exhausted body froze with fear because the Prior's men had found him already.

He lay shuddering, not just with exhaustion now, but with sobbing tears of frustration that his moment of freedom was over so soon, his escape worthless. But there was defiance still and he would not get off the ground, not face the Prior's men. They would have to drag him back to the village, drag him all the long way.

"Who are you running from?" the voice asked. It asked, not snarled or hissed. It asked in an almost kindly way and he was not used to voices like that. No-one was kind to him. Well, his father hadn't been unkind, harsh at times but never unkind; but his father was swinging on the end of a rope now.

Bravely and defiantly, for he was not a cowardly boy, he controlled the flow of tears and, as his eyes cleared, he found he was looking at sandaled feet, bare ankles and perhaps a hand's breadth or two of uncovered leg above which was a white tunic. Whatever it was, it was not the sort of thing that any of the Prior's men would have worn, nor would they go in sandals and bare legs.

Not a Prior's man then, but when he raised his eyes further he saw, emblazoned on the chest of the white tunic, a large black cross, a square cross, but still a cross and crosses meant churchmen and churchmen would have something to do with the Prior. There was no safety in churchmen.

"You have nothing to fear from me," the voice said, and it sounded almost kindly but he was not taken in. The Prior had spoken gently, smiled even, when he ordered those three hundred lashes with a freshly cut hazel cane.

"Whatever you are running from, whatever you have done, you are safe with me," the voice said gently and quietly.

"Safe?" He tried to snarl and sneer, but it came out as a cracked half sob, half croak. "Safe with a churchman?" His contempt for all men of the church was clear, though, he would admit, some of the brothers were kind enough. Simon and Eldred spoke well of Brothers Edward and Paul, said they were good to their boys and never hurt them, but the others, all the others, were far less kind.

"I serve the Pope and the Holy Church, but I am neither priest nor brother," the voice said, still soft and kind, "I am Edgar Eadwardson, a knight of the Hospital of Saint John and I am sworn to protect the poor and the needy, and you are most certainly both poor and, it seems, in need of protection."

"You not taking me to the Prior, then?" he asked and he could not keep the note of hope from his voice.

"It is the Prior you are running from?

"Murdering bastard," he muttered, confirming that he was indeed, running from the Prior.

"You so said before," the man who called himself Edgar Eadwardson said with a gentle hint of amusement, and when he raised his eyes to see the man fully he knew that man was better amused than angry. He was huge, more than twice his height and broad across the shoulders, a man no-one in his right mind would wish to anger, bigger by far than the village blacksmith and he was the biggest man in the village. His hair was fair, not worn in the style of the priest, Prior or brothers and he had no beard. His eyes, blue eyes, twinkled with amusement and though he was big and wore a sword at his side, he did not seem a man to fear if he was not angry.

"And when you have bathed and eaten and recovered somewhat from your fear you may tell me more."

He was puzzled, more than puzzled. He would eat if he could, but where would he find food? It was for food that his father was now swinging lifeless from a rope outside the priory. Did this strange, huge man think he carried food with him while he ran for his life? And `bathed'? Never had he done such a thing!

"Have you the strength to walk with me to my home by the cliff edge, or should I carry you there?"

"I can walk," he muttered and rose to his feet, but his legs denied him and he sank at once to his knees.

"It seems not," the man grinned and, with a simple movement lifted him as though he was no more than a feather and tossed him over his shoulder, turning and making his way steadily up the slope, holding him in place with one huge hand enveloping his arse.

It wasn't at all uncomfortable, and after a few moments the hand on his arse felt far from unpleasant, and he wondered why this should be. He knew what his arse was for, of course he did, though no man had used him yet as the other village boys were used. He went rarely to the village, working too hard on the tiny plot of land he lived on with his father to have time to play games with the other boys and come to the attention of the brothers. He went to church with his father, but was too dirty and too mean to be of any interest to the fat priest, who liked boys much younger than he, and he was not apprenticed to any craftsman and so, probably alone amongst the boys of his age, he remained a virgin.

