Rodney’s Nude Humiliation

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By aaronburr

 

Carl Harlson, the tall, tow-haired young Viking, was summoned for rehearsal by Miss Cuff, to be the only boy up on the stage with seven girls, for a particularly difficult scene in Cowgirls and Indian Braves. It was the scene where a lone brave, out on the prairie, wearing nothing but his loin cloth, is surprised by a party of cowgirls and taken prisoner. Miss Cuff wanted the piece rehearsed to perfection.

She had invited teachers, all female, and very, very eager to see one of the boys in his Indian gear get captured by the cowgirls.

Carl began undressing in the empty boys’ changeroom. He loved the changeroom, with its drip drip drip from leaking showers, its rusty lockers and the smell of old sweat and linement. He loved it despite the stained, seatless toilet bowls and the rats that sometimes peered from cracks in the bricks. He loved it because girls never got here.

His dungarees and checked shirt hanging on a hook, his loafers and scrolled socks discarded, he stood in his white boxers. And looked forlornly at what he had to put on.

A waistband with a tiny embroidered chamois flap.

A pair of moccasins.

A headband with a long feather.

Fuckin’ hell! What a shitty, childish costume! But he had no choice. Miss Cuff ruled, here in Grover Cleveland High. Ruled over the boys, that was for sure.

Carl has active tear ducts and he looked close to crying in anger and frustration. He peeled down his boxers.

The air of the changeroom circulated around his naked midriff. Looking down he was shocked by the sight of his 18 year old body shaven of golden chest hair and black pubic bush. His scrotum as bald as an egg.

His shaving was performed twice a week by Beatrice Weatherall, sometimes in the school corridor outside the principal’s office with other boys also standing nude, being rendered smooth skinned like Indian braves. Sometimes the school secretary Miss Assam found a reason to emerge and take a long look at what was going on. A female cleaner or teacher might linger. Meanwhile girls knelt and sloshed foam into male groins. Boys strained not to become erect, without success.

Trouble was, he thought, being shaved around there only make his slender, short appendage with its thin, papery foreskin, look all the smaller.

He picked up the loin cloth and looked at it.

All those measurements and fittings at Mrs Carruther’s place. Shit, hadn’t she had him there a total of six times, to fuss with her maid Yuela over his costume, as he stood naked on a stool? And with each fitting the fuckin’ flap had grown tinier, with Mrs Carruthers saying his covering needed to be smaller because he had less to hide than other boys.

He had shrivelled with shame.

And she was wrong: his cock was the same size as Stevie Lynton’s, even a bit thicker, and Alan Larsen’s was a mere three inches if lucky and there were as many boys under the six inch average as above it. Or so Coach Compton had told them, the coach’s own cock being tiny, sprouting in his hairless, suntanned groin.

Carl eased the band up his legs and fixed it around his waist.

The flap just shielded his cock and balls but he knew that when he moved around or when he got stiff it would be a different story. And, as he worked on the moccasins, he dreaded going out the door for the rehearsal with girls, female teachers watching, Miss Cuff in charge. There would be no other boy.

He placed the headband, looked in the mirror.

Side-on he looked naked. His flanks uncovered, anyone would glimpse his genitals hanging behind the flap. Turning his back and looking over his shoulder, he saw his V-shaped swimmer’s back tapered to cleft bottom, brazenly naked. Hell, showing his naked butt! To every female at the rehearsal! Next he posed head-on: shit, he could now view a little nozzle of foreskin hanging below the flap! The slightest stretch and it came into view!

He worked at the waist band but no, he couldn’t lower it further. It already hung from his penis base just as Mrs Carruthers had planned in those fittings, with Yuela fussing over it, while he had stood naked on the stool with a full erection.

He moved to the door which led direct to the auditorium. On the other side he could hear the echoing voices of female teachers.

But the door was locked.

He jerked it, pulled, juggled. But it would not open. And they couldn’t hear him.

There was only one other way to the school hall: past Coach Compton’s office and out the rear door of the changeroom into the school grounds, across the grounds, through the cafeteria and past the school offices and into the foyer and, on the other side of the foyer, the auditorium.

“Where’s Harlson?”

The echoing voice was Miss Cuff’s.

“If he keeps us waiting…well, there are ways of punishing boys at this school none of them likes!”

There was laughter from the females.

He would run through the school to get to the school hall. No one would get more than a glimpse of his cleft ass, of his swinging cock.

Filling his lungs with the changeroom smells of wet tiles and damp bricks Carl jogged. Right out of the building and into the bright light of the school grounds. With one spring he was on his way across the courtyard…

…and face to face with a trio of strolling, gum-snapping senior girls.

They stepped backwards with shock.

“Oh my god!”

They took in the near nudity of the blond haired boy. The tiny flap on his front. The hilarious headband and feather. The exposed groin, shaven smooth. And as he skirted around them and they looked back at him, his exposed buttocks, powering him across the lawn and towards the entrance to the cafeteria.

“Hell! That was Carl Harlson!”

“He was…virtually naked!”

“Ah! That’s Miss Cuff’s show. He’s one of the Injuns!”

“Oh my god! How embarrassing!”

“Carl Harlson! Can’t believe we’ve just seen his bare ass!”

They doubled over laughing.

