By YourWetDream
Copyright 2025 by YourWetDream, all rights reserved
[7,604 words]´
* * * * *Part 13
The
living room was dimly lit, the glow of the television casting
flickering shadows across the walls as the movie continued to play. The
atmosphere was almost cozy, with the soft hum of the film’s soundtrack
filling the room and the occasional burst of laughter from the
characters on screen. But for Julian, there was no comfort to be found.
He sat stiffly on the edge of the couch, his hands clenched into fists
at his sides, his face burning with humiliation as he tried to ignore
the fact that he was the only one in the room who wasn’t fully clothed.
The Spider-Man pajama top clung to his damp skin, the fabric soft but
offering no real comfort, and beneath it, he was completely exposed.
His little "Spiderman," as Justin had so mockingly called it, was still
stubbornly at attention, a constant reminder of his mortifying
predicament.
Julian’s mind raced as he tried to focus on the
movie, his eyes fixed on the screen but seeing nothing. He willed his
body to cooperate, to calm down, to make this nightmare end. "Please,"
he thought desperately, his stomach churning with dread. "Just go away.
Just go away."
But his body refused to listen. The more he
tried to ignore it, the more aware he became of his own vulnerability,
of the way the girls’ eyes occasionally flicked toward him, their
smirks widening as they noticed his ongoing predicament. Justin,
sprawled lazily on the other end of the couch, seemed to be enjoying
himself immensely, his grin never wavering as he glanced at Julian and
then back at the screen, as if the whole situation were just another
part of the movie.
As the film dragged on, Julian’s discomfort
only grew. He shifted awkwardly on the couch, trying to find a position
that would hide his erection, but it was no use. The pajama top was too
short, and every movement only seemed to make things worse. His face
burned, and he kept his eyes glued to the screen, hoping that if he
just stayed still, if he just pretended everything was normal, the
girls would leave him alone.
But of course, they didn’t.
Vicky, who had been sitting next to him, leaned over casually, her hand
brushing against his leg as if by accident. Julian flinched, his heart
racing as he tried to pull away, but Vicky’s grip tightened, her
fingers curling around his thigh in a way that was anything but
accidental. Julian’s stomach churned, and he glanced at her, his eyes
wide with panic.
"Julian," Vicky said, her voice low and
teasing as she leaned in closer, her breath warm against his ear.
"You’re supposed to be getting that under control, remember? Or else…"
Julian’s heart raced, and he shook his head desperately, his voice shaky. "I-I’m trying! Please, just—"
But before he could finish, Vicky’s hand moved again, this time
brushing against the very thing Julian had been trying so desperately
to ignore. He yelped, jerking back in shock, but Vicky’s grip was firm,
her fingers lingering for a moment too long as she dangled his
still-erected penis, her smirk widening as she glanced at Anja and
Justin.
"Look at this," Vicky said, her tone dripping with
amusement. "He’s still not listening. What are we going to do with you,
Julian?"
Julian’s face burned, and he shook his head
desperately, his hands flying to cover himself. "Please, stop! I’m
trying! I promise!"
After what felt like an eternity, Vicky
glanced at the clock and sighed. "Julian," she said, her tone
exasperated, "it’s been ten minutes. You’re still... like that. This is
unacceptable."
Anja nodded, her arms crossed over her chest as
she glared at him. "Yeah, Julian. You’re supposed to be a big boy, not
a little kid who can’t control himself. I think it’s time for a
little... discipline."
Julian’s heart raced, and he shook his
head desperately, his voice shaky. "No, please! I’ll calm down, I
promise! Just give me more time!"
But the girls weren’t
listening. They stood up, their expressions stern as they stepped
toward him. "Bend over, Julian," Vicky said, her tone firm. "You’ve
been acting like a little kid all day, and it’s time you learned some
manners."
Julian’s stomach churned, and he shook his head
desperately, his face burning with humiliation. "No, please! I’ll be
good, I promise!"
But the girls weren’t having it. They each
took one of his arms, their grip firm as they forced him to bend over,
his pajama top riding up and leaving his bare bottom exposed. Justin,
who had been quietly enjoying the show, burst into laughter, his voice
ringing out in the room. "Oh man, Julian," he said, his tone dripping
with amusement. "This is gonna be good."
The girls didn’t
waste any time. Vicky stepped forward first, her hand coming down with
a sharp smack that echoed in the room. Julian yelped, his
face burning as the sting of the spank lingered. Anja was next, her
hand coming down with equal force, the sound of the spank mingling with
Justin’s laughter.
"Julian," Vicky said, her tone stern, "you need to learn some self-control. It’s not okay to be like this in front of girls."
"Yeah, Julian," Anja added, her voice sharp. "You’re supposed to be a big boy, not a little kid who can’t control himself."
The spanking continued, each smack adding to Julian’s humiliation. His
face burned, and he clenched his fists, trying to block out the pain
and the laughter. But no matter how hard he tried, his little
"Spiderman" stubbornly refused to retreat, leaving him trapped in a
state of mortifying visibility.
