My Perv

2) CO-OP CANDY

For several summers I had gone to a sleepover camp in the Catskills called Camp Wyandonic. It's shocking to consider from the perspective of what we know today about diet and nutrition, but back then the camp used one very powerful inducement to good behavior on the part of the young campers: Co-op Candy. Every day, every child who was well-behaved received a chit for a candy bar, to be redeemed at the camp PX. This candy was called Co-op Candy, and the bribe certainly worked on me. I would get Mars Bars or Mounds or Turkish Taffy and have myself a little sweet feast after dinner each night. That is, until the day a bunch of the boys in the 9 year-old bunk decided to pull an Indian raid on the 9 year-old girls' bunk.

I wasn't part of the planning, but once the raid began I participated enthusiastically. We really didn't have much of a plan. All we had was a general notion and several feet of wire one of the boys had found. Armed with the wire we waited until the girls' and boys' counselors went off somewhere and then rushed into the girls' bunk, capturing a pretty little redhead named, coincidentally, Candy.

Candy was terrified as four or five masked boys descended on her and dragged her out of her bunk before the wide eyes of her female bunkmates. When she started to scream one of the boys clapped his hand over her mouth, muffling her protests and fearful cries. We dragged Candy into the woods near the boys' bunk and quickly wired her to the tree, her back against the bark. Once she was helpless a big problem arose--now what do we do with her? One of the boys said 'let's take off her clothes and burn her at the stake'. With our puerile imaginations already aflame we all agreed this was a great idea. As some boys ran for wood for the fire, a couple of the bolder lads pulled her shirt out of her shorts and jerked it up over her wild and curly red hair, baring her…breasts! This girl had started to develop and even at nine she didn't look like a boy on top. She had soft, pastel nipples and white, freckled skin. We all fell silent and gawked in awe. We were definitely in new and forbidden territory.

Candy was really screaming now, and our momentum was thrown off by this vision of helpless female loveliness. I'd like to believe we would not have actually burned her at the stake. Fortunately, we'll never know, because a posse of counselors arrived to save the captive maiden. Candy was freed, we were reprimanded severely and sent to our bunks. The next morning we were called before a tribunal who meted out our sentences. For the rest of the two-week session we would forfeit all our Co-op Candy, which would be given to little Candy to make up for her suffering.

I was bitter about giving up the thing that made my stay at Wyandonic particularly worthwhile, but I was also humiliated at my poor judgment in becoming part of a lynch mob. I felt terrible for the little girl who was stripped and boyhandled so ruthlessly. I apologized to her privately and she graciously accepted my expression of shame and remorse. A couple of days later she had put the whole incident behind her, and in fact had become a hero because of what she endured, but mainly because she was undisputed Candy Queen of the camp. For me, however, the incident was not so easily forgotten, and, obviously, it remains with me to this day, several decades later. What I realized at the tender age of nine was that, even though I felt sorry for the fear and pain I caused her, my stronger emotion was not sympathy but empathy; I wanted the victim to be not Candy, but me.

I wanted to be the one thrust against the tree, made helpless, teased and tormented and even stripped. I imagined myself not just topless but naked, my shorts and underpants pulled down and off my legs, my shoes and socks stripped off, my arms released so my shirt could be pulled away from me. I imagined my wrists pinned against my back and bound again with wire. I imagined myself gagged with my t-shirt, perhaps blindfolded, and then dragged, helpless, deep into the woods for some abominable and unknown ritual. I imagined the boys poking fun at my little penis and perhaps hitting me with switches torn from the trees. Then, suddenly, they would disappear and I would be alone in the silence.

Through my gag I would cry out a muffled "guys?" But nobody would answer. I would realize I had been abandoned and would begin to struggle with my bonds. However, before I could get free I would hear voices, and soon, I would realize, I was surrounded again, not only by the boys but also by six or eight girls. They would giggle and mock, and once or twice someone would slash me with a branch. I would howl in pain and dance, which would humiliate me more, because one of the girls would say "look at his thing bounce!" Then silently, they would all disappear into the woods and I would be alone again. Eventually I would free my hands and pull off the blindfold and gag. I would cover my genitals with my t-shirt and stumble back to the camp on my tender bare feet.

