Chapter 7

Flynn became known around his dorm as Sullivan Splooge due to his serial wet dreams and the humiliating incident in the hall. He was still teased relentlessly, but it became more good-natured over time. No boy was without his own embarrassing moments caused by adolescent sexual needs. Flynn’s escapades may have been more public than usual, but they were still somewhat relatable.

Despite his initial fears, Flynn actually settled in at Bramstock and became part of its everyday life. He went to classes, he made a few friends. The school had its own idiosyncrasies he’d never encountered anywhere else, but he passed them off as the traditions of an institution that had grown over hundreds of years. He still resented being banished there, but the place wasn’t completely horrible.

Two months later, that changed. Life at Bramstock became horrible in a way he never could’ve imagined. And, from that moment on, he wasn’t blessed with the memory losses that had saved his sanity before. The new incidents were indelibly etched into his psyche.

Strangely enough, it all started with underwear ... or a lack thereof.

Bramstock Prep was so strict in its clothing requirements, it even regulated what its students wore beneath their slacks. White briefs were the only undergarments allowed. No boxers. Not even boxer briefs. And certainly not anything like bikini underwear or thongs.

The professors weren’t squeamish about making inspections if they suspected a student was either wearing a forbidden style of undies, or worse, no underwear at all. A fad of ‘going commando’ had taken the school by storm that year. Most of the nasty little miscreants got away with it. A few unlucky ones didn’t.

Underwear inspections could take place anywhere, including a crowded hallway between classes. In fact, a populated location for such intimate scrutiny was the norm. The ridicule a boy received at having to drop his pants in front of fellow students and faculty alike ... many of the professors being female ... was considered an extra deterrent.

This tactic wouldn’t even be a consideration at any other school, but Bramstock ran by its own rules. The students had the potion of discretion to keep them from even thinking of complaining about such public invasions of privacy. Regular students were subjected to this indignity right along with the special cases.

The school uniform consisted of a black polo shirt with the Bramstock emblem embroidered on the chest, gray slacks, black socks, black shoes, and, of course, those white briefs.

Underwear inspections didn’t happen often, but when they did, it was a festive occasion for everyone but the unlucky soul who had to drop his pants before the crowd. Too bad for the boys who were falsely accused and were obediently wearing the regulation white briefs. They still had to stand in the crowded hallway or classroom, looking ridiculous with their slacks around their ankles and their fingers interlaced behind their heads, enduring ridicule from their peers despite being innocent. No apologies for false accusations were ever extended. That wasn’t the Bramstock way.

Flynn was one of the ones who was actually guilty of going commando, though the lack of underwear was not by choice.

After that first incident of someone snatching his towel away in the hall, this became a regular occurrence. Boys always went to and from the showers wearing only a towel ... it was a male only dorm after all. Flynn never made it in either direction without someone grabbing his towel, leaving him naked. He learned that if he fussed about it, he didn’t get his towel back. So he let the other boys have their fun.

After a round of laughter, the towel was usually returned.

One morning, when he got back to his room, still rewrapping the towel around his waist after his latest denuding, Flynn saw that the clothes he’d laid out on his bed were missing an item ... his briefs.

Checking his dresser, he discovered all his briefs were gone. Someone had graduated from snatching towels to stealing underwear.

He gritted his teeth in annoyance. He’d have to take care of this later. He did not want to be late to class. He’d learned tardiness could result in a paddling, an outdated form of punishment that lingered on within Bramstock’s ancient walls.

Flynn took a chance and dressed without his briefs. Still cussing under his breath, he ran to his first class.

Somehow, his math professor, Janet Coleman, had known, or at least suspected he was missing an item of apparel. She’d stopped Flynn outside her classroom door with a demand to drop his pants for an inspection. Flynn, once he recovered from the initial shock of the discovery he’d dreaded, objected with what he thought was an unassailable argument. It worked no better with Coleman than it had with Stepdad.