Desperately Carl seized the heavy glass and metal door and leant into it. He fell into the building where he faced two teachers, head-on. They were young, gaunt Miss Dolomite who taught Carl English and middle-aged, full-bossomed Mrs Harriet Longstrom, who taught girls domestic science.

“Well, well…Carl Harlson as an Indian brave! Goodness gracious!”

Mousy Miss Dolomite, 26, bespectacled and a virgin, suddenly had a feral gleam in her eyes.

In private she was subject to a raging libido that belied her prim young spinster, church-going image. For example, every night under the sheets she fantasised about making boys in her classes strip naked as punishment. Ordering them, under her gaze, to peel off every stitch, stand hands behind head and take her reprimand and sit at their desks in their birthday suits. As it happened, of all the boys it was Carl she had taken the most liking to, this young athlete suddenly in front of her in such promising circumstances. Under the blankets he was the one most often recruited for her fantasies, the naked boy she would make get to his feet naked, stay behind for punishment, visit her at home for help with studies.

Miss Dolomite was getting more daring with each passing month of her wretched virginity. She would not miss this chance. Not with Carl Harlson.

Without a second’s delay, heart thumping and eyes wide with lust, she had a corner of his chamois flap between a thumb and forefinger and lifted it. It made Carl jolt. His first thought was to dart off, jog around the teachers. But Miss Dolomite’s prurient grip tightened. If he pulled away it would tear the flap off the waistband leaving him nude, in nothing other than moccasins and a headband.

“It’s interesting embroidery.” .

But she wasn’t looking at the embroidery. She and her companion were both staring under his raised flap at Carl’s cigarillo of a penis, its head covered in a papery prepuce, resting on a sac as hairless as a statue’s.

Miss Dolomite was surprised and curious: this petite penis. In rehearsals she had glimpsed Jimmy Fraser and Rodney Ricketson and Mark Campbell with long fleshy penis stems and big fat heads on them. Oh my god, that Rodney Ricketson! That head on the end of his penis- what did they call it in the biology texts? His glans…huge! Some boys in her class- boys she fantasised about stripping- sported fat bulges in the front of jeans. Yet here was Carl, a broad shouldered athlete, with a sweet little cylinder down there, resting on a tiny ball sac. Did he get embarrassed, standing in the showers?

She felt a flutter of excitement in her groin, sensing the shame of the tall, good looking swimmer. Shame at having his secret exposed.

Her tug stretched the flap parallel to the floor. He would feel air all around his groin. She felt him jolt with fear.

Mrs Longstrom noticed Carl was devoid of hair. “Would most boys…his age have hair..?”

“Well, I imagine he’s still growing. Still…at 18…you would expect some fluff at least.”

Carl dissolved with shame. Those active ducts in his eyes made him look close to tears.

Shaking, the boy expostulated that he did in fact have hair down there but Miss Cuff shaved them…er, rather she had girls do it…all the boys…so they would look like Indian braves…

“Ah! So you originally DID have hair down here, after all?” Miss Dolomite did not want to spare him any embarrassment.

“Was it blond?”

And Harriet Longstrom giggled at her own question.

About to faint from shame the boy confessed that no, it was black. “Down there…it was black…but on my chest…”

“And what lucky girl gets to shave you, Carl?”

“Beatrice…Beatrice Weatherall.” He stumbled out her name.

“Well,” opined Miss Dolomite and lifted the flap to 45 degrees, “Tell her next time that I think she has done a very good job.”

“What? They leave his bottom bare? This boy’s got nothing covering his behind.”

“Turn around,” ordered his English teacher, her thoughts a long way from Jane Austen and Emily Dickensen.

But he protested, stuttering, that he needed to get to his rehearsal. There were, however, more questions. “And how often does she shave you?” and “I guess you’re no longer embarrassed when it happens?” and “Do you find that this little flap moves around a bit?”

He offered staccato, monosyllabic answers. “Twice a week…mostly in the corridor” and “No…well, kinda…if other girls come and look…” and “Yes…I want a bigger flap for sure” until they let him get past.

Watching his bare bottom take off across the cafeteria Miss Dolomite thought, his ass cheeks look like there’re just out of the baking pan. She loved the indentation on the sides and she admired the silky indentation of his spine, dividing his back in half.

Through the corridor with classrooms on each side he jogged, grateful there were no girls out on errands or visiting Moms or wandering women teachers. Around the corner he jogged, with the foyer and the auditorium straight ahead and administrative corridor to his left with the principal’s office- the corridor where boys on shaving days would stand quaking and nude up against the wall- up to 15 of them- to be shaven by anointed girls.

He jogged, the flap of his loin cloth flying from side to side, the air around his flopping genitals and his bare ass…

…right into the school hall.

The female teachers seated in the front rows swung around to see him jog panting down the aisle. They flushed at his near-nudity under the headband and tall feather, tiny flap fluttering over his groin. The seven girls on the stage, dressed as Annie Oakleys in hats, gloves and cowgirl skirts grinned superciliously as the lone boy, their own sweet little Indian brave, arrived to join them. Miss Cuff, roaming wild-eyed and impatient, ordered him up on the stage without delay.

So Carl had no choice but to present his bare bottom- cleft and indented- and mount the steps.

