Rodney's Nude Humiliation Ch. 18

( Brace yourselves, you sick fans of CFNM. Here we return to 1950s mid-West America where, in Brewer, young males are caught out in a vortex of nude humiliation. Why, we start with a party at Mrs Reilly's with women and girls planning a special celebration of ball sacs. It's as sinister as it sounds. Then there's more angst for 18 year old males in the high school aquatic centre. Finally we meet up again with Glen Christopher, virtually nude with two female door-to-door missionaries at his front door. What will he do? )

"I love a large scrotal sac," avowed Dr Speight and took another sip of her martini.

Her declaration, pronounced with such authority, shocked her companions at Mrs Reilly's. And excited them.

Mrs Reilly herself drew her black pencil-thin cocktail dress tighter at her thighs. She filled her lungs with smoke through her elegant cigarette holder. Scrotums indeed. Now they had the subject on the table. They had rehearsed this occasion and invited the females with an objective.

Silence fell over the whole room. The females, standing and seated, lent in to hear more.

Dr Speight continued, as she and the hostess had planned.

"I like volume...I like a heft to the stones...the drape effect at the sides..."

She reflected.

"...and a low hang...a really low hang...half way to the knees is a good aspiration..."

Decades of medical examinations had made her an authority and a connoisseur. Her palms had weighed thousands of scrotums, her forefinger traced twice as many testicles. Goodness, how many times had that finger- determined, unrelenting- probed for the spermatic tube. In every one of these inspections the boy had been entirely naked, standing before her or lying without a stitch: total clothing deprivation, her iron rule.

In around 60 percent of cases she had engendered full erections, to the agonised shame of the young men.

Could any female bring greater authority to the subject?

There were 20 or so ladies in Mrs Reilly's living room, the most distinguished in the entire mid-West. Afternoon light flooded from the tall bay windows and a fug of cigarette smoke clouded the air. Camellias and tree ferns from her verdurous garden seemed to explode from Chinoiserie vases. The prairie-style furniture gleamed. Frank Lloyd Wright considered it the choicest collection outside Chicago.

A dozen oils on the walls illustrated the theme of naked males, dressed females. There were bare boys on a beach, the girls in Victorian dress. Two pictures showed picnics in forest glades with shy nude youths, and attired ladies lounging on the grass. The ladies were in charge clearly. There was Venus taking an 18 year old Cupid across her knee, uncut, half erect. On a sports field Spartan athletes stood awkward in their nakedness, being mocked by girls in white tunics. It was baptised with the signature of Degas, almost a museum piece, one day an Old Master.

The largest painting- the most recent purchase from a Paris auction house- was of a proud Caribbean mother seated in a throne-like chair, her long skirts gathered around her, and on either side, her sons, tall, muscular, ebony- and bare as boards. Their gonads might have inspired Dr Speight's observations.

"Ahem."

Mrs Guelph, who owned one of the Brewer photo shops, was nervously intervening. Before her, on a coffee table, were neat piles of six by eight inch glossy black and white photos. Some had been snapped at the swim meets at the school. Others had been captured because Mrs Reilly had introduced a new policy: she now insisted the young men delivered to work in her garden were professionally photographed.

The result? A table load of documentary photos.

"My photos I think make the doctor's point."

They did indeed. She had been instructed to select photos that made the point. Mrs Guelf- poor, widowed, with two plain twin daughters- fluttered with nervousness, in front of a lady of Mrs Reilly's eminence. Living above the store, she found it an honour to be in this house. Had never dreamt a palace like this existed in Brewer.

She proffered one photo.

Mrs Reilly held it to the light.

It showed 19 year old John Curtis, with claim perhaps to be Brewer's most handsome boy. As sweet to look at as Montgomery Cliff or James Dean. He had been delivered by Sargent Malone to pay the penalty for being caught with the mayor's daughter in the backseat of his Dad's Roadmaster parked just off the interstate. Mrs Reilly's maids Doris and Dorothy, in their grey suits and white pinafores and maids' caps, had stood before him in her garage. They had ordered him to strip.

He had looked shocked.

"She wants you naked as a robin," Dorothy had said, her big black eyes widening like saucers. By her side Doris had swallowed with lust. This boy was handsome as a movie star.

