The Kirkwall Chronicles Prologue
By Arclos
Copyright 2017 by Arclos, all rights reserved
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This work is intended for ADULTS ONLY. It may contain depictions of
sexual activity
involving minors. If you are not of a legal age in your locality to
view such material or
if such material does not appeal to you, do not read further, and do
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story.
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The Kirkwall Chronicles
BOOK I: The Union
Prologue
August 9th,
1931
Kirkwall, Oregon
Gregory Schwartz
ran. He weaved through the trees. He brushed aside branches. He jumped over
small bushes. He kept running, running for his life. To him, this was life or
death. If they caught him, his life might as well be over. He would be
targeted, marked, for the rest of his schooldays. He wasn't the only one
running. There were two other boys, chosen because they were small, skinny,
seemingly weak. They were easy pickings. A bigger boy might have challenged
whoever nominated them to a fight and won.
The black-haired
boy tried to see where the other boys were but he couldn't find them. His hair
was divided in two by a line in the middle. He had black eyes. As for his body?
It was an era where boys would swim naked and in public in most parts of the
country but not in Kirkwall. Once a boy was over five years old, the law
mandated that their genitals be covered at all times. Unless they were marked.
Unless they were being punished. That meant that he hadn't seen his classmates
or they haven't seen him naked. Not even in the locker rooms during the recent
summer camp.
He had no idea
if his penis was big or not but he had suspicions it wasn't. The packages
outlining the other boy's long underwear suggested that much. He had no hair on
his armpits, none on his pubic region, none of his chest. He had yet to begin
puberty, which was probably another reason he had been marked. He might have
only been beginning the sixth grade but he could tell that he was already going
to have to play catch up in developing.
He kept running,
trying to stay focused, hoping that he would be able to outrun the other boys
and thus not get caught. He thought he might be ahead but he had been so busy
just trying to get away he wasn't sure. Maybe they were far ahead of him. Maybe
he had already lost. Not that he thought he could afford to think like that.
Especially not this year. Thanks to the Great Depression, many families had
lost their jobs, their homes. The town mayor, in an attempt to life the town's
spirits, had hired an artist to commemorate this year's capture for all of
eternity. He would be a statue, to be gazed upon by future generations of the
small town.
George never saw
the sixteen-year old junior coming. One second, he was running, his feet barely
touching the ground. The next second, he was down on the floor, the junior
holding him down.
“No!” George
yelled out as he realized what it meant. The junior merely laughed at his face.
Soon, he was surrounded by a lot of teenagers and even one adult. The adult
took out a flare gun and shot it to the sky, telling the other boys that they
had gotten away. That George had been captured. The group lifted George up and
they carried him.
It took about
half an hour but they were in the middle of the town square. There was a small
little park and right in the middle were two trees. Between the trees was a
stand where the statue that was now for sure going to be based on George would
go. But for now, they had to prepare George. George knew fighting was useless
but he struggled nonetheless as they pulled his shoes and socks off. He tried
to punch his way out but the teens held his arms strong as they forced his
shirt to come off, ripping it. He tried kicking but they continued to hold him
as they took off his belt and pulled his pants off.
He was left in
his underwear. Luckily, it covered his whole body. They started to take the
buttons off and before he knew it, he wasn't so lucky anymore. He was completely
naked. They dragged him to one of the trees and tied his hands so that he was
stuck there, exposing his whole body to the whole town. The girls and women
there laughed, teasing his tiny little penis. The town photographer took his
photo so that it would appear in the newspaper, confirming he would be a
target.
For about an
hour, the town mocked him cruelly, bringing him to tears, pointing at his
privates, laughing at his expense. For an hour, girls touched him all over,
making him squirm, tickling him, even pulling hard on his penis and balls. That
hour was the worst of his life to that point but he knew it wouldn't get
better.
After the hour,
the crowd finally dispersed but they left him there. At this point, the artist
finally arrived. And he started work on the statue. Of course, the artist
didn't just start shaping stone right then and there. He instead took a very
detailed drawing of the boy, making sure to capture the dimensions of each
appendage just right. It would take months for him to complete his work, maybe
even years, but that didn't make George feel better. He knew his naked body
would last a lifetime, displayed for all, always present.
He also knew it
wasn't going to be the last time he would be naked in public. He was lucky his
parents weren't fanatics who thought that being marked meant he should wear no
clothes all the time. The kid above his grade who had also been marked had to
be naked all the time. But he knew that it would be the right of any kid who
wasn't marked or any adult to be able to get him to strip naked. He knew it
wouldn't happen every day but he'd be naked at least once a week.
