Before I start this, I want to get one thing straight, right from the off, I am not a homosexual! I think you'll agree when you read how things went that I was just a victim of circumstances and none of it was my fault. My name is Julian and the first time that I can remember anything happening was when I was a normal, happy-go-lucky twelve-year- old boy. Well, actually, I was eleven years old and ten months but that's as good as twelve isn't it?

It was a Friday night and my dad was having a party, I can't recall the reason but it was for some royal event and there were half a dozen of his work mates in the front lounge. The front lounge was only ever used for special occasions and the last time that it had been used was for my mum's funeral when I was five. The room was full of cigarette and pipe smoke, and there were crates of bottled beer in the corner. I was in the living room watching the television, I was in my striped pyjamas but I was being allowed to stay up as it was a special occasion.

About nine o'clock my dad popped his head round the door and told me it was time for bed. I reluctantly turned the television off and went into the front lounge to say goodnight to everyone. 'Uncle' Stan, who was my favourite, lifted me up on to his knee and gave me a goodnight kiss and a cuddle. Each of the other men kissed me in turn and then off I went up the stairs to my bedroom. It was difficult to get to sleep.

Downstairs they were playing records on the gramophone and every time the lounge door opened the noise swelled out. I lay in the dark staring at the pattern on the curtains. I heard the lounge door open again and then I heard the creak of footsteps on the stairs. I heard the toilet door open and close and then heard the flush of the toilet. I lay there waiting to hear the stairs creak as the man went back downstairs, but I didn't hear any, instead my bedroom door opened and I saw the shape of a man silhouetted by the landing light. I recognised it as 'Uncle' Stan. He came in and sat on the edge of my narrow bed.

"How would you like another goodnight kiss?" he whispered to me, and before I could answer, he leant down and kissed me full on my mouth. I had never been kissed on the lips before and it felt sort of strange, but before I could react, I felt his hand creeping beneath the sheet and then he was exploring the front of my pyjama bottoms and his fingers found the opening and he began to fondle my dickie. It was exciting. That's all that I can say. I was distracted by him kissing me but both his kissing and his fondling were exciting. Then the noise from downstairs flared up again as someone else came out of the lounge, and 'Uncle' Stan quickly and quietly stood up and left the bedroom. It's difficult today to put into words the effect that all this had on me. I lay awake feeling pleased and, if I'm honest, flattered, that a grown man liked me that much.

When I woke up in the morning at first I thought it must have all been a dream. Beneath the sheet I fondled my dickie but it just wasn't the same. It was nice and my dickie got stiff but it was a bit like trying to tickle yourself, it just didn't work the same as when someone else did it to you. All that Saturday it was on my mind and I thought of telling Dad but I wanted it to be my special secret. On Sunday morning after Dad had got up I went into his bedroom. I climbed up onto the big double bed that faced the wardrobe with its full-length mirror. I stood up and took off my pyjamas. I looked at my naked reflection and considered my body and what about it that attracted 'Uncle' Stan so much. To me it what just a typical young boy's body, slim, hairless, with small nipples and a little dickie.

As I stood there, Dad came in and I turned round and asked him, "Dad, am I pretty?" and he laughed and said, "Of course you are my little turnip!" and he gave me a playful slap across my bottom with his rolled up Sunday newspaper. "Now get dressed and come down for breakfast."

I wondered why, if dad thought I was so pretty, why didn't he kiss and fondle me just like 'Uncle' Stan had. Every Friday night used to be ''bath night' and dad used to bathe me when I was little, but when I got to ten he said I was old enough to bath myself, but I missed the feeling of his hands rubbing the soap all over me, especially down there.

By Monday morning as I got dressed for school, I had made a plan. It wasn't much of a plan but then I was only nearly twelve and it seemed a cunning plan to me. When school finished at four o'clock, instead of walking straight home, I took a detour that took me down Harefield Street, which was where 'Uncle' Stan lived. When I got to his house, I loitered around on the other side of the road, hoping that he would see me and maybe invite me in. There was no sign of life and his car wasn't there and I realised that he must be at work. I hung around anyway.

