Nude Humiliation of Young Viking

There are references in this to my earlier stories, Days of the Raj, Veronica Peeps and Nude and Erect.

*****

Carl Harlson, the tall, tow-haired young Viking, was summoned for rehearsal by Miss Cuff, to be the only boy up on the stage with seven girls, for a particularly difficult scene in Cowgirls and Indian Braves. It was the scene where a lone brave, out on the prairie, wearing nothing but his loin cloth, is surprised by a party of cowgirls and taken prisoner.

Miss Cuff wanted the piece rehearsed to perfection.

She had invited teachers, all female, and very, very eager to see one of the boys in his Indian gear get captured by the cowgirls. "Should be very funny," one of them chortled.

Carl began undressing in the empty boys' changeroom. He loved the changeroom, with its drip drip drip from leaking showers, its rusty lockers and the smell of old sweat and linement. He loved it despite the stained, seatless toilet bowls and the rats that sometimes peered from cracks in the bricks. He loved it because girls never got here.

His dungarees and checked shirt hanging on a hook, his loafers and scrolled socks discarded, he stood in his white boxers. And looked forlornly at what he had to put on.

A waistband with a tiny embroidered chamois flap.

A pair of moccasins.

A headband with a long feather.

Fuckin' hell! What a shitty, childish costume! But he had no choice. Miss Cuff ruled, here in Grover Cleveland High. Ruled over the boys, that was for sure.

Carl has active tear ducts and he looked close to crying in anger and frustration. He peeled down his boxers.

The air of the changeroom circulated around his naked midriff. Looking down he was shocked by the sight of his 18 year old body shaven of golden chest hair and black pubic bush. His scrotum as bald as an egg.

His shaving was performed twice a week by Beatrice Weatherall, sometimes in the school corridor outside the principal's office with other boys also standing nude, being rendered smooth skinned like Indian braves. Sometimes the school secretary Miss Assam found a reason to emerge and take a long look at what was going on. A female cleaner or teacher might linger, smiling with a far-off look. Meanwhile girls knelt and sloshed foam into male groins.

Boys strained not to become erect, without success. One after the other their cocks would rise, to the delight of the busy girls working at their groins.

Trouble was, he thought, being shaved around there only make his slender, short appendage with its thin, papery foreskin, look all the smaller.

He picked up the loin cloth and looked at it.

All those measurements and fittings at Mrs Carruther's place. Shit, hadn't she had him there a total of six times, to fuss with her maid Yuela over his costume, as he stood naked on a stool? And with each fitting the fuckin' flap had grown tinier, with Mrs Carruthers saying his covering needed to be smaller because he had less to hide than other boys.

He had shrivelled with shame.

And she was wrong: his cock was the same size as Stevie Lynton's, even a bit thicker, and Alan Larsen's was a mere three inches if lucky and there were as many boys under the six inch average as above it. Or so Coach Compton had told them, the coach's own cock being small, sprouting in his hairless, suntanned groin.

Carl eased the band up his legs and fixed it around his waist.

The flap just shielded his cock and balls but he knew that when he moved around or when he got stiff it would be a different story. And, as he worked on the moccasins, he dreaded going out the door for the rehearsal with girls, female teachers watching, Miss Cuff in charge. There would be no other boy.

He placed the headband, looked in the mirror.

Side-on he looked naked. His flanks uncovered, anyone would glimpse his genitals hanging behind the flap. Turning his back and looking over his shoulder, he saw his V-shaped swimmer's back tapered to cleft bottom, brazenly naked. Hell, showing his naked butt! To every female at the rehearsal! Next he posed head-on: shit, he could now view a little nozzle of foreskin hanging below the flap! The slightest stretch and it came into view!

He worked at the waist band but no, he couldn't lower it further. It already hung from his penis base just as Mrs Carruthers had planned in those fittings, with Yuela fussing over it, while he had stood naked on the stool with a full erection.

He moved to the door which led direct to the auditorium. On the other side he could hear the echoing voices of female teachers.

But the door was locked.

He jerked it, pulled, juggled. But it would not open. And they couldn't hear him.

There was only one other way to the school hall: past Coach Compton's office and out the rear door of the changeroom into the school grounds, across the grounds, through the cafeteria and past the school offices and into the foyer and, on the other side of the foyer, the auditorium.

"Where's Harlson?"

The echoing voice was Miss Cuff's.

