Date: Wed, 22 Sep 2004 19:57:17 -0700 (PDT)
From: alton free <altonfree@yahoo.com>
Subject: Pressure Part 2

Disclaimer:  This is a work of fiction.  No actual psych majors were
harmed in the telling of this story.  If you are offended by homosexual
situations or homosexuality in general, loosen up.  Failing that, stop
reading and go do something else.  If you are underage or it is illegal
for you to be reading this where you're at, grow up and/or move.  Also,
stop reading.

Author's Note:  Thanks for all the praise, guys!  Sorry I couldn't
answer everybody who wrote, but as for the questions I got the most:
"Pressure" is the first story I've written for the net, and I plan to
submit a chapter a week.  I'm busy on chapter 4 right now.  Please let
me know how you think it's coming along: I'd be particularly interested
in anything that's not working for you.  Feedback and/or criticism
cheerfully accepted at altonfree@yahoo.com.  Please put "Pressure" in
the subject line so it isn't automatically deleted.  Enjoy!


Pressure:  Part 2

By Alton Free


"Strip"

Whatever he'd been expecting, that wasn't it.  If I wasn't so scared,
the look of shock on his face would have had me laughing; I almost did
anyway.  He turned beet red.  Seriously, I've never seen anyone blush so
hard.

"What?!  Why?!"

I'd decided to spring it on him without any explanation; it may have
been a mistake, but I'd wanted to see his knee jerk reaction to the
order.  I was semi-pleased (among other semi things).  He didn't bolt
for the door.  He didn't take a swing at me.  He didn't reach for the
phone to call the dean.  He also didn't take his clothes off, but his
questions indicated a willingness to listen.  I hoped he'd hear me out.

I looked at him kindly.  He was regaining his composure, but disbelief
and confusion still reigned on his face, and I could tell I'd have to do
some fancy talking to convince him that this was a viable plan.  "Sit
down, Travis", I said softly, and he did so, still a bit red in the
face.

"The problem is pressure.  You feel it in the classroom, you don't feel
it here.  Basically, what I'm suggesting is a bit like that old dream
everyone has: where you find yourself at school in your underwear.  My
hope is that by creating a real source of tension for you here, with both
of us working together to help you work through it, it will enable you to
deal with the tension you feel in your real classes.  It's not the same
kind of pressure, I know, but there's no real way to simulate that
here.  You'll always know these quizzes are meaningless, no matter how
much pretending we do.  But if you have to do them in your underwear..."

"I can't do that," he interrupted.  He was STILL red; I hoped
prolonged blushing didn't have medical complications.  If he eventually
agreed to my plan, he'd be glowing red for awhile.  Three hours a week
of blushing...but I was getting ahead of myself.  He just said he
wouldn't do it.  I stopped rambling to myself and focused on what he was
saying.

"I can't do that," Travis repeated.  "I don't see how it would work,
anyway.  It would only be you and me here...that's not much tension."

But I think we both knew at that point just how much potential tension
there could be.  However, the important thing was he hadn't really
rejected the idea; he'd rejected the execution.  I felt a surge of hope.

"Why can't you do it, Trav?" I asked him.

"Because...I...it's just..." he stammered, blushing away, looking down at
the desk top.

"Hey," I said.  He looked up at me, then quickly looked away.
"That's my plan.  Short of threatening one of your loved ones with
bodily harm right here while you work, I can't think of anything else
that would create the kind of high-pressure atmosphere we need to work on
this block.  It has to be something that happens here, while you work,
and it has to put you in an uncomfortable situation.  If you have another
suggestion, I'm more than willing to listen.  I just want to help you,"
I said, feeling slightly ashamed.  I DID want to help him; more than
anything else, that's what this was about, but that was not, indeed, ALL
I wanted.  I wondered if he'd pick up on that.

"I just...I can't," he said.  He looked trapped, and I knew I needed to
back off.  I couldn't bully him into it; he had to agree on his own.

"Okay.  Tell you what: do the practice quiz now.  IMAGINE you're in
your underwear, sitting in class with all your fellow students.  Maybe
that will be enough." Looking at him, I thought it just might be; he
still hadn't regained his composure.  But he agreed to take the quiz and
use his imagination.

