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She saw Glen naked, seated in a pale blue chair with light toned timber arms and legs. His head was shielded by a cantilevered shelf with cabinet.
His Indian loin cloth was around his ankles...
...and he was holding a publication- a small magazine- in his left hand...
...which obscured a view of his groin but his right arm was moving piston-like at its masturbatory mission.
He impatiently kicked his feet, and the loin cloth flew across the carpet.
The magazine was devoted to pictures of big breasted women in flamboyant underwear. The one he was staring at was a brunette in frilly black brasserie and underpants.
On the heart shaped coffee table was the Minneapolis Star Tribune open at a half page advertisement featuring line drawings of women in their lingerie. There was an open jar of Brylcreem...
...into which the boy plunged his fingers to capture a dab of white cream and slather on his penis, still hidden from her view.
Another flurry from the chair and the boy had cast aside the magazine and collected the newspaper to hold to his eyes.
Gloria's heart thumped.
She stepped forward.
"Glen Christopher!"
He was trapped.
He slammed the newspaper down over his groin.
His voice croaked like an adolescent's
"Gloria?"
His face reddened. Beetroot red, thought Gloria.
He pressed desperately on the paper. Pressed it into his flattened cock.
She resolved to draw the moment out.
"Well, well, well. Glen Christopher...the goody goody...the church goer..."
Behind his tortoiseshell glasses- all he was wearing- tears welled.
What must he be thinking, Gloria speculated. He's nude, except for his glasses, and he's in my power. And he knows I've been watching his secret rites.
"Look at the naughty, naked boy! Aren't you a sight? Stripping off when the family is out of town. Posing in front of his parents' mirror in a little g-string..."
A tear flowed down his left cheek.
"A pink g-string!"
"Mrs Ricketson..."
He choked with shame.
"...gave it to my mom. Told her all the mothers were buying them for their boys. To wear when they were being punished..."
"Do your sisters get to see you in it?"
She hung on his answer. She lusted after knowledge of his nude humiliation.
The question seemed to traumatise him.
"Only three times," he said in a quaking voice.
"Three times! You must have been bad, Glen Christopher! What had you been doing?"
He looked to the carpet.
"Come on. I don't want to tell your mother about catching you nude..."
He quickly blurted his confession.
"Just happens...to boys...when they're asleep. Honest, I didn't touch myself. Honest..."
She touched her chin, in a quizzical gesture.
"Strange, because that's precisely what I've caught you doing. So you're saying that your mother found the stains on your pyjamas and sheets..?"
He nodded weakly.
"Sheets? Or pyjamas? Or both?"
"Pyjamas," he whispered.
"I bet she said she was sick of washing them? It's a common complaint of moms."
"Yes."
"And you were punished. Made to wear those embarrassing pink posing straps?"
"Yes."
"At dinner time?"
"No, on Saturdays. After breakfast. Helping with washing up and the other chores with the girls in charge...she calls them my 'special underwear'...I have to stay in them when she goes out...she says the girls will babysit me...but my only clothes are...the pink...things..."
"I imagine you found that very humiliating..."
He was dumb with shame.
"...with the girls seeing your bottom?"
His small fleshy globes.
His gloomy silence told her this was indeed what had transpired.
"And the pouch doesn't conceal much of your penis does it?"
He nodded, blushing.
"I imagine they tease you- their handsome young brother stripped down like that?"
"Yes."
She could barely hear.
"And spanking? Tell me the truth. I don't want to have to ask your sisters."
He said he had always been spanked. For any infractions. His mother was very religious- he nodded to the picture of Jesus on the wall. Yes, spanked...and yes, with his pants down. More recently, his mother had been told at church that boys should be totally deprived of clothes. Totally naked.
"In your birthday suit?" She sniggered at him.
He looked appalled at the expression "birthday suit." He nodded.
The latest thinking was that this was the most effective way of stopping boys...
He struggled for the right word.
"...committing self abuse."
"But it clearly hasn't worked with you." She gestured at the incriminating paraphernalia- newspaper, magazine, Brylcreem.
He sat silent, condemned.
"Tell me about the full nude spankings?"
