The Exchange

Emile, 2010

Usual caveats apply.

---

Kurt Hengst oozed sex, and he knew it.  At 6'2", his broad muscular body towered over most guys, and it didn't take much more than a cheeky smile to flash across his unshaven jaw for his prey to come willingly.  They were true victims, falling in love, and falling arse up offering to quench it.  But Kurt was only in it for the sex, and his unquenchable, brutal fucking, combined with his uncomfortably large cock and carelessness, soon made them run with their sore tails between their legs.  He'd fucked himself raw in the last decade from the excess of opportunity, and he needed to stop himself.  That was why he was taking his hunky bod overseas.  But it's harder to break a habit than make it, and even now, in the airport on the threshold of his redemption, his whole supple body seemed to move to the rhythm of his swinging tackle.

He'd made his plans with the best intentions.  After a marathon fuckfest, unplugging his bratwurst dork from the puckered hole of a blonde aryan hero type who'd willingly flung his muscular calves in the air for Kurt, he felt no pleasure in the release, not even a shadow of lust for the panting demigod whose heaving chest was splattered with his own involuntary fuck-induced cum.  Not that the blonde tank wasn't his type (or one of them), but it had become a routine, his balls actually hurt from the amount of jizz they pumped, from slapping too many hard arsecheeks, or being strapped into too many jock baskets.  The funky smell of sweat and sex wasn't enough.  And like a kid who'd finished all his chocolates at Easter, and now curled in a ball clutching his stomach, Kurt shook of his dick with disgust and swore off ever doing it again.  That day, he'd come across the teaching ad, and set this journey in motion.

Now, as Kurt boarded the plane in Berlin, his best intentioned pledge was a weak inducement, and his animal lust had welled up again.  He pursued his plans halfheartedly, since every slight sexual feeling - his tee stretched across his sensitive nipples, his ballbag scraping against the unlined material - now sent a twitching fuckneed coursing through his body.  Freed and swinging, his cock gave a yearning lurch in his track pants.  He usually loved wearing track pants on airplanes, they made a "fuck you" statement to all the well dressed businessmen around him, and his cock made a satisfying visible bulge snaking down his thigh.  He'd changed in the business lounge toilets (you could never be sure if they'd let you in otherwise), and spend a good few minutes pumping his dork until his hand was slick and funky, before stretching a plastic cockring over the cockhead and working it down the shaft to its home for the next few hours, tucked into his clippered crotch, nuzzled against his ballbag.  There was something extra dirty about grinding and pumping his choad in the marble and timber stall, the rise of mansex wafting over the patchouli, the grunting that rose over the muzak, maybe even audible outside - and it didn't take him long to reach the edge of shooting, even before anyone came into the room to see his naked tattooed calves below the stall door.  Kurt let his cock bob and drip a while, while he pulled on his stretch tee and loafters, and when it had drooped down to its satisfying dull throb, he tucked it into the trackpants and grabbed the suit, ready to head to the gate.

Of course he knew he would have to change back into dress pants anyway before he arrived, so he met the headmaster looking smart and suave at the airport.  Nothing like a first impression, especially for an exchange teaching role, where there was no face-to-face interview.  The boarding school was all boys, in remote country, and from what he'd read, more than a few male teachers had left because of the atmosphere (as one blogging teacher described it) of "testosterone and boredom fuelled bullying".  Just his kind of place.  He'd known he had to leave Germany - there was pig sex everywhere, and he was seriously addicted.  Nothing like taking himself out of circulation for a while to cure that.  Plus, if the school was as rough as it sounded, he knew he'd get off in a big way on having to keep his dirty secret from everyone, and go celibate for six months.