I didn't stare out at the commons this time; I looked right at him the
entire 30 minutes.  He was clearly uncomfortable, yet he eventually
stopped blushing.  He appeared to be having a more difficult time of it
than he'd had with the first quiz; he worked right up to the buzzer.
When he handed me the paper, his hand shook.

I read it over quickly.  I don't know whether or not he'd really
managed to convince himself he was in his skivvies, or if he was still
shook up by the initial suggestion, but the results were poor in any
case.  He passed the quiz by one question, whereas he'd aced the first
one he took with no trouble.  This actually delighted me: it convinced me
I was on to something.

I shared the results with him.  He was a good student, and he already
knew he'd done poorly.  I was willing to bet that if I'd given him the
quiz before I made my suggestion, he'd have gotten 100%; belatedly, I
wish I'd thought to have a before and after quiz to prove my point.
However, by the look on his face when I told him his score, the point had
been made.

"I think it could work, Trav," I said softly.  "Just the thought of it
made you under-perform; if you'd actually taken it in your underwear, I
bet you'd have failed miserably.  And then we could work on getting you
through it...so that you'd ace it under any conditions.  I've got some
homework for you, if you don't mind.  I want you to give serious thought
to doing the next one of these little quizzes in your skivvies.  Just
think about it.  That's all I ask."

"I...okay," he said, more than a little shaken up at the prospect.  He
reached behind him for his book bag and swung it around in front of him
as he stood, in one fluid motion.  Very graceful.  And very quick.  But
not quite quick enough.  Not quick enough to prevent me from receiving
the biggest shock I'd had since this stud walked into my office for the
first time.  A shock that prevented me from doing more than nodding my
head as he hurried out the door.

Travis had a hard-on.

A HUGE hard-on.  A hard-on that had leaked enough pre-cum to soak a
quarter-sized spot in his jeans.

I sat down at my desk in a daze, my own cock lengthening rapidly.  Travis
said he didn't want to have any part of my plan.  But a part of him
apparently disagreed.



We were scheduled to meet again on Friday.  I more than half-expected him
not to show.  Every time the phone rang, I was sure it was either Travis
calling to tell me he didn't need my help anymore, or the dean telling
me to pack my stuff.  But I heard nothing from either as time wore on.
As Friday at three approached, my heart sped up...every sound I heard
seemed magnified.   At three, I looked expectantly at the door, knowing
he was always prompt.  By 3:10, I began to realize he wasn't coming.

I felt bad.  Bad because I'd embarrassed him, bad because I wouldn't be
able to help him, and yes, bad because I wouldn't get to see him without
his clothes on.  I'd made my peace with my conscience; the plan was
self-serving, but it was also, I truly believed, in Travis' best
interest.  However, I couldn't deny the fact that I'd rubbed more than
a few out since Wednesday afternoon, recalling that denim outline and
that quarter-sized spot.  I'm a guy, after all.  It might not be pretty,
but it's a fact of life: guys are slaves to their dicks.  Still, I was a
little relieved to find that, turning it over in my mind, my biggest
disappointment lay in the fact that I wouldn't be able to help him.

That's when I heard the knock at the door.

I looked up, and there he was.  Still with a too-big t-shirt, still with
baggy jeans (different jeans, I was sure).  The expression on his face
was new, though.  He looked terrified.

"Can I come in?" he asked.

I refrained from shouting "Of course you can!" in an inappropriately
jocular tone, and simply said, "Sure."

He walked over to the desk-chair, again equipped with quiz and paper, and
placed his bag down beside it.  He half-turned to me, and said, shyly,
"I was standing outside for five minutes trying to get up the nerve to
come in."

"Well, here you are," I said, lamely.  We stood there for a moment
digesting that remark, and I felt absurdly like I'd felt when I'd run
into an old lover with whom I'd had a bad breakup.

Finally, I said, "Have you thought about what we discussed?"

"Yeah, I have", he said.  "Do you really think it could help?"

"I wouldn't have suggested it if I didn't," I said.

He looked at me a moment, then, looking away, said, "Okay, we can give
it a shot."

