In this new story, a group of teenage homosexuals take it on themselves to deal out justice to their more homophobic, more attractive peers. A good time is had by...most.
The first rule of Gay Club is: you do not talk about Gay Club.
The first rule of Gay Club is: you do not talk about Gay Club.
Hackneyed, derivative stuff, to be sure – but wise, all the same. After all, who wants to be a paid up member of the Gay Club at secondary school? The taunting, the victimisation...but, when it comes to the club I'm going to tell you about here – a very special club, to be sure – that rule was assiduously followed for very different reasons.
Perhaps the only thing more incredible than what the boys of the Graveshill Independent School achieved, is the fact that nobody was ever punished.
It's quite an incredible tale, and – if I have the continued inclination – it's one I hope to relate to you.
It began, as do a lot of clubs, on a small scale.
Two members. Both out-and-proud homosexuals and, as one might assume given this fact, they were both in their own ways versatile individuals, with a persistence of mind which could be disconcerting for those of a more lackadaisical, apathetic disposition.
Philip was a 14 year old delicate waif of a creature, with bright, peroxide blond hair which fell finely into his eyes. He carried himself with an ever-so-slightly effeminate gait. It was no great surprise when, one day, he stood up during a packed lunch break in the school canteen to shout at the top of his lungs just how much - and precisely why - he loved cock so much. Philip was playful, loyal and, contrary to what his somewhat feminine disposition might imply, was quite controlling and utterly fearless.
David was a different character entirely. His auburn hair was clipped short, as if he were about to join the army, and his muscular body meant that even at age 15, he could probably pass the entry exams. Friendly and outgoing, he was a popular boy with a lot of admirers. When he came out, everyone was surprised - but nobody had a problem with it.
Now, don't get me wrong: they didn't hold a meeting, take minutes and inaugurate 'Gay Club'. That would come later – much later – but, they were two of the founding members, and as the only openly gay individuals at their school, they formed an immediate and strong friendship, in spite of residing in differing academic years. This friendship would sustain the club later on.
It should be added that these two friends were not attracted to one another, and so had never really been interested in doing the horizontal mambo with one another: no, they found other boys to do that sort of thing with, and they were – quite naturally – the next two members of Gay Club.
Stewart was Philip's classmate and lover. Stocky and eager to please with a wicked sense of humour, he came across to others as a little bit dopey, which was terribly unfair – he wasn't slow; just the owner of a special kind of innocence which emphasised trust in others, and mitigated common-sense.
Stewart was a boy with warm chocolate-brown eyes, and curly red hair. A reader of poetry with a keen interest in the humanities, he was completely besotted by Philip's extrovert homosexuality, and revelled in the attention of Philip's control. Buried so deep in the closet that he probably had a good view of Narnia, Stewart was honest (in all ways but one), quiet and considered – and a total, unabashed dom when he was horned up, which made for some feisty sex when he and his boyfriend got together.
Whilst Stewart and Philip were a study in contrast, David and his own boyfriend, Andrew, were two peas in a pod. David realised Andy was gay when he noticed him taking great effort to surreptitiously study his body in the shower after footie practice.
Honestly, David's such a great guy. Ask anyone and they'll tell you that, and it's true. As soon as he realised his 16 year old pal had a thing for him – well, David didn't make a big deal about it; he didn't call Andrew out on it in front of all their team-mates; he didn't even pressure him into coming out and admitting to the world that he liked fellas. No, he spent a little more time with his mate over the following weeks, then one afternoon after playing Medal of Honor at Andrew's house, he just laid back on Andy's MUFC bedspread, yanked down his trackies, and didn't say another word as the boy meekly craned his neck to suck on teen dick for the first time.
See what I mean? The ideal boyfriend. Andrew has short, blond hair – manicured to look 'messy' with the aid of oodles of expensive hair product. His body is tight and defined from sports, and like David, he has a lot of friends – but whereas David views that as a strength enabling him to come out; well, for Andrew, it's a weakness. He worries about what his friends would think of him if he told them the truth, so he keeps his homosexuality to himself. He is surprisingly artistic – although he does everything possible to hide this, in addition to his sexuality, from his contemporaries.
There is one more boy who needs to be introduced into our little homosexual teen-menagerie. Nick was Philip's best friend and, either by chance or design (who can be sure), he was also gay. When Philip came out to the world, Nick came out privately to Philip, a short while later. Philip just smiled, nodded, and walked away, as if he had always known.
Nick was quiet. Very quiet. An introvert, would be a more apt term; a product of his absent father, and over-bearing mother. He possessed a diminutive, skinny body with a shock of curly black hair atop his head, giving him a young, boyish innocence. But he was always thinking; the gears of his mind, always turning. He had no boyfriend, and didn't seem particularly keen to get one, generally preferring his own company to that of his peers. He had a few friends; not many, but the ones he had meant a lot to him, although his quiet nature meant he didn't really mean anything to them. He liked science, and often treated sexuality as another experiment needing to be catalogued. He would go far, his teachers assured him; and he supposed, on balance, given the preponderance of evidence, that he agreed with them.
So those are our players. All that is left, I suppose, is the story.
“Seriously. We should fuck him up; I can't believe that guy.”
Although no-one knew it, this was the first meeting of 'Gay Club' – or at least, the first meeting in which Gay Club focussed on the topics for which it would soon become infamous.
It took place at Philip's house, in his bedroom.
He was currently sitting on his bed in skin-tight grey jeans and a pink knitted jumper, his head tilted back with a kilo of frozen peas sitting atop his face.
Conversely, everyone else was dressed in the attire of normal human-beings, without frozen products on their faces.
“How long do I have to sit here like this? It kinda kills.”
Stewart stood and cautiously removed the bag of peas, and peered at the welling up black-eye, as if he were passing judgement on a below-par chocolate cake. “I dunno, really. It's what they do in films though, ain't it?”
“Jesus fucking Christ. Put my mum's peas back in the freezer right now.”
“Man, I'm telling you; the cold's good for the eye-”
“You're words are making things worse, Stewart. I'll just wait 'til my mum gets home, if it's all the same with you.”
“Listen, if it goes malignant-”
“It'll get pus in it-”
Admitting defeat, Stewart forlornly returned to the kitchen with the bag of peas, throwing them into the air as he went.
“Is no-one fucking listening to me?” David wasn't used to not being listened to, so he felt obliged to check before repeating his previous statement. “We should fuck. Rory. Up.”
He sat on the floor, his arms crossed in consternation. His boyfriend sat beside him and shook his head. “Mate, I see where you're coming from, but honestly – I reckon we – well, Philip, I guess – I reckon Philip should just move on.”
“Next time I see him, I'm gonna kick the fucking shit out of him,” David said in reply.
“Dave...firstly, he's older then you, ain't he? He ain't gonna take a beating lying down. And second; you do that, and he's only gonna go after Philip again.”
“Again? THIS is again! He's always going after him! And we all know why.”
Before Andrew could reply, Philip voiced his own view; he was - grudgingly - inclined to agree with the more cautious Andrew, even though he didn't want to. “Yeah, man. It'd be satisfying to see him limp around for a week, but he'd only go after me even more if you did that. Let's face it; Rory is a homophobic prick, and he is a coward. Even if you do manage to seriously hurt him, Dave, he'll just take out on me, a whole bunch of times. And I'd rather not have the agro. I'm...I'm stronger than I look, man. I can take it.”
Philip's warm smile, in-spite of his eye, meant the issue might of died a death there and then, had not Stewart re-entered the room at that precise moment to airily ask the assembled group, “so when are we ripping Rory's bollocks off?”
Philip motioned Stewart to sit down, muttering, “alright Lord fucking Byron, calm down; we've decided to just let it go.”
Stewart looked down on them all from his standing position, a look of surprised anguish on his face. “'Let it go'? Let it fucking go? I see. Well, you can all let it go: I ain't gonna let it go.”
Philip threw his hands up in exasperation. “Jesus, you're normally so disgustingly sensible, Stewie; why the fuck are you making a big deal about this?”
