Rodney's Nude Humiliation Ch. 12

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; she must have- must have- dilated on what those capacious cocks would feel like, in her hands, in her cunt. 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..."