has pre-recorded announcements for each of London’s bus routes, which extend to
over five hundred in number. It must have kept her busy for a few hours, and
given the frequency with which her words are replayed, I hope she was paid well.
‘Ivanhoe Road,’ says the GPS-guided robot lady,
announcing the next stop as imminent.
thirty-one stops on red bus route P13 between Dunston College, where I boarded,
and New Cross, where I shall get off at the terminus. Beyond Ivanhoe Road there
are fourteen stops, so I am just over half-way. It is quite sad for a boy to
know these statistics, but this is a journey I have made several times before,
and it’s very important to me.
shopping traffic crawls along and I will it to clear, so we might manage a
blast (well, relatively) somewhere near the urban speed limit of 30 mph.
Really, it shouldn’t take almost an hour to travel seven miles. Fuck London, and
fuck all these cars going God knows where.
buzzes with an incoming text:
Yes, that’s how
he spelt it. For all the genius of modern telecommunications, they haven’t
invented a ‘sic’ tag for poor grammar, yet.
I tap a
‘Sorry. Bus is slow. Be with you in
I decide to
emoticons are a little childish, but then I’m still a schoolboy: although not
for much longer, fortunately.
concludes the exchange and I fidget in the plastic bucket seat, because he can
be volatile. There is a difference between John the tattooed dominant, and
angry John. The former is what keeps me coming back to him, whilst the latter
leaves me scared. Just a fine line separates those behaviours, and he is adept
at flipping between them to catch me off-guard.
I will need
to be careful, this afternoon.
holdall – black, with the name and crest of Dunston College printed on both
sides – is wedged on the floor, between my knees, because the seat next to me
has been permanently occupied by a rotation of south Londoners. The bag doesn’t
contain my sports kit because I’m wearing it, at John’s request. No, the change
of clothes beneath the zip is my school uniform and well-polished shoes.
there in my rugby shirt and shorts I feel incongruous as the bus descends from
leafy Dunston village, down to the less desirable flatlands of the ancient
Thames floodplain. As we thread through roads lined by social housing projects,
black lads stare, having clocked me as one of the privileged pussyboys from
that posh school, up on the hill. I move my feet to cover the school name on my
bag, as though my hooped jersey alone doesn’t give me away.
most places in the capital, this area is a melting-pot, where the gang boys
co-exist uneasily with professionals who need to live within a few miles of
their City offices. Over the last year
gay men have started to look at me: or rather, eye me up blatantly, without a turn
of the head the moment I catch them leering. At sixteen I blossomed, and men
started to think of me sexually where I had thought the same of them – well,
the hot ones, anyway – for several years prior. Now, just turned eighteen,
guys enjoy the sight of me despite my school bag and kit: Or maybe, because of my school bag and kit. I am a
guilty pleasure, but not an outrageous one in these liberated times.
I like feeling sexualised. Sure, there have been some greasy freaks who have
turned my stomach at the very thought of a sexual encounter with them. But
there have been shit-hot guys, too, like the dreamy twenty-something with
trendy stubble standing in the wheelchair/buggy space, today, whose eyes have
hardly been off my bare legs for ten stops. The hunk chews, nonchalantly, and
when I meet the gaze from his blueys I know he’s thinking of more than casual
admiration, for this is a particular gay stare I’ve come to decipher:
I‘d like to fuck you, hard.
Yes I’m a
teen and a schoolboy, but it’s pretty clear from the fluff on my legs and my broad
shoulders that I’m beyond the age of consent, so fair game for coffee and a
‘get to know you’, or ram-rod anal in the woods with my underwear around my
The dude on
the bus smiles and I blush, shifting the auburn fringe threatening to fall over
my left eye. The next stop is his, and as my new fan makes to exit the vehicle
he must pass in front of the window seat I occupy, hemmed-in by a large
Afro-Caribbean lady wearing a gigantic Church hat. As he lingers, waiting for
the door to open, the man checks-out my upper torso and the particular way it
fills my rugby jersey: the short sleeves cut-off above the biceps I’ve been
training in the school gym, with modest success.
as he leaves the P13 the bus hunk winks and I nod, shyly. It is nice to feel
wanted by an older, stronger man. I’m not a gay twink stereotype, but I get a tingly
feeling from distant encounters with men who I sense would control, bark
orders, and maybe take me to outrageous places, sexually. I’m a bit of a freak,
really, but it’s all so freakin’ hot.
Queen’s Road Peckham Station announces robot woman. Just four
more stops, now.
Dunston College is a boarding school, and on Saturday mornings there are competitive
sports fixtures which are through by midday. The afternoon is free time, and
those of us in the Senior School – aged at least sixteen – can leave the site
unaccompanied, so long as we’re back for dinner at 6pm. The requirement to
check back in on a Saturday evening is tedious, on the verge of adulthood, but
a full afternoon is enough time to have some fun, and if not, there are always
Me and the
boys in the second XV won 9-3 against Harrow, today, so there is a spring in my
knackered step. At 170 centimetres I’m a handy, whippet-like fly-half with
decent kicking skills, although I struggle to hold down the number ten position
on a regular basis, against some talented competition. You wouldn’t catch me
saying this in the locker room, but rugby is just a game, for me: not a matter
of life and death. When I go on to university, later this year, I could happily
leave soggy winter pitches behind me.
shower today, post-match, but following a dry spring the field is quite
parched, so whilst there are muddy grazes on my knees, my kit emerged with few
stains. Yes, as some teammates told me pointedly, it was gross not to shower,
but I had an appointment to keep and some instructions on how to present
myself. Self-consciously I grabbed my bag and slunk out of the locker room
whilst my mates toasted our win, and then ran – in studs – to the bus stop.
New Cross, Sainsbury’s. This bus
terminates here: please ensure you take all your luggage and personal
belongings with you. All change, please.
Bossy: I’ve had enough of you, anyway. I’m off to find my man.