By the time the girls were
done, Julian’s bottom was red and sore, and his face was burning with
humiliation. But to his horror, his little "Spiderman" was still
stubbornly at attention, as if the spanking had done nothing to calm
him down. The girls noticed, their smirks widening as they exchanged a
look.
"Wow, Julian," Vicky said, her tone dripping with amusement. "I guess you really do like it."
Anja laughed, her voice ringing out in the room. "Yeah, Julian. You’re really something else."
Justin, who had been quietly enjoying the show, burst into laughter,
his voice ringing out in the room. "Oh man, Julian," he said, his tone
dripping with amusement. "You are really embarrassing yourself."
The girls stepped back, their arms crossed over their chests as they
gestured toward the corner of the room. "Alright, Julian," Vicky said,
her tone firm, "you’re going to stand in the corner and think about
your behavior. Maybe that will help you finally calm down."
Julian’s stomach churned, and he shook his head desperately, his voice shaky. "No, please! I’ll be good, I promise!"
But the girls weren’t having it. They each took one of his arms, their
grip firm as they led him to the corner, his pajama top still riding up
and leaving his red, sore bottom on full display. The corner was next
to the TV, and as Julian stood there, his face burning with
humiliation, he realized that the girls and Justin would have a perfect
view of his red buns as they watched the movie.
"Stay there and think about your behavior," Anja said, her tone stern. "And don’t even think about moving until we say so."
Julian’s heart sank, and he nodded reluctantly, his hands trembling as
he stood there, completely exposed. The movie played on, the sound of
heroic music and dramatic dialogue filling the room, but Julian
couldn’t focus on it. His mind was a jumbled mess of panic and
humiliation, his thoughts racing as he tried to will his body to
cooperate. But no matter how hard he tried, his little "Spiderman"
stubbornly refused to retreat, leaving him trapped in a state of
mortifying visibility.
After the humiliating ordeal of being
bathed by the girls, spanked for his persistent erection, and forced to
stand in the corner until his body finally—mercifully—calmed down,
Julian felt like he had been stripped of every last shred of dignity.
His face still burned with shame, his skin tingling from the spanking,
and his mind reeling from the relentless teasing that had followed him
throughout the day. The girls had treated him like a misbehaving
toddler, and Justin had only added to the humiliation with his constant
sarcastic remarks and mocking laughter. By the time his little
"Spiderman" had finally retreated, Julian was exhausted, both
physically and emotionally, his spirit crushed under the weight of his
own embarrassment.
"Alright, Julian," Anja said, her voice
firm and authoritative as she crossed her arms and looked down at him.
"It’s your bedtime now."
Julian’s head snapped up, his eyes
widening in disbelief. "What?! It’s 8:30 pm!" he protested, his voice
rising in indignation. "Forget it, I’m 15! I’m not going to bed this
early!"
Justin, who had been lounging on the couch, burst into
laughter, his voice ringing out in the room. "Hahaha, just look at
you," he said, his tone dripping with mockery. "It’s so funny how you
protest, saying you’re 15, when you’re standing there in nothing but a
Spider-Man pajama top. You look like a little kid throwing a tantrum!"
Julian’s face burned, and he glanced down at himself, his stomach
churning as he realized how ridiculous he must look. The bright red
Spider-Man top clung to his frame, the childish design a stark contrast
to his teenage body. His legs were bare, his little boy parts still
faintly visible beneath the hem of the shirt, and the realization hit
him like a punch to the gut. He had gotten so used to the humiliation,
so accustomed to being treated like a child, that he had almost
forgotten how absurd it all was. "It’s actually better for me if I just
go to my room," he thought, his mind racing. "At least there, I can
hide. At least there, I can be alone."
But the girls weren’t
about to let him off that easily. "No, Julian," Anja said, her tone
stern as she stepped closer. "You’ve been acting badly today, and we
don’t want any problems waking you up tomorrow. Your mother told us all
about your issues with getting up for school. You’re going to bed now,
and that’s final."
With a resigned sigh, Julian nodded, his
shoulders slumping in defeat. "Alright, alright," he muttered, his
voice low and defeated. He just wanted to get away from the living
room, away from the girls, away from Justin’s mocking laughter. He
wanted to hide in his room, to bury himself under the covers and
pretend that none of this had ever happened.
As Julian turned
to leave, Justin stood up, stretching lazily as he grabbed his jacket.
"I’d be heading home too," he said, his tone casual as he followed
Julian down the hallway. The two boys walked in silence for a moment,
the only sound the soft creak of the floorboards beneath their feet.
But just as they reached the stairs, Justin reached out and slapped
Julian’s bottom playfully, his grin widening as Julian yelped in
surprise.
"It’s been a pleasure, Julian," Justin said, his
tone light and teasing. "Have fun tomorrow. It’s so funny—you’re
actually my older cousin! I loved it. Good night!"
With that,
Justin turned and headed for the front door, his laughter echoing down
the hallway as he disappeared into the night. Julian stood there for a
moment, his face burning with humiliation, his hands trembling as he
tried to process everything that had happened. The playful slap, the
mocking words, the way Justin had treated him like a little kid—it was
all too much.
