Sophomore Year 15
In this chapter, young Hank befriends the mirror as Buck teaches him to connect with and revel in his own virility.
Many thanks to those who have sent words of encouragement and shared their own experiences and fantasies. I love hearing from Nifty readers.
And remember - Nifty depends on our donations! Let's help it survive and thrive! If you have ever shot a load reading a Nifty post, then please contribute if you can at http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html
Sophomore Year 15
"C'mon over here and let's take a look." Buck called then turned back to setting the little stage in place.
As I started across the gym, I stopped a moment to look up at the football champ in the poster. I now felt a new connection with him and gave him my best impression of a smart salute. My gaze then dropped to the display case and the vessel of hallowed jocks within that had held the very jock that now graced my loins. I flashed on a vision of myself as some valiant warrior of ancient times, like in the old print of the Roman bath. I saluted the bowl of jocks and continued on my way.
As I approached Buck, he gestured for me to ascend the small platform, but my newfound bravado quickly faded at the prospect of stepping up into the bright spotlight. Sensing my reluctance, Buck took me by the arm and firmly pushed me onto the little stage. Buck had little patience for indecision.
He stepped back to look me over and then whistled appreciatively. Crossing his arms under his beefy pecs and jutting out his jaw in assessment, he nodded his head and pronounced, "Now, that's how those shorts are supposed to fit a guy."
As someone used to ridicule in such a situation, I was caught off guard by Buck's reaction. It seemed surreal, like a dream to hear such praise, as did the reflection I saw in the mirror, a boy's body lit from above with the face hidden in shadow. It didn't feel like it was me I was looking at.
"Turn around," Buck ordered, and I obeyed, facing my back to the mirror. "Whoa!" he hooted in delight, "Hank's Tanks coming through!" Buck sounded like a kid on Christmas morning, so happy and excited it was contagious.
I eagerly looked over my shoulder but was alarmed to see that the fabric was stretched so tight across my butt that the leg straps of the jock were clearly visible. Seemingly unfazed, Buck fidgeted with the shorts as though attending a customer in his sporting goods store, giving a little tug here, smoothing a wrinkle there.
He lifted the jockstrap in back so that an inch or two showed above the shorts. Snapping the waistband, he explained, "That's how a man wears a jock, especially one like this. Like the Cap'n used to say, Make a gap for the strap.' Now ya look like a guys who knows what he's doin'."
With a slap to my ass cheek, he ordered, "Ok, now turn around and let's see the front," and again took a step back to observe. I slowly spun around, uneasy about how revealing the fit might be, and found my fears fully warranted. The heft of my butt pulled the shorts tight everywhere else. I could clearly see the outline and texture of the pouch of the jockstrap through the fabric, as well as some of the contours of my genitals. Mortified I tugged down on the shorts to loosen their grip.
"Now, now, don't ruin the fit!" Buck called alarmed, rushing to pull them back up, bringing the fabric once more into close intimacy. He then ran his fingertip under the hem of each leg to smooth it out. His finger brushing against my thighs tickled and felt...well, I wasn't sure exactly how, but I started to feel a little dizzy again, and not for the first time that day.
Buck took a few steps back to appraise the fit. "Tell ya what," he said, looking directly at my crotch, "Try it at six o'clock and see if ya don't like that better."
I was at a loss for what he meant and looked at him puzzled.
"Well, right now you're at about two o'clock."
I took another look in the mirror and suddenly realized that my dick was pointing up and a little to the side like the short hand of an old analog clock at two. The meaning of Buck's words hit me in a flash. Self-conscious and blushing madly, I quickly turned away to readjust. I aimed my dick down and stuffed it and my balls as far down into the pouch as I could, embarrassed to be touching myself under the dazzling spotlight in front of somebody I'd just met. I shyly turned back to face him.
"There ya go!" Instead of awkward, Buck seemed to find the moment reassuring. "That's a lot better, right? Only give it a little `cup and lift.'"
Again, I was puzzled. Buck demonstrated, reaching down into his pouch, cupping his hand under his meat, and lifting it slightly. It was the same technique I'd seen him do upstairs in the hall mirror.
