By Childe Harold
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(I'll forward it to the author)Copyright 2019 by Childe Harold, all rights reserved
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Seventh Grade Part 2
By Childe Harold
Barryport High School
Barryport, Wisconsin
May 20, 1968 4:00 PM
He went through the heavy oaken door; the locker room had the familiar
smell of soap and chlorine. He should have been elated; it was the last
day of the school year, but his thoughts only confused and annoyed him.
Seventh grade had been a shock. In elementary school,
there had only been two hundred kids, one room for each grade, and one
teacher taught all the subjects for that grade. In junior high, there
was a home room, where you checked in first thing, then you went from
room to room, with different teachers teaching different subjects.
There was Harley Niles, the tall, blonde math teacher, who seemed cold
and distant as an asteroid; Evelyn Hatcher, the speech teacher, a near
double for Margaret Hamilton (the wicked witch in Wizard of Oz), but
who was a nice, decent, caring person and a good teacher; then there
was Phyllis Mark, the beautiful English teacher with a penchant for
short skirts that displayed her stunning legs, and on whom every boy in
the school had a crush; Gerald West, the history teacher who looked
about as stern as recruiting poster, but whose good and bad jokes kept
the class awake and interested.
Then lunch, where he spent his time ogling girls, and ruminating on the futility of it.
An hour of study hall, where he spent half his time reading Bradbury and Arthur Clarke, instead of the assigned readings.
The last hour was gym on Monday, taught by John Price, whom he
detested. He was tall, muscled, a strict disciplinarian who seemed to
be more concerned with making sure his students knew how to stand at
attention than anything else. He had the air of a drill instructor
about him, and was almost universally disliked. Tuesday was health
class, taught by him or the school nurse, a voluptuous black woman
named Barbara Gentry. Wednesday and Thursday were more study halls,
when he did the actual assigned reading, and Friday was swimming.
Swimming. As he approached his locker, he looked at the computer card.
It said Seventh Period Swimming Mrs. Anderson. He sighed. He was in the
right place.
The first swim class last year had
nearly killed him. He had gone in the locker room, heart in his throat,
stripped, feeling every hair on his body stand up, and turned around to
see Miss Boone, two feet away.
“Hands, Mr. Halverston,” she said, looking stern and pointing down. “They're to be behind you or at your side at all times!”
He put his hands down, apologized and almost ran to the safety of the shower room, where he tried to hide behind another boy.
As instructed by Karen, Nancy's eyes hadn't been off his genitals.
These boys had to become accustomed to nudity, and staring at their
dicks was the best way to get them to accept the inevitability of two
women supervising their bare butts.
He took a shower,
soaping and rinsing, the warm water at least comforting. He walked
through the trough, giggling like the rest of them—it tickled his “boy
parts”. He lined up next to the pool door, his stomach roiling at what
would come next. No one looked down, all eyes were kept straight
forward; a few boys talked with each other, but most were silent, and
all kept at least a foot distance from each other. The sound of the
showers seemed loud in his ears.
Nancy, on her way to
the pool, noticed them, spread apart, staring ahead, talking in
whispers. Obviously something would have to be done to break down the
barriers between them. She ruminated over it.
The
door opened, the first boy went through. Bart was fourth in line, and
he could see Miss Boone over the shoulder of the boys in front of him.
Three more went through, then, breathing hard, he stood stark naked in
front of her, hands behind his neck, and turned all the way around. She
motioned him on, and he walked, painfully aware of his nudity and his
dick flapping around, to where the other three boys were lined up next
to the wall. Mrs. Anderson was their, whistle around her neck, perusing
a clipboard held under neath those fine breasts.
He
looked around, and felt nauseous. He had never before felt so naked and
vulnerable. The pool, housed in a huge building, with bright lights
bearing down, exposed every bit of him. Blue ripples of light played
off the walls, and the surface of the pool was perfectly still. The air
was warm and humid and intensely scented of chlorine. A voice in his
head kept screaming You're naked! You're naked! You're naked! He closed his eyes to shut it out.