Finally, Julian turned and trudged up the
stairs, his feet heavy with exhaustion and shame. He pushed open the
door to his room and stepped inside, the familiar surroundings offering
a small measure of comfort. He crossed the room and collapsed onto his
bed, his body sinking into the mattress as he stared up at the ceiling.
As he lay there, his mind racing, Julian couldn’t help but wonder how
his life had turned into this. Just a few days ago, he had been a
normal teenager, navigating the awkwardness of puberty with at least
some semblance of dignity. Now, he was the family joke, the boy who
couldn’t even be trusted to go to bed on his own, the boy who had to be
babysat by younger girls and humiliated in front of his cousin.
Part 14
The next morning arrived with the same groggy reluctance as every
other, the shrill beeping of Julian’s alarm cutting through the silence
of his room like a knife. He groaned, his hand flailing out from under
the covers to slap at the snooze button, his body heavy with sleep and
his mind still foggy from the restless night. The alarm stopped, and
Julian sighed in relief, pulling the covers tighter around himself as
he drifted back toward the comforting embrace of sleep. But the
reprieve was short-lived. Moments later, the alarm blared again, and
Julian groaned, burying his face in his pillow as he tried to block out
the noise.
Somewhere in the haze of his half-awake state, he
heard the door creak open, followed by the sound of footsteps
approaching his bed. "Julian," a voice called, sharp and impatient.
"Wake up! Your alarm’s been going off for ten minutes!"
Julian
mumbled something incoherent, his voice muffled by the pillow, but the
girls weren’t having it. Anja reached out and shook his shoulder, her
grip firm as she tried to rouse him. "Come on, Julian! Your bedtime was
at 8 p.m. yesterday, and you still can’t wake up? This is ridiculous!"
Julian groaned, his eyes still closed as he waved her off. "Alright,
alright, I’m awake! Now you can go away," he muttered, his voice thick
with sleep.
But the girls weren’t about to let him off that
easily. "No way we’re going to believe you," Vicky said, her tone firm
as she stepped closer to the bed. Before Julian could react, she
grabbed the edge of his covers and yanked them off, leaving him exposed
in nothing but his Spider-Man pajama top.
The cool morning air
hit his skin, and Julian shivered, his eyes snapping open as he
realized what had happened. "Hey!" he protested, his voice rising in
indignation. But before he could say anything else, the girls launched
their attack.
Fingers spider-walked up his ribs, digging into
the tender spots with practiced precision. Julian gasped, his body
jerking as laughter bubbled up from his chest. "St-stop—ha!—stop it!"
he gasped, kicking weakly as he tried to squirm away. But the girls
were relentless, their fingers dancing over his sides and stomach,
their laughter ringing out in the room as Julian writhed beneath their
touch.
When they finally stopped, Julian lay there, breathless
and disheveled, a smile lingering on his lips as he stretched lazily,
his limbs splayed like a cat in a sunbeam. For a fleeting second, he’d
forgotten. Forgotten the Spider-Man shirt. Forgotten the lack of pants.
Forgotten the cruel, predictable betrayal of his own body.
But
the moment didn’t last. As he stretched, the shirt rode up, leaving his
hips and thighs bare—and there it was, standing at attention like a
stubborn sentinel. Julian’s heart sank as he realized what had
happened, his face burning with humiliation as he glanced down at
himself. He had totally forgotten, and now he was carelessly exposing
himself in front of the girls. To make matters worse, he was having his
usual morning wood, the stubborn little erection making his predicament
all the more humiliating.
"Right, now that both of you are
awake," Vicky said, her tone light and teasing as she looked him up and
down deliberately, "please stand up and come to the kitchen this
instant. Breakfast is ready!"
Julian’s stomach churned, and he
quickly pulled the shirt down, his hands trembling as he tried to cover
himself. "Right, go out, I’ll get dressed and come to the kitchen, I
swear!" he said, his voice shaky.
But the girls weren’t having
it. "No time for that," Anja said, her tone firm as she crossed her
arms over her chest. "First breakfast, then clothes. We don’t want you
to get all dirty with food like yesterday. No time for changing."
Julian’s heart sank, and he shook his head desperately, his voice
rising in panic. "Please, just let me get dressed! I’ll be quick, I
promise!"
But the girls weren’t listening. They stepped
closer, their expressions stern as they loomed over him. "Julian,"
Vicky said, her tone firm, "we’re not asking. We’re telling. Get up and
come to the kitchen. Now."
Julian’s stomach churned, and he
glanced at the door, hoping for some kind of escape. But there was
none. The girls were in charge, and Julian was completely at their
mercy. With a resigned sigh, he sat up, his face burning with
humiliation as he swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up.
The shirt barely covered him, the hem riding up as he moved, and Julian
could feel the girls’ eyes on him, their smirks widening as they took
in the sight.
As he shuffled toward the door, his hands
clutching at the hem of the shirt in a futile attempt to preserve some
semblance of dignity, Julian couldn’t help but wonder how his life had
turned into this. Just a few days ago, he had been a normal teenager,
navigating the awkwardness of puberty with at least some semblance of
dignity. Now, he was the family joke, the boy who couldn’t even be
trusted to get dressed on his own, the boy who had to be babysat by
younger girls and humiliated at every turn.
