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Nude and Erect

By: aaronburr



At Grover Cleveland High the swimming classes were held in the vast echoey basement pool, smelling of chlorine. There were bleachers rising on both sides to be packed out in the event of a competition. There were Corinthian columns and painted windows in the upper walls. The atmosphere was gloomy and...

Well, full of possibility.

For one reason. 

Classes were segregated. As at other pools in the the 1950s- those at YMCAs, for example- the boys swam in the nude. As the note to parents specified, "swimming for boys is conducted unencumbered by swimming costumes." In many households sisters dwelt on this particular rule over the dinner table, with the intention, it seemed, of seeing their brothers squirm and blush and hang their heads with shame.

"Oh boys don't care about those things," a helpful mother might intervene, while her son sat scarlet, twisting in his seat not looking anyone in the eye. "They're not modest- like you girls." And sisters would giggle and nudge one another, their imaginations racing with pictures of their brother and his friends, performing exercises stripped off. The girls' crotches would twitch, their panties dampen.

Girls, of course, swam with swim suits, secure and superior. And fantasised and dreamt and gossiped about the possibility of entering those sacred precincts when a class of boys was there, in the buff, their every secret on display. Trapped in their birthday suits. Girls fully dressed, boys naked as jays. Oh, sweet thought. Sweet, sweet thought.

No girl dreamt about this more than Karen Strawbridge. With her cats-eye glasses and red-hair in plaits, she was freckle-faced and had a body already running to over-weight. Pound for pound she had more prurience pumping through her than any female classmate and would give the foulest-minded boy a run for his money.

Night after night she- who had no brothers or boyfriends- constructed fantasies where tall, broad-shouldered 18 year old fellas from school- like the "dreamboat" Danny Bristol Junior with long eye lashes and ducks tail brushback hair style- were forced at her command to peel off tee-shirts, pulling them slowly over their heads, and face her shirtless. She carefully looked them up and down while they trembled at what might come.

Her next icy command always caused them to protest before reluctantly accepting her authority (in these day-dreams she might be doctor, nurse, police-woman, cruel mother) and unbuckling their belts. Looking woeful they would then stretch their belts open and shake their jeans loose and glance at her for instructions.

She would tell them to pull them off. Down their trousers would slither. Slowly, shamefully. They would be blushing like fire hydrants. And their underpants would have to follow. They would look around like frightened deer and then, slowly, down they'd pull them, thumbs hooked in the elastic...down their furry legs, then always jamming their splayed hands over their private spaces. She would icily tell them to hang their hands behind their backs or place them behind their heads. Always a delicious moment. She would then savour the revelations, hungrily, as a female who had never seen a naked male. In her fantasies she would longingly inspect a totally nude Danny Bristol Junior while his long eyes lashes fluttered with embarrassment, and other boys as well.

Lying in bed she would imagine Danny with his Elvis hair or Charlie Hodgson with his crew-cut and swimmer's physique or other boys, whose flies she had greedily stared at in the corridors, now standing bare as a board, shaking with shame. At his moment she would explode in one of those earthquake orgasms that would shake the mattress and threaten to wake her parents.

Driven by these desires to see naked boys Karen haunted the furthest reaches of the old school building. After much searching she found a peep hole that gave her a fleeting glimpse of nude swimmers as they walked from change room to pool. She saw them side-on, moving fast, thrillingly clothes-free- the very first sight made her panties moisten. She saw flanks like those of young colts, floppy or pointy things in their groins. Like cocktail sausages. Or dangling fruit. Fleeting glimpses, none of the details she craved. And not Danny or her other favorites. But these illicit peeps whetted her raging appetite, fuelled those all-consuming fantasies.

She longed to catch them, to trap them, during a swim class. Them, hopeless, caught in their birthday suits. She, with other girls, and a female teacher, of course, to make it more humiliating for the boys.

The shame and humiliation of the caught males were a big part of it.

One day it happened.

Boys got up from their seats to leave for swim class. It happened twice a week. Girls had never- never ever- got in.

This time, however, Karen's careful preparation had resulted in an actual plan. First, she and 10 other girls waited 15 minutes and then discretely slipped out of the unsupervised study class. Down to the basement corridor they crept where they met, as planned, the young teacher they worshipped: Miss Ada Braithwaite, an attractive 50s something, gray-blond independent woman with- shall we say- a somewhat healthy attitude to matters of reproduction, a lively interest in what in those days were lubriciously referred to, with a smirk, as "the birds and the bees."

Chatting with her young admirers she had referred several times to the Kinsey report on female sexuality and to Sigmund Freud and "penis envy." She once daringly said that women had a right to "sexual fulfilment." She might suggest to the girls that such-and-such a boy, with snub nose and fluttering eye-lashes or broad shoulders and narrow waist, would look "interesting" without his clothes.

The 18 year old girls tittered, imaginations racing, none more lubriciously than Karen...who paused a moment and then secreted a suggestion.

"Maybe, Miss...we can walk in on a swim class." 

"Soooo..." said the teacher, who had only arrived at Grover Cleveland some months earlier. "Boys here swim nude?"

The girls excitedly confirmed this.

"Even their coach, Mister Compton," added Karen. " He's a body builder- and they say he's a...nudist. Some say he's an exhibitionist."

The teacher seemed subsumed in thought, her eyes far away.

"Leave it to me, girls," she said with the broadest of smiles.

So they found themselves on this day meeting Miss Braithwaite on the steps that took swimmers down to the basement corridor that led to the pool. From different senior classes 20 other girls had gravitated to their ranks, as carefully organised by Karen. A heavy cast iron door stood before them, closed. A shudder ran through the little army of females. 

They were, of course, all dressed. They wore skirts that fell below their knees, some half way down the calves in the fashion of the 50s, many pleated. Some wore blouses with Peter Pan collars, some tucked-in sweaters, cashmere or lambswool. Some,like their teacher, wore a string of pearls. Some had head bands. 

Behind this door were 18 year old boys wearing nothing...

...beyond some newly- sprouted curly hair around their groins.

Apart from that, they were naked, from their hammerhead toes on the ends of their boney feet to their crew cut or Elvis haircuts.

Totally, one hundred percent stripped off.

In the buff.

In their birthday suits. Nude.

There wasn't a girl who was not fluttering in her insides.

They took an collective breath as Ada smiled at them and reached for the door handle. She turned it. She swung to the girls and smiled again. They grinned breathlessly.Then she slowly pushed open the door. It was heavy. It resounded with a great clang. The smell of chlorine greeted them and the heads of 15 boys swung in their direction, shocked. As if the one thing they had long dreaded...was about to happen.

Just by their side- on their right as the girls entered- were half a dozen boys seated on a bench facing the pool, recovering from a race. The boys were trapped one hundred percent naked! No towel to reach for, no swimsuits. Looking in horror as a big group surged in front of them. And displayed in their laps were...well, their pricks...lying on squished-up testicles...and groins with brand-new patches of pubic bush. 

And the boy closest...the first to suffer close inspection...was the school's newest arrival...Samson Douglas, an athletic negro boy, from rural Alabama...who just cowered with shame as the wild exploring female eyes devouring his mahogany skin, every last inch of it! 

He squirmed, trapped.

The girls feasted themselves on the elephant trunk including his loose, relaxed foreskin. Laura Greensleeve, very superior in blouse and pleated skirt, was particularly excited by the bulge of a big rounded glans sheltering inside the black-grey tube...like a victim in the belly of a sated python. She lent in close to inspect it, pointing, incredulous, with index finger. "Look...at...that!" Her mouth was open in amazement and she called the others to join her.

He felt as he were an exhibit at the zoo and withered with embarrassment. He couldn't believe they'd let girls in! Back in Alabama he and his friends would venture into the streams and bogs, the watery realms of the state's wild bottomlands and, after they scrambled out of overalls, they would romp naked as jays, fishing from logs, swimming and sunning themselves. More often than not, flaunting big bold erections without embarrassment, jutting from their groins like broomsticks. Holy Jesus, if any white girls had ventured on them they would have dropped dead with shame! And here he was now- totally "nekked"- a party of white girls with greedy eyes staring down at him. And Laura, so stylishly decked out in that blouse and skirt, just stayed bent over him googling. God, her eyes were wide as saucers! And he felt her excited breath on his penis and in his groin!

Next to him was short Stevie Lynton- oh, so embarrassed, so deeply embarrassed! One of the girls, Sally Wainwright, lived in his neighbourhood and had grown up with his sisters and was friendly with his mother- and, jeepers! He was so shy about that burst of black hair on his chest and around his tummy, so deeply shy that he was never seen at home with his shirt off. Being hairy like this- and the shameful follicles had shot up only in the last year- made him terrified of being teased by his two sisters, both taller, who treated him like a little boy and patted his head and accused him of hankering after their girlfriends. 

Stevie had waves of hair on both chest muscles that seemed to clash tempestuously where the two branches joined and, like foamy froth, shot up to his neck; hair, spreading out in wavy strands from the centre of his trunk, a savage pelt on his abdomen growing, it seemed, right out of the packed bush of his loins. When his mates had noticed this transformation they had called him "a hairy monster." Little as he was, he was the hairiest of any at the pool.

If his sisters find out he will never hear the end of it! When his voice became baritone they teased him for a year. They teased him in front of his Mom and the household maid, Magda. "Ohhh, our little brother's growing up," they'd coo, and wonder out loud if he was maturing under his clothes and whether he would ever get taller like "normal" boys. They threatened to catch him in the shower and check on his "personal hygiene." Once he had heard them ask their Mom why she had to launder his pyjamas every day. Once he had surprised them checking his sheets and giggling.

Stevie also knew he had a small penis, a dramatic and shaming contrast with the big brown buck from Alabama slumping next to him. And...oh, Jesus! There was Sally Wainwright- right in front of him- looking him right in the eye, and smiling. And then dropping her gaze to his lap again.

He felt his insides turn to water. So did the four other boys on the bench to his right. Each seated, hopeless and trapped, with their treasures spread in their laps for the intruders to inspect. 

Now most girls swarmed like a flock of geese to view boys trapped on diving blocks at the head of the pool. Trapped! Up on the blocks, with girls closing in...able to look at their private parts...at eye level! The one closest nearly fell off with shock. With his brushed-back "ducks tail" hair style and his cute eyelashes, Danny Bristol Junior had suffered females trying to get him out of his pants for as long as he could remember: sisters, their friends, local moms, lubricious aunts- all had an interest in catching him in the bathroom without a stitch or seducing him with tongue-kissing on a sofa or tickling his backside when he delivered groceries. Danny had no interest in females...for a reason that would become clear...but now had a big joyful party of them staring, eye level with the lily-white equipment dangling from his groin.

