Tommy's Attitude Adjustment Chapter 69
by Chadlad

copyright 2008 by Chadlad, all rights reserved
chadlad3@yahoo.com

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This story is intended for ADULTS ONLY It contains explicit depictions of sexual activity involving minors. If you are not of a legal age in your locality to view such material or if such material does not appeal to you, do not read further, and do not save this story.
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Chapter 69: Why Mrs. Martinez Loves Her Job

Back in the infirmary, Mrs. Martinez still hadn't arrived. Randy had stopped retching and was leaning on the trash can, looking miserable again.

Chad looked at S. F.'s crotch, where he huddled on his side on the examination table, his almost man-sized penis dangling straight down, so long the tip almost hit the paper covering the table. Didn't that thing ever shrink at all, even a little bit? "Wish I looged like you," he said enviously. "Iv I looged like you, I'd walg around naged all da dime," Chad said enviously. "I'd zoin a nudisd colony! I'd pose for painders and sculpdures! I'd be a prop for segs-education classes for little kids! I'd give anyding to be big like you." He looked at the fat boy by the trash can. "Randy would, doo."

S. F. looked down at his oversized genitals. "This?" he said, as if noticing his penis for the first time. "You don't want this. I don't want it, not really. People act like it's so great to have a big one! It's not so great. Not if you're little like us. It doesn't even fit in my pants – it's always too tight and sticks out the front, and I know the girls can all see it bulging out there all the time. It gets hard and then it wants to stick straight up and it gets caught against my waistband. I can't usually get it out of my zipper to pee, especially if it's hard, and it seems like it's hard all the time! I have to pull the front of my pants down to go, like little boys do, and I feel like everyone's looking at me like I'm some sort of dork when I do. I'm a freak, that's what I am. Heck, if I could, I'd swap with you, my stuff for yours. I bet yours doesn't ever get in your way when you're zipping up your pants, or stick out so far when it's hard that it hits stuff before you do! I rammed it into my dresser a few weeks ago when I was changing clothes because I forgot how far it sticks out – man, talk about pain!"

He looked at Chad's almost tiny, perfectly shaped little member. "People look at you, they think you're cute. All the time you were being punished naked a few weeks back, that's all I'd hear the girls say." He put on a high-pitched, girly voice. "'Oh, Chad's boy parts are so cute!' 'Oh, I just want to pet his little thing and watch it stand up – it's so adorable hard!' 'I like the way his coin purse clings to his crotch – it's so small and neat, not all dangly and disgusting!"

Randy suddenly cleared his throat, causing them to swivel their heads in surprise, because both Chad and S. F. had forgotten he was there. "He's right," the chubby boy said hoarsely. "Lots of the girls said stuff like that. "I was standing by the edge of the bleachers and these three girls were talking the one's boyfriend. I think they were eight graders. And the one with the boyfriend said, 'Well, I'd do it in a heartbeat if his dick looked like that Chad kid in the 7th grade, and not like some freakin' hairy sausage! I'd lick that lollypop day and night!' That's what she said – lick that lollypop!"

S. F. actually blushed. "Do girls really do that?" he asked. "You know – put our things in their mouths? Cause they want to? I mean – you know – pee and all..." too late, he remembered that the boy he was talking to had been forced by the school to do exactly that with the things of an entire forth grade class, or so everybody said. Some kids also said that they'd heard that Chad and Alan had also been forced by their mothers to suck each other as punishment. He tried to backpedal. "I mean, um, not that it's bad to do it – like, if someone made you or something. It's just a body part, covered with skin like any other body part. It's not like it's dirty or anything, at least, not if you took a shower. And didn't get poo on you somehow.." He stopped, foundering. "Not that I want to do it," he said, trailing off as he remembered himself licking the slimy, salty, snot-like output of his own penis from the palm of his hand just a few days back, licking up the substantial puddle from the first time, and then the smaller pool from the second and the sticky spatters of drops from his subsequent emissions until he'd milked himself dry. How did girls deal with that if they were sucking on you? Did they have to eat it, too, like he had? Or did they move off you in time so they didn't get it in their mouths?

Chad was looking at the floor now, his face reddened in his own shameful memories. "Hey," Randy said. "Can't you talk about something else? I'm feeling kinda sick over here." To demonstrate his point, he bent over the trash can moments later and began an ineffective retching once more.

