Hermitageous

Horizon F/X - Chapter 43 - Part 4

2012-02-13T06:00:00.001-07:00

Dazed, Tim was back with Clive. He had learned to walk, two men and a women barking at a line of a dozen or so skimpily-clad slaves. “No pain, no gain . . . big, open strides . . . walk like you mean it . . . hips, remember the hips . . . everything is compensation for having to go flat-footed . . . work what you’ve got.

“You look terrible!” Clive exclaimed.

Tim bit his lip.

“Kev!”

With a sigh, Kev oozed around the corner. He stared at Tim, appraising him. “Half the time the fucking monks don’t feed these little shits. You just need to load him and then . . . well, you know.”

Clive clapped his hand to his forehead. “Of course! I should’ve thought of that.”

He bustled off and came back with a can of soda, no, a commercial protein drink. Tim perked up immediately. Even if there was liver in this thing, he was confident he’d never be able to taste it.

“Chug that down, sugar lips,” Clive crooned, opening it for Tim, as though afraid he might have lost all memory of operating pop-top cans, and thrusting it into his hand. Then he turned and, in an amazingly loud voice, blared, “Fluffer! I need a fluffer over here. Stat!”

Already floating in a happy cloud of nutrients — chemicals, chocolate, caffeine, sugar — Tim watched as a young, naked boy bolted around the corner. Tim pulled back, thinking the kid must be only fourteen or so.

“He’s lost almost all of it,” Clive moaned, roughly shoving the boy down to his knees. “See what you can do. But don’t soil him. And we don’t have time to re-pack him either.”

The boy looked up for a moment at Tim as though he, too, was checking out what he had to work with, and Tim realized though he was short, quite thin and boyish, he was at least, maybe, eighteen.

The boy studied Tim’s wilted produce. Reaching around, he placed both hands on Tim’s constricted gluts, cupping them with great respect and appreciation. Then he proceeded to blow directly through the fabric in front.

Tim jerked, surprised he could even feel it.

The boy continued to work him, gently kneading, caressing Tim’s crotch with his face, tracing his crack with one finger, and sometimes he just stared, alternating adoring looks up into Tim’s face and then frank admiration at the slowly growing mound.

“Beautiful,” he breathed. “You know, the front panel looks like the same fabric, but it’s not as tightly woven. It’s designed to swell and grow. It’s not restricting you so much as it is supporting you, helping you, wanting to thrust the very best of you forward.

“Don’t deny everyone else this pleasure. For some of us, this could be all we get tonight, just the chance to see and to fantasize. I already know you’re hung. Otherwise you wouldn’t have made it back here. So relax. Get that blood flowing. Squeeze your butt a little more. That’s it.”

“What are you, the cock whisperer?” Clive jeered, but the boy ignored him.

“Oh, this is gorgeous,” he murmured, lips to Tim’s cock through the fabric, his breath hot now as Tim squirmed. “And the scrotum. Nice big nuts in there. I can see them lifting, trying to push free.” He moaned. “If only . . . well . . . maybe someday.”

“Gear up!” someone shouted through the sound system.”

“That’s pretty good,” Clive admitted, apologetic.

“Magician of minimalism,” the boy said, patting Tim once more as he rocked back on his heels.

Tim glanced down to thank him and suddenly realized the kid had nothing there, just a clump of hair, like a . . .

The . . . boy, following his gaze, blushed.

“See,” he murmured. “You’re lucky. Don’t waste what you’ve got.”

And then he turned and hurried away.

“Close your mouth,” Clive chided. “I thought you said you were city-born.”

Tim nodded.

“Then don’t be so dense.” He shoved at Tim, disgusted. “FTM,” he finally explained. “Tranny boy.” Again bending over the box, he grabbed the apparatus he’d gone off for earlier. “Let’s get this on you.

* * *

Tim stood in a closely-packed crowd of men, all of them stuffed into the briefest of briefs and wearing strange, organic-looking harnesses. Tim tried to shrug his shoulders. His was tight, thrusting his chest out in an unnatural way.

“Leave it,” Clive hissed beside him. “It’s perfect.”

“Okay, gentlemen, this is it!” It was the woman with the headset, standing on a box to be seen. “Most of you know the drill. I want you to rock this place. I want you manly. I want you confident. I want you proud. If you’re gay, you play to everyone. The women in the audience deserve this. And if you’re straight, don’t you pansy out on me. Strut your stuff. Waggle those butts. Do what you need to do so everyone, and I mean everyone, gets a good hit of you.

“And no attitude, no pouting. This is a light, playful run. Organic. Natural. Smile if you feel it.

“Infants, your numbers are in order up there on that LED board. Your handlers will get you in line. And watch the monitors here. See how it’s done. Then you copy.”

* * *

Horizon F/X - Chapter 43 - Part 3

2012-02-09T06:00:00.001-07:00

Clive had mesmerized him, moving continually around him as he made the tiniest imaginable little snips, running his fingers through Tim’s hair, brushing it this way and that, sensing how it fell and moved.

And then with one last snip, he spun Tim back to the mirror.

Tim could only stare. This was him? This young man with lovely, tousled hair that seemed to enhance every feature of his face — made his eyes stand out more, pointed up cheekbones he didn’t even know he had, exalted his nose as the refined, elegant thing it had always been.

Clive purred. “Now we’re cooking, cupcake. Now we’re getting somewhere.”

* * *

Makeup. Clive was doing amazing things with guyliner and a drugstore full of little pots, bottles, brushes and sprays. “Eyelashes,” Clive crooned. “Oh yes, the little jelly doughnut has eyelashes!”

Tim had never felt so pampered, so taken care of, so attractive as Clive worked over him, constantly murmuring exclamations of pleasure. And increasingly Tim couldn’t recognize himself. He’d been transformed into the kind of creature who hobnobbed with stars in Hollywood or entered discrete, exclusive clubs in Europe.

“Eat your heart out, Kevvy” Clive sang out. “We’re slaying ’em over here.”

Kev only grunted, not taking the bait.

* * *

“That should do it,” Clive finally said with one last suffocating cloud of hair spray and a spritz of lustrous matte shine to Tim’s face. “Get up,” he urged. “Running out of time.”

Tim slid out of the chair, overwhelmed with everything, weaving a little on his feet.

Clive was again bent over and digging in the box. “Here,” he said, tossing something over his shoulder. “Put these on.”

Tim stood, holding a boy’s size pair of briefs.

“Put them on,” Clive repeated. “Don’t go second guessing me. That’s the perfect color for you. I have to get your harness.”

Tim stared helplessly at the mottled bottle green and turquoise scrap of fabric. He was fat all over again. He’d never be able to get into this.

* * *

“What are you doing?”

It was the red-haired woman from the stepladder, now wearing a headset and carrying a clipboard.

Tim stood up, having just succeeded in squirming into the thing, his equipment half in and half out.

“Can’t even dress themselves,” she muttered as she slammed her clipboard on the counter, then reached around him and plunged both hands in at the back. “You need to lift and separate.” She immediately clenched his butt cheeks and did just that, pulling them so wide and high that his hole was left exposed and stretched open. She continued to work back there, shoving the flesh around to where she wanted it, then patting and smoothing from the outside.

“Better,” she said, eying him in the mirror as Tim also looked, staring over his shoulder. “But I don’t do the junk. You’ll have to wait for Clive to take care of that.”

* * *

“Ach!” Clive bustled in.

Tim faced him, embarrassed, the impossibly thin fabric stretched to the point of tearing across his hips with bits of himself still poking out.

“Here,” Clive said and plunged his own hands into the briefs, grabbing Tim so roughly he cried out and bent double.

“Stop your whining. We have to get this arranged. Didn’t you even look inside? These are exquisitely manufactured to give you every advantage.”

After an agonizing period — Clive also readjusting his ass — Tim stood again in front of the mirror. Every spare bit of flesh had been shoved around and molded until he had this amazing bubble butt and a package that seemed twice as large as it really was, and that despite the fact Clive’s strenuous ministrations had half-deflated Tim’s erection.

“Okay, cherry pie,” Clive said, dabbing the sweat from his forehead, “see that raised area over there?”

Tim nodded.

“Join up with the others. You need to learn how to walk.”

Tim had to agree as he shuffled through the maze of cubicles. He felt so twisted up and compressed in this thing, he could barely stand, let alone move.

“Serves you right,” one of the women stylists sniffed as he minced past. “Try wearing a bra all day . . . see how you like that!”

* * *

Horizon F/X - Chapter 43 - Part 2

2012-02-06T06:00:00.001-07:00

“Have you got a minute, Kev? Give me some help with this one.”

A tall man, gay-thin, dressed in a silk shirt and tight vest, poked his head around from the next cubicle. He, too, circled Tim. “Drop and give me ten!” he ordered.

Tim stared at him.

“Duh!” Kev stuck out his fist and poked his index finger in and out. “Push-ups, genius. Fast and deep.”

Tim obeyed, then bounced back up to his feet.

“Oh, I see,” said the gnomish man, immediately reaching out to caress Tim’s biceps and pecs. “There is something here.”

“Suck that in,” Kev ordered, poking Tim’s abs. “And clench your butt. You know, like you’re trying to hold in a plug that’s not flared enough.”

“Oh, yes!”

“Better,” Kev agreed. “There’s the stupid farmer tan though. You’ll have to do something about that. And the hair. He’s got enough there for three people, and I doubt it’s been combed in the past month.”

“Okay, the smaller man mused. “Okay. Thanks, Kev.” He continued to stare at Tim as his colleague moved wraith-like back to his own station. “I’m Clive,” he said.

Tim started to speak.

“Uh-uh,” Clive shushed him, holding up his index finger which also happened to be pointing straight up at the sign, the numbers now still and bold. “And you’re 202.”

Tim nodded. This was to be all business then, no names, numbers only and all the attendant rules.

“So tell me, 202, are you really a farm boy? Or a city slicker?”

Tim hesitated.

“Oh, the dumb vow of silence thing. I didn’t mean you have to go that far. We can’t do that here. Don’t have time.”

“City slicker,” Tim blurted out immediately.

“All right then, urban it is. Let’s get you civilized.”

* * *

Seated in the chair after a whirlwind through the maze, Tim stared at himself, admiring his skin which was now a uniform, warm golden color instead of his usual dark head, neck and hands over a monk, maggot-white body.

Clive came at him with a pair of scissors. “Okay, cream puff. Let’s have a go.”

Immediately he spun Tim away from the mirror and Tim had a moment to stare around. Obviously there were a whole lot of slaves being prepared for something, with men and women like Clive and Kev swarming around them, styling and primping.

Then he caught sight of the monitors and realized he could also watch what was going on out in the arena. The action was heating up in the infield, tops getting their victims into position while the orchestra re-tuned. Again, Tim was mesmerized by the musicians, this time buck naked with no pseudo-chaste little strips of cloth. He took in the glowing wood of cellos nestled between taut, naked thighs, cold glitter of French horns cradled in naked laps. Somehow it was the most wanton thing he’d ever seen.

Back to the bustle around him. He noticed there were also mirrors suspended above the numerous cubicles and he played with them, watching the other slaves being prepared, wondering if some of his brother monks were here in this throng. And suddenly it hit him. All the slaves were men. All of them. In the reflected images around him, he saw not one single female submissive.

* * *

Horizon F/X - Chapter 43 - Anticipation

2012-02-02T06:00:00.002-07:00

It was all Tim could do to walk humbly down the road. He wanted to skip . . . almost. He wanted to run ahead and embrace his future. Because they were going to the arena. He was sure of it. And this was nothing like his first journey there, clueless and in the tenth day of his interim contract. Nothing like that pitiful little showing — Dominic, Anthony and one naked, humiliated, terrified postulant. No. This time the monks were going in force.

There were nine of them walking, three abreast, with heads down and tightly tied cords swinging around their bare legs and genitals — Damien and Japheth with Tim at the rear, then three young, relatively attractive novices he didn’t really know, and in the front, the abbey’s heavy hitters — Theodore, Gregory and Raphael. An assortment of clothed monks led the way, while the four postulant warders brought up the rear, engaged in a running criticism of their three charges.

Japheth seemed relatively calm which confirmed Tim’s assumption he’d already been to the arena on his tenth day, but Damien looked completely mystified. Clearly he had no idea where they were going or what was in store.

* * *

Lined up at last to enter the arena itself, Tim struggled with his shame. The order had changed, with Damien now in the front row between Raphael and Gregory, Theodore demoted to the middle row, and the oldest and least attractive of the three novices centered in the back with Tim on his left and Japheth on his right. Did this mean Tim was considered one of the ugliest of the nine, so unappealing he was hidden way at the back? And why had they put Japheth on the outside, closest to the crowd? Sure, he’d come a long way since he’d first arrived — his body better proportioned, shoulders and chest bulked up a little, ass more solid — but did they really find this greenest postulant with his big-nosed gawkiness more attractive than Tim?

“Get it up there, 202,” Dominic admonished him with a slap to his cock. “Look alive!”

* * *

And now they were marching. In spite of his wounded pride, Tim couldn’t help picking up the excitement of the crowd. This time he knew it was the orchestra playing, a piece so martial and blaring he wanted to strut proudly, not move meekly ahead with his head down. Still, a growing roar erupted from the bleachers as the large contingent of monks moved out onto the track.

“Sign me up for a rare hunk of monk tonight!” a guy yelled from the stadium seats as everyone around him laughed and whistled.

“So at last we finally know what they’re hiding under those skirts,” came another voice.

After the first circuit of the arena, there was a pause like the time before with announcements and a ribald welcome. Then they all began moving again, this time individual slaves being peeled off from the main contingent and turned over to their infield dominants for the evening while audience members left the parade to find their seats. Damien was pulled aside almost immediately and then Japheth. Though Tim sensed Dominic and Anthony still trudging dutifully behind him, he was nearly all the way around again with no sign of where he was supposed to go. He’d given up all semblance of his humble monk posture and peered anxiously toward the infield, wanting to find his assigned spot.

Suddenly his face flamed red. What if this was some cruel game of musical chairs, an unusually large assembly of submissives with not enough places for everyone, and those least desirable being turned away?

Ahead he saw a red-haired woman perched on a step ladder. Those still unchosen veered past her on either side as she singled out various individuals, pointing at them with a long staff. She stared right at Tim for a moment and he tried to stand taller, not sure if she was culling the rejects or choosing slaves for some special role. Finally she stabbed at him with her staff, and Anthony hustled Tim off the track, along the side and into a back area behind the northern end of the arena. The two of them moved down a cramped corridor and suddenly stepped into brightly-lit bedlam.

Another woman was sitting on a stool at some kind of console. “Number?” she snapped.

“202,” Anthony answered for Tim.

She punched the number into her keyboard. Then she stared at them. “So, don’t stand there like imbeciles. Go find station 202.”

Dismissed, Tim followed Anthony, picking his way through a chaos of bodies in various stages of undress, coughing through clouds of hair spray, trying to focus on suspended LED signs blaring numbers in a slow, pulsating pattern.

“Here it is,” Anthony announced and stopped in front of a small mirrored cubicle with a counter and stylist’s chair.

Caught in the tangle of numerous reflected images from all the other mirrors in the place, Tim couldn’t even recognize himself.

“Well, what have we got here?” asked a disembodied voice. Then a dapper, gnomish little man who’d been bent over a big cardboard box popped up and turned to greet them. “Let’s see, sweetness.”

Pushing his glasses up on top of his head, he circled Tim, clucking. Then he made a second circuit, this time reaching out to run his hands dubiously over Tim’s body as he untied and removed the cord.

“Newbie, isn’t he,” he said, handing the cord to Anthony.

Anthony nodded.

“Well, off with you then, monk person. Let me see if there’s anything I can do with this infant.”

* * *

Horizon F/X - Chapter 42 - Part 3

2012-01-30T06:00:00.001-07:00

They worked for a while in companionable silence, Japheth struggling a little with the obvious pain from his fresh tattoo. Tim kept stealing glances at him, wondering if he could ever wrangle some time with the cosmetic team who’d worked this amazing transformation, proof yet again that gay men could make anything beautiful. At the same time, he continued trying to digest this sudden change in his own fortune. Back on track. His waiting might be almost over. He could be taken now at any time.

* * *

“What is it?” Tim finally asked. They were supposed to be raking leaves, but Japheth had been staring at him for a solid minute.

“I’m sorry. It’s just that . . . ”

“Yes?”

“You have so many eyelashes!”

“What?”

“I . . . my vision gets clearer every day. There are so many things I never saw before.”

Tim laughed, then draped his arm across Japheth’s shoulders in an older brother way. “Now you want to think about how you phrase things, Japheth. As a come-on line, that was pretty lame. You want to try something more like, oh, ‘You have really beautiful eyes.’”

“You have really beautiful eyes,” Japheth repeated dutifully while Damien snorted behind him.

Tim ignored Damien. He didn’t know how much time he had before he’d be moved to his next assignment, but he was going to make damned sure Japheth had an idea of how things worked. Someone needed to educate and mentor him. Otherwise, in his innocence, he was just going to be carried from one cruel exploitation to the next.

Horizon F/X - Chapter 42 - Part 2

2012-01-26T06:00:00.001-07:00

Way off down the trail, a monk labored to reach them, the needed empty bags slung over his shoulder. Tim sighed. Typical. Dominic, obviously too bored to even come back and supervise them, had just sent someone else. Well, a few more minutes of loafing and then he and Damien would have to get back to work.

In these days following Japheth’s failure, Tim had embraced his new life as a slacker. Now it was all about finding the easiest way to get through the time, to do the least amount of work possible without getting beaten any more than usual. So this unexpected break had been welcome, sitting here in the shade while anxious, outraged squirrels dashed in to scavenge what they could.

For he and Damien were picking walnuts, a bizarre process of bashing the trees with long-handled flails and then scrabbling around on the ground sorting the best-looking, greenish hulls into burlap bags. With only the two of them, it was a long, slow process.

Idly, he watched the monk approach. He must be an old guy, a slow walker. And new. At least Tim thought he was new. The man didn’t look remotely familiar.

Tim had finally figured out that postulants like Cade and Buddy, and even novices or monks who’d been assigned elsewhere, seemed to rotate back through the monastery briefly before they were sent out again. There were regulars, of course, men who seemed to be permanent fixtures here — the Novice Master, the four postulant trainers, Anselm. Others like, regrettably, Raphael and Gregory, were in demand elsewhere. Having them present in the abbey was always a special treat.

* * *

Puffing from the climb, the monk finally reached them. Patting the bags on his shoulder, he gave them a big smile. Tim smiled back uncertainly. He’d never seen this guy in his life. Tall, he had soft, brown, slightly curling hair, light eyes, and strong features.

Beside Tim, Damien stirred and then rose slowly to his feet. His dark eyes darted over the man with a look of puzzled recognition. “Japheth?” he whispered.

Tim stared uncomprehending at Damien and then back at the monk.

“Japheth, 10, is that you?”

The man chuckled. “Yes, Damien. It’s me.”

Damien rushed to him and gripped his shoulders. “But how . . . what . . . where have you been?”

Tim was on his feet as well, still trying to find Japheth in this stranger in front of him when he was suddenly folded into a fierce embrace.

“I . . . they’re letting me stay. They, they . . . helped me. They think I have . . . promise.”

Damien was running his fingers through Japheth’s hair, and as Tim extricated himself from the embrace, he could finally see Japheth must have had a miracle of a makeover. Some genius hairdresser had somehow tamed his wild mane. Vividly, Tim remembered the moment of intense embarrassment when he’d had to explain what a “Jewfro” was to both Japheth and Damien. Anyway, this hair Houdini had added highlights, then cut and shaped Japheth’s hair in such a way that his whole face look better — nose not quite so big, forehead almost noble instead of just domed and oddly shaped.

And his eyes. Tim wasn’t sure he’d ever even seen Japheth’s eyes before, a remarkable hazel, shifting in color with the shifting of the light. He touched his own eyelids, trying to puzzle it out.

“LASIC,” Japheth answered Tim’s unasked question. “They did the surgery for me after my first assessment. I can see, clearly see, for like, the first time in my life!”

“Your glasses are gone,” Tim said, finally getting it.

Japheth nodded.

“But wait a minute. You said first assessment.”

“Yes. They gave me another chance. They tried to make me look . . . better. And then the committee saw me again.”

Tim laughed and slapped Japheth on the back. “I can’t believe it. Well, good for you!” And he had a moment of self-esteem, thinking he’d actually been happy first for Japheth before realizing his own future might be back on track.

Damien was hugging Japheth again. “We missed you,” Damien said, “and not just because there was more work.” He paused and the three of them laughed. “I’m sorry if I keep staring,” he went on. “It’s quite a . . . change.”

Japheth blushed and nodded.

“You’re a looker now,” Tim teased him. “We’ll need to teach you the ways of the world, well, I will. Damien’s no use to you for that.”

Damien grinned, content to be dismissed as the stupid straight man and therefore useless.

“We . . . we should work,” Japheth murmured, still clutching the bags. “We don’t want to get in trouble.”

“Not on your first day back, anyway,” Tim agreed. “Okay, let me show you what we’re doing here. If we hurry, we can get a safe number of these bags full before they come back to check on us.”

* * *

Horizon F/X - Chapter 42 - Setback

2012-01-23T06:00:00.002-07:00

Tim hurried to the dining room. Today was the day. He knew it. Japheth would be back, contract signed. They would be three-strong again. A decent interval, a bit more waiting, and finally Tim would have his freedom or what passed for freedom here — release to something else, anything else, somewhere else.

Clearly, Japheth had followed all the steps. A couple of days after the pressing, he’d been gone for a whole day which had to mean the market, just as it had happened for Tim. But not, he’d realized, for Damien. The need to keep Damien’s ten-day initiation private because of his family background had confused the pattern which had also delayed Tim’s realization of how everything worked. So it had been only after Damien signed his contract that he’d disappeared for his own market experience, coming back wide-eyed and sitting quite carefully, obviously the loser in whatever challenge Benedict had devised for him.

Tim reasoned that was also why the seesaw incident with Damien had been unusually whorish, and why the wine barrel punishment had been so extreme, lasting much longer than the bell tower or even the pressing, both of which had been plenty bad enough. Obviously the monks had tried to give Damien the best taste they could of his new life, given the fact he couldn’t be seen anywhere outside the abbey walls.

In contrast, Japheth’s journey had followed the usual trajectory. A couple more days after his market visit, Japheth had been made the centerpiece of one of the abbey orgies, allowed to get a taste of a massed gay celebration, something completely unlike his claustrophobic time with Master Saul. And the following evening, he had disappeared, surely taken off to the arena just as Tim had been.

Had Damien been just a regular, run of the mill postulant, Tim mused as he sat down ridiculously early for breakfast, he could have figured this all out much sooner. Anyway, it wouldn’t be long now, he knew, and Japheth would come limping in, newly tattooed and, unlike Tim, probably thrilled to find himself back here. More monks. Forget that he was Jewish and all these silly rituals had to be offensive to him. He simply loved being here so much more than what he’d known.

* * *

The pot of Roman meal had gone all the way around the table. Tim slumped over his bowl, disconsolate. Japheth hadn’t returned. But it was the fourth day; he was sure of it. So why? . . . no, wait! . . . the assessment. Tim crumpled inside. In spite of how brave Japheth had been and how badly he wanted this life, given his physical limitations, considering what he looked like, what chance did he have of being accepted? Remembering the harshness of his own evaluation, Tim felt he’d barely passed, and that was with at least a few advantages over his fellow postulant.

Damien had to poke Tim twice before he realized the other monks were leaving the table. With a groan, Tim pushed himself to his feet. So Japheth had failed. And now who knew how long it would take Horizon to line up another recruit? Past that, Tim would have to go through all the steps with this new postulant including yet another intense punishment following a rigged opportunity for the essential postulant first conversation, only to wait again for four more days in the hope this replacement guy would pass muster. He was never going to get out of this fucking monastery. He’d probably hit day 325 or something and still be here in this sinkhole with his contract nearly over.

* * *

Damien brushed up beside him as they moved together down a deserted hallway, off to learn what odious work detail would be theirs today. “He must be devastated.”

“Who?”

“Japheth, of course.”

“What?” Tim began. “Why would you . . .?” But then he stopped. No point in feigning senior postulant ignorance for Damien. He was smart. And he, too, could count to ten. Had experienced the resort . . . and what came after. “You mean his assessment?” he whispered.

Damien nodded, his beautiful eyes brimming with sympathetic tears.

Tim flushed. Why was he always such a bastard? As usual, he’d thought only of himself in all this, of his own hopes, now dashed, for something different no matter how bad it might be. But what about Japheth’s hopes. Where could Japheth possibly go now? He knew nothing about the real gay world, nothing even about contemporary society. He’d be lost out there.

* * *

Horizon F/X - Chapter 41 - Part 7

2012-01-19T06:00:00.001-07:00

Tim roused himself from his inner focus on enduring and breathing. The rocks had continued to rain down. When he had the strength now to turn his head to the side, he could see the rhythmic clenching and unclenching of Damien’s hand, the greyed-out coloring of his skin, the anguished shudder along his ribs as he worked to take each breath. Doctor Luke was spending more and more time hovering near Japheth, stethoscope at the ready. The monks must be sorting the rocks now, only pouring the smallest stones onto Japheth’s sledge, but he barely looked conscious anymore, like he’d gone into some coma of pain.

And then Anthony was there again, along with Dominic, and Tim quailed inside, knowing what was coming next. He felt a flutter of fear, that this time he might be too weak to respond correctly. More and more it felt like his life essence was being crushed out of him, slowly seeping into the dirt beneath his anguished flesh.

Anthony jabbed at him with the staff. “And now, again 202, let us hear your plea.”

Tim closed his eyes and focused first on pulling in as much air as he could, and when he opened them again he felt a rush of something, perhaps the spirit of Giles Corey. Eyes narrowed, he stared up at Anthony, clenched his jaw and then rasped out, “More . . . weight!”

Dominic hesitated for just a moment, then poured out his load of rocks.

Tim braced himself, willing his sternum, his ribs, to hold strong for him. But as the last small stone tumbled and slid into place, he doubted he could get through this again.

Damien responded weakly but still tragic and somehow heroic. Anthony had to place his ear over Japheth’s mouth, but Tim could see his lips moving and thought that he, too, managed to get out the belligerent response.

And then they were left alone again, the assembled monks returning with their buckets to the pasture. Tim moaned inside. How much longer?

* * *

Anthony was back. Tim opened bleary eyes to try to focus in on him. His breathing now sounded like Japheth’s and he couldn’t be sure Japheth was even breathing at all.

But Anthony, so officious and stern all day, finally softened. “You have done well, my sons,” he said. Then he turned to the assembled monks. “Release them. Gently.”

Immediately, Tim was surrounded by his brother monks. Once his right hand was freed, Tim was able to shrug his shoulder slightly. Immediately he snaked his hand in to push up against the rough boards. Then his left. A few seconds later his hands were joined by a score of others.

“One, two, three, lift!” Brother Theodore counted out for them, and with much groaning they were able to hoist the loaded sledge, while two other monks grabbed Tim under the arms. Wriggling, squirming, he managed to get free, pulling his feet clear just as the sledge thundered back to the ground. Then he curled into an aching lump, pulling air into his lungs, almost swooning from the release of pressure.

A couple minutes later he was able to raise his head to see Damien in a similar crumpled heap, while the doctor crouched over Japheth, stethoscope pressed to his heaving chest. They’d made it. It was over.

* * *

Having nearly killing them, the monks were now all solicitous attention. Dominic sat behind Tim supporting him, having just gently pulled him to a sitting position while Anthony spooned a bit of applesauce and then some of the traditional recuperative creamed soup into his mouth. Meanwhile, the two assistants hovered over Damien, and even Benedict bent down occasionally to brush the hair back from Damien’s face or to check his pulse. Doctor Luke continued to minister to Japheth while Matthew rocked beside him on the ground, crooning, resting his hand on the top of Japheth’s head.

* * *

“Can you walk?” Dominic asked.

Tim had no idea, but he didn’t plan to spend the night out here in the field.

With the help of Theodore, they got him standing and Tim was able to hobble forward, one arm over Theodore’s shoulder, the other over Anthony’s, while Dominic walked ahead, constantly turning back to check on him.

Damien was up too, and Tim almost smiled, seeing how they both walked like old, old, broken men, hunched over and shuffling. More monks carried Japheth past on a litter with Matthew walking alongside, gripping Japheth’s hand. The contorted mound under the blanket looked like a heap of scrambled body parts, and far smaller than Japheth’s true size.

The rest of them walked back much more slowly, stopping once to give both Tim and Damien a bit more food. Tim could feel it in his belly, something to fill the caved-in emptiness, but his stomach seemed to have forgotten what to do with it.

* * *

Filthy as he was, they tumbled him into his bed niche and he fell almost immediately asleep. Though he was stiff and weak, the lightness with which he could breathe, the ease of shifting his position, amazed him.

They nursed him on and off throughout the evening. More food. A sponge bath, Dominic again supporting him while Anthony cleaned him up as best he could, all the ground-in dirt from the grave digging and then his time under the sledge. As Dominic, his own robe now wet and filthy, gently turned him, Anthony rubbed ointment into the places where the rough timbers had scraped Tim’s flesh and the raw spots on his wrists as he’d fought against the ropes.

Tim grinned stupidly at them — dazed, sleepy, warm, comforted — taking in their murmured words of praise at how brave he’d been, at how well he’d done. The next thing he knew, he found himself curled back into his bed niche in the fetal position as if he was trying to re-grow his internal organs. To his surprise, there was even a sheet between him and the scratchy pallet along with the gift of a second blanket. No matter how cruel these monks were, the bastards always relented just enough so he couldn't hate them.

Horizon F/X - Chapter 41 - Part 6

2012-01-16T06:00:00.001-07:00

“Come, brothers. No need to look so distressed. Remember, Farmer Giles was 80 years old at the time of his ordeal and he lasted for two days. You are strong, young men. Buck up.”

Closing his eyes against the sun now approaching its zenith, Tim worked to take another breath. This was purely endurance. The pain wasn’t intense, just relentless. And mostly he was beginning to feel wrong inside. He could sense the distress of his organs, still laboring to work. The bony parts of his body — shoulder joints, collar bone, arch of his ribs, pelvis — felt increasingly fragile. He thought of them finally snapping and the weight crushing down on his now unprotected insides.

With a muffled groan, he turned his head. He was most worried about Japheth. How could Japheth possibly get through this? Mercifully, the monks seemed to be going light on his sledge, and none of them had come up to Japheth as they had to Tim and Damien, carrying a single boulder and then another and another, depositing them precisely where they would hurt the most.

At least it was easy to hear Japheth’s wheezing breath, so Tim could know he was still alive. In some ways, maybe this was the most merciful punishment possible for Japheth, not involving physical movement or anything aerobic. He simply had to lie here and take it. And keep breathing.

* * *

Two faces were peering down at him.

“202, this is Brother Luke,” said Anthony. “He will be assisting us today.”

Tim only gazed up at the man. What was he supposed to do? Smile? Shake hands?

Brother Luke gazed back and then followed after Anthony to be introduced to Damien. As he walked away, Tim knew this guy was no monk. He walked like Japheth or any new postulant, and for the first time Tim realized there was a skill to wearing the robe, a way of moving that was both graceful yet manly.

And then Tim saw the glint of something around the side of Luke’s neck. Shit. Definitely this guy was no monk; he was a doctor. Tim was immediately sure he felt one of his lungs collapse. This outsider, this physician, had been specially brought in to check on them, to make sure they didn’t die.

* * *

Anthony approached again, carrying the Novice Master’s staff. “It’s important to remember as we consider this history that each time the magistrate would come out to ask Corey if he was now ready to make his plea, Corey would respond with only two words, ‘More weight.’ Now some historians believe this was pride and defiance. Others think the crafty old man was simply trying to hasten his death and minimize the chances that he’d give in to save himself.

“Regardless, we can’t properly commemorate his story unless we enact all aspects of it.”

Then he turned and stood directly over Tim, looking down into his eyes. Behind him Dominic waited, the handle of a bucket clenched in his hand.

“What say you, 202. Do you wish now to make your plea? “Guilty or not guilty?”

Tim stared up at Anthony. He swallowed. Then he grated out as loudly as he could, “More . . . weight.”

Anthony spread his hands. “So be it.”

And Dominic stepped forward and poured the accumulated stones down on top of all the others.

Tim was ready for him and didn’t even moan, but his heart, his belly, quailed inside.

The ritual was repeated, first for Damien who responded as expected, repeating the words but with an undercurrent of humble pleading that his deserved suffering be increased. And then Japheth who answered with surprising strength, perhaps a kind of pride that he had withstood all this so far.

* * *

Dinner break for the laboring monks, while Tim tried to be grateful there would at least be no increase of weight for the next hour.

Then Anthony was standing again in the center of their circle. “And it was written that three morsels of bread and three sips of standing water would be administered to the prisoner to give him strength for his ordeal.”

Obediently, several monks crouched around Tim to poke bits of stale rye bread into his dry mouth and then to pour in a brownish-tinged liquid from a rusty cup. One by one, Tim held each mouthful of water and then swallowed it down, guessing by the taste the water had been taken from some puddle in a low-lying area of the field but grateful for it all the same.

* * *

Horizon F/X - Chapter 41 - Part 5

2012-01-12T08:25:00.000-07:00

The three of them stood waiting out in the north pasture as a big work party of monks came into view. Swaying unsteadily, wrists tied in front, Tim glanced at his companions. They’d had the traditional breakfast of dry bread and tepid water, Damien and Japheth looking just as bad as he felt. He imagined they, too, had spent a certain part of the night bound and alone in the empty grave. And now what? Obviously there was to be more.

The gathered monks circled around and Brother Anthony took his place in the center facing the three postulants. “Which of you knows the story of Giles Corey?”

Hesitant, they all shook their heads.

“Today we shall enact one of Master’s favorite punishments. It signifies the moment when he first discovered his true calling in life.”

* * *

Tim stood trembling. Anthony’s story had given him no reason for comfort. Grade school history lesson. The story of the Salem witch trials. Giles Corey, gentleman farmer, dragged into that nasty web of deceit. A clever man, he refused to plead one way or another, knowing that the moment he spoke, his farm could be legally confiscated rather than going to his sons as he’d always intended. To force his plea, the court sentenced him to “pressing” or “peine forte et dure,” as Anthony, library dweller and resident scholar, phrased it.

“But this is no time for lectures,” Anthony declared. “Hands-on learning is always more . . . illuminating.” He turned to the assembled monks. “Please begin.”

Tim was immediately thrown to the ground, wrists untied and then staked out to either side of him. Legs, too, about shoulder width apart. When the monks stepped back, Tim could see both Damien and Japheth staked out as he was, the three of them arranged in a semicircle. Damien looked composed and open to suffering; Japheth looked terrified.

Hearing a grating sound to his left, Tim lifted his head to see several of the monks dragging a heavy wooden sledge up over the hill. Then a second and a third. And more monks carrying buckets. Tim’s heart beat faster. He knew what this was. Picking rocks. It was one of the many odious jobs at the monastery, trying to reclaim open spaces like this rough pasture land by first removing as many stones as possible, the rocks that tore up the plow and dulled shovels and hoes.

He’d served time doing this, filling his bucket and then toting it to a sledge, over and over, only to end the day as one of a harnessed “team” of monks all dragging the load to an area where other monks would eventually be put to work building a wall.