But as much as he
hated it, Julian knew there was no escape. The girls were in charge,
and he was trapped in a nightmare of his own making. All he could do
was shuffle toward the kitchen, his face burning with humiliation, and
hope that somehow, someday, this would all be over.
The next
morning arrived with the same groggy reluctance as every other, the
shrill beeping of Julian’s alarm cutting through the silence of his
room like a knife. He groaned, his hand flailing out from under the
covers to slap at the snooze button, his body heavy with sleep and his
mind still foggy from the restless night. The alarm stopped, and Julian
sighed in relief, pulling the covers tighter around himself as he
drifted back toward the comforting embrace of sleep. But the reprieve
was short-lived. Moments later, the alarm blared again, and Julian
groaned, burying his face in his pillow as he tried to block out the
noise.
Somewhere in the haze of his half-awake state, he heard
the door creak open, followed by the sound of footsteps approaching his
bed. "Julian," a voice called, sharp and impatient. "Wake up! Your
alarm’s been going off for ten minutes!"
Julian mumbled
something incoherent, his voice muffled by the pillow, but the girls
weren’t having it. Anja reached out and shook his shoulder, her grip
firm as she tried to rouse him. "Come on, Julian! Your bedtime was at 8
p.m. yesterday, and you still can’t wake up? This is ridiculous!"
Julian groaned, his eyes still closed as he waved her off. "Alright,
alright, I’m awake! Now you can go away," he muttered, his voice thick
with sleep.
But the girls weren’t about to let him off that
easily. "No way we’re going to believe you," Vicky said, her tone firm
as she stepped closer to the bed. Before Julian could react, she
grabbed the edge of his covers and yanked them off, leaving him exposed
in nothing but his Spider-Man pajama top.
The cool morning air
hit his skin, and Julian shivered, his eyes snapping open as he
realized what had happened. "Hey!" he protested, his voice rising in
indignation. But before he could say anything else, the girls launched
their attack.
Fingers spider-walked up his ribs, digging into
the tender spots with practiced precision. Julian gasped, his body
jerking as laughter bubbled up from his chest. "St-stop—ha!—stop it!"
he gasped, kicking weakly as he tried to squirm away. But the girls
were relentless, their fingers dancing over his sides and stomach,
their laughter ringing out in the room as Julian writhed beneath their
touch.
When they finally stopped, Julian lay there, breathless
and disheveled, a smile lingering on his lips as he stretched lazily,
his limbs splayed like a cat in a sunbeam. For a fleeting second, he’d
forgotten. Forgotten the Spider-Man shirt. Forgotten the lack of pants.
Forgotten the cruel, predictable betrayal of his own body.
But
the moment didn’t last. As he stretched, the shirt rode up, leaving his
hips and thighs bare—and there it was, standing at attention like a
stubborn sentinel. Julian’s heart sank as he realized what had
happened, his face burning with humiliation as he glanced down at
himself. He had totally forgotten, and now he was carelessly exposing
himself in front of the girls. To make matters worse, he was having his
usual morning wood, the stubborn little erection making his predicament
all the more humiliating.
"Right, now that both of you are
awake," Vicky said, her tone light and teasing as she looked him up and
down deliberately, "please stand up and come to the kitchen this
instant. Breakfast is ready!"
Julian’s stomach churned, and he
quickly pulled the shirt down, his hands trembling as he tried to cover
himself. "Right, go out, I’ll get dressed and come to the kitchen, I
swear!" he said, his voice shaky.
But the girls weren’t having
it. "No time for that," Anja said, her tone firm as she crossed her
arms over her chest. "First breakfast, then clothes. We don’t want you
to get all dirty with food like yesterday. No time for changing."
Julian’s heart sank, and he shook his head desperately, his voice
rising in panic. "Please, just let me get dressed! I’ll be quick, I
promise!"
But the girls weren’t listening. They stepped
closer, their expressions stern as they loomed over him. "Julian,"
Vicky said, her tone firm, "we’re not asking. We’re telling. Get up and
come to the kitchen. Now."
Julian’s stomach churned, and he
glanced at the door, hoping for some kind of escape. But there was
none. The girls were in charge, and Julian was completely at their
mercy. With a resigned sigh, he sat up, his face burning with
humiliation as he swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up.
The shirt barely covered him, the hem riding up as he moved, and Julian
could feel the girls’ eyes on him, their smirks widening as they took
in the sight.
After breakfast, the girls took charge once
again, their authority unwavering as they directed Julian through the
morning routine with the precision of drill sergeants. "Julian," Vicky
said, her tone firm as she pointed toward the bathroom, "go brush your
teeth. After that, we’ll help you get dressed properly."
Julian’s face burned with indignation, and he crossed his arms over his
chest, his voice rising in protest. "I’m older than you! I can dress
myself! I don’t need your help!"
But the girls weren’t having
it. Vicky stepped closer, her hands on her hips as she fixed him with a
stern look. "You might be one year older than us, yes," she said, her
tone dripping with sarcasm, "but look at you. What are you wearing?
