Max Carrington's Coup de foundre

MAX  CARRINGTON’S “COUP DE FOUDRE”

An Erotic Short Story  

by

Jason Land

CHAPTER 1

The other day, late one afternoon, I was walking along a quiet path in the park, when suddenly I experienced what the French call a Coup de Foudre, which literally translates into English as a Bolt of Lightning. Of course I had not been struck by lightning; otherwise I should not be here to tell this story.   Metaphorically, Coup de Foudre also means falling in love at first sight. But in my case I have given it a slightly different meaning, which I will, in due course explain to to you, but which still depends on the immediacy of the expression.  But before I get to that first let me introduce myself and tell you something about myself and then then all will become clear.

My name is Maxim Alexander Carrington, known to all and sundry as Max.  I am twenty-seven years old and I am gay and I make no secret of the fact that I lead a very active gay sex-life which I thoroughly enjoy.   I had the misfortune to lose both my parents in a car accident when I was just twenty.

My father, Alexander David Carrington, had been a stockbroker. I had always known that as a family we were quite well-off, but until the wills were read, just how well-off, I had had no idea. My father had owned outright the stock-broking firm of Carrington and Crawley. At some stage, my father had bought out his then partner, Francis Crawley and had thereby become the sole owner of the brokerage. Later he had sold the firm and at the time of his death was enjoying his retirement. We had never lived in a house but always in a huge apartment on the south side of the park, which is where I now live in solitary splendour. I choose for the moment to live alone, as I have not yet met anyone with whom I wish to share my daily life and, of course, my bed. But I am by no means lonely, as I have lots of friends and lead a very active, gay social-life. So I am quite happy with my lot in life; or so I was until the lightning struck.

My father, with whom I had never been very close, had had the foresight to make early provisions for his ultimate demise. He had taken advantage of every legal possibility to ensure that as much of his wealth as possible came to me and did not fall into the hands of the tax-man. And so, on my parents’ somewhat untimely demise, I found myself a very rich young man. I owned the family flat and  I found myself a millionaire many time over, even after all inheritance taxes had been paid. So all in all, I found that I did not need to work for a living as I could easily live on the income from my capital, which was managed by a firm of investment advisors and accountants.

At the time of the accident I was in my second year at Cambridge, reading history. I went on to graduate aged twenty-one (a lower second, in case you are wondering) and thereafter moved permanently back to live in the family flat south of the park, where I now lead a life which might best be described as foot-loose and fancy-free; and believe me, when I tell you that my fancy really is free.  I have the wherewithal to indulge my tastes and that is what I do.  A hollow life you might think, but I am not unhappy.  But let me tell you a bit about my earlier life and the milestones which conditioned and influenced me.

Like most boys of rich families, I was sent first to a prep school, Frogmore Court, and then on to a public school, Frogmore Academy for Boys.  Both schools were way up north near York, but as my father, my grandfather and my great grandfather before me had gone there, it was practically engraved in tablets of stone at my birth, that I too would also suffer the same fate in the name of a proper education.

Before I was shipped off up north to be educated, I had been a day-boy at a very up-market, private day-school within walking distance of our flat on the south side of the park.  My nanny, whom I loved dearly and knew much better than my mother, used to take me and bring me home on a daily basis. At school, I was called Max both by the teachers (all young females) and my classmates and there was not even a whiff of corporal punishment of any kind. As those of you reading this who  have had the pleasure (sometimes preceded by the epithet: doubtful) of an upper-class public school education, will already know, all that changed dramatically the moment I entered prep school.  My nanny accompanied me on the train up north and saw me settled in the school and I confess I did not want her to leave me there and wept bitterly to be left by myself in this new place where I knew no one

I cannot say with any conviction that I really liked school and I was never, throughout my entire scholastic career from age eight to going on nineteen, a very industrious pupil. Numerous masters said, with some justification, that I lacked application, a most important quality, in their eyes and that if I applied myself, which I never did, I could do well academically. But it was precisely this lack of application, already evident aged eight, coupled with a tendency either to disobey or ignore instructions, which led me to my first encounter with what was to become a constant companion throughout my entire school life:  the dreaded rattan cane.  The birch, thank God, was already a thing of the past, but the cane was omnipresent and in daily use throughout my school career.

I am not at all sure that schools and I got on terribly well together as I found that my backside seemed to require regular communion with the cane, which was in liberal and vigorous use in both schools, irrespective of age; no boy’s arse in any class, right through to the upper sixth, was totally safe. Speaking of my own backside, it seemed as if the cane was drawn to it as if by magnetism; in exactly the way that iron filings are attracted to a magnet.  We are told that the filings arrange themselves along what are called the lines of force of the magnetic field. Well just let me tell you, that from my own experience,  the cane came down its lines of force before landing on my backside, dissipating its entire energy in the form of loud crack accompanied by a great deal of pain. But I am getting ahead of myself; so let me concentrate first on my prep-school experiences and tell you how I was initiated into the much overrated pleasure of bare-bum caning.

CHAPTER 2

My earliest encounter with the very painful experience of having my naked bum beaten, took place very shortly after my arrival, aged eight, at Frogmore Court; oh yes indeed, they began early! As I have already said, I had a rather pernicious streak of disobedience built into my character: an ideal hook on which any master could hang a reason for a beating; which they readily did! Well in my second week at prep-school we were supposed to copy down from the blackboard a number of mathematical sums, additions and subtractions and so on, into our exercise book, and then complete them to give the answers.  I did not really see the point and so I just sat there doing nothing throughout the entire period. Needless to say the master in charge saw what I had done, or better put, what I had not done and was, as the saying goes, sore displeased.

“Carrington,” said Mr. Adams, “What have you been doing for the last half hour?”  It must have been as plain as a pikestaff that I had being doing absolutely nothing and so I did not answer.  “You boy, will come to my study immediately before lunch (there was about a half-hour break between the last morning class and the serving of the midday meal) and I will endeavour to impress on you (on my bum, as it turned out  and a very appropriate choice that word “impress”) the importance of doing your work.  You, Carrington, have all the early makings of a slacker and it is my duty to see that this attitude (a word which dogged my entire school career, usually preceded by the epithet, wrong) is not allowed to continue.”

Highly nervous, I reported to Mr. Adams in his study shortly after twelve. He was sitting behind his desk and in front of him sat a long thin cane. I realised that this was intended for me and was so frightened at the prospect of what might happen that I immediately started to cry.  I had no idea, none at all, of how the cane was used in the school; but I was soon to find out.  “Carrington, I will have no more of your nonsense in class. Is that clear boy? When I, or any the master, tells you to do something, then you do it. Is that clear?  Carrington you are a new boy, but you need to be taught a lesson and I would be lacking in my duty if I failed to teach you that lesson. Take of your blazer, your shoes and your trousers; then go and kneel on that low chair over there, bend across the back and stick your bottom high into the air.”

He had already placed the chair in question in the middle of the room. It was one with a fairly low back and I tearfully went across and did as he had ordered me me.  I knelt on the seat and bent cross the back of the chair, sticking my bum (that’s what I then called it) into the air, clothed only in my underpants. “Carrington, for goodness sakes stop snivelling boy. I haven’t yet touched you; show a little backbone boy, (this to an eight year-old) and keep your tears until later when you truly have something to cry about. Now boy, stand up as I see that you are rather low.  Put that cushion on the chair and kneel on that and then I think you will be at the right height for me to correct you.”

Correct me!  I now knew that I was going to get my bum corrected: a euphemism for a beating with the cane.  Mr. Adams came across holding the cane and told me to bend further over the back of the chair and then, to my utter horror, he pulled down my underpants exposing my bare bum to his ministrations.  I was scared out of my wits by what was about to happen to me, for I had had no idea at all that I was to be caned on my bare bum until the moment he pulled down my underpants.  But that is exactly what happened.  

Remember, I was only eight years old and I suppose that the cane was a light one, destined for younger bums such as mine; but nevertheless as it bit into my naked flesh, I felt I would die. It was the very first time in my life that anyone had ever hit me.  As an infant, my father had never, ever spanked me; and now here I was, a non-swimmer, so to speak, thrown into the deep-end of the pool and expected to be able to swim.  It was horrible and I wept bitterly.  Mr. Adams did not spare himself (no master ever did in, my experience) in his quest to inculcate some notion of obedience into me; and when, after no less than six swingeing cuts, I was finally told to get up and get dressed, I thought my bum was on fire.

I was the first of my class to be caned. I guess all the others, who had heard what Mr. Adams had said to me in front of them, were wondering exactly what would happen to me as none of us knew anything about the punishments dished out – liberally  and vigorously, as it turned out – by the school.  So I was the first and as such, in spite of the pain and my tears, I attempted to put on a brave face in the refectory that lunch time; but I could not bear to sit down because of my sore bum and ate my lunch standing up. And then, of course, before the first class of the afternoon, my all classmates wanted not only to know what had happened, but also to view the damage; and so I became the first (of  many!) to show my wounds to my classmates in that regular exhibition hall: the lavatories.  You could, I suppose say, that I had been well and truly initiated into the system.  Of course, looking back on it now, I suppose I deserved all I got on that occasion, because of my action, or rather my inaction, in class that morning.

I was a pupil at Frogmore Court from age eight until I left, aged thirteen to move to the public school proper, Frogmore Academy. I lost count of the number of times I had to present my bare bum to sundry masters for punishment; but it was pretty often.  And even in the evenings, in the eight bed dormitory where I slept with the same seven schoolmates throughout my prep-school days, we were still under the constant shadow of the cane. There was a cane-happy young man, Mr. Addison, who was called the Dorm Tutor, whose only job seemed to be to police the various dormitories each evening and to mete out a sore bum to any boy whom he deemed needed it.  He was quite capable of caning an entire dorm if he thought the boys needed it.

I can remember one gruesome occasion when I was ten or eleven, and my dorm was having a pillow fight after lights out.  We quite stupidly had thought that the coast was clear, had switched back on the lights and were in the process of merrily battering each other with our pillows, when suddenly the door was flung open and there stood Mr. Addison, brandishing his cane; he always carried the cane with him as he made his rounds and I suspect that every evening some boy somewhere felt his wrath.  Well we stopped immediately we saw him. “The lot of you: pyjama bottoms off and across the foot of your beds and let me see your naked bottoms; and be quick about it.” And then he went from boy to boy and gave him six hard cuts across his naked bum.  We all went to bed with well-beaten bums that night.  One had to admit that Mr. Addison certainly knew how to use the cane.

One thing was quite clear; whether academically gifted or indifferent, as in my case, Frogmore Court prep-school had certainly prepared us for the cane-happy environment into which we were all thrust aged thirteen: Frogmore Academy for Boys.  There were six houses at the school all named after the ruling dynasties of England. I was in Tudor House, as had been my forebears before me; and I was assigned, as at Frogmore Court, to a dorm of eight, four of whom had been my dorm-mates at Frogmore Court and so I did not feel at all lonely. I don’t want to dwell overly on my time at Frogmore, save to say that I was was very often the unwilling owner of a well-beaten arse; the arse being the universally used expression at Frogmore for one’s bottom; the word used by the more verbally restrained, teaching staff when they thrashed it, as they often did.  The prefects, on the other hand, who frankly were much worse than the masters in delivering beatings, all used the word, arse. “Get your pants and underpants down and bend across the back of the chair, boy and let me see your bare arse.” That was the mantra repeated by all the prefects as they prepared to thrash some poor sod.

