The Sleepover: Part 3

There was a very slight rustling noise when Oliver moved in his bed. And each time he moved he knew that Stephen, lying in his bed only a few feet away, would be reminded of the DryNites pyjama pants Oliver was wearing. However, whether or not Oliver was wearing pyjama pants was the last thing on Stephen’s mind; his mind was full of nervous excitement as he strained to listen for other noises.

Mum had at last gone to bed and the house was quiet. Stephen rolled over onto his side and reached under his bed where he kept his torch hidden. He moved his hand around under the bed until he felt the cold metal casing of the Pifco torch. He wrapped his fingers around the barrel of the torch and quickly snuck it unders his bedclothes. Stephen tucked his head under the sheets and slid the button on the torch forward. The Pifco torch lit up Stephen’s improvised tent.

Oliver could hear the sound of movement coming from the direction of Stephen’s bed and could see the torchlight spilling out from under the bedclothes, but he couldn’t see what his friend was up to. Then Stephen’s head appeared, lit up from from below by the torch which he held partially covered by the sheets.

“Are you awake?” Stephen asked in a whisper. Oliver replied that he was and Stephen shone the torch in his direction as if to check Oliver was really still there in his bedroom.

The torchlight flicked back.

“What are you doing?” Oliver whispered.

There was no answer and the torch had disappeared under Stephen’s bedclothes again, but Oliver could the shadow of Stephen’s head on the pillow. As Oliver watched, Stephen slowly drew the bedclothes down towards the bottom of his bed. Stephen paused as the sheets reached his hips and he adjusted the touch so that Oliver could see what he was doing.

Oliver’s pyjama pants made a crinkling noise as he shifted his position and turned sideways to better see what Stephen was doing in the torchlight. Then, as Stephen pulled his bedclothes further down until they were resting on his pyjama-clad thighs, Oliver was shocked to see that his friend had undone his pyjama bottoms and pulled them wide open. Stephen had also undone the lower buttons of his pyjama top. And there, unmistakable in the torchlight, was Stephen’s hairless penis lying fully erect, flat against his tummy. Stephen giggled and shone the light directly onto his penis, then, with his other hand, he took hold of his erection and pulled it upright so that Oliver could see it properly. Next he moved his hand so that it lay flat at the base of his penis and, with his fingertips, pushed his stiff penis so that it was kept upright. Using his fingertips, Stephen pushed his erection back and forth under the torchlight.

Stephen giggled again as he played with his stiff penis: “Get yours out as well,” he said to Oliver.

“What if…?” Oliver started to say.

“Go on,” Stephen urged, as he began to stroke himself with his fingertips. “Go on… get yours out as well.”

“You sure…?” Oliver sounded nervous, as indeed he was.

“You’re not chicken, are you?” Stephen said as he briefly turned the torch and shone it on Oliver’s face.

Oliver blinked in the glare of the torch: “Course I’m not chicken… I bet I’ve done it more than you have…” he said, quite forgetting he was a seventeen year old sixth former and sounding more like  a second year boy showing off.

“Prove it…” Stephen responded throwing down the gauntlet.

“Will too…” Oliver said, sounding even more juvenile, “Just you wait…”

But Oliver had to contend with the DryNites pyjama pants that he had been put into earlier…

*

Teatime was at last finished and the boys were wiped down with a damp face-cloth to clean up the mess they had both made of themselves when being ‘helped’ to finish the blancmange Mrs Wilding had made especially for Oliver’s visit. Rachel had attended to Oliver, wiping the embarrassed boy who was, like Stephen, nude apart from a rather ridiculous looking child’s bib that had been tied around his neck.

The boys’ bibs were left in place as Mrs Wilding announced that Oliver and Stephen were to help with the washing up.

“Oliver… you can wash up, and Stephen… you can dry… Rachel, would you be a dear and get the boys a couple of aprons from the airing-cupboard?”