The hand holding him felt, dare he think it, good though, and his member, rubbing against the man's shoulder, had grown hard. It did that often now perhaps that was something to do with the hairs that had started to grow just above it and sometimes, when he was alone and it had grown hard, he would rub it with his hand and get strange feelings in his belly and the seed would spurt from it. That was always a good feeling and he understood that if men got that feeling when they fucked women it was obvious why they did that and, if they did not have a woman, or like the brothers, were not allowed women, they fucked boys instead.

As he was facing behind the man who carried him he had no idea where they were going, but after some time of enjoying the hand on his arse and wishing he could deal with the hardness of his prick and even, naturally, wondering if the man had no woman might he be fucked later, he could tell that they were going downhill now, and steeply downhill for he could see the pathway behind them.

And then they stopped and the man did not just drop him to the ground, but lowered him carefully, strong hands under his arms holding him till his feet touched the ground and he was able to stand, though he did need to steady himself at first by reaching out a hand and leaning against the man's chest.

"Firstly, you bathe," the man said, wrinkling his nose, "And when you smell sweeter we can eat."

Bathe? Actually wet himself all over? That was not natural! True, he did from time to time immerse himself in the water of the stream that ran at the end of the tiny plot of land he had lived on with his father, but that was only by accident when he slipped as he was wading out to the net his father had placed to catch fish, the net that was the reason his father was now swinging by his dead neck on the end of a rope by the priory. To do such a thing deliberately was surely against nature and his clothing, such as it was, would be soaked. True it was summer and more hot than warm, but even so he knew well enough the horrid feeling of wet clothes on his body. Bad enough when a sudden storm soaked him or he had to work in the pouring rain; falling in the water had been beyond bad so to jump into the stuff willingly must be nothing but madness.

He was thinking this when the man picked him up again and carried him some way and when he was again on his feet he saw a pool of water, and shuddered visibly at the sight.

It was a cunning pool, he could see that. A natural hollow in the ground had been deepened so the water that flowed from a spring above it fell into it and filled it, and at the other end a lip had been made so the water overflowed there, flowed in a channel that was clearly not natural, and flowed to another place where it poured over rocks a few feet below before plunging down an overhang to the sea below.

That one man could have made this was definitely a wonder and this he said.

"Not me, boy, the Romans." And when this obviously meant nothing, he added "A people who were here many, many years ago. Great soldiers and cunning builders. That," he added, pointing to the smaller hollow where the water ran from the lip and cut channel, "Is where you shit. The water carries it away and down to the sea."

That made sense of something his nose had been telling him, that there was no familiar smell of a midden pit; this strange man's shit was washed down to the sea, not left to fester and rot in a hole in the ground. Strange, though not as strange as wanting to jump in the other pool and soak your clothes!

"If I does that, me clothes'll be soaked through," he protested with a whine.

The man laughed, his face breaking into a smile of pure amusement.

"I think not," he grinned, "For you will not be wearing them."

His face registered shock! Take his clothing off? That he never did! No man did! Save, perhaps the rich ones, lucky enough to have other clothes to wear and then only when the ones they were wearing were so infested with lice that they became unbearable. He had no other clothes and was used to the bites of lice, had long forgotten to even notice them.

"Not wearing them?" His voice squeaked with the shock he was feeling. It wasn't shyness or modesty of any kind, not any thought that the man would see his naked body, it was simply the idea of being naked; he couldn't remember ever being naked or of seeing anyone else in that condition.

"When you take them off they will probably hop their own way to the fire, for on the fire they are going. And quickly, before the lice living in them look for another home."

"Nobody gets their clothes off, and no-one jumps into water," he protested, still squeaking.

"Civilised men do," the man said calmly, "The infidels of Outremer do so often twice a day."

That idea was too shocking to even bring forth a squeak, though he had heard of Outremer. That was where his father, once a soldier, had lost his arm to a Saracen blade.

There was, though, no further use in protesting. He had not the strength to run, and even if he had, to where would he run?

