Rodney and his Friends in Tights

Kerry Fulbright, long eye lashes fluttering under his perfectly floppy auburn hair, was struggling to pull up a pair of lily-white tights. There! He snapped them into place. And found they fitted him tightly but also that they captured his lengthening prick with its jaunty sideways tilt in perfect outline. Yes, reaching up and to the left. Stretching to its full seven inches. The edge of his glans was particularly well delineated. And his scrotum! Hell, even the bubbles on his shaved balls were visible- as if his lower half were part of a relief sculpture of a nude on a Roman sarcophagus.

"They can see everything!" he lamented to himself.

The glances of the ladies confirmed it.

"What an elegant penis on that boy," thought Dr Gwendolyn Hymen, lecturer in physics. How sweet to have this fella with the fluttering eye lashes as son, even nephew. The fun they could have. The picnics they could enjoy, by remote swimming holes. Her panties dampened.

"Just love the jaunty angle on his thing," thought Mrs Carruthers who had contrived to perform five fittings on Kerry before she and Yuela got it right. She never tired of poking around his rearing, sideways jutting erections- him quite naked, up on the stool- as much as he hated it. Calling him back for fitting after fitting had thrilled Yuela just as much.

Stevie Lynton was quite nude. Nude and erect, hairy and evenly tanned.

"Why this boy is brown all over," thought school teacher Miss Auburon, eyeing the golden glow of Stevie's haunches. She walked around him and confirmed his bottom was boldly brown. She thrilled to the idea of him going naked outdoors. By the lake? She had heard that boys worked out there nude, like Greek warriors from classic times. And- could she peep? She had heard that one girl did, hidden in the shrubs with binoculars.

"Yes, his family had him away all summer- nudists," said Miss Cuff, sniffing disapproval. Somehow she had learnt of Mrs Lanbourne's interest in Stevie, her role as surrogate mother and her ultimate indulgence of the boy: taking him, with her two daughters, to visit naturist retreats. "And he hasn't been shaven either."

Poor Stevie was facing the two of them. Other ladies were moving to join them, fascinated by his hairiness, his erection, his trembles. He felt their eyes on his body, all over it. He felt ashamed to be the only boy covered in hair and, that blond guy Carl apart, the one with the tiniest dick and to have it so unambiguously stiff. His petite tube of flesh was throbbing and, if it must be said, dribbling a trail of what looked uncommonly thick Cowper's fluid.

And why wouldn't he? All summer, visiting nudist camps across the mid-west with Mrs Lanbourne and her daughters, had only entrenched his special feeling of humiliation and excitement when naked, being looked at by females. Having them smile and whisper as they gazed at his little, little penis always standing bold and unapologetic in his hairy groin.

Mrs Carruthers rummaged for small tights, all the time swiping glimpses of the boy, and smiling to herself as she saw his embarrassment. She handed him a pair of pixie-size hose in a sweet lime. He pulled it on and looked down with horror to see his cock displayed rampant and insistent in all all its sweet details...and the fabric immediately splotched by his telltale emissions. In his clinging lime sheath, naked above the waist, he stood close to tears, head down as females left their other charges and gathered in front of the shameful display.

His penis stood erect, flattened like a mouse embryo behind wallpaper, in the light lime fabric. And from its little acorn head a disgraceful, dark dampness spread left and right.

There were murmurs from his watchers.

"Is it..? Is it..?"

"An emission? Might be. They are filthy-minded at this age. Anything can bring it on. He was very excited from the start."

"No, I think, it is a preliminary discharge...what's it called? Pre-ejaculate. Lubrication...from his penis head..."

There were mocking titters and tutters. The ladies gazed at him.

He shivered with a strange but familiar feeling.

He thought of one moment in Firtrees, the Illinois naturist retreat, when three suntanned, brazen, bare naked girls his age caught him- trapped him- in an isolated grove and closed in, pointing and elbowing and giggling. He withdrew, deeper into the foliage but they had advanced, pointing at his stubborn little erection and laughing out loud. He had hardly dared look at their nipples or groins, their extravagant bursts of pubic bush.

His eyes had darted away, and he had cowered while they teased him about his little cock and his stiffness. They had teased and mocked, threatening to tickle him around his ribs. Until Stevie had felt a funny feeling all over...something rise up his stem...and...

Gasp!

...higher and higher...

...until it just bubbled out...

