Veronica Peeps

As he strode out, it swung. And the sack below it sagged low under the weight of what appeared to be heavy avocados hanging inside it.

She never adored him the way she did Timmy, the heart throb. But sometimes in her fantasies she had dreamt that Jimmy, this tall, gaunt baritone, was in her house, staying the night as a buddy of her three brothers, and when they were all in bed Jimmy stark naked steered his long gangling body down the corridor and into her bedroom. Here, in her fantasy, he had crept into her bed placing his big boney hand over her mouth and, pulling her nightdress up to her neck, rubbing his nude form all over her exposed body...

And as she dreamt of having Jimmy naked on top of her whispering in his bass into her ear she would quickly explode in one of her full throated orgasms, fearing that she might have woken the entire family.

And here he was, swivelling his body in the sun, totally one hundred percent stripped off.

Oh my God, she thought! These are boys I see every day at school! I'm looking at them stark naked!

Every fibre of the girl's being now throbbed. It would have taken a young woman with an iron resolve not to be fired up by the unselfconscious spectacle she was witnessing - the parade of naked maleness. Veronica, cooped-up for so long but captured by the romance of the world of ancient Greece, was not a young woman with iron resolve.

No, she was melting, in every way. Indeed she knew her underpants were drenched with thick torrential secretions. She would have to discard them before she got home. She could smell the outflow herself, musky and fishy at the same time. Moreover she could not resist the compulsion to stroke herself under her skirt.

The boys were arranging themselves in a jagged line - giving her a three quarter view - to face their coach. She savored the muscles on their flanks, like those of well-bred colts frolicking on the pastures. Again, she was struck by the defined stomach lines, by the high curved buttocks joining lean upper legs, by the spherical bags - like fruit hanging on trees. They were just like her ancient Greeks! Except...for one thing! Those tubes of flesh. They weren't tapered like those of her statues and vase figures but ended in round heads. A racial difference, perhaps.

Crouching in the thicket she watched as they limbered up under the direction of Mr Compton, then as they ran into the water- that sweet rear view, those moving bottoms- to swim in relays out to a buoy and back. Later with wide-eyed wonder she watched as Timmy walked from the lake, across the sand onto the grass and then to the wall of shrubs, only feet from her; she watched him take his thing, aim it and send a powerful yellow arc of into the vegetation. His urine drilled the foliage. She watched agape as he shook his thing dry. She had seen Timmy without a stitch...stand near her...hold his thing...and do a big wee!

For a full hour she watched them swim and work-out with their tubes and bags spinning and bouncing and, every now and then, in ones and twos, fall out to sink on the grass in front of her lying in the sun. It was Tim who gave her her most privileged view: lying hands behind his head, his thing flopped over his stomach. Her line of sight led to his little sack dangling in the cleft between his legs.

She saw the soles of his long narrow feet topped with hammerhead toes.

On his back he baked in the sun for 10 minutes. For Veronica it was a glimpse of Paradise. Her stroking- her paw had entered her slimy panties- reached the point of no return and, while she feasted her eyes on the boy, she stifled her gasps- it took a huge effort, she wanted to howl- as convulsions shook her whole frame.

Spent, she felt scandalised, degraded, shamed, alive all over, grown up.

Fulfilled. A woman.

And then, on cue...while all the others were swimming last laps to the buoy and back, she saw Buddy Holland. Oh my God! A short boy with a blond flat top crew cut. Buddy Holland- who she had always dreamt about mothering. Yes, another of this girl's fantasies about boys in her class. Bud- treating him as her little son! Suckling him- obscene fantasy though it was. Him lying naked across her lap, slurping away at her nipple. Worse, she had also played with the idea of having him lie nude on a bed while she had lovingly washed him with soap and water, dried him with a baby towel and sprinkled him with powder. Then wrapped him in a nappy.

Now, naked as in her lurid fantasies, he sidled off the sand and across the grass, growing larger in Veronica's field of vision till - so close was he to her hideaway - all she could see was his chest, belly and thighs. My god! A short compact body...but with unbelievably huge...nipples! Huge! Like wide copper coins plastered on his pectorals! She had never imagined...bigger than hers! Disproportionately big on so compact a physique.

She held her breath and watched...as his right hand took hold of his thing and his left settled on his hip. With a few fast strokes he had made his soft tube of flesh stand up. Point to the sky! For the first time Veronica was looking at an erection: the underside- or ventral side- of a stiff penis. He was so close that if she had leant forward and reached out she could have taken hold of his...of his...thing.

