Not A Stitch

You can hear them chattering to one another as you scurry out of the kitchen and back upstairs. "Cute butt..."
"Couldn't tell, I was too distracted by those abs!"
"C'mon you two, he's still my brother..."
"Uh-huh, I didn't hear any complaining when we took—" The rest is drowned out when you cross the landing and slam your bedroom door closed behind you. Finally, you can breathe as you re-enter the safety of your bedroom and slide the curtains closed. For a few minutes, you simply stand in the dimness between the window and your bed, your bare toes curling and uncurling over the carpet as you try to process everything you've just experienced. Your first port of call is to dig around in your dresser and chest of drawers for some kind of clothing; jeans, shorts, t-shirt, even a pair of underpants... but nothing presents itself. They've taken it all, they've really gone and taken it all.

And now you're stuck here, naked.

You sigh, and look down at yourself, at the subtle furrows that cut diagonally across from the centre of your abdomen to your hips, at the dark patch of wiry pubic hair, the dangling pillar of your cock. A twinge of something uncomfortable washes over you, and instinctively your hands go down to settle over your pubes, the fingers clutching at the twitching base of the shaft. Even without a mirror on hand, you can sense your cheeks going warm. For no reason at all, you look over your own shoulder to get a look at your bare bum. Unbidden, the thought of being seen like this comes to mind. Naked. Exposed. Hungry eyes raking over the plump flesh of your pale, boyish backside. You shift your feet and stand a little pigeon-toed, your toes still curling and uncurling, exhaling sharply as your cock gets harder.

No, no this isn't right. You shouldn't be feeling like this; it's their fault! Who the hell do they think they are? Who the hell does your sister think she is? So you like a certain kind of porn, so what? That gives the right to strip you? Tease you? Steal your clothes? Humi—

You shake your head, looking up to see your computer screen seeming to stare at you from across the darkened room. This isn't going to stop you; there's nothing wrong with porn, nothing wrong with ENF or anything else for that matter. You'll show them, you'll show those creepy bitches! The glow of the screen washes over you, making your skin shine bright and sending deep shadows nesting into the forbidden place between your hairy thighs. The rough material of your hand-me-down computer chair chafes your unprotected bottom and scratches a little at the sensitive underside of your balls. You sit on one hand to try and mitigate the feeling, but the skin-on-skin contact only makes you more aware of your nudity and, disturbingly, even harder. When it finishes booting up and your web browser flares to life in front of you, you click on the bookmark for Bare-Blushing-Babes, relaxing slightly as the site's gallery of videos comes into view. You scroll a little and edge yourself a lot, touching yourself with micro-movements that kee you excited and alert but nowhere close to release. After several false starts and incidences of changing your mind, you find a video where a haughty cheerleader steps on a ventilation grate and gets her heel stuck on it in the middle of the cafeteria. There's a long, agonising build-up as she tries in vain to free herself, the other students all around her tittering and gossiping and making bets with one another, then the big release where the skirt of her cheer uniform blows right up to reveal a pair of the cutest, most ridiculous Bob The Builder undies. There are several slow, lingering shots of her hopelessly humiliated face, her blonde hair cascading down her shoulders, her eyes brimming with tears and her lipsticked mouth quivering up a storm. You pause the video here and there to take her expressions in, soaking her embarrassment in even as you soak yourself in glistening pre-cum, your fingers curling around your shaft and teasing, teasing, stroking, teasing using it as lubricant as you scroll back and forth over those lovely frames of her blazing cheeks, wide eyes and downturned mouth.

Then, you move on to the money shots.

The video cuts to a series of sumptuous close-ups of the cheerleader's pretty, pretty undies. The back of them is decorated with Spud the Scarecrow, who is leaning to one side against one of her buttocks, and appears to be gesturing naughtily at the partially-exposed crack of her arse where it is beginning to swallow the printed cotton in the middle. You shiver excitedly at the sight, fidgeting and fussing with your willy over a little bit of girl butt and a few inches of dyed cotton. The pre-cum by now has slid down to the base of your shaft, and your efforts are beginning to slather translucent strands of it over exposed balls. You let out a shaky sigh and glance down at your leaking member, and feel a small twinge of shame at the sight of your 'produce' covering much of your crotch and leaving sticky trails on your inner thighs.

It's so... god, this is...

Shaking your head, you look back up at the screen in time to catch a shot from underneath the cheerleader which shows the yellow digger Scoop has been printed onto the gusset. He is raising his 'arms' and winking, as if trying to emphasise the line of stitches that holds the underside of her underwear together. Your horniness is well and truly getting the best of you now; despite yourself, you struggle to your feet, biting your lip to stop yourself from letting out a subtle moan. The camera's so close to her kitty now you can almost taste it, almost count the hairs on her...

Your breath turns ragged and hitching. You shut your eyes and slowly, delicately give your hands leave to wander, tugging and pulling and squeezing at your tip, your shaft, your sensitive balls. Your hands are covered in your own pre-cum, the clear-white goo coating your palms, gathering between your fingers. Your willy is tingling, drooling, thanking you with tiny jolts and waves of pleasure after each and every flex. Squeezing your thighs, you feel your climax building. You open your eyes, because you need to see it. Need to see her underpants, her dumb, girly underpants. White underpants with cartoon characters om them, what was she thinking? Wearing such stupid, goofy undies. The ones she didn't want anyone to see, the ones she keeps yelling about, insisting... something, you don't know because you can't hear, you can't hear... the audio's muffled... why is it... ?

You swallow thickly, pausing for a heartbeat to lean forward and touch the volume key on your computer. The volume indicator goes up, but the sound doesn't get much clearer. You press it again, and again, and again and...

You freeze, listening to the cheerleader's recorded cries. "Not mine... my... my brother's... must have gotten mixed up in the..."

Your blood runs cold. Because you can hear it now, but several rooms away... downstairs, in fact. You abandon your cock and hunch over the keyboard, the stiff totality of it jutting straight out in front of you as you rush to check the audio output menu. What speaker is it using? WHAT SPEAKER?! Finally, you see it and you gasp. "No... no, that's not..." But it's there on the screen, clear as day.

DOWNSTAIRS SPEAKER: LIVING ROOM

Just as you hear footsteps rocketing up the stairs and across the landing toward you, your eye is drawn once more back to the video. It's a view rom the cheerleader's front. Crotch-level, where Bob himself stands in pride of place over the cheerleader's kitty-cat, smiling jovially as he holds his toolbox over her own. You turn your head to look back at the door in a blind panic, struggling to push your willy down, to **** it out of sight, as the door knob starts to turn and you become keenly aware of just how cute and plump your bum is. All over again.