Date: Fri, 07 Feb 2003 14:57:12 +0000 From: Ganymede Subject: Ring Around the Rose, Chapter 17 WARNING: This story contains descriptions of sexual acts involving a man and MINOR boys. Such descriptions are an integral part of the story. While the story may appeal to prurient interests, it is intended to have serious literary value. If you are under the age of 18, if this material is illegal in your place of residence, or if man-boy relation- ships aren't your thing, then exit now and save yourself from a life of sin! As a friend recently said: "Everyone has the right to fantasy. No one has the right to censor an imagination, or dreams." With that in mind, know that this story is not true! Further, it is not intended to promote illegal acts against minors, but to demonstrate that men and boys can love each other despite the prevalent attitudes of western society. It is my goal to help readers appreciate that love. The sexual acts described in the story are the result of my imagination. I have not performed these acts, and I do not encourage oth- ers to perform them with minors. If the subject of man/boy love offends you, if this material is illegal in your place of residence, or if you are under the legal age for such material, do not read further! By downloading this story: "... you implicitly declare and affirm under penalties of perjury that you are not a minor or in the company of a minor and are entitled to have access to material intended for mature, responsible members of society capable of making decisions about the content of documents they wish to read...." The story is copyrighted under my pseudonym, Ganymede. A copy has been placed in the Nifty archives for your enjoy- ment. The story cannot be used to derive monetary gain. The story cannot be placed in archives that require payment for access, or printed and distributed in any form that requires payment either directly or indirectly. Any similarity to individuals, living or dead, is entirely accidental. My sin- cere thanks to two friends whose comments have been very helpful. THE NIFTY ARCHIVE: The Nifty Archive needs your support. If you enjoy reading this story, please remember that it is available only because of the Nifty Archive. Instructions are provided on the Nifty home page for how to provide support. Chapter 17. Dragons come before the Dawn It is told in fable far and wide that dragons only fly at night. They settle to roost in trees and rooftops, or on craggy mountains when the dawn breaks the eastern sky with the first hint of morning light. With light, order is restored upon the world, and man's fear of an evil far worse than the succubus of Lesbos departs until the following night. Even upon the sacred Mount, where sanctuary boys and men copulate through the time of dark, the night holds more than mystery and the sounds of slippery flesh. As a boy, I often laid upon my fur-skinned bed late at night, not sleep- ing but listening to the muted noise of other boys in lust. Sometimes, I heard the distant sweep of iridescent wings and felt the fear that all boys know when dragons were about. The dragons of legend do not see with unerring vision despite the darkness. Instead, they smell their youthful prey with flar- ing nostrils before they swoop. Only with light, did calm revive the reason of my mind. And yet, as I hurried away from the bed, I glimpsed the pink line of a distant horizon and felt relief. A glow of light entered through the window that I had put to ignomini- ous use for Michel's excretion. Time was short and I barely stopped to sandal my feet, gird my loins with belt and sword and throw a blanket-robe about my shoulders. For no other reason that to gaze once more upon Michel, I turned back and glimpsed the slightest movement beneath the furs and blan- kets on the bed. With amusement, I assigned that disturbance to Sandor and Kadri. More than likely they were preparing to satisfy the urge that possesses all Sanctuary boys upon wak- ing. How often had I gripped the slender hips of a Favonius lad and plundered his behind in the dim light of early morn- ing? With few exceptions, Vulturnus boys awoke, strong and energetic and ready to satisfy their bountiful lust by pum- melling another boy's bottom. That tradition would be upheld no differently for Sandor and Kadri, and Michel as well when I returned, for it is well known that men love boys with greater ardor in the morning. Yet, even as I cherished the thought of entering Michel's taut passage once again, I queried my assumption regarding Sandor and Kadri. From a distance it appeared that the space I had left between Michel and Caelan had been retaken. Their heads were now close together, and doubtless beneath the furs, two bare bodies were embraced in sleepy warmth. I felt a momentary coldness in my heart, the quelling of my passion by jealousy no less. It pained me to contem- plate sharing my Michel with any other man. But they were hairless boys, I argued with myself, one boy whose rose was barely