Over the lunch table, there was often conversation about the patient and the problem. From an early age I had acute hearing and would pick up their conversation from the other end of the table. I would listen carefully to their conversation without anyone else being aware of it. At that time, children were seen and not heard, and we were certainly not allowed to speak at the meal-table, except to ask quietly for something to be passed.

I would hear strangely fascinating snippets of medical talk:

“He has clearly been committing onanism from an early age.”

“I’ve seen him several times, and he has been given the usual warnings, but to no avail.”

“Then you should not hesitate to operate. A tight circumcision without anaesthesia has a truly salutary effect upon the conscience.”

“But so often they start again afterwards.”

“Then we employ contention devices, a belt usually. But you have to circumcise tightly before the belt can be worn, otherwise there are problems of oedema which can lead to gangrene.”

“I just feel that our options are so limited.”

“If you wish to retain the procreative ability, but if the boy is feeble-minded, an idiot, then there is a number of other options: denervation, orchidectomy, penectomy, and so on; but where the boy has any prospect of marriage, parents are always reluctant to authorise emasculation.”

Sometimes girls were mentioned: “In girls clitoridectomy is the only sure and certain long-term remedy. The clitoris must be very deeply cut away, leaving nothing for her to excite.”

These conversations held a strange fascination for me; strange because at that time I did not know what “onanism” was. Still less did I know that it was something that I was habitually doing nightly as I lay in my bed going to sleep. For I had long ago found out that my still small penis could become stiff and that gently playing with it in this state was singularly pleasing.

You might wonder that in a doctor’s house, such a thing would soon be identified and stamped on. I can only refer to the poorly shod condition of the proverbial cobbler’s children.

I was sent away to a prep school at nine, as is common amongst boys of wealthy professional British parents. There, I several times asked other boys about this mysterious phenomenon. What I learned was not much help: “It means abusing yourself”; “It’s something that lunatics do.” So along with fornication and adultery, I remained in frustrated, curious but thwarted ignorance, and continued gently to play with my little stiff one as I lay in bed at night.

British prep schools were run in a somewhat haphazard and unregulated way at that time; standards of care were not high. Beds were crammed into the barn-like dormitory that I shared with fifty other boys of my age. There was little night-time supervision, and discipline was maintained by infrequent purges with vicious flogging of offenders. Thus, it was not until I was twelve that I found my bed-clothes flung back by a couple of members of staff who were horrified to discover me, with my little stiff member in hand, in flagrant disregard to the school rules couched in terms whose meanings they had kept me in ignorance of.

I was taken away to the master’s office and there lectured long and sternly on the dangers of “self-pollution” and of “sinfully abusing the body that God had given me”. My please of ignorance went unnoticed. My pyjamas were lowered and I was caned hard and long until I had several blood-blisters on my poor bottom. I was warned that I would be watched carefully in future and that any repetition would result in more severe punishment. Thus, in one painful evening, I learned what it was that my father had been talking about with the specialist.

Of course, I tried my hardest to give up this shameful and sinful practice, but to my shame and despair, I would find that my little penis would stand up stiff, begging insistently for some gentle attention, and that I found it hard to sleep without this comfort. Soon, I found that when I was half-asleep, my hand would creep down of its own accord and stealthily start to do the dirty deed. Thus it was not many months before I was caught again, and this time more severely punished until my bottom bled in several places from the beating.

Again, I was warned that I would be most carefully watched in the future. Perhaps, if this had been done more conscientiously, I would have given up the habit, but, as I said before, the supervision was sporadic, and I could get away with it for months at a time, and I became complacent and careless and less watchful when doing the dirty deed, and got caught again.

This time, as well as the flogging, I was taken to a doctor, who lectured me on the perils of onanism, and warned me that if I did not stop by myself, then he would take steps to stop me. He also warned me that if I did it again, my parents would have to be informed. This gave me pause for thought: the idea of your parents being informed of one’s secret sexual activities is probably the worst threat of all. In my case, remembering all those conversations with that specialist gave the threat a double power. I stopped completely for several months – until, that is, I finished at my preparatory school to go to one of the great British Public Schools, (which are, of course, private fee-paying schools).

During the holiday, between one school and the next, though, I was relatively free from supervision at night, having my own room with a closed door. My last few weeks of total abstinence could now be relaxed, and my former habit quickly resumed.

- - - - -

The public school was a medical foundation, set up to provide a free education for a few orphaned sons of doctors, whilst also providing an expensive education for many sons of other doctors still alive. Most of the parents were doctors, and many of the boys would later become doctors. In this environment, only the latest and best of medical supervision was good enough. Diet, exercise and health were closely monitored. Each day, our visits to the lavatory were monitored and the quality and texture of our daily motions were recorded in a ledger. Any failure earned a dose of Epsom Salts.