The shame, of knowing all eyes would be on his naked cheeks. His insides melted at the humiliation: his female teachers seeing his ass. Hell! Any boy would hate it! How could he…how could he look any of them in the eye again? “Good morning, Miss Duckworth…good morning Mrs Gainsborough,” knowing they’d seen his naked globes! Them smiling back at him, at the boy they had glimpsed with a bare bottom.

Again, he came close to tears.

The stage had one prop: a waist high cardboard replica of a cactus.

And so the rehearsal went. An party of cowgirls, their lines delivered in a parody of Broadway musical patter, comment on the desert scenery…they exchange suggestive hints about the “rough, rude Injuns who inhabit these parts”…young Indian braves who hunt naked…and the cowgirls simulating shock and fear. This is enlivened by a song routine, a medley from Annie Get Your Gun and other show tunes.

Then a descent into romance as cowgirls pine for their cowboy companions and lament the loneliness of the plains. Another show tune and then the plot gathers place. It seems the girls are on a mission to capture one of the local tribesmen: the Smithsonian Institution has offered a reward for a strapping young Indian to be brought to Washington to be examined by its (female) scientists and doctors.

Which is when Carl appears, bow and arrow at the ready, looking cute and vulnerable under his feather in his near-nudity- no, nudity because through the drama of his encounter and capture and escape and recapture, his tiny flap swings so wildly that his genitals are presented again and again to his appreciative audience. His genitals, and his clenching and unclenching buttocks.

The final scene has Carl imprisoned at the cowgirls’ camp. He stands behind the cactus so the audience only sees his upper half.

Declares Sally Smyth, the cowgirls’ leader, rifle in hand, “You are trapped here, young fella. And to keep you trapped…”

There is a pause for dramatic effect.

“…we cowgirls of the plains…”

The girls twittered at what was coming.

“…require you, our prisoner, to hand over…”

More twitters.

“…your loin cloth!”

Gasps and giggles from the teachers in the front rows.

Carl is required to react with feigned horror. And he does, having been rigorously rehearsed. Melodramatically he begs to be allowed to keep this last shred of dignity: “Gosh, Miss Cowgirl, no…no…not in front of white ladies.”

The audience of female teachers laughs lewdly, clearly stimulated by the frisson of male humiliation: a boy robbed of his last remaining item of clothing. Surrounded by dressed girls. Females getting the upper hand with a stripped boy.

Carl declaims the lines drilled into him by Miss Cuff. He declares, “No Soiux boy can be buck naked in front of cowgirls! That’s bad magic! No…no…please, ladies. Not buck naked!”

“Buck naked.” The lady teachers laugh lubriciously at this developing motif, so erotic in its promise of male shame.

The cowgirls are unbending, however. No, they say- one girl after the other- hand over your loin cloth, Indian boy! One even says, “Come on, Injun! Let’s see your birthday suit!”

This opens a little patter routine. The seven girls trip around the boy and the cactus, chanting:

“Show us your birthday suit!

“Show us your birthday suit!

“Girls just wanna see your birthday suit!”

All the while teasing him, wagging their forefingers in his direction.

“Show us your birthday suit!

“Show us your birthday suit!

“Girl just wanna see your birthday suit!”

He pleads desperately to be allowed to keep his loin cloth while his female teachers become more and more titillated, some obviously aroused, by where this must be leading: surely to Carl emerging from behind the cactus naked as a jay. Their eyes are dilated by the delicious sight of Carl, his midriff just covered by that make-believe cactus. The prospect of him losing his loin cloth and emerging has got them all with excited, damp loins.

What they don’t know is that Miss Cuff’s direction requires a extra loin cloth to be secreted behind the cactus prop, ready for him to grab at the climactic moment. Sheltered by the cactus he slowly simulates pulling down his waistband…the girls look on with theatrically widened eyes…he even stretches things out by appearing to turn his back…finally he acts as if he’s stepping out of the loin cloth…protected by the cactus.

And facing the cowgirls he hands over something that looks mighty like the one he’s wearing. The audience pruriently assumes it’s his own and that he’s now nude: there’s not one of the female teachers who’s not panting with the vulgar thrill of seeing him buff naked and shamefully humiliated.

The girls feign triumph, waving their prize aloft. They then indulge in a festival of gasping, giggling and staring at what should be the poor boy’s exposed privates as he stands glued to the spot behind the cardboard cactus. And all the lady teachers are shifting their bottoms with excitement, eyes popping, staring up at the boy. Carl had been instructed by Miss Cuff, “You must act shamed to the core. Remember, Harlson, these cowgirls now see you naked as a jay, stripped down to your birthday suit. They will be staring at your…let’s be explicit, your penis…at your testicles…”

She had coached him painstakingly to widen his eyes, to hang his head, to shrug his shoulders…to play a parody of embarrassment…to climax in an “aw shucks” smile at the audience as if to say, “Well, here I am…bare as a board…and they can see it all.”

The ultimate Embarrassed Naked Boy.

The audience holds its breath: convinced the boy behind the cactus is now buck naked and about to end the scene in the only way possible, emerging to take his bow in a state of nature. They can hardly believe Miss Cuff’s daring. Except that when Carl does emerge he is, of course, in his original flap- the audience sighs with disappointment and laughs at itself- and, taking bows, able to beam away as happy as the girls.

Well, not quite. Carl knows that during the performance, while protected from outright nudity, he has, with the flap swinging, shown off his genitals. Again, again and again. And his bottom. And he had Sally Smyth whisper in his ear, “One day I’m gonna rip that thing right off you! And they’ll see what a little cock you’ve got, Carlie boy!”

