MY LEGMEAT...AND WELCOME TO IT!!!

     Since I have been at the American Academy of Dramatic Arts in Manhattan, many of my friends had noticed my well-proportioned legs...my thick, muscular thighs...my nicely curvacious calves...and my tempting kneebacks. And if it were not for my late gym teacher, Mr. Michaels, they would never have learned the many ways that they...and I...could achieve sexual and sensual gratification through them.

     Many times in the past 25 years had my friends been invited to stroke, lick, kiss and bite the tender meat of my legs. Of course, they were not able to taste any meat under the skin of my attractive kneebacks...frankly because there is only nerves, blood vessels and fat beneath the skin. The true enjoyment comes from actually digging their teeth into the visceral flesh of my thighs and calves, where there are mounds of delicious red meat.

     When I was 15, I enjoyed wearing a pair of short shorts and below-the-calf socks and having myself tied face down upon my bed or a dining room table with my feet tied at the ankles and my hands tied behind my back...and looking at the ceiling and uttering a long "Ahhhhhhhhh" as my friends not only bit deeply into my thighs and calves but as they kissed and licked my kneebacks as well. To experience this, one must be a leg fetishist of the highest degree...and I am definitely one!

     Now that I am at the threshhold of middle age...having turned 40 on May 8, 2011...I can attest this to you. My legs are still as comely and delicious-looking as they were when they were the legs of a teenager and young adult. My thighs and calves are all the more meatier and my kneebacks still invite stroking, licking and kissing as they had 25 years ago. And as a mature male model, my legs attract the attention of both males and females as I wear shorts and parade up and down the runways of the major fashion capitals of the world. As I pass those who watch me walk up and down the runway, I can tell that some of the men watching me fervently wish that they could taste my well-proportioned legs. And I can't blame them. Had I been in the audience, watching me pass by, I would wish the same thing.

     At home in Malibu, my three sons...eight-year-old Ilya, six-year-old Pooka and three-year-old Kaya...all love to gather round me as I lay face down on my bed in my shorts and lick my tanned deliciosities. Ilya had already known how the back of my legs looked when they were on fire. Pooka had already taken the pleasure of not only biting my thighs and calves...but jabbing sharp pins into my kneebacks and licking away whatever blood oozed out of the orifices where the pins exited as well. Kaya has yet to learn the full gratification of how it feels to taste my meats. My daughters, however, are not permitted to enter the sanctity of our manly fun. Only boys and men are allowed to have the full pleasure of tasting my thighs and calves and licking my kneebacks.

     Let me tell you this...at 40, I still enjoy dressing in a pair of shorts and walking down the street, inviting those who would love to to clamp their pearly whites on my thighs and calves and slosh their tongues and pucker their lips upon my kneebacks. It is a pleasure which I utterly enjoy to the fullest. Having the ability to twist my body around so that I can stick my head between my own legs, I had been able to even bite my thighs and calves and lick my own kneebacks as well as any other boy or man. And the look on my face as I had done it was one of pure bliss. To enjoy the taste of my own meats and licking my kneebacks is one feeling I would always cherish until the day I die...hopefully face down in a pair of shorts with a knife buried to the hilt between my shoulders or hanging at the end of a rope with only the meat of my legs exposed and my kneebacks facing my all-male audience...and remaining thus to rot at the mercy of the elements. One day...but not today.

     I have sent out notices to my best friends in the world. Not only other actors, but other male models who I know love looking at my legs...especially my kneebacks as I walk down the runways of the world wearing shorts, swimwear, and, yes, even short suits. This night, I am going to lay face down on my seven-foot long diningroom table, my feet tied together and my hands securely tied behind my back...dressed in a white short suit, white knee socks and white dress shoes. I will have a white pillow case pulled over my head so that only my knees will be exposed, with my kneebacks facing the ceiling. I will welcome my friends...and any friends which they decide to bring with them...to kiss, lick and, perhaps, pin my tanned kneebacks.

     I will give out my trademarked "Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh" as I feel their lips and tongues upon my kneebacks.

     I will give out an even louder and prolonged "Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh" as I feel them stab each sliver of silver into the skin of my kneebacks.