At the risk
of causing confusion, I am on the way to school, but not my own.
caretaker – janitor, as they say in most other countries – of New Cross
Comprehensive School: a sprawling 1500 pupil site built in ugly pre-cast
concrete, and apparently in about ten minutes judging by how the flat roofs
leak and the windows rattle in the breeze. The place is a monument to the folly
of brutalist architecture.
This being a
state school rather than independent, like mine, it is (sensibly) closed over
the weekend. No Saturday sports fixtures at taxpayers’ expense!
John is no longer a mere caretaker. In a bout of job title inflation (because
it’s cheaper to flatter the ego than offer a pay rise) he is now Site Manager,
and proud of it. Whatever he’s called, my man still jangles a bunch of keys and
lives in a rent-free property on-site, so he can attend to duties at unsocial
It kind of
turns me on to think of dominant John with his keys, as my jailer. I can leave
whenever I like, but part of me would like the doors to slam and the lock
barrels to turn, behind me. Youth detention and correction feels shit hot to me,
and fucking right, too.
‘I’m here. Where are you?’ I text John by the main entrance,
puffing following a noisy and awkward pavement run, in my rugby boots.
‘Boys toilets on the ground floor.
Your late. Get moving. Close the padlock on the gate, behind you.’
Oh – so the
captivity fantasy is real! I slip between the gates left ajar in anticipation
of my arrival, and then fiddle with the padlock until it shuts with a solid
Slinging my bag
over my shoulder, I set off across the car park towards the glass-fronted
atrium of this much inferior school where, inside, my tattooed contact from
Gaydar awaits. I shouldn’t, really, but I kind of hope he doesn’t let me forget
my lateness too easily.
you, boy?’ John shouts, as I clip-clop down the empty corridor in my studs.
‘Yes, Sir!’ I
shoot back, and my dick stiffens in my shorts.
my chin, and moves his face so close to mine that our noses almost rub.
geezer?’ he asks.
it was good.’
not showering. You’re a good boy, aren’t you?’ John suggests, with a glint in
his eye and a flash of white teeth.
suppose so,’ I say, coming over all reticent.
good: All sweaty and teeny,’ John says.
‘Are you ready
to be worked, Henry?’ John asks, and as he does so, squeezes my jaw.
say, then realise I sound a bit too keen, and desperate.
and his gob pellet hits my forehead like a bullet. He raises a flat palm beside
my cheek, and I know what he intends but do not flinch. He slaps the side of my
face hard enough to send a ringing echo around the bathroom, and I reel
backwards as I crumple to the floor.
crouches over my prone torso, legs astride, and lifts my head by the straight
auburn hair on my scalp. He spits twice more, over my top lip and then into my
bitch!’ he says, slapping the other side of my face just as hard as I lay there
immobile, pinned-down by this meaty twenty-five year-old.
stars in my eyes and I cannot focus.
for being late, Sir,’ I whimper.
‘I wanna use
you, hard. I wanna get sleazy, before you take my dick,’ John says.
say, and I reckon my tone is definitive enough.
John smudges and smears his gob around my face until it shines pristine, my
ruddy bitch-slapped cheeks imprinted with his digits.
‘I want so
much more than boy hole,’ John warns.
serve you, Sir!’ I assure him.
I have never
visited John’s on-site living quarters, for we have always met in the school
buildings: in locker rooms and classrooms and this bathroom. In his arrogance,
John wants me to believe I’m not good enough for his bed yet, but there is also
the thrill factor in having wild sex in strange places, with a risk – however
remote – of being interrupted by a teacher playing catch-up over the weekend.
Then, there is the practical matter of whether John’s live-in girlfriend is
around, where she tolerates rather than encourages his bisexual straying.
paragraph, read as a whole, makes this seem pretty sordid because it is, and I
love it for that.
standing over me, kicks off a white sneaker and forces the sock-covered big toe
into my mouth. At 185 centimetres he has a height advantage, anyway, but from
the viewing gallery of the bathroom floor he is a tower of aggression.
soldier wiggles his toe between my jaws and I feel sick at the taste of the
funky grey cotton.
he orders, and I widen my jaws to accommodate more of his socked digits.
taste gross, yeah?’ he demands to know.
agree, gagged by his foot.
sock off now, then. Use your teeth but don’t you dare fuckin’ bite!’ John says.
I get to
work straight away, gathering loose folds of material between my front teeth
and using them for leverage to haul the ankle sock off John’s size 11 foot.
I wiggle my
head to encourage the close-fitting material from John’s heel, and it slips
Henry!’ John says, and he enjoys pronouncing my name as two distinct syllables,
in a contemptuous way. There he is, a plain John, with England’s commonest name
– historically, at least – whilst I have the name of English kings. I am the
face of privilege and up-tight morality, in John’s thinking, and he so enjoys
bringing me down and owning me.
I drop his
freed sock to the floor and John’s toes are bare, now. He flexes them by the
properly,’ John says, pushing the big toe back into my mouth.
I lick the chunky stub top to bottom as though it were a lolly, and suck hard
on the fat pinky.
good, yeah?’ John checks.
say, trying a nod with it for sake of clarity, and I mean it. In John’s clammy
toe, alone, I can taste his appetite for dominance.
As I work
the digit between my lips, and with my rolled tongue, I look up at John and he
smiles back at me. It is uncomfortable, lying on tile with my neck craned, but
not something I would dream of complaining about as I pleasure my older lover’s
light blue jogging bottoms and I look for a tent at his groin, but there is
none. The action has to be genuinely hard to make him hard, now. He gathers a mouthful of gob, with puffed cheeks,
and allows it to cascade in a slow waterfall over my face.
bastard!’ he says, forcing the toe to the back of mouth
I do not
late for me, again?’ he asks.
