The Groaning Times Chapter 5: “Modesty” Liberally Defined

PLEASE NOTE: Readers who are new to this series and desire more background may want to start with “The Groaning Times: Prologue” and work through the chapters from there.]

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On Lao’s signal, the hulks released our balls. Tai’s brother then ordered us to return to the standing position. I rose up with difficulty. My knees felt stiff from being in that squat for so long. Nonetheless, it was such a relief not to feel those big hands holding my tender testicles anymore. The sickening feeling of impending ruin that had gripped my stomach when those massive fingers fondled my manhood is hard to describe. Those 20 minutes had felt like hours. I was so thankful to escape with my balls intact that I almost wept. We teenaged boys were rather attached to our balls. I wondered if I would even have had any sense of myself if those hands had broken my nuts.

Lao smirked at us very grateful teenagers and said that it was now time for us to “get dressed” for our march to the Prison complex. He said the march would be in public and that we needed to be “properly attired” out of respect for that public.

I assumed he meant that our present nakedness was an aberration, nothing more than a ploy to shock us into realizing our defeat, and that we would finally be permitted to wear street clothes.

My tiny rush of optimism would soon prove premature.

Tai’s brother elaborated that our march would be “fully public”, meaning without any restriction as to the age or gender of the spectators. He said a “minimal modesty garment” was required in consideration of the likely presence of little girls along the route. He stated that, while some parents and older siblings had expressed the desire for their female children to see our subjugation as an “educational experience” and appreciated the role of our enforced nudity in achieving that goal, they had also voiced qualms about their precious little girls witnessing our total nakedness. (The original plan had called for us to be totally nude for our march to Prison.) Lao explained that they wanted us Anglos as bare as possible as a “matter of principle”, but didn’t feel their female children were ready to see us quite that bare at this time, at least in terms of our uncovered penises and testicles.

I began to suspect that something less than street clothes were in the works for us. It was my guess that we might have to march in our undershorts to hide our genitals. Of course, I found the concept of being marching in nothing but my underpants in front of little girls quite embarrassing. But being able to cover my penis and balls afforded me at least some shred of dignity. I wondered if they would require boxers or briefs.

At that point Lao signaled to a little Hispanic boy who looked to be about 8 years old. The child pulled a little red wagon behind him. The wagon held a large cardboard box. The little boy stopped at intervals, reached into the box, and tossed a small bundle of elastic bands and nylon at each of our bare feet. Lao smiled. “Those are your garments.”

We looked down. Clearly, these coverings were neither boxers nor briefs. They looked as if they had been fashioned from pantyhose material.

We remained standing, unsure of what to do. Lao snapped, “Those are your slings. Now pick them up and sling your meat right now! We need to get you on the march to the Prison!”

Uneasily, we knelt, picked up the little bundles, and began to unfold them.

I suddenly realized that the garment was a sort of G-string or jock strap, at least in terms of its design. My face turned red to think they could consider this flimsy contrivance a “modesty garment.” Except for the narrow elastic band, it was made entirely of ultra sheer nylon, such as one would find in a woman’s fine stocking. The pouch that would hold our genitals was transparent for all practical purposes.

This skimpy article of clothing was known as a “sling”, and it had quite a history. The Sling was a result of a compromise between those who advocated our full nudity and those who had expressed qualms about genital exposure. The Sling had been designed by the Manners Committee of the Bureau of Reparations in response to all these conflicting desires. In this humiliating rag, the “Bares” (as the full-nudity advocates were known) had found a meeting of the minds with the “Modesties” (as the genital-concealment advocates were known). Seeing this garment, I suspected that the Modesties wanted us as bare as the Bares did, but they needed the Sling as a sop to their traditional sensibilities. Thus, we were left with this fig-leaf charade of a solution.

The teenaged girls giggled at the stunned expressions on our faces as we examined these diaphanous g-strings. I overheard one girl whisper to her friend, “I know about nylon stockinged feet, but nylon-stockinged cock?”

