Date: Tue, 7 Jul 2015 19:40:19 +0000 (UTC)
From: Robert Furlong <robert.furlong@rocketmail.com>
Subject: Bators

BATORS
by Robert Furlong
robert.furlong@rocketmail.com
robertfurlong.tumblr.com

===

"Okay, guys," the teacher said.  "Now I want you to think of something that
separates you which is caused only by the environment, not your genes."

The lads were piss bored.  It was a hot day and the sun was shining
brightly, yet here they all were in a stuffy biology lesson.

Even the teacher, Mr Kershaw, was finding the lesson dreary and was rapidly
running out of ways to engage a group of sixteen-year-old boys on such a
glorious summer day.  It didn't help that an OFSTED inspector was sitting
dourly at the back of the room, making copious notes on his 'Excellence for
Betterness' clipboard.

"Any ideas?" Mr Kershaw asked his class a little desperately.

"Maybe... er... whether or not we wear glasses?" gozzy-eyed Brian McCluskey
tentatively suggested.

"No – eyesight is primarily genetic," Mr Kershaw told him. "What I'm
asking for is something that isn't determined by your DNA."

They'd already been separated out by which hand they write with –
genetic variation – and then by the size of their muscles – caused by
genetic and environmental factors.  Both times the boys had been
photographed standing gormlessly around in their different groups so they
could put together a wall display which Mr Kershaw hoped would tick one of
the inspector's boxes.

So then Thomas Parker, always a smart-arse if given half a chance, piped up
with, "What about whether or not we're bators?"

"Bators?" Mr Kershaw asked over giggles and titters from Parker's mates.

"Yeah," Parker shrugged, looking like this was just your everyday sort of
answer.  "I mean, whether or not the guy is jerkin' his junk off already."

If the lads had expected Mr Kershaw to be embarrassed or annoyed, they must
have been disappointed.  Old Barraclough would have gone apeshit over that
sort of filth-talk, but Mr Kershaw was in his twenties and still cool
enough to take a joke.

Except he didn't take this as a joke but rather as an opportunity to work
some sex ed into the lesson, well aware that making cross-curricular links
was worth extra brownie points on the OFSTED tick-list.

"Oh, I see!  Bators as is in masturbators!" Mr Kershaw chuckled, throwing a
glance towards the inspector who peered back quizzically over the top of
his half-moon glasses.  "Okay... yes, I suppose that's an example of
environmental variation.  We can work with that if you guys are all happy
for us all to know who is and who isn't... er... shaking the mayonnaise
bottle."

The more assertive lads, who liked to think they spoke for the group,
glanced around and shrugged at each other. It wasn't like it was some big
whoop deal, was it?  Some guys were whacking off already, some guys
weren't; at the end of the day, who gave a shit?

So, pleased to have what was passed off as universal assent, Mr Kershaw
divided the lads into bators on one side and non-bators on the other.

The inspector, he noticed, was scribbling furiously on his clipboard.  No
doubt the guy was impressed at how nonchalantly Mr Kershaw had handled
something which could have caused, in less capable hands, the lesson to
degenerate into lewd rowdiness.

"How can you tell if you're a bator?" whined McCluskey, caught in the
middle of the two groups, with his jam jar glasses making look even more
stupid than he actually was.

"It's just a question of whether or not you masturbate," Mr Kershaw told
him, but McCluskey's fuckwit face told him he hadn't a clue what that word
meant.

Michael Sanders chipped in, talking down to him like a primary school
teacher explaining something to the class idiot, "When you go to bed each
night, McCluskey, do you rub your little peepee until the milkshake shoots
out?"

The lads all chuckled as McCluskey obediently nodded.

"In that case, you're a bator, mate.  Welcome to the club!"

Brandon Stonehouse couldn't decide if he was a bator or a non-bator: "How
often do you have to... er... 'bate' to be a bator, sir?"

"I'm not sure," Mr Kershaw shrugged.  "It's up to Parker to make the rules.
He was the one who suggested this as a form of environmental variation."

Nice one, Andy mate, the teacher thought to himself.  Give the students
ownership of the task in front of the inspector: that would surely put his
score up another couple of notches.

