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Rodney's Nude Humiliation Ch. 02

By: aaronburr



The school started rehearsing months in advance for the end of year musical. It was the obsession of drama teacher Miss Cuff: a big brassy production called Cowgirls and Indian Braves, a pastiche with athletics, dance, poetry reading. With her sassy glasses and blue stockings it was clear the flamboyant teacher saw herself as a real bohemian. Her big circular earings were a hallmark and she had once been seen out of school smoking a cigarette in an elegant long holder. She may have aspired one day to graduate herself to the world of theatre. To Broadway or off-Broadway. Girls loved her, boys feared her. Something about her made the boys, kinda...shrivel. But all knew it would be part of their school assessment. They had to take her seriously.

So the rehearsals went on, twice a week with the whole cast and some smaller sessions. On one occasion Rodney was required to stand in a a circle of 10 girls sitting on the floor and recite part of The Song of Hiawatha. Of course, being gawky, shy and awkward he felt foolish, standing there facing their whispers and smirks.

His terror was getting an erection, or even a half erection, while standing up in front of them. His penis, with its thick head, could not be concealed if it stiffened and poked forward. It would froce a big "tent" in the front of his pants. On this occasion he was spared an involuntary erection but not an unpleasant surprise.

"Miss, when do we get our costumes?"one of the girls asked.

"I'm working on the designs right now,"Miss Cuff replied.

"I know what cowgirls wear. But what will the boys look like?" another girl wanted to know.

"Well, what Indian braves always wore. Nicely decorated loin cloths...made out of animal skin." 

Rodney reddened and looked at the floor.

There was a thoughtful silence.

"Just that? Nothing else?"

"Just moccasins and head band. And a neat little loin cloth. Like a real young Indian fighter."

They were silent...all looking intently at the poor boy's midriff and...imagining. He kept looking at the floor, his face crimson.

Then a girl asked, thoughtfully, "Will they wear underpants?"

There were some subdued giggles.

Miss Cuff dismissed the notion."Have you ever see an Indian brave wearing boxer shorts...under his animal skin flaps and his waistband? Don't be ridiculous. Our boys will want to look the real thing. Won't you Rodney?"

He nodded glumly, still looking down because he couldn't look any girls in the eye after this conversation. The rehearsal continued.

Flaps? Just flaps in front and back? Wasn't a loin cloth a kinda...a kinda little apron that might more or less cover a fella's front? But if you just had a flap there, dangling from a waistband, wouldn't those girls see everything? Especially if he was leaping around and dancing on the stage? And if his cock started stretching! Jeepers! Started to lift up, even a little! An apron would be bad enough. A flap would just get shoved aside by his stubborn cock with its swollen head!

Then one day Gloria, an attractive well-developed blond Rodney liked, spoke to him across the aisle."Hey, Rodney! You seen Miss Cuff's designs for what we're going to be wearing?"

And she pulled out a couple of roneoed pages. There was a sketch of a girl in a cowgirl suit, the skirt with pleats, a bow and lace. She had boots, hat, gloves. And on another page there was an artist's sketch of a male wearing an Indian brave costume: just a string waistband and a narrow flap- a real narrow flap- hanging in front, no more than a few inches wide and very short. Tiny! The sketch did not indicate the boy's penis and scotum but it was clear they would be easily revealed by the token cover. A rear view showed an ever shorter flap, the curve of the bottom and the lower part of the crack totally revealed!

His stomach flipped. He reddened and his eyes watered with anxiety.

"Nice, hey? Let's see, it gives measurements here. That thing in front...that flap...it's two and a half inches wide...and it says, five to six inches long. Gee! We expect to be seeing a lot of you!"

And she chuckled, looking him right in the eye. She seemed to be in possession of some very lurid thoughts. And enjoying making a boy get excruciatingly embarrassed. Yes, Rodney got the sense that she relished making him turn red and making him panic.

That afternoon in the privacy of his bedroom he stripped and took a ruler and pressed it to his privates. He blanched. The proposed measurement would afford him no protection worthy of the name. Every other boy in the class- for word of the drawing with its measurement had spread fast- was doing the same. And, like Rodney, sinking into despair- and immediately jacking off with fast and furious motions, sending spunk dancing in the air, the only relief from the terror of the impending public humiliation. Under their covers Rodney and each of his classmates repeated panicky masturbation throughout the night, soiling sheets and staining pyjamas.

At the next rehearsal Miss Cuff handed out appointment slips for visits to the town's dressmaker and costume designer, Mrs Carruthers. That was why Rodney found himself walking gloomily up Elm Street one day after school, to a two floor whiteboard home with a neat garden. A sign read: Mrs Una Carruthers- Sewing Dress Design Theatrical Costumes.

The porch was deep and as he approached the steps he noticed a big gathering of females in one of the front rooms. Closer, he saw that they were girls from his class- this made his tummy turn over- helping one another try on their costumes. A middle aged lady- he guessed Mrs Carruthers- was kneeling with pins between her lips, adjusting Janice Gooley's pleats.

He knocked. A couple of girls flattened their faces at the glass. One of them squealed. "Oh, my God! It's Rodney Ricketson...here for his fitting!" He heard laughter.

Mrs Carruthers opened the door and told him to come in. She thanked him for being on time unlike some of the other boys who had come for fittings. She explained she had to finish the girls' dresses but "Yuela" would tend to him and led him down the corridor.

As he slouched past Rodney carefully avoided glancing into the front room. He had butterflies raging in his tummy. How do you take measurements for...a string waistband and an animal skin flap? Would he have to...undress? All the way? Anything, he guessed, was possible if Miss Cuff had laid down the requirements. Miss Cuff was unsympathetic to males, he had decided. How else could she had come up with that shocking design that had so tittilated Gloria? So terrified him.

Yuela was Miss Carruthers' Negro maid, broad bosomed in a black dress. A black dress- a maid's dress- with a stiff starched white apron. It looked as stiff as cardboard. She was perhaps in her early 20s. She had rather thick lips and dark darting eyes. "I'll leave you with Yuela for your measurements and be back to help with your fitting," said Mrs Carruthers. 

The boy and the uniformed maid were in the sewing room, a wide room with sewing-related clutter everywhere.There was indeed a big window, curtains wide open, looking out on the side porch. A wooden stool stood in the centre of the room and there were two tables, with sewing machines and material and patterns all over. There were tape measures, he noticed with apprehension. There was a full length mirror in a mahogany frame.

"Alright..." said Yuela.

Rodney noticed her eyes seemed to be dancing. She seemed excited.

"Mrs Carruthers needs you to take down all your clothes..."

The boy went weak at his knees. His stomach was turning over. Sweat started to pour from under his arms. His eyes, watering desperately, were drowning in fear. Totally naked...in front of a Negro maid! A young Negro maid! And later Mrs Carruthers! With girls lurking in the house eager to glimpse him! No! No! No! He...would...not...strip...off! He would simply refuse.

Then he thought of Miss Cuff. The teacher was terrifying and she was supposed to be coming here later. He thought of his mother and how she would react when she heard he had revolted. And the refined punishments she was capable of concocting- with his sister and cousin. God, that day in the changing booth showed what she was capable of.

He stuttered out a request.

"Can you..."

His plea hung in the air.

Yuela smiled.They always had one request, she thought, always. Could they at least keep their underpants on? Would she please let them strip in the corner? Could she please close the curtains? Could she turn her back, go out of the room? One desperate 18 year old had begged, close to tears, for a screen! And the answer- she had been coached by her mistress- was always the same. She was to look the frightened male right in the eye and, with a hint of a smile...slowly shake her head. As slow as she could manage, and the little smile was important as she did it.

"Can you...close the door?" he squeaked.

This time she took pity- he was a nice nervous boy- and complied.

"I'll take your clothes," she said, standing right in front of him. So close he could smell her soap. And...something else. An intimate smell. A woman's smell.

With quaking fingers he picked at his buttons. Half way down his shirt front began to part. He stole a glance- and saw to his terror Yuela was staring at his exposed white flesh. She seemed deeply interested. He slowly hauled his shirt tails out.

His heart was thumping. His legs shook and his knees knocked together. His insides turned to water. He felt terrified, and strangely, deeply warm all around the lining of his stomach. It was a funny feeling. It was horrible...and oddly thrilling at the same time. 

He peeled off his shirt. She reached out and he gave it to her. He was now half nude. This strange woman could feast her eyes on his naked torso, his pink stick-out nipples, the fuse of red hair running from his belly button into his pants.

"Shoes and socks."

He struggled with his left foot and fell back on the stool. Struggled again and drew off a shoe and sock. The air filled with smell of warm leather and wool as he exposed big boney feet.

He rose again. He sneaked a look from under his downcast brows. She caught his eye. He read her look. It was a command. She did not have to utter a word. It was- for any boy- the most frightening order in the language. 

Her look said one thing: take...down...your...trousers.

He unbuckled the belt and unbuttoned the trousers. He unzipped the fly, blushing even redder. He loosened the waist and the trousers started to sag. Soon, he thought, she would be examining me naked as the day that I was born, bare as a board, stripped to the buff. She would stand there just looking me over. The shame curdled in his tummy and the trousers slithered down his legs.

He stepped out and handed them over.

He stood in his worn, frayed boxers.

Again her glance told him what to do next.

But Rodney, head down, had frozen.

Her voice was just above a whisper. She now pronounced the order.

He looked at her face grimacing, on the point of bawling like a child. This desperate look was his final plea.

"Down," she repeated softly.

He could not face her. He swung his body, turning his back to her at a three quarter angle, facing the big windows. He bent slowly. He eased his shorts down his thighs and over his knees. In doing so he shamefully exposed his bottom, his deeply cleft bottom, like a youngster shyly undressing for a bath under the watchful gaze of a governess or nurse. His bottom was now on display looking very vulnerable but at least he had kept his front averted. 

Without looking he stuck his arm back and handed the pants over.

"Thank you. Now wait and I'll come back..."

She paused, cruelly.

"...to...measure you."

She let it sink in, sounded like she was grinning.

She left. With the shameful bundle of his clothes. Leaving him standing there. In the buff. 

The afternoon sunlight poured in the window from the porch. A car purred up Elm Street. The conversation between Mrs Carruthers and the girls drifted from the front room. Apart from this, silence reigned.

Rodney's thoughts stirred.

He found himself thinking of Yuela's maid's apron: white against her black uniform, stiff with starch, looking hard as cardboard. Thoughts of the apron were getting him...aroused.

What if...? His thoughts snaked their way to a fantasy, a delicious fantasy. He knew he shouldn't be entertaining it- jeepers! it could make him get stiff- but it was beyond his power.

What if...? 

What if he, Rodney, were an 18 year old boy in a rich southern household? An ante-bellum plantation. A rich spoilt white boy. What if the family had a maid like Yuela? Exactly like Yuela. Dressed exactly like Yuela. 

And, he pushed the fantasy further. Imagine, he thought, that one day all the family is out visiting relatives, a long way out of town. A very long way by horse-drawn carriage. And that he, this spoilt white son, stands in his big bedroom with its four poster bed, its rich coverings and carpets, and strips off all his fancy clothes to take a hip bath. Soon he is nude, as nude as Rodney is right now in real life. The boy is stripped to the buff. In his birthday suit.

Already standing there in the room thinking these unbidden thoughts, Rodney's penis is starting to inflate, to lengthen and thicken.

And in his fantasy the boy is also standing and beginning to stroke his penis, up and down, faster and faster. When suddenly the bedroom door opens- and it's the household maid with her feather duster. And she sees everything. She sees a red-haired white boy...white all over...shockingly white...totally, one hundred percent stripped off...his clothes abandoned in a mess on the floor..his penis pointing to the ceiling...and the boy's hand pleasuring it, rubbing his penis shaft. It's a disgusting picture of male depravity and filth. She is furious!

The next minute the boy is lying on his back on his bed, legs up in the air. Yuela's left hand is forcing his ankles high and her right hand is wielding the feather duster in slashing cuts on his exposed bottom. It's the old "on his back, legs in the air" spanking position, beloved of grandmothers and obviously witnessed at some time by the maid, a position good for getting at the tenderest spots...also good for totally nude humiliation. Because the female spanker can see right into the tilted bottom and,with a turn of the head, into the groin with the bunched-up genitals. While she thrashes away.

And then she's got him- oh, what a exciting prospect- over her lap, pressing the small of his back so that all his midriff is flattened into the stiff, starched white apron. Flattened forcefully, and his stiff dick is flattened as well, so that it feels the warmth of her thighs. He smells her soap. And something more intimate. That woman's smell. Down comes the firm flat palm! Then again, and again...Owww! It stings! Ouch! Owww! Ouch!

Rodney realises what his moment of dirty thinking has done.

He is suddenly sporting a 45 degree erection!

Bolt hard. A real boner. One- he knew this from experience- that would not fade fast. Shit! Yuela would be back to measure him around the waist. He couldn't show her this! He needed a plan...

He heard a noise from the porch. He looked up. There were girls walking by...who any moment would glance his way!

He had to cover up! He lurched for the sewing table to grab the first material he could lay his hands on.

But a glance at the window showed the sudden movement had drawn the attention of the girls. They looked...at the funniest sight any of them had EVER seen. EVER! Rodney Ricketson! It was him- the tall, skinny, awkward red-headed boy in their class! Stark naked, yes NUDE! And desperately moving across the room with...OH MY GOD! His thing- his penis- sticking out and up, jutting right out in front of him, stiff and hard as he made the dash!

The four of them shrieked. 

Rodney made the table and grabbed a lilac pleated skirt and clamped it to his middle. A little skirt! Must have been made for the most petite girl in the class.With bow and lace and pleats. He clamped it over his midriff. 

Laughing out loud they flattened their faces to the glass. One of them was the blond girl he liked- Gloria, who sat across the aisle. Laughing out loud at his nudity! As if she were looking at the most hilarious sight in the whole world. She would never take him seriously again. 

"Oh Rodney, you look pretty! Those laces...that bow...lilac is your colour!"

"And look at that bulge! Oh my God! Rodney, you are a sight!"

"He's got something under that skirt alright!"

"He likes the sight of us!"

"Did you see it? Like a broom stick- or a rolling pin!"

Shrieks of laughter.

Rodney could not turn his back. If he did they would see his naked behind. His bare bottom. His crack. That would make them really shriek with laughter. No, he would not turn around. that would be even more shameful. He was stuck. Trapped. He just stared back at them, mournful and despairing. He pressed the pretty skirt tighter.

They waved and blew kisses and told him how pretty he looked and suggested he wear girls' panties as well and pursed their lips and blew more kisses and pointed at his middle where that bulge was as hard as ever.

Then he heard the door open. Yuela was back.

She entered the room and quickly shooed the girls away.

"Bad girls! They always do that! Bad breeding. Baaaaad breeding."

She looked him up and down, just suppressing a smile. The effect was so...fetching. Especially the way he trembled and shivered with shame as he held that little skirt to his front.

Oh my God, he thought, I can't let her see my boner.

He had an inspiration.

"I...need...to...go...to...the...bathroom."

In the bathroom he would quickly jack off and banish the hardon. Return for the measurement...without the embarrassment.

"You can go to the bathroom...after the measurement."

" I need to go now...bad. Miss...please."

"Umm. Well...first, put that skirt aside."

"Miss!"

"Aside!"

"But...I've got nothing on."

"Oh, I think I know that."

"Miss, I'm embarrassed. I need to go real bad!"

"Aside." And she looked him in the eye, made him wilt and with surprising force took hold of the skirt and wrenched it free.

He was totally nude- in his birthday suit- and totally erect.

Yuela was looking down at a mushroomy cockhead, well-shaped and pink, with a big slit. Which seemed to be grinning at her. On an eight inch stem, white with several prominent blue veins, decorative underneath the very white skin. And a burst of ginger pubic hair- which she had never seen before and which made her gasp. She took in the low hanging ball sac with its two little pears. For some reason that did not seem to surprise her.

She must have stared for a full minute with the boy's pleading gaze directed straight at her.

"I see. You really do need to go to the bathroom," she conceded. "Well, it's down the corridor to the left."

Nothing about getting dressed.

"Please Miss...can you bring back my clothes?"

"Oh no, stored them...at the other end of the house. And we haven't got all afternoon."

There was a solution to the boy's fears for his modesty, ideal in so many ways. She knew Miss Carruthers would approve. And Miss Cuff, when they told her.

"Just put this on."

She handed him the skirt.

He quailed at this. Begged. Pleaded. Beseeched. But she told him Miss Carruthers would be here in a minute. 

Of course, if he wanted to walk naked to the bathroom he could. But, it was fair to warn him, there were girls all over the house getting their fittings, trying on their costumes, loitering on the porch. Right now he was the only boy. Again, as so often, he saw no way of resisting female authority.


Rodney's Nude Humiliation Ch. 02



She bent and stretched the waist of the skirt, so he could step into it. Manoeuvred it for him, getting a delicious close up of his genitals- indeed the engorged member grazed her forearm- as he stepped into it. It had a warm fleshy feel. And she caught a smell- like that of ferns- of a boy's intimate area when he was sweating with panic.Then she watched the bolt-upright penis vanish from sight as the elastic closed in.

The skirt fitted him very tightly at the waist.

It ended on his mid-thighs, flaring out somewhat. The effect being suggestive of ballet or circus. Especially with the ribbon and bow.

The dusting of red fur on his legs rounded out the bizarre impression, as did the trail of hair running from belly button to the elastic belt. To where- his disgrace had not faded- the bulge was as obvious as ever. His big penis jutted the pleats outward, like a clown in a comedy by Aristophanes playing a lustful satyr or ridiculous domestic.

Looking him over, she seemed very pleased with her work. She checked the corridor and ushered him out of the sewing room. She had to chuckle at the sight of the blushing boy in the small girl's skirt treading gingerly on his bare feet down the corridor, eyes darting with the fear of being observed.

The bathroom was a roomy old fashioned one, the bath on curved legs, the head-high tiles white and black. There was an indefinable feminine odour. He locked the door and with no time to waste pulled the skirt down and stepped out.

His penis sprang free, as if eager for attention.

He stood totally nude. Outrageously naked in a lady's bathroom.

He re-spooled the scene, being told to undress by Yuela. A black maid in maid's uniform...in her 20s...telling him...to strip off his clothes...all of them...item by item. Yeahhhh! He stroked his dick. Shirt...shoes...trousers...all peeled off...with her looking...feasting her dirty mind on his nakedness. And, like all of them, enjoying a male's humiliation. Yeah, loving that!

He relived the shame...he relived the soft, gooey, warm feeling that suffused his being...the terror of peeling off...in front of this young Negro maid...getting buck naked with her looking. And of handing the items over one by one...the feeling of shame at work in his tummy, curdling in his guts...and how he felt when she told him- gasp! The climactic moment- to take down his underpants. Oooooooh, yeahhhh! He stroked faster at that thought.

He was cruising now, lifting himself into another plane with his fantasy. His hand worked on the full length of his eight inches, up and down...as he played out again, the sweetness of his humiliation. 

Especially...hauling off those underpants and becoming completely naked under her gaze. Ohhhhhh! Beautiful sensations took hold, as he relived what he had been through.

Then he changed mental gears.

He switches to the lovely wild fantasy of being taken bare-nude over Yuela's white, stiff starched apron...laid down across her lap...his stiff cock pressed into the stiff starched material...her hands playing over his bare bottom, fingers dancing on the crease of his buttocks and thighs...while she says it's the bottom of a naughty boy whose penis keeps getting stiff and who keeps stroking it and who has to be spanked hard...to teach him a lesson...and she starts to lay it on with her broad black palm. Oh! Oh! Oh!...ouch! owww! Gosh it hurts! It stings his bottom! Hurts like hell! He kicks, squeals and cries...and she switches to her wooden hair brush

Rodney is stroking hard now, up and down, and panting with the dirty thrill...it keeps getting filthier in his mind.

In his fantasy he now looks up, and sees, looking down on him and smiling, Miss Cuff eyes flaming behind her flamboyant glasses and Mrs Carruthers and his mother...and his sister and his cousin...and Gloria who is laughing her head off. They are all enjoying it and beaming and giggling at him. Giggling at his nakedness...at his total embarrassment...at his bottom on view...at his long skinny redhead's body...at the fur on his legs...at the glimpses they get between his legs...of his low-hanging scrotum, all squashed...at the way he is crying and pleading...and being shamed by a Negro maid...with his rump turning pink, then red.

But Gloria is laughing loudest of all. Regarding him as the funniest sight she has ever seen! Looking down at him with contempt. Seeing him as a thoroughly despicable object. Oh, how she laughs at him, making him want to shrivel with shame. How could he have ever hoped to be taken seriously by this girl?

Down comes the hairbrush and in his imagination he sees his bottom leap and twist... And in twisting to avert the next slap of the brush he reveals to the females- to Miss Cuff and Mrs Carruthers and Yuela, to his sister and cousin, to Gloria- all of his shameful male nakedness: his stiff white cock with its veins and its swoollen pink head, the absurd loose scrotum and two oversized balls, the burst of ginger pubic hair.

They see it all. They gasp...and then they laugh their heads off at the ridiculous sight of his shameful genitals...at his tearful face...at the scale of his humiliation, his fall from dignity and grace.

Rodney shoots.

The pearlescent arc spatters on the mirror and immediately starts sliding down towards the basin.

A second douses the lilac cowgirl dress that he had carefully hung on the edge of the sink.

A third falls to the woolly bathroom rug.

It is as if he has sent his appalling emissions all over the place.

There is the sound of movement outside. Someone rattles the door handle. A voice says, "He's locked himself in." Rodney quickly squeezes the end of his now downward pointing penis and the last dribblets ozze out. He wipes down the mirror with toilet paper. He bustles back into the shameful skirt.

One glimpse in the mirror...he is appalled by the sight. But determined now to get things over and to get out.

In the corridor he sees Yuela and 10, no, a dozen girls.

And at the end, he sees Miss Cuff, eyes on fire, with a look that says,"Yeeees! Yeeees! What I've been aiming for!"

Yuela takes him by the elbow. He is being escorted, girls on either side like an honor guard, back to the sewing room.

"Oh, isn't he SWEET! Our Rodney, in one of our dresses!"

A hand reaches out and quickly tweaks a nipple. "Let's dress him in a training bra!"

A hand enters the skirt from behind. No! They're touching his ass! "And Rodney's got NO panties! But a nice smooth bottom!"

This is an invitation for the others. In the confusion- he is surrounded by girls closing in for the kill- a hand shoots up the front and flickers over his penis. The girl doing it shrieks. Another pulls and stretches the front of the elastic. "Ooh! Look, his hair's red down there as well!" Behind, too, they tug the elastic. "I can see his bottom now!" Shrieks fill the air.

"That big bulge has gone. But...look at that awful wet stuff down the front!" It is Gloria, standing right in front, blocking his passage. She looks him right in the eye. "Wait till I tell your sister and mother. Oh,what a pathetic boy you are Rodney. And to think, you seemed to believe I might want to go around with you."

Mr Carruthers forces her way through. She lifts the skirt at the front. "Do you know how hard it is to clean this material..." In so doing she puts his penis and testicles on display for about half the girls.

And looking him in the eye she adds, "I've raised four boys and I know what this sticky stuff is, young man. You and I are going to have a serious talk."

Yuela guides him into the sewing room, to stand next to the stool.

He notices she has the measuring tape around her neck.

"Now take the skirt down. And get up on the stool."

Over her shoulder he sees girls crowding at the door, Gloria in the middle. Behind them the two ladies.

"Can you..."

Ah yes, thinks Yuela again, always one request.Please Miss, can you look the other way? Can I turn my back? Can you close the curtains? Can I keep my underpants on? And that 18 year old who begged for the screens, as if were in a hospital. Pathetic.

"Yes?" She is now impatient.

"Can you...close the door?"

Yuela appears to be thinking.

Then she slightly smiles...and slowly shakes her head.

"Take it down. And up on the stool."

He looks despairingly at the heads in the doorway. His stomach turns over.

Slowly the disgraced boy places his hands on the elastic waistband. He pauses. Will he go on? And then he begins the shameful slide. Over hips...and with the slightest pause, down over the pubic bush...and then a quick descent that reveals all...then down his thighs, his quaking knees...to the feet.

He steps out of them.

He ascends the stool. He is facing the door. Hands in front.

Yuela approaches.

"Hands by your side."

He obeys.

There is a collective gasp from the doorway.

Her head is level with his lower chest.

Her hands reach forward, stretching out the tape measure.

And her eyes are shining.



(To be continued ) 



Rodney's Nude Humiliation Ch. 03



The two women were seated in the lounge room. Rodney had just walked in, clutching the paper bag with his loin cloth, moccasins and headband with feather.

Shit, he thought. His mother and her friend knew he had been off being measured and fitted. For the Indian brave costume. For the school musical.

And naturally...they wanted to see him in it.

"Of course, Mrs Riley would like to see you in your costume, Rodney. Everyone's talking about Miss Cuff's production."

"Certainly all the females," offered Mrs Riley. "The BOY'S costumes! Gosh! Leave nothing to the imagination, I heard!"

And she wheezed with laughter. Even his mother- his own mother- glowed, as if she knew all about it.

Rodney had walked through the streets of town, trembling with shame. He ran through his mind the names of girls from his school year who had seen him raw naked- through the window of the fitting room as he darted to shield his rock-hard erection and through the door as Yuela, the black maid, had measured him around the middle. Fortunately she had closed the door when she had left with his measurements. On her return she had also- mercifully- kept the door shut, disappointing the waiting, whispering girls in the corridor. 

Just him and her in the room. She kept him stark naked standing on the stool. She fitted on the loin cloth, with its tiny flaps front and back, fiddling and fussing at his belly and his bottom. Inevitably...

...inevitably, Rodney's penis had swollen and stretched. Maybe it was the sensation of the maid's flickering fingers. Maybe the lewd thoughts stimulated by the sight of her starched white apron. Either way he was soon sporting another stubborn, engorged, rock-hard 45 degree projection, blushing furiously as Yuela manoeuvred around it, arranging the loin cloth.

The penis jutted forward, the miniscule flap drooped to one side. Yuela had smiled to herself as she completed her work, stood back to examine things and told him he would look wonderful on the stage. She had then invited Mrs Carruthers, the seamstress and Miss Cuff, the drama teacher, to inspect the costume which they had done, strolling around the stool and looking the red, downcast boy up and down.

His erection had pointed ahead, like artillery on a cruiser. The silly flap could not cover it. Once Miss Cuff- his teacher, for God's sake- had leant in close and examined its dorsal side. "A lot of veins!" she had muttered and, to his horror, looked him right in the eye. And Yuela had guided Mrs Carruther's attention to his testicles, hanging ridiculously low as they did, his left lower than its partner. "Ummm," the seamstress had commented. "You're right about them. Very well developed."

The three women inspected him... standing on the stool...just about 100 percent nude...with his penis fully reared.

His walk home had been a sad experience. He had calculated that a dozen girls- in addition to Miss Cuff- were now familiar with what he looked like from the waist down. Everything about his privates- the big spongy head on his penis, the prominent network of blue veins, the dangling balls with the extra droop on the left testicle, the red pubic bush. And now in his own home he was facing two mature women, one his mother, talking as if they knew about the loin cloths the boys were being forced to wear- and what they failed to conceal.

Do the girls at school talk to their mothers about these things? About how the boys are going to be forced to perform near naked? About what those little flaps hide...and don't hide?

Do the mothers permit their daughters to talk this...this...dirty stuff? About glimpsing our cocks and balls..?

His stomach turned over at the thought. At the thought of a...female conspiracy...mothers fully involved...in which defenceless, powerless 18 year old sons are the victims.

And, as if to confirm it, his mother chirped up.

"So...let's be the first to see a finished costume, modelled by my very own Rodney!"

His stomach flipped again. NOW? In front of Mrs Riley? His mother? In these ridiculous little flaps, front and back?

"But, Mom! It...it...it..."

"Is he developing a stammer, Wendy?" asked Mrs Riley.

"Rodney, what's the problem?"

"Aw Mom! It don't fit proper...it doesn't..."

"Yes?"

"It doesn't ...it doesn't...cover me!"

And the despair rushed out of him. A tear fell.

"Oh, goodness," said Mrs Riley. "You have a very modest son."

There was a silence. The boy stood looking down, forlorn.

Please, he begged silently, don't let this end with me having to strip and parade with these silly flaps.

Then his mother broke the silence. And she spoke so reasonably, coaxingly, in a sweet, gentle tone.

"But Rodney, all the boys in your class are in the same position, playing Indian braves and we all know those braves got around close to buck naked...and seemed to enjoy it. And Mrs Riley has her girls coming round in half an hour...and I know you wouldn't want to be seen by them in your Indian brave's gear. And your sister and cousin will be home soon."

"That's right," chimed in Mrs Riley in the same maternal tone, reaching out and running a hand up his bare lower arm. "You can do your modelling with us old dears... and you won't be embarrassed by females your own age."

She smiled, looking him right in the eye.

This was the decisive argument.

If Rodney was terrified of anything it was the gasps and giggles of girls. Girls, his own age. And Mrs Riley seemed to know this little secret phobia.

Wiping a cheek, Rodney took off for his room and, once inside, reluctantly pulled off all his clothes and stood stark nude once again. He looked in the mirror and shuddered that during his measurements an hour or so ago females had seen him like this. Every inch of him, God! Even that red pubic hair, that white penis with the rubbery head, the low hanging balls! Feeling the shame wash over again he opened the big paper bag. And removed the humiliating contents and edged his way into the string waistband with its flaps.

He looked in the mirror.

Oh, my God!

The flap was so narrow! If it moved slightly, a glimpse of penis flesh clearly emerged on one side or the other. And the flap was so short! A glimpse of his testicles was revealed- the rounded edge of the dragging left ball which hung lower than its companion. If his penis lengthened...Christ! They would see at least part of the fat mushroomy head! If...if...it got good and stiff? Well, that flap would be shoved aside as it had during the fitting. It would poke right out.The mind boggled. And- he groaned at this- a good rectangle of red pubic bush was already presented for public inspection, bursting out above the band.

He turned his back and looked over his shoulder. Jumping Jesus! The lower border of his buttocks was completely exposed! And that lower bit of his crack!

He stood side-on. It was worse. Everything could be seen! His equipment just hung there, behind the flap, the profile view of his somewhat thick penis, its well-shaped head and the sagging scrotum. He would have to stand head-on. Frozen. Like...a cigar store Indian, in fact.

Feeling miserable and quaking with fear he pulled on the moccasins and arranged his head band with its lonely feather- at least, it might be a distraction. Terrified, but determined to get through it before the girls came home, he went to the bedroom door, opened it and stiffly walked down the corridor.

Rodney felt the air tickling his red bush and caressing his virtually nude bottom. Both flaps swung slightly as he moved. His heavy penis swung slightly too, only it swayed to the right when the flap swayed to the left. He would be exposed whenever he moved.

Just before he got to the doorway he heard the women talking in hushed voices and paused to listened.

In almost a whisper he heard Mrs Riley.

"...but dear, it was Gloria who put it best, at the mothers' club discussion. She said that with her boy it was full nude punishment. Stripped to the buff...yes, the way she said it, made me go shivery too."

"But for doing what exactly?"

"Well, at the end of his first year at college he came home. She was furious with him anyway because his grades were so bad. But the last straw was when she caught him..."

Her voice lowered even further.

"...masturbating..."

Mrs Riley let the awesome, sinister word hang in the air. The sickness of the boy's secret activity hung there too. It chilled Rodney. It was what he had been guilty of only a hour or so earlier in a lady's bathroom, to make it worse, and with wicked thoughts driving his excitement. 

"...yes, masturbating...in his bedroom with the door closed...and with lingerie advertisements laid out in front of him...stark naked...after a bath, apparently..."

Rodney though the woman's voice was panting.

"...sitting on his bed without a stitch...you know, 'playing with himself' as they say...She said he was mortified to be discovered! She grabbed him by the ear and marched him into the living room, and decided to punish him for his awful end-of- year results as well as his filthy behaviour. She gave him a dozen sharp slaps on his bottom which made him leap and dance and prance around the room. She had to admit he looked very funny and she came close to laughing as he pirouetted and bawled. In fact she said...hilarious...that spanking a nude 19 year old son- completely nude, she said, in his birthday suit, without a stitch- was the most fun a divorcee could EVER have!"

"But we're divorcees, dear!"

"Yes, indeed we are! well, think on it, sweetheart. Then she stuck him in the corner. Back to the wall. Think of that- back to the wall! His front on display!

"He was still there when his older sister came home from work. Which she simply loved, of course, and which really made him nearly faint with shame- standing with hands behind. I mean an 19 year old boy. Then the old duck who lives next door dropped in, a nice widow, must be 75 if she's a day. And Gloria then made the son sit down for the evening meal with the three of them...yes, still in his birthday suit. 

"There was no table cloth, just place mats. Apparently...this is very sweet... the girl kept dropping her napkin. Made her brother shrivel with embarrassment every time her head vanished under the table. She would have seen everything in his lap. Poor boy. Then- wonderful touch- Gloria insisted he get up and serve them coffee. He begged to be spared but...she insisted! Up he got and into the kitchen and out again, one cup at a time, shaking like a leaf. The old dear was enthralled, absolutely enthralled. Hadn't seen a naked male in years, decades probably.

"As the boy served her she declared she could see 'every hair on your naked body!' What a quaint old fashioned way to put it and it made him blush all over. What made it funnier was that all the attention got him..."

Here Mrs Riley's voice dropped again. Rodney had to strain to hear.

"...excited!"

"You mean?"

"Yes, his little thing...stood all the way up for them! Pointing at...her chandeliers!"

The two women guffawed wickedly.

"To make matters worse for the poor boy it apparently was little! Really little.The ladies talked about it later. Very much underdone, apparently. But he could be still growing.

"Afterwards, Gloria made the poor boy help his sister with the washing up." 

"What? Still naked?"

"Without a stitch, my dear. Naked as the day that he was born. He tentatively asked his sister if he could put on the lady's apron but- nothing doing. And his sister stretched out the washing as long as she could! Gloria said it looked so sweet, the rear view of a nicely dressed daughter and a nude son, standing at the sink, her handing him the items to dry one by one.

"Gloria said both sets of his cheeks were blazing red! Hilarious! Later she made him come into the TV room and sit cross legged on the rug...his arms propping him up behind...his lap exposed to the three females...from the lounge chairs they had a perfect view...making him watch a travel documentary on the south seas and a fashion show. She said the programming had him excited, off and on, all night! Up and down, depending on what was on the screen.The old girl loved every minute.

"Towards bedtime she invited him to sit up on the settee, between the old neighbour and his sister. Hands at his side. They had a nice view, especially when he responded to the programming!"

More feminine laughter. It froze Rodney's blood.

So did the next remark from his mother.

"Well, well, well! I once threatened Rodney with having to go all evening bare as a board, in the presence of the two girls."

Damn! He was hoping she had moved on from that threat!

"But, dear, you must do it! Only make sure I'm invited!"

Hearing every word, Rodney stood out of sight in the hallway corridor, his stomach melting. He knew the boy they were talking about, a tall, skinny shy fella- who never had a girlfriend- with a duck's tail hair cut. What he must have suffered!

"So...the idea's out there, my dear. All the mothers at the club meeting went home quite stimulated and thinking carefully."

"Goodness! Well, let me assure you my dear, I won't be lagging behind any of them. Now," said his mother. "Where is that boy?"

Rodney took a deep breath.

He presented himself in the doorway to the lounge room.

The ladies looked up. Their eyes widened like saucers as they took in the virtually nude 18 year old male, standing there facing them. He looked forlornly as the womens' eyes took in his naked torso...his bare midriff...the tightly drawn string around his middle...and the pathetically tiny strap hanging on his front.

He then saw the shocked expressions relax into broad smiles. The women even began to lapse into laughter. Yes, even his own mother, laughing at the sight of her nude, adolescent son.

And then their merry swimming eyes regained their focus and closed in on his pubic zone- the wild burst of red hair and the testicle just hanging below the flap. Their eyes fastened on THAT. His mother's eyes began to water at the ridiculously exposed boy as her bosom heaved, Mrs Riley was gasping for breath.

"Oh, dear...that barely...covers...anything." Unable to hold her laughter his mother surrendered to spluttering laughter.

"No wonder...no wonder...the poor boy doesn't want the girls to see!" Mrs Riley burst out with cruel mirth.

Blushing, he hung his head, quaking with shame.

His mother ordered him to come closer. Eyes down, he let out a little moan of protest. She repeated the order and he shuffled forward, aware that this made his flap sway.

There was a silence, Rodney hanging his head.

"I think your boy is...developing well."

This could only be a reference to the burst of pubic bush, curly and scroll-like, on display. Or the size of the half exposed testicle. Rodney blushed deeply. "Developing well!" Jeepers!

Ignoring Mrs Riley's remark his mother said, "I wonder what our seamstress made that flap out of?"

She was staring. Rodney shuddered.

"Yes, it looks like some animal skin..."

"Or is it chamois?"

His mother's fingers with their red lacquered nails reached forward.

"And the inlaid beads..."

She delicately took the end of the flap in her fingers.

Rodney felt the slightest point of contact- just for a second- on his glans.

His mother raised the material ever so slightly. "Yes, it looks like..."

Mrs Riley's finger gestured...and touched the raised flap.

"...yes, such fine decoration..."

His mother lifted it further, as if she were short sighted...and thus exposed his hanging penis to Mrs Riley's intent scrutiny.

Oh...my...God!

Without thinking Rodney looked up, right into Mrs Riley's eyes. They fixed on his. They were swimming with mischievous delight. 

She smiled.

There was silence. Rodney squeezed his eyes shut.

He felt the stretch on his waistband as his mother raised the flap even higher. It was clear the two women were looking at...everything.

The silence continued.

Rodney's stomach turned to water. He could feel the air circulating on his privates. He thought he could even feel the eyes of the women creeping over his skin.

"Not circumcised?"

It was Mrs Riley.

Time seemed suspended.

Seconds were drawn out into hours.

His mother responded.

"No, I wanted to. Think it's a good investment in hygiene. But his father was insistent."

"The skin moves easily?"

Rodney at this moment came close to fainting with shame.

"Certainly did as a youngster. When I used to give him baths."

"I mean, dear, it's terribly important to keep it clean under the...under the...little cloak. One other thought, though..."

Another silence. Rodney could FEEL two sets of eyes on his penis tip.

"...sometimes the constriction of the foreskin impedes the development of the glans. A tight foreskin results in a small penis head. The 'snake head' effect. But that does not seem to have happened here."

"No, his head seems well developed. Too big if anything...under the foreskin, in its little home. So funny, aren't they? That bulge, under the foreskin."

They both giggled.

As the shame washed over him he squeezed his eyes even tighter. He felt hot waves of blushing.

"You've never had any trouble moving the foreskin, Rodney?"

He shook his head at the maternal question.

Oh God, he prayed, don't let them touch it.

Suddenly his mother dropped the flap.

"Turn round, Rodney. So we can see the side view."

"Aw, mum! I don't...don't like this."

"Around!" And she steered him with a hand.

The women were looking at the side view.

"I just love a male's flanks," said Mrs Riley. "Like a colt's."

"He's really quiet nude from this angle. Bare as a native, apart from the teensie weensie string." And she skirted it with a finger. He shivered at his mother's touch. 

"Just imagine those Indian braves- your age, Rodney. Getting around a campsite dressed like you are now. And the young squaws- cheeky girls in their animal skin skirts- having a good look at you!"

The boy shuddered.

Mrs Riley's cunning words seemed deliberately chosen with one objective in mind. If so, they worked. They produced a vivid picture in Rodney's mind. He saw himself with his male friends- young braves dressed as he was now- playing a ball game between the tepees. A crowd of young squaws dressed in animal skin skirts watching excited as the flaps of the boys swung and flew and fluttered...exposing all the boys' secrets. Their bottoms. Their cocks- of various sizes and shapes. Their dangling balls. All on display as they ran and leapt. And he and the other braves were thrilled, to be prancing around with the loin cloths flying, knowing girls were seeing their secrets. The...boys...enjoyed...it!

Rodney flung the image from his mind. But not before it had sent a jolt that had his penis inflate and stretch and force his flap upwards.

"Now show us the rear," his mother instructed.

He swung. In relief, just in time to obscure his rising prick, stretching to its full eight inches.

The ladies started laughing again.

"Well, little point in this flap, is there Rodney? Barely covers YOUR intergluteal crease."

"What did you call it?" asked his mother. "Inter...what? You mean...the boy's crack?"

"Yes, intergluteal crease is the name for it. Or cleft. Intergluteal cleft. The grove between the buttocks, these mounds...the gluteus maximus..."

...and, inevitably, he felt Mrs Riley or his mother lift the rear flap high. Meanwhile, at his front, his stiffening member had shoved the other flap to one side and was now jutting out at 45 degrees.

"...that's the crease..."

And he felt a long finger nail lightly trace his crack from bottom to top.

"...and these, the gluteus maximus..."

His mother with a reverential tone repeated the phrase, "intergluteal crease."




Rodney's Nude Humiliation Ch. 03



Just as a finger nail moved over his left buttock.

His penis jolted and throbbed.

Then Mrs Riley in a very low voice...

"Rodney, does it embarrass you to be seen by women...in, you know...this condition...in a state of...nudity?"

Nudity- that awful shaming word! He couldn't speak. And he now felt two roaming finger nails, drifting with infinite slowness around a buttock...two more up and down the crease.

"Or..."

And now Mrs Riley sounded as if she was weighing an alternative.

"Or what?" asked his mother.

"Or Rodney, do you find that being naked...you know, in the buff...stripped like this..."

"In his birthday suit," chortled his mother. "He was naked when he arrived in this world and totally in my care!"

"So he was. Bare as a board. Naked as a jay."

All this- these dreadful shaming synonyms for nudity- chilled Rodney to the bone. What was the cunning Mrs Riley getting at?

"Or...

...do you think, Rodney, that it's really somewhat exciting. You know, to be stripped off in front of females."

"And in their control," added his mother helpfully.

Jeepers, thought the boy, can they see what I've got sticking out of my groin?

Mrs Riley continued in her insinuating voice.

"There's a bit of doggerel we used to tease the boys with when I was a girl. Let's see. How did it go? Ah, yes.

Boys not yet in their prime 

Often find nude games sublime

A loin cloth they would wear

Their bottoms to bare!

Just like now, Rodney. You are baring your bottom right now. For us. And I wonder...along with the embarrassment...if part of Rodney isn't saying to himself...I'M RATHER ENJOYING THIS!"

The shocking idea hung in the air. Rodney was mortified.

Suddenly from the back garden there was the slam of a gate. And the excited high pitched voices of senior school girls- Rodney's age- returning with hockey sticks, high spirited after games. Perhaps fuelled with gossip about the boys' fittings.

"Sounds like the girls are home," said his mother. "Well, Rodney, off to your room. Pull your clothes on. And start your homework! I'll be checking."

Rodney started for the door, hands pressed to his groin, sheltering the sight of his pulsing erection.

"What a pity," opined Mrs Riley. "I was enjoying that..."

And as Rodney bustled out of the room to turn into the hallway, he feared his profile might give something away.

"And...on one level," continued Mrs Riley."So was your son"

The boy fled down to his corridor to his room.

Where was this leading, he wondered, in despair. And he thought of the line from Hamlet that Miss Cuff had drilled into them: "This is not, nor it cannot come to good."



