I have always been weak. In high school, I was bullied relentlessly. I was thin and weak. My one weight training course for 18-year-old students my senior year proved a constant humiliation, as I couldn’t even bench press the bar, and by the end of the semester, the only thing that had changed was that I could lift the bar. I had earned the nickname tighty whities, an obvious nomenclature that invited bullies and repelled girls. The fact that my bulge was barely noticeable didn’t help.

During one of the final days, as I was coerced into attempting to lift the bar with 2.5 pounds on either side, a feat I very nearly accomplished, my gym shorts were jerked from my hips and right off my legs. One of the girls in the class didn’t believe I wore the underwear that gave me my name.

Humiliated, the bar fell and nearly crushed my throat.

“Oh my god,” Josie, one of the girls in my class, declared. “He does wear them!”

The teacher was an old football coach with a laissez-faire attitude toward teaching, often stepping out to leave us to our own devices. So I already knew no cavalry was coming. All I could do was try to keep the bar from breaking my neck. Worst of all, as I pushed against the bar with all my might, Josie decided to sneak a peak at my equipment.

“No!” I shrieked repeatedly, my voice cracking and breaking.

As I pushed hard to resist this exposure, I realized my two spotters were weighing the bar down on me. It was all I could do to keep from being crushed.

I fumed, squirmed, and flailed to move, but it only looked more ridiculous. I tried kicking out in desperation, but one of the boys simply rested on my ankles, pinning me down.

Helplessly, I watched as Josie slipped a finger into the waistband of my briefs and peeked inside.

“Oh my God, he’s so small! The smallest I’ve ever seen!” She cried with laughter. “And he’s completely hairless!”

I flushed red with embarrassment. I was a late bloomer of late bloomers. Suppose I would ever bloom at all. My humiliation was only compounded as the other girls in the class quickly lined up to examine me, including my crush, Hannah. It was deliberated that there was no further need for my tighty whities, and they pulled down my hips to just above my knees, offering everyone a view of my pathetic form.

“Is he any bigger hard?” Josie asked, although I already knew the answer. I felt someone’s finger and thumb pumping me.

“Not yet, but let’s see,” I heard Hannah say.

I glanced down, and it was indeed her at the helm. I bit my lip, trying to resist the inevitable humiliation of my puny penis erect.

“No. Hannah. Please. Please don’t,” I begged.

I had thought of her often. So much. All the things I would have liked to have told her. How pretty I thought her eyes were. How gentlemanly I would be by not checking her out. How I would defend her when other boys would tell me she would sleep around.

“Come on, Jamey, I know you’ve always had a thing for me,” she laughed as my unimpressive member doubled in size to three inches.

“Hannah, stop. Please! Not like this!” I moaned.

Hating the pleasure. I didn’t want it to be like this. Everyone was laughing.

“Oh, you want it like this,” Hannah laughed tauntingly as she began to pump harder.

That was all it took. With a pathetic moan, I prematurely ejaculated to howls of laughter. Never had I been more humiliated. I thought it was over. But it wasn’t.

Josie pulled my tighty whities off my legs and shot them across the room by the waistband.

“These are for little boys. I have something he should wear instead!” she said, pulling a pair of pink panties from her gym bag and sliding them up my legs.

“There you go, James. Now you’re one of us!” Josie declared proudly.

Horrified, I glanced down and saw them cover me completely.

“They certainly fit better!” Hannah squealed with laughter.

For the rest of my senior year, I was accosted with shared photos and videos of this day. This horrible moment where I was revealed to be forever a weakling with a small penis who wore tighty whities. Being forced to wear panties. The moan of my orgasm was even used as someone’s text tone. The humiliation was everywhere.

I thought of changing to boxers and tried on a few occasions, but I could only succeed in wearing briefs under them. I was pantsed often, but thankfully, nothing as extreme as that horrible day in gym class. Although every time I walked into a class or past a group of students, they would always snicker or make a comment, or simply make the sign for a small penis.

At graduation, as my name was called for my diploma, everyone made the two-fingered sign. A few students even slung tighty whities at the stage.

It was in then I decided to make a change…

 

The End.

 

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