Sophomore Year 17
This is the seventeenth of a multipart story about my year boarding with a single dad and his two sons. It was a time of highly charged eroticism much more than explicit sex and led me to discover a lot about myself.
As I tell this story, I can't help but linger over the texture, atmosphere and details that continue to evoke such strong feelings, even after almost half a century. I cannot rush the plot forward, and hope the gentle reader will find his patience well rewarded along the way.
In this chapter, young Hank begins to get over the embarrassment he's felt when wearing a competition swimsuit and warms to the admiration his body can elicit.
Many thanks to those who have sent words of encouragement and shared their own experiences and fantasies. I love hearing from Nifty readers.
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Sophomore Year 17
"Very clever." Mr. Bill replied approvingly. "I always think more highly of a boy who understands the proper care of equipment."
"Thank you, sir," I blushed.
"But," he continued, "not to worry, we have plenty of suits around here, what with the boys and their friends and Buck and his `buddies.' You know, we do surprise pool days for them sometimes so always keep extra suits around to sell. That Buck is quite the entrepreneur if you haven't noticed! I think we have a photograph of one of those pool days over there."
He pointed me to a shelf clustered with framed photos. In one, a group of men splashed around the pool together. One was pulling himself out of the water while a buddy laughingly tugged his suit down, exposing his butt. They looked like they were having a lot of fun. It reminded me of the print in Buck's gym of the Roman baths. I tried to imagine what it would feel like to be there, laughing and splashing with those men.
I also saw a larger print of the photo I'd seen in Zack's room of Buck and sons by the pool in the matching suits. As I picked it up for a closer look, I noticed some professional-looking camera equipment nearby.
"Did you take these?" I asked.
"I did. Most I took with that Cannon AT1. It's completely manual control, a bit old school, but you can achieve the exact focus you want. Notice the fine detail in that one." I started blushing because I already had, several times that day. He seemed to enjoy my discomfort, and almost teasingly added, "There's really a lot to look at, isn't there?"
I nodded timidly.
"So," he went on, "while you c-a-r-e-f-u-l-l-y examine those," and slyly winked, "I will see what I can find for you to swim in. I think we may have a team racing suit in here." He leaned over to open a drawer near his recliner and rummaged a bit before pulling out a suit. Holding it up towards me he said, "Well, here's an eye-catching number that should fit you nicely."
It was a white suit with a red and a green stripe at each hip. I thought first of the Mexican flag which triggered some convoluted emotions in me. Experience led me to wonder if there was any unkindness behind his choice, but I decided to leave that question aside for the moment. I could not deny that it was a good-looking suit.
I took it from him and inspected it. It looked of very high quality and not much used. The fabric was silky and lightweight, like the Marine shorts I'd seen on the treadmill. But this fabric also had some stretch to it, unlike most racing suits at the time. Except for a paper-thin `modesty panel' in the very front, it was a single layer of the flimsy fabric. I then realized it was low cut, like my last team suit. A sense of dread started to creep into my gut.
"Ummm..." I ventured.
"Yes?" he answered, once again behind his paper.
"Uh, do you think there might be...uh...anything maybe...longer?" I dared to ask.
"Longer?" He briefly glanced over his paper and sounded even more puzzled. "Longer? What do you mean? Like trousers?"
"Oh, no, sir, it's just that..." at a loss for words, I held the skimpy suit where it would fit on me, as if to explain how brief it would be, and looked up at him with a weak smile, shrugging my shoulders.
He seemed unmoved. "I don't know what you mean, boy. If you're trying to say that you think it's too brief, I don't agree. That suit is plenty `long,' as you say."
He paused to glance back at his paper and chuckled to himself, "Enough to keep you out of jail, at least." He paused a beat, then added, "Besides, it's quite warm this evening and we don't want you overheating now, do we?"
I wasn't sure how to take that last remark.
"Furthermore, it is just we two here and remember I served many years in the Navy, often surrounded by naked men. Your maidenly modesty is wasted on me, young man." And with that he snapped the paper up and returned to reading.
I just stood there wondering what to do next.
Another moment and he lowered the paper again and looked at me quizzically. Then it dawned on him. "Oh, you are indeed the shy type, I see. Well, use the laundry room in there to change."
Back in the laundry room I turned on a light and peeled off the shorts, which seemed to have stuck to me since I put them on. I then started to take off the jock strap and felt a second's doubt, given the multiple messages I'd received this afternoon. I wondered if the added piece of clothing would make me feel a bit more covered and protected in this skimpy suit.