Oh my god, gasped Karen Strawbridge, after all this time there he is! That...ball! As globular as a nice...big...peach. At that moment she would have done anything to have been able to take it in her paws and play with it. And what a treat that this handsome boy was now, trembling and cowering, up on that block! Looking sick with humiliation with the girls beaming up at him! 

Jason Cho, the Korean exchange student, was in a line of boys doing warm-ups, and wasn't he embarrassed! Because they had caught him already "suffering" a full erection. Nothing had prepared him for American girls seeing him one hundred percent stripped off...his trim well-shaped body, somewhat coffee-colored, standing there...and, as happened from time to time, his neat five inch penis standing at full erection, pointing proudly to the ceiling at an angle of 45 degrees. 

Susie Smyth, mousy haired with freckles and glasses, looked fixated on the the broad brown mark around the middle of his jutting appendage. Oh, and that cute little helmet on the end! She, like most of her friends, had never seen a grown-up penis. Just look...those helmets!

Well, not on the negro boys.

The two of them. Because- deliciously- there was another negro boy, his family also just settled from the South.

Tom Wilson stood stock still while white girls and their teacher now concentrated on the sight of his shimmering black skin-black as coal- with heavy genitals hanging from his groin and a fully defined, fat dorsal artery right down the middle of his broad black penis. Yes, a fabulous bulging artery. Just before reaching the puckered gray tip it diverted to the left. And his groin boasted...oh, this was a delight...tight curled wire, not woolly hair like that of the other boys. His hair was...kinky. 

To run my fingers through his little wires! This was the wicked thought of Ada. Fingers, through that wire-like pubic hair, and all around that thick coal-black penis, was the teacher's fantasy. How she shuddered at the prospect. 

To tell the truth Ada Braithwaite had a history with black men, or rather with one, going back to her time at Abigail Adams College, residing in the womens' dorms. There one of the senior girls took a liking to the feisty sophomore and shared with her a secret passed from year to year to a handful of privileged girls. It was this: the dorms had a black-Cherokee mixed blood maintenance man called Boone Freeman, aged in his early 40s. He was tall, lean, deep brown in complexion and spoke with a rumbling bass that made the air vibrate around him. Some of the more liberated females had taken to "using" him sexually and it had congealed as a college tradition.

She had effectively joined a queue, to visit Boone in his attic bedroom, to lie on his discoloured mattress and be licked by his broad, questing tongue...her vaginal entrance prised by his caring fingers...to be pinioned by his veiny brown dick, legs thrown over his shoulders. The nicest practice was Boone idling in the college corridors, fixing radiators or light bulbs, late on Saturday nights when young women, frustrated with the clumsiness of young boyfriends- or their uninteresting pricks or abrupt ejaculations- could make eye contact with the maintenance man, and trail him upstairs to his lair. To be fucked good and proper.

So she studied naked black Tom Wilson hungrily.

Next to him, shrivelling with shame, was Carl Harlson, muscular and blond as a Viking, a boy every girl wanted to have take her to the sock hop, but absolutely stricken. For one reason: despite his movie star looks and broad shoulders there poked from his groin only the shortest and thinnest of cocks and the daintiest little sack. Really a boy's equipment! And now he was bare as a board, in front of girls and- holy cow! - a lady teacher, taking in his teensie weensie secret with ravenous eyes and broad smiles that said, "Gotcha! We know what you look like now, fella!"

And behind them was a platoon of boys- all aware that their inherently funny maleness was being inspected and smirked at. Made them feel ashamed of their maleness, like hair on their torsos and legs...like their BALLS, what shameful freakish things, either snuggling or dangling...and their pricks...different sizes, different shapes, some half erect...those silly useless chiseled helmets on the end!

The girls were goggling them. And grinning.

Then a the boy joined Jason Cho with an erection. 

Wow! Quickly girls were giggling and pointing.

He was Kerry Fulbright, fair haired, medium height with a chunky athletic build that featured a chest divided into two squares and a tummy with a muscle cleaving his midsection top to bottom, and...to match, a chunky penis that jutted out at an angle...gesturing to his right. Yes, his erection pointed off to the right. He stood hands on hips, like Donatello's David, chewing gum, astonished at the intrusion by the females.

Oh my goodness, thought Ada, how fetchingly angled! And she could not stop herself sending the blushing boy a superior smile that made him tremble with a nameless emotion. His penis, she thought, is positively..."jaunty" like John Wayne wearing a tilted Stetson, brim at an angle. Or a cigarette dropping to the side from the lips of James Dean. She felt a fresh surge of lubricious excitement:, a "jaunty" penis jutting sideways from this bold 18 year old exposed in the nude. 

And Gloria Smedley, thrilling to the same sight as her teacher, wondered if Kerry, who incidentally lived in her street, was able to "will" his thing, to stick out, to point up, to jut to one side or the other. To swivel it? If she had a boyfriend, would she be able to make him take his pants off and make his penis point and move in an arc from side to side, like a ship's gun? Meanwhile Kerry, hands on hips and chewing gum, began to...well, savor...yes, tentatively enjoy, being on display.

Five boys including Rodney Ricketson were floating in the water, holding the pool's edge practising their kicking. And their tight white bottoms were arranged there in a line, just on the water's surface, rising now above it, then sinking just below, while the boys frightened astonished faces looked up...at the beaming females who had so decisively trapped them.

And who were laughing at them.

Hell, each knew that floating on the water surface were displayed his two punchy glutes and the crack that cleaved them- yes, displayed, like a cannibal banquet. The boys just had to stay put, clinging to the edge, moving their legs slightly, keeping afloat. Blushing bright red and helpless.

And the females loved it. Not just the view, no- although five naked boys' bottoms floating just before them were a delicious sight. But the trapped, shameful humiliation of the distressed boys. My oh my, just look at their expressions! Totally...one hundred percent...trapped.

To tell the truth Karen's silk panties were soaked as great globes of fluid now disgorged from her vaginal lips. This was a bonanza, like winning a lottery. The humiliation and shame that steamed off the cornered males was a delight!


Nude and Erect



Then straight out of the male change room walked coach Gordon Compton.

He was completely naked. In his birthday suit. As bare as a board. Under his flattened artificially blond hair he was as naked as Adam. He had a 1950s body builder physique, great slabs of muscle- particularly swooping pectorals separated by a deep grove, an exaggerated V-shaped back, bulging shoulders, arms and thighs. And all over he was tanned an even copper color, even his globular buttocks and his groin. It was clear he spent a lot of time outdoors, naked.

Yet his penis and testicles were...petite. Even tiny. And...his penis was noticeably stretching, to jut ahead, parallel to the ground. Pointing at the females.

He walked right up to them.

"Miss Braithwaite, girls. Good morning. Confusion about times? Or here to watch the training? Either way, good to have you. Isn't it boys?"

He quickly ordered the boys on the blocks to get down and join them in the loose semi-circle that had formed. Danny and his mates obeyed, shuffling across the tiles, hands drifting to shelter their groins.

In fact every boy, except Kerry Fulbright with the tilted chunky penis, was now sheltering behind splayed hands. Kerry looked defiant, with hands on hips and chewing gum, as if saying, "Here it is girls, have a good look. Why should I cover it?"

Coach was exploding.

"Fellas! What have I told you before about us not being ashamed of our bodies? About respecting your masculinity? I'll say it once and expect you to obey: hands...by...your sides! Better still- behind your backs!"

They obeyed, all except blond Carl Harlson, who the coach now fixed with an angry stare.

"Or you can be walking back to class in the nuddy! In front of all the girls and female teachers!"

All eyes were on him. The handsome young Viking froze and then...slowly dropped his hands and swung them behind his back, standing like an infantry man at ease. His sliver of a penis was back on display. All female eyes now marvelled at his nude athlete's body, with its oh so modest sliver of white flesh and its delicate helmet...lounging on the tiny but perfectly formed sphere.

Mr Compton's own penis now curved upwards, a rounded little stiffie that pointed back at his belly. His testicles had vanished almost completely. He had no hair, not a single one. His groin was smooth as an egg. But tanned bronze.

"We would love to watch the boys train," chimed Ada. "Wouldn't we girls?"

Back came a chorus of affirmation.

"Fine. But first, the boys over there sitting down. You fellas come over and join us."

Big Samson Douglas and little Stevie Lynton and their companions felt their tummies flip, just as the heads of 30 girls and their teacher turned again in their direction. Slowly...they edged off the bench and to their feet. Samson felt his long penis flop forward to dangle between his thighs and...oh, my god...he felt the first signs of it stretching! Notoriously it had a mind of its own and the head- spectacularly, a reddish-brown tone and sculpted like a marine helmet- had emerged from the brown-gray tube.

All the females had noticed. They were fixated on this red-brown glans sticking out from its cloak. Come out to peek at them, it seemed. A python appearing from its hole.

He caught their fascinated glances.

Just perceptibly, the tube lengthened further.

He shuffled forward but plain, tall, skinny Millicent Moore slipped into his path, wearing a shift mad from expensive material with bows and ribbons: white, pale blues, pinks. She looked him right in his bashful chocolate eyes. There was a pause. The naked boy's long arms shifted by his sides. He mumbled some slurred request that she "let him through." Ever so slightly she shook her head...smiling right at him. Then she whispered, "Say, please let me through, Miss Millicent." The nude boy swallowed...his eyes swimming with confusion and darting in all directions. But all he saw were the salacious looks of 31 females, looking him all over, with eager cunning grins.

The loose folds of his brown-gray prepuce had retracted down the corpus of his penis and the red-brown head, the glans, was...it was...oh, no...lifting itself. Stretching forward.

"Go on, Samson. You're the one who's in the nude." She smilingly looked him in those chocolate eyes. Standing boldly in front of him, smelling his fear, all in her whites, blues and pinks.

Swallowing his words he stumbled out his plaintive request, sounding particularly submissive when he came to the girl's name: "Miss...Miss...Miss Mill...Millicent." He felt like a little boy.

Smiling in triumph she parted. She savoured his profile as he shuffled past, the python between his legs now pointing to the tiles at an angle.

Stevie was shuffling through a group of girls. And came face to face with Sally Wainwright. Their eyes met. The boy felt every inch of his total nudity. He was in what his family's maid, Magda, had called his "birthday suit." 

STEVIE'S STORY. 

