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Dewa was accepting Lust and Fear today, in that order. His fellow brothers and sisters of the Endless bound him in the ritual way – loops around the neck, arms, and wrists behind his back, and without using one knot – then threaded the ends of the hemp rope through the hook in the stone floor. The abbot then intoned a psalm, and another monk – Dewa couldn’t see who it was from his position – pushed the rope first under Dewa’s buttocks, then between his thighs, then up and up, until Dewa could bite on its ends.
If Dewa was able to kneel and not let go throughout the Manifestations, he’d be considered a full monk. Instead of sleeping in the crowded disciple quarters, he’d get his own cell. His food rations would be bigger. Maybe he’d even get personalized instruction from a real master.
He just had to survive this and not let go.
The disciples always got two Manifestations as their first test instead of one – that’s why there were so many of them and so few actual Endless Monks. Dewa had thought it unfair, but Teacher Pal had countered that you only had to survive your first time intact – you didn’t actually have to engage; you didn’t yet have to accept all that could Manifest from within you. This first step was just for you to know the challenges that awaited, and if there was even any hope for you to overcome them.
It would get much more difficult later.
Dewa had drawn Lust and Fear as his first, which…wasn’t ideal. He’d rather meet his Joy, Greed, or even Rage – because there was not that much joy, greed, or rage within him.
There was a lot of lust.
And fear.
The monks left the chamber, then sat in the corridors outside and started chanting. The susurration of their combined voices rose and fell, their uniform echo reaching Dewa through the special channels carved in the stone walls. They lent him strength, but he was alone. They’d help his Lust and Fear manifest, but they wouldn’t help him confront them.
Lust appeared first. The teachings said each Manifestation was entirely your own, and Dewa’s Lust coalesced into a handsome young man. He was tall, built like a warrior, with a handsome face and long, black, shiny hair reaching past his waist.
The sight alone made Dewa’s groin stir, despite the man being dressed head to feet in a dark blue, wide-sleeved robe over white, blue-hemmed pants and shirt.
His black leather shoes made a soft patting sound as he approached.
“What do we have here?”
He kneeled in front of Dewa and ran his index finger through the air in front of Dewa’s throat – over the ropes – to Dewa’s groin.
Dewa keened but managed to stay still.
His Lust laughed merrily.
The man stood. He then untied his belt and unspooled it from his body.
His waist and hips were thin, and when the layers of his robe opened, Dewa could see the hints of the shapes of his muscles and the bulge of his groin under the sheer white silk.
The rope in Dewa’s mouth was getting damp with saliva.
The man smiled coquettishly and slowly – slowly – parted the fabric.
Fear gripped Dewa – that this forbidden man was going to undress, laying bare all Dewa’s desires. Dewa knew no monks would walk inside during a Manifestation – he knew it! – but what if one did? Engaging in carnal activities wasn’t allowed in the monastery. The warning he’d gotten when he’d joined specifically pertained to women, but Dewa doubted the credo made an exception for men. The common morality certainly didn’t forgive anything of the sort outside.
You have to abandon those silly thoughts and marry, his mother had said. We expect grandchildren and respect, and you fooling around with suspect boys would give us neither. It was forgivable when you were young. Now that you’re grown—
Dewa had decided it would be better to become a monk.
Dewa’s Lust pushed his hips forward, and Dewa’s own groin filled the space constrained by the rope. His stomach tightened. Sweat beaded on his skin.
He closed his eyes.
“Look at himmm,” whispered a voice in his ear.
The voice was quiet but deep – like a snake that is really a dragon.
Dewa’s Lust dropped his pants and arched. The black waterfall of his hair flowed down his back. He showed Dewa his side – so Dewa could see the powerful line of his body; the curve of his neck, broken by the unmistakable bump of an Adam’s apple; the way his hair washed over the small, tight islands of his buttocks.
The man’s cock jutted forward – filling.
“Keep looking at himmm,” the insidious voice whispered. Cool breath washed over Dewa’s nape, making him break out in goosebumps. Whoever it was – his Fear – didn’t touch him, though.
Dewa would have to let them first.
It was part of accepting.
Supposedly.
The masters were rather tight-lipped when it came to what ‘accepting’ entailed. Dewa had heard whispers, but nothing definitive.