     I will give out the loudest and most prolonged "Ahhhhhhhhhhh" as they push each pin deeper and deeper into my kneebacks, pushing them through nerves, blood vessels and fat.

     But the most enjoyable feeling will be when they extract each pin and lick away any blood that should ooze out onto my kneebacks.

     I will also enjoy it as they film the entire night's proceedings for the future viewing pleasure of not only me...but my sons as well as they grow to comely, handsome manhood, hopefully taking full pleasure of their own kneebacks and having their friends take pleasure with their thighs and calves as mine have.

     This is the complete story of my legmeat and the pleasure which others...and myself...derive from them.

THE PURE PLEASURE$ OF $ & M

     Sadomasochism!

     In order to understand the meaning of sadomasochism, one must first learn to accept the techniques which create it...and then learn to love it. Let me tell you about how I was taught to accept both the techniques and the love of the action.

     Do you see this picture? Beautiful, isn't it? Believe it or not, that was me back in 1987, when I was in my sophomore year at the Nassau County School for Boys, laying prone on the carpet in the dorm room of one Richard Barnswell, the captain of the soccer team. As you can see, I was dressed in my school soccer uniform (sans shoes), gagged and blindfolded, my hands bound behind my back and my feet bound together at the ankles. A third rope was brought into play with which to hogtie me in this rather painful position. As you can see, there was more rope under the small table near the couch. What it was going to be used for, one could only imagine.

THE DAY OF THE PINNED KNEES



     My college years in Orlando, Florida, were extremely fruitful...frought with studies and off-campus work. But, they were also years filled with fun...the fun of each of us discovering more things to do in our spare time.

     I remember one day very well...because it so happened that this day occurred three days after an assembly at which I received three collegiate awards. I had been unanimously voted as not only being the most handsome young man on the campus at the University of Central Florida (aka UCF) but also having the most perfect body on campus as well as being the most handsome artists's nude model. That weekend, some of my fraternity brothers and I decided we would go out and celebrate.

     It was Saturday, June 22, 1991. The temperature outside was a steamy 94 degrees and, as I did when I was a boy in northern New York with my friend Pierre and his brother Jean-Paul, I decided to venture outside dressed in a brown short-sleeved shirt, knee-length denim shorts, white knee socks and sneakers. As a matter of fact, we all wore shorts (of various lengths) and white socks and sneakers...but I was the only one not displaying my thighs or calves.

     As we walked down Colonial Drive in two groups of three (I being in the front group), I had no idea that one frat brother...whom I shall refer to as "Tony"...was eying my kneebacks. And, why not? If he was dressed as resplendent as I was (and I was walking behind him), I probably would have done the same.

     When it started to rain suddenly, we all took refuge inside a huge drugstore. I started looking at some of the cameras that were being displayed in the camera department while Tony and the others grouped together elsewhere in the store to discuss something. After fifteen mintues, the rain stopped...and the sun came out. We had found, to our dismay, that it was now humid and too unbearable to be outside. So, we hailed down a bus and went back to the UCF campus. From the bus stop, it was only a five minute walk to the frat house.

     As we walked down the main hall of the frat house, again in two groups of three, the guys on either side of me grabbed my arms as Tony came up behind me and placed a handkerchief over my nose and mouth. A bitter smell rose from the handkerchief. The more I struggled, the more I breathed in what the handkerchief was doused in. Soon, my arms fell limp and, as my eyes crossed, blackness overcame me.

     When I awoke in the frat house lounge, I was face down on a table with my feet tied together and my hands tied securely behind my back. My five frat brothers stood around the table, each one holding what appeared to be ten thin five-inch pins with colored heads. I recognized these pins very well...they were mapping pins.

     Tony told me of what he and my other frat brothers intended to do. It appeared that, while I was admiring the cameras, he had purchased some chloroform and a vial of the mapping pins. He had convinced the others to join him in his scheme...to pin my kneebacks!!! When I proceeded to struggle, Tony put his handkerchief down on the table near my nose and poured some more chloroform onto it. The smell was so overpowering that I soon blacked once again.