The Headmaster of Frogmore, Mr. Harrington-Smith was relatively new. He had been at the job for only about two years prior to my arrival. He was a young man, in his mid-thirties at a guess, but he was very much of the old school and approved thoroughly of corporal punishment, of which he himself was a regular and accomplished practitioner. In his first year in the post, he had already built up a formidable reputation of being the hardest caner the school had ever known and even hardened offenders such as me, with highly conditioned and resilient arses, trembled at the thought of a visit to his study. I myself was beaten only once by him and I can tell you that his reputation was totally justified; when he had finished with my backside – twelve strokes, no less – my arse was truly on fire; yes, Mr. Harrington-Smith was truly the greatest creator ever of that Frogmore speciality: the well-beaten arse. He particularly insisted whenever possible, in dealing himself with boys who had been caught either smoking or drinking; and if ever the curative properties of the cane were demonstrated it was then; most lads who were beaten by him for either offence never again chanced their luck; once was enough with Mr. Harrington-Smith. After a classic post-beating viewing of a couple of raw-looking backsides, I myself was never tempted to indulge in either sin; one experience with him had been enough for me.

But if I managed successfully to avoid more than one visit to the Headmaster’s study, I frequently fell afoul of the prefects, who, a cane-happy lot as they always seemed to be, never missed an opportunity to correct me – or anyone else for that matter. One was regularly corrected rather than beaten; I did however wonder if in using the word correction, the correctors, as I suppose we might as well collectively call them, assuaged their consciences when in fact they really just enjoyed beating a boy’s naked backside and any excuse was better than none. But if the person giving the correction is the corrector, what do we call the receiver of his largesse: the correctee? Corrector is word to be found in the Oxford dictionary; correctee, alas not!  So although we all understand what it means, correctee is incorrect! The same problem arises as you will see later in this narrative, when I get to my sexual exploits as there seems to be no adequate, proper vocabulary in gay sex to describe the purveyor and the receiver of the sex act.

Anyway, to come back to earth, I was beaten at least once by every Head-boy, not to mention sundry other prefects, from my first year at Frogmore to my entry into the upper sixth. I well remember their names as clear as if it were yesterday: In chronological batting or should I say beating order: Tomlinson, Braithwaite, de Vere, Smythson, Roxby-Cox and in the lower sixth, the Honourable Jeremy Patterson, whose father was an Earl or some other high-flown aristocrat.  I remember particularly well that both he and de Vere had a mean way with the cane and it seemed to me that the higher you got up the social scale, the worse they  became. Was it, I wondered, if what one might call the top-tier families, thrashed their male offspring from birth, so that the cane and its regular use became part and parcel of their lives.  It certainly seemed like that to me; and it felt like that too, as de Vere and Patterson were both totally unforgiving with the cane; tolerance and mercy were not qualities of which either of them appeared to have heard. And do please remember that all beatings were on the bare; so a well-beaten arse could be said to be emblematic of Frogmore, thereby amply justifying its universally used nickname among us boys: Flogmore. All in all, had such an accolade been given, I guess I might have been named the most beaten arse of the year in most years; but if not every year at the top of the pile, I was always up there with the best of them.

CHAPTER 3

But to progress my story beyond the beatings, I was, I suppose, and average student, with marks somewhere about the average for the class. But I did excel at sport and played rugger throughout my entire school career, finishing up in my final year in the the Frogmore Senior XV. They were the side which the school fielded in the All England Public-Schools Rugger competition and it was mark of prestige to be included in the team.  I was also a keen gymnast and sent a lot of time training in the gym, which really did pay off in terms of my body, which as I grew towards adulthood, blossomed out into a well proportioned muscular physique of which I was justifiably proud.

I must have been about fourteen or fifteen, when the male sex hormones start to work their magic on me, that I realised I was more interested in looking at other boys than at girls.  By the time we were all fifteen, pushing sixteen and our penises were growing apace and pubic hair was sprouting vigorously, the perpetual topic of conversation among my classmates was the other sex, with whom we had precious little contact, stuck out in the sticks as we were, in a boys-only boarding school. It was about then that it hit me in earnest that my growing sexual desires were totally focused on my own sex. Of course, in what passed for the the modern and enlightened world in which we then lived, we all had been informed of the facts of life and many of other lads were looking forward to using their cocks (for that was how we now referred to our penises at Frogmore) on the first available female who was willing to take the plunge. In our sex education classes, homosexuality had been mentioned and then immediately swept under the carpet as something we need not bother about as it did not really concern any of us. How on earth did they know? It was just wishful thinking and misguided wishful thinking at that. As all the staff at any boys’ boarding school or institution, where boys are taught exclusively by male teachers, knows, the totally male environment is a hotbed breeding-ground for male sex. To pretend otherwise is tantamount to saying black is white! But that is what they tend to do: they either deny that it exists or think that by not talking about it, it is not there.

Well to cut to the chase, after numerous fumbling attempts with some of my schoolmates, where we jerked off together and sometimes fondled each other’s cocks and arses and rubbed ourselves against each other, my true initiation into gay sex, an act which was to change my life ever, occurred when I was seventeen and in the lower sixth; and it was with one of the masters and not with one of my classmates that I had my first true taste of anal sex; and for my sins, I liked it and took to it like a duck takes to water.

Mr. Richard Harris was our handsome and muscular, young PE instructor, whom I secretly admired enormously; I guess you could say that I was smitten; that I had a crush on him in the way straight guys have a crush on a girl; and when he was in his teaching kit of white singlet and tight shorts which showed all of us that important package which we all carry between our legs, I found myself becoming hard just looking at him. He was new at Frogmore that term and it was his first appointment after leaving training school. He could only have been about twenty-two or three at the time.  But as any of you readers who have benefitted from a public school education will know, PE instructors tend to run to type; and Mr. Harris was no exception.  As far as I can see, most PE teachers have a distinct bullying streak in their make-up. They may not realise it themselves, but they have a nasty tendency to conduct their classes with a belt or some similar flexible object in one hand and have no compunction at all in swiping it across the rump of any boy whom they deem to be slacking.  So in the case of Mr Harris, there was rarely a PE class where some boy or other did not get a swat with the belt across his arse; and just let me tell you that in thin cotton gym shorts, one swat from  Mr. Harris with his belt was enough. But Mr. Harris, clearly the product of a public school education himself, went much further than a quick slap with the belt in the gym; he would summon an errant boy whom he deemed needing correction (that horrible word!) to his office, make him drop his pants and give him a proper caning on the bare. 

One had to admit that never made us do anything which he could not do himself, but he was not exactly a popular figure in spite of his attractive outward appearance. As one class wag appositely put it:  “Looks can often be deceptive. Who would guess that beneath that charming exterior beats a heart of solid stone?” Nevertheless, in spite of all his faults, I personally absolutely adored the guy; on one occasion he stripped of his vest in the gym at the end of a class as he dismissed us. So we all got a glimpse off his beautifully muscular upper-body. Well what with that and the tight shorts he was wearing, which left little to the imagination of the size of what he packed between his legs, I can tell you that aged seventeen, I almost fainted with desire; a desire which had I been given the chance I would have then had no idea how to fulfil; I was so hot for the guy just from looking at him that I almost climaxed in my pants.  But little did I know then, that he had his eyes on me.

It was towards the end of the autumn term in mid December that a group of us, under his supervision, had been out for a long run.  He had run with us all the way and on arriving back at school we all went straight to the showers with the instructions from him not to dawdle or else.  He, having given this warning went off to his office which has its own shower room adjacent. I am sure that we would have all enjoyed seeing him strip off and shower with us: I know I certainly would have, for I was dying to see the size of his cock; but as you will all appreciate as an uninitiated, latent homosexual, other men’s bodies, especially their sexual credentials, were of great interest to me. Well, as you will now learn, today was to be a defining moment in my life; in fact, one might say, the defining moment in my life: the event which I shall never forget until my dying day.

In spite of the admonition not to dawdle in the showers, that is exactly what I did. Was it a conscious act on my part or did I do it subconsciously in the hope that something – but what – might happen?  Anyway my running-mates were long gone both from the showers and the adjacent changing room; but I was still there, now totally alone, with the hot water flowing over me.  Like most of my schoolmates of my age, I had relieved my own sexual tensions by masturbating on a fairly regular basis; an act which had been made easier by the fact that sixth formers, both lower and upper, each had their own study-bedroom as distinct from the communal dorms in which we had all hitherto slept. We all had what we called our wank rag: a handkerchief in which we caught our emissions to avoid soiling our beds and which we then surreptitiously dropped into the laundry basket from time to time.

Standing there under the shower, thinking lustfully about Mr. Harris, I had become quite hard and so I started to masturbate: to jerk myself off when suddenly came a loud voice: “What boy, do you think that you are doing under that shower, from which you should be long gone?”  It was, of course, Mr. Harris, who had come to check that everything was OK and that we had all gone. “Carrington; turn of that shower immediately; dry yourself off, boy; then put back on your running shorts and come with me.” He showed no sign of embarrassment that he was confronting a boy sporting a huge erection, as he waited for me to dress. I could not control my cock which, with its total disdain for my wishes, remained rock-hard as I stood there looking at my idol. Not for nothing and without justification is the penis often referred to as a man’s “‘uncontrollable flesh,” for it most surely is; it takes absolutely no notice of its owner’s wishes. This for me was one of those horrible moments when you feel like treating your cock like a dog and saying: “Down Fido, down boy,” even when you know you would be wasting your breath. So I had some difficulty in pulling back on my shorts due to this ungainly rod sticking inconveniently out at an angle of 45 degrees to my body.  With my shorts finally more or less in place, I started to reach for my running shirt. “Leave that Carrington; you’ll do just as you are! Follow me boy.”  So I followed him to his office, barefooted and wearing nothing but a pair of well tented shorts.

“Right, Carrington, shorts off and let me see you put your arse across the back of that armchair there; you boy, need to be corrected and believe me when I say that I have every intention of doing just that.  So get out of your shorts boy; take them off completely let me see a well presented bare arse, in the best tradition of this school,  across the back of that chair; come on; jump to it boy.” What hit me immediately was that he had twice referred to my buttocks, which he was clearly going to beat, as my arse.  Now although this vulgar word for a boy’s bottom was lingua franca, common parlance among the pupils of the entire school, including the prefects, it was never, ever used by any master intending to beat a boy; he always referred to that part of one’s target anatomy as the bottom. So my antennae were already sharpened by what I had heard. Why had Mr. Harris, a master, albeit a junior one used that word? I was intrigued as I obeyed his instructions, stepped out of my shorts and bent, totally naked, across the back of the armchair to receive my punishment. 

Given the formidable reputation for our PE instructor with the cane, I was not particularly enamoured by the thought of what was about to happen to me. But I was relieved that I was bending across the back of a padded armchair and not a hard wooden one, as it at least meant that my cock and balls were more or less comfortable, settled against a padded surface rather than the hard wood of a normal chair. “Carrington, I am giving you six, with a senior cane, Keep perfectly still and brace yourself boy, for this is going to be painful, which is the objective of the exercise.”

But then, as he applied the cane, which he really did know how to handle and it hurt like bloody hell, I discerned a difference in his approach as he did not make that classic appreciation pause between each stroke, but instead just went on and applied one cut immediately after the other, with none really low down towards my legs, where it really does sting like hell-fire.  So the whole beating was over and done with in twenty seconds, whereas as six stroke caning, nicely paused in the classic manner, would have taken well over a minute. But paused or not, by the time he had finished with me, my arse felt well and truly roasted and it was clear to me from this one experience, that Mr. Harris justified his reputation as a hard caner. But why had he decided to get the whole thing over with as quickly as possible?  Normally, whatever the beater claims, there is always a certain sadistic pleasure to be had in making the process as slow as possible; to savour every stroke as it lands on its poor victim.  But this time this was not evident; it had been smash, bang, wallop, finished.  However the sequel soon unfolded.