The rehearsal wrapped up, he flees, jogging out of the hall, all females watching his bottom as it powers him.

And in the foyer outside the hall he runs right into the principal, Miss Ada Braithwaite.

She was a tall presence, a 50s-something lady, with gray-blond hair pulled tight, gray framed glasses down her nose. She wore a blue-gray suit, the skirt pencil thin.

Everything about her was gray-blue. Carl thought she had all the authority of one of Wernher von Braun’s space rockets he had seen in The Saturday Evening Post.

Through the perched glasses she looked intently.

“Ahhh…Carl…the swimmer…”

He blushed. The bow in his right hand, the arrow in the left! Shit! They stopped him tugging his flap into place. The fuckin’ thing had doubled up on itself. All out of place. The flap was catching his penis but leaving his hairless scrotum dangling free and exposed.

She was looking right at it.

Through the glasses perched low on her nose.

He started spluttering apologies. The word “rehearsal” figured, the name of Miss Cuff was invoked. Oh, he begged, please listen to what I’m saying…and, please Miss Braithwaite, stop looking down here!

Ada kept looking at the testicles, shaven smooth, hair-free, a delicate little sac- oh, so such a sweet little purse- holding two marbles.

Ada was remembering that famous visit to the boys’ swim class, bursting in upon them with a party of excited girls and catching the fellas stark naked. She was a newly appointed teacher at the time and it was thrilling given her views on Kinsey and Peyton Place and Freud to see all the 18 year old boys of Grover Cleveland High caught embarrassed and exposed, to see the erections pop up one after the other, and all that followed- the spanking of one boy by the coach, himself naked. And she remembered this boy Carl with his athletic physique, his V-shaped torso, standing without a stitch and a remarkably slender and short penis at full stand.

And now, in front of her, his exposed testicles! How she loved that word, how she loved the objects themselves, how she loved to fondle the things.

She told him to accompany her to her office. It was time for a bit more fun with boys of Grover Cleveland: she had an idea to explore.

With a hand on his shoulder she guided him past the office where Miss Assam, her secretary worked. He caught a glimpse of her at her typewriter and of one of the girls, Karen Strawbridge, hovering. Fortunately they didn’t glimpse him. The boy and his principal went past the surgery where Dr Speight had three rooms to inspect reluctant boys; and past the little room with examination table and sink where, sometimes, if they were lucky, a fella might meet his allocated maiden for a private shaving session.

And into her own office with its reproductions of Van Dyke and Rembrandt, sports trophies and pennants. Her own degrees were framed: from Abigail Adams College in the East and Myra Shrewsbury Ladies Teachers’ College in Minnesota.

A book case featured three shelves of The Harvard Classics and one with the 10 volumes of Will Durant’s The Story of Civilisation.

Carl noticed a copy of Hendrik Willhem van Loon The Arts which he and friends had looted in the library for pictures of nudes. He recognised Thor Heyerdall’s Kon Teki which they had at home, as did every house in Brewer.

She gestured the trembling boy- his flap now fallen into place and shielding his small, hairless sac- to stand in front of her desk. She sat down. Her tone was brisk and impersonal.

“Do you spend much time in the boys’ locker room?”

Carl shook with guilt.

“Er…ah…no, Miss…I guess, some…”

“Do you look at magazines when you are there?”

He knew what she was referring to. He blushed deeply.

“I…dunno…maybe once…”

“Perhaps these can refresh your memory.”

She reached into a draw and produced a pile of the tattered girlie magazines that were regularly leered at by goggled-eyed boys, and stashed away again in the anonymous locker; a treasure trove that boys borrowed from and refreshed; that fed their fantasies as they collected a lurid mag and retreated to a cubicle, or stashed between gym gear in their bags to take home for the night.

Carl, who knew each of the titles, whose own emissions lacquered the pages, tried to look astonished and disgusted.

“Funny that you haven’t seen them before. Coach Compton told me that in his opinion all the boys were viewing them- if viewing is the operative verb. Using them- that might be more apposite. In fact coach tells me there is a veritable epidemic of masturbation among boys at this school. Fuelled by resort to disgusting magazines such as…”

Here she rummaged through the pile and flung them, one by one.

“Reveal…Adam…Lace Suspender…Taboo…”

Carl shifted uneasily, terribly conscious that only the tiniest flap of cloth sheltered his private parts, his secret being, from her enraged eyes.

“Fortunately there is a new program for boys with the problem. It’s all in this…”

She lifted a Dial Paperback with the title, Teaching Boys to be Gentle Men by Sarah Maitland- big red letters on a white cover. The principal looked Carl in his shifty, telltale eyes.

“…and it proposes the only way of educating boys out of degrading and cruel attitudes to females, fed by masturbation fantasies like these…”

She gestured at the familiar magazines.

“…is a course of aversion therapy. In which boys are made to strip naked, rather as you are now…no flap though…the theory requires what the author calls, total clothing deprivation…”

The words made Carl tremble.

“…yes, total nudity. What she calls ‘penile exposure’ for the young offender…”

The boy’s knees shook.

“…while being forced to contemplate the magazines to which we know they are addicted…that means exposing his erection…”

Carl sunk into a nebulous daze of sheer dread.

