Rodney's Nude Humiliation Ch. 17

From the gap in their drawn curtains, Gloria who looked more like Doris Day than any other girl in Brewer, could peer into the home of Glen Christopher, and, well...wonder. Wonder whether the boy next door was really a goody goody church-goer. Sure Glen sung in the choir of the Sixteenth Street Baptist Church and she saw him return from Sunday service and weekly scripture studies with his shiny, black Bible. Under his floppy auburn hair cut in "college boy" style, his face looked scrubbed till it shone. Glen was the ultimate "clean cut" youth. His tortoise shell glasses enhanced his free limbed good looks.

"Good morning Mrs Maple, good morning Gloria," he positively sung when he saw them in the front garden. He strode out, in button-down, blue shirt and trousers pressed into razor sharp edges. "A nice boy, that," said her mother and her meaning was clear- he would make a better companion than "the greasers"- the leering boys with oiled Elvis hair and thigh-hugging jeans who Gloria would drive out with most nights of the week.

A great variety of boys, too, and hard to believe that these heroes of local football and baseball, or even in one instant a sailor home on leave, didn't steer their Studebaker Starlight Coupes or Buick Roadmasters to one of those lovers' lanes like Cleveland Drive along the Protestant Cemetery or The Bough, near the diner on the interstate. Stretches of road where after sundown cars might be seen to rock gently, and emit gasps and groans, even have a window lowered to allow fingers to drop a heavy, slimy condom to the road surface.

Gloria might have reassured her mother. The young woman knew what she wanted. She wanted to get young men naked, with their tongues between her lips and her hand gripping their erections like a driver grasping a clutch. She knew what she didn't want: the shame of a pregnancy in small town Brewer.

She had a rule for "backseat bingo." She made the young athletes surrender their jeans or chinos...then their white T shirts or checked cotton shirts...their boxers or jocks...even their socks, filling the closed car with the aroma of warm leather, Lifebuoy Soap and Johnson's powder. Sprawling on the back seat, legs splayed, the athletes were soon bare as boards, a bit abashed to be nude while the sexy blond girl stayed in her skirt and blouse.

What if some busybody pressed a nose against the window? But this nudity was the price they had to pay to slip a hand under Gloria's blouse and, eventually, fingers into the cup of her bra for the thrill of touching a pert nipple. Even slide a hand up along her thighs and under the elastic and into the tangle of moist hair and the gluey cavern itself.

But she wouldn't allow a thing until they were in their birthday suits.

She stayed dressed.

When the naked young males started to pant their desperation she was quick to distract them with her fingers. Or, if they smelt fresh, with her Doris Day lips. And suddenly the back seat would fill with the groan of an 18 year old fella erupting- ah, the blessed relief of that moment!- and the fragrance of his teenage sperm.

She was the best cock sucker in her school.

Blindfolded, she could have recognised with her tongue Jimmy Fraser's stout cock roped with pumped-up veins- the ventral artery was on an industrial scale and cheeky tributaries ran out from it, overlapped it, zigged zagged in all directions. Gosh, that most veined of pricks allowed Gloria's tongue to slurp and tickle its length with the corrugations confirming: this was Jimmy's cock in her mouth. All cocks had their character. Only Will had that heft and downward bend in his generous eight inches. Thick too, its well sculpted bellend alone stretched her mouth. It could have belonged to no other boy.

There was Johnny Marcello's rubbery, upward curving erection. Gloria had thrilled at the bend, the banana bend, even though Johnny had been embarrassed to reveal it. As well, this curved stem was capped with a well formed spongy glans. Six inches but manly and thick- and, she sensed, ultimately excited by her demands to peel off clothes. "Like stripping for ole Speight," she had heard him mutter as he pushed down his jeans, in reference to the school doctor notorious for denuding Brewer's boys.

But all her pent-up her passion rolled itself into a big bundle of curiosity: what did Glen look like down there?

It was a question that obsessed her. Behind her cats eyes sun glasses she might be glimpsed staring into Glen's back yard through gaps in the 30 year old paling fence, part overgrown with ivy. But when he practised at the hoop he wore a pressed white T shirt and she couldn't find out whether he boasted a narrow treasure trail running from his belly button to waistband, something she considered one of the glorys of the male body.

