“But Sir! I can’t wear these!” Brad was looking down at his school uniform with horror. The legs of the new short trousers were a good six inches above his knees.
The Principal stood, hands behind his back, in front of the boy. “You will wear them, Evans, until I tell you otherwise. I am sick to death of reports from my staff of your infantile behaviour. I’ve had enough of it. If you want to behave like a first-year, then you will wear the uniform of a first-year. Let us see if a little humiliation will work where, apparently, lines and detention do not.”
Brad was imagining exactly what the other boys – and the girls – would say when they saw him in town waiting for the school bus. “But they’re too short! I’m 17, for fuck’s sake!”
The Principal’s eye’s opened wide. “What did you say?”
“I’m sorry, Sir. But – ”
“I will not have that kind of language in this school!” He roared. He sat down at the desk, wrote something on a pad, then tore the sheet off and handed it to the boy. “Take those shorts to Mrs Caldwell. Give her this note. “And from tomorrow you are forbidden underwear while in school, so that you are reminded constantly that you are being punished. Do I make myself clear?”
Brad read the note. ‘Mrs Caldwell, please reduce the leg length of these trousers by three inches.’ It was signed at the bottom.
“But Sir!”
“Enough! You will learn not to use language like that to me, boy. Now go.”
Brad hung his head and shuffled out of the study.
*
The shorts were unimaginably worse; the missing three inches revealed a lot more thigh.
“I think they look smart,” said Mrs Evans, smiling indulgently at her son. “You have good legs and they show them off beautifully.” Her smile became coy. “And the girls will like you in them, I should think.”
“They’re gonna laugh at me. Everybody’s gonna laugh at me. All the other boys wear long trousers.”
“Don’t be silly. Of course they won’t laugh. They’ll probably be envious. Now you’d better get ready or you’ll be late for school.”
Brad sighed frustratedly and picked up his homework. He’d expected his mother to be on his side, and he’d hoped that she would have sent a complaining note to the Principal. But it seemed there was no fucking chance of that. He hesitated at the front door, then took a deep breath and went out.
He got the first wolf-whistle at the end of the road. It was Carter from Woodley Grammar; he saw him most mornings as they used the same bus stop. Unpleasant boy.
“Wow! Sexy. Is that the new uniform at your school?”
He felt his face going red. “Oh fuck off, Carter.”
“You’re going the wrong way – Primary School is that way.” He pointed in the other direction.
Ignoring Carter, Brad speeded up, another wolf-whistle following him.
As always, the bus was already crowded by the time it got to his stop. Brad swallowed and got on. He sat down quickly, and waited for the laughter. It wasn’t long in coming. Even the younger kids were pissing themselves at the sight of this big, strong boy in such short grey trousers. Blushing furiously, he stared out of the window.
When he got to his school, he knew it would be bad – thanks to fucking ‘Crispy’ Pringle, the Principal, Brad was the only boy apart from the first years in short trousers. He stuck out like a sore thumb, and it did not go unnoticed. More wolf-whistles (along with assorted obscene remarks) followed his progress to the changing rooms. The first thing he had to do – thanks again to fucking Crispy – was remove his underpants. Luckily there was nobody else about and he hid the underwear in his bag as quickly as possible.
Fuck, it felt strange. The shorts felt completely different. He adjusted them, and set off for his first class. Mathematics.
Calculus. Derivatives. Oh joy. He tried to concentrate on instantaneous rates of change, but the feel of his shorts kept distracting him. His cock – mainly the head, dammit – was rubbing against rough material instead of soft cotton, and it wasn’t used to it. Also he could feel cool air coming up the loose legs. It was making him feel vulnerable somehow (and a touch horny), and he couldn’t concentrate on the Maths.
Mr Jacobs had written the equation y=x2 -6x+8 on the blackboard. Now he was standing by Brad’s desk, holding a ruler. “Evans. Tell me, how would we find the gradient of the curve at the point where x=4?”
“Erm… “ It was difficult to think. “We’d differentiate with respect to y.”
