Be Careful What You Ask For 1

By David

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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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Be Careful What You Ask For

by David

I was admittedly a strange child, obsessed with odd little fantasies but too shy to tell anyone. During my adolescence I embarked on a series of secret adventures to satisfy my insatiable curiosity. Only when I got caught did I realize just how careful you have to be about what you ask for … it just might come true!

Part One – How It All Began

When I was a kid I had this crazy obsession with being naked. I can’t remember exactly when it all started, but as far back as I can recall I’ve loved the idea of being in my birthday suit. I wasn’t obsessed with sex or anything like that; I was simply curious about going around in my bare skin.

I do have vague memories of running around bare bottomed as a little tyke. My mom told stories about how she let me go naked at the beach or while playing in the back yard. Apparently she would turn me over to my girl cousins and let them watch over me while the adults were busy doing other things. Nobody cared and I obviously didn't know any better at the time.

“David was so adorable back then, running around with his cute little bare bottom, giggling and playing without a care in the world,” Mom often boasted to her friends. “It was like raising a naked little monkey.”

“Mom! Don’t tell people that!” I’d fuss. “You’re embarrassing me!”

“Why not? It’s all true. You were a cute little monkey. You still are.”

“MOM!!!”

As you can no doubt tell, my mother really enjoyed teasing me about that period of time in my life and the stories she’d tell would get bigger and more embarrassing with each rendition. I wasn’t sure just how true they were, but my aunt and cousins sided with my mother and swore it all really happened. I have vague memories of the girls and their friends playing “tag” and “hide and seek” with me, taking me down to the creek behind our house to catch tadpoles and splash around in the water. When we went to the beach they’d strip me down, cover me from head to toe with lotion and then turn me loose building sand castles and chasing waves with the other kids.

Apparently I was the only one who ever went naked; the girls were all older, so they wore sundresses or shorts or bathing suits, depending on what we were doing. It didn’t matter that I was the only one parading about in my birthday suit in front of everyone, family, friends and strangers alike.

I remember one time when some kids at a picnic picked on me, pointing and laughing because I was running around with no clothes on. My cousins took up for me, fussing at the bullies and shooing them away. Afterward I got all sorts of hugs and tickles, which made things all better. I was only about four or five at the time, so what did I care?

My Aunt Margaret enjoyed sharing naked stories about me as much as my mother.

“The girls all loved taking care of you and most of the time you were a little angel,” she would tell me over and over again. “If you ever misbehaved all we had to do was get a switch and flick you a couple of times across that cute little butt and the back of your legs. You’d dance around and cry and cry. But after a few kisses you’d turn back into our little naked curly haired angel and go on playing with the girls like nothing happened.”

Everyone would laugh whenever she told that story. I’d raise a fuss, but it never did any good.

“That’s not funny!” I would complain. “I wish you all would stop talking about me like that. It’s humiliating!”

“Ah, well, those were the good old days,” my mom would say with a sigh. “Now he’s all grown up and way too mature to do that anymore.”

"You got that right," I remember saying. “That’s not ever going to happen again! Never, ever!”

“Never say never,” my Aunt Margaret would tease.

Despite all of my tough talk I was both excited and embarrassed by these stories. I kinda sorta liked hearing about them, I guess because I got all sorts of attention from my family. But the truth of the matter was that by the time I was in grade school I’d become way too shy to go without any clothes. Not no way, not no how!

You see, as I became older I grew so bashful that I never left my room unless I was fully dressed from head to toe, shoes, pants, shirt, the whole nine yards. Even in the heat and humidity of the summer when my friends were out playing in shorts and no shirt, sometimes getting sprayed with the water hose in their bathing suits and – in a few brave cases – in their whitey-tighties, I’d be all zipped and buttoned up and secure in my modesty.