I was now fourteen an on the cusp of puberty. The former relatively gentle demands of my little stiff one now became an intensely powerful urgency that would not be resisted. Worst of all, I now started to produce the sticky fluid that hitherto I had only heard about in secretive whispers.

This fluid became my downfall, for each morning, we had to strip our beds back, and all our sheets and nightclothes were examined for “traces of unnatural activity”. Wet dreams were expected, but the resulting puddle was generally very different in character from that produced by the onanist eager to hide his sin. My first ejaculation took me very much by surprise, and I had made no provision to hide it or secrete it, so it looked very much like the product of a wet dream. It was recorded on my page in the ledger, with little comment.

My second ejaculation, the very next night, was a different matter. I was taken to the school doctor and quizzed at length about my habits. It was decided that I had committed onanism, and I was duly beaten, severely lectured and threatened with unspecified but ominous-sounding medical treatment for any further such events.

None of the boys I spoke to in the school admitted to onanism, although it was probably very common, all had been brought up to believe it to be utterly shameful and a sign of imminent descent into insanity. The only advice I got was not to have a wet dream more than once every two weeks.

Nature, unfortunately, was not to be denied, and it was less than a week before I repeated the offence. I made the mistake of trying to hide the evidence. This was immediately recognised for what it was and I was taken to the doctor again. After lengthy interrogation, lecturing and a severe beating, I was fitted with a wire loop pierced through my foreskin in front of my glans. It was positioned so that every erection gave a sharp pain, but did not tear the flesh, “as a reminder not to interfere with yourself.” With this in place I could not rub the skin up and down at all without causing an inflammation at the point of entry of the wire into the skin.

I also found that my bed had been moved, and now I was in the next bed to one of the prefects in the vast dormitory. There were five prefects in the room. Two slept at the door, one on each side. Two slept halfway down the room, and one at the very far end. Each had about ten beds to monitor. I had hitherto been sleeping roughly half-way between two of them, three-quarters of the way down the dorm. Now I was right next to the one at the end. Pargiter, his name was.

It was his job to check my penis morning and night for signs of inflammation at the point of entry of this wire through my foreskin, as this was regarded as evidence of onanism, and I was beaten again when this was discovered. All I could do was to draw the wire forward to release as much tension as possible and then just squeeze. But I stopped myself before the ejaculation came.

I later found that this prefect was also looking for signs of removal of the wire – some boys seemed to have found a way of taking it out, ejaculating, and then replacing it. I could not see how this would be possible, as the ends were tightly twisted together and cut off very short.

I found that this prefect had several duties in this regard amongst the boys with beds near to his. Two others had wires in their foreskins – we lined up together for inspection morning and evening. Three had what were called “night-time protectors”: these were a sort of adjustable pants made of rather stiff canvas. There were flexible metal bands sewn into the seams at the legs, so that they fitted tightly at mid-thigh. There was a metal cup between the layers of fabric that covered the whole crotch, and the waistband had a lock to fasten it at the back. Each of these boys had to put his protector on after his last toilet visit, and then have the prefect lock them in. If they needed the toilet in the night, they had to waken the prefect and allow him to supervise their visit.

The protectors were unfastened first thing next morning and examined for evidence of ejaculate on the lined interior of the metal cup. Each ejaculation was entered into the ledger. Too frequent, and it meant that the boy was somehow stimulating himself inside the protector; too infrequent and it was evidence that the boy was “doing something dirty” to himself during the day.

Daytime onanism was nearly impossible for the younger boys – every minute of every hour was timetabled and closely supervised. All toilet visits were supervised. Baths took place after games, and were communal and supervised by prefects who were very ready to report any suspicious behaviour. There was very little free time, and certainly no privacy during it. For the younger boys, almost every minute of free time was spent fagging for the prefects. Fagging meant doing lots of routine chores such as cleaning shoes, washing dishes, delivering messages, or running errands to purchase provisions from the school tuck-shop.

For older boys, there was no fagging, and there were occasional free periods, “study time”, when they could work in the library or in the house dayroom. For the prefects, they had their own private study-rooms; there were no locks on the doors but anyone had to knock before entering. For these boys there were a few more opportunities, but I was one of the juniors, the lowest of the low.

After two weeks, I had to visit the doctor again. He removed the wire and cleaned the top of my penis under the foreskin where some smegma had collected, then he put in a new wire in a new position, slightly tighter.

That night, I hardly slept. Every time I got an erection, the sharp pain would waken me up. In the day-time, I had to just try to think of something else when I started to get aroused. For the rest of that first term, I grew familiar with the constant nagging ache of unrelieved sexual tension. My first experience of a wet dream occurred just before the end of term, about four weeks after the first wire had been fitted. I dreamed that I was masturbating despite the wire and the pain that it caused. I awoke in pain and confusion, a big wet patch staining my nightshirt. As well as the pain from the wire, it was a painful ejaculation. The fluid was lumpy and brownish in colour, and there was some blood accompanying the discharge. It hurt to pass urine for the next few days. I told the doctor at the next change of the wire, but he just said: “That can happen the first few times. It is because you have been a compulsive onanist. It will get easier once you have truly abandoned the habit.”

