In this chapter Fielding takes centre stage, amusing himself with a couple of victims. As for David, he has his first meeting with a trio of kids he’s going to see a lot more of in the future, and since he begins his relationship with them in his usual charming way it’s no surprise if they decide from the first moment that he’s not a nice guy. This chapter also contains an episode of entirely consensual sex… sorry about that!
It was fun watching Larkin flounder about when the rest of the form wanted to know why he was wearing shorts. David gave him enough rope to hang himself with, keeping quiet while Larkin tried to tell everyone it was a mistake, that he hadn’t really done anything wrong, and only then explaining to the other boys in their class that Larkin had been caught red-handed playing sex games with a younger boy.
“Is that true?” asked one of their classmates.
“Well… er… not exactly… I mean, okay, he was touching me, but…”
The rest of his excuse was drowned in a chorus of noises of disgust, though David was alert to the fact that two or three boys seemed less disgusted than the others. He made a mental note of their names and decided he should watch them closely, in case they should turn out to be perverts as well.
They didn’t manage to catch any more miscreants that week, though that was at least in part because Fielding was frequently otherwise engaged: on Wednesday at lunchtime he grabbed Larkin, marched him off to the drama store cupboards and then ordered him to strip. Larkin was too scared of the consequences to refuse, and once he was naked – and once Fielding had checked that the pink ribbon was still in place – the next order came as no surprise.
“Please don’t make me do that,” begged Larkin, as Fielding lowered his shorts and pants. “It’s disgusting – I’m sure I’ll puke up…”
“You’d better not, unless you want me to beat you as well,” said the first year. “Garrett said you had to do it, remember? So do it.”
“But… look, I can’t!”
“Really?” Fielding took the belt from Larkin’s trousers, doubled it over and suddenly lashed viciously at the older boy’s thigh. Larkin gave a cry of pain and stumbled backwards, and Fielding swung the belt again and drove him back against the door. A third blow, and Larkin’s attempt to back yet further forced the door open, and he stumbled out onto the landing. He looked around in panic and tried to get back into the room, but Fielding, pausing only long enough to pull his shorts back up, gave him another cut with the belt which hit him on the chest, and Larkin was forced to give ground again, this time to the top of the stairs.
Fielding was enjoying himself now, and delivered another blow. This time Larkin got his arm in the way, but it still hurt, and he stumbled down a couple of stairs.
“Last chance,” said Fielding, swishing the belt. “Either you can do what you’re told, or I’ll drive you right down the stairs and out into the yard. I bet the kids out there haven’t seen too many fourth-year boys running about wearing nothing but a pink ribbon round their willies…”
Larkin glanced over his shoulder: so far the staircase was deserted, but he knew if he went down one flight he’d be likely to meet someone, and two flights would see him out in the yard. He couldn’t decide which would be worse, until Fielding hit him again, and at that point he decided that being chased round the yard naked by a first-year would be too much, no matter how horrible the alternative.
“Okay!” he cried. “Okay, I’ll do it!”
“I thought you might,” said Fielding, grinning. “Come on, then.”
He led the way back into the storeroom, closing the door behind them, and then he lowered his shorts and pants once more, though he kept hold of the belt.
“Now get on with it,” he ordered. “And if you ever disobey me again I’ll get Garrett to let me cane you naked in the middle of the yard.”
With a stifled sob Larkin dropped to his knees once more, closed his eyes and slid the hard penis into his mouth. Fielding had to tell him what to do, reinforcing his orders with a couple of swats with the belt, but soon he had the older boy performing as required. He leaned back against a pile of scenery and closed his eyes, enjoying every second: not just the physical sensation, but the feeling of absolute dominance over a boy three years older than him.
“Stop!” he ordered, after a couple of minutes. “Bend over – I want to beat you for refusing to obey me.”
Larkin began to protest, but gave up when he saw the look on Fielding’s face. He dropped to his hands and knees, and Fielding stepped out of his shorts and pants, which were getting in the way, and swung the belt enthusiastically against the older boy’s bum. It wasn’t as bad as the cane had been, but Larkin’s bottom was still sore from his caning, and the belt still hurt and made him cry out.
Fielding gave him six and then ordered him to start sucking again, and Larkin, now too sore and too scared of the consequences to even think of disobeying any more, got on with it.
Eventually Fielding reached his climax, gasping as it rolled over him, and then he pushed Larkin away.
“Not bad,” he said, retrieving his pants and shorts and pulling them back on. “If you practise you’ll probably be as good as Patty before too long. Now lie on your back.”
Larkin did as he was told, and Fielding came and stood over him, opening his flies.
“I need a pee, and I can’t be bothered to go down to the toilet block,” he said. “Ready?”
Larkin thought he was joking, but he wasn’t: Fielding urinated on him, splattering his chest and stomach.
“Now go and find something to mop up with,” ordered the younger boy, doing his zip up once more, so Larkin crawled, dripping, into the depths of the storeroom, eventually returning with a shirt that had obviously been used on stage: there was makeup on the collar and cuffs. He used this to wipe the floor, and himself, and then stuffed it down behind the pile of scenery.