Part of the reason I became so afraid of going naked as I got older was, well, I didn’t like how I looked without clothes. When I was little and it was just my mom and her sister and the girls I didn’t care. When I began to have friends I discovered I wasn’t exactly the athletic type; more of a bookworm, I never lost my baby fat, leaving me plump and doughy where my buddies all were lean and scrawny. I wasn’t exactly obese, not like some of the really fat guys I knew, but whenever I looked in a mirror I sure felt that way. I had a big butt and pudgy legs compared to the other boys and my arms were soft and not much good for throwing baseballs or doing chin ups.

Complicating matters, by the time I was in fifth grade my chest began to swell up around the nipple area, which only added to my shame; I was growing little boobs, just like a girl! The doctor told my mom I would grow out of it and not to worry. That was easy for him to say. He didn’t have to worry about a bunch of bullies at school teasing him during gym class and making his life miserable.

“Wow, nice titties, sissy boy,” was the comment I heard the most. The other was, “Maybe you ought to ask your mommy to get you a bra, you faggot!”

Being cursed with a small penis didn't help my situation, either. I got a lot of grief over that, too. I eventually got a reputation among the bigger boys for being something of a sissy, so I kept pretty much to myself and my books and my thoughts. I mean, who wants to hang around some bullies and get called “girly boy” and “fairy” and “fag” all the time?

And this was in elementary school!

Hearing all these things about me from my classmates really got me to thinking. I remember standing in front of the mirror at home and staring at my girlish nipples in despair; cupping one in each hand, I wondered if my classmates were right, if I indeed would end up some day wearing a bra.

Of course, I just had to look down at my little penis. That was a mistake. I almost felt sorry for it. I know I felt sorry for myself at the time.

“I don’t wanna wear a bra,” I whispered, staring at my effeminate reflection. “And I don’t wanna be a girly boy, either!”

I vowed right then and there to never let anybody ever see me naked. Not ever.

But still, I thought about it. A lot. I just couldn’t help it.

***

As I grew older my curiosity about nudity turned into an obsession; this, in spite of my fear of being seen naked. I loved looking at pictures of naked sprites and nymphs in the fairy tale books and later the paintings and sculptures of nude cupids and angels in classical art. Not even my studies could keep me from my odd little thoughts as I thought it would be especially fun to go without clothes like the aboriginal natives did in foreign lands or the Greek warriors in ancient times.

I know all this sounds weird, especially for a little kid, but I couldn’t help myself. There was just something about being naked that hit a nerve in my psyche and I thought about it constantly, during the day at school, on Sundays at church and, of course, at night in the privacy of my bedroom.

The excitement of being naked was fueled by some of my dad’s old men’s magazines I found in the basement. I was in sixth grade at the time, making me about eleven years old. And like any boy that age, I was absolutely thrilled with my discovery! First, there were the typical girlie magazines with big breasted playmates and pinup models posing and primping and looking all sleepy eyed and silly. That was kind of fun at first, but those goofy women didn’t do anything but just lay around. I mean, it was interesting and all, but it wasn’t my favorite.

My dad's adventure magazines were far more interesting. You know the type, usually showing helpless girl victims in various stages of undress trapped in the clutches of vile villains. Sometimes it was Nazis, other times Arab slave traders or African tribesmen. Occasionally a brave male hero would be seen coming to the rescue, but usually not. The headlines said things like “Sex Prisoners of War” and “I Escaped from a Sheik’s Harem!” I never read the stories; it was the artwork that really caught my imagination. I’d lock the bathroom door and sit on the toilet and stare at those things for hours. I probably would have stayed there forever if my mother let me.

The odd thing about those magazines was, well, being the hero wasn’t for me. I didn’t look or feel anything like the masculine, cigar-chomping, machinegun-toting rescuer. For some strange reason I identified with the naked and nearly naked women in those pictures; the desperate expressions on their faces and the hopelessness of their situations captured my imagination. I was absolutely fascinated with the idea of being the helpless victim and I easily imagined myself swept away and left naked at the mercy of some dark, overwhelming power.

Okay, yes, I admit it. I was a prepubescent masochist.

