*‘Something not functioning properly.’ (Guardian Quick Crossword 12.3.13).
“Someone give me a definition of amiss,” instructed Mr Burke, the English teacher to Form 3A.
The class remained silent except Mondale the class wit, “A unmarried woman.”
Burke shook his head trying not to smile, Mondale was pretty bright and this quip was funnier than most. “Good try, Mondale, but it’s wrong.” Mondale was going to argue but decided to save his brain for another funny later on.
Once the rest of them stopped laughing and settled down, Burke decided to change his tack. “Okay, it means not functioning properly. Now who can give me a sentence using amiss in that sense?”
Connors, the class scallywag and occasional bully entered the fray. “Pearce is amiss ‘cos he’s got tits, sir.” There was uproar and Burke had trouble re-establishing his control. It was a well known throughout the school that Pearce was a bit of a ‘girl’ and that he had gynaecomastia–he was excused PE because his boobs bounced whenever he exerted himself, causing the PE teacher to suggest he got himself a sports bra–in front of the rest of the class. Mrs Pearce complained and the teacher got reprimanded while the unfortunate boy was excused all forms of physical exercise.
Once again Pearce felt the victim of the larger boy and blushed and wriggled embarrassingly in his seat. There were times when he wished he were stronger and more aggressive and also times when he wished his little boobs hadn’t grown so large.
“Connors that was incorrect usage and very remiss of you. Now apologise to Pearce.”
“Sorry, Miss Pearce,” offered Connors and the class roared with laughter again.
“Connors, you’re in detention tonight and so is everyone else who finds this funny.” The class quietened very quickly. “Now apologise properly.”
“Sorry, sir.” Connors was walking on thin ice.
“Not to me, you fool, to Pearce.” Burke was becoming angry and Connors knew he’d crossed the line.
“Is that okay, Pearce?” asked the teacher.
Pearce nodded trying to stop the fluid leaking from his eyes being noticeable to anyone else. He wished he were a hundred miles from here, away from the torment of being the boy with the biggest boobs in the school. It was ridiculous, most of the others with gyno-whatever were fat, he wasn’t. He was small, skinny except for his breasts and his rather fat arse. He kept asking his mother to take him to the doctor but she told him it would sort itself, that his dad had been the same when he was younger but grew out of it. His dad was dead, got cancer at age forty and died six months later. His mother had seen enough of doctors during her husband’s illness to last a lifetime–hence her reluctance to take her son to their GP.
Pearce had pressed her to do something, so in the end she got him two sports bras, one of which he was wearing. They didn’t seem to make them any smaller but they did stop them joggling about when he walked, but his chest and the tightly belted trousers tended to give him a very female shape, despite his efforts to wear the bulkiest, most shapeless clothes he could find under his school blazer.
He once watched a TV programme about female transsexuals who wanted to be boys and how they’d bind their breasts and so on. He knew how they felt, and yet he was a boy already, but one with breasts, wide hips and a bit lacking in the boy department, especially in cold weather when it practically shrank back into his body.
His sack, the scrotal skin hanging behind and below his small manhood, was small and empty. On his only sortie into the showers, he realised his was a bit different to all the other boys. They noticed and what with the other differences, he was lucky they only jeered at him. Before he ran naked from the shower and hid in the changing room in a kit locker wishing he were dead.
Over the next few weeks, the novelty died down a bit, but he was occasionally teased and tormented by his peers and sometimes his elders. One painful memory involved him being made to strip naked in front of half a dozen sixth formers who then forced him to jump up and down declaring that his tits bounced more than his willie. He couldn’t even tell his mother about that one and he did contemplate ending it all crossing the busy main road near the school.
The only nice thing that had happened was bumping into Sophie the girl across the road as he trudged home. She was walking the other way and noticed his painful progress and stopped and asked him if he was alright. He didn’t mean to, but he burst into tears and she took him into her house and calmed him down.
Fortunately her mother was out so they were able to spend a short time talking and because he was so embarrassed about it all he only mentioned it before he left. She’d seen him about the street so she already knew he bulged in the wrong places for a boy and left him with the thought, “Perhaps you’re really a girl?”
He rejected that–he didn’t want to be a girl, he was a boy. Okay, not the archetypal sort, he didn’t do boisterous or want to fight everyone, but he was still a boy–one who enjoyed books and music–but definitely not a girl, no matter what his body was trying to say to him.
He once asked his mum if she’d ever wanted a daughter rather than a son, “Why would I want anyone but you? You’re my son and I love you.” He went away feeling reassured to a point. She never encouraged him to be girlish in any way and although he’d rejected footballs and toy cars in favour of books and coloured pencils, he hadn’t asked for dolls. He was just a gentle boy–but with a girlish shape.