At that, a thrill traveled the length of my spine and collected itself
around my groin.  I had a horrifying moment where I thought I might burst
into song.  Composing myself as best I could, I said, "Alright."

"What do you want me to do?" he asked, still not looking at me, the
familiar blush rising from his neck.

 "Oh, baby, if you only knew," I thought, but managed to stop myself
from saying.

Trying to lighten the mood, I said, briskly, "Okay, sailor, drop
`em!"  He looked stricken, and I instantly regretted my attempt at
levity.  The blush was in full-force now, and I was afraid he might
faint.  I have never met ANYONE so shy about taking off their clothes.

"Sorry.  Why don't you start with your shoes?" I suggested, feigning
an indifferent manner.  As he bent down to unlace his sneakers, I looked
away, attempting to give him some privacy.  I thought about stepping
outside till he was in his shorts, but no force on earth could have moved
me from the room at that point.

I heard him pull them off, and then the sinuous sound of his socks
following suit.  I sensed hesitation, and glanced at him briefly.  He had
his arms crossed with his hands grabbing the bottom of his t-shirt, ready
to pull it up and off, and suddenly, I was the one who was stricken.  I
felt like I was taking complete advantage of this kid.  I'd assumed that
he'd realize from the get-go just what I'D be getting out of this
little arrangement, but the thought didn't seem to have occurred to
him.  He apparently didn't know that I would be deriving as much
pleasure as he would embarrassment from this exercise, and that suddenly
struck me as decidedly unfair.

"Wait," I said.  He paused, hands still clutching the hem of his shirt,
and looked at me quizzically, face beet red.  "Sit down for a minute,"
I said.

I could tell he was relieved that his exposure would be delayed, and
hopeful that it would be denied, as he slid into his chair.   I leaned
against my desk and looked down at him.

"I want you to know what you're getting into," I said.  "I'm not
sure if you know this, but I'm gay.  I'm sure you DO know that you're
a very hot guy.  I didn't suggest this plan because I wanted to see you
naked (not entirely, I mentally amended), but because I honestly think it
can help you.  However, I feel you have a right to know all the facts."

At this, I felt a twinge of guilt, because I hadn't yet shared ALL the
facets of my plan with Travis.  My reasoning was, let's take it one step
at a time, letting him get used to each wrinkle before introducing
another.  I still believed that was the best way to proceed, but I
couldn't help feeling like I was lying to him.

"Are you still okay with doing this, after hearing that?" I asked him.

He looked at me in mild surprise.  "You're gay?" he asked.

"Yes," I responded.

"And you're not just trying to get into my pants?" he asked.

"No," I responded somewhat truthfully; what I should have said, if I'd
been more honest, and less chicken-shit, was, "I would LOVE to get into
your pants, but we're doing this to help you, although it will, in fact,
provide me with a few cheap thrills."

He shrugged.  "No big deal, then."

I was a little taken aback by his cavalier attitude.  "You're sure it
doesn't bother you?"

He shrugged again.  "My roommates' gay, and I love him like a brother.
I'm not afraid of being in my underwear with a gay guy...I'm afraid of
being in my underwear with ANYBODY."

I was impressed by his acceptance, and felt a wave of happiness for Bill,
who I'd taken a liking to, slovenly though he was.  I wondered if Travis
knew that Bill would have given every one of his wrestling trophies to be
standing in my shoes just then.  Then I picked up on the last part of
what he'd said.

"Travis..." I began, "I got the feeling it makes you uncomfortable to
expose yourself ...that's what gave me this idea in the first place...but
why?   You must know you've got an incredible body...why are you
embarrassed to let people see it?"

He shrugged again, more crimson with each heartbeat.  "I don't know,
exactly.  I've always been super modest.  My parents were pretty uptight
about any kind of nudity, and I guess it rubbed off.  I don't even like
changing and showering with the other guys on my team.  They used to
tease me about how red I'd get, but they're used to it now.  It's
usually not a problem..." he began, then suddenly stopped.

