Rodney's Nude Humiliation Ch. 18

Mrs Reilly gestured to his bow tie.

A smile flickered at his lips. Then dissolved. So many eyes on him, he thought. But then he had grown to savour this nudity, among many admiring womenfolk. Like at the swim meet. All looking at his organs of generation.

His guargantuan cock loved it. His stem was stretching.

"I think the ladies and girls would like you have them serve drinks."

"Yass, m'mam."

Dorothy equipped him with a tray.

Dr Speight moved forward.

"But first, let my palm do some weighing..."

And sinking to her knees, as if at worship, she reached out with her right palm to take the warm, damp, capacious, black chamois bag. She gently juggled it.

His testicles were an industrial-scale sperm generating factory.

"Your verdict, my dear?"

"His testicles are off the Tanner chart. Big as tennis balls but oval, of course. Like...alligator pears."

There were giggles.

"But remarkably...grand as his testicles are..."

Samson's cock jerked, stretched.

"...his scrotum is still too mammoth for its contents. Perhaps because it is so warm here..."

Females crowded close. Samson's stem lengthened, poked now parallel to the Persian rug.

"...and, indeed, it overflows my palm! On both sides. Look, sprawling too widely for my hand! Remarkable...even as his organ stretches."

There were claps and expressions of joy.

Samson seemed torn between shy bashfulness and rampant pride.

And for the remaining half hour every inch of the boy was explored with the eyes and, indeed, gliding palms of ladies who suddenly discovered an appetite for another martini or J and B blended whiskey from his tray, and an urgent, driving desire to admire close up the black wires of his pubic beard...

...his roped forearms...

...even his size 12 feet.

Or, of course, the thick grey-brown tube which was overflowing like a leaky water fountain as it stood tall...

"A real Stander! A perfect Shaft!" spluttered Mrs Geiler.

...stretched and pumped to an unyielding hardness.

And glory upon glory, they gazed with wonder at a scrotal basket that dangled heavily from the bottom of this shaft, with folds of black skin protected with grizzled hair, holding two heavy...well, tennis balls. Or alligator pears. Swinging in an arc when he moved.

This king-sized scrotal purse might be the symbol of the new cult seemingly launched this afternoon by the trio of Speight, Cuff and Reilly.

Call it the Society for Adoration of Nude Boys' Ball Sacs.

Samson's cosmic scrotum was an invitation to the celebration that would launch it.

And there were boys in Brewer- ugly and handsome, with grand pricks or petite, virgins and satyrs- who this afternoon had not the remotest imagining that because of one random, lavish endowment inherited from a North European or Sicilian or frontier ancestor they were to be commandeered to Mrs Reilly's, to stand in their Adamkostums and present themselves for leisurely and lewd inspection. And if their own mothers and sisters and female classmates were present, and therefore all standards of modesty brutally discarded, well...

...as Mrs Reilly would say, you can't make an omelette without breaking eggs.

There were humiliations for boys elsewhere in Brewer, right at this moment.

In the training session in the school pool, coach Compton presided over 12 boys, the 18 year olds' class. New recruits to swimming. It was a capacious, run-down, damp and chlorine-flavoured space and the naked fellas enjoyed some distance from the 20 or so females- some mothers and sisters and friends of sisters- who concentrated in one corner of the bleachers. The coach had invited them.

The boys, who had never been sighted by females while naked at swim- they were new swimmers- were edgy and alarmed. Fortunately the females were a distance away.

Boys might keep their rears turned on the female corner, suppressing the shame at displaying naked glutes. They might linger as long as possible in the water. And they might link their hands in front of groins when they had to walk the diving plank. Avoiding any glance in the direction of those girls and women also helped quell their humiliation.

Coach Compton, gloriously nude himself, seemed to be thinking of possibilities.

Mid-exercise, the boys gathered around, he said, "Nice to have fans and supporters turning out for us? The womenfolk and girls over there?"

Loyally, several of the boys nodded.

"Yep, good for morale. And they like to see you in all your proud manhood."

Several blushed. Others looked down.

"Good public relations for the class if during the session you take it in turns to go over and thank them for coming..."

The boys froze.

"All of you. In turns. You first, Bud Lanter."

Bud's protests ran for two minutes. His sister had turned up and was sitting with them. She had never ever seen him naked. Could he get dressed first? Find a pair of trunks? At least his boxers? He knew some of the girls. They would laugh at him. They would tell their friends. There was a friend of his mom's. Oh no, coach, please!