“Look at you! Some kid kicked the shit out of you for being gay! Again! What, does he have to break your fucking legs before you take notice?! Christ, do we still have to put up with this? Is it still 1979 at our school? Is Maggie Thatcher still Prime Minister? Is it ILLEGAL to be gay? We don't have to put up with this bullshit, man. Times have changed, and it's time fuck-ups like Rory were made to realise that.”
Philip sighed. “Times ain't fuckin' changed, alright? Nothing ever fucking changes, and we can't fucking win; he, he's got friends and shit who'll make my life hell if Dave goes after him. It's like the Mafia – you don't just look up Don Corleone's address in the phone book, shoot him, and then carry on with the rest of your life. There are consequences, man. You know that! This, this...ridiculousness, is beneath you, man.”
Stewart thought for a minute. “Yeah, it is like the Mafia...listen, when Batman starts out-”
“Here we fucking go,” mumbled Philip.
“LISTEN. When he starts out, 'k, he's this rich dude with lots of stuff – and, and he wants to go AFTER the Mafia in Gotham, but they're powerful, see? If he, as Bruce Wayne, goes after them, they could firebomb his factories; get judges to go after him – all that bollocks. So, he becomes something else...something which can't be stopped by bullets; something which is invisible, right up to the point that it fucks you up so much that you never walk again. He's a smart guy with loads to lose...but he fights powerful adversaries all the time, and he gets away with it – because nobody knows who he is. See what I mean?”
The room fell silent for a moment. “Are you trying to get me to beat someone up, dressed as Batman?” Dave's genuine question resulted in unintentional titters of laughter at Stewart's seemingly silly, comic-book suggestion.
“Stewart's got a point.” Nick's contribution caused the tittering to stop.
He was sitting on a beanbag in the corner of the room. Picking at a scab on his knee, he continued, “in a way he has, anyway. We need to think laterally. Captain Courageous here,” he nodded in the direction of David, “is right to think we should respond, but he's approaching things a little simplistically. Firstly, you're working on the assumption that the thing which matters most to Rory is his personal safety; it isn't. He gets into scrapes all the time. Injuries...like my scab here...hurt at the time, but they heal. And when they're healed...well, you'd never knew you had them in the first place, would you? No, Rory's most prized asset – like that of most boys his age,” Nick's demeaning tone seemed to overlook the fact that he was actually younger than Rory, “is his pride. Isn't it, Andrew?”
Nick looked at Andrew, who gulped. Nick was the first person to mention the rather inconvenient fact that Andrew was super-good-friends with Rory, owing to them both being on school sports teams together. “Well, you know...I mean, I guess so. Like, like you say...most guys are like that. I suppose.”
Nick smirked. “Well then. That means, to punish him, we don't strike him physically, in the open; we strike his pride. And to do that, we can employ the tactics favoured by Stewart. Philip's eye heals; we get our revenge; and Rory becomes, in the grand scheme of things, a...broken irrelevancy.”
Everyone smiled, considering the possibilities of the new world now open to them.
The plan was intricate, and took time to devise – Philip's eye had ballooned like, well, a balloon, by the time it was all finalised.
Rory hadn't been punished. Philip didn't complain about the incident, and the school didn't want to acknowledge it had 'a problem', so the issue was allowed to go away.
Or so Rory and the school authorities believed, anyway.
Nick had been the driving force behind the plan, but everyone had contributed; even Andrew was happy to – covertly – screw over his friend, by the end.
The time to set things in motion was obvious.
After school on Monday, extra lessons for GCSE English were held. Younger kids could turn up, if they wanted – although they rarely wanted, unless they were super brainy and doing GCSE's early. Rory was required to attend for reasons owing to his own poor intelligence and, at sixteen, his impending exams.
The boys decided that they, too, would benefit from the extra tuition on offer; especially given it was the only time all the boys, plus Rory, could be in the same lesson.
Owing to his distinct lack of interest in the subject, Rory would be sitting in the far back corner, relatively isolated from the class. Because positioning was important, Nick drew an intricate map of the room and its tables, to indicate precisely where everyone needed to sit.
When the boys saw a poster on the noticeboard outside the classroom telling those intending to attend the following week's lesson to prepare for a mock exam, the boys surreptitiously looked at one another triumphantly: this was the ideal time – it was now or never.
Entering the room, the boys were somewhat horrified to discover that the room's tables had been broken up from what they had planned for, into three rows running along the room, each seating two students and with all the chairs facing in one direction, in the style of a proper exam.
However, they soon realised that this was actually more useful for what they intended, and as teenagers, they just rolled with it.
Andrew sat next to his 'friend' Rory, at the back of the class. His table was placed in the alcove of a bay window, with no tables beside it; the nearest were those in front, which is where Stewart and Nick were sitting. David was just on the other side, and had made a point of putting his bag on the seat beside him, keeping anyone else from sitting there. Philip sat in the nearest chair on the next table alongside.
Only the members of Gay Club realised it, but Rory had been effectively isolated from the rest of the class, and was surrounded by a pack of queer wolves.
Rory was a particularly attractive, if personally unpleasant, doe-eyed gazelle of a teenage male. At 5”6’, he clearly had a body built for rugby; wide, heavy and awkward, he spent most of his time outdoors, helping out with his Dad's landscaping business. His face, planted atop a thick neck, was soft, round and adolescent, with small ears and a pudgy nose. His good complexion, soulful blue eyes and thick, short auburn hair meant he didn't lack for attention from either the fairer sex nor, as he was about to discover personally, from the crueller sex.
Like everyone else, the boys wore school uniforms – a white shirt, black blazer, yellow and burgundy ties of varying lengths (Rory's was short and loose around his neck), and black trousers. Rory wore white trainers, whilst the others wore the black shoes the school theoretically required them all to wear.
Things began with Andrew very carefully – with the help of Stewart – unfolding what might of originally been a black tablecloth, or perhaps a pair of black curtains sewn together, to reveal a large cottoned canvas, one half black, the other a sparkly cacophony of colour, produced by Andrew the previous evening at home.
Upon seeing it, Rory – quite understandably - frowned. “Dude, what are you doing?”
Andrew frowned in return. “What's it look like, sunbeam? I'm letting my art project dry.”
Andrew covered his table with the cloth, ensuring that the black half of the sheet covered their working area...the suspiciously black half...the half which almost made it seem as if the large sheet was borne not out of artistic expression, but out of a desire to create something in which one half could legitimately constitute an 'art project', whilst the other half would allow one to work without too much interruption from sparkly sequins or splurges of colour and, ergo, not prompt too much complaint by anyone concerned.
Thankfully for the boys and their plan, however, such troublesome thoughts did not occur to Rory.
The sheet completely covered the table, as well as the sides of it. Where the boys had to do their work, was a perfectly black sheet – the sides, bedecked in colour.
“Christ,” muttered Rory, staring down at the black landscape before him, “that's a bit bleak, mate. Why's half of it black?”
“It represents the soulless vacuity of modern life for teenagers such as us. Ya' know...the emptiness that awaits us, both morally and professionally, in the wider world.”
“The colourful bits represent sex and stuff.”
“Well that's not too bad, then.”
“No. Swings and roundabouts, is what I was going for. Think that's what I'll call it.”
“Jesus Christ,” said Stewart, “you ain't Salvador fuckin' Dali. Just leave it to dry properly; that way you'll get a C instead of a D.”
“Wanker,” muttered Andrew as he moved to sit behind his table, beside Rory. The two boys chatted amiably until the teacher showed up. A few minutes later, and the genteel and profoundly elderly English teacher, Mr. Guthrie, had succeeded in getting the class to settle down and sit in their seats.
What with the lesson consisting of a mock exam, Mr. Guthrie had relatively little to do – which was good, because his rickety old legs looked like they were about to give out at any moment. After handing out sheets of paper with questions from previous years' exams on them, he instructed the children to answer any one question as best they could in the remaining time.
Then, he took 45 seconds to gingerly sit down at the desk in the corner of the room, where he swapped his distance glasses for his reading glasses, and began reading the first Lord of the Rings book.
Like a lot of teachers, all Mr. Guthrie really wanted was a quiet life, so he paid no heed to the hushed whispers which occasionally flitted about the room.
