Chrissy and Emily 1

By Chris and Cassie
puericil@hotmail.com

Copyright 2026, all rights reserved

[5,698 words]

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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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Note from Cassie: These memories were told to me by Chris, and I wrote them down in story form. We both hope you enjoy them. If you have any comments, or any questions for Chris, send them to me and I will make sure he receives them.

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I grew up in another era. Looking back, it’s almost unbelievable how innocent life felt then, for the adults, but even more so for the children.

It was just my mother and me at home, and she worked a demanding job that often meant long hours and occasional travel.

Growing up, it was common in our area for young boys to go bare at beaches, pools, or in backyards, while girls were kept covered. Only very young girls were sometimes an exception, and even that was rare in my memory.

When I was younger, I found it natural and it didn’t bother me at all. I remember one moment, I was maybe seven or eight, when a group of girls laughed at us boys. I don't recall what they were saying but it was something about our nudity. I know I just shrugged, thought “So what?”, and moved on. I truly did not see a problem with our lack of clothes.

When I reached about ten, however, I started to feel the whole situation was unfair. Boys were expected to be bare while girls weren’t. I had the misfortune of having to deal with delayed puberty, though at that age it wasn't apparent yet. I wasn’t noticeably smaller than other boys at that age. I remember one boy in my group of friends mentioning he had started growing hair, and from then on he always wore a swimsuit or shorts. That stuck with me, and it was around that time that I began feeling uneasy about being seen naked.

Whenever I asked my mother if I could wear clothes, she would gently dismiss my pleas as silly. In her mind, there was nothing wrong with a little boy being bare. It was something everyone saw all the time, a natural and healthy state that also made things easier for her. I'm not sure she ever truly considered my perspective; it was simply something she didn't, or couldn't, recognize. It was a form of blissful ignorance.

She was also a bit of a neat freak, and as an only child, my health and cleanliness were a top priority for her. Because of this, she always insisted on helping me with my bath. This expectation extended to babysitters as well; if she had to go out, she would instruct them to do the same. I was lucky to have two regular sitters who were familiar with the routine, though occasionally a new one would need to fill in. And, to be fair to her, this vigilance wasn't entirely unfounded. Given my age and immaturity, if left alone in the tub, I likely would have been easily distracted, letting the water grow cold and probably forgetting to wash at all.

When I was eleven, a girl my age moved in next door. Well, she was actually slightly younger, as I remember the very day she arrived was her tenth birthday. Her name was Emily, and she would become my closest friend during those years.

Emily would see me naked plenty of times. I never fully got used to her seeing me bare, but because it happened so often and she was never judgmental, I always felt safe with her. There was a comfort in her presence that transcended the awkwardness.

She was simply more confident and sophisticated than I was, regardless of the small age difference in my favor. In terms of maturity, I always lagged behind her. I'm still not sure if that was tied to my delayed physical development, the way my mother raised me, my natural personality, or some combination of all three. Whatever the reason, the dynamic worked for us, and we felt comfortable with each other. Except, in my case, when I was naked in front of her, which happened much too often.

But even then, there was something in her demeanour that made it seem almost natural. She was never awkward about it, never looked away, never gave any sign that the situation was unusual. Her utter lack of self-consciousness was, in a way, contagious.

But let's go back to the day she moved in next door.

Emily first came by while the movers were still unpacking next door. She'd been told there was a boy close to her age living in our house, so she wandered over to introduce herself. I was having an early bath that afternoon (I'd been playing soccer and was muddy enough to need one). She immediately charmed my mom. Emily was always charming, and my mom was always eager to welcome new friends for her son. From the tub, I could hear some of the conversation, as mom had left the bathroom door open. I heard Emily introducing herself and mom inviting her in. I remember that she didn't mention I was in the bath.

When they reached the top of the stairs, my mother walked straight into the bathroom with Emily right behind her. I looked up at this girl I'd never met before, standing in the doorway, her eyes going a bit wide with surprise at finding me sitting there in the tub.

I covered myself and let out a groan. "Mooooom," I protested, the word stretching out with all the eleven-year-old indignation I could muster.