His renewed efforts to heave his substantial guts out broke the spell that had captured Chad and S. F. "I dink some girls do id and some don'," Chad said. He paused and opened his mouth, pulling the wads of blood stained cotton out. "I think I'd rather bleed than talk around this stuff," he said more clearly. He tossed the cotton in the trash can nearest him. "Now, what were we talking about. Oh, yeah, mouth stuff. I know that at least some girls like to do it. Some boys, too," he added, thinking of Jesse and Alan. There was no question Jesse liked sucking other boys, and clearly he liked being sucked, too – his experiences with Chad were ample evidence of that. Alan he wasn't so sure about – he'd certainly sucked Chad's member enthusiastically enough when they were trying to make each other cum the most, but that had been a punishment, and it probably appeared to Alan that Chad was enthusiastic about it, too, given how hard he'd worked at making the other boy cum, trying to reduce his next punishment. He himself knew that it had just been a duty he had to do -- he hadn't enjoyed it – it had made his jaw muscles sore and his tongue tired and the top of his mouth raw, and the idea of having a boy's peeing part in his mouth was mildly repellant, but he could do it – he'd sucked quite a number of boys in just the last few weeks. There was his brother Tommy, who'd been his first, then Jesse, and the twins from next door with their identical little members, and then 10 younger kids at school exhibiting various stages of randiness. He bet a lot of girls felt like he did about it – it wasn't a turn on, it was a thing he'd rather avoid, but he could do it if necessary and it wasn't all that bad to do if one had to. It wasn't even totally gross to have to swallow their output, that is, the output of the ones who could squirt stuff. It was kind of like swallowing medicine – if you just gulped it down and didn't think about it, it wasn't that bad. It beat a sharp stick in the eye, or, for that matter, a hard paddle or a strong hand on one's butt.

"Who?" S. F. asked. "I mean, who do you think might like it? I bet Emily wouldn't – not in a million years. She acts like she hates all our boy parts."

"She does," Chad said. "If she'd have had a knife in the bathroom, we'd all have been turned into girls instead of just bruised." Randy had stopped retching again and was panting by the trash can. "But I bet Lindsay Kirk likes to do it." I know she does, he thought to himself smugly. She'd gobbled him up with a passion that had almost frightened him at the time, and had done the same to Jimmy's homely, twisted cock, too. She'd probably gone down on Joey's hairy member the moment they'd left the projection booth, as well. And she certainly acted like she enjoyed it.

"Cynthia kind of likes you," S. F. suggested shyly. "Do you think she would...." A thought struck him. "You haven't....have you? Had it done to you? By a girl, I mean, not another boy?" He blushed again, realizing his faux pas. If the rumors were true and he and Alan had done stuff to each other, Chad probably didn't want to be reminded of it, even if he'd not done it by choice. Chad didn't notice, though. At the mention of Cynthia's name, he'd suddenly pictured her kneeling in front of him like his brother had done that weekend, his cock buried to the hilt in her warm, inviting mouth while she sucked him as eagerly as Lindsay Kirk had. He literally shook himself to clear the image. "Huh?" he said, knowing he'd been asked a question but not what it had been.

"Cynthia," S. F. explained. "You two are pretty tight. Has she—have you--? I mean, you haven't done it, have you?"

"Not with Cynthia," Chad said quickly, wondering as he did why he'd felt the need to deny that immediately. He wondered if Cynthia would ever do such a thing with him, if she might even like it. His member sprung to attention almost immediately, rising visibly over the next 15 seconds until it was pointing slightly upward and throbbing gently with his suddenly faster heartbeat. S. F. glanced down Chad's body at the movement, eyes widening as he took in Chad's sudden arousal. Chad, looking down, blushed adorably, began a vehement denial, and then gave up. He and gave S. F. a wry smile. "Cynthia and I haven't done anything but talk about it," he admitted candidly. "But I guess without my pants on I can't very well claim I wouldn't want to." He laughed a bit hysterically, and then S. F. joined in, his high-pitched, girlish giggle sounding incongruous from a child with a cock that was 5 inches long flaccid. Randy stared at the two of them like they'd lost their mind. S. F. and Chad both looked at Chad's hard on at the same time, then guiltily at each other, and then dissolved into giggles again. Randy two several steps toward them.

"What's so funny?" he said, not able to see Chad's hard-on from his position, but only his pert little butt.

The spell broken, both boys stopped giggling abruptly, and Chad's hard-on immediately began shrinking again. S. F. twisted his upper body to look toward his backside and pulled the tissues away that he'd been holding against his anus. "I think it's stopping, he said, looking at the small blood spot with visible relief.

He jammed the tissues back against his butt and let his eyes dart a little glance at Chad's now diminishing erection. His friends penis had already retreated to hanging slightly out from his body, looking like a normal penis on a normal early pubescent boy, and not the head of a turtle pulled into its shell, or a button waiting to be pushed. Randy stopped beside Chad, looking around, still puzzled at what they were laughing at. His eyes passed over Chad's genitals but didn't linger, and he clearly didn't see anything out of the ordinary.