“Position the sledges,” Dominic ordered.

Before Tim quite grasped what was happening, four monks hoisted the nearest sledge and placed it on top of him.

“Oomph!”

“Now it’s important to remember,” said Anthony hurrying over, “that Giles Corey never uttered a sound during his entire ordeal. He was a man of tough New England stock and he clung steadfastly to his only possible defense which was silence.”

Tim bit his lip and tried to feel out his new situation as the other sledges were placed on top of Damien and then Japheth. Having been warned, neither of them cried out. The bottom of the sledge was heavy and rough, and covered him from shoulders to hips. He could see the stubby runners out on either side of the sledge, but suspended several inches above the packed dirt where he lay. He’d get no help from them. Even distributed across his body, the weight of the sledge was still overwhelming, and he had a moment’s relief thinking his jewels had been so deflated with dread, they hadn’t been caught underneath.

* * *

As Dominic approached, Tim braced himself for the inevitable. The burly monk looked him straight in the eye and then upended his bucket over the sledge. The planking rumbled as the rocks cascaded down, and Tim clamped his jaws against the increase in weight. The shape of his day was now abundantly clear, and he knew he’d need no further lectures on the practice of pressing or what it entailed.

* * *

Horizon F/X - Chapter 41 - Part 4

2012-01-09T06:00:00.001-07:00

Slowly his eyes adjusted to what little light came from the stars directly overhead. Though his arms were bound against his sides, he managed to sidle over far enough to rub against one wall of the grave, confirming where he was. Not good. This was not good. Way too existential, out here in the dark alone in a grave with nothing to do but contemplate the infinity of the stars and his own puny mortality.

One minute. Two. He hated his brain. Hated every middle school ghost story he’d ever heard. Every horror movie his friends had dared him to see. The summer he’d spent devouring Stephen King and scaring the crap out of himself.

He tried to reason with himself. He tried to laugh off his childish fears.

Mere moments later, he went into full panic mode. Terrorized, he fought long and hard to free himself, but made no progress. He couldn’t even find a way to roll to his side and then up to his knees, anything to escape lying here helpless like a corpse in this graveyard full of corpses, braced for the touch of skeletal fingers and the mouldering stench of the undead.

Finally, physically exhausted, he lay still to listen for the bells over the pounding of his own heart, but heard nothing. Maybe he was too far away. Or maybe they’d cruelly silenced them for this one night. How long had it been? How long would they leave him here? He shivered in the damp cold. He waited. He hoped for someone, anyone, to call down to him. He longed for the dawn.

* * *

His body jerked. And suddenly he was swaying, being pulled back up out of the grave. Tears of relief slid down the sides of his face and he didn’t care.

Back on the surface, fumbling in the lantern light, they untied his ankles. The other monks withdrew. Then Anthony and Dominic herded him back to the abbey, not caring that he fell twice because it was so dark and his legs were asleep, simply waiting while he struggled, arms still bound to his sides, hands still folded across his chest, to get back to his feet. Then a quick shove into his cell, the door clanging shut and silence.

Tim curled himself onto the stone floor, grateful to be inside, happy for the candle flickering in the hallway, relieved to be surrounded again by the living.

* * *

Horizon F/X - Chapter 41 - Part 3

2012-01-05T06:00:00.001-07:00

“Faster! Brother Sylvester is waiting.”

Stripped naked, sweat streaming down even as the sun settled low in the sky, Tim kept digging, now into heavy clay and rocks here at the bottom of the grave. Damien labored beside him while above he could hear Matthew hurling insults at Japheth, who struggled to pull up one bucket after another. Finally the space got too small and the work too intricate as they tried to square out the corners, so Tim and Damien spelled each other between shovel and bucket while Japheth, wheezing terribly, focused on packing the remaining dirt into the mound off to the side.

* * *

“Enough,” Dominic finally called, thrusting the end of the bucket rope into Tim’s hands. “Get 12 up out of there.”

Damien, bent double in the grave, forced himself upright and signaled he’d climb out on his own. But Tim could see he was too far gone.

So he turned to Japheth, swaying on his feet, even worse off than Damien. But Japheth immediately extended his blistered hands to help.

Tim shook his own head and then, wincing, tied the rope around Japheth’s bare waist, nearly as blistered and torn up as his hands. He took the anchor position, knowing most of this would fall to him.

It nearly killed them all, Damien scrabbling with fingers and toes in the dirt trying to help them, Japheth back on hands and knees inching his way forward, and Tim with his back to the grave, rope over his shoulder, taking one lunging step up the incline at a time. At last the rope went slack. Tim fell forward, but immediately had to turn and rush back to the grave to help Damien, clinging desperately to the edge, so he wouldn’t fall back in. The three of them then crumpled to the ground where they were and just lay there — filthy, gasping, helpless to do even one more thing.

* * *

“Move your lazy carcass, 202.”

Jolted from an exhausted sleep, Tim pushed himself up from the floor of his cell onto his knees. Immediately, Dominic grabbed his arm and jerked him to his feet. Tying Tim’s wrists together, he thrust him into the hallway and from there out into the night air.

As Tim stumbled along in the dark, his misgivings intensified. The wine barrel punishment had been so much worst than the bell tower. He’d hoped at least for the mercy of a much-needed though hungry sleep through Compline and the night, but obviously that was not to be. The only light was a shielded lantern carried by Anthony far ahead. He tried to listen for Damien and Japheth, but could only hear his own padding footsteps with Dominic lumbering behind him. Since he was the senior postulant, it would be Dominic and Anthony calling the shots for this particular punishment, just as Benedict had ramrodded the bell tower and Matthew had created the wine barrel ordeal. Maybe the two of them had decided on something extra just for Tim.

“Stop!”

Tim obeyed, the glare of the lantern now only blinding him so he still had no idea where they’d taken him. The next thing he knew he was flat on his back with the wind knocked out of him. Before he could even get his first breath, numerous monks swarmed around him, straightening his limbs, crossing his wrists over his chest, tying his ankles together and then binding everything in place.

In the next instant, his prone body was hoisted into the air. Swaying in the void, afraid of falling, he at last felt the pressure of coarse bands of fabric under his shoulders, waist, hips and thighs, and willed himself to hold still. Finally the monks relented and, with great relief, he felt himself being lowered back down. But then lowered too far, descending well below ground level into increasing darkness.

“No, please!” he called out, struggling to get free. He knew what this was. They were lowering him into the grave.

“Silence,” Dominic thundered down at him. “You brought this on yourself, 202. Now you must pay the price.”

Immediately, he heard the monks departing and, with them, the lantern. He could see nothing. Had they just left him down in here, helpless and alone? It took all his strength not to call out again.

* * *

Horizon F/X - Chapter 41 - Part 2

2012-01-02T08:51:00.000-07:00

“Why is my number 202?” Tim asked, repeating 10’s question. Shocked, he heard himself admit the number was his weight as a high school freshman and at least six inches shorter than he was now. Somehow, he thought it might give 10 hope. But how could he do less when Damien, in his answer, had immediately displayed his fingers and toes? They were already deep into the ritual of sharing information.

“And what about 10?” Damien asked.

Tim winced. Surely Damien knew. How could he possibly ask about that?

10 blinked. “I assume it’s for the ten commandments.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Jewish,” he answered Tim, offering his hand. “Japheth. Japheth Feitelberg.”

Tim didn’t even try to repeat the name, wondering if 10 also had a lisp. Instead he extended his own hand. “Tim Hughes.”

“Damien . . . Van Esserling.”

Politely, they exchanged handshakes, for all the world like they were seated at a polished oak conference table rather than squatting in the dirt at the bottom of a grave.

“Japheth?” Tim asked, finally having a go at the pronunciation. “That’s an unusual name.”

“Well, Hasidic Jew,” Japheth said with a shrug.

Tim twirled one finger near his ear. “You mean with the curls and everything?” He stopped abruptly, blushing.

Japheth mimicked his gesture. “With the curls and everything. The hat. Short, black pants.”

“A Jew assigned to a monastery! But how did you . . . how could you . . . possibly . . . ?”

Japheth shrugged again. “I know. Maybe I should just tell you.”

* * *

Tim sat mesmerized. Japheth was quite the storyteller. It was the most entertained he’d been in ages, and the story seemed so unlikely, maybe it had to be true. Pushing past thirty. Being pushed by his parents to wed. Knowing something was wrong. Fleeing, on a desperate impulse, to the only gay bar in town he knew about, a leather bar. Being picked up there by an older, predatory man, Master Saul.

Seduced by him, rather gently, that same night. Head over heels in less than an hour. Unexpectedly rescued from his family. Saved from the impending marriage. Master Saul, obviously also Jewish, had quickly turned Japheth into his personal slave, simultaneously releasing him from the oppression of his religious upbringing with long harangues and forced reading, a deprogramming of sorts. But it had come at a cost. Seven months a prisoner — bound, chained, punished — never allowed out of the soundproofed apartment, Japheth’s only knowledge of the greater gay culture coming from books, old videos and what Saul deigned to tell him.

Saul was a harsh master, demanding, and Japheth was often miserable, but also twisted up with gratitude toward this man who had freed him even as he’d made him his slave. And then, suddenly, it was over.

Japheth stopped in his story and quietly wept, no embarrassment, no apology, just wept. “I think he found someone else,” he said finally. “Someone more . . . attractive.”

“But then how did you end up here?” Tim asked, searching as always for the Horizon F/X connection.

“Master Saul knew someone. Within two days, I was on the plane to . . . wherever this is.”

Tim looked at Damien who mirrored his outrage. Japheth’s life had been a nightmare of unfairness. And now here he was in yet another version of victimization with no chance to sort things out for himself.

Taking off his glasses, rubbing at his eyes with his filthy sleeve, Japheth smiled radiantly at the two of them. With great reverence, he reached out and touched Tim’s hand, then Damien’s. “This is heaven,” he breathed. “So many men. So much . . . more than I ever knew about.”

Again Tim looked to Damien and then, unable to help himself, smiled back at Japheth’s seemingly unquenchable spirit.

“And are you gentlemen having a pleasant time?”

Startled, Tim looked up to see six faces ringing the grave and staring down at the three of them — Anthony, Dominic, Matthew, Benedict and his two assistants.

All the senior postulant bravado of his initial decision that he must play into this staged disobedience deserted Tim in an instant.

“Maybe we should just push the dirt in over the lot of them and be done with it.”

* * *

Horizon F/X - Chapter 41 - Grounded

2011-12-29T06:00:00.001-07:00

“Precise corners,” Anthony ordered. “And go down the full six feet. That is the least we can do for Brother Sylvester.”

Looking up from the pit, Tim nodded grimly. They were digging a grave. For Brother Sylvester. With no family on the outside, he’d come back here to be cared for in the infirmary and had asked to be buried in the abbey cemetery.

Damien filled another bucket and, with obvious reluctance, gave the rope a tug. The pulley overhead creaked and ever so slowly the bucket began to ascend. Above them, they could hear 10’s labored breathing. Tough morning. At first all three of them had dug, taking turns with the pickaxe, but it soon became clear 10 wasn’t strong enough for either task. So once they’d gotten down the first couple of feet, they’d given him the job of taking the buckets of dirt as Tim and Damien filled them and compacting the soil into a neat mound on the downhill side of the grave.

But 10’s arms soon gave out from that as well, not to mention the blisters from the hand-over-hand pulling on the rope, so Anthony had cinched the rope around 10’s waist instead.

Concerned by the raspy volume of 10’s breathing, Tim turned to check, but could no longer see him. So he hoisted himself up along the dirt wall and propped his arms on the edge to peer over.

10 was on his hands and knees literally clawing his way along the slight incline as he tried to pull the bucket up and out of the hole. His robe was filthy and soaked through with sweat. Finally, the bucket cleared the top and Anthony mercifully swung it over for him. 10 collapsed on the ground, but then after a minute or so, struggled to his feet. He took off his glasses to rub the sweat from his eyes and then put them back on.

Following the second incident when he ran into a clothesline pole and briefly knocked himself out, Matthew had relented and let him wear his glasses. To Tim, the thick-lensed things seemed like the final, fatal blow for 10’s hopeless appearance, but at least it had cut down — marginally — on his clumsiness.

Bowing his thanks in Anthony’s direction, 10 spotted Tim and shrugged in a self-deprecating way at his own weakness, then smiled. He was working. He was part of the team. With another quick smile, he moved to empty the bucket so he could get it back to them.

First checking that Damien was out of the way in their tight quarters below, Tim dropped back down into the grave. Damien’s question was clear in his eyes. Tim shook his head sadly. He didn’t see how 10 could possibly make it.

* * *

10 stared down at them. He cleared his throat and spoke formally. “Brother Anthony said to tell you he had to go back to the abbey on an important matter.”

For a second, the dirt walls spun around Tim’s head as his body tingled with deja vu. Here it was. Again. The set-up. Three postulants. Left alone in the threshing shed. Or sent unchaperoned back to the abbey by way of a cleverly abandoned picnic. Briefly, he tasted iron in his mouth, felt the sear of hot wax against his prick. But then he bowed his head with the sudden realization that Cade and later Buddy must have found themselves in this same trapped situation with the full weight of abbey tradition coming down on them. Like them, he now faced this — no doubt — meticulously planned chance for 10 to finally tell his story only to be plunged into a brutal punishment for his disobedience. Tim swallowed once more and then surrendered. Even knowing what was going to happen and dreading the consequences, he couldn’t stop this. It was the way of the abbey. Had to be done.

“Let’s take a break,” he said casually, leaning his shovel in one corner. “Could you get the water jug, 10?”

10 nodded eagerly. He disappeared from the edge of the grave and Tim could hear him hurrying to find the water. Moments later his lunging footsteps grated in the loose dirt above as he hurtled back toward them. In the next instant, he apparently tripped on his robe, was visible for a moment but airborne, and then came tumbling down on top of them.

Impact!

* * *

Smashed into one corner of the grave, struggling to stand , Tim saw past Damien’s prostrate but always seductive rump that 10 had landed flat on his back, the water jug hugged tight to his chest and still intact.

Blinking, 10 looked up at Tim. “Hi!” he said cheerfully.

“Hi,” Tim sputtered back while Damien struggled to suppress his laughter.

* * *

Horizon F/X - Chapter 40 - Part 3

2011-12-26T06:00:00.001-07:00

Slumped back down into the grey doldrums of Buddy’s loss, Tim watched the ritual unfolding of 10’s indoctrination. He arrived at supper, bound and blindfolded, where he was settled into his place beside Matthew on the bench. Matthew saw to it that each and every serving dish was passed directly under 10’s nose. 10 would inhale deeply, lips trembling, and continue his struggle to remain upright.

Then the following morning, allowed to have his unadorned oatmeal, clenching the spoon in his long, thin fingers and bringing it, shaking, to his lips. Food at last.

Terce at 9:00. Still naked, 10, his flabby ass flaming from his first welting, was led to the front of the chapel to be mounted in front of everyone. The long service of singing and incense. His enrobement. And then the procession of brothers, greeting and welcoming him one by one. Second to the last, mindful of the dreadful scratchiness of the robe, Tim only took both of 10’s hands warmly in his own and tried to somehow make amends to him for all he had endured and was about to endure.

10 smiled back, eyes moist, clearly moved by the whole experience. Tim squeezed his hands once more and then stepped aside for Damien.

10’s eyes went wide, frozen in the intensity of Damien’s great beauty. Tim shook his head. Poor bastard. Again, he thought the monks were being unnecessarily cruel to bring someone like 10 in to follow Damien. Or else they must be really scraping the bottom of the submissive barrel. Maybe the inconceivable vastness of Horizon F/X resources wasn’t quite so vast as he’d assumed.

* * *

“Leave him!” Matthew ordered, hurrying forward as both Tim and Damien bent over their fallen comrade. “Continue your work.”

With one last look at 10, crumpled on the ground, Tim grunted as he hoisted the yoke back onto his shoulders. They were carrying shit. He’d finally figured that out as the morning progressed.

At first it had been inexplicable and he thought it must be one of those meaningless, make-work projects. A group of novices were digging up dirt in three different locations which they then shoveled into buckets. Tim, Damien and 10 labored back and forth, bent under heavy yokes on their shoulders which helped support the clumsy, wooden buckets suspended on either end. They carried the buckets to one of the gardens a good distance away where, under Anselm’s typically snide direction, they poured the dirt out in strips along what would soon be rows for the new growing season. Basically they were hauling dirt from one place and dumping it in another.

But the third or fourth time Tim returned to get another load, he noticed the novices weren’t just digging randomly but using an auger-like tool to dig precisely cylindrical holes situated in a pattern that was disturbingly familiar. And then he saw it. The distance between each hole exactly matched the distance between the seats in the novitiate’s three-holer outhouse. They were digging new outhouse holes. Which suddenly explained why the outhouse was such a flimsily constructed and ramshackle building. Obviously, once the current holes filled, it would be dragged along and repositioned over these new holes. Which explained something else. The surprising softness of the dirt the novices were digging, nothing like the dense clay Tim had encountered in his day of digging irrigation trenches. Not dirt at all, but poop — poop from some long-ago site of the outhouse — monk shit that had slowly composted in the earth.

When Tim bent to attach the next two buckets to the dangling chains of the yoke, he studied the black substance inside. Okay. It didn’t look like shit. He sniffed cautiously. Didn’t smell like shit. But it was still quite potent, reeking of a rich fertility. Fecund. That’s what the literary types would call it.

As he walked back with Damien behind him, Tim saw 10 was again struggling to extricate himself from yoke, chains and buckets. The three of them had settled into a rhythm now. Tim and Damien simply moved steadily from holes to garden and back again, no longer waiting for 10 to catch up to them. They saw him when they lapped him going back and forth. Meanwhile 10 would push himself hard, bent double, continually walking up the hem of his robe, either stumbling or often just collapsing, asthmatic breaths tearing in and out of his chest. He had no strength, no stamina.

And yet he continued to try. His face, when it wasn’t contorted with effort, had a kind of glow to it. He seemed thrilled to be wearing his scratchy robe, thrilled to be included in the work team with the others, thrilled to be allowed to carry shit. Clearly he wanted to be here with every fiber of his being, but Tim feared he’d never make it physically. In addition to everything else, he was shockingly clumsy. He couldn’t seem to get the hang of the sandals. And only yesterday, hurrying to find his place in line, he’d smacked right into one of the support pillars on the ground floor. His nose had bled profusely and he still had a swollen, blue-tinged egg in the middle of his forehead. He was a walking disaster area in every way, and Tim wondered again what the company could have been thinking to put him through this when they knew he had no chance of surviving these first ten days, let alone passing his assessment.

Horizon F/X - Chapter 40 - Part 2

2011-12-22T06:00:00.001-07:00

Three days and no Buddy. No word of him. No clue. His cell standing open. His Prie Dieu missing from chapel. Tim had even skipped out of his morning duties and crept into the library to kneel near Anthony’s desk. He would endure anything — the soap, the bladder gag, the tongue torture — just to know. But Anthony ignored him, wouldn’t even look up from his desk let alone consider answering Tim’s single question.

It was like Cade. Exactly like Cade. Suddenly gone with no warning and no way to know what had happened. Worse, Tim realized, he’d been so enamored of Damien, he’d hardly noticed Buddy lately, abandoning his good friend. Guilt-ridden, he missed Buddy terribly, missed his calm and cheerful leadership. At the same time, an electric thrill went through him. First Cade. Now Buddy. Surely that proved beyond a doubt another pattern here. Cade and Buddy must have been reassigned, sent somewhere else. Which meant his sentence here at the monastery wouldn’t extend for a full year either. He’d be next. No more monks. Something new. Something different. The thought of it was intoxicating.

Already the other monks treated him as the senior postulant of their tiny group of two, as if Buddy had never even existed. And Tim found himself responding accordingly, being kind to Damien, trying to project a calm about Buddy’s disappearance he didn’t feel at all, just as Buddy had obviously tried to do when Cade had so mysteriously disappeared.

Meanwhile Tim’s own future seemed suddenly clear . . . except for the parts that weren’t clear at all. He would continue on in this way and then, without warning, he too would disappear.

* * *

An unexpected, mid-afternoon gathering behind the abbey before None. As Tim crowded in at the back of the group, an unusually quiet and secretive Damien beside him, he suddenly knew what this must be. Another postulant! A new postulant to take Buddy’s place. Which explained why Damien had not been present at breakfast this morning and had arrived sleepy and a bit green for lunch. Tim patted his shoulder now in an understanding way as the memory of his own unfortunate breakfast over the drain in the shower room after Damien’s Rite of Purification came back to him all too vividly.

Finally he and Damien reached the place where the new postulant was displayed, not chained to the common room wall as Tim had been, nor contorted onto a ladder with the cruel sign “12” below his hands and feet as Damien had been, but gagged and bound naked to a post just outside the abbey’s back door.

Jolted out of his preoccupied mood of the past week or so, Tim gawked just like everyone else. And was appalled. This was the new postulant?

The man was older, maybe in his early thirties, and as far distant from the perfect beauty of Damien as Tim could imagine. If anything, he resembled a chicken propped up there on display with his wild mop of nondescript brown hair, watery eyes, beakish nose, scrawny neck and caved-in, bony chest. His arms twisted around the post were spindly, as were his legs, but his belly and hips were wide, that kind of fat-assed look of older office workers who rarely moved. His skin was white, not the ivory white of Raphael, but the bluish, milky color of invalids.

However, Matthew, who’d been looking grey and years older since Buddy had been taken away, stood tall beside the new postulant as if he found him every bit as promising as Damien. “This is 10!” he proclaimed proudly to anyone who would listen.

Tim turned away. Okay. Too much. Last straw. How could the monks be so cruel as to bring in this pathetically unattractive man to follow after Damien? And how could they mock Damien in such a mean-spirited way, numbering the new postulant as “10” simply because he had the usual, boring number of fingers and toes?

Disgusted, Tim nudged Damien and moved on. As expected, when he entered the chapel, he saw a new, bare Prie Dieu placed behind his and Damien’s. He mounted the phallus of his own kneeler and politely looked away as Damien worked to mount his. Every few days now Benedict was increasing the girth, and even after all this time, Damien still struggled with the frequent, daily impalement.

* * *

Spine rigid through the ritual as they sang, trying to show proper form, Tim heard the expected commotion behind him as 10 was brought in and introduced to his own Prie Dieu. Then he waited patiently until the row of postulants in front of him had extricated themselves before he lifted himself up from the phallus. Slowly he turned, knowing he’d see the red-faced agony of 10 as he knelt there naked, ravenous and ashamed, getting his first taste of just how cruel his new life here might be.

But 10 looked nearly euphoric. Sure, his face was red and his thighs quivered and shook, but he rode the phallus as if it was a great joy to him, a fulfillment long dreamed of. Tim found himself rudely staring, which 10 didn’t appear to notice, and then moved quickly away.

* * *

Horizon F/X - Chapter 40 - Darkness

2011-12-19T06:00:00.001-07:00

Usual morning ritual, Damien waiting respectfully while Tim finished shaving. In yet another injustice, Damien had hardly any facial or body hair — a look coveted by so many gay men — while Tim had to laboriously shave every morning in the primitive outhouse annex, sharing the fragment of mirror with half a dozen other postulants. He used it now to take a sneak peek back at Damien and then handed it to him so he could contort his left leg and examine his slowly healing tattoo. It was beginning to scab over, but still seemed inherently wrong, Flint’s cruel marring of Damien’s perfect flesh.

The whole drama with Damien had died down. It had been several nights since Tim and Buddy had been forced to watch as half the abbey monks lined up to get a taste of him, once even the Novice Master himself. Damien had finally grown more competent, though Tim suspected his apparent acceptance not to mention any erection he managed were forced, the behaviors he’d learned as a way to protect himself. There were still moments of sadness, moments when he showed the personal cost of each day spent here in the monastery.

In shared compassion, Tim and Buddy had abandoned their pathetic attempts to come on to him. Instead, they’d pulled way back, trying to be just regular guys, dudes. It seemed like the least they could do, giving Damien a respite from the near constant sexualization.

Finished, Tim handed the mirror to a novice who’d just come in and then headed off toward the abbey proper. Damien, again being respectful, hung back. With a snort, Tim jabbed him in the ribs and pulled him up even by his cord. Then side by side, yawning, companionable, they walked together to the dining hall.

And they were early. Which was a good thing for two reasons. Breakfast was extremely important after all, and obedience was key. Better, always, to be on time.

Yawning again, Tim took his place in the middle of the bench and propped his chin on his cupped hands. The glow had definitely gone from his time here. With Damien now off limits, everything seemed back to normal again, dreary, the endless belled routine, the relentless drudgery. Even Dominic and Anthony had lost their edge, just going through the motions. Some mornings they didn’t even bother to inspect him after Lauds for his obedience to the dictates of the Torture Fairy. At Compline they often repeated one of the old torments or beat him haphazardly because that’s what they were required to do.

* * *

Damien pressed his knee against Tim’s, and Tim jerked himself upright. He’d practically fallen asleep. The last monks were hurrying in and, moments later, the bells started in for 7:00. As Tim pushed himself to his feet to wait with faked reverence through the tolling, he realized Buddy wasn’t there beside him. But that never happened. Buddy was the senior postulant after all, a Goody Two Shoes, plus he seemed always nearly as ravenous as Tim or Damien.

Keeping his head properly bowed, Tim suddenly realized Buddy had also missed Prime, the brief, initial impalement at 6:00 that jolted them awake each morning. He tried to spot Brother Matthew. Clearly fond of Buddy, the monk had grown increasingly erratic — going too easy on Buddy for a while and then heaping cruelty on his assigned postulant in an attempt to compensate. There’d actually been a couple of times when Buddy had to remain in his cell to recover from a particularly brutal Compline the night before.

As the last toll died away and everyone sat, Tim winced inside for his friend, thinking that must have happened yet again. Still, he searched once more through the brown blobs until he spotted Matthew. And suddenly his stomach went into free fall. Clearly, Matthew had been weeping. His eyes were red-rimmed, and Edward, next to him, had to prod him to take the cereal pot and pass it on.

Tim looked to the doorway for any latecomers, then checked the various monks serving breakfast. This could be like Cade he realized as his stomach plunged again. Buddy could be gone, just gone. Damien nudged him again, and Tim tried to control his panic. It could be other things, he rationalized. Buddy could be late. Or sick. Or maybe Matthew really had gone too far with him, and so the Novice Master or even the Abbot had relieved Matthew of responsibility.

At any rate, for now at least, Tim had to get a grip. What would Buddy do? Stay calm. Do whatever it took to ease his fellow postulants. So in response to Damien’s obvious concern, Tim just glanced over, grinned and shrugged.

Damien still seem anxious, but the oatmeal arrived at that moment and Tim dug in, then passed it on. He promised himself this wouldn’t, couldn’t, be like Cade. Because life here without Buddy would truly be unbearable.

* * *

Horizon F/X - Chapter 39 - Part 4

2011-12-15T06:00:00.001-07:00

Tim stood swaying, falling almost asleep and then jerking awake again because of the pain. It was down now to only four of them. The last of the ravishing monks, in great spirits, had gone. Brother Matthew had praised Buddy and then carefully removed the weights and ring, only to replace them with a wire cage that locked fully over Buddy’s still-engorged genitals. Then he had released Buddy from the rest of the bondage, although he clipped his hands together behind his back.

The two of them had looked down at Buddy’s throbbing penis pressing against the intricate metal of the cage, and it was clear Buddy understood. Now he’d be taken back to his cell where he had to try to sleep, still painfully aroused but unable to do anything about it, waiting through the night until his body gave up and the pooled blood finally dispersed, leaving him slightly less swollen but still as horny and unreleased as ever.

“202,” Dominic barked, slapping Tim’s butt as Buddy was led, waddling, from the room. “Yet another sterling display of your obedience and control. Hurts worse now, doesn’t it, with no big old hard-on to distract you.”

He turned to Benedict. “With your permission, Brother, we’ll leave this one here. I see no reason why he should be released after such a shameful performance.”

“As you wish.”

“Come, Brother Anthony. At least some of us should get a chance at sleep tonight.”

Bound, aching, Tim had watched them go.

Benedict snapped his fingers and his two attendants roused themselves. “As before. You know what to do.” With a final dismissive glance at Tim and then Damien, he too left the room.

Damien seemed barely conscious. While one of them lubed his butt yet again, the other worked to force his jaws open to get an O-ring gag locked in place. Satisfied, the two of them spent less than a minute bringing their own obviously deprived members to a slightly fuller state as they rolled on the requisite condoms. Then, rigidly under control, the first assistant plunged his prick into Damien’s hole, Damien groaning out his usual, reflexive protest.

A moment later, the second assistant guided the tip of his cock into Damien’s mouth. “Relax,” he muttered, patting his hand against Damien’s cheek. “Keep your throat open. Breathe through your nose.” He stroked Damien’s convulsing neck as he spoke and then just stood there.

Swaying on his feet, Tim stared at them. They did nothing. The first assistant simply stood, neither thrusting in further to that delectable ass nor pulling out. His purpose, obviously, was to keep Damien filled, to give him no relief from the near-constant invasion. The second assistant stood as well, murmuring incoherently, still stroking Damien’s throat, stiffening occasionally when Damien’s convulsive swallowing threatened to pull him over the edge.

Tim couldn’t believe it. How could the two men do this? How could they possibly just stand there, human dildos, faces stern, fighting down their overwhelming need to pump, to seek release? He could see the tension in their thighs, the shivering tremors in their gluts as they fought to stay hard but not come.

He shook his head and moaned softly in time with Damien’s gurgling protests. He was mad to think he could do this, fully live this life. Never would he be able to do what these two assistants had been ordered to do. Then, because he had no choice, he stood with them, keeping vigil, paying the price, his limp, weighted cock dangling and numb.

Horizon F/X - Chapter 39 - Part 3

2011-12-12T06:00:00.001-07:00

Damien had given up. Perhaps as Benedict had intended, overwhelmed by this nightly, total immersion in what his new life here would be, he surrendered to it all. His eyes were glazed over. His mouth had gone slack, and no amount of coaxing could make him try to properly service the array of cocks that still thrust their way inside. He groaned around them and choked and cried out in rhythm to the pounding he was taking up the ass, doing nothing there either to make it easier for him or his brother monks.

Dominic leaned his great bulk up against Tim, smiling when Tim groaned. He nodded with admiration. “Now that’s a proper ravishing, wouldn’t you say, Brother Anthony?”

Anthony nodded.

“Can you imagine our little 202 up there? Think of the ride he’d give all these good brothers.” He started caressing Tim’s butt cheek. “But instead he stands here. Unused. Empty. Feel his hole back here, Brother, under this strap. It’s about to turn itself inside out with longing.”

Anthony caught on and wedged his finger under the strap and near, but not into, Tim’s pumping hole.

Working together, the two of them began moving all around him, commenting on what was being down to Damien, describing what it would be like for Tim, touching him in light-fingered, teasing ways that pushed him right to the edge but held back from taking him all the way over.

“Please,” he begged, though he had no permission to speak. “Please, please let me come.”

“202 wants to come, Brother Anthony.”

Anthony snorted. “Of course he does. As if that would be allowed.”

“Exactly,” Dominic echoed. “Just like all the other times we’ve let a lowly postulant get off simply because he thinks he needs to.” Dominic bent down, pinched together a section of the stretched flesh of Tim’s left tit and then began licking, just barely, around the distended nipple while Tim bucked and gasped.

“Yes,” Anthony murmured, kneeling to stare at Tim’s quivering shaft. “As if we’d play with him, you know. As if we’d allow anything save that — no matter what — he must control himself. He is only a postulant, after all. Postulants are not allowed release.”

“No. Postulants are only allowed to hurt . . . and to yearn . . and to wait . . .and to hold in.” At each word, Dominic added some new teasing contact, explored some new, stretched, aching bit of flesh.

In spite of the restraints, Tim began bucking. He grunted loudly, his rhythm matching the despairing moans of Damien as yet another monk entered and built his rhythm — lunge in and then pull almost all the way out, making Damien feel the full-headed contact along every inch of his battered channel.

“Can’t,” Tim pleaded. “Can’t hold it in.”

“But you must,” Anthony ordered, at the same time working his finger under the strap to stroke and tease that twitching interval of flesh between hole and balls.

“Can’t,” Tim gasped, ever more desperate.

“Must,” Dominic commanded, breathing into Tim’s ear, moving his tongue in and around all those delicate little folds.

“Don’t do it,” Anthony threatened, just as Tim cried out and immediately cut loose. Fighting the dangling weights, thrusting out in the open air, his tortured cock erupted wildly, spraying his spunk in every direction, flailing desperately in search of contact, the friction that would fully empty it and end the anguish.

“Oh for heaven’s sake,” Anthony sputtered, jumping back and brushing at his robe. “Now you’ve done it.” Roughly, he grabbed Tim’s dick and began to pump it, pumped it hard. “You want this?” he hissed between his teeth. “Then do it. I want you empty. I want you empty into next week.”

* * *

Gasping, Tim hung from the strap under his armpits. His head lolled back. He thought he might faint. Anthony had kept at him well past the point where he had anything left, with Dominic prodding him simultaneously from the rear and the currently unoccupied monks chanting their support.

Beside him, Buddy stood quivering. Almost, he had come as well, but had somehow managed to restrain himself, holding himself tight, staring steadfast at Brother Matthew across the room. His purple-red organ still thrust upward in spite of a truly frightening collection of weights strung along the looped chain.

Meanwhile, Benedict stood aside, shaking his head, his disdain for Tim’s lack of control more evident than ever. Finally, he moved to again bend down and stare into Damien’s face. He grabbed a great handful of his sweat-drenched, wildly curling hair and yanked his head up in spite of the restraint.

“Did you see that?” he breathed. “Even though it was a gross infringement of discipline on 202’s part, that is what I must see from you. This is no restaurant. You are a slave. You don’t get to choose which things you will accept and which things you will avoid. You eat what we give you. And you like it.” He shook Damien’s head roughly. “Do you hear me?”

Trying to focus his eyes, Damien made a nearly imperceptible movement of his head.

“All right, my brothers. I think we have finished with you for this evening. Thank you for your patience and generosity. We will resume tomorrow night.”

As the other monks began to leave, Damien, Tim and Buddy all stiffened with dread. Again? Fourth night in a row.

* * *

Horizon F/X - Chapter 39 - Part 2

2011-12-08T06:00:00.001-07:00

And so it began. Tim glanced over at Buddy to see him bound in the same way, the tip of his prick in a dance with the weight — pulled down by it, then aroused by the pain and rising.

Belly down on the thin wooden platform of the bench, Damien took deep breaths, trying to steady himself. Though he’d clearly been relieved to get through his initial test with Raphael — assuming nothing could ever be that physically or emotionally intense again — his anxiety seemed to return with each subsequent encounter. And so the beauty of his smooth, brown skin was marred by darker blotches and criss-crossed welts, punishment for his many failures.

“Prepare him,” Benedict commanded.

One assistant crouched under Damien, pulled his dick down through a hole in the bench, attached a ring like Tim’s and Buddy’s below his cock head, but then secured it with a thin chain to a bracket in the floor so that even if Damien couldn’t maintain his erection, his tool would be artificially kept at its greatest length. Then he used a ball separator and cuff to cruelly pull Damien’s divided sac back toward the end of the bench. He played with the full package while Damien fought against the numerous leather straps binding him down on the arm and leg rests. Satisfied, the assistant stood up again, pulled Damien’s ass cheeks apart with gloved hands, and waited.

