All characters depicted in this story are entirely fictional, and any resemblance to real individuals, living or deceased, is purely coincidental. The locations and religious practices described are fictional and are not intended to represent or reflect any real-life practices or beliefs. The content is not meant to offend or harm any sentiments. All characters in the story are adults, and all sexual acts portrayed are consensual. Any suggestions would be very welcome. Happy reading!
The game is afoot, my dear Watson! These words from the renowned consulting detective Sherlock Holmes echoed through the foggy streets of London as he paced about our shared study at 221B Baker Street. His blue eyes gleamed with excitement as he held an official-looking letter in his hand.
"Mysterious theft at an isolated monastery in the highlands of Scotland," he declared, waving the parchment. "An ancient Celtic relic, a stone phallus said to be imbued with supernatural properties, has gone missing. The Abbott Chevon himself has engaged my services to solve this puzzling case."
I raised an eyebrow. "A phallus? Sounds rather lewd, Holmes."
"Aha! You presume much, my friend. But yes, it does indeed seem scandalous. I've arranged for us to depart posthaste. Prepare your valise - we leave for Scotland within the hour!"
Thus began our queer adventure into the rugged Scottish Highlands, far from the gaslit streets and comfortably civilized restraints of London. After an arduous journey by train and carriage, we finally reached the entrance of St. Columba's Monastery, a grim stone edifice perched upon a windswept cliff overlooking the North Sea. An austere iron gate marked the boundary.
A stooped, robed figure approached us slowly, face obscured by a hood. As he drew nearer, the man lowered his hood to reveal the weathered features of an elderly monk. He regarded us warily.
"You are the famed Mr. Sherlock Holmes?" he asked, voice creaky. "I am Abbott Chevon. Welcome to St. Columba's."
"Thank you, sir," Holmes replied crisply. "We have come to investigate the theft of your priceless relic. I trust you will provide us with unrestricted access to your monastery?"
The Abbott hesitated, then nodded. "Of course. But first, there is...a small matter we must attend to before you may enter our holy sanctum." He gestured for us to follow him to a small side building. Curious, we trailed after him. Once inside, the Abbott gestured for us to disrobe.
"You must undergo a purity examination, gentlemen. A ritual not unlike the one the early Christians performed upon entering a monastery in ancient times. Strip completely and we shall confirm your masculinity."
Holmes and I exchanged a puzzled glance, but dutifully removed our garments until we stood nude before the old monk and two other robed figures who had entered the room. They began to examine our bodies clinically, running their hands over our chests, legs, and backs. Then they descended lower, cupping and squeezing our testicles, stroking our flaccid cocks to coax them to full erection. I stifled a gasp as they roughly twisted and tugged at my manhood. Beside me, Holmes stood impassively, allowing the lewd ministrations.
When our erections were at full mast, the Abbott smiled and nodded in satisfaction. "Excellent. You have passed the examination. Now put on these habits."
He handed us each a simple robe. As we donned the garments, the Abbott's smile widened wickedly. "You have been deemed worthy to enter St. Columba's and partake in our...rituals. Welcome."
With that ominous declaration, he turned and led us back out into the crisp Scottish air, toward the looming monastery walls and the secrets hidden within. As we crossed the threshold into the stone hallways of St. Columba's, the heavy oak door thudded shut behind us with a sense of finality. The air felt thick and close, redolent of incense and candle smoke. Abbott Chevon led us deeper into the labyrinthine passages, our footsteps echoing against the cold flagstones.
"Gentlemen," the Abbott intoned, "our monastery is home to a small but devout community of brethren who have sworn vows of chastity, obedience, and poverty. We live by the Rule of St. Benedict."
I nodded politely, even as a prickle of unease crept up my spine. Something about the Abbott's tone and the way his eyes glittered in the dim light gave me pause. Holmes, ever observant, caught the look that passed between us. He stepped forward, voice sharp. "And what exactly is the nature of these 'rituals' you mentioned earlier, Abbott? The ones we are now 'worthy' to partake in?"
