Date: Wed, 7 Dec 2005 15:11:56 +0000 (GMT)
From: Rawley Myers <rawleymyers@yahoo.co.uk>
Subject: A Nice Dilemma

I was not looking forward to this particular interview. I was unnerved at
the prospect and not at all clear in my own mind as to how to handle the
matter. Obviously it would have been singularly inappropriate for Elizabeth
Horrocks to attempt to have dealt with the matter herself and, as Ian's
housemaster, it naturally fell to me.

"You must say something to the boy, Edwin," she had urged me earlier after
dinner.  "It is really quite distracting the way it lollops about as he
walks, and he seems altogether unaware of the effect he is creating."

I knew she was right. I had seen something similar to what she had
described whilst watching a house match, and had even had a word with the
games master about the advisability of compelling the wearing of athletic
supports for the boys. He had dismissed the idea, however, saying they were
only another item for boys to lose along with the rest of their kit.

A tentative knock at my study door arrested me in mid thought.

"Come!" I called absently, turning to see who was to be admitted at my
order. There stood Ian, a nervous grin upon his open boyish face.

"You sent for me, Sir?" he enquired, clearly concerned that he might be in
trouble.

"Yes, I did, Podmore. It's perfectly all right; nothing to get alarmed
about. Come in, come in and sit down. I want to have a word with you,
that's all."

Looking much relieved, the boy turned and closed the door behind him before
moving further into the room towards the chair across my desk. I turned off
the Channel Four news and moved to join him on the same side of the desk,
upbraiding myself almost guiltily as I allowed my eyes to drop to the hem
of his shorts whilst taking up my position.

"Congratulations upon your three tries for the house in Sunday's match, by
the way," I began as an icebreaker. "It was an outstanding effort!"

He blushed appealingly and murmured polite and pleased thanks.

"I know the chaps used to call you `Ipod'," I remarked jocularly, " and
after your efforts on the field I assume, I hear they now call you
`Tripod'!" I chuckled.

Scarlet in the face now, he threw me an anxious and even wounded
glance. Sensing there was something the matter, I leant forward.

"What is it, Podmore, old chap? Something wrong?" I asked in a concerned
tone.

"N-n-no, Sir," he stammered, staring into his lap and nervously tugging on
the hems of his trouser legs. My eyes took in his fine brawny rugger
player's thighs lightly dusted with fine golden hairs.

"To be honest, I'm still not exactly sure what an Ipod is," I desperately
attempted to lighten the atmosphere. "Something to do with computer
downloads of that appalling cacophony you young fellows call music – I know
that much . . ." I began tentatively feeling my way. ". . .And I took it
for granted the nickname was turned into `Tripod' after those three
splendid tries that won us the match?"

He refused to meet my eyes and his silence told me I was wrong in my
assumption.

Inadvertently I had hit upon a sore topic, just as I had strived to find an
easy opening to what I considered to be a far more ticklish subject I was
about to broach with the boy.

"Well, enough of that anyway," I went on, nervously plucking at and
brushing away invisible specks of lint from my grey flannelled thighs as I
crossed my legs. "I wanted to have a quiet word with you on a rather
personal matter, and I hope you will forgive me if what I have to say
embarrasses you; it certainly isn't my intention. Please believe me when I
say I am acting from the very best of motives in this matter."

I cleared my throat nervously. The lad was not giving me the slightest help
in the matter. He just stared glumly into his lap. Poor fellow – he
probably hadn't the least inkling of what I was on about.

"Uniform regulations are, at times, perhaps a little too strictly adhered
to at this establishment," I began, leaning back and studying my ceiling,
lightly tapping my finger tips together, my elbows resting on the padded
leather arms of my chair. "After all, all our boys are not uniform in shape
or size, and allowance should be made for these differences, don't you
think?"

I suddenly became aware that perhaps Ian Podmore was with me after all –
indeed, perhaps he was even ahead of me. Now it was my turn to blush a
little foolishly.

