This is the somewhat-true, somewhat-embellished story of my perverse sexual life. Some of the activity was probably illegal, though all was consensual except for the episodes in Chapter 1, "Pink Belly," and Chapter 2, "Co-Op Candy."

I certainly don't condone pedophilia, though we in the United States have an unnatural fear of childhood sexuality and much more is healthy and normal than we let on. How many of us had sexual experiences as kids that we would NEVER tell our parents about, and perhaps that, even years later make us blush--and make us hot as we remember? Most of us, I imagine.

When I was a kid, say from the age 9 or so, I was turned-on almost constantly. It was as if my whole body were a sexual organ receptive to sensual stimulation. Freud called this "polymorphous perversity," and I was (and am) certainly a Perv.

1) PINK BELLY

My earliest sexual memories revolve around innocent childhood sadomasochism--and sadomasochism is the prevailing theme of this story. In my neighborhood on Long Island we engaged in a practice known as 'pink belly'. Oddly enough, for all my years of reading bondage and S&M erotica on the web, I've never seen or read any reference to it. Administering a pink belly entailed two or three or four boys capturing another boy (I can't remember any girl victims; maybe at that age--about 8 to 11 years of age-- we just had nothing to do with girls outside of school.) The victim would be wrestled to the ground and held immobile by several of the boys. A boy who wasn't on limb-constraint duty would pull up the victim's shirt and pull down his trousers to bare the tenderest part of his belly. Then the tormentor would start slapping the victim's belly, at first gently but then with ever-increasing intensity. Soon the victim's howls of protest would turn to howls of pain as the belly-spanking started to smart. The slapping might go on for several minutes--until the victim's belly had turned hot pink. Then the flushed, humiliated and sore victim would be released from captivity. Sometimes he would go off in a huff, maybe even crying. Sometimes he would join with the rest of the mob in spontaneously assaulting another victim. Interestingly, I can't remember parents ever being told about the pink belly assaults, as if we all knew it was somehow shameful and forbidden and not to be talked about; very much like female rape victims for years did not talk about their own suffering; for Pink Belly was a kind of rape.

For me the times of the Pink Belly carried a particularly delicious ambiguity. I loved administering a good Pink Belly, but I also loved receiving one. I loved the attention, the humiliation. I loved being stripped, held down and hurt. I was a very big and strong boy, larger by far than all my friends. Probably at any time I could have broken away from my assailants and done some real damage in self-defense. But I never did that. I always allowed myself to be taken and tormented. I had for years been teased for being overweight, and maybe that made my stripping all the more exciting--my skinny little playmates could see my shamefully-jiggling flesh, and the slaps of their hands rang through the neighborhood with my fat body as an oversized soundingboard. In fact, because I was so fleshy the boys often extended my pink bellies all the way up my chest to my large, soft breasts. They would twist my nipples, call me a girl and wail away. I would often rise up in tears from one of these punishment sessions, but I was also secretly proud of my suffering and of the fact that my friends showed me so much attention. I couldn't run as fast as they could or climb as high, but I could suffer better than most, and suffering physical torment became my specialty (along with administering torment, of course--because I was the big guy I was also one of the primary tacklers and holders of other victims.) The Pink Belly era continued until I was about 10. It overlapped by about a year the summer of the Co-Op Candy incident; and soon thereafter began the glorious years of "Naked T."

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.

Chapter 3: "Naked T"

About a year and a half after the attempt to burn little Candy at the stake at 0camp (see "Co-op Candy") the era of "Naked T" began.

I was about 11 and my cousin Arthur was 13. Arthur was scrappy and street smart; I was passive and naïve. Arthur was sexually precocious; I was just starting to feel my hormones flow. Arthur was already about 6 feet tall; he towered over me. Because he was my big cousin, I was always flattered when Arthur paid attention to me--even if the attention was in the form of humiliation.

