Nude and Erect

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

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

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

He walked right up to them.

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

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

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

Coach was exploding.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Back came a chorus of affirmation.

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

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

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

He caught their fascinated glances.

Just perceptibly, the tube lengthened further.

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

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

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

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

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

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

STEVIE'S STORY.

Yes, that expression "your birthday suit."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Have you anymore of these magazines?"

He blushed deep. He couldn't talk.

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

She gestured to his nude body, his erection.

"...until they all come home."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Stevie thought he had to clarify.

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

Magda had to help.

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

Grimly, he nodded.

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

They both looked at it, rigid in his groin.

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

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

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

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

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

The stuck-together pages carried their own condemnation.

Stevie nodded lamely, blushing and close to tears.

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

He nodded again, eyes clenched shut.

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

Again he nodded, twisting with shame.

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

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

But...

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

"You mean it's an addiction?"

He nodded desperately.

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

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

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

No choice.

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

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

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

She raised the feather duster, clutching the feathered end.

She paused...

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

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

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

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

Then...

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

Then...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her hand was stroking his erect penis.

He nodded.

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

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