Metanoia Read online

  Secret Confessions (Chapter Nine)

  “Grow stronger with the pain, don’t let it destroy you.”

  Andy Finckenstein

  End October 1968

  Hammamet, Tunisia

  Sindbad was a top-of-the-line luxury yacht with elegant accouterments to match. While Prince P and Sheik Fahrib occupied the Master suite, my Valet and I shared a queen, leaving my Master in the third cabin. The intrepid sporting enthusiast, Professor Eberhardt, volunteered to sleep on the couch above deck. “To be close to nature,” he said.

  As soon as we had deposited our luggage in our respective chambers, Tad suggested we venture to the Sheraton Hammamet for a scrumptious all-you-can-eat buffet. We welcomed his suggestion wholeheartedly as our stomachs rumbled incessantly.

  Hammamet at a glance reminded me of the Grecian island of Santorini with its cobalt roofs atop whitewashed houses. As our speedboat moored among a sea of fishing boats, vendors were already gathered to harass us with their fragrant mementos. Whiffs of sweet-smelling jasmines whiffed up my nostrils.

  P commented, “The indescribable scent of jasmine draws me into the city, whenever I am in the port of Hammamet.”

  Before the prince could finish, a teenage boy with a basket of floral blooms handed His Highness a finger size blossom that was fashioned into the shape of a graceful umbrella.

  The sheik, beguiled by such a charming gesture, remarked endearingly, “As Sir Sacheverell Sitwell so rightly stated: ‘Morocco - the warrior, Algeria - the man, Tunisia - the woman.’ Hammamet is indeed an embodiment of feminine graces within our Arab culture. For any man who has the scent of jasmine imbue upon his hand, this place is his lifelong summer.”

  Flashes of my encounter with Professor Ludwig Abid Safar flooded my mind. Not only did I fall head over heels with the handsome German Arab, but it also prompted my participation in the fun-filled parades of the Sahara Festival of Douz. Dr. Fahrib’s poetic indication caused goosebumps on my skin as I mused over Professor Safar’s wellbeing.

  My chaperone saw my wistfulness and wrapped his arms around my shoulders.

  “Are you alright, Young?” he queried.

  I nodded nostalgically.

  It was then that I knew I had to confide my secret to Andy as Señor Triqueros had suggested. But, for now, it must wait.

  Confessions

  Whether it was the abundance of jasmine fragrance that calmed the perturbed athlete or being away from ruthless Acapulco; the happy-go-lucky Tad had returned with a vengeance. Over dinner, the athlete chatted animatedly about our future cruise and hike to the two Arab aristocrats. While my tutor mapped out our journey, Andy and I excused ourselves to explore the grounds of the Sheraton Hammamet.

  As my Valet and I admired the disappearing sun, a desire washed over me to confide my masochistic concupiscence to my lover.

  I muttered, “Andy, I have something to tell you.”

  My lover did not answer nor did he look me in the eyes. Instead, he gazed pensively at the fading horizon.

  I had difficulty putting thoughts into words before I finally said, “You must think me strange.”

  “Why would I think you strange?” my chaperone questioned.

  “Because…, because I’m a masochist,” I voiced.

  Andy burst out in laughter. “Do you know what the word means?”

  I nodded sheepishly.

  “Tell me what it means?” he remarked.

  “Uhh…, it means a willingness to subject oneself to trying, and unpleasant experiences,” I answered shakily.

  “In that case, tell me your trying, and unpleasant experiences.” He observed my expression in the fading light.

  “I didn’t know how to react to Tad’s furious displeasure when he accused us of befriending Ronnie and Iian. In a fit of rage, he threw me onto the bed, pulled my pants off and whacked my backside. Though I pleaded for him to stop, my appeals stirred him to spank me harder. When I tried to escape his blows, he tied me to the bedpost. The more I resist, the more aroused he became. He accused me of betraying my loyalty and slapped my derriere until it was red and raw,” I disclosed.

  Andy vociferated, “Why didn’t you call out to me? I was waiting for you outside his chamber.”

  “Because…, because he had gagged me with a kerchief and…, and I secretly relish the pain he inflicted on my buttocks. Not only did his capriciousness intensify my desire to be punished, but it also foisted covetousness I never felt before.