"If he keeps us waiting...well, there are ways of punishing boys at this school none of them likes!"

There was laughter from the females.

He would run through the school to get to the school hall. No one would get more than a glimpse of his cleft ass, of his swinging cock.

Filling his lungs with the changeroom smells of wet tiles and damp bricks Carl jogged. Right out of the building and into the bright light of the school grounds. With one spring he was on his way across the courtyard...

...and face to face with a trio of strolling, gum-snapping senior girls.

They stepped backwards with shock.

"Oh my god!"

They took in the near nudity of the blond haired boy. The tiny flap on his front. The hilarious headband and feather. The exposed groin, shaven smooth. And as he skirted around them and they looked back at him, his exposed buttocks, powering him across the lawn and towards the entrance to the cafeteria.

"Hell! That was Carl Harlson!"

"He was...virtually naked!"

"Ah! That's Miss Cuff's show. He's one of the Injuns!"

"Oh my god! How embarrassing!"

"Carl Harlson! Can't believe we've just seen his bare ass!"

They doubled over laughing.

Desperately Carl seized the heavy glass and metal door and leant into it. He fell into the building where he faced two teachers, head-on. They were young, gaunt Miss Dolomite who taught Carl English and middle-aged, full-bossomed Mrs Harriet Longstrom, who taught girls domestic science.

"Well, well...Carl Harlson as an Indian brave! Goodness gracious!"

Mousy Miss Dolomite, 26, bespectacled and a virgin, suddenly had a feral gleam in her eyes.

In private she was subject to a raging libido that belied her prim young spinster, church-going image. For example, every night under the sheets she fantasised about making boys in her classes strip naked as punishment. Ordering them, under her gaze, to peel off every stitch, stand hands behind head and take her reprimand and sit at their desks in their birthday suits. As it happened, of all the boys it was Carl she had taken the most liking to, this young athlete suddenly in front of her in such promising circumstances. Under the blankets he was the one most often recruited for her fantasies, the naked boy she would make get to his feet naked, stay behind for punishment, visit her at home for help with studies.

Miss Dolomite was getting more daring with each passing month of her wretched virginity. She would not miss this chance. Not with Carl Harlson.

Without a second's delay, heart thumping and eyes wide with lust, she had a corner of his chamois flap between a thumb and forefinger and lifted it. It made Carl jolt. His first thought was to dart off, jog around the teachers. But Miss Dolomite's prurient grip tightened. If he pulled away it would tear the flap off the waistband leaving him nude, in nothing other than moccasins and a headband.

"It's interesting embroidery." .

But she wasn't looking at the embroidery. She and her companion were both staring under his raised flap at Carl's cigarillo of a penis, its head covered in a papery prepuce, resting on a sac as hairless as a statue's.

Miss Dolomite was surprised and curious: this petite penis. In rehearsals she had glimpsed Jimmy Fraser and Rodney Ricketson and Mark Campbell with long fleshy penis stems and big fat heads on them. Oh my god, that Rodney Ricketson! That head on the end of his penis- what did they call it in the biology texts? His glans...huge! Some boys in her class- boys she fantasised about stripping- sported fat bulges in the front of jeans. Yet here was Carl, a broad shouldered athlete, with a sweet little cylinder down there, resting on a tiny ball sac. Did he get embarrassed, standing in the showers?

She felt a flutter of excitement in her groin, sensing the shame of the tall, good looking swimmer. Shame at having his secret exposed.

Her tug stretched the flap parallel to the floor. He would feel air all around his groin. She felt him jolt with fear.

Mrs Longstrom noticed Carl was devoid of hair. "Would most boys...his age have hair..?"

"Well, I imagine he's still growing. Still...at 18...you would expect some fluff at least."

Carl dissolved with shame. Those active ducts in his eyes made him look close to tears.

Shaking, the boy expostulated that he did in fact have hair down there but Miss Cuff shaved them...er, rather she had girls do it...all the boys...so they would look like Indian braves...

"Ah! So you originally DID have hair down here, after all?" Miss Dolomite did not want to spare him any embarrassment.

"Was it blond?"

And Harriet Longstrom giggled at her own question.

About to faint from shame the boy confessed that no, it was black. "Down there...it was black...but on my chest..."

"And what lucky girl gets to shave you, Carl?"

"Beatrice...Beatrice Weatherall." He stumbled out her name.

