Rodney's Nude Humiliation Ch. 11

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?

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. "The thighs of Wisconsin lumberjack!"

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. 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- the tiniest size avail 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.

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.