Date: Mon, 10 May 1999 15:54:14 EDT
From: Boi1derXeb@aol.com
Subject: The Undergraduate: Part Two , Authortarian Section

			     The Undergradute
				 Part II.

  It had been three weeks since Professor Johnson had last used me. I
ached for it so bad; I yearned for his hot touch.  Yet every day in class
he acted as if I did not exist.  He simply treated me like any other
student.  Every day in class my dick would swell remembering how he used
me; my ass felt empty and longed to be filled once again.   I was unsure of
what to do; ordinarily I would use my charms, wink at him, or rub my cock
slowly in my shorts as he lectured, or stare at his crotch while I slowly
lick my lips. Damn, I was good at that! But these did not work on Professor
Johnson.
         That Monday, I arrived for class and took my seat in the front
row. I pulled out my pen and notebook as I usually did, and opened my
Norton Anthology (damn heavy book!) to the assignment for the day -- poems
by some old guy named Rochester.  I noticed Professor Johnson giving me the
once over.  He seemed displeased with me for some reason.  Had I done
something wrong?  What was this look of frustration on his face?  Perhaps I
thought, I am going mad.
         Lost in my little Hamlet fantasy, I watched as Professor Johnson
handed back our exams.  I was worried about getting this test back because
I had prepared very much for it, which was unusual for me.  Mostly in
college, I had relied on the old "wing and a prayer" routine which had
gotten me through four years of high school. But for this exam, I had
really buckled down, putting in a good eight hours of study, wanting to
prove myself to my teacher, my Maser.  (OK, so I had spent a good bit of
those eight hours, fantasizing about feeling his cock penetrating me again,
but I had studied the material too!)
          I felt his hand on the back of my shoulder and felt a surge of
dedication and love. He leaned over me: I caught my breath, drowning in the
closeness of him, the smell of his cologne -- my cock was instantly
rock-hard and I thought I was going to cum right there. He slipped the exam
on my desk and bent down: was he going to kiss me, right here in the middle
of the classroom? The sickening sound of his spit splattering on the cover
of my blue book showed how wrong I was.
          My fingers trembling, I opened the exam booklet, his spittle
oozing over my palm.  I was stunned to see the grade: there in bright red
letters was a 67 percent;  scrawled beneath it in red ink was "My office at
4."  I was so scared; what was he going to do?  That sinking feeling of
being called to the principal's office in junior high school reminded me
that I was in trouble.  What's more, I felt so guilty for letting him down:
he must have lost all respect for me. I slouched down low in my seat, as
if that Formica desk could somehow protect me.  I crept out of class
without even looking at him.
          For the rest of the day I was nervous and edgy.  In my Bio lab, I
was so distracted, I dropped a beaker and ruined our whole lab. My partner
Steve (who was kinda cute, and who I thought probably wanted to take me to
bed), shook his head and muttered, "Loser"; we'd just have to borrow lab
results from another team and fake our lab report.
          After lab was my swimming class. This was usually my favorite
part of the week (except for Professor Johnson's class, of course). I was
on the high school swim team, so I usually didn't have to work very hard to
turn in the best times in the class. Plus I liked showing off my body in my
red Speedo (bet you never guessed that, huh?) and I figured if worse came
to worse, I could always suck off Julio (the grad student instructor) for
my A. (I'd seen him checking me out in the shower.) But today nothing
seemed to work: all I could think of was that 67 %, flashing in my head
like a cheap neon sign. I fucked up my flip-turns; halfway through I gave
up and muttered some excuse to Julio about my asthma acting up and headed
for the showers.  He shook his head. "I thought you were made of harder
stuff, sport," he said in that accent of his, and give my nipple a playful
pinch. I couldn't even find the energy to flirt back.
          The gang shower room was almost deserted, except for one hairy
troll, who looked like he was jacking himself off. Gross. I walked to the
shower nozzle furthest away from him and turned the hot water on full,
needing the punishment of the hottest water. The stream of searing water
beat against my back as I tried to scrub away the day's humiliation. I
stripped off my Speedo and let the hot stream wash over me,  stinging my
back and my ass, running over my face. I closed my eyes and tried to make
the world go away. My mind leapt back to when Professor Johnson had used me
the first time; I thought of his commanding presence, how proud I was to be
his slave. Images of his strong cock and his thick heavy balls filled my
brain. Would I ever serve him again?  I felt tears streaming down my face,
tears of grief and shame. Then, something else, cold and clammy on my balls
and my dick. I shook my eyes open and saw the troll on his knees, his lips
around my hard cock.  FUCK!