Rodney's Nude Humiliation Ch. 04



It was a sad and sorry group of boys who stripped off in the changeroom, down to their jocks or boxers. They now stood holding their little loin cloth costumes- those terrible costumes designed by the seamstress, Mrs Carruthers, and fitted by her and her maid in conditions of excruciating embarrassment. Oh, how each of them had been humiliated during those fittings! Now each looked at the woeful construction- an elastic string and two flaps. That's all- a string to go around their waists and two cloth flaps hanging from it, one in front and one behind. 

Then, taking their cues from one another, they shyly slipped out of their underwear, darting glances at their classmates. They noted, as they always did in the showers or changeroom, whose prick was thicker, who was uncut and who had a helmet head...and, of course, who had a prick that was getting erect. Silent, they all stood nude as Michelangelo's David, eyes flickering sideways.

Then they pulled on these shameful loin cloths.

God, the sliver of cloth left exposed their pubic bush...and dangling testicles! Hell! Jesus! Then when the flap fell to one side, part of a penis was easily displayed. Some of those pricks that were longer even stretched below the end of the damn flap. The females would see them- easily.

Then they clambered into their moccasins. Then fitted the headbands with their single feathers. They looked at one another. They were each equally ridiculous.

Miss Cuff was heard summoning them.

They would have to go outside and be examined by women teachers. Their stomachs fluttered wildly.

Heads hanging they emerged into the auditorium, Miss Cuff and a group of females standing in the middle of the empty hall. Looking right at these virtually naked 18 year old boys shuffling across the floor boards in their in their direction.

Miss Cuff suppressed a smile.

She then clapped her hands and demanded they start their performance immediately.

The Indian braves were supposed to creep to the centre from both left and right, the 15 boys rehearsed to move like tribesmen padding on a forest path. Leading the way both Danny Bristol and Charlie Hodgson had been instantly aware that those damn loin cloths flopped and flipped at their groins, and showed their prick and balls in profile. Damn! As they slowly approached one another, as they had been coached and rehearsed, those flaps fell this way and that- hell, they were about three inches wide! Every flip, every flop...they felt air on their privates! 

And when they glanced- sure enough- there was Miss Cuff looking right at them with gimlet eyes. Looking right at their groins. Oh, and two other female teachers had been invited by her to watch and they had eyes popping! And one super-lucky girl, Karen Strawbridge, obese, red haired, freckle faced...from behind her glasses, she was super-fixed on the view before her...the procession of near-naked 18 year old boys, tripping and stumbling in red-faced shame. Boy! Her piggy- eyes were bulging!

Sammy Speight nearly fell on his face because his penis had become a rod pointing at the floor, shoving the pathetic little cloth to one side. A lengthening stiffie totally exposed because that cloth was so damn small. Danny Maitland stumbled into the boy in front because his wide white dick had decided to point out, totally parallel to the floor, the cloth draped- hilariously- along its dorsal side, as he and his mates swung to face their little audience. There they shuffled and fell about, forming a line right in front of their women teachers and female classmate....

Oh...my...God.

The females stared, rapt.

Carl, whose penis was pint-sized, sported a punchy little jut, tilting his cloth upwards. He was lucky. At least the flesh of his "thing" stayed hidden. But the others! Their state of undress, the unfamiliar feel of air on their private parts, the flopping of their equipment had made most of the boys erect, in part or full. Jeepers! One erection after the other presented itself, the flaps of the loin cloths pushed off to left or right. The females saw pricks pointing at them, right at them...pointing as if in tribute. They saw the testicles, of course- those funny globes of flesh, some more dangly than the others- and the ventral sides of the cocks, the stringy skin stretching to the glans, and the pink or bluish sculpted heads, one after the other. The owners of this equipment were all fire hydrant red. Not knowing where to shift their gaze.

Rodney for once had been slow to get stiff (he had masturbated six times since the morning because of the building excitement of the rehearsal.) But the penis had lengthened and- oh, the shame- his big, bulbous glans, with its heavily defined corona, now presented itself below the flap, like a decorative medallion. The cloth wasn't long enough. Karen, he noticed, was staring at his big fat glans and smiling. She tried to catch his eye.

Mousy, lean, glasses-wearing Miss Dolomite was 26 and a virgin. She stared, flushing with some nameless emotion. These boys she had seen each day in English, struggling to make sense of Emily Dickerson or Jane Austen while girls had easily dominated the discussions. She had long fantasised about punishing the boys by ordering them to undress and sit in class bare as boards, trembling under their desks, and every now and then demanding a boy rise to his feet at his desk and put everything on display and she dreamt of what the athletes among them may have looked like...and voila! Here they stood, unclad apart from those token loin cloths!

The mousy hair of her little vagina, with its ugly folded lips, had become slimy and smelly.

Ada Braithwaite, in her 50s, knew all about Freud, Peyton Place and Lady Chatterley. Yes, she thought, the phallus...displayed...stiff and meaty...for our delectation. Thanks to Miss Cuff's wonderful vision for ritual humiliation of young males, right in front of us. She manoeuvred one thigh against the other. She speculated which of the boys she would like to...well, see more of. Two other teachers stared goggle-eyed, one sheltered her near-hysterical giggles behind her hands.

The boys were teary-eyed with humiliation, presenting their erections.

Karen Strawbridge, secretions running down her thighs, now methodically examined what was on display- for her own pleasure and to report back to her classmates, including the sisters of these fellas...who would be very interested.

Two more female teachers drifted in, eyes like saucers, mouths open with astonishment.

Meanwhile the boys were failing the recitation. Could not remember lines. Voices broke. They looked downward as if the floorboards could provide inspiration. And when it was time to swing into movement, they forgot their cues.

That's when Miss Cuff totally lost her patience.

And formed her plan. First, though, she stretched out the boys' embarrassment. She walked along the line while she reprimanded them. One by one she had half a dozen step forward and try their lines again- they gulped, stumbled, dried up, squeezed eyes shut with shame. Let's face it: you are 18, sporting a pounding erection, it's sticking out and up- and you are forced to stand there with six females looking you over, barely suppressing smiles! A silly little loin cloth barely five inches long (smaller, it seemed, on boys with smaller equipment- that dressmaker, Mrs Carruthers, and her maid Yuela had taken individual measurements seriously ) at your groin, covering nothing, certainly not covering the stubborn hardons of teenagers. 

Rodney's penis, for example, had now lifted, shoved the cloth to one side and pointed at the ceiling. Its big bulbous glans, occupying half the stem, really focused the attention of the females. While he stammered over the Song of Haiwatha the female eyes were on his jutting organ with its ridiculously over-large head. He saw where their eyes were glued. Boy! Wasn't he embarrassed, blushing all over. 

Then Miss Cuff sent him back. 

There were three exceptions to the rule about erections forcing their way out of their coverings. They were really quite touching. Good-looking Carl, and hairy little Stevie, and Alan, the tall lean basketball champ, had petite members- three, three and a half inches, no more- so their flaps stayed in front, hanging over punchy little bulges jutting out. Sweet, how sweet, though Ada, the little ones keep their secrets. Oh, lamented Stevie to himself, oh- to have a decent sized prick like other young men...and (wicked thought!) to be able to show it off like they were. Show it to these females, have them devour it with their intense, greedy looks...instead of just having a boy's prick, jutting behind the cloth. 

It was a dirty thought- this notion of showing it off, if it were a real big one- and Stevie felt it send an extra zing right to the end of his prick. And produce a flow of fluid that wet his little cloth.

Shame steamed off all the boys, and, yes, Miss Cuff let them have home truths at length before she sent them off, their appendages pointing the way, across the auditorium to the door and the change room. In profile they were so funny (all the females were smiling now): tubes of flesh jutting forward, or in three sad cases, only poking the cloth forward and staying covered...opps! Make that two. To the delight of Karen, Alan's flap fell to the left and there, totally on view, was his small stiff one, ridiculously petite on his long, lean basketballer's frame. He blushed a deep red, his eyes caught her's. He hung his handsome head as he trooped off. She devoured his funny profile. There it was, his secret out. Literally. A bolt hard...three incher!

Then, as they departed, an extra humiliation- their rear views were presented- an extra thrill for the females- narrow flaps barely covering the clefts and, because they had been made so short by Mrs Carruthers, exposing totally the creases where thighs met bottom. Clefts and creases- these views were of enormous interest; the females' heads swivelled to take in the sight. Miss Dolomite appeared particularly stimulated. Especially when a flap flopped to one side and all a boy's deep crack presented itself. Her eyes seemed to be extending from their sockets.

As they exited they heard Miss Cuff exclaim to her colleagues, "The costumes are pretty, aren't they, ladies? But they're stopping those boys from concentrating on their performance...They just freeze up!"

Darkly she added that "It was just not working."

That afternoon each boy received a sealed letter to take home to his mother. Miss Cuff would say no more about it than that the boys had to get over their "silly shyness." She said to the whole class- and it made the girls smirk- that teenage boys were ridiculously modest. "If they wore their costumes around home every night they might be able to concentrate when they rehearse at school," she declared.

Every boy shrank when he heard this.

Wear them around home? What? 

In front of Mom...sisters...cousins? Visiting neighbours?

Rodney sensed something bad brewing. At home he kept his letter in his school bag.

When he walked into dinner that night there was his sister and cousin at the table, smirking. And there was their friend, a fat girl called Cecily. He hated her. She had been at Mrs Carruthers on the day of his fitting. Her eyes had bulged when he had walked the corridor in that little dress. She had been at the door craning her fat neck when Yuela had him stripped and on the stool. Cecily looked him up and down, eyes lingering on his crutch. Recalling the exciting glimpse she had had earlier.

His mother was standing next to the table.

"Oh Rodney, you've forgotten!"

He looked blank.

"Your Indian costume, silly. Miss Cuff rang me...rang all the mothers...boys are to wear their costumes at home, all night. So they can overcome their awkwardness. Lose that shyness. Get used to scampering around like Indian braves. Remember what we talked about with Mrs Riley? Indian braves...stripped down...playing in front of their sisters?"

His sister piped up. "And so we can see- we can't wait! That's why we invited Cecily! And we've got Christine...and Margery...and Helen coming over later to watch TV with us."

His mother beamed.

"Son, by the end of tonight you'll be entirely comfortable dressed like a young brave. Wearing that lovely little loincloth skirt that I love so much. in front of the girls. Now off you go and change!"

He gulped, stammered a protest.

He seemed to be threatening a complaint.

His mother would have nothing of it. Her eyes lit up, with malice.

It seemed she had an idea.

"Cecily, why don't you go with Rodney and help him into his costume- moccasins, headband, loincloth and all?"

Sister and cousin guffawed, Cecily blushed and looked...greedy. Her eyes bulged.

Rodney looked liked he'd been slapped.

Whaaaat?

Cecily getting to see him strip off?

To see him...nude?

Then...to help him into that loincloth?

"Awwww, Mom..."

His face contorted. He was in agony. He caught the girl looking at him hungrily, face flushed, eyes swimming.

"Off you go, Cecily," chimed his mother. "You'll have a husband and boys one day. Might as well get to know the terrain."

The three girls giggled.

He slumped out.

Cecily trailed the trembling boy down the corridor...he could hear her breathing behind him...and into his bedroom. She swivelled to take in the football posters, model planes and...a discarded jockstrap on the end of his bed. He quickly spirited it out of sight, reddening further. And stood, back to her.

He didn't move.

"Where is it?" She asked in a soft, quaking, excited voice. "Your costume?"

He picked up the brown paper bag and withdrew the shameful

objects. Her greedy eyes widened...they took in the fact the two flaps were tiny. And this boy would be stark naked apart from these particles of cloth. They would cover little. She shuddered.

"Put...it...on," she squeaked nervously.

Rodney screwed his eyes shut. He froze.

There was silence.

"Come on. Take...your...clothes...off."

She was so excited- at the prospect of seeing this strong young man without any clothes- her words hardly came.

He froze. He could hear her panting breath.

He couldn't strip in front of this ugly girl. Get fully naked with her eyes all over him. Allow her to inspect his...secrets. And giggle at them. His cock, his balls, his burst of hair...his erection. Oh, this was terrible.

There was not way this girl- hungry for the sight of a nude male- was going to miss this opportunity. Suddenly he felt small, quaking fingers clawing impatiently at his belt.

He pulled back. 

"No!"

But he thought of his mother. And then he caved in. There was no alternative- his mother, Miss Cuff. They wanted him out of his clothes. He had to obey.

"I'll do it," he said.

He unbuckled.

He saw Cecily's eyes enamelled with desire.

He left his belt drooping- no, he couldn't begin with his pants- and started to unbutton his shirt. His fingers trembled. It fell apart, revealing white skin. She stared at his revealed chest. Then when the shirt came off and he hung it over his chair, she took in his whole nude torso. She had never stood so close to naked male flesh and she riveted her look on the pink darts of his nipples, the fuse of red hair from belly button to waist, the athletic V-shape of his swimmer's physique. She swallowed.

Her eyes were dilating with desire. She was like a ruttish animal.

He bent over to pull off shoes and socks. A smell of warm leather reached her. And of sweat. The poor boy was melting in his armpits...the perspiration of panic.

He worried too about the thickening and lengthening he felt in his penis. Why, he wondered, did something he hated so much also render him excited? A sick excitement, he thought, a thrill of humiliation. He flung the thought from his mind.

He paused. He looked at her. She caught his anxious gaze. She nodded...and he took hold and unzipped his fly...and began to ease his trousers down his thighs, over his knees... and let them fall to his heels.

He looked at her eager, flushed face.

She seemed to command the next step.

He stepped out of the trousers and carefully folded them and placed them on his bed. He stood facing her in his jockstrap. The front was very swollen, his penis crowding against the fabric. When they came off...it would spring to life.

Fat, ugly Cecily would be looking at his stiff cock. 

No, no, no.

He just froze.

She approached, her fingers outstretched.

He didn't stop her. He felt his thickish snake getting longer and harder, thrusting out cup of the underwear.

She pinched at the three inch band of his jocks. Her hot fingers made him nearly leap. He couldn't stop her. Then she gave a tug. Not forceful enough. Then a second tug and the jocks slid down, over the red pubic hair and the bunched genitals to his mid-thighs...and, freed of constraint, his penis decisively shot up. His huge fat glans struck her nose! She reeled. She smelt a damp, fern-like odor from the red bush of his groin. She hauled the jockstrap to his heels.

She looked up at the comic view of the ventral side of his penis: stretched frenulum- banjo strings running up to the crown- the carved coronal edge, slashed mouth and, above all, throbbing length. With lots of thin blue veins. And she took in the full truth before her: Rodney Ricketson- from her school- was stark naked in front of her.

In his birthday suit.

Stripped to the buff.

Without a stitch.

And his thing- what did they call it? Penis? One girl had whispered about her boyfriend's "cock." Was this a "cock"? And what about the bag, dangling down from it, with what looked like two stones inside? Hadn't girls once sniggered about boys having "balls"? And looked at her and sneered, "Of course, Cecily wouldn't care about such things." And laughed at the idea of a pudgy, plain girl having any chance of seeing a boy in the nude.

Now she was seeing just that.

She slowly took it all in, greedily. And then in a fit of nervousness, she giggled.

And looked in his eyes. Clearly he hated being like this in front of her. His eyes were watering. His shame made her like it even more.

"Your thing sticks out." She giggled some more.

He looked down, as if he needed to confirm her indictment.

They were both looking at his jutting member.

"How will you wear the costume? I mean...with that big thing?"

She had picked the loincloth from the bed and held it in front of her.

"I mean...it won't fit over...your...what do boys call it?"

"It's a...penis," he stuttered in a little boy voice.

"What other names?"

"Cock..."

She giggled.

"...prick..."

"Cock. Prick. Funny names," she responded. 

It made him shrivel.

She seemed to be handling the names, weighing them. All the time she looked at the jutting flesh. "It's very funny," she offered. Still staring.

He blushed.

"Does it stand up...all the time?"

He shook his head, despondently. Then felt he owed her an explanation about boys and their dilemma.

"It...goes like this...when I get..."

He paused.

And then stumbled over the shameful truth.

"...when something makes me...excited."

The last word just dribbled out.

"Like what?" She closed in like a lawyer.

He paused.

"If I think about things..."

"Like what?"

He had no where to go.

"Like...girls...with their clothes off."

She absorbed his shameful confession, with a faraway look. He no doubt meant pretty girls, not a girl like her.

She would make him pay.

"I want you to let me...touch it."

She pointed to the jutting flesh. He turned ashen.

"Or I will tell every girl at school. And they will giggle at you every time they see you. In class. Or in the corridors. Or watching you play basketball. They will point at your pants and make fun. I will tell them your thing stretches out and stands up whenever you think about girls with their clothes off."




Rodney's Nude Humiliation Ch. 04



He sheepishly agreed she could touch it. And she did, enclosing the tip...the spongy feel thrilled her...then sliding down the stem...firmly gripping the base...holding as tight as if she would uproot it...then exploring the testicles...flicking her fingers around the shape of the hanging balls...up again, and through the little forest of red pubic curls...and quickly, lightly up the stem...firm now, around and round the glans...then letting her forefinger stroke the stretched tissues of the frenulum....

She looked up to see how he was taking it, even as her fingers turned to tickling the rigid stem, up and down. Flicker. Flicker. Fingers teasing his length. His face was clenched, eyes on the ceiling, appearing to concentrate. Truth was, his excitement had surged. He was close to exploding.

"How...do...we make it go down?"

He answered with a gesture- up and down clenched fist parallel to his erection- the time honoured gesture of jerking off. He wanted her to masturbate him, because he was now so excited there was nothing left to do...and because it was the only way the costume was going to fit.

Some instinct made her understand her duty. A little lightly...then, on the subsequent strokes, a little firmer...she moved her fist from hairy base to fat glans...and back again.

Faster. And, again, faster.

He closed his eyes. He shuddered at the whole wicked notion of being...of being...jerked off...by Cecily, the fat girl in saw in class. He got more excited. He felt thrills deep inside.

He felt something climbing in his penis shaft.

"Rodney, where are you? Cecily, have you got him dressed?"

His mother's distant voice seemed to resolve it.

Rodney shot a tremendous load. Whoooosh! A projectile shot out and flung itself across the room...

He slumped an knew instinctively what would follow. She would want to mop him up...then dress him. Something told him this girl would have pronounced maternal instincts.

And so it happened.



Later, at the door, he paused to hear the females inside talking. Cecily, having cleaned his penis head and slowly dressed him in his costume, stood behind looking at his pert bottom.

First he heard his mother.

"...just so sweet to have a male entirely at one's mercy, isn't it girls?"

Oh yes, they agreed.

"The thing they hate most is having to take their clothes off in front of us, having us see their secrets. Just hate it. Makes them shrivel. But in a way it can excite them as well. Oh, what silly creatures they are."

Then his cousin was talking.

"We heard about Stevie Linton. You know that little fella in Rodney's class..."

"Yes, of course. Plain little boy, with two nice sisters and a well-off widow as their mother. I know Mrs Linton from bridge."

"Well, their maid caught little Stevie....well, in the all together...in the nude...on the lounge...playing with himself...when the naughty fella thought there was nobody at home. She punished him- a real hard bottom spanking over her knee. Still nude. Naked over her knees- Mom, can you imagine! And she told his sisters. And they kept it a secret until one Saturday when Mrs Linton was out and the maid and the two girls forced Stevie out of all his clothes. Stripped him completely!"

"Oh! Indeed!" said Mrs Ricketson. "Details please! Know what they say, the devil's in the details."

"Well, they hauled him into one of their bedrooms- they said with girls' stuff everywhere, pinks and creams, it would make him even more ashamed- and told him the maid had spilled the beans- she was there, cruel lady- and if he didn't co-operate they would let his mother know he had a stash of dirty nudist magazines and had been caught with all his clothes off playing with his little penis. He nearly fainted. They told him to go to the bathroom and take a five minute shower and come out in a towel and nothing but a towel. In fact when he went into the bathroom to strip, shaking with fear, they made him pass his clothes out the door, item by item. They timed him while he showered and threatened to come in and scrub him themselves and when he emerged wearing a big fluffy towel they steered him back to the older sister's bedroom. Then...they humiliated their little 18 year old brother like you wouldn't believe!"

"Oh, how delicious. Do tell!"

"We'll, first they said he couldn't keep the towel on..."

"Oh, bet that made him swoon!"

"Said he nearly fainted. But...they'd turn their backs while he took it off. And they promised him he could put on one of their little girl's frilly pennifores. They handed it to him and swung their backs and when he said it was ok they turned around and there he was standing in the frilly pink and white apron! They teased him and made him swivel and point his little bottom and teased him because it ended well above his knees and laughed because he was so hairy and told him how red he looked and started pointing to the little bulge in the front of the apron and asked him what was making it..."

"Just like Rodney, of course, in the changeroom trying on his swimsuit. Those boys have so little self control."

"Then their maid brought in the pile of dirty magazines that little Stevie had been using to make himself excited...then they sat him down on the bed and made him show them the pictures he liked...and say why he liked them...oh my god, he was soooo embarrassed..."

"And..."

It was Rodney's cousin taking over now.

"...and all the while he sat on the edge of the bed trying to keep the apron stretched down sheltering his groin until they just whisked the dear little apron up and over his head! He sat there naked, his awful nudist magazines clutched in his lap...but now without a stitch. Then the sisters set up a clamour to see everything and their maid told him he had to put the magazines to one side and he did and..."

His cousin started to giggle.

"...and they said his penis was...was..." His cousin broke up.

"...tiny!" Burst out his sister. "Really little! But...very hard! And leaking water...more and more...and getting all slimy while he looked at the dirty pictures and told them what he liked!"

"The disgusting little boy!" declared his mother. "And what did he like? Probably pictures of girls with big bosoms, like all of them."

"No!" said Rodney's cousin. "No, he admitted he liked pictures- they had to squeeze this out of him- that showed boys his age- little fellas in every way- who might be embarrassed by ladies and girls looking at them. And all the pages he had marked had pictures like that...boys just like Stevie with females around him, or a lady looking down on him or a boy with a little one like him and a big fella with a giant one walking past and the girls comparing the two!"

His mother gasped. "They have the dirtiest minds! These males. And how interesting, of course, that while they are terrified of being stripped by us they also- on another level- allow themselves to get deeply excited by the prospect. Which reminds me...

"Rodney!"

She bellowed.

Standing just around the door a terrified Rodney felt Cecily's hand gently urge him forward. Gentle- but insistent, her pudgy palm in the small of his back.

Trembling he stumbled, clad like a young Indian brave, into the room. All the females swung in his direction.



Rodney's Nude Humiliation Ch. 05



(I hope you find this the gamiest, ripest CFNM work you have ever read. My intention, anyway. Oh, and I have recruited characters from my story Nude and Erect. That were happy enough to come back on stage. Some of you enjoyed its account of boys caught out at a nude swim class by female intruders. You might like to read or re-read it to warm-up. Anyway I hope you like Rodney's latest misadventures in small town 1950s America.)




Girls in Brewer seemed to be united in gale force enthusiasm for the delicious goal of seeing their male classmates stripped to the buff. Their male classmates thrillingly nude. In their birthday suits. It was a sweet, wicked passion of the girls at Grover Cleveland High.

It had been ignited by drama teacher Miss Cuff's musical on cowgirls and Indian braves which the boys were now rehearsing under her gimlet gaze- and in the slightest of coverings.

In fact they were quite nude apart from those short, narrow flaps attached to elastic bands around their waists. 

At rehearsal, as they cavorted and leapt and padded around the auditorium, those flaps swung sideways, back and forth, and revealed everything. Front and back. Even when the flaps were in place their pubic bush was fully revealed, their intergluteal creases on display (where upper thighs met buttocks) and the lower part of their intergluteal cleft left uncovered. Their cracks! They were very, very embarrassed 18 year olds. 

And that was just the start. Miss Cuff had only to make them stop, stand in line and sing...and their 18 year old pricks began, one after the other, reliable as clockwork, to stiffen and stand out and up, shoving the flaps to one side. This was a delicious moment for the teacher, for a handful of excited lady colleagues she had invited and for the privileged girl who had won the right to be present- sometimes by bringing her teacher flowers, other times by begging to see how her brother was coping. "Oh please, Miss, I want to be able to tell Mom what he looks like!" A girl's presence invariably made boys turn sick when, emerging shyly, they caught her blazing, greedy stares. Oh no, not her! A sister, a sister's friend, the ugly girl up the street, a daughter of his mother's closest friend!

Teachers beamed greedily, the girl blushed and giggled, the boys reddened close to tears of desperation.

Meanwhile Miss Cuff had decreed that the boys looked ridiculous with tan lines, white from waist to mid-thigh, as a result of wearing swim trunks when swimming at the lake or doing the gardening with shirts off. She told them to spend time in their gardens in their Indian gear, getting "a natural all over tan, even without any gear at all." She added this last phrase guardedly, knowing the electric effect it would have, and even included it in her note to mothers. She wrote:

"If boys in this performance present themselves with perfect, deep tans I think we can achieve a verisimilitude to be envied by any other school productions. So I suggest your son spend time in the garden unembumbered by clothing, as if he were swimming at the YMCA or a school swim class, only this time outside soaking up the beneficial rays. I trust you can take relevant steps to protect his modesty but stress nonetheless the need for the all-over tan. If a female neighbour or relative sees things she would not normally, then all I can say is: you cannot make an omelette without breaking eggs. Remember, your son has got to look the part, a Red Indian brave."

Rodney's mother was quick to move. Her interest in her son's participation in Miss Cuff's frolic was cloyingly eager. She decreed that the following afternoon, after school, he switch into his Indian gear, and get out in the sun, and she told him to bring friends home to take advantage of their sprawling backyard. It was certainly big- with its near-derelict outdoor laundry, their old oak tree, the half-hearted attempt at vegetable plantings, the wood shed where Rodney's late father had paddled him and the half-rotted away paling fence that sheltered them from the lane. Beyond the lane, the bakery and car repair of inner city Brewer.

"You and your friends can be playful young Injuns there, soaking up the sun, and nobody will notice," said his mother, making Rodney shrivel.

So here he was the next afternoon with Stevie Linton and Mark Sullivan stripped down to their cute little flaps and moccasins, tip-toeing through Rodney's house into the back garden. Truth was, his friends had been relieved to join him and strip down at his house. They were less likely to be taunted by their own sisters if they got their tans at Rodney's place. His was the biggest backyard with all those nooks and crannies to shelter in if a female appeared. Besides, as far as Stevie was concerned, being glimpsed by another boy's sister, and cousin, and mother may have been a little bit exciting.

Stevie- short, hairy nervous little fella, with his frightened darting eyes, and his truncated, narrow prick. A good side-kick of Rodney's, and similarly aroused by the notion of females in their finery looking at males without a stitch.

Most Saturday afternoons Stevie was now being made to strip by his two older sisters and his maid, while his mother was out at bridge. Strip and parade and pose and slip on the girls' underwear and, finally, sit spread-legged on the floral sofa- yes, thighs spread wide- and have the girls flash him folded pages of the Scandinavian nudist magazines that the maid had found in his cupboard. The females would watch with grins as their brother became more and more agitated at the black and white pics of boys his age naked with big-busted older women or cheeky confident girls, especially boys with small members like Stevie's...and he would become more and more excited...even start to breath hard, pant a little...till he could not resist pleasuring himself with the females looking on grinning, laughing...and his fingers would fall to his small, rampant penis...and with some urgent, monkey-like rubs he would explode...trails and gobbets of white fluid spattering all over his tummy and chest, even dangling from his chin. The three females would fall about, he would slump shamed.

Stevie was coming to dread those Saturday afternoon sessions. Dread them, and long for them. But what a bonus, thought Stevie, to have other sets of female eyes humiliate and shame him. Rodney's Mom and his sisters looking at him naked. Laughing when they saw his miniscule cock or thick body hair. He shivered all over. Hell, even walking through a strange house, out of Rodney's bedroom and down the hall, in this near-naked state, he was dreaming of being looked at, and laughed at, by females.

As a result Stevie's little penis was at attention, thrusting his flap forward, when Rodney's mother walked right into them at the back door. My son and his buddies! Here to get sun tans in their sweet little loin cloths! Almost totally naked! Delicious, she thought, just delicious.

Her eyes fell onto the thust in Stevie's groin, flap sticking out at her.

"Goodness, Stevie, you do seem to be looking forward to the sun!" She made her voice sound June Alyson-sweet. Her tone made him go weak in his tummy.

There is a peculiar embarrassment that overcomes young males when, even with clothes on, they sport involuntary erections- and have attention drawn to them. How much worse for Stevie, his stiff penis shielded only by this precariously poised flap.

She switched her eyes to Mark Sullivan, the school swimming champ, his long, agile physique on display with his burst of glistening black pubic bush flaring above the string. Rodney's mother let her gaze linger on it. The boy wilted. Then she looked lower to the sight of two pigeon eggs in the roomy scrotum. The scrotum- it hung below the frontal flap. Even...yes, she could see something else too: a big glans, almost as big as her own son's, hanging there below the flap. A nice, big, mushroomy penis head clearly outlined inside the sheltering cloak of his foreskin.

"And Mark, you're not leaving much to the imagination!" Again, she made herself sound friendly, concerned, compassionate.

The big athlete looked away, red as a fire hydrant.

She drew on a killer observation, designed to make the boy shrivel up.

"You're just like the photos," she said, and paused to let it sink in.

"You know, the ones your Mom showed me, of the last swim event?"

Mark clenched his eyes and groaned.

"Well, out you go. Two hours of sun left."

Awkwardly, they shuffled past. 

As Stevie squeezed by the lady the flap fell to one side, off his stubborn little erection. She looked down on his small, hard member now exposed. It had a glistening drop of clear fluid on its lips. She smiled broadly. Then as Mark manoeuvred out the door his flap moved sideways and, for an instant, she caught sight of a broad, white salami, hanging long but non-aroused. It was uncircumcised, its end tapering and twirling to an irregular rosy pucker. The boy gulped, eyes lowered. Then her son squeezed past her, his abundant genitals barely covered, folds of scrotum on either side of that shamefully narrow flap, balls sagging below it, curly red pubic hair sticking out above like a special badge of shame. Rodney was withering with embarrassment.

As they trooped into the outdoors she positioned herself to study their exposed buttocks with the back flaps swinging left and right as they walked the path past the laundry and beyond. How vulnerable, she thought, how pathetically vulnerable. And how touching that when we order them out of their clothes they strip down for us, get totally naked, even with sisters looking on, with teachers, with neighbours. How sweet that they are accepting our authority- that of Miss Cuff at school, of the sewing mistress and her maid, of mothers like me.

It must chill them, she thought, to have us see their genitals- these bashful 18 year olds, virginal boys who sing in the church, play wholesome sport, hold females in esteem. Even romanticise us. Never dream we have lurid thoughts like them. 

She looked at their rears as they walked into the deep backyard. Goodness, those cracks on display! How humiliating! What did Mrs Reilly call it? Yes, the "intergluteal cleft." That of Mark seemed especially deep. Stevie's sharp little bottom was dusted with black hair. Her son's was taut, muscular, clenching and unclenching as he walked.

They know I'm watching, she thought, watching their stark naked posteriors on display. Goodness, they must be embarrassed. And the poor boys are still reeling from the glimpse I got of their groins. How sweet that we've reduced them to this state, accepting this total humiliation. Annihilating for their fragile self esteem. But going naked was the way sons should be treated, doing penance for their fathers' sins, learning humility.

This was how so many of the mothers of Brewer were doing things these days. Stimulated by the nudity of Miss Cuff's show many households were making enforced nudity more and more the rule and 18 year old males were discovering who was in charge.

The boom in nude punishment for young males was what the three fellas were talking about, standing in the sun between the old laundry and the paling fence, out of sight of the kitchen window and back porch and Rodney's Mom.

Stevie told them how he'd been caught by their maid "you know..." And here he made the familiar jerking-off gesture. The others groaned. It was every boy's fear, this business of getting sprung, with mothers and sisters. He said that ever since that embarrassment he had been made to peel off all his clothes for the maid and his sisters. If he didn't they'd report him to his mother for masturbating in their lounge room and report the secret stash of nudist magazines he kept in the bottom of the cupboard beneath old issues of Popular Mechanics.

He answered his friends' eager questions, about being made to strip off slowly in front of the maid and his sisters and hand over items of clothing until he was stark naked and they cooed "ooh" and "ahh" and made him walk round the house and forced him to wear an apron or ladies' underwear for their amusement. About a game where he was a patient and lay on his bed and had them inspect him, them playing at being nurses and a female doctor. Spanking games where he went over their laps and they competed to give his bottom a rosy glow and make him howl and beg them to stop.

About having to sit spread-legged on the floral sofa in the wainscoted living room with its porcelain lamps and flowers while they flashed his dirty magazines at him- all the pages with turned-down corners and got him excited....

Here Stevie noticed that both Rodney and Mark were swelling under their flaps. No, Rodney's penis had just shoved his flap aside and stuck forward parallel to the ground. Fluid was bubbling out the slit.

Then Mark told his horror story. It had started with the last big swim day at school to which the coach had invited every competing boy's Mom. Aunt, Grandmoms too. 

"What? And...you swam nude?"

"In front of them?"

"Yeah, that's what the fucking bastard ordered- we swim as normal, he said, you know the rule, 'Boys will swim unembumbered by swimming costumes at all times.' At least there were no girls, it being school hours. But..."

On the day the competing boys had showered and been marshalled in their change room by Coach Compton. A body builder and, they thought, a secret nudist, he presented his own powerful physique naked whenever possible, seemed to relish it. Under his flattened peroxide blond hair his body was shaven, chest and groin bare, freakishly so. Suntanned all over, even "down there" and on his ass. 

Boys were nervous about his invitations to work out with him in the basement gym in his Elm Street home, one boy at a time, where he always insisted he and his student dress only in "posing straps." Only Buddy Holland returned for subsequent visits. Even he said it was embarrassing when the Coach's old Mom interrupted their workouts with a tray of milk or a body builder's snack of grilled liver.

Right now Coach told them they were not to be ashamed of their bodies and to emulate the athletes of Ancient Greece who competed naked in front of their mothers. He said that their mothers had brought them into the world naked after all. They've seen you in "the nudie" a thousand times.

"Nothing you've got hanging down there they haven't inspected and scrubbed and powdered."

The coach, who standing there nude himself, was proposing to be there in front of the ladies in the same condition. In fact seemed excited by it. His small tapered penis had begun to stretch.

One boy grumbled that their bodies had changed since then. Another that his Mom hadn't seen him without his clothes in five years. Another boy lamented that mothers were one thing but his had brought the next door neighbour who was "an old bitch." Another boy growled that his mother had brought his aunt. Mark was in that position precisely- his Mom had recruited Mrs Harris from up the street and his Aunt Julie who had come to town from St Paul just for this- but he stayed locked in resentful silence.

In any case the coach rejected all complaints, organised them in two queues and gave them the order to start walking in two lines out into the pool area, with its bleachers full of mature age females. The ladies' excited talking filled the air, had grown more raucous as the wait went on. It filled each boy with terror.

Mark had been placed by the coach in the very front of the line of boys to walk down the left side of the pool, almost as if the coach relished having ladies view the boy's broad, white bratwurst with its puckering foreskin and balls dragging low.

Mark took a deep breath and, on Coach's instruction, stepped out into the chlorine-scented interior of the auditorium, with the shimmering green water of the pool, the subaqueous light, the crowded bleachers.

Row after row of mature age ladies stopped talking and stared.

Nothing prepared Mark for those concentrated stares and "ohhhhh"s. The ladies started nudging one another excitedly, whispering and pointing at the boys as the two lines, one on each side of the pool, walked past. Then one ancient gray-haired Grandmom loudly opined, "Mother of God, all these boys are bare as boards!" And set off waves of laughter as ladies echoed her old fashioned, "bare as boards!" It just made boys go weak at the knees, reminding them of the exposed state.

Every family group was equipped with a camera and there was constant flashing, like at a fashion parade or Academy Awards. Seeing their sons, Moms would wave and call out their names. The boys would look around teary eyed with shame. Or just stare terrified straight ahead and pretend they didn't hear. 

Terrified of meeting the eyes of his own Mom, Aunt Julie and neighbour Mrs Harris, Mark focused straight at the end of the pool. 

And he walked, naked as the day that he was born. Without a stitch. He had never felt such humiliation, he told Stevie and Rodney, the three boys standing there in the sheltered backyard, in their Indian gear, the sun gently tanning their exposed flesh.

He told them that as he walked he felt his penis swinging sideways like the long pendulum in the waist of a grandfather clock. He was self conscious about being an uncut oddity. These staring excited women would be curious about his twisted, puckering foreskin, about him not having a streamlined helmet head like the other nude sons. He felt their stares. He was also very, very scared about getting stiff. In fact felt a slight swelling.

When they got to the end Coach briskly had eight of them ascend the blocks. Right up, in view of everyone. Go on, fellas, get moving. And hands at your sides, please! He ordered another eight to wait their turn, behind them, hands at their backs, legs spread. Yes, men, behind your backs! And the rest he ordered to go and sit in the front rows of the bleachers.

In other words to walk right up to the glaring ladies, find seats in front of them and plant their nude bottoms in them. This was gonna be terrible, Mark knew it.

But it quickly got worse.

He and his friends shuffled across to the women. They let their hands kinda hover in front but knew they were not hiding much. Just managing to look goofy and bashful. Then he noticed his Mom and Aunt Julie and Mrs Harris waving from their seats four rows back, big smiles on their faces, pointing to a vacant seat next to Mrs Harris and calling, "Up here, Mark!" and "Come back here, son!" and "Sit with your fans!" 

What? "Sit with your fans!" Gotta be kidding!

Mark shook his head and gestured to the front row seat he was about to take, next to his blushing friends and knew that by using his right arm to gesture he had exposed one half of his dangling genitals. He blushed more deeply and was about to take his front row seat...

"...when that fuckin' coach came up, stark naked himself and loving it, he was getting stiff with the excitement, and said, no, boys should sit down with their Moms! Go on Mark, and the other fellas too, up with your Moms! He said a Mom was always a boy's best fan and ordered me to squeeze into their row, and sit with her, and told other fellas to do the same. Sit next to your Moms, he was bellowing. 

"Ladies had to create space and free-up seats. Us guys couldn't believe this was happening. There I was- I would have to cram past six old ducks to get near my Mom and Aunt and neighbour- shit! I went up the stairs with my hands pressed in front, with all of them looking and I turned my back as I squeezed in their row and fuck! I was shoving my ass right in their faces, close up as I squeezed through and the old dears were laughing and saying things to hurt my feelings..."

"Like what?" Rodney asked, his own penis standing up at a perfect 45 degrees, the precarious flap shunted to one side. Stevie had even begun to gently feel his own erection, stroking its little glans which was drooling. He was also intent on the details. "Yeah, what did they say?"




Rodney's Nude Humiliation Ch. 05



"Aw, things like, what a nice white bottom to have shoved in their noses, and jeepers, how they didn't know where to look with a naked young man way up close and how they bet this nice boy- Mrs Sullivan's boy, isn't it- must be embarrassed to be up here with us old dears, yes he must be weak with shame, you know how boys are at his age. And another said oh I think some boys might like getting around with their clothes off in front of us and they laughed and another said, yes, some boys liked to show off. Another said no, she thought we all looked embarrassed. That's why the poor boys kept trying to cover up with their hands even though it didn't work and just made them look pathetic.

"All this while I squeezed past, my back turned to them shoving my ass in their faces and trying to cover my front with my hands and ladies all around craning their necks and peeking all they could.

"Then I had to sit down next to Mrs Harris with my mother and aunt leaning over her to take a good look at me. And another lady, Mrs McIntosh, on the other side of me who was craning her fuckin' neck to see whatever she could and I managed to sit down and cross my legs and lean forward on my elbows to cover up. All the while they were fussing and giggling and touching..."

"Touching!"

"Oh yeah, patting my legs and saying what a good physique I had and stroking my shoulder and leaving their hands there and one old bitch started running her finger tips up and down my back saying they'd all cheer me on because they knew I was the strongest swimmer just feel those muscles and someone else starting feeling them too and Mrs Harris threw her arms over my shoulder while she told me that boys shouldn't be ashamed of their bodies and how much she liked it when when she saw me with my shirt off mowing the lawn but, she said, today was going to be even better, for her and all the others, and I should just relax and enjoy it. Just get around naked and unashamed, she said."

Both Rodney and Stevie moaned. Their fingers were slowly running up and down their penis stems as they listened transfixed with horror.

"But it got worse. Outta the blue old Mrs MacIntosh said to my mother, leaning over me, leaning right across over my lap, she said so you never had your boy circumcised Mrs Sullivan? Jesus, I went red! Mom said no, and she explained she had wanted it but my Dad never did because he hadn't been and the doctor had agreed with her but my Dad had insisted Mark is going to keep his whadya call it, his skin (she couldn't think of the right word) yes that's right, foreskin, and said my Dad had told her and the doctor he would teach me how to keep my thing clean. 

"Mrs McIntosh then said her three sons had been circumcised even though her husband still had his thing, his skin, his foreskin- the silly bitch didn't know the name for it- and her husband liked having it, he even seemed proud of it- that extra bit of skin they have, silly men folk she said- but she just thought it looked neater and she got her way with her three boys and thought they looked swell, neat and streamlined and modern, and the main thing was whether the skin pulled back easy. Isn't that the problem they have, the skin pulling back? And my mother said she didn't think there was a problem, was there? And looked at me! Just looked at me! And pointed to my lap! And I went deep red and just shook my head. And I knew Mrs McIntosh was going to ask to see it. I just knew it!

"And I knew when she did my fuckin' mother was going to tell me to lift my arms and move my legs and let her look. Bet they woulda both wanted me to show how the skin pulls back! Make the head pop out. Show it off. Oh look, isn't that nice! My son's penis has a nice big tip! But the coach started blowing his whistle for the first race and they all looked up.

"And there on the blocks three outta the eight boys had big, bold hard-ons, sticking out and up! And their heads were down and they were really blushing. And I could feel that the ladies all around me were looking at them, seeing stiff cock, probably for the first time for years with the ole ones. And there'd be mothers seeing their own sons hard-ons for the first time and it would be fuckin' awful for the fellas."

He paused.

"Has your mother ever..?"

Stevie said no, not his mother, but girls in his class when they burst into the swimming that time and his sisters and their maid of course, every Saturday. Saw him stiff, that is. Rodney said his mother had seen his stiff when they tried a swimsuit on him, that he hadn't been able to help it, it just got stiff, also his sister and cousin and probably his Mom had caught a glimpse when he showed them the Indian costume.

"But she saw it stiff?"

"Definitely at the swimsuit fitting. Maybe with the Indian costume."

There was silence as the three 18 years contemplated the horror of having erections seen by a Mom. The terrible shame. A boy's penis at its full length, long and hard and standing out, its veins full, a shameful symbol of the obscene pictures that played in the boy's mind.

Then Mark said that it had happened to him at the swim meet.

And he told them more about the woeful day.

The coach seemed to delay ordering the first race, as if extending the agony of those boys with erections up on the blocks. All female eyes were on them. They seemed hopelessly shamed. Especially when cameras snapped. 

Kerry Fulbright was one of the fellas up there with a hard-on: he had a chunky, defined physique and a chunky average sized cock that veered to the right. The veer gave his cock a jaunty style, like a cigarette hanging lop-sided from the lips of a Hollywood male. "That's Mrs Fulbright's boy," declared one Mom. "The good looking one. Yes, with the...with the...you know, the embarrassment!" 

