Disclaimer: This story is a work of fiction which features sexual activity between high school and college aged boys. If consumption of this media is illegal due to age or location, or you do not wish to read such a story, please do not proceed. This story contains content related to bullying and small penis humiliation (SPH). Some language found in this story may offend some audiences. Reader discretion advised.
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CHAPTER ONE.
"Confidence" I think to myself,
"It is not something you have. It's something you make."
This, along with numerous other cliches, echoes in my head as I fight back the trembling fear that grows in my gut.
"Beer pong? Yeah I've played." I manage to stutter out. "Josh look at him; that twink's never had as much as a sip of daddy's beer, let alone play pong."
Twink. Must be something I didn't learn in home school. But I muster up whatever courage I can fabricate, and I step up to the unusually sticky table, "Please, I know what I'm doing" A lie, but an uncharacteristically charismatic one if you ask me. What the hell am I doing? I've seen cool people play beer pong on television shows, but I haven't the slightest clue about the rules. Are there rules?
I'm not the most `hip' person if you haven't already drawn that conclusion. I'm not athletic or even remotely all that attractive. I'm skinny, just breaking five feet, and pretty far from athletic. My messy brown hair is plentiful atop my head, but my face has yet to grow a single hair. Though 18, I could easily be mistaken for 14. When my mother suggested homeschooling, I despised the idea of it at first. Before losing my father, my mother was a high school teacher. After his passing, agoraphobia bested my mother. 10 years ago, she'd stand in front of dozens of the most critical, ruthlessly judgemental people imaginable: high school students. Nothing seemed to phase her. Up until the day my "sperm donor" finally kicked the bucket. He was a miserable cunt, but my mother seemed to love him. Something just snapped in her head the day he died. She wouldn't leave the house after that. This was before the days of remote work and Zoom classes; working was out of the question, as was driving me to school every day. I was young, I only had one friend. Johnny Toth. I haven't seen him in years, but from what I remember, he must have some form of Tourettes. He always talked too loud and would have these fits where he clapped his hands together and would violently rub them together, almost like he was trying to squish a bug in his grasp. I had a tough enough time making friends as it was; I doubt homeschooling would help on that front. But what other choice did I have?
By the time senior year came along, I had grown so used to the homeschooling that I didn't want to go back to an actual school. It's like those rescued animals that spend their lives in captivity, not fit for toughing it in the wild.
"Timmy, please," my mother urged.
"Mom I'm almost 18, please stop calling me Timmy"
"Fine. Timmothy. I feel so guilty. I feel like I robbed you of your teenage years. High School is supposed to be some of the best years of your life!"
"I don't think anyone who has been in high school within the past decade thinks so."
"It's just one year. Maybe you'll meet some friends or even a nice girl. Or guy, I'm sure I'll love whomever you bring home, as long as they give me grandbabies!"
"MOM!"
"Right, sorry. Listen Kid, You and I both know you can't stay home forever."
"You do." I instantly regretted it the moment those two short words left my lips. I could see her mood instantly change.
"I --"
"Mom, I'm sorry. I didn't mean that. Fine. I'll do it. But if those animals eat me alive in there, my blood is on YOUR hands!"
"You always did have your father's flare for drama. Great, I'll call the office in the morning, and get you enrolled for your senior year!"
They didn't, by the way. Eat me alive. I survived. Though, I didn't get invited to big house parties or ask a girl to a dance. I went to class, and I went home. The people weren't too bad, though I mostly stuck to myself. The worst part of it all was gym class. The locker room seemed to generate this stale stench of canned body spray and an amalgamation of 40+ years of teenage boy sweat.
I had gym at the end of the day, which was a blessing, really. The gym teachers would dock points off your grade if you didn't bring (and use!) a change of clothes for the period. However, 10th-period gym was the lucky time slot where you didn't need to shower. Some boys still would, usually the ones with jobs or girlfriends. But most of us would opt to shower at home. The showers were busiest during football season. The team would have mid-day practices then flood the locker room right around the time when my gym class would be finishing up. These athletes were built like greek statues. They looked like men with hair spurting from their chests and coating their arms and legs. I easily could have been mistaken for half their age.