He needed to remember – this test he just had to withstand.
“Isn’t he beautiful? Don’t you want him?”
Dewa had almost yelled, ‘No!’ but caught himself before his teeth loosened enough for the rope to slip out.
His Fear laughed.
Dewa’s cheeks burned.
His Lust strode close and kneeled in front of him, legs wide, on the polished stone floor. His nipples were dark and small, his skin golden and creamy. Only a thick thatch of black, almost straight hair marred it between the legs – around that long, dripping cock.
Dewa’s mouth watered as he stared.
He fought the urge to scramble away.
This was behind him already. Behind him! Those stolen moments, in the darkness, with anyone who agreed to share them. Frantic, mindless. Quick, wet touches, the heat of another’s mouth. The sharp burn of pleasure, that ache in his chest and lungs. It was behind him! He’d let it all go.
He’d never seen a man fully naked before.
Well, he’d seen naked people, but none of them so explicit in the display of their sexual nature. In the baths, in the temple’s communal bedrooms – but not during actual sex, which he’d always done mostly clothed and in utmost secrecy. Such a blatant display disturbed something inside him. The closely shorn hair on his scalp ached; blood squirmed hotly under his skin.
His Lust stroked himself. His hips pulsed.
The man moaned.
Dewa squeezed his eyes shut.
“No! Look!”
Dewa’s body jerked.
He looked.
“Doesn’t he move beautifully – all in the open like that.” The voice was cold. “What would the other monks say if they saw?”
His Lust smiled at him – with teeth.
Dewa’s cock twitched.
He ignored it.
He tried to ignore it.
How could he ignore it when there were clear pearls of wet, slippery desire beading on his own Lust’s cock?
The man flattened them with his thumb, then smeared the sheen down his shaft. His cock was red with arousal, the skin there delicate and taut. Dewa could see veins – pulsing; he could see how it twitched in the cradle of the man’s hand.
A phantom touch caressed his own cock.
Dewa shifted.
The man threw his head back, stroked, opened his pretty pink mouth, jerked his hips, and moaned like he was being fucked.
Dewa whined through his nose. His jaw slackened minutely, and the rope slipped a few grains, but Dewa clenched his teeth and managed to catch it. But his groin throbbed. The rope bit into it; bit into his wrists, biceps, chest – even if he squirmed unconsciously, the rope would let him know.
His Lust sent him a lewd look and a shrewd smile, then pinched a nipple.
The short spasm of pleasure-pain tingled in Dewa’s own chest.
‘Stop!’ he wanted to yell. ‘Don’t do this to me!’ – not because he didn’t want it, but because he did.
“He’s going to overcome you, you know,” his Fear said. “He’s going to take you, own you, be you.”
And Dewa’s heart raced.
And his belly ached.
“Then everyone would know. They will kick you out. And then,” his Fear whispered lower. “He will leave too.” He sounded delighted. “You will be alone.”
“No!”
Dewa’s head buzzed.
The Fear laughed.
Oh, gods, the rope. The rope!
Dewa’s Lust purred, “Good boy.” He crawled forward.
Dewa tried to scramble away, but his limbs were still tangled in the rope!
His Lust mounted him.
The dark form of his Fear slinked behind the man’s form, crouched there – between Dewa’s thighs – tore open the crotch of Dewa’s rough hemp pants, and gripped him by the balls.
For a moment, Dewa’s erect cock cut through the cool air.
Then his Lust found it with his hole and swallowed it into tight, slippery warmth.
Half-heartedly, Dewa tried to worm out from under the rhythmically swaying hips, but his feet just scrabbled against the floor, and his hands, trapped under his back by both his own body and the leftover bindings, just hurt. Besides, this heat was so good – despite the icy grip of his Fear still squeezing Dewa’s balls.
Dewa strained to see the dark silhouette, but it cowered behind the resplendent, naked form of his Lust – jagged and shrunken, rigid but vague, like a hollow cut out crudely where a true shape should be. That scared Dewa more than if his Fear had manifested as a tangible man.
You could fight a man.
Although…
His Lust took him all the way, ground his hips, moaned.
Dewa’s hips snapped up – the man thrust against the force.