When he was nude- and they had following his undressing with lewd interest- they had steered him through the garden to the little study on the ground floor where Mrs Guelf and her twin daughters, Gwendolyn and Jessica, had been waiting patiently. The three had gasped at the sight of this naked Adonis shyly presenting himself. They too swallowed with lust. Then, collecting themselves, they made the boy pose in front of the grey cloth backdrop, and helped train three standing Leica lamps on his fine limbs and watched the boy follow instructions to flex and pose.

The result was the photo that Mrs Reilly now studied. Behind her, looking over her shoulder, were Mrs Carruthers, the seamstress, and Miss Assam, the school secretary.

The picture showed John Curtis standing in three quarters view, one arm behind his back flexing his tricep, the other flexing a bicep as big as a coconut shell. He sucked in his tummy. His body looked bronzed. Perhaps he exercised by the lake. He sported a burst of black pubic bush.

His penis might be dismissed as short, considering his muscles, although its glans was well moulded and lacked any hint of foreskin. But from behind dangled a disproportionately generous ball sac- hairless and hanging low, tugged downwards by the weight of the two sizeable ovals, the left heavier than its sibling. At its sides the scrotum hung in folds like drapes.

"Yes, the definition perfect, my dear Mrs Guelf, the lightning brilliant, a labour of love no doubt for you and your daughters," reflected Mrs Reilly.

Mrs Guelf blushed.

"And what a pleasure to have the boy working here with me- three days so far. Everything he's got on display, as he weeds and trims and shovels soil."

Some females shivered at the image. They might perhaps linger in the garden on the way home.

Without turning Mrs Reilly raised her right arm over her head allowing Mrs Carruthers to whisk the picture from her. And study it greedily. The seamstress fantasised designing an Indian loin cloth and fitting it on this boy's waist. She would make the fitting last an hour. She would recruit her maid Yuela to help. In the end his long, low bollocks would dangle below the frontal flap and delight any audience. He would protest at the lack of cover.

"Yes," continued Mrs Reilly. "There's something about a sprawling scrotum, and on these young men. Decorative. Evocative. Manly."

Women moved around the table with Mrs Guelph's hoard of photos. There was rummaging. Much peering over shoulders. Some pointing. A plain schoolgirl, Olivia Pucker, moved shyly on the fringes.

"But functional too," said Doctor Speight. "The larger the testicles the greater the production of sperm. Precisely why I lectured to mothers here last week on medical inspections for young males seeking your daughter's hand. If you want a profusion of grandchildren don't allow your girl a boy with a sweet, little globe. You need to have any future husband checked out for testicle size."

There was a murmur, whether of agreement or shock was unclear.

Mrs Guelf was now busy shuffling pictures and handing them around. She swiftly passed several to old Miss Sally Wilhelm, whose aged flesh encased her like lava. She stared hard and, then, in a burst of prurient imagination, moved across to two schoolgirls, Delcia Forrest, a Doris Day lookalike, and Karen Strawbridge, freckled with red hair in plaits and cats eyes glasses.

"Here, girls, this could be interesting- you might know these boys."

She pressed the photos on them.

Indeed they were in their class. But the two girls had never seen them stripped, caught them swimming or being medically inspected. These were shy fellas, unathletic, with bad skin, who had been sent to the photographer for punishment after each of their mothers had reported to principal Mrs Braithwaite they had been caught masturbating. No idle offence, both had had obscene literature with photographs of women in exotic underwear.

There was Kenny Browne, a skinny freckled fella, sitting in Mrs Geulf's studio with legs apart as instructed, his half-erect cock resting to the side on a thigh. But he boasted a large, lounging sack with two heavy balls hanging low.

Very low.

It was bull-like.

"Kenny Browne! Oh my god!"

"Fantabulous!" concluded Delcia.

Old Miss Wilhelm looked over their shoulders. "And imagine, girls, what he would think if you were seeing him!"

The other photo was of Bill Woodruff, also in their class. He was half leaning back on a stool, this lean, tow haired boy with bulging Adam's apple. His cock was average but from behind it hung low a loose sack with big, round, heavy rocks. Who would have thought?

"Just look at him!"

Their eyes swelled.

They resolved to let Kenny and Bill know- before class tomorrow, in the corridors at school- that they had seen them naked in photographs. Yes, those punishment pics, ordered by the principal. Yes, saw them naked. Their big sprawling ball sacs, dangling heavily between skinny thighs. "Would never have guessed..." and they would leave the sentence unfinished. And they would say sweetly that they liked seeing a boy naked and, not unkindly, that it was nice to know what a boy in their class looked like...and they would pause...and add, "down there." And watch Kenny and Billy shrivel and blush.