“Now you can get dressed,” said Fielding. “But I want to see you here again on Friday at the start of the lunch break, okay?”
On the Friday Fielding amused himself by tying Larkin’s hands behind his back with his tie and then forcing the naked boy to stand with his back to the pile of scenery while Fielding molested him, squeezing the older boy’s balls agonisingly hard, slapping the penis about and tugging on the curls of brown hair at the base of it. Larkin yelped and gasped, but there was nothing he could do about it, and when Fielding forced his foreskin all the way back and started pinching the uncovered tip his cries got louder and more desperate. And of course the attention had the inevitable effect, and Larkin got an erection.
“That proves it,” said Fielding, getting his ruler out of his blazer pocket and flicking it painfully against the tip of Larkin’s swollen member. “You love having boys touch you – look how stiff it makes it. You really are a queer, Larkin – I think that means another beating.”
So he gave him six more meaty blows across the buttocks with the belt, and followed those up with a couple against Larkin’s erection, hitting the tip and making Larkin shriek in pain.
“Now suck me,” ordered Fielding, dropping his shorts. “And if it isn’t good I’ll whip your balls.”
With his hands tied behind his back it was harder for Larkin to keep his balance, but he was desperate to avoid having his testicles beaten, and so he did his absolute best to make it feel as nice as he could. Fielding leaned back and enjoyed it, and when he climaxed it was even better than it had been on Wednesday.
“You’re learning,” he said, afterwards. “Maybe I won’t have to beat your balls after all. Except… I really need to pee again, and I’m not sure that the old shirt will be big enough to mop it up this time. So I’m going to do it in your mouth. And you’d better swallow it, because if any of it lands on the floor I’m going to thrash your balls until they fall to pieces. Open wide…”
Larkin thought anything would be better than having his balls beaten, and so he opened his mouth, but he changed his mind when the first jet of warm, acrid water hit the back of his throat. He spluttered and choked, inadvertently closing his mouth and getting the rest of Fielding’s urine in his face. Fielding could barely aim for laughing.
He finished peeing, pulled his pants and shorts back on and untied Larkin’s hands.
“You tried,” he said, “so I’m not going to beat your balls this time. But next time you’ll know what to expect, so you’d better do it right. Now get the shirt and mop it up.”
Still spluttering, Larkin retrieved the old shirt and mopped up as best he could, and then Fielding told him he could get dressed.
“We’ll have to find an evening next week when we’re both free after school,” he said. “It’d be nice if we had more time, instead of having to worry about when the bell’s going to go – don’t you agree?”
Larkin didn’t answer that. Instead he just finished getting dressed and ran away.
Now that there were a couple of new Rat victims about the school, one of whom was in his own year, the pressure on Osterley eased a little more: the junior school now had two middle schoolboys in shorts to torment. But the comments hadn’t died away completely, and so he had continued to make use of the music practice rooms to hide in, at least during the longer lunch breaks, though on both Thursday and Friday he took a chance and stayed out in the yard during the shorter morning breaks, just to gauge reaction. The second years in particular didn’t seem to want to let the matter rest, and Osterley thought it might be as well to keep a low profile until the end of term.
Little Collins had faithfully accompanied him to the sanctuary of the music block every time, and by the end of the week Osterley had forgiven the younger boy for making a public exhibition of him. The first couple of breaks they had spent together had started a little awkwardly, but on the Thursday Osterley had taken his pocket chess set to the music block, only to discover than Little Collins couldn’t play chess. He spent that lunch break starting to teach him, but it takes time to learn to play chess, and they decided that, while it might be fun to carry on the lessons part of the time they were together, it might be better to find something else to do as well. So on the Friday Little Collins took his playing cards to the music block.
The whole school – or almost the whole school – played cards. The games progressed as you went up the school: the first years played variants on snap and slapjack, progressing to pontoon, three card brag and poker by the time they reached the middle school; after that came Beat Your Neighbour (or, as it was always called in this school, Shit your Neighbour; the more complicated version, where almost every card turned up provoked some special action or another, was universally called ‘Diarrhoea’); various forms of whist were in evidence by the time the fourth form was reached, with Solo emerging in the fifth year and full-blown Bridge in the sixth form.
"Let's play Pontoon," suggested Little Collins. "And... if you beat me, I'll give you a chance to laugh at me, like we all laughed at you: if you win ten hands before I do, I'll strip."
"And what if I lose?"
"This game, nothing. I'll give you one free chance to get me back. But if we play again, we start equal, and whoever loses the second game has to strip."
"Then maybe we should only play one game?" suggested Osterley, grinning.
"That's up to you. I can't help it if you're chicken."
"Okay, you're on. Cut for deal."
It was quite an even game, but Little Collins lost.
“Go on, then," said Osterley, "or are you all mouth?"
Little Collins pulled a table in front of the door to stop it opening and then got undressed, and when he pulled his pants off he had an erection. It wasn't very big, but it was in perfect proportion to the tight little balls underneath it. There was no trace of hair.
"Oh, that's why they call you 'Little Collins'," said Osterley, smirking at him.