Yes, that expression "your birthday suit."

Their maid Magda had blurted it out on that terrible day a few months ago, just after Stevie's 18th birthday, when he had got home from school. Their large two story house appeared empty and silent, Mom out at bridge and sisters at the office and, thinking the house empty, Stevie had stripped nude in his bedroom for a long jack off session with a Swedish nudist magazine. It was exciting to have the house to himself. He walked nude and erect, with the magazine, out of his room and down the corridor. His erection guiding him, he entered the bedrooms of both of his sisters and inhaled the perfumes and women's smells and admired himself in their mirrors as he adopted lewd postures, thrusting his hips forward, for example, and touching his prick. He sensuously stroked his nude hairy torso as he descended the stairs. There was a thrill in being nude in a big quiet house, walking the corridor with his small stiffie pointing the way. 

He entered the family sitting room with its Chinese lamp stands, the chandelier, the big pumped up sofa, the heavy drapes. He planted his naked bottom on the cushions of the couch. Then without warning, while he was selecting a page from the magazine, Magda burst in with a feather duster. "Oh God bless, I've caught you in your birthday suit," she had gushed, eyes bulging at the sight of the short, buck naked boy with the stubborn little erection, legs spread on the sofa. He leapt to his feet and took off, galloping naked down the hall. Then, at the base of the steps, he remembered the magazine. He could hardly leave that behind. So he had to turn and run back, colliding with Magda's starched apron as he rounded the door- she, with the filthy magazine...

"Well, gracious me!" she had declared and pulled back to look him up and down. The son of the household trembled before her: short, small framed, his little body covered with black fleece and a pint-sized penis at full stand, its petite glans jutting up at the ceiling. "Well, gracious me! What would your mother say! Let me look you over!" And she pulled back further to scrutinise some more, with particular attention to his private parts, while the poor boy stood frozen, one hand reaching out for the magazine.

"You look just like your father!" she opined. Stevie's Dad had been claimed by a coronary occlusion five years ago. He had been the founder of a successful company and his advice to his son on his death bed had been, "I just want to say one word to you. Just one word. Plastics." But now...Magda was implying she knew what his father had looked like naked. Stevie had a powerful vision, a nightmare vision: his Dad, who had been no taller than he, riding the large body of the fleshy maid, his small framed but "hirsute"- how Stevie winced at that adjective- body, pumping away between her capacious thighs. Where had they done it? In Magda's attic bedroom? In his father's well-appointed workshop? In the Bates' Motel on the outskirts? On the sofa, where his son had just been sprung in the throes of his own dirty little passion?

Either way, Magda had the upper hand. She used it. "Young man, I don't want to show this to your mother. Goodness knows what she would think, and your sisters. They would be very disappointed, I'm sure. So...I'm gonna punish you...up in your bedroom. Now!"

And clutching him by an ear she walked him along the corridor, up the stairs (almost lifting him off the steps, her grip was so tight.) He was withering with shame, being walked alongside a maid in grey dress and white apron, totally nude with his penis sticking up- it was pointing the way for both of them. She marched him right into his room, with its model planes and athletic trophies. She guided him to the bed and sat down next to him. She laid a palm on his thigh and looked him in his frightened eyes.

"I'm very, very disappointed that you take an interest in this material."

Her palm was warm on the fur of his leg. His punchy little erection- short, slender- showed no sign of abating.

"Have you anymore of these magazines?"

He blushed deep. He couldn't talk.

"Now I'm happy to search all your things but that would keep you in this state..."

She gestured to his nude body, his erection.

"...until they all come home."

He mumbled that there were in fact other magazines. She told him to produce them.

Which meant him leaving the bed and getting down on his hands and knees to dig deep in his cupboard, knowing that he was sticking his bottom high, that he was poking it right up, that his intergluteal cleft was flaring open and that Magda could feast her eyes on the burst of shaggy black hair inside. The shame!

He rummaged under his old fencing helmet and issues of Popular Mechanics in the secret place where his pornography was stashed. God, it took so long! He could feel Magda's mocking, curious eyes exploring his exposed crack and its burst of wicked black hair. Finally, he hauled a stack of magazines from the shelter and presented himself. Oh, God, the shame of being naked in her company! His little tool was displaying its ventral side- she was glaring at it- as he stood before her and handed them across.

She made him rejoin her on the bed while she perused the shameful magazines that, she forced him to admit, he had purchased from a secondhand bookshop in St Paul. And, yes, smuggled into this respectable home in his school bag. She flicked through them at leisurely pace. She quickly registered that some pages were turned at the edges and that these could be assumed to be his favorites. They all featured not females on their own, nor males on their own- she was relieved to rule out at least one pathology- but invariably young men Stevie's age...in some combination with females. 

These, the fold-downs suggested, were the black and white pictures he evidently returned to, over and over. The images that stirred his little penis to stand up and required him, she assumed, to handle himself to orgasm. Here, for example, was one of a skinny nude Swedish boy, with a shapely uncircumcised penis, surrounded by three full bodied mature women- the women were nude too, except for broad sun hats and flamboyant sunglasses. They beamed. The boy looked nervous. On another marked page there was a family group, with females 18 and older in great number, but a young man noticeably embarrassed in the company of these aunts, cousins, sisters. His penis was long and narrow and also hooded, Scandinavian-style. It could clearly be assumed to have been of deep if veiled interest to the milling women, frisky youngsters his age, others old enough to be his mother. No, his grandmother. There were several telltale splotches here, and on other turned down pages.

There was a picture of two girls and a boy on a jetty, the attractive slender girls enjoying themselves, the boy looking clumsy and ill-at-ease. That his penis and testicles were smaller than average could not be denied. One conclusion could be that the boy had been forced by his family into this wholesome Swedish public nudity only to be pounced on by brazenly curious young women. This seemed a theme. Another photo showed a scrawny 18 year old boy with a button penis lost in a burst of pubic hair lying on the sand with well developed girls on either side, the girls twisted to take in the view of another youth walking by, beaming back at them, with a rolling-pin penis flopping from his blond groin. How humiliating for the boy lying between the girls- his, a peeping button only.

"Do you like pictures of small...male organs?" Magda asked. Her curiosity seemed real.

Stevie thought he had to clarify.

"Only...only...if...only..."

Magda had to help.

"You mean only if females are looking at it?"

Grimly, he nodded.

"Small organs...tiny ones...like your own?"

They both looked at it, rigid in his groin.

"Yes," he agreed in the depth of his shame.

She flipped open a page, on the other hand, that showed a game of volleyball where an athletic 18 year old male shot skyward with his thick penis flung up flat against his tummy The candid black and white photo showed a whole group of women young and old- a withered, suntanned grandmother among them- looked on with prurient awe. Again the page was soiled.

Magda flicked through the magazines, her thigh touching his. As he saw his loved images in her lap Stevie's erection now sprouted a bubble of clear fluid. She noticed. 

"So...this sort of thing makes you excited?"

She had pulled apart two glued pages to display a big photo showing a lanky youth Stevie's age seated in a caravan or hut. He was boyish and suntanned and fresh-faced; above him loomed a mature age woman with bulky hips and watermelon breasts wearing a ludicrous hat and sunglasses, beaming- it was obscenely obvious- right into the boy's exposed lap.

The stuck-together pages carried their own condemnation.

Stevie nodded lamely, blushing and close to tears.

"Does it make your male member get...erect?"

He nodded again, eyes clenched shut.

"And do you rub yourself down there, to get more excited?"

Again he nodded, twisting with shame.

"Until you have what they call an emission? When sperm comes out?"

The marks on those pages meant he could hardly deny it.

But...

"I can't help it," he ventured desperately.

"You mean it's an addiction?"

He nodded desperately.

Magda seemed to scrutinise him all over again. She was looking at his groin as the bubbling fluid now trailed out of his tiny meatus and ran down the short, narrow shaft.

"You will have to be punished. It's me or your mother, and if it's her, of course, it will be in front of the girls."

"In front of the girls." The terrible words echoed in his head.

No choice.

She told him to lie straight on the bed. He arranged himself awkwardly, arms by his sides, lying on his bedspread under her scrutiny. Suddenly he felt he was in the immortal role of teenage boy forced to strip for female doctor or nurse, exposed on a medical examination table, melting with shame and humiliation. Yes, he had entered this time-honored tableaux, which he had often fantasised about and had even eased into talk with other boys whose eyes flashed as they shared his interest in the topic: the smell of the medical interior- doctor's surgery or nurses' rooms, the cruel instruction to go behind the screens and take everything off, the fumbling with belt and buttons, the shy peeling off, emerging from the screens heart pounding, the sudden shocking realisation that one is stark naked before her. And like all young men cast in this role he was unable to control his erection- in his case, his streaming erection. Damn, the stuff was just flowing out! And the nurse- a stern old matron with hair in a bun looked down, disapproving.

"Just like your Dad," Magda again averred, no doubt in reference to his shortness, black fur, small genitals. No doubt his stubborn little erection as well, its trailing fluid now making his tummy hair wet and sticky.

He clenched his eyes rather than see where she was staring. She told him to stick his legs up. "Yes, right up in the air." When he did she used her forearm to force them back, stretching his hamstrings and tilting his bottom. Oh no, he thought, she gets to see in my hairy crack again.

She raised the feather duster, clutching the feathered end.

She paused...

...then her first stroke whispered through the air and caught him on his intergluteal crease where thighs met buttocks. He had never felt such a sting. He howled and buckled. The second caught him across the lower cleft where tufts of black wool poked from his crack. But while he was vaulting and swivelling with pain fast as lightning she landed another blow...right in the middle of his thighs. His legs kicked in protest. It looked, hilariously, as if he were pedalling!

His eyes were glazed with blinding tears as he begged her to stop. But she hadn't finished and Steve felt she was not just punishing him but...someone else, perhaps males in general. She ordered him now to kneel on the bed, face lowered and lying to one side, cheek on the bed spread, but his bottom raised high. As he rearranged himself she noticed his erection had shrivelled.

She paused, surveying him in this new position. And then with a whoosh struck him first just above the knees, then mid-thigh, then on the crease. Finally on the skinny little exposed bottom. He collapsed, lying flat, arms stretched behind to furiously rub his rump. "No...Magda...no...I can't take it...no..." The tears poured out.

But she now half lifted him off the bed and made him stand and bend over and clutch his ankles. Again the exposure was perfect, the vulnerability devastating. But if she glimpsed the bountiful hair sprouting between his cheeks she didn't show it. Her cuts came fast and furious and lifted him from the ground and forced him to execute a sad little dance- a silly jig that looked so funny- between each of them, hopping up and down and rubbing his now stripped glutes.

