Perverts 'R' Us

Francis Gets Abused - Part 3

By Francissy ( Mbg/b )

And so my journey into adolescence began. I was eleven years old and I had rarely been outside of Merseyside. I had been photographed in the nude by a holiday camp "photographer" and stripped and spanked for stealing apples by a probable pedophile. I had experienced involuntary erections, but otherwise I was sexually naive. I was slim, effeminate in manner, had an artistic inclination and little interest in sport. I had no idea that penises came in different sizes, and that mine was small, but I was about to find out.

Due to a death in the family I was picked up, carried 250 miles south, and dropped without warning into the village of Hatch End, in the county of Middlesex. The coeducational boarding school was a Gothic anachronism, an echo of a past Victorian age, and on the inside little had changed. To make matters worse, it was mid-term. Classes were settled, friendships already formed, the term curriculum half-finished; not the most beneficial time to make your arrival.

For reasons that I never understood, I was put in with the form above my age. They were all twelve-year olds. They took unkindly to a "brat" joining their ranks, and the form of my eleven-year old age group resented me equally. My class was learning Latin and French, while I was still struggling with English grammar. They spoke with accents that were as strange to me as my northern accent was to them. The whole ethos of the school was based on a strict system of seniority, with each class having dominion over those beneath. It was enforced with corporal punishment that consisted of various slappings, spankings, and diverse humiliations. The boys outnumbered the girls three-to-one and apart from class time, segregation was absolute. The boys lived in their half of the main building and the girls in theirs. Dormitories, showers, baths, and changing-rooms were all communal. Roll calls were held twice every day. The following is not a diary, but just some of the more pertinent aspects of my "education", the more relevant experiences in my development.

I had mixed feelings about sucking penises. I didn't mind so much if it was with a boy that I liked, or if it was in return for a favor, but it was generally at the demand of a senior boy or a prefect. I didn't care much for the taste or the feel of their cum in my mouth, but if I swallowed it all down quickly it wasn't so bad; also it was much cleaner that way. If they came outside of my mouth then it could be very messy. And it was me that had to clean the mess up (we weren't equipped with handkerchiefs or tissues). But I had no choice in the matter; on one unfortunate occasion I left the music room with a streak of cum still draped over the shoulder of my jacket.

Some of the boys preferred it messy. Masterson liked me to kneel before him and suck on his penis until he felt the onset of his orgasm, then he would withdraw from my mouth and masturbate with one hand and with the other he would hold my head back. He liked to spurt his seed into my open mouth and over my upturned face. I had to keep my eyes closed because the cum would make them sting. A big penis was a problem for my small mouth.

The first penis I sucked belonged to a prefect named Warnock. I had only been there about two weeks. I was lying awake in my bed in the dormitory. It was after "lights-out" and I was still having difficulty adjusting to my new life. I suppose I was suffering from culture-shock. Anyway, I became aware of someone standing next to my bed. In the gloom I recognized Warnock, a sixth form prefect. But my attention was held by something rude and ugly sticking out of the front of his pajama bottoms. "Suck on it!" he whispered.

This was my first encounter with a mature, erect penis. It looked big and angry and it was hairy at its base. I thought I had misheard him and didn't know what to do.

"Come on, suck it" he repeated. I thought it may be some sort of initiation rite, (I'd already suffered some of those), perhaps it was expected, and maybe it was normal practice, either way I was scared to refuse in case I got a slapping and was equally eager to please. I sat up and tentatively put my lips to his gleaming phallus.

"Not like that", he hissed, "put it in your mouth."

But it was pointing straight up so I had to push back the sheets and kneel up on my bed so that I could lower my mouth onto it. I sucked away as greedily as I could, wanting it to be over. His ejaculation took me by surprise and left me coughing and spluttering. I didn't know all that cream would come out, my own willy only wept a little when it was stiff. When I lay down again my pillow was wet with his cum. Warnock was only the first of many. I later discovered that they always tried it out on new boys, but most of the newcomers refused outright. And so at eleven, I was branded a ' fag' and a 'sucker'.

Now you may have heard of John Julian Swire. He was a famous English tenor and a Master at the school. But you probably haven't heard of George Vivian Varley. George Vivian Varley (GV) was also a tenor (but not famous) and also a Master at the school. GV taught History and ran the school Boy Scout troop.

