THE NIGHT OF THE BURNING LEGS

     The air was uncommonly cool and dry for a day in early autumn...a proper day for a fire. But, what was left to burn? All of the trees have already fallen victim to either torrential rainfall or forest fires. Houses could not be burned because, by law, all houses now had to be built sturdy enough to withstand heavy rain and snow.

     Thomas Barrow, at 102 the oldest man in the town and permanently confined to a wheelchair due to the fact that both of his legs were missing from just below the crotch, still operated the local store and told me a tale that I just couldn't believe.

     "When I was your age, Paul", he said, "there was a season just like this. At that time, we, too, had no trees because of rain and fire. Yet, we had to find a way to keep warm".

     "Didn't you have gasoline, Grandpa?" Paul asked.

     "Oh, we had plenty of gasoline...tanks and tanks of gasoline. We just didn't have anything for the gasoline to be poured on. You see, we made the one mistake that we would live to regret for as long as we lived".

     "What was that?"

     "We took lots to see whose house we would gather around and set fire to, just to keep warm".

     "Why was that a mistake?"

     "Because, once you burn one house just to keep warm...for some strange reason you are never warm enough. So, you burn another house and another and another...until there are no more houses left to burn. Then, when the winter snow comes, you have no place to go to keep yourself warm".

     "What did you do then?"

     "The men who ran this hamlet when I was 25 decided that we would use an alternative to wood with which to pour the gasoline on to keep warm. Each time it got unseasonably cool in early autumn, a lottery was held to see who would offer up their legs to be burned".

     "Their legs?"

     Paul stood there in shocked disbelief at what his grandfather had just told him. How could anybody give up their legs just to keep others in the town warm?

     "I don't believe you!" Paul scoffed.

     "Tell me, Paul, how many others have you seen in town who have their pants rolled up the way mine are?" his grandfather asked.

     "One or two".

     "You know why? Because the others either left town...or took their own lives rather than stay here and have people ogling at them...because they have no legs!"

     Paul stared at is grandfather, his mouth agape.

     "Do you mean to say that, when all other fuel resources were depleted...except for the stockpile of gasoline...the town held a lottery to decide whose legs were going to be amputated and used as kindling?" he asked.

     "I certainly do", Grandfather answered. "Now that the temperature is cool and all other fuel resources are gone...it's time once again for the 'lottery of the legs'". Grandfather pushed his wheelchair over to the window which faced the public square and looked outside. "And since you are now of age to participate in the lottery..."

     "No! That's never going to happen!"

     Grandfather turned to look at Paul.

     "And just how do you intend to stop them?"

     Paul pondered over his grandfather's question. Then, he faced the old man with a twinkle in his eye and a smile on his face.

     "I'll just leave town. That's what I'll do", Paul replied. "If I'm gone, then I can't take part in the damn lottery".

     "I'm afraid that is now impossible", the old man said. "Once the temperature goes down to where it is now and the lottery has been decided upon...all roads out of town are carefully guarded by armed men whose sole job is to prevent any eligible young men like you from leaving. If you so much as try to step foot over the border, you will be shot...and then your whole body will feed a roaring, gas-soaked fire, not just your legs".

     Paul sat down in the nearest chair and put his hands to his head. If what the old man said was indeed true, then he had no other choice but to take his chances.

     "Besides", the old man continued, with a sly smile on his wrinkled face, "I took part in my first lottery when I was your age...and kept my legs until I was 50. But, by then...I was already paralyzed from the waist down and confined to this wheelchair. So, it really didn't matter to me whether they took my legs or not...and I didn't much care. But, who knows? You might not even be chosen. Then, perhaps after the lottery and the temperature rises...you can leave town and find greener pastures elsewhere".

     Paul looked up from where he sat at the wizened old man.

     "So, what am I to do?" he asked.

     "Take your chances like any grown man", the old man said. "There are over a hundred young men with good strong legs like yours. The chances that you'll be one of the ten whose legs are chosen to burn tonight are astronomical!"

     "You're right, Grandpa", Paul said. "I'm going in to put on a pair of shorts for the lottery. And, even if I'm not chosen...I'll still give everybody a tempting view".