They connected the deepest yet, and brilliance flashed behind Dewa’s eyelids.
He slumped, defeated, but his Lust didn’t accept his surrender.
The man rode Dewa like the world would end if he didn’t get to the finish line in time. The idea that this was wrong, that Dewa shouldn’t – that icy touch of Fear where his balls should be ready and hot – paradoxically added to his excitement. Yeah, he should not be doing this, but his Lust was so beautiful! The soft reflexes of light in the man’s long, smooth hair, his broad chest, tight nipples, the clenching muscles of his belly, that reddened, bouncing cock – the view alone tickled the pleasure in Dewa’s pelvis. Add to it the exquisite feeling of that perfect, easy hole, and even the iron grip of his Fear couldn’t save him.
Dewa spiraled. His hips jerked; his cum wrenched itself out of his too-tight testicles. He spurted, drained, burned. He was left hollow – ready to be filled in turn.
To accept.
“They will soon stop chanting,” his Fear hissed.
“Ah,” said his Lust. “That would be unfortunate.” He gripped Dewa by the collar of his gray apprentice shirt and, while still sitting in Dewa’s lap – impaled on Dewa’s softening cock – he pulled him up until Dewa was sitting, too.
Dewa stared at his pink, plush lips.
“None of that now,” said Dewa’s Fear. “We don’t have time.”
His Lust pouted. “Spoilsport.” He climbed off Dewa’s hips.
Dewa whimpered.
His Fear pulled on the rope until it burned in the crack of Dewa’s ass.
“Ouch! What…?”
Cool breath brushed Dewa’s damp, heated nape. “We have to make you presentable before they come in here.”
His Lust looked him in the eyes. “Or we’ll never meet you again.”
“Oh.”
“At least,” his Fear said, “not like this.”
His Lust grinned. Then he closed the gap in Dewa’s thorn pants and secured the edges with strategic rope placement.
His Fear enveloped him within dark, skeletal arms and pulled on the rope until all of it was properly tight. “Next time,” he whispered into Dewa’s ear, “I’ll be the one having you.”
Dewa shivered.
“Now – open,” his Fear said, and he fed Dewa the twin ends of the rope.
A gong sounded.
When the monks came in, Dewa was sitting in the middle of the chamber – in the exact same position they’d left him in.
Only the shriveled, old abbot gave Dewa’s wrinkled clothes a suspicious look.
He narrowed his eyes as Dewa stood – spreading his legs as little as he could and quickly tugging the front of his long, loose shirt over his groin once the rope was off.
“Welcome to our ranks,” he said after a while.
Later, in the monastery’s gardens, when Dewa asked Teacher Pal what you were supposed to do to ‘accept’ a Manifestation, the man said, “You have to open yourself to the idea that they’re an intrinsic part of you. They’ll try to distract you, though. You have to resist.”
Dewa’s face grew warm. “Ah,” he said.
“That doesn’t mean resisting them, just the distraction. The goal is to figure out what makes them tick – what makes you tick.” Teacher Pal smiled and patted his shoulder. “Don’t worry. It’s a fine line, but you’ll learn.”
“And what if…” Dewa swallowed. “What if the distraction is too much?” He remembered Lust’s easy gait, his provocativeness, the brilliant tightness of that body – which was he to accept, which to refuse? Wasn’t it all Lust? “How can I even know what is and isn’t a distraction?”
“Hmm, maybe that was too much of a simplification.” Teacher Pal walked a stone path, hands behind his back. “You see, distraction or not, a Manifestation would only do what is in its – and thus your – nature. But there is a core to that which is important, and fluff which is not.” The old man smiled. “If you want, you may choose to accept all of it – that’ll take much longer, but it has been done.”
“Have your Manifestations ever, ah.”
No, he couldn’t ask Teacher Pal that.
The man chuckled. “We all go through our own trials. But don’t worry, young man.” Teacher Pal looked up serenely into Dewa’s flushed face. “Remember that you’ll never have to face anything that isn’t already within you.”
Dewa recalled that cold, relentless touch, that jagged, hollow gauntness, that painful squeeze, and shivered.
“Um, yeah. That’s…a relief.”
Apparently, somewhere inside him existed someone who wanted to fuck his own Fear.
What did that say about him?