Rhinelander

Chapter 2
Book One: Him

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Chapter Description: In which a young man provides sexual whimsy to women from whom he's stolen it for years.

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I

Jenna reaches across the table and clasps Peter’s hands in her own.

“You’re so much more mature than my last boyfriend. He was like a little kid wearing a teenager costume.”

“I’m not sure it’s so healthy to be talking about him as much as you do,” Peter ventures. “Maybe there’s some... stuff, between you and him, I mean... that could use working out.”

Jenna blushes. Peter had never mentioned anything, but now that he had, she searches herself and finds only ice.

“And I might know how it can be worked out,” Peter smiles.

“ILLL SUCK YOUR COCK LADYS LOCKER1PM”

Tomás looked left, then right, crumpling up the slip of paper that had found its way into his locker before cramming it into his pocket. He played the guessing game. Dawn? Sarah? Mr. Bougainvillea? Not all of the possibilities were equally enticing to the boy, but -- prick twitching in his jeans, as it was wont to do -- Tomás knew where he was going to be at one o’clock.

“I’m here,” the teenager called out as he proceeded into the girls’ locker room. It was 12:56. “Little birdie told me to be here ...Hello?”

Tomás turned the corner and found an odd sight-- a bottle of beer, sitting innocently upon a bench, its top pried off with a bottle opener and returned to the neck of the green glass, around which dangled an index card with a red heart drawn in crayon.

“Don’t mind if I do,” the boy muttered, continuing to fail to draw a connection between austere situations and his talking to himself. Tomás bent down and relieved the beer bottle of its adornment and the bent-backwards steel atop it, then chugged.

Tomás made a “bleh” sound, his tongue snaking out of his mouth to accentuate it. It was some cheap beer. But it was beer nonetheless, and the horny, anxious teenager finished half of it before the clock struck one.

When it did, a half-dozen girls burst out from the lockers surrounding him, and the game was on.

II

“You sure this is gonna work?” Jenna asks, nibbling on a fingertip.

“No,” replies Peter, “but my dad’s staked his reputation on perfecting it.” He balances the bent bottle top atop the neck of the glass, then steps back as if he’d been working with plutonium. “And have you ever heard of a high school student who saw free beer and just walked away from it?”

Jenna smiles, then kisses her boyfriend.

“How are you gonna get him in here?” Peter asks, a line of spit streaking Jenna’s chin as he presses his forehead to hers.

“Have you ever heard of a high school student who saw a potential blowjob and just walked away from it?”

The girls in the locker room -- they numbered six, and Jenna didn’t rank amongst them -- encircled Tomás like hungry coyotes. The boy already recognized something was wrong; he slipped backwards and fell against a closed steel locker just in time to feel a warm wave sweep over his body. It was unlike anything he’d felt before. Almost as good as an orgasm, but not quite... there was no release, just an odd, constant, full-body pressing, as if he were naked and caught in a vise.

“Get his clothes,” commanded the evident de facto leader of the girls. Tall and with straight, brunette hair, she was instantly intimidating to Tomás... to say nothing of the digital camcorder she clutched in her right hand. “I want to see this.”

Two of the girls were on Tomás within seconds. He recognized them. One was Megan, a blonde bombshell he’d dumped just prior to dating Jenna, having concluded he had become bored. The other, Kate, registered in his mind as Jenna’s best friend.

Things were increasingly failing to register in Tomás’s mind, however. A cloud had swept into his ears that he knew by experience wasn’t related to the alcohol. He assumed he could probably machete his way through it if he could just get a moment to himself.

That moment never came.

“Flip his shirt up!” Kate giggled. “Get it off him-- and hurry!”

Tomás stared forward, dumbly and weakened, as he was treated to the sensation of a t-shirt being lifted up over his head, flipping inside-out in the process, and snapping his nose. Such a thing hadn’t happened to him in nine years, when last he had childishly smeared mud over his clothing to make an impromptu costume and raised the frustrated ire of his mother.

The boy’s thoughts began to scatter. He had temporarily been robbed of the ability to respond to anything other than the events of his immediate vicinity.

