Chapter 10: Forced Orgasm
Bruce’s Overture
As Tammy drives us home, the joviality continues. Everyone is recounting the events that have just transpired. It seems everyone has their own favorite scene, and each describes it at length, to the amusement of all.
While this carries on, to my dismay Bruce moves his hands from my knees to the tops of my thighs. When I feel his hands slide to the insides of my thighs, I reach for them with trembling fingers to pull them off. Bruce catches my wrists and lifts them up until my arms are stretched upward and the palms of my hands are flat against the ceiling of the car.
"Leave your hands there and don't move them again, Blondie," Bruce says, his mouth up against my right ear.
I remain in that position. I know better than to disobey him.
"Good boy," he whispers. "Now be still."
I brace myself for another humiliation. Bruce strums his fingers around my nipples, down my sides, then puts both hands on the insides of my knees. With his fingertips he starts caressing my inner thighs, slow and deliberate, inching higher with each stroke. As his strokes near my groin, I involuntarily flinch, slightly lifting off Bruce’s lap. My whole body tenses, waiting.
Bruce puts his mouth to my ear again. “You like that, don’t you, Blondie?” I shake my head, hoping he will stop. Praying he will stop. "I know you
do," he says, and his fingers continue their exploration. "I can feel you trembling."
Everyone else still carries on about the exhibition at the high school, so they're yet unaware of Bruce's advances. He continues stroking my thighs. Then he ever so softly tickles my balls, running his fingertips and thumb back and forth, stimulating the entire sac with feather-light touches. My shoulders contract to a shrugging position, and to my utter horror I feel myself becoming aroused yet again. I fight against the feeling with all my might, but I can't suppress it, even as repulsive as my situation is. Thanks to Bruce’s continual foreplay, my level of excitement escalates despite my desperate resistance.
"Please," I whisper, barely audible. "Please stop."
"I don't think so, Blondie," he purrs back. "We're just getting started."
He strokes the underside of my penis a couple of times, and in a matter of moments I become fully erect. Inevitably, someone notices.
“Hey, check it out, Smoothie’s got a little stiffy again!” squeals Donna, pointing between my legs.
The shrieks of surprise and laughter ring throughout the car. Bruce pulls his hands away momentarily so everyone can have a good look at my erection. My face burns yet brighter. I’m going through very conflicting emotions. On the one hand, I’m thoroughly humiliated to be naked in a car and brought to a state of sexual excitement—by a guy, no less, and in front of nine other people. On the other hand, Bruce really knows what he's doing, and I’m starting to get lost in the overpowering sensation, the pleasure drowning out the shame in surges I can't control.
Bruce continues toying with me, stroking my inner thighs, my balls, and occasionally brushing my now-throbbing penis. The other passengers are engrossed in the display as I sit there vulnerably, at the whims of Bruce’s touch and my involuntary arousal. I can feel their eyes on me, and it makes my skin crawl even as my body responds.
“I think Bruce has found himself a little boyfriend,” I hear someone say.
"More like a little pet," Bruce corrects, his hand wrapping around my shaft for just a moment before releasing. "Aren't you, Blondie? My little naked pet?"
While the laughter continues, Bruce puts his mouth to my ear again. “Tell me how good it feels, Blondie.” I remain silent, my jaw clenched tight, and Bruce squeezes my balls lightly, but hard enough to get my attention. “Tell me,” he repeats. “Say, ‘Ooh, that feels really good.’”
“Ooh, that feels really good,” I say out loud. This brings on hoots and hollers from the unbelieving spectators.
“Say, ‘Oh God, I love the way you touch me, Bruce,’” he whispers to me while continuing to stroke my inner thighs and balls.
I grudgingly repeat his words, to more laughter. “Oh God, I love the way you touch me, Bruce.”
"Louder," he commands. "Say it like you mean it."
"Oh God, I love the way you touch me, Bruce!" I say, louder this time, and the car erupts in cheers and jeers.
“Say, ‘I love being naked around you,’” he whispers. I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. “Say it,” presses Bruce while gently squeezing my balls again, applying just enough pressure to make me whimper.
I swallow hard and take a deep breath. “I love... I l-love being naked around you.”
“But I’m so embarrassed that Tammy and Donna are staring at my hairless little weenie,” he directs.
