Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. No actual psych majors were harmed in the telling of this story. If you are offended by homosexual situations or homosexuality in general, loosen up. Failing that, stop reading and go do something else. If you are underage or it is illegal for you to be reading this where you're at, grow up and/or move. Also, stop reading.
Author's Note: Thanks for all the praise, guys! Sorry I couldn't answer everybody who wrote, but as for the questions I got the most: "Pressure" is the first story I've written for the net, and I plan to submit a chapter a week. I'm busy on chapter 4 right now. Please let me know how you think it's coming along: I'd be particularly interested in anything that's not working for you. Feedback and/or criticism cheerfully accepted at altonfree@yahoo.com. Please put "Pressure" in the subject line so it isn't automatically deleted. Enjoy!
Pressure: Part 2
By Alton Free
"Strip"
Whatever he'd been expecting, that wasn't it. If I wasn't so scared, the look of shock on his face would have had me laughing; I almost did anyway. He turned beet red. Seriously, I've never seen anyone blush so hard.
"What?! Why?!"
I'd decided to spring it on him without any explanation; it may have been a mistake, but I'd wanted to see his knee jerk reaction to the order. I was semi-pleased (among other semi things). He didn't bolt for the door. He didn't take a swing at me. He didn't reach for the phone to call the dean. He also didn't take his clothes off, but his questions indicated a willingness to listen. I hoped he'd hear me out.
I looked at him kindly. He was regaining his composure, but disbelief and confusion still reigned on his face, and I could tell I'd have to do some fancy talking to convince him that this was a viable plan. "Sit down, Travis", I said softly, and he did so, still a bit red in the face.
"The problem is pressure. You feel it in the classroom, you don't feel it here. Basically, what I'm suggesting is a bit like that old dream everyone has: where you find yourself at school in your underwear. My hope is that by creating a real source of tension for you here, with both of us working together to help you work through it, it will enable you to deal with the tension you feel in your real classes. It's not the same kind of pressure, I know, but there's no real way to simulate that here. You'll always know these quizzes are meaningless, no matter how much pretending we do. But if you have to do them in your underwear..."
"I can't do that," he interrupted. He was STILL red; I hoped prolonged blushing didn't have medical complications. If he eventually agreed to my plan, he'd be glowing red for awhile. Three hours a week of blushing...but I was getting ahead of myself. He just said he wouldn't do it. I stopped rambling to myself and focused on what he was saying.
"I can't do that," Travis repeated. "I don't see how it would work, anyway. It would only be you and me here...that's not much tension."
But I think we both knew at that point just how much potential tension there could be. However, the important thing was he hadn't really rejected the idea; he'd rejected the execution. I felt a surge of hope.
"Why can't you do it, Trav?" I asked him.
"Because...I...it's just..." he stammered, blushing away, looking down at the desk top.
"Hey," I said. He looked up at me, then quickly looked away. "That's my plan. Short of threatening one of your loved ones with bodily harm right here while you work, I can't think of anything else that would create the kind of high-pressure atmosphere we need to work on this block. It has to be something that happens here, while you work, and it has to put you in an uncomfortable situation. If you have another suggestion, I'm more than willing to listen. I just want to help you," I said, feeling slightly ashamed. I DID want to help him; more than anything else, that's what this was about, but that was not, indeed, ALL I wanted. I wondered if he'd pick up on that.
"I just...I can't," he said. He looked trapped, and I knew I needed to back off. I couldn't bully him into it; he had to agree on his own.
"Okay. Tell you what: do the practice quiz now. IMAGINE you're in your underwear, sitting in class with all your fellow students. Maybe that will be enough." Looking at him, I thought it just might be; he still hadn't regained his composure. But he agreed to take the quiz and use his imagination.
I didn't stare out at the commons this time; I looked right at him the entire 30 minutes. He was clearly uncomfortable, yet he eventually stopped blushing. He appeared to be having a more difficult time of it than he'd had with the first quiz; he worked right up to the buzzer. When he handed me the paper, his hand shook.
I read it over quickly. I don't know whether or not he'd really managed to convince himself he was in his skivvies, or if he was still shook up by the initial suggestion, but the results were poor in any case. He passed the quiz by one question, whereas he'd aced the first one he took with no trouble. This actually delighted me: it convinced me I was on to something.
I shared the results with him. He was a good student, and he already knew he'd done poorly. I was willing to bet that if I'd given him the quiz before I made my suggestion, he'd have gotten 100%; belatedly, I wish I'd thought to have a before and after quiz to prove my point. However, by the look on his face when I told him his score, the point had been made.