"At least once a day," Parker decreed.  "And it's gotta be full-on floggin'
off wi' a proper spunk-up at the end of it.  Not just fiddlin' wi' yerself
through yer trouser pocket or givin' yer dick a few jerks after yer've
taken a piss!"

A couple of the bators, including Stonehouse, sullenly moved across to join
the non-bator group.

"Does it count if I just rub myself against my pillow every night?" asked
little Johnny Clarke who was so short and scrawny that one could more
easily imagine him playing with his superhero toys each evening rather than
banging away at his pillow with his prick on full bone.

"D'ya shoot yer muck on it?" Parker asked dubiously.

"Of course I do," Clarke replied.  "I 'ave to tell me mam it's me nose
runnin' what's dirtyin' all 'er pillowcases."

Parker chuckled and nodded.  "Then yer a bator, mate.  Come over 'ere wi'
the big boys – congratulations on joinin' the knuckle shufflers!"

When all the queries had all been answered and everyone's nocturnal habits
had been appropriately classified, the lads looked around keen to see how
the class had divided itself up.

A lot of the guys who'd joined the non-bators were the nerdy, swotty types
who almost certainly did crank their shanks (probably over the A+ grades
they got on their homework) but were too stuck-up and prissy to admit it.
A few of the others in that group had squeaky voices and smooth unshaved
faces, and perhaps hadn't yet discovered the pleasurable combination of
hand and penis.

But among the non-bators were some of the bigger lads like Chris Matthews
and Jordan Thompson who probably did enjoy a good sweaty bout of
self-loving, but didn't do it regularly enough to fit Parker's rule of a
fully-fledged bator.

Lads have different sex drives, Mr Kershaw mused, and you can't really tell
from outward appearances which of their wrists have cranked up the highest
mileages.  So just as Gary Parkinson with his tree-trunk neck and sandpaper
stubble clearly didn't salute his flagpole often enough to consider himself
a bator, on the other side were little pipsqueeks like Harry Turner and
Greg Miles who must put far more energy into churning their cream than they
would ever devote to gym-class.

Just then Ian Hargreaves spotted his mate among the non-bators and called
out, "Hey, what are ya doin' in that group, Donnelly?  Yer always on about
sex you are!"

Ed Donnelly sneered and said, "Got mesel' a girlfriend, aven't I mate?  I
mean, why would I bother beefin' off when I've got 'er servin' up the real
deal?"

The lads fell about and Mr Kershaw was pleased: rarely had a group been so
engaged in a genetics lesson.  He'd have to mention his intention to
include this activity in future lessons on the self-evaluation that he gave
the inspector.

As the lads established themselves in their respective groups, Mr Kershaw
was interested to observe a sense of fraternity developing among the boys
in the bator group, who seemed to feel a genuine kinship with each other
just because they all happened to give their foreskins a good yanking every
day.  The lads were just about slapping each other's backs, sharing with
each other how often their hands got to work, and even quiet Danny Elliot –
normally so clean-cut with his wire-framed glasses and his gelled-up hair –
admitted blushingly to the others that he was a three-times-a-day kind of
guy.

"Morning, noon and night, eh?!" Parker laughed, patting Elliot
affectionately on his arm.  "Yer a man after me own 'eart, mate!"

Mr Kershaw chuckled at the way Elliot beamed so proudly on receiving
Parker's praise about his masturbatory frequency.  The two lads might have
very little in common otherwise, but it was nice to see them form a bond of
sorts on account of both managing to find the time to pop their yoghurt
three times a day.

While some boys were eagerly comparing how often they 'bated', Mr Kershaw
noticed others seemed pleased just to be part of the group.  It was as if
they were grateful to be alongside other lads who shared their
recently-discovered hobby, or perhaps they'd been worried about how normal
it was to be so often cuffing their carrots.

One or two threw self-satisfied smirks over at Mr Kershaw, like they were
revelling in letting everyone know how manly they were.  Paul Kemp and
Simon Lowe seemed especially smug to be showing off how virile they now
felt and Mr Kershaw, noticing how the fronts of the two lads' trousers were
protruding conspicuously outwards and that they were deliberately parading
their large bulges towards the non-bators, wondered if they'd grown aroused
to be strutting about as out-and-proud bators.