Blushing, we bent over to step into our Slings. Then we started pulling them up our thighs. As we eased them upwards, Lao snapped, “Hurry up! You’ll have to learn to sling your donkey meat faster than that!”

I wondered how I would stuff my big, stiff penis into that small pouch. But I soon discovered the nylon fabric was stretchy enough to let my shaft push it out. The most shocking feature of this creation was, however, its utter sheerness. Every detail of my penis and ball sack was visible. The slit of my pee-pee hole, the purplish tint of my glans, and the wrinkles in my scrotal bag were all completely evident through the nylon. My pubic hair spilled out over the margins. Yet, technically, those parents and older siblings with qualms could claim that our genitals were “covered” from the innocent eyes of their little girls. Nonetheless, I could see this “sling” would hardly tax their imaginations.

We were finally standing at attention again, in our Slings. The teenaged girls and the little boys were soon walking up to inspect our skimpy attire. A little Hispanic boy whose head barely met my crotch stopped in front of me. He just stared at my pouch for a few embarrassing seconds, then pinched at the nylon fabric just below my cock head. He pulled down, and then jerked up, making my penis bounce in its nylon pouch. Then he began tickling that spot.

My heart jumped a beat, because that was THE spot. The taut nylon also amplified the impact of his touch, making the underside of my penis shaft tingle. I shut my eyes and tried not to feel his persistent tugging and tickling. I silently prayed for the little boy to stop, thinking to myself, “Don’t let me cum in front of this child! Oh god little boy, please tire of this game soon!” As my dick grew stiffer under the nylon, I prayed for the strength that was slowly ebbing away. I could feel the immediacy of pre-cum.

The little boy’s pretty teen sister finally pulled him away. She said, “Don’t fool with his peter, sweetie. He just might cream up on you like the other Anglo did outside!”

The little boy looked irritated at the interruption. I formed the distinct impression that he wanted to make me “cream up” just to see how much trouble he could get me into, to perhaps see my cock removed as punishment. In the Prison, there was never a shortage of little boys in attendance when one of our teen cocks was amputated. They would prove to be eager little apprentices when it came to that chore.

Once these little inspections were done, some other boys brought out some chains and began shackling our hands behind our backs. Then they shackled our ankles.

I was rather puzzled at this turn of events, because I never entertained fleeing. We were simply too surrounded for escape to be an option.

Noticing our confusion, Lao explained that our chains were to show that we were conquered in “no uncertain terms.” Admittedly, they were effective devices in that regard. Though the shackles themselves were light, they made me feel like a slave.

Realizing that we would soon be on the march, it dawned on us that we all needed to pee in the worst way. We had been driven out of our dorms before we had a chance to go to the bathroom. Indeed, Lyle and I were on our way to piss when they burst into our room.

Someone finally got up the nerve to ask Lao for a trip to the urinals.

Tai’s brother looked at his watch and cursed under his breath. He said the world didn’t stop anymore just because rich white boys needed to piss, and that we would have to wait until we were marched and processed into prison. He said that any peeing on the march would be an “affront” to the spectators, especially the little girls who may be watching the parade. Lao added, “Trust me. I’ll have any Anglo dick that pisses one drop of urine without permission whacked off at the base then and there. The prison is a few miles away, so you better learn to hold your pee if you want to arrive there with your peters between your legs.”

My heart sank at this brutal warning. But I didn’t know how I could live up to that restriction, even at the cost of my penis. My bladder was already screaming for relief.

Lao looked at our agonized expressions for a few seconds. I think he suddenly realized that if he carried out his threat, our 50 penises would probably be history even before we had an opportunity to pay tribute to his little sister.

Lao said, “On second thought, perhaps it would be unfair to punish you like that until you’ve been fully indoctrinated in the rules. I’ll therefore permit you to piss, but in an orderly fashion out of respect for the honor of my little sister. But in the future, this function will be managed more rigorously, because you Anglos will soon learn that you don’t do anything at your convenience or whim.”

