Date: Tue, 13 May 2003 01:44:00 +0100 (BST)
From: B HC <velveteel@yahoo.co.uk>
Subject: Night Walking

Night Walking
by Paul Gilbert.

This story contains a cupful of truth, a thimbleful of lies and a bucketful
of fantasy.  You can ask the author ( at velveteel@yahoo.co.uk ) which part
is which, but he's a storyteller, not a confessant, and you probably won't
get an honest reply!  But if you like the story anyway, do write and tell
him so!

=============================================================================

Chapter One:

What am I?  An exhibitionist?  No, not really - I do it for my own
entertainment, for the excitement it brings.  I'm not interested in being
seen; in fact I run for cover if I think there's the slightest chance of
someone seeing me.  But there's certainly a thrill in knowing I just might
be observed.

I'm addicted to it.  Going naked, I mean.  Naked in public.

It started off quite innocently, I suppose.  It was about twenty years ago,
when I was in my late thirties.  I was the Chief Librarian at our local
university, and married so unhappily that I was actually sleeping alone.
It had been my choice to quit the intimacy of the conjugal bed, so of course
my wife had retained the comfort and the space of the master bedroom at the
front of the house.  Me, I had to make do with the cramped, twelve-by-ten
spare bedroom at the back.

In those days I had a reasonably fine body.  Still have, in my humble
opinion, though age has slackened a few muscles and added some wrinkles.
Six foot two tall, and I've always kept my weight under twelve stone,
regardless of whether I exercise (which I don't, much) or overeat (which,
sometimes, I do).  But I digress.

The room did have its advantages.  The single bed, three feet wide, left
plenty of space for me to set up the computer where I could access the web
in privacy.  Alice never came into my room, not even to clean it or make
the bed.  I was pretty well living a bachelor life.

The other main advantage was the magnificent view from my bedroom window,
over the gentle, sweeping valley that led down to the town where I lived.
Strictly speaking we lived in an urban environment.  But it sprawled a bit,
and we lived on a little ridge that curled round and left a couple of
hay-fields neatly tucked between us and the town centre.  I'll describe
the layout in a little more detail later on.

Anyway ...

Getting ready for bed, late one fine, June night, I thought I heard a noise
outside.  I turned off the room light, then carefully pulled back a corner
of the curtains to look around the rear garden.  No sign of any intruders,
I noted with relief.  Then, in the light of the full moon as it emerged
from behind a cloud, I saw what had caused the noise.  It was a fox.

He was standing quite brazenly by the side door of the garage, with a
haughty look on his face that said this was his territory.  HE was king
here, not the sad, human git who lived in the house he was looking at.
He was a young fox.  Time hadn't had the opportunity to scar him, nor to
sew patches of mange into his coat.  His beautiful fur shone in the
moonlight, and his great, bushy tail extended gracefully behind him.

Now I'm a bit of a traditionalist.  I'm all for continuing the spectacle
of the English fox-hunt.  I like to see men on horseback, dressed in
hunting pink, taking the stirrup cup at the local pub before galloping
through the countryside in pursuit of their quarry.  And it has to be
admitted that foxes can cause a lot of mayhem and tragedy to the hens,
ducks and young lambs that our farmers try to rear.  Nevertheless, a fox
in its prime is a handsome animal indeed.

I must have moved, for suddenly he looked straight up at me for a couple
of seconds before loping casually off towards the end of the garden where
he could easily escape into the open fields.  A daring fox, I thought.
A town fox.

But suddenly a perverse thought came into my mind, and it wouldn't go away.

'Daring' wasn't just for foxes, was it?

It was *my* garden.  If anything or anyone had a right to be *daring* in
my garden, it was me!

Would I dare to walk the hundred-yard length of the garden and back?
Naked?  Totally at one with nature, like the wild, free fox I'd just
admired?

It was well past midnight.  Most, if not all, my neighbours would be in
bed.  It was highly unlikely that any of them would chance to look out
of their windows at the very moment that I made my swift, bare foray to
the bottom of the garden.  OK, I said to myself, let's do it.  Let's take
up the dare.

So, wearing nothing but a pair of old trainers (yeah, sad, wasn't it?
I'm a wimp!  But there were nettles and brambles out there!), I quietly
crept downstairs and emerged from my back door.  A few feet from the house
I paused, to reflect on what I was doing.  It was warm and dry, with
hardly a breath of wind.  Dark, too - the moon was once again concealed
behind cloud.

I looked up at the windows of my neighbours' houses.  No sign of light or
movement, no sounds of stirring life.  My mind a turmoil of bravado mixed
with terror, I made myself walk, not run, the entire length of my garden.
I didn't allow myself to cower, nor to conceal my semi-aroused cock behind
cupped hands.  Each yard felt like a mile, but at last I reached cover
behind our small garden shed.  Triumphantly I put my hand on top of the
gate that led out through the gap in the hedge to the open, grass field.
I was 'home'.  I'd made it!  I was elated!

Now I had to get back.

I stepped out from behind the shed at the precise monent when the full moon
chose to emerge from its cloud.  I looked at the night sky, and saw with
consternation that there were no more clouds anywhere near!  I would have
to wait forever, or else return to the house with the moon casting its
full, illuminating rays on my nude form.

Well, as they say, nothing venture, nothing gain.  I stepped out and
walked, erect (in both senses!) and proud, the full length of the garden
to my back door!  I'd done it!

Over the next few days I lived in fear that some neighbour might mention
looking out of their windows and seeing a naked man.  Of course, my fears
were groundless.  My little stroll had gone totally unnoticed.

So I did it again about a week later.

And again.

Gradually my naked forays became regular, almost nightly events.  I got
a real kick from doing it.  Bad weather didn't put me off - somehow it
was especially good if it was raining!  I lengthened my little late-night
walks, zigzagging from shrubbery to flower bed, extending the time I was
out in open view.  Alice was always early to bed, and she slept well, so
there was never any real chance that she would learn about my new
perversion.

Ah, yes.  That word.  Perversion.  It reminds me that there's another
little hobby I need to tell you about.  Another 'perversion' that plays
an important part in this tale.

For several years I had been indulging in solo games with buttplugs of
various sizes and shapes.  When I first met Alice I had hoped she'd take
an interest, but she always made it clear that sex was totally off the
menu until we were married.  Even after we'd tied the knot, she could
never contemplate any version of sex that varied from the ordinary.
Alice had felt contractually obliged to give me access to her body once
a week, but only for missionary-position sex done quickly while she kept
her eyes closed.

I did try to encourage discussion, broaden her horizons, but with dogged
determination she refused to listen to me.  Sex was filthy, even when it
was limited to penis and vagina.  God, if I had ever dared mention my
desire to include anuses within our erogenous horizons, she'd have had
a fit!  So with buttplugs I was on my own.

By the time I started taking my little night-time strolls, I was
regularly - and frequently - using one particular plug that measured
seven inches from blunt tip to flat base.  This lovely, soft, black
rubber tool had a circumference of ten inches at its widest point.