Whispers belonging to the two uninterested boys at the back of the class.
After five or so minutes, Andrew looked up at the teachers desk to make sure they weren't being watched before whispering to Rory, chuckling inanely as he did so, “I dare you to get your dick out, right now, and do your exam like that.”
Rory liked to pride himself on his ability for doing whatever anyone dared him to do, and like a lot of boisterous lads his age, he was certainly not particularly immodest when it came to using his genitals as a prop for jokes – but as you might expect, getting his dick out in a mock exam was a little rich even for his blood.
He covered his mouth with his hand to stop himself laughing, as he vehemently shook his head.
Andrew 'pretended' to look disappointed in his friend's lack of courage. “Nobody'd see with my art project there!”
“Man, you're way too queer for my liking,” retorted Rory in jest, not realising quite how true his statement was.
Andrew looked offended. “Oh right, sure. The reason you won't do it is because you worry this classroom full of puffs'll notice. Yeah I believe ya' mate. Or maybe the reason you ain't keen is because you know yours is so small, nobody'd even notice if you got it out? Yeah, that sounds more likely...poor wittle Wory, all cwest-fallen because of his dinky pee-pee”
Rory, still with a dumb smile plastered over his face, shouted in whisper, “fuck off! Carrie says I'm well big for my age, and besides, it ain't what you got but how you use it that counts.”
“What, is Carrie your mum? Is she all like,” Andrew's hushed tone took on the theatrical cockney accent of an old crone as he whispered, “'Awww, don't worry petal, it's ain't what you got but how you use it that counts.'”
Rory turned in his chair so his laughter wasn't showing, before turning back to his friend, “you fucking wanker! You know Carrie's my bloody girlfriend! Right...ok. This'd better fucking shut you up, mate, 'cos your whinging is starting to get on my fucking tits.”
Andrew was elated to see things move so briskly, so quickly, and so easily. Rory – watching the teachers desk as he did so – slowly reached down to the metal clasp at the top of his school trousers, and undid it. Both boys looked around the room of scribbling children as the plastic zip of Rory's trousers were lowered excruciatingly slowly. To the two boys, it reminded them of the pitched whine of a fire-alarm, and it amazed them that nobody else turned their heads.
Keeping his eyes on the desk at the front, Rory slowly lowered his upper-body as he cautiously slid his trousers down his legs, Andrew watching and guffawing as he did so.
Of course, as a paid up (if covert) member of Gay Club, Andrew couldn't help but notice the shape of Rory's soft fleshy treasure pot: morsels of curvy, chubby meat wrapped within a pair of skin-tight black Calvin Klein boxerbriefs with an electric pink waistband and a pair of hairless, bulging thighs beneath.
When the trousers were at his ankles, seemingly without anyone noticing – literally the perfect crime – Rory theatrically removed the top from his fountain pen, and began reading the questions of his exam as he turned to his friend and, trying to stifle the continuous belt of laugher threatening to burst from his throat, said “now if you don't mind, I have an exam to complete.”
It wasn't what he had asked for – it wasn't 'the plan' – but it was good enough for what would shortly follow.
Andrew buried his head into his arms on the table, seemingly to contain his laughter – although he made sure that enough guffaws were heard by Stewart's table in front.
This was Stewart's cue. The boy in front of them immediately put his hand up and turned to address the teacher. “Sir, sir – Rory and Andrew are talking and laughing, and it's putting me off my exam, sir.”
Rory froze and Andrew looked up from the desk to see Mr. Guthrie grudgingly put his book down, swap over his glasses, and look over at the boys. Thankfully, owing to his position, combined with the black 'art project', even with his good glasses the teacher couldn't actually see what was going on beneath the table.
“What? Talking? There, there is to be no talking in this exam. This is a no talking exam. Now, who was talking?”
Stewart rolled his eyes as he responded exasperatingly, “RORY AND ANDREW, sir.”
“For goodness sake,” the teacher replied. He noticed members of the class looking in the direction of the boys – and away from their exam papers, unsettling Rory even more. “The rest of you, keep writing! Heads down, all of you! This is supposed to be an exam! Can't you boys keep your mouths shut for an hour? Well...I don't know. Rory, swap places with someone else. I won't have you chit-chatting to your friends.”
Rory looked like a wide-eyed dope in the headlights. He couldn't possibly pull up his trousers now, could he? Not with the teacher looking straight at him!
Andrew, good collaborator that is, knew what to do. “Sir, I'll swap. It was mostly my fault anyway.”
“Fine, fine, I don't much care. Swap with-”
“I'll swap, sir.”
“Yes, David – you were going to be my suggestion. Maybe you'll be a good influence on Rory. Alright, come on come on, you've disrupted the class for long enough – swap places, the pair of you.”
Rory watched, open mouthed, as queer golden boy David collected his things and moved to sit next to him.
Andrew waited until David was standing beside him, so that the two could immediately swap places.
As soon as David sat down and glanced across at his neighbour, he feigned a look of stunned outrage. Rory slowly shook his head, silently begging David not to say anything. Glancing at the teacher, now engrossed in his book once more, David retrieved his exercise book from his bag and turned to the back, writing in large capitals so Rory could read it: “THIS IS WHY YOU SHOULD BE NICER TO PEOPLE.”
Rory went from shaking his head to nodding it, mouthing the word 'sorry' in a show of sudden contrition. It wasn't even clear if he knew what he was apologising for.
David thought for a minute, before writing “YOU SHOULD PAY A PRICE FOR BEING SUCH A DICK TO GAY PEOPLE. DO YOU AGREE?”
Uncertain of how to react, Rory gulped, looked around, and just shrugged his muscular shoulders.
David immediately wrote, “I'LL TAKE THAT AS A YES. LOWER YOUR BOXERS TO YOUR ANKLES :)”
Rory mouthed 'what?!', a look of terror on his face at David's instruction.
David raised his hand to call the attention of the teacher; at that moment, Rory's resistance crumbled and he immediately moved his hands to the waistband of his black boxer shorts.
David lowered his hand, watching the teenager as, with his focus entirely on the uninterested teacher at the front, he gingerly pulled the shorts down his fit, beefy legs.
It was around the time Rory's hands were at his ankles that the teenager realised he could've simply reached down and pulled up his trousers without looking any gayer then he was at that moment. Still, stupidity is a wonderful gift for the right people, and David was certainly reaping the benefits of Rory's inability to think straight.
As the shorts were lowered, David took a brief moment to glance at the scared, soft mouthful between Rory's legs – short and chunky, but thick and with a long, droopy foreskin, resting atop a pair of nutty gonads and framed with an untamed mass of dirty-brown hair.
David drew himself away to reach down into his own bag.
With his eyes entirely focussed on the front of the classroom, his hands still sliding his shorts down to his ankles, Rory was unprepared and unable to react as David, head beneath the table, calmly slipped one handcuff around the front-left strut of his own chair, simultaneously slipping the other cuff around Rory's wrist.
Both boys now had their heads beneath the table; Rory consequently felt he could actually speak to his troublesome neighbour and whispered “what the fuck is wrong with you?! Let...get this fucking thing off me!”
David solemnly shook his head, chuckling as he said, “man, I'm not going to do that, ok? Now, consider yourself lucky to have your left hand free; because if I see you reaching for those knickers, my hand's going up, and I'm gonna tell Mr. Guthrie all about this unusual situation. Remember when I said you needed to pay a price? Well, this is you paying it. And if you don't change your ways, mate, you're gonna pay it again. Capiche?”
“I...ok. Yes. I understand. I, I'll change. I swear. Please, just let me go. I can't take much more.” Rory's voice was uneven, and uncertain.
David just chuckled. “Mate, you ain't seen the worst of it yet. Things are about to go off the hook.”
David immediately raised his hand again. Rory was now bent over the front of his desk and the answer paper upon it, unable to raise his right wrist more than a few feet off the ground.
His left wrist remained on the table, as David had previously instructed, so he could monitor the bound boy's free hand.
Thinking David was going to drop him in it, Rory turned his head and closed his eyes, not knowing how he could possibly explain any of this.
