index

Message-ID: <57708asstr$1212847803@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
Mime-Version: 1.0
From: Bud Red <redbud@inbox.com>
Content-Transfer-Encoding: quoted-printable
Subject: {ASSM} The Fun House 7 of 20 Atonement - by Redbud
Lines: 915
Date: Sat, 07 Jun 2008 10:10:03 -0400
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d

The Fun House - Atonement - 7 of 20
									
(With an assist from John Keats & Villon. I think this is one of
my favorite stories so far. If you like it, drop me a note. I
appreciate feedback. Look for earlier stories on ASSM under Red
Bud or, if that doesn't work , send me a note and I'll point you
to my blog - the last refuge of someone who can't design a web
page. As always, subject to small changes and improvement.
Forgive typos, poor grammar, editing, & hopefully enjoy.)

	The girl was thin and slight, almost elvish, with short blonde
hair. She tried to quiet her breathing. She had overheard
conversations, phone calls. There was a trailer at the abandoned
fair grounds. There might be an old groundskeeper named Comus.
Sometimes he was young , sometimes old. The trailer looked like
all the others except at night.
	She had found it, part in moonlight, part in the trees, tires
were cracked and rims half-buried. Shadows, or was it the pale
light between the shadows, moved intricately and suggestively
against the sides of the trailer. She focused on a wisp of light
and it began to take shape - arms, open legs, a shadow kissing
the wisp of light, union, entangling and vanishing. Lyla felt a
spark in her own sex, imagining her own slender legs opening (as
she so often imagined) but had never done. Her small hand slipped
between her flat stomach and her dungarees. She wanted to slip a
finger lower, between, just inside.
	The two tall figures on either side of the entry door seemed to
beckon her. They were tall and elongated -- a man and a woman.
Each gestured to the door beside them. Their faces were angelic
but Lyla could see the suggestion of breasts, nipples, and the
woman's sex and on the man, his penis. She swallowed when she saw
his sex, as looking at something that, she knew, promised
mysterious pleasures. She freed her hand and quietly pushed open
the trailer's door.
	The door slammed behind her, causing her to gasp in surprise.
She had walked into darkness. She needed to hurry, without
knowing why. She was in long stone corridor, medieval, arched.
She was wearing a monk's garb with a rope cinched around her
waist. She wore an undergarment that felt like sackcloth but
nothing underneath. Her sex was bear. Other monks were quietly
hurrying behind her and ahead of her. She was nervous and little
frightened.
	She turned through a stone archway, out of the hallway,
following other monks ahead of her, and entered into a larger
room. She hurried to stand in a row, her back to the wall, with
all the other monks. She, like all the others, wore a cowling
that covered her eyes and kept her face in shadow. She was glad.
	The last monk pattered into the room and there was silence.
Finally, a simultaneously nasal and gravelly voice spoke.
"Covetousness is a sin," he said. "It is the whore that babes the
seven deadly sins - Lust, Gluttony, Greed, Sloth, Wrath, Envy,
Pride. Lust is covetousness - coveting the flesh of another.
Gluttony is covetousness - coveting the satiety of ones flesh
before the provision of ones soul. Greed is covetousness - etc.,
etc., etcetera." There was a nasal inhalation. "It is an oft
repeated speech... sadly unheeded."
	Lyla peered upward to see the lower torso of an obese monk, his
robe hung like a curtain around his sandaled feet. His feet were
heavily calloused. "One of you has stolen a rather personal
article from my library." The book! Somehow, she had a memory of
the book, of taking it, of wanting to lose herself in the lovely
golden illustrations  - of Saints, far away cities, lands, Kings
& Queens. Just one night. She would have put it back!
	She was remembering. She jumped, almost gasped aloud. A large
hand rested on her shoulder. The fat abbot paused mid-speech.
"Yes, brother Comus?"
	Lyla heard a deep voice behind her. "Do you have something to
confesss, Brother?"
	Lyla shook.
	"Who is it?" the abbot asked. "Who took it?"
	The presence behind her leaned, his breath separated only by her
hood. "Go ahead," he whispered. "He's blind. He can't see you. I
leave it to you, to confess." Comus lifted his hand from her
shoulder. She heard his stony steps behind the monk next to her.
She slowly lifted her eyes. The fat abbot was waiting, listening
but seeing nothing, his eyes fixed blankly on the stone wall
above them.
	She glanced at the other monks. Their faces remained hidden.
Their postures downcast. Fear knotted her chest. She couldn't
breath. No one else moved. No one else spoke. Lyla stepped
forward. The abbot made no effort to move or react. He stood
behind a three-legged stand supporting a large opened book. She
