The Groaning Times Chapter 2: Uninvited Visitors

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We were still naked when a heavily muscled Hispanic-looking teenaged boy stepped through the door of our dorm room. I judged him to be about 17 or 18, and obviously a gang member by virtue of his many tattoos. He carried a long black baton with a metal tip.

This fellow looked tougher than a railroad spike. I swallowed hard. I think it’s a safe bet that my prep school had never before seen the likes of him on campus, except to maybe to come and empty our dumpsters.

At the same moment, I heard male voices shouting up and down our dorm hallway. Doors were flung open. Then I heard the giggling of what sounded like little boys. It sounded like a fire drill at an elementary school.

At that point, three young boys, two Asian and one black, walked in to stand beside the older Hispanic teen. The young boys looked up at the Hispanic as if he was their mentor. One of the Asian boys was about 12 years old and the other about 10. The black boy looked to be no older than 8. Though they were young kids, they looked to be on the tough side.

Like the older Hispanic teen, the kids wore black armbands emblazoned with the letters “BR-MDC” in blood red

(The first two letters, I later learned, stood for Bureau of Reparations, the newly formed organization whose mission was to “administer” our compulsory community service and prepare the underclass, especially the young ones, to assume the permanent reins of power over us blueblood Anglos. The second three letters stood for Male Disciplinary Cadre, the boy troops commissioned to “reeducate” us male white teens.

The BR theoretically accepted volunteers of all ages, but they heavily favored “kid volunteers” due to Tai Vu’s celebrity as a “heroic child victim.” They had no shortage of such volunteers. The BR empowered these young as no previous society ever had.

The Bureau’s youthful shock troops, under the mentorship of underclass teens our age, were soon swarming through elite, Anglo-centric prep schools from coast to coast. I say Anglo-centric because, unlike the racially diverse prep schools of the previous century, the elite prep schools of my day had reverted to being the upper-class white enclaves they were back in the 19th century. The polarization of society had resulted in this resurrected insularity.)

All four of our uninvited visitors wore jeans and tee shirts. I saw that their shirts were emblazoned with a color photo of a strikingly pretty, pigtailed little Asian girl. In the photo, the girl was wearing a jeweled tiara and a medal around her neck. And she was smiling as brightly as if she had just won the lottery. She looked like a little princess.

It was a photo of Tai Vu, just after having been awarded the Medal of Triumph. I could see that a virtual cult had built up around this 7-year old girl from the rice paddies of Southeast Asia.

With deep chagrin, I also realized that one of the Asian-looking boys was Chico, our former Towel Boy. Chico had disappeared from our campus for a while, but now he was back and wearing a BR-MCD armband. He was also smiling, with as much triumph in his eyes as I suppose a 12-year old could express. I have to admit, the sight of us in this dilemma must have been a delicious triumph for him after having spent a semester collecting our wet towels.

Much to our unease and embarrassment, all three of the younger boys had their eyes glued to our big, stiff penises, which were curving up towards the ceiling. Even in that moment of extreme fear, the Tingleroot gave our members no rest. Without it, our penises would have been as flaccid as deflated balloons over this trauma. (We found out later that Tingleroot had a symbolic political purpose. The BR “Manners Committee” had debated between the options of outlawing Anglo erections as “disrespectful” to people of color or mandating erections as a “salute” to the justice of the underclass’ triumph over us. Our conquerors decided that our penises should stand high before them all, as a sign of our reverence. And there was another reason for their keeping us this way. I’ve learned that a stiff penis requires that one step with care, for it’s easily damaged.)

Yes, these boys had caught Lyle and me utterly naked and in the process of our trying to figure out what to do with our stubborn, inexplicable hard-ons. Naturally, our faces turned very bright red at the sight of these visitors, especially the young ones, gawking out our exposed genitals. Sure, they were of the same gender as we, but teens of my class were instinctively embarrassed to be naked in front of the underclass, especially with our large peters stiff as oak. (Now, we’ve come to accept our nakedness as just and obligatory in the service of people of color, but back then it was deeply shocking and humiliating.)

We reached for our jeans. As Lyle tried to pick up his pants, he looked at the little boys and then muttered to the older teen, “Sheesh. Do these kids have to be here?”

The “gang teen” reached out and tagged the tip of Lyle’s penis with the metal end of his baton, then swung the baton around to brush my cock-head. There was a crackle each time the instrument touched our flesh.

The jolt of current seared my urethra and gripped my balls with an instant, knee-weakening ache. We both clutched our crotches and gasped, curling our naked toes into the rug and buckling at the knees a bit.

The Hispanic teen looked at our pained eyes and said, “Do you have any more questions?”

Still clutching our privates, we shook our heads.

The little boys looked at us giggled. The black boy laughed, “The stick makes their big pee pees hurt!”

The big Hispanic teen smiled down at him and said, “Oh yeah, Jamal, it makes their big pee pees hurt real bad.”

How right they were. And the jolt was twice as excruciating with an erect penis.

The big teen then shouted at us, “No jeans, no nothing. Get it Anglos? This is nudie time for you, white boys. So, you get your pale asses lined up outside on the sidewalk right now or I’ll jam this thing down your pee-pee holes and turn it on Hi!”

