The three of us stood, boy, Headmaster and Housemaster, foolishly silent, facing each other across the parquet floor of the staff dining-in room; each one of us embarrassed and perplexed as to what to do next. Ian Podmore, abject in shirt tails and what were now my boxer shorts, his flaccid but still drooling member having only partially retreated back up the left leg hole, the crotch fabric glossily moist and translucent clearly outlining a slime-coated scrotum and penis shaft. I also stood there, stark naked from the waist down, except for a pair of socks, my gown fortuitously cloaking my semi-nudity from both my headmaster and one of my housemen.
Finally the headmaster broke the silence.
"Under the circumstances, Podmore, I am prepared to agree with Mr Waterhouse's decision to allow you to start wearing Y-fronts instead of the traditional boxer shorts," he admitted a trifle grudgingly, I thought.
"Thank you, Sir," the eighteen-year-old murmured eyes downcast, and slid the boxers back down his very well-developed thighs.
It was definitely a man's body which, as a consequence of his maturity looked more than slightly foolish dressed up in little more than a prep school uniform of white shirt, striped tie and grey flannel shorts. Leaping back into my Y-fronts - with visible relief that all was at last safely gathered in and no longer on very public display - as he hitched them up, he bent down for his shorts, revealing once more his rather splendidly muscular buttocks to me. I felt my face flush and I absent-mindedly went to take up the boxers. My palm closed on the clammy cold slime of his spendings. I wanted to drop them immediately in distaste, but felt I could not upset the boy's feelings in this manner, and also in front of the Head.
Steeling myself against the sensation I was about to experience, I stepped into the soiled underpants and hauled them up my own legs, turning my back to avoid their eyes seeing in between my now gaping gown. The feeling of something cold and gelatinous that coated the fabric of the shorts and now spread itself over my most intimate parts was something I cannot easily describe. I suppose I felt slightly nauseous. Swallowing hard the rising bile in my throat, I grabbed my trousers and hastily jumped into them also.
Podmore left first and after a moment or two I followed, having just stayed long enough for him to clear the immediate area. Uncomfortably conscious of the clinging nature of the soaking boxers I walked cowboy-like out of the main building and across the quadrangle to my House and my own quarters therein. Once inside behind my closed door, I began feverishly removing my clothing and heading for the shower. I stood and soaped myself again and again, a trifle anxious at the very obvious reaction I was experiencing but excusing it as a result of the thorough washing and sluicing of the affected area. I removed the showerhead and let the water cascade and play on the particular area until I became somewhat alarmed at the peculiar consequence this was having upon me. I turned it off guiltily and stepped out of the cubicle, briskly wrapping myself in a thick warm bath towel. I tried to avoid my reflection in the large bathroom mirror seemingly conspiring to shame me by so clearly emphasising my arousal beneath the fabric of the towel. I walked through to my study and poured myself a stiff (if that is the right word, under the circumstances) single malt. That felt better!
A sudden, if somewhat tentative, knock at the door arrested me in mid swallow. Glancing down at my towel clad form, I moved to the door and using it as a shield for my nakedness, opened it and peered out. There stood Ian Podmore.
"Please Sir, can I come in?" he asked in an urgent whisper.
I feverishly fought for a good excuse.
"Well, I've just stepped out of the shower," I began.
"Please, Sir, just for a moment," he pleaded in almost wheedling tones.
"Oh, all right," I agreed with ill grace and stepped aside to allow him entry, grasping the towel to me even more firmly as I did so.
I know it probably seems silly to the reader, but I became very conscious of the boy's eyes running over my semi-nakedness. I don't think I had ever had a boy stare at my nipples before, or my navel -- all of which were on full display. Suddenly I became aware of every single hair upon my body (of which I have a fairly liberal coating) standing upon end, or, at least, so it seemed.
"What is it, Podmore?"
"Sir, I am mortified, and have come to apologise and thank you for not shaming me more."
Tears welled up in the lad's eyes and his bottom lip began to quiver uncontrollably.