approached the elegant tripod, took the stolen book out of her
robe, and meant to gently place it atop the opened book. She
almost screamed when the abbot grasped her hand, still holding
the book. She bit her lip.
	"You are the new one," he said.
	She said nothing.
	"Lylius," he continued. That was the name she had given herself.
"Your hand is still small with youth." The abbot let go of her
hand. "Go on, put the book down." She did. "Perhaps you are not
acquainted with such measures as we are prepared to use -
inasmuch as we must be reminded of our humility, acknowledge our
deficiencies, and glorify the righteousness of God."
	Lyla said nothing.
	"Good then," he continued. "40 Lashings. Since this will be your
first infraction, and because you are young and the effect upon
the young is respectively diminished you will receive 50
Lashings. I expect the brothers to prepare you."
	The abbot left the room, holding the book in one hand, swinging
a crooked staff in the other.
	Comus followed. He was easily taller and more broadly shouldered
than any of the monks. She feared him more than she feared the
abbot. A voice behind her startled her.
	"Come with us," said the soft voice, "we will help you,
Brother."
	She hesitated. She wanted to run, but memories of a hellish
squalor beyond the monastery walls - disease, the plague, death,
putrescence - riveted her.
	 "The punishment is indeed onerous for one so young, but you
will survive," said another. "We have all suffered his lashings."
	"Come with us," said another.
	And she followed them, walking in a single file. The stone walls
of the hallway radiated winter. Their gothic arches were the like
the blades of a guillotine, one after the other. They exited the
hall and moved through a chapel aisle. Sculpted dead, on each
side, seemed to freeze, imprisoned in black, purgatorial rails;
knights, ladies, kneeling in dumb oratory. She passed them and
her step faltered, thinking how the figures ached in their icy
hoods and mails.
	They turned northward, though a little door, and into a sickly
dark chamber.
	This was where the sick came, where they were blood. Troughs
were cut into the floor and were still wet with the sickly, sweet
smell of blood. The troughs led to narrow keyholes in the stone
wall. Three legged wooden stools were pushed against the wall.
Their oaken wood was stained with blood. The bottom of the legs
were black. The monk who had followed Lyla caught her when her
knees buckled. Another of them laughed.
	"Did you think we meant to bleed you?"
	"I don't know..." Lyla choked.
	"This is where we keep the salve which we apply to the diseased
before they are bled," said the soft-voiced Monk. He took a clay
jar from a shelf cluttered with jars.  "It is an unction which
has the effect of briefly numbing the skin. You must not speak of
it. The abbot must not know that we have given you this salve. It
is not what he intended when he asked that we prepare you, but
you are young and though the Abbot does not often speak of it,
God is also merciful." The other monks nodded.
	"Thank... thank you." Lyla stuttered.
	Then the monks waited in silence.
	"You must bend over," the soft voiced one finally said, "so that
we can apply it."
	"Oh..." Lyla's heart raced. "I can put it on."
	"You have no experience with the salve," said the one holding
the jar. "Too much can produce a welt less tolerable than the
lashing."
	Lyla felt dizzy - hyperventilating. How could she end this? She
was trapped.
	"If you do not desire it..."
	"No," Lyla quickly retorted. "No, I want it... but... I'm
modest..."
	The monks glanced at each other, their expressions barely
discernable beneath their cowlings. "No one need to see you.
Modesty is a becoming virtue. Lift your robe. Turn so that the
others will not see. I myself will face so that I cannot see."
	"What is your name, Brother?" she asked.
	"Pilus."
	She turned as he asked. The monk carefully removed the lid of
the jar. She smelled a spicy odor, like ginger or peppermint. The
monk dipped his fingertips into the jar, rubbed some of the white
lotion carefully between them.
	"Lylius," Pilus said kindly, "lift the back of your robe."
	Lyla bit her lip and lifted her robe. In a moment, she felt his
hand touch her buttocks. In this world she had no memory of being
touched - at least not kindly. And the touch of a man's hand,
gentle and tender, stole her breath. She had seen what men and
women did as a child. This was a different world, the middle
ages, when the fact of humanity was not hidden. Birth, sex,
death, were ever present. And she had never imagined that she
would want a man to do to her what she had seen men do to other
girls and women. Yet Pilus' touch, the kindest touch and the only
touch she had felt in many, many moths, sent goose bumps up her
back and down her thighs. His palm followed the soft round swell
of her buttocks, then to her hips. Pilus seemed to hesitate, as
though observant of the round swell of her hips.