"Well," opined Miss Dolomite and lifted the flap to 45 degrees, "Tell her next time that I think she has done a very good job."

"What? They leave his bottom bare? This boy's got nothing covering his behind."

"Turn around," ordered his English teacher, her thoughts a long way from Jane Austen and Emily Dickensen.

But he protested, stuttering, that he needed to get to his rehearsal. There were, however, more questions. "And how often does she shave you?" and "I guess you're no longer embarrassed when it happens?" and "Do you find that this little flap moves around a bit?"

He offered staccato, monosyllabic answers. "Twice a week...mostly in the corridor" and "No...well, kinda...if other girls come and look..." and "Yes...I want a bigger flap for sure" until they let him get past.

Watching his bare bottom take off across the cafeteria Miss Dolomite thought, his ass cheeks look like there're just out of the baking pan. She loved the indentation on the sides and she admired the silky indentation of his spine, dividing his back in half.

Through the corridor with classrooms on each side he jogged, grateful there were no girls out on errands or visiting Moms or wandering women teachers. Around the corner he jogged, with the foyer and the auditorium straight ahead and administrative corridor to his left with the principal's office- the corridor where boys on shaving days would stand quaking and nude up against the wall- up to 15 of them- to be shaven by anointed girls.

He jogged, the flap of his loin cloth flying from side to side, the air around his flopping genitals and his bare ass...

...right into the school hall.

The female teachers seated in the front rows swung around to see him jog panting down the aisle. They flushed at his near-nudity under the headband and tall feather, tiny flap fluttering over his groin. The seven girls on the stage, dressed as Annie Oakleys in hats, gloves and cowgirl skirts grinned superciliously as the lone boy, their own sweet little Indian brave, arrived to join them. Miss Cuff, roaming wild-eyed and impatient, ordered him up on the stage without delay.

So Carl had no choice but to present his bare bottom- cleft and indented- and mount the steps.

The shame, of knowing all eyes would be on his naked cheeks. His insides melted at the humiliation: his female teachers seeing his ass. Hell! Any boy would hate it! How could he...how could he look any of them in the eye again? "Good morning, Miss Duckworth...good morning Mrs Gainsborough," knowing they'd seen his naked globes! Them smiling back at him, at the boy they had glimpsed with a bare bottom.

Again, he came close to tears.

The stage had one prop: a waist high cardboard replica of a cactus.

And so the rehearsal went. An party of cowgirls, their lines delivered in a parody of Broadway musical patter, comment on the desert scenery...they exchange suggestive hints about the "rough, rude Injuns who inhabit these parts"...young Indian braves who hunt naked...and the cowgirls simulating shock and fear. This is enlivened by a song routine, a medley from Annie Get Your Gun and other show tunes.

Then a descent into romance as cowgirls pine for their cowboy companions and lament the loneliness of the plains. Another show tune and then the plot gathers place. It seems the girls are on a mission to capture one of the local tribesmen: the Smithsonian Institution has offered a reward for a strapping young Indian to be brought to Washington to be examined by its (female) scientists and doctors.

Which is when Carl appears, bow and arrow at the ready, looking cute and vulnerable under his feather in his near-nudity- no, nudity because through the drama of his encounter and capture and escape and recapture, his tiny flap swings so wildly that his genitals are presented again and again to his appreciative audience. His genitals, and his clenching and unclenching buttocks.

The final scene has Carl imprisoned at the cowgirls' camp. He stands behind the cactus so the audience only sees his upper half.

Declares Sally Smyth, the cowgirls' leader, rifle in hand, "You are trapped here, young fella. And to keep you trapped..."

There is a pause for dramatic effect.

"...we cowgirls of the plains..."

The girls twittered at what was coming.

"...require you, our prisoner, to hand over..."

More twitters.

"...your loin cloth!"

Gasps and giggles from the teachers in the front rows.

Carl is required to react with feigned horror. And he does, having been rigorously rehearsed. Melodramatically he begs to be allowed to keep this last shred of dignity: "Gosh, Miss Cowgirl, no...no...not in front of white ladies."

The audience of female teachers laughs lewdly, clearly stimulated by the frisson of male humiliation: a boy robbed of his last remaining item of clothing. Surrounded by dressed girls. Females getting the upper hand with a stripped boy.