"No, it isn't. It's just because I've got a big brother," replied Little Collins, making no attempt to conceal his stiff member.
"Yeah, right. So how big is it, then?"
"Two point four inches," replied Little Collins, immediately.
"You measure it!" cried Osterley in delight. "Go on, then, prove it!" And he handed his six inch ruler across.
Little Collins held it alongside his stiff little tool, and Osterley came and stood right next to him so that he could see the ruler. Sure enough, the result was 2.4 inches.
"You dirty boy! Fancy measuring yourself! I bet you play with yourself, too, don't you?"
"Well... sometimes. Anyway, I bet you measure yours, too."
"I do not! Anyway, let's see you, then."
"Huh?"
"Go on, then - let's see how you play with yourself."
"Well... okay, then." And Little Collins took hold of it between two fingers and thumb and started to rub it.
"Eurgghhh, you pervert!" cried Osterley in delight, staring at what the second-former was doing. Little Collins just got on with it for half a minute or so.
"OK?" he said, stopping.
"Not really. If I'm really going to get you back for what happened to me, I should do it to you."
"Oh. Well... okay, then - but I can't get any of that stuff out of mine yet. My balls are too small."
"You can say that again. Still, let's see what happens. Lie on the table, like you made me do."
So Little Collins took up his position on the table and Osterley rubbed his little penis. Little Collins, who had never been touched like that before, absolutely loved it, and he writhed and wriggled and gasped and groaned, thrusting up against Osterley's hand and begging for more every time Osterley paused.
"You are such a pervert!" said Osterley, who was thoroughly enjoying himself, totally controlling his naked friend's body like this. "Admit it, or I'll stop."
"I admit it! I'm a total pervert!" cried Little Collins, desperate for the wonderful feelings to start again.
Osterley took pity on him and started again, and this time he kept going until Little Collins experienced a noisy but totally dry orgasm.
"Oh, wow!" he said, once Osterley had let go. "That was amazing - far better than doing it myself... I owe you one, Ian: next time I'll do it to you, if you want."
"How do you know what my name is?" asked Osterley.
"I guessed. I mean, what else could it be? Ivan is Russian, Ivor's an Engine - and you're not Welsh, anyway - and I'd have thought you'd have to be Jewish to be called Isaac. So you've got to be called Ian."
"I could be called Ivanhoe."
"You could be called Idiot, too, but you're not," said Little Collins, getting dressed. "Admit it, you're name's Ian."
"OK, my name's Ian. What's yours?"
"You'll laugh."
"No, I won't. What, don't tell me you were actually christened 'Little'?"
"Of course nor, Idiot. It starts with a B. Have a guess."
"Billy?"
"Then it would start with a W, wouldn't it?"
"I suppose so. OK, Ben."
"Nope."
"Barry?"
"Try again."
"Basil? Oh, God, your name's never Basil!"
"No, but it's almost as bad. It's Bertram."
Osterley snickered. "I can't call you Bert," he said. "Dustmen are called Bert."
"I can put up with Bertie," said Little Collins, doing up his tie. "My real friends call me BC, though. So now you know why I don't mind being called Little Collins - it's better than being called Bert."
"Maybe I should call you Bert, then, just to get you used to it. After all, nobody's going to call you Little Collins when you're eighteen, are they?"
"I suppose not. OK, you can call me Bert - but only in private."
There was about five minutes before the bell was due to go, and they tidied the room, put the table back where it belonged and went outside. Little Collins realised he had left his cards behind and went back for them, and so when Osterley was intercepted by the Rat he was on his own. Little Collins saw them meet and walked as unobtrusively as he could, without actually whistling, to the nearest doorway, which he then ducked into: he was now out of sight but not out of earshot.
"I've been looking for you," he heard the Rat say.
"Why? I haven't done anything," said Osterley, sounding extremely nervous.
"As I recall, you hadn't actually done anything last time, either, except being insolent to me. And that's a stupid mistake to make, Osterley: you should treat me with more respect. And I wouldn't like you to start thinking you can do it again, just because the juniors are laughing at Baker and his pervert friend instead of you, so I've got a little reminder for you."
Little Collins couldn't see what it was that Villiers-Gore handed to Osterley, but he could hear Osterley's reaction.
"No!" he cried. "No, come on, Villiers-Gore, you can't make me wear these!"
"If you'd prefer to go and play with Pope and his friends in your girly clothes, I expect I could arrange it," said the Rat. "If not, you wear these until the end of term, starting on Monday morning. Oh, and no underpants, either. The first time I find you not wearing them, you'll be off to visit 2C, okay?"
The Rat moved away, and Little Collins emerged from his doorway and found his friend clutching a pair of short trousers and some long socks and trying unsuccessfully not to cry. Little Collins drew him into the doorway he had just vacated, so that he would be out of the public gaze.
"The juniors will murder me if I come to school in shorts," sobbed Osterley. "I won't even be able to come and hide out with you, because they'll follow me. You've only got to see what Baker's been going through this week, and that fourth year boy...Christ, Lit... BC, I can't face it... I just can't!"
