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Subject: {ASSM} RP: Peter File.08 - The Diary
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PeterFile #08: THE DIARY


	Peter finds the diary of his great-grandfather and
learns how masturbators were treated 100 years ago.

	(Editor's Note: The role of heredity in the development
	of masturbatory addiction has received insufficient study;
	whether nature or nurture is predominant is still an open
	question. At the Institute for Correction of Sexual
	Misbehavior, we hold that, while genetic factors may
	predispose a man to masturbation dependency, expression
	of the trait is not inevitable. The development of
	unwholesome habits depends ultimately on deficits in
	the personal character and self discipline of the
	masturbator, and may be avoided by appropriate
	early corrective intervention.

	In this chapter, Peter discovers the diary of his
	great-grandfather, which indicates a family history
	of habitual masturbation and describes corrective
	measures common in the last century. While we do not endorse
	every particular of the treatment described below, we entirely
	agree with its emphasis on the personal value issues of
	masturbatory addiction.
				-- Dr. Margaret Wilson)


<Peter Begins:>

	I recognize that I am a man of unusual sexual tastes. My
preference is for the delightful practice of masturbation: for
me nothing can match the pleasure of my own penis warm and
throbbing in my hand. It's true what they say that the practice
is addictive, and I must confess that I have become completely
enslaved by my masturbation habit. Even as I write this, my
pants are pulled down so that I can lovingly stroke my penis,
well lubricated with Johnson's Baby Oil.

	In this enlightened time, there is no penalty for
inclinations such as mine, except perhaps personal embarrassment
if my secret addiction should become known. It has not always
been so. In times past, masturbation was strenuously
discouraged, and those unlucky masturbators discovered in the
act were subjected to the most severe punishments.

	A few days ago I was in the attic of my home, looking
through an old chest that belonged to my great-grandfather.
Among the memorabilia of his life, I found quite by accident a
secret diary that he kept as a teenager at a New England
boarding school. One incident he records riveted my attention.

	The diary reads:

--------

September 23, 1896

	I entered the office of Mrs. Crane, the Headmistress,
with trepidation. She sat at her desk, wearing a high-necked
white blouse and a black skirt that reached to her ankles, not
quite covering the high-top black shoes. The blouse swelled in
front, asserting the presence of her magnificent bosom that was
famous among the boys of the school, almost as famous as the
severity of her punishments. I handed her the note I was
carrying from my classroom teacher. She read it with arched
eyebrows and a grim, determined smile.

	"So, Peter, Miss Adams has sent you to me for 'special'
discipline. You have been very, very wicked. Do you admit your
offense?"

	"Yes ma'am, Miss Adams . . . saw me."

	"And will you please describe your iniquity to me?"

	"I ... I was in the cloakroom ... you know, touching
myself."

	She drew in her breath sharply. "I see. Peter, that
practice is not only disgusting and immoral, but more harmful
than you can even know. I shall have to punish you very
severely, for your own good."

	Mrs. Crane led me into a small adjoining room, and
closed the heavy door behind us. In the center of the room was a
straight-backed wooden chair, of curious design I had not seen
before. A large U-shaped gap bit into the front edge of the
seat, so that an occupant would be supported along his thighs
and buttocks, but his crotch would hang suspended over the gap.
A low stool stood in front of it. An assortment of whips,
paddles, and rods of various shapes hung on one wall. I knew
that I was in for a whipping, but the array of implements
puzzled me: they all seemed too flimsy and light of weight to do
much damage to a teenage boy's buttocks. I began to have an
ominous sense of foreboding, without understanding why.

	"What ... what are you going to do to me, Mrs. Crane?"

	"This is your first time to receive 'special'
discipline, isn't it, Peter. Of course, you are to be spanked,
but I think that you will find that it far exceeds your
expectations. Now remove your britches and underwear, please."

	School spankings were always administered on bare flesh,
and I was not surprised at her order. I dropped my trousers and
stepped out of them, standing shyly before her, naked from the
waist down. I expected the usual "bend over and grab your
ankles" but instead, she set me in the half-bottomed chair and
produced four short leather straps with which she bound my hands
behind the back of the chair and my ankles to the chair legs.

	Finally she took a wooden rod that terminated at each end
in a padded "Y" and placed it between my legs, looping leather thongs
around each knee to keep it in place. The rod held my legs
widely apart, and my naked genitals, dangling above the gap in
the seat, were fully exposed to her. I was terribly anxious at
these proceedings.

	"What is that for? Please, Mrs. Crane, what are you
going to do to me?"

	She smiled, and explained, "The discipline you are about
to receive is 'special' because it is applied to the 'special'
parts of a young man, on which whipping is most effective. This
brace will keep your legs separated, and your privates readily
accessible."

	I could scarcely believe what she was implying. "What...
what do you mean, Mam?"

	"Don't you understand yet? I mean, Peter, that you are
to be whipped on your male organs of generation."

