Date: Sat, 26 Mar 2005 16:58:41 +0000 (GMT) From: Kevin Blanchard <kb84oxon (at) yahoo (dot) co (dot) uk> Subject: Head Boy, Chapter 6 This chapter refers to equipment I've found it difficult to describe accurately. For the benefit of those wholly unfamiliar with them, but without endorsing the vendor supplying these URLs, I invite the less experienced to consult images at http://www.stockroom.com/b010.htm and http://www.stockroom.com/b702.htm. (And I assure you from first-hand knowledge the two may be worn simultaneously, with sufficient determination.) Chapter 6: Saturday Afternoon Peter Courtney had forced me to go to supper and evensong Friday night. Mostly because he wanted to go himself and wouldn't leave me alone in our room. Whilst I enjoyed eating at supper, I didn't enjoy sitting on my still-tender buttocks on the firm wooden benches. I especially did not enjoy evensong, which I'd always disliked and from which my note from Jason Davies had technically excused me. Peter Courtney had remained at my side the entire evening and relished my evasiveness as boys had come up to me and asked where I'd been and whether the rumours that I'd done something really terrible were true. Jason Davies's eyes had lingered on me both at supper and during services, and this was both observed and commented on by many who'd spoken to me. "Jason Davies looks as though he wants to devour you whole," Alistair Charterhouse had said. "Other way round, more likely," Peter Courtney had chimed in knowingly. Alistair Charterhouse had scowled at Peter Courtney and waited for me to make my customary insult. With two loads of Peter Courtney's cum swimming in my bowels, I couldn't quite find my tongue. Instead, I'd looked meekly at my feet whilst Alistair Charterhouse had paused, looked at me inquisitively, and shuffled away. "Yeah, I quite like this, Kevin," Peter Courtney had said smugly. We both knew he held the upper hand now. And soon every boy in school would as well. Quick-witted, cocky Kevin Blanchard had vanished from the earth, replaced by a submissive, unsure boy who merely shared all his physical features. Peter Courtney had relished, too, tying me to my bed at flicks. I had tied Charles Lindsay spread-eagle and face-down on my bed on Thursday. I'd used Peter Courtney's school ties to do it. Unwittingly, Peter Courtney had done almost the same to me with my own ties, although I'd lain face up. I'd been surprised as Peter Courtney had slipped into bed alongside me, feeling me up as I'd lain bound and helpless. He'd rested his cheek on my chest, smelling my skin, as his right hand traced down my bony abdomen. He'd weighed my large, heavy balls in his hand, balls which still craved to relinquish their growing burden of semen. He'd rolled them about casually, as though they belonged to him, turning them over with his fingers, until my cock had filled. He'd traced his fingertips idly through my pubic hair and over my cock, peeling down my foreskin and teasing the knob underneath. I'd been gagged with a pair of my own socks, so my moans and pleas were well stifled. He'd eventually begun to stroke the length of my shaft, pulling my erection up over my belly. He'd started kissing my chest, almost teasing my nipple, as he milked out precum. As it dribbled out, he would collect it on his thumb and massage it into the head, then resume stroking to coax out more. And gagged and bound as I was, I'd writhed beneath him. He'd brought me to the edge over and over, waiting for my hips to grind up into the air and then releasing my cock and returning to my nutbag to massage it, instead. This cycle continued insufferably at least a dozen times. A dozen times he'd teased me to orgasm's door and failed to open it for me to step through. At last, he'd moved down between my legs, kneeling over me with his face pressed so close I could feel his breath on me, the warm humidity caressing my delicate skin and rustling my clutch of rust-coloured pubic hair. "You've got a great cock, Kevin," he'd muttered and placed his lips against my balls. I'd felt him kissing them, first just grazing them with his mouth and then wetly licking them. He'd closed his mouth first on one, then the other; together they were too large for his mouth. He'd licked slowly up the underside of my cock, and I'd arched my back up, lifting my arse completely off the mattress, as he'd traced my cum tube with the tip of his tongue. And then he'd licked circles around my slimy knob, wiping up the gobs of precum I'd oozed. And then, he'd backed away, chuckling to himself as I'd cried out, cursing him through