Friday, 24 July 2015

Dirty Weekend

‘P13 to New Cross, Sainsbury’s.’

One woman 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.

There are 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.

The Saturday 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.

My phone buzzes with an incoming text:

‘Your late.’

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 response:

‘Sorry. Bus is slow. Be with you in twenty minutes.’

He replies almost immediately:

‘Cock sucker!’

I decide to respond simply:


Okay, emoticons are a little childish, but then I’m still a schoolboy: although not for much longer, fortunately.


My boyfriend 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.

My sports 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.

Sitting 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.

But like 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.      

On balance, 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 ankles.

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.

Looking back 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 the holidays…

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.

I didn’t 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.

Okay, Mrs 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.

John is 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!

Actually, 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 hours.

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 click.

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.      

‘Is that you, boy?’ John shouts, as I clip-clop down the empty corridor in my studs.

‘Yeah, it’s me.’

‘Faggot!’ he yells.

‘Yes, Sir!’ I shoot back, and my dick stiffens in my shorts.


John cradles my chin, and moves his face so close to mine that our noses almost rub.

‘You okay, geezer?’ he asks.

‘Yeah… thanks.’

‘Did you win?’

‘Yeah… 9-3… it was good.’

‘Thanks for not showering. You’re a good boy, aren’t you?’ John suggests, with a glint in his eye and a flash of white teeth.

‘Yes, I suppose so,’ I say, coming over all reticent.

‘You smell good: All sweaty and teeny,’ John says.


‘Are you ready to be worked, Henry?’ John asks, and as he does so, squeezes my jaw.

‘Yeah!’ I say, then realise I sound a bit too keen, and desperate.

John spits, 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.

John 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 right eye.

‘Faggot 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.  

There are stars in my eyes and I cannot focus.

‘I’m sorry for being late, Sir,’ I whimper.

‘I wanna use you, hard. I wanna get sleazy, before you take my dick,’ John says.

‘Yes,’ I say, and I reckon my tone is definitive enough.

With thumbs, 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.

‘Ready to 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.  

That paragraph, read as a whole, makes this seem pretty sordid because it is, and I love it for that.

John, 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. 
The former soldier wiggles his toe between my jaws and I feel sick at the taste of the funky grey cotton.

‘Open up!’ he orders, and I widen my jaws to accommodate more of his socked digits.

‘Does that taste gross, yeah?’ he demands to know.

‘Mmm!’ I agree, gagged by his foot.

‘Take my 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.

‘C’mon!’ he urges.

I wiggle my head to encourage the close-fitting material from John’s heel, and it slips over co-operatively.

‘Get movin’, 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 knuckles.

‘Suck it properly,’ John says, pushing the big toe back into my mouth.

Thoroughly, I lick the chunky stub top to bottom as though it were a lolly, and suck hard on the fat pinky.

‘Is that good, yeah?’ John checks.

‘Mmm!’ I 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 toe.

John wears 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.      

‘Queer bastard!’ he says, forcing the toe to the back of mouth

I do not react.

‘Gonna be 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.


Scene re-set, we stand facing each other once again, his hand clasping my shoulder.

‘Seriously… 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 moments.

‘Yeah… been looking forward to this,’ I admit.

‘Slut!’ he says, and whilst John grins, I laugh nervously.

‘Seriously… 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 open questions.

‘The sleazy unpredictability,’ I say.

Just about sums it up, really.

‘Yeah, we can do sleazy and unpredictable,’ John says. ‘Anything else?’

‘Yes: You, and being bossed by you,’ I admit.

‘Being slapped and hurt a bit?’ he says.


‘Being treated disrespectfully, and humiliated?’


‘All the swearing and politically-incorrect faggot stuff?’


‘Made to feel small, and not the centre of attention?’

‘You got it,’ I assure him.

‘Doing things your parents would freak-out at the thought of?’


‘How much do they pay, to send you to that fuckin’ boarding school?’

‘Um… about £30,000 a year, I think.’

