"Ride The Donkey" - Chapter 1 ' Shafted by Bastards. A Taste of Tit.

IMPORTANT:

Have you read this first? - " http://www.abctales.com/node/546185 " It is the full introduction to the story.

"Ride The Donkey"

Chapter 1 ' Shafted by Bastards. A Taste of Tit.

Now - an old man - I sit here alone with my thoughts¦

Few ever think of what havoc the abuse of authority creates in a Juvenile mind, or the consequences it has on Society¦ with me, it all started when I was but nine years old: I was wrongly convicted by a lying farmer, a bastard police officer, and corrupt Judiciary. It led me into a life of danger, sex, pimping, theft, deception, ruthlessness, domination, and International intrigue. Despite that, always lurking beneath the surface, I like to think there was a great capacity for love, and compassion, which surfaced at unexpected times.

A smile softens my rugged face; eyelids close as memories erase the physical pain of cancer. My mind is full of wonderful memories. My life has been full indeed. Soon I will die, but I have nothing to feel unhappy about. Once I go - well that will be that. I do not believe in Heaven, Hell, and Life Hereafter. Having been given a life and lived it to the full ' and then some - it is almost time to return to oblivion. Now you can all read my story.

Believing in those two adages - 'Faint heart never fucked fair maiden', and, 'The Righteous are the most corrupt, and easiest to shaft', brought me all the cash and cunt a man could desire - and enough excitement to fill a half-dozen average lifetimes.

Drawing a heavier breath, I relax, enjoying the flitting kaleidoscopic images pervading my mind's eye. Like the disks of a One-armed Bandit, they revolve before me in a blur. Some briefly lock in a winning combination, and my reward is a secret smile. My head drops, as euphoric sleep threatens to engulf me, transporting me into times long passed. Eyelids flicker, jaw twitches: I am back there, reliving youthful events - seeing visions of Angie, the insatiable Sally, and all my other girls for hire.

'My little mares' - The thoughts and visions produce a sigh. Unconsciously, one hand reaches to caress a nubile breast, and then slowly lowers, as memory morphs into another mental image. In indecent haste, each in turn flashes vividly by ' Patricia, who took my virginity, and the girls whose virginal cherries I plucked - the happy apparitions smile at me. I smile back, recalling sensuously their sexual expertise. My hand moves automatically to cover my stirring loins.

The visions change to even earlier memories: Blowing up a bridge; biting off a nurse's nipple; attempting to demolish a house; playing truant; watching a pony burn to death; burning a boy at the stake; learning communal masturbation; early exploration, and exploitation of assorted females; Shooting a boy's eye out, getting my first blow job, and first fuck. Incidents of thieving, being an Altar boy, a Boy Scout, a Black Marketeer. My early life as a gang leader; pimp; poacher - the memories helter-skelter onwards¦

'And all this before I reached my eighteenth birthday!' I muse, in the twilight before sleep.

Weighing eleven pounds seven ounces at birth: at fourteen I stood over six feet two inches, owned a mass of long blonde curls, and tipped the scales at over fourteen stones. I was a boy with big ideas ' and a penis to match - a real Jack the Lad, thinking I knew it all, and was the Bee's knees.

Hovering just a whisker from all-encompassing sleep, I recall and review what I have written so far - a collection of my life's memories. My brow furrows at the memory of that Courtroom. The words I've written pass starkly before me in ticker-tape fashion. Half-sleeping lips move silently, voicing the words¦ I slapped them down just as I thought them: No frills, no pandering to prudes, no whitewashing - Just raw truth.

I was nine years old when I first became acquainted with British Justice: We sat having tea, my Dad answered a knock at the door. It was the local police officer. He loomed half past Dad, and stuck out a finger pointing directly at me, "There, that's one of them. Come here you. I want a word.

What followed is just a haze. I was unaware of what I was supposed to have done. Both my parents appeared in shock. Dad gave him my name, signed a paper of some sort, and the police officer was gone¦

Try seeing it from the perspective of a nine-year-old kid: There I was, looking up at this huge man in uniform. He stood six feet four without his helmet. To me he was an awesome brawny giant. He was hated and feared by all us kids. Most had felt his boot - or fist - at some time or other. Even at six feet two, Dad looked puny against him. I heard the accusations, but nothing registered. I was too busy watching for a fist, or boot to come at me.

Six weeks later, we cycled to the next town, to attend Juvenile Court. With me, were my Dad, cousin, and a boy from the same housing estate. Those two accused boys were eleven years old. We had to stand to attention below a raised dais, on which sat two elderly men, and an equally old woman. The police officer - locally known as PC Pisspot - read out the charge: For the first time the three of us became aware of what we were there for.

The charge was that, at a given time, on a given day, we had done criminal damage. Namely, we had whitewashed the outside of a new duck hut, and creosoted the inside, using materials purchased for the reverse actions. We then proceeded to wring the necks of a duck, and seven ducklings therein, and escaped with two pot eggs, which had been placed to encourage the ducks to lay eggs.

Pisspot produced two pot eggs he had retrieved from the family rubbish bin as evidence. We three lads were not asked anything.

It transpired that the owner claimed he'd come upon the scene of the crime, catching us red-handed. He falsely claimed he'd recognised us before we ran off. Despite giving chase, he had been unable to apprehend us. He once again identified us in the Courtroom.

The three Court Magistrates huddled together for about five seconds, and then the woman spoke. She almost spat at us:

"You are nothing more than brats, vagabonds, and young hooligans, and it is a pity you were ever born. Each one of you will pay the Court a fine of two pounds, and a further sum of sixteen shillings and eight pence, towards the costs of your actions. She paused to blow the contents of her hooked nose into an inadequate handkerchief.

