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Journal of an Agent Ch. Preview comment. The schools that the vast majority of English kids are forced by law to attend are known as State Schools, which may or may not have some religious affiliation attached to them. He'd stop over if he was in the neighborhood and sometimes just close the front door, bend me over the entry way table and fuck me until he shot his load. I love big, black cocks. Well, the fact of the matter is that I am myself actually half English; born in the USA to an English father and a Bostonian American mother, who traced her lineage back into the mists of time when everyone in the then Un-United States was of British extraction. Related Tags.

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Prepped The arousal of the foreplay. Gigolo Ch. Governored Politics behind closed doors. Paying Your Dues Ch. Well the former is the vulgar word that the Brits use crudely to describe a guy's posterior whilst the latter word is the American equivalent for that same part of his anatomy, but which for the Brits implies a donkey-like animal; so the word ass as such, does not capture their sexual imagination.

So how come then, that I, essentially in all that matters the quintessential, all American Mid-Westerner, use the English word to describe that part of a guy's anatomy which takes up so much of my attention? Well, the fact of the matter is that I am myself actually half English; born in the USA to an English father and a Bostonian American mother, who traced her lineage back into the mists of time when everyone in the then Un-United States was of British extraction.

And so having been born on American soil, I am by nationality an American citizen. But my immigrant father, who himself became a naturalised American citizen, also went and registered my birth at the British Embassy; so I enjoy dual nationality: American and British. How my parents came to settle in Chicago, a city of which my Bostonian mother totally disapproved, is a long and uninteresting story with which I will not burden you.

Suffice it to say that my father became the CEO -- for British readers of this narrative, the Managing Director -- of a large conglomerate and, over a period of years, thanks to the exaggerated salaries which such firms pay their top people, became a very rich man. And so, money counting for something, even though it was not the old money my mother clearly would have liked it to have been, she made a sniffy if a nevertheless somewhat-disapproving best of the luxurious lifestyle which my father's income allowed us to lead in Chicago.

We lived in a spacious upper floor apartment the lakeside road called Lakeshore Drive just north of Chicago downtown centre, known locally as the Loop. In realtor -- that's an estate agent in British English-speak -- our apartment enjoyed uninterrupted views over Lake Michigan. Speaking for myself, I find looking over a large expanse of water utterly boring; but that is just my personal view. And so, as I grew up, in common with other boys of similar wealthy backgrounds to me, I was sent first to a private local day-school and then from the age of about nine, at my mother's insistence, was shipped off back east to an upmarket boy's preparatory school in the Boston area, where I was, of course, a boarder.

I never really worked out whether my mother wanted me to have a true, blue-blooded, snobby, Bostonian-type education or whether she just wanted me from under her feet. Not to put too fine a point on it, my mother and I were not terribly close; if I tell you that from an early age I always called her mother and never mom that will give you an idea of the level of intimacy that I enjoyed with her.

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Anyway I actually quite liked being at a boarding school even though things were much stricter than they had been at my day school back in Chicago. It was at this school that I first encountered the doubtful joys of corporal punishment in the form of a well-paddled bottom -- I had not become conversant with the word ass at that stage in my life -- which was dispensed by the school principal to correct -- don't you just love that word?

As this was a traditional old-style school, the paddle was suitably drilled with holes to make sure that it mated correctly with its target, which was always the offender's bottom. Visits to the principal's office were for me, frequent and painful; for Mr.

Carter, as he was called, was an absolute expert in the paddling of his charges; an act which he carried out with monotonous regularity and always with considerable vigour. And so by the age of about twelve or thirteen when my time at prep school came to an end, I was already all too familiar with the pleasure associated with a sore ass -- which vulgarity we had all, by that age, adopted.

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It's quite amazing how quickly even well-brought-up lads such as I, pick up and use the vulgarities so common at even the best of schools and then bring them out purposely to shock their parents. Oh and I see that I forget to mention that the paddlings were always applied to the seat of the miscreant's pants. Well I suppose I might as well come clean and tell you that Jeremy is not actually my real name, but just the name I use professionally as a Male Escort.