“No,” said Jacobs, “we wouldn’t do that. We’d differentiate with respect to x.”
“Ah, yes of course. To x.”
“And?”
“And…” Brad shuffled on his chair, and his cock rearranged itself in the shorts, sending a jolt through him. He let out a sudden gasp. “And… erm… we’d substitute y=4.”
Jacobs slapped the ruler on the desk sharpy. “No! X, not y!”
“Sorry, Sir. Yes. Substitute x=4.”
Mr Jacobs touched the ruler to Brad’s thigh just above the knee and ran it upwards to the end of the leg. “I heard that you’re to wear shorts, Evans, but are they meant to be that short?”
“Uh, yes Sir,” he whispered. “Mr Pringle said so.”
“I see.” Jacobs removed the ruler. “Well, in that case, continue.”
“Erm…” The feel of that ruler sliding up his bare thigh had banished all thoughts of what he was supposed to be doing from his mind. “Er… substitute y=4, so that would be… dx over dy equals -”
“No, no, NO! We’ve already established that we’re substituting x and not y, you idiot! And it’s dy over dx! ”
There were sniggers from the other boys.
“See me at the end of the lesson.”
“Yes Sir.”
Jacobs moved on to the nest desk. “Now, Jenkins, perhaps you can do it properly?”
*
The lesson was over and the room was empty. Brad was bent over the front desk, his legs wide apart. The wooden ruler in Mr Jacob’s hand came down hard on the inside of the boy’s thigh just below the leg of the short trousers.
“You will learn to concentrate when I’m teaching, Evans.”
Brad yelled. He realised that his inner thigh was a very sensitive spot.
“Silence!”
Another three strokes with the ruler on exactly the same spot. Brad was doing everything he could to stifle his cries of pain.
“Now, perhaps you will pay more attention next time. Get out.”
*
The following lesson was Geography, and Brad had not been looking forward to that. The teacher was George ‘Pansy’ Pilkington – and it was a common suspicion that the man had a more than passing interest in teenage boys.
Things went without problem until the marked homework was handed back. “Evans. The subject of the essay was: ‘How can cities become more sustainable? Discuss transport, energy, housing and waste management’. Your work addressed only the first of these. Can you not read, boy?”
“Yes Sir. Sorry Sir. I didn’t have time to finish it. I had to go to my grandmothe -”
“I don’t want excuses, boy. When I give you an assignment, you will complete it. You will spend your lunch break here in this room with me, and we will discuss energy, housing, and waste management.”
Fuck, no lunch, then. “Yes sir.”
*
Mr Pilkington locked the classroom door, checked that the window blinds were still closed, and walked slowly towards Brad, looking him up and down. “Those shorts are very short.”
“Sir, Mr Pri-”
“You will remain silent unless I tell you to speak.”
Brad closed his mouth.
“Part your legs wide, hands behind your back.”
Brad did so.
Pilkington placed his hand on the inside of the boy’s left knee. “Those trousers are ridiculously short…” Slowly the hand moved upwards. When it reached the shorts leg, it stayed there, the fingers stroking the bare skin.
Brad’s leg muscles trembled as he fought an urgent compulsion to slam his knees together to stop those tickling fingers from moving; he could feel his cock beginning to get hard. It continued to stiffen until a distinct bulge began to appear in the front of the short trousers.
“You may speak now,” he said, conversationally. “Tell me how waste management may be organised to mitigate environmental impact in cities.”
Brad was incapable of thinking about waste management – or, in fact, about anything except what those fingers were doing. He tried to speak, but only unintelligible noises came out. Those noises became more urgent as Mr Pilkington’s hand slipped up inside the leg and tickled the boy’s balls.
He smiled slyly. “Come on, lad – waste management. Think,” he said.
Brad had never had his balls tickled before and he could do nothing but stutter incoherently. “I – I -”
“Yes?” The hand had turned now, and the fingertips were stroking the shaft of the boy’s cock. Suddenly they gripped it. “You want to say something?”
