There was no doubt about it: shagger was a right bastard. When
he’d replaced old Brian - that wasn’t his name: he was called
after the snail in the Magic Roundabout because he was so old and
slow - in the role of head of Phys Ed, there was no more larking
about in the gym on rainy days.  Shagger seemed to think sliding
around on a sodden quagmire of a pitch for a double period was
paradise on earth.  We assumed it was a result of his military
experience: he’d come to Sherborough High, via teacher training,
from the Royal Marines and was extremely fond of telling us how
far below military standards our fitness and hardiness fell.
Well, it was alright for him - squelching up and down the
touchline with his rainproof tracksuit and his wellies on. It was
us that got soaked and caked in mud. And of course, purely in our
own interests, the sadistic cunt made us all use the chronically
useless showers down at the playing fields afterwards: a freezing
cold trickle and council carbolic soap. Trying to evade the
torture was useless, too: no one had even dared since Tommo had
got caught. How shagger knew he’d not been in the showers, no-one
will ever know - but Tommo was duly picked out, ordered to roll
up his  trousers to the knee, and revealed by the ingrained mud
as a non-showerer. The punishment was dire: a week of detentions:
laps of the field followed by the inevitable frozen drench.

So, shagger was already, in the eyes of each and every member of
5C, a bastard. Thank god we didn’t have him for Geography as
well. Shagger? A nickname that had stuck since a rumour went the
rounds of the school that he’d been caught shagging a bird down
at the pavilion. No-one knew if it was really true: but then
again, no-one knew it definitely wasn’t. And the rumour had to
have started somewhere, didn’t it ? And besides, we’d all seen
his considerable wedding tackle on display around the changing
rooms: just because he didn’t share our showers (he had his own,
presumably much warmer and effective shower cubicle, attached to
his own private changing room) didn’t stop him parading naked
round the locker room and we’d all seen it. Enough to sustain his
reputation, and the nickname.

What had he done to earn our particular opprobrium this of all
days ? Inflicted a 5-mile cross country run in the pouring rain ?
That was just routine, from him. No - he had found me with, and
confiscated, the much thumbed copy of “Health & Efficiency” that
I had nicked from the glove compartment of my dad’s car, just as
it had been handed back to me by its most recent borrower. “No
wonder you’re fucking useless on that fucking football pitch, Law
if this is where all your strength goes.” That passed for a joke
- and since it was at my expense, there was no shortage of  5C
comedians ready to join in: “He wanks so much he’s so short
sighted he can’t see the ball, Sir”  Sycophantic cunt, Marsden, I
thought to myself. Football team captain and all round arse
licker to the shagger. “Quite right, Marsden. What amazes me that
he can even find his little dick to pull it in the first place.”
I think that was the point when my annoyance turned into rage and
I decided I’d have to do something.

The plan matured over the next sixty minutes of agony - pounding
our way up the hill, round the reservoir and back down through
the mud. Oddly, running was the one thing I was any good at,
athletically. I was a lanky bugger at 15: nearly six foot tall,
and all of ten stone six. And it wasn’t true what shagger had
said about a little dick. With the paranoia only a teenager could
muster, I’d been measuring it since I was twelve.  I thought
seven inches on the stiff wasn’t half bad for my age and had
added that recently achieved milestone to the progress chart that
I kept hidden beneath the loose floorboard under my bed - to
which cache I would have returned that H&E if only shagger hadn’t
nicked it, the bastard. He was definitely deserving of some of
his own humiliating punishment.

When I told the others what I was going to do, they were
gobsmacked. The tale of Tommo’s shower - or rather, non-shower -
and the shagger’s alleged telepathic powers were pressed on me as
reason why my proposed crime would be instantly detected and the
magnitude of the offence - surely meriting permanent exclusion
from school, especially after my ten days’ suspension over the
unfortunate incident with the fire alarm - thoroughly impressed
upon me. Nothing availed. I was determined to get revenge.

