Chrissy and Emily

Chrissy and Emily 2

By Chris and Cassie
puericil@hotmail.com

[5,219 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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While bath time was the most regular situation where Emily would see me nude at home, it wasn't limited to that. Over the years, there were plenty of other circumstances where I found myself bare, and when Emily was around, she would see me then too.

Sometimes it happened after a spanking (my mother's preferred method of discipline). My mother did spank regularly, but it wasn't too often that I got a real serious spanking. Sometimes it was more of what you might call a swatting, on a bare bum, but it would be over before my bum actually turned red. And she did have other punishments, like not being allowed to go out to play or losing TV. So I just don't want to oversell that aspect - although there were serious spankings at times.

Other times I'd made a mess doing something outside or playing and my mother would take my clothes to wash, but it wasn't bath time yet, so I'd simply be told to stay bare until it was time to get in the tub. And sometimes, if we were going out to dinner later and she didn't want me to put on my nicer clothes too early and risk getting them dirty, she'd have me stay bare for a stretch: reading or watching TV or just playing in my room with no clothes on until it was time to get ready.

In any of those moments, if Emily happened to be over, she'd see me. Not because she walked in intentionally, but because she was simply around a lot. My nudity was normal in our home, and there was little point in trying to hide it from her.

**

A random flashback just came to me: I was obsessed with soccer back then. I liked spending time in our back yard, kicking the ball against wooden boards I'd set up, making it rebound back to me, or aiming again and again into these tiny makeshift goals I'd constructed to practice my accuracy. It was repetitive, probably boring to watch, but I liked it.

The problem was that part of the yard tended to get muddy during the wet season. And my mother, always practical, had a solution.

"Go bare if you're playing back there," she'd say when I asked for permission. "Why get your clothes dirty when we have fencing?" The fencing was tall; no one could see in from outside. So off would come my clothes, and out I'd go to play, wearing my socks and sneakers because I needed them to kick the ball, but otherwise naked.

Sometimes Emily would come with me. To keep me company, she'd say, or to help fetch balls that went too far. Maybe she'd sit on the steps or stand at the edge of the yard, watching me practice, offering the occasional word of encouragement. And sometimes she'd compliment me. Said I looked cute out there. I'd feel a flush of pleasure at that, even as I became aware of how I must look.

Sometimes, when I was focused on the ball, on the rhythm of kick and rebound, I could sometimes forget about everything else, including my exposed body. But sometimes it would occur to me: I was completely naked out here, running and kicking, and things were... flopping about. Even if there wasn't much to flop, but still...

I do actually remember sometimes being on my own, or with my mom or a sitter usually in the house, and being more aware of my nudity. I could get distracted by playing or the drills I had set up but I was still quite conscious that I was naked and it felt ridiculous. And on times like that I was always convinced someone was going to see, even if that would mean Olympic level jumping or calculated spying to achieve. But I think that with Emily I was less aware (key word still being less, not completely unaware). I think it was a mix of the trust I had in her (I was being nude in front of her, vs. nude in an open space where theoretically someone might see me and think I looked ridiculous) but also maybe a bit of a desire to impress her with my play being more of a focus.

And sometimes, because my body could have a mind of its own, there would be erections. Those moments were harder to ignore. But Emily, true to form, handled it with ease. "Don't worry about it, Chrissy," she'd say. "Just keep practicing." And somehow, her matter-of-fact acceptance made it possible for me to do that, to push past the embarrassment and focus on the ball again.

Of course, all that running and kicking in the mud meant I'd get filthy. And that meant when I finally came inside, I required a lot of attention in the bath to get completely clean. Attention that Emily, by then, simply provided as a matter of course. She'd be there, helping to scrub the mud from places mud shouldn't be, as naturally as if she'd been doing it her whole life.

It occurs to me now how seamlessly she moved between these roles: my friend, my audience, my compliment-giver, my source of reassurance when my body did embarrassing things, and finally my mother-like figure, helping me get clean. She was just... there. For all of it.

**

As I have said, there were plenty of occasions where her role while I was bathing wasn’t just watching and supervising. Sometimes, she actually helped with the washing itself, to varying extents.

Not just when I was particularly dirty. Sometimes she just did it to be comforting, when I was down about something. Mainly it was the frustration of waiting for a body that wouldn't hurry up and develop. But it could also be something about school, or friends, or anything else. On those afternoons, Emily would notice. She might offer to wash my back. Just that, her hands massaging some soap into my back while we talked. It was comforting in a way I couldn't quite explain. Or sometimes she wouldn't even offer; she'd just take the initiative, gently guiding me to turn around or lean forward, her presence a quiet reassurance that I wasn't alone in whatever I was feeling.

