Long elegant fingers in soft black-leather gloves, gliding over my body, stroking and fondling. Everywhere. I’m cold, so cold, lying on my back on rough marble. Naked. I know not how or why I am unclothed and lying under a man—other than that, at fourteen, I do lie with men when they wish it and have the money to pay for it. A man—or something manlike—hovering over me. Me naked, he covered in black, rich, silky black. The branches of trees in the night above the lustfully leering face. The face of a fox, of a man fox. Familiar, but I don’t know in what way—my head is in a swirl. Too much ale or something.

Long, elegant fingers in soft black-leather gloves, gliding over my naked body, stroking and fondling. Testing and squeezing. Most men covering me will do it and have done. This one is taking his time, his pleasure showing to be more than cock in hole, release, and leave.

How have I become naked in the woods—no, not the woods, a cemetery? Cold, but from the marble under my back, not from the wind through the trees in the cemetery. The man’s black cloak, billowing, moving rhythmically with the breeze and with the movement of his body on mine, covering us both, blocking out the stronger wind. Saint Bartholomew’s Cemetery. That’s where I am, where I was walking beside before ... this.

Head in a muddle. So weak, so weak. I try to move my hands, but find they are bound at the wrist by leather, my arms over my head. He is kissing my lips and cheeks and throat, moving down to my chest, my belly, licking and nipping. This is far more attention to my body than the men I go with upstairs in the pub give. They have me for a half hour. It is as if this man will have me forever. Humming in low tones. A gloved hand between my thighs, gliding up.

Oh, fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck. The gloved hands coaxing my thighs apart, bending my spread legs, placing my felt-booted feet flat on the marble. The soft-leather gloved hands squeezing and separating my mounds, coaxing me to push up with my feet and elevate my pelvis to his desire. Experienced in the positions of approach of men preparing to penetrate, I comply. I am not a virgin to penetration, at fourteen. There is nothing in that that is making this strange and exotic—fearfully and yet compelling. Men do fuck me.

Do it and get it over with. It’s cold and creepy out here.

Gloved fingers at my hole. Not his cock, not yet his cock. Soft leather gloved fingers in my hole. Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck. Kissing and nipping back up my body. Foxy face pressed into my throat. I feel the sting of the bite, the low whooshing sensation of the suck, the slow onset of lethargy and lightheadedness. Writhing, but as if I were underwater, struggling ineffectually against the hand at my hole. Howling into night as the black-leather-gloved hand penetrates, violates, stretches, fills, possesses, flexes, starts to move inside me. His whole fist inside me, moving in and out, in and out. Slight pain at the throat where I am bitten and being sucked. Greater pain inside, below as I am fucked by the gloved hand.

Sinking into lethargic pleasure, fully possessed by the fist, I rock on the hand, fucking myself on the fist.

The hand withdraws and he repositions his still-clothed body between my thighs. His cock is out, though, and he enters me, thick, long, throbbing, and begins to pump, the kiss of his teeth not losing their sucking grip at my throat. A cadence is set in the sucking of the mouth and the thrusting of the cock, and I move in synchronization, going with the dance of the suck and fuck. I am moving, languidly with his use of my body. Floating. Floating away. Relaxing into the ether. Losing all care. As I relax, I flow into him. And, with jerks and sighs, he flows inside me—releasing again, and again ... and again...

I black out and when I come back in—only partially, in a drunken stupor, I am now stretched on top of the marble tomb—and know it to be that now—on my belly, the monster saddled on my hips, still possessing me with his reengorging, filling and stretching cock, rising and falling on me, his black cape billowing about our bodies. My wrists are free, but dangling, uselessly in my stupor over the sides of the raised tomb. The leather that bound my wrists now is a many-stranded hand whip. The whip is rising and falling, short lashes on my back and buttocks as the monster fucks me. When he stops, it is to lick the blood off the lashed welts and to lean down into me and latch onto my throat with his sucking teeth again.

A sound and the glint of a lantern on the cemetery walkway, and I suddenly am alone, lying on my belly, naked, on the raised marble tomb. With a groan I roll off the tomb on the other side from where I see the lantern swinging and the watchman whistling.

Next I know, I am huddled, clutching my clothing at the base of the cemetery wall, on Exe Street. Panting, too weak to move for the moment. Throat sore, ass channel on fire. Head in a muddle. Weak, weak, weak.

Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck. I feel so weak, and alone, and violated, and ... elated and so much ... inexplicably ... alive and at one with nature and the universe.

“Where have you been? Where is the keg opener I sent you to the cottage to fetch? Couldn’t find it? I swear, Matthew, that you couldn’t find your ass if you had to. Speaking of which, Brother Adam is waiting for you in the room. You’re late for that. Well, get you up the stairs now. The monk’s patronage is right steady. Don’t keep him waiting.”

Matthew had entered the Bat and Boy pub in a haze, barely able to put one foot in front of the other, not yet much aware where he was and why he was gone, but if his uncle and guardian, Harold, was saying he was supposed to fetch another keg opener from the family cottage, he at least knew why he’d been out. At fourteen, Matthew was the evening cleanup boy and do everything no one else wanted to do lad for the family pub on the New North Road in Exeter, England, just around the corner and a walk down Exe Street along the Bartholomew Cemetery wall and over on West Street, where the family cottage was and where his aunt, Emily, owned a flower shop where the boy worked in the day.

The boy’s other duties at the Bat and Boy—and why he saw evening service here—dealt with “the room” that his uncle, Harold, was sending him up the stairs toward now without waiting to hear an explanation on where the boy had been at such length of time without returning with the keg opener he was sent for. There were store rooms and an office and even two guest rooms to let by the night on the second floor of the pub. But “the room” was a small one and it was Matthew, a beautiful, almost effeminate, blond and blue-eyed fourteen-year-old boy, who was rented out in “the room” at “by the half-hour” rates.

When Matthew got to the room, he found Brother Adam, a Benedictine monk from the Buckfast Abbey to the southwest of Exeter, waiting for him. The abbey’s monks, famous for their beekeeping and honey, were more worldly that most, and Brother Adam, with a fetish for young teenage boys, and for Matthew, in particular, was more worldly than most of the abbey monks. The two had initially become acquainted at a fair in the town when Brother Adam brought honey to the market. Matthew had expressed interest in how the honey was produced and Brother Adam had taken him aside and explained the whole process to Matthew. Matthew had become fascinated with beekeeping, and Brother Adam had become fascinated with Matthew, had tracked the boy down to the Bat and Boy, and had discovered what could be had from the boy for few coins for a half hour.

When Matthew reached the room, the monk was sitting on a wooden chair by the three-quarters bed in the small room. He was sitting, naked, on his carefully folded black habit, and keeping himself erect by slow stroking his shaft and thinking sensual thoughts of what he had thought he’d already be doing with Matthew. The monk, a young hard worker in the abbey’s enterprises, and fair of face, was strong and well-developed of body. Given the men Matthew lay under, Brother Adam was a pleasure to serve.

He was so intent on keeping himself erect to make the most of the half hour that he didn’t notice initially how listless the boy appeared to be. There was a minimum of kissing and fondling as he stood and pulled the boy’s small, slender body into his, got the boy stripped down, and then turned over onto his belly on the bed. Brother Adam quickly was immersed in folding his body over that of Matthew’s, mounting him from above and behind, getting his cock sheathed, fully possessing and stretching the boy’s sweet channel, and taking the two of them to heaven on earth. Pleased with the partnering, Matthew melded his body to that of the monk and moved in the rhythm of the fuck, albeit not as active or into the cadence tonight as he usually was with the monk.

It was only when he picked Matthew up and moved over to the chair, sitting on his habit, putting the boy is his lap, facing him, and pulling Matthew on and off his cock, as the boy lethargically helped a bit by placing his feet on the wall behind the chair and using the leverage of those to rock on the shaft, that Brother Adam realized the boy wasn’t entirely “there.”

It was obvious then that, though willing—Matthew was fond of Brother Adam, one of the few young, fit men who availed themselves of the boy’s sexual services—Matthew seemed to be near exhaustion and mentally just not there with the fuck.

Brother stopped fucking and embraced the boy close. The welfare of the boy mattered more to the monk than the getting himself off did. “What ails you, Matt?” the monk murmured. “You are so distant and pale. Are you ill, lad?”

“I don’t know. It all seems a haze,” Matthew said. “I have been somewhere and done something, but I can’t remember what it was. I do feel weak and like I am somewhere else. My ears are buzzing and I am sore—no, no, you are fine. I have no trouble taking you in me.”

