Roundball Anyone?
By Sir Cum Sizemore

copyright 2010 by Sir Cum Sizemore, all rights reserved

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This story is intended for ADULTS ONLY. It contains explicit depictions of sexual activity involving minors. If you are not of a legal age in your locality to view such material or if such material does not appeal to you, do not read further, and do not save this story.
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We assembled on the gym floor. Most of our parents, younger siblings, grandparents, aunts and uncles were seated in the bleachers next to community members at large for the annual boys against girls basketball game. This was the biggest school fundraiser of the year in our midsized New Hampshire hometown. It was a tight knit community. Everyone knew everyone but this night everyone would know some of us better than any of us imagined.

There we were the sixth grade contingent of eleven and twelve year boys going up against the sixth grade girls at our middle school. The whistle blew and the booming voice of Mr. Wilcox hollered, "Okay, kids line up. Boys over here" pointing to the left with his massive arms, "and girls over here", pointing right. We all followed his orders without question as he was known to have quite a "connection" when he hit your backside with the legendary paddle. And, he didn't care if your parents were there or not, he'd use it, and the parents generally wouldn't even flinch.

Having come from elementary school the year before this whole gym class thing was quite new to us. Two of the most humiliating experiences we had to get over, at least on the boys' side were the gym clothes—short shorts with nothing below except jock straps and required showers after physical education classes. The prevailing belief of all of the adults was, "Boys shouldn't have a lot of modesty" and so we were often made to be nude in front of each other, the whole idea of walking around the locker room with our phalluses swinging to and fro was still a little unsettling. And, jock straps? What's with that? Most of us had no idea why we had to wear them or initially how to put the damn things on. I mean it was bad enough shopping for them with your mother before school started without a clue as to what they were.

The necessity of the darn things was questionable as well. None of us had even sprung the seedlings of a bush. We were--all thirty of us--still as smooth in the pelvic area as we were in second grade. Our penises had grown in length and girth proportionally to our body's overall growth, but that's it. Scrotums were still like tight plums, but few showing a whole lot of the testicular descent which marks puberty.

As I remember those days, the humiliation we felt with the new rules was mixed with the feeling of being mature. After all we were doing what bigger boys and adult males did. Though we acted unmoved by the new exposure requirements, we still copped a quick meat gaze for comparison purposes as we walked to and from the showers. And, on more than one occasion, most still felt a little desirous of copping a feel of a classmate's genitalia for comparison purposes only. After all anything like that which had a 'sexual' motivation would be viewed as a little 'queer' to say the least. But, for comparative purposes it would be a little more acceptable. It would amount to what most older males referred to as 'grab ass'. The best most of us got was a shot at a friend's bare ass with our towel after the shower.

Anyway there we were, in those gym suits with nothing but a jock strap underneath the skimpy shorts standing at a semblance of attention before the adult and young kid audience. The girls were wearing the same gym suit and I know more than one of us was wondering, "Do they have any extra equipment down there? I mean is there a 'twat' supporter or something?" Most were wearing training bras, but was there anything else?

As we stood there, in our golden short shorts with beige t-shirts sporting the words North Chatham Middle School in black letters surrounded the crouching puma (our mascot) it was clear we had a shared identity. The problem was it also made differentiating the players during the fast moving games difficult to say the least. It was evident the old shirts vs. skins could only be pushed in one direction as, again, "boys don't need modesty" but for sure girls did.

"Boys, shirts off," Coach Wilcox yelled. We all removed our shirts now only covered by the loose legged yellow shorts and the jocks beneath. The girls giggled at the situation and the audience was evidently well aware of the whole shirts and skins thing. No one seemed the least bit alarmed or even visually glued to us during the removal the process.

Momentarily, the dads who were wearing the striped shirts and were to officiate the game approached the Coach and Miss Valentine, the girls' P.E. teacher. After a mumbled discussion which transpired for what seemed like three or four minutes, the Coach with Miss Valentine at his side approached the bleachers,

"Folks, the officials aren't sure when we get moving the tan shirts and the boys skin tone will offer a big enough visual difference to make calls, is there anyone who would be upset if we have the boys remove their shorts and straps for this game?"