She found excuses to slip into his home, to talk with his sisters or share recipes with his mother. Her deepest joy would have been to have snared him splayed over his mom's knee, in his birthday suit, flailing the air with arms and legs as the hairbrush rained down on his reddening glutes. Twisting, so that he would suddenly display the lolling equipage in his groin. Or standing post-spanking in a corner of the living or dining room, facing out- which was the statutory positioning these days for Brewer boys because it enhanced their physical pain with a great dollop of humiliation.

She engaged his sisters with sly talk.

"All the boys in town are getting spanked in the nude," she said cheerily. "I guess...your brother too?"

And her heart thumped.

The sisters looked at one another, grinned or giggled and changed the subject.

When one class of girls had broken in on a senior boys' swimming session- teacher Ada Braithwaite had connived in this outrageous breach of male modesty- they had trapped boys bare assed. Naked as jays. Without a stitch, each of them. Gloria had interrogated her girlfriends...who had they seen? She asked about Stevie, their family delivery boy? Or cute little Buddy Holland, who many girls wanted to mother? And various others...and heard about the stunning variety of boys' private parts, all apparently becoming erect with the stimulation of the girls' presence, before homing in on the question that really possessed her. The one boy she wanted to hear about.

"And...Glen Christopher? Did you catch him?"

"Why yes," said Laura Greensleeve. "Oh so cute, too!"

Gloria's heart raced.

"So...what's he like? Down there?"

"Well, he was trapped. He was with two others in the water...holding onto the edge of the pool...practising kicks..."

Gloria's tummy flipped with lust. And jealousy: Laura Greensleeve has glimpsed Glen's crack.

"...and so embarrassed that we were looking down at his sweet little bottom..."

"But...his cock...did you see his dick?"

"Nope. Coach let them stay in the water. But the Negro boys, Samson Douglas and Tom Wilson...Oh my god!"

Laura shivered with an unnamed emotion. Her eyes were fired.

That summer girls were riveted by rumours of a masturbation epidemic. Ada Braithwaite described it as "a craze." Mrs Reilly said it was so bad she would speak to her friend Mister Hoover to have the FBI called in. All the girls had stories of boys being sprung by mothers and sisters. The talk became wilder and wilder. Boys were now missing no opportunity, darting to the attic or cellar to excavate hidden caches of forbidden literature, doubling their time in toilet or bathroom, dropping their pants as soon as they were alone- as if the talk and warnings and prohibitions had thrilled them. Three to five times a day became the new benchmark.

Gloria was forced to wonder. Did Glen do it? Was the fresh faced, buttoned-down church goer...a masturbator? And if he did "jack off," to use the expression boys used, had he been caught? The thought of Glen being trapped naked, clawing his penis with a frantic look trained on images of women in lingerie advertisements or girlie magazines or nudist publications was haunting her. Or incriminated by soiled pyjamas.

"Do you think all boys do it?" she asked the art teacher Miss Simpkins.

Miss Simpkins cherished her time with girls and led them in talks about birth control, the novels of D H Lawrence, the poems of Sappho. She had thrilled them talking about her college thesis, "Prepuce Admiration Among the Ancient Greeks," with books open before them bursting with illustrations of naked warriors, gods and athletes. She had traced the foreskins on some of these pictures with a pencil tip as girls shifted in their seats listening to her, even clamping their thighs together. Their eyes would light as their teacher spoke about glimpses she had savoured- when she was at Yale - of males stalking naked into the pool.

Gloria pressed her about masturbation.

"Oh, of course they do it," said the teacher. "The production of testosterone explodes 30 percent in adolescents. They are sperm-generating machines. Some boys will masturbate five times a day. They have to, to evacuate it."

"Golly...even the polite young church-goers...someone like..."

She gave the impression she was searching for a name.

"...Glen Christopher?"

Her voice quailed.

"Of course. In fact..."

The teacher ransacked her own memory.

"...I think he's one of the coach's boys...exercising with Gordon down by the lake through summer...in the nude of course, given Gordon's preferences...and what did young Veronica tell me? She used to watch the goings-on with binoculars, through the shrubs...I think she said Glen seemed to revel in the nudity..."

Gloria nearly gasped. Glen nude...this goody goody, revelling being nude!

Miss Simpkin noticed the glassy, lubricious light in the girl's eyes. She recognised, as she had in Veronica, the bursting lust of an 18 year old girl in heat.

She decided to add fuel.