Then...

The maid sat on the bed and ordered the boy to lie over her lap. "Oh, no Magda...never...no more...I won't look at those pictures again..." He was blubbering now. She reminded him of his exposed condition and that the others would be home soon. Obediently he lowered himself and pressed down into her starched apron. For a moment he felt excited, his squashed genitals in the stiff white apron. She then administered a broad palmed spanking- yes, over the crimson stripes on buttock and thigh- that had him jiggling and twisting and buckling, crying profusely and swearing that, no, he couldn't take any more.

Then...

It was a boy subdued in every way who now sat on her knees as instructed, one arm around her shoulder, head against her breast. She spoke to him like a baby. Yes, he had been very naughty. She hoped he knew why she had had to spank him. Yes, spank him on his botty. With all his clothes off, as she had found him in the lounge room. What had got into his head, to think he could go walk around the house in his birthday suit? Didn't he agree that it was bad to look at those photos? To which he could only nod, tearfully.

"And all to make this little thing stand up..."

And her fingers lifted his slack appendage. His tummy flipped. His penis stirred.

"...when you look at those naughty photos of boys your age, nude, in the company of..."

She paused and gently shook his stem and then ran her fingers up and down its diminunitive length.

"...well, women very often my age."

Her fingers flickered over his ball sack. In response his penis stretched.

"That's what makes you get excited? Down here? Isn't it, Stevie?"

Her hand was stroking his erect penis.

He nodded.

"Yes? Well, you are...a very naughty boy..."

And she was fingering him now, his cock completely stiff and leaking fluid, his eyes glazed. She was...jerking him off...while she kept up her commentary about how funny he looked without any clothes and, yes, like his Dad he was a short fella and had a hairy body and it was wicked for him to get all worked up about those pictures, goodness, with boys his age buck naked and girls and ladies all around. Truth was boys his age did build up a lot of "seminal fluid"...




Nude and Erect



Stevie exploded. As if at the thought of built-up seminal fluid waiting to burst its dam walls.

He clutched Magda's shoulder tight as big globs of semen- whole handfuls of the stuff- danced in the air, splashed in all directions, down to the floor, upwards to hit his chin and chest, to flood his abdomen and thighs, and splosh off onto her apron. One explosion landed on her arm. More bubbled out- filling her hand, gluing her fingers. His diminutive cock had produced a wholesale mess, puddles everywhere.

He felt close to fainting, slumped on her knee.

She squeezed the end of his penis to make a glob more appear. Suddenly he felt less threatened. There was, he dared to hope, little chance she would denounce him to his mother or sisters. Indeed, after she wiped him down with a wet cloth she had fetched from the bathroom, and helped him into his clothes, she said- and he may have misheard- that he should visit her in her attic bedroom some time.

She then left left him to recover, as his mother's car came to a halt in the drive under the window. And she didn't confiscate his beloved Swedish magazines!

In the six months since this happened there was no evidence Magda has breeched their secret. Apart from a knowing glance he caught from her, not a hint of his indecent exposure.

And, now, at the pool...

Stevie was again completely stitchless, facing a female and the inside of his stomach felt an awful queasy mess. 

"Goodness, Stevie Lynton in his birthday suit!" Sally Wainwright was so close he felt her breath. "I'm seeing your sisters after school," Sally whispered. "And, don't worry..."

For a second he thought there's hope. Females can keep secrets, like Magda. Girls are generally nice, after all. They'll respect my feelings. They know telling my sisters would hurt me and...

"Don't worry, I'm gonna tell 'em EVERYTHING!"

In his despair he felt a sweet submissive humiliation that made his penis tweak. Lengthen in one little jolt.

But suddenly there was an incident.

Karen Strawbridge had noticed that the boy closest in the pool was the brother of her best friend. She sensed an opportunity. Charlie Hodgson had figured in her under-the-sheet fantasies ; he was one of the boys she had imagined forcing to peel his pants off. And here he was, in his crew cut and nothing else- nude, ass up, in the water. Deliciously trapped. So she started teasing him. And wasn't Charlie Hodgson going red, as the girl pulled faces, smiled lewdly and made gestures towards his floating bottom- white and shapely, displayed on the surface of the water for her delectation, the boy not able to do anything about it and his two glutes just bobbing in the water. 

And she's up there, in her tucked-in sweater and pleated high-waisted skirt, laughing at his shameful nudity and pointing to his bare butt, and mouthing something about his sister. Gosh, he felt humiliated! Suddenly the teasing by his ugly bitch, with her red hair in plaits and her cats' eye glasses, was too much. With all the arm and shoulder power of a water polo champion he sent a great spray shooting at the girl, right into her face, the chlorine stinging her eyes. She squealed.

Coach had seen what happened in a flash. "Outta the water this instant! Up here now! You heard me, Hodgson, stand here- and take your medicine!"

Grim-faced the 18 year old boy hauled himself from the pool, his chest on view, decorated with noticeably prominent nipples like pink bullets...then coming into view, his abdomen, with a filigree of dark hair running from his navel...

The girls took a collective breath. The boy paused.

...then a burst of black pubic bush...then the start of a wide white bratwurst with a forceful blue vein running down its dorsal side...then the full-length of his hefty young teenage cock, neatly circumcised the better to show off a very well sculpted reddish glans. He shuffled to face his angry coach, his appendage swaying slightly.

And what a sweet contrast they made: young athlete with his crew cut, white skin and the heavy flaccid sausage flopping out of his hairy groin, his coach with wide over-developed build, golden-skinned, and his punchy little penis erect and curved, jutting from a body as hairless as an egg.

"You are a disgrace," declared Mr Compton reaching out and... pinching one of Charlie's nipples...real hard. The gesture shocked them all. Nipples? Coach is touching him there? It seemed intimate, vaguely obscene. The boy winced at the strange pain. As if encouraged, the coach switched to the boy's other longish pink nipple and gave that a squeeze. Again, the boy winced. "A disgrace to all males, to treat a young woman like that. Stand here, and face the girls..."

He swung him round. The boy was blinking with fear. It seemed the coach was manoeuvring to give the boy...a spanking. Oh, my god, thought Ada Braithwaite, we are about to see a full nude spanking! Both of them, spanker and spankee, stripped off completely! But first Mr Compton seemed to have decided he needed help to hold Charlie in place.

"Two strong girls, Miss Braithwaite, to lock him by the arms. What I'm about to do will have young Mr Hodgson here dancing on the spot."

In a whiff Susie and Millicent were on either side of the captive, panting heavily. They grasped him by his upper arms, their small warm trembling hands holding him very, very tightly. It was as if they had taken him prisoner, like two female police officers with a nude exhibitionist being escorted from a cinema or college library. They smiled broadly as they tightened their grips and looked down on his front...all the way to his groin.

At the perfect moment. The proximity of the girls, the touch of their tight little hands...was having an effect.

In a few decisive jolts the boy's penis was stretching forward to poke ahead, parallel to the floor, an impressive specimen. The girls who held him looked right down on it. It was fish-belly white with a big bold pulsing blue artery down its middle, joined by decorative, smaller subsidiary veins. The whole thing broadened around its middle- where there was a hint of a brown band- to an impressive width, a broad beam, then narrowed to its head. The glans was a strongly sculpted pinkish battering ram but seemed stretched to encompass the width of the boy's appendage.

Girls in the crowd noticed.

"Look," whispered Gloria Smedley to Nan Hooper. "His thing's...sticking out!"

"Jeepers! I think I'd prefer one of those little ones, like..."

And when she looked around she noticed that Tom Wilson, black as coal, and Carl the Viking blond had their "things" getting stiff, stretching to poke at the floor, their owners distraught, looking off sideways to avoid any eye contact as their genitals shamed them. Beyond them the whole platoon of boys was getting stiff "down there." As if...as if some invisible strings had jerked them up and back, to show off their shameful undersides for female inspection. 

The girls busied themselves with inspections, walking along the lines of naked fellas hands behind their backs, totally on display.

There was one boy with no visible head to his silky smooth erection: it ended in the untidy pouting lips of stretched prepuce. It seemed to have folds, like the layers of a pastrami and rye, or...if truth be told, thought a few of the girls, like our own vaginal lips. But no cap. Oh, and there was a pale boy whose upward rearing penis and dangling sack were khaki. All brown, against a white body, as if to indicate the special wickedness of his pleasuring equipment. There was a short boy with buck teeth who sported a fat, long bludgeon of a prick, standing right up, huge avocados filling a loose sack. The rest of him just looked like it was an add-on to the big fat appendage. 

And the tallest boy there, skinny as a post, had a hardon no longer than three inches. He was "aw shucks" cute like MGM star Carleton Carpenter about to burst into "Abba Dabba Honeymoon" or pose with Debbie Reynolds singing "I Want to be Loved by You." He didn't seemed remotely embarrassed, as if his reputation as basketball star would protect his standing. Or perhaps he had shown it off plenty of times before. No big deal, he seemed to be saying, with his gap-toothed smile, I'm a tall, skinny fella who just happens to have a baby dick.

And...oh my god! There was Rodney Ricketson, just down from the blocks, with a full 45 degree erection, the big mushroomy head of the bludgeon- jeepers, it occupied half of the stem- swollen big, his red pubic curls flattened and wet, his testicles still loose and dangling, the big balls packaged inside boldly visible.

The girls staring at him- the girls closest- loved the revelation, as viewed on all those thrilling occasions through his trouser front. Yes, they liked the secret ventral or underside view of his organ...the stringy tissue joining the corona, like banjo strings...the way the fat artery or perineal raphe seemed to take over all of the penis stem, pulsing...and they liked the way the testicles fell down in folds like the ribbing on the vault of a Gothic cathedral. This was the instrument that shredded the boy with embarrassment whenever he was asked to stand in front of the class, the famous "thing" that tented the fly of his trousers or, pointing down, looked like he was sheltering a pole poking off to one side.

The famous Rodney Ricketson penis, now at last on display.

But at that moment coach was arranging two more volunteers to hold his victim in place around his...

...around his legs!

The lucky Christine Kelly and, yes, Karen Strawbridge got this job, on their knees, their hands clutching Charlie by his calves just below his knees. They dug into his lightly furred skin- oh, how they loved that!- but an instinct made Karen lightened her grip and hold the boy with tickling finger ends. She knew how ticklish it would be, just below the knees. Meanwhile they relished a close-up view of the boy's intimate things...and another jolt- caused by Karen's devilish tickles- brought the penis to point upwards, like a ship's cannon.