Why is my shirt off? Is it time for sex? Is it time for the blowjob? Is this how they do it? Why am I still on my ass? Why can’t I stand up? Where’d my hair go?

Tomás’s chest was completely bare. He had been sporting the sparse patch of hair nature had given him for two years as a symbol of his virility, but it was gone, replaced instead by the boyish, smooth chest about which he had been so insecure as a 15-year-old. His happy trail was next to go-- its fine, dark hairs fibers twisting into giddy pinwheels before sinking back beneath his skin.

I’m not-- I’m not--

His jeans followed. Megan and Kate tore at Tomás’s belt ravenously, unthreading its leather and tugging on the buckle before the device whipped completely out of its belt loops. They dug into his jeans, unzipping the fly and gaining purchase with the combined strength of four hands across Tomás’s waistline, jerking the denim pants off of him one inch at a time until they bumped into the boy’s shoes and socks. Then, those were gone, too.

I’m in my underpants, Tomás thought, attempting to verbalize the observation, and failing. He still hadn’t control of his muscles, though the full measure of his adult intelligence was slowly beginning to drift back into his mind. He stared at the two girls who were denuding him, then at his red boxer-briefs, then back at the girls.

“Those too,” cooed the girl behind the video camera. Though her eyes were trained on a flip-out screen, her smile was twisted up wickedly, and it chilled Tomás to the bone.

III

The wave of alien sensation continues to flow and ebb over Tomás’s physical self as he loses his clothes. Piece by piece. Touch by touch. He realizes that, as he’s being stripped, the mental wave that had overwhelmed him into submission is beginning to melt away-- his thought patterns are dragging themselves back from the edge and towards coherence.

The functions of his muscles, too, return, as evidenced by a weak little twitch in his hand as Megan and Kate slide his boxer-briefs off. Tomás finds that making conscious decisions as to their operation, though, has become quite beyond his realm of volition.

And something else is wrong. Tomás doesn’t feel, in his heart, like the high schooler who’d walked into the locker room expecting a wild sexual endeavor. He feels like the 12-year-old whose body he inhabits. Awkward and helpless.

“That’s it?” asked one of the girls who’d turned quizzically to Megan. Tomás didn’t recognize her.

“That’s what?”

“That’s the cock you had to live with for a half a year?”

Tomás knew they were talking about his. He looked downward, and what dangled between his legs wasn’t a cock. It was the dick of a boy on the verge of pubescence, awkward and short and thin, embraced by a pathetic collection of hairs which were, even then, continuing to sink back into his body, one by one.

“Stand up,” ordered the girl with the video camera.

Tomás was horrified to find himself doing exactly what she’d said. She was the director of some sick home movie, he realized, and he was the actor who needed to get paid. Even as his muscles made motions Tomás hadn’t caused, bringing the naked 12-year-old to his feet, the boy was coming to a handful of conclusions as to what likely had precipitated his current agony.

“It used to look quite a bit different,” Megan continued, smiling.

“I should hope so,” replied the girl who had inquired.

“Felt pretty good, too. Good, not great. He popped some serious boners in his day.”

Another girl Tomás didn’t recognize spoke up. “How’d it taste?”

“Ehh,” Megan groaned. She was beginning to enjoy herself. “Could take it or leave it.”

“Aww, well... it’d probably be as sweet as a Tootsie Roll just now,” said Cameragirl. Tomás’s pubic hair had gone the way of the dodo, leaving an 11-year-old staring wordlessly at his prick. “Not that anyone’s ever gonna know. I don’t think it quite qualifies as a sexual organ anymore.”

Tomás was screaming inside his head. He couldn’t get a single part of his body to move. All 17 years of knowledge and memories loitered in his mind, peppering it with shrieking humiliation, but the boy couldn’t bring himself to say anything. He just stood there, naked, slowly shrinking, his arms dangling at his sides while his penis rocketed back towards the start of the millennium.

“Of course not,” Kate cooed, staring straight into Tomás’s eyes, patronizingly dragging out her vowel sounds as if she were addressing a toddler. “That thing’s only good for peeing, isn’t it? Isn’t it, widdle Tommy?”

