>It is the end of year Ball. >This will be his...

It is the end of year Ball.
This will be his fourth school Dance, and second proper Ball that he has attended.
It is the 'performance' to the former's 'practice. He now knows how these things go, what to expect. What drives girls wild, and what he thought they'd like, but more just annoys them.
He also knows that this is their last big hurrah. His last chance to make an impression on his peers and his school.
Sure, they'll have a couple more evenings and dinners, and even an event or two before the year is out and they all split ways. And sure, they've all promised to keep in touch.
But he knows this will be how they remember him. And that when he makes his way to university, he will no longer be the model of traditional masculine beauty and mannerisms that his peers all know him as. 
He will be a student. Hopefully even a researcher. Definitely a proper artist at the least.
So he may as well cement his reputation with a bang. 
And so, he's pulled out all the stops.


His crushing schedule this past year has stripped away almost all his own personal time, over the year, for the sake of his charges, it's true.
However, there's one project he's never allowed himself to give up on over the year, and that is his dress.
No store-bought emerald green dress this time.
This time, it's a rich burgundy mermaid gown. Backless, form hugging, and accented with golden lace and chain. 
Designed by him, and hand made by him, to clad his exact dimensions and musculature, it's taken him over a year to complete. He's very proud of it.
Deep, rich fabric swirls around his heels, his calves, but comes together a hand above the knees to hug his body tight.
The entire thing is backless, from his nape to the cusp of his rear. Golden chain, arranged in a V-pattern, splits at the base of his spine out to his sides, before curving together, high up between his shoulder blades to break up the space, and to support the body of the dress.


As scanty as it is in the back, the front is not much more modest.
Starting, in truth, at his left mid thigh, but growing in size and frequency as it goes up, semi-irregularly shaped sections of the burgundy fabric are cut away, and edged with gold lace, to reveal part-transparent golden mesh behind.
The effect is almost as if the dress is growing over him, like an old oak tree. 
Thick and solid at the legs, with only a few 'fractures' up his left thigh and on his hips. Then, growing up his flanks while leaving his tummy exposed, and spreading irregular 'branches' out across his torso. Keeping him decent while exposing his flat boy chest, and trim waist.
The mesh gaps at his hips and legs prevented him wearing either underwear, or his typical modesty underlining. He experimented with gartering his manhood to the inside of his right thigh, as he heard some men did. 
It doesn't feel as safe, even with tape. But anything else would ruin the lines of his project he'd worked so hard to complete, atop everything else, or would show up in the gaps.
And it only has to last him an evening.


After a lengthy beautification period by even his standards, painstakingly applying makeup, more jewelry than he's probably ever worn at once, and very carefully descending the stairs, he finds himself taking a remarkable number of photos with his year group, and several of the awestruck juniors.


He feels... expensive. Expensive, and almost mortifyingly risque, next to everyone else.
He'd seen dresses like this online. But to actually wear one... took more courage than he'd anticipated designing it.
Fortunately, he's 18 now, and legally allowed to drink. He manages a stiff pull of something that burns his throat and warms his belly, before heading off, practically escorted by his friends to the meeting point to be picked up by their dates.
Unlike many of his peers who will probably end up marrying their dance partners, he's not going with a girl he knows well, and is instead partnered up, again, by a friend who's friend knows a friend in need.
Truth be told, the poor girl, who is by no means unattractive herself, looks a little overwhelmed to be introduced to, and then partnered with him.
She's visibly torn up between wanting to maintain dignity, and rove her eyes over his body to appreciate him and his work. Both unwilling to be anything less than gentlewomanly, but unable to quite keep her hands off his body when the moment allows.
He is sympathetic. She seems like a genuinely nice girl, who's just not fond of social events. But she doesn't really actually know him, and is perhaps too considerate for her own good. While he knows he's to reserve himself for university, and not get too attached here.


Still, he does his manly duties. He sits with her, dines and converses with her, having a second glass of wine, then a third. 
He laughs at her stories, complements her looks, sporting and academic achievements, strategically treats himself as arm candy in front of her peers, and dances with her.
They even win a commendation as a particularly exquisitely presented couple, and are applauded for it, before the order of the night breaks down into revelry and the pair of them drift apart.


Unlike last time around, he is unable to move to the side to catch his breath, as wherever he goes he draws too much attention to escape notice. When he steps off to the side he's always hit on by half-drunken girls looking to hem him in with their bodies, as much as their... optimistic, pickup lines. 
He can 'escape' to the dance floor. But there, in the moving sea of towering giants in suits that cut out the strobing lights and reek of cologne and sweat and alcohol, are a hundred groping hands. Enough that it's a genuine struggle to fend off the hands that paw at his chest, his hips, his belly, his ass.
Objective: survival.
If he stays still too long, he gets crowded, and genuinely has to fight his way free. Fight to not get trapped, to survive, even as his manhood fights to be free of the restraints keeping it to his inner thigh, as it rubs against his left, and hands rub aaaaall over him.