Wow!

Karen stared at it, and thrilled at the sight of the ventral or underside view of the boy's apparatus and tightened and then lightened her grip, again to have her finger tips play upon Charlie's skin and noticed that the boy's ball sack- she was soooo close to it- was riven with deep furrows, corrugated, and there was a bold seam dividing it into two compartments as if his mother had sewed him up for him only that morning and the head of his penis was ridiculously like a helmet and its sides curled out and up- it was so well defined- and the underside got all stringy where it stretched to the head and...wow! There was another jerk! His penis stretched some more! It was standing up almost flat against his belly as it jerked back.

Mister Compton raised his huge muscled arm, paused and swung it down with astonishing force to strike the boy on a curved, white buttock...the sound of flesh striking flesh was colossal, savage and thrilling. CRASH! The force of the strike lifted Charlie off his feet and made him howl with pain. He burst free of the grip of the two girls holding his legs...and, still restrained by the other two gripping his arms, did a little jig.

It was very funny. The girls laughed out loud at the sight of the naked boy with his erection bolted on to his groin performing a tap dance, tears spilling out of his eyes and a broad white patch on his right buttock...now turning a bright crimson. Charlie, hopping on the spot with pain, suddenly saw Miss Braithwaite's face- contorted with helpless mirth. He had a crush on the lovely 50s-something teacher. But...she was laughing at him. Real, full-bodied contemptuous laughter. At him.

This added sweetly to his humiliation.

The kneeling girls reached out for his legs and, this time, taking deep breaths, scissored him around his thighs, his furry upper legs. Their arms were hooking him now, locking on him. As Karen clamped her's around Charlie's thigh her hand grazed the low hanging fruit of the boy's testicles. She trembled, her crotch now drenching. But she allowed her hand and its fingers to flutter in that space, just under his sack. She lent so close that she was almost kissing his skin. She deliberately breathed hard on it, knowing he would feel it and it would excite him. Both girls- because it thrilled them so much- also pressed their bosoms against the wretched fella's nude thighs. The boy was lost now- four pairs of little girls hands, arms wrapped round his upper legs (and right up high too) their breaths all over him, the blood pulsing through his lower regions from the hand spanking. Their tits now jammed up against his thighs.

The stinging in his bottom.

The humiliation of the nudity.

The looks of the laughing females...

His erection was now a decisive 45 degree point-to-the-ceiling hardon. Blood hardened.

Mister Compton lifted his right arm. And 31 females took deep breaths.

Slap! Slap! Slap!

The blows rained down. Each blast to his buttocks propelled him forward and lifted him high while the girls' vice-like grip kept him from coming loose.

Every blow sent a ferocious new jolt through his penis. From the buried root all the way to the meatus on the end of the glans it vibrated. And...he felt something very familiar while exceedingly out of place in the circumstances. He felt something rising in the stiff tube. 

Oh, no!

Crash! Crash! Crash! With all the strength of a state champion weight trainer Mister Compton was turning the boy's posterior a blazing red and nobody noticed that, as he positioned himself for the next blast, the coach's own stiff jutting member would poke at the boy's flesh, just grazing the curve of the buttocks, probing at the boy's intergluteal crease where furry upper thighs gave way to the egg-smooth bottom.

Slap! Slap! Slap!

Now the boy was feeling every blow the entire length of his rigid penis and the fluid rise in his urethra. If the spanking didn't stop soon he knew where this would lead. In front of everybody...

Meanwhile didn't four girls enjoy their work, like holding a young horse in place. With every crashing blow on his buttocks Charlie strained to leap and vault out of their hold, but they just tightened, like gripping a frolicsome colt, and laughed away at one another. "We need a bridle!" shrieked Lizzie and all the girls roared. And for the lucky kneeling and their close up view! It seemed they were a nose length away from the rigid white stick vibrating violently with every one of the Coach's flat-handed slaps.

Now every boy was aroused. All 15 of them stood as ordered with hands behind backs, feet apart, with fully engorged members, one hundred percent inflamed, rigidified pricks. All 31 females took in the panorama- amazing! A feast of enforced male exhibitionism, with iron hard erections bolted on to all the groins. There was Carl Harlson's petite but perfectly straight penis, in a 45 degree thrust to the ceiling above its dainty sack. The handsome boy risked shy, teary glimpses of Charlie's punishment but when he saw girls meeting his looks he instantly hung his head. Next to him coal-black negro Tom Wilson sported a stout black pole topped with a shiny black glans, fed by a full artery pumping the length of his underside. His sack, voluminous despite the upper tug of his stiffening, was decorated with deep furrows spreading out from the central seam. And...this sack, like his groin, had wiry, kinky curls.

Pity Danny Bristol Junior who, down from the blocks and excited by all he was seeing and feeling, stood traumatised. His white tube with its purplish crown, resting on the globular peach-like sack, had stretched, fleshed-out. His involuntary stiffness revealed a strong six incher that...curved like a banana. With a decisive bend downwards. No, more than a banana, far more. Look! It bent and kept on bending, to circle, and point with that purplish glans, back at that rounded ball sack!

Within seconds of his erection shaping itself a big party of girls enclosed him, around eight, peering and elbowing and gasping, fascinated, bent over, staring at it. Eyes bulging. One by one, gaining confidence, they lent in closer, just peering. Beatrice Weatherall was short-sighted and her nose nearly touched the poor boy's well-shaped glans- which really made Danny melt with horror- until her companions elbowed her, laughing. And Lucy Childe, with her pert baby-doll features and in a high-waisted plaid skirt and fetching blouse, heard the fuss and bustled over to inspect it close-up and was just thrilled. Imagine, she thought, having a boyfriend with a funny CURVED penis. And, as his girlfriend, you could force him to show it to you and tell him to demonstrate how it stood up and make him talk shame-faced about the silly banana bend and listen as he lamented that he didn't expect to ever have a wife because his thing was no freakish and wouldn't fit into any woman's vagina and beg you, his girlfriend, not to tell any of your friends about it. And of course you would promise but, being a girl, couldn't help blabbing and as word spread you would savour his humiliation..

Lucy resolved at that moment she would become his girlfriend, even camp at his home (she got along famously with Mrs Bristol) until she recruited him to take her to the sock hop and to the movies and to football. She would carefully plan "passion pit" opportunities when she could ease his penis out of his pants and coax the shy boy to talk about it.

Meanwhile...

Stevie's little penis had been one of the first to be aroused- yes, even as he contemplated the shame of having his two cheeky sisters, within hours, hear everything. It stood out and up, and trailed a clear fluid that ran out of the small meatus in his petite glans and drained to the tiles. And next to him, beaming down on his shame was that darn girl, Sally- beaming, and looking sideways to catch his eye, and seeing not just his penis hard as a fountain pen...a leaking fountain pen, at the moment...but the shameful hairs on his small 18 year old's chest and tummy.

The sight of the full nude spanking and his mates' stiffies had Kerry Fulbright's prick firm up even more, a proud point-at-the ceiling hardon. And, all the girls noticed and Ada as well, it still jutted defiantly rightward. A jaunty, tilted penis giving its owner a casual maverick air. Frankly the bad boy had been plainly excited at what had been unfolding, and the fact that girls' eyes had been inspecting him- oh, how that made him shiver with an excited shame. His dirty pleasure produced a strong flow of fluid that moistened his glans and made it shine. I don't care, he thought, let 'em see that as well- boy's dribble from the tip of their pricks when they're excited, and I'm no exception.

Rodney also had lurid thoughts, standing there, attached to his own stubborn erection, watching Charlie's punishment. Delicious dirty thoughts. Like his filthy bedtime fantasies, his old familiar fantasies- like being made to strip for a female doctor or being trapped skinny dipping by a party of senior girl guides. What he was watching was even more thrilling. To be held tight by four naughty girls...stark naked...and to be spanked in front of a whole troop of naughty girls! With an attractive older teacher. All looking and laughing! 

Only...thought Rodney, he'd want to be spanked by Miss Braithwaite. Oh, please...yes! And his penis got even harder as a trickle of clear fluid emerged from its head...to be undressed...by girls...and laughed at...and to be spanked...in front of all the girls...by Miss Braithwaite. In a flash Rodney's right hand left its place and flicked over his prick- he couldn't help it- and began stroking. Nobody noticed because at that moment...

Slap! Crash! Slap!

Poor Charlie Hodgson's whole body tightened, his front curved forward from the hips like a bow being pulled tight by an archer, he grunted loudly and out of the tip of his penis he shot off what looked like a handful of white fluid...WHOOSH! It flew through the air- the four girls holding him were astonished by the explosive force- and splashed right onto the polished shoes...of Ada Braithwaite.




Nude and Erect



They were all hypnotised- the whole watching party of lubricious clothed females and naked boys with hands behind backs sporting erections. 

Then another shot flew out, spattering on the tiles half way to Ada. Then a third load drooled out of his meatus, to drain to the tiles. Charlie looked dazed. He slumped back into the clutching arms of his four captors. He had a far away stunned expression. Coach eagerly grappled him from behind and pressed his curved little erection, unseen, into the boy's intergluteal cleft.

At that moment with his stroking Rodney's penis just bubbled, like a water fountain. It didn't shoot for a simple reason- he had masturbated three times that day. There was his regular 3am wake up, regular as clockwork, when he fantasised about stripping for a nurse, his 7.30am wake-up when he slavered over a fantasy about his mother bringing in her friends to see the new shower curtains, the bridge-playing ladies catching him in the nude playing with himself in the bathroom and then, at lunchtime, his retreat to the boys' toilets when he spent 10 minutes imagining a lonely skinny dip in the forest and then being surrounded by girls from his class who, clutching his clothes, tease him out of the water. In each fantasy his penis gets stiff and heightens his shame.

So now Rodney didn't shoot off but just bubbled over, and the sperm trailed to the tiles. Girls near him pointed and gasped. He just stood, hands back behind, looking incredibly shamed and guilty. 

Kerry, stirred by the intent looks his tilted cock had been receiving, could not control himself. Eyes shut, he rapidly stroked his erection thinking of what he had seen happen to Charlie, thinking of Rodney bubbling over, thinking of the girls grinning at all the naked boys, thinking of Miss Braithwaite staring right at his penis. Whoosh! He sent his spunk flying high. 