This change of wire came right at the end of term, and again there was a change of position but no further increase in tightness, for which I was thankful. At home during the Christmas holiday, I tried to avoid touching myself, but alone and unsupervised in my room, I found that I could pull my foreskin forward to relieve the tension, then gently and rhythmically squeeze the glans and soon I would be close to spending. For the first few days I stopped just in time, but foolishly gave way to the urge on Christmas night. By this time I knew enough not to try to hide the evidence, and simply pinched my foreskin tight shut until I had my nightshirt in a suitably natural position.

The servant who did my room naturally reported the matter, and that evening, I was called in to see my father. There was a long lecture about the changes that would affect my life and the responsibilities that go with these changes. Respect for my own body, duty to God and the dangers of giving way to unnatural practices. I convinced him that I had had wet dreams before, and that the school had very strict attitudes towards solitary vice and that I had seen what happened to people who did this. I left with a strange feeling – I think that this was the first time that I had ever told a lie to my father over a serious matter. I resolved never to abuse myself again.

After this event, there was a noticeably increased swelling of my foreskin at the entry point of the wire, which lasted a few days and caused some pain on urination. This caused me some anxiety, but fortunately it soon went down.

My resolve lasted until the New Year. We stayed up late to see the New Year in, and I had an unaccustomed glass of wine to toast with. The next day, permitted to lie in to catch up with lost sleep, but lying half awake, I found myself unconsciously returning to my habit. By the time I remembered my resolve, it was too late. Fortunately, I had a handkerchief to hand to catch it all. Then I had an anxious time trying to decide where to hide the soiled handkerchief. Eventually, I took it to the bathroom and washed it with copious amounts of soap and water, and was left with a soggy handkerchief to try to dry where it would not be noticed – not easy with servants rushing around tidying up all the time. Out for a walk later that day, I secretly dropped it into some bushes behind a low wall.

Back at school a few days later, I had to see the doctor again who quizzed me over what had happened over the last two weeks. I confessed to a wet dream on Christmas day. He inspected my foreskin, but fortunately the swelling from the New Year had gone down. I told him that I had had a swelling there for a few days after the wet dream, and that there had been some pain when this had happened. He said that this was to be expected and that I was not to worry about it. What was of concern to him, he said, was that my second wet dream had occurred only eight days after my first, and that steps would have to be taken if they occurred too often. After cleaning under my foreskin, he replaced the wire with a new one in new holes, but with the same degree of tightness.

As other boys were caught, my bed gradually moved away from the prefect’s. Now two other beds separated me from him. There was no chance to relieve myself, though, the inevitable swelling would give me away. I had to wait until the inevitable wet dream occurred, some three weeks into the Lent term. Again, it was a pain-filled event, and I think that there were several occasions when I had nearly had one but the pain of the wire biting into me had woken me up. After this wet dream, however, the wire was removed and not replaced.

“I hope that you have learned your lesson, young man, and that there will be no repetition of this offence. You must realise that if it happens again, more serious measures will have to be taken.”

“Yes, Sir!”

- - - - -

Meanwhile, however, my circumstances had changed. In my first term, I had been the personal fag of a prefect called Holman. He was a quiet, studious fellow who made few demands on my time. I had to clean his shoes and games kit, apply dubbin to his rugby boots, and to clean and tidy his “Bin” as the prefect’s studies were called. I went to the tuck-shop for him and purchased bread or scones, jam and butter, tea, sugar and milk. After his snacks, I had to wash and dry his dishes and then put them away. He was a generally tidy person so my duties were not onerous, and he certainly showed no other interest in me.

I had heard talk about “Little Boys” as the pretty lads that took the fancy of the older boys were called. It was easy to recognise them, but I had little idea of what went on in the privacy of the prefect’s Bins. I had heard whispers, but the tales seemed far-fetched and young boys tell many tales of dubious veracity.

After the Christmas holiday, however, I found that I had been swapped with another prefect called Roseberry. It was soon clear that I had “caught his eye” and that he had taken a fancy to me. He offered me many subtle privileges in return for the favours that I could grant him. I was very uncertain and confused, not really understanding much of what he was talking about, but he was subtle and persuasive and gradually talked me around. The wire in my foreskin was an impediment at first, and whilst this was in place, I firmly resisted his advances, in part using it as my excuse. Any sexual activity would result in pain and discovery. This, however, proved to be my undoing, for as soon as the wire was removed, the excuse that I had been relying on was also taken away.