After a few seconds, the teacher looked over. “What is it...David, is it?” The teacher frowned as he looked to the back of the room in his reading glasses.
David smiled broadly. “Yes, sir. It's David, sir. Sir, I'm actually feeling a bit parky by this window, and it's impugning my ability to answer the questions, sir. Might I be able to swap with someone else, sir?”
Mr Gutherie smiled, ignoring the doubled over teenager beside David as he said, “you're answering one question, David.”
David grinned stupidly. “I know that, sir. I just meant, ya' know, figuratively.”
“Well, unless you can close the window, I think you'll have to grin and bear it...I'm not really happy to have children swapping chairs all the time – it's highly irregular.”
“Sir!” Philip bellowed from his spot, “I'm actually quite warm, sir. I for one would relish an opportunity to sit somewhere a little cooler-”
“Oh for God's sake,” screamed the teacher, “fine, just bloody move and be quiet about it. And there will be absolutely no further chair swapping.”
Like Andrew before him, David spent the time it took Philip to excitedly scamper across the room diligently packing his things away, so that Philip was standing over him by the time he was ready to move.
Just before he stood up, David turned to a seemingly cowering Rory and, with Philip's body providing a little cover, ran his right hand up and down Rory's thigh, his index finger gently prodding at the boy's spunk sacs as he spat lowly, “this can go one of two ways. Either you play nice, and it ends nicely, or you try to get out of it, and it ends badly. You get me? That means you do what your fucking told, you stupid wanker. You do what your fucking told, or else this sheet which currently hides your pathetic little indecency will disappear, and I will beat the fucking shit out of you, every day, until you leave this school. There's more than one of us, you'll never figure out who we all are, and we're all fucking watching you. You've been warned, cunt.”
As if to make his point, he yanked hard on Rory's nutsack, causing the boy to bend over further and stifle a groan as he stood up to make way for a grinning Philip, who took his place beside Rory.
Mr Guthrie looked on, unable to see the far rear of the classroom, and unable to hear the murmured threat over the general chattering din which had taken hold of the other students, growing bored with their pretend after-school exam.
After they had swapped seats, the teacher returned to Frodo and Sam's travails on the road to Bree.
Philip showed no surprise at all at Rory's predicament, unpacking his things whilst reaching over to pat, jiggle and enclose Rory's adolescent genitals in his fist like they were his newest toy, whilst whispering a hushed, but still theatrically high-toned 'hiya!' into his face.
Philip calmly looked around the room at all the fiercely scribbling, quietly chatting teenagers, never removing his hand from Rory's confused boy-treasure. After a few moments of gentle genital manipulation, Philip could detect a barely imperceptible strengthening of Rory's prick, no doubt adding still further to Rory's own inner turmoil, whose head was now on the table, his eyes closed.
Philip leant down to discreetly whisper into his ear, “I've already finished my exam. Normally it's so boring, waiting for the time to run down; guess I'm pretty lucky to have something to keep me busy right now, huh?”
Rory didn't react, and instead stared blankly at the black cloth upon which rested a blank piece of paper with his name on it, and a fountain pen.
“If it's any consolation Rory,” Philip added soothingly, “unlike Dave – and I don't know, maybe this is my age showing – I am two years younger than you, after all – but I think your big winkle is just lovely. So long and thick. And I bet it shoots for fuckin' miles when you're proper horny, right? Hmm? No? Nothing to say, for once? Well don't worry; I intend to find out just how well your winkle works, mate. I'm gonna make you beg for it, you understand? You're gonna be begging me to make you get off, and that moment's gonna haunt you for the rest of your ignorant life, you pathetic, big-dicked moron.”
Philip sat there, looking around the classroom as if he were thinking about the finer points of his exam answer, whilst he kneaded Rory's slowly lengthening, steadily thickening sausage. For his part, Rory made a few failed attempts at yanking his cuffed hand up and breaking either the metal handcuffs or the chair. After tiring himself out, and with an acute ache now running down his right arm, he gave up and instead allowed the queer he bullied to make his tummy flutter and his tinkle tingle.
Those flutters and tingles made him wonder whether this turn of events was an entirely bad one, given the pleasing sensations it elicited.
Once Rory's prick was stiff enough to properly yank on, Philip took great delight in doing exactly that; drawing back the long, droopy foreskin over the fresh, pink glans of the teenager, before forcefully tugging on the appendage, re-sheathing the rosy tip with folds of thick wrinkled skin.
After a few unrelenting pumps, Rory's dong, which was about average for his age but which Philip thought was luciously mature, with a pair of weighty, loaded balls beneath to entertain him still further, was as hard as it got, possessing the teenage rigidity of tempered steel.
Philip proceeded to jerk off the big, helpless oaf with ever increasing gusto, his hand only leaving the organ whenever he felt the need to twiddle the teenager's coolly damp, bloated nuts. For his part, Rory remained bent over the table, his auburn now head turned away from Philip and the class, looking at the wall at his left, no longer able to look across the room of classmates - but becoming increasingly accepting of his role in this covert lesson.
As the older boy succumbed to the ministrations of the younger, he slowly pushed and flexed his rounded buttcheeks along the rough padded surface of his chair, poking his irritable organ into the hand of his enemy. It wasn't ideal...but a hand is a hand, the boy reasoned, and the public situation did play into his predilection for dangerous sex. He also thought that if he could cum, maybe the ordeal would end.
But he soon realised that Philip had no intention of letting him 'get off' that easily. As he was approaching the magical point of no return, the younger boy cruelly stopped his melodic milking of the adolescent's burly teat.
Instead, Philip mercilessly toyed with him; using and abusing his new favourite straight toy, with his index finger idly drawing the stiff cock downward, until it was horizontal and red and stretched taut, before allowing the organ to catapult back up, 'thwacking' against the white shirt which covered Rory's stomach, boyish moisture darkening the cotton where the stout head impacted, and proceeded to lazily ooze.
He did this a few times, chuckling each time, like a kid with a yo-yo.
Philip reached for his pen, and began doodling on his answer sheet – doodling spurting cocks, appropriately enough – so that it wouldn't look to weird for him to also bring his head closer to the table upon which Rory's head rested – and his mouth closer to Rory's ear.
As he drew with his right hand, his left palmed and poked the juicy plums within Rory's plump nutsac. “This is a pretty apt metaphour for our relationship, ain't it?” said Philip as he yanked on the stocky teenager's balls, to drive the point home.
“Now you do remember what a metaphor is, right? 'Cos we're in English class, so I'm sure Mr. Guthrie wouldn't mind explaining it to ya'. Anyway; you were about ready to squirt all over my hand then, weren't you?”
“Man, you're too fucking easy. I thought a proper ladies man like you would be able to hold out! Sorry about stopping, mate. I know; it's a really dickish thing to do. It just occurred to me that your prick might be getting good and juicy – you know, from wanting to cum and everything – and I wouldn't want yer knob to start making that wet, sloshing noise whilst the exam's still going on. I mean, that'd be so fucking humiliating, right!”
The teenager dropped his light-hearted tone to add, “almost as humiliating as someone beating the crap out of you because of who you fancy. Right? Oh don't worry, Rory; I think it's pretty obvious by now that I'm not the sort of boy to hold grudges. That's all water under the bridge, mate. Now, it's all about you – you and your cock which, as I think I said earlier, I'm a little bit in love with.”
Philip dabbed his finger at the lad's pisshole as he whispered excitedly, “look, it's dripping and everything! Just as well that I stopped when I did; I didn't know you got so sloppy, so quickly...if you ask me, you're a few pumps away from sounding like a fat girl shovelling baked beans down her gob. I guess you must get off on this sort of thing? Right? The situation, or...the partner...?”
Philip wallowed in the silence.
“Still nothin'. I will say this for you Rory: you've got resolve. Resolve, and spunk. Oh yeah, I reckon you've got spunk, mate. I reckon you're fuckin' jam-packed with the stuff. And before this lesson ends, it's gonna be out of your body, and all over this fuckin' classroom.”