Before taking off the jockstrap, I pulled the suit on over it and looked at my reflection in the full-length mirror. It was a strange sight, almost ludicrous, and it hit me in several different ways. To begin, there was absolutely no doubt I had a jockstrap on under this suit. It was even more obvious than under Jacks' white shorts.
Normally if I were wearing one, I would try to make sure that it did not show at all. And here it would be for all the world to see plain as day. It was one thing for a bit of the jockstrap waistband to show in the back above Jack's shorts, but under this suit the waist band sat several inches above the suit all the way around and the straps in back stuck out below, as Buck's had done all afternoon. I tried to tuck them in but that was hopeless.
Plus, even in those parts covered by the suit, the suit fabric was so thin and elastic, that it clung to the jockstrap leaving no doubt what was underneath. Except for that paper-thin panel lining in the very front, the rest of the suit was as transparent as Jack's shorts. The waffle-like texture of the pouch stood out in stark relief.
I didn't think I'd ever seen a jockstrap more conspicuous, even when it was the only thing I was wearing. Nevertheless, a little part of me thought it was kind of cool in a strange way, and I halfway fantasized about someone seeing me like this. Such a crazy idea made me sure I was addled by the day's events.
I called down the hallway, "Uh, excuse me, sir, but do I need to wear a jockstrap under the suit?"
"Come again?" he hollered back.
"A jockstrap. Do I need to wear a jockstrap with the suit or is it ok just to wear the suit by itself? I don't have any pantie—er, underwear with me." I immediately felt like an idiot for saying that last part. `Panties' was what Buck insisted on calling men's briefs, and of course, Mr. Bill would know I didn't have any underwear with me, he'd seen me come in.
But to my surprise, the next thing I heard from the den was laughter. Mr. Bill was laughing. "He's about to make fun of me for being so dense," I thought.
Instead, he cackled, "I can see Buck's already been at you. No, in this house, you'll find we have a much laxer policy on male support than next door."
"Really?" I asked, surprised and a bit intrigued.
"Really." He assured me. "You know, sometimes when Jack comes over to visit, the minute he walks in the door he strips off his jock and hollers, `I cannot take another minute! My boys just gotta hang free!'" Mr. Bill laughed, then continued in a more serious tone, "But I always make him hang it on the doorknob, so he won't forget to put it back on before he goes home."
Like so much of what I'd heard that day, his words painted a confusing but vibrant picture in my mind. I was fascinated to know more about this dynamic between him and Jack. I supposed in some ways Mr. Bill must be like an indulgent grandfather. Or uncle.
Turning back to the mirror, I watched myself as I peeled off the suit and then the jockstrap, which for some reason was now more fun than I ever recalled. I next pulled the suit on by itself. I was starting to feel comfortable one moment and nervous the next. I used to wear competition suits like this all the time on the team, but it was one thing to be in a pool with a bunch of other guys wearing the same thing versus by myself in front of this rather stern, imposing stranger.
As I pulled it up, I found that, sure enough, I could not quite make the back completely cover my ass crack. I felt embarrassed and feared that Mr. Bill would mock me as my former teammates had done in high school. I hoped I'd be able to just slip past without him noticing on my way to the pool.
As I started to leave the laundry room, he shouted, "Do NOT leave that jockstrap on the floor, young man!" and I realized that in my hurry, I had left both shorts and jock in a puddle at my feet. Looking at them, I realized how disrespectful that had been and picked them both up, shook them off and looked around for a proper place to lay them.
At that moment he shouted, "You definitely do not want to leave any clothes on the floor at Buck's! He has a thing about tidiness, you know." I froze at his words, because I then remembered that in my rush, I had left my underwear on the floor in Jack's room. I trusted that, with any luck, I would return before Buck even noticed.
My train of thought was interrupted by Mr. Bill calling, "Bring them to me. I'd like to have a look." I carefully laid them out on top of the washer, first the shorts, then the jockstrap on top, and clasped each corner of the waistbands, as Buck had demonstrated, and carried them into the den.
"Set them here." Mr. Bill pointed to the table beside his chair where I had earlier set the catalog. I felt him watching me from the shadows as I carefully set them down and smoothed out the jock. He seemed to approve, and I took a step back.
He picked up the jockstrap with both hands, just as I had been taught today, and held it so the pouch faced him. He seemed to gaze at it for a few moments and then said softly, "Hello there, old friend. How's this boy been treating you?" I was touched by the gentle affection he showed but at the same time a little nervous that I was a central part of the conversation topic.
He continued looking at the jockstrap and, beyond my wildest fears, next said, "Any sticky spots?" He turned the pouch inside out and brought it closer. I was mortified. I wasn't much of a dripper then, but after the day I'd had, I couldn't be sure about anything.
