From organs@backdoor.com
Date: Tue, 23 Jul 96 20:09 MDT
From: Bruce Bramson <organs@backdoor.com>
Subject: The School of Harde-Knox (bb/bb)

Please check the header! The following story contains some form
of gay sexual content  describing purely fictional events. If
this is "not your bag", do yourself and us all a favor and hit
the "n" key NOW!

Readers under a "legal" age somewhere who happen to be reading
this are used to being told to ignore the existence of this
material. Doesn't seem logical to me, if they happen to like and
enjoy it. As above, if they don't, they too can hit the "n" key
and be done with it. Since I have no control whatever over *who*
does or does not read this, I think this paragraph is silly. Some
hot-shot lawyer said it has to be here. Enough said.

Oh: permission to archive and/or re-post granted, so long as the
author is credited. Otherwise, (c) Bruce Bramson 1996.

Bruce Bramson


                    THE SCHOOL OF HARDE-KNOX

By the time my parents sent me there, the Harde-Knox Military Academy was
in its seventieth year, and growing a bit seedy. Visages of the founders,
Horace Harde and Vincent Knox hung in large gilt frames in the foyer of
the rambling Victorian structure, originally the residence of some
wealthy industrialist. Much of the opulence of the home remained; even
some of the furnishings were still in the Headmaster's suite. But years
of "modifications" had taken their toll, especially on the upper floors,
turning ornate boudoirs into dingy classrooms, marble-filled baths into
smelly, overloaded "johns", and stuffy closets into repositories of
moth-eaten uniforms, musty books and moldy photos.

The common rooms, headmaster's and teachers' private rooms, and kitchen
were all on the main floor. What had been a glorious conservatory was now
a dining room, replete with strategically-placed buckets to catch
rainwater that leaked through the glass roof.

The second and third floors were given to classrooms (formerly bedrooms),
each opening off the ornately balustered central hall that rose
majestically through the center of the structure to an incredibly ornate
stained-glass faux-ceiling. The fourth story, directly under the spiky
roof, was a huge attic centrally pierced by the light-well for the
stained-glass. This attic was the dormitory for about half of the boys;
each had his own bed, storage box, and plain dresser. To emphasize the
"military" aspect of the place, everything was painted in "olive-drab" -
walls, floors, beds, dressers, boxes - which combined with poor light to
give the place the most depressing appearance. A more modern addition at
the rear of the building contained a gymnasium with a modest swimming
pool, the usual showers and other facilities, and another large dormitory
which (despite being much newer) almost exactly duplicated the dorm in
the old house. We were always amazed that the Messrs. Harde and Knox had
managed to find an architect for the new building who could so perversely
re-create such abysmal living quarters.

Still, there was a bit of rivalry between the occupants of the two dorms.
The usual progression was from the older to the newer, and it was the new
boys like myself who drew "Howard" (for that was the singularly
unimaginative name assigned to the attic dorm), while boys a bit older,
or who had been around a while longer, lived in - you guessed it -
"Vincent Hall".

But what the founders and perpetuators of the "School of Hard Knocks" (as
it was universally known, despite its "Military Academy" proper name) had
lacked in imagination, the hundred-odd boys made up for in spades! We, in
our innocence, could never understand why admin and teachers thought that
by establishing a rigid daily regimen they would break the spirits of
adolescent boys: only in the years since leaving the school have I come
to realize that the *appearance* of "regimen" was for our parents'
consumption, and that "breaking our spirits" was, in fact, the farthest
thing from the minds of the adults in charge. And, while amongst
ourselves, our references to this place of our temporary incarceration
were *always* to "The School of Hard Cocks", this appellation was *never*
uttered in the presence of adults. It was, we blithely thought, our
"secret", though in truth this corruption of the school's name was widely
adopted by the Ohio citizenry, many of whom relied heavily on the school
by way of providing services and provisions for it.

Frankly, I look back fondly on my two years at Harde-Knox. I was going-on
13 when my folks decided to get me out of their hair. I was a "difficult"
child: I'd rebelled early-on against my parents' stultifying life-style,
best described as "obsessive money-making", which left no time or
"lebensraum" for a precocious adolescent. I had a reputation as a
hellion, and I'd been a terror to my teachers in the 6th grade,
particularly; I was beset by the usual "raging hormones" syndrome, had a
filthy mind, played with myself constantly, and was not above trying to
get other guys to play with me. For some reason, girls - for all
practical purposes - did not exist. But in the confines of a mixed-gender
public school, my obsession with boys did not sit well, and I was the
butt of many a joke. After winning a few fist-fights, though, most of my
classmates were content to taunt me verbally, which bothered me not at
all.

All this was to change, that fateful September, when Dad's chauffeur
drove me into the verdant countryside and delivered me to H-K MA.
Approaching the spiky-roofed old building, I was reminded of vampires and
Frankenstein. The place was decidedly Addams-esque. James (yes, the one
of "Home, James!" fame) parked the limo under the Porte-Cochere, and I
was greeted by the Headmaster, Charles Perkins ("*Mister* Perkins,
son..."). Perkins wore a severe suit of military cut. I thought he was
older than shit (though now I know he was about 40) but fairly well
preserved. Behind him stood an array of boys about my own age, all
unimpressed by the huge car, but showing some evidence of interest in me.
My interest in *them*, however knew no bounds: not only was the group
undiluted by - ugh! - girls, but these guys were all, to my mind, quite
good-looking. Not the run-of-the-mill variety I knew from school, they
were all quite clearly "upper-crust" like myself, and I sensed a kinship
with them at once. Perkins gruffly "assigned" me to Rob, who would show
me around and help me settle in. It was with a sigh of relief that I
watched the limo disappear into the trees that surrounded the Academy.

Carrying my little bag of "stuff", I followed Rob through the massive
entry-way into the great hall. Accustomed to wealth and pomp, I was not
overly impressed, even though the place was *huge*! Rob pointed out the
paintings of the "old farts that started this god-forsaken place", gave
me a quick tour of the main floor, then took me over to a small door that
opened into a tiny elevator. It was scarcely big enough for two, and it
creaked and groaned as it slowly ground its way upwards. Rob had put his
hand on my shoulder, and I suddenly realized he was fondling the back of
my neck, where the short stiff hairs of my freshly tapered haircut ended.
Not even my *father* had ever done that, and my hormone system
immediately went into over-drive. By the time the elevator lurched to a
halt, I had a hard-on that I could not hide, but as Rob slid back the
grill and swung open the outer door, I noticed a distinct enlargement in
his pants. "Think I'm going to like it here," I thought to myself...

We emerged into the cavernous attic, and Rob led me to my assigned bed.
"You won't need the clothes here," he said: "we'll go get your uniform
and shit right now. Just throw that suitcase under the bed." I did as I
was told, and followed Rob along the long row of beds to a large closet
built under one of the garrets of the roof. This room was lined with
shelves, neatly stacked with all the accouterments of military attire,
from skivvies on out. Rob locked the door, and without even asking, faced
me and undid by belt, opened my pants and pushed them down. I kicked off
my shoes and stepped out of my pants, expecting Rob to take down some
replacements from the shelves: instead, he shucked his own pants, peeled
off his shirt, and revealed his almost-nude body to me. Immediately awash
in hormones again, I moved back to admire his form, which I found most
agreeable. Everything about him was well proportioned, and his
musculature was well defined (something I erroneously attributed to the
Academy, but which I was to learn was simply good breeding and natural
adolescence). His penis was already protruding from the opening in his
boxers: I could not recall ever having seen anyone in boxer shorts
before, but I liked the notion of "quick access" that was manifest. My
own pecker was constrained still by my Y-fronts, but Rob undertook to
correct that situation immediately. Here, within twenty minutes' of my
arrival at Harde-Knox, one of my oldest fantasies was playing itself out:
the notion of having attention paid to my body, and to having another guy
undress me had enriched many a solo jack-off session!

Rob removed my shirt, and I cooperated willingly as he slid my singlet up
over my head. Then he began feeling my body all over, starting again with
the nape of my neck, running his hands sensuously down along my arms,
across my chest, down my tummy. When he gripped my shorts and slid them
down I was delirious: it felt so *good*! When he knelt before me and
plunged my raging hard-on into his throat, I was unable to control myself
and within seconds shot a steamy load of semen into his hungry
throat.

Rob swallowed and once again stood before me: "A bit quick on the
trigger, eh?" he said. I was mesmerized, my cock was dribbling, and I
noticed his was also. As he had just done, I knelt before him and brought
to reality yet another fantasy: I took him into my mouth without
bothering to remove his boxers, and found the feeling of his hot,
throbbing teen-prick so exciting that I almost shot another load. Rob
grabbed my head and moved me in and out on his dick in a slow rhythm, but
so inexperienced was I at this time that I failed to heed the signs of
his impending orgasm, and when I moved back to get some air, I was
rewarded by voluminous spurts of hot cum, the first of which splashed on
my face, and others of which landed all over my chest. Without realizing
it, I had gripped his manhood and was masturbating another guy for the
first time, a sensation astoundingly different from jerking-off myself.
By the time Rob's eruption ended, I was hard again, and would have
willingly jerked off on the spot, had Rob not put a stop to it. "Save it
for later," was all he said, as he bent over and licked up the streaks of
jism that adorned my face, chest and tummy.

After further cleanup with my singlet, Rob proceeded to outfit me with a
new uniform. My prick, still erect, poked through the front of the new
boxers, and the feeling of my balls falling free within them posed a
problem. I figured I'd probably get used to this, but for now it kept me
perpetually erect. The "uniform" was dark grey, with a pale blue shirt
underneath the matching light jacket. I tried on several trousers, Rob
examining the result each time, until he seemed satisfied with a pair
that were moderately tight on my thighs, and which could not adequately
conceal my still-hard cock. After finding a decent shirt, Rob showed me
how to button the long-ish coat so that it covered my crotch. "You'll see
more coats here buttoned than otherwise, and now you know why," Rob said.
Already I liked Rob - he seemed the closest thing to a brother that I'd
ever known, eager to show me the ropes. His cavalier approach to sex was
*exactly* what I would have liked in a brother, too!

When we emerged from the outfitting room, it was growing dark, and some
dim lights had been turned on in the attic. As my eyes adjusted, I
realized that nearly every bed contained at least one boy - some of the
beds, several - and there was a general hub-bub of chit-chat. Rob
propelled me along, introducing me to most of the guys who were in every
state of un-dress, most of them down to their skivvies. Some were getting
dressed again, and Rob explained that we would be gathering in the dining
room soon for evening meal. His bed was next to mine, which I found
comforting, and we whiled away the next half-hour putting my few things
away in the dresser and getting ready for dinner. I had met at least
twenty guys in the past few minutes, and had managed to memorize none of
their names, but I noticed as the guys got dressed that their coats had
names embroidered on them. Rob explained that we'd get my coat done the
next day. Suddenly, there was a gawd-awful ringing of a loud bell, the
signal to descend the two flights of stairs at one end of the great hall
and assemble in the dining room. Such a clatter of shoes, eager shouts
and taunts in a variety of voices ranging from almost soprano to
adolescent bass, all echoing in the cavernous hall! What delighted my
ears most was that these were *all* male voices; not a "girlish" giggle
in the lot.

At dinner, I was to discover there *were* some women around. The kitchen
staff and servers were female, but uniformly older, uglier, and dumpier
than I'd ever seen collected in one place. They reminded me more of
Clydesdale horses than of women! But they *could* cook, and seemed to
know well enough what sort of fare went well with a gaggle of adolescent
boys. There was plenty of food, lots of good, lean red meat and other
proteinaceous goodies. Since I was but one of many "new" boys present,
the whole lot of guys were pretty well-behaved, and there was a lot
of good-natured "getting to know you" stuff. Alert to the nuances of my
surroundings, though, I noticed a fair amount of friendly groping under
the tables, and a few of the boys were a trifle morose - no doubt away
from home for the first time, and feeling a bit lost.

Since classes would not begin for a few days, after the meal we were
pretty much on our own. Rob showed me around the new addition, where a
basket-ball game was already under way. Now, basketball was (and still
is) my favorite spectator sport, as I am a "leg" man. Watching this game
got my hormones flowing yet again, with all the flailing arms and legs,
and many a deliberate "foul", usually consisting of a delicious grope of
the scanty shorts the players wore. Rob took me through the shower and
locker rooms, and it was there that I spied Bart: I hastily buttoned my
coat! Bart (like myself) was 13, but far more advanced physically than I.
I just got a quick glimpse of his pubic area as he drew on his trousers,
but the thicket of hair there excited me, and I got to admire his chest,
already sprouting a carpet of very black hair in a most attractive
pattern. When he saw me buttoning my coat, he flashed a bright smile, and
took quite a while fastening his pants. He fished a comb from his back
pocket and began combing his hair, which gave me a terrific view under
his arms, where there was more of that silky hair. I melted under his
gaze, but he said nothing, and languidly pulled on his shirt, buttoned it
slowly, then wiggled into his coat. By the time he buttoned it, there was
an unmistakable bulge to be covered, and it was with the greatest
reluctance that I re-joined Rob in my tour of the building. I would not
see the dorm there for many months, off-limits as it was to newcomers,
but I saw the rest of the place, including the pool, occupied by a dozen
or more guys all swimming in the buff. Talk about "horsing around"! There
was more grab-ass going on than I could have imagined in my wettest
dreams. I knew at once that the *one* sport at which I excelled would
come in handy: I was a good swimmer...

We saw the game room, with some nice billiards tables, a few guys playing
cards, and someone playing records on a machine off by itself. Rob then
showed me around each of the class-room levels, though there wasn't all
that much to see there. Eventually we found ourselves back in the attic.
It had been a long day: the large dinner had made me drowsy, so I was
content to stretch out on my bed, as Rob did on his, and we occupied
ourselves with typical guy-talk. The bed on the other side of mine was
empty, so when that damned bell signaled bed-time, and other boys began
arriving, I wondered who might be its occupant. I removed my shirt, and
as my singlet popped over my head I caught a glimpse of Bart again,
standing not four feet away! The bed was his; I froze, stunned by his
beauty. His uniform could have been tailored, so perfectly it fit him -
and in all the right places. He flashed that smile again, and knowing he
had my full attention, he began to undress.

Bart unbuttoned his coat: as the cloth fell away from his crotch, I could
not be sure if he was just well endowed, or if he was excited. Either
way, there was much for a horny youngster like me to revel in. Bart hung
up his coat, then pulled his pale shirt out from the pants and began to
unbutton it. His eyes never left mine as he *slowly* and deliberately
unbuttoned the shirt from the top down, each release exposing a bit more
of his gorgeous chest, and a bit more of that downy black hair I found so
fascinating. There was no doubt he was doing a strip-tease for my
benefit, and if I had not been so enthralled, I'd have noticed that the
attic had become utterly silent as all the guys took in the show. His
shirt unbuttoned, Bart stretched one arm back, reached 'round with his
other and pulled off one sleeve. These acts exercised every sculpted
muscle of his torso, and his silky axillary hairs gleamed, even in the
subdued light of the attic. How I longed to run my hands through that
fuzz, to lay my head on that thicket...