It's a well-known fact that anyone a predilection for anal penetration
can never be fully satisfied.  Sooner or later, the buttplug enthusiast
always wants more.  That sweet seven-incher of mine was forever trying
to go deeper inside me, and I was oh, so eager for it to succeed!  One
day, therefore, I took a sharp knife and trimmed the base a little, all
the way round.  Now my anal muscles could pull the entire thing inside
me.  I was never in fear of losing it inside myself - it always settled
comfortably in the rectal cavity, just beyond the sphincter.  I could
easily tighten the sphincter and enclose it completely, but generally I
remained open enough to show about a square inch of black rubber.

There had been a small brass ring in what remained of the base.  To this
I had attached a 'tail', about fifteen inches long and consisting of
twenty or so lengths of heavy black nylon cord.  The tail was partly a
fail-safe device, in case my bum went uncharacteristically berserk and
tried to suck my plug too far inside.  But mainly I used it for the look
and the feel of that tail, swishing around my naked inner thighs as I
walked.

It was a lovely device to use, and naturally it became an essential element
of my nocturnal outings.  It would always be inside me, providing anal
thrills to augment the more simple delight of walking naked beneath the
dark heavens.

However, it wasn't long before I began to feel dissatisfied with my walks
in the garden.  They had become rather tame affairs.  One night, as I
reached the bottom of the garden and put my fingers on the gate, I knew
I was ready to go to the next level.  Quietly I opened the gate, and
passed nervously through to the field beyond.

Before the second World War it had been a hop field, one of many in the
area.  Itinerant workers from London would come down, at the right time
of year, to pick the hops and earn a few extra shillings of income.  Now,
though, the field was set to grass.  The farmer would come, twice or
three times a year, to cut the grass, leave it a few days to dry, then
gather it in huge, cylindrical bales to make silage for his cows in
winter.  When the grass was close-cropped you could see the chalk soil
in which it grew.  If you looked carefully, you might sometimes find
little broken pieces of clay pipe stems, evidence of the life habits
of those hop-pickers who came to gather one of the vital ingredients
for English beer.

At one o'clock in the morning I wasn't interested in fragments of clay
pipes.  I just wanted to break free from the confines of my garden!  I
stood close to the hedge and looked about, waiting for my eyes to
accustom themselves to the dark.

Not a soul to be seen, of course.

These two fields were well used during the day.  Being close to the town,
the locals had come to look on them as a convenient bit of parkland.  They
were beset with footpaths.  Some of these were circuits, where retired
town ladies walked their dogs during the morning and afternoon.  Others
were short-cuts for the residents of our ridge who didn't want to go the
long way round by road.

Nearly a mile away, on the edge of town, I could see the Art College, lit
by its orange security lights on tall poles.  It was a big, very popular
college.  It was said that some of the wilder students liked to smoke
their illicit substances in the large copse of beech trees that sat
half-way between the college and my back garden, between the two fields
of grass.  I wasn't inclined to believe these rumours, though.  When I
walked our own dogs - in the daytime, of course - I would often wander
into this copse, and I never found any evidence to convince me that
anything untoward happened there.

How wrong I was!

Anyway, I started to walk along the edge of the field, behind the row of
back gardens that adjoined my own.  When I had gone about fifty yards I
decided I felt too vulnerable, and I scurried back to the gate.  Silly,
I thought, it was an hour after midnight!  There couldn't be anyone here
to see me!  And there was no moon - the only illumination came from the
Art College and the town's street lamps, two fields away.  I made myself
go another fifty yards, in the opposite direction this time, before
scurrying back through my gate to the safety of my garden.

By September my confidence had grown enormously.  My naked, night-time
forays were taking me all the way around the nearest field, a journey of
over a mile.  I would try to conceal myself in the hedge if I heard a
sound that might possibly be an approaching person, but these always
turned out to be false alarms.  Mostly I walked openly, at a fairly
leisurely pace, my semi-erect prick pointing the way.  I would even
stop occasionally, to lie down on the grass and enjoy the gentle feel
of the breeze, to listen to the gentle sounds of nocturnal nature.  Or
to masturbate (something that usually happened quickly due to the
constant pressure of the buttplug on my prostate).  I would often do
two circuits of the field, sometimes venturing briefly through the gap
into the next field as well, so my strolls could frequently last for
well over an hour.

It was always an exquisite experience.  The quiet, the dark, the solitude
all helped to calm my mind and relieve me of the stresses of my marriage.
I always slept well once I was back in my bedroom.

But one Saturday night, late that September, it happened.

The night was warm and still summery, though the TV weather forecast had
warned us that autumn was to strike in a big, cold and wet way the
following day.  Eager to make the most of the night, I had ventured
further than ever before from my garden gate.  I had advanced well into
the second field, close to the beech copse, when I stopped and took a
look around me.

A soft, warm wind rustled the trees in the beech copse.  I could smell
wood smoke, the remnants (I wrongly assumed) of a Saturday evening
bonfire in one of the gardens.  There was no sign of life anywhere.
Some nights I would see little groups of Muntjack deer, taking advantage
of the dark to emerge from woodland to the north and steal an easy meal
by grazing in the lush fields.  But there were none tonight.

The grass was long and inviting.  I quit the 'safety' of the hedgerow
and walked about ten yards into the field, tugging softly on my 'tail'
to jiggle the buttplug a little and vary the pressure on my prostate.
In seconds, my prick went from its usual semi-aroused state to fully
erect.  Lying down, I gripped the seven-inch cylinder and began a
deliberate, gentle ascent to orgasm.  Delightful sensations from my
arse brought me to the edge very quickly.  Several times I removed my
hand from the pulsing member, to prolong - and heighten - my pleasure.
But each time I resumed I was quickly on the edge again.  At last I
allowed nature to take its course and I came, copiously, sending shots
of hot, white, viscous fluid onto my face and chest.

As my cock shuddered its way to softness, it leaked more cum through my
hand, down between my scrotum and my right thigh.  For a few seconds I
savoured the heady, post-orgasmic feeling of release, then I turned over
onto my belly.  I wanted the grass to take my cum, to feed on its
nutrients.  When my body felt clean I turned over again, onto a fresh
bit of grass, and I spread my legs and arms akimbo.  Ah, the pleasure
of peaceful, undisturbed repose!

I watched what I thought could be an owl as it flew over me, a black
shape against the dark sky, obliterating stars one by one as it
progressed.  I heard the hiss of the grass in the light wind.

And I must have fallen asleep.

But not for long.

When, suddenly, my wrists and ankles were gripped by four strong pairs
of hands, I was brought abruptly to full wakefulness.  My first instinct
was to cry out, but before I could do so a commanding, quiet voice said
"Sshh!"


= = = = = = = = = = = =


Chapter Two:

It was the young man holding my right wrist who had signalled me to be quiet.

I struggled, in a vain attempt to escape their clutches.  I was confused -
I couldn't understand what was happening.  Being caught like this was my
absolute worst nightmare, yet my cock had suddenly decided to become
rampantly, embarrassingly erect again!  I didn't yell out.  They were
holding me, not hurting me, so after a few moments I let my naked body
fall still.

"Oh, God, please let me go, guys," I pleaded in a semi-whisper.  The
tremor of fear was blatantly evident in my voice.  "I'm just out for a
walk, honest.  I'm really sorry.  I didn't know you were there.  I'm
not a flasher!"

