Disclaimer: this is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to people, places or events is unintentional.
Nightmares on Fig Leaf Street Chapter II
HAVING A BALL
DAY THREE - MONDAY
Henry yawned as the Seniors waited for the morning announcements from Principal Carpenter.
"Remember you told me about your dream? Well, I had a weird nightmare last night," Quinn said hesitantly to Henry.
The way he said "weird" was similar to how Henry had said it. Henry's interest was piqued because as much as his dream had been frightening, it had been arousing too.
"I was playing Tennis and everyone was laughing at me and calling me rubbish. Calling me names, it got really nasty," Quinn said.
"Sounds like sports day," Henry said.
"Yea," Quinn laughed in agreement. "But also no."
Quinn wasn't on the football, basketball, baseball or the anything ball team and was therefore considered pretty useless. Like Henry, he was actually ok at sports. He could run and enjoyed sport as a hobby or activity rather than a vocation.
Quinn was laughing nervously because when his classmates had found out he was gay, he'd had a hard time of it but it got better through Junior year, thanks to Henry's brother. Nevertheless, Quinn lived in fear of that time when verbal and physical encounters resulted in a bruised face or a bruised soul.
"Let me guess? The ball hit you in... the centre court?" Henry joked.
"You're not far off," Quinn replied.
Henry's interest was obviously piqued. Less obviously piqued was Chris's interest – he was listening nearby – not deliberately eavesdropping but overhearing regardless.
"The weird thing was there was a man in my dream," Quinn continued.
"Oh, now you're talking!" Henry said gleefully.
"Stop it," Quinn laughed. "He was... scary..."
The dream, the nightmare, itself was a mixture of erotica and intimidation but it was the man that remained an unsettling presence even after the cum from his wet dream had been showered away.
"What scary man?" Henry asked cautiously but then curiosity got the better of him. "Tell me about the dream first."
Tennis was not Quinn's game. He was losing his service game but he had been distracted by a peculiar spectator. He was dressed in a short sleeved white shirt with black trousers and no shirt of tie. But he watched the game in total silence, seemingly only pleased when Quinn was losing.
The strangest thing had been that Quinn didn't remember the man arriving – he had just suddenly appeared. Come to think of it, Quinn didn't remember the game starting either.
A fuzzy green ball flew past Quinn's face while he was thinking about the tall, thin man watching him with an almost impassive face except for the face-splitting grin that appeared ever now and then.
"Do you work hard on being this useless?" his opponent shouted.
Another ball came towards him and Quinn's eyes locked onto it, swinging his racket which connected with it.
Except...
It didn't sail back towards the other side.
It burst like a water balloon and showered Quinn in the contents.
His opponent laughed and the man at the side grinned and although Quinn couldn't see them, he could hear others laughing. It was like that when people used to trip him up in the corridor or bump into him. There was always someone unhelpful there to provide a soundtrack of sniggering.
Quinn couldn't make sense of what had happened.
He thought he'd hit the ball back.
Another serve from his opponent and another contact between the ball and the racket resulted in another shower of water. Except it wasn't water. Quinn could taste it on his lips. It was salty.
And sweet.
Was it milky too? And thicker than water?
"Pay attention, Mason," his opponent shouted testily.
Quinn paid attention just in time to be hit in the chest by another serve. Luckily it wasn't a tennis ball. It splashed in the centre of his chest and exploded. Was it a water balloon? It looked like a regular tennis ball right until it hit him.
Time seemed to twist as volleys of gooey balls were shot towards Quinn like they were coming from a launcher rather than a person. Quinn felt like he was possessed, instead of trying to return the balls, he almost seemed to aim body parts for them – his legs, thighs, chest and face; even the back of his head, his back and ass.
The cruel, bullying, braying laughter followed him and the silent man, a man who Quinn sensed was choosing not to talk rather than being unable, sneered and snorted from the sidelines.
"Get him," shouted Quinn's opponent.
Suddenly, there were ball boys at the edge of the court.
Quinn always liked looking at ball boys during the Grand Slam Tournaments on TV. Shorts and t-shits, running about, standing with hands behind their backs? Yes please.
Now they weren't pocketing balls to resupply the players though.
Not that Quinn was doing much playing. Surely it was his service by now? But no.
Quinn's opponent and the ball boys... were they the ones who had been laughing at his pathetic sportsmanship? Now they were all openly pelting him with...
Oh! Cum!
The balls were filled with cum. Except they weren't.
Not filled with cum but composed of it. As if spunk had been moulded. Quinn was now sloppy with jizz.
His tennis outfit was drenched and dripping.
The worst part was not just being bombarded with balls of cum but that he was the victim of such abuse from gangly boys who's nerdy job it was to catch and return tennis balls. They weren't even cool kids. It was Quinn's worst nightmare to be the prey of bullies.