     "That's my boy!" the old man said, turning his wheelchair back to the window and the public square beyond as Paul ran to dress himself for the lottery.

* * * * * * * * * *

     Later that night, after the lottery had taken place, twenty well-built and bloodied legs were thrown together, drenched with gasoline and set on fire. All the townspeople gathered around the mound of burning flesh to take in their warmth. A smell akin to roasting meat and almonds lingered in the air above the conflagration. Among the populace, Paul's grandfather sat in his wheelchair, leaning forward, thrusting his open hands as close to the fire as he dared. There was a somber look on his face.

     "Well, Paul...it looks as though Lady Luck was not on your side tonight", he said as he stared deep into the roaring fire.

     There, at the very top of the pile, hams facing the sky, were his grandson's well-proportioned legs, now being blistered and blackened by the very flames that were consuming them.

     This night's lottery was over.

WITNESS TO A BURNING

A young man being joyously burned at the stake!

     It has always been my dream to bear witness to one of the most beautiful sights that a legs fetishist like myself could ever hope to behold...a cremation. I had always seen videos of one...but the person being cremated was always dead and the body was naked.

     Yeecchh!

     I hope that one day I would be able to witness a young man burning to death...face down in a pair of shorts! And I always pray that, if he is still screaming, that somebody could have the decency to pour a lot of inflammable liquid over him...just to hear him scream his death wails!

     When you're a witness to a hanging, death wails are throttled in the throat because of the noose...unable to let people know that the victim is actually dying. I mean, the only way you can tell that a person who is being hanged is actually dying is to look at his legs to see if they're twitching in the throes of death...especially if the legs are naked and you can actually see the death throes in the thighs and calves and the back of the knees crimping and bunching up before smoothing out as the person expires and somebody nearest the body feels an artery in the thigh or knee to authenticate that the person is dead.

     When a young man is beheaded, the sudden decapitation leaves no time at all for thrashing about and wailing. The head falls into a basket and the body either falls to one side of the chopping block...or remains face down on the bed of a guillotine. There is only a little bit of twitching as the impulses from the brain are cut off. So, that isn't much of a show! And it certainly isn't very much fun to watch with all that blood and body fluids oozing from the neck!!!

     When the person is stood up facing a wall and shot in the back, one of the firing squad's bullets will be aimed dead center for the heart and another for the back of the head...so there actually wouldn't be any time for the victim to scream out. His pain dies almost as soon as his body does...and that just isn't right, because when you're witnessing an execution, you want to actually see and hear the condemned person thrashing about and wailing.

     Of course, though, nobody is ever burned to death face down in a pair of shorts. They're always chained to a wooden pole, standing on a pile of wood and burned at the stake. I keep thinking about how lovely it would have been to live in 16th-century Europe, where men who were found guilty of witchcraft or of being the wrong religion were publicly burned to death by orders of the Pope at the time.

     But, if I had my way, some young men, dressed in black mid-thigh shorts and black below-the-calf socks, would be led onto a basketball or tennis court, laid face down with their hands tied behind their backs and their feet tied together, doused with an endless stream of gasoline and burned to death...just to see how it would look like. I just have a feeling that it would probably be fun and look great! I just know that there would be wailing and thrashing a-plenty, as well as a lot of cheering from onlookers...especially if the ones to be burned alive are criminals! I mean, there are a lot of those around...and we really don't need them to exist among decent folk.

     Now, there's something worth thinking about! Young men being tried, convicted and sent to prison for a capital offense, sitting in their cells, waiting for the day that they will be hooded, dressed in shorts and done away with by whatever means the state sees fit to use. Maybe then, I wouldn't mind seeing an execution where the condemned is hanged or electrocuted...just as long as his legs are bare for all to see!!!

     But, still...I would really and deeply want to see a young man sent to be burned to death face down in a nice pair of shorts. It would really be a highlight to my life! Why, if I was tried and sentenced to death...I would choose to be burned alive dressed in shorts. After all, it's completely clean...with little or no mess at all.