For example, Arthur liked to wrestle me down and give me Pink Bellies, often in the presence of his sister, my cousin Meg, who was a couple of months older than I but in the same grade I was in, and my cousin Nelly, who was exactly my age. Arthur and Meg's family lived right next door to Nelly's family, about three or four miles from my family in Flushing. All our families would gather regularly (Arthur and Meg's father was my father's brother, and Nelly's mother was my father's kid sister.) The parents would gather in the living room of one or the other house, and the kids would run off into their private world. When we were hosts that private world was often either the attic or the cellar.

The attic was a vast, open space that had never been finished--just rough-hewn boards on the floors, raw insulation between the ceiling studs and many 2x4 or 4x4 cross-braces above, that some day my father might get around to enclosing to create a drop ceiling (he never did.) In the attic we would play with my train set or construct forts, sometimes jails. We might play tag, with the losers thrown into the jail made of boards or even old blankets. The play was imaginative, and pure fantasy--nobody was hurt or held against her/his will.

The basement was quite a different environment. It was always damp, Flushing being on Long Island and water never being far below the surface of the ground. It was moldy, dank, creepy, like the torture chambers I was beginning to read about in gothic literature. Everything stored in the basement rotted or rusted. Like the attic, the basement had never been finished. Instead my father, quite the handyman, had driven hundreds of nails into the exposed floor joists from the first floor above. From the nails hung tools, ropes, chains, electric extension cords--my father saved everything and it all ended up hanging in the basement or boxed in the attic. Also in the basement were several parallel clothes lines stretching from right near the furnace on the edge to one of the steel and concrete pillars in the middle of this broad space. The pillars supported the house. Before long they would be used to restrain me.

I really liked my girl cousins, who were my age, smart, sweet and cute--both dark. Meg was wiry, Nelly was soft and curvy. Soon I would develop a crush on them both. However, Arthur was much more my playmate. Meg might take a violin lesson after school; Nelly was a Girl Scout; Arthur would hop on his bike and ride to my house, or vice-versa. My house was preferred because both my parents worked, so the place was empty every afternoon. Arthur's mom was a housewife, so Arthur rarely got any privacy at home. The play we got into required privacy.

I think I suggested it, but I could be wrong. The game evolved over time, but not long after we started it we began calling it "Naked T," for 'naked torture'. Most often it began with a boxing match in the attic. I had been given two pairs of boxing gloves for Christmas; maybe they came from Arthur or his family. We kept the gloves hanging from a nail in the attic. We would climb those steep stairs, which I began to think of after a while as my 'last mile'. Initially we would both take off our shirts. After a few sessions Arthur would keep his shirt on and only mine would come off. Then we decided on a 'progressive' format in which the results from previous boxing matches would carry over to the current match, with the past loser starting at a greater disadvantage this time. Eventually this would mean Arthur would start fully dressed while I would start fully naked--because I always lost.

Basically, the game was a strip boxing match, the winner of which got to punish the loser in any way he saw fit. The match would be several rounds and would last until the loser was naked--each lost round meant another lost article of clothing. But as I said, it didn't take long in the history of 'Naked T' before I would always be naked. Each time I would agree to the conditions and rules, maintaining the pretense that this time I would whip Arthur and win back my dignity and my clothes. But in reality I probably could have won at any time. I was big and strong, shorter and younger but heavier than Arthur. The think is, I didn't want to win. I loved being naked while my older cousin was fully dressed. I love being pummeled by him until couldn't take it and would throw myself to the ground. This would be a 'knockdown', and I would have to pay the consequences.

Humiliated, I would kneel at his command or rise to my feet. Arthur would tie my hands behind me if he was going to transport me to another part of my big, empty house. Or he would make me stretch and spread and would tie my arms above my head and wide to the overhead beams. Then he would tie my legs spread and held by ropes fastened to the banister and a side joist.