She would have loved to have done it. At this moment, given her right arm to have touched it.

So close, she did not miss a detail. She took in the curved shape of its pink helmet head- yes, the glans with its ridged corona- and the stringy skin stretched below it, the stretched neck- yes, neck was the word- of the boy's penis. The veins and arteries, of the ventral side of his reared-up organ. She saw corrugated contours on his bag, ridges and groves, the little ball of flesh now drawn tightly up. This bag- this cute bag- had a seam dividing it in two, as if it had been sewn. She thought this...silly, funny, inexplicable. Bud also boasted a big burst of black pubic bush, woolly and long- again, looking as if it had exploded on his body overnight and which seemed too much for his slight physique and at odds with his flat blond crew cut - different, too, from most of her Greeks with tidy, flat decorative patches.

A twisting in his torso suggested that as he stroked himself he was looking over his left shoulder to ensure his fellows were still in the lake. A few more deft movements and his body tensed...he groaned deeply and a stream of white fluid shot out and traced a trajectory in the air to land...oh my God! Splotch! On a leaf right in her line of vision and then- splotch!- another landed on another leaf and trailed off to the grass. Then there was a third, that sailed into her hideout and hit the exposed earth at her bent knees. She then watched transfixed as he squeezed more fluid out of his thing- bubbling out of a slit on the pink head. He wiped his sticky hand on his thigh and immediately sauntered back to the beach, very businesslike, as if proud of his work.

She watched the muscles of his tight little bottom- thrillingly divided by his intergluteal cleft (a bottom she had fantasised about gently soaping and drying and wrapping up in a nappy) as he crossed the grass.

Coach Compton, back on land, barked an order for the boys to dry themselves and dress. Veronica watched crestfallen as they dived for their clothes- this idyll was ending- and, within minutes, yelling and yelping at one another, she saw them jogging off into the entrance to the sandy track towards town. Mr Compton, still nude, yelled out that he would see them here Friday. Their footfalls faded in the distance. The coach paused, standing under the pines, his flattened artificially blond hair like a helmet, his hand stroking his pectoral muscles that bulged on his chest like halved coconut shells. He seemed to be...yes, flicking a nipple while thinking deep thoughts.

Now he started squeezing the nipple- it was jutting and elongated- and gently stroking his tummy. Veronica noticed his petite tube of flesh rise parallel to the ground. Smaller than Bud's but just as stiff and quickly rearing and pointing to the sky. She noticed his hair- his hair "down there" in his groin- was black unlike his bottle blond crop above- and was markedly different from the boys. It wasn't long or woolly. It looked as if it had been trimmed and flattened and styled.

Then Veronica saw him stroll to a corner of the glade, his sticking-out penis pointing the way. She had to reposition herself to keep him in sight. Then, as with Bud, she saw him start to finger his thing. She noticed he had his eyes clenched shut and his left fingers working his left nipple. Somehow his nipples- both now very pointy and bullet-like- gave him pleasure. Were they, Veronica wondered, in this respect, just like girls' nipples? Again, despite his massive physique, she could confirm, his thing was indeed small, indeed tiny, just as in the statues, Hercules huge muscles contrasted with a tiny tapered tube.

Taking only a moment longer than the boy Mr Compton thrust his tummy forward- the girl could see its magnificent muscles clench: an oval line that defined his abdomen and, within the oval, three deeply cut horizontal lines slicing his stomach into six squares. There was a deep furrow from his hips to his groin, a marvellous iliac grove, just like on all her Greeks. Just as on the bronze statue of Poseidon, the mature, bearded but lithe god of the sea.

Maybe gods did this too, flinging their fertility across the landscape. Out shot his white fluid, not flying in an arc but dancing in the air, lots of it zig zagging- like a milky fireworks display. He released a loud "Ggggggrrrrrrrrr!" and doubled over. The fluid kept bubbling out of the stiff little stick. Then after a slight pause he straightened, wiped his sticky fingers on his thigh, he took a deep breath, retreated to the beach and briskly dressed. In seconds he was gone too, his footfalls thumping along the sandy track.