  “The more supercilious he was, the more aroused I became. When I thought he would strike my derrier with another blow, my erection would throb precipitously. His hardness bobbed uncontrollably as he held onto my waist and glided his dripping viscousness against my butt cheeks. I was intoxicated by his Spartan vigor as his swirling tongue jabbed into my willing mouth. He muttered obscenities into my ears and demanded I obey his every desire.”

  Aroused by my narration, my lover reached into his pants to adjust his erection. “Tell me more,” he urged.

  “When I refused to accept the blame for befriending his rivals, he walloped my buttocks harder. When I thought another blow would land on my backside, he would caress the smacked area, and stirred my libido to ecstasy.

  “My stiffness drummed defiantly to his tortuous probe as he stroked my bulbous propensity to jubilation. Not only did his harrowing provocations heighten my lubricious craving, but my helplessness also served to amplify his copulatory wantonness.

  “He wanted to please and be pleasured simultaneously. My tilted derriere seduced his immenseness to invade my core. Although I felt venerated and despised, it also produced an erotic sentiment that was foreign to me….”

  Transfixed by my narrative, Andy could no longer stave off his desire. He planted a slithery kiss on my mouth before he unleashed our stiffness to the night.

  My guardian’s sudden exertion tossed me into disarray. I surrendered to my lover’s virility like I did with my Master. Similar to the athlete, my chaperone was captivated by my acquiescence.

  Andy subjugated me on my knees as I worshipped his bulbousness with unbridled devotion. When I came up for air, he beseeched me to resume my erotolalia.

  “I supplicated to my Master’s authority like a slave, as his sternness drove into my cavern. I surrendered to his mental and physical dominance. Waves of erotic fulfillment swept over my person,” I avowed before my guardian jammed his organ into my oral orifice again.

  He clenched my hair and jabbed his phallus into my throat before he pulled my head away for another round of seamy elucidation.

  I confessed, “Tad continued to thwack my already reddened buttocks as I squealed for clemency. He basked in my affliction as much as I extol his dominance. Unable to evade his lasciviousness, he unleashed his potencies into my twitching hallow. His unfettered deliverance soared with intemperate enthusiasm….”

  My lover could no longer withhold his liberation. His spritely release blasted onto my face and coated my gaping mouth with a cornucopia of livid wantonness. I lapped up the dripping remains with gratuitous fervor as it was too potent to be wasted.

  As we returned to rejoin our buoyant entourage, my chaperone declared, “I too have a confession to tell you.”

  The Third week of June 2014

  David’s Message to Me (Part One)

  Hi Young,

  I hope this email finds you well. First and foremost, I respect the pseudonym you selected for the clandestine organization – The Enlightened Royal Oracle Society (E.R.O.S.) for your memoir series, and you had altered the names of the people involved.

  For our discussions, I will name my coeducational boarding school - Valkyrian Templers Abbey (V.T.A.). Like you, I do not wish to be held accountable by my school moniker.

  Initiation Ceremony

  Unlike your E.R.O.S. initiation ceremony at a nondenominational chapel; my induction ritual was conducted in my school’s Guides & Scouts Hall.

  This candlelit auditorium held twelve witnesses. They were our scho
ol’s headmaster, two female teachers, three male professors, together with six V.T.A. members.

  Klara, Arthur and me were the new recruits. Big-Brother Jacob, Lucas, and Big-Sister Sofia, our respective chaperones accompanied us.

  It was Professor Agnes who officiated the ceremonial rites. Unlike your baptism inception; my ritual was rooted in the fiery element. Klara, Arthur and I recited verses from Nils Holgerssons underbara resa genom Sverige (The Wonderful Adventures of Nils) by the Swedish Nobel Prize Literature recipient, Selma Ottilia Lovisa Lagerlöf. We proceeded through a ring of fire after our recitations. We were then anointed with scented oils by Professor Agnes.

  I’ll never forget this high point of my adolescent life. Like Nils in Holgerssons underbara resa genom Sverige, my initiation ceremony altered the way I viewed the world.

  My questions for you and Andy:

  How were your relationships with your Big-Brothers/Valets?

  Did you ever consider breaking ties with E.R.O.S. during your years in harem service?