We, and I think I can speak for all of the boys, were shocked. Our mouths were agape. The adults in the stands mumbled, there was some laughter and giggles, but no one objected. Most just sat there shaking their heads in such a way as to encourage such a move. The Coach, almost as a sales job, continued,

"I mean for the game the skins will truly be the skins. There's nothing going to cause them, at their age, to need the straps anyway. About all that's going to move is those little penises bouncing around."

One of the mothers shouted, "Go ahead. They're too shy anyway."

The Mr. Wilcx approach us, "Boys get your shorts and straps off and run them up to the stage."

Though the girls' line was to our right, we could feel all heads turned toward us. The folks in the stand were sitting there with anticipation. Only two or three of the boys took their shorts off, but seeing no one else move, they stopped standing still decked in their jock straps. I remember thinking I'll bet the girls are wondering what that funny looking underwear was they were wearing. Momentarily, the harsh voice hollered, "I said shorts and straps off and I mean, NOW!"

The remainder of us slowly lowered our elastic waist shorts to the floor and stepped out. There was a mixture of giggles and "ooooo"'s echoing throughout the gym. None of us had even begun to remove the straps. There we stood almost defiantly our privates being sheltered by the triangular cod pieces supported by straps vertically adorning our now bare butt cheeks. I could hear Lisa McDonald say, "Look at Joey, I told you his butt was cute." At least they weren't talking about me.

"Get those straps off now, gentlemen or I'm going to be using my enforcer on those bare asses." Coach was getting impatient.

At varying rates of speed we all slipped the jocks off. Need I say almost all 27 of us immediately used our hands to regain some semblance of modesty. We could hear the mumbling and giggles from the bleachers as well as the girls. Then that lady, I'm not sure whose mother or grandmother she was, yelled, "Oh, put your hands down. There's nothing there we haven't seen before."

In my mind there was. She'd never seen my penis or testicles before and I was fairly certain I didn't want her seeing them today. I knew I didn't need the girls seeing them.

"Go put the shorts and straps up on the stage so they're out of the way, boys," the Coach directed again.

We broke formation and ran to the stage. Most of us just chucked them up there while still shielding our groins with our non dominant hands. Then we returned to formation.

"Okay, boys put those hands to your sides. You can't play like that and sooner or later everyone will be sizing you up anyway."

The audience laughed. We dropped our hands hesitantly. In doing so we exposed at least 24 rock hard boners. One of the girls, to this day I think it was Wendy Martin, began to holler something when she was called to task by Miss Valentine. "That's enough girls. Any of you want to join them?"

We were then told to take our seats on the benches, girls on one side boys on the other. Ours, was the side where all the parents were sitting and as we walked to the bench every hardened penis swayed to and fro much to the amusement of the parent and family contingents.

Unfortunately, I was a starter. That meant I had to participate in the jump ball to kick off the game. We formed the usual circle surrounding the selected boy and girl jumpers. I'll let you guess where the girls' eyes were. They weren't on the jump ball activity. But they were on the balls. Even their jumper was looking at her opponent's stiffy. The ball was tipped and the boys who, like me, didn't want to even make eye contact with the girls attended to where it wentl. So we were first to take possession. I must admit, if I were in the stands or a girl, I would have been transfixed on the bobbing penis heads as the boys dribbled the ball down the court as well.

By the end of the second period, most of us were not stiff anymore. I don't know whether it was the fact that everyone was concentrating on the game, in which the girls had taken advantage of our embarrassment and been out scoring us by about two to one. Or whether it was the fact that we became more acclimated to our inevitable nudity as time went on. What I do know is our boners returned when the half was completed and we returned to our benches. Many of my classmates were sitting there unconsciously pulling on their penises, stretching them out further than their erections had stretched them. Apparently, the bench warmers still had very evidently been more self-conscious than those of us who'd been on the court during the first half. We were sweaty and breathing heavily as we took our seats.

Then the woman photographer from the "Dispatch" our local paper came over to take some photos of us as the "coach" started making adjustments. "Excuse me, Coach, but how about a team photo?"