Other times, her help was more practical. For instance, as I have said, sometimes after those backyard soccer sessions my legs would get absolutely caked. And I'll admit, left to my own devices I wasn't always very thorough in my washing. I'd do a quick pass and call it done, eager to get out of the bath and move on to something else.

Emily would notice. She'd take the washcloth and redo those spots herself, scrubbing more thoroughly. I remember complaining sometimes ("You're going to wash the skin off!") but she'd just chuckle and keep going.

Looking back, I'm struck by how natural all of it felt. It bothered me sometimes, but I didn't see it as extraordinary as I probably should have. Her washing my back when I was sad. Her scrubbing my legs because I'd done a lazy job...

To clarify, the period of time where I was admittedly not responsible enough to consistently wash myself properly (which was one of the things my mother would point to on the rare occasions when I did complain about why I wasn't allowed to be on my own - usually if someone new was going to get to see me) did not extend all the way until I finally started puberty around 16. Thinking back, I can't really remember it when I was 15. Maybe early on at that age (I wasn't really tracking dates). But for the most part, that kind of thing probably only happened until I was 14.

As for why I was like that, people have asked if I think the delayed physical puberty also contributed to being less responsible overall. I'm really not sure. I hated how I looked and wanted to both be treated as a more responsible boy and look like one. But admittedly I was easily distracted at that age. I recall my doctor saying something to my mother along the lines of how physical and emotional maturity could go hand in hand, but that wasn't definitive. Maybe it was also in part because of how my mother raised me, being very controlling and not trusting me to do basic things. So I don't know, but I know that the times I complained and she would make that point, it really did end the debate pretty well.

**

There were also a few times when I was sick. On those days, Emily would step in even more fully. She'd assist with my bath to the point of basically doing it all for me. Washing me completely, gently. On those occasions I felt really dependent. But it also felt good, Emily taking care of me.

And then there was the injury. I must have been thirteen or fourteen. I can't remember exactly when it fell relative to my birthday, but I know it was that year because I can still picture the team I was on. We were at another team's field, one that was heavily dirt and sand. I took a bad fall.

I jammed a finger of my right hand. It wasn't broken, thank god, but it took a good time to heal. For some time, I had to wear a cloth-type cast wrapped around a splint, making my right hand almost useless for anything delicate.

My left hand wasn't much better. I'd scraped it in the same fall, deep, nasty abrasions that required bandaging for a while, and a couple of stitches to close the worst of it. So both hands were mostly out of commission. One splinted and wrapped, the other bandaged and stitched.

Bath time, as you might imagine, became complicated. I couldn't wash myself. I had to have both hands in a bag when taking a bath. And so Emily stepped in, the way she always did. She washed me completely during that period. Every part. She'd make sure I was clean without causing pain or disturbing the bandages.

I remember feeling so aware of my dependence during those weeks. Of how much she helped me. But she never made me feel like it was a burden. She just did it, keeping that same cheerful chatter of hers.

During that time with my injuries, there were a couple of moments that went beyond bathing. I needed help to go to the toilet. Luckily, and I remember being grateful for this, Emily never had to help with number two. I needed the occasional help with that from my mother, and from one of my sitters once, but not from Emily.

But, for peeing, she had to help a few times, including once when I was sleeping at her house when my mother had to travel for work.

Usually I was in shorts, and those I could manage on my own. Pulling them down wasn't too complicated, even with my hands bandaged. But pants were another story. School uniform pants, with their buttons and zippers and snug fit... those were more difficult during those weeks. If I had time, I could eventually manage on my own. But if I was in a rush, I needed help.

One incident stands out clearly. We'd gone to the mall after school to pick up a few things. I remember it was school supplies. One of them was a red binder, I can still picture it. I think we had a drink and a snack while we were there. And then, suddenly, I couldn't hold it. The urgency was overwhelming.

Emily had to come into the bathroom with me.

It was a family bathroom, or maybe a handicapped one, so thankfully she didn’t have to go into the men’s room, nor me into the women’s. We were both too old for that. Inside, she helped me get my pants down. That's all. She didn't have to hold anything or do anything beyond that initial assistance, but she stayed there while I peed in case I had trouble. I remember it was quite embarrassing, peeing with her there. While she didn't have to, as I could have managed it, I do remember that time that she helped me put my clothes back on.