In my plan, Stan spots me and invites me in for a glass of lemonade. He sits me on his knee and gives me a cuddle and then he kisses me. While he kisses me, he puts his hand into my pants and gets my dickie stiff. That was the extent of my 'plan', I had no idea what might have happened after that. Anyway, after a while I got cold and fed up and walked home disappointed. I did the same thing on Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday but on Friday afternoon it was pouring down with rain and I ran straight home. Now if I was a real queer boy I wouldn't have let a bit of rain put me off, would I?

o

Two months later it was my birthday and then it was Christmas so I had other things to occupy my mind other than my dickie. And that was the way things stayed until the spring and the warm weather returned. The winter clothes went away and shorts and summer clothes came out of the drawer. Every Saturday morning we (that is me and the other kids in our street) went either to the public swimming baths if it was cloudy, or to the playground in the park if it was sunny. On this particular Saturday morning it was sunny but they all decided to go to the baths, but by now I had devised another plan and I said that I couldn't go and instead I made preparations to go to the park. Before I left the house, I put on a t-shirt, and a pair of white shorts. I hadn't worn the shorts for ages because they were very short and flimsy but they were also ideal for my clever plan.

There was a long walk from the park gates through bushes and trees until you got to the open park and the children's playground. At the playground there were no kids there that I knew, and they were all having fun on the climbing frames, on the swings and roundabouts and on the slides and see-saws. Around the perimeter of the park there was a path and there were park benches every so often. I followed the path until I was a fair distance from the playground but still within sight of it and sat on a bench. Even though I was 12 my feet didn't quite touch the ground, I wasn't particularly short but neither was I the tallest boy in the class. It was the same on the bus, my feet swung short of the floor and I couldn't wait to get a bit taller. Behind me there were rhododendron bushes and I could see anyone approaching from either direction along the path. Being within sight of the crowded playground made me feel safer, that was part of my plan. And there I sat and waited.

Now listen, I know that I wasn't supposed to talk to strangers but no-one had ever told me why, I always thought it must be in case I met a mad axe-man or something.

Several people went past, some walking their dogs. I had pulled my shorts up to show off my bare thighs when I was suddenly struck by a big flaw in my plan. I was shocked and couldn't believe that I had been so stupid. I had underpants on! Underpants could stop anyone from fondling my dickie. There was only one thing for it. I got up off the bench and sneaked into the rhododendron bushes. I quickly removed my shorts and then got my underpants off. Being naked in the open air was a sort of a thrill but I quickly put my shorts back on. I had no pockets to put my underpants in so I rolled them up and buried them beneath a pile of leaves. Then I went back to the bench. After a bit my heart stopped beating.

Then suddenly out of nowhere a man appeared next to the bench. He hadn't come along the path from either direction so it was a mystery. I didn't dare look at him, I just glanced sideways and saw his coat and trousers, I kept my eyes down, concentrating on my bare thighs. Then he sat down next to me, and I don't mean just 'next to me', he was so close that our bodies were touching. I remember my heart was beating like a drum and I thought I might run away.

"Hello," he said, "what's your name?"

"Toby," I lied. Toby was the name of the next-door-neighbours' dog, but it was the first name that I could think of.

"That's a nice name for a pretty young boy," he replied. "How old are you Toby?"

"Almost thirteen," I said.

His voice was soft and sort of high pitched, a bit like Mr Tomkins who ran the sweet shop, but I still didn't look at him.

"I remember when I was thirteen," he said, "and I used to come and play in this very same park. And I used to wear shorts just like you, but my legs were never as pretty as yours. I like boys who wear shorts and have lovely thighs, and you do have lovely thighs, don't you Toby?"

My mouth was so dry I couldn't say anything, so I didn't, I just sat there like a dummy.

"It's not so warm today, are your legs cold?" and he placed his hand on my bare knee.

A shiver ran through my dickie at his touch.

"Those lovely legs need warming up," he said. And he began to slowly run his hand up and down my thigh. I had my thighs pressed tight together and then he said, "Why don't you open your legs wide Toby, so I can see and feel the insides of your beautiful, plump thighs?"

I didn't mind him doing that, but what I really wanted was for him to touch my dickie, but I parted my knees as wide as I could, because I realised that he couldn't get to my dickie with my thighs tight shut. He started rubbing his hot, heavy hands up and down my thighs, each time his fingers getting closer to my stiff dickie but never quite reaching it. And then his little finger went under the leg of my flimsy shorts and made contact. It was like an electric shock and I had to shut my mouth tight to stop from squealing out.