"I think it could work, Trav," I said softly. "Just the thought of it made you under-perform; if you'd actually taken it in your underwear, I bet you'd have failed miserably. And then we could work on getting you through it...so that you'd ace it under any conditions. I've got some homework for you, if you don't mind. I want you to give serious thought to doing the next one of these little quizzes in your skivvies. Just think about it. That's all I ask."
"I...okay," he said, more than a little shaken up at the prospect. He reached behind him for his book bag and swung it around in front of him as he stood, in one fluid motion. Very graceful. And very quick. But not quite quick enough. Not quick enough to prevent me from receiving the biggest shock I'd had since this stud walked into my office for the first time. A shock that prevented me from doing more than nodding my head as he hurried out the door.
Travis had a hard-on.
A HUGE hard-on. A hard-on that had leaked enough pre-cum to soak a quarter-sized spot in his jeans.
I sat down at my desk in a daze, my own cock lengthening rapidly. Travis said he didn't want to have any part of my plan. But a part of him apparently disagreed.
We were scheduled to meet again on Friday. I more than half-expected him not to show. Every time the phone rang, I was sure it was either Travis calling to tell me he didn't need my help anymore, or the dean telling me to pack my stuff. But I heard nothing from either as time wore on. As Friday at three approached, my heart sped up...every sound I heard seemed magnified. At three, I looked expectantly at the door, knowing he was always prompt. By 3:10, I began to realize he wasn't coming.
I felt bad. Bad because I'd embarrassed him, bad because I wouldn't be able to help him, and yes, bad because I wouldn't get to see him without his clothes on. I'd made my peace with my conscience; the plan was self-serving, but it was also, I truly believed, in Travis' best interest. However, I couldn't deny the fact that I'd rubbed more than a few out since Wednesday afternoon, recalling that denim outline and that quarter-sized spot. I'm a guy, after all. It might not be pretty, but it's a fact of life: guys are slaves to their dicks. Still, I was a little relieved to find that, turning it over in my mind, my biggest disappointment lay in the fact that I wouldn't be able to help him.
That's when I heard the knock at the door.
I looked up, and there he was. Still with a too-big t-shirt, still with baggy jeans (different jeans, I was sure). The expression on his face was new, though. He looked terrified.
"Can I come in?" he asked.
I refrained from shouting "Of course you can!" in an inappropriately jocular tone, and simply said, "Sure."
He walked over to the desk-chair, again equipped with quiz and paper, and placed his bag down beside it. He half-turned to me, and said, shyly, "I was standing outside for five minutes trying to get up the nerve to come in."
"Well, here you are," I said, lamely. We stood there for a moment digesting that remark, and I felt absurdly like I'd felt when I'd run into an old lover with whom I'd had a bad breakup.
Finally, I said, "Have you thought about what we discussed?"
"Yeah, I have", he said. "Do you really think it could help?"
"I wouldn't have suggested it if I didn't," I said.
He looked at me a moment, then, looking away, said, "Okay, we can give it a shot."
At that, a thrill traveled the length of my spine and collected itself around my groin. I had a horrifying moment where I thought I might burst into song. Composing myself as best I could, I said, "Alright."
"What do you want me to do?" he asked, still not looking at me, the familiar blush rising from his neck.
"Oh, baby, if you only knew," I thought, but managed to stop myself from saying.
Trying to lighten the mood, I said, briskly, "Okay, sailor, drop `em!" He looked stricken, and I instantly regretted my attempt at levity. The blush was in full-force now, and I was afraid he might faint. I have never met ANYONE so shy about taking off their clothes.
"Sorry. Why don't you start with your shoes?" I suggested, feigning an indifferent manner. As he bent down to unlace his sneakers, I looked away, attempting to give him some privacy. I thought about stepping outside till he was in his shorts, but no force on earth could have moved me from the room at that point.
I heard him pull them off, and then the sinuous sound of his socks following suit. I sensed hesitation, and glanced at him briefly. He had his arms crossed with his hands grabbing the bottom of his t-shirt, ready to pull it up and off, and suddenly, I was the one who was stricken. I felt like I was taking complete advantage of this kid. I'd assumed that he'd realize from the get-go just what I'D be getting out of this little arrangement, but the thought didn't seem to have occurred to him. He apparently didn't know that I would be deriving as much pleasure as he would embarrassment from this exercise, and that suddenly struck me as decidedly unfair.
"Wait," I said. He paused, hands still clutching the hem of his shirt, and looked at me quizzically, face beet red. "Sit down for a minute," I said.
I could tell he was relieved that his exposure would be delayed, and hopeful that it would be denied, as he slid into his chair. I leaned against my desk and looked down at him.