Brad lost control of his legs he collapsed onto the floor.
Mr Pilkington stood looking down at him. “Have your re-written essay on my desk first thing in the morning. You are dismissed.”
Brad struggled to his feet and left the room quickly, doing his best to hide the raging erection in his shorts.
Mr Pilkington was sniffing his fingers.
*
Things deteriorated even more in the afternoon. It was double PE, and where the other boys wore something under their gym shorts, Brad could not. They noticed, of course. He explained, with a red face, to the PE teacher Mr Leach, why.
Mr Leach was a popular teacher – a firm but fair Yorkshireman, and more approachable than many of the others. He chuckled. “Welcome to the club. When I were a lad we were never allowed anything under our PE shorts. ‘Builds character’, they said.”
The afternoon consisted of exercises in the gym, followed by a game of rugby on the field. The other boys giggled and made a show of trying to look up the legs of his shorts whenever they could, with whispered comments on the size of his manhood, and Brad’s face was beetroot-red the whole time. The rugby, later, though, was the worst of all. Every opportunity to grapple Brad was taken, and hands explored his crotch repeatedly. By the end of the game Brad’s cock was rock-hard again and his white rugby shorts were covered in mud.
All the boys stopped what they were doing when he came into the shower room, and watched in silence as he pulled his shorts down. When they saw that his cock had still not gone completely soft, the room erupted in whistles and cat-calls. Thankfully they did leave him alone while he showered, but as he was putting his short trousers on they really went to town.
“First-years rugby isn’t until tomorrow, Evans!”
“Do the girls like you in those?”
“Better be careful your balls don’t slip out!”
“Bet Pansy Pilkington likes you in those shorts! Better not bend over!”
Brad dressed as quickly as he could and walked out, leaving more catcalls in his wake.
He had to run the gauntlet on the bus home as well, and when he finally closed the front door of his house, he leant back on it with a profound sense of relief.
*
The journey to school the next day was, surprisingly, a bit better. Only one wolf-whistle. Perhaps the boys were getting tired of it, he thought.
Physics. Mr Farley looked around at the pupils. “You’ll be delighted to learn that this morning I’ve set you a test.”
There were groans all round.
Farley held up a handful of papers towards a boy in the front row. “Darby, distribute these please. One to each boy. You may begin the test when you wish.”
Brad hadn’t had time for his morning wank today, and he struggled to ignore the increasingly horny feel of his cock in the shorts as he read the first question. Physics was one of his better subjects, and this looked Ok. The desks in this classroom were very close together, to accommodate the lab benches at the end, and he was determined to make sure that Perkins on his left, and especially Brody on his right, weren’t able to see his workings and copy them. With his arms protectively shielding the paper, he began.
He was halfway through the second question when he felt something on his crotch. Brody’s hand was exploring. He grabbed the hand and removed it, then went back to the paper.
The hand came back. It had time to tease his bare thigh and squeeze his hardening cock before it was removed again.
As if this wasn’t bad enough, Perkins had seen what was going on and joined in next time, tickling the inside of the boy’s thigh while Brody stroked the cock through the shorts.
Brad grabbed the hands with both of his, and pushed them away.
“Hands above the desk, Evans!” Mr Farley was looking daggers at him.
A few minutes later it happened again. By now Brad’s cock was rock-hard – an easy target for Brody’s teasing fingers.
“I won’t tell you again, Evans.”
Both Brody and Perkins were able to keep one hand on their papers and look like they were getting on with their work; and the desks were so close that their straying hands could not be seen by Mr Farley.
Brad had no choice – Farley was watching him – and so he could do nothing to stop the fingers teasing his cock and bare thigh. Brody had been playing with the shaft, but now his fingers stroked the head mercilessly.
Brad lost it. With a shudder and an urgent groan that he was too late to stifle, he came. Both of the hands went away.
“Evans! Come here!”
No, oh for fuck’s sake no. Reluctantly, Brad stood up and made his way to the front of the class, both hands covering his crotch.
“What are you hiding? Move your hands, boy.”
