Rodney's Nude Humiliation Ch. 22

"Yes, see the stones?"

"Testicles."

"Looks like he's uncircumcised."

"Yes, quite a longish...p-p-p..."

"Prepuce. Yes, funny word."

"Must hate us seeing it. Goodness, isn't that a blush?"

"And it's stretching!"

Miss Williams rather relished watching their organs inflate- one by one, filling out, the funny stretching process. She liked it as much as the boys hated it, involuntary as it was.

"A problem, though, for visitors- being confronted with the rampant male anatomy. Jimmy Fraser..."

Ida Speight had inspected the boy, knew the lumpy, fleshy Fraser cock intimately. Her own fingers with their purple-painted nails had held it reverentially during medical inspections, now more frequent.

"His erection startled some visiting mothers," conceded the principal. Ada had witnessed the encounter. "Shocked them."

He had been pounding down the corridor- his size 12 feet in moccasins, wearing the belt and the headdress- with his erect shaft appearing to point the way, sticking from his shaven groin, when five ladies from the Mothers' Club had been leaving the principal's office. They had nearly collided with the exposed athlete. Some mothers had nearly been as astonished as the poor boy.

There was no easy answer to the problem they were discussing. Miss Cuff had doubled the number of boys playing Indians and then decided she needed a full tally of understudies as well. The corridors were likely to be hosting near-naked young men anytime of the day. Old Mrs Salmon raised the issue of "self control." None was persuaded. Boys can't control engorgement. It was, insisted Miss Williamson, a "biological imperative."

The discussion became somewhat confused.

Dr Speight patiently explained that some of the more "progressive" mothers were "milking their boys." But, she added, it needs to take place twice a day to be effective.

"At this age they are like young goats," she avowed. "They either release their fluid being milked systematically by females in positions of authority- or they masturbate surreptitiously, in stolen moments under the sheets or in the bathroom. The milking mothers soon complain about repetitive injury to wrists and hands. But there is a solution- sisters can be recruited to help. It's good preparation for being mothers themselves one day. If no sisters or cousins, an aunt, a grandmother...a mature age neighbour."

Would milking be possible at school? Miss Williams lighted up. Surely it would be a task for the biology department. Educational for girls. Ida Speight thought of rubber gloves and beakers and test tubes. A matter for the school medico surely. Art teacher Miss Simpkins said Ancient Greek vases portrayed young athletes masturbating in front of mature age women who may have been mothers and said some of the erections sported by boys modelling in art class "seemed to demand attention."

This was a big decision and Ada Braithwaite thought it better to adjourn it for another day.

Her colleagues left. "The limping and the lame," she thought. But still, mysteriously, energised by this exchange on the sublime subject: the outrageous erections of 18 year old males. Yes, all of them had assumed looks of awe, intrigue, lubricity as they had canvassed the male organ and its sinewy potential.

She locked her office. Turned to leave the building but thought again. Instead she pivoted across the corridor to what had become known as "the shaving room." Bud Lanter had been booked in, a rather goofy boy under an Elvis cut with a springy cock. He was new to the school and, competing nude in the swim team, had won admirers.

Today he would sacrifice his pubic fleece so as to be a convincing Red Indian on the stage of Grover Cleveland High, in the endless rehearsals. No date for any official premiere had been so much as hinted at by Miss Cuff. Rehearsals dominated the life of the school.

She silently turned the door knob.

She saw all Bud's clothes hanging from the wall, over a chair, socks on the floor. Bud himself was kneeling on the table, head down, his glutes up in the air. But his arms reached back and his hands were holding apart his bottom cheeks. Submissively. It was all Ada could see of him, his parted ass...and fat penis bulb and a dangling ball sac. Even the teeny stretch marks that ran from his twinkle hole, making it resemble a star burst.

His ball bag hung between his thighs on Gothic folds of flesh.

His penis? It must be poking forward, poking like a missile, hugging his abs, she thought, out of sight.

The view was wicked...

...woeful...

...touchingly vulnerable...

...devastating in its submissiveness.

Beside him stood- bent over her task and fiercely concentrating- a very unsubmissive Milly Slink. She was holding poised a shaving brush daubed with cream. She was the girl who shaved Rodney and other boys. And who had confessed to Ada that when she left school she wanted to work full time on the task of shaving males of body hair.

Her hand slowly reached out to the boys proferred perineum.