     When I had awoken again, it was dark outside...but the overhead light in the lounge was on. My hands were loose...but my feet were still tied together. As I proceeded to push myself up to my knees, I felt such a shooting pain that I could hardly describe. It felt as if I was being stung by a hundred bees. I fell back down onto my stomach, propped myself up on my elbows and turned to see what was causing the pain.

     There, stuck to the heads in each of my kneebacks, were the mapping pins. So, that was what Tony bought the pins for. Well, I couldn't blame him...or my other frat brothers, for that matter. After all, my legs were well-proportioned and deeply tanned during a lifetime of basking in the sun.

     I heard the lounge clock toll the hour...one a.m.

     I looked around the lounge. I was all alone. My frat brothers, apparently, had left and returned to their respective apartments. It had fallen on me to remove the pins from my own kneebacks. Propped on my left elbow, I reached back and slowly pulled each pin out of my right kneeback. Then, I proceeded to do the same with my left kneeback, propping myself up on my right elbow. When I had finished, I slowly pushed myself up to my knees, reached for my ankles and proceeded to untie my feet.

     After I had finished, I fell back onto my stomach, utterly exhausted. I wondered if my frat brothers had been satisfied by what they did. I thought...it must have been my fault because I did have the most beautiful legs on campus (or so all the girls told me). I had to have been a fool even to wear shorts and knee socks when we went walking down the city's main drag. It was what tempted Tony and the others to do this to me.

     As the lounge clocked tolled the hour of two a.m., I slid myself off the table and proceeded to leave the lounge, turning off the light as I left. I figured...the next time Tony and I go walking down Colonial Drive, he's going to be walking beside me instead of behind me, ogling at my kneebacks!

     And I definitely won't be wearing shorts and knee socks while doing it!!!

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.

MY FURTHER ADVENTURES WITH DEAR MR. MICHAELS



     One day, I went to the Bethpage Memorial Gardens, a cemetery just a "stone's throw" from the American Academy of Dramatic Arts which I had attended. I walked down the rows of mausoleums, stopping before the building which housed all the remains of people whose last names started with the letter "M". Entering the building, I looked up and down at all the names, coming to a stop before a very familiar name...Patrick Joseph Michaels.

     Yes, I was standing before the crypt of my beloved gym teacher, who had taught me how to love and respect my legs and how to get sexual, as well as sensual, gratification from them...and how my friends could, too.

     I looked at the inscription on the plaque...Patrick Joseph Michaels...Born: June 15, 1956...Died: June 15, 1985. "Lived life to the fullest".

     I gazed at the date of death. Mr. Michaels had allegedly committed suicide on his twenty-ninth birthday! I couldn't believe it! His death was timed so perfectly. But, as to his "committing suicide"? That I know for certain he did not do, because Mr. Michaels loved life. He loved life so much, ending his own would have been totally against his scruples. I know for a fact that he had to have been murdered...then hanged by the neck so as to make the police think he committed suicide. But, the slashes across his naked arms and legs...and the fact that he was found in only a tee shirt and boxer shorts...shouted out "MURDERED" to me.

     Standing there before the crypt, I began to think about all the ways Mr. Michaels taught me the true meaning of gratification.

     The True Meaning of Good Taste

     One night, Mr. Michaels and I met in the school gym, where he was "tutoring" me on several exercises using the rings. As I grabbed hold of the rings and raised myself into a "cross", Mr. Michaels approached me. Opening his mouth and extending his tongue, he began to run it up and down my bare thighs, calves and kneebacks, smacking his lips with satisfaction. Normally, any other boy in the school would have felt disgusted and mortified by what he was doing...but not me.

     I loved it!!!

     I relished the feel of his warm, wet tongue as it sloshed back and forth and up and down my naked legs. I exalted in the feel of his cool saliva as it dripped off his tongue and lips and landed on my thighs and ran down the length of my kneebacks and calves...stopping only as it reached my socks. As he did this, I was able to feel the tightness about the creases of my kneebacks, which were stiffening with delight at every wonderful lick that my gym teacher was giving them.

     It was then that I realized that it wasn't my thighs or calves that interested Mr. Michaels the most about my legs. Itwas my knees...particularly my kneebacks!