Brad closed his eyes in shame and lowered his arms to his sides.
Mr Farley’s eyes widened – both at the hard cock tenting the shorts out, and at the unmistakable sight of spunk soaking into them.
“Go and clean yourself up, you disgusting creature! Then see me after class.”
Brody and Perkins weren’t looking at him as he passed them, but he could hear them chortling.
He had to stay and complete the test afterwards, under the watchful eye of Mr Farley. That meant that he missed the school bus home and had to take a public one.
A young guy in a leather jacket and tight jeans sat down next to him. A few seconds later Brad felt a gentle, teasing fingertip at the top of his bare thigh…
Brad collapsed on his bed. Two orgasms in one day. The one in Physics, at the hands of Brody and Perkins, had been good, despite the circumstances – but that one on the bus had been wonderful: fuck, the guy in the leather jacket had known exactly what he was doing. And he’d given him his phone number too. Thinking about it, Brad decided that there was something dead sexy about cumming in shorts.
*
Next morning, he’d only just sat down for Latin when the teacher, Mrs Lancaster, tapped him on the shoulder. “Evans, the Principal wants to see you.”
Brad looked up. “Now, Miss?”
“Now.”
The Principal’s face was a study in displeasure. He was clutching some sheets of paper. “Evans, I have reports here from Mr Jacobs, Mr Pilkington and Mr Farley. Your behaviour is not becoming to this school. And what Mr Farley told me is disgusting. You know exactly what I’m talking about, boy. We are going to have to do something about this.” He hadn’t asked a question, but nevertheless he raised his eyebrows interrogatorily.
“Yes Sir.” Brad was looking at the carpet.
“There is talk of making the caning of boys illegal before long – a change of which I strongly disapprove, by the way – but, thankfully, it hasn’t happened yet. I am going to give you six, and with every one of them I want you to think carefully and seriously about your conduct and how it reflects on this school. Do you understand me?”
“Yes Sir.”
“Good. Bend over and grip your ankles.”
Brad did so.
Six times the cane swished. Each stroke landed precisely across the centre of Brad’s arse cheeks, the thin shorts doing almost nothing to reduce the agony.
Twice, the Principal had to pause while Brad forced himself to get back into position for the next one, and after the third, the 17-year old was in tears.
When he had finished, Mr Pringle lay the cane on the desk, while Brad struggled to stand up straight. “There are many boys who would give much for a position in this school, Evans. Next time you are brought in front of me I will be seriously considering expulsion. Do I make myself clear?”
Brad wiped tears away from his face. “Yes Sir,” he whispered.
“Very well. I shall be expecting better reports from my staff about you from this point on. Now get out of my sight.”
*
Fuck, that had hurt. It still did. He sat down carefully on the bus – he’d missed the school one again because Pilkington had insisted on another discussion about fucking urban drainage. That man was obsessed with drains.
The guy in the leather jacket was there again when Brad boarded the bus, and he moved to sit next to the boy, smiling. Brad laid his jacket over his crotch, parted his knees and closed his eyes. He was smiling too.
*
Things were less of a problem from then on, both at school and on the way to and from it. Brad was becoming insensitive to the goading, and Brody left him alone.
A week later word came from the Principal that he was permitted to wear the usual long trousers, along with underwear, again. It seemed he’d paid his debt to the school. He felt a mixture both of relief and loss – he’d come to like the horny feeling of going commando and of fresh air on his bare thighs.
That evening he was lying on his bed, having a wank, when he decided to put the shorts on. The resulting orgasm was off the scale – much better than usual. That made him think.
The following day he found the piece of paper with the number on it, and rang the guy in the leather jacket.
*
There was a motorbike on the drive when he got to the guy’s house, and there were restraints on the bed. He hadn’t been asked to bring his short trousers, but the guy gave him a pair of shiny black leather boxing shorts to wear.
Three hours of expert edging and three orgasms later, Brad staggered out of the house slightly cross-eyed.
It was the beginning of a long and very happy relationship.