“I’m so embarrassed that... that Tammy and Donna are staring at my... my... at my hairless little weenie.” I can't help but look up at the two girls, who are both laughing hysterically—and yes, they are staring at my hairless little weenie.
After the laughter dies down, he continues his tormenting. “Say, ‘I want to be your sex slave, Bruce.” I hesitate, and again he squeezes my balls, this time with a little more vigor, enough to make me arch my back.
“I—I want to be your sex slave, Bruce,” I relent.
“Louder, Blondie,” he whispers in my ear. "Shout it out. Let everyone hear what you want to be."
I want to be your sex slave, Bruce!" I yell, my voice cracking. The laughter increases, as does my state of sexual excitement, as Bruce continues fondling me, his fingers working me into a frenzy I can't control.
“Good boy. Now tell me to make you come.”
"Make me come," I say, the words barely audible.
"Say please," Bruce prompts. His fingertips brush lightly against my penis. "Beg me."
"Please." The anguish in my voice is unmistakable.
"Say, 'Oh, Bruce, please make me come!'" he says. "Yell it." As he speaks, he pulls a small tube of lubricant from his pocket. He came prepared. He squeezes some into his palm and spreads it over my aching member. The sensation is exquisite, even as another part of me burns with humiliation. I begin pumping my hips back and forth, desperately seeking relief.
"Oh, Bruce, please make me come!" I scream, the plea carrying far more sincerity than I would have liked.
Sexual Frenzy
The group is utterly spellbound by the spectacle unfolding before them. I'm on the verge of orgasm, my whole body tensed and trembling, and somehow Bruce senses this and loosens his grip. The sudden absence of sensation is agony. I continue driving my hips back and forth until I realize I'm pumping at thin air, my movements desperate and pathetic. Completely frustrated, I settle back down on Bruce’s lap. When I do, I feel the unmistakable bulge in his pants against my backside. Bruce takes advantage of my weight and rotates his hips, and I feel his protrusion rubbing against me, using me for his own pleasure.
He is now stroking my balls, maintaining my level of sexual pleasure at a maddening plateau. He gradually raises his hand, inching toward my undersized but rock-hard penis. When I feel his fingers on my cock I become vocal without prompting.
“Please, let me come,” I moan.
He wraps his hand around my penis lightly, and I pump my hips, more furiously this time.
“Whoa!” somebody cries out in amazement. "Blondie's really into it! Look at him go!"
"Horny little thing, isn't he?" Donna comments, her voice filled with wicked amusement.
Once again, to my utter frustration, Bruce lets go and I collapse on his lap. “Oh God, please, I can’t take it anymore! Please, Bruce, please!" I implore.
I need to explode so badly that I ache. I dearly want to reach down and use my own hand, to finish what he started, but I'm pretty certain that won't be allowed. He continues stroking my entire body, strategically avoiding my throbbing cock. The height of my sexual heat that he has kindled is nearly unbearable.
I try to take matters into my own hands, my right hand darting down, but he catches my wrist and quickly puts it back up against the ceiling, pressing it there with his own hand.
“Uh-uh-uh,” he admonishes. “Keep your hands right where they are.”
Bruce continues his relentless teasing. As he strokes the skin near my balls, my whole body moves about in a state of sexual frenzy, writhing and bucking against his lap. The group in the car is dead silent now, agape as they look on in fascination. They can’t quite believe what they’re seeing, and I’m sure the visual will remain with them forever. I’m fully aware of their attention, but my need for fulfillment has taken precedence over anything else.
"Please," I beg, the word becoming my entire vocabulary.
Bruce then raises his right hand in the air, about a foot above my genitals. He cups his fingers, creating a canal with his hand, an invitation and a command. Taking the cue, desperate and beyond shame, I lift my torso into his waiting hand. The position is absurd—my head is now upside down across Bruce’s lap while my hands and feet brace against the seat for balance, my body arched into an inverted U toward the ceiling. My hips are hoisted as high as I can manage.
I hear the giggling from the fellow passengers and am fully aware of how outrageous this scene must appear to them, how ridiculous I look, how completely I have surrendered. But I have one objective in mind, and I know what I must do. My aggressor cups his hand around my erect penis.
"Go ahead, Blondie," he says. "Fuck my hand."
