My Classmate Got Naked Half a Meter Away from Me

My name is Adrián, I’m eighteen years old, and I’m probably the most self-conscious guy in the whole school. I’m not exaggerating. I’m embarrassed even to be left in my underwear in front of someone else, and whenever I have physical education, I always wear a sweatshirt that reaches halfway down my thighs so no one can see me changing. I know it sounds ridiculous. I’ve been living with it for years.

Physically, I don’t exactly help matters. I’m short, my face isn’t one people remember, and I’ve had a visual problem since I was little that forces me to stare at things very intently to see them properly. That alone is enough to make me feel exposed anywhere there’s a large mirror. Imagine me in a locker room.

This year I started my second year of sixth form, studying sciences, and my class is an odd case. There are twenty-two students, but only two boys: Bruno and me. The rest are women. The other boys in my year either dropped out or had to repeat. So Bruno and I spend the day stuck together, not talking much, but together.

Bruno is my exact opposite. He’s nearly six foot three, broad-shouldered, quiet, but with a calm confidence you notice the moment he enters a room. He’s smarter than me, better-looking, and still never rubs it in. I like him, although sometimes I can’t help feeling a little jealous.

The one thing we have in common is very specific: we’re both self-conscious. Last year, in gym class, Bruno didn’t change his clothes a single time. At least I put on a clean tracksuit. That was the extent of the intimate contact we had with the locker room.

Last year our physical education teacher was laid-back and didn’t demand much from us. We didn’t sweat. There was no reason to shower. But this year the teacher is new, his name is Ricardo, and on the first day he dropped the news on us.

“Hygiene is non-negotiable,” he said, looking at Bruno and me. “After every class, you shower and change your clothes. If you don’t, I’ll come into the locker room and check.”

I stopped breathing. To my surprise, Bruno nodded as if it were nothing and said yes, no problem. I didn’t open my mouth. I was going to have to think of something.

That week I didn’t sleep well, thinking about the next class. My plan, my only plan, was to keep my underwear on until I got under the water. If necessary, I’d pretend to shower: I’d step in for a second, wet my hair, and come out. The important thing was never to get naked in front of Bruno. I assumed he was just as embarrassed as I was. I hadn’t told him anything, but I was sure.

***

The first day arrived. The class was intense. Ricardo made us run, jump, and do a circuit that left us drenched. When we went into the locker room, I already had my strategy worked out in my head. I took off my sweatshirt and trousers at top speed, wrapped myself in my towel, and grabbed the bottle of shower gel.

“Do you mind if I go to the shower first?” I asked.

Bruno stood still for a second. Then he nodded.

“Okay, sure. You go first.”

It was like breathing after holding my breath for a long time. I went to the shower with the towel on and my underwear on too, and showered without taking them off, looking toward the entrance the whole time in case Bruno decided to show up. He didn’t. He was a respectful guy; he had been last year and still was.

When I returned to the benches with the towel around my waist, Bruno was still sitting there with his own towel. He stood up, gathered his things, and headed for the showers without looking at me.

I used that time to change in peace. I took off my wet underwear, put on the clean pair and my clothes, and sat down with my phone. Utterly relieved. I had survived the first day without anyone seeing my dick. And, judging by how Bruno had reacted, I assumed it would work the same way next time.

What I didn’t expect was what happened afterward.

Bruno came out of the shower with his towel around his waist and headed straight for the benches. His backpack was barely three feet from mine, on my left. I kept my head fixed on my phone, expecting him to ask me to look away or turn around. He didn’t ask.

What I heard was the sound of the towel falling onto the bench.

Bruno began drying himself naked to my left. I didn’t turn my head. I couldn’t. My breathing was cut short and my eyes were glued to the phone screen, reading the same message twice without understanding any of it. If I had moved my eyes four inches, I would have seen all of him, his dick hanging down, his ass tense as he bent over, his dark balls swinging between his thighs. I didn’t. Out of respect, fear, or both at once. But I got hard beneath my clean underwear and had to cross my legs so the bulge wouldn’t show.

When he finished dressing and we left, Ricardo was waiting for us at the door. He looked at our hair and clothes, said “okay,” and let us through.

That night I couldn’t get it out of my head. Bruno, the most self-conscious guy I knew, drying himself naked half a meter from me as if it were nothing. What if I’d looked? Would he have gotten angry? Would he have covered himself? Why the sudden casualness? Did he think that, because of my eyes, I couldn’t distinguish properly what was in front of me? One question after another, and underneath it all, I confess, my dick was hard again beneath my pajamas, imagining what I hadn’t seen. I jerked off thinking about him, thinking about the dick I hadn’t looked at, and came in less than two minutes with my mouth clenched so no one would hear me. Could it be that I like guys? But I still find girls attractive. Bisexual? What a mess.