Freckled, her red hair in plaits- never having had a boyfriend- Karen relished the prospect even more than her companion.

Meanwhile, over their shoulders, one of their teachers, Miss Moira Metcalfe, made an appearance. "And who have we here, girls?"

They blushed and shyly showed the pics, held open like a pack of playing cards.

"Kenny? Billy? Those bashful boys? Showing off their testes! I don't think I'll see these boys the same way again. Almost as splendid as..."

And she held up a picture of tall, gaunt, hairy Jimmy Fraser, snapped by his mother at the swim meet and developed by Mrs Guelf.

Karen and Delcia gasped at the close-up, which lovingly displaying every detail of his between-the-thighs equipage.

Miss Metcalfe said, "His hirsute ball sac! Bigger than my biggest handbag!"

A plain, simple girl standing alone overheard this enthralling talk. She was Milly Slink and until this afternoon she had imagined she might be the only female to be so deeply fond of the testicle sac, a fondness indulged during the shaving sessions with Rodney Ricketson, during which she had attended to every fold in his scrotum.

"What fun this is," she had always thought as she had shaved away, pinching and pulling a fold of skin with one set of fingers, carefully wielding the razor with the other, with Rodney supine, under her gaze. "Such loose skin - this funny, fleshy purse hanging down between thighs, flopping around, especially when they jump or run."

And now, at this wonderful social gathering she was honoured to attend, all these ladies were talking about this forbidden subject: the ball sacs of boys.

She loved it. She would volunteer to shave every boy. To negotiate this with the school, with their mothers. And when she left school she might set up a specialised barber's business. They would come to her! She would order them naked! They would tremble with embarrassment. But their clothes would come off and, completely naked, they would lie down for her. She would scoop up the ample flesh and lovingly set to work. With shaving cream and razor. Make them hairfree down there, for their girl friends. So they could proudly show off their smooth balls to girls in the backseats of cars. Their ball sacs now so sensitive and the boys so grateful to plain, dull Milly.

Miss Cuff rose and cleared her throat- she, the genius behind the musical Cowgirls and Indians Braves. The community buzzed with talk of the new costume for the Indians, nothing but an embroidered belt. Thrilled by the first rehearsal- what an exquisite embarrassment for those males- her green eyes had blazed behind cats eyes glasses with fanaticism, a fury of lust.

Holding a cocktail glass, she filled the room with her dominating, metallic voice. Her speech had been rehearsed, endorsed by Mrs Reilly and Dr Speight. It was to produce the climax for this cunningly prepared gathering.

"Dears, here's what I think: I simply can't believe in a male with little testicles. Can't accept it! Can't respect it! A penis- doesn't matter, luck of the draw. Smaller can still be interesting, a tiny one can be fun, lending itself to humiliating teasing which is a real joy for many of us. But...a petite sac between his legs? No, these fellas..."

She pointed to Mrs Guelf's table top, to the photos of boys with prodigious sacs.

"...they sway from side to side like pendulums. They boast heavy stones lounging proudly inside their bifurcated compartments. They swing in an arc, caused by the superior size and weight of one of the rocks, left or right. They are ugly. And beautiful. They are terrifying. And absurd. Ridiculous but deadly serious. More than a prick- I use Old English- they elevate a young man who, with an awesome testicle sack between his upper legs, feels as powerful as a young bull pawing the earth.

"A little ball sac- a pretty little globe with no visible contents- is a joke on manhood, rendering the owner a subject for compassion and derision. Here, between the thighs, a man needs to swing and sprawl with size, heft, space."

Around the room there was an intake of breath.

Old Mrs Geiler, the German-born granny, flourishing a cigarette holder, commanded attention. "I vish to say something!" Mrs Reilly raised an eyebrow. This had not been planned and the old woman was a zany. She wore a wide floral skirt, cinched tight at the waist, dressing as always far younger than her 70 years and made up like a doll. Hadn't she been a companion of Eva Braun?

She held a photo of Andy Anderson taken here at this house. In the photo- so clear, so glossy- the 18 year old sported an ample sac that fell between thighs like a living room curtin and, at the bottom, he sported huge, well shaped balls. They seemed to anchor the sheet of scrotal flesh.

