Manhattan-based massage-therapist (and angel) Tommy Angelo, in an earlier incarnation as Thomas Jebson, a handsome teenage serf in the year 1077, has been brought to the beautiful fortified castle of the good Sir Garet du Fontayne, young protector of Sir Bertrand, the handsome knight who has claimed Thomas to be his for life. It is ten years after the Norman conquest of Britain, when savagery has taken over and the Norman nobles have stamped their iron will on the native Saxon people, many of whom still practice the "old religion" of nature worship, as rebellious bands of Robin Hoods go into the forest to find intense love and companionship among the deep trees and themselves...
I reclothed myself, and carefully climbed down the rickety wooden ladder of the stable's loft. When I got to the bottom, in the darkness a
gloved hand reached from behind me and grabbed me by the mouth. "There you are, you roaming ape!" The hand released me enough so that I might turn about and see my lord's dark face before me. "Where have you been? Kouth you not I was seeking you?"
"No, sir," I said. "I kouth that my liege was with others, better than myself."
"Pas," he whispered into my ear, then kissed me full on the mouth. "No one is better, Tom. You killed that dog Mars, who would have murdered us both. We are up against terrible things--you and I. You will learn that." Then he said, "You will sleep with me tonight. Sir Garet only had to say that for the others in his court, his relations who do not know him really, nor his heart. He has given me his blessing that we sleep together. I told you I'd bed you with furs and silks. Now is the hour for this!"
Sir Bertrand led me through the darkness in front of the stables to a rear stairway. He unlocked a door. We climbed up the steep circular stairs to a tall back tower. At the top was another door, which Bertrand unlocked to our chamber inside. With a flint, he lit a spirit lamp, and I looked around at the circular room that was like nothing I could even imagine.
The chamber was . . . so beautiful. My heart still aches to think of it. Bright and rich with colored silks, tapestries, carpets, and a bed all laid with linens, soft white ermine and sable furs, quilted silk covers, and plump pillows. "It for you, mon confrère," Bertrand announced, "to share with me."
I smiled. He had not lied. He had told me I would sleep with him in furs and silks, and there they were. "Let me wash you myself," he whispered, and he poured fresh water, scattered with tiny pink flower petals, from a pitcher into a shallow bowl. Then he carefully removed my dirty clothes and laid them aside. I know they smelled of horse, hay--and Dirk--just as I knew I smelled of him. But I hoped that my liege would not notice this, as I stood before him, totally naked, my sixteen-year-old "stick" throbbing just so slightly with excitement, almost jumping, but not quite hard. Not yet.
He was still completely, richly garbed, but he took a soft cloth and dipped it into the fragrant water and slowly began to swirl its warm wetness over my face, the back of my neck and its blond hair, and then, even slower, back and forth over my chest. Each place that the satiny washcloth went, his lips followed as he gently kissed my neck and chest with his slightly chapped mouth; then he went down my tight young stomach, making it tingle with delight. His mouth and tongue stayed on my little nipples, as he excited them greatly, making them flush with a hardness and warmth I had not known before, in such a sweet place.
"Does that please you?" he asked.
I nodded my head.
"Tell me," Sir Bertrand asked seriously. "What other men have you known in this manner, and what in the past have they done to you?"
I told him that I would tell him, but only if he made himself as naked as I was. He did so, and then continued to wash me, this time concentrating on my lower belly, all silky as it was with short, curly blond strands, down to my pubic region. He washed this area until water beaded off the hair tufts, then he sucked the water from them, and slowly kissed the shaft of my cock, just running his tongue and then lips over it, until each vein stood out upon it, flush with heat, thick and almost purple with rushes of boyish excitement.
"In truth, sir, I have known only the men of the forest," I confessed. "Crude knaves. Nothing like you, sir. No one truly . . . as noble as you, my kind seigneur."
He stopped and looked up at me seriously. "Do not lie to me, Thomas," he ordered. "Or I shall beat you here on the spot."