	He removed his hand, took more salve from the clay jar. Where he
had already smeared the salve, she first felt cold, then heat,
and then another heat between her legs, where he had not touched.
He moved to the other side of her buttocks, smoothed more of the
salve on her firm buttocks and hip. Again, he hesitated. He
softly moved the palm of his hand over the curve of her hip, up
to her narrow waist. She wanted to push her buttocks toward him,
without knowing why, she wanted to open her stance, to somehow
relieve the swollen heat between them.
	She wanted to moan.
	But she didn't. Pilus's touch had changed. He seemed hesitant.
He removed his hand, took more of the salve. More hesitantly than
before, the tentatively touched the divide of her buttocks,
pushed his finger down, almost to press against her anus, then
down. Lyla wanted to scream. What could she do? His fingers
finally moved between the softest part of her thighs, into the
soft catch of fur. She bit her lip, her heart raced, her spine
arched of its own volition, seeming to desire what she wanted to
refuse. He touched the lips of her sex and he drew back his hand
as though he had been stung. He staggered back.
	The other brothers turned.
	"Pilus?"
	"Pilus?" asked another. "What is it?"
	Pilus glanced at her, then at the others, then at her. "He's..."
he stammered. "He's... she's a girl!"
	A collective gasp echoed through the vaulted room.
	"She must leave!" said Lucious.
	"What will we tell Colloredo?"
	"To hell with Colloredo!" announced one of the more portly
monks.
	"Darius!" said the others.
	"What are you going to do?" Darius asked. He threw back his
hood. He was bearded, round faced, and bald. "Are you going to
throw her back to the wolves? Girl," he said to Lyla. "Take off
your cowling. Let us see you."
	She did. They gasped when they saw her.
	"She should be in a nunnery!"
	"They wouldn't have her," another mumbled. "She's too pretty."
	"Pish!" Darius hissed. "You know as well as anyone, Marcus...
what Nunnery? There isn't a nunnery in the precinct. She would
travel... How? On foot? - a miserable month of walking. Where
would she eat? Who would feed her?"
	"Yes," said a younger Monk, "let her stay."
	"Gregorius, silence," said an older monk. "You are too young to
decide these things. Silence. If someone is to blame, let it be
us."
	"Let her be a pilgrim," Marcus shot back. "She belongs in a
nunnery."
	'Pilgrimage is for hags," Darius answered. "They'll toss the
rind of a dog to be rid a hag. A hag is safe. Her? How do you
suppose they would make her earn room and board? And what of the
Coquillards? What do you suppose they would do to her? What work
would they put her to. And you call yourselves compassionate
servants?"
	"If Colloredo discovered her?" Pilus interrupted. "If he
discovered we were protecting her?"
	"What would he do?" sneered Darius. "Would he throw us all out?
Then who would cook is sweets and butter his behind? Let him."
	"She could ruin us!" Marcus rejoined.
	"How?" Darius asked sharply. "Which one of you would turn us in?
She comes for the same reason the rats come - and not for the
love of God, but for the love of her hide. The city is plagued.
The streets are sweet with the rot of death - rich, poor, old and
young. Not one of us would be standing, god be my witness - not
one of us. The lot of us would be grinning bones."
	"If she goes," said Gregorius, "I go with her."
	"Hush Gregorius," Darius warned.
	"I think I know where you would go with her," one of the skinny
monks mumbled to Gregorius.
	"And why not?" roared Darius. "She would be the lesser sin. Do
you think, Brother Melius, that we are blind to your
proclivities? It's your knife that butters Colloredo's bread?
Don't look so surprised. We know it. If you so much as breath a
word of this to Colloredo... the next poker will put a fire in
you that won't be soon put out. Look to Edward the second..."
	"But Brother Darius," Pilus asked, "where will she live."
	"With us, you fool."
	"But what of the lashing?" asked Pilus.
	"We must delay that," said Darius.
	And Gregorius added, "Move him to change his mind."
	"Colloreda won't be delayed," murmured Melius. "And he won't be
altered. He relishes such punishments."
	"He will be delayed," said Darius. "And you will do it. How long
has it been since you have 'knelt' with him in 'prayer'."
	Melius shifted, his hands fidgeted. Lyla couldn't see his face
but she imagined it to be twisted, narrow, peevish.
	"Monks make splendid candles," Darius growled.
	"You wouldn't dare," Melius hissed,
	"In a heartbeat," Darius returned. "The inquisition loves
nothing more than the tallow of a monk."
	Melius spun around, leaving the room with angry little steps.
	"You'll do it?" Darius called after him.
	"I'll do it," Melius hissed and left the sickly, blood-soaked
room.
	"I don't know why he should be so unhappy with this mission,"
Darius mused aloud. "Up to now, I would have thought it his only
pleasure!"
	