          A flash of movement caught my eye at the far end of the shower
room: I peered through the steamy air to see Julio, turning to leave with a
look of disgust on his face. "Whore!" he shouted, his voice echoing in the
tiled room. I shoved the troll away, a cry of anguish rising up from deep
within me: "Nooooooo!" As I tried to rush after Julio, my foot slipped on
the soapy floor and the green-tiled floor rushed up to meet me with a
sickening thud. I felt the troll's hand on my shoulder, whether to rape me
or help me I didn't know or care. I kicked out, my foot making contact with
his hairy testicles, and screamed "Get away from me, you FUCKING FAGGOT! If
you touch me again, you GOD-DAMNED QUEER, I'll... " I couldn't think what
I'd do, but he'd gotten the message, cowering in the corner under the
shower, still blazing hot. I tried pulling myself to my felt, but collapsed
in a soapy heap, the pain from my right ankle shooting up my leg.
Troll-man moved toward me again, to give me a hand, I suppose, but I shot
daggers with my eyes and he kept his distance.  I cried like a baby as I
crawled out of the shower. This was the worst day of my life. And I still
had to meet Prof. Johnson.

          I limped slowly through the campus with my head bent down in
shame, feeling unworthy to make eye contact with anyone.  The English
department was on the north side of campus, housed in one wing which was
housed in an old mansion, given to the college by some early benefactor. On
another occasion, Davie Mansion have been a romantic sight, with its
turrets and round corner tower. This afternoon, though, it represented
everything I would never have: an academic career, a sense of belonging,
the love of my Master. Mournfully and slowly, the clock tower at the center
of campus chimed 4  as I pulled myself up the steps to the broad double
doors of the mansion.  I checked the information board to find Professor
Johnson's office, it was on the second floor at the end of the hall.
Slowly I began my descent up the stairs,  the feeling of dread in my
stomach growing with each step.
         I knocked on his office door.  "Come in!" he barked.  Oh dear, I
am in for it now, I thought.
         The door creaked open on ancient hinges. "Ah, Mr. McCaffrey,  come
here, now,"  he said, his voice tight and controlled.  He sat at his broad
mahogany. desk, with a look of extreme displeasure on his face.  On his
desk were several folders, which he was flipping though, "Do you know what
these are?"
         I walked over to the desk, wishing a trap door would open up
beneath me. "No, Professor Johnson, what are they?"
         His steel blue eyes stared at me. "How soon we forget our manners,
my slave."  He got up and crossed the room and bolted the door of his
office shut, then walked to the window and pulled down the shade. Then he
turned to face me.
         "Everyone has gone home, now, Derik.  It's just you and me."  His
words had a haunting tone to them.  Then he reached out and slapped my
face, hard. I yelped. "Remember your place, slaveboy."
         He grabbed a handful of my hair and yanked my head back so that my
eyes were locked onto his.  He stared into me, his eyes cold, a dull anger
lurking beneath the surface.  "Boy, these are your transcripts. I see you
did quite well in your high school courses." With a gesture of contempt, he
swept them from the desk onto the floor.  "So why, boy, did you flunk my
test?"
         "I am  ...um....I'm, uh... Sir." My knees turned to jelly.
         "Shut up, bitch!"  He yanked my hair harder.  "Remember, bitch --
when I question you, you answer me!"
         "Sir, I didn't study enough for your test."
         "No shit, boy.  Tell me something I didn't know.  You disappoint
me, my boy.  You do know you shall be punished, boy, don't you?"
         "Yes, Sir,"  I replied humbly.  I was trembling with fear, yet my
dick was throbbing.
         "Down on the floor, boy. Lick my shoes." His strong commanding
voice was light a velvet glove caressing my cock and balls, effortlessly
penetrating my ass.  I moaned like a stray dog.