"I want you to know what you're getting into," I said. "I'm not sure if you know this, but I'm gay. I'm sure you DO know that you're a very hot guy. I didn't suggest this plan because I wanted to see you naked (not entirely, I mentally amended), but because I honestly think it can help you. However, I feel you have a right to know all the facts."
At this, I felt a twinge of guilt, because I hadn't yet shared ALL the facets of my plan with Travis. My reasoning was, let's take it one step at a time, letting him get used to each wrinkle before introducing another. I still believed that was the best way to proceed, but I couldn't help feeling like I was lying to him.
"Are you still okay with doing this, after hearing that?" I asked him.
He looked at me in mild surprise. "You're gay?" he asked.
"Yes," I responded.
"And you're not just trying to get into my pants?" he asked.
"No," I responded somewhat truthfully; what I should have said, if I'd been more honest, and less chicken-shit, was, "I would LOVE to get into your pants, but we're doing this to help you, although it will, in fact, provide me with a few cheap thrills."
He shrugged. "No big deal, then."
I was a little taken aback by his cavalier attitude. "You're sure it doesn't bother you?"
He shrugged again. "My roommates' gay, and I love him like a brother. I'm not afraid of being in my underwear with a gay guy...I'm afraid of being in my underwear with ANYBODY."
I was impressed by his acceptance, and felt a wave of happiness for Bill, who I'd taken a liking to, slovenly though he was. I wondered if Travis knew that Bill would have given every one of his wrestling trophies to be standing in my shoes just then. Then I picked up on the last part of what he'd said.
"Travis..." I began, "I got the feeling it makes you uncomfortable to expose yourself ...that's what gave me this idea in the first place...but why? You must know you've got an incredible body...why are you embarrassed to let people see it?"
He shrugged again, more crimson with each heartbeat. "I don't know, exactly. I've always been super modest. My parents were pretty uptight about any kind of nudity, and I guess it rubbed off. I don't even like changing and showering with the other guys on my team. They used to tease me about how red I'd get, but they're used to it now. It's usually not a problem..." he began, then suddenly stopped.
I realized he was talking about his erection; not necessarily the one he'd popped in front of me, but the one he'd probably popped in front of others. I believed completely that he was straight, but I was worldly enough to know that some people get turned on by simply being naked, no matter the sex of the people around them. I had a feeling Travis was prone to a severe case of nudity-inspired arousal. And I was about to see for myself if that was so.
Delicately side-stepping the issue, I said, "Okay. Let's get on with it, then."
He reluctantly stood up, and I couldn't make myself look away this time, I had to see this unfold. He crossed his arms again, and, grabbing the bottom of his shirt, pulled it up and off in one heart-stopping motion. I hadn't been wrong about Travis' torso; if anything, I'd underestimated it. He had a perfect six-pack, resting below beautifully defined pecs. His chiseled chest was hairless (naturally, I thought), but he had a lovely little treasure trail leading from his belly button to the top of his jeans. He wasn't body-builder huge; everything was in proportion, except for his biceps, which were perhaps a touch too large for the rest of his frame. "Guys always go for the big guns," I smiled to myself. His shoulders hung everything together; they looked sturdy enough to support me and the desk both. I wanted to test that theory...I wanted to place both hands on those solid supports and swing as if on a jungle gym. But all I could do was watch as the shirt cleared his head and he tossed it on top of his bag.
His whole torso was as red as his face.
I was so captivated by the sight of this young stud's upper body that I'd missed him undoing the top button of his jeans. I heard the zipper and glanced down to see what else was on the menu.
Down it went, and then he hooked his thumbs on either side of his waist. I wanted this moment to last forever, and at the same time, I had to restrain myself from telling him to hurry up and do it. For all his modesty, his shirt had come off rather quickly, but the pants, apparently, were a bigger deal to Travis. He hesitated, sighed, and began to shove them down.
And then came my first disappointment at the unveiling of this Adonis. He was wearing boxer shorts. I really should have guessed, knowing how modest he was.
Nothing is as unappealing to me as boxer shorts on a great body. Whereas briefs and boxer-briefs hug the body, detailing every hard-muscled line and curve, while enticingly accentuating the package as much as they conceal, boxer shorts completely disrupt a body's flow. They hide every smooth line and create a visual barrier between the body and the viewer; it's the genital equivalent of a thick black bar across the eyes in a magazine. I loathe boxer shorts.