WITNESS TO A HANGING

     There have been times...many times...that I wished I may be present to view a person being hanged. Not for the pleasure of it, mind you. Just to witness it...see why many people in the Old West used to gather at the gallows with their children, order sassaparillas or bottles of beer and cheer as the condemned man, or men, did a "floorless jig".

     There were many times that I had seen an old Clint Eastwood film in which a man was lynched and left alone to strangle at the end of a rope. The biggest thrill that some friends of mine got while watching this film was observing the twitching of a man's legs as he dangled there, choking and struggling for breath. Another scene showed two boys, no older than we were at the time my friends and I were watching this film. One boy was only 15 and his brother was 18. They were going to be hanged for murder and cattle rustling. I read books about judicial hangings in the 19th century and found that it didn't matter how old you were...if you committed a capital offense, you paid for it with your life!!!

     One day, I came upon the hanged body of a friend of mine from school. Of course, he left me a note saying that he was going to hang himself...but he left it up to me to find out where he had done it. He also said that, in order not to bring dishonor to the school, I was to remove his school uniform and leave him hanging there in his underwear!!!

     Of course, though, dishonor did come to the good school...when the hanged boy's identity became known. For several weeks after his hanging, I dreamed of seeing some other boys from the school whom I despised hang at the end of a rope. Not in their school uniforms or underwear, mind you...but in their gym shorts!!! I thought of how beautiful they would look, dangling at the end of ropes, death throes rippling through their naked thighs, knees and calves. Of course, these would have been viewed for pleasure...because these boys were my enemies and it would have been glorious to see my enemies meet their deaths like this.

     But, my dreams not only included boys who were my enemies.

     In some of my dreams, I was a witness to my own hanging...while wearing my black gym uniform. In one of them, I see myself standing in a field, awaiting execution by hanging beside a helium-filled balloon. I am wearing my black gym shorts, black socks, black sneakers and a long-sleeved hooded and gloved sweat shirt. A man (whom I fancy as Mr. Michaels, my gym teacher) comes forward, pulls my hands behind my back and ties them together at my wrists. He kneels down and ties my feet together, all the time staring lovingly at the back of my legs...especially my knees...which he so loves. Then, he pulls down a noose and tightens it around my neck, placing the hangman's knot behind my back. Turning to some brawny upperclassmen who are holding the ropes to which the balloon is being held down, he gives the signal to release the balloon. The balloon rises and, as it does so, I begin to feel tension racking through my body. Then, all of a sudden, my body is being lifted off the ground and I am hanging there, twisting and turning, flopping about like a dead fish...my life being choked out of my body as urine and liquid feces pour down my naked legs to the ground as it gets farther and farther away. As the balloon flies away, I dream that my dead body will end up in some African veldt, where it would mercifully be devoured by wild animals before it rots!!!

Wow! Just look at John Schneider hanging and hawking in Eddie Macon's Run!

     There had been times that my father told me of dreams that he had in which we pool our money together to purchase a Hollywood prop...a hanging harness...like one that was used in the film Eddie Macon's Run. In this one scene, Eddie was taken into the house of some wealthy hicks, put on trial and hanged in their living room. My father said that the actor made facial contortions to make it appear that he was really being hanged. I asked my father if we could try it out and see if it works. But, who would be the one to be "hanged"?

     "Me, Dad", I yelled out. "Hang me!"

     Of course, the main reason why I wanted my father to put the harness on me and "hang" me was because of what I was wearing...the same type of clothing I wore in New York when my friends and I were playing "Good Guys/Bad Guys". At this time, I had already been taking some drama classes...so I knew how convincing I should look as I dangled at the end of a rope. My father took his SX-70 camera and took some photographs of me as I hanged from the harness, putting a look on my face that one would actually think that I was being hanged by my neck.

     I looked at the photographs that my father took later that night. I looked so convincing, I wanted to try it again. I went into the garage and put on the harness and put my head through the noose. But, stupid me! I didn't pay very close attention to how my father fastened the harness properly. When I kicked the chair out from under my feet, the noose tightened around my neck.

     I was actually being hanged to death!!!