"Oh yes, Veronica said she thought that without clothes Glen, the churchgoer, was a very comely boy...'well proportioned' she said...in fact, implied he suffered erections..."

Gloria nearly gasped.

"...yes, stubborn erections...walking and running with them...and after being excited by the nude workouts in the sun he'd retreat to the foliage for his own purposes..."

That night Gloria peered through the curtains, looking for any telltale movement in the window of Glen's bedroom. Or for any hint of masturbatory rites being enacted behind the frosted glass window of the bathroom. Under the sheets she sought comfort in images of the lean, handsome boy trapped nude...nude by the lake...or in the bath. Trapped by her.

Did his have a well sculpt bellend? Shapley as a torpedo? Was the stem roped with veins? Was it straight as a rocket? Or defiantly curved like a banana? Did his ballsac dangle? Or, when his cock stiffened, did the scrotum vanish into the shaft, as it did with some of her partners, as if the ballsac had disappeared.

So much to imagine, as she spread her fluids around her own genitals...

...and stroked and clawed...

...to a delicious explosion. Her mattress springs screeched.

Then one Thursday her mother asked her to take a slice of her beef pie next door.

"That nice Glen is on his own with his mom and dad off to Wisconsin for the bridge marathons, sisters too. They left me the key and asked me to keep an eye out for the sweet fella."

Sometimes universal laws summon their strength and harness their furies and deep longings are realised with a speed never imagined.

Gloria, the pie cradled in her left arm, pressed her key to the lock. The panelled white painted door with frosted glass lead patterned window opened noiselessly.

Holding her breath, Gloria entered the carpeted corridor of the Christopher residence.

There was a low hum of TV dialogue in a 1930s movie, three rooms off. It was suddenly clicked off. Jimmy Cagney's voice reverberated for a moment and then faded in the air. Gloria heard the muffled padding of feet. Bare feet on urgent business. They faded somewhere. She silently rested the pie, in its sliver dish, on a hallway table and caught a glimpse of herself- shiny lipstick, perfect blond bangs, fevered eyes- in the mirror.

Silence.

Where was her quarry? Like a November hunter in pursuit of young stag with fresh antlers she glided- as if through a forest, as if clutching a deer hunter's Remington or Winchester- as silent as the best woodsman. She passed the dining room on her left with its chandelier. A picture of the Lord Jesus looked down on chestnut dining table with a single placemat where she guessed Glen must have been dining on pre-cooked meals and tinned snacks. Beyond, she glimpsed the entry to the kitchen with its chrome and vinyl chairs and Formica table top.

She inhaled the smell of Mister Christopher's Old Kentucky pipe tobacco...

...and Glo-Go floor wax.

She came to a corner and gingerly peered around it, into another hallway.

One door opened on a sister's bedroom, pastel patterned bedspread with a Thumbelina doll posed before the pillows. The window curtains were drawn and the room in semi darkness.

The next entrance was to the parents' bedroom and...

Gloria gasped and gaped...

...at the vision it presented.

Nothing less than a tall lean youth...

...his back turned, facing the mirror of the dressing table.

He was stark naked.

In his family home, with all its respectability- floors shiny, Jesus on the wall- the boy of the household was as naked as a jay.

She felt a furious tingling in her lower regions as she eyeballed his small, fleshy bottom cheeks. Glen Christopher's bottom. A cupid's bottom. No greater than a medium sized melon. Exposed, and cleft from top to bottom by a fissure which began as a shallow crevice and deepened on its run south until it dissipated itself into shallower, softer curves.

She squinted hard.

Like the rest of him this exposed ass glowed with an even, golden tan. Yes, the nude exercise by the lake, those workouts the boys did with Coach Compton. Didn't Miss Simpkins say that Veronica had told her he "revelled" in his nakedness?

Her heart thumped so loudly she feared he would hear.

She stared hard at the reflection of his front in the mirror. His groin was in shadow. She couldn't see whether he was or was not "suffering" an erection. His handsome face, behind his glasses, was totally absorbed in his own reflected nudity.

Suddenly, as if she had ordered it, he bent over...his bottom flared open...making Gloria gasp again- Glen Christopher's ass cheeks parting for her! Then he drew up an undergarment of some sort...

Gloria couldn't believe it!

Her tummy flipped!