So it was that in the dinner hour, as most of 5C  set off in
Shagger’s custody, back up the road towards the main school
buildings, there to banish recent memories of the freezing
showers with shepherd’s pie or egg and bacon flan (almost, in my
view, equally inhuman tortures) I hung about behind the changing
room block. It was easy: some of the lads didn’t have school
meals and went into the village for sandwiches or fish & chips 
so evading the crowd without attracting attention wasn’t a
problem.

None of the buggers had even volunteered to keep watch for me,
such was their fear of the shagger’s wrath - so it was a solo
mission and with the evidence of my own eyes that he was well on
his way up the road, that I went back into the building. It was
as deserted as I’d hoped. The sixth form twats who were supposed
to give up their lunch times to supervise the playing fields
hadn’t arrived, and as usually shagger had been too keen to get
his food to wait for them - so the block was unsecured and empty.
And there, too, clearly in view, was my target. Shagger’s
wellies, neatly placed as ever in the cardboard box outside his
room.


Why is it that when you desperately NEED to piss, you can’t? I’d
been holding  back the urge to  pee since we were half way round
the cross country course, knowing I’d need it for “ammunition.” 
Minutes before, my over-full bladder had been aching. Now it just
wouldn’t come. Of course, the plan was to fill the shagger’s
wellies with piss. For the past hour my mind had been gleefully
contemplating the image of him putting his foot into a boot full
of cold piss at some point later that afternoon - and his rage at
not knowing who was responsible, whom to punish. Now, I’d been
standing there for a good ten minutes, unable to produce a drop.
And worse - as always happened when I had my dick out and in my
hand, it was starting to stiffen up, and images from the H&E so
recently snatched from my possession were starting to fill my
mind. That black and white one of the “reader’s wife” with the
massive tits and the really thick bush…. what would it feel like
to put my teenage prick in there? I’d never know - and neither
would she, poor bitch: she’d have to make do with the weedy 
looking bloke beside her in the picture - presumably  her husband
- with the dick that looked like a shrivelled, undercooked
sausage. How could he be standing there while she was bending
over and pulling her twat open for the camera, and not even get a
hard-on ? She wouldn’t have to ask me twice.

On my mind was the cunt belonging to Pamela, aged 37 from Eggham
who enjoyed, as I remembered from recent reading, tennis, squash
and visits to naturist establishments with her husband Geoffrey.
In my hand, however, was a rather old, somewhat damp and well
worn  rubber Wellington boot, size eleven, and as the legend I
could just make out on the muddy instep proclaimed, made in
Britain by BTR, who ever BTR might be. Pamela’s juicy,
super-hairy snatch, and an old welly. Only the mind of a hormone
crazed teenager could confuse the two - or at any rate make one a
substitute for the other. All I knew was it felt bloody good,
holding the boot tight between both hands, pinching the opening
down till it was as tight as I imagined Pamela’s cunt might be,
then thrusting my prick in all the way to the balls. I held the
boot with the sole against the wall and gyrated my hips, fucking
into the rubber boot for all I was worth.

The roughness of the turned-down canvas top of a muddy Wellington
boot probably sounds like a poor substitute for a bored
37-year-old housewife’s juicy cunt lips. But that didn’t stop me
from giving shagger’s welly my full attention as I felt my nuts
tightening ready to shoot. Tighter and tighter I gripped the boot
and harder and faster I thrust into the canvas-lined rubber
tunnel. My dick reached nearly half way down the shaft of the
boot:  you could see by the way it pushed the rubber outwards. I
thought of how it would stretch the walls of Pamela’s cunt and
that was enough: wad after wad shot into the boot and I was still
producing small spasms and dribbles of spunk as I pulled out.
They melted into the still damp smears of mud.