To be clear, this wasn't the first time she'd done something like this. Not necessarily when I was in the bath, but the casual way she'd let someone in or continue undressing me despite company being present. She had a blind spot about these things, a complete inability to register that maybe, just maybe, I might be old enough to appreciate some privacy.

She barely acknowledged my protest. "This is our new neighbor, Emily," she said, her tone perfectly pleasant and normal, as if I were fully dressed and standing in the living room. "Say hello." Just what you'd expect from any mom introducing their child, except for the small detail that I was naked in the bathtub.

My mother, very unbothered by the situation, simply gestured for Emily to sit on the toilet lid next to the tub while she continued with my bath. "This way you two can chat," she said cheerfully, as if this were the most natural meeting place in the world. Then, without hesitation, she told me to stand up, and helped me do so when I hesitated.

Mom started washing my legs right away, and I remember Emily's eyes going wide as I stood. She was looking directly at my penis, her expression a mixture of curiosity and surprise. That moment stands out vividly in my memory because she never looked at me quite that way again. That first glimpse, I later found out, was the first time she had ever seen a boy older than a toddler. I didn't look particularly developed, my puberty certainly was far away, but even if there was not that much to see, it was new to her, a boy her own age or slightly older, naked right in front of her, and new things invite interest.

I wasn't humiliated the way I imagine a boy today might be, but I was embarrassed. I felt hot and bothered and awkward, thinking how she shouldn't get to see me like that. I also worried what she thought, both of my appearance and of the fact that my mother was still bathing me at eleven. Would she think I was babyish? Was she keeping her composure because mom was there but would tease me later?

My mother carried on normally, oblivious to my agitation. She washed me methodically while Emily watched everything, then dried me off with the same efficiency. She had me stand in front of the mirror to comb my hair, still naked and exposed, before finally telling me to show Emily to my room while I got dressed.

She followed me to my room, and I'm sure I wasn't the most articulate host. I was blushing and more interested in getting dressed quickly than in showing her my room and my toys.

After that, we managed to play together, and I mostly got over it. She didn't tease me or say anything about what she'd seen, and I took her silence as acceptance. I assumed (wrongly, as I would later find out), that this was simply normal for her. I thought that maybe in her house these things happened too, or that she was just the type of girl who wasn't bothered by it. For my part, being naked in front other children, girls included, wasn't exactly a first-time experience.

What carried me through the awkwardness of our first meeting was Emily's personality. She was kind in a way that felt effortless. She never used what she'd seen as leverage, never teased me or made jokes at my expense, never once pressed her advantage. She just accepted me and seemed happy to meet another kid her age.

She was also funny, with a quick wit that could sometimes catch me off guard and make me laugh. And she was imaginative. She invented make-believe games that soon made me forget my own self-consciousness. I soon felt comfortable with her, which, given the circumstances, wasn't what I would have expected when we met.

After that, Emily became a regular presence in our house, and I in hers. Within weeks, she was simply there, woven into the fabric of my daily routines. My mother adored her, always happy to have another child in the house. Emily was easy to like, and she seemed equally comfortable with us.

Inevitably, there were many more times she saw me while my mother bathed me.

Emily would arrive at the door, my mother would call up that she was in the middle of my bath, and Emily would simply come upstairs and sit on the toilet lid or lean against the doorframe, and we'd talk as if I were fully dressed. She never commented on my nudity, or on mom washing me. For me, the flicker of embarrassment was there. I wouldn't have chosen for her to see me like that, but at that time in my childhood it was just one of the things I had no control over. She never made it into a big deal, so neither did I. My nudity became just another detail in the larger picture of our friendship, present, but not the main thing.

I remember one time clearly because it involved one of my regular sitters, an older teenager who at that age seemed completely adult to me. My mother had to go away overnight on a business trip, and this sitter was in charge.

I'd been playing downstairs with Emily when my sitter announced it was time for my bath. Emily could stay and watch TV, she added, but I had to go up. So I trudged upstairs, shed my clothes, and settled into the warm water, trying to ignore the slight humiliation that accompanied bath time at my age, at least when it involved anyone other than my mom.

I'd been in the tub maybe five minutes when I heard footsteps on the stairs. The bathroom door opened, and Emily walked in.

