MR SAUSAGE MAN  (CHAPTER 1)


In ‘When I was Young’, I promised to devote a full
story to my experiences with my friend Ernst, who
influenced me so much during the two years I knew him,
and who in the end unintentionally taught me a serious
lesson that I have never forgotten.

Ernst was a German boy who joined our class at the
English school when I was nine.  He spoke very little
English at first, so I, considered to be the one of
the most responsible boys in the class, was assigned
to look after him.

Ernst’s parents, on temporary contract in the country,
wanted him to learn to speak English fluently, so they
found a place for him at our English school.  The
headmaster, though, was concerned by Ernst’s lack of
English, so he put him down a year.  Ernst therefore
was almost eleven when he arrived, a good year older
than most of us.

He was quite a strange chap, about average height for
his age although bigger than the rest of us.  He had
greyish-blue eyes and I could never be sure whether to
say he had fair or light brown hair.  He had an open
freckled face and was a boy of some strange moods, as
we were to discover.  Most of the time he was very
mild and even vague, although he showed a fearful
temper when pressed really hard.

Ernst’s parents did not seem to bother too much about
him.  He seemed to survive on a diet of junk food and
his clothes were not well maintained.  He wore a new
school shirt, but still wore the same pairs of shorts
that he had worn at his previous school, in Germany,
as they were similar to ours, except they had longer
legs, almost like Bermuda shorts.

Whether they had buttons or zips at the front, Ernst
always seemed to be having problems with them.  His
zips were forever getting stuck when he went to the
toilet, or there never seemed to be a full set of
buttons.  The front of his shorts usually held
together all right when he was walking around, which
is why the teachers did not often notice, but when he
sat down they tended to gape open, revealing a usually
ragged pair of stern white underpants beneath.  Some
of the boys teased him about it, as did some of the
girls.  Some girls were embarrassed while one or two
tried to tell him, breaking into giggles as they did
so.  Whoever it was, or whatever their reaction, Ernst
never seemed to care at all.

There was also something else highly unusual about
him, as we were soon to discover.

Only a few days after Ernst arrived at the school at
the start of the term, we had our first swimming
lesson.  We boys were changing into our swimming
costumes, and although Ernst was changing next to me I
didn’t notice anything by myself.  Since I became a
naturist, I do not pay much attention to nudity under
normal circumstances.  When others, especially girls,
try to hide it, that is different.  But here in the
changing room it was business as usual, as
nine-year-old boys as a group are not yet sexually
conscious.  This was to change.

I was just pulling up my swimming costume when I heard
a boy behind me murmur, “Wow!”  He turned to the boy
next to him, whispered, and they looked and pointed at
Ernst, who was about to put on his swimming costume. 
They giggled, and passed on the message, whatever it
was, leaving me quite puzzled.

We did have one boy in our class who had already
developed a dirty mind, and his name was Nick.  He
came over, naked himself, and stared at Ernst, looking
him up and down.  It only then occurred to me what the
interest was all about.

At our naturist club I had long since become used to
seeing adults naked and thought nothing of it.  I am
used to penises and breasts of all sizes and shapes,
and this was why I hadn’t noticed what Ernst’s penis
was like when he undressed.

It was about the largest penis I had ever seen on a
prepubescent boy.  It was then hairless, but over the
two years I knew him he grew quite a bit of gingerish
pubic hair.  There was nothing unusual about the
shape, only the size.  Its width was in the normal
proportion to its length, which made it quite thick,
and at the end were the thick lips formed by the
foreskin.  It seemed to hang down more than halfway to
his knees, although that’s a bit of an exaggeration, I
suppose.  Below it drooped an unusually long, loose,
wrinkled scrotum.

Nick was already revealing his mind to Ernst, whose
understanding of English was still very limited. 
“Hey, what a piss!” he exclaimed.  “Where did you get
such a big knob from, Ernst?”

Ernst, whose English was still very sketchy, stared at
him blankly, aware that he was being challenged about
something but uncertain what.  “This thing,” Nick
informed him, giving his penis a prod in the middle
with his finger.

“Not touch!” Ernst replied uncertainly, moving back
and glaring at Nick.

“What do you call it in German?” Nick wanted to know. 
“It looks like a hosepipe.”

“It *is* a hosepipe!” chortled one of his friends,
bringing silly laughter from his mates.  He
demonstrated how a boy might use his penis to water
the garden.

“Why is your knob so big?” demanded Nick again,
pointing at it without touching this time.

Ernst looked bewildered as to what all the fuss was
about.  “All my family are big,” he replied
eventually.

“What, even your mother?” chortled Nick rudely.

I thought I was overdue for stepping in.  “Cut it out,
guys,” I urged them.  “Ernst, don’t worry, they think
it’s good,” I encouraged him, seeing that behind much
of the talk was admiration and envy.  “You see, Nick
hasn’t much of one himself.”

This was true, as Nick was wearing a fairly small
penis, curled up against his testicles, the end hidden
by a tapered little foreskin.  Now that things were
getting personal to him, he quietly backed off.

Actually it turned out to be a mistake to tell Ernst
that the others thought it was good.  He had a rather
goofy grin on his face as he wriggled into his
swimming costume, which was rather a struggle.  His
parents had not bought him a school swimming costume
yet, and he only had his old one, which was certainly
too small for him and had a small hole in one buttock.
 It was with great difficulty that he managed to
squeeze his penis in at the top.  When he finally got
it on, there was a massive bulge in the front that
left little to the imagination.  He grinned at me,
patted the bulge and said, “It is goot.”

We went outside to the pool, where the lesson was
taken by the physical education teacher, Miss Winrow,
an athletic-looking blonde probably younger than 25. 
She did not notice Ernst at first, but some of the
girls did.  I heard a few horrified gasps or muted
squeals, and most of them stared at Ernst’s bulge with
big startled eyes.  It was an interesting exercise to
see which of them looked shocked and which looked
fascinated.  At that age, the majority registered
shock and turned away quickly.

Miss Winrow lined us up next to the pool and we did a
practice length to warm up.  As we scrambled out the
far side, I heard more female gasps and exclamations
of “Gross!” and, with shocked reproof, “Ernst!”

I quickly and quietly pointed out to the bewildered
Ernst what all the fuss was about.  During the quick
swim, the material had become disarranged.  With a
grin he pushed the tip of the offending member under
cover again, but it was not easy to keep it there. 
Now that it was wet, his tiny swimming costume looked
more revealing than ever, with every hidden shape
revealed.  But it was too late to stop Miriam, the
class telltale, from skittering down the side of the
pool, shouting, “Miss Winrow!  Miss Winrow!  Ernst’s
pinkie is sticking out of his swimming costume!”

That lady did most definitely not want to get
involved.  I could see her look of embarrassment, and
she merely patted Miriam on the head and said
hurriedly, “I’m sure it was an accident, dear, and you
shouldn’t be running down the side of the pool.  Now
line up with the others.”  She came up to continue the
lesson with deliberately averted eyes.

The tip of Ernst’s penis, no doubt attracted by the
light, made a couple more appearances before the
lesson was over, but at least he had the sense to tuck
it in again quickly.  I don’t know if Miss Winrow
actually saw the object herself, but she certainly
seemed aware of the shape inside the swimming costume
as, when she sent us off at the end of the lesson, she
called me over and instructed me to tell Ernst that he
was to get a proper school swimming costume and would
not be allowed to wear that one again.  I presume she
was too embarrassed to speak to him herself.

I arrived back in the changing room to find Ernst
naked and drying himself between his legs.  As he used
the towel, his penis was waving up and down madly and
he was grinning, obviously putting on a display for
the rest of the class, who were laughing at him and
enjoying the porn show.  I gave him a nudge and told
him not to be silly and to get dressed.  He did so,
but as he grew more confident he did not so readily
obey me like that.

It was only a week later when we had a major incident.
 We were in the changing rooms again, this time taking
showers after our physical education lesson.  I
finished mine quickly and was drying myself when I saw
everything happen.

Ernst was in the showers when Nick, opposite him and
fooling around, reached out, cheekily took hold of
Ernst’s penis and shook it up and down, saying, “Ding
dong, ding dong.”

Ernst backed away, looking rather shocked.  He didn’t
mind people seeing his assets but did not like anybody
to touch them.  “No touch,” he insisted, looking most
apprehensive.  He still didn’t understand much of what
was going on.

With a silly grin, Nick reached out again and repeated
his action.  In fearful desperation, I think, Ernst
shot out his fist, hitting Nick in the face and
knocking him backwards.  Nick struck the back of his
head on one of the taps sticking out of the wall and
crashed straight to the floor on his back.  There was
a moment’s silence.  Nick’s legs kicked.  Then he
screamed hideously, and kept on screaming.  It was the
most appalling sound I have ever heard, and 
I think we all thought he was dying.  The water on the
floor began to turn red with blood.

The other boys stood back and gazed helplessly in
horror.  Seconds later, Miss Winrow rushed in, face
white, obviously aware that it was a real emergency. 
Nothing else, I think, would have brought her into the
boys’ changing room while we were changing.  She raced
straight for the shower area, to see Nick kicking on
the floor and still screaming at the top of his voice.
 The other boys backed away quickly as she bent her
knees and crouched down over Nick for a second.  She
was facing me and I caught a glimpse of the crotch of
white panties under the white pleated gym skirt she
always wore.