“I must admit, I noticed,” Brother Adam said. “I did not wish to pry or seem to make a claim that is not mine, but it does seem that you have been with an overbuilt man. Did you lie under another man before coming to me just now?”

“I ... don’t know. I don’t remember,” Matthew said. “I think so, yes.” And then he seemed to be so concerned about not being fully aware of what had happened to him earlier in the night that Brother Adam did not press him further on the question. It was a fact, regardless of the feelings he had for Matthew that included, but went beyond, sex, that Matthew was pimped by his uncle and went with men as required of him. Perhaps the uncle had the answer to that riddle.

Matthew shuddered. “What is it, lad?” Brother Adam asked. But, although there was a glimmer of images of a marble slab, a black-clad foxy man, black-leather gloves, a fist moving inside him, a hand whip, and testing sex, none of the images were coming together to be anything more for sure than high-heat dreams.

“It’s no matter. We will manage,” Brother Adam said, and, pulling the boy off his cock and reaching down to frot their shafts together, Brother Adam slow stroked them both to release. It was only then, when post-fuck he was gliding his hands over the beautiful little body as it reposed on his lap that Brother Adam’s hands found the red welts on the boy’s back.

“What is it? You have been misused. You have been whipped. Not hard, but enough to raise welts and some rivulets of blood. What has happened to you? Has your uncle been punishing you?”

“No, no. He never would. I have only now realized it and felt any pain ... now that you have touched it. My uncle has never punished me so. I don’t think he would. He is gruff, but he isn’t violent. It was ... I don’t know who it was. I can’t remember who it was—where I’ve been this evening—what I have been doing.”

Matthew was reduced to sobs, and, sliding a hand into the habit underneath them, Brother Adam came up with a small packet of salve. The Benedictine monks were healers and they never left the abbey without a small supply of folk medicines, which they made from herbs grown in their own gardens.

“Here, let me put some calming ointment on your back and then we will put you to bed here. You must rest. I am most concerned about your paleness and your not being able to remember. I have seen this in this area before, and it is very disturbing.”

Matthew didn’t object, and after Brother Adam put him to bed, he came down the stairs. He sought the innkeeper, Harold, out, not only to pay him for the time with the boy but to tell him that Matthew was ill and that, yes, he would be fine in the morning, but that Brother Adam had given him a sleeping potion so he should not have any more men visit him that night. It wasn’t true about the sleeping potion, but Brother Adam knew that Matthew would be of little pleasurable use to another man on top of him and fucking him that night anyway—although he knew there were men who thought only of releasing their own seed and would fuck the unconscious to achieve that, if need be.

That isn’t all that he spoke to Harold about, though. “Your nephew was badly used before he was with me.” That had to be said primarily to protect Brother Adam when and if Harold saw the welts, but, in any event, Brother Adam was fond enough of the boy to pursue the matter. If the uncle chose to beat the nephew, that was no business of the monk’s.

“Badly used? What do you mean? He has been with no other man tonight but you.”

“He has been whipped. Lightly, but he is a tender boy. It has raised welts and let some blood. I have applied a soothing ointment. I can assure you it wasn’t me who did that.”

“I do believe you, but it twasn’t me neither,” Harold said, aware of where suspicion would lie if it wasn’t the monk—and surely it wouldn’t have been the monk. There was no evidence the monk had anything to whip the boy with. “I sent him home to fetch me a keg opener. The one here broke. But he were gone a long time, and he came back without what I sent him to fetch.”

“Was there anyone eyeing him in the pub before he left?” Brother Adam asked.

“There be several men who eye him—whenever he moves about the pub. Ones who use him and ones who wished they could.”

“Anyone in this evening who wasn’t a regular?”

Harold thought. “Aye, I thought it a bit strange that the likes of him came into the likes of this pub. He were quiet and I sat him over at the lord’s table by the fire, seeing a how he is a lord, not that he does much lording around these parts.”

“Who?” Brother Adam pressed.

“Vincent Black, from Farringdon Hall. All dressed out in black and caped, very mysterious and foxy looking that one is. I saw him snuff out the candles on the wall there. He wanted to be in the dark. Dark be a good term to use for him, from what I saw.”