Perverts 'R' Us

Francis Gets Abused - Part 4

By Francissy ( Mb/b )

When I wasn't being picked on, school life and class work proceeded pretty much as I expect it did in any public or private school. I had my share of friends, some were average boys, and others obviously were faggots or sissies, whom I had much in common with.

One of those average friends was Richard Goody. Or at least I thought he was average, until he began to experience sexual urges that confused or frustrated him. There was a book doing the rounds of the school at the time, it was called "Angelique" by an author named Sergeanna Golon (as I recall). The heroine was a busty blonde at the court of Louis XV who spent most of her time being groped, ravaged or raped. I was well down the pecking order so by the time I got my hands on the book it was well dog-eared.

Richard and I would sit at a desk together and read the sexy bits. When we were sufficiently aroused he would start tickling me, under the arms or in the ribs, and then sometimes in my crotch. Of course, things developed and it led to us lying down together, on our sides, face to face. Then we would embrace and hug each other and rub our hips against each other. I was always anxious to loosen my shorts and lost no time in getting my stiff willy out. I loved the feel of his hands grasping my bottom cheeks. But Richard would never undo his trousers or reveal his obvious erection. Anyway, one day we were lying together in the grass behind the cricket pavilion when we were caught in the act. The boy that caught us was quick to spread the word, but Richard vehemently denied the story and avoided me for ever after!

I was "off school" in the sanatorium, recovering from some stomach bug. The upstairs boys' ward held about twenty beds but on this occasion only three beds were occupied. There was a prefect called Kingswood, a boy from my own class nicknamed 'Chippy', and myself. Chippy was so called because his expertise was at woodwork in the carpentry class. Chippy and I were in beds next to each other while Kingswood was in a bed at the other end of the ward. We had been arguing about something of no import and as Kingswood went out of the ward to visit the toilet, he said to me "Anyway, what do you know about it, faggot?" and disappeared down the corridor.

Chippy leaned over, and said in a quiet, pensive voice, "He shouldn't call you names like that". I was pleasantly surprised at his concern. Chippy was not one of my circle of friends (I hated woodwork!).

"Not to worry," I replied "I'm used to it."

Then Chippy spoke again, almost in a whisper, "It's not your fault if they fancy you."

I looked at him, hardly believing my own ears. Now he had my attention and I wondered what was coming next.

"You can't blame them," he stammered, "I mean, you have got a nice body" and his face flushed flame red and he looked away.

I was touched. I was flattered. I was excited. I couldn't let this opportunity pass.

"Really?" I asked, "Do you think so? What part of my body do you think is nice?'

"I don't know," he mumbled, looking as if he wished he had never started this conversation. But I couldn't let it rest.

I threw back the bed covers. We were both in pajamas. I took off my pajama jacket and said, "Well, it can't be my chest can it?" I said "It's dead weedy."

"I suppose so," replied Chippy.

I jumped up off the bed and stood in front of him. I turned my back to him and pulled on the pajama cord. The knot slipped undone and the bottoms fell down around my ankles.

"Do you think it's my bottom?" I asked innocently. There were seconds of silence as he regarded my bottom. I looked back over my shoulder at him, waiting for a reply.

"Maybe," he said, and gave a nervous cough. I put my hand down to cover my stiffening willy, then turned to face him.

"Or maybe it's my thighs?" I queried. Chippy's hands were under the bedcovers. I could guess where. Then I had to suddenly scramble back into bed as I heard Kingswood returning from the loo.

That night, as we lay in our beds in the fading daylight, I pushed down my pajama bottoms under the cover of the sheets. I glanced at Chippy. He was facing in my direction, still awake. I rolled over to face away from him and contrived to pull the sheet with me, leaving my bare backside exposed to his gaze. Prick teasing gave me such a thrill.

The next morning after the Sister had made her rounds, Kingswood was declared fit and discharged to return to the school. I went off down the corridor to take a shower but "accidentally on purpose" left my towel behind on the bedrail. I stripped off my pajamas and when I got out of the shower I was sporting a stiff willy. Now I had to walk down the corridor and back into the ward, naked and dripping wet. Chippy was sitting up in his bed, reading a comic.

"Silly me!" I declared, "I forgot my towel," and proceeded to rub myself down in front of the ogling Chippy. Of course, drying myself involved a lot of bending and stretching and posing - and showing off my erection.

There were those dreaded places in the school were the more vulnerable boys like me were at greatest risk. As you can imagine, the dormitories, the swimming pool and gymnasium changing rooms, and the bath and shower rooms. All places of communal stripping. The swimming pool was not one of my favorite places. The water was always freezing (they said it was 'heated' but I never experienced any warmth). At the end of the changing room was the 'drying room'. This was a small room lined with scalding steam pipes. They were covered by steel mesh and attached to the mesh were rows of hooks. These were for hanging the damp towels and wet swimming trunks on.