	**

	She must escape.
	She followed steps that spiraled upwards into nothingness. She
opened doors that led to other doors. She heard laughter behind
some, but not a healthy laughter. And she heard cries behind
others. Terror crept like a worm into and through her bowels. And
then she found them! The doors! Freedom! She stumbled. Fell. The
cold of the stone floor was like a numbing ice that slurried
through her veins and arteries. She gasped for air. She tried to
push herself upright. Splinters of cold shot through her shins
and wrists. She reached for the iron latch of the doors.
	She was dying. The cold was the numbness of death. The closer
her hand came to the iron latch of the great double doors, the
more the searing ache of death was like an iron hoop around her
lungs. That way was death. The smell of it stung her nostrils -
like a cold and acrid dust.
	She withdrew her hand, half on her side, gasping for air.
	They were surrounding her. They helped her to stand. When she
turned she was no longer in the dark hall of the monastery's
entry. She was in Colloredo's room. They were forcing her to her
hands and knees, chaining them to iron rings somehow embedded in
the chamber's stone floor. They pulled back her robe. A knowing
murmur snaked through the gathering of cowled men. She tugged and
pulled at the iron cuffs around her wrists and ankles. She was
chained like an animal.
	Where was Darius? Where was Gergorius?
	She looked frantically around the room. There was only the obese
figure of Colloredo looming over her. His eyes were white and
sightless. He held a horrible whip and stepped behind her. No
warning. No speaking. The whip struck her from behind and she
cried out. But it was not pain. She felt another kind of
humiliation. Pleasure.
	The whip struck again. She struggled, hips twisting, spine
arching. The whip struck again even as she struggled. She almost
fell forward. Her nipples brushed the smooth stone floor and the
whip struck again. She gasped and choked. Pleasure built at the
crux of her belly and legs. She groaned. The whip struck again.
Something was streamed down her thighs, flooding the stone
between her knees, forcing her thighs apart, her back to arch.
The whip struck again before she could catch her breath. She
couldn't move. The pleasure built at the juncture of her legs
forced her chin to the floor. The whip struck again. Her body
stiffened, her mouth opened wide, her eyes rolled. She...
	She woke with a start.
	Her knees were pressed tightly together. The place between her
legs was hot and wet. Had she urinated? Her cover had been pulled
off. She almost screamed. A hand had touched her lips, quieting
her, turning her scream into a gasp.
	The monk pulled his cowling back. He was young. Her age.
	"Gregorius?" she asked.
	"Please," he whispered. "Please." His hand moved from her lips
to her chin, then into the hollow of her throat. His breathing
was shallow. She was naked. He had pulled he robe apart. His
touch move between her breasts and she felt her breath growing
quick. She could see his lips in the darkness. They were soft and
youthful. His hair brown and curly. She reached, touched his face
and felt the beginnings of a beard.
	His finger moved to her breast and his thumb pressed and passed
over her nipple. She gasped again, arched her back, surprised by
the pleasurable shivers that coursed through her belly, between
her thighs, and her curling feet.
	His hand moved downward, across her flat abdomen. He felt the
curve of her waist, then her waist. She closed her eyes and
lifted her hip to his touch. "It's ok?" he whispered.
	"Yes..." she answered. She felt him shaking. When she peered at
him, she saw his other hand moving in the darkness between his
legs, but nothing more. His fingers followed the swell of her hip
downward, then moved inside and slowly up. Lyla parted her legs,
her breaths in short gasps, unaware but needing to part her legs.
His fingers touched the swollen lips of her sex, open, wet. She
groaned and heard him gasp. He had stopped shaking. He gazed at
her blankly as his body shook with seizure. She had seen her
brothers like this when she had been a little girl sleeping next
to them at night, and it had frightened her.
	She felt warmth on her belly.
	"Forgive me!" the young Monk whispered. He hesitated for a
moment, not sure what to do, then hurriedly but quietly stood and
returned to his blanket, elsewhere in the chamber. Lyla touched
her belly, feeling a warm, think, syrupy fluid. She rubbed it
between her fingers and smelled it. Had he urinated? But this was
not urine. She tasted it, just touching a finger to the tip of
her tongue. And then something like pity stirred in her for these
men - alone, sequestered, frightened -desperate for touch and
affection. She was like the mother long since lost to them - but
something more. And perhaps they no longer recognized their
desire for a woman had become?
	Lyla tried to sleep but she couldn't.
	The monks slept on nothing.
	But sleeping on nothing was bliss to Lyla. She threw off the one
woollen blanket, now gathered at her feet, stood, and stepped
quietly to the narrow, arched casement that looked across the
Paris. There was no moon. The light cast by fires flickered dimly
here and there. If she leaned, and squinted slant ways through
the casement, she could see Montfaucon where the executed (as
though death were not thorough enough) hung by the neck, pecked
at by daws and falcons, until the rotten ligaments of their
corpses gave way bone by bone. The bones themselves were spared
only by the pit beneath the platform, covered by grating. The
place reeked of death and Lyla thought that even in the monastery
the wind carried the smell of it. Wicker baskets held the
beheaded, boiled, quartered remains of those executed elsewhere.
	She heard someone behind her - a hand on her shoulder. It was
Darius.
	"I heard you cry out in your sleep," he whispered.
	"A nightmare," she answered, not sure if that was the cry he
meant.
	"Ah." He followed her gaze. "What do you see?"
	"Death," she answered.
	"You do not see death," he returned. "You see suffering. Death
is nothing. Suffering... now that is something..."
	"Is that why you are here?" she asked. "Are you afraid of
suffering?"
	"Yes," he answered. "What fool wouldn't be?"
	"You risk that for me?" she asked, uneasily. "Colloredo..."	
	"That scoundrel, that kettle of lard, hang him," Darius
interrupted, barely containing his anger. "No love of God that
brought him here, or me, or you. He covets books he can't read.
He's blind. Blind! But I'll put up with him... Better than the
living hell outside these walls - a living hell. And if he
discovers you, so help me, I'll see that he puts up with you
too."
	"What do you want from me?" she asked.
	"Yes, you must be used to that."
	"Yes." she answered quietly.
	"You are of that age now," he answered. "Ready for men... you're
shaking."
	"What do you want?" she asked again.