"I don't think I'd want a girl to do that," Randy said seriously. "What if she's secretly mad at you or something, because of something you said or something? She might bite it off."

S. F. looked horrified at that thought. Chad found his looks funny, too, in part because he'd had his own dick in his brother's mouth multiple times in the last few days and hadn't even thought about him biting it. For that matter, he hadn't thought about being bitten during his night visits in captivity, when he'd thought that Karen from next door was pleasuring him, only to discover the enthusiastic Jesse was the one who'd been practicing his technique on Chad's willing tool.

"I don't think I have to worry about that any time soon," Chad finally said. "I don't think any girl's going to want to do that to me, not, at least, while I still look like a kindergartner down there."

S. F. forced himself to look directly at Chad's genitals. "You don't, you know," he said. "Look like a kindergartner, that is. Your thing's not that small -- not like little the boys."

"Like you've seen so many of them," Chad muttered, not mollified.

"I have, though," S. F. said. "You have, too. Everyone sees the little boys' stuff. They'll pee anywhere, in front of anyone. They just go into the bathroom and whip it out and stand a mile from the thing and pee. They don't even care who watches. They even pull their pants all they way down when they pee, and stand there with their butts sticking out for everyone to see. And then they turn toward you when they're done and stand there looking at the room while they pull their pants back up again, showing everyone their stuff. They don't care. And you can't help but see them – they all but wave their stuff at you when they do it. So I know what they look like, and you guys do, too. And their boy stuff is a lot smaller than you guys'"

Randy gave S. F. a skeptical look. "Really," S. F. said. Randy looked even more skeptical. S. F. gave up the argument and readjusted the towel wad against his butt. "Ow!" he added mournfully. "Hurts like a mother. I'll never be able to go poo again."

The boys subsided into an uncomfortable silence. Chad suddenly felt naked again. How could he keep doing that – go from feeling comfortable with his stuff hanging out and feeling so exposed and vulnerable that all he wanted to do is cover up, all in a moment? He wished he had some pants. Or even a diaper. Or anything. Heck, a postage stamp to stick on the head of his dick would do. Anything but standing around naked, where his undersized genitals were all too easy to compare to S. F.'s outsized package.

At the doorway, Mrs. Martinez slipped in quietly, unnoticed because S. F.'s head was just out of sight behind the jutting corner of the room by the inset doorway, and the other two boys were looking the other direction. She used the opportunity of being unseen to take in the tableau in front of her and anticipate the pleasures of the job ahead of her. She turned her attention first to the naked form of the Henson boy, standing facing away from her so that his firm buttocks were on full display. She loved the job she'd gotten here, truly loved it. Because it had so many moments like this one -- moments where she had legitimate reasons to carefully and closely examine children's bodies, especially the bodies of the boys. Because there was nothing on God's green earth more beautiful in her eyes than a boy stripped of his clothing and all signs of civilization, a boy in his primordial state, the way nature intended him to be.

Oh, kids were cute enough clothed. Shining eyes, impish grins, big heads poking out of the collars of cute outfits. They were like brightly colored little animals with skins they could change every day for variety's sake, an ever-changing kaleidoscope of color and fashion. The right outfit could hide unsightly fat, accentuate hips or shoulders or breasts, and conceal acne and scars and warts. But shorn of their clothing, their humanness came out, and they became something different. You became aware of the subtle curves of the human body. The backs that weren't straight, but sinuous and seductive. The inward curve of the small of the back before the outward jut of the buttocks. The crease where the buttocks joined the legs, the knobs of vertebrae, the bony projections of the shoulder blades. The ripple of muscle as they moved, lithe as cats, twisting and turning and bending. Soft-appearing skin all over, but especially on those buttocks. Buttocks that always felt firm and smooth in her hands during an examination, with the child lying face down on the table, the tenseness in muscles building as she moved down the back, probing and poking and caressing, the child's obvious worry as she approached that forbidden region, the place nobody ever touched them, not since their mothers stopped wiping and washing them there. The flicker of tenseness when she reached the buttocks and began probing, the resistance they always showed when she gently began separating the twin globes jutting up from the table, tensing and clenching that she could always halt with a terse, admonishing word to stop acting like a baby, because she was a nurse, and she had to look at such things, and the child was nobody special and no different from anyone else.