Rather than be perturbed he turned around and faced the camera pushing me apart from Brian Dooley and sitting between us. Then he grabbed both my and Brian's inner knees and pulled them toward him. "Okay, boys spread your legs. You know what they all want to see." I twisted in an attempt to cover my now again erect penis concealed by having it rejoin the right knee which still had the massive hand encompassing it. Then the coach slapped my inner thigh, "I said spread those legs and don't cover that penis. That's what people in town want to see."

There was a quick flash and the photographer said. I have some of them doing some lay-ups but after the game we might want to pose some if they don't come out well. Let's do a couple more, legs spread wide, for the front page tomorrow. And this time boys, smile. You'll catch up to the girls." She kind of smirked at the sarcastic tease that she'd just offered. "You, you, young man, third from the left." She waved her hand at Anthony Dooley, Brian's twin brother, "Spread your legs. Don't be so shy, your little ball sack is cute." He did as he was instructed with his red face illustrating the embarrassment of a preteen.

Sure enough, the next day there would be a huge front page black and white above the fold photo of the team, legs spread penises sticking straight out was right there. I was a starter and was seated right next to the coach who had his hand on my knee to ensure my legs stayed spread. The non-starters were fifty percent more fortunate. They were on the second and third tier of the bleachers and most were able to hide their boyhoods behind those of us in front of them. My mother would buy several papers so she could proudly send pictures of her eldest sporting a boner to distant relatives. I shouldn't have to tell you how I felt about that.

Anyway, after the lady left, the coach returned to the "huddle" and began giving us instructions. Brian interrupted, "Coach, I can't do that. If I press Melissa, she touches my thing."


"Melissa grabs my dick or my balls when I press and she pulls on them hard. I mean she hurts, especially if she grabs my ball sack. The officials don't see her, or if they do they ignore it."

"I'll tell the officials to watch for that."

"No, Coach, I think they see her do it and they don't care. They like watching her do that to me." Brian had desperation in his voice.

"Brian, let her feel your penis. It'll take her mind off the game. If she grabs it let her do her thing. She isn't really hurting you, is she?"

"Wellll yeaaahhhh. How would you like someone pulling on your wiener? She just grabs and yanks it and then let's go real fast so she doesn't get caught."

Coincidentally as Brain was finishing up, a whistle blew and Miss Valentine yelled, "Anthony Dooley, get over here right now." Everyone froze especially Brian who evidently was wondering what in the hell his brother had done.

Anthony approached Miss Valentine cradling his crotch from view as he waddled toward her. Just looking at her face one could see the anger. He'd done something.

I could barely hear him as he responded to her questions. Her voice on the other hand resounded throughout the gym.

"What was that all about, Anthony?"


"That little dance you did for the girls and rubbing you penis the way you did. Why did you do that? It was a little gross, young man."

"I don't know." His head was down and his gaze was on the floor.

At that point, all I could think is "Guess he did it, whatever it was."

She removed her whistle lanyard. "I have half a mind to give you something to remind you not to do that anymore. It was just disrespectful to the girls. How would you like for me to whip that little penis of yours with this lanyard?" She swatted her hand with it. "Well????"

The girls could be heard chanting, "Do it!" with a mumble under their breath.

Then a lone voice from the stands shouted, "Go ahead Miss Valentine. He needs someone to straighten him out. Sorry I didn't see him do it." It was Mrs. Dooley, the kid's own mother encouraging the punishment. "Get started before he goes soft."

Miss Valentine took Anthony by the shoulder and walked him to the center of the floor. "Okay Anthony, put your hands on your head and push your hips forward." He did it without argument or hesitation. I'm not sure he fully understood what was about to happen as he thrust his hardened penis forward. Within seconds Miss Valentine came down on it with the woven vinyl laces of her lanyard and it wrapped around the rock hard phallus. Anthony screamed out in pain and then seemed to get an expression which reflected he now knew what she had in mind. His hands rapidly left his head and went southward to defend his throbbing penis.

"Owwww, ooooo, owww, that hurt Miss Valentine," he said with eyes on the verge of crying.

"It was supposed to. Now, move your hands you have three more of those coming."

"I won't do it again. Please, I won't. I promise," It was pathetic. Tears were rolling down his cheeks while he tried to beg out of it.