And the ladies around her laughed.

"Well, he's not alone with his embarrassment," said another. "Look at Madelaine's boy, he's putting himself on display! Larry's his name. Goodness, he delivers our groceries! Oh, my God!" And her neighbour said he won't be able to look you in the eye the next time he comes in with the groceries. And the first lady said, "Don't worry about him, I won't know where to look myself! He'll stand there waiting to be paid and I'll be thinking of what I'm seeing now!"

Larry's white boner seemed as long and thin and hard as a broomstick- it was a real revelation- and the tall, skinny red haired boy was blushing all over, not knowing where to look himself, right now. It must have been his Mom or aunt who bounded forward to get a close up of her son. He gestured to her to leave off, but she snapped half a dozen pics.

Fuck, thought Mark, look at that- all for a family slide night! Here's my darling boy up on the blocks about to start his race, totally nude with a long, skinny, hard stiffie! Look girls, there's your brother; have a good close-up view, that's what we call his engorged organ...yes, it is funny. I agree, girls, boys are very funny with their clothes off. And oh, look at his tight little ball sack! 

And Mark heard women in front of him whisper that oh, those fellas are going to be embarrassed. Oh yes, poor boys with us all watching. Yes, happens all the time at their age, her neighbour agreed. Just can't help it, can they, said another. Mark said as he heard them talk about boys' erections he felt himself fleshing out down between his crossed legs, sheltered under his elbows. So he was relieved the ladies knew it was nothing boys his age had any control over, it didn't mean "dirty thoughts." 

Then another old dear shattered the consensus by saying, "But reckon they hate us seeing them, all the same," and another said she didn't want to say it but it sure as hell looks funny! They all tittered away. Then another one said, "Those things? Looks like a row of hat racks!" A lot of laughter, and some repeated the line so others could hear: "Like a row of hat racks, she says, the boys up there with their things sticking out." 

There was laughter, some of it gloating and cruel. Oh yes, look at them, said a Grandmom, and she said her son had got "like that" just by seeing the lingerie advertisements in The Saturday Evening Post. She caught him looking with a bulge in his pants. "In fact, he thought about sex all the time. They all do. And that's the result up there now! Only thing is to get them married!"

Up and down the bleachers naked boys sat interspersed with the ladies, next to a Mom or aunt. Most had legs crossed, tucking their packages away and out of sight. Others sat demure, with both hands pressed down on their groins. They looked goofy and bashful, some were teary-eyed with embarrassment. Some must have been thinking about the moment when they'd have to get up, some may have been getting hard-ons.

Jason Cho, the Korean exchange student, sat next to his host mother, red haired Mrs Grossman with her cats' eyes glasses and beads. She seemed thrilled, he looked terrified. His smooth coffee-coloured form looked acutely vulnerable, up there in a middle row, women all a-titter, turning and craning to take him in. He sat straight backed, hands pressed into his groin, a timberline of black bush tantalisingly on view.

Carl Harlson stood out, with Viking looks and broad shoulders, planted right in a row of Grandmoms. His legs were so long he had trouble crossing them, sitting all cramped up, with one of the old ducks repeating like a refrain, "That boy's as bare as a board! Bare as a board!" Which made him wince with embarrassment every time while his own Grandmom, sitting next to him, seemed unable to keep her hands from roaming all over him, even ruffling the blond tufts of hair on his chest. He kept trying to shrug her off. Mark sensed that Carl's little dick- disproportionately tiny for the tall athlete, a mere sliver on top of a neat little ball sack- would be hard as a rock.

One boy, Samson Douglas, the negro student arrived this year from Alabama, had stepped boldly up to a seat offerred by Mrs Carruthers, the widow who engaged him to tend her prize-winning garden. He had climbed the steps with arms by his side while astonished women gazed at the weighty abundance dangling from the frizzy hair of his groin. And when he came to squeeze into the fifth row he kept his front turned forward to present his genitals to the faces of a half a dozen ladies. Their noses were inches from his thick, grey-brown appendage, with its well-shaped red-brown glans, and he didn't seem to care. He flopped proudly into the vacant seat, legs spread as wide as he could manage, hands on his thighs. His penis and capacious scrotum lolled in his lap.The row of ladies behind him leaned forward as one to peer, greedily.

All sorts of teasing was going on around the seated boys, patting and stroking and tickling the ribs. It was clear that the old girls could not keep their eyes from the groins although they were mighty distracted by the sight of the erections of the boys on the blocks waiting for the Coach's whistle.

Finally those boys were allowed to dive. Which only revealed the line of eight naked boys behind them- standing hands behind backs, legs spread. They looked so funny, standing like sentries. Groins open for inspection sergeant! Two of them were 100 percent erect, three on the way with lengthening dicks that pointed to the tiles or stuck out parallel to them. And they couldn't cover up, hands behind backs, legs spread apart. 

Exposed, and now the centre of attention, they blushed like fire hydrants.

"There's young Tommy!" "Oh, look at Buddy, little Buddy! Oh my, oh my!" "Goodness! If only there sisters could see!" "What? Sisters? They'd love it but the boys would drop dead!" Laughter, some of it cruel and gloating. More cameras flashed and three Moms dashed forward with Brownies, even when a humiliated son waved his one back. 

But she stuck at it: click, click, click, for the family album, Mark thought, to show visiting relatives, to delight the girl cousins, to bring out to titillate the bridge club. To be peeped at by the giggling maid or cleaning lady. And even as the ladies looked,    Charlie Hodgson's eight incher wobbled in its parallel-to-the-floor stiffness, jerked higher, stopped for a few seconds and tilted up again to rear at a bold, unapologetic 45 degrees. From the ladies closest there were some ironic cheers.

While the first race was proceeding in the pool these boys were ordered up on to the blocks where their audience could relish an even better view. Now more ladies streamed from the bleachers with cameras, including Mark's Aunt Julia who grasped Mark's shoulder as she struggled over him and descended and marched right to the corner of the pool and snapped away- at Paul, and Kevin, and Charlie, the others as well.

Finally it was Mark's turn to rise in his place- all heads swivelled to catch a glimpse- and press hands to his groin and squeeze past, presenting his muscular white rear to the noses of the ladies and descend the steps and go and join his colleagues behind the boys on the blocks and stand in a row: as directed by his coach, legs wide apart, hands behind. Oh my God, he thought, totally 100 percent exposed. He revealed a rubbery semi-erection virtually parallel to the ground, folds of foreskin retracted over his big glans. A shy glance showed he was not alone. Engorgement had spread like wildfire. Everyone of the eight was poking out but, as happened with the law of averages, each of the others was smaller than Mark's: one a shy but stubborn little three incher, a few at four, the rest five.

"You've shamed us, Sullivan," complained Jimmy Strawbridge at his side, owner of the smallest. Short and stubby, it projected straight out of the middle of a wrinkled ball sack and turned up at its thick head. The thick banjo strings of the frenulum were very pronounced. But the thing was short, more head than stem. The comparison, especially as Mark's penis stretched and reared some more, might be considered shaming. Certainly would if caught on film and shared with sisters- and here was Mrs Strawbridge capturing her son for family posterity! Click. Click. Click. And in every pic, it was clear from her position, there would be Mark standing next to Jimmy. Mark with his long, thick bold one. Her own son, short and stubby.

As races ended boys hauled themselves out of the pool and walked by the ladies, to stand loitering at the head of the pool or sit in the front. No more did they shelter their things with their hands. Samson Douglas from Alabama found none of the ladies in his path objected when water flicked from his shiny, mahogany physique as he made his way back to sit next to his proud patroness.

And small, compact Timmy Townsend, his blond hair in a crew cut, walked back to the bleachers sporting a neat, diminutive entirely erect penis. As ladies looked on he was humbled and shamed by the exposure. Felt funny and thrilled deep inside. He climbed back to the row where sat his dear, sweet Mom and Aunt Sylvia. He was not sheltering with his hands- no, he had settled into the role of the submissive naked boy- and as he squeezed back to his seat he was facing the ladies front-on, his slender member sticking out. Ah, a real Mother's boy, thought the ladies, as his tender little glans grinned at them, his unthreatening member poking from wet, flattened blond pubic hair. 

And when he slid his wet bottom into his seat Mrs Townsend   hugged him and congratulated him on coming third and pecked him on his cheek. And on his other side so did his Aunt Sylvia. He was happy to be the centre of attention- theirs, and the other ladies all around. He sat without covering his groin, his erection- small and proud- a measure of his happiness. There was even a touching offering of transparent fluid bubbling from his tip. 

After today he might ask to be allowed to play nude with his toy soldiers on the lounge room floor or romp naked in the backyard. Do homework at the kitchen table nude. Watch TV. Be teased, tickled and hugged by his sisters. 

If female visitors came, he thought, it would be so nice. And maybe...maybe...Mom and Aunt Sylvia would put a nappy on him every bedtime, his sisters too.

Meanwhile Mark and his cohort stepped up onto the blocks, preparatory to diving. All were at "full stand" although the eight organs jutted at different angles. Bud Logan's was the real "belly slapper," its five inches rising parallel to his abs and flat against them. It was Mark's that gave the ladies the best ventral view: the stretched skin, the flaring frenulum, the pumping arteries and tightly withdrawn foreskin of a big, bold penis underbelly. As a result there were 15 ladies now straining away with cameras and Mrs Hawksmoor, who had no relationship with any of this eight- she was there as neighbour of Charlie Hodgson and friend of his Mom- nearly toppled into the pool as she lent over to get Mark's display on film. 

"Why doesn't that fuckin' faggot of a coach tell us to dive," complained Jimmy Strawbridge, next to Mark. "Just look at him," said Mark. And there was Coach Gordon Compton, under his fake blond hair, suntanned all over even in his carefully shaven groin. Whistle on a cord around his neck, loudhailer in his hand, just chatting away to a bunch of seated ladies, not remotely concerned that they were seeing him with his modest cock standing upright, tingling with the excitement of his exposure.

And as ladies moved closer, and called on boys to look up and smile, and clicked their cameras, or just sauntered in with arms folded on their big chests to have a close up inspection, and more strolled down from the bleachers, the coach allowed things to stretch out. Easily 10 minutes had passed, eight boys with full erections caught on the diving blocks, their female audience swelling and staring and laughing and pointing and whispering.

And the coach let it drag on even longer.

Mark and his friends felt as if they'd had eyes roaming all over them like insects. They felt despoiled. "Where the fuck are these photos going to end up?" asked Jimmy out of the corner of his mouth. "Every photograph album in town," said Mark. "So any girl who you might ask to the sock hop or the drive-in gets to check you out. And in five years time if you ask one to marry you, she and her Mom get to see what you're offering." Jimmy shrivelled. "So if she wants a short, stubby one that slides right in, she'll go for you," Mark added. 

But Jimmy was looking at Samson Douglas squeezing out of his seat, at the Coach's request. His gray-brown appendage was now bolt upright, excited by the ladies looking him over steaming with desire. His projection was threatening the powdered noses of the ladies in his row. They giggled to assuage the piggy look of gluttony that danced in their eyes. 

At the end of the row Mrs Lorna Partridge reared back as his erection bounced around in front of her nose but she did not avert her greedy gaze: she was fewer than five inches from the sculpted African glans, reddish brown, as it slid across her line of vision, like a prize-winning mushroom jammed on the end of a bludgeon.

Then, the centre of all attention, Samson slowly descended the steps, his erection wobbling ahead of him. The coach took him to one side and leant in close to whisper. Later Samson revealed the secret- Gordon Compton was pressing him about going to his home tonight, having a workout in the basement gym and sitting down to dinner with him and his Mom for muscle-building cuisine. Later Samson told the fellas he had great fun standing there with his erection, ladies watching, being the Coach's current favorite. He said that he told the coach that, sure, he had nothing better to do after school today when he finished trimming Mrs Carruthers' garden. And he grinned to suggest that her garden was not the only focus of his work in the home of the lusty widow.




Rodney's Nude Humiliation Ch. 05



"But, coach," he says he added. "Where I come from in Alabamie, we boys don't have any truck with those neat little posing straps you want fellas to put on when they work out with you..."

Here Samson said Coach Compton looked embarrassed and disappointed.

"No, down there in the South a Negra boy like me gets his exercise movin' round buck naked. One of those little pink or polka dot contraptions you hand out to the fellas here in Minnesota would not hold all our equipment in place."

And looking down, he added, "See what I mean." He said the coach went all funny at this point, a strange, hungry look in his eye, at the prospect of having Samson naked in his basement, lying on a bench or standing in front of a mirror, working with weights. A young black athlete with a penis several inches above Grover Cleveland's average for length and girth.

From the other side of the pool Mrs Townsend and Aunt Sylvia watched the boy from Alabama, his penis standing high and absolutely rigid, finish up his conversation with Coach Compton. They were rapt and, sitting between them, young and small in every way, Timmy sensed it. His little erection wilted. One minute he had been dreaming that the Negro boy might be invited to his place for milk and cookies, then be enticed to join Timmy "in the altogether" just for fun, to play cowboys and injuns in the Holland's backyard, stripped to the buff. Just boys havin' outdoor fun. Or maybe the two could go on camping trips together...but now Samson had won the intent looks of his Mom and Aunt, leaving Timmy without his status of most desired boy.

Then in a gesture that made him melt, Mom lay her warm smooth hand on his bare thigh and said, "You know, your Aunt and me think our Timmy is the nicest, sweetest little fella here today." And Aunt Sylvia even reached down and tickled his little ball bag to make his penis spring stiff again. "We've got room in our hearts for only one boy." Which had Timmy feel warm and gooey inside and slide again into that fantasy about going nude at home, sitting on the sofa between the two ladies watching Perry Como, their arms around him, their perfumes enveloping him, his penis standing to attention in his lap. His sisters peeking in, and giggling.

Mark said that he finished his race and won, and Coach made a big fuss and walked him round arm held high. All the ladies streamed from the bleachers with their cameras and wanted shots of their boys. Every fella tried to shuck them off, turn his back, but to no avail.

"They trapped you?" panted Stevie, breathing hard and now bringing himself close to climax, as each of Mark's stories of shame and humiliation washed through his system. Rodney, too, wanted to know how it felt to be photographed. He shivered, when he asked. He had been fingering his penis non-stop during Mark's account, especially when the boy reached stories of the erections.

"Mom and the two others grabbed me and made me stand by the pool. Told me to put my hands on my hips. They took photos. Then Aunt Julia moved in and put her arm around my back and grinned at the camera, and then Mrs Harris moved in on the other side and naturally my cock stuck out out again, you know, parallel...parallel to the tiles. I think that made them even more excited. They had to take more photos and more and more. And Mom had to be in them, on one side, then by herself..."

Mark said he had just posed, with his long erection sticking out straight, assuming a suffering, "aw shucks," goofey expression somewhat between laughing and crying. 

Click. Click. Click.

With Mom on one side hugging him super-tight around his hips and Aunt Julia on the other side clutching his waist, he quickly looked down and confirmed his cock was rearing now, lifting from the horizontal, beam hard. Just as he looked to check...Click! Off goes the camera in Mrs Harris' hands, catching him looking at himself! Shit! How's that gonna appear in the album?

And for not the first time he wished it were smaller, just like those agonising times he was asked to rise in the class room when he was stiff and the thing tented the entire front of his pants instead of being the discrete, excusable, barely noticeable nudge that other boys suffered. 

When other ladies closed in with cameras and tried to catch him in a pose Mark made excuses and fled, almost at a trot, penis wobbling ahead of him, through the crowd of boys all being made to stand with their Moms, aunts or neighbours buck naked and erect, forced to stand there, looking goofy and bashful as if being totally 100 percent naked with a boner in the company of grown women was the most natural thing in the world. 

He left them and breathed a sigh of relief, in the change room with its smell of old brick, damp and pungent muscle rub.

But, he told Stevie and Rodney, there was more to come.

His Mom got the photos developed at Mrs Guelf's Photo Store. He had protested.

"Mrs Guelf! Hell, Mom! She's got three girls! One in MY class. And the twins only left school last year! They know me!"

His Mom said she was sure the lady would never let her girls peep at photos she was developing. Besides, she's got a big boy herself. Yes, thought Mark, and he once complained to me that his mother would walk in when he was in the bath or the shower, even give him a scrub down with a bristly brush. Or make him drop a towel afterwards and let her see "how he was developing." She was divorced, smoked in the street, wore big vulgar earrings, went drinking in one of Brewer's bars.

Mrs Guelf would have loved those pics, every one of them, and shared them around. Spread them out in front of her daughters. Who no doubt made many discerning and vulgar remarks.

Mark said he begged his Mom to keep the pictures, which she had placed in a big album, under lock and key.

She said she would. But...

Stevie had his prick in his hand and was close to one of his legendary, flooding explosions. So was Rodney.

"But she said that if my grades didn't improve, or my test results, if I was ever rude to my sister, or came home after cut-off, she would see that the album came out of the top of her bedroom cupboard and got inspected by females I would not want to have see it!"

Stevie and Rodney groaned and stroked harder. Mark started on his own prick, up and down the long, thick stem, seeking relief from the humiliation he was sharing. He said he asked her who she might show. She told him not to mind. 

And the three boys were moving in unison now, jerking off urgently.

That is, while Mark kept talking.

He said that after he had flunked mid-years he walked in and there was his Mom in the living room with his Aunt Julia and her daughter, Gloria- Mark's cousin- and next door neighbour Mrs Harrington and her daughter Cynthia, home from college, a girl who had never been seen with a boy. Narrow and skinny, with glasses and big teeth. She looked especially flushed.

The album was on the coffee table, open at a six by four inch photo that showed tall, rangy Mark in profile walking along the pool. The focus was imperfect but there was something vague dangling from his groin that would have whetted female appetites. And on the facing page, was Mark standing in three quarter view between two naked boys, hands behind his back, legs spread. His penis was clearly delineated, sticking straight ahead. The focus was perfect. You could even see the uneven folds of the half retracted foreskin, like layers of a lasagne.

This detail. Oh my God! Presented to these girls: Gloria. Cynthia.

There was worse inside. A brazen close-up photo of his physique from chest to knees, his privates revealed as on Michelangelo's David. So they now knew what his balls looked like. Shit! Even that ridge down the middle and the corrugated lines that ran out on either side, all this could be clearly seen...

...it was incredible that Gloria...that Cynthia...get to inspect pictures like this!

He shivered all over as Cynthia caught his eye.

"Aw, Mom!" He protested. "Those photos are NOT for sharing!"

"Well, you should have thought about that before you served up those disappointing grades," she replied. "Now look, these are the boys standing on the blocks..."

And they did look, very intently, Gloria especially moving in close, while Mark said he fled the room.

After that Mark told them, as he stroked his now fully erect penis, that "fuckin' album" came out whenever she wanted to teach him a lesson. He was now on his very, very best behaviour if he heard she was hosting bridge but tripped up when he and his sister had a row and he swore at her. Looking back he was sure she had provoked it on purpose. Apparently the album had been the highlight of her party, passed around between the 15 or so ladies.

Unbelievable! Passed around!

"One photo has me...with Mom on one side...and Mrs Harris on the other...with their arms around my waist...me looking at the camera front on...with the biggest, hardest hardon I ever had in my life...and I've got this weak, goofy smile...and they would have all seen it!"

This image seemed to bring Stevie to the brink.

"And...they...have...all...seen...." Stevie was gurgling. "They've seen...all...of...you! "

At this point he exploded, a glob of cum whacking his face, trailing down his nose, more hitting his sternum, more flying through the sunlight to splash on grass. It kept flowing, filled his hand, flowed through his fingers. He gasped, his eyes bulged, he bent over.

Meanwhile Rodney's eyes were bulging too, with lust- lust for boys being naked with dressed ladies, lust for his own Mom seeing his big, bold erections, lust for a strong-limbed naked boy like Mark or himself being the centre of attention with females all around, he stripped of all clothing of course. Every stitch.

Rodney now shot off, and a huge quantity danced in the air, catching the sun's rays before bombing the grass. More followed, as the boy clenched and groaned. A broad, creamy stream stuck to his thigh.

Meanwhile Mark vigorously stroked away. And talked. He told them his sister now taunted him that she knew where Mom hides the album with "the pictures of you in your birthday suit" and she was going to get it down and show her friends if Mark didn't do what she wanted. He said he once caught their Negro maid, Amelia, with the thing open at a picture of his bottom fully displayed when he was on the blocks and one facing it, a close-up of his groin, dominated by the tip of his erection. She had snuffled as she quickly closed it, averted her gaze but always in the future greeted him with a dreamy, faraway look in her eye and a slight superior smile.

"Fuck, she's seen everything about me...my balls...my foreskin! No wonder she grins to herself every time she sees me!"

And he came, colossally, all over his torso and the sun-bleached grass.

Later the three boys lay on their backs, making the most of the afternoon sun, their pricks now dozing under their flaps.

"You heard the latest about Miss Cuff's plans?"

"Jesus, no. What?"

"Jimmy Fraser had to model his costume for her and some teachers visiting from schools outta town... "

"All ladies? "

"You bet. Young and old. Some just outta school. Others headed for retirement home. And the poor bastard had to stand in her office and pose and walk around just in those fuckin' flaps. And one of them said, hey, why have that flap on the back? Indians didn't always have them. The young braves got around with their tight little asses on display for the squaws to admire. And others said, yeah, that's right, we can find pictures of that. Meanwhile Jimmie is blushing like hell especially when they get him to turn his back and hold his flap up and reveal his crack for them and Miss Cuff comes in and helps him pulling it off to the side and they all end up poking around and agreeing that you just don't need it, it doesn't cover much anyway and when the boys run and dance it keeps moving..."

"So..?"

"We're all headed back to the costume maker for another fitting."

The boys absorbed that news.

It was shocking news.

Although Stevie's prick did rouse itself and his frontal flap rose from his groin. Rodney's penis began to swell, as his mind filled with various ticklish notions he was growing to like.

Mark, too, began to day dream. Something stretched. And something tugged back.

From the back porch Rodney's Mom called that they had had enough sun. If they came in now, she had some fresh lemonade. And there were some girls to see them.

And in the sky above Brewer, as factory whistles sounded and the light retreated, another day was ending.



Rodney's Nude Humiliation Ch. 06



Mrs Reilly's Victorian-era house was considered one of the finest in Brewer: made of Kasota, the premier building stone of Minnessotta, it featured colonial revival lines with an off-centre tower and Tudor arches. 

The attendance at the widow's afternoon tea was big, fully 30 or so ladies, all divorced or widowed Moms. And all so very well-dressed, in their wide floral skirts, short-sleeved knit tops, pinched waistlines with the accented hips and busts of currently fashionable styles, most with gloves, some hats. All were there to see the historic home. But they were there to share information as well. On a subject that made some of them tremble. Made some dampen, in their panties.

It was an exciting subject.

One clue lay in Mrs Reilly's verdurous garden. Sheltered behind ivy clad fences, two 18 year old males worked at clipping and mowing. But...hey! What a contrast with the delightfully dressed ladies inside! They were in their birthday suits, one hundred percent stripped off! Stark naked! Bare as boards! 

One was red headed and freckled- freckled all over, red haired, right down to the burst in his groin- the other was mahogany, a Negro boy, grizzled in his groin. As they worked they nervously looked over their shoulders and their private parts flopped, stretched, shrunk again, then reinflated. They were excited by their nudity, and shamed.

But it was all their fault. Picked up for drunkenness, or bad driving, boys in Brewer might be delivered by Sergeant Clipper to Mrs Rilley's household and ordered to work off their offences under her command. "Keep the lady happy, and this will go no further," was the police command. "Not even your folks will know."

Her orders about clothing, or rather the lack of it, brooked no disagreement. She stood before them, arms outstretched for clothes. Sorry, that's all of them, all your clothes. That's right, everything, thank you. She watched eagle-eyed as the underwear slithered down and was handed over by the blushing boys quickly manoeuvring to cup their genitals.

Closer to the house another young athlete, naked as the day that he was born, swept leaves from the tiled borders of Mrs Reilly's pool. He was heavily muscled, a body builder, with a blond crew cut. He might be viewed from the windows of her upper stories. Something made his bulky circumcised penis swell; maybe the excitement of being glimpsed- he had caught views through the shrubs of the Moms arriving out front, skirts billowing. Some he knew as neighbours. 

And in Mrs Reilly's driveway two tall, slender boys scrubbed her 1950 Pontiac Chieftain. Yes, they too were arrestingly nude, top to toe. They both had swept back, ducks-tail, Elvis hair styles. And somehow the oiled, shaped hair made them seem even more blazingly bare. More buck-naked. Any lady peering from the living room would have seen their cleft buttocks and their half-erect cocks: one with a tapering foreskin, a long overhang, and the other shorter and wrinkled but connected to fat, low-hanging testicles. 

As they hosed down the bonnet and polished the windows, the boys could hear the ladies talk, smell the wafting smoke of their cigarettes through the fly-screens of the windows, hear the clink of their iced tea. The fellas shuddered, cocks poking parallel to the ground.

In the house a painting which hung above the marble fireplace also gave a clue to the theme of the meeting of Moms. It was a a flamboyant painting of the goddess Venus. She was pulling over her knee her son Cupid, a somewhat mature Cupid, decisively uncircumcised. A few Moms were beginning to feel an affinity with the Roman goddess of love and beauty. A beautiful Venus, able to spank a wilful male child, with his buttocks offered like a sacrifice on her knees. 

They were ready to embrace this role, some already had.

They had been invited by Mrs O'Reilly to share information on new approaches to discipline of teenage sons. America was obsessed with juvenile delinquents, the menace of rock and roll, sex in the backs of cars, falling church attendance and rising divorce rates. Moms had been divorced, others widowed or just abandoned. All had sons 18 or older. All found the subject of discipline a tantalising one.

Discipline in the nude, was the essence of the new approach. This enthusiasm had been set off by the daring production at Grover Cleveland High with 18 year old boys romping around with only a short, narrow flap hanging over their groins (usually flopping to left or right and exposing everything) and, now- her latest modification- nothing behind. Not even a narrow flap to cover their bottoms. Miss Cuff's musical on the theme of Cowgirls and Indian Braves was in permanent rehearsal and a lot of Brewer's females had seen some of it, or had sons model this flimsiest of costumes at home while twisting and shuffling with shame, in the living room in front of family and friends.

It was one simple, next step to punish boys in the nude. Thrillingly, all the Moms were experimenting with it, or preparing to.

In fact while two Negro maids served apple sponge and coffee cake, several ladies had competed to tell stories of full nude punishment. For example, Gloria Smyth told about her surly 19 year old freshman son, Gordon, with his lack of interest in sport or girls and his shockingly bad grades in his engineering course at St Paul Tech. His bad skin was another source of irritation; the acne and pimples hinted at secret masturbatory rites.

Her suspicions were confirmed when arriving home, on some mother's instinct, she had tip-toed along the corridor and without warning opened the door to his bedroom. Her son looked up, horrified, naked and "playing with himself." There was a page from The Star Tribune devoted to a lingerie advertisement spread over his bed: line drawings of willowy women in conical bras, lace-fringed panties, elaborate suspenders. He had just had his bath, obviously chosen to stay in the nude, assumed he was safe with his mother not coming home till late. A jar of Brylcreem sat on the bed, his right hand shone with its contents. So did his penis, sticking up hard from his groin. The glans gleamed. His responses were notoriously slow- his sister called him "Stupid"- and true to form, he was too shocked to cover up. He gaped up at his Mom. She looked into his lap.

In a righteous fury she had seized him by an ear and marched him out of his bedroom, his erection bouncing and pointing the way, right into their living room. She said that he was clearly ashamed at having his "little boy's things" glimpsed by his mother- his penis might have been five inches, though thickish. A carbon copy, as it happened of his Dad's. He begged to be spared being seen by his older sister. A somewhat cheeky girl, and good looking unlike her brother, she was expected home any moment from the typing pool. 

His mother ignored this plea, told him to stick out his bottom. He hesitated, then obliged, poking back his skinny white buttocks in a coy gesture recalling a pin-up's pose. "More!" she instructed, and he thrust further back, looking now quite silly. She sensed her power and only just suppressed a smile. She looked at her naked son, his bottom stuck out, like a soubrette in a musical, fear and shame dancing in his eyes. Damn the little brat, she thought! She raised her hand...and struck hard.

To see him prance and pirouette, wailing and begging, as her spanks found their marks was more high comedy. She noticed that his erection quickly subsided as the pain intensified and she said she made it as painful as possible, reddening his bottom and thighs as he danced in a circle, uttering "Owww!" and "Ouch!" She quickly realised the fun of full nude punishment of an errant and something of the resentment of a divorced mother, abandoned by a womanising husband, fed her fury. Her son's crimson posterior, his flying penis, his juggling hairy scrotum seemed to indict him.

When she was exhausted she had made him stand in a corner, facing outwards, hands behind. Facing outward- he groaned at this order. But she not only ignored his protest, she went for the kill: she cruelly told him to keep his arms at his sides. She even used the age-old mothers' lie, "What? You think anyone's interested in looking at you?" As it happened, after a quarter of an hour, his sister had been delighted when she walked in the front door- and most assuredly was interested in looking at him. Very intently. Peering in at his groin real close. A budding young woman, confined all day in the typing pool, does not often get to see a stark naked college boy brother. With a red posterior to boot.

"But that's not the end of it, is it my dear?" asked Mrs Reilly, presiding at this gathering like a duchess, fingering her pearls. "You kept him in that state of undress all evening, I understand." And she looked around at her audience to make sure they absorbed this exemplary behaviour. Fingering her pearls, or faux pearls, as she presided.

Yes, Gloria had explained, naked all night, in front of them both. "And he became aroused during that experience?"

Oh yes, Gloria had confirmed with a smile, especially when they watched a fashion show. "It was so funny- he's no ladies' man, never will be. And there he was getting excited by glamorous models. Still, even then, we wouldn't let him cover up. He had to sit there knowing we could see everything."

Then there was the day Gloria had come home early- she now told this story- and there was Gordon stark naked in the living room, on the stool, with a hand on his erection moving up and down, looking doleful. His sister stood over him, with a cruel smile. She had apparently taken to ordering her brother to undress and "play with himself." Truth was, she was enchanted by the sight of him ejaculating. The grunting, the clenched eyes and, then, the explosion which might reach his face, his shoulder, his chest. He had resisted, complained, then obliged. Even...just possibly, had come to relish the submissiveness, the nudity under his sister's gaze. Apparently, as soon as he hauled his underwear down he was stubbornly stiff and drooling from his slit.

"Aw, Mom!" the girl insisted, "Gordon's like all of them. He's gonna do it but in secret, when he's under the blankets or in the bathroom. We should make him do it right in front of us so he doesn't resort to dirty pictures of women in their underwear. Or worse, do it with other boys. They get together in 'jerk off circles' and help one another!"

Gordon's look, sitting on the stool, confirmed that he was guilty as charged. His penis rose from his lap, entirely rigid. He did not try to shield it. He wore a hang dog look.

And so, this mother reported to her friends, she now insisted that every evening before he went to bed her son present himself in the living room and slip out of his boxer shorts and masturbate for her and his sister. Yes, it was tough discipline. But he had never been better behaved and his grades were improving. He had started to go to the Y and had enrolled in hockey. Recently he had asked a girl to the sock hop, a very plain girl as it happened. Even his skin had cleared up.

As for these living room exercises he was losing his shyness. He yielded up the pooled semen on his belly as an offering to the females, proud of what he had produced. He seemed honored when they "ooohed" and "aaahed" over his white emissions. At night he strolled in to sit with them and watch The Perry Como Show stark naked, sitting down with his arms over the back of the sofa, feet crossed and an erection jutting from his groin. The two females had laughed heartily; the boy had grinned.

His sister then took it on herself each morning to visit Gordon's bedroom and, grinning like a she-wolf, swiftly roll down the sheets. Gordon, with a show of reluctance, would untie his pyjamas and slip them to his ankles. He was always stiff. His sister would reach down to "milk" him, sometimes teasing him about stains on his pyjamas or sheets, on how "hard" he was and how much fluid was already "leaking." She told him, "That's your pre-ejaculatory fluid." And told him he was a naughty little boy to produce so much of it. He smiled, proud. His explosion was quick to come. His emission shot high, filled his sister's fist, overflowed everywhere.

"Mom, it's to stop him getting up to mischief at school during the day!" she said. Truth was, she loved the sight of his stiff penis, and the feel of its rubbery hardness, and the sight and smell of the globs that glued her fingers. And her mother watched from the doorway and admired her daughter's nurse-like efficiency. A few swift strokes and Gordon's body was arching off the mattress and trails of the stuff were flying. Once the emission was so voluminous it matted his sleep-tousled hair. The two women laughed heartily at that and the boy assumed an "aw shucks" expression as he felt at the mess.

His mother told the ladies, "He admitted to me that there were boys in his college organising themselves into Saturday night 'jerk off circles.' Even talk about 'stag movies' with women who look like famous Hollywood stars. He says the boys strip completely naked and sit next to each other cheering on the actors and helping one another masturbate. But he promises that he'll never get involved. He says he doesn't have to sneak around to look at underwear advertisements. All the same I've got to pinch myself! To think- in our household we resort to supervised masturbation- because the alternative is so foul!"

Ladies tittered. They thought of the male erection, at once sinister and absurd. Eyes drifted to the art work. There were statuettes of Greek athletes- without any leaves over their genitals, more than one Mom noted with satisfaction. 

They thought of their own sons.

Meanwhile outside, under the projecting bay window of Mrs Reilly's living room, two stark naked boys lifted their ears to catch every word of this conversation, wide-eyed with shock, full of lubricious wonder. An observer, especially a girl, might have found the sight comical: the boys were tall and lean, with their oiled Elvis hairdos making them look all the more naked; and with gobbets of car wash foam in their pubic bush. Both had erections springing from their groins, stimulated as they were by the ladies' filthy images- of spanking a naked son...of nude punishment of a fella their age...by his Mom and sister! And of supervised masturbation, for Chrissakes!

What would these ladies talk about next? 

They listened hypnotised, cocks straining.

Now they recognised Mrs Reilly's voice.

"Sigmund Freud called masturbation the universal addiction," she was opining. "It is certainly true of boys in Brewer and there's a case for taking it in hand- as mothers. Mothers asserting control of the phenomenon. If it's to happen, better it be under our control."

Mrs Nora Goodwin said that was her experience. Her son, Alwyn, played basketball and swam. "Some of you may have seen him at the swim meet?" Indeed several ladies nodded. They could recall vividly the lean, rangy youngster with a stubbornly stiff but remarkably small member. A few had sat in his row in the bleachers. They had had his bottom- lean and clenched with fear- placed in their faces as he had negotiated his way past them, to go down and present himself on the blocks.

His mother said that he had recently acquired the habit of masturbating. She had found evidence on his pyjamas, "hard as lacquer" with his emissions, and discovered under his bed, embedded among copies of Sports Illustrated, half a dozen magazines with titles like Brief, Modern Man, Frolic and Stare. They were full of photos of women in their underwear, with big cleavages, in provocative poses. This had disgusted her, this revelation of adult desire in her son.

She had lost her temper- Stare and Frolic in her hand, full of provocative smiles and cleavages- and told him to hand over his trousers and underpants. "How dare you object to being stripped! You seem to like women going naked!" This was like a slap across the cheeks and he started to unbuckle. Loosened, he pushed down the dungarees. Trousers slithered to ankles. He paused. "Well?" she insisted. He gulped and put his hands on his elastic. Slowly the boxer shorts descended. Slightly bent forward he contrived to have his white T shirt shelter his genitals.

She made him wait in the living room in nothing but this T shirt, sheltering his groin. She checked on him a few times, half smiling at the sight of long white legs, at the hands desperately clamped over his privates. She continued to upbraid him. "A magazine called Frolic! With these pictures!" she taunted him. "Some Modern Man you are!" 

She was wearing an exquisite hour-glass dress, a discrete floral print, with three-quarter length sleeves. She took him over her lap. She had given him the spanking of his life, "all over, bottom and legs, not missing any available space." His T shirt had ridden up to his shoulders and with no effort she had tugged it off, rendering him totally bare, shocked and doubly shamed. He had howled his heart out, twisted and turned, regardless of what he exposed. 

Now his long athlete's body looked acutely vulnerable, over her lap, like an offering. She thrashed away all the harder. His buttocks and thighs were turned red in splotches. Soon, evenly red. 

He kept twisting, almost rolling over, giving her a view of his penis and testicles, squashed and bunched up, his balls jiggling in clear outline in their petite sack. These sex organs looked so little-boyish, vulnerable.

He begged her to stop, the word "Mommy" gushed out. She was shocked to hear the infantilism. "Plllleassse, Mommy!" She had never heard him use it before. It had always been an adult, business-like,"Hi, Mom!" Again and again, "Ooooh, Mommy! Plllleassse, stop!" Or, more desperate, "Ooooh, Mommy, no, no, no!" As her angry palm rained down, harder and harder, he was reduced to a repeated, gasped, sobbed,"Mommy...Mommy...Mommy!"

She sensed that he had been hauled across some mental border. He was lifting and tilting his blazing bottom now. More at the soreness of her palm than out of any sympathy she finally rested. She had then applied Ponds Cold Cream. She lingered over this, scooping up generous dollops from the jar and very slowly spreading it into every inch of bruised skin, slowly, very slowly and gently, as if ironing a prized dress, gazing down tenderly on the object before her. 

She seemed to take special care with the crease between his thighs and buttocks, greasing the uppermost thighs...and then pressing firmly into the mounds of the glutes, the little hillocks. This attention squeezed out a barely audible, "Ohhh...Mommy." His voice was tinged with shock. Encouraged, she trespassed on the borders of decency, attending now to the apex where inner thighs met the cleft of his buttocks. He gasped, his body tensed. 

She moved slowly, massaged persistently, and like a confident surgeon used both hands and prised him apart to look inside his cleft at the sphincter. "Ohhhhh," he moaned. The hole resembled a pink tea rose. From its circumference, like the rays of a sunburst, bronze hairs reflected the overhead light, flaring out from the pucker. She kept his cleft parted, allowed him to absorb the humiliation that his most intimate spot was being exposed. The humiliation- and the fear that she might find him unclean. She heard a desperate, barely audible, "Mom...mmy...!" She maintained the tension, let him wonder. She thought he must almost feel her gaze burrowing into him. She thought he must be melting with shame, to have his mother inspecting his bottom hole.

Then she diverted. She pressed her finger between his legs- yes, right between them- along his perineal rafe- she could feel this intimate ridge line- moving two fingers now, massaging- this was outrageous, she thought- between anus and testicles, pressing on till her finger located a tuft of hair and felt his tight little scrotum and then- for long minutes- felt all around what she assumed would be his most deliriously sensitive zone. Pressing firmly. 




Rodney's Nude Humiliation Ch. 06



He was emitting slight choking noises now obviously in some realm of bliss. This was confirmed by a steel-hard pressure she felt on her thigh. Her little boy was erect; oh my God, she thought; she would deal with that later. She returned to his cute hole, hesitated and, then...pressed the entrance firmly. But did not yet enter its hallway. "Oooohhh..." came his incantation. "Ooooohhh, Mommmmy!" 

She scooped up more cream and massaged around and around the pouting exit. He was trembling now but with what she took to be bubbling pleasure. She massaged more, stretching the dime-sized vortex. His moan, "Ooooh...Mommmy!" gave the game away. Its tone was different. It implied gratitude for the pleasure she was bringing her son. As if to say, "Ooooh...Mommmy...that's real nice!"

Now was the time to change gears. Almost daintily she applied the lubricant to the silky puckered surface and then drove slowly but insistently into the hot, tight hole with her lubricated index finger. Her finger parted the sides of the passage. This time his expostulation rang loud and urgent: "OHHH! MOMMY!!" His whole body stiffened. 

She pushed a little more. Then she felt what she would have described as a flesh quake. His whole body shook. Her index finger probed her son's passageway. He now went completely limp. Then she went further, her finger half way in, the passageway parted. More desperate now, "OHHHHHH!" He seemed close to fainting. She marshalled her strength and inexorably jammed all the way now, finger up to the knucklebone. He gasped, "Ohhhhhhmommymommmymommy!" Desperate, he brought all his youthful muscular strength to bear and tightened, and for a moment she feared her elegant finger would be nipped off. She smartly slapped his right buttock with her free hand. "Relax!" she commanded.

She felt his neat little erection subside on her knee. It was now a small, inoffensive, squashed cocktail sausage. She jammed harder. He groaned. She slightly rotated the finger. Then rotated it in the reverse direction. "Ooooh..." Came his expostulation. "...Mommmmmy!"

She told him that was how to take a boy's temperature and jammed and twisted some more, slowly. She must have reached his prostate; she felt his thing on her knee re-inflate. Small but hard. He was purring, like a kitten. Enough, she thought. She slowly withdrew. He lay like a corpse. "Oh Mommy," he whispered. "Don't...do...that! Pleasssssse!" 

Without saying anything she returned to the massage of buttocks and thighs, scooping more dollops of cream, her hands softly circling round and round. All around each smooth buttock. Up and down hairy thighs. Just inside the cleft, from top to bottom- this made him tremble and moan his incantation- then revisiting the perineum, lingering on the scrotum. She seemed to feel him pressing his erection firmly into her thigh. Even moving slightly. Pleasuring himself. He revived, half-whispered, half-gasped his old mantra: "Mommy...Mommy...Mommy." 

He was definitely rubbing his petite erection on her thigh, as much as he thought he could get away with.

She had never felt such control.

She now told him to stand up and, when he struggled off her lap to face her naked, guessed immediately what he was trying to shelter. She ordered him to drop his hands. "No, this instant, by your sides!"

As she described the scene all her listeners were transfixed, 30 Moms hearts beating hard. But if they were stimulated think of the naked boys under the breakfront window! Yes, the two with Elvis hairdos and foam from car wash detergent in their pubic bush were now joined by the muscled boy with the blond crew cut who had been cleaning the pool. The two had called him over. "Listen to this!" they had whispered. Soon he was reeling too- a Mom stripping her 18 year old for a spanking! Massaging his bottom! Sticking her creamed finger in his ass! Jesus fuckin' Christ! His bulky, white, circumcised penis inflated, stretched, flattened against his abs. 

The three erections poked at the summer sky.

They heard the mother resume.

"He groaned. Then he let his hands drop. His thing jutted out and up. And it was leaking that clear fluid. He was so embarrassed. But I had a good look- I think every mother is curious about her boy's development, and patted the sofa and made him sit down next to me- I spread his T-shirt so he would not soil my upholstery- and insisted he tell me about the new feelings that had come into his life.

"I told him I wanted an honest answer about how often. Oh, several times a day, I'm afraid, was his answer. And he admitted he likes women with large breasts in bras and skimpy underwear. Yes, so unoriginal. He said all other boys did it, as if that were an excuse. Some even did it together. Where I asked? In the showers, he said, at the drive-in, at sleep-overs, on scout camps or school trips. Some seemed incorrigible, searching out other boys all the time. Even those who dated girls looked for opportunities in the showers or away from home. And all the while he was crying and his little thing was hard as a poker."

She didn't share it with the ladies but Nora had found it the rarest thing, to be seated on a sofa next to a long, lean youth, in his birthday suit- she in a stylish dress inspired by Grace Kelly, rounded off with nylon stockings and high heels- he, with an erection poking to the ceiling and freely emitting a clear fluid, almost as if that organ, too, were weeping. 