Yeah, celibate.  Even the idea made Kurt feel horny and vulnerable all at once.  Until he'd gotten the position, he had fucked guys so regularly, he could set his watch by his dick.  His boyfriends and fuckbuddies had to put up with being fucked hard before breakfast, after work, even fucked on the kitchen counter while dinner bubbled away.  He liked to be unpredictable - nothing like waking a fresh man by nudging his cockhead against their tight pussy, so their first feeling for the day was the uncomfortable stab of his shaft stuffing their chute full.  He wore guys out pretty quick, and jerked off maybe three times a day between regular fucks. Not that there was any shortage of men, he was tall and muscular, and stubbly chiseled jawline, close clippered chest and big guns made him a fantasy fuck - at least initially.  But when he got the position, he began weaning himself off that.  He hadn't fucked a guy for three weeks now, and hadn't even shot for three days - he'd set himself a challenge to see how long he could go without touching his dick.  But It just made him want to fuck even more. Savouring his last few hours of anonymity, Kirt desperately needed to get some of the hog raunch out of his system.  His cock lurched again, and he noticed a hot crew member involuntarily glance down.  He shot the steward a wicked smile when their eyes met, making the cute guy flinch with embarrassment.  Maybe he might even get one last fuck on the way...

Now as hunky looking as Kurt might seem from his sparkling eyes and footballers body, his addiction to cock and impulsiveness gotten him nowhere fast.  He didn't have much of a career, since he was too busy chasing tails, and had already moved from Munich to Cologne to Berlin in search of new scenes to fuck his way through.  He didn't have much by way of savings either.  In fact, since he'd sublet his apartment for the job, his suitcases were effectively the sum of his life.  Well, them and his throbbing, veiny dork.

---

When he disembarked at Gatwick, he slipped out of the gate unobtrusively, casually eyeing the tweedy man standing at the back of the pack, oblivious to his presence.  He was everything he'd expected - a slightly nerdy older guy, officious and fusty, just what he needed to keep him on the straight and narrow.  He slipped into the bathroom near the gate and on a whim, he stripped off the trackpants there in the washroom.  It wasn't unusual for guys to get changed at the gate, he knew, but as a few guys buzzed in and out, he got a kick out of knowing they were staring at his muscular arse and mule cock as he stripped naked and pulled the suit out of the bag.  At the last second, after a delicious moment when he caught the gaze of a pissing jock boy staring at his drooling dork, he decided to leave the plastic cockring on, bought a condom from the dispenser and nice and slowly rolled the sheath on, giving the boy a show.  He almost peed on the floor in distraction.  Finally, cockleak trapped behind the rubber, he pulled up the dress pants, and made decent his gargantuan bulge by throwing on a wool sweater that rolled shapelessly down to his waist.

He strode out of the bathroom, sidling up to the tweedy man and announcing his presence with a curt "Mr Sanders?".  "Oh, dear" the professor began, making excuses for having missed him.  Kurt thumbed at the bathroom by way of explanation, shook his hand and grabbed his kit bag, ready to go.  "Just a moment, we have a returning student also on your flight, he should be here somewhere...ah" .  Kurt's blood froze as he followed Sanders' gaze, to the young jock sauntering out of the bathroom.  There eyes locked, the message unmistakeable, but Sanders blithely continued.  "Trevor, this is Herr Hengst, our new German professor."  Striding up, he extended his hand, firmly gripping Kurt's hand, the funk of his junk still palpable to both of them between their pressed palms.  Oh fuck, Kurt thought, his face fixed on Trevors, this will be harder than I thought...

Indeed it was.  The school was awash with testosterone, as with most boys schools, and everything they did seemed to come down to dick.  They constantly talked, taunted, played and paraded dick.  Lessons were unbearable, particularly once they noticed his own sizeable fuckbulge in his pressed slacks.  "Herr Hengst, how many women have you fucked?" a boy would ask when his back was turned, relishing the momentary anonymity.  "Does it hurt them?"  "Did you do something yourself to get that big?"  Rarely, when he caught them, the detention only seemed to make them a hero or martyr, often lamely excused as 'curiosity'.  Other days, the class clown would ask innocent questions, like "Herr Hengst, does everyone get a hard on at night?".  It took all his self control not to spring a boner there in class.  He'd taken to wearing that lone condom he'd bought at the airport, under his jocks, just to avoid the wet patches that were starting to form regularly.  Some of the boys, would stand close to the desk as they handed in homework, or stop him after class with inane questions while they pulled off their shirt and changed for gym, or scratched at their bodies revealingly. Perhaps they detected his predilections, or else were playing out the usual boys school homoeroticism, as endemic as homophobia, but the tease was maddening.  It seemed they did not not from lust as much as cruelty, seeing how far they could push him before he would react.