Veronica crouched, her body tingling. She could not go home in her panties, drenched and pungent as they were. She peeled them off and flicked them into the shrubbery. As carefully as she could she eased herself out of the thicket, through the undergrowth and back onto the track. She entered the glade, the scene of the wonderful things she had witnessed. Like stepping onto an empty stage after a play. She explored the footprints on the sand where they had done their jumping jacks and push-ups, showing her their bottoms, their tubes and spheres spinning in their groins. She found traces of Buddy's fluid on grass and shrub and of Mr Compton's on grass. She examined the sticky deposits with a twig. And then- feeling nostalgic for all she had been privileged to witness- she started back to town.

A demon possessed her.

She quickened her pace and arrived at the town library where she hunted down an anatomy text. The muscles that had been thrilling her in the books and in real life at the lake all had names- "pectorals" were Mr Compton's breastplate glory. Just seeing references to "abdomen" and drawings of its muscles set her heart racing again. And as for the term, "intergluteal cleft" it was powerful enough on the page- especially with the illustration- to bring her to the brink of orgasm. And that was before she ventured into more intimate space. She absorbed the nomenclature of penis...glans...penis stem... prepuce...testicles...testes...scrotum...frenulum...corona...meatus...and what she had seen in the art books and in the forest fell into place. Except for this mystery of prepuce. There was none on the American boys who had stripped naked for her delight. And on her Greek heroes there were no knobs.

She hurried home, with the dark closing in and the sounds of The Mickey Mouse Club being broadcast from the houses in her neighbourhood, the blue light of television sets illuminating the front windows. She resolved to sit down with Mrs Simpkins before next Friday.

And, after school on Thursday, in the senior teacher's study, did just that.

The art book was open at a photo of the Piraeus Apollo, Veronica's favourite of all the statues of nude youth known as kouri. She adored their broad shoulders, tapered torsos, narrow waists. In addition, this favorite, now in the Piraeus Archaeological Museum, featured a swollen chest and tiny decorative nipples, his hair in plaits, his face alert and his arms outstretched in welcome. Even the hint of a smile. The penis on this Apollo was the smallest of any of the kouri, even smaller than Mr Compton's, a mere sliver of flesh with a pointy end. But it sat, like a baby snake, on top of a fat bulging sphere, the most generous of any of the scrotums she had seen on statues- and bigger and rounder than that of any of her romping schoolmates.

She summoned up the courage. Taking a deep breath she placed a tentative finger on the Apollo's pubic hair. The curls were flattened and were shaped in a neat half oval, rising at the sides curving down in the middle. "Is that...realistic?" She asked in a quaking voice.

Her teacher beamed. "Oh dear girl! What an astute question! No, not real...but realistic. That is, in this period the young aristocrats had their hair down there elaborately stylised and sculpted. It showed they were privileged. His slave boy would have had his in unruly woolly tufts...just like that you've seen..."

Here Veronica blushed.

"...on your father and brothers."

The girl shook her head meekly.

"No? No nudity at home? We moderns are such prudes. So he wears his pubic hair shorn, shaped, as a lavish bodily adornment. In the later democratic phase in Athens they stopped doing it. Let it grow wild as did the common men. To show there were no class differences. You see that later still, in the Hellenistic period, on the Laocoon for example..."

And she quickly located another of Veronica's favourites: the huge muscular father struggling to free himself and his two sons from two sea serpents.The contrast in the physiques of the father and his sons reminded Veronica of what she had seen at the lake, the coach with his heavy weight-trainer's build and the slender boys. But Miss Simpkin's argument was valid: on the Laocoon the pubic curls grew wild.

As they did on her Sleeping Satyr, legs sprawling open.

"Still, I prefer our young aristocrat, proud of his styled curls, trimmed and razored. Oh what a brazen show-off! How he adores displaying that shaped pubic bush! His mother would have worked very hard on that..."

Gasp! Veronica nearly swooned. "You mean his mother got to..?"

She sensed what the girl was yearning to hear. The teacher sallied forth,"Oh yes, his mother- and his sisters performed the depilatory chore, plucking away at his groin...

Here Veronica's eyes filled with gluttony.

"...any of his young female admirers. Until he was shorn and styled. The woolly curls trimmed. Plucked and shaved with female fingers. His reaction would have been glorious to witness. Embarrassment? Excitement? Unconscious arousal? Oh, there are vase paintings that record blazing erections on our young Greeks. The females also got to oil down his body before a race, to present the prizes when he won and to scrape the oil off with a stirgil. But back on the hair. Trimming it so radically has the effect of drawing our eyes to the fecund sexual organs- of which he would also have been so proud."