He confessed that his penis got "like that" whenever he thought of women in their underwear: nylon mesh petticoats, corsets, pointy bras, silk underpants with lace, suspender belts. Eventually, no matter how hard he tried, he "just had to do it." Yes, sometimes three times a night. With Johnsons Baby Oil or Vaseline. More sobs and he reached for his mother's hand.

She took his sweaty palm reluctantly. She looked down at his penis, no more than three inches at best. She recalled her wedding night surprise in the honeymoon bed as her husband had shyly slid his shorts down to reveal an identical erection: urgent but truncated. She had stared, amazed. On that night she had recalled her brothers' wide "broomstick" lengths, as they grinned and flashed their organs from bathroom towels. Or had let her peek when they and their buddies had skinny-dipped in the pond on their farm, their organs swinging between their thighs.. A boyfriend in the navy who had joked about his "eight inches of cold steel" and pressed its bulge on her whenever they had kissed in the doorway. The stout and jutting erections she had witnessed at the recent swim meet where she had been embarrassed that her boy had been among the smallest. 

Her son sat, clutching her hand, displaying a replica of his Dad's organ; goodness, she thought, it was like a bad joke, like some punch line: "...and then she made her son take his pants off, and guess what? Only three inches, just like his father!" 

Anyway, she now told the ladies that her son looked so pathetic sitting there with his stubborn, upraised member that she could not help herself but just reached out, with her lubricated fingers, and grasped hold of it. His eyes had popped, with astonishment, with pleasure. For her part- and she did not share this with the ladies- she relished the feel but wished his appendage had been longer- for her pleasure, for his, for his eventual wife's. She moved her fist up and down no more than four times- he sat, eyes clenched shut- before he spurted. It was so...well, funny. When she felt it coming she had gripped tighter, really tight, and...whoosh! His ejaculation shoot through the air like a geyser and hit her chandelier, causing a tinkling. Another emission flew out and drenched his mouth and chin, trailing off to his sternum, and then it just flowed forth, bubbling over, flooding his tummy, webbing his pubic bush. 

She couldn't believe it: she had masturbated her teenage athlete son.

Outside the window three nude 18 years stared at one another, mouthing "FUCK!" A mother! A son! She...jacked...him...off! Their own enforced nudity made the narrative they heard all the more poignant. Their erections produced bubbles of moisture from their slits. Hands drifted to pricks.

Mrs Smyth continued.

It became a ritual. He would present himself as soon as he got home from school or sports practice. "Mommy..." (Appallingly he was addicted to this nomenclature, this baby-talk.) "Mommy...I think I need your help..." And she would sigh and say she was busy with dinner but he would look so crestfallen that she would give in and tell him, very well, go and get ready and within minutes his dungarees and penny loafers and button-down shirt would be torn off and he would be naked and erect in his bedroom. She would plant herself on the bed next to him and begin applying the Ponds Cold Cream- the first handful on his little erection would make him go shivery with desire- eyes clenched shut, body tensed. He always came quickly and always shot for the ceiling.

And again- this too started to happen every day- he was soon presenting himself late in the evening asking his mother to scrub his back in the bath or, in his pyjamas, asking his Mom to tuck him in. His sisters giggled as their Mom dutifully went off and they seemed to sense what was happening. One slyly asked him, "Have you got Mom jerking you off? Getting rid of your stuff for you?" The other said, "Oh, isn't that sweet! Mom has to 'milk' our little brother to stop him polluting sheets and pyjamas!" And he just blushed and looked away. He was ashamed and, at the same time proud, to be in trouble for producing so much manly fluid- gallons and gallons of the stuff- his mother had to help him get rid of it. And his sisters knew. In fact he had never felt more like a husky young male animal, any fears about his diminutive prick banished.

Meanwhile his mother got more familiar with her son's apparatus than she had ever been with his father's, getting to know the cone-shaped glans, every crinkle in his stretched frenulum, each vein on his penis stem, the bubbles on his ball sack, as she pumped him conscientiously twice a day, sitting on the edge of his bed or the bath, and mopped him up after. Or three times a day- because on several occasions after erupting he asked her to do it again, immediately. He was especially prideful, it seemed, of being able to produce a second big spurt which made his mother shake her head and mutter, "Goodness gracious." He would fall back on his bed, the gluey stuff all over his belly and chest, grinning.

She drew the line at one of his requests, however. He sat spread-legged on his bed, entirely nude, as her hand, greasy with cold cream, reached for his eager, upright penis. "Mommy..?" There he went again, the silly infantilism. "Mommy..?"

What was it, she asked?

And it turned out that he wanted to be taken over her knees and have her repeat the anal intrusion of their first time together. "Can you take my temperature...down there? Like that time?" was the stuttering way he put it. She was shocked at the direction of his desires and the reminder of how wayward she herself had been. She ruled it out and he was soon lost in masturbatory bliss as her lubricated palm and fingers worked their magic on his adolescent erection.

Hanging on every word of the Moms, the redhead and the Negro youth, covered in sweat and spattered with leaves, had joined their mates. The five boys had looks of astonishment, as they stared at one another, unable to believe what they were hearing: mature ladies...like their own Moms...making their 18 year old boys strip off! Fellas like us! And...jacking them off! Moms!

Without thinking about it, they were fondling their erections.

There was another voice.

Mrs Wedermeyer was now saying that only the previous month she had confronted her son, Ronnie, with the extra washing he was causing her, soiled pyjamas every day and splotched sheets. On one occasion his nocturnal shifting had not only stained but torn a sheet. Even the mattress had stains. He had been very abashed, especially as she had made the accusation at the breakfast table and his two sisters had begun to giggle. He was, however, in no position to deny anything- she had his damp, telltale pyjama pants in her arms. "If you can't help it, at least do it properly," she had said, with disgust.

Her next step was to visit his bedroom at night after his bath and watch him dry off and then have him lie on the bed. She had been surprised by the wild burst of his pubic hair and the way his curved white member, about five inches long, bending inwards, had instantly sprung to life. It was broad, so wide that the glans at its end looked small, stretched across the broad beam of his fat white appendage. 

He had been very shy.

"Well, go on," she had told him. "Just like you do it when you are on your own." Still, he had hesitated, lying there paralysed, blushing and looking at the ceiling as if for instruction. She had moved in and tousled his hair and said, "Oh come on, you silly boy. It's not what you do. It's doing it in secret that's the naughtiest thing. No secrets between a boy and his Mom..." And she had lifted a hand and placed it right on his penis and gave it a little push. He had clenched his eyes and...started.

He had a look of intense concentration as his small hand moved up and down. Her own hand moved from his hair to his ear and chin, lightly stroking and tickling. What was he playing with in his mind, she wondered. Girls at school with their pert breasts? Girls at the swimming pool with their long bare legs? She moved her red finger nails to her son's wide orange nipple, flicking it and, daringly, giving it a squeeze. She let her fingers play on his tummy, felt his abdomen tighten and move as he strained at his masturbation...

...he frowned intently, he clenched...and then with a tensing of his whole body, an arching of his back...shot forth a healthy spurt of white fluid that flew over his head and splotched on the bed head, another that splashed into the jugular notch at the bottom of his neck making it resemble a iced pond in winter and a third that flooded his tummy and filled his navel.

The tart, fresh smell of his semen abruptly reached her nostrils.

He mastered his breath and dared to open his eyes. He had the dazed look of a performer who had just been fired from a cannon. She lent and pecked him on the cheek and said, "That's how we'll do it in future. No secrets from Mommy, no bad magazines...and none of those dirty pyjamas or sheets. Oh, you were making such a MESS!" His eyes came back into focus and he smiled up and her and nodded his agreement. 

She went to the bathroom and came back with a damp towel and mopped him up. Unseen his two sisters huddled and giggled up the corridor, manoeuvred for a glimpse. He twitched when his Mom handled his subsided penis. "Ow, it's sensitive," he whispered. "That's the problem, you naughty boy," she said. "Your thing is sensitive and you want to play with it like all boys your age." He muttered his apologies. She helped him up and held his pyjama pants apart to assist him. As he stepped in his slightly inflated penis hung inches from her face. Dressed, he put his arm around her and kissed her goodnight. 

And so it went, every evening. Usually she would enter and he would be impatiently displaying himself on the bed, his penis stiff. Sometimes she had him sit naked in his chair at his desk, as if preparing for homework, and she would instruct him to start. He seemed to find the act of sitting down naked at his desk very exciting. She stood by his side, tousling his hair and tickling his ribs, while he earnestly set to work on his erection. And, always, when he came there was that fresh, tart smell in her nostrils, his half-ashamed, half-proud expression on his face, that tell-tale porridge webbed on his tummy, his chest, his face. 

On the next Saturday, when he did not appear for breakfast, she went to his bedroom to ask if he was feeling sick. He asked her to shut the door and come over to the bed. He rolled down the sheet to show his stiff penis poking from the pyjama fly. She noticed how ruby-coloured was its bellend. "Mom...sometimes...I need...to do it..."

And he stumbled out that once a day no longer worked, especially on weekends, and she had told him he was a silly boy and she needed to get on with breakfast and, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, she reached down and manipulated him to a swift climax and left him to clean himself. He came down with a big smile and gave his mother a kiss and beamed at his sisters. A wide, happy smile.

"Mom, are you milking Ronny?" asked Sally, his older sister. And the other, Cathy, collapsed in giggles. His mother told them to mind their tongues. For his part Ronny, in post-coital bliss, couldn't care less. And, in any case, "milking" was a delicious term. It made him feel masculine, grown up, a producer of this flowing white stuff that had to be milked by a female- as it happened, by his Mom.

Other times in this bold spirit he was he was to insist that once a day was not enough. Watching daytime TV- the program Strike It Rich was a favorite- he looked down at a bulge in his jeans and said despairingly, "Hey Mom! Look..." She could not help smiling indulgently. And in a moment he had slithered his pants and undies to his ankles and, with his Mom by his side with a loving arm around his shoulder, he was jerking off slower than ever, enjoying every second, with eyes shut and a dreamy expression. It takes him off into another world, she found herself reflecting, I wonder what it is. 

She squeezed him to her.

After his big, boyish ejaculation- the forest-fresh smell of his sperm reaching her nostrils- she had said, "Now that does you for today, honey!" But he'd objected, playful but insistent that his allowance was twice a day. All the boys at school knew that. Twice- at least. More on weekends, they all knew that! "Oh, away with you! Dirty-minded fella!" she had scoffed.

But that night he was nude in his chair, eyes tightly shuttered, working away on his thick five inches, his glans stretched to the limit to accommodate the fat stem of his prick, with Mom standing behind massaging his shoulders, bending to tweak a nipple, listening to the quiet flip-flop noise of skin on skin. He came in a spasm, with a hearty gasp, spattered his chest, shoulders and tummy. She had to go the bathroom for a wet towel. When she came in he looked up and grinned. 

He asked for, and was granted, these "specials" on other occasions as well. Several times during a Sunday when he was at home cramming for an exam- after all, she said to herself, it relieved his nerves. Or after his bath and before dressing in his rented tux for a school formal. This, she thought, might prevent embarrassing erections when he was waltzing with some perfumed young lady with pointed breasts. Sometimes he would beg her to perform the task but she rationed this as a reward for when he was really good. Mostly she would watch while he did it, leaning in to stroke his torso. Tickling, to excite him more. But on his birthday she produced a bottle of Ponds' cold cream with the ties and socks she brought into his bedroom. His pyjama pants were rolled down in a jiffy and his penis stood out and up hard as metal. And when she applied a fistful of the delicious oil-in-water combination he nearly fainted into the mattress with pleasure. 

Once when the sisters were away at camp he emerged in the living room in his birthday suit, without a trace of shame and totally erect. His penis curved up and back so its tip touched his abdomen. She could see all its ventral side, on display. She thought he looked a young Marine eagerly roaming an Okinawa brothel. He approached her in a beseeching mood. The veins in his penis stem looked blue as irises in the afternoon light filtering through the Venetian blinds. The tip was tinged with purple. He confessed that his mind was racing with dirty thoughts- he certainly looked demon possessed- and asked for his mother's help. He was in no mood to put things off till evening. 




Rodney's Nude Humiliation Ch. 06



"Well, alright..."

"I need you to milk me, Mom," he confessed, with a shy smile. "I have to be...milked."

At this age, she thought, they are like young goats.

In a second she was allowing him to lie face up across her lap- she had sensed his urgency- while she masturbated him with Ponds Cold Cream. His groin and its contents were right under her nose and she could smell the fern-like odor of his wild black bush. She noticed the wide pulsing artery up the underside of his banana and the bunching of skin under his glans, the banjo strings of her boy's frenulum. His need was palpable. His face was especially contorted and she asked him what he was thinking about, making her voice ring with idle curiosity. "What's going on in that head of yours?" she asked softly as her palm moved voluptuously up and down.

"Women...watching us..." he rasped, sounding a million miles off.

Women? Watching them? She wondered at the filth that slopped from side to side in mens' minds. Watching...them? She and her son?

Her stroking was making a soft watery sound and she saw his testicles jiggling in their hairy sack. These..."organs of generation" the textbooks called it...so funny...her son's jiggling testicles, displayed on her lap! All this sexual mechanism- clear fluid, erections, self-pleasuring, ejaculation- she reflected, propelled by the gamey notions inside his head.

"What women?" 

His eyes opened slightly and revealed a dreamy unfocused stare. He was hypnotised by his fantasy. His reply seemed a long time coming. "Other Mommies," he conceded softly.

Goodness, she thought. 

"What Mommies?" she gently asked, probing his fantasies like a surgeon probing a festering wound. There was silence, then he said, "Your friends...from the street...Mrs Jakobson...Mrs Elliot...Samantha's mother..."

Remarkable. Ladies, from the street. Other mothers.

The idea worked its wonder. He tensed and arched his back and sent forth big ropes of semen flying to his forehead and chin, then one that pooled on his sternum. He sighed deeply, looked off at the ceiling. The ceiling- from which Mrs Jakobson, Mrs Eliot and Samantha's Mom had been staring down, spectral figures fading now, like ghosts in the dawn.

She eased him up and guided his drowsy presence to the bathroom. A runnel of sperm slid down his right thigh to his knee. His thick pubic bush was matted. Yes, she thought, I'll get my sewing scissors and give you a good trim, young man, all that hair can't be hygienic when you are spilling fluid all the time.

She told the ladies his behaviour had improved with this regime and her washing duties reduced.

Outside the house five boys, as naked as the day they were born, had fingers on stiff members, felt themselves close to spilling. These Mom's stories were revelations! What they do to their sons! Fuck! 

Now they heard the voice of the mother of a boy they all knew, a sportsman, a year behind them when they had been at school. 

It was Mrs Ricketson, mother of Rodney. She spoke about her son's acute embarrassment when asked to model his Indian gear for the school musical. She said his equipment was large- here she gestured with both palms and may have inadvertently rendered her son's nine inches closer to 12- but said he seemed worried that his glans was malformed and his testicles hung uncommonly low.

While she made these remarks there was a pronounced hush. Some eyes expanded greedily. Some faces flushed. Mrs Ricketson went on. She described her son's penis head as being like a mushroom, "a large one, a prize winner." And she said that she thought his scrotum was "enormous" and joked that there was no way Miss Cuff's costume would "keep him decent." One woman swallowed, another mother unconsciously licked her lips. Some glances flicked over the art- the petite, tapered tubes dangling from classical goins, the compact testicle sacks, Cupid's twirling overhang. They tried to imagine Mrs Ricketson's boy.

"I remember we were fitting him for his racing briefs- the swim team was off to compete- and he sustained an involuntary enlargement. Yes, 'an erection'..."

She handled the technical language with difficulty. She had overheard her daughter and cousin referring to "Rodney's boner." She recalled her late husband referring to his own "hard on." The locker room language seemed indelicate in the company of scented ladies.

Mrs Reilly nodded to encourage her.

"...there, in the changing booth, with all the girls present. I think he could have fainted with embarrassment. But what do you recommend now...if I catch him..."

"Masturbating? With dirty magazines or lingerie advertisements?" Mrs Reilly helped her out. "Well, it's a matter of what would traumatise him the most, my dear. I've been at your home when he's modelled for you, and, yes, he is bashful. But an extra layer of punishment? Send him to another mother to get his caning. A house with a lot of daughters, a mother with a house full of girls. Or like Mrs Sullivan take photos and fill a bulging album of nude swimming shots and let him know you are sharing them..."

Mrs Sullivan was there, her album on her lap, ready to share it again, to pass it around to hungry-eyed females. All her friends had stared at its pages. None would decline another viewing. Photos of her son Mark nude and erect, in profile and front on, standing on the blocks ready to dive, striding along the edge of the pool, being hugged by his Aunt Julie while his cock poked back at the camera. 

A close up or two that showed the ridge of his perineal raphe dividing his sectoral sac, the wrinkles that ran off in both directions. He seemed particularly horrified that such detail was on view. His sisters showed the album off to friends. His female cousins always got to see it when they visited. Their Negro maid had peeked; she now giggled and looked away whenever she saw him. 

These days at home Mark was very subdued.

"Yes, a complete night at home stripped of everything. That's easy and obvious. But...you could go further. Along the lines of what we've just heard. Supervised masturbation for Rodney. Now there's a thought...in the nuddy, stripped of everything, sisters present..."

Outside five nude boys were fingering their pricks desperately, looking like they were in the full throes of a jack-off competition, stories of the nude humiliation of young fellas like themselves, at the hands of Moms and sisters, flooding their minds.

...having women and girls inspect photos of them nude! With erections! Jes...us!

...having their mother clutch their hardons!

...being forced to walk round home without a stitch, in front of all the females! 

They wore glassy stares, each gripped by a mental picture from the horror stories being shared inside Mrs Reilly's house- all these monstrous and thrilling scenes: boys forced to peel off clothes, Moms eager to stare at their sons' development, sisters being summoned to point and laugh, a boy nude over a Mommy's lap, the slaps raining down...

Two of them let fly with ropes of white fluid, splashing on Mrs Reilly's drive..Splop! Splop! Within seconds another followed- Splop! Wide pools of hot sperm forming on the ground.

Minds raced...

...the idea of a boy naked on the settee next to a dressed Mom, the fella with a stubborn erection...

...a sister rolling back the sheets, grinning like a she-wolf ...

Another boy exploded, gallons of the stuff appearing to dance in the air in a zig zag fireworks display.

And the thoughts continued to race...

...a bottom spanked as a naked guy leapt and pranced around the living room, his cock and balls flying...

...a boy walking nude to the lounge and sitting, feet crossed and an erection jutting, to watch Perry Como with Mom and sis' laughing at the sight...

...a mother, beautifully dressed, tearing a T shirt off her son over her lap, making him completely naked and plunging her finger deep into his ass!

The last boy shot off his load, the spunk flying all the way to join the suds on the bonnet of Mrs Reilly's 1950 Pontiac Chieftain. 

Splop!

Meanwhile, back inside...

Mrs Ricketson frowned, concentrated in thought. What, having heard all this, might she devise for Rodney? There were many options. All delicious.

The afternoon was coming to an end.

Time for a drink.

Soon the ladies were gathered around the pool. 

Mrs Reilly's Negro maid mobilised the five naked boys who, pricks dribbling sperm, had quickly returned to their work stations. Stealing a good look at their every inch- she liked the duty- the maid strolled the garden and ordered them one by one to come over to a table with glasses and cocktails, preeminently the fashionable new cocktail of 1955, Gin Daisy. The two tall, skinny boys with Elvis hairdos picked their way across the lawn, hands in front. They still had foam in their pubic hair from cleaning the car. The other three, shyly shuffling across, were plastered with leaves. Some adhered to their buttocks. The red headed boy had a oak leaf sticking from his intergluteal cleft. Each shone with sweat. 

The maid said they were to take the glasses and move around the pool, offering them to the ladies.

No, there was no question of them getting dressed. Mrs Reilly would not hear of it, she told them, as they absorbed the news horrified.

They stumbled and shuffled with embarrassment. Especially when, with terror, they glimpsed a smiling neighbour, the Mom of a buddy, a friend of their Mom's.

Soon, crowded in the curtilege of the pool, between her neat hedges and the chlorine-scented water, five nude 18 year old boys began edging through perfumed, sweetly-attired Moms, offering the cocktails. Then the naked fellas returned through the press of women- many of the ladies with the pinched waists, ballooning hips, accented busts of current fashion- to collect more drinks. As they collected the glasses of alcohol they were stared at hard by the Negro maid behind the cloth-covered table. With glasses in both hands there was no question of sheltering privates from her view. From anyone's.

They moved around distributing drinks and the boys felt the eyes of the mothers on them. The Mom's wide skirts grazed and caressed the boys' furry legs. Every now and then long-fingered hands flicked over the boys' asses and played over their chests.

Each of them got an erection.

Their cocks arched or jutted from their groins, at full stretch.

Mrs Madelaine Maidenhead looked at Jimmy with his greased, swept-back hair, standing naked in front of her, shuffling with shame and handing her a drink. He was her local garage mechanic! He had tended her Buick Roadmaster Convertible, in summer never wearing a shirt under his bibbed overalls. As a result, behind her cats eyes sunglasses with their flared edges, she had been able to admire the fat artery in his white biceps, the pink nipple ringed with spidery black hairs glimpsed through the edge of his denim. 

And now! Jimmy was in front of her without a stitch! Utterly bare! An unblemished white torso and a concave abdomen with a line of hair running from his navel. And a hard penis pointing up at her, with a wide blue dorsal vein, pink-tipped, with fat, clearly outlined testicles in his low-hanging ballsack.

Mrs Maidenhead stared. Yes, a low-hanging scrotum, fat balls, a big blue vein. She gulped hungrily. Jimmy blushed beetroot.

Three ladies found themselves approached by a bashful YMCA swimmer with flat auburn hair brushed forward. He was shyly offering drinks. He sported large medallion-type nipples on wide pectorals. He was stuttering an apology for splashing the cocktails. Three sets of eyes were admiring the well-shaped crown on the end of a white rod at full stand, rising from dark curls. They could see all the underside of his penis, including a "fabulous" central ventral vein. His testicles were bunched and held forward. He felt their stares, backed off, stumbling, but his cock jerked up to reach its maximum length. It emitted a bubble of clear fluid.

Roger, the lanky red head, covered in freckles, felt REAL goofy when he had to shuffle over to two friends of his mother's. Hell! Shit! Fuck! They were looking him all over! They would- shit! the shame! the shame!- see his red pubic hair! "Well, thank you, Roger, that's real nice of you," drawled Mrs Solomon in her blue-on-white polka dots, under her funny floral hat, not for a second lifting her greedy eyes from his groin. From his bush of red hair- yes, fascinating to his Mom's friends- his white rod curved out, a downward tilting banana, capped with a pink glans featuring a prominent slit. A slit like a smile. His eyes were lowered, taking in the lady's peep-toe shoes, red painted nails.

"Why, you do look strong and fit," opined Mrs Bendicks, a tall, skinny 50 year old with several sons of her own, wearing black and white stripes, a square hat with a geranium and white gloves to the elbows. "Your mother must be real proud." Her eyes, too, were fastened on the boy's shamefully bent penis. He gulped, reddened, shuffled off, knew he was now displaying his Mom's friends his red-freckled ass while he passed another four women who gazed fascinated at his erection.

The Nergo maid took a keen interest in young Samson 

Douglas as she handed him his brimming cocktails. Her look seemed to indict him for letting their people down, for not being seen at Baptist worship, for being stark naked in front of white ladies. Perhaps for sporting a brown penis that stood out, stiff and high, putting its underside with wide artery on disgraceful display. Its red tip, tugging out of his foreskin, pointed right at her, seemed to accuse her. For his part, he was frozen with shame and humiliation: nude, before a black mother, with his penis pointing boldly right at her. Now he would have to take glasses to those white women, and let them see their first negro prick! A brown one with a red tip, and pubic hair that was short and grizzled.

Crammed into the curtilege of the pool ringed by hedges, the naked boys rubbed up against the skirts of the ladies, breathed in their perfumes...their perfumes, and perhaps another womanly smell as well. As they served drinks- the ladies now onto their second, even tossing back a third- all five boys felt their bottoms being patted and stroked. Even a glans being fondled- after all, they were sticking out and up, on offer. Testicles being tickled.

Each sported a blood-hardened erection.

As the boy with the blond crew cut and body builder physique served Mrs Smyth and two of her friends- hatted and pomaded for this visit to Mr Reilly's- he felt one hand on his lower back, resting, and another play over his abs. He had the finest physique of any of the boys: small pert brown nipples on his bulging chest, his stomach criss-crossed with horizontal indentations and a deep one running verticle, biceps that inflated like a football as he held the drinks. And his penis! Standing at full stretch it pulsed, with a clear bubble of moisture at the tip. It throbbed. 

Mrs Smyth, who had entertained the gathering with tales of her son Gordon's supervised masturbation, boldly put out her hand and played with his prick, lightly running her fingers up and down its neck, relishing the length and thickness, and thinking, with a dreamy faraway look, "A real man's penis!"

His name was Brad, and most afternoons when he finished work in the cannery he would drive to the cabin in the woods at the far reach of Lake Wilson and drape a blanket over the only window and straighten out an old, stained mattress. Then he would wait for one of half a dozen mothers, mothers of his friends- as it happened- booked into visit him there. These mature-age ladies in their 40s or 50s would strip in a flash, their big, loose breasts flopping out of their bras, needing to get back to dinner and children, and join him in emphatic and juicy sex. He liked going at them doggy style, even barking like an Alsatian as he fucked a crouching mother and played at being her "big, ole doggie." 

Or letting one of them pretend to be his slave and lick his asshole: "C'on, get into it, girl, tongue right up that hole!" As he let his own tongue roam a particularly foamy cunt, he thought, "I play basketball with the fella who came out of this space!" And he pleasured his buddy's Mom all the harder.

Right now he stood, rooted to the spot. Outrageously Nora Goodwin who had reported on her son Alwyn and his three inch erection, shifted her hand from Brad's lower back to cup his balls. She breathed with difficulty as she weighed and fondled his scrotal sack. Then she had joined Mrs Smyth in fingering Brad's stem. Their companion began to ruffle the young man's pubic locks- he found the tickling delicious. 

Mrs Goodwin and Mrs Smyth, who knew their own son's three and five inches so very intimately, kept savouring another boy's manhood, big manhood. It was so...long! So...thick! They liked the assertive vein that grew out of his balls and ran halfway up the stem in a zig zag and the smaller one that took over and completed the journey to just under his broad corona. Ah, that carved edge! The whole glans was so grandly sculpted! Carved and sloping, it seemed to fill their palms as they grasped it, one after the other. Oh, this...wonderful...huge prick! Their sons' short, stubby ones were doomed to disappoint from now on.

Under his blond crew cut, Brad stood transfixed, eyes half closed. Drifting, dreaming as three hands worked their magic. He would get this Mrs Smyth on his list, and Mrs Goodwin, both of whom he knew from his neighbourhood, allow them to book in to meet him at the shack by the lake. One day a week. Or even...each of these ladies, at the same time. 

He was close to exploding.

Meanwhile Mrs Lucy Barnfileld, dressed like TV's June Cleaver, right down to the pearls, had spirited Roger, the rangy freckled redhead, away from the pool and into a nook where she quickly took the boy's head in her hands and plunged her tongue right between his lips. His banana-bend seven inch penis sprouting from red pubic bush had already been at full stretch. As she massaged the inside of his mouth with her tongue she held onto his penis stem with both hands. Squeezed hard. "Do you know you've got a leaf sticking out of your ass?" she asked him. When he jerked she said, "No, it's cute! I'm gonna take it out! Turn round!"

Back by the pool Mrs Reilly surveyed the perfect romantic comedy being enacted all around her, "midsummer madness" she called it. But suddenly...a real flurry. Women converging, elbowing one another. She thought: "What's the fuss there, by the edge? Must be seven of the women...somewhat excited by the looks of it. Ah, I see. The Nergo boy...Samson Douglas. They've caught him...got him surrounded...asking him questions...and looking at that penis. Standing tall, it is. God! I can see the veins from here. Mahogany. With that hilarious red tip emerging from the folds! Now they've got hands all over him...love that grizzled pubic hair, they do...and hands on it! Feeling up that prick! I would think the smell of their soaked panties emerging from their dresses must be enough to overpower him...they must be reeking like the Fulton Fish Market!"

Suddenly her view of Samson and his admirers was blocked.

A tall, skinny boy with Elvis Presley hair faced her, his penis hard and jutting at a textbook 45 degree angle, with a pretty little overhang of skin. He was shyly offering her a drink. He was blushing fire engine red.

She stared at his groin.

Oh cute! Very cute: the bulge of his glans under the foreskin, the network of fine blue veins on white shaft, the bunched-up ball sack with its animal fur. She sighed. She reached for the drink.

She took a sip and glanced around. All her friends were engaged. Busy, in fumes of alcohol and desire.




Rodney's Nude Humiliation Ch. 06



She sipped her cocktail.

She reached out. The boy nearly jumped outta his skin as her hand took hold...

Meanwhile in another part of town Rodney Ricketson was leaving the Elm Street home of Mrs Una Carruthers, the sewing lady and costume maker.

Oh, how high had been his hopes when he had arrived an hour earlier. Yes, he was to be fitted with a new Indian brave's loin cloth. This one would have no flap hanging at the rear. He and all the boy's would rehearse and, finally, perform with their bottom's bare. Terrible- but a rumour had spread that at least the front cloth would be bigger! By now Miss Cuff and the headmistress and all the mothers would have to appreciate that the front flap was positively indecent! That well developed boys could easily be glimpsed, that those with little pricks would even be seen, so small was the covering, that if they got stiff- and, let's be realistic, surely all ladies knew that this happened without cause among boys their age- the flap got shunted aside. Boys had been rehearsing with erections on view! Females giggling at what they saw.

All boys had been asked to model at home, for mothers, sisters, female cousins, aunts, neighbours. They all suffered the same problem: a frontal flap that offered little cover, especially when they moved. Or if their pricks moved.

Rodney's friend Kerry Fulbright had found pictures in The America Encyclopedia of young Indian braves with loin cloths as wide as aprons, right across their groins, shielding everything and hanging securely. He said he had showed his mother. He had told her that's that what they should be wearing. She had laughed it off, smiled indulgently, then agreed and said she would raise it with the school. Word had spread among the boys: they would get bigger flaps!

And there was hope on another front. Brewer's Baptist Pastor Ben Albright was said to be appalled at the immodesty of the costume. Boys had mentioned it to him, red with shame. He had gulped as they told him about their private parts being revealed, so scanty were the flaps. He seemed distrait when they hinted at erections being revealed, at women savouring the view during rehearsal. Almost wild-eyed with sympathy.

So for Sunday School Camp out at Lake Roosevelt he had asked boys to put on a preview of Miss Cuff's production. To see it, himself. He had seemed shocked, tremendously agitated, at the near nudity they presented when they walked onto the stage in the mess hall at Whispering Cedars Baptist Retreat. He had inspected them close up. Lifted flaps, leaned in close. Made boys turn and show their rears. He had interrogated each boy on how many females had been there when he had performed. "What, a girl your own age?" In a quailing voice he had asked whether they had had to model for mothers? Sisters? Sweat had appeared on his forehead as he pressed for details. "Did it hurt your feelings? Did you get...aroused?" He seemed to suffer a hot flush.

He had even ran one up himself overnight, so, he said, he would know what it was like. When he had the boys dress in the loin cloths the next day for morning prayer by the lake's edge, he himself wore his own with his makeshift flaps cut from a plaid shirt. He kept the boys in their loin cloths through breakfast in the mess hall, on their daily nature walk through the pine forest. When boys had suffered erections his own lumpy, uncircumcised penis had also emerged, pointing skyward, shoving his plaid flap to one side, reaching up to his broad, hairy tummy.

With fierce sincerity, though, he had promised to go to the headmistress, even the school board, to plead that boys must be attired in exercise shorts if there were to be females in any audience. Or be allowed to wear underpants under the loin cloth. Then, as at every one of his camps, he suggested they skinny dip in the lake "in a spirit of Christian brotherhood, as the blessed disciples did." He watched carefully as boys followed his instruction and shucked out of their loin cloths. He dropped his own makeshift one and followed their bare backsides into the water, hands over his groin, sheltering an unsavoury erection.

Yet surely his pleas on their behalf would count.

As they talked about it, boys became optimistic that the new costumes would now properly cover their fronts, save their honor. Kerry assured them his Mom had put it to Miss Cuff: a generous-sized frontal flap, just like a little apron- one that would stay in place, not move about. Even if there was no rear flap. Even if their bottoms were displayed their fronts would be shielded. Pastor Albright had assured them. He had personally seen the principal, told her the present costumes were "way outta line."

So Rodney had approached the fitting, accepting there'd be no rear flap but expecting a big concession when it came to the front one, a big gain for all their modesty. He was sure- an apron-size flap. To hide everything, even a full-scale, bolt hard erection. Even a thick, nine inch erection, like his.

He had stood buck naked on the stool while Yuela the maid had insisted on taking waist measurements again, her broad Negro nose inches from his penis. Then she had left the fitting room, leaving the door gaping open. Still, there were no girls around this time and things were quiet- except for one lady, there for a dress fitting, who had peeked from the hallway. She had let her gaze linger. She could see everything of course including his red pubic hair. But Rodney did not get stiff, having jerked off four times during the day. Yes, not even Yuela's stiff white apron had excited him this time. The lady stared good and hard, then pulled herself away.

The maid eventually returned.

With the costume.

Rodney saw that there was no rear flap.

And as Yuela pulled it up his legs he saw that the front flap...

...was even...

...tinier...

...than before!

Whaddddt?

They had actually REDUCED the size.

Yuela drew the band up to sit on the root of his penis and the frontal flap settled, hanging down...and it was both narrower and shorter! 

On both sides Rodney's penis shaft would be seen, uncovered. 

Yes, the flap was narrower than before...

And shorter! His entire fat glans, sheltered in his foreskin, hang below the flap. In fact the end of the flap kinda settled on his coronal ridge, putting the shape of his penis head on display. And there was no covering for his low hanging balls at all!

And this was before he got the remotest bit swollen with excitement!

He spluttered protests! He begged! He teared up! He declared he could never be seen in rehearsals in this! He asked to talk to Mrs Carruthers, the seamstress, and the maid went off to find her and she was about 10 minutes getting back (during which time another lady there for a fitting had peeked in, eyes bulging when she saw a naked boy on a stool with a tiny, token flap over his powerful genitals.) Mrs Carruthers had looked him over behind and declared that, yes, it was much more "aesthetically pleasing" to have no flap in the rear and how good it was to see a young boy's bottom on display. She half-sung the ditty:

"Boys not yet in their prime

Find nude games sublime

A loin cloth they would wear

Their buttocks to bare!"

And she and Yuela laughed out loud, Mrs Carruthers patting Rodney's bottom cheeks. 

She declared there was nothing to be embarrassed in letting girls and ladies see your "nice strong glutes." Then she had fiddled with the front. She had raised the elastic cord higher on his red pubic bush, covering some hair but putting more of his penis shaft on display. And looked at the effect. Studied it from a distance. She had juggled the flap around. She had grazed Rodney's penis stem as she tugged it this way and that. At one moment the edge of her hand had lingered on his penis stem, at another her palm had cupped his balls as she fiddled with the band and the flap. Rodney noticed at these moments she was smiling from the corners of her mouth. She stepped back to stand with her maid and look intently, hand on her chin.

Then she shook her head.

"Nonsense!"

She pronounced the fit was perfect and there was nothing for him to complain about. She said that all the boys would be wearing smaller flaps. Miss Cuff had personally laid down the new measurement. The teacher had apparently researched the subject in the Minnesotta Museum. She had reached the view there was more evidence of young Indian braves getting around completely nude than there was of them wearing any silly loin cloths. And when they did wear them they were precisely this size, yes, a bit more petite than the first version.

Rodney spluttered about "apron sized" loin cloths, about Kerry Fulbright's mother and what she had agreed to, about the Baptist Pastor and his keen interest in boys' modesty but it all came out jumbled and confused and he was actually crying and sick of standing on the stool in front of them, his groin at eye-level, and the sound of another female visitor in the hall.

"It's all Miss Cuff's decision, and all you boys are in the same position," enunciated Mrs Carruthers. "Now pull your clothes on...and, Rodney, go home and let your mother see. I think she will agree the new costume is very elegant, worn by an athletic young fella like you."

And he looked down at the flimsy, fragile rectangle of cloth dangling from the root of his penis, only now half way down his stem! Half way down- because Rodney was beginning to stretch! He was getting an erection! The two women had noticed and were smiling slightly as they fastened their beady eyes on his privates, mushroomy glans pulling out of the foreskin. He quickly stepped down to pull his clothes on.

On his way through Brewer's streets he had a lot to think about, one question especially: how long before his mother would ask him to model the new costume? This damned new loin cloth with no back flap and a smaller front one that would shield nothing.

And whether his sister and cousin would be there when she did. Or that damn nosey Mrs Reilly.

He did not anticipate one possibility. Did not allow it to enter his mind at all. 

No sister, no cousin. No Mrs Reilly.

But something worse: that when his time came to model the new costume his mother might be entertaining her bridge club, a big lively gathering of Brewer's ladies, all eager to get a glimpse of Rodney and his legendary mushroom penis head and his freakishky low-hanging testicles.

Having heard his mother on the subject at Mrs Reilly's afternoon meeting...

...having been stimulated by talk of supervised masturbation of errant sons...

...having been served drinks by naked, erect 18 year olds...

...it might be said, very eager indeed.



Rodney's Nude Humiliation Ch. 07



Brewer's teenage boys were getting caught in the nude. More and more.

It was happening again and again.

They were being exposed stark naked, bare as boards, in their birthday suits...in front of stern disapproving mature ladies...or wickedly curious girls their own age. And they were getting to know the shivery, helpless, panicky feeling on being caught nude in front of fully-dressed females.

There were Johnny Marcello and his classmates subject to full nude medical examinations by Dr Ida Speight- and with the principal's secretary, Miss Assam, forcing her way into the room to get a good stare at the crouching naked fellas, and girls finding every excuse to burst in. Can you imagine how those 18 year old males felt? All their secrets on display? Standing by the wall, lying on the table. Totally stripped off and females staring at them.

And the girls were getting bolder, encouraged by their teacher, Miss Ada Braithwaite, about tip-toeing into the all-nude boys' swim classes in the chlorine-scented basement pool. They were there to cheer from the bleachers when the line of stark naked boys trooped in, to watch the warm-ups while the boys' private parts flew and spun, stand gazing up at the groins of the swimmers poised on the blocks. But they were never happier than when they trapped a blushing boy seated, waiting his turn, and could crowd around him...looking intently at what he tried to shelter in his lap. Catching boys with raging erections was a treat, a privilege, something they giggled and gossiped about behind cupped hands the rest of the day.

And when the Girl Guides hit the woods around Brewer, with its idyllic streams and swim holes, they were intent on finding fellas engaged in that time-honored pastime: skinning dipping. And trapping them nude in the water. While the boys watched horrified the girls would seize their bundled clothes- dungarees, plaid shirts, boxer shorts- and blackmail them into climbing out and parading naked. A line of boys might even be forced to manipulate themselves to a collective splashy climax, emissions sploshing onto grass and rocks, girls applauding. Boys felt their knees wobble at the humiliation- hell, some of the mocking girls lived in their neighbourhood, sat by their side at church and school!

When boys joined Coach Compton by the forest-enclosed lake, protected- they thought- by the dense, scented pines and tangly undergrowth, their nude calisthenics and swimming was assumed to be unobserved. But these days a half dozen girls with binoculars peeped from the arrowwood and bayberry bushes, familiarising themselves with every knob and wrinkle, every pumping vein and burst of body hair, giggling at an involuntary erection, at a boy pissing, at the revelation when a fella bent over to scratch a toe and made his ass cheeks flare to reveal a twinkling, wrinkled, dime-sized circle. These were boys they knew!

Mothers met in Miss Reilly's ornate heritage house for afternoon tea and to discuss nude discipline of sons- this absolutely thrilling subject was really taking hold with Moms- while in the verduous garden youths worked off their criminal misdemeanours tending to lawn and plants, in a state of total nudity, straining to overhear the audacious language of the ladies inside, at once terrified and excited by their shamed condition. Their clothes had been peeled off on arrival, neatly piled in the lady's garage. Miss Reilly's uniformed Negro maids peeped from the porch, curious about what white boys looked like. Soon the boys, still disrobed, would help serve afternoon cocktails in the garden. In glorious states of erection.

And Miss Cuff's production, Cowgirls and Indian Braves, was about to be rehearsed for the first time with the boys wearing their brand new costumes. With what nimble-fingered delicacy Mrs Carruthers the dressmaker and her Negro maid Yuela had taken the measurements of each of the boys, naked and standing on a stool, flushed and trembling with shame. How they had stretched out the process, fussing with the tape, fingers trailing around waists and lingering in groins, pressing the tape measure into their lean young bodies, appearing not to be abashed when the anatomy of the boys responded to the idle tickling and attention in a time-honoured fashion. Then, Mrs Carruthers had the boys slip into the new, much-diminished loin cloths- tiny embroided chamois flaps dangling in front, too short to cover their penis heads or dangling testicles. And certainly not able to cover those erections! 

How each boy- up on the stool with a rearing erection- had begged for a larger covering- "Please, Miss, please...it shows...it shows...everything!"- and even for return of a patch at the rear. "Gosh, Miss! There's nothing at the back! They can see all my...my...bottom!" No, these were requests not to be granted. Not by Mrs Carruthers or Yuela. The boys were sent home, to model their new petite costumes, without any rear flaps, for their Moms and sisters. Who were, in every last case, supremely interested in up-close inspections.

Right now a domestic inspection was about to happen in Rodney Ricketson's Buchanan Street home.

The 18 year old boy took a deep nervous breath.

He stood in the hallway, with its runner carpet, its side tables with flowers and the opaque light from the frosted glass of the front door. He stood still, about to turn into the living room where the hum of the bridge party could be heard. A ladies' bridge party. A dozen ladies.

The young man was tall, broad shouldered, obviously a swimmer. His red hair was oiled, and swept back in a fetching flat top. 

He was naked, except for a small loin cloth, tiny really, dangling over his groin from a waist band. It covered very little. None of his blazing public hair, or of his low hanging scrotum, little of his wide-girthed penis, not a bit of its plum-shaped head. And apart from the flap, decorated in an Indian design, he wore only moccasins. And a head band with a single feather, ridiculous by any test.

His nerves shook his concave tummy. His nostrils twitched. His eyes blinked, as if to shut out the terrible reality.

Rodney had been told by his Mom to go to his room and change into his new Indian costume and model it for her bridge party. As she delivered this order her guests had stirred in their seats, quickened, flushed with prurient expectation. Their looks had swept over the youth, just in from his latest fitting with Mrs Carruthers. In fact he came in carrying his new costume in a brown paper bag.

His mother had ordered him to pull it out and hold in up so they could all admire it. Dolefully he had reached into the package and hauled it out.

There were shocked ohhs and ahhs.

"Hold it. Right up," his mother ordered.

He complied, party to his own impending humiliation.

"Oh my God! It's teensy weensy!" 

The voice was Miss Reynolds'. She was 50 or so, wore a box hat with drooping flower, taught Presbyterian Sunday School at St Andrews, had never seen a naked male.

Indeed the flap was so absolutely tiny it would show...well, everything. Each of them thought this, with a tremor. A tremor of keen anticipation. Certainly Miss Reynolds was feeling strange stirrings. He was, she thought, a very fine looking young man.