"You should take those clothes off," said a voice.
It was velvety and smooth yet... ominous. It has come from the man standing erect and judgemental at the side of the tennis court. Quinn looked at him and felt like he was looking at a villain who had been unmasked.
"You should take those clothes off," the stranger repeated mechanically.
"Here, Quinn, I'll help you," Quinn's opponent said.
With no intermediate transition from the one side of the court to the other, Quinn's opponent was suddenly beside him; the bully was an attractive boy of eighteen or nineteen with a buzzcut, piercing green eyes and a strong, athletic physique. Quinn felt his sopping wet t-shirt being pulled up. Quinn felt his tummy exposed and as it came higher, he automatically raised his arms for the t-shirt to be removed. It felt like he was a kid again, being undressed.
There were giggles from the ball boys and comments about his unimpressive physique. The t-shirt was thrown on the ground and before Quinn could react he felt his shorts and then underwear being pulled down too.
"No, wait!" Quinn said.
The giggles became laughter and pointing.
Quinn's skin was clammy with the damp corrosion of cum that had seeped through his clothes.
Quinn felt a push in the middle of his chest and he stumbled backwards, stepping out of the shorts and underwear. His opponent pushed Quinn again and the feeling was familiar – the staggering, the feeling he was going to fall, the fear he was going to be punched or kicked...
And yet.
He was naked and outdoors, the lad was attractive and the indistinct soundtrack from the spectators was almost exciting. Quinn didn't like being naked or pushed, or made fun of but he was excited. Turned on as his own fear was used to push two buttons: fear and arousal.
Quinn's back connected with the net that divided the two sides of the tennis court and inexplicably, the net seemed to wrap around Quinn, binding his arms to his sides. He felt the net biting into his buttocks so the fleshy cheeks pressed through the diamonds.
At the front, Quinn's dick pressed through a diamond-shaped hole in the net and his balls through another, his nipples though yet others so that every intimate inch of him was exposed. The ball boys threw more balls at him, splatting him with spunk. Who's spunk was magically being conjured against him?
Quinn's skin became even more damp and he fell to his knees, weakened.
"Oh, the perfect position," smirked his opponent. "I thought you'd never offer."
It was strange that Quinn did not recognise the ball boys or his bully but it was the mostly silent figure, who watched every moment of his degradation and harassment that Quinn thought of as the stranger. They were all strangers.
Quinn watched as his opponent pulled out a thick dick and waved it in his face. Quinn was slapped across the cheek with the floppy penis that was already six inches long. The lad windmilled it and then swatted Quinn's nose and cheeks and pressed it against his lips.
Quinn opened his mouth and the cock was pushed inside. Quinn had been called a lot of things when he had been bulled – cocksucker was one of those things. But the bullies had never actually tried to make him suck cock.
Quinn didn't try to stop it. He was enjoying it. He was dimly aware of the farce and absurdity without ever grasping that it wasn't real. It felt real. But Quinn also did not become cognizant of the experience being real either. It was just happening.
Quinn felt the cock being pushed impossibly deep into his mouth with jeers and groans of disgust from the ball boys. Some egged Quinn's opponent on and others called Quinn names but none of the voices communicated words that could be detailed in dialogue.
Quinn's mouth was allowed a rest so he could swallow an abundance of precum. His lips were smeared with the bully's cock snot but he opened his mouth again and as he resumed fellatio; the stranger spoke again.
It was a comment that was relevant to oral consumption but it was still strange and laced with multiple meanings and it had an air of familiarity that Quinn couldn't put his finger on. Quinn felt the cock grow in his mouth and it had already been big but it got longer and longer. Quinn it elongating until it literally slid down his throat. Like an endoscopy tube the cock filled Quinn's oesophagus, bulging Quinn's throat until he could barely breathe.
But he could breathe.
Then the lad blew his load, filling Quinn's stomach. As he pulled his cock out, Quinn watched as the thick, flexi-hard dick was pulled from his mouth. It was obscene and grotesque.
And magnificent and weird and beautiful.
The cock spilled from Quinn's mouth with a sloppy slat on the tennis court. It looked around 55cm (22 inches) long but retracted like a garden hose being wound in. Quinn hadn't tried to stand but he flet himself being lifted as the tennis net tightened from both ends. Quinn found himself on his feet and trapped in the middle of the net, facing the bully who tucked an average four inches back in his shorts as if nothing unusual had happened.
"I think we'll leave you here," the bully said.
The ball boys laughed again.
Quinn saw the stranger smiling. It was a wide, monstrous smile that seemed to split the man's face from ear to ear.
"Who knows, maybe someone will let you down eventually," the bully laughed and departed.
