Date: Sat, 24 Apr 1999 11:06:11 -0700 (PDT)
From: bpell@anon.nymserver.com
Subject: Chronicles of St.Barnabas chapter 10

                          10. Lent

     The boys returned from their free weekend, and three
  days later came Ash Wednesday and we were plunged into
  the gloom of Lent.
     Although I am a card-carrying atheist, sometimes the
  religious message gets through, subliminally, and God knew
  I had enough to be penitent about.  To tell the truth, I feltjust
  a little guilty about what I had done.
     I remember waking up that morning and seeing Ronnie
  stretched out innocently on his stomach, unaware of his
  vulnerability and the temptations his naked young body
  aroused.  I noted the evidence of the past night's orgy on his
  deflowered backside.  Then I saw his faded dungarees and
  jockey shorts in the other room, where he had done his
  strip-tease and danced naked for me, thanks to the screw-
  drivers.  I looked at the boy on the bed again, his soft young
  body rising and falling with his breathing, his head nestled
  against one arm.  He looked like a small boy dreaming of
  candy canes, this boy who had sought in me a father figure,
  someone to be a friend to him and guide hii-n through life's
  maze, a boy who had given me his confidence and who had
  ended up being fucked in the ass-not once, but twice.
     Looking down at the slim nude body, I was seized with
  feelings of pity, remorse, guilt and-let's face it-lust.  Des-
  pite these feelings of guilt, I was tempted to fuck him again
  as he lay on the bed, his bruised bottom sticking up as if in
  invitation for further violation.
     I sat down on the bed beside him and stroked his back and
  buttocks, letting my fingers enjoy the slipperiness of his
  Vaseline-smeared cheeks.  He uttered small noises as I mas-
  saged his anus, and I pondered whether to thrust my shaft
  for a third time into that inflamed orifice.  But better
   instincts prevailed and, with a parting pat on his bottom, I
   went into the bathroom and showered and dressed, then
   gently woke him so he could do the same.  He was hard to
   awaken, and when I finally succeeded, he stumbled blindly
   into the bathroom and took a long shower, while I sat
   glumly on the bed.
      Had I ruined our friendship, or was he just hungover?  He
   came out of the shower and walked naked across the room
   without a trace of embarrassment, looking, with his straight
   body, his fine legs and his large feet, like a Picasso circus
   boy.  There was not a trace of modesty as he approached me.
   After all, why should there be?  When one has been fucked,
   why should he show any modesty before his lover?
      There were droplets of water on his bare body.  I got a
   towel and dried him off tenderly.  When I came to his ass I
   said, "Well, Ronnie, you're no longer a virgin.  How does it
   feel?"
      The boy just shrugged his shoulders.  Perhaps he was
   embarrassed to have me remind him of the fact that I had
   fucked him.  Perhaps his pride told him it was not manly to
   let yourself get fucked in the ass.  I said nothing more about
   the matter.  I just lay back smoking a cigarette, watching him
   get dressed, and wondering how much of the previous night
   he actually remembered.
      I wasn't to find out for some time, for I had resolved to
   give up boys for Lent.  Even as a confirmed atheist I felt I
   should give up something, and I thought God would smile
   on me if I gave up fucking His choirboys.  As a matter of fact,
   this was no immense sacrifice on my part because Lent was
   always a busy time for everyone.  There were extra services to
   be sung; there were achievement tests to be taken, and
   interviews for the eighth grade boys, who had to consider
   which den of iniquity they were destined for the following
   year.  As for me, there wasn't much to do except plow into
   my work and wait for Spring.
      Ronnie turned thirteen in March and had a big cake in the
  dining room and thirteen swats with one to grow on from
  everyone in the dorm. (Mine were lovepats.)
    Allen Burns was tried out as solo boy and got stage fright.
  Mr. Winters played the introduction three times, but no
  sound came out of the boy's throat.
    Charlie Wright's voice changed during mid-rehearsal,
  and he was given the menial job of assistant music librarian,
  making sure the choirboy's music was in order.
    Georgie Candy was confirmed.  As I watched our worthy
  Bishop lay his lascivious hands on the pretty boy's head,
  place the wafer on his tongue, and give him a sip of wine, I
  thought of what I would like to place on Georgie's tongue,
  and what sort of liquid I would like him to swallow.
    Someone stole Miss Enema's apparatus, and there was a
  big investigation, but neither the culprit nor her precious
  equipment was found.  Brand new equipment was pur-
  chased, but Miss E. maintained it was "inferior goods" and
  that they just didn't make enema bags the way they used to.