Tomás was 10 years old. He had, in fact, become Tommy again, the name by which he went until the day he came to see himself as an 11-year-old grown-up.

“Suppose he can make it to the toilet in time?” asked an additional unrecognized girl.

“He looks 10, not three, dummy,” noted the director as she kept rolling.

“I dunno,” said Megan. “When we were together he confessed he was in Pull-Ups at night until he was nine.”

Tommy had, naturally, become nine. Equipped with his mental acumen, but finding his emotions slipping back to his childhood like grains of sand through two palms, he did what came naturally.

He started crying.

They weren’t the soft, sour tears adults cry when something tragic happens-- not by far. They comprised a rush of salty fluid streaking down Tommy’s cheeks from the corners of his eyes, buffeted by sobs that only got louder and louder.

“You made him cry, Megan.”

“Me sowwy,” Megan replied in a rather mocking and childish voice, her eyes firmly transfixed at the nude and hairless boy shrinking before her.

“Do you think he’s upset because the only thing he’ll be using his penis for in bed is peeing it?” asked Kate. “Or do you think he’s upset because everybody knows it?”

The tears fell uninhibited from Tommy’s eyes, draining down the sides of his face and splattering inelegantly upon the floor. The hair atop his head had gone from black and spiky to blond and soft to the touch; his face had gone from confused to bawling. The boy wanted to upturn it towards the ceiling, but he couldn’t muster the strength to do even that. He had to stare every girl in the eye as they watched him grow younger and younger.

“He’s upset he’s going to be peeing his bed,” said Megan, “and is gonna have to go back to diapers.” She leaned down, anchoring her palms on her knees. “And we know they aren’t Pull-Ups, right, sweetie? You wear them because they hold pee and you don’t. They’re diapers.”

Tommy’s crying got harder.

“It’s a crime to have sex with him ever again,” Kate said to Megan, clicking her teeth sarcastically. “Must break your heart.”

Megan shrugged. “It was practically a crime having sex with him, ever, though he was the one committing it. Who cums in 30 seconds? Really?”

Kate laughed. “He came in 30 seconds?”

“Almost always. Left me about as satisfied as someone who went out for a Krispy Kreme and all they had in stock was cold coffee.”

Tommy felt his mouth open up still more widely, giving him the hint that control of his muscles was gradually coming back to him. To test his theory, he again did what came instinctively-- throwing his face towards the ceiling and shrieking at it as he became an eight-year-old.

Then, the regression was over, as capriciously as it had started.

“Figure he still cums in 30 seconds, Megan?”

Cameragirl glanced at her cohorts. “We’ll find out.”

IV

Tomás is splayed out on the bed, dragging his tongue along Jenna’s cheek, licking the sweat off of it. He’s firmly inside her, pushing inside and out with the rhythm of the pulse of his lungs.

“You like that, don’t you, babe?”

“Umm... sure. Please don’t call me that.”

The 17-year-old’s nose is between his girlfriend’s breasts, and then his lurching becomes more needful and urgent.

“You ready, babe? You ready to be brought to paradise?”

Tommy traipsed stupidly around the locker room, what was left of his dick anchored firmly in his hand.

“Jerk it!” one of the girls shouted. “Jerk it clean off if you have to!”

The boy had found that his muscles responded only to what he was asked by the girls to do. He padded his naked feet about the cool tiles of the floor, masturbating at the ladies’ behest.

“We want to see you cum!”

“That thing can’t cum.”

“I was being facetious.”

Tommy hoped it would cum. He was still crying, with equal verve as before, but now he was beating his meat senselessly in front of all these girls. It could barely qualify as masturbation, he thought, as the head of his penis didn’t extend beyond the width of the hand around it.

“Those balls are pretty tiny,” supplied Megan. “Acorns. You think he feels anything?”

“He’s screaming and bawling his eyes out, so he feels something.”

“Suck your thumb,” ordered Cameragirl. Then, the teenager wearing a little kid costume was doing it.

Megan turned to Kate. “Make him jerk off into your panties.”

Kate stripped partially and removed her pink, lacy panties. In mere seconds they were wrapped around Tommy’s loins.