With artificial drama, John steps back and makes a shocked face.

‘Jeezus fuckin’ Christ! And you repay them by chasing after a cunt stuffing, 24/7?!’

‘No… I’m doing really well at school. I’ve been accepted for Durham Uni, next year,’ I say.
It’s true: 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.

‘No! That would be way too dangerous: we have cleaners who come in, whilst we’re in lessons and stuff.’

‘Okay. You must feel quite empty inside by the weekend, then?’ John suggests.

‘Yeah… a bit.’

‘Dick hound!’ he says, and we both chuckle.

John’s hand moves down to my right bicep, just where the sleeve of my rugby shirt stops, and he squeezes.

‘Not bad, mate: you’ll soon be a big boy,’ he says, moving his face closer to mine.

‘Yeah… not as big as you, though,’ I point out.

‘No, of course not. Wanna cop a feel?’ he asks.

Fucking stupid question, really.

John flexes 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.

‘Big, yeah?’ he boasts.

‘Yeah,’ I concede.

‘I’d love to see you get a tattoo. I bet Mummy would go crazy!’ he says.

Damn right 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 arrogant.

John moves my clammy hand from the bicep dome I’ve failed to compress, despite my best efforts.

‘Take you shirt off, yeah?’ he says.

‘Yeah… sure,’ I say, both excited and nervous now the strip is underway.

John steps 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.

‘Your pecs are coming along,’ he says. ‘Nice tits, Henry.’


I blush.

‘Still about four months until you’re eighteen, isn’t it?’ John asks.

‘Yeah… about that.’

‘Still a bit of growing to do, then?’ he says, but I sense it’s a rhetorical question I don’t need to answer.

John traps 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 know you can tell me to stop, or leave whenever you want?’ he asks me.

‘Yeah!’ I 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.

My nub rubber clamped between his fingernails, John draws his face close to mine.

‘Or, ‘no’ 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.’

John is quiet for a while, but continues to crush and twist my teats as I gasp at the intensity.

‘Good lad,’ he says, eventually. ‘Now, let’s have the shorts and underwear off.’


Dick wielded 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.

There is 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 cocky style.

His flow 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.’

Naked but for my rugby socks and boots, I comply.

I’ve 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. 

My profile 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 considered opinion:


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.   

Actually, 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.

John completed 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 wrenched.

‘Shut the fuck up, you cunt!’ John says, kicking my prone butt.

My boyfriend 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.

‘This fucker is heavy. What have you got in there?’ John asks.

‘Umm… a change of clothes and shoes…. my towel… a few personal bits,’ I falter.

‘Well, that’s your bad luck. It’s gonna be quite a struggle, to tow this over the floor by your nuts,’ he says.

‘Yeah,’ I acknowledge.

‘So, what do you think, Henry? Too difficult or humiliating for you?’

‘No, Sir!’

‘And would you like me standing over you, whilst you crawl?’

‘Yes… please.’

‘Okay, Henry. Haul yourself and your posh school bag through my piss, then. Elbows and knees only, to propel you,’ John says.

‘Yes, Lance Corporal!’ I shout, because it feels right in the moment, and he purrs approval.

‘Move it, fuckwad!’ John shouts back, but I am already shuffling through his pooled urine.


Shifting my bag, inch by inch, places my nuts at full stretch.

With 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. 
John paces 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.

I’m quite 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.

Elbows and knees sore, I push on with my nut sac elongated: the balls contained and compressed within a small pouch of skin.

‘Does it ache?’ John asks, as he supervises me.

‘Yeah,’ I puff.

‘There would have been easier ways to get your bag from one side of the room to the other, wouldn’t there, Henry?’

‘Ahh… yes,’ I agree, dragging the hold-all a little further.

‘But with Uncle John, easiest isn’t always best, is it?’


‘This is great faggot training, I think. What do you think, Henry?’

‘Ahh… yeah… it’s good training, Sir!’

‘Keep it moving, asswipe!’ John yells, and as he does so, pushes a bare sole down upon my scrotum, screwing it into the tile.