“Stay exactly as you are, Carrington. I may have been a bit heavy on you with the cane today and I will apply a little calming lotion to try to lessen the pain which I know you are feeling” So, naked as I was, I remained bent across the back of the armchair whilst he massaged whatever cream he had to hand into the welts he had etched across my arse. I had never before experienced such concern either from any master or prefect who had just beaten me; and there had been plenty over the years.  But I did find the cream or lotion he was applying very effective; it calmed down the immediate sting of the cane very effectively and left me with a warm sort of feeling across my entire rump; and although he was massaging an area which was still painful to the touch, I found his massaging of my raw arse very erotic.  My erection had subsided quite a bit as he had applied his cane, but now with the massaging I was receiving, I could feel myself hardening again.

“Spread your legs a little wider, Carrington, as I have another product which I find very effective and would like you to try.”  I complied, giving him more or less access to the full depth of my crack and a clear view of my anus.  He applied what seemed like an oily lotion liberally all over my arse and down into the crack and started to massage me more and more vigorously.  His fingers probed ever more deeply till they found my port of entry which he gently began to massage. Then I felt a stream of whatever he was using being poured into my crack and his fingers urging it inside me. In spite of the pain I felt as he massaged the welts he had just given me, I found the experience very stimulating; so much so that I could feel my cock getting really hard.

“Carrington, I think you might appreciate a little internal stimulation to palliate your pain. Do you want to try it and see how it feels?”  I said nothing, which he took in the affirmative. I hear him unzip his own shorts and recognised the noise of a man stripping off his clothes. I imagined he was now standing there behind me nacked and was about to fuck me. I was already theoretically aware of what sexual intercourse involved and although we had glossed over the male-male question in our sex education lectures, it was obvious that there was only one place where a man could insert his penis into another man.  I could have pulled out at that moment but I did not, as I knew I wanted it to happen: I just wanted to be fucked by Mr. Harris. And so the next thing I knew was when the head of his cock was pushing against my anal sphincter attempting to force its entry into me.  Here was a man, whom I secretly idolised, about to give me my first true sexual experience; so why not let him go ahead? In fact, I was more than willing to let him fuck me.

And so I just relaxed and allowed him to shaft me.  My anal sphincter resisted the firm thrust of his penis only briefly and then I felt, for the first time, another man’s cock inside of me as he smoothly, in one long gentle stroke, served me with his full length.  Once he had fully taken me, he paused for a few seconds and then, very gently at first, began to pump me with his cock.  There had been a sharp pain which had caused me to cry out as he made his first entry, but after that whatever discomfort I experienced was subsumed in the enormous pleasure I felt as I was being well and truly fucked for the very first time. It was for me that wonderful, first time experience which was made even more so by the fact that I saw that I was in the hands of a highly experienced cocks-man.  His pumping increased in both amplitude and vigour as he progressed more deeply into the act of copulation;  and then I suddenly sensed by the urgency and the speed of his actions that he himself had now become totally in the grip of the act; that he could no longer help himself.

He had been very gentle to start with, as I guess he knew that it was my first time; but now all caution was thrown to the wind as he became ever more vigorous as he was compelled by nature to satisfy his own needs. How did I, a sexually totally uninitiated and inexperienced young man divine all this? Well it just seemed obvious from his change in manner; he passed from being the gentle teacher and initiator to his own clear need for self-satisfaction as he strove to reach his climax.  Finally he climaxed, after withdrawing himself totally from me and thrusting his rock-hard member one final time into my hole. By this time I was myself almost delirious with pleasure and suddenly, without ever having touched my own cock, which had, by now, risen nobly to the occasion, I simultaneously shot a huge wad of my own sperm across his belly. It was for me, and I suppose also for him an unbelievable moment.  We both climaxed together; had it been by design or chance I wondered; but no matter, for it had been the most wonderful experience of my life to date and I suddenly felt totally liberated from all my doubts about my own sexuality: I knew that I had arrived: I knew that I was homosexual: I knew that I was a gay man and I felt totally at ease with myself.

Mr. Harris pulled himself away from me and said: “Max why don’t; you get up now. You took all that very well: in fact, very well indeed and that goes for both the beating which I had to give you as I cannot have any boy, not even a sixth former, ignoring my my instructions and also what followed. That was you first time wasn’t it? I’m talking about what we just did together, not the beating as I know that you have been beaten many times in your school career.”

I slowly pulled myself onto my feet from the bent position in which I had spent the past ten minutes or so; but I also noticed that he had called me Max, my nickname (how did he know that?); something totally unheard of by a master to a pupil at Frogmore, where surnames were still de rigueur.  As I straightened myself up, I felt a surge of pain from my backside reminding me that he had just give me a really hard caning; but  I smiled inwardly to myself as the thought occurred to me that here I was in the rather unique position of being a boy sporting simultaneously both a well-beaten and a well-fucked arse. I then turned around and saw my dream- man for the first time.

 In the flesh he was everything I had ever imagined him to be. As I saw him naked for the first time, he was pulling off a rubber condom full of his sperm which he had worn whilst he had been fucking me. He was perfectly proportioned, with a breathtakingly beautiful, muscular body and as for his penis, whose prowess when in action was not in any doubt, well it just left me green with envy: a benchmark to which I hoped one day to aspire and, hopefully, equal: a truly inspirational piece of man-meat. Mr. Harris was circumcised, something not all that common among Englishmen, although I have noticed since, among my numerous sex partners that it seems to be gaining ground these days.  It had now softened as if to take a rest from its recent labours and was falling gracefully, some six beautifully proportioned inches of glorious male-meat, across a pair of well defined but tightly held balls, as if just waiting to be called again into service: all in all a very erotically enticing sight for me; and this man had deigned to share this magnificent implement with me, one of his students. I could hardly believe what had happened to me; it was an unrealisable dream come true.

All this flashed through my mind as I took in this glorious sight of a man whom I had so long admired with my eyes in the gym. For a moment or two, we both stood there, totally naked, each admiring the other without any apparent feeling of embarrassment. I know I certainly did not feel at all embarrassed at my nakedness; and as far as I could discern, neither did he; which is extraordinary when you think that he, the master had just, in a way, sexually assaulted one of his pupils. One might have expected that he, the perpetrator of the act, certainly forbidden at Frogmore, might have been anxious to palliate things with his pupil and seek some assurance that it would remain strictly between them alone and go no further; for were it ever to see the light of day, he would be sacked for his actions, as sure as eggs are eggs. But it had not been like that at all, as I had been a willing party to what had just happened. Unexpected though what had happened had been, I did not feel I had been violated at all and was full of gratitude for what he had just done, not only to me, but also for me – the sex that is: not the whacking. But if to have another round of sex with him I had to take another beating, then I would gladly have done so. So to hold his action over him as a threat, something which an unscrupulous person might see as a potential means of blackmail was something which never crossed my mind.

Then I realised that I had been asked a question: “Yes sir, you are  quite right, it was my first time; but if I may be so bold as to say so sir, I would like to thank you very much indeed for having shown me what I now see as my true light. I have long thought that I was gay, sir, but your action sir, has settled any lingering questions I still had lurking at the back if my mind about my true sexuality.  I have known for several years sir, that I had eyes only for other boys and never for girls; and after what you did to me just now sir, I know now with complete confidence that I am gay: I am a homosexual young man sir. And if I may say so sir, I really enjoyed having my arse fucked by you sir, if you will pardon the vulgarity of the expression. And if I may ask you a question sir; how did you know that I was potentially gay and what I suppose must count as an anal virgin, as you seem to know that it was my first time and how did you know my nickname was Max sir?”

“Well Max – and I think, under the present circumstances, you might call me Richard in private – that was quite a speech, coming from a man as young as you. But you have clearly thought a lot about your own sexuality and I am sure that you are already very aware of what the fact that you are homosexual implies for your future life. I am, of course, delighted that you enjoyed your first act of sex with me.  How did I know that you were gay and how did I know your nickname?  Well young man, I too have eyes and I know you have had eyes for me in the gym for several months now, very often focused on my crotch; I just knew that you had what is usually referred to as the hots for me. As for your nickname, well I just asked casually around.  Now I don’t want to flatter you, but in the same way that you were attracted sexually to me, which you most certainly are, I find you, young man, equally attractive. You have to understand that even though I am a master and somewhat older than you, I am also, like you a young homosexual male with all the desires which go with that persuasion.  The fact that I have a job as a school teacher does nothing to change that desire.”

“So, as I could see, we were both attracted to each other but that you personally, by virtue of our relative positions of master and pupil in this school, could do nothing to initiate a contact between us going beyond that of pupil and master, I decided that I had to act as, quite frankly Max, I really did want to have, and for that matter, still do want to have sex with you.  Max, I have to confess to you that I find you an utterly and lusciously desirable, young man, like a piece of fruit hanging there, ripe for the picking. In short Max beauty and desire are in the eyes of the beholder and in our case both are, fortunately, mutual. Had you had eyes for a boy of your own age or even one in the upper sixth and initiated some typical public school love affair, then I would never have acted. But you clearly did not have a sex-partner among your class mates, as I am well aware, which you yourself do not appear to be, of who is buggering whom in our sixth forms.  Whether the Headmaster is aware of this, I do not know; but I personally believe in and practise a policy of live and let live and as sex is such an important and omnipresent fact of life, whether openly acknowledged or not, why stir things up if not necessary, even if you know that rules are being broken?”

“Most of these school boy infatuations will end when the lads leave school, separate and move on with their lives; and most lads will then lead normal heterosexual lives as they enter into normal heterosexual society, which is denied to boys in public schools. It is precisely that denial which leads to what many died in the wool traditionalist school masters, of which our Headmaster may well be one, call unnatural practices. But in your case, Max, I think that you are like me; I think that when you leave here, you will become a confirmed practising gay young man. Like me Max, you will just have to face a life in which you enjoy those so-called unnatural practices. And let me tell you that if you are of the true blood as I think you are, unnatural practices can be very enjoyable indeed.”

“Anyway, listen young man: we cannot stand around like this just gawping at each other. I think you should move on into what I think of as the payback mode.  So far Max, you have allowed me to do all the hard work and I think it is time that you started to earn your keep, so to speak, and did something for me in return.” Then with his eyes fixed firmly on my rapidly hardening cock he went on:  “I see that you are already rising to the occasion and should have no problem in meeting what I think you should see as your duty to me. And as for what is, in polite language, often referred to as your endowment, well let me just assure you Max, that for a young man going on eighteen, you are superbly well equipped; I can tell you that many older men would be green with envy if they could see the size of your man-meat; so shall we get on with the next phase of your education?”

“Sir, you can’t mean what I think you mean; or can you?  You can’t expect me to have sex with you: it just doesn’t seem right sir.” My immediate nervousness had made me slip back into the master-pupil relationship; I had said: to have sex with you, when what I should have said was: to fuck you; But I simply could not bring myself to say the word fuck to him again.  Just think about it for a moment; we had already had sex together and he had done precisely that: he had fucked me and what he now wanted in return was me to fuck him. “After all sir, you are my PE teacher and I am your student and it just does not seem proper sir, that you should want me to do to you what you have just done to me.”  Here again I used a circumlocution, avoiding the use of that word, which I just could not bring myself to say.