Apparently his mother made him go into her bedroom- always her room, not his- and carefully remove his clothes down to his underwear. He said he hated this ritual. His pants and shirt he had to hang with her garments in her cupboard. For some reason he found this particularly humiliating- placing his dungarees or jeans and flannel shirt with her scented dresses and blouses. He would wait almost nude, subject to teasing looks from girls lingering outside in the hallway.
Then after half an hour she would return to check on him and tell him to remove his underpants, making him hand them over, leaving him in just his T shirt. He confirmed that this didn't provide him with cover because his penis and scrotum hung lower than the edge of any T shirt he wore. He felt positively indecent. He volunteered that he hated this drawn-out loss of self respect.
He was then at the mercy of sisters, their friends or visiting cousins thronging the hallway and peeping at him, always on hand it seemed for one of these terrible nude spankings. He said he felt trapped- without pants. He felt he was the embodiment of a joke- the embarrassed naked boy who had lost his pants, humiliated by girls. He spoke of the challenge of tugging the garment down at front, or keeping his back turned...and having to show them his bottom. Either way they were always pointing and giggling.
His mother would return and force him to stand in front of her while she sat on the bed and she would very slowly draw his T shirt over his head and down his arms while girls drifted in to stand close. She seemed fulfilled when he was completely nude, hands behind his back and she could look him in the eye and then cast her gaze lower. The boy shuddered recalling the humiliation.
She seemed happy that the girls were slaking their curiosity too. "Don't worry, they're not interested in looking at a naughty boy without his clothes," she said, repeating the age old lie, while he shivered before her bare as a board, girls looking with long, sideways glances. Yes, she very much wanted them to witness his punishment.
He volunteered the girls "seemed to love staring at him."
"Ogling you?" she asked.
"Yes," he confirmed shamefully.
"And apparently...they liked what they saw."
He just lowered his head.
She let it stand, horrible thought as it was to him.
His mother's favourite instrument was hand or hairbrush. At least if over her knees he got to bury himself in her skirts.
His face turned into a grievance.
"But lots of times she spanks me while I'm standing..."
"Which means you are forced to dance around in front of the girls?"
"Yes."
"That's so funny, Glen. A spanking dance! Your cock flopping! Yes, boys hate that....Flop, flop, flop."
He flushed with the painful memories.
She closed in, cunningly.
"Hard to stop erections then, isn't it? And I guess that's what really made the girls ogle?"
He froze at the excruciating memories. He lowered his gaze to the newspaper-covered groin.
"I mean, the girls must have liked seeing your cock standing up."
He looked close to fainting, staring at his groin. He was silent.
"Of course they did. All girls love that sight," she told him.
Finally he nodded.
"And it was completely stiff? All the way up? Pointing at the ceiling?"
Shamed, he nodded.
"What did they say to you afterwards? When they caught you alone? About seeing you nude and erect?"
Stumblingly, he admitted they did tease him. They wanted to know how he felt to be stripped naked in front of girls his own age. They were very curious about how shamed he had felt. They said they would hate it to happen to them.
His cousin said she didn't expect him to be so "huge down there." Another cousin said she liked knowing what he looked like very, very much and she particularly liked "the helmet" on the end of his stem. "Did all boys have one?" she had insisted on knowing.
A friend of his sisters told him she had no brothers or boy cousins and loved seeing his "tool" when it stood up. "Watching it stretch like that made me go all shivery," the pudgy girl had told him, giggling greedily. She hadn't known that something like that could happen. In a whisper she asked him to visit, when her folks were out. The other said his balls were very funny and said she would like to bounce them. One sister wanted to know whether he was stiff "most of the time."
That's natural, Gloria said, any girls would be intrigued by an erection on an embarrassed naked boy. He had to get used to having no secrets with the young women in his family. No secrets at all.
She changed the subject.
"Oh look," she cooed, pointing at the crushed newspaper. "There's a sale at Logan's. What's it say..."
And to his horror she peered in close.
He tightened his grip on the paper, last shield of his modesty.
Her finger traced the outline of the retail store's treasures- in this case, the lingerie that had been so exciting to the youth. He felt the press of her finger on his cock, through the pages of the broadsheet.
His eyes glazed with her touch. She noticed...and pressed harder.
She was tracing the outline of a drawing of the female figure.
She could feel, something stretching- like a small animal- shifting around under the paper.
Then she suddenly brought things to their climax. With both hands she took hold of the paper...
...his hands fell to the sides...