And then a woman came along the path pushing a pram. The man quickly withdrew his hand and I just as quickly closed my legs and lowered the hem of my shorts. To be honest, I could have screamed at the woman, she had spoiled my plan just as it was going to work. So as soon as she had gone, I spread my thighs wide and hitched up my shorts so much that my dickie was exposed. It was small and pink and hairless, of course, and though quite stiff, its head was still sort of hidden. The man gave a sigh like he was letting out his breath and I know how he felt because I was holding my breath too.

"What a darling little cocklet!" the pervert exclaimed, and his hot, heavy hand returned to pinch my dickie between his finger and thumb. He rolled it around and stretched it and I was squirming with the thrill of it all.

"You are a wicked little boy," he said, "but I love you." Having said that, he took my hand and guided it toward his thing which he must have pulled out with his other hand. Now this was definitely not part of my plan. I glanced over and saw that he had his cock out, and it was big and bloated and sticky and horrid! Before he could put my hand on it, I dragged my hand back and leapt off the bench. I took to my heels and like Tommy used to say, I was out of there like 'spit off a hot shovel'. Now I had never seen spit '"off a hot shovel' but that was me and I didn't stop running until I reached the safety of the playground. Panting and out of breath, I turned around to make sure he wasn't chasing after me. The man was stood up next to the bench and he was waving something at me. Whatever it was it was white and I suddenly recognised what it was, it was my underpants! Afterwards I realised that he must have been in the rhododendron bushes all the time, he must have been spying on me when I stripped off my undies and seen where I had buried them, and that was why he had appeared so mysteriously. Now I felt stupid and decided my plan hadn't been so clever after all.

I think a real homo boy would not have run away at the sight of a man's big cock, so I was just a normal boy looking for a bit of fun.

o

There is this saying 'Thirteen is unlucky for some' but thirteen wasn't unlucky for me; in fact, thirteen was the best year of my life so far. First of all, I got a bike for my birthday and I forgot all about my dickie, well, almost forgot. The bike was red with drop handle bars and racing tyres, and it seemed to me that I was the fastest, freest boy in the world. No more walking for me, no more getting the bus to town, nowhere was out of my reach.

Anyway, every Sunday morning I had to go to Sunday school, which I really hated. The Sunday school was a long, low wood cabin that smelled of creosote and inside there were rows of pews like in a real church and it was gloomy and so boring being taught about God and religion. Anyway now that I had my bike I could cycle there but on this particular morning I decided not to go. The Sunday school was at the start of Mackets Lane. Mackets Lane ran through farmers' fields, then through the woods and then ended up at the cliff top by the river. But years ago there had been a cliff-fall and a man had been killed and so they had built a concrete barrier where Mackets Lane entered the woods with a sign saying 'Danger. No Trespassing'. So when I got to the Sunday school I just carried on pedalling. I thought I might climb the barrier and explore the woods.

When I got there I saw a lot of car tyre marks and the ground was covered with used tissues, maybe there was an outbreak of 'flu. I locked my bike up and climbed over the stone wall. And then I made the discovery of my life. In among the bushes I spotted something colourful and glossy and then I saw that it was a magazine. But not just any magazine, this was a rude magazine and it was full of dirty photographs! I couldn't believe my luck.

Now as there was no mother or sister in our house I really had no idea about girls' bodies. I knew they had titties of course, and that they had a hole instead of a dickie, but that was it. Well, that all changed as I flicked through the pages of my treasure. I was excited and shocked at the same time.

My dickie must have thought that it was Christmas, there were all these pictures of naked women posing with their legs wide open. I liked their tits and their bottoms and their legs, but I didn't like what lay between their legs, no sir! I didn't expect that hairy bush and I especially didn't like that gash at its centre. I imagined a neat, hairless hole, not what looked like a rasher of bacon that one of the women had. But that didn't matter, because there were lots of pictures of men and women doing 'it' with each other, and, better still, the second half of the magazine was full of pictures of naked men and boys. I wasn't going to enjoy my precious magazine there and then, it was far too good for that, this had to be read and enjoyed in comfort and in a warm bed, so I rolled it up and stuffed it down the back of my pants and got back to my bike and pedalled home as fast as I could.