I’m certain that the root of my masochism was in the shame I felt regarding my body. While my so-called friends were getting leaner and meaner as we grew older, I was just as plump and clumsy as ever. Dressed for school, I looked pretty average I guess, but I knew that under my clothes I still had that chubby, girlish figure, complete with budding breasts and baby fat in all the wrong places. Even worse, my penis didn’t seem to be getting any larger, not at all like the boys at school, and the soft pale skin between my legs was devoid of any hair at all. Looking at my reflection even I had to admit I looked more like a girl in my birthday suit than a boy. I was terrified of getting teased because of my baby-like body and these fears fueled my silly sadomasochistic fantasies.

It was really strange, how I came to identify with the female victims in those magazines, clinging to their naked breasts and hiding their privates with their hands. I could easily see myself in similar circumstances, stripped naked and held captive; I often stood in front of the mirror naked – with the door locked, of course – cupping my swollen nipples in one hand and my penis in the other in an attempt to replicate the images in my dad’s magazines.

It wasn’t enough that I simply pretend to be kidnapped and stripped. For some reason I became fascinated with the images of those poor girls getting punished by their oppressive captors; and so, in true masochistic manner, I tried to imagine what if I were the one receiving such horrible punishment. All I had to do was remember when I was little and being naked and getting chased with the switch by my aunt and my cousins. Being a budding masochistic, that memory sparked my imagination; the idea of being stripped naked and whipped in front of a leering, mocking audience gave me an amazing thrill.

Of course, I would have hated if any of those awful things ever really happened to me, but the idea of being pursued by nefarious forces – women and girls in particular – haunted my imagination. I just plain thought about it way too much. To be so young and picturing myself being put on display in my birthday suit and being punished with a switch or belt – it was like an elixir that made me drunk with excitement!

As I said, my archnemesis in these silly little stories was always some powerful female in one form or another. It all started with the image of the big breasted, smirking female Nazi officer or the mysterious middle eastern queen with a harem of smiling females to do her dirty work. I often pictured myself as the lowly servant boy in the midst of a bevy of beautiful women, stripped naked and forced to wait on them hand and foot. Nothing overtly sexual ever happened in these scenarios – I was still too young and naïve to understand how any of that worked – but the prospect of being a naked slave to a group of gorgeous females left me tingling and blushing for hours on end.

These exotic scenarios eventually gave way to more realistic and in many ways even more intimidating images. In real life the idea of a stern teacher or librarian taking away my clothes and punishing me in front of my friends and classmates was my worst nightmare; at the same time I could not envision anything more thrilling or desirable.

Yep, I was one messed up kid!

Ironically, my perverted little fantasies led me to be a model student in school. From my first day in class all my female teachers had to do was give me a hard stare and a harsh word and I’d be as pliable as putty. I was both hopeful and terrified that my secret wish might come true and I’d get my bottom bared and paddled in front of my classmates. It’s probably a good thing that never happened or I might have died of embarrassment!

Still, I daydreamed about it all the time. My sixth grade teacher, Mrs. Campbell, was a major player in my fantasies. A tall, buxom brunette with high arching eyebrows and crimson painted lips, she could have been one of the strict mistresses in my precious adventure magazines. I don’t know about the other boys, but I thought she was quite beautiful.

Mrs. Campbell was also a very good teacher and a lot of fun, with a quick wit and an extremely droll sense of humor. Most important, she had this sarcastic way of talking which, if you add how she would raise her eyebrow when she looked at you, would put shivers down my spine. It was as if she knew exactly what I was thinking.

"Daydreaming again, Mr. Cartwright?" she would say in a teasing voice, prompting a wave of giggles and laughter throughout the classroom. "Where were you this time, fighting super villains ... or maybe thinking about a pretty girl?"

