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Paul's Revenge - Part 2 This story is a work of fiction, all characters and plot lines are fictional. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. After Miss Cholmondley-Smythe had departed the girls stood around the fire for about five minutes before beginning to drift back to their sleeping tents. Bound and helpless beneath the concealment of the sleeping bag I waited full of trepidation for the discovery that I knew must soon come. In my mind’s eye, I visualised the Ravens stealthily creeping back to lurk behind the tent so as not to miss a moment of the fun. The tent flap was pulled open and in came Amanda followed by four younger girls. The youngest girl sat down heavily on her sleeping bag and promptly leapt to her feet with an ear-splitting shriek. “Something’s in my bag !” she yelled. The bag was pulled back and I lay revealed in all my nerdish trussed up glory. “Euughhh, it’s a boy !” “What’s he doing here? Doesn’t he know this is a girls tent ?” “Make him go away!” “I like boys. Can I keep him ?” Amanda raised her hand to still the shrill cacophony of comments. She knelt beside me and my heart pounded. “What are you doing here boy?” she said. “Mmmnn mphhh nggggurrr MM!” I replied taking care to enunciate clearly through the sock in my mouth. Amanda understood perfectly. “I think,” she said, “that he is one of those silly Boy Scouts and that they are playing a trick on us.” There was a chorus of wise nods. “But since he’s been given to us we may as well make the most of it.” Even more enthusiastic nods, except from me who was shaking my head violently. Amanda reached down and removed the silly glasses that I had been equipped with. “Ahh look! He’s actually quite cute without those.” My heart rose. “Why is he wearing those silly clothes? Lets take them off and see if he’s really cute underneath.” My heart fell again. I thought I heard a muffled snigger from the back of the tent. “OK,” said Amanda, “but we have to be careful. Undo all the ropes but leave his hands tied. Then we can strip him and have a look.” So they set to, removing most of the ropes whilst sitting on various bits of me to prevent unseemly struggle. By now the tent was filling up with other girls who had come to see what the commotion was about. “Right! Now his shirt and shoes and socks.” “Mnngg urrgghhNN!!!” I said speaking fluent sockish. Another faint suppressed snigger. I noticed Amanda look towards the source of the sound and raise a quizzical eyebrow. “Right now his trousers!” The second that her fingers reached for the waistband of the shorts my brain quit and the hormones took command. My body did what boy’s bodies are programmed to do in such circumstances. “Oooohh, look at his thingy! It’s growing!” shrieked the youngest girl, and indeed we now had a tent within a tent. This time the snigger was loud and undeniably from the back of the tent (the big tent that is). Amanda reacted instantly. Using hand signals she urged the younger girls to keep talking. The older girls she signaled to perform a stealthy pincer movement to intercept whoever was behind the tent. The older girls melted away into the night like ninjas. For a while there was a silence and I took the opportunity to roll onto my stomach relieved still to have my modesty preserved. Then came the unmistakable sounds of battle - thumps and groans, high pitched squeals from the girls and shouted oaths from the boys. The younger girls poured out of the tent to join the battle and I was momentarily left alone to regain some self control. Shortly two of the older girls returned and escorted me outside to see the results of the carnage. In light of the dying camp fire I could see the Ravens laid out in a neat line. Each had been securely hogtied with ankles crossed and drawn up tightly to their bound hands. Their noisy protests had been effectively silenced by the application of an interesting selection of hosiery. I soon became familiar with their predicament because in no time at all I had joined them on the end of the row. The girls now settled down to decide what should be done with their captives. “Let’s tar and feather them and make them walk back to their camp in the nuddy.” This was thought generally to be a good idea but eventually rejected as too lenient. “Let’s hand them over to Miss Cholmondley-Smythe!” This was universally rejected as being too harsh. Amanda came up with the winning suggestion. “Let’s have a slave market! We can inspect the merchandise and then bid for the slave we want. We can take him back to our tent and make him do our bidding for the rest of the night.” Universal cheers from the girls and muffled groans from the boys. And so the slave market was set up. Paraffin lamps were lit and moved into a small marquee that the Guides used in inclement weather. One by one we boys were moved into the marquee, stripped to our underwear, hands tied at the front and strung up by arms to the sturdy ridge pole of the tent ready for inspection by the paying customers. The next 15 minutes were traumatic enough to sear the psyche of a superhero for evermore. Fortunately, we were made of sterner stuff and merely deeply humiliated. The inspection was very thorough. Mind you, it was all done with the greatest decorum. Touching below the waist was strictly forbidden – although this did not stop some of the more forward young ladies from inflicting severe wedgies on their chosen boys in order to make a visual assessment of the elasticity and pulchritude of the buttocks thus revealed. For some reason these were considered desirable traits in a slave. Hair was inspected for style and cleanliness and endlessly rearranged in an attempt generate some indefinable quality that girls referred to a ‘cuteness’. Faces were ruthlessly scrutinized for spots and suitable expressions of disgust displayed. Biceps were felt and universally condemned as weak and underdeveloped. Armpits were inspected for traces of hair and the lack thereof decried as a sign of gross immaturity. Belly buttons were inspected for accumulations of fluff and classified according to innerness or outerness. An acrimonious argument broke out as to how this related to mysterious ‘cuteness’. Underpants were scrutinized for style, fit and cleanliness with all the seriousness of a pack of fashion editors at a Christian Dior show. The baggy draws that had been inflicted on me by the Ravens, of course, reduced everyone to helpless laughter. An attempt to assess the size of ‘packages’ concealed in the underpants was abandoned when they were all declared to be too inadequate to be worth bothering with. Eventually the auction began. I was much chagrined when a bidding war broke out over Paul and he was finally sold for the princely sum of 75p, whereas I was knocked down for a mere 25p. However my black mood was lifted when I discovered that my new owner was none other than Amanda. One by one, the boys were led away by their new owners to begin their long night of servitude until at last I was left alone with Amanda. Once we were alone she at once untied me and handed me my clothes. “Let’s go for a walk,” she said. So we did, and later that night I had my first real kiss with my first real girlfriend. I continued to go out with Amanda for a further three years until we eventually drifted apart. In the inquests that followed this affair the boys who had been taken as slaves were deeply reluctant to discuss the nature of the duties they had been required to perform. However, to this very day, dark rumours circulate that speak of lipstick and eye shadow and even – it is rumoured – painted toenails! © Copyright Cinched 2009
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