Meanwhile, the other assistant locked Damien into the head cradle, a padded metal device that supported his forehead and aligned his neck at the optimum open-throated position.

Benedict bent down to stare into Damien’s anxious face. “In a few moments, I am going to open that door. Let me see you prepare.”

Damien swallowed and then licked his lips. Clearly he was trying. He was Damien after all. Still, he shuddered under the hands of the assistant, who was spreading his cheeks wider to peer into his hole.

Benedict raised an eyebrow.

“Still tight,” the assistant answered.

Benedict bent down again. “Pump it, 12,” he ordered. “I want to see that little rosebud of yours opening and closing; I want to see it hungry.” Benedict moved slightly and watched as Damien, his face glowing red, struggled to obey.

Behind Damien, Tim squirmed, his own sphincter pumping in double-time. Hunger had never been a problem for him. It happened so easily.

Whack! Benedict brought the paddle down five times with tremendous force as Damien cried out.

“Look at you. We have guests coming, and that is all you can do?”

Biting his lip, Damien tried again with even less success. The word “guests” had closed him up tight.

“Do the best you can,” Benedict finally growled. “I will be observing. The extent of the night’s punishment will be determined once your brother monks have attempted to satisfy themselves. Do you understand?”

Damien, head immobilized, blinked his eyes closed and then open in response.

“Get the door,” said Benedict.

* * *

It was a buffet with Damien laid out as the main course. Monks who would usually be at Compline being punished themselves, now swarmed around him, drawn to his bound, tragic beauty. Within moments, monks were lubing him, kissing him, licking along his ribs, sucking his fingers and toes, nibbling and tugging at his ears.

A monk with a smaller or at least normal-size cock was pushed forward and he began working Damien’s face, guiding his half-awake shaft into Damien’s mouth and then prompting him, gently correcting him.

At the opposite end, the first lucky monk chosen was preparing to mount Damien, his brothers eagerly helping him become more erect so he could enter. Which he soon did. Damien groaned and instinctively moved to grit his teeth, only to have the monk at his head pull frantically out. The monk bent close to instruct Damien and then carefully reinserted his member.

This scenario was repeated again and again, Damien struggling to stay open above and below, to allow the dual entry, while at the same time dealing with all the other arousing and painful sensations lavished on his body.

* * *

And what of Tim? Along with Buddy, he fought the harsh bondage, longing to be in Damien’s place, dying to be so fully ravished, hating the waste of it all. Periodically Dominic or Anthony strolled over from watching the main event to make him hurt more, adding another weight and then chuckling as his aching cock was pulled down, chuckling even more when, eventually, it would rise back up again, quivering, ever plumper and more outraged. They’d check to make sure the leather support straps were cutting deep into his armpits and leaving good marks. They’d run their fingernails up and down the taut flesh of his inner thighs or try to increase the eroticized swelling of his nipples, hard little nubs standing out and away from his thrusting chest.

The whole thing was a fiendish, interconnected web designed for group torment, both physical and mental. Damien, already crushed by humiliation, was forced to “perform” with his fellow postulants right there to see every moment of his defeat. Tim and Buddy, dying to take on the experience for him, could only watch and yearn. The monks lucky enough to be invited got to enjoy the arousal supplied by the anguish of all three of them.

* * *

Horizon F/X - Chapter 39 - Mastered

2011-12-05T06:00:00.001-07:00

And on the third night, Tim came.

He couldn’t help it. It was the third Compline following Damien’s deflowering, each night more intense than the one before. As the nine bells of Compline rang each evening, Buddy and Tim were herded from their cells into a larger basement room. And then it began.

“Take all the time you need with your little postulant, my brothers,” Benedict offered generously. “Mine can wait,” he added, slapping Damien’s buttock soundly where he was already in place, this time strapped down to a contemporary spanking bench, gleaming metal and wood, nothing like the rough-hewn thing Benedict had used with Cade.

“It will be our pleasure,” said Dominic, as he and Anthony proceeded to string Tim up nearby. First they bound his forearms together, high and tight against his back. To this they attached a narrow, leather strap, letting it hang down. Next they wrapped and cinched a wide leather band around his waist three or four times, careful to catch the vertical strap underneath and pulling in opposite directions to get the belt as tight as possible. Tim felt Anthony groping again for the dangling strap which he tugged down tight underneath the belt before pulling it between Tim’s buttocks to ride his ass crack. Still keeping the strap taut, Anthony guided it as it split just before Tim’s balls and snugged up on either side, the tight leather forcing the sac to bulge outward, rubbing against the base of his cock, before Anthony gave the ends one last tug and secured them to the front of the waist belt.

Tim shrugged his shoulders, now pulled so far back his chest stuck out in a way nearly reminiscent of Veronique. He bent his legs slightly, trying to shift into a more comfortable position.

“Knew he’d try that,” Dominic muttered.

Anthony only shrugged. Grabbing another long leather strap, he centered it across the back of Tim’s neck, then laid one end over the top and around Tim’s left shoulder and in under his armpit. Poking it through the bindings of Tim’s forearms, Anthony then ran the strap straight up Tim’s back before attaching it to a hanging chain.

“Such good posture all of a sudden,” Dominic mocked, struggling with his big hands to replicate the arrangement with the other end of the strap around and under Tim’s right arm, finally getting his end clipped in place.

Tim closed his eyes for a moment, already feeling the body parts that were going to hurt, getting an idea of the intensity level of this night’s pain. Playing innocent, he shifted his feet slightly closer together to ease the pull on his spine.

Dominic was already looking down. “Knew he’d try that too,” he said, disgusted.

With a sigh, Anthony grabbed Tim’s left ankle, pulled his stance wider than it had been before and lashed his foot to a bracket in the stone floor.

Grunting as he knelt, Dominic did the same. Then the two of them worked together, checking and tightening everything until Tim was locked into position, chest out, waist cinched in, leather straps cutting into armpits and ass crack, prick jutting out like the mindless thing it was.

“Want to see how much weight he can take tonight?” Anthony asked.

“Okay,” Dominic agreed with his usual good-humored cheer.

Together they locked a metal ring just below the head of Tim’s cock, a light chain dangling down from one side and then back up to connect to the ring on the other side.

Aroused by their touch, his cock rose higher.

“Time to decorate,” said Dominic, holding up a tray of weights, each one with a tiny hook welded to it. “We’ll start small,” he said as he chose a metal globe, swinging it back and forth in front of Tim’s face. Then he fumbled it into a link on the chain.

Tim grunted as his cock was pulled down.

Dominic prodded at it with one finger.

Tim’s cock rose.

“That’s our boy,” Dominic scoffed. “So fucking predictable.”

* * *

Horizon F/X - Chapter 38 - Part 6

2011-12-01T06:00:00.001-07:00

Tim writhed in place, the leather collar chafing his neck, knees weak and buckling. Helpless, enthralled, he watched as Raphael generously lubed Damien’s ass, his fingers gentle but probing, doing everything he could to loosen that anxious hole.

“Why such a fuss, 12?” he breathed. “You do this every day kneeling at chapel. Brother Benedict has worked hard to open you. You’re no blushing virgin.”

Then he climbed onto the bed and knelt between Damien’s extended thighs. “Again you are tight,” he chided. “Perhaps you need to think of something else.”

Immediately, he started spanking Damien’s inflamed ass, hard, solid blows, and it wasn’t long before Damien was straining to escape, then clearly moaning into the gag.

Tim suffered with him, knowing that feeling far too well, the fierce burning that seemed unbearable, the sensation that the skin itself was peeling away from his flesh.

“Do not be proud,” Raphael said, still focused on a small area. “It is expected that you will scream.”

Damien’s muscles were so corded with distress, Tim thought he might break free, but the ropes held fast and he could do nothing to escape the pain. Head raised slightly from the mattress, he swung it back and forth in an agony of denial. At that moment, Raphael placed the head of his engorged penis against Damien’s hole, using his hand to guide it.

Instantly, Damien froze and went silent.

“Open,” Raphael ordered, slapping again with his free hand. “Relax.”

Damien’s head snapped up. Immediately, Raphael plunged in halfway and Damien howled into the gag. His eyes went wide with shock. This was clearly nothing like what had been done to him before. Nothing like the phallus in chapel. Nothing like the artificial fullness of a butt plug. Or the hard-surfaced intrusion of a dildo. It was a hot, throbbing piece of human meat invading him, going deep inside.

Raphael plunged in all the way and Damien howled again. The features of his face convulsed, as though his manhood, his very soul, had been sundered. This was it then, true and total submission, his complete domination by another man. And as Raphael begin moving with agonizing slowness in and out, in and out of this most intimate place, Damien shuddered and wept.

* * *

“This one, as always, was totally out of control,” Benedict complained, shoving Tim into his cell.

Sadly, Dominic shook his head. “We feared as much.” He gripped Tim’s chin and Tim stood unsteadily, hands clipped behind him, mind still back in the candlelit room with Raphael and Damien, his raging hard-on making it impossible for him to stand upright.

“However,” said Anthony, “we have taken steps to correct this fault.”

Then he and Dominic stepped aside to reveal Tim’s bed niche. The pallet had been removed, and in its place Tim saw an array of gruesome equipment — a small brush with harsh bristles, ice cubes in a bowl, candles, clothespins, clamps, rings, chains, weights, the penis whip and a nasty little devise clenched in Dominic’s hand emitting blue sparks of electricity as he clicked it.

Tim’s knees buckled even more as his prick rose higher. Every one of these objects had become so highly eroticized that just the sight of them nearly made him explode. At the same time, his stomach churned over in fear because he knew too well how this night would undoubtedly end — his long-held erection left unreleased and finally deflated by ever more atrocious applications of pain.

With a grim smile, Anthony took his arm. “Don’t be shy, 202. Come right in. I’m sure we can take care of that for you.”

Horizon F/X - Chapter 38 - Part 5

2011-11-28T06:00:00.001-07:00

After several minutes with Damien left swaying on his knees, head down, Benedict entered, followed by Raphael and the two assistants.

Without even looking at Damien, Benedict snapped his fingers. “Take 12 outside. Beat him.”

The two assistants dragged Damien out of the room, slamming the door behind them.

Within moments, there was a thud as if they’d immediately thrown Damien up against the adjacent wall, followed by steady, measured pounding, a momentary cry, and then muffled silence as the beating continued.

“I apologize, Brother Raphael. I’ve placed you in an appalling situation.”

“It’s all right, Brother Benedict. We certainly knew it could end this way.”

“Yes.” Benedict paced back and forth, thinking. “He’s submissive after all. At least he has that, and perhaps that’s where we must begin. Like many bottoms, he may need permission to push past this particular . . . barrier.”

Raphael nodded. “The permission we give him by allowing him no choice.”

“Exactly. It is the helplessness which can make the impossible possible.” As if suddenly remembering something, Benedict turned toward the windows. “If you wouldn’t mind.”

Raphael raised one corner of the curtain and held it there.

Benedict ducked in underneath, checking first Buddy and then Tim, making sure they were still securely gagged, noting the swollen excess of their shafts above their distended balls. “Do not come,” he ordered, and Tim gazed at him, a bit wild-eyed. He truly didn’t think he could take much more.

* * *

Gagged, breathing heavily, Damien stood unsteadily between the two assistants. When they turned him, his ass cheeks glowed nearly black-red, cross-hatched by even darker, raised welts.

Satisfied, Benedict nodded. “Get him up. Make sure it endures.”

The two monks began an intricate hand job, an unbearable combination of stroking, squeezing and arousal interspersed with cruel moments of pain, paying special attention to his foreskin, playing with it, sliding it up and over the swollen head and then back down so they could go after that most exquisite place, now exposed and unprotected. Soon Damien stood bow-legged, head back, his shaft huge and pumping. While one assistant kept him fully erect, the other tightened the two halves of a wide, heavy cock ring, turning the screws until Damien went nearly to his knees with pain, but with the surge of blood now trapped in place. They played with him a little more, stroking delicately up along the distended veins, pinching his ball sac, again sliding down the foreskin to flick the oozing head.

“Position him.”

Placing him on his knees on the bed, now facing Tim and Buddy, they bent Damien forward over a pile of pillows so his ass was up in the air and his chest was pressed down against the mattress near the footboard. Reaching underneath, they positioned his dick so it was crushed beneath him, thrusting up along his abs. Immediately, they stretched his wrists out to either side and lashed them down to the slatted footboard. They bound more rope around his thighs just above his knees and tied his legs wide to either side of the bed frame. Then his ankles, pulled out even wider and tied down in turn.

Damien squirmed in the grotesque, uncomfortable position, finding no way to ease it.

Benedict walked to the foot of the bed and crouched down to stare into Damien’s face. “This could have been a gentle and seductive encounter, an awakening to new possibilities. Instead, because of your stubbornness, it will become what you most feared. You have brought this upon yourself.” He paused, his voice growing husky with barely suppressed rage. “Because we have sheltered you thus far, kept your training relatively private, did you think you would get some kind of dispensation? Did you not understand the sacred contract you signed only a few days ago? Disgraceful! I cannot even bear to look at you.”

Benedict turned away, then rested his hand on Raphael’s shoulder. “Please proceed, brother,” he said, loud enough for Damien to hear. “No need to make it pleasant.”

* * *

Horizon F/X - Chapter 38 - Part 4

2011-11-24T06:00:00.001-07:00

With great gentleness, Raphael released Damien from the chain, though he left his wrists clipped together. After moving the grouped candles, he ordered Damien to climb onto the adjacent bed which before had been only a dark shape in the room.

Then Raphael proceeded to ravish him again, touching him, stroking him, in all the most sensitive, erotic places. As before, Damien responded and pulled back, offered himself and closed down.

Silently, Tim twisted and pulled against the chain at his neck, fought to free his wrists behind his back. This was killing him, this slow seduction. Singly, the two men were so beautiful. Entwined on the bed — Raphael probing, Damien holding himself rigidly passive — alabaster skin against brown — they were exquisite.

Raphael went down on Damien and Damien cried out, needing it so much and yet frightened as the violation began, a man’s lips and tongue pulling him inside, taking his shaft into this unknown place.

Masterful, Raphael kept at it until Damien was writhing, his member so swollen and throbbing, it seemed it would explode regardless. Then he came up for air and, still keeping his hand on Damien’s dick, moved to sit cross-legged next to Damien on the bed. “Not so bad is it, 12?” he asked, placing his other hand on Damien’s chest, holding him flat and passive on his back.

Damien cleared his throat.

“You may speak.”

“No, Brother Raphael.” But forced to actually see the source of his pleasure instead of only feeling it, Damien’s cock had deflated somewhat.

Raphael focused there again, alternating his gentle conversation with keeping Damien fully erect.

* * *

Behind the curtain, Tim clamped down. How would he ever be able to get through this? He glanced over at Buddy to see his friend in even worse shape.

Again, Damien was twisting under Raphael’s hand, his breath coming harsh, back arched, driven to pump Raphael’s encircling fingers.

“Ah, but we can’t have this now, can we 12?” Raphael eased up just a little.

“No, Brother Raphael,” Damien gasped out.

“It is not for you to come, is it?”

“No,” Damien said again, even as he continued helplessly to hump the open air.

“And it is not for me to play your part. Certainly not yet. Certainly not first. This situation must be rectified. Immediately.”

Raphael had turned dominant so suddenly, even Tim regained some control.

Raphael snapped his fingers. “Begin!”

Weakened by his still huge erection, Damien struggled up from the pillows. With close to his usual liquid grace, he slid off the bed and moved to settle Raphael in his former place. His hands on Raphael’s naked body were deferential and yet distanced, as though he’d never touched a man in this way before.

* * *

It wasn’t going well. Damien was trying to give Raphael a blow job, and “trying” was the operative term. Tim couldn’t believe it. Give him a chance at Raphael, and he would have devoured him, not content until every inch of his flesh was in contact with as much of the man as possible. But, shoulders hunched, Damien held himself above Raphael’s crotch. And his technique was terrible. He was more clumsy than any neophyte, struggling even with licking his way up and down Raphael’s magnificent shaft, timidly taking only the tip into his mouth, trying to suckle Raphael’s balls but not finding the right balance between arousal and being too intense.

Raphael had tried gentleness and patient instruction. He’d slapped Damien’s face and ordered him to focus. He’d alternately stoked Damien’s erection or twisted his nuts to urge him on to a better performance.

“Enough!” he said finally, shoving Damien away. Clearly he was unfamiliar with the slightest form of rejection. “Kneel!”

Damien fell to his knees beside the bed.

“Wait here. Contemplate your disobedience.”

* * *

Horizon F/X - Chapter 38 - Part 3

2011-11-21T06:00:00.001-07:00

The massed candles lit up the room, the curtain only the slightest blur between Tim and the unfolding scene. Damien still stood, tense in the way of the blindfolded, twisting his head, unable to tell who had entered or what might be done to him.

Raphael touched the back of Damien’s neck with one finger and Damien jumped. He sniffed the air, obviously trying to determine who or what might have touched him.

Then Raphael proceeded to caress Damien everywhere with just his hands, his brown robe occasionally brushing against Damien’s trembling flesh. As though calming a skittish horse, he placed his hand over Damien’s heart, spreading his fingers, just holding them there, letting the warmth and humanity seep in. Then both hands, flattened over Damien’s belly, his shoulder blades, his lower back, cupping his buttocks, planted on his upper thighs.

At war with himself, Damien alternately shrank back and tried to welcome the touch. His dark shaft bobbed, now swelling, now collapsing, as will fought with instinct.

Raphael continued, lightest brush of fingertips, moving them in a hypnotic rhythm up and down over the stretched, sensitive skin of Damien’s armpits.

Meanwhile, Tim yearned and suffered, longing to be Damien, longing to have that oh-so-gentle touch on his own burning skin. How clearly he remembered that surprising discovery in the midst of half drowsing exploration, that armpits — disgusting, hairy, sweaty armpits — were packed with erotic nerve endings that transported him to a whole new level of arousal. It was a waste, a criminal waste, that this ecstasy was being lavished on Damien.

* * *

“You’re very beautiful,” Raphael said in a low, husky whisper after a long time of worshipping Damien’s body with his hands. “But of course, you know that.”

Damien shivered, knowing now beyond a doubt it was a man touching him.

Raphael moved behind him to unknot the blindfold, then immediately replaced it with one hand as he came back around. One by one, he removed his fingers and then waited for Damien’s eyes to adjust to the candlelight. Then, seductive as any strip tease artist, Raphael began to disrobe. Untying the cord, he let it fall to the floor and stepped out of his sandals. With calculated slowness, he inched his robe up from the hem and stretched his arms to pull it off over his head.

Tim was dying as Raphael’s body was revealed, golden in the candlelight — limbs, torso, lean-muscled flesh perfect in every way. Damien watched it happen as well, his eyes anxious and hooded, giving no indication he glimpsed anything of what Tim was seeing.

Raphael stood for a long time, still, hands away from his body, his eyes locked on Damien’s as though willing him to see. Then he gripped Damien’s chin. “You know you must do this, don’t you, 12? You know it is the only way you can proceed?”

With a swallow, Damien nodded.

* * *

“First let me cleanse and protect the site of your tattoo. I know how painful that can be.” Crouching, Raphael settled the postulant’s left foot on his own naked thigh and then gently turned the limb. “Ah yes,” he said. “It hasn’t even begun to scab up yet. I’ll try to be as careful as I can.”

Tim could just see Damien’s raw, inflamed inner thigh with the numbers 0 1 2 inked in place. Handiwork of Flint, he imagined, thinking of her rough ways. She had somehow managed to create a lighter colored haze in and around that patch of skin so the brown pigment of a monastery tattoo would be visible on Damien’s darker flesh. And perhaps she’d cheated a little with the ink, choosing the darkest brown possible, the hue just before it deepened into black.

Raphael grasped Damien’s package to move it out of the way and then rubbed the ointment into his skin, while Damien fought to hold himself still amidst a flood of arousal and fear.

Tim spent some time with his eyes rolling to the back of his head and finally had to look away. He couldn’t risk revealing his presence by shooting, partly because he was terrified of Brother Benedict and partly because he didn’t want to miss a moment of this.

* * *

Horizon F/X - Chapter 38 - Part 2

2011-11-17T21:02:00.000-07:00

“Please remove the blindfolds.”

Benedict’s voice. Tim shifted his feet slightly and then felt the assistant fumbling at the back of his head. He blinked, confirming that he was standing somewhere inside the abbey but not recognizing the specific room as Benedict paced in front of him and Buddy, both of them gagged, wrists clipped behind their backs.

“Immobilize then,” Benedict commanded.

The taller assistant buckled a leather collar around Tim’s neck. Then, crouching, he pulled Tim’s scrotum down between thumb and forefinger so he could snap a leather ball stretcher in place.

Thigh muscles taut, Tim adjusted to the pain. The next thing he knew, he heard two distinct clicks and realized the back of his neck had been tethered to a chain descending from the ceiling and his balls to a chain pulled up from the floor. He swallowed, feeling suddenly doubly vulnerable. From the corner of his eye, he saw that the second assistant had rigged Buddy up in the same way.

“This is a huge honor for the two of you,” Benedict scolded. “If you make even the slightest sound, if you move or reveal yourselves in any way, the punishment will be long, severe and unrelenting. Do you understand?”

Hampered by their chained position, Tim and Buddy both nodded as best they could.

“You are not to speak of what happens here, ever, to anyone? Understand?”

Again, their coupled nods.

“Very well then.”

Benedict signaled to the assistant, who bowed slightly before pulling on a cord near the wall. A thin, gauzy curtain descended from the ceiling. Apparently finished for now, all three of the monks left.

Tim glanced at Buddy and then tried to figure out where they were. They had been placed near tall windows, the glow of the setting sun at their backs. The curtain came down in front of them and would have hidden them, except he was sure their silhouettes would be visible. Past the curtain, the rest of the space was dim. He stood. He waited. The light steadily decreased.

* * *

Sound of the door opening. Slight glow of candlelight outside in the hall. Three figures entered, one of them stumbling and being led by the other two.

“Secure him.” Benedict’s voice.

Tim stiffened. Though he could only see shapes through the curtain, it had to be Damien. No one else had hair like that. The assistant pulled Damien’s linked wrists above his head and clipped them to yet another ceiling chain. Then he lit a second candle and Tim knew for sure it was Damien and could see he was blindfolded. Benedict approached him and Damien flinched, sensing his presence.

“Now, 12, you understand this must be done. We can’t continue, you can’t really focus, until you’ve overcome this challenge. You are to remain docile and open and accepting. You are to do all that is asked of you. You are to comply in every way. Do you understand?”

Damien took a shuddering breath and nodded.

“Very well then. Prepare yourself. Wait.”

And with that, the assistant held the door for Benedict and the two of them departed.

Damien took a second, shaky breath. Flexed his arms. Stood anxiously. Tim longed to call out to him past the gag, to comfort him, but knew there was nothing he could do.

* * *

Again the sound of the door. Someone entered and Tim heard a clunk, then the scrape and flare of a match being struck. The figure lit a number of candles arranged in tiered circles around a single stand, then turned.

Tim’s shaft thrust upward with such intensity he practically yanked his balls off. Then, swooning from the pain, he nearly hanged himself. Raphael! He couldn’t believe it. Raphael had come to deflower Damien, and Tim was going to be allowed to watch.

* * *

Horizon F/X - Chapter 38 - Test

2011-11-14T06:00:00.001-07:00

Even as the bells rang and the oatmeal arrived, Tim stayed focused on the doorway. Where was he? Damien? No one was ever late for meals. And why would he risk the wrath of Benedict in such a stupid way? Fortunately Benedict, speaking with Edward, seemed oblivious. So far.

Ah, there he was now. Tim relaxed as he caught a blur of brown hurrying down the corridor toward the doorway. But it was only Brother Gregory. Only? Now when had he ever thought that? It was always good to see the beautiful Gregory or the beautiful Raphael.

Tim glanced at Buddy, also focused on the door, and then to the vacant spot on their humble bench to Tim’s right. The oatmeal had made its way down the table. Barely noticing, he took the pot from Buddy to spoon out his own serving.

* * *

“It’s been ten days, hasn’t it?” Tim whispered as he bent down to add more wood preservative to his container from the bucket close to Buddy.

Buddy glanced around, then nodded quickly.

Hiding his reaction, Tim moved back to his section of the fence. He knew he wasn’t allowed to ask about outside things. He knew Buddy wasn’t supposed to respond. But he had to know. No Damien at dinner either. No Damien working with them this afternoon. Buddy’s answer had confirmed that Damien must already be at the resort, starting in on the 72-hour period of weighing his old life of freedom against his experience of the past ten days. For Tim had decided the process for postulants was essentially the same. Each was brought in. They endured the Ritual of Purification in the shower room and the subsequent fast. Then they spent ten intense days undergoing experiences similar to those Tim had endured like the bell tower and/or the marketplace and/or the rosary race. For Damien, at least as far as Tim knew, it had been the seesaw episode and the wine barrel punishment following the picnic debacle. Next, the time being chained out in front of the office building until the postulant was taken inside and suddenly released into posh freedom at the resort.

What would Damien decide? During their stolen picnic moments, Damien had made it clear he wasn’t gay and felt in over his head to find himself at the abbey. But in the days since that incident, Tim had noticed him standing closer, finding opportunities to touch him or Buddy more often, as though steeling himself for his obvious fate here — man sex — not just once to prove he could do it, but frequently and in every conceivable way. Tim had often seen the — to him — inexplicable anxiety straight men had of being intimate with, of being penetrated by, another man. Even some guys his own age, raised in a more tolerant time, got hung up on that biological, visceral fear.

Tim tried to reverse Damien’s situation. If he’d originally been placed in a harem in the Persian palace, for example, or in a convent instead of a monastery, would he have risked possibly being sent back to that life after the resort, accepting that true submissives were submissive, forced to be open to any kind of experience regardless of gender or orientation? If his every day was filled with female or straight male masters, if getting off always meant Veronique-like couplings, could he truly submit to that?

Add to that Damien’s privileged upbringing and the disapproval of his family to his chosen . . . lifestyle. Could he overcome those obstacles as well and still sign up, even knowing he might be sent back to this all-male, all-gay world? Dipping his brush again, Tim sighed. It was going to be a very long four days waiting through Damien’s resort time and then the assessment if he did sign his contract.

* * *

He and Buddy had not spread out on their bench, but kept Damien’s spot sacred. The whole monastery reeked of anxiety and waiting. Dominic and Anthony had been unusually vicious as a way of venting their own tension, and Tim had gotten lost in the days again, enduring from one torment to the next.

And then, suddenly, there was Damien, coming in for breakfast. He walked awkwardly and sat down with great care. Tim recognized those symptoms. The pain of the brand and of being freshly-welted this morning at Lauds to make up for lost time.

Damien was back. He’d signed up.

Sighing with relief and pleasure, Tim made more room for him. As he handed Damien a cereal bowl, Damien gave him a sad, hidden smile. His hands shook slightly, he had that pale cast to his warm, brown face, and Tim knew that symptom, too. Fresh from his assessment, Damien found himself back with the monks, possibly facing an eternity of 350 days here with no more escape clauses and no hint he’d ever be sent anywhere else. Immediately Tim wanted to tell him about Cade’s disappearance in case that might offer some small comfort, but knew he must not.

* * *

Horizon F/X - Chapter 37 - Part 5

2011-11-10T06:00:00.001-07:00

Splat!

A blast like ice hit him square in the face. Jolted conscious, Tim sputtered and jerked upright. Not the balloons. Not again.

Another blast pounded into his armpit and stayed there. He couldn’t understand. Then he looked out past the ricocheting spray and saw the monks armed with hoses. They were spraying them down, hosing them off.

The water, icy cold, must be coming directly from the spring and the monks were using the high intensity nozzles usually employed for hosing out tubs and barrels for wine-making. No more flies, Tim tried to think as he endured the pummeling. Not so hot.

An overly enthusiastic novice, in switching his focus from Buddy on one end to Damien on the other, accidentally caught Dominic in the side of the head. Dominic roared, then turned his hose on the novice. And just like that, the whole thing turned into a water fight.

A blur in brown came at the three barrels and Tim saw a flash of silver. Suddenly the rope holding his wrists went slack and he fell forward against the wooden slats. Before he had his balance, one sandbag and then the other dropped away. A moment later, he dropped with it, landed with a thud on the right side of the barrel.

In the sodden melee, monks were quickly doffing their robes. A swarm of them came at the barrels, liberating Buddy and then Damien. Tim found himself pulled to his feet and half dragged, half carried. The next thing he knew he’d been plopped into the middle of the creek, into the wider pool that had been created by damming up a portion of the stream to retard the flow. As though wanting to ensure he was wet, a diligent monk kept pouring buckets of water over Tim’s head. Another monk was scouring at the wine stains, but finally stopped when Tim was able to convey with groans between the barrages of water, that the stains were actually bruises.

Tim crouched in the water, dodging occasionally as yet another monk was pitched into the stream. Buddy half floated toward him and bumped to a stop, laughing weakly as Matthew and Anthony went at each other, Matthew still in command of one of the hoses, Anthony hurling buckets of water at him from the stream. Suddenly Tim grinned, too. It was over. It must be over. He was free. He was wet. He was cool. No flies.

* * *

“I say he’s gonna pop.”

“Naw. He’s a good ole southern boy. He has that scrawny, hollow leg thing going for him.”

“Well, something’s certainly filling out.”

Tim looked up from his own plate. He sat on a cushion of sodden robes, leaning back against Anthony’s legs. He was surrounded by a camp chair-seated circle of many of the senior monks — Benedict, Dominic, Matthew, Patrick, Edward who was now Edward rather than John away from the shower room, the Novice Master. While they chatted and joked with each other, Tim simply ate or watched Buddy eat. They’d reheated the remains of the food for them, and Buddy had made a little shrine of his plate — a couple of split-open squares of cornbread with a pile of grits at the center and then a liberal dousing of gravy over the top. He alternately dug into this cholesterol soup and gnawed away at the ribs, grease running down his chin and onto his chest, an ever-growing pile of bones at his side.

Like Tim, Buddy leaned up against Matthew’s legs and Matthew would reach down occasionally and pat Buddy’s head, as if he were a pet dog enjoying a well-earned feast. Damien sat hunched over his own plate, carefully respectful, not leaning against Benedict, but still close by. He, too, was making good progress on his meal, though clearly much of the food was strange to him. He glanced up occasionally and grinned at Tim or Buddy, clearly relieved, clearly feeling the lift of the celebration.

Surrendering, Tim dropped his fork onto his plate. A surge of crazy warmth went through him, for these harsh, brown-frocked men, for this roller coaster ride of emotion they engineered day after day, from despair to jubilation and everything in between. He hated how much he loved this fucking place.

Unexpected, Dominic crouched beside him and handed him a blue water balloon. “For your eye,” he explained. “That’s gonna be one hell of a shiner.” Then, just like Matthew, he patted Tim approvingly on the head and went back to his seat in the circle.

Horizon F/X - Chapter 37 - Part 4

2011-11-06T18:13:00.000-07:00

“That’s cheating, wouldn’t you say?” Matthew asked, studying Tim as he sat, swaying forward, knees high like a jockey in the saddle.

“Definitely cheating,” Dominic concurred.

“Do you feel such disrespectful posture requires correction?”

“Yes, I believe it does,” Dominic agreed in the same formal tone. “I will get the stirrups.”

* * *

“A little more, Brother Anthony. He can take it.”

Anthony pulled on the rope over the horizontal pole and Tim groaned audibly, especially when Anthony tied it off even a bit tighter. He was just trying to adjust to that much-intensified pull on his arms when Dominic started working at his right ankle and then his left. He was buckling on cuffs there as well. Then three times he circled Tim, hefting a small sandbag in each hand as though letting Tim try to guess what he was going to do next.

Too soon, Tim knew. The sandbags were attached to the ankle cuffs which meant his legs were pulled back down tight against the sides of the barrel, no more easing up with bent knees.

Dominic climbed up on the scaffolding supporting the barrel and ran his hand up and down Tim’s side, mashing his big thumb into the space between each articulated rib.

“Much improved,” he murmured. “This is more like it. You ride proudly now, 202, and still.”

* * *

Tim knew they would gag him soon and thought he would be glad of it. He wanted to yell as loud as he could. He wanted to scream out this long ordeal in pain — torso pulled taut, legs stretched wide, barely able now to flinch away from the damned flies, his muscles tight and immobilized against their relentless buzzing and crawling, head pounding from the heat, from hunger, from the wine balloon blows.

Buddy sat racked to his left, one muscle in his shoulder locked into spasm, pulsing helplessly, his stained face frozen into a mask of exhaustion and pain.

To his right, even Damien had finally given in. Not a trace of meekness or generous suffering remained in his ravaged features. Tim even saw thin streaks of dark skin showing through the splashes of wine where he’d finally begun to weep, unable to take it anymore.

Again, wearily, Tim turned his eyes, or eye, front. His usual last ditch strategy of numb endurance was deserting him, too. Idly, he wondered if he’d go mad up here on this fucking barrel, abandoned and bereft.

* * *

Horizon F/X - Chapter 37 - Part 3

2011-11-03T06:00:00.001-06:00

Like fallen corpses, the monks lay around them in a gluttonous stupor. Tim pulled at his suspended wrists and tried to ease his wide-splayed legs by inching them up along the sides of the barrel. It was damned uncomfortable sitting like this. Even Damien was beginning to look a little frayed around the edges.

One by one the younger monks roused themselves and began working on some project near the woods. Tim could see them tap a barrel, but then they turned their backs, a secretive row of brown cassocks. Idly, he wondered if it could be Sunday. It seemed like a Sunday. But maybe the monks in the laundry had nixed the combination of luxe, fluffy white robes and barbecue sauce.

* * *

Bam! Splat!

“Ow!”

Tim reeled back on the barrel. Something solid and wet had smacked him in the chest. He looked down to see blood, no, something, a red fluid, running down his belly.

Then another blast to his left shoulder just above his collar bone and then a twisting sideways shot into his thigh.

He heard more of the hurtling, smacking sounds and saw Buddy and Damien being pelted as well. An aroma came up from their sun-heated skin, a sour smell of rotting vegetation.

A blow to the side of his head almost knocked him from the barrel, but he was held in place by his suspended arms.

What on earth were they throwing?

He saw the young monks lined up now like a firing squad, holding colorful globes in their hands, reaching down for more ammunition from baskets centered between them. Water balloons, he realized as a bright green one shattered against his sternum, exploding out a red, sticky liquid.

Then one to his left temple, the liquid running into his eye and down his face. Mouth open in surprise and pain, he caught a good quantity, a taste that was both overly sweet and bitter. It was wine, failed wine, an incredibly bad combination of grapes that hadn’t fermented properly. Though he spat out what liquid he could, the vile taste of it seemed embedded in his tongue.

The three of them were yelling now as the monks moved in closer, the onslaught continuous. The balloons were heavy and there was that stinging moment like being snapped with rubber bands as the balloons exploded against Tim’s skin. Jerking this way and that, he tried to dodge the balloons, but the position of his arms didn’t give him much latitude and there were too many of them coming in at once. He knew that ex-baseball player had to be out there somewhere, throwing fastballs with pinpoint accuracy.