my socks. He'd slapped my balls sharply and hopped off my bed, my cock throbbing about and flopping against my legs and stomach as it searched for something to contact, desperate for friction, for any touch. He'd left me uncovered and unsatisfied all night long, squirming in despair and frustration, and eventually pain as my cock had begun to wilt and my testicles, at last realising the inevitable, had begun to swell with their undelivered cargo. And so I'd slept fitfully when at all, unable to toss or turn, the stale taste and aroma of my own feet rising from my socks wedged between my jaws. It seemed like a dream when Peter Courtney shook me from a doze to find morning light pouring through our windows. But it had been no dream. He'd raised my head in his hand and pulled my socks from my mouth with another. He'd asked if my mouth was dry, and I'd nodded that it was. He'd leaned over, as if to kiss me, but his lips had stopped short of mine and he'd let drop from his mouth gob of saliva. At first, I'd recoiled in shock and disgust, but Peter Courtney slapped my face firmly and told me if I didn't swish it around and swallow it, he would give me a proper gob of spit the next time. So I'd obeyed, rolling Peter Courtney's saliva in my mouth with my tongue and then swallowing it. And then Peter Courtney had straddled my face and placed his cock in my mouth. And I'd sucked him, giving him his first experience with oral pleasure. I'd run my tongue under his foreskin to get him erect, and then he'd taken the initiative by clutching my ears and fucking my face. After my marathon session with the Sixth Formers Thursday night, Peter Courtney's little 5" erection was hardly anything to choke on, but what he lacked in size me made up for in enthusiasm. He'd once delayed his orgasm to have me tongue bathe his balls, and then he'd simply picked up where he left off and creamed in my mouth. His face had revealed a mixture of contented tranquillity, ongoing lust, newfound superiority, and easy post-coital bliss as he'd watched me swallow his spunk. And then he dismounted my chest and laughed aloud to see my raging erection, which had grown as much from the night's frustration as from the experience of orally servicing my roommate. He'd swatted at it, playfully at first and then with determination to make it retreat to a flaccid state. When his slaps failed to produce the desired effect, he'd turned his attention to my balls, flicking them with his fingers and backhanding them against the mattress as I wrestled against my bonds. He'd delighted in the realisation that torturing my balls would not make my cock soft, not in its current state of deprivation at least. And so he'd continued to abuse them until my tears flowed freely, my cock still flopping in the air and smacking down again under its own weight against my belly. Eventually, he'd grown bored with his smacking and flicking and yanking and squeezing, and left me for his morning piss in the WC. And I'd been left alone, aching in my balls and abdomen, and still craving the blissful release of orgasm, and desperate to avoid thinking of what was to come at noon. I approached the door to the assembly hall with growing trepidation. Each step made my heart quicken and the pounding echoed in my ears. My body was shaking visibly as my hand reached for the doorknob. I remembered my hand on the door to Charles Lindsay's room Thursday night, and remembered vividly how I'd come to be where I now stood: one door away from Jason Davies, the head boy of my school, and Henry Marcus, his deputy, and all the heads of house and monitors. To whom I would now be bound to service. I remembered, too, the cost of trying to escape, and what had been promised--both the additional beating my bargain had forestalled, and whatever else would be inflicted as retribution for attempting to withdraw. I swallowed dryly and turned the knob. The door swung open. Jason Davies sat casually on a table on stage. His face erupted into a smile as he saw the door open to reveal me. I felt a foot tall, and wished a hole would appear to disappear inside. I walked hesitantly down the aisle between the rows of seats as the heads of the boys in the front rows turned. Jason Davies looked at his watch. "11:57, Blanchard. Very good. And I think we're all here, now, so no point in waiting." I began to literally quake as I approached the stage. I wondered where my legs were, because I couldn't feel them anymore. I felt as though I glided, disembodied, towards the tall, lanky, blond boy who waited for me. As I drew near, Henry Marcus stood up