“Max, listen to me young man. What I just did to you, many people would call improper; but I did it nevertheless; and, moreover, you allowed me to do it and you enjoyed it.  So for goodness sakes young man, just stop being a potential prude and learn to call a spade a spade.  Now, I have just fucked you; yes that is the word commonly used by guys like us to describe that act of anal sexual intercourse which we have just had together. So in straight forward, unambiguous English what I did was to fuck your arse and now I want you to do the same for me.  Max, with me, sex is a reciprocal, give-and-take business:  you took from me and you must now give me something in return; so stop dithering about, roll a condom onto that hard piece of meat of yours between your legs, lube me up as I did you and let’s get on with it.  The fact that I am your teacher and you are my pupil is irrelevant in the present situation. We are just two young men, attracted to each other and we are having sex together. Max, just face the fact: you do want fuck me; your cock is telling you that; it’s getting impatient; so just get on with it.”

In those few words, Richard had taught me not to shy away from the obvious and to accept the verbal vulgarisms attached to the sex act.  He was, of course, absolutely right; I did want to fuck him. He had given me my first time as the receiver and I now wanted desperately to have him as my first-time partner as the giver, when I would attempt to repay him for what he had done for me.  But I still felt vaguely uneasy about myself, a schoolboy, albeit almost of age, actually being the prime mover in an act of anal sex with my PE master. But if I still had reservations, Richard had none.  I was very unsure at that moment, of just how we were supposed to approach one another in this, my first act of active copulation. But I need not have worried as Richard simply bent across the back of the armchair where I had first presented my naked arse to him to be caned and subsequently fucked, spread his legs and said:  “OK, Max let’s go: the condoms and lubes are there on my desk. Roll a rubber onto your cock and then give my hole a really good dose of lubricant and then away you go.”

I had never seen a rubber condom until I saw Richard pulling off the one he had worn whilst he initiated me into the joys of anal sex.  I knew about them, of course, but I had never actually held one in my hand until now.  It was in a small, sealed foil packet, which I tore open and took the object in my hand for the first time. I looked at it and saw that it had a teat. Richard seeing that I was fumbling said helpfully: “Make sure as you roll it onto yourself that you have it the right way round  and squeeze the teat flat, otherwise you’ll find your knickers in a twist.” I did as he said and saw that the condom was already pre-lubricated with some sort of jelly. Then I took the bottle of lubricant and applied a good dollop to Richard and massaged it well in with my fingers. “Make sure you get some inside me as I want to be well lubed before you start: it makes for a more comfortable fuck.”

There was that word again; Richard had no qualms about using it. I stood there, my cock hard to attention, veiled for the first time in that thin rubber film of the condom, with Richard, his arse well lubed up, waiting for me to penetrate him.  I confess I still had a funny feeling about what I was about to do, but the moment of truth had arrived as I prepared to surrender what was left of my young virginity to my PE teacher’s arse; I was about to embark on my first ever fuck: something I had long dreamed about, but which had arrived, without warning, sooner than I had ever thought possible.  I had just experienced what I was now about to do to Richard and so I held Richard’s hips as I gently pushed the tip of my rubber-clad cock against his entrance.  I had no idea at all of the structure of that part of a guy’s anatomy and I was surprised by the resistance I first felt as my erection came up against his muscular, anal sphincter.

Richard encouraged me and told me to insist: to push with greater force, which I did and suddenly the head of my cock slid inside of him and then, thanks to the pre-lubrication he had insisted on, the full length of my shaft followed smoothly. I had a sense of exhilaration as I sank my meat for the first time into another man. The moment of no-return was passed and it was now a moment to savour and remember; how can any guy ever forget that first time when he shares his most precious physical possession with another person? With another man or with a woman; the sex of the receiver matters not at all; that act of first time penetration has to be one of the all-time revelations of his life: a never-to-be-forgotten moment.  From then on deep inside Richard as I now was, any doubts I still might have had about what I was doing just vanished.  I was engaged, for the first time, in what is a man’s most fundamental and basic act: I was copulating. I needed neither encouragement nor instructions on what to do; it all just seemed so natural; which I suppose it was; for copulation is a pastime without which a man cannot live.  And so, I started pumping Richard, gently at first as he had done with me and then as I grew more deeply emotionally involved in what I was doing, I pumped him harder and harder.  Richard encouraged me in my task saying that he liked rough sex and that I should fuck him as hard as I could and I can tell you I needed little exhortation to do just that. If he had told me to stop at that stage, then someone would have had to physically pull me away from him. 

I finally climaxed and whilst I was still deep inside him, pumped what seemed to be an endless stream of sperm into the condom.  I cannot claim that I brought him to a simultaneous climax with my own that first time, as I really had never thought about the relationship between the two partners in an act of copulation. Richard just grabbed his own cock, which was quite stiff and in a few masterful strokes brought himself to a climax just a few seconds after my own.  He had had the foresight to place a towel on the seat of the chair to catch what he clearly had known would be his copious emission. It was the first intimation to me as a novice, of just what a messy business male sex can be: a marvellously satisfying experience, but oh so very messy! I could barely believe what a wonderful experience I had just had. I had jerked myself off many times as most lads of my age have done, but the orgasm I experienced actually copulating with another man was in a different league.

We clung together for a minute or so in silence, before I withdrew myself from my partner and he pulled himself back up from over the chair.  He looked at me and then put his arms around me and gave me a huge hug. We were  both silent for a moment and our still hard cocks bounced against each other as he rubbed his hands up and down my back and said: “Well Max, that was really some first time effort: I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did. You know, you were really great; and I am not saying that to flatter you; that, young man, was one hell of a fuck you just gave me. Frankly it’s hard to believe that you had never done it before.”  I was blushing but full of pride in myself at such compliments: flattery or not, I was flattered!  Then suddenly, he pushed me against the table and lifted my arse onto it. Then he reached down and pulled off the rubber I was still wearing and rolled a fresh one to his own cock.

“OK Max: let’s have a bit of fun to end your initiation into the joys of gay sex; let’s call it one for the road.  Put your arms round my neck and your legs around my waist and hang on tightly.”  I had no idea what he intended to do, but I did as he had asked me. He then lifted me off the table with me hanging onto him by my arms and legs before he somehow managed to penetrate my arse again in the standing position.  It was sort of a feat of sexual acrobatics, but then as a PE teacher and a pretty strong guy at that, he was well able to support me and fuck me standing there; and that is exactly what he did.  He was extremely vigorous as he moved towards his climax but I could see from his face that he was watching me very closely, holding himself back until he judged that I was about to reach my own orgasm. He then gave me one final, monumental thrust to bring the two of us to orgasm together. This was my third orgasm within less than an hour, but it was every bit as good as the previous two. My respect and and admiration for Richard, whom I now considered as a peerless mentor in matters sexual, grew the more I saw of him.  I saw that he was an absolute expert at gay sex and admired the way in which he had not only tried but had also succeeded in taking me, an inexperienced novice, with him all the way to orgasm.

He had not simply seduced me into letting him fuck me after beating my arse with his cane, but had also shown me that copulation was a joint act from which both participants, the fucker and the fuckee (I’ll come back to these words later) had to achieve sexual satisfaction.  He had, from the beginning, shown me the importance of that fact so that the act he committed did not finish up as just another banal act of buggery. I counted myself lucky to have had Richard as my first partner.  His actions had set me on the road to true happiness as a young homosexual man as his ideas of what was right and wrong had already rubbed off onto on me.

He finally put me down and I pulled back on my shorts and shirts and prepared to leave. I thanked him profusely for what he had done and I saw that things would never again be the same between us; which was of course true, as during the next two terms and the whole of my final year in the upper sixth, we communed together at least twice a week in the privacy of his study. And so it was that when I finally left Frogmore, nineteen years of age, I left as a fully experienced and practising gay young man.

CHAPTER 4

However, that fatidic day, as I left his study a totally changed young man, he suddenly made things quite clear. “Well, Carrington, I think that is all for today; let that be a lesson to you young man, for make no mistake, sixth former though you might be, I shall have no hesitation in thrashing you again if the need arises.”

“Yes sir, I totally understand; thank you for correcting me sir.”  And with formality between us as master and pupil thus restored, I left: I was again Carrington and he was Mr. Harris. And so, without spelling it out, it was understood that what had passed between us was totally private and certainly not for public consumption; outwardly nothing appeared to have changed, but both he and I knew that things between us had changed forever.

That night I lay in bed in my study-bedroom, thinking about the events of the day: my beaten arse, which was still throbbing with pain: the totally unexpected introduction to gay sex and the exquisite pleasure which that had given me.  I lay there wondering about how one should refer to two men who were having sex together.  I knew that a common description was top and bottom, but somehow that seemed to me a description which lacked backbone and which avoided the issue of what actually happens.  The commonly used, vulgar expression for the act of copulation, whether homosexual or heterosexual, is to fuck, and I saw that Richard himself had not hesitated to use the word, which although I used it myself mentally, I had never actually said but once to him aloud. But it did neatly sum up in one short word, what the act was all about and everyone knew precisely what it implied. 

And so a day or so later, I consulted the Oxford Dictionary to see whether there was any definition of the giver and receiver of the sex act between men, based on the verb to fuck. It was not very helpful; other than to define what the word implied pointing out that it was a vulgar expression and then went on to give the meanings of the modern day, much used expressions:  to fuck about and to fuck up, both of which have devalued the essential carnal implications of the original word.  So I then consulted the internet which was equally unhelpful until with a stroke of imagination I entered fucker and fuckee. You can see my thinking; if interviewer and interviewee, then why not fucker and fuckee?  And to my delight I hit what the Americans would have called pay-dirt.  The Urban Dictionary recognised both fucker as the one who delivers the sex act act and the fuckee as the receiver of the same. Not only did my inspired (I am blowing my own trumpet here) entry give me a satisfactory answer to my question, but there were endless other references where both words had been used many times in the past. So the Urban Dictionary which is, I learned, an on-line dictionary of slang words, came up trumps and I feel vindicated now to use those two words to define the participants in the gay sex act.  Of course, to be fair, they describe equally well the act of heterosexual copulation; but there, there is never any doubt as to who does what to whom, whatever words are used to describe the male and female participants.  So there you have it in gay sex; the fucker and the fuckee resolve all ambiguity in the action.

The end of term was upon us.  Richard and I got together just once after that my first glorious introduction to gay sex, after which I left for the Christmas holidays with my parents.  I have tell you that I felt quite depressed for the two weeks I was away from school, deprived of any potential sex to which after only two sessions with Richard, I had had already become quite addicted. 

The new term started on January 7th and to fast forward my sex life until I left school school a year the following June to go up to Cambridge that autumn,  Richard and I were constant communicants. I almost said lovers, but I am not sure that that would properly describe our relationship: I did not love him after my first crush had dissipated itself; nor did he love me; but we both clearly lusted after each other. The miracle of our affair was that we managed to keep the whole thing to ourselves or those five terms.  No one at school knew, nor did my parents, and when I went up to Cambridge they still had no incline that their son was gay. In fact when they died in the car accident a few years later, they died in ignorance of my sexual preferences.

Twice during my second and once in my third term in the lower sixth, Richard was as good as his word and thrashed my naked arse no less than three times for various offences which I had committed in the presence of others of my classmates and which he could, therefore, not overlook.  But as on two of the occasions I was alone when he beat me, sexual stimulation followed. And you know what?  I really enjoyed being fucked by him straight after being beaten; it somehow added a really erotically voluptuous note to the whole business of sex. But in spite of the very close physical relationship he and I enjoyed together for well over a year, when I left Frogmore, it ended there and then. We parted friends, but neither of us ever had any further contact with the other. I often asked myself what he did for sex after my departure from the school but I never knew. So in a way my sex education with Richard, extensive and intensive though it had been, became a closed chapter of my life: one I cherish still but which I never resurrected.