Martin Ashbrook cut through his musings by quietly asking, "If you had to
get into one group or other, sir, would you be one of the bators?"

Mr Kershaw smiled.  Ashbrook looked a bit embarrassed that he'd joined the
bator group and that his clasmates – and perhaps more significantly his
teacher – now knew him to be a regular jerk-off artist.

"I would definitely be a bator, yes," Mr Kershaw chuckled.  "Twice a day
seems to do it for me."

Ashbrook grinned back at him, pleased that not only did his teacher share
what he'd thought of as a slightly shameful habit, but that the two of them
were white-knuckling themselves with about the same regularity.

Then Borland called out, "You should get over wi' the non-bators, Quigley,
'cause fingering yer butt doesn't count as jackin' off!"

Quigley just snorted, probably wishing for the thousandth time he hadn't
told Paul Adams that he liked to play with his bumhole.  Stupid gobshite
had gone and told the whole fucking school.

Borland persisted, "Seriously mate, chewchin' yer brown ring doesn't make
you a bator!"

"I wank off too!" Quigley came back with.  "I play wi' me dick loads more
than I play wi' me arse!"

The lads all laughed but Parker nodded for him to stay.  Quigley was
accepted as a bator, even if one who sometimes did it with a decidedly
whiffy finger.

Mr Kershaw noticed that, while the bators were developing a cosy
camaraderie on finding that they all liked to pound their peckers every
day, the non-bator crowd were bonding together in their own way too.  They
seemed neither self-conscious nor self-righteous that they didn't
masturbate regularly enough to be classified as true bators, but instead
laughed together that wanking was for wankers and that they found jerking
off boring and had more productive ways to spend their time.

The two camps started flinging playful insults at each other: the bators
claiming that the non-bators weren't proper men yet and didn't have enough
spunk in their nuts to need to release it every day.  The non-bators
retaliated that there was more to life than mindlessly bashing the candle,
with Thompson pushing himself forwards to frantically flog his fist against
his crotch, pulling a face like an imbecile, eyes vacant and mouth
dribbling.

The bators hit back by pretending to masturbate themselves, thumping their
wrists back and forth in front of their trouser zippers.  They were gasping
and panting to show that being a bator was so incredibly pleasurable,
crying out 'Oh God, yeah, this is so good!  You guys don't know what you're
missing!"

Mr Kershaw called order and told the lads that it was neither 'manly' to be
a bator, but nor was it unhealthy to do it regularly.  "Everything in
moderation, guys," he told his class.  "That goes for booze and fast food,
and it goes for tickling the pickle too!"

This was turning out to be a such a great lesson, he couldn't help but tell
himself: the boys weren't just learning about genetics, but there was loads
of PSHE stuff finding its way into their heads.  Mr Kershaw was so pleased
that he had an OFSTED inspector sitting at the back of the room: there was
no way that a lesson like this could warrant anything less than an
'outstanding' assessment.

"We need a photograph of us for the display, sir," Johnson, a non-bator,
reminded him.

"Yeah, and we should act out what makes us different," added Perkins, a
bator.

Mr Kershaw nodded; that was a good idea.  When the lads had been separated
by which hand they write with, they'd taken photographs of the two groups
holding their pens in their different hands.  Similarly, when muscle size
had been the trait being looked at, the lads with bigger muscles had been
photographed arm wrestling with their biceps bulging, while those who
weren't so muscular had been snapped as if they were struggling to pick up
small objects like pencils.

So the bators were photographed pretending to beat off, with their hands at
their crotches pounding proudly up and down as they worked their imaginary
cocks.

Mr Kershaw chuckled at them as Matthews took the photos: they were
oblivious to the fact that they were inadvertently revealing to the camera
how big their boners were.  Parker, he could see, was very well-endowed:
his wrist was moving up and down in a seven inch arc and the girth he was
pretending to hold in his fist was so thick that his fingers didn't reach
around to his thumb.  If this was how he wanked he must have a cock like an
overfilled bratwurst!

