BROTHER LUCIEN by Anyawvossand

Introduction – Paris, 1788

Hard iron bit into the criminal’s filthy wrists, the rusted, flaking metal just sturdy enough to keep the young man from fleeing his predicament. For at least two days he’d been left in this dank hole, the omnipresent funk of mildew and old urine spoiling the stagnant darkness. No one had come to check on him since the guards had pulled him off the street and dumped him in this place. No food and no water had been offered, and at the height of a French summer, the sweltering conditions of his containment were making him delirious. There was no fight left in him when he was finally unshackled and taken away with a bag over his head.

When next he came to, the man was tied up and lying on his stomach inside a narrow box. The jolting progression of a horse cart rattled his bones with every stone and divot in the road, but at least he knew that he was alive. And, in all probability, he wasn’t going to be executed. Why would they smuggle him out of the city like this if they just meant to hang him? Someone along the way must have fed and watered and bathed him as well, because he felt clean and healthy… if somewhat uncomfortable. Someone had thought to pad the bottom of the crate with straw, which made the difference between bruises and concussions.

Sometime around nightfall the cart came to a halt. The hissing sound of rain made the axles and hinges squeal, and the horses snorted with fatigue as they were finally reigned in from their long march. The sound of footsteps approached the cart, and the man in his crate was lifted out and carried inside, out of the rain. Within, the man vaguely heard the horses whinny in complaint as they were whipped up into a trot to make the journey back, the sound growing further and further away.

With a clunking jolt, the crate was set down and the top pried off. Had he been nailed inside? The pale flicker of candlelight made him wince once the cover came off entirely, his eyes watering after having been in darkness for so long. The chill of cool, wet air bathed over his naked, clammy skin, and he couldn’t move his hands to protect his face, given that his wrists were tied with cord behind his back.

A figure, indistinct in his black hooded robes, loomed over the man, dominating his field of vision. His scalp burned with the yank to his sweaty black locks, tugging his head back to its limit. His eyelids were pulled down, the colors of his eyes studied, the state of his teeth and gums checked, and he felt other pairs of hands elsewhere on his body, touching him clinically as if to check for injuries or disease. After a while the other hands left, leaving only the figure still holding the man’s head up by the hair.

“He’ll do. Find him some robes” the dark figure commanded with a deep, rumbling shadow of a voice. The figure eased the pressure on the captive’s hair and murmured a throaty chuckle. “Your name is Lucien, now. Welcome to the Monastery.”

Chapter 1

Early the next morning, Lucien woke with a start. He was clean and dressed in simple black robes, and he was lying on a clean cot. Sunlight filtered in through a window at the end of his narrow cell, and his wooden door was closed and latched from the inside. It took him a few moments of coming fully awake to wonder just how that had been done. His bare feet pressed down on the cool smooth stone floor, and he peered under his bed, just in case any of those strange men he’d seen on his arrival were hiding there. It didn’t seem likely, but everything that had happened to him since his arrest hadn’t seemed likely, either. Yet after a thorough inspection of his simple cell, he knew that he was most definitely alone.

The view from the window showed rolling hills of scraggly grass. Even in the rainy height of summer the ground cover looked unhealthy, dry and mangy like a diseased animal. Rocks thrust up from the soil in places, and only crows seemed to be interested in living there. Crows, and the people of this monastery.

Lucien turned away from the window and leaned his back against the wall. He rubbed at his face, feeling the stubble there from a few days without proper shaving, and he winced. A quick glance revealed no water basin or toiletries. The man could feel that his wavy hair was clean but tangled, and he spent an uncomfortable five minutes finger-combing out the knots. For a little while he considered staying in his cell until the middle of the night and then making a break for it. In truth, no one had informed him of just why he’d been arrested back in Paris, after all. Yet he wasn’t sure how far he’d make it without food, nor did he have any real idea of where he was.

In the end he unlocked his door and walked out into the hall. A neat array of wooden doors just like his own were set into the walls on either side of the long walkway, and all of them were closed, save for one. His steps barely made a sound as he slowly approached that unlocked room which beckoned to him, and his heart began beating hard. Just what sort of people lived here? Seconds rolled by as he crept along, holding his breath, certain that he was hearing something strange.

