Monastery Helper
Morning always began the same way at St. Alban’s — with bells that sounded more like sighs than chimes. Benedict Ashton heard them through his small dormitory window, already half-dressed, one shoe on, one still under the bed. He had long stopped trying to rise before the bells. They woke the entire hill.
Outside, the air was still wet from the night rain. The gravel path up to the cloister sparkled in the first thin light. Ben carried a basket of folded robes for the laundry room, his breath fogging. The monks, silent and composed, glided by him with small nods. He always felt like a gust of wind in their stillness.
His first errand came before breakfast. Brother Matthew’s compost pile had collapsed again behind the greenhouse. “Would you give it a look, Benedict?” he’d asked last evening, in that polite, guiltless way monks had of making requests sound like divine callings. So there Ben was, sleeves rolled, hauling damp soil and retying the sagging wooden frame. When brother Matthew arrived with a cup of warm tea as thanks, Ben thanked him quietly; brother Matthew smiled but didn’t reply — the rule of silence held until breakfast.
By eight, the sun was up. The bell rang for porridge, bread, and honey — nothing ever varied. Ben took his seat at the long table among the lay workers, while across the hall the monks ate in quiet as one brother read aloud from a book of psalms. The reader’s voice was calm, slow, each word landing like a drop of oil on water. Ben liked to guess who would read each morning. Today it was Father Nicetas. Tomorrow, perhaps, it would be Father Seraphim, the monastery’s reader most days and a man known for his soft but precise delivery.
After breakfast came the carting. Ben moved between the refectory, the library, and the small workshop that smelled of beeswax and sawdust. He delivered messages, fetched nails, carried boxes of candles, checked the water heater. The brothers called him Brother Benedict, though he wasn’t one of them — just a helper who had arrived two summers ago and stayed. He’d meant to stay a week. He’d never quite left.
Late morning found him in the garden, gathering herbs for the kitchen. The cook, Father Mark, handed him a list: rosemary, thyme, and mint. He looked him over with the brisk fatherly affection of someone who had seen too many well-meaning volunteers come and go. “And don’t pick the flowers again,” he said, “we use the leaves.”
By noon, the bell for Sext sounded. The courtyard emptied; the air turned reverent. Ben paused at the fountain, watching the goldfish circle beneath the thin film of fallen petals. A faint smell of candle smoke drifted from the chapel windows. It always comforted him — that blend of beeswax, old wood, and incense.
The afternoon slipped by with smaller tasks. He polished the brass handles of the guesthouse doors, then repaired a squeaky hinge in the library cabinet. Brother Andrew caught him there and asked if he could bring up a new stack of blank parchment from the storage cellar. “Brother Seraphim will need them for copying texts,” he added. “He doesn’t like to ask.”
Ben carried the stack up carefully. He loved visiting Brother Seraphim, a tall, slender monk with an almost transparent calm. His cell, tucked near the eastern wall, always smelled faintly of ink. There was talk that he, now in his late 20s, had once been a scholar of divinity in London, before he took vows and a new name.
By the time the evening bell rang, the corridors were shadowed and cool. Supper was lentil soup and rye bread, followed by silent washing of dishes. The rhythm soothed him. Outside, the last light drained from the hills.
When the kitchen was swept and the lamps trimmed, Ben went to put away the mop and saw a note pinned to the doorframe in neat handwriting:
“Brother Benedict — please, if you have time, could you change the bulb in my cell? The light went out during evening reading. — Fr. Seraphim.”
The monastery had no electric fixtures older than thirty years, but somehow they always failed at night. Ben smiled to himself, found a step stool and a spare bulb, and made his way through the quiet halls.
The monks were at their private time now; here and there behind the doors of their cells he could hear quiet chanting. The rest of the building was wrapped in peace — not silence exactly, but a hush that had weight.
He reached Father Seraphim’s door and knocked softly.
“Come in.”
The cell was small and spare, lit only by a single candle on the desk. Books were stacked like small towers, and on the wall hung a framed line of scripture written in old Greek. Father Seraphim sat with his hands folded on an open book. His gleaming eyes caught the candlelight.
“The light above went out an hour ago,” he said quietly. “I can manage by the candle, but the letters are stubborn in this light.”
Ben nodded, set the stool under the lamp, and unscrewed the old bulb. “You read in here all evening?”
“When one reads,” Seraphim said, “one is not entirely here.”
The new bulb flickered, then steadied — a pale, even glow. The monk looked up, and for a moment the lines on his face softened. “Thank you. You’ve made the night readable again.”
Ben smiled, stepped down, and gathered his things. The candle’s flame shivered in the brighter light, then went still.
“Help me with one more thing,” Brother Seraphim then said quietly.
***
…The cassock folded back like theater curtains, and there they were, Brother Seraphim’s balls: heavy, oval, pale as candle wax, resting on the coarse sheet. Their skin was so smooth the overhead bulb bounced a small moon of glare off each orb. Above, the shaft of his cock climbed higher and higher with every breath, slow and thick, uncut, one steady heartbeat at a time; his foreskin covered the head fully with a small beak of overhang. Veins barely showed under the velvet skin—only a faint blue zigzag on the underside pulsing as if counting silent prayers. The whole of his private secret glowed against the dark wool still bunched at Seraphim’s waist: sacred white meeting the forbidden skin, and Ben couldn’t decide which sight felt holier.