I was thirteen at the time, my reputation as a "fruit" and a queer was known to both the boys and the girls and I was ridiculed by both daily. Preparations were under way for the school annual Sports Day. Participation was compulsory even if, like me, you were useless at sports. Outside of the classroom and Sunday church, Sports Day was the only time that boys and girls mixed on the playing fields. I was sheltering from the summer sun in the far corner of the playing fields, at the bottom of the railway embankment by a cluster of trees. Like everyone else I was dressed in regulation rough shirt, baggy shorts, socks and pumps.

I was lying on my stomach on the grass, reading a book and was oblivious to the approach of Miller, Graves and Potts, three of the class 'bullies', with Angela Brown and Elizabeth Blunt. The first thing I knew was when Miller jumped onto my back, knocking the breath out of my body. In the ensuing struggle, I managed to turn onto my back but then Miller straddled me, sitting astride my chest, and pinned my hands down above my head. It doesn't matter how you twist and turn, or buck your hips up and down, it is impossible to escape. Miller's thighs were either side of my face; I could see the head of his prick up the leg of his shorts.

Any fight or ragging always attracts a crowd of boys and girls and this was no exception, I was aware of a circle of excited children around us, shouting encouragement to my tormentors. My fear turned to panic when I felt eager hands pulling at the elastic of my shorts. I renewed my efforts to escape and began kicking out with my feet. Between them, Graves and Potts held my ankles and dragged down my shorts. I felt the warm, summer breeze on my willy and also felt utter dismay and humiliation.

All the girls and boys were making fun of my hairless, little penis. Then through my tears I saw a pair of shapely, creamy white thighs above me, showing beneath a navy-blue gymslip. It was Angela Brown and she was waving her hand at me - a hand that was wrapped up and protected like a glove by my shorts, and in her grip, a swathe of stinging nettles. I cried out in protest, but she disappeared from my view and then I felt the sting of the nettles on my stomach. She stroked the furry leaves around my abdomen then trailed them across my privates. She tickled them between my spread thighs and then up and over my little sac.

(Now I can tell you something about nettle stings that I learned that day and on several occasions since, at least as they apply to me. Whether it is the stinging, the aggravation, the itch or the poison chemical in the nettles sting , I don't know, but it causes in me an instant erection, and, as I found out later, multiple orgasms)

Anyway, as Angela continued to tickle my willy with the leaves' cruel touch, my two-inch little sausage became a three-inch thin pencil. This caused much hilarity. I felt the boys grip slacken and with a mighty effort I was able to roll over onto my stomach, hiding my wounded stiffie from the general view. But my relief was short-lived, the soft cheeks of my bottom were now at their mercy. While the boys spread my legs wide apart, Angela (or Elizabeth) began caressing my bottom with the nettles. Whoever was doing it was careful to dip the nettles between my parted cheeks and kiss my anus with the nettle tips.

(It was after this ordeal that Angela Brown took to calling me "Peewee" while Elizabeth nicknamed me "Woodbine". The rest were happy to call me Francissy, or Cissy)

And then my "knight in shining armor" arrived, or at least, George Vivian Varley did. I heard his tenor tones bellowing as he arrived with a posse of acolytes in his wake. The circle of spectators dispersed and my persecutors fled with them. I cast around for my glasses that had come off in the melee, and for my shorts that Angela had cast aside. GV tossed the shorts in my direction but made no effort to apprehend the bullies.

As I got to my feet I realized that the stem of nettles were still trapped between my bottom cheeks, and hanging down like a leafy tail. I scrambled into my shorts and GV led me off the sports field, me hurrying to keep up with him, a miserable figure. GV escorted me straight to the Sanatorium.

(The school was equipped with its own sanatorium, complete with Doctors' and Dentists' surgeries. They visited from outside practices twice a week, but there was a resident Sister and Nurse. The girls had the upstairs ward, the boys the downstairs one)

The nurse was busy tending another boy's minor injury and simply handed GV a small, round tin of Germoline when he explained that I had been stung by nettles. What followed could have been so different and so innocent, but it wasn't. He could have handed me the cream and told me to get on with it, but he didn't. He took me into the waiting room and told me to face the wall and lower my shorts. I did as he said, my face no doubt as red as my mottled bottom.

