Never Going Back AgainbyCyanlot©
To tell the truth, I never really figured out how to do the guy thing very well. I was always small for my age. People used to say that I'd shoot up someday, but it never happened. All through my school years, I looked about two years younger than my classmates. It didn't make for an adolescence filled with confidence, or even security. I was picked on mercilessly—teased, of course, but also actually beaten up from time to time.
It didn't help that I wasn't just small of stature but also small in the "manhood department"—so small, in fact, that in my case, it should really be called the "boyhood department." I didn't always realize how short I came up, so to speak, in this department. As a kid, who knew what normal was there? In middle school gym classes, I got my first sense that I was different. The other boys were all bigger than me, but some didn't seem to be all that much bigger. I learned from the internet that there was a difference between growers and showers. And I just figured I was a grower. It's not like I'd seen any of these guys hard. So I told myself that, even though my inch-and-a-half soft dick looked much smaller than their dicks, they probably didn't get much bigger than my three inches hard.
By the time I got to high school, gym class was a source of embarrassment to me—especially when it was time to shower. I tried skipping showers, but the P.E. teacher caught me and read me the riot act. Then I tried to delay going to the showers as long as I could, pretending to be doing something in my locker, hoping that most of the guys would have cleared out of the shower before I had to go in. I walked in with the towel around me and only took it off as I was stepping under the water. Wearing the towel was a provocation for teasing in itself, but it was better than letting people see me naked.
I mostly tried not to think about whether I was different from other guys there. When I did think about it, I kept telling myself that though they were much larger than me when they were soft, they probably didn't grow as much—and certainly not as much proportionately—as I did. That illusion was shattered one Friday in my senior year, just after I'd turned eighteen. I had to go back to the locker room after school to get my gym clothes. The door was locked and I was just about to give up—resigning myself to my fate of getting a grade reduction for not having clean gym clothes on Monday. Then I noticed a window that was open. It was a low window and it was very easy to just climb in.
Strangely, my heart was pounding when I closed the window after me. It was like I was some sort of thief, even though all I was going to be taking was my own dirty gym clothes. As I walked to my locker, I heard something in the bathroom part of the locker room. Someone was there. I had to walk right past that area to get to my locker. There was no avoiding it but I tried to walk very quietly, looking carefully to see whether the person would be likely to see me or not.
When I stepped around the corner, I froze. Jerry Greyson was standing with his back to me, with his pants down to his ankles, jerking off into one of the sinks. His arm was pumping furiously and he was lost in his build-up to an orgasm. I was transfixed; I couldn't move. I just stood there, dumbfounded. I stood there too long—long enough for him to see me and, worse, long enough for me to see him.
I don't know why Jerry turned around. Maybe I'd made some noise, though I didn't think so. Maybe he could see me in the mirror. I don't know. But he turned around so that his torso was sideways to me. I guess he was looking at me but I didn't look at his face. I looked at his hand—the hand that had been so furiously pumping his dick. I saw his cock. And I was stunned.
I'd seen Jerry in the shower before. I guess I'd noticed guys' dicks because I was so self-conscious about my own. He was about four inches soft, I remembered. So, I'd figured, consistent with the theory I'd been clinging to, that he was probably not much bigger when he was hard. Wrong! Jerry's cock was a good eight inches, maybe nine. And it was fat; his fingers didn't stretch around it completely.
He said, "Hey, asshole! What are you looking at?" The answer was obvious, of course. I couldn't take my eyes off his cock. But I couldn't answer the question. I was speechless.
"Get the hell out of here," Jerry yelled. Later I figured out that he must have been embarrassed—humiliated, maybe. It was hard for me to conceive of Jerry feeling that way. He was the oldest guy in our class—the first to get his driver's license when we were sophomores. He always seemed so self-confident. All could hear in his voice then was anger, directed at me. I ran away as fast as I could, forgetting completely about my gym clothes.
On my way home, I had time to think. I'd now seen what a real guy my age looked like hard. I couldn't write him off as a freak of nature like I'd been doing with the guys I'd seen pictures of on the internet. This was just Jerry. When he wasn't hard, he looked pretty much like all the other guys on my gym class—maybe a little bigger, but not a lot. Is this what the other guys looked like hard? Is this what a normal guy looked like?