The first time Arthur tied me like this he put the boxing gloves back on and began to 'work me over', as he said. This was a term from some crime movie he liked, in which the thugs beat up the hero. I liked this term too; to this day I get aroused when I think about myself being 'worked over'--bound and helpless while someone systematically beats me. Arthur had me tightly tied. Then he began punching me in the stomach and chest, 'working me over' with increasing intensity. Eventually I would cry for mercy and Arthur would move around behind me, punching my back and shoulders and buttocks. Within a few minutes I would be red from the beating front and back and Arthur would offer me a choice of five more minutes as a human punching bag or 'three lashes with a wet noodle', by which he meant his belt. Usually I would take the wet noodle, though often by this time I was sobbing and begging for mercy--which he never gave. Arthur would strip off his belt, step back behind me or step around in front of me, and lay on the punishment, usually leaving me with half inch-wide abrasions that took several days to fade. Fortunately my public school didn't have a gym or locker rooms so none of my teachers or classmates ever saw me naked and whipped. Nor, by that time, did my mother or father see me naked. I reserved my naked body with its secrets of heroic martyrdom for my cousin Arthur. But some secrets are difficult to keep.

Chapter 4: "My First Orgasm--Helpless"

From the very first episode of 'Naked T', I would get somewhat aroused from my exposure and beatings and my little penis would thicken and extend. I thought it particularly unfair, therefore, when Arthur would constantly refer to me as "needle-dick the bug-fucker'--he called me this to my face, in front of his friends, in front of his sister, even in front of his parents. When he first said it before them, his father, my uncle, slapped him hard across the face. Arthur looked stunned and began to cry. I smirked at this poetic justice. The next episode of 'Naked T' was particularly brutal and I learned not to smirk at Arthur. But by this second session of punishment my penis was getting harder and for longer periods. Arthur might say 'get rid of that' and whack my extended penis with his belt. I would yelp and the tears would flow.

Then one day about a month or so after what might have been the fourth session I was working on a little woodshop project in the basement. I had a board clamped to the work table and was sanding it. Somehow the vibrating sanding machine touched my groin and I knew I was on to something. I had been practicing self-bondage for several months, since just after the first session of 'Naked T'. Since I was alone in the house I added an extension cord to the sanding machine and carried it over to my mother's clothes lines a few feet away. I unclamped the sand paper from the sanding surface of the machine. I found a length of rope and fed it through the clamp at the front of the sanding machine that was used to hold the strips of sand paper to the vibrating surface. Then I stripped off my clothes. I carefully tied the rope around my waist, dangling the sanding machine directly over my penis. I switched on the vibrating machine, and instantly felt a surge of pleasure between my legs, and a tingle of forbidden excitement climbing right up through my body to my head, which began to buzz.

Sensing that something momentous was about to happen, I quickly reached up, took two of the parallel lines of clothesline rope hanging above my head, wound them around one another and inserted my wrists between the twists of rope. Suddenly, I was helpless. But I was getting scared. Desperately, I tried to free my hands, but I couldn't do it. Then I felt a great rush of pleasure and white liquid began to spurt from my hardened penis. I was shocked! I wondered whether the vibrations had turned my pee a milky white. I was frightened that I had damaged myself. I struggled with my bondage and eventually freed my bound wrists, switched off the machine and wiped up the mess. Soon I realized I had not hurt myself--the sensation just felt too good.

I was extremely eager to share this mysterious experience with my cousin Artie, as he now liked to be called. Artie came over, I took him to the basement and told him what happened. He laughed mockingly at my confusion and ignorance: "So! Needle dick finally had an orgasm!" I was furious at him for belittling me, but he demanded that I let him tie me as I had tied myself a few days earlier. Reluctantly (eagerly!) I agreed. Soon I was naked and strung up, but as arranged by Artie there was no chance of my getting free. Artie tied the sanding machine around my waist and flipped the switch to on. Immediately I started to erect and orgasm was not far away. I groaned and started to pump my hips forward as if trying to intensify the experience. As my breathing grew heavy I watched Artie pull his belt from around his waist. Immediately he began beating me with it across the chest and belly. On the third slash I screamed in pain and pleasure and came.

I stood there, drained and in pain. I begged Artie to turn off the machine, because my penis was now extremely sensitive (and it always is right after I cum. For instance, I can't stand to have my dick tip licked post-orgasm.) Artie just sneered at me. He opened his fly, pulled out his prick, moved up close to me and, after a few jerks, spurted his cum over my belly, over the machine and onto my legs. I was fascinated and disgusted. I struggled to free myself but was unable to release my bound wrists. As I writhed, tormented by the infernal machine, Artie went to the laundry area, found a towel and cleaned himself off. He zipped his fly and started puttering around the basement as I begged in vain for mercy. Then I heard him call out, "Hey! I found something!"