Her brush entered the territory his hands were stretching open.

She sloshed the cream up and down and around the exposed crack- covering in foam the cheeky hole and bulging penis bulb.

Ada noticed the boy shudder violently.

God, what must he be thinking?

His submission was perfect...pathetic.

The principal silently closed the door.

The young swimmer would never be the same, she thought. This was the start of his transformation under the guidance of the females at this very special school. She didn't know that his education had in fact already started, under Mrs Pebbles, wife of the Methodist clergyman. Which was to be true, as well, of that most well-endowed of the school's males, Jim Neilsen, observed so closely by Mrs Pebbles that sunny day by the lake.

Mrs Pebbles had learnt from her husband how to make recruits of young males. Him to church fellowship, she to something else.

MRS PEBBLES STRIPS JIM

Jim Neilsen has never recovered from that scene at the lake. Standing totally naked...

..."bare as a board..."

..."in Adamskostume..."

...in his "birthday suit..."

...(oh, how their saying these things had deepened his shame, as he had stood in front of them, in the most humiliating experience of his life)...

...in front of that big party of dressed- very dressed- ladies and girls!

Mrs Reilly had clutched his testicles to assess whether he might be eligible for her scrotum competition. She wickedly remarked on "How fleshy his scrotal sac is- with some very odd folds and crevices, creases and swellings" and looked him dead in the eye, feeling gently around his fat marbles...

Mrs Bagnet of the womens' college had reached out and had run her long fingers with purple-painted nails through his pubic bush, muttering, "Yes, with all the shaving of boys these days it's so nice so find one with a good manly jungle down here..." and her fingers had repeatedly touched the bottom of his towering shaft...

Mrs Claverback, the one-time Navy nurse, had reached out and stopped him from holding back his own foreskin and asked, "But further, will it go further?" And all of a sudden she was trying to enclose his prepuce and see for herself!

And all it took was for Jim to look up and see the eyes of Sally, from his class- eyes wide as saucers and focused right on his cock- and it happened.

Oh, hell!

The thought of what his wicked cock had done was to make him want to cower with shame. Especially when those girls were to catch his eye in the classroom and corridor and grin like crocodiles, like all-knowing crocodiles familiar with every one of his anatomical and biological secrets right down to the smell of his sperm as it had shot full-bodied from the end of his prick high into the air.

Females had squealed as it had landed among them- one cannonade grazing Mrs Reilly's cheek, another splotching onto Mrs Bagnet's summer blouse, another landing on the pleated skirt of Sunday school teacher Mrs Pebbles.

Jim would never forget her lustrous eyes as she gazed on him with candour and sympathy and maternal understanding. She didn't see him as a dirty-minded boy, just a nice fella from down the street who might have been her very own son dealing with the bodily changes of his teenage years. That's what those sympathetic eyes seemed to have been saying- no, her loving eyes.

And like so many deep-chested, broad-shouldered, sun-blest 18 year old all-American fellas what Jim Neilsen wanted so very deeply was to be taken under the wing of a lovely motherly lady and cuddled and fondled and asked to share his secrets, and be bathed and shaved by her, and undressed and taken over her lap when he had been naughty, and lovingly spanked when he deserved it, and propped up on her knees when it was over and kissed and stroked, then helped into his pyjamas and put into bed with a lingering good night kiss. And to be told to keep his hands above the covers.

Mrs Pebbles would be that sort of mother.

Their eyes had locked.

He, in his birthday suit, a long dangling rope of semen falling shamefully from his meatus to the grass.

She, so charmingly attired, eyes taking in all of him, but with the most acute expression of- not disapproval- but care and concern.

He had melted inside.

Contemplating her...love.

For him. In his nudity.

The days at school were hard for Jim.

Every time he passed certain of the girls in the corridors they would say something about his "Adamskostume" or his "Stander." And stare giggling at his flies.

And the number of women and girls finding their way to his three-times-weekly swim practices had swollen and each time Coach Compton would send him and John Lawrence and Bud Lanter over to the bleachers to thank them for their support. He could never get used to how unabashedly they had stared.

Then came the handwritten note from Mrs Pebbles.