ringed, and another who was shamed by revealing hid- den flesh. They were mere innocents for whom brutish lechery was unknown. What harm could there be in boys being boys and doing what came naturally? Being satisfied with that, I started on my way, care- fully latching the chamber door behind me. There was no need of candles in the hallway for the light was getting stronger every moment. I reached the creaking stairs with a shiver of relief. No dragon would confront me that night. The allevia- tion of my discord was not that of a coward quavering with fear of death, or the trembling of a pusillanimous poltroon whose very timidity was a threat to life, but relief of a different kind. Even though the dragon was certainly nearby, my boys would be safe until night came once again. I stopped at the bottom of the stairs and listened for a while. But for the sound of someone scraping out the ashes from a fireplace, the inn was quiet. The resonance of wings had gone, silenced by the fading dark. And then, my ears pricked up. It was a faint sound, but one that could not be mistaken for another. The sound of hooves on wood. A horse was crossing the bridge that we had crossed the previous day. Under any other circumstances, I would have dismissed the thought that leaped into my mind. That morning, I contem- plated who might be riding to the west at such an early hour. Not a merchant, for they seldom strayed from bed before the earth was warm. The charm trader perhaps, if he had somewhere to go, but why ride so urgently when the air was brisk? I shivered again, this time from the damp cold that seeped beneath the door. Pulling my cloak closer, I stepped outside and proceeded on my way to the stables. Already, it was growing lighter, the effect of dawn enhanced by the recent sheen of snow. I paused again, feet deep in snow, breathing deeply. There were, of course, many other places in the village where the dragon could go to earth to hide itself. It spent the hours of daylight, not unlike a bat, hanging upside down. A warrior's intuition controlled my mind. I carefully reasoned a course of action that coun- selled caution in my approach. It was possible, though not likely, that the scent of my young boys might lure the beast of evil much closer, perhaps even to the rafters above where our cart had been placed in the stables. And so, with determined tread I followed a path of smaller footprints pressed into the snow. It was a diagonal route around the outside well and then across the courtyard. I hesitated again just before the stables. My ears were pricked to the slightest sound within, my nose attuned to every smell that escaped between the cracked wooden boards. A gust of wind swept behind me, swirling snow within my cloak. I uttered a silent curse, for by smell alone, I had given warning of my own. The slightest scent was sufficient to rouse even the most hebetudinous dragon that might be lurking in the shadows. The air was crisp and the crunch of icy crystals beneath my feet was unavoidable, yet there was no other way to reach the stable. At least the door opened quietly to make a narrow gap through which I passed unno- ticed. Amid the overwhelming odors of straw and fresh manure, it was nearly impossible to detect another far-more-lethal scent. I sniffed the air carefully, remembering a dozen tales that recounted the lair of dragons. The smell of the scaly creature was often described as being soured like vin- egar until aggravated. In anger, its smell changed to the stench of death. There was a tinge of acrid fumes, enough to make my fist close upon the pommel of my sword. However, that bitterness could have been as much the smell of stale excre- ment as dragon odor. I moved about the bales of hay, stepping across discarded items of hostelry, past grimy leather gir- dles and moldy saddles. I came upon a rake with tines upturned, a hastily thrown jacket, even a pair of discarded leather boots that might passably fit one of my boys in another year or two if Sanctuary sandals were not enough to protect their growing feet. Our cart had been placed well back inside, not further than a dozen paces from the door. It was only when I reached the cart, standing beside the wheel in the wan early-morning light that filtered through the slats of wood of a single high-up vent that I glimpsed the disarray of straw and a tan- gle of blankets within its rear. I shuddered, thinking back. In the dark of night I had seen so very little that at first I had doubted my suspicion that something was amiss. How- ever, with greater concentration, the sounds of lust were unmistakable. Caelan's muted whimper, a sharp cry, a gasp, then heavy breathing were not what I expected following the orders that I had given to the dwarf. That the boy's cry had been uttered in panic and discomfort, and not in pleasure was disconcerting far more than any breech of trust. That morn- ing, as I stood and listened once again, I was still infuri- ated at the dwarf's disobedience. It had not