Which was a lie, of course. Because all of them were different, every one of them. Oh, they had their commonalities. The buttocks were always smooth and unmarred by cellulite or too many years of sitting. And the orifices within were generally tight and small and unmarred by hemorrhoids or the other damage that comes from years of straining and use. She rather liked anuses – they were so functional and utilitarian – nothing fancy, but they got the job done. And considering their function, they were surprisingly neat about it, and closed chastely enough afterward. But there was also just the intimacy that examining the boys and girls there created. You had a bond with a kid once you'd been intimate enough with him or her to view and touch that private area. It was like they were open to you, and you were special, with special privileges no one else had. Once you'd viewed it and they knew you had, you could touch them there and they wouldn't flinch, probe the tight muscle itself, and even invade it with a fingertip or even an entire finger with the child showing only a tense embarrassment at the intrusion, and a deep desire not to talk about it afterward or even acknowledge it happened.

From the rear, lying face down with the legs together on an examination table, prepubertal and early puberty boys and girls looked pretty much the same in that region. Yet it felt different to her invading the boys rather than the girls. With the girls, it was still embarrassing, even though they knew she was a girl herself. They weren't used to being probed there, and to things sliding into them rather than out. They were always tense and excited and shamed during the examination of their rectums, just like the boys. But it was different for them, nonetheless. Because girls were constructed to be invaded, to have things pushed rudely or gently into their bodies. Some of them, even at 10 or 11, were already shoving fingers inside themselves and enjoying the fullness they felt doing it, and even those who weren't knew, deep inside themselves, that taking things inside themselves was the normal way of things. And a girl who'd taken a finger up her front many times didn't balk much when a finger invaded her backside. With the boys, it was different. Boys instinctively wanted to be the invaders, not the target of invasion. To be rectally probed thoroughly cowed young boys, made them go quiet and not meet your eyes and blush so prettily it sent a shiver through her.

It wasn't that way so much with the older boys. They grew defiant and challenging, demanding to know why you needed to probe them so thoroughly. Or they got seductive, and saw the rectal probing as a sexual overture and a call for intimacy of other kinds. They were the sort who wanted to roll over and show you their throbbing hard-ons, hoping to impress you with their virility, maybe thinking you'd drop your panties right there and beg them to take you on the examination table. But the younger boys, like these three, the immature, unsure of themselves boys, now they were exciting.

Yes, she loved having these boys at a disadvantage – naked when you were clothed, uncomfortably squirming while you digitally explored their tight, hot rectums, feeling for the immature bump of their barely detectable prostate glands and stirring them up inside in a way that was unbearable and erotic at the same time. Withdrawing your finger, knowing they could still feel it inside them, then probing the entrance again, making them wonder if you were going to re-enter them or not. Sometimes she'd plunge two fingers into a boy who hadn't been two tight and probe some more, just for the thrill of his squirming discomfort. They never said anything, these little boys. They wanted, all of them, to be manly, and having your butt reamed out by a woman wasn't manly at all. They, to a boy, all tried to deal with it by pretending it wasn't happening, that a woman's finger wasn't up their butts and that if they just pretended she wasn't there it would go away. She loved their tense, studied shows of indifference. She'd rotate her finger, feel all sides of their tight rectums, apply pressure to their immature prostates, and feel the hard tension grow inside as her stroking invariably erected their penises. She loved their growing discomfort as they realized that they were hard, hard and naked, and that any moment she might pronounce that she was done with their backsides and order them to turn over...

She loved doing that. Pulling her finger or fingers out of their rectums, feeling the tight anus close on them as she did, wiping her lubricant off their exposed orifices, and then saying, in honeyed tones, "Turn over, now sweety, and let's examine your front side."

They always hesitated, reluctant to show her their immature hard ons, but unable to put into words why they couldn't turn over. In the end, they'd half turn, blushing redly, and watch for her reaction, certain she'd remark on their waving little flags as they came into view. She always put on a very professional air then, glancing at their crotches so they'd know she'd seen, but showing no reaction at all, like seeing boys' erect penises was all in a day's work for her. She'd fuss with their position, get them stretched out on their backs with their arms at their sides and their legs slightly apart, so their upthrusting little penises and their bulging little scrotums surmounted their trunks, marring the smooth lines of their muscular or fat padded, or bony little bodies. She loved that view of a boy – stretched full length in front of her, entire body on display and at her mercy, awaiting her pleasure. And then they were just two kids, playing doctor.

Playing doctor. That had started all of this, hadn't it? Back when she'd been little "Modesta Rodriquez" rather than "Mrs. Martinez," a dark skinned, black eyed little beauty with a thin, athletic build and hair half way down to the jut of her buttocks. It was the reason she was a nurse, the reason she worked here, in this strange school with its strange attitudes toward boys. It all came from playing doctor.