Mrs. Anderson motioned to Nancy to stop after the tenth boy. She stood
in front of the line of them, and said in a commanding voice, “Ok,
boys, turn around, bend over and spread your cheeks.” She had tried not
to smile, but just couldn't help it. This was one of her favorite
things, especially with new boys; she had no desire to inspect their
assholes, but the knowledge that she could command them to do this, and
that they had to obey, sent a shiver of pleasure down her spine. The humiliation has to be exquisite, she thought. And she loved every second of it.
Oh God,
he thought, but somehow managed to turn around and bend over, pulling
his butt cheeks apart. He felt bile in his throat, and his right leg
was quivering. Through his legs, he could see the bottom part of a pair
of shapely female legs advancing down the line, and when positioned
right behind him, he felt hands on his, pulling them farther apart. “A
little wider, please Mr. Halverston,” she said. He almost choked, but
finally felt one of those hands squeeze his sack, and her voice, husky
and appealing even now, said, “Ok, we're done.”
He stood up and went to stand with the other boys in a line near next to the pool.
Karen caught a look at him. He was blushing from head to foot; his face
was red, ears also, even his butt was pink. He was breathing hard and
his whole body was goose pimples. She smiled to herself.
When all the boys had been inspected and lined up, Karen began the roll call.
Clipboard in hand, she stood in front of each boy. He was to respond
with an affirmation when she called his name. She had a technique for
this. She stood in front of each boy, made eye contact, called his
name, then let her eyes travel down the length of his entire body,
pausing at his genitals, displaying no emotion. She marked his name,
then moved to the next one.
It was just part of the
process of accustoming them to group nudity and two female observers.
Eventually, they'd come to accept it, but their had to be shock therapy
first. Most boys looked straight ahead, their eyes never wavering as
she called their names. Some stared at her boobs. It was a guilty
pleasure, but she had to admit she enjoyed that. Especially when she
caught their hands twitching with the desire to squeeze her breasts. You still have it, she told herself. She looked down at her boobs, Looking good, girls! Christ, these are twelve year old boys, Anderson. What are you thinking?
Bart had had to close his eyes, and when she stood in front of him, he
said, “Here,” without opening them. She took him by the arm and
commanded him to open his eyes. He did so, and that stunningly pretty
face locked eyes with him.
“Open your eyes, Mr.
Halverston. It's all real, not a bad dream. Your are nude, and two
women are watching you.” She smiled, gently touched his cheek, and
said, “You'll get used to it.” The touch had been kind, gentle; the
words were harsh. Some of the boys laughed.
Finishing
the roll call, and completing the attendance sheet, she realized there
had only been two or three stiffies in the group, at least as far as
she could tell. Their equipment was so small, it was hard to
distinguish between soft and hard.
Miss Boone took
the attendance sheet, went through a door at the end of pool and
attached it to a clip. There was a door beyond that which led to the
hallway. In between was a sheet of frosted glass. A few minutes later,
most of the boy's experienced a moment of terror when they realized a
girl had come through the door and collected the sheet! They calmed
down when they realized the frosted glass would have prevented her from
seeing anything.
He'd somehow made it through that
first class without passing out. He did what the rest of them did—eyes
straight ahead, never down; stare at the teacher, their faces, not
their bodies. Bart couldn't stop ogling Mrs. Anderson's face; he
thought it was the most beautiful face he'd ever seen. He wanted her to
think of him as something more than just a boy; yet, here he was,
naked, all of his inadequacies on display for her casual inspection. He
felt small, sad, insignificant and humiliated.
At
home that night, he was emotionally exhausted; he curled up in bed,
cried a bit, then fell asleep. His parents knew something was wrong,
but attributed it to the change of schools.
The
second class was the same as the first, but now he had at least the
benefit one experience, so it was slightly less difficult. After the
roll call, when they crowded around the portable black board as Karen
drew strokes on it, he would linger at the rear, looking at her over
other boy's shoulders. He only saw her face, so locked on to it he
heard nothing she said.
