Date: Mon, 15 Jan 2018 14:27:37 +0000
From: J Wize <jaywizetoo@gmail.com>
Subject: The Monastery

DISCLAIMER:

This story is a work of fiction and contains descriptions of explicit
sexual acts between men.

If this type of content offends you or you are under the age of 18 do not
read it.

Author's Note:

This story is the property of the author. It can be downloaded for personal
reading pleasure or sending to a friend, but if you wish to post them on
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If it is illegal to read such material where you live or if you find the
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Copyright 2018, jaywizetoo, all rights reserved.

Please contact me at jaywizetoo@gmail.com if you like. I welcome all
feedback.


* * *

The candle's light glinted off the edges of the bronze chamberstick in my
hand. The burning wick was scarcely enough to illuminate the space around
me, much less the cavernous space of the great hall. Though my eyes had
become accustomed to low light in the months since I arrived here, I still
struggled at times to avoid hitting the furniture and other obstacles as I
made my rounds. This month, I was assigned to the night watch. I didn't
mind. I enjoyed the silence and the feel of the stone structure protecting
me.

It seemed like ages since I had been left at the massive front doors of the
monastery of St. Bernard of Clairvaux. The wooden gates were 6 inches thick
and covered with carvings of saints, sacred symbols and ancient Latin
inscriptions. I had been sixteen years old, rebellious as hell, and I had
finally exhausted the last bits of patience within my parents.

They had never really understood me, and I had never wanted to understand
them. I had longed, as far back as I could remember, to escape; to go
someplace quiet and distant; some place I could find myself and never worry
about meeting anyone's expectations again.

The monastery had been a good solution for them, and a chance at escape for
me. Their coldness lit a fire within me, and neither they nor I looked back
when they dropped me off in front of the imposing edifice and drove back
down the winding dirt road.

I remember that first night, a crisp autumn evening in Montana. I had never
seen a state so beautiful, or so distant from its neighbors. It almost
seemed untouched by modern technology or civilization. The monastery was
nestled in the rolling foothills of Rising Wolf Mountain, lined with
forests of deep green pine, surrounded by lakes and waterfalls, and a sky
that rivaled any shade of blue I had ever seen or imagined.

I had fallen in love with Montana almost as soon as we had passed over the
border. It didn't occur to me at the time that my parents had already
spoken to the Abbot about taking me in. As usual, they had not bothered
communicating a thing to me. I figured they would leave me in some town and
disappear back over the border. I honestly didn't care one way or
another. They weren't a part of my life in any meaningful way, and their
actions were their own.

The brothers of Saint Bernard of Clairvaux had taken me in without
objection. I assumed, in the months to come, that my parents had paid them
or made some sort of donation, but none of the brothers ever spoke to me of
it. Perhaps they, like myself, had come from rough backgrounds and had
wasted enough of their young lives to warrant a long penance here. Perhaps
they saw within me something they could nurture and fix.

My hard feelings had faded as month bled into month, and the day-to-day
routine of the monastery became part of me. It was a comforting life,
though filled with hard work and a lot of silence, other than during
prayers, or when the monks chanted. The simple harmonies would fill the
stone halls to their dark wooden rafters, escaping from high windows to
cross the grounds to echo through the trees and crags of the forest. below.

It had been seven months after I knocked upon their door that the monks
showed me the true nature of brotherhood. I had just turned seventeen and
had been deeply enamored of this place, its hulking presence hidden so
expertly from the world around us, tucked away in the bosom of the
mountain. The brothers did not make a fuss about my birthday, though from
the kitchen a cake emerged at that night's communal dinner, simple and
unadorned. After prayer, we all partook of it solemnly, as if its sweetness
were a blessing from God as I transitioned from boyhood to manhood.

That night I knelt alon, in the center of the cloister, a large space
filled with soft grass, open to the moonlit sky above. Around the
enclosure, a covered walkway with white pillars separated the courtyard
from the rest of the building. The rough material of my brown robe tickled
my sides as I recited the prayers I had been taught. They were less a
conversation with God than they were a simple meditation. I liked the feel
of the Latin words upon my tongue. The night air seemed to draw them from
my lips and devour them the moment they were uttered.

I wore a blindfold of soft cotton, to symbolize the blindness of Saint Paul
on his trip to Damascus. The prayers were ancient, a supplication to Heaven
to strike divine light into my eyes, that I might see clearly thenceforth.