My sitter's head snapped up. "Oh, honey, Chris is in the bath..."

But Emily just shrugged, completely at ease. "I know. I always sit with him when he has his bath."

My sitter looked at me then, and I felt my face warm. But I nodded, reluctantly, because it was true. "She does," I admitted.

My sitter hesitated for just a moment, her gaze moving between us: the naked boy in the tub, the girl perched comfortably on the toilet lid, the obvious normalcy of the arrangement. Then she shrugged. "Okay then," she said lightly, and turned back to her task. She continued washing me, scrubbing my back and rinsing my hair, while chatting easily with Emily about school and the TV shows we liked. They carried the conversation, because I was again feeling awkward like the first time Emily had seen me getting bathed. The fact that it was with my sitter instead of with mom seemed to make it more embarrassing for me, for some reason. I sat there, warm water lapping at my chest, listening to their chat, and for a moment I felt like a little child compared to them.

Looking back, I'm struck by how easily Emily normalized the situation. She didn't announce it, didn't defend it, didn't make a case. She simply stated it as fact ("I always sit with him") and the sitter, confronted with that quiet certainty, accepted it.

Pretty much after that point with the sitter, something shifted . Emily didn't wait for announcements or invitations; if she was over and it was bath time, she simply walked in and joined us.

And I won't lie, my feelings started to become mixed, tangled in ways I couldn't untangle at that age. Part of me still felt it was unfair and embarrassing. In my childish mind, that sensation lingered, that sense that I would have liked some more privacy that no one in my life seemed inclined to grant. But another part of me genuinely liked having her around. She was quickly becoming one of my best friends, maybe the best friend I'd ever had. Her company brightened even the most ordinary moments, and bath time was no exception. We talked, we laughed, we planned our next games... all while I sat naked in warm water, my mother washing me as if this were the most natural thing in the world. So it was just confusing, and in a way I was worried saying something to complain might insult her, that it might imply that her presence was a problem, when really it was the situation itself I couldn't sort out.

Emily clearly thought it was natural. She never hesitated, never looked away, never gave any indication that she found the situation strange. Her complete acceptance both comforted and confused me. If she thought it was normal, maybe it was?

Then there was that other thing, the one that complicated everything further. It started happening a bit more frequently: I would get an erection, either being washed or standing on display.

The first time I remember it happening, my mother was bathing me and Emily was there, perched in her usual spot. I was standing in the tub and suddenly there it was, impossible to miss. My face burned. I wanted to cover myself, to sink back into the water, to rewind time by thirty seconds. But even covering myself would have felt too embarrassing, it would be as if calling more attention to it.

But my mother, in her matter-of-fact way, simply glanced at it and then at Emily. "That's normal for boys," she said evenly. "It happens. Nothing to be embarrassed about."

I held my breath, waiting for Emily's reaction. She looked at me and said, "We learned about those in health class. I know it happens to boys, but I hadn't actually seen it before."

She didn't tease. She didn't laugh. She just smiled at me, a small, warm smile, as if we were sharing a private joke. It felt like she was saying it's okay, I still see you, nothing has changed. And in that moment, despite the heat in my cheeks and the confusion swirling in my chest, I felt something else too: a strange, quiet gratitude that she was the one sitting there, that it was her eyes on me and not someone else's.

It was a confusing time for me generally, my body doing things I didn't understand, the whole messy business of growing up arriving before I felt ready. But with Emily, the confusion was sharpest. She was my safe place and my exposure, my comfort and my discomfort, all tangled together until I couldn't tell where one ended and the other began.


Other things happened over the years, and I can share those separately. But to keep this sequence clear (some memories are harder to place exactly) I'll jump ahead to sometime after I turned thirteen.

That's when my mother announced I could start washing myself. It wasn't an abrupt change. There was a long transition period when she or one of my sitters would check in on my progress. Mom would still come in without bothering to knock on the door, to check if I'd done my back properly, or to make sure I wasn't just sitting in cold water daydreaming. I was, after all, easily distracted.

By this time, I'd been diagnosed with delayed puberty. The doctors had names for it, and apparently it was nothing to worry about, but that didn't change the daily reality of living in a body that refused to catch up to my age. I still looked young. I still looked, in many ways, like the boys years younger than me who ran around the neighbourhood.