Bart shifted from one foot to another as he pushed off each sneaker. As
he raised each shapely leg and bent to remove each stocking, the sinews
in his powerful arms were splendid to behold; I imagined those arms
around me, and almost swooned. As it was, with a quick flick, I loosened
the clasp of my pants in a welcoming gesture, hoping that my bulging
crotch might interest him. It was then that I saw in the dim light the
slightest suggestion of a nod, accompanied by a lowering of eyelids that
together spoke "come hither"; in a trance, hypnotized by his beauty, I
moved around my bed to stand before this enchanting youth. His flashing
black eyes spoke to me of sex. With his left hand he gripped the tab of
the zipper on his pants, and with his right gripped mine: wordlessly, he
moved both zippers down, his eyes engaging mine in a wordless song of
lust. I suppose he might have been attracted to my pearly white chest,
now clad only in the faint peach-fuzz of my budding pubescence, and so
starkly different from his own. Certainly I was fascinated by his
carpeted torso, and I ached to feel it beneath my fingers, but feared for
some reason to do so. When Bart pushed his loosened trousers and boxers
down below his balls, my eyes feasted on that hairy thicket between his
thighs, from which sprang a perfectly proportioned pecker. Had I not
already lost one load with Rob earlier, when Bart's warm hands pressed my
pants down as he had done his own I would surely have creamed, so
exciting was the sensation. I quickly pushed my pants on down and off,
along with my sneakers; suddenly I found my legs weak, and sank onto my
bed, which put my mouth in the direct path of Bart's tool: without
further foreplay I took him into my mouth and felt the thick black hair
tickle my face and nose. He smelled very faintly of pool chlorine, though
it might have been of cum, the two being so similar. My fear gone, I
extended my arms up and buried my hands in the hair on his chest and felt
powerful muscles working beneath his skin. I sucked Bart's tool
avariciously, absorbed by the warmth and shape of it.

Presently, Bart pulled me to my feet, then sat down and laid back on his
bed and pulled me into position kneeling over him. I returned my
attention to his cock, forgetting that I was in a room full of other guys
until I felt a hand on my own turgid member. This proved to be Rob, who
timed his masturbation of me perfectly, so that when Bart's body tensed,
his muscles became a rigid mass, and the rhythmic pulsations of his cock
propelled his sticky load into my throat, I, too, shot a copious wad
which landed wetly on Bart's tense thighs, on his pubic thicket and on my
chin. Utterly spent, I fell against his trembling body and (at last!)
placed my cheek on his furry chest; with my free hand I massaged my
exudate into his hirsute thighs and pubes. The sweet relaxation of the
moment found us both soon fast asleep.

Had we remained awake, we would have witnessed the orgy that followed,
the first of many we would eventually see and enjoy. But on this first
night at the academy we slept together blissfully as the rest of the
crowd spent themselves in a frenzy of masturbation and fellatio. Rob told
me later that watching me and Bart had turned everyone on to such a
degree that two or three orgasms apiece was the norm...

That goddamned bell went off early the next morning, as it would do every
morning except Sunday for the next two years. Bart and I were still
entwined, and there were peculiar patches in his body hair plastered to
his skin or standing at weird angles where my cum had dried. We awoke
with our accustomed piss-hards, and a quick glance around showed that all
the boys shared our condition. What a glorious sight! A few guys had
apparently slept in their boxers, but most were nude, stretching, wiping
the grit from their eyes, and trying to wake up.

Since the dining area was limited, there were two sittings. Our group,
funky and smelly, arose earlier and ate first: then we went to the gym
for showers. While we were eating, the guys from Vincent had been
showering, and they ate while we showered. We all trooped to yet another
garret where the wash-stands, urinals and toilets were. The usual morning
ablutions were underway, but in addition some guys were jerking off as
they sat on a throne or stood at a urinal. Above the general hub-bub one
heard the occasional moans and groans associated with firing a wad
against a toilet-stall wall or into the gleaming white porcelain. I was
delighted by the casualness of it all: there were no adults around to
tell us not to do what all adolescent boys do anyway, and it seemed
perfectly natural. I knew I would fit into this scene perfectly, and felt
I had already acquitted myself well the previous night.

Down in the dining room, the Clydesdales had done their thing, and we
feasted on stacks of pancakes, crisp bacon, and immense piles of
scrambled eggs, washed down with gallons of fresh milk. Then it was off
to the new building for calisthenics and showers. Still dank from use
shortly before by the Vincent boys, the tiled room stank of sweat, and
soap. Bart and I joined a noisy group frolicking in the clouds of steam.
Some of the fellows were relieving their bladders directly onto the tile
floor; not a few aimed their piss-streams at others, and there was a lot
of fairly good-natured horse-play, towel-snapping, and groping. Despite
the steam, it was possible to view most of the guys as they soaped
themselves, taking pride in their glistening bodies. Whoever was in
charge of admissions to the academy had good taste (I remember thinking),
for all the youngsters were well set up specimens. The variety of bodies
was remarkable, of course, since boys our age were at different stages of
development. Bart took the prize for hairiness, while more like myself
were almost devoid of it. But noticeably absent were the fat ones, ugly
ones or nerdy ones that I remembered from public school. And of
erections, there were enough to satisfy the greediest cocksucker! Short
ones, long ones, thin ones, fat ones; hairy pubes, glabrous pubes; lean,
sinewy muscles or less defined ones on some of the younger boys, a
veritable feast of young masculinity was spread before me!

The heat, steam, and - above all - glistening bodies set my hormones
raging once again, and it was clear the effect was universal. With time
on our hands, our hands soon found something to do. Clots of boys, by
two's, three's and four's were soon formed; roaming hands and flying
fists were soon in evidence, and before long the unmistakable smell of
cum met our nostrils along with the steam. For a few minutes I was
content to observe this scene, while enjoying the hot water splashing on
my back, but presently I noticed the shortest boy in the crowd, not far
away, who had no partner. He looked lonely and a trifle lost, though he
was as sexually excited as the rest. And, he was, well, *cute*! Even at
13, I had always rather liked smally boys, so I moved through the fog
towards him with soap in hand. "Hi, uh...", I said.

"Rickie," he replied in a voice just beginning to crack.

 "Mind if I soap you up," I asked?

I did not even wait for a reply. Now that I was close, I realized how
pretty he was, and the fact that he was a full head shorter than I turned
me on. When I touched his flawless skin with the soap, I felt the sap
begin to rise in my loins. He could have been "my little brother" (though
I learned later we were almost the same age). But Rickie seemed to
welcome attention, and as I slowly worked the soapiness down towards his
crotch it was clear he was getting very excited. I deliberately bypassed
his cock, though, and thoroughly felt his legs, 'cause they were *so*
neat! Rickie had even less hair than I did, just a little patch right
above his pecker, and the skin of his thighs was so smooth - even without
soap - that I could not resist kissing and licking them. Rickie spread
his legs to give me access, and ran his hands through my soggy hair as I
licked in long wet strokes from the insides of his knees right up to his
balls, first one leg then the other. Rickie was electrified: pretty soon
he was up on his toes, and he began to tremble. He was moaning, almost
crying, in fact, and for a moment I thought he was hurting: but when I
stopped licking his legs, he sobbed, "No, *please*, don't stop", so I
resumed by sloppy ministrations. I myself was so turned on by this time
that my saliva was getting ropey, and long streaks of it glistened on his
vibrating thighs. When I thought he could stand no more of it, I grasped
his warm buns and thrust his iron-like poker into my mouth: he in turn
grabbed fistfuls of my hair, pulled my face tight against his groin, and
feverishly fucked my face for, oh, maybe ten strokes, then froze. A
high-pitched wail escaped his lips as he shot his young wad with such
vigor that I could feel each spurt hit my tonsils. He came, and came, and
came! The sensation pushed me over the edge, and without so much as
touching myself, I loosed a torrent of jizz, much of which landed on his
shapely calves and ankles.

When our "joint exercise" was finally over and Rickie relaxed enough to
plant his feet back on the floor, I stood up. We were both still
trembling a bit, and I hugged him to me and moved us back under the
shower. That's when Rickie pulled my ear down to his face and whispered,
"Did something come out?"  I assured him "something" had. "Wow", he said,
"that's my first time! I've read the books, and knew one day it would,
but the book didn't say how *awesome* it feels! Can we do it again?"

"Not right away," I said. "Give yourself time to recover!"


                    SCHOOL OF HARDE-KNOX - CHAPTER 2

Towards the end of the week we began seeing teachers around the place.
The older guys over in Vincent hall already knew most of them, but we new
boys in Howard knew none of them. A few were new hires, unknown to
anyone. They were all men. We thought them *ancient*, though the youngest
was less than thirty. When one is only 13, thirty seems "over the hill".

Classes began and routine was established. Despite the "Military" in
Harde-Knox's name, the curriculum was really just "Liberal Arts", the
usual Lit, Math, Science and Languages stuff. Music and Arts were
electives, but Phys Ed was required. In fact, if there was anything
"military" about Harde-Knox, it was the P E program, which took up more
time than at a public school. Besides the morning calisthenics, there
were mid-day work-outs and another round just before dinner as well, all
this in addition to two full periods each day of whatever sport we chose.
I, of course, went for swimming, and soon found I was better than most of
the kids my age. I had good lungs, and could stay under water past a
minute, so it was from this vantage point that I checked out my mates,
and chose those I wanted to play with later in the showers or after
"lights out" at night. Long familiar with the "shrunken pecker"
phenomenon of swimming, I was a good judge of what a water-logged willie
might "get up" to!

But the question on our dirty minds was, how long before the staff will
get horny enough to fool around with *us*? The pillow-talk made it clear
that most of us had a crush on one teacher or another, but the most
popular of the staff, a new-hire named Schwartz, seemed aloof and
unapproachable. He taught first-year General Science, and was very good
at it. He was also *very* handsome: tall and lean, with long but sparse
blond hair, he cut a good figure in his uniform. He had a sexy sort of
walk: not "swishy" or anything, but unhurried, purposeful and "liquid". I
was not alone in idolizing Mr. Schwartz, and did my best to please him
with extra projects, but nothing seemed to work.

I was, therefore, startled one day when he told me to remain after class:
ordinarily I'd have rushed off to swim, but being a "good little boy", I
waited. When we were alone, Mr. Schwartz took from his desk a recent
paper of mine. He leafed through it briefly, then left it open on his
desk. Gripping my shoulders, he bent me down and told me to look at the
open page at a severe angle and tell him what I saw. What I *saw*, was
the impression of a drawing I'd done on another sheet of paper (the cheap
ball-point pens we had took a lot of pressure to make them write).
Despite having later done a light pencil drawing of an oil well on *this*
sheet, there was NO mistaking the outline of a big cock dribbling jizm
down its exaggerated length and over a big pair of balls!

"Uhh, sorry, Sir, Mr. Schwartz, uh, I, uh - I guess I fucked up, didn't
I?" I said. "Oh, oh, *shit*, I shouldn't have said 'fucked up', should I?
Awwww..., I mean *heck* ... I'm sorry, Sir - uh - Mr. Schwartz, Sir!"

Schwartz was stern. "Have you nothing better to do on study time than to
draw dirty pictures?" he asked.

"Well, usually I prefer jerking them off to drawing them," I blurted out,
immediately aware this might be the wrong thing to confess. "Uh, that is,
well, you see, Sir, my pecker isn't all that big, and I guess I fantasize
about having a big dong like the other guys, so when I have the time, I
draw these pictures, and..."

Schwartz still had his hands on my shoulders; he moved me back upright.
My face was only a few inches away from the fly of his pants, and I
thought I saw the outline of his cock there. "It's tough to tell whether
your drawing was much good," Schwartz said. Do you still have the
original?"

"Oh, no, Sir, I throw that shit - uh - I mean stuff - away!"

"Young man, you have a filthy mouth!" Schwartz said emphatically.
"However, I suspect you also have some artistic talent, and I should like
to see it improved. You will come to my quarters tonight and we will
discuss this further. And you will tell *no one* about it: do I make
myself clear?"

"Yes, *SIR*!" I replied, snapping to attention. "At what time, Sir?"

"Eight o'clock, *sharp*!  Dismissed!"

Truth was, the *only* thing I'd ever drawn in my life was endless
repetitions of cocks and balls: I had no real interest in art, so
Schwartz's "invitation" held no promise. Nevertheless, I knew better than
to disobey, and I tapped on his door at *exactly* eight o'clock. He
ushered me into his cozy suite which was done up nicely with antique
furniture original to the house. Schwartz was not in uniform: in fact, he
was not in much of *anything*, as far as I could tell, except a silk
smoking jacket and soft slippers. His legs, bare from about his knees
down, were lightly adorned with very blond hair. My heart sank when I
spied a large drawing tablet on his ornate desk, with an array of pencils
and chalks.

Schwartz led me to the desk and pushed me into the chair. Then he drew up
a sort of love-seat thing, and arranged himself on it. I nearly jumped
out of my seat when he untied the belt of his jacket and let it fall
away; he had *nothing* on under it, and his dick was already rising to
the occasion.

"Draw *that*!" he ordered, running his hands along his thighs and up to
his balls.

Well, sheeeit! I had no clew how to draw: scribbling a cock & balls on a
scrap of paper or toilet-stall wall is as natural to a horny teenager as
jerking off, but to take pencil in hand and try to actually *draw*
something takes a whole different talent. Erect before me was the first
truly adult male phallus I'd ever seen: the *last* thing I wanted to do
was draw a picture of it! My pants were getting tight in the crotch.

"Aw, shucks, Mr. Schwartz," I said, "I don't know nuthin' about art! But
if you need help with that toad-stabber of yours, I think I could make it
feel pretty good." It was a cheeky thing to say, but I had my reputation
as a hellion to uphold! "Besides, if you want a picture of it, a camera
would do a better job."

"Over here, then, on your knees - NOW!" Schwartz ordered. Happy to
comply, I shed my coat, dropped to the floor in front of the sofa, and
boldly gripped his rigid tool. Its comparative hugeness amazed me, and it
felt hot to my palm. I caressed it with one hand, and ran my other hand
over his firm thighs, then rose up slightly, intent on sucking him. This
put my bulging crotch within his reach, and within seconds he'd expertly
opened my pants and had a firm grip on my little member. My mouth could
not accommodate all of him, but I did my best, and slobbered enough to
wet my palm below my mouth. Schwartz groaned and thrust himself up
towards me; I found it very exciting to get him "worked up". There seemed
to be a qualitative difference between this older man and the many teen-
age dudes I'd sucked off: the youngsters all seemed able to shoot off in
a manner of minutes, whereas it was clearly going to take Schwartz a bit
longer: this gave me more time to revel in the workings of his powerful
leg muscles, and to fondle his large, heavy balls. The feeling of his big
hand massaging my prick was not unpleasant, either, but I was getting
near to popping my cork, so I stopped sucking, intending to remove the
rest of my uniform. But Schwartz had *other* ideas!

He arose, gripped my arm, propelled me into his bedroom and pushed me
roughly onto his bed. Within seconds he had pulled my pants and shoes
from my body, and all but ripped my tee shirt off; he cast aside his silk
jacket and began a frenzied licking of me *all over*. I was still a tad
ticklish in a few spots, so I was soon giggling and writhing as his
tongue found a whole *collection* of erogenous zones: I'd not yet learned
how sensitive nipples are, nor had I experienced the joy of a wet tongue
slathering under my arms, but these new feelings exploded into my
consciousness. When I tried to return Schwartz's favors, he pushed me
back flat on the bed, apparently desiring no reciprocation. But I could
not relax, because his hands, his tongue, and his long hair seemed to be
all over me at once. Crouched over me, he ran his massive tool along the
insides of my thighs, then poked it at my nipples, wiping the head of it
across them repeatedly. My tits got hard, imitating my pecker, now aching
for release of the juices gathered in my loins.