He came over to me and held up a tube of airplane glue before my eyes.

"I wonder what this would do to you?"

I shook my head 'no', but Artie was inspired. He turned off the cum-covered sanding machine and removed it from my penis. I felt tremendous relief, but it lasted only for a moment. Artie unscrewed the tube of glue, stepped up to me and squeezed the glue onto my balls. For an instant the glue felt cool. Artie took a small piece of wood from the floor and began to spread the glue over my scrotum. And then the fire began. I had become used to pain over the past few months, but this was unparalleled and unbearable, a roaring, searing heat.

I bellowed in fear and agony, jerking wildly at the bonds holding my arms above my head. Artie realized from by howls and begging for help that something was seriously amiss. He ran to the laundry area, wet the towel he had used a few minutes earlier, and put a cold compress over my balls. This helped a little bit, but the pain, more intense than I had ever felt, lasted more than a half hour, during which time Artie held a compress of ice cubes over my tortured sac. Still he had not released me. My pain and my relief were both entirely in his hands. Finally, just minutes before my parents walked in the door, Artie let me down. Furious, I lashed out at him, but he just danced away and laughed. Then he marched up the stairs and out of the house. I could hear him kick up the kickstand on his bike and ride away down the driveway, leaving me to cleanse myself and the floor of cum. I pulled my pants over my still-burning crotch just as my mom called to me. Red-faced and aching I climbed the stairs. Mom told me she met my cousin in the driveway and said Artie told her I was a little 'burned up' at him over something or other. I got the joke, but I wasn't laughing. Mom proceeded to lecture me on not being rude to my cousin.

Dinner was hell, and I was relieved to be allowed to take my plate to the kitchen and head upstairs to do my homework. However, I found it extremely difficult to concentrate that night, instead playing over in my mind my helplessness and humiliation as my body was overwhelmed by a machine and I was forced to orgasm, just as I had been a week earlier, the first time in my life I had come. I think my twisted sexuality sprouted from those two first spillings of seed. Forever afterward, to this day, I have been thrilled by the prospect of having a vibrator or some other device used on me against my will, forcing me to come when I wanted control and delay.

How many times have women I desperately wanted to enter instead tied me up and made me spurt my seed into a towel, on the floor, on the ground in the woods or sometimes into my own face? How many times have I become a human party trick, bound and forced to orgasm for a group of friends and strangers? How many times have I been warned not to come and then been strapped when I could not heed the warning? Many times--every one of them delicious!

And perhaps my ultimate machine-force is the one in which I am bound and attached to a milking machine in an old barn. Cattle on either side contentedly chew their cud. Farmhands, men, women, girls and boys, casually go about their business. And I am helpless, my pleas ignored, as my machine jerks me to repeated Orgasm. In my fantasy I am a celebrity, maybe a rock star, captured for my sperm, which will be sold on the black market. Each day I am milked, rubbed down, fed and constantly aroused by gorgeous girls or sneering lads who will not let me come until the next time the lubricated sucking device is slid over my hard penis. Then the girls will mock me and dance naked before my eyes as the inevitable climax approaches. The girls will be sweet or taunting, soft or cruel. They will kiss me or whip me, suck my nipples or slide their fingers up my ass. Then can be whatever they want, but I can only be a sperm-slave. Eventually all the orders for my stolen sperm will be filled, and I will be thrown from a car, blindfolded, handcuffed and naked, my body covered with welts, a hundred miles from the secret location of my relentless drainings and humiliation. And I will be endlessly frustrated because I will never be able to find my way back for more.

More to come, including my adolescent purchase of John Willy's "Sweet Gwendolyn," its discovery by my mother, and my discovery by my girl cousins. I will continue writing this story, but please give feedback; so far I've heard almost nothing from readers of "My Perv." Reader comments, pro or con, or reader suggestions, are greatly appreciated and very helpful.

Thanks,

Tough93013