My disappointment notwithstanding, I still had a gorgeous 20 year old taking off his pants in front of me. I concentrated on his legs as he let his jeans fall towards the floor and lifted up first one, then the other, to slide them completely off. Slightly hairy, they were in as fine a proportion as the rest. His thighs were, as I'd suspected, nice and thick, while his calves were beautifully cut, and a little larger than I'd have guessed from his frame. I was pleased that he apparently worked his lower body as well as his upper; too many men concentrate on their chest and arms to the detriment of their legs, leading to what a friend of mine likes to call "mushroom man syndrome". No worries on Travis' end, though.
Speaking of ends, I couldn't find a tactful way to get a look at his butt; it wouldn't do to ask him to turn around and give me a gander. I knew I wouldn't have been able to see much anyway, however, thanks to those atrocious boxers.
The shorts themselves were amusing; they had the Tasmanian Devil on them. I wondered if he'd worn them for my benefit, when he caught me looking and again read my mind. "I wasn't even planning on coming today when I got dressed this morning," he said sheepishly, "or else I'd have worn different boxers. I didn't make up my mind until about 15 minutes ago."
I laughed, and said, "They'll do. The important thing is, here you are, ready to take a test in your skivvies."
Up to that point, Travis seemed to be taking his disrobing rather well, albeit blushing furiously all the while. At my words, however, he suddenly seemed to fully realize that he was nearly naked with another person in the room, and, unconsciously I think, placed his hands over his crotch and hunched down a bit. I can't really describe how I felt at that moment: partly guilty, partly triumphant, partly concerned, and mostly horny. He just looked so freaking adorable in his modesty.
Taking pity, I told him to sit down. As he did, his boxer shorts demonstrated that common habit which is the one good thing anyone can say about those wretched garments...they gaped open a bit at the fly, and allowed me a quick view of Travis' sandy bush. It was no more than a peek, but it was enough to notice that his pubes were slightly darker than the hair on his head, and that they appeared to have been trimmed.
I also couldn't help noticing, as he took his seat, that he appeared on his way to a repeat erection, a possibility that made me light-headed. I would have forgiven him for the boxer shorts if I could witness that moment when his rising dick forced itself through the fly to unwelcome (at least to Travis) exposure. However, I feared that Trav might just drop dead should that happen, so I allowed him to sit without remarking on his chubby, and hoped, if only for his sake, that it wouldn't get any bigger.
I started the timer and Travis started his test. I kept my eyes on him, partly because I intentionally wanted him to feel uncomfortable, as per the plan, and partly because I couldn't look away. Seated behind my desk as I was, I had no fear that he'd see my erection, but I still felt a bit guilty about taking such pleasure in his distress. Attempting to rid myself of my lecherous thoughts, I tried to focus clinically on the state of Travis' crimson skin. It fascinated me scientifically; how long could someone blush? My technical curiosity was quickly suppressed, alas, by the loveliness of the flesh on display. I just couldn't concentrate on anything but Trav's gorgeous body. Watching his naked shoulder ripple with the movement of his pen was hypnotic. I'd never seen anyone take a test in their underwear before, certainly not a hot piece of ass like this one. I'd expected that I'd eventually become used to his semi-nakedness, but I was riveted to his body for the entire 30 minutes, especially when, after about ten minutes, he started to sweat.
He wasn't gushing, but beads had broken out on his forehead, and I noticed a definite moistening of his chest, and a small but fairly steady rivulet from each armpit. It wasn't at all hot in the office; the sweat was obviously due to his embarrassment. If I'd expected that I'd get used to his exposure, I'd also expected that HE would, but it appears I was wrong on both counts. Travis sweated for the last 20 minutes of his quiz, and he never lost his rosy glow. The sweat made him glisten to an amazingly provocative degree; it was through pure strength of will that I kept my seat instead of jumping up to slide a hand down his slick back. I'd swear I could hear, albeit just barely, a slow but steady drip as the sweat fell, but that was probably my imagination; he surely wasn't sweating enough to drip on the floor. The desk top hid his nether regions from my view, but I was anxious to find out what was doing down there: despite my former wish for Travis for the contrary, I hoped to see a large tent in his drawers when he stood to dress, if not his hard cock itself.
Finally, the clock buzzed. Travis threw down his pen and blew a loud, frustrated breath. I leaned over my desk and held out my hand for the paper. I did this for two reasons: a) I didn't want Travis to see my erection, and b) I wanted to see HIS when he got up. Unfortunately, the desks were close enough so that Travis had only to lean forward slightly to enable me to take his paper. I made a mental note to move his desk back further next time.
Reading through the quiz, my suspicions were confirmed. Travis had only gotten a few questions right. I had to be careful how I presented this news; to me, this was a good result, as we now knew we'd created a suitably uncomfortable environment. Now, we just needed to work on getting Travis to overcome it.