I couldn't think about anything else all night. When my parents thought I'd gone to sleep, I was actually in my room stroking my dick to see how big I could make it. I didn't have any trouble getting hard; my dick had been rigid most of the night. When I was clearly as big as I ever got, I tried measuring myself. Three inches! That's all. Sure, I could measure from the underside and get another half inch. But I knew that was a cheat. I was three inches and that was all there was to it. And I could easily wrap my fingers around my dick, overlapping thumb over the first knuckle of my fingers. I was the freak of nature—not those guys I'd seen on the internet.
My dismay didn't keep me from enjoying one of the most intense jack-off sessions I'd ever had. All the while I was stroking my little pud I thought about what I'd seen Jerry doing and I wondered what it would feel like to have a cock that size—to wrap my hand around it and feel the power of such a shaft. I quickly spewed my clear semen on my stomach.
As intense as the orgasm was, a single orgasm just didn't do it. As I was trying to get to sleep, I needed another wank. And I woke up in the middle of the night to jerk off again. Despite all the whacking off—which produced some terrific orgasms—I didn't sleep very well. I was troubled.
I was troubled even more when I finally got up and logged on to get my e-mail. There was a message from Jerry. It said:
Hey Dirtbag. You're in deep shit. Meet me in the locker room at 4:30 on Monday or you're going to be in even deeper shit. Be there! Jerry
I knew that Jerry did some kind of work for the gym teachers after school, which is probably why he had access to the locker room. But what did he want me to meet him there for? I didn't know. But I couldn't stop worrying about it.
On Monday, I saw Jerry around the school a couple of times but I tried not to let our eyes meet. I was embarrassed and frightened. I knew I couldn't stand him up. He'd make me pay for that. But I couldn't bear to think about what he was planning to do to me.
4:30 came soon enough. The locker room was empty at this time of the day. Unlike Friday, the door was ajar. When I stepped in, it closed after me and I heard the latch click ominously. I walked toward the bathroom part of the locker room, where I assumed Jerry would be, to meet my fate.
"Stop there!" Jerry commanded as I just came around the corner, standing almost exactly where I had last Friday. He was intent on establishing his command of the situation, as if there was any doubt.
"So, you like sneaking up on guys and getting a peek at their cocks, do you?" I started to explain what I was doing in the locker room on Friday but Jerry wasn't interested. He had a narrative to lay out and facts weren't going to get in his way.
"Did you like what you saw?"
Well, how do you answer a question like that? If I said 'no', he'd claim that I was dissing him. If I said 'yes', he'd say I was gay. So, I just ignored the question.
"Don't have anything to say, huh, dickbreath?" And, he was right. I didn't. "Okay. You've seen mine. Now take your clothes off and show me yours."
I doubt that he'd ever noticed me naked so I don't think this was a command specifically designed to humiliate me. I think he just wanted to establish that he could make me do what he wanted. But, whether he knew it or not, this was the most terrifying demand he could make of me. (Well, I suppose it would have been worse in front of even more people. But the mere thought of showing myself naked to anyone was horrifying to me.)
I knew I couldn't refuse, though. Jerry had never really been one of my tormentors; and I didn't want him to become one. He was popular and I knew he could make my life miserable if he chose to. So I started taking off my clothes. I unbuttoned my shirt and removed it first. Then I took off my shoes and socks. I was saving the worst for last. But there was no avoiding it. Finally I was stripping off my jeans. I stood there for a few seconds in my jockeys before Jerry urged me on. I bent over while I was lowering my underpants, but, finally, I had to stand up and reveal all—which wasn't very much, of course.
I was nervous and embarrassed and my dick wasn't even its normal inch and a half while soft. It was as if my dick was trying to hide. Maybe it was three-quarters of an inch long now; maybe not even that long. My balls, which were only marble sized in any case, were drawn completely up to my abdomen, making it look almost as if I didn't even have a ball-sack, much less real balls. I could have been a woman—or even a little girl—except that you couldn't see a slit behind what looked like a slightly protruding clitoris.
Jerry did a double take and then just burst out laughing. Jesus! It was humiliating. I covered myself with my hands but he would have none of that. He made me move my hands away expose myself completely. God, I wanted to die.