He was pulling into place one of those g-strings or posing straps that mothers were purchasing at Logan's Department Store, pressed on them by the sales lady, Miss Newbold. For their sons. To wear at home in shameful punishment. In front of female family members and neighbours and visitors. Posing straps that revealed all their sons' glutes- the horror of being bare assed in front of mom's friends was devastating- with the cupped frontage showing the relief outline of their dicks.

And Glen's g-strIng was in the most popular colour: pink, a shameful colour for any male but one that apparently excited many. So Gloria had heard from many of the girls at school who had thrilled to see pink g-strings forced on their brothers...witnessed the boys' shame...and then, amazed, saw their brothers respond with involuntary erections.

Later, it seemed, boys would come to prize and protect their precious garment. See that it was laundered and pressed and stored neatly with jock straps and boxers. Girls found this attachment in their brothers funny and vulnerable, touching and pathetic. Many boys had been trapped wearing them- strutting and posing, admiring themselves in the mirror just like Glen now- when they thought they were alone at home and safe.

She heard the waist band snap into place. The boy reached forward and turned on the table lamp next to the mirror. Suddenly he was illuminated by a circle of light. He stood, his bottom small and fleshy and golden and, seen in the mirror in front of him, the pink of the g-string a vivid contrast with his tan. Anything outside disappeared in darkness.

Gloria edged forward to get a closer view.

The boy was absorbed, hypnotised with self admiration. Gloria noticed that the cup of the g-string, reflected in the mirror, was straining as his cock stretched and swelled. Even as she looked, the garment became fuller.

Glen Christopher was stroking his torso with one hand, tickling a nipple with the other, a glazed look in his eye, Narcissus-like, admiring his physique. And with good reason, thought the captivated girl. She relished his smooth chest and small nipples, the flat- no, concave- stomach. There was no treasure trail of hairs running down from his belly button. He was bare as an egg.

The cup of his posing strap was ballooning.

Gloria's head swirled at this "goody goody" neighbourhood boy, transformed into libertine, stroking himself- and now fingering the bulge in his front- "revelling" in his bad thoughts and fantasies.

A sound of car reversing disturbed his reverie.

The boy darted out of sight. There was a click as he turned down a slat of the blind. Then, assured no visitor was in their driveway, he returned to the mirror and quickly slid the posing strap down his legs. Totally nude again he was reaching for another garment- what was he stepping into?

Gloria couldn't believe her eyes. He was pulling up a loin cloth...one with no rear flap...and reaching for an Indian headdress! He was dressing like one of the boys in Miss Cuff's production of Cowgirls and Indian Braves! He must have borrowed the costume of one of his friends. Yes, must have, because the boys in that long-rehearsed production had now had loin cloths replaced by a simple embroided belt. For the last week they had been rehearsing with their manly attributes swinging on display to the relish of the lucky females Miss Cuff invited to observe.

Glen was now admiring himself, in headdress and tiny loin cloth, a brown skinned Indian youth- his tortoiseshell glasses only made him a more delicious image to the peeping, excited girl. He was looking head-on at his reflection. Captivated. Then turning sideward...Gloria gasped at his pose...to admire his totally revealed flank...his long legs...right, then his left...stroking his sides as he stared at the mirror, in a gesture of showgirl or teenage beauty queen. Then turning his back to the mirror and looking over his shoulder to view his exposed glutes.

Such vanity, thought Gloria with a smile.

He obviously liked what he saw. The frontal flap of his Indian loin cloth lifted in a few quick jerks and jutted parallel to the floor. The rod beneath it- obviously a hefty one- stayed in shadow.

Gloria watched transfixed.

He posed in half a dozen warrior postures. Posing as if with spear...as if clutching a tomahawk in each hand...about to hurl one at a foe...with arms folded...or hands on hips. It made Gloria giggle- the tortoise shell glasses beneath the headdress...

...the frontal flap parallel to the floor...

...the sweet little bottom displayed in full.

Then another bustle. He was collecting his props and turning to exit the parental bedroom.

The girl beat a retreat, back around the corner and into the darkness of the dining room, just peeping around its doorway. A second later she saw a blur of movement as the boy flashed down the corridor from the bedrooms to...what must be the living room.

She tiptoed after him.

She peered around the corner into the pastel coloured centre of Christopher family life: Scandinavian furniture, wall to wall carpet and Motorola TV. Another picture of Christ on the wall and coloured prints of covered wagons and prairie horsemen. Copies of Readers Digest and Saturday Evening Post on coffee table.