Slowly, making as sure as he could that the man understood he was doing this not of his own will, he tried to untie the string that wrapped round his waist, holding his filthy sackcloth tunic in place. He tried, but the string had been tied so long ago, tied and retied, that he could not undo the knot.

Sighing, the man took a knife from his belt and passed it across, "Cut it," he said simply.

He did, cutting through the coarse string and shrugging filthy sackcloth tunic from his shoulders, revealing, as it slid down his body, a slender, skinny, barely adolescent chest, a chest that was covered with the tell-tale marks where lice had fed.

Knowing that he had to shed his lower garment as well, he cut through that lace and allowed them to slip down his skinny, but muscled legs, revealing his all.

"I ain't no infidel, even though you makes me jump in that water," he tried to be defiant.

"That I can tell," the man said with a smile on his lips as he eyed the now naked boy. "In now and wash all over, and when I return you can wash again." He helped by giving him a gentle push so he staggered backwards and fell into the pool, gasping as the coldness of the water shocked his nerves.

High summer and hot, but that water had come straight from the ground and had no heat in it.

When he shook the icy water from his eyes he saw the man had gone and his clothing had gone as well, and then the man returned not with his clothes but with what looked like a round stone in his hand.

"Wash again," he said, tossing the stone at him, "Rub that over your skin, every bit of skin, especially the crack of your arse and round your tiny balls."

It was stupid of course, rub a stone all over you, but when he did something odd happened, for the stone made a sort of foam on his skin and when the water washed it off he was a different colour, no longer grey but a sort of pinkish white. He watched the water run from the pool and over the lip that had been made at the end and it was dirty, grey, scummy water and he understood that dirt all came from him.

"Now your hair," the man called, sitting down beside the pool to watch him wash.

His hair? That was even more strange than washing his body, but he knew better than to protest now and washed his hair with the stone thing till the water ran clear. Had he been able to see himself he would have seen that his hair was no longer a greasy, muddy brown but the colour of wheat at harvest time.

"Enough," the man said at last, "Out now and I will cut your hair."

"What?" he almost screamed.

"Whoever it is you were running for your life from," the man said calmly, "They will be looking for a filthy, lice-ridden boy in filthy, lice-ridden sackcloth, with filthy, tangled long hair. They will not be looking for a well-groomed, clean boy with harvest gold hair."

That, he realised, made sense. Perhaps this man was not crazed after all.

"Won't be looking for a naked one either," he pointed out but still submitted to the man and his sharp knife as his hair was cropped. No-one in their right mind argued with a man who held a sharp knife not far from their throat.

And then, strangest of all, when he had finished, the man stripped off his own clothes, tossed them in the water and jumped in himself, using that stone thing to wash his own body and hair. But though it had seemed the strangest yet when the man did that he saw something even stranger when the man emerged from the water. He was smooth all over, no hair round his prick or on his legs.

He'd never seen a naked man, of course, but surely men were not like that? He'd seen the legs of brothers when they worked in the priory fields near where he had lived with his father, even seen, once or twice, a brother lift his black habit to piss and once, when he thought no-one could see, a brother call a novice boy to him and lift his habit right up so he could shove his prick into the novice boy's arse. He'd seen the boy and the brother and they both had hair there, in the same place where he had some starting to grow, so why didn't the man have any?

He soon saw why! The man covered those bits with the foamy stuff from that stone thing and then used his knife to scrape it all off! And he did the same with his legs! Why would he do that?

"Why you scrape all the hair off from round your prick and your legs?" he asked later when they were eating. A meal of lentil soup and roast hare that he devoured ravenously. Both he and the man were still naked and he couldn't help sneaking a glance at the man's prick now and again. It was huge! At least the length of his own hand as it hung down limp between the man's legs.

"You don't have that much there yourself," the man said with a smile. He had been taking his own looks at the boy, far less sneaky but also unobserved by him because he had no understanding of why a man should want to look at his prick.

"That's because they only just started growing on me," he said as though to an idiot, wondering if he should add that he could squirt seed to show he was on the way to being a man himself.

