PZA Boy Stories

Richard Perkins


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Anthony Llewellyn was as a boy was abused physically and sexually by his Head Master, Mr. Grade He gave evidence against him in court and Grade was sentenced to twelve years in gaol. Many years later Anthony, now a grown man, met Mr. Grade once again. This is the story of how Anthony exorcised the demons from his own past and rescued a young (and very pretty boy) from the clutches of Mr Grade and his associates.
Publ. Feb 2003 (ANCGS); this site Nov 2008
Finished 107,500 words (215 pages).


Anthony Llewellyn (9-13yo & as adult), Vassily (c11-12yo), George (12yo) and Mr Grade

Category & Story codes

School Boy story

MbMdom anal oral mast – humil spank tort


If you are under the legal age of majority in your area or have objections to this type of expression, please stop reading now.

If you don't like reading stories about men having sex with boys, why are you here in the first place?

This story is the complete and total product of the author's imagination and a work of fantasy, thus it is completely fictitious, i.e. it never happened and it doesn't mean to condone or endorse any of the acts that take place in it. The author certainly wouldn't want the things in this story happening to his character(s) to happen to anyone in real life.

It is just a story, ok?

Author's note

The idea for this story came from the reports of a trial of a Head Master/proprietor of a preparatory school many years ago who was accused both of 'inappropriate behaviour' and of being too enthusiastic in the use of the cane across the bottoms of his young charges. Evidence was produced in the form of photographs of the savagery of the beatings he had inflicted so there reall was no doubt it was a true bill.
He had in fact owned and run a series of such schools in various towns in the UK each one of them called 'St Georges' offering 'Traditional British Schooling' moving on when things became a bit awkward. What struck me about the trial was the large number of old boys that the defence team assembled as character witnesses for the accused all speaking warmly of his personal qualities and their affection for him.
Very properly he was sentenced to a term in prison.

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Chapter 1

The fug in the courtroom could be cut with a knife. A stray shaft of sunlight, reluctantly filtered through a dirt stained window, only served to accentuate the general gloom of the place. Mr Justice Fearon peered over his glasses at the accused standing in the dock and cleared his throat.

"Grade, you have heard the verdict of the jury, the only possible verdict I would say on the evidence presented to them."

"They have found you guilty of the systematic abuse, physical, psychological and sexual of the boys entrusted by their parents to your care."

"In particular I have seen nothing to compare with the photographs of the injuries inflicted on the boy Anthony Llewellyn since I was myself at public school and such cruelty is now completely unacceptable. But you did not confine your maltreatment of your victims to mere physical abuse. Much more seriously you have deliberately subjected them to a systematic campaign of mental and sexual abuse and exploitation. You took these young boys at their most defenceless and vulnerable. You subjected them to intense pressure to persuade them to pander to your debauched sexual tastes and having enjoyed their bodies in your perverted way you in many cases passed them on to your friends to abuse in their turn. You turned your school, St Thomas's, into a den of depraved debauchery."

Anthony Llewellyn sitting in the body of the court beside his father looked up at the judge as he droned interminably on. An old, hatchet-faced, man who seemed to Anthony to be bent under the weight of his massive horse hair wig. Anthony very carefully did not look at Mr Grade under whose rule as headmaster he had spent his four years at St Thomas's Preparatory School for boys. The man who during term time had complete authority over him and exercised that power with stern confidence and, some would say, implacable severity.

Instead he turned his attention to the beam of sunlight. He watched the motes of dust rising and falling in its light, wondering at their constant movement. He supposed their motion was unending. He remembered that they were dancing on that last occasion when he had been summoned to Mr Grade's study and told to drop his shorts and underpants and bend over, for he was one of the boys Mr Grade beat bare.

He thought of what followed. Miss Morton's, the Assistant Matron, expressions of horror when she saw the welts. Matron would not have been surprised by them. She had been in the school for many years and was well used to such sights. Miss Morton's boy friend, hastily summoned, appearing with his camera. Lying on his tummy on the sick room bed with his shirt pulled up round his waste while the camera flashed behind him. And then everything that followed, the policemen and women, the doctors, the social workers, his Mum and Dad summoned suddenly. The questions, all the time the questions, did he touch you there or there? Did he do that or that or that? On and on they went, telling him he mustn't be afraid. He mustn't feel guilty. He hadn't done anything wrong. It was Mr Grade who had abused him. Mr Grade was wicked not him.

Then there were more men, this time with superior accents and expensive suits sitting behind big desks but asking the same questions. Finally there was the hearing with Mum and Dad being nice and reassuring and the judge smiling at him and telling him not to be nervous and a woman with another wig, smaller than the judge's, asking him all the same questions all over again.

She was nice but after her was a man who wasn't nice at all. He asked questions but they were nasty ones. "Why did Mr Grade beat you Anthony?" "Was it because you were caught being bad?" "What were you doing Anthony?" "It wasn't the first time you had been caught doing that was it Anthony?" "Don't you think you deserve to be beaten for doing something like that?" "Isn't the truth Anthony that having been beaten by Mr Grade for doing it you made up a story that he did things to you to get your own back on him?" "Anthony I have noticed that you have not once looked at Mr Grade during the whole time you have been in court. Look at him now Anthony and tell me the truth. He didn't do anything to you except beat you because he caught you playing with yourself and not for the first time and all the rest you have made up. That is the truth isn't it Anthony. Now look at Mr Grade and tell the truth. You made it all up didn't you?"

He'd answered the questions one by one shuffling and sometimes flushing deeply as he had to tell all those people about being caught doing that.

But with the last question he'd started to say that he hadn't made it up. Mr Grade had done those things to him like he did to all the other boys whom he beat with nothing on their bottoms because once he did it to you that was the way he beat you, but right in the middle his voice broke. He had been speaking in a light sort of tone and then suddenly his voice had gone hoarse and he had begun to croak.

That had happened to him a few times before, but not before then in court, and people had always laughed at him. This time it was strange. No one laughed. A woman in the jury smiled and then oddly dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief and Mr Justice Fearon cleared his throat noisily.

"Mr Wilson I really think your examination has run it's course and, I have to add, is hardly in my opinion assisting your client's case."

"Very well Millud," the man replied, "I have no further questions."

He sat down. Secretly he agreed with the judge's view. Indeed he doubted if anything would help his client's case. How could you hope to successfully defend a burly dark jowled thirty-five year old man when his principle accuser was a pretty fair haired boy with a peaches and cream complexion. Anyway the man was, in his private opinion, as guilty as hell and should be put away for a very considerable time and, this with Mr Fearon sitting, would probably happen provided only the jury used their common sense.

Anthony's attention was jerked back to Mr Fearon's summing up by the mention of his own name.

"Your disregard of the welfare of the children in your charge has even been carried into this Court. Acting on your instructions your Council had no choice but to subject Anthony Llewellyn, of whom I will have something to say at the end of this judgement, to a most gruelling cross examination. I mean no criticism of your Council when I say that, although I am personally persuaded of the need to test the evidence against an individual to the full in open court, the proceedings in this instance have convinced me that there are arguments to be advanced in favour of establishing some more humane method of testing the testimony of under-age witnesses."

"I have therefore no hesitation in sentencing you to a term in imprisonment designed both to show society's abhorrence of your abominable practices and to prevent you from repeating your offences on further helpless victims for a considerable length of time. I sentence you to twelve years and will be recommending to the Home Secretary that you serve the full term."

"Now," the judge's voice, which had been hard and accusatory, became less forbidding, "I have something to say both to and of Anthony Llewellyn.

I see the boy is in court, as indeed I asked that he should be if at all possible. So Anthony, if you would stand up for a moment."

"Anthony in the course of cross examination you were forced to admit to having behaved in a manner characterised as 'bad'. I want you to know and clearly understand that though it would be better if you could avoid such practices, they are in no way unnatural, all boys to a greater and lesser extent indulge in them. You are neither evil nor wicked nor in anyway unusual in doing so."

"Indeed I can say, and I am sure council, members of the jury and the members of the public who observed your behaviour in the witness box will agree with me in this, that you are a brave and intelligent boy of whom your parents have every right to be proud. You withstood what must have been a considerable ordeal for one of your young age, conducting yourself in such a way that not one of us in the courtroom doubted the veracity of your evidence. You are owed a debt of gratitude from this court for your courage in ensuring that justice was done in this case and by the boys in your old school and generations of boys to come in seeing that a man who could have caused them great suffering has been sent to a place where he can cause no harm."

"Thank you Anthony. You may sit down now."

"Take the prisoner away."


Anthony woke the next morning to the smell of frying bacon and the sounds of his mother moving about in the kitchen below his room. He could hardly remember returning to the house the previous evening. He was so exhausted after the trial that he had slept in the back of the car during the whole of the journey home and he had fallen asleep again at the supper table with his food half eaten on his plate. His parents must have decided to allow him to sleep on.

Now he lay in his bed thinking. He should he supposed be happy. The ordeal of the trial was over. He was back in the safety of his own family.

He would never have to back to that school again and Mr Grade. He had behaved well. He had done nothing wrong. Mr Grade was an evil and wicked man who had maltreated him. He was innocent and good and brave, everybody said so. Then why when he thought of Mr Grade and the things that Mr Grade did to him, even of being made to drop his shorts and underpants and bend over to get the cane from him, why, if Mr Grade was evil and the things he did were evil, did he get all excited and his prick get so hard and he had this wonderful exciting feeling down there and…

Anthony grabbed for the wad of loo paper that he had secreted under his pillow for just such an emergency and pressed it against his throbbing cock as his blood surged uncontrollably and he orgasmed.

A minute or so later Mrs Llewellyn heard her sons footsteps pad across the corridor above her followed shortly afterwards by the sound of the lavatory flushing. She broke an egg into the frying pan. She knew Anthony would be down in a moment wanting his breakfast.

The evidence disposed of Anthony dressed quickly and ran down stairs.

Dad was sitting at the dining room table only the top of his head visible above the Times. Anthony saw on its front page a headline about poll tax riots in Trafalgar Square.

"The paper has a report of the verdict in it," Dad remarked lowering the paper and departing from his normal practice by actually speaking at the breakfast table. "Doesn't mention your name of course Anthony – reporting restrictions and that sort of thing – but repeats the Judge's comments on your behaviour… Just say Mum and I are proud of you."

He quickly raised the paper again, embarrassed by having to speak on so personal a matter.

The telephone shrilled in the hall.

"It's for you Anthony," his mother called. "It's Tim Hawthorne."

Anthony jumped from his chair and ran to the telephone. Tim had been his best friend throughout his time at St Thomas's. He had joined as a new boy the same day, always slept in the bed next to his in the various dormitories as they progressed up the school, sometimes when lights were out sharing the same bed, sitting beside each other in class and in the dining room. Tim as dark as he, Anthony, was fair.

He had been surprised that Tim had not appeared at the trial. He had suffered just as much from Mr Grade's attentions. Indeed Mr Grade, taken by the contrast in their colouring, liked… Anthony realised he was going hard again and forced the thought from his mind.

He picked up the receiver from the table where his mother had placed it.

"Tim," he said breathlessly.

"Judas," Tim voice was so distorted by hatred that Anthony could hardly recognise it. The phone went dead.

Chapter 2

Anthony stopped the car in the shade of a straggling olive tree and switched off the engine. Although only mid May the sun felt hot to someone only recently arrived in Cyprus from Britain. The song of a sky lark and the murmur of crickets came through the open window mingling with the sound of flowing water from the shallow stream that ran beside the road. The air was full of the scent of the multitude wild flowers and herbs that coloured the otherwise barren hillsides that rose on either side of him. Apart for a derelict mosque and the group of small burnt out houses that crowded about it, reminders of the communal violence of well over a quarter of a century ago, there was no sign of human habitation.

Looking up the valley to the North there were occasional olive trees a few patches of untended vines and little else.

He sat still for a moment enjoying the quiet after the din and bustle of Pathos. He had been looking forward to this moment with increasing anticipation throughout the whole of last week as he doggedly worked his way through the formalities of taking charge of his new office. It was his first posting in charge of a local branch and he intended to see that he made a success of it. Not, as he had to admit to himself, that old Lockwood had made too bad a hand at it.

No man is a hero to his successor but the accounts and other paper work had been in apple pie order and he had been impressed by a couple of the items that Lockwood had lined up for the coming year. Sir Robert Turner might be regarded nowadays as a bit old hat and dated but in his day he was one of the great actor managers. While the post conceptual work of Bill and Ben was 'difficult', their names were well known and with luck they could be got away before they said anything to upset the Orthodox hierarchy. It was indeed surprising that the old boy had managed to persuade people of that calibre to come to Pathos and to lecture on behalf of the British Council. He wondered how he had managed it.

A pity that Lockwood had died so suddenly of that coronary so couldn't be asked. On the other hand if Lockwood hadn't died so opportunely he would never have got the post. It was well known in the council that he had dug himself well in Pathos and would not be shifted.

Anthony wondered what the attraction of the place had been to him.

Pathos seemed to him noisy and even in the early spring uncomfortably hot with few attractions once you had visited the various archaeological sites. But something had kept Lockwood anchored there long after his normal five year tour had ended.

It was certainly Anthony thought not the quality of the town's nightlife.

He had been there a week and had learnt enough to eat at Hondros and drink in the Boite 67 by the yacht club and to know that, friendly and outgoing though the people were, it was unlikely that the night life of Pathos would provide what he was searching for.

If only, he reflected, as he swung his feet out of the car and began to put on his walking boots, if he could be certain what that was.

He had been sent to a new school after Mr Grade's trial. St Thomas had been owned by Mr Grade and had had to close. Anyway he had been in his last year there. He had had other advances in his new school, as any pretty thirteen year old in his first term at public school does, but they had always ended in confusion and unhappiness. His friend of the moment would get so far, a kiss on the lips, a hand slipped inside the waist band of his pyjamas, he would begin to respond and at that moment guilt and fear would paralyse him. As it was wicked of Mr Grade to have done those things to him as so many people had told him, it must be wrong for him to enjoy them and, if he did, then surely he was just the same as evil Mr Grade.

As he got older he began to resent this burden of guilt and that had been imposed on him by those who had assured him so often that they held him guiltless, but he could not shed it. Rather it was added to and deepened by a growing doubt as to whether he really was the victim or that Mr Grade was as evil as was claimed.

Mr Grade had hurt him terribly, never more so perhaps than when he thrashed him that last time. He could still remember bending over waiting for the punishment to begin the air cool against his naked skin, terrified but also strangely excited. The half dozen or so other boys watching in silent but nervous anticipation, knowing that it could so easily have been one of them standing there his bottom bared ready for the cane. Then the rich hiss of the heavy cane as it descended and the intense pain that drove the breath from his body as it scored the first livid stripe across his taughtly drawn flesh. The mounting agony as cut followed cut until his resolution broke down and he howled and writhed as Mr Grade vigorously plied the rod. But when it was over, and he could think again, he knew that while Mr Grade might have been harsh he had also been fair.

He had been told what the rule was and what the penalty was for breaking it. He had broken the rule not once but twice and he had suffered the penalty. That was fair and fairness was a virtue to which he came to attach ever greater importance as he experienced more and more instances of the hypocrisies and inconstancies that appeared to be almost the norm of adult behaviour.

Tim's one word accusation had startled him when it was made but it did not at first bother him. His Mother and Father and all the grown ups who talked to him about it agreed he was the victim and he had been brave and right to give evidence against Mr Grade so that he could be sent to gaol where he belonged. Tim was just a boy like himself his ideas of right and wrong were obviously less trustworthy than theirs. But as time passed he came more and more to doubt this reasoning. Thus he was forever torn between two conflicting guilts. The guilt of enjoying something that he was told was evil and, if he succeeded in banishing that guilt which he increasingly did, the guilt of betraying Mr Grade.

