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Hair: Dirty Blond
Cup: D, pretty sure
Location: Backstage Dressing Rooms
Britney and some of her friends were standing around me.
“Awww… Little Inch Worm.” They weren’t calling me that, just reading the front of the thong she had just handed to me in front of all of them. But I was expected to wear it throughout the first performance that night.
This was my first time with my college theater group (before this kind of thing turned me on), and I hadn’t known about this hazing tradition they had. All the new members (actors and actresses) drew names from a hat, partnered up, and bought thongs for each other to wear on opening night. We were all adults in college now, and this was just some adult fun.
Some guys pulled other guys from the hat and bought each other “husband and wife” thongs that would become inside jokes backstage or thongs that would greatly flatter their size to each other. Some girls bought guys really macho thongs, too, or (I remember) a goofy one shaped like the face of an elephant (guess where the trunk comes in?). Girls got paired together and bought each other the cutest, sexiest things they could for good luck. I’d heard that one lucky lesbian couple bought matching thongs with buzzers in them for their first night, but never figured out if that was true. It just so happened, anyway, that I pulled the name of a girl I’d had a huge crush on throughout rehearsals: Britney.
Britney was super hot. She was at least half a foot taller than me, and while she wasn’t thin, she wasn’t entirely unfit. Her curves were natural, soft, and generous; her body unathletic (she sometimes bragged that unlike many actresses, she’d never been a dancer), but still a gorgeous hourglass. And she knew it, I mean she had to since she put so much into eating healthy to give her that body and everything, but I mean she walked like she knew it. She had this strong, seductive aura. Her complexion was immaculate– being on stage so often, she clearly took care of her beauty.
I loved watching her apply lipstick to those juicy lips. Her wide hips and incredible booty looked so good in jeans, my eyes always peeked even if I didn’t mean to, hoping to spy a whale tail or her ass crack. I really wanted her to like me, so I always spent extra effort while talking to her to look at her eyes (green, before you ask) instead of her cleavage. Lucky me, she had eyes like magnets behind her glasses, those expressive, powerful eyes that landed her so many roles.
My cheeks burned when I walked into the Victoria’s Secret to buy a thong for her. I hadn’t talked with her about it at all because being around her made me feel so suddenly shy, but I wanted to get her something… special. Feeling pervish, I tried to look as inconspicuous as possible pawing through a selection of cheekies, first, opening a drawer too similar to my mom’s old dresser to look at a row of skimpy, lacey underthings. Still trying to look as positively normal and placid as usual, I picked up a pair and started searching it for the tag so I could read it. That seemed important for some reason.
“Can we help you?” Not one, but both saleswomen had approached me. I realized I was the only shopper in the store just then. They had these hot, “What are you doing in here?” looks on their faces.
In the face of my embarrassment, an old instinct kicked in. I lied. I made up something about needing them for a production of Rocky Horror, for Dr. Frank (we were NOT doing Rocky Horror). The salesgirls went all squee for a minute, asking me when the show would be and so on, they didn’t know there was gonna be a show in town, et cetera. Then they showed me over to a selection of thongs, their previous tension seemingly gone.
One of them held a thong up to my crotch. It was purple and had that look of velvet imitating fur, with black tiger stripes.
“What about this one? This is SO Dr. Frank, don’t you think?” She asked me, but turned to the other woman for approval, who stood back nodding slowly in appreciation, giving a thumbs up.
“They’re not, uh, not for me.” I managed. My tongue felt heavy. My head was filling with hot thoughts.
The saleslady looked up at me with a pout. “You don’t like ’em?”
“Er…” I must’ve been plainly blushing at this point. “I mean, they look great. Yes. I’m just, I’m not playing Dr. Frank. They’re not for me. But I’ll take them…” Yeah, that seemed to work. I explained that I just needed them in a large size instead of a medium. Of course, they hadn’t thought to try something with the word “large” against my crotch.