The sounds of the mountain filled me with a peace that I had not previously
known. Every cricket's chirp and night bird's call was magnified in my
ears. I rested my folded hands upon the block of smooth granite before me,
lost in the moment.

I cannot remember how much time passed as my mind wandered the pine forests
and flew among the moonlit clouds. I only know that at some point, my
thoughts returned to me. I heard the soft sounds of footfalls behind me.

I knew at once that it was one of the brothers. The sounds of leather
sandals upon grass were as familiar to me as the sound of my own heartbeat.

I raised my head, listening, wondering if I could sense the height and
weight of the one approaching me, perhaps through the depth of his breath,
or the sounds of his robe as they swished back and forth.

The monk kneeled behind me, inching forward until I could feel the heat of
him through both of our robes. My hood was pulled back, leaving my
blindfolded head exposed to the night.

I felt the faintest tickle of breath against my left ear, and the warmth of
the man's breath. His whisper was so deep and so faint that I had no idea
which of the brotherhood he was.

"Brother Ryan," the man's voice intoned. "Be still..."

I shivered at the sound of the voice, barely audible but still masculine
and serene. He might have been any one of two dozen monks who called this
place home.

"Tonight you become one of us. You become a man, though you have already
been brother and fellow servant with the rest of us. The Abbot has been
pleased. Your heart is pure. This is where you belong."

The warmth of his words soaked into me like sunlight on a summer afternoon,
and my body relaxed against the man behind me.

He reached up, loosening the cotton rope that cinched the robe closed along
my back. I felt the night air upon my skin as the material parted beneath
strong, calloused hands. A single finger touched my neck just at the
hairline of my short black hair, and traced a line down, sending chills in
every direction.

"Be still," he repeated, his voice barely that of a ghost lost on a
breeze. "Accept the love of the brotherhood. We have much to give, and much
to teach."

The finger reached the lower part of my exposed back and then became a
hand, hot and masculine, caressing the soft skin and moving back and forth
with an agonizing slowness. Though I was still dressed, I felt exposed and
open. The thought excited me, and my cock stirred within the rough folds of
my robe.

I squeezed my hands together, my eyes trying futilely to stare through the
cotton blindfold.

The brother's lips touched my ear and he breathed into it softly. "I have
seen your heart, boy. I have seen what you want, and that for which you
have longed." His hand wandered along my back, sliding around my right
side, soft as a turtle dove, and around to caress the lightly furred skin
of my chest. The fingers explored there, tracing the contours of the muscle
there, developed as only a teenager's could be.

I caught my breath. The sensation of touch upon my skin was almost
overwhelming, as if I were completely new to the experience. In fact, I
was. Only I had touched myself there. Sometimes I would wake in the night,
caressing myself, but there was an electricity to this older monk's touch
that I had never imagined before.

He kissed the lobe of my ear, and then nibbled it softly, tugging at the
soft skin as his hand explored lower, tickling the flatness of my abdomen.

"Oh, God," I whispered. My cock was hard, jutting into the material of my
robe, which tickled the swollen head and slender shaft with each heightened
beat of my heart.

The hand descended. "This is what you want," the voice whispered. "The
touch of a brother, the love only a brother can give." His fingers
encircled my throbbing cock and I bucked instinctively, not in alarm but at
the electric pleasure that spread from my groin. The monk squeezed me
softly, firmly.  He pulled slowly downward, milking the soft skin as he
breathed into my ear. "This is but the beginning. There are pleasures to be
had in this house of God that you cannot yet imagine. Love is the sole
purposes for our existence. We honor and serve that purpose as God
intended."

The remaining laces upon my back were loosened, and the monk bade me lean
forward. I did so, and he pulled the thick material forward, over my head,
then raised my torso with that calloused hand and slid the robe down to my
waist, freeing my arms from the restrictive material. I was naked from head
to the top of my groin, where the brother's hand disappeared into the dark
fabric and held me in a silken, iron embrace, squeezing rhythmically as he
took my clothing from me inch by inch.

The night air raised gooseflesh upon my skin. The monk released my cock and
I felt him move against me as he struggled with his own robe. It was far
easier to loosen the ties upon another's back than it was to loosen one's
own. But after a moment, I heard the rough material slide down furry skin,
and then I felt the heat of hairy skin against my own soft back.

He covered me almost completely, long arms encircling my chest and a thick
beard tickling as it settled against the nape of my neck. I felt loved,
surrounded, fulfilled. This moment was perfection itself. The monk's hot
breath contrasted with the coolness of the breeze coming from the sky above
us, and I heard the faint depth of a moan as our two bodies made contact.