Borland, on the other hand, must have a tiny little weenie, as he pretended
to jerk off by using just a finger and his thumb, and the movement of his
hand was barely more than a few centimeters.

Sanders called out, "Hey, Quigley!  While we're pretending to beat off, you
should turn round and bend over so he can get a photo of you shovin' your
middle finger into yer butt-crack!  I mean, that's how you whack off, isn't
it – by friggin' yer arse?"

"Shuddup, Sanders," Quigley blushed.  "I do it the same as you guys."

"Er... no singling anyone out," Mr Kershaw called over.  "We all have
different sexual tastes and that's something to be celebrated, not
ridiculed."

He glanced over at the inspector, hoping to see him ticking the box about
adherence to the school's anti-bullying policy, but the man just stared at
him with his eyes gaping wide.  No doubt he was overwhelmed by the standard
of the lesson he was seeing.

When the bators had been photographed and everyone had laughed at the
pictures of them with their hands bashing against their trouser fronts, the
non-bators lined up to be snapped on their side of the classroom.  They
chose to hold their hands up as if gesturing 'no' which wasn't as funny as
what the bators had done, but it would make a nice contrast between the two
groups for the display.

Then Borland said, "How about we take some more photos, but just for laughs
– not to get put on the wall with the others."

"What did you have in mind?" Mr Kershaw asked.

"The same as before, but with our flies down and our dicks proper out –
us bators all wanking off for real and the non-bators with their knobs
danglin' down, just standin' there all prim and proper, not touchin' them
or anything."

The rest of the lads, even the non-bators, loved the idea and became quite
animated telling each other how cool it would look.

"You could use it wi' yer other classes, sir," one lad suggested.

"Yeah, it'd really help 'em remember that environmental validation thing
you were on about," another said.

Having never seen his class so enthusiastic and pleased that the
inspector's jaw was by now hanging open in utter astonishment, Mr Kershaw
agreed to take the photo himself.  He got the two groups standing alongside
each other and the lads all pulled their cocks out through their zippers.

The sizes and shapes of all their different knobs showed a huge range of
variation – an interesting extension task, or so Mr Kershaw pondered –
and while most were floppy or barely running semis, only Quigley's organ
stood upright on full, proud erection.  Quigley looked around at his mates'
cocks and, realising he was the only one was running a boner, he blushed an
even deeper red than all the jokes about him fingering his butt had and
quickly moved behind someone to conceal it.

"Do bators have bigger dicks, sir?" McCluskey asked, peering through his
thick lenses at the non-bators' more forlorn-looking pricks poking out
through their flies.

"Yeah, look at that!" Sanders chortled.  "Our knobs are longer and thicker
than theirs!"

Even Matthews in the non-bator group noticed the difference.  Although his
big hefty cock was bigger than most of the bators', he glanced around at
his compatriots and agreed, "Yeah, some o' these guys' wangs are like half
the size o' yours!"

Mr Kershaw chuckled and intervened.  "I think what it is, lads – and
there's an important bit of biology here – is that masturbation improves
circulation to the penis, and so the bators' dicks have grown faster than
the non-bators' have."

He looked over at the non-bators and added with a reassuring smile, "You
guys will catch up in time, don't worry about that!  The adult size the
penis is genetically controlled and so just because the bators have given
their development a boost by regularly stimulating their dicks, yours will
continue to grow long after theirs have reached full size."

The lads reassembled so that Mr Kershaw could take the photo.

"Okay, so the bators have all got to have proper bonk-ons," Parker
commanded.  "It's gotta look convincin' if it's gonna be funny."

The lads in the bator group grabbed their cocks poking out through their
flies and all started beating their hands up and down them.  They found
that hilarious and laughed raucously at the sight of their mates openly
wanking their pricks off, making fun of each other's techniques and the
wide variety of all their differently-shaped bell-ends.  Some boys proved
to be flagrant exhibitionists and made a show of parading their
masturbatory prowess, standing brashly with their legs open wide and
thrusting their hips back and forth in time with their beating fists.
Others like quiet Danny Elliot were more restrained in their
self-pleasuring, stroking their stiffening shafts more gently and slowly as
they smirked naughtily at each other.