Schwartz sat back on his haunches, grasped my ankles, and raised them up
and back over my head: he bent down and tongued all around the backs of
my legs, slowly working his way towards my bum: when his tongue found the
opening in my backside, I thought I would explode! Never, among my
adolescent friends, had anyone thought to explore this part of my
anatomy, so the feeling of a wet tongue on my pucker - even penetrating
it slightly - was totally *new*, and *totally* wonderful! Lost in wave
after wave of new sensations, I did not immediately recognize the touch
of his penis to my bung, and when I did, the image of his prong going
into me was too much! "No, NO!", I screamed. "Please, Mr. Schwartz, Sir,
please don't, Sir..." Fear washed over me: I knew guys fucked, but I was
so small, and Schwartz was so *big*: "Jezus, Mr. Schwartz, you'll tear me
up with that wang of yours: just let me suck it off for you," I pleaded.
I was on the verge of crying; "Oh, please, no, Mr. Schwartz, Sir, not
*there*!"

But Schwartz was beyond reason: fortunately for me, he was also beyond
control. I eventually learned that what got him off was the element of
*fear* he could instill with that monster between his legs, so my
entreaties were just the ticket: he let go of my legs, which dropped
along side him, squeezed his dick viciously, began babbling in German,
and loosed an immense spray of stringy cream out over my stomach, chest
and face. My gawd, what a hosing! I expect he hadn't dropped a load in
weeks, and it just kept on coming, spurt after ropey spurt; it pooled
around my navel and between my pecs; it ran down the sides of my face. I
gathered up what I could of it and sucked it from my fingers. When at
last his orgasm was over, he fell heavily beside me, buried his face
under my arm, licked furiously, gripped my little thingy and pumped it
vigorously: within seconds my long-pent boy-juice arched up and over us,
almost matching his quantity. I thought my mezzo-soprano moans would
raise the dead, but of course the old house absorbed sounds like a
sponge.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Schwartz, Sir," I said softly. Actually, I began to cry,
so relieved was I that my virgin ass was intact. "I'm sorry, I know how
much you wanted to fuck me, but I don't think you could *fit* in there,
and..."

"Ach, halts maul!" Schwartz muttered. I didn't know what that meant, but
figured silence might be best. Slowly, our breathing returned to normal.
Schwartz might have been asleep, but abruptly he arose and headed for the
bathroom. "Get dressed, go: say nothing," he said as he disappeared. I
did my best to put myself back together, feeling a bit weak in the knees,
and beat a hasty retreat to the attic and comfort of my bed. Once there,
I replayed the experience with Schwartz, and decided I had not really
enjoyed nearly being raped. I was shaking, feeling lonely, when my bed
moved and Bart slid in beside me, all warm and fuzzy. All he said was,
"Go to sleep, little man," as he pulled me against himself and wrapped
his arms around me. I was asleep in an instant.

Schwartz never took me again, and I didn't "rat" on him. But my
experience brought to light an unwritten rule at H-K: Howard boys didn't
get fucked. Vincent boys *did*, as I would learn the following year.
Short of anal penetration by boy-dicks, though, "anything went": I can't
remember any variety of "vanilla" sex that someone in our dorm didn't try
at one time or another. As the year progressed, I had so many sessions
with just about every guy there that I lost count. Many encounters were
unremarkable, but some remain in my mind as if they'd happened yesterday.

One such was with Frankie, whose bed was on the other side of the light-
well from mine, and of whom I saw little as a result. In fact, Frankie
was a "loner", a real book-worm, and known to be very smart. We all
envied his straight-A report cards. None of my friends could recall
seeing Frankie get it on with anyone else, and my perverse mind decided
he might be missing out. One Saturday I found time on my hands, and was
sitting in a patch of sun on the massive porch. Frankie came around the
side of the building, looked around furtively, and struck out across the
lawn towards the trees; there was about an acre of thick forest between
the school and the road. On impulse, I decided to see what Frankie was up
to, so as soon as he disappeared from view I ran around from another
angle and went in among the trees myself, calculating a path I figured
would cross his. A real game of hide-and-seek! Presently I glimpsed him;
he seemed to be searching for some special place. He chose a spot where a
small tree had fallen over and lay horizontal a couple of feet above the
ground. He looked all around again, and seemed satisfied that he was
alone. Then, his back to me, he dropped his pants and sat upon the fallen
tree, his butt hanging over. I crept forward until just a few feet behind
him: it was evident that he was going to take a dump, an event I had
never witnessed directly. I had a perfect view, and as I watched, Frankie
expressed a long brown log of surprising proportions: watching this turd
emerge from his backside was very arousing, and I pawed at myself through
my pants pocket. Frankie reached around and pulled his cheeks apart, and
his lump fell free: I heard it hit the ground. He produced some paper and
wiped his ass, then stood and peered over the fallen tree to see what
he'd produced. That's when he saw me: forgetting his pants were still at
half-mast, he tried to turn and run, but tripped and fell instead. Before
he could get up, I was at his side.

"Hey, Frankie, that was neat watching you shit," I said, "don't be
scared". I offered my hand to help him up, and that's when I saw *him*!
He wasn't hung like Schwartz, but on his small frame what he had between
his legs loomed large; it was only half hard.

"You won't tell on me will you?" Frankie said faintly.

"Heck, no," I said. "Fact is, I think I could prolly add to that pile
there myself, if ya wanna watch *me* do it - and if you have some more
bum-wipes with ya."

"Jeez, I thought I'm the only person in the world that gets a kick outa
takin' a shit," Frankie replied: "yeah, I got more paper..."

"You don't know *me*!" I said: "there ain't nuthin' I don't like - well,
except maybe getting fucked in the ass."

So, saying, I dropped my pants and put my ass over the tree just as he
had done. Frankie hobbled around behind to get a good look. Squeezing one
out "on demand" proved more difficult than I'd expected, but before long
I had about half a loaf pushed out; the tree began to shake rhythmically
as Frankie wanked excitedly. I spread my cheeks as he had done, and
finally, with one last *push*, my offering fell from my butt with a dull
thud.

"Where's that paper?" I asked.

"Stay put," Frankie replied. Suddenly I felt my bum being wiped for me,
something I suppose I hadn't felt since I was a baby. It was startlingly
different from doing it myself. Then I felt something else, which proved
to be a finger, fondling my puckerhole.

"Stay put," Frankie said again. I turned to see that he was squatted
behind me, his pants still down, his dick much harder than I'd seen it
before. Something wet - spit, I found - was now being spread around my
hole, and without warning, Frankie pushed a finger into my backside.
"Push!" he said. I pushed, and his finger slid in and found a spot inside
that had never been touched before.

"Aaaooouu, *wow*! Jeez, Frankie, whatcha hit in there?" I asked as I felt
unfamiliar sensations moving along from my backside up to the head of my
cock.

"Your prostrate", Frankie replied. It's where yer spunk is stored." His
finger moved inside of me, exquisite feelings emanating along the path to
my peckerhead yet again.

"Gawd, it feels terrific when you do that," I said. By this time I had a
grip on myself, and it seemed like I might cum at any moment. Frankie's
wicked finger found it's mark again... and again... and again...

That's when I stopped jacking myself, and watched as my spunk flowed from
the head of my dick, almost like I was peeing. It wasn't the usual
spurts, just a long, drawn out dribble that increased slightly every time
Frankie stroked that magic spot he'd found. My cum ran down my cock,
along my balls, and dripped; Frankie caught it in his hand, and when he
had a nice puddle there, he gulped it down as if it were manna from
heaven. Then he pulled his finger out of me slowly, wiped me again in
back, then hobbled around in front of me to mop my still weeping hard-on.

"Where in hell did you learn to do that?" I asked, still somewhat
breathless.

"I found it in an old medical book in the library," he replied. I guess
it felt pretty good, eh?"

"Yeah, really, well, *neat*!" I said.

"Would you do it to me?" Frankie asked. I've never felt it myself. I've
tried smooth sticks and a zucchini squash, but I can't do it to myself
quite right."

Frankie's handsome prong stood proud. Ordinarily, I'd have preferred to
suck on it, as it looked *very* suckable. Frankie was a little shorter
than me in stature, but his dick was bigger than mine. His skin was
darker than mine, but smooth and essentially hairless like my own.

"Sure, buddy, I'll try, but I'm not sure I'll get it right."

Frankie shucked his pants entirely, bent over away from me and pulled his
shirt up over his back. "Use lots of spit on your finger," he said.

Frankie had a cute butt. The muscles in the back of his thighs stretched
tight were nice to behold. He spread his cheeks for me, and if I'd still
had a hard-on I'd have been tempted to stick my dick in there. But, I wet
my finger generously and shoved it slowly in between the hairless crack.
I put my free hand on his shoulder to keep from pushing him off balance.
I pushed more.

"Ahhhh, that's right," Frankie's strained voice floated back to me. "When
you're all the way in, turn your palm up, and move your finger in the
'come here' sign - ohhhhhhh, yes, that's the way."

The tip of my index finger sensed a bit of a bulge about where the base
of his pecker should have been: that seemed to be the spot, so I stroked
it very slowly. I reached under and felt the end of his cock: sure
enough, it was damp and slippery.

"Ohhhh, ohhhh, ahhhhh!" Frankie moaned with each stroke of my finger.
"Ooooh... unnngh... unnngh..." I was getting hard again, and my palm was
slowly filling with Frankie's juice. "Unnngh... unnngh... oh, that feels
*so* wonderful! Unnnngh... unnnnnnnnnnnngh... Oh, jeeezus...

I glanced around to see that his dribbling had slowed, so I carefully
withdrew my finger. Frankie straightened up; his face was ruddy, his
breathing rapid. His hard-on still dripped, so I quickly lapped up the
pool of jism in my palm, then squatted down and plunged his dick into my
mouth. I grasped his buns and savagely fucked my face with his delicious
tool, and was rewarded by an immediate eruption of boy-cum from his
delayed orgasm. When he calmed down at last, I stood, turned and backed
up against him, grabbed his right hand and wrapped it 'round my prod: he
took the hint immediately and pulled my pud, bringing me to a rapid and
violent climax.

As we tried to make ourselves presentable, I asked Frankie if he'd show
me those books in the library; "There's no tellin' what other neat things
we might find in there," I said as we headed out of the trees.


                   SCHOOL OF HARDE-KNOX  CHAPTER 3

The librarian was stunned by my sudden interest in reading, but it devolved
that Frankie had found the only really interesting thing there. I did,
however, learn to spell "prostate", and found it was *not* "where my jizm was
stored". Frankie and I continued to meet secretively to enjoy our mutual
ass-play until we were discovered at it one day by some other boys; we were
briefly the "butt" of some jokes, it was not long before most of the guys had
fingered each others' bums. And the discovery that even the bookish Frankie
could be coaxed into "getting down and dirty" like the rest of us enhanced our
spirit of comraderie. Still, no one broke the rule about butt-fucking (fingers
and vegetables excepted).

As christmas holiday approached, I hoped to hear from my folks; most of the
boys were going home. But *my* wonderful parents took a vacation to Hawaii (I
discovered later), so I and a few other boys stayed at school. There was
nothing to do, so we had to make up something. We soon tired of writing our
names in the snow with piss, ("NEVER eat yellow snow!") but in the course of
amusing ourselves with this mindless exercise I discovered by accident that
Todd, an older lad from Vincent hall, was really "into" watersports. He had a
*huge* bladder, it seemed, and he could maintain a steady piss stream for as
long as three minutes if he put his mind to it: for some reason, he was proud
of this ability.

On a dare one day, we stole a whole case of cokes from the pantry, and took it
up to the attic. Todd quaffed six of the little bottles in quick succession.
After about an hour of playing cards, Todd refilled one of the empty bottles
with piss, and drank a seventh cola. In a remarkably short time, he had
consumed and re-filled all twenty-four bottles, spilling almost none in the
process. To our astonishment (and a few "eeeew, gross!" comments), he then
drank the first bottle, and by evening had recycled the entire case of
twenty-four! When we discovered Todd was all by himself in Vincent hall, we
invited him to stay with us in Howard for the duration, giving us time to find
he had a few other kinks. He was totally into piss: he would willingly drink
"from the tap", and he loved to have us all "store it up" and then go all over
him in the shower room. Lying on the tiles, drenched in warm urine, he'd jerk
himself off to a frenzied climax, which generally got us all worked up and
wanking happily away.

I asked Todd how he came to enjoy this odd sport; he said he'd had tutors
all his life, and one of them had used pissing on him as form of discipline.
But, as kids will, Todd had turned something supposed to be onerous into
something fun, and deliberately "mis-behaved" frequently in order to get his
"punishment". But he asked us not to reveal his secret to his mates in
Vincent, because he felt sure the older guys there might not be so "accepting"
as we were. In retrospect, I think he was right.

Winter gave way to Spring, at last; among the fond memories I have of that
long period of cold, short days and long *warm* nights are some of the usual
pranks known to all boys: "short-sheeting", farting contests - that sort of
thing. The cleaning staff were *not* amused when we re-discovered the old "pan
of warm water" trick. Someone passed this on to a chap in Vincent, who tried
it (we heard through the "grapevine") on Todd, who scarcely needed the
inducement of a hand dangling in a pan of warm water to "let go": so
voluminous was his effusion that his mattress had to be replaced!

Separation of the "V"s and the "H"s meant that in team sports it was always
V's vs. H's: *this* meant the V's almost always won, since the Vincent boys
were older and more experienced. But as that first year advanced, I led the
Howard swimming team to victory, which enhanced my "status" considerably. With
my reputation as a hellion firmly established, it was generally to me that my
classmates turned in search of new adventures. When a chance discovery of the
word "bestiality" in the dictionary got me to thinking, I decided a nearby
farm might offer some prospect of amusement. The trouble was, I (like all the
boys at H-K MA) was a "city-slicker" with no experience around farm animals.
But a few week-end forays to the grounds of the Donnybrook Farm soon revealed
that animals get horny, too, and plans to capitalize on this began to take
shape. It was not long before the more adventurous of us had discovered that
calves will suck on *anything*!

This led to another experience. One warm lazy Saturday afternoon, Owen and I
were casually getting sucked off through a fence behind the barn by two
calves. Without warning, each of us was gripped by our shirts and jerked
backwards, and I upwards off my feet. Owen was 14 or so and larger than me. I
wiggled around, and looked into the stubbled face of what seemed to me a
*giant* of a man.

"Waal, looky here," he drawled. " 'Coupla da boyz from the skool over yonder,
likin' to git their lil' dicks sucked by a itty-bitty calf!"

He put me down, but did not let go. He was craggy and lean, dressed in dirty
overalls. With our hands free, Owen and I tried to stuff ourselves back in our
pants. Owen looked panicky.