***

The following week, everything changed.

The locker room for that class wasn’t the same one as before. We have three at school, and they rotate them among the vocational-training groups. That day’s had the bench area arranged like a narrow corridor, with benches against the walls and a continuous shelf above them, a little over five feet eight inches high. I’m five foot three. Bruno is nearly six foot three. For me, the shelf completely blocked my view if I sat down. For him, it was a ledge to leave his things at face height.

“I’ll leave it up here,” he said, putting his backpack on the shelf.

And that was when I understood the problem. If we repeated the routine from the week before, his body would be on my left, with no shelf between us, while mine would be hidden. A perfect asymmetry. All I could think was that I had to shower first again.

“Should I go?” I asked, my voice a little too fast.

“Yeah, go.”

I showered just like the time before: underwear on, watching the entrance, not touching myself any more than necessary even though I was half-hard just from thinking about it. I came out, reached the bench, dried my back, changed my underwear for a clean pair, and sat down against the wall with my phone in my hand. Bruno was already under the water. This time I couldn’t even see his equipment, because he had everything on the high shelf.

When I heard the tap shut off, my heart sped up. I knew something was going to happen; I just didn’t know what.

Bruno came out with the towel knotted around his waist and a toiletry bag in his hand. He approached. He stopped half a meter from me, facing the shelf, giving me his side.

I waited for him to say something. “Turn around.” “Cover your eyes.” “Look over there.” Anything.

He said nothing.

He let go of the towel.

I was still holding my phone up, but I wasn’t reading anymore. My whole body was focused on him. He began drying his chest, then his flat, tightly muscled stomach, then his back with his elbows raised, his tight ass contracting with every movement. The previous towel had covered him to mid-thigh. Now there was nothing covering him.

And I saw.

My God, what a fucking dick. Big isn’t the word, and gigantic isn’t either. It was a cock that didn’t seem proportionate to any body, not even that of a guy his height. It was less than a meter from my eyes, hanging heavily, unbelievably thick, covered in black hair that rose all the way to his navel, so dark that the rest of his skin looked white beside it. He was uncircumcised. The foreskin covered almost the entire head, and the tip barely peeked out, faintly pink, just above his knee, with a tiny drop of water hanging from the opening. His balls hung inside a heavy, dark sac, like two thick eggs swinging between his thighs whenever he shifted his weight from one leg to the other.

I stayed glued to my phone screen with my eyes lowered, but I wasn’t reading. My eyes kept drifting to his dick and balls again and again. I looked up for a second to check whether he was watching me, and when I confirmed that he was still calmly drying himself with the towel around his neck, I lowered my gaze to his crotch again as if no one could notice. Mine was getting so hard inside my underwear that I had to press it against my thigh with my free hand so it wouldn’t raise the tracksuit. It was such an absurdly arousing situation that I didn’t know what to do with my own body. His dick moved as he dried himself. When he ran the towel over his stomach, he lowered it over the head for a moment, and I swear I saw it swell half an inch and rise on its own, as if responding to the contact. I looked away for a second, terrified, and immediately looked back.

What if I took a picture?

The idea shot through me like an electric shock. I had my phone in my hand. All it would take was turning it half a centimeter. Bruno wasn’t even looking at me; he was busy putting deodorant on his armpits, completely naked, his dick swinging freely between his thighs, for what seemed like an eternity but was probably two minutes. No one would ever know.

But I thought of him. I thought about how he had let me shower first both times without asking questions, how he understood my embarrassment without discussing it, how much he trusted me to do what he was doing. Taking a picture of him would have been too great a betrayal for such a delicate favor. I lowered the phone.

Bruno put on his underwear, then the rest of his clothes, picked up his backpack from the shelf, and, barely looking at me, said he was ready. We left. Ricardo checked us at the door, nodded, and we went into the next class.

Tutorial period. An entire hour sitting beside him, my dick still swollen inside my underwear, looking straight ahead, not knowing what to say. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw that cock again, thick and dark, hanging between his thighs. Bruno started talking about a series that was airing that week, and I followed the conversation as best I could, grateful that he pulled me out of the loop.

***

That night I told my brother. Detail by detail, almost everything, including the size of the dick and how thick the hair was. I left out only the part about the picture. My brother always laughs at my modesty; for years he’s been telling me I need to go into the shower naked and come back naked and wet, that nobody’s going to pay attention to my dick.