"I said move your hands, Anthony. Now put them on your head and don't move them, or I'll get your backside when I'm done with your front side."

With tears still rolling down his cheeks he put his hands back on his head and the lanyard again wrapped around his hardened appendage. Again, the scream of pain followed and more pleading came between the sobs. He didn't move his hands though. He did do a little dance in an effort to ward off the sting. Again, the lanyard snapped this time he buckled backward in pain. It had caught his testicles. With that the audience all, "oooooo" ed. The girls laughed.

"One more Anthony, now stand up," she ordered. I remember hearing the whistling buzz as it went down on him again. The boy was devastated. He fell to his knees and cried right there in the center of the gym.

His mother bellered, "Serves you right, young man. How dare you embarrass me? Now, sit down or I'll come down there and work on the other end."

Tearfully the boy looked up at his mother and then returned to his seat on the bleachers.

The coach resumed his discussion with Brain. About the only acknowledgement he made to what had just happened was, "Bet that hurt!"

The game resumed. Our dicks, some hard some flaccid, were swinging as we ran onto the court for start of the third quarter. Soon sweat was pouring down our cheeks all four of them. We, the boys, were down by 18 points and the coach wasn't happy. We also knew the historical outcomes of this game. The winners got to paddle the losers, right there in front of the parental audience. I don't know who came up with that arrangement, but I did know two things. First, the boys were usually the paddlers and the girls the recipients, and, second, this was the first time any of us knew of the boys were made to play completely nude. As it would turn out, the nude part would become a custom for this game as a result of the "entertaining" value the adults found in it.

Anyway, we managed to start scoring more than the girls. But, in the end, we finished eight points down. The whistle blew and we all were aware of the situation. We would be paddled by the girls in front of the cheering audience. Only difference, this year it would be on the bare asses of humiliated boys.

Three paddles were brought to the center of the auditorium. One of the officials handed them to a very happy Miss Valentine. I remember our coach standing there smiling. The look on his face was anticipation at seeing us get our butts worn out by our female classmates.

"We will start with the starters." Those of us who started the game were taken over to the girls' bleachers and bent over grabbing the lower bench. Three of the girls were handed paddles. We couldn't see that happen, but we heard it. Each of the girls who started was positioned next to their boy counterpart. As it would happen, Allison James, my counterpart, was handed one of the three paddles first. Miss Valentine again blew the whistle, "Okay girls you will give the boy in front of you eight swats with the paddle. You may begin." Amid the giggles and excitement there were sounds of wood meeting skin. The acoustics in the gym made the sound louder than it would be otherwise, but the hurt remained the same. Even though Allison, I'm sure never swung a paddle as big as the one she was now holding, she seemed quite adept. To keep my mind off the pain, I imagined her using a ping pong paddle on the naked backsides of the little boys she baby sat. Anyway, I was hurting and hot when she finished

The rest of the bench had to go over and get their bare butts warmed by the girls who were also bench warmers. The starters were busy rubbing their hot asses as the echo of the swats continued mixed with the occasional cries of pain.

The final indignation was when we had the post game handshake. The girls lined up on one side, we on the other. "Tonight we have done something quite different, we've made our boys a little less modest. I think we might make it a custom for the boys to have to play this game nude. What do you think?" The coach announced.

The crowd went wild with applause mixed with shouts of "Yeah", "Yes!", "All right!", and whistling.

"Okay, tonight you young ladies were the victors, but we'll get you next year. Now, kids, let's be sportsmen and women. Girls as you pass the boys you can shake their hand or you may choose to shake their, well..."

Laughter again burst out from the bleachers.

"Boys it's ladies choice so don't cover those swinging penises of yours."

As we passed in line, I was groped by almost every girl. They grabbed my penis which was at full staff, they fingered my ball sack. All was quick but it was annoying. Most of my teammates got the same. The boys with lesser size had more handshakes than fondling though. That is except Bill Andrews. He was the only boy in our class who wasn't circumcised. I think he was groped because of the curiosity of the girls. For the most part, boys in our community were generally circumcised so the girls were curious about this different looking penis. He was different from their brothers, the kids they baby sat for and the rest of us currently on display. So he got groped a lot.