"Something more I learned from the infidels," the man told him, "Though they may well have learned it from the Greeks when Alexander conquered their lands."

Who the Greeks and Alexander were he had no idea.

"Lice like to be warm, like living in body hair. Remove the hair and less chance of lice."

"Oh," he said, wondering why he felt a little disappointed the reason was so simple.

"Now I must put some salve on those bites and then dress to meet our guests."

"Guests?" he asked.

"Whoever it is you are running from I expect. They will be here soon; they are in the tall grass now but they are in no hurry. Plenty of time to deal with those bites."

"The Prior's men?" he squawked, sudden fear gripping him. "Where should I hide?"

"Here," the man said calmly, "Here in plain sight where they will not notice you."

"But they'll see me and.............." he trailed off, not wanting to say what would happen when they found him.

"And take little notice of you. Are they looking for a clean, naked boy with short, harvest hair? That is what they will see."

"And wonder why I'm all naked!"

"And they will no doubt ask and I will tell them and they will all laugh at you and call you stupid."

"And I will be stupid if I wait here naked for them to take me!" The desperation clear in his voice.

"You will do as I tell you," the man's tone was firm, an order had been given.


He sat as he had been told, close to the brick ruin where the man lived, a ruin he said was Roman, though that meant nothing to him. His body, and even parts of his face, were covered in patches of yellow stuff, the salve the man had said would ease the irritation of his multiple flea bites. He sat, knees drawn up, arms wrapped around them and his chin resting on them looking a picture of abject misery and sullen resentment, and, in truth, he needed no acting skills to look that way.

His protector, or rather the strange man he hoped was his protector, stood waiting for the Prior's men to appear. He had dressed, but only in a simple white, knee-length tunic, the square black cross large on front and back, with his sword belted around his waist. Sandals on his feet and nothing more, he was both alert and casual.

The Prior's men were surprised to see him there. They had emerged from the tall grass, climbed the slope, found the downward path and followed it to the brick ruins and the knight of Saint John standing there, obviously awaiting their arrival.

"I receive few visitors," he said, pleasantly enough, "But you are welcome here. May I ask your business with me?"

"None with you," the one who was their leader said. He was not in a good mood, trudging miles through the tall grass and up the long slope in the heat of the day.

"Then why have you come here?"

"Seeking a runaway from justice. A boy. A ragged, stinking, long haired boy who tried to assault our Prior and do him injury. Have you seen such?"

"There are none here but we," the knight said amiably, "And beyond here nothing but the cliff and the sea."

"Might he be hiding in those ruins?"

"If he is he has the magic of invisibility for I have seen none but my boy go in there, and I saw you coming more than a long hour ago."

"You saw us?" The surly leader was surprised.

"My duty is to watch; the sea more than the land, but I do not ignore the land."

"Watch the sea? Not going away is it?" He turned to his fellows waiting for the laughter that his wit deserved.

"Indeed not, but it is what may come on it that I watch for."

"And that is?" He was itching for a fight, something with which to vent his anger and frustration.

"Saracens. The Grand Master of my Order sent me here to watch for infidel pirates and to consider if this is a good place for ships of the Knights of the Hospital of Saint John to be based so the seas can be kept safe from any such."

For the first time the surly leader took in the white tunic and large black cross the knight wore and saw too the long sword at his side, and thought again about picking a fight, deciding that was no longer a need.

"Know nothing about infidel Saracens, nor your Knights, though I see now you are such and beg forgiveness for my words, sire," he knuckled his greasy forelock. "We search for a criminal boy who escaped from the Prior's justice, nothing more."

"Then search and be satisfied," the knight said with a casual shrug, "You will find none but myself and my boy."

"Why he got that stuff all over him?" another asked taking a step towards where he sat huddled, miserable and now very frightened. He knew it was the man who had held his arm when the Prior ordered his flogging, the man who had whispered in his ear. "If I weren't holding you so tight you could wriggle free and run for your life, for that punishment will surely have your life." And he had felt the man's grip on his arm relax so he was only looking as though he held him tight and he had indeed wriggled free and run, out and away before surprised Prior's men could stop him.