He fell silent for a moment when I told him about the second day. Then he said:

“Look, Adrián, one thing. Why didn’t you take a picture of it?”

“What?” I replied. “Are you crazy?”

“No, seriously. If the dick was really that monstrous, I want to see it too. And as long as you don’t post it or show it around, who’s going to find out? Do you really think you’re the first person to think of that in a locker room? I guarantee you’re not.”

I didn’t know what to say. I wasn’t offended. I was scared to discover how many times I had turned the same idea over in silence, without daring to put it into words. And I was even more frightened to feel, somewhere in my stomach and balls, that my brother might be right.

***

Several weeks have passed since then. We’ve continued having physical education, we’ve continued showering, and more things have happened. Some of them I still don’t know how to tell properly. The biggest happened on the third Friday.

That day he came out of the shower first without saying so, and I went in afterward. When I came back, with the towel around my waist and my underwear on beneath it again, I sat down in my usual place on the bench, and Bruno was standing to my left, already wearing tight black underwear, his dick outlined above the fabric and swelling by the moment. He wasn’t hiding it. It was at face level, barely half a meter away, and he wasn’t hiding it.

“I know you look at it,” he said quietly, barely moving his mouth. “Since the first day.”

My mouth went dry. I didn’t know what to say. I stammered something, an “I’m sorry” that came out as a whisper. He laughed softly, shook his head, and pulled down the waistband of his underwear with two fingers, just enough for his dick to spring out, already half-hard, thick, pointing toward me. It was inches from my face.

“Touch it if you want,” he whispered. “Before someone comes in.”

I looked at his face, searching for the trap. There was no trap. He was serious, his ears red, and his lower lip trembled a little. He was just as self-conscious as I was, but determined in a way I couldn’t manage. I slowly raised my hand and took hold of his dick halfway down. It fit my fist tightly, with the head protruding above it. It was hot, very hot, and genuinely heavy, as if it had a life of its own. It became completely hard in my hand within three seconds, pressing against my fingers, swelling until I could barely close my hand around it.

“Move it,” he murmured.

I began moving my fist up and down, awkwardly, without a rhythm. His foreskin slid all the way with each stroke, exposing the head, dark red and shiny, with a thick drop of fluid appearing at the tip. I stared at it up close, hypnotized. I had never held another dick besides my own. It was twice as thick as mine, almost twice as long, and it burned in my palm.

“Suck it,” he said, his voice breaking. “Quickly.”

I didn’t think. I leaned forward from the bench, stuck out my tongue, and ran the tip over his head. Salty, thick, with a taste of soap underneath. I opened my mouth and took the entire head in, as far as I could. It reached my throat immediately, and I had to pull back a little. I began sucking him as best I could, moving my mouth up and down along the middle of his cock, pressing my lips against the skin, while I squeezed the shaft with one hand and held his heavy balls underneath with the other. A moan escaped him; he covered his mouth with his forearm and gently pushed the back of my head with his other hand, not hard, only setting the rhythm. I felt his balls tighten in my palm, felt his dick grow even harder inside my mouth, and after a few seconds he pulled me away with a sharp gesture.

“Wait, not inside,” he whispered.

He finished coming into my fist, his dick trembling in my hand, with thick, hot spurts of cum falling between my fingers and staining the thick black hair on his pubic mound, with one drop landing on his thigh. He came a lot, an incredible amount, gritting his teeth so he wouldn’t cry out, his stomach contracted, two, three, four spurts in a row until his dick was left trembling and dripping the last drop onto the floor. My own dick was about to burst inside my underwear, swollen against the wet fabric. I awkwardly pulled it out over the waistband of my boxers and jerked it quickly, two or three times, watching his hot cum between my fingers, and came too, barely touching myself, splattering my chest, stomach, and the inside of my thigh.

We both sat there panting, staring at each other with our eyes wide open, my hand full of his semen and mine staining half my body. Bruno took his towel, wiped his dick, and handed me the towel without saying anything. We dressed quickly, in silence, listening to footsteps in the corridor that thankfully never arrived. Ricardo was at the door, as always. He looked at our hair and clothes, said “okay,” and let us through. I still had the taste of Bruno’s dick in my mouth and the smell of his semen on my hand.

The only thing I know for certain is that now, when I enter a locker room, I’m no longer exactly the same self-conscious boy I was in September. Something shifted inside me that second Friday, in front of a five-foot-eight shelf, looking down with my phone in my hand.

I still haven’t taken the picture. For now.