Finally it ended, the monks laughing and crowing at their triumph; Tim, Buddy and Damien sitting drenched and reeking of spoiled wine. Tim couldn’t seem to blink the stuff away from his left eye and finally realized it was swollen shut.

* * *

Baked by the sun, half asleep, Tim flinched awake again. The purpose of the balloon attack, aside from humiliation, was now abundantly clear. Every fly in the area seemed drawn to his foul, sweating, sweet-sticky skin. They buzzed around him, dove at him, then landed to stroll around. He had to constantly jerk and shake himself, but the moment he held still, they were right back again. Soon they were joined by nasty little biting things. Tim looked to Buddy and then to Damien, both of them blurred by his one-eyed vision and a swarming cloud of insects.

* * *

It wasn’t long before the monks took advantage of the situation as workers from the kitchen brought up huge, deep-dish fruit pies.

Tim heard a little sob escape Buddy’s lips. He thought maybe he would cry, too, as the slices were divvied out onto plates — ruby cherry, glistening apple with crumb crust, jewel-like blueberry. Then, unbearably, they were topping each slice with a scoop of homemade vanilla ice cream. Tim recognized the big silver canister from the Pennsylvania picnics of his own childhood, could actually see the frozen treat melting down over each slice in creamy rivulets.

With the three of them staked out as decoys — giant hunks of fly paper — the monks were free to sit upwind from them and enjoy their dessert nearly unmolested, hands swinging languidly at the occasional insect who’d flown off in search of better fare.

* * *

Tim watched the monks eat, hating them. How much longer? And what was the point? He’d assumed this was mostly for Damien, an effort to frighten him, force him to confront his limits. And yet much of it seemed designed specifically to torment Buddy, maybe because he, as senior postulant, had given in to temptation. Or maybe, he thought, in suppositions going increasingly delirious, it was going on and on because of him, because of what he was doing right now, his compulsion to scope out the intention of his tormentors, to understand their strategy and what they were trying to accomplish. Maybe they kept pushing him to the edge like this because they wanted him to stop it, stop cogitating, and just feel.

At that moment, he sensed movement near his left leg. Turning so he could use his good eye, he saw Buddy smiling sadly as he extended his right foot out toward him. Understanding immediately, Tim stretched out his left foot, just able to make contact. It was a reaching out through the grimness in the only way left to them, postulant to postulant. Tim nodded and then stretched out his right foot, waving it around until Damien noticed. A beatific smile of gratitude brightened Damien’s face as he touched feet with Tim. They were all together in this. Somehow they would make it through.

* * *

Horizon F/X - Chapter 37 - Part 2

2011-10-31T06:00:00.001-06:00

Now half the abbey monks seemed to be involved, cobbling together rough X-shaped supports, three of them, and then hoisting the barrels on top, all lined up in a row, ends facing the trees above and the abbey proper below, an arrangement that looked way too much like the one Tim had just escaped.

“Let’s get them mounted.”

Amidst more shouting and laughing, Tim found himself jostled from hand to hand until he suddenly landed with a dick-sundering thud astride the central barrel. Falling forward, he caught himself with his hands and slowly sat up again, a naked cowboy on a wooden steed.

But the monks were already hard at work on something else, a group of them hauling in the two tallest orchard ladders, broad-based structures that narrowed toward the top and had an attached pole as an adjustable support. Tim had even spent time on one of these, constantly repositioning the ladder in and around the branches of a loaded apple tree until it was picked clean.

The ladders were erected and solidly braced facing each other on either end of the postulants’ barrel riding lineup — one just beyond Buddy and the other close to Damien with Tim centered as before between the two of them. Then monks scrambled up on step ladders or the barrels themselves — one of the senior postulants balancing precariously just behind Tim — as a long, center pole was settled in place with a solid thunk, then lashed to the topmost rungs of the two ladders. Tim looked up at the pole suspended overhead and had a flashback to the meat wagon at the marketplace.

Standing on a small ladder, Anthony untied Tim’s hands and then buckled thick, leather cuffs on his wrists, the kind designed for suspension. On the opposite side, Dominic threaded a length of rope through the D-rings and then, with an impressive throw, got the rope up and over the pole on his first try.

“Heave-ho there, would you, Theodore? That’s the lad. Careful though. And not quite so much. Good. Tie it off for me, if you don’t mind.”

Tim grunted. He shifted his shoulders, grateful to find his elbows bent loosely, but still wondering just how long his arms were going to be pulled like this above his head. Dominic grinned at him, enjoying his apprehension, before he grabbed Tim’s butt cheeks to settle him more solidly astride the barrel. Then like a jeweler in his shop’s front window, he spread Tim’s ball sac out against the wooden slats, plumping it lovingly. Tim grunted again as he watched his wax-coated shaft thrust higher.

“Might as well roll in your hose there, fireman,” Matthew jeered as he strode past. “You won’t be using that today.”

* * *

While Tim rode his barrel along with Buddy and Damien, the other monks continued to bustle around. Most of the activity seemed to be behind him, just below the edge of the meadow. Off to the side, monks were assembling a trestle table, similar to the table in their stand at the marketplace.

Buddy was the first to sniff. Then Tim smelled it, too, just as two monks hurried by, loaded down with blankets and checkered tablecloths.

The smell intensified, the smoky fire of a barbecue and slow-cooked meat getting a last searing of heat. Then platters and bowls arrived in procession — greasy, scary-looking green stuff, cornbread, crocks of honey, big gallon jars of iced tea.

“Please,” Buddy was chanting to himself. “Please don’t have grits.”

Moments later a bowl of a white, mealy substance appeared, followed by, not a mere gravy boat, but a big earthenware pitcher filled with steaming, red-brown ham gravy. And only moments after that two monks carried in a wooden cutting board covered with sauce-encrusted ribs still smoking from the grill. They moved in a circle eight pattern in and around the three barrels with their three mounted postulants, and Tim saw tears gather at the corner of Buddy’s eye. The smell wafting over them was divine. Then the feast of ribs was moved to the end of the table and the monks queued up, gripping their plates, digging in deep as they made their way down the laden table.

Glancing at Buddy again, Tim felt the fast-dissipating bulk of the morning’s bread and water. Now the other monks were having their own picnic — a legal picnic — and Tim had a bad feeling their punishment, instead of being over, might be just beginning.

He looked to his right at Damien who was sitting meekly on his own barrel wearing his open “I know I need to be punished, please hurt me more” face. Tim sighed. Following Damien’s performance the afternoon of the seesaw incident, he’d had illusions of trying to copy or even surpass Damien’s approach to submission, but already he felt defeated. He was too tired, too hungry, too sore. As usual, he knew he was just going to look whiny and pissed, getting gracelessly through the time because he had no other choice.

* * *

The monks sat and sprawled everywhere around them, cross-legged on blankets, reclining in the grass, every one of them stuffing his face, hands and mouths sticky with honey and barbecue sauce. Tim hated them all, especially Dominic, actually leaning against Tim’s barrel, so close Tim could hear the crunch of his teeth biting through the crisp surface of the meat and sliding along the rib bones to get every bite.

To the right of Tim, Buddy now wept openly, tears sliding down his cheeks, and Tim thought how young he looked, not to mention hungry and bony. He must be homesick. Certainly Tim had felt a wave of it a couple of days before in the midst of his cheeseburger ecstasy at the market, and Buddy had been locked into this harsh existence even longer.

* * *

Horizon F/X - Chapter 37 - Target

2011-10-27T06:00:00.001-06:00

Tim hadn’t been covered after all. That had only been one of his many dreams. As Anthony untied the blindfold, he saw he was stretched out with the others in a small prep shed near the wine cellar entrance where the morning sun had angled in to caress and warm his right side.

“Up with all of you now,” Matthew said as he untied Buddy’s ankles. “You can take a whiz over there into that briar patch.”

Tim sat up as Anthony released his ankles as well. Anthony also removed the gag, then came at Tim with a small, sharpened stick. Instinctively Tim tried to block him with his bound hands, but then held himself carefully still as Anthony expertly popped the wax plugs from his ears. As Tim shook his head trying to get his equilibrium back, he felt like a supplicant at one of those tacky televangelist shows — deaf, dumb and blind man — cured!

“Leave the rest of the wax to crumble off as it will,” Matthew ordered. “It is your mark of shame.”

Fighting the rope still tight around his wrists, Tim managed to slurp up much-needed water from the spring overflow spout nearby and then went to stand beside Buddy. He flexed his back, feeling segments of wax loosening and peeling away from his skin as he moved. Bits of it already hung down from his genitals and clung to hair on his pubes and upper thighs, making him look like he was molting.

Trying not too obviously to dislodge the wax, he positioned his dick and waited for the warm spurt of urine. But nothing came, and then when it did, it seeped down along the inside of his legs. Immediately, he stopped the flow and saw that the end was still completely encased in wax. He waved it in the direction of Matthew who was monitoring all three of them, apparently for wax removal infractions.

“202 has a plumbing problem,” Matthew called out.

Anthony studied the situation, knocked Tim’s hands out of the way and then dug into the wax just at the tip as Tim squirmed. He gripped something with his fingers, rocked it back and forth, then pulled out a rough nail-shaped hunk of wax and held it up.

“Hey, nice casting of the piss hole there,” Dominic complimented Anthony as Tim finished his business, pushing past an initial burning sensation. “You do good work.”

Anthony, still holding the bit of wax, studied it carefully. “Should I put it back in?”

Tim felt his knees go weak.

Dominic sauntered closer to take a look. “It’s tempting.” He glanced over at Buddy and Damien, and then at the position of the sun.

“Not today?” Anthony asked.

“Not today,” Dominic conceded. “But another time? Compline, perhaps?”

“Good idea,” said Anthony and then, much to Tim’s relief, tossed the wax into the tangled patch of thorns. Anthony then herded Tim back to the shed where Matthew was serving them bread and spring water. There was more bread than the last time he’d been punished like this and the water was cold and sweet. He decided to count his blessings as this particular penance was slowly winding down.

* * *

Tim slumped against the back wall of the shed, watched over by the stern Brother Patrick. All the other monks had gone in to chapel at the pealing of Terce. Tim even caught snatches of song when the wind blew from that side of the abbey. As usual, he had no idea what was going on.

Then, as the bells tolled out the 10:00 o’clock hour, the monks flocked in their direction. Buddy, Tim and Damien were paraded in front of the group past the cellar to a small meadow bisected by the upper fork of the abbey creek. Situated just beyond a hillside thick with trees, the meadow stood high enough to offer a lovely view of the abbey buildings below.

“Stand!” Matthew hissed under his breath, and Tim stood with the others, wrists still bound, naked, a flap of wax on his butt blowing back and forth in the light breeze.

Suddenly several of the younger monks came into view, running and laughing, guiding or nearly being run over by three rolling barrels. These were slightly smaller than the oversized barrel Tim had become far too well acquainted with in the night. He glanced at Buddy. He didn’t like this. It didn’t seem good.

* * *

Horizon F/X - Chapter 36 - Part 4

2011-10-24T06:00:00.001-06:00

The increased light roused him. Before he could look around or prepare, someone slapped his butt. Moments later hands parted his ass cheeks and he felt the first drops of wax right on that most sensitive, puckery flesh around his hole. He screamed. It seemed like the only thing to do. They took a long time, adding layer after layer, always landing a few drops on virgin territory where there was no underlying wax to somewhat temper the searing heat. Even through his plugged ears, Tim thought he could hear anguished sounds. It could have been his own yelling or maybe the chorus of all three of them.

Again at 5:00, he assumed. An additional application of wax.

And then 6:00. Still more wax. But that meant six full hours in this cursed place. Surely this would finally be the end. Belly crushed against the barrel, back hurting in a different way, Tim dared to hope. So cold, his muscles frozen from the long immobilization, he felt like a corpse. As a thin stream of wax flowed over the smooth place between hole and balls, he tried to take that searing heat and diffuse it through the rest of his body. A quadriplegic with pneumonia. That’s what he’d be if this ever ended.

* * *

Again they were untying the ropes from the bracket. Raising his head, Tim saw Damien’s feet released and then they were working on his own wrists. But instead of releasing him, they immediately tied his hands together. He yelled. He really couldn’t take this anymore.

Dominic rapped him soundly on the top of his skull.

“The eyes though,” Matthew said, his voice distant and muted. “We should have thought of that.”

Tim struggled against the side of the barrel. Surely they wouldn’t drip wax down onto his eyelids.

“Blindfold?” Anthony suggested.

“That would work.”

* * *

“Oof!” Tim landed with a grunt on the ground. They’d pulled him bodily from the barrel and though he tried to stand on his feet, he was massively dizzy and his legs crumpled beneath him.

They gave him a moment or two to recover, and then hoisted him up again — a blind, deaf, plugged, half-paralyzed man. Hands guided and pushed at him, and he managed to stumble through the tunnels, struggling to walk when he could neither see where he was going nor hear his footfalls to gauge the placement of each step. At the stairs, they let him go up on hands and knees, bound hands groping in front of him, trembling in the silent dark.

He felt the early morning air on his face and then he was herded a few yards along a smooth-beaten path. Without warning, someone toppled him over, and he landed hard on his back on the cold ground as someone else bound his ankles together.

He felt the vibration of another thud close by, and then he was shoved along the ground and his left side positioned up against something cold and slightly damp. Then nothing else seemed to be happening. He strained to hear. Had they just abandoned him out here, tied up and helpless?

With only touch and smell left to him, slowly his brain figured it out. The monks must have positioned the three of them side by side like sardines, with Damien in the middle. At least he thought it must be Damien, judging by the bulk of clammy flesh wedged up against him. Which made sense. With Damien the newest and most innocent of the three of them, the monks had at least allowed him the gift of Tim’s and Buddy’s warmth on either side.

This was nearly the end, Tim was sure. The monks probably just wanted a bit more shut-eye. So they’d dumped them here. But it could be worse. At least he was finally horizontal, the outraged spasms in his back slowly subsiding. Even in the coolness of the early morning air, he was warmer here than he’d been in the permanent, unchanging coldness of the cellar, and he and Damien were slowly generating a shared glow of body heat as they shivered against each other.

It occurred to Tim he could roll over onto his side and burrow into Damien, get warm even faster, but the moment he tried to shift himself, a thin, silent ribbon of pain slashed across his belly.

All right then. Tim spread his bound hands, hoping to mollify the wielder of the switch or cane. He’d just stay on his back.

* * *

He drifted in and out of sleep. Again and again, he felt someone finally throw something over the three of them — ragged blanket, dirty old tarp — and he would fall into a warmer, deeper sleep, only to wake again to find himself naked, cold, his right side still exposed to the open air. But then at last the covering seemed real, the warmth remained. Fine. Whatever the monks wanted. As long as he could just lie like this, relatively comfortable, next to Damien, that would be enough. He was past hoping for anything more.

Horizon F/X - Chapter 36 - Part 3

2011-10-20T06:00:00.001-06:00

“I don’t think it’s quite enough.”

Matthew’s voice. Tim stirred and blinked in the increased light, immediately aware of his wretched condition. Had he actually fallen asleep like this?

“You know how we must seal up the bottles to make sure the fermentation process stops so the wine doesn’t spoil?”

“Yes, brother.”

“I think we should seal up these three as well.”

“All right.” Dominic’s voice. “What do you suggest?”

* * *

Tim caught a glimpse of Anthony’s face in the candlelight as he bent down to secure the rubber gag over Tim’s mouth. He looked sleepy but still devoted to his task.

“Better,” said Matthew. “But there should be more.”

Someone grabbed Tim’s cock. Jolted, he bucked upward, making love to that firm grip, the hard, curved fingers. Was it possible they were going to jerk him off?

But the hand stayed still, holding his shaft precisely vertical, the fingers circled just below the head. A moment later, Tim felt a fierce, burning sensation at the very tip of his penis and down into the piss slit itself. He fought violently. He yelled into the gag. The pain subsided.

He was just relaxing when the pain hit again, same place, same intensity. Trying to gaze up past his chest and jutting ribs to see what they were doing, he saw the light of numerous candles flickering on the stone ceiling, flaring and then receding, flaring again, the air beginning to smell of smoke.

The searing pain came yet again, and he realized what it was. They were dripping candle wax onto his cock — sealing up the orifice so he couldn’t piss or shoot. Again, he twisted against the ropes, but the hand held firm, and every minute or so, there would be an additional coating of wax, heating up the wax underneath, his cock arching and thrusting as it fought to get away.

At some point during all this, the bell tolled out the one o’clock hour. Eventually, the monks seemed satisfied with their work and left Tim again with the others, even more anguished than before, struggling to remember that afternoon moment when the wine had overcome their weak, abbey-enforced, tea totaling resistance and Damien had tumbled over into Tim’s lap, not in a sexual way, but in the innocent way of brothers, perhaps his first attempt to feel comfortable against another man’s body. Had that moment of gentle touching been worth this torment? Possibly not.

* * *

Near what must be 2:00, the monks were back, adding more coats of wax to Tim’s dick and allowing it to flow down to his balls. In between applications, they twisted his head up and to the right. One of them poked a bit of protective cotton into his left ear, and then that orifice, too, got layer after layer of wax from the dripping candle. By the time they finally left, Tim’s whole package was heavy and stiff with wax, while his head felt strangely unbalanced, no hearing on the left side, the hangover still pulsing away in his right temple.

* * *

At the monks’ return near 3:00 — the pattern now clearly established — Tim had been reduced to rhythmic moaning into the gag. It was mostly his back. Possibly he’d been crippled for life.

But Dominic and Anthony didn’t care about that. They simply added more wax to his genitals, sealing up any cracks that had appeared because of his thrashing, checked his left ear and topped it off, then began filling the right.

Tim expected them to leave yet again, but instead he saw a shadowy hand fumbling with the ropes at his left wrist. One by the one the ropes were released and then, working together, using step stools, the monks flipped him over onto his belly. Tim’s back popped a dozen times, individual vertebrae snapping like beads on a chain. While he groaned with both relief and reactive pain, they quickly lashed his wrists and ankles into place. And then they left.

* * *

This was better. Was this better? His wax-encased jewels were crushed somewhere beneath him, and his head felt bloated, still hanging down with his ears blocked up. Still, at least his back felt better. Bent forward seemed more natural than being bent back.

* * *

Horizon F/X - Chapter 36 - Part 2

2011-10-17T06:00:00.002-06:00

Head and arms hanging down, Tim tried to get his bearings. A flurry of activity and he now found himself belly up and “draped” backward over the central barrel. From this upside down position he could see Damien in a similar predicament over the third barrel, Matthew and Benedict’s assistant lashing him in place, securing his dangling feet to brackets welded to the metal bands that encircled the thick oak slats.

Twisting his head, Tim could see his own wrists tied in a similar way while he felt his feet being secured. He tried flexing his spine to relieve the uncomfortable backward arch, but realized that wasn’t going to be an option.

As the second rope around Damien’s left ankle was knotted into place, the bells rang. Tim counted. Twelve distinct peals. Midnight. So much for his assumption that the ordeal would be the bell tower beginning at Terce.

“These three are here strictly for punishment,” Matthew ordered. “See to it they don’t fall to chatting.”

Illumination from the torches diminished until there was only one flickering bit of light on the ceiling. All was quiet in the deep cavern. Tim fought the ropes and his position a few minutes more and then settled into the near dark to endure as best he could.

* * *

The bad part about post-midnight punishment was the absence of time. In mercy to the bellmen and the monks who actually got to sleep at night, there was no sixteen note song, no chiming of the fifteen minute intervals, only the toll of a solitary bell at the hour. According to his spine, Tim had been bent backward over the barrel for several hours, but in truth it had been less than one. Or else the bellman had fallen asleep.

His back truly did hurt. Plus wine had a tendency to treat him badly, and he was well aware he hadn’t had the usual ibuprofen and copious amounts of water afterward that made drinking the stuff tolerable. So a needling pain pulsed in his right temple, and having all the blood rushing down to his head didn’t help. Meanwhile, his cock pumped and deflated, pumped and deflated in the cool, damp, dark, the blood fighting its way up from his dangling legs and suspended torso only to have gravity drag it back down again.

Think of other things. He thought of Damien. What must his life have been like, living free in Tahiti? Since it was the family business, did he know about slaves and submissives from birth, or had he been kept innocent from all that? Did he just assume everyone grew up with scores of devoted . . . servants? He seemed well-educated — the school he’d mentioned in Switzerland, for example — and now that Tim thought about it, his English was more cultured European than American, with the slightest lilt behind it, the voice, perhaps, of the islands.

Was Tim still attracted to Damien? Was he still breathing? The man was purely beautiful and, in spite of the promise of those bedroom eyes, he had a kind of childlike innocence, the pleasure he took in simple things like food or freeing his long legs from the scratchy fabric of his robe. And there was a deepness too, a sadness, a vulnerability. He was the whole package, completely irresistible.

Ring, you stupid bell. Come on. Tim twisted against the rough slats of the barrel. For the bell tower, it had been six hours. But surely they wouldn’t, couldn’t, keep them like this all night, a full six hours until the bells at Prime?

* * *

Horizon F/X - Chapter 36 - Wine

2011-10-13T06:00:00.001-06:00

What a stupid fuck he was. Regret. That old hindsight thing. Having regret afterward happened so much easier than caution before.

Tim rolled to his other side on the floor. The three of them had been welted. Soundly. Then locked into their cells. Sent to bed without supper. And Tim knew what this was going to be. The bell tower. Just like after the threshing shed when he’d been caught talking with Cade and Buddy. He’d spend the night here, hungry and anxious. There would be the penal breakfast of bread and water. And then six hours enduring the torment of the bells. Already the taste of iron was in his mouth.

He should have seen it. Surely Buddy had. The whole abandoned picnic thing had been such an obvious set-up, a trap. But the moment 12 had spoken — “Here would be nice.” — they’d all been doomed. Even Buddy, who was likely facing the belfry now for the third time, had been seduced by the chance to actually talk to the mysterious 12, to Damien. With a sigh, Tim tried to find a more comfortable position for his knobby hip. His last thought before he fell hard asleep in spite of his fear? He really wished he’d filched another big hunk of bread with cheese.

* * *

“Up, 202!”

“On your knees.”

Shading his eyes against the sudden light, Tim rolled to his knees. Past the glare, it seemed black dark. And hadn’t he heard the bells for Compline not that long ago, confirming his earlier fears when neither Dominic nor Anthony came in to begin his usual period of punishment?

“Stand. Hands at the back of your neck. Outside.”

“By way of the outhouse?” Anthony suggested.

Dominic considered. “Yes. Good idea.”

* * *

Stumbling through the dark and out of breath, Tim eventually arrived at the entry to the ancient abbey wine cellar. Buddy and Damien were already there, guarded by Matthew, Benedict and his assistants.

“Since you like wine so much, we thought we would oblige you,” Matthew began, holding a torch aloft. “Get down those stairs. Hurry!”

Tim groped his way after Buddy down the steep, stone staircase, the risers more like concave troughs from decades of laboring, sandaled feet — down and up, down and back up. At the bottom, Matthew moved to the front and led them through tunnels into a wider storage room lit with more torches. Three over-large oak barrels rested on their sides in the center of the floor where they’d been blocked onto wooden frames so they couldn’t roll.

“Let’s get them up.”

* * *

Horizon F/X - Chapter 35 - Part 3

2011-10-10T06:00:00.001-06:00

“So you are . . . gay?” Damien asked, turning first to Buddy and then to Tim.

They nodded.

He smiled sadly. “Me, not so much. I know it is expected, that we must try to please anyone who . . . owns us or anyone we are offered to. But . . . ”

Tim thought of his time with Veronique. Which, of course, he couldn’t talk about. “Maybe you could think of it as poly . . . poly . . . ?”

“Polyamorous perverse?” Buddy supplied.

Tim and Damien both looked at him, surprised at this sudden erudition from a fellow . . . ditch digger.

“You know, kind of just being openly sensual about everything — gender, orientation, multiple partners, multiple . . . parts. It’s all sex. It can all feel good at some level. If you let it.”

“I hope so.” Damien still looked scared. Tentative, he touched Buddy’s arm, then Tim’s. “It all seems so intense here. Brother this and Brother that. The numbers. These robes.”

“These frigging robes,” Tim echoed.

“But it helps to know you have names. It helps to be able to talk to you like, you know, people.”

Tim reached once more for the wine bottle. Then they settled into a comfortable silence, tired from the digging, less hungry than usual, mellowed with the small amount of wine, grateful to have stumbled onto this small bubble of privacy and ease.

* * *

Was it the bells pealing out, possibly six times? Or was it Buddy’s body beside him stiffening with dread? Groggy, Tim opened his eyes to see the wine bottle lying on its side. They had chatted and drank and dozed in the dappled sunlight with sleep, obviously, winning out.

“Look at them, all curled together there. Cozy as a litter of puppies.”

Dominic’s voice. Not a good sound. Damien, too, had roused now, but they all stayed still, paralyzed with their growing fear.

“So Brother Matthew, did you instruct these three postulants to while away their afternoon with wine and napping?”

“No, Brother Dominic, I don’t recall saying anything like that.”

“And what did you say?”

“That they were to rest in the abbey recreation room until time for None.”

“I see. None which was three hours ago?

“Yes, Brother Dominic.

“You’d think, given the circumstances, these postulants would be on their knees.”

“You would think it.”

Tim scrambled to obey, handicapped by his left leg that was asleep and the fact that Damien was still sprawled on top of him. Hastily, he rolled his sleeves back down, clutched his hands to his chest, and then lowered his forehead to the dirt, a full second behind Buddy and two seconds behind Damien.

“Well, Brother Matthew, I believe 47 is the senior postulant here, so it is up to you to decide how you want to deal with this. Do you have a preference?”

“I have some ideas.”

“Very well then. Let us proceed.”

Horizon F/X - Chapter 35 - Part 2

2011-10-06T06:00:00.001-06:00

One thing had led to another. The food was really, really good. And they were tired. It seemed stupid to stand like cattle. And so the three of them had sprawled out in the small, open area, leaning back against a moss-softened log. After a bit of competitive maneuvering on the part of Buddy and Tim, they’d ended up side by side by side with Damien in the middle. The pesto and cheese were salty, and they had no water. It didn’t seem that bad to have a sip or two of the wine to ease their thirst.

Tim rolled up his sleeves and pulled his robe above his knees.

Damien immediately followed suit. “Really itchy,” he murmured.

“Do you . . . do you mind if I ask your . . . nationality?”

Damien smiled. “Mutt. A bit of everything.”

Tim leaned toward him.

“Tahitian. Dutch. Long ago encounter with a Portuguese sailor. Possibly some French. And you?”

“Mutt,” Tim repeated, fascinated by what he’d heard. “Heavy on dull northern Europeans, Polish mostly.”

“And you, Buddy?” Damien asked.

“English.”

“And . . . ?” Tim prodded him.

“Just English.”

“No way.”

“Way.” Buddy cleared his throat, unexpectedly switching to Cade’s broad Massachusetts cadences. “You know those southern hill billies. All inbred.”

Tim laughed, surprised to be learning new things about Buddy. But immediately he turned back to Damien.

“So where did you live?”

“I come from a very large family, quite extended. We have several . . . homes.”

Tim relished that pause. He was sure Damien had started to say mansions. “In?”

“I lived mostly in Tahiti. A couple of years in Switzerland for school.”

“Do you miss it? Tahiti?”

“Oh yes.” Damien pulled his robe higher, bunching it around his upper thighs. “Everything was a lot . . . freer there. More open. More relaxed.”

Tim nodded. “I don’t think any of us expected to end up here.”

“Living like this,” Buddy added, folding his hands and trying to look pious.

They all laughed, then had had another swig of wine, Tim wishing they could just stay here like this forever.

* * *

Horizon F/X - Chapter 35 - Picnic

2011-10-03T06:00:00.001-06:00

“Good work, postulants,” said Matthew, though he only looked at 12.

With Benedict, Dominic and Anthony strangely unaccounted for, Matthew alone had come back to supervise the three of them after dinner. And what were they doing? Digging irrigation trenches. Because, of course, the abbey wouldn’t want anyone to pass through here without having experienced every one of the harshest, dirtiest, most demeaning jobs on the planet. Digging ditches. Tim remembered the struggle to find summer jobs in high school, the paperwork exhaustion of applying to colleges, the jokes with his friends about which of them would end up as a ditch digger. And now he knew. It was him.

“I know it’s early,” Matthew continued, “but you may go back to the recreation room and rest there until None.”

“Thank you, Brother Matthew,” they chorused meekly.

When Matthew made no move to accompany them, Buddy quickly shouldered his shovel and led the way off toward the trees, maybe afraid Matthew would come to his senses. Postulants were never allowed even this modicum of freedom or trust, to haul ass, unsupervised, back to the abbey.

* * *

Buddy stopped dead in his tracks. Predictable as the Three Stooges, Tim ran into him and 12 ran into Tim, their shovels clanking in the quiet shade of the small grove.

“What’s this?” Buddy asked, while Tim peered around his left shoulder and 12 around his right.

They’d stumbled upon the scene of someone’s afternoon delight. Hastily abandoned delight. Blanket, picnic basket, bottle of wine, heady scent of cheese, strawberries, bread.

Tim stepped past Buddy to investigate. “Do you think this was the monks?” he asked, poking at the basket with his foot. Glancing quickly around, he picked up the bottle to study the label. “Not abbey wine. And this jar of pesto. That must have come from . . . ”

Buddy jabbed him in the ribs. “We shouldn’t be doing this,” he said, inclining his head toward 12 who stood frozen, eyeing the food with the rapturous gaze of those new to abbey discipline.

Tim bit his lip, remembering nearly too late that they weren’t allowed to tell 12 about anything . . . outside.

“Brother Matthew told us to go back to the rec room.”

“Yes, but . . . ”

“He trusted us,” Buddy protested, obviously taking his position as senior postulant way more seriously than Cade ever had.

“But he told us we were supposed to rest. What’s the difference if we rest here or there?”

“Here would be nice,” 12 ventured in a husky voice.

Tim and Buddy exchanged glances. And instantly knew they were goners. Back at the abbey, they’d probably have to sit in silence staring at each other, but here and free, they’d finally have a chance to talk to 12.

“Just for a few minutes, Buddy,” Tim pleaded. “Who would notice? Who would care?”

“Your name is . . . Buddy?” 12 asked with a shy smile, clearly relieved that his numbered brethren actually had names.

Buddy looked anxiously around once more, conflicted, but then leaned his shovel against a tree and stretched out his hand to 12. “Yes. Buddy Sheffield.”

12 shook his hand, clearly hungry for human contact.

“And I’m Tim! Tim Hughes.” Tim smiled widely as 12 gripped his hand. Screw Buddy. Screw the rec room. He was planning to take every advantage he could wring from this opportunity. “And you’re . . . ?”

“Damien.”

“Of course he is,” Buddy breathed.

“What do you mean?” Tim asked.

“You think he’d be called Ralph?” Buddy hissed. “Or . . . Festus?”

Embarrassed, Tim turned back to 12 . . . to Damien.

“Damien Van Esserling,” he finished.

Tim felt a jolt inside. So the gossip he’d heard while hidden in the kitchen fireplace was true. Damien really could be part of the famous dom family, the Van Esserlings.

Damien was surveying the scattered food on the blanket. “Do you think we could? Just a little?”

Buddy started to shake his head no, but Tim stepped in front of him. “Sure. Whoever was here seems to have run off.” Boldly he grabbed a piece of bread, dipped his finger in the pesto and smeared it generously on the slice. Damien immediately followed his example. The two of them took their first bite and mirrored gustatory joy. The bread was soft with not a whole grain in sight — definitely not abbey bread, at least not any abbey bread they’d ever been allowed to eat. With a sigh of resignation, Buddy reached for a strawberry — forbidden fruit.

* * *

Horizon F/X - Chapter 34 - Part 6

2011-09-29T06:00:00.001-06:00

Theodore started gently enough, running his hands up and down Tim’s inner thighs, teasing his hole, toying with every inch of flesh except Tim’s ravenous, bulging genitals. Gripping the sides of the board, gazing up past his chained belly, Tim could see Theodore’s laughing, teasing face along with 12’s face in profile. Beyond 12 was Buddy, head hanging off the end of the board, straining to reach and service Raphael.

“12, place your hand on 202,” Benedict ordered. “Feel what he feels.” He wedged himself in between 12 and Tim. “No, no. Careful not to touch this one’s dick. He is not allowed to come. Slide your hand underneath, like this. Press down into his belly. Be ready.”

Tim shuddered and bucked. Theodore was ever closer to entering, and this was the first time he’d been touched by 12, short of brushing hands in the exchange of serving dishes at mealtime. He felt his face go all red and twisted with desire. As Benedict forced 12 to splay out his fingers and push down, Tim tried to sense if he felt pressure in six distinct places. It was kinky and bizarrely hot. He bucked again on the teeter totter so that Theodore almost lost his grip, the only thing keeping Tim from falling helplessly backward and bashing his head into the ground.

“Now the other one. Place your hand along 47’s throat. As we progress, feel what he is doing; feel what is done to him.”

* * *

Tim was a mess. Given the ravening state of his body, his time with Veronique could have been weeks ago. Add to that his desire to please Theodore and give him a good ride. Plus the burning touch of 12’s hand, pushed back down and in place by Benedict each time he pulled it away, maybe frightened by the meaty invasion of Theodore’s shaft or the rippling contractions in Tim’s gut as he both fought it and wanted it in deeper.

Head hanging down, dizzy with the constant shifting of the board, Tim couldn’t hold himself careful, but thrashed around, grinding the chain in deeper, his legs feeling grotesquely long and in the way, waving wildly. Once he even smacked 12 in the side of the head. But Theodore was really going at it now and Tim was grunting loudly in rhythm. Frantically he yanked against his cuffed wrists, desperate to reach his cock, to have someone grab it, to find something to rub against.

Past 12, Buddy was slurping and gagging and slurping again, also pulling at his wrists, dying to touch the beautiful Raphael, to hold the man’s magnificent cock and direct it, give himself an occasional moment to breathe. He too was thrashing along the board that held him, with poor 12 chained helplessly in between, wrenched this way and that, forced to watch and feel, Benedict approaching again and again like some connoisseur of fucking, explaining the finer points to 12 while Theodore and Tim, Raphael and Buddy, banged their way into oblivion.

In one of the last conscious moments left to him, Tim wondered if 12 could feel it, the erotic jolt traveling through the chain from both sides, the gut crunching pain and shuddering ecstasy that enmeshed them and made the three of them, the five of them, one.

* * *

Now monks were going at Tim fore and aft. Torches flickered around the yard. At some point, probably when Benedict realized the affair was fast descending into the usual monastic sinkhole of debauchery, 12 had been unchained from them and led away, but he and Buddy were still bound to the moving boards by wrists and bellies, tilted up or down to provide the best angle and service. Monks would play with him, watching his face, and then pull their mouths or hands away before he could come. Even with his mouth full of cock and someone ramming him below, he’d find himself yelling, pleading, begging for release. Just like all the other times, he was sure this had to be the worst, the most excruciating, the most delicious but unbearable of torments. And then Theodore’s arching cock was at his mouth, and Tim tried to control himself, tried again to give him proper thanks, the best blow job in history.