Many boys of that age still do not mind unduly if a
grown woman sees them naked.  But girls of their own
age are a different matter.  Within seconds the
changing room doorway was filled with inquisitive
girls from our class, desperate to know what horror
was being enacted – and so desperate was Nick’s
screaming that I don’t blame them.

They stopped in the doorway initially, some still in
wet swimming costumes, some wearing costumes but
folded down to the waist, but some wearing only
panties and others panties partly covered by towels. 
Normally they would have been more modest, but such
was the noise that curiosity overcame all
embarrassment.  Then others came up behind them and
pushed to see, so that the girls in front were
steadily pushed inside our changing room.  Many of
those pushed inside squealed and tried to push their
way out again as they were confronted with a large
number of naked boys, also too shocked by the crisis
to worry about over-exposure.  It was absolute chaos
in the doorway and quite a few were to get hurt before
it was all over.

Miriam was so inquisitive that she arrived very wet,
obviously straight from the shower, quite naked except
for a towel hung loosely around her body.  By the time
her curiosity had finally been satisfied as to what
had happened, she found herself inside our changing
room with only her little towel to cover her modesty. 
She suddenly became embarrassed and tried to fight her
way out again, her towel slipping and her bare bottom
exposed to all those boys who were paying attention as
she tried to do so, scrambling and pushing and finally
dropping her towel.

In the end she desperately got down on all fours and
had to crawl out among the legs, her towel now
uselessly draped over her back.  Several boys teased
her for ever afterwards, calling out to her in silly
voices, “Miss Winrow, Miss Winrow, Miriam’s bum is
sticking out of her towel!”

The arrival of the girls caused more panic among many
of the boys than anything else, although some were
still so overcome with the crisis that they quite
forgot their nudity.  Almost all of us were naked, but
so inquisitive were the girls about Nick’s screams
that I doubt if any of them even noticed.  Some of the
boys dived desperately for towels or underpants to
cover themselves, while a few caught at the far end
just stood there with their hands covering the place
between their legs and shouting at them to go away.

I was by my clothes to start with and quickly slipped
on my shorts without underpants, wet though I was.  I
didn’t really mind if the girls had seen my penis, but
I certainly would have minded being talked about as
one of those whom ‘the girls saw’, especially as that
had happened once before.  I did still have memories
of that incident in the swimming pool back in second
grade, mentioned in my first story.

Miss Winrow, white as a sheet, looked up and saw Ernst
standing there in the shower still, similarly white. 
He was leaning against the wall, bandy-legged, and
standing like that it really did look as if his penis
was dangling down to his knees.  I’m sure Miss Winrow
must have seen a few in her time, including mine on
that famous occasion, however much she may have tried
to avoid it, but this size on so young a boy was
clearly a very new experience for her.  She turned
away, her face suddenly brilliant red.

Then she stood up and shouted above all the hubbub,
“Quickly, somebody who’s dressed!  Roy!  Quickly! 
Tell the headmaster to call an ambulance!  Run, as
fast as you can!”

Obediently I charged for the door, with some of the
girls trying to move aside for me, but in the main it
was a case of barging through with my shoulder, and I
know I knocked two or three of them over in the
process.  But I too felt panic-stricken in the belief
that Nick was dying and nothing else mattered at that
moment.  As I raced through the school towards the
office wearing only my shorts but with my shirt
dragged over my shoulders, I caught glimpses of
children staring at me through classroom windows and
heard a couple of teachers’ voices shouting at me to
walk.  But I took no notice.

When I arrived at the administration block, I raced
straight into the secretary’s office without knocking.
 Fortunately the headmaster was there talking to her,
so I just blurted out, “Sir, Miss Winrow says you must
phone the ambulance.  Nick Purdon’s bashed his head
open in the showers!  It’s serious!  He’s bleeding
everywhere.”

Immediately the headmaster told his secretary to do
that and then took off himself for the changing rooms,
at as fast a pace as his dignity would allow, ordering
me to come with him.  I ran alongside him as he
demanded to know what had happened.

I started to gather my thoughts as I blurted things
out, trying not to get anybody into trouble,
especially Ernst.  Panting for breath, I said
something like, “We were in the showers and Nick
pulled Ernst’s penis, just in fun.”  I noticed the
head stopped looking at me the moment I mentioned the
word `penis’, but I was too proud to use baby words or
rude words for body parts.  “Ernst told him not to,
but he did it again, just for fun, I think.  Ernst is
new to the school and he can’t speak English, and he’s
not used to everything, and I think it frightened him
and he panicked.  He pushed Nick away, and Nick hit
his head on the taps and then hit it on the ground
when he fell.  He’s bleeding badly.”

The screams had still not stopped, although they now
had a rather hoarse note.  We arrived to find the
doorway still blocked by curious, half-naked girls,
some of whom squealed in their semi-dressed state at
the headmaster’s arrival.  Miriam was there too, but
now in her dress, unbuttoned at the front.  “You girls
go back to your changing room,” ordered the head, and
they melted away in a hurry.

Later on, when the ambulance had arrived and Nick,
wrapped modestly in a towel, was taken off to
hospital, the head called me in to hear my story
again.  The first thing he said to me was, “Pull your
zip up.”  Looking down, I suddenly realised that I had
forgotten to do that when I put on my shorts and had
been everywhere with my zip open and no underpants on.
 Fortunately it was not gaping enough to show my penis
but only a considerable area of flesh just to the
north of it.

I repeated the story, trying to exonerate both Ernst
and Nick as far as possible.  Other boys were asked
for their versions but, while the basic details were
generally the same, their apportionment of blame would
depend on whether they liked Nick or not.  Ernst was
eventually found, sitting on the toilet and crying his
eyes out with fear.  I think the head realised that he
had reacted out of fear or anger, probably both, but
in such a serious matter he had to do something about
it.  Ernst was suspended for a week.

He and Nick returned to school on the same day. 
Nick’s injury had not been very serious, although it
had obviously been highly painful.  He left Ernst
strictly alone after that and was very subdued for two
or three weeks.

(To be continued)



MR SAUSAGE MAN  (CHAPTER 2)


Ernst gradually gained his confidence as his use of
English improved, and the incident in the showers did
not seem to have cured him of the idea that his penis
made him a celebrity.  Curious boys from other classes
would come up to him in the playground, asking to see
the item, and he would happily sneak off with them
into the toilets or some more isolated corner to
satisfy their curiosity.

Whenever Ernst went to the toilet himself, there would
be a group of curious boys of all ages lining up next
to him to view what came out of his shorts.  This
distracted them from their own business, and it was
not uncommon to hear voices upraised in anger from
boys whose legs had been watered by those standing
next to them at the urinals.

The third-grade class called him ‘Mr Sausage Man’,
which I thought was very creative of them, but
naturally we were too proud to adopt the invention of
a younger class.  Our boys preferred to know him as
‘Superknob’ or ‘Dangleballs’, which they sang to the
tune of ‘Jingle Bells’.

Ernst lapped it all up, and I’m afraid in my
immaturity I found it funny.  He considered me to be
his best friend, and I must say he was forever
grateful to me for sticking up for him after that
incident in the showers, or his punishment might have
been far worse.  Unfortunately I fell in with him all
too easily, and the two years during which I knew him
are years that I feel rather ashamed of.

Ernst had another special talent that impressed the
third-grade boys in particular.  I never knew anybody
who could break wind as loudly and as often as Ernst. 
He seemed able almost to do it at will – or at anybody
else within range!  One of his favourite foods was
baked beans, and I suppose that accounted for it. 
When I stayed at his house, I had a large portion
cooked for my breakfast along with the rest of the
family, and with this regular type of fuel it was no
surprise that Erich was stoked up for the day.

He seemed well able to choose the right time for his
musical demonstrations as it did not often happen when
there were girls around or the teacher in the
classroom.  Usually it was before school or at the
morning break or when we were lining up.  The
third-graders used to gather round and plead, “Come
on, Mr Sausage Man, give us a fart.”  More often than
not, Ernst would turn round, point his posterior at
them and his rear end would produce an explosion,
which always caused gales of laughter and feigned
disgust, sending the delighted boys scattering with
coughs and chokes into their handkerchiefs.  Sometimes
it was short and sharp, sometimes long and inclined to
change to a lower key.  The boys swore the long ones
were the most lethal.

He learned his lesson about girls early on.  We were
in assembly one morning, and the headmaster told us
all to bow our heads in prayer.  There was therefore
complete silence for a moment before a long, loud
explosion came from right next to me.  It was one of
Ernst’s best.  It was followed by a gale of stifled
laughter as half the school tried unsuccessfully to
keep silence, and then a wave of spontaneous movement,
in which I joined, from those of us nearby to escape
the `poison gas’, as the third-graders called it.

The head was furious, probably caused by
embarrassment, but at the school in general for their
response to it.  He gave us a real roasting for our
‘noise’ – he was not more explicit than that and he
avoided any mention of the cause of the noise, which
he had obviously heard, but clearly assumed to be an
accident.  He did not attempt to find the perpetrator.
 He finished by ordering us back to the assembly hall
at the start of our morning break when we could
practise ‘sitting quietly’.

Ernst found himself most unpopular as we returned to
our classroom after assembly.  The girls in particular
wasted no opportunity to tell him how disgusting he
was and how angry they were that we would lose part of
our break time.  Ernst appeared to be very upset, on
the point of tears, and apologised profusely until
many of them felt sorry for him and tried to make him
feel better again.