...and lifted it from his lap.
He gasped.
But he didn't resist...as if submissiveness to this girl was beyond argument, his surrender preordained.
His six and a half inch erection uncoiled from this thighs and sprang free, thrusting up with an understated, elegant curve. Totally mechanical, like something from an antique cuckoo clock with multiple moving figures.
And textbook. A textbook erection. So nice, thought Gloria, so...wholesome.
Wide-eyed, he looked down at his lap, as if witnessing the first erection he had ever suffered.
The veins that powered it stood out like relief sculpture. Fine, healthy veins, a network of them in the sun-bronzed stem.
His scrunched-up scrotum- also bronzed- revealed two distinct plums, separated by a cleft. The balls were generously proportioned. But bare as eggs. The only hair on his body was a neat black pubic patch.
She looked down at the vertical slit in his well sculpted glans, shiny with the Brylcreem. The slit poked like a smile directed right at her gaze.
Her triumph was complete.
He wilted, trapped before her lubricious gaze.
What's an embarrassed naked boy to do in these circumstances? All his secrets displayed, nude as a newt. Wearing nothing but his tortoiseshell glasses. The awful, shaming phrase- reserved for compromised males- now filled his head: "birthday suit." He was in his "birthday suit."
Truth was, there was nothing to do.
His insides went to water.
A glance upwards showed her green eyes, enlarged and mischievous, staring at his groin.
His spirit was melting into a pool of shame.
To worsen things a fat droplet of moisture appeared out of his slit. As if in tribute to the staring girl.
It hovered there, threatening to run down his shaft.
In a soft voice she said, "I see you're suntanned down there. All those workouts with Coach Compton and the fellas at the lake. Revelling in your nudity..."
He wilted with fresh embarrassment.
"Did you know there was a girl...with binoculars...watching you from the shrubs...reporting to Miss Simpkins. Telling the teacher everything she witnessed."
He looked shocked. Quickly his mind began to swim with the implications.
A perfect moment to reach out and take him by his arm and gently guide him out of the chair...
...obediently he rose...
...standing in front of her...
...and she guided him out of the living room and down the corridor.
"You know I've got to punish you for what I've just seen..."
His erection gently bounced as he tripped along behind her, hypnotised and in her power.
"Guess my hand is stronger than your ole mom's...so it's gonna hurt...but just think, there will be no other girls to look on and giggle at you. And it will stay with the two of us, our secret."
She had never spanked a boy before. She was very stimulated by the prospect. Bluntly put, the girl's panties were soaked through and her damp cavern very much on fire.
Sitting on the parents' bed she beckoned him to fold himself over her lap. For a moment the rampant cock wobbled right in front of her. A trail of moisture dangled from the meatus. She smiled at it. He noticed her smile. Another wave of shame engulfed him.
He quickly lowered his lean, bronze body. She felt his rubbery, slightly curved erection pressed on her skirt. She used both hands to reposition his bottom.
A cannibal in a Melanesian island valley, sitting to a ritual feast, could not have eyed the sight before him more ravenously.
And, close-up, what a bottom!
The two small tight globes were on her lap.
She raised and pointed the finger and thumb of her left hand. She inserted them into the cleft. Then she used their leverage to prise open the rock hard buttocks, so small, so tight, so muscular...
...and seperate the globes, like a lady doctor looking for symptoms on her horrified 18 year old male patient...
...giving herself a birdseye view of the hairless valley and the little suede-edged pout.
"Goodness! Guess what I've found! Your twinkle hole!"
His insides dissolved with the humiliation.
Still keeping the cleft splayed with the thumb and finger of her left hand she raised the finger of her right hand and held it poised...with its pointed and glossy red painted nail...then lowered it into the spread-opened crack. She slowly allowed the tip of the nail to trace the outer edge of the pout...the rim of his petite volcano...round and round...ever so slowly...
...which made him jolt...
...and half-utter a whiney of protest.
She slapped him hard on his right cheek and silenced him.
She recommenced her examination. She was exploring with the tip of her fingernail the secret entrance...the portal of his bottom, so hidden up till now...his tiny hole...taking her time...all the time in the world.
She then became intrigued by the delicate ridge line that ran from his pout...down the lump of flesh under it...(not a hair in sight). And beyond- this ridge line providing the sweetest bifurcation of his manly but hairless ball sac, as if it had been sewn up by his mother.