I'm not sure what prompted my mother to finally step back from bathing me. What I do know is that her views on nudity hadn't shifted. She still saw no problem with me being seen bare, still made no distinction between me and the younger boys who ran around without clothing. In her mind, I was still a child, and there was nothing shameful in any of it.

I was still regularly made to go bare in settings where other, younger boys were bare. Still expected to change in public after swimming if we had been invited to somebody's pool. The fact that I was technically a teenager, that I was years older than most of the others, didn't register with her. Or if it did, she simply didn't see it as mattering.

Looking back, I can trace the contours of her thinking: if it was healthy and natural for an immature ten-year-old, why wouldn't it be healthy and natural for an equally immature thirteen-year-old? In the absence of noticeable signs of puberty, the line between childhood and adolescence, between innocence and something more complicated, was invisible to her.

I remember one particular evening clearly. My mother had just told me to head upstairs for my bath. I don't really remember the reason. Perhaps I had been playing soccer, though I may be wrong about that. And then the doorbell rang. It was Emily.

After the usual brief hello, my mother did something unexpected. She asked Emily to come up with me and make sure I washed well.

The words landed like a stone in still water. I felt something shift inside me, a tightening in my chest, a flush of heat across my face. This was different. This was new. It's not like she hadn't see me bathing before, but this was the first time it was just me and her in the bathroom like that. Just the two of us.

On paper, nothing should have changed. I had basically gotten used to her being there by now. She'd seen everything there was to see, multiple times, and she knew about my delayed puberty. She knew I looked younger than I was, knew my body hadn't started the changes hers likely had. She was younger than me but had already entered puberty, and yet she'd never teased me about it, never told anyone at school, never made me feel lesser for being behind. We were very good friends by then, the kind of friends who could sit in comfortable silence or talk for hours.

I had, in some real way, come to terms with her presence during baths. It was just part of life. But this... this was different. My mother putting her in charge of me, even in this small way, changed things. Suddenly Emily wasn't just a friend who happened to be present. She was a supervisor, an authority figure of sorts, someone tasked with making sure I did what I was supposed to do. The power dynamic had shifted, however subtly, and I felt it keenly.

I felt much more on display than usual. More exposed. More aware of being seen in a way that felt different from before. I was nervous. Embarrassed. And underneath both, a quieter feeling I couldn't name: something about being alone with her, about her being given this small authority over me, about the way it made me feel both younger and more aware of my age at the same time.

As for her, she was just being Emily, kind and matter-of-fact. But I couldn't shake the feeling that something between us had quietly shifted.

I ran the bath, my mind spinning, but when the water was ready I just stood there, frozen. The idea of undressing, of exposing myself with only her watching, had suddenly become overwhelming.

Emily must have sensed my hesitation. "Just get on with it," she said, her voice carrying a gentle firmness I hadn't heard before. "Then we can do something after."

Right. After. There would be an after. I just had to get through this first.

I undressed quickly, not looking at her, and hopped into the warm water. But once I was in, I found myself hunching forward, arms wrapped around my knees, trying to cover as much of myself as possible. The water helped, but not enough.

Emily sat on her usual spot on the toilet lid, watching. She didn't comment on my posture, didn't push. She just waited.

I washed my hair and my chest, but eventually, it was time to wash my lower half. I reached for the soap and tried to do it under the water, surreptitiously, as if she wouldn't notice.

She noticed.

"You can't wash like that," she said, and there it was again, that note of authority, of someone who'd been tasked with a job and intended to do it properly. "You need to stand up and do it right."

I hesitated. My heart hammered. But she was waiting, and she was right, washing under the water was absurd. And, somewhere underneath the embarrassment, I trusted her.

I stood up.

And of course, because my body had its own ideas about timing, the moment I was fully exposed my little thing sprang to life in front of her eyes. It wasn't big (it never was, not yet) and it wasn't the first time she'd seen it happen. Far from it. But this was different. This was just us, alone, with her in charge, and it rose as I stood there like a deer in headlights, completely unable to hide or look away.