Chevon paused, turning to face us with a cryptic smile. "All will be revealed in time, Mr. Holmes. But first, allow me to introduce you to some of my brothers." He led us into a spacious common room where several robed figures lounged about, sipping from pewter cups. They turned to regard us with open curiosity as we entered. The Abbott gestured to each in turn.
"Brother Alistair, Brother Lazarus, Brother James, and Brother Georgie. Gentlemen, these are Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson, here to assist us with a delicate matter."
The monks nodded, some with smiles, others more reserved. Brother Alistair, a tall, fair-haired man, stepped forward and clasped Holmes's hand in greeting.
"Welcome to St. Columba's, sirs," he said warmly. "It's a rare treat to have visitors from the outside world. I hope you'll enjoy your stay with us."
"Indeed," chimed in Brother Lazarus, a swarthy fellow with piercing black eyes. He moved closer to me, reaching out to squeeze my shoulder companionably. "Any friend of Sherlock Holmes is a friend of ours."
As the brethren pressed in around us, I became acutely aware of how close they stood, the warmth of their breath, the scent of their skin. There was an undercurrent of...tension, almost a buzzing electricity in the air between them. I darted a glance at Holmes, but he seemed oblivious, already engaged in discussion with Brother Alistair.
"We shall need to inspect your monastery thoroughly," Holmes was saying, "and speak with each member of your community. Where should we begin?"
"Ah, an excellent question," Brother Alistair replied. "I would be happy to show you around our humble abode. Brother Lazarus was just about to prepare the evening meal - perhaps you gentlemen would care to join us?"
Holmes looked to me questioningly. I nodded, suddenly famished after our long journey.
"Capital idea!" Holmes declared. "A hearty meal before embarking on an investigation is always wise. Lead on, Brother Alistair!"
And so began our strange sojourn within the walls of St. Columba's, where secrets lurked in the shadows and an ancient malevolence seemed to thrum through the very stones themselves. Brother Alistair led us on a winding tour through the ancient halls of St. Columba's, his voice echoing in the dim passageways as he described the monastery's history. Holmes peppered him with questions, keenly interested in the details of the institution's founding and practices. I, however, found my attention wandering, drawn to the strange symbols etched into the stone walls and the sense of...wrongness that seemed to permeate every shadowed corner. The very air felt heavy with some unseen presence, oppressive and thick.
As if sensing my unease, Brother Alistair turned to me with a reassuring smile. "You must forgive our humble abode, Dr. Watson. The stones are old and the air damp. I'm sure you'll grow accustomed to it soon enough."
I managed a strained smile in return, not trusting myself to speak. Holmes, deep in conversation with Alistair about some archaeological finding, paid me no mind. I felt suddenly very alone amidst the press of ancient stone and the watching eyes of the silent brothers. We rounded a final corner and entered a large, well-lit chamber. Vaulted ceilings soared above us, supported by ornate arches carved with more of those strange sigils. Directly ahead lay a massive wooden door, reinforced with iron bands.
"Ah, the Holy of Holies," Brother Alistair intoned reverently. "The heart of our monastery. Only the Abbott and a select few are permitted entry."
"Most intriguing," Holmes remarked, eyes gleaming as he studied the door. "And where precisely does this relic, you spoke of, the missing phallus, reside?"
Alistair pointed to a small alcove to one side, containing a pedestal of black marble. "There. The relic was always displayed there, for all to see and venerate. Until now."
Holmes strode over to examine the empty pedestal, running his fingers over the smooth surface. "Most peculiar," he muttered. "A fitting place for such an item."
I shivered, unable to look away from the pedestal. A sense of wrongness radiated from it, almost palpable. Alistair noticed my discomfort and placed a comforting hand on my shoulder.
"Come, Doctor. You must be weary after your journey. Let us go to the refectory and take refreshment before you retire."