As best I
can I shake my head, letting my eyes and cock do the talking in persuading John
I am serious, in my schoolboy pledge of better behaviour.
re-set, we stand facing each other once again, his hand clasping my shoulder.
you okay, Hazza?’ he asks. The nickname is the only common factor I can think
of between how I’m treated by my mates, and how John addresses me in lighter
looking forward to this,’ I admit.
says, and whilst John grins, I laugh nervously.
what do you look forward to, about meeting me?’ John asks.
I have to
think for a moment. That’s what happens when a teenage boy is thrown fucking
unpredictability,’ I say.
sums it up, really.
can do sleazy and unpredictable,’ John says. ‘Anything else?’
and being bossed by you,’ I admit.
slapped and hurt a bit?’ he says.
treated disrespectfully, and humiliated?’
swearing and politically-incorrect faggot stuff?’
feel small, and not the centre of attention?’
it,’ I assure him.
your parents would freak-out at the thought of?’
‘How much do
they pay, to send you to that fuckin’ boarding school?’
£30,000 a year, I think.’
artificial drama, John steps back and makes a shocked face.
fuckin’ Christ! And you repay them by chasing after a cunt stuffing, 24/7?!’
doing really well at school. I’ve been accepted for Durham Uni, next year,’ I
This sex stuff with John is strictly once a fortnight and there are no other
men in the frame, for me. Otherwise, I’m a conscientious student and a loving
son. It hurts a bit when John suggests I’m betraying my old folk, even if he
does so to provoke.
‘Do you keep
any ass toys at school, in your bedroom?’ John asks.
would be way too dangerous: we have cleaners who come in, whilst we’re in
lessons and stuff.’
must feel quite empty inside by the weekend, then?’ John suggests.
hound!’ he says, and we both chuckle.
moves down to my right bicep, just where the sleeve of my rugby shirt stops,
and he squeezes.
mate: you’ll soon be a big boy,’ he says, moving his face closer to mine.
as big as you, though,’ I point out.
course not. Wanna cop a feel?’ he asks.
stupid question, really.
and tenses his left arm, where his own white T-shirt sleeve cuts-off so close
to the shoulder he might just as well have worn a wife-beater.
‘Go on!’ he
says, and no further encouragement is necessary. I reach out and touch the tanned
and inked gun, but when I make to squeeze there is absolutely no ‘give’: it is
like solid fucking rock.
‘How much of
your hand can you get around it?’ John asks.
I try to
encircle the clenched muscle with my palm, as suggested, but am nowhere near
wrapping the bicep.
‘I’d love to
see you get a tattoo. I bet Mummy would go crazy!’ he says.
she would. My family is completely respectable, whereas John comes from the
wrong side of the tracks. My skin will remain unmarked, by choice, but the tats
I’d hate on myself, I love on my boyfriend. His arms are covered in various
patterned designs, and running down the right in an elaborate font is the
legend Carpe Diem – Seize the Day –
which captures John’s character neatly: brave, confident, and frequently
my clammy hand from the bicep dome I’ve failed to compress, despite my best
shirt off, yeah?’ he says.
sure,’ I say, both excited and nervous now the strip is underway.
back and watches as I pull the tight-fitting jersey over my head and throw it
to the floor, still inside-out. He stares at my hairless chest, capped by small
yet pert teats.
are coming along,’ he says. ‘Nice tits, Henry.’
four months until you’re eighteen, isn’t it?’ John asks.
‘Still a bit
of growing to do, then?’ he says, but I sense it’s a rhetorical question I
don’t need to answer.
both my tit nubs between his fingers, and like a good submissive I don’t
flinch. He pulls and twists, at the same time, but I stay rooted to the spot
although it would ease my discomfort to shuffle towards him.
you can tell me to stop, or leave whenever you want?’ he asks me.
snort, in pain as my titties are stretched long and thin.
‘Shall we do
this like before, where ‘stop’ means stop, but ‘no’ is ignored?’ John suggests.
rubber clamped between his fingernails, John draws his face close to mine.
could really mean ‘no’, this time?’ he says, not trying to sway me blatantly by
his tone, although his presence is intimidating enough.
I weigh the
pros and cons, but in the end blurt what I really feel: and what I really need.
‘I want you
to push me,’ I say. ‘Please… don’t accept ‘no’ from me, as the end of this.’
quiet for a while, but continues to crush and twist my teats as I gasp at the
he says, eventually. ‘Now, let’s have the shorts and underwear off.’
as a hose, over pants shuffled down a few inches off his hips, John sprays piss
onto the tiled floor. As he empties his bladder, which must have been full to
bursting, my man paces a straight line down the centre of the bathroom between
the troughs on one wall, and the hand basins opposite.
total nonchalance about the way John holds his schlong, as though it were a
foot-long sword. In reality it’s a more modest eight-incher, but I dig his
slowing to a dribble, John stops and shakes a few more drops before pulling-up his
jogging pants. He calls to me, from across the room.
‘Lie on your
tummy, in my dirty piss pool.’
for my rugby socks and boots, I comply.
mentioned in passing that John was an ex-soldier. In fact, his handle on Gaydar
was exsoldierguy, where he hung-out
as a bisexual hunk seeking casual hook-ups with submissive queers. John had
posted enough pictures to create the ‘wow factor’ for me, and he lurked in the
Masters & Slaves chat room which is mostly full of dirty-talking (but
scared of action) losers and grandpas: Not in this case, though.
has no public images due to my illicit use of the site and sense of
self-preservation, but exsoldierguy’s muscles
and his words about dominance persuaded me to send a clothed selfie, by private
message. We swapped a few horny ideas, whilst I told lies about my age and
current occupation. I gathered pretty swiftly that John wasn’t one for endless
messaging, and this would have to get physical quickly, or else fade away. We
were just a few miles apart, in south east London, so excuses for not meeting
relating to distance could hardly apply.
So there I
was, in my study bedroom at my expensive boarding school, texting a bronzed
hunk of twenty-five to fix a hook-up. Looking back, I’m not sure what I
expected of our encounters and this was a fucking dangerous date to have made,
but I can only say that neither the man nor the sex have disappointed.
