Author's notes: My little brother Tad was about six years younger than I was, and he could have been my twin, as I had looked at his age. Though he was slightly skinnier, there was no mistaking we were brothers. Now, today as adults, six years between brothers is nothing. But as kids this is an enormous difference in age. When I turned 16 he was just 9, and he'd always want to hang around with me and my pals, and I just hated it. I wasn't particularly nice to him, I recall with regret. But he adored me.
When I was in high school I was always horny.
I'd dash home after school nearly unable to wait till I got into the house so I
could jerk off. I needed the relief several times a day at this age it seemed,
and being in school all day seeing all sorts of things that got me turned on
was more than I could stand.
I went to high school in the late 1970s, when the style of clothes boys wore
was far different than today. Watch "That 70s Show" for a taste,
reruns of shows like Good Times, Three's Company, Dukes of Hazard, or look at
any high school yearbook from that era and you'll see what I mean. Boys wore
tight, tight straight legged blue jeans, the tighter the cooler, probably with
tight-tight-white underpants underneath. Boxers were something only our dads
wore in the 1970s. These
The other thing that these tight pants did was cause constant, perpetual erections
for their wearers, as with every movement they'd generate tingling, sensual,
and glorious pressure and friction against the boy's tightly encased genitals.
I remember purposefully wiggling in my seat in ninth grade science class,
tipping the chair back so I could thrust forward and grind my trapped cock into
the underside of the lab table where we sat. It would grow instantly stiff in
my jeans and stay that way the entire time we were in class, as I rubbed it
periodically through the cloth yet out of sight from my classmates (well, from
all but my lab partner Vince, who laughed because he knew what I was up to and
was doing the same thing during class as I. Sitting next to each other, we were
strangely unembarrassed to see each other playing with our hard dicks in this
way.)
There were a couple of boys who must have been hard more than they were soft in
school, because their dick-prints in their blue jeans were etched clearly in
the upright "boner-position"! Curly-dark-haired Mike had a huge dick
and his erection-print was unmistakable. He knew I was looking at it and though
we never discussed this fact, he grinned when he saw me glancing at his
monster. I never saw it exposed, but it had to have been eight inches long and
as thick around as an aerosol can of Pledge the way it protruded from his
loins.
Unfriendly but unbelievably handsome blond Billy was my favorite as he
absent-mindedly played with his boner in class. He certainly had no idea that
he was being watched as he rhythmically stroked his thumb back and forth across
its prominent, bulging head, because from where I sat I could watch him unseen.
From the pattern of fading on his pants-front, I could literally see the shape
of his cock head imprinted there from his constant fingering of his cock. I
would fantasize what it would be like if I could switch places "be
him" for just a day, imagining that if I could somehow be inside his skin
I would strip naked, barricade myself in my bedroom and spend the day closely
examining my nude body and masturbating constantly to watch myself cum.
Charlie was the third one. He was small and underdeveloped, yet the worn spot
from his little erect penis was unmistakably visible to anyone looking; and I
was certainly doing a lot of looking. That tiny stiffie
wasn't more than four inches long at best, but through the denim's faded
evidence it was clearly standing at full mast most of every day.
Short pants were another erotic story altogether. For us boys, cut-off jeans
were the rule, and the cut-off's were often cut so
far up that the pockets inside were sometimes visible as the ends of them stuck
out the leg holes. (remember this, guys as old as me?)
On girls they called these "Daisy Dukes" after the TV character who
wore tiny cut-off's. On boys they were just the way
it was—in current fashion. Cut-off's had an added
benefit of being even more worn-out than regular jeans, since they were usually
what became of a boy's pants when holes finally appeared in the knees. It was
not uncommon for the crotch of these worn out cut-off's
to be so threadbare and split so that an occasional glimpse of a bulging, loose
testicle was possible through the resulting hole.
Since you visit this site and are reading this story, I'll bet that most of you
know what I am talking about here, and will believe me when I tell you about
these secrets in the private lives of teenage boys. But for those of you who
never noticed, or have only ever known boys to wear baggy-three-sizes-too-big
pants, let me suggest to you that even today, in any classroom of ninth or
tenth graders, probably 25% of the boys are hard at any moment. It was just
that in this brief window of time during the late 1970s, our clothes made it
easy for others to see our arousals. I was loving it.
But even better than this was gym class. This seems to
have fallen from fashion all over the world, but back then in the 1970s,
twice-weekly public stripping, changing and after-gym showers were required for
all boys. We had lockers lined up in long rows separated by backless-wooden
benches between, and from any position you could be sure of getting an up close
look at a dozen or more boys undressing totally to the buff and then seeing
them scamper nakedly off for a quick shower. I loved this more than anything
else in the world, watching other boys undress right in front of me, and I
would proudly do the same for them, gladly exposing myself to the rest of the
group as we tumbled into the steaming showers yelping and laughing.