After his embarrassment in the class, as the boys were leaving, Mr Burke called him back. “Pearce, wait a moment.”
“Are you still getting bullied by these morons?”
He shrugged, what could he say even a blind man should have noticed it?
“Look, if it gets too much come and see me–okay?”
“Off you go then, and don’t let them get to you–okay?”
He nodded and trudged off again.
On the way home that night he bumped into Sophie again. This time quite literally–she ran into him knocking him down into a puddle. She apologised and helped him up. Once again her mother was out–she went to an art class that afternoon–and Sophie insisted he came in with her so she could help to dry him off.
Somehow the water had splashed up under his anorak and he could feel it cold right up to the small of his back. His trousers were soaking and the cold wind seemed to be blowing through them like they weren’t there.
“C’mon, let’s get you dry,” she urged almost dragging him into her house and up to the bathroom. “Oh god, you’re soaked, and that water is so dirty.”
“I’ll be okay, I only live down the road.”
“But it’s my fault, I should look where I’m going.”
“No, it’s all right, honestly.”
“Take your clothes off, I’ll put them in the drier.”
“No it’s all right,” he protested but she overrode his protests and practically tore off his blazer and trousers. When she grabbed his pullover he blocked her hands.
“Look, I know you’ve got boobs–it’s okay, now just let me get this off.” In a single yank she had the thing over his head and just as it temporarily blinded him it seemed to have a similar effect on his resistance. His shirt was next and Sophie stopped dead when she saw his cleavage in the sports bra. “Wow, you have got boobs haven’t you. Have you ever tried a proper bra?”
“Of course not.”
“Would you like to?”
She turned him round and told him his back was all dirty as was the back of his bra and his underpants were absolutely filthy with the dirty water. In two minutes he was naked and climbing into the shower while Sophie dumped all his clothes except his shoes into the washing machine.
Ten minutes later she was back while he wrapped himself in a towel like a girl, hiding his prominent chest.
She wanted to see them and he blushed like a light bulb. “Go on, if you show me yours I’ll show you mine,” she challenged.
He shook his head, “Promise?”
She nodded. The towel slipped a little to reveal a bit more of his breasts and she gently pulled it down. Her eyes opened wide, “Shit, they’re beautiful,” she gasped and reached out and touched them.
Now it was his turn to gasp as she gently poked and prodded them, finally rubbing the nipples between her fingers and thumbs. The feelings he got were like nothing he’d ever had before and suddenly this intense feeling of pleasure racked his whole body over and over again and he nearly fell down.
Instead of stopping, Sophie continued, seeing the effect she was having on the boy and even put her lips to his nipples which were now engorged and swollen to bigger than anything a boy should have.
As she stroked his right nipple with her tongue, her hand still twiddling his left one, he gave a short cry and shuddered, before sliding down onto the bathroom floor exhausted.
“Are you okay?” asked Sophie wondering if she’d hurt him in some way.
“Oh yeah,” he whispered, “that was amazing.”
“Did you come?” she asked him feeling a frisson of excitement.
“I dunno, but it was amazing.”
She looked at his now exposed boy bits, they weren’t even hard and nothing appeared to be leaking from the small penis.
“Three times, it happened and the third–wow–just blew me away.”
“You had a multiple orgasm?” asked Sophie.
“I dunno what it was, just beautiful.” He had this beatific smile on his face.
“But only girls can have...” she paused.
“Now it’s your turn,” he suggested and she reluctantly let him see her breasts which were almost the same as his own. She however declined to let him touch them realising her mother would be home and she had to get him dressed somehow.
Being of a similar size she found him suitable panties, one of her bras, a top and pair of jeans. He was astonished to find the jeans fitted better than his own. He slipped his shoes on over the borrowed socks.
His clothes were still damp when they packed them in the carrier bag, but he could dry them at home. He couldn’t believe how big his breasts looked in a proper bra and under a stretchy top.
“With a bit of makeup, you could be a girl, you know–can we try that next time?”
“Can I touch you then?” he asked her.
“We could touch each other, if you like?” she replied feeling something happening in her tummy.
“That would be nice,” he said smiling and nodding.
“I’ll give you call,” she announced taking his mobile number.
“That would be good.”
She bustled him out of her house and he fled home, glad of the darkness, making him more anonymous and he ran straight up to his bedroom before his mother could see him.
“You’re late,” she called up the stairs.
“I got detention.”
“But you never get detention,” she called back.
“But I might more often now,” he said to himself as he stripped off and redressed in his own stuff, the smile returning to his face as he recalled the wonderful feeling he’d had and for the first time was actually glad he had breasts–they might actually prove an asset in the future.
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