"Whilst it is a longstanding tradition for all boys to spend their whole
time here proudly wearing grey flannel shorts as a symbol of masculine
hardiness, on the taller boys the uniform can accentuate a certain
gangliness or legginess of the developing boy." I cleared my throat a
trifle nervously. "Boxer shorts, whilst eminently sensible and comfortable
for boys as a whole, are perhaps less than satisfactory when one is an
early developer, and needs a little extra support and control."

The silence, which met my tentative remarks, was deafening and I stole a
glance at Ian who remained impassive.

"I was talking to Mr Whittaker over tea after Sunday's match. I was saying
I think some of you bigger chaps could do with jockstraps, don't you know?
Preventing all sorts of embarrassing fallouts, you see?"

It was the young man's turn to clear his throat and squirm a bit in his
chair. I glanced down at him, my eyes attracted even lower and then
widening as I caught sight of a shiny plum sticking out of the left leg
hole of his grey flannel shorts. I stared hypnotically mesmerised by it as
it grew and slid further down his thigh.

"Likewise, perhaps . . . briefs . . . might offer the bigger lad greater –
er – privacy," I ventured, fascinated by the fast engorging member with an
apparent mind of its own and to whose growth the eighteen-year-old owner
seemed strangely impervious.  It began to rise from where it lay pressed
along his thigh, and as it did so it caused the material of his shorts to
pull back thereby causing more of its hard and rampant shaft to be exposed.

"I'm awf'lly sorry, Sir," he whispered, his pale blue eyes both hot and wet
searched my face desperately. He looked absolutely mortified as he
struggled hopelessly to force his tumescence back up the now too tight leg
of his shorts.

I tore my eyes away just as a dewdrop of clear viscous liquid appeared on
the crimson tip of the boy's appendage.

"It – er – can't be helped, my dear chap," I faltered. "These things happen
in the best regulated – erm . . ." Words failed me as I stared openly in
horrified fascination.

By now his fully erect member was on open display and as I gawped foolishly
a testicle flopped out of the stretched leg hole of both shorts and boxers
alike. Not one given to exaggeration, I have to confess that considering
the boy had barely passed his eighteenth birthday he was sporting the
largest erection I had ever seen – not that I had seen a lot, you
understand. Without a word of a lie it cannot have been any less in length
than ten inches, and a vivid, glossy crimson in colour, made all the more
colourful in contrast to his pale blond pubic hair. With increasing
discomfort and concern, I became alarmed to realise that the sight of such
an open display of sexual excitement was having an effect upon my own
reproductive system. I uncrossed my legs and changed my position somewhat
in an attempt to conceal the fact from Ian Podmore – not that he was in the
mood to look about him, I feel sure.

"Well, now things are out in the open, so to speak," I began again, feeling
less inclined to wrap up what I had been about to say, "my feelings are
that, in your case, we can relax the underwear regulations and permit the
wearing of Y-front briefs under your grey school shorts as a means of
preventing further embarrassment for you – and, indeed, Mrs Horrocks also."

Podmore's penis bucked two or three times and he grasped at it as his whole
scrotum was exposed to my view.

"Oh sir, it was awful," he moaned, his eyes filled with tears. "I can't
help it, honestly, sir! She made me go out to the front and read, and it
just came over me, Sir, and everyone could see – including her. There was
nothing I could do to prevent it, and as you can see, once it comes out of
my shorts and stands right up, there's no getting it back until it goes
down again."

"Yes, I see your dilemma," I murmured, staring in fascination at the boy's
truly magnificent equipment, rather like a rabbit in headlights. Was it my
imagination, or was it in fact steaming?

"That's why I'm called Tripod, sir. The lads say it's not a cock; it's a
third leg!"

I watched in enthralment as a silver thread of liquid spider silk began to
slowly descend from the tip of the boy's phallus, succumbing to the pull of
the Law of Gravity. Glancing up at Podmore, I could see that he was
silently cursing his own fecundity.

As I attempted to stealthily put myself in a more comfortable position,
unobserved, only too aware of an embarrassing emission of my own to
conceal, I wondered if the wearing of Y-fronts alone would be enough to
solve this poor young man's dilemma?