His weekends, too, were not his own, school sports were mandatory, including teachers.  He had rowed, so he assisted the coach on the water, trying to avoid staring at the dickmounds of the seniors as they hauled out the boats.  Trevor rowed, and seemed to enjoy taunting him, sitting close after practice, legs spread wide apart, as they hunched over their breakfast fry.  He lingered too, just a moment longer as the others barrelled into the showers, stripping to his waist as he readied to shower himself.  As if he was willing Kurt to show is colours again.

But Kurt was determined not to relent.  His aching hard prong hadn't shot a load since he arrived, and was permanently on edge.   On the third weekend they had a regatta in the city, and he came up with the team, spurring them on to victory on the water, and then letting them cheer and celebrate together in the hotel.  There were plenty of extra masters on the trip, and so, taking advantage of the free night, Kurt slipped out and checked out the town.  Even though it was only mid-afternoon, he found himself slinking into the seedier quarter, and seeing the unmistakeable rainbow flag, slipped into a bar.

He barely cleared the froth from the head of his beer when he had a cute young companion, maybe 25, tanned and well muscled.  They talked haltingly, it wasn't clear whether which was thicker - his German accent or the guy's Northern brogue, or, when they got down and dirty in the back room shortly after, who was bigger elsewhere.  The compact stud was a pocket rocket, tightly muscled torso and a thick salami to match, and Kurt had such an urge to fuck him hard he ripped his jeans shucking them off, fucking him with a fervour that made the dude have to bite down on his shoulder to stifle a scream.  The fuck was brutal and furious, and despite his anguish, the guy spurred him on, urging him to slam him against the wall with his fuckthrusts. But in a flash, Kurt lost himself, imagining himself fucking Trevor, and not this gay dude he'd met.  Shocked, he slowed down, pulling his cock out of the guys battered sphincter. He was on edge, so close to cumming, and the guy, squeezing his arse and twisting, sent an electric pulse up his cockshaft just as he cleared the bunghole, sending him over the edge in convulsions of thick ropey cum.  It shot up between them, soaking the guys jacket and shirt, and Kurt's own, trickling through to his hairy chest.  It was a mess, and the guy was pissed, angry that his own pleasure was cut short.  He pulled off Kurt, grabbing his stuff and flying (well limping) out to the front, leaving Kurt heaving in the cubicle and sobbing.  Once he'd cleaned himself up as best he could, and rearranged his jacket to hide the slugs of cum drying on his shirt, he slunk out of the bar, and down the gay high street.

There was a kink shop nearby, and on a whim, he checked out the window.  There on proud display was a savage looking cock cage, glittering in the window.  He went in, buying the expensive leather and steel device and fitting it on his hog porker in their changeroom afterwards.  The fit was snug, almost too snug, trapping his still drippy dork and giving him an aching reminder of his shame.  He pulled up his pants, his fuckbulge now unmistakeable, and left.  As he walked back towards the hotel, he had another idea, a combination of needing to hide his secret device, and take himself out of circulation.  He swung by a post office, just before closing, bought an envelope and slipped in the key - mailing himself the release, care of the boarding school, to force himself to behave the rest of the trip.  This way, there was no chance he could get off again.

---

A month passed, and Kurt was having trouble concentrating on his classes.  He was a mess of fucklust, his cock permanently chafing against the restraint, desperate for its freedom.  He had no idea what had happened to the key, but it hadn't come the week after he'd mailed it, nor the next.  There wasn't a free minute to go back to town, let alone find something sharp enough to cut the leather without cutting him, or somewhere private enough to attempt it.  On dorm duty, his nights were spent with the boys, in quiet agony under his flimsy pyjamas.  Whether the boys guessed the cause, he was definitely sweaty more now, a permanent sheen of exertion traced his broad body, glinting off him like steel.  The funky smell was also unavoidable, no matter how much he cleaned (at least having the privacy of a master's shower room), there was no way he could get the crud and dickleak out of the device, and tried vainly to fit the old rubber over the trapped stalk - only breaking his last protection.  Now he had to stuff tissues in his jock to soak up the dickleak as he taught, and he walked stiffly.  The comments of his senior boys had turned nasty - they would ask the filthiest questions now, and were especially taunting to know if he'd ever done it with guys, if he was the fucker or fuckee, if he'd bitch for them.  His silence to their questions seemed to goad them, and they zeroed in like missiles.