At our first
meet, John established my true age and schoolboy status, and gave his
I think his
surprise was genuine, for my outlook is mature and I certainly don’t
communicate like a giggling teenage gayer. Body-wise, I’m sure I could pass for
a twenty year-old, or maybe even older.
‘Seriously?’ John asked, and I produced my school
identification card by way of proof.
‘Fuck me!’ he said, although that was literally
never going to happen.
John fucked me on our first date and recorded my virginity as one of his greatest
scalps, with bragging rights. No concessions were made for my inexperience, and
John went into my ass hard and fast. Physically it hurt, and emotionally I was
all over the place, but being taken like that by a strong – brutal, even –
ex-soldier, remains the most amazing experience of my life so far.
four years in the British Army, obtaining one promotion to the rank of Lance
Corporal, but when he works me has more of a Staff Sergeant manner in his
clipped tones and unreasonable demands.
As I lay
flat in his piss, John tugs at my hairless nuts as though they were just
another piece of equipment to be man-handled, and wraps rope around the collar.
Working adeptly, and in silence, he ties a knot over my sac leather and tugs on
the rope, to check the security of the arrangement. I wince as my bollocks are
fuck up, you cunt!’ John says, kicking my prone butt.
retrieves the Dunston College schoolbag I left near the door and places it on
the tiles, just behind my naked torso. He wraps the rope end through and around
the bag handles, several times, before tying-off another knot.
is heavy. What have you got in there?’ John asks.
change of clothes and shoes…. my towel… a few personal bits,’ I falter.
that’s your bad luck. It’s gonna be quite a struggle, to tow this over the
floor by your nuts,’ he says.
‘So, what do
you think, Henry? Too difficult or humiliating for you?’
you like me standing over you, whilst you crawl?’
Henry. Haul yourself and your posh school bag through my piss, then. Elbows and
knees only, to propel you,’ John says.
Corporal!’ I shout, because it feels right in the moment, and he purrs
fuckwad!’ John shouts back, but I am already shuffling through his pooled
bag, inch by inch, places my nuts at full stretch.
constant thoughts of John – our scenes completed, and still to come – plus the
regular teenage hormonal stuff, I’m finding myself jacking-off most nights at
school. But with my bollocks tortured like this, it’s as though I’m being
punished for my horniness: make them ache, and I might lay-off the cum fountain
for a couple of nights.
around me, shouting insults and displeasure at my lack of speed across the wet
floor, and I need that to keep this scene hot. Every so often he shouts a word
of praise, instead, and in the aftermath I find myself making a burst of
progress: and I need that, too.
sure John’s piss will have soaked the underside of my bag, and my carefully-folded
uniform will be getting damp with his water. That is so unimportant, compared
to my success in this luggage-laden crawl he has tasked.
knees sore, I push on with my nut sac elongated: the balls contained and
compressed within a small pouch of skin.
ache?’ John asks, as he supervises me.
have been easier ways to get your bag from one side of the room to the other,
wouldn’t there, Henry?’
I agree, dragging the hold-all a little further.
Uncle John, easiest isn’t always best, is it?’
great faggot training, I think. What do you think, Henry?’
it’s good training, Sir!’
moving, asswipe!’ John yells, and as he does so, pushes a bare sole down upon
my scrotum, screwing it into the tile.
some unwanted bricks around the school, Henry,’ John says. ‘I wonder: How many
bricks would fit into your Dunston College bag?’
know, Lance Corporal!’
think it’s something a rugby-playing boy of eighteen should discover, quite
soon?’ he asks.
I agree the
proposal straight away, and this is complex because although I should dread it,
I know the thought of a pile of bricks in my school bag, roped to my nuts, will
distract me in an excited way until my next session with John.
The front of
my body is moist with John’s piss, but I have completed the towing crawl from
one side of the bathroom to the other, and he unties my bag.
rise to my feet, still in studded boots.
bitch: turn around, bend over a hand basin – palms flat against the mirror
above – and wait for a caning.’
I wait as instructed but John seems in no hurry to commence.
‘Can I tell
you my problem, Henry?’ he says, eventually.
I’d like to step this up and leave you with marks that would be visible for
about ten days. But, I’m guessing you’re doing more sport over the next week?’
think-through my timetable for a moment.
rugby training on Wednesday, circuits on Thursday, and then the inter-schools
rugby semi-final, next Saturday.’
in hard with the cane… giving the faggot the discipline it deserves… doesn’t
sound practical, then?’ he suggests.
to do it really hard?’ I query, as though this were a cybersex chat on Gaydar,
but I need to know.
make the teen sob,’ John admits. ‘But, it’s not gonna work, is it?’
leaves his words to hang in the stale toilet block air.
‘I… I don’t
want to miss this,’ I tell him. ‘I don’t want you to ease off.’
discipline that will hurt bad, Henry,’ John reminds me, and I know he’s trying,
not very subtly, to push my decision in a particular direction. ‘Still, that
sounds like an important game of rugby, so hey-ho.’
might go in a week,’ I say.
stick around a bit longer, after proper corporal punishment from a Lance
Corporal of the British Army.’
myself licking my lips as I look at John’s muscular reflection in the mirror,
above the sink.
still play the game, I suppose, and just wear my welts with pride?’ John
much risk… too many questions being asked,’ I say, decisively. ‘Too
embarrassing, as well.’
you’d find our intensity embarrassing, faggot!’ John says, twisting my words.
sex game is just too much, for a boy?’ John says.
back away from this… I’m not! I want to take the cane as hard as you like!’ I
tell the ex-soldier.
rugby match?’ he asks.
say I’m ill or something. I don’t know, but I’ll find an excuse,’ I say, knowing
already that I’ll try to shirk from that conversation with the fearsome Head of
‘I think you
have your priorities right there, faggot,’ John says.
like to brace yourself for the cane then, Henry?’