I was quite taken in by this until I saw him at
morning break, after we had been released from our
detention, grinning and boasting about it with the
third-grade boys, who had been so awestruck by his
feat that they bore him no ill will at all and
appeared to regard him as more of a hero than ever. 
Then at hometime he laughed about it to me, so much
that I became rather annoyed with him.  It was clear
he was proud rather than sorry for his feat, although
he never actually did it again in assembly.

His `nuclear bombs’, as the boys in our class called
them, remained famous and I doubt whether a day went
by without Ernst letting fire in one place or another.
 I can remember once staying with Ernst over the
weekend and, after a very late night – his parents did
not concern themselves with insane restrictions such
as bedtime – sleeping late the following morning.  I
literally fell out of bed in shock as I was rudely
awoken by an explosion right next to my ear, followed
by the usual pungent odour.  Ernst laughed himself
silly at the success of his personal ‘alarm clock’, as
he called it.

Ernst soon found out that I was a naturist and,
quickly showing a lively interest in the observation
of female anatomy, he was eager to come with me when I
visited the naturist club with Aunt Sue at weekends. 
His parents didn’t mind, so I instructed him carefully
in the sort of behaviour expected of naturists, but it
didn’t work.  Just before we left on our second visit
with him, the club secretary called us aside and told
us that a number of women and girls had been offended
by what he called `Ernst leering at them’.  We had a
word with Ernst, but on our next visit he was caught
showing an awestruck six-year-old girl how he made his
penis hard, and that was the end of that.  Ernst was
very disappointed but Aunt Sue was quite firm about it
and refused to ask for him to be given another chance.
 In retrospect, I’m sure she was right.

>From what I have written so far, you may have got the
impression that Ernst was a hardened, dirty-minded
boy, a thoroughly bad companion for any child.  Well,
I suppose he eventually became that, but he didn’t
appear like that at the time.  He had a certain
childish charm about him so that even when he was
showing off his appendage or indulging in any of his
other tricks, he gave the impression he was just
having a bit of light-hearted, innocent fun.  I think
his `leering’ at the naturist-club women was just his
inability to handle the situation and we were mistaken
to take him in the first place.  I was always repelled
by openly `dirty’ behaviour by anybody, but Ernst’s
kind of ‘fun’ was all too easy for me to fall in with.

Once he had picked up enough English, he became quite
well liked by the teachers.  He *looked* innocent,
which was a big help, and had a wide toothy grin that
girls especially found attractive.  Although they must
have heard rumours about his major asset, and had
evidence to that effect during swimming lessons – even
a school swimming costume could not hide the monstrous
bulge – many seemed to like him.  Inside school I
never knew him to misbehave with any girl, in public
at least – I did suspect at times he may have retired
to a secret corner with one or two of the sillier
girls to introduce her to Superknob.  But if he did,
it never came out.  (Perhaps I should rephrase that
somewhat ambiguous sentence!)

I sat next to him for a few weeks in class, until he
was quite fluent in English, before I was reassigned
to another new boy.  When he became bored in class,
Ernst grew into the habit of masturbating.  I would
see his hands inside his shorts, while his eyes were
fixed vacantly on the teacher so as to divert
suspicion.  Then he would look at me and give a big
toothy grin, and pat or stroke his crotch gently with
his other hand, or reach inside his shorts and do a
bit of a juggling act, all with a big smirk on his
face as he knew he was entertaining the other boys.

Or once or twice he would sit there with his limp
penis hanging out of his trouser leg.  “Just giving
him some air,” he would explain, when his English had
developed enough.  Fortunately he did not let any of
the girls see him performing like this.  Miriam would
have been only too happy to make sure the rest of the
world heard about it before evening.

Ernst seemed obsessed by nudity at times, beyond his
years, although he was a year older than the rest of
us to start with.  He was good at art, and had a
private little book that he very readily shared with
me, full of nude pictures he had drawn.  There were
several pages of penis pictures, dominated by his own,
which was perhaps the most poorly drawn of all.  He
would ask me, “Whose is this?  Whose is this?”, asking
me to guess whose penis in the class he had drawn.  I
never knew the answer and never even recognised my
own, but later in the changing rooms I would find
myself looking at the other boys and seeing how
accurate his drawings were.

Then he would draw complete pictures of naked people. 
He drew well enough for me to recognise them by their
faces.  He drew nude pictures of many the girls in the
class, imagining what they looked like underneath.  He
always had a special dislike for Miss Winrow, who
ignored him as far as possible during swimming and
physical education lessons, probably through
embarrassment at her first encounters with him, the
too-small swimming costume and the affair with Nick in
the showers.  He drew a lampooned picture of her, with
a big beard between her legs and long pointed drooping
breasts.  He was very proud of it.  Just before he
left he had suddenly started drawing sex pictures, one
of which was of a tiny Nick having sex with an
enormous Miss Winrow.  I had usually giggled foolishly
at his nude pictures, but this new development I
thought was too obscene.

In those early days, though, his interests were very
mild and pretty harmless – or so I thought.  He was
not able to see the girls in the class naked, but he
did enjoy seeing their panties.  I warned him early on
about the lesson I had learned with my early playmate
Alison, that it is counter-productive to show any
interest, and he learned it well.  He would even go so
far as to keep score of how many sets of panties he
had seen that day.

He seemed obsessed by it and noticed much more than I
did at first.  I had never before thought that much in
the way of panties was available at a school where all
skirts had to be able to touch the knee, and I was
amazed at what Ernst seemed to see.  He would tell me
things like, “Susan has pink panties today,” and
before long I would be noticing when girls knelt down
or sat down in the playground as much as he did
without even trying.  I have never lost this ‘art’,
and even today I am always conscious of a flash of
panties.

One day I missed him during school dinner. 
Afterwards, on our way to prep, he found me and
gleefully told me that he had been hiding under the
senior girls’ table in the dining hall.  From that
position he had seen all the girls as they sat down,
and assuming themselves to be under the cover of the
table they had left their skirts unguarded.  He had
presumably been helped to hide safely by the extra
width of that table and the tablecloth hanging down
over the sides, but I told him he had been taking a
terrible risk.  “What if one of the girls dropped
something on the floor and reached down to pick it
up?” I asked him.

“She did.  It was Lorraine,” he grinned, naming a
rather aloof prefect.  “But she didn’t see me.  She
opened her legs wide and she was wearing such
beautiful white panties.  They were so smooth and
round over her pussy.”  He juggled something inside
his shorts and went on to give graphic descriptions of
the current underwear worn by many of the senior girls
and even the prefects.

This was completely new territory for me.  I had never
imagined the underwear of any of the high and mighty
senior girls, apart from Sharon on my early visits to
our naturist club.  With their dignity and long
skirts, they seemed a race apart.  They did wear
shorter skirts for physical education and sport but we
never had any direct contact with them then.  Suddenly
I started looking at them with new eyes, remembering
the kind of panties favoured by a great many of them,
according to Ernst, and visualising them through their
clothes.

I noticed for the first time that I could often dimly
see the bras of many of the older girls through their
white blouses, especially from the back.  There were
even very occasional flashes of panties when they sat
down in groups on the playground or on the floor
during school assembly, but these were rare.  These
girls had been trained, or had trained each other, to
be very careful.

Except under tables.  I deeply envied Ernst, but did
not have the courage, or the folly, to try it myself,
however much time I fantasised about it.  Expulsion
would be a very real probability if I was discovered
and people guessed why I was there.  After I had
spoken to him I think he realised too the risk he had
taken, as he never tried it again.  I still shudder
when I think how foolhardy it was and wonder how he
escaped being caught.

There were other risks we were both prepared to take,
though.  There is in the far corner of the school
grounds an old tool shed that is supposed to be out of
bounds.  In any school there are always those who
disregard such rulings when areas are not regularly
policed.  As soon as you went behind the shed and
smelt the faint odour of urine you guessed one of its
main purposes.  On occasions you could also smell
stale cigarettes.

One lunch hour we were down the far end of the field
when Ernst was taken short.  So we nipped round behind
the shed, to find a startled seven-year-old boy who
dribbled down his leg with shock when he saw us.  He
ran off quickly, followed by the sound of Ernst’s
mocking laughter.  Then Ernst pulled out his penis and
relieved himself, and so did I to keep him company.

Then Ernst said, “You know, if we hide in those
bushes, we may see others coming for a piss as well. 
Even girls!”

After being brought up in a naturist culture, the
prospect of seeing children urinating did not excite
me much, but the lure of the forbidden attracted me. 
We hid in the bushes for about twenty minutes before
the bell rang for afternoon school, but our only
success that day was a couple of boys in our own class
who watered the back wall of the shed, backs to us.

We spent a week hidden in those bushes at lunchtime
with little success.  There were some regulars, boys
who always came every day to exercise their penises
there.  The only females were two little six-year-olds
who came once, very nervously, to pull down their
panties and urinate facing each other, giggling
naughtily in their teeth as they did so, so we were
unable to see under their skirts through the bushes.

Ernst wasn’t particularly interested in them, or
younger girls in general.  He had met my cousin
Shelley, four years old then, and seen plenty of her
prancing around naked, and showed little interest.  He
was frustrated also that she showed little interest in
him or appreciation of his assets.  Having grown up
with nudity, Shelley never seemed even to notice the
remarkable qualities of Ernst’s penis.

Ernst had been hoping for some girls in our own class,
or older, I came to realise.  I could not imagine any
of the senior girls urinating out of doors, and nor
did they.  We had a pretty fruitless time.