The farm-hand spun us around and looked us over. "Y'all's too runty-like", he
said to me: "GIT!" - and he thrust me away from him. But without a word, he
marched Owen towards an open door in the barn. I ran, looking back frequently,
and when they had disappeared into the barn, ran back as quickly and quietly
as I could: I felt a responsibility to Owen. By the time I found a knot-hole
in the rough boards that gave me a view, the farm-hand had lashed Owen by his
wrists, extended over his head, to a post that held up part of the roof. The
guy stepped back, lit up a ciggie, and examined his prisoner. Owen was shaking
visibly. The man puffed his cig slowly, apparently pondering what to do next.
When the smoke was done, he ground out the butt on the floor, then removed
his shirt. He was hairy, lean, and mean looking.

He stood in front of Owen, whipped out a pocket-knife, and in a trice had
sliced Owen's tee-shirt right up its front. He cut it through to each arm, and
roughly jerked it from Owen's frame. Sweat glistened on Owen's chest, and he
began to moan, just on the edge of crying.

"Please, Mister..." was all he could think of to say.

"Hmmmm: right purty, that," the man said. "Wanna see the rest."

The knife-blade glinted in a beam of sunlight. The man unbuckled Owen's belt,
pulled it out and flung it aside. Then he took his knife and in a single pass
sliced the pants from the waist to the end of one leg; he repeated this on the
other side, and Owen's pants fell away. That knife was *sharp*, no doubt about
it, and I was beginning to shake with fear. Owen was sobbing now, and sweating
even more. Rivulets of liquid poured down his chest, re-appearing below his
boxers to mingle with the few hairs he had on his legs. The man lit another
smoke, and again stepped back to admire Owen, who, despite his fear, was
certainly worthy of admiration. Like all the boys, he was nicely developed.
Hanging there from his bound wrists, his almost-hairless armpits were exposed
and his chest muscles were stretched alarmingly.

Still smoking, the man stuck a finger into Owen's boxers and flipped his soft
prick out through the opening. Then he stood back again, fingering the sharp
blade of the knife, seemingly giving thought to slicing off Owen's dangling
dong. This was too much for me; I had to do *something* to save my friend! I
rushed to the still-open door and burst in on Owen and his captor.

"Hey, Mister!" I shouted, hoping there was someone around to hear me, "leave
my buddy alone, for gosh sakes! Let him GO! Let *us* go!"

The man grabbed me by my shirt once again and effortlessly lifted me off my
feet.

"Ah ain' gonna hurt yer buddy," he said sarcastically. "But since y'all done
come back ta try an mess me up, y'all's gonna git to watch."

In a trice, he had me tied to another post, with my arms behind my back
and a light lash around my ankles and neck. I was powerless against this
guy, twice my height and weight, and clearly strong as an ox.

"Jist keep you little mouf shut now," an don' make no trubble: they's no'n
roundabout thishere barn 'cept us three. I don' like runty 'n's like y'all,
but thishere" - he turned to Owen - "young'n's jist ma kinda meat."

The knife flashed again, and Owen was utterly bare, his boxers added to
the heap of shredded clothes. The man stood back in admiration; he
unclasped the straps of his baggy overalls and dropped them, revealing a
fully engorged dick of ample dimensions. Then he knelt before my trembling
friend and slurped his soft pecker into his mouth.

Owen's adolescent body responded: "Mister, could you let me loose? I
promise, I won't run away, but the blood's run out of my arms, and it
hurts," he said.

The man stood effortlessly, and a twinge of appreciation swept through me
as his lean, muscular legs propelled him. He fetched the knife from his
overalls, and cut the rope suspending Owen, leaving him with his wrists
tied, but free to drop his arms. Owen nearly collapsed, but managed to
remain standing in front of the post: he did not try to run. After a
moment's thought, the man cut the rope from Owen's wrists as well: Owen
rubbed his arms briskly, trying to get circulation going in them.

"Guess'n y'all won' run an leeve yer boyfriend's behind," the man said,
"but don' y'all be making any trubble fer me, neether! Ain' agonna
hurtcha if'n ah can hep it..." With that he savagely jammed the point of
the knife into the post just above Owen's head, where it would be handy...

He knelt again and resumed sucking on Owen's dick. I was beginning to
relax *just* a little, getting the feeling that we *might* get out of
this alive and in one piece. The man was feeling Owen all over with his
huge hands, and sucking noisily. I got a hard-on just from watching. When
Owen began to thrust as if to come, the man stopped sucking. He grasped
Owen's ankles and spread them far apart, then spun around on his heels
and buried his face in Owen's backside. He seemed intent on *eating* Owen
as he alternately bit on the fleshy cheeks before him and licked Owen's
shit-crack with his long tongue. I was pretty sure this was new to Owen:
I had a momentary flash-back to Mr. Schwartz, and knew if Owen could
relax, he might like it. Owen's hard-on did not soften, so I guessed he
was enjoying the man's efforts. Nor had the man's dick softened, either:
he stroked it now and then, and it became very wet and glossy.

"Don'cha'all move!" the man ordered. He stood up, picked up a large
wooden barrel, and placed it in front of Owen. He grabbed a thick horse-
blanket from a peg and threw it over the barrel, then threw Owen over the
blanket. Then he got down behind Owen, spread his cheeks with his hands,
and resumed his attentions to Owen's shapely bum. Sweat poured from their
bodies, and I found myself pretty wet as well. I'd have played with
myself, but with my hands tied, it was impossible. Watching this man
shove his slimy tongue in and out of Owen's bung was making me horny.
Owen's moans now seemed to be those of pleasure instead of fear.

"Don'cha'all move!" the man ordered again. He stood for another cigarette, his
erection never flagging for an instant: Owen's lithe body remained rolled over
the barrel, his creamy white legs spread-eagled behind him. The man paid no
mind to me at all. But when he moved again, I knew at once that I was going to
see my friend fucked. *My* erection drooped, and fear gnawed at my heart. The
man leaned far over the barrel, grasped Owen's arms, and moved them alongside
his body. Holding Owen's wrists and balancing himself on the barrel, he
lowered his throbbing wet cock towards Owen's butt: with perfect aim, the
engorged head of his dick found Owen's anus, and began to slowly, very slowly,
disappear. I expected Owen to cry out, but there was silence. In just a few
minutes the man's body covered Owen's completely. Despite a feeling in my
own backside of what Owen might be experiencing, the scene was incredibly
erotic, and my prick rose back up.

They lay coupled for several minutes, then the man withdrew slowly until
almost all of his cock was exposed; then reversed, and plunged it home again.
He repeated this over and over, gathering speed. His muscular legs, long arms
and powerful back were synchronized perfectly, and my hard-on throbbed in my
pants as I watched. What I could see of Owen appeared completely relaxed as
this lanky farm-hand fucked him, faster now, faster and faster, until, with a
last potent lunge, he collapsed on top of the hapless boy. I watched as the
muscles of the man's ass contracted and dimpled, relaxed, contracted again,
the only outward evidence that his seed was flooding Owen's colon. My dick
throbbed in synchrony, and my balls were beginning to ache, because I could
not join the copulating pair before my eyes.

Eventually, his orgasm completed, the man pushed himself up from the barrel
and withdrew from Owen. His rapidly softening cock glistened, and some cum
dripped from the tip. I half expected it to be covered in blood or shit, but
neither was in evidence. "Don'cha'all move!" the man ordered again, less
forcefully, "cummin' rat back". He went out of the barn and effortlessly
loosed his water against the door standing open there. He returned, stepped
into his overalls, flipped the straps over his shapely shoulders and hooked
them in front. Then, almost tenderly, he bent and helped my buddy off the
barrel. Though Owen's face was flushed with blood, I thought there was a
"satisfied" look on his face! Standing naked, he said, "Ooops!" and a wet,
rattly fart escaped; jism ran down his buns, along the back of one leg, and
fell away just above his knee. His dick remained hard, standing straight out
from his slightly hairy pubes. He definitely needed relief of his own.

Reading my thought, the man pulled the knife from the post and sliced the
ropes from me. Scarcely thinking of what I was doing, I opened my pants
to let my dick "breathe".

The man lit up again. Blowing smoke through his nose, he said, "That wuz
a rat naise pieca boy-ass! Grows 'em good over at th' skool, they do! But
I sees y'all needin' sumthin' more, so ah'l jist watchya take care o'each
other, seein' hows I's a bit tuckered out 'n'all."

I was on Owen's dick in an instant, anxious to get things over with; I swept
my hand up the back of his leg to gather the cum still seeping from his ass,
slathered it over his nipples, and sucked like a mad-man: Owen shot his load
almost instantly, and I thought I might drown before he was finished.
"Tuckered out" himself, he then sat on the barrel, and I jerked off and shot
my wad all over his chest and stomach.

"Purty." was all the man said.

Now our problem was, how to get Owen back to the school, seeing that his
clothes lay in shreds.

"They's a coupla una-forms over yonder," the man said. Vincent boys leave
'em behind some nights. Hep yersef.

"They'll prolly be too big for him: we're Howards," I replied.

"Ah don' giva sheeit *what* y'are, I evah catch y'all feeding my calves
again, ah'll fuck the both of ya! Now, *GIT*!"

Well, there were enough clothes to get Owen passably dressed, and as soon
as we could skedaddle, we were *out* of that barn! As we tramped across
the field, I was quick to ask Owen if he was alright, and if getting
fucked had hurt.

"Naw, 'taint the first time: guess you could tell that. But you've got to
promise that's *our* secret!"

"Sure!" I said, "but it looks to me like the Vincents have been spending
some time in that barn."

"That, too, will be our secret - for now, at least", Owen replied.


                   SCHOOL OF HARDE-KNOX  CHAPTER 4

Owen's confession that he'd been fucked before remained my secret. He
later told me his brother had taken him three years earlier - that would
have been when Owen was eleven; the brother was fifteen. Owen admitted
the first time had come about as a result of his spying on his brother in
the shower. His brother had evidently been a precocious child, typically
horny at 15, and unpopular with girls for some reason. His discovery of
Owen peering through the glass doors of the shower had sent his hormones
raging; he'd jacked off for Owen's benefit, without letting on he knew he
was being watched. But late that night he'd crept stealthily into Owen's
bedroom, snatched his little brother from deep slumber, and plugged his
boy-hole enthusiastically. The scene was to be repeated practically every
night until Owen was sent to H-K MA.

Meanwhile, my hirsute hero, Bart, was growing up rapidly. He turned out
to have a mean streak, though, and in many little ways he ticked off just
about every boy in Howard. It seems as though everyone had some little
grudge against him. Even *I* grew tired of his vicious towel-snaps in the
gym, and I think he was a trifle jealous of my swimming prowess, for he
was fond of holding me under water longer than was healthy. Gradually
over time, Bart got "left out" of nearly all our crazy pranks (though I
admit I never tired of watching him spray his load out over his hairy
chest and stomach when he jacked off, which he did almost every night).

When the word went 'round that Bart's parents would be visiting in a few
weeks, several of us hatched a plan to embarrass him. Eventually, just
about all the Howard boys got involved, and it was a good thing, because
Bart was, by this time, getting quite large and powerful. We sprang our
little caper one warm, lazy afternoon near the beginning of summer...

I lured Bart into the gym on the pretext of swimming: but when he emerged
nude from the locker-room, he was set upon by a dozen of his buddies and
dragged, kicking and bellowing, into the showers. There, he was
unceremoniously knocked off his feet and spread-eagled on the tile floor
directly under the most powerful showerhead in the room. At first we just
soaped him up and washed him, which got him hot in the crotch and put him
off his guard. I guess he thought we were just going to play sexy games.
But after several washings and rinses, Johnny (a lad who had been the
brunt of Bart's meanness even more often than I) ran into the shower with
a bucket of tools: a pair of scissors, Bart's own Gillette razor, a fresh
packet of blades, and several cans of shaving-cream stolen somewhere.
Before Bart quite knew what was up, the scissors had snipped off some
gobs of his pubic hair, and someone was going to town with the scissors
on his chest. Poor Bart! He was pinned on his back with a boy or two at
each foot and hand; a few minutes later he was lathered from his neck to
his toes, the fragrant white cream showing black streaks of his soon-to-
be shorn body hair. When it became apparent we meant to finish what we'd
started, Bart was persuaded to remain quiet so we could do our deed
without much fear of slicing his flesh in the process.

And a slow process it was! The razor had to be dismantled after every
second swipe or so, to free it of the long, silky black hair which simply
would not rinse out. All of us took turns, making long blank strips from
his neckline down to his pubes, carrying away the surface evidence of his
manliness. Bart swore at us endlessly, promising to "get even". We had
all agreed to leave his pubes for last: when my turn with the razor came
round, I attacked his legs, which his captors obligingly held up and
spread for easy access. It was then I discovered how sensitive Bart's
thighs were: as I pushed the head of the razor up beside his balls and
drew it down the flesh of his inside leg, his pecker began to rise, and
with each of my strokes it engorged a bit more. Before very long, his
thighs were as glabrous as my own, and I moved down to work on his shins.
The hair there was wiry and tough. When the bulk of it was gone, I put a
fresh blade in the razor, lathered his legs again, and began my strokes
from his ankles, up against the grain. His muscular shins emerged from
their hairy stockings, smooth as a girl's. Then I went about treating his
thighs the same way. I noticed Bart had stopped his growling: as I drew
the razor ever closer to his balls (which I was careful to hold out of
harm's way) his leg muscles tightened involuntarily and his cock stood
proud, still with most of its pubic bush. I was nothing if not
methodical, stroking each leg <in alternatum>, starting at the far
outside where the hair was sparse, and working my way inward. Feeling his
leg muscles tightening with each stroke had the expected effect on me:
like Bart, I had a raging hard-on, and a glance around showed most of the
boys did as well.

Suddenly, without warning, a load of teen-cum erupted from Bart's
throbbing dick! It rose majestically into the air a foot or more,
followed in quick succession by several more spurts, accompanied by a
howl of release. Another boy quickly scooped up his seed and spread it
around Bart's now-smooth chest, taking care to massage it deeply into his
nipples. Seeing this was too much for me; I was finished with his legs
anyway, so I motioned to the captors to put them down. I stood up between
them and jacked myself to a quick climax, spraying my spunk over Bart's
hapless form. One large gob landed on his face, and I was gratified to
see his tongue reaching out to try to scrape it into his mouth. This
sight sent several other spectators over the edge, and pretty soon Bart
was awash in cum, much as he'd shortly before been awash in shaving
cream.

Nevertheless, we were NOT finished! After a brief respite, Bart was
turned on his belly, where another chap relieved him of the straggly
hairs on the back of his legs. A few minutes later, with eager hands
spreading his buns, the hair from his ass-crack disappeared down the
drain. With Bart returned to his back, another boy made short work of the
long strands under Bart's arms, and soon he looked a great deal more like
any of us than like his old self. Only his bushy snatch remained. With
another fresh blade and more gobs of shaving creme, little Frankie
administered the <coup de grace>, Bart's boyishness slowly coming into
view once again as the razor freed his cock and balls of their fur.
Frankie was ever so careful; a few tiny droplets of blood oozed from
Bart's scrotum but it was clear there was no permanent damage.

At least an hour after it had begun, Bart's de-fleecing was complete.
Exhausted by his struggles and ejaculation, he remained prone when after
one last hot-water rinse, his captors stood up and admired our handiwork.
The heat and effort had the blood up in his skin, so much of him was a
brilliant pink: and but for his five-o'clock shadow and that on his head,
Bart was utterly devoid of hair. He looked 5 years younger, and
absolutely delicious! He remained where he was while several more boys
shot their wads on him, and this time he himself rubbed their effluvia
over his new-found smoothness. He was feeling himself as he had once been
when much younger, and he appeared to find it agreeable.