A fourth and a fifth drink stiffen his spine and help calm him down. But five standard drinks is very different for a male, than a female, and despite trying to pace himself he's getting quite tipsy. 
It is a fun feeling. Or it would be, were he not the subject of so much attention.
He eventually bounces his way between groups, and finds his date again, near one of the walls, talking to one of the fourth-year's, working as serving boys.
He tries to be composed, be subtle. But he is drunk, and escaping into her arms with all expediency before he can get trapped by more aggressive women, and before his manhood can detach itself from its bindings, is preferable.
She naturally takes his immediacy and his eagerness as sign of interest. But one pair of wandering hands and whispering lips from a known source is better than a whole host of them.
And besides. Wasn't this the whole idea anyway? Wasn't this why he dressed up like this? To get this response?


At his less than subtle prompting, she leads the both of them outside. Leads them for a slow walk around campus, away from the light and the noise, through the maze-like warrens and walkways between houses as they converse in half-remembered arguments about forthrightness and safety and how boys not girls, or girls and not boys, should be more direct with their wants, and just go after what they want. He stumbles in his heels. She graciously supports him. He pretends not to notice where her hands quest to.
He's not quite sure how he arrived on the 'game'. Not quite sure if it was her suggestion, or his, that saw him sashaying away from her, with a two minute head start before she pursues.


Her goal is to catch up with him. His is simply to make it back to the party without being caught.
If he makes it back, he's 'safe'. If she catches him...
He remembers the phrase 'you can have me'. Though he's not sure if he said it or not.


Ostensibly the game is rigged in his favour. He knows this school. Knows every alcove and passage on the campus, while she is new and unfamiliar.
Yet she, is 6'6, and can lope after him easily, in suit pants and flat shoes.
Wheras he is smaller, slower. His tight dress forces him into short shimmying strides, thighs rubbing his tender manhood between them. His heels click off the flagstones, almost echoing off the buildings in the dead, chill air.
He cannot run. He can only hide in alcoves to steady his vision, getting out of potential sight, and try to think of where she might be.
He can't even go back the fastest way either. It's no long distance, but he knows those ways have little in the way of cover, and she'll be looking most keenly at those.
Moreover, he has to consider that, if he is caught, he does not want to be caught below a boarding house window, where staff or students might hear the duo. Might witness his loss of his manly virtue.


He knows he shouldn't love this. He is entirely unprepared for this sort of thing, and in his state, unable to cope. He feels overwhelmingly exposed, cold air across his bare back, swollen cock vying for space between his thighs, every footfall announcing his presence no matter how careful he is.


It's almost a relief, when hands find him. Pull him back, and turn him against the wall of the library, stifling his rather unmanly warbling. 
He was meant to withhold himself for university. But his consent, as a male in this world, was never his to withhold. Not truly, when woman and man got down to the basics of biology.
And having his burden of consent be taken away from him by force is a relief to mind, and to body.


Yet for all his worries, he is fortunate, in that though her hands definitely quest over his body, she is... reserved. Slow, tender. Almost chivalric.
Fingers still slip underneath the fabric and chain of his clothes. She still finds the bulge where his cock, full and sensitive, has partially ripped free of its constraints and presses on the fabric of his skirt. He still feels like he's both falling, and carried up in arms that he cannot begin to resist. Lips still mash against his, smearing away what lipstick he has not left on her neck and jaw, before they whisper sweet, cutting nothings into his ear that drive him wild.
Yet as totally as he is surrendered to her, she is attentive to his feelings and desires.
She doesn't deflower him. Doesn't take his virginity, or his consent, though he spills it repeatedly into her hand, that's worked its way beneath his dress.
Similarly, she stretches the fabric, but never once does it rip, or does the chain hasp keeping it on come undone, even though after a point he is begging for her to just pull all his hard work off and take him.
But she doesn't. 
She even cleans him up in a nearby bathroom, and escorts him back to the party for a brief showing at the final dance, and then to his dorm house.
It occurs to him that she may have had just as astute a grasp on him, as he'd had on her that evening.
It's an embarrassing early morning, when he gets back in, and sits around with his peers. He's not the only one that's drunk, or smells of sweat and sexual excretions. But he is by far the most noticeable for it, and by nature he drew attention to himself over the evening.
People noticed him. Noticed his waltzing, and then his drinking. The attention he got from other girls on the dance floor. 
What he looked like when he 'dragged his date outside'. And then the state of him when she walked him back in, and then almost carried him to his common room.
He's fairly sure they didn't have sex, but everyone else is pretty sure they did, despite what he says.
His friends are supportive. Protective. Fussy.
Interested, but also sympathetic in alternation, while he knows those less favouring of him are whispering cutting words about him that normally come from girls, and not boys' mouths. 
He supposes his date is probably dealing with something similar. Of course, she's a girl. They're probably shouting and slapping her on the back about how she'd managed to bag him. What she'd done to him.
Maybe they too would reject the idea she'd not taken him in, taken his consent, and not simply wrung it out of him with her hands, in their desire for a story of feminine achievement.
Despite what it might do to his reputation, he kinda hopes they do.
Perhaps that could be said to be a 'manly duty' to his partner.