As we lay there, bored, waiting for something to
happen, Ernst would lie on his back with his usual
goofy, toothy grin, stick his penis out of his trouser
leg and masturbate.  It was not a very pretty sight to
see him lying there with his long hard penis sticking
up like a post pointing at the sky.  But he encouraged
me to do the same, and like a fool I did, just for
fun.  I would make my own penis hard and lie with it
pointing upward, although it was only half the size of
his.

This led to quite a bit of obscene behaviour by the
two of us as we did things I am ashamed of now.  We
would make all sorts of shapes out of our penises,
soft or hard.  We would fondle each other like a
couple of homosexuals, or occasionally slap each other
in the testicles, and watch ourselves urinate and
defecate.  We would hold urinating contests against
the wall of the shed, wildly promising each other the
earth if we managed to urinate high enough to get our
stream through a little knothole in the wooden wall at
about shoulder
height.  However much we filled ourselves to increase
the internal pressure, we never quite managed it.

Ernst always enjoyed showing off the size of his
penis.  Whenever we were together with friends who
were unacquainted with it, I knew that before long
Ernst would find a desire to urinate, and deliberately
stick out the entire length of his penis in full view
of the others, waiting for their shock or admiration. 
If they weren’t paying attention, he would say, “Watch
this,” and try to hit something with his spray.  And
he would manage to produce a few explosive farts,
always with a very expressive facial expression of
mock embarrassment.  He was most annoyed if the others
present did not comment or show due shock or
appreciation.

It was not a pretty sight.  Even when he started to
wear looser shorts, his penis was too long to pull
easily out of the open leg like the rest of us did. 
He would have to pull down his shorts at the front,
pull down his underpants at the front and then dangle
his penis out over the tops of them.  It really did
look like a sausage, too – a long, thick, bloated
German sausage that either fascinated or repelled
those introduced to it for the first time.  That is,
except for its rather sickly white colour, although he
did manage to get it sunburnt more than once when we
swam naked at my pool.  Our class then adapted the
third-graders’ name for him and called him `Mr Hot Dog
Man’ for the next few weeks.

These, of course, were always boys, as we did not mix
much with girls in public at that age before the
hormones take over.  He was more civilised with girls
around, fortunately, and quite a number seemed to like
him.  I know it sounds pretty disgusting behaviour,
but Ernst had a natural charm, rather like my present
girlfriend’s younger brother Scott, and a slow goofy,
rather vague grin.  It just seemed to me at the time
like rather naughty fun, and only after 
Ernst had gone from my life did I realise the depths
of corruption he had led me into.

We would go into the woods not far from the school at
weekends and strip off there.  Running around naked in
the woods, with penises flapping wildly, was much more
fun than doing it in my back yard, where it was
perfectly permissible.  Climbing trees naked was
exciting, if painful at times.  We took care never to
go too far from our clothes in case we met somebody
there.  We usually heard them coming and dragged on
our shorts quickly.

Only once were we surprised.  A couple of girls from
the high school took a walk through the woods, talking
so quietly we didn’t see them until the moment before
they saw us.  We turned and fled, hearing their
startled laughter behind us, no doubt at the
unexpected sight of our bare bottoms as we ran through
the wood.  I do wonder nowadays, though, if anybody
else did see us and spy on us secretly, as we often
made quite a noise in our naked frolics.  Still, we
were never challenged about it and what I didn’t know
didn’t hurt me.

We also played an obscene game together, mainly in the
woods.  We called it fencing.  The object of the duel
was to grab the opponent’s penis before he grabbed
yours.  The one rule was that you were not allowed to
touch your own genitals and thereby protect them
manually.  Although Ernst was almost a head taller
than I and his arms were longer, I usually won the
duels because my target was so much larger.

He had far more difficulty grabbing my smaller member,
though if he did it could be painful, as his hand
tended to grab my testicles as well.  I had little
problem, once I got an opening, of seizing his large
heavy-duty penis, as it was larger than my hand while
my penis was smaller than his.  We must have looked a
rare sight, dancing round each other stark naked,
yelling our war cries, feinting and dodging as we
looked for an opening.

It was usually just the two of us, as like I mentioned
most of the other boys did not take too well to Ernst,
although they considered him a source of amusement
like an adult peep show at the arcade.  Had we been a
couple of years older we might have had more takers,
but ours were the sort of activities teenagers rather
than preteens engage in.  So it was that we both grew
rotten together.

(To be continued)



MR SAUSAGE MAN (CHAPTER 3)


One day, during the morning break a couple of weeks
before the end of the school year, Ernst had a secret
plan to share with me.  “You know the senior girls are
having a ballet performance on Friday night?” he told
me in an excited whisper.  “They’ll be changing in the
changing rooms by the pool.”

“So what?” I asked him.

“I bet we can see into those changing rooms from up in
that big tree outside,” he continued.

I suddenly understood his idea.  The changing rooms
were fully enclosed, but at the top of the two-metre
walls there was an open gap of another metre or so
before the roof.  We were familiar with the tree
because on the boys’ side a couple of branches were
actually finding their way through that gap.  Yes, if
we climbed that tree we would certainly be able to see
into either changing room.  It could not be done
during the day because we would be seen, but at night
that was a different matter!  If we dared!

That lunchtime we wandered casually over towards the
swimming pool area to survey the land.  Ernst had
already done so.  We could not get in as the gate was
locked, but we could see easily enough through the
wire netting.  The tree would not be too difficult to
climb, and there was a huge leafy limb just above roof
level.  We should be able to get an excellent view
inside the changing rooms from there.  We did realise
that the girls would no doubt be wearing their
underwear beneath their ballet costumes, but the
prospect of seeing large numbers of senior girls in
their underwear was deeply thrilling.  Unless, of
course, they took showers afterwards . . .

The ballet was from seven until nine on Friday
evening.  It would not be fully dark by seven, and in
any case the girls would be in well before then, so it
would have to be afterwards.  The only worry was
whether anybody would be left to guard the place
during the ballet itself, with all the girls’ clothes
inside.

I didn’t want any problems with my parents wondering
where I was, so Ernst got his parents to invite me
round to stay with them overnight.  They never
bothered or asked questions if we were out late, and
we could just tell them we were required to help on
the stage.  We went out to the park before seven and
waited there with tremendous impatience until it was
fully dark, at about eight o’clock.  We were eager to
go earlier, but were so worried about the consequences
of being caught that we held back.

Just after eight we sneaked into the school grounds,
through a secret hole in the hedge as we did not want
the security guard or anybody else to see us there at
all.  There was just enough light for us to find our
way to the swimming pool enclosure round the perimeter
of the school, where there were fewer outside lights. 
The gate was locked, but that was good news because it
meant that there was not likely to be a guard on duty.
 There was also too much light there and anybody
nearby could have seen us entering.

We sneaked around the place and concluded that there
was nobody there at all.  I felt scared stiff, but
thrilled at the prospect of what might be to come.  We
climbed the wire netting at the far side and headed
towards the changing rooms, keeping close to the
ground because the lights were on inside and somebody
might have seen our shadows against the light.  It was
darker around the back, where the tree was, the only
light coming from the gap between the walls and the
roof.

Hearts thumping wildly, we climbed the tree, which was
not so easy when it was almost dark.  We realised the
danger of being seen against the light when we reached
the height of the gap, but decided there was good leaf
covering and we would keep as far as possible on the
inside, between the main trunk and the changing rooms.

Panting for breath and with excitement, we found
ourselves on the big limb just above the level of the
roof.  Sure enough, when we moved along it, we had a
brilliant view inside the changing rooms.  As there
were a lot of girls taking part, they were using the
boys’ side as well, and we could see virtually
everything inside except for the benches around the
wall nearest us.  And since we were less than two
metres from that wall, there was not much we would
miss.  We both found a reasonably comfortable perch in
a fork in the limb, about two metres apart from each
other, and sat to wait.

This was the first time I had seen inside the girls’
changing rooms and they seemed very much like ours
apart from the absence of urinals, replaced by some
extra toilet cubicles.  The lights inside seemed
brilliant after I had spent so much time in the dark. 
There were benches all around the outside walls, and
these were packed with discarded school dresses, most
of them neatly folded, with shoes and socks and a few
loose pairs of panties – and towels!  So it seemed
they were going to take showers afterwards!  All we
had to do was wait, and we did so with great
excitement, hearts pounding.  With all our excitement,
we both needed to use the toilet badly.  With no sign
of anybody around, we urinated from off the limb,
hearing the splashing on the ground four or five
metres below us.

We had agreed not to talk, for reasons of safety, but
we were too excited to stay quiet and kept
communicating in whispers.  We talked about the girls
we hoped to see naked, the girls we had held in awe
and those who had often bossed us around.  There was
Jane Rutherford, the head girl, tall and dark, clever,
sporting, the darling of the staff, and inclined to
lord it over the rest of the pupils.  There was
Lorraine, whose panties Ernst had already seen, and
made me eager for the same treat.

Most of all, perhaps, there was Ramona.  She came from
a fabulously wealthy family, or so she encouraged
everyone to believe, and she seemed to have
everything.  She had a tall, slim build, long blonde
hair and a remarkably well-developed figure for her
age.  She was regarded as the beauty of the school and
was well aware of that.  She was one of the very few
senior girls whose panties I could remember seeing.