This was their ritual once or twice a week; they didn’t need to say anything except Seraphim sending a note to Ben asking him to come over for some or other errand; even before getting the note, Ben would sometimes see the call in Seraphim’s eyes—over lunch or dinner, or when they came across each other in the yard.
Their silent pact was to let Ben massage Seraphim’s thighs and his perineum without touching his cock or balls, until Seraphim erupted in a huge fountain of come after several minutes of hushed hot breathing… What Ben liked about it was that he needed not to coax or seduce Seraphim; it was almost a wordless ritual, and yet every time Seraphim’s cock and balls looked different to him, and oh, his cumshot! It was always a new sight, a new sound, a new feeling—total submission, shame—and then the yard, the walk back ah, fuck, no, not now…
Ben always began with the thigh massage to help Seraphim relax fully. Ben’s palms first landed just above the knee, thumbs pressing into the soft inner muscle. Then came the slow circles that spiraled upward an inch at a time. Each rotation loosened knots Seraphim didn’t know he carried—thighs easing apart almost against will, skin warming under the friction until a faint flush rose. The motion stayed clinical, silent, yet every orbit drifted closer to the heavy sac resting on the sheet, as if the hands were drawing an invisible map of permission.
Slowly, slowly, Ben’s fingers trailed upward, brushing the crease where the thigh met the groin in teasing, feather-light touches. His fingertips skimmed the crease—skin whispering against skin—with barely enough pressure to crease the fine hairs there. A shiver rolled through Seraphim’s thighs; the cassock hem trembled. The touch circled once, twice, tracing the warm fold where leg became groin, each pass a silent question that never reached the tongue. Blood answered anyway—Seraphim’s shaft now lifted higher and higher, his foreskin hood slowly drawing back just enough to bare a sliver of the rosy crown, gleaming like polished brass.
One quiet push at the backs of Seraphim’s thighs and he obediently slid down an inch, and lifted his legs up just enough for gravity to roll those smooth orbs of his balls backward; they now settled in plain view, heavy and exposed, the thin skin drawn so tight that every tiny wrinkle showed. Behind them the perineum swelled, a firm ridge flushed rose, twitching with each hidden heartbeat. This angle sent the now fully erect thick shaft slapping against Seraphim’s belly; the glans now kissed his navel. On the back of the cock a single blue vein throbbed visibly—wild, rapid pulses racing under pale skin like a trapped call of Seraphim’s wretched youth. Ben’s hands hovered over Seraphim’s balls, fingers curled in restraint. Ah, how he wanted to touch those balls, but no, the covenant they had was holy for both young men… so no, just enjoy the view, he told himself, and then later there will be no vows to stand in the way of your own… wait, wait, hold on, Ben, hold on.
Ben’s thumb settled on the swollen bump, its pad pressing just enough to dimple the satin skin. He held—one silent heartbeat—then eased, pressed again, creating a slow metronome: in, release, in, release. Each pulse sent a faint quiver through Seraphim’s sac; the shaft jerked against his stomach, smearing a bead of clear dew across the faint trail of hair. No breath, no word—only the quiet drum of thumb on tender flesh, coaxing fire along unseen wires until Seraphim’s toes curled against the mattress and the first shallow roll of hips begged for more.
Ben sometimes wondered how Seraphim managed to stay quiet through this ordeal. The silence in the cell was deafening, one could hear the rustle of the sheet and the soft creaking of the floorboards below Ben’s knees. Sometimes Ben thought he could hear himself pressing on Seraphim’s swollen perineum.
Ben’s fingertips drifted beneath the swell of each orb. He knew he was allowed to touch the skin of the sac, so he risked pulling it a bit one time and found no objections. Just. Don’t. Touch. The. Balls.
Those were the faintest tugs, just enough to stretch the skin ever-so-slightly-oh-god-it-moved-the-frenulum-easy, easy, easy… Ben knew he was walking a thin line there, but—phew!—that was okay, too, he found out today.
Meanwhile his other palm glided along the tender inner thigh—slow, calming sweeps that contradicted the building ache, keeping Seraphim suspended between soothe and spark. The cassock slipped farther aside; ceiling light caught on a single thread of precum stretching from navel to slit, trembling like a prayer neither of them dared finish.
Ben loved the view of this sticky thread every time, not yet dripping, not yet causing Seraphim to wiggle his ass a bit, but there, there, clearly present, showing that 26 years of age were unescapable… oh, and there comes the first d-, d-, d-, drop!
Then it was time for Ben’s knuckles to settle on either side of that tight strip, and start pressing down in slow, deep motions that sent warmth flooding upward—through the perineum, through the root, into the untouched shaft pulsing above. Each knead felt like pushing heat into Seraphim’s body, the strained bump giving way by microscopic degrees, and Seraphim’s breath hitching in tiny, soundless hiccups.