I dreaded being called out like that in front of everyone. But as much as I hated it, being the focus of Mrs. Campbell’s attention also thrilled me; just her looking at me with that skeptical, raised eyebrow and mocking smile would make me melt with masochistic fear. My heart would race and my hands would tremble and I'd ride a wave of excitement for the rest of the day. As you might imagine I spent a lot of time cleaning the chalk board and running errands in an effort to get on her good side.

“This is the third time in two weeks you’ve stayed to help me, Mr. Cartwright,” I remember her saying to me one day after school. She’d asked for volunteers to clean up after some stupid class activity, I can’t remember exactly why. All I knew was I’d raised my hand before anybody else had a chance.

“I can’t tell if you’re being a good student,” she said in a lilting, musical voice, “Or perhaps you just like being around me. Would you care to enlighten me?”

Like I said, my teacher was a buxom woman and I found it difficult to avoid admiring her curves. This was one of those times. She happened to be wearing a tight, low cut sweater that accentuated her more than ample bosom. She bent over just enough to give me a perfect view of her cleavage and smiled a haughty, knowing smile.

“You have something you want to say, sweetie? Or are you just going to stand there and enjoy the view?”

“Oh gosh, I’m sorry,” I stammered, suddenly shocked out of my reverie. I was horrified that I’d been caught looking at my teacher’s amazing breasts. I had no idea what I was supposed to say. “I mean, I …um … yes ma’am … I guess I do. Like you … I mean, I like helping you, ma’am.”

“You’re so adorable,” Mrs. Campbell replied, her smile growing into a wolfish grin. She leaned in close enough to give me an amazingly intimate view of her bosom – I could see bits of her brassiere and smell the scent of baby powder, she was so close – she lowered her voice as if she was revealing something very private.

“Don’t worry, sweetie. I won’t tell anyone. We don’t want them thinking you’re the teacher’s pet. We’ll let that be our little secret. Okay?”

I literally “gulped,” just like in the cartoons. I mean, wow! Teacher’s pet? I was ecstatic! Back then there was nothing a boy hated more than being called the “teacher’s pet.” But not for me! To be Mrs. Campbell’s secret pet was a dream come true as far as I was concerned. I mean, seriously, there could be nothing better!

My imagination worked overtime for weeks afterward that conversation; I'm sure you can imagine the silly little fantasies that ran through my perverted little brain. Let’s just say they involved me in my birthday suit, doing chores and running errands for my favorite teacher, waiting on her every beck and call. Cleaning the classroom, taking out the trash, washing down the chalk board, all of those things most of my friends would have thought tedious and boring were fuel for my masochistic fantasies. The idea of simply standing in the corner in my bare skin while she graded papers and talked with the other teachers was enough to put me into a restless frenzy of delight!

See? I told you I was a strange kid.

***

Before I go any further I have to tell you about one final “literary” influence in my prepubescent fantasy life. That would be my dad’s nudist magazines. They were really interesting as they showed regular people, young and old alike, doing everyday things like playing ball and tennis, hiking, swimming, bicycling and just sitting around the dinner table; the only thing was, they were all completely and totally naked, no apologies about it! Everyone in those pages, from moms and dads and grandparents to brothers and sisters and everyone around them were all just hanging around and doing stuff in their birthday suits. There wasn’t any sex or anything; just everyday people doing everyday things. In the nude.

And I loved it!

There was a boy in one of the magazines who looked a lot like I did, or so I thought. He had long blond curly hair cut like mine and he was a bit plump like me, with fat nipples and a big bottom and pudgy legs, just like me. He even had a little penis with no hair around it at all, just smooth skin and a puny little limp thing hanging there for everyone in the world to look at. But none of that seemed to keep him from having fun. Nobody seemed to care that he was chubby or had a little wiener.

“I bet nobody calls him a girly boy,” I often said to myself.

Oh, how I envied the boy in that magazine! I know, it’s all too silly, but I really coveted the life I imagined him to have. I was so jealous, in fact, that I pretended that was me in those photos, like that was part of my history and who I was. I made up little stories in my mind about what was happening in those pictures and what all we were doing, like it all really happened to me.

