CHAPTER 1
Hi guys; my name is Jeremy; I’m a Chicagoan and I’m what is euphemistically called a Male Escort. Any guy who does not go around with his head in the sand knows more or less what I do when they hear that I am a Male Escort, but frankly I don’t know where that expression comes from, for escorting, which implies accompanying someone somewhere, usually with some notion of purpose or protection, is, of course, the very last thing that a Male Escort does; well, speaking for myself, it’s something I never do; but I suppose that there are Male Escorts and Male Escorts. So to be quite clear where my particular Male Escorting abilities lie and to call spade a spade, my job consists of providing my male clientele with what are usually politely referred to — mealy-mouthed again — as stimulation and discipline. So yes; as you can see reading between the lines, I have two strings to my bow; I am willing to stimulate a guy, not by engaging him in a scintillating conversation, but sexually by what is usually referred to politely as anal stimulation; this is another euphemism to avoid the crude harsh fact which is that I fuck his arse if that is what he wants.
But when it comes to discipline, I have some masochistic clients who use my services uniquely to provide them with what is usually referred to as CCP — Consensual Corporal Punishment: in a word I thrash their arses; usually naked or on the bare as it was called at my English public school; but the client is king and so I do what he requests of me with a variety of implements according to his individual preference without indulging in any sexual activity at all with them. And finally I have my favourite type of client, who wants me first to shred his arse with a cane or whip or whatever and then go on to fuck him. This is what I think of as the full enchilada and I just love it. In fact, I love all aspects of my work as the mere thought of both anal sex and corporal punishment turn me on sexually. At the end of the day, sex is the one human activity which never fails to please; at least that is the way it seems to me as I never tire of it; either professionally or socially or any other way.
I suppose my intense desire for gay sex is tantamount to an addiction; like those drug addicts, who once hooked cannot do without their daily fix; well so it so it is with sex and me; I cannot do without it; I am an addict! But what a marvellous addiction it is, for it always gives me great pleasure and equally does no harm to anyone. To be quite clear, I never force myself on anyone, so I have to believe that my passive partners, whether regular or casual, enjoy what we do together just as much as I do. In fact, I did not become a Male Escort by design; I just sort of slipped into the profession — if profession is — by accident, in spite of my own initial misgivings as to what I had, on a couple of occasions been inveigled into doing. Anyway, as you will learn, I did subsequently become what I am today — a Male Escort — and I really do enjoy my present life.
But I am sure that the astute reader of this story will have noticed that I, a Chicagoan, and an American by birth, refer to a client’s arse and not his ass. Well the former is the vulgar word that the Brits use crudely to describe a guy’s posterior whilst the latter word is the American equivalent for that same part of his anatomy, but which for the Brits implies a donkey-like animal; so the word ass as such, does not capture their sexual imagination. So how come then, that I, essentially in all that matters the quintessential, all American Mid-Westerner, use the English word to describe that part of a guy’s anatomy which takes up so much of my attention? Well, the fact of the matter is that I am myself actually half English; born in the USA to an English father and a Bostonian American mother, who traced her lineage back into the mists of time when everyone in the then Un-United States was of British extraction. And so having been born on American soil, I am by nationality an American citizen. But my immigrant father, who himself became a naturalised American citizen, also went and registered my birth at the British Embassy; so I enjoy dual nationality: American and British.
How my parents came to settle in Chicago, a city of which my Bostonian mother totally disapproved, is a long and uninteresting story with which I will not burden you. Suffice it to say that my father became the CEO — for British readers of this narrative, the Managing Director — of a large conglomerate and, over a period of years, thanks to the exaggerated salaries which such firms pay their top people, became a very rich man. And so, money counting for something, even though it was not the old money my mother clearly would have liked it to have been, she made a sniffy if a nevertheless somewhat-disapproving best of the luxurious lifestyle which my father’s income allowed us to lead in Chicago. We lived in a spacious upper floor apartment the lakeside road called Lakeshore Drive just north of Chicago downtown centre, known locally as the Loop. In realtor — that’s an estate agent in British English-speak — our apartment enjoyed uninterrupted views over Lake Michigan. Speaking for myself, I find looking over a large expanse of water utterly boring; but that is just my personal view.