Quinn was left naked except for his tennis shoes, every inch of his body exposed and unable to escape from the tangled net that was wrapped around him, binding his arms and yet also attached to both sides of the court.
It was only then that the words of the stranger came back to Quinn and he knew where he'd heard them before – Henry's story about his dream. His nightmare. But that would mean...
"You were dreaming," Henry finished the thought Quinn had started to express. "What had the stranger said?"
Henry had a sinking feeling he knew what Quinn was about to say. Chris, who had unobtrusively been listening also knew.
"He said he was hungry. That's what I realised after I woke up and why it was so strange. You told me how your nightmare had a scary guy in it who kept saying..."
"I was hungry," Chris said.
Henry and Quinn turned to him – not realising he had been listening in. Quinn blushed – realising that someone else knew about his awful nightmare. Chris hadn't meant to reveal himself but he wore a worried look that confused Henry and Quinn. Chris was more popular, cool and sporty (though he was also arrogant, sulky and moody) than Henry and Quinn but they had an amicable and passing friendship. Perhaps friendship was overselling it but they were high school cohorts.
"Yea," Quinn confirmed.
Quinn didn't know that Henry and Chris had kissed on the last day of school at the end of Eleventh Grade. Neither Chris nor Henry had talked about it.
"And the guy was wearing a white shirt and trousers. He looked like Mormon or a used car salesman," Quinn said with feigned lightness.
All three boys shared a sense of dread when they thought about the stranger in their dream. Somehow they knew it was the same person but that was impossible... Right?
"You probably only dreamed it because I told you about my nightmare," Henry replied.
"I had a nightmare like that too," Chris said.
"You did?" Quinn asked. "What happened in yours?"
"I'm not telling you," Chris said hostilely. "But there was a creepy guy, though he was dressed like a coach, who said he was hungry. And his smile was horrible. Then I woke up."
"I don't know how to explain it but even though I was scared, I was excited too," Quinn admitted. "I liked it."
"Did you wake up with a boner?" Henry asked.
He hadn't directed the question at Quinn or Chris but both blushed and refused to answer which in itself told him what he needed to know. It was very odd that they all had a dream about a stranger in a shirt and tie who said he was hungry.
"I woke up from the wettest dream I've ever had," Quinn confided. "It was like the cum in my dream had followed me out. I's had to throw the sheets out, the bedding was so stained."
Before Chris could refuse to answer, Principal Carpenter called everyone's attention.
"Good morning everyone," Principal Carter said. "As you'll all have seen, work continues on the new football stadium. There will be some disruption to the classes nearest the construction site, you will be notified of any classroom changes..."
Henry was already barely listening. He was thinking about how his best friend and a peer from school had all shared a similar dream experience. Chris hadn't said much about his dream but his hostility when asked about it made Henry wonder if his dream had also been mixed erotica and suspense. He would need to ask Chris for more details about his dream later.
"Students are also reminded that Halloween masks are not allowed. This is for security reasons. The accusation that Mr Rikscot looks like an animated skeleton all year round is also not appreciated," Principal Carpenter continued.
Unfortunately, later didn't come. If anything, Chris seemed to avoid Henry so the rest of the school day passed with no more talk of the nightmares that were circulating the boys on Fig Leaf Street.
A CLASS OF HIS OWN
Andrew rolled his eyes before picking up his football helmet and boots to "put them in their place," per his mom's instructions. She liked a tidy house which Andrew respected but after school and football practice, he just wanted to come home a laze about.
He put his helmet, shoulder pads, cleats and all the other offending paraphernalia in the laundry room next to the garage. Their place was a walk-in storeroom that they'd set aside for varying sporting and gym equipment.
After that, there was still an hour before dinner so Andrew headed upstairs for a bath. He liked to soak sometimes to ease his muscles. He left the door ajar while he pulled off his socks and dropped his shorts before pulling off his jersey and standing in just his jockstrap.
"Mom asked me to collect your..." Henry said as he pushed into the bathroom.
Andrew looked over his shoulder irritably at his stepbrother who should have knocked before barging in. What if he'd been naked? As it was, he was standing in just his cockstrap. Jockstrap. His bare ass was shining at Henry who couldn't help but look at it. It was round and peachy and fucking hot.
Andrew was big and broad, at 5ft 10in tall with short fair hair and a classically handsome face. He smiled at Henry who wasn't very good at hiding his envy or admiration. Andrew didn't really mind that his stepbrother was gay or that he perved on him. Still, he'd rather Henry had knocked first.
"Sorry Drew. I should have knocked," Henry finally conceded. "Mom's putting the laundry on."
"On the floor," Andrew flapped his hand lazily.