By far, my favorite sight was to see a small guy with gigantically-proportioned
apparatus, seemingly weighing him down and tipping him forward with its cartoonishly outsized proportions. Next, I looked for boys
who were my favorites because they were so handsome or athletic, as I loved to
see all their muscles on their bare chests, stomachs and backs. Their cocks
were usually normal sized, but I imagined how they'd look hard, how they'd look
masturbating themselves, or how they'd taste if they were in my mouth. Another
amusing but exciting sight to see was the few tall boys who had grown but still
had underdeveloped anatomies, those poor fellows with no pubic hair and tiny rosebud
penises and tightly pulled-up testicles barely visible from a distance. Through
ninth grade there were still a few of them around. I wonder how they felt,
undressing with the rest of us?
I liked them all actually. A cute boy named Mark dressed beside me one year,
and I lusted after him because he was so handsome and especially because he was
so popular and cool. He had an older brother who was a jock, and this seemingly
gave Mark unlimited confidence and bravado. He had tight little bulgy muscles
on his arms and chest, but he was developmentally behind the rest of us with
puberty, so his penis was still rather child-sized and his body devoid of pubic
hair. One day returning from my shower I pushed past him to my spot on the
bench, deliberately brushing the back of my hand against his cock and balls. I
still recall seeing his angry, shocked face out of the corner of my eye as he
glared at me—trying to decide if he should call me out and make a scene, or
wondering if my touch was accidental. His mouth formed curse words but no sound
came out. My heart raced because I knew I was busted, though the illicit grope
of that little perky soft gherkin I had stolen seemed almost worth the risk. He
decided not to make a public issue of the event, though I knew he had mentally
filed the incident away for future use, ready to use against me if he saw even
a tiny further sign of aberrant behavior on my part. I carefully kept my hands
away from him from then on. One grope would have to be enough.
Events like these kept me constantly stimulated at school. I was always so
aroused and distracted I am amazed today that I actually got good grades and
never got in any trouble either.
When I came home from school I had a very small window of opportunity to jerk
off on my bed. I had less than a half hour before someone else came home, and I
had a habit of dozing off while pulling; waking with a start, finding my
wilting penis still clasped in my fist. I was certain I never wanted to be
caught in this compromising position, and besides that, I hated rushing my fun
just to get done and clean up before someone walked in the front door.
So, often times I would barricade myself in the hall bathroom when I came home
from school. I'd lay a towel on the floor at the base of the door so no one
coming up the stairs could have any chance of seeing underneath and guessing
what I was up to. Sometimes I'd lay on the fluffy rug
on the floor and take my good old time, other times I'd lube up with hand
lotion and examine my technique in the mirror from close range, shooting all
over the glass in a naughty, highly erotic climax. I'd sit on the edge of the
tub some days, standing up as I got ready to cum, perched on tiptoes holding my
throbbing penis out over the bathroom sink, then pushing it to point down so
that when I came my goo shot violently into the sink bowl in long, thick,
parallel stripes of liquid lust.
I was practicing this latest technique one day when I heard commotion
downstairs with slamming doors and loud voices. My mother had arrived home
after picking up my younger brother Tad at elementary school, and I heard them
arguing as they come into the house. I was determined not to let them spoil my
erotic fun, so I closed my eyes and turned off my ears and rubbed myself firmly
and purposefully, standing up from the tub edge where I had been sitting,
wiggling my bare toes on the soft plush bathmat with my pants and underwear
tangled around my ankles.
I felt the first tickle and tingle, and the amazing rush of pressure that meant
that I was coming to my climax, and tipping my head back and moaning a little I
rubbed harder, stood on my tiptoes and leaned in towards the sink.
Just at that exact moment Tad began banging on the bathroom door, rattling the
knob, half scaring me out of my wits. It was too late for me to stop what I was
doing, and gritting my teeth and swearing, my heart pounded inside my chest as,
I jerked my head around to keep an eye on the door. In an oddly detached way I
half-watched my explosion of sperm jet into the sink in one gluey pump-shot
after another. But I barely felt the sensation of it happening, as the usual
mind-numbing, toe curling ecstatic pleasure of the moment of orgasm was
eclipsed this time by the horrible spine chilling vision of being caught,
standing there with spurting dick in hand; my little brother would stand
saucer-eyed staring at the lewd and unexplainable sight for any nine-year-old,
his bare-assed older brother jerking his giant swollen dick, balls bobbing and
swinging just above the counter top, the thick cum flying in slow-motion arcs
into the sink, one after the other. The blood would drain from Tad's face and
his mouth would gape open in pale-faced mute horror
staring at me, watching me lean forward on tiptoes, my school pants pushed down
around my knees, huge purple-headed dick erupting, emptying its enormous load
of creamy thick semen into the sink right in front of me.