And little Stevie, loosing all hope of privacy, gave into the temptation too. Shamed to the limit, with his sisters' friend Sally right by his side, looking right down on him, he just couldn't stop seeking relief from his shame and humiliation. He glued his eyes shut, grabbed his small stiff cock and- WOW- in seconds sent a wad flying forward to splop on the tiles. In his left ear, though, he heard a girl's whisper, "You dirty, dirty little boy. Wait till your sisters hear what you just did!" And he wanted to sink into the floor. A guilty trail of sperm dropped off the tip of his erection, confirming his guilt. "Oh yuk! Look at you! You need your sisters on hand to clear you up!"

Two negro boys stood together and around 15 girls had gravitated to circle them.

Circle them, just as Victorian missionary ladies in flowing crinoline might have advanced on Senegalese warriors, their erections raised in merry welcome or stern warning. Laura Greensleeve, eyes bulging and in a shift that may in fact have been crinoline, could have played the part of young Bible scholar sent to Africa. Laura, who studied art, had not been prepared by Greek or Roman or Renaissance statuary for anything as forthright as Samson's gray-brown erection with its flaming red top. And as for Millicent- at that moment she wanted to glide her eager tongue all around the broomstick prick, as a missionary girl may be subverted by naked brown flesh on her first visit to the tropics. There was not a vein or a contour that she hadn't already memorised. 

In this fashion, too, a breathless Leni Riefenstahl must have approached Nubian youth in the Sudan, young men sporting proof positive of their manly instincts. Or a party of women anthropologists from Harvard in pith helmets and jodhpurs may have alighted from jeeps and stepped forward, mesmerised by the projecting flesh of young hillsmen on a hunt, their bold erections beckoning rods for closer examination- for photos, sketches, palpating, weighing, measuring. They might have advanced with prurient awe, as Ada and still more of her girls did right now, on the statuesque Negro boys standing side by side, nude and erect.

As for the boys, they were young men with the normal instincts.

All this activity around them...sperm shooting from classmates and splashing on the floor...the lewd interest of all the females in their anatomy...Miss Ada's smirking, lurid stares...well, Samson's broomstick erection topped by the outrageous red-brown crown just demanded its owner stroke himself. He started hesitantly, eyes shut. Then faster, eyes open catching the ravenous female stares. And then, excited, he moved in a hypnotic fury, determined to bring himself off. 

Ada thought she might have been a privileged observer at a tribal rite. This could be the Sahel, the earth parched from drought. A clan of hunter gatherers had gathered for a sacrifice to the gods of fertility. It fell to mothers to nominate sons and they settled on the lustiest of the young studs. He was now required to drop his robe and loin cloth and stand in the sand and spray the famished earth with his seed. In full view of the women, of course, of mother, aunt, sisters, cousins. Certainly Samson' mad self-possessed expression suggested a hereditary instinct of this type.

And next to him coal-black Tom Wilson had one image in his mind's eye: Miss Braithwaite staring right at his penis and balls and, he divined, his unique kinky pubic curls. He shuddered at the picture. A blond woman, older then he, slavering with lust over his coal black muscles, and one coal black muscle in particular...

TOM'S STORY

In the formal Savannah garden surrounding an elegant four story apartment of white brick, in the height of summer, two black men worked, clinging when they could to the stippled shade of the great oak and the pear trees. They dug at soil that nurtured passion flower, the Cherokee Rose and Rosebud orchids, other marvellous plants. They tended to geometric boxwood hedges and plants. Shade or no shade it was hot work and they sweated, naked except for their denim overalls.

One of the two negros was Tom Wilson, just turned 18. This was his holiday job, six months before this scene at the school pool, before his family had escaped white racism and fled to the north. His senior was Clement, a tall, statuesque black man in his 30s with the shape of a circus strongman. He toiled away in the garden with his shirt off and his overalls rolled down to slender hips, magnificent chiselled torso bare. He told Tom to do the same. Go shirtless, overalls almost slipping off. The boy hesitated. Indecent surely, the apartment building full of white matrons? Every one occupied by an armed services' widow, the widows of generals and colonels, admirals and captains.

Clement laughed, leaning on his shove. "Listen, Tom boy. Those ladies want to watch us nekked. They're lookin right now."

And with that he dropped the shovel and turned to face the rear of the apartment block with its 20 or so windows. Theatrically he loosened the pants and shucked himself out of them. They slithered down his legs to his heels. He wore no underwear. His penis was black and brown-tipped and uncircumcised, the biggest Tom had ever seen. Clement aimed it at the flower bed and let fly a bold trajectory of yellow urine, drilling the flowers. He ordered Tom to do the same. Uncertainly the boy obeyed.

Out of the corner of his mouth Clement told him that he could see the curtains shifting, the blinds bending. Tom looked up and his friend was right. A whole apartment block of reclusive white widows was peeping at them. While he pissed away Clement said black men normally had to avoid white women like the plague. Georgia had anti-miscegenation statutes. But the exception was "rich widow ladies." They missed their husbands and knew they were too old to get another. They had lost their inhibitions. All their lives in the South they had thought about sex with black men. Now they had the chance.

His flow had finished and he shook his pythonesque penis dry but was in no hurry to haul his overalls up again. He lingered, effectively nude. Tom was still peeing and, out of the corner of one eye, noticed at a fourth story window a curtain shift, a nose appear from the darkness and vanish again. On the first floor two slats of a blind parted. 

Clement told him there was a tradition here, that the black gardeners were on call, to "service" the old widows. It was the city's best kept secret. He had been inducted by the building supervisor who had taken him on. He had now been at it for a decade and there was no way he could satisfy the demand. The building was full of females in their 60s and 70s desperate for pleasuring, thinking of nothing but being worked by a black man, as they sipped iced tea in their sweet-smelling apartments. You could not enter the foyer without being pulled into a door by an eager wrinkled arm. They wanted a buck naked young black man in their apartments and sometimes they required no more than that, just being naked. Others made you work for it. But the tips..! And the gifts! He would increase his meagre salary 10 times. Work the gardens all morning and the widows in the afternoon.

"They don't talk. They don't complain. There are no jealous husbands. They can't get pregnant."

Tom shook himself dry and saw movement at other windows. He went to pull up his pants but Clemens stopped him. "Naw, fella, sun your black prick a bit longer. It's...good advertising."

And while they stood naked, the sun on their shimmering black bodies, Clemens told him about the 70 year old- "a real beauty of a woman," widow of an airforce commander- who made him strip and walk around her apartment "bare as a board," even sit down at the kitchen table "in the raw" and be fed by her, until finally she went down on her knees and sucked and chewed him, "my prick all sweaty and pissy from a day in the garden" until he filled her mouth with cum. She always swallowed, believed negro cum good for her complexion, "a vitamin cocktail" she said. She kept her fine clothes on all the time.

While Clements spoke Tom's teenage penis rose to point at the sky, rigid. There was a more excited flurry at several of the windows, curtains jerked aside, blinds bent. Widows were watching. This excited the boy more. White women...were googling at his dick!

And then Clements told him about the widow of a naval commander who, at 65, was too "dried out" to have regular sex but insisted that he fuck her up the ass, using half a jar of cold cream to help ease his gargantuan penis "up her crack." Clemens said she "goes mad" for it and cries out that she is being taken "by a slave man" and "being fucked by a black stallion." She likes plantation fantasies, squeals out to her mother that "one of the nigger hands is having his way with her."

He told Tom- chuckling as he gazed idly at the boy's bold erection- that this widow told him her husband, one of the nation's leading warriors, had a baby prick and was impotent anyway and seemed to hanker after handsome young officers or bare chested ratings. Visiting his quarters at base she once caught him on his knees sucking the dick of his Philippino orderly. Now, her hero husband dead and buried, she loves having her face pressed into her pillow while her ass is ploughed by a prick, she says, three times longer than her husband's. In gratitude, Clement added in lowered voice, she had once slobbered at his ass hole for the better part of 30 minutes.

"Only other time I had that was lying on my tummy at the edge of the river back home. Been swimming and I was bare-assed. Prick pressed into the hot earth. Our horse Cheyenne stumped over and started lickin me like I was rock-salt. That horse nosed my ass and I darn well spread my legs so that big rough tongue could lick my hole. Even lifted my thighs to let it get in closer. Horse darn nipped my cheeks but the pleasure was more than the pain. Fucked the grass I did, darn well furrowed the dirt with this cock of mine, while Cheyenne ate away into my rear. Horse liked the taste. Well, so did that lady. That widow's tongue was nearly as good as mah horse's."

That afternoon Clements knocked on the door of a third floor apartment. It instantly opened and the older man handed the shaking youngster over to Mrs Gwendolyn Parchment, a flint-faced lady with sparkling blue eyes that matched her flashing earrings. Under her pulled-back gray-blond hair she was as fine and dainty as bone-China, dressed in floral silks, deliciously perfumed, alert and possessed.

"Why you are very welcome in my home, young man," she said as the door closed on Tom's mentor. She clearly meant it. She announced she was 75 and the widow of one of "our country's great men" and declared boldly she loved the negro people of the south especially the strong young men with their laborer's arms and shoulders.

Tom fell in love with her at once.

She told him she had admired him in the garden and would like him to take all his clothes off so he could be more comfortable.

"And candidly," she announced without a blush, eyes flashing, "I would like to see you buck naked."

Her eyes shone into his.

He was honored. Honoured, to obey.

He pulled his shoulder straps down and took hold of the waist of his overalls. He paused, looked at her. She nodded, smiling at his decorum. He began to ease them down...to his knees...then all the way to his dusty boots. Then he stepped out of them, his shimmering coal-black body presented itself in his shabby, sweat and piss-stained shorts. His hands swung nervously, he looked for guidance. Again she nodded. Yes, take them off too. He reached for the elastic, paused and shyly jerked the dirty shorts down...and stepped out of them.

He stood naked, as if on the slave blocks.

That she was hotly interested could not be denied. Her alert old eyes swallowed up his nudity. When she had finished her devouring inspection she asked him to sit on her Chippendale reproduction sofa and wriggle out of his boots. Struggling out of his putrid socks he was aware of his pungent odour, produced by work in the blinding Savannah sun and tropical humidity. A strong musty, gamey scent from armpits, groin and ass. She didn't seem to mind...because she...Tom was astonished...sat down...right next to him!

Old lady and nude negro youth.

His penis stretched, rose, stood at attention. As if jerked up by an invisible string.