The first woman stood back up and fetched a pair of panties in the proper size for Britney’s luscious largesse. “And will this be all for you today?” She smiled. My forehead was suddenly getting irresistibly itchy, but I withstood it and answered by rote.
“That’s all for me today.”
And I instantly felt like I knew what they were thinking: BUSTED! Of course, it wasn’t so far from the truth. Even if not these ones, I would be wearing panties. But I hoped Britney would like these ones. It was all I could think of as I left, all I desired to think of.
And then before the performance, she unveiled her thong for me with her friends: a pastel green, cotton thong with a tiny picture of a tiny worm with a ruler above it and the caption, in pink letters with a black drop shadow: “Little Inch Worm.” I thought her friends would die laughing. I thrust my box at Britney with the thong inside, not wanting to stick around to see what she thought. Britney urged me into the men’s dressing room to go put it on saying, “Go get ready, Inchy! Better hope I don’t catch you…”
Right. That was the final part of the game. If you ran into your thong partner backstage, either person could demand their partner show them their thong so that they knew they still had it on. Some people– especially men– tried to back out of the prank at intermission, so this was the tradition’s failsafe.
But did it mean she liked me? Or was she just making a fool of me for her amusement? I was so confused, but still felt heat rushing through me. It was a provocative thong, and clearly she had thought about my… nether regions in her purchase. But she thought I was… an INCH?
I thought about the game of truth or dare after one rehearsal where she’d given me a lapdance. Shyly, I’d controlled myself from getting an erection because I didn’t want her to think I was a pervert or that I’d wanted to bend her over, whip her pants down, and fuck her right there. I also knew from my limited sexual experience that I have a problem sometimes with cumming in my pants, before I can even get it out, and I didn’t want that to happen while she was grinding on my lap! But now she thought I was just an inch? Hard? God, I hoped she didn’t think I was that tiny hard.
I remembered in high school (only a couple of years ago at the time, and I basically hadn’t grown since middle school) how terrible I was with numbers and, ahem, measurements, how I’d been a total womanizer under my false impressions. Then one lonely night came the shocking realization that I’d been using the wrong side of the ruler, that I could no longer brag about being bigger over 10 inches. In fact, I was barely even half of that! Just a tiny, little bit short of 10, in fact… a tiny, little… short… I couldn’t bear now to think “inch worm.”
My sex world, and my regular behavior since then turned upside-down. I feared I couldn’t act macho and show off or lie about having a “big dick” without being discovered. Again this is before I knew that this sort of thing actually turned me on, so when all the dudes bragged about having a gigantic shlong, I would just laugh nervously or nod, hoping to change the subject– or I would just say I was normal, if pressured to answer. I changed into my humiliating thong in secret as best I could, in a corner near the shower away from the other guys who were all busy joking about the thongs two other guys got for each other.
On my way out, one of the guys asked, “Where’s your thong, newb?” And I just said, “It’s, uh, a thong,” and made myself scarce. He couldn’t demand to see it because he wasn’t Britney, and he knew it, so he shut up.
The stage lights and fiction of theater helped me block my panties from my mind during the performance, but backstage was another story. We still had costume changes and crossing backstage from one side to the other to do from time-to-time. Each time, I could only hope Britney was in the women’s dressing room or somewhere else where I wouldn’t run into her. Once, while crossing from stage right to stage left, we did cross paths.
We were like two knights crossing each other in jousting, and she felt just as threatening to me as if she’d been charging at me on a horse instead of merely sauntering upon her own feet. She walked toward me from the other direction with her utter confidence, knowing my “little lance” was no match for her. She didn’t ask me to show it, but just smiled knowingly at me as she continued past me.
I caught myself staring at her ass in her opaque, stage-safe tights as she went away and cursed myself that in my self-shame and worry, I’d missed my opportunity to see that purple thong pulled up between her heavenly butt pillows while it was just us! I might’ve even gotten away with asking her to shake it.