I found that there were two types of onanist: the type who is convinced that it is wrong and is unsuccessfully trying his hardest to desist, as I was until that time; and the hardened cynic who either ignores or disbelieves the harm it might do him. Roseberry was one of the latter type, and showed me how to schedule my apparent wet dreams at a frequency that was acceptable – about once in four weeks, but varying the interval randomly by up to a week. For a week before the chosen date, we would both abstain and save it up. Then quietly, in the night, emit the saved seminal fluid into our nightshirts. At that time the belief amongst the boys seemed to be that ejaculation as a result of activities with another person was perfectly acceptable, but ejaculating on one’s own was not only a sin but seriously damaging to the health.

Roseberry was tightly circumcised, the result of having been caught too often committing onanism. He had experienced “the full range of treatments,” he told me: the night-time protector; the day-belt, “spikes and all; eugh! That was no fun!” Because of his circumcision, onanism was hard for him. He preferred me to suck him or to use my behind. “Fetch extra butter!” he would say, when he sent me to the school shop; this was used as a lubricant for my bottom and was his signal that he wanted to use me that way. He never let me use his bottom, but he would play with my cock as he fucked my bottom. He kept a supply of blotting paper to mop up the resulting mess. I later found that the school shop sold far more blotting paper than could be accounted for by the written work that was done.

Sometimes a knock would come at the door whilst we were “at it”, and we became practiced at pulling up trousers and fastening fly-buttons in a matter of seconds.

“Just a moment! . . . . . “Enter!” he would say, and when the door opened I would be sitting on the floor polishing a pair of boots whilst Roseberry sat at his desk studying a biology textbook.

Being Roseberry’s Little Boy had a number of advantages. He was on the school rugby football team and one of the senior prefects in the school – he was both feared and well respected by everybody. In my first term I had been the subject of some bullying, but this now stopped. I don’t know if they were afraid that Roseberry would act if I did get bullied; I certainly never said anything to him about it. Perhaps he kept an eye out for my welfare and warned off anybody who looked like giving me a hard time.

Another advantage was that I had a certain status because of my association with him. I could hold my head up in public in a way that I never could before. Indeed, I now realise that this was the most noticeable of the subtle signs that identified a Little Boy.

The biggest advantage was that it gave me the privacy to spend some of my considerable sexual energies, for I was not caught committing onanism again during the whole of that year.

All the boys certainly knew that this was going on. Most of the prefects had Little Boys; Holman had been an unusual exception. I am certain that the most of the staff knew as well, indeed several masters were known to entertain pretty young boys in their rooms.

Just occasionally, a senior boy would be caught with a younger one; it was generally agreed that they must have been pretty stupid to let themselves get caught. It happened on one occasion whilst I was there, and there was talk of a recent example just the term before I arrived.

The one that everybody talked about involved much more than simple sex, though: the older boy had been torturing the younger one. On the occasion that they were caught, he had tied the boy’s wrists to a hot water pipe in the bathroom and then turned the water on so that he was suffering pain whilst he was being fucked. Unfortunately severe burns resulted. The older boy was expelled; the younger was withdrawn from the school by his parents. Later I my school career, another example occurred. Again, it was more a case of rape than of consensual sex and the younger boy needed some hospital treatment to recover. This time, the older boy was “suspended” for three weeks – allowing him to return in time to take his university entrance examinations; the younger boy returned to the school the following year after the elder one had left.

There was another incident at around the same time that illustrated the way the moral priorities worked in the minds of the staff at the school. In this case, a senior boy, he was head of house, the deputy head of school and school cricket captain, had been found “in flagrante” with one of the skivvies at the school; these were young servant girls, many from Ireland, who did the domestic service work in the school. There was no suggestion that this was anything other than consensual sex with a girl of mature age, but he was expelled for this offence. At that time it was considered perfectly normal and acceptable, in a domestic situation, for a young man to sow his wild oats with a maidservant. I found the contrast in the response to the two incidents very thought provoking: three weeks suspension for the rape and injury of a fourteen-year-old boy; expulsion for consensual sex with a mature girl.

I tried to discuss some of these anomalies with Roseberry, but he didn’t seem to see the irony of carrying out rigorous anti-onanism checks in the dormitory at night just after we had had sex together. “It’s my job as a prefect to enforce the rules. If they get caught, that’s their lookout.”

- - - -

Roseberry left at the end of that summer term. As he left, he presented me with a gold sovereign, in payment, I suppose, for my services, although I had never felt exploited: I had benefited as much as he from the relationship. I didn’t love him, but I missed him, and he had taught me a lot. He used to coach me to develop my fitness and my later athletic abilities owed much to his efforts. By today’s standards, he would be considered a child molester and an abuser, but, looking back on all that passed between us, I feel no resentment for what we did together. Before he left, he introduced me to Paterson, who would become a prefect in the coming year. I was to be his fag.