I don't remember anyone particularly looking at us as we came out, but I was feeling very abashed anyway, as if everyone was aware that she had helped me pee! I carried that embarrassment with me for the rest of the day, even as Emily acted completely normal.

**

Emily clearly shared the point of view my mom (and other adults in my life) had, that it was OK if I was seen naked. She never supported my complaints about needing privacy, but she did try to comfort me and help me deal with being seen.

What I mean is this: Over the years, once we were clearly friends, I would complain to her about my experiences. Both about the fundamental unfairness (how boys had to go bare while girls didn't), and later, about how I was still expected to do it long after most boys (maybe all of them) had stopped, simply because my body was slow to develop.

She never agreed with me that it was wrong. Not once.

Instead, she would just try to comfort me in her own way. She'd tell me it was normal for little boys to go bare, that everyone had seen boys like that before. From her perspective, she was reassuring me, helping me see that the situation wasn't as awful as I experienced it. And I appreciated that, but her words sometimes felt like a dismissal, like she was siding with the world rather than with me.

I don't think she meant it that way. I think she genuinely believed that if I could just accept it as normal, I'd stop suffering over it. She was trying to help. But what I wanted her to say was, "You're right, this isn't fair." And she never could say that.

Even when I complained that it wasn't fair, that I was older now, that younger boys were starting to stay covered while I remained exposed, she’d say it was because their bodies were developing, that mine would catch up eventually. She'd tell me I couldn't control my body, so I shouldn't be ashamed of it. Sometimes she'd even offer what she thought was proof that I had nothing to worry about: comments from girls who'd seen me, how they'd said I looked cute or that I was in good shape.

She would agree with me on one point: it was unfair that I was slow to develop. She hoped I would change soon, she said. She wanted that for me. But the part about being seen naked? For her that never the problem. In her mind, my nudity itself was fine. The issue was my feelings about it, and those could be managed with reassurance and perspective.

Again, I want to be clear: I’m totally sure there was no malice in any of this. She genuinely believed she was helping. It's just that her view of the situation (and everyone's view, really) was so thoroughly aligned with the world I was complaining about. To her, to my mother, to the sitters, to almost everyone in charge of me, it simply made sense that I would be seen naked. It was natural, normal, unremarkable. The fact that I experienced it as unfair, as humiliating, that was the part they couldn't see.

It just seemed that way to seemingly everybody. Certainly to those in charge of me. And I was left alone with those feelings, trying to make sense of why I couldn't just accept what everyone else found so natural.

So it wasn’t just Emily, it was everybody around.

My aunt, for instance. She'd see me naked sometimes (at family gatherings, trips to the beach...), and she'd comment. "Oh, still haven't grown yet?" She'd look at me with what seemed like genuine interest, noting the lack of change, the body that refused to catch up to my age. And then, almost immediately, she'd move on. The novelty of seeing me, of confirming that I was still the same, would wear off as quickly as it arrived. In her mind, it would make sense that, since I was still a little kid, that’s why it was normal for me to be naked. To her, I was just a naked little boy again, unremarkable.

At that time, there wasn't the same regard for teenage dignity that exists now. The idea that adolescent boys deserved privacy, that their bodies were their own... that wasn't really part of the culture. But, anyway, I doubt my aunt saw me as a teenager, even when I technically was. I'm not sure even I thought of myself as a teenager most of the time, to be honest. I might be thirteen or more, but I didn't feel grown up. My body hadn't changed. I still looked like a younger kid, and most of the time I think I felt like one too. So even if the culture had offered more protection for teenagers, I'm not sure I would have known to claim it. I didn't see myself that way. My aunt didn't see me as a teenager either, at least in those settings where I was made to go bare. Maybe by the age of 15 I wasn't seen as a purely little boy, but maybe a big little boy, definitely not a young man or anylthing close to that.

The beach was worse. Sometimes other kids (strangers, usually) would tease me. Point, laugh, whisper. I remember feeling ashamed and even crying sometimes, and on those occasions Emily would hug me, hold me close. Sometimes she'd defend me, yelling back at them. But she was defending me from the teasing. The fact that I was nude wasn't discussed. The fact that I was bare was just there, unquestioned.