It was on lavender paper and smelt of lavender too. She wrote that she admired what she had heard of his swimming prowess although parish duties had prevented her getting to the recent meets. She suspected he was a boy who liked church with its fellowship and would like opportunities to pray and explore a relationship with the Lord. She invited him to visit her at the manse and it would be just the two of them, like when she prayed with other boys. She added that she liked how he was proud of "his young manhood which he had displayed to all of them, exercising at the lake."

The last words had made Jim blush, just to read them.

Blush, and melt again in his core recalling her fond gaze...her, yes, loving and tender look...him standing, with a strand of semen trailing from the tip of his erection.

And so he had arrived at the Pebbles home on a Sunday night. Jim had battled to be there on the stroke of seven- oh, the shame of being late for the privilege of spending time with this lovely lady- but his dad had kept him working till the latest possible moment in the Neilsen family business. It was called Neilsen Motor: Service Dealer Parts. Here the boy had to install new "genuine Ford parts" for owners who had decided to "travelise" their vehicles. So when Jim knocked on the door he was still in grease-stained overalls, a smudged white T shirt and work boots, sweaty and agitated.

But Mrs Pebbles warmly welcomed him. She said the Reverend was off preaching to Owatonna Methodist Youth Conference. She guided him to the settee, her arm in his, and eased him down, taking her place next to him. He breathed in her scent of jasmine and sandalwood.

His embarrassment was about to overwhelm him but she babbled questions that kept him distracted, reaching for words. How often was he working out on these summer days, down by the lake? That made him redden but her smile was so sweet that he was able to say that, yes, the coach was tough and all the boys were at it four afternoons a week. And all his swimming- she presumed he kept up with that (which made him blush, thinking of the humiliation)- and yet...and yet, she insisted...his grades were so good. And he was stumbling over an account of his work with his dad and how one day he guessed he would be running the motor business. Which was an invitation for her to run her beautiful fingers over his overall bib while coaxing him to talk about his work that very day.

"Poor fella, you must be hungry...a growing boy like you..."

Then in a flourish she vanished to the kitchen to return with a delicious reward for her visitor: a silver tray with a brimming glass of chocolate flavoured full cream milk and a plate of scaldingly hot apple pie with scoops of vanilla ice cream beginning to melt over the crust.

Nothing could have worked greater magic on an 18 year old mid-western youth, sheltering a half erection in his blue denims...

...and his prefrontal cortex running a nonstop movie about this lovely lady taking command.

Which she did, the tray on the coffee table...

...and she, painstakingly taking spoonfuls of the pie and ice cream and steering it to his mouth.

Feeding him, like an infant.

"There, there...that's my boy..."

And his stout, long penis stretched to the full, as one spoonful followed the other, reducing him to being a bit of a bub, being fed by his Mommy. Only- gulp, munch- this had to be the mom of all moms, this perfectly lovely lady with her sweet smell...and her obvious love for her big boy...and what on earth would come next?

...and, goodness, she was scrapping some ice cream from his chin...

...even folding her embroided handkerchief and wetting it between her lips and wiping the corner of his mouth.

Then a dollop of ice cream fell to his lap! A big dollop! He looked down and like snow on an alpine peak it was decorating the very end of the bulge rising from his middle! Hell, it was sitting on the tip of his stiff dick, under the denim! But not intimidated, Mrs Pebbles swiftly scooped it up with the spoon, pressing it hard into his stiffness...

...(he swooned at the touch)...

...and returned it to his lips.

All the time she babbled so nicely about how she thought that strong young men, the big boys and athletes, were all "vulnerable little sweeties at heart." Oh, that made his insides go gooey! And how, in her experience, they needed the love of their moms even more than girls. Oh yes, she said, boys were so emotionally fragile. And she asked him whether he agreed. And he nodded, eyes distant.

And with her left hand laid lightly on his pulsing rod she told him that the "biggest" problem for young men...

...as she pronounced "biggest" her hand tightened on his shaft, under the denim...

...was the "surge in sexual desire" that accompanied their adolescence. But in fact, that was something about which no boy should be ashamed or awkward or embarrassed. Sexual yearning is the biggest force in any 18 year old's life. It is one of God's beautiful gifts and made a mother's guidance all the more essential...

And suddenly she broke the train of her own thoughts with the ejaculation, "Goodness! Why didn't I think of it earlier? Working with the grease of the motors all day- why don't we give you a lovely bath?"