One of my favorite daydreams was inspired by a photo essay showing my alter ego wandering through the woods or picking flowers in nothing more than his birthday suit. In my fantasy a bunch of girls from school catch me and they’d all giggle and point and tease me. Of course, I’d act all shy and embarrassed and cry … just a little. Then those bullying girls would gather around me and comfort me and shower me with all sorts of hugs and kisses until I was happy again.

Yeah, I know. How boring … and stupid! What boy actually liked the idea of running around naked picking flowers? Not to mention being picked on by some stupid girls. Well, me, for one. I couldn’t explain it then and I still can’t explain it now. All I knew was that this little fantasy really sparked something inside me. The very idea of being in the woods and surrounded by nature, on some whimsical naked adventure with a girl – or better yet, several girls – was just … wow … so wonderfully exciting and scary!

There was a girl from my Sunday school class that I sometimes included in my weird little daydreams. Jennifer Wilson was adorably cute, with huge eyes, kissable lips and the sweetest smile. For an eleven year old she was pretty hot. Or so I thought.

Anyway, I had a serious crush on Jennifer, but I was too shy to say much to her. Whenever I tried to approach her she would giggle and whisper like she knew something I didn’t know. I would have given anything to be her boyfriend, but the way things were going I was little than that odd boy in class who was too afraid to even say ‘hi.’

Not surprisingly, I started having these odd little fantasies with Jennifer seeing me naked. At first I tried pretending we were both naked, which was all right, but for some reason I found it more interesting if I was the only one without any clothes. The idea of standing in front of Jennifer and her friends in just my birthday suit was both amazing and frightening! I could easily picture Jennifer giggling and whispering to her friends and all of them pointing at me in my bare skin, making fun and teasing me until I was blushing all over and trembling with excitement.

The idea of being naked around Jennifer was so weird and so exciting to me, I would get all red-faced and tingly all over just thinking about it all. That made for some really restless nights in bed. On one occasion I lost control of myself and spewed all over my pajamas and sheets. I thought I’d peed the bed, but my mother said I’d had a wet dream, whatever that was. Mom wasn’t happy about that and I was really embarrassed. I felt so ashamed as I helped her change and wash the sheets, but at the same time I was secretly enthralled! I found myself even more obsessed with my little perverse ideas, if such a thing were possible.

“Gosh, if only dreams came true,” I remember saying to myself on more than one occasion.

Little did I know I would eventually live to regret my words.

***

As time went on I grew desperate to make my fantasies come to life. I was still way too shy to let anybody really see me, so my experimentation began with mundane things like bath time and going to the toilet. I savored every moment I prepared for my bath, the time I was naked in the tub and every second I stood in front of the full length mirror drying myself. I even turned sitting on the toilet into a mini-adventure by taking off all of my clothes and hanging them on the bathroom door every time I had to go, rendering me completely naked for those few precious minutes in the middle of each day.

I got so carried away with my little games, my mom was prompted to fuss at me for being a slow poke in the bathroom. She began insisting that I leave the door unlocked when I was in the bathroom – “You might fall in the tub and hit your head!” – and she often barged in unexpected and at the most awkward times.

“Mom! I’m trying to poop here!” I’d fuss while trying to cover my modesty while seated on the toilet.

“Sorry, sweetie,” she’d say with a giggle. “You were taking so long I thought you might have fallen in. Hmmm … how come you took off all your clothes just to poop …?”

“MOM!!!”

Like I said, it was all very awkward.

One Saturday – I was still in sixth grade at the time – my parents went out of town for a conference. They wouldn’t be back until after midnight, which was very exciting to me; as soon as I heard their plans I knew I was going to take full advantage of the situation.

“We’re trusting you not to do anything you shouldn’t,” my mom warned. “You’ll be a good boy while we’re out, won’t you?”

“He’ll be fine, honey,” my dad said impatiently. “It’s not like we’re going to be gone all night.”