Her eyes went to it. Definitely focused on it. I felt the heat flood my face, felt the urge to sink back into the water, to cover, to disappear.

But then she smiled. A small smile, warm and familiar. "It's okay," she said simply. "I've seen it before."

Something in my chest loosened. She wasn't laughing. Wasn't teasing. Wasn't making it more weird. She was just... accepting it, the way she'd accepted everything else about me. She always had that quality, that ability to make me feel comfortable, even in the most uncomfortable situations.

We talked as I finished washing, about school, about something we'd planned, ordinary things, but I was acutely aware of her watching. Not in a creepy way, not in a judgmental way, just... watching. Present. Making sure I did it right, maybe, or just being there the way she always was.

I finished, dried off, changed into my clothes, and we went downstairs to do whatever we'd planned. Life moved forward. But that moment stayed with me: the freeze, the command, the betrayal of my own body, and most of all, her smile that said I've seen it before, and it's okay.


That day, something shifted between us, though I couldn't have named it at the time. And even more would shift afterwards. I remember one afternoon not long after. She'd come over while I was in my room getting ready for a bath. My room was across the hall from the bathroom, and I was just starting to undress when I heard her voice.

I felt the usual flutter of self-consciousness, the familiar hesitation. But I'd been through this so many times now. So I just kept going, pulling off my shirt, my pants, trying to act natural. "I have to have my bath," I told her.

But then something unexpected happened. She didn't just follow me the way she used to, the way she had for months. She stopped and asked. "Should I wait here?"

The question caught me off guard. For so long, her presence in the bathroom had been something that just happened; arranged by my mother, assumed by Emily, endured by me. But now she was asking. Giving me a choice.

I stood there in my underwear. A dozen thoughts swirled through my head at once.

I surprised myself with my answer. "You can keep me company if you want."

Even as the words left my mouth, I felt a kind of wonder at them. Was that really what I wanted? I wasn't entirely sure. But there was something else mixed in with all the confusion, a small, warm feeling when she nodded and followed me across the hall. I was happy she was coming. Embarrassed, confused, still questioning, but also glad.

Part of me genuinely wanted her there. She was my best friend. Her company made everything better, even bath time. And it wasn't like she hadn't seen it all before. Many times, in fact. What was one more? But another part of me, the part that had never stopped questioning this whole arrangement, piped up with its familiar protest: Why does she get to see you anyway? Why is this normal? And underneath that, a quieter, more confusing thought: Am I only saying yes because I don't want to hurt her feelings?

After that, something settled between us. She never asked again, and I never told her not to. She just kept joining me, bath after bath, as if that single question had somehow made it official. As if her asking and my answering had transformed it from something that happened to me into something we chose together.


This lasted for a long while, Emily joining me during baths, her easy presence in our home, her place in the fabric of my daily life. My mother was fine with it. She still considered me a little boy, and beside her views on male privacy before puberty, she was very taken with Emily. They got along easily, and my mother appreciated the steady, reliable presence Emily had become in our household.

That trust became especially clear when I turned fourteen and Emily was thirteen. For a stretch of time, my mother had to work late each evening, not past my bedtime, but late enough that I would have been alone for several hours. Emily's parents, meanwhile, were occupied with her new baby brother, so it made sense for Emily to spend those evenings at our house.

On paper, she wasn't babysitting me. There was no official arrangement, no payment, no formal acknowledgment of any responsibility. But we both knew the truth. My mother was only comfortable leaving me alone because Emily was there. The proof was in small things: the way my mother would always ask to speak with Emily when she called to check in, the way she showed Emily where she'd left dinner and trusted her to heat it properly.

Emily didn't act like she was in charge. We were just two friends spending evenings together, doing homework, watching TV, eating the food my mother had prepared. But underneath that easy surface, there was an unspoken understanding. She was there to keep an eye on me. And somehow, that didn't feel strange or demeaning. It just felt like Emily, taking care of things the way she always had.

And, of course, Emily was still there during my baths. Keeping me company. Supervising, in her quiet way. It had become so normal that I rarely thought to question it anymore.

Then, shortly before I turned sixteen, something changed, not in our arrangement, but in my body.

I got my first pubic hair.

