Editor's note: this story contains scenes of rough, reluctant, dubiously consensual, or non-consensual sex or scenarios.
*****
Part One: females scope erections at the pool.
Jack loved going naked at Manchester Y. It was the freedom, the liberation, of going "clothes free," in the nuddy, stripped to "the altogether." And with only males around. And with an opportunity to "show off" his new muscles.
In the old change room, smelling of damp masonry and dirty socks, standing in front of a spotted mirror, he would shuck out of his overalls and checked flannel shirt and slide down his Y fronts. With his cock filling out in the excitement, he would take- if there were no other members near him- long admiring views of his transforming physique. He might risk a furtive glance at the photo of a favourite body builder in Physique Pictorial- Californian muscle men in straining posing straps- which he kept at the bottom of his roller bag. For inspiration.
Then, swinging a towel, he'd stride naked into the tiled corridor and encounter the admiring glances of nuggety veterans still living the barracks room discipline of the war years and of skinny 18 year olds hooked on physical culture.
"You piling on the 'ole muscle," said Fred Garland, who had landed with the 50th division at Gold Beach on D Day. "Wow! Fuckin' hell!" gasped a ravaged Teddy Boy, with a perky uncut sausage between his thighs, flattening himself against the wall to let Jack pass.
He would enter the weights room with its floor to ceiling mirrors, its rows of rusty dumbbells and barbells, its ancient pulleys and straps. Anytime of day its benches would be occupied by naked Mancunians straining for the V-shaped symmetry- the roof beam shoulders and 28 inch waists- of Ancient Greece. From wall to wall the room was crowded with cleft buttocks and exposed groins.
Unabashedly, males flexed before mirrors in which the slanting light from the high windows and shadows cast by nineteenth century pilasters and Corinthian columns highlighted their bulges and brawn. Or stared greedily at the carved triceps and rock hard glutes of the best built of the members.
A new recruit might shyly present on his first visit in vest and shorts. But one of the old timers, scratching his balls, would pull him aside and say, "We fought for the right to work out in the 'bare scud', fella, don't spoil it for the rest." The youngster would be directed to the change room and re-emerge naked, blushing and hands fluttering over his privates but soon, regarding nudity as his second costume, he would be stalking the floor bold as a Spartan like all the others.
Females intruded only on Saturday afternoons in the pool and only because some dingbat in the Y management had surrendered to the notion that family members might be admitted to watch 18 year olds complete in weekly swim contests.
Hence by 3pm a gaggle of mothers- say, eight to a dozen- and sisters, cousins or friends- say, 15 or so- would be skittishly assembled. All giggles and beaming smiles and lively jokes. And why wouldn't they be excited? What a treat! Young men naked as Adam...in all their glory, in all their variety. And the boys would be embarrassed to the core...that's a treat too. And they'll be terrified of their cocks standing up unbidden! Boy oh boy, there was no entertainment to rival a swim competition at Manchester YMCA. With the juiciest offering of all: seeing a son or brother, a cousin or neighbour, stripped to his birthday suit. Yes, absolutely in the buff! And him knowing we're seeing him!
And that handsome young trainer, Jack, who would be on view the whole time. Unbelievable!
Wow!
Jack earnt two pounds a week for conducting the swimming which went to buying his extra milk, eggs and liver- his muscle food.
He dreaded this weekly exposure when he would have to walk around in front of the females wearing nothing more than a stop watch and whistle around his neck.
Not so his friend, Garry Stimson, the painter and decorator who had suffered at Gerda's disciplinary establishment and who worked out with Jack and shared astonishing talk about sex. In the corridor at Gerda's he was the one who would expose his monumental erections, shocking the mums and sisters with a quick flash.
Garry was a tall, lanky youth with blond hair in a crew cut and a cheeky, freckled face. Making it look like he was here because of a comradely interest in his friend's coaching, Garry drifted into the pool area, chewing gum. He was stark naked, of course, and what he called his "fat lobcock" swung low between his thighs.
Not giving the female corner a glance he casually leant on a column and cast an appraising look over the competitors in the water as if absorbed in their swimming styles.
He seemed oblivious to the fact every one of the women and girls...
...without exception...
...was carefully studying him...
...watching gluttonously...
...this cute young man, lean as a greyhound, who had ever-so-idly arrived on the scene...
...as it happened, bare buck naked.
Every mum and sister was noticing that his cock was stretching. And they were all watching, hypnotised by it.
Garry knew precisely what his organ was doing.
His glans pulled out of the bunched foreskin- "the lipstick out!" as he was fond of saying-
...the industrial-strength artery sprouted on the stem...
...one jerk followed another...
...and soon his rod was parallel to the tiles.
There was a silent gasp from the onlookers.
And he knew, without watching, that every female was fixated on this penile progression. Watching with lubricious stares. And everyone of them was possessed of the wicked, unmentionable thought: that boy's thing is designed to penetrate me, down there. Every hard inch of it. To slide into me.
And I wonder what it would feel like.
From the door to the pool- just out of sight of the females- the 28 year old firefighter George, Jack's neighbour in Eccles Street, could see the drama. At his side, so could club veteran Johnny, nicknamed after Johnny Weissmuller.