I am taking
A-levels – that’s the last set of school exams in England – in Economics,
History and English, and subject to getting my grades intend to study Law at
Durham University. As you already know, I play team sport, but I also take
roles in school plays and help-out at a lunch club for seniors, as part of a
community service initiative. So, although I’m imperfect, I’m not a bad boy:
Except, I’m being punished like one, and it feels right for me.
mutual silence when he disciplines me, so there is an unspoken agreement that
he will cut the words of humiliation for the duration of the caning, so long as
I hold the whimpering.
I push my
pale ass mounds back towards John’s cane, as I know I must, with ankles apart
and my sweaty palms planted against the mirror.
I count the
blows to myself, silently, from one to twenty-five whilst biting my lip at the
searing agony. Around this school bathroom, each stroke echoes like gunshot.
I want to cry
out, and maybe even use the ‘stop’ word to end this, but how can I do that with
any credibility when my erection grows with every assault upon my butt? I look
in the mirror and find John behind me: his eyes glazed and totally absorbed in
this, whilst his face is a picture of grim determination. The bicep in the arm
that wields the cane is absolutely taut, once again, as Lance Corporal John
Rockford thrashes me.
I feel each
welt creep as a horizontal, just above or below the last, as John lands the
cane with precision. A general feeling of pain turns into a locally-focussed
inferno, with the rest of my torso numb. My palms slide down the mirror leaving
slug trails as I search for somewhere to grab, and the studs of my boots stomp
the floor as a pressure release, with every strike of the cane.
seen John discipline another boy, so I can’t be sure, but I think my status as
a teen, and a schoolboy, and a privileged kid, presents a trio of triggers that
drive him to punish in a particularly merciless way. I’m sure there is
darkness, somewhere in his back story, to explain this behaviour, but my duty
is to suffer and not to wonder.
remain stoic, but tears roll freely over my cheeks and drop to the basin,
below. They are seen by John, and disregarded. Only when I have taken my agreed
share of the birch do I drop to a squat, place my head in my hands and wail
freely. As I sob, my hair is ruffled by a strong hand, and I’m reassured that I
did alright. Those words, from this man, mean the world to me.
offered a cigarette, but I won’t touch them. John has smoked from the age of
fourteen, though, and takes a break stood back to the wall, with a knee bent
and the foot resting on peeling paintwork.
puffs away leisurely, holding the fag close to his lips then removing it as he
exhales indulgent clouds.
ass feeling?’ John asks, between drags.
sore,’ I say.
‘It was the
right decision, though,’ John says. ‘You need to know about the pleasure in
‘You need to
train your mind, as well as your body,’ he says, and it strikes me that whilst
some might think of John as a dumb ex-military grunt, in matters of sexuality
he can be insightful.
and his chest rattles – the very reason I’ll never pick-up a cancer stick.
here,’ he tells me, and I walk without question.
again then makes a slurping noise, and I guess he is containing mucus in his
mouth wide, cock sucker,’ he says.
rigid before John as he gobs a wad of green phlegm between my lips, and then
another onto the bridge of my nose. Both hit hard, like one-two punches, but
I’m proud of the way my face doesn’t turn.
‘Give me a
kiss, babes,’ he says, and in a moment we are holding each other by our upper
torsos, hands roaming freely as we snog.
tongue, John finds his spat tar-phlegm and pushes it around my mouth from front
to back, as our necks twist. With a finger, he spreads the facial mucus under
my eyes, and over my cheeks.
one hand to my shoulder and the other to my sore butt, which he squeezes
despite my instinctive, aborted recoil. Lost in sleazy intensity, John prolongs
our kissing forcefully but I am happy to be led, anyway.
graffiti is scribed on the stall walls, replaced by the boys of New Cross
faster than John the Site Manager can erase it with specialist fluids. Yet here
is that same caretaker, adding to the mess with two musings of his own in black
Henry Allington takes it up the ass!
Dunston boys are faggots!
Sat on the
toilet seat, pants around his ankles, John laughs at his handiwork and invites
me to share his amusement.
to the Principal about this, next week, and she’ll probably run a whole-school
assembly about vandalism, and the unacceptable use of discriminatory language,
or some shit like that!’ John says, beaming.
along it was me, not the kids! Still, I reckon I’ll leave it a couple of weeks
before cleaning it off, because it’s basically true isn’t it, Henry?’
When he gets
silly like this, I confess to irritation, but John can sense it in my voice.
friggin’ prick, queer!’ he demands, flipping to aggression in an instant, but
I’m already there.
My lips are
broad but thin, and not the best cock-sucking smackers. Around John’s dick they
stretch thinner still as I deep-throat him. I am greedy for cock, and John is
equally eager to feel boy lips mash his trimmed pubic bush. So long as I keep
the oral deep and thorough, John tends to leave me to my work, but if I retreat
to his uncut crown for too long, I’m pulled back down by my hair with a violent
I am on my
knees in this toilet stall, and as I adjust my position they graze on
piss-stained tile. Sex in toilet blocks – ideally with teen boys – is a fetish
of John, and although our sessions have only ever been as a couple, he has
tried to soften me up to the idea of working a glory hole in a public lavatory:
‘It would be okay, Hazza: I’d be
there making sure none of the geezers took liberties,’ he has said, more than once.
pushed back, so far, because it’s John I lust after, and not some random
strangers who I know only by their pricks pushed through a stall hole. Also,
and with knowledge of John’s less ethical side, I suspect those men would be
paying him for access to a teen cock sucker, and being pimped in that way is a
step too far, for me.
But what if,
one day, John gave me an ultimatum? Do a
long shift at the glory hole, orwe’re
I would be
heartbroken, but although it would be the wrong decision, I think I know which
way I would jump in extremis. Yes, sixth former Henry Allington would be on his
knees working that glory hole, with each user scoring my technique out of ten
and giving the feedback to John for his evaluation. My transformation to cock
whore would be complete, and although that’s not what I want I am learning that
sex is about compromise, where the submissive is expected to give more ground.