"Just keep your mouth closed for now, and you'll be OK," said the same
man.  In the faint glow of the town's distant lights, I could see he
had a smile on his face.  So did the other three.  Their smiles were
somehow reassuring, and in any case I didn't fancy my chances in a
serious struggle with these guys.  It seemed sensible to set aside
all thoughts of resistance for the moment.  Perhaps I'd get an
opportunity to escape later on.

They made me sit up.  One of them produced a bit of string from a
pocket in his jeans, and tied my hands behind me.  Digging again in
his pocket he found a length of nylon cord, which he tied to one of
my ankles.  Tying a loop in the other end, he made a sort of lead out
of it, then the four of them helped me to my feet.

One of them, a skinny lad with glasses, briefly took my erection in his
hand.  He didn't grip it - he just cupped it gently in his hand and
looked at it.  His touch inevitably made me that much harder, and my
predicament became that much more embarrassing.

"Such a sweet thing!" he muttered with a chuckle.  And now that I was
standing, the little black tail protruding from my bum suddenly came
into view, giving them all something else to laugh about.  A couple
of them gave it a tentative little tug.

"Oh, great!" I heard someone chortle, "we're really in for some fun
tonight!"  The others laughed.

They indicated for me to follow them, and set out towards the beech
copse.  Tied up as I was, there was nothing I could do except follow.
The ankle string wasn't a problem, but my wrists were already feeling
a bit uncomfortable.  I was led far into the copse, through thick
undergrowth, towards a faint orange glow.  To my surprise we came to
an enormous depression rather like an old bomb crater.  I suppose it
was about fifty feet across, and the middle was a good ten feet below
the level of the surrounding ground.  I'd not seen this hole before -
obviously the copse was bigger than it seemed from the outside.  My
daytime investigations had never taken me into its real depths.  Trees
grew on the slopes of the depression, but in the middle a clearing had
been made.  There was a small, decrepit, corrugated iron shelter, and
a log fire was burning brightly.

A path led down to the clearing.  We all descended, and I was signalled
to sit on one of the logs arranged around the fire, and one of them untied
my wrists.  Everyone sat.  One of the lads, the one with glasses, pulled
a small tin from his pocket and began to roll a cigarette, while Mr Sshh
tied the end of my ankle rope to a tree root.  The rope wouldn't have
held firm if I'd tried to make a run for it, but it would probably have
delayed me enough to make my recapture a certainty.

I still hadn't guessed what they had in mind for me, but I'd already
reached a few conclusions about the guys themselves  In the light of
the fire I could see they all wore jeans and trainers, plus the colourful
shirts that marked them out as art college students.  Two, including
Mr Sshh (who was sitting to my left, on the same log as me), looked
old enough to be in their final year.  They were both taller than me,
and my guess was that they played rugger, or worked out or something.

The other two - Mr Glasses and Mr String - were younger.  The were both
well under six feet tall, and they both looked as though they could do
with several square meals.  I guessed they were probably students at the
start of their first year, which meant they had to be eighteen years old.

This clearly wasn't a group of equals.  Mr Sshh seemed to 'own' Mr Glasses
in some way, and the other two were similarly paired.  I had no idea what
the nature of this 'ownership' was.  Sexual, perhaps?  Or maybe there was
some sort of college tradition where new boys got attached to senior
students for making tea, cleaning boots and such.  Don't they call it
'fagging' in schools like Harrow and Eton?

Glasses passed the cigarette to Sshh, who lit it and took a deep drag.
He passed it to the lad on his left.  Leaning back, eyes closed, he waited
a while before expelling the smoke he'd inhaled so deeply, and sighed.

"Hey!" he murmured, satisfaction plain in his voice.  "What a hit!  Did
you put extra grass in this one, Rog?"

"No, Sir," replied Rog.  He pushed his specs more firmly onto his nose.
"Just good stuff, I suppose.  Glad you approve, Sir."

The joint continued its passage clockwise around the fire.  Now the lads
were talking to each other.  It was getting clearer all the time that
there were two doms here with their subs, and now I had picked up three
of their names.  Sshh was Peter, and his bespectacled submissive was Rog.
Short for Roger, I surmised.  The other submissive, the kid with the
string, was Andy, but I still didn't know his dom's name.

I was still unclear how deep their dom/sub relationships went.  Nor was
I sure why they'd abducted me, or what they planned to do with me.  It
surprised me that I didn't feel more threatened by them.  The only
sexual allusions they'd made, so far, had been the brief examination of
my prick and their quiet giggles on noticing my 'tail'.  Perhaps my
predicament wasn't going to be quite so embarrassing and demeaning as
I had at first feared.

Somehow I'd assumed I'd be left out when Andy, on my right, had taken his
drag on the cannabis cigarette.  I thought he'd slip it past me to Peter.
But he held out the joint to me.

I was nonplussed.  I'd always wanted to try grass, but somehow I never
found myself among people who smoked it.  It just wasn't my scene.  If
a dealer had walked past me, stinking of the stuff, I wouldn't have
recognised the smell.  Even if I had, I would never have plucked up the
courage to approach him and ask how much it cost.

Gingerly I took the joint, and sat looking at it for a few seconds.

"Oh, for fuck's sake get on with it!" commanded Peter, exasperation
evident in his voice.  "That stuff costs money, and you're letting it
burn away!"  Nervously I took a drag, inhaled deeply and passed the
joint on to Peter.

My first hit.

I really thought I'd be seeing pink and green spirals, psychedelic patterns
in the fire's flames.  What I actually got was a sensation something like
my first-ever ciggie and my first-ever beer, rolled into one and magnified
about five times.  Quite nice, I mused in my unhip, Chief Librarian way.
It seemed to be no big deal, and I actually liked it!

So why, I wondered, had I spent my life being so fucking prim and proper
about cannabis?  I sat quietly, watching the joint as it made its slow
progress around the circle.  I realised I was hoping to get a second pull
at it.  Suddenly Peter brought me out of my happy haze.

"OK, Mister," he said, "let's decide what we're going to do with you.
We know you're out here almost every night, displaying yourself naked to
all and sundry.  You started before the summer term ended, and I bet
you've been doing it all through the holiday.  Now the autumn term's
started.  Why do you do it?  I suppose you've got problems at home, right?"

I didn't know what to say.  Kids as young as this have no right to be
that perceptive.

"Well," Peter continued, "I suppose it's our civic duty to stop you from
flaunting your naked body in public.  What are we going to do?  Hand you
over to the police, maybe?  It's what we first thought of doing ... "

I groaned. "Oh, no, no, for Christ's sake!" I begged.  "You wouldn't do
that, would you?  It would destroy me!"

He looked me over critically.  "Yeah, I suppose it would," he said.
"You speak like an academic.  What are you, a librarian or something?
Don't worry, that idea never got off the ground.  We're not exactly
bosom pals with the Law!"

I heaved a sigh of relief, though the accuracy of his guess about my
profession was highly disconcerting.

"Then we thought, maybe we should tie you up to a lamp-post in town.
That way you'd certainly be discovered, possibly by the police, possibly
by someone less sympathetic.  But I don't imagine you'd like that either,
eh?"

I shook my head.  I was almost in tears.  This was too awful.