What are we wearing? Who needed to be bathed yesterday? Was
it us, or was it you? Not to mention the spanking. Do you need another
one, or will you do as you’re told?"
Julian’s stomach churned,
and he glanced at Anja, hoping for some kind of reprieve. But Anja just
nodded, her expression firm as she crossed her arms over her chest.
"She’s right, Julian. You’ve been acting like a little kid all weekend.
We’re not taking any chances. Now go brush your teeth."
Julian’s heart sank, and he shook his head desperately, his voice
shaky. "Please, just let me do this myself! I promise I’ll be quick!"
Julian’s protests fell on deaf ears as the girls exchanged a knowing
glance, their smirks widening as if they were sharing a private joke at
his expense. Vicky stepped forward, her hands on her hips, her tone
dripping with mock authority. "Julian," she said, her voice sweet but
firm, "we’re not here to negotiate. Consider this your morning wake-up
call. Go brush your teeth. Now."
With a resigned sigh, Julian
nodded, his shoulders slumping in defeat. He turned and shuffled toward
the bathroom, his face burning with humiliation as he closed the door
behind him. As he stood at the sink, brushing his teeth with mechanical
precision, his mind raced with thoughts of escape, of rebellion, of
anything that might help him reclaim even a shred of dignity. But deep
down, he knew it was pointless. The girls were in charge, and he was
completely at their mercy.
When he emerged from the bathroom,
his face still flushed with embarrassment, he found the girls rummaging
through his dresser drawer, their laughter ringing out as they sifted
through his collection of underwear. All of them were childish briefs,
gifts from his grandmother, each pair more humiliating than the last.
The girls held up pair after pair, their smirks widening as they
debated which one to choose.
"I want my boxers back," Julian thought, his stomach churning with dread. "This is so unfair."
Anja’s voice pulled him back to reality, her tone light and teasing as
she held up a pair of briefs covered in tiny footballs. "As far as I
know, you’ve got football training after school today," she said, her
grin widening. "How about these? They’re perfect for the occasion!"
Julian’s heart sank, and he shook his head desperately, his voice
rising in panic. "No, please, not those! The guys will see them!
They’ll never let me live it down!"
But the girls weren’t
listening. They exchanged a look, their smirks widening as they held up
the football briefs. "Oh, come on, Julian," Vicky said, her tone
dripping with mock sympathy. "They’re just underwear. It’s not like
anyone’s going to see them."
Julian’s stomach churned, and he
glanced at the door, hoping for some kind of escape. But there was
none. The girls were in charge, and Julian was completely at their
mercy. With a resigned sigh, he nodded, his shoulders slumping in
defeat.
Anja stepped closer, the football briefs in hand, and
before Julian could protest, she was helping him into them, her hands
moving with practiced efficiency. Julian’s face burned with humiliation
as she pulled the briefs up, her fingers brushing against his skin as
she adjusted them. "There," she said, her tone light and teasing. "All
set."
Julian’s heart sank, and he glanced down at himself, his
stomach churning as he realized what had happened. The briefs clung to
him, the tiny footballs a stark reminder of his humiliation. But before
he could say anything, the girls were already moving on, pulling out a
pair of bright blue oversized jeans and a plain white t-shirt.
"Here," Vicky said, her tone firm as she handed him the clothes. "Put these on. You’re ready for school."
Julian’s stomach churned, and he shook his head desperately, his voice
shaky. "Please, just let me choose my own clothes! I can do it myself!"
Julian’s attempts to argue were met with a chorus of laughter, the
girls clearly enjoying his discomfort. Anja tilted her head, her eyes
glinting with mischief as she held up the football briefs like a prize.
"Oh, Julian," she said, her voice light and teasing, "you’re acting
like we’re asking you to wear a clown suit. It’s just underwear. Now
stop squirming and put these on. Or do you need us to help you with
that too?"
With a resigned sigh, Julian nodded, his shoulders
slumping in defeat. He pulled on the jeans and t-shirt, his hands
trembling as he tried to preserve some semblance of dignity. But it was
no use. The girls were in charge, and Julian was completely at their
mercy.
When he was finally dressed, the girls stepped back,
their smirks widening as they took in the sight. "There," Vicky said,
her tone light and teasing. "You look... presentable."
Julian’s stomach churned, and he glanced at the door, hoping for some
kind of escape. But there was none. The girls were in charge, and
Julian was completely at their mercy. With a resigned sigh, he nodded,
his shoulders slumping in defeat.
As they left the house
together, Julian couldn’t help but wonder how his life had turned into
this. All he could do was shuffle toward school, his face burning with
humiliation, and hope that somehow, someday, this would all be over.
Part 15
The school day unfolded with a strange, almost surreal sense of
normalcy, a stark contrast to the chaos that had consumed Julian’s
weekend. No one in his class knew about the humiliating incidents that
had taken place at home—the bath, the spanking, the relentless teasing,
the childish underwear, and the constant reminders of his inability to
control even the simplest aspects of his life. For a few hours, Julian
could almost pretend that he was just another teenager, navigating the
awkwardness of high school with the same struggles as everyone else.