Philip and Rory – especially Philip – spent a few moments looking around the room, picturing such a scene in their minds. “Just ruminate on that, pal. Oh, and I hope you ain't planning on begging yet mate. I've got loads more planned for you. And speaking of loads; how much do you normally cum? I only ask 'cos I ain't ever fucked around with an older boy before, and if you cum lots more than usual, then I guess it means you really liked it, right? That's the sort of thing I'd like to note...no? Still nothing to say? Fair enough, mate. I don't know if I'd be happy discussing that sort of thing with a stranger. Even if the stranger was playing around with me nutsack.”
Philip continued to spend a few minutes getting to know the anatomy of his older charge's well packed crotch a little better; the gentle curve of his muscular inner-thighs; the steep, granite-like surface of his fiercely erect spike; the thatch of bouncy pubic hair at its base - the rippled flesh of his podgy bollocks.
After allowing Rory's need to breed to cool down to a mere simmer, Philip once more wrapped his hand around the boy's hot poker. “Just a test run to see how noisy you are,” said Philip as he drew his tightly clenched fist agonisingly slowly down the lad's ribbed cock flesh.
Rory's eyes rolled back in his head as he endured the sensation in silence. “There we go!” whispered a triumphant Philip, “I think so long as I jack you this slowly, you should be fine.”
There was a gentle 'thud' as Rory, out of frustration, smacked his head against the table it was resting on.
“Oh, I have an idea!” said Philip, almost immediately. “Well, I say 'idea'...I mean, I dunno if you'll like it too much. I could make you cum – really properly cum – and I wouldn't need to mess around too much with your potentially quite sloppy cock. But I'd have to put my finger up your arse. Probably more than one, actually. Whaddya think?”
Rory turned his head, still resting on the table, to look directly at Philip.
He shook his head.
Philip nodded soberly. “Yeah, well. I didn't particularly want to get a black eye, either. Shit happens, knob-end. Get used to it.”
Philip briefly sucked on one of the flavoursome fingers which had just been intimate with Rory's groin. Owing to the handcuffs forcing him to bend over the table before him, and the handy gap at the base of his chair's back – and of course, also owing to his missing trousers – Rory was ideally placed for what Philip had in mind, leaning forward in his chair, prone and defenceless to his weaker neighbour's amorous intentions.
Philip leaned back in his chair.
He looked fervently around the room for any indication that he was being watched. The teacher, now reading his book with his chair turned, facing the wall just to his right, might as well have been asleep.
Philip reached behind his prostrate neighbour, and silently slide his long, skinny second finger along Rory's defenceless, lightly haired boy-crack. After Rory emitted a slight, high-pitched hum in distress at the situation, Philip moved his finger onward and upward, zeroing in on his tormentor's spasmodic, virgin arsehole.
Rory emitted a pitiful, high-pitched squeak as Philip's slender digit breached the tight ring of muscle guarding his rectum. He kept up his musical hum as his brain adjusted to the writhing, worm-like force-of-nature now burrowing its way into his bowels.
Philip's lone finger slithered ever further upward...whenever Rory thought he could feel the ravenous digit at its maximum extent, seemingly poking at his stomach, or his kidneys, his arse would spasm and his hum would go up an octave as Philip would somehow find yet another inch of finger to jam up there.
Rory was almost grateful when Philip's assault appeared to finally peter out, with the younger boy's knuckles pressed into the soft, hairless cushion of Rory's muscular arse.
Alas, the assault was only just beginning. Rory, accustomed to physical pain, was just barely able to resist the all-encompassing urge to emit a carnal howl of pained pleasure as the experienced teenager beside him began to expertly finger-fuck the busty lad. Feeling like a whorish, cum-filled cow, Rory was unable to stop his athletic buttocks from churning and clenching and flexing as the feminine, sparkle-nail-polished finger within him waspishly romped across nether regions he previously never knew existed.
As Philip brought the demented teenager to still greater heights of pleasure when he began to gently and sympathetically diddle his raw prostate, he leant over to huskily, almost drunkenly drawl down his ear-hole, “am I doin' it right, mate? I know you do this to girls all the time, so feel free to give me any pointers; I'm guessin' your pussy's much the same as theirs.”
Rory's strong left hand gripped the far edge of his table as he almost jumped out of his seat, in response to Philip imperiously driving a second demonic digit into first the sweaty crack and then the humid interior of Rory's arse.
No longer able to contain the horribly blissful pleasure coursing through his body - unable to stop either the patient, painstaking, unending deep fucking he was receiving at one end, or the commensurate slobber of transparent boy juice it was producing at the other – Rory's defences crumbled, as he mewled a constrained, pathetic, childish soprano-whimper into the silent classroom.
Philip stopped thrusting his fingers into his neighbour's arse just before their teacher's gaze fell on them. Unfortunately, when faced with the choice of either withdrawing his fingers entirely, and temporarily giving up any power he held over Rory's body, or thrusting his fingers up to the hilt, and hoping nobody questioned why he was leaning back in his chair with his left arm seemingly disappearing down into the gap between himself and his neighbour...well.
Philip was always bound to choose the latter of those two options.
“HEGH,” Rory intoned, as if he were wretching.
This was quickly followed by the squinting teacher asking, “what was that?” Heads began to turn, as Rory continued to mash his face into the table, unable to respond.
“I think he's ill, sir,” said Philip definitively, his deeply entrenched fingertips delicately petting the subterranean fucknut located far within Rory's bowels.
“Well...is it anything serious?”
“Nah,” replied the student. “Reckon he just needs a good shit,” causing much chuckling around the room – especially when it became clear that Rory wasn't challenging his neighbour's assertion.
“Err, enough of that colourful language,” reprimanded the teacher. “If he's not very well, make sure he either sees the school nurse after class, or at least, that his parents are informed.”
“Don't worry sir; I'll make sure he gets the attention he needs after class.” Philip turned to Rory. “What do you think, Rory? You reckon your parents need to be told about this?”
The incoherent boy feverishly shook his head in the negative. “See? He's fine, sir. A trip to the toilets after class'll see him right; mark my words.”
The teacher thought for a minute, wondering if there was something he was missing. It was all very unusual... “yes, well. I think your nonchalance is somewhat misplaced, Philip. I mean...my God, is he sweating? He could have a fever, for all we know.”
Philip looked at the boy beside him. “Yeah. A fever. I 'spose he might. Well, like I say: I'll look after the big dope.”
“Sorry – I mean, special dope.”
“Ok, ok,” Philip turned to look at his neighbour. “I apologise, Rory. I didn't mean to imply that you were special. Now sir,” he said turning back to the teacher, “I really need to finish me exam.”
Mr Guthrie sighed. He couldn't understand why quite so many Year Nine's had insisted on taking his mock GCSE class today, and he really wished he didn't have to mark their papers...not only were they unlikely to be particularly interesting, but it was also unlikely to serve any purpose – only one of them, Nick, was on the list of prospective Year Nine's who might take their exams early.
But, he supposed that he shouldn't discourage interest in his subject, no matter where it came from.
“Yes, yes. Fine.”
After the teacher returned to his book, Philip briefly gave Rory's arse a few more rapacious pumps, sluicing into the straight lad's over-sensitised guts just because he could, before he finally withdrew his digits from his defiled backside.
At this point, Philip leant down to his backpack beneath the table, to get something out of it – when he was diverted by something far more mesmerising; Rory's thick leaky cock, standing proud in the darkened shadows of the world beneath the table.
Philip took the pledge he had just made to his teacher, very seriously. And as he licked his lips and gulped back the sudden jets of saliva saturating his mouth, he knew his place was here – taking care of this sixteen year old's most prized possession: his manly spike of stiff, peachy cock flesh. Peachy, and topped by a delectable crimson head; poking out from behind a wrinkly crown and glossy with vinegary carnal exertion...pulsing, it seemed to Philip, with a profound need, like a telegraph pole in the wind. 'My God', Philip thought; 'what sort of callous individual could resist helping a lad clearly requiring the sort of immediate assistance which I, as a gay male, can so competently provide?'