Ben moved across to sit beside me on my log.  Now my naked body was
sandwiched tightly between the two more dominant members of this
little group.  Rog and Andy looked on, eager expectancy showing on
their faces.  Ben turned to face me, his eyes less than six inches
from mine, and I felt his right hand descend lightly onto my bare knee.
I held my breath as he gently brushed my inner thigh in a slow,
possessive caress.

"What's your name?" he asked softly.

"Paul," I replied in a choked whisper, then immediately cursed myself
for not thinking to use a false name.

"Well, Paul," Ben continued, "we decided we'd be kind to you.  We're
not going to hand you over."

My sigh of relief was sincere - and very audible.

"We're going to fuck you instead."

His words didn't make sense at first, but gradually I began to understand
their ghastly significance.

"Oh, no.  No!  You mean ... ?"

"Yes, Paul, we do mean!" he confirmed, a broad smile spreading across
his face.  "The word was 'fuck'.  You can substitute 'fornicate' if you
like, or 'bugger' if you want to be pedantic!  But no matter what label
you put on it, there'll be cum in your bum before you get back home
tonight!"

My head started to spin.  I thought I was going to faint, but I wasn't
granted the happy release of unconsciousness.  I felt Peter's hand
join Ben's in my lap, and the two of them began to stroke my cock with
their fingertips.  Only then did I realise that I'd become rampantly,
throbbingly erect at the very idea of having my arse violated by these
virile young guys.


= = = = = = = = = = = =


Chapter Three:

Appalled at my own ambiguous reaction to the prospect of sexual congress
with these men, I leapt suddenly to my feet.  I had to get away, make my
dash for freedom.  Ben grabbed at me, but only managed to get his fingers
around my 'tail'.  My favourite buttplug made a painful exit from its
resting place as I reached the end of the string tethering me to the
tree root, and I fell full length in the sand that covered the floor
of the clearing.

Dash for freedom!  Huh!  I hadn't even managed five yards!  Tears of
frustration filled my eyes, but I hid my face, bit my lip and waited
a few seconds to regain a bit of composure.

The four students were laughing!  I turned my head slightly, and saw
Ben holding the 'tail' and swinging my buttplug like a big, black
pendulum!  Strangely enough, my main concern was to check that it was
clean - my embarrassment would have been so much greater if I'd been
less than meticulous about my inner cleanliness.  Andy and Rog came
over and helped me stand.  I glanced down at my crotch and noted with
relief that my erection had subsided.

"Hey, Paul, lighten up!" said Peter.  "We only want a bit of fun.  We're
not rapists!  Don't you want us to fuck you?  The choice is yours - we
can easily escort you into town if that's what you'd prefer!"

I said nothing.  I was afraid I'd burst into tears if I tried to speak.
I was wishing I'd never looked out of my window, three months ago, and
seen that blasted fox.

Ben held out my buttplug to me.  I took it, but he held on to the tail.

"Put this back in for now," he said.  There was a firmness in his voice.
"Oh, and I think it's time Peter and I had a bit of respect from you," he
added.  "Rog and Andy both call us 'Sir'; and we think you should do the
same."

I nodded glumly.

"Paul, did you hear what I said?"  I could feel the sharp edge of Ben's
dominance resting menacingly against my naked breast.

"Yes, Sir," I mumbled.

"Louder!"

"Yes, Sir!" I declared, realising that my utterance of those two simple
words was a significant act of submission on my part.  And it felt
surprisingly good.

I was keen to get that buttplug back into my arsehole.  After all,
no-one would be able to fuck me while it was in place!  My hole was
still stretched, and moist with the juices that always come when I'm
using an anal toy, so it only took a matter of seconds to reinstall it.
Ben kept his proprietorial hold on my tail throughout this brief
process.  When he motioned for me to sit down again, he held the tail
out so that it wouldn't be hidden beneath my body.  They tied my
wrists behind me.

Once again I found myself sandwiched between Peter and Ben.  Once again
their fingers were in my groin, gently teasing me to an erectness that
verged on painful.

"So what do you like us to do?" Ben asked.

I didn't want to be handed over to the police, that's for sure.  Neither
did I want to be left outside the Art College, tied to a lamp-post for
God-knows-who to find me.

But I didn't want to be fucked either.

I shrugged my shoulders.

"I suppose I want to be fucked," I hesitantly replied.

What the hell was I saying, I asked myself.  I wasn't gay.  I was a
normal, heterosexual man, wasn't I?  Normal men don't indulge in any
sort of sex with other men.  Normal men don't ask other men to fuck
them!

Oh, hell.  Normal men don't go prancing about naked in open fields at
dead of night, do they?  My claim to normality suddenly seemed less
than valid.

"Sir?"  Ben reminded.  His fingers were around my balls, and he squeezed.
The sensation wasn't completely unpleasant, but it reminded me that Ben
was in control and I'd better answer in the way he wanted.

"I very much want to be fucked, Sir!" This time my response was a quick,
positive one.  In the seconds that followed I realised, with a clear
certainty and to my own utter amazement, that I wasn't pretending.

"Good!" declared Ben.  "That's the right answer!  Have you ever been
fucked before?"

"No, Sir," I replied.  But it wasn't true.  Back when I was thirteen,
some boys in the senior school had - oh, never mind.  It was a long,
long time ago, and it's another story altogether.

"Well, you're not exactly a tight-arsed virgin, are you?  And let's face
it, you're no spring chicken either!  If you've been using plugs as big
as that one for several years, your hole is probably so slack that it
looks like a prostitute's pussy!

I kept silent.  I knew from experience that the use of a buttplug tended
to tone up my anal muscles instead of making them weaker.  Yeah, well,
it does take a few minutes to tighten up after a serious buttplug
session, but I'd have betted twenty-five quid that my sphincter could
squeeze a cock so hard that it hurt!

Ben motioned to Peter, and the two of them got up and walked over to
where their two submissives were waiting.  Rog had rolled a second
joint, which he handed, unlit, to Peter.  The four students put their
heads together, and for a couple of minutes I couldn't hear what they
were saying.  Suddenly, Andy and Rog bent down to remove their trainers.
Seconds later their jeans and t-shirts had come off, and they were both
as naked as I was!

Ben sauntered back to where I was sitting.  At first I paid him no
attention - my eyes were glued to the groins of the two young
submissives.  They were both clean-shaven about their cocks and balls,
and neither of them was particularly well-endowed.  But both penises
were stiff, and projecting horizontally forwards.

Rog's cock, I thought, was particularly pretty.  It was slender and
straight for its entire six-inch length.  His glans, amply covered with
a thin, loose foreskin, was still only half-engorged, making the whole
cock look streamlined and lovely.  There wasn't a single wrinkle in
the skin except at the very tip, where half an inch of foreskin extended
beyond the glans and drooped attractively downwards like the spout of
a teapot.

Andy's was shorter by half an inch or so, but it was incredibly thick.
It was circumcised, and the swollen, blunt glans shone purple-red in
the flickering light of the open fire.  A tiny bead of pre-cum glistened
at the tip.  The whole thing tapered away slightly towards his body,
giving it the appearance of a miniature club.

Beneath each cock lurked a delicate, hairless little scrotum.  I
watched, fascinated, as the cool night air caused their rapid contraction
from soft, dangling sacs to tight, ridged pouches.  I sighed, thinking
how good it would be to caress those beautiful bollocks, to warm them
with my hands and feel them relax into soft, silky smoothness.  But
I was *not* gay, I severely reminded myself, and I shouldn't be
allowing such perverted ideas to fill my head!  I shuddered, and
sent my mind into a virtual somersault in my efforts to dislodge
those sick, unnatural thoughts.