He stood up stamping his feet down hard on the metalled surface of the road to ensure his boots were sitting comfortably on his feet.

There was no point he told himself in spending hours agonising over what had happened and what effect it had had on him. If one aspect of his life was unsatisfactory a great many others were fine. He had done almost as well as was possible at school and university. True he might be regarded as the almost man. Almost getting into Oxford but having to content himself with Bristol. Almost getting a first but only managing an upper second. Almost getting into the diplomatic corps but having to settle for the British Council. Almost getting into any number of first fifteens and first elevens but always finishing up in the second team. Still while he could have done better he could also have done a great deal worse.

He set off along a rough track leading up the side of the valley. It was his intention to walk himself to exhaustion and thus to clear his mind of all the tensions of the week. He had obtained the best map of the area he could lay his hands on and planned a route that would take him in a broad arc along the top of the hills bordering the valley North to the Troodhos mountains before dropping back down to the valley floor to return along the metalled road. The exercise cleared his mind and he walked briskly along his mind pleasantly blank simply registering the sensations of the moment.

He stopped in a village taverna for a lunch of ham and cheese washed down by a glass of the local beer. Shortly afterwards the track began to rise steeply through a mixed woodland of chestnut oak and the occasional rowan tree. Anthony took a path branching to the right towards the valley bottom.

To his surprise from below came the unmistakable sound of bat striking ball followed by a round of muted applause mixed with one or two cries of encouragement and appreciation. He did not know cricket was played on the island although, when he came to think of it, within the British sovereign base he supposed there would be a few teams. However this was well away from the base. Perhaps he thought British expats had joined together in Cyprus as apparently they had done in the Dordogne to create small clubs.

He walked on the sounds of the game getting stronger. He joined the metalled road and turned down the valley. Then he saw on the side of the road a sign that made all clear

St Thomas's British Boys School
Boarding School for Boys aged Eight to Sixteen Years

The sight of the name caused him to halt for a moment but then, smiling at himself, he walked on. There were no doubt plenty of schools called after St Thomas and probably nearly every other Saint in the Christian Calendar.

The road emerged suddenly from the wood and there on the left was the cricket pitch, its outfield closely mown, the grass perhaps a little drier and browner than it would have been in the home counties. The central square, carefully rolled and lovingly manicured, though was as green as any to be found in the British Isles. Beyond the cricket field with it's half timbered pavilion, white side screens and black score board stood a large three storied house with a jumble of more modern brick buildings set about it.

Anthony realised that he was looking at the grounds and buildings of St Thomas's school and that there was match in hand. He glanced at the score board and saw that the game was at a critical stage eight wickets down and the home team needing four runs to win. Even as he watched the ninth wicket fell. The batsman taking an ill judged swing at a ball bouncing uncomfortably high on the leg side was smartly caught in the slips and sportingly walked without waiting for the umpire to give out. All now rested on the last man in and the boy walking slowly out from the pavilion looked distinctly nervous.

Anthony did not blame him. Quite apart from the responsibility now resting on his shoulders the bowler, a rather lanky youth, was distinctly quick and was showing no sign of being unduly kind to the opposing side's tailenders. The boy took his stand at the wicket, glanced nervously about and bent to await his fate. The bowler paced back, carefully measuring his distance. He turned and began his run up to the wicket. He delivered the ball with a small jump sending it flying down the pitch towards the crouching and by now plainly terrified batsman who cowered and poked at the ball ineffectually as it passed him to knock his centre stump flying.

The boy stood gaping for a moment at his shattered wicket. Then the umpire, at whom Anthony had up to then not really looked, spoke.

"You can go now Brown," he said, "I think you need some additional coaching."

The voice and the tone, amused but subtly menacing, were all too familiar to Anthony. Somewhat heavier and with rather less hair than fourteen years ago but still clearly recognisable stood Mr Grade.

Chapter 3

Anthony turned on his heel and stumbled away. He was suddenly back in St Thomas's, the old indescribable mixture of smells, of cooking, damp and boys crowded together, strong in his nostrils. It was the first day of his first term. They were in Mr Grade's study, his Mother weakly smiling, his Father bluffly and falsely cheerful, himself near to tears, listening to the headmaster explain that he took a personal interest in the welfare both physical and spiritual of all the boys in his care.

At the back of his mind he wondered whether it was at that stage that Mr Grade selected his boys from those so readily available to him or did he leave making his choice until they were bigger

Then a quick hug from his Mother before being led away by a boy much bigger than himself to be shown his place in the dormitory; a single small bed in a double row of twenty four in a long drab room with a polished linoleum floor. His fear increased by the realisation that the other boy so much bigger than he was, was himself afraid of the large man in his black academic robe.

Sitting on the edge of his bed, not knowing what to do next, feeling utterly alone, while other boys, all of whom seemed to know each other and were bigger than him, talked and laughed together. Then Tim appearing, looking just as lost and lonely as he felt, a shy smile and a friendship that grew ever closer over the next five years.

The shock of going from a home where he was the only boy, with a room of his own and indulgent parents to cosset him, to being crowded together with upwards of two hundred other boys under the authority of a none too patient a tyrant.

First the discovery, initially horrifying for a naturally shy and modest boy, that he was allowed no privacy. To have to change, bath, shower amidst a hoard of other naked or near naked children was bad enough. The doorless lavatory cubicles were even worse. The checking both by Matron and Mr Grade that he had washed behind his ears, between his toes and under and in there was, with small naturally grubby boys, necessary but at first horribly embarrassing. At least he was spared the ultimate humiliation inflicted on Tim as he had been circumcised. Anthony could remember vividly the look on Tim's face the first time that Mr Grade, impatiently brushing the boy's hands away, pulled back his foreskin.

Once more the rational part of his mind, the part not totally engaged in recalling past terrors and humiliations, surfaced briefly. He wondered if Mr Grade's enthusiasm for personal cleanliness was partly accounted for by his wish to get the boys accustomed to being handled.

Certainly it was not long before all his modesty had disappeared and he was as unselfconscious as the other boys. He thought nothing of his nakedness and submitting patiently to Mr Grade and Matron's intimate inspections. By the time that he caught his first bout of ring worm he joined readily enough in the queue of boys standing in the corridor outside Matron's room with their shirt tales flapping round their bare bottoms. It was not his nakedness but the sting of the iodine when Matron painted it onto the rash at the juncture of his legs that caused him to protest and led inevitably to yet another visit to Mr Grade's study this time to be thrashed this time for ingratitude.

The most frightening thing of all though was the discovery that there were adults prepared deliberately to hurt him and to maximise the amount of that hurt. His Mother had occasionally, although very rarely, smacked him but these occasions he recognised were aberrations, acts of exasperation to which she was driven by his behaviour. That someone could in cold blood calmly set out to inflict pain on him was a new and frightening discovery.

Some indications that this was so were there from the beginning. The nature and purpose of the cane leaning against the wall of Mr Grade's study in the corner behind his desk was clear even to a boy who had up to then not felt it's bite across his bottom. The talk of the boys in the dormitory often turned to the subject of floggings, boastfully of beatings endured in the past and fearfully of possible thrashings to come.

As the new term got under way the normal routines of school life resumed and very soon talk was transformed into reality. He saw boys pale faced and trembling, making their reluctant way to Mr Grade's study. He saw them a few minutes later reappear, their lips quivering, their eyes shining with tears to take refuge in the lavatories where they could be seen seated, their heads bowed shoulders quivering, in solitary misery. Later they would emerge to display their stripes to their admiring fellows. Anthony remembered clearly the sensation of fear and excitement he experienced when he saw for the first time the livid welts that a cane can raise if vigorously enough applied.

He took his turn with the other boys to run his fingertips along the jagged ridges that the rod had scored across the smooth flesh of a boy's tender bottom. The boy winced as his fingertip touched the angry red line of broken flesh. Anthony saw how the colour deepened and darkened at the edges of each cut until it shaded from dark red to purple with an underlying hint of greenish yellow as the deeper bruising began to come out.

"It must have hurt," he said timidly.

"Not much really," the boy replied carelessly.

Anthony thought that this was strange for he had seen the boy only a short time before huddled in the lavatories sobbing to himself. He had however learnt enough of the laws of survival in the jungle of a boy's preparatory school not to openly express his doubts, for the boy was a good deal bigger and stronger than he was.

For a time he persuaded himself that his bottom would be spared. Surely no one could possibly want to hurt him and anyway he was a good boy and would not do anything ever to deserve such savage and cruel a punishment. He was soon to be disabused. In St Tim's, as in many other similar schools, at that time the cane was the punishment of first not last resort. Boys were beaten for being noisy, late, lazy, dirty, unruly, cheeky, disobedient, wild. They were beaten in short for the best of reasons, as generations had before them, for being boys.

Anthony was a boy and he too was soon making the journey that so many others had made before him down the cold stone flagged corridor that led to Mr Grade's study. He doubted if any criminal on the way to the scaffold had experienced more terror than he had done at that moment. It seemed, he remembered, a very long way. He had difficulty in walking, his legs were weak and his limbs appeared to lack co-ordination. There was a lump in his throat which made it hard to breath and impossible to swallow. His stomach was knotted in a lump of cold fear. He could remember more than twenty years later the panic that gripped him when he stood before the study door trying to summon the courage to knock.

He never did succeed in doing it. Eventually the door opened and suddenly Mr Grade was there looming over him. He had demanded why the boy was there and Anthony had tried to stammer out a reply but his voice came out as a hoarse whisper and he doubted if the master understood what he said. However there could be only one explanation for the presence of a small boy in that place in that condition of unmitigated terror and Mr Grade acted accordingly. Taking a firm grip of Anthony's ear he drew him into the room closing the door behind him. Patiently almost gently he led the boy through the ritual that preceded a thrashing in St Thomas's.

Remarking that he believed this was Anthony's first time in a voice that sounded slightly amused and rather contemptuous Mr Grade instructed Anthony to remove his shoes and socks, to place the latter neatly inside the former and to line them up tidily under the chair just inside the door.

Anthony was conscious of the man's eyes on him as with fingers numb with fear he fumbled with his laces. Then Mr Grade told him to remove his shorts to fold them neatly and to place them on the seat of the chair. As he did so Mr Grade, remarked that he must always remember to take off his shoes before his shorts because pulling them off over his shoes could lead to them tearing and involving his parents in unnecessary expense. He had been puzzled that a man could showed so much consideration for his parent's pockets while preparing to flog their son whom they valued he was sure much more than the price of a pair of grey flannel shorts.

Standing with his shirt tales flapping about his skinny bare legs Anthony was told to go to the middle of the room, to stand with his feet slightly apart, to bend over and to take hold of his ankles. He heard Mr Grade move behind him.

"You are to stay down until I have finished. As this is your first time I will restrict your punishment to four strokes. You need not think that I will be so lenient in future." The man's voice so low and gentle that Anthony thought for a moment that he would not hurt him or at least not hurt him very much.

He felt the touch of the cane against his bottom; heard the low whistle as it descended and felt the explosion of searing pain as it cut down across his tightly drawn rump. All thoughts that it wasn't going to hurt much were instantly expelled from his mind. The searing pain coursed through his body driving the wind from his lungs. Desperately hanging on to his ankles he fought to stop himself starting upright. At last the first surge of pain passed and Anthony dragged air down into his lungs clamping his bottom iron hard in expectation of the next cut. There was a pause as the tension within him mounted almost to breaking point. Then he heard once again the rich sibilant hiss of the descending cane and felt the burning pain as the rod cracked down across his bottom. Mr Grade, carefully spacing his strokes to ensure that he felt the full effect of each one, landed two further heavy cuts across his upraised rump before dismissing him.

"You may stand up now Llewellyn," the man said coldly.

Anthony tears stinging his eyes dressed himself. His hands were shaking so much that he could hardly tie his laces.

"You may go now boy… I hope I will not see you here again but I expect I will," Mr Grade said and laughed grimly.

Anthony made for the door only to be halted by a barked command.

"Stop boy…"

"You said I could go Sir…" Anthony stammered puzzled.

"Aren't you going to say thank you?" Mr Grade snapped.

"Sorry Sir. Thank you Sir," and then at last Anthony made his escape.

And yet being at St Thomas's was not all bad, Anthony told himself as he surfaced from his memories. He was frightened of Mr Grade, as all the boys were, but that fear was leavened with respect and even an element of affection. They regarded him as savages might some powerful and arbitrary tribal god. They feared him but at the same time he was their god and no one else's. They took pride in the very harshness of his rule and valued even more any sign of approval or affection from him because such signs were so rarely given.

He remembered feeling sorry for boys who lived at home with their parents.

It was wonderful to come home at the end of term, to be fussed over and given treats. But to live at home all the time; to have Mum asking each time he coughed if he had a cold; Dad asking how he had done in this or that subject or how he had got on at sports; to come home each evening and have to sit eat his supper, although it would be a much better meal than he got at school, with no one but his Mum and Dad to talk to and then to be stuck in the house with no other boys for company day after day week after week all the year through. It would be really tame and boring. All right, he was frightened nearly all the time at school; frightened of being late, of failing to do his class work, or his home work, or of being caught slacking on the games field, or of failing to polish his shoes, or wash his hands and face; frightened of the bigger boys; above all frightened of being beaten but he was never ever bored There were always other boys about for company and things to do, things that they were meant to do and also, even more excitingly, things that they were strictly forbidden to do.

Things got better as well as the terms went by. For one thing he grew and so there were progressively less boys bigger than him able to push him around.

Also as you worked your way up the school Mr Grade somehow seemed to take more notice of you. There was intense competition among the boys to win Mr Grade's approval. He was much more important to them, at least during term time, then their mothers and fathers. As head master he took some of the senior classes and you were therefore more likely to be taught by him. He remembered how nervous he used to feel if Mr Grade stopped by his desk when he was walking about the class room. A nervousness that would increase when the man rested his hand on his shoulder and bent forward to examine his work. He remembered too the relief and the pride he felt on the rare occasion when that examination ended in a word of praise.

He was more likely too to choose you to send on an errand, to take a message or fetch something. "Please Sir Mr Grade says would you please…," or perhaps "Please Matron Mr Grade wants me to fetch him…" How important you felt being trusted by him with such tasks.

Best of all was when he praised you for something you had done on the sports field, mentioning your name in assembly or congratulating you as he passed in the in the corridor, perhaps ruffling your hair as he did so or even patting your behind.

It was strange, Anthony thought as he arrived back at the spot where he had left his car, that it was these acts of Mr Grade, that had given the boys so much pleasure, carried just a little further which had been the cause of him being set to prison. The judge had criticised the severity beatings that the man had administered so frequently and with so much enthusiasm but Anthony knew very well that if that was all there had been against Mr Grade he would have escaped prison. At the most, excessive use of the cane had been all that could be alleged against him, he would have faced a charge of physical assault and a possible fine. Very likely he would have escaped prosecution altogether. It was illegal now for teachers to hit their pupils but not then. At least that was the law in Britain. Whether it was the same in Cyprus he did not know.

With a feeling of apprehension he realised he had a problem. Was he to report Mr Grade to the Cypriot authorities and if he was on what grounds?

He did not know for certain if the man was up to his old tricks and, if he was not, would not reporting him simply be persecuting further a man for something for which he had already been punished? Even if Mr Grade was behaving as he had done in the past he was faced with his old dilemma of whether it was right to take action against him. For despite moments of intense pain, pain more excruciating than any beating, and despite being told that what Mr Grade had done to him was evil, he had enjoyed it. He remembered the first time, when Mr Grade had finished with him, the man drawing him onto his knees, wiping the tears and snot from his face, kissing him and telling him that he knew it had hurt but he had to experience that hurt to be truly one of his boys. How he had wriggled his bare bottom in the man's crutch and returned his kiss and how proud he was when Mr Grade calling him 'a hot little whore' had sent him back to his own bed with a pat on the rump. If he remembered that now with pleasure and excitement was he right to deny other boys similar moments of joy? Perhaps Tim was right when he called him a traitor.