Almost.
But the illusion of normalcy was fragile, and it
shattered every time Julian’s mind wandered, which was often. He sat
through his classes in a daze, his thoughts consumed by one thing and
one thing only: football practice. The dread of what awaited him after
school loomed over him like a storm cloud, dark and oppressive, casting
a shadow over every moment of the day. He couldn’t focus on the
lessons, couldn’t concentrate on the exams, couldn’t even muster the
energy to care about the notes his teachers were scribbling on the
board. His mind was elsewhere, racing with scenarios of what might
happen when the boys on the team saw him in those ridiculous
football-patterned briefs. The thought alone was enough to make his
stomach churn.
By the time lunch rolled around, Julian was a
bundle of nerves, his hands trembling as he picked at his food. He
barely noticed the chatter around him, the laughter of his classmates,
the usual buzz of the cafeteria. All he could think about was the
inevitable humiliation that awaited him. What would the guys say? What
would they do? Would they laugh? Tease him? Make fun of him in front of
the whole team? The possibilities were endless, and each one was worse
than the last.
As the day dragged on, Julian’s anxiety only
grew, his mind spiraling further and further into a pit of despair. He
was so distracted, so consumed by his worries, that he barely
registered the assignments he was supposed to be completing or the
questions his teachers were asking. His performance in class was
abysmal, and he knew it. The realization hit him like a punch to the
gut, adding a fresh layer of dread to his already overwhelming anxiety.
His parents were going to find out about his poor performance, and when
they did, there would be consequences. The irony wasn’t lost on him. He
was already in so much trouble, and now he was potentially digging
himself even deeper.
By the time the final bell rang, Julian
felt like he was walking to his own execution. He shuffled through the
hallways, his backpack slung over one shoulder, his head down as he
tried to avoid eye contact with anyone. The walk to the football field
felt like an eternity, each step heavier than the last. His heart
pounded in his chest, his palms slick with sweat, and his mind raced
with thoughts of what was to come.
When he finally reached the
locker room, the sound of his teammates’ laughter and chatter hit him
like a wave, sending a fresh surge of panic through his body. He
hesitated at the door, his hand trembling as he reached for the handle.
For a moment, he considered turning around, running away, hiding
somewhere until it was all over. But he knew he couldn’t. There was no
escape. He had to face this, no matter how much it terrified him.
Taking a deep breath, Julian pushed the door open and stepped inside.
The locker room buzzed with the chaotic energy of teenage boys
preparing for practice—cleats clattering against tile, lockers
slamming, voices overlapping in a cacophony of boasts and banter.
Julian hovered near his locker, fingers trembling as he gripped the hem
of his plain white t-shirt. His plan was simple: strip quickly, yank
his football jersey on first to shield the waistband of his mortifying
briefs, then tackle the jeans-to-shorts transition under the cover of
the long fabric. But plans, Julian had learned, were brittle things.
He peeled the t-shirt over his head, the stale air of the room
prickling his skin, and immediately hunched his shoulders forward, as
if folding inward could erase his presence. The waistband of his
underwear—neon footballs on a navy background—peeked defiantly above
his jeans, a sliver of humiliation on display. He reached for his
jersey, but Ethan’s voice sliced through the noise like a blade.
“Whoa, Carter!” Ethan crowed, sauntering over with a grin that bordered
on predatory. The room’s attention swiveled like a pack of wolves
catching a scent. “What’s with the kiddie undies? You raid your baby
brother’s drawer this morning?”
Julian’s throat tightened. He
dropped onto the bench, thighs clamped together, hands splayed over his
waistband. “Shut up, Ethan,” he muttered, but the words lacked heat,
drowned by the snickers rippling through the room.
Ethan’s
eyes gleamed. “Nah, nah, let’s get a proper look.” In one fluid motion,
he hooked a finger under the elastic at Julian’s hip and yanked upward,
hauling him to his feet. Julian yelped, the wedgie biting into his skin
as Ethan spun him around, the waistband now stretched taut, the
football pattern fully visible.
“Check it out!” Ethan barked, parading Julian like a trophy. “Carter’s ready for the preschool league!”
The room erupted. Boys clustered around, howling as Ethan marched
Julian past rows of lockers, the wedgie hoisting him onto his toes.
“Aren’t those a little small for you, Carter?” Liam jeered,
flicking the waistband. “Or is that the point?”
“Maybe he’s trying to impress Coach with his team spirit!” someone else shouted, igniting fresh laughter.
Julian’s face burned, his vision blurring at the edges. The elastic dug
into his flesh, the fabric riding higher with every step Ethan took. He
gritted his teeth, willing himself not to cry, not to give them the
satisfaction.
When Ethan finally released him, Julian
stumbled, the waistband snapping back with a sting that mirrored the
heat in his cheeks. “Change fast, princess,” Ethan sneered,
nodding toward Julian’s gym bag. “Unless you want Coach to see
your lucky charms.”
Julian didn’t need telling twice. He
fumbled with his jeans, fingers shaking so violently he nearly tore the
zpper. The football shorts—thank God—were blissfully ordinary, but as
he tugged them on, he caught Ethan miming a toddler’s wobbling walk,
the boys dissolving into fresh guffaws.