The clock started ticking the moment my parents left the house. I waited at least an hour, just in case they came back because my dad forgot his wallet or whatever. Then, after doing a careful reconnaissance to make sure all the drapes were pulled closed and the doors were locked, I did it.

I actually got naked.

In order to heighten the sense of excitement, I decided to undress upstairs and leave my clothes in my room. On the test run I would walk through every room in the house. Then, if my parents or the FBI or the CIA didn’t come busting through the door, I would spend the whole afternoon and evening in my birthday suit.

The test run went without incident, of course. After all, the house was locked up like Fort Knox and my parents were gone. Shaking with anticipation, I carefully undressed and folded up my clothes, putting them away as though I was going to bed. I stared at myself in the mirror, feeling extremely vulnerable … and incredibly excited!

“Okay,” I said with a sigh. “Let’s do this.”

I tiptoed downstairs, my breath heavy and my bare skin cool with sweat. I was thrilled because for the first time in my life I was totally naked in my parents’ living room! The same exact room where they entertained their adult friends and where my mom had her church group over for tea and cookies. Girls – some that I knew from school and some from Sunday school! – had been in that room … and here I was, right in the middle of it with my bare bottom and my privates exposed!

After standing around for a few minutes I got an idea. I ran down to the basement and picked out a handful of my favorite adventure magazines. Then, giggling like an idiot, I tiptoed back downstairs and sat my bare butt on my mother’s fancy couch and spread my collection of sex and violence on her coffee table. I spent the next little while perusing the campy artwork and pulp fiction while in my birthday suit, a big grin on my face and my hands trembling with delight. Nothing could be finer. I was living my dream!

After a while I decided to do something really exciting, so I explored every square inch of the house while still in my bare skin. I snooped around in my parents’ bedroom, I hung out in the guest room and I even snuck into the garage and climbed up in the attic! All while naked! I wanted to go out to the back yard, but I was too scared to do that just yet.

My favorite places were the attic and the guest room. The attic was dark and eerie, just like in a scene from a horror film or a scary fairy tale. I never really noticed it being that bad when I had clothes on, but the lighting was bad and there was a lot of dust and creepy crawlies scurrying around. It didn’t take much imagination to get my adrenaline going – the mere idea of a spider touching my naked body put me into a panic! – so I didn’t spend much time there. Still, it was exciting!

The guest room was a whole other story. My mother had it decorated all frilly frou frou for whenever Aunt Margaret and my cousins visited, so it was a great place to pretend I got caught by some of the girls I knew from school. Jennifer Wilson was the imaginary leader of my pretend captors, of course, and I came up with the idea that she and her friends had confronted me and were bullying me. I imagined them touching me all over, spanking me and pinching me and poking and pulling on every part of my naked body; I even laid down on the floor and pretended they were all standing over me, teasing me and laughing at me.

Yeah, I know. Pretty boring, huh? Well, for an eleven year old kid with an overactive imagination, especially one as shy and anxious as I was at that time, this was a huge thing. To me this little game was no different than playing “cops and robbers” or “cowboys and Indians.” Only instead of shooting people or displacing an entire race from their homeland, I was running around the house naked, giggling like an idiot.

You have to remember, too, that except for the occasional wet dream, I was totally ignorant of sex and all the other things that the older kids and adults associated with nudity. I just wanted to taste the mysterious excitement of being naked and teased. And that Saturday I did exactly that. It was the most wonderful, exhilarating day of my entire young life! I wished and I wished – you don’t know how hard I wished! – for some magical way to make it all happen.

I lived on the high from that experience for months. Oh, sure, I wanted to do it again, but with my mom staying at home and barging in on me all the time, it just wasn’t possible. I tried going around my room naked a few times, but she was always coming in or calling me downstairs or otherwise interrupting my little game.

“There’s gotta be a way,” I remember saying to myself one day. “I’d give anything to be naked in front of a woman or even a girl. I’ll do anything ….”

Well, as the old saying goes, you really should be careful what you ask for ….

To be continued ….

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