Andrew could be quite spoiled. Henry's mom had married Andrew's dad when the boys were babies. Their dad's had known each other in school too. Though Siti Ng wasn't Andrew's biological mom, the eighteen-year-old treated her with respect but also with the casual expectation of laundry and food on the table whenever he wanted.
Andrew enjoyed watching his stepbrother pick up his clothes. Henry was the same age but he looked more like a Sophomore and deferred to Andrew like one too. Once Henry had gathered up all of Andrew's moist and musky football uniform, he shyly moved towards the door.
"Aren't you forgetting something?" Andrew said.
Henry turned back and watched as Andrew put his thumbs into the sides of his jockstrap and pushed it down. Henry had seen Andrew naked before but usually only furtive glances in the locker room or if his stepbrother didn't close the door after a shower.
This was unbelievable. Andrew's flaccid penis was three and a half inches and circumcised. It was topped with a flurry of pubes and his inner thighs were dusted with hair too. His balls were large and moist. Andrew stepped out of his jockstrap and chuckled as he tossed it at Henry. Henry still had all the other clothes bundled in his arms so he couldn't catch it. The jockstrap hit him in the face and fell to the top of the pile.
Andrew chuckled and then turned his back on Henry and stepped towards the bath. Henry made a hasty exit, pulling the bathroom door not quite closed – leaving it ajar. Outside, he paused to check no-one was watching and then bundled everything onto one arm so he could free his hand. Henry lifted the soggy jockstrap to his nose and inhaled. He threw an instant boner but was unable to do anything else with the flirtatious prize because his mom called and he trotted off to carry the bounty to her. Not that she would appreciate the smell of teen spirit.
In his bath, Andrew lounged and smiled to himself. He didn't often tease Henry but it was fun sometimes and Leroy had pointed out that Henry had been watching them play basketball on Saturday. His exact words were:
"You're gay stepbro was checking us out. Not just me. You too."
Andrew had always known Henry checked him out but he hadn't realised Leroy had noticed. Leroy had thought it was hilarious and suggested he should mess with Henry. They had talked about it again at school earlier. They were both keen sportsmen but tried hard with the more academic work too; they were only just above average, not as smart as Henry, but not stupid.
Andrew slithered down lower in the bath, easing his shoulders with the water lapping just under his chin. He was still thinking about school as he closed his eyes. Andrew and Leroy had taken Art as a creative subject that didn't require lots of number or facts. Drawing fruit had been boring until their teacher suggested drawing something else.
"I've told you three times to keep quiet, you're distracting the others," Mr Ulrich admonished exasperatedly.
"Sorry sir," Andrew replied reflexively.
"We're just bored," Leroy added with brutal honesty.
"Bored?" the teacher replied. "You're bored?"
The man looked at the arrangement in the middle of the room – grapes, bananas, oranges and apples, a peach and a pair – and then at the faces of his enthusiastic budding artists. The faces were all drawn (pun intended) and disinterested.
"Ok... Andrew, I agree. This is boring so you can be our model. Why don't you stand up," Mr Ulrich suggested.
"Me?" Andrew replied.
"You and Leroy won't stop talking so I need to separate you. One of you might as well make yourselves useful while we're at it," the Art teacher continued.
"Hey!" Leroy objected to the implied reproach.
"Go into the middle of the room, Andrew," Mr Ulrich instructed.
Andrew stepped between the desks that surrounded a central space that was now empty. On any given day three might be fruit or a vase or a clock or a duck for the students to draw. Now Andrew was standing there.
"Why don't you take off your shirt, Andrew?" Mr Ulrich prompted.
There was a small ripple of murmurs and snorts and the attention of his classmates was now absolute and undivided. Andrew noticed there was a face at the window of the classroom door and he gasped, shocked by the sinister appearance. The man looked vaguely familiar. Andrew only looked away for a second and when he looked back, the face was gone and the corridor outside appeared empty.
"You want me to take my shirt off?" Andrew echoed.
"Of course. Modelling for art will be a good opportunity for you to appreciate the sense and sensitivity of the object. To empathise with the item in the middle of the room. What does it feel like to be an eggplant?" Mr Ulrich asked philosophically.
"Right. Ok," Andrew replied sceptically.
Andrew pulled his shirt off like he'd done a million times before – on the beach, at the pool, in the locker room, on the football pitch, at home on the couch – but today it was in class and it felt funny. His nipples felt hard even though it wasn't cold. There was an appreciative mumble around the room as Andrew's classmates eyed up the shirtless eighteen-year-old.
Andrew tossed his shirt onto a vacant desk. The room was odd – simultaneously bigger than normal yet he felt enclosed in an intimate space, unable to escape the gaze of the boys in the room. His classmates were odd too – he couldn't see Leroy and the faces of the artists seemed indistinct as if hidden behind a pixel filter. The desks around the centre where Andrew now stood seemed more numerous than normal, every one occupied by a boy.