from his seat and walked behind me, following me up onto the stage. He prodded me along until I stood just beside Jason Davies. I turned and looked out over the audience. There were only two dozen boys there, far fewer than I'd expected. It dawned on me that, naturally, not every head of house or monitor would be interested in this arrangement. And some might be inclined to report it to the faculty. And others might simply not be trusted to keep matters discreet. And so Jason Davies and Henry Marcus had vetted their list, trimming it not for my benefit but for theirs. And then my eyes locked on one of them: Peter Courtney. He smiled back at me happily and I turned to Jason Davies in confusion. He'd watched me intently and knew what I was about to protest. "Mr Courtney is here at my request," he began. I noted his use of title, which senior boys never used towards juniors. He'd implicitly made Peter Courtney his peer. "Ordinarily, you would be put in the daily charge of your head of house. However, thanks to your own doing, Mr Lindsay has gone down from school for a few days. Mr Courtney has done yeoman work keeping you in Bristol fashion for the past day or so, and I've asked him to continue looking after you. As my agent in this matter, in fact, which gives him somewhat more authority than merely being Mr Lindsay's proxy." I blanched and turned about just in time to see Peter Courtney's smile broaden until it looked as though his cheeks might pop off his face and fall to the floor. "And, now," Jason Davies continued, turning to the seated boys, "let's please get our terms out for everyone. Gentlemen, as many of you know, fagging boys has been out of fashion at this school for some time. In the early history of this school and of its cousins, junior boys were tasked to their seniors as valets and served faithfully in return for the companionship and tutoring of their elders. Though the word fag has been corrupted by our American friends, I'm happy to announce that Blanchard here has asked for the privilege of fagging for us, his seniors, reviving this once proud tradition. And his services will bridge the Atlantic differences in semantics." Jason Davies turned to face me. "Blanchard, is it true that on Thursday night, you begged for the opportunity to service every head of house and monitor in this school?" He paused, waiting for my answer. I stood silent, as unable as unwilling to speak. A shudder rippled through me. I felt the heavy hands of Henry Marcus come to rest on my shoulders. I nodded vigorously. "I couldn't hear you, Blanchard. Please speak up," Jason Davies frowned. I swallowed and tried to clear my throat. My vocal chords, like everything else in my body, felt numb. "Yes, sir" I squeaked. "Thank you, Blanchard. And is true that on Thursday night, I was reluctant to accept this arrangement?" "Yes, sir." I wasn't sure whether he had been reluctant or not, but I wasn't going to quibble. "And is it true that on Thursday night, after my initial reluctance, you confirmed that it was your hope to be the sexual plaything of every head of house and monitor in this school?" "Yes, sir." "Many of your seniors were reluctant to participate in this arrangement, Blanchard. I've taken the liberty of excluding some of the most reticent because I believe we'd both agree, wouldn't we, that your opportunity to serve in this manner would be hindered by the participation of the unwilling, or of the faculty. Am I right, Blanchard?" "Yes, sir." "Then I have good news, Blanchard. The boys in this room, to a man, have agreed to help you along on your quest for maturity and experience, provided they were assured your quest was wholly voluntary. I believe we've done that. But, as head boy of this school, I continue to harbour certain reservations. Therefore, if this is what you really want, I would like you to persuade me." I stood in shock. Henry Marcus removed his hands from my shoulders. "Please, sir?" I asked. Persuade him how? How was I going to persuade him that I didn't want to have the shit beaten out of me for fucking Charles Lindsay, or to be raped by dogs for begging for mercy on Thursday night, or anything else done to me for backing out of this arrangement? Especially after the lengths he'd gone to, to demonstrate how consensual my participation was. Jason Davies glowered. "Perhaps a demonstration would be more persuasive than simply asking again, Blanchard." And it dawned on me. I fell to my knees, as I had done in Charles Lindsay's bedroom on Thursday night. I crawled to Jason Davies again, and, as I had done to seal the bargain then, I