"Because he is stupid," the Knight said with disdain, "He contrived to fall in a nest of ants and now wishes he had more brains."

Guffaws greeted the Knight's remark; someone else's misfortune was always worth a good laugh. And laughing took their attention from him and they trooped off back up the path leaving him shuddering with relief.

The sun was close to setting and he was eating again two meals in one day! Undreamed of luxury.

It was fish this time, fish from the sea, for he had followed the knight down another path, steep enough to need careful footing for his bare feet, though it was less difficult than he at first thought for there were the remains of steps cut in many places. At the bottom was a small beach with a boat moored and they had rowed out a little way and fished. His first taste of sea fish, grilled over the fire by the brick ruin, though he knew now that part was less ruined than it seemed for the knight lived there in what he thought of as luxury.

"Now it is time you told me your story," the knight suggested as he wiped his fish-greasy fingers on the short grass where they sat, "Why you attacked the Prior and why you call him a murdering bastard."

He did, leaving nothing out. How his father had been hanged for taking fish from the stream; "He said the waters flowed through Priory land and the fish came from that land so father was stealing from God, and he hanged him."

"And that was why you tried to attack him?" the knight asked after thinking in silence for a while.

"That was because he was going to give me to the lay brothers," he said with a shrug of his naked shoulders.

"And that would have been bad?" There was more than just a simple question in the knight's voice.

"There's four of them," he said, "And they'd have fucked me one after the other and I never been fucked yet. They cruel bastards and wouldn't care a bit that they hurt me. One boy they got died last year after they finished with him. Been the proper brothers would have been alright; they good to boys. But they does want to make them novices so they can fuck them for years."

"That would have been bad," the knight agreed with a soft smile, amused by the boy's lack of concern at the thought of being fucked. "And what did you do to the Prior?"

"Tried to kick him in the balls," he shrugged again, "But I was too far away and they grabbed me fore I could get a proper kick in."

And he told the story of his escape and the Prior's man who had allowed him to escape, wiped his own hands on the grass and said, "Now you'll fuck me. Just hope you not nasty about it."

"And have you kick me in the balls?" the knight smiled.

"No," he shook his head vigorously, "You saved me life so you got a right to fuck me."

When no answer came, he went on, quite seriously, "I know churchmen fucks boys, and masters fucks their apprentices and though I never come across one before, knights and rich people have pages and such so I expect they fucks them as well. You a churchman and a knight so you must have fucked lots of boys."

Since telling lies was a sin, the knight had to give an honest answer; "Quite a lot of boys, yes. Infidel boys."

"What, ones you captured in war?" His interest was aroused, a boy's interest. War was something exciting, though obviously dangerous as his father had lost an arm in war.

"We are not always at war with the infidel," the knight smiled, "A lot of the time there is no fighting and Saracen and Christian mix in peace. Saracen boys are exceeding skilled in the arts of bed, take great pride in the satisfaction they can give a man."

That was something to think about when he went to bed on a pile of furs the knight gave him, and he wondered a little why the knight had not fucked him. Well, that was his choice, he wouldn't try to stop it happening, for it was the knight's right for saving his life.

He had to bathe again the next afternoon when the sun was high and when the yellow salve had washed away he noticed the bites were no longer red and angry but almost not noticeable and itched no more. But even so the knight would not permit him to wear clothes and, though he knew not why, he was starting to find he liked being naked, the summer air warm on his skin.

And the knight liked him naked, often feasting eyes on him, often looking long at his prick and he found it pleasing that he was so looked at, though why a man should want to look so at his prick was something he did not know. And when they sat, close now that he had no salve on his body, the knight would place a hand on his leg and squeeze and stroke it and when that made his prick go hard the knight would take that in his hand as well and that he liked much.

"Is it not a sin to hold a boy's prick?" he asked, curious.

"A small one, perhaps," the knight smiled, and explained, which he liked because the knight did not treat him as stupid but said things properly to him as though was someone who was more than a boy who had run from the justice of the Prior.