     Luckily, my father heard the commotion. He ran into the garage to find me beginning my death throes. He rushed forward just in time to grab me about my knees and lifted the harness off the hook in the ceiling. When I had regained consciousness, my father told me that the noose around my neck was not fastened properly to the harness. The result: I would have really died by hanging!!!

     I didn't want that to happen. At least...not yet! I mean, if I do choose to commit suicide, it definitely will be by hanging...and definitely dressed in shorts and knee socks!

THE "REAL" SCARSDALE DIET

     As I had mentioned during my story of the Las Vegas "chew", my fraternity brothers and I were next to meet at my hillside home in the upper class upstate town of Scarsdale, New York. Well...actually ten miles outside of the town. I can remember the week as though it had happened yesterday.

     There was fresh snow upon the ground. Of course, the inside of the house was warm and cozy...but we were not going to be doing our thing inside the house. You see, we had all come to New York with our soccer uniforms and had intended to wear them outside, where we would lie face down at attention and, spreading our arms and legs out from our sides, make handsome snow angels...with faces.

     We would lie face down in the snow for anywhere from twenty minutes to one hour, depending upon the W.C.F....or Wind Chill Factor, to the layman. The wind chill factor was the temperature by which a person could tolerate being outdoors just so long before any unclothed part of their body would become severely frostbitten. Of course, though, each and every one of us were wearing long-sleeved thermal undershirts, knee-length thermal undershorts under our soccer uniform and thermal knee socks under our soccer knee socks...so the damage to our bodies would be minimal.

     After we had dressed in our soccer uniforms, all of us ventured out the back door into my huge yard. Oh, the utter gratification of feeling the sub-zero wind tasting our bare knees and faces...or, should I say, what little of our faces were bare. You see, each of us wore a woolen ski cap and muffler, displaying very little of our faces...such as our eyes. After all, we had to see where we were going to lie face down in the snow.

     Soon, when we had all reached our designated "face down" spots, one by one all of my frat brothers snapped to attention and then pitched forward into the snow, with their knees being the only part of their bodies visible in that ice-cold blanket of white. Of course, someone had to monitor the goings-on...and since the house was mine, I felt it best that I be the one who would walk among them, keeping a watchful eye on each and every knee to make certain that they would be tapped to return to the warmth of the house, each frat brother creating their angel before going inside.

     After our fun in the snow was completed, we remained in our soccer uniforms...for now the true fun was to occur. As we had done during the summer in Vegas, each frat brother fell face down on the living room carpet, their mouths over the knees of the one before him. As the clock chimed the hour on the wall, we sucked in the left knee of the brother whose legs lay before us, licking, chewing and, occasionally, biting the tender skin deeply, our teeth gnashing the piece of knee which was within our mouths. As the first quarter-hour rang, we released the piece of knee, sucking on it deeply in order to raise a deep red hickey.

     For the next fifteen minutes, until the ringing of the half-hour, we salivated the knee that we had been noshing on, making absolutely certain that not a single bit remained dry. When the half-hour rang, we looked at the knee we had been salivating upon, pleased with ourselves that tiny bubbles of saliva stood out all over the knee. Then, we started our work on the right knee, repeating the beautiful exercise of sucking, licking, chewing and biting for the next fifteen minutes. When the quarter-to chime sounded, we repeated the deep hickey sucking of the knee and heavy salivation. Then, to climax our fun, we each moved our legs to the right, getting our knees out of reach of the mouth oif the brother who had been sucking, licking, chewing, biting and salivating on them.

     Then, came the serious part of our day. We stretched out our chins until our throats were straight and our Adam's apples were crammed into the carpet. Before our eyes were the knees of the brother who, for one whole hour previously, we had been desecrating with our tongues and teeth. We remained this way, on our stomachs, with our hands at our sides and our knees off the floor and stiffened, for anywhere between two to four hours...or until our stomachs started to grumble with hunger. Then, if our knees were still wet with saliva, each brother wiped it dry and, remaining in our soccer uniforms, we sat down and ate our meal, returning to our prone state until the next day when we would start the fun all over again in the snow.

