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Nifty - Gay - Adult Youth - Newspapers And Gym Suits

 
***Author's note: the following work of fiction is intended for adult
entertainment only. Any resemblance to actual persons, places or events is
unintentional. The author in no way condones or advocates the actions
depicted. If you enjoy stories of consensual Man/boy love and/or the idea
and look of young boys in short pants, please refer to Ian, One Man's
Prince and Arcadia Academy.***


NEWSPAPERS & GYM SUITS
by Short Boys-Pants

Chapter One
"Tempting Terry"


"Alright there, Terry. You ready?" I knelt between the kid's
spread legs and squeezed his knees.
"Yeah," he said softly. Terry always became quiet and serious just
before I jacked him off. Terry was fourteen and a freshman in high school.

"Good boy." I began to caress his spread legs. Terry and I were
on my bed in the dark, stripped to our underwear and sporting erections.
The boy lay cross-wise on the mattress, shoulders and arms and head
dangling over the side so that his bony chest bridged up smooth and tight.

"Is this OK? Mind if I touch your legs for a while?"
"No. It's OK," he said. His voice was nervous and high.
I didn't know if Terry was gay or just experimenting and I'd been
careful to bring him along. He'd been my paperboy for three years; we
became friends and Terry began to visit. That March, at the beginning of
the month, he and I drank a few beers and talked about sex until I saw he
was erect. Did he masturbate? I told him I did before he admitted to it,
and somehow we wound up in bed to masturbate side by side. We did it
several times during the following days before I reached over and stroked
him and he let me do it. I still hadn't seen him naked: the kid always
kept his underwear on and, just before ejaculation, shoved wads of toilet
paper into his briefs to soak up his cum. Apparently, he knew what he was
doing.
"Your legs are soft," I whispered, testing the boundaries of our
relationship. The boy knew I was gay but I'd never explored his body or
told him what I was feeling. That night I did. I told him his legs were
hairless and silky and that I'd like to see him wearing short pants.
"Why?"
He lifted his head to look at me. But Terry was blindfolded. He
never watched me anyway and I told him that the blindfold would help him
concentrate on whatever fantasy he wanted to entertain. Terry was very
cute. He had a narrow face, big blue eyes and short brown hair. He was a
delicate sort of kid, slender and lanky, about 5'6" and 115 pounds. His
pale body glittered with moonlight.
"Because you have nice legs," I said, reaching back to squeeze his
small feet. He was wearing white crew socks.
"Oh." He took a deep breath before letting himself dangle over the
edge of the bed again. His neck was long, chin angular and smooth.
"I've seen you in shorts before. Delivering papers. You had a
white outfit when you were twelve, remember?" I slid my hands up his shins
to his silky thighs. I'd only been rubbing his dick, never exploring his
body.
"Yeah. I-I-I remember. You remember that?"
"I took pictures of you." My heart pounded. Would that turn him off?"
"You did?" he squeaked, surprised. I tweaked his cock and felt his
soft, flat stomach. The boy grunted and sucked in tight, four inch penis
jumping and bulging deliciously.
"You were so cute, so small in white. Your little pants.... Then
you started wearing knee-length shorts. The long ones that are in style?"
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." My large hands almost encircled his narrow thighs.
"They're nice but when your pants are really short and tight I can see your
legs, your ass, your crotch when you sit or squat."
We were drunk. Terry had pleaded with me for some beer, saying it
would help him relax, which was true, but I didn't want it to become a
habit. I did my best to intoxicate the boy with pleasure. I traced my
fingers gently, outlining the waistband and leg openings of his underwear.
I'd never taken my time with Terry, just rubbed him off quickly to preserve
the fiction of us being two guys just horsing around.
"Why are you telling me this?"
"Isn't it true?"
Terry took a deep breath. I ran my hand over his flat, warm chest.
Each rib was pronounced. The digital alarm on the nightstand glowed with
orange numbers. 9:15.
"I suppose. In gym class.... I can see the girls...."
"You can see the boys, too. Boys your age start growing hair up
here by the crotch but not you. Not yet."
Terry cleared his throat, perhaps embarrassed at his juvenile
smoothness, so I began to rub his dick. The boy's crisp, clean underwear
slid up and down over his genitals, and after a minute I spoke again.
"I never wore shorts when growing up. Not until junior high and
gym class. Then it was like being naked. My legs naked and bare. They
were sensitive because I'd always worn long pants. Suddenly I could feel
the wind on them, the sun, the grass. In wrestling I could feel the other
boy's legs on mine. We were so smooth then."
Terry groaned then caught himself. I encouraged him to make noise.
"I'm alright," he said gruffly.
"I know. But you look so excited. Groaning helps it feel better."
Terry ran his hands through his hair, shifted his hips, drew up his
right leg. I kissed his round, shining knee. The boy jerked.
"You don't like that?"
"No. Just...rub me off, OK?"
How sweet. I gripped his skinny right ankle and straightened his
leg even as I shifted so that the boy's long, thin legs rest side by side.
His knees, curving inward slightly, touched. I sat on his bony shins with
my muscled ass and squirmed.
"You're a bean pole," I chuckled, patting his thighs.
"You really took pictures?"
"Color. Had them blown up. I look at them when I masturbate."
"Oh, man!" Terry gasped, shocked, so I squeezed his balls. A wave
of pleasure filled the boy and he jerked, arms and head flopping, brown
bangs cascading over his blindfold.
"Got lots of pictures of you in your shorts. At twelve, at
thirteen, now fourteen years old. I was afraid you'd get big and hairy but
you haven't."
"Are you into kids or something?"
Terry was approaching orgasm and insight.
"Only boys."
Terry shivered and his face grew pinched. He was thinking about
something and I feared he wanted to leave. Instead, the boy surprised me.
"Mr. Oswald?"
"What?"
"Are my pants around?"
"Don't get dressed, Terry."
"No. Um, there's a bottle in my pocket."
Terry's jeans were at the foot of the bed. I rummaged through them
and took out a small bottle of gin.
"Do you got it?"
The boy sat up, reached for the blindfold but I pushed his hands away.
"Don't look. I have it."
"Give me some?"
"You don't have to get drunk, Terry. Just relax."
"I will...if you give me a shot. OK?"
"Yeah," I grinned, unscrewing the cap. "Here."
The boy in his underpants glowing in the dark set his delicate
hands on my shoulders. I tousled his hair and guided the bottle to his
lips. He screwed up his face in distaste and shook his head.
The thin boy lay back, smooth cheeks flushed like apples.
"That's better. Yeah," Terry sighed. "I feel better."
What could I do? The kid needed an excuse for what we were doing
-- later, he could always say he was drunk. I had to teach him that good
sex was nothing to be ashamed of.
I licked my lips and stroked the boy's legs. I could feel the
long, wiry muscles there, his knees bunched and knee caps protruding: his
quads had yet to develop. I looking into his face and found it dreamy.
"In the summer you get a nice, peachy tan," I whispered, bending
over the boy to kiss his concave tummy. He didn't move so I began to lick,
my tongue finding his navel -- an innie -- and tracing the sensuous curve
up to his ribs. "You taste good. Like a young boy. Softer than any
woman."
Terry began to twitch and gasp, electrified. I scooted down to sit
on his ankles and finally, after three years, licked my paper boy's legs.
They were like rose petals -- lean, elastic-looking, early-teen legs. So
smooth and perfect there was no texture of pores.
"You're a good boy. You taste like a good boy. A cute paper boy
in his little pants, walking all over town, showing off his sexy legs."
Terry grunted and trembled, stretched out before me in a
self-inflicted crucifixion of sex. I imagined tying him up, spanking his
legs and ass.
"Oh! Oh, man!"
"Want more gin?"
"Don't lick my legs."
"Why not? They're right here in front of me. You're in your
underwear. I'm in mine."
Terry sat up for the bottle and held my hands as I brought it to
his mouth. We breathed hard into each other's faces. I'd finally worked
the kid into a sweat.
"You're saying some weird things," he said.
"Want me to stop?"
"Yeah."
"I won't. Because it's all true."
"Come on, man. My legs...you act like I'm a girl."
"I hope not," I laughed, tousling his brown hair and tucking it
behind his ears. "You're legs are pretty. Definitely not a girl's legs."