John today I hone my skills, should the day arrive when I’m shared. I pull back
from his meat just occasionally, when the need to cough is profound, but after
I’ve spat drool to the floor I’m back on his knob, to the hilt, without
instruction. John throws his head back, spreads his meaty thighs, and whispers
his ecstatic thoughts:
‘Ahh yeah… worship that prick,
‘Lick the base of my shaft, boy!’
‘Don’t pull-off! Just choke, kid!’
‘Mind your fuckin’ teeth, you cunt!’
John’s shaft hard in no time, but he is able to remain that way seemingly indefinitely:
neither tipping-over to orgasm, nor losing it to flaccidity. I will stop only
when instructed, and in the meantime will continue slurping and choking and drooling
and snogging his abrasive pubic mat.
The toilet is
unflushed and the water pissy, with skid marks down the sides of the porcelain
pan. I have no doubt this stall was chosen as being that in the worst
condition, for a lengthy blow-job administered by a nervous, cock-hungry,
tastes of man, with all the sweaty, testosterone-fuelled goodness that implies,
seasoned with nicotine. I want to stay here, throat-fucked.
I have a
feeling the door is only slightly ajar, and were I to push it wide I would find
there is so much more to serving a man, than I have known already.
John is custodian
of the door, and has exercised self-control in operating it: sometimes less
than I would have liked, but other times more.
I come back
to John week after week because he tells me, in a round-about way, he wants
that door open, and for me to know hard pain and sexual suffering. He wants me
in that place whilst I am still I teen, so he can exhibit me as a model pupil.
about this flashes red for danger, but I want to be the role model John craves
tied to my balls by their long laces, I perform one hundred star jumps for
John, in the centre of the bathroom.
in the black socks that are now my only clothing, and the soles become piss-wet
as an overlay to my perspiration.
faster, faggot!’ John shouts.
I pant as I
leap through the air, spread-limbed, whilst my boots collide and bash my
fuckin’ moving, asscunt!’ John says.
He is an
unreasonable task master, but I can hate him for it whilst recognising it is
what I need.
high enough! Let’s see some distance between you and the ground, ginger!’
argue about my hair colour, and I think he sees gingerness as a point of
weakness: something to use as a bullying point, alongside queerness. I’m dark
auburn, though, and that is the end of the matter!
I can do
this, because I’m an athlete, but my boots drag at my testes and work as an
anchor, making the leaping harder. The leather uppers chafe my inner thighs,
and the constant clatter becomes wearisome.
glistens with static sweat, and a damp forelock falls over my eye. John patrols
closer, cane in hand, and that sweat starts to run from my armpits, and over my
pectorals, and down my thighs. He lashes the air alongside me, and now I fly at
a great pace.
I wish it
were not unseasonably warm outside, and stifling with closed windows in here,
but I toil for John rather than complain. Sweat rolls from the small of my back
into my butt crack and, as John intends, I am left feeling I have nothing more
When we are
done, John fishes my towel from my school bag and gives me a moment to recover
my breath and pat myself moist, if not dry. I towel my forehead and push my
fringe away from my eyes, losing visibility for a few seconds. When my sight
returns John is directly in front of me, naked with a thin smile upon his face.
There is a plan requiring my buy-in, I’m sure, because I know him too well.
an easy way to say this, Henry, but I want you to eat my shit,’ he says.
And then, he
I ask, shaking.
real. If you really love me,’ he
‘Do I…. Do I
have to?’ I say, stumbling for words.
Absolutely not,’ he says.
session ends here: no hard feelings.’
‘No fuck?’ I
right: Session incomplete, so no fuck.’
want to… eat your shit. It’s not something I imagined happening,’ I say.
a palm upon my cheek, but I sense no danger: It is there to caress, rather than
‘I know you
don’t want to, Henry. It’s gross.’
‘Why do you
even want to do this?’ I ask, but really, I should know the answer.
‘To see a
teen disgusted at the idea, adamant he won’t go through with it, and furious
that a man could suggest it. Then later, when I’ve talked him round, watching
his green face as he chews my scat.’
think you can talk me into this, do you?’ I say, contemptuous.
there’s a bigger reason, kid. I want you to be the best you can be, and to
achieve your full potential. To be that high-performing boy, you have to be
completely open-minded for me.’
like? I don’t even know,’ I admit. And why should I know?
he says, adding nothing further.
it taste like?’
tasted it myself… but people say it’s a bit like mouldy socks, or pungent
Brussel sprouts, or just a foul clay-like mess.’
tissue, for your eyes,’ John says, holding-out a white square.
I sniff and
dab, as suggested.
what I expected,’ I repeat.
‘I know. I’m
turning the screws, without apologies,’ he says.
door open a bit more?’ I say.
you like,’ John says, confused at my analogy.
‘Do I have
to? If I don’t, are we finished?’ I query.
course you don’t have to, Hazza. Shall we get dressed and on our way, then?’
want to eat shit,’ I tell him, for the umpteenth time.
‘I know, and
I can respect a boy who tells me his fears.’
think I’m being stupid about this?’
you’re a brave boy, Hazza.’
I call John
my boyfriend, but not to his face, and he wouldn’t describe me in the same way.
We have never been to the pictures together or gone for a meal, and I’ve not
even been to his house.
honest with myself, thoughts of John motivate me through each dreary week of
exam revision, but to him I’m just another boy in training. I feel driven to
carve myself a unique place in his heart, and to win him, but to do that I must
be a special one.
discard me today, if I became obstructive or difficult or too clingy, but that
cannot and will not happen, and he knows it.
He has me
wrapped around his little finger.
I can see
nothing but John’s muscular ass, squatting over my face, and the rosebud
winking between his cheeks.
I am flat on
my back, on the piss-wet bathroom floor, waiting for my boyfriend to dump into
my mouth. Instead he belches and farts over me, and finds it amusing.
checks me out, peering down between his bent knees.
fuckin’ tears, faggot! You agreed to this!’ he says.
