Jonathan , half-lost in the bliss of inter course smiled stupidly at the naked youth straddling his man hood. He did not know the boy's name; they had exchanged no words. The boy was half the age of abbot's eldest daughter, but that meant little to the older man. Redemption, after all, was but a breath away, waiting in the confines of his confessor's cubicle. From the moment Jonathan had first laid eyes upon the boy - smooth, moon-pale skin, soft, supple curves, long, flaxen hair spilling down past unblemished shoulders - he had wanted him. The wherefore of whatever spell had so suddenly enraptured him were lost in the throes of his passion. Jonathan wanted boy, and
thus had taken him. It was that simple.
Jonathan continued thrusting, lost in the vision of his comely companion writhing in silence. Passers-by could hear as he took in urgent breath as boy paused, shifting ever so slightly while still keeping his lover deep inside. The child rose up once, working his hips and driving th abbot into new throes of ecstasy. Again the pair moved together, features contorted in paroxysms of perverse delight. Jonathan thrust forward a third time, and the boy came down hard, face twisted into an unrecognizable feral mask as the monk screamed in agony. Something moved toward Jonathan, surging from deep within the boy's bowels. It skittered through the fey child and into Jonathan, crawling inside his sex and distending the sides. Each continued thrust - for he would not, could not stop - was accompanied by a searing sensation, intensely painful, yet strangely pleasurable. The moving thing was a swarm, Jonathan realized in a moment of horrific lucidity between thrusts; he could feel the chittering things forcing their way into him. He screamed and pitched, but could not throw off the boy; the child-monster's thighs held him a sensual death-grip. The torment and pleasure in tandem became unspeakable. At length, Jonathan could hear the wet snap of his hip cracking, yielding to stresses a mortal frame was never meant to bear. He fell, sprawling, into the merciful gulf of unconsciousness.
The abbot spent the next fortnight in a fitful state of half-wakefulness. Vaguely he wondered why none of the monks came to see him; vaguely he wondered about his duties and masses. His nights were filled with visions of his torturer's leering face. Then there were the nightmares, surreal table aux in which Jonathan's captor capered about his prostate from, pushing,prodding, cutting. There were scenes which played dangerously close to the edge of sanity, in which the monster squatted over Jonathan's face, forcing blood - salty maggots and formless writhing masses into his mouth, then holding his jaws shut and forcing him to swallow.The days, if night could be separated from day in the perpetual darkness enshrouding him,were worse. On those occasions when sleep deserted him, Jonathan, raw, rent and broken, was exquisitely aware of every sensation his tortured nerves brought him. His tongue, cracked, parched and swollen from countless stings, was about the only thing he could move. Flies landed on his eyes and he could not so much as blink to dislodge them. They were a constant companion in his torment, their buzz an excited drone against the slow beat of his heart. Misshapen creatures and vermin crawled and slithered over his bloated body, and a unseen thing - things - moved within his abdomen with chilling deliberation.
Then, one night, he awakened to find his captor waiting for him. The child was seated upon his chest, stealing his breath and staring him full in the face with black, bottomless eyes. The boy's body was cold, Jonathan noted, as cold as the corpses he had laid out for burial. More of the insects scampered across Jonathan to scuttle onto the boy-thing's naked from, welcoming his presence. Countless black forms darted in and out of the boy's nose, his smiling mouth, his groin. "You have cow's eyes," the youth hissed as he idly caressed Jonathan's face. The boy spoke in a voice that too old, too evil to come from a child. Whatever spoke in that voice had known degradation beyond imagining. Jonathan moaned, terrified his tormentor would scoop out his eyes with small, cold fingers. "Cow's eyes," the creature mused, retrieving a threaded needle attached to a skein of silk from beside Jonathan's prostate form. "The same wide-eyed gaze as a beast of the field. It marks you as unaware, unsuspecting, not yet opened with understanding. It betrays you as prey."
The creature pushed the needle into his own palm, passing it through his hand and out the other side. Without pausing, he then pinched the fat of the abbot's gut into a small fold and slid the needle through, eliciting whimpers of pain and fear. "I can see your thoughts through those eyes, Jonathan," the best continued, eyes wide as he held his victim down. Slowly he continued to sew into abbot's flesh, embroidering it with ancient patterns. "I can your fears. Oh, don't worry, I won't take your eyes from you now. They'll be needed later." Each wound closed scant seconds after the needle's passage, made whole by the potent vitae that soaked the thread, but Jonathan kept trying to scream until no more sounds escaped his mouth. Silently, his body was wracked with shudders.
"Here," the abbot's grinning assailant finally said, pausing to place Jonathan's had over his own swollen groin. "Squeeze that, if you will, and think about what you want. It will help to pass the time while I tell you should know before apotheosis."