My true name is Andrew David Stevens and it was as such that at the age of thirteen that my father decided that I needed a rigorous English Public-School education. The Brits have a remarkable aptitude for confusing things, so that a public school, contrary to what its name implies, is a private establishment where rich, usually upper-class Brits, pay exorbitantly high fees to ensure that their offspring get what is, in their view, a proper education and learn good manners.

The schools that the vast majority of English kids are forced by law to attend are known as State Schools, which may or may not have some religious affiliation attached to them. My father himself was from the north of England where he had been born and spent his early life in a small town in the East Riding of Yorkshire, the largest of all English counties, which, like ancient Gaul, was divided into into three parts called Ridings. His father, my grandfather, was a well-to-do gentleman farmer and had sent his son to a prestigious public school, Frogmore Academy for Boys, located in a village the same name near the county town of York.

This had been the place where all male Stevens' offspring, going back into the mid-nineteenth century, had been educated and was where, shortly after my thirteenth birthday, I arrived in September for the start of the new school year. I was not completely abandoned in being sent there as my paternal grandparents were still alive and lived not far away. I might as well just add here that of my maternal grandparents, only my grandmother survived and as she lived in what I supposed was isolated splendour in the old family house in Boston.

In fact, I barely remember seeing her; certainly she never ventured into the uncouth mid-west where her only child, my mother, was now living. But equally I hardly knew my English grandparents as for some, to me at least, undefined reason, my father's relationship with his parents was, to say the least; distant. They however, they were delighted to have their only grandson -- my father was their only child and I too had no siblings -- in relatively close proximity when they learned that I would be schooled at Frogmore.

It had been agreed between my father and his parents that I would spend all the shorter school vacations with them and go back to Chicago only for the long summer vacation each year. So as you can see, having been packed off at an early age to a boarding school in the east and then shipped off to public school in England aged thirteen, my relationship with my parents became ever more distant. Apart from forking out the cash to pay for my education, they did little else for me in my formative years; in a word, the much vaunted parental guidance and influence were non-existent.

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So my parents and I were never very close, even when I was just a boy. Frogmore or Flog-More as it was known cynically to the inmates -- sorry I mean pupils, of course -- was an old style school, where the cane and birch reigned supreme. In fact for a school in the twentieth century it really was a very old style school, where to all intents and purposes nothing much had changed since the Victorian age. It suddenly hit me years later that the school was still ploughing the traditional furrow designed to turn out well-educated, upper-class young gentlemen many of whom would then go on to run the British Empire.

Unfortunately the powers that be behind this system, admiral and fit for purpose though it might have been in the past, seemed oblivious of the fact that the Empire no longer existed. Like most public schools where boys are boarders, Frogmore was divided into a number of houses, to one of which each boy was affiliated and became a permanent member for his entire career at the school. At Frogmore there were six houses in all, each of some eighty or so boys, ranging for new boys like me through to upper-sixth-formers in their final year at the school.

But total loyalty to your house was expected and any act by a boy which in anyway disparaged his house was a cause for immediate punishment by the House Captain or one of his acolyte co-prefects. I won't burden you with the fine details, but the houses at Frogmore were named after six of the royal dynasties which had at some time ruled the country.

My own house was called Hanover, of which my father and grandfather had, in their day, also been members. And I was not alone to have this family affiliation, for many boys at the school were like me and had forebears who had been educated there and automatically became members of their traditional family house. But Frogmore, alone among English public schools, had a unique prefect tradition in that there were two junior and two senior prefects per house each reporting directly to the Housemaster, who was usually a bachelor: The junior prefects were named each year from boys in the lower sixth and then in their final year graduated to become seniors, one of who was nominated by his Housemaster to be House-Captain.

The Head-Boy of the school who had powers virtually equivalent to a master -- and I might add, tended to use them to the full -- was nominated by the Headmaster himself and was traditionally one of the senior prefects. At that stage in the final year of his school career, the Head-Boy became the only pupil of the school not affiliated to a specific house and moved into what was, for a pupil, by any standards, a spacious suite of rooms in the main school building, located just along the corridor from the Headmaster's study.

So the house from which he left to become Head-Boy, found itself with two junior and only one senior prefect for that year.