Rodney's Nude Humiliation Ch. 21

Rodney: A Bad Boy's "Titties"

"Come on, she's at it now."

Miss Assam, the principal's secretary, spoke in a whisper. She was nearly panting with excitement, peering around the corner into the office, eyes dancing with what she had just seen. Oh what a sad sight, reflected her boss, you willowy, plain, bespectacled dowd. Why do I keep you on? And the principal answered her own silent question: because of the sheer terror you produce in young males stripped of their clothes. That's why I let you lose to burst into their medical examinations. You are perfect for my strategy.

The handsome principal of Grover Cleveland High, Ada Braithwaite, helmeted with silver hair, turned to her collaborators. They, like her, were severe women of a certain age: the school drama teacher, Miss Cuff and school doctor and former Kinsey researcher, Dr Speight.

They flashed back looks of eager prurience. Impatient for the show they had been summoned to witness. For they each were haunted by the fear that everything that might happen in their lives had already happened before they had turned 40. Hence there was no time to spare and no opportunities to pass up. That is, when it came to the things that stirred them.

They rose and followed gaunt Miss Assam on tip toe across the corridor.

The secretary parted to allow Miss Braithwaite to turn the handle on the door to the small, cubicle-like room where girls shaved boys. The principal peered in. So did the doctor and the drama teacher. And, panting, Miss Assam, looked over their shoulders. Eyes on fire.

Their expectations were not disappointed.

And Rodney Ricketson didn't hear a thing.

Naked on the table he lay- a goofy suburban boy under a ginger haired crew cut, the archetypal boy next door. Stripped nude, lying on the white towel, like a corpse in a mortuary. Like Mantegna's painting of the prone Jesus. His horizontal body might have confirmed that the 1950s were body building's golden age. With the weights in the Y he had carved muscles like Michelangelo's David. Swimming laps in the pool had guaranteed his pecs and shoulders were even more defined than the Florentine's.

And Rodney's skin was as smooth as its marble.

"He's glabrous," thought Ada Braithwaite, a former English teacher. "Completely free from hair or down."

Yes, like the statue. Except that his heavy penis rose hard as granite. Quite unlike the petite appendage of the statue. More like Pisa's tower.

Milly Slink presided over the prone boy, eyes swimming behind her Coke bottle lenses, her plaited hair, somewhat greasy, stretched stiff in pink ribbons. She always dressed up to shave Rodney- today, in pink blouse with pussy cat bow, wide tartan skirt, white ankle socks, loafers. It had taken 45 minutes with her razor to remove all stubble and any stray hair. Not a nick or scratch marred her professionalism. This was her vocation.

Perfect, even in the hardest spots.

To be specific, every square inch of his capacious, sagging scrotal sac. To be specific, along Rodney's perineum with his bottom raised to fully expose the flesh between his anus and scrotum and this ample ballsac, carefully positioned by the girl's quivering fingers, flopped up on his groin.

To be more specific, inside his intergluteal cleft which Olivia- with Rodney lying face down, head on the cushion of his arms- had pried apart with one hand and carefully tended to with shaving cream and razor. Just as well. Her forensic hunt had located three lonely red follicles on his perineum, on either side of the ridgeline. They demanded to be nipped.

He had trembled, as she had worked away in the cavern between his soccer ball globes.

Of course, when he was again on his back, arms by his sides, she had worked assiduously all around his erection. She was concentrating, tongue between lips, ensuring not a residual ginger curl could even be imagined in this once abundant garden of red shrubbery.

When he was entirely hairless she had glanced at her wristwatch. Then she had carefully taken up the American Metalcraft tongs. They were of the heavy duty catering kind, made of stainless steel, with 10 inch hinged shafts. These handles ended in pointed tips turned inward.

Pointed tips turned inward. Quite apt for the job at hand.

Right on schedule, as arranged with the principal, she slowly moved the open slats towards Rodney's bulging pecs.

And slowly...

...teasingly...

...took Rodney's right nipple.

It was aroused anyway, and the little cylinder of pink flesh, coached by her recent attention, was as prominent as a girl's. The tips of the tongs found their target and enclosed it. The boy's face showed his pleasure.

She gently teased the boy's tit. He shifted his body, eyes jammed shut.

She squeezed the tongs.

They pinched hard.