It hadn’t taken long, and my mind soon reverted to the execution
of my original plan. My bladder was just about to give up, as I
seized the other boot and directed the powerful, hot jet of piss
into it. Up to that point, I had no idea of the relative
capacities of a teenage bladder and an adult size Wellington
boot. Now I can tell you that the former, absolutely full, is
nothing like equal to the latter. Most of the morning, I’d
imagined FILLING both boots with piss, and the pee sloshing over
the top when shagger put them on. To my disappointment, my entire
arsenal was only sufficient to fill up the foot portion of one
boot. But then it occurred to me - all the better: he won’t know
there’s anything there till he puts it on.

My cock was red raw. I hadn’t noticed the chaffing as I  fucked
the boot, but I did as I put my  swollen tool  back in my boxers
and zipped up. It was worth it, though. Mission accomplished: I’d
had a great wank despite shagger confiscating my mag, and with my
cum in one boot and piss in the other, my revenge would be
complete. I almost swaggered up the road and my self satisfaction
when I met up with my mates was complete. Obviously, I didn’t
mention wanking into his wellies, and embroidered a bit about the
amount I’d pissed into them - but no more than the usual and
accepted adolescent exaggeration quota. My arrogance was
punctured only when Tommo - one of the fish & chip eaters - 
joined us.

 “Did he get you, then ?”
“What ?”
 “Shagger - I saw him going towards the changing block as I was
coming back from the shop.”
“Thank god - it must have been just after I got out.”
“No he must have forgotten something and gone back down as soon
as he got to the staff room: I saw him go in, then it was ages
till you came out. Well, long enough for me to eat me chips.”


The rest of the day was one of apprehension and indecision. What
was he going to do ? What would happen ? What should I do ? Go
and confess all ? Keep my head down ? It was only after the
weekend that I began to feel confident that the latter strategy
had been the right one. Either Tommo had been wrong, or shagger
had somehow miraculously seen nothing and didn’t know whom to
blame for his piss soaked boot. And he’d never notice the cum. It
was on Tuesday afternoon, a full six days after the event, that
the summons came. Double English. One of those notes brought
round by a prefect and handed to Miss Ewell who read it,
initialled it and handed it back before pronouncing, “Antony Law
to see Mr. Maxwell after school at the Pavilion please.”





When I got down to the field, Shagger was just sending the
Under-13s home after practice. He ordered me to go in and get
changed into my PE kit and cut off my objection that I hadn’t got
it with me with a barked “just wait inside, then.”

He kept me waiting, hanging round the changing room, for more
than fifteen minutes. Ominously, the cardboard box by the door
was empty: just bits of dried up mud and strands of dead grass in
the bottom. Then I was finally allowed past that metal door with
the words STAFF CHANGING stencilled on it.

It wasn’t much of a room. One of those physiotherapy couches down
one side: covered in red plastic that had worn through in a few
places and been repaired with duct tape; a grey metal desk with a
chair; one easy chair; a filing cabinet, lockers, the shower
cubicle and a stainless steel sink on the wall.

Shagger rummaged in his bag and eventually chucked a grubby pair
of shorts, a football shirt and some obviously worn sock as me. 
“These will do.” Shit: he obviously intended some sort of
physical punishment: press-ups, running round the field, squat
jumps - “Bring back the cane” I inwardly thought - it couldn’t be
any worse than this.  I shrugged my school uniform off and
quickly got into the kit he’d given me: all a bit oversized and
the shorts especially.

There was even a grim sort of hospitality on offer: he ran two
pint glasses of water at the sink and handed one to me. “Sit
down,” he said. “You might be here a while.” and anticipating my
next words, “I’ve spoken to your father and he knows you’ll be
late home tonight.” It couldn’t be worse: if they’d phoned home,
told Dad about it all - that was school fucked and home fucked up
as well. I couldn’t see the point of the interview with Shagger.
If they were going to chuck me out - which surely they were -
there was nothing more to be said. Maybe he was expecting some
sort of lame apology for what I’d done -- but I wasn’t in any
mood for that. I sat down anyway, though: something people say
about not digging further when you’re in a hole came to mind.