Go and put it on and show us, his mother told him. This set off a purring sound from the females, a preparatory burble of self-pleasure. Mrs Harriet Hotspur, mother of six daughters, wedded for 30 years to the one man in her life- owner of parking lots and car yards and Rotarian of note- sighed with expectation. Rodney, she thought, was a very comely boy.

Rodney paused.

If he refused he knew his increasingly cruel Mom would implement a punishment long threatened: of having him spend evenings at home buck naked, with her and his sister and his female cousin who lived with them, even with female visitors calling, like that frightening Mrs Reilly. "Buck naked, all night!" she had threatened; in "your birthday suit and not a stitch more" she had insisted. Yes, naked even having dinner, doing the dishes, on the lounge watching Bonanza, bringing his homework for her to check. Without a stitch. Nude, and no doubt erect. In front of them.

He had slumped off to his room and changed.

In a few minutes he would present himself.

Before the middle aged ladies. 

A dozen of them. Oh, and one girl, Milly Slink. Tall, gangly, flat chested Milly, in his year at Grover Cleveland High, who peered out through Coke bottle glasses and gave the impression of harbouring gamey breath. Right now she hovered behind her seated mother, dear old Mrs Mildred Slink, an ancient friend of his Mom's. The girl's magnified eyes had grown even wider when she saw him hold out the shockingly petite costume. She couldn't believe what was happening.

"Oh goodness, but he'll be so shy," had intervened Mrs Bev Bailey, looking Rodney over. "Don't put him through that, in front of us old dears! And young Milly here as well!"

Mrs Bailey's eyes lingered on Rodney's dungarees-covered midriff.

"Oh we'll all see him and his friends soon enough, when the performances start," said his mother. "As for Milly, I'm sure she'll be sitting in the front row to watch the boys! So she might as well have a preview."

And Milly had blushed and her eyes had flickered down Rodney's figure, thinking of what the athletic fella would look like dressed in his teensy weensy Indian costume. She had heard about the costumes from other girls at school: they revealed all a boy's secrets. But not only that- they had the extra appeal: rendering a boy totally humiliated. She wanted to see young athletes like Rodney shamed to the marrow.

Milly wanted to see shy Rodney twisting with shame.

She loved the idea of males being humiliated in front of females like her.

Right now, he was hesitating frozen in the hall. He felt the air all over him, felt totally exposed. He knew his penis hung lower than the flap, his balls as well and all his pubic hair was displayed above the band. He had seen himself in front of the full length mirror in his bedroom closet. He felt his prick thickening. They would see it all, see his cock and balls and red pubic hair, but...he desperately did not want an erection. He did not want them to go home to their houses saying they had seen Rodney Ricketson with a hardon. A naughty boy, a filthy minded fella, with a stiff dick.

If he got stiff...hell, where would he look, standing there? How would he look any of them in the eye? With a boner thrusting up? 

As he waited he was hearing his mother fill them in on Miss Cuff's new idea for the boys' costumes.

"She is a stickler for historical accuracy and looked up all the records. It seems the youngest braves spent most of the time virtually nude. Oh various kinds of flaps in front but more minimal than is realised. Just a token cover. And nothing behind. Absolutely nothing. Their bottoms entirely exposed. Soooo...after experimenting with the somewhat larger costumes she had Mrs Carruthers run up a new design."

"From what we just saw it must leave little to the imagination."

Old Mrs Morgan's voice quavered with expectation. The widow had not seen a naked male in decades.

"Well, it is realistic," said Mrs Glover. "That's now Indian boys got round. Their bottoms bare."

"Bottoms bare!" 

This elderly voice- it may have been Mrs Slink's- seemed to relish the prospect of a bare male bottom.

Then a more cunning, confident voice entered. It was Miss Glome, whose tone carried a hint of heavy smoking. She fondled her pearls as she spoke.

"Oh but I hear some of the young devils got their hopes up. Figured that if they were virtually naked so would the girls. But there are no squaws in the piece. Only cowgirls...and they, I hear, are done up like ninepins. Fully costumed."

There were giggles.

"How embarrassing for the boys," came a murmur.

"And at that age, too, so easily embarrassed," came another.

"Imagine having to put their bottoms on display!"

"And only those little flaps in front! Bad luck if its a windy day!"

"Yes," came his mother's voice, dropping to a whisper. "I understand there will be a scene where the cowgirls come out and catch the braves asleep. Take them prisoner. Then the fun is to really start. Haven't got to that in the rehearsals yet."

"Sounds interesting, Milly?"

It was Mrs Humphrey, aunt of Minnesotta's famous Senator, wearing a fashionable ensemble of midnight blue, keen to involve the only girl there. Her's, too, was a husky smoker's tone.

The girl snuffled, giggled, self-conscious that her keen interest had been detected. Her eyes dilated behind thick lenses.

Meanwhile Mrs Ricketson had grown impatient.

"Where is that boy?"

She raised her voice: "Rodney! Come here this instant!"

He took a deep breath. And stepped into the living room.

He took in the scent: women's perfume ( Max Factor Primitif and Moonlight Mist were favorites), cigarette smoke from their Camels, the pink, cup-shaped American Beauty roses in three Chinoiserie porcelain vases. And another scent circling in the atmosphere; sour and warm, womanly and intimate. He took in the shocked looks of a dozen ladies and one girl, eyes popping at the sight he presented in his tiny flap, feather and moccasins.

Shock- the only word for it.

Shock- made their eyes stand out, as if on stalks! Their jaws fall wide open! They gaped! The females looked like carnival heads, waiting to have little plastic balls shot into their open mouths.

Shock- at the glimpse of this near-naked figure: broad shoulders, tapered waist, his bare flanks and his long, straddling legs! Shock- at seeing an 18 year old boy without clothes- oh forget that flap, it was ridiculous! My dear, they would be able to say to their friends, it sheltered nothing! This fella before them was NUDE! Shock, too- at the glimpse of his blazing pubic curls! Red! Would you believe! And below it..!

As their gazes dropped, shock gave way to prurience.

Mrs Glome hungrily took in the girth of the penis, only the top third of the stem, she guessed, was sheltered behind his dainty, comic flap; and she took in the dangling bag below it, capacious as one of those lady's purses fit for a night at the opera or gala supper, stretched out of shape by the heft of the two balls inside, one lower than its mate. She unconsciously licked her lips.

Other ladies, like Mrs Bev Bailey and Mrs Gloria Smedley, compared Rodney's ample penis and testicles with the more modest equipment of their husbands. Their imaginations raged at the thought of having that wide tube prising at their vaginas! They felt their privates tingle. They stared harder, lurid imaginings galloped. It made him feel so...funny. And he also saw Mrs Tina Grey looking at his groin. She was making her own comparison, with her son who she insisted on inspecting in the shower. Compare to this boy's fat mushroom her George had a mere...acorn! Like his Dad!

Milly gulped. She was seeing a naked male for the first time in her life! What she had seen in art text books was true. That was how the Greek warriors and athletes and gods looked...down there. Only in that department Rodney was larger and that glorious technicolor hair blazing forth above! Better than the marble versions! She stared, mouth watering.

Rodney felt their eyes all over him.

He caught his mother's look. She was intently curious, almost calculating. Almost as if he were weighing something in her mind, as she stared at his genitals. Even weighing the objects themselves, like inspecting meat at the butchers.

But suddenly she- his own mother- was stifling a laugh. His own Mom! Eyes glinting, covering her laughter.

The first phase from the females had been shock. The second prurience, as they had greedily examined the details of his genitals. The third was hilarity as they sized up his humiliation and shame, the absurd picture he presented: stripped...the silly, demeaning flap and the hilarious feather on his head...the ruinous expression on his features...woebegone and defeated.

Mrs Humphrey had joined in his mother's giggles and was soon choking on her laughter, her eyes stretched and pig-like. Mrs Glomer's smoker's wheeze was making her double over, tear streaking her rouged cheek, her right hand waving her cigarette holder helpless. Old Mrs Glover covered her mouth, eyes glistening. 

The misery of humiliation flooded Rodney's eyes.

Mrs Rita Wrightson held Miss Gloria Sandline by her arm and laughed helplessly into her shoulder, almost crying. "Oh dear, wait till I tell my girls- they know him at school! Poor boy!" And for her part Miss Sandline, in her cats eyes glasses, off-white blouse and wide pleated skirt, who had no experience of men, thought this the funniest thing she had ever seen. Oh God, she thought, that crazy, stupid little flap that covers nothing! And he has to stand there showing us everything he's got! The boy's bush...RED! I never dreamt! And the way...the way...the way that bag is holding those two very visible...balls! Just hilarious- and she sent forth a new volley of shrill jest, like some heyena.

Mrs Sally Ryan just pointed a red-tipped finger nail, it seemed at Rodney's penis, or it would have been his glans itself. Oh she had seen others- her brothers', her cousins', several boyfriends'. None this...fat. It was easy to cover her greed by dissolving in laughter, making a joke of this young man's generous endowment. She laughed on, eyebrows slanting. Pointing her finger.

Even Milly was bursting into laughter, pointing Rodney's way and bending at the waist. "His...flap...his...ridiculous little...flap!" Rodney heard her, and wilted. Her seated mother looked up at her, proud of her daughter's newfound relish in maleness. "Yes, that flap! I agree- he'd be better off without!"

Rodney felt he was being lowered into a hot bath...of shame. He caught Milly's contemptuous, mocking stare. Oh God, he was sinking deeper, into frightful, delicious, all-encompassing humiliation. He wanted to drown in it, especially when he quickly took in all their stares...directed at one part of his anatomy.

He felt his penis filling out. Getting longer. His plum-like glans swelling.

As each female laughed at him, their voices became louder, crueler, less inhibited.

Somehow...his response was a tingle of panicky excitement in his gut...some shoots of a dirty thrilling feeling...all the way down his prick.

His mother brought the females to order by telling him to turn around.

"Gosh, Mom...no...please..."

He shivered.

"Rodney, I want them to appreciate the new costume. Turn around!"

"Mom! No!"

"Rodney, if you don't turn round I'm going to go right over there and pull the whole thing down your legs. And get Milly to help me!"

This threat caused a fission of excitement, not least with Milly who stared at Rodney's equipment all the keener. And noticed movement- his "thing" was getting longer...and thicker! The others were noticing. "Goodness," said one old dear under her breath and seemed to speak for all, as Rodney's penis head jerked, like a snake waking from hibernation. "Goodness gracious!" There was a whisper- it could have come from any of them- "He seems to be getting..."

And trailed off.

The glans, a light mauve in tincture, lifted and separated itself discretely from the Gothic folds of his sac.

"This is getting very, very interesting," murmured Mrs Glover in her deep, smoker's voice.

Better to show them his ass and shield his quickly developing hardon, thought the boy. He turned around.

There was a collective heave of disappointment.

But they settled into respectful silence as they took in the sight of a lithe muscular posterior, decisively divided by a deep intergluteal cleft. It was evenly tanned, golden in tone, as a result of Miss Cuff's direction to stay in the sun and come to resemble Red Indians.




Rodney's Nude Humiliation Ch. 07



In fact right now Rodney may have been a captive Cherokee brought back to be inspected by matronly ladies in a museum society.

"Yes, so much nicer, I think, without a rear flap."

There was a murmur of approval with Mrs Ricketson's assessment of her son's appearance.

Although, she added, the old costume hardly covered anything. "When it swayed, you saw all his cleft."

There was a tinkle of giggling.

Rodney wilted. But had, now, a more immediate concern. His penis hardened. Stretched.

Mrs Tina Grey found herself wishing that Mrs Ricketson would make Rodney bend right over and part his buttocks, the way she made her son George do on the pretext of inspecting his cleanliness but, in truth, to humiliate him deeply, getting a touching glimpse of his dime-sized pucker. Which he hated his mother to see. She even poked at it with her index finger.

Mrs Humphrey spoke up, loud enough to be heard by Rodney.

"And Rodney, do you and your friends like the costume they've designed for you?"

The boy was mute.

"Rodney, answer Mrs Humphrey!"

He choked on the answer he thought his mother wanted.

"All right...I guess."

He could hardly say otherwise. Meanwhile his penis had pumped out, hard as a roof beam, parallel to the floor, the useless flap thrust to the left.

Fortunately the ladies, staring at his ass, could not see it.

One of them was talking again.

"There, you see, that's what I think. A bit of embarrassment but in the end they enjoy showing themselves off to females, especially to girls their own age. Like young Milly here."

It was the smokey catch in the voice of Mrs Glover. She continued,"Mrs Riley? Know Mrs Riley? She thinks some boys really relish stripping off. Enjoy showing what they've got. Even if there's a bit of shame along the way."

A general murmur of interest.

Yes, said Rodney's Mom, she knew Mrs Riley's views. Had attended her afternoon teas where her theories of teenage discipline were being discussed, debated, refined. She said she was seriously thinking of applying them- that is, to Rodney, if his behaviour didn't improve, and his grades.

"Oh," said Mrs Bailey, "Were you at Mrs Riley's when she had young men in trouble with the police working off their misbehaviour? I must say, that was a real treat, the time I went."

There was a deep murmur. No woman in Brewer was unaware of the full nude punishments meted out to young males, forced to labor in the verduous Riley garden behind its tall, ivy-clad brick walls. About half had thrilled through her poolside cocktails, drinks being served by youths, buck naked. Males Rodney's age. Legs rubbing the skirts of the mature age women. Quickly becoming obdurately erect.

Mrs Ricketson confirmed that yes, she had witnessed the distinctive punishment for local delinquents. The humiliation of going totally stripped off, in front of women like their mothers, had guaranteed they never offended again. Although there were exceptions.

Milly took a deep breath. She asked, "Does Rodney like wearing his costume, Mrs Ricketson? Does he like showing himself?"

The girl swallowed at her own daring. Enjoyed seeing Rodney

jolt with embarrassment as he absorbed her question.

Rodney's Mom thought about her response. From her position, seated at the far reach of the circle of bridge players, she could see the answer to Milly's question: her son was now sporting an erection, jutting at 45 degrees. None of the others could see it. The expression, "hard as a hat peg" came to mind. And he was disgracefully trailing fluid, from the tip of his penis to the carpet, dangling like a string.

So here they were again. Just like in the fitting room that time or modelling his old costume when Mrs Riley was present, Rodney had once again got himself defiantly stiff, and couldn't help himself. Pathetic really. And deserved punishment for it. Right now he was blushing like a fire hydrant, eyes watering, lower lip trembling uncontrollably. He was fearing the moment when his mother would tell him to turn around. The simplest answer to the mischievous girl's question was simply to ask Rodney do just that, to turn around.

His rigid penis would indict him.

But Mrs Ricketson was caught- caught in a conflict of disloyalties. Keenly she wanted to see her son humiliated. Oh yes, she knew she was being cruel to him: yet she, too, had her half-hidden desires and erotic urges. Seeing her own awkward teenage boy subject to full nude punishment in front of females was a thrill for her, a kink, a quirk- call it what you will. Yes, she conceded to herself, it was something she day-dreamed about, dwelt on when she pleasured herself under the blankets or in the bath. It, yes, got her, a divorced mother, extremely excited. Extremely.

She couldn't think of a swifter, more devastating game than making him present his erection right now, making him stand close and put it on inspection. Have her dozen bridge-players lean in and breath all over it; render him faint and tearful, with questions about what makes him erect, his circumcision status, whether his foreskin pulls back easily. 

There would be five minutes of conversation back and forwards about the fact of his pre-ejaculatory fluid- goodness, his penis was now as damp as a sapling glistening with morning dew.

Inevitably one of the mature ladies- oh, yes, she could see this happening, certainly Bev Bailey or Sally Glover- would ask permission to handle it. She could see their painted finger nails reaching eagerly while her boy trembled. Leaning in so close, they would be exhaling their cigarette smoke all over its proud length. Yes, with what lubricious awe would they feel its sculpt glans, its splendid girth, its drooping sack. And, God, the interest that this Milly would take in it, peering through those inch-thick specs! I could, if I wanted, invite the girl to juggle his testicles, see the balls jiggle. How she would love that. Mrs Ricketson looked at Milly and thought she could see a trail of spittle on the girl's chin: Jesus, she was drooling at what she saw of her son's cleft and shapely backside! Down below she would be as damp as a duck.

On the other hand, why should the old girls and this ferociously unattractive maiden be vouchsafed this pleasure? What had they done to deserve it? They had never let her inspect their own sons. And when it came to her son's penis- so fleshy, so stalwart- why should she share it? Those wide pumping ventral and dorsal veins belonged to her, and the smaller zig zag ones. All hers- every inch of the broad white beam of the stem. And the mushroomy head, let alone the drooping, dragging capaciousness of his scrotal sack and its twinned contents.

They belonged to her son, and to her, as his doting if stern Mom.

No, my friends, another time. But not today.

"Oh, I think Rodney's like any of them. Alternately ashamed and...yet, I think, proud. Certainly, Milly, we're all coming to the view the only punishment for young males involves some element of nudity. Nudity in the presence of females. As I imagine you will discover when you have your own sons..."

Sadly Milly saw only diminishing prospects of procreation. Which was why right now, her panties were sopping as she participated in the nude humiliation of Rodney Ricketson.

Except...

His mother suddenly pronounced he had to get to his room. He had to start homework and, relieved beyond belief, hands in front of his groin, Rodney instantly vaulted around the corner into the hallway, taking off like a young gazelle fleeing wolverine predators.

Only Miss Reynolds and Mrs Bailey caught a tantalising glimpse of a fleshy projection, being pressed back into his groin with desperate hands.

In his bedroom he breathed easy at his narrow escape.

And back to the door, jacked off quickly with the faces of the females dancing in his mind. Their fiendish eyes, mocking laughs, pointed fingers.

His mother treated him kindly that night. There was no hint of him modelling in front of his sister or cousin or going around the house nude. She had saved him from acute humiliation, seemed proud of her benignity. She tousled his red hair and laughed at him for being concerned his styled flat top had been disturbed.

The next day after school Rodney was dawdling home, with Stevie Lynton, Kerry Fulbright and Mark Campbell. He was telling them about the inspection. He described how he had stood there in the tiny flap, how he felt their eyes all over his exposed cock, how viciously they laughed, how he couldn't help getting stiff. 

Walking alongside his pals, telling them this story- about Milly Slink's stares, about the shameful inadequacy of the flap, about presenting his bare ass- he couldn't avoid noticing a bulge spring up in Stevie's fly, and a broader jutting in Mark's trouser leg. Kerry's elegant six inch prick famously slanted to the right; his bulge jerked sideways to his pocket. Like him, they were alternately panicked and thrilled. 

The boys said they expected to be inspected at home in their new costumes soon. Mark already suffered his Mom showing family and friends the photo album crammed with pics of him at nude swim meets, with many shots of him erect or half erect up on the blocks or walking by the pool, even close-ups of his prick and balls. "Even our Negro maid gets to look," he lamented. "They'll make me pose in that loin cloth anytime. Oh, and they'll include her."

"That magazine store in St Paul? One I told you about..? "

It was on First Street, where Stevie went to buy mainly Scandinavian nudist magazines, kept under the counter by the shifty-eyed, whiskey-breathing owner. Stevie admitted to being addicted to this literature, especially since he had been discovered by the maid masturbating over the magazines. The maid had told his two sisters. And his sisters, every Saturday with their mother out at bridge, now forced him to strip off. Then they ordered him to "play with himself," the lubricious black and white pictures spread on the coffee table. The girls got excited watching their kid brother reached a noisy, splashy climax, confirming Stevie in exciting notions of being nude in the company of fully dressed females.

"...well, I went there Saturday, and I've got some new ones."

He gestured at his school bag.

The eyes of Rodney, Kerry and Mark swam with prurient interest.

Rodney calculated.

"My sister and cousin are away at camp. Mom is in Cathage at an auction, won't be back till six..."

They had paused on Pierce Street, outside the Parkway Motel. Mark was getting more aroused. His penis now poked out at the front of his loose fitting flannels. A passing mother, pushing a pram, stared hard. He placed his battered brief case over it. He swallowed, determined.

"We can go to your place."

"Yeah, let's," said Kerry.

Resolved, they marched through Brewer's oak and elm-lined streets as briskly as Marine recruits. They allowed Rodney to unlock the front door of his home- excitingly dark and silent- and followed him down the hallway into his bedroom, with its sporting trophies, pennants and model planes. Without pause Stevie produced half a dozen magazines from his bag, like a magician producing pigeons. The covers showed big busted middle age women under the mastheads: Sundial, Naked Life and Nature People. 

Four obdurate erections immediately stabbed at the front of the boys' pants.

"My favorite! Look!"

Stevie opened Sundial at a full page pic of a woman the age of their Moms shoulder to shoulder with a teenage boy. The woman, beaming wolfishly, was curled and coiffed as if just out of a hair salon. It made her nudity the more brazen: her balloon bosoms hanging low with outsize aureole that could have been drawn with crayon and a tangled rainforest of black pubic hair under a broad swathe of belly. She seemed set to devour the slender, frightened-looking kid with his auburn curls and freckled face and shoulders, looking wholesome as fresh milk, or like an extra just off the set of Leave It To Beaver. His pubic bush was a third that of the woman's and from it hung a stubby penis, its glans invisible under tapered overhang. His cock was cute as a button, certainly she seemed to think so.

"She's an aunt, or sumthin'?" questioned Mark.

"Mother?" speculated Rodney, his bulge jolting.

"Got a dirty mind, looking him over," was Kerry's view.

"Looks embarrassed, don't he?" said Stevie, rubbing his trouser front.

"I'd say. You'd be too. She's looking right at it! Thinking that's a nice little prick!"

"Yeeeeah," said Rodney. "Real embarrassed...like I was...in front of that bridge party, stripped off...12 of 'em lookin' me over, just like she's lookin' at him."

"Or me," offered Mark. "Having my bitch of a mother show the girls that album with 20 pics of me nude, at the swim meet. And she shows it to aunts and neighbours and cousins. Spreads it out for them. Then with me in the room looks me in the eye as if to say, hope you feel shamed, they're all looking at you nude."

Stevie was mesmerised by the magazine and the photo of the lady and the slightly-built 18 year old.

"Totally stripped off. In his birthday suit. Looks like his family forced him to go nudist. And she's closed in to..."

"To check him out!" 

"Fuck! Wouldn't you want to drop dead?"

With that Mark, gazing hypnotised at the picture, started unbuckling his belt. Stevie had already undone his and loosened his waist and was pushing his trousers down his legs, revealing the tenting in his white underwear. Kerry's jeans and underpants were at his ankles in a flash; his elegant penis leant to the side, eager for attention. Moisture glistened on its tip.

"And look this over!" ordered Rodney. He held Naked Life open at a page that showed a thin young fella hauling himself from a pool being surrounded by frisky girls and a hefty matron, her melon breasts sagging to her waist. She grinned like a crocodile, her bulbous eyes greedily focused on the wet male's petite uncut penis and whispy pubic hairs. Victorious in the pool, he was now exposed and looked abashed at the females moving in on him.

"Look, he's new too, forced to go with his family, and all the fuckin' dames want to get close to see his prick."

"And he hates it. Look at his eyes!"

It was too much for Rodney who hauled his khakis off and stepped out of them, clawed his boxers off too, throwing them over his shoulder. He was fully naked, feeling his nine inch erection, totally consumed in the humiliation of nudist youth.

Another picture fired them. It showed a family troupe. Father had a meaty figure and a short, slender, circumcised dick; his teenage son too, was small- a sliver of a tube in front of a petite, hairless globe. Mother and daughters, a couple of frolicsome female cousins, too, it seemed, posed beaming: each had an hour glass figure, showing off their perky, bouncy tits. Behind this line-up a tall athlete stepped out in profile oblivious to the family, a pythonesque penis tumbling the length of his thighs, stopping near his knees.

"Fuuuuuuuck!" snorted Stevie. "What do the women folk think when they see that guy go past! How humiliating for Daddy...for their brother! Bet he gets teased! 'Our brother's got the smallest prick in the nudist camp!' You can hear them! Or they might say, 'Mom, how come Daddy's pee-wee is like a little boy's. Not big like that man's there?' Humiliating!"

He had quickly unbuttoned his blue, button-down shirt and flung it aside. His buddies followed, ripping at the pages all the while. They were soon a hundred percent stripped off. In their birthday suits.

"Fuck! Look at this!"

Mark had found a picture of a boy lying on his tummy on sand, his freckled face looking up helpless, desperate. Five cheeky girls and women were standing like hunters who had bagged game. One playful teenage girl- vaginal lips smiling through golden pubic curls- was planting her foot on his left buttock.

"Fuck! The bitches have got him trapped. Trapped!"

"You can see he's panicking- he doesn't want them to see his stuff," said Kerry. "But the bitches have got him! Trapped!"

Mark was jerking furiously now, tumbling out the words: "...yeah, trapped! That's like they do with us...here in Brewer...trapped when we're swimming nude...trapped when we're in those loin cloths...trapped at those school medicals...trapped naked...when they're dressed..! They all love it!"

"Yeeeeah!" breathed Stevie, heavily. "Moms, teachers, sisters...fuckin' maids...they all love it, trapping us...nude!"

His fist devoured his stiff little penis.

"Imagine how...I feel...when my sisters and their friends...get to see the swimming shots of me...totally nude...in the family album...they see everything..."

Mark was burbling his complaint.

Naked, they fell to their knees, jacking off at the magazines spread over the bed cover.

Rodney was jerking desperately, eyes glued to a picture of a long lean suntanned boy, seated outside a hut, back to the camera. In front of him towered a wide-hipped, big-breasted Mom in straw hat grinning as she looked right into his lap. That boy, too, seemed trapped.

The image was making Rodney swoon.

"Or in those fuckin' loin cloths...those flaps...even worse...making us show our pricks and balls...turn around...and show the fuckin' bitches our asses!"

Rodney threw his left arm around Stevie's shoulder, and Stevie around Mark's, pals seeking comfort. For his part Mark reached down and cupped Kerry's balls, gave them a gentle tug with his left hand, while continuing to quickly pleasure himself with his right. They were buddies, college freshmen or new Marine recruits in a circle jerk off.

Spurred by the photos the four were approaching climax.

And just outside the bedroom, Mrs Ricketson, home early from Carthage where her auction had been cancelled, having on some instinct tip-toed down the corridor, was seeing everything. The mirror on the half-open door of the bedroom cupboard projected the bacchanalia into her line of vision while she remained out of sight. And Rodney's Mom was hearing every foul, sick word.

Her first thought: how correct her good friend Mrs Reilly was about teenage boys. Yes, dear Mrs Reilly. The richest widow in Brewer with her priceless heritage home in its gorgeous walled garden, who chain smoked and declared cigarettes good for mental processes, who sipped a watered Scotch throughout the day, who travelled the world ceaselessly collecting information about customs and practices that would make one's hair stand on end.

And who paid Police Commissioner O'Mallory a fat donation to his favorite charity to have young male delinquents work off their crimes, naked in her garden.

And who convened afternoon teas of lady friends to talk about nude punishment of their sons.

And- this was the salient point- who had insisted that it was every mother's duty to supervise (even, she had said, "assist") her son's masturbation because boys could not resist their compulsions and would do it anyway. In fact left unsupervised boys recruited pornographic literature and their own schoolmates to help. Why, look at the scene before her! Orchestrated by her son, cunningly, because he no doubt calculated she would be at Cathage till dinner time. The four boys frenzied like spider monkeys! Stripped entirely nude- her son's bedroom a mess of underwear and shirts. Babbling filth about mothers, about nudity! Gripping one another by the shoulders to heighten their paroxysms and devouring the filth on the pages of those lurid magazines! Images of women like her! 

And she, only yesterday, had been so nurturing of her son. So maternal, protecting him from full-bodied exploration from that room of old crones.

This was how he repaid his own mother.

Her resolve was quick. Her plan clear.

First, to arrest them in their activity and hold them naked with magazines displayed until each of their mothers had been summoned. Second, to have those mothers join her in a good old fashioned spanking. Oh, a hard spanking. Indeed to have each mother spank the others' boys, getting to relish close-up the nakedness of the other sons- a veritable festival of hairbrush, leather belt and palm-delivered chastisement. Over the knee mother-style, and with boys standing hands on heads, or standing bent, bottoms projected backwards, or lying on the bed legs raised and bottom tilted: every technique and position, until they had these naked males howling. Really howling. Third, to march them off to Mrs Reilly's next afternoon tea where, in front of 30 so so ladies, they could suffer some more punishment and be professionally eased into a new mother-centric punishment regime. That included supervised or, if they liked, "assisted" masturbation.




Rodney's Nude Humiliation Ch. 07



"Ggggggrrrrrrrrrrrr!"

The mirror reflected her own son and Kerry Fulbright clenching their faces, throwing their heads back.

"Aaaaahhhhhhh!"

Little Stevie- "little" in every sense she could see- was bent over. Rodney was pulling him close by the shoulder. Hugging him while both of them continued to maul their pricks.

"God! God!"

Kerry gasped it out.

"God! God!"

He looked like he was bursting- and Mark Campbell was reaching and grasping Kerry's testicles- even as Stevie with his free arm tightened his hold on Mark's shoulders. Linked like this, they presented an image of bonded male prisoners: it made Mrs Ricketson think vaguely of ancient Greeks or of Michelangelo.

Stevie was the first to explode. A thick rope of semen shot from his erection, seemed to freeze in the air and sploshed onto the shiny pages of Sundial. Two more cannonades followed to splash on the magazine, the photo of naked youth and matron dissolving under a puddle of boyish white fluid. Kerry shot off next, a powerful ejaculation- veering as expected to the right- splashing on Mark's upper arm. The rest overflowed in Kerry's hand, flooding through his clenched fingers. 

Mark shot off his load, spraying it onto three magazines, drenching embarrassed naked boys, frolicsome maids, predatory Moms.

The three gasped for breath.

"What a mess!" sighed Kerry, slumped, his rigid penis still draining into his palm.

Rodney was cumming.

"Gggggrrrrrrr..."

His head twisted and his bulging eyes took in...his mother, reflected in the cupboard mirror, advancing to fill the pushed-open door!

WHAT? 

YES HIS MOTHER!

FUCK!

"MOM!"

And he shot off!

His first torrent flew high, paused mid-air and then slopped onto the photo of the youth, naked from the pool being menaced by grinning matron.

"GOSH! MOM!"

He kept jerking- he could not stop- under his mother's savage gaze.

His next bolt discharged, and joined Stevie's deposit, drowning the image of freckled-faced, Leave To Beaver, boy-next-door and the prowling lady with grand aureoles on melon breasts.

Mrs Ricketson now fully entered the room. Stood over the kneeling, naked boys. The three who had ejaculated froze with horror, their brimming fingers gluey, and sticky with their offences, their erections still draining fluid. But Rodney's fist continued pleasuring his nine inches. Desperate, panicking.

"OOOOH MOM! NO! MOM!"

Rodney shot off again, a spurt into the air, that landed with a splash on the black and white image of a happy family group with small-dicked father and son and striding donkey-dicked Adonis lurking behind. Splash! 

Hands on the nipped waist of her fashionable broad floral patterned skirt Mrs Ricketson glared at the tangle of male limbs and the guilty rearing cocks. She saw the gooey emissions, filling their fists, and Kerry's deposit running down Mark's upper arm. Her son's broad-beamed penis was still draining the white fluid. On his bed, the nudist magazines were a soggy disaster, the pooled semen of four males congealing on each page.

She looked into the shamed, shocked faces, furtive and terrified. She breathed in the scent of mint-fresh, adolescent semen flavouring the air. Those grunted references to Moms and bitches still seemed to echo in the room.

"Yes, gentlemen, what a mess. What a mess indeed."

She looked around her.

"It is a mess. All your doing. And you will pay mightily for it."

She reflected a moment.

"Being trapped seems to excite you. Well, you are certainly trapped now!"



Rodney's Nude Humiliation Ch. 08



This is to be read after Rodney's Nude Humiliation Chapter 7 and Rodney and Mass Punishment. The boys have been gathered at Mrs Reilly's home and stripped before a big female gathering.

*****

It was mid-1950s America. It was Mrs Reilly's house- one of the finest in Brewer, Minnesota- on a sunny afternoon. Under the chandelier, below the big oil canvas of naughty Cupid being spanked by Venus, in front of an audience of well-attired ladies smoking cigarettes and shrouded in their perfumes, and schoolgirls excited to be witness, the drama was now reaching its climax.

Four 18 year old boys were stark naked, splayed over their seated mothers' knees, arms and legs akimbo. Mothers' broad hands rained down on their sons' bottoms; their lean, shapely, athletic posteriors. Spank! Spank! Spank! The four nude teenagers were beginning to purr and squeak, soon they were expostulating, "Mmmmmmmm," "Ouch!" and "Aww!" They couldn't help it: Mom's hands were stinging! They were kicking their legs. And their bottoms were turning pink.

One thing above all about this touching and pregnant scene is to be grasped by you, the appalled reader: beneath their Elvis Presley, ducks-tail hair or boy-next-door crew cuts (the teenage style preferences of the mid-1950s) the four boys were naked as the day that they were born. Stark naked. Or you might say, buck naked. Either way, without a stitch. Stripped to the bare, and being humiliated and shamed in front of a bustling, excited room of females, some their own age, some their mothers'.

Crowding in to watch, with looks of prurient awe, were 30 of Brewer's best ladies and 12 of its most curious 18 year old schoolgirls, all eager to get closer. Yes, if they stood closer...the things they could glimpse! Goodness! Look, Rodney Ricketson's legs are splayed as his Mom strikes hard and inside that deep cleft there's a tiny, brown, wrinkled hole winking back at us! Look at the black hair sprouting from little Stevie Lynton's crack! His ass is full of hair! Look, Kerry Fulbright has copped a hard slap from his Mom and rolled onto his side; so his jaunty, slanting erection is on view! And, look, Mark Campbell's big, sprawling ballsack is visible flaring like a half-filled balloon between his muscular thighs! His scrotum is too big and vast and heavy to stay hidden! Like a half-filled balloon between his legs, really!

Standing and oversighting the proceedings were Mrs Reilly in black cocktail dress and pearls and her special friend, Dr Ida Speight, school physician, expert in male adolescent development and Kinsey sex researcher. They were flushed and wide-eyed at the success of the spectacle they had so carefully planned. They urged the four mothers to maintain the pace and firmness.

Splat! Splat! Splat!

Down came the palms on male backsides.

Slap! Slap! Slap!

Sounds of "Owwww!" and "Ouchhhhh!" filled the silence.

Until, all of a sudden, Mrs Reilly and Dr Speight called a halt.

"I think...yes, they're doing it,"opined Dr Speight.

"Yes, noticeable...with all four of them," agreed Mrs Reilly.

The mothers looked up from their boys' crimson bottoms, puzzled.

Dr Speight explained.

To the mothers and the whole room.

"It often happens in a spanking of a nude young male. With over-the-knee spankings... 

"...boys will express their pain and anguish by rubbing their stiff organs into their mothers' thighs. They can't stop. The combination of pleasure and pain becomes compelling, until...inevitably...they will ejaculate."

There was a murmur of disgust.

"Ejaculate," repeated Dr Speight, the sex researcher. "Right into their mothers' laps."

"Ugg!" 

"How awful!"

"My God!"

Mrs Reilly added, "It was beginning to happen here. All four of the boys were beginning to move their midriffs in rhythm with the slaps. You could see their bottoms moving. Moving rhythmically. They were...masturbating themselves into their mothers' knees."

There was a lowing sound from the women, like that of cows in a stable. There were half suppressed giggles from the girls.

"What I propose is two-fold," said Dr Speight. "First, for our four mothers to switch from palm to hairbrush. That way the boys are going to be too unhappy to spare a thought for desperate little pleasures..."

There were titters.

The four prone boys shuddered. Their Moms' palms were beginning to hurt. But...hairbrushes?

"...and, second, all 12 girls and four women will take hold of the boys by hands and feet. And stretch hard. Really pull away. To stop them moving."

The girls were thrilled.

"So they won't any longer have the freedom to rub themselves into Mommy's thighs."

There was a quick movement of females, some jostling, to take their places as prescribed.

The boys felt wrists and ankles being seized. Tugged.

"Oh, but hold on. One another thing. First the boys will get up and move to another mother. That way...less chance of a kind Mom showing mercy to her own little fella."

There was good natured laughter. 

The shameful boys rose from the laps and, trying to shield erections and groins webbed with sticky, clear fluid, hobbled around until Dr Speight steered them to another mother. They lowered themselves slowly onto a new lap, refusing to look their friend's mother in the eye, appalled at having to press their erections into her thighs.

As the boys settled the women seemed flushed. A different young man's bottom under their nose, a different cock pressing their lap.

And things renewed themselves. This time- hard! Rubbing themselves were they? They would pay! Oh, they would pay!

Rodney jerked at the awful STING on his right upper thigh as Mrs Fulbright brought the hairbrush down with all the force at her command. 

"Aaaawwwwwooooohhhh!" 

He strained to kick back his legs...strained to roll to his right...to throw his hands back to shield his vulnerable bottom. But four of his female classmates were gripping tight; and weren't they having fun, laughing and exclaiming as the poor boy buckled and stretched, his mouth pulled back like a young colt's! Yes, mouth stretched in agony, like that of the horse in Picasso's Guernica. The girls loved it, and not just because of the close up view they were getting right into his bottom which opened out like a split peach and revealed the wrinkled, pouting cave entrance, or the hint of a capacious, flattened scrotum with what looked like a seam down its middle. They loved it just because it was one of the school's most athletic young males totally nude- they had thrilled to the sight of his blazing red pubic bush, his meaty cock, his low hanging scrotum- and at their mercy!

Splat! Down again, and another big red splotch claimed another part of Rodney's right thigh. He tried to buck and kick but, no, he was pulled tight by his captors. He howled out loud. But, devilishly, Mrs Fulbright, instead of making the rounds, of striking somewhere fresh, chose to hit hard again at the very spots she had just visited.

"Aaaawwwwooooohhhh!"

Rodney yodelled and when his head turned back he caught the broad smirk of one girl holding an ankle, the Doris Day-lookalike, Delcia Forrest, who stared down at his exposed bottom and ran her tongue around her lips. And then looked him right in the eyes. Grinned at him. Licked her lips some more.

Rodney's insides turned to warm water.

Crack! Mrs Lynton brought her brush down on the curve of Mark Campbell's athletic bottom, where glute met left thigh. "Aaaahhh!" And then she struck the same spot. Again. Again. And again. The boy, seeking relief from the concentrated pain, put a mighty effort into rolling sideways, trying to shield the burning thigh from yet another assault, revealing to his tormentors his fleshy, wrinkled, squashed-up genitals.

The girls gripping his legs and arms pulled as if rival tug-of-war teams and the boy's V-shaped body flattened again across Mrs Lynton's knees and she went to work now on the flesh of his cheeks- bare as an egg, or "glabrous" as retired Latin teacher Miss Posser had called them. Mark Campbell, handsome swimmer, V-shaped back and glutes like soccer balls, was reduced to howling wordless complaints louder and louder and louder.

Stevie Lynton, alive to all the thrills of his young exhibitionism, might have been in seventh heaven, lying on Mrs Ricketson's lap, naked as the day that he was born, with three school girls and Mrs Glover pulling at his limbs so hard they parted the skinny cheeks of his little bottom and put his hairy crack on display. Bursts of black hair- at least it shielded the sight of his little pouting hole which would have been hilarious. But...hell! Rodney's mother laid into every part of his buttocks and thighs with such force he was soon emitting a ridiculous loud purring noise making the surrounding females laugh.

And when he found himself trying to rub his petite erection in Mrs Ricketson's lap, for some relief, he heard a girl cry, "Look! Look! He's doing it! Rubbing his cock!" and immediately his four limbs were wrenched hard, so hard he thought legs and arms were being yanked out of their sockets. Dr Speight rebuked him, "Naughty boy, young Stevie. We all saw that! That- rubbing business!" And she was advising Mrs Ricketson to lay in even harder. Without delay Rodney's Mom attacked him- slap, slap, slap!- cursing him under her breath for being the filthy minded little pervert who had brought the "dirty literature" into her house and introduced her son to "filthy thrills!"

Stevie's plight was desperate and he was the first of them to crack. There was the transition from purring to wailing, the heaving of the shoulders and the bursting into tears and the awful begging that broke through the tears. "Please...please...Mrs...Ricketson..." He was crying, blubbering with tears. "Please...I...can't...take...any...more!"

Mrs Ricketson kept up the fusillade. She looked up at to he four cruel females holding onto Stevie's ankles and wrists. "Well, what do you think? Do I stop?"

As one, with broad smiles, they shook their heads.

"They always use that argument. I think he can take it," said Mrs Glover, eyes alight.

"Oh no! Please, I can't! I really can't!"

But Mrs Ricketson took the advice. She laid in, hard and fast, on yet another circuit of his thighs and buttocks. The howling, tearful boy tried to roll his reddening parts- blazing red- out of her reach. But the female's tugging kept him flattened and stretched.

Stevie was breaking in great, bursting sobs. "No...no...no...ppleeeaassse..."

Meanwhile Mrs Campbell maintained a steady rat-a-tat on the well-shaped bottom of Kerry Fulbright- the cute, handsome fella with long eyelashes and the slanting dick- but, as if in conspiracy with her four helpers, she was not hitting too hard. Not hitting too hard at all. And they were not pulling too tight. As a result, Kerry was allowed to roll to one side when the sting was too much for him, grunting "Ahhh!" Or "Owww!" and expose his long, streamlined, erect penis, slanting to the right and emitting streams of glutinous fluid.

That seemed to please Mrs Campbell and the four girls holding his limbs, as well as the circle of girls and women pressing into watch. In fact mixed in with the scent of perfume and cigarettes was a powerful, intimate odour wafting from wetted (and, in the case of the girls, entirely soaked) panties: the elegance of Kerry's seven incher and its unremitting stiffness were the cause, the inspiration, the stimulant. He has a very nice penis, thought Mrs Campbell, catching another glimpse as the boy rolled again.

But Mrs Reilly closed in. She saw that the females responsible for Kerry were being too humane.

"My dear, you will have to strike harder," she instructed Mrs Campbell. "And the girls to tug harder. This boy- look, see- is still enjoying it."

Kerry's erection stared back, confirming her indictment.

Admonished, the females worked the prone heart-throb with fiercer attention, Mrs Campbell redoubling the force of her strokes- slap, slap, slap with the wooden brush- and the girls now tightly pulling ankles and wrists so Kerry could not rotate, although one twist of his torso confirmed the renewed blasts had shrivelled his erection. Soon he was purring an urgent kitten sound like Stevie; then, begging for mercy, "No, please, Mrs...Ca...Ca...Campbell, it's...really...hurting!"; then pleading he couldn't take any more- all the usual stages- before, shoulders heaving, he was bursting into big, shaking, helpless sobs. 

As if that were the signal they needed both Rodney and Mark joined their two friends in breaking out in heart-rending weeping. Two of the biggest athletes in Grover Cleveland High. It was, thought the mothers, pathetic: these sobs. From big athletic boys. 

As if according to some memorised script, Rodney and Mark now started using the childlike nomenclature, "Mommy," as in the plea, "Oh please tell her to stop! Mommy...Pleasssse! Tell...her...to...stop! Mommy!" ( from Rodney.) Or "Oh, Mommy, it's hurting...so much! Mommy...ouch! I'm sorry, Mommy, I'm sorry! Tell her...I can't take it! Please, Mommy!" (From Mark.)