Rory didn't see things in quite the same way. As he saw his neighbour spending an increasingly noticeable amount of time beneath the table, it was obvious that something had caught his eye. It was equally obvious just what it was that had caught his eye. Rory gulped and began to shake as he realised that what indeed was his most prized possession was now at the mercy of his most formidable enemy: a young, campy queer with a fierce thirst to quench.
Acting before he thought – not even knowing if his head was fully obscured by the table – Philip leaned over to his still helplessly manacled partner and brazenly ran his tongue up the rigid flank of his beating cock, gripping the thick shaft with his fingers when his mouth stopped to nurse the silky tip, his eyes closed in contented bliss as he worked to acquire all the unctuous boyish sludge he could find there, his rapidly flicking tongue rambunctiously working the constipated crown in an effort to coax further adolescent discharge into his warm, suctioning mouth.
Rory, whose sexual experience was not as far-ranging as he liked to imply to his mates, could only take a few minutes of this sudden stimulation – and despairingly for him, just less than a few minutes was all he got.
The experienced pufter pulled away from his hissing snake just as soon as he detected the signs of impending orgasm. As he went back to searching his backpack, he gave Rory's uptight ballsack a few swift downward tugs, just to get him nice and settled again.
Returning to his seat, Philip reached his hand across the table to pick up Rory's unused fountain pen. He was oblivious to this; humiliated as he was, he looked at the wall beside him, his back to Philip.
“Rooor-ry,” Philip whispered into his ear, “Roooor-ry,” he repeated. “Wakie wankie, big fella. Look at me. Look at me, Rory...the sooner you look at me, the sooner this is over. And who knows, mate; maybe this'll all be over before the lesson ends, and you'll have time to pull yer trousers up? Eh?”
Rory laboriously turned his head, like a sullen grizzly bear at the zoo, so his head was still lying on the table, but looking at Philip.
“Good boy. Now, bite this.”
Philip held the pencil to Rory's mouth.
“Ah-ah-ah, Rory. No talkie. Keep your thoughts to yourself. Bite down on the pencil, and this'll soon all be over.”
Rory appeared to think for a few fleeting seconds, before visibly sighing, and opening his mouth.
“Smashing.” Philip delicately placed the pencil behind Rory's premolars, and held it there until the lad bit down on it. With his sullen face resting side-on on the table, a worried, furrowed brow and now a pencil in his mouth, he looked like a dejected little puppy, looking for a friend.
Alas, Philip was not destined to be this puppy's friend.
“I don't know about you, but I'm finding this cluttered table really inhibits my ability to finish this exam,” whispered Philip as he sucked on the cap of Rory's fountain pen, deep in thought. He removed the wet pen from his mouth.
“Oh, I know,” ha added, as he quickly and casually leaned over behind Rory's chair and rammed the wet plastic pen up his already abused sphincter, as if he were sliding a knife into his worst enemy's guts.
Rory squeaked in stunned, abject horror, biting down on the pencil, as he felt the strength of Philip's forearm cramming the pen forcefully and ever more deeply into his still-recovering arsehole.
“Ugh, ugh, ugh,” the 'sick' boy intoned as the hard, polished surface of the pen scraped along the internal tissues of his rectum.
Philip stopped pushing once the cap of the pen – about one and a half inches in length – was sited cleanly and evenly into his anus.
Finally noticing and hearing apparent distress from the back of the room, Mr. Gutherie casually looked over and enquired, “are you feeling sick,” in response to the rough lad's apparent heaving, and the worrisome baritone noises gurgling up from his stomach and past his throat.
After his exuberent chatting earlier in the exam, he wasn't sure he bought Rory's sudden bout of illness. It was very convenient for a boy who hated English and was required to attend this after-school session.
“Yesh,” Rory mumbled in response, spitting the pencil from his mouth.
“He can hold on a few minutes, Sir,” said a confident Philip. He turned to look directly at Rory as he said, in a message with more than one meaning, “we ain't got long. It's all nearly over. You can hold on til it's over, can't you Rory?”
Rory, now sweating profusely, burped, and nodded heavily.
“He really doesn't look well,” grumbled the frowning teacher.
“Yeah,” replied a sympathetic Philip, now sitting normally in his chair with his hand wrapped around Rory's roiling balls. “He'll feel loads better after he chucks up. Better out than in, I always say,” giving Rory's nuts a pointed squeeze.
The teacher grudgingly returned his concentration to his book. At which point, Philip reached back once more behind his anguished friend, and gave the pen a firm, merciless yank, removing it from the cap which remained lodged in its owner's straight, uncompromisingly tight-grip anus.
Philip began doodling once more on his answer sheet, as he surveyed the desk before him. “Much better,” he muttered. “Much less cluttered, I think. And thanks for letting me borrow your pen, mate.” Philip turned to look at Rory. “It seems to me we're fast becoming really good mates, mate. I'm sure you agree. But ya' know, good mates help each other out, don't they, mate? Do you want me to help you out, mate?”
Rory closed his eyes, shuddered, and nodded.
“What do you want me to do. Mate?”
Rory cleared his throat. “Stop,” he said, his voice thick with anger, humiliation, and need.
Philip chuckled. “Now, mate, 'stop' is the one thing you DON'T want me to do. If I stop, you're left like this for the whole world to see! So come on, let's try again, mate: what do you want me to do?”
Rory cleared his throat, and closed his eyes as he spoke. “I want...you...to stop, stop...doing...this. An',” his voice faltered, “an', Christ, Jesus fucking Christ an' all his poncy fuckin' angels, I just wanna fuckin' cum, man.”
Philip patted Rory on the shoulder. “There we go. That's what I wanted to hear. Feels good to say it, don't it?”
“Well, I'm sorry to hear that. But you know, if you want ME to help YOU, mate – well, you need to help me. I mean, that's how it works, right? Quid pro quo and all that?”
Philip reached for the zipper of his trousers. “Now, I want you to get your head down here, and suck on my cock for a bit.”
Rory gulped. “Nnnnnn-”
Philip smiled warmly as he reached into his sky-blue boxers. “You suck on my cock for a bit, or I'm gonna remove your cuffs, call Mr. Guthrie over, and tell him how you ASKED to suck my cock, but I said no, at which point you exposed yourself to me, revealing that great big lovely hard-on of yours. I'm 14, mate: you know what that means? That means doing that sort of thing with me is a crime. Like, a bad crime. It also means, that if you start tellin' everyone how I made you take your trousers off, nobody'll believe a word. See what I'm saying? Now, do this one thing, and it'll all be over. Mate.”
Rory looked into the middle distance.
“Five minutes, tops,” added Philip, as if that was some sort of compromise.
“You...you can't cum on me. Or...or down me.”
Philip was silently elated that the mentally distraught, sexually fractured teen was already arguing over the terms of his cock-sucking, and not the act itself. He chuckled. “Mate, I ain't gonna cum inside of five minutes. What d'ya think I am? A virgin? And what d'ya think you are? Some sort of cock-sucking aficionado? I've had more good blowjobs than you've had hot dinners. I think I'll be able to endure your poor effort.”
“Why are you so...fucking...horrible,” he said forlornly.
“Me? You're the horrible one, Rory. You started all this. I'm just a teenager with a vendetta...boys can be so unpleasant when they're angry, can't they? Maybe you'll remember that next time you fuck with me, mate. Now get down there and pay the fucking piper, son.”
Rory looked down to see that Philip's erect prick was hanging out of his trousers, with the younger lad slouching down into his chair so that his groin was now completely obscured by the table.
Rory still looked as though he was going to vomit, as he stared, wide-eyed, at the skinny, boyish cock this puff intended to shove down his throat.
“Here ya' go; have a practice run.” Philip held out his middle finger, just below the horizon of the table, between himself and Rory. “Suck on that for a bit. It's the same thing, more-or-less.”
Rory, knowing that this HAD to end in 15 minutes, hoped that sucking on his stupid finger might at least eat into the time which was apparently reserved for him to suck on Philip's cock.
Reluctantly, he bowed his head, and slid the finger into his mouth. “Wrap your tongue around it, and throw in lots of spit. Do what girls do. There ya go. That ain't too bad, is it?”
