Friday, 4 April 2014



And so we should turn again briefly to some of the other men who worked alongside David Hockney in the Republican College of Art (RCA) and were almost as naughty as our BDSM hero or anti-hero. These young gentlemen (of whom we had a glimpse at the outset, but whose company we have carefully avoided ever since, seeing that their sayings and doings were of a kind of which the less said the better) had been steadily going on in their way, getting more and more idle, reckless and perverted. Their doings had been already so scandalous on several occasions as to call for solemn meetings of the college authorities; but, no vigorous measures having followed, such deliberations had only made matters worse, and given the men a notion that they could do what they pleased with impunity. This night I'm about to write about the climax had come; it was as though the flood of misrule had at last broken banks and overflowed the whole college like endorphines filling the body with pleasure during orgasm.

For two hours the wine party in Peter Blake's large ground-floor flat was kept up with a wild, reckless mirth, in keeping with the host's temper. Blake was on his mettle. He had asked every man with whom he had a speaking acquaintance, as if he wished to face out his disaster at once to the whole world. Many of the men came feeling uncomfortable, and would sooner have stayed away and treated the pluck as real misfortune. But after all Blake was the best judge of how he liked to be treated, and, if he had a fancy for giving a great wine on the occasion, the civilest thing to do was to get to it. And so they went, and wondered as much as he could desire at the brilliant coolness of their host, speculating and doubting nevertheless in their own secret hearts whether it wasn't acting after all. Acting it was, no doubt, and not worth the doing; no acting is. But one must make allowances. No two men take a thing just alike, and very few can sit down quietly when they have lost a fall in life's wrestle, and say: "Well, here I am, beaten no doubt this time. But my own fault, too. Now, take a good look at me, my good friends, as I know you all want to do, and say your say out, for I mean getting up again directly and having another turn at it."

Blake drank freely himself, and urged his guests to drink, which was a superfluous courtesy for the most part. Many of the men left his digs considerably excited. They had dispersed for an hour or so to billiards, or a stroll in the town, and at ten o'clock reassembled at supper parties, of which there were several that evening, especially a monster one at Sidney Chanter's rooms - a "champagne supper," as he had carefully and ostentatiously announced on the cards of invitation.

This flaunting the champagne in their faces had been resented by Derek Boshier and others, who drank his champagne in tumblers, and then abused it and clamored for beer in the middle of the supper. Chanter, whose prodigality in some ways was only exceeded by his general meanness, had lost his temper at this demand, and insisted that, if they wanted beer, they might send for it themselves, for he wouldn't pay for it. This protest was treated with uproarious contempt, and gallons of ale soon made their appearance in jugs and tankards. The tables were cleared, and songs (most of them of more than doubtful character), cigars, and all sorts of compounded drinks, from claret cup to egg flip, succeeded. The company was getting more and more excited every minute. The relics of supper were cleared away and still the revel went on, till, by midnight, the men were ripe for any mischief or folly which those among them who retained any brains at all could suggest. The signal for group sex in the form of a gang bang was given by the host's falling from his seat.

Chanter was very drunk but not unconscious. His art student guests used his fall as an excuse to rip the clothes from his body. The host put up a half-hearted defence and was slapped hard across his face for the effort and slammed down on his back on the floor.

Chanter tried to rise, but was backhanded again and fell back on the floor. Art student hands were all over the drunk host like a cheap suit. Insistent, frenzied hands. There was drunken laughter and sneered talk. Chanter clearly heard the words "fuck" and "sweet hole" come up again and again, always meeting with raucous laughter and menacing tones of hurried, furtive whisperings. He could tell from the jabberings that his fellow postgraduate art students were arguing among themselves, but eventually two of the bigger men who he knew only by appearance and not by name, took ascendance. Four others stationed themselves at Chanter’s limbs, holding him down and stretching him out in a sacrificial X. Brandy was being poured over Sidney’s body and the biggest of his assailants took a mouthful from the bottle, leered, and dipped his head below Chanter’s belly, between his legs, and he felt the stinging wetness of the alcohol being spat into his anal canal. It was stopped from escaping from there by clamping lips and a searching tongue. He had men's lips and teeth all over his body then, tonguing and nipping the film of brandy, flesh, and his nipples and mouth.

Sidney Chanter had never felt so aroused in his life; the very uncertainty and threat of the situation was exhilarating to him. He was trembling with anticipation.

The other bruiser who was not yet known to Sidney by name was above his head, which he arched up and pushed back, into a position for him to straddle over Chanter and push a huge dick into the host’s throat. He filled Chanter and started to pump him there just as the largest cock of all thrust into the supper party host's rim of dark pleasures and this took his mind off all other points of assault with its fury and filling.

Chanter spat out the second one's cock just long enough to make a plea, borne not from my fear and noncompliance but from my desire to keep his assaulters' alcohol-drenched sense of completely taking him keenly edged.