Dad went to watch the football that afternoon so I was alone at last. I stripped off and got into bed and opened up the magazine, the front cover was missing so I didn't know the name of the magazine. I skipped through the pages of the women, pausing only to lick some of the bigger titties. I concentrated on the photos of the men and the boys in particular. I had an instant favourite; it was a photo of two men facing the camera and in between was a boy of about my own age, about 13, and he had both hands out and was holding the men's stiff cocks. All in the nude and hairless.

Now I knew from some of the other boys that dickies could produce juice called 'cum' but it hadn't happened to me yet, but I wasn't bothered because the lovely feeling that I got after pulling on my dickie was all that I wanted. There was a picture of a boy lying naked on his stomach and a man was kneeling over him and the man's cock was shooting cum juice over the boy's beautiful bottom. I think that I was jealous of that boy.

I kept the magazine safe under my mattress but I soon knew every page by heart.

And then the second great thing happened when I was 13¾. I was kneeling naked up on my bed with the magazine open in front of me. I was pulling really hard and fast on my stiffie-dickie and using my other hand to turn the pages. When I got to my best page, with the boy holding onto the mens' cocks, I got that feeling as usual but then it felt like I'd got an electric shock, something burst and the next thing that I knew I was spurting milky stuff all over the magazine. I was too scared and shocked to shout out but I did want to scream. I was sure that I had injured myself, I thought that I had strained myself or damaged something inside me, and I thought that I might die.

I ran into the bathroom, desperate to wash away the mess and I thought that maybe I was being punished for being a dirty, naughty boy. I expected to see blood but there wasn't any. I crept back into the bedroom, put the magazine away under the mattress, and promised myself that I would never look at it again, and curled up under the sheets, waiting to die.

By tea-time when dad came home I was still alive. I wanted to confess to him but I just didn't dare.

The days went by and still I hadn't got rid of my magazine, and quite often I was waking up with a stiff cocklet and so I dared to play with it again and I spurted more cum juice. Luckily I was wearing pyjamas so most of it came in them and not onto the sheets. Eventually I got my magazine out and was disappointed to find that my favourite page was ruined, stuck together with cum juice as strong as super-glue.

When I think about it now, I licked the pictures of women's titties in the magazine so it wasn't just the pictures of boys and men that I enjoyed, so that proves that I wasn't a fruit boy.

I didn't really have much time for girls. There were no women in our house, no mum, no sister. Girls seemed silly and boring to me. Danny lived next door with his sister Linda, and she was such a cry-baby! I mean, girls didn't race on bikes, they didn't climb trees in the woods, they didn't have dogs or run with gangs, or play cowboys and Indians, and they couldn't piss up against a wall. And they didn't have cocks to play with. They just played with dolls and dolls' houses, and held hands and wore pig-tails.

I liked Danny, he was a year older than me so I sort of looked up to him as a kind of hero, but what I liked most about him was when we played 'doctors and patients', I was always the doctor and Danny was always the patient and I had to examine his cock, which was fat and sprouting hairs. I liked touching and playing with his cock, but I didn't let Danny know that, I didn't want him thinking that I was a sissy-boy, so I always complained when he wanted to play the game and I made him have to drag me into their garden shed. I didn't like the hairs that were growing round his cock and balls but I always got a stiffie when I made him shoot, but I kept that secret too. Anyway, after a while Danny got interested in girls, which was another reason why I didn't like girls much, and our games stopped.

o

My fourteenth birthday came and went but it was a big disappointment for me. All the gang came to my party but we were beginning to go our separate ways, or was it just me? I didn't go to the swimming baths with them on Saturday mornings any more, I didn't want them to see me getting an erection in the changing rooms, it wasn't because of the sight of all those naked bodies, I only got hard because I liked being naked myself. They were starting to smoke cigarettes and kiss girls, and I didn't like to do either.

During the summer school holidays I no longer hung around with Danny or the rest of the kids, home alone, I retreated to my bedroom and my magazine. I didn't think of my cock as a 'dickie' any more, but neither was it big enough to be called a 'cock', so I thought of it as a prick or a cocklet.