The two bare boys cleared the table and stacked the crockery and cutlery by the sink under the watchful eye of Felicity Wilding. Rachel returned with two very frilly little aprons.

“Oh, Rachel… I didn’t mean those!”

“What’s wrong with them aunty?”

“They’re practice pieces for the ladies sewing circle… They’re only for show…”

Rachel held up the pinafore aprons which had been delicately embroidered with nursery-rhyme figures. On one was Little Miss Muffet and on the other Little Tommy Tucker: “But aunty, they’re lovely!”

“I know dear… but they’re far too good to use… and I’m not sure Oliver or Stephen would want to wear a pinny...”

“Oh, please aunty… let the boys wear them… just once…”

Needless to say both Oliver and Stephen were horrified at the thought of wearing such sissy-looking pinafore aprons. It was quite clear to Oliver the only good thing about an apron was that they would afford him some degree of frontal coverage. Much as he hated wearing his lederhosen, it was infinitely preferable to wear that, rather than his birthday suit which, apart from a silly little boy’s bib, was what he was wearing at that particular moment. He felt very uncomfortable being bare-nude in Mrs Wilding’s house; bare-nude in front of her and bare-nude in front of Rachel. It didn’t give him any comfort at all that Stephen was in the same boat. It wasn’t the same thing at all, why Stephen was only fourteen, but he was seventeen for heaven’s sake! That made matters so much worse; to be treated in the same way as a boy three years his junior in front of a girl a year younger than he was! It was all so unfair!

Oliver spoke up. Better to wear a pinny than nothing at all: “Please Mrs Wilding, please may I wear one of the aprons?”

“See…” Rachel said to her aunt, “Oliver wants to wear a pinny…”

Oliver was blushing. He didn’t exactly want  to wear a pinny decorated with nursery rhyme characters, but what else was there for him to wear since Rachel had relieved him of his boy’s lederhosen?

Felicity Wilding acquiesced: “Alright then, but look after them. The sewing circle would never forgive me if anything happened to them.”

“Which pinny do you want to wear, Oliver?” Rachel asked.

Given first choice, Oliver plumped for Little Tommy Tucker.

“Arms out,” Rachel said as she held up the pinny. It was then that Oliver realised the pinny, being a practice piece and never intended for everyday use, wasn’t very big at all. Rachel helped him on with it and then stepped around him to tie the apron strings at the back. When the knot was tied and Oliver looked down at himself he saw the lower hem of the apron only just covered the base of his penis. It was almost worse than wearing nothing at all! His penis could be seen hanging limply from under the hem of the pinny.

Stephen, in spite of still being ‘dressed’ in nothing but a bib, snickered at the sight of Oliver in his Little Tommy Tucker pinny. The embroidered panel on the front of the pinny showed Tommy Tucker singing for his supper and the words of the nursery rhyme as well. It was a beautiful piece of work. The same could be said of Stephen’s pinny which pictured Little Miss Muffet sat on her tuffet while, unnoticed by her, a big spider could be seen hanging by its thread close by. When his pinny was put on, only the tip of Stephen’s foreskin could be seen peeking out from the ruffled hem of the apron.

Mum made the boys stand next to each other at the sink. Rachel straightened the aprons and removed the bibs the boys had been wearing since teatime. She couldn't resist teasing the boys, calling them by their nursery characters' names. Oliver was henceforth called Tommy Tucker and Stephen, to his red-faced shame, found himself being addressed by Rachel as Miss Muffet.

“Mum!” he protested, “It’s not fair!”

“Oh don’t be silly, darling… Rachel’s only teasing you… and besides…”

Mum stopped as Rachel whispered something in her ear. Mrs Wilding smiled:

“Yes, dear… I agree. It will give them something to think about while they do the washing-up together.”

Felicity Wilding had hardly finished speaking when the doorbell rang: “Stephen… doorbell…”

“Oh, mum… please, do I have to…?”

