Date: Sat, 17 Apr 1999 10:29:56 -0700 (PDT)
From: Bpell <bpell@anon.nymserver.com>
Subject: The Chronicles of St.Barnabas part 2 (A BL classic by Colin Murchison)

2. In the Shower Room

I suppose you think I am putting you on about school tarts and such-that
these things don't realty happen today in America, even in sequestered
little boarding schools run by the clergy. I can assure you that they do.

And it's not surprising, really. The masters wouldn't be there, working hard
for low pay, if they didn't like boys more than just superficially. And boys
themselves are notoriously adventuresome creatures, willing to try anything
once, even twice, especially if there is some element of risk but no real
danger. The element of danger is, of course, very real for us masters, and
we must be very circumspect, watching our steps at every turn, and,
accepting frustration as the natural course of events, be eternally grateful
for the little plums which fall our way. You will find several such plums in
this story, and perhaps you will appreciate them the more for knowing they
really did befall me. However, if your idea of a good book is one orgy after
another in which every boy is a push-over named Jock or Randy, then you
might as well toss this book in the fire right now. These are facts, some
bad, but most of them good; and if there is any distortion in this
narrative, it stems from what is omitted: the endless evenings when each
master, after grading his papers and preparing his morning classes, gets
into bed, turns out the light, conjures up Reggie Roundbutt or Bobby
Brownwell or whatever his current heart-throb is called, and does the only
thing he can do.

Then, the very next day, like a masochist, he seeks out the very
titillations which put him into such a state the night before-things like
showers.

As one of the three dormitory masters, it is, of course, my job to supervise
literally everything that goes on in my dorm.

One of these onerous tasks is shower supervision. Never let it be said that
I am delinquent in my duty!

I have the middle dorm, the sixth- and seventh-graders, twenty-four boys of
eleven and twelve, with a few thirteens. I teach English to all grades
except the fourth, which is taught entirely by Percy Plimpton, a pimply
divinity student. He is in charge of the lower dorm also, and reads bedtime
stories to his little charges and kisses each one good-night. The little
boys feel very comfy with Percy, and he with them.

The eighth-graders live apart, in a large room which used to be the dining
hall before the school was remodeled. In charge of them is Clive Lambert,
who teaches French and Latin and-I suspect-gives free blow jobs to the older
boys. Aside from us three dormitory masters, there is Max Sailer, history
teacher, beloved of Everett Harrison, who lives down the hall from my dorm;
Ron Randall, sports and science, who lives next to him; and out in the
vegetable garden, in a remodeled tool shed, with his faithful dog Sam,
Joseph ("Lemon Joe") Cardwell, our glum old math teacher. Religion is taught
by Father Sayers himself, and music lessons, theory and practice, are given
by the assistant choirmaster and organist, a somewhat sadistic young man
named Rudolph Van Dennis.

Ilen there is the housemother, old, blind, deaf, gouty Mrs. Fox, who can
never keep the boys'names straight. And last, but not least, there is the
school nurse, Miss Emmonds, better known as "Miss Enema" because of her
propensity for administering this old-fashioned remedy. She sincerely
believes that she can cure any ill that might befall a choirboy by laving
his tender insides with hot, soapy water. The boys on the receiving end of
this medical wonder take a more jaundiced view, often wondering which is
worse, the illness or the cure, Still, it does have the advantage of
discouraging malingerers!

As for the school itself, it was founded in the mid-nineteenth century by a
wealthy and (needless to say) eccentric Boston merchant as a school for the
choirboys of St. Bamabas Church (Episcopal), and modeled after the English
cathedral choir schools. It has continued in its anachronistic way until
the present, making only a few concessions to the twentieth century.

After all the boys had filed out of the nave into the bowels of the church,
I followed them downstairs into the choir room, where they changed back into
their school clothes, lined up, and marched back to the school itself,
several hundred yards from the church. On the way back, Don Brinkley, one of
the prefects, a very square boy often held up as an example to others, but
in my opinion something of a phoney, broke out of line and said to me very
confidentially, "Sir, Candy had a pea-shooter in church."