     I could understand why. I had looked at my kneebacks in a mirror as I lay face down on my bed and saw just how beautiful they truly were. I mean, even though I was still a young man of fourteen, I had very strong, well-built legs... proportioned with just the right amount of muscle in my thighs and calves to make my kneebacks the center of attention.

     As we finished for the night, Mr. Michaels asked me about my waist measurement. I could not fathom why he wanted to know this particular bit of information about my physique. It was only after he gave me his address that I realized why. Mr. Michaels told me to look inside the closet of his completely furnished guest room.

     You could imagine the surprise I received when I opened the door. Hanging from wooden hangers were pairs of shorts...about fifty of them...of all lengths!

     I was floored!!!

     Mr. Michaels went shopping at the nearest clothing store and purchased all these shorts in my size. I couldn't believe it!

     Mr. Michaels asked me to try on each one. Whichever ones I liked the most, he would keep them hanging there in his closet. What I did not like, he would return to the store to get his money back. But, Mr. Michaels was indeed a shrewd and calculating man. He knew I loved wearing shorts and showing off my legs. All the shorts he purchased were perfect. Tennis shorts...walk shorts...Levi denim shorts...even Bermuda shorts! His closet was a beautiful treasure trove...a wonderfully veritable cornucopia of leg-showing designs.

     Of course, though, it was Mr. Michaels's choice as to which socks I wore with what shorts. If I wore shorts which ended an inch or two above the knees, he demanded I wear knee socks...just to accentuate that part of my legs which he loved the most.

     I made a deal with him. I would wear whatever shorts and socks he wanted me to wear...but on one condition: he had to do the same!!! After all, it just wouldn't be fun if I were wearing knee-length shorts and knee socks...and he wasn't. He nodded...and as I dressed in a white long-sleeved shirt, black knee-length shorts, black knee socks and dress shoes, so did he. Let me tell you this...he looked utterly fantastic and his kneebacks looked totally delicious!!!

     One thing about this guest room..there were two full-length mirrors hanging on opposite walls. If I was facing one and Mr. Michaels was facing the other...we were able to see each other's back. As Mr. Michaels gazed at the reflection of my bare kneebacks, I was doing exactly the same. Even though he was twelve years older than me, the fact that he had almost no hair on his legs made them look as if they belonged to a teenager!

     Before I left for the night, Mr. Michaels sneaked a paperback book into my pocket, telling me not to look at it until I got back to my dormitory. When I got into bed that night, I took out the book. It was a copy of "Typee" by Herman Melville, an author who journeyed throughout the South Seas as a sailor. It told of two shipwrecked sailors who were befriended by an island tribe. When one man "supposedly" died of a brain fever, his body (which mysteriously disappeared) ended up on the natives's menu. Mr. Michaels highlighted several passages throughout the book...but one caught my eye in particular:

     "That which the chief had given me for dinner looked and smelled every bit like the meat of a wild animal...yet it was like no meat I had ever tasted. It was sweet, yet stringy and tough on the teeth...almost like leather. It was much later, to my despair and utter disgrace, that I had discovered that my fellow seaman had not died and been buried...but was murdered and cooked by these savages. I was actually eating a piece of he who I had traversed the seas with!"

     When I had questioned Mr. Michaels as to why he highlighted this one passage in particular, he told me that, in the nineteenth-century, several native tribes in the South Pacific studied ritualistic cannibalism...eating the flesh not only of their enemies but their weak as well. He also said that, although people who still live on these islands no longer practice cannibalism, they eat a meat called "hufu"...which he said was an alternative to human flesh, yet with every bit the same consistency and taste when properly cooked.

     Mr. Michaels further went on to tell me that, as a teenager, he went to one of these islands and tried hufu. One native told him that different kinds of hufu taste like different parts of the human body. Ti-hufu tasted like a steak...which is what the natives made from the thigh. Cu-hufu tasted like a filet mignon, which came from the calf muscle. He also said that nu-hufu came from a part that was not as widely devoured but no less admired...the knee. It was this kind of hufu which Mr. Michaels said he liked the most. It was this kind of hufu which got him interested in the male knee...and my knees in particular, especially my kneebacks!