As we followed him out of the chamber, I couldn't shake the feeling that we had disturbed something ancient and malevolent. Something that should never have been awoken. The evening meal proved to be a decidedly unconventional affair. Brother Lazarus, our affable host, had laid out a spread of cheeses, fruits, and what appeared to be homemade breads. But it was the drink he offered that truly caught my attention.
"Here, Doctor," he said, pressing a glass of green liquid into my hand. "Try this absinthe I've brewed. I think you'll find it quite...stimulating."
I sniffed the contents suspiciously, the potent anise scent tickling my nose. "I'm not sure I should, Brother. I'm more of a whiskey man myself."
Lazarus chuckled, a deep, rich sound. "Oh, come now, Watson! When in Rome, as they say. Besides, it'll help you relax. I can see the tension in your shoulders."
With a shrug, I took a sip. The liquor burned pleasantly down my throat, filling my mouth with the taste of licorice and herbs. As I swallowed, a strange warmth began to spread through my body, tingling in my extremities. Across the table, Holmes had been engaged in a lively discussion with Brother Alistair about some philosophical matter, gesticulating with his glass of wine. But as I watched, his movements began to slow, his eyes glazing over slightly. I blinked, trying to clear my own head. The absinthe seemed to be affecting me more strongly than I had anticipated. Around me, the other brothers appeared to be drinking heavily as well, their laughter growing louder, their speech slurring.
Lazarus leaned in close to me, his breath hot against my ear. "You see, Doctor? There's nothing quite like it. The green fairy, they call it. She whispers secrets in your mind."
I shivered at his proximity, the absinthe-fueled heat pooling low in my belly. Lazarus seemed to notice, his dark eyes glinting with mischief.
"Tell me, Watson," he purred, "have you ever been to a holy ritual before? Tonight, we are invited to one most...illuminating."
Before I could respond, Holmes suddenly pushed back from the table, his chair clattering to the floor. He stood there swaying slightly, his face pale.
"Forgive me, gentlemen," he mumbled, "but I believe I require a moment to collect myself. If you'll excuse me..."
With that, he turned and stumbled from the room, leaving me alone with the leering brothers.
As the door closed behind Holmes, the atmosphere in the refectory shifted like a storm cloud gathering over the highlands. Brother Lazarus's hand, which had been resting innocently on the table, now slid under it to graze my thigh, his fingers digging into the flesh with a possessiveness that sent a jolt straight to my loins. The absinthe had me in its grip, my cock stirring beneath my habit like a serpent awakening from slumber. Brother James, the youthful one with those curls that begged to be pulled, licked his lips, his eyes fixed on the bulge forming in my robe.
"Alone at last, Doctor," Lazarus growled, his voice thick with filthy intent. "Your detective friend has left you to our devices. Shall we show you what real devotion looks like in these walls?"
I tried to protest, but the words caught in my throat as James rose and circled the table, his robe parting to reveal the outline of his slender, hard prick pressing against the fabric. "Don't be shy, Watson. We've seen how your body responds. That purity exam? Just a taste of what's to come."
The Abbott, who had been silent, cleared his throat. "Gentlemen, the hour grows late, and our guests are weary from their travels. Brother Lazarus, Brother James, escort Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson to your chamber for the night. Ensure they... rest well."
Lazarus grinned, a wicked flash of teeth, and stood, pulling me to my feet. James nodded eagerly, and together they led me from the refectory, the other brothers watching with envious eyes. We found Holmes in the hallway, leaning against the wall, his sharp features softened by the absinthe's haze. "Watson," he murmured, "I fear we've imbibed something more potent than mere spirits."
"Indeed," I replied, as Lazarus and James guided us to a modest chamber with two narrow beds, lit by flickering candles. The door clicked shut behind us, and the two brothers turned, their expressions hungry predators in monk's clothing.
Holmes, ever the interrogator, straightened despite his weariness. "Now, brothers, before we retire, I have questions about the missing phallus. When was it last seen? Who had access?"