The effect on the youth was immediate. He started to writhe at the tickling pleasure. As the tongs tightened- Milly's touch was masterly- he began to frantically rub his feet together. His eyes were screwed so tight there was no danger of him glimpsing the four female adults now at the door, eyes bulging and mouths agape.

Milly now used the tips- the pointed tips, pointing inward- to twist the nipple. And, in the grip of profound wicked pleasure, Rodney now rubbed one thigh against the other.

She squeezed harder. A delicious pinch for Rodney's nerve endings, so aroused in his large, pink bullet-like pointers.

He energetically rubbed away, one thigh against the other, eyes clenched shut. Breathing hard. Rub...rub...rub, he went at it.

She moved the tongs to the left nipple. Started teasingly, with such gentle tickles. He hung on the cliff...the cliff of anticipation. Then- he wasn't disappointed- some squeezes which might even be described as loving squeezes. Oh, my god! He lifted his bottom from the table. She pinched harder. He rubbed his raised thighs, twisting his torso.

She stared right into his cleft with the exposed hole, hairless and poking. A cubbyhole, in the cavern.

"You love this, don't you?"

Her whisper was so low the women at the door couldn't hear.

"You love me doing this?"

They heard her this time. And she tightened the hold, a bold squeeze.

His gurgle could have been an assent...or a disagreement.

Still working his left nipple with the tips of her tongs she twisted.

"Ahhhh..."

Peering from the door Ada Braithwaite stared hypnotised at the underside of his voluminous penis. Oh goodness, how rock hard, she thought, justifying the nickname boys use: "tentpole." Its surface was glistening, with a continuous flow of moisture from his meatus. Miss Braithwaite had grown to know the genitals of many of the boys at her school (why shouldn't a principal have that right, she told herself)- especially with boys being shaven in this little room or in the corridor right outside her office- Mark's with its thick foreskin clinging like a polo neck and Jimmy's fire hose penis with its thick corrugated veins, and Carl's which she admired because of its unapologetic smallness though always stiff and straight, and Kerry Fulbright's with its jaunty sideways slant.

No, the principal thought, Rodney's was the most...authoritative. Most manly.

She made a mental note to tell his mother. Who would be thrilled.

That the squeezing of the tongs must be so arousing left Doctor Speight in no doubt. And it had her thinking of the forceps in her medical kit. She knew about nipple excitement in males from her work on the Kinsey team back in her Indiana years. And this boy was a case study.

The boy's rubbing and twisting had Miss Assam in an ecstasy of pleasure. And now, lifting his bottom high and rubbing his left thigh against his right, Rodney unknowingly gifted the secretary a view of his boldly delineated raphe and little suede hole, hairless as the rest of him. Didn't girls have a name for this? Didn't they call boys' anal pouts their "twinkle holes?"

The four observers, heads around the door jam, heard Olivia's teasing words.

"Oh, Rodney Ricketson, you are a naughty boy, aren't you?"

And just managed to hear the boy's submissive reply.

"Yes...yes, I'm a...Owwww!"

The tongs squeezed the erect, cylindrical flesh harder than ever.

"Say it, Rodney."

"Naughty...boy!"

"Because? Go on, say it! I'm gonna keep up this work on your...titties."

"Titties!" The word might have been the ultimate humiliation for a boy.

Nonetheless she gave his "tittie" another hard squeeze.

"Because...I've...been..."

His confession faltered.

The next tweak with the tong made him lift his rear from the table and gasp.

"Go on!" she insisted.

"...masturbating!"

The terrible self-incrimination emerged in a gasp.

The women at the door trembled at the medical textbook tone.

"Yes, you've been playing with your penis, you naughty boy, and making it 'shoot off.' And how many times a day?"

He hesitated, grimacing and twisting his body to the left, while her cruel tongs returned to his right nipple.

She squeezed.

"I won't stop till you tell me how often."

"Owwwww....sometimes...three times...five on weekends..."

"Five times! Filthy boy!"

This brought the scene to a climax.

The boy had been driven crazy. By what exactly? By pain, thrills, shame? All three? Relief lay in one direction only. Rodney's hand fell to his rod and in desperation spread the rich slew of moisture up and down...and began frantically to stroke. Frantically.

Olivia tightened her grip with the tongs, electrifying Rodney with shoots of this forbidden pleasure and, with her left hand, she took hold of the skin of his ballsac and tugged it gently but firmly towards her.

She commenced a commentary on what a naughty boy he was and how he deserved to have his botty smacked by her and other girls and female teachers, with him totally stripped off over their knees...