During the long summer holiday, I was fortunate to find that one of the maidservants , Susan, in our house was happy to oblige me. She showed me parts of the house that I had never visited before, parts that only the servants normally frequented. She would not let me ejaculate inside her, and would squeeze the base of my penis as she felt me coming, and wriggle out from under, only releasing me onto her belly. She was eager and willing and taught me many skills that every young man should know. If it had not been for her, I would never have experienced the joy of sex with a woman.

After the summer holiday, I was fagging for a very different person. Whilst Roseberry had been short and stocky, curly-headed and not very bright, (he had stayed on for an extra year before gaining his matriculation into university), Paterson was tall, dark-haired, slim and athletic and had a keen and intelligent mind. He was no rugby player but excelled at cricket and tennis. He had also been a Little Boy in his time, and so understood my own point of view, and let me use his bottom, which was very pleasant, far better than just fingers. Whatever he did to me, I could also do to him; this was the arrangement we had from the start and he kept his word.

Paterson was clean and neat, good looking and well dressed. He was taking examinations for a scholarship at one of the London medical schools. During our year together, he inspired me to take up medicine as a career, (seeing what my father’s profession entailed had rather put me off until then), and to understand what could be achieved through hard work.

We had some sort of sex nearly every day, except for the necessary one week in four, and managed to avoid any nasty visits to the doctor. My second year at the school went past, therefore, reasonably uneventfully. In the third year, however, I moved up into the middle school. I was no longer required to fag for the prefects and my days were still under constant supervision.

One important thing that I had learned was to acquire plenty of blotting paper. The trick was to smuggle this into bed at night and make a sort of cup with it, like a confectioner does when a child buys a quarter of sweets. The open end is just big enough to fit the end of the penis. You have to catch all the ejaculate in this cup and then either smuggle it away in the morning or eat it. I tried eating it once, but it made me gag, and gave me a serious stomach-ache. Smuggling it away was risky. I was fortunate that there was a knothole in the scrubbed wooden floor beside my bed, big enough to put the soggy roll of blotting paper into – big enough, that is, until the cavity below filled up after a few weeks and I couldn’t fit any more in.

I was called to my housemaster’s office one day. I had no notion what this might be about, but he simply told me to follow him, and he took me to the dormitory, and showed me the knothole with the pink blotting-paper poking out.

“Would you like to explain what that is?”

“I don’t know, Sir.”

“The cleaners found it this morning and reported it. They are told to look out for such signs.” He gingerly took the screwed-up end between thumb and finger, and held it to his nose. “There is only one thing that smells like that, and both you and I know what it is.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“And how many more of these little packages are there down that hole to fill it up so completely? Do you want me to have the floorboards lifted so that we can count them?”

“No, Sir.”

“This is not the first time that you have been caught, is it?”

“No, Sir.”

“So you cannot plead ignorance of the school rules on this subject?”

“No, Sir.”

“Those occasions were, apparently, single offences. You were warned what would happen if you repeated the offence?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Yet this is not just a single thoughtless incident, this is carefully planned, repeated, wanton, deliberate defiance, apart from the immorality, the sinfulness!”

“Yes, Sir.”

“It is a shameful and disgusting habit that has no place among the boys in my care.”

“No, Sir.”

“I don’t know how I am going to tell your father.”

“Please, Sir, not that, Sir!”

“He has entrusted us with your moral and physical wellbeing, to bring you up in the manner that befits an English professional gentleman, and this is what results. We have clearly failed him in the most dismal way in every respect.”

“Please, Sir.”

“We will clearly have to institute measures to stop this happening again. Take this letter to the Sanatorium. I have made an appointment for you to see the doctor right away. Tomorrow, you are to report to my office at the usual time for your flogging!”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Now, go away! You disgust me!”

The visit to the doctor was just as bad, but in a different way. I was to wear a nighttime protector from now on. Again I had a wire loop fitted tightly through holes in my foreskin to discourage me from abusing myself during the day. The night-time protector would have to be worn during the school holidays as well, and my parents would be instructed in its use.

The flogging I won’t dwell on – suffice to say that my poor bottom gave me no comfort to sit upon for several days after. The military expression “giving no quarter” springs to mind. It is still a painful memory after all these years.

I had by this time found that there were just a few boys in the school that I could trust to talk openly about this topic, who understood and sympathised about the irresistible urges that drove me to this act. Most, though, laughed and talked about insanity and blindness. Anybody who admitted to doing it was a joke and to be despised. Nobody, however, had any useful advice to offer other than “Just don’t do it!”

That night, I again found my bed moved to beside a prefect, a guy by the name of Carrington whom I despised. He was surly, lazy and not very bright. Ha had stayed on an extra year at the school to try to pass enough exams to get into university.

