Trying on Mikey's Pants

Back in a certain era boys went through a time of wearing splashy bright colors, high-heeled shoes called fruit boots, and tight, tight, tight pants. During the peak of that fad, my dad was stationed at a base on a tropical island in the Pacific. It was an "accompanied" assignment, meaning that families were welcome. So my mother and little sister and I went along. We found ourselves stuck for several months in a self-contained little universe. Except for TV we were totally separated from the mainland and from what was happening in pop culture and teen fashion. Life on the island was fairly conservative, so I was not prepared for something that showed up in the PX one day.

Mom and my sister and I were out shopping. I hated shopping -- until my eyes landed on a certain mannequin in the boys department. I stopped and stared. My mouth was probably hanging open.

The mannequin displayed a pair of boys pants. Not your everyday school trousers, but pants like I'd never seen before, pants like no boy had ever imagined.

To begin with, they were striped. Slightly wiggly vertical stripes ran from the ankles all the way up to the waistband. Next, they were tight, so skinny-tight that even the dummy looked constrained. Third, the cuffs were bell-bottom. But those things weren't what made them spectacular. It was the colors!

Those wiggly stripes were alternately dyed bright yellow, florescent orange and flamingo pink. Each stripe was about two inches wide and the overall effect of the clashing colors pulled your eyeballs out of their sockets. The pants were indescribably breathtaking, and I had to have them.

Ignoring my mother's protests, I hustled to the display and found a pair in my size. I imagined myself showing up at school the next day with my legs, butt and crotch clad in such luminosity! Every kid in the building would envy me!

But Mom was apparently in no mood to let me be seen in anything of that nature. Her first "no" sounded negotiable, so I tried again. Each time I approached her the "NO" grew more determined. I pleaded with her, and she gave her final decision in words that every kid hates to hear: "No child of mine is going to wear those silly pants. Put them back."

I was crushed. For days I wouldn't talk to her, slamming doors and stomping around until Dad went into his Master Sergeant mode and instructed me that "You WILL behave in this house!"

Then came the second shock. A few days went by. I arrived at school one morning only to find my friend Mikey prancing along the hall in... you guessed it ... a pair of MY brilliantly striped neon pants! Friend or not, I instantly hated him.

He wore those pants at least three times each week. I couldn't stand it. He was so flashy that it made me sick. I generally wore a pair of brown corduroys to school, a step up from jeans. But nothing I owned could compare with that damn Mikey!

When I noticed Mikey from the rear his ass looked like the entire rear seam of the bright pants had receded into his butt crack. If I noticed him from the front, the stripes accentuated a strange rounded lump at the bottom of his crotch. And not only were the pants tight and brilliant, but the waist was cut low making them look as if they were just barely hanging onto his hips. They appeared to be on the verge of falling off his narrow buns at any minute. The bell-bottoms around his ankles added their own effect, flapping as he walked and giving the impression of two parachutes drifting downward.

Mike was still a friend, even though I resented him like hell for having the pants I wanted.

He and I were messing around at his house one day after school and talking about the pants. We made a deal. Mikey said I could try them on if I would be careful and not get them dirty. We negotiated back and forth and came up with a deal. I could wear them in his room for a few minutes if he could try my fruit boots.

Mikey and I were reasonably close friends but we had never undressed together. So peeling out of our pants was a first. I noticed immediately that he wore briefs. That surprised me because I had graduated to boxers way back in fifth or sixth grade.

Soon the reason for Mikey's un-cool underwear became clear. He looked at my boxers and said we had to switch underpants too. I wanted to know why. He said we could never get the brilliantly striped tight pants to look right with a pair of boxers bunched up underneath them. Mikey claimed that some guys who wore very tight pants went without underwear altogether. That gave me something crazy to think about.

So we were at the moment that all boys eventually face with a good friend: Strip out of our underwear in front of each other or strip separately in private.

We stood there for a tick or two, and then both of us took hold of our elastic and slid our underwear down. We were all business, not saying a word but certainly aiming our eyes back and forth and examining what popped into view.

To my horror I felt my dick sort of thickening and starting that weird feeling of a rising boner. Not something I wanted Mikey to see. I had my hand ready to grab his underpants the instant he stepped out of them. Mikey seemed to be in a hurry too, kind of halfway but not totally turning away from me. It was my first time to see his peter. Interestingly, it hung down but also curved slightly to one side and stuck out a little bit. Within seconds we had traded. His underwear hid my junk and vice-versa.

Next, it took both of us to get the striped pants on me. That was more difficult than I expected. Mikey helped me pull them over my butt and I soon understood why the boxers wouldn't work. I'd never worn pants that were so tight. I'm still not sure whether I was a little larger than Mikey or whether the intense tightness was part of the overall style. There was no spare room in the trousers. They were as tight as skin and they forced me to stand awkwardly, trying to make myself taller and skinnier. I was almost immobilized by the psychedelic trousers -- could hardly take a step. The crotch was particularly tight. My dick and balls were squeezed into a tight lump, all mashed tightly together. Each step I took rolled my entire package to the right or left, making me constantly aware of what was going on down there.

Mikey wanted to know how I liked them. He was staring straight my crotch and I felt self-conscious about my junk, sure he could tell that I was sprouting a boner. My answer was something like "Weird!"

"I know," he answered. "Sit down and see what happens."