We stayed like that for a time, enjoying the warmth of our two bodies,
reveling in the intimacy of the moment. I felt the soft hotness of a tongue
slide along the skin of my neck, and the tickle of a thick beard upon the
surrounding flesh. I shuddered at the sensation and pushed back into the
body behind me.

I could feel that he was muscled and powerful, though not in fashion of an
athlete. The powerful chest against my back must have come from the hard
work the brotherhood performed day after day, cutting down trees for the
needs of the Monastery, chopping wood, lifting heavy objects and tending to
the needs of this aging building. For men of peace and prayer, few
lumberjacks would compete with their physiques. the benefits of clean
living and the purity of the mountain air.

"Rise," he whispered into my ear, and we both did. Our robes fell, pooling
at our feet, and he turned us in place, so that his back was to the granite
block, and my back touched the powerful, furry chest.

He turned me, then, to face him, and I felt the pressure of his large hands
upon my bare shoulders, guiding me to kneel once more between large, furry
thighs.

His hand rose to my head guiding me forwarded. I could see nothing, but in
my mind's eye I reckoned our positions relative to each other. My heart
pounded in my chest as I bowed me head. The rough hand slid under my chin,
stroking gently and massaging my jawline.

"Open," he whispered.

I obeyed, breathing in through my parted lips. As I licked at them,
moistening them in the night air, I felt the silky softness of the monk's
flesh upon them, sliding along the ruby red contours of my mouth in a slow,
deliberate arc. I tasted salty-sweet fluid that leaked from the flesh, from
the swollen helmet, wetting my lips further and lubricating them with each
gentle circuit of the slit across them.

I kneeled, entranced by the taste and by the wild sensations. I had never
used my mouth this way, never come close to tasting a man's most private
parts. I had thought about it now and then. In a monastery, such thoughts
invariably invade one's sleep and one's daydreams. I had admired the burly,
peaceful men peopling this holy place, but had never seriously considered
that this sort of behavior would be tolerated, let alone welcomed.

The fat head pushed past my wet lips, then. I opened my mouth wider to take
the thick flesh inside. The rush made me dizzy. I wondered which of the
many brothers I now held in my mouth.

His deep moan gave me no clue as I took more of him inside.  His whispering
was too faint, too devoid of accent or timbre to place him.  If only the
brothers spoke to each other more often. But such was not the custom of
this monastery. We spoke only in concert, singing or praying, but rarely as
individuals.

I suckled the thick cock, my head bobbing to a slow, rhythmic tide. I
concentrated on the smooth, veiny flesh as it slid across my tongue and
pushed at the sensitive skin of my cheeks. He was large, but so very
gentle. He guided me with each slow, electrical slide into my mouth, and
each tantalizing pull back, until the flared edge of his cockhead pulled at
the inside of my lips. I would take a breath as he withdrew, then hold it
as he slid further and further into me, until I was used to the blunt head
nudging at the back of my mouth and prodding further into the bend of my
throat.

His whispering grew more heated, more insistent, as I pleasured him. I ran
my hands over the muscles of his thighs, down to his knees and over the
bulges of his calves, then back up to grasp the sides of his hips, my
fingers curling over the furry muscle that marked the edges of his ass.

He held my head now with both hands, both pushing and being pulled, guiding
my tempo as he fed me his thick cock.  On his next inward plunge, I took
him into my throat, swallowing and milking as my lips stretched around the
base of him. It felt like all the world filled my mouth and throat. I felt
stretched and owned as he held me there for seconds, savoring the hot
wetness of my silken throat wrapped around his member.

My head swam with desire for this gentle, powerful man. I could hear his
breathing quickening. The desire in him was rising, as mine was, and I
sensed neither of us would be able to do this for long. I tightened my lips
upon the flesh of his cock. He was hard, but not hard enough that the big
cock couldn't curve into the depths of my throat.

I began to pump him, pulling off his cock until only the big head filled my
mouth, then sliding back down to lodge him in my throat. With each push and
pull, I became more used to the sensations, and more convinced that this is
what I was born to do. I milked the big man's manhood again and again,
listening to him gasp and moan and whisper obscenities, along with sacred
words, and words of love; an erotic mix of the holy and the profane that
thrilled me as I swallowed the flesh of the brother before me.

His hands gripped my head tighter as he neared his climax, and I could hear
him struggle not to cry out as he hissed a long, feral breath and the huge
organ in my mouth began to throb and buck in my throat.