It was not until the following week-end that Bart realized he was
scheduled for an "exhibition" game of touch foot-ball for the benefit of
his parents and a few other visitors. Ordinarily (and especially this
time of year) we played in loose shorts; we had planned all of this
carefully! But Bart turned the tables on us quite unexpectedly. He showed
up for the game, as we expected, in a sweat-shirt and sweat-pants. He
*must* have known one of us would yank those off "accidently" during
play. So when this happy event occurred, *we* were shocked to discover he
had *nothing at all* under his pants! His mother swooned; the teachers
descended and hustled all of us into the gym amid general pandemonium
among the guests. I doubt any of them really noticed Bart had been shorn,
but the *teachers* noticed, and you can bet we caught *holy hell* for our
shenanigan!

But Bart was a changed boy! Someone explained to him why we had tried to
humiliate him, and he admitted he'd been a trifle ugly to most of us.
More remarkable, however, Bart thereafter eschewed his natural coat, and
for the remainder of our stay at H-K MA, he shaved himself *all over*
once a week, usually enlisting the aid of one or more of us in a "kinder
and gentler" replay of our prank. He was often to be found admiring
himself and pumping his muscles in front of a full-length mirror in the
toilet; and he was admirable, indeed! His musculature was taking on the
shape and definition of late adolescence, and without all that "damned"
hair (as he put it), his body was very nice to behold. It was nice to
*hold*, for that matter, and Bart once again became the object of urgent
desires amongst us. He especially liked to have several guys jack off and
shoot on him, then he'd select a lucky kid and they'd slither and slide
to a wet and gooey climax.

And (to my chagrin) Bart quickly moved into first place in swimming! We
had inadvertently discovered for him what professional swimmers have
known for years: copious body hair impedes progress through water.

Too soon, my first year at Harde-Knox ended. I was remanded to the
custody of my parents, who had become well accustomed to my absence,
which they clearly preferred. Anticipating this state of affairs, I
begged my folks to let me spend the summer with Frankie, of whom I had
grown quite fond. He'd suggested it, without giving me any specifics of
where he lived, but the arrangements were soon made after I'd become a
nuisance back in Illinois. Thus, I quickly found myself ensconced in a
huge mansion somewhere near Boston. Frankie's parents were "old money",
living out their lives in stuffy opulence, wanting as little to do with
their diminutive "oops" (who had come along years after his brothers and
sisters) as my folks wanted with me. Frankie and I were as peas in a pod;
we could not be mistaken for brothers, as we were very different in
appearance: but our minds were in synchrony, mainly I suppose because we
both thought of sex and little else. Despite our separate bedrooms, we
slept together always, something which the "help" must surely have known,
but of which his parents were blissfully ignorant. Indeed, we often spent
nights away from the place, and no one ever seemed to notice. It was a
situation *ripe* for mischief, and it was not long before we got into it.

We found it enjoyable to swim in the ocean from beaches on the northern
shore of Cape Cod. For a while we were content to have the chauffeur take
us out there, but we soon discovered few other boys would play with us,
as the hulking Rolls marked us as "spoiled (rich) brats". One day we
decided to hitch-hike out to the beach: we knew no one would miss us. It
never occurred to us this might be in the least bit dangerous; our goal
was simple anonymity among the gaggle of swimmers at our favorite beach.
It worked splendidly! Two scantily-clad teenagers with beach towels under
our arms, it seemed to us remarkable how rapidly we got picked up and how
*friendly* the lone men were, most of them even happy to go out of their
way to get us to our destination or back home again.

At the beach, we soon got on with a group of boys about our own age, and
it wasn't long before we were exploring them intimately under water or
among the bushes back from the beach a ways. There were all sorts of
pathways beaten down among those bushes, and *neat* little trysting-
places, all seemingly put there for our very own exploration and use. It
was among them that Frankie and I discovered there were other sorts of
people in the world; young, boisterous and horny like ourselves, but of
different hues, different ethnicities (as we put it nowadays). They were
niggers and whops and chinks then, but these were only convenient labels,
code-words for "others" but without the pejorative connotations they
carry today. Most of these were "city boys" - street-wise, rough-and-
tumble, but not yet jaded and as yet unaware of other things which
differentiated us.

It was Frankie who first evinced an interest in the sexual possibilities
of these "others", and despite the fact he was smaller than I, it was he
who made bold to chat up a stringy black boy one afternoon. We swam over
to where Jeb's head broke the water's surface; he smiled as we
approached, but burst out laughing as Frankie lost his footing when the
water turned out to be deeper than expected. Jeb, it devolved, was a good
foot-and-a-half taller than Frankie. I made as if I was "rescuing" my
buddy, and held him up in the water; Frankie clung to me in fake alarm,
and I kissed away his fears. Jeb moved near us, grinning, and introduced
himself. "Mebbe we shou' take the li'l tyke ashore 'n let 'im dry ou',"
Jeb said in mock concern. "Yeah, my Frankie's gettin' waterlogged: maybe
we'll have to pump him out," I replied. "Know a good place; follow me!"
Jeb rejoined.

As we walked ashore, more and more of Jeb emerged, his ebony skin shiny
with rivulets of water. He was tall, lithe, and muscular; as his ass
appeared, it was covered only by jockey shorts several sizes too big. The
wet cloth clung to his buns, two glabrous black globes, the fabric wedged
alluringly in the crack between. When his thighs became visible, we could
see strong muscles there, a symphony of motion as he pushed along in the
water. We followed him, admiring his purposeful stride and watching his
skin dry before our eyes as its oiliness rejected the salty water.
Frankie was mesmerized, and already showing a bulge in his trunks. We
scooped up our towels as we followed Jeb into the bushes; he quickly
found a pleasant little clearing, and turned to face us.

I heard a faint "Jeez!" from Frankie: Jeb's sagging wet shorts did little
to conceal a packet of teen-meat ripe for the plucking. Jeb's long sinewy
arms hung loosely at his sides, and he assumed a perfect "David" pose as
he rested his weight on one foot: he looked like a bronze statue! "Looks
like you really need some pumping", he said, giving Frankie a "come
hither" look. Frankie, entranced, moved toward Jeb: the top of my buddy's
head was about even with Jeb's prominent nipples. Frankie hooked his
thumbs in his swimsuit and slid it down, exposing his raging hard-on.
Seeing Jeb's huge black hand wrap itself around Frankie's erection turned
*me* on; my pecker, until now shriveled in my pouch, suddenly came to
life. I moved in and nuzzled one of Jeb's nipples, which grew stone-hard
in my mouth. I watched, fascinated, as Frankie grasped Jeb's damp
jockey's and pushed them down, exposing the thin black snake they had
only partially concealed. He was rising fast. He thrust his free hand
inside my suit and groped me deliciously, still sensuously jacking
Frankie off. Within minutes, we'd spread our towels on the sand and the
three of us were writhing around, a tangle of arms and legs, hard-ons and
mouths, a study in contrasts in the dappled sunlight. I was beginning to
tan, but Frankie was many shades ahead of me from the start, and Jeb -
well, his "tan" was god-given! Jeb turned out to be not much longer hard
than he was soft, but when it *got* hard it was like iron; he had very
loose skin on his pole, and balls far larger than ours. Sucking his tits
sent him into orbit, and fondling his big balls riled him up even more.
Frankie tried valiantly to suck Jeb's prong, but it was longer than mine
(to which he was accustomed) and he had to use his fist as well as his
mouth to do it justice.

Frankie got off first, just humping against Jed's shapely leg; I picked
up his load of boy-cum and lubricated Jed's pecker, stroking him while
gently biting his left nipple. He shot his wad all over himself and my
neck and shoulder; I'd never seen so much jizz come out of one cock in my
life! With a handful of it, and my dick pressed against his muscular
thigh, I soon flooded his groin with a juicy eruption. I rubbed my
effusion into the tight, curly hairs on Jed's pubes as Frankie, already
hard again, frantically jacked himself off to a second climax, adding his
snow-white cream to what was left on Jed's rippling stomach.

Together, and in various other combinations, Frankie and I expanded our
sexual horizons throughout that lazy summer. We experienced the joy of
sex with several lithe chinese boys, a clutch of stocky cubans, a rather
larger number of blacks (ranging in color from <cafe au lait> to jet),
and an amazing array of "white boyz". In a few cases we experimented with
finger-fucking; piss fights were not uncommon, and we found one or two
fellows willing to let us watch them shit (coprophilia still being
Frankie's "dark secret").

Late one afternoon, we headed home, and were picked up by the first car
to approach. It was a rather beat-up old heap, with all sorts of junk in
the back seat, so we slid into the front. Too late, I discovered the
rather corpulent driver was pretty well sloshed. Fortunately, after a few
near-misses with various obstacles and other cars, the wail of a siren
brought us to a halt. Our driver told the officer we were his sons, but
we quickly explained our presence, and the cop put us in the back seat of
his cruiser while he attended to writing up another DUI. It took quite a
while, and in the gathering twilight Frankie fell asleep curled up on the
seat beside me with his head in my lap. Without thinking, I stroked him
intimately, admiring his deep tan and glossy black hair, now grown quite
long and wild. Suddenly, I realized the policeman was standing beside the
patrol car watching us. He opened the door and peered in: I got the first
look at his face, and realized he was quite young and ruggedly handsome.
He had a winning smile: "Where you boys from?" he enquired.

"Pretty posh place," he remarked when I told him. "Think I'd better give
you a ride up there - it's getting dark now," he said. Our first ride in
a police car seemed pretty neat, but I wanted to ride up front where we
could explore the radio and other gadgets. So, as a tow-truck trundled
off with the drunk's car (he in another cruiser), we set forth, riding
"tall" in the front seat with this snazzy cop. He got our names, and we
got his: Manny. He cut a nice figure in his deep blue uniform, such a
contrast to Frankie and me still in our swimsuits, our tan teen legs
sticking slightly to the plastic seat. As we sat waiting for a stop-light
to change, Manny gave my leg an affectionate squeeze as he gently
lectured us to the general effect that hitch-hiking was not such a good
idea for youngsters as good-looking as we. I quickly connected his
characterization of us as "good-looking" with his hand gently massaging
my leg *and* with a perceptible enlargement of the folds of cloth in his
lap. It was my turn to be bold, so I moved myself closer to his warm,
handsome body and pressed my leg against his, a move he returned,
bringing about that familiar feeling in my crotch which signaled the
onset of an erection.

Unexpectedly, Manny swung the cruiser onto a side road, then pulled off
into a convenient clump of trees. He quickly reversed the car and parked,
then turned his attention to me. I needed no persuasion to rise far
enough from the seat to allow him to pull my suit down to my ankles,
exposing what little of me had remained covered; without further
ceremony, he bent down and engulfed my rigid pecker in his mouth. He was
an excellent cocksucker, and I was soon writhing under his ministrations;
his left hand plunged up between my legs, fondling my wrinkled nut-sack.
Not wishing to be left out, Frankie frenched my ear then moved his
darting tongue down to my right nipple, with predictable results: I shot
a sticky load of teen-cum into Manny's slick throat, my leg muscles
trembling with the familiar bliss of ejaculation. Manny drank my jizz to
the last drop, and as if intoxicated like his recent conquest, he lunged
across me to lap thirstily at Frankie's tented swim-suit. Frankie quickly
peeled this down, giving Manny access to his juicy joy-stick, while I
reached over Manny's back and groped his crotch through his uniform.
Frankie, his voice cracking as he moaned in ecstasy, soon erupted in
Manny's golden throat, and a warm wetness exuding from our benefactor's
pants signaled that he had found my hand rewarding.

As we put ourselves back together, I was sorry I had not witnessed
Manny's orgasm: the dark spot in his trousers grew to amazing proportions
as we drove on. I snuggled up to him, and Frankie to me. Manny drove with
one hand while his right arm gathered us comfortably unto himself. Too
soon, he pulled up at the drive to our mansion, ruffled our hair to bring
us out of our near slumber, and pushed us out of the car with a breezy,
"Thanks guys!"

I hugged Frankie as we watched the cruiser disappear into the night.
"Jeeeez," Frankie hissed: "Sucked off by a cop! Neat-o!"

"Yep, that was a swell finish," I replied. "Race ya to the shower!"


                SCHOOL OF HARDE-KNOX - CHAPTER V

Too soon, summer was over and Frankie and I returned to Harde-Knox, our skins
tanned, our ears soggy with seawater, our bellies full of cum, our heads
filled with memories. After our summer's experimentation with dozens of cute
guys of all descriptions, we found the unrelieved "whiteness" of our mates at
H-K rather dull. Still, there was the excitement attendant upon "moving up" to
Vincent Hall. It was our turn to look down on the younger guys in Howard.
Looking over the new crop of kids, we both noticed - how could we help it? -
there was only *one* gangly black kid. By the time we had a chance to meet
him, he'd already gotten the cruel nick-name of "Token", a bit of a play on
his last name, which was Loken.

His name got shortened to "Toke" soon enough, but since this was *years*
before the advent of the drug "culture", there was no significance in it.
Frankie and I were pleased to discover Toke was a very nice fellow; we were
about the only older guys willing to befriend him. Within a few days of
school's opening, he was required to prove his fighting ability when Melvin, a
typical "georgia cracker" hurled the usual "goddam nigger gonna fuck my
sistah" string at him. Toke and Melvin wrestled sensuously, egged on by
quickly-chosen "sides"; but it was a bad match, and Melvin was soon vanquished
by Toke's superior strength. He was definitely *not* someone to be dealt
with lightly! We soon found he excelled at basketball, which earned him a
measure of respect on the courts at least. He cut a nice figure in his dark
green jersey and snow-white shorts.

Scarcely had the semester really gotten under way, however, when Toke took a
nasty tumble on the gym floor; he broke a leg and dislocated his right arm in
the process. He was taken away to a hospital nearby, but after a couple of
weeks returned to H-K, to spend a while in our small infirmary, with his leg
in traction and his arm firmly immobilized across his stomach. Frankie and I
took pity on the poor guy, lying there all day with only a cheap radio for
company, so we dropped by as often as our schedules would permit.

As I approached his room late one sweltering evening, I heard moans that
suggested he might be in pain, so I entered the room quietly. I had not
expected the scene that greeted me as I peeked around the curtain: there was
Melvin, standing beside the bed with one hand up under Toke's flimsy gown, his
pants at his ankles, and his other hand groping himself lasciviously.

"Gosh, Toke," Melvin said, "how long since you jacked off?"

"Not since the tumble: I'm no good with my left hand, and I can't even *see*
Mr. Happy down there with this damned thing on my arm jammed across my
stomach," he replied.

Melvin continued to fiddle with Toke's rigid dong. "Don't 'spose you'd really
mind if I, uh, took care of this for you, wouldja?" he asked.

"You'd do *that* for this lil' ol' pickaninny?"

"Heck yeah, Toke! black guys need to get off just like anybody else," Melvin
replied, still stroking his own pole, and Toke's, under the gown.

"Well, I'd be eternally grateful..."