"Any boy who refuses stays back...and practises diving...while the senior girls' class takes over the aquatic centre. They're due in 40 minutes. And I will have you stay, diving from that plank for the full class."

Bud was slightly goofy looking. He had curly fair hair in Elvis style, a tentative spray of young man's fuzz on his freckled torso, a taunt tummy that curved outwards...and a cock with character. It projected from his groin and hung with a hint of curve. The coronal edge of the glans was well formed. There was a drape-like hang to his balls (without being huge) and the testicles were well defined. Anyone could see them and say, "balls." In short, they were "cartoon" genitals, a bit of a caricature of what any plain boy next door might carry in his groin.

The females seemed very interested as, a foot or two in front of the railing, he stood with head down and mumbled that the coach and the boys liked having them here....thanks for turning up to support us...we wanted to have backing from families (although he couldn't bring himself to look at his sister)...their first meet would be in a month, in St Paul...all of them also swam at the Y where the pool was more modern...and um...er...ah...um...er...

Blushing, eyes watering, he lost his way. Of course he did, because an occasional glance had told him what they were all eyeballing.

Which was an opportunity for the females to chatter on asking him things. Yes, he answered, swimming was a great sport...oh, about a mile a day...backstroke he liked...yes, he did want to build up his physique...

And then one of the sister's friends popped the delicate question: did he think it funny that boys always swam nude? The others giggled, embarrassed for him. And it was impossible to avoid an "Aw shucks" shuffle and a shameful drooping of the head and mumbling about how it was the tradition...and all their fathers had done it...and the coach always said that he wanted them to be proud of their physiques.

He couldn't have felt more diminished.

Which was an invitation for other girls to express their views. "You all look like Adam! In the Garden of Eden!" said one. "All us girls really dig it!" Which made other girls and women giggle and Bud go weak.

Another said, "No, I just think it's so sweet. To see boys in their birthday suits. Yes, going nude. Like the Ancient Greeks who did it all the time and with females allowed to watch." This made some of them snigger while Bud's tummy seemed to flip over. He saw his sister sneer, supercilious.

And then she spoke up, saying, "Truth is, we just like seeing what you all look like!"

To which there were mock cheers and laughter. "Yeaaaah!" roared one girl.

And, sympathetically, from a mother, "I guess it all takes some getting used to. I mean, in front of the opposite sex." Implying it was pathetic for him to be standing there, naked in front of all of the dressed females. She oozed sympathy. Which made the boy want to sink through the floor. A glance confirmed they were looking at his midriff and his sister was smiling smugly.

He began to fear blood might be flowing into his organ.

At that moment his cock stretched and pointed to the tiles. They must have noticed the jolt.

And at that moment coach called, "Hey Bud!" And he was able to turn his back and give them a close up of his ass cheeks- that felt soooo shameful- and take off, sheltering his rising cock from their sight.

Next boy despatched was John Lawrence. He groaned and begged- there was a girl from his street, a friend of the family's, she knew all his sisters, went out with his brother and, worse still, one of the ladies was his Sunday school teacher! His Sunday school teacher! Please, coach, no! She couldn't see him nude! Please! He sees her every Sunday! She has a son his age! Not nude in front of her!

Coach said fine, but that means you stay and display your diving during the girls' session and a whole class will see you starkers for an hour. So John Lawrence trailed off.

His thick black "duck butt" hair was flattened by the swimming and made him, with his winning smile, look chipmunk cute. He was handsome, with the black eyebrows, the thick fans of eyelashes, the lithe upper body. His dominating characteristic, however, was his body hair and while his insides purred with pride to have male classmates admire his furred torso- he was the hairiest of any except shaggy little Steve Lynton- he was painfully shy about girls seeing it. None of his four sisters knew that under his clothes his chest was so thickly bearded.

He dragged himself across to the gathering of female fans.

In the middle was Mrs Pebbles, his Sunday school teacher, wistful lambert-eyed Mrs Pebbles, the young mother and wife of Reverend Pebbles, who took their scripture class- the half dozen 18 year old boys who sat in fold-up chairs, wearing their Sunday best, in the church hall after service. She was there, sitting behind the railing, seeing him raw buck-naked.

Their eyes locked. She smiled tenderly. He half nodded, beetroot red.