Gradually their differently-sized cocks lengthened and hardened until they
were all jerking away at a wonderful assortment of erections, poking
upwards from their trouser flies and giving off a sharp, zesty whiff.

As Mr Kershaw had anticipated, Thomas Parker's manhood was by far the
biggest of those being brandished by the bators.  The thing was easily
eight inches long and as thick as his forearm, and he wanked it hard and
fast as he glanced around at the lesser specimens of his peers.

The other biggest cocks were more surprising in who they belonged to.
Gozzy-eyed McCluskey was squinting down at a monster piece of meat just an
inch shorter than Parker's, and little Johnny Clarke, the pillow porker,
had curving upwards from his gaping zipper a huge fuck-off schlong that was
just about as big as he was.  Both boys pumped their overgrown cocks with
great gusto, grinning at their classmates who gasped at them in awe.

Even lads who had the smallest dicks, like Borland and – more
surprisingly – six-foot-tall Melvin Cunningham, pulled enthusiastically
at their pert little peckers with their wrists beating noisily against
their hips because of how short and stubby their shafts were.  Borland
grinned at Mr Kershaw, as if proud to be showing his teacher that, even
though his cock was smaller, he still enjoyed wanking it just as much and
as regularly as the other lads with their more impressive hard-ons.

Suddenly Sanders shouted, "Oi, look at that!  Quigley's touching his butt!"

The rest of the lads looked over and Quigley, his face reddening again,
quickly withdrew his left hand from where his fingers had been nuzzling
between his cheeks.

"I was just... er... scratching an itch," he tried to explain.

But Sanders laughed, "He was looking at everyone's knobs and rubbing his
areshole like he wanted one up it!"

"Oi, settle down lads!" Mr Kershaw called over.  "I need to take the
picture if we're going to be finished by break."

The two groups stood together with the bators on one side, bating at full
crank, and the non-bators on the other with their knobs dangling with an
attractive floppy fullness from their open zippers.

"That's great!" Mr Kershaw laughed, looking at the screen on the camera.
"Go on, guys, really jerk your dicks.  This looks absolutely hilarious!"

Just then David Colbrook, a well-brought-up young man and one of the
non-bators, broke rank and moved across to join the bators.  "I wank off
every morning on the loo," he admitted, blushing.  "I just said I didn't
'cause I thought it sounded dirty."

"There's nothing dirty about masturbation," Mr Kershaw smiled.  "However
you do it – even sitting on the toilet – it's a natural and healthy
thing to enjoy."

The bators exuberantly welcomed their new recruit, if not with open arms
(on account of one being occupied) then at least with back-slapping grins
and a hearty salute of their cocks.  Colbrook took up his place among his
new brethren, whacking his hardening dick with the best of them and
smirking proudly at his new bator mates.

"I wank off on the bog too," Max Olson told him.  "It feels better when
you're... you know... doing your thing..."

Mr Kershaw snapped a few photos of the bators bashing fervently at their
cocks while the non-bators stood alongside looking smug and proud to be
showing more self-restraint.  They crossed their arms firmly to show that
they were resisting the temptation to reach down to the chunky phalluses
which were drooping in a variety of semi-aroused states from their trouser
flies.

Then Martin Ashbrook called out, "You're a bator, sir – you should be in
the middle of us!"

"Yeah," Matthews agreed.  "You were sitting with the right-handers when we
took that photo."

"And you were with the guys with the thicker muscles when we did that one,"
Thompson added.

"Okay," Mr Kershaw chuckled.  "I'll set the camera to auto.  It'll take a
photo every five seconds."

He joined the bators and pulled his dick out through his fly.  The lads all
looked on eagerly, keen to see how big the teacher's meat was.  Half-hard
it was about six inches and not even as thick as Borland's, but as he
jerked his foreskin back and forth across his big shiny helmet, it grew
quite rapidly and fattened up in his hand so that soon it was bigger and
thicker even than Thomas Parker's.