He started crying again, and Little Collins, after a quick look round to make sure there was nobody watching, put his arms round him and hugged him.
"I won't laugh, anyway," he promised. "And if you want me to, I'll come to school in shorts next week, too. At least then you won't be the only one."
"You'd do that? Thanks...but I won't let you do it. Just try to keep your lot from going overboard again."
Little Collins blushed, well aware that he had gone further overboard than anyone else last time.
"I'll try," he said. "But... I really don't think I'll be able to..."
Ordering Osterley back into shorts lifted the day for David, who had otherwise had an unsatisfactory two or three days, what with no new victims and still no plan to get rid of Dhif. That was particularly galling: he hated the thought of the little wog swanning about it what should be a decent white school, but he couldn't think of a way to get rid of him. He knew that his next effort would have to be absolutely watertight: Garrett would be quite happy to hand out the appropriate punishment, but only if his own arse was completely covered, so that in the event of an enquiry he could tell the headmaster that he had followed the correct procedures. If David didn't get his next plan absolutely right, he was almost certain that Garrett wouldn't play, particularly after the cider fiasco.
He got in the taxi to go home, determined to try really hard to devise a plan over the weekend. There were only two weeks until the end of term, and he wanted to get rid of Dhif before Easter if he could, to give the school at least one nigger-free term this year.
He'd tried asking Fielding for ideas: the kid was only a first-year, but he was pretty bright, and he's said he'd think about it. But David was fairly sure he was more interested in thinking about nasty things to do to Larkin - he'd happily told David about their sessions together, his eyes shining and his shorts tented with the memory, and David didn't begrudge him his fun in the least: it had been brilliant watching Larkin slink back to class after lunch and knowing that he'd been forced to suck an eleven-year-old boy's cock during the break.
The taxi dropped him outside his front door as usual and he went upstairs to his room, where he put his briefcase away and changed out of his school uniform, and then he went downstairs to the living room, still trying to think of ways to get rid of the nigger. He walked into the room, deep in thought, and nearly fell over a girl of about ten years of age who was sitting on the floor playing with a doll.
"Who the hell are you?" he demanded.
"Hello," she replied. "I'm Molly. Who are you?"
"What the bloody hell do you mean, who am I?" he replied, almost shouting. "I live here. What are you doing here?"
"Mummy said we could play here."
"'Mummy said...' Who the hell is Mummy?"
"My mummy," said the girl, who was looking a lot less happy now. "She's in the kitchen."
"What, Devlin? Is that your name?"
"That's right."
"Well, you can't play here - this is our part of the house. Get back to the servants' quarters where you belong."
"Don't be rude to my sister," said a new voice, and a belligerent-looking boy with a very short haircut popped up from behind the sofa with a toy tank in his hand. He looked a year or so younger than the girl. "It's not nice."
"'Not nice'... how dare you speak to me like that?" demanded David. "Do you know who I am?"
"Nope. Don't care, either," said the boy. "Be nice to my sister, or I'll bash you in."
"You little animal, how dare you address me like that? I'll see you thrown..."
"Is there a problem?" said another new voice, and David turned to see a boy a couple of years younger than him - but who was nonetheless three or four inches taller - standing in the doorway. This was a good-looking boy with dark brown hair, considerably longer than the younger boy's, and hazel eyes.
"Yes, there's a problem," said David. "These oiks are in my living room, instead of in the servants’ part of the house where they belong."
"Well, you only have to ask politely and they'll go. You don't have to get your knickers in a twist and started foaming at the mouth about it."
"Foaming at the mouth?!" cried David, almost foaming at the mouth. "Get out of here, you bloody peasants, before I get Mother to call the police!"
"So we're bloody peasants, are we? I'll remember that," said the boy, looking at David in a way that was quite scary. "Come on, Molly - you too, Joe - let's leave Lord Muck to his aristocratic manor."
"How dare you?" cried David once more, but they had already gone. And when he went to his mother's office to make his feelings known she was not interested.
"Don't make a fuss, darling," she said. "I'm sure they weren't doing any harm. I don't want Mrs Devlin upset at the moment - she's going to have quite a bit of extra work while I'm away."
"Away? Where are you going?"
"Just up to London. Those men from Central Office were quite impressed, and they want to interview me for another job. The interview's in London, so I'll be gone for a couple of days. I'm sure you can cope without me - after all, you keep telling me how grown up you are now."
That left David with no argument: if he tried saying he couldn't manage it would undermine all his arguments about being treated like a fourteen-year-old, not a four-year-old. So he said nothing and went up to his bedroom to sulk.
If David's weekend got off to a bad start, Fielding's would be one of the best he had ever experienced. And he didn't even go looking for anything to happen: he just went out for a walk in the countryside after breakfast - he lived four or five miles out to the west of the school in a house on the edge of a small village, and he often went for walks at weekends. This Saturday he went a way he hadn't been for a long time, to the south of the village, and again he had no particular reason for going that way: he just fancied a change.