Shagger fumbled in the desk drawer and brought out the copy of
H&E. To my surprise, he handed it back to me. “I thought you
might want this back. I discussed the matter with your father,
who seemed more concerned to ensure your mother didn’t find out
about it than anything else. What you have to understand is that
most parents have a less liberal attitude, and for their sake,
the rule against it has to be seen to be enforced. I don’t want
to se it in school again.”

Since I’d nicked the magazine from my dad in the first place, his
attitude to it didn’t surprise me. What I hardly dared believe
was that I’d got away with the welly incident. I was so relieved
I was hardly listening as Shagger continued, “Masturbation is
perfectly normal and you shouldn’t be ashamed of doing it. I dare
say if you weren’t all wanking half a dozen times a day, the
whole class would have permanent erections. Am I right ?”

“Yes, sir”

“So tell me, Law - what was so especially attractive about my
rubber boot as a substitute cunt ?”

Ah - not off the hook after all. Spirits sink. Shagger does not
seem to want an answer to the question: he opens up the grey
metal locker door and takes out his wellies.

“I have to admit it smells a bit like a cunt,” he says, lifting
the piss stained boot to his nose and sniffing briefly. “What do
you think, Law?”

He held the wellington boot out to me, gripping it by the heel.
“Yes sir, I suppose so, Sir”

“How the fuck can you tell what it smells like from there? I
don’t want to know what you suppose, lad. Take the boot and have
a proper smell.”

I took the boot from him and stared at it. The turned down
canvass top was still a bit damp and there were matted clumps of
dirt on the sole. I lifted it gingerly towards my nose and made
an exaggerated performance of breathing in. Not good enough,
obviously. “Smell it properly boy” he ordered and again grabbing
the boot from my hands, pushed it roughly onto my face, the open
top of the boot covering my nose and mouth. The stench was at
first revolting - like the distilled essence of badly cleaned
piss-troughs at chucking out time. I tried not to breathe - but
Shagger just held the boot on my face till I had to give in and
drew in a massive breath.

 “What do you smell, boy?” the answer was muffled with the boot
still held onto my face. “What ? Say again!”

“Piss, sir”

“What?”

“Piss, sir!”

“Say it louder, boy”

I was shouting into the boot, now “Piss, sir!”

“Good… whose piss is that, then Law?”

“Sir, mine, sir”

Rebreathing the fetid air I exhaled into the boot, tightly
clamped as it was onto my face, I was becoming light headed. I
swear I’d have fainted if he’d kept the torture up much longer.
But just in time, Shagger pulled the piss-stained boot away from
my face - what a fuckin relief!

“How about this one?”

I had scarcely begun to fill my lungs as the other boot was
clamped over my face. Surprisingly, there was still a definite
smell of piss. Fainter and less of a damp smell - but the same.
Maybe that was what dried up semen smelled like. Or maybe I was
just imagining it.

“Well?”

What was I supposed to say? Tell him the boot I hadn’t pissed in
stunk of urine? Not a muffled word from my mouth. Thankfully,
this didn’t seem to bother him as he proceeded.

“Last week’s incident - which incidentally I witnessed in full
and was even able, as you were so engrossed, to photograph with
my digital camera - would without doubt if pursued, result in
your permanent exclusion, Law. I have already put in a pink slip
to the Head’s office.” That was it, then. A pink slip was the
first step on a road I’d travelled before. It would lead to a
meeting where a “prosecuting” teacher would lay out his case in
front of the Head - like a trial except the seats for defence
counsel are given to your parents and you know they’re on the
prosecution’s side before you get in the room. “I wonder however
in view of the potential for embarrassment if this is not a
matter better settled without involving Mr. Mountbridge.”  He
removed the second boot from my face as he uttered these last
words, doubling the relief I felt. “I can see you agree, Law.
Good. We have an understanding, then, that what passes in this
room, this evening, puts and end to the matter. Yes?”

“Sir, yes Sir!” The first words I’d spoken with any enthusiasm. I
reached for the glass of water and gulped it down, slaking my
nervous thirst.