That was another thing.
Even though the faces were indiscernible, the whole class was definitely only boys.
"Take off your sneakers too, Andrew," Mr Ulrich encouraged.
Andrew didn't know why he obeyed. He just did.
His bare feet slipped out of the sneakers and onto the floor. He kicked them both towards the desk where his shirt was... was, past tense. It didn't seem to be there now which was odd because no-one had approached the desk.
"Excellent. Now, we're making progress," Mr Ulrich said. "Your jeans next."
Andrew couldn't believe his teacher had just told him to take his jeans off in class. He couldn't believe none of his classmates objected. Even Andrew didn't object. Most strange of all, Andrew did as he was asked.
He unbuttoned his jeans and pushed the zipper down and the shoved his jeans to the floor, stepping out of them with a few tugs and pulls from his legs. Andrew picked them up and threw them onto the empty desk where his shirt and sneakers weren't located.
Andrew was now standing in just his boxers in front of his classmates and his teacher and now there was another man. His sudden appearance didn't shock or surprise him this time. There was nothing ominous about his apparition into the room but his smile leering and hungry. The man just stood there watching him. He was dressed like a very formal teacher in a black suit and tie with a white shirt. Andrew was almost flattered by the attention if he weren't so scared of his increasing exposure and what it would mean.
Andrew had a secret.
Andrew's boxers were tight, emphasising his thighs and butt and the bulge in the front. They felt tighter than usual and when Andrew looked down, the outline of his penis was obvious. The head of his flaccid dick was wrapped in the black fabric of his underwear in a way that made Andrew feel very exposed and vulnerable.
Andrew had never told anyone about his fears – about how he felt about his own body. Objectively, he knew he was attractive but seeing that for himself was difficult. Andrew struggled with his body image and now everyone was looking at him.
"Andrew. Take off your underwear and we can begin," Mr Ulrich said.
"What?" Andrew objected.
He looked around for support in his predicament but the sea of blurred faces all nodded eagerly in anticipation of seeing him naked. Andrew looked for his clothes but they weren't where he'd left them. He looked for his friend too but where Leroy had been sitting, the oddly familiar stranger was now sitting.
"I don't think I should do that, Mr Ulrich," Andrew said.
"Of course you should. You're our art model. Take them off, Andrew. Take them off," Mr Ulrich said.
"Take them off."
"Take them off."
"Take them off."
The words echoed around the room with Andrew's peers picking up the chant until it was a cacophony of overlapping invocations all demanding his exposure. Andrew didn't know why but he complied – pushing down his boxers despite the audience of his peers all peering at him. Andrew hopped from foot to foot as released the underwear and then flicked them with a toe onto the desk where his other clothes should be.
"I can't believe he actually did it."
Andrew thought he recognised the voice of his classmate.
"Wow. That is impressive," Mr Ulrich said.
Andrew blushed at the compliment from his teacher. His school teacher was commenting on his cock. He was naked in school. His classmates could see his bare ass and dick. His flaccid penis was four inches big and dangling almost centrally between his legs. His right testicle meanwhile dropped just a little lower than the left.
"Kneel down, Andrew. Right there where everyone can see you," Mr Ulrich said.
Andrew knelt on a box draped in a white sheet. He was facing a dozen faces and more boys were looking at him in profile and still others at his naked ass. Mr Ulrich and the silent stranger were on Andrew's right – able to see the beautiful globes of his ass and his thick dick.
"Lace your fingers together and put your hands behind your neck, Andrew," Mr Ulrich said.
Doing this meant Andrew couldn't cover his penis. It would be totally exposed the whole time he was modelling. All Andrew could hear was the scratch and scribble of pencils on paper. He felt invaded and violated and could feel the eyes on him. He tried not to look at his classmates because he was so ashamed to be seen naked by them like this but every now and then he caught one of them smiling or sniggering.
He had tried not to look at the faces of his classmates or listen to the voices that seemed to whisper about his body but it was as if a veil had been lifted when he looked at one boy straight ahead and suddenly Andrew recognised him... it was himself.
The voices, the almost-heard comments, the leering looks and the smirks... they were all coming from him. Every face was a manifestation of Andrew's own fear, his own self-judgement.
Andrew's body was glorious and he had anything to be embarrassed about (his penis wasn't tiny or anything) but it was the feeling exposure. His own insecurities and self-loathing about his body made the attention feel overwhelming.
It was when he caught the eye of the stranger that things changed. His eye contact was intense and persistent, his smile satisfied, cruel and invasive. He made Andrew feel even more exposed which wasn't possible. Andrew suddenly remembered where he had seen the man before. The recollection came to him like a... like a... like a dream? He was the man who had been standing in the street outside their house on Saturday.