...yes, she told him, Miss Assam would have to spank him, nude over her lap...

...then "lovely Ada Braithwaite," their principal, and she knew that all the boys had crushes on her...

...and Miss Cuff might slap his exposed bottom when he was wearing the new costume, that embroided belt and nothing else, and we will all see your thing flop around with every slap she showers on your rear...

...and then Doctor Speight would have to examine him, top to toe...

...each of these ladies angry that he hadn't been able to beat the wretched habit...

...and how pathetic he looked at this moment playing with himself like a monkey...and how she was now squeezing his little buttons...yes, his "titties"...and she wasn't going to lay off...

...and she was pulling his scrotum for good measure...

A few minutes later the four women were back in the principal's office. They congratulated themselves they had withdrawn noiselessly and not been glimpsed.

"Oh, the fragrant scent of the emissions of that boy!" said Miss Cuff, suffused. "The smell filled the room. Fresh as new-mown hay. Did you notice? So..."

She rummaged for an adjective.

"...so boyish."

"I would call our young man 'a thrower' not 'a gusher,'"averred Dr Speight. "I mean, when he ejaculated..."

Miss Assam smirked dirtily.

"...he didn't explode in a flood, over his fist. No, flung it out in thick ropes. The first flew over his head. Such velocity! The second splashed onto his forehead..."

"Loved it!" Ada pronounced. Tonight she would replay this moment in her mind, as if a black and white movie on rickety home projector, climaxing with that great white dollop of youthful semen.

"And then the last two big splatterings on chest and tummy, which lucky little Milly is no doubt having to mop up now. Breathing in his personal perfume."

The others tittered.

"Not much left to produce under the sheets tonight," Ada added, and knew at once she was wrong. At that age, as all the school experiments confirmed, they're like young goats. Why, only now the those bull-like testes might be at work manufacturing more liquid ounces.

"The tongs? Teasing- if that's the word- the poor fella's nipples?"

Miss Cuff posed the question. She thought the touch had lent the scene its piquancy.

"Oh, it's all to do with nerve endings," explained Doctor Speight. "In some males it's more acute than females. Kinsey was most intrigued. Our surveys showed that 51 percent of young men found nipple stimulation arousing. And when you introduce them to it- tickling their lovely medallions, teasing, squeezing- they never want to stop."

The others absorbed this wisdom.

Ada asked her secretary to pour them some Vermouth.

But Miss Assam was off in a world of her own. Yes, a virgin, a spinster. Let them call me that, she thought. There was her circle of friends. Old maids to be sure. Sexual frustrates they might say of all of us. We might well be, but...they don't know the half of it.

She would not give up her slow-simmering voyeurism for all the tea in China. Yes, Johnny Marcello's banana-bend hardness above his low sagging testicles: seeing him medically examined was the richest sexual experience of her life. Who would settle for messy, awkward intimacy with a wide-bellied, small-dicked Rotarian when you might have a 18 year old splayed naked and savour his drawn out, clothes-free shame? Even watch him forced to show-off the space between his scrotum and anus.

And the blushes on the faces of these mid-Western studs when she caught them being shaved in the corridor, erections flaring...the shame that steamed off naked boys when she burst into their medicals...oh, how delicious and juicy, for a woman like her.

Given over completely to this game, this avocation, this mission, Miss Assam could dream of nothing else. It was a little engine inside her that never ceased.

Ada asked her a second time to tend to their Vermouth and lamented again that she was such a gaunt unappetising secretary to have in her service.

But for the principal the mental picture of the young Ricketson genitals quickly crowded out negative thoughts. By contrast, his nudity was something entirely appetising. Images of that ventral artery and a plush glans. A glistening shaft, its network of thick veins like decorations on a Samoan warrior's club.

Of the flaring intergluteal cleft and its secret sphincter.

And Rodney's proneness- yes, that too. Under the coke bottle gaze of Milly Slink the boy lying there like a sacrifice in a temple of female power.

Mark: "No Mom, No!"

"No, Mom! No!" Mark was close to tears.

"Gosh, Mom, NO! It's so unfair!"

He was in the living room facing his mother who, green eyes on fire with- with what? Anger at his faltering grades? Irritation at his slowness getting out of bed? Or some ruttish instinct, some sex drive, that had taken hold? And directed at her son? Whatever her motivation, she wanted him to model for some of her lady friends this afternoon the new costume for the school musical. Indeed she held it aloft in her right hand.