“Stephen you know you’re on doorbell-duty today… now get along and answer the door.”

Stephen was about to open his mouth again, but Rachel spoke: “Is Little Miss Muffet afraid it might be a spider come to pay a visit… would you like me to hold your hand?”

The doorbell was heard to ring again.

“Stephen…” mum said in her ‘I’m warning you’ voice.

“I’m going… I’m going…” he replied and walked off down the hallway with his bottom bare for all to see.

When he reached the front door he thought about using the door to hide himself behind. But then mum called out for him to “open the door properly!” This meant Stephen was expected to fully open the front door and stand in the open doorway to greet mum’s visitor, before inviting them inside as appropriate. He was of course wearing his hugely embarrassing pinafore apron and that was all. His penis was just about visible and his bottom was bare. Stephen’s heart thumped as he opened the door.

“Who is it, Stephen?” mum called from the kitchen.

Stephen turned his head and called back: “It’s Miss Benson, mum…”

Miss Benson, a lady in her late-forties and a good friend of Felicity Wilding, said nothing about the boy’s apparel. She merely uttered a noise which sounded like “hurumff!” when Stephen turned back towards the kitchen and she saw the boy was wearing nothing more than a frilly apron.

Oliver had been instructed to make a start with the washing-up and he was relieved to be able to stand facing the sink as Miss Benson came into the kitchen.

“Well blow me down… another bare bottom!” she exclaimed jovially when she saw Oliver at the sink. “What have the boys been up to, Felicity? No good, I’ll be bound…” She didn’t wait for an answer; that wasn’t the way with Joan Benson. “Just passing and thought I’d drop in for a chin-wag… You know the flower festival is only a few weeks away… Last year was a disaster. I told Bunny Pringle not to…” For a split second Miss Benson paused before looking back at Oliver and saying, “You’re Vera Evans’ boy, aren’t you?”

Oliver had been keeping himself pressed against the sink in an effort to hide Little Tommy Tucker from view, but now it seemed as if he would have to turn and acknowledge Mrs Wilding’s visitor.

“Stop what you’re doing, Oliver,” Felicity Wilding said, “Come and say ‘hello’ properly to Miss Benson,”

“Why bless my soul!” Joan Benson exclaimed looking directly at Oliver’s limp penis as it swung into view. She looked at the embroidery and added without a moments hesitation: “Well I don’t know about Little Tommy Tucker… more like Pop Goes the Weasel and the weasel’s trying to escape by the look of it!”

Joan Benson had a notoriously robust sense of humour acquired during years engaged in country pursuits. She could hold her own in all types of company and had a reputation for bringing blushes to the cheeks of those who weren’t familiar with her earthy badinage.

Oliver was one of them and as a consequence blushed a deeper red than ever since it was plain to everyone Joan Benson was referring to his penis.

“Now, now Joan dear,” Felicity Wilding said with a smile, “I don’t think you should tease the poor boy like that. I’m sure we don't need our attention drawn to the fact that we can all see Oliver’s penis peeking out from under his pinny.”

“Felicity… for heaven’s sake… Oliver’s penis isn’t ‘peeking out’... it’s positively… well let’s just say I’m reminded of that other nursery rhyme… you know, Felicity, the one about..."

"Please, Joan... that's enough!" Felicity Wilding pleaded with her friend, but there was simply no stopping Joan Benson as she persisted and drew even more attention to Oliver's well-proportioned 'boy-bits'.

Mrs Wilding tried to control herself. After all she was acting in loco parentis, but Joan Benson’s bold assertions were just too much for her to bear and she burst out laughing along with her visitor. Rachel too found Miss Benson’s forthright observations very amusing and laughed along with the grown-ups. It hardly needs to be said that neither Oliver nor Stephen found the jokes about the size of Oliver’s penis remotely funny and indeed Oliver found it difficult to remember a time when he had felt quite so ashamed as he did at that moment standing in Mrs Wilding's kitchen, the subject of Miss Benson's ribaldry.