* * *

He was lying on the ground, belly unchained, flipped around, his left wrist still secured to the board. At some point he’d finally exploded, come so hard and desperately he couldn’t even remember. He simply found himself now, sprawled into a pile, an exhausted, reamed out, exultant slab of postulant meat. Too bad for 12 if he didn’t like this. Too bad if he’d missed out. Tim was suddenly happy to be himself, just 202 with shitty technique, a red-faced grunter who loved cock and doubted he could ever get too much of it.

Horizon F/X - Chapter 34 - Part 5

2011-09-26T06:00:00.001-06:00

Several monks were now assembling the “playground equipment” around the three of them. Tim, still adjusting to the tightness of the chain, watched as a metal structure with support legs was bolted together. Two semicircles were joined just below the chain at 12’s waist so that he was suddenly standing inside a circle of steel. Thick rods jutted inward from either side of the legged structures, one behind Tim’s back, the other behind Buddy’s, and then all kinds of complex connections were made to that central ring.

Then they were pushing Tim forward until they’d managed to wedge a thick board between his back and the rod. He could feel them attaching it to the rod at the same time someone else lifted his arms to lock his cuffed wrists to brackets on either side of the board near his shoulders.

“Sorry,” he whispered as he tried to fit his right shoulder in and around 12. He couldn’t imagine what the monks could be setting him up for, but he doubted it would be comfortable or pleasant. He settled back against the vertical board as best he could. Nothing to do but wait and find out.

* * *

The blacksmith was back and Tim eyed him warily as he again circled them, this time banging his fist against the metal structure, tugging at support legs.

“You’re good to go,” he said and immediately walked off again.

Now Anthony was standing beside Tim, checking the tightness of the chain and the position of his wrists. Leaning on his staff, Dominic stood gazing back at Tim with malicious anticipation from his place at the east side of the platform. Glancing over, Tim saw Matthew at Buddy’s side.

Suddenly both Anthony and Matthew pulled out long metal pins from behind Tim and Buddy, then held them up in much the same, sinister way guys in movies held up the pins of hand grenades before tossing them into the laps of the enemy.

“Uh oh,” Tim muttered, getting a very bad feeling about this. Like the coyote in the cartoon, he stood suspended for a moment over the abyss and then fell backward, helplessly bound against the board, legs flailing.

“Catch ’em!” Dominic yelled.

Tim jarred to a stop, hanging slantways from his chained belly, back of his head only inches above the dirt. He found himself looking up into the laughing eyes of Brother Theodore who gripped the upper end of the board.

“Teeter totter!” Dominic called out like a kid.

And as Tim was tilted up and then back down, up and back down, he began to understand. While 12 remained upright inside his metal circle, both Tim and Buddy had been affixed to the short, narrow boards that now rotated freely on the central rod, held there only by their wrists and the stabilizing chain that linked all three of them together. The top end of the board ended at Tim’s shoulders where his wrists were cuffed, the bottom edge just below his chained waist, with his cock listing at half-mast and legs dangling awkwardly.

* * *

Dizzy from being teeter-tottered by various monks gazing down at him from either end of the board, Tim realized they were moving into the next segment of the game. What was his clue? Probably the fact that Theodore was lubing his ass. He glanced over and saw someone, the delectable Brother Raphael, pulling off his robe while he eyed Buddy while Buddy, with mingled dread and hope, glanced shyly back at him.

12 twisted slightly, forcing the links of the wrapped chain even deeper into Tim’s gut. He looked apprehensive, facing front, able to see Buddy’s torso and head to his right, Tim’s belly and splayed out legs to his left. And Tim had a moment of rebellion. What was he, chopped liver? In this little demonstration arranged for their new, possibly straight postulant, Buddy got to suck off the delectable Raphael, showing off his technique, while Tim was only an anonymous hole to be filled and pounded? If 12 even wanted to see Tim’s face, he’d have to twist awkwardly to peer over his left shoulder.

“Begin,” Brother Benedict proclaimed, dressed now in a clean robe, stretching out his arms like a master of ceremonies.

* * *

Horizon F/X - Chapter 34 - Part 4

2011-09-22T06:00:00.001-06:00

12 stood again at the center of the cleared area with Benedict circling him. He stood as beautifully and humbly as possible, trying to suppress and then displaying the dread he felt at what was to come next. How much more?

With a cruel smile, Benedict stood next to 12 and held his chin so he couldn’t duck his head or hide his expression. “Now do the cat for us.”

For the first time, 12 blushed, dark blotches of color appearing along his cheekbones.

“As you’ve been taught. Proceed.”

12 hesitated. He looked truly anguished, far more than he had near the end of the beating when he was barely holding on.

Benedict didn’t speak, only raised one eyebrow.

With a last look of shuddering humiliation, 12 dropped to all fours. Then, in a pantomime shocking in its perfection, he became a cat. He purred. Rubbed his body against Benedict’s legs. Preened. Groomed himself, licking the back of his hand and then pulling it through his sweat-dampened curls. Paraded slowly across the open area in feline regality to a mound of blankets. There, he paused and rose up on his haunches to playfully bat at something in the air, head cocked, buttocks quivering. Disdainfully sniffing the blankets, he minced around the edge of the pile, plumping it up for himself before finally deigning to stretch himself out, graceful, bones gone liquid, big yawn, head lolling back, eyes slowly closing.

Tim couldn’t help laughing. If his hands had been free, he would have applauded. It was grotesque and perfectly executed and shockingly humiliating to see this grown man reduced to a caricature of an animal. Tim could imagine him in the gentle subjugation he might have endured at his home, commanded by a group of teasing female relatives, made to be a plaything for them.

* * *

“All right, lazy oafs. Up with you. Time you earned your keep.”

Caught by surprise, Tim scrambled to his feet beside Buddy. He’d been perfectly happy as a passive observer watching 12 being put through his paces.

“Bring out the playground equipment,” Dominic called.

* * *

“This chain’s not long enough,” Matthew complained, giving it another tug.

Tim had to agree. They’d been at this for a ridiculous length of time, a bizarre arrangement of the three of them, all standing side by side with 12 in the middle, he and 12 facing east while Buddy unaccountably faced west. The chain was supposed to link them together, snaking in circle-eight fashion around and between Buddy, then 12, then Tim and back again. They’d even dug down in the dirt below 12’s feet and had Buddy standing on a shallow fruit crate in an effort to get their waists all at the same height. Both Anthony and Matthew were still tugging at the chain, trying to join the two ends with a padlock. It was clearly impossible. The three postulants were crushed together, forced to twist their shoulders to the side.

“Where’s the belfry man?” Dominic yelled. “Get the blacksmith.”

A squat, muscular monk, his skin seemingly stained dark from decades of smoke, strolled up to them.

“This chain is too short,” Matthew repeated, giving it another tug, with Tim, 12 and Buddy all grunting in agreement.

The blacksmith circled the three of them, taking in their cramped configuration. Tim breathed out from above and below the chain cinched around his middle. Finally. Now the blacksmith would add some links to this stupid chain or, more simply, just get a longer one.

“The chain is fine,” the blacksmith declared. Without another word, he grabbed the two free ends of the chain from Matthew, planted his big, sandaled foot against Buddy’s thigh for leverage, and gave a terrific yank. Tim cried out as he heard the click of the padlock. “There you go,” the monk said. Then, flexing his massive shoulders, he simply walked off again.

* * *

Horizon F/X - Chapter 34 - Part 3

2011-09-19T06:00:00.001-06:00

This was nothing like the beating Benedict had given Cade on his last day here, that merciless pounding. Instead it was masterful, designed to give the longest possible endurance and best possible display given 12’s near virgin experience. 12 wasn’t being lashed nearly as intensely as it probably seemed to him. Instead, Benedict found other, less damaging ways to increase his suffering. He had dared to move his feet and so they must be chained into position. His anguished breath had slowly morphed into harshly suppressed cries, and so he must be gagged. He was flinching too much at the unrelenting blows, and so, link by link of the chains, his wrists were pulled higher and wider, his ankles farther and farther apart until he was stretched into a rigid plane of fear-tensed muscle, unable to move, defenseless.

And yet through all this, 12’s face stayed beautiful. He suffered so gorgeously and with such sensitivity, as though his wealthy pedigree and upbringing had truly made him more refined than any of the rest of them, to the point he felt each blow as a personal assault resonating far below mere flesh and deep into his soul, his very being.

Tim was transfixed. He knew how he looked when he was punished. His face got red. His features collapsed into an anguished scowl. He had so few emotions — fear, dread, and reaction to the pain, usually ending with silent, craven pleas for mercy. For him, the pain had always been merely a means to an end, an uncomfortable but guaranteed way to draw out the exquisite moments of arousal just before he came and then to make the actual ejaculation as prolonged and powerful as possible. The intensity of that outcome, each time he’d finally gotten through the pain to achieve it, made it very hard to go back to vanilla sex.

But he saw that for 12, the pain itself was the end. He welcomed it, surrendered to it, let himself be dragged deep inside it. Tim knew he was supposed to feel the same way. But he’d never been able to buy into the selflessness of the true submissive. He was just young. And horny. All he wanted was to get his rocks off in the most intense way possible.

Maybe it was because of the way he was raised, who he was and where he came from. Because his parents were ordinary and, truth to tell, a bit nerdy. Like him, they hadn’t skated through life on an easy track of popularity or looks or money. They’d had to work for what they had and, consequently, were wary of those higher up and with more power. Resentful. No way would they suck up to the elites or let themselves be conned. What could he say? They were proud, self-sufficient, Emersonian liberals. They didn’t believe in hierarchy or subjugation. And so, neither did he, well, except for sex.

Still, he knew there was this higher, noble calling in BDSM life, and sometimes even in real life. Maybe he was simply too young, not ready yet, not “blossoming” as early as his fellow postulant, 12. Maybe selflessness would come when he was older, when he had a true master, or when he found a husband and they, possibly, had children. Then maybe he could do the unselfish thing of giving himself over entirely. Maybe.

* * *

The beating seemed almost over. Even Benedict was tiring. More and more, 12 simply hung from his wrists, his head lolling back, his voice hoarse with crying out past the gag. After every few blows, Benedict would rouse him, force him again to show his ravaged face to the watching monks. And 12 would try to obey, and still the emotions would play across his sweating, tear-stained features — a reverence for Benedict, continued gratitude for this suffering, acceptance that this was all he could know, this pain that went on and on and which he must stay open to, forcing himself to feel it, riding some kind of dark wave at his own nothingness.

* * *

A time of recovery, the assistants cleaning 12 up and letting him rest, while everyone else milled around, nibbling on fruit and cheese and nuts brought out by some of the kitchen monks. Theodore, with a hidden wink at Tim, brought a few morsels over and fed him and Buddy, their wrists still bound behind their backs.

Tim shook his head, thinking what a strange world this was where viewers had to be fortified with food after watching a savage beating.

* * *

Horizon F/X - Chapter 34 - Part 2

2011-09-15T06:00:00.001-06:00

Benedict had moved on now to actual punishment, paddling, and then a mild form of frontal abradement.

Twelve blows of the paddle, and each time 12 immediately stuck his reddening chest back out, forcing his pecs to relax so they would be more vulnerable, offering himself to receive whatever level of pain Benedict wanted to inflict.

A nasty little slapper going after his nipples.

“Eyes open. Watch me strike.”

12’s face, rather than going red, actually seemed to lose color the more he was hurting or the deeper the embarrassment he felt. It was attractive, delicate, that paleness in his dark face, as his shoulders clenched and he gazed into Benedict’s eyes with something like love, as though willing the stiff leather to come at him again and again if it would bring more pleasure to his master.

Then the little penis whip Tim hated so much, and the ball whacker he hated even more. Benedict was surprisingly gentle and Tim guessed this must be new for 12. It was obviously plenty intense for him. Still, even as he bit his lip fiercely and tears began to slide past his clenched eyelids, at each pause in the punishment he would take only a moment to try to recover and then bravely thrust his pelvis forward again, force his legs wide once more, expose himself fully.

“Hah!” Dominic blurted as his staff came forward to poke Tim in the back. “Open,” he hissed.

Tim bowed his head, both embarrassed and ashamed. He’d had no idea this is what they’d expected, this inhumanly perfect level of submission.

“And now you must be beaten,” Benedict went on. “Severely. You will accept the blows and you will not cry out and you will remain upright until I have determined the punishment is sufficient. Do you understand?”

The barest nod of 12’s head as a single tear slid down one cheek.

“Prepare him.”

* * *

The pillory was dragged into position nearly perpendicular to the watching monks, and the assistants quickly linked 12’s cuffed wrists to chains hanging down from the horizontal bar. Short of a rotating platform, this placement would afford the monks the best view, able to see Benedict’s fearsome technique as well as the resulting blow in profile.

Tim glanced down into his lap to see his prick thrusting up at him. Benedict hadn’t even started yet and already he was at full mast, so turned on by the helpless beauty of 12 displayed in front of them all, the muscles in his back and shoulders jumping in anxious dread at what was to come, his own uncut shaft bulging and very dark against his dark skin.

Benedict approached carrying a thick flogger. “Kiss it,” he said, holding the leather grip to 12’s lips. Then he dangled the grouped strands against 12’s face and dragged them over and around his tensed body. He kicked 12’s feet slightly wider, increasing the pull on his arms. “Do not move,” he threatened. Then, using the handle, he turned 12’s face. “Eyes open. Let them see your suffering.”

* * *

The blows rang out, slow, measured, solid leather against flesh. Overwhelmed, Tim would look away and just as quickly be drawn back. He flinched at each blow, knowing too well what it would feel like in his own body. The thudding blows were actually easier to take than those from the thinner, lighter scourges that stung, but there was something about that sound of the solid, pounding impact against his flesh that always wore him down psychologically. Soon Tim was lost in that aural symphony — the rhythmic blows, the grunt of exertion each time Benedict struck, the sympathetic gasps of the monks around him.

At the center of it all was 12’s face. It was a symphony, too, of emotion — fear, shame, fulfillment, anguish, determination, obedience. Though his other features became increasingly strained, his eyes stayed beautiful, liquid and open, present to each sensation and every feeling that passed through them.

* * *

Horizon F/X - Chapter 34 - Lesson

2011-09-12T06:00:00.001-06:00

“Watch and learn, boys,” said Matthew. “Watch and learn.”

Naked, wrists clipped behind their backs so they couldn’t touch anything forbidden, Tim and Buddy were seated on the ground at the base of a small knoll facing the rear wall of the monastery proper. Behind them, all the other monks had gathered, some of them bringing chairs or low stools, others sprawling higher up on the hill. The heat wave had given way to lovely, balmy weather, and the gathering had the feel of a weekend afternoon picnic with the flat area between the hill and the outer wall turned into a small, makeshift version of the arena.

Dominic, nursing an inexplicable groin injury from their day at the market, poked at Tim for emphasis with the staff he was using to get around, and then limped off after Anthony and Matthew to find a place to sit.

Tim looked at Buddy and Buddy gazed back at him as preparations continued, other monks dragging equipment into place, one of Benedict’s assistants carefully laying out various implements on a wooden table. Benedict’s presence boded well. Perhaps this was going to be another chance to see the illusive 12, as Benedict had largely been keeping him hidden away. It was only this morning that 12 had finally been allowed to join Tim and Buddy on their shared bench at the bottom of the long table. Tim had rather liked the arrangement, seated between the two of them, with Buddy on one side and 12, now in Tim’s former position on the other, lowest of the low. The closeness of 12 at breakfast and at dinner, the subtle, spicy scent of him, had even distracted Tim from his usual single-minded focus on eating.

* * *

Finally, 12 was led out from the back door of the monastery, head down, broad hands clasped in proper monk-like fashion to his chest with no effort to hide or disguise the number of fingers. The other assistant followed and then Benedict, striding grandly behind them all.

The first assistant, gripping 12’s arm, stopped him in the very center of the open space. A wisp of a breeze flowed past 12’s naked form and he shivered at its touch.

Slowly, Benedict circled 12. “You have been woefully inadequate,” he said, “and that is why you have been singled out this afternoon for public punishment. Do you understand?”

In one fluid movement, 12 sank to his knees and then pressed his forehead to the ground.

“Lift his head. Let me see.”

Bending, the assistant pulled 12 upright by his dark curly hair, cupping his hand under the young man’s chin.

12’s face was a perfection of shame and contrition, his eyes wide and filmed with tears. Though his lips remained compressed, he seemed to be saying: I am nothing. Do with me as you will.

“Let us begin, shall we, with a demonstration of what you have learned and what you know.”

12 didn’t fall into the trap of answering or even nodding his head. He simply remained kneeling, his face clearly expressing his desire to please Benedict in every way.

* * *

Tim watched as Benedict took 12 through a series of the most common commands and punishments.

“Stand.”

12 rose gracefully to his feet, spine straight, hands clasped as before over his chest, eyes down.

“Kneel.”

Again that fluid movement to his knees.

“Stand. More slowly. More . . . seductive.”

This time 12 made each movement deliberate, emphasizing the way the muscles bunched as he contracted his thighs, tightening his abs in rippling progression as he stood, glancing up briefly, shyly, through thick lashes before demurely casting his eyes down.

“Present chest.”

Immediately, he clenched his arms behind the small of his back, thrusting out his chest.

“Another way. For punishment.”

He literally fell to his knees and then bent backward, gripping his ankles behind him, thrusting up with his chest and holding himself in that painful arched position.

“Buttocks.”

He leapt to his feet, turned with his back to Benedict and bent forward, again grasping his ankles. Then he spread his legs as wide as he could at the same time trying to keep them straight, his thighs quivering with the effort.

Tim watched him. 12 was like a gymnast, superbly trained. But it wasn’t just his flexibility. It was his whole attitude, the eagerness with which he obeyed, his total commitment to getting it right. Tim thought of his own reluctant, clumsy efforts and blushed. Maybe Dominic and Anthony, in their relentless criticism of his performance, weren’t being so unfair after all.

* * *

Horizon F/X - Chapter 33 - Part 7

2011-09-08T06:00:00.001-06:00

They didn’t paddle him. Instead they chained him up in Veronique’s place while she was secured kneeling on the table in the monk’s stand. Just as they’d done to Tim, the master sat with his own cashbox and took the money while customer after customer lined up to pound her generous ass. He stopped occasionally to oil her up, not wanting her badly marked, and each time he would pull her damp hair away from her face and murmur, “You know you deserve this, Veronique. You hardly even tried to hold out. You shame me and my training.”

Then he would hand the paddle to the next person, while the audience readied itself to count out the blows.

Standing, Tim was sundered with pity for her. He understood better now. This wasn’t his great triumph after all. The whole thing had to have been a setup, a predetermined punishment for Veronique. He’d been granted far too many advantages, while she hadn’t been given the slightest concession.

She was still trembling just as he was, the enormity of his own release making his legs weak, his body swaying languidly as he savored that wonderful relaxed hollow place inside. Several times she collapsed onto the table, but her master would force her back to her hands and knees, force her to present herself well, pushing her butt out toward the punishment even as her arms shook and her back went rigid with fear of the oncoming blow.

* * *

Standing, naked still and tied by his wrists to the back of the cart. Since he hadn’t kept himself from coming and hadn’t been beaten this time, they were going to make him walk all the way back to the abbey. No mercy for monks. On the other hand, after the paddling, he’d watched Veronique’s master wrap her in a blanket against the gathering evening chill and help her limp over to his carriage where he settled her on the floor beneath his feet. Still, how could Tim begrudge her that, a mere ride home after all she’d been through?

Dominic sauntered up to the cart, reeking of celebratory ale. “You know, I’m going to finish up a few things here. I’ll walk or catch a ride back later.”

“You’re sure?” Anthony asked.

“I’m sure. I’ll be fine.”

“Would you mind throwing 202 in then? We’ll make better time if we don’t have to drag him along.”

“You got it!” Cheerful and drunk, Dominic shoved a crate and a couple of baskets out of the way, untied the rope that lashed Tim’s linked wrists to the cart, and actually scooped him up and tossed him inside. Immediately the cart jolted forward, as Tim struggled to make a bit more space for himself with fewer sharp edges jutting into his flesh.

Then he let the vibration of the wheels against the paved track take over. He sighed. All in all, if he didn’t think too much about the carrot or Flint, not such a bad day at that. The male horses. Cheeseburger. Shooting. No paddling. A lift home. Let Buddy try to top that.

Horizon F/X - Chapter 33 - Part 6

2011-09-05T06:00:00.002-06:00

“Unfair,” the woman called again as Veronique bucked and protested past the gag.

But her master ignored her, shoving a big dildo into her vagina and locking it in place. Suggestively, he traced a finger around her nether hole. “This will make a better fit for you,” he whispered and Tim could almost see him wondering if he needed to draw a diagram.

But Tim nodded. He knew what to do now. He could take it from here.

While she continued to twist and sway below her chained wrists, he rolled a conveniently supplied condom onto his newly eager member and slathered lube along its surface, then worked her hole. He shivered a little in anticipation. Filled up by the dildo, she was tight, really tight. This was going to be a good ride.

Enough with the foreplay. Bracing himself against the wooden floor, he locked one forearm across her waist and half lifted, half guided her down onto his cock. She fought him and groaned loudly, but he didn’t relent. Her master was a big, solid man and, judging by the cut of his breeches, she was used to much more than Tim would be able to give her.

This was better, much better. He simply hadn’t been able to work up the courage to plunge into that wet, gaping chasm in front. He’d felt like he’d get lost in there. But this channel was more familiar, even though he was startled each time he rammed forward at the softness of her butt. He was used to the impact of his own pelvis pounding against the tight gluts of the man in front of him and missed that solid contact.

He was pumping her good now and he knew this was going to work. She was a slave after all. Taking it up the ass would be far more uncomfortable and more humiliating for her than some vanilla missionary thing.

With his rhythm established, he kept his arm locked around her waist to keep her shoved tight against him but then began groping her in the front with his other hand. He was getting more comfortable with this. He thought of her juice as pre-cum and the little nub as the tiniest penis he’d ever encountered. It was oddly deformed though, cruelly tied down underneath by more of those fluttering membranes, the mysterious flaps and folds and tentacles of her sex. Still, he tried to make his big fingers sensitive to the shape and feel of it and tried to mimic the things he liked having done to his.

By the way she thrashed and cried out, he knew he was clumsy and bumbling, but he thought that might be good, too. It was the way of submissives. No smooth lover for Veronique like some gauzy romance novel, but an utter klutz, unskilled and too focused on his own selfish needs to care much for hers.

So he kept at it and suddenly he was caught up in his own pleasure. The rules said he was supposed to make her come, but it seemed like the only way that was going to happen was for him to pump her into oblivion.

Someone, her master, stepped up into the wagon and released her gag. Instantly she was screaming, and then her voice went low and guttural, almost like a man’s, groaning out in rhythm with his thrusts. He forgot she was a woman, forgot this might be too rough for her, forgot everything except the way his shaft slid in and out of her, the rippling contractions of her channel against his hard flesh, the alien solidity of the dildo intruding into her tight tunnel, his frantic digging for the magic place, the special button that would finally release her and send them both over the top.

And there it was. He squeezed the tip of her little bud, rolling it between his fingers. She screamed and then went rigid against him, legs swinging wide, hanging from her wrists, grunting as he continued to pump into her while a hot gush of fluid covered his hand. She was shaking wildly even as he slid into that final intense rhythm, his pelvis pounding into her until he came, too. Quickly, he struggled to pull out, got the condom off and squeezed himself empty, the last of his jism spattering against her back so hard he had to hold onto her to keep from falling.

“Fuck!” he shouted triumphant as she finally collapsed back against him and they stood together, both still shaking uncontrollably. “Fuck, yeah,” he whispered and pressed his lips to the top of her head while gratitude coursed through him. So he blew the rules. So he’d come. So what? They could paddle him all they wanted. This was worth it.

* * *

Horizon F/X - Chapter 33 - Part 5

2011-09-01T06:00:00.001-06:00

Again, Tim sank back on his heels, mortified. But how was he to know how Veronique’s . . . parts worked? People were just gay now. You didn’t waste years or decades trying to make it work with the opposite sex. From high school on, he’d just done boys, the same way straights had always gone through puberty, going directly to the gender that turned them on with no thought of “experimenting” to be sure.

He should have had sisters. He knew nothing. He’d expected women to be pristine somehow, delicate and dry, with none of the sweating, drooling, greasy, cum-drenched, delightful nastiness of men.

Also he’d been thinking vagina as similar to butthole, and he knew too well the thin, stingy liquid allotted there. Butts were dry and required massive amounts of lube. They didn’t spurt out liquid like gushers of oil. Veronique was going to defeat him yet again.

* * *

“Unfair,” a woman’s voice came from the crowd, but Tim ignored her. For whatever reason, both Dominic and Veronique’s owner seemed to want him to win. After the self-lubricating debacle, they’d clipped his wrists in front so he was able to move and manipulate her more easily. She wasn’t stretched tight as he so often was, and he soon realized he could arch her forward, making her breasts and mound jut out, or he could pull her back, half bent over, her dual openings readily available. He toyed with her that way, front and back and front again for quite a while.

Soon they unclipped his wrists altogether so he could be everywhere at once against her body — kneading one nipple and then the other between his fingers, swirling a thumb into her belly button, playing with her rosebud ass, groping his way inside her caverns and folds. His hands seemed to feel her come multiple times, her full body clenching desperately as she both tried to avoid his touch and pushed against him. But apparently this still wasn’t enough and he was running out of things to try.

“She’s been well used,” her master volunteered finally. “Suppose we make a more familiar place for him?”

“If you wish,” Dominic agreed, feigning indifference.

* * *

Horizon F/X - Chapter 33 - Part 4

2011-08-29T06:00:00.002-06:00

Had to be done. Maybe she didn’t even do anal or like it. Licking, kissing, nibbling, he worked his way around until he was kneeling in front of her. Except there was nothing there. She was shaved, but all he could really see was the curve of her pubis disappearing down between the curves of her thighs. He knew there was that little button in there, the clitoris along with other . . . stuff, but he didn’t know how to get to it. He tried to think of himself rooting around in there with his tongue and got stuck. Past a few tentative swipes across her shaved mound, he couldn’t make himself proceed.

The crowd was again growing restless and he could feel he was losing the heat he’d managed to build up in her. His ineptitude coupled with her determination not to be seduced — hardly a recipe for sexual fireworks.

Out of nowhere, a memory came to save him. It was Cade, Cade chained in that upper room. Instead of just attacking Tim as Tim longed for him to do, Cade had done the exact opposite.

Hoping that same tactic might work here, Tim opened his mouth and simply breathed on the area all around her crotch — pubis, upper thighs and that hidden, secret crevice. Expecting assault, she pulled in a sharp breath, taken by surprise and obviously moved by such a minimalist approach.

Tim kept at it, bathing her hidden genitals with the warmth of his breath, then pursing his lips and blowing against the tip of something that was just peeking out from the folds.

Obviously used to roughness, programmed for it, she began to writhe, trying to make contact with him, to rub against him, the exact same way he spent an inordinate amount of time longing for that contact and friction that would finally set him free.

But he thwarted her. He pulled back every time and then came at her again with the softness of his breath.

It was killing her. It was making her crazy. She was humping the air now, fighting against the chains, straining to get close to him.

Then he had her. He blew again onto that emerging, reddened tip and then flicked it ever so lightly with his tongue. And she exploded. Just like that. Long primed to come, she continued to hump the open air, her whole body racked with the shuddering contractions of her muscles, a desperate wail pushing past the gag.

Tim sat back on his heels and watched. Hah! Women were easy. A piece of cake. He’d barely broken a sweat.

But before he could settle fully into his smug triumph, Dominic was there beside the wagon. He gripped Tim’s chin. “Have you ever heard the term ‘multiple orgasm’?”

Unsure, Tim nodded.

“This is nothing,” Dominic said, turning to survey Veronique who hung, gasping, from her wrists. “She’s barely getting warmed up. You have to do way more than this. You have to destroy her. You have to hump her dry.”

Tim sat back on his ass, hating his own arrogance. He didn’t have a chance.

* * *

Nothing for it but to dive in. Like how many ejaculations had he experienced in his lifetime without someone or something touching his dick? So how could he possibly expect Veronique to get off if he didn’t touch her, even though her set point seemed considerably lower than his?

Again he knelt to faced the unknown canyon of her anatomy. With his hands still clipped behind his back, his only choice was mouth and tongue, so he parted the “petals” he’d read so much about and began exploring. Warm, syrupy liquid flowed out onto his lips and face. He sprang back. No. The worst. She was having her period. Horrified, he rubbed his face and mouth against her thigh. But there was no blood there, just the shine of a clear but viscous fluid. He looked closer below the mound of her pubis and saw the whole area moist and luminous.

Stunned, he turned to Dominic still standing at the edge of the wagon. “Look at that,” he shouted. “She’s self-lubricating!”

Dominic covered his face with his hands. Laughter circled through the spectators. Even Veronique snorted past the gag.

* * *

Horizon F/X - Chapter 33 - Part 3

2011-08-25T06:00:00.001-06:00

They were giving them more room this time. Market slaves had pulled in a meat wagon with a raised horizontal metal pole running from front to rear, positioning it parallel to the monks’ stall in the center of the circle. Usually sides of beef were hung here as they were hauled from the butchering site to the meat locker for aging, but now Veronique found herself suspended there instead. They were fussing with her position, arms above her head and chained to the pole, feet chained apart to brackets on the wooden floor of the wagon. She was gagged and held in place for him. Now all Tim had to do was make her come.

Gagged, his own wrists locked behind his back, he circled her, his early bravado and his cock both flagging a bit. How to do this? He ogled her, trying to get turned on by her near-naked helplessness, while she gazed at him brazen, daring him to make his move. He knew she was voluptuous, seductive. Even he could see that. The scarves were cinched at just the perfect places to accentuate her lovely shoulders, her breasts, the curve in to her small waist and then the curve out to her hips.

Well, begin, he told himself, hearing the crowd getting restless. Start somewhere. So he began to rub against her, skin against skin. Just as before, he was startled by the melting softness of her flesh, by the total lack of resistance, nothing like the hairy, coarse skin he was used to. It was like rubbing up against a cloud. Or a pillow.

He could feel her heat in spite of her obvious determination to resist him. Maybe he was turning her on with the hardness of his own body, the male roughness of his skin. She’d be close to coming anyway. As was he. As were half the people in the audience. Denial here was common; release rare. He probably wouldn’t even have to do that much and she’d pop for him just as he had for her. So he continued to writhe against her, careful to avoid her most sensual areas, bringing them more alive by not touching them until he felt her begin to squirm, heard her breath coming faster against the gag.

“More,” someone shouted.

“Yeah. Give him something to work with.”

And just as they had before for Veronique, they removed Tim’s gag so he would at least have his mouth.

Which actually handicapped him a little. Freed up, he had no choice now but to actually touch her naughty bits, to overcome his own fear and his discomfort with her body. So he began. Applied himself. There was no way he was going to end up chained to the produce table again having his butt pounded raw.

Ear lobes. Those seemed innocent enough. Eyelids. The crease of her neck. All along that delicate little bone, her clavicle. The abundant softness of her breasts confused him, so he went for her nipples, bigger than he was used to, oddly suspended out in front of her instead of being seated deep into hard pecs. He licked at them, nibbled them, tried sucking them, but then slid into a grotesque sense memory of nursing his own mother and couldn’t go on. Crap. Leave it to him to have mommy flashbacks at the worst possible time.

So he moved down, tonguing in and around the diamond pattern of the tied scarves, feeling the heat and discomfort of the distended flesh on either side of the tightly cinched fabric. Searching for familiar territory, he circled around. He could rim her. She might like that. The buttocks seemed so big though, large and oval where he was used to the hard-mounded globes of a man’s butt. He’d have to bury his face in the softness of her ass cheeks, probing for that little puckery hole he knew had to be there.

Hands. He needed his hands to pull the flesh aside. He shrugged his shoulders, fighting the constriction of his cuffed wrists. Frustrated, he did the best he could with what he had, finally finding her nether hole, initially pulling back at the odd taste of it, a bit sweet. But he prodded and swirled and was gratified to feel her muscles tense, hear the rattle of chains as she started to pull against them, anxious for more contact.

* * *

Horizon F/X - Chapter 33 - Part 2

2011-08-22T06:00:00.001-06:00

Languidly dragging a last fry or two through the catsup before snaking them down into his mouth, Tim leaned back against one of the timbers of the stall. With a loud belch, he rubbed his happy and distended belly. Anthony had also brought him a beer, well, a light beer, but this was also contemporary, ice cold, not served traditional and warm from the wagon like the regular market ale.

“Look at him,” Dominic scolded. “He’s a mess. And he’s drunk.”

“He’ll be fine,” Anthony said, already mopping at Tim’s greasy face.

“Get up, 202. Clean yourself off.”

Tim obeyed, floating right up to his feet, pleased at how great he felt, dusting off the bits of straw and corn husk and onion peel clinging to his skin.

Anthony pulled a brush through Tim’s hair and then gripped his shoulders, studying him.

Tim stood, weaving a little and grinning happily back at Anthony.

“He’s too loose now,” Dominic scolded again. “He won’t even last the first round.”

“We’ll see,” Anthony said. Then he guided Tim out toward the front of the stand.

A big crowd had assembled while he was stuffing himself and, as Tim watched, a group of people directly across from him parted to reveal a woman being guided through. She was naked except for a number of colored silk scarves knotted tightly together to form a patterned harness of diamonds around her body. Head high, hips swaying, she paraded herself around the circle and Tim’s eyes narrowed. It was Veronique. He was sure of it. It was Veronique, the woman who had sucked him off and made him shoot, only to watch triumphant while he’d been paddled for what felt like hours by anyone willing to spend the money for a chance. As she minced past him, she eyed him dismissively, saying with her body she could easily vanquish him again.

Without even thinking, Tim broke away from Anthony’s grip and entered the open area in front of the stand. Enough. He’d had enough. Being dragged around all day naked. The carrot. Forced to shill for Flint. Suddenly he was Oliver Twist, and they’d made the mistake of giving him red meat. He was a man again. He could take this woman. He didn’t mean to be an asshole about it, but she was going down.

They circled each other, the crowd making space for them. He strode the perimeter proudly, head up, chest out, and saw her surprise. He was no longer the shaky new postulant not yet through his initial ten-day trial. He was 202. He’d been tattooed and tortured and humiliated and worked until he dropped. This time he could beat her. He knew it.

The distinguished gentleman, Veronique’s owner, strode over to talk terms with Dominic. “Your boy looks ready,” he conceded.

“Rematch then?” Dominic asked, either feigning confidence in Tim or just assuming his usual salesman swagger.

“Why not? Simply reverse the situation?”

“Sounds good,” Dominic agreed, shaking his hand.

* * *

Horizon F/X - Chapter 33 - Rematch

2011-08-18T06:00:00.001-06:00

Still naked, Tim sprawled in the dirt in the back of the stall. His legs felt full of sundered rubber bands, like the muscles and ligaments would never be able to snap back to their original shape.

Meanwhile, Anthony and Dominic were arguing, something Tim had never seen before.

“Shameful. Look at him. Is he supposed to run on air? Want him to lose again?” With those final words, Anthony stalked away from the stand as Dominic watched him go.

Tim watched, too, though he was still mostly focused on whether he’d ever be able to walk again.