    Little Timmy Tucker and I became good friends.  Every
  time we passed in the corridors I would grab him for a bit of
  a tickle or a bottom-smack or even a mild goosing, and he
  became one of my favourite minnows in the swimming pool,
  where I was somewhat more daring than with the other boys
  in letting my fingers stray into sensitive spots.  Nor did he
  ever protest or shy away from my probing fingers, but was
  always full of laughs and winks.  How I longed to get some-
  thing more that a thermometer into his saucy little bottom!
    Clive Lambert took off one weekend, and I promised to
  keep and eye on his dorm.  I guessed the boys figured they
  could get away with murder with Clive gone, for when I went
  in, just before lights, I found absolute bedlam.  Boys in
  various stages of undress were engaged in all manner of
  horseplay, wrestling on beds, falling in heaps on the floor,
  and so on.  There was a good deal of grab-assing going on,
  and Ericson, who was wearing nothing but a pair of bright
  red, tight-fitting ski-pajama pants, was quite naturally in the
   center of things.  Several boys had hard-ons showing
   through their shorts or pajamas, and I thought that if I had
   come in a few minutes later I might have surprised them in
   the middle of an orgy.
     I got them settled down, promising I would be back.
   When I did return, half an hour after lights, I caught Bruce
   Branson out of bed.
     "In the shower room," I said, and the boys snickered and
   giggled, knowing Branson was going to get swatted.
     In the drying room I took off one of my slippers and
   waved it in front of the boy.
     "Bend over and grab your ankles," I said, loud enough for
   the boys in the dorm to hear.  As the boy did so his pajamas
   stretched tight across his ample buttocks until I thought they
   might split.  I took good aim and delivered six sharp, delibe-
   rate blows to the boy's plump behind.  He winced at each
   blow, but did not blubber.
     "Alright," I said, "stand up and let me see the damage."
   The boy wiped some tears from his eyes as he undid his
   drawstring and let his pajamas fall to his ankles, turning
   around at the same time to present his reddened posterior to
   me. I fingered his rump, which was warm to the touch, and
   pronounced the punishment complete.
     "Anyone caught fooling around gets more of the same," I
   said as Branson, wiping his eyes again, got into bed.  There
   was no more trouble.
     A week or so later I made a rather startling discovery
   about one of my colleagues.
     One of the boys came to me asking if I could get him a
   copy of Bach's Two-Part Inventions, as he wanted to prac-
   tice them and the copy that was usually in the music room
   wasn't there.
     "Ask Mr. Van Dennis," I said, not wanting to be
   bothered.
     "Sir, he's over at Church.  There's a recital."
     "Oh, very well.  Wait here.  I'll see if he has an extra one in
   his room."
     Inside the musty room of the assistant choirmaster I soon
   located a copy of the Inventions and was just turning to
   leave when something caught my eye; a small packet tucked
   away behind the row of music.  Just a small manila envelope,
   innocent enough except to the trained eye like mine.  Tuck-
   ing it in my jacket I brought the music to the boy and retired
   to peruse my find.  One just doesn't hide innocent matter in
   plain manila envelopes behind rows of music.  I expected to
   find something of interest, but what I did find surprised even
   me.
     The envelope contained photographs, as I had expected.
     The first one showed a boy of thirteen or so.  He was tied
   up on a bed with his pants down, his buttocks facing the
   camera.  I looked at the next one: same boy, same position,
   except this time a riding crop lay across his buttocks.  The
   hand holding it looked suspiciously like Van Dennis'.  The
   next one was similar except that there were two distinct
   marks across the boy's buttocks.  There followed several
   more like this, only with more whip marks.  'The next was of
   great interest: taken from a different angle, it showed a blur
   of a whip descending on his bare buttocks.  In this, however,
   the boy's face was clearly visible.  Even though it was contor-
   ted in pain, it was clearly recognizable as belonging to a boy
   named Phillips who had graduated the year before!  This
   meant that either Van Dennis had somehow induced one of
   our own choirboys to pose for these pictures, or he had
   disciplined the boy in this manner while taking pictures with
   a concealed camera.  I thought the former more likely, since,
   unless someone else took the pictures, he would have had to
   trigger the self-timer for each exposure.  The next picture was
   even more startling: it showed the boy lying as before-only
   this time the whip was sticking out of his asshole!  The same
   hand was holding it, perhaps pushing it, for the next one
   showed the whip having been pushed considerably further
   up the boy's ass.  There were several more similar to this,
   showing the boy's well-flagellated bottom with the whip
   sticking out of it.  I looked through the series again.  This time
   I noted that they had been taken with a Polaroid camera.  I
   knew Van Dennis had one.