We went to the showers. At first we were sullen over the game, the paddling, and the nudity in general. As we stood in the large room with steamy water spraying out of the ten shower heads, there was grumbling. I think it was Brian, who broke the down beat tone, by beginning some grab ass and we quickly recovered. He finished his shower and announced, "Well, at least now the whole school knows what we look like naked, so do most of the parents, sisters, brothers and other relatives. We've got nothin' to hide!"

That wasn't true. We all knew it. Our privacy was going to begin again. True, we had been exposed, but now we were going to cover and that whole ordeal could be put behind us. The humiliation was over and now it was up to next year's sixth grade to continue the process. We were done. But...

On the way home, my father behind the wheel and Mom next to him, it was kind of quiet. Donna, my eight year old sister, was sitting next to me and was first to break the silence. "Jack, yours is longer than most of the boys."

I responded with a surprise, "What?"

"Your wiener is longer than most of the other boys. It was sticking out and swinging back and forth as you ran around."

Dad snorted a stifled laugh. Mom did the mother thing.

"Donna that's enough."

"Well, I'm just sayin'. I haven't seen his thing in a long time. How come? He's my brother so I should see it a lot."

"Donna! That's enough young lady."

Then Dad broke in, "You boys were pathetic out there tonight. You let the girls beat you. And, you certainly didn't look like a starter."

"Yeah, well when did you have to play naked in front of a lot of people you didn't even know?" I was pissed at the nit picking.

"You got a point there, sport." He lightened up. "Maybe you can work on your lay-ups and three pointers in the driveway after school."

"Yeah, maybe I could." I was pouting.

Donna then used the window to make a suggestion, "Maybe he needs to practice naked so he can play better if this happens again. Besides my friends and I would love to watch him do it that way. You know his peepee and all."

Again my mother feigned shock, "Donna Ann Williamson, that's quite enough." She smiled and turned to my father and said, "You know that would be cute. He is a good looking boy--nice legs, lean and he does have a beautiful little package."

That was embarrassing. My own mother...

"Well, you girls have a point. Jack I want you to practice for an hour or two after school and a few hours each Saturday and Sunday. And, the girls want you naked and I think it might be a good idea."

"Dad, our driveway is right on the street. I mean..."

"Yeah, and people will see you. That's the point. You're too modest and little boys don't need to be modest." My mother jumped in. "Donna and her friends need to better understand boy bodies and you can help. She can let her friends watch and then they can explore a little."

I immediately said, "Explore? Explore? What does that mean?" Down deep I knew what was coming.

"Oh feel your penis and testicles, you know play with your goodies."

"Moooommm, I can't believe what I'm hearing."

Donna laughed and blurted out, "I can't wait for this. When I get home I'm calling all the girls in the neighborhood to tell them. Some of the boys too. They'll want to watch too and they'll probably want to touch your thing too."

"That's enough Donna. Let him be," Dad instructed.

I knew I only had a few hours to try to reverse the mandate. Only problem was my mother and father both stuck to what they decided. Rarely did they change their decision. It was critical though as this was Friday night and Saturday Dad wanted me to practice for three or four hours. Not to mention everyone was out on Saturdays driving by on our fairly busy street. They couldn't be serious.

It was late when we got home—nine o'clock or so. I was again sullen as I walked through the yard from the driveway which would soon be my stage for my "pole dance". Quietly we all entered the darkened house. Mom switched on the lights in the kitchen, "Donna you need to get ready for bed. Jack did you get a shower at school?"

"Yeah," I was still pouting.

"Donna, go up and get your shower and get your nightgown on. Jack, get your clothes off and put them in the hamper." I brushed past my mother, still pouting. She grabbed my arm and turned me around. "You need to straighten out, young man, or I'll put a belt on your bare backside to cover the pink the girls left there."

"Why do I have to be naked all the time? It's not right. I'm twelve years old, not three."

"Watch your tone young man."

"But, Moooommm."

Dad walked in, "What's going on?"

"Oh our son is shy about being naked in front of others. His modesty is getting in his way."

He turned to me and said, "You don't deserve any privacy, at least until your go through puberty and even then your mother and I will decide when."

Crying, I yelled, "That's not fair. Donna doesn't have to be naked. I don't get to feel her girl thing down there."