I hesitated. I did not want to be beaten by my young, dark-haired lord. But if it were his pleasure to do so to me, then, I decided, so be it. "If that is your pleasure," I professed, "then I am prepared for you to beat me, until I die!"
"I am saddened," he continued with all seriousness, "that you will not tell me truthfully with whom you have lain, as you have lain with such lust with me."
"I cannot, sir," I said to him. For I was afraid that in his possessiveness, if he learned about me and Dirk, he would order me away from his bed and I knew, then, that I would die, if that were the case. But I also knew--even in my own unlearned youth--that it was impossible for me to hold myself solely to him. He had professed, surely, no love for me; only his possessiveness. As a high-born knight, Sir Bertrand would protect me, but not love me. I thought myself to be only his vassal, to do with as he pleased.
"Then it is for me to beat you, Thomas Jebson," he declared seriously. "I shall beat you soundly and since we are here alone, you may cry out as you want, but no one will notice you."
I told him, then, that I was prepared to accept any violence from him. I threw myself down on the bed, so that my tender stomach met its softness, and waited for him to attack me.
"I must first find a device of discipline," he said, and he started to look around the room. He picked up his long leather glove, and began to flog me with it--one stroke, then another, then another on my back--using it as a whip; then he became tired of that, and it hurt me very little. "You are not crying out," he said. "So I will choose another device for your discipline."
With this, he went to a large oaken chest, opened it, and took out a favor, a square of black silk, doubled it, and then used it as a blindfold on my face. "Can you see?" he asked.
I told him no. It was true. The favor left me as blind as a church bell bat. Still, I felt a bit . . . I can only say merry to have it on.
"Bon," he said, then he bound my hands behind me with a slender rawhide length and told me to get up and accept my punishment. I managed to get off the bed, then stood, but only found myself being tripped, no matter in what direction I walked.
Sometimes I was tripped because there was a wall directly in front of me, other times I was tripped by something under my feet. I had to be careful to keep from falling on my head, or landing flat on my rear! Finally, after several attempts to stand on my own, my young Sir Bertrand took me by the hand and bade me stand alone, by myself, and wait.
"You will be punished soon enough," he warned with a sneer in his voice; then I felt his mouth go briefly to my lips, and I followed its warm, slightly chapped course down my chest, until, there, at that area below the bottom of my stomach, I felt his mouth on my swelling young tarse. It rested there, filling me with longing, hardness, and a warm wet softness at once. He sucked and licked my boyish tool, while at the same time I felt on the muscular round cheeks of my arse the cunning sharp tongue of a whip--a real true whip this time--though, definitely, a small one.
That I would bet with my last coin! It was a small whip, but still I flinched and flinched. Even so, my lord was able to hold me perfectly in his mouth; even as my arse was being whipped handsomely by some hand.
But, how could this be his hand, I wondered?
Could Sir Bertrand of the Land at the End the Mountain administer such love to me with his mouth, while at the same time flogging me so expertly from behind with a small whip? My arse, though, I knew was getting warmer--and, most probably, redder--until, finally, I began to find this "punishment" almost pleasurable. Except that I wanted, more than anything, to have my lord Bertrand kiss me. To have him raise himself to my lips, and stay there, quite simply, with his manly, slightly chapped mouth upon mine.
I yearned for this. Hungered. how much, I can only barely tell you. I wanted his lips on mine, even as much as I delighted in the attention he was giving to my excited tool. Soon enough, though, he pulled away from me. I stood now, blindfolded, bound, my cock twitching from excitement as it stood, fully hard and desperate to be relieved of its bounty of warm thick juice.
"So, Thomas Jebson, how does this punishment meet with you?" my lord asked, as the flogging hand continued to lay its rhythmic strokes on me.
"It grieves me. Because I would rather you kiss me, sir, than punish me."
"Very well--" my lord said.