"How'd I do?" he asked, although I knew he knew.
"Not so good, pal," I replied, and quickly followed with, "but that's what we expected. We've just got to get you over this hump. If you can pass a quiz under these conditions, you'll certainly be able to pass one in Dr. Abt's class. When's your next test, in any class?"
"We have one scheduled next Wednesday in Prof. Roberts' class. But Dr. Abt likes to spring quizzes on us all the time, so who knows?"
"Okay, here's what we'll do. On Monday, I'll give you a practice exam for Roberts' class, and we can go over what's likely to be on the real thing. In the meantime, if you get a quiz from the Doc, remind yourself before you start that you're fully dressed. Hopefully, that will make you more comfortable. Okay?"
"Okay."
"Right, then I'll see you on Monday,"
"Right, Monday," he echoed, but remained where he was.
"Anything else?" I asked him, although I thought I knew what the trouble was.
"Um...it's kind of embarrassing," he understated; he was practically shaking like a leaf. "Could you, just, step outside for a minute?" And I thought he was red before.
"Oh, dude, don't worry about it. It happens to lots of people in this situation. Well, I doubt that lots of people have been in THIS situation, but you know what I mean. Tell you what: I'll turn around, and I promise not to turn back until you say it's okay. Alright?"
"Okay," he said visibly relieved, although I know he would have preferred it if I'd just left the office without discussing it. He would have preferred it even more if he'd realized that I could catch his ghostly reflection in the window I was facing. I watched him get slowly up, and reach for his jeans. As he did so, he turned in profile to me, and there it was: sticking straight up out of his fly, a good 7-8 inches long. It was impossible to tell for sure from the reflection, but I thought it looked ready to burst. Before putting on his pants, he picked up his shirt and wiped his sweaty brow. I was tempted to take the opportunity, while his eyes were covered, to quickly turn and get a peek at the real thing, but I'd promised him I wouldn't, and I already felt guilty enough that I could still sort of see him. Although not guilty enough to stop looking.
He quickly stepped into his pants, pulled them up, and carefully maneuvered the zipper over the monster he'd tucked, with difficulty, back into his shorts. He then threw his shirt on, attempted to pull it down over his sizeable bulge, and then settled for the old Hide it Behind the Book Bag trick.
"Okay," he called to me.
I turned around. He was more pink then red now, but I think his rod was still going pretty good, and I suspected he couldn't wait to get home and jack it. I offered a silent prayer that Bill would somehow witness that heavenly sight.
"So...Monday, right?" he asked.
"Yep, Monday," I replied. "And...feel good about this, Trav. We've made a start. With any luck, we'll get you over this hump and on the honor roll by next fall."
For the first time since we'd said goodbye at our first meeting, I saw him smile. It wasn't the brilliant smile that made me light-headed, but it was a smile. In it, I saw trust and gratitude. That smile made me feel guilty, because I knew that Travis thought he'd faced the worst, and lived to tell about it (hopefully not, though). I, however, knew that the worst, for Travis, was yet to come. "Thanks, man," he said, leaning over to shake my hand, while carefully keeping his bag securely in front of his loins.
"You're welcome," I said sincerely, giving his slightly sweaty hand a shake. As he turned to go, I said, "One more thing."
He turned. "Hmm?"
"You might want to wear something with a little more...support next Monday," I said diplomatically. The blush returned in full force. I doubt he knew I'd seen his hard cock; he probably figured I'd just guessed what happened with his fly.
"You mean, like, a jock?" he chocked out, his panic rising.
"I think briefs or boxer-briefs would be fine. No need to expose that much," I said. "At least, not yet," I amended in my head.
"I, ah, don't have any underwear but boxer shorts," he said uneasily.
"Oh. Well, I can probably come up with something," I said graciously. "Oh, I surely can," I thought evilly, and then felt guilty all over again.
"Um...okay," he replied unhappily. Still, I'm pretty sure he'd rather have his package prominently displayed in secure wrapping then risk another jack in the box episode. I was sure he'd wear what I gave him.
With that, he was gone. Walking back to my desk, a spot beneath Travis' chair caught my eye. There on the floor was the evidence of the almost subliminal dripping I thought I'd heard during the quiz. A fairly large deposit of pre-cum was pooled under the chair.
My guilt lessened, I packed up to go home. However uncomfortable Travis might be in his underwear, he was obviously getting almost as big a thrill out of it as I was. I couldn't wait till Monday.
End Part 2
Next: Travis gets a change of clothes.
Like it so far? Shower me with kudos at altonfree@yahoo.com. Think it sucks? Let me know at the same address.