And so, as I grew up, in common with other boys of similar wealthy backgrounds to me, I was sent first to a private local day-school and then from the age of about nine, at my mother’s insistence, was shipped off back east to an upmarket boy’s preparatory school in the Boston area, where I was, of course, a boarder. I never really worked out whether my mother wanted me to have a true, blue-blooded, snobby, Bostonian-type education or whether she just wanted me from under her feet. Not to put too fine a point on it, my mother and I were not terribly close; if I tell you that from an early age I always called her mother and never mom that will give you an idea of the level of intimacy that I enjoyed with her. Anyway I actually quite liked being at a boarding school even though things were much stricter than they had been at my day school back in Chicago.
It was at this school that I first encountered the doubtful joys of corporal punishment in the form of a well-paddled bottom — I had not become conversant with the word ass at that stage in my life — which was dispensed by the school principal to correct — don’t you just love that word? — any and every misdemeanour, both real and imaginary. As this was a traditional old-style school, the paddle was suitably drilled with holes to make sure that it mated correctly with its target, which was always the offender’s bottom. Visits to the principal’s office were for me, frequent and painful; for Mr. Carter, as he was called, was an absolute expert in the paddling of his charges; an act which he carried out with monotonous regularity and always with considerable vigour. And so by the age of about twelve or thirteen when my time at prep school came to an end, I was already all too familiar with the pleasure associated with a sore ass — which vulgarity we had all, by that age, adopted. It’s quite amazing how quickly even well-brought-up lads such as I, pick up and use the vulgarities so common at even the best of schools and then bring them out purposely to shock their parents. Oh and I see that I forget to mention that the paddlings were always applied to the seat of the miscreant’s pants.
Well I suppose I might as well come clean and tell you that Jeremy is not actually my real name, but just the name I use professionally as a Male Escort. My true name is Andrew David Stevens and it was as such that at the age of thirteen that my father decided that I needed a rigorous English Public-School education. The Brits have a remarkable aptitude for confusing things, so that a public school, contrary to what its name implies, is a private establishment where rich, usually upper-class Brits, pay exorbitantly high fees to ensure that their offspring get what is, in their view, a proper education and learn good manners. The schools that the vast majority of English kids are forced by law to attend are known as State Schools, which may or may not have some religious affiliation attached to them.
My father himself was from the north of England where he had been born and spent his early life in a small town in the East Riding of Yorkshire, the largest of all English counties, which, like ancient Gaul, was divided into into three parts called Ridings. His father, my grandfather, was a well-to-do gentleman farmer and had sent his son to a prestigious public school, Frogmore Academy for Boys, located in a village the same name near the county town of York. This had been the place where all male Stevens’ offspring, going back into the mid-nineteenth century, had been educated and was where, shortly after my thirteenth birthday, I arrived in September for the start of the new school year. I was not completely abandoned in being sent there as my paternal grandparents were still alive and lived not far away. I might as well just add here that of my maternal grandparents, only my grandmother survived and as she lived in what I supposed was isolated splendour in the old family house in Boston. In fact, I barely remember seeing her; certainly she never ventured into the uncouth mid-west where her only child, my mother, was now living.
But equally I hardly knew my English grandparents as for some, to me at least, undefined reason, my father’s relationship with his parents was, to say the least; distant. They however, they were delighted to have their only grandson — my father was their only child and I too had no siblings — in relatively close proximity when they learned that I would be schooled at Frogmore. It had been agreed between my father and his parents that I would spend all the shorter school vacations with them and go back to Chicago only for the long summer vacation each year. So as you can see, having been packed off at an early age to a boarding school in the east and then shipped off to public school in England aged thirteen, my relationship with my parents became ever more distant. Apart from forking out the cash to pay for my education, they did little else for me in my formative years; in a word, the much vaunted parental guidance and influence were non-existent. So my parents and I were never very close, even when I was just a boy.