“…and required to pleasure themselves…but with females observing them…”

Carl felt like fainting. For a second came close.

“Yes, I can see your reaction. It is indeed traumatic for boys your age. It is meant to be. But all these years after Freud branded masturbation the universal addiction, this technique is the only know cure for the unhealthiest forms of self abuse, yes, the kind of masturbation that requires titillation through pornography, this artificial excitation.”

She gestured again at the magazines polluting the surface of her desk. “Excitation that is built around the degradation of females.”

The terrible indictment echoed in the office, hung in the air.

In a lower voice, almost mournful, she added, “Coach Compton found these and brought them to me. He is a good guide to the problem of boys your age.”

The coach was involved? He had sold out his boys?

The coach had a physique like that of the famous body builder Steve Reeves. His hair was peroxide blond. All summer he organised boys to accompany him on swimming and workout sessions by the lake, in an isolated spot, where there was no problem exercising nude. “Like the ancient Greeks,” he insisted. “Athenian culture, here in Minnesota.” He also recruited fellas to work out naked after nine at night in the gym at the St Paul Y or swim nude in its ancient chlorine-scented baths. He liked to show off his physique, his all-over tan, his hairless groin.

He was known to collaborate closely with Miss Braithwaite. Even to have facilitated the arrival of her and her girls at the boys’ nude swimming class that time. Seemed to enjoy being caught naked himself.

Was he collaborating with her in this exercise, Carl wondered. Meanwhile the principal pressed her intercom and asked Miss Assam and Karen Strawbridge to join her. “I have the first boy here,” she said.

Carl swallowed. There was a definite disturbance in his eye ducts.

He was intensely conscious of his near-nudity. His bottom bare, his front covered by the smallest of flaps. How many times had he measured the thing? Six inches wide and five long! Also how silly he looked in the headband with its feather, how childish with the bow and arrow.

But he had no time to think of a solution before the two females burst in, standing close and looking him up and down. Karen Strawbridge was, Carl thought, one of the least attractive girls: with cats eyes glasses, red hair in plaits, freckles sprayed over her face. Yet she had a keen interest in catching boys out: was the first to pivot in her chair if one was called to stand in class to see what might be happening in his flies and was always proposing to other girls they burst in on the boys’ swimming class.

Miss Assam, the principal’s secretary, had become her closest friend. Together they took the keenest interest in boys’ medical examinations. They might burst in- Miss Assam with Karen claiming to be ill, with headache or tummy upset- when a poor fella was in his birthday suit. The boy would be trapped, lying on the table or hands on head having his testicles examined by a seated Dr Speight. Or he might be caught very often erect or half-erect up on the weighing machine.

Now they had Carl in his Indian brave outfit.

They bent sideways to take a sly, prurient interest in his exposed bottom.

Miss Braithwaite quickly sketched her punishment plan. Just as she had for him. Boys as persistent masturbators…who use degrading literature…the role of aversion therapy…nudity for its shaming effect…

“…it’s a cathartic experience. And all the boys who use that changeroom will experience it. Carl is simply the first. And since you two are available…”

Yes, they had no objection.

“So Carl please sit in that chair…”

With some relief, but also a deep dread, he put his bow and arrow on the floor and planted his bare globes on the varnished pine. He collected the cloth around his midriff to keep himself covered. Damn, it was so…tiny! Six inches wide, five long! It barely covered him, what with the waist band just above the penis base.

“…and slip that dear, sweet loin cloth you’re wearing down to your knees. Better still, your ankles.”

Carl nearly gagged.

“Whaaad, Miss?”

“You heard me, Carl. Or I can have Miss Assam do it for you, or Karen.”

“But…oh no, please Miss…no, no! I promise…I won’t…”

“Yes, I know. You’ll never open one of these lurid things again, but you won’t be able to resist when the time comes unless we change your psychology for good. And do it with the program: penile exposure, supervised masturbation with the offending literature, in the presence of females. Disapproving females.”

He looked up. On one side Miss Assam was staring down into his barely-covered groin, eyes enlarged, tongue just visible between lips, just like a lizard. On the other side Karen Strawbridge gazed into his lap as if the pulling down of that tiny cloth were the thing that occupied her entire being.

Carl’s universe swung out of control.

His quivering fingers fell to the band. He went to push it down his thighs.

He stopped.

“But Miss…not with them here, pleassssse!”

“Carl, I think they’ve had glimpses of you from time to time…”

She meant glimpses of his penis.

Carl thought of that awful, shameful time in the swimming class when he had stood with an erection and both Miss Braithwaite and Karen had seen him. Or all those times being shaven in the corridor when Miss Assam had strolled by, looking intently at naked and erect boys standing against the wall to left and right. She had seemed to linger on him, as if her stares were accusing him for having a small prick.

But…

…now they were so close. And he was the only boy. And…what came next? Supervised masturbation? Hell!

“Oh enough of this! They’re not interested in what you’ve got under that flap although like all males you obviously think they must be! Miss Assam, you’ve seen him stripped for a shaving or at his medical. Pull his loin cloth down to his ankles, please.”

And before Carl could do a thing the lady was kneeling between his legs and placing her spatula-like fingers in his waist band- which made him jolt as if electrocuted- and with surprising gentleness edging his loin cloth down. With exquisite slowness she drew the band forward and exposed the shaft of his penis…then, its tapered ending…the shaven balls below…

He shivered, involuntarily.