         I got down on my hands and knees and began to lick his shoes, very
expensive leather loafers by Kenneth Cole.  My tongue glided over the
smooth leather surface, tracing the grooved design in his shoes.  By the
time I was done his loafers shone with pride.  He pushed his shoe on my
face, pressing the sole up against my lips, flattening my nostrils. I
looked up at him, my eyes full of devotion.
         "Don't think that you are too good for a Master to rub his sole in
your face, boy.  Remember you are a slave."
         He yanked me off the floor quickly.  He told me to open my mouth,
I did, then he leaned his head back and spit into my mouth.  I could feel
his spit, thick and foreign to my mouth.  It felt so hot, so warm, I needed
this, I needed him.
         "No Sir, I am your slave."
         "That is right -- you are my slave.  And a slave is a reflection
of his Master." I hung my head, letting the spittle dribble down my face.
"And what do you do, boy, to repay me?  You embarrass me,  my slave failing
his own Master's English test.  This is unacceptable, boy!"  He screamed at
me.  "Do you understand that?" My knees felt weak,  my throat tightened.
         "I...am...I am sorry Sir."  I stammered, ashamed and frightened.
	   "Shut up, boy.  Your whining grows tiresome." He reached down and
grabbed an eraser off his desk and with a quick angry shove, wrenched it
into my mouth, then bound my mouth with a thick strip of duct tape that he
wrapped around my head. "There, bitch, this should shut you up."
         He looked at me:  there I was standing in his office, shaking like
a leaf, an eraser gagging my mouth,  I felt so turned on. His eyes raked
over my body; I was sure he could see the bulge in my pants growing.
         "Inspection time boy, let's see what we have here."  He yanked
down my pants.  I felt a chill sweep across my midsection. He pulled my
shirt up and over my head, tossing it on the floor beneath his desk.  I had
on only my boxers to conceal my hard-on.  He went over to his desk and got
a pair of scissors.  I felt the cold steel pressing against thighs, my
balls, my dick!  I stood as still as I could as he cut the boxers off my
body.
         "Remember, you are my slave,  I can damage you however I want.
Including your pretty boy boxers.  From now on boy,  you will not wear any
underwear.  Nod your head yes."
         I nodded my head that I understood.  He walked behind me. I could
feel his hand running down my back; he felt my smooth skin.  Then I felt
it: SMACK!
          He hit me hard with his bare hand. My naked ass quivered from the
sting.
          SMACK!
          SMACK!
          SMACK!
          He repeated this over and over again until tears streamed down my
face.  My ass felt as though it were on fire; I could feel the stinging and
the redness, burning towards the surface.
         "Poor baby," he said as he saw the tears coming down my face. "Dry
your eyes puppy,  crying will get you nowhere." I brushed my hand over my
face, smearing the hot tears.
         My eyes followed him as he went over to his desk and opened a
drawer.  I gasped when I saw what he had taken out: you know those clamps
that they use to hold papers together? Tiny metal binder clamps.  Quickly
he snapped them onto my nipples.  He pinched and pulled them while I moaned
into my gag.  He could feel my body shuddering, submitting to him.  He was
very hard; I could see his cock was straining against his pants.  He rubbed
his crotch as he watched the pre-cum ooze down my cock.  My Master reached
out and rubbed his finger over the tip of my cock and brought the finger to
his lips, tasting my pre-cum.
         "Boy, you taste very sweet. Maybe someday I shall suck you.  But
enough talk of your pleasure -- you know that is not why you are here,
bitch. You are here for my amusement, to be used as I see fit,  and to be
punished for your bad behavior and willful insolence.  Now it's time to
give you a lesson, boy. Perhaps this will make you humble, my willful and
petulant bitch." He gave the clamps on my nipples another hard tug, I bit
my upper lip and tried not to scream.
         He walked back to his desk and opened another drawer; he pulled out a
 something that looked like five balls each an inch in diameter, all
attached along a string.  My eyes grew wide with anticipation, fear, and
excitement as I watched him play with the string, running his fingers along
the smooth balls.  The whole thing reminded me oddly of Christmas lights.
Deck the boy with clamps and duct tape. What was he going to do with those?
My heart pounded faster and faster in my chest.
         "Bend over, boy."
         I bent over his desk, my red ass exposed and vulnerable to him. He
pushed a finger inside my hole.  It was looser than the night he fucked me,
but still I was tight.  He massaged my sphincter with two fingers.  I
moaned as I felt his strong finger probing my insides.  Waves of pleasure
swept over my body as he jabbed my prostate.