Lazarus chuckled darkly, exchanging a glance with James. "Oh, Mr. Holmes, your mind is as sharp as they say. But information comes at a price in St. Columba's. We'll cooperate... if you and the good doctor allow us to worship at your altars first."
James nodded, his hand already lifting his robe to reveal his cock, long and veined, standing at attention like a soldier on parade. "Suck our cocks? Nay, we shall suck yours. Let us drain the seed from your balls, and perhaps our tongues will loosen."
Holmes arched an eyebrow, but I saw the intrigue in his eyes, the absinthe had us both half-hard already. "Very well," he said coolly. "If that's the currency of truth here."
They wasted no time. Lazarus pushed Holmes onto one bed, yanking open his habit to expose the detective's lean, pale body. Holmes's cock, usually so composed, sprang free, semi-erect and curving elegantly. Lazarus knelt between his legs, his swarthy face descending like a hawk. "Look at this fine English prick," he murmured filthily, "thick as a pipe stem, begging for a proper sucking."
James did the same to me, shoving me onto the other bed and parting my robe. My cock, thicker than Holmes's but shorter, throbbed in the cool air. "Mmm, Doctor, your meat is meaty indeed," James purred, his breath hot on my skin. "We'll team up on you both, like good brothers in arms."
And team up they did. Lazarus started on Holmes, engulfing his cock in one sloppy gulp, his lips stretching around the shaft as he bobbed, saliva dripping down to coat Holmes's balls. James joined him momentarily, licking the base while Lazarus sucked the head, their tongues tangling in a nasty dance over Holmes's prick. Holmes groaned, his hands fisting the sheets. "By Jove... such enthusiasm."
Then they switched, James taking Holmes's cock deep into his throat, gagging obscenely as he deep-throated it, tears streaming from his eyes while Lazarus moved to me. His mouth was a furnace, sucking my cock with vacuum force, his tongue swirling around the head like a whirlwind, lapping at the piss-slit for every drop of pre-cum. "Taste like sin, Doctor," he mumbled around my meat, "salty and thick, just how I like 'em."
They alternated again, teaming on me now, Lazarus sucking my balls, rolling them in his mouth like ripe plums, while James slurped my shaft, his curls bouncing as he bobbed. The room filled with wet, filthy sounds: slobbering sucks, gagging chokes, and our moans. My hips bucked, fucking James's face as Lazarus probed my arse with a spit-slick finger, twisting it in to milk my prostate.
Holmes was faring no better, or rather, faring deliciously. Lazarus had returned to him, deep-throating while James licked his arsehole, rimming him with eager, nasty laps. "Fuck, yes," Holmes hissed, uncharacteristically vulgar, "suck that cock, you filthy monks."
Climax built like a deduction reaching its peak. I came first, roaring as my balls tightened, spurting thick ropes of cum into James's mouth. He swallowed some, but pulled back to let the rest paint Lazarus's face in sticky white streaks. Holmes followed, his seed exploding across Lazarus's cheeks and James's lips, a cum facial that left them both dripping.
Panting, they licked each other clean, savoring our essence. "Now," Holmes demanded, "the information."
Lazarus wiped his chin, grinning. "The phallus wasn't just stolen; it vanished during a ritual. Brother Georgie was the last to touch it, but he swears it glowed and disappeared. And the Abbott... he's been acting queerer than usual, whispering to shadows."
James nodded, cum still glistening on his brow. "There's talk of a curse. The phallus demands seed to reveal itself. But beware the crypts, they hold secrets that could unravel us all."
Satisfied for now, we dismissed them, and sleep claimed us in the absinthe-scented chamber.
The next morning dawned with the clang of monastery bells, but our awakening was far from pious. Lazarus and James had returned, their robes discarded, cocks already hard and leaking. "Time for morning prayers," Lazarus announced, "but you'll pray to each other. Suck one another's cocks while we watch and wank our pricks."
