Emily s Christmas
- 4 years ago
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Chapter One - Therapy
It was after nine o'clock when I left the clinic. I worked until six
o'clock most days, and so my weekly appointment with my therapist was an
evening one, usually starting at seven thirty to give me time to get
there in the evening traffic. Even though you'd have thought peak hour
traffic would've been over by that time, it was getting worse and worse
these days. The drive was stressful, and so by the time I actually got
to the clinic for my appointment, it often took me half an hour or more
to unwind and really get going. That suited my therapist, since I was
the last appointment of the evening and he didn't mind charging me for
the extra time running over the scheduled hour. At that moment, however,
I didn't mind, I felt that I had made a lot of progress that night - the
bill could wait until later.
I had a lot of issues for a guy in his mid-20s. My friends from school,
even the ones who were more awkward and geeky than me, and who were
bullied far worse, all seemed to have grown up and found their place in
the world. I never felt like I had found mine, and until I started going
to therapy, I never felt like I ever would. I had never had a
relationship, and I wasn't even sure whether I had really ever been on a
date. I had gone out with girls I liked, asked them out with the
intention of it being a date, but I suppose I had always come across so
utterly non-threatening that they could just have easily interpreted the
invitations as being non-romantic in nature. In any event, I had never
actually made a move on any of them. Even at parties, even loaded with
alcohol, I could never muster up the courage to slip an arm around a
girl's shoulders or to take advantage of the myriad of opportunities
which seem to present themselves at parties to everybody else. I had
never kissed a girl except family or friends on special occasions. I had
never had sex. I was so desperate that I often fantasised about going to
a prostitute - I was making good money - but ultimately I was always too
scared to actually go through with it. I felt so desperately alone, like
a human island, but no matter how much I wanted to, I could never find
the courage to just ask a girl out on a real date.
I felt like all of this was on the verge of changing, however. My
therapist had told me I was making a lot of progress, and I agreed with
him. I was beginning to feel more comfortable expressing my emotions,
and while no doubt it would take some working up to, I felt sure that
some day soon, I would be able to ask a girl out, even if I was worried
she'd say no. That night we had talked about my experiences at high
school. I had gone to an all boys school, a very sports-oriented one at
that, and I was always terrible at sports. I didn't have any real
excuses, I suppose, since it isn't like I was uncoordinated, at least
not terribly so, or overweight, or asthmatic, or any of the other
problems kids who never seem to take to sports often have. I just hated
sports, and me and the sorts of guys who were good at sports never
seemed to get along anyway.
As I drove out of the clinic's car park and back in the general
direction of my apartment, I reflected on some of the specific incidents
I had just discussed with Dr Farthing, my therapist. One from my school
days stuck in my mind in particular. In the dressing rooms at my
school's gym, we had these terrible communal showers. The showers sat at
the end of the locker room, with a wall dividing them from where boys
kept their gear during lessons, with two doorless doorways at either
end, leading back into the changing area. It was a long room, a couple
of yards across and maybe eight yards long. On one wall were hooks where
you could hang your towel, and on the other wall were the faucets and
shower heads. The floor and walls were all tiled, and there were drains
every few feet. There were no stalls or any other dividers between the
sets of faucets and shower heads - nothing to afford one boy any privacy
from the next boy in the showers. All told, ten boys could shower at
once, if they all stood more or less shoulder to shoulder.
I hated using the shower. It seemed like all the other boys in my gym
class hit puberty before me, and I was very self-conscious about it. I
tried to bring a swimsuit with me to gym class just in case I had to use
the shower - at least then the other boys would only see my hairless
chest, legs and underarms, and not my hairless genitals. Most of the
time I tried to avoid using the shower at all. Not being very good at
sports anyway, I tried to avoid working up much of a sweat, and so I
could usually just change out of my gym clothes back into my regular
clothes without venturing into the showers. The incident I had told Dr
Farthing about tonight, however, happened after one of those rare
classes where I couldn't avoid the showers.
We had been playing football, and I had dirt and grass all over me from
all the times I had been tackled or just casually knocked over during
the class. I must have been about fourteen, and I still didn't have the
slightest hint of even the thinnest of teenage moustaches, or any hair
on any part of my body but my head which wasn't just peach fuzz. I
remember frantically searching my gear for my swimsuit to change into
underneath my towel so that I could go shower without being naked, but
not finding it. Panicked, I reverted to "plan B" - waiting in the
changing area for all the other boys to shower and change and leave
before I ventured into the showers myself. I sat quietly as my fellow
students gradually finished changing and left the room to go to their
next class. Almost everyone had left when my gym teacher entered the
change rooms, pointing at his watch and shouting for us to hurry up and
get to our next class. He looked at me, still filthy, sitting in the
change rooms, and barked at me to hurry up and get into the shower.
Blanching, I mumbled a "yes, sir" before wrapping myself in a towel, and
pulling off my shorts underneath it, so as to not expose myself to the
teacher. I then gingerly stepped into the showers, my bare feet making
almost no sound on the damp, tiled floor. To my relief, there was only
one other boy inside. To my horror, that boy was Scott Brady.