My dad's bed was a double bed with four wood corner posts. I don't know where I got the idea from, but one morning I got a ball of string and cut four lengths from it. I took all my clothes off and climbed up onto the bed. I tied a loop round one top corner post. Then I reached down and spread my legs as wide as I could and tied my ankles to the two bottom corner posts. Then I tied my left wrist to the other top post. I slipped my other hand through the remaining loop. I was now spread-eagled. It was so exciting that I thought that I would shoot cum. In my imagination I was captured by bad people, maybe by red Indians or tribesmen, and I was going to be raped or tortured. When I pulled my hand free of the loop, I rubbed my cocklet up and down until I spurted cum.

I did it every day, sometimes twice a day, and it never failed to thrill me, imagining different scenarios, things that could happen to me when I was naked and tied up. And then 'it' happened. 'It' was the most important thing that happened to me while I was fourteen.

We had a window cleaner. His name was Charlie and he cleaned the windows of most of the houses in our neighbourhood. He was a big man, (he had to be to carry that long wood ladder and the big tin bucket of water), with thinning red hair and a face that I would now call 'florid' though I didn't know that word when I was fourteen. He came every Tuesday to clean our windows, outside, upstairs and downstairs, and every Friday evening came to collect his money (five shillings each week). Obviously us boys only saw Charlie during the school holidays when we were home. Charlie was very popular with children and parents alike and always had sweets in the deep pockets of his overalls.

It was Tuesday. It was the summer holidays and I was home alone. I was tied naked and spread-eagled to dad's big bed. I had just released my right hand from the string loop so I could play with my prick. I heard a dull thump. My heart missed several beats and I froze. Was it dad come home early? Had something fallen over downstairs? After several seconds I relaxed, my heart stopped racing, and I clasped my fingers round my dickie. And then I glanced toward the window and was horrified to see the top of a ladder resting against the sill. Even as I struggled to free myself a shadow fell across the bedroom and I saw the figure of Charlie at the window. I could have untied myself quicker if I hadn't been in such a panic, fumbling with the simple knots.

Once free, I threw myself off the bed and crawled on my hands and knees naked across the floor and out of the bedroom door. I ran into my own bedroom, grabbed my dressing gown from behind the door, threw it on and then sank onto my own bed, trembling and out of breath. My first thought and fear was that Charlie would tell my dad. Then a greater fear fell upon me, perhaps he would tell everyone what he had seen, all the other parents and boys and girls! I started to cry and decided that I would have to pack some clothes and run away. But where would I go? I hated myself.

And then there was a loud banging on the back door.

I wiped my eyes and nose on the sleeve of the dressing gown and sat quite still. It was Charlie knocking, I couldn't not answer the door, he knew I was here, if I ignored him would he just go away? And then the knocking on the back door came again. We were used to Charlie knocking on the back door, it was usually to ask us to refill his bucket with clear water, but even I wasn't that stupid to think that was what he wanted this time.

I plucked up my courage and climbed off my bed and crept out of my bedroom and along the landing. I went down the staircase and leaned over the banister rail, from here I could see straight along the hall to the back kitchen, and there was Charlie's silhouette through the frosted glass of the kitchen door window. Full of dread I walked to the kitchen and opened the door just a little bit. Charlie thrust his big hand against the door, pushing me backward and the door open.

He held out his empty tin bucket and asked me for a refill. I took the bucket and crossed over to the big enamel sink and put his bucket under the cold water tap, and turned it on. Charlie had stepped inside. I was trembling and blushing because we both now knew my guilty secret. It was a two gallon bucket and when it was full to the brim I struggled to lift it out of the sink. I grasped the handle with both hands and lugged the bucket up and out with all my strength. As I turned around my dressing gown fell open, revealing my nudity and my immature cocklet. I lowered his bucket to the floor then hurried to close my dressing gown. I just couldn't raise my head to look him in the eye.

Charlie made no move to pick the bucket up.

"Listen little Julian", he said, "being a window cleaner I see all sorts of things through peoples' windows, especially their bedroom windows. But I don't tell anyone, if I did I wouldn't have a window cleaning job for long, would I?"

"I suppose not," I muttered miserably.

"But that doesn't make it right, does it?" he asked, "there are some things that people do that are rude, there are some things that people do that are obscene, and I have to see it and turn a blind eye. How would you feel?"

"I don't know," I replied, "it must be horrible."

"And then I come to do your windows and there you are being obscene, and you only being a young boy. What would your dad say if I told him?"