He saw Irene Livingstone who lived four houses away, friend of his four sisters, who had gone out with his big brother, who had been at their home many times for dinner. She flashed a huge smile. A rip-roaring smile. It seemed to say, "John Lawrence nude! Wow! What a big tickle this promises to be!"

He looked off to the side.

In a voice squeaky with nerves, hands fluttering at his front...aware he was 100 percent stripped off in front of 20 females..he told them that all the fellas were grateful they had come...they sure wanted fans...it was nice to have support...they were hoping to become state champions...

But then he thought again of Mrs Pebbles. Of Irene Livingstone. She- they- were seeing all his body hair.

And what hair!

A square of black fuzz covered his chest, from a dense burst at his neck to a dense burst between nipples, the rest of this pectoral pelt less dark but thick by any standard. Then dark fleece descended downwards like the trunk of a tree to camouflage his navel then, below it, a lighter growth spread all over his tummy until it suddenly darkened and turned into the exploding jungle of pubic bush.

From it sprouted a penis stem with a glans well shaped and bulbous enough that his organ carried a hint of being thicker at the crown than the base. Just a hint it was "top heavy." His modest scrotum was thickly haired, a globe deep in shadow.

One glance showed their eyes all over him. Their eyes were...swimming. With admiration and wonder. At his remarkable hairy torso. At the woolliness. The sea-like flow of his chesty fleece. But he noticed his Sunday school teacher, Mrs Pebbles. Her shining brown eyes were directed...

...right at his groin.

It was then he lost his way.

His Sunday school teacher staring right at his dick.

"...doing laps...every day...the best sport...our coach...er...um...ah..."

Yes, he lost his way.

Which was a chance for the females to chat away at him. Another glance showed that most were now looking straight at his cock. Mrs Pebbles, though, having satisfied her curiosity about her student's penis- hell! What a thought!- was lost in reveries about the feather-like pelt, deep in study of his furry chest. Lost in her thoughts.

Just staring at the grown-up hairy torso on this boy she taught Bible.

One girl straining forward said, "Your coach is right. It's so nice to see you boys swimming in the nude. With your fine physiques..."

"But," persisted one of the ladies. "It must be difficult for you...in front of the opposite sex." Again, oozing sympathy for poor stripped boys being shown naked as jays to dressed females.

His insides turned to warm water. Her sympathy was terrible. He drooped his head.

"I mean," ventured a girl. "You being down to your birthday suit right now, in front of us all..."

He assumed an "Aw Shucks" pose, looking down.

"No, it must be terribly hard for them," persisted the mother. "At that age. Shy, and all. Adolescent. I mean...in front of the opposite sex."

"No! It's nice to see what boys- boys in our class, in our neighbourhood- look like. It's natural...to want to see them that way."

It was Irene Livingstone.

"I go to Johnny's house. I know his family. I think it's lovely to see him in the altogether."

There was a murmur. What did it mean? Sympathy for him? Warm agreement that it was nice to see ordinary fellas without a stitch?

Her phrase "in the altogether" made him even more aware of his condition, standing inches from them.

"I mean," she elaborated. "Them swimming nude for us. It's just sweet."

Which was an invitation for Mrs Pebbles.

"Well, I think so too. It is sweet. For boys to present themselves as god made them. Trusting us not to mock or scorn. No, I like the trust they show. That John's showing. He's presenting himself entirely naked. Right now, he's trusting us. Letting us see..."

She let the thought trail.

"John Lawrence is a very fine lad...."

Fine? What did she mean by that? His matted torso? His neat, circumcised penis?

"And..."

Here her voice assumed an air of announcement.

"...I want you all to know..."

She paused for emphasis.

"...he's in my Sunday school class!"

There were oohs and ahhs.

"Goodness."

"Fabulous!"

And John Lawrence caught Irene's whisper to a friend, "Well, she must be cranked...must be on cloud nine! I mean, seeing a boy from her Bible class...one hundred percent nude!"

But the sentiment that steamed off the females, after this shock revelation- and John could feel it in the air- was "Holy cow! How humiliating! Imagine! Being nude in front of your Sunday school teacher!"

The realisation they all felt sorry made him want to sink into the floor.

The coach summoned him.

He turned on them, with relief. But was shamefully aware he was presenting the dark, fine fur of his glutes. And at that moment he thought he heard Irene whisper something about just that. Something like "Holy cow! See his hairy ass!"