Mrs Parchment watched it while continuing to talk. She told him her family history as old people do, said her Boston forebears had been supporters of Frederick Douglass and William Lloyd Garrison, the anti-slavery cause. They befriended negro people and worshipped with them. She was speaking fast, not seeming to care whether Tom absorbed it. She told him about missing her husband, the general, a wonderful leader who cared for all his men negro and white and recommended desegregation of the army to President Truman. She spoke about life in bases across the country, mainly in the South where she- a young wife from New England- thrilled to see black recruits, black laborers, black house servants and orderlies. 

"All so tall, so strong, with such manly deep voices. It was always a thrill to see them with their shirts off. When my husband was away I persuaded our man that, with the blinds pulled down and the maid sent off, he could serve me nude. Yes, gloriously naked in our house, all day..."

She let the thought trail off.

While she talked her eyes wandered around his groin. At this stirring, unique moment in his life he had never been more proud of the long stoutness of his hardon, of the voluminous furrowed sac below it. His prick may not been as grand as Clement's but he had noticed- maybe, watching by the window, she had noticed as well- his balls were vaster. He felt her beady eyes all over. "You have a very big vein...there," she complimented him. "And your penis has a very well developed head. But above all, your sac is, I think, extraordinary. Extraordinary." He thrilled to her interest, he melted in her close company.

She proposed that he walk with her around her home.

He padded softly by her side, his fetid smell flavouring the space around them, past an antique harp and a table of silver-famed family photos, to the vast window embrasure full of plants: white water lilies, periwinkles, hydrangeas, half a dozen species of fern. She wanted to tell him about each one, as he stood, attached to his adamant erection. She spoke about her long-stemmed Pride of Barbados and lasciviously stroked its stem, up and down, while looking transfixed at his black up-standing rod. Feeling the plant's stem, looking at his. Her fine, thin fingers moved firmly up the stalk...while she focused on his upstanding penis...up and down the stem of the flower...her eyes up and down his cock...as if her fingers were on it, around his corona, across the glans, tickling the frenulum, up and down the stem of the penis, her fingernails along the groves of his sac. As she stroked the stem of the flower it was as if she were stroking him.

He shuddered and his erection pulsed and throbbed. A dribble of fluid appeared at the tip. While she continued to stroke the stem of the flower.

A long tropical frond touched his shoulder, flowers seemed to burst around him. He stood among the potted plants and ferns. 

The whole effect was Congolese.

She didn't touch him, not even as his bold rod pointed out from his kinky hair- pointed at her, as they faced one another and got brilliantly reflected in the countless mirrors as she took him around her quarters, into the bathroom, all pink in the latest style, through the kitchen and even into her bedroom, opening drawers and cupboards to show him treasured clothes. She told him young men deserve an afternoon nap and directed him to a four poster bed draped with a chinoiserie-style English chintz. She pulled back her sheets inviting him to lie between them. He protested, claiming he was all dirty but she insisted, she said, he must nap while she fixed him something wholesome to eat. 

He lay in her soft sheets, not daring to slumber, not knowing what to think, but wanting the afternoon to continue forever and wanted to give her whatever she wanted.

After half an hour she tiptoed to the bed and gently drew back the covers. He felt that his strong pungent odour must assault her nostrils. Her porcelain features registered nothing except intent interest in his now-slack penis asleep in his groin, the folds of his testicles even more capacious, like a small black woolly blanket. She invited him back to the bathroom where she suggested he might wish to relieve himself. He was shy but, when it came, it came in a thick, forceful torrent that had her watching worshipfully. She suggested that he dry himself and for the first time in his life, a boy from homes where torn newsprint served in outhouses, he experienced toilet paper.

They sat at the same side of kitchen table where, facing one another, she spooned apple pie and ice cream and fed it to his lips. The loving attention made his penis rise again which she clearly noticed with her lively eyes. "Oh, I do like that vein," she said sweetly. And he astonished himself by replying, "Thank you." The pie was the most delicious thing he had ever eaten and, again, while spooning it to his lips, she kept up her lovely cadenced conversation. For Tom this was heaven.

So when she steered him back to the sofa to drink his glass of milk he felt a tingle of anxiety. She would surely touch him, kiss him...and the magic of this hour would dissolve. But no. The nude youth sat by the ancient lady's side carefully sipping his milk while she chattered on. She had started talking about her admiration for John Foster Dulles, her views on Presbyterianism- so strong in the state- and her own Unitarianism imported from New England, the joy of living in a small city and the quaintness of Savannah and the pride of its old families and, again, her admiration for the " inherent dignity and grace of negro manhood."




Nude and Erect



She said she had watched as he and Clement worked in the garden. If she could make the rules she would require the staff to work without clothes, "as God made you, gloriously naked, and as your forebears walked round Africa."

This thought stirred the boy. His penis jolted closer to his abdomen. Moisture appeared from his meatus, spilt down the shapely glans. She noticed, plainly. But...she did nothing. And after more talk she invited him to dress, gave him an envelope and a package with the remains of the home-baked pie and bid a warm farewell, saying how deeply she looked forward to future meetings arranged through Clement.

Back in the garden Clement told him he must now pay another visit and this one, too, would be a regular, twice a week.

Two 69 year old twin sisters- thin, fragile, dainty, looking like Mamie Eisenhower- suggested the boy strip completely as soon as he arrived in their fragrant apartment, with its vases of giant lilies and silver-framed photographs of their deceased general father, a friend of Pershing's from World War One. Standing on the polished mahogany floor he dropped his overalls and quickly whisked off his undershorts to present himself nude. "Good gracious," one sputtered. Under their gaze he quickly became erect, and the sight plainly electrified them. "Just like in the garden this morning," one giggled to the other.

They had him sit, still unbathed and pungent, on a reproduction recamier couch, they on either side, dressed in elegant house gowns and smelling of rosewater. They had never married but had apparently enjoyed numerous "flings" with officers. In old age the practice of black gardeners tending to their needs figured big in their lives. Where would they be without?

They gushed over him.

Their tiny, painted fingers danced on the coronal ridge and tickled the frenulum of his ceiling-pointer, ran delicately up and down the shaft, caressed the furrows of the voluminous sac feeling his proud testicles ("You'll be a good breeder," trilled one) and twirled the kinky hair in his greasy groin. He found it delicious. Negro girls never took such trouble, they just lay there, trying to trick you into marriage. The widows then moved upwards to play with his nipples, two hands teasing his two black pointers to erection- and in a flash he discovered that those big buttons were there for sheer pleasure. Then they tickled his ribs and flickered across his abdomen...while nervously he sat between them, trying not to spill his glass of strawberry milk. 

Four sets of hands, and their sweet babbling about "his beautiful manly form," on top of the excitement with ancient and adorable Gwendolyn Parchment, saw him quickly and decisively explode. And as his neck stretched back in astonishment he saw them compete to lick up his sperm from chest, abdomen and groin. He recovered his erection immediately and one of the sisters retreated. This was to allow him to satisfy the other...on the couch. When she dropped her gown her body, from the shoulders, was as smooth as a 20 year old's. Her magic fingers- greenish veins on ivory white hands- had him erect again. She guided it by the sculpted black glans into her juicy recess. This was a game he was familiar with, played out with girls his own age, and after his earlier explosion he was able to keep going until the old lady was gasping and panting, legs thrown over his moist back.

It was to happen like this, on each visit to the old twins, all summer.

A big boned and heavily built lady, widow of an admiral- his erection sprang in his overalls as soon as he saw her blond locks- always answered the door fully nude, her sprawling ivory-white flesh and bursting yellow pubic curls on display. Marianne was 55 and her special game was to be seen, to be seen being taken by a black youth, seen by by passers-by. On one occasion she invited a Jehovah Witness couple to call at her screened garden door with their Watchtower magazine at 3pm...which was why she carefully positioned herself lying on the kitchen table with Tom standing at the table, pounding her vagina. The couple chose not to stay and witness, and beat a silent, horrified retreat, assembling prayers.

On another day, teenage missionaries from the Mormons, in white shirts and black ties, did appear to hesitate longer than necessary in full view, through the screen door, of Tom fucking Marianne against the refrigerator while she panted and exclaimed about "black prick." She later told him that, watching over his shoulder, she saw their sainted eyes bulge with desire, even claimed that as they backed off they revealed punchy erections in their regulation trousers.

When she arranged the same show for Father Patrick O'Gorman, a pink-faced, white-haired Jesuit, the lovers heard him muttering to himself in whiskey breath and, rattling the door, try to join their frolic and, Marianne later swore, hectically masturbating before he slumped off back to the presbytery. She once invited two companions, a male couple- a young writer called Gore and his friend, a singer, called Howard, both from New York- to sit in her bedroom in kimonos and watch Tom and her in an extended, drawn-out session. Tom did not object to being watched, but ruled out anything else with the men.

As Tom drove hard into the fleshy midriff of his hostess he felt a big male hand fondling his left buttock. He furiously flicked it off. Afterward Gore, the writer, said that he had glimpsed Tom's huge testicles between his thighs as he "stoked away" and said that he had always "loved the rear view...like being backstage during a performance." Tom shyly padded off to his clothes, the eyes of the male couple all over him and the smell of their ejaculations rising from their laps. Marianne sprawled luxuriously on the sheets, a faraway look in her eye, an open copy of William Faulkener's Light in August next to her reading lamp.

Mrs Leonora Pendleton, widow of a captain, welcomed him in a glorious exhalation of gin. In bed she told him how when she had been living with her husband on a southern base, her horse, Firebird, had been stabled and trained by a part Cherokee private called Williams. One day in the woods she had glimpsed him stark naked- without a stitch- seated on her roan, circling a forest glade. Naked on horseback. "He was riding like he was one with the pony, his body had pure-cut lines, his long, straddling legs, muscled like those of a colt."

She had peeped from the dark woods as the soldier dismounted, walked around the horse and stroked it, an image of an ancient native world. His private parts swinging between his shapely legs, his body brown all over.

Since that glimpse, she said, replacing her glass on the nightstand next to a pint bottle of rye and a whiskey jigger, she had been infatuated with the physiques of lieutenants and privates. "With their concave bellies," she whispered, curling over his reclining body with her tongue poised.

But it was the apartment of Miss Gwendolyn Parchment- she of the gray-blond hair, the flinty features and flashing blue eyes- that he grew to love the most. On his second visit he had shyly suggested he could come more often if she wanted and she had eagerly agreed. Three times a week- it was to grow to four- their routine never varied and he grew so comfortable that in her sheets he now slept instantly, and loved being woken to the sensation of them being drawn back. 