The crying became louder and more desperate.

Slapping away, mothers looked questioningly at Mrs Reilly. At Dr Speight. Does this mean we stop, their expressions seemed to ask. On the other hand, they implied, we are enjoying this. Would like to keep it up if we can.

"Keep it up, my dears," said Mrs Reilly. "They're not broken in yet."

"And remember what you caught them at," said Dr Speight. "Mutual masturbation. In a group. Totally stripped off. Enjoying themselves in the nude. Exciting themselves with these..."

Here she brandished the crinkled pages of the Scandinavian nudist magazines, caked by their pooled semen, ejaculated during their now notorious orgy.

"...and making demeaning comments about women and mothers."

In response the mothers brought the brushes down harder, with renewed outrage. And faster. Slap! Slap! Slap!

The four females holding each boy tugged harder.

The four boys were stretched tight as bowstrings. Their bodies immobilised by the girls' stretching.

They howled and moaned and sobbed.

"Ohhh...pleasssse...(sob! choke!)" from Rodney.

"Noo...Mommy...Pleasssse...make her...STOP!" from Stevie.

"Aaawwwwh! (Sob! Sob! Sob!) Pleasssse...I...can't take it!" from Kerry. "Mommy, make her stop!"

"That's it! No...no...please...no more!" from Mark. 

All 12 girls, engaged in stretching and pulling their victims, were laughing out loud. Laughing- and having a good look at the boys' reddening, cleft bottoms and every now and then at what lay inside the cleft, and what was sometimes exposed lying underneath, flattened and soft and wrinkled. Yes, it was such fun, and all they had to do was tug at Rodney's ankle all the harder, or yank Kerry's arm, and watch Stevie's hairy, little bottom get still redder or see the tears fall from Mark's clenched-up eyes. And hear them crying like babies and begging for the spanking to stop.

Until finally it did.

And the boys were ordered to get up.

And not on any count to rub their bottoms or thighs.

Or to cover their fronts.

But with hands behind their heads to allow mothers and girls to inspect the damage.

They struggled off laps. They were still crying, blubbering like babies with the pain nerving out of their upper legs and glutes; they were wobbling on their feet, reluctantly locking fingers behind their heads, ashamed at showing off their collapsed, mottled, shrunken genitals, webbed with trails of guilty fluid.

Bending and twisting to look at their bottoms, the females were exhausting every cliche of post-spanking commentary.

"My! Is your naughty little bottom red!"

"Goodness! I bet that rear end of yours really hurts!"

"Well, here's a boy who won't enjoy sitting down for some time soon!" 

"I think it'll be a long time before you do anything that naughty again! Wow! That looks sore!"

It was very humiliating for the four boys, each with eye lashes stuck together and tears wet on their cheeks, especially when it was a girl from their class who leant in close to look them in the eye or twisted to peer at their rear.

"Does that hurt? There? Oh go on, tell us, don't be shy!" 

There was no alternative for the boys- standing there, hands locked behind their necks, totally nude- but to answer them in strained, croaky voices.

"Yes...yes, it hurts...real bad. OUCH! No, don't touch! Ouch!"

But touching was what the girls were interested in. Touching. Poking. Stroking. Exploring with wandering, tickling fingers, around the curves of buttocks and up and down thighs, even flicking a hand between their thighs or a finger into that crack and all the way darting glances at the boys' terrified eyes and at their groins with their shrivelled pricks, mottled and creased. 

The capacious ball bags of Rodney and Mark were now hanging low and loose with their prizes displayed inside- and the girls were mightily diverted by the spectacle- how lucky that Rodney and Mark had such voluminous scrotums and large balls inside them, with a silly seam sewn right down its middle. By contrast Kerry's was a modest globe, Stevie's wired in dense black foliage behind his cocktail sausage of a penis. Both nice but...girls were being persuaded that big balls on a young man were a treat.

Mrs Gwen Skite had edged schoolgirls aside and was stroking Rodney's globes while he stood, hands behind his head, everything he possessed on display. The lady, in her boxy suit and her blouse with pussy-cat bow, was glancing at his groin: at his blazing red curls, huge balls and the sculptural grandeur of his glans.

She could not take her eyes off his equipment.

"Rodney Ricketson, what a disappointing boy you have been. Now tell me, after that spanking- goodness, its red, I bet it hurts- tell me you are not going to do dirty-minded things with your friends again. We expected better of a nice, church-going fella like Rodney Ricketson."

And Rodney had no alternative- hands locked behind his neck, on total nude display, Mrs Skite stroking his bottom and staring intently at his groin- to say lamely, "I'm sorry, Mrs Skite, we won't be...I...won't...be...doing that again."

Her cigarette smoke and sultry perfume and another smell- one the boy associated with female underwear in bathroom baskets- enveloped Rodney. Through the pain, a stinging like severe sunburn, her circling fingers felt nice.

He began to melt inside.

"Because, Rodney, none of we Moms would want our daughters- and as you know, I have three- to go out with boys who get excited by...you know, taking their clothes off...getting stripped...in front of females."

Rodney nodded dolefully, tears reappearing. He knew her daughters. He felt more shamed than ever.

"I looked at those magazines that got you and your friends so hot and bothered..."

Rodney blushed, at having his disgraceful impulses again discussed.

"...and they all seem to be about boys, about males, going around naked...vulnerable...in front of girls their own age but very often mature women..."

Rodney felt an excitement spread from his flaming, tender bottom into his groin.

"...getting...looked at, nude..."

He shivered. The idea- the old idea- excited the boy. Yes, getting looked at nude! Humiliated. Embarrassed. Like...at the swimming costume fitting. Or wearing that Indian loin cloth. Being measured by Mrs Carruthers and her maid. Being inspected by his mother and her friends. It was always terrible. But, thinking about it later, it was really exciting. 

He felt a jolt in his penis.

Like being at the swim meet, naked with all those mothers watching. Or having his shorts jerked down in front of all of them, here, today. By his Mom! And being ordered to take his jockstrap off, with every one of them watching. Talking about these things with his friends. Hearing how it excited them too. That's what had happened with the four of them and those magazines. They had got so excited by these thrilling notions. 




Rodney's Nude Humiliation Ch. 08



The blood was surging in his privates.

"Letting females see you naked. And liking it..."

And she kept up her gentle touching- light as a feather- around his two bottom cheeks and his upper thighs. Lighter now, her fingers tickled his crack- his intergluteal cleft- up and down.

He knew that whatever promise he gave today he would return to this filthy idea: being naked in front of fully dressed women, the more embarrassed the sweeter.

His glans fleshed out. His stem lengthened.

Qwen Skite had become terribly excited at the enforced stripping of the young men. She had never had any sexual satisfaction from her post office manager husband who once a week during 15 years of less-than-married bliss would poke his four incher into her vagina and ejaculate in 10 seconds (she now counted.) Looking at the inflating, stretching genitalia of this fetching young man her eyes were popping with curiosity...and something else. But she did not stop her circular tickling, working especially the curve of his buttocks and up and down the cleft. And she now stepped up her talk, right into the boy's ear.

"It's the idea of being caught with your pants down, I guess. Hopeless, helpless. Trapped. With girls looking, and making fun. Just like now, Rodney..."

His stem filled out, lengthened and lifted itself from his balls.

She was watching, smiling distantly, lightly flicking finger tips all over his bottom.

Hell, he was stiff again. Trapped, hands locked behind his neck.

It jerked up. Pointed out.

Three girls moved in, staring wide-eyed. Two ladies also joined Mrs Skite who was staring hypnotised, as if at a snake charmer's pet serpent. The girls positioned themselves in front, also staring down at his groin. Across the room he could see his mother looking, frowning. Angry, as if disgraced by her son again.

His penis jerked up some more. Oh God, he thought, as he saw the girls smirk. It was now roof-beam hard, parallel to the floor. All nine inches.

Meanwhile across the living room Kerry had been told to stand with his back to a sofa of four seated ladies, with standing schoolgirls. And he was to stand there, hands locked at his neck, letting them have a good, long look at his reddened ass. Look- and reach out too, and pat it, stroke it, flick fingers over it.

The pleasure of those lingering, travelling fingers! Mixed in with the pain!

In a few jolts- Jesus, three of them were touching his ass at once! - his prick jerked up, parallel to the floor. Around the room ladies were swivelling to catch it. Their eyes focused on his erection. And their looks excited him. They were looking at his erect member. So, in a few more quick jerks his cock was defying the laws of gravity, standing tall...and aslant.

His angled erection. Seven inches. Hard as a hammer.

His jaunty slant.

The drooling emission, running like a spider web to the carpet. 

The ladies on the sofa and the girls around them, fingering his ass, figured that something was happening in front.

"Turn around, Kerry," instructed old Miss Stevens. Oh no, he thought, they'll see everything. Close up.

But Kerry had no alternative. He turned, wheeling his stiff member into view.

Some of them gasped. Craned, to see it close. Miss Stevens raised a lorgnette to her beady, inquisitive eyes and stuck her neck out. Girls giggled behind cupped hands. The poor boy blushed and hung his head, hands locked behind, putting his secret on display for them: his elegant, streamlined seven incher, leaning to the right.

Standing a little out of the main arena, Mrs Lanbourne was lavishing affection on Stevie. The boy was still snuffling, tears spilling out of his eyes, eye lashes stuck. His bottom was the reddest. And Mrs Lanbourne, the middle-aged lady with the beautiful lambent brown eyes and the long elegant nose, reached out and lay an arm across his shoulder, drew him closer into the circle of her sultry perfume and fragrant clothing. With her other hand she slowly, tenderly, deliciously stroked his red bottom.

And gently spoke into his ear.

"Darling..."

The word made him melt to water.

"...my little sweet Stevie...oh, I was so sorry for my favorite boy...seeing you over these laps...all your clothes off...getting a spanking...turning red...oh, it feels so hot down there! Your bottom! I thought, my poor little fella...all he wants...my little Stevie...is an older lady...to take good care of him...and cuddle him and kiss him for all he's worth...and, yes, let him run round with all his clothes off like all boys want, in their heart of hearts...and even let his little thingie get good and hard if he wants..."

And she snuggled him in closer and kissed his wet cheek. All the while, tickling his bottom.

Stevie was erect in a flash.

He hid his stiff member in her skirts. Pressed it in, felt her skirts enfold it.

Her arm around his shoulder tightened.

"...and, yes, give him a spanking when he deserves it...with all his clothes taken from him and put away in my deepest cupboard...a lovely nude spanking...little 18 year old boy over my knee...but a sweet and loving spanking..."

Stevie felt his insides turn to warm, melting honey. Standing there, enclosed by her arm on his shoulders, he pressed his penis even more firmly into this lovely lady's thigh.

"...yes, I'd keep my little Stevie nude in my house all afternoon...while he munched his milk and cookies...while he helped me make a cake, did my housework...while he sat down and did his homework...my naked, little boy...with his nice hairy body...and his manly little penis, all stretching and standing tall..."

Stevie pressed harder, rubbed a bit. She must feel it, he thought.

She gave his cheek a warm, wet kiss, licking up his drying tears, her arm around his shoulder.

Stevie felt his stuff- his sperm- surge out of his tight balls...along his stem...

And she continued, pouring the delicious words into his ear: "Yes, I'd keep my little Stevie in his birthday suit...right until my two grown-up girls get home from the typing pool...oh, won't they love to play with a little brother...a grown-up little boy with hair all over him...his secrets on display...yes, those girls of mine...no boyfriends yet...how they'd love to kiss and cuddle and tickle little Stevie...on the sofa, stark naked in my living room..."

The word picture was so thrilling that in one quick heave from his penis Stevie ejaculated, right into the folds of Mrs Lanbourne's midnight blue satin, full skirted dress, glob after glob sprouting out, as if from a drinking fountain, as he pressed his stiff little dick harder and gasped and choked and murmured. And she grasped him tighter around his shoulder and pressed her big lips into his cheek. 

"That's it little fella, let it happen...atta boy...yes, another one...oh, you're a real little mothers's boy..."

And she had a fringed pocket handkerchief out of her purse in a jiffy and was deftly scooping the streams of his fluid from her skirts, neatly and surgically, all the while holding him to her big breasts while he panted and snuffled, close to tears.

Mark was surrounded too. Hands behind his head. And being bottom-tickled. By girls and a lady. Tickle, tickle, tickle went their pointy fingers and jolt, jolt, jolt went his ample prick. Females in front of him looked, gasping and giggling, at his now entirely erect member. And wasn't the poor fella embarrassed! Especially when he saw his disapproving mother looking across the room, at what was happening in his groin.

Nasty Milly Slink, with her Coke bottle glasses, caught his eye, with her gimlet expression and cruel smile. She had swiped glimpses of his trouser front when he had entered their classroom and had melted with desire when Mark's sisters had opened their photograph album to show her and their other friends the riveting collection of photos- Mark buff naked and erect walking the length of the school pool in delicious profile, Mark stark naked standing on the starting blocks his penis pointing straight ahead parallel to the water, Mark wearing the medal around his neck smiling weakly while his mother clutched his right arm and his aunt his left with his formidable penis stretched to the ceiling showing off its voluminous underside.

Now she stood right in front. She was seeing the real thing.

"Boy oh boy, you must be embarrassed!"

He hung his head.

"Mark, look...me...in...the...eye! Or I tell your sisters all about today!"

Shamefully, blushing, he obliged. Right into her mean Coke bottle eyes.

"That's better, Mark...good boy..."

And she bent over, leaning in close, and studied his privates as if memorising them: the big, fat head, the thick shaft, the blond curls, the network of veins, the dangling ballsac and its drooping contents so clearly outlined. 

The other ladies and girls grouped around him chuckled indulgently at the ravenously curious schoolgirl. She was so plain, unlikely ever to marry, but full of such healthy feminine instincts, such an animal appetite, as she crouched, staring right at the poor boy's equipment. Mark felt her enlarged eyes prowl over him- his penis stem, his fleshy glans, his dangling sack- like crawling insects.

Across the room his mother glared. Behind him the tickling and stroking of his curves and crack continued, playful and insistent.

In another corner the Doris Day-lookalike, Delcia Forrest, was saying to Rodney, "Bet you wish they had allowed you to stay in that jock strap." He was surrounded by ladies and girls, eyes aglow, intent on close-up observation. And he was hard as a roof beam, rearing up at 45 degrees, showing off his voluminous underside, and leaking a transparent fluid, trailing to the floor. 

"Yes, Rodney, I loved that jockstrap," Delcia was whispering into his ear. "And I want you to come around when Mom and Dad are out and model it for me. At home. Me, and my friends, and my older sister and my cheeky aunt. And you never know what I might want to do in return. But in the meantime I love seeing you...like this!"

And she gestured at his groin which, in fact, the whole female group was staring at. 

It was his penis knob- enlarged and mushroomy and mauve- that demanded their attention, that and the low hanging testicles. Oh, the thick, white, ribbed and veined stem also had its admirers; that could not be denied.

How big- how fat- how delicious- thought Mrs Dunne about the boy's organ as she stared from under her box hat with drooping flower. Fingering her pearls she imagined how it might probe at one's vagina, gaining entrance, producing voluptuous sensations. She thought of her own bookkeeper husband, short and bald and thin, and his foreshortened member, all red and angry when it emerged from its oily black sprouting hair. She bent forward, drawn by the mushroomy look of Rodney's sculpted, decorative glans.

Rodney was feeling acute humiliation and that other, increasingly familiar sensation as well: a curdling excitement of this shame, the shame of females inspecting his enforced nudity. Hell, they were leaning in...all of them...peering and staring! He could...feel their breaths on it!

The trickling flow of telltale fluid increased, and trailed to the floor.

Mrs Reilly ordered that it was now time for the four boys to be seated next to their Moms on the settees. The maids appeared with fleecy white towels and laid them out and sons and mothers arranged themselves, blushing boy next to his expectant Mom and all the other females gathering, standing and smirking, elbowing one another for the best views.

Then the maids appeared again with...goodness, plastic gloves! Yes, and big jars of Ponds Cold Cream! For each of the Moms!

There were gasps and giggles of delight.

Dr Speight stood in the space between the two settees and announced, "These boys have been caught in the throes of group masturbation. And you have all inspected the literature that they were using. So now they will be punished. In the only way they will understand, the only way that we know from our studies produces permanent behavioural change: they will be masturbated by their long suffering mothers in front of females. Females their own age..."

Here she paused and caught the eyes of several of the heavily breathing school girls who beamed back at her.

"...and older women, the age of their mothers."

The boys sat lugubriously, side by side with their Moms, thighs spread wide (on the orders of Mrs Reilly and Dr Speight) erections displayed, testicles on view. They stared ahead, miserably.

The room was hushed.

Stevie caught the beautiful, sympathetic eyes of Mrs Lanbourne and felt wet in his tummy and wonderful all over his skin. Even after he had exploded in her skirts he had got stiff again, with all the sweet word pictures she had painted for him- naked in her home, helping her in the kitchen like a nude little son, on the sofa nude for her daughters to play with! And delicious loving spankings! His penis watered...but a glance at Rodney, Kerry and Mark showed he was by no means alone. Shit, Rodney had a string of clear fluid falling from his penis hole to his navel, hanging like a rope bridge over a canyon.

The doctor told the mothers to don the plastic gloves. Quickly that was done with the usual telltale sounds: snap, snap, snap, snap. She then told them to take a handful of cold cream.

She let things pause.

The mothers' right hands shone with the gooey, snow-white fluid. They waited for instructions.

The four boys trembled.

Kerry caught the eyes of girls in his class, staring and smirking, flicking between his cock- rigid and aslant, showing off the big underside tube and the banjo strings of his frenulum- and his face. Fuckin' girls...from his class, catching him nude and erect! He would never be able to look them in the eye again.

Then Dr Speight delivered her order.

"The mothers will now apply the cold cream to the penis shafts..."

There was a shudder from all the females at the explicit, clinical language.

She repeated the words, at once so thrilling to the females and so terrifying to the four boys.

"...the penis shafts..."

Another delicious pause.

"...of their sons."

Ominously four mothers raised their gloved, right hands, heavy with the glistening cream.

It was a deeply philosophic moment.

It was a definition of mother-son relations.

What better...what sweeter...the moment argued, than for a Mom's loving hand to settle on the rampant, demanding erection of her teenage boy...and bring him the relief he so urgently craved? In a disciplinary setting, in the shaming presence of females his age and his mother's? But in a setting not without maternal love? In fact suffused with it?

Mark felt his mother's fist firmly enclose the middle of his stem. The cold cream squelched, and squeezed itself out of her fingers. He felt a riotous sensation along his rigid prick. His mother enclosed him firmer still...and moved her hand up and down along the length. Mark caught the eyes of mothers and girls...saw their contempt and superiority...felt a surge of humiliation...just as an irreversible flood rose through his length...and...WHOOSH!

The boy exploded.

The thick, creamy, ropey ejaculation flew high, a foot above his crew-cut, hung in the air and then fell to his forehead, his eyebrows, his freckled nose. Hung there like some Christmas decoration, and another rope of semen shot out and up and hit his chin to hang there like a stalactite, draped, dangling to his sternum. Poor fella, thought Miss Daisy Suckley, he's drenched himself. And a third emission splashed on his tummy.

Kerry's Mom gripped, as if thrilled to hold her handsome son's erection in her eager fingers- the erection so stimulating to her friends and the schoolgirls, elegant and stylish, jaunty and entertaining, cheeky and aslant. And when she felt his fluid gushing up the stem she gripped even harder, with the result that it flew out with compressed force, flew high and hit Mrs Reilly's cut-glass chandelier with a celebratory tinkle. There were gasps from the audience. And then a rope of Kerry's fresh sperm trailed off the Venetian crystal to fall into his ducks-tail hair cut...just as another ropey explosion flew out to drench his chin and chest.

Glaze-eyed as if drugged, his Mom's crinkley, plastic gloved fist moving up and down his stem, Rodney caught a glimpse of Delcia Forrest licking her lips and eyeing his erection: his thick white pole with mauve plum stuck on its end. And he saw the eyes of a dozen other females glued to it as well...and awash with shame he too sent three ropes of sperm flying sky high, to splotch on his oiled red hair, on his shoulders, on his chest...indeed, a trail of his white, creamy fluid was deposited on his erect, right nipple, to droop from it, until it fell into the red curls of his pubic bush.

Stevie saw Mrs Lanbourne's loving glances and, his mother's fist moving slowly up and down his three inch length, he melted inside all over again thinking of the things the nice brown-eyed lady had promised him, and sent a cannonade of seminal fluid into his dense chest hair, another onto his furry tummy, a third to flop into his pubic bush. He appeared to faint while Mrs Lynton gave the head of his penis a delicate squeeze- its diminutive scale suggested delicacy, no, demanded it- and produced a final gobbet.

A sepulchral hush fell on the room.

A mint-fresh scent of semen undulated from the sofas, to wind its way among the reverential females and mix with their sultry perfume, acrid cigarette odour and another smell, warm and intimate, redolent of laundry baskets in female households and the smell of teenage girls' pyjamas ready for the wash.

The boys looked as if they had just had a shock, like being fired from circus cannons, expressions dazed and far-away and unfocused.

Dr Speight then broke the silence.

"Among the girls..?" she asked. "Is there anyone...who is considering a nursing career?"

They were stunned.

It was, as they say, "out of left field."

Milly Slink, gaunt with mousy hair, with eyes enlarged by Coke bottle glasses, half-raised a tentative arm. Shy...and yet determined not to miss any opportunity. Saliva glistened at a corner of her mouth. Good God, thought Dr Speight, the poor girl, plain as pudding, has been drooling. Drooling over the genitalia of these young men. For a moment she felt sorry for them. Drooling, she thought, so I bet that in her panties she's as "damp as a duck."

"So, Milly, you want to be a nurse?"

The girls nodded shyly, half hung her head. Some girls sniggered.

"Very well. In that case, let's give you some practical experience. Please, Betty, get the girl a nice damp towel."

Oh no, thought the boys, sitting on the sofas with the seminal fluid dying on their faces and trunks, matting their pubic hair. No...she can't be telling the girl- this girl, this plain, ugly girl- to clean us up? No, this can't be happening! No, no, no...we don't want to be...touched...by her!

"...and, Milly, you can move over and start to mop these boys up. Just as if you were a nurse looking after 18 year old soldiers in a vets hospital or naughty boys at summer camp. Yes, give them a good wiping down. Starting with..."

The four boys froze. This awful girl, her eyes swimming behind her Coke bottle spectacles, was going to wipe their bodies clear of their ejaculate!

"...starting with Rodney."

Milly swallowed hard. Her eyes enlarged some more. A trickle of moisture slipped from the edge of her mouth. Aware all the eyes were on her she was advancing, a dampened towel over one arm, provided by Betty, the maid. 

Advancing.

Advancing on a terrified Rodney who sat, his penis now reduced to a banana-shape, rising from his groin. His belly and face were spattered with congealing sperm.




Rodney's Nude Humiliation Ch. 08



His whole body stiffened with fear.

"Mom?"

He swung towards Mrs Ricketson, seeking her intervention.

Milly advanced with her towel. Shaking with anticipation...and something else. Some nameless emotion. Beneath her nervousness, a determination fierce and hard.

The boy went rigid.

"Mom?"

Mrs Ricketson sat prim and unmoved.

The girl now stood before Rodney. She could smell the tart, antiseptic odour of his boy's emissions. She looked into his groin, with its red curls. The still-swollen glans stared up at her, smiled with its broad slit. The skin of the frenulum hung loose, like a jowl on the serpent-like penis. She swallowed...with greed. A trail of saliva ran down her chin. Her thighs were sopping. She could smell her own pungent, piscine aroma. 

The towel stretched between her shaking hands. She reached forward...to Rodney's groin.

He gasped with fear.

"Mom? Mom? Mom?"

Outside the open windows the events had attracted an unseen audience.

The boys working off their punishment in Mrs Reilly's garden had been drawn to place a plank between two metal-legged work horses. They had quietly climbed up to look unobserved at the afternoon's delights unfolding in the ornate living room. They had stared, riveted at the ritual humiliation of Rodney and his friends, faces pressed to the fly screens, unseen by the females who were focused on the stripping and spanking and supervised masturbation.

If anyone had entered the verdurous garden they would have seen seven young males, totally naked, standing on this plank peering into Mrs Reilly's living room window. And very aroused by what they were seeing.

There was body-builder Brad with his blond crew cut who had been forced to work in Mrs Reilly's garden for months now (in the garden and, let it be said, every now and then, in the divorcee's bedroom.) Yes, Brad with his bulky uncircumcised penis and its assertive vein, zig zagging its broad white length. There was Samson Douglas the mahogany-toned Negro youth fresh from Lowdnes County, Alabama, with his grizzled pubic curls sprouting dark brown erection with its bright red glans. A year out of school both fellas were now addicted to these special summer afternoons when, after working buck naked, they served drinks in her garden to Mrs Reilly's female guests. They would be petted and stroked by the ladies and be adopted as favourites by many.

And standing on the plank with them were the three boys seduced that very day in the garden by four cheeky school girls. Their eyes were bulging at the drawn-out humiliation they were watching- the woeful fate of naked boys at the hands of dressed females. Already the tall, broken-nosed fella, with his stick-out Adam's apple and greasy Elvis haircut too big for his skinny body, was maniacally jerking his little dick, his low-hanging balls swinging wide, his eyes wide as saucers as he saw Delcia Forrest, who had sucked him off, bend low to examine Rodney Ricketson's fat erection. Jeepers, she was inches from it! This Doris Day-lookalike loved cock!

His two buddies, the short guys, one with a disproportionately large member himself, were on tiptoes straining at the window. Christ almighty! These poor guys in the house! They were sitting on sofas...being jerked off...by their Moms! The two boys boiled with excitement. They clutched their rigid members and pulled themselves.

And Ricky Fafner and Teddy Fasolt were up there as well, their perky cocks out and up and their hands busy on them, eyes bulging at the whole saga of boys being stripped, taunted and teased, spanked naked over ladies' laps and inspected by girls and ladies...jeepers! It was a frigging, raging freak show in there! Holy cow, they were now being jerked off by their Moms! 

Ricky and Teddy had soap bubbles in their pubic bush from cleaning Miss Reilly's Buick Roadmaster Convertible. For an hour this afternoon the arriving women and girls had paused in the driveway to study their nude bodies as the boys had washed and polished the vehicle, for the most part sporting their funny erections: Ricky's springy six incher with its heavy mauve head, Teddy's upwardly curved with its flattened coolie's hat of a glans- what Mrs Reilly thought was a prick worthy of Harpo Marx, designed by an off-duty animator for a buck's night gag.

The boys' excitement had built, having been stared at by the bulging eyes of 30 ladies and 12 girls- their stiffies on display, and their asses too, when they twisted to shield themselves. So with all that humiliation, all that titillation, when they saw the four boys on the sofas explode with sky-high ejaculations, they themselves shot their loads. Splop! Splop! Splop! Sending their ropey emissions to slap at the gray, rusticated stone work of the Minessotta heritage house.

The other five boys followed, backs arched, groins thrust forward, pricks in hand. Big healthy young mens' loads, splattered against the side of the house. "Ahhhhh!" groaned Samson. "Grrrrrrr!" expostulated Brad. And their cannonades flew out.

The boys thought they were unwatched.

Imagined no one was looking.

They were mistaken.

Standing in the foliage of the verdurous garden were three ladies. Yes, in this wilderness of mirrors- this sexual oasis of Brewer- nothing was what it seemed and the watchers were themselves being watched. The female sex were organised like a secret army, like the Gestapo or the CIA.

Three imposing, authoritative ladies stood in the perforated shade of the elms, hidden by sculpted shrubs, watching transfixed. Like secret agents.

They stood watching the jiggling bottoms of the masturbating young men, each naked as the day he had been born. Jiggling glutes, then clenched glutes, as the youths, bouncing on the plank suspended between the two work horses, let fly their loads of teenage sperm, splashing against the brickwork.

The ladies were Miss Cuff, drama teacher of Grover Cleveland High and director of the musical Cowgirls and Indian Braves, wearing her cat's eye glasses and trademark blue stockings under her faintly Bohemian linen dress with wide floral design; Mrs Carruthers, the dressmaker who fitted the boys for the tinier and tinier loin cloths, with her trademark glasses dangling at her ample breasts; and her Negress maid, Yuela, in black dress and starched, white pinafore.

They were devotees, priestesses sanctified to their own ideal, at once aesthetic and mystical, their own hallowed, pulsating work of art, as noble if you like as Michelangelo's Sistine ceiling or Monet's haystacks but a living ideal: nothing less than the anointed mission of exquisitely humiliating young men by having them sacerdotally and solemnly strip in the presence of females, young and old. To the notion of dressed females and undressed males, the males stripped of every inch of clothing, and hence every notion of self-respect and power. In the presence of women and girls.

Facing the bouncing rears of these seven naked fellas the women committed themselves again to their holy calling, to the glorious, tingling moment when, for example, a stark naked 18 year old posed on a stool and the three of them drew out the pleasure of fitting him out with a loin cloth while he begged to have the door closed, begged to be fitted behind a screen, begged for a bigger covering and tried to hide- always the sweetest moment- an awkward, insistent teenage erection.

Ah, sweet moment indeed.

And they had been invited- nay, summoned- to Miss Reilly's to discuss, when her present celebrations were concluded, an extra humiliation for naked young men.

Ah Brewer! They might have sung. Ah, Midwest summer days!

Ah, naked young fellas!

Ah, life!



Rodney's Nude Humiliation Ch. 09



The adventures continue, in 1950s Brewer, classic Mid-Western city, whose 18 year old girls are seeing more of the boys than ever before. Than they ever thought possible. Oh, and mature age women are getting tantalising glimpses of embarrassed male flesh, too- like the teachers now crowding the high school hall.

The hall of Grover Cleveland High had been built in the 1930s as a WPA project, Art Moderne in style, with Deco touches. The stage area was ragged, worn down and exhausted by years of scratchy band concerts, amateurish school theatrics, tedious gymnastics. The scarlet curtains with gold trimmings were bedraggled and moth-eaten and drooped precariously; the backdrop was yellowing. On it were painted a pyramid and sphinx, a quarter moon rising above a palm tree, nostalgic in tone and fading now with the years.

What artist had painted it, working within the limits of his Depression-era, mid-Western imagination? Which unemployed sign-writer or painter-decorator? A father or grandfather of one of Brewer's teenagers? And what would he make of the events unfolding right now, in mid-50s Brewer?

It was all happening in the centre of the auditorium where was gathering the biggest party of ladies ever to watch a boys' rehearsal. There was the drama teacher, standing proud and tall and wild-eyed- green eyes, ablaze with intrigue and genius- the legendary Miss Cuff, with her cat's eye glasses and wide floral dress and blue stockings, who had kept rehearsals going all year (with no date for public performance) and whose nutty, maniacal vision this was: a musical where the boys playing the part of Indian braves were all but naked, wearing only a little flap, while the girls playing cowgirls were sweetly attired in Western gear, Annie Get Your Gun deck-outs, demure and stylish.

And around her stood the flushed, excited lady teachers- this time, about 15- invited to see the boys in the new costume, each mobilised by her and urged to attend: "My dear, easily a third smaller, just tiny! Tiny, tiny, tiny!" she had told them, describing the new loin cloths that would hang over their groins. "Their embarrassment will be exquisite and- imagine! No flaps on the rear! None at all! Their bottoms totally uncovered! Those sweet clefts on display!" 

So Miss Cuff's colleagues all turned up: the young women just out of college, barely older than senior boys they were to see naked; the spinsters who had crushes on the school's young athletes with their crew cuts or on cute classroom pets with their long eye lashes; and, young or old, the female teachers who had read Lady Chatterly's Lover, the Kinsey Report and Peyton Place and were honest about their fleshy appetites.

They stood, fiddling with jewellery, flicking stray hair, straightening a blouse. Waiting and aroused.

Eager. Very eager. "Tiny, just tiny," she had said. "And no flaps on the rear."

Yes, athletes with crew cuts and veins in their biceps and bulges in the fronts of their jeans; classroom pets with long eyelashes, rosy cheeks and concave tummies: they would see these boys virtually naked.

The ladies were eager.

The door to the change room swung open.

The boys shuffled out, sad and sorry.

There was a collective intake of breath.

Gasps.

Nervous giggles.

And then a heave of laughter.

The young males approached.

These boys were just...so...funny. Oh my God! 

One could see everything! 

Their bursts of pubic hair! Yes, their hair: the elastic bands stretched just above their penis stems, putting all their hair on display! And the frontal flaps of embroided chamois were just so short! And narrow! So the ladies got generous glimpses of cocks...and balls! Especially as the boys shuffled forward and the pretty little cover shifted this way and that! 

Oh, and the headband with the lone feather! And the little moccasins! So absurd and demeaning on 18 year old athletes!

Leading the way was short Stevie Lynton, black haired, in fact hairy all over- thick and matted over his chest and tummy- with a small erection standing right up, flattening his tiny flap against his groin. He was sooooo embarrassed, under his headband and the outsize feather- looking enormous on a diminutive boy- his face violently red, his moist eyes wandering desperate. 

Oh...my...God, thought Mrs Sally Soames, a science teacher- a sweet little cock, just like Roy's, my husband's- and he's red as a fire hydrant, showing us his tiny stiffie. I'll never keep a straight face looking him in the eye, in my physics class. Every time I see him looking up from his desk I'll be thinking of that penis, small and stiff, and all that hair, but above all, that sweet, tiny erection. I suppose one day, just like my hubby, if he finds a girl and doesn't give her a chance to check him out, he'll squeeze it into her pussy on their wedding night and always wonder whether it satisfies her, or whether his pint size is going to leave her hankering after a big thick one.

Like the penis now being revealed on tall, agile swimmer, Mark Campbell. Not standing erect but swollen and stretching. A long white salami with fine networks of decorative blue veins, with a big glans, partly cloaked by an uncommonly thick foreskin! The token flap covered only the first half, no third, of his penis stem and his heavy penis swung as he walked. Swung, heavily, to the left, to the right. Left...right. Left...right. Was he embarrassed! 

And wasn't Miss Carabine, his young English teacher, with her short blond hair and tight cashmere pullover, taking it all in- inch by inch! A real thickie, she thought, bigger by far than her boyfriend's regulation, five and a half inch, acorn-tipped appendage that was unveiled in the backseat on Saturday nights when they both slipped out of their underwear for a bit of "backseat bingo." Wow! How differently she was going to view Mark from now on, as he slumped silent through discussions of Emily Dickinson or Jane Austen, that big penis slumbering behind his fly, the bellend poking out of its cloak.

Mark caught her eyes. His English teacher! His young English teacher, looking at his cock! And wanted to die.

There was Carl Harlson, the young Viking, broad shoulders tapering to narrow waist, and with thick blond curls on his chest- that was a nice revelation to the ladies, his beautiful yellow chest hair...but his pubic hair was dark and a mere sliver of a prick jutted from it, right now parallel to the floor. On its way, it seemed, to reaching 45 degrees, if that jerk was anything to go by. Its small head was out of sight, covered by the overhang of papery foreskin, like a ruffle on the neck of a lizard. 

Mrs Carruthers the seamstress had cut for him the smallest of all the flaps- God! a mere two inches in length- because, she must have figured, his penis was so small. Certainly, like all the other boys, he had become totally erect while up on the stool when being measured by her and Yuela. Just like now- his small erection- two, three inches- with its prepuce- the overhang- like the opening of petals on a flower. Was he shamed! And didn't half a dozen of the ladies grin broadly to see a petite stick on such a tall, broad shouldered, woolly-chested young fella. When they passed him in the corridors from now on, oh how they would aim to catch his eye, to hold the focus, to make him blush!

There was Colin Gray, with his headband and feather around his brunette Ricky Nelson pompadour, blushing pathetically. A keen athlete, he showed off now his white, hairless, well defined physique and he had a pronounced Adonis belt- a deeply incised line of muscle running from waist to groin, as on a statue of a Greek god- from which his flap seemed to dangle. 

Miss Collins, a plain 30 something lady who lived with her mother and aunt, liked the boy very much, charmed by the cute snub nose and long eye lashes, and had made him a bit of a pet in maths class; what a bonus now to be seeing this, her classroom pet, virtually nude! Her own experience with men had been limited and she was still technically a virgin so with lively, prurient interest she focused on Colin's neat young man's form and what now swung into view behind his sweet, embroided little flap: a tube with a big, round pink knob and a hairless sack with two distinct compartments. Two little compartments, each with a big marble, separated by a raised line of skin, looking as if it had been sewn up this morning by his mother. 

Golly, she thought, what a sweet revelation about my sweetest boy student...I suddenly know just what he's like down there...the big pink knob and the lovely sack with its compartments and he sees me looking! I can't believe it: I am looking at Colin Gray's testicles! He likes me, he likes being my pet and he's seeing me look at him down there. Looking at the cute little wrinkles on his boyish...what do they call it? Scrotum? Yes, I'm looking at Colin Gray's scrotum! Oh, yes, look, he's getting redder, looking away, nearly stumbling. Oh, I am enjoying this! 

Female attention was suddenly riveted on tall, lean Jimmy Fraser. He was the boy with the jet black Elvis hairdo ("Oh, how funny he looks with his little boy's headband and feather planted on his head," thought Miss Myra Smedley who taught the girls home economics.) He boasted broad eyebrows and thick lashes and a deep voice that set everything vibrating when he sung Old Man River at choir concerts. Everything vibrated- from his own bobbing Adam's apple to the genitalia of his female admirers.

And here he was virtually naked.

But! Oh, golly, gosh! Was he hairy! Hirsute! Long, loose hairs filled his boney chest and narrowed to his belly, spread out again and merged with the thick black burst in his groin from which dangled- below the token flap- a thickish, fleshy, wrinkled stem that gathered in folds around a big, purplish rounded head. Below, a hairy sack hung low on one side, his testicles on top of one another, oblong shaped. An untidy testicle bag, to be sure.

"He is in my music class," thought his teacher, bespectacled 28 year old Miss Moira Metcalf. "I would never have dreamt...his body hair! A furry beast beneath his clothes!" She imagined what he would be like to snuggle up against in bed, naked of course; and felt a wedge of thick moisture squeeze through her vagina to grease her panties. She studied his mauve penis head, so sculpted...and appearing, at this very moment, to lift! And that lop-sided ballsac, one big ball on top of the other.

And did he look embarrassed! She resolved to catch his eye through all the lessons in future, to let him know that she- his teacher- had seen his secrets! Jeepers, that would make the boy squirm! And, then, Jimmy darted his eyes in her direction...and caught Miss Metcalfe looking right at his penis...at, he guessed, his purple penis head! And his ugly testicles! She shifted her eyes upwards...and looked right into his. 

The boy visibly shuddered.

There was Mohammed Sulimen, the new exchange student from British West Africa. He was coal black; tall and slender, clearly discomfited as his flap fell about and showed off a slender, rising, black-brown penis with an extravagantly colored crown: it was lipstick red- yes, his sculpted glans perfectly red, some of the penis neck as well. As if he had stopped off somewhere and dipped it in paint. Along the mahogany stem a zig zag vein was beginning to stand out. Opps! In one embarrassing jerk the stem had stretched and pointed. It insolently thrust the flap to the right and climbed some more. Ladies were beginning to glimpse an elegant, longish African penis, pride of any Asante youth, a phallus that stood at the centre of rituals and fertility cults. The boy, son of a cousin of a Gold Coast king, was distressed.

Jerk! Twitch! The brown-black red-necked snake stiffened and stretched some more!

Miss Ada Braithwaite, gray-blonde 50-ish teacher, followed its progress, staring hard. She drifted into boys' swim class a few times a week, and had grown to love the moment when a penis hardened like that, to the boy's distress. How hilarious that they cannot stop it! What a crude animal symbol, of a boy's urge to settle down to breed, their desire to take a female partner: stretch, inflate, up and away. With one final jerk, a boy's rod points to the ceiling- message to every female in sight! Hi, look at me! I want to breed! Although in some cases- and she loved the variation on a theme- it stayed parallel to the floor. Stiff, but straight out. Either way, with a poor lad blushing to his core.

The Asante prince caught Miss Ada Braithwaite's eye. He felt faint, and longed for the day when the received in the mailbox his Pan Am ticket home, where the only white ladies were aged missionary wives.

Shuffling near him was Jason Cho, on exchange from South Korea. Back home he had visited bath houses with his grandfather where the two of them had scrubbed and boiled away, totally stripped off. To be truthful, Jason had relished the all-male company, had learnt to enjoy the appreciative looks of the older men, admiring his golden skin and concave tummy. And the youngster had responded to being stared at in the time-honoured way of teenage boys, producing a punchy five inch boner. As he did now, in the auditorium of Grover Cleveland High- up and out at 45 degrees, the little flap edged to the side.

But it was one thing to have an erection bolted to his groin in the local Jjimjibang where Jason was one boy among other males, many of them with hardons. But not in front of American females- looking keenly at his coffee-coloured penis, with the bold dark band on its stem! He shuddered as he walked right into the line of sight of all his teachers, these ladies.

More boys joined, shuffling into line, thickening pricks rendering their flaps near useless, their balls in some cases dangling low and loose, totally visible; and now, in every third groin, a penis rising to project parallel to the floor. To jerk higher, too. So it was with Rodney Ricketson, now drawing a lot of attention because of his muscular physique and scrolled orange pubic bush and his prick, all nine inches reared up and out, topped by his fat, mushroomy glans while, nonchalantly, his testicles hung low and loose. The flap? Last protector of his modesty? Flung, by the force of his stiffening prick, to the side. Useless.

All his teachers could see everything Rodney had. He was effectively nude before them, and- his worse nightmare- his prick was fully erect.

And, something even worse...

He was emitting a distinct flow of fluid, drooling from his slit, sliding over his penis head- spacious as it was- and beginning to trail in a long spindly runnel all the way to the floor. A quick glance showed that little Stevie Lynton, hairy bodied and small-pricked, had the same problem: a spider's web of sticky fluid dangling from his petite penis. Stevie was frozen, aghast. But it was Rodney getting the attention.

The poor boy.

Then within a few seconds of Miss Cuff bringing them to order and beginning to conduct the Song of Hiawatha all the boys were sporting hardons or half hardons. The ladies, who had moved in close, were looking at a line of penis heads with their telltale slits, facing them, as if each were a flagpole with an urgent message.

Or as if the boys' cocks were saluting the female presence.

It was...so...so..so...funny.

"This is just incredible," whispered Moira Metcalfe to Myra Smedley.

Her eyes running the length of the boys' midriffs- this parade of grinning penis heads thrusting at them- Myra responded with a faraway tone in her voice,"Yes, just...incredible."

A little engine hummed away inside her. A suffusing excitement with the view of nude physiques- oh yes, the woolly blond hair on Carl Harlson's chest, the incised Adonis belt leading to Colin Gray's groin, the coffee-colored bottom of Jason Cho. She vibrated with a purring pleasure at the fact all these boys were in the throes of humiliation at being nude in front of womenfolk. Look at those sweet blushes, the shuffling of feet, the hovering hands. Goodness, most of them looked close to tears.

She had never seen a naked male before. Males had ignored her, gone for other girls. Looked over her shoulder for pretty ones. And now she had all these 18 year olds, nude and aroused in front of her. Aroused! Trembling with shame. Males the way she liked them: suddenly, due to the genius of Miss Cuff, in her power.