"Furthermore, you will be required to attend a Probation Officer, three times a week for the next two years. The Clerk of Court will provide the details. Giving a look at her companions, the other two rose, and the three filed out of court in a flourish.

Our parents were devastated. It was the time before World War II, and the fine and costs amounted to over a full week's wage for them. My own annoyance was that we had not been allowed to say we were innocent. It was obvious to me that the whole thing had been cut and dried before we ever went to Court. By no stretch of the imagination did they have time, in their short huddle, to either assess our guilt, or decide any punishment. That I was only nine years old at the time of the alleged offence counted for nothing.

That was my first ' but by no means my last - taste of abuse of power. It decided the path my future would take. Never again would anyone talk to me - or about me - in such an unwarranted manner, and escape my wroth. From then on, it was to be ME against THEM: Getting caught for something I was guilty of was a fair due in my eyes, being used as a scapegoat, or railroaded, that was something else!

One of the male Magistrates was later found guilty of fathering his fourteen-year-old house cleaner's child. The female Magistrate later happily bought poached game, and illicit petrol from us, together with Black Market flour, and clothing coupons from Dad, as wartime rationing took effect. Always, as I smiled, and took her money, I knew that the bitch was living on borrowed time ' I would have my revenge ' and I did¦

As I write this, I forget the pain, and time passes more quickly. Truth? Fiction? Which is more or less believable? I was no angel, but then what kids are? However, my life would have followed a very different path, had I been born in a different decade, or if it had not been for others abusing power. My darker side has remained a secret to most until now. On reading this, rush not to judge me, for there is a bit of me in all of you.

* * * *
I was three years old when I started school. With Mum having two younger kids to look after, and another on the way, the school took pity on her, and accepted me early. They were already aware to some extent of my abilities, and some of my history. By then, I could read and write, thanks to a helpful older sister. I was a big lad, and very forward for my age. At that time, I had angelic looks, topped by a mass of blond curly locks.

It was not the first time I had visited the school. I had been there a few months earlier, along with other children under school age. A girl at the school had been struck down by poliomyelitis. The doctor insisted we all receive an inoculation. I was stuck in a queue with Mum, and we slowly shuffled forwards, and my turn came progressively nearer.

I was unsure of what was involved at first, but eventually saw what was happening up front. Kids were lifted up in turn by their mothers, and a nurse in a blue and white uniform jabbed something into the child's arm. This resulted in cries from the child, and their mother carried them off as the next mum offered her child for sacrifice. I recall thinking, "No way ' sod that. - Or something to that effect.

This is a good point to inform you I have only ever been allergic to one thing: pain. Many say the measures I've taken to avoid this throughout my life, smacks of nothing but cowardice. I treat that remark with the same contempt as claims that I was bone-idle. Far from being lazy, I always viewed it as sensible conservation of energy. Why work if you don't have to? Why endure pain if you can avoid it? - Unless you are an idiot, or into some form of bondage!

It was a sweltering hot summer day. Most everyone wore a minimum of clothing - the nurse was no exception. Any vest, bra, bodice, or slip, had been discarded, leaving her sporting a thin, starched uniform, and - presumably - a pair of knickers.

She was young, probably around twenty, and the owner of a very small waist. This was tightly nipped in by a red patent leather belt, which accentuated her protruding nubile breasts. Breasts fascinated me even at that age. I don't remember much else; just the breasts, and a round smiling face surrounded by dark wavy hair, with a blue and white hat perched on top, matching the trimming on her short sleeves.

Almost abruptly, it was my turn. Mum raised me up, and rested me on her protruding stomach, (Mum's, not the nurses!) and offered me forwards. I saw the menacing glass tube, tipped by an even more menacing needle, moving towards my bare arm¦

Now there definitely come times in all men's lives, when they think, 'That is not for me,' or to use a Suffolk expression, 'Hell all round that. Fuck this for a game of soldiers' - so I took evasive action. I guess I was born to instinctively think the best form of defence is attack. Lunging forwards, I clamped my teeth straight into one of the nurse's breasts.

The ensuing consequences seemed to occur in a blur of action as all hell broke loose. The nurse screamed, and pulled back, instantly bowing with my weight as In the same split second my surprised Mum released me, and I slammed against the nurse's body. I was, suspended in mid air - some would say, 'hanging on by the skin of my teeth!' Around us, adults, and children seemed struck motionless.

Fearing the pain of a fall, my teeth clamped tighter, and I clawed to grip something. The nurse screamed louder, trying to straighten, and pull me off. Her uniform front burst open revealing one bulging milk white breast, and partly displaying the other. The one pulled forwards was distorted and elongated. Blood stained the material around it, and I could feel and taste the warm liquid, as I hung on grimly.

Whether the blood weakened the material, the constant starching had done so, or it just could not cope with my weight, is debatable. Whatever - my teeth met. I was suddenly on the floor, choking on a section of blood-soaked uniform containing a nipple, and a generous amount of surrounding areola. The nurse collapsed alongside me.

It was pandemonium for a few minutes. Mum attended to me, as everyone else - it seemed - was smothering the nurse in their haste to assist her. Mum bent and prized out the offending matter, and glanced at it. Giving a quick, furtive look around, she tossed it away behind her. Somehow, she extricated us from a melee of legs. In moments, we were free of the turmoil, and on our way home. I never did get that jab, nor saw the nurse again¦

Continued in Chapter 2 - Background. Early Memories. Niggers; WOGs; Yanks; Frogs; Men & Soldiers.