I sniff, and
try to stem the cascade of teardrops running from the corner of each eye.
gonna collect, chew and swallow, yeah? That’s the deal, Henry: no shirking!’
shit muncher, yeah?’
poised over my mouth dilates, and I see in John’s muscular tension that he is
do this, John. Please!’ I cry.
It is pretty
last minute, for a change of heart.
dare rat on me now, Henry! Get those fuckin’ jaws wide open!’
got any feelings for me at all, other than wanting to dominate for a thrill?’ I
say, finding myself blurting what’s on my mind, at a most inconvenient time.
course,’ John says. ‘I’ve got loads of love for you, Henry. You must know
I sniff a
say, with a catch in my throat.
yeah?’ John says, calmly.
straining noise John pushes a chunky shit log that lingers at his ring,
taunting me, and then falls to my face below the nose – half in my mouth, and
half out. He reaches down, and pushes the turd between my lips in entirety.
petrified, my spread jaws freeze.
out of his squat, and kneels astride my abdomen. He lowers his upper torso to
close the distance between our faces, and raises my chin with a cupped palm.
I am gagged
with his shit, and can manage only an Mmm!
swallow, Henry, at your own pace. No eat shit: no ass fuck from John.’
through his over-bearing presence – bullying, even – John’s dick is rock hard,
jaws, faggot!’ he says, and the palm is raised in a way I recognise to be the
pre-cursor to one of his special, numbing, bitch slaps.
So, I chew.
My teeth break down John’s shit log and liquidise it with my saliva. Crap
lodges between my incisors, but I don’t swallow. Still, I can taste his shit
anyway, at the back of my throat, as a fetid medley of over-cooked green
vegetables and mouldy cheese, but with a terrible lumpen texture that won’t
dilute, no matter how much saliva I inject.
leak from the sides of my mouth and meander down to my jawline, but – holy
fuck! – I’m keeping it together, where I doubted that was possible.
Henry,’ John says, toying with the fringe matted to my forehead. ‘So, I think
I’ll drop another steamer, yeah?’
have churned the mess in my mouth but have yet to swallow.
over me, once again: his globes hairless and strong. As he squeezes and
dilates, my boyfriend masturbates and I hear the slick movement of hand on
turd is equal in size to the first, and between them they leave my cheeks bulging.
I feel my eyes widen – horrified – with a fixed distant gaze. Flipping over,
John pins me down again, this time holding me by the neck.
swallow, faggot: nice and calm,’ he advises.
need to swallow before I can do much in the way of chewing, such is the scale
of the shit pack in my mouth.
‘Let me see
that Adam’s Apple bob around as you munch, Henry,’ John says. ‘Just digest for
me, and enjoy.’
I let small measures pass through to my stomach. I sense my face is a picture
of total misery, like a child required to eat all of their sprouts at Christmas, before the pudding is sliced.
John contains me between his folded thighs, and by the neck, taking pleasure in
my disbelief at this. My hands are by my sides, on the tiles, but John lifts
them onto his thighs and encourages me to cop a feel of bulky ex-military
muscle, as I eat shit for him.
yeah?’ he asks, or perhaps demands.
half-full of his excrement, I raise my head to meet his approaching face and we
share the most intense lip-to-lip session I have known. We twist and contort,
and John is generous in the way he digs-out his own dung, savours it for a
while, then gobs it back into my mouth for consumption. Now we are sharing the fetid awfulness, and I feel
much better for that. Both of us are soiled from our lips to our chins, and
this is total brown craziness. I can’t think of any other way to describe it.
turd, yeah?’ John says, and somehow through his chocolate lips his teeth still
gleam white, like some freakish Black & White Minstrel show.
It is wrong
that I no longer resist. Consideration of what my architect father and surgeon
mother would make of this flashes through my mind, and I am horrified, but it’s
not just that I can’t resist John: I
don’t want to, any more.
time John rocks on the front of his feet, over me, and pushes shit. I want to watch rather than close my eyes,
now, as the brown mess crackles through his sphincter gates and oozes from his
un-fucked asshole. Yes, I’ve found fascination in this depravity.
shit slut, aren’t you?’ John taunts.
Corporal!’ I admit.
And then I
am silenced by a shit storm, once more.
impress I chew and swallow from the outset, rather than hold this load for a
while to get used to the taste and texture. I gulp, but am overcome by nausea
immediately. The odd thing is, I was fine the first and second time around. John
sees me go green at the gills and falter.
trial of self-discipline, yeah? Keep swallowing, at your own pace. It all has
to be eaten, but it doesn’t matter how quickly,’ John says.
I try a
little more, but feel I am ready to heave it all back up.
pinned me down again, jerking his stiff cock over my chest as he watches my
eyes beg of him: ‘I need to be sick,
I swallow a
little more, closing my eyes tight and tensing, as the explosive pressure
builds inside of me.
his own hand from his dick shaft and replaces it with mine.
cock, and take your mind off the shit,’ he says.
I accept the
offer, and enjoy the pre-cum smeared solidity of the rod I want ramming my ass.
and thrice I swallow small parcels of John’s turd as I give him a hand job.
and he brushes my over-heating forehead as eruption threatens.
he warns me.
‘Yes, Sir,’ I
am able to garble, through the remaining scat.
all, for me,’ he says. ‘And make sure you lick your lips, afterwards.’
respite, bent over a hand basin.
‘Your ass is
a peach,’ John tells me.
we going to fuck?’ I ask. Because, I fucking
while,’ he says, drawing on another cigarette.
feeling less sick?’ John asks.
really. Still feeling totally grossed-out,’ I admit.
an arm around me, from behind, and the hand rests on my shoulder.
incredible,’ he says. ‘That was a flawless scat scene from a teen queer, new to
I blush the
genuinely special,’ John adds.
ready, take a small gulp of cold water from the tap – but not too much, or it
will upset your stomach.’
you’ll clean me with your fuckin’ tongue.’