  What credible excuses did you provide to your household patriarch to liberate yourself from not wanting an intimate relationship with a household member/members?

  How did you grapple with unyielding household patriarchs/matriarchs who insisted on sexual correlations when you were reluctant to comply?

  How did you cope with household members who developed strong ties or connections with you or vice-versa?

  I look forward to Andy and your comments.

  Best wishes,

  David

  Fairy Sightings (Chapter Ten)

  “Immerse yourself in nature.”

  Elena Notara

  Last Week of June 1968

  Keswick, Cumberland, North West England

  Upon our arrival in Keswick town, Andy and I rented a couple of bicycles to explore the scenic areas. We stumbled upon Keswick’s local lake, Derwentwater, a short distance from the city’s enchanted gardens of Hope Park. To the west of Derwentwater rose the fells of Cat Bells while the spectacular Friar’s Crag jutted into the lake to the east. At its southern foot, the enchanted Borrowdale Valley laid in quiet splendor. It is of little wonder that John Ruskin, the Victorian art patron, watercolorist, botanist, social thinker, and philanthropist described this area as one of the four most beautiful spots in Europe.

  To this day, Friar’s Crag is said to be the departure point for monks on pilgrimage to St Herbert’s Island where the saint was believed to have lived.

  In the infamous Beatrix Potter fictional tale: The Old Brown from Squirrel Nutkin, had also sailed to this island. In Ms. Potter’s fairy story, this isle was referred to as Owl Island. Positioned on the opposite side of Derwentwater was the famous Lingholm Woods where Beatrix’s drew many of her woodland and nature sketches.

  The largest of the four islands of Derwentwater is Derwent Isle and is only assessable to the mainland by boat. Visitors could see the boathouse across the water from the boat landings.

  A certain Joseph Pocklington built a majestic mansion on this remote island in 1770. To this day, firework displays, and fake naval battles continue to be staged by the lakeshores around the islands during festive occasions.

  Lord’s Island is another remote isle off St Herbert Island and was once the home to the earls of Derwentwater. The smallest of the four but by no means least is Rampsholme Island.

  While I bicycled around the lake, to take in the picturesque landscape; Andy, the rowing enthusiast, was elated to get into a rowboat to explore the islets. Before he left the wooden pier, my Valet pronounced jestingly “Don’t you disappear to fairyland. I expect to see you here upon my return.”

  An amatory enchantment washed over me as I watched my lover paddle away. From a distance, Andy’s strapping physique resembled a demigod in his prime. I was thankful for this earthly Apollo who loved and guided me unconditionally. Smitten by gratitude, I was filled with joyful tears when I noticed a school of bright objects surround his vessel. I wiped away my tears to focus intently.

  Like I had witnessed in my dream, these glowing entities resembled the Ferrisabatwaian fairies. These Fayçons and Fairelles were rocking my lover’s boat violently. Andy continued to row as if oblivious to what was happening. As if sudden turbulence had taken hold, his boat swayed uncontrollably. This eddying upheaval threw him into a state of confusion even though he did his utmost to steady the vessel but to no avail. I stood dumbfounded and wondered what the fairies were up to.

  A loud splash occurred before I could alert my guardian. He and the overturned boat were hurled into the lake simultaneously. I stood petrified as my beloved disappeared below the lough. I had expected him to bob up for air, but he was nowhere in sight.

  His head rose above the water just as I was about to shout for help. He gulped a mouthful of air and vanished below the water.

  An elderly man and his dog stood enthralled by the scenario. The dog barked incessantly. Seeing the terror on my face, the man in the trench coat and hunting cap declared, “He’ll be fine, boy. He is okay.”

  I shrieked in alarm, “He’s drowning, and he is not fine. I need to get help!”

  “Calm down lad. He’ll be alright,” he said assuasively.

  Just as I was about to run off to seek aid, the man pointed at the capsized location. Andy’s head had reemerged above the water. With herculean strength, he and the fairies had rectified the vessel to its original condition.

  My guardian was soaking wet when he got into the vessel. He took off his clothes to scoop the residuum out of the boat. He signaled to me that he was okay before he rowed away. He paddled forcefully while the fairies pushed his boat towards Derwent Isle.