He felt all their eyes.

Miss Assam, never removing her gaze, continued ever so slowly to draw it along his thighs, over his knees and down his calves to rest around his ankles.

Carl sat there, stark naked, his penis displayed resting on his hairless globe like a cherub on a cloud on a baroque ceiling.

Miss Assam stepped back and looked down on her work. Karen beamed down greedily.

“There, that wasn’t so hard.” From behind her desk the principal directed a laser beam through the gray-framed glasses low on her nose right at the boy’s midriff. Carl Harlson’s penis: had it grown since she had last sighted him in a condition of nudity? No, if anything the tall young athlete seemed to have outgrown his small member.

She picked one of the crumpled, creased magazines. It was entitled Black Nylons. She opened and folded it. She handed it to Miss Assam who, cruelly, held it in front of Carl’s nose: a lurid colour pic of a mature lady naked, more or less side-on, black stockings stretching up one leg, while leering at the camera.

Carl knew it well, suspected that some of the paste that stiffened the page was his own. He stirred again at her bare haunches. His glans poked from his prepuce.

Karen noticed: “Miss, his…thing’s moving!”

Miss Assam moved in, fascinated.

The principal told him to keep looking at the picture just as he and his friends do when they’re alone with the magazines.

The shamed boy took in the model’s glorious stomach, imagined- as he had when he held it in the locker room cubicles- that he could see her pubic bush. And her leer- it invited him to approach, to poke his tongue between her lips, to plunge his dick into her hole, out of sight though it was.

It took a few seconds for Carl’s penis head to lift from his sac.

There was a muffled giggle from Karen, a deep intake of breath from Miss Assam.

He placed his hands over his groin. Miss Assam, glaring ferociously, told him to put them back by his sides.

He obeyed, revealing that his penis was stretching, its foreskin retracting, its head out. Miss Braithwaite passed another magazine, Paris Taboo, to Miss Assam. She had folded it open at a photo of a kneeling brunette, flickering fingers pinching and shielding the nipples of her perky breasts. There was a not a stitch of clothing on her.

Miss Assam held it to his nose.

The pressed thighs of the model…her hour-glass upper body…the heft of her bosoms…

Carl’s instincts stirred. In one jolt his penis was fully extended, rising from his denuded groin, pink-capped and veiny, the papery ends of the foreskin stretched back, the overall effect streamlined.

“Carl has now become erect. When his penis stands up, that’s what we call ‘an erection’ although I’m sure Carl and his friends have nick names for the phenomenon. Carl, tell us what dirty names you boys use?”

The boy blushed scarlet and appeared to choke. “I dunno…I never…”

“You will call me ‘Miss’ at all times. Carl, I know you use your own words for…”

And she gestured to the statement standing up in his lap. There were suppressed giggles from Karen, more like grunts, and deep, heavy breathing from Miss Assam.

“Some boys…Miss…some boys say h…ha…hard…hardon…”

“Hardon? As in ‘hard?’ ”

The three women looked down at his groin where the blood-hardened stem of Carl’s penis greeted them.

“Hardon and..?”

The boy frowned, blushed.

“Boner. Some boys say boner.”

“And I’m sure there are other dirty names. Come on, don’t waste time.”

“Chub…Miss, or chubbie…”

“Which means?”

“If…if it…if it is only half way.”

This time Karen laughed out loud.

Miss Braithwaite looked at the girl sternly.

“Any other nick names?”

“Umm…one boy says…tentpole.”

The girl and Miss Assam spluttered.

“I know one,” volunteered Karen. “I once heard Kerry Fulbright say Rodney Ricketson had a ‘stiffie!’ ”

“Stiffie! Have you heard that one, Carl?”

He shook his head. “No. No, Miss. Honest.”

“Nevertheless, your penis has become stiff, hasn’t it?”

He nodded.

“And that’s in response to these pictures?”

He nodded.

“Carl, do you feel ashamed? Becoming stiff, acquiring an erection- or as you would say, a hardon, a chubbie, a boner, a tentpole, a stiffie…”

Her distaste hung from each noun.

Karen spluttered with giggles.

“…a stiffie, as you put it, in front of us?”

Carl looked down at his penis which, with its pink head and its slit, stared back at him.

He nodded woefully.

Miss Braithwaite folded open another magazine and handed it across. “What effect does this picture have on you, Carl? What does it want to make you do?”

From the magazine Silk Stocking Stories was a photo of a blonde lying on a sofa, one thigh over the other, an arm sheltering nipples or perhaps fondling and tickling them, her expression hinting very strongly that she needed a male- let’s say a Brewer schoolboy athlete- to embrace her. Indeed- and the effect was electric on Carl- her stockings lay discarded by her side as if she had been undressing herself, seducing the male, getting ready for sex.

He knew the picture, lived with the fantasy, had embraced her in his dreams many times. A thick droplet emerged sluggishly from the end of his penis. They noticed.

“Carl, I want you to smear that fluid- it’s called Cowper’s fluid or pre-ejaculate- over your penis. No, go on. That’s precisely why your system produced it.”

Carl held up and inspected his right hand as if he had never seen it before. He slowly brought it down to hold his penis head. He clumsily rubbed it. He rendered the penis glans slimy.