He knew that
even when he wasn't being naked, he wouldn't necessarily be happy. Since he was
marked, it meant anytime one of the people in his class misbehaved, he'd be the
one getting punished at school. That might include naked time but worse it
would mean getting spanked, paddled, or switched. Since he was marked, it meant
that throughout the day, any kid in the town was free to harass him and if he
tried to resist, he'd get punished. Since he was marked, he'd be forced to
particiate in sexual activities-some of them public-regardless of his will.
There was no escaping it. Until he turned 18 and became an adult, he'd be one
of the town's punching bags-literally and figuratively.
Even after the
artist was done, he had to spend the whole day naked, tied to the tree. He was
finally freed once night came by his parents. He wasn't looking forward to his
first day of school, which would take place on the next day.
July 4th,
1933
“Why can't they
pick another kid? Why does it have to be me?” Thirteen-year old George Schwartz
asked his mother that morning during breakfast
“The town
thought it would make sense if they used you again. It would add continuity.”
George's mother told him. She felt bad for her son. When she had first arrived
to the island with her husband, who had grown up in the small town, she had
been shocked by the town's unique customs. She had been pregnant at the time
with George and had considered trying to find a way back to the mainland. But
she had stuck through it and while she didn't really participate, she didn't
get in the way.
“Then why do I
have to shave? I'll look like I'm still a little kid.” George replied. He had grown
pubic hair, his balls had dropped, his voice was now manly. He was in the
middle of a very public puberty since he was often very naked.
“Because it
helps the artist. Plus you don't have THAT much hair yet and it would be hard
to add that to the statue. But look on the bright side, you are bigger now AND
you'll be hard on this statue.” His mother pointed out although she did wince
at the mention he'll be hard. In many ways, Kirkwall was very puritan but when
it came to the marked it always flew out of the window.
“Yeah, people
will think I'm a pervert when it's against my will.” George said, pouting.
“Let them think
what they want.” She said.
Once he was done
with breakfast, she took him to the bathroom. He stripped naked in front of her
and then she got to work. Before she was done, he was as hairless as he had
been with the first statue. When she was done with her handiwork, she grabbed
his hand and walked to the nearby beach. A beach where if you looked hard
enough, you'd be able to see the coast of Oregon.
It didn't
surprise George that the beach was busier than normal. There were some
tourists, some who knew what was going to happen, some who didn't, but none who
would object. There were some gasps from some of the mainlanders who clearly
were ignorant about the island's customs but the local police made sure nobody
would intrude.
There were two
stands. One marble one where the new statue was going to go, and another wooden
one where George would stand. He knew the wooden stand would continue to be
there for future kids who would be unlucky enough to mimic the statue.
The crowd
gathered around George. As always, there was teasing and mocking. George didn't
cry though. He had become used to it. He wasn't immune. He was still very
embarrassed about being naked in front of a crowd especially when they never
let him forget it. But at some point, with all the teasing, he grew a thicker
skin. That had the odd effect of making the crowd trying harder to make him cry
but it rarely worked now.
Likewise, when
he grabbed his penis and made it go hard, it wasn't like he was eleven where
the mere action of having to masturbate in public, or masturbate at all really,
had made him cry. He was used to the actions even if he hated it, was still
embarrassed by it. The teasing grew and they would yell out he's a pervert even
though the only reason he was doing it was for their enjoyment. Yes, with the
marked, otherwise respectable members of society could lose the constraints of
civility and indulge in their basest desires.
He was made to
stop rubbing but keep one hand on his penis, the other behind his head. He
could only rub if he started losing his erection. This was so that the artist,
the same one the town had hired a couple years back, could once again take a
very detailed sketch of his body to turn into a statue. At least he would look
a little older on this statue so that when people read the plaque and realized
it was the same kid, they could see he wasn't completely a little kid anymore.
Once the artist
was done, he was directed by the crowd to masturbate in front of them not once,
not twice, but three times before he was allowed off the wooden stage. And
while each time he rubbed his penis and each time he reached an orgasm shamed
him to his very core, he performed the actions diligently. At least this time
he wouldn't have to suck any penises. The first time he had to do that when he
was eleven, he had almost thrown up right after. He hated that more than
anything, still finding it disgusting to put in his mouth. To taste it or the
balls right under them was the worst thing the other kids did to him by far.
Well that and maybe when they used his face as a toilet.
November 3rd,
1936
It didn't matter
that there was snow on the ground. It didn't matter that the kids were wearing
jackets to weather the cold. What did matter is that the town had decided to
order a third statue to be made, once again of George Schwartz but this time
paid through the WPA, and this time placing it in the middle of the high school
courtyard. George was now sixteen. He had developed quite nicely, grown into a
nice fine looking lad. Of course, that only made the girls strip him once they
were indoors even more than when he was a little prepubescent boy.