He followed a footpath, took a couple of random turns and found himself following a trail into a wood. A little way in the path branched and he took the less well used one – in fact it was so little used it was barely a path at all. He was strolling along it, thinking of things he could do to Larkin the following week, when he heard a noise up ahead.
He stood still, listening: it sounded like heavy breathing, interspersed with little gasps. He grinned to himself as he realised it sounded rather like the sounds he made himself when his willy was in Larkin’s mouth. Perhaps there was a couple having sex up ahead…
He started moving again, checking the path ahead for twigs and trying not to breathe above a whisper, and as he rounded a bend he got his first glimpse of naked flesh, a bare leg stretched out beside the path. He tiptoed closer, grateful that he was approaching from behind the person’s head – he could see now that there was only one person there – which meant that if he was careful he’d be able to get really close without being seen.
Soon he was only a couple of yards away. He couldn’t see the boy’s head because it was close to a tree, and Fielding had been deliberately keeping the tree in the way so that he couldn’t be seen if the boy moved his head, but he could see that it was a boy a bit older than himself, to judge by the bush of black pubic hair at the base of the penis. The boy was completely naked and was masturbating slowly. His clothes were scattered beside him, and there was also a magazine lying open and face down by the boy’s side. He could read the title, which was ‘Tiger’, and see the photo on the front, which was of a couple of boys in their early teens. He grinned even wider.
He leaned carefully to his right, so that he could see the boy’s face, and the grin now threatened to make the top of his head fall off: he knew this boy. He didn’t know his name, but they caught the same bus home: the boy was a fourth or fifth-former from his school.
He thought for a moment about how to play this, and when he had worked out what to do he stepped forward and swooped. The other boy was lost in himself and his fantasy and so was far too slow to react: by the time he had sat up with a hand held protectively over his groin Fielding had grabbed the boy’s shoes and underpants in one hand and the magazine in the other and had stepped away from the path and into a swathe of bramble bushes.
“Give those back!” the boy demanded, struggling to get up with one hand trying to protect his modesty.
“Or what?” asked Fielding, grinning and twirling the underpants round on his finger.
“Or I’ll fucking kill you, that’s what!”
“Come on, then. Come and get me.”
Of course, that was impossible: the boy had bare feet, and Fielding was surrounded by brambles. The boy looked for a way around the brambles and saw none. His shoulders slumped.
“Come on, please give them back,” he begged.
“I don’t think so. You’re in deep trouble here…” He paused and checked the ubiquitous label in the boy’s underwear. “… Stephens,” he continued. “I think I ought to go and report this to Garrett on Monday morning. I’m sure he’ll be interested in this.” He opened the magazine and looked at the pictures on the first couple of pages, which were of boys between the ages of about twelve and fifteen: some were still hairless, and some had quite thick bushes, but most seemed to be just undergoing puberty, with only quite sparse pubic hair. “What is it Mr Weston calls this stuff – ‘moral degeneracy’, isn’t it?”
“You’re going to report this to Garrett? What makes you think he’ll take any notice of… oh, shit, you’re the one they call the Mouse, aren’t you?”
“Do they?” asked Fielding, who hadn’t heard this before.
“Yes – you’re a sort of mini-White Rat, so they call you the Mouse, or sometimes the Blind Mouse, because of your glasses. So I suppose Garrett would listen to you… look, give them back, please! I’ve got my exams next term – I can’t afford to get into trouble…”
“Looks to me like you’re already in trouble. Sill, perhaps we could find a way out for you… provided you do exactly what I tell you to, of course. Otherwise I’ll be off to see Garrett on Monday.”
“Okay,” agreed Stephens at once – he was ready to do anything to stay out of trouble with the O levels looming.
“Right. Well, I’d like to believe you, but I reckon if I step out of this bush you’ll just beat me up and take your stuff back, so we’d better make sure you can’t. Stand with your back to the tree and put your arms round behind it.”
Fielding removed one of the laces from Stephens’ shoes and then stepped out on the far side of the brambles, broke off a nice flexible switch from a young tree, left the shoes, underwear and magazine where they were and stepped back onto the path, swishing his stick in a threatening way: if Stephens tried anything, he’d get at least one very painful blow in first. But Stephens had decided to co-operate and allowed Fielding to tie his wrists together behind the tree, thus immobilising him.
“Okay,” said Fielding. “Now, whether or not I take you to Garrett is going to depend on your telling me the absolute truth: one lie and you’ll be in deep shit on Monday. And I might just decide to take all your clothes with me when I go and leave you like that, too. And I promise I’ll be able to tell if you’re lying – I always can, so don’t try it. So… what’s your name and where do you live?”
“Nigel Stephens,” replied the prisoner, adding an address a mile or so beyond Fielding’s own house.
“And what class are you in?”
“5A.”
“Really? You’re not very big for a fifth-year, are you?” said Fielding, looking at the boy’s genitals. And now that the erection had subsided, the penis did look small, though the balls were quite large and there was a lot of black hair. There were also small tufts of hair under each arm, though the boy’s face was pale and soft-looking, and there was almost no hair on his arms and legs.
“I can’t help it,” said Stephens, blushing.