CHAPTER 5

But the greatest surprise for me was when at the end of that school year in mid-June, the year in which I discovered gay sex in earnest, I, together with a number of other other members of the lower sixth, were summoned to the Headmaster’s study where we were told that we would all be elevated to the rank of prefect for our final year at Frogmore.  I had never dreamed that I would ever become a prefect myself; but there it was: in my final year I would be one of those favoured few who were to be allowed to discipline his schoolmates with the cane. And among those of us who had been honoured by the Headmaster that day, I think I can safely say that mine was the most thrashed arse ever to be elevated to that august rank.

Mr. Harrington-Smith, himself was not only a great believer in the benefits, of the cane when applied to the naked bottoms of errant boys but was himself an equally great practitioner of its use.  He pointed out to us that it would be our duty to act, out of class-time, as what he thought of as policemen and that he and his staff looked to us, the prefects, to maintain order among our schoolmates: and that, he added, goes for the older boys too, especially those in the upper sixth, who will try to get away with murder if they can. “Remember that if you give an inch most boys will take a mile.  Therefore you have to be vigilant and pull them up for the slightest infringement of the rules. Nothing must escape your eagle eyes. You, young gentlemen will all be in a very privileged position in that not only will you be the policemen who catch the miscreants in the act, but you will also be their judge, jury and executioner.  If you catch any boy breaking the rules, you must not hesitate to thrash him in the best traditional Frogmore manner: on the bare of course. And should you have any trouble at all from any boy whom you wish to correct, then brook no nonsense and send him straight to me and I will deal with him personally and no questions will be asked.”

“Now for junior boys in the first and second forms, among whom, I suspect, you may find your largest – how shall I put it? – client group,  the maximum number of strokes you may give is six; and only with the junior cane.  But for older boys from the thirds forms on– and you must not hesitate to beat any of your upper sixth classmates if they merit it – you must always use the senior cane: up to twelve strokes for any one offence.  Now in the best tradition of Frogmore, I am leaving pretty well the entire out-of-class control of the entire school in your hands. From the start of the new school year in September, it will be up to you, the prefects, to maintain discipline and administer the appropriate punishment to any and all miscreants. There are, however, two serious offences which you must always refer to me. Any boy whom you catch either smoking or drinking on the school premises must always be sent to me; and I am sure that several of you here today, who have had appointments with me in the past, will know exactly what that means for the delinquent. Now gentlemen, on the first day of next term in September, you will each be issued with two new canes: a junior and a senior.  They are not intended to be objects of ornament but should be used.  That gentlemen, concludes all I wish to say to you today and I look forward to greeting all of you in September when you will be formally appointed prefects before the whole school and I shall also announce the name of the new Head-Boy.”

So there it was; I was to be a prefect, allowed to use the cane on my schoolmates backsides. I had never given any thought to how I might react under the present circumstances. I had lots of experience – some might say too much – of being on the receiving end of the cane but I had never considered how I might feel using it on someone else.  However, as I analysed my feelings I realised that I was much the same as those countless prefects who had thrashed my arse over my years at Frogmore; that I was quite looking forward to lording it over my less fortunate schoolmates; in a word it was payback time and I knew, before delivering my first stroke, that I would enjoy it enormously. I would inflict on others what had been inflicted so very many times on me.

I suddenly found myself looking forward to the start of term and could hardly wait to exercise my unexpectedly acquired powers on the naked arse of some poor unfortunate.  And I might add that at Frogmore with its deeply-entrenched, traditional caning ethic, the actions of prefects, which in my experience had never been less than thorough and often bordered on the extreme when wielding the cane, were never, ever questioned. No matter how hard you were thrashed – and believe me it could be very hard indeed, leaving you with a painful backside for days – there was never any question of complaining to the masters: it simply was not the done thing. So as you can see, I looked forward with eager anticipation to the start of my final year at Frogmore. Along with my fellow prefects, I had carte blanche to thrash arse as and when I wanted and I intended to do just that.

As if to bring home to the rest of school the extraordinary power with which he endowed the prefects, our Headmaster, Mr. Harrington-Smith, turned the first morning assembly of the new school year into something resembling a prize-giving. After the customary semi-religious daily ceremony: text for the day, prayer and hymn  and all that, we, the new prefects were called individually by name by the Headmaster who shook each of us by the hand and congratulated us. Then we passed to the Deputy Head, who stood to one side and handed each of us our two canes, exactly as if he were handing out prizes or diplomas, accompanied by yet another handshake and further congratulations and the advice to use our new powers wisely: as if we would ever think of doing other!

That evening in my study-bedroom, I caressed – yes that is the right word – the tools of my trade and found the whole business of handling a professionally made rattan cane designed specifically for beating boy’s backsides, a highly erotic experience. I felt myself hardening in my pants as I flexed the canes and soon that tell-tale feeling of moisture made itself manifest in the form of that sticky emission in my underpants. By that time I was in such as state of arousal that I locked my door, dropped my pants and briefs and moved from caressing the caned to caressing my cock to relieve the sexual tension which and built up to a well-nigh intolerable level.  I wondered how I would feel when I actually beat a boy’s arse for the first time. I fervently hoped that my uncontrollable flesh would behave itself and not embarrass me: but I doubted it; live and let live, I suppose!

As I had never actually wielded a cane myself, I positioned the pillow from my bed across the back of my desk chair in what I knew to be the ideal position to beat a boy’s arse; and how could I not know, having myself been in that same position so many times in the past. I then gave the pillow a few whacks to get the feel of each cane; I wanted to develop a technique which would ensure that I could place each cut I gave parallel to the previous one.  After all no one had a better beaten arse than mine and so I decided that now the boot was on the other foot, I would attempt to go down in the school annals as the greatest arse-beater of my year and, in my own private way, conclude my school career in style.  After my preliminary self-training, I felt confident that I could acquit myself well; so all I now needed was my first client to prove it.

I had what I thought was a novel idea; I decided that during that first term I would endeavour to spread what I saw as my undoubted percussive talent with the cane – not proven at that time –  chronologically across the entire school. So I would start with the new boys in their first year, then move on, year by year, thrashing at least one representative from each year, ending with someone from the upper sixth to bring the term to what might best be called a cracking end shortly before Christmas. This would be my biggest challenge as I would be beating a guy my own age. My objective was to become universally known as the hardest caner among the prefects by Christmas.  I am not at all sure that my strategy would have had the approval of the Headmaster; but as he was not going to know about it along with nobody else, I decided to go ahead and put the plan into action as soon as possible.

Fortune smiled on me the first Saturday morning of term when, around midday, I inadvertently caught three first formers not wearing their school caps, sneaking back into the school grounds from the direction of the town centre.  Now first formers had strict boundaries which they were not supposed to cross without an exeat and the absence of the regulation head-gear was, in itself, a beatable offence.  Guilt was on the faces of all three, as they knew that they had been breaking the rules by going into town, not to mention the absence of their caps and had been caught red-handed by a prefect, which at Frogmore meant only one outcome: the cane. The three of them were already trembling with fear as I said: “So where have you three lads been this morning; into the town centre by the looks of it and without your caps to boot? The three of you have a lot to answer for and I shall look forward to your explanation when we meet in the library after lunch. Shall we say at two o’clock?  Now don’t be late as I like punctuality.”

“Please sir,” said one of them whose name I learned was Marsden, who was the self appointed spokesmen for the group, “You see Lodge, Parker and I just wanted to see what the shops were like down-town. That’s all we did sir. We just looked at the shops and then came straight back sir.  So we did no harm at all sir.”

“Marsden, Lodge and Parker, if those are your names,the fact of the matter is that you broke the rules; you went into town, which is strictly forbidden to first formers and to make things worse, you were not wearing your school caps.  So I will see the three of you in the library at two; and on a point of etiquette, you do not call me sir, but address me by my name, which is Carrington.”

After lunch I went back to my study to fetch the junior cane.  Gledhill Major, a fellow prefect was sitting reading in the library when I arrived. “You look as though you’ve got it in for someone, Carrington: and on a Saturday afternoon no less.” At that moment the three musketeers arrived. “My God, Carrington; you really don’t do things by halves do you? Mind if I stay and watch the fun?  I might learn something.” 

“Be my guest Gledhill.” I replied.  The three lads stood there trembling. Their eyes, full of fear, had already taken in the cane lying on the table. As Marsden attempted to speak to try to avoid the inevitable, I gave him one look, which shut him up before he had begun.  “Right boys, I am going to beat (one never said: to cane) the three of you for your flagrant disregard for the school rules. Take off your shoes, your pants and underpants and stand in a row in front of me with your hands on your heads.” It suddenly hit them that not only were they to be caned but moreover, on their bare bottoms. Lodge began to cry and Parker too was almost in tears at the thought of what was about to happen to them. He said; “Please Carrington, please don’t beat us on our bare bums; please not on the bare Carrington.”  He must have known he was pleading a lost cause as I pulled forward a chair, pointed with my cane at Lodge  and then at the chair:  “Lodge, you’re first, then you Marsden and finally you Parker.”

I surveyed the attractive prospect offered by Lodge’s two white hemispheres. They were just crying out for the type of TLC which I intended to give them.  “For goodness sakes Lodge, try to stop blubbering; I  haven’t even touched you yet so get a grip on yourself boy and behave like the young gentleman you are supposed to be (I liked that touch);  brace yourself boy, as this is going to be painful: very painful indeed. And that goes for you two as as well; I want no histrionics as I beat you. All three of you knew that you were breaking the rules and that you would be punished if caught; so boys you have only yourselves to blame. And as for beating you on the bare: well in case you did not know, that is the Frogmore tradition. All boys; and I do mean all,  from first from to upper sixth, take the cane on their naked buttocks if caught breaking the rules. There are no exceptions: it’s the Frogmore way; so just accept it.”

As I was addressing them, I could feel myself hardening inside my pants, but I just ignored it; what else could I do?  I then went on and gave Lodge’s backside six, good, hard cuts, each one parallel to the previous: and as I was somewhat of an expert in the matter, I left the appropriate appreciation pause between each cut and made sure that Lodge received two hard cuts low down on his sit-spot, the most tender place (I knew it only too well myself) on a boy’s backside.  Lodge was unable to control himself and wept softly throughout the entire beating.

I surveyed the results of my first attempt at beating a real, live arse and felt a certain sense of satisfaction with the neat stripes I had posted on Lodge’s anatomy: a testimony to the usefulness of my own past experience on the receiving end of the cane. Finally I told him to get up, and stand with the others facing me with his hands on his head, as I motioned Marsden to take his place. And so I gave each of these three first formers a really good beating, which left them all in tears, nursing very painful bottoms, which I had not yet allowed them to massage to try to dull the pain they were feeling.  “Right lads, get your clothes back on and vanish. Let that be a lesson to you. But make no mistake the three of you; if I catch any of you breaking any whatsoever of the rules of this school, I shall have no hesitation in giving you a repeat performance: none at all; so be warned and behave yourselves.”

By now, my cock was rock hard and tenting against my pants and I could feel my emission flowing into my briefs. Gledhill, my co-prefect, who had watched in silence as I had thrashed the lads said:  “My God, Carrington, you certainly know your stuff; you gave those three lads absolute hell. I have never seen anyone apply the cane quite as hard as you just did: a real tour de force.” With his eyes glued on my crotch he said somewhat cryptically: “And I see that you really enjoyed it; you probably need some relief yourself, is my guess.”