A few months earlier we had held our annual School
Fayre, and she was walking round with her friends,
strutting as if she were on stage as usual, and
wearing a yellow miniskirt.  As she adjusted her
ostentatious earrings, one fell to the ground.  She
bent to pick it up hurriedly before it was trodden
underfoot in the crowd, and from behind I had a sudden
vision as her skirt flounced up of silky white
panties, edged with lace.  Hours later she was being
crowned queen of the fayre.  It’s not often you get to
see a queen’s panties.

In the far distance, so it seemed, we could hear the
ballet music from the school hall and applause from
time to time.  A gentle breeze cooled us as we sat
there, and I often shivered, from excitement rather
than cold.  I could even feel my half-hard penis
throbbing as well and I squashed it between my thighs
in anticipation of what was to come.

Finally we heard a long, long burst of applause from
the distant hall, and the change in the music
indicated that the performance was coming to an end. 
This final part lasted about five minutes, no doubt
with curtain calls, acknowledgements and all the rest
of it.  Then finally the music stopped and the
applause died away.

“They’ll be coming back any minute now,” hissed Ernst
excitedly.  “Look at this!”  His hardened penis, just
visible in the reflection from the changing rooms, was
out of his shorts and he was massaging it in
excitement.  Falling in too easily with his antics, as
I usually did in those bad days for me, I did the same
with my smaller member.  A minute or two later we
could hear the distant murmur of large numbers of
adults emerging from the school hall.

It seemed to be a whole long frustrating hour before
anything else finally happened, although our watches
showed it to be only about ten minutes.  It was about
the longest and most frustrating ten minutes of my
life, and no doubt Ernst’s as well.  Then finally our
ears began to pick up the noise of high-pitched and
excited female voices approaching in the distance.  We
knew we had to keep as still as possible, but we
craned our heads backwards to try to see.  But it was
another frustratingly long wait before we could
finally see them, by then about twenty metres away and
approaching the gate to the pool area.

As the first girls walked through the gate, still
wearing their ballet costumes, I heard a woman’s voice
call out from somewhere further back, “Just wait for
me before you go into the changing rooms, please,
girls.”  I recognised the voice of Mrs Ashcroft, the
parent who had taken charge of the ballet.

This was more frustration.  Every second wasted was
agonising.  The front of the line of girls disappeared
round the far side of the changing rooms and
obediently waited there, out of sight but with their
excited voices still audible.  Time went on as we
waited for them all to arrive, and finally the last
group arrived, with Mrs Ashcroft in the middle.  Then
they too disappeared round the corner.

A few seconds later we heard Mrs Ashcroft speaking to
the girls.  She was a very popular and respected
woman, always keen to see the girls’ point of view, as
we soon found out.  She began with a few obligatory
sentences, telling them how well they had performed,
how proud she was of them, and all that stuff.

“Now you will need to shower quickly and get back to
your parents as quickly as you can,” I heard her
telling them.

“Please, Mrs Ashcroft – er – do you think we could
have a swim instead of the showers?” came a girl’s
voice, all out of sight.

“We can switch on the pool lights, so it will be quite
safe,” came from another girl.  A couple of seconds
later it seemed she had proved her point as a dull
glow came from the far side of the changing rooms. 
The roof of the building prevented us from seeing the
pool itself.

“Please, Mrs Ashcroft,” came a chorus of begging
voices.

“Well . . .” I could hear her wavering.  “I don’t
really know if you’d be allowed to . . .”

“We are if you say so, Mrs Ashcroft,” came the voice
above another chorus of pleas.  “Nobody will mind
because you’re in charge.”

“But you have nothing to swim in,” we heard Mrs
Ashcroft reply apologetically.  “You can be seen from
outside, you know, with the lights on, so you can’t go
naked or in your underwear.”  A round of shocked
giggles came at the fearsome word ‘naked’.

“We can swim in our ballet costumes,” came the voice
of one bright spark, backed up by an excited and
approving chorus.  “They’ll have to be washed anyway.”

“Yes, please, Mrs Ashcroft . . .” came the usual
murmur, accompanied no doubt by pleading looks,
clasped hands and big eyes.

There was a long pregnant pause.  Then finally we
heard Mrs Ashcroft say, “Well -  wait until I give the
word before you do anything.  All right, but you’ll
have to be very quick . . .”  A subdued babble of
excitement could be heard in the background.  “Wait, I
said - you must be very quiet, because it could cause
trouble if anybody hears you, do you understand that? 
And we haven’t much time, so I can only give you three
minutes . . .”

There was a muffled explosion of glee, followed a
second later by a splash, and hot on its tail many
more splashes.  Girls being girls, they could not be
absolutely quiet, and there were muffled cries and
squeals and laughter, but they did their best.  We
could see nothing but the glow of the lights from
behind the roof, but we could hear it all.  My heart
pounded faster than ever.

There was a muffled groan from Ernst and a wriggle
that I took to mean he was adjusting his penis.  “We
can’t see a bloody thing!” he hissed desperately.

“They’re still in their ballet costumes.  Wait till
they come inside,” I hissed back, although I didn’t
know how I could wait.  Three minutes seemed like an
eternity, and I’m sure Mrs Ashcroft gave them some
extra time before we finally heard her clapping her
hands and calling quietly to the girls to get out.

The splashing became more subdued, and we tensed.  We
heard grateful murmurs of “Thank you, Mrs Ashcroft.”

“That’s all right, girls,” we heard her reply. 
“Please change quickly and quietly, and try not to
tell anybody about our swim, will you?  Goodnight,
everybody.”

“Goodnight, Mrs Ashcroft,” came the chorus, and then
we heard one girl call out, “Er – Mrs Ashcroft.  Our
underwear’s all wet now after we’ve been in the pool.”

“Oh, dear, we didn’t think of that, did we?” she
replied.  Well, I bet some of them did.  I certainly
did!  But I suppose they didn’t want to shorten their
already brief swim by removing it first.  Mrs Ashcroft
paused, giggled and continued, “Well, you’ll just have
to be very naughty and go home without any underwear
tonight, won’t you?”  I grabbed my penis in
desperation.  “But try not to let anybody know! 
Goodnight, girls.”

There were more goodnights, and then we both drew in
our breath in excitement as the moment we had been
awaiting arrived.  Girls poured in through the doors
of the changing rooms in soaking wet ballet costumes,
sixth-graders into the girls’ side and fifth-graders
into the side normally used by the boys.  There was a
sudden hubbub as the necessity for quiet was relaxed
and they all began talking away nineteen to the dozen.

We were just a few metres above their heads, scared
stiff of being seen on the one hand even though we
were in the dark, and on the other hand throbbing with
excitement as the action was under way at an
overwhelming speed.  Girls in great numbers reached up
for the shoulder straps of their wet ballet costumes
and began peeling them off.

Chests were coming into view all over the place, most
of them pretty flat, even among the sixth-graders, but
some with interesting undulations.  All the
sixth-graders wore bras, it seemed, even though most
of them did not really need one, but I suppose those
without might get teased.  Then came the push to
remove the costumes over the bottoms and down the
legs.  Within seconds hundreds of girls, so it seemed,
were wearing nothing but soggy white panties, and were
in the process of removing them, too.

Although we could see everything clearly, it was
surprisingly difficult to recognise most of the girls,
a problem we hadn’t expected.  This was mainly because
their hair had for most of them been tied up
altogether or greatly altered for the ballet, and it
was also completely wet.  Some of the girls let their
hair down first, so it hung loose and dripping over
their shoulders, adding to their anonymity, as school
rules stated that long hair should be tied.

I scanned the lines urgently, trying to recognise the
naked bodies I was about to see.  The nearest girls
must have been less than five metres away from me, but
most of them had their backs to me, facing the rest of
their group, and the first things I could see were
their sleek, curved bottoms, their slim bare white
backs and their bony shoulder-blades.  Once they had
their panties off they would turn for their towels and
dry their bare bodies, some staying facing the wall
and therefore towards us, while others turned round to
socialise with their friends.

The first girl I recognised naked was Sally, a short
lively girl with close-cropped curly blonde hair.  She
was on the far side of the room, and I could see her
plump little vagina for the first time as she stepped
out of her panties.  I kept searching for the girls we
had named earlier as those who excited our curiosity
the most.

Then I heard a hiss from Ernst that I was sure was
much too loud.  “Ramona!” he hissed, and I could see
his arm pointing downwards, outlined against the
lights within.  “She’s going for a piss!”

I looked almost directly beneath us, and my heart
almost stopped as I saw Ramona, still in ballet
costume but carrying some stuff, step into one of the
toilets and bolt the door shut behind her.  I felt so
excited I was on the verge of vomiting at the prospect
of seeing her on the toilet, especially as she would
have to remove her ballet costume first.

But she had not come inside to urinate, but for
another purpose.  She put down the lid of the toilet
and placed on top what we could now see were her
school uniform and towel.  Then, while I desperately
clasped my hands over my bounding penis, she reached
up and began to pull down her ballet costume.  As
expected, there was a swollen white bra underneath
and, as she went further down, she peeled the costume
off over her silky white panties and down her legs,
stepping out of them.  I felt if she looked up she
would be certain to see us, but I couldn’t take my
eyes away as I gasped for breath.

Then she reached up and began to remove her bra.  I
craned my neck downwards, my eyes drinking it all in. 
But, you know, if she had been a member of our
naturist club, whatever she was like underneath I
would hardly have noticed.  But this was the lure of
the forbidden, the desperate urge to see what was kept
secret.