* * *

A wooden plate covered with a cloth napkin appeared on the ground next to him. Tim roused immediately. Remembering the wealth of tastes Dominic had gathered for him last time, he braced himself for the mouth-watering steam of exotic spices. And got nothing. But this was Anthony, not Dominic. What if —horrors — he’d only brought Tim healthy crap? Then Anthony lifted the napkin to reveal . . . a cheeseburger with French fries.

Belying his invalid status, Tim was seated upright in an instant. He looked first from Anthony and then to Dominic. Was this really for him?

“A burger?” Dominic protested. “You got him a cheeseburger?”

“He needs something solid. Not those little hors d’oeuvres things you got him last time.”

Dominic snorted and walked away.

The moment Anthony nodded his approval, Tim scooped up the burger in both hands. His teeth came together on heat and grease and a fat patty of beef sliding around in a pool of catsup and mustard. His eyes closed. He was in heaven. It was like taking a bite of home, of normalcy — a time when he was free and could have whatever he wanted, as well as a bizarre flashback to the resort — clothed, seated on the balcony, eating like a civilized human being.

* * *

Horizon F/X - Chapter 32 - Part 4

2011-08-15T06:00:00.001-06:00

Tim heard a roar and through the V of his legs saw the approaching bulk of the beer wagon. Flint’s throne-like chair was positioned just high enough that he could see over the heads of the gathering throng and he soon spotted the horses. They must have been made to parade around the entire marketplace, and only now were they making their way to the central square.

With the wagon rolling and onto the solid, packed dirt outside the corral, they were making better progress and their demeanor had changed from desperation to a kind of proud exhaustion. As they strode past, still leaning into the harness, they held their heads and chests high, the silver nipple clamps shining in the sun. The tails arched out and away from their asses, most of them quivering from the near-constant pumping of their tormented channels. The blond horse strode with them, still working the bit between his teeth, still struggling to accommodate the wide shaft, but he seemed to have taken on some of the pride of his fellows. He looked both pounded down into submission with the pain and yet newly aware of how this harsh experience could also be transcendent.

The whip continued to crack over their heads, but now it was mostly just for show, only occasionally landing on the shoulder or hip of a wavering steed. The thirsty crowd chanted and cheered as they followed the wagon around the corner.

Tim watched it go, trying to be grateful for the brief distraction. Then he slid back into his own suspended agony as the stragglers walked past, ogling his tattoo and harshly open position.

* * *

“Hey, that’s the carrot eater, isn’t it?”

Tim clenched his fists and willed himself to hold still.

“I think it is. Man, look at that little pucker hole flutter. You think he might be hungry again?”

“Maybe so. Let’s go ask the monks if we can feed him . . . it.”

Tim shifted against his bonds. In all his time of Dominic making him be open, he’d never hurt this bad or felt this disgustingly exposed. He could imagine too clearly what people walking by must be seeing — a big, obscenely stretched view of his crotch. The muscles jumped and twitched all the way up and down his inner thighs while his hole pulsed counter to that, trying to close but unable to. Worse, the pain was turning him on and he could only go a minute or two before he was humping the open air, which increased the pain and made him look even more vulgar and uncontrolled.

Flint sprawled in a comfortable chair beside him, happy to indicate the finer points of the tattoo, explain the intricacy of his bondage or apologize for his loutish behavior.

Rolling his head against the wooden back of the chair, Tim hoped for a rush at the vegetable stand. Hoped Dominic would remember him. Hoped the hapless candidate for branding would soon be dragged forward. He imagined Buddy back at the abbey — inside, comfortable, unbound, gently seducing 12 and giving him his very first experience of man sex.

* * *

After another fifteen minutes or so, his muscles cramping worse all the time, and people now nudging and poking at his hole with various vegetables — cucumbers, parsnips, corn cobs — a new group finally arrived. Tucking his chin, Tim was just able to see a woman tightly bound and trembling as she watched Tim’s torment, her eyes terrified as she took in the smoking brazier and Flint’s barbaric assortment of tools.

Flint sighed. “All right, 37. We’re going to have to let this one go.” She slapped Tim’s thigh one last time. “We had a lot of fun with you, 202. You’re welcome to visit us any time.”

Tim nodded as politely as he could, then clamped down at the intensity of the release in his muscles as 37 worked over him, undoing the bonds. Finally 37 pulled him roughly to his feet and Anthony was there to grab him, while Dominic again looped the rope around his neck. He gave it a yank as Tim tried to make his muscles work, leaning on Anthony, scuttling along behind Dominic in a loose-limbed waddle.

Horizon F/X - Chapter 32 - Part 3

2011-08-11T06:00:00.001-06:00

The back of the chair suddenly went almost flat. Immediately, 37 cuffed Tim’s right ankle and hoisted it up and out to match his left. Tim watched him through the V of his legs and wasn’t surprised when 37 conscientiously pulled the waist belt a notch or two still tighter.

Playing a spectator, Flint strolled back and forth in front of Tim. “You haven’t done this before, 37,” she conceded, with what almost sounded like gentleness coming from her. “It can be a bit tricky. So watch and learn.”

Again she slapped Tim’s inner thigh. “What is our purpose here?”

“To . . . uh, to show off your work.”

“Exactly. And a crease tattoo like this can be deucedly hard to see. These monks get fairly decent training, so this one should be able to take more stretch.”

Immediately, she shifted the chains so that Tim’s legs were pulled even wider apart.

“How did I know when to stop?”

“I’m sorry. ma’am. I don’t know.”

“Watch the upper lip. And the chest. When you see a nice sheen of sweat there, you know the ligaments are reaching their limit. You want to get him just to that point, but no farther. Understand?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Now notice how you’ve got him resting on his lower back and fat butt. But why is that necessary? What is this, a spa?”

“No, ma’am.”

“So?” She snapped her fingers at 37. “Crank him up.”

Obedient, 37 ratcheted Tim’s left leg higher into the air and then the right.

“Okay. We’ve got the waist strap nice and tight so we get this excellent pull through the thighs and hips.” Flint pushed down on Tim’s belly. “But see this. We shouldn’t see this flab here below the belt, this slack flesh. It’s tricky with the bent legs, so we use our upper thigh bands. Then you get a tighter pull between waist and thigh, plus you also open his legs up a bit more. And see the nice tugging here on either side of his asshole. Rub your finger around that.”

37 held back, but then obeyed as Tim bucked and squirmed to feel the pressure against his stretched hole.

“Mmm, nice,” said Flint. “Unfortunately, the bands may give him a bit of support, but he’s still basically hanging from his ankles, butt flapping in the breeze.” She paused. “So are we finished?”

37 hesitated. Clearly this had to be a trick question. “If you say so, ma’am,” he tried.

She slapped him, her patience used up. “Now I don’t think much of all that ballet crap, but there’s something to be said for turnout. Look what happens if we tighten up the ankle strap and tie this foot off, like so.” She wrapped a leather thong several times around Tim’s instep and twisted his foot in such a way that his thigh turned forward facing the audience more directly.

Flint worked over Tim, demonstrating, and he bit back a groan.

“Now you do the same on the right leg,” Flint ordered. She waited and then ran her hand over the taut area of flesh under the tattoo. She kept at it until Tim moaned helplessly. “There it is. That’s what we want.” She checked the tension on the right side and nodded approvingly. “Now we’ve got something.”

* * *

Horizon F/X - Chapter 32 - Part 2

2011-08-08T06:00:00.001-06:00

“Well, Brother Dominic, you old fucker,” said Flint, finishing her business with the woman and then swaggering up to Dominic and gripping his hand. “What’d you bring me today? Need another castrati for your little monk choir?”

Tim sank to his knees.

Dominic pondered. “Maybe.” He paused. “Except this one can’t really sing.”

“Oh.” She sounded disappointed.

“Actually, it’s just a checkup.”

“Checkup?” She circled around Dominic, grabbed Tim by the hair and yanked his head back. “Nope. Don’t remember this one at all.” She turned to 37. “Let’s rack him out there, 37, and see what we’ve got.”

37, still scouring away at the blood of the most recent resident/victim, turned and approached Tim just as Dominic was hoisting him back to his feet. Dominic handed the rope to 37, and 37 dragged Tim over to the chair and thrust him into the hard wooden seat with what seemed like more than sufficient violence.

But Flint clucked her tongue and glowered at 37.

Quickly, he pulled Tim from the chair and immediately slammed him back into it twice as hard. Then 37 was strapping Tim in, wrists just above his head against the chair back, thick belts buckled tight across his chest and belly.

Immediately, Flint cinched both belts tighter and then started groping Tim, checking his armpits, rubbing her callused hands over his body, trying to find her work. Shoving his legs wider apart, she finally spotted the 202 tattoo at the crease of his groin.

She smacked 37 hard. “Standard inventory tattoo. First place you should’ve looked, gotten that leg up and out for me right away.”

In his urgency to please, 37 cuffed Tim’s left ankle and then jerked the chain so hard he practically pulled Tim’s hip out of the socket.

“Let’s see how bad you monks fucked this up,” Flint growled, bending close to peer at Tim’s tattoo. “Probably have to redo it.” She grunted. Grunted again. “A bit of fading here. I see one rough edge where this imbecile probably scratched.” She paused. “All in all though, not too shabby.” She slapped Tim’s inner thigh twice for emphasis. “Damn but I’m good,” she proclaimed.

“Thank you, Flint,” said Dominic, looking relieved and just a bit cowed himself.

“Listen, you need this worthless piece of shit right now?”

Dominic considered. “I suppose not.”

“Cause I don’t have anything until a branding later this afternoon. Mind if I hang 202 out here for a while? Advertising, you know.”

“Of course not, Flint. Make him useful, if you can.”

She snorted. “Probably be a novel experience for this one.”

“Probably,” Dominic agreed.

Immediately she turned on 37. “You just going to stand there, blockhead? That’s not enough. Stretch him out proper for display.”

* * *

Horizon F/X - Chapter 32 - Display

2011-08-04T06:00:00.001-06:00

“Hey-up, there! Time for you animals to earn your keep.”

At last the attention had shifted again, though Tim still stood naked just behind Dominic. His hand kept moving to grasp his robe, even though he knew he had to wait for Dominic to notice his plight and hand it to him.

Meanwhile, the harnessed horses, including the blond, were herded toward a tarp-covered area in the center of the corral. With elaborate showmanship, the handlers pulled the tarps free, revealing a massive wagon loaded with kegs of beer and ale.

“Huzzah!” Spontaneous, the cheer came up from the crowd.

Meanwhile, the horses eyed the wagon, many of them clearly taken aback by its size and crude construction — heavy timbers with clumsy iron wheels.

Within minutes they were harnessed up to the central shaft, eight of them, two abreast. One of the handlers clambered up onto the seat and took the reins as another stood beside him uncoiling a long whip.

He cracked it over the heads of the horses, and they lunged forward in unison, even the blond. To no avail. The wagon didn’t even budge.

Again, the crack of the whip and the horses strained forward. The wagon jerked slightly. Again and again, the horses threw themselves against the weight of the load, the leather harness cutting into their straining chests, their feet digging into the ground. Finally, with the help of the remaining handlers pushing from the rear, they got the load moving and strode forward, the whip now landing on shoulders and backs and buttocks to keep the momentum going.

The owner opened the gate of the corral and the wagon lumbered slowly forward. This was nothing like the sprightly movement of the light carriage Tim had seen on his first journey to the market, but a job for Percherons. The horses continued to strain, their thick thighs bunching as they dug in step by step and hauled the wagon forward. Their breath came harsh past the metal bits. Sweat shone against their muscled flesh.

The crowd cheered again and then fell into step behind the wagon, following its stately progress to the center of the marketplace.

Dominic jerked on the rope, and Tim followed too, still naked, his shaft thrusting into the open air at the magnificence of it all, the heroic cruelty.

* * *

“37! Stupid, ignorant oaf. You know better than that.”

Tim froze, but then had to stagger on after Dominic. He knew that voice and felt his equine erection wither in fear.

“Not that one. Idiot! Not when we’re in this situation.”

Dominic dragged Tim around the corner of a stall and there was Flint, soundly slapping a hulking man at least twice her size who cowered and meekly accepted the blows. Tim watched him, guessing he must be the replacement for the scrawny and similarly cowering 81.

“Do you want this wretch to bleed out?”

Tim turned to the “wretch,” a large, pale man limp in a roughhewn wooden facsimile of Flint’s barber chair. He’d been gagged and strapped in tight from every angle, and then Tim realized he’d just had a Prince Albert inserted. Even deflated with pain, his dick was huge and bleeding profusely, forced downward by the weight of the thick metal pierced through the meaty head and circling around through his piss slit.

His apparent owner, a woman, stood nearby, holding her long skirt above the dirt of the marketplace and eyeing her bleeding slave with a pleased coldness.

Swallowing down bits of carrot that kept surging back up his throat, lowering his head as far as possible in the hope of not passing out, Tim stood and swayed.

* * *

Horizon F/X - Chapter 31 - Part 7

2011-08-01T06:00:00.002-06:00

After all this time, Tim thought the carrot would immediately pop out. Certainly, he would be more than happy to be rid of the thing, but the vegetable seemed to have dried into his channel. It stayed stubbornly in place, the thongs and rawhide dangling down from its nailed base. Embarrassed, Dominic bent to work it loose, struggling to get the bigger knobs out past Tim’s tightly puckered hole.

At last Dominic held the freed carrot aloft, triumphant.

A series of gasps and then hearty male laughter came up from the corral. Dominic had his free hand on Tim’s neck, keeping him bent over. Tim thought if Dominic wasn’t holding him, he would simply run. He couldn’t face this.

“The beasts come equipped with this handy carrying compartment. Why not make use of it?”

“That’s crazy.”

“Is it?” Dominic snapped his fingers. “Kneel, 202.”

Terrified into numb compliance, Tim knelt close to Dominic’s side.

Dominic turned to him and there was just a moment where his eyes turned supportive as in — You can get through this, 202! And another moment of his inexplicable power as in — You will obey!

Tim swallowed and forced himself to stay upright.

Turning back to his growing audience, Dominic stretched his hand reverently above Tim’s head and proclaimed, “For what you are about to receive, may Master make you truly thankful.” Then he handed Tim the carrot.

Gripping the nailed end, Tim knelt, staring down at the limp, glistening, orange thing.

“We oil it up a bit,” Dominic explained. “Apply some heat. Add some special seasoning. And voila! Our beasts can’t get enough of these.”

“He’s not going to eat that?”

“Of course he is.” Dominic nudged Tim, radiating dire threat from every pore. “Go ahead, 202.”

Tim glanced at Dominic and then stared at the carrot. From peanut butter and jelly all the way back to this morning’s oatmeal, his stomach rebelled. The thing was slimed and there were little brown flecks. Was it remaining bits of mud or something worse?

He looked away and the circle of onlookers seemed to spin around him. Anselm was in the crowd, looking more than pleased about what Tim was being forced to do. And next to him, Anthony, whose alarmed expression seemed to convey exactly what Tim was feeling, that maybe this time Dominic had gone too far. Like, did they really want everyone at the market to believe the monks of the abbey carried their food around in their butts and then ate it?

Dominic cleared his throat, an ominous sound, then tightened his grip on the back of Tim’s neck.

Dizzy, repulsed, humiliated, Tim bit off the tip of the carrot and started chewing.

“Eeew!” a young woman cried out.

“Disgusting,” yelled someone else, making gagging sounds.

Then a roar came up from all around him, a combination of shock, revulsion and laughter at what he was doing.

“Continue,” Dominic murmured under his breath.

Tim took another bite. The carrot was rubbery from being inside him so long and it was big. It seemed to take an endless amount of time to get it all chewed up and swallowed down.

Finally, Dominic took the remaining nailed end from Tim. “See!” he said, holding up the nub, triumphant. “Lunch, all taken care of. Now we set this beast back to work and that’s all there is to it.”

Clemson guffawed as he threw his arm across the big man’s shoulders. “I’ve gotta hand it to you, monk. You may have outdone yourself this time.” He turned to his handlers. “What do you think, gentlemen. Might not be such a bad idea for these fat, lazy brutes. Say once a week? Keep ’em hungry. Keep ’em properly humble?”

Tim saw a number of sun-browned faces blanch. Even as his stomach considered whether throwing up might be a good idea in the next few minutes, he felt absurdly proud that he’d somehow gotten himself through this, that for once he’d obeyed Dominic in every way instead of shaming him.

Horizon F/X - Chapter 31 - Part 6

2011-07-28T06:00:00.001-06:00

Tim was so caught up in the suffering of the blond horse, he didn’t realize until too late that Dominic was standing right beside him. He tried to duck his head, pretend he hadn’t been blatantly staring, but Dominic caught his chin and Tim knew by the look in his eyes he was going to get it. Dominic might be easygoing about a lot of things, but being shamed by his charges in public was not one of them.

Untying the rope, he jerked it hard and dragged Tim over to the owner. Tim stood, head down, hands clenched over his heart, monk-like.

“Impressive,” Dominic mused, looking out over the proceedings in the corral. Most of the horses were rigged up now, all but the blond horse seeming to accept it with a combination of shame and pride, a physical eagerness to embrace the punishing day to come. “Your work here, Clemson, is exceptional. And yet . . . ”

“And yet?” Clemson repeated, already chuckling.

“And yet,” Dominic repeated, “lowly as our beasts of burden are, like this pathetic specimen, I think we’ve done you one better.”

“How so?” Clemson asked, fists on hips.

“I bet your hands spend half the day hauling food around for this lot, keeping them fed and watered. Well, we make our beasts carry their own food. It’s efficient. Saves time.”

Clemson studied Tim, obviously skeptical.

“Let me show you.” He turned to Tim. “Strip.”

Tim looked at Dominic as if he were mad. This seemed ominous, all the attention suddenly shifting from the action in the corral to him. And how could he possibly strip in front of these big, perfect horse-men, many of them now maneuvering to watch over the top rail? But Dominic’s gaze told him he’d better obey. Immediately. So trembling, he fumbled at the cord and worked to get the robe off, encumbered by the rope around his neck.

As he kicked free of the robe, Tim heard the snorts from the corral at his slight, half-starved frame and pale skin. But Dominic held his eyes, somehow fortifying him with the strength of his own will, so that Tim stood as straight and proud as possible. It wasn’t his fault he’d ended up as a stupid monk. And it wasn’t Dominic’s fault he was just an average guy, not some steroid Adonis.

Dominic circled him, slapping his ass cheeks as he went.

Clemson grunted. “Not seeing any surprise feed bag here, monk.”

“Ah, but you will.” He pushed on the back of Tim’s head, and Tim felt his face going all kinds of fuchsia as he bent over. “Behold,” said Dominic and gripped the nailed end of the carrot, wiggling it around, wrenching any number of groans past Tim’s compressed lips.

“What the hell?”

Dominic slapped Tim’s butt again. “Spread. Open.”

Tim shifted his legs wider as he felt Dominic fumbling with the leather thongs. And fumbling some more, each clumsy movement jostling the carrot inside his sore channel.

“Need some help there, monk?”

From his bent position, Tim watched Clemson reach backhanded to the sheath strapped to his leather-clad leg. He pulled out a big knife and flipped it, glinting in the sun. Expertly, he caught it by the handle, then flipped it once more, caught it again and handed it, handle first, to Dominic.

Dominic grunted, having clearly lost this particular round of one-upmanship. Then he started sawing away at the thongs holding the carrot.

From between his legs, Tim watched the flash of the knife around all his most important treasures and started shaking.

Dominic paused, then bent down so only Tim could hear. “202, I suggest you hold very, very still.”

Tim nodded.

Again, the knife sawing back and forth. The drying rawhide had pulled the thongs deep up into Tim’s crack. Too easily, he could see the knife suddenly slicing through and continuing on, the spurt of blood, his hands grasping desperately for what was no longer there.

Finally, Dominic worked the knife down between Tim’s right side and the rawhide around his waist. Then, trying to show his own mastery of the knife, he sliced vigorously along Tim’s ribs and out. The rawhide parted and fell away, while Tim grabbed at his side.

“Almost carved yourself a steak there, monk,” said Clemson.

* * *

Horizon F/X - Chapter 31 - Part 5

2011-07-25T06:00:00.002-06:00

“Let’s have a look,” said the owner, climbing between the corral rails to check his steed.

The handler released the bridle from the stanchion, and then gripped it in the same place.

The horse stood, head high, eyes anxious and clouded with pain, chest lifted and out, the clamps glinting in the sun. His back was arched, gut sucked in, and his gluts shuddered and moved, constantly working the dildo, the tail shimmering in the sun with that movement. His dick was huge, tight up against the leather straps of the harness.

“Run him for me.”

With the click of his tongue, that “giddy up” sound, the handler ran the horse twice around the corral, while the other handler ran alongside shouting at him. “Longer strides. Keep the knees even. Posture. Posture!”

They returned, all three of them winded, but the horse clearly in the most distress.

The owner gripped the bridle straps on either side of the blond’s face and stared into his eyes. “You will relent,” he scolded. “You will obey. We will break you if it’s the last thing we do.” He turned to the handler. “Hold him for me.”

The handler obeyed, gripping the bridle more tightly.

“I’ll need the heavy one,” the owner said, turning to the other handler. “These stupid brutes don’t understand anything else.”

The handler procured a truncheon, similar to the one Dominic had used so viciously on Tim the time after the arena when he’d spoken out at breakfast, trying to explain why he’d had to defend himself against Jade, that goth tormenter.

Then the owner proceeded to beat the blond horse, a steady but ferocious assault, focusing on his chest, belly, back and buttocks, the blows loud and echoing in the open air, the crowd of marketgoers increasing. Helpless, the horse stood and endured the pounding.

Finally the owner stopped and thrust the truncheon back toward the handler. Then he again grabbed the bridle and got right up in the horse’s face. “That was so you hurt today. That was so you feel every mile you run.” He shook the bridle, jarring the bit in the horse’s mouth. “There are a lot of us and only one of you. There are a lot of us and we have all the time in the world.”

Then he turned to the handler, speaking loud enough to make sure the horse could hear. “See how he does today. The afternoon break is optional for him, depending on his performance.”

The handler cleared his throat. “You’re not concerned about . . . tearing.”

“Keep him well-lubed. Let the other horses at him, keep him aroused, but don’t let them suck him all the way off.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now get the rest of them harnessed up. We’re running late.”

“And this one?”

“Tie him up over there in the sun. Let him stand. He has much to think about.”

* * *

Horizon F/X - Chapter 31 - Part 4

2011-07-21T06:00:00.002-06:00

They shifted the stanchion and suddenly his head was yanked straight down, his chest landing with a thud on a rough support that jutted out from the metal frame. Bent forward at the waist, he had to scramble backward to accommodate the new position. The handlers moved in, slapping his butt, shoving his legs wide. “Get yourself open there. You’re going to ride the big one today.”

The horse whimpered and shied as one of the handlers held up a thick, heavy dong in front of his face that made Tim blanch, the stupid carrot in his own backside withering to insignificance.

“Stupid gelding. Should have thought about this before you screwed up yesterday, huh?” The handler rubbed the dildo around the horse’s face and then all along his body, bringing it ever closer to his puckered hole.

“Shit, this ain’t gonna go in. He’s not ready yet.”

“Master’s orders.”

The shorter handler shook his head. “You’d think this one would get it pretty soon. He’s in this now. No hope of release. Why he keeps fighting is beyond me.”

The other handler sighed. “Well, let’s give it a try.”

They worked at it for a long time. They lubed up his quivering hole, going in two fingers, three, as deep as they could. They slapped his butt repeatedly. They clenched the tight gluts in their hands and then shook them trying to relax the muscle fiber, rolling and massaging the solid flesh.

“Come on. Loosen up. It’s going in, no matter what.”

* * *

The horse’s breath came out harsh and labored past the bit. They were still struggling to get the dildo inserted. They kicked his legs wider. Tried pulling the flesh of his buttocks to either side. Put more lube on the shaft. Played with his dick. Finally, inch by inch, they worked it inside, the horse now grunting desperately, his thighs twitching and jumping in protest.

“Done!” said the handler triumphantly with a final slap against the base that wrenched another deep groan from his charge.

“Get it cinched in there before he pops it back out.”

* * *

“Final flourishes.”

The horse was standing again, one of the bridle straps lashed to a ring at the side of the stanchion, forcing his head unnaturally high.

A harness ring dug into the flesh around each nipple. The handler grabbed the left one and started rolling the meaty tip between his fingers. “This is market day, after all. You want to look your finest now, don’t you?”

He waved a nipple clamp in front of the horse’s face and he flinched, flashing the whites of his eyes.

“Yeah, the nice toothy ones. I know how you feel about these. Can’t be helped though, can it? Master insists.”

With that, the handler attached the first one and tightened it down, while the horse struggled, legs lifting. He tried to shift away, but with his head held and his arms locked behind him, there wasn’t anything he could do.

A little more teasing, and the handler got the second clip in place. The horse stood, breathing hard, his chest muscles shuddering in and out, trying to find a way to deal with the new pain.

Meanwhile, the other handler was pulling a long, blond tail from a wooden box. He shook it out, smoothed it, and then ran it over the body of the horse. He held it up to his head. “Perfect match. Cost thousands of dollars, this. And it has some good weight to it. See that you wear it well today.”

With the help of the other handler, he attached it, slowing screwing it into the base of the dildo. It was mounted on a hook, so that it jutted slightly up and away from the horse’s red-rimmed hole. Lovingly, they ran their fingers through the long blond strands, arranging it just so, making sure it flowed freely, while the horse shuddered, digging his thickly-shod feet into the dirt of the corral.

* * *

Horizon F/X - Chapter 31 - Part 3

2011-07-18T06:00:00.001-06:00

“About time, 202,” said Dominic, looping a scratchy braided rope around Tim’s neck. “I have need of you.”

Dominic took a circuitous route through the market, constantly changing direction and speed so that Tim kept staggering behind him, choking as the tight loop was pulled even tighter. Still, Tim tried to glimpse what he could, dazzled just to be seeing color and flesh, something besides his endlessly brown monastic world. He even had the sudden thought that Cade might be here, that he might spot him in a group of liveried servants from the castle or amongst the rowers being marched in from their ship, each man’s wrists manacled to a heavy oar balanced across his shoulders.

“Ah, here we are.”

Dominic moved past a rough corral. He made an elaborate show of tying the rope holding Tim to a stake in the ground, as if Tim were some dumb animal likely to wander off. He cuffed him lightly. “Keep your mouth shut. Don’t gawk around.” Then he sauntered over to the corral and settled into conversation with the leather-clad men standing there.

Of course Tim gawked around. What was the point of being here if not to take in all the extravagant sights? But he didn’t have to look far. Because inside the corral stood eight or ten human horses, but men this time, not women. Men the likes of which he’d never seen. Not bears exactly, not that rough, but unusually tall, strapping, heavily-muscled men. Jocks. Football players. They looked . . . straight. They were airbrushed men out of magazines, the hyper-masculine, virile guys Tim sometimes fantasized about, but knew he’d never have, doubted he had the courage to even approach. Their hair was longish, a shaggy, razor cut. They looked weathered and hung and highly physical. In spite of how Tim had muscled up under the harsh discipline of the abbey, he felt puny next to them.

* * *

As he watched, with Dominic still conveniently engaged in jocular conversation with the man who appeared to be the owner, a couple of the handlers started gearing the horses up for what Tim guessed would be their next run. They grabbed one of them, a blond, by the hair at the back of his neck and forced him over to a metal stanchion. They locked him in place, and then started disentangling elaborate black leather tack inlaid with silver.

They sorted out a thick, metal bit and the horse balked. One handler slapped him hard, twice, across his sun-bronzed face. “Open, you fucker. You know what you did yesterday. You know you deserve this.”

The two of them forced the metal bit into the horse’s mouth and he fought it, tossing his head and whimpering, only subsiding when all the complicated straps and buckles were pulled tight and secured. Then he stood, jaw working, trying to deal with the thick metal between his teeth.

Watching his struggle, Tim squirmed and felt himself growing again.

Next came the harness that fitted around his shoulders and upper body where all the load-bearing weight would be focused. Tim was humbled at the breadth of the man’s chest, the massing of muscle-tissue there, already flexing and pumping for the work to come.

Now the handlers were lashing the blond’s arms into the small of his back, more intricate tack that had to be adjusted and buckled just so. They worked until his chest was thrust up and out, a proud but uncomfortable posture he’d be locked into until they released him.

* * *

Horizon F/X - Chapter 31 - Part 2

2011-07-14T06:00:00.001-06:00

The carrots were not lighter than the potatoes. They didn’t roll around as much inside the bag, jolting him side to side, but they poked through the bag and the wooden pack frame all the way up and down his back. And then there was his own personal carrot. He didn’t know if it was the vegetable oil or the mud or the fact that it was biological, but that thing bothered him more than any dildo or butt plug that had ever been forced inside him. It was as if his innards were anxiously trying to digest this chunk of organic matter that had inexplicably arrived whole at the very end of his digestive tract. Meanwhile, the wet rawhide was contracting as it dried, digging into his belly and pulling the carrot in even farther. Occasionally he could even feel the nails poking into his butt cheeks.

As before, Anthony and Dominic moved lightly up the big hill while Tim lumbered after them. At least this time his sandals were better and he knew about the wonderful panorama that awaited him if only he could reach the summit, but reaching the summit was still quite an ordeal. As expected, he heard Dominic proclaiming that the rest period had ended and it was time to move on long before he arrived at the top to join them.

* * *

“You might try kneeling,” Dominic suggested, all unctuous concern as he tried to help Tim shrug out of this pack even as he was hurrying to the brow of the hill to take in the market and surrounding town spread below. “I’m guessing you won’t want to sit down today.”

With a grunt, Tim knelt and then rested back on his heels, which kept the carrot just barely above the ground and unable to impale him even farther. But at least it gave his feet a break.

“And eat this. We don’t want you fainting before we get there.”

Tim caught the sticky, cloth-wrapped bundle Dominic tossed in his direction, a dinner roll with peanut butter and jelly inside. Better than nothing. Better than eating raw oats out of Dominic’s hand and being referred to as “the mule” like the last time.

* * *

In spite of the carrot, and in spite of the fact he spotted the real mule smugly pulling Anselm and the cart on the smooth, flat track far below, Tim enjoyed the switchbacked journey down the other side of the hill as more and more people joined them. They passed a line of naked, dusty men and women all linked together with chains, weighted down with heavy iron bonds that made Tim think of the belfry.

A middle-aged man walked bowlegged, a wide, metal band at the base of his distended, dangling ball sac studded with spikes so that if he walked normally, he’d be constantly piercing his own thighs. A woman was locked into such a high metal collar she couldn’t look down to see the rough trail, and so she stumbled forward, jolting her chained limbs along with those of her companions.

Four men, also naked, but adorned with intricate silver chains, moved up and down the line, flicking thin, single-tail whips that landed with unerring accuracy on nipples and shaved, exposed genitals.

Their charges looked exhausted, staggering under the weight, singing together in a droning, minor key, what must be their pitiable attempt to hold onto a rhythm against the constant assault, and Tim wondered how far they had come and how long they’d been marching like this.

* * *

By the time they reached the market, Tim’s robe was tenting out from all he’d seen. No girl ponies this time, but plenty of slaves laboring to bring their masters or merchandise to the market, so many different groups and fearful means of humiliation and control. Meanwhile, the carrot still tortured him, shifting and seeming to expand inside as if it was growing, sucking up his alien bodily fluids. He was used to being plugged, but he’d reached that point where his body wanted the thing out, so his guts kept cramping and pushing to no avail.

“Late as always,” Anselm chided. “Spread those carrots, 202! And then start hauling everything else from the cart.”

While the three monks alternately shot the breeze with each other and castigated him, Tim lugged and hauled, endless trips from the cart parked behind their stall to the big front table. Finally Anselm and Anthony started arranging the food for display and Tim stood, puffing and sweating, his arousal temporarily crushed down with work. He took advantage of the moment to take a big swig of water from one of the jugs behind the table.

* * *

Horizon F/X - Chapter 31 - Carrot

2011-07-11T06:00:00.002-06:00

Tim eyed Buddy as Buddy eyed him back. They were unexpectedly competing against each other, and Tim wasn’t even sure which outcome to consider the victory. But three wooden packframes were set up near a trestle table outside the kitchen, clearly being loaded for another trip to the market. Matthew ordered Buddy to check once more in the kitchen for the last batch of baked bread while Dominic and Anthony yelled at Tim to dump another sack of carrots out on the table for sorting.

Three packs. That would seem to indicate Dominic, Anthony and Tim. But why, then, was Buddy here? Or Matthew for that matter? Tim longed for a trip back to the market, no matter how dire the result might be. It would be exciting, a change, something different. But then again, this was only 12’s third day here at the abbey. He didn’t want to miss a whole day and half the night of getting to observe the new postulant or a chance to listen in on more gossip.

They were now loading the better carrots back into one of the sacks, Tim trying to judge if the carrots would be lighter than the load of potatoes he’d carried before. Dominic seemed strangely intent on quality control, setting several especially knobby carrots off to the side from the pile of rejects already culled to be eaten at the monastery.

Buddy hurried out with the bread, all dedicated and anxious, but also clearly conflicted. Leave for the market or stay here with 12? Tough call.

Finally Matthew clarified. “Come along, 47. I have a special project for you.”

Tim watched Buddy go, wondering — special as in especially onerous or special as in a chance to spend solo time with 12? Well, both their fates were sealed. Best for Tim to feel lucky he got another chance at the adrenaline excitement of the market. Anxious now to go, he eyed the packs, but Dominic was still fixated on the rejected carrots.

* * *

“Which one do you think, Brother Anthony?”

“You choose, Brother Dominic. I’m not sure I understand what you’re planning.”

Dominic hesitated a moment longer and then chose a carrot with a thick base that was quite knobby and deformed. Then Dominic did the strangest thing. Picking up a small mallet, he carefully drove two nails perpendicular to each other through the base of the carrot.

“202, go get some vegetable oil from the kitchen, would you?”

Vegetable oil? Feeling stupid, Tim mumbled out his request to one of the monks there and returned with a little oil in a small bowl. Patiently he stood next to Dominic who was now fumbling with two leather thongs, trying to wrap and knot them in and around the nails.

Then Dominic dipped his fingers into the bowl and started rubbing oil into the carrot. Tim watched him, thinking he’d finally gone off the deep end.

“Grease up the other one, would you, Brother Anthony?”

Tim looked down the length of the table, wondering if Anthony was working on a second carrot.

The next thing he knew, Anthony was bending him over and lifting his robe up over his back. And then Anthony was rubbing vegetable oil into Tim’s hole. Head down, Tim began to get a very bad feeling about this.

“Okay, let’s try it.”

Tim felt pressure against his already clenching sphincter and knew what it was, knew it was that damned, muddy, oiled up carrot.

Dominic pushed and twisted and worked the big vegetable until he finally got it inserted, Tim bucking as the knobby protrusions moved along the walls of his colon.

“Now I need that wider strip,” Dominic said, still manipulating the carrot, “the one that’s been soaking.”

Tim felt something wet against his back and guessed what it was, a wide strip of rawhide which Anthony was already tying around his belly an inch or so below his corded waist. Then, still bent over, Tim endured a long period while Anthony and Dominic worked to attach the thongs holding the nailed carrot to the rawhide, making sure the carrot was fitted inside him just so.