Anyway, he told himself he couldn't do anything straight away. He didn't positively know if Mr Grade had broken any Cypriot law. If he was to do anything about the man it would have to be by way of a quiet word with some one in the Cypriot Education Department. It would not be hard to arrange that. He had a number of contacts with that office through his work with the British Council. It was Saturday. He had the rest of the week end to think things over.

Now he had to return to his flat, shower and change into something respectable, for he had been invited to drinks at the Anglican Vicarage at Pathos. Although the occasion sounded less than exciting he knew he had to turn up to it. The Vicar had delivered the invitation himself and had made it clear that the party was being held to give him an opportunity to meeting the upper crust of Pathos expatriate society. That is, Anthony suspected, those British people who both attended the Anglican church there and contributed generously to parish funds.


Three hours later freshly showered and smartly dressed Anthony, taking a glass of white wine from the tray offered to him by the elderly black clad maid, glanced round the vicarage garden. The shadows had begun to lengthen and the heat had gone out of the sun. A fair number of guests had already arrived and were standing quietly chatting on the carefully tended lawn.

Anthony took a sip of his wine and groaned inwardly. It was, as he feared, Cypriot. There was little point in boasting about two thousand years of wine making if the stuff you produced tasted so positively unpleasant. However he supposed the Australians would eventually arrive with their stainless steel vats and oak barrels and produce something drinkable but character less.

"My dear chap I didn't see you arrive. You must think me most remiss. I do apologise come and meet Major and Mrs Grey and the Renshaws. Such nice people and active in artistic circles out here. Mrs Renshaw directed our local opera society's production of Iolanthe last winter you know." It was his host the Reverend Arthur West, Anglican Vicar of Pathos, a fat comfortable priest.

Anthony moved resignedly to go with him when an all too familiar voice spoke behind him.

"Llewellyn I hoped that I would meet you again but I had not expected to be so fortunate as to run across you here."

Anthony turned to face Mr Grade who had just joined the party.

Chapter 4

"You already know our young friend," exclaimed the Vicar eagerly, "the most recent addition to our little community here in Pathos. How very very fortunate."

"Indeed I do Arthur," Mr Grade replied cheerfully. "I think I may say I know the young man intimately. For a few unforgettable years I taught Anthony when e was a boy."

"You were fortunate Mr Llewellyn… or perhaps I may call you Anthony… this is such an informal age… everybody is on first name terms so quickly… Not that I mind… I rather like it in fact… to be taught by our friend here I mean. He is so dedicated and skilled a teacher. He has done wonders at St Thomas's. I am amazed Richard that with so many boys passing through your hands you could recognise an individual so many years after you had taught him. But I suppose that is a measure of your dedication and interest in your young charges."

"I am as liable I am afraid to forget names and faces as the next man Arthur," Mr Grade replied chuckling in a self deprecating manner, "but there are some boys that a school master never forgets for one reason or another."

"I hope the reason you remember Anthony is one that brings credit on the young man… Not smoking in the shrubbery or other instances of juvenile wickedness." The Vicar laughed lightly at the thought.

"No indeed. I remember him as a boy because he was one of the most enthusiastic and eager of pupils I ever had the privilege of instructing. I have always regretted that he was taken out of my hands before I was able to develop his full potential."

"A glowing tribute Anthony," Arthur Wells said rubbing his hands together, "A glowing tribute and a great recommendation to us all that you receive it from so valued and enthusiastic a member of our local community here as Richard. We owe him a great deal in our Parish of St Paul's. Not only for his personal generosity and his fund raising efforts both of which are considerable but to the contribution he and the school have made to our Parish music… Sweet singing in the choir indeed. I really do not think you could find a match for our choir now in the whole Anglican Church outside the great cathedrals."

"And that new little lad you have given a scholarship to," the Vicar continued, "I don't think I have ever heard a boy with a sweeter clearer voice."

"You over state my generosity. It is Mr Volonsky who is responsible for the child's presence here. His own son is at the school. As you know Arthur many of the Russian colony here like to give their boys a taste of an English style school near to home before committing them to a Public school in Britain. Mr Volonsky knowing my, our, enthusiasm for the choir and coming across young Vassilly on a business trip back to Russia simply brought him back here and entered him in the school. The boy was I believe quite destitute, singing for coppers in the street, when Volonsky heard him and recognised his talent."

"But I understand Arthur for all that you say you are in part at least financing his stay at your school. I believe that you do not charge the full fee."

"It is a pleasure for me that I can sometimes now afford to indulge myself by cultivating a boy's natural talent," Mr Grade replied smiling quietly.

"It is the churches gain… Do come to Lunch after Eucharist tomorrow morning Richard and bring Vassilly with you too. Such a charming child so shy and so appreciative of his good fortune. He is almost as beautiful to look at as he is to hear. I always feel like Pope Gregory when I see him 'Non Angli sed Angeli'… although I suppose the dear boy is a Slav that spoils the pun… Well I will leave you two to chat and pick up old threads. I must circulate. Richard don't keep our young friend to yourself all evening… Introduce him round when you've finished chatting about the old days."

The Vicar hurried off leaving Anthony alone with the man he had last seen being taken from the dock of the criminal court to begin serving his prison sentence for child abuse at the end of a trial in which he had been the principal prosecution witness. Little that he had seen or heard that day suggested that Mr Grade had changed his nature. Anthony felt that probably he should, rather than standing smiling and silent as the Vicar and Grade had exchanged pleasantries, have denounced the man. He knew that his failure to do so at once would weaken the effect of any later action on his part.

People would be sure to ask if he was so sure that Mr Grade was so wicked why he did not act immediately rather than waiting. It was partly that he had been taken by surprise. The sudden appearance of Mr Grade in the vicarage garden had knocked him off balance. Then, by the time he had adjusted to the man's presence, he was chatting with the vicar clearly at ease with his surroundings. It was difficult in those circumstances to take any action against him without creating a public scene. Underlying all this was his own doubts, doubts that had haunted him ever since Grade's trial, as to whether what the man had done was so very wicked.

If Anthony was surprised and wracked with uncertainties Mr Grade gave no sign of being anything else than perfectly at ease with himself and his surroundings.

"I am indeed glad to meet you here Llewellyn," he said. "I saw you at the cricket match and called after you but you did not appear to hear me. I was going to try to seek you out but the chances were you were only holidaying in the island and in those circumstances I would have been extremely fortunate to find you before you left the place. But if I understand our good Vicar you are here as more or less a permanent resident?"

"Yes," Anthony replied finding he could not help replying to the implied question and only just avoiding the calling his old Head Master 'Sir' so strong were the ties of the past, "I'm working for the British Council in Pathos."

"You must have taken over from old Lockwood," Mr Grade exclaimed delightedly. "You're in charge of the office here. You're very young to have got the post but then you were always a bright intelligent boy. A quick learner too. I am delighted for you."

"We must have a long chat sometime picking up old threads. Come up to the school soon and have a drink one evening. Let me see I can't manage tomorrow. I am bidden as you know to Sunday lunch at the Vicarage and Sunday evenings I make a point of making myself available to any parents who may want to see me. I sometimes think we should cancel weekend exeats. They only unsettle the boys. Their home circumstances are often so difficult nowadays you know. I find myself spending more and more time on pastoral matters which often involve the parents as much as the boys. But Monday," Mr Grade paused in thought. "Yes Monday will be excellent. Come up to the school at half past seven. The boys will have had their supper then and we can have a good long talk. Is that all right with you Anthony?"

"Well." Anthony hesitated but then thought that there would be no harm in visiting the school and talking to Mr Grade there. Indeed it might help him make up his mind as to what if anything he ought to do. "Yes. Thank you very much … I look forward to that."

"And so do I," Mr Grade replied heartily, "and now let me introduce you to some of our fellow guests. You will find here the cream of expatriate society in Pathos not that that means very much."

Placing his hand on Anthony's shoulder he propelled him towards the nearest group. Anthony was amazed that he felt an echo, a weak one indeed but still an echo, of the thrill of pride and excitement that he had used to feel when as a small boy away from home eager for the approval and attention of an adult 'Sir' had condescended to notice him.

For the next hour and a half Anthony was taken from group to group of people being introduced. He met Major and Mrs Grey, the Renshaws, the Coles, the Smythe-Wibbleys, Colonel Grant and dozens of others whose names and faces he promptly forgot. The two things that he did remember as he walked away from the Vicarage in the gathering dusk was the execrable taste of the wine and the way in which Mr Grade appeared to be known and liked by everybody.

Anthony was not religiously inclined only getting himself confirmed at fourteen to please his mother. However having been to drinks at the vicarage on Saturday evening he felt himself more or less bound to attend church the next morning.

Apart from the brilliant blue sky overhead and the flaming jacaranda bush by the lych-gate the Anglican church could as well have been in Putney as in Pathos. A grey mock gothic pile it arrogantly refused to make any concession to geography. The congregation Anthony thought was as unmistakably English as the church and so far as the male portion of it was concerned shared that buildings refusal to adapt to place and climate.

The woman tended to wear light simmer dresses of the sort that you might see at a superior garden party in the home counties but without the small white or pink jersey that prudence dictated was carried as a protection against the rigours of the weather in England. The men made no such concessions to the heat of the Mediterranean sun, dark suits, quiet shirts with discreet ties and highly polished shoes were the order of the day.

As Anthony arrived at the church a mini bus with St Thomas's English School in bold dark blue letters on it's side drew up. It's doors slid back and a dozen or so excited school boys between eight and fourteen years old tumbled out jostling and pushing at each other. The driver, obviously the master in charge, jumped from the drivers seat and hurried round the bus.

"Boys," he said sharply, "Boys steady now. Simmer down. Just simmer down."

Anthony could tell from the way the boys immediately quietened that discipline at St Thomas's was tight and firmly enforced.

"That's better," the master said when silence had fallen. "You know very well that the rule is that you leave the bus quietly from the front.

Simpson, Davies and Lindsay-Brown and Johnson you did not wait your turns. You will report to me when we return to school. Now form up and go in to the church."

Quickly the boys paired off and Anthony stood to one side to let them past. He could see that St Thomas's school uniform too made little concession to the climate. Each boy was immaculately turned out in a maroon blazer with yellow and red piping, grey shirt with maroon and yellow striped ties, grey shorts, long grey socks with maroon and yellow tops and highly polished black shoes. The only thing that distinguished them from a crowd of English preparatory school boys in their Sunday best was the deep tan that the Mediterranean sun had imparted to their legs and faces. It seemed though to Anthony as the boys filed by him and his eyes were unwillingly but inevitably drawn to the succession of brown firmly rounded boy's thighs, that the shorts they wore were somewhat tighter and briefer than might be expected in Britain.

That had been the case he remembered in his time also. Any boy the legs of whose shorts approached anywhere near his knees risked incurring Mr Wades' wrath. So fearful of this were they that Matron in the early days of each term had to deal with a succession of desperate boys pleading with her to use her skills as a needle woman before Sir saw their new shorts.

Following the column of boys with his eyes he saw that either the school matron or one of her assistants had indeed been busy and was an adept with the needle. So skilfully had she cut and sown that from behind you would not have known that anyone of the choristers were wearing shorts at all. It seemed almost the full length of each pair of firm young legs was visible with only each boy's the blazer shrouding their very tops from view.

If you had not known better you would have thought that it was only necessary to slip your hand under a blazer to have access to the most intimate recesses of a boy's body.

Anthony wondered at the effort that must have been put into ensuring the boys presented so delectable a spectacle. For a moment he was back in the days before his voice had broken remembering the rising tension that the end of the week brought to those boys, who like himself, were in the school choir which sang in the local parish church. The pushing and shoving among the naked boys on Saturday nights, which was bath night for the choristers as they competed for Sir's attention. Mr Grade moving among them laughing as he checked their bodies uttering the occasional word of praise. Sometimes, his smile suddenly frozen, administering a hard open handed smack to the bottom of some boy who had displeased him. The sudden explosive crack of hard palm against unprotected boy's flesh would ring out above the chatter and laughter bringing a sudden moment of silence. Occasionally grabbing a boy who had failed to pass his inspection by the scruff of his neck with one hand while vigorously sponging the offending part of his victim naked body as he squirmed in his grasp. Then the last minute change into their best uniforms after breakfast on Sunday morning. The lump in his throat as he lined up for the final check before they set off for church knowing that any imperfection detected would lead to summary punishment.

Returning to the present and noticing an angry bruise across the back of one boy's smooth brown thigh Anthony reflected that apparently little had changed. He too had often gone to church the marks of the cane fresh on his body.

The assistant master in charge of the boys brushed past him. Anthony stared after the man a puzzled expression on his face. About the same age as himself there was something strangely familiar about the shape of his head and the way he carried his shoulders.

There was a crunch of on gravel and a large shiny new BMW pulled into the church car park. The driver door swung open and Mr Grade climbed out smiling. Dressed in a light weight tropical suit he was the only man among the congregation who had made any concession to the climate.

He reached back into the car and placed a Panama hat on his head. He sighted Anthony and walked over to him pausing every now and again to say a word or bow to one of the waiting women each time punctiliously raising his hat. He did this so frequently that Anthony suspected that he had brought the hat from the car for the sole purpose of raising it.

"Anthony, my dear chap," he exclaimed when eventually he reached him, "so good to see you here and so wise and so courteous of you to come unless indeed," he laughed lightly at the conceit, " you are a believer.

Then the courtesy and the wisdom is less but the virtue all the greater."

"I thought," Anthony admitted, "that it would be rather churlish to attend the vicars party last night and miss his church service this morning."

"True, true and I trust that the habit of church attendance that you picked up in your youth has stayed with you. You were a member of the school choir I remember. So important a good choir I think it helps to set the tone of the school and gives it an identity in the wider community. You saw our present choir arrive? I trust you agree with me that the boys' appearance brings credit to our school."

"I saw them…" Anthony began. He was a little taken aback at the apparent self confidence of the man. He had expected Mr Grade to show some anxiety and indeed embarrassment on coming across the person whose evidence had sent him to gaol some twelve years previously and who could with just a few words ruin his business and reputation. Mr Grade however had shown neither. Rather he had behaved towards Anthony as if he had nothing to fear, a respected older member of the local community patronising a young newcomer with whom he happened to be already acquainted. He was to surprise Anthony still further.

"You recognised Tim Fraser?" he asked.

Anthony said nothing but simply gaped in surprise.

"Tim Fraser," Mr Grade repeated a hint of impatience in his voice. "Your great friend when you were at my old school. Such a good faithful boy.

He was one of the first people who sort me out you know. I had great hopes of him at the time and was not disappointed. I had great hopes of you too Anthony.."

He checked himself and then said as if, it seemed to Anthony, he not Mr Grade was the person who had misbehaved all those years ago.

"Ah well it was not to be. You must not distress yourself and this is not the time or place to discuss it. We can talk it over tomorrow no doubt when you visit me at the school if you wish. Look the congregation is entering the church. We had best join them I think. I am sure Anthony that although, as would seem to be apparent, you are not a strong churchman you will find our service interesting."

Chapter Five

Somehow Anthony found himself being ushered into a pew by Mr Grade.

As he settled himself, bending forward in an imitation of the current Anglican position of prayer in which the knees do not touch the ground, he reflected that his position had been further compromised. It was already difficult after spending the previous evening in Mr Grade's company at the Vicar's party, it was even more so now. How could he convincingly denounce a man for abusing him as a boy immediately after being seen sharing a pew with him in church? The trouble was partly that some of his old awe of Mr Grade lingered and partly that the man had a knack of assuming that you were going to fall in with his plans that was very difficult to withstand.