Encouraged, Mel slowly drew up Toke's gown to expose his groin; the
mahogany-hued leg this action revealed had nice muscle structure and tone, but
Toke's outstanding feature was a magnificent un-cut penis standing proud,
foreskin partially obscuring a purplish head already oozing pre-cum. Without
further ceremony, Melvin bent over and lapped up that juice, then sucked that
prong into his mouth. The effect was instantaneous! With rending throbs, Toke
rapidly filled Mel's throat with a huge load of sweet, tasty jism. Toke moaned
through clenched teeth, his abdominal muscles tight beneath his bound arm, and
the muscles in his thigh knotted under Mel's palm resting just below his
balls.

"Oh, man; oh, man," Toke whispered hoarsely, "you've no *idea* how much I
needed that!"

Swallowing the delicious expulsion, Mel said, "Oh, I think I know how you
feel; but we can' letcha get in this condition again! I promise to see that
you're taken care of as often as I can manage it. Wantcha ta know I don' carry
a grudge..."

"You're a real buddy!" Toke said appreciatively; "but what about you? That
thing I's feelin' there needs some attention, too, and I can't do anything
about it, lying here like this..."

"Hold on," Mel said, dragging over a small stool from a corner of the room. He
stood on it, which put his groin a few inches above the side of the bed, and
flogged his dick feverishly as Toke rather clumsily clutched at his balls:
within just a few minutes Mel shot a soggy wad, most of which landed on Toke's
face. Toke shut his eyes tightly and wrinkled up his nose; Mel's white cum
shone wetly on his dark features.

"Sorry about that!" Melvin said as he mopped Toke's handsome face with a
towel.

"No problem," Toke replied; "next time, I wanna scrunch roun' so I can taste
it!"

"So Melvin's into darkies after all!" I thought to myself as I beat a hasty
retreat down the corridor; my own pecker stood packed against my pubes, aching
for release.

I arrived back at Vincent still horny; Frankie listened rapturously to my tale
of catching Toke and Melvin getting it on: "Jeez," he said, "I'd never have
guessed Melvin would do such a thing. How was he hung?"

"Oh, Toke's got a real nice un-cut prick," I enthused.

"No, no! How's *Melvin* hung?"

"Gosh, I can't really say: I was admiring Toke!"

"Well, it's Mel I wanna get with," Frankie replied. "He's got a cute ass I'd
like to eat."

"I'll leave it to you, then," I replied: "I don't cotton to Melvin all that
much, myself." ... "Gawd, I'm horny! Watching those two get it on has my balls
in an uproar."

"Aw, shucks! I couldn't find you anywhere, so I jerked off by myself half an
hour ago: don't feel like doing it again just yet," Frankie complained.

Disappointed and still horny, my mind wandered naturally back to poor Toke,
lying there by himself. What had he said to Melvin? "... so I can taste it?" I
returned quickly to the infirmary.

I wasted no time when I got there: "Hey, Toke, ya want a nice warm load
o'sperms?" I asked.

"If it's yours yer talkin' of, sure! But I can't do much, lying here this
way," he said, waving his free arm to indicate his trussed position.

"Can you get your head over to this side of the bed?" I asked. "Here,
let me help..."

By throwing his available arm around my neck, Toke managed to "scrunch" over,
close to the side of the bed, and was able to turn his head enough; I pulled
over the same stool used such a short while ago by Melvin, and stood upon it.
Feverishly, I unbuttoned my pants and whipped out my tumescent prod, which
found a willing chasm near the bottom of Toke's face. The position was far
from perfect, but as horny as I was it scarcely mattered: Toke did his very
best. I made a mental note to have him again after he recovered! Watching my
light-colored prick move in and out of his handsome black face was all I
really needed, and in a few minutes I was breathing hard, ready to spill. But
Toke pulled away.

"Jack me off!" he commanded: "Melvin di'n't get it all..."

As he resumed his awkward sucking, I threw back the sheet and quickly wrapped
my hand around his rigid pole. The heat of it felt wonderful, and I was
momentarily sorry that Melvin had gotten there first. His un-cut condition
left a lot of skin to rub up and down. It was not long before we reached
Nirvana together; another flood of stringy white cum spurted briskly from the
engorged head of his dick as I pumped my wad into Toke's eager mouth.

When I was well spent, I stepped off the stool and bent over Toke's sexy
tummy, where I licked up every bit of his tasty load, and sucked the last
drops from his slowly drooping rod. His cum had a particularly nice flavor.
He, meanwhile, had swallowed all that I had given him, and was licking his
lips appreciatively.

"Man, you just about drowned this darkie," Toke said. "You been saving up?"

"Naw. I just happened to be watching you and Melvin earlier," I confessed,
"and it got me going."

"Knew you were watching," Toke replied: "saw your shadow through the curtain.
Hoped you'd come back for more..."

Well, I sure feel better now, myself: how about you?"

"Yep! Ready for a good night's sleep now," Toke said dreamily.

"Good! And good-night, handsome," I said as I helped him back to the center of
the bed and drew the sheet up. "I'll be back again." I wiped his sweaty
forehead, then kissed it tenderly.

"Sure hopin' so," he said, as he quickly drifted off to sleep.

*****

Our little infirmary was ruled by Sonja, a massive bull-dyke who brooked no
nonsense from us. She was occasionally assisted by an old doctor who came out
from town. We all knew "Dr. Hal" ("for halitosis") got his kicks feeling up
our pubescent bods when it was time for physical exams, but we all agreed it
was a good thing he stayed dressed! None of us was disappointed when we heard
the lecherous old fart had retired, to be replaced by a lecherous *young*
doctor, "Dr. Wayne" (doctors didn't seem to have last names). Tall, lithe and
blond, Dr. Wayne soon had Toke out of his bed and into regular physical
therapy, and he updated everyone's physical exam as rapidly as he could,
becoming intimately familiar with each of us in that "special way" doctors
have.

On the day for my own exam, I recall that Sonja did the preliminaries, taking
my temperature, blood-pressure and so forth in her usual gruff way. I thought
it odd that she did not have me undress, until I was ushered into the
examination cubicle where Dr. Wayne sat perched on a tiny stool, his
stethoscope dangling around his neck. Setting my folder aside, he immediately
un-buttoned my shirt, removed it, and pulled my tee over my head. He listened
to my heart briefly, then began a general feel-up of my neck and upper body
which, despite myself, I found very sensuous. He soon had my belt un-done, and
by the time he pushed my pants down over my hips I had a hard-on: he seemed
pleased, but continued in a business-like way to poke his fingers up under my
nut-sack ("turn your head and cough"). He left me standing in front of him to
jot some notes in the folder, and I noticed him glancing rather longingly at
my throbbing boner, so I grabbed myself and gave it a few strokes. That's when
I noticed *he* had a raging hard-on, which his tight whites did little to
conceal. Nevertheless, he set the folder aside again, turned me around, bent
me over forwards, and gracefully slipped a digit into my bung. This was,
of course, not a new feeling for me; nor was it new when he found my prostate.
But his finger was more - um - "experienced" than those which had previously
worked this magic, and within a few seconds my boy-seed rushed to the head of
my cock and flooded out. It spilled into Dr. Wayne's left hand, which he had
moved into position without my noticing it. I moaned with pleasure: there is
something about the act of cumming in this way which is distinctly different
from the usual jack-off.

As the doc withdrew his finger, I turned round, still dripping, to find Dr.
Wayne with his white trousers around his ankles and a very prominent erection
pointing at the ceiling. He slathered that lovely thing with my load, and
would - I'm sure - have jacked himself off immediately, but for the fact that
I knelt down, pushed his hand away, and swallowed his erection. Lacking the
gag-impulse that many of my friends seemed to have, I was able to get most of
him into my throat, where a series of swallowing motions soon resulted in a
tremendous orgasm as the doctor's shapely legs shot out straight and his
muscles tightened up to help expel his copious load into my waiting throat. He
seemed to cum forever: I guessed that none of my buddies had been quite so
"forward" with him, but as I now had a reputation at H-K as an expert
cock-sucker, I did not want to disappoint him.

No disappointment was evident, either, as Dr. Wayne slowly returned to reality
and relaxed. When he stood up, I assisted him to pull up his white pants and
helped stuff his softening tool back into his briefs.

"Thank you, Son", he said: "it's been a while..."

"My pleasure, Dr. Wayne: any time...", I replied sincerely. He really was a
handsome fellow, in his 30's I suppose, very trim and fit. "That was a
physical exam I won't soon forget!"

"Nor will I", he replied fervently. "I may need to call you back when I get
your lab results", he said, with a wide smile and a lascivious wink.

This was an experience I did not share with Frankie. Truth was, I suspected
Dr. Wayne had his way with many of the boys, but as time went on, and I heard
some of my buddies remarking about how they *wished* Dr. Wayne had "done it"
with them, I began to wonder. A few weeks later, I got a note requesting my
presence for further consultation.

This began much as before, with Dr. Wayne undressing me, which he seemed to
like, and to which I was never averse. He then stretched me out on the
examination table, on my back, and listened intently to my heart from many
positions. After a while, he told me I had a heart murmur, and explained what
that was - and that it was nothing of consequence or anything I should worry
about, as many people have them. During this discourse my ever-erect penis had
softened slightly, which had not escaped his notice. The doc then said he
wanted to "examine" me some more, and he began to run his hands over many
parts of me. Years later I realized he was giving me a massage: a *very*
sensual massage, at that! But at the time it was another new experience to
have this tall, lanky, handsome blond working my body over, his large hands
skillfully squeezing my young flesh. He was (like myself, actually) apparently
a "leg man", and he spent a lot of time gently kneading my thighs, something
(then as now) guaranteed to get me "up and ready". Those busy hands
occasionally brushed over my balls or up along my dick, sending wild signals
to my brain, and I luxuriated in the attention. This man knew *exactly* how to
work with a horny youth like me!

Of course, he had no cause for complaint! At 15, I was lean, sinewy and
constantly horny. My body was that of the typical good swimmer that I was;
some silky hair had appeared below my knees, but the rest of me was still
glabrous, except for a small black bush above my pecker and the faintest
suggestion of a treasure-trail above that. At attention, my boyhood was a
pleasing 6 inches of pulsating gristle and my balls were a nice mouthful for
anyone so inclined. Those balls were productive, too, generally requiring a
good emptying at least twice a day, or more often if there was appropriate
stimulation.

And Dr. Wayne's stimulation was *very* appropriate! As he massaged my thighs
he tantalized me with the occasional swipe up my cock, or down low beneath my
balls. Working me over thus, he slowly bent down towards me: his tongue's
first contact was with my nipples, two points of fire atop my smooth pecs.
Keeping his hands busy the while, the doc worked his way down the expanse of
my flat tummy, sending shock-waves of happy signals to my head. After twirling
his tongue among my curly bush for a while, he moved down and slathered my
thighs, lubricating them with his spittle until they shone as if oiled. His
technique was heavenly, and I feared my moans of pleasure might alert Sonja,
but we were not interrupted. When at last Dr. Wayne thrust his mouth down
over my prick, and began to apply heavy suction (why *do* they call it a
"BLOW-job"?) my juices were roiling in my loins, and in short order my
frenzied orgasm filled his throat with a flood of boy cream.

This was not to be the end of our "exam", however. Scarcely had I calmed a
trifle when the doctor flipped me onto my stomach and pulled me down so that
only my torso remained on the table; he spread my cheeks and quietly spat my
load directly on my bung. A finger followed, to spread nature's best lube
around. A few moments later, I felt the head of his cock force its way past my
sphincter. I was still so relaxed from my orgasm that taking him this way
proved easier than I thought possible, and in just a short time I felt all of
him gliding in and out of my backside, without the slightest pain or
discomfort. He was not plowing a fallow field, of course, but up to this
point I had not had the pleasure of being really *fucked* by a man-sized
cock. The sensation soon had my dick hard again, constrained between the
paper cover of the exam table and my belly, where with each thrust from the
doctor it got rubbed most pleasantly.

Despite my evident willingness to receive him, the doctor chose <interruptus>
for his finale. Somehow, I knew just when it was going to happen, so when he
suddenly withdrew I did a quick turn, slid down at the end of the table, and
got a face full of his jism as he shot wad after wad of it: I got it in my
hair, my eyes, alongside my nose, and some in my mouth, which I licked off as
quickly as I could with my tongue. By this time I had another load of my own
ready; wiping as much of his cum into my hand as I could, I gripped myself and
whipped furiously, and blew another load all over the floor while the doctor
was still squeezing out the last of his pungent man-seed and shaking it into
my hair.

Sated, the doctor sank down on his stool; I remained with my back against the
table, cum streaking my face and dripping down on to my chest. In time, we
recovered enough to converse. "Gawd, what a mess you are!" exclaimed the
doctor.

"Don't worry, Doc: I've had cum-baths before now. But yours was one of the
best," I added.

"You're a hot number, alright," Dr. Wayne opined, "with a nice tight asshole."

"Yours any time," I replied emphatically.

"No; no. This shouldn't be a regular thing with us," the doctor said
wistfully. "Once in a while, maybe, but not every day..."

"But, now we must make you presentable again", he said, seemingly ignoring the
fact that his own pants were still at half-mast, and his flaccid cock, now
aimed at the floor, still drooled a string of cum.

He stood, and opened a small door into a tiny shower. Alas, it was in no way
big enough for two. I kicked off my shoes and stepped into the little tile
cubicle, and soon had warm jets of water rinsing my weary bod. I left the door
open so Dr. Wayne could watch, which he did. He made no move to pull up his
pants, and as I enjoyed the flowing water and soaped myself all over, he soon
was up again and whipping his lovely tool. As another orgasm neared, he stood
up as close as he could to the shower and shot another wad all over my soapy
thigh which I pushed up under his balls at the right moment.

While I toweled off, he took a quick shower himself, and when we emerged from
the examination room, we were each as presentable as when we'd gone in,
despite both of us having just had the wildest sex...


                SCHOOL OF HARDE-KNOX - CHAPTER VI

The good doctor followed my heart murmur closely over the remainder of the
year, with an "examination" every six weeks or so. It devolved that Toke and I
were the only boys Dr. Wayne enjoyed that year, but he used each of us quite
differently. Toke and I compared notes one afternoon, as we had become good
buddies, able to confide in each other knowing our secrets were safe. The
several sessions I had with Dr. Wayne followed much the same pattern as the
first encounter: he didn't always fuck me, and only on one occasion did he
come inside my ass. But he never left me unsatisfied!

His affair with Toke had begun during Toke's physical therapy, which naturally
involved a lot of "hands on" treatment and exercises with weights. Toke
related that at the third of these treatments the doctor had joined in, doing
many reps of a bench press while Toke swung his weighted leg up and down. Toke
paid little attention to the many swigs Dr. Wayne took from a bottle of cold
water. Then, he had Toke put his game leg into the small Jacuzzi machine, with
its very hot water and wildly churning bubbles. Toke's mind wandered, and the
swirling water lapping at his balls turned him on. He thought better of
shooting off into the hot water, though, and just quietly occupied himself
dribbling hot water over his pecker, enjoying the sensation, when the timer
suddenly shut off the Jacuzzi machine.

Dr. Wayne helped Toke out of the water, and immediately wiped down his soggy
leg with a snowy white towel, ignoring (it seemed) Toke's erection. "Shower
time," he said, aiming Toke towards the larger shower off the P-T room. There,
to Toke's surprise, Dr. Wayne shed his white coat, dropped his pants and got
into the shower with him; he did not immediately turn on the water. The shower
water, that is: seconds after closing the door, the doctor loosed a stream of
piss, with a volume and force unlike anything Toke had ever seen. He played
this warm and pungent stream all over Toke's sweaty body until his  erection
choked off the flow. Then he bent over and grasped his ankles: "Fuck me,
*hard*!" he commanded.