Dad was quick to respond, "That's different. She's a girl. They are supposed to be shy."

Still crying I mimicked him, "She's a girl..."

He grabbed my arm and swatted my backside two or three times and said, "That's enough. What did your mother tell you to do?"

With a terse response I mumbled, "Get undressed and put my clothes in the hamper."

"Then do it. And, report back down here naked. I don't want to see a thread on you. Got it?"

What that meant I wasn't sure. Usually, when he ordered me naked there would be a belt involved. I had been a little disrespectful and that was a whipping for certain. But, it always was in the privacy of my room or their bedroom where the punishments were administered, not down here.

I did as I was told. Even though my sister was bathed and dressed ready for bed, I wasn't exposing anything she hadn't seen earlier that evening as I entered the kitchen. I did have a boner as I entered and that was a bit disconcerting. I stood there with my rock hard dick pointing directly at my mother. I could see both she and Dad were chuckling inside at the sight.

Dad broke the silence, "I could make a joke, but I won't."

Mom spoke, "Daddy and I have decided you need to stay naked as much as possible so you can get used to your body. You are way too modest and I think we need to work on that."


"Your father and I have decided you will stay naked all weekend. You will let your sister explore your body if she wants to and you will be open to letting anyone else explore your body if they want. Tomorrow Dad wants you to go out and shoot baskets from nine until lunch. I'm not as concerned about your basketball skills as he is, but you will be out there nude and you will not cover your penis or testicles for any reason."

Donna jumped at the verdict. "Can I feel him now?"

Dad responded, "Sure, Honey. Go ahead!"

Her small hand wrapped around my rock hard boner and its condition didn't go unnoticed. "Man, it's hard."

Mom began her instruction, "Yes, boys and men get hard when they are aroused or excited. In this case your brother is excited by having to show his penis in the open. He will get hard if it's rubbed or played with too." As she spoke I could feel my sister's fingers feeling their way around the glans and pressing the opening to the urethra. I wouldn't admit it publicly or even in the kitchen that night but as embarrassing as the situation was, it did feel extremely good having someone else teasing my erection and fingering my parts. What didn't feel good was the idea I would be exposed to complete strangers and they would have the right to "get to know me really well."

Donna got an evil glint in her eye, "Played with? Guess he's going to be hard a lot this weekend. I have a lot of friends."

Dad jumped in, "Guess he will." He got up from the table, headed out of the kitchen, and snorted another laugh as he shook his head back and forth. His departure left me with my sister feeling my scrotum and my mother watching the exploration and sipping on her coffee.

The following day I was made to play basketball in the driveway for three hours. The only interruptions were the kids who had been summoned by my sister and those who were later referred my way by those who'd preceded them. Yes, I was rubbed, pulled and explored. I had small twigs inserted in my urethra and all forms of humiliating tortures, often as adults looked on and actually instructed the other children what they should try. Of course the constant clicking of cameras, including my father's, could be heard the entire three hours.

After lunch I chose to stay in the house, but that didn't give much in the way of rest. My sister continued to bring her friends of both genders into the house to see and touch me.

I would spend hour upon hour naked as the day I was born. I had to publicly display my goods in the driveway daily, except when it rained. Even in the winter, I had to shovel the driveway nude, and, once cleared and salted I had to practice nude in the sub freezing temperatures. The neighbors—adults and kids-- didn't hesitated to call out and come to watch me out there. Cameras were more often than not employed. Even today, many years later, I occasionally run across photos of me on the internet either playing basketball, in the snow, or running in the in fields and in all I'm naked as the day I was born. It renews the mantra, "Little boys shouldn't be allowed to be too modest."

True to my father's directive, once I reached the point of seedling pubic hair, the nudity requirement stopped.

Our annual sixth grade basketball battle of the genders continues. For the four or five years after our ordeal, the boys were actually brought out of the locker room naked and were made to play that way throughout the game. Now the community is back to allowing the boys to wear shorts which are much longer than ours were. I'm fairly sure the boys probably have nothing but jocks on under them, but their modesty is better protected than ours was. We are no worse the wear for our ordeals. In my mind, it made us stronger.