Then we had a shock.  As she removed her bra, bending
forward to do it so we couldn’t see clearly, a couple
of white things fell to the floor.  She pulled off her
bra, put it on the toilet seat, picked up the white
things and did the same with them, and then
straightened up.  I must have gasped audibly.  Her
chest was almost flat!  I saw Ernst turn his head to
me, and in the reflection I could see the horror and
disappointment on it.  “She’s wearing falsies!” he
exclaimed in furious indignation, forgetting the need
for silence.  Fortunately there was so much chatter in
the changing rooms that he went unheard below.

Bitterly disappointed but still fascinated, I watched
Ramona.  She pulled off the wet panties and then dried
herself.  Most of the time she was facing away from
us, but she did keep turning and we had several
glimpses of a long, prominent but as far as we could
see quite hairless vagina.  Then she picked up her
school dress and put it on over her head.  She didn’t
use the toilet at all and nor did most of the other
girls, so I presume they had used those in the school
hall at the end of their performance.

I had been so taken up with Ramona that I had
temporarily forgotten my other favourites.  Looking
back into the sixth-graders’ side I was amazed to see
our dignified head girl, Jane Rutherford, pull a pair
of white panties off over her feet, leap on to the
bench opposite us and give what appeared to be a
review of her dance, with a song to go with it.  Her
arms were above her head, one leg was raised high in
the air – and she was stark naked.  Again I clutched
my penis tightly.  Her small smooth breasts with
prominent nipples were quite evident, and her vagina,
stretched as she raised her leg, was long and slender
and with a growing patch of dark hair at the top.

I suddenly heard a choking noise close to me.  Ernst
had his head down and averted, and was clearly
vomiting his excitement down to the ground. 
Fortunately again the noise from the changing rooms
was too loud for him to be heard.  I was afraid I
might be sick myself.

Quite a few of the other girls were also dancing naked
now, quite a thrill for them I imagine after having to
do it in those tight costumes.  One of them was
Lorraine, whose breasts were small but very well
rounded, and she was without any pubic hair as yet.

A jolly little plump girl called Laurie, always
smiling, had her towel wrapped around her as she
danced up and down the middle of the changing room. 
As she reached the end every time, she would unwrap
the towel, spread it out behind her with arms wide,
and do a curtsey, her plump little vagina only just
visible between her legs.

Then I saw Kelly, the nicest and best of the prefects,
a girl who was always quietly smiling and helpful to
the younger children and who never bossed, a girl we
always thought too nice to be a prefect.  She was in
the far corner, jigging up and down as she dried
herself, with a happy smile on her face.  Her body was
flat and smooth, curving down to her small vagina
tucked between her legs.  Suddenly I felt very guilty
and dirty to be invading her privacy in such scurvy
fashion.

I heard heavy breathing and gasping next to me.  I
glanced at Ernst.  His rock-hard penis was out of his
shorts and seemed to be pumping in and out.  Something
was spurting out and hitting the tree trunk.  In the
reflected light I could see something white and damp
trickling down the bark.  He was grasping his penis
and blurting out those excited noises I had heard.

Ramona left the toilet and hustled out of the changing
rooms, one of the first to leave, holding her towel
casually in front of her chest lest any see that her
chest was not its usual size.  Gradually the numbers
inside began to diminish.  I could see just as well
what the fifth-graders were doing, but they were a bit
less developed and tended to look very much the same,
with flattish chests and small smooth vaginas.

I was surprised to see a small girl called Diane
removing her panties to reveal a little mat of light
brown pubic hair underneath, while her chest still
appeared quite flat.  It’s not often the lower region
develops before the upper, I’ve found, or pubic hair
in the fifth grade.  She faced the wall underneath us
to do it quickly, no doubt rather self-conscious of
her difference from the others.

I was feeling very dizzy and emotionally exhausted
when the last girls left the changing rooms and Mrs
Ashcroft finally switched off the lights.  But there
was a tremendous warm feeling in the region of my
stomach.  We heard Mrs Ashcroft talking with the last
couple of girls as they wended their way to the gate,
and then I heard her lock it.  Within a minute we were
left again in complete silence.

Ernst gave a long sigh, almost a groan.  “That was –
wonderful,” he choked out.  “Ooh!  My piss is
exploding.  I’ve wet my pants.  That’s enough cum to
poke all those girls one by one, I’m telling you.” 
I’m sure I would have done the same if I hadn’t held
my penis tightly at times, although my emissions would
be merely urine at my stage of development, or lack
of.  Now I had the chance to release it off the branch
again.  Ernst had already spurted stuff on to the
trunk and I would have to avoid it on the way down.

We waited for quite a while to make sure the coast was
clear before creeping home again, sitting in the tree
in silence, replaying the events of the last few
minutes in our minds, nursing lifelong images of
Ramona, of Jane . . . of so many other naked girls. 
It was such a rich, warm feeling inside that stayed
there for weeks every time I thought about it again. 
And we might have been left with nothing but
delightful memories had not Ernst found the temptation
to reveal his knowledge too hard to resist.

During the morning break on Monday, Ernst said to me,
“Let’s go and see those sixth-grade girls again.”  I
knew what he was feeling.  A look at those girls,
although clothed now of course, would help to refresh
those great memories of Friday night.  So we wandered
over towards the area where those older girls
generally congregated.

We passed Jane Rutherford on the way, off on her
duties, chastely clothed, naturally, in her long
school dress and blouse.  Visions came again of Jane
dancing on the benches in the nude, and it was hard to
imagine that this was the same person.  I must have
grinned as I imagined seeing through her clothes, but
she paid us no attention at all, as usual.

Then we saw Ramona, who I presume was only a prefect
because of her father’s influence, because she really
was a silly girl.  Here she was shrieking with
laughter among a group of friends, waving her arms
about and throwing her head back as she laughed.  We
walked past, staring at her bulging chest and grinning
as we revelled in the knowledge that it was all
artificial.

She happened to look towards us, and I immediately
wiped the grin off my face and shifted my gaze a
couple of metres away.  Ernst was not so quick,
though, or else he didn’t bother.  Ramona stared at
him and demanded, “What are *you* grinning at, boy?”

Lunacy seemed to overcome Ernst.  He did not even
bother to remove his grin, but pointed and stated
loudly for everyone to hear, “Your boobs aren’t real.”

Ramona stared at him, turning a little white, I
fancied.  Her mouth opened, but no words came out. 
Instead, one of her friends demanded scornfully of
Ernst, “How do *you* know?”

“They’re just pads,” he said.  “Aren’t they, Roy?”

“*I* don’t know!” I spluttered, aghast at having been
brought into this conversation.

“She stuffs them inside her bra,” continued Ernst.

“Don’t talk shit!” another of Ramona’s friends spat at
Ernst.

“It’s true!” he grinned.  “Why do you think she always
goes to change in private after swimming?”

Suddenly uncertain, the friends looked at each other
and then at Ramona.  She was quite red in the face now
with fury.  “Get out of here, you horrible little
shit!” she spat out, stepping forward and aiming a
slap at him.

I grabbed Ernst by the shirt and pulled him away.  He
came, still grinning, while Ramona screeched insults
and obscenities after him.

The next morning, Ernst was called out of class to see
Mrs Horning, the deputy head.  I felt sure it was all
about the clash with Ramona the previous day, and sat
there in class terrified lest I should be implicated. 
Ernst did not appear during the morning break, and
only came in later on, looking rather chastened but
not unduly upset.

Immediately we got outside at lunchtime, I asked him
what had happened.  It seemed that Ramona, embarrassed
by her friends who had, I guess, been trying to
persuade her to produce irrefutable evidence that her
breasts were real, had reported Ernst to Mrs Horning,
being too embarrassed to see the headmaster, who had
the strong disadvantage of being male.  With her
friends out of the way, Ramona told a slightly
different story, claiming that Ernst must have been
spying on the girls changing after swimming.  It was
never clear exactly what she claimed Ernst had said or
whether she had mentioned the false breasts issue or
explained away the business about changing in private
after swimming.

Ernst was given a thorough grilling, but the case was
unproven since it was deemed impossible for him to spy
on the girls in the changing rooms in broad daylight,
especially as their swimming was done either during
morning lessons or afternoon sports, when Ernst had to
be elsewhere.  The swimming after the ballet was never
mentioned, presumably because it had never entered
Ramona’s empty head.  No doubt she would not have
minded ratting on Mrs Ashworth – if indeed that swim
would have caused any trouble – had she thought of
using it to get Ernst into trouble.

Ernst himself claimed that he had been laughing at a
joke and Ramona thought he was laughing at her.  He
told Mrs Horning that he had heard some girls saying
that Ramona wore ‘falsies’ – no, he didn’t know which
girls as he was still quite new to the school – and
was so angry at Ramona’s rudeness to him that he
decided to be rude back.  On reflection, he regretted
his rudeness to a prefect, if that was expected of
him.

Ramona was brought in and Ernst was ordered to
apologise.  “Ramona, I am sorry I was rude about your
falsies,” he declared, and got away with merely having
to rephrase it because he was still regarded as only a
semi-English speaker and nobody quite knew how much he
understood and how much he didn’t.  He could still get
away with talking in pidgin-English and pretending to
misunderstand when it suited him.  It was quite clear
to me that he now understood as much as anybody else. 
He was no fool intellectually, and the extra year of
age was also an advantage that the school authorities
often overlooked due to his frequently charming ways.