Anthony sat back in his pew and glanced around. The church was a large building, it's nave dwarfing the congregation of fifty or so that sat huddled together at the Eastern end before the steps leading up to the chancel.

There was a strong smell of incense and interspersed between the memorials to previous incumbents and deceased worthies, all of whom, while living, seemed to be noted for their piety, charity and all the other Christian virtues, that lined the side aisles walls were pictures denoting the stations of the cross. From this Anthony drew the conclusion that Mr Wells belonged to the further reaches of the Anglo-Catholic faction of the Anglican church. There would no doubt as a consequence be a good deal of chanting, genuflecting and extraneous bits of ritual. To be set against this though was that the service would not start by the congregation being asked, as had happened at one service he had had to attend in the past, "to give God a big hand for sending us such a wonderful day," and the sermon would almost certainly be short.

His expectations were proved to be well founded. Mr Wells made his entry preceded by two vergers carrying rods with brass crosses on their tops, followed by two youths rather inexpertly swinging smoking censors.

Then came the choir, the boys leading, the smallest in the front. If the boys had looked attractive in their school uniforms, now wearing dark blue surplices with white tops, they exuded an air of seductive innocence. They were followed by the men of the choir. There were no women or girls.

Finally came Mr Wells wearing over his black surplice a scarlet chasuble richly embroidered with gold and silver thread.

The singing Anthony had to admit to himself was excellent. The boys' voices rising high and clear over the deeper tones of the men. A boy with the blondest of blond hair, and a peaches and cream complexion to which the sun had given a golden tinge sang a solo part, his voice the purest soprano, seeming to soar upwards, filling the knave with the sweetest music. It was a pity that Mr Wells when he chanted and he did rather a lot of that, showed himself to possess a rather weak voice with a distinct nasal twang.

The service wound slowly to it's conclusion. The hymns were sung, the psalms chanted, the lessons read, one by Mr Grade, the sermon preached, the wine and bread blessed and consumed, the blessing given.

Mr Wells, preceded as before by the vergers with rods, the two youths swinging censers, the choir boys looking angelic and the men looking, it appeared to Anthony, rather thirsty, processed from the chancel down the length of the nave.

There was a pause while people stood in their pews waiting on each other to move. The congregation began to file slowly from the church. Mr Wells, out of his chasuble but still wearing his surplice, stood at the door shaking everybody's hand as they passed. He appeared slightly out of breath. He must have run from the vestry round the building to get there in time.

"And what," said Mr Grade when he and Anthony were standing together outside the church in the sunshine, "did you think of our service?"

"Rather… er elaborate," Anthony replied carefully, "but the singing was very good," he added quickly knowing he was on safer ground.

"Yes wasn't it," Mr Grade replied in a self satisfied sort of way. "Well I must wait here now for my principal chorister. He and I have been, as I think you know, bidden to luncheon in the vicarage."

"Ah here he is now. Here boy. Over here. Quickly we mustn't keep Mr Wells waiting. Come along now."

Vassilly trotted up to them.

"Say how do you do to Mr Llewellyn Vassilly and shake hands. Remember your manners boy."

"How do you do Sir," Vassilly shyly holding out his hand.

"How are you Vassilly," Anthony said taking the small sweaty paw in his.

"And what do you think of Vassilly's voice?" Mr Grade enquire smiling benevolently.

Anthony looked down into the young face smiling shyly up at him. He felt a jolt as though his heart had stopped beating. Blood pounded in his head.

His mind went blank

"I think both Vassilly and his voice are beautiful," Anthony heard himself say.

He saw the blood flood the boy's cheeks. Vassilly pulled his hand away and dropped his head in embarrassment.

"Well, well," Mr Grade chortled gently, "maybe you'll see more of Vassilly when you call on me tomorrow."

He put his hand on the boy's shoulder and turning, led him away. Anthony stood staring after them, cursing himself for his lack of self control.

"He's so good to his boys and they all worship him you know," a woman's voice said.

Turning he saw Mrs Renshaw standing beside him.

"And he's especially good to that boy. I don't know if you know about him. He has nothing, no father no mother, nothing and you can see how he has taken to Mr Grade. I don't believe he even knew his own surname you know or it was some unpronounceable Russian one. Mr Grade calls him Rossignoll. That's the French for…"

"Nightingale," Anthony said quickly.

"Yes quite right. So appropriate such a wonderful voice and a very pretty boy too."

"Yes," said Anthony thoughtfully, "yes indeed."

Anthony walked away. He saw nothing of the people who crowded the pavements or the cars that ground noisily with much hooting of horns and revving of engines down the narrow streets. His mind was full of the image of a boy with hair the colour of white gold and the shyest and sweetest of smiles.

He had intended to have his lunch at some cafe but he found he was in no mood to be bothered by a waiter trying to make friendly conversation about the weather, the antiquities, the bill of fair and inevitably the iniquities of the Turks. Instead he walked slowly back to his apartment and made his meal of cheese and bread washed down with a glass of beer.

Then, having eaten he went into his bedroom and stretched himself on his bed. He lay there trying to concentrate his mind on what he should do. It seemed to him he had problems enough and that he had added to them considerably that morning. He was still unsure whether, if Mr Grade was up to his old practices and it seemed likely that he was, he ought to take some action to stop him. If he should, what action ought he and could he take. Now he had been seen in Grade's company, both at the Vicar's party and at church, a discreet quiet word with a leading member of the expatriate community would be pointless. He could not now expect to be believed. The only way now to stop Grade, if stopped he should be, was to make a formal complaint to the Cyprus authorities who would also probably not believe him. If he made sufficient fuss no doubt they would, however reluctantly, look up the man's records in Britain and that would settle the matter. It would though involve a lot of fuss and a lot of scandal.

It would raise questions about his own behaviour. Why did he postpone taking action and why had he been so friendly with Grade? None of these would help his own career.

All this ignored the very basic question of whether what Grade had done in the past and might be doing now, was so very bad. Then what right had he, Anthony, to judge Grade at all. Was he not just as bad, if bad it was, with his lusting after Vassilly?

There his thoughts stopped. For however hard he tried to think his problems through, however much he attempted to concentrate his mind on the practical questions of what he should and could do, the memory of the slim fair haired boy walking away from him, Grade's hand resting proprietarily on his shoulder, returned to dominate his imagination.

What did Grade mean by "seeing more of the boy." Was it just a joke or was it a promise? Had the boy already experienced the same painful initiation that Anthony and Tim and so many of their fellow pupils had endured at Mr Grade's hands so many years ago?

Anthony's imagination heated by the thought and by the memory of his own rough wooing began to conjure pictures where his own youthful body merged and identified with Vassilly's. His hand crept down to his trouser band. He fiddled with his belt loosening it. His hand now was inside his trousers. His fingers touched and stroked his hardness.

He was twelve years old again among a hoard of other boys imprisoned in a world ruled by the wishes and will of Mr Grade. Sir dominated that world like some all powerful tribal God who had to be served and placated. The boys, Anthony among them, competed for his attention and approval. To be one of Sir's boys, to be among the group of his acknowledged favourites, was the ambition of every boy who had not already attained that privilege.

It was not open to the youngest. You had to be eleven or twelve before Sir seemed to notice you and there was a price to pay. What that price was though, was uncertain. The favourites knew but they did not say. In fact, isolated in their special dormitory, situated right opposite the door leading to Mr Grade's private rooms, they kept very much to themselves. Rumours circulated speaking of great pain and weird practices only comprehensible to adults.

Something weird too had been happening to his own body. Just before the end of the holidays he had been lying in the bath thinking about nothing.

His prick had hardened for no particular reason, something that had been happening increasingly often recently, but this time there was suddenly the most gorgeous feeling ever and streaks of white stuff had shot form his piss hole and floated upwards. This had happened since a couple of times in bed. He'd been afraid Matron would spot the marks on his sheets and he'd be beaten, just like he was when he wet the bed once in his first term but she hadn't.

Now there was another worry. Mr Grade had seemed to be checking more and more often on him when he showered. Whenever Sir checked down there his prick went hard. He was frightened the white stuff would suddenly shoot out of it and then he knew Sir would be angry.

He had come out of the showers and Mr Grade was standing there. Other naked boys were milling around but with a sinking feeling he realised that Mr Grade was looking at him

"Have you washed between the legs boy?"

"Yes Sir Please Sir."

"Let me check boy. Legs apart."

He felt Sir's hand on the small of his back pushing him forward so that his bottom was raised and open. There was a pause and Mr Grade slapped him hard on the rump.

"Good boy," and then the order he dreaded, "turn round and face me now. Let's see your front."

He turned using his hands in a pathetic and pointless effort to hide his embarrassment.

"Get your hands away from there you stupid boy," Sir ordered impatiently.

Reluctantly he obeyed. His rigid prick wobbling upright in front of him. There was a sound of barely suppressed giggling from the boys behind him.

"What's this then?" Mr Grade reached out and taking hold of his hard cock .

"Sir Please Sir," he pleaded in anguished tones as the man began to roll the stiff little rod of boy's flesh between finger and thumb.

"Oh Sir," he gasped as he squirted boy juice.

Anthony's knees came up and he grabbed for a handkerchief and clasped it hard against his prick end as semen gushed from it's end. He lay panting on the bed back in the present. Light filtered dimly into the bedroom though the half closed shutters. A fly buzzed gently. Anthony closed his eyes and for a moment he dozed, his hand once more inside his trousers. Time passed and then his fingers began to slowly move once again.

He was a boy once again naked, frightened and in disgrace. There was a moment of total silence as Mr Grade looked down at his hand, white liquid dripping from it onto the floor. Then he exploded in rage.

"You dirty little brute," he roared wiping the front of his hand down the boy's chest, leaving a trail of warm stickiness behind. "Go and ask Matron for a cloth and mop your filth up."

"Sir Please Sir can I…," he wanted to plead to be allowed to put some clothes on before setting out on this errand.

"Shut up and do as your told," roared Mr Grade swinging him round, helping him on his way with his boot up his behind.

"And be sure to tell Matron what you want the cloth for. I don't want it being used for anything else after cleaning up your mess," Mr Grade shouted as he scuttled off on his errand.

Matron was a hard faced middle aged woman who had spent her whole life working in boy's prep schools. Not because she liked boys but because she hated them and the work gave her ample opportunity of venting her bile on her unfortunate charges. She loved Mr Grade in a hard sexless way and served him faithfully because he allowed her to give free reign to her cruelty.

She sat looking at the naked boy with mean pig like eyes as, with tears of humiliation streaming down his face, he stammered out his errand and the cause of it.

"Well," she said harshly when he fell silent, "there's no point standing there snivelling. What would your Mother think of you if I told her what a filthy slut she has for a son I don't like to think. Here take this rag and get out of my sight. You belong in the farmyard not a decent school."

One of Matrons strengths, and one she took great pride in, was that she could reduce a boy to tears as well with her tongue as her hands; although she was not backward in employing the latter whenever occasion offered.

Mr Grade stood towering over the boy as he crouched at his feet swabbing away at the floor with the damp rag. At last Sir was satisfied.

"Go to my study and wait for me there. I will deal with you later."

The boy wanted to ask permission to wash himself and to put on something to cover his nakedness. He knew though that Sir's orders were to be obeyed immediately and without question. At least the rules required him to stand facing the wall so passers-bye would not see the dried boy juice caked on his chest.

He stood there a small frightened naked boy, his toes and nose touching the wall, as the rules required. People walked past but he dared not look round. Sometimes it was the heavy step of a master, more often the lighter quicker foot steps of a boy or boys. No one spoke to him.

Sometimes a masters footsteps would slow down as he passed and he took in what was on offer. Sometimes a boy make a comment to his companions and they would all laugh but not very loud, for it might be their turn next. The boy waited, longing to be freed from his humiliation, dreading the moment that release came, for he knew that that would be the prelude to even worse suffering. Time passed. The boy began to feel the air cold against his bare skin. He tried desperately to control his shivering for all movement was forbidden. He heard the unmistakable sound of Mr Grade's step, heavy, deliberate and confident. A stifled sob was torn from his body. The steps approached and passed. He didn't dare look round. He heard the door knob rattle, the door swing back and then Sir's voice sounded close beside him.

"Here Llewellyn." It didn't occur to the boy that he was being spoken to as though he was a dog.

He saw that Sir was spreading a piece of towelling over the top of his desk.

His heart lurched and he thought he was going to be sick for he knew what that meant. It was part of the mythology of the school whispered between frightened boys when the lights were out. Ordinary everyday beatings, like the ones he had had up to now, you bent over and caught hold of your ankles. For really hard ones Sir had you bend over his desk. He was going to have to bend over the desk.

Mr Grade turned to face him.

"Llewellyn," he said sternly, "you are a wicked boy. You are a disgrace to your Mother and Father and I have a good mind to tell them what a disgusting boy you are with your filthy evil habits and ask them to remove you from this school before you corrupt the rest of the boys. That's what I ought to do. It's that or a thrashing and it'll be a hard one too. I'm not going to tolerate that sort of behaviour from anyone."

Anthony whimpered. He didn't want to be beaten but he couldn't bear to think of his Mother knowing about his wickedness. He would bear anything if he could prevent that.

"Sir please Sir don't tell my Mother Sir Please Sir," he sobbed.

"Then it's a flogging boy isn't it?"

"Yes Sir but please don't tell them Please…"

"Very well get down over the desk and catch hold of the far side."

Anthony approached the desk. He saw lying at one end of it the cane. A good metre [3½ ft] long it's end had been split and bound with fuse wire to give it extra bite. He balked but Mr Grade pushed him forward with a hand on the back of his head. He tried to stretch himself over the desk but he was not really tall enough. He could reach the far side of it all right but it's top was higher than his waist so he lent there supporting himself on his elbows. Mr Grade snorted impatiently. Anthony felt himself lifted from behind by a hand pushed between his legs while his chest was forced down onto the desk top by a hand between his shoulder blades. He lay there his bare feet hanging clear of the floor his bottom exposed and ready for the rod.

Mr Grade picked up the cane from the desk and moved behind him. He tensed at the touch of the cane as the man laid it gently across his behind judging his distance.

Briefly Anthony returned to the present. His handkerchief was once again called into play and then after a moments rest he was back again in Mr Grade's study. He heard Mr Grade moving behind him. He clamped his bottom tight shut, tensing himself for the impact of the cane. There was a second pause and then the hiss of the cane as it descended. His bottom exploded in pain so intense that it drove the air from his lungs. He wanted to scream but he could not. He fought for breath while Mr Grade stood patiently watching.

When the man judged the moment was ripe he raised his arm again and brought the cane cracking down once more across the boy's quivering bottom.

Slowly remorselessly the beating continued cut after cut being laid across Anthony's defenceless rump. At first Anthony had tried not to cry out but that attempt was soon abandoned as the agony gripped his body and destroyed all vestiges of self control. He writhed and squealed under the rod his legs waiving wildly. His hands loosing their grip beat a tattoo of pain on the desk top. Mr Grade was obliged to use his left hand to pin him down or he would have rolled from the desk onto the floor.

Then it was over. Anthony felt himself lifted from the desk. Mr Grade took him by the hand and led him round the desk. Still holding him by the hand the man seated himself. He pulled the towel from the desk and spread it over his knees. Then placing his hands on the side of the boy's hips he gently drew the boy down on to his lap. Anthony whimpered as he felt the tough towelling press against his raw bottom.

Once again reality asserted itself and Anthony was dragged back to the present. This time it took a little longer once the crisis was past for Anthony to make the journey back in time but eventually the transition was made.