This is a
toilet block and there is paper in every stall, but I perform the same function
for John with luxurious warmth and comfort.
mounds press against my face – his crack aligned with my nose – whilst I lap
and slurp and dig with my tongue.
he moans, and I know I’m doing okay.
As I rim,
John takes indulgent strokes of his prick.
‘I wanna see
that tongue brown, from tip to base, when the faggot re-surfaces, yeah?
I say, muffled by the muscular haunch.
ring is now pristine, and whilst this is nothing but a further humiliation, I
reckon I can take pride in my grafting.
will remain un-fucked, just as my dick will never be touched by John’s lips.
Our sexual traffic is all one-way, and I must like it or lump it.
‘I want to
take your ass hard, bare, and dry, Henry. Is that agreed?’ John asks me.
please,’ I say, without a moment’s hesitation.
I feel at
liberty to be my true self, now: the eager, dick-obsessed schoolboy bunny
taking me in a position where he can see my eyes. He is a fan of impact, you
I balance on
the front of the hand basin, back against the mirror behind, with my legs
raised and my ankles in John’s hands.
little foreplay or ceremony in John’s anal method: From the start I am banged
relentlessly, all the way to his ticklish pubic lawn. Lubed by a fistful of his
gob and nothing more, John’s dick shaft slides reluctantly in my rectum and makes
it sore. That’s good, I suppose, because it reminds me that even at the end of
a scene, uncomplaining service is at the core of my teenage sexuality.
palms rest against John’s chest as he drills me, and sometimes I find his tit
nubs and squeeze a bit, without any brush-off. His stamina appears limitless
but I am breathless, exhausted and ecstatic.
you, Henry?’ he asks me, with a wink and a flash of that cocky smile.
dump, Sir!’ I tell him.
certainly,’ John says. ‘But definitely not useless.’
‘I reckon we
should discover how useful you could be, next time and beyond,’ John says,
drawing my ass ring inside-out, and then plunging back in.
‘Ahh… you want
to do this again, yeah?’ I ask.
lutely!’ he grins.
about you get into one of those stalls, bend over, and grab the pipes behind? I
fancy slamming your ass in a different way.’
‘Use the one
with Henry Allington takes it up the ass!
written on the wall, I think.’
onto my pale, welted ass cheeks and I feel his nails bite into the flesh as he
pounds me from behind.
‘Can I jerk
myself, now?’ I ask.
keep that mound thrust back bitch, yeah?’ John says.
works my cock whilst my other hand reaches back and slides over whatever slab
of John’s muscle I can locate. I find myself clinging to my boyfriend for
support, in lieu of the pipework, as he thrusts into me with full strokes.
Still, my head collides with the cistern and I get dizzy – or rather, dizzier,
because this anal work is already a total head-fuck.
good, yeah?’ John checks.
‘Proud to be
a faggot, yeah?’
Clench that cunt tight for me, now.’
my welts and I gasp at the brutal intensity of his fucking.
I am still
in my rugby socks, having never found a moment – or John’s consent – to discard
them. As my feet shuffle on the tiles around the toilet bowl, the sodden cotton
leaves damp prints.
John stops fucking whilst impaled inside me such that his pubes tickle my ring.
tells me, and I rise.
He pulls me
back, onto him, and locks a bicep of stone around the front of my neck.
his grip, and I struggle for air.
whilst resuming short jabbing fucking movements.
yeah?’ he says.
I can see
only stars in my eyes, and sound becomes a confusing jumble.
His warm cum
pulses through me, whilst mine shoots over the toilet seat and pipework. John has gone bare with me since day one, and
now it is a dangerous habit I cannot kick.
He pulls out,
still panting, and I back-flush his swimmers in pearly strings that ooze from
my punished asshole.
mop, bucket and cloths in the corner. Get this place as clean as a fuckin’
whistle, faggot,’ John says, by way of post-coital small talk.
I am invited
back to John’s house, to shower.
right: back to his fucking house, for the first time! At this moment it feels
like a short step to marriage, although obviously that’s absurd.
girlfriend, is there, and that isn’t a big hassle because she knows all about
John’s bisexuality and the exsoldierguy
profile on Gaydar. I reckon it’s a bizarre way to live, but Jodie can take
comfort from the fact she’s the one sharing John’s house, and his bed, whilst the
boys are shunted off to bathrooms for a couple of hours of hard ass action,
here and there.
She is tall,
mixed race and busty, and – I suppose – the kind of girl red-blooded straight
boys chase after. Jodie is superficially civil to me, but there is iciness not
far beneath the surface.
The pair of
them watch me shower as blatant voyeurs, and I gather Jodie is aroused by teen
boy meat, lathered and slick. I wash John’s dried cum from my thighs, and try
to ease the stinging in my ass mounds with warm water and some kneading of the
muscle, to restore circulation.
I step from
the shower dripping, into a huge white bath towel held open for me by Jodie.
must have hurt bad!’ she says. ‘I warned John, but he’s still gone in harder on
you than the other boys. Let me find you some anaesthetic cream.’
it’s okay,’ I say.
I don’t need
this bitch, fussing, but I heard what she said: I am the faggot who takes it
hardest. I am top of the boy pile, and that is progress of sorts.
lies ahead, though. I won’t be satisfied until I’m in the bed, and have at
least some lodging rights under the roof. I want to be the boyfriend, and the girlfriend thing has to be edged-out. I want
John to escalate the pain and degradation, so I can prove my teenage service is
more valuable to him than this cow, and I would go for scene two this very
evening, if I didn’t need to be back at Dunston College imminently.
drive the faggot back to school,’ John says.
her eyebrows and struts off in a sulk, whilst I complete dressing with my
biggest grin of the afternoon.
everything,’ I whisper to him.
‘Be proud of
today, Henry,’ he says.
‘I was okay,
yes?’ I ask.
‘Oh yeah: We
need to talk, in the car, about your potential.’