Holmes and I exchanged glances, our own morning woods stirring at the command. Resistance seemed futile in this den of depravity. I knelt before Holmes, his cock inches from my face - long, elegant, with a slight curve that promised to hit the right spots. "My dear Watson," he murmured, "proceed with your examination."
I took him into my mouth, the taste of him familiar yet thrilling, musky, with a hint of last night's absinthe. I sucked greedily, bobbing as my tongue traced every vein. Holmes groaned, his hands in my hair, guiding me deeper. Beside us, Lazarus and James stroked their cocks furiously, pre-cum flying as they masturbated to the sight.
"Now switch," James ordered, his hand a blur on his slender shaft. Holmes knelt, engulfing my thicker cock, his suction expert and relentless. He deep-throated me, gagging but persisting, his nose buried in my pubes. I thrust gently, fucking his face as the monks wanked harder, their moans echoing.
We came together, Holmes swallowing my load while I painted his throat with mine. Lazarus and James erupted, their cum splattering the floor in puddles of sin. "Good boys," Lazarus panted. "Now, investigate as you will."
Holmes, wiping his lips, set out to scour the monastery. His path led him first to the library, where a scholarly monk named Brother Elias guarded ancient tomes. To gain access to forbidden scrolls, Holmes offered a sexual favor: frotting their cocks together amid the dusty shelves. Elias's prick, veined and uncut, rubbed against Holmes's in a slippery grind, pre-cum mingling as they humped like beasts. Holmes came first, his seed coating Elias's belly, and in return, learned of Celtic rites involving the phallus, rituals of fertility that demanded male essence.
Next, in the gardens, Holmes encountered Brother Thomas, a burly gardener with hands like shovels. To pry details of suspicious footprints near the pedestal, Holmes allowed Thomas to masturbate him while recounting the night of the theft. Thomas's rough fist pumped Holmes's cock with brutal efficiency, twisting at the head until Holmes spurted across the herbs, revealing that the Abbott had been seen arguing with a shadowy figure.
Deeper in the cloisters, Holmes bartered with Brother Simon, trading a blowjob for alibis. Simon's cock was massive, choking Holmes as he sucked, but the detective persisted, swallowing the load to learn that Brother Georgie had been absent during the disappearance.
Meanwhile, I was led by Brother Georgie to the communal baths, a steamy chamber of marble pools fed by hot springs. "Time to cleanse you, Doctor," he rumbled, his burly form stripping bare to reveal a cock thick as my wrist, veined like twisted ropes. "But first, I'll take your virgin arse and make you scream like the whore you are."
I protested feebly, but the steam and residual absinthe weakened my resolve. Georgie bent me over the bath's edge, his fingers, rough and insistent—probing my hole with spit for lube. "Tight as a nun's cunt," he growled, then rammed in without mercy. The burn was agony, his thick prick splitting me open, stretching my arse to its limits as he pounded wildly.
I screamed, the echoes bouncing off the walls, "God, no-it's too much!" But he didn't stop, slamming balls-deep, his hairy chest against my back, grunting like a beast in rut. "Take it, you English slut! Feel my Scottish cock reaming your guts!"
The pain morphed into pleasure, waves of ecstasy crashing as he hit my prostate repeatedly. I moaned, pushing back, loving the brutality, the way he treated me like a common whore, his balls slapping my thighs, his sweat dripping onto me. "Yes, fuck me harder!" I begged, my cock hard and leaking. He reached around, wanking me roughly as he fucked, until I came in shuddering spurts into the water. He pulled out, flipping me to cum on my chest, marking me as his.
Exhausted but exhilarated, I realized I craved this degradation, being used, filled, treated like a vessel for lust. "More," I whispered, and Georgie laughed, promising rituals to come.
Rejoining Holmes, I shared my... insights, blushing at the ache in my arse. Together with Brother Alistair, we ventured to the crypts, a dank labyrinth beneath the monastery. Torchlight flickered on ancient carvings of phallic symbols, and amid the tombs, we discovered shocking parchments: records of the phallus not as a relic, but a living artifact that fed on semen, vanishing when starved of offerings. Alistair gasped, "It's true—the Abbott has been withholding rituals to control it!"