GV knelt down behind me and began rubbing the cream into my tender flesh. How innocent if it had ended there, but it didn't; GV ran his creamy finger down between my buttocks. It was nice, and when his fingertip probed at my anus, I felt a delicious shiver down my spine. I had never been touched there before. My penis was inflamed and erect from the nettles, and GV's touch helped to keep it that way.

If it had ended there, you could have excused his behavior, but it didn't. He then told me to turn around. I closed my eyes, partly in shame, and turned to face him. I felt his breath on my stiff willy. I didn't dare look down. And then he began massaging the Germoline into my privates. When he forced my tight, little foreskin back I gasped. When you massage a penis, you are masturbating it, and GV was masturbating me. Only when I started to whimper with excitement did he stop. He stood up, handed me the tin of cream, and told me to apply the stuff again before I went to bed. I mumbled my thanks and pulled my shorts up. GV looked into the Surgery, thanked the nurse, and left.

At the very top corner of the main building block, overlooking the girls' netball courts and the railway track, were the Music Rooms. Originally intended for the boys to practice their musical instruments without their noise disturbing the rest of the school population, the rooms had fallen into disuse. Only one remained a music room, with a straight-backed and out of tune piano. Another was now the Hobbies Room, where boys could construct their plastic kits or their balsa-wood airplanes. And one was empty, except for a sink and a tap and a draining board. It had been intended as a Dark Room for photography but cameras on the school premises were shunned, and so now the room was the favorite place for a sly cigarette. The smoke went out the window, the cigarette end down the sink. It was also the favorite place that I would be taken to perform my sucking duties.

Under the guise of having a smoke they would make the trek up the spiral stone staircase to the Music Rooms, pulling me with them, then wedge the door shut while I "smoked" them. The tap and sink made it easier to clean up afterwards.

Johnson was the most popular boy in our class and one of the most popular in the whole school. He was tall and loud and funny and often outrageous. All the girls - and some of the boys - had a crush on him. I had never had to suck off one of the boys in my own class, and obviously never a boy from a junior class, but on this particular day, whether out of curiosity or boredom or frustration, Johnson invited me up to the Music Rooms with him.

Now, I liked Johnson as much as anyone and was anxious to go along with him, if only to please him and stay in his good books, but I felt uneasy. Johnson was always after the girls and shown no interest in me before. But once we were alone in the room, he went and leaned against the wall by the window and undid his trousers. I went and kneeled down beneath him and put my hand into his pants and released his growing penis. It filled my mouth and I busied myself sucking it and licking it. I was disappointed that he was just like all the rest, but I still wanted to do a good job on him.

While I was sucking away, Johnson produced a cigarette and proceeded to light it with a match. He opened the window, flicked out the spent match and blew a cloud of smoke out into the open air. Three floors down below, groups of girls were playing on the netball courts. I only knew this when they saw Johnson at the open window above and began shouting to him. Johnson responded, shouting down suggestive remarks, and showing off by blowing cigarette smoke out of the window.

And then, in a sudden fit of bravado, Johnson reached down and grabbed my head by the hair, and hoisted me up to the window to reveal my flustered face to the girls below, then shoved me back down again out of sight, and rammed his drooling prick back into my open mouth; making it quite obvious to the girls what was going on. I was mortified and choking on his big prick, I could hear the chorus of shrieks from the girls, shrieks of delight or disgust? Johnson just closed the window, flipped his cigarette into the sink, and filled me with his cum. I bolted it all down then sat alone after he had gone, wondering how I was going to face going into the classroom.

GV cajoled me into joining his Scout troop. Since he had massaged me with Germoline he had treated me kindly, and I enjoyed his History lessons. I didn't really like the Boy Scouts, but the uniform was interesting. GV of course insisted on fitting it on me himself, which involved me stripping naked in front of him. There were week-ends spent under canvas, sometimes within the school grounds, sometimes on the outside. There were hikes and map reading. We slept in bell tents, six or seven boys to a tent. GV slept in his own two-man tent that he shared with his assistant troop leader, a senior prefect called Powell. Whatever else they shared was best left to your imagination.