         "Well, boy, I think you are opened up.  Time for the fun to
begin." He gave an evil chuckle and dragged the balls along my ass-crack.
"Well, fun for me boy.  For you, well,  no one cares about you, do they?"
         As I shook my head "no," I felt his invasion start. He began to
insert the balls one by one into my hole.  I could feel each ball pushing
up against my insides. I could feel them inside me, bulging, opening me.
When he was finished, there was a tiny string hanging out of my ass,
tickling my balls.
         Then he I felt his hand again on my ass.
          SMACK!
          SMACK!
          SMACK!
          With each stinging spank, the pressure pushed the balls against
my insides.  I felt as though my whole ass was on fire, both inside and
out.  I began to moan in pain, tears welling up inside me again as I felt
his hands on my ass.  The tears rolled down my face, making it raw from
crying, just like my ass was raw from the spankings.
          Then he grabbed the string and whispered in my ear, "This may
hurt a bit, my bitch.  I hope it does." He tugged on the string and it felt
like he had tied the string to my small intestine. I howled. "But it
doesn't matter, does it?  So smile, boy,  and feel the sensation."  Then he
yanked on the string and began to pull the balls out of my ass.  I heard a
popping sound as the first ball came out.  Pain shot through my body, but
my cock got even harder -- the precum was dripping down my cock, onto my
balls. Professor Johnson yanked even faster.
          Pop.
          Pop.
          Pop.
          Pop.
          The remaining four balls came out.  I felt as though I was being
ripped apart.  Just as a reminder he brought his hand down upon my ass
again: SMACK!
         I heard his zipper go down.  Oh please yes fuck me again fuck me
hard, I thought. Then he spun me around and I stared as his rock hard cock.
The same cock which had filled my ass three weeks before.  The same cock I
longed to suck.  My looked yearningly at him, trying to convey the urgency
of my desire with my eyes.
         As if he could read my mind, he shook his head. "Boys earn the
right to suck cock. We shall see how you perform on your next exam, which
is next week.  That is unless you want another punishment."
         He began to jack off as he ordered me to kneel.  I watched as he
worked his cock, his hands moving fast up and down the shaft.  Then loads
of hot, thick, cum came bursting out of his piss slit.  Some of the cum
landed on my face and some of it landed in my hair.  This was too much, too
intense and without even touching myself, I watched my cock shoot a thick
load onto the floor.
         I looked up. Professor Johnson was smiling.  "Silly boy, am I too
much for you?  Clean it up."
         He watched as I licked my cum off the floor.  It tasted salty and
was thick on my tongue.  Professor Johnson ordered me to stand.  He ripped
the duct tape off my hair and cheeks and pulled out the eraser. Then he
kissed me, deep.  His tongue raped my mouth.  I moaned as his tongue
pressed inside my mouth, probing me like his fingers probed my ass. My body
surrendered to him as I let out an intense moan.
         "Kneel, boy, and receive a gift from your Master."
         I did as I was told.  I knelt and waited while he placed a chain
link collar around my neck and locked it with a padlock.  He placed the key
on a slim gold chain and put the chain around his neck. He grabbed the
collar and yanked me up.  Then he ordered me to dress and leave him. He sat
as his desk and began reading over some papers as I nervously retrieved my
shirt from under his desk and pulled my pants back on. I looked at the
shreds of my boxers lying on the floor. Tonight, at least I had no choice
about his order to wear no underwear.
         "Shut the door on your way out, boy," he said as I left the room.
         I walked back to my dorm room slowly, fingering my collar.  I was
collared by my Master now.  My fantasy was becoming a reality as I became
his slave.  I went back to my room to study and think about my Master.  I
felt the strong embrace of  the collar around my neck as my eyes fell on
the poem assigned for Wednesday's class, by this guy Rochester:

          "Nor shall our love-fits, Chloris, be forgot,
               When each the well-looked linkboy strove t'enjoy,
          And the best kiss was the deciding lot
               Whether the boy used you, or I the boy."

So this business of using boys had quite a history, and now I was a part of
it.  I ran my finger slowly around the inside of my collar, each link an
opportunity to serve my Master.