"We, like brothers and priests and all men of the Church, are sworn to chastity, forbidden to lie with women for we must never marry and a man may only lie with the woman he is wedded to."

That, he thought, was nonsense, for he knew many men in the village lay with any woman who would lay with them.

"And Holy Scripture forbids that a man should lay with another man and that he shall not commit the sin of Onan."

"What's that?" he asked.

"The spilling of one's own seed."

"Oh," he said after a moment working that out, "You mean," and he shamelessly demonstrated but the knight stopped him.

"That indeed. But Holy Scripture makes no mention of boys."

"Oh," he said again as understanding came, "So you may fuck boys and it is not a sin?"

"And not just fuck them," the knight smiled again, "But take and give pleasure with them."

"Like what you doing now?" He nodded towards the knight's hand down where it felt and stroked his hard prick. It certainly gave him pleasure, the knight doing that, and if he found pleasure in that as well, then it was good, he thought.

"And more," the knight's voice was a little husky and he suddenly leant forward and stunned him by taking his prick into mouth instead of hand.

And that was real pleasure! And he understood at once why some brothers used a boy's mouth and not his arse. And he sighed with delight as the knight used lips and tongue on his prick until his seed welled and he shot it forth into the knight's mouth though even in the haze that filled his mind as his seed shot from him he was shocked that the knight swallowed and allowed not a drop to spill.

"It is forbidden to spill seed on the ground," the knight said again when he asked why he had done that.

That, he knew, meant that when he took the knight's prick into his own mouth and that he knew he had to do, he would also have to swallow the seed and he wondered how it would taste.

And that he found that night for he slept not alone but in the knight's bed and he too was naked and held him close and stroked his body until, not waiting to be told, he went down and took the knight into his mouth. And though the knight was big and filled his mouth to overflowing, he did what he could and used his lips and tongue as the knight had done on him and kept his teeth well covered for he knew no man, or even boy, would like teeth where the body was so sensitive.

And when the knight's seed shot forth into his mouth there was so much he had great difficulty in swallowing all, but he knew he must spill none, and so he gulped it down as it shot in thick loads into his mouth.

The taste was not evil and he knew he had pleased the knight for when it was finished the knight held him close and stroked his hair and, for the first time in his life, he felt wanted.


He was impatient to be fucked. It was not that his body longed to have the knight's big prick inside him, he knew enough to realise that it would probably hurt, but he was a boy and the knight was a man and men fuck boys, and he reasoned that if he was going to have a chance of staying safe with the knight he would have to be fucked. He had already lived three days longer than he had expected to and wanted to live for some more, so the sooner the fucking started the better.

And he realised that it was not just a simple matter of bending over and letting the knight stick his prick up inside him like the village apprentices did for their masters and the novices did for the brothers; his knight had talked of how skilled infidel boys were with their arses, so he knew he had to more than just bend over. What, he had no idea; he'd never had a prick in his arse so he had no idea what it would feel like or what he should do when it was in there. One thing he did guess was that he should keep his arse clean; if the infidel boys bathed twice a day they would not have shitty arses and he was sure the knight would not fuck him if he did, and, surprisingly, he had found that he actually quite liked being clean.

He could not think why that was so, for it was obviously not natural; he knew no-one other than the knight who went naked and willingly into water, but it was so much better without the constant itch of flea bites, though that had been part of his life always and he had come to ignore it. Now it was gone he understood how much better it was without it.

But being clean alone was obviously not enough to make the knight fuck him; he had expected to be bent over and fucked long before, but though the knight seemed to delight in playing with his prick, both with hand and mouth, always making sure that when his seed spurted he took it in his mouth so none was spilled on the ground, and though he very much delighted when he did the same in return, there had been no attempt to put prick in his arse.

He liked the knight playing with him and he liked holding and sucking the knight's prick, though why that should be he could not work out. But like it he did, and his seed always spurted full when he did that, though less full now that it spurted three or more times in a day than it had when it only happened once in a week or so when he had used his own hand when his prick seemed to demand it.