been that long since I had disturbed him in attempting sodomy with the boy who I had foolishly entrusted to his care. That he had pur- sued his goal of anal delectation despite my direct admoni- tion to that effect continued to give me disinclination to trust him further that I could throw him. In the gloom of cobwebbed walls, I cast my eyes about, searching for a sign. I saw nothing to arouse suspicion, yet again, unsettling intuition warned my mind. Not of danger close at hand, and from the smell most certainly there was not a dragon nearby, but something else. A threat to the boys in the chamber where they slept? No, not that. Something more. A rustle, an urgent whisper, another sound that was not unexpected. The slap of flesh meeting flesh, a sound that once it is heard, cannot be forgotten. Even in that dismal barn, it was familiar for I had heard the same sound nearly every night since I arrived on the Mount at nine years old. Indeed, the disgusting little man had tried to do the same with Caelan. As luck would have it, when I found them hidden by some bales of straw, he had been but a hair's breath from achieving entry. I was surprised to see that he was remark- ably well endowed for a man who barely came up to my waist. Riall had barely started that inevitable onward rush that would have plunged his squat gnarled prick into Caelan's rounded bottom before I jerked him back and slapped him where he thought for I could not bring myself to kick his rear. Now, with bated breath I edged forward, my hand still wrapped around the corded pommel of my sword. Yet, even as I relished severing the dwarf's head once and for all, the sound changed. A moment's pause. The panicked cry had wavered, and changed to,... joy? It was not the frenzied groan that Michel uttered when my sword impaled that hole between his cheeks, or Kadri's whimper when Sandor's pricked slipped in, yet it was different to the shrill shriek that boys make when they were taken against their will. I smiled then, creeping forward with every foot carefully placed to hide my presence. There was a boy, just as I expected from the clothes along the way. He was a pale thin gamin whose face was par- tially obscured by wisps of straggly red hair. No more than a stable lad whose features were disputable at best and unpleasant to say the worst. He had been positioned in the same way that Caelan had been laid, a spiked straw bale placed beneath his hips to hold him up. His ragged breeches were tangled at his feet, restraining movement beyond a wriggle or backward thrust. It was hardly a comfortable way to lie, but the height of the boy's exposed posterior was ideal for a man of tiny stature. Riall stood behind him, his feet spread wide for balance. There was no doubt of what he was about. His not-inconsequential tool was sticking out through a gap in his cloak. The sight amused me once again, for I had often heard ribald remarks that not all of a dwarf was undersized. His prick was anything but puny. Then, just as I was about to make my presence known with a resounding slap upon his rear, the lad lifted up his head and twisted to look back. Perhaps he was wondering what caused the delay, for his expression was anxious. I stepped back behind the stall and peered though a narrow slit between the rails. "Ars waitun fert," he said cockily in a brogue that I barely understood. Riall grunted and without further ado, he savagely pushed forward. Some men were like that, plunging to the hilt inside a boy in a single stroke. One could only hope that axle grease had been applied. Even on the Mount, when men and boys raised the act of entry to joyful heights, a single thrust was not the norm. I heard the slap of flesh, the wheeze of air, the muffled groan. A horse stamped, its hoof kicked against the stall, a boy whined as his chest was slammed into the points of straw. "You'll not be wanting more?" Riall growled. He paused, levering upward until the boy rose with him, shaking like a bitch that had been mounted by a dog. "Snot thasize thamatus," the boy wheezed. He was obvi- ously full for he wriggled and tried to get away. Riall laughed, pulled back and slammed forward once again. The lad croaked a vulgar epithet, a curse on men who took advantage of boys whose balls had yet to drop. "It's not the size you're used to, you say. The hole is certainly big enough. Then perhaps you'd prefer a stallion?" "Arf hud thapony oopma arse boot nat thorse," came the spontaneous groan. "You're telling me it was just a pony that made your arse like this?" Riall taunted. "Arf hud thadoog awfenuf, boot tain thasam, evoon wid thanoot." It was hardly the response I had expected, but any boy who would allow a vulgar miniken like Riall to drive his wizened prick between his cheeks, would doubtless find a way to satisfy his lust with stable animals, a choice that in my humble opinion was preferable to the inn keeper or one of her daughters. I smiled to myself. I had not made a formal study of pony cocks, but even the