...and it kept bubbling...

...overflowing, out of his little slit...

...as he had looked down at himself helplessly.

And the girls had guffawed and leapt with excitement! "Look! Look! Oh my God!"

He thought of it again, that occasion at Firtrees, the naturist retreat: he had stood, trapped in his nudity, being looked and laughed at, until he bubbled over. Just bubbled over, standing there on the pine needles, trembling with strange excitement.

And now in front of these ladies on the stage...something like that was happening...he felt a throb...and another...

And oh no! It was happening again.

It was rising...

...and he could do nothing to stop it...

...bubbling up, up his short stem and...

...out his little meatus...

...like a drinking fountain, water bubbling up...

Blobs of his teenage sperm bubbled forth- bubble, bubble, bubble- and flooded the front of his tights, all over the front of the tights, soaking Mrs Carruther's fabric, making him feel sticky and warm.

"Look!"

"Look what's he done now!"

"Talk of the devil!"

"Now that's the real thing!"

"And what a quantity! A real drenching!"

Mrs Carruthers, tut tutting, moved in on Stevie and peeled down the soaked tights. Down they came, revealing the matted, milky mess around his penis and hairy groin. He felt as if he were deep in a warm bath of humiliation. "Come on, right off," she insisted, getting him to step free. "What a silly boy you've been. You'll be taking these home with a note for your mother. She'll have to wash them!"

And she ordered him off the stage and across the auditorium and into the boys' change room to clean himself up. Little Stevie padded off.

Rodney Ricketson stood there, ginger hair in a Marines crew cut. His V-shaped torso was on display, large pink-orange medallions on his chest, the blazing pink tights up at his hips. But he was blushing and shuffling because his erection was jutting at a broad-beamed 45 degrees pushing the waist line out so there was a broad gap between the fabric and his flesh. A gap wide enough for Miss Cuff to have plunged her hand down and felt the meaty hardon if she had wanted. To have gripped his big mushroomy glans if she had wanted. To have plunged lower and enclosed the wide, white shaft with its network of prominent veins if she had wanted. Instead she just glared.

Through the fabric she could see the fat glans holding the waist of the tights up and out from his body.

Nora, Bella and Lucy joined her.

They just stood.

Looking Rodney over.

"The problem is...putting them like this up on the stage."

"Not up on the stage. Not like that."

"In front of a female audience."

"Yes, so...so...blatant."

Rodney felt their eyes all over his lower body, over his embarrassment. He blinked, close to tears.

"Well, there are ways..."

Miss Cuff's thought trailed off.

"...we can...how shall I phrase it? Well, see that they are...relieved...before the performance."

The ladies silently absorbed the thought.

The boys heard it, wilted.

Relieved? Make us jerk off? In front of them?

"Another approach is to simply give them practice. Require them to wear the costume until they get used to it. And it no longer gets them hot and bothered. A letter to mothers...get them to make their boys wear it at home...yes, in front of the family...sisters...visiting relatives...making it very clear there are to be no jockstraps worn underneath, of course!"

"Or even..."

This next thought was coming from their music teacher, 28 year old Moira Metcalfe. She had never missed one of Miss Cuff's rehearsals. She relished making eye contact, in classroom or corridor, with boys she had seen in the auditorium with erections or bared bottoms. And seeing them overwhelmed with shame and look away. She even allowed herself to tell some of the girls about the things she had glimpsed when boys had been forced to romp with their little flaps. She enjoyed seeing the girls- the plain ones especially- flush with greed.

In this spirit Moira continued her thought.

"Have them wear them at school. In the corridors. In class. Imagine calling on them to stand up!"

Ladies looked even more closely at the tights-wearing boys.

Dressed like this. In classrooms. Calling on them to stand and recite to the class or write on the board.

Rodney's mind raced. Wearing this at home! In front of Mom and his sister? Her bridge club? While watching TV? And at school! His penis jolted and deposited a sudden surge of pre-ejaculate down the front of the pink tights.

A regular dousing.

An area on the front of his pink tights shaped like a map of Ireland suddenly turned red.

"Oh my god!"

The ladies- senior, spinsterish, lubricious- were transfixed.

"Hell, oh hell!" thought Johnny.

Looking at the six of them Miss Cuff thought, yes, the more "interesting" of them.

Six splendid specimens of male misery and humiliation.