"I's amazed!" Toke said. "He ain't so much as looked at my pecker up to this
point, and now he wanted me to plug his backside. And he couldn't wait,
either: he reached around and grabbed my prong, aimed it you-know-where,
backed me up against the wall, and buried Mr. Happy jes' like corkin' a jug a
hootch!"

"Then what?" I asked, my crotch filling at the (imagined) sight of the doctor
impaled on Toke's big stick.

"Well, he said to fuck him, so I fucked him: he stayed bent over, and I
grabbed his hips and pulled him onto me, then pushed him away, and then pulled
him back again. He tol' me to do it harder, so I kinda walked him over against
the other wall where he could brace himself, and I just started fuckin' like I
never fucked anything before. The harder I fucked, the better he liked it!
Pretty soon we was down on the floor, he was pushin' his butt up against me,
and I was jes' humpin' that ass for all I was worth. But you know I can't keep
that up for long without blowin' a load, which I did soon enough. He wouldn't
let me pull out, though: said, 'let it get soft inside me', which took a
while, 'cause it was all warm and slippery. An then he says, 'piss in me'!
Guess I musta 'sorbed a lotta water in that Jacuzzi thing, 'cause I really did
have to go; so seein' as he asked me to, I cut loose. Thought surely he would
burst: I jes peed and peed and PEED! An' when I couldn't pee any more, he let
me slip out and didn't spill a drop!"

"Jeez! I wonder what that feels like?" I said.

"Dunno!"

"So then what?"

"So then he got up off the floor an' I did to, an' he cut loose *again* with
that firehose of his! All over me, almost like what I'd pissed in his behind
was comin' outa his dick! He musta been drinkin' water all morning! Never saw
so much piss come outa one person!"

"You never met Todd!" I said. "He and Dr. Wayne woulda got along famously!
So, then what?"

"Well, when he finally quit hosin' me down, by which time I was gettin' hard
again, he backed up on my pole *again* - still didn't spill a drop outa his
ass - and had me jack him off. My right arm was still kinda weak and sore, but
it didn't take much effort and he shot a wad right across to the opposite
wall! Got a lotta spunk, that guy! Then he turned on the shower water and
washed me all over, jacked me off, jacked himself off, and sent me back to
class!"

"And he kept your butt-full of piss the whole time?"

"Yep! He mighta shat it all out after I left, but while I was there he didn't
lose a drop of it."

"Like to try that sometime, Toke. Can't quite imagine what it would feel
like."

"Reckon it'd be lots like the soapy enemas my Mom used to give me when I was
just a tyke. Seems like it would be tough to hold it in, though."

"Never had a enema myself. We'll have to try it sometime!"

But, we never did. More conventional kinds of sex we had regularly, but the
piss-enema routine Toke reserved for Dr. Wayne.

It was, of course, my anally-inclined buddy Frankie, who did the deed. I never
told him about Toke and Dr. Wayne, of course, but one afternoon steered our
conversation around to enemas, and set Frankie off on a long reminiscence
about his boyhood.

>From the age of 6, Frankie had an <au pair> of sorts, with the odd twist that
it was a man, apparently a friend of the family, who doubled as Frankie's
tutor. Mr. Carlson was a devote' of regular enemas for young boys, so for
close to five years Frankie had a hose up his ass every Saturday night. No
wonder he was into ass-play! Carlson's technique, though, was a trifle
unorthodox: none of the ass-up or fetal-position stuff for him. With both of
them nude in the bathtub, Carlson would have Frankie bend over and touch his
toes while the well-greased black nozzle was inserted. He would hold the red
bag high over his head, forcing the warm sudsy water deep into Frankie's
colon. When the bag was empty, Frankie could stand up, and when he could no
longer restrain himself, water and shit would cascade down his legs, to be
rinsed off and down the drain by Carlson using another hose.

This process would be repeated until Frankie's evacuation ran clear; the last
bag full of water would be without soap, and when Frankie let this go, Carlson
would be right there to gulp down huge mouthfuls of tepid water as it flowed
past Frankie's ring-piece! Talk about "kink"! At my age and level of
experience I thought I'd "heard it all", but of course I still had a long
education ahead of me.

But the idea of pissing in my backside did intrigue Frankie, and we agreed
that he would force himself to drink a lot of water the next day, and we'd
give it a go the next afternoon at our special place out in the forest.
Unfortunately, a spell of rain interrupted our plans, but a couple of weeks
later found us traipsing out to the woods: I thought I could hear Frankie
"sloshing" as we walked, so much water had he drunk in preparation.

Frankie's preoccupation, of course, had always been with what came OUT of
assholes and we hadn't fucked all that many times. But he was anxious to get
himself into me, because, he said, "I've really *got* to 'go', or I'm gonna
burst!"

"I don't know how this is gonna be, so I better get my pants out of the way
entirely," I said, casting them atop a nearby stone. Unexpectedly, I had a
sudden urge to take a dump: I suppose it was because this was the spot to
which we usually repaired to indulge ourselves in that sport.

"No, don't," Frankie said: "the whole purpose of a enema is to *make* you
shit. Anyway, I can't hold off much longer."

Frankie had his pants off by this time, and his member stood engorged,
whether with piss or with blood I couldn't be sure. A year older now than when
I'd met him, Frankie was filling out, and a lot of manipulation had seemingly
enlarged his pecker, now close to my own in size, if a trifle less wide. His
pubes were still only fuzzy, though, so his prick looked longer than it
probably was. Seeing him naked with a hard-on stirred me up, of course, and I
jacked myself languorously, enjoying the view and the warm sunshine.

"Hurry UP!" exclaimed Frankie.

So I bent over and grabbed a fallen log, planted my feet wide apart, and
awaited his assault. It was not long in coming, and with the aid of a handful
of spit, Frankie was quickly buried in my backside. No sooner than I felt the
warmth of his groin against my buns, I felt the strangest sensation in my
bowel.

"Oh, jeezus, I'm pissing like I never pissed before!" Frankie said (quite
truthfully). He threw his arms around me and pulled me upright while this
peculiar sensation of warmth invaded me. Perhaps it felt just like an enema:
I'd never had one, so had nothing for comparison. Whereas I'd had the notion
to take a shit before, now the urge to evacuate built up mightily.

"Clamp down", Frankie said, "I'm almost empty."

"And *I'M* about to explode," I replied, as the sensation of fullness
approached being uncomfortable. But I "clamped down" as best as I could, and
felt Frankie's cock pumping the last of his copious supply of water into my
ass.

"Now, you gotta hold it in when I pull out, or you'll crap all over me,"
Frankie said, and he hurriedly pulled his dick out of my behind and stepped
aside. This momentarily relieved my fullness, and I figured if I relaxed at
all I would flood our little clearing. Then, unexpectedly, the feeling of
being about to burst went away entirely! I no longer felt like I had to shit,
though the warm feeling was still there.

"There's a valve thingy up there a ways," Frankie said: "when it opens, the
fluid goes further in. Carlson always made sure he gave me enough to get that
valve working. You can hold it in for quite a while, now. But you know me: I
wanna watch it come back out.

That's when I noticed that he'd gone soft, but I had a raging hard-on, with a
powerful urge to jerk off.

"That's the pressure on your prostrate" (he never *did* learn to pronounce it
right!), Frankie explained. He sat down on a log with his legs spread wide.
"Sit on me, here, and let me take care of you".

I sat on Frankie's leg, and put my arm around his back; he took my rigid tool
in hand. For someone so obsessed with shitting as he was, he had an unusually
good technique which I'd experienced many times. But there was something about
knowing I had a quart of his piss in my innards that added to my pleasure of
holding him as he sensuously manipulated my rigid gear-shift.

As my pulse and breathing increased in response to his ministrations, I
thought back momentarily to Toke's experience with Dr. Wayne, and realized it
was not so strange that the doctor had been able to hold Toke's piss in his
ass: here I was, with plenty of water inside of me, and I still had no urge to
let it out.

To let my jism out, however, was fast becoming a necessity, as Frankie's young
fist worked its magic. Fully attune to me and my ways by now, Frankie knew
when to slow down and prolong the "feeling", and when to pick up the tempo to
bring me near the edge, or when to lightly stroke my inner thighs and balls.
But this time he failed to sense my urgency.

"Faster!"

He picked up the pace...

"Faster!"

I felt my load working its way up through my innards.

"FASTER!"

Breathing hard, now...

"Ready..."  ...  "Aim..."   ...   "FIRE!"

I held my breath, closed my eyes, dug my nails into Frankie's ribs, and
erupted. The first shot got my left shoulder-blade, the second my left nipple,
and the third landed squarely in my navel. I almost blacked out, so powerful
was the sensation.

"Jeez, you needed that!" Frankie exclaimed.

"There's more, Frankie: *whip* that thing!"

"Wow!" Frankie went to work. He knew as well as I a "second coming" didn't
happen every day, and it would take a bit of work. His fist flew, and the cum
which had dribbled over his hand turned to froth. I held on to him for dear
life, dug my heels into the ground, pushed, and...

Came again! Frankie's flailing fist flung my seed far and wide, blobs landing
on both of us and on the ground nearby. But he continued to flog my dick
without slowing down.

"Try for three," Frankie commanded, gritting his teeth against the fatigue he
was feeling in his arm. Since I was still hard in his hand, I decided to go
for it.

This was going to be a little tougher, but I was determined. I stood up,
sideways to Frankie, and pushed my pelvis out as far as I could.

The "feeling" gradually returned. My heart raced...

"Yeah, BEAT that dick!"

Frankie's left hand swept up the face of my thighs from behind: he knew what I
liked, and he tickled me just below my balls, which had drawn up so tight as
to almost disappear. With this added stimulation, I knew I was going to make
it, and I could almost feel my hard-on get stiffer as my third orgasm
approached. I concentrated on the feelings deep inside; I was on my toes, my
leg muscles taught, trembling...

"Almost there, don't stop..."

This time it bordered on pain: exquisite pain, to be sure, as once again what
little was left of my seed flew in all directions as Frankie frantically
pumped my prick. I sank back on his leg, exhausted.

"Man, what got into you?" Frankie asked - followed by, "oh, well, I guess I
know," with a giggle.

In the heat of a "triple play", I'd forgotten about my bowel full of his piss.
But it was my turn now: my erection gone, I had a major urge to take a whiz.
Scarcely thinking of it, I cut loose and pissed all over Frankie's leg, aiming
my golden stream up and down from his knee to his crotch.

"Aw, man, you know I ain't into that! Look what a mess you made!"

"Sorry, Frankie, I just had to let it go; I've scarcely the strength left to
stand up after that fantastic jerk-off you gave me. Besides, I brought a
towel..."

Frankie's bladder had refilled: "So, there!" he said, as a pale yellow stream
emerged from his half-hard cock out into the sunshine, arcing gracefully to
splash down on my smooth thigh, commingling with a large blob of cum which had
landed there previously, and causing my skin to glisten as wetly as his. The
warm effluent ran down my leg past the few hairs there and dripped away;
ordinarily the effect of that liquid warmth on my thigh would have gotten a
rise out of me, but as I had just shot my wad three times in a row, I was
content with the tingling sensation of the moisture alone. Our wet legs
intertwined, and we hugged and kissed, a long, wet, tongue-exchanging
"French", two horny boys alone in the woods.

"You need to dump yet?" Frankie asked.

"Yeah, think I can, now."

I hung my butt over the log, and Frankie got down on his hands and knees to
watch. Expecting a flood, I was surprised when I expressed a large, lumpy
brown stalactite instead. I know now that my active bowel had rapidly absorbed
Frankie's piss, but lacking that knowledge of my inner workings at the time,
the fact that I gave birth to a solid turd amazed me. As usual, watching me
force it out got him hard instantly.

"Big one!" he said breathlessly, wildly jacking himself off.

"Let me do that," I said, swinging myself around on the log to face him, now
standing in his youthful splendor. I pulled his throbbing pecker into my
mouth, sucked him furiously and was soon rewarded with a vigorous expulsion of
his sweet cum, his boyish fragrance and that of my urine flooding my nostrils
along with the not altogether unpleasant aroma of my steaming fecal pile.

"You're the very best cock-sucker in the school!" Frankie said, coming down
from his ejaculatory high, as he planted another sloppy wet kiss directly on
my lips, savoring the trace of his own flavor there. "I love the way you work
on my dick!"

"And you have one of the most suckable pricks in the school," I replied
truthfully. Frankie had been one of the first kids I'd met at H-K, and we had
done just about everything there was to do, together, as close buddies and
sexual soul-mates. I never found Frankie reticent about trying *anything*: his
precociousness matched my own.

By this time our bodies were nearly dry; only a few whitish splotches and
hairs plastered to our skin in spots bespoke our juvenile amusements. We were
both tired out, so we stretched out in a patch of sunshine, entwined our arms
and legs, and fell soundly asleep.


               SCHOOL OF HARDE-KNOX - CHAPTER VII

Out in the sticks, we weren't involved in intramural sports much.
Besides, we didn't have any extra space for competing teams to
stay over. But once in a while Coach Rammer set us up against an
out-of-town team, and towards the end of my second - and last -
year at Harde-Knox we hosted swimmers from a Wisconsin school
similar to ours.

We had a good team that year, led by Bart and myself. He and I
were evenly matched: in short sprints I could usually beat him,
but on the longer laps he had the better "staying power". He
continued to shave himself all over at least once a week, and
*always* just before competition. Others on the team were Harry,
Brian, Joe and Mort, all second year fellows like myself, and all
sex-crazed teenagers (like all of us). Brian was tallest and
Captain, lean and long of limb. But he wasn't as buoyant as
Brian, who still had traces of baby-fat that reduced his
specific-gravity and helped him stay afloat. Joe was the team
clown, quite ready to grope a team-mate under water, even if he
knew it would lose a race. Morgan (a mortician's son, hence the
nick-name) was shy and retiring out of water, and a veritable
fish in it. Swimming was his passion: even sex took a (close)
second place. Harry was the youngest, and "prettiest" among us:
he wore his hair long, and looked like a girl when he was
dressed. But there was no mistaking his gender when he was in his
swim-suit: he was no slouch in filling out his pouch.

The team from Green Bay arrived on a sunny Monday afternoon, and
wasted no time in checking out our pool. We, of course, checked
out *them*. When they trotted out of the showers, we instantly
dubbed them the "Green Bay Peckers". They wore the *briefest*
swimsuits we'd ever seen, which left nothing to our imagination.
Young, virile and handsome, they knew full well it "pays to
advertise". The most precocious of them looked like he could use
his basket as a rudder! We had only a few moments to make our
observations: they were instantly in the water, we right behind
them. An impromptu water-polo game erupted, which promoted a lot
of "accidental" body contact, and we all managed to grope that
huge basket I mentioned several times, eliciting appreciative
smiles from its owner.