The laughter simmered down to a chortle and finally Felicity Wilding said: “Really, I think Oliver is embarrassed enough without us drawing attention to his… his… oh, dear…”

“Bless my soul!” Joan Benson exclaimed, “Looks more like Jack and the Beanstalk now!”

Now everyone, Felicity Wilding, Joan Benson, Rachel and Stephen, all of them were staring at Oliver's penis as it slowly lifted up the hem of his pinny. Gradually, in a series of little jerks it rose upwards until the penis pointed out horizontally with the frilly hem of the little apron fringing its hairless base.

“Oliver, I think you’d better get on with the washing-up,” Felicity Wilding said in an effort to draw attention away from the engorged penis.

“Yes, Mrs Wilding,” Oliver answered, relieved to be able to turn back to face the sink once more, but not before Miss Benson added something about seeing a couple of magic beans underneath Oliver's beanstalk.

Showing his bare bottom was far more preferable to Oliver than displaying his penis and his plump testicles, so he set to work washing and rinsing the tea things and wondered how long Miss Benson was going to stay and whether he could drag out the washing-up until she’d gone.

“Stephen you can help with the drying-up… go and get a tea-towel… Sit down, Joan… Rachel, would you pour Miss Benson a nice cup of tea… There we are...” Felicity Wilding said as she sat at the kitchen table with her friend.

“Dear me… I almost forgot,” Felicity said suddenly, “Boys… pay attention… once you’ve finished washing-up, you’re going to give us a little recital.” The boys looked concerned, as well they might. “Now don’t be worried, it isn’t difficult, I just want you to recite the nursery rhymes that are sewn on your pinnies…”

“Aww, mum....!” Stephen interjected, “Oh, please mum… that’s a sissy idea…”

“Now, Stephen I don’t want you to give me any trouble in front of Miss Benson. I’m sure you don’t want her to see how we deal with naughty boys in this house… do you, Stephen?”

“No, mum...” Stephen replied as his hand moved instinctively to rub his bare bottom.

“So what are you and Oliver going to do after you’ve finished the washing-up?”

“Um... say the nursery rhymes, mum…”

Joan Benson interrupted: “...and what nursery rhyme are you going to recite for us, Stephen?”

“Um, er…” Stephen hesitated and looked down at himself. He knew perfectly well who his nursery character was, but it bought him a little time before the humiliation of announcing: “Er… Little Miss Muffet, Miss Benson…”

“Good… and what about you, Oliver… what’s your nursery rhyme? Turn back round so that we can all see…”

Felicity whispered: “Really, Joan… you’re incorrigible… you know full well what nursery rhyme is on Oliver’s pinny. Can’t you see how embarrassed the poor boy is…?

Joan Benson merely smiled mischievously at her friend and turned to look at Oliver who’s penis had risen far enough for his scrotal sac to be fully displayed.

With his face redder than ever he replied: “Um… Little Tommy Tucker, Miss Benson…”

“And what did Little Tommy Tucker have to do, Oliver?” Joan Benson enquired.

“Er… sing for his supper, Miss Benson…”

“Did Tommy Tucker sing for his supper today, Oliver?”

“Er… no, Miss Benson,” Oliver replied, barely able to look at Mrs Wilding’s friend. He was becoming apprehensive and his stomach was knotted with a foreboding of where these questions were leading.

“That wasn’t very polite of Little Tommy Tucker was it, Oliver?”

“No, Miss Benson…” Oliver’s penis jerked as he answered.

“Well perhaps Little Tommy Tucker would like to make up for that lapse in manners after you’ve finished the washing-up. Does that sound like a good idea, Oliver?”

“Umm… I, er…” Oliver hesitated, but he knew there was only one answer that he was expected to give, “Yes, Miss Benson…”

“Good. That’s settled. I am glad Little Tommy Tucker is going to sing us all a song to make up for being such a naughty little boy.”

