Date: Tue, 4 Jan 2005 09:40:34 EST
From: PixaJax@aol.com
Subject: Spuncup Part 2

In the distance, a church bell was ringing, bellringers' Wednesday
afternoon practice. High in the sky, the drone of a plane going over.
Douglas Hamilton contentedly stroked his tumescent cock. In front of him,
his class of darling year three boys were busily working on their
pen-and-ink drawings. The boys were well schooled. They were fully
conversant with drawing styles as diverse as Kent and Tom of Finland, and
if they needed further inspiration, the artroom annex had an excellent
collection of homoerotica. The Art Master's personal favourite was
Physique Pictorial, a magazine which now seems so innocent, but when he
was a hormone-driven adolescent fired his feverish imagination and made
each masturbatory act a moment of pure joy.
"Sir?"
"Yes, Howard?"
"Permission to get a magazine from the Annex, sir."
"Short of inspiration, dear boy?"
"Yes, sir."
"Come here."
Howard approached the desk, noting the teacher's stroking hand behind the
desk.
"When did you last masturbate, Howard?"
"This morning, sir, before I got up."
"And what did you think about while you masturbated?"
Howard blushed.
"Can't remember, sir."
The teacher reached out and wrapped his fingers round the boy's flaccid
penis.
"Was it girls?"
The blush deepened. The teacher sighed.
"Oh dear, what ARE we going to do with you, Howard?"
"Sorry, sir."
"All right, Howard. Go and find something nice in the Annex and
masturbate to it. Go on. Spunk up for me."
The boy hesitated, and then said shyly:
"Sir, would you come and help me choose something?"
"Good boy!" said the teacher, giving the boy's penis an affectionate
squeeze. He turned to the class.
"Class, get on with your work, No silliness. I have to help Howard find
some inspiration in the Annex."
Smirks all round, but nobody laughed. Every boy in the class had been
"helped to find inspiration" by their priapic Art teacher.

In the distance, the sound of a lawnmower. High in the sky, a skein of
geese called to each other as they overflew the Spuncup campus. The Head
of Spuncup School looked at the woman seated on the other side of his
desk. He had never been able to understand the attraction of women's
breasts, those ugly lumps of fat that hung down like cow's udders except
when you strapped them up in a brassiere. What a word. Brassiere. Anyway,
back to business.
"You understand, Mrs, ah, Conway, the kind of school that Spuncup is.
Ah........."
Ruth Conway nodded. She knew. Recently divorced from a husband who had
"come out" after years of pretending his wife was a juicy boy every time
he fucked her, mostly anally, she felt she understood about men and boys.
"Yes, Headmaster, I think it is wonderful that schools like Spuncup exist
to help boys develop properly."
"Properly?"
"Yes, I mean, to rejoice in their true sexuality. Many of the world's
ills are caused by the necessity to deny our sexuality."
"Good lord!" He had not meant to react out loud, but the woman's words
caught him by surprise. "And, if I may ask, what is your own sexual
orientation?"
Ruth Conway smiled, a quiet soft confident smile.
"That, Headmaster, is my business. But I can assure you, I am 100% behind
the Spuncup mission statement."
The Head was impressed. She had read the Spuncup brochure with more care
than most people did.
"Ah, well, erm, good. Now, what is your experience of boys?"
"I have two sons, Headmaster, both gay."
The Head winced. He was of a generation for whom the word "gay" still
meant lively, bright, colourful, playful, pleasure-loving. He agreed with
Quentin Crisp. He still preferred the word queer. Or, like Crisp, "one of
the Stately Homos of England". Still, one must move with the times.
Ah, good, so you understand........."
He looked again at her breasts. At her made-up face, skilfully designed
to hide the ravages of time. Hell's Bells! What have things come to when
we have to introduce creatures like this to Spuncup?!
Of course, Mrs Conway got the job. It was not as if he had had a flood of
applicants. And he was impressed not only by the quality of her answers,
but also by the fact that she had not batted an eyelid when he had first
stood up to greet her, his elephant's-trunk cock exposed and dangling.

In the distance, shouts and squeals of excited boys engaged in a game of
Spuncup Football, a game not played anywhere else in the world. High in
the sky, a rumble of thunder as the hot summer's afternoon began to
produce threatening cumulonimbus. Miss Isobel Kay, headmistress of
Talbort Heath School for Girls, stared down at the printed-out emailed
she had received from the Headmaster of Spuncup School. Phrases from it
echoed in her head:
"...social events where boys and girls can mix.."
"...part of growing up..."
"...move with the times..."
Isobel's nose wrinkled in distate. She found the idea of her girls mixing
with BOYS most unappetising. At that moment, the phone rang. It was the
Head of Spuncup.
She listened to him distrustfully at first, and then with increasing
interest. Yes, he had a point: tell girls to keep away from boys, and
they immediately want to taste the forbidden fruit. Yes, indeed. She
didn't like the man, well, she didn't like men period, but she could see
the logic of what he was saying.
"So, Headmaster, what are you suggesting? Some kind of a party? A dance?
What?"
"Well, erm, I am not very experienced in these sorts of things. What do
you, erm, suggest?"
"A dance, Headmaster. As someone once said "A navel engagement without
loss of semen". She tittered. He groaned inwardly.
"Very well. I shall get my sports master on to it right away. He seems to
know about these things. With whom should he liaise at your end?"
Liaise? What a word! Aloud she said:
"Oh, with me. I think it's best."
"Very well."
"Headmaster? One thing....."
"Yes, Miss Kay?"
"Your boys.........that uniform......"
"Yes?"
"I want to make it clear that my girls will be PROPERLY dressed."
"Understood, Miss Kay."
"AND any of my teachers who may attend. However YOUR teachers may be
attired..........."
"Understood Miss Kay."
His phone back in its cradle, the Head allowed himself a smile of
satisfaction: "Well, that didn't go too badly!" He just hoped his plan
would work. Of course it would! HIS boys would soon realise that HER
girls were boring and silly and as sexually alluring as a barbie doll.
Goodness, how he disliked girls with their primping and pouting and
perfume disguising the tuna-fish ugliness of their body odours.
Her phone back in its cradle, the Headmistress allowed herself a smile of
triumph. "The best laid plans of mice and men gang aft a-gley", she
thought, quoting Mrs Burns (clearly no man could have written anything so
clever). And she was confident that that dreadful man's plans would
definitely backfire on him. If he thought that he could lure HER girls
into sexual dalliance with HIS nasty boys, he had another think coming.
Goodness, how she hated boys with their hairiness and their acne and
their testosterone-fuelled lust!

[To be continued. Comments, VERY welcome, to pixajax@aol.com]