	I shuddered in horror. "No! Please! I couldn't bear it!"

	She looked at me with genuine sympathy, and gently
stroked my cheek. "Then pray for courage, Peter, for bear it you
must."

	She withdrew from the wall a short rod that broadened at
the end into a small paddle, rather like a miniature carpet
beater. She drew the stool up in front of me and sat down. "Now
Peter, we are ready to begin. I have secured you into this
position so that you may watch the proceedings. I'm sure they
will interest you greatly."

	She held her implement in front of my eyes. The small
paddle on the end was cupped, rather like a soup ladle, and I
shuddered to think for what purpose. "We call this the
'slapper', and you will come to know it well; it will be your
faithful friend in leading you from the paths of iniquity."

	She moved the slapper between my legs and brought it up
slowly to my testicles, which fit neatly into the cup of the
paddle, and hefted them in a gentle, almost caressing motion,.
"It is appropriate, is it not, to apply the discipline here, for
these small glands and their little appendix were the seat of
your offense. Perhaps you did not know, as you were engaged in
that loathsome act, that they can provide agony even beyond the
wildest ecstasy?"

	In spite of my fear, the gentle oscillation of my organs
began to have an effect. My penis stretched and reared its head.

	"Peter! What is the meaning of this lewd insolence! Do
you flaunt your carnality even in my face? Cease this disgusting
display at once!"

	I pleaded, "But Mrs. Crane, I can't help it when you...
you're making it ..."

	"What, do you blame me for your wantonness? I'll make
you sorry!" She lowered the rod and then with a flick of her
wrist brought it up sharply between my legs. There was no doubt
of her practiced skill as the paddle made precise impact with my
testicles in a clearly audible "spat". A searing pain gripped my
viscera and I howled in misery.

	"There, that's better. Your member has lost its
lascivious tension. What, are you in pain already? But we're
just beginning. Watch, Peter." I tried to close my thighs to
protect the vulnerable targets, but the brace kept them apart.
She delivered three more quick slaps to my manhood, leaving me
shivering in agony.

	"Now, young man, as I have your attention, we will
discuss the loathsome practice of self-abuse." She began telling
me of the evil and injury resulting from the practice of my
vice, punctuating her words with regular assaults on my genital
sacs. She applied the punishment in unhurried, measured strikes.
Each began with a swift upward flick of her wrist, executed with
a practiced skill, catching my dangling testicles precisely in
the cup of the slapper with a quiet but devastating "spat". As
the resulting wave of pain and nausea washed over me, she held
the slapper against my glands, cradling them in a soothing
gesture. As the agony began to gradually subside, she slowly
lowered her wrist and began again.

	The torment I suffered was awful, worse than I could
ever have imagined. Yet after some time, an unexplainable
transformation began to take place. The pain was no less, but
its very intensity confused and altered my senses. I felt a
glowing heat at the core of my manhood, and the ache crossed
over and became an indescribable sweetness. With each upward
sweep of the slapper I began to welcome the blows on my tender
bulbs, to relish being tied helplessly before this terrible but
beautiful woman. I felt myself opening to her, spreading my legs
and sliding my hips forward, offering my vulnerable maleness to
her intimate caress. Through a haze I thought I saw just the
trace of a smile on her lips.

	Finally she ceased, put away the slapper, and allowed me
to catch my breath. "You took that well, Peter, with humility
and acceptance. Now we are ready for your next lesson."

	Returning to the wall, she took down another implement,
a wooden rod about a foot long to which a half-dozen short
leather straps dangled from the end. She sat down and pointed
the rod at my penis, a shriveled bud after the punishment of my
glands.

	"Now we shall address another part of your person,
Peter. It is this small member that was the object of your
lascivious mischief, was it not?"

	"Y . . .yes ma'am. Are you going to . . . beat it like
the other?"

	"Yes, and no, Peter. We will whip it, certainly, but our
purpose will be somewhat different as you shall presently see."

	She began flicking the whip back and forth across my
flaccid penis. The punishment was surprisingly gentle, producing
a light stinging that was almost pleasant, and certainly
stimulating. My member, well trained by the regular but
unsophisticated attentions of my own hand, began to respond the
novel sensations. I recalled her earlier displeasure at this
response and tried to suppress its insurrection by force of
will, but it rose rebelliously in my lap.

	"Well, Peter, it seems as if our work is not yet
finished. Would you care to explain this manefestation?"

	"Please, ma'am, I'm sorry! I know it's wrong, but I
can't help it." I knew better than to imply that it was her
actions producing my insolent erection.

	To my surprise, Mrs. Crane accepted my apology. "I know,
Peter, I know. This organ is surely the seat of a young man's
temptations. It recognizes no master, but arises disobediently
at its own impulse, and subordinates his will to its own
voluptuous needs. See how it lewdly swells and puts itself forth
to my whip, though I know you struggle against it."