smallest one would likely be as large as the member to be found on any man, and the knot of dog was more than thick enough to stretch a boy's hole as wide as any rose. And so I stayed, listening and watching their depraved deed, an accomplishment that was far from fulfilling for the boy as far as I could see. He pushed his buttocks back, as most boys do, but only to make a space for his hand to grip his barely adolescent tool. Self-pleasuring during mounting was something that was very seldom seen for Sanctuary boys. Indeed, to procure satisfaction by manual stimulation was a reflection upon a man's performance, inferior at best. Yet, there were times that I had relished rubbing Etienne's cock, enhancing the sensation until he lost control and shrieked. His ecstasy and the dribble of emission justified the means, I thought. At the very end of their protracted rutting, Riall grunted and savagely jerked his cock free. It danced across the boy's widespread cheeks. A moment passed, the boy's pan- icked frenzy clearly apparent while he endeavored to replace it by himself. Reinsertion came too late. It spurted copi- ously across the boy's pale back almost to the nape of his neck. Riall paid him no heed and used his hand to get the last of it out, apparently oblivious to the slimy streaks of filth. His thighs continued to pump until he finally sank back upon his haunches. "There, you little wretch," Riall muttered and wiped his brow. "I'm done fucking to today." The stable door creaked in a gust of wind. It was enough to rouse his interest and he turned to look behind him. I could have darted back, but instead, I stayed where he would see me. It took but a moment before he realized my presence. He shuddered from head to toe, and then cowering, awkwardly moved away from where the twitching boy still lay. "Master,... I,... You didn't say,... that I couldn't with the stable boy,..." he begged. Clearly he remembered my threat of the night before. I had told him in no uncertain terms that I would sever his prick with my sword if I caught even looking at my boys. "Don't worry dwarf, your cock is safe for now," I laughed. "You can fuck the stable brat as often as you like. The innkeepers daughter too, it one of them takes your fancy." By then, the stable brat had turned around. His eyes were wide, but not in fear. What I observed was unsatisfied lust, if only because he had been cheated when the dwarf fin- ished first. The look on his bumpkin-face was as eager as any boy who I'd taken in the rear, although his features left much to be desired. I shook my head, denying to him what I had given freely and at every opportunity to boys upon the Mount. With strange relief, I realized that from that point forward I would join only with the boy I loved. Riall awkwardly came to his feet. His prick was of the type that receded after the hardness was gone. What little could be seen of it was coated with brown slime. That sight alone was enough to make my stomach heave. I wrinkled my nose in distaste and quickly looked away. "Just make sure that the horse is harnessed when we're ready to depart," I added brusquely. I pointed to the door. "When the sun enters there, have the cart in the courtyard." "Yes, Master,..." He gestured, gazing intently at the boy who still knelt before the bale. It was no secret from that shameless face that the lad expected more. "What about me?" he asked nervously. I returned a deprecating look and turned to the dwarf. "By my word, I'll not interfere with you or any boy you chance to meet. Do with him what you wish. But be warned, Riall, if you so much as look at my boys,..." "Even that new one?" Riall muttered under his breath. He risked a sullen momentary glance up me before he spoke. "He's not from the Mount. Why should you care if I stretch his arse a bit?" "Because I said so," I said with a barely controlled tone. "You'll not force that prick of yours into that boy's crack and live to tell the tale." Riall had the ability to easily pique my wrath, and yet he dared to regard me with indignation. I did not trust the dwarf. Even the stable boy shivered in the silence that fol- lowed. Doubtless, a little trepidation might quench his lust. "If you give him a chance, that lad will drive the wedge of lust into the narrowest crack," Riall mumbled. "He's not what he appears. There's not a mark upon him, not even on his rear." He stopped suddenly when I gripped my sword. His eyes cast about for egress until I relaxed. My eyes narrowed, the reflex of a warrior, wondering what he had intended for his words were true. A slave boy would bear the signs of his con- stant drudgery, if not the bruises of servility. Awkwardly, Riall fumbled at his crotch, clutching at his exposed jewels in fear. Silently, I stepped back and returned the way that I had come. Indeed, there was much more to the dwarf, Riall, than met the eye. I left them there, no doubt contemplating a repeat performance once I was out of sight. "Ah'll tuk a crun ta brak thafast," the