The man didn't speak, no-one spoke, but Andrew could feel the word "hunger" as if projected towards him. The man wasn't talking about an empty stomach, though the stranger did feel that kind of hunger too, but the hunger of longing.
Andrew felt himself grow hot and an impossibly, mortifying stirring in his groin.
"No, no, no," Andrew muttered.
"Problem Andrew?" Mr Ulrich asked.
"Sir... I need to take a break," Andrew said desperately.
"Nonsense. We're nearly done anyway," the teacher snapped.
"But sir..." Andrew replied but it was too late.
His penis had already bloated and elongated enough his classmates to notice and the menace of the teenage character compounded Andrew's own dysmorphic feelings. In true nightmare style, exaggerated attention was called attention to the humiliating development.
"Sir, Andrew getting hard."
"I didn't mean to," Andrew defended himself.
"I think he likes us seeing him naked."
"No. I don't," Andrew responded.
It wasn't very convincing because he was now fully erect.
"I should stop, sir," Andrew said.
"Do not move Andrew. You'll ruin the whole class," Mr Ulrich said.
"It's ok Andrew, we could already see your nipples."
"And the hairs on your chest."
"And the curve of your abdomen."
"And the way your bellybutton sticks out."
"And the way your left ball sits lower than the right."
"And your hairy pubes."
And.
And.
And.
Andrew.
Andrew looked at the stranger who was now grinning. His mouth was stretched in a way that was almost gruesome, the smile sinister rather than funny or pleasant. The man was leering at the boy as if Andrew were porn for his attention only. Andrew's head leaked precum, an ooze of clear droplets trickled down the shaft and into his hairy balls. There was giggles in the class as Andrew's classmates continued to record his exposure in the scratches and scribbles on canvas's.
Andrew didn't understand why he was hard and his whole body felt slimy and slick. His cock was wet like he was getting sucked off or stroked with a greasy hand.
"Ok, time is up," Mr Ulrich said.
Andrew moved to cover up but touching his cock was so sensitive it was impossible to cover his erection with his hands which just slipped on his shaft and made it look like he was trying to pleasure himself.
"These pictures are excellent. Come and look, Andrew," Mr Ulrich said.
"I want to get dressed first," Andrew said as he looked around for his clothes and found nothing.
"Don't be rude. Your classmates took the time to draw you, you can take the time to appreciate their efforts," Mr Ulrich admonished.
Andrew looked at the stranger who was still grinning and staring hard but he had remained silent except for the thought of "hunger". Andrew found himself walking out the centre circle to pass behind his classmates and look at their artwork. Some of them had focussed on specific areas – his legs or butt or a profile shot that displayed the curve of his ass but no intimate anatomy.
"These are wonderful. Almost life-like," said the stranger.
"I'll create an exhibit for everyone's pictures. These deserve to go on display," Mr Ulrich said.
"Display?" Andrew repeated.
Andrew moaned and he expected more laughter from his peers but they had vanished. In a way, the absence of attention was as bad as the judgemental voices and looks. It left Andrew alone with his fear internalised.
He knew it was illogical to be insecure about his appearance but mental health doesn't listen to logic.
Andrew felt like he was all alone and he alone was the only one to feel this way. He wasn't quite alone - Andrew looked around the stranger now. He was standing on the other side of the room. When Andrew looked to his teacher, even Mr Ulrich was gone.
"I like this one..." Mr Ulrich's voice seemed to float into the room.
The picture Andrew looked at was a closeup of his flaccid penis flopping from a patch of scribbled pubes.
"You can't display that! Everyone will see my dick," Andrew said.
"They'll see the way the floppy stump of a dick limps to one side," the stranger asserted.
"Nudity in art is perfectly acceptable. Besides, no-one will even know it's your penis, Andrew," Mr Ulrich said though the man still wasn't there.
Andrew would know it was his dick though.
"This picture is wonderful too," Mr Ulrich intoned.
Andrew looked at the implied sketch and saw his hot body stretched, his face, pits, biceps, nipples, belly button and a flurry of pubes were displayed from the top of the canvas to the bottom.
"No! Sir, everyone will know the dick is mine," Andrew replied.
Andrew heard a soft laugh behind him. The stranger had laughed at him and when Andrew looked, the man was staring at his bare ass. Why did Andrew still feel too hot and sticky and slimy?
"Look at the hatching, it truly captures the disgusting hair on your inner thighs," the stranger said.
"Who are you?" Andrew demanded angrily.
Andrew looked desperately for Mr Ulrich but he wasn't there again today and Andrew wished he hadn't gone away.