“Well, let’s see if we can make you a bit bigger,” said Fielding, taking hold of the small penis and starting to handle it fairly roughly. It took a while, but in the end it started to go up, and Stephens’ shame was doubled.
“How long is it?” asked Fielding. “And don’t lie: I know you measure it.”
“About four inches,” said Stephens, blushing again.
“That’s pretty pathetic for a fifteen-year-old. OK, I know what you were doing when I found you – what were you thinking about? And remember that I’ve seen the magazine.”
“You swear you won’t tell Garrett?”
“I don’t swear anything. Tell me the truth and I might not tell Garrett; lie to me and I certainly will.”
Stephens swallowed. “On page seven, at the top,” he mumbled. “Him.”
Fielding went back into the brambles and retrieved the magazine and the shoes and pants, carrying them back to the path and putting them down with the rest of Stephens’s clothes. Then he opened the magazine and looked at the photo on page seven.
It was a nice-looking blue-eyed blond boy of about thirteen, with an erection that was probably slightly larger than Stephens’s own, though the boy in the picture only had a few wisps of fair hair at the base of it.
“And what exactly were you imagining?” asked Fielding.
“Oh, please don’t,” begged Stephens. “I’ve admitted I like boys – can’t you let me go now?”
“Certainly not. Answer the question.”
Stephens looked at the ground in shame. “I was imagining we’d met on holiday, and he’d taken me into the woods and undressed me, and he was… you know, playing with it for me…”
“You dirty boy!” said Fielding, grinning. “I bet you play with yourself a lot, too, don’t you?”
“No! No, I hardly ever…”
“Liar!” interrupted Fielding, starting to pick up Stephens’s clothes. “I told you what would happen if you lied to me. Bye bye.”
“No!” cried Stephens, wrenching vainly at the laces round his wrists. “Come back, please! I swear I won’t tell you any more lies!”
“Well… okay, but this is your last chance. So how often do you play with it?”
“Lots,” admitted Stephens, shamefacedly. “Two or three times a day, usually. I do it in the toilets at school at break, and I do it at home, or at weekends when the weather’s good I do it outdoors, like today. It’s sort of more exciting doing it outdoors.”
“Not if you get caught,” Fielding pointed out. “You’re a really dirty boy, aren’t you? I think we’re going to have to find a way to stop you fiddling with yourself… still, right now I want to watch you do it. Wait a moment.”
He deposited all Stephens’s clothes, and the magazine, in the middle of the brambles, and then untied his wrists.
“Try anything and I’ll whip you,” he warned, holding his switch threateningly. “Now, lie down where you were before and do it to yourself – you can pretend I’m the boy on page seven admiring you, if you like. OK, off you go.”
Stephens lay on his back and took hold of himself. It took a while to get back in the mood, but eventually it went properly hard and he was able to start rubbing it. Fielding watched in excitement, resisting the temptation to make fun of his victim because he wanted to watch him get excited and he didn’t want to put him off. Before too long he was suffering from a painfully stiff penis himself, though because he was wearing a pair of thick jeans today it was much less obvious than it would have been in his school shorts.
Soon Stephens was starting to move his body rhythmically: he was doing it a lot faster than he had been when Fielding had first arrived, presumably because he wanted to get it over and done with. He seemed to be getting really close when Fielding told him abruptly to stop.
“But I’m almost there,” he protested, stopping all the same.
“I know. I just want a proper look at you.”
Fielding peered closely at the organ in question, feeling how hard it was and checking its size, both length and thickness: he was starting to get an idea.
“Okay,” he said, when he had seen what he needed to, “you can carry on – and I won’t stop you again.”
Stephens got straight back to work: the delay hadn’t been long enough to ruin his mood, and soon he was gasping and his muscles were starting to tense up. By now Fielding knew what this felt like, but he still wasn’t ready for the sudden spurt of white liquid that erupted from Stephens’s tip and landed on his stomach: this was something he hadn’t seen before. He stared in fascination as a second spurt came out, followed by a sort of dribble than ran over Stephens’s fingers.
“Wow!” he couldn’t help saying. “What’s that?”
“That’s my spunk. Of course, I don’t suppose you’ve got any yet. Is it the first time you’ve seen any?”
Fielding nodded.
“Well, it starts when you start getting hairs, usually,” said Stephens. “You’ll learn all about it biology in the third year.”
“I won’t,” replied Fielding. “I’ll learn all about it from you, unless you want me to get annoyed. You can start teaching me tomorrow – meet me here at three o’clock, okay? If you don’t turn up you’ll be in big trouble. I’m going to keep a couple of souvenirs, just to make sure you don’t forget to come… let’s see, I’ll take the magazine, your pants – and I think maybe that, as well,” and he pointed to Stephens’s watch, which was the only thing he was still wearing. “If you don’t turn up the watch will get lost, and your pants and the magazine will go to Garrett. If you do turn up you can have the watch and your pants back, and maybe even the mag, if you behave. Now, when I get here at three tomorrow I want to find you completely naked and lying on the ground like you are now. Oh, and try not to play with yourself between now and then – I’ll probably want another demonstration tomorrow, and I don’t want you wearing yourself out in the meantime. OK?”