It was barely anything, a sparse and tentative sign of life after years of waiting, but to me it felt monumental. And Emily was there when I noticed it. I remember standing up to wash, and her eyes catching on the small change. She didn't look away or pretend not to see. She just looked at me, really looked, and smiled.

"Hey," she said softly, and there was something in her voice that made me meet her eyes as she smiled at me. "Look at you."

I had to grin back at her. She noticed the way I'd hoped she would, not with the awkward awareness that maybe this was a moment she shouldn't be seeing, but with genuine warmth, genuine happiness for me. She knew, better than almost anyone, how much I'd struggled with my delayed puberty. She knew the humiliation I'd carried, the worry that I'd never catch up. And in that moment, she shared my relief and my pride as if it were her own. With those casual words, she made me feel like she was praising me without patronizing me, without making me feel like a little kid being humored.


Not long after I turned sixteen, my mother addressed us both. I don't know what prompted it. Probably she'd noticed the change too, or maybe she'd simply decided the time had come. But she sat us down and said that now that I was developing, I should no longer be nude in front of Emily.

I hated when she discussed my body in front of others. I always had. Even with Emily, even after everything, that particular discomfort never fully left me. But this time, her words landed with a different kind of weight.

Emily looked... disappointed. I saw it flicker across her face before she smoothed it away and nodded. And what surprised me most was that I felt it too: a small, quiet disappointment that caught me off guard. After all those years of embarrassment, after all those moments of wishing for privacy, after all the times I'd wondered why she got to see me at all... now that it was ending, I felt a pang of loss.

We stayed really good friends. That never changed. But something I'd come to value was lost. Looking back, I think what I mourned wasn't the nudity itself, but the easy intimacy it had come to represent, the proof that someone could see all of me, literally and figuratively, and still like me.


Looking back now, I can see that Emily arrived at precisely the right moment to become one of the most important presences in my life during that defining period. It was right around the time I met her, when I was eleven and she was ten, that I had started to become truly self-aware about being seen naked, particularly by girls.

Even before any diagnosis, before I knew my body would lag behind, I already felt the unfairness of it all. Boys went bare; girls maintained their privacy. That distinction stung, even when I couldn't fully articulate why. So when Emily first saw me, completely naked in that bathtub, my mother cheerfully introducing us as if nothing were amiss, the situation itself wasn't what shocked me. I'd been seen naked before. What lingered was that same familiar sense of unfairness. Why did she get to see me when I would never get to see her? Why was my body public property while hers remained private?

Then came the diagnosis. Delayed puberty. The words that explained everything and changed nothing.

As I got older, as I watched boys younger than me start to stay dressed during group activities, the humiliations accumulated. Each one landed differently, but they all landed. And through many of them, Emily was there.

She never embarrassed me on purpose. That's important to say. She genuinely thought she was helping, and she did help: staying close during uncomfortable situations, offering kind words. But in a way her presence itself was embarrassing. Sometimes her kind words, meant to comfort, also reminded me of how far behind I was. She was being a friend, but her well-intentioned efforts could sometimes also feel like spotlights on my shame.

And yet.

Given the repeated exposure I had to her, the countless baths, the easy companionship, the way she'd seen every inch of me so many times that it became ordinary, I could also go long stretches bare with her and not fixate on my nudity. Not always, not completely, but often enough that I experienced something I rarely felt elsewhere: a kind of peace with my own exposure. With her, I could sometimes forget to be embarrassed. I could simply exist in my body, even that frustratingly slow-to-develop body, without the constant hum of self-consciousness.

It was a time of many confusing feelings and emotions for me. Gratitude and resentment. Comfort and shame. The warmth of being truly seen by someone who accepted me, and the discomfort of being seen at all. All of it tangled together until I couldn't always separate one from another.

I did see a therapist when I started college. I needed to work through some of those memories, the issues they were causing for me, the complicated relationship with my body, the confusion about intimacy and exposure, the lingering questions about what was normal and what had simply been my normal. Talking through it helped.

Emily was a gift in my life, even if the wrapping was sometimes confusing. She was there. She saw me. She stayed. And for a boy who felt increasingly different from everyone around him, that meant more than I could ever adequately express.