Then his mouth came up to mine, to fill me with his tongue, getting it deep inside my throat until I thought I would faint from sheer happiness, even as I, still, was being flogged. Yet, as he did this, suddenly the flogging halted and I felt something other now also enter me. A slickened warm thick cock entered my tight, but pained arse, which opened slowly, as this member pushed skillfully into me.
I cried softly, moaning with the sheer warmth of it, as it passed my reddened flogged cheeks, then deeper into the reaches of my gut. Now, surely, I might pass out from another hunger, deeper than that even for food, as I wanted this excellence to hold and enfold me, and not stop.
Instead, I felt many strong arms taking me back onto the bed. This was done even as I was being taken from the rear by this beautiful, and not small, organ working its way down into my breech, with another pair of lips now softly nibbling and kissing the back of my neck.
On the bed, my legs were lifted up. With this tool still working its way into me, and slowly moving up and down to a rhythm of its own, my cock was also being sucked attentively, as yet another mouth made love to my chest and nipples. "Please," I whispered. "Unbind my eyes that I may know who is doing these good acts to me."
"But that means you do not like your punishment," Bertrand whispered, and then another voice said, "We must punish him no more. I command it."
At that command, my blindfold was removed and I saw that I was being fucked by none other than the young Sir Garet du Fontayne, and that Dirk's mouth had left my cock and was now licking my chest, as my lord Bertrand kissed me over and over again.
I then took my liege's organ into my mouth and sucked him until he delivered his juice directly to me. I lapped it like milk, and it was by my taste as good. Still I was not fully satisfied, and would not be until Sir Garet had his way with me, fucking me slowly and then hard and fast, delivering himself to me from the other side, and with that, Dirk sucked me to completion, and I did him yet again, and then we were all, as one, tired on the great bed. So much so that I did not even witness Sir Garet leaving Sir Bertrand's dark chamber only a short time later.
I stayed there that night, with Sir Bertrand on one side and the handsome groom Dirk on the other, his beautiful red hair sometimes falling into my face and his mouth upon my chest, even while Sir Bertrand kissed me and held me from the other side. It was a night of pure happiness, but it was not to last for long.
For early the next morning, before the sun's rays had penetrated the narrow windows of our chamber, Dirk returned to the stable to see Wilfred, who knew nothing of Dirk following the ways of the forest. Once in the stable, he would have to pretend to be asleep--and give a ready excuse why I was not there. ("Oh, Thomas Jebson has been commanded to Sir Bertrand's chamber to help his knight dress, Wilfred. You understand the ways of noble folk--they are quite helpless without the work of us!")
I was allowed to sleep later, at least until cock crow, but then saw, once my eyes were open, that Sir Bertrand was now fully garbed in the most handsome red and black. Two colors that reflected his own state of mind. "Get up!" he ordered. "We must get up! A catastrophe! Très dangereuse!"
I asked him what he meant, but he only took my face into his hands and whispered to me, "We must take courage. You and I. I will be there always for you, Thomas Jebson. But we must have courageux heart. For nothing shall part us, I give you my knightly oath."
"What are you speaking of?" I asked him as I struggled to dress myself quickly in a new outfit that had been waiting for me in the large chest in Sir Bertrand's room. And handsome, it was, too, with green hose. Green hose! What I had wanted always; and a yellow tunic, and a shirt to go over that.
Bertrand looked away from me, his beautiful head down, so that I could see only his glossy, raven black locks, shining in the fresh morning light. "Come. Regardèz."
We walked from the chamber down the parapet stairs, and entered through a series of passageways the big hall of the court. There, with Sir Garet seated on a raised polished chair before us, we saw, on a black catafalque, the pale bloodless corpse of an older knight. How handsome, I thought, he must have been in life with his gray whiskers; though now he was stone white, with no color on his face, even about the gash of his mercilessly slashed throat.
"L'Ansel," Bertrand announced to me, his voice barely able to suppress the cry in it. "He was . . . 'delivered' to us just before dawn. Two hooded messengers came up to the keep and called out for Sir Garet du Fontayne."