Rory closed his eyes as he found himself sucking, like an infant, on Philip's stickily damp, ripe finger.
After a few minutes of this, Philip added airily, “you're a star, mate. And just think; that finger was just now rooting around your arsehole – there ain't no way my cock is gonna taste THAT bad.”
Rory spat the digit out of his mouth, and coughed loudly.
Before the teacher could even say anything, Philip was ready. “I'm just lookin' for some cough drops for him now, sir. Don't worry, I'm looking after him.”
After Rory had recovered and the teacher returned, shaking his head, to his book, he and Philip sat in silence, Philip looking at his glistening finger.
“Ten minutes til the end of the exam, mate. I wonder what everyone will say when they see what you've got stuck up your arse...of course, there is a way to avoid all that. Nobody need know about any of this...”
He slowly shook his head one final time. It was obvious that his brain was broken; his opposition was invariably ebbing, in favour of avoiding the shame of his friends finding out about this.
Philip put his hand on his shoulder as he turned and said to him, “it ain't personal. Ok? I don't WANT a blowjob from you. It ain't gonna be any fuckin' good; I know that. This is about getting you to leave me alone; punishing you. In order to get you. To leave me alone. Understand? Now just fuckin' do it, go home, and make sure you leave me alone.”
Rory gulped, unable to take his eyes off the younger boy's dick as he, whilst remaining in his chair, gingerly lowered his head to his neighbour's crotch, turning and bending his body over to his right.
As he got closer, he found it more desirable to tightly close his eyes. But even then, he couldn't ignore the dank stink emanating from Philip's groin, and infusing his nostrils with the scent of boy-dick.
He did his best to ignore the abrasive sensations these movements caused within his colon, as that Parker pen-lid rudely scraped along the delicate paint-work of his insides.
Whilst he was doing his best to ignore it, his boystuff had no such compunctions, as his sexually fattened spunk factories continued to force his organ to pulse tantalisingly with the demand for release, droplets of attention-seeking syrup once more basting the restless knob with tingly, aggravating moisture, with the inevitable excess dribbling down the iron-hard shaft.
But Rory had other things to worry about. When his head was in the vicinity of Philip's crotch, Philip slid a comforting hand around the inexperienced boy's bullish neck, and directed the exposed glans of his prick to his uncharacteristically shy mouth.
Rory quietly whimpered in distress when, his eyes still closed, the sensitive cock tip grazed his puffy pink lips. Philip looked down on him, as a few droplets of his pre-jizz christened the straight boy's lips with a queer tang he knew he would never forget.
Rory opened his mouth as wide as he could whilst Philip pushed on his neck, the rest of the world melting into staid oblivion for the two boys as sixteen year old Rory's befuddled big head was slowly skewered on fourteen year old Philip's triumphant teen prick.
As the prick docked within his face, Rory kept his mouth wide, in an effort to avoid 'touching' Philip, but he was powerless to prevent the turgid poker from snuggling into the soft, apathetic embrace of his limp tongue, his taste bud's flooding with the unique, musky taste of his queer nemesis. The organ, like a slow-moving slug, slowly slid a slimy course of conquest across a tongue more accustomed to the fishy tang of a young girl's pus-pus, and struggling to accept the far darker, muskier prong currently winding its way down his gullet.
As the cock dawdled across the undulating surface of Rory's now uncontrollably flexing, instinctively gulping tongue, it deposited little gems of salty flavouring which would be the stuff of nightmares for Rory, for years to come.
Horrible, wet, confusing nightmares.
Philip stopped pushing once he felt the lips of his neighbour pressing down onto the scratchy material of his black school trousers, but he kept a firm hold of his neck, to hold him like that so Philip could enjoy the moment, in which his peers were all fiercely scribbling their answers, whilst he was getting a blowjob.
Although, to say he was getting a 'blowjob' is something of an exaggeration. Rory's mouth was frozen, and the only stimulation Philip received came from the straight Year 11 boy's nervously gulping tongue forcing the muscle to inadvertently dance along Philip's cock, and the drops of saliva that would occasionally trickle down and deliciously wind their way along the surface of his cock.
“Mate, your spit's better at giving a blowjob than you are.” Philip unceremoniously pulled Rory's head up, his wet tongue slithering along the surface of his dick, before pushing him back down onto his organ, only stopping when the wet knob-end was being tickled by the back of Rory's mouth. Philip did this a few times, and really got into it by thrusting his skinny, boyish hips up into the sports-mad straight lad's face – not so much as an exercise of sexual enjoyment, but as an exercise of primal, sexual dominance. Rory remained bent over his neighbour's crotch, taking all this abuse like the useless bitch he now was, quietly, hesitantly, deliriously moaning around Philip's cock as he struggled to breathe.
“Be thankful I ain't pissing on ya',” Philip hissed to his defeated foe, “because let's be honest, you goofy cock-muncher, I fuckin' could and you wouldn't bloody say a thing, would ya'?”
Before long, and knowing he didn't have much time left, Philip resorted to pulling Rory's head up and holding him there by the scruff of his hair, so that just his excitable dickhead rested on the lad's tongue, before fiercely jacking himself off.
Philip was so primed, that all it took was a few seconds of rabid stroking before he shot off; his load filling Rory's mouth with hot, salted spunk straight from the oven, his balls contracting and roiling as they threw everything they had at the older, supine teen.
Rory initially recoiled, but Philip held him, whispering down at him, “don't move a muscle, big fella; I'd hate for my load to go all over your face, or your uniform. Pretty tricky to explain, huh?” Rory fearfully looked up at Philip through his big, innocent eyes as the younger lad emptied three days worth of spunk onto the elder's spasming tongue.
“Thaaat's it; just take it like a good lad. There's more comin', mate; you'll have to gulp down what's in your mouth, or it'll go everywhere,” Philip spoke as if he were a mother comfortingly asking their child to finish up their porridge. Scrunching his face up in horror, Rory fulfilled his role as the recalcitrant boy, hoping to avoid the porridge but knowing mother won't let him.
His Adam's Apple bobbed up and down as he chewed and gulped down the clogged up contents of Philip's sperm sacs. “That's it; gulp it down. Nearly over, now.”
Soon, it was over.
Philip slumped back into his chair whilst Rory remained below, his face in Philip's crotch, initially eager not to reveal himself to the room. But he slowly gathered up the courage to extract himself from beneath the table.
As he was getting himself settled back into his chair, looking around, Philip muttered “oh yeah; forgot about yer pen. Don't want the nib to dry out, right?”
Reaching once more behind him, he slammed the pen tightly into the cap, still lodged within Rory's anal canal, forcing the pen another inch or so up the boy's battered backside.
Rory sat bolt-upright in his chair. What with his right hand still being cuffed, he nearly dislocated his right shoulder from the force of his sudden movement. His left hand planted itself on the white wall to Rory's left, in an effort to steady his bulky frame as he hyperventilated from the need to scream, shit and shoot.
Without giving him time to process all the sensations now flooding his overworked synapses, Philip gripped the lad's big, sweaty prick, once more flexing under its own steam as it desperately sought some frictive soothing, and resolved to give the poor, straight lug what he so pathetically craved.
Rory was shell-shocked. Beaten into submission with a succession of mental right-hooks, he was now too docile to object to this new humiliation. He shuddered as he thought back an hour; to when he thought getting jacked off by the puff might be a bit of forgettable fun. Now, he saw it for what it was: the final exclamation point in a wave of indignities; his reward, for being a good widdle boy.
Rory simply sat, looking straight ahead, his head wobbling from the force of his neighbour's forceful, brash tugging, as he was perfunctorily wanked off under the table. Like the good widdle boy he was, he sat, and he patiently waited. Waited for the younger lad to gift him with a sweet, crisp orgasm; a good, hard cum; his prize for enduring.
A final reward, and a final humiliation.
Initially, Philip worked Rory's primed sausage good and proper, his hand feeling like soothingly rough sandpaper as it traversed the landscape of Rory's pinky, stinky, tormented prick and his purply, burpy, bloated bellend. But disgustingly, Philip's hand began to slow as he leant over and whispered, “you know what you have to say.”