"Quit it!" Terry's thin eyebrows went up above the blindfold in
exasperation.
There was silence.
Terry took a long swig, lay back. I went back to work on his legs.
He just let it happen and I could tell that he liked it. His protests
were just an unsure boy's attempts to convince himself that he was really
straight and just experimenting.
"You're learning, aren't you? There's more to sex than just
jacking off. There's hugging and kissing and touching your whole body.
There's foreplay and sexual fetishes. Do you know about fetishes?"
"No," the boy peeped.
I explained. I told Terry than when I was growing up in the late
seventies, shorts first came into common style. At first they were long --
like now -- and then shorts got very short with a sporty look. Then they
were real pants with pockets and belts but still up around the thighs.
"Preppy" became the fashion in the eighties, and boys took to wearing
corduroy shorts with nice shirts and sweaters and knee stockings.
"Our stockings were longer than our pants. Then the pants got
longer and socks went down to our ankles. But I miss short shorts. I miss
seeing a boy's creamy narrow thighs. Prancing around in little pants."
If Terry wasn't so buzzed I'd have never said such things. I didn't
want to risk his not coming back but I had to speak my mind. His cock was
jumping like crazy, pre-cum staining his white briefs. He locked his legs
tight and began to rub his right hand over his genitals.
"I'll do that, son."
"Then do it." Terry sat up. "What are you talking about? What's
the big deal? Everybody wears shorts."
I explained that I liked boy's legs.
"So you want to see guys in shorts? Weird."
I gave my young friend more gin and kissed his forehead. He jerked
but did not protest, gasping.
When he lay back I fondled his balls, so soft and small, and told
him I wanted to see him wear his gym suit next time.
"No. Nobody wears those things around. It's...besides, it's too
cold."
"Bring it in your book bag and wear it around my house. I'd like
to take some pictures."
Terry opened his mouth to respond but was taken with a rush. I
told him I'd like to buy him nice, preppy short shorts and maybe a Boy
Scout uniform.
"Kids can wear those uniforms until they're thirteen or so, but
after that.... After that it's too sexual. Every adult knows boys your
age are in puberty, masturbating but thinking that nobody knows."
"Will you just rub me?" Terry whined.
"Boys and men in scout uniforms," I continued. "Sleeping together
in the woods. Especially when the boys are fifteen, sixteen...in those
short pants uniforms...legs growing long and strong, sprouting little
hairs. Those adorable knee stockings. Too old to dress like
children....but they have to even if they're not in scouts. Just like you.
In high school. In your little gym suit."
"I won't wear it, Mr. Oswald."
"Then what about some nice preppy shorts?"
"No! What if...people will see me?"
I smiled. The boy was considering the idea.
"Then we'll go to Chicago, walk around the lake or the zoo. No one
will know you there. See us together, a man and a young boy in shorts...."
I yanked Terry's underwear to his knees. He grunted and his teen
cock flopped and stood up straight. He had a tiny tuft of pubic hair --
just eiderdown -- brown and silky and sparse. His balls were hairless and
did not dangle. His cock looked spongy and fresh-tasting, delicate blue
veins under the shiny sheath, circumcised head purpled and fat. I
stretched over the teen and cradled his head. I whispered in his ear.
Terry lay frozen like a statue.
"You're a beautiful boy, Terry. I've wanted to suck your cock for
years. Want to suck it now. Your hard cock. Your paperboy cock."
Terry just moaned, paralyzed with my desire and his own. His
skinny-smooth body under mine was I dream. I was 34, 6'4" and 230 pounds.
I worked construction and lifted weights, black hair all over my body.
Terry -- stretched out and quivering -- lay waiting.
"You're just a little boy in my bed. A good little boy. No one
knows where you are. No one has to know...."
I took the boy's sweet four inch cock into my mouth. The boy went
tight and squealed.
"OH OH OH!"
That was a wonderful first. I gripped the boy's narrow hips, took
his young prick, nibbling and sucking, feeling it jump and the glans scrape
the roof of my mouth.
"OOOOO!!!" Terry shrieked, voice falsetto and piercing in the
night. He sat up, pulled at my hair, curled over me, and orgasmed.
The freshman boy's hot cream smacked down my throat in powerful
streams. I sucked and swallowed, dropping my jaw to jiggle his testicles.
My face was pressed firmly into his smooth crotch, only his eiderdown pubes
tickling my nose.
"GUH! GUH! UGH!"
Terry managed to draw up his knees, spread his limber legs wide and
clamp then around my waist, ankles locking and skinny arms stretching to
claw at my back. I wrapped my arms around his firm ass and reared up,
sitting back on my heels and lifting him from the bed.
"MR. OSWALD!" the boy cried out, still falsetto, voice warbling,
shocked by my display of manly power. He was like a rag doll, hands
slapping my shoulders and lanky legs flapping convulsively, smacking
against my sides.
I turned and lay terry down lengthwise on the bed. He was already
done creaming and twitched with after-pleasure, unfolding from around my
body until I was again kneeling between his spread legs.
"Oh, God! Terry! I've dreamed of sucking you! Watched you grow
up! Wanted you so bad!" I gasped as I swallowed, the boy's jism coating
my throat. The boy was gasping, too, and he wiped the sweat from his brow.
"Have fun?" I panted, pulling off my underwear. Terry just nodded.
Was he completely stoned or was he mind-boggled from his first blow job?
I hoped I hadn't gone too far. A man sucking his dick was real sex, much
more than just being masturbated, and it might cause him a crisis of
identity. And as I thought of the boy's possibly confused thoughts I
imagined what he'd think about tonight when he walked home, I masturbated
furiously. I'd brought the boy into a whole new world: his childish sexual
episodes were over.
"TERRY! TERRY!"
I rose up on my knees and shot my cream all over his stomach and
chest. The boy flinched, took off his blindfold to blink and focus on my
streams landing in globs all over his body.
"I gotta go now," he croaked a moment after I was done. I told him
to take a nap with me but he sat up, swung his legs over the edge of the
bed and stood. His underwear was hooked around his left ankle and he
pulled them up, letting the waistband snap loudly. Damn. Like a shield,
his underwear came between me and his teen genitals glistening with saliva.
The kid used the blindfold to wipe off his torso. He was
trembling. On shaky legs he dazedly searched for and gathered his jeans
and sweatshirt and jean jacket. Dressed. He sat on the floor to put on
his sneakers.
"When will I see you again?" I asked.
"I..I don't know." He was anxious to leave.
"Tomorrow?" No answer. He stood and I suddenly rushed him
squeezing his skinny biceps in a vice-like grip.
"Hey!" Terry looked up at me, blue eyes doe-wide and moist with a
tint of fear and shame.
"You know that what we do here stays here. Understand?"
"Yeah."
"I like you and I won't ever hurt you."
"Sure. OK."
"OK, then. I told you some things because sex is sharing thoughts
and feelings, too. It's very intimate what I told you. Value it."
The kid was looking at me with the most wonderful expression. My
tone, my voice and whole manner had changed, redefining our relationship
once more into socially acceptable parameters. I was an adult talking to a
child. Terry listened, docile.
"I gotta go, Mr. Oswald. It's getting late."
I studied the boy's smooth, blushing face, nodded and let go his
arms. He rolled his bony shoulders, rubbed his biceps. My strength had
made a definite impression on him.
"I want to see you again. Come by anytime you like."
"OK. I'll remember that."
"You enjoyed yourself and there's nothing wrong with that. Sex
should be enjoyed. And you're not the only boy in the world having sex
with a man."
Terry flinched at the concept.
I put on a housecoat and led my paper boy to the front door and
opened it. A cool wind blew through the screen and a car full of teenagers
drove past, blasting music. I squeezed the back of Terry's reedy neck --
his head reached to my chest -- and told him to be a careful walking home.
"I want to see you again. Remember. And I want you to wear your
gym suit next time."
The boy bowed his head and slowly walked down the sidewalk. I
closed the door. In the kitchen, I took a beer from the refrigerator, then
sat at the table. I felt content in the dark. The clock ticked on the
wall. I was certain that Terry would return and wear his gym suit.
Besides, on Sunday morning, I'd see him when he delivered the paper.