“You can’t make me do that. I’m eighteen. I’m a grownup now.”

He cringed when he realized he’d undercut his argument with the use of such a childish word as ‘grownup’. He became flustered.

“I mean, I’m a legal adult. You can’t make me do something like this. It’s a violation of ... of my rights ... my right to ... keep my pants on ... or something.”

He knew he’d made himself look silly with that weak, hesitant declaration. And, despite his age, he didn’t feel like an adult at that moment. He felt like a small child who’d been caught doing something naughty.

Flynn looked around at the gathering crowd. They were laughing at him. There wasn’t a sympathetic face in the bunch.

Jackals, every one of them.

He’d been in their place a few days before. He’d jeered right along with the rest of them when the suspect, a tenth-grader, had to undo his pants and let them slide down his legs to the floor. The unfortunate boy had been wearing the proper underwear, but still had to hold the pose while the English professor, another female, harangued him with what would’ve happened if he’d actually been guilty. The crowd, unsympathetic to his unjust plight, had shrieked with laughter, gorging themselves on his distress. The boy’s look of misery turned to panic as an erection tented his regulation white briefs. The hilarity this produced made some members of his audience almost pass out from oxygen deprivation.

Even as he’d laughed along with the rest, Flynn felt a pesky sense of guilt. He knew what it was like to be humiliated by someone in authority ... namely Stepdad. He also had those slippery, possibly false memories of past humiliations at the hands of school staff.

When his turn came to stand before an accusing professor, dangerously close to boyish tears for such a self-proclaimed grownup, part of him decided this must be a well-deserved karma, his insensitivity at the other boy’s plight coming back to bite him on the butt.

Professor Coleman was a large, imposing woman. Her blonde hair was piled up in a beehive that made her look even taller. The heavy, military style jacket she always wore made her look wider. She hadn’t yet met a student she couldn’t intimidate just by existing. Neither Flynn nor his feeble argument moved her.

“Drop ‘em, Flynn. I don’t care how old you are. You’re still a student of this school, which means you’re mine to order around as I see fit.”

Flynn grimaced. Plan A hadn’t worked. He was just going to have to own up not wearing underwear. No embarrassing display would be necessary with a confession on record.

He said, “Ok. I’m guilty. I don’t know how you found out, but I’m going commando. I’m sorry. I won’t do it again. I promise.”

The professor asked, “And why are you going commando as you say?”

Flynn said, “I ... well, I couldn’t find any of my briefs. They were all missing. Every pair. Even the dirty ones in my hamper. Not dirty dirty ... you know, like I dirtied them. I mean, the ones I’d worn before and hadn’t been washed yet. I don’t know where they all went.”

The crowd tittered at his flustered explanantion.

“And you couldn’t borrow any? There’s a whole dormitory crammed full of boys, and they all have multiple pairs of underwear.”

Flynn made a face. “Guys don’t wear each other’s underwear. That’s gross.”

“More gross than leaving skid marks in your slacks?”

Flynn’s look of revulsion changed to outrage. “I don’t leave skid marks.”

The professor said, “All males leave skid marks. You’re unsanitary creatures at the best of times.”

Here he was, the victim of a crime ... an underwear theft ... and he was being treated like the offender ... and one who didn’t properly wipe his butt at that. He actually didn’t leave skid marks, even when he was at his most unhygienic. He’d always retained some sense of standards. Besides, Stepdad had always made regular underwear checks.

Glaring at the professor, Flynn asked, “How’d you even know to stop me in the hall like this? I know you don’t have X-ray vision.”

Coleman said, “I don’t need X-ray eyes. I know boys so well, I can see straight through to their souls. As for what gave you away ... your genitals were visibly swinging around inside your slacks in a very lewd, very public, display.”

Flynn blanched at the visual this description provoked. Even though his penis and balls were large, he’d never learned to be proud of his size like other men would be. He was embarrassed by it, especially when wearing the miniscule swimsuit required for his swim class at Bramstock.