"Pretty, aren't they?" Ben murmured into my ear, interrupting my reveries.

"Well, yes, I suppose they are!"  I replied.  "Er, Sir," I added quickly.
"Are they going to fuck me now?" I enquired.  Ben laughed.

"Oh, no!" he replied.  "Andy and Rog don't fuck!  Sometimes we let them
masturbate, but not very often."  He walked back, grasped Andy by his
barrel-shaped prick and led him over to me.

"When was the last time I allowed you to cum?" Ben asked.  Andy closed
his eyes, obviously trying to remember.

"It was in the summer holidays, Sir, before Rog and I enrolled here.
In Dad's stable.  You let me rub myself against Clemmie's hind leg
because you said I'd been particulary well behaved that afternoon."
I saw Andy's cock twitch with pleasure at the memory.

"How long ago was that?"

"Must be five weeks at least, Sir!"

"Five weeks!" repeated Ben, turning to me and gripping my own cock.
"And how long is it since this sad little thing released its load?"

"Not very long, Sir!" I replied.  "You  were probably watching as I did
it.  In the grass, just before you caught me?"

Ben and Peter nodded.

"Hmm.  Yes, that's right.  And before that?"

I admitted that I'd masturbated at lunch time.  It had been a quick one,
while I read a couple of stories I'd downloaded from the Web, and I'd
carelessly shot my load all over my keyboard!  None of the function keys
between F4 and F9 worked now.  I was planning to take a trip down to
PC World next day for a replacement keyboard.

"Shit!" ejaculated Ben.  "So that's twice for you, in the last twelve
hours.  And nothing at all for my poor little Andy since well over a
month ago!  You need taking under control, don't you think?"

"Yes, Sir!" I replied with humility, realising that I was tacitly
consenting to some sort of ongoing discipline.  Neither Ben not Peter,
whose fingers were still stroking my rigid, eager member, could have
failed to notice the powerful leaps of anticipatory pleasure that it
performed.

"I shouldn't deprive my boy for so long, should I, Paul?"  Ben's voice
dripped mock contrition.  I shook my head.

"You'll help me put things right, won't you?"

I could have said nothing, I suppose.  But I nodded and murmured a
quiet "Yes, Sir!".

"Good!  Because Andy thinks you have beautiful, thick lips, and he tells
me he'd really love to feel them around his fat cock!  He wants you to
suck him off, Paul!  You'll do it, won't you?"

No, no, no, this is wrong, said my rational mind.  And anyway I didn't
think my lips were all that thick!  But my cock suddenly spasmed to an
erectness that was almost painful, which totally undermined my attempt
show a dignified disinterest.  My lust shone uncontrollably through as
my eyes lit greedily on Andy's eager, turgid tool.  I knew that Reason
and Prudence were about to give way to overpowering Desire!

"Whatever you say, Sir!" I assented, trying to fling a cloak of reluctance
over the strange eagermess that was beginning to overwhelm me.

Ben moved aside, and indicated for Andy to position himself between my
knees.  The young student's tubby tool touched my lips.  Like an
automaton, I opened my mouth so that he could enter me.

Erect though he certainly was, his glans was surprisingly, delightfully
soft against the roof of my mouth as it pushed inwards.  I felt the
warmth of that cosseted flesh.  I scented the faint aroma of
not-quite-fresh pee.  The salt taste of his sweat was sharp on the tip
of my tongue, nicely counterpointing the viscous sweetness of his pre-cum.

I had often wished I could suck my own penis, but no amount of bodily
contortion had ever allowed me to experience this ineffable pleasure.
But the mind is a verstile device, and in my imagination I had known
exactly what it would feel like, how it would be to have a real, live,
pulsing cock between my lips!  The sense of deja vu (or deja goute?)
was overpowering, and extremely good!

I pursed my mouth, tight enough to maintain an airtight seal but without
attempting to squeeze the flesh.  Then I sucked hard, pulling that thick
member deeper into me.  Andy thrust too, pushing himself hard against
the back of my mouth.  The pressure of my lips was forcing the tight
skin of his shaft back, so that his big, hot glans was stretched taut
as it penetrated past my uvula, past my gagging reflex, to the deep,
tight confines of my throat.

And still there was a niggling thought at the back of my mind, telling
me I ought to feel violated, despoiled!  Uppermost in my soul, however,
was a strange elation, an awareness of the fulfilment of my destiny!
Even with my hands tied behind my back, I felt myself master of that
thick, young tool.  I could bite down on it, or I could give it the
release so evidently sought.  I was in no doubt at all that I would be
working to grant that release!

Andy took hold of my head, and soon he was pistoning in, out, in, out
of me.  My own cock, still being stroked oh-so-gently by the two Masters
of this little group, was desperately trying to twitch itself to my
third orgasm of the day, but the stimulation was so muted that I knew
I'd never make it.  Perforce, I devoted my entire attention to Andy's
turgid flesh, giving it every mouth-caress that I myself would have
wanted if I had been there to receive it...

At first the strokes were long and slow, and there was space in between
for me to draw breath.  But soon he came to that exquisite point when
the orgasm takes over and dictates the rhythm.  The steady strokes
became rapid twitches, his cock plugging my throat and hardly moving.
For a few seconds, breathing became impossible.

Somehow I had not thought the whole scenario through properly.  I had
envisaged a climax with sperm flying uncontrolled through the air,
perhaps to land with a hiss among the embers of the camp fire, followed
by a little, gentle green flame to mark the point where it had landed.
But when Andy's orgasm came he still didn't want to extract his cock.
Even more surprising, I found I didn't want to release it!

He fired his load hard into me, clutching my face tight against his
groin, and I had swallowed it before I realised what was happening.
If my hands hadn't been tied behind my back I'd have clutched him too!
We remained buried within each other, my tongue acting as a shock-
absorber for his spasming tool, until at last the cum ceased to spurt
from him and he came to a sticky, slicky rest.

I thought his post-orgasmic cafard would make him withdraw quickly, but
he clutched me to him for several long seconds after he came.  I had
to adjust my own position slightly, so that I could draw breath through
my nose while continuing to mouth-caress his shrivelling flesh.  At
last Andy released his hold, and I let his slippery, sated cock fall
free.  A string of cum linked us for a second or two, until the distance
between us became too great and it broke, to leave a sticky streak of
off-white juice across my chin and down towards my left nipple.

Andy looked adoringly at Ben, his Master.  "Thank you, Sir!" he sighed.
"That was absolutely marvellous!  I honestly can't remember the last
time you granted me such a superb release!"

Ben dismissed him.  "Remember it!" he said.  "You might not get another
until half-term!  Don't forget we have a contract!"

My mind boggled at the idea that one man could have such total control
over another's orgasms.  But suddenly I felt indignant.  The ungrateful
little bugger!  He'd thanked Ben, but hadn't said a word to me!  Hell,
it was me who'd given Andy that orgasm, not Ben!  It wasn't Ben who'd
swallowed every drop of Andy's cum, was it?  It was me!  ME!