It was Rachel’s turn to say something: “Please, Miss Benson, if Little Tommy Tucker is going to sing us all a song, wouldn’t it be unfair if Little Miss Moffet didn’t sing a song too?” she asked.

Stephen knew straightaway what that meant and he immediately made his feelings known: “Mum!! It’s not fair… why should Rachel…?”

“Stephen, that’s enough…”

“But, but… mum...”

“Stephen, I’m warning you…”

For once Stephen was sensible enough to back down, helped in part by Oliver’s whispered aside that it would be okay. Then Stephen reminded himself that if he could get through the next few hours without mishap, then there was bedtime to look forward to…

*

Stephen shone the torch-light in the direction of Oliver’s bed. He could see the older boy had already pulled down the bedclothes and was now tugging at  the white cord which held up the pyjama bottoms. Oliver unknotted the cord and pulled open his pyjamas. Stephen could see the colourful motorbike design of the DryNites pyjama pants and he played the torch-light over them. Then all of a sudden he steadied the torch.

“Wow!” he gasped as he made out the unmistakable shape of Oliver’s stiff penis.

“Keep your voice down,” Oliver hissed as he struggled to ease down his pyjama pants. He pushed his thumbs in either side of the elasticated waist and wriggled about in an effort the ease the pyjama pants down as quietly as possible. Even so the rustling noise sounded very loud in Stephen’s small bedroom and every now and then Oliver stopped to strain his ear and listen for any noises coming from outside the room, but all was quiet.

Slowly and with some difficulty Oliver eased down the pyjama pants until he completely uncovered his fully erect penis. Stephen shone the torch with one hand and with the other stroked his own penis and played with his foreskin. This was just awesome! He put the torch down by his side so that he could play with his balls as he began to masturbate properly. In the shadows he could make out movement coming from Oliver’s bed.

“I’m doing it,” Stephen whispered into the darkness, “Are you doing it?” he asked Oliver.

“Yes…”

“What?”

“Yes,” Oliver hissed, “Yes… I’m doing it.”

There was more rustling as Oliver pulled his pyjama pants lower. Stephen picked up his torch again and shone the light back onto Oliver who looked up guiltily as he held his stiff penis tight in the curled fingers of his hand.

“Let me see you do it,” Stephen ordered, “Go on… then you can watch me…”

Oliver nodded, although Stephen could only see the slight movement of a shadow, as the torch-light was shining directly onto Oliver’s hard penis. In reply to Stephen, Oliver’s hand moved up to the head of the penis. Oliver’s foreskin was long enough to completely cover the meatus even when he was fully erect. There was an excess of about half an inch of loose skin which Oliver liked to play with, drawing it back and forth until Stephen could make out a clear fluid glistening in the torch-light.

“Wow… are you cumming already?” Stephen asked eagerly.

“No… that’s just pre-cum… don’t you know the difference yet?”

“Course I do,” Stephen replied indignantly, “It’s just… just… wow, look at it all!”

Oliver was indeed producing an appreciable amount of pre-cum, due mainly to the fact his opportunities to masturbate were extremely limited. Vera Evans had very firm views on the subject of the moral behaviour of boys and masturbation was most definitely forbidden, consequently Oliver chances to indulge in self-abuse were few and far between. These occasions were also, of necessity, extremely furtive. For Oliver to wallow in the extended pleasure which could be obtained from a prolonged session of masturbation was a luxury almost unknown to him. As he slipped his foreskin backwards and forwards over the glistening meatus, he was determined to make the most of this golden opportunity to enjoy himself.

Stephen was wide-eyed in amazement. He held the torch and shone its light on Oliver’s penis. With his other hand he masturbated as he watched Oliver playing games with his foreskin.

“Do it,” Stephen urged, “Do it…”

“I am doing it…”

“Wank it properly… Let me see you wank it… go on… wank it...” Stephen said.