He knew he had to do something to get the knight to fuck him, for surely no man could be satisfied with a boy's prick and just his mouth. Indeed, he had never heard from any of the village boys that any man wanted anything from a boy except his arse, apart from one or two brothers who seemed to prefer mouth, but they were thought of as being strange.

He knew he could not just say to the knight that his arse was there to be used, for perhaps the knight was also strange and had no interest in the arse of a boy, or perhaps he was too old for the knight, for he knew that some men, like the Prior, only liked to fuck much younger boys. It must be that, he decided, for the knight had talked openly about the delights of fucking infidel boys.

"The infidel boys you have fucked," he asked as he sat, naked as always, beside the knight after they had eaten, "Were they much younger than me?" He thought it safe to ask because the knight was, as always, stroking his leg and feeling his very hard prick.

"Many were older," the knight said simply.

"Older?" he repeated, his voice squeaking with surprise. He had thought he was already too old for any but men who had little chance to fuck, men like the lay brothers.

"By a year or even three," the knight said carelessly, "Though harder to judge with an infidel boy who has shaved all the hair off as is their custom. You," and the knight both looked at and felt with his fingers, the sparse growth above his prick, "Are, I would guess, around thirteen. Many infidel boys still like to be fucked even when they are of an age for war."

"As old as that?" he squeaked. And, no longer able to hold back the question he needed to ask, "Then why have you not fucked me?"

"Because," the knight smiled and gave his prick an extra squeeze that made him feel warm inside, "I thought you were afeared of prick inside you. You ran because the Prior wanted to give you to the lay brothers."

He shook his head; that was something completely different.

"I mind not if you wish to fuck me; it is your right for saving my life."

"I do indeed wish to fuck you, have so wished from the moment you were clean for you are a very pretty boy and fit my bed well."

"Fuck me then," he said.

But instead of being bent over then, the knight pulled him instead across his naked knees so his arse was upwards and his stiff, boy's prick hard against the knight's thigh and he felt a stinging pain as the knight's large hand came down with a sharp crack on the cheeks of his arse. And he winced with the pain and shock of it for he had not expected to be punished, but punished he was for the hand came down again and again on his arse till his body jerked and writhed with the pain of it, though each time he jerked and writhed his prick rubbed against the smooth skin of the knight's leg and that felt good.

And it was strange indeed that it should feel good for his prick while his arse burned from the man's slaps and that too was strange, because when the slaps stopped and the knight instead caressed and kneaded the stinging mounds of his arse he found himself wanting again the sharp pain of a slap. Stranger still was that the slaps and the pain and the rubbing of his prick against the knight's leg was making that feeling in his stomach that he knew heralded the spurting of his seed, and he cried out to the knight that he would spurt for he knew now it was a sin to spurt seed on the ground.

And the knight stopped slapping him and pulled him to his feet so he could take his prick in his mouth so he could spurt there and not commit a sin.

And when he had seeded, his face flushed as red as his still stinging arse, he felt he had spurted all his insides into the knight's mouth for he would swear it was the biggest seeding he had ever made.

And he wondered why the knight had slapped his arse, and slapped it so hard it made tears come to his eyes, though it had made his spurt seed as well and he thought it could not have been punishment, for if it had been that surely the knight would not have made him seed and taken it in his mouth so there was no sin, for that had been pleasure as seeding always was.

But the knight had not finished with him, for as he was still wondering those things he was turned round and told to bend over and he thought that finally he was to be fucked but that did not happen. Instead he felt the knight's big hands on his hips, drawing him backward, the thumbs of those hands pulling apart the cheeks of his arse so the place where shit comes from and prick goes into was open to the summer air, and he felt that air there before his eyes widened in amazement and a gasp escaped from his unprepared mouth as he felt something else there, something that was warm and wet and not hard like a prick ready for fucking is hard.

It sent waves of unknown feeling through him and when he understood that it was the knight's mouth and tongue that he felt there he was amazed beyond wonder that any man should do that with a boy's arse.