     Was Mr. Michaels thinking of actually killing me to eat my legs?

     No, he said, with a laugh...although the very idea is tempting.

     He went on to tell me that he was going to ask the headmaster if he could take me...and several other boys...on a field trip to the South Seas. I'm sorry to say, though, he never got the chance. However, he did tell me that the natives taught him the true meaning of...ahem..."good taste".

     The Day I Learned of Meat Cuts

     One day, shortly before Mr. Michaels died, he invited me to spend the weekend on his fishing boat. I dressed suitably for the occasion...a white short-sleeved sport shirt, blue mid-thigh denim shorts, white knee socks and sneakers. For cool nights, I brought along a navy blue windbreaker.

     The first day, we had nothing but bad luck. Neither of us caught one single fish! Yet, foreseeing this possibility, Mr. Michaels fully stocked the pantry with drinks, meats and vegetables.

     Mr. Michaels was a real wizard at the grill while he cooked two steaks to absolute perfection. But, he added some special kind of "seasoning"...especially to mine. I didn't question him as to what kind of seasoning he used. The steak was well-cooked and tasted absolutely delicious!

     After dinner, I found myself to be more tired than normal...especially since it was only seven-thirty in the evening. I went into my cabin...but before I was able to get undressed and hop into bed, I passed out.

     When I had come to an hour later, I found myself tied up face down upon my bed, stripped down to my boxer-briefs. I was anchored down to the four corners of the bed and, as I looked at my reflection in the mirrored ceiling, I saw that I was "marked up". Dotted lines were all over my body, sort of "divvying" me up. A tape recording looped over and over as to what I was looking at.

     "Above the ankle is the calf, from which we get the prime cut of filet mignon," said the voice on the tape, which I knew for a fact was not Mr. Michaels. "Beyond the knee lies the thigh, the home of the choicest steak cuts".

     It sounded as though I was being described in such a way as to become somebody's dinner. I managed to loosen my bonds and shut off the recording. But, on the other side of my cabin wall I heard the same recording...in Mr. Michaels's room!!!

     I darted out from my cabin and tried to gain access to Mr. Michaels's cabin...only to find the door locked. But, on the other side of the door, I was able to ascertain the distinct sounds of somebody smacking their lips. As I unlocked the door, I found Mr. Michaels face down on his bed, tied up in a similar way...but no one else.

     Were the smacking sounds I heard just a figment of my imagination? Apparently not...because there, all over Mr. Michaels's calves and thighs, were definitely teeth marks. Then, I became aware of a shooting pain in my legs. I looked down...and noticed that I also had the same marks on my calves. They were also most certainly on my thighs as well. It appeared that somebody else had hidden away on Mr. Michaels's boat...and had bitten our legs!

     When Mr. Michaels regained consciousness, we both scrubbed the ink off our legs, dressed and scoured every inch of the boat, trying to find the phantom leg-biter. But, all our searching was in vain...because, although we searched from stem to stern, we could find no hide nor hair of that sick person who had tasted our legs, listening to a sales pitch to market places.

     One thing I learned for sure about this weekend. I learned the true value of meat cuts...even though the meat was human!

DISCOVERY IN A SCHOOL BASEMENT



     Not long after my gratifying night with Mr. Michaels, the gym teacher at the American Academy of Dramatic Arts which I attended, I soon found out that there was a lower level throughout the entire school...catacombs that I'm not sure even the headmaster knew about. Mr. Michaels took the entire gym class down to this level.

     "There are many doors that lead down here", he told us. "But, only I have the key. Now, whichever of you boys gratifies me the most, I will give a copy of that key".

     He unlocked one of the side doors (which had the same lock as the doors to the hallways), pushed it open, reached out to the wall and turned on the lights, illuminating the room. To our amazement, there, in the middle of the room, was a large mat, measuring ten feet square...just like the mats which we have in the gymnasium.

     "Okay, boys", replied Mr. Michaels. "I want you all to lie face down with your feet together, your hands at your sides and the front of your knees off the mat".

     He looked at me and smiled.