“Gledhill, why don’t you just belt up and piss-off. I don’t need your comments thank you and as for enjoyment, just take a look at your own crotch; I think that as observer you enjoyed it every bit as much as I did.”  But Gledhill was right; I had enjoyed thrashing the three lads just as much as he had enjoyed watching me wield the cane; and I did need some relief; but then, judging by the size of his own erection, so too did he.  The simple fact of the matter is that thrashing naked arse is, for most of us, a very erotic act that brings out the worst side of our character: a side which we would all like to ignore, but which nevertheless is very real and omnipresent. To deny that is to say is a fatuous as saying that black is white.  And so I just accepted the fact that I liked to use the cane and that its use initiated certain sexually based consequences in me. 

I left Gledhill to decide for himself what he wanted to do to tend to the obvious needs of his own cock and went back to my study, where behind a locked door, I relieved myself in the usual manner, after which I put on some clean underwear. It had been altogether a very pleasing beginning to that Saturday afternoon, which was completed later in the day after supper when Richard Harris and I communed with each other behind the locked door of his study.  I felt very contented with my life as I went to bed that evening.

CHAPTER 6

I won’t burden you with how I managed successfully to thrash my way from the second form through to the lower sixth, but by mid-December the only challenge left facing me to meet my private objective was to find a candidate from the upper sixth. The sixth forms at Frogmore were divided into two streams: the arts, where I was and the maths and science side. Each stream sat in a separate form-room and members of the two streams had little contact with each other during class time. So when I finally found a suitable candidate to end what I suppose was my beating series, I was relieved that the arse I proposed to beat belonged to a guy on the science side. Of course we were both in the upper sixth and knew each other, but we were not close friends: in fact, we were not friends at all as I disliked him and he me, although until now we had always been civil to each other.  So the difficulty which beating one of my actual classmates in the arts sixth, some guy with whom I sat in class, was avoided.  But to beat any upper-sixth former still presented a challenge for a prefect.  None of my co-prefects had even managed to beat anyone from the lower-sixth as yet, so I was already ahead of the pack.

The arse in question, which was to become the subject of my last beating of that term, was owned by a really beefy boy called Jeremy Walton-Scott.  From my point of view he had all the characteristics of someone I knew I would enjoy beating; he was both braggart and a bully and was not very popular with his classmates. As you know, in a public school nothing much about one’s person is private, so I had seen the target arse many times in the showers and it certainly qualified as being eminently beatable – desirably so in fact! Walton-Scott had a complete disregard of the school rules, which he broke whenever it pleased him.  And on this occasion, which led to his downfall, he had the misfortune to be seen in flagrante by me.  The main building of Frogmore stood on one side of a magnificently maintained lawn: the billiard table we called it; it was the Headmaster’s pride and joy.  Facing the main school house on the opposite side was the chapel and four of the six Houses, including Tudor, my own house, were situated to each side.  To step on the grass was to commit what in the Headmaster’s book was classed as a heinous crime, attracting the direst of punishments if you were caught.

Well that day, our friend, Walton-Scott evidently saw someone to whom he wanted to talk on the far side of the lawn and, as bold as brass, with no hesitation at all, he walked straight across the sacred plot, unfortunately for him, to be observed in the act by me. My own room in Tudor House gave straight onto the lawn and I just happened – was it fate I wondered later – to be looking out of the window when Walton-Scott was walking across the grass. My heart jumped for joy, for not only had he given me my end of term, upper-sixth target, but he was, thank goodness, not in my class. I suppose it was a stroke of luck – for me that is; bad luck for him I guess, but there it was; his goose was already cooked although, as yet he did not know it.

I acted with great formality, as to beat a boy (I should really say young man)  of one’s own age, even an unpleasant one who merited a good dose of the cane, is never an easy task.  Before supper I went up to Walton-Scott and told him that I wanted to see him immediately afterwards in the library, where I had already taken the precaution of leaving the tools of my trade on a table. “What do you want to see me about, Carrington?” He said. To which I replied: “We can discuss all that, Walton-Scott, when we meet in the library after supper; so just be there, please.”

“What the fuck do you think you are playing at Carrington, telling me that you want to see me in the library and giving me no reason? Who the hell do you think you are, giving me orders? I’m in the upper-sixth as are you and you don’t order me about like that.”

His reaction was in character, for as I said he was a braggart, a bully and a loud-mouth to boot, who had just made the additional, fatal mistake of using foul language to me, strictly forbidden and an immediately beatable offence at Frogmore.  “Well Walton-Scott, as you ask, I will tell you who I am and what authority I have over you.  I am a prefect and I have the power to ask you, politely as I did, to see me in the library and you will obey that request. And moreover, as of now when you address me, you will refrain, from using any more foul language. So, Walton-Scott, I expect you in the library promptly after supper this evening. Is that clear?”

“Carrington, you must be fucking joking.  You’re just a pumped-up nobody pulling rank on me. You must be out of your tiny mind. Let me tell you here and now, there is no bloody way that I am coming to the library on your orders, either tonight or any other night for that matter, so you can just bloody well piss-off. Just because you are a fucking prefect does not give you the right to boss me around.”

“Walton-Scott, promptly after supper I expect you in the library as I said; and contrary to what you seem to think, as a prefect, I do have certain powers which I can exercise if I think fit. And I saw fit to ask you, politely, to present yourself in the library after supper this evening and I expect you to be there. Now if you choose to ignore my request, then we can and will take the matter up with the Headmaster together.” 

At the mention of the Headmaster, he blanched, said nothing more and went off into the refectory spitting proverbial bricks. Luckily boys are clannish and we in the arts sixth sat at our tables and they on the science side at theirs, so I did not have the doubtful pleasure of sitting anywhere near Walton-Scott. After supper I went straight to the library and waited for him to arrive.  As I had guessed, the mention of a referral to the Headmaster had put the fear of God into him and he arrived just few minutes later. Like most of us, a visit to the Headmaster with his formidable reputation with the cane was the guarantee of a fate worse than death. What he did not realise however, was that in view of his use of foul language to me, I intended to throw the book at him and give him a beating which would, in my view, be every bit as painful as anything Mr Harrington-Smith could deliver. And as you will realise in view of my vast personal experience of being on the receiving end of the cane, I really did know what I was talking about.

In spite of his braggadocio, Walton-Scott did present himself at the library after supper, but had not calmed down at all: “So Carrington, now that you have got me here, what the fuck is all this about? Just tell me why I am here. You’ve bloody well pulled rank on me for no fucking reason, so now I want to know why I am here.”  He had clearly not realised yet, that he was in a serious hole and in swearing at me he was digging himself in ever more deeply.

“The reason you are here Walton-Scott, is because I am going to beat you and beat you hard: very hard indeed.  This afternoon I myself saw you walking across the lawn, which you know is strictly forbidden and carries a mandatory beating.  And then you start using foul language at me into the bargain.”

“Carrington, you’ve got be kidding, You’re out of your tiny, fucking mind if you think that I am going to let you use that bloody cane you have in your hand on my arse.  Forget it; it’s just not going to happen.  We’re both in the upper-sixth you are certainly going to beat me.”

I had inadvertently picked the junior cane by mistake whilst we had been talking and was flexing it as he spoke.  “You are quite right Walton-Scott; I am not going to use this cane on your arse, as you so graphically put it; quite the contrary, in fact, as boys of your age merit the senior cane.  So kindly remove your jacket, drop your trousers and underpants and bend of the chair there and let me see your bare arse so that we can get on with things.”

“Carrington, I’ve already told you you’re out of your bloody mind if you think I’m going to let you cane me; so just think again.”

“Walton-Scott, I am going to start counting from one to ten and if I do not see your naked arse across that chair by the time I have finished, then we shall both go straight to the Headmaster and let him deal with you; and believe me, when he hears that you dared to walk across his lawn and your excessive use of foul language to me, deal with you he will; and frankly, speaking from my own personal experience with him, I would rather you than me, feel his wrath.  One, two…….”

Walton-Scott suddenly realised that he had lost and so he slowly stripped off his clothes and a few moments later I found myself looking at a really fine pair of bare buttocks just crying out for my attention.  There is something very satisfying about beating an older boy as you feel he is better able to stand the more severe blows of the senior cane, with which, in the right hands – my hands – a great deal of pain can be inflicted. He did not know it, but I considered myself every bit the equal of the Headmaster when it came to using the cane and I had every intention of giving him the very best I could; this was to be a beating he would not forget in a while.

“Walton-Scott, I had intended to give you six for walking on the lawn, but in view of your manners and foul language, you will now take the full twelve.”  I deliberately took my time to deliver the twelve cuts to prolong the agony for him.  I left a long pause between each stroke, so that it was well over two minutes later, a horrible length of time to be bent over a chair having your arse beaten, when I finally told him to get up, dress and leave. It was a very deflated and humbled Walton-Scott who limped off to his room to lick his wounds.  If any boy had ever had a well beaten arse, it was him that evening.  I would like to think that due to my efforts he left with what might be described as the bench-mark in the annals of arse beating: an absolute masterpiece of the flagellator’s art: ten strictly parallel strokes of which I had reserved six for the lower, more sensitive part of his anatomy where the pain is always more intense.  I had then finished off with two crossing diagonal strokes to pull the whole tableau together; as I say, I was personally justifiably proud to leave Walton-Scott with a bench-mark example of a well beaten arse, at least up to the Headmaster’s own standard.

For my sins, I have to admit that I had truly enjoyed thrashing his backside. We are supposed to beat dispassionately, but we are all human and the erotic side of the act often surges to the fore. And in all honesty, looking at the inviting muscular arse I had just thrashed, I had, in view of my own sexual proclivities, to restrain myself, as I would have liked to have gone straight on and fucked him as I was already rock-hard in my pants. But I managed to master my baser instincts and save myself for my assignation later that evening with Richard Harris, when I gave him the benefit of the hardest fuck he had ever had from me. “Max that was some performance you just gave. Come on tell all; spill the beans; why the sudden passion? What brought it on?  You are always good, but that was just superb!” I just smiled at him and left him guessing.

My final two terms at Frogmore passed like a dream. I revelled in my beating mandate as a prefect and made sure that I did justice to at least one arse a week. We did not keep statistics but I am pretty sure that I was top of the prefects beating league. and I have to say, that although we are not supposed to enjoy our disciplinary role as prefects, I got the same erotic satisfaction each time I surveyed a new, bare arse which I was about to correct. I like to think my ability with the cane equalled that of the Headmaster: and it was a fact that I became known as the one to steer clear of. And at the end of the year as were all prepare to leave Frogmore for the last time, never to return, I was particularly proud of the fact that among my co-prefects, I was the only one who had managed to thrash a boy from the upper-sixth.

Of course, my other great pleasure was my continuing and utterly secret sex-affair with Richard Harris, the PE master. How we managed to keep that under wraps, I don’t know; but we did and in writing this story, several years later, it is the first time I have ever told anyone about our liaison. But it was of course such an important thing in my life and meant that when I left Frogmore and went up to Cambridge, I was launched into the real world as a very experienced and sexually active, gay young man. As I mentioned earlier, after I left Frogmore, he and I never had any further contact. Our mutually satisfactory sexual adventure ended forever.

CHAPTER 7

My life at Cambridge was sexually very exciting; but it was marred completely by the tragic death of both my parents.  I nevertheless went on to finish my degree before returning, a very rich young man, to live in the family flat south of the park. My sex life, without which I could not exist, was, I suppose, satisfactory. Let me put it this way:  I never felt deprived; but that special someone, whom I hoped one day would come along, never did. I had frequent sex with many different partners but I never, ever spent the night with any of them. No one who came to my flat ever stayed the night and I always slept alone, as had also been the case with Richard Harris and me; we fucked each other to distraction, but we had never shared a bed.