Frogmore or Flog-More as it was known cynically to the inmates — sorry I mean pupils, of course — was an old style school, where the cane and birch reigned supreme. In fact for a school in the twentieth century it really was a very old style school, where to all intents and purposes nothing much had changed since the Victorian age. It suddenly hit me years later that the school was still ploughing the traditional furrow designed to turn out well-educated, upper-class young gentlemen many of whom would then go on to run the British Empire. Unfortunately the powers that be behind this system, admiral and fit for purpose though it might have been in the past, seemed oblivious of the fact that the Empire no longer existed. The school comprised a group of magnificent period buildings of which, being a naïve, and by British standards, gauche and brash American, I had no aesthetic appreciation whatsoever at the time of my internment — sorry I mean enrolment — as a pupil there. Like most public schools where boys are boarders, Frogmore was divided into a number of houses, to one of which each boy was affiliated and became a permanent member for his entire career at the school. At Frogmore there were six houses in all, each of some eighty or so boys, ranging for new boys like me through to upper-sixth-formers in their final year at the school. But total loyalty to your house was expected and any act by a boy which in anyway disparaged his house was a cause for immediate punishment by the House Captain or one of his acolyte co-prefects.
I won’t burden you with the fine details, but the houses at Frogmore were named after six of the royal dynasties which had at some time ruled the country. My own house was called Hanover, of which my father and grandfather had, in their day, also been members. And I was not alone to have this family affiliation, for many boys at the school were like me and had forebears who had been educated there and automatically became members of their traditional family house. But Frogmore, alone among English public schools, had a unique prefect tradition in that there were two junior and two senior prefects per house each reporting directly to the Housemaster, who was usually a bachelor: a younger member of the teaching staff, who himself lived in the house. The junior prefects were named each year from boys in the lower sixth and then in their final year graduated to become seniors, one of who was nominated by his Housemaster to be House-Captain.
The Head-Boy of the school who had powers virtually equivalent to a master — and I might add, tended to use them to the full — was nominated by the Headmaster himself and was traditionally one of the senior prefects. At that stage in the final year of his school career, the Head-Boy became the only pupil of the school not affiliated to a specific house and moved into what was, for a pupil, by any standards, a spacious suite of rooms in the main school building, located just along the corridor from the Headmaster’s study. So the house from which he left to become Head-Boy, found itself with two junior and only one senior prefect for that year. The reason I am telling you all this is that all the prefects, juniors and seniors alike, plus the Head-Boy were allowed to correct — always with the cane and always on the bare arse — any and all of the pupils at the school; a task which they for the most part readily adopted; usually with considerable enthusiasm. Add to this that each of the six Housemasters were also devoted users of the cane and the fact that the Headmaster too did not deprive himself of the pleasure of beating boys’ arses when he saw the need, those of you readers who are mathematically minded will see that no less than thirty-one individuals at Frogmore were regular practitioners of the not-so-gentle art of corporal punishment; and in the main, they were jolly good at it!
CHAPTER 2
But as befitted a structured establishment such as Frogmore, all cane wielding arms were not equal and there were strict rules as to who could do what when it came to applying the cane. It was all based on the fact that the school Governors had decreed that the maximum number of strokes of either the cane or the birch, which latter was used exclusively by the Headmaster, was twenty-four cuts on any one occasion. So the Headmaster alone cherished — and I choose the word carefully — the privilege of being able to deliver twenty four strokes, which according to rumour he regularly did; in fact, he rarely did, but when he did, as I only once found out to my cost, it really was something else. The six Housemasters and the Head-Boy were limited to eighteen strokes of the cane, whilst the senior prefects had to satisfy their often, all-too-obvious, sadistic streaks with only twelve strokes, with the junior prefects being limited to a parsimonious allocation six strokes only; and then only with a junior cane and on the boys of the first and second forms.