Peter was looking at me.  He must have realised exactly what I was
thinking, and he leant over to whisper in my ear.

"Don't get upset, old fellow," he commented.  "I reckon you did
pretty well.  But don't forget it's Ben who's the organ-grinder -
you're just the monkey.  Andy owes you nothing.  And nor will my Rog,
when you've blown him too."

This brought me up short.  Yes, I suddenly realised, it had to be Rog's
turn now.  It was as inevitable as death, taxes and library excess
charges.  I looked up.  Already that pretty, slender prick was advancing
towards me!

This time I pursed my lips instead of opening wide, presenting Rog with
a tiny target not unlike an anal sphincter!  Rog's lovely, long, thin
cock touched my lips and I opened a little, gently nibbling the
unoccupied sleeve of foreskin that preceded his glans.  Ah, this was so
exquisite!

A bead of pre-cum emerged.  I tasted it with the tip of my tongue
before exploring gently within his foreskin, trying to follow through
to the source from which that nectar flowed.

Rog was swelling and hardening under the ministrations of my questing
tongue.  Slowly his lovely, loose foreskin eased back.  At last it
slipped over the ridge, to leave his long, pointed glans free.  I
tongued him, spreading and tasting the pre-cum that was still emerging.
So far, only the glans had entered my mouth; Rog was approaching
this session in a far more leisurely manner than Andy had done.

Gradually, however, he pushed inwards.  My tongue darted over every bit
of flesh that entered my mouth, but at first I refrained from applying
pressure with my lips.  I felt the tip brush against the roof of my
mouth, almost touching that soft part where the gagging reflex starts.
Now, I thought, was the time to close my lips and take control of
the action.

Except that I wasn't allowed to take control.  Rog clearly knew what
he wanted of me.

"Long, slow, deep strokes!" he murmured, his young eyes drilling into
mine.  "And mind what you do with your fucking teeth!"

Aha, I thought, here's a sub who isn't just anybody's!  And he just
stood there, daring me to misunderstand what he required of me.  OK,
I had to submit to his wishes, and it wasn't difficult.  I knew
exactly what his cock was calling for.  I initiated a rhythmic
mouth-stroking of that long, delightful organ.

It was such a delicious tool!  It felt exactly as I imagined my own cock
would have felt if I'd been able to get it into my mouth.  Slender and
delicate, but rigid.  My tongue and lips worked to produce those long,
slow, deep strokes that he desired of me.  Before long my mouth was
awash with a heady mixture of his pre-cum and my own saliva, and I
swallowed it, washing the remnants of Andy's semen down my throat.

For a while I just milked that prick.  With my lips and tongue I applied
easy strokes, caressing the beautiful, tapering glans, feeling Rog's
shudders of delight as I did so.  I wasn't trying to bring him to
orgasm - I was just doing my best to encourage the nectar of his
sweet, pre-cum to flow.

It took a while for Rog to realise I was using him for my own
pleasure, but eventually he caught on.  He suddenly grabbed my
head and forced his cock deeply, angrily into my throat!  The
unexpected motion caused me to gag, and I had to swallow on his
tool to avoid vomiting.  It took me several seconds to regain a measure
of control over my reflexes.

After a growled "Get on with it, you cocksucking pervert!", Rog overcame
his anger too.  Gradually we began to work together again, restoring
some badly-needed equilibrium to our lovemaking.

Lovemaking?  Maybe that's not quite the right word.  But I was feeling
pretty good, by now, about what I was doing.  I found myself wishing that
my hands weren't tied behind my back, not because I wanted to escape, but
because I wanted to caress the root of Rog's tool.
I wanted to grip his balls, to reach through and tickle his arsehole,
maybe to push a finger up into him.  I knew I could excite him by
stroking his prostate - that was something I'd learned back when I was
just thirteen.  But no, my hands were tied, and I had to do my work
without that sort of freedom.

Peter must have picked up on the vibes, because he reached behind me and
untied the bindings that held me.  As soon as I was released I reached
forward, clasping my hands over Rog's taut, bare arse cheeks and pulling
him on to me.  It didn't matter that I was finding it difficult to breathe
- I had that lovely cock deep inside my throat, and that was exactly what I
wanted.

Gradually I came to terms with the presence of that member in my mouth and
throat.  It was longer than the tool Andy had presented me with, but oh, so
slender!  It didn't force my mouth wide open, as Andy's had done.  He was
comfortable in me.  As we established a mutually satisfying rhythm, I found
I could take him deeper, deeper, and still find the occasional space for
taking breath.  I stroked his shaft with my fingers as he pumped in and
out.  I caressed his balls, trying to encourage them into my mouth so that
I had all of him in there to play with.  But he resisted.

This young guy was clever!  Unlike Andy, who had reached his orgasm fairly
quickly, Rog was pacing himself.  Twice I became aware that he was
gradually approaching a point of no return, but each time he stilled
the action and remained buried deep in my throat until he felt it was
safe to resume.

I lost track of time, but looking back on the event I suppose we must
have been busy together for at least twenty minutes.  My throat was
beginning to feel a little sore from the friction of Rog's tool, so
when I sensed his third wave approaching (and I realised that he
intended to go for it instead of turning away) I felt a mixture of
delight and relief.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Peter lighting up the second cigarette.
The heady aroma of grass wafted into my nostrils.

Pumping me faster and faster, Rog used my mouth as if it were one of
those expensive, male masturbating toys that the sex shops sell.  I
just let it happen - I knew he was going to cum soon, and the initiative
had to be left with him.  On the Internet I'd read phrases like
'fucking my face' and 'faggot cocksucker'.  Now I knew what was happening,
and what I was becoming!

Suddenly, Rog's cum burst forth from his long, slender spear.  He had
withdrawn from my throat, and I felt the semen hit my tongue, my teeth,
the roof of my mouth.  It was hot, and powerful, and incredible!  Each
shuddering pulse of his penis added a further spoonful to the load that
was rapidly filling my mouth.  God, I thought, poor little Rog must have
been saving that load for ages!

"Don't swallow yet!" he warned as he slowly withdrew his shrivelling cock
from my mouth.  And I was happy to obey.  I kept the stringy fluid where
it had been deposited, savouring its taste, its texture.  I let it coat
my tongue, my teeth, the entire inside surface of my mouth.

I let my hands fall to my sides, and Rog drew his body away from mine
I half-closed my eyes and sat still on my rustic wooden seat, just
contemplating the astonishing fact that my sad, boring, heterosexual
mouth was now full of another guy's cum.  This was so new to me, so
exciting, so good!   As I rolled the thick juice around inside my
mouth, I watched Rog searching for his discarded clothes.

Peter passed me the joint.

"Inhale through Rog's cum," he ordered.  "Try not to get cum all over
the joint though."

That was a very special 'hit'!  Peter waited a good minute for me to
enjoy it, then ordered me to swallow.  I was happy to do as I was told,
but the taste of that cum lingered sweetly in my mouth, heightened by
the effects of the cannabis, for many minutes after.

For a while there was a pause in the proceedings.  I sneaked a glance at
Ben's watch.  Twenty to two!  Hell, it had been just ten past midnight
when I'd first emerged naked through my back door!  Ninety
minutes!  I fervently hoped Alice was still sound asleep!