"No-one will even know the pictures are both of the same person, Andrew," Mr Ulrich's disembodied voice responded.
"You can call me Ricky, if you like," the stranger said but Andre sensed this was misdirection.
"Look at this one too," Mr Ulrich's excited voice guided Andrew to the next artwork.
Andrew looked and saw the worst picture yet.
His face and body were in the picture and his limp dick. The artist had used a scumbling technique to etch the lines of Andrew's armpits and above his pubes that made the hair look almost 3D on the page. Of his flaccid penis, it was short and tilted to the left, the head looking almost photorealistic and his balls nestling between his thighs inside a sac that looked like the fuzzy head of a thistle.
"This one has my face in the picture," Andrew gasped. "And my..."
The stranger laughed and Andrew turned to see the man chuckling with amusement at Andrew's shame. His fear of being seen. At least he was soft in the sketch but wasn't that worse? Would people think he had a small dick?
"They'll all judge you, you know," Ricky said. "They'll all know what you look like."
"It's a wonderful rendering of the human form, Andrew," Mr Ulrich's unsettlingly ethereal voice responded.
"But I'm naked!" Andrew protested again.
"I can see that," Mr Ulrich said. "Grow up, Andrew. It's just a penis."
"Talking of growing..." Ricky, the stranger, said.
Andrew didn't like the silky, gravelly tone of the man's voice. It was the first time he had spoken and the voice cut through Andrew like nails on a chalk board. Nevertheless, Andrew looked to the next picture and saw a fully erect penis. His fully erect penis.
His balls and the root of his cock, with its splash of pubes, filled the bottom edge and then he shaft, shaded to express the tubular curve, sprouted upwards like the trunk of a veiny tree. The head of his cock looked impressive, with particular attention paid to the frenulum and the urethra.
"This is indecent!" Andrew said.
"I'm getting hungry," the stranger announced.
Andrew felt his body getting hotter again, and his feet felt slippery as if he was sweating but not...
"It's not indecent Andrew," Mr Ulrich replied dismissively. "I think the school will learn a lot from including this picture in the exhibition."
"It's my cock!" Andrew said.
"It's only your erection, Andrew. Don't get excited," Mr Ulrich warned him.
"Please do get excited, Roberts. You know I like it when you're excited," Ricky said in a velvety voice.
Andrew looked at the man and he felt like the comment almost had not been directed at him or if it was, he was a surrogate for someone else. The man was hard to age but somewhere in his mid to late thirties – too old to be ogling eighteen-year-old boys. His comment was implicitly sexual.
"One last picture," Mr Ulrich said.
With trepidation, Andrew looked at the final nude drawing by his classmates. It was the worst of them all. Andrew was naked and fully exposed, his face fully recognisable, and his cock was hard and leaking. All rendered in pencil so realistically, Andrew could have confused it for a black and white photo.
"Sir, you can't put this up in your exhibition," Andrew whined.
"Why not?" Mr Ulrich asked.
"Because I'm fucking naked. And hard. Everyone will recognise me," Andrew exclaimed.
"Oh no, everyone will know Andrew Roberts has a big boner. How terrible for you," Mr Ulrich replied sarcastically. "It's going up."
"That's not the only thing that's going up," Ricky said with another pass remarkable jibe.
Andrew looked at himself and saw he was hard again. Not only hard but dripping and when he touched himself, his whole cock felt gooey. His hand peeled away with strands of gunge sticking this his fingers. His whole body was starting to glisten with slime as if he'd sprayed cum all over himself.
When Andrew gasped, he realised he could barely breath and he had an odd taste in his mouth.
"Wha-t?" Andrew tried to say but the words bubbled with the exudate that covered his tongue.
"So hungry, Roberts. Feed me! Feed me your seed," the man in the suit said.
Andrew turned and Ricky was right behind him. So close Andrew could see the dark eyes, pupils almost indistinguishable from the brown iris's. Andrew jumped, frightened by the sudden closeness that had happened silently.
Andrew opened his eyes.
Opened? He hadn't even realised they had been closed.
Only when he opened his eyes did Andrew realise he had been having a nightmare. His exposure hadn't been real. However, it took another second to realise he had brought back something real from whatever place dreams come from. Andrew's eyelids shifted heavily against the force of warm, thick fluid all around him. With a gasp, Andrew realised his face was under the surface. A bubble of air broke from his mouth and popped on the surface but all Andrew could see was a sea of white semen and then all black as the air ran out.
He had fallen asleep in the bath.
IMPOSSIBLE
"Andrew, are you nearly done because I..." said Johnny Roberts as he cautiously pushed into the bathroom.