The two gazed at them in prurient awe.

"With good reason," she added.

With good reason, Veronica thought, staring gluttonously.

Nearly quaking, she could not hold back. "But...is that...realistic?" Her finger hovered above the sliver of a penis with its long taper. She dared not touch.

"What, dear?"

Blushing, Veronica, product of her Baptist education and puritanical family, took a deep breath. In a quailing peep of a voice she panted,"His...penis."

Saying it nearly fractured her.

"My dear girl, where have you been peeping?"

Veronica hung her head.

"Never mind. We can talk about what we've both witnessed later. I'm not averse to ladies peeping. But it's another good question. Let's see. How shall I put this? All boys are born with a flap of loose skin that covers the penis tip. Very funny- a ridiculous flap of skin. In America these days it is snipped off at birth. This is called circumcision. For hygienic reasons. Boys are so dirty apparently they can't be relied on to lift that bit of skin and soap under it. Snipping the flap off leaves the penis head exposed, a round pink knob on the end of the stem. What you'll see on our boys if you venture into their showers after sports- oh don't worry they'll shout at you to leave. They don't like us seeing their secrets. Except on their terms.

"But the Ancient Greeks thought circumcision was abhorrent. And they loved a long prepuce or foreskin. They hugely esteemed it. Thought it was a natural decoration of the body, like nice rounded buttocks. Or a styled pubic bush. They even tied string around it to stretch it out, making it even longer. Here I've got some fabulous illustrations of boys doing that, tying their foreskins up. And it worked for them, darling boys. In some vase paintings the prepuce is three quarters of the organ. Oh yes, these Ancient Greeks have their little pink heads like our American boys but hidden under the tapered covering skin. Under a little cloak, if you like.

"Here...a painting of Archilles binding up the wound of Patrocles. They are dressed, not nude, but the painter exposes the genitals of the wounded warrior, making them hang below his tunic, drapped over his right leg. Exposed it, for its sheer beauty. Look, it's all long slender tapered foreskin. Delicately small. By the way, they considered large organs vulgar and comic. And Veronica, you know the wonderful thrilling thing? This too was body decoration- this worship of the long prepuce. To excite themselves- just as they excited themselves by shaping beautiful chest muscles and buttocks. And to excite us, the observers. Right to this day."

She sighed. "That's why we love them."

"How do you know so much about it?" asked the girl, amazed.

"Oh, a very good old fashioned American college education. Studying art history enabled me to focus on any subject of my special interest and I chose the Greeks. All their art was about nude men and I was a healthy young woman, like you..."

Here Veronica blushed but willed her teacher to continue.

"...I even submitted a special assignment entitled "Prepuce Adoration Among The Ancient Greeks" which caused a convulsion in the art department. This was the 1930s after all. But the research was most interesting. For example I and my supervisor decided I needed to look at some of our nudes- American athletes- and that attending training sessions of our male swim team was the way to do, to take notes and make sketches. So I did, for a whole semester and was that an experience! But what they didn't know is that from school with my interest in art- Greek art- and my normal female appetites I had been checking out boys' swimming. All of it, at school, college and local YMCA's done in the nude. Right across America. Did you know that?"

"I had heard rumours. Some girls talk about it. Even tease boys when they went off to swim class. Made them blush. I didn't know whether it was true. But...like the Greeks, I guess, their costume is nudity."

"Yes, in the raw, in the altogether, in their birthday suits! While we females have always had to wear costumes for males naked swimming is the rule. Very interesting for us girls, potentially."

Enough for the day. The teacher invited the girl to spend an evening with her so she could show her collection of books and sculptures and even talk more about the subject of girls peeping. She planted a kiss on Veronica. On her lips. The females parted.

On Friday Veronica was at the lake one hour before the boys were due, concealed in her thicket. She unpacked a Hershey Bar, two bottles of Pepsi and- a $3.99 purchase from Bigley's General Store- a heavy pair of World War disposal Navy binoculars. Her cover story to her mother was that she was undertaking a bird watching assignment for biology. And a pair of gardening shears- she set about hollowing out the thicket to render it comfortable while reinforcing its walls with fallen branches so that nobody would see her. Oh, and she removed her panties. And heart beating, lay in wait.