His Thin Fingers and Wide-Palmed Hands

Thomas Aquinas, his thin fingers & wide-palmed hands stuffed deep into holes in his robe, fitfully tried to suck the cock in front of him.

The man's drawl, and style of walking, has startled from Thomas Aquinas a lust that had been flayed by his teenaged fortification. Aquinas sat low on staircase, rubbing his aged biceps, and listing the reasons his hands should never be on, or in, a man, in this man. Aches ran through his back, his neck spun, his hands rubbed dirt from the wall onto his robe, his cheeks and chest. The dirt marked him, "mark me," he said. A penance of a public mark, to keep him watched, the fear of eyes would stifle the moods pushing heavy against his muscles and skin.

He ran away, into the forest, he crowed and shook, his hands beating against his thighs and cock, he stopped and beat against the white girdle binding his body—! "It was my prayers, said in stupidity & weakness, granted, too long ago, this god damned article, it has stolen my lust from me," Aquinas spat, "get it away from me and my body!"

The girdle that had stifled him was forsaken. It cracked under new, gay movements, tore as his back fevered & shook, his thin sick lips broke, his tongue stole out, behungered, onto his cheeks. He peered in the monastery windows from the darkness of the forest, making for candlelight, the chest or neck or bowlegged of his stranger. "There, a light! The bristle of my stranger's cracked, dun beard. That distress of hair, starless black and sour-streaked, there! Alight!"

❧

"Sliver me," Aquinas said to the door, ran his finger on the door, shook his feet to a dance—the strangers foreign monologue stopped. Beyond the door, a step, two, him against the door, Thomas felt the weight of his stranger, against and into the rotten wood between them. "Sliver me," vibrated back through the wood. The fear that had animated Thomas now sparked his pleasure, his body taut and glued against this door and toward his man. Aquinas, mewling, "Let me in, baby, let me in," his feet bounding senselessly off the ground, his hands wrecked in suffering knots.

Through the door, his stranger was the presence of his possibility. This whispered voice, now a promise of bodies coming together. The stranger opened the door and let Thomas' body fall into him, heaving with love and aggression. His small hands grasping for the stranger, his fingers ripped at his cords, at the rolling cloth lousy round the stranger's waist, pressing his dirty robe into the man's chest.

Now here, now in the room, the possibility had become gruff, tempting, withholding, the soft hands were tight on his waist, thick in his hair, he was gripped by this man. Thomas' flat mouth, his reedy tongue, they were taken by his stranger's. The man's scabrous chin burnt, but he tasted of rock salt and animal hide. The stranger's body reformed him where they touched, shifting him or stilling the tremrous wobbles, like his legs had gotten. "Slowly," the stranger snarled, pulling Thomas Aquinas down by the shoulders, "slowly, and put your hands in your fucking pockets." Thomas' breath went ragged, his head, wrenched; he let the pounding of his heart and weakness of his legs carry the body downward. The stranger's thumb teased open Thomas' mouth. He took to it, sucked it, nibbled it and let the man slowly push it in. The rough and patched breeches tumbled to their ankles. Thomas reached out for the stranger's cock. "No! I said no hands! Put them away."

Thomas Aquinas, his thin fingers & wide-palmed hands stuffed deep into holes in his robe, fitfully tried to suck the cock in front of him.