She'd discovered playing doctor when she was 9, and she and a 10-year-old boy from the apartment downstairs had gone inside on a hot day to get a drink of water from his hall bathroom. The apartment itself was empty – they could faintly hear their mothers upstairs gossiping about various neighbors, their words indistinct but their voices identifiable. As she gulped down water, he suggested they play inside for awhile in his room. The boy was a mixed Hispanic/Irish lad with white skin and red hair incongruous in this neighborhood. He had often surprised teachers and others with his fluency in both Spanish and gutter English. Modesta had been surprised by the disorder in his room – she'd never set foot in a boy's room before, and had expected it to look like her neat quarters. Instead, toys were piled everywhere, and rumpled clothing lay in discarded piles on the floor. She'd been shocked to see a pair of boy's underwear right by the door, not just rumpled but bearing a tell-tale brown streak and yellowed stains on them. The boy had rummaged through his toys, muttering, "What can we play?" over and over as he did, finally coming up with a toy stethoscope which he'd looped around his neck and a toy doctor's bag. "We'll play doctor," he'd said triumphantly, putting the reflective mirror thing on his head. He looked at her in a superior way.

"Okay, little girl," he said. "Time for your pizzical."

She knew the word was "physical," because she'd just recently had one, complete with a painful shot that was given in her henie, but she didn't correct him. Instead, she'd obediently stretched out on his bed, giggling as he stuck the stethoscope on her stomach to "listen to her heart," had looked in her ears and stared down her throat through one of those plastic versions of a viewscope. Then he'd got out a plastic syringe from his case and told her he had to give her a shot in her heinie. She'd looked at the syringe suspiciously, but, not seeing any actual sharp needle but rather a dull bump on the end of the syringe, she obediently rolled over on to her stomach.

"Pull up your skirt and take your panties down," he'd said.

"But the nurse always does that," she'd replied.

"Okay," he'd said, his voice a little squeaky all of the sudden. He'd clumsily flipped up her skirt and gripped the middle of the back of her exposed waist band and tried to pull her panties down, but of course this just made them tighter so that the sides of the waistband caught on her hip bones and refused to budge. He pulled harder.

"Stop!" she exclaimed. "You'll tear them! Here, I'll do it!" Brushing his clumsy hands aside, she'd neatly lowered her thin panties to just under the curve of her butt, letting him have his first look at her naked bottom. He stood there by the bed frozen, staring down at her, until she said, "Well, aren't you going to give me the shot?"

He'd jumped a bit at her voice, looked guilty, and then quickly put the rounded end of the fake syringe against her right buttock and pressed it hard into her muscle.

She flinched. "Hey, it's got to hurt," he said. "Shots always hurt."

He moved the syringe and stood staring at her buttocks some more. "Should I pull my panties back up?" she asked.

"Uh, no," he said, still sounding squeaky. "I have to look at your heinie hole." She considered this, but it made sense – the doctor at her physical had looked at her heinie hole. In fact, he'd had her lie on her back with her legs spread and looked at her holes in front, too. She started to turn over, but he surprised her by leaning forward and pressing both hands on her bare buttocks, separating them and leaning in to stare at her virgin orifice. He was a little rough, and it hurt a little, but the doctor had poked her with a finger that had hurt her front hole a little, too, when he'd examined her, so she kept silent and let him look.

"Do you have any trouble going poop?" he asked her, his voice still squeaky.

"Noooooo," she said slowly. This was getting awfully personal. She hadn't minded him looking at her back there, but she didn't really want to talk about pooping – it was embarrassing. She didn't even talk to her mother about pooping! He looked a moment longer, though, and then straightened up.

"You can get dressed," he said. "You're in perfect health."

She looked at him over her shoulder, her brown buttocks still bare. "Don't you want to look at my front, too?" she asked. "The real doctor always looks at my front."

"I'm bored with this game," he announced. "Let's do something else. Besides," he added with a sneer, "girls don't have nothin' in front, not like us cholos." He dropped the doctor toys into the pile and grabbed up a basketball. "Let's go shoot some hoops," he said, racing out the door."But it's my turn," she protested, but he was gone.