When I settled into his chair the geometry of the pants shifted, tightening even further around my crotch and condensing my genitals into a very uncomfortable situation. I did exactly what I'd seen Mikey do: Jam my hand into my crotch, position it beneath my strangled balls and give them a quick upward shove. That made things a little better. Maybe another adjustment would help, but I didn't want to touch my junk again in front of Mikey.

By now he had on my fruit boots and my cords. I knew the cords wouldn't squeeze his balls or crush his dick. But while he watched me give my crotch another simi-secret lift, a peculiar thing happened. He pointed toward my stiffening bulge and started to say something, but thought better of it.

Meanwhile the mod pants were not only squeezing my privates but also embarrassing me. "How do you stand these things?" I complained, adjusting my crotch again.

"Stand up and let me see how tight everything is," Mikey suggested. When I was on my feet he pointed toward my tightly draped rear end.

"I'm just gonna feel, okay? No funy business, huh? After all, they're mine."

So there I stood in the wildest pants on the island, my bud Mikey first feeling my butt. His touch on the tight pants was like electricity, sending a tingle around my hips to my dick.

Then he came around front and asked, "How's everything here?" At the same time he gave my crotch a fleeting touch.

"I'll tell you what's really bad about these pants," he said. "If you get..." he stopped talking, maybe looking for the right word, maybe having second thoughts about what he was going to say. He started over: "If you get..." then he whispered the next words, as if somebody else was trying to overhear us: "If you get a hard-on..."

He didn't finish, but he didn't have to. We'd never had a sexy conversation, never made a move on each other. But Mikey was now squeezing himself again and again.

"Sure you're okay in there?" he asked, pointing to my crotch and then letting his fingertips move forward, giving me the impression that he would soon be trying to locate each separate piece of the tight jumble of organs that the pants were strangling.

Neither one of us said a word for a minute or so. He continued to manipulate his bulge. My dick continued to grow inside the flamboyant trousers, soon springing into a terribly uncomfortable erection, unable to become straight in those damn pants, but continuing to lengthen and stiffen. I looked at Mikey in my cords. He now displayed a horizontal ridge that was clearly identifiable, aiming from his crotch toward his left hip.

I stared at that bulge, Mikey's bulge inside my pants! Absolutely out of character, I reached toward him. "Want me to check you?" I asked, totally not believing what I was suggesting.

"That would be okay," Mike said in sort of a small, breathy voice. Then he added, "If you want to." He stepped closer to my hand, poking his groin toward me. I didn't quite touch the ridge, just fiddled around near his balls with my fingers.

The striped pants were squeezing the daylights out of me. I unbuttoned the waist and slid the zipper down to get a little room. Mikey, now hesitantly feeling of my  stiffie, said "Maybe you better take them off. We don't want to get anything on them."

Now Mikey had the cords down, his ridge totally obvious in my boxers. We were both feeling of each other's boners.

Mikey, squeezing my stiffie whispered sort of an apology for what was happening between us : "That's the trouble with those pants!"

We left the underwear in place, pretending we weren't doing what we knew we were doing. As the seconds ticked past we became bolder. It's hard to explain, but sort of like we had both been waiting for this very thing to happen. Suddenly our friendship had taken a new and horny turn thanks to the brilliant striped pants. Yet we were heistant and scared. we felt of each other and squeezed each other, slowly helping both the striped pants and the cords to drop lower and lower until they hit the floor. Still we stood there, continuing our exploration.

After a moment we stepped out of the trousers. The underpants descended and, without another word, we stared at each other's erections. Hesitantly at first, we began gentle back-and-forth motions.

"I didn't know if you did this," Mikey said as we felt of each other. I wanted to give him an answer but couldn't think of anything rational to say.

There was nobody else in the house, but Mikey put his mouth close to my ear and whispered: "I'm gonna check and see if the door's locked." we both turned toward his door. He tiptoed to it, erect eighth-grade penis leading the way like a compass needle pointing stiffly north.

In seconds he was back and without any further conversation we resumed steadily rubbing back and forth on each other's hard-ons. Mikey started shaking. "I think I'm gonna cum," he whispered. "Do you mind?"

I kept pumping him, hoping that that's what he wanted me to do. At the same time, his hand was rubbing back and forth on my boner.

He was standing with his mouth open and his eyes staring, pressing his hard dick into my strokes. He began breathing funny. "You're gonna make me cum! I'm cumming! You're making me...Oh! Oh! Oh!" He grabbed his wastebasket and we both climaxed colossal squirts into its contents.

We stood with our dripping dicks hanging over the trash can, flickering our eyes at each other and then quickly shifting our gaze somewhere else.

After we got our clothes back on, the flashy florescent pants were strangling Mikey's junk again. We were so silent following our twin ejaculations that it scared me. Neither one of us said a word, and we couldn't look each other in the eye. We didn't know what to do about what had just happened between us.

"Well," I said after a couple minutes of awkward silence, "I better go home."

"Yeah," Mikey answered, rearranging the pants that had cause all this action. "See you."

On the way home I worried about what we'd done. Worried about it all evening, all night. Worried about it on the way to school. The two of us together might have ruined a nice friendship.

But we were good. In History Mikey, wearing those bright pants again, paused near my seat "Want to come over after school?" he said, real soft.

"Sure," I nodded.

"Good."

He stuck his hand under his balls and shifted his package to accommodate the mega-tight florescent pants compressing his junk.

 

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