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The Challenge That is Tony

by Pedro


Late December, Year 10


I could feel the waist of my shorts loosen. Completely.

God, this is so embarrassing.

The heat rises in my face. I'm blushing.

What a fucking give-away. And I've just walked past Tony. He'll see.

My shoulders tense.

God, he's bound to notice that too. He'll guess there is something happened. Will he rescue me? Nah! Not now, not here in this hall.

He's supposed to be my boyfriend for chrissake. But he can't show it here. Not in front of this lot. Everybody's ruddy parents. The kids would be cool, most of them know about us anyway. But the parents! No way!

So he'll sit there and just get that silly grin on his face when he realises what's happened and that I can't do anything about it.

Damn. Why did I have to think of that grin?

I'm starting to get hard. That grin of his is such a turn on. The pressure builds and I feel the inevitable happen. The next button of my fly fails. I know it was loose but I thought it would last through the show.

Show? More like show and tell. Me show everything and this lot telling it round the town. Then the 'rents'll be on to me for showing them up. God, this is embarrassing.

At least that thought makes me go down.

I hate this. Having to put together some rubbish at the end of term so the school can pretend it's good for drama and music. It's alright for Tony. All he's got to do is stand there in that poncey shirt he got on holiday and play his guitar. He got volunteered by the music teachers. At least the stuff they put on is half decent.

I get to join the drama group. We have to do this scene that Mervyn Sproat, the drama teacher has written. Sort of based on Peter Pan.

What was it Tony called it? A pastiche. Not sure what that means but it sounds right.

We are too old for Peter Pan. Peter Pan is for little kids. We pleaded with him, well moaned at him, but 'Brussels' wasn't having it. He's put together this dramatic masterpiece for us, so we have to prance about on stage as the Lost Boys, half naked. Or in my case looks as though I'll be totally naked. One thing for sure, it won't make half decent, more like totally indecent. He's probably written it like this so he can perv at us.

I can feel the shorts starting to slide down my bum. Why am I wearing these old things? Because Sir said we had to wear old worn out ones so we look as though we've been on a desert island for like ages. Hardly. We haven't seen the sun for months. We all look like anaemic albinos.

So I'm wearing these old cut downs. Tony said they look the part but then he's biased. He likes the button fly. More fun than a zip. I haven't worn them for a bit as they were getting tight. That tight I haven't got any underpants on. I tried but it was too ruddy uncomfortable.

Okay, so I knew the middle button was dodgy, but Tony said if it went the only person likely to be near enough to notice would be Brussels. I wasn't planning on the top button going too.

I can feel fresh air on my cleavage. Instinct makes me slam my hands in my pockets to stop the shorts avalanching to my ankles. Big mistake.

The last button fails under the extra strain. Bugger.

I look up and my blush goes into overdrive. Brussels, or Merv the Perv to give him his new nickname, has been watching. His eyes are popping out of his head like chapel hat pegs.

Maybe I can get back at him for this crummy play. I've got my back to the audience, thank God. If I flash the front of my shorts a couple of times perhaps he'll wet himself. Again!

Yes, again. That's how he got his new name. How we confirmed he was perving on us, not just making sure we all showered after PE. What's with that anyway? How come the drama teacher takes us for PE, or is it the other way round. Probably, since he sucks at drama.

We sussed him out when we were in the shower and someone popped a woody. That might have had something do with me miming suggestively behind Brussels where he couldn't see me. The guys could see Merv was beginning to chub up in his pants in sympathy. So they turned away from him to indulge in a little exercise then, like some dance number, turning back to face him, one by one, until the whole shower room was there, standing to attention. God, he went red, more than just a blush. Merv turned and fled the room. As he passed me I could see the damp patch on his trousers. He'd either wet himself or creamed in his pants. Good one guys.

I move my hands to grip the shorts by the waist. I want to inspect the damage to work out how best to cover up until I can get off stage. If I flash Merv in the process, so be it.

As I look down, out of the corner of my eye, I can see Tony behind me. He's laughing.

The bastard. He is silently laughing at me. Laughing as if......

He knew it was going to happen?


I take a close look at the damage to my fly. The evidence of tampering is there.


The way he's laughing, it must have been Tony. He is so dead!

It was Tony wanted me in these shorts.

It was Tony said it would be ok to go commando.


It was Tony that popped the woody in the shower.

© Copyright Pedro 2016


This story is part of the 2016 story challenge "Inspired by a Picture". The other stories may be found at the challenge home page. Please read them, too. The challenge period of 20 February 2016 to 14 March 2016 is when the voting is open. This story may be rated, below, against a set of criteria, and may be rated against other stories on the challenge home page.

The challenge was to write a story inspired by this picture:

Of which nightmares are made
Please rate Revenge with the impressions it left you with

Either while reading this story, or afterwards, I found it to be/had/made me (Tick all that apply)

An emotional read
Written with rhythm and pace
Thought provoking
Well laid out (paragraphs etc)
Technically well written
Written with good use of grammar and syntax (this does not mean pedantic use)
Easy to read
It invited me in
I could not put it down
Cheering (made me happy)
I identified with at least one of the characters
It felt like it was about me. I know it wasn't, but it felt like it
The plot was tough to read. (a tough [good] experience, not hard to read)
Not just prose, but almost a 'tone poem'
Interpreted the picture well

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