A belt with embroidered Indian design. No cloth dangling from it, front or back. Just a belt.

He had been fitted for it yesterday at the home of the seamstress Mrs Carruthers.

Her maid Yuela had greeted him at the door when he had arrived, heart pounding and legs quaking. She had marked off his name in a notebook and shown him into the littered fitting room and told him to undress. He had cast panicky looks- for a screen perhaps. But the Negro maid had pointed to a stool in the corner. She had smirkingly mumbled something about his clothes, "all your clothes."

Worryingly there had been the sound of girls in another room. He had started to unbutton, cursing that he had worn his jock strap not his boxers. Because when he had tugged them on this morning, choosing jocks over boxers, he had not known about the summons he was to receive mid-afternoon, in a note signed by Miss Cuff and Miss Braithwaite. His instruction had been to turn up at Elm Street to be fitted with his new costume as soon as school was out.

He had shuffled to the corner of the sewing room and undressed, trembling. Down to his JJ Swimmer jocks with three inch belt holding the rib knit pouch, classic American jocks- as American as Coke, baseball and jazz.

He had stood waiting.

Birds had sung outside.

Girls had giggled and shrilled down the corridor.

Finally Mrs Carruthers and Yuela had burst in, the seamstress with embroidered belts over her arm, leaving the door open behind. They had looked Mark up and down, smiling patronisingly at his jockstraps. Perhaps noting the promising bulge in knitted pouch. His humiliation had come fast. Get up on a stool in the middle of the room, they had ordered speaking over one another, then laughing at themselves, eyes all over him. They had faced him and after a terrifying pause Mrs Carruthers had just reached out...and had whisked down his jocks! Just like that! Whoosh! They had taken in the sight of his penis and balls soft, glued together. He had stood, hands hovering. The lady had produced a tape measure and- yelps!- fussed at his waist. Grazing his cock and balls!

Yuela had then helped him into a belt, him balanced on the stool. They had fussed about its positioning: higher, lower, just above the base of his cock. Which had started to stretch, its head poking from the cloak of the foreskin. They had made him turn around and had fussed over the belt from the rear- hell! His ass cheeks on display- while his cock had stretched to poke parallel to the floor. There had been a flurry of girls at the door- snuffling and giggling- as they eyeballed his naked glutes but Yuela has shooed them off

When he had turned around again his cock was rising in jerks. Mrs Carruthers and her maid had taken in his flagrant erection, eyes wide as saucers and fussed and fiddled some more, reaching around his stiffening rod and sometimes grazing it.

When he had got home his mother had made him confess that he held- yes, in this paper bag- the new Indian costume and had made him pass it over and had been barely able to control her laughter when holding it up. Certainly its brevity seemed to excite her.

"So...that's...it?" she had snorted, smiling broadly. Imagining him wearing it. And nothing else, except moccasins and feathered headdress. Quite a picture that promised to be.

He had nodded, red as a fire hydrant. That was it.

And that night he had heard from his bedroom snatches of her phone calls to ladies different from her regular bridge friends who had already seen him in pink posing strap or loin cloth. No, these were females who had not seen him forced to model. She was inviting Mrs Claverback, a one-time Navy nurse. And a plain young woman called Selena Cross who had seen Mark nude at the Ricketson's and had hung around ever since. Even Mrs Guelph who ran the photography store.

But what shocked him to the core was a conversation with Mrs Geiler, his mother speaking louder because of the old lady's deafness. He couldn't believe his ears. His mother was asking the former Nazi, with her love of rude German words like Adamskostume or Stander, to bring several of her friends! He also heard his mother invite Mrs Pebbles, wife of the Methodist minister. Why her?

And now, this morning- a Saturday- she was telling him she wanted him to model...the belt!

"But I don't know how you can object," she said. "After all, Miss Cuff- you must have heard- is planning a lot of rehearsals in the daring new costume, with mothers invited. And sisters too- your own are not going to miss the chance. And you've been...well, virtually nude showing off the old costume with the flap which, if we are candid, left little to the imagination. Certainly in the rear."

This made Mark blush.

"All my friends have enjoyed it when I made you pose like that. And another thing. Don't think those photos of you in our album haven't been looked at..."

Mark blushed deeper. How could he even guess how many females had been shown the pics of him nude at the pool?