Finally, one night, he'd cracked.  He woke up in a sweat, Trevor's hand on his chest, shaking him awake.  His pyjama top was open, rent in an effort to cool himself, and the pants prevocatively low, almost revealing his trussed junk.  "Here, I'll take you to Nurse" Trevor said, slipping his muscular arm under Kurt's back, his locker key chain dangling against Kurt's shoulder as he lifted him to sitting position.  The kid was strong.  Trevor tucked his hand around Kurt's back, slipping his hand under his sweaty pit, and propelled his dorm master's body forward, towards the black bowels of the school staircase.  Leaving the snores behind, Kurt could hear every sound as they walked together, Trevor's breath, everything.  He tried to pull away, mumbling something about not going to the Nurse, being alright, but Trevor persisted.  Finally, when they got to the bottom, in a quiet hall past the kitchens, Kurt managed to pull away, pushing Trevor back with a hand on his chest.  "Look mate, I know what you saw when I first arrived here.  I, uh, I have a little secret.  Trevor stood, arms crossed on his hunky chest, staring at Kurt's own looming figure in the dim light.  By way of explanation, Kurt pushed his hands under his waistband, shucking the pants slowly to mid-thigh, to expose his grossly swollen rank cuffed junk.  Trent moved forward, squatting down, his face now only inches from Kurt's tackle.  "That's fucking gross" Trevor whispered, the tone a little strange.  He reached up as if to touch the device, but to Kurt's shock, he pulled at the waist cord, unlacing the knot, making the pants fall to his feet.  He was neck to knee naked in front of the kid.  "I, uh, I lost the key" Kurt murmured, and Trevor looked up, fumbling with the silver chain around his neck.  "What, you mean this one" Trevor said, pulling aside his locker key to reveal a smaller one behind.  For a second, it didn't register that Trevor was holding the chastity lock key out from his chest. That he was grinning.  "Bill, Ethan and I were wondering how long it'd take" he continued, still fingering the key with one hand, and putting his other hand gently on Kurt's thigh, inches from his aching porker.  "But first, we've been asking you questions all term, I think I'd like some answers first."  Dread filled Kurt.  "Like how many guys have you fucked, and how many have fucked you..."

---

Kurt really didn't like being in the centre of the room.  He'd stripped stark naked like they told him, meaty hands by his sides, his hairy, beefy body on display.  Bill stood behind him, and the combination of his cock pressed against his arsecheeks, and Bills finger strumming his pouty nipple gave him a thick, juicy rock hard erection.  Bill cupped his heavy pec flesh, his ring scraping the underside of his nipple, and fingers digging into his sternum.  He let out an involuntary moan, his dick juicing up and starting to drip.

"That's fucking disgusting" one of the senior boys spat.  They were all fully dressed, arms crossed over their chests, staring at him like a carcass.  "See, he gets off on this" Bill said, still toying with his nipple. It was true, he was getting off on the humiliation, even though he'd never been in this position before.  There was something raw and dangerous - these men - kids really - weren't getting off on male sex, they were getting off on male abuse. They wanted to see him suffer.

"Now Sir, you promised you'd answer our questions in full" Trevor chimed in.  It was a double period.  Eighty minutes behind locked doors, where he was at the classes mercy.  He had the seniors every day, plus dorm time, and they were taking over his life.  At first it was the promise to answer questions in exchange for the key, and for silence.  But the more they did, the worse he knew it would look if anyone found out, and so their grip tightened, and they flexed their new found power ruthlessly.

"Do you enjoy cock control" one boy asked, while Trevor guided his meaty hand to his mulecock, Trev's fingers wrapped around Kurts own, making him finger himself.  "Uh, yes" Kurt grumbled.  Another boy appeared in front of him, holding a bag of rubber bands.  "Excellent" he squealed, pulling out a few.  "So how do you say in German 'Please feed these elastic bands down my cockshaft?' " he chimed.  Oh no, Kurt thought, please let them stop...

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."