THE "STINKING"



     Once, several years after I had heard about the "alleged" suicide of my beloved gym teacher, Mr. Michaels, I had been searching through some journals he had left me in a "will" of sorts. In these journals, he chronicled about certain things that he had done to his own legs since he was a boy about the same age as I was when I had my first encounter with sexual gratification. I had taken these journals home with me one afternoon and, whenever my mother and grandparents were not at home, studied them intently.

     There was one passage in the journal that I had been wondering about. It was called "stinking". I looked in the index to see whereabout in the journal this passage was located. Whatever Mr. Michaels meant by "stinking", I definitely wanted to know more about...a whole lot more.

     When I had found the location of the passage, I turned to the page where the heading was. I read through the entire seven-page article with interest. It appeared that, when Mr. Michaels was ten, he and four other boys got together in the basement of his house, dressed in shorts and knee socks. The five boys drew straws to see who would be the lucky one to get "stunk". I was not at all surprised to find that Mr. Michaels was the one who was chosen for this particular article.

     Mr. Michaels was forced down onto his stomach, his feet tied together and his hands tied behind his back. Then, all of the other boys lowered their shorts and underwear and, situating their rear ends over Mr. Michaels's bare thighs and kneebacks, defecated on his legs. Thus satisfied, they raised their underwear and shorts, stood up and left Mr. Michaels laying there, the raw feces melting over the back of his beautiful pre-teen legs. They went outside to play ball while their feces "seasoned" Mr. Michaels's thighs and kneebacks with a pungent odor that one had to smell to describe.

     When they had finished playing (two hours later), they returned to where their friend had been laying prone in the basement. Putting on a pair of Playtex gloves, the eldest of the boys joyously smeared the feces over the visible parts of Mr. Michaels's legs...not overlooking the front of his thighs and knees before laying him back down on his stomach. Wherever there was a small mound of feces on his thighs and kneebacks, the eldest placed paper matches and lit them. As the flame got close to the bottom of the matches, the feces began to blaze.

     That's funny, I thought. If this happened when Mr. Michaels was ten, why weren't his thighs and kneebacks scarred when he dressed in his gym uniform in the school?

     Well, it appeared that the reason the other boys went out to play for a couple of hours was to allow the gaseous part of the feces to rise above the non-gaseous part, thereby protecting his bare thighs and kneebacks from being burned.

     Damn! I would have loved to have seen the results of the burning, I said to myself.

     According to the journal, after the flames died out, the boys pulled Mr. Michaels up the steps and outside, spraying him down with the full jet stream of water from the hose. The feces quickly dissolved and melted away into the grass.

     Boy, I just couldn't wait to do this same thing. Luckily for me, Mr. Michaels left a detailed account of the instructions on just how the "stinking" was to be done.

     I got many of my friends together to meet me after school when my mother was visiting New York City for a week with her parents. We went down into the basement...each of us dresssed in our mid-thigh shorts and knee socks. Since it was my house, I chose to become the one whose bare thighs and kneebacks would be defecated on. I pitched myself onto my stomach and, gingerly, put my hands behind my back to be tied. Then, snapping my legs together, my friends tied my feet at the ankles. Then, just as it was described in Mr. Michaels's journal, the boys turned away from my prone body, lowered their shorts and underwear, squatted and let loose.

     I was exhilarated as I heard and felt the feces leave their rectums and drop onto my bare thighs and kneebacks. I was only sorry for one thing...that I did not have a full-length mirror available in order to see what was happening. I would have loved watching everything that was going on!!!

     But, oh, the feeling!!!

     I mean, if cum was cool when it exited the "tool" and squirted onto the skin...then feces sure felt warm as it plopped onto the back of young male legs!!! After my friends had done their work, they raised their underwear and shorts and left my basement, going outside to play and give the warm, moist feces time to melt on my thighs and kneebacks. While they were gone, I raised my head and smiled. Cum on my legs felt great...but it couldn't compare with the pleasure I got out of the warmth they were getting from unexpurgated fecal matter that was not only melting but stinking them.

     After my friends had played outside for a couple of hours, they returned to finish up their "work". The eldest of them put on Playtex gloves (as recommended by Mr. Michaels) and smeared the feces over each and every visible inch of my legs...even rolling me onto my side to cover the front of my thighs and knees...rubbing it so deeply into my skin that the feces went into each and every pore, clogging them up. Then, he turned me back onto my stomach and searched, fervently, for mounds of fecal matter that happened to appear on my bare thighs and kneebacks. When he had found the miniscule mounds of glowing, brown feces, he looked about for a book of paper matches.

     Then, as was described in Mr. Michaels's journal, the eldest placed the paper matches onto the mounds of fecal matter so that they stood straight up. Striking a match, he lit the heads of every match that stood up from the moist feces on my thighs and kneebacks. When the flames ignited the gaseous tops, my friends cheered. I raised my head up, giving my now-trademarked "Ahhhhhhhh" as I felt the heat of the spots just above my fecal-covered meat.

     After a few moments, the flames went out. Then, my friends hoisted me up, being careful enough not to touch the soft, warm fecal matter on my legs, carried me outside and hosed me down...just as Mr. Michaels described in his journal...to get every bit of feces off my young, tender meat. But, no matter how hard they tried, they couldn't get whatever shit filled in the pores of my skin. They untied my hands and feet, leaving to returned to their respective homes...and leaving me to deal with finding a way to unclog the pores on my legs. I knew I had to find a way...and quickly...because if my mom and grandparents came home and saw the dark spots on my legs, they would have found a way to punish me severely for it...especially if they found out what it was that was causing them.

     Then, I was hit by a wondrous thought!

     I ran into the garage and found a roll of the strongest tape that my grandfather had. I wrapped the tape about my thighs and knees, patting it down to make absolutely sure that it covered every inch. Then, waiting about twenty minutes to give the adhesive a chance to take hold of whatever was in the pores, I pulled the tape off. The adhesive drew every bit of fecal material out of the pores...but left my legs blotchy.

     Did I care about the blotches? I should say not!

     The tape may have left my legs looking as if they were the only parts of my body which had the measles...but at least every bit of shit was gone. After that day, knowing what type of gratification Mr. Michaels received...and what type I received after experiencing the same thing...I just couldn't wait for the next day when my friends and I could get together for another successful "stinking". Only next time...I won't be the one getting my legs stunk up.