I realized he was talking about his erection; not necessarily the one
he'd popped in front of me, but the one he'd probably popped in front
of others.  I believed completely that he was straight, but I was worldly
enough to know that some people get turned on by simply being naked, no
matter the sex of the people around them.  I had a feeling Travis was
prone to a severe case of nudity-inspired arousal.  And I was about to
see for myself if that was so.

Delicately side-stepping the issue, I said, "Okay.  Let's get on with
it, then."

He reluctantly stood up, and I couldn't make myself look away this time,
I had to see this unfold.  He crossed his arms again, and, grabbing the
bottom of his shirt, pulled it up and off in one heart-stopping motion.
I hadn't been wrong about Travis' torso; if anything, I'd
underestimated it.  He had a perfect six-pack, resting below beautifully
defined pecs.  His chiseled chest was hairless (naturally, I thought),
but he had a lovely little treasure trail leading from his belly button
to the top of his jeans.  He wasn't body-builder huge; everything was in
proportion, except for his biceps, which were perhaps a touch too large
for the rest of his frame.  "Guys always go for the big guns," I smiled
to myself.  His shoulders hung everything together; they looked sturdy
enough to support me and the desk both.  I wanted to test that theory...I
wanted to place both hands on those solid supports and swing as if on a
jungle gym.  But all I could do was watch as the shirt cleared his head
and he tossed it on top of his bag.

His whole torso was as red as his face.

I was so captivated by the sight of this young stud's upper body that
I'd missed him undoing the top button of his jeans.  I heard the zipper
and glanced down to see what else was on the menu.

Down it went, and then he hooked his thumbs on either side of his waist.
I wanted this moment to last forever, and at the same time, I had to
restrain myself from telling him to hurry up and do it.  For all his
modesty, his shirt had come off rather quickly, but the pants,
apparently, were a bigger deal to Travis.  He hesitated, sighed, and
began to shove them down.

And then came my first disappointment at the unveiling of this Adonis.
He was wearing boxer shorts.  I really should have guessed, knowing how
modest he was.

Nothing is as unappealing to me as boxer shorts on a great body.  Whereas
briefs and boxer-briefs hug the body, detailing every hard-muscled line
and curve, while enticingly accentuating the package as much as they
conceal, boxer shorts completely disrupt a body's flow.  They hide every
smooth line and create a visual barrier between the body and the viewer;
it's the genital equivalent of a thick black bar across the eyes in a
magazine.  I loathe boxer shorts.

My disappointment notwithstanding, I still had a gorgeous 20 year old
taking off his pants in front of me.  I concentrated on his legs as he
let his jeans fall towards the floor and lifted up first one, then the
other, to slide them completely off.  Slightly hairy, they were in as
fine a proportion as the rest.  His thighs were, as I'd suspected, nice
and thick, while his calves were beautifully cut, and a little larger
than I'd have guessed from his frame.  I was pleased that he apparently
worked his lower body as well as his upper; too many men concentrate on
their chest and arms to the detriment of their legs, leading to what a
friend of mine likes to call "mushroom man syndrome".  No worries on
Travis' end, though.

Speaking of ends, I couldn't find a tactful way to get a look at his
butt; it wouldn't do to ask him to turn around and give me a gander.  I
knew I wouldn't have been able to see much anyway, however, thanks to
those atrocious boxers.

The shorts themselves were amusing; they had the Tasmanian Devil on
them.  I wondered if he'd worn them for my benefit, when he caught me
looking and again read my mind.  "I wasn't even planning on coming
today when I got dressed this morning," he said sheepishly, "or else
I'd have worn different boxers.  I didn't make up my mind until about
15 minutes ago."

I laughed, and said, "They'll do.  The important thing is, here you
are, ready to take a test in your skivvies."

Up to that point, Travis seemed to be taking his disrobing rather well,
albeit blushing furiously all the while.  At my words, however, he
suddenly seemed to fully realize that he was nearly naked with another
person in the room, and, unconsciously I think, placed his hands over his
crotch and hunched down a bit.  I can't really describe how I felt at
that moment: partly guilty, partly triumphant, partly concerned, and
mostly horny.  He just looked so freaking adorable in his modesty.