"Maybe just a little spot here, yes?" He brought it even closer to better inspect. "The first of many, no doubt." Then he pressed it gently to his nose and took a deep breath. "Reminds you of Jack, does he? Well, perhaps a bit, yes. But I'm also detecting some different notes. Very subtle, just under the surface but ready to bloom. We'll have to keep an eye on this one."
The world spun around me as I stood at the foot of his recliner, trying to process this exchange.
"Now," he set the jockstrap down again and brought his chair upright, somehow managing to keep his face still in shadow, and gestured, "Stand here and let's see how the suit fits."
I nervously did so.
"Let's get a good look, shall we?' He adjusted the lamp so that once again it was aimed at the suit, leaving both our heads in darkness. Instead of the derision I had grown used to, his reaction was rapturous. "Oh, that is something!" he exclaimed. "This fits you splendidly. It makes you look a good deal more muscular. I might confuse you for Superman."
Such effusive approval and admiration left me lightheaded. This felt like a dream. Nevertheless, I was very reluctant to turn around when he gestured to do so, but he insisted and, when I finally did, he whistled in admiration.
"My, doesn't that look perfect! It really shows you off, young man. You could be in an advertisement for these suits. It looks that good."
I loved hearing this praise but was not totally convinced. "You don't think it's too small in back, sir?" I asked.
"Too small? Why? "
"Well," I bashfully stammered, "can't you see... I mean, doesn't it show some ...?
"What? This little bit of cleavage?" and he lightly brushed his fingertips along the top of my crack sending an electrical bolt up my spine. Aside from a few spirited slaps from coaches, no one had ever touched my butt gently. "That just means you have a muscular torso, young man. Nothing to fret about."
"Really?" I asked doubtfully.
"Absolutely," he assured me. "I remember the Italian sailors we worked with for a while in the Mediterranean. They didn't think their suits fit properly if they weren't showing some cleavage."
"Jeez," this amazed me. "I used to get teased by bullies on the swim team because my suit fit like this in the back. They started calling me Ass Crack Hank' and then Crank.' It really got to me and finally I quit the team."
"Ignorant dolts. Among the Italian sailors, the ones who got teased were the boys with flat asses. They'd call them `padellino' meaning little fry pan. You, young man, in that suit would have been received like a prince."
My head was swimming from his comments. He then told me to look at myself in the mirror, and I took a step back to do so. My head was still hidden in shadow, only my body from the neck down was bright in the lamplight.
"Take off that shirt, son, so we get the total effect," he commanded. I was nervous to do so, of course, given my insecurities about my chest, but complied with his order. "Oh!" he gasped as I pulled it off and stood before him. "The Greek god Apollo appears before us!" I tittered, thinking he must be teasing. "Why do you laugh?" he asked.
"Well, I've just always been sensitive about my chest, sir. Embarrassed. I got teased a lot in high school..." I paused, "`cuz of these," and I pointed hurriedly to my nipples.
"By the same morons who teased about the fit of your suit?"
"Yeah, pretty much."
"You are obviously tender-hearted, my boy, which is a good thing and all too rare, and you must never lose that, but you must also learn to be tough when needed, so the insults of imbeciles bounce right off that exquisite chest and slide into the mire where they belong."
"Yessir." I was truly touched by his words.
"Now," he asked, "do you suspect any thoracic pathologies?"
"Sir?" I had no idea what that meant.
"Do you fear there might be any illness or injury in the chest region?"
"Umm, I don't know. I guess I just never knew why mine looked different than most the other guys."
"Come here, let's take a look," he held his arm out, beckoning me to take a step closer. "Now," he started pressing around my chest with his fingertips, "is there any pain in this area?"
"No, sir."
"And does it hurt when I apply pressure here?" and he started pressing and gently squeezing my puffy nipples. A mild electrical current shot out through my chest and downwards.
"Oh!" I gasped and started squirming.
"Painful?" he asked.
"No," I gasped again, "not painful." My breathing grew heavy, "but I don't know...something. I just kinda feel it...everywhere."
"Yes, well," and he stilled his hand, resting it over my pec. "You likely have a bounty of nerves in this area that cause you stronger sensations than most men."
"Is that a bad thing?"
"A certain portion of men, we might say a select élite, are equipped such that that their nipples can bring them great joy. Some of these men choose to ignore their gift while others revel in it. You are likely one of this élite. And the choice of whether to cultivate this gift or not would be yours alone."
I waited for this flood of new information to sink in.
"Has no one ever toyed with them then?" he asked.
I'm sure my eyes grew big as saucers since I'd never imagined such a thing. "No, sir. Not ever."
"And you yourself, in a private moment...?"