	"Nothing," he answered quietly. "Nothing that is unwilling... It
has been many years since I have even heard the voice of a woman
and that is enough. But I tell you, even here the devil has made
a hell for me. I do not dream at night unless I dream of women -
their scent, their shape, their voice, their softness. I am
tormented. I wake, having given up my seed during the night. I am
afraid to suffer. I could have what I want. I could leave this
place. I could have any trollop in Paris but... but I'm a
coward."
	"You're not a coward,"
	"Yes, I am."
	"You kept me here," she urged. "You saved my life."
	"I knew I could," Darius answered. "There was no danger in it."
	"Why is Colloredo still here?"
	"I have what I want," Darius answered. "Better to be the
puppeteer than the puppet, no?"
	"Yes," Lyla answered. "I suppose it is."
	"Indeed," Darius answered and sighed.
		"Have pity on me, have pity I pray,
		"My friends, may I pray you to grant this grace
		"Far from the hawthorne trees of May
		"I am flung in this dungeon in this far place
		"Of exile, by God and by fate's disgrace
		"New married and young; girls, lovers that kneel;
		"Dancers and jugglers that turn the wheel,
		"Needle-sharp, quick as a dart, each one
		"Voiced like the bells 'midst the hills that peal:
		"Will you leave him like this - the poor Villon."
	"Poor Villon!"
	"Yes," Darius answered. "I knew him. A scoundrel. The most
honest I ever met."
	"Do you think he lives?"
	"The provost wishes him alive," Darius murmured, "that he might
kill him."
	"Will you be gentle?" Lyla asked.
	"Gentle?"
	"If you touched me," Lyla whispered. "Would you touch me the way
Pilus touched me?"
	"Yes..." Darius' whisper shook. "Yes... God as my witness! -and
gentler!"
	"You don't believe in God."
	"I don't believe in Colloredo's God."
	"Come." Lyla took Darius' hand and led him out of the dorm room,
out into the bleak hall, out, out of earshot, and into the
darkness of an alcove. Darius suddenly seemed boyish to her,
small and nervous. Lyla's own heart raced as she opened her robe,
opened the layers of cloth and rags that loosely covered her,
without taking them off. "Touch me," she whispered.
	At first, Darius could only look at her nakedness. Her skin was
smooth and her breasts stood firmly from her chest. The nipples
were large, round and heavy, standing stiffly. Her hips reminded
him of the curves, the curves the snake makes when he wrapped
himself round Eden's tree. The curves of letters in the holy
books he illustrated. The curves of women suffused the books, the
buildings - all things that men created. He laid his hand on her
hip, felt its curve, then gently followed the muscular curve
downward to her flanks. Her belly shook. She was nervous too, or
was she aroused?
	She was parting his robes too. She liked his heavy belly, not
liking slenderness, redolent of starvation and death. His penis
stood stiffly from beneath his belly, alive. Her breath caught.
This is what she couldn't see before! She wanted life. She wanted
everything his hard cock represented, vigor, lust, desire, life.
It jutted from the dark fur nested between his legs and covering
his belly. She had seen penises before, but not like this. His
other hand gently palmed her breasts.
	"They're so soft," he mumbled. "So alive.
	"Yes," she said, "shyly moving her hands to his hips. She wanted
to touch this time. His skin was soft, softer than she had
somehow expected. The musky smell of him, from the pits of his
arms, from his crotch and sweat, made her dizzy. When he squeezed
her breast she leaned back against the cold stone wall of the
alcove, eyes half shut, head back. Her hand moved blindly until
she closed her fingers around the thick trunk of his cock.
	She heard the sudden intake of his breath. Her touch felt as
good to him, "May I?" he asked.
	"What?" she asked.
	"I want to..." he bowed his head, his lips at her breast.
"This..." He sucked her nipple between her lips, then took her
breast into his mouth, and sucked its softness fully into his
mouth. Lyla's knees almost buckled. She gripped his cock and with
her other hand gently stroked his bald head. His beard and
moustache roughened the skin around her breasts, making her all
the more aware of her own nakedness and his maleness.
	She began to move her hand along his cock, slowly back and
forth. "It has been so long!" he gasped, letting her breast slip
out of his mouth. "Woman, you are the most beautiful creature in
God's creation. If there's a god, then his living scripture is in
you." He slowly knelt. She let go of him. His kisses and licks
trailed her slight cleavage, downward, along the crease of her
belly, the muscles of her abdomen promising a haven inside her, a
haven for his desire, her belly button. He could smell her. He
had forgotten the rich musk between a woman's legs. She was
shaking, almost violently, but she was not stopping him.
	He licked the crease at the V of her legs. There was wetness,
the sweet liquor of a woman's opening. The soft lips parted and
gave way , letting his tongue slip between and upward toward the
opening into her belly. She tightly gripped the cloth of his robe
with one hand and bit her other to stifle her cry.
	"You are full of honey, woman" Delius breathed. "You melt. For
me?"
	"Yes," she tugged his face between her legs. "The way you touch
me." She was like all those adults she had seen as a child,
driven by a fact beyond her control. She had become like them.
And now she yearned to feel what she had seen the women of her
childhood fell. She wanted to fell his penis penetrate her -
enter her belly. She pulled him up. He was beautiful. His round
face seemed angelic to her.
	"Please," she breathed. She took hold of his cock again. Her
fingers only barely met at its trunk. She tugged, enjoying the
feel of the smooth skin sliding over the warm rigidity beneath.
She wanted to know how it would feel. She tugged again and he
groaned. She felt heat spattering her flat belly, looked down and
saw white streams of liquid spurt his cock. So this is what it
looked like. The smell, the same as Gregorius, reminded her of
newly mown hay.  She liked the smell. The white fluid continued
to spurt from his body, covering her narrow wrist and soaking the
fur between her legs, the fronts of her legs and her knees.
Finally he stopped her motion, holding her wrist. He leaned on
the wall next to her, mouth open, eyes closed.
	The seizure, she had seen it before, but always hidden or in
union with women. She touched the heavy liquid that clung to her
skin and tasted it again. Was this what men expelled between the
legs of women, inside them? Her sex still ached. She licked the
stuff from her hand, wrist and arm. There was no water. There was
no place to clean. But she liked the taste of it, salty and
pungent. Male.
	"It is natural that you should like it," Darius mumbled. "I
wasted it many times, but not tonight, not on you, my beautiful
woman."

