I dozed fitfully throughout the day, making the best of Jason Davies's arrangements excusing me from lessons. I avoided movement as best I could, not even bothering to draw the sheets over me for fear of rousing the pain in my arse and legs. It was whilst I was in this restless state of semi-consciousness, floating in the red sea of dull pain, that Peter Courtney bounded into our room, presumably after Period 4.
"Aren't you ever getting up?" he asked. "It's going to feel lot worse tomorrow if you've let your muscles get stiff all day."
"Shut it and bugger off," I replied hoarsely, my throat still burning.
"Fine words coming from you in the state you're in," he said. He sidled up along my bed and I felt his fingers tracing gently up my damaged thigh. "They didn't half work you over, did they? Henry Marcus scared the shit out of me when he came in last night for my lotion. You woke me up when he brought you back, too, all reeking of cum. What did you do, anyway? No one will say." Peter Courtney's fairy fingers were nearing my arse now.
"Just leave me alone, for Christ's sake, Peter. It's none of your business anyway."
"That's not what Jason Davies said when he came in this morning. He told me to look after you and see you were mended by tomorrow. Well, you'll never mend like that, lying in bed all day. You need to be about a bit. And shower, too, from the smell of you. And not just the cum, either--when was the last you've showered?" His fingers were prying apart my buttocks and creeping into my sore cleft.
"Listen, you little fairy, get your fingers put of my arse and leave me alone or I'll...."
"You'll what? You can't even move. And who the fuck are you calling a fairy, with cum all over your bum and legs, your voice all gravel and raw. Even your face looks like someone's smacked your lips with a scrub brush. You've been sucking cock for hours and you're calling me a fairy?"
"Everyone knows your queer, Peter," I started.
"Yeah, and everyone's going to know about you, too, and in very short time I shouldn't doubt. There are rumours afloat that something's going to happen tomorrow, and that they're the reason Davies wants you about again by then." Peter Courtney's fingertips grazed my hole, making me wince and instinctually flex my legs and arse.
"Fuck! It's none of your business!" I yelled. "Get your fucking hands off my arse!"
"No, I don't think so. You've always been an arrogant prick to me, condescending and pretentious, when you know we're both gay." He was right. We were both queer. We were, in fact, very similar across the board. We were both 5'8", a similar build, weighing in at about 9 stone soaking wet. Peter Courtney had blond hair to my reddish brown, and he wore glasses and I did not. He was just barely discernibly effeminate, though, and I was not. He belonged to the Rattigan Society, the extra-curricular dramatics club; I to Palmerston, for politics. Peter Courtney paused and then leapt onto my bed and straddled my back, sitting on my shoulder blades. He promptly delivered a firm swat to my left buttock.
"FUCK!" I screamed in pain, and moved futilely to eject Peter Courtney from my back.
"Didn't like my hands on your bum when I was being nice, eh? How's this then? Better?" Peter Courtney asked as he began to slap my cheeks, alternating back and forth with each hand, striking up a steady rhythm.
"Ow! Stop!" I demanded. I tried to move my legs for additional leverage, but my thigh muscles had stiffened in the 12 or so hours I'd left them immobile and bruised and they failed to do my brain's bidding. Peter Courtney said nothing and merely continued his abuse, compounding the welts and bruises on my arse with fresh handprints. "Ow!" I repeated, more softly as I realised I was helpless. As helpless as Charles Lindsay had been almost exactly 24 hours before, as he'd lain exactly where I was, tied to the bed. I wasn't tied at all, but was equally restrained by Peter Courtney's weight on my back and the pain that paralysed my lower half. He neither stopped nor slowed. "Ow, please stop," I whimpered. I didn't like Peter Courtney. I never had. I'd treated him contemptuously from our Shell year, because he was a proud little swish. And now he was beating me. And I couldn't stop him.
"Let me fuck you," he said quietly, resting his hands on my bum.
"No!" I retorted. He responded with a viciously forceful slap from both hands simultaneously. "Fucking hell!" I screamed.
"Let me fuck you," he repeated, his voice deepening with lust.