	"Yes, ma'am, I'm trying to make it .. . go down, but it
won't." I was thoroughly off balance now by her unexpected
sympathy. She continued to flick the whip across my erect penis
from side to side, with increasing intensity. The whipping
leather stung and turned my bobbing organ an extraordinary shade
of red, but I found the sensations far from unpleasant.

	"No, Peter, it is too strong for you alone. Do you feel
how your member throbs and stings, Peter? The very Devil is in
your flesh, and we must draw him out. We must whip the Devil out
of your member, Peter, and make your organ humble and obedient
once more. Will you work with me, Peter? Will you work to push
the Devil out?"

	I had no idea what she was talking about. I only knew I
wanted the delicious stinging whip to continue nipping at my
ruddy penis. I could feel myself becoming increasingly excited,
and my member was emitting small clear droplets of arousal.
"Please, ma'am, tell me how!"

	"You must bear down as I whip you, Peter, and press the
Devil out. Your male organs are full of the Devil's own spunk,
and we must rid you of it. We've loosened it up in your glands
with the slapper, and now I'm going to whip the spunk out of
your member."

	She maintained the maddening stinging reign on my penis,
as I arched my hips in the chair to meet the whip. I could not
believe this was happening, but I did not question it. The
combination of pain and pleasure in my organ transported me into
an almost unbearable rapture. "Please, ma'am, whip it, whip the
spunk out. Oh! Mrs. Crane! I feel . . . Oh!"

	"It's starting, Peter, the Devil is starting to let go.
Press him dear, bear down and push the Devil's spunk out."

	She continued to whip my penis from side to side as it
throbbed and jerked, and the spasms of release began. But when
the first pearly stream burst from the tip of my penis, she
withheld the whip, and encouraged me only with words. "There,
that's it, Peter. Push for us. Push the Devil out of your
member."

	I was wild with urgency as she stood idly aside,
watching my penis ejaculating nakedly by itself. "Please, ma'am,
please! Whip it! Whip it some more!" I begged, desperate for her
touch.

	"No, Peter, I've done my work. We must not tempt the
Devil with further whipping, because he is making it feel too
good right now. Just go ahead and squeeze inside yourself, and
express all the spunk for me."

	I thrashed in my bonds, trying desperately to find a way
to rub my spasming penis on something. In an agony of
frustration I watched my naked and lonely organ, untouched,
spurt jet after jet of sperm into the empty air.

	As I sat in the afterglow of release, covered in my own
male juices, I thought that there was an end. But Mrs. Crane had
one more surprise for me. Turning to the wall once more, she
took down an ivory-handled knife, with a short blade that curved
at the end into a cruel hook. The light gleamed on the blade,
which I saw was sharpened on the inside of the curve.

	She reached down and encircled the neck of my scrotum
with thumb and forefinger, pinching my aching glands painfully.
Her other hand took the knife and held the wicked curve of the
blade against my sac, gently feeling for the precious testicles
hidden but vulnerable inside. I shuddered at the touch of the
cold steel on the wrinkled skin of my scrotum. "We have covered
much ground today, Peter. I hope that you have learned enough.
But if these arguments have not convinced you, there is one
final measure I will take. Castration will surely put an end to
your vicious habit. I would rather prune these fruit of
carnality with the gelding blade and let you live you live as a
neuter, than allow them to lead you to utter ruin."

	Her words filled me with indescribable terror. I had no
doubt of her earnestness. "Please, please, Mrs. Crane, don't! I
promise to be good!"

	She slid the razor-sharp knife over my scrotum, shaving
off the hairs. A few flicks of the blade, and I was as smooth
and hairless as a newborn babe. "There, that will serve as a
reminder, when next you feel inclined to yield to your unnatural
urges. Remember that if you are caught abusing your organs of
generation again, I shall take more than your pubic hairs." I
looked down at my pink, denuded maleness and blushed in
humiliation.

	There was no more punishment that day. She released me,
and told me to reflect carefully on what she had said. I left
her office, walking slowly and awkwardly, wincing with every
step at the lingering ache in my testicles, but as I walked and
relived the incredible punishment in my mind, another feeling
grew within my loins, welling up and consuming all else. I
rushed into the hall lavatory and locked myself within the W.C.
Beside myself with urgency that belied my recent release under
her whip, I tore open my trousers and stroked my member to a
furious, shuddering climax, spraying the walls of the W.C. with
the jets of my spending. Finally at ease, I rearranged my
clothing and returned to my room, amazed at the conflicting
torrent of feelings I had experienced that morning.

--------

	Well, that was the excerpt. You may guess that I read
the passage with a "conflicting torrent of feeling" myself,
recoiling at my ancestor's brutal treatment and yet experiencing
a dark, unexplainable excitement. I too ripped my own britches
open and jerked myself to a throbbing, spurting release that
drenched the front of my clothing. Luckily, I did not soil
great-grandfather's diary, for it contains much else of
interest. Now, if you will excuse me, I think it is time to take
care of a certain matter at hand....


- end

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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