Carl declaims the lines drilled into him by Miss Cuff. He declares, "No Soiux boy can be buck naked in front of cowgirls! That's bad magic! No...no...please, ladies. Not buck naked!"

"Buck naked." The lady teachers laugh lubriciously at this developing motif, so erotic in its promise of male shame.

The cowgirls are unbending, however. No, they say- one girl after the other- hand over your loin cloth, Indian boy! One even says, "Come on, Injun! Let's see your birthday suit!"

This opens a little patter routine. The seven girls trip around the boy and the cactus, chanting:

"Show us your birthday suit!

"Show us your birthday suit!

"Girls just wanna see your birthday suit!"

All the while teasing him, wagging their forefingers in his direction.

"Show us your birthday suit!

"Show us your birthday suit!

"Girl just wanna see your birthday suit!"

And they each point at his little loin cloth.

He pleads desperately to be allowed to keep his loin cloth while his female teachers become more and more titillated, some obviously aroused, by where this must be leading: surely to Carl emerging from behind the cactus naked as a jay. Their eyes are dilated by the delicious sight of Carl, his midriff just covered by that make-believe cactus. The prospect of him losing his loin cloth and emerging has got them all with excited, damp loins.

What they don't know is that Miss Cuff's direction requires a extra loin cloth to be secreted behind the cactus prop, ready for him to grab at the climactic moment. Sheltered by the cactus he slowly simulates pulling down his waistband...the girls look on with theatrically widened eyes...he even stretches things out by appearing to turn his back...finally he acts as if he's stepping out of the loin cloth...protected by the cactus.

And facing the cowgirls he hands over something that looks mighty like the one he's wearing. The audience pruriently assumes it's his own and that he's now nude: there's not one of the female teachers who's not panting with the vulgar thrill of seeing him buff naked and shamefully humiliated.

The girls feign triumph, waving their prize aloft. They then indulge in a festival of gasping, giggling and staring at what should be the poor boy's exposed privates as he stands glued to the spot behind the cardboard cactus. And all the lady teachers are shifting their bottoms with excitement, eyes popping, staring up at the boy. Carl had been instructed by Miss Cuff, "You must act shamed to the core. Remember, Harlson, these cowgirls now see you naked as a jay, stripped down to your birthday suit. They will be staring at your...let's be explicit, your penis...at your testicles..."

She had coached him painstakingly to widen his eyes, to hang his head, to shrug his shoulders...to play a parody of embarrassment...to climax in an "aw shucks" smile at the audience as if to say, "Well, here I am...bare as a board...and they can see it all."

The ultimate Embarrassed Naked Boy.

The audience holds its breath: convinced the boy behind the cactus is now buck naked and about to end the scene in the only way possible, emerging to take his bow in a state of nature. They can hardly believe Miss Cuff's daring. Except that when Carl does emerge he is, of course, in his original flap- the audience sighs with disappointment and laughs at itself- and, taking bows, able to beam away as happy as the girls.

Well, not quite. Carl knows that during the performance, while protected from outright nudity, he has, with the flap swinging, shown off his genitals. Again, again and again. And his bottom. And he had Sally Smyth whisper in his ear, "One day I'm gonna rip that thing right off you! And they'll see what a little cock you've got, Carlie boy!"

The rehearsal wrapped up, he flees, jogging out of the hall, all females watching his bottom as it powers him.

And in the foyer outside the hall he runs right into the principal, Miss Ada Braithwaite.

She was a tall presence, a 50s-something lady, with gray-blond hair pulled tight, gray framed glasses down her nose. She wore a blue-gray suit, the skirt pencil thin.

Everything about her was gray-blue. Carl thought she had all the authority of one of Wernher von Braun's space rockets he had seen in The Saturday Evening Post.

Through the perched glasses she looked intently.

"Ahhh...Carl...the swimmer..."

He blushed. The bow in his right hand, the arrow in the left! Shit! They stopped him tugging his flap into place. The fuckin' thing had doubled up on itself. All out of place. The flap was catching his penis but leaving his hairless scrotum dangling free and exposed.

She was looking right at it.

Through the glasses perched low on her nose.

He started spluttering apologies. The word "rehearsal" figured, the name of Miss Cuff was invoked. Oh, he begged, please listen to what I'm saying...and, please Miss Braithwaite, stop looking down here!

Ada kept looking at the testicles, shaven smooth, hair-free, a delicate little sac- oh, so such a sweet little purse- holding two marbles.