Rory visibly shook as Philip's hand slowed to a crawl; polishing the knob with Rory's own sloppy handy-dandy fuck juice.
The boy closed his eyes and doubled over, his left knee coming up to press against the edge of the table in frustration.
“Jack me off,” he mumbled.
Philip's hand left Rory's cock, gathered up a handful of crinkly nut flesh, and yanked on his nuts three times, as if he were pulling on the lead of an unruly dog. “That wasn't really begging, was it?”
“P-please, fucker, for fuck's sake, please jack me off.”
Philip's hand was a blur as it frigged his neighbour's needy sex trumpet, carousing up and down the rigid flesh with a demonic insistence. Sure enough, there were a few long seconds during which the sloppy flesh of Rory's cock was audible to the room – producing a beet-red face from Rory, and a few titters from those nearby – most notably, the members of Gay Club, who knew precisely what was going on. To the uninitiated, it no doubt sounded awfully similar to the sound of of a cock being tugged...but they were equally certain that there was no way it could be THAT; not here, in a classroom.
It didn't take long. Rory was unable to cope with the transition from such slow, tortured masturbation to such a sudden frenzy of activity, his rampant, angry gonads electrified with unrestrained sensation, his brain flooding with awareness-dampening endorphins which helped to once-and-for-all kill off his skitterish reluctance.
So after a few more moments of methodical stroking, Rory gurgled a stifled cry, gripped the table edge with his one good hand, and finally, blissfully emptied his fat balls into the space beneath the table.
Philip kept his protective hand on Rory's strident todger, jacking him ever-so-slowly as he felt the teenager's thick nut-sauce rocket up the shaft again, and again, just imagining the jizz-storm going on beneath the table.
As over-active as it was, Philip's imagination wasn't too far from the reality: greasy pellets of white-hot spunk catapulted themselves out of Rory's enraptured shotgun-like weapon, showering the back of the 'art project' and the underside of the table with pearly strings of schoolboy jizz.
Struggling to maintain his sedate composure in the face of such maddeningly harmonious boy-assisted squirting, Rory's athletic, trainered feet wrapped themselves tightly around the front legs of his chair as his bulky body, still sitting in the chair, somberly rippled and quaked with each forced shot of spunk beneath the table; his half-lidded eyes staring into the middle distance as he became drunk on the pleasing fuck-tickle welling up from his nuts.
Saliva seeped from the corner of the lad's mouth, sliding down his chin as, at last, the explosive expulsion of every drip of moisture in Rory's congested nuts came to a satisfying end.
Philip realised this to be the case when he felt the final couple of blasts; the first, cascade his gripping fist with juicy gobbets of dripping, followed by Rory's final, manful emission as thick rivulets of pulpy teen angst drooled over the entirety of his hand. Philip squeezed the boy's cock as hard as he could, both in satisfaction, and to force out the final globules of musky kid-dressing.
As the air of the classroom became infused with the acrid stink of more than one teenage boy's sex gravy – one load of which was now swimming around Rory's tum-tum - the teacher put his book down, swapped over his glasses, and called for the end of the mock exam.
The room was a sudden flurry of activity, although Rory remained rooted to his chair, as if he were slipping into a comforting coma.
Philip looked around the room, absent-mindedly bringing his hand up to his mouth as he did so, lazily sucking the thick paste from his fingers as he threw the key to the handcuffs at Rory. “Aww,” he said, “that's a shame. Looks like you didn't have time to pull up yer trousers after all.”
Suddenly, David was beside the table. “How'd the exam go.”
“You fucker,” said a still panting Rory to David, scrambling to pull up his trousers. “You stupid queer fucker. This was all your fucking idea, was it? So fucking help me God, I will get you back for this.”
Ignoring him, David asked Philip, “how'd he taste?”
“Better than you might imagine.”
“Well, no not really. I mean, taste's like jizz, don't it? But it represents the salty taste of victory, and that makes it sweet. Very sweet indeed.”
As the other two boys frowned at this, Philip turned to Rory. He continued to suck the boy's finger-licking good cream from his digits as he said, “and it wasn't David's idea. It wasn't mine, either. It was somebody else’s. There's more than just me and David, see. A lot more. And if you have any sense, you'll do your best to put this incident behind you.”
Philip reached down to get his bag and pack his things away. As he did so, what felt like a drop of rain plopped into his hair. Slowly craning his head upward, he saw the result of Rory's torrential spunk shower, still hanging from the underside of the table like thawed, stinky icicles. The back of the 'art project', no doubt in direct line-of-fire for the randy teen, shimmered with the translucent glow of wasted jizz, and the warm air stank of starchy, musky chlorine.
Still beneath the table, Philip's hand rubbed Rory's thigh as he said up to the others, “wow, this boy can cum fuckin' buckets! It's like a winter wonderland down here! And, um, we...we can never sit here again. This table's fuckin' totalled.”
Philip reappeared with his bag – and his digital camera, from which he was wiping off droplets of spunk. “What the fuck is that?” asked Rory.
Philip, predominantly focussed on the buttons he was pressing on the device, replied angrily, “this? What's this? This, my good friend, is one expensive digital camera, stained with your spunk. How am I supposed to explain this stickiness to my mum when she wants to take a picture of me next month when I appear in this school's production of Cinderella as one of the Ugly Sisters?”
David said in response, “mate, she'd probably be grateful if you just didn't ask her this year. I've never seen a picture of you you're happy with.”
Only Rory seemed interested in the obvious question. “Camera...digital camera? What...what's it doing in your bag? That – hang on – THAT WASN'T JUST TAKING PICTURES WAS IT?”
Philip chuckled. “No of course not you silly sausage. It wasn't taking pictures.”
Rory breathed a little easier.
“It was taking a video.”
“F-F-F-For FUCKS SAKE-”
“Got it for Crimbo. I thought I'd turn it on when I decided you were going to give me a blow-job.”
As Rory sat open mouthed, David filled the awkward silence by asking Philip quietly, “ooooh, how was his blow-job?”
“Absolutely awful. He wouldn't close his mouth, so I kinda had to fuck his face for a bit. And it ended up taking way too long, so I had to jack off down his gob, lol.”
David chuckled. “Well, it's his first time!”
“Yeah.” Philip turned to Rory and pulled on his cheek as if he were a baby, “don't worry, you'll get lots more practice now we're such good mates, mate.”
“You- ok. You, delete whatever's on that thing, right now, or I'm gonna delete it for you.”
Rory's last stand at controlling the situation was understandable, but misplaced. Philip replied, “okie dokie, mate – whatever you say. But I have accidentally just emailed the video to all the people involved in our little conspiracy, so I don't know what deleting it from the camera would really accomplish...oh, hang on. I shouldn't of done that, should I? Ah well. Like I say, don't worry. I mean, we're mates now, right? I wouldn't do anything to make a mate feel uncomfortable.”
David chipped in, “at least, not in a social sense – he's no problem making your arse feel uncomfortable.”
“Oh, he already know's that, dear. Speaking of which; where's that pen?”
Rory, staring at his two tormentors, produced the pen – minus the cap. “Ah. Well. If you don't get the cap, mate, that pen'll go dry.”
As if things weren't bad enough for Rory, Andrew suddenly appeared. “Alright fellas? Has my art project dried yet?!”
“Err, not...as such.”
Andrew was most displeased when he realised that his project, far from being dry, was actually wetter then when he'd first made it.
Thankfully, Rory was open to suggestions on how he could make it up to him...so long as it meant this little incident was kept quiet, of course.
Andrew decided that really, it wasn't the end of the world – in fact, in a certain light, Rory's spunk stains could themselves serve as his art project. Andrew, David and Philip all readily agreed that the older boy's silvery cum on the black background looked eerily reminiscent of the ethereal nature of true happiness in our modern consumer society – seemingly observable, but always just out of reach.
The only problem, of course, was that Andrew would need more of the older boy's spunk to complete the project to his liking. Philip insisted that he be on hand, to ensure maximum output from the sixteen year old's beleaguered ballsack.
Rory wasn't happy to oblige...but oblige, he did.
And so began the opening chapter of Fuck Club.