Panted breathing and the tell-tale soft, vigorous rhythm of masturbation.

For a moment Lucien smirked. Some brother was about to be caught out sinning. But when the man finally looked through the small opening between the edge of the door and its jamb, he saw that the room was empty. Not even the scent of a man was in it, aroused or otherwise. Caught within such disbelief, Lucien pushed the door open the rest of the way and peered inside, frowning with confusion.

“Did you hear it, then?”

The soft question made Lucien stiffen and spin around, expecting the worst. Instead, a gentle man with gray eyes was standing in the hallway, hands clasped before him without tension. His black robes were of the same type that everyone wore, yet his hood was pulled up, half-obscuring his features. Still, his smile was harmless and inviting, and Lucien breathed out slowly.

“I heard something” Lucien finally murmured.

This seemed to please the man with the gray eyes, and he smiled handsomely. “It’s the building. The monastery itself. It speaks to those who are sensitive to its needs.”

Lucien wasn’t quite sure how to respond to that. He was certain that he’d heard a man pleasuring himself. What sort of message was this place trying to send him?

As if suddenly remembering something important, the brother said, “Oh, but you must be starving. Follow me. I’ll show you to the kitchens.”

Along the way, the other man, named Brother Remi, explained that the monastery had been built over ancient foundations. Because of this and the legends surrounding the area, the location had been avoided by the aristocracy for centuries, leaving those who worked and lived there alone in peace. Lucien took it all with a grain of salt – he’d been shipped off to some place in the middle of nowhere, probably to keep him secured as a silent asset. Somebody, somewhere, still valued the things he knew. Of course Lucien kept all that to himself. There was no need for innocent men to be involved in his affairs.

Perhaps it was a double misfortune that Lucien hadn’t received food during his time with the city guard, for surely he might have used it as a benchmark against which the monks’ food would have compared favorably. But he couldn’t make any such comparison, and the gruel and stale bread he received only filled his belly without satisfying his palate. Not that his tastes were terribly refined, but even a common whore in Paris knows the difference between good and mediocre bread.

And a common whore Lucien most certainly was, at least until he’d been captured.

Brother Remi gave him a tour after his meal, and while the man was courteous and genial enough, Lucien hardly said a word. The monastery was well and truly isolated. Supplies were delivered every two weeks, and it was on one of those runs that Lucien himself had arrived. Water was pulled up from a well at the courtyard, and a small garden and chicken coop were tended within the walls to provide fresh food. Mail was, apparently, unheard of. All the brothers there had forsaken their old lives and cut all ties. To the rest of the world they might as well have been dead. Perhaps to the young viscount who had been secretly visiting Lucien every week also believed him to be dead. Or perhaps that’s what the viscount wanted others to think. For Lucien himself the difference was minimal – because of that spoiled young aristocrat he’d been shipped away to this, ironically, god-forsaken monastery.

The other brothers kept to themselves throughout the day, and Lucien hardly saw anyone. The monastery was so understaffed that it would have seemed deserted if everything hadn’t been in such good repair. It gave him time to actually explore without having to explain just who he was or how he got there. Maybe the other brothers knew, but if that was the case then Remi hadn’t let on. Nothing seemed normal about this place, even down to the taste of the air. It was dusty and stale, even outside. Not even a fresh breeze helped.

All of the frustration and the fear was getting to him, and caged in this place there seemed to be no relief, not even wine. He’d checked the kitchen, and while coming up short on wine he did manage to acquire a pitcher of water, a cup, a candle, and a dish rag. Within minutes he was back in his cell with the door locked. He’d heard the others meandering towards the dining hall as the sun set, so it seemed unlikely that he’d be bothered.