Instead of turning away, this time I stayed facing the mirror so I could see what I was doing. A little nervous, I reached into the jock pouch, back behind my balls, and then cupping my hand as I'd watched Buck do, I gently pulled upward without disturbing my dick from its downward position. I removed my hand and looked at the result. The difference in contour was notable.
Buck's reaction was immediate. "Hey, now don't that look great! See, it gives ya a smoother profile, more mounded. And brings it all up front." He emphasized those last two words. "Y'see what I'm sayin'?" And here he cupped his bulge and gave it a little lift for emphasis. "Up front."
I nodded wordlessly.
"In Navy lingo," Buck went on, "ya might say it's like your ship's prow, ready to lead the way. Or some fellahs say it's their bowsprit cuz it's what sticks out most in front." Buck laughed. "Or their foremast, since it's the first thing sailors see comin' over the horizon." Warming to his topic, he added, "Or if it's lookin' real good, some guys say it's their figurehead, cuz it's the thing sailors gonna admire most." Buck was clearly having fun recounting all this, but I was a little confused about the possible implications.
Cutting short my pondering, Buck slapped my butt again and hollered, "Sailor Hank is ready to take the field!" I laughed I felt so happy at my transformation.
"Hey, gimme one of the these." Buck raised his arms in a double bicep flex. I complied. "Damn, lookit that!" he exclaimed, "A Sailor Hank gun show!" He next had me do a series of other muscle flexes and seemed delighted by the sight of each. As I said, his enthusiasm was contagious and in no time, I was getting into the spirit.
"I'd say, this calls for a little celebration," Buck crowed. "You're over 18, right?" Eighteen was the legal drinking age in the state at that time.
"Yessir, 19 this June."
"A cold one sound pretty good to you?" he lifted his eyebrows.
"Yessir," I answered, "sure does."
"I think we still got a few left in the fridge down here. I'll go grab `em and you keep checkin' out that stud in the mirror there. Think he's got some more flexes he wants to show ya."
Buck walked out of the room leaving me alone to study this new fellow in the mirror. I turned this way and that, studying how the tight shorts emphasized my physique. I played with different poses, pretending I was on stage at a competition. Then I turned around and experimented with exposing different widths of the jock's waistband above the shorts and finally settled on the same two inches that Buck had left.
Next, I bent over to see if I could make the leg straps of the jock slip out like I'd seen Buck do all day. They appeared right on cue, though one slightly twisted. Like I'd watched Buck do in the sauna, I reached back and ran my middle finger back and forth under it to straighten it out. For some reason, I enjoyed the sensation, and did the same on the other side, even though the strap lay flat.
"Damn twisties!" I hadn't noticed Buck's return. He was headed towards me with two cans of beer and had clearly caught me in the act. I automatically expected censure or ridicule, but Buck was empathetic. "Newer jocks are the worst, you can never keep the straps straight, but even the old classics will twist on ya now and then." Handing me one of the beers, he reached back with his now free hand and demonstrated, "ya just gotta keep at `em."
He then raised his can of beer to mine, clinked rims and toasted, "Trust the pouch!"
"Trust the pouch!" I echoed. It had sounded a little odd and obscure when I'd heard him say it on the phone that afternoon, but now I returned the toast with gusto.
Beer in hand, I started to step off the stage, but Buck raised his hand to my chest and said, "Nah, stay there. A guy's got a right to have a little fun checkin' hisself out and you definitely got some catching up to do, am I right?"
I had to agree and nodded. But it still felt weird, standing there in the spotlight while Buck watched from below in the shadows. Every now and then he'd reach up to adjust the fit of the shorts with a little pull or tug. Mirrors had always been something I avoided at all costs, so this was very new and exciting, made more so by the delicious ice-cold beer that was going down so smoothly.
By habit and nature, I'd drop one or both hands in front of my crotch or hold my beer there to shield it from view. When I did, Buck would say, "Hey, ya look like you're scared of somethin'. Put your hands behind your back. See how much better that looks?"