He kept his eyes fixed
on the floor, shoulders hunched, as he laced his cleats. The laughter
faded into background noise, replaced by the thud of his own
pulse. Just get through practice, he told himself. Just
survive.
But survival, he knew, was a temporary state. The
worst was yet to come—the showers, the jeers, the inevitable retelling
of this moment in excruciating detail. For now, though, he clung to the
small mercy of his shorts, the fabric a flimsy shield between him and
the wolves.
The coach’s whistle screeched in the distance.
Julian stood, his legs leaden, and followed the herd onto the field.
Each step felt like walking into a firing squad.
The afternoon
sun hung low, casting long shadows across the field as Julian trudged
behind his teammates, the grass crunching under his cleats like brittle
bones. Practice had barely begun, and already his jersey clung to his
back with sweat, his legs leaden and uncoordinated. Every pass he
fumbled, every tackle he missed, felt like a public confession of his
unraveling. His mind, still scorched by the locker room spectacle,
refused to focus on the ball—it ricocheted between the dread of further
humiliation and the searing memory of Ethan’s fingers hooking into his
waistband.
The first time it happened, Julian was mid-sprint,
chasing a stray pass. Liam lunged from nowhere, fingers snagging the
hem of his shorts and yanking them down to his knees. Julian stumbled,
the fabric tangling around his ankles as laughter erupted like a
wildfire. “Whoops!” Liam crowed, sprinting off as Julian scrambled to
pull them up, his briefs—those cursed football-patterned
briefs—flashing the entire field.
“Carter!” Coach’s whistle
shrieked, his face purpling beneath the brim of his cap. “You here to
play or model underroos? Get your head in the game!”
Julian’s cheeks burned hotter than the sun. He tugged his shorts
higher, cinching the drawstring until it dug into his hips. But the
reprieve was fleeting. During a defensive drill, Ethan feinted left,
then hooked a finger into Julian’s waistband from behind, hoisting him
upward in a wedgie so brutal it lifted him off his toes. “Preschool
league, preschool undies!” Ethan chanted, the team collapsing into
howls as Julian writhed, the elastic slicing into his skin.
Coach’s whistle cut through the noise again, but his glare wasn’t aimed
at Ethan. “Carter!” he barked, stomping onto the field. “You move like
you’ve never seen a soccer ball! What’s next—a pacifier? A blankie? Get
it together or ride the bench!”
The boys’ laughter
crescendoed, a symphony of cruelty. Julian stared at the grass, his
breath hitching. Each blade seemed to mock him, bending in the breeze
like pointing fingers. Just survive, he repeated silently, but
survival felt like swallowing shards of glass.
By the time
practice ended, Julian’s shorts had become a twisted banner of his
shame, sagging and grass-stained. He lingered at the edge of the field,
pretending to retie his cleats until the others vanished into the
locker room. But Ethan lingered too, slinging an arm around Julian’s
shoulders with faux camaraderie. “Don’t worry, preschooler,” he
sneered, his breath hot and sour. “The showers’ll wash away the tears.
Maybe.”
Julian’s stomach lurched. The showers. The naked,
echoing room where humiliation pooled like water. He pictured Ethan’s
grin widening, the team’s eyes raking over him, the jokes crystallizing
into legend.
He stood there, paralyzed, as the distant clang
of lockers echoed like a funeral bell. Survival, he realized, wasn’t a
choice—it was a sentence.
The showers loomed like a gauntlet,
steam curling from the open stalls in ghostly tendrils, the air thick
with the acrid tang of cheap body wash and adolescent sweat. Julian
hovered at the threshold, his toes curling against the damp tile, the
echoes of laughter and slapping flip-flops reverberating off the walls.
Ethan’s threat coiled in his mind like a venomous snake—Your mom’s
getting a full report—and he could already picture her pinched
expression, her sigh of disappointment, the inevitable lecture about
"acting his age."
He peeled off his shorts first, then the
cursed briefs, each movement mechanical, as if his limbs belonged to
someone else. The other boys were a blur of flesh and motion—Liam
flexing in the mirror, Ethan cannonballing into a shower stream, a
chorus of whoops rising as someone flicked a towel at bare
skin. Julian kept his eyes fixed on the drain beneath his feet, the
rust-stained grout a focal point to anchor his unraveling nerves.
“Oh, shit,” came a voice—Liam’s, sharp and delighted. “Look who finally grew a pair!”
Julian froze. The room’s clamor dimmed, replaced by a ringing in his
ears. He didn’t need to look up to feel their eyes—hot,
probing, hungry—as they raked over him.
“Damn, Carter,”
Ethan drawled, stepping closer, water sluicing down his chest. “No
wonder you’ve been hiding. You’re packing a fetus down there.”
Laughter erupted, jagged and mean. Julian’s hands twitched, desperate
to cover himself, but he forced them to his sides, nails biting into
his palms.
“Bet he still pees sitting down!” someone shouted.
“Nah, he’s gotta hover—ain’t got nothin’ to aim with!”