I gathered from Lao’s comments that our Prison life would be a rigorously controlled one. I just had no idea how rigorously controlled, as well as fast-paced, it would prove to be.

We looked back at our wrist shackles, assuming that they would be removed so that we might hold our penises at the urinals.

Lao snapped, “Forget it. We don’t have time to be unshackling and re-shackling you.”

Lao looked around, “Who can hold their penises for them while they piss?”

One pretty Asian teenaged girl and several little boys raised their hands. When the girl’s boyfriend shot her a dirty look, she pulled her hand down. Lao picked four little boys -- two Asian, one Hispanic and one black. They looked to be Tai’s age, from 7 to 8 years old I guessed. Our faces grew crimson with humiliation at the idea of this.

Tai’s brother told us to form four “piss lines” in front of the gym bathroom, one line for each urinal. He said when we reached our turns at the urinals, we had to wait for the little boys tending us to pull our slings down, take hold of our dicks, and give us permission to piss. He said if there was any question about whether it was ok to piss that we should directly request the child’s permission and then wait for a clear “yes” before peeing. (I had this immediate terror of some child refusing permission and my bladder bursting as a result.)

Red faced, we swallowed our pride and each hurried to claim a place in the lines. Of course, everyone wanted to be in the front of each line, so there was a bit of shouldering and shoving. I wound up fifth in my line. The teenaged girls and the rest of the little boys were soon crowding into the bathroom around the urinals to watch this event.

The piss line proved to be a maddeningly slow ordeal for four major reasons. First, the little boys were having trouble pulling our slings down. They wanted to simply yank them down by the waistbands, which caused those waistbands to hang up painfully on our stiff penises. I could hear my classmates at the front of the lines yelp and buckle over as this was done. The only way one could avoid a sprained penis was to dip a bit at the knees as soon as the sling was pulled down. That allowed the waistband to pass more easily over one’s cockhead.

The second reason was that an erect penis makes pissing a labor. It’s hard to achieve a high rate of flow when your cock is gorged with blood.

The third reason was that one of the teenaged girls turned on a faucet in the bathroom and let it run the entire time. This sound is all too encouraging to the brain segment that controls the bladder.

The fourth reason is that the little boys simply proved fickle about giving permission. I guess when a child gets a taste of such power at that age, they’re inclined to test its limits. Eventually, the four teens in front of me got to piss, but it seemed to take an awfully long time to hear that little voice give them the ok.

After shifting my feet in the line, I finally arrived at my turn at the urinal. My “attendant” was a cute little Asian boy. He wore a light denim jacket with the name “Wu” stenciled on the pocket. A very pretty teenaged Asian girl about my age, the same girl who had volunteered for urinal duty, stood by him. I realized that she had turned on that faucet. She appeared to be Wu’s older sister. I later learned her name was Kyung.

I had never seen such beautiful, coal-black hair on a girl. It fell to the small of her back. As Kyung leaned her slender shoulder against the side of the urinal, she looked down at her brother with an amused smile. Then she craned her neck to gaze at the other peeing penises. She seemed to thoroughly enjoy seeing white boys pissing or desperate to piss. She licked her lips and muttered to herself, “Wow these guys really need to go, really bad.” She then brought up one shapely blue-jeaned leg and rubbed it slowly against her other thigh. Her face seemed flushed with excitement.

Whatever shyness Kyung’s little brother may have had at the beginning of all this must have evaporated, because his tiny fingers were on my waistband in a flash. Learning from the painful experiences of those who preceded me, I discretely dipped my knees as Wu pulled my sling down over my erect penis. My cock did spring upward once my cockhead was freed from the waistband, but I managed to avoid my shaft getting wrenched.

The child yanked the sling down to my ankles and then stood up. He quickly cradled my cock in his palm.

I blushed when I saw how big and ungainly my 7.5-inch white meat looked in his tiny yellow hand. I almost wanted to apologize to him for the size of it.