It wasn’t, of course, but there was nothing Stephens could do about it, lying naked on the ground with his spunk drying on his stomach, so he handed the watch over obediently and watched Fielding moving everything except Stephens’s shoes out of the bramble bush. The shoes he put on top of the bush, where Stephens could get at them using a stick, but of course that would take time, which would allow Fielding to get well away before Stephens was in any condition to give chase.
Fielding tucked the magazine and Stephens’s watch and pants into his pocket and strolled away, though he broke into a jog as soon as he was out of sight, just in case Stephens tried to chase him. In fact Stephens, who was sure it would be pointless, didn’t even try: he just cleaned himself up and got dressed, heading for home and hoping Fielding would be satisfied with a brief sex education class, after which he would leave him alone. Clearly he didn’t know Fielding at all well if he thought that was going to happen…
Fielding went home, and straight after lunch he went and caught the bus into town: he had his season ticket, of course, so it didn’t cost anything, which was important as he had other plans for the money in his pocket. He went to a hardware shop and explained to the shopkeeper that he wanted a chain and a small but strong padlock: he had a normal bike lock, he said, but he wanted a second line of defence. The shopkeeper found a good padlock that was only a little over an inch long, but which he said had a really strong steel shackle, and then Fielding selected a length of chain with loops that were perhaps three-eighths of an inch long. He was delighted to see that the shopkeeper had to cut off the length he wanted using a pair of large bolt-cutters, which suggested that the chain should be strong enough for the purpose he had in mind.
He had trouble eating his Sunday lunch the following day because he was so excited, but he managed it, and after waiting the half hour or so his mother insisted on “to let it go down”, he was finally allowed to go out. He checked that he had everything he needed and then set out, making good time as far as the wood but slowing down considerably when he reached it: he wanted to be sure that Stephens had not arranged an ambush for him.
He had a nasty moment when he missed a fork in the path: briefly he was afraid he wouldn’t be able to find the place again. But he retraced his steps and found the right path again, creeping forward with extreme vigilance.
He needn’t have worried: Stephens had decided not to risk being exposed to Garrett, and had turned up at the requested time, and when Fielding came round the corner he found Stephens lying naked on the path in the same position as he had been in the previous morning.
“I’m glad you’ve decided to be sensible,” he said. “It looks as if Garrett won’t have to find out about you after all.”
“Thanks. So, can I have my stuff back?”
“Not yet. Get up against the tree, same as yesterday. I’m a lot smaller than you, and I’d sooner have you safely tied up.”
Stephens obediently took up position against the tree, and Fielding tied him in place, this time using some rather stronger nylon string he had brought along specially.
“Okay,” he said. “Now, obviously your problem is that you play with yourself far too much – have you done it since Saturday morning, by the way?”
“No, I… Yes, okay, I’m not going to lie any more. I did it last night before I went to bed.”
“I told you not to. Normally I’d have to punish you for that, but as you’ve been honest I won’t this time. But it proves what I was saying, doesn’t it: you just can’t leave it alone. So I’m going to help you learn to stop fiddling with it. I’ve bought you a present.”
As Fielding had hoped, Stephens was uncomfortable and nervous, far too nervous to have an erection. His penis hung down small and thin. So Fielding got the chain out of his pocket, made a loop in it by feeding one end through the last link at the other, and slid it over Stephens’s genitals, so that the loop enclosed penis and testicles. Then he pulled the loop closed, until it was starting to dig in tightly at the base of the penis and behind the testicles.
Stephens gave a cry of discomfort as part of his scrotum was pinched, so Fielding found the problem and released the trapped skin, pulling the loop even tighter. Once he was satisfied he fed the shackle of his padlock through the link nearest to the loop, though without closing the padlock.
“Does that hurt?” he asked.
“A bit. It’s sort of digging in.”
“It has to, I’m afraid, or it won’t be tight enough. Now I want to see if you can pee. Try.”
Stephens felt both embarrassed and uncomfortable, and he didn’t even consider disobedience. He started to pee, and his water emerged in the usual way, though it felt a bit uncomfortable.
“Excellent!” said Fielding, and he closed the padlock. “And now let’s see if it really does the job it’s meant to do.”
He pulled the boy magazine from his pocket and opened it to page seven, holding the picture up so that Stephens could see it easily.
"Just close your eyes and imagine I'm him," he said. "He really likes you - he wants to touch you..."
Fielding started to play gently with Stephens's genitals, and almost at once the penis started to harden - and of course as the blood flowed into it, it got not just longer, but thicker, too. And this meant that there was more flesh trying to occupy the extremely small amount of space inside the ring of chain. The chain bit into the swelling penis, and Stephens gave a cry of pain.
"Take it off!" he cried. "It's crushing me - please, take the chain off!"
"I don't think so," said Fielding, delighted to see that his plan worked in practice. "And now let's try for the top prize..."
He took hold of Stephens's penis and started to wank it, and at once Stephens screamed for him to stop: the chain was now biting in deeply, and rubbing his penis pulled the skin cruelly against the unyielding steel.