"What are you?" he said in disbelief. "Are you even a guy?"
"Yes, I'm a guy!" I snapped back angrily, but I knew his question was a reasonable one given the evidence at hand.
"Sheeze! Does it get any bigger than that?"
"Yes," I said, knowing that it didn't get enough bigger to really put the questions about my manhood to rest. Still, I certainly wasn't going to say, "No."
"No!" I wasn't about to humiliate myself even more in front of Jerry.
"I'm serious. Show me. That is, if you don't want the rest of the school to know that calling you a 'pencil dick' would be an exaggeration."
Well, of course I didn't want him to tell other people about me. So, what else could I do? I started stroking my dick. It wasn't working very well. It got a little harder and bigger, but I couldn't really get an erection.
"Here," Jerry interrupted. "Come on over here. I'll give you another look at what a real cock looks like."
I walked over so that I stood about four feet from him. "Closer," he demanded. When I was just two feet from him, he told me to unzip his pants and take out his cock. It was difficult to do from this angle and I sort of struggled with it for a bit. When I leaned over to see more clearly what I was doing, Jerry pushed me down onto my knees. I really didn't like that position. I feared I knew what was coming.
"Well, dickwad—or maybe I should say, 'dickless wad'—reach in and pull it out. You can have more than a look. You can have a feel," he continued, as if that was what I wanted.
When I reached in his jeans and through the opening in his boxers, I could feel the heat of his crotch. And, immediately, I felt cock. It was soft, but still felt full. As I pulled it out, I thought about the fact that I'd never felt a real cock before and I realized what a pathetic imitation of a cock I had between my legs.
"This one does get bigger," Jerry said. "Stroke it for a while."
I did, and it did. I felt it fill in my hand and harden. It rose to point upwards of horizontal and got completely rigid. I was, of course, at Jerry's mercy; I was completely subservient to him. But, if the truth were told, I wouldn't have let go of his cock if it were up to me. It was a surprisingly pleasant experience. I'd neverBut, of course, I was hoping that it wouldn't go any further. It was one thing to touch him and feel his cock. But I wasn't into any gay action.
"Stand up," he said, pulling me up. "Let's compare."
Shit! This wasn't what I wanted at all. As I got to my feet and we were standing toe-to-toe and dick-to-dick, the huge difference in size wasn't the only thing that was obvious. It was also apparent that my dick did get bigger. It was now at its full three inches and as hard as it every got.
"Well, I'll be...you were right. It does get bigger. It gets bigger when you get to feel a real cock."
What could I say? I blushed and tried to utter a dissent. But the truth of what Jerry had said was obvious; it was before both of our eyes.
"So you like this, huh? Well, then, you're in for a treat. You can stroke me until I shoot my wad."
I was actually very relieved by this. A moment ago, when I was on my knees, I was sure that he would be demanding a blow job. That would have been awful, I think. I don't know whether I could have carried it off even if I'd tried. So a hand job seemed like a reprieve to me.
It felt weird stroking Jerry's cock. Part of it was, of course, the extreme difference in size between his cock and the only other dick I'd ever touched—my own. But part of it was the fact that I was doing it from the other side. That was a new experience, too. Apparently, I was doing okay. In a matter of minutes, he was getting ready to shoot his load. I knew this was going to be over soon and I decided to really try to focus on the feel of Jerry's hard cock in my hand. That actually felt really good. I don't understand it but I felt a sense of power as I controlled it.
Then, before I really realized that it was going to happen, Jerry was shooting his cum. And, when I say 'shooting', I mean shooting. String after string of creamy white cum shot out, right onto my abdomen and my hard, pathetic, puny pecker. I had no idea anyone could shoot cum so far. When I came, there was a dribble—sometimes only an oozing—of clear fluid. This was like a different sort of thing entirely.
I was immediately embarrassed and really needed to get cleaned up, dressed, and out of that scene. But Jerry had other ideas.
"Wait," he commanded with authority even though he was still panting. "Don't waste that. Use it for lubrication and stroke yourself off. You got all excited. You might as well get off."