On my bed lay the dreaded device that I had to wear overnight. I was accompanied to the toilet and watched as I voided my bladder, then I felt for the first time the embrace of that prison for my manhood. The device was hideously uncomfortable. Made on the “one size fits all” principle, it had numerous adjustment straps and buckles that were then enclosed by an outer layer locked in place with a padlock in the centre of my back. Carrington was lazy and careless in his fitting of it and this added to my discomfort. He seemed to delight in having it too tight under my crotch. Whatever way I lay, something dug into me, and the crotch-piece dug hard into the angle at the top of my thighs and left tender sores each night.

Erections in the thing were especially uncomfortable, for the wire loop would always get caught somehow and there was no way to adjust it to minimise the discomfort. I would get woken up several times every night by nocturnal erections causing pain. Often there was inflammation on my foreskin in the morning, but Carrington made no comment about this.

The next day after I had been caught, a letter arrived from my father. He expressed himself “bitterly disappointed” in me, but stated that we would “work together to overcome this problem.” There was nowhere to go and cry quietly in privacy, and to do so openly would be a monumental disaster. I bottled up my feelings.

Weeks passed and the inevitable pain-filled wet dream occurred. This was duly noted in the ledger, as was the next. A third occurred over the Christmas break and was duly noted in a letter to the school doctor from my father.

During the Christmas holiday, I saw the maid Susan each day. Having to explain to her what happened was the worst part. I had been hoping to enjoy her again, but sadly it was not to be – the wire through my foreskin made that impossible. At least during term time I had been busy all day. At home, the days dragged, I kept thinking of Susan and I felt my frustration and deprivation deeply.

Back at school the next term, I discovered that an alteration to my timetable meant that I had a short opportunity, once a week, for just one period, to be entirely on my own during the day, hidden from all prying eyes. Five minutes was all that it took. I knew that if I did this often, I would be discovered, but the temptation was just too much. Afterwards, there was inflammation of my foreskin where the wire loop pierced through, but Carrington was so lazy that he didn’t notice; certainly he never reported it.

Previously I had escaped notice by simulating a wet dream every four weeks. Wearing the night-time protector made this impossible. I tried squeezing my internal muscles, and using the small amount of movement the protector allowed, but could not reach the point of ejaculation. Six weeks went by, and then eight, and in that time, I had given in to temptation twice, but it was enough. No wet dream!

On my next visit to get the wire changed and my foreskin cleaned, I was quizzed by the doctor. Whilst cleaning my foreskin, he had sniffed and said, “Well, you have certainly ejaculated – I can smell the residue – but not in a wet dream, so when?”

It made no difference what I said: if I admitted it, I was in the wrong; if I denied it, I was lying. Henceforth I would be wearing the day-belt, and for that to happen I must first be circumcised. This was done in his surgery the next day. There was no anaesthetic, just a wooden bit to bite on. I was also measured for the belt. This would be custom made to measure, and would cost my father plenty. It was placed on order to be ready once my wound had healed.

The prospect of wearing this belt all day was a terrible one. There was constant humiliation. Every time everybody else took a bath after games, you had to sit on the edge and just wash the parts not covered by the belt. Every night, the prefect in charge of you had to remove the belt for cleaning of it and of your private parts. People nudged each other, smirked and pointed.

But meanwhile, I had my circumcision to come to terms with. It was painful, bruised and swollen at first: every erection would tug at the stitches close under the glans-rim, for the circumcision was a very tight one leaving none of the inner skin – my fraenum was also removed. When I wasn’t erect, the sensitive glans rubbed constantly against my clothing producing a peculiar crawling sensation, not at all pleasant, and after a few hours almost unendurable – a constant low-level torture. During the healing period, I didn’t even try to stimulate myself – it was too painful to even think of it.

After two weeks the stitches were removed, and after that, erections became slightly less uncomfortable. I tried rubbing the glans with fingers moistened with saliva, but it was nothing like what I had experienced before and I soon gave up.

The belt arrived a week later and there was a period of fitting and adjustment. In its flaccid state, my penis just fitted into the metal tube, but would immediately try to erect. The doctor quickly fastened the belt around my hips and I felt the pressure of the thwarted erection building inside the implacable tube. Eventually it would subside, but not until a long period of trying.

I had to return to the doctor every few hours that first day, and then twice a day for a week. He would carefully examine me for chafing and inflammation from the pressure of the device.

Eventually a satisfactory fit was achieved and care of the belt devolved to Carrington. Each night he was to remove the device and check me for rubbing and sores. He had to supervise whilst I washed myself – the parts normally covered by the belt – I also had to scrub the belt with soap and water using a thing like a bottle-brush before coating it liberally with Vaseline inside and then replacing it on my body. He would then lock it again, retaining the key.