THE LAS VEGAS "CHEW"

     Last summer, my fraternity brothers and I got together at my retreat fifteen miles outside of Las Vegas for a week of some good old fun like we used to have when we were in college...a week of some good old-fashioned leg admiration---and "chewing".

     The days during the summer promised to be nice, sunny and HOT! We all chose lots and decided that we would spend the days indoors in the nice air-conditioning and the nights outside under the clear skies and stars. But, one thing was certain...we would definitely lie face down at attention with our mouths over the backs of one another's knees!!!

     The living room of my Vegas home was more than large enough for all of us...eleven in all...to make a huge circle, with me at the beginning and the last one having his mouth over the back of my knees. We figured to get in at least six to eight hours of honest-to-goodness "chewing" each day...and four to six hours each night...before we went home at the end of the week. Our daytime indoor clothing would consist of our knee-length denim shorts, white knee socks and sneakers. Our nighttime clothing would consist of our soccer shorts, jersey, knee socks and shoes. Also...the lineup would change. I would never bite the same knees twice...nor would the same guy bite mine twice. There would be enough to go around!

     I fell face down on the floor with my arms at my sides. Then, each consecutive frat brother did likewise, until the last one lay face down before me, the back of his knees under my waiting mouth and pearly white teeth.

     I had set a clock on a nearby table which would ring four times...the first and third rings to start the chewing and the second and fourth to stop. The rules were simple: at the first ring, we were to place our mouths on the back of the left knee, suck it in and clamp it hard between our teeth. We were then to commence chewing and licking the sweet skin, sucking on it so as to create a dark red "hickey" which would be visible to any who saw it. When the alarm rang, we were to release the knee, rest our mouths on the right knee and wait for the alarm to ring, signalling the start of sucking, chewing and licking the skin until the alarm rang again. This was how we proceeded with our fun each day and night.

     Plus, we had an added bonus. Each of our names were written on eleven sheets of paper and placed into a fishbowl. The bowl was then passed between us and each of us picked a piece of paper with a secret name on it. Each ballot was then given to the fraternity leader. Whoever's name was chosen the most was then staked out face down at night in the desert about a hundred yards from my house and left there until the sun rose the following morning. This was how we ended each night's ritual.

     I was the lucky one whose name was chosen three times. That meant three nights I was staked out, face down, in my soccer uniform with only my knees exposed to the chilly night desert air. Let me tell you how this experience felt. In a single word...FABULOUS!!! I mean the chilly night air tasting the skin of my knees was fantastic. I was honored to have been chosen the most. I was lucky as well...lucky that there were no coyotes who dared to venture out in the Las Vegas desert night to snack on such a tender morsel.

     At week's end, we each said our goodbyes and either drove or flew to our respective homes, where we would stay until our next meeting in mid-winter...at my house in New Paltz, New York!

A DOLLAR A LICK

     After I had experienced sexual gratification during my play with Pierre and Jean-Paul, I decided that, like the orphan boy Oliver, I wanted some more. So I gathered together all of my friends from school and near my home to help me out. They were to fill out a questionnaire of twenty very simple true or false questions...and if they got more than 75, they would be more than welcome to do what Jean-Paul got to do. Only they would get to lick both of my kneebacks to help me see if I could get that same itchy feeling that could only be relieved by the release of cum...for a price!!!

     I sought out all of my friends at school and handed them the questionnaire, waiting for them to finish so that I could collect them all and mark them when I got home later that afternoon. I was only hoping to have at least one-fourth of them get 75 or over.

     What a shock I got!

     All of them got 75 and higher...which meant that they would all get to lick my kneebacks in order to help me see if what Jean-Paul did was what made me cum in my underwear and shorts.

     I invited them all to my house when my mother was away at work. I decided that one dollar would be the going price just to lick one kneeback...so I collected two dollars from each boy who answered a questionnaire. After putting the money away in a secure spot, I went to my room and redressed in exactly the same clothes I wore when Jean-Paul, his brother and I played "Good Guys/Bad Guys" during the summer...a brown short-sleeved shirt, mid-thigh denim shorts, white knee socks and sneakers...before going outside in the back yard.