Then he shook his finger at us. “And don’t you give these little kids any lip, either, or I’ll have your freakin’ balls on a spit. You know the law.”

When I finally uncupped my aching penis and balls, I suddenly realized that I had shot my entire wad of sperm into my hand. I looked over at Lyle to see that he was also looking at a big white glob of cum in his palm.

I felt nothing when it happened, no pleasure at all. The Tickle Stick, which became the nickname for that electric baton, was like that.

The little boys were wide eyed, craning their necks to see what had happened. We looked around, not knowing what to do.

The older teen looked at us and sneered, “Hold out your hands and show them the mess you just made with your donkey dicks.”

Not believing our ears, we just stood there.

The pointed his baton at us and said, “Show them.”

With crimson faces, we held out our palms to the boys. They eyed our cum closely. I was so embarrassed that I wanted to melt into the floor.

The little black boy finally looked up and the Hispanic teen and asked, “Is that their boy butter?”

The other boys giggled.

The older teen said, “Yeah. That’s their boy butter. And they’re rich boys, so they have lots of butter.”

Our faces burned with shame.

I meekly asked if we could get some tissues and clean up.

The older teen shook his head, “No way. I should whack your wieners off with my switchblade for making this mess, but instead I’m going to let you eat your sorry Anglo spunk. So suck your damn snooty jizz back where it came from. And don’t let me see a drop hit this floor.”

I swallowed hard. Lyle just stared in disbelief. He had just ordered us to eat our cum!

The teen said, “Are you deaf. Hurry up and eat your freakin’ cream!”

Grimacing, I brought my hand up to my mouth. My cum, which was slowly turning watery in the open air, had that slight chlorine smell. Now, for the first time in my life, my tongue tasted my own salty, now-cold semen. I almost gagged as I licked my cum from my palm and from where it had oozed between my fingers. Lyle’s face looked green as he lapped up his cum.

The boys giggled as they watched our every move. Amazingly, our penises remained as stiff as ever. With Tingleroot, one needs a true orgasm for any hope of experiencing a flaccid cock.

When we finished, the teen said, “Now move your preppie asses!”

We meekly eased towards the door, keeping our eyes on his baton. We treated it like a poisonous snake. An electric shock to an erect penis is the experience of a lifetime. I wasn’t about to give any “lip” to anybody of any age after that.

I heard more yelling along with many bare feet slapping in the hall outside.

We quickly merged into a line of naked, hurrying classmates, their stiff penises jiggling. Older, dark skinned teens in jeans, boots and tee shirts who looked like body builders were posted at the end of the hall near the stairwell. Little Asian, Hispanic and Black boys were running beside us, herding us and yelling at us to go faster.

I felt stings on my nude rump. I realized that the little boys were thrashing us with switches. I could see they had been torn from the plum trees. The limbs of those trees had an unmistakable black-purplish color. No ironies seemed lost on our conquerors.

The boys were running us like cattle towards the stairway when Lyle suddenly stopped in front of me. A boy had stepped on my roommate’s big toe, and Lyle had stopped to bend over and rub it. We all bunched up behind him. The little boys reigned blows on Lyle’s nude ass as he stood on one leg nursing his big toe. Lyle finally lost his cool and pushed one of the children away. All I could think was Oh Shit. I sensed this was not the thing to do.

I then saw the little black boy from our room reach under my roommate with both hands and yank, and then squeeze.

Lyle screamed and crumpled to the floor in a fetal position, groaning and sucking his breath between his clenched teeth. His toes curled inward so hard that his knuckles were white. His soles were wrinkled up like washboards. Jamal knelt with Lyle, still holding on to his nuts.

Lyle looked back over his shoulder and began gushing “I’m sorries” to the boy, begging him to please not squeeze so hard.

A muscular Asian teen patted the black boy’s head and said, “That’s the way to teach em’ Jamal!”

Still holding tight to my roommate’s nuts, the boy smiled upward with a look of half amazement and half pride, as if he couldn’t believe was pulling this off.

I was in awe at the black child’s audacity in taking hold on a white teen’s naked testicles. I could see that the conquest of us Anglos had made him as bold as you please. Of course, his small hands didn’t look strong, but they didn’t need to be for this purpose. Lyle was beating his fists the floor like a pinned wrestler, begging the little boy for mercy in the most unctuous tones. Jamal simply studied the wrinkled soles of Lyle’s feet and hung on to his prize.

The older Asian teen finally laughed, “You can let them go now. I think he’s gotten the point.”

Then the teen looked down at my roommate and said, “You’ve gotten the point haven’t you white boy, or do I have to help him pop your big hairy Anglo nuts for you?”

Lyle gasped, “No sir. Please don’t. I get it. Please, sir, I really do.”

Jamal released his testicles.

Lyle exhaled. “Thank you sir.”

The teen said, “You better get your ass moving white boy or he’ll give you another one!”

Lyle had just received what we would come to know all too well as a “groaner.” I guess you could say this was moment the Groaning Times truly began for us.

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[Next: The Groaning Times Chapter 3: Tai’s Triumph]