The Exchange

The Exchange Part 2

By Emile, 2011

Usual Caveats Apply.

---

There were many things that Kurt didn't like about the turn his life had taken.  He didn't like being smooth - the dirty blonde fuzz stripped from his body, his pits, his cockroot.  He didn't like to be oiled up and greasy under his stiff work clothes.  He didn't like being hard, horny and forced to slid his throbbing fat choad down the leg of his pants.  He didn't like the constant drip, rub and squelch of his body, now the schoolboys' plaything.  And on that front - when it came to fifth period, he didn't like being naked, exposed and surrounded.  He didn't like being stroked, milked and teased.  And he certainly didn't like having his cornhole violated, and being opened, fingered and fucked.  Well, dildo fucked - for all their arousal.  It was a particularly exquisite humiliation that they all remained fully clothed and detached, still sitting in their seats like a lesson, while he was completely degraded in front of them.  While he tried out their new favourite toy - a bright red ribbed clit-tickling dildo they'd bought in town, and were testing on his precious battered rosebud.

'Bend over more, and spread your thighs wider, like you're squatting for a clean-and-jerk.'  A few of the boys tittered at that, but Trevor was po-faced. 'That's it, so we can see your shaved nads and pricktube dangling clearly, like a milk cow…'  He shuffled his feet wider, his tackle now tugging painfully at his crotch, a heavy pendulum of cockflesh.  Two of the boys pressed their hands against the top of his spine, while they held his wrists up on either side - forcing him down staring at the floor - tits out and proud.  They liked him in this pose, both for the visual obscenity of being spread out and ready, and for the strain on his body - that kept his oiled body in a sheen of sweat.  His head faced the blackboard, where a pretend lessons had been written up.  His rounded arse and tackle faced the class. He felt Trevor's finger teasing his fuckhole stimulating the pucker ready to plunge the fake fuckrod in.  Kurt had always been the top, never the bottom, until now.  But the boys figured fag was fag, and were determined to see him impaled on as many implements as they could improvise.  Plus, the fucklust welling up from his distended blue balls was so intense now it didn't take much more than a fingernail grazing against his hole, his shaft or ballbag to make his fat field marshal stand up, helmet glistening.  Any pressure on his nads - even just lifting the bloated orbs - made him moan uncontrollably from a mixture of gut-punching pain and twitching tension - from the need to shoot his load. 

It wasn't that he didn't get to shoot his wad ever.  They'd adopted a gold star chart, displayed proudly in his home room with his name above it.  It was a particular discomfort for Kurt, since only little kids got stars, but he shrugged off questions with something about 'group participation'.  Most of his fellow masters figured it was a German thing, though they were getting their suspicions about Kurt and the seniors.  If only they knew.  The meaning of the stars was a mystery to any outsider, fortunately for Kurt, so he kept on teaching - or as it was here, being taught.

'Now push back harder on the knob, I want to see it slide in steadily' Trevor commanded, casually twisting the fat dong left and right to force it deeper.  No lube of course, he'd given up trying to convince them of the need.  Trevor was mauling his dangling balls with his other hand - quite roughly, causing him to pant in pain, drooling a little from his parted lips.  They'd told him he'd get five stars if he took the fake fuckstalk to full depth without a sound.  Another ten stars if he left it up his gut for the rest of the afternoon - while teaching another two classes.  His cockhead already drooled from the pressure, and he wondered how he'd hide the stain of the fucksauce on his pants.  He wasn't allowed a condom anymore, let alone underpants.  It'd been a game of theirs - he'd begged for something to wear under his pants, and they'd laughed at him, giving him a supporter cup.  Eventually, he sheepishly asked the sports master what the joke was.  The beefy rugby man gave him a strange look, and explained that in English, 'pants' were underpants, and trousers were what others (like his US English teacher) called 'pants'.  So in England, they were right, you didn't wear anything under your 'pants', except a cup.  Of course, when he corrected his English, they just changed the game.  Now it was no cup, but no pants either. And now that he knew (they said), if he wanted 'pants', they'd make him teach a day in a Y-front.

But the stars - well that was something else.  To keep him docile and supple, and playing their game, they told him they'd keep his dirty secret quiet, and even let his cock out during daylight hours, if he played their games.  Each game got him stars.  And a hundred stars (or so, they were bad at keeping count), he got to whack off.  Typically debasing stuff, like wearing thin trousers that clearly showed the outline of his bratwurst, they only scored one star.  Really perverted stuff, ten stars.  On an average day, pinched, prodded and plucked, he could get maybe five or six.  So it took about a fortnight to clock up enough stars for a session.

Of course it wasn't quite that easy.  For starters, they often forgot to put up stars at the end of a session - and if so, those stars were lost forever.  They just refused to believe him when he begged for them later.  Secondly, the first fortnight, he'd racked up the final stars on the weekend - when Trevor hung back and drilled him extra long both days.  Some of the guys didn't like that - felt they missed out on the action - going home to their parents while the boarders abused and boarded him.  So the rule became no jerking off on weekends and, just to stop them missing out on the fun of seeing him abuse himself desperately to clock up the last few points, they decided that Monday or Tuesdays were out too.  Come the second Thursday, if he was almost at 100, when his nutbag was full and prick was twitching, he had the choice of a marathon of awful abuse on Friday, or going without another five days.  That is, if they gave him enough opportunities to get to 100 - many a Friday had been finished on 97 or 98, just for the sake of seeing him crumple in frustration at the end.  But not always - they wanted him to jerk off just enough to be permanently on the edge of arousal, but not enough to shoot off in his sleep.

