Date: Sun, 8 Jan 2012 10:38:18 -0800 From: Sam Gamgee Subject: Daring Timmy This is a prequel to A Stroll down the Block, Nifty YF, 27 Aug 2011 http://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/young-friends/a-stroll-down-the-block "So you want to play Dares," Mike said, picking up a slice from Luigi's Sovrapprezzato Pizza. "We've played in groups, but never one-on-one. Are you sure?" Timmy looked at his 13-yo cousin, whose short brown hair, blue eyes, and Harry Potter-style round glasses had a slightly owlish air. Everybody said Mike was very smart, but Timmy thought him arrogant and overrated. A year and a week of age difference had left him quite underwhelmed. "Yeah, why not. You get naked." "Effective if unimaginative," Mike said as he set down his slice. He stood up, pulled off his light grey t-shirt, unsnapped, unzipped and dropped his khaki shorts. No underwear, as Timmy already knew; Mike's nerdiness was largely a pose. Mike was about 5'6", biggish build, with a reasonable crotch equipment and enough hair for his age. He was hard, of course. Hereinafter it may be assumed that they are hard unless otherwise specified (these are 12-or-so-yo boys, after all.) He sat down, ate two bites of pizza, took a sip of Coke, then said, "You will do the same, then you will stand on your left foot, and reach over your head with your right hand and grasp the top of your left ear, until further orders." Shaking his head a little in puzzlement, Timmy did as instructed. The view was of a wonderfully pretty boy about 5'2", with a slim but not skinny build and some nice new hair on his groin, obviously on the cusp of great things. He said, "So?" Mike nodded. "The 'reach over the top and grasp the ear' is an informal test of reading readiness used in kindergartens. You can learn to read, appearances to the contrary notwithstanding. Now sit down and finish your dinner while you contemplate your next masterful move." "You will finish that can of Coke," Timmy said in a flat tone of authority, "and you will refill the can with water. You will drink a can of water every five minutes until I give you permission to stop. You will not piss until I give you permission to piss. You will beg for that permission. Further instructions will follow." "Well," said Mike, "the little gerbil has teeth." He drained his coke can and filled it with water. Almost an hour passed before Mike's seemingly bottomless bladder failed him. He obtained permission to piss by begging on his knees, then kissing first Timmy's left big toe and then the tip of his dick. Timmy provided a green plastic bucket for the pissing, into which Mike was first required to put what Timmy called "your Harry fucking Potter glasses", which Mike was obliged to piss on. Timmy had a question: "You know 'The Sound of Music' don't you? The lyrics to 'I feel pretty'?" Mike nodded in the affirmative. Accordingly, he was obliged to pluck his glasses from the bucket of piss, to which Timmy had generously contributed, put them on, still dripping, empty the bucket over his head (the festivities had been moved outdoors) place the bucket upside down on top of his head ("like a crown"), and dance, while singing "I feel pretty." As a last-minute act of mercy, the performance was limited to the first verse. Mike was then permitted to shower, though not to don clothing. Since it was now his turn, Mike retrieved his black leather backpack and drew from it a purple bootlace. He handed it to Timmy, saying, "Your favorite color, I believe. You will tie this on, three good, tight loops and a pretty bow. You know how to do this; I've heard plenty of stories about you. I, however, will not touch you. You will do this to yourself. You will play with yourself, until you get frantically aroused. As you know, it is all but impossible to ejaculate with one of these things on. You will beg for permission to remove it. Until you surrender, that permission will be denied for longer than you can believe. Do it now." It went on for a time nobody counted on a clock. With the purple bootlace firmly bound around the base of his genitals, Timmy played with himself, growing quickly so aroused that it was ecstatically pleasurable and brutally painful. He begged, often and ever more loudly, to be allowed to release himself without surrendering, to which Mike's only answer was silence. Mike mused on why Timmy was allowing this to happen to himself. His theory was that it was a matter of vanity or, more pretentiously expressed, honor. Timmy had accepted the dare, knowing what would happen. If he backed out now, Mike could tell all their friends, "Timmy failed on a dare." No one would ask what the dare was. Since Timmy had failed, his failure was all that mattered. Finally, Timmy surrendered. He and Mike walked out to the front porch, where, with the porch light on and the security camera capturing every detail, Timmy underwent a final humiliation and then was permitted to untie the purple bootlace. His relief was fervent and very noisy, and captured on the audio recorder in the backpack Mike had casually brought along. Timmy had not noticed that detail, since his attention was elsewhere, as it had been from the beginning while the recorder had been running. Back indoors, Mike made rather of a production of opening his 54+1 steps Japanese puzzle box and putting the security