Taking pity, I told him to sit down.  As he did, his boxer shorts
demonstrated that common habit which is the one good thing anyone can say
about those wretched garments...they gaped open a bit at the fly, and
allowed me a quick view of Travis' sandy bush.  It was no more than a
peek, but it was enough to notice that his pubes were slightly darker
than the hair on his head, and that they appeared to have been trimmed.

I also couldn't help noticing, as he took his seat, that he appeared on
his way to a repeat erection, a possibility that made me light-headed.  I
would have forgiven him for the boxer shorts if I could witness that
moment when his rising dick forced itself through the fly to unwelcome
(at least to Travis) exposure.  However, I feared that Trav might just
drop dead should that happen, so I allowed him to sit without remarking
on his chubby, and hoped, if only for his sake, that it wouldn't get any
bigger.

I started the timer and Travis started his test.  I kept my eyes on him,
partly because I intentionally wanted him to feel uncomfortable, as per
the plan, and partly because I couldn't look away.  Seated behind my
desk as I was, I had no fear that he'd see my erection, but I still felt
a bit guilty about taking such pleasure in his distress.  Attempting to
rid myself of my lecherous thoughts, I tried to focus clinically on the
state of Travis' crimson skin.  It fascinated me scientifically; how
long could someone blush?  My technical curiosity was quickly suppressed,
alas, by the loveliness of the flesh on display.  I just couldn't
concentrate on anything but Trav's gorgeous body.  Watching his naked
shoulder ripple with the movement of his pen was hypnotic.  I'd never
seen anyone take a test in their underwear before, certainly not a hot
piece of ass like this one.  I'd expected that I'd eventually become
used to his semi-nakedness, but I was riveted to his body for the entire
30 minutes, especially when, after about ten minutes, he started to
sweat.

He wasn't gushing, but beads had broken out on his forehead, and I
noticed a definite moistening of his chest, and a small but fairly steady
rivulet from each armpit.  It wasn't at all hot in the office; the sweat
was obviously due to his embarrassment.  If I'd expected that I'd get
used to his exposure, I'd also expected that HE would, but it appears I
was wrong on both counts.  Travis sweated for the last 20 minutes of his
quiz, and he never lost his rosy glow.  The sweat made him glisten to an
amazingly provocative degree; it was through pure strength of will that I
kept my seat instead of jumping up to slide a hand down his slick back.
I'd swear I could hear, albeit just barely, a slow but steady drip as
the sweat fell, but that was probably my imagination; he surely wasn't
sweating enough to drip on the floor.  The desk top hid his nether
regions from my view, but I was anxious to find out what was doing down
there: despite my former wish for Travis for the contrary, I hoped to see
a large tent in his drawers when he stood to dress, if not his hard cock
itself.

Finally, the clock buzzed.  Travis threw down his pen and blew a loud,
frustrated breath.  I leaned over my desk and held out my hand for the
paper.  I did this for two reasons: a) I didn't want Travis to see my
erection, and b) I wanted to see HIS when he got up.  Unfortunately, the
desks were close enough so that Travis had only to lean forward slightly
to enable me to take his paper.  I made a mental note to move his desk
back further next time.

Reading through the quiz, my suspicions were confirmed.  Travis had only
gotten a few questions right.  I had to be careful how I presented this
news; to me, this was a good result, as we now knew we'd created a
suitably uncomfortable environment.  Now, we just needed to work on
getting Travis to overcome it.

"How'd I do?" he asked, although I knew he knew.

"Not so good, pal," I replied, and quickly followed with, "but that's
what we expected.  We've just got to get you over this hump.  If you can
pass a quiz under these conditions, you'll certainly be able to pass one
in Dr. Abt's class.  When's your next test, in any class?"

"We have one scheduled next Wednesday in Prof. Roberts' class.  But Dr.
Abt likes to spring quizzes on us all the time, so who knows?"

"Okay, here's what we'll do.  On Monday, I'll give you a practice
exam for Roberts' class, and we can go over what's likely to be on the
real thing.  In the meantime, if you get a quiz from the Doc, remind
yourself before you start that you're fully dressed.  Hopefully, that
will make you more comfortable.  Okay?"