“And stand.”

Tim stood and they fussed a little more, forcing him to hold his robe up and out of the way.

Dominic slapped his butt a few times. “How does that feel?”

Tim knew better than to answer. But he assumed the disgusted expression on his face was the exact response Dominic wanted.

Then Dominic smoothed Tim’s robe back down and circled him. “All right,” he said with a big grin, “let’s load up. Times a’ wasting.”

* * *

Horizon F/X - Chapter 30 - Part 3

2011-07-07T06:00:00.002-06:00

Seated in the outhouse with Buddy one slot over, the equivalence of privacy in this three-holer. Supper had been a pauper’s meal of beans and rice. It would be a popular place this evening.

But then, glancing around, Buddy wiped himself, settled his robe and came over to crouch beside Tim.

“Did you hear?” he whispered.

“Hear what?” Tim asked, lighting a match out of courtesy but long past embarrassment in their primitive accommodations.

“They’re saying 12 is straight?”

“What?”

“Or maybe just barely bi.”

“That can’t be. Why would they send him here?”

Buddy shrugged. “I don’t know. Have you heard anything?”

Tim was dying to share his news, but he held back, partly out of fear, partly out of gratitude to Theodore who twice had saved him. “No,” he finally answered, lying. “But would that explain the phallus?”

Buddy eyes opened wide. “You mean, you think he’s never been butt-fucked?”

“I don’t know.”

“Shit!” Buddy squirmed in a torment of turned-on horror. “This is going to be unbearable for him,” he breathed. “I bet he doesn’t even make it through these first ten days.”

Tim nodded. “Which is a shame. Because he’s, like, really beautiful.”

“Yeah,” Buddy sighed. “Really beautiful,”.

But then another postulant, farting loudly, entered the outhouse. With a show of handing Tim the roll of toilet paper, Buddy hurried away.

Horizon F/X - Chapter 30 - Part 2

2011-07-04T06:28:00.000-06:00

Tim sneezed again. Of all the jobs they’d given him, this had to be the worst, seasonally scheduled to coincide with high summer heat. Stripped down, he knelt at the very back of the oxen-sized fireplace in the kitchen scooping ashes into bucket after bucket that would have to be carted away. Though they hadn’t sent him up the chimney yet like some Cockney sweep, he feared that was coming.

Even though the kitchen had modern appliances to make feeding the monk hordes a little less arduous, the big fireplace was used often, partly Tim thought to impart the proper sweatshop atmosphere to this place where so many monks spent their days mixing, kneading, peeling, chopping, stirring. Also there was something to be said for the food that came from this primitive method — the spit-turned meats, the simmering soups and stews in cast iron cauldrons, the potatoes and other root vegetables slow-baked in the coals.

He sneezed again which only sent a bigger swirl of ash up around him. Still, he worked unencumbered. It was as if the long period with the hated thigh bar had never happened. And then this morning with Brother Anthony, he’d knelt a long time waiting to be acknowledged so he could ask his daily question. But Anthony had ignored him, simply moving right into the day’s lesson and, as Tim half listened, he suddenly realized he had no great desire to ask, his planned question so innocuous and bland, even if he got an answer, it would hardly enlighten him. Perhaps the time of open and close was truly over.

“You got coffee here, Cook?”

Tim froze. The door to this inner sanctum of the kitchen complex had opened, sending more loosened ash swirling up, and he heard sandaled feet moving across the brick floor.

“Have I got coffee? What do you think this is, the barn?”

Tim heard heavy mugs being placed on one of the prep tables and stools scraping across the floor. The next thing he knew he was a hidden part of an impromptu afternoon coffee break in the brief lull between cleaning up from dinner and starting in on supper.

“So what about this new postulant?”

“12? Not our usual type.”

“I heard he’s from the Van Esserling family.”

“No, that can’t be right. They’re all dominants.”

“But that doesn’t necessarily mean they wouldn’t go through training.”

“Yes, but not here, not this publicly.”

“Why not?”

“To keep up the reputation of the family, the mystique.”

“Oh, I see.”

“I heard he was a submissive.”

“No way. They’ve been doms for generations.”

“A throwback?”

“Aberration?”

“Those fingers. Those toes.”

The group paused in consternation as Tim crouched, uncertain. Clearly he wasn’t supposed to be hearing any of this, but it had all happened so quickly, he hadn’t thought to reveal himself. And coming clean now, showing himself after this long delay, would be suicidal. Besides, the conversation was so juicy. How could he possibly do anything but creep a little closer to hear more?

“I heard he was being sent here as a last ditch effort to turn him.”

“Turn him?”

“To . . . cure him of his uncharacteristic desire.”

“That’s obscene,” came a sonorous, older voice. “As if all the things my family did to me had the slightest effect on who I was, who I am.”

“I understand, Brother. But I think this situation might be different. If it’s true about his heritage, he’s grown up highly privileged. Any submissive experiences he might have had must have been pretty mild, just dabbling. The family probably wants him to experience the real thing, to wake him up to what he’s truly asking for.”

“Well, it should be real enough here.”

“That’s for sure.”

“Amazing. We could be in for a most interesting ten days.”

“Yes, most interesting.”

Tim, listening intently, suddenly realized someone was staring in at him, one of the younger monks. Shit. Tim blanched under his coating of ash and stayed perfectly still. The monk also froze, and Tim recognized him as Brother Theodore, the monk who’d shared the punishment in the belfry with him and Cade and Buddy. He could see Theodore struggling between two choices. Clearly, he should turn Tim in. But just as clearly, he knew how intense the resulting punishment would be for any postulant caught eavesdropping.

No longer breathing, Tim gazed out forlornly and Theodore gazed back at him. Finally, making a decision, he placed his finger over his lips and then backed away. Moments later Tim heard him quietly address the group and guide them into a different topic.

Silent, Tim slumped down into the ash. Then he crept all the way to the back of the fireplace and waited there until the coffee break ended and the lower level kitchen monks trooped back in to launch their suppertime assault. Only when they were working busily did Tim return to his own task, eventually feeling brave enough to push some of the full buckets of ash toward the front of the fireplace.

Just as he poked his head out, the head cook happened to turn and spotted him. A suspicious look crossed his face and Tim felt his heart thud to a stop for the second time. Then Theodore interrupted the cook with a question about seasoning, and Tim disappeared back into the fireplace. Saved again. He owed Brother Theodore his life. Or at least weeks and weeks of groveling servitude.

* * *

Horizon F/X - Chapter 30 - Secret

2011-06-30T06:00:00.001-06:00

At 6:00 the next morning, Buddy stopped unexpectedly in the orderly procession to the chapel and Tim ran into him. Peering past Buddy’s shoulders which he’d grabbed to keep from stumbling, Tim couldn’t believe what he was seeing. This was it? The new Prie Dieu with 12 engraved on the metal plate. But the phallus was miniscule. It was barely bigger around in circumference than the metal rod that supported it.

This couldn’t be. 12 had made such a fuss behind them yesterday at None, but his reaction seemed ludicrous if this little . . . fountain pen, this little . . . cigar was all they’d shoved into him.

Dominic, ever vigilant, smacked Tim in the back of the head and Tim moved quickly to mount himself on his own quite substantial phallus for the brief ceremony of Prime. Still, he kept looking behind him at the empty kneeler. Was it possible 12 was deformed in other ways than just his hands and feet? Tim couldn’t believe a postulant here being allowed such a trifling impalement.

* * *

Back in the chapel for Terce at 9:00, 12’s kneeler was gone, probably moved up to the front for his robing ceremony. With a wincing grunt, Tim shoved himself down again on his own phallus and shifted around trying to make some kind of peace with it to get through the time.

Sure enough, moments later, 12 was led past Tim and up to the front of the chapel, the brown skin of his newly welted ass still ruddy with the inevitable outraged inflammation. Nothing at all wrong with those ass cheeks — nubile, round and quite luscious. 12 was moved with ceremonial slowness through the ranks of monks, but Tim would have appreciated an even longer view. Soon he could no longer see him, but he again heard an unusually loud protest as 12 was mounted on his kneeler followed by three muffled smacks, probably from Benedict or one of his assistants.

* * *

More bowlegged than usual, Tim made his way up to greet his new brother postulant. With all the incense and extra singing, the service had been unusually long. But he was rewarded with another good view of 12 as he was congratulated and hugged by the monks ranked ahead of Tim.

Earlier, back at breakfast, Benedict had removed the blindfold and 12 had been allowed his unadorned portion of cereal while everyone stared at him. Tim had been too far away to see clearly, but now he was quite close with no long tables, cascade of water or billowing steam to block his view. 12 looked like any of them had probably looked in this situation, shell-shocked, frightened and unexpectedly moved by the ceremony of inclusion, all leavened with apprehension about the growing itchiness of his newly acquired robe. But Tim was knocked out by his exotic beauty. It was a combination of cheekbones, previously only hinted at below the blindfold, the refinement of the jawline, the proportion of brow to nose to lips with the whole package softened by the luxuriant abundance of dark curls, but most of all it was 12’s warm, brown, luminous eyes. They were bedroom eyes, that slightly tilted, droopy-lidded look that promised wonders in the sack. Tim felt himself go all melty. It was a different look from Raphael’s, a more earthy, seductive look, and Tim suddenly found the idea of still being one of the three lowest postulants far more enticing.

Then he was face to face with 12, the young man looking overwhelmed by the long line of demonstrative monks who were now his brothers. Somewhat abashed himself, Tim simply gave him a quick hug, feeling the trembling in his shoulders, and then turned to follow Buddy out of the chapel. He grinned, recognizing Buddy’s attempts to camouflage a raging hard-on. Things were suddenly very interesting indeed.

* * *

Horizon F/X - Chapter 29 - Part 3

2011-06-27T06:00:00.001-06:00

Supper. Again anticipation buzzed around the room. Something new. Someone new.

Buddy nudged Tim. “Why didn’t you tell me 12 was like that?” he whispered.

“Like what?”

“Beautiful,” Buddy sighed.

“I didn’t notice it. Truly. All the soap. All the yelling . . . ”

Buddy nodded, his hand on Tim’s arm in an understanding way. Helping with the Rite of Purification was all about survival after all, not observation.

The buzz intensified, and Tim looked up with Buddy to see 12 being guided into the dining room between the two assistants, naked, blindfolded, his wrists with his six-fingered hands cuffed behind his back.

“Butt rag, 202! Ignorant oaf!”

Enthralled with this latest viewing of 12, Tim had repeated the exact same mistake Buddy had made when Tim was first brought in.

He scrambled from their shared bench and rummaged through the side-board against the wall until he finally found a small pile of of the scratchy cloth squares on the bottom shelf. Hurrying around the long tables, he placed the cloth on the bench as the two assistants waited to seat their charge. Benedict, standing beside them, pinched Tim’s left nipple through his robe to hold him there and then smacked him across the face, the sound of it loud in the big room. Humiliated, Tim slunk back to his table. Maybe he was no longer the very lowest of the low, but Benedict had made it abundantly clear his status hadn’t improved much at all.

The meal was brought out, a cream-based vegetable soup flavored with leftover bits of the sausage they made here, the whole thing redolent of onion, cauliflower and sage. Loaves of the hearty whole wheat bread followed, steaming fresh from the oven. And butter.

The monks ate and chatted amongst themselves, but all eyes were focused on 12 seated between the two assistants with Benedict presiding across the table from him. 12’s hair was a mass of curls, not a tight Afro, but dark, looser tendrils, the distinctive locks of rock stars or exotic fashion models. His face was strained and he swayed dizzily on the bench between the two assistants, mouth working, Adam’s apple in motion as he swallowed again and again at the savory odors going past him. In spite of his complexion, he looked pale even as the skin on the rest of his body glowed warmly.

His nakedness was striking in this room full of robed men, his unclothed vulnerability, the tension in his body conveying his awareness that he was being stared at. Tim thought how young he looked, how soft and boyish. He knew that wouldn’t last long, that baby fat, here in this place where forced exercise and withheld food were ubiquitous torments. Though 12’s body was nearly as beautiful and perfect as his face, the process of carving and sculpting had already begun. Soon he’d look as starved as the rest of them, hungry not just for food but for sexual release and human tenderness.

Buddy nudged Tim and he took a slice of bread before passing the platter on. Still caught up in remembering, he laid the butter on thick, suddenly more than grateful for this simple fare. At the same time he thought of 12, already so hungry and still with hours and hours to go until morning when, if he was lucky, he’d finally get to have oatmeal, plain, unadorned oatmeal.

Tim shivered even though the room was warm and his belly was full. He’d thought it a kind of cheat that 12 seemed to be going through almost precisely the ritual Tim had undergone, everything here always the same. But suddenly he understood the cruel purpose behind that. Because through 12 every monk in this room couldn’t help reliving his own arrival, the shock of it, the harsh cleaning inside and out, the hunger, the anxiety about what was to come next. 12, naked in their midst, was a vivid reminder of what they had been and what they could easily be reduced to again at the whim of someone higher up.

Horizon F/X - Chapter 29 - Part 2

2011-06-23T06:00:00.001-06:00

Sent in early for the afternoon impalement of None, they were being re-routed on their way to the chapel. The abbey had been in an uproar all day, everyone aware that a new postulant was in their midst, everyone curious, everyone focused on Benedict, his assistants and Tim who had at least been present for his Rite of Purification. Tim had been approached a dozen times by other monks, edging near, whispering. But what could he say? He’d barely seen 12. There wasn’t much to reveal except that the new postulant was another exhausted, jet-lagged, frightened guy put through hell.

They’d all watched for their new brother at Terce, again at dinner, but no sign of him yet, Tim remembering that long first day of fasting with Dominic and Anthony tormenting him in his cell as they “mercifully” tried to distract him from his hunger. The only notable change at dinner was that Dominic had attached neither the thigh spreader bar nor the added bar at his ankles, and so Tim had at last been able to eat like a normal person again, sitting on the bench beside Buddy, not to mention the boon of using silverware instead of licking food off the floor in the shower room.

Following the other monks on the detour, Tim recognized the room they entered. It was the same upstairs chamber where they’d held the butt-stuffed Rosary Race that long ago Saturday night — marble floor, shallow steps up to the shrine, “He Is Risen” banner suspended above the statue.

But something had changed. The banner stood out away from the wall and didn’t hang in its usual smooth plane. In place of the altar and statue, a tall ladder extended up behind the banner and, at eye level, a sign that said simply “12.”

And above the 12? Foot, hand, hand, foot — a human being manacled in the same way Tim had been left in the arena. He could see bare arms and legs roped to the rungs, but then the banner came down, hiding the cramped figure higher up.

The monks ahead of Tim lingered there, gasping, reaching out. Finally Tim got close enough so he, too, could see. He recognized the skin tone of the new postulant, but then he finally realized what was causing all the commotion. Each hand had five fingers plus the thumb. Each foot had six toes. Twelve. Tim stared and counted twice to be sure. The extra digits were so perfectly and fully formed, it was hard to even see them. The backs of the hands were unusually broad. The ball of each foot slightly wider than was typical.

Tim tried to remember the water-logged flurry of last night. Had he soaped up these hands, scrubbed these feet? He couldn’t remember anything out of the ordinary. But now, eye level with the reality, he felt a creepiness at the back of his neck, a freakish wrongness. Unable to help himself, he reached out to touch one of the hands and shuddered. The new postulant, 12, shuddered back at his touch, and Tim was again transported to his first day, his first afternoon here in this monastery, chained to the wall in the ground level recreation room, having each one of the stranger monks touch or abuse him in some way as they filed past him to go to None.

As if on cue, the bells began to ring and the monks moved on into the chapel. Tim lingered in back, where he needed to be anyway, and looked up at 12’s huddled form as he passed, thinking of him bound there, unable to see, touched by all their hands, hearing the gasps and whisperings about his deformed limbs. He felt ashamed. That had been one of the first lessons from his parents, never to stare at people who were handicapped.

* * *

As Tim knelt beside Buddy at None, he remembered what would probably happen next, and it wasn’t long before he heard the hushed entrance of Benedict, his assistants and 12. He heard the wood against stone sound as a new Prie Deux was centered directly behind him and Buddy. Then a period of whispering and awkward movement followed by a muffled cry that wasn’t very muffled at all. Tim clenched his muscles against the phallus up his own ass, remembering. Benedict must have ordered up some horse-size tool to torment his new postulant. This afternoon they sang at the end of the service, and he remembered that too, kneeling there, gagged, slowly realizing that all the monks were impaled as he was, amazed to hear them sing together, apparently accepting this group humiliation as their life.

With the service over, extricating himself from his kneeler, Tim followed obediently behind Buddy, head bowed. But like every other monk in the place, he couldn’t help glancing over to see the new postulant, no longer hidden behind the banner, his face open and naked, clearly stricken to be exposed like this while they all filed by.

* * *

Horizon F/X - Chapter 29 - Promotion

2011-06-20T06:00:00.002-06:00

“Look at this lazy wretch!”

Dominic’s voice pierced Tim’s dream of warmth and softness at the same moment the monk’s sandaled toe ground in between his ribs.

“Sleeps through Lauds, skips Prime and now, doesn’t even rise to his knees to greet us.”

The word “knees” percolated into Tim’s dream and he pushed himself up, groaning at how stiff and cold he was, recognizing the stone floor of the shower room as sudden memories of the night and the new postulant flooded through him.

“I suppose he’ll think he’s entitled to breakfast anyway,” Dominic went on.

“I suppose.”

Dominic clanged a spoon against a small pot near Tim’s ear. “Do you think he got this drain clean, Brother Anthony?”

“For his sake, I hope so.”

“Hear this, 202. One of your brother monks put in extra time to prepare your breakfast this morning and then we carried it all the way down here to you. So when we serve it, you are not to waste a drop. Eat it all. Do you understand?”

Tim nodded. He’d had plenty of meals like this, crusty leftovers, eaten out of pots.

Anthony secured Tim’s wrists behind his back, and Tim tugged a little at the chain where his ankle was still anchored to the floor, getting into a slightly more comfortable position.

Dominic stood opposite from him on the other side of the drain, slowly stirring the contents of the pot. Then he suddenly crouched down, flipped the pot and plopped the oatmeal right onto the stone floor close to the edge of the metal drain cover. “It’s a bit runny this morning. Don’t let any of it escape.”

Tim saw the trap even as he bent to try to lap up the thin liquid seeping from the mound of lukewarm cereal. Because of the chain, he had no choice but to stretch across the drain to reach the oatmeal and even as his tongue hit the stone surface just beyond the metal grate, the odors from its underside, the mingled scent of vomit, shit and cum, assaulted his nose. He gagged.

“Hurry! You’re going to miss some. It’s getting away from you.”

Tim went through a frenzy of licking and gagging and trying to swallow down.

“Don’t you throw that up,” Dominic threatened. “You must eat this, all of it, whatever form it takes.”

Tim struggled, unable to support himself, his belly crushed into his knees, trying to get low enough to capture the sodden oatmeal with his tongue. Soon the taste of soap was mingled with the whole vile mess, bringing up memories of too many mornings in the library with Anthony jabbing his soap-slathered fingers down Tim’s throat.

* * *

Tim knelt, head bent, lips clamped down, willing the oatmeal to stay inside his roiling belly. Even when he’d finally managed to finish it all, licking the stone floor clean, Dominic had placed his sandaled foot on Tim’s head and pushed his face down into the drain for another minute or two so he couldn’t escape that lingering smell.

“You’ve got to give it to 202,” Dominic said finally, as he moved to unlock the metal ring from Tim’s ankle. “Never passes up a chance to stuff his face. I think he’s the first postulant to get through this without barfing.”

* * *

Horizon F/X - Chapter 28 - Part 4

2011-06-16T06:00:00.001-06:00

Tim hoped the whole breakfast in the drain thing was metaphorical, or just one of the many harsh statements that had been made to scare the crap out of 12. But he couldn’t be sure. Hampered by the short chain, he’d managed to get the tarp folded and out of the way. Then he’d scrubbed away with the toothbrush, rationing the water, knowing he needed to save some of it for rinsing. A typical irony, chained in a room full of water but unable to reach any of it.

But in spite of his best efforts, the odors persisted. Crouched over the drain, he could still smell a stomach-turning combination of vomit, shit and cum. The grated metal drain was bolted into the floor, and he sensed there must be all kinds of nasty stuff underneath that he couldn’t get to. So he scrubbed and he rinsed — weak, exhausted and shivering — until he couldn’t go on. Finally he slurped up a little of the last rinse water to slake his thirst, then poured the rest down the drain. He placed the soap and toothbrush inside the empty pan and pushed them aside. Then he curled up on the stone floor as far away from the drain as he could get.

A small conscious part of him gave thanks that he could sleep with his thighs together for the first time in weeks and that at least they had let him come. But other than those two small indulgences, the night had been horrible beyond belief. He thought of 12 somewhere above him, similarly cold and naked on a stone floor, probably still scared, but innocently unaware of all that was yet to come.

Horizon F/X - Chapter 28 - Part 3

2011-06-13T06:00:00.002-06:00

“Enough,” Benedict said at last. “Lower. Release.”

As the chains were lowered, Tim had to scramble down the ladder, still holding the bulb in place. Finally, 12 landed in a heap in the drain, Tim crouched beside him. One of the assistants gingerly approached. He fumbled with the straps of the gag and then, with a quick warning look at Tim, counted down. “Three. Two. One!”

Tim yanked out the nozzle at the same moment the gag was peeled off and leapt back from the explosion of liquid. He would have retreated farther, but the other assistant stood at his back, gripping him, and every time he tried to look away from the heaving, shitting wreck that was 12, the assistant forced him to keep watching. As the stench engulfed him, Tim felt his own supper rising in his throat. Gasping, he swallowed it down again and again, mind over matter.

Benedict, now holding a paddle, pointed it in the direction of Tim’s crotch. “Add that one’s load to the mess, and we’ll call this complete.”

Before Tim even realized what was happening, the other assistant had grabbed him by the dick and pulled him over so that he was standing in the vile liquid that had pooled around 12’s body where it blocked the drain. Then with a few harsh, deft strokes, squeezing Tim’s balls, the assistant made Tim come, his pent-up cream spurting out to land on the still writhing, convulsing form of 12.

“You’re in it now, 202,” Benedict directed. “Wade in there and see if he’s empty.”

Cringing, Tim obeyed, remembering how Buddy had been forced to do the same thing to him. He thought he would be gentle, but it was all so horrible and desperate, he jammed his fist into 12’s belly and ground his knuckles in everywhere, willing 12 to be finished, willing this part at least to be over. 12 retched and spat out a bit more cloudy liquid while a sulfurous burst of gas came out the other end.

* * *

The shower. Weak from coming so hard, half blinded by the spray of hot, soapy water, Tim tried desperately to obey Benedict’s harsh commands. There had been a startling moment of unknotting the blindfold and seeing 12’s eyes blink open, a flutter of thick eyelashes and dark brown irises, the whites so bloodshot, they looked dark and shadowed, too. His face finally revealed, 12 looked terribly young, overwhelmed by this ordeal, and Tim felt horrible for all the cruel things he’d done and was doing, moments later being forced back up the ladder to ram a brush down 12’s abused rectum.

Finally the spray of water stopped and Tim found himself standing below 12’s still suspended body, the assistants on either side of him, gripping his wrists, pulling his arms out away from his body.

Benedict paced back and forth in front of him, running his fingers along the edge of the paddle. “Your behavior, 202, has been abominable. Slow to respond. Clumsy. Inefficient. And now we must all stop so you can be punished.”

Benedict circled around behind him and rubbed Tim’s buttocks with the paddle, teasing him, dragging out the actual punishment. “Stance wider. Brace yourself.”

The blows were slow — methodical and hard — stinging against Tim’s wet flesh. The assistants pulled against his wrists as he fought to hold himself upright. He knew Benedict demanded perfect obedience.

“Crying out,” Benedict said angrily, his breathing harsh from his own exertions. “Five more.”

Tim got through them, not knowing how he managed to keep all sound inside.

“Final rinse,” Benedict said, apparently satisfied. “Hold that position,” he added, and Tim stood, legs wide, arms up and out, as the blast of hot water hit. Somehow he remembered from his own purification, and when the water suddenly turned ice cold, he muffled his yowl of shock, while 12 wailed above him. He sensed the warm blast of air above, hitting 12 while he stood, dripping.

“Get the tarp in position,” Benedict reminded him, and Tim scrambled to drag it into place as 12’s limp form was cranked down.

The assistants left 12 lying in the drain. One of them locked a metal cuff around Tim’s ankle and then attached a short chain, while the other brought a pan of water, bar of soap and the toothbrush they’d just used on 12’s teeth.

“I suggest you clean that drain thoroughly, 202, since that’s where your breakfast will be served later this morning,” Benedict said. Then he turned to his assistants who were quickly slipping back into their robes. “Get 12 on his feet.”

Tim watched them go, 12 barely stumbling along as the assistants jabbed and prodded at him, Benedict walking grandly behind.

* * *

Horizon F/X - Chapter 28 - Part 2

2011-06-09T06:00:00.002-06:00

Unclipping the postulant’s —12’s — limbs, the assistants forced him, still blindfolded, over toward the drain, and he groaned at the pain in his long-immobilized body. Tim could see nothing really except a mass of dark, tousled hair on his head. The handkerchief gag was removed, and he coughed, then swallowed. The bubbling cup of liquid was proffered. 12 sensed it as his lips and eagerly gulped it down.

Don’t! Tim wanted to shout, remembering the trap. But as he parted his own lips, he saw Benedict glaring at him, anticipating just such an outburst, and Tim clamped his jaws shut against the sound.

The second cup offered and swallowed down with more apprehension. And then the third, this time forced down, every drop, and the heavy, rubber gag sealed quickly in place. Tim saw 12 stiffen as he began to feel the effects of the liquid in his gut.

And then the four, emphatic clicks. Instantly 12 was hoisted into the air, upside down, dangling, spinning wildly until they got his wrists pulled out to the side and he finally stabilized into the X-shape, Tim unable to count the times he’d found himself in that same position since his own arrival at the monastery.

One of the assistants, naked now, rolled a ladder into position and clambered up it. He lubed 12’s hole, as 12 squirmed and tried to spin out of the way, then reached for the dangling enema nozzle and shoved it home. 12 cried out against the gag, his head coming up in protest. A hose fed into the typical enema bag, and Tim watched the assistant fill it, checking a gauge to keep track of the water amount.

“Begin,” Benedict ordered, his voice cold and final.

Tim watched as the clip was removed and the flow of water spurted in. The bag was allowed to fill two more times, the assistant holding the nozzle in place as 12 reacted more and more violently, grunting, swinging, the cramps pulling his head up toward his knees.

“We need 202” the assistant yelled. “Now!”

“Get up there, 202,” Benedict ordered. “Hold the plug in place. Know that you’ll clean up any escaping fluid with your worthless tongue.”

Tim scrambled up the ladder, the thin slats of the metal rungs digging into his bare feet. It was awkward at the top as he lunged past the assistant to grab the end of the nozzle while the assistant struggled to climb back down. Tim hadn’t remembered the smell as being this bad. Clinging to the ladder, he was forced to stare down below the broad-based bulb into 12’s plugged ass and pain-deflated genitals. Brown, bubbling fluid pulsed there, threatening to push past the base at any moment. Tim pressed down, not caring that 12 groaned louder.

So he pushed and breathed through his mouth and the torment seemed to go on forever. Being up close now, he realized it wasn’t a trick of the lighting as he’d thought from below. 12 was dark-skinned, well, not that dark, just a honey-brown color. His skin probably only seemed dark in comparison to most of the monks here with their sun-browned faces, necks and hands, but ghost-white skin everywhere else from always being covered by their robes.

“Check him,” Benedict ordered his assistants. “Make sure the liquid has been well distributed.”

From his perch, Tim watched anxiously as the two men approached below, one of them bracing 12’s back, the other using his fist to grope and shove into 12’s belly. The brown fluid bubbled more alarmingly, and Tim willed it to stay contained. Quickly, he twisted his hand around to catch a thin stream of brown so Benedict couldn’t see. He was not doing this, not licking up some other guy’s shit.

* * *

Horizon F/X - Chapter 28 - Twelve

2011-06-06T06:00:00.001-06:00

“Wait here for Brother Benedict,” Dominic ordered while Anthony settled one of the candles on a stone ledge. “Stand respectfully. Do whatever he asks of you.” Dominic fussed over Tim, making sure his hands were folded properly over his chest.

“We have to go, Brother Dominic,” Anthony said gently, gripping Dominic’s arm. “It’s out of our hands now. There’s nothing we can do.”

And then they left.

Tim took a step to follow, but then stepped back. What was this? He was still half asleep. The two monks, after their little conversation about open and close, had then removed the thigh bar and rushed him down here to the shower room. In the middle of the night. And he was to wait for Brother Benedict? Alone? Because there was no Brother John . . . the Baptist here in charge and waiting with him. Tim shivered in the cold. He’d hardly seen Benedict since that terrible morning with Cade, Cade’s last day. Had all Dominic’s and Anthony’s lectures that Tim wasn’t obedient enough, wasn’t giving them what they needed, actually been warnings? Because they’d failed with him, was he being turned over to Benedict? He shivered again, regretting the many times he’d wished he could have a real master, a serious master.

* * *

Noise on the stairs. Tim stiffened. He’d been weaving on his feet, thinking about sinking down onto the floor, but now he stood erect, his hands clenched together.

The sound of labored breathing. Suddenly the lights flared on. By the time Tim’s eyes had adjusted enough to see, Benedict and his two assistants were standing in a circle staring at something on the floor. A large burlap bag.

Tim gasped in recognition, remembering his own abduction so clearly, and immediately bit off the sound. That bag could only mean one thing. A new postulant. They’d brought in a new postulant who, it was obvious, was being given to Benedict. So then why was Tim here? He remembered that, too. To be . . . Buddy. As the current lowest postulant, he must be here to perform the same duties Buddy had performed when Tim had been brought in. Tim relaxed, relieved he’d escaped Benedict’s clutches, but only a little, remembering how nasty Dominic and Anthony had been to Buddy that night so long ago. He was in for a rough night of it, that was certain.

* * *

Deja vu. Flashback. Post-traumatic stress syndrome. Tim was shaken as he watched the whole procedure unfold, half feeling it again in his own flesh, half seeing what he must have looked like from the outside.

Benedict’s usual assistants dumped the new postulant out of the bag. He landed with a muffled cry on the stone floor, blindfolded, gagged, wrists linked behind his back, ankles clipped together. Tim felt what he must feel, his fear, exhaustion, jet lag, disorientation.

The Novice Master appeared and there was the formal ceremony calling for the Rite of Purification, the postulant huddled and trembling on the stone floor. The Novice Master referred to him as 12, droned on briefly about vows of silence, chastity and obedience, ordered Benedict to begin, and then departed.

* * *

Horizon F/X - Chapter 27 - Part 5

2011-06-02T06:00:00.003-06:00

“So something every morning. Maybe not this, but not . . . pleasant?”

“No, not pleasant.”

“Hmmm.” Again, Dominic made his way around Tim, studying the rigid way he held himself, admiring the whole setup. “He doesn’t seem to particularly like this?”

“No.”

“So why do you think he asks?”

Anthony sighed, looking suddenly tired. “I don’t know. I think he’s scared. I think it’s his way of trying to hold onto some small piece of himself.”

“Well, that’s stupid.”

“Yes, it is.”

Dominic shook his head and finally couldn’t keep himself from pulling on the leather thong just to see and hear Tim’s reaction. He grunted, pleased with the result. “Well, we never said 202 was known for his great intellect.” With one last admiring glance at Tim’s predicament, he patted Anthony’s shoulder. “My brother, this is really, really good.”

* * *

As the lights came on in the cell and he felt the hands coming at him yet again, Tim let out a long, low moan that went on and on. He’d been sleeping so hard. Now what? Hadn’t he already endured his share of Compline torment? Hadn’t they left him hours ago sprawled as best he could — despite the constraints of the fucking thigh bar — in a heap on the floor? What else could they possibly want from him? Clueless, hoping to mollify them, he rolled over onto his back, clapped his hands over his mouth and spread his legs even wider.

The cell went quiet and the hands quit pawing at him. But the light remained bright, needling into Tim’s consciousness. He moaned again.

Dominic started chuckling and then plopped down on his butt next to Tim, as though his legs had suddenly given way. “Will you look at this, Brother Anthony,” he said. “Our boy is learning. Our little boy is growing up.”

“I think he’s just delirious,” Anthony muttered.

“No, look at him. He’s finally getting it. He closed his mouth. He opened his legs.”

Anthony gasped. “Instead of the other way around,” he murmured, his voice catching in his throat. “He actually closed his mouth. He opened his legs.”

Horizon F/X - Chapter 27 - Part 4

2011-05-30T06:00:00.004-06:00

Kneeling, Tim braced himself for what Anthony would pull from his desk drawer. The O-ring gag. Ashamed, Tim felt his eyes fill with tears that threatened to spill over.

“You hate this, don’t you?” Anthony said, holding up the gag.

Miserable, Tim nodded.

“And yet, every morning, you ask.” Anthony came around beside him. “Open.”

Tim opened. The ring went in. The straps were buckled. He felt the familiar pull as his head was secured.

“Tongue, please.”

He couldn’t do it. Not again. His tongue, like a frightened animal, tried to curl itself back in his throat.

Unperturbed, Anthony simply poked two fingers into Tim’s mouth, grabbed his tongue, forced it out past the ring and clamped it. He was tying it off when a couple of books fell from the adjacent stack.

“Who’s there?”

Anthony brushed past Tim to investigate, moving through the stacks.

“Dominic? What are you . . . now you’re spying on me?”

Dominic revealed himself. “No, Brother Anthony. Oh no, I would never do that. I just happened to be passing through and I was . . . mesmerized.” Clucking, he circled around Tim, from his right side back behind the desk and then to his left side. He crooked one finger and reached out as though he was going to pluck the taut leather thong like a guitar string.

Tim stiffened and made unattractive gagging sounds.

Dominic’s finger twitched, but then he slowly pulled it back. “This is really . . . nasty,” he said, his voice filled with admiration. “I’m really proud of you, Anthony.” He bent close to peer into Tim’s mouth and then at his anguished, desperate eyes.

Stepping back a little, he studied Tim as if he were some bizarre insect specimen pinned on a board. “So 202 still asks? Every morning?”

“Every morning.”

“And every morning you do something like this?”

“Well, not always quite this ambitious. But he actually got an answer this morning, so I had to make a special effort.”

“You answered him?”

“Yes.”

“What?”

Anthony chuckled. “He wanted to know why the monk in charge of the shower room is always referred to as John, no matter what his real name is.”

Dominic laughed, too. “He hadn’t figured that out yet? John? John . . . the Baptist?”

“Apparently not.”

Listening to them banter back and forth, Tim, in agony, felt even worse.

* * *

Horizon F/X - Chapter 27 - Part 3

2011-05-26T06:42:00.000-06:00

“Hey mister, you hang out here much?”

With a snort, Tim turned his head to the right and grinned at Buddy’s red, upside down face, the sweat still dripping down through his tousled hair. “Not lately. You?”

“Some,” Buddy said.

Tim expected an immediate yell for them to stay silent, but maybe everyone else had gone off to find a more comfortable, cooler place. “I miss Cade,” he blurted out.