The changing room was always cold and drafty and the floor was always awash, so it was delicious to change in the hot drying room instead. This privilege was naturally claimed by the most dominant two or three boys in the class. There were however occasions when a wimp like me could experience the warmth of the drying room, but not for any pleasurable purpose. Sometimes the tough boys would "invite" me into the drying room. I was dragged shouting and crying into the drying room, losing my towel from around my waist in the process.

They forced me into a corner and then indulged in one of their favorite sports, whipping me with the wet tips of their towels. Naturally as I twisted and turned to avoid the 'cracking' towel whips, their favorite targets were my nipples, bottom and testicles. On the day that I now recall, partway through the session the door opened and in stepped Foster. Foster was sometimes included in the bullies' clique, and sometimes he wasn't, he hovered on their periphery like a dog at the master's table. Foster wanted to join in the fun, but on this day he wasn't welcome and they told him to 'shove off' and slammed the door after him.

When they tired of their sport and I bore sufficient red marks on my body to satisfy them, they cleared off and left me to lick my wounds. I was nude but at least I was warm. The rest of the class, unable to get in to hang up their towels and trunks had left them all in a big, soggy heap outside the door, and it was left to me to hang them all up on the hooks. I was doing this, still nude, when the door slammed shut behind me. I spun around in surprise to find myself facing Foster.

He took a wet towel from the nearest hook and wrapped one end tight around his wrist. "Now it's my turn" he said quite simply.

(I should tell you a little about Foster. I had never seen an albino in real life, but I had read about them, and Foster was what I imagined an albino must look like. I saw several in Africa some years later and I wasn't far wrong. Foster was as pale as a milk bottle, with very thin, fine white hair. He was stocky in build and a little barrel-chested. He was also myopic. He wore a pair of glasses that Mr. Magoo would have been proud of. When he took his glasses off, it was as if his eyes had come off too, because all that remained were two vague slits. I always thought of him as a 'considerate sadist' if that is not a contradiction in terms. Maybe a 'thoughtful' sadist. I could imagine him carefully pulling the wings off butterflies or the legs off spiders, but in a quiet, scientific manner. Other bullies were careless, not caring about the degree of pain or suffering that they inflicted, but Foster's attentions were more studied, as if he were intent on discovering how far limits could be pushed. Later on Foster used to enjoy tying my willy and balls up with football boot laces, then sit back to watch them swell and discolor.)

I considered resisting Foster, but only for a moment. He was dressed and I was naked, he had shoes on and I was barefoot, both considerable disadvantages for struggling or running! I backed up into a corner and turned so that I was side on to Foster, denying him immediate access to my private parts, and covered my testicles with my hands. Foster began whipping me with the towel, scoring hits on my side and flanks, and my bottom. But of course Foster soon tired of this; we both knew the parts that he desired were being shielded from him.

"Face this way and spread out!" he demanded.

Slowly, but with a growing sense of arousal, I turned to face him. I cast down a quick glance at my little, plump penis that was eagerly stiffening. I spread my arms wide and gripped hooks on either side of me to anchor them there; then I deliberately parted my thighs and slightly bent my knees, so that my balls made an easy target for him. Beneath my quivering erection, my tender balls nestled in their hairless little sac. Foster said nothing, but pursed his lips and concentrated on the task at hand. He enjoyed whipping me from nipples down to my thighs, scoring plenty of painful hits on my rude parts.

I was a victim, but not an 'innocent' victim.

The school sports consisted of football, cricket and hockey. (There were also facilities for tennis, swimming and gymnastics). The field sports were conducted on six different pitches, number one was the best and used for competitive matches, pitch number six was the worst and was used for kick-arounds by the rejects that no-one else wanted - the fat, the unfit, the weak, the asthmatic, the short-sighted and the nancy-boys like me.

Sports took place on Wednesday and Saturday afternoons, after the morning classes were over. Pitch six was on a slant and was badly rutted and unsupervised. It was at the farthest corner of the playing fields and adjacent to the chain-link fence that kept us in and the outside world out. On those sports afternoons, men of a certain ilk would congregate at the fence, to observe the games but actually to observe the boys in their ill-fitting shorts. They tended to be solitary souls, together but apart, and often in long raincoats, even when it was dry or mild. I liked to loiter on the touchline, close to the fence and our audience, and with my back to them, I would casually pull up my shorts at the back to reveal the whole of my bottom cheek, and would then 'scratch' an imaginary 'itch'. Having gotten their attention, I would wander over to one of the bushes that grew up along the fence line, and pull up the leg of my shorts to expose my willy. Then I would pee, a cloud of steam drawing the dirty old men closer. When I had finished I would shake the drops off in their direction, and pull back the tight foreskin, and maybe wank it back and forth a couple of times. I just loved teasing them, and imagining what they would do to me if only they could get their hands on me always sent a delicious shiver down my spine.

Contact Francissy at supersunray@sapo.pt