She lifted her index finger from his little hole...
...nail glossy with red paint...
...and proceeded to slowly trace this intimate ridge line...
...beginning where it sauntered out of the tiny suede pucker...
...lower...lower...
...crisscrossing it...
...sometimes with a flickering motion...
...slowly, ever so slowly...
...teasing the boy beyond endurance...
...so his breathing could be heard to quicken. She felt the pulsing of his elegantly curved rod on her thigh. Pulse. Pulse. Pulse. Perhaps, too, the slightest suggestion that he was pressing down...ever so subtly shifting his weight...just possibly, on the point of grinding his rod into her...being a naughty boy like all the boys she had known in the backseat, in the grip of wicked impulses.
But ever so subtly.
It was a precise choreography, for both.
The first time for her, the first for him.
"Down here," she said. "From your cheeky, pouting twinkle hole, all the way down here..."
She tickled his perineum.
"...right down to your balls..."
She allowed her pointed finger nails to tickle the wrinkled surface of his sac.
"...you are just so goddam cute!"
Cute!
Down there!
His shame suffused him. His insides melted.
Oh, how many times did that finger make that tributary journey, from little hole- sweet little hole, the skin a distinct suede- back and forwards over the ridge-
(the pointed nail now stimulated little gasps, small shudders, tremors from his whole being)
- down to the sack, crisscrossing its surface in a constantly tickling game.
They were both in trances.
She then announced that the spanking would begin.
"You know I don't want to..."
He felt he had to nod.
"...but I caught you pleasuring yourself and it is punishment from me or I tell your mother...my mother...the girls in the street...the girls in your class..."
Her finger nail was scratching lightly around his pout. One might even say, lovingly.
Which meant at this moment, cock pulsing away, he would have agreed to anything.
The first smack took him by surprise- a savage slap on his right buttock. "Ow!" he emitted. Others followed in quick succession. She was working "around the clock" and the circuit mandated regular scoldings of his upper thighs...close to the intergluteal mounds...then lower, just above the knees.
Slap!
Slap!
Slap!
He twisted and kicked.
His protests became louder.
"No...no...no...Gloria! Pleasssse...!"
But the girl had never enjoyed herself more and she plied away. Left buttock. Slap! Right buttock. Slap!The start of the intergluteal mound on the left. Slap! So hard she thought he was going to shoot forward, like a rocket. Then the right. Slap! Again, a frightful jolt. Low on the right thigh. Slap! Then the left. Slap! And then, excited by the empurplement of the skin she gave him a savage six more...all on the same spot...the right lower buttocks, where the mound started.
Slap! Slap! Slap!
Smack! Smack! Smack!
Enough. Even she, novice, could tell she was about to cross a boundary that might see him tumble from her lap, pirouette from the room and spring off like a gazelle to hide in the cellar among his mum's laundry baskets and his dad's tools.
No, her timing was acute. She ceased, and in a flurry of helpful tugs and pushes she had him straightened up. With her guidance he obediently positioned himself with his sore bottom pressed on her left knee but- feet on the floor- with only half his weight.
What a picture: a mother comforting suffering son, arm around his shoulder, him nude as the day he was born. Mary and her son Jesus, lowered from the cross. A pieta, by Michelangelo.
He was snuffling and emitting a low, kitten-like murmur of distress.
Her arm on his shoulders tightened.
She laid her other hand softly...gently...daringly...
...on his tummy.
Ever so lightly.
Right under her gaze his soggy, diminished genitals stirred. The bronzed stem stretched. The sprawling scrotum with its big balls tightened.
So when she told him to get up and fetch the Brylcreem from the living room his cock was almost pointing parallel to the floor. It wobbled in advance of him as he exited, as if pointing the way. "Here, turn left, down the hall," it might have been commanding. And when seconds later he re-entered the bedroom it was rampant, hard as a hammer and pointing to the ceiling, with- she noticed with silent satisfaction- a fat dollop of moisture decorating its well shaped head.
He lowered his smarting bottom onto her left thigh.
She dipped her fingers into the hair cream and, recalling the advertising jingle "a little dab will do yer," she slathered it up and down his stem and then around his glans collecting the flowing moisture from his slit- his meatus- and up and down again.