“Go! Go! Go!” came the battlecry.

Tommy was exhausted. But he figured he could still get off, figured he could still end this twisted game. The idea that he was wearing the panties of his ex-girlfriend’s best friend titillated his still very adult mind beyond belief, in spite of the embarrassment of bouncing about in ladies’ lingerie. Tommy wanted to fire off, and he could feel it coming.

“Ask us if you can cum, Tommy,” demanded the camerawoman. “Convince us you want it.”

“Um, can I cum please, ladies?” the boy squeaked around the thumb he was sucking as he fell to his butt. His pathetic erection barely tented out Kate’s panties-- and there was no chance they’d have continued to hang onto him if he hadn’t taken the initiative to reconnect his ass with the floor.

The girl with the camera pulled her eyes away from the viewscreen and stared her prey down. “NOT. GOOD. ENOUGH.”

The tears came freely and without objection. Tommy wasn’t about to live this down. Not then-- not in a week-- not anytime after the video was sent out over the internet.

Tommy whined in total embrace of childish obnoxiousness. He kept slashing his fist against his stiff little penis, his toes twitching rapidly in response.

“Pwease!” he whined, hoping the trappings of an exaggeratedly childish vocal delivery would improve his chances at relief. “Pwease let me blow a load! I gotta get this out! I didded everything you said!”

Cameragirl licked her teeth, tilting one eye upward in seeming thought. “I suppose we could let him try... couldn’t we, girls?”

The other five ladies nodded in fevered agreement as they watched the crying kid whack off into his panties.

“I’d like to see what he can deliver,” said one. “He is practically college-aged.”

“Do you think he’s gonna cum a little, or a lot?”

“Those balls can’t hold a lot.”

Megan stepped forward. “It won’t be a lot,” she said. “He masturbates all the time.”

Tommy wailed loudly in great despair as he beat off his little pud for the entertainment of the girls standing around him. Shut up, Megan! echoed through his mind, but all he could produce out loud was infantile bellowing.

“Fine,” said the camerawoman, pulling her gaze to the left to see what would happen. “Cum, Tommy. Blow your little load.”

The boy curled his toes and had an orgasm.

V

And nothing came out.

“Oh, Jesus,” sighed Megan, trying to hold back laughter.

“That’s it? That’s his performance?”

Cameragirl spoke next. “Punch the floor in frustration, sweetie.” Tommy beat his fists on the floor as he cried. The girl holding the camera turned to her compatriots. “He’s eight. What did you expect-- Old Faithful blowing out from between his legs?”

“Well, I expected something,” Kate said.

“Don’t be stupid,” said the girl as she turned off her camera. “This was the whole point.” She sauntered over to Tommy, bending over the crying boy, his hand still firmly down the lacy panties he was wearing. “Did that feel goooood?” she cooed at him.

Tommy was in a different world-- one where crying equaled communication, and his voice peaked and sunk with every expression he aimed to deliver.

“Li’l dude can’t cum anymore, can he?” she grinned, appearing more wicked than ever.

“Orgasms, sure, in their own way,” she hissed in his ear as he squirmed, “but no more release. That last load you’d had in your balls? The one you came in here to get rid of? That’s going to stay with you for years.

“It hurts, doesn’t it? It hurts that it isn’t coming out. It hurts that you have to go back to elementary school and spend a bunch of years studying things you already know. It hurts that you have to wear diapers to bed. That you’ll wake up most mornings in pee, as opposed to the arms of a girl.”

The fit Tommy was throwing in response to the heckling was epic. If his heels had hit the floor of the locker room any harder, the tiles would have cracked.

“I’m Jenna’s sister, ya dumb shit,” Cameragirl spat. “If you’d taken any interest whatsoever in her life you would’ve known that.

“Megan?” she called.

The blonde girl tossed a pack of pink Pull-Ups to Cameragirl. Jenna’s sister dropped the crinkly plastic to the side of Tommy’s head.

“Put these on,” Cameragirl snarked. “Little girls don’t cum and neither do boys. Tuck the remains of your dick between your thighs and nobody will ever notice a difference.”

to be continued

 

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