by Charles Bryant

Thoughts of sex often more passionate than sex itself.

This image: He sits on the corner of the bed, leaning back upon his arms, legs open, cock upright, naked, stroking one nipple with a desperate thumb, head thrown back, mouth half open, eyes closed as if in prayer.

The thighs are big and muscular and smooth, looking bigger by being pressed against the bed, bunched, ripe, lovely. And all the time the pulsing of the cock as he imagines himself in some male paradise, darkened loo, gay bar, the musky woods.

Dark woods with the wind in the trees and rustling in the undergrowth and furtive coupling against the ancient trunks. Rough bark against bare bottom rubbing, hot lips coming down upon his mouth.

He lies on his bed, his mind in the wood. His cock is straining and so much needs to be touched. All his life is in the nipples (stroking, stroking) and in his cock. But as yet he dares not touch his cock, not until the images parading in his brain take on curved shape.

The light is shining on him from above, like sunlight in the dappled woods. His stereo is playing Parsifal. Behind his closed lids he sees the domain of Monsalvat and the wounded king carried on his litter by half-naked knights, powerfully and beautifully built.

I am the spirit of this boy's reverie, an ancient spirit always young. His urgent thoughts have summoned me to stand beside him as he lies upon his bed, to watch the images that pour from the lush undergrowth of his desire. And he in turn is the object of my desire. I am the air around him and he breathes me in his warm damp lungs. I am the bed beneath him and support his delicious weight as my spirit cock is squeezed between his thighs and probes against the tight balls and slowly, slowly slips between the velvet crack and lies throbbing on the entrance to his urgent bowels.

The floret is gathered but at my loosening it begins to relent and opens with a sigh to let me gently in as my wet cock probes deeper and is soon past the convulsing barrier and sliding up and in. He stretches his legs further open and the nail of his thumb flicks the contoured nipple.

Now I am two. Two mouths, two knights bending over the naked Amfortas, their king. Two massively muscled knights with fair hair down their backs, smiling and kissing the nipples of the king for his relief. Kissing and licking his nipples as he lies back. Aroused and kissing each other also, mouth to mouth above the recumbant monarch, kissing each others forehead, eyes and mouth, hungrily kissing.

And Amfortas leans forward to be kissed and I, the guiding spirit, enter his mouth. And I the guiding spirit enter his nose. I enter his body and I make it mine. I enter every orifice of the boy, I enter and pervade him and become him.

Now the knight is bending over his loins and licking the strongly muscled, hairless thews, rough tongue from knee to crotch again and again.

The circling swan descends with heavily beating wings, descends and urgently covers the boy, pecking at his mouth with hungry beak. Leda-boy, the white wings cover him. Leda-boy the muscled tail of the swan invades his strong boy's arse and wriggles there to fill the strong boy full.

The boy lies back, is passive. Leda-boy-girl-virgin smiling and biting his lip as pleasure or as pain decide.

Finally he dares to touch his cock, the great vibrating string and tautened bow awaiting the mouth of the licking knight at his feet.

Amfortas is wounded by desire, stretched upon the dark cross of the world. Only the drenching balsam-sperm can comfort him, sperm of the knighthood on their master's body. In a ring around him, unhooking their girdles, letting their garments fall. Five and twenty perfect gentle knights bunched about his bed upon the dais, thigh to thigh and thew to massive thew, each with his hand upon his member, urgently shuttling his upright cock. Pushing and flexing to be near the king, desiring to anoint his wounded body.

The pages and the seneschals are aroused and gather about the group around the bed. The boys' bums, tightly encased in hose, are felt and fingered by the older men. The boys are flustered, red-faced and aroused, their clouts are tented, taut. Here and there, one goes down on his knees to service the naked cock of his hefty master. Here and there one is bended over and is entered with soft cries of love from man and boy.

There is a sound of knocking at the door, rapping knuckles against the woodwork.

The boy at the corner of the bed sits up, alarmed, reaching for his underpants, his reverie disturbed.