And then, later, came the intermission that changed my life. One of the other actresses (Allison) was secretly meeting with her parents during the intermission (we weren’t supposed to be meeting with any of the audience until after the show) and so she’d switched her hat from her costume one– which she threw at me and told me to take to the ladies’ dressing room. No wait for a response or anything, she was just gone.I asked an actress outside the door if she could tell me if Britney was in there. She checked and said she didn’t see her. “Why, did you need to talk to her?”
“Nope,” I said, and I slipped in quickly, glad the coast was clear and ready to be out again.
Inside, nearly all the ladies of the drama group were busy meticulously touching up their make-up in various states of undress. They were totally casual about it. It was sort of crowded, so I wove my way around, trying to find where Allison’s place was so I could put her hat with all her other stuff. But my heart almost leaped out of my body, my legs went rubbery, and my penis erected when a familiar voice called out my name from behind and demanded,
“Where’s your thong?”
I turned around to find Britney standing in the doorway. “B-B-Britney, wha– I–”
“Where is it? Show me.”
I looked around. I was surrounded by practically every girl in the group, all eager-eyed, lionesses before a helpless gazelle. There was no escape. “Please, don’t.”
At which she turned around in the doorway, hooked her thumbs into the top of her tights and bent over, and said, “Be a good boy…”
Her hips were already swaying, like she was gearing up for a booty dance. I felt so hot inside, like I was burning up with a fever, only my blood wasn’t just rushing to my humbled cheeks, this time. All control had slipped away.
When I started to drop trou, she flashed her thong– gobbled up by that booty, I just wanted to grab it and…!– and I fumbled at my pants. Someone (maybe thinking I was hesitating and she was helping or something) from behind pulled my pants all the way down.
And there it was, my small erection poking out of the thong, nuts straining and bulging against their confinement, on display for all to see and labeled “Little Inch Worm.” I didn’t know what reaction to expect, but I remember the collective gasp and the split second of absolute silence after, before the dressing room erupted into laughter.
They were all talking at once. I couldn’t catch-all they were saying. “It’s so CUTE!” “Oh my God!” “What is THAT?” “Teeny weeny!” “Smallest I ever seen!” and, of course, there were those who just read the thong. “Little inch worm.”
I only half-heard them. Britney was peeling down her tights, showing off her incredibly hot cheeks, back arched, humping at the air with her ass. When her full moon was out, she looked square at me. Her glasses fell down the bridge of her nose. She pushed them back up with a finger and, just for a second, she wagged her pinky finger at me.
“Ew!” another actress shouted. “Did he blow his load? Omigod, what a loser!”
Britney had her tights back up in a jiffy. I was tugging at my pants to get them up over my weak knees. I hadn’t actually cum yet, but a patch of the pastel green thong had darkened where my dick had pressed a dribble of pre-cum into them while hardening. And I could feel my orgasm churning in my balls, ready to explode. Still pulling my pants past my knees again, I bolted for the door, intent on making it to the bathroom in the men’s changing room, where I could finish off in peace (if not with my dignity).
I tried to push Britney aside to rush out, but the merest touch of her– my thin, wimpy body pressed against her healthy solidity, and with the sound of women already giggling and gossiping about my shortcomings behind me– sent a fresh wave of hot pleasure through me that buckled my stomach and released my muscular control of my lower body. I tripped and fell… and a tiny squirt of my own orgasmic cream hit my lips and stained my glasses as I met the floor.
I scrambled to my feet again in a hurry. “They didn’t see me cum, they didn’t see it,” was all I could think. I whipped off my glasses so no one could see, brought my hand up to my lips to hide what lay behind it. And I scampered into the little boys’ room, as they call it.
“What happened in there, bro?” someone asked. “What are they laughing at?”
“Nothing!” I kept saying, and I made myself decent in the bathroom probably the fastest I ever have, as I’d still so recently been rehearsing quick costume changes.
After the show (I’m now sad to say), I threw the thong away. I started seeing a lot less of the drama group after that… drama. I never got the chance to properly thank Britney for what she did.