innkeeper announced when I stepped into the hall and shook the snow from my feet. I had to consider what she had said for quite a while before I understood. It would take a crown to break our fast. Already, travellers had gathered at the tables in the dining room. The smell of fresh-baked bread was strong, not unlike the feasts of Order Days on the Mount, I mused. As a boy, I had looked forward to those mornings. When the Order changed, both boys and men had cause to celebrate. Not only that two boys departed and two boys arrived, and that two roses bloomed, but time went on in its never ending cycle. As long as the Orders progressed, the love of men and boys pre- vailed and the evil beyond the sanctuary walls was kept at bay. "A crown," I said sarcastically. "To feed myself and three boys?" I asked, deliberately not mentioning the fourth boy who I brought to the chamber during the night. The hag crinkled her eyes, drawing lines to her ears. She shrugged, and then a moment later she smiled slyly. "Nodoot tham luds wud luke a harhe brakefest seenus thay fooked ool nat widu." I wished that Michel was there to translate, for only he had the ability to make sense from nonsense. I repeated the words within my head, then realized what she said. I laughed, for some response was needed. No doubt the old crone had lis- tened through the door. I could not think of anything unto- ward that had been said that was loud enough for her to hear. "Um luds cain fook lak tugers. A'll nad soomthan inthar boolies ool thall na'er hadden ferya. Sum brood an puridge? Ard noot took loong." I shook my head. "For a crown, I'd expect much more than bread and porridge." "A dozun cuppers than? Ahd brun soom meek far tham." It sounded tempting, if only because growing boys needed milk and something to fill their bellies for the day. It was well within my purse, still, there was something in her voice that staunched my hunger. Was she trying to delay us? Then, remembering the sound of horses hooves beating a gallop across the bridge, I decided it was time to leave. I shook my head and took my leave and hastened up the stairs. The chamber was depressingly gloomy despite the feeble rays of sun that entered through the slatted window. Yet, even as I closed the door behind me, I sensed the movement in the bed. Two boys were coupled as I expected, using the posi- tion that boys called `bouncing balls' but which was prop- erly known as `chevalier' on the Mount. Sandor was lying on his back, his legs astride, his buttocks lifted upon a plump goose-down pillow to accentuate the size of what was other- wise quite small. Although he was recumbent and in a position that few Vulturnus boys accepted willingly, he was being straddled by Kadri, who beamed and bounced up and down upon his lover's loins. He had reached the frenzied pace that pre- ceded ecstasy, his small eggs slapping loudly with every eager downward motion. Michel was shamelessly nude, stretched upon his side as he watched intently. His face was blissful, indulging in sybaritic delectation for behind him, Caelan knelt in hom- age, one hand gently stroking Michel's thin bare shoulder, the other like a cupola on his bottom. That hand was barely large enough to contain Michel's small cheek, yet three of his outstretched fingers had managed to burrow far enough into the crevice that it was apparent what was being touched. Without qualm, I presumed that desecration of sacred trust was a response to the inquisitive nature of a boy who did not bear the rose, and not an act of lust. Still, he had come a long way from the slaveboy of the night. In truth, I was not surprised at what I saw for the sim- ple reason that boys often took advantage of their time alone. And yet, merely seeing Michel lying naked with another boy sent a knife-edged barb of jealously into my mind. Had they awoken with a morning kiss? Or fondled each other's pleasure parts before that cautious touch? For moment I engaged in the notion that boys were boys and play was to be expected, before I quickly put the thought aside. Had Caelan enjoyed Michel's recently bloomed flower with something other than his prodding fingers? I stared, feeling my envy grow with every moment that I watched that lingering intimate caress. It part it promised future happiness, but equally, if could be a parting touch, the blissful calming of the lust. Perhaps, the latter was reason to worry, for it had been my experience that Michel always awoke inflated and ready to be pleasured by my mouth or hand. However, his lit- tle penis dangled down onto his honey-colored thigh, a ves- tige of its normal size. The boys ignored me until I reached the bed. Only then, did Caelan look up and greet me with a grin. "Kadri mounts Sandor like boy upon a horse," he announced cheekily, "but surely, Master Aidan, some sharp spurs and whip would improve the ride." I did not encourage boys to engage in such pursuits, although some boys surely did such things judging from the cries I heard late at