(To be continued)



MR SAUSAGE MAN (CHAPTER 4)


I had forgotten to mention an earlier adventure I had
with Ernst, before the incident after the ballet. 
There is at the English junior school an old wooden
prefabricated building in a secluded corner that can
be used as a classroom, and occasionally is.  It backs
on to the storerooms and there are hedges down either
side, so it can be seen only from the door, which
fronts on to the playing fields.

Our fourth-grade class was doing a nature study
project about insects.  We had to scour the school
grounds for them and answer a series of questions, so
Ernst and I paired off together.  We were
investigating an ants’ nest behind a hedge when,
through the leaves, we saw the sixth-grade girls
trooping into the prefabricated building, or the
doctor’s room, as it was generally called.

The only regular use to which it was put, as far as I
know, was when the doctor or dentist called at the
school and classes were taken to him there.  It was
not generally used for sewing lessons, but then I
remembered that the sixth-grade classroom had
developed an electrical fault, which was currently
being fixed, so the girls couldn’t sew there as they
usually did.

An elderly retired teacher called Mrs Lampitt used to
take the senior girls for sewing lessons, and we could
see her hobble in through the door.  We all thought
she was about ninety years old, but I suppose she was
in her seventies.  Plump and rather severe, she
waddled from side to side when she walked at a very
slow speed, her surprisingly thin legs protruding from
under her calf-length skirt.

I took little notice of them, but when the girls were
all inside Ernst grinned at me and said, “Let’s spy on
the girls.  Hey, I wish the doctor was there –
examining them.  I want to be a school doctor.”

I had no idea how to spy on the girls, but he beckoned
me.  We slipped round the hedge at the back, forcing
our way between the hedge and the storeroom, and crept
up to the back of the sewing room.

Being junior school kids, we had investigated every
part of the school grounds and I knew that there were
quite a number of small holes in the soft wood that
made up this building.  Only Ernst thought of a good
use for them, though.  He bent down and put his eye to
one of the holes.  I found another hole, about a metre
away, and did the same thing.

I could see quite clearly inside the building.  The
girls were moving around, finding their seats on
chairs that were really the right size for children in
about second grade, behind metal tables.  Nearest to
me was a quiet plump girl by the name of Natasha.  She
put her bag on the table right opposite my line of
vision, perhaps three metres away, and sat down on the
chair, pulling it under her until she was positioned
correctly at the table.  As she did so, she spread her
legs and I got a full view of her smooth white
panties, with perhaps a tinge of yellow, bulging
around the crotch.  With her legs still partly open,
she took out her sewing from her bag.  A murmur of
approval and excitement from nearby told me that Ernst
had seen the same thing.

Natasha glanced over in our direction and it seemed to
me that she was looking straight at me.  Terrified at
the prospect of being caught, I pulled my head away
hurriedly and shot off back to the shelter of the
hedge.  Ernst stayed where he was, impervious to my
hissing at him in warning.  His occasional big grins,
jiggling of the legs and adjustment of his personal
sexual apparatus showed that he was seeing some
material that brought him immense satisfaction.  I
waited in frustration for about five minutes until he
pulled himself away and joined me.

“Hey, why are you scared?” he reproved me.  “You
missed some great stuff.  They don’t know there’s
anybody there, so some of them sit with their legs
open!  And Fiona keeps scratching her pussy!  Come and
see!  Nobody can see us round here.”

I glanced around and it appeared to be true.  We would
be hidden by the building itself from the playing
fields, the storerooms behind us had no windows in our
direction, and the hedge down our end was so thick
that nobody could see us through it.  So we crept out
of hiding again and scuttled over to the holes in the
wall.

I found a low hole, thinking I would be less visible
from inside that way, and squatted to peer through it.
 Natasha was still sitting opposite me with her legs
apart on her small chair and a large expanse of her
rounded white panties very visible.  My eye swept the
classroom for Fiona, a tall thin dreamy-looking girl
with short fair hair.  I saw Mrs Lampitt sitting at
the desk at the front of the class with her back to
me, and the girls were bringing their sewing up to her
from time to time for help or for checking.  There was
a constant low murmur of voices.

Then I saw Fiona, over at the side of the classroom. 
I watched her.  She was sitting with her knees
together and head bent over her sewing.  Nothing
happened.  I glanced round at the other girls.  I
could only see those in the front row and a few in the
second row on one side of the class.  Most of them
were sitting with their legs together or crossed, but
occasionally one would adjust her legs and I might get
a flash of panties, usually white.  In our
conservative English school, white was the approved
colour, although not specifically stated in the dress
regulations.  I was glad they had at least got beyond
the old-fashioned `school panties’, which in the olden
days Aunt Sue told me had to be of coarse material in
school colours, which would have been an unexciting
dark blue.

I was feeling disappointed about Fiona when suddenly
she did it.  She spread her knees apart, revealing
white cotton panties, and as she did so put a hand
down, still looking at her sewing.  I saw her put a
finger inside her panties and give something a good
scratch.  I caught a glimpse of the darker pink of the
loose skin between her legs.

I heard a chuckle next to me, and pulled my head away
in shock before I realised that it was only Ernst, who
had seen the same as I.  He grinned at me, then pulled
aside the leg of his shorts and underpants.  Grinning,
he showed me his long penis, pressed up against his
body, thick and almost horizontal with the excitement.
 He pumped it up and down, still grinning wickedly, as
if he was desperate.  My own smaller penis was also
stirring.

Those few minutes undisturbed had given me a bit of
confidence, though.  I leaned over to Ernst and joked
into his ear, “Don’t put it through the hole or the
girls will get a big fright!”

Ernst’s face lit up with a wicked grin.  “Hey, let’s
do that!” he hissed excitedly.  “Let’s see what they
do.  If they notice.”

I giggled at the thought.  “We’d be in big trouble if
we were caught,” I warned him, not taking him
seriously.  “We’d get expelled.”

“Who’s going to catch us?” snorted Ernst, looking
around confidently at our private world.  “We can run
if they see us and they’ll never get us in time.  Come
on, let’s do it.”  He started manoeuvring his penis
towards the nearest hole at the right height.

I shook my head and started backing away.  It was too
much for me.  But Ernst turned and said, “Come on,
Roy, I thought I could trust you to be my friend.  We
do things together.  Come on, I *dare* you to do it!” 
Then he laughed at me.

Suddenly my heart started thumping.  It seemed a very
daring and exciting thing to do, and we could indeed
disappear quickly after doing it before anybody inside
could catch us.  First of all I checked out my escape
route.  Then I pulled out my penis, which was a
fraction of the size of his, and found a little hole. 
I also found another hole almost above it, so I could
see what was happening inside at the same time if I
stood awkwardly.

I stared through it.  Almost opposite me was the head
girl, Jane Rutherford, sewing quietly.  Her legs were
crossed and her skirt was long enough to cover her
knees and tucked in demurely under her thighs at the
sides.  Not a tinge of excitement there.  Might as
well try to get a view inside Fort Knox.  Remember,
that was before the revelation at the swimming pool.

Ernst did not have the advantage of an eyehole, and he
offered to swap places with me, but I told him it was
my turn first.  “Okay, I’ll say when we start,” he
whispered to me, still holding his extended penis in
one hand.  “You can see, so you say when we stop.  All
right?”

I agreed, so Ernst whispered, “Ready . . . go!”  At
the `go’, we both plunged our penises through the
holes.

I looked through the eyehole at the same time, to see
that life was going on inside just as usual.  Nobody
had noticed.  But I suddenly felt afraid that at any
moment Jane would look up and see my penis, so I
pulled it out quickly, although hiding that fact from
Ernst with my hand.   I could see from the corner of
my eye he was standing there grinning, his penis
obviously through the hole.  Still nobody inside the
room noticed.

At about the same moment we looked at each other.  I
shook my head at him.  He grinned, and started working
his penis up and down with his hand.  Then he thrust
it forward so hard that his hips were pushing hard
against the wall.

I kept watching tensely inside the room.  I naturally
could not see Ernst’s member protruding through his
hole from my position.  Instead I saw a queue of about
four girls waiting to show Mrs Lampitt their sewing. 
At the back I saw a girl named Jasmine look over in
Ernst’s direction and then suddenly stand stock-still
and stare.  For about two seconds she gazed as if she
couldn’t believe her eyes, mouth gaping.  I saw Jane,
behind her, look at Jasmine and then follow her eyes. 
At that moment Jasmine gave a scream of horror.  She
screamed again and pointed.

For a second or two I was too transfixed to pull away
or warn Ernst.  I had to know what would happen.  I
saw Shirley, next to Jane, swing her leg round as she
stared, showing that she too wore white cotton
panties.  Then Jane sprang to her feet, shouted out,
“Quick!  Catch him!” and dashed towards the door, at
the far end of the building.  I saw Mrs Lampitt say,
“Oh!” in surprise and I knew it was time to go. 
Urgently.

“Run!” I hissed to Ernst.  I had the presence of mind
to run in the opposite direction from him, figuring
that Jane would come charging round the side of the
building on the side nearest him.  I dived for the
corner where the hedge met the storeroom and scrambled
through it, with Ernst right after me, chortling.  Far
behind us we could hear squeals and screams from the
girls.  For all I knew they might be spreading out in
all directions in a search party, and I was terrified.
 We had to get as far away as possible immediately.  I
had underestimated the danger.