The third session was when it
got weird. Karen spoke to them after roll call. She told them they were
going to begin evaluations this session. The past two weeks had been
going over the basics of the strokes themselves, but now they would
have to be tested to see who needed to learn what. During this period,
she said, it would be necessary for her to touch their “boy parts”, as
she kept calling them, and that they should not be embarrassed by this
or what happens afterward. Bart didn't know what she meant, and some of
the other boys looked equally confused.
She blew the
whistle, and they all jumped in. Bart had quickly come to understood
the appeal of nude swimming—the water was cool, silky, caressing
against his bare flesh.
First, they were to practice
the strokes. Holding on to the sides with their arms, on their
stomachs, the basic kick. This wasn't too bad. All the women saw were
bare butts. But then, they had to flip over and do it stomachs up.
Karen and Nancy walked down the line, observing. Next, they had to hook
their feet on the sides, and on their stomachs, try the crawl stroke.
Again, all they could see were bare butts. Walking the line, observing,
finally satisfied, Karen blew her whistle and told the boys to
congregate at the shallow end of the pool
Surrounded
by the boys, Karen explained the float test. In order to pass, each boy
must float for sixty seconds, thirty each on his stomach and back.
Karen would support the boy until he had begun to float, then Nancy
would time it; at the end of thirty seconds, he'd flip over and do the
other side.
She put her arms out underwater, and
motioned to Tim Snell. He came forward, she told him just to fall into
her arms. He did, and as she began to lift him up, Bart noticed a
shocked look on his face, followed by a goofy grin. When his bare butt
protruded from the water, Karen withdrew her arms and Nancy started the
watch. Thirty seconds later, she told Tim to roll over; he did so, and
started to sink. Karen's hands went beneath his back and his butt,
lifting him up. The watch started again. Bart noticed Tim's willy was
sticking up stiffly out of the water! After thirty seconds, she told
him to stand up, and go wait on the deck.
She
motioned to Bart next. He came forward, fell into her arms, and felt
one hand on his chest, the other grabbed his dick! She pushed up,
cradling his balls as well as she did, until his butt came out of the
water. She took her hands away, and he started to sink. She grabbed his
package again and pushed up. This time, Bart managed to remember he was
supposed to float. He thought his eyes would pop out of his skull!!
She'd grabbed his dick and his balls! His whole body went rigid with
shock. It felt good, he had to admit, but it was embarrassing.
Eventually, she told him to turn over. He flipped over, slightly
sinking, and her hands went to his back and his butt, her thumb between
his legs and her fingers splayed out, one almost entering his butt; she
pushed him up until his dick stuck up out of the water. He could only
see the ceiling, but he glanced down at his dick, and it seemed longer
than normal, and it was only a foot from her face! Finally, she
signaled him to stop, and he went up on deck, standing next to Tim,
both of the staring down at their extended wieners, confused.
Karen reveled in this. There was nothing sexual about it; it was about
power. She loved the blank faced, deer-in-the-headlights looks when she
grabbed their manhoods. Boyhoods, actually. And when those little
wieners stuck straight up only a foot or so from her face, she couldn't
entirely suppress the glee. That Halverston kid, she remembered. With
his package only a foot away, she couldn't help but see he had a really
full pouch. At twelve, he had balls nearly as big as a full grown man!
It took half an hour to complete, and when done, Karen looked up at the
line of nude boys. As usual, all were hard, and most looked confused.
She blew the whistle for free swim, the last ten minutes of class, and
they all disappeared in a splash of white foam.
Bart
liked the free swim, and he'd used the time to try to figure out what
had happened. That's what she had meant by touching the boy parts. It
was nice; it was incredible, if a bit shocking. It seemed as though
some invisible barrier had been crossed—an adult woman had touched his
willy!! But then everyone saw him sticking out of the water. What the
hell was that? Why had his dick done that?