night. I growled my acknowledgement and turned away before Michel could see my face. That hue of green, the loss of pride, the dispirited feeling that was unlike any other. "Get thee from the bed, boys," I muttered under my breath, for to do otherwise would taunt my self-control and I would utters words that might give me cause to regret. "We must leave immediately. I fear the woman of the inn has sent a messenger to warn others of our presence." "But Master,..." Kadri huffed. He had lifted up until Sandor's short blunt spike was all but free of his quivering buttocks. It glistened in the light, so stretched that it was pink hued and bright. "Surely, a few more thrusts would not delay enough to matter," Sandor grumped testily. "He's close and so am I." I held my tongue, reflecting on the sudden disrespect. Such insolence was not something I had expected from Sandor. I took a deep breath. "There'll be time enough for fuck- ing in the cart. Get dressed." "Master Aidan,..." Michel began. He gazed at me, exploiting nature's charm with his legs spread well apart. His scrotum, usually a loose little pouch from the warmth of the morning bed, was shrivelled to a wal- nut husk. "Yes?" I answered impatiently. Without heeding me, he lifted up his head, sharing a whisper with Caelan, who merely smiled and nodded. A secret had been exchanged that did little for my state of mind. "Just a little while longer, please. There's something I would like to do before we leave." "What's that?" I asked, barely stopping myself from snarling. "Haven't you had your fun for this morning, Miel?" His face crumpled. He breathed out and gnawed his bot- tom lip. Caelan shook his head and smirked. I glared at him. For a boy who had been a slave not long before, his change in demeanor was disturbing. I sensed that a seed of rebellion had been planted in my Sanctuary boys, yet I could not be so certain that words of warning were in order. "What's so amusing?" I demanded brusquely. Caelan shrugged in response, but not demurely. He was not at all like the boys who had been raised upon the Mount. Not even Vulturnus boys, who were aggressive by nature, challenged the authority of a master. Sandor would not have dared to avoid an answer. "Get out of bed and attire yourselves. The sooner we are gone the better," I commanded. Obediently, Sandor and Kadri separated and hurried to make ablutions. Michel was less amenable to getting out of bed. He did not jump and run, but took his time. He ambled past me to pick up a blanket that would serve as his robe. As he passed me, his eyes flickered. In that momentary glimpse, I saw another boy, not a Favonius boy who deserved the repu- tation of being loyal and yielding. For Michel, such contu- macious behavior was surprising. I turned back to the bed. Caelan had not stopped smirk- ing. Unlike Michel, whose maleness had contracted to a nub, Caelen's prick stood up insolently. It was swollen and straight, a tool of boyish lust if ever there was one. I jerked my head, an indication that he should hasten to get dressed or risk my wrath by remaining where he was. He stared back at me, eyes wide. And then, in brazen boldness, he licked his lips. His lips were vivid red, redder than they had been at night, redder than the lips of any boy I'd known. Lips that begged for kisses. I swallowed, staring at the bare skinned boy before me. His sex was larger than the three other boys, a handful for any man. It pulsed before my eyes, quivering like a papyrus reed before a breeze. Until that moment, Michel had been the focus of my desire. There could be no other boy to absorb my love. With- out more warning than that morning, Caelan possessed my mind. I shook my head in disbelief, yet considering the words that formed within. I raged against that inner voice. It was an argument of silent thoughts, disputing that I did not want to touch him, yet in truth I did. Then, suddenly the moment passed. He shrugged again, using his fingers to retract the tube of skin until it was lodged behind his bulging glans. Unlike Michel, whose rose in bud was perfect, that crimson- tattooed helmet was visibly flawed. It was split open on the underside like an over-ripened cherry, a defect that I had not noticed in the night. It had the effect of making the head much wider. Unlike Michel, whose Cupid's arrow tip was petit and barely ridged, Caelan's bulb was like a broad barb set upon a killing spear. Another shrug, this time more impudent than lewd. His nose even seemed to wrinkle in disgust, but not from being seen by me. It was another trait that denied his sanctuary training. I did not waver, but stood my ground. My eyes unable to look away. His eyes were mesmerizing, tempting, always gazing back. Dark somber eyes, eyes of midnight's terror, eyes of shameless passion. "Get dressed and come with us or remain here in bed, Caelan. We'll be leaving promptly," I finally said in a wavering voice. It took all my resolution for denial. I ached to say it, turning away before he