The pain and shock of the beating had shorn a good six years from his age. He could remember how grateful he was to Mr Grade as he gingerly settled his sore bottom on the man's knees. He had been such a wicked boy but Sir was still willing to forgive him and be kind to him. He lent back resting his head against Sir's shoulder. A thumb stole up to his mouth.

Mr Grade slipped an arm round his waist and squeezed him.

"You're a naughty boy Anthony," Mr Grade said gently letting his hand rest on the top of the boy's bare thigh.

"Squirting isn't bad Anthony," he said, he never usually used a boys first name, "all boys do that a bit. What's naughty is that you can't stop doing it."

The man's hand moved until it was resting on the inside of the boy's thigh.

Anthony murmured and moved uneasily.

"Yes I know. It's going to happen again isn't it? That shows how wicked you are." The man's voice was low almost mesmerising. He began to slide his hand up the inside of the boy's leg.

"But you're lucky Anthony I will help you. It'll hurt. It'll hurt a lot, even more than the beating I've just given you but it will work and Anthony through the hurt you'll not only control your wickedness but you'll feel a wonderful exciting feeling, better than anything else you've ever known. And nothing is put into this world without a purpose. Not even wicked little boys who can't stop themselves squirting. Even little boys like that have their uses. And when you get that wonderful feeling I'll get one as well."

Sir's hand had now reached the top of Anthony's thigh. His fingers began to play with the boy's tiny balls.

"It'll feel much much nicer than this," Mr Grade's fingers moved to Anthony's hard little prick.

"Much, much nicer… There you wicked boy you've done it again…"

Anthony began to weep ashamed he had been naughty again and fearful of another beating. Mr Grade hushed him.

"There, there Anthony you silly boy don't carry on so. That just shows what a naughty little thing you are, squirting your filth everywhere. You go along now and ask Matron really nicely to put something on that sore bum of yours to make it better and to grease up your hole for me."

He put his hands on Anthony's hips and pushed him gently on to his feet. He wiped his hands on the towel on his knees and held it out to the boy.

"And take this to Matron and ask her to get it laundered. Now turn round so I can see your bottom. "

"That's all right it's hardly bleeding at all. Run along now"

Anthony started for the door.

"Wait a moment boy," Mr Grade's voice sounded sharply behind him.

"Aren't you going to thank me?"

"Oh yes Sir. Sorry Sir… Thank you Sir," Anthony said hastily.

Anthony, his face blotched with tears, his bare bottom raw from the cane, his stiff little boy's prick wobbling in front of him as he walked, made his way to Matron's room. He had long passed beyond feeling shame or embarrassment. He did not notice the grins and muttered comments of the other boys he passed or the way the few masters he encountered turned their heads away as he approached as though by ignoring him they could deny his existence and the existence of his distress.

Matron was sitting in her arm chair drinking a cup of tea. She had him turn round so that she could look at his bottom.

"Well," she said nastily, "you got no more than you deserved," and sent him to wait outside the door until she had finished her tea. Eventually she called him back in. Anthony saw that she had placed a bowl of warm water and some rags on a low table beside he,r together with a couple of small glass jars. There was a strong smell of antiseptics. She ordered the boy to lie down across her knees.

"Get your bottom up in the air," she snapped impatiently reinforcing her order with a sharp slap with the flat of her hand on the boy's ravaged flesh.

Anthony howled in pain.

"Don't make such a fuss you great cry baby," she said impatiently. "Now you've got blood on my hand you disgusting little brute."

Anthony felt her wipe her hand on his back. The she began none too gently to sponge his bottom. Anthony whimpered quietly as the anti-sceptic stung his broken flesh. Matron told him to push his bottom higher into the air and to spread his legs. Anthony caught his breath as the damp cloth was pressed into the crack of his bottom.

Then the cloth was replaced by Matron's finger tips as she spread some sort of salve along the deep welts that the cane had scored across his rump. Matron wiped her fingers once again on his naked back. There was a pause while Anthony heard her unscrewing the lid of the second jar.

Then once more he felt her finger tips against his body. This time though the stuff they were spreading seemed thicker and less liquid than before.

He gasped as he felt her run her fingers along the lips of his anus.

Automatically he tensed clamping his bottom shut but she pressed harder forcing her fingers into him. He felt one of her fingers cool and slippery with grease pressing against his sphincter. For a moment it resisted her probing but then gave way. Anthony groaned and pushed his bottom upwards responding to her intrusion.

"Filthy little tart," she said contemptuously withdrawing her finger with an audible plop. "No wonder Mr Grade flayed your bum."

Anthony felt her grease coated fingers resting against the entry to his hole. This time though she exerted no pressure, simply letting them lie there. He whimpered in frustration trying to open himself to their teasing touch.

"You really want it don't you," she sneered. "A slut boy, that's what you are. Just a slut."

Anthony sobbed quietly. He wasn't sure exactly what some of the words Matron was using meant but the tone of her voice made clear the contempt in which she held him. And he knew that that contempt was well deserved for his prick was hard and throbbing again, proving what a wicked dirty minded little boy he was, just as Mr Grade had said.

"Slut," Matron said again, "whore," and jabbed her finger viciously into him.

He cried out in pain and just at that moment he heard Mr Grade's voice above him.

"How are you getting on with Anthony?" The man's voice was mild, even kindly.

"I've done as much as I can with him," Matron said jerking her finger clear of his body as suddenly and as violently as she had just inserted it.

"Take him away I don't want him in here. You're welcome to him is all I can say. It's very good of you to bother at all with such a nasty little brat."

"Get up off my knee quick now," she commanded slapping Anthony hard on his upturned rump.

"There," she complained, raising her voice to be heard over the boy's squeal of pain, "I've got blood on my hand again."

Gripping Anthony firmly by the arm Mr Grade led him from the room. He steered the boy along the short length of corridor to where the green baize covered door stood that divided his own private living quarters from the boys' dormitories. Anthony went along readily enough. He was grateful that someone was willing to have something to do with him.

Mr Grade's side of the door was another world. Fitted carpets replaced shabby linoleum, light pastel shades and patterned wall paper, dark shiny green paint.

Anthony found himself standing in what was clearly Mr Grade's bedroom.

The man released his grip of the boy's arm and began to undress, pulling his clothes impatiently from his body and throwing them carelessly onto a chair. Anthony watched fascinated but apprehensive.

The man shed his trousers and then pulled his shirt off over his head.

The boy was amazed by the heaviness of the man's limbs and torso and by how hairy he was. Thick wiry black hair coated his legs and chest.

The man hooked his fingers into the elastic top of his Yfronts and slipped them down over his hips. They fell to the floor round his ankles.

Anthony's eyes widened as he took in the size of the man's cock rising, hard and demanding, from the forest of dark hair about his crutch and lower belly. He had caught occasional sideways glimpses of his father's and other men's penis's when using the public toilets but he had never before seen a man's tool erect.

Mr Grade picked up a tube from a table beside the bed and held it out to the boy.

"You spread this on it boy," he ordered.

Anthony squeezed some jelly onto the palm of his hand. There was no need for the man to explain what he meant by "it". Gingerly he took the man's rigid member in his hand. He felt the blood throbbing within the swollen column of flesh and gristle, the small goose pimples that covered the blue and purple veined rod was rough to his touch. He had been uncertain before as to what was going to be done to him but now he knew.

His hole had been oiled by Matron and he was now being required to do the same to this gross object.

As he smeared the jelly over Mr Grade's penis he sensed to some extent the urgency of the man's lust. He wondered how he could ever take such an object inside his own slim body. He shuddered as he imagined the crushing weight of the man's body so much bulkier than his own hammering it into him, ripping his bottom open, splitting the tender flesh between his legs. With his finger tips he spread the jelly thickly over the hard pink helmet that he knew would force it's way down into his body, filling even the slit at it's top with grease. Soon the whole length of Mr Grade's cock, from it's roots in the dark forest of his pubic hair to it's hard pink helmet with the normally narrow slit, now widened and deepened by his arousement, at it's top, was slick and shining with lubricant.

Mr Grade said nothing but taking the tube from him he replaced it on the table. Holding Anthony by his arm he urged him forward till he was standing next to the bed.

"On your back with your knees each side of your head," Mr Grade's voice was soft almost amused.

Anthony obeyed. Lying with his shoulders on the bed, his bum lifted and open, he waited for the man to begin to force his cock into his bottom.

He could see Mr Grade between his spread legs, standing, looking down at him. To the boy the man's cock seemed to have assumed gigantic proportions.

Mr Grade lent forward. Steadying himself with one hand on the bed he took his cock in the other hand and guided it so it's tip was pressing against the lip's of the boy's anus.

"This is going to hurt Anthony," he said quietly. "It is necessary that you should feel pain now but at the moment the pain is at it's very greatest and you think you can stand no more you will feel the greatest pleasure that you have ever felt or ever will feel in your whole life. I promise you."

"And Anthony you will scream before the end so you may as well not struggle against it. Let the world hear your pain. It will make no difference. No one will come and help you."

Surprisingly he bent down and kissed the boy full on his mouth, his tongue darting in between the boy's parted lips and exploring his mouth. Then he straightened and using his two thumbs to force apart the lips of the boy's anus began his assault. Anthony felt his body engulfed by a wave of the most excruciating pain which increased in intensity by the second as Mr Grade began to work his cock deeper and deeper into him. For a moment his sphincter withstood the man's intrusion and then, with a fresh gush of pain, it gave before his assault. A red mist shrouded Anthony's eye's and he screamed shrilly, his shrieks of pain ringing out over and over again.

Anthony had no idea how long this agony continued. It seemed never ending. Certainly the man took his time over penetrating the boy, easing his cock millimetre by millimetre into the boy's gut, rather than driving it home in a series of heavy thrusts. No doubt by doing so he minimised the physical damage inflicted but it lengthened the duration of the boy's torment. Then long after the point when Anthony felt that he could bear no more and that the man's cock had already split his body open, he began to respond to the man's invasion. Rather than resisting his body closed about the man's cock trying to draw it further and deeper into himself. The pain was there still but in addition there was the most intense excitement that grew and strengthened as the tempo of the man's thrusting increased in speed and force. Anthony could feel the coarse hair about the man's crutch pressed against his bottom and he knew that the full length of Mr Grade's cock was now sheathed in his gut. Anthony felt the man's cock surge inside him and at that moment his own small prick seemed to explode and expel gob after gob of boy's juice.

Anthony rolled over onto his side. It was dark now in the flat. Some sperm dribbled from the end of his cock and then exhausted and completely drained he at last fell asleep.

Chapter 6

Anthony woke to find his trousers and underpants round his ankles. He scrambled out of bed. Carrying the soiled sheets he made his way to the kitchen. He pulled off his shirt and thrust it together with the sheets into the washing machine. Switching the machine on he walked naked across the apartment to the bathroom. The sun was streaming into the sitting room. Clearly he had overslept.

Turning the shower full on he stepped into it. The water, first boiling hot then bitterly cold, jerked him fully awake. He suddenly noticed that he was very hungry. Still naked he padded over to the kitchen. He didn't keep much food in the apartment but there was Weetabix and bread and Marmite. One of the odd things about Cyprus was that even the smallest shops stocked a mixture of Mediterranean and British food.

While the sliced bread browned in the toaster he hungrily shovelled cereal and milk into his mouth.

As he chewed he was surprised to find that his mind was absolutely clear.

All the doubts of the previous days had vanished. There was no uncertainty now as to what he should do about Mr Grade and his school.

The man must be stopped. He personally might eventually have come to enjoy some of the things that Mr Grade had done to him but that did not mean that the man should be allowed to continue to do them to other boys. This was especially so when they were accompanied by so much cruelty and when Mr Grade used the power he enjoyed as Headmaster over his intended victims to force them to comply with his lusts. The boys had no real choice and that was wrong. He would go to the school that evening, tell Mr Grade his decision and the next day seek out the appropriate official in the Cypriot Government to inform.

Crunching his toast and Marmite he rehearsed his conversation with Mr Grade in his own mind. He would be calm. He would not enter into argument or sink to recriminations. He would simply tell the man his decision, giving him a short warning of his intended action, so that he could, if he wished, make himself scarce. He imagined himself standing over Mr Grade as he coldly announced his decision, the man, frightened, ashamed, but pathetically grateful for the chance that he had been given to make his escape before disgrace overtook him, cowering before him.

Rehearsing the exact words that he would use to reduce his old headmaster to a grovelling supplicant he set off for his office. So buoyed up with self confidence was he that he had no doubt the interview would go the way he planned. It did not occur to him in his elevated mood that he had never in his life got the better of Mr Grade and was unlikely to do so now.

He was late arriving at the office but his confident mood carried him effortlessly through the morning allowing him to slice through problems that would otherwise have left him dithering for hours. By noon he had caught up with his work and he set off for his lunch with a clear conscience. He went, as had become his custom, to a restaurant near the old harbour. It was yet another sunny day and he was shown to his usual table on the terrace looking out over the bay.

As he ate he thought again of his coming visit to Mr Grade's school.

Pressure of work had driven this from his mind during the morning. He found now, that as the time for the meeting drew nearer, he was feeling slightly less self confident but his resolve to bring the man's career as a teacher to an end was unaltered. It was his duty, he told himself, to do so. How many other boys since he had been abused by him had Mr Grade, by a mixture of bullying and cajolery, bent to his pleasures? How many more, if he was not checked, would he similarly seduce in the future? It was all right to argue that the boy's once they were primed and broken enjoyed the thing, as indeed he had done but at what a cost did that enjoyment come. He thought of the desires that burnt so strongly sometimes within himself that he feared that they might take control of his whole being.

Had Mr Grade, Anthony wondered, already completed Vassilly's initiation.

Had those fires been kindled also within that boy's delicious body.

He would be having his dinner now. Anthony imagined Vassilly crowded with a dozen other boys along one side of a table in the school dining room, feeling the wooden bench hard against his bottom through his tightly drawn shorts, the edge of the bench pressing against the back of his bare thighs. The room filled with shrill boys' voices and the clatter of enthusiastically wielded knives and forks on china plates. Did the boy, even as he was eating, ache for the feel of Mr Grade's hand exploring his body, remember the taste of the man's precum on his tongue, yearn to experience again the painful but overwhelming ecstasy that came when the man drove his penis deep into his guts? Perhaps Vassilly's tiny prick was hard against the fabric of his shorts as he bent his blond head over his plate.

If these things were indeed so then Anthony felt for the boy. He would experience, when Mr Grade had been banished from his life, the same long years of emptiness and frustrated lust that Anthony himself had in his time. It was cruel to sentence the boy to that but necessary. For to do otherwise would be to lower himself to the same level as Mr Grade.

Anthony knew that he could revise his plan a little. He could try to find out how far Mr Grade had gone with his initiation of Vassilly. If it had been completed he could in some way manage to take the boy under his wing.

Even if he did that he would treat him very differently from Grade. He would be gentle and loving with the boy. In his care the boy would be for ever freed from the tyranny of the rod The cane would no longer score it's cruel marks across his tender flesh. Even so he told himself no revision was possible. To give way on one thing would only lead to his doing so also on another.

For instance the boy could have acquired a taste for the rod. That did happen. It had happened to him. Not a taste for the thing itself, for the pain, although that too could happen, but for the idea, the symbolic abasement of himself before the man he feared and loved, the offering of his bared bottom for chastisement as a sign of his surrender to the man.

To be beaten by Sir, to endure the pain and to the bare the marks, was a way of showing to him and to others that you were one of his boys.

Anthony remembered the pride with which he had exhibited his bruised bottom to his fellows. Pride because he had had the hardihood to take the beating and pride because he had been marked by Sir.