"Okay."

"Right, then I'll see you on Monday,"

"Right, Monday," he echoed, but remained where he was.

 "Anything else?" I asked him, although I thought I knew what the
trouble was.

"Um...it's kind of embarrassing," he understated; he was practically
shaking like a leaf.  "Could you, just, step outside for a minute?"
And I thought he was red before.

"Oh, dude, don't worry about it.  It happens to lots of people in this
situation.  Well, I doubt that lots of people have been in THIS
situation, but you know what I mean.  Tell you what: I'll turn around,
and I promise not to turn back until you say it's okay.  Alright?"

"Okay," he said visibly relieved, although I know he would have
preferred it if I'd just left the office without discussing it.  He
would have preferred it even more if he'd realized that I could catch
his ghostly reflection in the window I was facing.  I watched him get
slowly up, and reach for his jeans.  As he did so, he turned in profile
to me, and there it was: sticking straight up out of his fly, a good 7-8
inches long.  It was impossible to tell for sure from the reflection, but
I thought it looked ready to burst.  Before putting on his pants, he
picked up his shirt and wiped his sweaty brow.  I was tempted to take the
opportunity, while his eyes were covered, to quickly turn and get a peek
at the real thing, but I'd promised him I wouldn't, and I already felt
guilty enough that I could still sort of see him.  Although not guilty
enough to stop looking.

He quickly stepped into his pants, pulled them up, and carefully
maneuvered the zipper over the monster he'd tucked, with difficulty,
back into his shorts.  He then threw his shirt on, attempted to pull it
down over his sizeable bulge, and then settled for the old Hide it Behind
the Book Bag trick.


            "Okay," he called to me.

I turned around.  He was more pink then red now, but I think his rod was
still going pretty good, and I suspected he couldn't wait to get home
and jack it.  I offered a silent prayer that Bill would somehow witness
that heavenly sight.

"So...Monday, right?" he asked.

"Yep, Monday," I replied.  "And...feel good about this, Trav.  We've
made a start.  With any luck, we'll get you over this hump and on the
honor roll by next fall."

For the first time since we'd said goodbye at our first meeting, I saw
him smile.  It wasn't the brilliant smile that made me light-headed, but
it was a smile.  In it, I saw trust and gratitude.  That smile made me
feel guilty, because I knew that Travis thought he'd faced the worst,
and lived to tell about it (hopefully not, though).  I, however, knew
that the worst, for Travis, was yet to come.  "Thanks, man," he said,
leaning over to shake my hand, while carefully keeping his bag securely
in front of his loins.

"You're welcome," I said sincerely, giving his slightly sweaty hand a
shake.  As he turned to go, I said, "One more thing."

He turned.  "Hmm?"

"You might want to wear something with a little more...support next
Monday," I said diplomatically.  The blush returned in full force.  I
doubt he knew I'd seen his hard cock; he probably figured I'd just
guessed what happened with his fly.

"You mean, like, a jock?" he chocked out, his panic rising.

"I think briefs or boxer-briefs would be fine.  No need to expose that
much," I said.  "At least, not yet," I amended in my head.

"I, ah, don't have any underwear but boxer shorts," he said uneasily.

"Oh.  Well, I can probably come up with something," I said graciously.
"Oh, I surely can," I thought evilly, and then felt guilty all over
again.

"Um...okay," he replied unhappily.  Still, I'm pretty sure he'd rather
have his package prominently displayed in secure wrapping then risk
another jack in the box episode.  I was sure he'd wear what I gave him.

With that, he was gone.  Walking back to my desk, a spot beneath Travis'
chair caught my eye.  There on the floor was the evidence of the almost
subliminal dripping I thought I'd heard during the quiz.  A fairly large
deposit of pre-cum was pooled under the chair.

My guilt lessened, I packed up to go home.  However uncomfortable Travis
might be in his underwear, he was obviously getting almost as big a
thrill out of it as I was.  I couldn't wait till Monday.

End Part 2

Next:  Travis gets a change of clothes.

Like it so far?  Shower me with kudos at altonfree@yahoo.com.  Think it
sucks? Let me know at the same address.