Our discovery fueled, we slipped into the Abbott's empty chamber for further clues. Tensions high, Alistair's hand brushed mine, and soon we were entangled. "Let us celebrate this find," he suggested, and Holmes, ever adaptable, agreed.
They stripped me, Alistair's lean cock and Holmes's elegant one both hard. "Double penetration, Watson," Holmes declared clinically, "to test your limits." Alistair lay beneath me, his prick sliding into my arse easily after Georgie's ravaging. Then Holmes positioned behind, pushing his cock alongside, stretching me impossibly wide. I screamed in ecstasy-pain, "Oh fuck, you're tearing me apart!" But I loved it, the fullness, the burn, as they thrust in unison, their cocks rubbing inside me.
"Fuck his whore hole," Alistair grunted, and Holmes obliged, pounding me like a machine. I rode them, my cock frotting against Alistair's belly until I came untouched. They pulled out, stroking to climax, cum facials drenching my face, ropes of hot seed on my cheeks, lips, eyes. I lapped it greedily, savoring the salty bitterness, the thick texture sliding down my throat. Oh, how I had fallen in love with drinking cum! It was ambrosia, the essence of manhood, warm and viscous, filling me with a depraved hunger. I swallowed every drop, craving more like a addict to opium.
Refreshed, more investigation ensued. Holmes pieced clues: footprints matched the Abbott's boots, alibis crumbled, and crypt records showed the original phallus had been lost to a Viking raid centuries ago, a fact buried in ancient parchments detailing the monastery's turbulent history. The current relic, a mixture of pure gold and silver alloy, held immense monetary value, enough to ransom a king's fortune.
Holmes called a meeting in the common room, all brethren assembled under the flickering candlelight, the air taut with anticipation. The Abbott Chevon sat at the head, his weathered face a mask of feigned piety, while Georgie shifted uneasily beside him, his burly frame betraying a flicker of guilt. Holmes paced before them, his sharp eyes scanning each face like a hawk surveying its prey.
"Gentlemen," Holmes began in his precise, measured tone, "the matter of the missing phallus is no enigma of the supernatural, as some whispers in these halls might suggest. No, it is a tale as old as man himself: greed, deception, and the desperate grasp for salvation. Observe the facts, my dear Watson, and brethren—facts that speak louder than any fabricated myth.
"First, the parchments in the crypts, which I examined with Brother Alistair's unwitting aid, reveal the truth of the relic's lineage. The original sacred phallus, that ancient Celtic artifact, was not stolen in recent days but plundered during a Viking raid upon these shores over eight centuries past. What resides-or resided-in your alcove is a masterful forgery, crafted from an alloy of pure gold and silver, its value not in mystical properties but in cold, hard currency. A fortune hidden in plain sight, venerated under the guise of holiness.
"Now, consider the monastery's finances. Whispers from Brother Elias in the library, bartered for a moment of... intimate cooperation, and confirmed by ledgers I perused in the Abbott's chamber, paint a dire picture. Years of mismanagement, extravagant feasts, ill-advised investments in distant ventures, perhaps even personal indulgences have drained the coffers dry. The monastery teeters on ruin, its vows of poverty ironically fulfilled through folly.
"Enter the Abbott Chevon, our esteemed leader." Holmes turned to him with a piercing gaze. "You, sir, orchestrated this charade. You 'stole' the phallus yourself, hiding it in a secret compartment beneath your bed, a compartment I discovered while you were absent, its dust disturbed only recently. Your intent? To fabricate a mystery, drawing outsiders like myself to lend credence to the tale, all while planning to spirit the relic away. And who better to entrust with smuggling it to London for sale than your loyal Brother Georgie, whose alibis crumble under scrutiny, he was absent during the 'theft,' his footprints matching those near the pedestal, muddied with Highland soil from a recent errand.