"Oh please," I begged him, "please don't tell my dad. I'm so sorry."

"Well I think you should be punished," Charlie said, "it's only right as far as I'm concerned."

I said nothing, I didn't know what to say.

"I think a bit of corporal punishment is needed, don't you?"

Now I didn't know what 'corporal' punishment was, I thought that a 'corporal' was someone in the army, like a private or a sergeant, so I said. "I suppose so."

He pointed to the formica-topped kitchen table.

"Come and bend over this," he said.

I slowly walked up to the table and bent forward over it, wondering what manner of punishment I was going to receive. Charlie took hold of the bottom of my dressing gown and flipped it up over my back and head. I was suddenly immersed in a world of darkness, shrouded from the waist up but naked from my waist down. To be honest, I was glad to be in the dark so my embarrassment and blushes were hidden, but not so glad to be nude from the waist down.

I'd never been spanked before, so it came as a big and unpleasant surprise when Charlie slapped my bare boy bottom.

I yelped, not because it hurt, but because I thought it was going to hurt, and out of shock, but the truth is, it wasn't a spank, it was more of a gentle slap, and quite nice!

Charlie slapped my other cheek, and his hand lingered on my bottom. Several slaps later and my soft boy cheeks must have been rosy red. Charlie told me to spread my legs and when I did, he began slapping the back and inside of my thighs. I prayed that he couldn't see my cocklet stiffening. And I prayed he wouldn't stop. Inside my dark covering I was in a private, excited world where sounds were muffled.

Then Charlie stopped my punishment and I stayed bent over, apprehensive and anxious about what may follow.

"Stand up!" he ordered, and I obeyed. The dressing gown fell back down around me but was still open and my little cock was standing out. Charlie glanced down at my cocklet and then said, "I hope you've learned a lesson, you dirty, naughty boy. If ever I see you doing anything like that again it will be worse for you, mark my words, it's not right that normal, decent folk have to witness such depravity," and with that he picked up his bucket of fresh water and walked out.

I went back upstairs, threw myself on the bed, and wanked off.

Well I didn't see Charlie after that, I made sure that on Tuesdays I was out of the house, and then the holidays were over and I was back at school. But not for long.

I was fifteen and fed up of school. And I was fed up of things at home. I wanted a job and I wanted a place of my own. So one day I set off for school but never arrived. I just went back home. And that made things at home even worse.

o

The biggest employer in town was Chambers packaging, who made cardboard cartons. Everyone there knew me and everyone knew that I was only fifteen but I still lied about my age and got a job as a floor sweeper. There was a girl that worked in dispatch, her name was Lucy and she was a seventeen year old peach. Everyone referred to her as 'Juicy Lucy'. She was a strawberry blonde and would walk across the factory floor wearing a scalloped leather mini skirt, knee-high black leather boots, and a tight fitting top. Every man fancied her and according to rumour every man had had her! I think I was the only one on the factory floor she hadn't masturbated or fucked with. Anyway, maybe she thought I was a challenge and she started to flirt with me.

Now don't get me wrong, I thought she was gorgeous and I quivered at the thought of kissing her rose-bud lips, and fondling her thirty-six inch [91cm] breasts but I couldn't contemplate putting my cocklet into her luscious hole. For a start I was terrified that I was too small to satisfy her, and I was convinced that I would cum in thirty seconds flat. And I just knew that in either case she would tell everyone inside and outside the factory. So I rejected her advances. And then she retaliated by telling everyone that I was a nancy-boy, a queer.

Well, you and I both know that that wasn't true, I was just afraid. So my life became a bigger misery.

While I was in charge of sweeping the factory floor there was another cleaner named Greg, and he was in charge of keeping the canteen and toilet floors clean, so we had something in common. He was of medium build, middle aged and beginning to bald. Once the shift had started we were not normally permitted to leave the factory floor to use the toilets but on this particular morning I had been late to work and missed the chance to have a pee. I was absolutely bursting so I had to sneak into the toilet. I went straight up to the urinal and unleashed my piss. As I was breathing a sigh of relief, Greg suddenly appeared at my side, and I mean right at my side. He looked down at my cock and asked, "Is it true?".

Flustered, I replied, "Is what true?"

"That you're a faggot," he said.