Not that George
ever stopped being embarrassed even though he was more confident about his body
now. He couldn't wait to get away from Kirkwall so that nobody whose seen him
naked would be in his everyday life. Minus his girlfriend of course but that
was in private and between the two of them. But right now, he had to put his
fantasy of being far away from Kirkwall. He was still inside, in a classroom
right next to the courtyard.
He stripped
naked in front of the principal. His penis was now quite long, in fact it might
be the biggest in the school now, but he was still very ashamed of people
seeing it. Size doesn't really matter and the town who mocked him didn't stop
just because he had an impressive penis. If anything, they delighted in teasing
him even when he was fully clothed now because of it. The fact that he was
considered one of the most attractive teens to be marked in recent memory only
seemed to bring more attention to him. He hated it.
He bent over the
desk as the principal picked up his paddle. He was going to get paddled long
and hard before he stepped outside. There was no real reason besides the fact
that the statue was supposed to represent a punished student. It wasn't the
first time he had been spanked for no reason although usually those were just
the kids and not the adults. The adults usually always had a reason because his
classmates would get in trouble just so he'd get punished.
Even though he
was used to it, it didn't stop George from crying. All-in-all, after fifty
slaps with the paddle, George's butt was on fire. The principal then got a
switch, got George to stand up, and they went outside into the cold.
George hated the
fact that it was so cold. It meant that his now actually impressive penis would
shrink down so that he'd be smaller than in the statue when he was thirteen
years old. It would mean he would be as small as the time he was eleven years
old. George passed the marble stand where the third and final statue would go.
It was right next to a wooden stage where marked kids in the future would get
spanked and paddled. Up until then it had happened in the assembly but once the
statue was there, it would happen right next to George's naked marble body.
Once he was up
there, in front of just about the whole student body, the principal got in
place. George leaned down, making sure his butt was in place for the principal.
He wouldn't be the only one captured this time. The clothed principal (although
to the principal's annoyance without winter wear), bringing down the switch
about halfway. The statue would thus be of George mid-switch.
The artist both
rushed (for George's health) and took his time (for accuracy) on the sketch. He
made sure to finish in time before George was in any real risk of getting sick
or damaged but to make sure his sketch was as detailed as possible. Once he was
done, George and the principal rushed inside to get warmed up.
August 14th,
1945
The town was
celebrating the victory over the Japanese like crazy. There was drinking,
singing, and general debauchery. The men who had served in the second world war
and already returning home were dancing in the streets of Kirkwall. Some of
them were kissing any girl who got near them. It didn't matter: the war was
won, the United States had emerged victorious, and the world looked like it
would only get better. The future belonged to the Americans and the Americans
knew it.
George Schwarts
was on the island that day. He had served in the war and now he was a veteran,
looking to buy his own house and settle down in the island he had once hated
but now that he was an adult, it was his home. It had always been his own home
and nobody really teased or mocked him anymore. He was like everyone else:
accepted as an integral part of the community and not as a punching bag.
He was like his
mother. He wasn't a fan of the town's customs but he never got in the way. Not
even as he walked through the town square and saw naked two boys, one fourteen,
and one blonde-haired black-eyed eleven-year old kid with light freckles (who
had just been marked a few days ago) tied to the trees right next to his
statue. He actually smiled at his young self. Yes, those years had been a
nightmare to live through but compared to the horrors of war, they were but a
distance memory that looked like the best of days.
He went to the
beach where he saw a thirteen-year old next to his second statue giving a nice
little show. The thirteen-year old was very red-faced as he masturbated in
front of them while also sucking a fifteen-year old kid who had also been
marked. They would switch places at least a few times before the crowd would
let them go. Considering the things he had done in service of his country,
having to give blowjobs and getting fucked in the ass, which hard started when
he was twelve, weren't any more pleasant but they weren't what kept him up at
night.
Finally he went
to the school where he was set to be a teacher. He went to the middle courtyard
where a naked brown-haired twelve-year old was in the process of getting
paddled next to his last statue. Next to the stand a sixteen-year old and
seventeen-year old were waiting for their turns but based on the state of their
butt and their crying faces, it would be their second or third time on the
stage. The spankings he got nothing compared to the pain he felt when he got
shot in the war.
Yes, George was
back. And while he vowed to try to one day change the town for the better,
little did he know how he would in five years fortify the town's weird customs.
For deep down, in his heart, he always secretly wanted other boys to suffer
like he had had.
(End of File)