NEWSPAPERS & GYM SUITS
by Short Boys-Pants

Chapter Two
"Working Out"


But my paper didn't arrive on Sunday. I spent the morning anxious
and frustrated. Around 11:00 in the afternoon the doorbell rang, and when
I opened the door I found Terry standing on my porch.
"Hi." He spoke pleasantly but appeared nervous.
I opened the screen door and studied him in his jeans and jacket
and sweatshirt, then reached out to open the large canvas bag hanging from
his left shoulder. I pulled out the last paper which was rolled in
plastic. The bag was empty.
"Terry...." My voice cracked.
Shifting from foot to foot and anxious to escape public scrutiny,
the nervous boy glanced around before pulling his sweat shirt up. I saw a
flash of lime green gym suit. "See? I have it on."
Sighing with relief, I ushered Terry inside and locked the door.
"What's the matter?"
The boy looked confused by my expression, so I tapped him lightly
on the head with my newspaper.
"You scared me." Tap. Terry blinked. "I thought you were gonna
say you wouldn't see me anymore." Tap. "I didn't see your gym suit in the
bag and I thought...."
Tap tap tap went the paper on the boy's little head. He laughed
shakily.
"You scared me. I didn't...if someone saw my suit in my bag...so I
figured I'd wear it under my clothes. Does it show?"
The boy spread his long arms and turned.
"No," I said, looking him over.
"Feels weird...like Superman or something."
"More like Superboy."
Terry blushed. A rush of love for him filled me. For the boy, all
this was some kind of secret adventure.
"I am so glad you wore your gym suit, Terry."
"I thought a lot about what you said. I still can't believe I'm
doing it."
"But you are."
"Yeah. I guess I am."
The boy dug a toe into the carpet, twisting bashfully. He was
still unsure but definitely hooked on what we were doing. Then he marched
to the kitchen, took a beer from the fridge, and returned to stand before
me in the living room. He drank, cute face tilted up to stare into mine.
He tried to look calm but his knees were shaking.
"So let's see it."
"Let me finish my beer. You act like this is nothing."
"Don't talk. Undress."
Terry hesitated, then shrugged off his jacket and canvas bag. "I
feel funny."
"Sexy? Remember what I said about fetishes?"
Terry nodded. Towering over him, I let my house coat fall from my body.
The boy flinched and took a step back, blue eyes bulging.
I was wearing my cherry-red high school gym suit. It was many
sizes too small. I breathed heavily, excited to be sharing my fetish with
the boy. Terry's gaze ran over my broad shoulders and full chest, down to
my naked legs and white knee stockings. He stared at my legs for a long,
quiet while. Was he thinking about how muscular and hairy my legs were in
comparison to his own? Or was he thinking that I had nice legs? We'd
always been in the dark, never viewing each other in full light.
"Your turn." I took the beer can from his small white hand.
Tremors rocked the boy's gangly frame. In a daze, he sat on the
couch, pulled off his sweatshirt to reveal the lime green top. A white bar
across the chest read "Dolan, T." My erection sprang up, tenting my tight
shorts, and the kid stared at it.
"I didn't want to wear mine, OK? I'm only doing it because you said."
"You don't have to explain."
The boy unbuttoned his pants, then decided to take off his shoes.
"It's not like I'm gay or anything. I mean, you said I should wear it."
I walked to the bookcase and picked up my instant camera, turned
and snapped a photo. Terry blinked from the flash and paused to stare at
the camera -- surely remembering my admission of taking photos of him when
he was younger -- then opened his zipper and tugged his jeans to his
ankles. The lime-green shorts were tangled at his crotch, and when his
naked thighs so narrow and pale came into view I stepped close and snapped
another photo. Terry straightened his shorts before tugging his jeans over
his stockinged feet. His socks were floppy, white with green bands around
his skinny ankles.
The fourteen year old paperboy/schoolboy sat shivering as if cold,
legs together, white round knees shining with afternoon light. Sliding his
hands over his creamy thighs, staring into the camera lens. He looked much
younger in his gym suit.
Flash.
"Well? N-n-now what?"
I returned the beer and motioned him to stand and turn around.
Terry moved like a wooden boy. His green gym pants outlined his narrow
hips and teen ass -- two tight, hand-sized half-moons -- and his long
luscious legs trembled. The backs of his thighs looked flat and elastic,
calves thin but shapely, curving down from the shiny, immaculate skin at
the backs of his knees and into his socks. His socks sort of cuffed his
ankles, the elastic worn out.
Flash.
The photos were already developing and I handed them to the boy.
He stared at them silently, gulping, chest rising and falling. As I'd done
over the years, I studied Terry's crotch. He was not erect. He was too
excited and anxious to be erect.
"So. I'm wearing it. Well?"
He drained his beer. The boy's adam's apple traveled up and down
his delicate throat. His jaw quivered.
I still held the rolled newspaper, used it to motion for the boy to
follow me down the hallway. The house was bright with sunshine even though
all curtains were drawn. In the bedroom doorway I pointed to a chinning
bar at the top of the frame.
"You want me to do chin ups?"
I didn't answer. Terry stepped forward, pulling nervously at his
shorts, then stretched for the bar. On tip toes he looked so lanky, then
he bent his knees and pulled himself up with skinny arms. As his face
disappeared above the doorframe I skimmed the newspaper over his dangling
narrow boy-thighs, using it to push his short pants around his hips.
"AH!"
Terry yelped and flopped down, hanging from his arms. Bewildered.
"What are you doing, Mr. Oswald?" he asked softly, eyes searching
mine. I flicked the rolled newspaper against his left thigh. Whack! The
boy twitched, then chinned himself.
Flash.
Terry went up and down. Each time his face came into view his
expression was serious and full of concentration. I tickled his thighs
with the newspaper. His coltish legs swung in his shorts like the clappers
in a bell.
"How many?" he grunted, face hidden. He came down. "How many
should I do?" His cheeks were flushed but he continued, and it occurred to
me that, like all teenaged boys, he was showing off.
Actually, the little guy surprised me. He was wiry and stronger
than I'd guessed, but because he was so thin he could do more chin ups. I
eased past him into the bedroom were I had a cam-corder set up on a tripod.
I turned it on, focusing on the youth as he went up and down. Zooming in
on his dangling legs, clenched ass, bony back and shoulder blades and
pointy elbows.
I left the cam-corder running and eased past the boy once more.
"Ugh! I'm getting tired!"
Terry hung from his arms, skinny chest heaving, shirt pulled up a
bit to reveal an expanse of the milk-white skin of his flat tummy. I
stepped forward until my nose hovered above the elastic waistband of his
shorts, crinkled and snug around his trim waist. I slowly squatted --
Terry froze, wondering what I would do -- and studied his legs, noticing a
faint, almost imperceptible tan line a few inches above his knees. I
traced my nose across those lines.
"I-I-I figured you'd touch my legs again," he stammered as my nose
skimmed the tan lines, the breath from my nostrils swirling over his legs.
"A lot of the guys complain about gym shorts. They're...pretty short.
Guys don't wear shorts this short anymore...like you said."
I looked up at Terry and nodded for him to jump down. He did,
wincing as he lowered his arms.
I ran in place a few steps, stopped, and Terry began to run in
place. His brown bangs flopped around his face, arms and legs pumping.
The kid was all elbows and knees, turning toward the bedroom.
"You're making a movie!" he gasped. After a moment's
thoughtfulness he said, "I bet I look goofy."
The boy ran silently for a while.
"Are you gonna masturbate when you watch this?"
I didn't answer. I stood beside him and flicked the rolled
newspaper on each of his glossy thighs, alternating between them as he
raised his knees.
Smack! Whap! Pat!
Terry watched the paper slap his thighs then squeezed his eyes
shut. Ran.
"What about those pictures you said you took when I was younger?
I...I want to see them," the boy declared. "I want to see them before I
leave."
My heart leapt, my cock surged. Was Terry developing a fetish for
short pants? Did he want to masturbate to photos of himself? I spanked
his thighs, the plastic impacting and clinging to his skin now covered with
a sheen of sweat.
Terry ran hard.
After a few minutes I smacked the back of his head and the boy
yelped, opened his eyes. I motioned for him to stop running and to sit on
the floor. I walked over to adjust the cam-corder.
"I need a drink," the boy panted, blue eyes wide and shining.
Again appraising me with a nervous but intrigued expression. I went to
the living room for his jeans and returned with his bottle of gin. The boy
took it. Drank once. Twice. Thrice. Deeply. Cute face screwed up and
smacking his mouth.
"OK." Terry handed me the bottle. He drew up his knees, curled
his arms around his shins and rest his forehead on his knees. "Oh, man,"
he whispered, then gave a slight laugh of disbelief. "Why am I doing
this?"
I said nothing, squatting before him. The boy raised his face.
"You're just staring at me...." The boy's voice trailed off. "You're
liking this, aren't you?"
In reply, I gripped the boy's ankles. Terry guessed what I wanted
and lay back, clasped his hands behind his head and began doing sit-ups.