"Brilliant!" said Fielding. "That should stop you playing with it."
He picked up all Stephens's clothes and carried them to the far side of the bramble patch, and then he undid the string and beat a hasty retreat. But Stephens was more interested in cradling his genitals than anything else.
"Okay," said Fielding, "from now on that stays on. If you're good and obedient, I'll take it off now and again so that you can play with yourself, but it won't be very often. And if you want it taken off you have to do exactly what I tell you, understand? Now, I'll give you a chance to get out of this: if you can get that chain off inside the next five minutes you're free: I'll give you everything back, including the magazine, and I won't bother you again. If you can't, I'll keep the magazine as evidence, along with your pants, so if you do decide to go home and risk taking a hacksaw or a blowtorch to the chain I'll still have something to show Garrett.
"Now, obviously you won't be able to get it off with your willy all hard, so we'd better take your mind off it." He pulled a bottle full of cold water from his bag and threw it all over Stephens, who squealed, and then he hit him with his switch - he'd cut himself another one as soon as he entered the wood. Stephens howled and backed away, dripping. Fielding followed him, threatening to hit him again, and very soon the erection had completely disappeared.
"Off you go," said Fielding, looking at his watch. "Your five minutes start... now."
Stephens tugged at the chain, then tried forcing it over his balls, and finally tried to force his penis through the loop, but the chain was too tight and his balls were too big: everything he tried failed.
"Time's up," said Fielding. "Right, from now on you leave the chain alone: I'll check it every time we see each other, and if I see anything to suggest you've tried to get it off, I'll do two things: first, I'll report you to Garrett, with your pants and the magazine as evidence; and second, I'll throw both the keys to the padlock in the river.
"We'll see each other on the bus every day, so we can easily arrange to get together after school and at weekends, and if you're good and do whatever I tell you I'll take the chain off for a few minutes every weekend. Then you'll be able to fiddle with yourself if you want. Of, course, I'll be watching, but I'm sure you'll get used to that - and if you don't want to play with yourself, you don't have to. I reckon you'll want to most of the time, though.
"Now, I expect you're thinking you'll be able to deal with me once I've taken the chain off. You won't: before I take the chain off I'll chain you to the tree, or something similar, with a different chain, and if you refuse to have the ball chain back on again afterwards I'll leave you chained to the tree and go home - oh, and I'll take your pants and dirty mag to Garrett as well. So you'd better get used to the idea of keeping the chain on.
"I'll make you a promise, though: if you do what I tell you and don't try to escape, I won't tell anyone else about it - and that includes Garrett and Villiers-Gore. It'll be our secret. Of course, you'll have to find a way to stop people noticing when you get changed for games, but you've only got two more games afternoons to get through - you could probably get a sick note for at least one of them, and even if you can't the chain will be hard to spot through all that hair you've got. You'll probably get away with it. Right, any questions?"
"Not really... but please don't do this to me. It hurts even when I'm not stiff. I'll never be able to get to sleep with it on."
"You will if you get tired enough, and after a couple of sleepless nights you'll be tired enough, I'm sure. But it's up to you: either you keep the chain, or you can come and see Garrett with me in the morning and try explaining what you were doing with the mag. He'll believe me anyway, but once he sees that I managed to grab your pants it'll prove I'm telling the truth. So - Garrett, or the chain?"
"The chain," said Stephens, miserably.
"Good. I hoped you'd say that. So now you can tell me all about that stuff that came out of your willy yesterday."
So Stephens explained what he knew, and Fielding listened entranced.
"Wow! I wonder if I'll have any of that stuff soon?" he mused.
"Not for a year or so, I shouldn't think. I was fourteen, but I developed quite late. I think the normal age is about thirteen."
"Right. Well, I suppose we should go - I was going to do something else with you, but it's a bit risky, so I'm going to wait until I've got the second chain. So instead I think I ought to beat you: that's what normally happens to bad boys, isn't it? So get down on your hands and knees and keep still."
Stephens knew that he had no choice and did as he was told, and Fielding drew back his switch and whipped him. He had intended only giving him three, but the noises the older boy was making were so entertaining that he went on and gave him the full six.
"Stand up," he ordered when he had finished, and he drank in the sight of the fifteen-year-old hopping about naked, clutching his bum, his eyes watering, with the steel chain glinting in his pubes and the lead part of it hanging down beneath his balls. Fielding went into the brambles and threw Stephens his clothes and then walked away while the older boy was struggling to get dressed. Life, he thought, just couldn't possibly get better than this...
Yup, young Fielding is a happy boy, though no doubt Stephens is wishing he’d stayed indoors for his fantasy sessions. In the next chapter Fielding learns some more stuff to try on his victims, and David does his best to increase Osterley’s misery, with some help from Pope and his fellow second-years.
The address is still gothmog@nyms.net and I’m still interested in hearing your reactions, so get writing!
Copyright 2009 – all rights reserved. Please do not reprint, repost or otherwise reproduce this or any part of it anywhere without my written permission.
David Clarke