Jac Struggles in His Y Fronts

A Frustrated Julia, a Threatened Jack

The tension was electric.

Mrs Ellroy would be out of the house more and more, tending to a cutlery business bequeathed to her by an uncle in Sheffield.

She had withdrawn permission for her niece Julia to bath Jack. So the thin, angular girl- three years old than the 18 year old youth- no longer had those thrilling glimpses of Jack's rear and the chance to soap it, lovingly, with the long brush. How she had relished the task: the two muscular cheeks, the folds at intersections of thighs and bottom, the deep cleft so mysterious and secret. Jack standing in the tub, shyly protecting his front from her gaze.

This prohibition made Julia all the more restless in the boy's company. More inclined to stare hard at the front of his underwear. Or the tightness of the rear when he was bent at a task.

He, at home, wearing nothing but his Y fronts. That being the rule.

His tummy fluttered with fear that, at any moment...

...while he washed the dishes or stood on a stool reaching for a light switch...

...Julie's bent fingers might reach out and take his white Y fronts by the waist band and whisk them to his ankles!

And he would suddenly have no secrets left, devastated by shame. Frozen with humiliation.

Adding to the tension was that with his weights exercises and swimming at the YMCA Jack's physique was getting chunkier.

Under his slicked Teddy Boy haircut, Jack was as wide shouldered and trim waisted as the young champions in the pages of Physique Pictorial or Young Adonis with whom he compared himself in the mirror. The young champions in their straining G-strings, Jack in his. Or one of his- he had five, ordered from "All Male Garments," care of a Soho post office box. At the YMCA gym one of the gnarled old veterans said he was becoming their own Steve Reeves, the world champion body builder from California.

His growth spurt had delivered hard-as-wood biceps that he flexed into half arcs. The swooping definition of his pecs excited the two women. And "devils horns" muscles, on his lower abs, seem to draw Julia's attention lower still- to the bulge in the front of the underwear, always twitching and stretching, filling out or retreating, rearranging itself, wanting to show off its shape.

Like a frisky young python...

...moving around the boy's Y fronts.

Once at afternoon tea, sitting at the kitchen table, Julia with finely honed instincts, told Jack to stand up.

His voice quailed, like an adolescent's.

"Stand up? What for?"

"Just stand up...I want to check."

Jack went as red as a beetroot.

"N...n...now?"

Her green eyes gleamed as she nodded.

He struggled to his feet, hovering hands trying to conceal the tenting of his Y fronts.

She stared.

Greedily.

Softly, hypnotised by his shameful bulge, she gave him a direction he couldn't refuse.

He swallowed.

He dropped his hands to his sides.

Her eyes stood out on stalks devouring the 45 degree erection tenting the Y of his underwear. They were one of the old pair and a fat testicle emerged from the worn elastic on the left thigh.

There was even a gap in his waistband where his erection tugged forward. Space enough for her to have dropped an exploring hand inside, like a school doctor with gloved hand, groping for the testicles of an 18 year old boy.

Jack felt she was going to command him to take the Y fronts down.

Conflicting emotions warred in the boy's soul.

A thrilling anxiety was aroused by the notion of lowering his undergarment.

Her eyes would be focussed on his rigid flesh...

The horrifying humiliation he would feel...

Jack was borne by the lurid thoughts. He prayed that her command would come.

It would be...

...devastating.

..wonderful.

And as if bidden, fluid flowed from his cock and dampened the Y front.

She too seemed at war with conflicting notions.

But a terror of going one step too far prevailed.

"Disgusting. Go to your room."

Later Jack, standing at the top of the steps, caught scraps of conversation between the girl and her aunt. Some talk of a new job. But not here. In Ceylon where the Manchester outfit that employed her as book keeper and manager of employee records was opening a textile mill. It would be a big promotion. There would be a house in the grounds...talk of manservants...responsibilities just below the top executive. Jack said nothing but prayed for her departure. A house without her uneasy, prying presence.

Later he saw a luridly coloured book in the parlour, leaning against her leather bag. It was printed on the cheapest paper and entitled Discipline and the Tropics by Sarah Maitland. There were chapters about the Caribbean with shocking drawings of naked Negro youths being spanked, struggling over the laps of ladies in Edwardian dresses, or standing totally nude being lectured by English females. The women, young and old, seemed teachers or administrators. The Negro males were invariably totally naked, not even clothes draped across chairs or hung on clothes hooks. The artist had not hesitated to portray the lusty proportions of the black males and even dared to present nearly all "suffering erections."