As the joint went around our little circle, they asked me about myself.
They were particularly curious to know why an old (well, old in their
eyes!) bloke like myself would want to run naked about the countryside
at dead of night.  I explained, in much the same way as I explained
things at the beginning of this tale, how my naked excursions had
started.  But I didn't say my full name, or anything about my life
that would make it easy for them to track me down, and I said a silent
prayer of thanks that they didn't seem set on following this up.

Andy threw a couple of logs onto the fire.  Sparks swirled up, and new
flames added to the orange glow that illuminated our select little
gathering.

Peter queried my sexual orientation.  I replied that I'd always regarded
myself as fully hetero, though I grudgingly admitted that I'd often
fantasised about submitting to anal sex.  I still kept quiet about
my experiences as a thirteen year old schoolboy, when a group of
senior boys had taken me into the cricket pavilion and raped me, but
I knew for certain that my current overwhelming passion for anal
stimulation was wholly derived from that incident.

"You're into anal, then?"

"Yeah, you could say that," I admitted.  "I never get any with my wife,
though," I added glumly.

Peter laughed.

"Seems this is your lucky night!" he remarked.  I liked the way he said
it.  There was no sarcasm in his voice, no threat or malice.  I was
beginning to feel accepted by this group and, to my surprise, I was
no longer looking around for every opportunity to escape.

The joint came round to me again.  It was less than an inch long, now,
but I took another deep, slow drag of the heady smoke and passed it on.
Peter finished what was left, and ground the useless stub into the
sand.

"OK, old guy, it's fun time!" he announced.  "Stand up."

I obeyed.  Andy and Rog went into the shed and came out with a small,
round, wooden table.  I recognised the table - it was exactly like
the ones in the garden of the Wheatsheaf Inn, just down the road
from the Art college.  Bloody students, I muttered to myself.  Always
thieving!

I was made to spread myself over this table, legs wide apart.  My head
hung down so that I could see my own cock - and my black nylon tail -
dangling beyond my reach.  My arms hung useless each side of the table.

"I think you're really up for this, aren't you?" asked Ben.  "Would you
like to take it as a free man?  Or shall we tie you down?"

I thought for a moment.  It amazed me how eager I was to be fucked, and
I knew I wouldn't resist.  But I also liked the idea of being bound and
helpless, unable to refuse anything they wanted of me.

"I think it might be better if you tied me, Sirs!" I replied.

"Better for who?"  Peter murmured, but it didn't sound like a direct
question so I made no reply.

Peering under the table, I had an upside-down view of both Peter and
Ben stripping off their clothes.  They both had their arses towards
me, so I only had brief, tantalising glimpses of their cocks.  But
ah, those arses!  Taut, and muscular without being over-developed.
Hell, no man had a right to such beautiful curves!

Ben turned towards me, and for the first time I glimpsed his member.
My arse clenched involuntarily at the sight!  It was beautiful!  It
was already semi-erect and inclining away from his muscular groin,
its eight-inch length tipped with a glans the size and colour of
a ripe Victoria plum!  The pulled-back foreskin was gathered in
copious folds on the shaft behind the glans, creating a second bulge,
while the shaft itself was like a smooth, straight treetrunk sprouting
from the dark, curly undergrowth in his groin.  Ben was possessed of a
fine, young cock with a smooth, well-fitting skin, and a profile so
elegant that it could have worn top hat and tails!

"OK," he said, "perhaps we will tie you up.  If we do, your safe word
will be "Ostrich".  Use it, and we'll stop at once, then you'll be
taken into town and tied to a lamp-post.  That'll be the last you'll
see of us.  Understood?"

"Understood, Sirs," I affirmed.  I had no intention at all of using that
safe word.

"You just have to give us two good fucks.  Then you go free.
Unconditionally.  You'll be able to go home and resume your ordinary
life.  Understood?"

"Yes, understood, Sirs," I again affirmed.  I wished they'd just
shut up and get on with it.  Hell, I was READY!

"Right, Andy, fix him down!"  Andy reached into his pocket and took
out yet more lengths of twine.  I guessed he must be in charge of
the group's bondage stuff.  He tied my wrists firmly to two of the
table legs, then came round to attach my ankles to the other two.
Now I was bound with my legs wide apart, my arse readily available
to my young captors.

Peter gently touched my arsehole, running his finger around the rim
where the 'tail' emerged.  He seemed to be checking for natural
lubrication.  I knew my anal juices would be flowing copiously -
they always do when I have a plug in there.  Apparently satisfied,
he nodded to Rog who took hold of the tail and gently pulled.

Not wanting him to pull so hard that my tail and the buttplug fell
apart, I pushed down.  The plug slipped easily from my bum into his
waiting hands, and Rog set it down somewhere.  As soon as my hole
was vacated, Peter entered me, hard and fast, up to the hilt.

This was the first time I had had a cock in my arse for a quarter
of a century.  But whereas my experience as a thirteen-year-old had
been traumatic and painful, this was nothing short of sensual
heaven!

Peter remained there, motionless, buried deep in my arse.  I hadn't seen
Peter's tool, but I could feel its girth, its massive erectness pressing
against the interior of my pelvis.  Tentatively I tightened my anus, to get
a better feel of the dimensions of this invading flesh, but he slapped my
arse cheek sharply and I realised he didn't want that yet.

After about a minute, though it seemed like hours, he put his hands on my
shoulders and pulled himself even further inside me.  He continued to stand
quite still, though gradually I noticed that he was twitching his cock
slightly inside me.  I closed my eyes, relishing the extra little
sensations this gave to my sphincter and to my deep bowels.  It took me by
surprise when hands came under my chin to force my head upwards, and
suddenly Ben's beautiful penis entered my mouth.

I was now skewered at both ends!  They could have walked me over to the
fire and spit-roasted me on their cocks!

At last, the two dominant members of this little student group began their
thrusting.  Gently at first, and without any discernible rhythm, but
gradually they began to synchronise their plunges, squeezing me between
their scrotums, playing my body as though I were a concertina.  Ben's hands
cupped my arse cheeks, pulling himself into my face in time with Peter's
ever more powerful anal thrusts.

Ben's huge tool was going deep into my throat.  I was still a little sore
from Rog's earlier attentions, but I wanted Ben, I really, really wanted
him, and I wasn't going to complain!

But as suddenly as Ben had entered my mouth, he withdrew.  At first I
didn't understand what was going on.  But when Peter also vacated my arse
and Ben's cock abruptly took its place, I realised this was just a
change-over.  A couple of seconds later I was sucking my own anal juices
(and a generous helping of pre-cum) from Peter's hefty tool.

When this little changeover routine had taken place a couple more times, I
caught on.  They were using the changeover to break their rhythm and
prolong the fuck.  A couple of times Andy substituted in my mouth while one
or other of them rested.  I was being systematically pounded at both ends,
used as a fuck-and-suck toy, and I was loving it!

In due course I began to discern a subtle change in the rhythm of their
fucking.  They're going for it, at last, I thought.  At a signal from Peter
and Ben, their two subs came and untied my hands, and I was given two more
cocks to deal with.

This was a level of heaven that I had never known to exist!  Ben's long,
elegant tool was pounding deep into my rectal cavity, Peter's was doing its
best to get down my gullet and give it a kiss, while my hands were busily
masturbating cocks number three and four.