Over the next few days, she pondered his remark that "girls don't have anything in front, not like us cholos." She had stuff in front – lots of stuff! Complicated, squishy stuff. Folds and caverns and even a little bump that felt good to gently stroke, but that got too tickly if you stroked it too much. Were boys different? She'd never considered the question before. There were no babies or toddlers around for her to see being changed, no males who left bathroom doors open, no boys at school who flashed their genitals at girls. She might have seen a naked boy or two when she was a toddler, but at the time she'd looked only at their butts, she realized, and never had noticed their fronts, if she'd seen them. She'd assumed everyone was the same. But after her neighbor's remark, she became interested in what boys had in front, began surreptitiously looking at boy's crotches in shorts and swimsuits. She was shocked to find what she'd been oblivious to up to that point --boys and men had a bulge there in their crotches, a quite prominent bulge that she and her fellow females didn't have. She'd ponder on that bulge at night, while attempting to fall asleep, and study the different sized bulges of various boys during the day when she thought she could look without attracting attention. Size immediately puzzled her. She'd assumed big boys would have big bulges and little boys little bulges, but some of the smaller boys seemed to bulge prominently in front, and some of the bigger ones looked as flat as girls there. Twice she saw boys who had bulges that looked like little pup tents, completely with what looked like a central tent pole holding the cloth out. The first was on a little boy of about 5 who moments later excused himself to rush to the bathroom, and the second on a 10-year-old, who actually reached down and kneaded the bulge with his fingers unselfconsciously, making the tent pole shift upward so it stopped straining the cloth. After that incident, she became a girl obsessed, determined to get a good look at this mysterious something boys had.

Her chance came days later, when the 10-year-old playmate who'd examined her heinie hole and then dismissively announced girls "don't have nothin' in front" was playing with her in the yard. "Let's play doctor," she suggested.

"I don't have my doctor stuff," he'd replied. "Besides, that game's dumb. You girls all look the same, and I've already seen your butt. And your poop hole."

"But I want to be the doctor this time," she'd said.

"Girls can't be doctors," he'd said. "You have to be nurses."

"Then I'll be the nurse," she said. "And we don't need doctor stuff – we'll just pretend. We can go in the woodshed and do it."

"I don't wanna," he said crossly. "You'll make me take my pants off, and then you'll see me."

"You saw me," she said.

"That was different," he said haughtily. "Girls don't have anything to see. Boys are special – we have special stuff girls shouldn't see."

That was exactly what Modesta wanted to do, in fact – to see. "It's not fair," she said. "I did it for you."

"You're stupid," he said. "And you can't make me take off my pants, so just forget it."

A glimmer of an idea struck Modesta. "I'll tell my mom," she said quietly.

"What?" he said.

"I'll tell my mom you pulled my panties off and touched me down there," she said. "And your mom, too!" She was pretty sure she remembered her mom and her aunts both telling her that boys touching her down there was naughty.

The boy showed a hint of trepidation now. "You won't tell," he finally said. "You wanted me to do it."

"She doesn't know that," Modesta said quickly. "I'll tell her you pulled my panties down and touched my heinie and looked at my heinie hole," she said. "And she'll believe me, because you did! And she'll believe me because I always tell the truth, and everyone knows boys always lie."

"I will so tell," she said quickly. "And then your momma will smack your butt! A whole bunch of times!"

"No she won't," he said defiantly. "She never whips me."

Modesta laughed aloud at that one. "Does too," she said. "You think we can't hear you upstairs when you get a smacking? Bawling like a baby as she smacks your heinie?" This was true. Not two weeks before that, in fact, Modesta had put her ear to the floor in her room and listened with fascination as the boy's mother had scolded him for some infraction. In muffled tones, she'd heard him pleading in a whiny voice, heard her order him to pull down his pants, and then hear the rhythmic smacks of her hand on what sounded like the boy's bare skin, smacks punctuated at first by begging and pleading, then finally by incoherent sobbing that continued after the smacking had stopped. She'd heard his mother order him into the corner, where the sobs finally diminished and she'd gotten up and gone back to her play.

They boy considered this, then came to a decision. "I'll go with you," he said. "But I keep my underpants on."

"We'll see," she said impishly. "Come on." She took him by the hand and, almost skipping, led him into the shed and shut the door.

It was dusty inside, dusty and warm. There was only a single high window in the shed, which made it impossible for them to be spied on but let in enough light to see once their eyes adjusted. Modesta looked around and spotted an old wooden chair, which she propped under the doorknob to block the door as she'd seen people do on TV. "There," she said. "Now no one will sneak up on us, and you can get dressed again if they do before they get in."

The two of them looked at each other, the boy nervous, the girl with growing excitement. "Take your clothes off," she finally said. "So I can 'xamine you."

"Not my underpants," the boy said again.