A practical problem soon emerged: as soon as the belt was removed, I would get a tremendous erection. It seemed as if my penis, so long deprived of the ability to erect, would try to make up for lost time. It simply would not go down no matter what I tried – it seemingly had a mind of its own. Each night, would require more than half an hour of him waiting around until the erection subsided. He tried getting me to read out loud from the Bible: we went through chapters. He tried ice-cold water – I had to squat over a bucket of it with my parts submerged – little effect. Vigorous exercise – running on the spot – seemed the most reliable way, but even this took ten minutes or more.

I have mentioned that he was lazy. Soon he would ask me if I had any signs of problems – soreness or burning feelings. If I said “no,” he would simply leave the belt on. Soon a pattern was established where he would remove it just once every week or ten days when the smell started to become too ripe.

Having the belt to protect the sensitive glans of my penis was far more comfortable than the slow torture of having it rubbing against my underwear. The humiliation and social ostracism soon became a normal and accepted part of life.

After about ten days in the belt, the first wet dream occurred. As usual, it was painful, lumpy, brownish and flecked with blood, and it was painful to urinate for a few days. In my dream, I was riding the really tight bottom of a junior boy who had caught my eye that year, but who was regularly fagging, (and, I presumed, being a Little Boy), for one of the prefects. On waking as the ejaculation occurred, the tightness of his bottom all too rapidly reverted to the remorseless tightness of the downward-pointing penis-tube in my belt.

The ejaculation was duly recorded in the ledger that morning, and life resumed its awful monotony.

During the Easter holidays, my father had one of the servants perform the necessary cleaning and replacement of the belt. I hardly spoke to him. On my own in my room during that break, however, I found that I could get some stimulation by using my internal muscles to “ride the belt”. In my imagination, I was repeating that wet dream that I had had, and fucking the tight bottom of a pretty boy, or sometimes the tight little quim of Susan the housemaid. The rhythmically changing pressure on the inside of the belt afforded some slight stimulation. I had learned from Roseberry that it was possible to ejaculate this way, but he advised against it – that was what had earned him the spikes that had left their scars on his penis – so for the moment I confined myself to stimulation and arousal but always stopping short of ejaculation. Each time I tried it, however, I got closer and closer, finding it harder to stop in time. I was playing with fire.

I had no wet dream during the Easter break, so back at school, I decided that I was due one, and let myself go all the way inside the belt for the first time. It took a long time, but the result was convincing, and was recorded as such in the ledger. It was also less brown and lumpy and there was no blood.

I resolved to go a full four weeks before trying again, but in the mean-time, I would regularly stimulate myself until I was close to the point. Each time was a little easier to get there and a little harder to stop.

- - - - -

During the summer holidays, I did it more often, hiding the evidence except for those times when I wanted it to look like a wet dream. Because of this frequency, the “wet dreams” were less copious and a clear white, but the servants looking after me simply reported them and nothing was said.

Back at school, however, after the summer, the whiteness and lack of volume of my first wet dream was noticed and reported, unknown to me. When a second wet dream occurred only ten days later – I had failed to stop in time – I had to return to the doctor.

The spikes that he prescribed were not sharp enough to cut the skin, but really hurt when I had an erection. There was a sort of flanged band that went around the base of my penis. The flange was against my body and rested against the end of the penis tube, stopping it sliding down. The band was maybe half an inch wide and had several inward pointing spikes, rounded at the end, maybe a quarter of an inch in height. Part of the routine of wearing them was that the supervising prefect had to rotate the band a few degrees each night so that the spikes were impacting a different piece of skin. After four weeks, the spikes would be removed until a wet dream had occurred, and then they would be replaced.

Every night I would be awoken ten times or more as my poor penis tried to reach an erection against those spikes. Daytime erections became less frequent as I trained my mind to stay away from arousing topics, but still occurred.

I think that Carrington rotated the spikes just twice before deciding that it was just too much trouble – too time-consuming. Soon, I was getting pressure sores under the spikes, but when I complained of the pain, he smirked and said that they were supposed to hurt. When the four weeks were up, and the spikes were removed to allow me a wet dream, there were distinct pressure-sores, ulcers, where the spikes had been.

The ulcers still caused me pain on erection, and my attempts at self-stimulation had no success for several weeks. When it finally came it was even more painful and lumpy than before. The spikes went on again, positioned to avoid the suppurating ulcers, which did not seem to be healing at all well. When I passed water, some urine would go back up the tube and cause terrible pain in these ulcers, and maybe this was delaying the healing.

Carrington was, I think, afraid that the ulcers would be discovered and that he would be blamed. He told me not to worry as he had seen this before and that they would soon heal. He could not rotate the spikes daily, now – there was nowhere to rotate them to. The spikes remained in place for the next six weeks. Whether he forgot when the four weeks were up, or whether he simply did not want to look at or think of the damage he had done, I will never know. It was the end of term and I was going home for Christmas again. I had to visit the doctor for a check-up before going home.