He shoved
the memories away, and slammed his locker door. He walked naked to the
showers, went through the trough, and lined up at the door. He slumped
against the wall, feeling helpless, resigned.
He had
always been a straight A student, and he still was, in every subject
but gym. He had no muscle mass, no sense of coordination, no
“competitive spirit”, as that jackass Price had called it. He played
the game just to play the game; he didn't care if he won or not. He
knew he'd get a C in gym, but wasn't sure about swimming. It seemed
easy enough; being naked was the hard part. Since the two were graded
separately, but averaged for for a grade in PE, he might be ok if he
got a good swimming grade.
He'd really been both
angered and depressed when he found out the girls got to wear suits!
And all their teachers were the same sex. This was way beyond unfair.
He felt as though he were being punished for having a dick.
Then, there were the nightmares. In one version, he was standing
poolside, nude, hands on his head as Mrs. Anderson berated him for
being a “ninety seven pound weakling”. In another, he was bent over,
cheeks spread, looking at the other side of the pool. He could see Mrs.
Anderson's legs next to him, and across the pool, every girl in school!
They were all pointing at him, laughing, giggling. He would always wake
up in a cold sweat. One day, he'd have to find out what a “ninety seven
pound weakling” really was.
The door opened, and his
heart beat went up. The rush of warm, chlorinated air hit his naked,
wet flesh. He went through, faced Miss Boone, who looked him up and
down as he turned around. Then, he went and took his place next to the
other boys in front of Mrs. Anderson. She stood there, cradling her
clipboard in front of those gorgeous boobs, waiting. He looked at her,
at her face, that face that made him feel things, powerful,
overwhelming feelings he couldn't even name. He felt a tingling in his
dick, looked down and saw it was sticking out straight! What is going on? he thought. What is that?
At the command, his heart racing, stomach churning, he dutifully bent
over and spread his butt cheeks, the cool air in the crack of his ass
reinforcing his vulnerability. In a few seconds, he felt her tug his
sack, and he got up and walked over to the line of naked boys formed at
the side of the pool, feeling strange as his stiff dick wiggled about
like a conductor's wand.
Karen saw him out of the corner of her eye. So, the kid with the big balls finally has real hard on, she thought. We're making progress.
He stood at the edge of the pool, eyes rigidly ahead, never looking
down, the way he always did. A peculiar pattern of light on the water
got his attention, and he looked down. It was only then that he
realized the kid next to him was sticking out, too, only his was
longer. He looked at his face, only to realize he'd been staring back
at Bart's dick!
“I know, man,” he said. “She does
that to me, too.” He smiled a knowing smile. Bart wondered what it was
the kid knew that he didn't. His name was Jim Bennett, a tall, good
looking kid with a chiseled face. He was popular with the girls, and a
Big Man on Campus, Bart realized in more than one sense.
Mrs. Anderson started the roll call.
Maybe, Bart thought, what he'd read was true, that you can adjust to
anything. There were periods, perhaps no more than twenty minutes at a
time, when he would forget he was nude. But then, something, an errant
breeze on his ass, a splash of water striking his skin, flesh to flesh,
bumping into another boy, something would remind him he was stark naked
with a group of boys and two adult women, one of whom was the most
beautiful woman he'd ever seen. Then his ass would pucker again; his
flesh would turn to goose pimples, and his stomach would burn. In the
water, it was no problem, in fact, it was fun. But on deck, exposed,
there was no escaping it.
Mrs. Anderson stopped in
front of him. She swept him from head to foot, pausing at his dick,
noting he was still hard, and thinking this a good sign. He made the
mistake of making eye contact and almost blanched at that face, the
perfect face, with the smile that curled up only on one side, slightly
wicked and tempting.
She knew he was embarrassed,
hell, they all were, but he was the worst. Face flushed, slightly
trembly, shivering, one leg quivering uncontrollably. She gently
squeezed his arm, and tried to reassure him.