And Miss Auburon found herself thinking she, too, liked it all the more because the boys were so acutely embarrassed. Look at that cute Kerry Fulbright, whose Mom she counted her best friend, whose Christening she had attended 18 years ago, who had sat on her knee as a youngster. His erect member- how sweet- leans to the right, squashing that pathetic little flap they've decked him out in. Bigger, too, than those on poor Stevie Lynton and Carl Harlson. So...jaunty, this angled penis. Yet he's appalled that his female teachers are seeing it, especially me, a family friend. His face is a bright, bright red; his blue eyes under their thick lashes are watering, set to brim tears and they don't know where to look; his compact physique seems to be trembling. He is so, so shamed. 

Which makes me love it all the more, she thought. He probably thinks I'm going to tell his mother. Tell her, within earshot of his sisters. And say that he got stiff- what do they call it? Got an erection. Yes. And probably thinks I'll tell her that his penis leans in one direction. If I did, of course, she would want to inspect it. Probably take him to Dr Speight. Goodness, that's a medical examination I'd like to sit in on. "Doctor thanks for seeing us. I think Kerry may have a problem...with his penis. You see, when it gets erect...it leans to the right...I wonder if there is any treatment...any exercises..."

She can see the slant in my prick, Kerry thought. She knows what I look like. She will tell my Mom. Tell her she saw me stiff. And that my prick slants.

Time for the boys to do their war dance. Then the hunt sequence. Then the wounded warrior scene in which a group will carry Kerry Fulbright aloft on their shoulders. And then...

But just as they were taking their positions for another song sequence Jimmy Fraser's waistband snapped and the loin cloth floated softly to his feet. Holy cow! The big boy was NUDE! 

His erection now stood high, thrusting up at more than the customary 45 degrees, nearly perpendicular, almost parallel to his abdomen. Showing off its underside. The pole featured a prominent network of full, pumping veins branching from the huge ventral artery; the glans inflamed and purple, its ridge curved; his testicles brazenly outlined in the loose scrotal sack.

All eyes focused.

"Mrs Carruthers and Yuela, can you fix this boy up?"

Miss Cuff sounded stern. Her eyes were wild, at something happening to her plans. All the ladies stared at Jimmy's nudity.

Jimmy grabbed his costume from his feet and held the remnants in front of his groin, blushing savagely. But the two mistresses of the sewing business were instantly by his side, with their bag of needles and material. And Mrs Carruthers was asking someone to bring a chair across. Yuela was reaching for Jimmy's flap. He handed it across. His erection was on full view. And Mrs Carruthers was asking him to get up on the chair.

"Up you get, so we can fit you up with a new costume. We have a few handy."

The boy climbed up.

No, thought Myra, I have never seen one before and here before me all these boys are displaying them...and this one, on poor Jimmy...up there on the stool...in perfect, full view. It's just so...thick. That helmet on the end especially...and that bag that hangs below it...just dangles there...what happens when he runs?

And here were Mrs Carruthers and her Negro maid fussing with him now, asking him to step into a new costume and hauling it up his hairy legs. Oh, he looks soooooo ashamed, thought Myra. Imagine! If I were 18 and forced to stand there undressed in front of a big party of males, older than me, staring at MY privates...goodness, I'd want to just die...I can imagine how he feels now...worse for a young male really...in front of all of us...




Rodney's Nude Humiliation Ch. 09



"Miss Metcalfe, why don't you go over and help the ladies fit Jimmy up?"

Moira blushed to the core. Miss Cuff had clearly been watching my reactions, she thought. She misses nothing. She has been watching me stare! Miss Cuff knew that I have never been with a young man, or ever went on dates and all that stuff. She can see the look in my eye.

Flushing Moira went forward and Yuela quickly had her pinch the waistband and press it into Jimmy's waist- his erection reared in her face and she could smell a fern-like odour from his tangly pubic forest- while Mrs Carruthers gently tugged it one way and the other, and Yuela manipulated the embroided flap.

But the erection got in the way of any effective fitting.

Yuela accepted defeat: the flap would never hang in front of Jimmy's powerful erection. She compromised and settled it along the up-reared dorsal side of the penis.

As if with one mind the women crowded forward.

"Son, turn around. So we can see you from the rear," instructed Miss Cuff.

As if a prisoner on the blocks, Jimmy obeyed.

His bottom stunned the ladies. There was an intake of breath. While the boy's torso had been lean; in fact, under the mane of hair almost gaunt, his arse cheeks were two perfect, muscle packed globes: two soccer balls jammed into place on thick thighs. They were white and only dusted on the crease with fine black hair.

"Yes," Miss Cuff said to Mrs Carruthers. "The right decision to remove the flap at the rear."

Mrs Carruthers was almost reverential.

"Yes, so much better."

They were all staring at the bottom.

Jimmy felt their eyes all over it. Their eyes all over his profile as well, those that could see it.

Thought Hermione Hushabye, 47 year old Biology teacher, "Goodness, that's what we women folk look for. Powerful, muscular buttocks...to drive the whole process."

Miss Cuff asked Jimmy to turn again.

He was a tall boy and the packed ladies were able to look up at the underside of his sack. Deep incised furrows ran out from the ridge line that divided it in two; long, loose hair flew out in all directions. Up on the stem the thick rolls of skin had peeled themselves back to expose the purple head, with the sculpted, heart-shaped underside merging into a deep slit and with a raised line around the corona, pagoda-like in its effect. The stem was decorated with pumping veins, one zig-zagged down the side bigger than the rest.

Ladies marvelled as Mrs Carruthers and Yuela, helped by a quaking Myra, pressed the elastic band into his waist- so close to the jutting meat, to the purple head and all those veins, she thought- and calculated that the fitting was adequate to the task. The flap was allowed to fold onto the dorsal or upper side of the erection. Mrs Carruthers told him he could step down.

The other boys were frozen as they witnessed his indignity.

They were marshalled again for the rehearsal.

But...

Miss Cuff's fanatic's eyes had settled on Rodney Ricketson's groin. She found something wrong.

"Rodney, I think you've soiled your flap. Up on the chair, please. Let's have a look."

The boy froze. His big-headed nine incher thrust from its forest of ginger hair, the flap squashed to its left. His capacious ball bag, lightly dusted with thin red curls, hung loose, one big marble lower than its twin. And the drooling of his prick was apparent for all. 

"Please, Miss..."

He didn't want to be up on no stool again. This time with not just Mrs Carruthers and her damn nosey maid but all these lady teachers. Sure they'd seen his privates at earlier rehearsals part covered by the bigger flap but now...the new costume left him bare...and he had a real damn boner...and up on the chair in front of them all!

"...my flap is..."

He was reduced to begging. How humiliating!

"...my flap is...clean, Miss. Please...don't make me...stand up there...in fronta..."

Miss Cuff just pronounced that if he didn't get up on the chair right now he would get a note to his mother saying he was not co-operating in matters to do with his costume and she might consider making him get around the house in nothing but this covering for a few evenings. Miss Cuff said she has sure Rodney's sister and girl cousin would enjoy that. And she reminded him that he had recently been disgraced over something to do with dirty literature.

"Or better still, your mother might have you in nothing at all- in your birthday suit, bare as a board. That's how many boys in this town are now being punished. Nude all evening. Clothes off as soon as you walk in the door from school. Every stitch. Or you might like to work your disobedience off in my friend Mrs Reilly's garden."

There were giggles. Many teachers had heard about Mrs Reilly and her garden and afternoon teas, and heard about the new punishments being meted out to Brewer's boys by confident Moms. Their sisters were blabbing about it every day, gasping and giggling to their friends and to friendly female teachers. Teachers who, it must be said, found it thrilling to hear about nudity enforced on those big, handsome fellas who smouldered away, good looking and mysterious, in their classrooms. Even references to their brothers being "stiff" or "hard" in front of the rest of the family during these punishment evenings. In living rooms and kitchens, these 18 year old students, nude and erect.

Rodney moved sluggishly forward and took a big slow step and climbed up on the chair, trying to turn and twist out of their sight and pressing his hands over his equipment.

Miss Cuff stepped forward. Her eyes were aflame.

She reached out and brusquely pulled Rodney's hands away.

His nine incher sprang forward.

God! thought Miss Hushabye, I have never seen anything like that...ending, that knob! That...glans! It is huge, freakish! Its a mushroom, a prize winner, and apparently that's the part of the male organ full of nerve endings just like my clitoris. And it's dripping with a flow of...

It was this that fixated Miss Cuff too, the decisive flow of fluid from his urethral opening. Telltale and incriminating.

The drama teacher- and many of the ladies- stared with gimlet eyes at the trail of clear fluid from the spongy glans, all the way to the floor.

"Yes, you have soiled your flap. With that emission."

She called over the Mrs Hushabye, the biology teacher and, under their breaths, standing heads bowed before the frightened boy, they consulted. Rodney heard a few words drift up. 

"...definitely...pre-ejaculate...'Cowper's fluid'...yes, colourless...viscous...no, the amount can vary apparently... Oh, I would say, in this case...definitely the result of sexual stimulation...yes, excited...finds the whole situation...stimulating...ummmm...exhibitionist tendencies...he and the others...actually find it...exciting...naked...in front of females..."

They stopped their consultation and looked up at the quaking boy standing on the stool, his erection thrusting beyond the tiny soiled garment squashed to the side.

"Rodney Ricketson, all the women are here to watch an artistic rehearsal. You apparently find their presence sexually arousing. I will deal with that in a short time but, right now, please remove that loin cloth so it can't be compromised any further. You will complete the rehearsal in your birthday suit."

The terrible term: birthday suit. Blood curdling for any boy. Mothers were always threatening to strip you to your birthday suit.

This boy looked close to fainting or crying. He gingerly lowered the tiny costume from his hips and stepped out of it. His erection bounced.

Though there was nothing that they hadn't glimpsed, the mere fact of his total nakedness caused a frisson of excitement, of rapture even, among the teachers.

"I will now inspect the other boys. Ladies, you may help."

It was a delicious moment and none drew back.

Very quickly the first discovery...

"Miss...here...I think..."

It was Yuela, peering bent over at Stevie's suspiciously shiny, diminutive erection. Ladies crowded the boy and Miss Cuff elbowed her way through. Stevie looked aghast. But the indictment could be quickly concluded: he was drooling, although a thinner stream than Rodney's yet one as unyielding, trailing to the floor boards. And speaking, like Rodney's telltale flow, of unseemly excitement at being looked at nude.

Miss Cuff instructed that he hand over his loin cloth, so valuable and so vulnerable to this kind of pollution.

"The fluid is...what did you call it, dear?"

"Viscous," said Miss Hushabye. "Sticky. Hard to wash off."

Stevie stood without even the token cover, his little penis pointing up and emitting its transparent flow, hands by his sides, all the ladies taking the occasion to view him at close quarters. Some had soft, distant smiles at the daintiness of his member, thinking of others they had seen, handled, accommodated. Or at the incongruous hairiness of his pint sized body.

The inspection continuted.

A glistening was detected on the end of Kerry's aslant seven incher; it was Miss Sally Soames who saw it first and tentatively raised a hand, mouth agape, while pointing at the boy's penis with the other. But it was Miss Auburon, long-time friend of the Fulbright family, who moved in like a tiger shark scenting blood. Kerry was close to fainting with horror as she leant close, studied the phenomenon and looked the boy in the eye. Yes, there was a transparent bubble of fluid flaring from his urethral opening, that little smile on the end of his elegant, streamlined dick. His slanting dick. 

Miss Auburon loved getting a close-up. Apart from a fling with one of her lecturers at Bethel University and a year long affair with a farm boy fellow student, she had not seen men naked. Both those males had been homely, awkward and shy; a lumpy, misshapen appendage on the older man, a pencil-thin and ridiculously long member on the freckle-faced student. Kerry's penis was superior aesthetically, streamlined and elegant. Worth lingering over...especially as he hated it so much.

Her expression was mischievous as she stared and delivered her verdict.

"Kerry Fulbright! Well, I never!"

Kerry hung his head.

She reached out and lifted his chin so that he had to see her flashing green eyes.

"Naughty thoughts, hey? Better slip out of that sweet little costume before it gets soiled."

He jolted.

But the handsome boy had no alternative but to push them down his hips and hand them across to the teacher and family friend.

Standing before her, afraid to cover up, nude and erect.

"Miss Auburon, don't...don't...tell Mom."

She just smiled a faraway Gioconda smile.

Carl Harlson had Mrs Shotover facing him, a portly lady, big breasted, smelling of no-nonsense powder and cigarettes. She taught humanities. She had been raised on a farm where male cousins and brothers had got around buck naked, where one of the farm hands would show off his prick to 18 year old girls in the upper level of their big, dark barn. Show it off, and produce what he called his "milk." Then she had raised four boys, helped them bath even when they were 18, spanked them over her knee too, when they deserved it, after their baths, as soon as she had dried them. 

"Carl Harlson, I want you to let me inspect your little thing."

The boy with the wide shoulders and blond chest hair dropped his hands. He shook with shame. His erection had half subsided into a curve, the little pink head devoured by the pouting overhang of papery foreskin. The loin cloth hung to its left. She reached down and delicately lifted his penis. It lay in her palm, trickling a telltale, transparent fluid. She pronounced judgement.

"Tut tut. You've been having bad thoughts, Carl. This fluid emerging from your little hole. Look..."

And blushing he dropped his gaze and took in the embarrassment, lying in the palm of her hand: his sliver of flesh, with a snail's trail of fluid illuminating its little head.

"Now slip out of those, please. You are going to be doing this rehearsal in the nuddy."

Ada Braithwaite flicked back her gray blond bangs and closed in on the Asante warrior, Mohammed Sulimen. His preposterously long, thin, brown-stemmed member was curved banana-shaped into the air. And its gorgeously red neck and head were gleaming with moisture.

In a low insinuating voice she whispered, "I know many Negro American men. And I know they like showing off their charms. Seems you, young Mohammed, are no different. You have been getting excited too."

The boy darkened, let his eyes drop. In a few seconds Ada was handing over his flap to Miss Cuff.

Myra Smedly had saw the light from one of the hall's big windows glistening on the end of the Korean student's perfectly formed, caramel-colored stalk, obdurately erect just as if Jason were back in the neighbourhood steam bath in Seoul with his grandpa and his old buddies. The boy could do nothing but shuffle nervously when the teacher approached. She took it with her hand, gave its spongy bellend a gentle squeeze like a military nurse inspecting venereal disease. Yes, he too, was excited, probably by the attractive females; at least that's what Myra chose to believe. She ordered him out of his flap. She thought she had seen nothing more submissive than this Asian 18 year old, handing it over, head hanging, eyes moist.

In the end there were only three boys who were "dry" and therefore able to keep their flaps. Danny Maitland had had his stiff, wide penis carefully inspected by Mrs Carruthers and Yuela, and Miss Dolomite, his 26 year old English teacher. They had all been keen to get close to it- perhaps because of the boy's swimmer's physique, or the heft of his fish white member. While these women had leant in close, it had been Miss Cuff who walked right up and took his penis head- mauve and a little undersized compared with the wide stem- and squeezed it. She had called over Hermione Hushabye, the biology teacher, and looked at her quizzically, the evidence in her hand. "No...not moist. No apparent fluid," Hermione had said. "The amount does vary..." And she looked Danny in the eye and said accusingly, "Some of them get excited without an emission." The boy had shrunk.

Alan the tall basketball player, with his stubbornly erect three and a half inches, and Sammy Speight, with the big headed six incher, also came up clean after inspection, drawn out inspection it must be said, with strategic squeezing involved.

They were allowed to keep their flaps. 

All the others were now naked. And the rehearsal continued, bouncing penis shafts and shiny, wet glans leading the way as they marched, tip toed, assumed hunting poses, stood in a line and recited or sung, blazing red with shame as they faced the preoccupied smiles and examining eyes of 15 ladies.

Until...

Until there was a bustle at the main entrance to the hall.

Boys swung around.

And saw half a dozen girls enter, attired in neat cowgirl costumes. They wore plaid shirts showing off their strong young breasts. They had scarves at their throats, fringed chamois skirts, cowgirl boots, Western hats tilted back. There was the cunning Gloria, from Rodney's class, who had shown him the sketches of the costumes for the musical- and made his blood freeze. There was Karen Strawbridge, who had burst into the boys' swim class, and had roamed staring from behind her cat's eye glasses, her looks directed at their cocks and balls.

Eyes wide.

Advancing to the middle of the auditorium.

The nude (and virtually nude) fellas shivered with horror. Their hands pressed their erections flat. Rodney, Stevie and Kerry felt that old wet, warm feeling of shame fill their insides. That familiar panic, and sense of exquisite humiliation as well. Awful, and thrilling, thrilling in a very dirty sense. Like when Mark came home and saw his mother hosting a coffee afternoon with the photograph album open- the one with pics of him at the swim meet, naked and mostly erect- and a group of her friends peering at it. Smoking their cigarettes and drinking their coffee, five middle age women, all seeing photos of him buck naked at the swimming pool with his dick sticking out. Smiling up at him as he stood there, home from school, and struggling not to stare at his trouser front.

Or Stevie shucking out of his dungarees when his sisters and, more recently, his Mom demanded he strip to allow nude spanking and supervised masturbation. Or, more recently still, when that celestial Mrs Lanbourne had him at her home in the afternoons. The feelings that warred inside Stevie's tummy, when she him sat him next to her, on her piano stool! Him naked as a jay, of course, and stiff as a pencil and leaking like a faulty washer, thrillingly agitated about the impending return of her daughters, shaking with this unnamed emotion and barely able to read the score. Sitting there, his hairy legs hardly reaching the floor, next to the good lady, at her piano, buck naked.

Or when Kerry was forced to help with housework and serve dinner to his Mom and three sisters and Aunt Miriam with nothing but his Mom's kitchen apron shielding his jaunty, slanting, seven inch erection- and sometimes, like when he brought home a bad report, not even that. Not any clothing. Straining to make sure his slanting prick did not rub against their shoulders as he served bowls of Campbell's Cream of Mushroom.

Or when Rodney was summoned to model his costume for his mother's bridge club which was happening more and more, while its membership was swelling, even now incorporating a table of schoolgirl bridge players- daughters of its lady members- whose eyes would widen saucily when the near-naked boy emerged shyly into the room.

The four fellas stood with all their buddies, blushing red as fire hydrants, awkwardly pressing their hands in the classic Venus pose. The newly arrived girls looked them over, smirking. 

"I wonder what they hate most," asked Moira Metcalfe of Myra Smedley. "Being seen by us older women? Or by girls their own age?"

"Much of a sameness, I would think. They certainly don't look very happy."

Ada Braithwaite had an opinion. She shared it in the lowest of whispers. "I don't think there's much chance of those erections going down, what with these cowgirls in their costumes."

The ladies chuckled, looking at the half-hidden erections on boys in their Venus-poses.

"Oh, those girls are sweet," said Miss Carabine. "They'll keep the fellas stiff alright. Except there's also dear Milly Slink who's crept in. Her's would be a deadening presence, I would think."

And it was true. Behind the girls in their costumes was the poor, plain girl with mousy hair and Coke bottle glasses.

Piped up Miss Cuff, "I've asked these young ladies to join us to watch the final boys-only rehearsal. And to hear my plans for the last act of the show. Oh, and Milly Slink is with us because I've recruited her to be medical officer or nurse for the performance..."

Boys looked even more afraid.

"...boys being prone as they are to falls and bruises."

So Miss Cuff called for another performance of the touching scene where eight boys would carry their wounded comrade around and across the stage. Of course, with both arms engaged in holding Kerry up on their shoulders there was no chance to shield their privates and their erections pointed the way, bouncing in front. Girls gasped as all was revealed. Kerry who was required to lie on his back was erect too, on full display, yielded heaven-wards by his stumbling, frowning warrior mates, all but one of them without his loin cloth.

There was the sense that Miss Cuff required a very full rehearsal. Twice, three times..then a fourth. And by the conclusion there was not a girl who hadn't seen each of the boys on full, unencumbered display. Not a boy who had not been caught by their examining eyes, who had not wilted under the smirking superior expression of at least one of the cowgirls. Around and around the centre of the auditorium, getting everything right, shuffling and stumbling, wobbling under the weight of Kerry, until she called a halt.




Rodney's Nude Humiliation Ch. 09



While the girls' eyes bulged. And not just at the erections and the funny sacks hanging below them; they thrilled to the view of clefts and creases...the boys' neat bottoms, being shown off for them.

That evening Stevie and Rodney walked through Brewer's streets as darkness fell and the voices and songs of American Bandstand gave way to those of the Mickey Mouse Club, echoing from the blue television light of living rooms. Those Mouseketeers, wondered Rodney? When they reached 18 would Annette Funicello blackmail Bobby or Tommy into slipping out of their clothes, nude except for the Mickey ears? Would she and Darlene and Doreen and Karen slip into the local Hollywood YMCA baths to catch the boy Mouseketeers swimming nude? Posing on the blocks, stitchless except for those Mickey ears? Would the girls take photos to put in an embarrassing album? Would Disney studios force boys like Bobby and Dennis and Tommy to perform, as full grown 18 year olds, with tiny little Indian-style flaps hanging from waistbands and nothing covering their butt holes? 

And if they did, would he and Stevie be able to get studio passes?

Stevie talked about his visits to Mrs Lanbourne, the large-framed lady with the lambent brown eyes and long nose and lovely perfumes, several afternoons a week. He went with the permission of his mother, who knew he was being punished, as well as receiving piano lessons. He described Mrs Lanbourne's gracious house with rich carpets and flowers and silver-framed photos of her distinguished ancestors. The rooms smelt of fresh flowers and furniture polish and baking chocolate cookies. It was quiet, just a distant passing car rumbling in the distance.

When he arrived she would take him to her living room and suggest he take all his clothes off. She would help him fold them, item by item, as he handed them across. When it came to his boxer shorts (or on sports days his jockstrap) he was shaking with some nameless emotion. He hesitated shyly, then peeled them off and handed them across. He would stand naked and erect while she suggested their activities for the afternoon- cleaning the attic, folding linen, polishing silver. Sometimes they would settle down to play Monopoly. Twice a week there would be a piano lesson, with him nude on the stool. Each visit would feature a lasciviously romantic spanking (although Stevie did not use that rich language.) He liked hanging helpless over her knee while her quick, stinging slaps rained on his poised buttocks and he pressed his hardon into the towel on her knee, and he loved the tender strokes and kisses that followed.

He was usually recovering on the lounge when the Lanbourne daughters, Lucy the librarian and Abigail the maternity nurse, came home to tickle and tease him, their Mom retreating to the kitchen to fix milk and cookies. The girls would chase him from room to room, wrestle him on the rich rugs and, while one held him down the other would tickle him all over and grab his genitals and stretch his ballsac and flip and squeeze his penis. He would quickly ejaculate with them exclaiming, "Ohhh!" and "Gosh!" and "What a mess!" and "Look at the naughty boy!" Abigail whispered that one day she would suck "his little cock like a lollipop." Then their mother would call them to the kitchen for their treat.

As he talked about this to Rodney- over the sound of Mickey Mouse Club chatter and songs emanating from Polk Street homes- both the boys registered punchy erections, tenting their trouser fronts, petitely in Stevie's case, boldy in Rodney's.

For a moment there was silence.

Then Rodney spoke.

"Hey..?"

"Yep..?"

"The next time..?"

"Yep."

"...you go to Mrs Lanbourne's..? "

"Yep?"

"Can I come?"

The two boys laughed and the question hung in the air.

As they swung into Harrison Street the Mickey Mouse Club finale gave way to soap and auto advertisements and the ABC news.

Brewer was winding down.



Rodney's Nude Humiliation Ch. 10



Behind her cat's eyes glasses her green eyes were blazing. A note of half suppressed hysteria flavoured her voice as she issued orders. She sounded ardent, metallic, possessed. She was in fact a mad genius, driven by her own quasi-religious vision. Miss Cuff was in charge- very, very much in charge- and her project, this school production in which boys wore only tiny flaps over their loins, none over their rears (they were effectively naked) and girls were dressed as cowgirls, was being rehearsed. Yet it still had no date for its long-awaited premiere. 

Long awaited that is, by Brewer's women and girls. They had all heard about it. Some had seen costumes, even had sons or brothers model them. A few had crept into rehearsals, stared with astonishment and left aglow. Some salivated, as rumors spread about how diminished the latest version of the loin cloth had become: the front flap was tiny, tokenistic, showed off everything and there was now no flap at all in the rear. The boys' bottoms were to be displayed without any covering.

It was not just that, suddenly, 18 year old boys were being put on display. It was that they were being displayed in conditions of the utmost humiliation. And that shaming- of the proud young males- sent extra shivers up female spines. 

Now for the first time Miss Cuff was having girls rehearse with the boys. This was, for the females, a juicy development and a dozen female teachers, some young (barely older than the boys they were seeing nude) and mature (old enough to be mothers or grandmothers to the unclad adolescents) had joined her, seated in the front rows, facing the stage with its scarlet and gold trimmed curtains and the faded backdrop, painted in the 1930s, with incongruous painted pyramid, sphinx and palm tree under a crescent moon.

It was the climactic scene of Cowgirls and Indian Braves.

On the stage 15 boys were standing awkwardly. They were ridiculous in their headbands with their single feathers. Ludicrous- these athletic 18 year olds, swimmers and basketball players and champions of football and track and field- stripped like this, clutching their bows and arrows, the toys of junior school. Shuffling, nervous and ashamed, as their female teachers saw their bodies, near naked and on display. 

But Miss Cuff had instructed them to come wearing jock straps under their Indian loin cloths. Jockstraps? The reason was simple. She knew the girl performers would be so distracted by the sight of testicles and pricks they would never get their words out. Never concentrate. Especially as one boy after the other got erect, as they always did (it must be said, to Miss Cuff's delight, to her colleagues' delight.) Especially as their erections fought their way out from behind the dainty little cloth coverings. Girls would stare- Miss Cuff knew for sure- eyes bulging, as a fat glans struggled into view, as a dangling scrotum flopped free, as a classic 45 degree erection sallied forth, shunting a flap sideways. The girls would stare and daydream, and stumble over their lines. She knew this would happen.

So the boys were sporting jockstraps under their flimsy flaps. God, she thought, it looks funny. Actually another humiliation for the poor males.

Jimmy Fraser, for example, wore his divorced Dad's slightly antique jockstrap, kept folded for years in a chest of drawers, yellowed and smelling of mothballs. It was Keystone brand, a 1946 model, manufactured in Pennsylvania for US paratroopers. The waistband was very wide and covered his hairy navel; it looked medical and prosthetic. Hanging from it was the cupped, V-shaped woven pouch; it was fraying; through its loose edges one could glimpse Jimmy's wrinkled, bundled penis and scrotum- and from her seat in the front row his music teacher, 28 year old Miss Moira Metcalfe, certainly did, and hoped for more- say, a view of his mauve penis head or lop-sided scrotum. 

Rodney Ricketson wore a J and J Swimmer jockstrap with blue tracer line round the three inch waistband. He had pulled it out of the drawer as he dashed from the house and never inspected it. Of his two jockstraps it was the oldest, worn out. It should have been thrown out a year ago. The cup was threadbare with gaps in the meshing. One straining piece of stitching attached to another, literally, by a single thread. His mushroomy penis head, powered by the thick nine inch shaft, could poke through the tattered mesh at any time. His cock was swelling, expanding, inflating, thrusting at the old threads. It's my old problem, he thought, strip me off in front of females and I get stiff in no time flat. 

But...will...these...threads...hold?

They all worried. How long before we have to swing round? Show off our bare bottoms, enclosed in the straps? And, thought many of the males, how long will we be guaranteed even this covering, the jockstraps? How long before Miss Cuff finds a reason for us to strip? Will it happen when the girls appear? With our classroom teachers watching from down there?

So they stood, arms hanging, hands playing with the elastic bands from which the flaps dangled around their waists. Avoiding eye contact with the goggling female teachers.

The script mandated stretching and yawning- they were very awkward and embarrassed doing this, knowing they were revealing their barely-covered midriffs- till the chief, played by Jimmy Fraser exclaims, "A long day of tracking and hunting, fellow braves of the Black Hawks. Here is our sacred site. We lie here...and rest till the morning."

The boys carefully lowered themselves (so as to minimise glimpses of their bared buttocks sliced by jockstrap bands.) But teachers caught views nonetheless- of Jimmy Fraser's soccer-ball ass cheeks, of Stevie Lynton's skinny little bottom dusted with his trade-mark black hair, of Muhammed Sulimen's black muscled glutes set-off by the white bands of his jocks, even of the inside of Kerry Fulbright's intergluteal cleft as his buttocks flared and he lowered himself to the stage.

And so it went, with the 15 braves settling to the stage floorboards around the makeshift scenery- three painted cardboard boulders and cactus shrubs- self conscious, yawning and stretching some more, pretending to sink into slumber. Awkward, because of the stares of the female audience. And Holy Cow! Jeepers- the girls had appeared in the wings, gasping and giggling as they elbowed one another to see the boys.

Miss Cuff noted with pleasure the bulge stretching in the ribbed knit pouch of Kerry Fulbright's jockstrap, with his Indian flap drooping to the left over his upper thigh. She remembered his elegant, slanting, seven inch erection, streamlined and athletic. Seen in profile, Mark Campbell was suffering embarrassment as the giant bulge in his jockstrap cup lifted his flap. "Those thighs!" thought Miss Hushabye, day-dreaming of having this boy wrap those legs around her. "Those thick thighs!"

Rodney showed off his large bulge- an exploding bulge- in his knitted cup because his flap fell away over his right thigh as he settled on the floor and he didn't want to risk a rebuke by shyly flicking it back into place. As a result Miss Cuff and her colleagues, fixated on the huge, expanding rounded space, were reminded of his outsize penis head, what the biology teacher had called his "mushroom-like glans," setting them all atwitter with such suggestive words. Mushroom indeed! 

Reminded, too, of Rodney's thick shaft and loose hanging scrotum with what looked like small avocados inside its two compartments. All bundled up in that knitted cup. That swelling knitted cup, as the cylindrical organ hefted itself to life. Presumably he was secreting fluid, "Cowper's fluid"'or "pre-ejaculate" as it was apparently termed, secreting it because of his exhibitionist tendencies. Either way that swelling cup on his jockstrap had their attention.

Miss Cuff noticed the nervous breathing of the lying and reclining boys, their drum-tight abdomens twitching with apprehension. Goodness, there was Kerry Fulbright lying on his back and his flap moving up and down, his penis now vigorously at work in the cupped jockstrap underneath. Miss Auburon, family friend of the Fulbright's who remembered Kerry as a baby on her knee, directed a gimlet stare right at it. When Kerry darted a look at the audience he caught her eye. He winced.

Other boys lying on the stage showed off their bulges. As their genitals fleshed out and moved around like restless snakes in the cups of their jockstraps the flaps on top of the jockstraps moved too, as if each of the slumbering Indian warriors was enjoying romantic dreams of young squaws. Or even of Western women. Oh, they must be embarrassed, knowing we're watching, thought several of the women. Oh look- the flap lying over Colin Gray's groin was lifting, as the cup of his jockstrap filled out! Now what's that naughty fella thinking? Mark Campbell too, only with him the flap was jerking around as his big penis stretched in its jockstrap cup. 

Wait till those girls join you.

Those girls who now, on cue, padded, tiptoed, onto the stage from left and right. Fifteen cowgirls. They wore tight fitting plaid blouses and skirts pinched at the waists. They wore knee-high leather boots, decorated with Western motifs. Their hats were curvaceous. Charming and cheeky. They were heavily made up, cheeks like apples and lips that shone.

Miss Cuff had rehearsed the girls carefully.

They were to take the sleeping Indian braves by surprise and twirl their lassoes and close in on their victims- 15 near-naked, unsuspecting Indian braves-and tie their hands and...

She had thought carefully about the next step.

And...

...force them to strip? At gunpoint?

Make them wriggle out of their loin cloths? And, today at this rehearsal, peel down their jockstraps?

To present themselves completely bare on stage?

Today, in front of the girls and female teachers? And, on the night of the performance itself, in front of their Moms, sisters, cousins and girls next door and from the next street, and their aunts and Grandmas? 

Miss Cuff shivered with expectation. Nothing quickened her more than this prospect of nude humiliation of young men. All the blushing. So, delicious. All those involuntary erections. How arresting.

But...

"Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof."

She had been raised on the Bible, her grandfather on the Winkleworth side a tent preacher, famous in Nebraska, a disciple of William Jennings Bryan.

"Sufficient unto the day." The riveting prospect of stripping them buck naked could wait until their next rehearsal. Right now the girls needed to concentrate, not be distracted by boys shed of their clothing, thrilling though that prospect was.

And so she directed the girls on the next step.

"Stand still, girls. Hold the rope...with your Indian brave held tight at his wrists. Revolver in your other hand. And say, loud and clear...'On your feet, fella! White lady has you prisoner!' "

So from the girls issued the order. "On your feet, fella! White lady has you prisoner!"

Giggling, as they let the words ring out.

And awkwardly the boys clambered to their feet, many flashes of bare ass being presented. Miss Carabine, young blond English teacher, saw the tight white cheeks of swimmer Mark Campbell and thought "What a fit young man!" Miss Collins saw Colin Gray in semi-profile and was reminded of how coltish a young athlete's thighs can look. 

And rising from his sleeping posture, trying to act out surprise and alarm, Kerry Fulbright let his ass cheeks flare so that Miss Auburon glimpsed the entire inside of his intergluteal cleft...and spied a neat little hole ringed with spidery hair. It seemed to wink back at her. She shivered at the intimacy. The boy swung round, caught her eye, seemed to blush with the knowledge of what she may have seen. Golly, she was a family friend, had known him since he was a baby.

And so the boys and girls presented the tableaux, each of the 15 girls with a prisoner, his hands tied together at the wrists- oh, how they had rehearsed that tying, how they had practised those Girl Guide knots. 

Delcia Forrest, the Doris Day-lookalike, had tied Rodney's wrists. Now she looked at him, tethered at the end of her rope. Boy, oh boy! Rodney, nude young athlete, a boy from her class without his clothes. And down there- that bulge! It was straining hard, his penis tenting the pouch! It had pushed the flap to one side. And the material was worn, missing threads and, yes, through the gaps she could see the mottled flesh of that big pink knob pushing forward. Any moment it could burst the worn-out stitching!

Karen Strawbridge rang out with the next line of the drama: "And now braves, off to the stockade! Where our scientists want to inspect young Indians and discover all your secrets!"

The girls all giggled.

The teachers issued a fusillade of lubricious laughter.

"Oh, my gosh! This is going to be fun," said Miss Carabine. "Discover all their secrets!" Her seated companions giggled. "Not that many left," observed Mrs Hushabye.

The boys blanched. They had not seen this plot twist on the horizon.

"So, quick march," declared Delcia.

And she led her prisoner, Rodney Ricketon, down the steps of the stage and along the aisle between the rows of seats, his flap hanging to the left, the jutting in his pouch sticking out parallel to the floor, bouncing. As he followed Delcia his bulge went bounce, bounce, bounce. The heads of the teaching staff swung, to get close ups. He shambled, stunned, tugged along. And the others followed: each girl hauling a near-naked boy, dressed up as an Indian brave. They came down the steps in a line, off the stage and then marched up the aisle. Their teachers swivelled to catch the glimpses of bare bottom cheeks, enclosed in straps, as the procession passed.

And to see the swollen cups in front of their jockstraps. Yes, the swollen cup where the primal force of Rodney's meaty erection was poking the frayed, straining fibres; where several threads had already snapped; where the prow of that fat glans was pushing what remained of the cloth. He cursed his mother for leaving the old, worn-out bit of underwear in his draw, for not throwing it away after its last wash. He cursed himself for grabbing it from the drawer without looking and seeing that the front of the pouch was virtually transparent, worn through, threads breaking apart, ready to snap.

Rodney knew that any second his cock would tear through the last, straining threads.

There was little Stevie Lynton. In the the loose fitting cotton of his MacGregor brand jockstrap his erection, petite as it was, had room to rise at 45 degrees and tent his spacious pouch and push his flap off to the side. He toddled along, blushing like a fire hydrant. He was in his familiar state: shamed and excited, as Denny Folsom looked back over her shoulder leading him by his wrists and as he saw Mrs Sally Soames, his science teacher, swipe a glance at his bulge and smile, looking right at his protuberance bouncing ahead of him. Small and stubborn. "I know what you've got hidden in there- a nice little penis, always at full stand too," her amused look seemed to say, and stumbling along, the boy shuddered.

Goodness, there went the Asante prince Mohammed Sulimen with his brown-black rod caught sideways and the red penis neck and glans- yes, red, bright red- poking out of the gap in his loose cotton pouch. Yet his hands were roped and pulled tight by Millicent Moore and he couldn't adjust himself or shield the colourful sight: a red snake head smiling at all observers. Miss Ada Braithwaite, who relished intruding on boys' swim classes and seeing the Negro boys, let her gaze settle on the captured neck and glans of the West African penis, and marvelled at the skill of Heaven's art department: the tip of the black male's organ so often a different hue from his shaft. If the shaft were black, the tip brown; the shaft brown, the tip bright red. So often in fact that this ranked up there with length, thickness and circumcision status on her connoisseur's checklist. 

She caught Mohammed's frightened dark eyes and flashed a knowing smile, tilting her head to the sight in his groin. And the captured prince started with fear. And pulling him along, the cowgirl Millicent Moore, looked over her shoulder. She saw the trapped red head of the dark snake and smiled too.

Sitting at the end of her row Moira Metcalfe caught a close-up of Jimmy Fraser- tall, thin, streaks of black hair on his chest, Adam's apple bobbing with embarrassment- as he was led off the stage and down the aisle by Clara Greensleeves. One big round testicle had emerged from the pouch of his antique Keystone brand jockstrap to be displayed against the hairy surface of his left thigh, and because his hands were tied and stretched out in front by the rope he couldn't stuff the ball back under cover. 

And he felt Miss Metcalfe's stare. His own teacher. Getting a close up of his left testicle in its scrotal sack as he was hauled past. He felt as if in an alternative universe where female teachers get to own their 18 year old male students: to know their intimate spaces. He caught her eye. He sensed what she was thinking and he was right. Moira was thinking, "What a terrible thing to have a big, ugly object like that dangling between your legs. Poor boy!" Jimmy felt all funny inside. In a flash he had a little epiphany: Miss Metcalfe inspecting his balls, him naked again on a stool, she fingering his big, uneven low-hangers. He stiffened further as he passed his young, virginal teacher with the excited eyes.

And here came Colin Gray with his defined Adonis belt etched in his groin, drawing attention to the bulge in the pouch of his Biker brand jocks, being pulled along by Laura Christensen. And Carl Hansen being pulled along by Lucy Childe, his little erection hardly noticeable in the pouch of his JJ Swimmer jocks with rib knit pouch. But his blond chest curls were on display- to the delectation of teachers ("Oh, too, too much!" fantasised Miss Sally Soames. "They would tickle one deliciously!")

And Danny Bristol Junior with his long eye lashes flickering with shame as Christine Kelly tugged him forward, smiling broadly at having such a cute Indian her captive and one who, she knew, from her entry into the swimming class on that memorable occasion, had a curved penis. Decisively curved, she recalled, like a banana. Danny knew she had seen his prick on that terrible day, had seen it stiff. He shrivelled with shame at her knowing smile. 

And Charles Hodgson followed, with his crew cut and his blushes, and his broad-beamed, pink-headed penis shoving hard in the two-ply pouch of his V-front jocks as he was tugged forward by a beaming, triumphant Sue Sourgate. His pouch showed off the shape of his erection especially to Mrs Helen Wentworth, new recruit to the Maths Department, and Miss Cuff who got a very generous view as the couple came down the steps off the stage. Goodness, they thought, you can see the shape of his penis head. Sharply defined. 

And all the other boys, ridiculous in their hopelessly teensie Indian costume and the absurd jockstrap underneath. Absurd, and ashamed.

So they were led...

...past the three rows of teachers and down the aisle to the rear of the auditorium, around it and back down the second aisle, back to the front of the hall again, to the three rows of teachers all staring, staring hard to get close-ups and, one by one, up the steps back onto the stage.

As they climbed the boys knew their audience was seeing them in profile. Their bulges, straining in their jocks and pushing aside their flaps, were on stark display.

Being led like captives.

Virtually naked, under the control of fully-dressed females.

It was, thought the classics teacher Mrs Faustina Aurelius, like something from fifth century Athens, a cultic ceremony to propitiate the gods.




Rodney's Nude Humiliation Ch. 10



And the boys were terrified as if being led to a sacrifice.

None was more agitated than Rodney.

His erection strained at the fraying front of the pouch where the threads were about to snap with every new pulse of his bolt hard, straining penis. With every new bounce as he shambled forward.

As they did.

One, two, three. R-ip!

The last threads tore!

As he climbed the steps- seen in profile by the audience of female teachers- his penis burst forth from the unravelling fibres of his jockstrap pouch, punching its way to freedom and fresh air! Rodney's fabled penis, the most discussed of any of the boys' and the biggest and funniest, with its outsized spongy bell-end, was on display!

Up and out, instantly at 45 degrees...

...and every teacher could see it!

Bang!

There it was!

"Ooh...my...god!"

The ladies gasped.

They were stunned.

And excited.

Especially as Delcia Forrest, leading him by the rope, had to pause in a kind of traffic jam while the queue of 15 girls and 15 boys mounted the stage and started to arrange themselves.

Then the girls marshalled the boys to stand...their bare backsides facing the audience. All of them, on view, their glutes defined by the bands of their jockstraps. A display of male bottoms.

And then the surprise!

The great surprise!

From stage left, enter...

A lady!

Dr Speight no less, in white coat- her doctor's white coat- with a stethoscope and tape measure around her neck. Beaming with the pleasure of taking the audience by surprise.

And with Milly Slink by her side, dressed in nurse's uniform, right down to a neat little cap on her lank, mousy hair, grinning broadly and eyes sparkling behind her thick Coke bottle glasses.

And from stage right...

Mrs Reilly- yes, the citizen who hosted at her home the afternoon teas where boys' punishment was discussed and practised and where, in her verdurous garden, young delinquents were punished by having to work stark naked.

Mrs Reilly- dressed up, too, as a nurse. Eyes on fire.

The three females mounted a little stand and stood facing the boys and girls. Ominously, they each had tape measures around their necks. Milly had a clipboard too. She pressed it tightly into her groin, stared at the boys before her, especially at Rodney. 

This part had not been rehearsed.

But Miss Cuff's authoritative, metallic voice rang out.

"So this will be our climax, boys and girls.

"The cowgirls have brought their captives to the fort, all trussed up.

"You braves must look like you are shivering with fear. Fear- and something else. Remember, nothing would shame an Indian brave more than to be taken prisoner, hands tied, by a white girl, armed with a pistol. Especially if you have been caught with only one of those little loin cloths. So...act shamed!"

She let her words sink in.

The boys were standing side by side with the cowgirls, facing the three females who had just marched on stage. Their backsides, defined by the straps, were facing their seated females teachers. Their bottoms- each cheek- jiggled and shivered and danced with apprehension.

Miss Cuff's vision- cruel and thrilling- was being fleshed out.

Her colleagues, her teacher friends, felt the tension, the wonderful tension.

"Now just understand, boys, that you have been brought here to be inspected by a medical team from Washington's Smithsonian Institution. You are ethnographic specimens: Indians from the plains. And the scientific world will want to know all about you. So before you are sold into sideshows and carnivals and Wild West circuses you will be thoroughly inspected. Examined and tested and measured, all under the gaze of your captors.