She never asked him to wash even when he thought he must stink like a mule, always watched as he peed and, on one urgent occasion, did something more. Unfailingly she praised his big artery, the shape of his glans, the sprawl of his testicles. She was never to lay a hand on him, not even on the splendid occasion when as she spooned him ice cream a quantity slid out of the spoon and fell on his erection, to drip over his sculpted glans and trail down its stem. She took a wet cloth from the kitchen and delicately gave it to him to clean up, watching him carefully. 

She did say a niece from the north, a girl called Veronica, an art history major, would be coming to stay, and she was looking forward to meeting him. Tom shivered with fear and fascination at the thought of a young woman his age joining their adventures in the apartment. What would it be like...shucking out of his clothes in front of her? Having her share his smell? Having her stare at his groin? Watch him as he pissed? His penis hardened.

Then, before the end of summer, Tom's father told them they were leaving their one-horse farm, moving to the North. It was Mrs Parchment that Tom was going to miss most bitterly.

Now at the pool...

...with the rich Savannah experience in his veins...

...and months without any sex or companionship or nakedness in the delightful presence of female eyes...

...Tom, as much an automaton as the others, grabbed his erection, looked defiantly at Ada Braithwaite, and massaged the stout black bludgeon.

He came in a flash, a huge emission splashing on his shoulders and neck, like spilt cream on the shiny bonnet of a black Kustom roadster, then other spasms sending his white stuff to the tiles, close to his audience. 

And at his side, Samson's broomstick erection shot forth a heavy load going further than any other, hitting Millicent's beautiful shift and making the girl shriek. A second cannonade flew forward and made shrieking girls dive in all directions before it skidded on the tiles. The spray continued with a third blast. And then right out of the red-brown head of his broomstick prick there positively drooled a long thick stream of spunk, all the way to the tiles. The white fluid just hung off the end of his erection while he slumped, dead-eyed and dazed and distracted.

It was all happening in a flash.

Every boy was on automatic pilot, so excited he could not control himself. The "little ones" had performed admirably, Carl Harlson shyly sending a big handful of the stuff shooting so high the first deposit hit his face and drained off his nose. "Oh, so so sweet," was the cooing comment from several of the girls gathered by his side, admiring the performance of the pint-sized member on the athletic young man. And Stevie Lynton, blushing terribly at his evil deed, found that his sisters' friend Sally was fussing over him, taking her floral-edged silk handkerchief and drying off the end of his still rigid prick, tut-tuttering, and he found that he was lapsing into babyhood as he let her do it and he gave into thinking that his sisters themselves might supervise him in this fashion and it might be shamefully thrilling and while the silk handkerchief did its work his small member stiffened all over again.

One hand on his hip, chewing on gum, Kerry Fulbright worked his tilting penis. He was enjoying showing off his chunky young muscles which he knew from admiring himself for hours in the mirror were pretty darn nice, and thrilled to the girls hypnotic staring at his chunky prick and its jaunty tilt to the right. Then! A healthy load whispered like a jet through the air and caught Gloria Smedley right on the breast of her chequered tucked-in blouse, standing off on the side as she was. Warning! Be careful of the jaunty angled erection, thought Ada, when IT unloads it'll catch you unaware. Kerry stood, both hands on hips chewing his gum, his penis trailing fluid from its meatus, looking defiant. At home this afternoon, he thought, I'll go naked in my room daring my sisters or Mom to burst in, leave the window wide open when I shower tonight to give the old lady next door a full frontal view, in the morning jog shirtless through the neighbourhood when the Moms are getting home from shopping...truth is, he thought, I like showing off.

A tortured Danny Bristol Jnr showed a downward bending six inch banana cock could produce a massive load, even as its owner cringed with shame and embarrassment and dread at having his big secret revealed for ever. He sprayed all over the tiles in front of him. And Jason Cho stood shamed in profile, half hiding as he sought relief from the eyes of so many American females. He suddenly shook with a loud "Grrrrrrrrr...ahhhhhhhh!" and too ashamed to send his spunk flying in the full view of these haughty American girls he captured it with his hands, the sticky white stuff flowing from between his fingers and bubbling out of his grip. Girls around him laughed out loud at the antics of the silly Asian boy- God! Who would ever want to go out with him, although it was sweet to catch him nude and see what an Asian looked like. Well, Susie Smyth wanted to pursue him. She liked the smooth coffee coloured skin, the perfectly proportioned penis, the fact that it stood up permanently. Inspected thus, she would invite him on a home visit...yes, when the rest of the family were on a picnic.

The rest of the platoon of boys were efficient, moving like automatons up and down their shafts until whoosh! Splash! Gasp! It happened, and for the most part they slowly raised their guilty, shamed faces to see the triumphant female observers catching them in the eye.

More than one girl fell in love with the owners of the ostentatiously little ones. Looking at Carl here is what Laura Christensen speculated about: "Yes, I'd love him as a boyfriend, a boyfriend with a tiny penis...I'd love the moment when he reluctantly slides his pants down for me and shyly warns me he has a somewhat small cock...I'd savor the moment when he nervously sees me inspect it...I'd gently lift it, look at it quizzically...then declare I was so relieved he had a little one...and watch his pathetic relief...and lie that I always hated and feared a big penis...then tell him my brothers had really big ones and see him deflated...make him worry that I'd tell the other girls...and even threaten I'd do it if he let me down...and keep him anxious...and of course watch him play football and basketball and smile at the little secret flopping inside his shorts...and dole out knowledge to my girlfriends when we talked about our boyfriends...and make them gasp and press for more details...'What real, real, real little?' ...holding their little fingers up...knowing how he'd be devastated if he knew I talked about it..."

She knew he was shy and had no girlfriend, despite his ravishing Viking looks and athletic build. She resolved there and then she would recruit him to go to church socials (he had an image as a worshipful young man) and one day everything she was hoping- in a parked car or on a sofa- would come to pass. "Come on, just let me see...no, I swear, Carl sweetie, I never liked big ones...saw 'em on my brothers..."

The girls had plenty to look at.

With attention elsewhere Stevie Lynton was standing stock still while his sisters' friend ran her fingers up and down and around his very rigid little penis, even- and it sent him wild- tickled his little scrotum and then tickled the hairy patch on his abdomen. She had mopped his stick clean with her floral edged handkerchief, all the while telling him he was a very naughty little boy and had to accept his sisters would hear everything. Now her fingers, gently flicking around his glans, corona and frenulum- prick head and banjo strings- had brought him to an ecstatic state. Eyes screwed shut and weak in the insides he heard her whisper, "Now Stevie things are going to change at home. Beginning next Saturday afternoon when your loving Mom is out playing bridge. Your sisters and I will draw the blinds in your living room...make sure the doors are locked..."

Now her fingers were running the length of his shaft. Ooooohhhh, it felt delicious.

"...and ask you to stand before us and slowly take off all your clothes and hand them over...yes, sweetie, your shirt first and the girls are going to get very excited at the first sight of your hairy little chest and tummy...and then...well, the other things...and you will be very embarrassed...especially when your underpants come down, won't you now?"

He nodded weakly, eyes screwed, heart beating. Up and down her fingers were tickling his penis stem.

"Because that's when your sisters will see all of this here...and they'll probably have a good giggle being girls...and this will be the first time they've seen you in the nude...and they will want to have a real close look not having boyfriends and all...and you will be embarrassed at having such a sweet little thing...and go very red in the face...and want to die of shame..."

One hand flickered around the underside of his scrotum venturing into his perineum...Holy Jesus! And if that weren't enough...her other fingers had returned to the glans, and the things she was saying were making his tummy flip over and his knees go weak and his penis dribble sticky fluid...

"So you'll be modelling and posing in your birthday suit for us...and they'll love to inspect your body hair...only naughty boys get hair on their tummies, I bet...boys with lots of dirty thoughts and dreams...they make the hair sprout...and like all girls they'll just love seeing their brother's cock and these cute little balls in this little bag of yours...they'll want to feel it all...and don't worry they'll be as gentle as I'm being now...you like what Im doing dont you, sweetie?"

He could only manage a lame, shut-eyed, far-off, "Yes." Because he didn't want her to stop.

"Oh we'll be very gentle with our little boy..Look you all over...and a peek at your bottom..."

Stevie nearly choked at this suggestion and his knees nearly went. But now her fingers flickered between his legs towards his bottom hole and the other hand circled his cock and moved lightly up and down. He was lost, and at her disposal.

"Yes, we'll check your bottom hole...just to see if that's hairy too...what's wrong with giving all your little secrets up to your sisters...once its over, you'll never be embarrassed...we'll lock your clothes away for the afternoon...and your can demonstrate for us...just like you did today for me...we might even want to dress you up, like girls with a doll...some of your sisters' pretty underwear..."

Her hand moved faster up and down the stem while the other probed the entrance to his bottom. The obscene thoughts sent him into a fever.

"...and maybe your mother's maid Magda would join us...I hear she's caught a glimpse of little Stevie without any clothes on..."

Enough! At that very moment, eyes clenched and body rigid, he sent another pearly stream in a trajectory that ended on the tiles.

The tiles all around them were somewhat slimy. All the boys had now exploded.

Ada was suggesting to Coach Compton that her girls might like to pick their favorite boy for sponsorship in swimming meets. 

"A few girls for every boy. Recruit other girls to form little fan clubs. Attend training. Cheer him on. Follow his progress. Dry him off. Get photographed with him..."

Rodney gulped uncontrollably. Danny came close to fainting. Carl felt tears of despair. Samson's tummy flipped over. Jason Cho winced as if whipped. This was terrifying.

Coach thought it an excellent idea, his merry little erection- the last standing- perked up.

"Recruiting their moms, sisters..."

Sisters? Stevie felt condemned.

"...but always unencumbered..."

"By swimwear," agreed the coach. "No, that rule about fellas swimming naked is held sacred, by me. Proud, not ashamed- that's our motto."

So it was logical for girls to stroll the ranks and to congregate before the boys they most wanted to sponsor and the liaisons were quickly made, even if some boys, still half-stiff and dribbling, were shy and reluctant. There was no way out for Jason Cho, standing with glued-up fingers before Susie Smyth who told him bluntly she would report him to coach if he didn't meet her and several of her friends at her home after school this very day "for the first meeting of your fans." They would want him to strip down and check his style and see his warm-up exercises. Take photos with him. And, Susie felt tempted to say, get that perfectly shaped prick of yours to stand up again, see its helmet and its brownish band...and make you melt of shame...and have another of those noisy little explosions. Oh, she thought, she loved that "Grrrrrrrrr!" sound he made before he ejaculated in front of them.