One reason I mainly went along with it is that I had learned that objecting and having a bit of a tantrum never ended well for me. Even if not enough to get me in trouble, it would generally draw more attention to me, the exact opposite of what I wanted. So I actually trained myself to act like it didn't bother me, although it actually took a fair amount of willpower. But then that apparent acceptance may have very well reinforced the view everyone seemed to have about it being normal, a real catch 22!

**

I remember one time at the beach when a couple of older boys came along. They were older than the kids I was playing with, but still younger than me, probably eleven or twelve. I noticed the way they glanced over, the way they nudged each other, the way their attention fixed on me.

They didn't address me directly. They just started talking to each other, giggling, and loud enough for me to hear.

"Look at that boy."

"Yeah, I see him."

"How old do you think he is?"

"Don't know. Too old to be naked like a baby."

I walked away from the game, from the whole situation, and headed back to where Emily and my mom were sitting.

Emily saw my face the moment I approached. She always could read me like that. But instead of asking what happened, she just smiled and said, "Come on, let's have something to eat."

She was already unpacking the food they'd brought, spreading it out on a towel.

I pointed to something, I don't remember what, and she handed it to me. Then she held out a piece of fruit and said, "Hey, can you take this to the faucet and rinse it off?"

I took it and walked to the nearby faucet, the concrete below the seafront promenade warm under my feet. By the time I came back, rinsed and ready, the tightness in my chest had loosened. Emily took the rinsed item, thanked me, and offered me something else. We sat there eating, talking about nothing in particular, and eventually I went back to playing, this time closer, where they could see me.

She never asked me what had happened. Never made me say it out loud. She just gave me something else to focus on and let the moment pass.

**

As for how it worked at the beach, or in other similar situations, there was no simple rule. It varied.

Sometimes I wore a swimsuit. I can't always remember a clear reason why I would get to wear it when other times I wouldn’t. Maybe there wasn't one. Looking back, I assume that in those moments, my mother, or whoever else I was with, decided that the setting wasn't one where people would expect me to be bare.

Other times, I'd be expected to change into my suit when we arrived, out in the open, even when a changing hut or something similar was available. The girls would use the changing hut, or whatever else was available to change in private, without question. But for me, those options weren't offered. I'd strip down right there on the sand or wherever, put on my swimsuit, and try not to notice who might be watching.

Other times, my mother would tell me I didn't need a suit at all and should take it off. Or I'd discover that one simply hadn't been packed for me. I wouldn't necessarily know ahead of time (she usually packed for both of us), and I rarely saw inside the bag before we arrived. But as we approached a spot, I'd sometimes get this sinking feeling, a kind of dread that grew more accurate with experience. If the beach wasn't very crowded, if I spotted any boys of any age who appeared to be bare, I'd start to suspect what was coming.

I'd say it was more often than not that I ended up bare at the beach.

This wasn't a daily thing, of course. We didn't go to the beach during cooler months, and even in summer, it wasn't every free moment. But often enough that I got more or less used to it. Or, if not used to it, at least it was not unusual.

I think my mother's reasoning was simple: she thought it was fine for a prepubescent boy to be bare, and it was easier from a cleanliness perspective. No sandy trunks to wash, no wet suit to drag home. So, whenever it made sense to her, that's what we did.

Not knowing beforehand was hard, though.

**

Another memory I have of Emily trying to make me feel better about my nudity:

We'd gone camping, the three of us: me, my mom, and Emily. This campsite had a shower area (not all of them did), and at some point, my mom sent Emily and me there, with me naked (because what was the point of me being dressed when I was just going to shower). I don't remember if my mom was busy, but off we went Emily and me together.

The shower area wasn't far, but the path took us within view of other tents and camper vans. Other people. And there I was, walking toward the showers the way I usually walked toward showers in those years: completely naked. We had a couple of towels, but Emily was carrying them draped over her shoulder.

I felt exposed. Obvious.

"I feel dumb walking like this," I said to Emily, keeping my voice low. "Can I just cover up with the towel? You're carrying it anyway."

She glanced at me, then ahead at the path, then back at me with that steady look she had. "You’re not dumb, and you don’t need to cover up," she said confidently. "It's not a big deal."

I must have looked unconvinced, because she kept going. "Besides, you don't know these people. You won't see them again."

I remember thinking, even as she said it, that she couldn't possibly be sure of that. But the way she said it, with such absolute certainty, made it hard to argue.