Which made Jim blush and demur and coo and gush and start sentences with "Oh no, Mrs Pebbles..." and then lose his way, all the while being steered up out of the settee and onto his feet with the front of his overalls so startlingly tented, and then, stumbling with the burden of his mighty erection, out into the corridor and, step by awkward step, into the small Pebbles bathroom.

Where, without fanfare, she turned on the taps of the claw-footed bathtub, and then fronted the boy, smiling so winningly.

Her hands were on the buckles of his overalls.

"Dear me, Jim, I can hear your heart beat so..."

She was loosening the straps and sliding them his shoulders.

"...but truth is..."

And she was drawing his overalls down over his hips.

"...there's nothing unnatural about a loving mother seeing her 18 year old boy in all his glorious nudity. We brought our boys into this world naked..."

And swiftly hauling off his boots and peeling down his socks and shucking his pants free at his ankles, she chattered about how she and her husband, The Reverend Pebbles, were members of a Christian group called the Gymnos Aquatic Saints. Yes, it was dedicated to clothes-free outdoors recreation and sport. Swimming naked. Nude activities.

Here she drew Jim's T shirt over his head, savouring the perfume of his teenage sweat from jungly armpits...

This left Jim exposed in his tented Bike brand jockstrap, the webbed cloth of the pouch looking ready to burst into fragments at the straining of his "one in a hundred" penile shaft.

She reached out and drove her fingers into the three inch elastic belt of his jocks. The belt had three red lines and the Bike brand.

She kept her fingers inside the belt.

"Yes," she cooed. "Just think. Big strong boys like you shucked down- one hundred percent clothes-free- in a beautiful natural setting. Every boy with his mom."

"Nude? With their mothers? Christians going naked?"

He blurted out the questions. His voice squeaked.

Her fingers stayed inside the elastic waistband.

"Why, yes," she cheerily reported.

His mind raced. He thought with horror...of his mom seeing him...in the buff!

Hell! He shook all over.

But Mrs Pebbles piled on details.

Yes, her husband and some friends had founded this group called the Gymnos Aquatic Saints. Its picnics in secluded groves or on rented farm properties were a delight. Yes, all were Christians, praying and discussing scripture but going naked. Swimming in ponds and rivers naked- there was a new expression for it, "skinny dipping." Baptisms in streams and lakes. Athletic competitions. Wholesome picnic treats. All, she said, "clothes free."

Don't forget she added- fingers moving tantalisingly, teasingly, inside his elastic- Jesus himself was baptised nude. Through his ministry, with his disciples, he would have been bathing and dining like the ancient Greeks. Don't forget Genesis 2:25 lays down God's original idea was "naked and unashamed."

Idly, she moved fingers of both hands around his middle, inside his waistband. Tickling him.

"Naked- and unashamed," she repeated in a far off voice.

Her touch on his flesh made him tremble.

"All of us in a natural state, like Adam or Eve in a garden setting."

And her voice remodulated and took took on a hint of cunning.

"One of the sweetest things is seeing 18 year old boys divest themselves of clothing. Church-going boys. So shy, in front of their moms. Becoming naked for the first time since growing up...in front of the females who brought them into this world..."

Jim shook all over.

"A...a...are..they embarrassed?"

His words tumbled out in a choking voice. Clearly the question was important to him.

"Oh, I'd say they are! Some go to strip off behind a willow or oak but it only means their moms are looking all the closer when they step out, buck naked. 'Looking close'- that doesn't say half of it. It's almost cruel, the way they want to size up their nude sons. The moms are just fascinated- to take it all in, examine and inspect, with their eyes wide as saucers. And the boys know it!"

Mrs Pebbles saw the boy go fire engine red.

"What, Jim, your mom never seen you in the buff?"

He shook his head vehemently.

She seemed encouraged to go on.

"One fella stripped off under a towel but looked so foolish when his mom just said, 'Oh hand over that silly thing' and whisked it away. Suddenly there he was- in his Adamskostume- and his mom having a good stare..."

Adamskostume! That word again! Jim looked close to fainting.

With a twinkling in her eyes, she kept talking.

"Embarrassed, yes. But mixed with other emotions. In boys who are suddenly exposed with- how shall I put this- modest endowments, there seems a special element of shame. As if they have disappointed their moms because their organs have refused to flesh out, declining to grow in girth and length. Shamed when another boy with an ample organ struts into view. The contrast for the diminutive boys is...well, painful. In front of moms. Then there are boys..."