With the bell tolling the hour, Lucien pulled off his robes and say on his bed with his back against the wall. While his hand lazily began stroking his soft cock into stiffness, he idly sucked on the rounded base of the candle, which itself was no thicker than a man’s thumb. It would do, even if it was a little on the small side. Getting it nice and slippery, he shifted to lay on his side, spitting into his hand. The warm, slick wad of saliva was moved between his cheeks and caressed over his star, the normally inviting portal having tightened with stress and neglect these past few days. While gripping the base of his shaft, he eased a finger into himself, biting his lip. It would never be like it had been the first time, but after an involuntary period of celibacy it came close.

One digit was soon replaced with two, and his cock began to thicken and throb. Pearlescent drops of precum gave him lubricant enough to really start stroking himself, and at this point he introduced the candle. Its stiffness was enough to get past the initial resistance of his ring, and the cool, hardened wax made him shiver as it pressed deeper and deeper. The position required to use the makeshift toy on himself while stroking his cock at the same time was somewhat awkward-looking, but he’d found a way to make it comfortable through years of practice. Candles had been his first lovers, after all.

In time his body began to relax, unclenching around the invasive wax which was only beginning to reluctantly warm up to his body temperature. Another dose of saliva to the juncture of beeswax and flesh allowed him to start thrusting the candle faster, its ride slick and easy. Lucien’s cock was hard as a rock by that point, the veins palpable to his fingertips like rivers on a map. His balls were tightening and pulling up against his body, and that delicious, maddening pressure was building in his core. Every stroke, every squeeze, every pass of his hand made him feel like he would explode. He wanted to give in and spend himself onto the wall, to befoul this holy place with his sin, but he held off, stilling his hands to let himself cool down.

His cock throbbed helplessly in his curled fingers, begging him for release. His balls were painfully tight, the pressure almost unbearable, that edge so precipitously near, but Lucien held off. Such self-discipline makes things all the sweeter when they arrive, and he wasn’t about to cheat himself out of something divine just because he was impatient. Slowly his cock softened, his balls relaxing away from his pelvis just a little, just enough to let him begin all over again. He carefully withdrew the candle, leaving his body feeling needy and vacant, and his toes curled in a frustration of his own doing.

Slowly he teased the slickened base of the candle around his ring again, his breath catching as he teased the toy just past the clutch of it and then withdrew it again. Such shallow torments made him grin like a fiend, his cock hard and straining all on its own. Something about seducing himself always made him feel alive and powerful, that he had complete control over his flesh, even if he didn’t have control over anything else. This was why he didn’t bother going to church after he’d discovered the joys of this – how could such a tremendous sensation be bad. If man had been made in God’s image, shouldn’t they celebrate all parts of that likeness? It just seemed unthinkable that men would have cocks but a deity would not. It seemed unfair and ludicrous.

This sort of philosophical meditation helped to calm his heartbeat and tame his lust. Oh, he intended to cum, and to cum hard, but he would do it at the precise moment he wanted to, and not a second sooner. With his eyes closed and his senses focused on touch, scent, and sound, Lucien didn’t see the shadow pass over the walls. The illumination in his room was low anyway, with bars of golden lamp light streaming in through the window to lick over his glistening pale skin. He didn’t notice as another presence took a front row seat to his display.

He didn’t notice, until it sweetly whispered, “Don’t stop.”

Lucien couldn’t be sure if he’d imagined it or not. This place was strange, but then again with the stress he’d been under it could have been his mind playing tricks. All too often he’d heard his clients say exactly that to him, in that tone, that desperate, sweet, hungry tone that commanded and begged all at the same time. It was just right, the key that unlocked his control and wrested it from his grip, and he writhed on his cot as he began to fuck himself once more with the candle, using it to take his body with as much ferocity as he’d taken that little viscount bastard. His hand became a vice around his cock and stroked quickly, the wet clap of his hand jamming down on his shaft over and over again like the quick working of a machine.

“Faster. More,” whispered the voice, and Lucien whined, gritting his teeth.