‘Awww!’ I moan.

‘There are some unwanted bricks around the school, Henry,’ John says. ‘I wonder: How many bricks would fit into your Dunston College bag?’

‘I don’t know, Lance Corporal!’ 

‘Do you think it’s something a rugby-playing boy of eighteen should discover, quite soon?’ he asks.

‘Yes, Sir!’

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.

‘Stand!’ John shouts.

Uneasily I rise to my feet, still in studded boots.

‘Okay, bitch: turn around, bend over a hand basin – palms flat against the mirror above – and wait for a caning.’

Ass reared, I wait as instructed but John seems in no hurry to commence.

‘Can I tell you my problem, Henry?’ he says, eventually.

‘Yes… please.’

‘Okay, well, 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?’

I think-through my timetable for a moment.

‘Yes... rugby training on Wednesday, circuits on Thursday, and then the inter-schools rugby semi-final, next Saturday.’

John paces behind me.

‘So, going in hard with the cane… giving the faggot the discipline it deserves… doesn’t sound practical, then?’ he suggests.

‘You’d want to do it really hard?’ I query, as though this were a cybersex chat on Gaydar, but I need to know.

‘I wanna make the teen sob,’ John admits. ‘But, it’s not gonna work, is it?’

My boyfriend 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.’

‘It’s 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.’

‘The scars might go in a week,’ I say.

John shakes his head.

‘They’ll stick around a bit longer, after proper corporal punishment from a Lance Corporal of the British Army.’

I find myself licking my lips as I look at John’s muscular reflection in the mirror, above the sink.

‘You could still play the game, I suppose, and just wear my welts with pride?’ John suggests.

‘No… too much risk… too many questions being asked,’ I say, decisively. ‘Too embarrassing, as well.’

‘I’m sorry you’d find our intensity embarrassing, faggot!’ John says, twisting my words.

‘I don’t…’

‘Maybe this sex game is just too much, for a boy?’ John says.

‘No! Don’t back away from this… I’m not! I want to take the cane as hard as you like!’ I tell the ex-soldier.

‘And the rugby match?’ he asks.

‘Um… I’ll 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 Rugby.

‘I think you have your priorities right there, faggot,’ John says.

‘Yes, Sir!’

‘Would you like to brace yourself for the cane then, Henry?’

‘Yes please, Sir.’


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.

John likes 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.

I’ve not 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.  

Verbally I 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.


I was 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.

My boyfriend puffs away leisurely, holding the fag close to his lips then removing it as he exhales indulgent clouds.

‘How’s your ass feeling?’ John asks, between drags.

‘Still really sore,’ I say.

‘It was the right decision, though,’ John says. ‘You need to know about the pleasure in pain.’

‘I know.’

‘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.

John coughs and his chest rattles – the very reason I’ll never pick-up a cancer stick.

‘Get over here,’ he tells me, and I walk without question.

He coughs again then makes a slurping noise, and I guess he is containing mucus in his mouth, now.

‘Open your mouth wide, cock sucker,’ he says.

I stand 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.

With his 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.

John moves 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.


Lewd 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 pen:

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.

‘I’ll moan 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.

‘Yeah… I guess so.’

‘But all 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?’

‘Yeah,’ I murmur. 

When he gets silly like this, I confess to irritation, but John can sense it in my voice.

‘Suck my 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 tug.

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.

I have 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, or we’re through.

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.

In sucking 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, faggot!’

‘Lick the base of my shaft, boy!’

‘Don’t pull-off! Just choke, kid!’

‘Mind your fuckin’ teeth, you cunt!’

I have 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, public schoolboy.

John’s dick 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.

Everything about this flashes red for danger, but I want to be the role model John craves to own.


Rugby boots tied to my balls by their long laces, I perform one hundred star jumps for John, in the centre of the bathroom.

I exercise in the black socks that are now my only clothing, and the soles become piss-wet as an overlay to my perspiration.

‘Higher and faster, faggot!’ John shouts.

