Rodney's Nude Humiliation Ch. 22

It left him desperate to confess that, "No, normally I produce much, much, much more! Like any big boy! It's just that I've done it four times tonight standing in the shrubs!"

But he stayed silent and ashamed, in the lady's embraces. Girls gathered above him, looking down and sniggering.

Carl faced Laura in a corner. She held a glass beaker. It was clear what she expected. As she took her seat on the dining room chair she gestured to the boy. He stumbled onto her lap. Her right hand began to work...

...and she positioned the beaker with the other...

Carl was not long in yielding up his offering. Flavouring the intimate space around boy and girl. She deftly caught every drop. There it was, in glass. His precious milk on display.

She pecked his cheek.

"Good boy...good little..."

His blush deepened.

"...good little fella."

Carl knew his life had changed.

The diminuendo of a long party asserted itself.

The celebration wound down.

Dressed, Carl declined a lift home from Timmy's aunt as she escorted her nephew into the Rambler. He avoided Stevie who was hesitating dazed, on the lawn, like a circus performer just fired from a cannon. Alwyn was being escorted by Sally Wainwright and Lucy Peptide to parked sedan, like a mental patient headed for the clinic. A slammed door on the family Cadillac signalled that Eddy was being whisked off by his Dad, still trying to smile a goofy "gee whizz" benediction on the night's proceedings.

Moms stood in groups chatting wildly. Girls leant in close, giggling, reliving the evening's highlights.

"Okay you giglets, head off home- time for beddie byes!" ushered Mrs Christensen, flushed with the night's many triumphs. Oh, so many delights.

A quick summer storm had just swept through town, refreshing Brewer's lakes and gardens. Carl strode down Buchanan Street and into Cortlawn Circuit North, the pavement alternately shadowed from the oaks and illuminated by street lamps. The road surface was slicked and shiny from the rain.

It was close to midnight. There were muffled late night movie sounds from a few of the houses, with flickering blue grey light in the windows. Most were in darkness.

His brisk walking stilled his agitated emotions.

Why, he asked. That was the question. Why were these things so powerful? Females making us strip? Looking at us? Making fun? Laura Christensen had that peculiar light in her eyes, savage and libidinous, when she devoured his naked shame. So had other girls, older ladies- looking at our genitals, staring at our secrets. It made us boys go all funny. Why was the shame so...so spooky? So gripping?

At 18, so many questions.

But, then, why had he been born Carl Harlson of Brewer, Minnesota and not one of the other three billion people who lived on planet earth? And why did the earth exist anyway, rather than nothing? He could never answer that question. A book in the library by Bertrand Russell said it was the most important question in all philosophy.

He decided that, when school was over, he would join the marines.

It was the witching hour, Brewer sleeping. His footsteps were the only noise as he turned into Elm.