Leaning closer, Ben did another thing he had learned several months ago he could do; he let his exhale wash over the lifted balls—humid, steady, like a private summer breeze for Seraphim. The cock responded without a hand ever touching it: swelling another millimeter, foreskin now peeled back fully, baring the glossy dome of his glans.
“Ah,” Brother Seraphim said. It sounded like a casual remark over tea, like he remembered something. Oh, how he fought for this sound not to show any signs of the storm inside him… oh how he wanted Ben to know that it meant “go for more,” how he wanted… no, no, no, you can’t do it, can’t do it…
“Ah.”
Next, Ben’s index and middle fingers formed a loose V, starting at the soft spot just above the perineum’s center. In one fluid glide he slid upward—skin slipping over firm muscle—until fingertips kissed the warm underside of the sac. Back down, then up again, each stroke a slow bow across invisible strings, the motion lifting the entire sack a fraction before letting it settle. Seraphim’s shaft answered every pass with a bob, foreskin rolling farther, the head now fully exposed and shining like polished marble in the light of the new bulb—still untouched, still aching, still obeying the silent command of those two relentless fingers.
“Ah, Brother Benedict… hurts.”
“Mmmhm.”
Ben pressed the pads of two fingers flat against the firm ridge and let them flutter—tiny, rapid pulses that blurred into a single thrumming note. The vibration sank through skin, through fascia, until Seraphim’s hidden root seemed to beat in answer: thrum-thrum-thrum, a second heart racing beneath the first. Each micro-bounce ricocheted upward; the untouched shaft jerked in time, crown smacking softly against his belly, a glossy pearl forming at the slit only to be shaken loose and sent sliding down the side. Still no sound—only the quiet motor of fingertips driving a pulse neither man could name, yet both obeyed.
Ben’s thumbs now dug deeper, circling a tight dime-sized orbit right where the ridge met the root—pressure screwing inward, faster, drilling for the prostate’s ghost beneath the wall. Seraphim’s sac shrank against the assault, skin wrinkling, orbs riding high until they nestled flush to the shaft—two trembling ovals trying to climb higher and higher inside him. A whispered plea finally cracked the silence: “Bennie… aaah…”—it was now a raw voice, almost angry—yet Ben only eased off a fraction, keeping the thumb spinning, drawing the fuse longer, letting the young monk’s hips chased the circle while the untouched cock drooled clear threads onto his heaving stomach.
When Brother Seraphim called him Bennie, each time Ben knew he made the shields come down, there he was, his childhood buddy Matt, his daily jerkoff partner through their teenage years, his teacher of first gay love, Mattie the Monk they called him for his religiousness even back then…
Then came the two final presses—sharp, deliberate—thumb driving straight into the blazing core. Seraphim’s spine arched off the mattress, mouth tearing open: “Bennie—ouch, ouch—oh! oh! OH!” The first rope of come fired white-hot, a high silver arc that crested over his navel and splattered across the rumpled cassock; the second shot farther, striping his sternum, beads sliding down the black wool like stars on midnight cloth. The third pulse caught him under the chin, fourth whipped past his ear and dotted the wall behind the headboard in slow-drip constellations. Ben froze, thumb still buried, watching Seraphim’s beautiful cock in aftershocks—jerking, spurting air, every spasm flinging stray pearls until Seraphim collapsed, chest heaving, cassock ruined, face glazed with his own spent prayer.
Before the last drop slid off Seraphim’s cheek, Ben’s hands were gone—he lifted off the rug in one silent motion. He didn’t wipe the faint sheen from his fingers; he simply stood up, stepped back, and turned. The door opened on well-oiled hinges, closed with a breath, and the narrow hallway swallowed him—no glance, no nod, no whispered amen. Inside, Seraphim lay panting beneath the fresco of his own release, sticky patches cooling on his ruined cassock, listening to retreating footsteps that were the only sound to break the holy quiet.
… When his boots finally crunched on the gravel, Ben freed himself in one tug—his cock has long been hard and leaking. His memory flooded with bright images: Seraphim’s straight shaft pulsing against black wool, silver arcs catching lamplight like thrown mercury, balls vanishing high and tight as the dam broke. He fisted his dick hard, thumb grinding the sweet underside vein the way he had just drilled Seraphim’s ridge—three strokes, four, and lightning gathered at the base. “Fuck—fuck—fuck,” he hissed to the dark, stopping by a bush slightly shivering in the light wind. His hips lashed forward as the first spurt hit the leaves, second and third striped the grass below, and the fourth dripped from the twigs like late-season berries. Panting, he tucked away and stepped through the door.
… Between the sheets in his bed, Ben stared at the ceiling’s shifting shadows and pictured the next scene: cassock unbuttoned slowly, cloth sliding off shoulders like dusk peeling from a wall; Seraphim’s damp chest rising as he wiped stripes of silver from his skin, breath easing into the hush of night. He imagined the faint creak of mattress springs in the distant cell, the whisper of wool settling on wood, the single sigh before the lamp light was turned off. No words had ever crossed the threshold, yet in the dark Ben shaped them anyway—a soundless I love you drifting across the yard, through stone and rule, to land somewhere on a still-sticky stomach still tasting forbidden stars.
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