Again, unimaginable. I shook my head `no.' Trying to make sense of this new information, I recalled the day's events. "But Buck said he'd help me develop a bigger chest, like his, maybe even my nipples, so..."
"Buck is wise in many things and can guide you if you begin on this path. The more time and attention you devote to this part of you, the greater its capacity will be to bring you joy."
Something Buck had said earlier that day came back to my ear and I quietly repeated it in the same sing-song voice he has used, "the more ya work `em, the more they work."
"Yes, that's it. In rather cruder terms, but that's the idea alright. Sounds like a Buckism, " he chuckled. "Now, let's see you flex and pose a bit in that suit." I stepped back in front of the mirror as he called a few flexes for me to perform and described a pose or two for me to assume.
Watching myself in the mirror, I had to admit that I didn't look half bad. I couldn't quite believe what was happening, that I was basically showing off not just for myself but also in front of this grown man, this authority figure.
I also happened to notice that my dick was positioned kind of haphazardly in the suit, curled up a bit and over to the side. In my haste to pull the suit on, I had not taken the time to ensure that my dick was adjusted in any particular way. Before today, I had never really given any thought to such things.
"Let's see the profile." Mr. Bill said, and I turned sideways to him. "Hmmm. Not all it could be, I suspect." He mused. "Why don't we try it at six o'clock, shall we? With perhaps a little cup and lift?"
I was embarrassed, of course, but not quite so much as when I first understood what that meant. I was learning so many curious things today. I turned my back to him and adjusted myself accordingly.
"Let's see. Turn this way, come towards the lamp," which he directed on the suit. "Oh, yes, much better. See? Turn sideways to the mirror and consider your profile."
I did as instructed and was surprised by the sight. The bulge in the front of the suit was larger than I anticipated, more substantial than I'd ever noticed it before in all my swim team days. Yet it did not strike me as particularly lewd. Rather than explicitly anatomical, it took more the shape of a smooth mound whose maximum point of extension fell a bit below halfway down. Its upper slope formed a gentle incline, almost reminiscent of a ski jump, which then curved back around under quite evenly. It somewhat resembled a capital letter J' tilted back at a slight angle. It may sound crazy, but I found it almost graceful in its contour and, while not monstrously obscene, nor was it insubstantial. I became aware of the bulk of my package' in a way I never had before.
"Much more impressive, no? More commanding. In a suit like this, you want to leave no doubt about who's in control." He turned me by the hips this and that slightly, as we both studied the fit. "But you know what?" he added, "Let's see what a seven o'clock gives you."
Feeling powerless to resist, I awkwardly adjusted myself again. Just a day ago, there was no way I would have strutted around in such a flimsy suit in front of a mirror, much less before an unknown authority figure whose face I still could not see. And yet here I was, acting like a Mr. America on stage. It was a wild feeling.
"Oh, that's it!" Mr. Bill approved the result. "That's the perfect look for that suit. You're ready for the beaches of Capri!" And after a brief pause, "And certainly for the pool!"
In need of no further prodding, I headed out the door and made a beeline for the water. The second beer was hitting me, and I felt a bit outside myself. I slid through the cool water like a dolphin and looked up at the stars to once again acknowledge my admirers.
While I splashed around, I heard the slider open and saw Mr. Bill's silhouette as he came out and sat in a chair, still in shadow. He flipped on a light over the ladder. "Try the diving board," he called, "and come out using the ladder over here."
I executed a simple dive and swam over to ladder, a little shy about coming out of the water with the suit plastered to me. At the top of the ladder, I started to pull at the suit, to loosen its grasp, but he snapped at me to stop.
"Don't fool with that! That's what timid little mice do. Confident men feel no need to prize free their suits. Now, jump back in and try it again."
I did as he instructed. Coming off the ladder, I left the suit clinging to every inch of me and stood under the light before the man in the shadows.
"Much better." he said. "Now, stand tall. What did Buck teach you today?" I thought for a moment, and then locked my fingers behind my head.
"Yes, yes, much better. Remember now, you're a man. You have nothing to cover up or hide. Be proud of what nature has given you."
Such a radically different way of thinking than I was used to. I felt like I was always trying to cover something up or hide something.
"Do you know," he asked as he seemed to study me from the shadows, "what I see in that suit and how you wear it?"
"No, sir." I replied honestly.
"I see that deep inside what was once a mousy, pudgy, little boy, dying to get out, is a big strapping alpha male who's not at all afraid to be a man."
"But how can you know that, sir?" I asked in all seriousness.
"How can I know that? I know that because spotting frightened little boys who have a great big brave man inside of them ready to burst out is one of my specialties."