answered. My face was flushed and hot, yet only Caelan knew the reason why I blushed. My stiffness was extreme, almost ago- nizingly so. Within my heart, I realized that part of me had never been so hard. It had not happened with Etienne. Nor with Michel. No boy but Caelan had made my penis so hard that it became demanding agony. I strode away, distancing myself from the boys until I stood before the window. I needed time to think, to ponder why one boy could affect me unlike any other. Not even Michel, the honey-skinned boy who I loved far more than any poet could describe, could inflict pain on me like that. Even the poet, Larastain, complained of nymph-like boys who had the effect of the garden-god, Priapus, upon a man's tumescent member: `In the silence of the night, a golden boy, Lay there, withdrawn from my lukewarm embrace. Love was at rest, nor could my dotard prick, Raise up its knob to a more manly state. Does it please you, Priapus, who reside, Beneath the trees' shade, red, with blushing prick, Your sacred head bound with a vine-leaf wreath? `With lowered lids, you nod despairing where he rove. Somewhere in the grove, lurks the garden-god. Set as an offering before a boy who desires, Not a tale from any book, but stubborn flesh. `But, wicked prick, destined for that tender boy, The sort that turns his pretty quivering bum In artful play's at your disposal, split wide. But when the golden boy comes back again, tis numb. `As soon as you perceive his pattering steps, Stretch out your sinews, standing stiff with lust, Restless tumescence animate my groin, Don't cease to swell until the moment when He parts his yielding cheeks again for me.' Down below in the courtyard, Riall and the stable boy were harnessing the horse and cart. Even the stable boy was taller than the dwarf. Indeed, the top of Riall's head barely reached to the boy's chest. I looked to the east, oblivious to the rising sun that stung my eyes. In that brilliant ball of golden fire, far beyond the crenellated wall, lay the peaks of distant mountains where dragons coursed the sky. Always to the east was the direction of our journey. We left the inn with gnawing bellies, one man, four boys and a wizened manikin who I did not trust. The cart clattered through the village, taking us away from the safety of the Mount. Just before we passed through the fortifying wall, I turned and looked back. The innkeeper was at the window of our room. No doubt she was searching for what was gone as much for anything we'd left behind. I hunched forward, shak- ing the reins to keep the horse walking briskly. It would only arouse suspicion if we were to travel at a faster pace. yet, within, I sensed that time was growing short. After a while, I made a feeble attempt to clear the air by telling the story of Apollo and Hyacinthus. The boys ignored me almost to the end, though they were listening to every word as I progressed from the tale of their life together to the unfortunate accident with the discus that had been thrown by Apollo. "`As the broken stem of a lily hangs its head and turns its flowers to the earth, so the head of the dying boy, as if too heavy for his neck, fell over on his shoulder,'" I said eloquently, as the words were intended in the lyric. Michel lifted his head, bracing a elbow upon the side of the cart, staring at the distant forest, a rising ribbon of smoke from a hidden cottage. I continued, speaking softly, as befitted the death of a lover. "And Apollo, who could not staunch the bleeding from Hyacinthus' forehead, entreated, `Thou diest, my beautiful Hyacinth, robbed of thy precious youth by me. Would that I could die for thee! But since that may not be, thou shalt live with me in memory and in song. My lyre shall celebrate thee, my song shall tell thy fate, and thou shalt become a flower with my regrets.'" "Poor Apollo. To lose his lover by his own hand... What happened then, Master Aidan?" Kadri murmured. I tapped the horse's flanks with the reins to keep his pace, and mused as what I would do if Michel died. To lose Etienne had wrought such pain, almost more than I could bear, but Michel? I coughed to clear my throat and remove the trem- ble that lurked in my voice. "When Apollo spoke, Kadri, Hyacinthus' blood which had flowed upon the ground and stained the grass ceased to be blood. A flower more beautiful than the Tyrian sprang up, Kadri," I explained. "Surely, you have seen it, boys. There are some growing in the courtyard. Some say that it resembles the lily, but it is purple while the lily is silvery white." "What does that matter if Apollo killed the boy he loved," Michel blurted out. "What sort of man is he who kills the boy he loves?" "It was an accident, Michel," I explained. "Apollo did not intend to hurt him. Indeed, I've even heard it said that perhaps another god intervened and blew the discus to his the boy." Michel ignored my comment after giving a sulky shrug of his shoulders. He glanced at Caelan who had taken up a seat beside him in the