I need no further prompting. While he holds his hand still, I wildly pump my hips up and down, seeking the friction I crave, the release I need. I see the flash from Donna's camera, but don't let it distract me. I'm just about to climax, my whole body tensing, and once again Bruce lets go of my penis. Agonized to the max, I continue pumping my hips in midair, desperately hoping to feel his grip again, my movements becoming more frantic, more pathetic. Bruce lowers his mouth down to my ear.
"I want to hear you beg for it, Blondie," he whispers. "I want to hear how much you need this. How much you need me."
“Oh, please, Bruce, please, let me come!” I shriek. “Please, Bruce, I’m begging you! I'll do anything, anything you want, just please let me come!"
I stop rocking my hips but maintain my position, my body trembling with exertion and need. Bruce pauses for a few seconds, while everybody waits with bated breath. I beg some more, my voice cracking. “Please, Bruce, I need to come! Please make me come! Oh, please!”
Then I feel his hand around my cock again, but with a little bit of a squeeze. I feverishly pump my hips, my movements wild and uncontrolled. This time he doesn't let go. He keeps his grip tight, his hand working me, and I reach a state of ecstasy, the likes of which I've never felt before.
"
Ohhhhhhhh!" I moan as my body convulses wildly as a wave of sexual gratification sweeps over me, my hips bucking, my back arching, my whole being consumed by the orgasm. Because I am prepubescent there is no ejaculate, but it is quite evident to all that I am in the throes of sexual bliss. I continue pumping Bruce's hand until I am completely satisfied, my movements gradually slowing.
When I'm done, Bruce releases my cock and I slump back down in his lap, now totally spent, my body limp and trembling. I feel dampness from the protrusion in his pants, the evidence of his own pleasure at my expense. I clench my eyes shut as I realize that the motion from my head on his lap has brought him to orgasm. For the second time that day, I've played a reluctant role in the sexual gratification of my tormentor.
“Simultaneous orgasm, Blondie,” grins Bruce. “Isn’t that awesome?”
His hands rest on my upper thighs. As I sit there and slowly recover from my sexually gratifying, but profoundly mortifying orgasm, the reality of what has transpired starts setting in. My humiliation is complete, and seemingly there is nothing else imaginable that they can do to me to further it.
The car ride home is uncharacteristically quiet, the earlier hysteria giving way to exhaustion after the day's outrageous antics. When we pull into the driveway, I step out cautiously, still instinctively covering myself with my hands, the habit too strong to break. Curiously, even after all I've been through, I'm still self-conscious about my nudity.
Inside, everyone collapses into the nearest available seat, their laughter finally subdued. I perch on the edge of the couch, barely able to find my voice, my throat dry and scratchy.
“Can somebody please give me my clothes?” I ask weakly. "Please? I just want to get dressed and go home."
Taking a cue from Bruce, one of the guys gets up and ambles toward the hallway, while I sit there hugging my knees to my chest, trying to preserve whatever modesty I have left. When he returns, he carries my jeans and t-shirt crumpled in his arms. He tosses them at my feet. I don't see my underpants, and I recall the dreadful memory of seeing them flying by the window of the station wagon hours before, though that feels like a different lifetime ago. Without hesitation, I grab my jeans and pull them on—an act so simple, yet after everything, it feels almost foreign. I have never been so grateful for clothes in my life.
The Pictures
As I continue getting dressed, Bruce holds up Donna's phone, apparently going through the pictures. Everyone clusters behind him, pressing close, and the gaiety picks up again as they relive the incredible events of the day.
"Ooh, look at this one," Donna says, pointing over Bruce's shoulder. "You can see everything. Zoom in."
"Check out his face here," Tammy giggles. "He looks like a deer in headlights. A
naked deer."
"Watch this video," Bruce says. "It's right when he lost it. Look at the little guy twitch."
I finish dressing, and Bruce looks from the phone, grinning. "I just emailed you a few souvenirs, Blondie," he says, waving the phone at me. "I think you're going to like them."
I say nothing, and shudder as I mentally visualize what some of the pictures must portray. My face, my body, my most private moments displayed.
As I head towards the door, desperate for escape, everyone calls out, “Bye Blondie!”
"Thanks for the show!"
"See you soon, naked boy!"