So that was it! I knew Georgie had been up to something. "Are you sure?" I
asked.

"Yes, sir. I took it from him in the choir room." Brinkley held out a little
pea-shooter, smudged from dirty hands. I took it.

"Thanks," I said. "I'll look into the matter."

Brinkley resumed his place at the head of the line, and I walked along
beside the boys, my face an impenetrable mask, or so I liked to think.

Behind the mask, though, I was thinking about what to do with Candy. Having
a pea-shooter in church was quite serious, a caneable offense, in fact. The
question was, did I want Candy whipped, or was there some way to turn this
piece of information to my advantage? On the one hand, I rather enjoyed the
thought of Candy getting caned. He had never been whipped, being very
clever, and no boy deserved it more. It was always the clumsy ones who got
caught and were punished. Georgie really had a caning coming to him.

Now, I am not really a sadist; I don't itch to get boys caned. But Candy
was sort of a coquette, and he got under my skin because he was so pretty
and unattainable. It would serve the little rascal right to find himself
upended over Father Sayers' sofa, legs kicking and bottom squirming as the
good Father's supple cane traced six very neat red stripes across his
pretty behind, later to be examined eagerly and minutely by the whole
dorm. The image aroused me.  On the other hand, having him caned wouldn't
make getting into his pants any easier for me-and I still hoped that one
day I would succeed in doing this.  At any rate, I would have a talk with
Candy that evening.

When we reached the school, the boys raced upstairs into their respective
dormitories and took off their church clothes. There would be showers before
supper.

As I said, I am very conscientious about shower duty, so I stationed myself,
as usual, on a low stool in the drying room, from which vantage point I
could command and excellent view of the showers. The boys are used to my
presence there, and no doubt consider it quite normal. I sometimes wonder
if, when they are home, they ask their mothers and fathers to station
themselves on low stools in the bathroom in order to watch them shower.
Boys, after all, can be conditioned as easily as those dogs of Pavlov.
That's one of the nice things about boys.

Seated on my stool, I watched them come in, naked save for a towel draped
mostly about their mid-sections. Once inside the shower room, they whisked
off their towels and hung them on hooks, thus affording me a nice view of
their naked bodies. These hooks had been placed just a bit too high for
some of the smaller boys, a fact which afforded me much delight. Consider
little Everett Harrison, for instance. Here he comes, whisking off his
little towel to reveal his charming body-the tightness of his little nuts
force his pencil-stub pecker to stand straight out. Thoughtfully choosing a
hook next to me, he has to reach up on one toe to get his towel on the
hook. As he reaches up with his right arm, his body twists slightly, and
his little bottom, tight and twitching, is only inches from my face. I
watch his little bottom muscles contract, as with one last grunt of effort
he gets the towel on the hook; then, flashing me his famous smile, he darts
into the steamy shower room, where the pink bodies, glistening and soapy,
are more delightful for being only partially visible.

Soon the first boy comes out. He dries himself carefully, as I have taught
them to do, and then he presents his body for my inspection.

"But, sir," a logically minded lad had once protested, "why don't you let us
get inspected before we dry ourselves, in case we have to go back and wash
again?"

"Because I refuse to inspect wet boys!" had been my reply. And of course
there is no point in questioning this sort of schoolmasterish logic.

The first couple of boys I let go with a brief inspection. They didn't
interest me. But here comes Allen Burns. He'll be in for more closer
scrutiny! Starting at his neck, I pass my hands down over his chest, feeling
the little nipples there, then on to his stomach-he still has a nice
little-boy belly-H and down to his thighs and legs. He has nice legs, lean
in the thigh, but sturdy in the calf. I try to pinch up some dirt from his
knee. Then I turn him around and start again at the ears, running my hands
down over his smooth back to his perky, impish round behind, where I linger
lovingly for a while. He has the firm round mounds pressed tightly together,
so I pry his cheeks apart with my two thumbs to make sure he has washed his
bunny hole. I am very fussy about that, as you can imagine. Then I
regretfully leave those round globes and proceed down the backs of his fine
strong legs to his heels, which is the spot boys usually forget to wash, and
hence is the spot I always inspect last, if the boy is pretty. Logical? Only
to a pederast. Burns flunked, not on his heels but on his neck, the place I
had inspected first. I sent him back to the showers with a resounding slap
on his rubbery buttocks.