“Me, too.”

“It just feels wrong that he’s not here.”

“I know,” Buddy agreed.

“Haven’t you wondered what happened to him?”

“Well, yes I . . . ”

“Do you think he quit? Would they send him off somewhere else?”

Buddy hesitated. “Uh, I don’t think we can know that.”

“Shit,” Tim muttered. “You sound just like Anthony.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Naw, that’s okay.” Tim tried shifting a little. His body had lengthened out along the slanted roof to the point his fingers just reached the ground, but not far enough to brace himself and take some of his weight. “Ever wish you hadn’t signed?”

“Sometimes.”

Tim shook his head. “I don’t know, Buddy. The things they ask of us. It all seems like too much. And for what?”

“Shooting?” Buddy suggested, gazing up at his fat dick. “The adventure?”

“Maybe.”

“Raphael?” he tried, with such a dramatic, love-sick sigh Tim had to laugh.

“I guess,” Tim conceded. “I suppose I have years and years ahead to just be . . . ungh!”

“Oof!”

Tim looked up to see a brownish, sticky splotch on his belly.

“Shut up, you two,” came a voice from the woods below them. “How are we supposed to rest with you yakking the whole time? I got a whole bag of culled apples here, and I used to pitch semi-pro, so don’t you mess with me.”

Tim glanced over at Buddy who sported a similar splotch right between his abs, and then nodded his obedience in the direction of the woods. So much for talking.

* * *

Tim studied Buddy, ever obedient, his eyes already closed. Immediately he was jealous of him — his cock arching out and away from his body, seemingly disoriented by his position, wavering up and down in various levels of arousal, his balls, free and plumped up at the base. Then he looked again. Buddy seemed thinner than ever stretched out along the roof, his belly concave between his arched ribs, his limbs fragile. Matthew must be working him into the dirt. And yet he was no longer the scrawny, gangly kid he’d been when Tim first saw him in the shower room. His body seemed knitted together more tightly, everything extraneous burned away. It was a look that suited Buddy, made him much more attractive. Seeing him asleep and so helpless made Tim want to rescue him, protect him and then, perversely, break him — brutally fuck the hell out of him.

With a low moan, he cursed himself. What had he just done? Turned himself on. Made himself squirm with need while the tightly knotted cord cut ever deeper into his cock and balls that were supposedly no longer even his except in the sense he was to constantly offer them to anyone who asked. Dominic and Anthony were right. He didn’t even need the two of them. Most of the time he was his own cruelest tormentor. Then he sighed and tried to let it all go, hanging from the root cellar, a lowly postulant at the Abbey de San Sebastian, hoping to catch a few minutes of mindless sleep.

* * *

Horizon F/X - Chapter 27 - Part 2

2011-05-23T06:00:00.002-06:00

An unexpected development. Nap time. They’d entered an unusual period of above average temperatures and the abbot had decreed that all monks could sleep through the hottest part of the day. Of course, it wouldn’t be quite that simple for postulants.

“What about these two?”

“Let’s hang them from the root cellar.”

Tim didn’t like the sound of that at all. But he was forced to lumber along behind Buddy, sweating even more as he tried to keep up in spite of his wide-thighed stance.

Dominic and Matthew, supervising, but clearly anxious to begin their own rest, made quick work of it. They commandeered three of the novices and then ordered all five of the young men to strip. Tim was more than happy to oblige. The next thing he knew, he was flat on his back and two of the novices were attaching a thicker than usual spreader bar between his ankles. The other novice pulled his arms over his head and looped his wrists together with a length of rope.

“Now, hoist him up there.”

Tim’s butt was being dragged along in the dirt and then he was dangling upside down as the novices heaved on the block and tackle apparatus. He remembered now. It was usually employed to hoist gunny sacks filled with vegetables from the wagons, then pivot them over to the root cellar to be lugged down inside. Or vice versa. From his upside down position, he surveyed the cellar beneath him, a long, tunnel-like storage chamber carved into the side of the hill with a slanted roof covering the northern exposure. Good luck hanging him here. The doorway on the eastern end wasn’t even five feet high.

“Swing him over now,” Dominic ordered from somewhere behind Tim. “One of you latch onto that arm rope. Hold him out away from the roof until I nab him.”

Swaying back and forth, increasingly dizzy, Tim looked up past his ankles to see Dominic perched about a third of the way along the brow of the hill, one foot on turf, the other on shingles. With a practiced motion, he caught the ankle bar with a grappling hook, pulled it close, signaled for the novices to lower their load and then, easy as hanging a pot over the stove, settled the bar into metal flanges jutting up from the ridge pole. At that moment, the novice gripping the rope let go, and Tim’s back thudded down against the slanted roof. In a few minutes, spreader bar in place, Buddy was strung up beside him. They were in the shade, naked, hanging by their heels, wrists bound. With the rough wooden roof at their backs to at least partially support them, it was probably the best they could hope for.

“One last touch,” Dominic decided, and the next moment his purple, sweating face appeared as he stretched down from the peak of the roof. Using Tim’s cord, he knotted it around Tim’s genitals and pulled up on them, securing them to the ankle bar. Then he reached down and patted Tim’s trussed up organs affectionately and repeatedly until Tim was writhing against the shingles. “You take care of my tender nuggets now, you hear?” he drawled, leering at Tim.

“Come down from there, Brother Dominic,” Matthew pleaded. “You’re going to get heat stroke.”

“Sweet dreams,” Dominic murmured with one last nasty pinch. Then he was gone.

Tim struggled against the whole arrangement, but finally relaxed as best he could, hanging from the roof, accepting there was nothing he could do to make this more comfortable or ease the pull on his long-abused privates.

* * *

Horizon F/X - Chapter 27 - Endurance

2011-05-19T06:00:00.002-06:00

Tim existed in a delirium of torment. Every morning he couldn’t keep himself from asking a question, and every morning he was punished, with only a few grains of information for all his suffering. He waddled through each day. Though Dominic rarely used the braces anymore, he had rigged thicker, tighter thigh cuffs that held the telescoping rod and, at every meal, he added the spreader bar between Tim’s ankles so that Tim presided over the bench like some wide-limbed oaf, leaving Buddy cramped primly one end.

And the attacks against his person, against his privates, continued at every opportunity. He hadn’t been allowed to come in a really long time, so everything down there was swollen and aching, then made even worse by Dominic’s constant abuse — the jabbing fist out of nowhere, being shoved up against the nearest wall with Dominic kneeing him until he cried out in despair, forced to climb every stairway in the abbey with his robe hiked up around his waist and Dominic right behind him, gleefully whacking Tim’s dangling and defenseless balls.

“And what do you say now, 202?” Dominic prompted after every attack.

Tim, still bent double and gasping, would have to force himself upright. Then, trying to steady his voice, hoping it wouldn’t ring out an octave higher than usual, he’d recite, “Thank you, Brother Dominic, for disciplining this body with its stubborn, disobedient parts, this penis and these testicles which belong to you.”

And then at night, even after Compline, open, always open. He hadn’t been allowed to sleep in the bed niche for over a week because Dominic didn’t feel there was room enough to keep him fully exposed and vulnerable. Well, there had been that one night when they’d placed him perpendicular on his back in the bed, his head scrunched up against the exterior wall and his butt resting on a stool hastily placed adjacent to the stone niche. Then Dominic had strung his legs up in a wide V and left him like that all night, uncovered, open, aching, the lights burning dimly so he could entertain himself by watching the play of muscles that quivered and jumped along the inside of his legs.

* * *

“202, I’m surprised at you. That was a stupid, brazen question. Usually you at least come up with something more devious. Will you ever see Master? What arrogance. Tell me this, why would Master ever condescend or want to see you?

Already trembling, Tim shrugged and then shook his head. He feared it would be another long session with the bladder gag — Anthony convinced Tim would eventually be able to take it fully inflated, Tim knowing he never could.

“This is somewhat strenuous,” Anthony considered, “but after all, you asked badly. The punishment must be equivalent.” He came around from behind his desk. “Remain kneeling. Open, please.”

Tim opened.

* * *

The punishment was indeed strenuous, strenuous and elaborate. First Anthony inserted a padded O-ring just behind Tim’s teeth. This was held in place with the usual buckled harness. Tim knew these rings were often used for young slaves, male or female, learning to suck cock. The ring prevented them from biting down or fending off the shaft, no matter how long or swollen it might be. Mouths locked open, they simply had to survive the face-fucking as best they could.

Anthony finished fumbling at the back of his head, and Tim felt a pull there.

“Stick out your tongue.”

Tim obeyed, awkwardly pushing his tongue out past the ring. Anthony came at him with a barbaric looking apparatus, a bit like a pair of kitchen tongs, but the grabbing ends were wide, rough, padded clamps which Anthony positioned at the thick, fleshy part of Tim’s tongue just back from the tip. Tim felt the two broad surfaces pressing together as Anthony tightened the device until his tongue was secured.

Next Anthony attached a leather thong to the end of this apparatus and tied it off to a bracket on the top of his desk.

Tim made guttural, gulping sounds as his tongue, already flailing at the unnatural position, was pulled even farther out. At the same instant, he realized the back of the head harness had been tied off in a similar way so he couldn’t lean forward to ease the pull on his tongue.

He regretted his question with every fiber of his being, the sounds he was making ugly and desperate now as drool gathered and slid down past the ringed-open corners of his mouth. “Hurts too much,” he tried to say. “Can’t take it. Please!”

Ignoring his distress, pretending he couldn’t understand him, Anthony returned to his desk and started reading. “Focus, 202,” he warned, his finger poised near the tether, unless you want me to pull this thong a little tighter.”

* * *

Horizon F/X - Chapter 26 - Part 6

2011-05-16T06:00:00.001-06:00

“You know what 202’s problem is, Brother Anthony?”

“No, Brother Dominic. What is 202’s problem?”

Tim raised his head, wanting to know as well. He was still strapped into the braces, but now in his cell for Compline, in an even worse position. They’d removed the thigh spreader, but then attached numerous thin chains to the outside bars and secured them in such a way that he was stuck in a bent-kneeed, wide-legged half squat. His wrists were linked together and pulled up over his head, but not quite high enough to help support his weight.

“His problem,” Dominic went on, “is that he thinks this belongs to him.” At the word “this,” Dominic grabbed Tim’s cock and twisted it.

“And he also thinks this belongs to him.” At the repetition of “this,” Dominic released the cock and clenched Tim’s balls.

Tim grunted and strained to pull his legs in.

“See. He immediately tries to protect these, thinking they are his. But they are not his. They are Master’s, and through Master’s power, currently ours. Ours to do with as we please. Or any of the monks here at the abbey. Or any of the dominants at the arena."

"So . . . ?"

"So, we must train him out of his compulsion to close, to protect.”

“And yet,” Anthony considered, “there is the problem of instinct.”

“Well, of course. He is programmed to try to shield his seed. There is the primal fear that if someone were to do this . . . ” — here Dominic took his free hand and slapped it several times against the underside of Tim’s trapped balls — “there might be no little baby 202s to terrorize the world.”

Tim’s breath was labored, his whole body tensed, focused on his jewels still clutched in Dominic’s hand.

Elbow cupped in one hand, chin resting on the other, Anthony studied Tim. “And how would we overcome this . . . instinct?” he asked innocently.

“Repetition,” Dominic thundered, again aiming several upward slaps at Tim’s balls. “202 must practice and learn to act counter to his instincts.”

* * *

Tim’s fingers were clenched around the chain above his cuffed wrists while sweat dripped down his ribs and a seemingly uncontrollable series of groans escaped past the gag. Even though Dominic was nowhere near him, his exhausted, cramped legs kept flinching, desperate to close around his throbbing cock and swollen, aching balls. Far from helping him, Dominic’s repeated attacks had only made him more skittish, more frightened. Now all Dominic had to do was wave the round-headed little nut-whacker in Tim’s direction, and he’d be practically crawling up the chain, his trapped legs flapping ludicrously in their desperation to protect.

“He can’t get it,” Anthony said, looking almost as exhausted as Tim felt.

“But he must.”

“Perhaps smaller steps.”

“Smaller?” Dominic paced in front of Tim and Tim watched him, alert for the slightest tensing of his muscles that meant the monk was going to turn suddenly and lunge at him, grab for his privates, land another blow. “Smaller,” Dominic repeated. He turned back to Tim and reached toward his crotch.

Tim tensed and gasped out a preparatory moan.

Dominic began running his finger lightly up Tim’s cock. “It’s like welting,” he began. He toyed with the tip, edging his fingernail into Tim’s piss hole. “Remember how you learned, 202? Remember what we taught you?” Dominic was massaging the underside of Tim’s cock, just with one finger, lightly. “When the blow lands, you still always pull away, but at least you’ve learned to immediately stick your butt back out afterward.” He moved the finger to Tim’s balls, tracing the distended veins there with his fingertip, exploring delicately like a man reading Braille.

“This is your duty, to constantly offer yourself, to make yourself available, to open yourself to whatever Master wants or needs. Brother Anthony is tired, but I can keep at this all night. We will begin again. And until you can at least do this one small thing of offering yourself no matter how frightened you are, no matter how much you dread it, we will continue.” He rubbed the finger back and forth in the sensitive area just between the base of Tim’s balls and his twitching hole. “Do you understand?”

Dizzy with fear, nearly jumping out of his skin with the way Dominic was turning him on, Tim nodded.

“Good. Let’s start with the smallest slapper. Brother Anthony, if you would be so kind.”

Horizon F/X - Chapter 26 - Part 5

2011-05-15T19:16:00.000-06:00

He clanked into the library, tried to kneel but couldn’t, so he stood respectfully with his head down.

Finally, Anthony looked up. “Let’s try this,” he said, producing a small oil can. “Lift your robe for me, please.”

Tim obeyed.

Anthony worked on the joints above and below Tim’s knees, adding oil and then helping Tim flex his leg, lifting it and bending it back. “Now try,” he said.

Tim clunked down to his knees with a jarring pain and balanced there. He was down, but he doubted he’d be able to get back up again.

Anthony went back to his reading.

Tim watched him. He thought about the bladder gag from the day before. Would he really risk asking yet another question? Certainly it seemed pointless to ask again about Cade.

Eventually, Anthony looked up.

Swallowing, shaking, Tim felt and heard the words tumbling out. “During my assessment,” he began, “they . . . labeled me as B&D. But that’s what everyone is here. Why would they use such a generic term?”

Anthony studied him. “Are you sure they said B and D? Wasn’t it BND?”

“B . . . ND,” Tim whispered. “Maybe it was. But what does BND mean then?”

“Two questions?”

Tim bit his lip. Would he really have to endure a punishment now and then wait clear until tomorrow to ask again?

“Well, perhaps I can accommodate you just this once,” Anthony said.

Tim leaned forward eagerly.

“BND simply means ‘boy next door.’ I leave it to you to determine what that means in the context of your assessment.”

Boy next door. Tim was immediately intrigued. And thrilled. Maybe this was going to work after all. Finally an answer.

“Are you forgetting something?” Anthony asked.

Tim tried to focus on him. He didn’t think so.

“The punishment?”

Tim’s shoulders slumped. And then started trembling. What if it was the bladder gag again? Or something even worse?

“Open, please.”

Tim opened.

“Tongue out.”

Tim obeyed.

Dipping a brush into a small glass vial, Anthony began painting Tim’s tongue with something. It didn’t sting or burn, and Tim thought he might be getting off easy. When Anthony finished and he closed his mouth, he tasted garlic. Anthony had painted his tongue with garlic oil. Well, that wasn’t so bad. They were fed tons of garlic here so they always reeked of it anyway, stigma of their peasant lifestyle.

“Are you going to pay attention now, or should I add another layer?”

Tim instantly focused his eyes wide and locked them on Anthony’s, trying to appear completely absorbed in their latest lesson. Best not to push his luck.

* * *

The garlic was actually rather nasty. It was like that taste in his mouth when the garlic bread at lunch had been too strong, and all afternoon at the office he longed to brush his teeth. He’d pop mint after mint, drink strong coffee, but nothing would cut the intensity of the garlic. And as he did his chores at the abbey, still creaking around in the braces, he could sense his fellow monks shifting away from him.

Still, as he worked, he treasured the small amount of info he’d gleaned. BND. Boy next door. He supposed what it meant was that he looked vanilla. He looked ordinary and not at all like the dangerous, edgy kind of guy you’d expect to be into BDSM, that most tops probably wanted. So it was hardly a compliment. But at least it let him know that sometimes the punished questions would yield an answer.

* * *

Horizon F/X - Chapter 26 - Part 4

2011-05-09T06:00:00.002-06:00

“And I declare these loins of the Abbey de San Sebastian officially . . . open.” With these words, Dominic removed the thick belts from around Tim’s legs with a flourish and then mimicked the roaring sound of fans in the stands.

Tim smiled weakly. Dominic and Anthony were checking him after Lauds. It was rather early for humor.

“202, we believe you have mastered the concept of closed. Now we move on to the much more important concept of open. Let us begin.”

Dominic left the cell and came back shortly with what looked like a set of braces for a kid with polio. And proceeded to strap and buckle Tim into them.

When he finished, Tim stood shakily facing the tri-fold mirror which still took up half his cell, there every morning to let him see the only slightly fading marks of his humiliation. Flat metal rods went down the outside and inside of both legs, from a wide cuff at his upper thigh through a complicated hinged apparatus above and below his knee and ending in another wide cuff at his ankle.

“Good,” said Dominic, giving Tim’s ass a swat and watching him creak awkwardly forward. “And now for the important part. Open.”

With Anthony’s help, he attached a metal rod between the two thigh bands. The rod telescoped, one section fitting into the other, and then could be adjusted using pins with wing nuts inserted into holes along its length. Dominic worked with this for quite a while until he decided Tim’s stance was open enough. Then he tossed him his robe.

Tim caught it, lurching backward and struggling to stay balanced. But it didn’t seem that bad of a trade. At least he was finally allowed to be covered again. Before Dominic could change his mind, he pulled the robe over his head and cinched the cord tight, tugging at the fabric where it got caught up on the braces. The outline of the gag was still clear on his face, and the words written there, but at least most everything else would be hidden.

“Oh dear, the bells for Prime already?” Dominic mused, pretending to be apologetic. “That time went quickly. Well, no little nap this morning, I guess.” Turning, he opened the door of Tim’s cell. “Brother Anthony. 202. Shall we to chapel.”

* * *

Almost immediately, Tim realized the error of his thinking. This wasn’t a fair exchange at all. It was deucedly hard to walk in the metal braces. He had to swing his legs out wide with each step, looking like Frankenstein or like a cowboy who’d been astride his horse for way too long. And because of the robe, now no one could really understand what he was dealing with.

“Hurry along there, 202. We don’t want to be late.”

In the chapel, Dominic and Anthony had to help him with everything. He couldn’t even reach around very well to lube himself. And then they had to practically lift him up and then down onto the phallus at his Prieu Deux. He squirmed there, clanking softly, as Buddy glanced over at him.

* * *

“Excuse us, 47,” Dominic said at breakfast. He helped Tim maneuver to sit down on the bench, and then produced a spreader bar which he duly attached at Tim’s ankles. “Open,” he reminded Tim. “It’s tempting to bring the feet in as a counter to the thighs.” He patted both rods between Tim’s legs before he went to join Anthony at their table.

Tim nodded at Buddy, then blushed because he was hogging most of their bench. If Cade were still here, it would be a really tight fit.

* * *

Horizon F/X - Chapter 26 - Part 3

2011-05-05T06:00:00.001-06:00

He asked. He couldn’t help himself. “Is 4 gone because he completed his first year contract?”

Anthony smiled sadly. “I’m afraid I can’t answer that either.” He paused. “Today, rather than lessons, I think we’ll work on your breathing. Lie down, please, over there between the stacks.”

Tim obeyed, gasping at the cold contact of the floor against his bare skin, on eye level with the dust curls under the heavy wooden shelves.

Immediately, Anthony bound Tim’s wrists and ankles out and to the side with ropes that had already been attached to the bookcases. As always, he was prepared. “Open, please,” he said.

Tim opened and felt Anthony feeding an amorphous mass of something that tasted like plastic into his mouth. There was a lot of bulk to it and his mouth felt full. Then Anthony fussed with it, eventually securing a rubber gag component that sealed around Tim’s lips and across his cheeks.

Next he produced a hand pump and began squeezing the bulb between his fingers. Tim felt the bladder stuffed inside his mouth begin to fill with air. Anthony pumped slowly and the bladder grew. And grew. It completely filled Tim’s mouth and jutted out his cheeks, threatening to close off the back of his throat.

Pulling wildly against the ropes, Tim tried to convey he couldn’t breathe.

Anthony stopped pumping and splayed his fingers across Tim’s chest. “You’re all right. You can breathe. Just relax. Focus on widening your nasal passages and pulling air in through there.”

Tim tried, but the feeling of suffocating was too intense. His head came up off the floor. He fought against the ropes, nostrils flaring, sucking desperately for oxygen.

Anthony released the pump and let the bladder deflate until Tim had calmed down. Then, over and over, for the entire length of the lesson, he worked with the gag, pumping it up, waiting until Tim was wild-eyed and gasping.

“Tip your head back,” Anthony would say. “Open your throat fully. Relax. Relax.” He would run his fingers up and down Tim’s convulsing throat, and then finally give in to Tim’s desperation and deflate the gag.

“You can do this,” he kept saying. “Mind over matter. Think of being open and calm. Welcome the fear of this experience, the intensity. That is why you are here. To feel. To expand your limits. To offer yourself up to whatever Master needs. Now let us begin again.”

* * *

Horizon F/X - Chapter 26 - Part 2

2011-05-02T06:00:00.001-06:00

“You are burning holes in this book with your questions.”

Tim bowed his head, confused. He hadn’t said a word. He’d only done what he was supposed to, go into the library, kneel and wait to be acknowledged.

“Those questions in your eyes,” Anthony went on as he lowered his book to gaze at Tim over the top of it. “Suppose we make a deal, 202? Suppose I allow you to ask one question here each morning, knowing it’s entirely possible I won’t choose or won’t be able to answer you, and . . . ”

He held one finger up, warning Tim not to jump at this chance without thinking.

“ . . . and knowing you must endure some punishment for your inability to control your curiosity?”

Tim tried to consider the offer. Anthony might not ever answer him. And the punishments might be terrible. But still, just the chance to communicate, the opportunity to let Anthony know the things that were consuming him would be something. Ashamed, he thought of his New Age friends and all their solemn words about “putting it out there into the universe.” But that’s what he wanted. He at least wanted to be heard. So he nodded his agreement.

“Very well then. Think carefully. Then present your question for today.”

Tim assumed this would be a wasted question, but felt bound to ask it anyway. “I need to know if Cade . . . if 4 is all right.”

Anthony shook his head. “I’m sorry, 202. You should know I cannot answer that.”

Tim bowed his head. Of course. Even holding back his real questions — like did Cade leave or was he moved to a different group, and more importantly, were all the postulants eventually moved to a different group? — hadn’t held back enough. This deal was probably rigged like all the others.

“Now rise. Follow me to the corner.”

Tim obeyed. There was a basin there on a stand with a pitcher of water.

“Kindly bend over the basin and open your mouth.”

Puzzled, Tim obeyed. The next thing he knew, Anthony was washing his mouth out with soap. Sputtering, Tim broke away. What was he, six years old?

“You have made your promise,” Anthony reminded him. “You must now comply.”

It took Tim a moment to meekly bend back over the basin and open his mouth. Anthony was thorough, lathering up his hands with the harsh, brown soap they made here at the abbey and then scrubbing Tim’s mouth with it, teeth, gums, tongue. The soap was acrid, and Tim gagged several times. Anthony ignored him, forcing his mouth back open and continuing with an additional application of soap.

“Stand,” he said finally, and Tim stood, his mouth still filled with soap that foamed out and over his lips.

Anthony made a great show of turning an hourglass over near the basin, and then he went back to the table where they always had their lessons.

“Read this marked passage for me, would you?” he requested, looking surprised that Tim hadn’t immediately returned to his place on his knees.

Comprehending the full scope of the punishment, Tim knelt, took the book and cleared his throat. It was hard to read aloud, but he choked out the words as best he could, an occasional bubble of soap popping on his lips.

Then Anthony proceeded to elaborate on what he’d just read. Tim barely heard him. He was thinking of how nasty the soap tasted and how it was drying out his throat and wishing he could see the progress of the hourglass out of the corner of his eye. He’d never had his mouth washed out with soap. His parents didn’t go in for punishments like that. He’d seen it once though, maybe in a movie. The mother made the kid stick his tongue out and then she wiped the bar of soap on it once and that was it.

* * *

“Rinse, please,” Anthony said, glancing casually at the hourglass after about fifteen minutes had elapsed.

Tim hurried over to the basin and washed the dried soap scum off his face, then cupped water into his mouth, sloshed and spit several times before he went back to the lesson. One question down. One punishment completed. Tim wondered if he’d try asking another question tomorrow.

* * *

Horizon F/X - Chapter 26 - Open

2011-04-28T06:00:00.004-06:00

It was Dominic who came at the stroke of midnight. Tim, weaving now, his eyes mostly Xed shut in spite of his best efforts, despaired. Anthony might take pity on him, but what hope did he have with Dominic?

But Dominic surprised him. He unhooked Tim from the chains and instead staked him out on the floor, but loosely, binding his legs together as usual. Though he didn’t remove the gag, he at least extinguished the harsh light. Without a word he left, as though merely completing an irritating middle of the night task, letting the cat out or remembering to turn down the thermostat.

Tim swallowed uselessly, his mouth bone dry. It seemed like the final blow, not even an acknowledgement that he’d done his penance, that he’d endured his punishment for this whole long day with at least some degree of awareness and humility. With a sigh, he curled into himself, his stomach both hungry and queasy, aching down into his bones. He was cold, the floor was hard, but at least he could try to sleep. At least there was that.

* * *

With unusual ardor, Tim approached the basin of water and rough bar of soap. Just before Lauds and the rounds of the Torture Fairy, Dominic had finally released him and removed the gag, but he hadn’t removed the mirror, so as Tim did his crunches and then push-ups in the early dawn light, he’d had to see again all the shame of his marked up body. For once there was no welting, no flogging, something he would have welcomed as a way to begin to blur or purge the embarrassing images.

Unable to find his robe anywhere, he’d sidled naked into the chapel for Prime. As he forced himself down onto the phallus, the usual involuntary moan escaped his lips.

“Bull’s eye!” one of the senior postulants in the row ahead of him hissed, and the postulant next to him couldn’t help laughing.

Immediately they were punished, but Tim could see the barely suppressed smiles of their warders as they glanced back at him, the inked target around his ass precisely impaled.

The moment Prime was over, he’d hurried here to the outhouse washroom. Shivering in the morning air, he lathered himself up fully instead of the quick pits and crotch cleaning he often resorted to. Then he stepped over to the drain and poured not one but two buckets of water over his body. Blinking past the soap stinging in one eye, he looked quickly down. The pen markings were still starkly visible. They hadn’t washed away at all. And he had a sudden flashback of the frequent, plaintive cry of his mother from the laundry room: “Which one of you cretins left an indelible ink marker in your pocket?”

* * *

He was no longer allowed to wear his robe, only the cord and sandals. Unaccountably, mirrors began popping up all over the abbey. At first he was glad, excited to relive his experience at the resort on seeing how much his body had improved.

But the graffiti ruined everything. He’d try to enjoy the beauty of his new physique and instead notice the wavy lines someone had drawn delineating and numbering his abs, his six pack, except they’d stopped at four and a half. Or he’d forget what he looked like only to come around a corner to again be confronted by his garish, painted-up visage.

Meanwhile his brother monks, even after the second or third day, couldn’t help whispering as he went past: “Tiny Tim.” Or: “Hey, Cathy. Nice rack!”

* * *

Horizon F/X - Chapter 25 - Part 7

2011-04-25T06:00:00.001-06:00

The warning bells for Compline. Tim tensed where they’d left him after supper, finally removing the gag, chaining his right ankle to the ring in his cell. It had been completely dark, only a bit of candlelight from the hallway filtering in. So he’d simply stretched out on the floor, hoping his stomach would settle, grateful again for the simple kindness of not being gagged and not being chained in a standing position.

“Up,” Dominic ordered, with Anthony standing behind him, shielding a wan candle from the draft. “Shame on you. Why aren’t you on your knees?”

Tim scrambled to obey. Immediately he felt something pushing at his lips. He parted his teeth only slightly and felt the familiar dimensions of the gag as the wide protuberance was shoved back inside his mouth. He groaned and worked his jaw, and Dominic immediately slapped him, going back to buckle the first strap tighter.

In the next moment, they’d pulled him to his feet. He heard four distinct clicks just before his wrists were hoisted back into the air at the same time Anthony or Dominic shoved his legs wider apart. The X again. So Compline was to be still more of the same.

“Let there be light,” Dominic intoned, and the cell suddenly flared brightly, not with the flicker of candles, but incandescent light from hidden bulbs in the ceiling.

Tim couldn’t see a thing, his eyes squinted shut.

One of the monks slapped his behind and then they were gone, the sound of the key in the lock followed by their retreating footsteps.

Bit by bit, Tim managed to pry his eyes open. At first he could only see the dazzle of light, but gradually his eyes adjusted. He wasn’t alone after all. Someone else was in the cell with him. It took him a full minute to realize he was looking at a reflection of himself. They had chained him in the center of his cell but, in this place without reflective surfaces of any kind, he found himself facing the extravagance of a full-length, tri-fold mirror. He jerked against the chains as he began to see how completely his flesh had been marked up, his pale skin showing in only a few places between dense patches of color.

And so, trapped there, he began reading himself. Two areas were immediately most prominent. His nipples had been colored and made to appear bigger. Next the artist had drawn curved lines to represent breasts and then done a lot of shading so Tim could almost see a voluptuousness there instead of his hard, male pecs. And above the fake boobs in curlycue, bright pink letters? Two words: Chatty Cathy. He blushed and shuddered. No wonder everyone had laughed.

And even worse, down below, the pastry chef had painted two expressive, bright blue eyes on Tim’s newly-clipped groin, cleverly using the remaining pubic hair as eyebrows. There was a puckery mouth on his testicles and that joined with the eyes and his defeated penis made a grotesque, big-nosed face. He thought of the way the chef had waggled his dick, and he could imagine what it had looked like, all of them laughing at . . . Tiny Tim.

He had to close his eyes for a long time after that, afraid to see anything else.

* * *

At 10:00, Anthony returned and repositioned him, this time so he was peering directly into the side mirror to his left. Anthony shifted the opposite mirror slightly until Tim could clearly see his backside and again departed.

As before, Tim’s eyes were drawn to the worst place. In precisely drawn, concentric circles a rainbow-hued target covered his butt and upper thighs, with his puckered hole the obvious bull’s eye. Though he tried to look away, he was an obsessive reader and his eyes returned again and again to the mirrors. Frustrated by the gag, the monks had resorted to outlining all the straps so that even with it off, he would still seem to be wearing it. A badly-drawn foot appeared on his left cheek with the words “insert in mouth” printed under it. His left temple sported the word “Duh!” and on the right, they’d inscribed his number, “202.” A different hand had written “IQ” above it, and then scratched out the second “2.” Really, the only place they’d left unmarked was a careful white area surrounding his tattoo. No one, he imagined, dared mess with Flint.

* * *

Anthony was back at 11:00, this time shifting Tim to look into the left-side mirror. “Eyes open,” he warned, flicking the tip of Tim’s cock and then twisting it savagely. “How do you learn unless you trouble yourself to see?”

Afraid now that they were watching him, afraid he’d still be standing here in the harsh light past midnight, Tim continued to stare sadly at his body. He closed first one eye and then the other to realize one of the last things done to him had been the monk climbing up to draw two big X’s over his eyelids, like the cartoon figures of dead guys. Various drawings of Curious George cavorted over his body. “Hoof in mouth disease” printed between the straps of the gag. “Close cover before striking” on his ass just above the target. Even his toes had been labeled: Market, Home, Roast Beef, None and then Wee, wee, wee! . . . all the way to his ankle. Such creativity and wit from his brother monks. Who would have thought it? And how would he ever live this down?

Horizon F/X - Chapter 25 - Part 6

2011-04-21T06:00:00.001-06:00

In the lull before the usual fruit platters came out, Dominic and Anthony strolled down toward Tim. In an unexpected move, Anthony gripped the front piece of the gag and unscrewed it. He laid the piece on the table in front of Tim, the dumb, grinning muzzle of Curious George. Meanwhile, Dominic grabbed one of the chains and secured something there. It looked like an IV bag that you’d see in a hospital. He handed the dangling tube to Anthony who fed it into the front piece of the gag, and Tim felt the tip of the tube poking into his tongue.

Dominic released the clip high up on the tube and Tim watched as a thick, dark, nasty-looking substance began oozing down into the plastic line. He pulled back a little, but Anthony was standing behind him, his forearm across Tim’s throat, holding him in place. Dominic gave the bag a squeeze and the goop moved faster. Moments later the first taste of it was in Tim’s mouth, the liver stuff but with an even grainier consistency than usual and bitter undercurrents that made him choke. Anthony only tightened his hold and made sure the gag was firmly in place so Tim had no choice but to swallow.

The trays of fruit and cheese appeared and began making their way around the table. Dominic was chatting with Anthony and the monk to Buddy’s left.

Tim, his head tipped back, saw an air pocket in the tubing collapse as the accumulated weight of the sludge began pushing down in earnest. The stuff was coming at him fast, flooding into his mouth and filling it faster than he could swallow. He was half asphyxiated before Anthony finally noticed.

“Close it down a bit,” he said, interrupting Dominic.

They played with the feed and then left Tim to fend for himself so they could have their dessert. Tim sat at the table, the tube snaking into his mouth. It was sporadic now, sometimes just a thin drip of the bitter liquid seeping through, other times a thick glop of it surging into his mouth. The substance scraped its way down his throat. He could imagine Dominic, like a mad scientist, concocting it in the kitchen, searching for the worst tastes, the most gagging consistencies. He sat and shuddered and was forced to accept whatever was pumped in with Buddy seated beside him, shoulders hunched, trying not to eat the apple slices, figs and cubes of rich cheese on his plate.

Moments later, Matthew came down. “That is good food, 47,” he thundered. “Don’t you waste it. Eat it all, now, or you’ll be eating it off the floor of your cell.”

With an apologetic glance at Tim, Buddy began eating and Tim slumped beside him, watching as another slimy batch of the stuff dislodged itself from the sides of the bag and came toward him.

* * *

As the monks slowly left the tables, lingering in small groups to visit, Anthony and Dominic returned and closed off the tube. There was an opening at the top of the bag and they poured in water. Dominic sloshed it around and then released the clip, released it too much, and a surge of brownish water flooded into Tim’s mouth. While Dominic struggled to get the tube clamped again, Anthony pounded Tim on the back as he coughed and sputtered, trying to expel the overflow of water from his windpipe.

In a mess of stops and starts, they managed to get all of the water from the bag down into Tim’s belly. He felt it there, mixing with the nasty stuff that seemed to be swelling and pulsing. Though he tried to tell himself it was food, nourishment he desperately needed, his stomach, as usual, didn’t agree. He hated that liver stuff almost more than any other thing they did to him.

* * *