"Please, Peter," I whimpered. "It hurts. Just leave me alone. Please?" From the corner of my eye, I saw him raise his hands above his head, taking aim for another, more devastating blow. "NO! WAIT!" I yelled.
He lowered his hands and rested them on my buttocks again. I felt him massaging softly, occasionally tugged them apart to open my crack. "You're going to let me do it then?" he asked.
"Yes, fine, do it. Fuck me," I snivelled. "Just get it over with and leave me alone."
"No, I don't think so," he said. He stopped massaging and I felt him rise a bit and start digging under me between my legs. He fished out my cock and balls, stretching them down between my legs.
"What are you doing now?" I asked. "I said you could do."
"I don't want your permission. I want you to beg me to do it."
"Beg you?" I couldn't believe him. "I'm not going to beg you, Peter. I mean, it hurts like hell. I'll let you do it to stop spanking me, but I don't want you to do it."
He flicked my left ball hard with his second finger.
"Ow! Jesus Christ! You sadistic fuck!"
He repeated on my right ball. "I can keep going. You can't do fuck all about it, Kevin," he said. "Or I could just keep spanking you. On your arse or your balls. It doesn't matter to me. Which do you like better?" He tentatively backhanded my sack against the mattress for emphasis.
"Please, no, Peter," I whined.
"Please what?
"Please, don't spank me anymore."
"Please what?" he asked again, swatting my balls with slightly more determination.
"OK!" I surrendered. "Please, Peter, please fuck my arse."
He sat silently in place.
"Please," I repeated. "Please fuck my arse."
"OK," he replied. He climbed off my back and stood on the floor to strip out of his clothes. I'd seen his body naked many times, as he'd seen mine. He had an average cock for a 15 year-old boy, unlike mine. Maybe 5" hard. Like Charles Lindsay's little dick, only Charles Lindsay was two years older. I watched Peter Courtney as he removed his clothes, thinking about his little dick. It shouldn't hurt too much, I reassured myself. It was shorter than both John Stroud's and David Jevons's dicks, thinner than Henry Marcus's, and smaller all round than Jason Davies's even when the latter was completely flaccid. I underestimated the abuse my sphincter had taken the night before.
"Right then," the naked Peter Courtney announced. "Turn over."
"What? You've got to be joking! If I could turn over, I'd have done it before now! I wouldn't have let you beat me like that!"
Peter Courtney glared. "You'll do it now, though," he said ominously and he bent down to take his belt from his trousers.
"No! I'll do it! But help me? Please?" I asked. He nodded and planted his knees on the bed. I pushed my upper half over and he slipped his hands under the front of my groin and flipped my legs. We worked together to align my body back in the centre of the bed, now face up. I saw his eyes locked on my cock as we repositioned, watching it as it flopped about and twitched from the pain as my raw backside dragged the bedlinen.
"Why didn't you ever want to fuck me, Kevin?" he asked softly.
"Jesus. I don't know, Peter. Would you have wanted me to?"
"Dunno. Maybe. If you were nicer. But you've always been an ass to me." He raised his eyes to mine, and his smouldered. "But not any more I don't think. I think your days of being an ass to anyone are very nearly done." And he moved to kneel between my legs, pulling them apart. I gasped and clutched the sheet as he grabbed my knees and lifted my legs to expose my hole. "Shut it," he said stonily. "The stretching'll do you good anyway. No telling what they've got in store for you tomorrow."
He looked down at my battered hole and shook his head. "I don't know what you did to them to piss them off. They really gave it to you. But, knowing you, you deserved it." And, without hint of lubrication, he began to press his erection into me.
I went utterly rigid as the piercing white light shattered my brain. I drew in a mighty breath, but Peter Courtney fell forward, driving balls-deep inside my arse and bending my sore legs to my chest, and clamped his hand over my mouth before the scream emerged. Tears poured from between my clenched eyelids.