After spending so long in captivity, I found myself people-watching often. Waiting for the bus or sitting alone in the lunchroom, my eyes would survey, studying the behavior and language used by these foreign teens. Often times I felt like I was in another country or on another planet, experiencing some unknown culture and trying to decipher their methods of communication. I found myself practicing a different type of people-watching in the locker rooms though. I grew up with no brothers or sisters; it was just me and my mother. Bodies varying in shape, size, and amount of hair really sequestered my attention. One of the things that really stuck out to me was the stark contrast in my underwear selection. My mother had always just ordered me plain old white briefs. But, as I looked around the locker room, all I saw were dark boxers, covering much more than my dainty tighty whities. I'd see the occasional boxer brief here and there, but far and few between. It didn't take long for me to realize how the other boys had filled out their boxers. The football players had chiseled muscles much like those of a Greek statue, but I inherited a lesser-liked feature from Greek art -- a small package. After this tragic realization, I made the effort to change as quickly as possible and stay secluded in the corner.
One Thursday afternoon, I had to face the cruel and unusual punishment that is the mile run. For some strange reason, students were required to run a mile and be compared to their classmates' physical abilities. I was dead last. Though going only slightly faster than a brisk walk, I was dripping with sweat by the time I had finished. I dragged myself into the locker room to find it mostly empty. I heard a shower running in the background, but I was otherwise alone. I started to strip the sweat-logged t-shirt and shorts when I noticed a nearby locker left open. To my delight, I saw bright white cotton matching that of my own briefs. My curiosity got the better of me, and I picked up what I now realized was a jockstrap. I'd never seen underwear like this before, and I started to picture what they might look like on one of the football players. Butt exposed, package snugly secured by a minuscule triangle of cotton. The thought made my own member start to grow and stretch the front of my briefs. I woke up with "morning wood" like most teenage boys do, but I didn't have much of a sex-ed program through my homeschooling. In fact, I didn't know much about sexuality at all. I stared at the jock, and something just completely came over me. I had to know what it smelled like.
As I held the sweat-soaked cloth to my face, the front of my briefs twitched, and a small wet patch grew. I inhaled deeply, and my knees almost buckled from the overwhelmingly pungent aroma that filled my nose. It was downright intoxicating! My trance was suddenly broken by a booming voice, without a doubt, a whole octave lower than my own.
"What the fuck are you doing"
I froze. I stood there for what felt close to an hour, and turned around slowly. Briefs still tenting in front of me, jockstrap still held an inch from my face.
"Are you hard? What the hell" He glared angrily at me, then snatched the jock strap out of my hand. In doing so, the towel that was wrapped around his waist fell to the floor, revealing the 5 inches dangling between his legs. Here I was, not even three inches hard, staring at this man who was almost twice my size, soft.
"Listen here, freak." He slammed me against the lockers; all his weight leaned into the fist against my chest. "Keep you and your tiny prick out of my stuff."
Tiny? My cheeks were now glowing red, but my prick was hard as steel. I started to feel this unfamiliar grow in my undescended balls. He shoved me away. Just before I could escape this neverending humiliation, I felt a hand grab onto the back of my tighty whities. With sudden force, the hand yanked upwards, cramming the cotton deep into my crack. I let out a pathetic "eeek" as he effortlessly lifted my whole body by the grasp of my briefs.
"This'll show you," he grunted as he hooked the back of my briefs over the edge of an open locker door.
At this point, I was writing in pain. The two grapes that accompanied my tiny prick were now crushed by the taught cotton. My tender hole was screaming in a confusing mix of pain and pleasure as my own body weight pulled my underwear tighter and tighter into my crack. Tears streamed down my face as I watched the football player walk out the locker room, leaving me trapped. I could not believe the absolute embarrassment that overwhelmed me at that moment. How could this get any worse? But it did. I tried helplessly to wriggle myself free from this hanging wedgie. The more I shuffled about, the more my cotton prison crushed my balls and rubbed at my hole. I felt that tingling sensation start to grow stronger. I'm not sure if I was wiggling myself free or just didn't want to stop that growing feeling. I thrusted back and forth, I finally felt my underwear slipping free. I felt the elastic band snap free, slapping against my rear. In the very same moment, I let out a high pitched moan while a heart-stopping wave of pleasure coursed through my body. I reached down to feel my erection calming down, but in its place was a warm wet spot covering the front of my briefs. I left as quickly as possible.
I hope you all enjoyed Chapter 1. Tune in for Chapter 2 to continue Tim's beer pong story and witness the start of his college years!