[The confessions of this bully filled the bulk of issue 12 (Sept/Oct 1989). Bullies are terrible and terrifying when you’re young and weak; but sometimes when you’re older, in a safer place where you can remember them in tranquillity, the memories of what they did to you and made you do to them, or wish they’d done to you and made you do to them, will nourish your secret fantasy world. Here’s the first part of this bully’s story, in which he learns a lot of things that will lead to his development as a bully.]
I was brought up in middle class England, about 35 miles from London, and had to find out all about things sexual for myself. We lived in a "nice" house, separated from the house next door by a narrow alley. My bedroom was on the alley side, and faced the spare bedroom of the other house. Since that bedroom was empty, I always slept with my curtains drawn back.
One day, shortly after I turned 12, a boy maybe two or three years older than me came to visit the family next door. I watched him playing in the yard all day, fascinated by his build. I didn't think he'd noticed me.
I'd gone to bed with the curtains drawn back as usual and was fast asleep when the light in the bedroom across the way was switched on. Suddenly I was wide awake and looking through the window. The lad proceeded to put on a performance for me, stripping down and playing with himself. This may have gone on for as long as an hour. I had always assumed that since I was in a darkened room nobody could see me, but I discovered he really was putting on the show for my benefit when suddenly he spoke to me, showing me he not only knew I was there but knew I was awake and watching. I was completely spellbound. I opened my window wide when he suggested it, so that, by using some old planks, he was able to climb into my room.
During that night, and the next three, my education in things sexual advanced by leaps and bounds. I did know how to wank but had learnt only from listening to older lads talking, and then experimenting on my own equipment secretly, in bed and in the toilet. He was the first person I watched cum, and instead of my few watery drops, he produced large quantities of thick liquid in what seemed an inexhaustible supply. I can remember that his first climax had been in his room but he came again only a few moments after climbing across. Then he came later over my crotch and explained that, if I rubbed it in, I would grow many more hairs "like him." After that, he showed me how to climax into my hand and lick it up "so you won't be caught." He came over my face yet again and made me rub it in. I cannot remember why.
That was the activity on the first night during which we spent a couple of hours together. I was a more than willing pupil and in the course of the next three days was only too keen to learn that:
• It is nicer to sleep nude.
• It is nice to let others pee on you.
• It is fun to suck strangers' cocks.
• You can make a lot of money by visiting public toilets and that you can always get in to the cinema free if you wear short shorts and no underwear.
• It is not at all wrong to fuck other boys or to let older boys fuck you—but you should never let a weaker boy "do" you.
• Nothing sexual should be rejected as wrong or dirty until it has been tried.
He taught me not only by practical demonstration and experiment, but also through a collection of drawings which would have graced these pages if the artwork had been as good as the ideas. These drawings covered all sorts of things far beyond those which we could do in our bedrooms. I remember seeing a drawing of a boy tied up and whipped, and another of a lad with his balls in a vise. He was unable to protest because he was gagged with his own underpants.
I became hooked on fantasies of bondage and torture, and of owning slaves. I moreover was wanked, sucked and even peed on and returned the favours. I also fucked my instructor but the reverse proved impossible!
He left and we never met again so I was left to my thoughts which seemed likely to remain just thoughts forever! I used to bicycle around visiting the local toilets to read the "stories" on the walls. Unfortunately, I was far too scared to do more than wank while reading them in spite of the things I had learnt from my neighbour. This led to fantasies but no action. Indeed, nearly always when I heard a person enter the toilet next door I would try to flee! There were a couple of occasions when I stayed, but that was because it seemed far more "dangerous" to leave.
I remember listening the first time to one boy being fucked — unfortunately (to me) quite willingly. I could see little of the action through the very small hole between the stalls, but I used my imagination and shot almost without touching myself.
The second time was much more interesting, and not only because of much larger holes in the door and the toilet wall. Two men came in with a lad who was obviously far less willing, a lad I recognised as an older boy at school. They proceeded to pull his trousers right off (he had nothing on underneath). Then they used a belt on his backside.
They did not realise I was there so I stayed very still and quiet, watching through a small hole in the door. Soon the boy was in tears and they put him, now completely naked, in the cubicle next to mine, tied his hands to the water pipe and left the toilets. They came back after what seemed like hours later (naturally, I was still there) and told him that next time he came over after school he better have cum up his arse. The boy was in tears and I built yet more fantasies about why he let them treat him like that.
This was a particularly important development in my young life. Unfortunately, as it turned out, I had no way to use my knowledge or to get the whole story, for shortly afterwards the boy was involved in another incident. He was publicly birched for "gross indecency" and expelled from school. My friends and I had no idea what "gross indecency" meant. We knew that "indecency" meant wanking. I never even considered that the earlier incident might have provided a clue. At the time, "gross" either meant fat and ugly or 144, and neither made sense.
Public corporal punishment was quite rare at our school. It did not happen more than twice a term and was normally given to a boy of our age group, not a 19 year old. And it was almost invariably given with a cane onto a gymshort-clad backside.
This time it was a very different matter. The boy came in wearing just P.E. singlet and shorts, not even gymshoes. He had to take off his shirt while we avidly watched. There must have been hundreds of pairs of eyes glued to his body; the masters were also sitting there as usual round the stage. There were two ropes hanging down from the stage loft. They had loops of rubber which were fastened round his wrists. On the floor there were two similar ropes, and after his shorts had been quickly taken off, his feet were tied stretched wide apart. Our headmaster, who took us for gym, and who had been in the commandos during the war, was no weakling. I remember that he was dressed in his P.E. kit. I tried to see the boy's sexual equipment, but he was so tied that even when he was struggling his back was kept toward us.
We were then given a long lecture of which we understood nothing because we did not know what he had done. The sentence was then read out: 24 strokes of the birch, followed by expulsion. He was asked if he had anything to say. His voice was strangely tense as he asked the headmaster to get it over with quickly. I don't think he could have known how it was to hurt.
The birches that were used (4 of them) all looked the same. They were a little over three feet long, each "birch" consisting of a number of silver birch branches tied together. It was spring and I still remember noting that some still had buds and some were still green. My form, which was the youngest present, sat as in all assemblies in the front row and we were splattered with these buds and with little twigs, and I and a few others proudly counted the two or three spots of blood on our thighs.
I noticed that, just before the punishment finished, the headmaster got a damp patch on his trousers over the crotch but I had cum twice during the proceedings and had therefore lost interest.
Some of my pals and I spent hours discussing this punishment. It was a major topic of conversation, for while we often saw our classmates get beaten, this had happened to so much older a boy, and had been so much more severe. I was particularly interested in the ropes that had been used.
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