"I don't work this hard in gym class, you know. It feels like I'm
in gym class. You're...pretending you're in gym class, aren't you. That
you're back in high school?"
I licked my lips and watched Terry's slender white legs tense with
each sit-up. His lime green shorts were wedged in his crotch, outlining
the crack of his ass and berry-sized balls but still revealing no erection.
"Mr. Oswald," he said, looking at me from between his bony knees.
"I want you to rub me, OK? I don't mind wearing my gym suit if you're
gonna rub me."
I gave no reply: Terry sounded anxious for sex.
The boy exercised. Cheeks quite flushed. Blue-eyes laser-bright.
Blazing into mine.
"You feel like a kid in your gym suit? You really...think I'm a
little kid?" Terry knit his brow. "Mr. Oswald? You're pretending we're
two kids?"
The boy was making connections. I nodded.
"I thought so." He surprised me by flashing a brief, toothy smile.
"You were attracted to kids in gym class? You looked at their legs and
stuff?"
I nodded.
"You feel like a kid with me?" he asked softly.
I nodded.
"You think I look cute in my gym suit?"
I nodded meaningfully.
Terry did a few more sit-ups, lips pursed, staring at my body.
"You look...big in your gym suit. You're strong."
I pressed a hand against Terry's chest and motioned him to flip
over. The youth stared at me quizzically, then rolled over and brought his
feet together.
Terry was very tired. His lanky body trembled as he began doing
push ups, tight ass high in the air. I picked up the rolled newspaper and
quickly cracked it over the teen's ass.
CRACK!
"YAH!"
The boy's cry was tense with surprise and a thrill.
"Ass down, Terry," I whispered huskily, speaking for the first time
in many minutes. "Young boys need to exercise correctly. To grow up
healthy and strong."
Terry's lean legs strained and his body went rigid, ass down. But
he couldn't do a push up, skinny arms ready to collapse.
I whacked his ass again.
"OK. I'm trying...."
Gasping and grunting, Terry struggled through his push ups.
"I loved a boy named David," I whispered, tracing the newspaper
along his ass and thighs. "David was small like me...our gym suits bright
cherry-red...and David had such shapely smooth legs. Honey brown and
shiny. I used to kneel behind him during wrestling for take downs and let
my knee bump his ass. Round. Tight. Little red pants riding high on his
thighs. I'd hug him tight, feel him grunt and struggle.
Terry went up and down slowly, shoulder blades sticking out like
wings. Finally, he collapsed in a heap, panting and sweating richly.
"You're beautiful in your gym suit, Terry. Beautiful." I reached
out with my left hand and felt the teen's warm sweaty legs. "I wonder how
many boys masturbate while dreaming of you in your gym suit."
The exhausted boy shivered as I felt his legs. Listening.
"Little Terry. Little Terry in little pants. How do boys ever
become men? Think you'll get big and hairy like me?"
Terry rolled over, chest and stomach heaving.
"I don't know," he gasped.
I tweaked the boy's protruding knee caps. Terry watched, mouth
open and moist.
"You have beautiful legs. You should always wear short short pants."
The boy watched my hairy fingers move over his immaculate
pubescent-skin, fingers tracing his thighs just below his shorts.
"You mean it?" Terry's voice quavered. He looked and sounded like
a child asking for adult confirmation. "My legs are softer-looking than
the other guys. I mean, not just hairless. Lots of other guys don't have
hair, either."
A low groan escaped my throat. The young boy was on the verge of
coming out to me. I caressed him, giving encouragement.
"My mom...she says I have pretty legs," he croaked. "I know my
skin is real soft for some reason."
My hands were at the boy's hips now, fondling his little green gym
pants.
"Mr. Oswald!" Terry asked in a breathless rush. "You don't think
my legs are too skinny or smooth? Huh?"
"No." I reached up to tenderly brush the boy's bangs from his
sweaty forehead. "Your mom's right. You have very pretty legs. Is that
why you don't wear short shorts anymore? Are you shy about your pretty
legs?"
Terry's small head shook as he reacted to the tenderness in my
voice and the content of our conversation.
"I don't know if I wanna have pretty legs," he said, barely audible.
"Women wish for legs like this, Terry. Your legs are prettier than
your mom's and she knows it. Women shave their legs and they still aren't
this soft."
"But I'm not a woman."
"Thank God."
Our eyes locked. I cupped the boy's narrow face in my hands,
leaned close, and kissed his right, tender cheek.
The boy whimpered. Did not pull away.
I released his face and stood. Terry sat with his eyes closed. I
waited until the boy opened his eyes then held out my hand. Terry took it.
I pulled him to his feet and guided him to the bed. He lay face down as I
repositioned the cam-corder.
"Can you rise up on your hands and knees?" I whispered, patting his
back.
The boy rose, head hanging down and tight, firm ass in the air. He
was trembling as I knelt beside him and slowly pushed his shirt up to his
shoulders and traced the bony curve of his spine.
"You gonna rub me now?"
"May I lick your body?" I reached around his chest to gently pinch
his tiny nipples, pulling and twisting until they grew hard.
"I...uh...."
I licked him. I hunched over the youth and skimmed my tongue along
his back and sides, tasting salt, tasting sweat, tasting cream-white flesh.
I locked his lovely calves, shiny and taut. With my open mouth I sucked
his hairless narrow thighs, moving from one to the other, smacking and
nibbling. Terry twitched and quivered, aroused and electrified.
"That...feels good, Mr. Oswald," he peeped, giving his first
admission of pleasure. The boy watched as my tongue ran the length of his
right thigh -- from knee to the hem of his short pants -- his brown bangs
swaying above the mattress.
"You're really gay!" he gasped.
"Uh huh."
"Did...you always know you were gay?"
"Uh huh."
The boy's voice was so squeaky, charged with arousal, and his leg
was the tastiest bit of skin I'd ever known.
"How'd you know I was gay?" he asked softly.
I clamped my large, powerful hands around the front of his thighs
and let my fingers sink deep into the tender flesh. The boy moaned.
"I didn't. Are you gay?"
A balloon of silence filled the bedroom, Terry and I at its center.
"Yes," the boy whispered finally.
I pressed my face into his lean upturned buttocks and practically
thrust my tongue through his shorts and into his anus.
"OOOOO!!!"
Terry arched like a kitten and clawed at the bed covers.
My fingers slid up and into the hems of the boy's green gym pants,
and I gave a deep grunt of satisfaction, my grunt vibrating in his rectum,
I was sure.
Terry grunted a tenor grunt in response, straining to process the
new sensations. And though I did not touch his genitals I felt his penis
grow erect against the fabric of his underwear.
"You like that, huh? Doesn't that feel good?"
"Yes!" the boy peeped. His voice hadn't really changed yet.
"Want me to keep doing that?"
"Yes!"
I did. The boy arched higher, lean ass clenched.
"Oo, Mr. Oswald!" he warbled. "Wait! Wait!"
I quickly pulled away, not wanting him to orgasm so soon.
"Wait! Wait!" went his falsetto wail: he was scaling heights of
pleasure. Shakily, the boy sat back on his heels and feebly raised his
thin arms, elbows bent and hands trembling. His eyes were closed. "Can I
have another drink, please?"
"Terry. Honey, you don't need to get drunk. Don't be afraid of
your feelings."
But the boy sat looking so overwhelmed that I relented and gave him
his bottle, getting back into bed, knee to knee with the boy. I made him
promise not to drink so much anymore and he nodded, agreeing while taking
several swigs.
I took the bottle away and tossed it to the floor. I studied my
paperboy who was flying now, not so much on the gin as on the exercise and
sex. Slowly, carefully, I pulled the blindfold from where it had nestled
in my crotch and fitted it around his small head. Terry did not move.
"The blindfold is cool," he peeped. "I've...heard about blindfolds
and stuff."
"Have you?"
"Uh huh. It...always sounded kind of cool."
Was I hearing correctly?
"When I was a boy?" I cooed, stroking his hair. "I used to
blindfold and tie myself up."
"You did? W-w-why?"
"Because I used to imagine myself with my gym teacher. He was big
and strong. I wanted to feel him big and strong, touching me in my gym
suit, telling me I was a beautiful boy."
Terry shivered. "Were you...kind of small like me? Like, a little
bit skinny?" The boy took a deep breath. "Did you have pretty legs? Like
me?"
"Yes," I sighed, rubbing his shoulders.
"And was your gym teacher big? Big like you?"
"Yes, little Terry. He was big. And I was small. Like you."
"Do you want to tie me up, Mr. Oswald?"
The boy spoke so softly I thought my imagination was working
overtime. But then I realized that Terry was saying what I heard.
I reached between the mattress and box-spring and pulled out
several pairs of handcuffs. I placed the boy's hands in his lap and closed
one pair of cuffs around his twiggy wrists. Snick!
"Oh! Oh, God!" Terry wailed.
Lovingly, I tookthe boy's cuffed wrists and manipulated his hands
over his own glossy naked thighs.
"Feel your legs, Terry. Feel those smooth pretty legs. Such soft
soft skin. Short pants were made for boys like you."