I think we knew that myself and a couple of other boys were being groomed to succeed Powell in GV's tent once Powell had left after his A-levels. But the scout activities interfered with my art classes, which were my favorite subject. Especially at weekends when the camping conflicted with art trips to the National Gallery in London. After about a year I told GV that I felt I had to leave the scouts. I didn't think there would be a problem, especially as I was one of GV's favorites, but I was not prepared for his petty and spiteful reaction.

After that he went out of his way to pick on me, especially during History lessons, which the only time now that our paths really crossed. We had to complete an essay on the Corn Laws, but because of the trip to the National Gallery, I hadn't been able to finish it on time. GV was not prepared to listen to my excuses and decided to punish me there and then, in front of the whole class. Now slappings and spankings were normally done at night in the dormitory before "lights out". You had to bend over the end of your bed and drop your pajama bottoms. Spankings were rarely performed during class, and never to my knowledge in front of the girls. Even as I protested, GV dragged me out from behind my desk and marched me to the front of the class. Everyone else went very quiet and you could feel the tension in the air.

"Now face the blackboard, drop your shorts and bend over!"

I slowly did as I was ordered. When my shorts were down around my knees, I bent forward and gripped my knees. I was thankful that I still had my underpants to protect my privacy. Then GV stepped up to me and deliberately hooked his fingers into the waistband of my underpants and yanked them down. I heard the involuntary gasp from the class and some nervous titters from the girls. I wanted to cry; not just at the humiliation, but at the unfairness of it all. GV gave me six of the best across my bare buttocks with his hot, hard hand. It must have hurt his hand, because it certainly hurt me. Then, to make matters worse, he told me to go and stand in the corner. When I went to pull up my pants and shorts, he shouted

"Leave them where they are!"

This meant I couldn't walk properly, but had to 'totter' in little steps to the corner, my rosy red bottom wiggling. This caused another outburst of laughter, which GV did nothing to curtail. Only when the bell went at the end of the lesson was I able to escape.

I don't know how old Miss Richards was, she looked about 40 but she could have been 28. She was very short and very fat, she was shaped like a pear and had no ankles. She didn't walk, she waddled. But I adored her. She was the Art Mistress and I was her devoted and star pupil. The school encouraged sport and physical activity but seemed to decry the arts. She had wiry, unkempt grey hair and a lined face and spoke with a West Country brogue.

I never saw her eat so maybe her girth was the result of a glandular disorder. But with a pencil or a brush between her fingers, she was a genius. With a few deft lines and great economy, she could create a cow or an angel, an automobile or a single rose. And she said little and never expressed judgment on others. She must have known all about my reputation, about my dubious sexual orientation, that I was a sucker. We both loved art and the artists. She had a library of heavy, expensive art books, containing copies of the works of the great masters, and some of the erotic works of the not so famous masters. It was the contents of some of these books, and visits to various galleries, that introduced me to the sufferings of the martyrs and the cruelties of the middle ages and the Inquisition. I developed a morbid fascination with the rack and the wheel, and bodies stripped for pain. Sometimes as I sat at the desk and perused these tomes, Miss Richards would squeeze in next to me and keep me in silent company. I know it was "art" but it made my willy go stiff. And she knew.

And then, on a visit to the National Gallery, in a side room, I discovered St.Sebastian. The painting took my breath away. It was slightly larger than life-size. There was this young man, naked save for a loin cloth, bound to a post. His body was pierced with small arrows. He was looking to heaven with a beatific expression on his face.

(Saint Sebastian was a Roman soldier who converted to Christianity, a faith punishable by death. A compassionate officer had Seb transferred to an island outpost to escape persecution. Whether he was a willing homosexual as well as a Christian is not clear, but he was clearly popular with the small, island garrison, who took turns to sodomize him. Following a visit to the island by a local commander the commander ordered Seb to renounce his Christian faith. Sebastian refused. The commander then issued Seb's death warrant. And as a general rebuke to the garrison, he ordered that the execution squad must be drawn from Seb's own fellow soldiers. Like a firing squad, but with arrows, not bullets. On the appointed day his reluctant friends led Seb to the place of execution, stripped him and tied him to a post. But instead of using full size arrows, his friends used small bolts of the kind that they used for hunting small game, like rabbits and hares. And as each man aimed his bolt, each aimed to miss any vital organs. And so Seb ended up with bolts piercing his shoulders, his hips, his thighs and buttocks etc. And his friends released him and nursed him back to health, and, no doubt, continued to bugger him once he was well enough.)