"What on earth . . . ?" My hand tentatively stretched out to touch his shoulder in a gesture of comfort but he shrank away.
"You know I could not help myself in there tonight, Sir." There was a heart-rending tremor in his voice. "When I lost complete control, I was horrified. I wanted to die! In front of the headmaster of all people -- bad enough in front of you, Sir! I like to think he did not know I lost it, Sir. But you did; you covered up for me, Sir, and I'm very grateful. It must have been horrible for you to put those shorts back on after I had . . . . in them!"
He started to sob and I drew him to me in an embrace of solidarity and comfort.
"Think no more of it. It need never be spoken of again," I said softly, and he dissolved and clung to me.
His whole body, pressed against mine, was wracked with heart-rending sobs. I stroked his hair and held him as he pressed himself hard against me. Suddenly conscious again of my comparative lack of covering, I began to feel more than a little uneasy.
"Look, why don't you sit down there while I get you a drink and put some clothes on?" I whispered.
"No!" he said with urgency and clung tighter, his sobbing renewed. "I am so ashamed of you seeing me like this."
As he drew me tighter to him I became somewhat unnerved feeling every contour of his body pressed against mine -- and mine so very lightly clad, if at all. Was that a faint aroma of his semen I could smell? Was it on me, or on him? Most likely the latter, after my scrupulously thorough efforts in the shower. The very thought of which caused a reaction that made my whole body stiffen -- if that is not too singularly appropriate a word! How very Freudian that I have used it twice in close succession!
"Now, look here, Podmore, old chap," I began in the sort of tone one reserves for the family dog when it has wet on the kitchen floor and it looks at you with heart-melting eyes. "There's no need for you to feel ashamed. It was embarrassing for you, yes, but it's over and forgotten about, let me assure you."
"But to lose control like that in front of you and the Head . . . . !"
"Look, I don't think the Headmaster realised you had . . . . lost control," I told him.
He clung to me.
"It was awful, Sir, and . . ." he paused and pulled back a little to look into my eyes, " . . . you see, it's not the first time it's happened to me."
"What? You mean . . . ?" Words failed me.
"Yes, Sir. He dropped his eyes again and pressed the side of his head against my bare chest. "It happened in English, fortunately after Miss had let me sit down again because I inadvertently exposed myself before the whole class. It happened in rugger, in the scrum -- I think Mr Whittaker knows, and the school doctor and Matron certainly do -- it happened right in the middle of my last medical."
"You actually . . . . came?" I asked gently, my mind racing.
"Yes, Sir, I couldn't stop myself. It was awful. Matron was awf'lly cross and the doctor very sarcastically said he hadn't asked me for a sample and that in future I should wait until told to give one."
I froze. As he spoke I could detect Tripod's member stiffening against my towel-clad thigh. Appalled that I was beginning to be affected also, and devastated at the prospect of the boy should discovering my state of arousal, I reached round and unpicked his clasped fingers, which held him to me.
"Attempts at humour to lighten the situation can be unintentionally cruel at times," I said, as I grasped his forearms and pushed him gently from me.
My eyes involuntarily took in the bulge at the front of his shorts where his tumescence was balled up in his new pouch-fronted briefs, unable to escape down the leg of his shorts as previously.
"Look, you sit down there in front of the fire whilst I slip some clothes on and then I'll make us some cocoa."
"No, Sir, don't get dressed."
I stopped at his tone and turned questioningly.
"Somehow, I feel more comfortable with you like this. I can open up and tell you things. With clothes on, it makes you Mr Waterhouse again."
I glanced down at myself a trifle self-consciously, adjusting the fold of towel to ensure complete concealment of my recently enhanced manly attributes.
"Well, all right, if it helps you to feel more comfortable," I smiled feeling just a little foolish in my semi-nudity.
"Sir, to tell you the truth, these underpants of yours are damned UNcomfortable at the moment. Do you mind if I slip them off while we have the cocoa?"