"Couldn't pull their eyes away from a rising cock if you marched a row of circus elephants in there," said the old timer. "Can't take their eyes off that young fella's tallywhacker if you offered them a thousand pounds!"
George, too, was fascinated by the hypnotic effect. He sensed the thrill Garry was feeling, knowing every female eye was captivated by his member. And, on cue, Garry gave them another jolt. It was pointing higher now. Casually, the boy scratched his left testicle and concentrated on the breast stroke of Jack's pupils without taking even a sidelong glance at the women and girls.
George saw the expression on the face of one of the young women. She was bug-eyed and licking her lips. Staring at Garry's rising rod in hypnosis.
His own stout cock stretched.
"Look at 'em bitches on heat," muttered Johnny. "All of 'em dreaming about wrapping their twats around that boy's meat stick. Ready to play 'hide the sausage' with his dirty fat bratwurst..."
The words stirred the firefighter. They made George's bratwurst jerk quick and decisive into a textbook 45 degree erection. It was "a mighty steed," in the language of the nineteenth century pornography that he and Darlene read together.
Darlene also got excited when he took home stories from the Y- about his own embarrassing erections or funny shaped cocks or male-on-male games in the steam room. She pressed for details. They got her excited. The buffing that followed was always juicy. If he were to step out now this would be another arousing anecdote for his frisky wife. He took a breath and, sporting his organ like a gladiator a broad sword, he strode into the pool area.
He willed himself not to glance at the females, even as he was aware his stiffened meat was wobbling in front...and must be grabbing their astonished attention.
He feigned a carefree, "all males together" expression as he approached Garry whose own mighty steed was continuing to rise while he leant with one elbow on the column.
He opened conversation with the pleasantly surprised young man...who quickly caught on...playing the game of talking about the swimmers ("Lane three's a fuckin' master of breast stroke," "Kid from Grafton...got his ole mum cheering him on" "Now that's a first rate turn") with not a glance at the females...
...all of whom were devouring them, with longing, ravenous, silent stares.
From the corner of his eyes Jack saw his friends chatting nonchalantly, big bold erections sprouting. In fact young Garry's was completing its finally trajectory, to stand nearly flattened against his concave tummy. And in the other direction Jack caught the flushed face of a 40 something mum, eyes glazed by the rigid flesh sported by the two lounging males. Unable to look in any other direction. Yes, hypnotised.
Even while he walked the edge of the pool, Jack felt powerful urges stirring. Thoughts of 18 year old boys exposed at nudist camps...he himself being forced to strip off in Gerda's waiting room in front of girls and mothers...the wide eyes of the females who had spied him as his Y fronts had slithered down his legs...being sprung by those two girls in his bedroom masturbating over that nudist magazine...
...the warm, gooey sense of hopelessness...the prickling excitement of involuntary exposure.
In a flash Jack's cock jerked parallel to the tiles...
...and as he turned with the swimmers to walk back along the pool he was aware he was presenting himself to the seated females.
From the corner of an eye he saw one 18 year old point at his groin and elbow her friend. The friend's eyes widened like saucers.
The gesture- and their yearning stares- sent another jolt into his member. It jerked higher. He suffered a full nine and a half inch "prong-on."
Now the bulk of mothers and sisters wrenched their stares from Garry and George to focus on Jack's embarrassment. The coach was closer- almost in touching distance.
The swimmers slowed, close to exhaustion...
...and in time with them Jack's poolside walk slowed...
...his cock jerked upwards...
...and everyone of the dozen or so mothers and the 15 or so girls was staring at Jack's hard-as-a-hammer stiffie...
...so immaculately presented...
...as he walked the length of the pool, in his birthday suit with whistle and stopwatch swinging from his neck.
"Fine figures...these young men," he heard one mother say as he passed, so close they might see the veins on his stem. Was she talking about...their three cocks?
"Very athletic. Good examples for our sons," said her companion, skyping Jack's groin at eye level, her eyes bulging, his rock hard projection wobbling in front of him.
Jack came to the end of the pool. For a precious moment in one glance the females could take in his profile, cock reared, and the two males on the other side of the pool, Garry and George, casually positioned as if the females weren't looking, their erections also on proud display.
The young painter and decorator, Garry, nonchalantly chewed his gum, looking at George, the Manchester fireman, who spoke about swim styles, as if there were no females around.
With these three assertive erections on display a daughter must have gushed a question to her mother who was now earnestly, in a hushed voice, giving the girl an explanation: "...no, it's just the way nature works, dear...male sex organs...they need to get hard like that...to achieve entry...sometimes when they're young it just happens..."
At that moment Jack turned, to walk another lap and caught a glimpse of the pudgy girl- the girl who had been questioning her mother about erections- her eyes focused right on his hard flesh. Her mother's eyes were incandescent too, wide and greedy. A thrill coursed through Jack. He couldn't deny this excitement. Then he glimpsed a girl staring, while she fingered her breasts under her summery blouse...another who sat bending forward, both elbows pressed into her thighs...and two cheery blondes who leant into one another grinning pruriently as they scoped Jack's stand-up dick.