"Help, help! He is forcing me. Oh, he is soooo big. No, no, Arghhhh. Please, give me time. Please release me. No, no, you're splittttting me! Ahhhhhhhhh. Ohhhhhh. Help! Help me." Other fat fingers joined the huge tool working inside Sidney's anus.

"Oh god, not those too. No, no, not that. Ohhhhhhh. Moannnnnn. Help! Help me. Whimmmperr." Chanter was crying for help, pushing his assailants to a frenzy, and he was sure he could be heard by people in the street. But the only response was that someone turned up the radio on which a woman was wailing some rock and roll song about being done wrong by her man that turned into her determination to return to him.

Chanter lifted his head as the bruiser who had been face fucking him stopped at a signal to take his turn inside Sidney’s arse, and Chanter saw Peter Blake, the painter, standing in the shadows of the entrance to his room. Chanter cried out to Blake for help, maintaining his role in this sexual role-playing scene as an unwilling victim, knowing that Blake was beyond intervening, but he remained standing there. As the biggest dick pulled out of Sidney and he had two or more fingers digging inside him, he was able to focus on Blake, who had his cock out of his trousers and was pulling on it as he watched Chanter being taken by the drunken, keyed-up, disappointed art students.

Chanter cried out as the second cock was thrust inside him, pumping rapidly in the lubricant of the cum left by the first one. There must have been fears that Sidney’s cries would attract attention in the street, even over the wailing of rock and roll tunes on Radio Luxembourg, because he was roughly backhanded across the face again, and before he could regain his breath, a small union jack flag was stuffed in his mouth to gag him.

After the second of the assaulters had quickly unloaded inside Chanter, he was roughly turned on his belly and serviced four more drunken Republican College of Art postgraduate students, two of them together in a fucking that turned him woozy and left his bumhole looking like an abstract expressionist painting! As Chanter was slowly blacking out, the one who took him first started his second fucking. He had his fist buried in Sidney’s hair, pulling his head back toward him, with the host’s back arched in full extension and his arms still being held out from his body by two of the others. The top was muttering phrases, and kept repeating the slogan "fuck art I wanna dance" over and over and over again. Meanwhile the two men holding Chanter's limbs were tyring to outdo each other with the first shouting out that the gang bang was better than fucking Paul Klee, to which the second repsonded it was superior to making the beast with two backs with Joseph Albers, the first then retorting it was a bigger turn on than shagging Joan Miro, and so on and so forth! It ended after about ten minutes of boasting with the second student announcing: "I'm gonna take him right up his Andre Breton!"

In Chanter’s room that night, others who were too drunk to fuck took to doing what mischief occurred to them. One man mounted on a chair with a cigar in his mouth which had gone out, was employed in pouring the contents of a champagne bottle with unsteady hand into a clock on the mantelpiece. Chanter was a particular man in this sort of furniture, and his clock was rather a specialty. It was a large bronze figure of Atlas, supporting the globe in the shape of a time-piece. Unluckily, the maker, not anticipating the sort of test to which his work would be subjected, had ingeniously left the hole for winding up in the top of the clock, so that unusual facilities existed for drowning the world-carrier, and he was already almost at his last tick.

One or two other postgraduate art students were morally aiding and abetting, and physically supporting the experimenter on clocks, who found it difficult to stand to his work by himself. Another knot of young gentlemen continued to shout out scraps of song, sometimes standing on their chairs, and sometimes tumbling off them. Another set were employed on the amiable work of pouring beer and sugar into three new pairs of polished leather dress boots, with coloured tops to them. Certainly, as they remarked, Chanter could have no possible use for so many dress boots at once, and it was a pity the beer should be wasted; but on the whole, perhaps, the materials were never meant for combination, and had better have been kept apart.

Others mustered in the street outside, and began playing leap-frog and larking one another. Amongst these last was our BDSM hero or anti-hero Hockney, who had been at Blake's wine but had not gone inside Chanter’s room as it was so crowded. Hockney lent his hearty aid accordingly to swell the noise and tumult, which was becoming something out of the way even for an RCA student party. As the leap-frog was flagging, Derek Boshier suddenly appeared carrying some silver plates which were used on solemn occasions in the senior tutor’s dining room. A rush was made towards him.

"Halloa, here's Boshier with lots of swag," shouted one.

"What are you going to do with it?" cried another.

Boshier paused a moment with the peculiarly sapient look of a tipsy man who has suddenly lost the thread of his ideas, and then suddenly broke out with:

"Hang it! I forgot. But let's play at quoits with them."

The proposal was received with applause, and the game began, but Boshier soon left it. He had evidently some notion in his head which would not suffer him to turn to anything else till he had carried it out. He disappeared accordingly and the next day could remember nothing of how well fucked he’d been that night. Seven men had been up his arse, and each was a horny handed son of toil who worked for London Transport! But we won't linger on that here because we need to move on to our next chapter and get back to David Hockney's high jinx!

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