Other chapters were illustrated with drawings of Indian males, standing naked in corridors in an old fashioned school, with female servants in saris staring hard; or bent over with bums on display, completely nude; even naked in a classroom- the boys clearly Indian, the cross-hatching indicating dark skin, some with turbans- while female teachers lectured them tauntingly and well-dressed English girls smirked. And pointed, cruelly. This illustrator, who Jack assumed was Indian himself, seemed uninhibited about the boys' private characteristics- the cocks for the most part petite and scrotums uneven and dangling- and he daringly portrayed a majority in states of erection.

Jack's hand had shaken, his heart had raced.

Who had given this to Julia? Who was equipping her for staff discipline in Ceylon? Jack's mind galloped. An underground of female disciplinarians? Friends and allies of Gerda Halloway? He wanted to read every word but noises at the door sent him scuttling, clutching his lose fitting Y fronts and covering the erection that had reared at this encounter between the worlds of English women and dark skinned, native boys rendered clothes-free.

Dancing in His Y Fronts

Of course, there were the card games...which devolved into dances.

With, say, three or four of Julia's smart, well dressed friends- the lively girls who seemed to befriend her because she delivered access to the underwear-wearing boys who rented their rooms in her aunt's house.

So after gym Jack would head to one of their homes where a girl's parents would be out, and the young ladies able to entertain themselves for an evening. Four girls in their early 20s, with- they would assure parents- the nice young man who boards with Julia. And, they said, reassuringly, he's only 18, boyish, no threat.

They didn't mention that as soon as he arrived in his leather jacket and jeans, his flannel shirt and work boots, they would insist he strip off.

"Yes, get out of those work clothes."

"Just like when we catch you at home at Julia's."

"Just in your white Y fronts. So manly."

He winced at the instruction, eyelids flickering and his face blushing. He stumbled out a protest. But they insisted. And he didn't tell them he had switched into a nicely pressed, newly laundered pair of Y fronts in the change room, anticipating just this instruction. So he would haul himself off to another room and pull off his clothes, folding them and piling them neatly on a chair. Taking a big breath, shuddering all over and with hands over his groin, he would re-enter the dining room and suffer their stares, their grins and giggles, their gasps and their nudging one another.

Their looks almost tickled his skin.

Feigning a motherly regard the girl hosting things would have him sit at the table, serving him a body-building snack like scrambled eggs or grilled liver and a glass of full cream milk. While he ate the girls would be frisky, waiting for the fun and swiping him with excited looks. Then with the females sipping sweet sherry, they would settle at cards playing gin rummy or cribbage or rough and honours.

Someone would make a joke about "strip poker" to make Jack blush. And someone would respond that Jack was- goodness me- more than half way there and couldn't afford to lose one more item of clothing.

"Goodness, Jack, you haven't even got socks to surrender, or a vest." Gwendolyn said this, eyes glassy with desire.

He blushed in a "aw shucks" kinda way.

"You'd be in your birthday suit," one might add with a prurient grin, also very excited.

He shivered at the image.

"You'd be naked as a jay!" said another, shuddering with the image.

Even he had to giggle weakly, as if confirming his shame, his tummy with a thousand butterflies.

And the humiliation of his situation would thrill and appal him

Until the hostess, eyes shining, would say, "Oh come on, let's put a record on! Say, a slow waltz!" And, "Who wants the first dance with the nicest boy in Manchester?"

This was why he was here.

This was why they had come.

This is what four girls had been dreaming off all day, while they typed and filed and gossiped.

And in a flash one girl would be turning off the lights and another lighting candles and Jack would be hauled to his feet to be gripped by Sally or one of the Partridge sisters or Millie, fragrant with Max Factor perfume...or more personal scents. They would be set up to commence the dance as soon as a girl would be setting Doris Day or Perry Como on the gramophone. The slow moving melody of Patti Page's Tennessee Waltz was a favourite.