And so saying, he reached down and took a firm grip on my prick.

I was shocked but also afraid of struggling too much to free myself from his grip for fear of my piss going all over the place, so I tried gently to remove his fingers from my pissing prick.

"What do you think you're doing?" I hissed at him.

In reply he pinched the underside of my shaft, cutting off the stream of piss. And then he released his grip. He was controlling the flow of my own piss!

He sent the spray up then down, then to the left and then to the right, and in a strange way it was gratifying. When I had finished and he had shook the last drops from my stiffening prick, he led me away from the urinal, using my prick as a handle, and led me toward one of the toilet cubicles.

"What are you doing?" I protested.

Greg said nothing, instead he dragged me by my prick into the cubicle and slammed the door shut behind us. He sat down on the toilet seat and introduced my erection into his mouth. Now I've told you more than once that I am not a fairy, but when a mouth closes around your cock it doesn't matter whether that mouth is female or male; it's a mouth, complete with lips, tongue, teeth and gums and the ability to suck and lick and kiss. I looked down at his balding head bobbing up and down on my cock and I closed my eyes and was in a state of euphoria. When I felt my orgasm approaching I suddenly had a moment of panic, my cum might shoot everywhere, but I needn't have worried, he wrapped his hands around my bottom, clamped me to him, and just sucked and swallowed all my cum right down his throat. All I had to do once I had got my breath back was to button myself up.

I avoided Greg for a while after that, and can you blame me!

I was still using my bicycle to get to and from work, some others used their cars and the rest used the bus. Greg was one of those that used the bus. Like I said, things at home were becoming unbearable and then I had this idea. I wondered whether Greg was married or whether he had a partner or a family. I wondered whether he lived alone and had a spare room. So this particular evening, instead of cycling home, I hung around the factory car park until the works bus arrived. I watched Greg board the bus and then followed the bus on my bike. Greg got off at a narrow street of 'two-up two-down' terraced houses and I stayed back at a discreet distance. I watched him walk up the path to the front door of number 27. He let himself in and there was no sign of anyone to greet him.

I waited until it started to get dark then cycled around to the lane at the rear of the houses. I stopped outside Greg's house. There were no lights on upstairs, only in the downstairs room. I crept up to the window and peered through the partially closed curtains. Greg was sitting alone watching television with a cup of tea. There was no sign of anyone else living there. My plan was coming together.

The very next day I approached Greg during the tea break and told him that I was being thrown out of my home and asked him if he knew anybody who could put me up, just for a few days, until I could find myself something more permanent. Of course I couldn't afford anything more permanent and I was sure that he knew that. He gave me an odd look and said that he would 'ask around'.

At the end of work as I was unlocking my bicycle, Greg approached me. He said that I could stay with him for the time being and we would see how things worked out, or until I found myself a place. "But," he said, "there is a condition."

"What's that?" I asked.

"You're only fifteen aren't you?"

"Well," I replied, "I'm almost sixteen."

"Do you still have your school uniform?"

"I don't know, it might have been thrown out," I said.

"Let me know tomorrow," he said, and he walked off to the bus stop.

When I got home I went straight to my bedroom wardrobe. I found the striped school tie and the grey knee-high socks but there was no sign of my old school blazer. Gone too were my long grey trousers but in a corner were my old shorts, and I still had a white shirt. I'd lost the school cap ages ago, but I was sure that what was left would do.

The next day when I arrived at the factory I found Greg and told him my news. He said that I could stay at his house but that every day when we both got home from work I had to change into my school uniform and report to him and to pretend that he was the headmaster and I had to tell him what a naught boy I had been.

Well, I wasn't going to agree to that, but then the alternative was to stay back home and that wasn't going to happen either. And I had no money for rent. I thought to myself, what's the worst that could happen? Just a bit of harmless role-play.

"Alright," I agreed.

I moved in that very night.

That was six months ago. Now you know that I am not a queer fairy, but in return for living rent-free in his house, I have to pay him 'in kind'. So I put on my old school uniform and confess my sins and then I bare my bottom and bend over to be spanked.

At bedtime I go to his bed and he practices every kind of perversion on me before he kicks me out and I creep to bed in his spare bedroom. But what choice do I have? It doesn't mean that I'm a queer fucker, does it? I'm just a victim of circumstances.

The End