	**

	"Quickly!" said Pilus. "Lylius, wake up!"
	Lyla threw off her blanket. A gray light had slipped into the
dank room where the Monks slept. Some of the others were awake
and alert.
	"Come, we must prepare you. Colloredo won't be put off again."
	Lyla quickly stood, lowering her cowling. She followed the same
groups of Monks as the night before, followed them through the
chapel and into the chamber where they bled the sick and dying.
"You will apply it, Pilus?" Darius asked.
	"I will," Pilus answered, sighing.
	"Pilus," Darius scolded. "She's not a boy but perhaps you can
take 'some' pleasure from it."
	Pilus removed his cowling. He was beautiful, blonde, with finely
chiseled lips and piercing blue eyes. He smiled fleetingly at
Lyla. He movements were feminine. "You can trust me," he said to
her as he dipped his fingers in the jar of salve, "I'm not like
Melius. Melius is ambitious." He sighed again. "An unfortunate
humor when one is a monk. I will be gentle."
	Lyla lifted the back of her robe.
	"Spread your legs a little, my dear," Pilus palmed her buttock,
then gently smoothed the oily salve into her skin. She felt the
familiar sensation of cold and hot. She closed her eyes. His
touch, his tenderness, stippled her skin with goosebumps. His
fingers brushed the lips of her sex as he oiled her inward
thighs. She imagined Darius. She wished it were Darius. She would
push her bottom back into his hand, welcoming his touch and
welcoming him. A different sort of salve moistened her sex, in
anticipation of something she had never experienced.
	"I'm done," Pilus replaced the lid of the jar.
	"Then we must hurry," said one of the other monks.
	"No," Pilus interjected. "Lylius, do you wish to pray?"
	"Prayer?" Lyla hesitated. "For..." For what? - she almost asked.
She didn't. "Yes. But not here."
	"Of course not," Pilus answered. "It is like a charnel house in
this place. The chapel."
	"Follow us," said a younger monk - she recognized the voice of
Gregorius.
	"Gregorius will attend you," said Pilus once they were in the
chapel. "We will wait for you when you are ready."
	The other monks left. Lyla knelt and Gregorius knelt next to
her.
	Lyla was shaking. Memories of her dream tormented her, though
she knew there would be no pleasure in Colloreda's lashing. She
was terrified. She wished she had fled the monastery after all.
Maybe she could have survived? Maybe. She was distracted by
Gregorius. He was shaking.
	"What's wrong?" she whispered.
	"Forgive me," he said, his voice muffled.
	"What are you doing?" she asked.
	She lifted his robe and saw his hand moving rapidly over his
heavy penis, red and stiff. She had not seen it during the night.
The size of it belied his age. He was young- her age - yet
possessing the size of a man, larger than Darius. "I am ashamed,"
he said, tearing his hand from his cock and gripping his thigh.
	"You find pleasure in this?" she asked.
	"I..." he stuttered. "I... I imagine you under the lash of
Colloredo and... and it arouses me."
	"Stop!" she whispered urgently.
	He stopped. "You are... so beautiful. I desire you. I could not
sleep last night but I was swollen with desire even after I
spilled. I followed you when you were with Darius. I wanted... I
wanted to do things to you, things that I have seen men do to
women."
	"You're a monk."
	"My mother, father, sisters," he answered, "are dead."
	"And you would take pleasure in seeing my pain?"
	"I will not be able to hide my swelling."
	"Then let them see it," she answered angrily. "I should be so
lucky as to suffer your humiliation."
	Gregorius turned away from her. Lyla stood. She grabbed his arm
and forced him to walk with her out of the chapel.  She and the
other monks arrived at Colloredo's chamber all too quickly. She
heard the cold grind of metal on metal as Colloredo's door was
opened. She and the Monks walked, single file, into his chamber.
	She felt strong, thick fingers around her own arm. It was Comus.
	"Ah, this way Lylius," he rumbled. "I assume you have prayed for
forgiveness?"
	"I have, brother," Lyla answered quietly.
	"And more," Comus answered quietly. "I'm sure."
	Lyla wanted to see who this tall figure was. He terrified her
but there was also humor in his voice. He steered her to a low
oaken table on four square, squat legs. "Kneel here," he said.
"Hands and knees. If either your hands or your knees rise from
this table you will not stay another night in this monastery, and
God be with you."
	Lyla shook as she knelt on the table. She gasped when Comus
raised her robe and bunched it at the small of her back. How
could he not know? But her buttocks and sex were turned away from
the line of monks that faced her. Comus reached under the table,
producing a horrible switch. The first tear already gathered at
the end of her nose.
	"Is brother Lylius ready?" asked Colloredo. She recognized his
nasal, gravelly voice.
	She turned to see him. He stood next to her and took the switch
from Comus. Comus bowed his head and stood before the other
monks. Colloredo's eyes were white, just as in her dream. His
face and nose were broad and the skin of his neck rolled into a
double chin. Holding the switch in one hand, he reached, lightly
felt her buttocks, as if to be sure there would be nothing
between her skin and the switch. "Very good, boy," he said, his
fingers having just missed her secret. "You have prayed for God's
sufferance."
	"I have," she answered, her voice shaking.
	"And you understand that if you leave this table before I'm
done," he took a strong breath through his nose, "you shall not
be invited to remain with us?"
	"Yes brother," she answered.
	"Very good."
	"Huh!" The first crack of the switch made her swallow her
breath. She gripped the edge of the table and twisted.
	"Hunh!"
	Another crack.
	She grit her teeth and groaned, breathed, the pain sharp but not
unbearable.
	"Hah!"
	She twisted and arched, desperate to jump from the table but
refusing.  Darius? Where was he? Why wouldn't he...
	"Hahn!"
	She cried out! The switch had struck her sex. The blind fool
couldn't see! She...
	"Huh!"
	The crack of the switch seemed to echo. This time she moaned,
loudly, shamelessly, head thrown back...
	"Aye!"  She screamed.
	Another crack. Her spine arch, dipped, arched as she struggled
to...
	"Huh!"
	Her sex and ass burned. Hot. The salve? What of the...
	"HUH!"
	She lowered her head to the table, ass in the air, and bit the
edge.
	"HUHN!"
	Her eyes rolled, the salt of her tears dampened her lips.
	"UHHH!"
	And the salt of another liquor trickled down her thighs -blood?
- was it something else? The table would bear the marks of her
teeth. Please, she wanted to beg. Anything. She would confess.
Let him mount her as she had seen men do to women. The confusion
of heat that burned in her thighs and belly made her want to beg,
scream, blubber, submit...
	"Stop!"
	"Who speaks?" Colloredo demanded.
	Lyla peered upward, chin still on the table. Derius? Pilus?
Would Derius stop this?
	"Gregorius."
	"Gregorius?" Colloredo asked. "You will be dealt with boy."