Not that Anthony didn't find the thought itself exciting even now; calling the boy to him, watching while with fingers made clumsy with fear has the lad undresses till he stands naked and shivering before him. Then the interrogation, the questions posed calmly and reasonably, the boy's replies, tearful and panic stricken. Sentence pronounced the boy bends over, lifting his bottom, clamped hard in anticipation of the cane's cruel bite, the goose pimples on the backs of thighs, clear symptoms of his terror. The rod hisses harshly as it descends. There is a cracks as it etches it's livid mark across the boy's pale skin. The boy whimpers and howls while the welts on his bottom increase and darken as the beating progresses. Finally, the last act, the boy with quivering lips, his eyes glistening, stands facing him once again. He speaks gently to the boy and reaches out to him. A second later the child is sobbing in his arms breathing promises of repentance and undying love. Attractive as he found this picture he would not enact it even if Vassilly seemed to crave it as much as he did. To do so would be to behave no better than Mr Grade. He might as well leave Mr Grade undisturbed if he was himself to act in that way or even to allow himself to be lured into indulging his kinder more loving feelings for the boy.

He regretted both these resolutions. The boy was an attractive one and his body seemed formed for love while there was something about a boy's bottom that seemed to invite the cane; something almost geometrical in the relationship between it's smooth curve and the straight line of the cane. A definition from his geometry lessons at school rose to the surface of his memory, "a tangent is a line that touches but does not intersect a curved line or surface." Or would the better comparison be, if the cuts of the cane were delivered with proper force, he wondered idly, with a 'chord' that did intersect with the curved surface. Then what would be the correct way to describe the process by which the tip of a rod at the moment of impact curled about a boy's to nip him painfully on the flank?

Anthony lingered over his coffee to allow the erection that these pleasing reflections had induced to subside.

He wondered what young Vassilly had had for his dinner. Something, if things remained as he remembered, pretty horrible he felt sure. He hoped for the boy's sake it was not cauliflower cheese, that nauseous foul smelling, semi-liquid, mush that only youthful hunger had enabled him to stomach. 'Cheesy puke' was the name given to it by the boys in his time and it thoroughly deserved it. And for pudding? perhaps prunes and custard whose alternative name he refused to call to mind so soon after his own lunch; or, just as bad, bread and butter pudding, it's taste and the few black raisins that graced it, bringing inevitably to young minds freely expressed thoughts of rabbit droppings.

Anyway the meal would be over by now and Vassilly would have been sent to lie quietly on his bed for his after dinner rest. The boys were allowed to read but talking was forbidden. Anthony wondered how good Vassilly was at reading and reading English in particular. Would he be reading about wizards and warlocks, following the most recent craze, or leafing slowly through some picture book unable to understand even the captions. It would be odd if Vassilly was thinking of him just as he was dreaming of Vassilly.

Anthony found it increasingly difficult to concentrate on his work as the afternoon progressed. Images of Vassilly kept coming between himself and the papers on which he was meant to be working. In addition the confidence he had earlier felt in his ability to handle Mr Grade was beginning to drain away. He had not changed his mind about denouncing the man to his face but he was increasingly coming to feel that this would be an uphill struggle from which he would emerge with little credit. That, he told himself, did not matter, what was important was that he got his message clearly across to the man and equally important that he retained his own integrity by keeping his hands off the lovely Vassilly. If he gave way on one he knew he would give way on both. That morning he had made up his mind as to what he should do. He had determined on a simple straightforward course of action. He would only carry it through if he kept to it. He was coming though to realise that though as a plan it was simple it's performance would be far from that.

By the time that he started on his drive up to St Thomas's School he was in a highly nervous state. The prospect of bearding Mr Grade, that he had faced with such enthusiasm that morning, now frankly appalled him and his condition was not improved by the constant intrusion of Vassilly into his thoughts. He could not shake off memories of the boy at the church service, light almost silver hair, slim body and the firm tanned young thighs that combined in a kaleidoscope of erotic imaginings.

By the time he turned off the road onto the drive leading up to the school buildings he was in a state of intense emotional and sexual excitement.

He heard the gravel crunch under his wheels as he brought the car to a halt outside the old house that formed the centre of the school buildings.

Dusk was falling and lights shone out through it's un-curtained windows.

Anthony got out of the car and looked around him. He had no idea of where in the school complex Mr Grade had his rooms. He would have to try to find some reasonably responsible person and obtain directions.

"Mr Llewellyn Sir?" a breathless young voice spoke to one side of him.

Anthony turned and felt his heart jump. Vassilly stood there barefooted his only clothes a tiny pair of grey shorts.

"Yes," Anthony managed, even to himself his voice sounded oddly strained.

"Please Sir Mr Grade sent me to show you the way to his study Sir."

With that the boy turned and began to lead the way round the front of the building walking rather gingerly on the loose gravel. Anthony followed him admiring the pert jut of his rump under the tightly stretched shorts, resisting the temptation to give it a friendly pat with his hand.

They turned a corner of the house and flagstones gave way to gravel.

Without stopping walking Vassilly lifted one foot after the other and brushed loose gravel from their soles giving Anthony delightful glimpses of his delicate insteps.

"Gravel hurts your feet," Anthony remarked, feeling he should say something to the boy but not knowing what.

"Yes Sir but Mr grade says that our feet'll harden over the summer and we won't notice it then Sir."

"It's not only you then Vassilly?" Anthony like using the boy's name. It seemed to him to create a sense of intimacy between them.

"Oh Yes Sir. Once the warm weather starts Sir school uniform is just shorts Sir. Cept for special days like Sunday or speech day and that Sir. Mr Grade says it's healthier and it saves money on our uniforms."

"And you're nicer to look at too Vassilly," Anthony found himself saying and then, remembering the boy's embarrassment when he had remarked on his beauty outside the church, wished he hadn't.

The light was not good enough to see if Vassilly blushed and anyway he was walking slightly ahead of Anthony so he could not see the boy's face.

It did seem to him though that the boy's shoulders tensed slightly and his tight bottom clad in it's tight pair of grey shorts gave a self conscious little wriggle.

They came to a side door into the building and the boy pushed it open.

There was a flood of bright electric light that made Anthony blink. He followed his youthful guide down a short corridor. He admired the smooth golden tan of the boy's shoulders. He noticed that the top of his shorts ran tight round his narrow waist just above the swell of his rump leaving a tiny gap between waist band and boy where the narrow grove that marked the course of his backbone ran. It was too small a gap to allow a glimpse of the delights hidden below the coarse grey flannel but it occurred to Anthony that a finger hooked there could, with a sharp downward pull, remove the shorts altogether.

He wondered if the boy was wearing underpants. The shorts were so brief and so tight that he believed it was hardly possible that he was doing so.

Indeed if Mr Grade had completed the boy's initiation it was highly unlikely that he would be allowed such a luxury. Mr Grade's view, strictly enforced, as all his views were on his charges, was that underpants were an unnecessary hindrance both to the disciplining and enjoyment of his boys, the need for them being obviated by the requirement of the highest standards of personal hygiene. These speculations, interesting in themselves, were abruptly brought to a halt by Vassilly stopping in front of a heavy wooden door and knocking on it. A familiar voice shouted "enter" and Vassilly, pushing the door open, stood to one side.

Anthony stepped forward and then halted abruptly. He saw Mr Grade sitting behind his desk, rising to greet him, a smile on his face. His lips were moving. He was clearly saying some words of welcome but Anthony could either hear nor reply to them for he was numb with shock.

The room was exactly as he remembered Mr Grade's study when he was a boy at his school, the heavy wooden desk, the leather arm chairs, the oar over the stone fireplace, the French windows leading out onto a terrace beyond, even down to the cane resting against the wall in a corner of the room and the worn cricket ball on the mantle piece.. The contents of Mr Grade's study must have been put into storage as soon as he began his prison sentence and then taken out and transported to Cyprus so that the room could be recreated there exactly as it was before.

"Sit down Anthony. Sit down." The initial shock was past and he could at least make out what Mr Grade was saying. "I can see you are surprised. Perhaps I should have warned you. A touching gift from some of my old pupils who took care of matters while I was unavoidably prevented from pursuing my pedagogic vocation."

Numbly Anthony moved forward into the room and sank into one of the two leather arm chairs facing the desk. He knew he should be taking charge of the interview but he had lost the power to do so.

"There my dear chap, have a glass of wine and compose yourself." Mr Grade lifted a bottle from an ice bucket on a side table and filled a glass with wine.

"You need not worry. It is not one of the domestic wines but a Chablis, a Vaudesir. I am sure you will like it. Very different you know from the general run of Chablis more powerful and scented."

"Vassilly, you stupid boy, stop hanging about by the door and take this wine Mr Llewellyn. You can act as our Ganymede tonight, a true cup bearer to the Gods."

The boy grinning happily carried a small silver tray bearing the glass, it's surface now beaded with condensation, across to Anthony. He took it from the boy. His hand was trembling so much that he almost spilt it.

Annoyed with himself he lifted the glass to his lips and drank deeply. In fact for all Mr Grade's boasting the wine was so cold that it was almost tasteless although it seemed to him to have a slightly metallic after taste. The wine, whatever it's taste, certainly appeared to have a beneficial effect on his nerves. A feeling of well being flowed over Anthony. He lent back in his chair stretching his legs out in front of him, suddenly relaxed and confident.

He remembered with amusement that he had intended to warn Mr Grade that it was his intention to tell the Cypriot Authorities of his criminal record.

He could see now it was a ridiculous idea probably involving himself in all sorts of unpleasantness and effort. He had been much too judgmental.

Live and let live that was the thing. What if Mr Grade tastes were somewhat unusual? What business of his was it to interfere? He certainly wasn't going to abuse the man's hospitality by making life awkward for him.

He felt he had to explain to Mr Grade how he felt and how grateful he was that the man harboured no ill feeling towards him for having given evidence against him at his trial. He took a further deep swig of his wine and looked up.

He saw that Mr Grade had come round his desk and was sitting on it's edge looking down at him intently. Anthony tried to speak but somehow the words did not come.

"There, there Anthony," Mr Grade's voice was soft and almost mesmeric.

His eyes stared into Anthony's seeming to look deep into his mind.

"There's no need to say anything. I understand. There's no need to feel guilty about anything you have done or anything you will do. The first and only law is to do what you will; but to obey that law you must discover what you are. I am a teacher of men as well as boys. I will help you to know yourself."

"I said if you came here to visit me you might see more of Vassilly. You have seen more but that is not your full reward for obeying my summons."

Mr Grade reached out and taking Vassilly by the wrist drew the boy to him. The child it seemed to Anthony came willingly enough. The man turned the boy so he was facing Anthony. He watched fascinated as Mr Grade's fingers fumbled at the fastening of the boy's shorts. He loosened their waist band and drew them down over the lad's slim hips allowing them to tumble to the floor. Vassilly stood still throughout, his head slightly bowed, his hands at his sides. The child had clearly been well schooled.

Anthony saw he was not wearing underpants. The only part of the boy that was moving was his tiny penis that stood erect and quivering.

"Here Anthony is your reward."

Chapter 7

Mr Grade abandoned his hold of the Vassilly's thin wrist. He began to slide his hand up the back of the boy's thighs. It reached the crease which marked the point where the lad's legs ended and his bottom began. The man's hand rested there cupping the boys bottom with his fingers.

Anthony from where he was sitting could not see exactly what Grade was doing but he guessed from the way Vassilly caught his breath and his already hard prick quivered that the man had forced his index finger into the boy.

Mr Grade withdrew his hand and glanced down at his finger.

"The slut's ready greased for you Anthony," he said wiping his finger on the side of the boy's bare thigh, "and he's reasonably clean. He'll have been purged on Friday night and had his guts washed out Saturday so you can't expect him to be spotless now. Still I always think that fucking a boy without getting a bit of blood and shit on your cock is like eating a game that hasn't been hung … the dirt is part of the experience."

"Any way there's no need to hurry things. Plenty of time for a chat before you enjoy your reward eh?"

"This brat is a special one," Mr Grade remarked, speaking as though the boy was not there, while idly rolling his hairless balls between his finger and thumb. "There are plenty here that I and my friends can enjoy but the fact that there are parents or guardians in the background means we must always put limits on our pleasures. We cannot maim or mark them permanently, not physically anyway. This one though has nobody to care for him. He was picked up off the streets of St Petersburg or somewhere and given to me as a present. I can do whatever I want with him. And yet that imposes limitations, for once he is gone there is not another like him."

"And his voice, that is another worry. It is beautiful but in the nature of things that will not last. I don't suppose you know anything about castrati Anthony? Would gelding the brat preserve his voice just as it is or would it in time coarsen and loose sweetness and if I postpone doing it till his voice breaks would that have the same result as doing it now?"

Anthony mumbled something incoherently. It wasn't that he found the subject of conversation in anyway odd. It was just that he seemed to have problems in marshalling his thoughts at all.

"Ah I feared you would not and it is something one can hardly make enquiries about. The job could easily be done though in the woodwork class room. Hold the little fellow down on a bench. Tie a tight cord round the base of his ball sack. Make an incision with a Stanley knife and slip the things out. Cauterise with a hot iron. They're no size. That would be easy enough to do and educational for the other boys to watch.

"You may think me sentimental Anthony but I would like the lad to experience one full orgasm at least before castrating him. He hasn't yet you know. All the boys here start shooting sperm when they're eleven or twelve but Vassilly hasn't managed yet. It's something to do with being from what is effectively a third world country."

There was a sharp knock on the door.

"Come in," Mr Grade called while continuing to play with Vassilly's balls.

Tim appeared at the door. He nodded coldly at Anthony. He seemed quite unsurprised by being confronted by the sight of his Head Master fondling a naked and sexually excited youth.

"You told me to bring Brown here Sir," he said addressing Grade.

"Oh Brown quite right. I'd almost forgotten about him. Come in boy."

From behind Tim appeared a slim dark haired lad about fourteen years old wearing only a pair of very brief and very tight grey shorts. Anthony recognised the unfortunate batsman who he had seen bowled out so comprehensively for a duck the previous Saturday afternoon. The boy had been frightened then and he was so now, visibly trembling and clearly on the verge of tears.

"Anthony you'll have to excuse me for a minute or two while I deal with this boy," Mr Grade said apologetically. "I have to teach him lesson in perseverance and self discipline. You may anyway find my methods of moral instruction interesting. I do not think I had thought this particular method up when you were with me. One is always trying to find new and ingenious ways of motivating one's boys"

"Well Brown," the man continued his voice hardening, "you are a miserable cowardly little brute aren't you boy… Answer me."

"Yes Sir please Sir I'm sorry Sir I…"

The boys pleas were cut short by Tim clouting him hard on the side of his head. The boy began to sob openly.

"You lost the school the match on Saturday Brown by your cowardice. Just because you were frightened of being hit by a cricket ball you funked it."

Mr Grade as he was speaking had opened a drawer of his desk and had extracted what looked like an old football sock. He took the battered cricket ball from it's place on the mantelpiece and slipped it inside the sock. The boys sobbing increased in volume.

"You let down the school Brown. My school, your school, the school you should be proud of. You are such a shameless poltroon, so devoid of all feelings of self respect and duty, that you allowed your selfish fear of being hurt to take precedence over everything else."

The ball had now reached the toe of the sock. Holding the end of the sock in his right hand Mr Grade swung it catching the weighted toe in his left hand.

"Sir," Brown sobbed, "Sir please don't Sir…" It was clear that even if this was a new idea of Mr Grade's the boy had worked out what was going to be done to him.

"Take off your shorts boy," Wade commanded not even deigning to take notice of the lad's tearful pleas.

"Do as Mr Grade says Brown," snapped Tim. Anthony saw a leather strap had appeared in his friend's hand. There was a whirring followed by a sharp crack as he used it across the back of the boy's thighs.

"Fold them up neatly on the chair Brown. You should know the rules by now," Mr Grade ordered.