Sweat trickled down his brow, the muscles of his thighs and calves straining and standing out in beautiful definition along his slim dancer’s legs. His slender torso arched, his ribs just standing out with the effort of it, dusky nipples hard and aching to be touched, sucked, and squeezed. Every breath came tightly into his chest, his mouth opening in a wordless gasp as he snapped whipcord tight. The color white fogged over all his thoughts like a pervasive cloud, and he knew absolutely nothing but the blissful release of all his tension. Hot, thick spurts of cum leaked into his hand as he covered his head, the molten release glazing his cock like a confectionery.

In the dark, his hand was moved away by a gentle touch, a string of cum jealously clinging to his fingers still. Another hand covered his mouth, silencing his cries as a phantom mouth slid down over his cock. Lucien could feel it, the sensation overwhelming. He bucked and squirmed, but another pair of hands held his body down while the mouth continued gently cleaning him. The softness of the contact was a torture – it was so delicate and sweet and so out of place for what was happening. Eventually he settled, submitting to whatever was happening, certain that this was a dream. He’d had dreams of this nature before, but nothing that compared to this one.

Despite yearning for more, once Lucien’s dick was completely flaccid and cleaned, those in the room with him left. The door didn’t open, and there was no movement. But he could feel that he was once again alone. What had that meant? Who had they been? Surely there had been two of them. With a soft grunt, Lucien propped himself up on his arm, looking over at the door. The latch was locked, just as he’d left it, and the window was too small to admit anyone.

Unable to make sense of it, and too tired and satisfied to care, the man sank down onto his cot fully. With his eyes closed he felt the sultry summer night air dry the sweat from his skin, and the sensation lulled him into a deep and dreamless sleep.

Chapter 2

Over the next few days, Lucien’s life became a regular schedule of sleeping, eating, doing whatever chores Remi asked him to do. Every night, when all the others were away, he would lock himself in his room and pleasure himself to that strange, shadowed audience just like he had the first time. And like the first time, he could feel them join in. Inexplicable touches and caresses, mouths, fingers, and other things he couldn’t possibly guess, set his senses on fire. It was an addiction – daylight was only pointless time to be wasted until the sun set.

On the third day, Lucien was escorted by Remi further into the monastery than he’d ever been. What had seemed an innocuous door was really a locked passage to a subterranean wing coiled up beneath the whole complex. The sound of water dripping was reminiscent of his stay in prison, and the staleness of the air intensified the further they went on. Burning sconces flickered against sweating brick as they passed down long corridors in silence, until at last Remi and Lucien arrived at a small chapel.

At first Lucien saw nothing odd about it. The pews were where they should be, and the altar was modest. Yet there were no images of Christ or any saints. Angels, however, were plentiful, as were demons, each depicted by a craftsman who seemed to be intimately aware of their reality rather than their legend. The two largest statues behind the dais were of a horned demon and a one-winged angel, both life-sized and carved from marble.

His attention was only torn away when he heard the sound of a door closing him into the room. When Lucien looked, he noticed that Remi had left him inside. When he quickly moved over to the door and pulled on the latch, he discovered that he’d been trapped.

At first Lucien was distressed. He felt the sort of anger that just tinges the edge of panic to make it bearable, and he gave the door a tug and banged on the heavy timbers, but it was clear that Remi was gone. The small candle holder he clutched only cast a golden edge onto the pews nearest to him, as well as the closer statue of the angel, defining its lithely masculine details just enough to ensnare his curiosity.

“Why would someone make statues like this?” Lucien wondered on a soft breath, clinging to oddity to assuage his fear. He moved closer to the two marble figures, lifting the little light towards each. The angel looked benevolent and sad, and the demon looked somehow smoldering and passionate without menace. Since when did the Catholic church cast demons in a charitable light?

With the candle in his left hand, he lifted his right, wanting to touch the marble. He wanted to caress over the magnificently lifelike details in the faces, to feel if their fingers or lips felt real. Lucien’s eyes flicked from one to the other, feeling as if the choice of which statue to caress first carried some deeper meaning.

Swallowing, he turned and set the candle onto the dais behind him to free both his hands. The tips of his index and middle fingers lighted upon the angel’s and the demon’s lips at just the same moment, caressing them slowly as he closed his eyes.