pressed my face into his crotch and kissed the firm bulge of his cock through his trousers. He stood silently but I heard a murmur ripple through the audience. Suddenly, and inexplicably, I felt safe. I felt as though I wouldn't be beaten, I wouldn't be hurt, if I simply did what he wanted. It was our agreement, after all, his and mine. I couldn't escape but he could release me. I only had to make him want to do. Maybe I could seduce him into wanting me to himself. And as I knelt in front of him I recognised, as I had often thought before, how attractive he was. And now, after Thursday, I knew that not only was he blond, tall, and lanky, but that he was endowed more generously even than I. I could smell the musk of his crotch through his clothes as I held my face to him. "Please," I whimpered gratuitously. I knew the other boys were watching and I could feel my cock beginning to fill. "Please," I repeated, continuing to lightly kiss the bulge and rubbing my face into it. I rubbed my hands up Jason Davies's long, slender legs, remembering the tanned, hairless skin under the trousers. I moved my face away and tilted it upwards to look at him, as my fingers closed on his zipper. Jason Davies was momentarily frozen in surprise, his eyes wide as he looked down at me. I had his zipper open and was reaching in for his growing cock before he snapped out of it. He shook his head slightly, but enough to make his bangs twitch across his forehead, before he swallowed and pushed me away. "Er, that's fine, Blanchard," he said. He exchanged a brief glance with Henry Marcus over my head and then looked down at me again. It only took a second for him to compose himself, as I remained kneeling at his feet, pleading with him through my eyes. He reached for and closed his zipper, rearranging his erection down his trouser leg. He looked back over at Henry Marcus and nodded. "There are a few things we'll attend to first, Blanchard. Stand up and take off your clothes." I resolved to maintain eye contact with him. To show my submission. To him. I began to pull off my uniform, dropping each piece of clothing to the floor as I stripped. For him. I saw his Adam's apple bob as he stared. At last, I stood naked under the lights, on stage, before more than two dozen boys. My cock stood out from my body, fully erect and beginning to glisten with excitement, in spite of--or because of--the humiliation. Jason Davies again nodded to Henry Marcus, and the latter stepped behind me, took my arms above the elbows, and pulled me tightly against him. I was virtually unable to move, but I could feel his cock against my buttocks. It, too, was growing, though it wasn't yet fully engorged, as I could see Jason Davies's was. Jason Davies reached for a case on the table. I realised I hadn't seen it before now, though it had obviously been there the whole time. It looked like a large despatch box. And propped up against the table, I saw James Davies's other case. The long, tall, flat one. The one that had been intended for artwork, but which James Davies had converted into a case for carrying his instruments of pain. I knew what was in that case, and suddenly I panicked. Why? Why would it be here? I was to be spared pain, wasn't I? As fear filled me again, I felt my cock beginning to droop. As fear replaced submission in my eyes, I noticed James Davies's demeanour changed subtly too. He remained aroused, but gone was his sense of surprise, his discomforted feeling of losing control. He was back in control now, though he wasn't sure what had happened. "Please," I whispered. Only he and Henry Marcus could hear. "Please don't hurt me, sir." And then he knew. And his lips parted and white teeth gleamed. He understood. And I pressed back into Henry Marcus's body as James Davies approached. He opened the case on the table. I couldn't see its contents, but James Davies produced from within it a barber's electric shears. "To begin, Blanchard," he announced to everyone, "we will make you look like a fag. In both senses of that term." The room was filled with quiet buzzing as he thumbed the power switch and it came to life. He looked me over as Henry Marcus manoeuvred me, raising my arms, turning me around, bending me over at the waist. The only hair to be found below my neck was the clutch of reddish pubic hair on my balls and above my cock. The shears quickly sent it to the floor and left a swath of stubble behind. Jason Davies adjusted a setting on the shears, and then Henry Marcus surprised me by slipping his arms under mine and bending me forward by clasping his hands around the back