"Okay, take off everything but your underpants," she agreed. "And then get on the 'xamination table," she added. She indicated an empty workbench on one side of the shed, across from the pile of firewood, the axe, and the chopping block that gave the shed its name. The boy chewed his lip, then toed off his shoes from behind and lifted his shirt over his head, setting it on the chopping block with the shoes on the floor beside it. Looking at her nervously again, he slid his fingers under his pants and slid them off, bending over and stepping out of each leg one at a time and setting it on the block, too. She marveled at his white skin, so much paler than her own, the thin chest sporting almost invisible nipples, the long, thin legs sporting healing bruises at the knees and a scratch on one calf that was so recent it was puckered and still an angry red. Straightening up, he strode manfully to the bench and levered himself up by backing up to it, placing a hand on each side of himself, and lifting himself onto his thinly clad butt, then quickly stretching out face up on the table. Modesta watched him closely this whole time, approaching the table as he stretched out. Her eyes went immediately to his midsection, where she beheld the clean white of his briefs were marred by a prominent projecting bulge where she herself was flat – the very bulge that had so piqued her interest the last few days. There was a complicated arrangement of seams and flaps there, just to one side, something she'd never seen on the panties her mother let her choose from. Before she could ask him what the flap was about, however, he saw the target of her gaze and, in haste, flipped himself over, so that he was face down on the bench and covering the object of her interest. He cradled his head in his arms.

"Well," he said. "Get on with it if you're going to do it. 'Cause I'm not taking my underpants off."

"Okay," she said, staring at his white-clad butt. It looked surprisingly like her own butt in panties – rounded and smooth and tight. The cloth was thin enough that a shadow down the center marked where the separation in his bottom had to be, where the two globes of her own bottom joined, and the poop came out. Not taking his underpants off? She'd see about that. For now, though, she moved to the bench and began gently proving his shoulders, finally pressing both hands on either side of his neck and feeling his bony frame underneath. She let her hands trail down his back, probing, feeling his vertebrae were they stuck out, tracing his ribs around to the sides. He wiggled and snorted suddenly.

"That tickles," he said.

"Got to test your tickles," she said. "Make sure they're okay. Hold still or I'll make you take your underpants off." She traced his ribs around again, getting another wiggle and a snort from him.

"Stop it!" He complained. "I'm ticklish."

"No," she said. "You have to let me tickle you, or you have to take your underpants off. Your choice."

The boy didn't answer, just turned his face back to his arms and hid it from sight. She probed his ribs more seriously now, making him wiggle uncomfortably, snort a few times, and then jerk violently away from her hands as he dissolved into hysterical laughter.

"I said stop it!" he complained. "I don't want to play any more." He started to get up.

"Lie back down this instant!" she said in a commanding voice. "Or I'll go tell on you right now! And I"ll say you touched me down here, too!" she added, pointing at her crotch.

The boy blanched. "You wouldn't," he said.

"Your mommy will blister your heinie when I tell her," she said mockingly. "You won't be able to sit down for a week!"

The boy hesitated, then lay back down on the bench, burying his face again. "Just don't tickle me," he pleaded. "I might... I might... Just don't do it."

"You might what?" she asked, intrigued.

"Nothing," the boy replied.

"You were going to say something," she said. "What was it?"

"Never mind," he said. "Just don't tickle me any more."

In reply, she traced a finger down one side of his spine, gently, teasingly, and then the other. He squirmed. "You might what?" she said. She ran both fingers down opposite sides of his spine, all the way to his underpants waistband. The boy didn't reply. Moving swiftly, she fluttered her fingers on either side of his abdomen, digging in under his ribs. The boy began thrashing, grabbing her hands and pulling them off him.

"Stop that!" he said. "You'll make me pee myself!"

"You have to pee?" she asked.

"Yeah," he said. "Kinda bad. So don't tickle me any more."

"Oh," she said. She moved her hands until they were poised over his butt. "I've got to 'xamine your heinie," she said.

"Don't pull my underpants down," he said immediately, in a pleading tone.

"How can I 'xamine your heinie if I can't see it?" she asked reasonably.

"Just feel it," he said.

She shrugged. "Okay," she said. Gently, she placed her palms on the underpants clad cheeks of the boy's butt, feeling the skin ripple as he reacted to her touch. Growing more bold, she began stroking his rounded flanks, feeling the surprisingly resilient muscle underneath. The boy's bottom felt smooth and inviting in under her fingertips. She felt the surface for a time, then gently traced a finger down the center, starting at the waistband and letting it press the cloth in to his butt crack as she descended. The boy wiggled uncomfortably. "Hold still," she admonished. "Unless you want me to pull them off." The boy stopped moving, still keeping his face buried in his hands, as if, if he didn't look at her, she wasn't touching him. The underpants stretched as her finger had to go deeper and deeper between his buns as she descended. About 2/3 of the way to the base of his bottom, his bottom stopped feeling so firm and began to feel softer, until, suddenly, the flesh under her finger gave way and her finger sank suddenly, the cloth plunging inward.