And while Coach Compton busied himself instructing their swimming and diving, showing off his weight trainer's build with its all-over tan and shaven groin and petite half-erect dick, he was planning his next PR gesture for the female supporters.

One lissome lad in the squad, Jim Nielsen, boasted a thick dangling dick, that hung a third of the way down his thighs. A connoisseur, Coach thought it "one in a hundred," perhaps even more than a 10 incher. Jim was the coach's current favourite and he knew that his friend Bob Mizer would love to recruit Jim and post him- in a posing strap- on the cover of Physique Pictorial or Young Adonis.

But right now, in the aquatic centre of Grover Cleveland High, Coach Compton had another sly plan. He would escort a shy and reluctant Jim Nielsen over to the female fans and stand side by side, chatting away and glorying in the sweet humiliation of having those ladies and girls dumbstruck by the contrast: Coach's cigarillo poking its three inches at them, parallel to the tiles, and young, slender Jim's ponderous penis draped between his sinewy legs.

The boy's head would droop, and settle into "Aw Shucks" bashfulness, while the shame of this contrast would wash through Coach Compton's exhibitionist soul.

Chatting away, he would swoon at the sight of a phalanx of females eyeballing man and boy together, marvelling at the unflattering- indeed damning- contrast in endowments.

And if his timing were perfect, they might be caught out standing there when the girls' class swarmed in, in their two piece swimming costumes. For Jim that trauma, unimaginable; for the coach, the bliss of paradise.

As it was- the bliss of paradise- that moment for Glen Christopher.

He, in the hallway, two missionary ladies on the other side of the door, at the front steps. He could see their shapes through the frosted glass of the lead patterned window in the panelled door. They had rung the bell.

As if the visit by Gloria had liberated the diabolical lust in his soul, Glen stood ready. Dirty thoughts aplenty and a throbbing hard-on. The towel just clung to his waist as if by a thread. His throbbing erection alone might force it to flutter free at any second.

His heart beat loud as he reached for the handle.

He boldly drew the door open and suddenly two suited, hatted, gloved missionary ladies- one hawke-faced, the other matronly, like an aunt- were right in front of him.

He smelt cheap soap from one, a spray of Max Factor from the other.

"Gosh! You caught me...in the shower! I didn't know...it was ladies!"

The hawk was expressionless, a Mount Rushmore face. Disapproval- for Glen, for males- steamed from her. The aunt seemed to relax, even take in his torso with a quick appraising glance. Even with a hint of a smile. Then unmistakably cast her gaze lower, to the outline of his thrusting rod in the precariously positioned towel.

And then, as if by deus ex machina, the two ends of the towel, so loosely knotted- no, not knotted at all, just attached- decided to fall apart. It happened in slowest of slow motion as if, separated, they had decided to stand frozen in mid-air...

Both ladies looked at it happening...

...the ends opening wide

...(like unparcelling a gift)...

...the towel detaching from his waist...

...folding outwards...

...offering a sudden glimpse of intimate flesh...

...then a decisive dropping away...

...the fall to his ankles...

And a the long arching underside of an erect teenage penis confronting them, full on!

Unyielding.

Stiff as buckram.

"Oh, no!" came his quailing not wholly convincing voice. "Goodness. My towel..."

He stared them right in their faces.

"Gosh, I'm so sorry. My towel...just came off...oh, my goodness!"

But not reaching for the towel.

The hawk-face exploded.

"I told you...I told Pastor Kretschmar...if this happened once more I would say goodbye to home mission work!"

She turned and hot footed down the pathway and turned on the pavement down the street, quickly out of sight behind the oak.

Her partner seemed unperturbed. She was eyeballing the boy's staff with glittering eyes.

Only then did Glen draw on an actor's instincts.

"Gosh! I've got nothing on!"

He planted two hands over his groin.

He doubled up, in the time-honoured cartoon gesture that screamed Embarrassed Naked Boy.

"Oh lady! Please! I'm so ashamed..."

Bent double. Hands pressed over his prick.

His insides were electrified with the thrill of her stare.

"M'am, I'm just so sorry...I'm sorry...it was an accident!"

A smile curled at the corners of her lips. Her lambert eyes spelt warmth.

"Just hope I didn't offend..."

"Not at all," she cooed. "It was an accident. Can happen any time."