But he did not protest for the feelings were too intense, almost too intense to be called pleasure, but he did not want them to end, and they did not end. He felt the knight's tongue no longer licking at the hole in his arse but pushing and probing, demanding entry there. And entry was gained and he almost shouted with the joy of it and pushed his arse back at the knight's face so his tongue could probe deeper and he moaned with the pleasure of it.

How long he had no way of knowing for the joy was so great and he whimpered with disappointment when that tongue was no longer in him, but his whimpers did not last for long for he was lifted up and turned again and his prick taken into the knight's mouth and sucked, and as he was being sucked, which was a thing he had come to love, he felt again something pushing at his now wet arse hole and pushing inside.

There was a brief moment of almost pain as what he realised was the knight's finger penetrated him and that went far deeper into him than tongue had done and the deeper it went the firmer his grip on the knight's head for the pleasure was so great he had to grip something to stop himself from falling to the ground.

He felt a second finger pushing to join the other inside him and though that too hurt briefly he ignored the hurt and felt the pleasure grow even greater as his arse was stretched. And a finger found something inside him that made his body jerk and fire race through him and moments later he was seeding into the knight's mouth for a second time and once again all that was inside him shot forth from his prick.

"You liked that, I think" the knight said when he was held close and recovering and he wondered aloud how a man came to know about the things he had done that had made him feel so good.

"I learned much from the infidels, they are wise in many things and not least in the way of pleasure with boys."

The knight had indeed learned much about pleasure with boys, he thought; he had not dreamed that such pleasure could be had from his body. The few times he had spoken with other village boys he had learned that sometimes fucking could be enjoyed, but mostly it was just something that happened to boys and was easily endured, for it never lasted long, but there were some men, and the Prior was first amongst them, who gained pleasure from inflicting pain and cared not if they hurt boys they fucked. The Prior, some whispered, liked most to hear a boy scream when he was entered and took boys of tender years and often did them harm.

"And is fucking also a pleasure for infidel boys?" he asked.

"Indeed so, for the men that fuck them were boys once also and know well the pleasure they received from serving men so."

"Then I long for you to fuck me," he said with honesty, "For if it is greater joy than you have given me yet, I yearn to have it."

"Then so shall it be."

And the knight led him by the hand to the bed they shared and anointed his arse again with his mouth and tongue, and when he was done there he put a salve on his fingers and anointed again his arse with them and entered him then with his fingers, once more taking him into his mouth that his seed should not spill on the ground.

And the knight withdrew his fingers and he felt despairingly empty, but the knight raised his leg so his knee rested on his chest and then entered him with his prick.

He gasped a little as he was entered, though there was little pain and what was soon passed, but the fullness inside him was more than he had imagined and he delighted soon in that fullness and whimpered with joy when the knight's prick moved inside him, so that he longed for more movement and pushed himself back on the prick that filled him.

And the knight whispered in his ear that he was a good boy for so doing and that he would learn soon to be as good at fucking as any infidel boy, and he glowed with pride at that whisper and tried hard to match his pushes with the knight's thrusts, and found as he did so that pleasure grew beyond any that he could describe.

His prick tried hard to rise as the knight moved in him but he had seeded three times in so short a time that it could not so manage and though he boiled inside there was now no seed to flow.

The knight did not fuck him quickly and leave him as he had seen the brother do to the novice, but paused often in his fucking, though his prick stayed always deep inside, and the light had faded when at last the knight groaned and shuddered, his prick as deep in him as it would go and he knew the knight had at last seeded inside him, and he glowed with pleasure and exhaustion that he had given pleasure to the knight he owed his life to.

"You are my boy now," the knight told him when they were done, "And I will keep you as my boy till you are a man."

"And fuck me many times?" he asked, hope in his eyes.

"Many times indeed, for you are a beautiful boy and a fuck to dream of."

And he no longer had fears of the Prior or his men for he knew the knight would protect him always and he would give his body to the knight in thanks for his life, and delight in doing so.