And so, now aged twenty-seven, in a backhanded sort of way, I felt somehow very virginal (please, please don’t laugh; I couldn’t bear it) in the sense that if the right man ever came along, for me at least, sharing a bed with him would be like a regular man on his wedding night.  It would be a unique occasion: one which could never again be repeated. I suppose in my inner most heart I still harboured a note of romanticism.  My sex life had been great: non better; but it had always been purely physical and I now secretly longed for a more spiritual element to enter into my relationships; don’t get me wrong, I still wanted to fuck and be fucked in return,  but I wanted a spiritual note to enter into what had hitherto been purely physical. In a word, I wanted someone to love and who would equally love me.

So now we come back to my opening paragraph of this story, with my walk in the park that afternoon.  Why I had gone into the park I really have no idea. I was not in the habit of strolling there at all. Perhaps my stroll today was pre-ordained as it changed my life forever. There standing leaning against a post was the most gorgeous young stud I had ever seen in my life.  I knew as soon as I saw him that I wanted to fuck him; no let me be more positive and rephrase that: I knew as soon as I saw him that I was going to fuck him. I had been hit by a coup de foudre, a severe case of love at first sight; but in this case it was love tinged with sexual lust, for this young stud just exuded sex appeal as if it was going out of style. He was, without a shadow of a doubt, just the most desirable hunk I had ever seen in my life: and believe me, I am a very experienced guy with a keen eye who looks at other males in the way a racing trainer looks at horses: judging potential!  This spot evaluation, made on first sight, was reinforced as I drew nearer to him and saw the young man in all his glory: yes that’s the right word, for he was a gloriously handsome young stud.

There was no one else around as I drew closer to him, I suddenly realised that I was looking at a present day incarnation of the Greek God, Adonis: the God of beauty and desire. How any man could be so utterly desirable escaped me; but there he was in the flesh. I stopped near to him, my eyes roaming over his body. He was about my height and I guessed a few years younger than me, but he had that perfectly formed body, which was set off by his choice of clothing, which left no doubt at all about his sexuality: this young stud was as gay as I me. He was wearing a pair of well-cut trousers, tight in the crotch to emphasise his considerable package:  his shirt seemed moulded to the contours of his torso; it was open almost down to the waist to show a fine set of abdominal muscles – that famous six-pack as they are called – and his magnificent pecs thrust firmly against the shirt showing that one of his nipples had been pierced and that he was he was wearing a ring, clearly visible in outline through the shirt. We had not yet spoken but as I was sizing him up I could see that he was doing the same with me as his eyes moved over my body before focussing quite clearly on my crotch, where my own crown jewels formed an attractive looking bulge to the trained eye.

Why was he standing there?  Why had I chosen to walk there today? Who knows?  But it was quite clear that our young friend was there waiting to be picked up and I was definitely in the mood to do the picking.  Why he had chosen such a quiet spot was a mystery, for it was not at all the sort of place where pickups are made other than by assignation.  Anyway, I knew that one of us had to say something and having size up the situation I said to him: “You look as though you might be trawling.” He laughed and replied: “No, not at all; quite the reverse, in fact: you’re the one who is trawling and I am the fish you are hoping to catch!” Well that was one of the most surprising and witty bits of direct repartee I had ever heard; it broke the ice, that initial moment of difficulty when two guys meeting for the first time somehow have to state their purpose.  I knew I wanted to fuck this dream character there and then and I earnestly hoped that he would prove a polyvalent sort of stud, one who enjoyed, as I do, playing both roles: fucker and fuckee; for much as I wanted to shaft him, of that there was not the slightest doubt in my mind, I also wanted him to return the favour straight away.  In a word I wanted a little fuck-fest with him right away.

I held out my hand to him: “Max Carrington; nice to meet you.”

He took my hand and I felt (did I really I wonder or was it just my imagination?) a sort of tingle as I made the first contact with this marvellous looking young man who said: “Simon Rothery: How do you do? I’m pleased to meet you too?” He paused for a moment his eyes now glued firmly on my crotch, where my rapidly hardening cock was making its presence manifest to all and sundry and telling everyone in its own inimitable, totally uncontrollable way, what it now wanted to do. “Well Max, now that we have got that over and done with and we each know who the other is, the next question is where do we go from here?”  He smiled, paused again with his eyes still focussed firmly on my crotch and the now very apparent tenting of my pants, before continuing: “Well, unless I am sadly mistaken, which I think not,  your little friend down there seems to be telling you what it wants and I suppose, by inference, it signals what you want too; so as you seem to have caught the fish that you were trawling for a few minutes ago, might I make so bold as to suggest, that before you let the fish escape from your net, that we cut to the chase and do what we clearly both want to do, which is to fuck each other.”

Now as you already know, I am a highly experienced and active young gay, who thrives on regular sex in the way that the average Englishman thrives on cups of tea; I have had many different partners over the past several years, but never in my life had I heard such an immediate, unequivocal and direct suggestion from someone I had met just a few minutes ago. “Come on let’s go and fuck.” is what he had just said! Could it be that he was as keen on me at first sight as I was on him? Had we both been struck by the same metaphorical bolt of forked lightening?  Before I had time to say anything he went on: “Come on Max, you know you want to fuck me; so let’s go to my place which is just the other side of the park and then you can have you wicked way on me.”  This guy really had humour, I thought, as I followed him like a pet dog as he started off towards the north side of the park. As he set off, I got my first full view of his arse, and I can tell you that it was just as enticingly sexy as the rest of him.  His pants were married to the contours of his globes and there was no telltale sign of elastic, which always detracts from a guy’s perfect bum.  If any bum was worthy of my attention this was it, for it was just the most sexually attractive arse I had seen in a long time. I could barely wait until the moment when I could strip it naked and give it the TLC for which it was begging. And then there was the question of what he could do for me.

Simon had a nice small but comfortable flat in a quiet street just off the north side of the park.  As soon as we entered he took the lead and told me to make myself comfortable, which was a euphemism for to strip naked. The door had barely closed behind us as he kicked of his shoes and socks, pulled off his shirt and pants and stood there in front of me wearing just a cock-thong which was struggling to keep his rampant kit in check.  I needed no urging and pulled off all my own clothes. My cock was already rock-hard and standing fully erect at an angle of 60 degrees to my stomach. I glance down to assure myself that I looked OK.  Why I had to do that I have no idea, as I knew that I was superbly well equipped by any standards.  We stood looking at each other appreciatively for a few seconds.  Simon, whose full masculine beauty was still masked by that eye-patch of a cock-string he was wearing, gave a soft whistle of appreciation at what he saw.  I was equally appreciative of the exquisite young man who stood in front of me. His naked body fulfilled every promise which his clothes had hidden.  I advanced, put my thumbs under the waist- band of his thong and pulled it down so that it fell around his feet. Released from its temporary prison, his penis sprang instantly to attention and I saw with pleasure that he had a beautifully proportioned cock of good size, and that he had been expertly circumcised allowing his large, well-rimmed cockhead to dominate in all its beauty.  He was obviously very proud of his sexual equipment for he had shaved away all his pubic hair so that nothing detracted from his fucking kit.

We moved off into what was his bedroom. He motioned to a small chest of drawers: “Over there: top drawer; you’ll find everything you need: condoms and lubes. And give me a rubber as well as I always wear one when I am being fucked; I find it keeps things tidy – male sex is just fabulous;  but it is just so inherently messy and I make a hell of a lot of spunk!”  Simon did not mince his words and was just so unbelievably direct. There was no ambiguity as to who was to do what to whom. I was to have first shot and fuck him; the only question is where and in what position.  So here I was only half an hour after meeting him about to fuck this dream stud with whom I had been smitten on first sight.  But for me, for whom the sex act was regular fixture in my life, I felt that this would be a different occasion as I had never before felt quite the same about any other potential sex partner – or any regular partner for that matter; I wanted to ensure that I gave him the very best experience of his life; I desperately wanted this to be a unique experience for both of us and that he too would realise that this was something very special.

Simon had a very decisive manner; he lay down on his bed, bent his knees and put his feet on the edge of the bed, spreading his leg wide to give me access to his anus.  I went through the somewhat clinical preparations of lubrication and prepared to penetrate him. Then came the truly delicious moment for me and I wanted to make it the same for him. I first pressed the tip of my cock against his beautifully tight sphincter and then as it yielded to my pressure, I very gently forced myself inside him, but smoothly and slowly giving him the benefit of my nine inch erection. As I bottomed myself against his arse, he let out a moan of pleasure.  I waited a few moments before beginning very to fuck him; my first strokes were very gentle and he moaned his appreciation as I pumped away.

Of course as I became totally taken up by the sex act, my pounding grew ever stronger and my strokes longer as I move into that state of no longer being in control of my actions. Simon urged me on saying that I should fuck him hard as I could, as he liked rough sex, which I did and brought us both to a simultaneous explosive climax where we both produced huge quantities of sperm. We lay they together in that post-coital moment, with me on top of him, both breathless, but glued together as if we had become one body. Then I did something I had never before in my life done: I kissed Simon fully on the mouth, and act in my mind as intimate as the act of copulation itself, if not more so, and, to my joy, he returned it. I was in that place, wherever it is, that we call seventh heaven; I was ecstatically euphoric. There must be a medical term for how I felt: Euphoria extremis or Euphoria profundis or something like that.  Never had I felt this way after having had sex with any of my previous partners. I knew there and then that this was definitely the real thing and I prayed that Simon would feel the same.

But my fears were quickly banished as suddenly with a surprising display of strength, he flipped us both over and I found myself on my flat on my back with him on top of me. He smiled at me, stood up, went across to the condom drawer and in so doing gave me my first real look at his naked arse.  I was shocked to see that it showed those telltale traces I knew so well, of a relatively recent encounter with a cane. But before I could ask him about it, he was back on top of me, with a fresh, heavily lubed rubber on his cock. He simply hoisted my legs over his shoulders and the next thing I knew he was deep inside me giving me the pounding of my life. It was a marvellously exhilarating experience and when we both reach orgasm together it was again with that same intense explosive violence, the likes of which I had never before experienced.  Simon was every bit as good with his cock as I was with mine and I considered myself a crack.

We then went off into the shower together, where we hugged and kissed one another under the hot water as it washed away the post-coital sweat in which we were both bathed.  We dressed and he then took me off to a small place to eat, where I enquired about his welted arse. “Oh I have to tell you about that.” He said.  “It goes back to my school days and my first sexual experience. (And this dear reader, you are not going to believe, but it is just as true as is the rest of this story.) Well I was then in my final year, in the upper sixth and we had this cane-happy PE master who one day decided on some jumped-up pretext that I needed a beating and so he had me in his study, naked-arsed across a chair and gave me six swingeing cuts with his cane.  It was by no means my first experience of the cane, but this guy really laid it on with a vigour I had never before experienced.  But then I guess he thought he had gone a bit too far and he relented and offered to massage a little pain-killing cream into his handiwork.”  

“I suppose you can guess where I am going with this. One thing led to another, the cream became a lubricant and before I had time to object, the next thing I knew, his cock was inside my hitherto virgin arse and that was that: I was being fucked for the first time.  To be quite honest, I actually found that I quite liked it and it got even more interesting when he asked me to do the same to him. Can you imagine it: an eighteen year old virgin schoolboy fucking his school teacher, a guy in his mid-thirties?  Well that was the beginning of three terms of regular sex between us.  Anyway at that first time attempt with my cock, I think I acquitted myself quite well and by the time I left school I knew for sure something that I had suspected since I was about fifteen; that I was totally gay.  So there you have it.  I guess he and I were what are loosely known as lovers, but I really don’t think much love was involved:  it was just lust on both sides.  But there it was.  And after that first time with the cane and then being fucked, I acquired a taste for it and so, still today, I quite enjoy from time to time, someone giving my arse a thrashing and then fucking me. Frankly it is a bit bizarre, but I like it; so there it is.”