He wanked it proudly at the front of the bator group, acting almost as
their mascot flaunting his huge man-cock on full wood.  The other bators
jerked themselves even faster with him standing alongside them, laughing at
how cool it felt to have their hands slamming up and down their horned-up
pricks right next to the teacher.

Danny Elliot called out, "Hey, Quigley – stop pushing your bum against
my knob-end while I'm beefin' off!"

Quigley pulled away and blushed once again.  "It was only an accident.  I
haven't much space!"

The non-bators grinned over, watching their mates jacking off with their
teacher in the middle.  Some of their cocks were really stiffening up by
now, with one or two standing up at full totem.

Then Harry Turner called out, with his scrawny arm hammering back and forth
like a steam locomotive, "I tell you what'd be awesome!  If we get a
picture of all us bators spunkin' up!"

"Yeah," Sanders laughed.  "Wi' the non-bators gawpin' over at what's
shootin' out from our dicks!"

With most of the group agreeing wholeheartedly and with the inspector's
eyes now just about out on stalks, Mr Kershaw said yes, the final photo
could be of the bator boys ejaculating.

Ed Donnelly rushed over from the non-bator group, saying, "I know I don't
wazz me knob that often but if you guys are gonna cream off for the camera,
I want my spunk in there too!"

They hastily assembled themselves into a row, every lad's elbow jabbing
into whoever was standing next to him, and tried to time it so that they
climaxed together.  Two or three would slow down to hold the inevitable at
bay, while others would clobber their cocks like boxers to try and coax
their orgasms nearer.

Mr Kershaw was still out front, nerking his big man-sized fuck-stick as
hard and fast as even the most active of the boys behind him.  He grinned
at the camera, clicking away every five seconds, as his hand made long,
curving strokes up and down the wide girth of his shaft arching gracefully
upwards from the front of his trousers.

This was going to make such a fun picture, he was thinking to himself.  The
bators all in a row letting rip all at once with their sticky white
fountains, and the non-bators standing alongside them gasping in delighted
astonishment.

The best part of the photo for him – apart from all the spunk that would
be snapped flinging upwards – was the way it would show how a dozen or
so male organs, all in a state of flagrant arousal, could be so
intriguingly dissimilar.  Indeed, the only constant among them was the
hands that were busily bashing away at them.  It was incredible that just a
dozen or so young men were packing such a huge assortment of cocks down the
fronts of their trousers.  Not only did their fully engorged shafts vary
greatly in their length and thickness but some were delicate and smooth,
while others were prominently etched with countless weaving veins.

To add still more variety to the already disparate mix, the lads' stumpy
bell-ends were also vastly different in their sizes, shapes and colours.
Thomas Parker, he noticed, was flaunting a big shiny purple helmet, while
Michael Sanders' foreskin was rolling back and forth across a small pale
mushroom.  In between those two was a broad spectrum from pink to maroon,
some more conical and tapered in appearance and some more rounded like
bullets, so that every lad was brandishing in his hand something which was
fascinatingly unique.

"Come on, guys," the teacher chuckled.  "Three more clicks and we'll see if
we can all nut off!"

The non-bators, whose smaller pricks were by now all poking upwards from
their flies, perfected the expressions of shock and surprise that they were
going to assume for the camera as the bators' cocks exploded in unison.
Quite a few of them were desperate to jerk off themselves but they held off
from even touching their hard-ons, keen for the photo to show them as
aroused but chaste.

"Two more clicks, lads," Mr Kershaw told his class, making all their hands
speed up as they started down the home-straight.

He glanced over at the inspector who was staring at him masturbating with
his face ashen.  He tried smiling amiably at the older man – finding it
difficult to look as cordial as he would have liked with his cock rising
upwards from the front of his trousers and his hand sweeping rapidly up and
down the long thick shaft of it – but the inspector just gaped
unseeingly at him with his eyes agog.

Mr Kershaw wondered if perhaps he ought to have asked the inspector if he'd
have liked to join in.  Some inspectors like to get involved, others prefer
to just sit and observe.  He figured the guy would almost certainly have
joined the non-bator camp, but it would have been fun to have seen his big
saggy cock dangling out from the fly of his light grey suit.