"Oh, fuck," Peter Courtney moaned over me. "Oh, fuck, it feels so good, Kevin. My God, I never knew. It's so fucking hot! Is it always like that? Or just because of what they did last night?" And I could do nothing but pound my fists in the mattress as Peter Courtney, utterly lost in his first fuck, ripped my already abused hole to shreds, his hand still clamped over my mouth. I couldn't protest. I couldn't tell the ignorant bastard about lubrication. I felt nothing but fire inside me. No pleasure, not like the night before when, through the haze of pain, I'd still felt my prostate being stroked and banged about by the longer, more manly cocks of the Sixth Formers. In and out he went, slowly relishing the sensation, naively unaware of the pleasure he lost from the looseness of my cunt, still stretched from the earlier repeated abuse of Henry Marcus and Jason Davies, but I still felt every millimetre.
He began to pick up pace, too, as he felt himself drawing close to the edge. His first orgasm, I'd learn later, in the presence of another person. All his priors had been alone, in a WC cubicle or at home in his bed, wanking in solitude. But no more, he thought. Not whilst he roomed with me. Never again would his hand service his little dick. Our relationship had changed, Peter Courtney's and mine.
He was lost in his pleasure and I in my sobbing pain when the door flew open.
"What the fuck is going on in here?" Jason Davies asked rhetorically. We both started, Peter Courtney lifting his chest from mine and kneeling dumbfounded, his cock frozen in mid-thrust. "Courtney, I told you to look after Blanchard, not bugger him!"
I cringed, knowing Jason Davies's voice carried out the open door behind him and bounced off the corridor. There was no underlying hope that it might carry from my floor to the house master or the matron, both two levels away.
"He asked for it, Sir!" Courtney stammered. His only defence after being caught flagrante delicto. "He begged for it, in fact." He turned down to look at me. "Didn't you, Kevin?" His eyes dared me to contradict him. He covertly flexed his cock inside me for emphasis, drawing a weak whimper from my lungs.
"Yes," I gasped. "Yes, I begged him to fuck me." Peter Courtney smirked smugly, feeling safe. And feeling me sink into submission below him. Permanent submission.
Jason Davies smirked too. He walked in, leaving the door open behind him. He sat on the edge of the bed. "Well, go on then, Courtney. Oblige him if he needs it so badly." And Peter Courtney did oblige, resuming his fucking at a rapid pace.
"I think it's good for him, Sir," Peter Courtney grunted, "stretching him out a bit. Getting him limber. He's been lying in bed all day, getting stiff."
Jason Davies snickered a bit at the suggestion that Peter Courtney was stretching anything. "Yes, I suppose it might do his legs a bit of good, Courtney. I doubt it's doing anything else. Blanchard here has moved on to bigger...fish. Isn't that right, Blanchard?" Jason Davies's eyes peered down from below his blond bangs to enjoy my flushed, grimacing face. He started to trace my lips gently with his forefinger. "Yes, I think he likes the bigger fish."
Jason Davies turned his gaze to Peter Courtney's pistoning cock. "Taking it dry now, too, Blanchard? That's new. I think I like that," he said, his eyes locking on mine and revealing a deep wickedness. Gone was the fury of last night. In its place was only cold, lustful desire.
"He..." I began to explain that Peter Courtney was too fucking stupid to know about lubrication, when the forefinger Jason Davies was using to trace my lips slipped between them and pinned my tongue.
"Shhh," Jason Davies admonished. "Don't disturb Courtney. It looks like he's got himself a nice rate of speed." He rose and his erection was prominently displayed against the leg of his trousers. "Shower him, Courtney, once you've finished. He can only hold and wear so many loads of cum in twelve hours. Shower him, and be a good lad: make sure he doesn't wank. He's not to get off before his appointment with me tomorrow." And with that, Jason Davies moved into the corridor, leaving the door open behind him. "And if he does, Courtney, you'll have me to reckon with," he called, and vanished.
Minutes later, Peter Courtney erupted inside me, his spunk at long last lubricating my raw orifice and giving it some relief as he shrank and withdrew. Peter Courtney collapsed on me, panting, sweaty and stinking, his glasses fogged over. "Fucking hell, Kevin. I could get used to that."