I pant as I leap through the air, spread-limbed, whilst my boots collide and bash my thighs.

‘Keep it 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.

‘Not fuckin’ high enough! Let’s see some distance between you and the ground, ginger!’

We could 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.

My torso 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.

‘Move it, bitch!’

‘Yes, Lance Corporal!’

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 to give.

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.

‘There isn’t an easy way to say this, Henry, but I want you to eat my shit,’ he says.

And then, he is silent.

‘For real?’ I ask, shaking.  

‘Yes, for real. If you really love me,’ he says. 

‘Do I…. Do I have to?’ I say, stumbling for words.

‘No. Absolutely not,’ he says.

‘Then what?’

‘Then, our session ends here: no hard feelings.’

‘No fuck?’ I ask.

‘That’s right: Session incomplete, so no fuck.’

‘I don’t want to… eat your shit. It’s not something I imagined happening,’ I say.

John places a palm upon my cheek, but I sense no danger: It is there to caress, rather than slap.

‘I know you don’t want to, Henry. It’s gross.’

He pinches my cheek.

‘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.’

‘Yeah? You think you can talk me into this, do you?’ I say, contemptuous.

‘Actually 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.’

‘What’s it like? I don’t even know,’ I admit. And why should I know?

‘It’s gross,’ he says, adding nothing further.

‘What does it taste like?’

‘Dunno… not tasted it myself… but people say it’s a bit like mouldy socks, or pungent Brussel sprouts, or just a foul clay-like mess.’

‘Great!’ I say, sarcastically.

‘Use my tissue, for your eyes,’ John says, holding-out a white square.

I sniff and dab, as suggested.

‘This isn’t what I expected,’ I repeat.

‘I know. I’m turning the screws, without apologies,’ he says.

‘Pushing the door open a bit more?’ I say.

‘Yeah, if you like,’ John says, confused at my analogy.

‘Do I have to? If I don’t, are we finished?’ I query.

John brushes my cheek.

‘No, of course you don’t have to, Hazza. Shall we get dressed and on our way, then?’

‘I don’t want to eat shit,’ I tell him, for the umpteenth time.

‘I know, and I can respect a boy who tells me his fears.’

‘Do you think I’m being stupid about this?’

‘I think 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.

If I’m 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.

He would 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.

My man checks me out, peering down between his bent knees.

‘Quit the 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.

‘You’re gonna collect, chew and swallow, yeah? That’s the deal, Henry: no shirking!’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘Schoolboy shit muncher, yeah?’

‘Yeah… I suppose so.’

The A-hole poised over my mouth dilates, and I see in John’s muscular tension that he is squeezing.

‘NO… don’t do this, John. Please!’ I cry.

It is pretty last minute, for a change of heart.

‘Don’t you dare rat on me now, Henry! Get those fuckin’ jaws wide open!’

‘Have you 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.

‘Yeah, of course,’ John says. ‘I’ve got loads of love for you, Henry. You must know that?’

I sniff a bit more.

‘Thanks,’ I say, with a catch in my throat.

‘Open wide, yeah?’ John says, calmly.

‘Yeah… okay.’

With a 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.

Appalled and petrified, my spread jaws freeze.

John moves 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.

‘Chew,’ he says.

I am gagged with his shit, and can manage only an Mmm! 

‘Chew and swallow, Henry, at your own pace. No eat shit: no ass fuck from John.’

Intimidating through his over-bearing presence – bullying, even – John’s dick is rock hard, now.

‘Move the 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.

Brown trails 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.

‘Good boy, Henry,’ John says, toying with the fringe matted to my forehead. ‘So, I think I’ll drop another steamer, yeah?’


Still, I have churned the mess in my mouth but have yet to swallow.

John squats 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 shaft.

The second 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.

‘Chew and swallow, faggot: nice and calm,’ he advises.

Actually, I 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.’

Tentatively, 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.

‘Kiss, yeah?’ he asks, or perhaps demands.

Mouth still 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.