“Now…move your hand around your penis…around the knob on its end…”

This time both Miss Assam and Karen guffawed. “Knob!” The girl loved the name, the object.

“It’s called the glans,” said Miss Assam sternly. “And as Carl and every one of his young friends knows, it’s packed tight with nerve endings.”

Like an autonomon Carl shyly moved his hand around his erection.

“Now, begin the movement that’s no doubt very familiar to you, Carl- the up and down motion.”

He froze.

“Carl! Up and down! The movement you know so well!”

And in a near-miracle of human communication Carl was suddenly- tentatively, self-consciously- masturbating.

As Sarah Maitland had recommended in her book Teaching Boys to be Gentle Men.

Naked as a jay.

WIth his nose in a page already congealed with emissions from him and his companions.

And with three females watching, two of them- a mature woman and a girl his age- standing on either side of him.

Up and down…

… the time honoured movement…

…his eyes now glassy and preoccupied…

…his penis now all slimy and lubricated…

…a flood of shame merging prurient desire…

…the lying nude floating before him, her right thigh rubbing her left; her fingers teasing her nipples, her leer inviting him on board…

Carl felt the familiar surge in his penis stem.

He gulped.

He tensed.

For a second he didn’t care about the watching females, only about the impending release.

The surge gathered pace.

And without further warning he shot a heavy load of thick, milkish fluid to splatter on his chin and droop like a Santa beard…

…another to splash on his sternum…

…a third to unload on his belly button.

A lemon-fresh tart smell filled Miss Assam’s and Karen’s nostrils.

Some instinct made him look up into their mirthful and contemptuous eyes, a goatee of emission plastered on his chin.

They doubled over laughing.

Miss Braithwaite silenced them.

“Do you feel shamed, Carl? About what you’ve just done? Invariably it’s in secret isn’t it..?”

He nodded, still dazed, like a torture victim ready to sign his confession.

“But this time it’s in your birthday suit. Goodness, just look at you, bare as a board…”

He shrivelled, sitting in the chair, to be reminded of his condition. Hell! He was indeed entirely nude, with three females.

“We’ve seen you at it, Carl. We’ve watched you. And it’s been an unpleasant experience for you, a growing boy…”

The sperm, dangling from his chin, fell to join the other deposits on his chest. The pooled emissions all over his upper body seemed a terrible indictment.

“Karen, take this boy to the room across the corridor and clean him up…”

Carl reached for the loin cloth caught in his ankles.

“…no, Carl, you don’t get to cover up yet. Hand those to Karen.”

The girls eyes had been swimming with possibility.

“Miss, while I have him there may I shave him?”

Carl started. What? Have this girl fussing around his balls? Sloshing shaving cream around the base of his penis?

“But Miss we’ve done it…this week, twice…look, everyone says I’m smooth…”

He gestured to his groin and testicular sac.

“…Beatrice Weatherall does it!”

Miss Assam peered lower. “Oh, I think there’s some five o’clock shadow…some stubble emerging.”

Miss Braithwaite beamed. “Exactly. And Karen needs to get some shaving experience anyway.”

Which, of course, settled things.

Which meant that there was no alternative but for Carl Harlson, big boy with his V-shaped torso and blond hair, without a stitch of clothing, to follow Karen Strawbridge out of the office and across the corridor and into the room with the sink and the examination table. In his birthday suit.

Ada relaxed, the three gone, the smell of the boy’s emission still flavouring the air.

She put the magazines in the bottom draw and looked at the Dial Books paperback. It had been banned in the United Kingdom and Sarah Maitland nearly threatened with arrest. Apparently only the intervention of Cardinal Spellman had rescued the book for US distribution and the great cleric had been persuaded by our own Mrs Reilly- a friend of many of America’s Catholic leaders including Senator Joseph McCarthy (Republican, Wisconsin) and Mr Joseph Kennedy- that its views were compatible with the disciplinary enthusiasms of America’s and Ireland’s female religious orders.

Ada flicked open one of its pages, under the chapter entitled, Nude Discipline:

“The nudity of punished young males provides the most suitable atmosphere for disciplinary settings with their mothers, bringing boys back as they were brought into this world, naked, vulnerable. The combination of shame and humiliation with pain delivers a dramatic message.”

On another page Maitland argued, “It is the degree of clothing deprivation utilised in their teenage maternal punishments that leads to the optimal behavioural results. What is required is penile exposure and the shame, before female eyes, of an erect penis. In his context, supervised masturbation is the next step…”

Total clothing removal her theme, her inspiration, her crusade.

Last week at afternoon tea Mrs Reilly had bubbled with excitement. She had told Ada, Dr Speight and Miss Cuff that Sarah Maitland would be visiting the twin cities and Brewer. Sarah Maitland no less, a celebrity appearance akin to the second coming. The esteemed authoress and disciplinarian may even, Mrs Reilly said, stay for a month or more, perhaps longer, as her guest at her grand, heritage home.

Sarah Maitland: the legendary theorist and practitioner of full nude punishment for young males! From London, colonial India, the Caribbean. In mid-West America, in Minnesota, here in Brewer!

Of course, Mrs Reilly had corresponded with her for years, drawing information about her management of a boys’ school in India during the Raj, about her work as governess in the great houses of England, about her work on male discipline in a school for Negro boys in- where was that?- Tobago? Jamaica? A Texas penitentiary.