"This is going to be a very funny scene for our audience. Hilarious in fact. That is, our all-female audience. Oh yes, I haven't mentioned. As a matter of policy we will only be selling tickets to Brewer's females."

Again she let this little revelation sink in.

"Your mothers. Your sisters and cousins. Aunts. Family friends. Grandmoms too- oh, yes, they always love this kind of a show. Neighbours. Girls next door. A big cheery female audience."

Even from the rear the boys could be seen to be reddening.

"So...over to you Dr Speight. Remember, you are in charge. In charge of this all-female team of scientists. And what a treat! You and your colleagues get to perform the first ever experiment of its kind: a full-scale medical examination of young braves brought in as prisoners."

And, then, in an undertone that could be only heard by the teachers in their seats, she added, "This will be the funniest of all the scenes- and we can make it up as we go along!"

There were sly chuckles.

"Over to you, Dr Speight!"

The doctor surveyed the boys lined up in front of her, bottoms to the audience.

Her eye dwelt momentarily on Rodney and his penis, rearing out of the ruins of his jockstrap. So did Milly, and she drooled. Spittle ran down her cheek.

Rodney felt their looks on his jutting penis, and that of the girls on either side of him, and heard their gasps and giggles.

For this rehearsal Dr Speight's instructions had been to allow the boys to keep their jockstraps to avoid distracting the young women.

But improvisation was the essence of a work of this kind. Rodney Rocketson was exposed. Why not all of them? And she knew what Miss Cuff wanted above all: male humiliation.

As she did too.

And so did Mrs Reilly. It was her mission in life and she had imbued it in them all. The subject of those wonderful afternoon teas! Those naked delinquents working at her flowers and shrubs!

And, of course, young Milly Slink. God, the girl by her side was salivating, drooling.

Dr Speight swallowed. Then beamed. And barked her words.

"Indian braves, you have been taken prisoner. And white women want to examine your secrets, your magic. We...want...to...know..."

Here she fingered the tape measure around her neck.

"...all about young Indian braves.

"All your...secrets."

There was an ominous pause.

"You will take down your cloths!"

And, she added, sotto voce...

"Your undergarments as well!"

Undergarments? But we thought..?

Each boy registered shock. Some looked over their heads to Miss Cuff who remained impassive.

None pulled at their modest covering.

Again, Dr Speight spoke in an under-voice.

"Unless you want one of your captors to pull them down for you! I'm sure they would be delighted to get the first glimpse!"

Girls sparkled at this prospect.

The boys responded. 

Fifteen sets of hands reached for the elastic bands holding their frontal flaps. And in the same grip, the elastic band of their jockstraps.

And, if driven by a collective consciousness, in perfect timing, the fellas pulled them down to their ankles.

Fifteen erections sprang free.

With a bounce! 

It should have been accompanied by some cartoon-style sound effects.

A "boing!" sound would have been appropriate.

Milly Slink gasped, mouth agape. Her mind was racing. Dr Speight had promised her a role in medical examinations, to be conducted on stage as part of the show. She had told Milly that as a nurse she would get the job of inspecting the Indians' testicles, and then had to explain to the poor girl what they were- that males have a sack hanging between their legs behind their penis which contains two balls; and the area is very sensitive; but there is a very choice game to be made of gently bouncing the bag to make the balls move up and down. "Juggle the testicles...to see them jiggle!" And you should use very mild slaps to achieve this end but make, say, every tenth slap a slightly harder one to bring on a "funny" reaction from the boy, making him hover between exquisite pleasure-when the slaps were gentle- and exquisite pain when a slap became a bit more severe.

"You can be our...our testicle nurse, looking after what the dirty-minded males call their balls," Doctor Speight had promised, smiling broadly. "Balls- or their testicles. Hanging in their scrotum or beanbag." 

It was a sweet gift to the plain, virginal girl. With the result that Milly now stared hard at the sacks before her, some tightened little globes, others loose and dangling with the balls easy to make out. Yes, that's what they are, she thought, little balls. Marbles really. Some covered in a boy's fleece, others smooth as eggs.

Mrs Reilly's eyes, too, widened like saucers. She liked what she was seeing, although with Rodney and his three friends, Mark, Kerry and Stevie, it was not the first time. She had seen them subject to spanking and supervised maternal masturbation at her afternoon tea. But the others were interesting. Nice, she thought, to orchestrate some fuss between each of these boys and Brewer's constabulary. To have the boys picked up by her friend, Police Commissioner Malone, for any one of a number of offences- say, being in a parked car in a lovers' lane playing "backseat bingo" with a girl. Especially if in a condition of nudity or near-nudity. Or swaying drunkenly late at night outside Baker's Tavern. Or traffic offences- oh, that was easily contrived. Driving too fast, too slow, being wrongly parked. 

Then the boy would be brought to Mrs Reilly's front door and she would send him with one of her two Negro maids to the garage where he would have to strip. Strip completely, become buck naked, and then under the guidance of Betty or Hessie have to carry tools into the garden (with both arms full of clippers and rakes there was no question of him sheltering his privates which was huge fun for the maid!) Mrs Reilly could watch him from her boudoir windows with her burnished brass La Meir antique binoculars or, cheekily, emerge from the house and ask questions or give instructions while he tried to use hands clad in garden gloves to hide his cock- normally erect- and his balls.

Dr Speight, surveying the variety before her, had her own thoughts. She had thoughts of the inspections that awaited. Close-up, lingering, drawn-out. Palpating, squeezing, measuring. Not in the privacy of her room but here, with an audience. 

And she thought of Miss Cuff's plans. The idea, for example, that for days before the performance the boys should attend class clad in their Indian costumes. Yes, the tiny flaps with nothing sheltering their rears. Padding into class with only their teensie loin cloth. Walking school corridors with bared bottom. Struggling into the auditorium for a concert or tournament, struggling to keep the flap in place. Getting up from their seats with undisguised erections. As a boost to ticket sales. 

There was Mrs Reilly's sweet proposal, made over cocktails when the ladies were tittering over the boys' fate: that after the performance, at an event at her home, boys should stand on an auction block like slaves in the old south and their Indian costumes should be sold off to the highest female bidder. They would have to slip out of them, last shield of their modesty, and hand them over. They would make a little ceremony of this. Mothers and sisters would relish the moment. And, she had said, if that left the boys nude and even erect...well, one can't make an omelette without breaking eggs. All funds raised would go to the school drama department, of course. Which gave it additional appeal to Miss Cuff.

Right now on the stage the girls looked from side to side, grinning, secure in their cowgirls' suits, seeing what the boys were presenting.

Rodney presented his long white pole with its huge mushroomy head. It was disgracefully trailing clear fluid to the stage.

Stevie's obstinate little projection jutted at 45 degrees, a bubble of clear fluid ballooning from its tip and threatening to dribble to the floor.

And so on, down the line- Kerry's elegant, slanting stick, Danny's banana bend, Charlie's broad-beamed white rod, Mohammed's long brown snake with bright red neck and head, Carl's minute sliver of flesh, Jimmy's veiny pole, Jason Cho's perfectly formed, five inch coffee-colored appendage, Mark's heroic penis with glans struggling out of its bunched, fleshy foreskin, Trevor's standard American five and a quarter incher, right out of a textbook.

And so on.

The fellas were buck naked. And erect. Indian flaps and jockstraps at their heels, in a pool of shame.

In their birthday suits, blushing, teary eyed.

From their seats their teachers, seeing their naked rears and sensing the adventures to come, applauded.

Mrs Aurelius, the classics teacher, indulged some philosophic speculation.

She thought, "I know we inhabit a universe of atoms and void, of ceaseless creation and destruction, and one governed entirely by chance. I know this. I learnt it at college."

Her mind wandered some more.

"Yes, I was taught that existence was a ceaseless chain of collisions. And I'm driven to wonder which collision of charging atoms has deposited me here? Here with the possessed genius, Miss Cuff. With this dedicated medico, this Dr Speight? With the sinister and charming Mrs Reilly? Or those other priestesses, Mrs Carruthers the dressmaker and her maid, Yuela? All dedicated to the same ends."

Oh to be female, in Brewer, she thought.

In Grover Cleveland High School. In 1956.

A universe of colliding atoms, governed by chance? So it appeared to Lucretius and other philosophers and poets of the ancient world.

But no, thought Mrs Aurelius, looking at those quaking young buttocks up on the stage, shorn of their loin cloths and jockstraps. How did this happen? There must be a Creator to conjure up such richness.

She looked up at the row of male bottoms.

Between the legs of several she could make out the silhouettes of scrotums.

She could also see the eyes of Dr Speight, Mrs Reilly and young Milly Slink positively popping as they stared at the boys' groins. Clearly, thought Mrs Aurelius, those erections that had been tenting their jockstraps were now on glorious display, to the three females who faced them with such rapturous, worshipful expressions. And soon, she hoped, on display to all of us, seated in the body of the hall.

Soon something was going to happen on stage and, directed by Miss Cuff, it was bound to be exquisite.

This didn't come about by chance, thought the classics teacher.

Not random atoms. Not a universe of chaos. No, the moment was too beautiful.

It has all been managed by the Creator.

God exists. 

And Her powers are absolute. Pity those naked boys.



Rodney's Nude Humiliation Ch. 11



It was the living room of Mrs Reilly's house, high-ceilinged and richly decorated, a room all the ladies of Brewer longed to visit. The light poured in the tall bay windows, catching the swirl of the women's cigarette smoke. On the wall, in the shadows, one could just make out the oil painting of Venus hauling a nude Cupid over her knees- an 18 year old Cupid, nude and decidedly uncircumcised (and entirely hairless, as it happened); and nineteenth century paintings of nude males romping on beaches or sports fields with dressed females watching. She had bought them from a New York auction house: naked males, clothed females, this was the unifying motif. Chinoiserie vases displayed triumphs of the garden: white roses, hyacinths, Baker's fern. Flowers, tended and picked by naked young men who worked off their minor police offences around her flower beds and shrubs.

Mrs Reilly was seated with her guests. In one hand, a glass of J and B Blended Scotch Whiskey, only slightly diluted; in the other, a cigarette holder with a Camel yielding up a filagree of smoke to join the fug hanging in the room. All the ladies smoked, including Dr Speight who asserted that moderate smoking had health advantages especially in lowering blood pressure. Moreover, she believed, any detrimental effect of smoking could be more than rectified by menthol filter tips, like those in the brands Kool and Salems. Besides, she often argued, most of her doctor friends enjoyed tobacco; in Dr Kinsey's team, just about all of them; she loved and admired Dr Kinsey and the fearlessness of his trailblazing research, especially that on male sexual practices.

But this late afternoon they had been discussing something other than the debate about smoking or memories of Dr Kinsey's work.

"I think you are right," Mrs Reilly pronounced, after having given long consideration. "That is, about the shaving- the body hair."

Miss Cuff, the school drama teacher, was relieved at her friend's adjudication. She needed support for a proposition as daring as shaving off the body hair of male students. And Mrs Reilly had influence with the school board, Mayor Zeldin, Congressman Andresen and Police Chief Malone. That's why errant young men were delivered here, to work naked in her sprawling garden. 

"Good," said Miss Cuff. "Very good."

And drew deep on her own Camel, in its long holder.

She looked off in the distance, wild eyed, imagining the shaving. Imagining the 18 year old males she had seen at rehearsals in their tiny loin cloths- mere flaps over their groins- flaps which showed off all their pubic hair- imagining them, free of that hair. Just like the Indians they were portraying. She was remembering what she had seen in a side-show tent nearly 20 years ago.

Dr Speight, school doctor and Kinsey sex researcher, nodded her approval and raised her glass to toast the decision. "The right decision. Shave them down there. Verisimilitude. You may get to take Cowgirls and Indian Braves to Broadway."

Mrs Carruthers who designed and sewed the boys' little costumes expressed her approval with a "Humph!" She had seen the problem close-up. Poked her nose into the pubic hair of these shamed, trembling boys. And now Miss Cuff had just persuaded them: off it must come. Maybe she and her Negro maid Yuela could have a role in the execution of the plan.

Right now Yuela was with her friends, Betty and Doris, Mrs Reilly's two Negro maids. The three of them were outside in the garden, looking at the nude white boys. Pointing and giggling while the fellas sweated and worked, stripped to the buff.

Miss Cuff thought it was time for her confession.

In the late 1930s when studying drama at Scripps College she and girlfriends had taken a holiday and driven through the Central Valley of California. They visited a carnival ("Carnivale" it was called on the big entrance sign) run by a charming dwarf everyone called Samson. He wore a shabby, well-worn three piece suit, with snap brim hat. He had kept this Carnivale together through the Depression and the disasters of the Dust Bowl, so that his band of "freaks" and performers stayed alive on baked beans, stew, spinach and mugs of coffee when whole communities had been wiped out, left starving. He befriended the college girls, clearly seemed taken by them and on some instinct steered them to an exhibit which featured Iroquois warriors from "The Wild West." 

Two Indian braves appeared on the platform outside the tent. They wore deer skin trousers and their bare torsos glowed golden and athletic. They were "interesting" enough for Miss Cuff and her friends to pay a few dimes for admission. It was a quiet afternoon, the fair virtually deserted and the girls were the only visitors inside the darkened tent.

The cool canvas interior was welcome after the dusty heat. A few flies buzzed. The dirge-like organ sounded outside, grinding out its sad repertoire of carnival tunes. Samson cleared his throat and puffed a cheroot.

The girls waited.

Miss Cuff gazed off into the distance and shared her recollection.

"Four Indians entered. We guessed they were 19 or 20. They were strikingly well-proportioned and handsome with long black hair falling to their shoulders but shy, as native people often are, and couldn't look us in the eyes. The trousers the two had worn earlier had been replaced with loin cloths. All us girls were thrilled by the unexpected male nudity, the grace of these young men. Their sculpted shoulders...the corded muscles in their forearms...their big brown nipples, like medallions on their chests. The flaps of their loin cloths were long, and they wore them front and back- nothing like what we have designed here in Brewer..."

And she smiled at Mrs Carruthers who, in turn, toasted her with her whiskey.

"...but it did leave their thighs exposed on the sides. Muscled like colt's, and as they strolled back and forwards behind the rope we caught glimpses of their long, straddling legs and, as their flaps moved, other body parts as well. Just hints. We were frisky young things and each of us was giggling as the boys executed a half-hearted war dance and their long flaps swung some more and it was clear that they wore nothing underneath...no jockstraps, for example."

There were smiles. Jockstraps! What a hoot that had been!

"I felt bold enough to tell their leader that we girls were used to seeing men swim naked at college (I didn't tell him we had removed loose bricks in the wall between our change room and the pool!) and I suggested they might dance without the encumbrance of loin cloths. They looked surprised and embarrassed until little Samson suggested we offer a tip of a dollar and said, "Whaddabout it, Injuns, these young ladies wanna see yas without ya flaps. What say we earn a bitta cash here?" Anyway, he was clearly the boss. Within seconds they were easing down their loin cloths and standing nude, hands by their sides. A bit bashful. And after we got used to their natural beauty- goodness, we were swooning!- what we noticed was they had no body hair! Their copper-toned groins were entirely smooth! It made...everything stand out. The anatomical detail..."

Miss Cuff said she had a friend who taught in the Anthropology Department of Berkley, one of the top five schools in the country. His name was Kermit Schmidlap, now an esteemed professor. He told her that adult Iroquois in their natural state were near hairless. But they carefully scraped off what fluffs appeared on their groins or under their arms, using a turtle shell. 

Kermit was an old "sissy" and seemed to have researched the subject with a suspicious interest, living on a reservation and taking a lively interest in the warriors, following them on their hunts, swimming with them in mountain lakes and at night sharing a blanket around a fire. "Certainly, my dear, their scrotums feature not a single hair, entirely glabrous. Tonsured testicles! Renders them unbelievably sensitive!"

Mr Carruthers slapped her knees. "Tonsured testicles!"

"Which we must replicate!" said Mrs Reilly. "With our dear boys. Shave off their fluff, their wiry fur. Scrotums as smooth as eggs! We must be true to life, Indian life."

"They'll hate it, of course. The loss of manhood," said Miss Cuff.

"All the more reason," said Mrs Reilly, grinning like a crocodile.

Which left the question: how and where would it be done, the shaving of the 18 year olds?

Dr Speight had an idea.

"Combine it with their medicals- remember our decision that before the performance we need to give every one of them a full check-up, as we would an athlete joining up for a school team or state competition?"

"One involving the girls, of course." Mrs Reilly was adamant on this point.

"Of course," clarified Dr Speight. "The girls will be built into each examination. I expect to recruit many for careers in medicine as a result. That young Milly Slink for example- she talks about becoming an army or navy nurse. Very taken with the idea of helping to examine recruits- military medicals are very thorough. She's drooling at the thought, quite literally."

Mrs Reilly endorsed the notion of involving the girls.

"Give them tutorials. Pick, say, Rodney or Mark or that sweet Johnny Marcello. Have the girls practice on him and we can supervise. Trimming with sewing scissors, working up a lather, whisking the curls off with a razor. Then very, very carefully closing in and shaving off every last hair. The scrotums would be challenging..."

"Oh, but with practice. Remember, 'tonsured testicles' on young Indians."

"Start tomorrow then."

"Start tomorrow."

"But right now, let's see how the young men are going in the garden."

"Yes, of course, but first, finish the story about the naked braves. In the side-show tent, all those years ago..."

"Yes...did they sport...you know...'tonsured testicles?'"

Three women leant forward, indecently curious, to hear Miss Cuff talk about what happened at the fairground back in the 1930s.

But right now, in another part of Brewer...

The first thing Stevie Lynton noticed on his visits was the smell. 

He would lean his Schwinn New World bike against the brick wall of Mrs Lanbourne's house on Harrison Street and ring her bell, heart pounding. She would admit him, sweetly smiling and would close the door. He would stand on the Astrakhan rug in her hallway, seeing his reflection in a neoclassical giltwood mirror. Now, as on each occasion, his heart beat hard, his eyelids fluttered with tension. 

And an urgent, pulsing erection tented the flies of his khaki dungarees. Lowering her glance, she observed it. Smiled slightly.

And, as on every one of these now-frequent visits, he breathed in the scents of Mrs Lanbourne's house. He loved the smell.

The smell of walnut furniture and wax floor polish. The fragrance of the flowers plucked from her small but verdurous garden: pale pink carnations and white roses and Bakers' fern. Apple pie or cheese cake warming in the kitchen. Mrs Lanbourne's own sultry scents- powders, creams and perfumes- and the scents of her expensive, tailored clothes as she lowered herself, knelt before him in the hallway, and this gracious 40ish lady, this mother and community leader (Catholic Mother of Central Minnesota 1951, awarded by Cardinal Spellman) with her elegant long nose and lambent brown eyes and lustrous complexion, began to slowly draw off his loafers, unfasten and loosen his belt and, thrillingly, with a practised hand that made him tremble, unbutton his flies- oh, her touch, her gentle pressure!- and open his trousers and slither them down. 

How slowly...with what liturgical care...with what gentle sideways tugs...she then drew down his briefs.

Down, an inch a time, all the way to his ankles.

To languish there, in a pool of shame.

And with what maternal love her lambent brown eyes looked up, eventually...after taking in other sights...into his own watery eyes.

Throughout, he shook with a nameless emotion.

Today he stood before her, here in the hallway of one of Brewer's most refined houses- so much more tasteful than the nouveau, vulgar display of Stevie's own home, he thought- now standing buck naked. In his birthday suit. 

The only sounds were the meowing of Hermes, the household's long-haired Himalayan cat watching them from the end of the corridor, the ticking of the grandfather clock and the purr of a delivery van two streets off.

She folded his clothes and laid them on the lion-backed 1900 hall chair.

Turning, and appraising him, she would say, "How nice, Stevie, to see your manly penis again..."

Its three inches stood rigid at 45 degrees, pulsating.

"And your neat little scrotal sac..."

He blushed.

"...and your young man's sap rising...goodness! Those hormones of yours!"

His meatus was emitting a thick stream of pre-ejaculate. Indeed it trickled forth, trailing to the black fur of his thighs and calves. He was embarrassed his excitement was so obvious.

"...and your hairy chest. My own little cave man! My, oh my!"

He blushed deeper, looked down at the wavy pelt as if to confirm his reputation as the most hirsute of Grover Cleveland's 18 year olds. Incongruous on one so boyish.

"Come," and she took him by the hand. "I have a treat today."

A treat?

She led him to the living room. Hermes, the Himalayan cat, was serene in Stevie's company. He strode after them, with large, elegant steps, looking up at the naked boy. Stevie was his favorite guest.

A treat?

Like the beautiful romantic spankings, different from the malevolent spankings he received at home, that saw him positioned over her fragrant knees, head drooping to the floor and the world upside down, while his skinny rear was spanked by hand or hairbrush or paddle. Rendering Stevie helpless, desperate. And which then guaranteed him an hour of cuddling and kissing, climaxing in a massage, again over her lap. And then being turned over and swiftly and expertly masturbated by this loving, tender older lady with such soulful brown eyes and thrillingly long, aristocratic nose.

Or like the occasion when the massage was extended, drawn out. Around and around his bottom, and then up into his intergluteal cleft, worked her delicate hand. While he hung there, gasping and choking with pleasure. And with infinite care and long preparation her forefinger (by now her hand was encased in plastic glove) penetrated his bottom hole- so delicately- and probed and teased and tickled and explored his inside, twisting this way and that, while he hung over her knees, gurgling with strange sensations, lying prone, penis flowing with Cowper's fluid. Gurgle, gurgle, gurgle: oh, he loved these new, powerful sensations.

After, seated on her lap, she had applied the cream to his stiff, slimy penis- and he had exploded with quantities of his teenage cum he had never before produced, flying out, onto his face and his shoulders. There was even a generous load of "seminal fluid" left over for her girls to extract when they came home from work and started tickling and rough-housing the naked boy while their mother prepared pie and coffee or milk and cookies in the kitchen.

There was the occasion when she walked him buck naked into the living room to confront five neatly dressed girls. Hell! He knew them from church and school! They were dressed to the nine pins, sitting on her lounge chairs, balancing cups of tea, playing with Hermes, the shaggy white haired cat. Their eyes had widened with surprise and pleasure; he had panicked like the classic embarrassed naked boy: he buckled and bent over and sheltered himself and, pressing hands to groin, manoeuvred his trembling form behind an arm chair. 

He had been cajoled and persuaded by Mrs Lanbourne to come out and, still sheltering his groin, turn his back and hobble to the piano. He felt them staring at his bottom, heard suppressed giggles. He had to sit and play the Moonlight Sonata. Naked as a jay. Hermes leapt up on the stool and sat beside him, appearing to study the music.

Later he had had to join them, seated as another member of the tea party, his little erection on display sticking out of his lap as he balanced tea things and the girls eyeing it while conversation roamed over school and church until their hostess said it would be nice it the girls could learn about "all this sex business over which there has been such a fuss- Peyton Place and Lady Chatterly's Lover and the Kinsey Report" and perhaps Stevie could stand up and let "us all get a proper look."

So he had had to do the rounds while each girl got to see his genitals close up and Mrs Lanbourne briefed them on the male organ, on erections and the scrotum and its contents and pre-ejaculate (or Cowper's fluid) and even suggested that, one by one, the girls handle Stevie's equipment or "Stevie's organ," as she put it, to appreciate the firmness of the trunk- trunk, such a humorous word for something so short and slender- and the softness of the glans. "Glans"- he always thought of it as a helmet or head. She told them not worry about getting their hands wet because they could wash up in the bathroom when they finished, something which made Stevie feel all the more a dirty and disgusting boy. Already one or two of the girls had turned their noses up in disgust at the look and smell- a scent like damp ferns- of Stevie's groin and its contents. 

Mrs Lanbourne introduced them to the "juggle jiggle" game which had taken off in Brewer. One by one, girls had got to bounce Stevie's scrotum in their palms- gentle little slaps- and for each of them it was absolutely the first time they had touched a scrotum. Oh, how they thrilled to the task! Stevie looked transported, eyes clenched, penis drooling away- even into their palms. Until inevitably a slap became too energetic and the boy doubled over. This caused great amusement, even as their hostess cautioned them about the sensitivity of the testicles and Stevie did a funny little tap dance, wincing. The girls agreed they would have to be more restrained. But goodness- they had never played a game as funny as this!

They discussed how much they looked forward to playing "juggle...jiggle" with brothers and cousins.

"Juggle the scrotum...to see the testicles jiggle!" rehearsed one of them, careful to get words right.

"No, juggle the beanbag...to see the balls jiggle!" corrected another, an earthier girl, to much merriment from the other giglets and a shaking of the head by Mrs Lanbourne. "Beanbag! Balls!" Really, these girls!

The game ended when suddenly, while having his testicles bounced, he ejaculated violently in three large convulsive dollops, all into the lap of his current partner, a bespectacled young lady in a sailor suit, who shrieked at the ropes of silver fluid splopping onto her dress. The boy stood, swaying, with the guilty, abashed look of someone who had suddenly vomited in a city street. For her part the girl giggled nervously as she surveyed the glutinous mess in her lap, the pleats of her white skirt gluing.

On other occasions he would play the piano naked for one or two of Mrs Lanbourne's friends, Hermes the cat joining him on the stool, appearing as always to be reading the music with him. Then he would serve them tea, sometimes wearing one of her frilly aprons but not always. Once she had him model at a lingerie party, wearing ladies' intimate garments, all of which ended up soiled, it must be said. Certainly lace and silk pulled over his hips or lowered over his head seemed to induce a faraway and distracted look in Stevie's eyes and double the production of fluid. "Just look at that!" exclaimed one young, unmarried lady, when a pair of white lace panties were eased down Stevie's thighs, revealing a trail of sticky fluid running from his meatus to the crotch which was sopping wet. 

Anyway it caused much amusement among the ladies and led, as night follows day, to the moment when Mrs Lanbourne seated him at a dining room chair in the middle of the circle of visitors. Then she encouraged the heated boy to exorcise his demons. He set to work, eyes excited, his hand moving urgently on his little organ, like one of the chimps in Minnesota Zoo. Whoosh! He exploded! Ladies gasped. Mrs Lanbourne moved in with a wet towel to mop up. The fresh, tart smell of his deposits wafted to the nostrils of her visitors.




Rodney's Nude Humiliation Ch. 11



So a special treat could mean more of these games, these sweet and exciting games that took the boy to a cliff face and flung him out into the air and deposited him in some paradisal valley. Competing emotions- humiliation and ecstasy- would war in his chest.

Or it might just mean a big slice of fresh cheesecake.

But in the living room Stevie saw it all in a flash and went weak at the knees.

On the coffee table was a bright new edition of Sun and Health.

A nudist magazine.

Like those that had got him into trouble when he and his friends were discovered by Mrs Ricketson masturbating naked over their lurid photos.

Mrs Lanbourne must have bought this one for him. Maybe from the same dingy shop he frequented in St Paul's panhandle district.

In a daze they sat on the lounge- Stevie's spot was identified with a neatly folded towel- and he opened at a photo in crude color that immediately had his whole body shaking.

In a nudist camp a mother with loose belly and pancake breasts worked at a bench, sorting oranges. She wore cats eyes sunglasses and a broad straw hat but everything else was displayed, including a broad savannah of black pubic growth. Bearing down on her was a slim-hipped youth with jug-ears- presumably her 18 year old son- with a basket of oranges on his shoulder, displaying his secrets too: a lightly haired chest that descended tree-trunk-like, to a triangle of pubic bush and a thickish circumcised penis. His heavy scrotum hung lop-sidedly on the left. On display...for his Mom. A proud Mom, Stevie guessed, for his part sad and excited at what the photo showed of this other boy's life.

He gazed transfixed. His mind was racing. The lives others live! How long have they been turning up together at the nudist camp? Had the son been embarrassed the first time? To have her see his penis when it stiffened, as from time to time it must have? Oh, on the hour, to be sure, given the stimulation at this locale. To have her know that one testicle hung lower than its mate in the adjoining chamber? That moreover, in an imitation of his father no doubt, he had acquired on cue- perhaps only since turning 18- a dusting of chest hair? 

Did his mother ever comment to him on any of this? Did she ever say, "Your testicles look healthy but, goodness, that one on the left...it drags your scrotum right down on that side. Let me have a good look." And later, "Dear me, I might just take you to see the doctor about that." And, of course, sit in on the examination with a woman doctor like Dr Speight, watching as her jug-eared son lay naked on the table and the doctor played with his precious family jewels? Did they both go "tut tut!" and smile at one another when his robust penis sprang to life under their eyes?

Did she watch his chest hair arrive, follicle by follicle? Did she suggest he get around the house shirtless, to show it off to visitors? To relatives? And if they lived alone, did they watch TV naked? Eat their meals in the buff? And of course living in such intimacy, a mother and son nudist couple, surely she commented on his erections? Measured his penis ("Aw Mom! Nah! Don't do that to a fella!" "Keep still! It's only natural. Don't be ashamed!") Did she keep a record, an outline tracing of his hardon with measurement inscribed alongside? Did she share it with visitors: "Sonny's developing well- see our chart- this is his latest." Did she sit next to him on the lounge and reach out to bring him to climax when his fleshy cylinder reared up and lengthened, painful and urgent, while he was watching TV shows of women in swimsuits or Hollywood lovers?

"And...you will also like..."

Mrs Lanbourne smilingly turned the page. And looked at Stevie for his reaction.

Hell! In the heart of nudist territory a middle-aged dad stood, it seemed on some kind of stage, while a lissome young female, as naked as he, crowned him. Crowned him? King of the camp? Monarch for a day? He was three quarters to the camera. His body was fleshy and hairy and his penis every bit as diminutive as Stevie's: an acorn. His testicles could not be seen, invisible in his forest fuzz or surgically removed. Was he being acknowledged as the smallest penis in the camp? Hard to imagine any on an adult shorter and thinner. 

How did he feel when his daughters' 18 year old boyfriends- there were plenty of photos of young men who filled the bill- came round to their cabin for a barbecue or joined the family at volleyball, their thickish sausages and low-hanging scrotums swinging between their legs? And how did he feel when he knew that his girls were making comparisons? His wife too? Did he have an 18 year old boy with a little one as well? "Like father, like son:" was this the joke behind closed hands at family nudist events, at least among the females.

And the bigger question this photo begged, of such interest to Steve: did the man savour the humiliation? Was this why he had enrolled in club nudism, with his family? Fleshy and hairy and baby-pricked in front of frolicsome young females: was this his "thing?"

In photo after photo, in crude color and black and white, girls and women were caught swiping glances, sideways and surreptitious, at the nearest available cock, their curiosity caught on camera. For example, a boy and a girl leant on a rail fence where, it seemed, another girl had joined them. Her glance was a laser-like glare directed at the contents of the boy's groin- as it happened, a strongly-shaped circumcised penis appearing at that moment to lift from his scrotum. Jeepers! She couldn't have been more interested!

Or a colour shot of a pretty slender blond between two boys drinking sodas, one golden skinned youth on either side of her. It was a photo that showed the trio from the knees up. Hence two sets of balls and two cocks were on close-up display, likewise her sweet triangle of dark pubic hair with even a hint of vaginal lip. But her eyes were sideways and downcast, directed right at the midriff of the boy on her right, and more precisely at his perky penis riding atop a smooth beanbag, its raphe boldly visible bisecting the neat little home of the testicular twins. At any rate she clearly liked it, staring at his equipment while he looked off in the distance, holding a soda and managing a mouthful of ice.

Stevie's eyes were wide as saucers, and he was drooling from his urethral opening, drugged by the evocative images that danced before his eyes. Mrs Lanbourne looked tenderly on him, and turned another page. Looked at him for his reaction.

What he saw shook him to the core. 

A undeniably beautiful and saucy girl, 18 years old, stood with her boyfriend on a cliff track, headed to the beach. Despite her tender years she had a voluptuous, Rubensque figure, wide hipped and melon-breasted, and seemed aware of her hearty charms. Her breasts sported magnificent aureole- wide medallions that occupied perhaps a quarter of her bosoms, vast as they were. Her black triangle was...well, three times as generous as the cute little patch on her fella. He was shorter than her, slight though athletic, with a boy-next-door crew cut...and in his groin, a pecker that comprised a penny sized glans and no stem. As for his testicles his hairless globe looked as if barely descended. And he looked abashed as if she, clutching only a sun hat, was berating him for his clumsiness as he carried their outsize beach umbrella.

The questions tore at Stevie's pre-frontal cortex. How did his small member- hell, it could boast no length- remotely satisfy the lusts emanating from that wide and no doubt humid pubic forest? The smallish boy had a defined concave tummy; maybe that helped him compensate for the absence of penile inches. How hard did he work those luscious breasts, feed on those gorgeous nipples? It was hard to believe she wouldn't be drawn to one of the virile, big-balled young men who featured in the magazine, big-balled and long-pricked; if, however, she married her little boyfriend would she cane him when his performance fell short, carrying the umbrella or managing intercourse? Spanking over her knee seemed a certainty based on her glowering expression caught by the photographer; using a hairbrush or a paddle on his golden-tanned ass seemed not unlikely.

Stevie drifted into a distant state.

He was unashamedly fingering himself.

Nothing prepared him for the next picture.

It made his knees shake violently so that Mrs Lanbourne had to steady him.

In the nudist colony a naked man, in his 30s perhaps, stood back to the camera. He was dark haired, his legs slightly furred. His ass was tight and athletic with a deep cleft. He was perfectly tanned, the classic nudist. He was reaching out for the hand of a middle aged woman. This woman was in a black and white stripped dress, with gloves, high heels and a straw hat. Stripped dress! Gloves! Hat! There in the nudist camp. Yes, and she was smiling. Besides her stood her beaming daughter, 18 years old, plain and spectacled, wearing a summer ensemble of jacket and wide skirt. Socks and sandals. And while her mother shook the naked male's hand her daughter's eyes, inevitably, were riveted at his groin. Feasting on whatever she saw there.

Mrs Lanbourne saw this picture was sending Stevie into a state that would have been diagnosed at Brewer Area Hospital and Medical Centre as a severe fever.

She then pointed ominously to the caption on the photo. And again, looked at him for his reaction.

Stevie read it, frantically feeling his slimy penis.

It said: "Ten years back Mrs Lyuba Ranevsky rented her cherry orchard to the trustees of what became Oakwood Club, one of Minessotta's happiest nudist destinations. Her family had adored the cherry orchard and like many an orchardist her love for the property, whatever the change in use, will never diminish. Seen here with daughter Varya, Mrs Ranevsky tours Oakwood a few times a month, talking to members as they soak up the rays and perfect their healthful tans, like club president, Bud Lattimer, seen here greeting the Ranevskys on their seventh visit this summer..."

Steve reeled. 

So...

This woman and her daughter come into the nudist camp and walk around, regally greeting the men, like Eleanor Roosevelt on a wartime inspection tour of the Pacific...except that here all the males are buck naked. Without a stitch. She gets to stroll up to everyone of them. She gets to inspect the Daddy with his tiny dick emerging from his hairy belly, recently crowned king of Oakwood, while his daughters chortle behind him and elbow their boyfriends who, of course, grin and proudly sport their bull-like sacs and beef sausage cocks. And if that Dad indeed has an 18 year old son, as Stevie imagined, with a replica of his father's tiny penis, the two dressed females would get to inspect that as well, chatting away. "Like father, like son," young Varya would think as she made sure the blushing boy saw her greedy eyes taking in his groin and her head pivot to check the groins of his better endowed companions, boyfriends of his sisters. This boy, crown prince of Oakland, would have withered, Stevie thought, only 18 and standing displayed in front of this dressed mother and daughter.

Mrs Ranevsky, thought Stevie, will also get to stand and chat with that jug eared son with his slim hips and well shaped penis dangling from his tanned groin. She gets to waylay the short fella with the crew cut who, struggling with the beach umbrella, can't hide with his hands his stem-less organ and small globe. And all the while her daughter gets to gawk her head off too. At the nude 18 year old males with springy cocks, at the confident young husbands, at the mature age body cultists proud of their weight-trainer physiques and copper-tones. Who, one after the other, stand in front of the Ranevskys, mother and daughter- their landladies after all- and involuntarily display their nakedness. Standing, smiling, being deferential while the two dressed females chat and stare. And stare, too, at the underprivileged males with diminutive organs, like Stevie, who want to believe in the old notion that women don't notice.

Stevie was shaking.

Enough. For now.

It was time.

Mrs Lanbourne edged him over her knees for today's loving, ritualistic spanking.

As he breathed in her luscious scents and the smell of her dress, seeing the world upside down, Hermes the cat staring at him quizzically, his punishment began, first with hand then hairbrush. Stevie sensed it was harder than any before, wanted it to be, needed the purgation. And he sensed that she felt the same, that she was excited too, as she spanked with a loving cruelty. He went through all the stages: the purring, the grunting, the protesting "Yeows!" and the begging and pleading, "Oh please Mrs Lanbourne, please...I can't take anymore!" The kicking and twisting, of course. Through his tears he could see Hermes staring and his own reflection in the cat's irises.

Later he did not take long to explode, sitting on her lap, being stroked with Ponds Cold Cream.

Later still, still crying in her arms, he gushed with sulphurous confession. About how the notion of being nude with dressed females was the most exciting thing in the world. How he wanted it more than anything else. How he dreamt of it day and night. How he could be terrified- like when he walked into her living room naked and saw the five seated girls with their eyes popping- and at the same time thrilled like nothing on earth. 

He told her about his "daydreams." He called them that, not fantasies. His daydreams- like being caught skinny dipping by cheeky girls and forced to come out of the swimming hole and beg for his clothes, or being ordered to strip for a female doctor and having other females enter the room and see him totally naked on her examination table. He told her about the time Miss Braithwaite and a lot of schoolgirls had burst into the boys' swim class and had found him seated on the bench nude and trapped, and they stared grinning at his penis. 

These days he and his three friends were still being punished for being caught masturbating looking at nudist magazines. Spanked at one another's homes by another boy's Mom, very often with sisters or neighbourhood girls watching. The rehearsals for the school show...well, Mrs Lanbourne had heard all the rumors. 

He knew he had strong "exhibitionist tendencies" and so on and so forth. He said he knew that the idea of humiliation was exciting to some men. Exhibitionists? He guessed he was in that category. He said the idea of a nudist colony, like the one portrayed in the magazine, made him "kinda go wild." Oh, yeah, that would be the best! For days at a time! Going naked, being looked at, his erections undeterrable, his emissions unstoppable. As soon as he was able...

"You will join up? A nudist camp?"

He nodded, afraid of a rebuke. Afraid of another spanking when his bottom was still raw. He stumbled over his excuse. He said that...with these, these...

"Tendencies? Urges?"

"Yes," he gulped. "It might be better to join a nudist club...that way...I can go every weekend...and sorta..."

"Get it out of your system?"

They both looked down at the mess of caking sperm and cold cream in his hairy groin and the streaks and globs stuck to the hair on his torso.

"Yes. To go as often as I can. Till I don't get excited by it..."

"Being seen nude by girls and ladies? "

"...yes, until...it doesn't excite me anymore."

And he admitted that recently he had sent a letter to Oakwood and praised the naturist lifestyle and said that he exercised regularly at the Y and in the pool at school but longed for the healthful rays of the sun all over and believed that one should never be ashamed of going naked but take pride in one's body and develop one's physique, kind of like the ancient Greeks who went nude a lot. Almost as an afterthought he had asked about membership of the club, using his deceased Dad's old post office box which his mother had never closed or used. A nice reply, badly typed, arrive after two anxious weeks. Two weeks in which he wrestled with daydreams of his first visit, arriving at the gates and being ushered inside rather as he arrived at Mrs Lanbourne's and the delicious moment when he had packed all his clothes in the locker of his cabin and stepped out in the sun naked. 

Oh yes, feverish dreams of that longed-for visit, the glances of girls and women, their eyes dropping to his groin and their smiles, the thrill of walking naked on grass, hiking down a track through a glade and seeing three females ahead, having to walk past them with a hardon leaking in front- all that; and alternately, fear that the next knock on the front door would be the FBI to charge him with abuse of the mails and haul him off as a pervert.

The reply, badly typed, came from a Mrs Lavender, the secretary of the club. She warmly welcomed his interest in the life of sun and exercise but said that schoolboys on their own were ineligible for membership as a matter of policy. "We get a lot of such inquiries although few as heartfelt as yours," Mrs Lavender had written, and he needed to join with his family. His parents or at least one would have to bring him, preferably his mother. Clubs liked mother-son combinations, something that is clear from any of the magazines. Also, it would be nice if a sister could accompany them.

The letter had continued, answering a question Stevie had delicately posed.

"As for your inquiry about embarrassments liable to be experienced by young men enjoying our outdoor environment, let me assure you that episodes such as this are not unknown. Nor are they regarded as unnatural. Providing they are not associated with lewdness in any form (this results in immediate suspension of membership and loss of fees) they are ignored, although the very youngest men who enter our membership- fellows your age- are counselled to walk around with a towel in hand and to be ready to lie on their stomachs if they feel a problem approaching. Of course if only males are present at the time the question does not arise. Attached find a table of fees..."

Mrs Lanbourne smiled distantly and stroked his cheeks.

"I have some news. Good news." 

She let him think about this.

In the meantime she mopped his belly and groin with a wet towel and the aroma of his fresh sperm rose to fill their nostrils.

She gently wetted his shrivelled penis.

"Some very good news for an 18 year old boy who wants to drop all his clothes and flutter around a busy, buzzing nudist colony full of women and girls."

He blushed at having his thoughts crystallised like this.

"Last week I telephoned Oakwood and, would you believe, spoke to- yes, a Mrs Lavender."

Stevie started. That letter from Mrs Lavender had fed his masturbation rites. His mind had been working on a way around the riddle- no family, no club membership; no membership, no going naked in front of females.

"Today I sent off a cheque for $58. A full year's membership for the four of us..."

Stevie shot off her knees. He stood before her. Hermes stood by him, looked up expectantly.

"You mean?"

"Yes, a family of four. Me of course. Protecting my complexion under the broadest of straw hats. In fact the mysterious Madame Wong..."

All of Brewer knew Madame Wong, the clairvoyant and beauty therapist with the rooms on Main. She was Formosan, said to have been an adviser to the Song family and Madame Chiang Kai-shek. She cultivated the atmosphere of an Eastern mystic.

"...told me that all-over sun exposure is the surest way to imbibe Vitamin D, providing one's face is protected. She said there is only one other sure fire miracle cure to beat ageing skin but she was too...shy, I think, to share it. I could see her blushing through her sallow Oriental skin. I think I can guess what the other cure is..."




Rodney's Nude Humiliation Ch. 11



Here she looked down at the wet towel, at his shining penis head, at the drying trails of fluid in his chest hair.

"...Don't worry, I'll winkle it out of her, although, as I said, I think I can guess."

Stevie looked imploringly: what could she tell him about getting into Oakwood?

"So I'll join that nudist camp. And enrol the two girls. And- I told them- my son as well. My 18 year old schoolboy son."

Here she reached out and placed her hands on Stevie's shoulders.

"Who badly needs to overcome his shyness. And I sent off for a family membership, effective they told me, the weekend after next."

Stevie's penis had instantly risen to full stand, out of the tangle of congealed emissions.

And Mrs Lanbourne steered his head to her's and planted on his lips and in his mouth the first real kiss the boy had ever tasted.

Her Himalayan cat, Hermes, watched, rubbing his back on the legs of their settee and meowing his approval.