However, where there’s a will there’s a way, as the old adage goes; so that even limited to only six cuts with a junior cane, most of the junior prefects managed to inflict considerable pain on the lads of the first and second years whom they enthusiastically thrashed whenever the opportunity presented itself. And when opportunities were in short supply, the junior prefects showed considerable resourcefulness in inventing some. But of course exceptions were made to these rules as both the Housemasters and especially the Head-Boy occasionally petitioned the Headmaster for a derogation of their limit if they felt a boy deserved a stiffer dose of punishment to help him repent of his sins. And it has to be said that the Headmaster,who was a staunch believer in the beneficial effects of beating a boy’s arse, very often gave his permission. I often thought that the so-called beneficial effects were really felt by the prefects who in wielding he cane, were allowed to exercise their hidden sadistic tendencies to the full. I never knew a prefect who did not enjoy thrashing his schoolmates’ arses nor a boy, being thus thrashed, who felt that he had benefitted from his beating.
So Frogmore was a place where any boy’s backside was in more or less permanent danger from an assault with the cane, which I suppose is how the place came to get its very apposite nick-name: Flog-More. You will have noticed that no mention has been made of the teaching staff and their involvement in what might be described as the corporal punishment stakes at Frogmore. In fact, many of these masters were somewhat disgruntled by the way they were excluded from the beating brigade: those who were authorised to use the cane. To their disgust, they were totally forbidden to wield the dreaded rod of correction on the arses of their pupils for offenses committed in class and had to content themselves with handing out punishment slips, in much the same way as traffic-cops hand out citations for traffic violations, which give rise to what a cynic might describe as riches in heaven, in the form of a later punishment: a beating for Frogmorians or a fine for traffic violators. In both cases, the recipient of the citation had the mental anguish of having to wait for his punishment.
At Frogmore, the Headmaster and the Head-Boy dealt jointly with the in-class miscreants immediately after supper on Monday, Wednesday and Friday evenings at which times groups of lads could been observed standing outside one of the two study doors waiting to be called in to face the music. This was essentially a vocally-punctuated, percussion piece centred on the boy’s arse; the music, if it can be called such, was played by either the Headmaster or the Head-Boy with a vigorously applied rattan cane and sometimes the birch; whilst the unfortunate recipient of these ministrations was free to emit howls of painful appreciation as the cane descended with its rhythmic regularity, creating a set of welts reminiscent of the bar lines of a musical score on the poor sod’s naked arse. Connoisseurs who were regulars at the thrice weekly performances, claimed that they could tell which cane was being used by the pitch of the swish as it descended through the air and distinctive crack it made as it mated with the naked arse of the victim; but that was probably apocryphal.
But what might best be called a feature of the flagellation stakes at Frogmore, were the clothes in which boys summoned for punishment by either the Headmaster or the Head-Boy were obliged to present themselves for punishment. They were known as the appropriate attire, an appellation which some past Head-Master had given to the skimpy clothing in which he expected boys to present themselves to him. It consisted of a pair of gym shorts, a gym vest and a pair of bedroom slippers and nothing else! You could easily see the sense of it, as the poor lad who was to be whacked entered the study, dropped his shorts and bent across the back of a chair and presented his bare arse to either the Headmaster or the Head-Boy for their percussive ministrations. Henry Ford or any time-and-motion expert would have been proud to have thought up the idea as it greatly increased the throughput of arses which could be beaten in a given period. And it avoided totally the inevitable fumbling associated with making a boy take of his shoes, blazer, trousers and underpants to gain access to his backside, which at Frogmore, as in many other public schools, was always beaten naked; in public-school speak he was always beaten on the bare.