If they're trying for a mutual orgasm they'll never make it, I thought,
after a few minutes like this.  It felt to me as though Ben was closest to
orgasm.  Running a close second, I guessed, was my own cock, which had been
bashed repeatedly and forcefully against the edge of the table throughout
all this activity.  But I knew I was unlikely to be allowed to come.  There
was little to choose between the other three, except that Rog seemed to be
struggling a bit.

Ben was first.  His thrusts suddenly went wild, then he held himself as far
inside my arse as he could manage.  I was aware of his cum spurting into
me, great gobbets of it.  It felt almost as if I were receiving a hot cum
enema!  At the same time Andy shuddered to a halt and he placed his hands
over mine, stopping me from masturbating him as his own orgasm sent his
sperm all over the ribs and the wrist on my left side.  On the table, too,
where it just added to the mess of pre-cum that had gathered while we
played.

Peter was still slowly fucking my throat, and Rog was insisting that I
continue to masturbate him soft and sweetly.  I was gripping Ben with my
arse, preventing his erection from subsiding and prolonging my own
pleasure.

"OK, let me go now!" ordered Ben, and I relaxed my sphincter.  Ben pulled
out, like a cork from a bottle, and Peter came quickly round the table to
take his place.  I don't think I spilled a drop of Ben's cum before I was
securely crammed with Peter's fine, hard penis.

He must have been just about on the edge, because seconds later he was
adding more cum to the load that Ben had left in my guts.  Rog, too, came
in my hand, and the pair of them spasmed and shuddered to eventual
stillness.  That was when I realised they hadn't been trying for a wholly
mutual orgasm.  The subs were obviously trained to come simultaneously with
their masters.

"Oh, my God, that was so-o good!" murmured Peter.  The others said nothing,
but I could tell from the heavy breathing all around me that everyone was
satisfied.

Except me, of course.  Yes, I was exhilarated - this was all so new to me,
so exciting and fulfilling, but I was longing to be allowed to climax with
them.  It would have felt like an initiation, a rite of membership.  But
I'd already admitted to two orgasms, and I was under no illusion that they
cared enough to grant me a third.

Peter was still in me, and my anus was clutching him.  But he, too, pulled
out, leaving me empty except for the double load of cum that I'd received.

Rog untied my ankles.  Exhausted, I turned to lie face up on the table
where I'd been so regally fucked.  But I kept my bum closed as tightly as I
could - I didn't want to release my precious load of cum until I was safely
home!

To my surprise, Peter came and kissed me, full on the mouth.

"Thanks' Paul," he said, running his hand gently over my sticky ribs where
the subs' cum had been squirted.  "That was one good fuck!"

Ben did the same.  I found myself sucking on his tongue in much the same
way that I'd sucked on his cock minutes before.  Then Andy and Rog added
their thanks.  My frustrated cock was standing erect and proud above my
outstretched body like the mainmast of some seventeenth century warship.

I saw Peter tap Rog on the shoulder, and point to my rampant prick.  "See
to it!" he whispered.

Rog nodded, and slowly bent over the table until his mouth was hovering a
fraction of an inch away from my yearning, quivering tool.  His lips
parted, and slowly he sank down to engulf me.  I sighed with utter delight
as his tongue stroked the underside of my cock, where the soft channel of
the urethra runs.  All the while he kept his eyes glued to mine, eyes that
were filled with giving, with understanding.  I experienced a beautiful
sense of oneness with him as he sucked on me, sharing his submissiveness
with me.

Peter and Ben each held one of my hands.  I felt Andy pressing his balls
against my forehead, resting his cock over my face and allowing his final
drops of cooling cum to drip into my open mouth.  This was more than a
casual jerk-off.  It was an act of initiation.  It was an admission
ceremony.

It didn't take long.  I was so nearly there already.  I shuddered to the
climax I'd been desiring so avidly, and gripped the hands that were holding
mine.  It wasn't a copious climax, but it was a physically draining one.
Rog took it all, and eventually released my shrivelling cock before moving
up to kiss me.  His lips parted, and the little load of cum slid from his
mouth into mine.  I swallowed.  It was a deed full of significance, a
moment of communion with members of the little society into which I was
being accepted.

Slowly, silently, the four stood back and waited while I raised my aching,
used body from the table.  Peter and Ben dressed; Andy tucked his cock and
balls back in his jeans.  Rog picked up the table and took it, still wet
and sticky with the cum that coated it, back into the corrugated iron shed.

I looked at Ben's watch again.  A quarter to four!  Fucking hell!

"You're one of us now, Paul," said Peter.  I nodded, but Peter frowned.
"Yes, Sir!" I added quickly.  "Thank you, Sir!"  I realised I'd have to be
careful about this 'Sir' thing.

"Even if we never meet again, you must remember that Ben and I are your
joint Masters," Peter continued.  "If we do meet again, we'll expect total
obedience from you.  You're a slave, like Andy and Rog, but until you prove
yourself you'll always be junior to them..  Understood?"

"Understood, Sir!"

"Good!"

Peter motioned to Rog, who handed me the buttplug and tail he'd taken from
my bum a while ago.  I hesitated, wondering whether I should put it back
inside me or just carry it home.

"Er, Sir, do you mind if I put this back where it belongs?  It'll help me
retain your cum till I'm back home again ..."

Peter nodded his consent.  I licked it for lubrication, though my bum was
already slick with various juices, and slid it in.  My sphincter gripped it
gratefully, like shaking hands with an old friend, and I looked from Peter
to Ben, wondering what would happen next.

Andy had gathered up his precious lengths of string; now he was kicking
sand over the fire.  Rog picked up his tobacco tin and put it in his
pocket.  With the flames gone, darkness descended, but not a complete
darkness.  Day was just beginning to dawn over in the East.

"Off you go then!" said Ben.  "We said we'd let you go, remember?"

"Er..." I hesitated.  The four students eyed me expectantly.

"You said I'm one of you now, Sir," I said, addressing Ben because his
authority seemed to be marginally above Peter's.  "You also said you'd
expect total obedience from me if we meet up again."

"Well?"

Still I hesitated.  I knew I could just piss off, and I'd never have any
trouble from these guys again.  But was that what I wanted?

"Do I have to choose, Sir?"

Ben looked at me.  He actually had kindness in his eyes!

"We're just waiting for you to tell us, Paul," he said, taking hold of my
'tail' and tugging it gently.  With that gesture I knew my mind was made
up.

"When can we five meet again, Sir?"  I enquired softly.  "In
thunder. lightning or in rain, Sir."

They all smiled.

"Right here, Paul," declared Ben.  "A quarter to midnight, seven days
hence.  Birthday suit and tail obligatory.  For you, anyway!"  They all
chuckled and started to file up the narrow path that led out of the hollow.
At the edge of the copse, before we parted to go our own ways, Peter put
his arms around me and gave me a kiss.

"Thanks, Paul!" he said.  "I'm glad we found you.  Don't be late next
Saturday!"

"I won't, Sir!" I declared fervently.

And I wasn't!

=============================================================================
Copyright Paul Gilbert 2002.  All rights reserved.  Please do not download
(except for exclusively personal use) or copy to any other web site without
prior permission from the author.