camera memory stick inside, before securely closing it. "Now let's get dressed, while you scheme your next historic victory," Mike said, handing Timmy a pair of shiny purple gym shorts, then putting on a pair of boring blue ones himself. They were both commando. Timmy's initial reaction to the color of his shorts was a moue of distaste, but he forgot that and was soon hard again. ============================================================= "That's a legal dare!" Timmy rasped in an angry whisper. In the near-darkness of the garage, the slim 12-yo blond seemed an odd portrait of indignation, dressed as he was only in shiny purple gym shorts. Several hours of dares had left us both dressing minimally. My gym shorts were boring blue. We were both commando, and rock-hard. We were in SoCal, it was September, the Santa Anna was blowing, and it was hotter than Hell. I'm Mike, btw, a year and a week older than Timmy, the son of my mother's younger sister. Despite being cousins, we are generally friends. "Legal, maybe," I said softly, "but disproportionate and unreasonable. My last dare had you kneeling on your front porch licking my balls with your right middle finger up your ass. The porchlight was on, of course, but since nobody can see the porch from the street or anywhere else except the front of the garage, your chances of being seen were nil. This ridiculous obscenity..." "You don't have to take your shorts off until the end of the driveway, and then it's only a hundred yards or so to the corner," Timmy offered in what he considered a reasonable tone. "There's only one streetlight, and it's on the other side of the street. You know there's no traffic around here after dark unless somebody is having a party, and you've seen that nobody is. You just walk down to the end of the block, turn around, and walk back. I'll walk beside you to make sure you don't cheat or stop being hard." A little more sharply, he added, "You also forgot to mention that your last dare had me in front of the porch security camera, whose memory stick is now with your mescaline and your lock picks in that Japanese puzzle box you carry in your backpack. And don't give me that shit about how you're going to put the stick in my stocking come Christmas. The dare is legal and it stands." "And what if I say, 'Fuck you, your favorite little game, and the horse you rode here on?' Are you going to tell everybody what we've been doing since dinner? That memory stick would be very popular. You're like the rabbi who went golfing on Saturday afternoon and hit a hole in one. Who could he tell?" I crossed my arms on my chest. Given how little I was wearing, and my Harry Potter-style round glasses, the effect must have been a bit comic, but Timmy seemed to miss that. "Well..." Timmy paused in thought. He was very fond of Dares, as was I, and quite good at it, though not IM-not-terribly-HO as good as I. His dares were imaginative, often very funny, and commonly wildly obscene. What he lacked was subtlety in the negotiating side of the game. He failed on this occasion to appreciate that I was bluffing. He was quite correct about the risks of the dare, which were small. I was objecting because I envied the cleverness of his dare, and wanted to rattle his cage, and perhaps deprive it of some of its eclat. As I soon found that I had. "Well, let's make a deal. You walk down the block with your shorts off, then put them back on. I'll take mine off then, and we'll walk back that way. OK?" "Fair enough," I conceded with well-feigned relief. "Let's do it." We put on our birkies and he led the way down the driveway. There, I took off my shorts, which he insisted on carrying so that I couldn't use them as a shield, and walked briskly but without undue hurry down the street, my hard dick bouncing merrily along. Not a stranger to such sport, I found, as I always had, two little problems. The first is that walking naked for more than a few steps is awkward because there is nowhere to put your hands and nothing to do with them. As a lifelong hands-in-pockets guy, I find this annoying. The second is that walking naked with a hard-on imposes an unnatural gait, with that stuff flapping in an unaccustomed manner and bouncing off one's thighs. Still, there was no traffic (there are never pedestrians in leafy SoCal burbs), few lighted windows, and no evidence that anyone saw us or, if they did, gave even the slightest shit. As you can imagine, there were enough weird goings-on in and around Timmy's house that the neighbors would probably have ignored a UFO landing in the middle of the street and disgorging the 82nd Airborne which then performed "Jesus Christ Superstar" accompanied by a bagpipe band. We reached the corner. He handed me my shorts, which I put on. He took off his shorts, which he handed to me. We turned around and walked back. I derived much pleasure from staring unabashedly at his flapping goodies, splendidly hard dick and nicely bouncing balls. No reason not to oggle, since this was the point of the game. He seemed to share my findings about the awkwardnesses of this exercise, and I gathered that he had less experience than I in coping with them. Age will tell in some things. Returned safely to the driveway, and Timmy to his shorts, we made no mention of further dares, and went inside in search of beer, not without gratifying results.