I, the spirit of his onanistic playing, must withdraw, and none best pleased, remaining unfulfilled. I had had high hopes of much fresh spunk. The subject is young and healthy, his sacs are full.

The boy reaches for a handy magazine and turns over on the bed so that his erection is hidden, pretending to read the journal.

"Who is it?" he calls.

"It's Geoffrey," says the voice behind the door. "Can I come in Harry?"

"Hold on Geoffrey."

Harry gets up and we see the stiff curve of his erection through his underpants. From the back of the door he takes his dressing-gown. The dressing gown is reversible, black silk on one side with a dragon embroidered on the back, and creamy white on the other. He chooses the black and slips the garment on and ties the belt.

Black silk against white skin. It feels so good. Black silk slides across the silky white skin and is so cool. His erection, held by his underpants, feels tight and also satisfying, as if a hand was fisting him down there.

Harry opens the unlocked door and Geoffrey smiles and comes in.

"Parsifal," says Geoffrey as the voices sing from the dome of the Foolish Boy who comes to redeem the king.

Harry looks at Geoffrey, seeing in him (and also he is looking through my eyes) the very image of the guileless fool, one who lacks understanding and who can save. Geoffrey has come across from the opposite room in this rather luxurious and overheated dormitory. He's wearing only a pair of boxers and a tee. Slightly hairy, not yet old enough to be bushy, just enough to make him look a man.

"I expect you could hear the music in your room?"

"Yes, and I was having a reverie about Amfortas and the knights, watching them carry the king down the echoing glade."

Harry felt a second stirring at his loins, as if spirit fingers were stroking his big warm cock. I stood behind him and I entered him again, entering his void and his throbbing mind, becoming him, beholding the beautiful boy who stood with his weight on one leg, smiling shyly.

"That's strange. I too was thinking about that scene as I listened to the music. The wounded king on his litter, and the knights."

"And the swan, the poor murdered swan." Geoffrey looked quite downcast, being an animal lover, a child of the woods.

Seeing his friend standing there in his bare feet on the carpet, Harry offered a chair. As Geoffrey sat, Harry's hands brushed against his shoulders and could feel the warmth of the flesh beneath the tee.

Harry sat opposite on the other side of the very real looking imitation fire set in a huge and Gothic marble surround. He sat and looked at Geoffrey as he sat. His eyes (and mine) had naturally wandered down to the open thighs with their graceful curves and the other curve between them, and the bulge of the swelling testes in the cloth.

Harry sighed and his eyes ran slowly up the lovely body until his eyes were met by Geoffrey's dark blue eyes, deep blue, with no trace of passion or of guile, open and entirely unafraid. But shy.

Geoffrey was only slightly troubled by Harry's penetrating gaze which he had felt all along his body. Harry was a very precious and knowledgable friend, the most precious friend in this place far from home.

"Play the introduction for me again," asked Geoffrey, feeling slightly light-headed at the sight of Harry's naked chest and swelling pecs now that the silken material of the black dressing gown had fallen open.

Harry smiled and showed his perfect teeth. "Tonight, dear Geoffrey, your every wish shall be as the king's command." He took the device in his hand and pressed a button. The strains of the music wafted eerily about the darkening room.

Harry had turned down the lights by the same device and now they sat half-naked in the firelight and their eyes were full of fire and of magic. My spirit stirred between them, from one to the other, finding eagerness in Harry and acceptance in the boy. The boy did not flinch as I entered him and filled him, as I placed my lips against his warm red mouth.

As the music lifted and stirred, Harry stood against the fireplace, hands behind his back, head uplifted, the lovely series of curves from waist to pec to chin outlined by the light of the flames. Geoffrey was entranced by the sight of his beautiful friend and sighed and stretched his legs in front of him. Together they entered the Hall of the Grail, led by my spirit.