I found the images of St. Sebastian highly homoerotic. One day, while looking at a painting of the saint tied to his post, I asked Miss Richards why such saints were always portrayed with loin cloths to protect their modesty, it didn't seem logical that men who were about to torture you to death would be concerned about protecting your privacy. She suggested that they would certainly have been naked, and it was only the sensibilities of the artists, and the viewing public, that made the loin cloths necessary.

Some weeks later, after an art class when I sat down to admire my martyr's pictures, I noticed there was a piece of paper sandwiched in the book. As I opened the cover, Miss Richards joined me, pushing her heaving flesh into the desk beside me. When I arrived at the page that held the sheet of paper, my heart missed a beat and my mouth must have gaped open in shock.

There before me was a beautiful, fresh watercolor painting, executed in Miss Richard's own unmistakable style. It showed St. Sebastian tied to his post. But this Sebastian's face drew a remarkable resemblance to my own face, but there any similarity ended; this Sebastian had flowing locks and a well-muscled torso. And this Sebastian was completely naked. Moreover, his large penis was not only gloriously erect, it was pierced with a bolt that had passed through his member and pinned it to his stomach. The other bolts were impaled into his fleshy areas. Trails of blood wept from each wound. I was instantly breathless and stiff, speechless and flushed. It was the stuff of my darkest, most secret fantasies.

And then Miss Richards did something quite unexpected and extraordinary; with the side of her little finger she gently caressed Sebastian's rampant penis in upward strokes. It was too much for me and I experienced my first spontaneous orgasm. I think I must have sighed or groaned, or slumped forward, and Miss Richards lay her hand on the top of my bare thigh, just inches from where my stiff willy was pumping out its sticky goo. I couldn't move, didn't dare move. Miss Richards eased herself out from the confines of the desk and took the book away. I fled to the toilets to try and clean myself up.

I used to pose for Miss Richards, while she sketched away with a soft pencil. If it was hot, I would sometimes strip down to my underpants. She never asked me to pose in the nude and I never offered, and I've regretted it ever since. It was as if there was an invisible line that neither of us could cross.

I was as interested and excited by the girls as anyone else, especially those with developing breasts and long legs. Some of the girls liked teasing, and would pop open an extra button on their blouse or let their skirts ride up their thighs. But they weren't really interested in me, not after my "shortcomings" had been exposed to them, and after the humiliations I had suffered. There were special places you could go to spy on the girls when they were playing netball, or hockey, or doing gymnastics. Then you could see them in just their gym slips and shirts, or even better, in navy blue knickers. I remember watching one particular senior girl (Elaine C), she had a bulge in the front of her tight knickers that resembled a peach in size and shape. Her bulge was bigger than mine! The boys went to all sorts of lengths to meet their "girlfriends". I remember one day when a girl (Dian Patterson) approached me and demanded to know whether I had "done it" with her 'boyfriend'.

"Done what?" I asked.

"You know very well what I mean, you little faggot" she replied.

"No, I haven't!" I protested, which was true. I hadn't wanked or sucked Avery Jones.

She looked at me with an expression of disbelief and disdain.

So around the girls I definitely lacked any confidence and suffered from a deserved loss of self-esteem.

When you went into the Fifth Form and began your GCE studies, you were all issued with "longs" (long grey trousers). You queued up at the Clothes Store then went back to the dormitory to change. When I sat on my bed and unfolded my long trousers it was only to discover that they were ripped right up the back seam.

Whether it had happened by accident or design I'll never know. But when I went back to the Clothes Store to change them, it was closed and the duty prefect had gone. And so when we all filed into the Fifth Form, the girls were in their new style blouses and all the boys except me in their longs. The school was very frugal and maintained by charitable donations, so uniforms were worn until threadbare and too small. My shorts were now tighter than ever. It was the last time Angela Brown ever taunted me with her ruler. As we sat behind our desks, she took her 12" wood ruler and reached over to slap me hard across the top of my legs, and poke me in the crutch. But this time, instead of trying to escape her reach, I half-turned to face her, and opened my thighs wide, in an obvious invitation for her to do it again. She became flustered and blushed, and turned away, and lay the ruler down.