I remember swallowing hard as I stood just inside the shower doorway,
watching Scott Brady's muscular form from behind as he stretched one of
his powerful arms up to wash its underside, revealing the dirty blonde
hair in his armpit as he did so. Scott Brady was a jock. That didn't
really do the term justice, actually. Scott Brady was an athlete, who
lived and breathed sport. In addition to gym class, he played sport for
the school every weekend, and in his local club. It didn't matter which
sport - when the football season ended, he went on to the next sport,
and so on. In addition, when he didn't have training for whatever sport
he was playing that season, Scott came and worked out in the weights
room in the school's gym. He was the star player of every team. He
really was a magnificent specimen of a young man, and he knew it. His
ego was insufferable. He was arrogant beyond words. I hated Scott Brady,
not least because he looked on people who never liked or were good at
sports like me like we were some sort of subhuman lifeform barely worthy
of the oxygen we wasted.
"Are you checking me out, you fucking pervert?" he asked me.
He had turned around and saw me there, standing, watching him. Evidently
I had stood there longer than I had thought. Also evidently, my watching
him didn't really worry him, since he had made no effort to conceal
himself when he turned around. I stammered and turned pink in
humiliation at his question, all the while watching the individual drops
of water roll down his taut pecs, which were clearly defined, through
the tuft of blonde chest hair, down across his hardened abs, and into
the small forest of blonde pubic hair, beneath which hung an
intimidating even while not erect uncircumcised cock, and two large
balls which had clearly dropped even though the scrotum which contained
them remained hairless. Framing his impressive cock and balls were two
bulging quadriceps, topping legs with golden hair starting at the knees
running down to Scott's large, athlete's feet.
"No!" I finally stammered.
"Why are you just standing there?" he had demanded. He was now glaring
at me, watching me intently.
"I'm going to have a shower." I replied.
"Well?" he asked, after a while, gesturing to the half-dozen spaces on
either side of him, all the while still looking at me.
The look he gave me made me think he was going to beat me to a pulp if I
didn't demonstrate that, in fact, I was going to have a shower, and that
I hadn't been just standing there perving on him. Quickly, I removed my
towel and flung it over a hook beside me. It wasn't until this gesture
was finished that I realised how accutely naked I was. Scott gave me a
contemptuous look, his eyes briefly passing up and down my naked,
pre-pubescent form, before turning back around and resuming his
showering, apparently satisfied that I was in the showers for legitimate
reasons. Quickly I darted over to a shower as far away from Scott as I
could, turned on the tap, the cold one only as I recall, and began to
wash the dirt off my arms and legs. The water was freezing, and though I
washed as quickly as I could, my already tiny, hairless circumcised cock
and balls shrunk up, my nipples stood erect, and my hairless skin had
goosebumps all over it by the time I was done.
As I turned the water off, I heard Scott's shower stopping as well. Not
wanting to look at him again, I turned to where my towel was, intending
to make a quick dash for it and then the door. I was a bit surprised
when I realised there was only one towel hanging from the hooks - mine.
I stood still for a moment, shivering from the cold, as I wondered where
Scott's towel was.
"Bring me the towel, bitch." came Scott's deep voice.
I turned towards the voice to see Scott standing there, expectantly. His
shower had been warm, and he wasn't shivering. He crossed his arms in
front of his chest and looked at me menacingly, like I was an opposition
player on the football field he was planning on just running over
instead of running around. I told Dr Farthing that I didn't really know
why, but I found myself retrieving my towel and bringing it to Scott
instead of wrapping it around myself and leaving. Scott unfolded his
arms, and held them out from his body.
"Dry me." he told me, his voice firm and commanding.
I reached out with trembling arms, wrapping the towel around Scott's
powerful midsection, and I began to rub him dry as I stood shivering,
wet and naked before him. I moved the towel up his powerful flanks and
along each arm in turn, without either of us saying a word. Rubbing down
his midsection again, I brought my face within an inch of his taut, bare
flesh as I rubbed and dried his back. I moved down his abs, and then
realised I would soon be face to face with his cock. Blushing, I removed
the towel, kneeled down and started drying up from each foot, up his leg
and thigh. Then I stood up, and I remember reaching with the towel, my
arms trembling, towards Scott's package, before he mercifully stopped
me, taking the towel out of my hands and wrapping it around his waist.
He looked down into my eyes, glanced down at my naked form, and then
back into my eyes. I swallowed hard again, and clutched at my sides,
shivering.
"You fucking faggot." he sneered, and then left the showers.
I looked down and almost died with humiliation when I realised that my
pre-pubescent cock was fully erect. Until that night I had never told
another human being about it again, and I had made sure I was never
alone with Scott Brady again throughout the rest of my school days. As I
had explained to Dr Farthing, I wasn't gay, I had no idea why I had the
erection, or even why I had obeyed Scott's command to dry him. Dr
Farthing asked me whether I had ever fantasised about the incident.
After a painful pause, I had told him that I had. I also told him that
in my fantasies, Scott was usually replaced by a woman. This was true,
excepting the "usually" part. Dr Farthing had asked me whether I had
ever masturbated whilst fantasising about that day in the school gym's
showers. I lied and said no, but I doubt I convinced him. I supposed he
knew, but then, at least he knew without making me say it.
"It's a miracle I haven't had an accident..." I thought, realising I was
almost all the way home now. It was a good thing I did this drive so
often, as otherwise I probably would've gotten lost, with my thoughts
everywhere but on the road. I decided to get something to eat at a fast
food joint on the way back to my apartment, and pulled into the carpark
of a local chicken place.
At no point did I notice the white van which had been following me for
some time...
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