At my bunk I would come upon the gang of gang of boys and girls who were having a field day mocking and teasing me. I would try to rush into my bunk, but the door would be blocked by some of the boys. I would beg for my clothes back, but the boys would refuse. Then the leader would offer me a devil's bargain, the kind I have come to love and need in my life: "If you want your clothes, drop that shirt, and stand between these trees."

After my useless protests I would, indeed, release the shirt covering my penis. Replacing the shirt with my hand, I would, as directed, move between two saplings a few feet apart. Within seconds, dazed, I would be standing spread-eagled between the trees, fastened hand and foot stark naked.

Now the ritual of humiliation and torment would intensify. The leader of the boys would say "let's all be Indians, and he's a white man we captured. Before we burn him at the stake we have to torture him." The group would agree enthusiastically, boys and girls. When I would cry out in protest a couple of the boys would gag me once again. Then the lead boy would say, "We all have to take our shirts off." One of the girls would say "even us?" The buys would insist, and all my assailants would remove their tops.

At this point, even in my pain and fear, I would have eyes only for the bare-chested girls, and my fear would become strongly mingled with desire. Then the leader would say "the squaws always start the torture. You can have him for a half hour; they we'll really make him suffer before we scalp him." The girls would agree and the boys would disappear into the woods. The girls, perhaps less gifted at this age than the boys, would discuss their options as torturers. Eventually they would decide to beat me with branches, four of them simultaneously. They would find whippy, light branches, and would position themselves two behind me and two in front. At a signal from the little bare-breasted redhead, Candy, they would begin beating me, quickly bringing up welts on my soft, pale skin. I would writhe and sob, struggling in vain to break free. It would seem hopeless. Then the dinner bell would ring.

Suddenly the mood would be broken. The girls would drop their sticks, pull on their shirts and make for the mess hall. I would try to call to them to free me, but through my gag I would make no sense. Candy would understand, however, and would linger behind after the girls had gone. She would stare at me, wide-eyed, her naked chest heaving, her ribs showing through her fine porcelain skin. We would both be gasping and gleaming with sweat.

Then she would step up to me and say, "I'm sorry." Gently, with her fingers she would trace the welts on my chest and belly and thighs. Her hand would brush my penis. She would look me in the eyes and say, meekly, "may I touch it?" I would nod and close my eyes, throwing my head back. Candy's soft hand would reach for my penis. She would hold it and lift it, staring in wonder.

"The skin is so soft." She would gently move the skin on the side of my shaft. And even though I was only nine years old, I would begin to erect.

Eventually she would have learned all she cared to know at that time of her life, and she would release me from her hands and from my bonds. But (metaphorically) I would be helpless in her hands for the rest of my life. In love, as in politics, I would always empathize with the victim and want to be in (or her) place--even when I had lost weight, gained muscle and would stand tall and tough.

Dozens of times I would hold beautiful girls helpless and would cause them pain and humiliation--but always with permission. And even more times I would be the victim. I would hate the pain, the humiliation and the helplessness, but love the pain-giver and the erotic charge she (or he) transmitted to me. And now, even after decades, I still find new ways to become a mortified 9-year, stripped before friends or strangers, spread and scrutinized, flogged, beaten, insulted and powerfully, powerfully aroused. It's particularly good when at least one of my tormentors--or victims--is a lovely, soft, intelligent, compassionate and highly-imaginative redhead. I love her soft, pink nipples and her sparse pubic bush; and I particularly love the way her white skin is vividly decorated with welts. And if the redhead is a he (rather than a brunette or blonde he) I find myself yielding more or trying harder to please, despite my natural reluctance to submit to a man. There's just something about the vulnerability of redheads that always turns me on, even when they're torturing me ruthlessly. But redheads are a relative rarity in my life. Most of my sexual activity has been with steamy dark-haired types, several of whom, when I was young at least, were my cousins.

3) "NAKED T"

(Tease for Chapter 3.)

I didn't tell you earlier, but my name is Ted, or Teddy. "Naked T" could quite accurately refer to "Naked Teddy"; but, actually, it's the name my cousin Arthur and I made up for a game we played for several years, and it properly stands for "Naked Torture."

AUTHOR'S NOTE: If you'd like to read more about my sexual exploits, please let me know.