Then there was the beating off itself. Kurt was still a red blooded fuck crazed dude, his life led by his battering cock.  So after two to three weeks denial, his cock was bloated with fucklust, and his balls were swollen with need.  That called for a special session - the last seniors class of the day.  They set the desks up in a semicircle around his desk, and make him squat naked on it, legs apart, junk dangling down in front of them.  Some guys even brought cameras in.  And he had to beat his meat like that - like a fucking science demonstration, in front of them.

Of course, the guys didn't want to waste that with him shooting slugs at the first touch.  So they made him jerk off real slow - so slow in fact, that he had to corkscrew his hand in time with the clock - one second up, one second down - at the fastest.  As he got closer, he could slow down all he wanted - so long as only precum spat out the dicklips - until the first bell went.  Yep, he had to butter his nut for a full period - 40 minutes - before he was allowed to shoot.

Otherwise, he was free to swear and sweat as much as he liked - and the poor exchange teacher moaned and swore and grunted all the way through the tortuous frigging.  When the bell went, he screamed and shot almost instantly, like Pavlov's dogs, cum spurting all over his naked muscular chest, his hands, his face, the desk and floor, everywhere was covered in dick goop.  His scream was usually drowned out by the bell, but he had to cut off shooting by the time it stopped, both to cover the sound, and so he could scramble down, lick the evidence off the desk and floor and tug on his clothes before the second bell went.  Yep, he had four minutes to clean up and get ready, before they swung the doors wide to the corridor filled with kids.  So often he had to wrench off shooting mid-orgasm, enjoying none of the afterglow, having to jump down, his engorged dork still hard and throbbing, while he licked up his own cock swabs, and pulled his flimsy suit over his matted body.

Of course, he wasn't always so disciplined.  The first time he shot his load early, the guys let him calm down on the desk, until his breathing was regularising, dick in hand, still bright red from fear, lust and shame.  He slowly unwrapped his meaty hand from his dong, letting it droop in post-fuck lust, the foreskin slipped back over half of the head.  His crotch and chest were soaked in cum, which was slowly oozing back down over his smooth skin and dripping off his ballbag, onto the desk.  'Stay like that' Trev had ordered.  He just remained in that squat, legs apart, exposed. Trevor casually got up and came over, strolling beside him so his face was inches from Kurts.  He leaned forward, his hand (unseen by the others) gently toying with his pulsing arseknot as he spoke.  'So what do you think the punishment should be?' Trevor asked him softly.  A few boys sniggered.  Kurts chest was still heaving from the deep breaths, and he stammered out 'Uh, I need to wait longer before shooting again?' he hazarded.  Trevor shook his head.  "Nah, you control the speed of getting stars - might not make any difference."

His other hand was holding Kurt's arched banana now, gently teasing back the foreskin from the head.  "You wanna hurt me?" Kurt asked, confused.  Trev smiled.  "Well that sounds like an invitation!" he responded, tugging harder at the sensitive skin, still tingling in post-fuck pleasure.  "Here, Rob, hand me that pencil over there, and the bulldog clip."  Kurt looked down at his curved prick, lying exposed in Trevor's hands.  He withdrew his other hand from his arsepucker, to take the items from Rob.  Slowly, looking him full in the eye, Trevor began to feed the thick pencil through the slick pisslips.  Kurt almost flew off the table, he bucked so hard, but Rob was there now, and held him firm with a wrestler's hold around his midsection.  Trevor kept feeding the blunt wooden end in, knowing that so soon after shooting, the pain was excruciating.

Finally, as Kurt's gasps subsided, the long wooden shaft was buried deep, only the sharpened end stuck out of the pisslips.  Trev then slid his other hand that had been gripping tightly on his prick, pushing the foreskin back over his glans, and then rolling it over the head of the pencil to the tip. He expertly folded one side of the hood over until it was pinned on the point, and then did the same with the other, holding it in place with his finger.  The skin was now stretched down his prickshaft and skewered on the lead.  Brandishing the bulldog clip, he then pushed the open jaws ceremoniously over his finger, clipping it together as he lifted his finger away.  Kurt yelped loudly, and would have ripped it off had Rob not still been holding his waist, pushing his arms away from him.

It was pure fire - his dick stretched and plugged, and he could see his precious foreskin clamped unnaturally under the strong clip.  Tears streamed from his face.  "There" Trevor said.  "So as punishment you can leave that on until when you should've cum, while you do your duties."  Horrified, Kurt dumbly nodded, and Rob let go of his waist, so all the boys could get a clear view of the stuck pig.  Once they had finished hooting and taking pictures, Trevor let him down, to start licking up the cumslop slowly for the rest of the period.  Twenty minutes.  It had taken almost a month for the purple bruises on his foreskin to fade - a month of additional exquisite pain.  So he had no desire to shoot off early again.

But his current concern was not to make a sound.  "Just another four inches or so" Trevor commented, driving the fat red dong past the three-quarter mark.  "Jeez, I love watching your pussy stretch".  He placed a hand on his smooth 'cuntpad', as he called Kurt's crotch, the pressure making Kurt's cock bob and drool some more.  "Yep, just a few more inches and she'll be deep inside you.  How does it feel to get fucked by a woman's toy" he asked.  The class laughed, but Kurt knew the question wasn't rhetorical.  "It hurts so bad" he muttered through gritted teeth.  "It's so big, how could a woman take such a thing…" he went on.  The thing was a monster.  Trev looked up into his eyes, his own cool pupils twinkling.  He was slightly frigging his other hand in the fold of hanging porker now, imperceptible to the class, but enough to send sparks coursing up his dickshaft.  "I don't know, Sir, why don't you tell us." he responded, smiling sweetly.  "After supper.  When we take it out."