Rammer's whistle got us out of the water an hour or so later. The
Peckers shucked their suits as they ran to the showers: nothing
"prissy" about these guys! Everyone showed shriveled dicks, a
consequence of exertion and water. But we knew better than to be
disappointed, being fully familiar with the phenomenon. Copious
hot water brought us all back to life quickly. Bill turned out to
be the guy with the big basket, and all eyes were on him as he
soaped himself. No longer constrained by his suit, his dick began
to swell, and it grew, and grew, and GREW! Flaccid, he had more
than I had *hard*! It was magnificent! The other guys weren't at
all bad, just more "normally" endowed like the rest of us. Two
were clean-shaven, which emphasized the apparent length of their
dicks.

We soon enough found that Bill's prong didn't get much larger
when hard: it was just hard or soft, the same size either way.
He, the star of this show and their Captain, soon had that thing
standing at full attention, with the not-unexpected result that
the rest of us were sporting boners as well. What a sight! A
dozen lusty teens, bodies shiny with soap and water, all erect
and ready for action! I could hardly wait for night to fall,
knowing these six guys would be sleeping on cots in our dorm.

During dinner we all got to know each other a bit, and there was
the natural sort of "pairing up" that takes place with young
guys. While I was certainly "drawn" to Bill - at least to that
monstrous meat between his legs - I actually found better rapport
with Tony, who was as dark-skinned as I was light. His
mediterranean good looks and supple dark skin, coupled with an
infectious smile and curly black hair were a delight to my eyes,
and he was fun to talk with, too. I learned that this team had
traveled to many places, all ones I hoped one day to see. He
described one visit to Detroit, where they were up against an
all-black team, and where, he said, "Bill was the *smallest* of
the bunch!" It was clear he wasn't talking about Bill's stature.

"Wow! Tell me more," I said breathlessly.

That's where we got the idea for our skimpy suits," Tony
explained. "Those guys all trained only in G-strings, and they
shriveled up to, like, *tiny* when they were in the water. But
jeezus, you wouldn't *believe* what they had swinging when they
were out of it! Terrific swimmers, too: our match was a draw, but
they won hands-down that night in the dorm. He licked his lips,
remembering...

"Hands-down *where*?" I said, with a lascivious wink.

Tony chuckled: "*You* know where!", as he gripped my thigh
affectionately.

"One of our guys couldn't sit down for two weeks after we left
Detroit. He loves to get fucked, and those guys really knew how.
One of 'em had an honest-to-gosh ten-inch dick: he proved it with
a ruler. It took him half the night to get his orgasm, but when
he shot his wad, I thought he would drown us all. I *never* saw
anyone shoot so much sperm as that dude!"

By this time I was hard as a rock in my pants. I couldn't resist,
and reached over under the table and found Tony in the same
condition. "Can't promise you anything quite so grand," I said,
but I sure hope you'll spend a while with me tonight."

"Can' hardly wait," Tony replied enthusiastically. "That donkey-
dick was wild alright, but I like what I feel here, too." He
returned my grope under the table.

I glanced around the room. The two team Captains seemed to be
getting along well. I had a fleeting mental image of Bill's
"donkey-dick" assaulting Brian's bum, and winced. The possibility
that Brian might not be able to sit for a week or two crossed my
mind. Mort seemed taken with Hal, one of their team I remembered
who was shaved. Hal had a sensuous baby-face, with cupid-like
lips that I felt sure Mort wanted to part with his tongue - or
something. Joe was talking with a gleam in his eye to the other
shaved kid from Green Bay, a studious-looking guy with dark-
rimmed glasses that seemed to enlarge his flashing brown eyes.
This was Edward, I learned later, and it seemed to me those eyes
were wandering often towards Toke, who sat chatting with a couple
of friends. "Looks to me like Detroit had a permanent effect on
him", I thought. Harry was off by himself (as usual) reading, and
Bart was nowhere to be seen.

Only one of the "Peckers" had not yet found a "mate". He was all
alone, and looked a trifle sad. "What's up with your buddy over
there," I asked Tony: "he looks a little lost."

"Don't worry about Patrick," Tony replied. "He's not comfortable
in a crowd, but he's *wild* in bed! Edward, there, he's the one
that likes to get fucked, but Patrick can do things with his
mouth you wouldn't believe."

"Does he give lessons?" I asked, giggling, "not that *I* need
any, you understand."

"Patty is the boy with the golden throat," Tony said. "Actually,
he and I are sort-of lovers, and I don't think he really likes it
when I go with someone else. But I just can't help myself:
variety *is* the spice of life, you know. He knows it, too, deep
down: he'll pounce on one of your guys tonight and give him a
blow-job he won't soon forget."

"Well, he better not do too good a job: *I'm* supposed to be the
best cock-sucker here," I said, with mock indignation.

"Hey! Maybe we should have a competition! Is it a "regulation"
sport?" Tony chuckled. "Ya think that hunky Coach of yours would
like to referee?"

"Dunno, but I doubt it", I mused.

Coach Rammer was an enigma to us. He lived off campus; we saw him
every day during his six-hour duty, but he was aloof and
mysterious. He was good, and knew his stuff, but never laid a
hand on any of us. Not that we'd have minded: he was a nice hunk
of a man with an appropriate bulge in his shorts where it should
be. He referred to himself as "married", but we never saw a wife
or kids, even on "parents' days", when those few staff members
who really were married trotted out their families for everyone's
review.

Only one guy ever said he'd figured out our Coach, and we tended
to discount his tale. Garth was our only power lifter, managing
to reach the limit of our pitiful supply of weights in his first
year. He *claimed* he'd often been taken to Rammer's home, which
had a much better gym set-up than the school, ostensibly for
further training; but there Rammer had many times given him a
long sexual massage after working out. Since, despite his bulk,
Garth had the puniest dick at Hard-Knox, we imagined his tale to
be self-serving and largely untrue. What Rammer really fancied we
never learned. There were guys at H-K who admired and worshipped
Garth's phenomenal musculature and development, but fascination
with his private parts never figured in their obsession.

Obsession, however, characterized the next few nights in our
dorm. The six boys from Green Bay were really called the
"Sharks", but when we didn't call them "Peckers", we called them
"shucks", because they were ready to shuck their shorts and get
"down and dirty" at the very instant of lights out. The temporary
infusion of "new blood" (not to mention other body fluids) was a
welcome one, and we exploited it in grand style.

That first night found Tony on my bed even before the lights were
off, and we had a grand romp, putting on something of a show for
a bunch of other guys who preferred darkness for their various
activities. Tony's forte' was sixty-nine; when he had a cock in
his mouth, his own prod would achieve the rigidity of iron; it
curved slightly upward, making it very comfortable to engulf him
as we lay in the proper position. With his scratchy black bush
tickling my chin, I had a free hand to stroke the backs of his
powerful swimmer's thighs, where as nearly everywhere else, he
had not so much as peach-fuzz. His dusky skin was *so* smooth!
But where he lacked hair, he seemed to have a plethora of nerve
endings, so my stroking and squeezing and pinching really turned
him on. He, in turn, found that my legs were my most sensitive
erogenous "zone", so he would switch from sucking me off to
slathering my calves, thighs - even my feet now and then, sending
me into a frenzy. More than once he sucked my balls into the
depths of his moist mouth, and massaged them with his tongue most
deliciously.

The lights went out while we were thus engaged, and shortly I
felt a second pair of hands working on my legs as Tony tongued my
pudenda. I was on the verge of cumming, but presently the owner
of the hands interposed himself. When my cock disappeared
*entirely* in a single swift gulp, I figured our partner was
Tony's lover, Patrick. Tony was right: Patrick could suck a cock
like I'd never had it done before. His specialty was "deep-
throating", something I thought I was good at, but I suddenly
realized I had much to learn. Apparently, Patrick's mouth and
throat were so arranged as to accommodate a hard dick of *any*
length, right down to the root, where he could retain it
indefinitely. He breathed through his nose; every snort stirred
the hair of my little thicket and sent a warm wave cascading
across my pubes. He too, obviously, had no gag reflex to bother
him. I put my hands down to his throat, where below silky skin I
could feel his Adam's-apple rhythmically moving up and down in
perfect concert with the sensations my cock was feeling. I
exploded in seconds, and that day's accumulation of nut-juice
blasted its way out my throbbing member. I felt Patrick's teeth
at the base of my cock through the duration of my ejaculation: he
kept me planted firmly, speeding up his swallowing in response to
what I felt was a flood of warm semen well on its way to his gut.
Simultaneously, Patrick himself shot his wad, responding to his
lover's shapely hand, and moments later Tony let fly all over us
both as he whipped his iron rod to a climax.

When we recovered somewhat, a glance around the moon-lit dorm
revealed an assortment of pairings, three-somes and tight
clutches of warm bodies. The bed nearest ours held Edward and
Toke, legs entwined, groping each other and kissing passionately.
We sat down to watch unabashedly as Ed took his pleasure in
Toke's lithe black body. It was clear from the frenetic nature of
their coupling that both were on the edge, ready to express their
delight in each other in the best of nature's ways.

"How do you want it?" Ed whispered huskily.

"Like it in my face, man," Toke replied. "Want to smell and taste
yer spunk!"

Edward struggled to his knees, straddling Toke's heaving chest;
he used the "two-finger" technique on his prick, instead of the
full fist most of us used. It certainly had its effect, though,
and as Toke fondled his balls, Ed's seed spewed forth, well-aimed
in the general direction of Toke's open mouth, which received
some of the creamy drops. Others landed nearby, to glisten wetly
in the dim light. Ed's body lurched and heaved as he cut loose,
and he moaned that familiar song of ecstacy, "Ohhhh, yeahhhhh..."

Ed collapsed on top of Toke, who mopped the cum from his face and
licked his fingers. His cock was tight between Ed's thighs, rigid
with that unmistakable urgency that says "I gotta cum, Baby."

"Gimme a minute, Toke." Ed savored the blast of warmth rising
from Toke's supine form. Presently, he struggled a bit, as if to
sit up, but with the smoothest of motions moved backward over
Toke's prick and buried it in his ass in one swift, skillful
motion. Toke groaned with anticipation, then, with a mighty
effort, rolled the both of them over, so that Ed was stretched
out underneath him. They lay, torso to back, Toke gripping Ed's
head in his hands and burying his nose in curly hair. Toke's back
was so flexible that he could pull himself nearly out of Ed's
anus, and plunge right back in, while scarcely moving his trunk.
We all watched, fascinated, as Toke's slender, black dick plunged
repeatedly and relentlessly into the depths of Ed's butt. For his
part, Ed pressed himself up from the bed with all his might, his
mid-drift clearing the bed entirely, his half-flaccid dick
hanging down, still drooling. Toke's thrusts increased in speed
and intensity.

"Wait!"

Ed pushed Toke away long enough to do a quick flip onto his back,
and did a near-somersault, throwing his legs up in the air.
Wasting no time, Toke moved up on his knees and rammed his tool
home. His arms gripped Ed's shoulders, and the sinews glistened
with sweat as his pelvis made its vicious thrusts. He was
withdrawing nearly all the way and plunging back to crash against
Ed's butt. Two nude bodies appeared in the dim light, one on each
side of the bed. Each grabbed an ankle, pulling Ed's legs widely
aside and up over his head, bending Ed nearly double. "*Fuck*
me!" he whispered hoarsely.

Hal and Gordon knew what their team-mate liked! Holding him by
his ankles, they ran their hands down along the taught muscles of
his legs, smearing the rivulets of sweat around. "Harder!" Ed
moaned.

With a mighty effort, Toke pushed himself up violently, gripped a
slightly hairy leg in each hand, pulled his glistening black rod
out of Ed's behind and shot a long string of pearly white cum far
past the end of the bed. His magnificent tool whipped up (no one
was touching it!) and a second blast emerged to splash down on
Ed's chest. A third landed amid Ed's pubic hair. Only *then* did
Toke release one leg, grab his dick, and pump it furiously,
bringing forth several more spurts that landed wetly all over the
place. "Maaaaaaan, oh maaaan!" Toke cried out in the frenzy of
orgasm: "hoooooly christ......"

The attendants released their grips, and Ed's legs landed back on
the bed; Toke collapsed on top of Ed and buried his face in a
soggy arm-pit, his body still heaving from his exertions. Ed
hugged Toke as if he would never let go, and we, silent
witnesses, turned our attention elsewhere.

Nearby, we found a tangle of bodies that proved to be our pretty-
boy Harry, their Bill with his giant prong being worshipped by
Mort, and Bart. Someone had slathered so much spit on Bart that
his body gleamed as if polished. We gathered around, soon joined
by Toke with Edward holding him tightly, and several others. Tony
had one arm around me and his other around Patrick, and all of us
were soon aroused by the performance in front of us. The four
boys on the bed were entirely lost in lust: who was sucking whom,
or fingering whom, or jacking whom at any given moment was hard
to follow. Gordon and Hal, standing on the other side of the bed
from us, were quickly moved to jack themselves off, shooting
stringy loads out over the clutch of writhing boys. The room
reeked of cum and sweat, an aphrodisiac of the best sort. Despite
my exertions such a short time ago, I soon had Tony jacking me
off as Patrick buried his lover's divining rod in his "golden"
throat. It wasn't long before another accumulation of my teen
spunk joined that already anointing the flesh of our compatriots.
Not long thereafter, Edward added his effusion, our Brian having
plugged his behind and reached 'round to pound his pud.

The scene was too much for Toke: as if from the water's edge, he
suddenly dove into the pile of legs, arms, flying hands and
throbbing cocks on the bed, and within minutes his brown body was
fused with the rest. Of the group, pretty Harry came first as the
other four smeared cum all over him, and someone's fist flew on
his precious dick. His eruption was followed closely by Bart's,
whose cum rose majestically in great arcing spurts, landing on
some part or another of his mates. Mort then stood up on the bed,
and while Bill sucked his balls into his mouth, and Toke tried
valiantly to suck Bill's huge prong, he squeezed his dick with
exquisite slowness and suddenly poured forth a torrent of pent-up
jism. This landed in great white pools on Toke's sweaty tummy,
where Toke gathered it in his hand: with a half dozen strokes, he
too, exploded again with great heavings and lungings of his
glistening black body. This left only Bill unsatisfied, and
everyone's attention turned to his mammoth meat. He stood, his
wang hanging about half-hard. Patrick was there in an instant,
and that sausage disappeared entirely from view. That's when my
Frankie appeared out of nowhere, wet a finger in his mouth, and
quickly plunged it into Bill's backside. I knew what he was
after! - and he quickly found Bill's tender "prostrate". The
effect was immediate and intense: Bill groaned loudly and pushed
Patrick's head down below the end of his nearly flaccid (but
still huge) cock. He clamped down on Frankie's finger, groaned
again, and a *flood* of sperm flowed from his dick into Patrick's
open mouth. He wasn't pissing, but it looked as though he was, as
Frankie's experienced finger stroked his p-spot. That huge
frankfurter just oozed and oozed and oozed, no one touching it,
and it not even lurching. Patrick didn't miss a drop!

*****

I don't remember which team won what in the competition that
followed over the next few days. I do recall that Rammer was not
happy with our performance, but their coach didn't seem pleased
by theirs, either. Truth was, we were all so tired out by our
incredible nocturnal exploits that the swim meet didn't seem all
that important. All too soon, the Green Bay "Peckers" packed
their things and disappeared from our lives - never to be
forgotten.

Too soon, as well, the semester ended, and I returned to the dull
surroundings of "home". My two years at Harde-Knox were some of
my best, never to be forgotten, either.

                              fin

(c) Bruce Bramson, 1996