Sitting back on his heels made Terry's thighs spread out a bit, and his
fingers wandered the silken groove between his under-legs and calves,
wandered over his round knees, wandered up to his gym pants.
"Don't you feel soft?"
The boy nodded.
"Feel my legs, too?"
The boy's thin arms floated out to me; his delicate hands alighted
on my thighs, the cuffs glittering at his wrists. It was the first time
the boy touched me. I shuddered.
"Gosh, you're hairy." Terry swallowed hard. Our penises throbbed
in our shorts. "Your legs are really...you're really strong."
"Yes," I sighed, watching the little boy's hands explore my flesh.
"Never thought you'd touch a man's legs?"
"Uh uh. Wow. Wow," he whispered.
"I've wanted you since you were twelve. Wanted you so much."
Terry's long fingers tentatively reached up, quaking as they slid
over my too-small cherry-red high-school gym shorts. My shorts fit me like
red underwear. I held my breath.
Trembling violently as if some internal struggle were raging inside
him, Terry made contact with my 8" cock. He yiped, lips curling back over
his perfect white teeth.
"Shhh. It's alright. It's alright," I encouraged.
The boy's hands rode my cock as it jumped and twanged, then he took
it in both fists. Squeezed. Squeezed agan.
"I'm touching your dick!" he peeped breathlessly. "I'm touching
your dick!"
"Yes. Yes, you are."
"Oh, geez! Oh, man! It's...really huge!"
Nodding and drunk on endorphins and delight, I stroked the boy's
smooth skinny arms from wrists to elbows, found his slender biceps beneath
his floppy shirt sleeves. I leaned closed and pressed my lips to his right
cheek.
The little kid shook like a leaf.
"Are you...gonna put it in me?" he croaked.
"I would love to put it in you."
The highly aroused teen suddenly snatched his hands away and
brought his hands to his head, fisting his hair and pulling tight. He
gasped like a fish, face contorted with identity crisis. His lips
trembled.
"Oh, man! I'm gay! I'm gay!" he wailed.
The young boy seemed about to cry, and an upswell of concern for
his welfare replaced my adult desires. However much he was aroused, Terry
was inexperienced. And things were moving fast. Too fast for him.
"It's OK, honey. Shhh. Let's calm down. Let's stop."
The boy reared up on his knees and threw his arms around my neck,
burying his face in my right shoulder.
"Help me!" he whined. "Hold me!"
I held him. Hard. Dearly moved by his emotional struggle.
"Help me be gay," he begged. "Help me? Please?"
"My good boy!" I whined, startled by this remarkable turn of
events. Galvanized by the intensity of Terry's need. "My poor good boy!"
And so it was that fourteen year old Terry came out to himself and
to me, making the transition that is so often difficult for young teens. I
well knew the pain of adolescence, of bodily desires -- so powerful --
conflicting with social taboo. Damn the world. Damn. Damn.
I rocked the little paperboy, helping him, giving him the shelter
of my body. We were man and boy together -- in cherry-red and lime-green
gym suits -- adult and child homosexuals together. Sharing. Bonding.
Long minutes passed. Of course, in the sudden purity of the
moment, my erection left me, as the boy's left him. This was not a time of
sex but of soul. I hadn't hoped for Terry as a lover, imagined that he
would only ever be a young friend to clandestinely meet with me for mere
physical encounters. Yes, we would go on to have sex and the sex would be
very good, but now we would also go on to experience the full, nurturing
relationship we deserved. There would be dates. The boy's teen years
would be rich with acceptance and confidence.
Tenderly, I drew Terry down onto the bed so that we lay in each
other's arms, my hairy muscular legs wrapped around the boy's smooth
slender legs, the boy's face nestled in my chest. I stroked his hair,
whispered sweet nothings in his ear. Telling him he was a good boy.
Telling him he was a beautiful little boy.
"Do you love me, Mr. Oswald?"
Terry's high voice was filled with longing.
I removed the blindfold and found the boy crying, many tears like
streams of diamonds rolling down his smooth cheeks.
"I love you, Terry. I love you. Yes. Please don't cry. Honey?
Why are you crying?"
"I don't know," the boy peeped. He sniffled, wiped his cheeks and
nose in my shirt. "Just hold me, OK? Hold me and don't let me go."
"Never, my darling. Never let you go."
I held the crying boy's slender body, feeling its nervous warmth.
Chills of romance made me shiver, and the vibes passing between us were
unmistakeable.
We lay together for a long, long time. I stared at the window,
yellow bits of afternoon sunlight sparking in the fibers of the drawn blue
curtain. My mind began to drift. A soothing sense of calm filled me such
as I'd never known before. My paperboy was my lover now. My paperboy. My
pretty paperboy. My lover.
Sleep took Terry. I followed him soon after.