‘One more turd, yeah?’ John says, and somehow through his chocolate lips his teeth still gleam white, like some freakish Black & White Minstrel show.

‘Yeah,’ I murmur.

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.

One last 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.

‘Schoolboy shit slut, aren’t you?’ John taunts.

‘Yes, Lance Corporal!’ I admit.

And then I am silenced by a shit storm, once more.

Seeking to 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.

‘Feeling sick?’


‘It’s a 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.

John has pinned me down again, jerking his stiff cock over my chest as he watches my eyes beg of him: ‘I need to be sick, Sir!’

I swallow a little more, closing my eyes tight and tensing, as the explosive pressure builds inside of me.

John removes his own hand from his dick shaft and replaces it with mine.

‘Work my 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.

Once, twice and thrice I swallow small parcels of John’s turd as I give him a hand job.

I dry-heave, and he brushes my over-heating forehead as eruption threatens.  

‘No, faggot!’ he warns me.

‘Yes, Sir,’ I am able to garble, through the remaining scat.

‘Clear it all, for me,’ he says. ‘And make sure you lick your lips, afterwards.’


I take respite, bent over a hand basin.

‘Your ass is a peach,’ John tells me.

‘Thanks. Are we going to fuck?’ I ask. Because, I fucking deserve it!

‘In a while,’ he says, drawing on another cigarette.


‘Are you feeling less sick?’ John asks.

‘Not much, really. Still feeling totally grossed-out,’ I admit.

John wraps an arm around me, from behind, and the hand rests on my shoulder.

‘You were incredible,’ he says. ‘That was a flawless scat scene from a teen queer, new to it.’

I blush the brightest crimson.

‘Thank you!’

‘You’re genuinely special,’ John adds.


‘When you’re ready, take a small gulp of cold water from the tap – but not too much, or it will upset your stomach.’


‘Then, 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.

John’s mounds press against my face – his crack aligned with my nose – whilst I lap and slurp and dig with my tongue.

‘Oh yeah!’ 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?

‘Yes, Sir!’ I say, muffled by the muscular haunch.

The once-filthy ring is now pristine, and whilst this is nothing but a further humiliation, I reckon I can take pride in my grafting.

That hole 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. 

‘Oh yeah… please,’ I say, without a moment’s hesitation.

I feel at liberty to be my true self, now: the eager, dick-obsessed schoolboy bunny rabbit.


John enjoys taking me in a position where he can see my eyes. He is a fan of impact, you see?

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.

There is 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.

My clammy 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.

‘What are you, Henry?’ he asks me, with a wink and a flash of that cocky smile.

‘Ahh.. Ahh.. faggot, Sir!’

‘Pussyboy, too?’

‘Useless cum dump, Sir!’ I tell him.

‘Cum dump, certainly,’ John says. ‘But definitely not useless.’

‘Ahh… thanks!’

‘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.

‘Abso-fuckin- lutely!’ he grins.


‘Now, how 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.’



John latches 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.

‘Yeah, but keep that mound thrust back bitch, yeah?’ John says.

‘Ahh… yes!’

One palm 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.

‘This is good, yeah?’ John checks.

‘Umm yeah.’

‘Proud to be a faggot, yeah?’


‘Good lad. Clench that cunt tight for me, now.’


John slaps 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.

Abruptly, John stops fucking whilst impaled inside me such that his pubes tickle my ring.

‘Stand,’ he tells me, and I rise.

He pulls me back, onto him, and locks a bicep of stone around the front of my neck.

He tightens his grip, and I struggle for air.

He crushes, whilst resuming short jabbing fucking movements.

‘Drift away, 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.

‘There’s a 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.

That’s 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. 

Jodie, his 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.

‘That cane 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.’ 

‘No, really, 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.

Harder work 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.

‘I better drive the faggot back to school,’ John says.

Jodie raises her eyebrows and struts off in a sulk, whilst I complete dressing with my biggest grin of the afternoon.

‘Thanks… for 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.’

‘Yes, Sir… please.’