“It's
ok, Bart. Nothing to be embarrassed about. It's perfectly normal for a
young man to have an erection. Especially when he's nude in public,”
she said, smiling slightly, then moving on to the next kid.
Erection, he thought. Is that what they call it when it sticks out?. He was surprised to feel it throbbing! He looked down and saw it jerk up a bit, then back down.
Finishing the roll call, she looked down the line from the other end. Eight hard ons, she thought. Good. Almost
fifty percent. She'd expect that from the senior boys, but it was rare
with boys this young; they were too scared even to get hard. Still, one
of the reasons the boys were nude was so their physical development
could be monitored, and at the end of the year, she saw they were
growing quite well. Several had the first peach fuzz of pubic hair;
their sacks were fuller, and some even had a few sprouts of hair; their
cocks had lengthened noticeably, the three and four inch ones now five
or so inches. One or two had facial hair.
Karen
walked to the deep end of the pool, passing breezily through twenty
naked boys, calling them to join her. She announced that since this was
the last class of the year, there would be a thirty minute free swim
period, but first they were going try diving. Not from the diving
board, that came later, but from the pool deck.
She
explained that the proper stance was bent over forward, arms out to the
sides behind you, legs apart, knees bent. She demonstrated this from
the side, rear and front. Bart saw her beautiful boobs when she did
this from the front. He looked down, realized he was still erect, and
that his dick had just throbbed again. Her nipples stuck out stiffly.
She stood up, weight on her left leg, hips seductively thrust to the
side, and ordered the first four boys to assume the position. Bart, as
usual, hung back, but as she went down the line, maneuvering each boy
into the proper stance, he first snorted, the groaned inwardly. In that
stance, from behind, butt cheeks separated, and you could look directly
into the crack of each boy's ass; worse, your sack hung down,
unprotected, like low hanging fruit ready for plucking!
She blew her whistle and four bare asses disappeared into the white
foam. All he could see were those four assess swimming to the other
end.
Mrs Anderson yelled at them to stay there and four more boys were ordered forward.
Bart knew it would be worse if he delayed, so he stepped forward and
took his place, feeling as exposed as he did during the anal
inspection. He could feel Mrs. Anderson's eyes on his ass and balls.
The whistle blew, and he hit the water, the cool, delicious, silky
water, and swam to the other end of the pool, where he stood, waiting
with the other boys. After two more sets of boys dived, the whistle for
free swim was blown.
Everyone started splashing
around, swimming where ever they wanted. A couple got up on deck and
dived in from the sides. Bart swam to the side, and made his way to the
other end, where Mrs. Anderson and Miss Boone stood at the side,
looking over the pool.
He was right beneath her feet,
staring up at her, transfixed. He followed her feet to her smooth
calves, past her knees (even they were pretty!) to the even smoother,
muscled thighs, to the red triangle between her legs. What was that
vertical slit, anyway? He knew boys and girls were different, but he
had no idea what was between their legs. Her hips, wide and womanly,
tapered down to her flat stomach, then burst out at that stunning pair
of tear shaped boobs. He was fascinated by them. They looked like two
trophies she carried around on her chest.
Bart turned
to watch her as she went to the deep end of the pool. Maybe he would
see her in her wet suit as she got out and stretched, as he memorably
recalled. She dove in, then disappeared. A few seconds passed, the
suddenly, he was gasping for air, water in his mouth and nose; all he
could see were bright colors, and all he knew was pain. Pain in capitol
letters, bold face, underlined! He felt himself slipping under, when
something grabbed him around his arm.
The next thing
he could coherently remember was being on the deck, curled up in a
fetal position, his hands wrapped around his balls. The universe had
shrunk to his groin, which felt as though it were on fire and
simultaneously crushed beneath a truck. He had to force himself to
breath. He knew he was crying. His jaw was clenched shut. He could hear
people talking, but couldn't concentrate sufficiently to hear them.
He thought he saw boys crowded around him, along with Mrs. Anderson and
Miss Boone. One of them seemed to shoo them away, and he thought he
heard something about “go home.”