“Good, Law. Very good. Very good indeed.” There was a worryingly
menacing intent in his voice as Shagger took the drained glass
from my hand, refilled it and handed it back to me. “Drink it.”
He was always lecturing about drinking nine glasses of water a
day to stay healthy; now I guessed I would have to submit to the
barmy fitness regime - for the rest of the detention, at least.
Laps of the pitch, push-ups and squats were sure to follow.
Unless he was going to cane me: definitely against the rules, but
better than the interview with Mounty any day and if was up for
corporal punishment, so was I. In fact, it sounded better to me
than laps!

“I think we’ll start with cleaning my boots, Law.”  It got
better! This was usually a task reserved for errant juniors, who
were often to be seen in a confiscated break time, standing at
the big sink in the main changing room with an old dinner knife,
scraping mud off Shagger’s size eleven footy boots and applying
dubbing. Much less exertion than laps, and inside as well! God
was smiling on me.

Well, no he wasn’t. Shagger handed me his wellies. To be more
accurate, he dumped them in my lap. “Start with these, boy.” I
need to get something from the car and I expect to see progress
when I get back.” I protested that I needed the loo - after all,
he’d forced two points of water down me -  but he just told me to
get on with the boots and stop whining.

The couple of minutes he was away were enough to start filling
the sink, locate a scrubbing brush and the old knife, and pick
the bigger clods of muck off the soles. I was about to immerse
them in the water when he came back with his cricket holdall.
“Stop that.” He took the boots from the draining board where I’d
placed them, and kicking off his trainers, put them on. “Get on
your knees and lick, boy.”

It was the beginning of my realisation that the bargain I had
made was a tough one. I hesitated, but I didn’t need Shagger’s
words to help me towards my decision. “You are of course free at
any time to change your mind and leave here, Law - on the
understanding that we shall be seeing Mr. Mountbridge within the
week.” That was too grim to contemplate. A lecture from Mounty,
even exclusion - they were bearable. Mum and Dad seeing Shagger’s
photograph - that could not be contemplated. I got to my knees.

The taste was just dusty and gritty, as I gingerly applied the
tip of my tongue to the dirty rubber. This was surely just a
token humiliation - and once my tongue had touched the boot, that
must be enough? He couldn’t expect me to run my tongue all over
them? And what about the soles? I’d removed a few clumps of grass
and mud, but they were still filthy. He couldn’t expect me to
touch them. Such was the reasoning that led me to look up from my
task. “You call that licking? I don’t just want to see the
results, boy - I want to feel your tongue on the rubber. Lick
them, boy. Lick my wellington boots.” To add emphasis to the
demand, he put his left boot on the back of my neck, forcing my
face with considerable pressure onto the toe of the right.
“That’s better: now lick like your life depended on it”

There was no more point thinking about trying to minimise the
punishment. He’d obviously got it all worked out. And the
interview with Mounty had to be avoided at all costs. “Better,
boy - lick them all over - right to the top - let me feel that
tongue on my calves, boy.” The grittiness was mostly gone and all
I could taste was rubber. An oddly neutral, yet definite taste -
like having a snorkel in your mouth tastes, I suppose, except you
could feel the rubber, smooth, cool, yet warm in places where his
body heated it, on your tongue. I was now giving the boots big
strokes with my tongue, from the welt up to the top, in the hope
that doing a good job would bring the ordeal to a sooner end.
“Good lad - let’s see that rubber really shine.” He pulled the
turned-down tops up the their full height, so the boots reached
nearly to his knees.  I could swear Shagger was breathing more
deeply and rocking slightly back and forth on the soles of his
boots. But I didn’t have time to think about that. My bladder was
full to bursting point. “Sir, I need the loo really badly, Sir.”

“Good. That’s real good. Cos I want to see you piss yourself,
boy. Piss in your shorts, just like you pissed in my boot.

