Sweat poured over my thin blond brows, stinging my eyes. I strained, veins bulging along my arms and throat. My breath huffed, hot. I thrust with my legs and felt the burn of my tired buttox round and release. I cried out like a gull, "ah!" The chunk of granite I had dragged across the yard arced over the briar hedge. There was a loud crack as it pounded into the stones down below the hilltop monastery.
The Mediterranean sun was hot on my shoulders. I would burn soon, but I had to get this done, and the robe was too heavy for this kind of work - plus the proctor would beat me if I stained it with my 'excessive sweat' again. I ran my hands down the work-trained muscles of my torso. I had become firm, rounded from labor in a way that hunting and fishing in the forests of the North had not done. The sweat rolled in little rivers past the red gold coins of my nipples.
"You seem to be doing quite well, Brother," the quiet voice of Rector Atto move through me with a smoky note I didn't know how to interpret. I stiffened. In more ways than one. I turned to face the squat Greek. Long dark chest hairs peeked through the neck of his robe as if pushed up by his massive frame. My gut went warm when I saw him; as always I wanted to make him proud of me, but the warmth went deep.
"Th-thank you, Rector," I said, lowering my head, blond curls falling in my face, blocking some of the merciless sun.
"The Abbot has emerged from prayer, and he will meet with you," it was softly spoken from his thick lips, but it was a command. I looked at the bucket of water I'd brought out with me, grimacing at the smell under my arms.
"I can wash and - "
"You will come now, as you are," gesturing with one thick hand, the hairs on his knuckles dark and curly. I thought about what his hands could do. He had already turned to walk toward the monastery, and I just stood there, watching the thick moons of his ass appear and disappear under the robe as the real moon does in the sky.
My cock was beginning to uncurl in my loincloth. I bit the inside of my lip and grabbed my robe. Rector Atto was disappearing into the monastery. I raced after him and toward some much-needed relief from the sun.
...
We were in the Abbot's tower, high atop the cloister. The climb didn't give my sweat a chance to dry and I tried to pull parts of the robe away from my body as I entered the receiving cell outside the Abbot's private chapel. I unlaced my sandals and did my best to brush the dirt from my feet. The abbot's sandals were next to mine, and a smell of oil and man wafted off them. Although with my northern blood, I was a head taller than the abbot, his sandals were wider and inches longer than my own.
"Father Abbot?" Atto asked, dark eyes under his dark brows glued to the sweat stains spreading through my robe. He mouthed "OFF" to me and made an over-the-head gesture. As I pulled the robe off, hanging it on the hook inside the door, I wished again for hair - like even the other Novices had - to cover myself. I stood quietly, breathing in my own smell, willing the sweat to dry.
"Thank you, Rector, you may send in the Novice and go," came the rich voice of the Abbot from the next room.
Atto's thick shoulder muscles bulged as he bent his head and withdrew. Before he closed the door, he ran his eyes over me like a rough hand. I felt him judging my pale skin, the freckles on my shoulders, the betraying blush on my cheeks. I wanted to fall to my knees by the time he closed the heavy oak door.
"Come to me, boy," the Abbot's voice drew me toward the smell of frankincense.
It was hot in the Nave. The shutter doors leading into the chapel itself were partly closed. Candles and the smell of beeswax came to me.
The upper wall of the Nave was a stained glass window of St. Michael - the sun behind it burned the room red and gold, and made it hot as a Turkish bath. St Michael held a sword up before his body like a great phallus of burning light.
The Abbot sat on a bench in a prayer booth, eyes hooded, his tall, dark body covered in beads of sweat like worshipers. His hair was cropped short, salt creeping in along his temples and down into his beard like adoring fingers of time. His back was straight, and I could see the small muscles along his ribs holding him upright. His dark feet were planted on the warm stones. My pale eyes were magnets to his loincloth. Sweat had soaked through it everywhere. It bulged with his manhood, edges dangling down over the edge of the bench. I swallowed and prayed for strength as my smaller pink cock continued its lengthening in my own loincloth.
I was so confused by my arousal that prayer was my only refuge.
I knelt to hide my excitement, and kissed the Abbot's gold ring. His fingers were thick and strong, with much smaller hairs than Atto's along his knuckles. The smell of his manhood filled my nostrils and my head swam. My traitorous penis began to ooze.
The Abbot's dark eyes were burning over me when I rose to my knees, back straight.
The length of my cock throbbed with my heartbeat and I prayed to St. Michael for strength, but his phallus seemed to throb too with the sunlight.