After the 'O' levels I returned to the Sixth form to sit the 'A' levels with a view to university. But I left midway through that first term. It was all because of Gorton. I don't know where he is now or what became of him, but I wouldn't be surprised if he ended up in gaol. Because of a shrinking school population the governors decided to relax the strict criteria for admissions, and also to allow older boys in. Gorton was one of these. He never had time to adapt to the school's singular regime and rejected it from the outset.

Because of the entrenched system of seniority where each class held thrall over all those below, it was the rule that a junior obeyed all those senior to him. But Gorton came from an outside culture and broke all the rules, and I must have been his most notable, unwilling victim. Gorton was a well-endowed, aggressive, and muscular 14 year old boy. He wasn't particularly good looking but he had a certain presence, was popular with the girls and feared by the boys; and he knew it. He took every opportunity to remove his shirt and exhibit his finely toned torso and his rich tan. Not content with throwing his weight around with his classmates, Gorton was intent on demonstrating his prowess against more challenging prey. Gorton began targeting me.

I don't know what stoked the fires that burned inside Gorton, what circumstances in his private or family life caused his anger, but the only way he could exorcise his demons was by bullying and intimidating anyone who was unable to stand up to him. He was an alpha male, a potent fourteen year old; I was an ineffectual sixteen-year-old with a paper-thin wall of 'seniority' to protect me. It began with taunts and jibes, and sexual innuendo, and then escalated to veiled threats of physical violence. Fortunately our paths rarely crossed, but I was worried by his antagonism and not a little scared. If it was sex he wanted from me, we both knew he could have his way, (so many lesser boys had), but there was nothing I could do about his attitude toward me.

One Wednesday afternoon I was lured to the Scout hut under false pretences. The Scout hut was a single storey building with two rooms. The front room was the meeting room with low wooden benches and an old camp bed in one corner. The back room held all the camping equipment. A junior told me that GV required my presence there. I thought it was odd as my association with the scouts and GV was well over, but I made my way there all the same. When I walked into the dusty, musty scout hut the door slammed shut behind me.

I turned around in fright to find myself facing a bare-chested Gorton. He was stood with his fists at his sides, clenching and unclenching them. His breathing was labored, almost as if he were hyperventilating. You can only imagine how this made me feel. I wonder how long he had been there, working himself up into a rage. He told me to take my glasses off. (The glasses were supposed to be for reading only but I tended to wear them most of the time). I said nothing because there was nothing I could say. I took my glasses off and laid them on the window ledge. I knew I was in for a slapping.

It began with verbal abuse. He called me all those names that I had heard before, queer, faggot, nancy-boy, cocksucker. And he began stalking me around the room as I retreated. You've seen the way a cat plays with a mouse, swiping it this way and then that with its paw, well that's what this was like, Gorton slapping me across the face, this way and that way, punching at me, poking me in the ribs. Apart from his taunts and insults, and the sounds of our breathing, the rest was silence.

I was suffering in silence. The thought of resistance didn't enter my mind. I knew that if I struck out at him, he would only strike me back harder, and that would add to his pleasure. He cornered me and then pinned me to the wall by my throat. With his other hand he tore my shirt open; the buttons popped off and rolled around the floor. When he had the shirt off me he backed off and the chase resumed. When I held my arm out to repel his punches, he caught hold of my wrist and twisted it until he held me in a 'half Nelson'. Bent over with my arm forced up my back, he wrenched at my fly buttons and then my trousers and pants were coming down. He pushed me down on the floor and freed my pants from my feet. Now I was naked except for my shoes and socks.

Gorton stood back as I got back to my feet. He looked down at my willy and balls and sneered at my privates. I had by now a small growth of pubic hair and my prick was about three inches flaccid and five inches erect. He laughed at my 'manhood' and made the usual disparaging remarks. I noticed Gorton's chest, his breasts were muscular and his nipples large and round and brown. My own nipples were more akin to mosquito bites and my chest narrow and flat. Gorton came toward me again and I obliged him by retreating. Now that I was nude he could enjoy the chase even more. He caught hold of me and pinched and twisted my tiny nipples, digging his fingernails in until I squealed.