So the waltz began, Jack's partner careful not to plant a heel on the boy's bare feet. Or to do precisely that, to demonstrate her power over an unshod, unhusked boy- but not too hard. Then girls danced with one another, eyeing the couple jealously, especially as they noticed how tightly their hostess might cling onto the near naked lad...how she would shamelessly press herself into his front...how subtly but determinedly she might move her hips with little wriggles and slides and lifts...and how delicately her spare hand might descend down her partner's spine, fingers intruding into the elastic at his hips, as she waltzed with a muscular young buck in nothing but a pair of white Y fronts.

After due deference to their hostess, another girl might move in and beamingly declare it was "her turn" and, while the female partners changed places, they all noticed the huge tenting of the young man's undergarment- elastic waistband yanked forward by the bold thrust of his appendage- and a Roundhead helmet clearly outlined. Yes, all found this of intense interest. While the lad shuffled and moved his hands around and smiled bashfully in what Americans might call, yes, his "Aw shucks" mode.

A big splotch of moisture decorated the Y of his shorts and may have been the reason he blushed and shuffled and tried to cover up till the second girl- often Giselle or Lorraine- forcefully pressed her own midriff into the source of his embarrassment and her eyes glazed with profound pleasure, taking his hand in her's and letting her other dangle into the small of his back...and lower.

Into his shorts.

Around his globes.

And so it might go until 11 pm, which meant any one of the girls might have relished five waltzes, each time growing more unabashed...

...pressing more decisively into his front and rotating her midriff so as to rearrange where the tip of his rod would make contact...

...feeling all the muscles of his torso...

...allowing her face to nestle his neck, even the tip of her tongue to unloose itself at his tendons...

...and her left hand to descend into the rear of his Y fronts, tightening a grip on his flexing buttock.

One girl- it was Hazel Summertide- might allow her fingers to creep up Jack's chest and tighten on a nipple, then flick it with her finger nail...and pinch it again. This transported the boy into another world, and seemed to work more every time. The nerve ends in his nipples became electric and sent zaps of pleasure to all ends of his body. His eyes would close dreamily.

One might move her hand in his underwear, trembling with her daring, around to his side, then quickly into the curls in his groin. Both she and he would breath heavily during this wicked intrusion, the boy close to gasping as her fingers tickled his intimate space.

Another girl- very likely Gloria- would twist her body till the tip of his protrusion would touch- for her- a special, secret point, then stand locked into his body, only rocking very slightly to the tune. Then during her second or third waltz she would erupt in small shudders. Her gasps would be unnoticed by her friends, or so she hoped. The same with the next dance, and the several that followed. She would always leave the party, flushed and silent with a faraway look in her eyes.

And during her final waltz a tall willowy, brunette- a mature young lady studying literature, and too long and narrow and flat chested to be counted attractive, a good two inches taller than the boy- would simply clamp her lips over Jack's and jam her tongue- flavoured with sweet sherry- into his mouth and let it explore and tickle for the entirety of their dance floor coupling. She was terribly eager. Jack sensed he may have been her only experience of a male partner. Further that she may have expected it might be the last before she went to Merton for postgraduate reading. That her desperate pursuit sent both her and the lad into another universe of ecstasy was quite beyond dispute.

Once, as they parted, she whispered, "Keats- you know, the poet- says 'Now a soft kiss - Aye, by that kiss, I vow an endless bliss.' Well, young man, you've taught me about bliss."

His tent pole erection and the splotch on his underwear was his answer.

Half the young ladies had not ever before waltzed with a male.

And here was one with the body of a Greek hero, nude except for his Y fronted briefs.

And with what their brothers would have called "a real stonk on."

It was forbidden and illicit, a wicked folly.

It fulfilled every Baptist preacher's condemnation of the lust that flourished on dance floors.

The girls had learnt to dress lightly for these evenings so that only the slimmest of blouse or dress material might separate them from the athletic flesh or the stiff appendage taut in his underwear. That they never wore underwear themselves for these evenings, or in the lavatory slipped them into their handbags, might be safely assumed.

Yes, their eyes took a feverish shine but none judged her companions- not for the flush in their faces, their impatience for the next dance, their rotation of hips against Y fronted flesh or for the spare hands that thrust into the rear of his undergarment. "Judge not..." might have been their watchword.

