Chapter 1: Summerville School, Devon, England

Richard Thorne looked down through the large Palladian window in his tutor’s tower flat at the motorcar arriving and the man and young woman stepping down from that and entering the main door to the Summerville boy’s school outside of Exeter, Devon. He was sitting in a straight chair facing the window, and the fourteen-year-old boy he was supposed to be tutoring in maths was sitting, naked, in his lap, also facing the window. The boy was small, blond, more androgynously beautiful than handsome, and he was moaning in the most pleasant way. Thorne didn’t want the fuck to stop, but the arrival of the carriage below told him it probably must.

Thorne, tall, gaunt, but hard bodied, in his late forties, was wearing only a Japanese red silk robe, flared away from his torso. The boy, sitting in his lap, skewered on his erection, had his arms flung up and his wrists bound behind Thorne’s neck. The boy’s legs were bent at the knees, with his calves pulled back and his ankles bound to the outer rails of the back of the chair on either side. He was completely captive to and under the control of his tutor. Thorne was grasping the boy’s narrow waist and pulling him band and rocking him forward, fucking him on the erection buried in the boy’s anal channel.

Damian had wanted to be bound when his tutor fucked him. He was fine with the older boys in the school when they covered him, but with an adult, like Thorpe, the boy felt some guilt and preferred the sensation of being taken outside of his control.

Thorpe pulled the boy on and off his cock for nearly ten more minutes before feeling the cum rise inside him. He held the trembling boy steady then as he tensed and let out a hiss.

“Yes, Tutor. Screw me. Give it to me,” Damian cried out, and Thorpe shot his load.

Murmuring, “So sweet. So smooth, so beautiful,” Thorpe nuzzled his face into the hollow of the boy’s neck. Damian turned his face to the older man’s and the kissed. Thrope’s left hand glided up the perfectly formed, small torso of the boy, his thumb moving to rubbing on the boy’s nipples. Damian sighed, then he gasped and moaned as the finger’s of Thorpe’s right hand wove into the boy’s small balls.

Damian squirmed, and whimpered, “Master, Master,” as the man played with the balls, squeezing them and distending them. “Oh, Master, YES!” Damian called out as the hand encased his cock and began to beat him off—at first slowly but then as Damian writhed in his control and cried out, “Master! Master! MASTER!” Thorpe stroked him to and over the edge.

They held there for several minutes, both panting, Thorpe still playing with the boy’s cock and balls, Thorpe’s shaft still inside the boy’s channel, flaccid, but building again in strength.

“I love your cock, Tutor,” Damian murmured. “You could do this forever.”

“Not forever, lad, I’m afraid,” Thorpe answered. “You will be missed soon. And I do believe your sister and a man have arrived at the headmaster’s bidding.”

“My sister, Jane?” Damian asked. “Why? How do you know? Headmaster doesn’t know you—”

“No, I don’t think so,” Thorpe said, giving a little snort. “He’s still consulting with me on the disruption you are here and what to do about that. He still thinks the older boys are after you, but I don’t think he believes they’ve had you yet. He certainly wouldn’t be consulting with me if he even suspected that I’m having you. No, I think I’ve seen your sister arrive. I know Headmaster sent for her. I think we need to get you back to your rooms in case they call you down.”

“You don’t think Headmaster will send me away, do you?”

“Not in the next fifteen minutes,” Thorpe said. He was on the rise again. He grasped the boy’s waist between his hands again and restarted the back and forth movement of Damian’s hips that created the pumping and friction that delighted his cock inside the boy’s passage so.

Damian gasped. “Yes, Tutor. Yes, again, please, Sire,” he murmured, emitting a deep moan.

“I don’t quite know what to say, Headmaster,” Jane Stanton said. “Damian has always been such a quiet, polite, docile boy.”

“Yes, well, that’s the crux of the matter,” the headmaster said. “The older boys—”

“You don’t mean to say—”

“No, no, not yet. But there’s an increasing risk. He’s such a giving and curious boy. And fourteen is really too young to be ... it isn’t that he’s a bad lad at all. It’s rather than he perhaps is too polite and docile—too willing to follow and be influenced by others—for a boy his age, and perhaps too young and, shall we say pretty looking. I fear he is too trusting and ready to accommodate. He really needs some toughening up; he needs to get out of an environment like Summerville School. He is, I think, too vulnerable to, you know, certain, shall we say ... sins ... here.”

The headmaster pursed his lips and looked beseechingly at the handsome fourteen-year-old boy sitting beside the young Miss Stanton across his desk. The Stantons had been sending their boys to Summerville for centuries, and the family had been a backbone for the finances of the school. He really was acting in the interests of her brother, young Damian. He only wished the parents were still alive. He knew they would have understood and acted immediately.