"But ah, the twist, as in all great deceptions, lies in the betrayal within betrayal. The phallus you hid, Abbott, was itself a forgery-a crude copy forged by the local smith in the nearby village. Brother Georgie, ever the opportunist, swapped the real relic during one of his... carnal visits to the smithy, where heated forges masked more heated encounters. The true phallus, that gleaming prize of gold and silver, now rests in Georgie's own chamber, tucked beneath his cot amid his personal effects. A quick search will confirm it."
Gasps rippled through the room. Georgie bolted upright, but Lazarus and James restrained him with firm grips. The Abbott's face drained of color, his creaky voice stammering denials that Holmes waved aside.
"Elementary, really," Holmes concluded with a wry smile. "Motives align like stars in the night sky: the Abbott sought funds to save his flock from financial doom, while Georgie, sensing opportunity, aimed to claim the wealth for himself, perhaps to flee these vows and indulge his prodigious appetites elsewhere. But fear not; the relic is recovered, the monastery spared-if wiser in its stewardship."
A swift search of Georgie's chamber yielded the true phallus, its golden sheen confirming Holmes's deduction. The Abbott, humbled yet pragmatic, decreed no expulsion for Georgie. "Your transgressions are grave, Brother," he intoned, eyeing the burly monk's formidable form with a lingering gaze, "but your... endowments are a gift to this community. As penance, you shall serve as the monastery's willing vessel for a full year, your arse offered to any brother who desires it, whenever and wherever the urge strikes. You shall be our bottom slut, fucked without respite, a living atonement."
Georgie bowed his head, a sly grin betraying his lack of remorse, his cock already stirring at the prospect. The Abbott, humbled by the revelation of his own treachery, declared with a fervent glint in his aged eyes, "In gratitude for your uncovering of the truth, we invoke the Holy Ritual, to feed the phallus with our essence and restore its sanctity!"
What followed was an eruption of unbridled lust in the Holy of Holies, the sacred chamber transformed into a crucible of primal desire, the air thick with the musk of sweat, incense, and raw masculinity. The stone walls reverberated with gasps, moans, and the wet slap of flesh, a cacophony rising like a storm over the highlands. Robes fell away in a frenzy, revealing bodies sculpted by monastic rigor: lean, muscled, hairy, smooth, all pulsing with urgent need, cocks standing rigid, veined, and leaking clear fluid that caught the flickering torchlight. The brethren encircled us, their eyes ablaze with fervor: Alistair with his golden hair and piercing gaze, Lazarus’s swarthy form radiating feral hunger, James’s youthful lithe build quivering with anticipation, Georgie’s burly frame like a Highland oak, Elias the scholar with ink-stained fingers, Thomas the gardener with hands like shovels, Simon with his massive endowment, the Abbott Chevon himself-his wiry, weathered body belying a surprising vigor, his cock a gnarled rod of authority, and a dozen unnamed monks, their shafts of every shape and size, throbbing in readiness.
The ritual ignited with a wave of mouths descending, the monks dropping to their knees in pairs and trios, lips parting to worship whatever flesh they could claim. The Abbott, his creaky voice now a low growl of command, took charge first, pairing with Alistair to descend upon Holmes. Chevon’s lips wrapped around the detective’s elegant cock, sucking with a practiced reverence that belied his holy vows, his tongue flicking at the sensitive slit while Alistair lapped at Holmes’s balls, rolling them in his mouth like sacred relics, his golden beard grazing the pale skin. Holmes arched, his usually composed features twisting in rapture, a guttural groan escaping as pre-cum coated their chins. "Deeper, you pious sinners," he hissed, his hands guiding Chevon’s silvered head.