Brown too was not wearing underpants. Anthony could see that he had recently been caned. The rod had left its mark upon the smooth egg white flesh of his bottom in the form of three dark welts, deep red, almost black fading into blue at their edges with an underlying greenish tinge where the deeper bruising was coming out. Neither Mr Grade nor Tim remarked on these marks and Anthony assumed that, as in his day, the cane was used so freely in St Thomas's that a bruised bum was commonplace.

Brown turned reluctantly to face his tormentors. His teeth were chattering and Anthony could see his knees trembling.

"Have you been abusing yourself Brown," Mr Grade's voice was heavy with menace.

"No Sir," the boy spoke hardly over a whisper. He seemed to have difficulty in speaking.

"Then why haven't you an erection boy. You have been abusing yourself admit it."

"Please Sir… No Sir… I think it's because I'm so frightened Sir."

"You are a horrible little coward Brown… Come here boy."

Brown moved forward on unsteady feet to stand in front of Mr Grade. The man lent forward and took hold of the boy's flaccid prick He examined it carefully paying special attention to it's underside.

"Well there's no sign of soreness," he remarked apparently partly mollified.

"Turn round," he ordered, "and put your hands on your knees."

He spat on his right index finger and then thrust it brutally into the boy's upraised bottom ringing a howl of pain from the lad. Grade smiled grimly and pushed his finger in deeper. He reached round the boy and took hold of his cock which Anthony could see was beginning to swell in response to the man's intrusive finger.. There was silence apart from Brown's steady sobbing. The Mr Grade lent back pulling his finger clear of the boy's bum.

It came clear with an audible plop.

"All right," he said, "turn round and lick my finger clean."

The boy straightened. His cock was rigidly erect.

"Encourages personal hygiene," he remarked to Anthony with a smile as the boy took his soiled finger into his mouth and sucked on it.

"That's enough," he said after a few seconds wiping his finger dry on the boy's hair. "Now get outside on the terrace. I don't want you messing up my carpet."

The boy started to make his way towards the French windows stumbling slightly as he walked.

"Get a move on Brown… Mr Grade has more important things to do than dealing with you," Tim shouted at the terrified boy. His strap cracked down across the lad's narrow shoulders leaving a broad white stripe across the tanned skin that turned a deep and angry red as the blood flowed back into the bruised flesh. The boy broke into a shambling trot.

Tim moved quickly to open the French windows flipping the outside light on as he did so. The terrace was flooded with brilliant light. Anthony could see that Mr Grade and Tim were so confident of their power over the school and it's boys that they saw no need for secrecy.

The wretched boy balked at the window but Tim was on him in a second driving him forward with a heavy clout on the back of his head. The instant the boy was outside the room Grade was on him wielding the loaded sock. Anthony saw the man bring the weighted sock down on the boy's right thigh with a sickening thud. The boy howled with pain.

The violence and cruelty being visited on the poor boy both sickened and fascinated Anthony. He knew he should try and do something to bring it to an end, at least he should protest or walk out, but he was powerless to do so. He found himself following Grade out onto the terrace. He watched as the man drove the loaded sock into the boy, striking mercilessly at his naked rump and the backs of his bare legs with short vicious swings of his right arm.

Anthony found Vassilly standing close to him. He pulled the boy to him so that the back of his head was nestling against his chest. He slipped his hand over the child's shoulders and down his chest. Feeling a hard young nipple pressing against his palm he took it between his finger and thumb and gently squeezed it.

Grade caught the sobbing boy across the back of his right knee. The lad collapsed on the floor on all fours. Tim started forward and placing his heel between the boy's shoulders blades ground it downwards pinning the youth to the ground. Now Grade was standing over the prostrate body of the naked youth thumping the hard ball in it's sock down over and over again on his defenceless body.

Anthony felt Vassilly twist away from his grasp. He was about to protest when he found the boy kneeling at his feet, his hands fumbling at the clasp of his belt. He felt the boy's fingers on his zip and then the cool evening air against his bare skin as Vassilly drew first his trousers and then his underpants down over his hips. He felt the boy's breath soft against his crutch and then the tip of his damp warm tongue pressing against the underside of his throbbing cock at the point where it rose from his scrotum.

He saw that a pool of amber fluid had formed about the boy on the floor.

His screams had fallen to a low shrill keening and his body hardly moved except in direct response to the blows thumping down on it.

Anthony already excited by the spectacle of the boy being beaten was brought to a fresh peak as Vassilly ran the tip of his tongue along the length of his cock and began to toy with his enlarged urethra. He grabbed the boy by his hair and brutally pulled his head forward against his crutch driving his swollen cock deep into the child's gullet.

Mr Grade straightened and stepped back away from the other boy's battered body.

"Get him to his feet," he ordered. "I want him round facing me."

Tim started forward.

"Better get your trousers off," Grade advised grimly, "wouldn't put it past the slut to shit himself when you're holding him."

"Just like the filthy little brute to do it out of spite," Tim remarked pulling off his trousers and underpants.

Anthony saw that Tim was also in a state of extreme sexual excitement.

Looking at his old friend's thick cock and weighty ball sack with it's covering of coarse black hairs, his well muscled legs and heavy buttocks he wondered at how the years had changed a slight attractive boy into so forceful a manifestation of masculine power and cruelty.

Tim bent and slipping his hands under the Brown boy's arms hauled him to his feet and held him facing Grade with his hands behind the lad's neck.

The boy hung there in Tim's grip as Mr Grade set to work with the weighted sock on the front of his thighs and shins.

Anthony felt Vassilly's chest heave against his bare thighs as the boy fought desperately for breath. He relented for a moment and loosening his hold on the boy's head allowed him to pull back and gulp down a lung full of air. But only for a moment and then he pulled the child's head forward once again taking a perverse pleasure from feeling Vassilly's gorge convulse about his throbbing cock as the boy struggled to take it down his throat.

Grade brought the toe of the sock weighted with the hard cricket ball thumping down time after time on the front and sides of the boy's legs as Anthony thrust in and out of Vassilly's mouth repeatedly bringing the boy to the edge of unconsciousness.

"Watch out," Grade said, "this is when he'll shit himself if he ever does."

He straightened slightly and levelled the loaded sock with the boy's groin.

The lad gave out an agonised scream even before the weighted toe of the sock thumped into his crutch. Tim released his grip on the boy and stepped back quickly. Anthony heard the blood roar in his head. His world went suddenly dark. Then came the moment of release as his cock pumped load after load of cum deep into Vassilly's throat.

A few seconds later he became aware of the world about him again.

Vassilly was hunkered back on his heels at his feet grinning up at him cum trickling from his mouth down his chin. The other boy was lying curled into a ball of juvenile pain and misery his hands clutched to his crutch moaning softly. His bum and thighs were smeared with blood.

Clearly the force of the blows had broken his skin in many places. Grade prodded him none too gently in the bum with the toe of his shoe.

"Get him cleaned up and bring him into the study when he's ready please," he ordered Tim.

"Now Anthony," he continued we may as well go back to the study and have another glass of wine. Beating a boy and fucking one too, I always find to be thirsty work."

He led the way back into his study giving Anthony no time to recover his trousers from where they lay on the flagstones. Vassilly trotted around dutifully around filling the grown ups glasses. He then crossed to where Anthony, was sitting and without waiting for an invitation settled himself on his knee. Anthony felt himself harden again as the boy wriggled his bare butt tight into his lap. It was clear Vassilly was aware of the effect that he was having on Anthony, as he could not very well avoid being as there was nothing between his bottom and the man's stiff member. He twisted round, engendering further delicious sensations in Anthony's crutch and grinned up at him. Anthony kissed him hard on his lips slipping his tongue inside the boy's mouth, sensing the strangely metallic taste of his own semen.

He slipped his hand round the boy's waist and began to play with his small hairless balls and tiny but hard cock. Mr Grade sat sipping his wine, quietly watching them, a kindly smile on his face.

Time passed pleasantly.

Anthony was brought back to reality by the sound of a boy's sobbing. He glanced up to see the boy Brown hobbling painfully into the room. He had been badly marked by his beating. Anthony could see that the boy's legs and bottom were smeared with blood welling from the many places where the force of the blows hard torn the boy's skin. The blood seeped out over flesh that was horribly bruised, blotched with dark blue and reddish purple marks to which the deepest bruising gave a greenish yellow background.

"Ah Brown. Come over here boy I want to speak to you."

The boy tottered forward on unsteady legs to stand in front of Grade his head bowed, shoulders shaking with sobs, hands hanging despairingly at his sides.

"For God's sake boy stop that stupid row," Tim who had followed the boy into the room rasped.

"Look at me boy," Grade ordered his voice in contrast to Tim's gentle almost caressing.

The boy raised his head apparently startled by the sudden change of tone.

Anthony saw his face was wet with tears and snot that in his distress had dribbled from his nose.

"I know I've been hard on you Mark," Grade continued and Anthony realised that this was the first time he had heard the boy's Christian name, "but it was for a purpose. You were frightened of being hit by that cricket ball in the match last Saturday and it showed. Now you know Mark that I can hurt you a great deal more than a single hit from a cricket ball during a school match and you know that I will hurt you a great deal more if you ever let the side down again. Don't you boy?"

"Yes Sir," the boy sniffed loudly.

"So you won't behave like that ever again will you Mark?"

"No Sir."

"Good boy,"

"Well Mark," Grade's voice was if anything even softer and more gentle than before, "that makes sure that you don't behave in so despicable away again but that's not the end of the matter is it Mark?"

The boy shook his head again and a sob racked his body.

"No Mark it doesn't." Grade was almost cooing now. "You know it isn't. I know it isn't. You've behaved badly Mark. You let down the school and you let down yourself. What does that mean Mark?"

"The cane Sir," the boy whispered and sobbed again.

Anthony caught his breath. From where he sat he could clearly see the boy's bottom. It looked though it was formed of freshly basted raw meat.

The thought of the agonies that the boy would endure as the cane slashed down across his already broken flesh was somehow intensely arousing.

"Yes Mark the cane." Mr Grade said speaking gravely.

"You know Mark I never ask one of my boys to do something he cannot bear… Don't you Mark?"

"Yes Sir." The boy it seemed to Anthony sounded a little uncertain.

"Well now Mark I want you to show Mr Llewellyn here who used to be long ago a boy at this school that St Thomas's boys are as able now to take their punishments as they ever were. You've been a coward Mark… Now is your chance to show Mr Llewellyn and me that you can be brave."

"You're going to get six strokes Mark. With a bottom as raw and tender as yours I could have you held down across the desk for it. That would be the easy way but Mark I want you to take it just like you usually would, just bending down holding your ankles. Can you do that Mark?"

The boy swallowed hard.

"Yes Sir," he whispered.

"Mark the usual rules apply. If you stand up or fall over or anything we'll have to start again…"

"Yes Sir… I can do it Sir … Thank you Sir."

"Well get in position then. Quickly boy," Mr Grade was suddenly brusque.

Mark bent over offering his raw bottom to the cane.

Mr Grade picked up the cane and weighed it in his hand. He looked round the room a thoughtful expression on his face.

"Let me see," he said, "who shall I get to do the honours. Why Anthony of course how appropriate. The last time you were in my study you were at the receiving end now is your chance to dish it out."

Smiling he offered the cane to Anthony.

Chapter Eight

Anthony hesitated. He had never before beaten a boy. His eyes travelled from the cane to the boy, stripped and trembling, his bottom submissively raised ready for correction. There was something about the boy's rump, bruised and bloodied as it was, that seemed to invite the rod. His cock already stiff seemed to harden further at the prospect of thrashing the lad.

He thrilled at the chance of playing a leading part in that intense emotional drama that occurs whenever a man flogs a boy, the cowering fearful child, the fierce vengeful man, all accompanied by the cruel music of the cane well laid on; the hiss of the rod as it descends, the crack as wood strikes tender flesh, the shrill cries and broken pleas for mercy of the brat, the cold remorseless tones of the man as he does his duty by the boy and the rod. But still he hesitated. It was not pity or conscience that made him stay his hand for both these emotions, or perhaps they should rather be described as weaknesses, were strangely stilled but the nobler and more manly one of pride. He was fearful of making a fool of himself.

There was, he was certain, a skill in beating a boy. Mr Grade had half a life time in which to learn and exercise it. Tim while not as experienced would have served a long apprenticeship in the art under the older man's expert guidance. He hesitated to betray his inexperience before those two.

It was Vassilly who brought his indecision to an end. The boy, no doubt with his experience of life in St Thomas's, could not imagine any man would choose to reject the chance of thrashing a young bottom. In addition with his bare bum pushed tight into Anthony's crutch he would have sensed the man's increased excitement when Mr Grade offered him the cane. He had been nuzzling the side of Anthony's neck when the offer was made. Now, in an instant, he had slipped from his lap.

Anthony his decision made for him rose with a rueful grin to take the cane.

He had become so quickly used to the conventions, or lack of them, governing the conduct of adults in St Thomas's school that he was totally unembarrassed by the knowledge that his erect cock was sticking out from beneath the loose tails of his shirt.

"No nonsense now Anthony," Mr Grade remarked., "about being kind or merciful. The boy is there to be punished and you're to hurt him as much as you possibly can. Put all your strength and weight behind each blow.

I've tenderised his bum for you already. I want the whole school to hear the brat's screams and I want his rump well bloodied."

Anthony hefted the rod in his hand feeling it's weight. He laid it gently across the boy's raised bottom. The child shuddered at it's touch and whimpered. Anthony did not catch what the boy said but Tim did.

"No point calling for your Mummy now Brown," he sneered. "She's not here to help you."

"Not that she would if she were here," Mr Grade remarked. "She sent you here you know that boy. She wants us to make a man of you Mark and we'll do our best. Though whether you'll ever become one I doubt. You just don't have the equipment. I don't think I've ever seen a boy of your age with a smaller pair of balls. No wonder you cant get a hard on. Pair of garden peas that's what they look like. Tomorrow I'll take you into the junior boys' dormitory and see if any of the eight year olds have balls smaller than yours. I doubt if they do…"

"It's funny," he said raising his voice over the boy's wild sobbing to address Anthony, "how many of the boys call for their mothers when they are about to be flogged. Even Vassilly did when he first arrived and she was just some Petersburg tart who kicked him out on the streets as soon as he could walk."

Anthony glanced quickly across at Vassilly to see how he reacted to this description of his mother. He thought he saw a slight flush deepen the pink of the boy's cheeks but otherwise he seemed fascinated by the prospect of the other boy's imminent thrashing. He stared, lips parted, short breaths causing his naked chest to rise and fall, at Mark's naked body.

"Well, well" Mr Grade said a hint of impatience in his voice, "may as well get on with it. But don't hurry matters Anthony make sure the boy feels every stroke."

Obediently Anthony lifted the cane back over his head. He saw the boy's body tense, clenching his already bruised and raw bottom tight in anticipation of the blow to come. Gritting his teeth he brought the rod whistling down with all the power and strength at his command. It descended with a rich deep hiss to crack explosively against the boy's bare flesh. The boy staggered under the force of the blow and Tim jumped forward to grasp him by both shoulders steadying the brat. There was a moment of silence and Anthony watched the white line that the rod had scored across the boy's upraised rump fill with blood and deepen to an angry red. Then the boy screamed shrilly. Beads of blood appeared along the line of the wheal left by the cane and began to trickle down the back of the boy's bare thighs.

"Excellent Anthony. Well done," said Mr Grade raising his voice to be heard over the tortured boy's howls of pain. "Now give him time to feel that stroke to the full. Don't whatever you do hurry the beating and this time try to bring the cane down parallel to but slightly below the first cut. I don't want to rip his bottom up too much."

"Normally I'd advise you to strike at the junction between the top of a boy's thighs and his bottom. They feel them longest there. But that's hardly necessary this time he's been so thoroughly worked over already."