Now he started to slap my bottom and grab at my penis. I twisted and turned but I was only delaying the inevitable. Gorton caught me by the hair and pulled me to the rickety metal camp bed that had an old horse-hair mattress on it. He threw me down on to on my back and held me down with a vice-like grip on my throat. (Gorton obviously had a penchant for throats)

With his right hand he reached down and seized hold of my penis and balls, all fitting comfortably within his grip. He grasped them tightly and began pulling me up by them. I looked down to see what he was doing and watched as the head of my willy began to emerge from his grip; it was growing erect! Gorton squeezed harder and pulled harder and began to lift me off the bed. Desperately I raised my hips, lifting my bottom off the mattress to alleviate the pain. But he released his hold on my throat and gave me a swift punch in the stomach, and winded me and I sank back down. He started to twist my genitals and I could see that all that held my body to my sex organs was a thin tube of flesh. Just when I thought they would part and tear free, Gorton let me go. I sank down on the bed, sobbing. Gorton turned away and went into the back room, where all the camping equipment was stored.

Now was my chance to escape, I can hear you thinking, but how was I to escape? I was stark naked, and where would I run to? He would only run after me and capture me and drag me back and it would start all over again, only worse. And so I lay there like a sacrifice on an altar, naked, trembling and with an inexplicable erection. Gorton came back holding a length of cord, the kind we used for the tent guy ropes. He quickly fashioned a noose (the first thing the scouts taught you was how to tie knots) and casually put it around my neck. The scout hut had no ceiling, just open beams, and he tossed the free end of the rope over one of them. Then he began pulling.

I leaped off the camp bed and did what everyone does in the movies; I took hold of the noose with my fingers in order to pull it free. But it doesn't work like it does in the movies. You just end up with your fingers trapped in the noose as well as your neck, your fingers pressing in to your own throat. I gurgled as Gorton pulled down on his end of the rope and soon I was on my tiptoes. I hung there, helpless, barely able to breathe, my whole body as taught as a violin string, but the taughtest part of my body was my penis, which was harder and more aroused than I had ever experienced, and positively drooling. (Explain that!)

Another fallacy is that you struggle when you are being hung. Well maybe you do when you are off the ground, but when you are on the tips of your toes, you remain absolutely still, terrified of the slightest movement that may impede your breath or add to your peril. A string of pre-cum hung down from the end of my penis like spider's gossamer. Then Gorton let go of the rope and I collapsed to the floor, pulling the noose clear from my neck, coughing and gasping and pathetically grateful.

Gorton walked up to me and I knelt before him. He undid his flies and extracted his hard penis. It was like a Mars bar. I mean it was chunky, and brown (mine was a delicate pink) and almost square and heavily veined, just like a Mars bar. I managed to fit my open mouth around it and began gorging on it. In the back of my mind I wanted to bring him off as quickly as I could so that this ordeal would end. But as I serviced him, he began talking. He told me that things were going to be different from now on, that I was to be his faggot, that in future he would say who I had sex with and that anyone wanting sex with me would have to have his permission first. He also said that everyone in the school was to know and that I would be the one to tell them.

As he became more excited and he fucked my face harder, he said that he was going to hang me by my pathetic balls the next time, and that he was going to get one of the girls to smuggle over a girl's uniform and that I would have to wear it for 'special occasions'.

Once he had shot his load into me and I had dutifully swallowed it all down, he slapped me across the face with his shortening prick and made me lick it clean. Then he calmly buttoned himself up and pulled on his shirt, and said, "Can't wait until tomorrow, faggot." And I was left alone on the dusty floor. Again.

The next day, after breakfast and morning roll call, while the rest of the school were at the morning service, I put what few possessions I had into my bag and walked to the playing fields. I went to the far corner and climbed over the fence and scrambled up the railway embankment. I walked alongside the railway tracks to Hatch End station and got onto the platform (bypassing the ticket inspector). I got the next tube train to London Euston. There I made my way to platform 14 and got the train to Manchester (when the inspector came down the carriage, I went to the toilet and closed the door but left the door unlocked and the 'Vacant' sign showing. The inspector went straight by).

Weeks later, I swapped my grey, school uniform shorts for the white uniform shorts of the Navy, and made sure they were a size too small.

Contact Francissy at supersunray@sapo.pt