  I stared in disbelieve when the trenchcoated man tapped my shoulder and beckoned me to follow. I did as was told. He gave me a thorough inspection as we sat on a nearby bench.

  “You look exactly the way Mary described you,” he commented.

  Astonished by his proclamation, I voiced, “Who are you?”

  “Can’t you guess?” he chortled.

  “Are you, Professor Frederick Thomason? How did you know we are at Derwentwater?” I vociferated.

  He gave me a Cheshire Cat’s grin and answered, “I can know a great many things before they happen.”

  I blurted, “Are you a clairvoyant?”

  The scholar found my exuberance prepossessing. He smiled. “I’m by no means a psychic like Sherlock.” He patted his German Shepherd who sat quietly beside him.

  “Sherlock takes credit for guiding me to you and your guardian,” he spoke to the dog.

  “How did he know we were at the pier?” I queried.

  “Sherlock detects many things that we, humans are incapable. The dog’s ears can hear a pin drop, its olfactory perceptions are seldom inaccurate, and Sherlock’s discerning vision is beyond human stigmatism,” he venerated while his companion laid unperturbed by his master’s compliments.

  “But…, how did Sherlock know where we are?” I pressed.

  The botanist stated, “Sherlock asseverated we go for a walk and my companion led me here.” He paused before he added, “That was when I saw Andy’s boat overturn and you in a panic.”

  “Did you see the fairies rocking the vessel?” I voiced.

  He nodded but did not respond.

  “Why didn’t you try to help Andy?” I questioned.

  “The fairies were playing a prank on your beloved. They mean no harm,” the man sallied.

  “They were teaching him a censorious lesson of their existence. Didn’t they hoist him back into the vessel after that?” Frederick remarked. “Those fayçon and fairelle are a mischievous lot.”

  “Do you see praeternatural entities like me?” I inquired.

  Again, he kept silent. When he finally spoke, he expressed, “Mary told me that you are a ‘fairy’ prince. I understand why.”

  This time around, it was I who went mute.

  He resumed, “You’re a stylish lad. No wonder Mary calls you a ‘fairy’ prince. Y
ou fit the mode.”

  “What mode?” I chirped before I added, “Andy calls me a ‘snazzinalian.’”

  He burst into hilarity before he announced, “He’s correct, boy. You glow like a ‘fairy’ prince in your mannerisms and voguish clothes.”

  “Don’t you laugh. I’m going to fashion school when I graduate from Daltonbury Hall. Fashion is a serious field of study, and many great designers are men,” I responded earnestly.

  “I’m not sniggering at your chosen career. I’m laughing at myself for not recognizing talent when confronted with one,” Thomason verified. “Please accept my apology. Now, shall we discuss spritely topics?”

  I gave an appreciative nod.

  End of October 1968

  Calypso Club, Hammamet, Tunisia

  The moment we set foot in Hammamet, Tad’s carefree party boy self-returned with a vengeance. He was the first to propose a visit to the newly opened Club Calypso. This nightspot was the talk-of-the-town, where wealthy vacationers, together with a handful of locals could gain unhindered entry. This was the place to see and be seen. Besides attracting the rich and famous; good-looks, an attractive appearance, and well-connected statures were other criterions for admission.

  Like Acapulco’s Tequila a Go Gó, this fancy discotheque promoted foreign and local musicians. That evening’s guest performer was none other than the British pop singer, Cliff Richard, the then runner-up to the 1968 Eurovision Song Contest. That year, Congratulations was spun around the world, and Calypso played host to this suave looking artist.

  When my Master gave the green light for me to join our entourage to dance the night away, I jumped at the opportunity. Revelers the world over had flocked to Calypso to see the good-looking Cliff.

  Without fail, our royal entourage was ushered to the VIP section of the house. Immediately, Tad, headed to the table next to ours; to kiss the hand of an elegant female who possessed a certain je ne se quois which was uniquely hers. She wore a quirky veiled hat that tilted at a calculated angle and concealed an eye while observing everything with the other. A cornucopia of shocking pink silk blossoms sat exquisitely on her feline shoulders of her fitted black ensemble. She resembled a famous fashion designer I had seen in the pages of international fashion magazines.