	"Did not Christ bare the burden of his brother's sins,"
Gregorius stumbled over his words, speaking quickly, nervously.
	"Yes," said Colloredo.
	"And cannot I humbly bare the burden of my brother's sin?"
	Colloredo said nothing at first. Lyla could hear his breath,
almost his very thought. "You will bare the sufferance of Brother
Lylius' atonement?"
	"Yes," Gregorius answered feebly.
	"You will do it now?" Colloredo roared. "Here? In his place?"
	"Yes."
	"Brother Comus!" Colloredo roared, whether with excitement or
disappointment, Lyla could not guess. Her body raged with a heat
and pain she could not understand. Her swollen nipples ached
against the rough cloth of her robe.
	Comus led Gregorius behind her.
	"You will kneel over Lylius, Brother Gregorius," Colloredo said
darkly. "So that Lylius will know your suffering."
	And then she felt Gregorios over her, his knees outside and next
to her knees, his hands next to her hands, his breath at her
neck. He was shaking. He was terrified. His sex, if it had been
swollen, was soft. She felt it, for an instant, brush her sex.
	"If you move from this place," Comus warned them both. "You both
shall be made to leave."
	"Yes," Gregorius answered.
	Colloredo moved behind them. Was he feeling Gregorius' buttocks,
to know if there was nothing between his skin and the switch?
	"Very good," Colloredo murmured.
	"HUH!"
	The crack of the switch echoed in the chamber. She felt
Gregorius twist with pain. Her own cry joined his, though the
pain was not hers.
	"HuHN!"
	Again, the crack of the switch. "I am so sorry, Gergorius," she
whispered. She felt him twist and arch against her back.
	"HUN!" Again.
	"It is expiation," he muttered between clenched teeth.
"Before... HUH!" He twisted and moaned. "...before... before God
and before you."
	"HUHN!"
	And then she felt his swelling, the hardening of his sex.
	"UH!"
	"Forgive me," he whispered, gasping. "I cannot stop it.
Forgive... HUH! ..for.. forgive..."
	"The sin is mine," she whispered, shaking.
	"UHHH!" He was twisting. His hardening sex was rising, slipping
upward, pressing between the lips between her thighs. She was
wet. She was slippery and hot with the syrup of pain. The head of
him slipped easily between her lips, widening her as he grew in
size.
	"I... HUH! ... I... cannot stop it..."
	"You suffer for me..." she breathed.
	"UHH!" The cry was both their voices. The crack drove Gregorius
forward, drove the lengthening, swelling, filling head of his
sex, just the bulb, into the opening of her belly. She groaned,
shocked by the size of him	
	"HUHNNN!" Deeper. They both cried out. He was growing inside
her. Her mouth opened, her eyebrows knit in the agony of a
different atonement. She gripped the table, her knuckles white.
He wouldn't stop growing, widening, forcing her opening into the
wide O of his girth.
	"UHH!" They cried out. The stroke pushed Gregorius against a
barrier. Painful. She wanted to reach for her belly, to thrust
her palm against the base of her abdomen, to somehow soothe the
growing pressure, but she didn't dare let go of the table.
	"Lylius," Colloredo breathed. "Your cries of sympathy gratify."
	"Yes, Brother Colloredo," Lylius answered, her voice tight and
wrapped around the growing penis inside her.
	Colloredo inhaled, swept the lash back, then forward. "HUUHNNN!"
Both cried. The force of Colloredo's lashing broke the barrier
inside her, driving Gregorius' penis deeply unto her belly. The
pain was short and sharp, and filling of her belly made her
exhale and groan loudly. She could feel the bulb of the youth's
penis deeply behind her youthful belly button. She was desperate
to lift her hands, to somehow feel that length inside her with
her hands.
	"HUHH!" They could not separate. His penis pressed at something
else inside her, the nub of her womb, but this was not pain. Or
it was a different kind of agony - one that robbed her of breath,
that taught her when to breath- inhale and exhale - seeming to
possess her.
	"HUHHNNN!" In! So deep. The syrup of her agony ran down her
thighs.
	"Please, forgive me..." Gregorius' voice shuddered. "I cannot
stop.. cannot help... HUHHN!"
	She moved against him, subtly, softly, offering the agony that
she felt - offering it to him who suffered for her. "It is my
atonement," she breathed. "My... my penance. You purif..." HAHHN!
She cried out when another lash drove him into her. "...purify
me." And she slid her body subtly back and forth along his
length, such that the agony of his sex would ameliorate the agony
of the lashings - seeking his forgiveness.
	More lashes followed. He continued to grow inside her until she
opened her legs, arched her spine to receive him, and lowered her
head to the tables edge. She was fully opened by him, and perhaps
she began to understand the desperate union of the men and women
she had watched as a child.
	"HUHUUHHN!" The next to last lash fell on Gregorius' buttocks.
The cries were his and hers. The agony was both of theirs. Lyla
had pushed herself back up to her hands and knees, her belly
filled by Brother Gregorius' penis, her back arched, heard head
thrown back against Gergorius' shoulder, shaking, mouth open. His
breath and tears fell hotly on her ear. She wanted nothing more
than to always hear that breath at her shoulder, his body inside
her. For the first time, she felt something like love in the cold
stone of the monastery, and she wanted cry. She wanted to kneel
at Colloredo's feet, to kiss his feet, to thank him, to beg him
for her forgiveness, that she ever doubted his God.
	"You will seek penance in prayer?" he asked.
	"Yes," Gregorius and Lyla answered, gasping for air.
	"You will submit your will to the will of God?" he asked.
	"Yes," they both breathed.
	"Then submit to the will of God and be cleansed," Colloredo
roared. He reared back and lashed Gregorius with all his might.
Gregorius cried out. The last stroke, too painful, to great,
forced him to surrender, to drive his hips sharply forward into
Lyla, to submit and to burst inside her, again, again, again and
agian. Lyla cried out, moaned, hiccupping as her belly convulsed
hard round the cock releasing inside her. And then she
understood, seized by the same seizures she had seen so often,
submitting to them, submitting to the will of God. The youths
could not speak, could not make a sound as their bodies submitted
to the cleansing seizures that shook them both.
	Finally, their breaths calmed, their hearts slowed. Lyla knew
that the syrupy fluid she had tasted the night before had been
released inside her body. No one would know. The lips of her sex
closed neatly as Gregorius slipped out of her, hiding Gregorius'
atonement, his penance, deeply inside her.  No one would know.
Comus helped Gregorius stand. He was shaky and so was she when
her Brothers helped her to stand. She could still feel Gregorius'
warm penance insider her belly, even as she stood and walked with
her brothers out the door. She did not wish she were like them.
She pitied them that they could not feel this same warmth inside
themselves.