The boy jerked his head up out of his arms again, looking over his shoulder in outrage. "Get out of my butt hole!" he hissed.

She looked at her finger. The cloth under it had sunk into him, and the tip of her finger had followed. She moved the finger, and the cloth remained caught inside him. "Oh," she said. She'd had her finger in his heinie hole, she realized. Where all the poop came out. "Hey," she suddenly said. "You didn't hold still. So now I have to tickle you for being bad!" She plunged her hands under his ribs on both sides, tickling him mercilessly. He collapsed into hysterics, clawing at her with his hands, twisting and fighting, but she kept it up for a good thirty seconds as he tried to block her fingers and she kept moving her targets. Suddenly he stiffened, paled, and collapsed into his cradled arms again.

"You poophead!" he exclaimed. "Look what you made me do!"

For a moment, she couldn't see that he'd done anything. Then she noticed a growing puddle seeping out from between his legs and moving slowly down the length of the bench, slowly soaking into the thirsty, dry wood. Leaning over, she saw that the crotch of his underpants were now dripping wet, so wet that she could see a bulging shadow through the now translucent cloth.

"You peed yourself," she said accusingly.

"It's not my fault!" he complained to his cradled arms, sounding like he was going to cry. "You made me do it!"

"It's not big deal," she said philosophically. "Kids pee themselves all the time."

"You don't understand," he said, sounding closer to tears. "Mom will kill me. You know last week when you heard me get a whipping? It was because I had to pee, and she was in the toilet, so I peed into her plant by the door instead. But then she figured out I did it, anyway, and I got a whippin'! And it hurt!"

"I think wetting yourself is different from peeing into a potted plant," she said. "Besides, you didn't wet your pants, only your underwear." She bit her lip, puzzled. "How did you peed into a potted plant?" she wondered out loud. "Did you, like, squat around it or something?"

"Don't be stupid!" he said crossly, squirming in discomfort at his wetness. "Boys don't squat to pee, only girls do that."

"Then how do you keep it from getting on your legs?" she asked reasonably.

"You just take your wiener out and you pee," he said. "But she found out I did it – I guess she could smell it. She'll probably whip me for wetting my underpants, too! She doesn't notice a drip or two, but she'll notice if they're all wet."

Modesta thought about this. Would he really get whipped for peeing? And did she really care if he did? But then she realized how this fit into her goal. "I know," she finally said. "You can take them off and give them to me, and I'll go put them in my mom's dryer. You'll get them back all dry and she'll never know."

She thought some more. 'But they'll smell like pee," she said. "So that won't work."

"That doesn't matter," he said quickly. "My underpants always smell like pee. "Like I said, we guys can't help it – it drips sometimes. You know what they say, 'no matter how you shake and dance, the last drop always lands in your pants.'"

Modesta had never heard anyone say any such thing. "Okay, then," she said. "Quick, take them off, and I'll take them into the dryer and come right back."

He lifted his head to look at her. "You'll see me," he said.

"I won't look," she lied. "You can just keep lying face down and slip them off. Then I'll only see your heinie. Okay?"

He considered this. "Okay," he said. "As long as you don't try to look at my wiener." He reached down and lifted his midsection briefly, slipping his wet underpants off and down his thighs. Bending his knees, he managed to pull them off without revealing his front to her, and handed them to her. Gingerly, she took them by the dry side of the waistband. "Stay right here," she said. "You can't get dressed until we finish our game. Or I'll tell your mom."

He didn't answer, only buried his head in his arms again and pressed his thighs together, clenching his now bare butt in the process. She stood there a minute looking at all this bare, formerly forbidden flesh. His butt was nice, and gave her tingly feelings down in her pants. This well-protected skin was lily white and tender looking, and the twin orbs were smooth and round and invited her touch. She longed to run both hands over them, but stayed she herself. She needed to get his underpants out of her before he realized what was happening. "I'll be back," she said. "And I'll take these so you don't get ideas." She snatched his pants and shirt up as well and moved the chair, ducking out the door. He was looking over his should at her in alarm as she left, only as she was slipping out the door realizing that he was now a completely naked boy and totally at her mercy.

She put the underpants in the dryer as promised, but hid his other clothes under a barrel outside before reentering the woodshed. The boy looked terrified as she came in, then relaxed when he saw it was her. "Where are my pants?" he said.

"You'll get them," she said. "When I'm done. Now hold still – I want to 'xamine your heinie." She walked boldly to the bench and put a hand on each soft, white buttock. "I'm going to do to you what you did to me," she said. And more, she thought to herself. Much, much more.