     They had all congregated around the wooden picnic table. Mounting the table and kneeling, I tied my feet together at the ankles and, giving Pierre the keys, handcuffed my hands behind my back after I laid down on my stomach. I told the boys that they were permitted to lick my kneebacks only...and not my thighs (though I knew some of them wanted to). And if they chose to bite them...well, they would have to pay an extra dollar each.

     The rules all laid out, the boys stuck out their tongues and, greedily, salivated all over my kneebacks. After just thirty seconds, I felt it...that same itch and gushing of cum squirting into my clean white underwear. And it didn't just happen when one boy licked my kneebacks...it happened when they all did it!!! Oh, the cum was really gushing out that day!

     After all of them got to lick my kneebacks and Pierre unlocked the handcuffs, I went into my house. I took off my shorts and underwear (which were totally saturated with cum), redressed and threw the underwear and shorts in the hamper to be washed later on...before my mother got home.

     Now that I knew the truth...that it was Jean-Paul's drooling tongue that caused me to cum in my underwear that hot summer day...I certainly would indeed look forward to doing it again. Not only soon...but in years to come...with extreme pleasure.

"MY WORD IS LAW!"

Can you imagine these lovelies hanging at the end of a rope?

     The cruel despot stood atop the dais in the center of the huge arena. All about him, on a triggered platform, stood young men...five thousand in number...ranging in age from sixteen to twenty-three. They were dressed all in black...long-sleeved, hooded and gloved sweatshirts, baggy shorts, socks and sneakers. Their tanned legs were bare from the top of their thighs to just below their calves. Their hands were tied behind their backs, their feet at the ankles. Between their feet, securely tied to their ankle-bindings, were thirty-pound weights. Nooses were placed snugly about their necks.

     The despot looked all about him. He smiled as he gazed at the multitude that were about to be executed. Then, his smile faded and his countenance grew somber and serious.

     "You all know the law...that no legs shall be shown by any man", he shouted. Then, pointing down at the five thousand youths, he continued: "These youths sought to usurp that law. They have failed...and now they shall pay the supreme price, dressed as they wished to be".

     The despot turned to look at the executioner whose hand would activate the trigger and send the five thousand young men to their deaths. He turned once more to look at the black-clothed youths who stood there...waiting silently for their end. As he gazed at them, the despot nodded his head...and the trigger was pressed.

     As the audience watched, the floors beneath the young men fell out from under them and the weights fell to the ground. As they did, there was a horrendous sound as all five thousand necks snapped simultaneously. Crimson stained the inside of each hood as arteries, veins and capillaries broke and blood spewed from the tear ducts, noses and mouths. Urine and liquid feces poured down the front and back of the legs of the suspended youths as their bowels and bladders contracted involuntarily. Then, the arena went silent...save for the soft dripping of human waste from the twitching sneaker-covered feet of the condemned.

     One person alone laughed maniacally. The despot clapped his hands and tears of joy flowed from his eyes as he watched the death throes rippling through the bare thighs, knees and calves of the hanged youths, triggered by electrical impulses from their brains as they were suddenly disrupted.

     Suddenly, all was silent once again as the despot looked around him for approval to the mass-hanging. But, there was none.

     "What is wrong with you people?" he shouted. "I am the supreme ruler of this land. My word is law!!! These youths broke the law...and breaking the law means death!"

     He looked about him some more.

     Still...silence.

     "When I sentence people to hang publicly", he roared, "I expect to hear sounds of praise...applause...and laughter!"

     Still...silence.

     "Laugh!" he yelled at the top of his lungs, almost drowning out the crack that came from behind him.

     The despot fell dead over the wall in front of him, the back of his head blown open. Behind him stood a young man, dressed identically as the condemned, a smoking gun in his hand. As he dropped the gun onto the floor, the young man fell to his knees...and began to laugh.

     Soon, the arena was filled with laughter and applause. Not for the deaths of the five thousand youths who hung in the arena, their spasms slowly coming to an end, their paling legs stained yellow and brown...but for the one man who ordered them hanged.