cart. Again, they were sitting close together. Too close for comfort. I considered suggesting that the boys get off and walk for a while since the sun had risen far enough to warm the earth beneath their feet. Instead, I languished in thought, sensing the rustle of movement in the straw behind me. I resisted turning around. Under my breath, I mouthed the words that I wanted to fill Michel's head. "A beautiful boy can invoke such jealousy that not only men and boys, but gods can lose their minds." There was no sound for quite a while, an awkward silence, but then for no reason at all I heard him laugh. Had he shared my unspoken thoughts with Caelan? Only that could explain the delay. Etiquette upon the Mount expected that what was left unsaid between man and boy, was not to be shared with any other. I formed a silent reprimand, but it held it back for Michel had placed his around Caelan's shoul- ders. I breathed out and grumbled the words of a jealous man. "Tis time you boys got out and walked." "Why?" I was startled by Michel's defiance. Even Kadri and Sandor were taken aback, both looking up at once. "You're supposed to be acolytes of the Greka Droga, in case you had forgotten," I snapped. "So what? Where is it written that boys have to walk instead of ride, whether they're boys with roses from the Mount or some priest's whores?" Caelan whined. "He's right!" Michel added haughtily. "There's ice upon the ground. Why do we have to walk in snow?" "That's enough," I scolded. "I've told you what to do." Sandor and Kadri stood up, shedding bits of straw as they shook themselves, rocking the cart from side to side until they leaped down to the ground. "Come on Michel. Let's play," Kadri squealed. He ducked adroitly when Sandor threw a ball of snow. He bent and scooped up two handfuls and pressed them hard together. A moment later he sent a snowball in return. It was done so quickly that he caught Sandor unawares. The cold snow spattered over the side of Sandor's head. His hair was sud- denly encrusted with white flakes until he shook it free. He spun around and began to chase Kadri, his robe opening at the front where he had neglected to tie the cord. I laughed while they ran barefoot across the snow-cov- ered grass, slipping and sliding but always maintaining their balance like well-trained acrobats. I examined the road ahead, thinking that it was good both boys shrieking with glee. Of course, it was entirely unbecoming behavior for two Greka Droga acolytes and their priest. I considered calling a halt to it before a traveller happened along the road, and yet it was so enjoyable to watch the release of pent-up energy. Equally, I kept a careful eye upon the ridge, for it would not do to be surprised by bandits. The boys ran and played until the next milepost. By then, their hands and feet were turning white with cold. Their faces became ruddy and their warm breath exhaled in puffs of mist. I slowed the cart so that they could clamber aboard. "That was so much fun, Michel! You should have joined us," Kadri exclaimed breathlessly. There were flakes of snow in his hair and his cheeks were pink, but his eyes sparkled with energetic life. He joined with Sandor to vigorously shake clumps of frozen snow from the hem of his grey blanket-robe. Then, seeing Sandor's bare body still exposed, be began untying the knotted cord to part the front of his robe as well. His penis rose red and angry, like a bloodied dagger at the end, demanding to be stroked despite the chill. I smiled in fond appreciation of that cold protruding spike, so similar yet so different to Michel's silk-sheathed bone. Having suckled on Kadri in the past and enjoyed it much to my delight, I knew that his stiffness was more than adequate. The two boys eyed each other with wanton need and I nodded encouragingly. There was no better way for boys to become warm again than light the fire within their loins. "Look at him, Michel! It's a tiny thing even when it's hard. He's always horny when he sees his precious Sandor," Caelan snorted derisively. "That's why they say that Favonius boys are those who offers their roses to any prick regardless of its size." "It's true. All Kadri wants is a prick stuck inside his arse like me," Michel agreed with a girlish giggle that sounded bitter to my ears. "Enough," I growled. "At least they've had some exer- cise today, unlike the two of you, who have done nothing but play your piddling games beneath the straw." I regretted saying that as soon as the words had left my mouth. Caelan laughed. "Would you rather be playing in the snow with them or playing here with me, Michel?" It was a direct challenge to a master, and on the Mount it would have earned him a reprimand at the very least. I sensed Sandor and Kadri becoming tense for they appreciated what should not have been said. Still, a boy's role is not to turn the other cheek, but split them wide apart. I flicked the reins and pondered my next move as the frozen peaks of the distant mountains drew ever nearer.