I don’t look back. My hand is on the doorknob, turning it, when I hear, “Hey Blondie!” I turn at the door and look back. Bruce is standing in the center of the room, the phone still in his hand. "Thanks," he says, then puckers his lips in an exaggerated mock kiss. I show no reaction. I turn and walk out.
As I exit, I hear his parting shot: “Let's get together for a private party real soon, just you and me.” I ignore him and keep walking. "I'll get you naked again," he calls out, louder, his voice following me down the driveway. "And you can use your cute little
mouth to get me off next time.”
I cringe at the repulsive mental image and break into a trot. The sound of his laughter gradually fades, and I don’t stop running until he is completely out of earshot.
On my way home, my hands won't stop shaking. I can't stop myself from pulling my phone out. I open my e-mail account and see the subject matter: "Naked."
There are several attachments, each one capturing me in the middle of some fresh humiliation. Naturally, I'm naked in every single one. The first photo shows me from behind, running during the fire drill, my buttocks clenched and my hands clasped behind my head subserviently. I quickly flip to the next image, which catches me standing naked in the park, holding a Frisbee high above my head, my prepubescent body completely exposed. The third photo was taken from inside the station wagon. It's a side view of me standing on the hood. In the background, a line of people along the sidewalk stare wide-eyed, pointing and grinning without restraint.
I quickly go through the rest of the pictures, difficult as it is for me. Each one captures a new indignity, another moment of my misery preserved forever. They documented everything.
I put the phone back in my pocket, making a mental note to delete the email when I get home. Of course, I know that won't solve anything. The pictures are already out there, and there's nothing I can do about that. My only hope is that they aren't shared with anyone else—that they remain strictly in the hands of my fiendish friends.
Little do I know the high price I will have to pay for this hope to become a reality.
Epilogue
For the rest of spring break I pretty much stay within the confines of my room, trying to mentally recover from the devastating ordeal I have experienced. I feel a little better as each day passes, although I know it will be a long time, if ever, before I fully get over the trauma. Maybe I never will.
I get out of the shower on Friday morning and decide to face the day. I get dressed and go downstairs, ready to venture outside. The fresh air might help, I tell myself. I almost believe it.
I pick up my phone, and much to my apprehension there is an email from Bruce. My blood turns to ice water. My hands start to shake.
In the subject box is written "To My Naked Slave."
I cringe, my whole body contracting around the sick feeling in my gut, as I reluctantly open it. Attached are three pictures. The first one is a close-up of my prepubescent genitals, every detail visible, every hairless inch exposed. I cannot look away fast enough, yet I cannot look away at all. My face burns with shame.
The next one is the full, naked shot of me holding the Frisbee high over my head my body stretched out, on display.
The third one is the worst. It's a shot of me and my slender four-inch hard-on, captured at the moment of climax. My mouth is wide open, and my eyes are clenched shut—the classic expression of someone in the throes of orgasm.
I feel like I'm going to be sick.
In the text of the message, Bruce writes that he is pretty sure I wouldn’t want any of the pictures to be sent to my sister and her friends. He doesn't say what will happen if I refuse. He doesn't have to. I know exactly what he means.
He says he has been thinking about me all week. Thinking about my body. Thinking about what he plans to do with me. His words make my skin crawl. I can feel him watching me even now, even through the screen.
Evidently his parents will be out of town for a while, and he wants me to come over tonight and spend the long three-day weekend with him. He claims I owe him for the handjob in the car, and he has wonderful ideas about how I can repay him. His slightly older sister and her best friend will be at the house, but he doesn't expect them to get in our way all that much.
He goes on to say that he has derived considerable pleasure throughout the week with the visual aid of the attached pictures, and that he thinks it will be much more enjoyable if I can assist him with his pleasure “in the flesh.” He adds that the pun is intended.
Also included in the email are the phrases “private nudie shows,” “sensuous lap dances,” "naked videos," and “cute little sex slave.” Each one hits me like a slap. I read them over and over. I can't stop reading them.
I am given explicit instructions: I am to borrow one of my sister's bras and a pair of her panties. They must be a matching set. The thought of wearing my sister's underwear makes me want to die. The thought of him seeing me in it is even worse.