We raced in silent terror past the storerooms and
headed towards a small archway on the far side, which
led to another part of the playing fields.  I hurtled
through it.  Unfortunately – or so I thought at the
time – coming the other way was one of the ground
staff, a local man whose job it was to clean
classrooms and wash windows.  He was carrying a bucket
of water and a ladder over his shoulder, and I
cannoned straight into him.

I hit the ground rolling and immediately saw stars,
banging my head hard.  The ladder came crashing down
on my leg.  There was an awful pain.  I rolled over,
dragged my leg free in panic, amid more pain, and sat
on my bottom, dazed.  The first thing I was aware of
was the cleaner, sitting on the ground next to me with
the upended bucket clanging to the ground between us. 
The front of his uniform was soaked.  He was gasping
for breath, but not so much that he couldn’t give me a
vicious piece of his mind in the local language. 
Ernst later taught me two new swearwords he had
learned from that speech.  He said there were many
more, but the flow was too rapid for him to take in
more than two.  I looked the two words up in a large
dictionary and found the meanings intriguing.

Then the cleaner got to his feet, gave me some more
swearwords and stormed off, goodness knows where,
still waving his arms and leaving the ladder, the
bucket and me lying on the ground with blood dribbling
from my grazed knee and a cut on my ankle at the back.
 Ernst was standing there, trying not to laugh.

The next thing I remember was hobbling into the school
secretary’s office, leaning on Ernst’s shoulder.  Mrs
Christoff, the secretary, exclaimed with surprise and
demanded an explanation as she began expertly to patch
me up.

“He bumped into one of the cleaners,” Ernst explained,
sure our exploit would be reported by the victim. 
Then, asked why we were out of the classroom, I told
her we were doing a nature study project.

“You must have been running,” she scolded, and I felt
relieved that the head was not there at that moment. 
I got a small lecture on running round the school
buildings.  Then she asked, “What were you doing there
when you should have been on the playing field?”

“We had to go for a p . . .  I mean, we had to go to
the shit-hou – I mean the toilet,” Ernst explained for
me.  He was obviously having trouble fitting the right
syllable to the right audience.  Mrs Christoff glared
at him.  “We just wanted to get back to our project
quickly.”

It must have taken about twenty minutes to patch me
up.  I limped back towards the classroom, helped by
Ernst.  To our horror, we saw two sixth-grade girl
prefects entering a classroom, evidently making
enquiries.

“Let’s go back to the office,” I gasped.  “Tell her it
still hurts.”  But as we turned around, we saw two
other prefects coming straight towards us.

I thanked my lucky stars that they were Kelly and
Simone, two of the nicest prefects.  “Where have you
two been?” Kelly asked, more of a curiosity question
with her, while Jane Rutherford would have demanded
the information.

“I had an accident,” I explained.  “Mrs Christoff’s
been bandaging me up.  You can ask her.”

“I think I believe you,” said Kelly, looking at me
with a smile.  “Were you running on the corridors?” 
Again, this was asked with curiosity rather than an
attempt to incriminate me.

We grinned sheepishly, and the two girls laughed,
wagged their fingers at us and continued on their
mission.  We decided to go back to the office anyway,
to try to make sure any prefects visiting our class,
which by now would have returned after the project,
had departed by the time we eventually joined them.

After complaints of pain, I was given a pair of
crutches to borrow for the day and a couple of
painkillers.  Then we wandered back to the classroom,
to find the prefects had apparently finished their
survey and disappeared.  When we reached our class,
our arrival naturally caused much attention.  Discreet
enquiries, when we were able to make them, revealed
that no prefects had been in the classroom asking
awkward questions at all.  The ones we saw must have
been on other business.

We heard various rumours during the lunch hour and
were still quite nervous about being caught. 
Gradually the story solidified, leaked from the
sixth-grade girls who wanted to talk about their
traumatic experience during sewing – but only in
strictest confidence, of course.  Those they confided
in were so shocked that they too just had to pass it
on – again, in strictest confidence.  By the end of
school that day, virtually the whole school was sworn
to strictest confidence.  No doubt by six o’clock that
evening the parents all were sworn to secrecy as well.

The gist of one story was that, while the girls had
been sewing, a large penis had been thrust through a
hole in the wall.  It was such a gigantic one that
they automatically assumed it belonged to a man, which
was a great relief.  It was not really an
exaggeration, either, as I’m sure Ernst’s penis was
actually larger even then than those of many men, and
it did throw everybody off the track.

All right, I admit it – I have been exaggerating a bit
about the size, too, a bit of poetic licence in a
story like this.  I’ve made it sound as if Ernst was a
freak, which he wasn’t really.  I mean, it didn’t
quite come down to his knees, as many of the boys
liked to make out.  I think he probably just had a
longer penis than most by nature, and then started his
growth spurt earlier than the rest of us because he
was a year older.  By the time he left the school, his
penis was still the longest and strongest but some of
the rest of us were catching him up.

Jane had led the girls in a quick search of the area
after she burst out of the classroom so quickly, but
they could find nobody suspicious lurking around – and
if they had, I doubt they would have opted to search
him for evidence.  I don’t think even Jane Robertson
would have walked up to a boy, let alone a man, and
haughtily demanded to inspect his penis.

Mrs Lampitt had not seen the offending object but had
gone home in a state of shock at the sudden tumult in
her classroom, and she wasn’t sure she would ever come
back again.  For the benefit of tenderhearted readers,
she did.

Of course, there were wildly exaggerated versions
spread around the school as well.  A hooded man burst
in at the door and waved his huge penis at the girls. 
One version claimed that he urinated on a desk. 
Another said he tried to rape Mrs Lampitt.  Still
another claimed that he was completely naked and tried
to carry off Jane.  The children thrilled with horror
to hear these fictional stories, all too willing to
cast aside their common sense and believe them.

The head was informed by a very serious and deeply
shocked Jane as soon as he was available again.  The
ground staff were immediately under suspicion, as Jane
insisted the offending member was much too large to
belong to a pupil.  “It was like an enormous sausage,”
we heard one of the girls saying, holding her hands
about half a metre apart like a fisherman describing
the one that got away.  “And it had black hairs all
over it.”  Actually that perhaps wasn’t too fanciful.

“Like a baseball bat,” put in her friend.  “And it was
waving up and down like a flagpole.”  We were all so
fascinated we didn’t think to point out that flagpoles
didn’t usually wave.  All the girls lapped up the
horrific fictional details and believed them
implicitly, until they heard an even more outrageous
version.

Nick thought it all very funny.  “They’ll have to have
an identity parade,” he told us all in the swimming
pool changing rooms.  “All the ground staff will have
to stick their knobs out and Jane will go and identify
which one it was.  Hey, I bet it was Ernst!  Look at
his big chop!”  And the whole class had a giggle and
teased him by saying they were going to tell the head.
 But they were only joking, as they all knew that
Ernst had the perfect alibi, being in the school
office with me at the time!  Thank goodness for that
cleaner!

Naturally the third-grade boys knew who the culprit
was, or they claimed they did.  But they all expected
Ernst to be inside the classroom at that time, so it
was never more than a joke to them.

Of course the head never let us know what happened in
the end.  We saw a couple of policemen round in the
afternoon, but they left us well alone.  We heard
rumours that the ground staff all had alibis.  Nobody
could remember seeing a strange man around the school
grounds.  There was another rumour that the head had
accused Jane of making up the story, but this was
unlikely, I thought.  Jane was the darling of the
school staff, though it’s possible the head may simply
have tried to check carefully with her that she was
absolutely certain about what she saw.  Besides, there
were too many other witnesses to the incident, even if
they all disagreed on the details.  It will no doubt
go down as one of the great historical mysteries, like
Jack the Ripper.  Ernst the Stripper!  Ernst the
Flasher!

Ernst and I had a good private laugh together about it
all, much later when we were sure we were safe, while
in the meantime we were scared stiff.  This is the
first time I have ever revealed this story to anybody
else.  And Ernst kept quiet about it too, at least
until he left the country just over a year later.

Ernst’s father’s contract came to an end after two
years, and he was being transferred to England.  Ernst
told us that he was to go to boarding school there, so
no doubt his parents were well pleased that Ernst had
learned to speak the language during his stay with us.
 His vocabulary was perhaps even more extensive than
they would have liked, and he knew many English words
that I didn’t – not the sort that could be aired in
polite society.

During that time I learned a great many other things
in his company, not much of it good.  We masturbated
and spied together a great deal, although we never
again had anything as good as that night after the
ballet.  One of the things Ernst liked to do was to
walk up just behind a girl, when there were no other
girls watching him, or even a young woman teacher, as
he did more than once to Miss Winrow, pull out his
penis, thrust it forward and wiggle it up and down,
even pretending to thrust it up her bottom.  He
thought it was great fun.  I thought it was a bit
sick, but weakly played along.

Another incident I remember took place once when we
were out exploring together – not everything we did
was connected with sex or nudity.  Ernst decided to
urinate when we were in some thick undergrowth near a
stream.  If he had told me of his intentions in
advance, I could have warned him that the plants into
which he was about to insert his penis were the local
equivalent of stinging 
nettles.  I will leave the rest to the reader’s
imagination, except to mention that I am sure the end
result provided a lively and fascinating topic of
conversation for the nursing sorority in the city for
months to come.

I can look back on some very good times with him, but
on the whole I must admit he was a bad influence on
me.  Unfortunately Ernst’s parting was most unpleasant
for both of us, and it taught me a lesson that has
stayed with me ever since.

(To be continued)



	
	
		
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