Oliver obliged and wrapped his fist around the shaft of his penis. In the torchlight Stephen watched as the older boy masturbated.

“Awesome…” Stephen whispered to himself, “... just awesome…”

Stephen laid his head back on his pillow and stroked his penis while he figured out a way of holding the torch so that he could watch Oliver masturbating while at the same time enjoying the pleasures of his own self-abuse.

*

The washing-up was at last finished and Oliver helped Rachel put things away. Felicity Wilding and Joan Benson sat at the kitchen table having what Miss Benson so succinctly called a ‘chin-wag’, catching up on all the latest gossip. All the time Joan Benson kept half an eye on the boys in their fetching little pinnies and waited for the moment when they would both be called upon to sing for their suppers. She could tell that Oliver in particular was being somewhat tardy in his actions, no doubt trying to postpone the little singsong, which is indeed what he was trying to do. Bathtime was to be a six o’clock and Oliver reasoned that if he could just drag out his chores for a bit longer he might be spared the humiliation of having to sing a nursery rhyme in front of Miss Benson and Mrs Wilding, to say nothing of Rachel and Stephen. It didn’t matter that Stephen was in the same boat and would have to sing his own song, Oliver hated the thought of having to stand up and make a complete spectacle of himself whatever the circumstances.

But unfortunately for Oliver and Stephen there was plenty of time for both of them to perform their pieces and these they did one at a time as they stood next to each other facing Rachel and the two grown-ups.

“Right then… off you go, Oliver,” Joan Benson encouraged the seventeen year old, “Don’t be shy.”

Oliver coughed and on Rachel’s instructions placed his hands behind his back and started to sing:

“Little Tommy Tucker

Sings for his supper

What shall we give him?

Brown bread and butter.”

The ladies clapped at the end of Oliver’s song and he was made to repeat his performance. Oliver had never felt quite this level of shame before. Even his penis let him down, insisting on displaying itself, it became almost fully erect and pushed the apron right up so that his plump testicles could also be seen. Oliver had considerable trouble in controlling himself and when the women ordered a third rendition of his song he very nearly ran from the room. Only the thought of what mummy would say (and do!) if she found out he had been rude prevented Oliver from fleeing the kitchen.

“That’s very good, Oliver… you’ve got a lovely singing voice,” Joan Benson declared, seemingly oblivious to Oliver’s distress. “Yes… you really ought to practice more often. These old nursery rhymes are ideal for training young voices.” She turned to Felicity Wilding and added, “Perhaps we should persuade Oliver to sing at the flower festival… I’m sure if he practiced hard enough…”

Compared to Oliver, Stephen’s singing was all over the place. Unfortunately his young voice couldn’t quite decide whether it was broken or not and so was completely out of control as he sang:

“Little Miss Muffet

Sat on a tuffet,

Eating of curds and whey;

Along came a spider,

Who sat down beside her

And frightened Miss Muffet away.”

To the boys’ immense relief Felicity Wilding called an end to their singing and announced that as pyjama-time was fast approaching it was time Stephen and Oliver were made ready for their bath. Rachel was sent upstairs to run the bath after which Miss Benson helped the boys out of their pinnies.

Both boys, now fully nude, escorted Joan Benson to the front door to say ‘goodbye’.

“I might pop just round tomorrow… I didn’t get round to discussing what it was I came over for in the first place,” Miss Benson said.

“Yes, you do that Joan,” Felicity Wilding replied, “... and I’m sure the boys will be pleased to see you again, won’t you boys?”

“Yes, Miss Benson,” Oliver said.

“Yes, Miss Benson,” Stephen said too.

“Now boys, it’s about time we got you upstairs and into the bath…” Mrs Wilding said after she watched her son close the front door, “Come along boys… Get a move on Stephen…”

But all Stephen could think was that bedtime was getting closer… and closer...