Except haven't I overlooked one? One as delinquent as Rodney Ricketson and Stevie Lynton at getting excited- hopelessly, deliriously- at being nude in front of us? Like them, a perfect exhibitionist in the making.

Yes, Johnny Marcello. He of the banana-bend, fleshy and heavy at the bellend, a curved fat-headed penis. Erect as soon as he knows a female is looking. Athletic physique too. And those rich, scarlet blushes- for example, when he had been sighted in the school corridor stark naked being shaven by that ugly girl, Olivia Pucker. And didn't they say that she had played the "jiggle juggle" game with him during a medical, him naked up against the wall with an erection hard as a roof beam curving back on itself? Having that girl gently slap his scrotum ("jiggle") to see the testicles bounce inside ("juggle"). Her giggling at his pain.

I wonder what he's doing at this moment, she wondered, and whether he knows what he's escaped?

But Johnny was at that moment on the other side of town.

At this split second Johnny was gulping with fear. His tummy was on fire. He was on the steps of Mrs Reilly's classic mansion, just delivered to her doorstep by Brewer's top cop, Sergeant Malone. Johnny was there for an afternoon of punishment. Damn, he cursed his own foolishness in parking his Dad's car in a no-parking zone. All because he was in a hurry for an encounter with that delicious blond Delcia Forrest at Pop's Soda Fountain in Main Street. The Doris day-lookalike was always there at four in the afternoon; he wanted to bump into her as if by chance, even hit her with an invitation to a movie at Brewer's drive-in. Jail House Rock was screening. Damn- that had been the reason for the rash parking decision. And damn that cunning Sergeant Malone for laying it on the line: work it off at Mrs Reilly's, labouring in her vast garden for a few afternoons or we let your folks know. He had started to protest, facing the red faced cop with his whiskey-breath, next to the offending sedan, there on the corner of Polk and Main.He couldn't bring himself to say it. The truth was Mrs Reilly made the young men who were ordered to work in her garden work in the nude.

Without a stitch.

In their birthday suits.

And she regularly invited her mature lady friends to inspect her garden. Always on those afternoons when a few youthful offenders were pulling out weeds or clipping hedges. Wearing nothing but a crew cut. Looking like young Marines in the showers. Or a ducks tail hairdo. Like Elvis himself- but buck naked.

Some of the ladies, in their floral dresses, hats and gloves, included friends of the boys' Moms. Or even on occasions the Moms themselves. Some suspected Mrs Reilly planned it- the appearance of a full-skirted, hatted mother who, grinning like a crocodile, would come face to face with her 18 or 20 year old son, bare as an egg and crouching with horror. There had even been senior girls from local high schools appear. Thrilled, excited, flushed as they closed in for close ups. And there was nothing any of the poor, exposed fellas could do. Short of planting hands over their groins and shuffling sideways, bending over a flower bed, pressing their fronts into a hedge.

Johnny had heard all this. He was terrified.

Johnny knocked on the door. The Negro maid called Doris appeared, in her gray dress and white apron. She suppressed a smile . She said she knew why he was here and walked him briskly along a curving brick path to the three-car garage, more on the scale of one of Minnesota's red barns. In an empty space near a slumbering Cadillac and Rolls Royce, and with the smells of oil and gasoline in the air, Doris looked Johnny in his frightened eyes and told him to strip.

To strip.

"You can put these..."

She gestured at his T shirt and khaki dungarees.

"...over there."

She pointed to a saw horse that had neat piles of clothes and half a dozen pairs of shoes at its base.

"Everything off."

And she stood stock still, watching.

Johnny felt a thousand butterflies in his tummy.

All those strange emotions that had troubled him before came flooding back. Those troubling, ambiguous emotions. Fear, and something else.

Like the time when he was stripped for the medical inspection by Dr Speight and seated at the chair in front of her desk. Just sitting there naked. Sporting a banana-bend erection, while the doctor asked him questions. He had trembled with excitement. And the door had burst and Miss Assam, the secretary to the principal, had walked in with that awful bespectacled girl, Olivia Pucker, and the two had looked him all over. Him, nude and seated in the chair, forced to bend forward to cover his midriff and cross his legs desperately. He had been swept with shame...shame, and a secret, dirty thrill.

And then Dr Speight had used him to educate the girl about male anatomy- yes, with Miss Assam allowed to join in the staring and pointing, the touching and probing- while his penis had stayed stiff and leaked and they had played that awful game of slapping his balls. "Jiggle juggle," they'd called it and laughed as his stones bounced in their sack in response to their slaps while he stood there, hard as a hammer.