When Ronnie Riley came out, I really took my time. Ronnie was always clean,
but I loved to pass my hands over his smooth skin, and so I always inspected
him with extra care.

"How are you doing in math?" I asked him, passing my hand down over his
smooth flat stomach and onto his thigh.

"Not too good, sir, I'm still having trouble."

"Maybe you'd better come round and see me after supper so I can help you
with it." Although my field was Enelish, I knew enough math to be able to
coach seventh-graders.

"T'hanks, sir," said the boy.

Our eyes met. Did he read my thoughts? It had been during one of those
tutoring sessions that I had made my first advance towards this charming
boy. I gazed now at his slim young nude body. Taller than most of the
seventhgraders, Ronnie was maturing fast. Was that a tiny hair I saw just
above his nice little cock? Alas! I liked my boys hairless. But after all,
Ronnie would be thirteen in March.

"I'll tell Mr. Sailer you won't be in study hall," I said. "Now turn around
and let's see your backside." His buttocks were not clamped tightly
together, like Allen's; on the contrary, they were relaxed and open, as if
inviting my fingers to explore. Nevertheless, I could see the tips of his
ears redden as I made a rather intimate inspection between his cheeks. I had
to cut my inspection short however, when Everett Harrison presented himself.

"All right," I said to Ronnie, "I'll see you after supper, then." I noticed
he covered himself in front and was very quick to grab his towel. Had he
found my inspection exciting, or was he looking forward to another "math
lesson"?

I gave Harrison a good going over, flunked him on heels, and sent him back
with a bottom-pinch. He tossed me his smile over his shoulder. What did he
see in Max Sailer, anyway?

Jerry Jeffries came up next. He was a good-natured boy of eleven, very cute
and very butch, The All-American boy. I liked him a lot. I had once made a
pass at him, but had gotten nowhere and had been afraid to go on. I don't
think he knew what sex was all about.

"What can I do for you?" I asked in mock bewilderment as the naked boy
stood before me at attention.

"You know, sir!" he answered grinning. "Inspect me!"

"Inspect you? What on earth for? Do you have lice? Crabs?" I poked his ribs
and he doubled up, giggling, which of course earned him a bottom-smack.

"Stand still, boy!" I commanded. "What's the matter with you?" And I gave
him a poke in the tummy.

"But sir! I can't stand still with you tickling me!"

"I am not tickling you, I'm just inspecting you," I said, turning him around
and tickling him some more. Each time he squirmed I gave his bottom a smack.
Jerry was lots of fun, and always enjoyed this little game. I had to stop at
last, when I noticed Candy waiting to be inspected, and eyeing me somewhat
fishily.

"I want to see you after lights," I told Candy as I ran my hands over his
silky-smooth and deliciously pink body.

"Yes, sir," he said, lowering his eyes.

"Turn around," I said. Oh God, what a bottom! I really think it was the most
perfect bottom in the whole school. I pulled apart the silky cheeks and
peered at it: the pink little rosebud.

"Need more soap back there," I lied. He gave me a dirty look as he went back
to the showers. The Johnson twins presented themselves as. if they were one
boy, so I inspected them that way, one hand for each boy. I turned them
around and pressed them close together, relishing the sight of the four pink
bottom cheeks. Even as close an observer of bottoms as I am couldn't detect
any difference in these two pairs of buns. I passed them both (one couldn't
pass one and not the other, after all) and waited for Georgie to come out
again. He came over and saucily turned around, bent over, and spread his
cheeks apart with both hands.

"How's that, sit?" he asked, winking his button at me.

"Clean as a whistle," I said. "You may go. And don't forget tonight."

"I won't, sir."

Showers were over.