     I returned to Van Dennis' room, thinking I might find
   some more, equally interesting pictures, perhaps involving
   boys still at the school, but when I got there I became
   nervous about being discovered, and so I quickly replaced
   the packet and left.
     We were through about thirty of the forty days of Lent
   when I had a rather interesting conversation with Ronnie.
   He had come in one night after lights, as boys sometimes do
   when they have something pressing on their minds.  Ronnie
   appeared to have nothing much pressing on his (though I
   certainly had something pressing on my fly), but when he
   started talking I thought perhaps I was wrong.
     "Sir, are you going any place special for Easter
   Vacation?"
     "Oh, I don't know, maybe into Boston for a few concerts,
   or maybe I'll just stay here and sleep.  It's quite peaceful here
   without you kids."
     "Yeah, I guess you don't really have much use for kids, do
   you sir."
     Oh, what a fresh remark!  I pulled him over my knee and
   spanked his pretty round bottom.
     "I like kids alright, I just get tired of them."
     "How long does it take, a couple of weeks?  A couple of
   hours?" I swatted his tempting bottom some more then sat
   him upright.
     "New York is nice this time of year," he said seriously.  I
   began to catch the drift.  Ronnie lived in New York.
     "You ever been to New York, sir     ?"
     "Are you kidding?  I lived there for five years."
     "Well, if you're ever down our way again, give us a buzz.
   we're in the book."
     "Ronnie," I said, pulling the boy closer to me, "do you
  remember much about that night, you know the one I
  mean?"
    "Yes, sir, I remember it all."
    "Everything."
    "Yes, sir.  Everything."
    "You remember getting drunk?  And dancing naked?"
    "Yep." I noted the informal reply.
    "And... afterwards?"
    "Sure.  I went to bed.  Or I should say you put me to bed,
  because I was pretty loaded.  And after that, well, you know,
  sir, as well as I do."
    "Afterwards, what happened?"
    "You know, sir."
    "Tell me!"
    "Well, you fucked me." I was somewhat surprised to hear
  him use that word, which was of course taboo to the
  choirboys.
    "You mean I made love to you," I corrected.
    "Okay then, you made love to me.  Twice."
    "Twice?"
    "That was all, wasn't it, sit?  I only remember it twice.  Did
  you do it some more?"
    "No.  Only twice."
    "I think I would have remembered if there had been a
  third time."
    "Ronnie, were you sore ?"
    "Which kind of sore?"
    "You know, angry at me."
    "Oh, no.  I guess I kind of expected it to happen sooner or
  later, the way things were going."
    "You really did?"
    "Well sure, I mean I knew you wanted to do it.  I mean
  you tried the night before, after all."
    "But before that.  Did you know?"
    "Oh yes, I knew men liked to do that to boys sometime
  and so I figured sooner or later we'd end up doing it."
      "Was it your first time?"
      "Well, yes."
      "You don't sound sure."
      "Well, once a boyfriend of my mother's tried to do it to
    me, but I got scared and I guess he did too because after a
    while he gave up.  He was pretty loaded."
      "How old were you?"
      "About ten, I guess."
      "That's a very scary thing to have happen, when you're
    only ten.  Specially if you don't like the person."
      "Yes, sir."
      "Anyone else try it?"
      "Nope.  Well, at my other school, the last one, we used to
    fool around a lot that way, but it was just fooling around."
      "So this was your first time."
      "Yes, sir."
      "And... did you like it?"
      "Well, sir, I can't really say I liked it all that much.  I mean
    it does hurt, you know, sir." And he squirmed around on the
    sofa, as if remembering.
      "I suppose it does, though usually only the first time.  I'm
    sorry if I hurt you, Ronnie, but men are selfish when it comes
    to making love, I guess.  I'm sorry now, but at the time I
    wasn't sorry at all.  All I wanted was you, and the nicest,
    tightest, warmest part of you is your behind.  And what's
    more, I'd do it again if I had half a chance.  Are you mad at
    me now?"
      "Nope.
      "And if it happens again?"
      The boy just gave a little shrug.  I gazed at his lowered
    lashes and caressed his cheeks.  I wanted him right then, but I
    remembered my Lenten promise.  Besides, vacation was
    coming.  I slipped one hand under his pajamas and felt his
    mooth balls.  His body trembled as I touched his cock.  Then
    worked my finger around in back and drove it in against his
    asshole.  He tightened, then relaxed.  When I kissed him he
  melted in my arms.
    "You know, Ronnie," I said, wiggling my finger in his
  anus, "maybe it would be fun to see New York again after
  all."