I listened in amazement to this story which sounded horribly similar to what had happened to me. So I asked him where he had been at school. “Oh it’s a place up north, you’ve probably never heard of, in a village called Frogmore. I went to Frogmore Court Prep School and then to Frogmore Academy for Boys near York.”

“Simon, this you are not going to believe, but I think I can tell you the name of your PE teacher; he was called Richard Harris; am I right?”

“Yes, you are right; but how in the name of hell can you possibly know that?”

“Because, old son, I too went to Frogmore and it was the PE teacher, Richard Harris who introduced me to sex in just the same way as he did you. And for five terms – he got to me in the lower sixth – he and I were regular communicants: we had sex at least twice and often three times a week.   I wonder if he made a regular thing of having a boy a year to fuck.  But Simon how old are you? twenty-four? twenty-five? I’m twenty-seven myself; so how come we did not know each other at school?”

“Simple: I know I look older, but I am in fact only twenty going on twenty-one; so you probably left Frogmore about the time I entered. But what an extraordinary business; do you suppose we were destined to meet?”

“Simon, let me ask you this. Why were you standing around in the park this afternoon? Is it a place where you go regularly in the hope of picking someone up? You Simon, are sexually a very attractive stud, as you must already know, so guys must be falling over to pick you up.  I know I was. In fact to be honest it was much worse than that, for as soon as I saw you, I just knew I intended to fuck you, an act which you yourself made very easy for me.”

“No not at all. In fact I have never been there before today. I just went out for a walk that’s all.”

“Well, Simon, I’m not much a believer in destiny, but I too had never before had walked in the park until this afternoon and yet we met, so perhaps, after all, we were meant for each other.”

We left the restaurant and walked back towards Simon’s flat. I was unsure of what was now going to happen as Simon, several years my junior, as I had just learned, was the motive force behind our embryo relationship which I desperately wanted to continue, but I did not really know how he felt about me. Anyway I need not have worried, for he said: “Why don’t you come back to the flat with me; the night is still young and if you feel like it, we could take up where we left off.”  If I feel like it? He had to be kidding, for that was exactly what I felt like: another two or three hours of really good sex with this super young stud would be like a dream come true. So we spent the next few hours, like Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee, or better put each playing in our turn the role of fucker and fuckee in what became a more or less non-stop bout of anal copulation. You name it, we probably did it! I am sure that some of the stuff we did to each other was really obscene; but what the hell; we were consenting adults in private so who gives a shit about what anyone else thinks about gay sex? We really had a ball together!

Finally around eleven or so, we were both pretty shot, as fucking can take lot out of you even when you are young and fit as we both were, so I made as if to leave. “You don’t have to leave, you know, unless you absolutely must. Max, I’d really like you to stay the night, that’s if you don’t mind sharing a bed with me. How about it?”   How about it! I had never, ever shared a bed with another man, or with a woman for that matter and here was the man of my dreams suggesting that we sleep together.  Well, I was staggered by the turn of events: that we had met just a few hours earlier in the park; had gone on to fuck each other silly and that now we were to share a bed. But I had already, in one sense, gone further with Simon than I had done with any other person I had ever known:  I had kissed him and in turn he had returned the kiss. And that is how the pair of us, totally naked of course, found ourselves in his bed that night. We did not actually have sex once we were in bed, but we were all over each other. I kissed his body all over and he mine, and we both indulged us in researching each other’s cock. 

By the time we finally fell asleep, it is safe to say that there was nothing we did not know about each other’s body. For me what had been a desire to fuck on first sight, which had been satisfied, had now changed into love at first sight: I just knew that Simon was the man for me.  I knew nothing at all about him other than his name and where he had gone to school.  But nothing else mattered as I knew I wanted him and I prayed that the feeling might prove mutual.

Next morning, I woke first and went into the shower to be joined a few minutes later by Simon, who after kissing me, proceeded to give my arse a good morning wake-up call, which I then happily returned.  Over breakfast I asked Simon what he did for a living. Remember that all we had done until now, other than fuck each other silly, was to exchange names learn that we had both been at the same school and had had similar experiences with one of the masters.  “So what exactly do you do for a living, Simon?”  He winced and pulled a wry face as I asked the question. “Well Max, if you really must know, which I suppose you must, in the light of our developing relationship (my heart jumped for joy at this remark: a very positive comment I thought) I’m what is usually, known as Male Escort. I take it that you know what a Male Escort does: the services he renders to his clients and all that.” He then handed me a card which said:

Jeremy 

Male Escort

Stimulation and Discipline

Absolute discretion assured

Tel: xxx xxx xxx 

“So what do you actually do for your clients, Simon?”

“Well that all depends.  I have two main groups whose wishes are different. One group consists of businessmen who are happily married and lead normal sex lives with their wives, but who from time to time enjoy having a little anal sex, for which they pay me handsomely. And then there is another group, usually ex-public school types like us, who developed a taste at school for the cane, as I myself did, and who from time to time call on my services to cane their backsides for them  and sometimes, but not always, to fuck them.”

“But one thing I have to tell you. No one ever fucks me.  My business is a one way street. I do the beating and I do the fucking. If a client wants to fuck butt himself, then he has to look elsewhere as my arse is not for sale.  But as you can see, it keeps the wolves from the door the door. And just so that you know, my parents are very old-school and when they learned that I was gay they just disowned me.  So at least I am free of the burden of parental disapproval hanging over me as we no longer have any contact. God alone knows what they would think if they knew how I earned my living. I didn’t go to university when I left Frogmore as my parents would not stump up the funds unless I renounced my homosexuality, which you know as well as anyone the likes of us cannot do.  We are what we are and we have to live with ourselves and our friends have to accept us as we are. So I had to earn a living somehow and I fell into the male escort business, which to be honest I really enjoy. And to conclude this, shall I call it confession; I do hope that you don’t paint me as an untouchable, as I would hate to think that telling you all this has ruined what I see as a promising friendship.”

“Oh and just one other thing; you may have noticed that on my business card, I use my second name, Jeremy.

I could not have cared less what Simon did for a living: he could have been the garbage collector for all I cared; I just knew that I wanted him: that he was the man for me. But when I considered what he had told me, which some people might have found shocking, I thought of the sort of sex life I myself was leading at present.  I had no firm commitment to anyone and like a butterfly flitting from flower to flower, hopped from one man to another as the fancy took me. So where was the difference other than that he was paid for his services whereas my activities were not?  But there was an important difference: my relationships were always two-way: fucker and fuckee. I both fucked my partners and in turn allowed them to fuck me; in fact I wanted to be fucked as part of the relationship, however brief it might be. He, on the other hand, in his professional life, was strictly a deliverer of the services and never the receiver; the ultimate intimacy, which we two had enjoyed last night and again this morning in the shower, was reserved for his friends. And so I did not find his professional activities at all shocking; in fact truth to tell, I wondered what it would be like to do what he was doing to earn his living: it was an intriguing thought.

And then I had a sudden pang of jealousy that Simon might have other friends with whom he indulged himself to the full as we had just done.  He surely had; but then again, why should he not? He had only known me for a day, so it seemed quite reasonable and certain that he had a private sex life outside his professional commitments. But try as I might to purge this feeling of jealousy of the unknown from my mind, it refused to budge. How ridiculous to be jealous of someone whom I did not know, on the strength of what had been, let’s face it, a one night stand, albeit a marathon session. But the fact that I had had such a thought, ridiculous as it was, showed just how much I wanted Simon. I knew with absolute certainty that he and I were destined to be together; but did he? In a word, I was totally and utterly in love with this guy and even just the thought that someone else could do with him what we had done together last night made me hot under the collar. Simon was highly competent in the role of both fucker and fuckee; what he had done to me last night was not the work of an amateur; so I was sure he did the same with others and it made me furious: totally ridiculous to be sure; but that was the way I felt.

And so I allowed myself to feel jealous: jealousy base on his freedom, which was something I could not control; jealous of the fact that I was sharing my dream with someone or worse, others, whom I did not know.  Actually thinking about things more rationally, I saw that it would be better if Simon, in his private life was like me: foot-loose and fancy-free; it was better for him to fuck around, emotionally unattached to one single person than for him opt have a close attachment to one individual as I saw that it might be easier for me to become the love of his life.  I shuddered at the thought that someone else could actually make love to him in the way I had last night, for I felt that our sexual acts had gone beyond just the physical; at least they had for me.  Perhaps reading this, you can see just how far gone I was; I was star struck: head over heels in love with this guy. I had indeed suffered a true Coup de Foudre.

Simon then asked me what I did by way of work.  For my sins, I lied and said that I was a history librarian who catalogued private collections for their owners and that I was at present between jobs.  I did not want him to know that I was a wealthy layabout: not yet at least.  He then had to go off for the day and service a number of his clients, leaving me at a loose end, moping around by myself for the rest of the day.  Never was a truer word said than absence makes the heart grow fonder.  We had known each other only two days and I was already missing him. But that evening when we again were in his flat, we managed to outdo ourselves sexually, if that was possible; at least that was how it seemed to me and again I shared his bed.

But things suddenly resolved themselves in a very Simonesque way, for as you know he did not beat about the bush.  At breakfast next day he suddenly said to me: “You know what, Max, I think that you and I are absolutely right for each other;  so if you feel the same way about me as I do about you, why don’t you go and get your stuff and move in here with me. I reckon that you and I are destined to be an item.”  You could have floored me. Here was a younger man proposing to me, who was already head over heels in love with him, that I move in with him after just two nights together.  Of course he was right; we were destined to be an item; of that I had not the slightest doubt; but that it had come so suddenly I had not anticipated it. Indeed, in my plodding way, I had been wondering how to get around to telling him the fact that I thought we were meant for each other and here I had been pipped at the post.

I of course agreed that we should move in together, but I then came clean to Simon and told him about my own situation. His clients for that day were forgotten as I took him south of the park and showed him the huge flat in which I lived. “Simon, unless you had not already divined it, which I guess you probably had as you are as sharp as two pins, I fell head over heels in love with you the moment I saw you in the park.  So I agree, let’s move in together, but you come and live here. Look I own this place: it’s mine.  Listen, I have enough loot for both of us.”

Simon took one look at me, embraced me standing there in my living room, kissed me firmly on the mouth and said: “Max if you think you are smitten by me, well believe me, that feeling is mutual. I knew from the moment we met two days ago in the park that we were destined for each other, which is why, unless you had not realised it by now, I offered you myself on a plate. Remember I said to you that I was the fish you were hoping to catch.  Well you caught me and I am totally and utterly in love with you, Max as you evidently are with me.”

And that is how we began life together.  Simon insisted on going on with his male escort business as he said he did not want to feel kept and wanted some cash of his own; he had considerable pride and wanted to pay his way, although he did not have to. We both became totally monogamous from day one and had no sexual affairs at all with any of our previous friends. And to conclude this story, I was again able to wield the cane, at which you will remember, I had been an expert at Frogmore, as Simon insisted that I beat his arse occasionally before going on to fuck him. Ours was a rare and highly satisfying relationship and we were fortunate to have found each other.

I have written this story as if it happened yesterday. In fact, it all took place more than thirty years ago.  We are both now in middle age; but we are still together and as much in love with each other today as we were when we first met in the park so long ago: a match made in heaven.

THE END.