"NEWSPAPERS & GYM SUITS"
by Short Boys-Pants

Author's Commentary

This is a note of thanks to those of you who have read and enjoyed
the story. Ocassionally, as I sit and write at my computer, I try to pin
down exactly how it is I came to the themes that inform my stories.
Ultimately, there's no clear answer, but here's one possible explanation.
It's something I've sent to a friend a while ago and I'd like to include it
here, along with a few revisions.
I'd always noticed boys -- on the playground or in a classroom --
the shape of a boy's body, his sudden gestures and movements, the tilt of
his head and the angle of his jaw if he were made to laugh, a wide smile
lighting up his face. My memories of boyhood are colored with the images
of young boys, and I always thought of myself as a boy, too. That is,
while most kids try and act grown up or think of themselves as older than
they actually are, I never did. I liked being a boy. I miss being a boy.
Boys were always the source of a puzzling attraction, an allure of
mystery, beautiful and unattainable. In other words, I grew up very naive
and innocent with no knowledge of sex. My parents had shielded me of such
knowledge, and puberty came quite late for me. Equally puzzling was my
attraction toward men and the way my interest would soar when I saw boys
and men together -- teachers and students, coaches and players, fathers and
sons. The men were bigger and stronger than the boys, and men were bigger
and stronger than me.
Boys were prettier than men; conversely, men were handsome and
muscular and hairy. At no time was this more evident than when I'd see a
young boy wearing short pants and standing next to a man. Such soft, long,
smooth and slender legs -- glowing and tan -- short pants snug around a
boy's small butt and trim waist. Naturally, the men had hairy legs and
larger butts. Something in the contrast seemed to resonate and form a
harmony. Men with deep voices, the shadows of beards, hard bodies covered
with hair. Boys with soft skin. Boys with smooth faces and high voices.
Boys like me. Personally, I always felt cute and pretty in my short pants
whenever I was around men, and I was always conscious of the fact that I
was showing off my legs.
Sometimes, and rather often, I'd catch a man looking at my legs.
Looking hard. In the mid-eighties people weren't as hyper-sensitive about
sex -- at least I wasn't -- and it never occured to me that the men looking
at my legs might want to love me. But it made my heart pound and cheeks
flush. Sometimes, a man would notice my reaction and smile.
I had a wonderful and recurring dream when I was nine. In the
dream I was stripped to my briefs, laying side by side with a man who was
also in briefs. We lay in a large, soft bed in a room dimly lit by a red
light. I lay with my head in my hand, propped up on one elbow, as did the
man. I'd watch as he caressed my legs, smiling and telling me that I was a
good boy. I felt no discomfort. I remember only a feeling of friendship
and safety, the tingle of the man's (a handsome man with thick, black hair
and kind brown eyes) large hand gently stroking my legs. And upon waking I
was left to stare at the sunlight spraying down through the bedroom window
onto my body, my thighs tingling with the residue of those realistic
strokes. And that same dream continued unchanged for several years.
I never wore shorts while growing up but had always enjoyed seeing
other boys wear them. I used to wonder how other boys could feel
comfortable walking around with their legs showing. Didn't they feel
half-naked? Instinctively, I knew that if I wore shorts, too, I'd be
turned on and jumpy about it. I got turned-on and jumpy around those
short-panted boys.
All through grade school. Ever since kindergarten.
When I was eleven I entered the 7th grade and my first p.e. class.
What a shock! The locker rooms, the showers.... The sight and smell of
smooth-skinned boys everywhere. It was a swirl of excitement without
understanding. I had no idea why I was so excited. My sexual orientation
for men and boys must have always been in place
The drives and mechanisms were already at work even though I didn't
know it on a conscious level. As I mentioned, I had no framework for
understanding my sexuality. Yes, I had crushes on men and boys I'd met --
coaches, friends, teachers, neighbors -- but I didn't know what to do about
it. Curious.
It was in 7th grade p.e. that I truly developed my fetish for short
pants. There was no better feeling than to change into my bright red gym
suit, pulling down my jeans and watching the boys around me do the same,
then pulling up my gym shorts and knee socks. My legs free. The other
boy's legs free and uncovered. Short pants tight around our bottoms and
crotches. I felt so sporty, so athletic, and so young.
Lining up for attendance and seeing all us kids stand in a row like
birds on a wire, identically dressed, stockings longer than our pants and
jitters in our knees. My legs were sensitized by my dreams and the new
exposure to wind, sun, cool blades of grass -- everything. Playing with
boys in p.e. Wrestling with boys in p.e. Naked legs on naked legs.
Contact. Short pants were a revelation and I began to wear them all the
time. Not so much to school -- few boys wore shorts to school back then as
shorts were regarded as playclothes, which only meant that me (and other
boys) would stare at those few in their shorts, sitting at their desks,
standing in front of the class to give a book report -- the sunshine
shimmering along their long and smooth beautiful thighs.
I was 13 when I entered my freshman year of high school. Black
hair, glasses, 5'0" tall and 90 pounds. Beanpole. I began to have
thoughts of being with boys. Sitting close. Wearing shorts together.
Stroking each other's legs like in my dream. Sex? Kissing? Orgasm? All
were still a mystery. Mine were the thoughts of innocent romance.
In high school our gym suits were royal blue. I remember falling
in love with David S******, who was small and short like me, slender and
with tousled brown hair and smooth tan olive legs. Bubble butt. His legs
were shiny-smooth and springy with the elasticity of pubescence. I made
every excuse I could to touch them, to sink my fingers into that
moist resilient flesh cool to the touch. We were paired up in wrestling as
the other boys were so much bigger, and there was no better feeling than to
kneel beside him during a match, wrapping my right arm around his slender
waist -- feeling his ribs, his heartbeat -- closing my left hand tightly
around his left, pointy elbow. I'd let my right knee bump against his
upturned rump, again and again, and he never seemed to notice. His butt
was so tight and firm my knee actually bounced off of it. And looking down
to see his beautiful thighs -- slender and smooth, buttery -- his little
blue pants gathered tightly in the crotch above the tan lines. And I had
an erection. Always. It had to be noticeable but no one ever commented on
it. Being older now I understand: young boys often are unaware of having
erections and don't know what erections imply. At least not back then.
Times have changed.
Struggling against David. Our bare legs slipping and sliding over
one another in glorious nakedness. I overpowered him easily. David was
not very athletic and didn't go for sports. He was effeminate, in a way,
but still all boy. Just a gentle boy. I loved him in swimming. I loved
seeing him shower. His compact body so tan and rivering water....
I used to fantasize being kidnapped by several men while walking
to or from the locker room, dragged into a black van parked beyond the
glass doors of the hallway, beiing tied up and gagged and speeding away in
the van. I'd imagine that David would be kidnapped with me and the men
would tie us face to face, forcing us to hug. They'd put thick rope
wrapped around our legs, waists, wrists and necks. Crotch to crotch, we
would struggle and writhe while the men touched our bodies.
Without knowing what I was doing, I masturbated for the first time
in December of my freshman year. I'd just turned 14 and didn't know what
would happen. I put on some play clothes -- a gray t-shirt tucked into the
elastic waistband of grey short pants (with the Steelers football team logo
on the right leg), and long white knee stockings. Lord, I was skinny and
small. Dressed and erect, I stood in my bedroom for a while, bent over and
stroking my naked thighs, staring at my erection, imagining David's hands
or some other boy's hands. A neighbor man's hands.
My dresser had a large mirror above it, and I walked to the