He never forgot how the two females seemed to love his pain and excitement.

And then he had been recruited to that school musical where boys had to get round dressed- or undressed- as Red Indians, just in little loin cloths- small flaps in front with no covering on their bottoms at all. The rehearsals in front of female teachers had been hell, especially when the boys had sprung erections.

Then Miss Cuff the drama teacher had made the decision that the boys had to have their body hair shaven to be just like real Indians. So at their next medical his hair had been whisked off- and Olivia had been given the task and the razor that went with it. And thereafter the task of shaving him twice a week. In the special room near the principal's office where he'd had to undress under her gaze and lie down and have her fuss around his groin.

And hell! Now Miss Assam had organised it so that the shaving took place in the corridor that held the principal's office, 15 or so boys gathered at the same time, undressing themselves while the allocated girls stood with shaving jug and razor, eyes gleaming, now in love with the task of razoring the folds of a scrotum or the interstices of a groin. The boys were soon standing stripped to the buff- withering when a female teacher or cleaning lady passed, or a girl from their class stopped and stared and giggled- at them, naked and smooth-skinned.

Inevitably all their cocks were to rear up as the girls fussed with brushes and razors around their armpits and privates. And in cases of hirsute boys like Jimmy Fraser, around their intergluteal clefts. Bent over, stretching their ass cheeks apart. Clara giggling hysterically as she lathered foam in Jimmy's crack and poked into it with her razor. And, true to form, on every occasion Johnny's penis had been the first to rise. In fact his penis had risen at full bolt as soon as Olivia had pulled down his boxers. Olivia had proudly drawn this to the attention of the other girls, all beginning to lather away at their own boys, and they had grinned at Johnny's banana bend and fleshy head.

"Looks like he likes you, Olivia."

"I think Olivia's won herself a heart."

"Ah! The thing on the end is shaped like one!"

"He's a romantic fella, that Johnny."

Olivia had flushed with pleasure and pride and stirred the foam in her jug with relish.

All because his cock had a mind of its own. And, to be truthful, there were, as Dr Speight had said when she had examined him, certain erotic impulses that stirred Johnny. Oh yes, she had recognised that he was one of those males. One of those who got wildly excited nude in front of females. Yes, being naked and humiliated in front of dressed females was the first and foremost spur to young Johnny's impulses. She had picked it.

It was, truth be told, the subject of every one of his masturbation fantasies.

And now Mrs Reilly's maid, here in the cavernous garage, was asking him to strip off. In a garage. Before a Negro lady. In a maid's uniform.

To strip.

Completely naked.

He slowly tugged his T shirt from his trousers and pulled it up.

As his face vanished into the cloth he knew Doris was staring at his white torso and at his orange nipples, erect and expectant.

These days Johnny found they were getting more sensitive. When he jerked off he pinched them. Recently he had picked two pegs from the laundry to use in his masturbation sessions, to pinch his nipples and relish the nice, sweet squeeze. As a result the darts were getting longer, tubular. Erect, they were shaped like tiny anvils, flattened on top. When not erect they were bulbous, fleshy. Impatient, it seemed, to be stroked and stimulated. These broad pleasure buttons- wild thought- seemed to be cousins to that mushroomy, nerve-packed penis head that gave him such pleasure. He dreamt of the day he might lie naked on blond Delcia Forrest and their nipples, his and her's, might press into one another; his darts sparking electricity as they touched what he imagined were her long, pink, rubbery titties.

Meanwhile as he struggled inside the T shirt, he wondered whether the maid Doris liked seeing his white skin. Was it in fact the shame of the white male she liked, the humiliation of a white boy- one of the master race, the slave-owners- having to peel off his clothes under her gaze?

When his shirt came off and he saw her expression: he was in no doubt.

She nodded to the saw horse.

He shuffled to it.

He folded the shirt and put it down; he stayed in place, facing away from Doris, undoing his belt, heart beating. He shucked his dungarees loose and slowly edged them down his thighs, blushing as red as a fire hydrant. He paused...and stepped out of them. Then he struggled out of his loafers, pulled off his socks. He felt the oily, dusty garage floor on the soles of his feet. He stood, facing the wall, not glancing in her direction, in his white boxers.