The man suddenly saw his son's face under the surface and he yelled as he ran forward. What the fuck was his son bathing in? Not stopping to think about it, the man plunged his hands into the bathtub and managed to grip Andrew under his armpits. Andrew was a heavy young man – a muscular footballer but his dad was a strong man too. He pulled the eighteen-year-old up and with all his strength, Johnny hauled Andrew out of the bath.
Andrew slid from his dad's hands and landed with a thump on the floor. His son was covered in goo and as Johnny knelt beside the naked body, he thought the odour was familiar. Johnny swiped his hand across his son's chest, sliding the sludge which sluiced over his son's genitals. Fuck, Andrew was hard! Johnny's eyes tried not to look at the stiff, slightly curved pole of boymeat – it was a long time since he had looked at another man's erection. Not since...
Johnny returned his attention to the immediate problem of Andrew not breathing. He placed his hands on the centre of his son's chest and pressed down hard twenty times. Then he had to provide two breaths... Johnny forgot to wipe Andrew's face so when his lips met his son's, they tasted like cum. Cum? Johnny gave Andrew two breathes and wiped the spunk from his lips before starting compressions again.
He hadn't been under the surface for long because he revived before the second set of compressions was complete.
Andrew coughed and tried to sit up, spewing jizz from his throat. The ejaculate spilled over his chin and onto his already contaminated body. His whole body was bathed in sperm. How was that even possible?
Then Andrew saw his dad, who shuffled away. Andrew looked down to see he was not only naked in front of his father but sporting wood. He moved with cramped and aching muscles to cover himself but only succeeded in showing his dad his asshole. Finally, with a towel around his waist, Andrew collapsed with his back against the bathtub.
"What happened, Andrew?" Johnny said.
"I... I was dreaming, I think," Andrew said.
"The bath, Andrew? Your covered in... you know..." Johnny said.
Johnny didn't want to say it out loud because he didn't know how to ask his son how he had produced 50 gallons (190 litres) of cum. That was impossible. Andrew also didn't want to say it because he didn't understand how it was possible either. Except he felt intuitively that it was connected to the leering stranger in his dream. Ricky, he called himself. It was as if the cum had been dragged into the real world but if that was possible, what else might be dragged into the real world?
"I don't know dad," Andrew said.
Andrew coughed and spluttered again, his chest burning. He couldn't go to hospital to say he'd drowned in cum though. He was just glad his mom hadn't found him or walked in on dad resuscitating him. In fact, his mom was probably at work by now – at the hospital so all the more reason not to go.
Johnny could still taste jizz on his tongue. Was it Andrew's? He hadn't eaten cum for nearly twenty years. He was about to quiz Andrew further when Henry entered. He saw his stepbrother on the floor – almost naked (except for a towel) and covered in gunge. Fuck, that was hot. But Henry could also see that Andrew was wheezing and coughing.
"Oh my god, what happened?" Henry asked, stepping into the bathroom to get a better look at the exposed stud.
Andrew hadn't realised his legs were open so Henry could see up the towel and around his waist it had sagged to expose his clogged-up pubes and the root of his penis.
"I had a nightmare. It felt so real," Andrew said and he felt dazed.
"What happened in your dream, Andrew?" Johnny asked.
"I was at school. I was in an Art class..." his son replied.
The dream was starting to slip away from him.
"I was told to model for the class and I was naked. There was a man. In a shirt and tie. He kept looking at me," Andrew recalled his discomfort – not just with the nudity but the scrutiny of the stranger.
And yet he had been hard. It had been exciting.
Henry gasped at the description – the eerily familiar description of the ominous figure from his own dream. It was so unsettling that Henry even stopped looking at his cum-caked stepbrother. Henry had dreamed about a creepy man but so had Quinn and Chris and now Andrew? What the fuck was going on?
"He was leering at me and he said he was hungry," Andrew concluded.
His dad's eyes went wide and looked terrified. The arrangement of words and the unwanted attention of a man triggered bad memories for Johnny.
"The stranger, he called himself Ricky and he said... So hungry, Roberts. Feed me your seed..." Andrew said.
Andrew watched as his father's face became pale and filled with absolute terror. Johnny stood up and wobbled on his feet.
"That's impossible," Johnny murmured so quietly that Andrew almost didn't hear him. "It can't be... He's dead."
END OF CHAPTER II
TO BE CONTINUED...
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My stories so far:
https://www.nifty.org/nifty/authors.html#jforrester
Complete series: School Exhibitionism, The Symposium, The Embarrassment of Riches, Do As You're Told, A Series of Embarrassing Events, and Noah the Embarrassed Nudist.
Also: Anthology, and The SEX Men.
Short stories: Aiden's Accidental Autoerotic Assignment, Jogging Joe's Jaunty Journey and Peter's Past Posing Pictures.