"We suspected an ambush," Sir Garet said. "So I came down from my bedchamber and brought my men out with me. Then we found this awful sight, dropped by the moat, like a load of wood . . . to be burned!"
"Mon Dieu," Bertrand said softly, "Imagine our grief!"
"He must be avenged!" Garet cried. He strode down from his chair--I thought it had to be a throne, but learned later that knights do not sit on thrones, only kings--and planted a kiss on Sir Ansel's cold forehead. "He was like a father to us. Uncle, brother, all of that."
"True!" Bertrand shouted. "Surely, none other than Odred de Campe did this. Monstre! We had to kill his lackey, Mars, who tried to ambush us. We were unarmed, naked from river washing. Now he has done this to Sir Ansel. I want Odred's head, mon cher Garet. I swear!"
"Non," Garet said. "As much as I love you dearly, cher Bertrand, I cannot let you go alone. I shall find twenty men--the best, the bravest. I shall go to the Baron's keep and demand that he fight with me, one on one, in combat de honneur. Then we shall lead him to trial. If he is found guilty, we will hang him--and then burn what is left of him, publicly in our courtyard!"
"Pas," Sir Bertrand said sadly.
"Why?" Garet argued. "I want Odred to be brought back here alive. I want all to see that justice is yet alive in England!"
"Cher Garet," Bertrand sad sadly, "you are a good man. You have understood me as few have. You know my heart. I fear you will be the one to burn, and faster. You have only a small force here. It is justice in this part. Odred will destroy all of you. He is cunning, and without mercy. When you are gone, there will be no one to fight his allies. But I have another plan."
"Oui?" Garet said, listening.
"In an hour, I will set forth from here with Thomas, my groom."
"Yes, Garet. Mon Thomas. He is from the region of Odred, he knows that area perfectly"--I do? I thought--"and I am not afraid of the Baron. The two of us, if we must, are completely prepared to die. Believe me, vraiment, that is so."
I was sure that the beautiful dream of last night was turning into a nightmare, as Bertrand went on-- "Thomas knows my heart, that I will not die without him. So to prove our affection for each other--"
"Exactly!" Sir Garet du Fontayne exclaimed. "And your own nobility, Sir Bertrand, mon cher ami!"
"Oui, therefore, with stealth we'll do what must be done. We shall pass into Odred's keep easier than any force of yours. I can be cunning, too.
And if we do not return in--"
"Holy Jesù!" Sir Garet said, as I listened, unable to say a word, but turning stone white already. "If you do not return in a fortnight, I will send a message to my cousins, the du Fontaynes on the Irish coast. They will come if they have to. And then if the two of you die, we can then avenge all three of you!"
"Your cousins, bon," Sir Bertrand said, nodding his head. "Très bon. But I believe after we are through, there will be no need for them."
Is this your first experience with "angel lust" yourself? Have you ever met someone you were sure you'd met in another life, someone you felt immediately drawn to, and it wasn't just "lust at first sight"? Tell me about it, and we'll post it here.
Paperback: 224 pages
Publisher: Belhue Press; 1st edition (March 15, 2000)
Product Dimensions: 8.5 x 5.5 x 0.6 inches
[perrybrass.com](c)2017 Perry Brass/Belhue Press
“The book, perhaps the author’s most ambitious novel to date, recounts the tale of Tommy Angel, an unlicensed ‘massage therapist’ in New York City . . . . The story is beautifully told, and the switches in time are accomplished deftly. Brass’s ability to go from describing seedy gay bars in New York to 11th-century castles is a testament to his skills as a writer. He captures modern urban vernacular with ease, and even his archaic-sounding Olde English rings true.”
The Gay and Lesbian Review, Boston.
Finalist Lambda Literary Award, 2001, for Gay and Lesbian Science Fiction and Fantasy.
Angel Lust, 216 pages. $12.95. 2000. ISBN 1-892149-00-1
This site is designed, powered and maintained by Empire City Press Services, a division of ECC.SP