"Last click, guys," he said, looking back at the boys.  "Get ready to nut
next time it goes off."

The row of lads started frantically jacking off with Mr Kershaw out front,
leading the fray.  The non-bators were mesmerised to see a dozen or so
choppers being yanked together with the same hard, fast rhythm; a row of
synchronised elbows with wrists pounding up and down, the whole group of
bators flogging together in unison.  The bators looked across at each
other, grinning at the way their hands had become co-ordinated on their
differently-sized dorks and enjoying the rapid hammering thuds their fists
were beating out against their trouser fronts.

"Cor, ya can really smell their wanked off cocks," one of the non-bators
said, and then abruptly Mr Kershaw's broad slit started erupting and long
white strings of his chowder were flung upwards into the air.

"Come on lads," he gasped, "make yourselves cum!"

Almost immediately Parker's big purple helmet started shooting its spooge,
followed quickly by all the other lads' hand-beaten members, the whole lot
firing off into the air in quick succession.

Click went the camera.

And the whole class let out a cheer.

After they'd wiped themselves down with blue lab-roll, and all the bators'
floppy cocks and the non-bators' stiff ones had been stuffed back away
behind trouser zippers, the lads gathered around the camera to see what the
final photo looked like.

It was even better than they could have hoped for: most of the bators'
knobs had spunk firing out of their stubby chub-ends and those who'd
started nutting off a bit early still had goopy trails of the stuff
dribbling out of their slits.

The break bell went and the lads gathered up their stuff, joking together
about how awesome the lesson had been and that the environmental
whatever-it-was was so much cooler than the other stuff.

As they bustled out of the room, making fun of each other about what their
orgasm faces had looked like in the picture, the inspector gathered his
things and came to join Mr Kershaw at the front of the class.

Mr Kershaw smiled at him brightly, almost glowing from how successfully he
felt the lesson had gone.

"In thirty-five years of teaching and inspecting, Mr Kershaw," the
inspector huffed, "I've never witnessed a spectacle like that."

"Oh?"

"I think we need to talk about your future in teaching."

"Do we?"

"And I think we need to do it as a matter of urgency."

"Really?"

The inspector stared intently into Mr Kershaw's eyes and told him, "I'm
staying in the Kingston Arms Hotel.  Do you know it?"

"I do, yes," Mr Kershaw replied.

"Well perhaps you could join me this evening for a bite to eat in their
restaurant and then we can retire to my room to talk about
your... er... teaching strategies."

"Oh right," Mr Kershaw nodded.  "I hoped you liked them."

"Yes I did – very much so," leered the inspector.  "And I'd like to see
a good deal more of them.  The... er... learning objective you revealed
towards the end of the lesson was particularly impressive.  I greatly
enjoyed watching you... er... facilitate it so magnificently."

"Oh I'm glad you appreciated my techniques," Mr Kershaw grinned.  "I
realise they were a little... well... unorthodox."

"Nothing wrong with a bit of horseplay," the inspector scoffed, waving a
dismissive hand.  "All boys together, nothing more than that."

"Oh absolutely," Mr Kershaw agreed.  "I'm so glad you see it that way."

"Meet me in the hotel lobby at seven," the inspector advised.  "We can talk
about what I'm sure is going to be a very bright future for you, and then
we can go up to my room and see what... er... activity-specific approaches
we can demonstrate on each other..."

"That sounds great," Mr Kershaw beamed.  "I'll be there at seven on the
dot!"  His wife had a baby on the way in the autumn so his career really
could do with a boost right now.  Better still, the stuff he could pick up
about teaching and learning from a man with so much experience of education
could prove really helpful in the long-term.

"I'll see you then, in that case," the inspector said, clipping his
fountain pen into his inside jacket pocket.  And then, throwing the younger
man a sly smirk, added, "I'm already looking forward to it!"

Mr Kershaw smiled and nodded.  This was certainly going to turn out to be a
memorable evening!

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robert.furlong@rocketmail.com
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