He informs me that I would look adorable in pink. He says I would look sexy in black. "Virgin white" would also be appropriate, he says, provided it has plenty of lace. If my sister doesn't own a matching set in any of those colors, then I'll have to purchase one myself. I'll have to go to a store. I'll have to pick them out. I'll have to pay for my own humiliation.
I am to put them on under my regular clothes before walking the three blocks to his house. When I arrive, precisely at six o'clock, I will find a garbage bin waiting by the sidewalk. My instructions are simple: remove all of my boy clothes and deposit them in the bin, since I won't be needing them anymore. Those are his exact words. "You won't be needing them anymore."
Then I am to clasp my hands behind my head, elbows back and chest out, and proceed very slowly down the long walkway. According to him, the three of them will be watching from an upstairs window, enjoying every moment of my approach. There is also a slight chance that his next-door neighbor might see me if she happens to be near her window. He assures me that she is a nice lady who would undoubtedly be entertained by the sight of a boy parading down the walkway in girls' underwear for her viewing pleasure.
He says not to worry about the dog, that she won't bite, but will probably sniff my pantied crotch while I walk. I'm to make sure my hands remain clasped behind my head until I reach the door, no matter what the dog does, no matter who sees me.
Once there, I am to ring the doorbell. The two girls will answer eventually. Perhaps not immediately, he warns. If they choose to keep me waiting, I am to stand there patiently until they decide to come to the door.
Evidently he has shown his sister and her friend the pictures, and they are big fans of mine. They can't wait to meet me in person. They are especially excited about filming me dancing naked for them, and they will be sure to share the video with me so I can see how sexy I look. They think it will be quite amusing to watch my hairless little pee-pee jiggling around when they view the video later that weekend on their big-screen television, and that watching in slow motion mode would be quite entertaining, capturing every bounce and jiggle in exquisite detail.
As a reward, they promise to leave the two of us "lovebirds" alone for the rest of the night once I've danced around in my bra and panties for a while, performed a striptease, and finished my naked dance routine for their amusement. Only then will I get a moment alone with him. Only then will the real nightmare begin.
He says that when he told them how Donna and Tammy played with my penis, they got excited and said they couldn't wait to do the same, and that they were looking forward to seeing my cute little hard-on and playing with it, taking turns touching it. He says they might even make me come, or instead they might have me jack off while I'm dancing for them. In any case, I can expect the girls to have their way with me for the foreseeable future, whenever they want, however they want. There is no end in sight. There is no way out.
He says that it goes without saying that once the girls have the video in hand, I will be at their mercy forever, and that knowing them, they will not hesitate to take full advantage of their newfound leverage over me, and will make me cater to their devious whims whenever they please. He adds that I shouldn't worry, that he would only allow this to happen on days I am not busy entertaining
him, and that when we all get together we can work out a fair schedule for my services.
Bruce says that after my performance I'm to spend the rest of the weekend in the nude, and that the three of them would be delighted if I could cook and serve their meals. He says the girls have never had a naked boy serve them before, and that they were very excited and giggly when they came up with the idea. They told Bruce to tell me not to fret, that I won't have to be
completely naked, since they have a pretty, frilly maid's cap for me to wear while serving them. He adds that he is getting hard just imagining the visual, and that when he finishes writing this email he will probably pleasure himself while fantasizing about my naked servitude, my humiliation, my complete submission to his will.
Finally, he says he is especially looking forward to teaching me the fine art of administering the perfect blow job after I get him all horny with my sexy, naked dances. He is quite graphic, saying he is certain he can show me how to use my mouth and tongue just the right way—that I can start by licking and sucking his balls until he is "really worked up." Then he'll teach me how to "lick his cock all over," how to caress it with kisses from my "sensuous lips," and how my "cute little mouth" will envelop his "throbbing love tool." Yes, he actually wrote that, those exact words, and I can feel the bile rising in my throat as I read them.
He'll also show me how to lovingly stroke his balls with my "dancing fingers" while I'm busy sucking his cock, how to look up at him with adoring eyes while I service him. For the grand finale, he knows I will really enjoy swallowing his "love juices" when I bring him to a screaming orgasm, and he expects me to thank him afterward.
Though I am positively revolted by the whole scenario, my skin crawling with dread and humiliation, suffice it to say that I would probably do just about anything to keep those pictures from going public.
End