Beside him, I was claimed by Lazarus and James, the swarthy monk’s calloused fingers gripping my thicker shaft, stroking it with rough precision while James knelt low, his tongue probing my arse with swirling, insistent laps that sent electric jolts through my core. Lazarus swallowed me whole, his mouth a furnace, sucking with such force that saliva dripped down to mingle with the sweat beading on my thighs. Elias joined, his scholarly focus turned to licking the head of my cock, savoring each drop of pre-cum as if it were a rare manuscript. The room became a symphony of wet, obscene sounds, slurping mouths, choking gulps, and our rising moans as the monks passed us between them like sacred vessels, their lips and tongues relentless in their devotion.
As the fervor escalated, bodies pressed closer, shafts rubbing in heated, slippery friction. Thomas pulled me into his burly embrace, our cocks sliding together in a slick grind, his shovel-like hands pinning my hips as we humped like beasts, pre-cum mingling to ease the glide. The Abbott, not content to merely serve, positioned himself behind Holmes, his gnarled prick nudging the detective’s arse teasingly before rubbing along his length, their bodies rocking in a primal dance. Simon’s massive cock joined, frotting against Holmes’s thigh, its bulbous head leaving trails of clear fluid. Unnamed monks formed circles, hands reaching to stroke neighbours, fists pumping veined members with feverish speed, their moans rising as seed threatened to spill, the air heavy with the scent of lust.
The penetration came next, a cascade of entries that left no hole unfilled. Georgie, his hunger undimmed from our bathhouse encounter, spun me around and drove into my arse with a single, savage thrust, his thick girth stretching me wide, reigniting the exquisite burn I craved. "Take my cock, you English whore," he growled, slamming balls-deep, his hairy chest pressed against my back, his thrusts so forceful the slap of his thighs echoed. Lazarus joined, sliding in beside Georgie for brief, overwhelming moments of double fullness, their cocks rubbing inside me, stretching my hole to its limits as I gasped, my muscles clenching around them.
Holmes was claimed similarly, the Abbott taking him first, his wiry frame surprisingly strong as he entered with slow, deliberate strokes, his cock curving to hit that inner sweet spot that drew ragged moans from the detective. James knelt before Holmes, sucking his prick in time with Chevon’s thrusts, while Simon pushed in alongside the Abbott, their two shafts filling Holmes’s arse, stretching him impossibly wide. Holmes’s eyes rolled back, his body trembling as he muttered, "Astounding... the intensity... continue." Other monks paired off, Elias reaming a nameless brother while Thomas took him from behind, their grunts blending into a chorus of flesh pounding flesh, the wet sounds reverberating off the vaulted ceiling.
Climaxes erupted like a chain of explosions, seed spilling in hot, sticky bursts. An unnamed monk came first, his load painting Alistair’s back in thick ropes as he thrust into Holmes. Another followed, pulling out to drench James’s face, the youth licking it up with eager swipes of his tongue. We were passed among them, our bodies vessels for their lust, Holmes and I tag-teamed without pause, one cock after another plunging into our arses and mouths. The Abbott and Georgie took turns on me, their thrusts brutal, scraping my insides with every ridge and vein. Simon’s massive prick split Holmes open, the detective bracing against the black marble pedestal, his shouts of pleasure-pain mingling with the moans of the throng.
The peak arrived in a maelstrom, the entire assembly encircling us as we knelt, spent but eager, on the cold stone floor. Dozens of shafts pointed like lances, hands stroking furiously as the brethren reached their climax. The Abbott led the charge, his cock erupting first, a hot, viscous stream splattering my face, followed by Georgie’s thick ropes coating my cheeks and lips. Lazarus, James, Alistair, Simon, Thomas, Elias, and the nameless others joined, their seed raining down in a deluge- warm, salty streams drenching our faces, hair, and chests, cascading into our open mouths as we tilted back to catch every drop. It was a ritual baptism, layers of glistening essence piling on our skin, the taste overwhelming, the scent intoxicating, as we swallowed greedily, savoring the bitter tang.
As the last pulses subsided, Holmes wiped a streak from his lips and quipped, "Elementary, my dear Watson-the game's afoot, but next time, let's ensure it's up the arse."
To get in touch with the author, send them an email.