dresser, hoisted myself up and balanced on the dresser's edge. The cool
wood against my legs was shocking and made my skin tingle. I began to rear
up while leaning over the dresser, making my shorts and cock rub along the
edge. Needless to say the sensation was exquisite. I went up and down, up
and down, my legs tingling and squirming, my twiggy arms trembling. I
stared into my face in the mirror, saw my eyes brown and wide, my black
bangs cascading. My mouth was open and I felt suddenly sensual. I kissed
my reflection. My breathing deepened and fogged the mirror.
I tried to be quiet.
Something explosive was happening. My penis had never been harder.
It swelled. It jumped. It got pushed down the side of my right leg, the
small glans barely managing to poke out from the elastic band of my
underwear.
Up and down. Up and down. I humped the dresser. Watched the
dresser's edge "push" my short gray pants up around my hips and crotch. It
felt like the dresser was trying to get into my pants. I'd never felt
sexier. A window was open, and cold December air blew steadily against the
backs of my trembling legs. And then I came, losing control, the dresser
shaking and knocking against the bedroom wall, my penis shooting its first
load of sperm down my right leg. It scared me. I didn't know I could make
sperm. Had I peed? No. My first ejaculation was watery and clear (it's
never been so clear ever since). And it looked good on my leg.
Sperm on my thin, hairless little boy's leg.
I masturbated so much. I did it while wearing various short pants
play outfits. Cut-offs. Red jogging shorts. Gym shorts. Beige corduroy
shorts. I took to doing it while in the basement so I could set up a
mirror and watch. In those days I didn't use my hand but was able to
simply stroke my legs until ejaculation. Other times I'd do it while
hanging from a water pipe (and imagine myself restrained that way by a man,
ropes or chains around my wrists), and the simple act and sight of watching
my naked dangling legs go up and down, my knees shining, my short pants
sliding over my thighs could bring me to orgasm.
Wonderful memories. I wanted men to watch me (and other boys)
masturbate that way. Just lay and wriggle around in their play shorts or
hang from their arms. The men touching our legs. But it never occured to
me that other boys were masturbating. I still didn't equate orgasm with
sex in a genital manner. All my attention was fixated on legs and shorts.
Pleasure was all I knew. Not sex. Not at all.
Naturally, than soon changed. I imagined younger boys in the
neighborhood, a beautiful pair of brothers named Mark and Chris M*******.
They were 12 and 9 and always in short pants. Brown haired and with long
tan legs. It was during one of those fantasies that I imagined touching
Mark and Chris at their crotches, unzipping their cut-offs, pulling free
their penises.
In freshman p.e. Mr. S**** was my gym teacher. He was balding but
in his mid-thirties, stocky, with a barrel chest, developed arms, and brown
hairy legs I thought looked rather like tree-trunks. I began to imagine
him inviting me to his home after class (gym class was my last period of
the day). In my fantasy, I'd walk with him across the parking lot, the
late autumn sky gray and a cool breeze blowing, the playing fields
stretching away into the distance and the trees along their edge flushed
crimson and gold, the wind whipping the undersides of the leaves to a
silvery froth. I remember feeling nervous and unsure, climbing into his
car, the cool leather seat beneath my bare legs making me shiver with
excitement.
Mr. S**** would be loud and joking, yet nervous, too. I could
"see" his hands shake as he fumbled to put the keys in the ignition, and I
would follow his anxious glances, twisting my head to peer around. The
yellow school buses were lined up there at the front of the school, and the
sun was setting. The dark comes early in November, the air chill and
scented metalic somehow, and the kids lining up at the buses were all in
long pants and jackets. But in the fantasy Mr. S**** had told me that I
should just wear my gym suit to his house since I wouldn't be outside,
anyway. I looked cute in a gym suit, he'd said.
The car eased out of the parking lot and onto the road. The
heater thumped on. Mr. S**** turned on the radio and hit the lights, and I
watched the school grow smaller and smaller, receeding into the depths
of the rear view mirror.
"Easy, there, pal. Cold?"
"Uh uh."
Then Mr. S**** would smile and reach over, close his hand around my
round left knee and hold it like a baseball. I grow pale and pink in the
winter, never more than slightly tan in the summer (certainly never
acquiring the deep, dark tan that David did), and I would sit and stare at
Mr. S****'s hand on my knee, my thighs glossy and thin, tinted blue with
the dashboard lights. The heater hummed, and though the radio played
loudly it was the noise of the heater I remember, thrumming deeply in
rhythm with my pubescent arousal.
At his house Mr. S**** would offer me a beer, which I'd decline.
He would treat me like a grown up, give me a tour of his house and squeeze
my shoulders and neck, laughing because I was so silent. Mind you, I
didn't learn to masturbate until that December, so my fantasy was and was
not very innocent.
Eventually, he would guide me into his bedroom and sit me on the
bed. And sitting there, shivering -- a bundle of bones all angles, all
elbows and knees, pulling at my socks and terribly aware of my legs, my
shorts wedged in my crotch like underwear -- I'd watch Mr. S**** close and
lock the door and stare at me. The change in his demeanor was dramatic: he
wasn't my teacher anymore but a man. A very big man. A curl of black hair
fell over his forehead and he breathed heavily, the way he did in gym class
during a basketball game, and I could see his eyes blazing
with...something.
"Don't hurt me, Mr. S****," I'd croak, for even in my fantasy I was
well aware that I was doing something very different from anything I'd ever
done before and that the man was much stronger than me. I respected Mr.
S****, his authority as a teacher and an adult, as I'd been brought up to
respect both.
Then he laughed, his body relaxing, hands on his hips. Again, he
was the good-natured man I'd known.
"Lie down."
And moving like a wooden puppet, hesitatingly, as in a dream, I
would, my pulse pounding in my ears, ragged gasps rising from my open
mouth. I'd raise my head and watch, simply watch, as if glued to his bed
as my gym teacher knelt at the foot of the bed, pulled out two lines of
rope and began to tie my ankles to the bed posts, my thin legs pulled
scissor-wide. He'd do the same to my wrists, ask if I could move, and when
I wriggled and thrashed unsucsessfully he'd smile and tie a blindfold
around my eyes.
At this point I would grow quiet and still, rotating my hands and
feet (I'd begun tying myself up this way at home with clothesline while
wearing my gym suit, imagining that it was me or David or Mark or Chris
tied in the same manner), trying to see through the blindfold. I could
hear the jangle of Mr. S****'s belt being undone, the snap of his pants and
the faint rasp of his zipper drawn down. I'd imagine him undressing to his
white briefs (again, a throwback to my dream), then kneel between my spread
legs, the bed sagging beneath his weight.
It was so real, so detailed. I had no words to say, no coherent
thoughts. I only lay quivering in my restraints, stretched taut, elbows
and knees locking tight, concentric circles of expectation and sensitivity
radiating outward from my thighs. And then he would start to stroke them
with the backs of his hands, his fingertips like soft pads moving from
knees to hips, over and over, endlessly.
And then I'd cry out and go tight as Mr. S**** began to lick my
legs. I'd groan and thrash and hear him groan, too. Licking all over my
legs. Spanking my legs. Slapping and sucking my thighs. (This fantasy is
where I truly began to enjoy mild bondage and spanking).
I pictured his muscular, hairy brown body, his tight white briefs
stretched across his pelvis, but never his erection, really, or my own. As
I said, I was naive and innocent, and so my errogenous zones were firmly
established in my legs and shorts. This accounts for my fetish. For my
current pleasure to wear shorts before sex and for my continuing admiration
for young boys in short shorts. In my gym suit and play clothes I knew I
was a kid, and that grown ups didn't dress as I did. Gym suits, boy scout
uniforms, short suits like British schoolboys -- all are age specific.
Clearly, you can see where my fiction takes some of its inspiration.