And I had to admit it did, but before I knew it, my hands would be back in front of me. A little frustrated, Buck said, "Put em on your hips like this," and modeled an almost defiant stance. When I imitated him, I agreed it looked a lot better, but before I knew it...
"Tell ya what, Sailor, best trick for this situation," and he took the now empty beer from my hand, "lock your fingers behind your head, like this." Buck raised his arms as though doing a bicep flex but then joined his hands in back. He managed to look totally at ease and relaxed while also showing off his muscles. I tried it in the mirror and had to agree, I looked like a totally different guy.
"And see? And now your hands can't flutter around tryin' to hide your pride." I was equal parts embarrassed and energized. After a few more minutes in front of the mirror, Buck had me practice walking back and forth across the gym with my hands behind my head a few times. It felt odd at first, but slowly I got used to it.
Then he sat on one of the benches and had me stand in front of him, with my hands still behind my head, while we talked. Every now and then, he'd make a remark about how the shorts fit me or some other allusion to my crotch, and the old reflex to cover up would hit, and my arms would twitch as though ready to lower, but little by little I got used to maintaining the position no matter what. It started to feel more and more natural.
"See?" Buck observed, "You looked relaxed, you look casual, and you don't look sheepish about being a man. Now, keep practicing that. You'll get more and more used to it. Make it your `go-to' posture, especially when you're feeling a little shy or embarrassed standing in front of somebody, like ya are now. Just lock those fingers back there and you'll be good to go."
"Good to go." I echoed, and twisted a little side to side to show I was getting the hang of it.
"What ya' wanna work up to," Buck added, "is where you can take a piss with your hands back there. Ain't no feeling like it." I couldn't imagine the old Hank having the nerve to do that, but this new Hank that was starting to emerge after just one afternoon with Buck, that Hank just might.
"Now, let's just find you a shirt." Buck saw the slightly puzzled look on my face. "Y'know, that sweatshirt you wearin' fits ya like a sack, Sailor. It's hidin' all that good stuff. Can't nobody see these super nips!" And once again he playfully tweaked my nipple, sending an electric charge from my chest to my belly.
"You go wait on the stage and practice some more of that studliness in the mirror," Buck called over his shoulder as he walked to the lockers and started rummaging around. I did as instructed, striking various poses and trying to flex my abs in my newly practiced over-arm position.
Buck returned smiling, clearly satisfied with his find. He held up an old t-shirt that scissors had adapted for workouts. The sleeves were cut off at the shoulders and the bottom cropped at the waist. Its dark blue color matched the Navy logo on the leg of the shorts. I was dubious, associating this style with the loud, grunting bros in the school gym, but once I tried it on in the mirror, I had to admit it gave me a whole new sporty and confident look.
I wondered if it was long enough to cover the waistband of my jockstrap exposed in back and turned to see that the cropped bottom of the T shirt rode well above it, leaving it in clear view. The old me would have thought that a little indecent, but the new me found it kind of jaunty. I tried locking my hands behind my head again, which made the shirt ride up even higher, exposing more of my torso.
"Prety sharp, huh?" Buck asked. "Now ya look like the Big Man on Campus. Let's take another stroll around the gym and pretend it's full of guys from that swim team of yours. Tell ya one thing, they sure as hell won't be teasin' ya now!"
I felt a little silly playing make believe, but Buck was convincing, and I started to imagine strutting past my former teammates while they gawked at my newfound virility.
"Hey," Buck changed the subject, "you getting' hungry? I could do with some grub. Let's head up to the kitchen and I'll see if I can rustle us up some dinner." I followed him back up the stairs, through the living room, past the leather couch and into the kitchen.
"Tell ya what," Buck unhooked the mailbag from the wall, "I'll get busy in here and you run this over to Mr. Bill. You two need to meet each other anyway. Plus, you guys have a thing or two in common, now that I think of it." I thought I detected a faint smirk on his face as he said that.
Nodding towards the house up the drive as he opened the door for me, Buck said, "Just crack the door and holler "Request permission to come aboard!" He'll get a kick outa that. I'll let him know you're comin'."