Music, and a star-strewn dome, gold mosaic against jade green. Ranked marble pillars, many-coloured, some straight, some twisted and ornate. Red marble of the floor enveined with black. The scent of incense, sandalwood in gilded censers, cloud on cloud ascending to the dome. Children's faces staring from the dome, sons and daughters of the sinful knights and their more sinful squires. Children of love and of the broken vows.

Among this brotherhood I have my being. Here I am worshipped truly and with love, who myself am love, the long and trembling thigh, the unending kiss, the hand against the thigh, the shaking hand upon the rod. I go among the brothers night and day, binding each to each and each to all. With every touch and kiss and lustful look my strength grows stronger, my force more potent. I fold them under my wings to make them wholly mine.

Harry takes hold of the warm hand of his friend. Geoffrey blushes but his grasp is firm, never wanting to let go. The knights sing and moan in welcome and the voices from the dome echo with songs of desire and love. The king himself, Amfortas, raises himself with one strongly muscled arm and holds out his free hand in welcome. The covering cloth of richly woven silk falls to his waist, revealing a rippling chest of surpassing beauty.

He smiles. "Come forward lads. You are welcome here. I cannot stand. The wound is heavy on my flesh today. Come, come."

The king's command is also an invitation and the king's voice is deep and rich and full of sensuousness, a moral laxity of the spirit whose outcome is his unending pain.

Other pain is evident here. The king's litter is laid at the centre of a wide circle of coruscating black reflective marble. At the surrounding edges of this circle stand twelve massive wooden posts and to each post is tied a naked, or semi-naked knight. They writhe under the occasional blows of scourges wielded by black-hooded attendants. These are novice knights who have gone astray or whose desire it is to be often under the rod. And those others whose delight it is to inflict pain are their constant lover-companions and here and there an interlocked couple, one bound and one free, writhe together in consummating passion at the end of their long ordeal.

"In Monsalvat," says an attendant knight (who else but the trusty Gurnemanz) "desire is not outlaw but is king. Desire of the flesh is welcome, is made glorious here. That desire which leads to God and to the vision of the Lord."

Harry is puzzled. "But this is not the Christian God. Surely the Church does not approve?"

"Is God a Christian or a Jew or a Moslem or a Buddhist?" comes the quick reply. "God is the All and can never be a separate part."

Gurnemanz, the young/old knight (old man hiding in a young man's body), as if to reinforce his creed, stepped closer to the lovely Geoffrey and put his hand upon the lad's shoulder. Geoffrey stepped back, and in doing so found himself against the scourged body of a moaning penitent tied to one of the beams. In fact the penitent's erect cock, tied at the base with thick rope and thus unable to detumesce, was against Geoffrey's virgin arse. The penitent pushed his hips forward until his swollen member had disappeared up the leg of Geoffrey's shorts.

Geoffrey gave a high shriek and fell into Harry's protecting arms and found to his delight and alarm that Harry's cock was in a similar state to that of the other guy.

Amfortas is smiling at them both and at them all, despite his evident pain. Now and then he winces and shifts upon his litter in acute discomfort. Again he holds out his welcoming hand to the two newcomers. He too, like Gurnemanz, seems much attracted towards Geoffrey, saving his fondest smiles for the lad.

'So what is wrong with me?' is the thought that momentarily crosses Harry's mind. 'It is as if I were invisible in this lascivious multitude. Or is it because my friend's superlative beauty is so stunning that he has become the sinecure of all these lusting minds?'

Which indeed he had since the king had summoned him and many stopped to watch Geoffrey's shy and slow advance across the black marble towards the bier where Amfortas lay propped upon one arm. Amfortas waited patiently and his eyes never left the wonderfully moulded form.

Geoffrey came to a halt before the king and inclined his head as if he were the king himself and not the commoner. Amfortas smiled indulgently, held out his hand again and bade the boy sit upon the edge of his disordered litter. When Geoffrey was somewhat awkwardly seated the king gazed deeply into his blue eyes, making the boy blush and look away. Amfortas, with his hand under Geoffrey's chin, forced him to look at him again. He was murmuring words which the spectators could not hear, soft words of course, sensual words, and his gaze never left the boy's face.