"In German we say, a boy's Sacke! Or we say, Hodensacke. Hoden is balls! Or German people say...Eier. That is, eggs. Like Andy here. Andy Anderson. What a Sacke! What Eier!"

She held it up. "Andy is going to work in my garden. Just as he does here."

A wave of prurient humour swept the female gathering.

Opined Dr Speight, talking into her glass, "I've handled scrotums so big they have overflowed my hand!"

She raised a photo. It was 20 year old Art Ulrich, photographed in the house before he began his forced, nude labour in the garden. His enforced nudity, which he did not like one little bit, revealed a streamlined, missile-shaped dick. It was a sizeable one, erect and pointing to the left, but the trailing ballsac stretched by the gravitational heft of his rock-like testicles, was even longer than the erect cock.

"This fella's would overflow my palm."

There was a prurient hum around the room.

"Which brings me to my proposal," announced the doctor. "Will I go on, Mrs Reilly?"

This was the point of this convocation of Brewer women and girls.

Their hostess sipped her martini. Drew in and exhaled her Camel.

"No, dear. You have cleared the ground but I want this joyful task."

She rose.

"Next Wednesday, a gala occasion. Drinks in the garden. To be served by young men, all in puris naturalibus. What Mrs Geiler here would call their Adamkostume..."

There was a murmur of approval. Hands which did not clasp cocktails burst into polite claps.

"...yes, all as bare as Adam."

"In Naturzustand. In der Nacke!"

"Yes, Mrs Geiler, just as god made them. To use the time-revered Americanism, in their birthday suits. But we have carefully selected the boys who will guiding you through the garden and serving drinks around the pool. Perhaps providing some entertainments. Someone mentioned the juggle-jiggle game. We have selected only the boys with ample, generous scrotal endowments. As for their pricks..."

She shocked with the colloquial but it was legitimised by Chaucer.

"...irrelevant! Entirely beside the point! Their looks too! Good looking like young John Curtis or pimpled and skinny and buck-toothed! Irrelevant! It's their voluminous ball sacs that will distinguish them. I will aim to display for you the most amplitudinous in Minnesota, perhaps the mid-West, in all the cowboy country..."

A few cheers. More applause.

"But we want you to be on the lookout for any young men who might enter this competition. Sons. Grandsons. Nephews. Delivery boys. Your classroom students. If your nominee wins you win too. With one of my prized art works the trophy. And a cheque for one hundred dollars for the proud fella with the most skin between his thighs!"

There was a hum of excitement.

"And to show what will be in store, Doris? Dorothy? Invite him in now."

There was a flurry.

At the left door, leading from the foyer, the maids having vanished, now re-emerged...and between them, Samson Douglas, a boy from Grover Cleveland High, a star of its swim meets, now employed here as Mrs Reilly's driver and factotum.

He wore a bow tie.

Which is to say, he was bare assed naked apart from the bow tie.

"Oh my god, he's as nude as a needle!"

"My oh my!"

The mahogany torso of the young Negro boy, arrived only recently from Alabama, showed the effects of lap swimming and workouts at the Y, under the friendly supervision of Coach Compton. The ebony youth had spurted into young manhood, like a Congolese warrior.

The maids, like virgins of the savannah serving a tribal god, walked the young black man through the crowd. They passed Milly Slink so close that the girl's nostrils caught a whiff of the musky sweat trailing his sides and she shuddered. Mrs Audry Maclintick and her daughter Judith both thrilled to the movement in the mahogany ass as, walking by, it clenched and unclenched. They had never seen anything like it.

Samson's membrum virile- the mahogany-grey stem, with reddish glans- began by swinging from side to side, but now in small jerks started to lift itself. Selena Cross, a very skinny girl gaunt as a witch, gulped at the sight as it swung past. She had witnessed this boy at Mrs Ricketson's bridge game and his attributes had supplied her dreams and yearnings, fed her nimble imagination. Her eyes widened like saucers.

"This boy grows better with every appearance," whispered Mrs Liva Driscoll at her side. "If only we might take him home!" The shy girl blushed at having her own longing captured by this mature lady. Take him home indeed! Selena loved plantation stories and thought about being a kindly mistress to strong, young male slaves. How she would pet a slave like Samson! Admit him to the mansion...into her boudoir...help out of work clothes...give him a loving scrub in her bath!

.In the vicinity of Mrs Reilly and her inner circle the maids and their prisoner stopped.

"Samson, so nice of you to join us. And to have dressed for the occasion."