The idea of masturbating in front of Jerry was humiliating but the idea of stroking my pecker, which was still almost painfully hard, had its attractions. As I began stroking my dick, I realized that the lubrication of Jerry's cum provided an exciting new sensation. My dick felt wonderful with my fingers sliding smoothly up and down my little shaft. Soon, I forgot completely about Jerry's presence and I was pumping my dick furiously.
And then I came. I probably came harder than I'd ever come before. But it was still a feeble little dribble of colorless fluid compared to Jerry's impressive load.
"That's all you've got?" Jerry said incredulously. "Sheeze! You really are a pathetic excuse for a guy, aren't you?"
I didn't answer him. There was no need. I reached for my clothes without cleaning up and, this time, Jerry didn't stop me. I got dressed as fast as I could and headed for the door.
"Meet me here again tomorrow—same time," Jerry called to me as I left. I knew I'd have to comply. But I didn't want to think about it now. I just wanted to get home and get in the shower. As I walked home, though, I found myself sniffing my right hand—the hand I used to stroke myself. I could smell Jerry's musky scent on my hand. It was strangely arousing.
When I got home, I made an excuse to get into the bathroom to take a shower right away. I couldn't wait to clean myself off. But, as I waited for the hot water, I raised my hand to my face again—I thought only to take a last sniff of the scent. But I was wrong. I wound up licking my hand clean. It was dry, of course, by now. But as I licked it, I could taste Jerry's cum. I didn't know why I was doing that and rather than think about it, I just stopped and got in the shower to let the hot water erase all signs of my afternoon's shame.
I awoke over and over again through the night from strange and unsettling dreams. They were very sexual and they all involved large cocks. In one dream I had a huge cock—not just one like Jerry's, which I now realized was probably pretty normal, but an enormous cock, two feet long and as big around as a 2-liter bottle. But in most of them I was stroking someone else's big cock and embarrassed by the size of my own. Too bad that those second sort of dreams were the ones based on reality.
I kept my date with Jerry the next day. And, as things developed, I wound up meeting him either in the gym or somewhere else of his choosing two or three times a week. My servicing of him developed, as might be expected, from hand jobs to blow jobs, and eventually to taking his cock in my ass. He had his own sexual boy-toy and, unless I wanted to be humiliated in front of everyone in the school, there was nothing I could do about it.
It's not as if I didn't have sex with girls, though. In fact, I wound up having sexual experiences with a surprising number of girls. For all the reasons I've explained, I didn't have any self-confidence. So I didn't ask girls out. They asked me out!
It started with Eileen, Jerry's girlfriend. She told me that Jerry couldn't take her to a party she wanted to go to because he had to go out of town with his family. And she wanted to know if I would go with her. Eileen was a knock-out. I didn't know why she wanted to go to the party with me. But I was flattered and more than happy to show up at a party with such a beautiful girl.
It wasn't until later that I learned why Eileen asked me. After an awkward but okay time at the party, I was walking Eileen home and we cut through the park. As we walked past an area of trees and shrubs, Eileen grabbed my hand and led me into the woods. I knew that lots of young teenagers dodged into these woods for a quick grope or more. I was both flattered and scared.
Eileen pushed me up against a tree and stood in front of me. Her beautiful body pressed lightly against mine. I could feel her breath on my neck and it aroused me. My little pecker was standing at full mast. I wanted so much to touch her—to kiss her and maybe more. But I wanted even more not to let her touch me in a way that revealed my shameful secret.
I was out of luck. Eileen was groping my crotch almost immediately. And then she moved to the side slightly so that she could reach down my pants. Almost before I realized what she was doing, and certainly before I could stop her, she had her hand on my penis. I tried to pull away, squirming backward—to no avail.
"It's okay," Eileen cooed. "Just let me touch it."
God! It felt so good to have another person's hand encircling my dick. And such a soft hand, too. And the hand of such a pretty girl. I quit struggling and let her fondle me. It felt wonderful.
Eileen didn't confine her groping to my dick. She plunged her hand down further and cupped my small balls gently in her hand. I felt so vulnerable when she did that. But it felt exquisite.
She backed away and said, "Let's get a look at this little guy." And that's what she did. She unzipped me and then, for an ever better look, she unbuckled my belt and unbuttoned my pants so she could push them down to my knees, exposing me completely in the dim light.