I glanced at the urinal next to me. A black boy was holding Justin’s steadily pissing penis. My classmate had a look of utter bliss on his face.

I regretted my wandering eyes. Seeing Justin’s ecstasy made my bladder scream at me.

I looked down at Wu expectantly. With a poker face, the little boy simply stared at the head of my penis and slid my foreskin back. Of course, I dared not interpret the sliding of my foreskin as a sign of his permission.

I’ve heard the old stereotype about Asians being “inscrutable.” Well, little Wu was just that, and I wondered if his temporizing would prove to be the death of my bladder.

Finally, with all the deference and respect I could muster in my voice, I took a deep breath and asked, “Please, wise and honorable Little Master Wu, may I pee?”

Wu’s sister broke into a big smile as she looked at me and commented. “Hmmm. Very good! Best pleading so far!”

But little Wu said nothing.

Shifting my bare feet in suppressed frustration, I gasped, “Pretty please Master Wu! Oh pretty, pretty please little Asian master. Please let the lowly white boy pee!” I was now grateful for the drama course I had taken last semester at my prep school. I was determined to say whatever was needed, whatever worked. The only thing that mattered now was Wu’s approval. I was simply struggling for some form of address that would prove pleasing to this little Asian boy.

Kyung rolled her eyes and giggled at my second plea. She said, “It’s going to be really tough for the guys that follow your act.”

But Wu just looked at me, poker-faced as ever. I knew I needed to change my approach. So I thought I’d try making him laugh. At that point an inspiration came into my struggling brain. I don’t know where it came from, but I looked down at my cock and blurted, “Oh yummy, my big white dick looks like a big white banana! Please let me piss, Little Master, so I can cut it off and eat it!”

The little boy burst out laughing, and his sister doubled over with giggles. Between gales of tittering, Kyung gasped, “Go ahead and let him piss sweetie! He’s earned it!”

The little boy finally looked up at me and said, “OK.”

I could have kissed the child as a golden stream of my piss erupted from my pee-pee hole. The boy held my cock steady throughout my long and difficult urination. Kyung leaned over to look at my stream and how it struck the wall of the urinal. She seemed excited by the display.

About midway through the process Wu looked at my spurting dick and giggled, “Big white banana?”

Not wanting to disrupt his good mood, I said, “Oh yes, a VERY big white banana, Little Master.” I just hoped someone wouldn’t make me keep my promise to the child and eat my dick when my urination was over. I then scolded myself for having such a silly fear.

Finally, after a long piss, my bladder was spent. Kyung reminded Wu to shake my peter at the end. When the boy was done, I sighed a heartfelt and very big “thank you’ and turned to walk back to the gym.

Kyung tapped my shoulder. She snapped, “Hey, where are you going Anglo? Aren’t you going to cut off that big yummy white banana of yours and eat it for my little brother? I think he’s entitled to see that.”

I felt like a deer in the headlights, speechless and frozen in my tracks.

The Asian girl pressed me. “You wouldn’t lie to a child would you? It’s a very bad thing for an elite preppie teen to mislead a child of color. You know that don’t you?”

My face grew ashen. I wondered if I was in for some trouble here, if such a promise to an underclass child really had to be honored. After all, this social upheaval was proving so extreme in so many ways and, of course, there had already been threats of penis amputation.

The pretty Kyung shook her well-manicured finger at me and said, “Well maybe I should call the authorities to see what can be done about white boys not keeping their promises.”

I now wished I had just let my bladder suffer a little longer. I was beginning to seriously believe that someone would make me eat my own penis for that boy.

Finally, the Kyung winked at me and burst out laughing. She said, “You’re cute. Now get outta here Banana Dick!” Then she looked at the line of naked teens and said, “Next!”

I walked back out to the gym on shaky legs, resolved to be more careful of my commitments. As it turned out, Kyung, Wu and Wu’s little twin sister (whom I would meet later) would play a major and saving role in my life.

[Next: Chapter 6]