I couldn’t make up my mind. In a way, this new departure was
obviously worse. But in a way, it wasn’t. I was already on the
floor, licking the sadistic bastard’s wellies for him. Pissing
myself in an old pair of his shorts couldn’t be any more
humiliating than that - there was no-one else besides Shagger to
see me do it. So why not just do it? No skin off my arse. In fact
it would relieve the pressure on my bladder. So I did it. The
sense of release was even pleasurable as the warm liquid flowed
and the pain in my bladder subsided.

Shagger pushed me over with his boot so I lay on my back, with
the stream of piss soaking the old footy shorts and running out
onto the floor. It was the first time in some minutes that I’d
been allowed to look up from my boot licking duty, as he raised
himself from the chair and stood over me.  He placed his right
foot on my soaking groin and rubbed the sole of his boot about,
mingling the residual dirt with the flow of piss. The smell began
to fill the room. And oh fuck, despite myself I started to get a
hard-on. It showed plainly in the piss drenched white nylon
shorts. “Dirty little fucker aren’t you, Law? Does everyone in
the school know you get a hard on when a man puts his boot on
your dick?”
“Sir, I don’t sir,”
“Don’t you, Law? What’s that in your shorts then, Law? Looks like
a hard-on to me, Law.”


 With the heel of his boot, Shagger pulled the baggy shorts down
to expose my erection, which he then proceeded to stroke with the
muddy, piss-warmed rubber sole of his boot, before trapping my
balls between the sole and the tiled floor an exerting a pressure
that was half painful, half delicious and led my cock to spring
up even stiffer over the toe of his boot. “You filthy little
queer, Law.”  the words were accompanied by a stream of piss from
Shagger’s own cock. On my face. On my chest. On my exposed penis
and his wellington boot. “Filthy little boot licking queer, Law.
What are you?”

I wasn’t. Honestly, I wasn’t. Queer, I mean:  it had never
occurred to me to want to bum him and the idea of having a cock
up my arse was revolting. But there was no denying I’d got a
hard-on. “Hold this, queer boy.” He’d taken off one of his boots
and now directed the stream of piss into it as I held it. His
bladder was obviously bigger than mine: having already drenched
me, he managed to fill up the foot of the boot. I could feel it
warming the rubber. And here’s the proof that I’m not queer: my
hardon was subsiding and the sight of shagger’s massive tool
spurting piss into the boot did nothing to reverse its decline. I
don’t think you have to be queer to notice that a guy’s got a
really huge cock: and shagger’s was enormous even soft.

“Now drink it, queer boy.” I honestly didn’t understand, and
reached for the pint glass. “Drink from the boot, Law,” he
corrected, “drink my fucking piss while its hot.”

The thought was repulsive. There was steam rising from the top of
the wellington boot and the smell was appalling - as if the fresh
piss has somehow brought ranker, older stenches out from the wet
canvass. “Down it in one, Law - and look like you’re enjoying
it.” I just sat there with the boot in my hands not knowing what
to do. He couldn’t be serious - I mean, piss is filthy; probably
poisonous; it could kill you… and drinking out of his filthy
rubber boot, the idea was totally sick. “Drink it, boy. The
sooner you do as I order you, the sooner this can be over.”

Somehow each step on the humiliating road looked logical. I
lifted the boot to my lips, aware of the warmth from the heel and
toe. The filthy smell was almost overwhelming and I started to
gag, feeling the vomit rise in my throat. But I’d already done so
many humiliating things on his orders, that somehow I felt I had
to do as he wanted, and I started to drink steadily. The taste
was - well, just warm. It didn’t taste as bad as it smelled and I
managed to finish it without taking the boot away from my mouth.
There was no question of my enjoying drinking the piss - but it
felt good to have satisfied him somehow.

In his sports bag, a mobile phone rang, and he answered it as I
finished drinking.  “Yeah, I’m still at the playing fields; goin
to be here a while. (Pause) About ten. (pause) Why don’t you come
down here, then? (Pause) Great, see you in five.”

I’m not sure I’m ready to tell anyone about the rest of what
happened… I’d take a lot of persuading.