"Right I think he's ready for it now… Tim you'd better hang on to the brat he's clearly totally lacking in moral fibre and is incapable of even keeping in position by himself. He should be grateful for our assistance but I don't expect he is. Gratitude is something I am afraid that cowards like him sadly lack. "

Encouraged by Mr Grade Anthony wielded the cane with enthusiasm multiplying the stripes laid across the boy's naked bum. The room echoed with the sounds of the lad's screams as he writhed and twisted under the rods cruel caress. The whistle of the rod as it fell, the sharp crack as it struck home, the howls of the boy under correction, the panting of the men as they laboured one to chastise and the other to restrain their victim merged to form a cruel but exciting music.

"That's the sixth stroke," Mr Grade spoke sharply.

Anthony who had been carried away by the excitement of his task and would have continued to belabour the wretched brat indefinitely if he had not been stopped, lowered the cane to his side. He stood for a moment panting from his exertions looking down at the boy's bottom, now ribbed with bloody and livid stripes.

Tim released his grip on the boy's shoulders and Anthony could clearly see the bruises left by his old friend's hands while he held the boy down for his thrashing.

"You can stand up now Brown," Mr Grade said quietly.

The boy straightened and turned to face Anthony his shoulders heaving as he vainly tried to hold back his sobs. Blood trickled from his lower lip where he had bitten into it in his agony and mixed with the saliva and mucous and tears that flowed from his mouth, eyes and nose.

"What do you say boy?" Mr Grade spoke sharply.

Mark muttered something incomprehensible.

"Speak up boy or I'll have to ask Mr Llewellyn to give you a further dose of the cane to loosen your tongue. I'm sure he'd be eager to take a few more cuts at your bum."

So encouraged this time Mark managed a strangled "thank you Sir."

"I should hope so to boy. "

"No," Mr Grade said sharply as Mark made to pick up his shorts from the chair where he had left them. "Leave them there. I want all the boys to see what sort of treatment a coward who puts his personal comfort before the reputation of the school can expect to receive. You come back here tomorrow evening at lights out and if I feel you have earned them I'll let you have them back."

"Now go and see Matron and ask her nicely to treat the cuts on your bottom."

As the boy passed him on the way to the door Tim landed a sharp open handed slap on the tortured flesh of his rump ringing another cry of agony from the brat.

The men laughed.

"Damn," Tim said looking at the palm his hand with an expression of disgust, "I've got some of his blood on it."

He reached out and wiped it down Vassilly's chest leaving a dark stain across the boy's golden skin.

Anthony listened to the sounds of Mark's sobbing fade away as the boy made his way along the corridor. He know the lad's sufferings were far from over. He remembered the times he had lain face down on Matron's examination table, its plastic covered top cold against his bare skin, her fingers probing his torn and bruised rump with brutal efficiency while she sneered at a boy who was a cry baby and couldn't take the punishments he so clearly deserved. He also remembered the fierce way his bum burnt as she worked the antiseptic cream into his open cuts.

"I can see," Mr Grade said smiling slightly and looking meaningfully at Anthony's rampant cock thrusting about between his shirt tails, "that you are in no mood for a chat about the old days and I think you perhaps have drunk too much to drive home."

"Vassilly show Mr Llewellyn to the spare room and see that he has everything that he wants."

Smiling shyly Vassilly whose tiny prick, Anthony saw, was as hard and as erect as his own, took him by the hand and drew him gently from the room. Anthony was surprised to find that he was a trifle unsteady on his feet although he could only remember taking one or possibly two glasses of wine. Vassilly led him up a flight of stairs and along a short corridor.

Anthony followed the naked boy feeling the cool night air against his own bare legs, each step he took increasing the strength of his lust.

Vassilly swung a door open and stood to one side to let Anthony past.

Beyond the boy Anthony saw a bed its counterpane turned back in readiness for it's occupant. Without warning he grabbed Vassilly and hurled him bodily on to the bed. Quickly the boy rolled on to his back and pulled his knees up on each side of his head.

The sight of the boy's delectable bottom offered so invitingly for his enjoyment, the light glistening on the grease that coated pink lips of his anus, made Anthony hesitate for a moment, but for a moment only. Then he was on him. A grimace of pain disfigured Vassilly's face as Anthony drove into him. For a few seconds the boy's sphincter resisted his invasion but then gave way under relentless hammering of the man's cock head. Anthony thrust forward driving his cock ever deeper into the moaning boy. He could not tell whether the noises the boy was making were sounds of pleasure or pain and he did not care which they were. All Anthony cared about now was satisfying his own burning lusts. He thrust harder and deeper, feeling the boy's heat close about him. Now the fronts of his thighs were pressed against the boy's bum. His ever more urgent thrusting was punctuated by the sound of bare flesh impacting on bare flesh. The boy's body clamped tight about his cock seemed to be trying to draw him even further down into his bowels.

He saw Vassilly's eyes glaze over. The boy through back his head, saliva dribbled from the corners of his mouth, his breath came in shirt rasping pants. A pounding darkness filled his own head. He felt the boy's guts move, squeezing and drawing on his swollen prick. Then he was conscious of nothing except his own blood surging within himself as he pumped his sperm deep into the boy's quivering bowels.

It is strange and perhaps it says something about the condition of man, that the greatest and most intense pleasure available to us culminates in a moment of total oblivion.

Anthony found himself bent forward over the boy as he panted for breath.

His hands were pressed into the mattress just above Vassilly's head. He prick now flaccid and inert was still buried in the lad's bottom. He felt a warm dampness against his stomach. He smiled down into the boy's face so close to his own.

"That's the first time you've come," he said softly.

"Yes Sir," Vassilly's whispered back and then a few seconds later in tones of surprised wonder, "and I think I'm going to do it again."

He felt the boy's body tighten about his own penis.

Anthony woke feeling sick and with a splitting head ache. He rolled away from Vassilly, who was lying with his back to him, his rump pressed tight into his crutch, and sat up fighting back waves of nausea. The single sheet that was their only covering fell back and he could see his prick soft and shrunken after the night's exertions but stained with a still damp mixture of man's cum and boy's blood and shit. A similar mixture had dribbled out of Vassilly's crack and formed a small pool on the sheet on which they lay.

The sordid sight filled Anthony with self disgust. He remembered the previous night with shame. He had failed completely to challenge Mr Grade's wickedness. Instead he had succumbed to it. He'd flogged the miserable and unfortunate Mark and then fucked poor delectable Vassilly.

How could he have so betrayed his own intentions and principles.

He remembered the wine that Mr Grade had given him. Even icy cold it had had an odd tang to it. He had felt unsteady after drinking only a couple of glasses of it. Now he had a headache and felt sick. Perhaps there was something in it that had served to break down his inhibitions.

But if so that hardly made things better. If it when his inhibitions were removed he behaved in that way it meant that such acts came naturally to him.

He remembered Mr Grade's words about teaching people to know themselves and swore. If that was what he was really like he didn't want to know himself. He wouldn't let Mr Grade win. He was a decent responsible civilised human being. He had behaved badly but that didn't mean he had to continue behaving so.

Vassilly disturbed by his movement stirred. He blinked and looked up at Anthony. He quickly rolled over onto his belly and lifting himself onto his hand and knees he lowered his head towards the man's crutch. Anthony mind went back to the times when he had to perform this task. He remembered his initial reluctance and the firmness with which that had been overcome. He remembered too the fowl smell and the rank taste that had assailed his senses when he had finally submitted to the task.

It was too much. He pushed the boy roughly away and staggered from the bed. There were two doors to the room and as luck would have it he got it right first time. He just made it to the lavatory before he vomited.

Kneeling on the ground retching into the pan he became aware of Vassilly nervously hovering behind him. After the first paroxysms had passed he turned his head to face the boy.

"Switch the shower on would you please," he said trying to smile reassuringly at the boy.

"Yes Sir Please Sir I'm sorry Sir. I didn't mean to do anything wrong Sir."

Anthony could see the boy was almost in tears. No doubt the consequences to him would be very painful if a complaint was made about his behaviour to Mr Grade. Anthony remembered from his own time the man had a short way with boys who failed to give satisfaction.

"You didn't do anything wrong Vassilly. You did everything right. Just get the shower on now like a good boy."

There was a hiss of water and soon the bathroom began to fill with steam.

Pulling off his shirt that he had not had the time or the inclination to shed during his exertions of the previous night Anthony stepped into the shower.

He felt his hand brush against velvet smooth boy's flesh and realised that Vassilly had joined him there. The boy was squatting on he floor of the shower supporting himself with his hands on either side of Anthony's hips.

It was obvious that he was once again going to attempt to do his duty and to take the man's shit encrusted prick into his mouth to cleanse it.

"No," Anthony said sharply pushing the boy away, "you're not to do that."

The boy lost his balance tumbling backwards on the shower floor his bare legs waving in the air. Anthony reached down and helped him to his feet.

"Listen Vassilly," he said more gently, "it isn't that I don't like you. I like you a lot. It's that letting you do that is wrong."

"I didn't like it at first Sir," Vassilly said slowly, "but I'm used to it now and anyway I wouldn't mind doing it for you Sir."

"It isn't a question of whether you mind or not Vassilly. It's wrong just as what what we did together last night was wrong and we're not to do it again."

"But you enjoyed fucking me Sir," the boy said with direct but puzzled simplicity.

"Well perhaps I did but it was wrong and we mustn't do it again."

"And I like you doing it to me too. I can't see how it can be wrong if we both enjoyed it…"

There was a hint of mutiny now in the child's voice. "You're too young to understand these things," Anthony replied wearily, taking refuge in that old adult tactic of claiming superiority of understanding on the basis of age alone, for he felt too ill to argue and was anyway uncertain how to answer the boy.

"Now turn round and I'll wash your bottom." He knew that by doing this he endangered his resolve to withstand temptation but the job needed to be done and perhaps it would divert the boy's mind from the subject currently under discussion. In that hope he was to be disappointed.

"That's not fair," Vassilly expostulated his voice now openly mutinous, "it's all right for you to wash my bottom that you like, I know you do, but I'm not allowed to wash your cock Sir and I like that just as much."

Anthony knew that he should take immediate action to quell this revolt but he simply did not have the energy or inclination to hit the boy.

"Oh all right Vassilly," he said weakly although he knew he was storing up further problems for himself, "I'll wash your bottom and you can wash my cock… Is that all right?"

The boy said nothing but with a broad grin turned his back on Anthony. He lent forward placing his hands on his knees presenting his tight little boy's rump to the man with an openly lascivious wiggle.

Anthony, studiously ignoring this impertinence, took a flannel and gently sponged away the encrusted filth. The boy's anus appeared to him be slightly reddened and somewhat sore, it could hardly be otherwise considering the use it had been put to during the night. He was relieved to see though that there was no sign of tearing. He tried hard to perform this task in an unemotional and purely clinical manner. He had to admit though that he was not wholly successful in achieving this. By the time the boy's hole was free of dirt his own prick, while it had not hardened, the previous nights efforts had effectively drained him, was, he had to admit, clearly in a less shrunken condition than when he had begun the task.

"All right that's done," he said giving the boy's bum a final pat.

Vassilly straightened and turned to face him a wicked smile on his face. If Anthony's actions had not reawakened the man's sexual drive it had certainly done so for the boy. Vassilly's tiny prick was fully erect, it's tip bouncing against the front of his tummy just below his belly button.

As the boy bent to his work the smile faded and was replaced by a look of almost reverential concentration as he sponged away at Anthony's cock.

A slight frown creased his forehead as he breathed softly through partly open lips. Anthony felt his blood begin to quicken but still the after effects of the previous nights exertions saved him from revealing any too obvious signs of excitement. It seemed to him that Vassilly was unduly prolonging his task.

"That's enough now," he said laughing, "I must have the cleanest prick in Cyprus the attention you've lavished on it. You're not going to get me hard so out you go."

Before he could stop the boy Vassilly bent his head and quickly kissed his cock on it's side. Anthony grabbed the boy and swinging him round drove him from the shower with a playful but firm slap on his backside.

It was when Anthony slipped on his shirt that he realised he faced a further problem

"Blast," he exclaimed, "I'd forgotten my trousers and stuff are in Mr Grade's study. Vassilly run along would you and get them."

Seeing the look of sheer terror on the boy's face he realised that asking a pupil at St Thomas's to fetch something from the head master's study was rather like sending a chicken on an errand to the local fox's earth.

"Oh all right then," he said cheerfully, "you show me the way and I'll get them."

Wrapping a towel round his waste to provide some cover to his nakedness he followed the boy down the staircase and along a series of corridors.

Just outside Mr Grade's study two junior boy's, their only clothing a pair of minuscule grey shorts that hugged the delightful contours of their bottoms, stood side by side their noses pressed up against the wall waiting for the fateful call that would summon them into the headmasters presence. They did not glance round as Anthony approached but when he drew near them he could see they were both trembling and he heard one give a muffled sob as he passed. No doubt they would both, he reflected, be sobbing a good deal louder once Mr Grade began to apply his cane to the seats of their tightly stretched shorts.

He knocked on the study door and walked in followed a little nervously by Vassilly. Mr Grade and Tim looked up at him.

"Ah Anthony," Mr Grade said cheerfully, "had an enjoyable night? I hope for Vassilly's sake that you can report favourably on his efforts to please you."

"Vassilly did everything that was required of him and his performance was excellent thank you," Anthony replied coolly.

"Good, good, I am glad he managed to give satisfaction. You must come and stay again."

"No. I am afraid I won't be doing that and I must tell both you and Tim that I think it would be best if you both made arrangements to leave Cyprus immediately. I intend to take action to close this place down."

"I told you he was a traitor," Tim exploded. "He betrayed you once and now he intends to do it again… I'm going to…," and he took half a pace towards Anthony.

"Tim calm yourself… Anthony I think you are being precipitate… I really do… Don't do anything rash … I feel you should put yourself in my hands. Remember what I said about this being an educational establishment… That we teach people to know themselves… Only by doing that will you find complete and true happiness … and think … Perhaps last night was the beginning of your voyage of self discovery."

"If it was I don't want to complete it," Anthony shot back. "It's no good this place is going to close."

"I really think you fail to grasp your true position Anthony," Mr Grade replied totally unruffled. "Video cameras recorded every act of yours last night and two copies of the various tapes are now in existence. One in my safe here and one in a private bank vault just in case you are tempted to try to do something rash like setting fire to the place to destroy the tapes.

If you involve the police or do anything similar the authorities will infallibly see the tapes. There is enough in them to put you inside for a nice long spell not to mention to completely ruin a promising career in the government service. Reconsider… take my advice… Place yourself in my hands… That way lies happiness and fulfilment for you… Otherwise I fear it is prison and disgrace."

Anthony stood for a moment thinking.

"Very well," he said considerably deflated, "clearly I can't force you to close. But neither can you make me take any further part in your obscene activities… I am going and I certainly do not intend ever to return."

"That is your privilege… I will not say that I am not disappointed but still… However that decides one matter over which I have been hesitating for a long time. I saw from the tape of your… er… enjoyment of young Vassilly last night that the boy has at last achieved an orgasm. That removes the one, admittedly very sentimental reason, for postponing his gelding. I was reluctant to take his balls off before he had an opportunity to experience a full orgasm. Now, since you will not be enjoying him again and neither Tim nor I have any further interest in the boy in a sexual way, I think I will find out if castration will have any effect on the quality of his voice."

"Perhaps Tim you would first secure the child. We don't want him doing anything rash like running away and then see that an announcement is made at lunch time for the senior boys to assemble in the wood work room after school to witness, what I am sure, they will find an interesting and perhaps amusing spectacle."

"I have no previous experience of castrating a boy but I have read a number of excellent descriptions of the process on the Net and I have no doubt I will find it an easy operation requiring only a sharp knife and a length of string."


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