of my neck. I was in a wrestling hold and virtually immobile from the waist up. Suddenly, I felt the shears on my scalp. "NO!" I yelled and tried to squirm away, but I couldn't move and Jason Davies quickly slapped my face. He grabbed my chin and held my head still as he worked, shearing off all of my hair down to half-inch stubble. Tears fell off my face and landed in my locks as they lay on the floor. When Jason Davies had finished, Henry Marcus pulled me back upright. I glared bleary-eyed at Jason Davies as he turned to the audience. "He's signed on for this part and parcel. He doesn't get to pick and choose now what he's in for. He wanted the penny and he's in for the whole pound," he announced. I glanced out to the crowd and realised there'd be no aid from that quarter. I didn't know which, if any, of them had agreed to participate only on condition of my consent, but I'd so thoroughly proved my submission to James Davies only moments before that any resistance now would be useless. Jason Davies next exchanged his shears for a razor. He swiftly lathered and shaved my groin, wiping up with a towel and leaving me completely bare. I had nothing left but eyebrows and spiky, half-inch stubble on my scalp. I waited fearfully for him to lather and shave them off as well, but instead he surprised me by kneeling in front of me. He pulled the case down and set it on the floor. I tried to peer down to see what else it contained, but Henry Marcus stepped from behind me and bent me backwards over the table, thrusting my crotch out into the air. I watched in silence what little I could see by tilting my head up from the table, as Jason Davies closed a plastic ring around my cock and balls, right up to the base of my skin. It lifted my genitals away from my body. He then took two metallic half-circles, each an inch thick, and began to tug on my balls. I struggled a bit as the pain grew, but Henry Marcus had both his hands on my shoulders, pinnng my upper body in position. Jason Davies closed the two half-circles around my nutbag, pulling my balls farther still away. The cold metal made me flinch as it cooled the freshly shorn skin. Once Jason Davies had the two half-circles aligned and had made certain no scrotal flesh had slipped between the seams, he took out two bolts began to tighten them in the sides of the newly formed ring. I realised that, in addition to being at least an inch thick, the ring was also very heavy and pulled my cock and balls down once Jason Davies released it. I cringed at the stretching sensation. The next thing Jason Davies produced was a hard, curved plastic tube with various slots cut out around its length. As he brought it up towards my cock, I realised what it was and flew into panic. "NO! NO, NO," I screamed and began to flail. The plastic tube would slide over my cock and lock into the plastic ring around my balls. Henry Marcus slammed my back flat against the table and pinned my hands to my chest. I retaliated by kicking out and striking Jason Davies with my foot. "Fucking bastard," I heard Jason Davies mutter under his breath. "Mr Courtney!" he yelled. I heard Peter Courtney bound up onto the stage, and looked at him. He looked frightened. "Mr Courtney, I want you to put that thing on him whilst I hold his feet so he can't kick out." "NO!" I repeated. "I don't want it on me! I don't want a chastity device! You can't stop me from wanking!" Jason Davies responded by grabbing firm hold of my balls where they emerged from the metal ring that stretched them from my body. He began to squeeze with growing determination as I writhed and protested. "Do it, Courtney," he demanded. "Do it now, or it'll be you." And Peter Courtney took hold of my dick. I tried to will myself hard. I tried to struggle away. But Jason Davies knelt on my feet and squeezed my balls, and Henry Marcus pinned my arms and chest. And Peter Courtney forced the plastic tube over my flaccid cock, and hooked it onto the plastic ring. And I was done for. Jason Davies released my balls and took a small padlock from his case, and without a word clipped it onto the contraption. And I cried. I hadn't cum since fucking Charles Lindsay on Thursday. And now I never would. As the senior boys released me, I fell to the floor in a heap and tried to pull it off. It wouldn't yield. I couldn't get the plastic tube away from the plastic ring whilst they were locked together. I couldn't prise the ring away from my body without ripping off my balls. "Take it off," I begged. "I want to cum! Please, take it off!" I crawled over to Jason Davies as tufts of my shorn hair