Luckily the door had been locked, or Tad would have barged right in and caught
me in the act just as I described it. "I have to come in there!" Shouted Tad. "Hurry up Brad! I have to go!" he
cried in his little high-pitched voice, rattling the door violently
I was royally pissed. Tad had destroyed the lustful ecstasy of my orgasm with
his inconsiderateness. I had worked really, really hard this afternoon to edge
for that blissful moment, and now he had flat out ruined it for me. No matter
that I'd certainly be having my next orgasm only a couple of hours later
(taking my usual break while I did my homework), for me every orgasm was
important to be the best.
"Hold your horses you brat!" I swore loudly at him through the closed
door, quickly covering up and pulling my pants up to cover the evidence on my
wet cock. "Give me a minute for chrissake!"
I hurriedly wiped my hands off with toilet tissue and flushed it away, checking my zipper for evidence that it had been
yawning open moments before, but it looked OK.
I turned and unlocked the door and my small brother rushed into the room and in
one swift motion had dashed to the toilet, unzipped, pushed his pants down,
grabbed his small stiff penis, pointed it in the general direction of the
toilet and peed a torrent into the water. He didn't
care that I was there watching, his face was flushed and red, and I could tell
that he made it with only a second to spare. The flow finally slowed, and the
final few drops of pee dripped off his little thing as he shook it between two
of his fingers. "Sorry Brad" he said, smiling and looking up at me
his face full of relief, his tiny but now soft pecker still in his hand.
I was annoyed but a little amused as well. Tad was a good egg, but at six years
younger than me he was too young to be a pal and I generally regarded him with
annoyance. "Yeah, whatever", I said, turning to leave the room while
Tad pulled his jeans up and zipped the front.
I met my Mom in the downstairs hall. "Your brother...!",
she said with some annoyance in her voice. "He should have gone to the
toilet before he left school but he wouldn't. I don't know what his problem is.
Ohhhh no- he needed to wait till he got home. He
almost didn't make it." I sort of understood Tad's dilemma. I hated going
into the school bathrooms, and avoided them whenever I could. They smelled bad
and one never knew what kind of characters one would meet in there.
I was back in my bedroom when I heard my mother's shriek. "Tad!" she
yelled. I wondered what he had done now, as she seemingly was always yelling at
him about something. "What have I told you about this? This is
disgusting!" she shouted down the hall from the bathroom doorway.
I was curious and amused. I sort-of liked to see her get angry at my little
brother then watch them argue about things that to me seemed very unimportant.
"What???" replied Tad in his piping-high voice, sticking his head out
the door of his bedroom down the hall. "What did I do now?"
"What have I told you about spitting in the sink?" she scolded in a
very angry tone of voice.
My heart stopped momentarily. In a microsecond I reviewed the last ten minutes
in my mind. I remembered what I had done, and what Tad had done, and what I
said and what he said.... And there was something important missing. Yes, I had
shot my cum before he had burst into the bathroom.
Yes, I had covered up my cock and zipped my trousers so as not to be caught in
the act... but the sink... THE SINK—- did I take care of that too? I couldn't
recall...
But suddenly in my mind's eye I remembered what I had done and I could see it
there as plain as day... one big blob of thick cloudy, creamy white cum on the
edge of the sink basin and on the counter top, complemented by three thick
nearly parallel stripes of my creamy, viscous splooge
squirted directly into the bowl. I had not remembered to wash it away, and my
mother had just discovered it there—just as I had left it behind.
I suddenly felt like I was going to hurl.... My throat closed up and I heard
Tad running towards the bathroom. It was clearly obvious to me what that
sticky, gluey mess was all over the sink and counter top, and it wasn't Tad's
fault, and he'd be sure to tell my mother that.
How could I have been so careless? I never left evidence like this behind
before, but I had screwed up for sure this time.
"I didn't spit in the sink, Mom" yelped little Tad, "Honest I
didn't"
"You do it so much you don't even remember when you do it" she said
with annoyance, running the water and using the side of her hand to push the
load of my gluey sticky seed down the drain. "This is disgusting. And if
you have this much mucus in your throat there is something wrong with you and I
need to take you to the doctor."
She must have washed all my spunk down the drain before he saw it, because he
could only squeak and sputter, "I don't know what you are talking about, I
didn't do it! Honest!"
I breathed a sigh of relief, feeling a slight cold sweat break out all over my
body. Tad had taken the blame and I was safe to live another day. I made a
mental resolution top never let this happen again; to be much more careful in
the future. I heard them arguing, but that for all practical purposes I knew
the issue was closed.
"Honest, I didn't spit in the sink Mom" he cried in his shrill voice,
but my Mom didn't reply. She knew that he had, and "that was that" as
far as she was concerned.
"Just don't do it again", she answered crossly, ignoring his pleas.
I had dodged the bullet, this time. I owed Tad one, even though he didn't know
it.