I held him, buried far enough in my gullet that the load he must have shot
flowed directly into my belly.  The orgasm seemed to engulf him completely,
and his body jerked with each heavy spurt. I could feel each load rolling
up the length of his cock, past my lips and over the curve of my throat
before gushing from the wide, slit and coating the path downward.

Only when his breathing began to slow, and the throbbing began to ebb, did
I pull him from my throat and hold the still leaking head in my
mouth. Thick, creamy cum still poured from him like lava, and I swallowed
several more times before the flow ceased. I tightened my lips and pulled
away from him, milking once last dollop of the sweet fluid into my mouth
before the big head popped free, wet and hot in the nighttime breeze.

The monk before me sat for a time, his breathing returning to normal. After
a few moments, he rose, and lifted me to my feet, turning us again so that
my back faced the granite block. He pushed me backwards gently, his big
hands lowering me to the cool, smooth surface. I sat, replaying the events
of the past few minutes in my mind. The potency of it still filled
me. Nothing I had experienced in my short life had come close to this.

I felt the monk's hot breath against my groin, and I felt strong hands
spread my thighs apart. Then my cock, still hard and throbbing, was
enveloped in wet, silken heat, from head to base.  I gasped.

The mouth was molten gold, and I felt the bristles of the man's heavy beard
against the sensitive skin of my groin, my inner thighs and my balls. For a
moment it felt like my whole body was inside the brother's mouth. He just
held me there, minute after minute, letting his heat soak into my flesh.

I reached down, running my hands over the rough stubble of his nearly
shaved head.  Nearly all the brothers cut their hair this way. Some were
naturally bald, and others made themselves smooth by choice, but most of
them men had a dark buzzed look to them. It was easier to manage this way
and didn't get in the way of work and routine.

The head began bobbing slowly, each movement sending ripples of
unbelievable pleasure up my chest and down my spine.

"Oh, Jesus. Yes," I whimpered. I couldn't comprehend the pleasure he was
giving me, as I had felt nothing like it in all my years. "It feels so
good."

The monk didn't answer, but quickened his pace, the suction of his hot
mouth increasing as he milked my throbbing, teenaged cock. My chest rose
and fell as he swallowed me again and again, the wet sounds particularly
audible to me in my blindfold. I could hear the sounds of the night in the
distance, but they paled in comparison to the sounds of the brother's mouth
and throat devouring me.

I felt my orgasm beginning to rise from the skin beneath my balls up the
shaft disappearing rhythmically into the man's bearded throat.

"Oh God, I'm gonna cum," I warned. The hot sucking and slurping continued
unabated.

As I reached the pinnacle and began to lose control, strong hands gripped
my thighs and the head descended. His lips opened wide and he took both of
my balls into his mouth. They were already tight against my body with my
impending explosion, and I imagined the stubble-covered cheeks bulging
outward with both my cock and throbbing testicles enclosed in silken heat.

I came, crying out and bucking upward into the man's face, my hands holding
his head as I tried to stuff even more of myself into him. I shot load
after load of my young cum into the monk's mouth. I could hear him
swallowing each, a wet gulping sound that made me never want to stop. I
think my orgasm must have lasted for a full minute as he knelt patiently
before me, drinking what I gave him to drink and sealing, perhaps forever,
the bond between me and the brotherhood.

When I was at last spent, I felt back against the cool granite, gulping
fresh air into my lungs as the man licked my cock clean with soft, slow
strokes.

I heard him moving, then, sliding back into his robe without a word.

I listened, still nude and spread-eagled upon the granite block, as his
footsteps receded into the shadows of the cloister.

"God be with you," it was barely a whisper. And then he was gone.

I removed the blindfold. Marveling at how well lit the cloister appeared in
the moonlight now that I was accustomed to perfect darkness. The moon was
full and bright, illuminating the grass with silver magic. As I pulled the
robe back around me, I wondered at the beauty of this place, and imagined
what other delights I might discover amongst this, my new family.

* * *

And just like that, I was back in the great hall, staring into the burning
candle and hearing the soft whispers of this ancient building, imagining
the voices of those who had passed before. I wondered why this particular
memory had come to me, but I didn't have to wait long for the answer.

It was my birthday.

I made a note to pray in the cloister before I retired this evening. The
Matins prayer was long finished, and most of the monastery was sound
asleep. Morning would come early, and my brothers would be waiting for me
at Lauds.

Et erat pax.

* * *