clung to my body from my roll in the floor. "Please, sir, please take it off! I'll be a good boy, please! You can beat me! Please, beat me! Just don't leave it on!" And Jason Davies bent down and pulled me to my feet before backhanding me and sending me back into the floor. He bent down and pulled me back up as I snivelled like a child. "Are you withdrawing?" he hissed at me. His face was cold, betraying no emotion whatever, except his burning eyes. I stared at him, trembling as he held me tightly and realising what he was asking. I'd thought Henry Marcus was Jason Davies's muscle, so the strength of Jason Davies's fingers clamping into my biceps surprised me. I opened my mouth and nothing came out. I remembered the leather case. The one propped beside the table, not the one on the floor under it. I shook my head, slowly, eyes wide in fear. He pushed me away. "Now thank Mr Courtney for your gift, Blanchard," Jason Davies ordered quietly. "Thanks, Peter," I muttered. "Thank him properly, Blanchard." I swallowed and glanced at Jason Davies as he loomed over me. "Thank you. Sir." "Now come here." I moved over and stood opposite Jason Davies. He bade me to kneel. He produced from his pocket a heavy metal chain, like a collar for a Rottweiler or mastiff. He draped it over my neck and slipped another small padlock, identical to that which now locked my cock away from me, through the two terminal links. I could breathe and swallow, but there was no slack in the chain. "Now, what do you say, Blanchard?" "Thank you, sir," I whimpered as my eyes filled with tears. "Good boy," he smirked and rubbed his palm over my prickly scalp. "Now, once you've atoned for that ruckus a few minutes ago, we'll be glad to set you on your road to service." And as he pulled my face deep into his crotch, I heard him ask Peter Courtney to put his large case on the table and open it. I felt myself smothering, both because my nose and mouth were buried in his genitals and because of the words I heard him say. "I shall call each of you by name, heads first then monitors. You'll come up in turn, and select an instrument from the case. You'll then administer five strokes anywhere you'd like on Blanchard's body. I ask you, for obvious reasons, to avoid visible areas likely to rouse the suspicion of the faculty. Also, avoid breaking the skin because we do not want the intervention of any house matron. You'll then take a number from the box Mr Marcus is holding, which determines the order in which you may send for Blanchard and benefit from his service. "I and Mr Marcus shall not draw lots with you. Blanchard shall be at our disposal as we require him. Minimising, of course, any interference with your scheduled use of him. Each weekday, beginning Monday, and proceeding in order of the lots drawn here today, you may send for Blanchard between supper and lights out. No one is to disrupt Blanchard's lessons or studies between Period 4 and supper. From flicks to morning, Blanchard is in the care, and under the supervision, of Mr Courtney. "The only restrictions on the services you may demand of Blanchard are these. First, he is not to be beaten save under the supervision of myself, Mr Marcus, or Mr Courtney. All disciplinary shortcomings, including disobedience and insubordination, are to be reported to us. Second, he is not to be shared with anyone not present now. Feel free to share him amongst yourselves. I fact, I encourage you to do. The less fortunate amongst you will have to wait a few weeks to have your turn otherwise. Third, he is not to be damaged beyond recuperation for the next day. None of you would want to lose your turn with him because your predecessor in the lottery had overused him. Nor would we want his lessons to suffer to the point faculty appreciate his situation. Finally, discretion is the better part of valour, gentlemen. "Are there any questions?" James Davies asked. There were none. James Davies shoved my head away from his body and I toppled over backwards into the floor. As I gasped for air, he produced his handkerchief. I had just enough time to notice that it was soiled before he stuffed it into my mouth. And in an instant, Henry Marcus had collected me from the floor and bent me over the table again, this time pinning my arms under my chest and pressing firmly at the centre of my back to hold me down. Jason Davies ordered Peter Courtney under the table to hold my ankles, pre-emptively guarding against an attempt to kick anyone else. And then he began to recite names of the boys. All two dozen of them, each of whom queued to give me five strokes.