     "Not you, Blaze", he said. "You already have a copy of the key". Turning to the other boys, who immediately fell flat on their stomachs, he continued, "I'm going to crawl around among you and lick the back of your legs. The first boy who can make me cum inside my boxers will be the one who will earn the right to join Blaze and carry a copy of the key to these catacombs".

     "Why doesn't Blaze have to have his legs licked?" asked one of my classmates...a skinny melink named Philip Larskin, whom I despised just about as much as he did me.

     "It just happens, Philip, that Blaze had already made me cum in my boxers...many weeks ago". This said, he barked out his orders. "Feet together! Knees off the mat! Hands at the sides!"

     The sound of palms slapping naked thighs was like music to Mr. Michaels's ears. The cracking of knees flying off the mat was just as sweet. Then. he turned to look at me.

     "Give your order", he said.

     Strutting back and forth among the multitude of my classmates, I looked at the back of naked legs facing the ceiling of the room.

     "Whichever of you is licked by Mr. Michaels and has his legs slapped will stretch out his head so that his chin is on the mat", I said. "Then, I shall walk among you one last time and pick the boy who I believe should benefit from carrying the copy of the key with me".

     Soon, Mr. Michaels got down on his hands and knees, crawling among the prostrate boys, going down on his stomach as he approached each one, stuck out his tongue and licked each thigh, calf and kneeback...smacking his lips as he finished and slapping the legs of the ones who, in his opinion, tasted the best. But, needless to say, cum did not flow in his boxers.

     Now...the job of choosing the one who would join us has fallen to me. I now had to tell the boys to do what I knew they would not like.

     "You boys who weren't chosen", I said. "It shall now fall to you to lick the legs of the ones who were. Whichever one of you cums in his briefs shall raise his hand and slap the kneebacks of the one that you were tasting when your cum started to flow".

     Those who not chosen rose to their knees, going down to their stomachs and lapping the legs of those who were. When Philip suddenly raised his hand and smartly smacked the kneebacks of Peter Piersall, a handsome lad with nicely formed legs (like me), I knew our choice was found. And I couldn't agree with Philip more. Peter's thighs, calves and kneebacks were well-formed and totally unblemished...a delicious sight which would have any young woman drooling when they saw them.

     And Mr. Michaels couldn't argue about the choice, either. He leaned over to me and whispered in my ear.

     "A marvelous choice", he said. "I smacked the loudest when I tasted his legs. They were delicious!!!"

     "Rise!" I shouted out.

     When all the boys rose to their feet and snapped to attention, I took the other copy of the key from Mr. Michaels and walked over to Peter, who bowed his head. I lowered the key and the chain from which it dangled over his head, placing it around his neck.

     "Peter Piersall, you now have the honor only I have...to carry the key to the doors which lead to these catacombs", I said. "Whoever should be picked by Mr. Michaels to face punishment shall be brought here to receive it. Raise your hand and repeat after me".

     Peter raised his right hand.

     "I, Peter Piersall,..." I said.

     "I, Peter Piersall,..." he repeated.

     "...having been formally chosen by Mr. Michaels and my fellow classmates to carry the key,..."

     "...having been formally chosen by Mr. Michaels and my fellow classmates to carry the key,..."

     "...shall obey the orders of the clique and never shirk from my responsibilities,..."

     "...shall obey the orders of the clique and never shirk from my responsibilities,..."

     "...doing whatever I am ordered to do".

     "...doing whatever I am ordered to do".

     "To shirk will mean to be punished".

     "To shirk will mean to be punished".

     "So help me God".

     "So help me God".

     Mr. Michaels and I shook the hand of our new novitiate, after which we led the class back upstairs to the gym, where we changed into our street clothes to attend the rest of our classes. But, know this...Peter did have the best-looking legs (besides my own) when he was a boy at the American Academy of Dramatic Arts. From what I heard, he still does...and, like me, he is married and a father of two sons (both who have beautifully well-formed legs). As a matter of fact...as I am recalling this incident and typing away on my laptop, my son Ilya is licking my kneebacks, smacking his lips in the fashion of Mr. Michaels. I really must prepare him so that when he goes to high school (and, eventually, college), he, too, shall know the satisfaction of licking the legs of other boys.

JUST FUCKIN' AROUND