The doctor unlocked my belt and started to remove it. I was screaming as he tried to withdraw the tube from my penis. I nearly blacked out from the pain. He sent me with a nurse to soak the whole thing in hot water. This I did for an hour before it came off with some initial pain, but then ominously little. I was horrified, as was the nurse, when I looked down. My whole penis was a suppurating mass of infected, stinking, foetid, rotting flesh.

The doctor called for a carriage to take me to hospital. In those days gangrene was often fatal and always difficult to control. The only sure method was to amputate the affected part well back in uninfected tissue.

I awoke from the operation somewhat light-headed and delirious, and it was several days before I could fully take in what had happened. The ulcers had formed a ring right around my shaft skin and had completely separated it from its blood supply – the blood supply at the other end was weak because of the recent circumcision, and so the skin of the shaft had died and gone bad. This had spread to the inner parts, the corpora cavernosa of my penis and the urethra, which had started to become infected. To contain the infection, the whole penis had been removed at the root, however my testicles had been successfully preserved. My urethra now emerged halfway between my scrotum and anus.

Whilst I was recovering from this in the hospital, I had a dream like a wet dream, with the internal clenching that should accompany ejaculation, but no ejaculation occurred. When I mentioned this to the surgeon, he did an examination of my prostate and the seminal vesicles beside it. Soon after that I had another operation for a sample to be taken. It seems that the seminal fluid had calcified inside my seminal vesicles and they could now no longer function.

My parents came to see me in hospital. Carrington, my father assured me, was entirely to blame for what had happened. He had failed to carry out his instructions. He indicated that his lawyers would be suing Carrington’s family, and that I should expect substantial compensation for my loss.

For me, I would never ejaculate again nor have sex with a woman or a man. I was unable to commit onanism, which must have been a considerable relief to several people, (though there was no relief for me). I took a strong interest in athletics, and achieved a considerable success over the next few years. I also applied myself to my studies and gained an entrance scholarship to medical school.

As a prefect, I had my pick of the Little Boys in the school, and there were several very attractive specimens. I could not, of course, “do” anything to them, but I would enjoy stroking their penises, or sucking them and getting them close to the point, and then saying, “No, stop, now; you don’t want to commit onanism, do you? Don’t ever make yourself ejaculate. You know what happened to me when I was caught doing that? They took away my penis, right to the root, so I can’t do it any more.”

In the dormitory as a prefect, I had several onanists to supervise night and morning – some of them I had caught myself, silently prowling the dormitory at night looking for disturbance – and I assured them that I knew all the tricks and would catch them if they tried it again. Where a belt was fitted with spikes, I was meticulous about rotating the band ever day. Where there was blood in the ejaculate from a wet dream, I would report the matter to the doctor and ask whether it was a case for prostate massage.

- - - - -

After graduating from medical school I joined a wealthy town practice, buying my partnership with the compensation money that I had been awarded from the Carringtons, and which had been kept in trust for me until this time.

Of course, nowadays it is recognised that masturbation is far less harmful than the treatments that used to be used to combat it. From time to time, however, anxious parents still come to me with a son or daughter whom they suspect of the practice. Do I tell them that this is no longer considered to be a medical problem and that the most that they should do is to request their vicar or priest to advise the girl or boy? Of course not! There is no profit or satisfaction to be had from that approach. Medical equipment manufacturers still produce anti-onanism appliances for me to prescribe at a substantial profit.

I prefer to take a rigorous incremental approach to combat the problem. That way they keep coming back, and each time they learn to overcome the obstacles that I have put in place, I take the next step until finally the young person is broken and totally gives up the habit. I like to interview each child alone, without the parents present, talking quietly and gently to them, engaging their confidence, making friends with them, getting them to confess their most secret thoughts, before quietly and gently explaining to them just how much I am about to make them suffer.

Most of the girls end up sans clitoris, the whole organ having been cut away deeply to the very roots. I like to do the cutting in three stages after failing with the cauterisations and the protective belts. Where there is mental disability or idiocy, then often the ovaries and even the uterus are taken as well.

As to the boys, if there is any doubt as to their suitability to procreate, any signs of idiocy or physical or mental disability, after all else fails, I gently inform the parents that the next stage must be either penectomy or castration and ask them to consider their preference. Where the boy’s procreative abilities must be retained, then often they remain tightly circumcised inside spiked belts, with monthly remission to permit a nocturnal emission, right up until marriage.

I lie awake at night thinking about the tremendous sexual conflicts that my current favourite patient is experiencing; of planning the next step, and how it will affect them. As I do so, I feel something deep inside me, an involuntary clenching of internal muscles; it is not an orgasm, but it’s as close as I can get.