Geoffrey had become the object of general adoration. Soft singing drifted down from the crowded dome and the incense was swung and began to fill the air with heavy drowsiness. The penitents at their crosses bowed their heads before the mystery and Harry felt himself drifting toward a visionary world of shattered crystal fragments and scattered golden tesserae.

My spirit lay upon them all and all became The One, myself, a single worshipping spirit, its wings enfolded, its mind expanded to the outer limits where limitation failed.

Amfortas gazed into the hypnotised eyes of the still boy, the king's jewelled hand upon his shoulder. At a sign and a nod from his master, the boy disrobed himself of his few garments and sat naked with bowed head, the wonder of this world. All apart from the whispered singing in the dome were silent and not a few fell upon their knees. Small silvers bells tinkled at the back of the hall, shaken by unseen devotees.

Harry shivered, staring at his own lost love and prayed the loss was only momentary. But Harry too felt my essence within himself and knew that it was for the best.

One by one the voices from the dome fell silent until there was but one boy singing, a small golden-haired youth whose beauty prefigured Geoffrey's own, and then slowly he sang softer and softer and eventually ceased like a candle softly snuffed.

In the body of the hall knights and squires held each other in loving embraces and Harry, for want of a partner, held the old/young Gurnemanz in his arms. As he snuggled closer to the major-domo knight whose wonderful physique was so tender/strong to the touch he looked into the man's eyes and saw all the wonder of the ageless reflected there, thousands of years of coupling both soft and excessive, long eons of lovemaking. And as their lips came slowly together and as their mouths began to open and as their breath mingled they heard more soft singing from the dome and from above appeared a great red beam of light that slowly descended.

Now the king rose slowly from his golden litter, helped up by the young arms of Geoffrey and by Geoffrey's strong thews. The pair stood embracing as the light formed a circle and the circle became a bowl of rosy illumination that settled over them. All eyes in the hall were upon the holy pair, anticipating the fulfilment of the most sacred ritual of the Order.

The captives at their stakes, naked and semi-naked penitent knights, some with clothes half torn from their bodies half-revealing here the splendid curve of a shapely athlete's buttock, there the heroic slope of a magnificent chest, began moaning loudly, calling for the whip and lash. Their lover/tormentors began to use them harshly, propitiating the holy spirit that was to come among them and cleanse them all from guilt. Their cries of anguish rose up into the echoing cupola, mingling with the sainted chants of the virgin voices there.

The smell of male sweat and of stale and new cum was heavy upon the air, mingling with the incense into a heavy and luxurious opiate. It went straight to Harry's head and he forgot his sense of anxiety at the disappearance of the king and his desired friend behind the opaque shimmerings of the heavenly light that enclosed them and hid from view their entwined bodies.

Gurnemanz, that now so potent presence, stood behind Harry and massaged the front of his body as the screams of the penitents grew louder and the sounds of the lash more electric. Beneath those firm strong hands Harry's will was melting and he leaned back his head so that his athlete's strong neck was bare to the older knight's exploring lips and tongue. Gurnemanz was moaning in a singsong voice as his erect cock probed through the lad's shorts (so strange and so sexy a garment to the older man) and then he leaned forward to explore the luscious cavities of Harry's open mouth.

Similar and not so similar scenes were enacted by various couples and groups throughout the buzzing rustling hall. A superfluity of oozing and sweating scented the air as if each body were itself a censer and a lubricant.

At the back of his drugged mind Harry was wondering what ordeal or pleasure Geoffrey was even now enduring but the urgency and potency of Gurnemanz's carresses and probing and kissing made this phantom thought dissolve in a sea of pleasure.


To be continued. If you liked this you might also like my story `The Ring' which is also under `Science Fiction or Fantasy' in Gay Nifty.

Any comments welcome at