The jokes spiraled, crude and relentless. Julian stepped under the
nearest showerhead, scalding water slapping his skin as he scrubbed
furiously at his arms, his neck, anywhere to avoid their
stares. But the open stalls offered no refuge. Ethan sidled up beside
him, exaggeratedly cupping himself. “Careful, Carter—might slip down
the drain!” More laughter. Julian’s throat burned.
A hand
clapped his shoulder. TJ, the team’s quiet midfielder, stood beside
him, his expression a mix of pity and awkward camaraderie. “Don’t sweat
it, man,” he muttered, voice barely audible over the spray. “My cousin
was a late bloomer too. Didn’t hit till, like, seventeen. You’ll…
uh… catch up. Probably.”
Julian stared at
him. Probably. The word hung between them, hollow as a deflated
ball. TJ shrugged and retreated, leaving Julian alone under the
blistering water.
The showers’ steam clung to Julian’s skin
like a second layer of shame as he turned off the tap, his body
trembling under the thin veneer of false courage he’d mustered to
endure the taunts. He reached for his towel, the fabric coarse and
unkind, when Ethan’s voice cut through the humid air like a whip.
“Guys,” Ethan announced, his grin widening as he leaned against a
dripping tile wall, “what do you think about measuring him?!”
He paused, letting the implication hang, before adding, “And I don’t
mean his height, lol.”
The locker room, already thick with
lingering malice, erupted in a chorus of approval. Boys elbowed one
another, their laughter sharp and giddy, as if Ethan had cracked open a
piñata of fresh humiliation. Julian froze, his towel halfway to his
hips. “No way!” he spat, voice cracking. “You’ve had your
fun—that’s enough! No one’s measuring anything!”
Ethan’s
eyes glinted. “Oh, sure we are,” he drawled, lunging forward
before Julian could bolt. His hands clamped around Julian’s wrists,
fingers digging into bone, as he twisted him into a lock, one arm
hooked viciously around his throat. Julian thrashed, his bare feet
slipping on wet tile, but Ethan’s grip was iron. “Help me out, Liam!”
Liam, already buzzing with anticipation, seized Julian’s legs, and
together they hauled him, dripping and exposed, into the center of the
changing room. The fluorescent lights glared down, merciless, as boys
crowded in, their smirks silent but hungry. Julian’s breath came in
shallow hitches, his nakedness suddenly magnified—the
football-patterned briefs long discarded, his body a map of
vulnerabilities under their gaze.
Liam rummaged through his
backpack, withdrawing a plastic ruler with theatrical flourish.
“Special delivery,” he sneered, waving it like a baton. Julian’s
stomach plummeted.
“Don’t—don’t—” Julian begged, but Liam was
already crouching, his free hand darting out to pinch Julian’s flaccid
penis between two fingers, lifting it like a specimen. The cold air of
the room bit into Julian’s skin, his body betraying him further as he
shriveled under the scrutiny.
“One inch!” Liam crowed, jerking
the ruler alongside it for emphasis. The room erupted—howls, whistles,
the thunder of palms slapping lockers. Julian’s face burned crimson,
tears blurring the leering faces encircling him.
Then,
impossibly, a new horror: a traitorous warmth bloomed beneath Liam’s
grip as Julian’s body, stressed and confused, began to stir. “Oh
my GOD!” Liam screeched, recoiling as if scalded. “He’s popping a
boner! Again! Like Saturday!”
Julian’s mind
short-circuited. No. No, no, no— His pulse roared in his ears
as the room crescendoed, boys doubling over, fists pounding benches.
Ethan tightened his hold, laughing directly into Julian’s ear.
“Pathetic,” he hissed.
Liam, recovering, pressed the ruler
back with sadistic glee. “Let’s get the real stats!” Julian’s
erection—small, trembling, humiliating—stood at attention under the
fluorescent glare. “One-point-seventy-five inches!” Liam shouted. “Not
even two! Hahaha!”
The laughter was a living thing now,
rabid and consuming. Julian’s vision swam, the room tilting as Ethan
finally released him. He crumpled to the floor, scrambling for his
clothes, his hands shaking too violently to fasten the buttons.
“Alright, alright,” Liam sighed, faux magnanimous, as he flicked
Julian’s damp briefs at him. “Cover up, preschooler. Wouldn’t want
you getting too excited.” The emphasis dripped with
insinuation, sparking fresh snickers.
Julian dressed in a
frenzy, fabric clinging to his still-damp skin, the football briefs a
cruel joke against his thighs. He didn’t look back as he fled, the
locker room’s cacophony chasing him into the hallway, down the stairs,
out into the indifferent dusk.
The walk home was a blur of
choked breaths and jumbled thoughts—One-point-seventy-five.
One-point-seventy-five—each step a hammer to his pride. He replayed the
ruler’s edge, the boys’ faces, the way his own body had conspired
against him. By the time he reached his doorstep, his cheeks were
salt-stained, his jaw clenched so tight it ached.
Upstairs, he
tore off the cursed briefs, hurling them into the back of his drawer,
as if burying them could erase the day. But the numbers haunted him,
etched into his mind like a brand. One-point-seventy-five.