Finally, I wish to express my dearest appreciation and support for
the Nifty Archivist and the Nifty Archives. Nestled among the stores and
shop fronts of Main Street America, the Nifty Archives provides a welcome
service. I employ the familiar image of Main Street America because one
would be mistaken to assume that the Nifty Archives is a place that exists
only in the fantasy of cyber-space: the Nifty Archives is as real as any
social or cultural phenomena, and its doors swing open to inform and be
informed by the diverse collection of people who are its clientele.
Communities are created by social acts of exchange, powered by the
laws of supply and demand and a fundamental human need for fellowship. To
my way of thinking, the Nifty Archivist has made it possible for a
community of authors and readers -- authors and readers who might not
otherwise be aware of one another -- to gather together in a friendly
atmosphere of social and literary exchange. And, no, these lofty
sentiments are not incompatible with the content of the Nifty Archives.

Fantasy and reality are complimentary. Indeed, a conscientious use
of fantasy has much to say to reality. Who would seriously argue that
works of literature such as written by Shakespeare, Milton, Borges or Wolff
-- and all literature, however great, is "only" fantasy -- have nothing to
say about the reality of the world? Life. Death. Love. The central
mysteries of our lives would be incomprehensible without the enabling
framework of fantasy. Of course, I am not equating the literature archived
here with the great literature of the world, but my meaning is clear. The
conscientious use of fantasy and reality has always been complimentary.
It is with these sentiments in mind that I am pleased to
participate in the Nifty Archives.
Thank you for the ramble and your readership,

Short Boys-Pants

 
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Nifty - Gay - Adult Youth - Newspapers And Gym Suits