Besides, they were united in bliss.

Gerda's Waiting Room

Jack sat in the waiting room next to Mrs Ellroy. This was his second visit to Gerda Halloway's establishment to be punished for masturbation or "self pleasuring." He was guilty as charged. His pyjamas, lacquered with dried sperm, had indicted him.

There were the same faded prints of race horses on the walls, the same cheap furniture, the same dog-eared books about the dangers of "self abuse" on the table. His heart was pounding. The impending pain and shame pressed on him- the fear of losing all his garments, of being stripped naked. Of being eyed nude by women and girls. Nude, and inevitably erect- with a rearing tallywhacker. And the fear of the savage spanking.

It made his tummy feel as if it had a thousand butterflies.

The boys, ranging from 18 to their late 20s, were downcast, shamed. Their mothers looked fierce and punitive. About half had brought daughters or female cousins to witness their boys' shame. The girls were skittish and expectant, looking forward to the treat. They picked up the anti-self abuse pamphlets and shared text or illustration with a friend, and giggled knowingly.

"A Threat to Manhood," by Reverend Brendan O'Cowl, for example, had been published that year by Catholic Mothers of Britain. The author dilated at length on the physical characteristics of males and there were many diagrams of the male organ in erect and flaccid conditions. And the priest's publication, apparently his life's work, had photos and line drawings of 18 year olds in pyjamas and swimwear, change rooms and bathrooms, camping trips and dormitories- every page laden with foreboding about self abuse, presumably an ever-present danger In such settings. The most explicit featured a boy sitting up in bed, one hand below the sheets, the other clutching a magazine.

As girls passed it around there was much giggling and suppressed laughter, and furtive looks at the captured males in their presence. One girl with freckles and plaits, after passing on Father O'Cowl's pamphlet, stared over at Jack with a knowing grin, looking intently at his lap. As if to say, we know what you look like under those garments and we know what you get up to whenever you can.

A mother spoke. She had a small monkeyish face. Her son next to her was skinny, about 20, with receding chin and pimples. Shame suffused his sad features. His sister was pretty in Doris Day style. She was pert and blond and regularly tossed her hair back, over her shoulder. Her eyes were a piercing grey.

She made Jack think of Mrs Darlene Lacey next door. His cock stretched. He was always stretching, he thought. He believed he suffered more embarrassing erections than any other boy in Manchester.

"His sister and her friends caught him," the mother said, to the whole room. "Apparently thought he had the house to himself, he did. And he was in the nudy...naked as a jay..."

This boy's mother was talking...to this crowded room...about her son's masturbation! Jack was stunned.

And his attractive sister smiled and looked around, proud.

From her bag the mother produced a magazine called French Spice with a cover showing a brunette in skimpy black underwear.

"Don't Mum," her boy pleaded, scarlet. The shame of his secret desires exposed in the crowded room was clearly excruciating.

"Yes, he had his nose in this! He covered up, ramming a cushion over his privates, but Jenny and her friends held him in place till I got home. In the nudy I found him, clinging to the cushion. Trapped."

Jack thought of the scene. The dopey looking boy...cowering for shame...in his birthday suit. Yes, trapped, with that magazine in his hand. And his sister grinning and looking down at him, confiscating the magazine.

There were tsk tsk tsk sounds from mothers. His sister beamed around the room, flicking back blonde hair. Jack noticed she wore lipstick. He imagined her standing over her older brother, 20 years old and still fighting pimples. Her plain, skinny older brother caught in the nude on the sofa in their parlour.

Thinking of the boy's embarrassment, Jack's cock stretched along his left thigh.

Around the room grinning sisters tried to look their own brothers in the eyes. As if to say, "See? Other boys get up to the same stuff that got you into trouble."

"Did you spank his bum?" asked a youngish mother. She looked a bit of a floosy, thought Jack, and indecently excited by the talk of punishment and nudity. Her 19 year old son, sitting by her side, blushed. His skin was white as snow, his shiny black hair in Elvis style, heavy with Brylcreem. He wore leather jacket and jeans, and polished boots.

"Yes, I did spank his bum. I slapped it while I walked him upstairs to his bedroom, twisting an ear. Remember we caught him in the buff so he had no protection. Yes, by the time we were upstairs I had it blazing..."