	**

	That night, she did not welcome Darius again. When she couldn't
sleep, when the robed shape quietly leaned over her and parted
her robe, it was Gregorius. Their breathing was fevered. The
wetness of his atonement still filled her belly and opening. They
didn't need to speak a word. She parted her legs when he moved
above her and between them. She ran her hands up his lean and
strong arms when he braced himself above her, his palms flat
against the stone beneath her shoulders. Her heart raced when he
gazed at her breasts and belly under the bare sliver of
moonlight. She understood the need, the impulse beyond words, to
join with him. She offered him her womanhood.
	Her gasp was whispered when he entered her.
	His size! He filled her. She grasped his neck and desperately
pulled his lips to hers. Their copulation was quick. His thrusts
were fast and desperate. Their robes covered their forms
completely and only by the rise and fall, the repeated and
whispered gasps, could anybody guess at the joining of nudity
beneath them. Lyla threw back her head, thrust her breasts
against him, feeling his nipples hard against heards, and was
gripped by the seizure, helpless to prevent or stop it. Her
breathing came in soft cries as she felt the nexus at the base of
her belly grip and release, grip and let go of her lover's penis.
	He flooded her. She closed her eyes, reveling in the warmth that
spilled inside her.
	Later, and still sensitive - after Gregorius had returned to his
place on the floor of the chamber - she would reach between her
thighs, press her finger deeply into the softness of her opening,
and taste the taste of her lover.
	And when he returned just before the sun, she reached for him,
ready, wanting more. She would do whatever he asked. If he wished
her to turn into her hands and knees, she would do that for him.
She would let him fill her again and again. But he didn't.
"Come," he whispered urgently. "They say the plague breaks. Come
with me!"
	"How?"
	"Comus," he whispered. "He will let us out."
	"Comus?"
	"Yes. Trust me."
	Lyla let him pull her up. She glanced with him at the other
monks who still slept, or pretended to sleep. It didn't matter to
them. They hurried out of the chamber, Gregorius leading, Lyla
gripping his hand. She followed him down a spiral stairway,
through a bleak arched hallway and down another set of stairs,
worn and smooth with centuries of travel.
	"He's not here." Gregorius had stopped. "He will come with a
key. We'll wait."
	They waited in the pitch black of the small antechamber.
Gregorius pressed her back against the wall. "Forgive me," he
said. "You are all I can think of. I cannot even walk being next
to you! I am swollen." He was pushing up her robe. She helped
him.
	He pushed her feet apart with his own.
	"Like this?" she asked, whispering. "We can join like this?" she
asked. "Let me see it!"
	He slid his robe aside and her stomach jumped at the sight of
him. Had he really fit inside her? The budding tip of his penis
reminded her of the bulb of a tulip or a rose. But it was soft
whereas the stalk from which it grew was both soft to the touch,
and rigid. She knelt, gazing at him.  She smelled him and she
smelled herself. She kissed the end of him and heard him gasp.
She let his bulb slip between her lips and she could taste the
saltiness and sweetness of his release.
	He lifted her up.
	"You will put your release in me?" she asked.
	"Yes!" he gasped and pushed effortlessly inside her. Her thighs
ran with moisture, his fullness pressed the juices out of her
opening. She overflowed with him. He gasped with each thrust,
quick, deliberate, desperate for release. Her small answers rose
in pitch until he drove himself upward, holding himself,
convulsing with seizure. Again, he was filling her. She tongued
and lightly bit his neck as she felt him twitch inside her,
spilling himself once again inside her.
	They heard steps and quickly parted.
	Her thighs were streaked to her ankles with the juices running
out of her belly.
	"There are you," Comus smiled.
	 He walked passed them. They heard the slide of metal as he
unlocked the door. Light entered the antechamber. Morning.
	"Wait," Comus took Lyla's chin in his huge hand. His thumb
parted her lips and pressed lightly at her teeth. "Lovely."
	Lyla's stomach felt light.
	"Go," he said with a knowing wink.
	Lyla felt herself pulled by Gregorius through the door.

	And she stood outside, at the back of the funhouse, darkness
enveloping her, weeds and the tall grass brushing her knees. She
turned quickly. Where was Gregorius? She wanted to go back!
"Comus!" she called, but the first light of morning was already
threading its way through the trees.

	
	

	

------- ASSM Moderation System Notice--------
This post has been reformatted by the ASSM
Moderation Team due to inadequate formatting.

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
| alt.sex.stories.moderated ------ send stories to: <ckought69@hotmail.com>|
| FAQ: <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org/faq.html> Moderators: <story-ckought69@hotmail.com> |
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
|ASSM Archive at <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org>   Hosted by <http://www.asstr-mirror.org> |
|Discuss this story and others in alt.sex.stories.d; look for subject {ASSD}|
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+