**

There was a girl at the beach once, younger than Emily, who couldn't stop staring. She'd clearly never seen a boy naked before, at least not one older than a baby, and her curiosity was completely undisguised: eyes fixed on my private area, whispering questions to Emily that I was grateful not to hear.

I was uncomfortable, and afterward, I complained to Emily about it.

Emily listened, then said something I've never forgotten. She told me not to be embarrassed, that girls would look because mine (meaning my penis) was cute. And then she added, quite seriously, that she thought circumcised ("your type") was cuter than uncircumcised.

It was such an odd comfort. Such a strange thing to say. But it was pure Emily. And, somehow, I guess it helped. At least it distracted me from my embarrassment.

**

One other trip stands out clearly, the vacation to Mexico.

Emily came with me and my mom, and we stayed at some beach resort. The kind of place with pools and activities and kids everywhere, all running around, playing together, forming vacation friendships that last a week and then dissolve. For most kids, that would sound like paradise. For me, it did too, but it also sounded like exposure.

I remember the knot in my stomach as we arrived. All those other children, all those eyes. They'd look at me and see someone who didn't fit, too old to be running around naked. There might be questions. Stares. The moment when someone would notice and whisper to a friend.

Emily had passed me in height by then. Another small humiliation of my delayed development, my best friend, a girl a year younger than me, now taller. And, knowing that I was worried, and why, she suggested we should lie. Tell anyone who asked that I was younger than her. That I was tall for my age, but actually younger. A false story that might let me blend in.

Emily ordinarily would have told me to be confident. That was her message across all those years: there's nothing wrong with your body, don't be ashamed, just accept yourself. She believed it, I think. But this time, she didn't lecture or remind me that I should be confident. She just let me have this false identity, this small lie.

And it did help. We told that to everybody, and it made it less embarrassing. I've never forgotten that she did that for me. Even though her usual message was about acceptance, she understood that sometimes I just needed a break from it. And she gave me that.

**

There were some occasions where I didn't have to go bare, but I ended up doing so anyway, at Emily's suggestion. On some of those occasions, she'd convince me to do it as a chance to get more used to it, her logic being that since she saw me naked all the time anyway, what was one more exposure? It was exposure therapy, I suppose, though I don't think she'd have used that word. This happened more when I was a bit older, when being nude would single me out more.

Once I remember we were going to a lake beach, during holiday season. Some places we went were quiet enough that you didn't run into many people, but this one was likely to have a crowd. I was a bit nervous about it, and I must have said something to Emily.

The day before, though, we went to her cousin's house. It was a good couple of hours away. She had been invited, so I was invited along. Her mom and baby brother came too. When we arrived, the house was full: her aunt, her uncle (briefly, before he left to play golf), her cousins (twin boy and girl around ten), and one of their neighbors, a girl a bit older than the twins but younger than Emily, along with her mother.

Quickly, all the kids wanted to swim. I started to head off to put on my suit, but Emily stopped me.

"Just go bare," she told me quietly. "It's safe here. And it will make tomorrow easier."

I hesitated, but before I could answer, she turned to the group and announced, "Is it okay if Chrissy goes bare? He forgot his suit." A small lie; I hadn't taken it out yet, but I hadn't forgotten it. "He often goes bare anyway. He still hasn't started growing, so his mom says it's fine."

Her aunt looked surprised for a moment, then nodded. "Oh, that's fine. Some of the younger kids taking lessons at the kids' pool go naked."

And then, just like that, the conversation shifted. Suddenly everyone was talking about my delayed puberty. How old was I? Oh, I'm sure you'll start growing soon. Emily's used to seeing you, isn't she? That sort of thing. Questions and comments floating around me as if I weren't standing right there, as if my body were a topic for public discussion.

I remember her uncle adding his own comment. He'd had a friend who was also slow to grow, but it eventually happened. Just casual conversation. Like everyone saw no issue in talking about this subject. I was in a daze but felt like the ball was in motion. I could hardly put on my swimsuit when Emily had said I had forgotten it.

I waited around the adults while the others went to change and when they came back Emily acted surprised why hadn't I undressed yet, and then she did it for me! She undressed me in their kitchen, where everyone was milling about. The term shell shocked would be appropriate! I so badly wanted to cover myself but felt like I would look even more stupid doing so. We played, Emily put lotion on me once and even took me after to one of the bathrooms to help me shower afterwards. Just us, but no one asked why she was going with. But to be honest, it probably did make the next day a bit easier, even if not by much.

(The End)