Then there was
another face over him. It seemed to be a black woman's face. He was
able to recognize her—Barbara Gentry, the school nurse. She was older
than the other women, thirty five to forty or so, but really gorgeous.
She'd taught some of his health classes. She had dark brown eyes, a
devastating, white toothed smile that crinkled her eyes, which seemed
to sparkle all the time, an almost musical voice, and skin the color of
coffee with cream. She was one of two black people on the school staff.
Barryport in the sixties was white, very white-- you'd need bleach to
get whiter.
She seemed to be leaning over him, her
boobs right in front of his face. She wore a tan silken blouse, cut
fairly low, that exposed them nicely. The were large, even larger than
Mrs. Anderson's, and jiggled nicely when she moved.
Then there seemed to be two people supporting him, one under each arm.
He was being walked/dragged to the locker room. Each step was agony,
and they had to stop several times. Finally, he seemed to be staring at
the ceiling from a vantage point on a table in the locker room.
The nurse moved his hand away from his genitals and forced his legs
apart. She gently put an ice pack on his testicles. The initial shock
was fading; now there was only pain. He didn't even care that he was
naked and three women were crowded around him, carefully examining his
package.
“This is why those assholes on the school
board are wrong,” Miss Gentry said. “A naked male is much more
vulnerable than a naked female. If you get smacked in the boob, it will
hurt, but it won't kill you. It's possible to kill a man by kicking him
in his balls. If he goes into shock, and it isn't treated, it could be
fatal. Boys should not perform any kind of athletics nude. They should
always wear a supporter with a rigid cup. I have no idea what this
feels like, but every man I've asked says it's agonizing, excruciating
pain. What happened, anyway?”
Looking like she might
cry any minute, Mrs. Anderson explained, in a shaky voice, “I just dove
off the end of the pool, and did a sharp right turn, heading for the
side. My hands were straight out in front of me, and I suddenly
collided with something soft and squishy. I'm afraid I might have made
it worse when I reacted by grabbing onto his balls and trying to hold
on. I was flustered; I didn't know I'd hit a boy. When I came up, Nancy
was already dragging him to the ladder.”
Trembling,
she walked over to where Bart, naked, his legs spread apart, lay on the
table. She ran a cool, soft hand over his forehead, pushing his hair
back, and said gently, “Bart, I am so terribly sorry. Please believe, I
would never do anything to hurt any of my boys. I just made a mistake.”
She seemed so sorry, he wanted to tell her it was alright, but couldn't
get his mouth to work.
Miss Gentry carefully removed the ice pack from his balls, and very gently examined them.
“They look ok, no bruise, just a little reddening,” she observed.
Then, equally gently, she took his dick in his hand and slowly began pumping it.
Karen looked shocked, whispering, “What are you doing?”
“It's called masturbation. If he gets hard, that indicates no damage to the capillaries in his cock.”
All three women noted him stiffening in her hands.
“Ok, his hard on shows no damage to the cock itself, and his balls are
still producing testosterone, he's not in shock, so I'd say he's ok,
just needs to rest and recuperate a few days.”
Nancy
seemed a bit shocked by Miss Gentry's language, but Karen knew her well
enough to know she never minced words or used technical jargon except
when needed.
Nancy asked Bart what type of car his
mother drove; he managed to whisper and black 1968 Lincoln. She left to
find his mother's car while the two other women tried to get him
dressed, but it caused him to much pain, so they borrowed Karen's robe,
wrapped it around him and walked him to the car.
They carefully put him in the back seat, where he curled up in a fetal position, not speaking.
Mrs. Anderson tearfully apologized to his mother, not explaining the
specifics, just calling it a foolish mistake on her part. Miss Gentry
assured her he would be ok, needing only a few days rest, cold packs
and aspirin for the pain. She took down her phone number and promised
to call two days later.
His mother, now frantic to give her wounded son home, drove off quickly.