Miss Maitland must be in her mid-70s. Still lively, however, and interested in what was being pursued here in Brewer- the nude spankings and supervised masturbation in front of parties of mothers at Mrs Reilly’s afternoon teas- this was, apparently, music to her ears. As were the nude medical examinations, even Miss Cuff’s musical.

Perhaps…

…perhaps…

…she might even recommend that here in Grover Cleveland High they replicate that policy she introduced in the Indian boys’ school in 1917. It was a bold policy. She decreed any errant 18 year old (all the schoolboys were Indian) would be made to remove very item of clothing on the spot, wherever he offended- classroom, sports field, refrectory or library- to be escorted by a female teacher (English girls and ladies all of them) to stand in the corridor outside the principal’s office until she, Sarah Maitland, was ready to give him his caning or paddling. Totally nude, hands behind back, in the school corridor, on display before sari-clad maids, female staff, visiting girls or English m’ams.

Apparently it solved all disciplinary problems.

Whether the full nude cricket she installed in the curriculum of the Caribbean boys’ school- where was that? Saint Kitts?- might be recreated here- basketball, perhaps, was a delicious possibility- was an open question although she was sure of one thing: the mothers of Brewer, let alone the girls and teachers of this school, could be counted on to offer enthusiastic support. And indeed weren’t they half way there, with her recent initiatives on opening the boys’ swimming classes to female viewing?

Ada locked the door of her office and returned to her desk. She rummaged in her lower drawer and brought forth two magazines included in the coach’s haul: Physique Pictorial and Grecian Guild. Whether any boys traded these she doubted, inversion being unknown in the mid-West, apart from the obligatory boy-adoring pastors and priests, travelling salesmen, hobos and perhaps the coach himself.

In each small, black and white magazine she found the pictures that stirred her, those of Negro youth, both posing in G-strings, one with mahogany skin, like silk stretched over rubber, with a leg lifted to a stool, the material of his slender covering stretched to the full and suggesting genitalia of substantial heft. The other picture of a boy with a shiny black body, chest like a breastplate, facing the camera holding a sword, a warrior warding off missionary ladies perhaps.

There was one term for an erection that the boy had not volunteered but Ada knew from…well, another life. It was “Alabama black snake.”

Ada unhooked and rolled down her pencil thin skirt and stepped out of it, placing it on the table. She raise her petticoat and allowed her right hand to enter her damp panties. This afternoon two Negro students, Samson Douglas and Tom Wilson, would arrive at her Buchanan Street home, out by the lake, to be paid handsomely to work in her garden and then, sweaty and primed, to join her for vanilla ice cream in her kitchen.

She let her imagination work. On what might happen in her kitchen. On how she would insist they take their shirts off. Display their physiques. She dreamt of what their testicles might look like…how loose their sacs…how heavy…how big their stones…how soft to the touch…

Meanwhile across the corridor, in the small room with sink and examination table- the room used for shaving sessions- young Carl was lying head cradled in his folded arms, his knees lifting his bottom high and holding his thighs apart. His intergluteal cleft was wide and exposed.

If his testicle sac looked hairless and vulnerable dangling between the thighs it only confirmed the suggestion of a captured Roman legionary, rendered naked for a sacrifice at the hands of barbarian priestess: if anything, the small, wrinkled bag hanging ready for a swift, ritualistic removal.

His hindquarters held up for sacrifice, Karen drew the blunt razor over the suede striations around his tiny, pouting hole. Ever so lightly back and forth, in a tickling motion that some instinct told her would delight her captive, the stripped Roman infantryman. The last of the auburn hair had vanished long ago but that the repeated motions pleased them both could not be gainsayed, indeed in the boy’s case had produced a hypnotic lowing sound, close to becoming an actual gurgle of babyish pleasure.

Earlier he had lain there on his back, while Karen had fussed with foam and razor around his groin and asked him questions. Was he embarrassed being stripped naked in front of them? Yes, ashamed she understood, but what did it really feel like deep down? And could he ever control himself in front of pictures of naked women? How often did he masturbate? And did his mother know? Did she ever catch him?

And there had been nothing left for Carl- there, nude on the table, the girl whisking foam from the folds of his balls, delicately holding up his penis stem between forefinger and thumb- but to sink into a warm bath of humiliation and tell her everything. Yes, he had told her, it had felt like a thousand butterflies in his tummy, as Miss Assam had peeled down the loin cloth while he had sat there in front of them. Jeepers, he hated letting them see his cock -sorry, penis- and his testicles.

Why? Because boys were so funny down there and you laugh at us. Oh, our foreskins, he had said, stretching his out to show her, and our balls: he had wanted to sink into the ground, to die when these had been exposed.

No, he went weak when he saw pictures like those ladies, even more if they had some small item of clothing around them- stockings say. Lingerie advertisements- God! He didn’t know why they allowed the papers to put them in! No, he couldn’t resist, a drawing of a lady pulling on suspenders and he wanted to explode! His penis stretched all the time and yes, he knew it was funny, didn’t blame her for giggling when she saw it: it just stood up. Chubbie, hardon, boner, stiffie…yes, all of that. Yes, an erection.

Hell, masturbation! Boys call it “jacking off,” he told her, and do it all the time. Yes, every day, although he admitted that he did it more than any boy he knew. Well…four, five times, especially after sport, more on weekends. And once his mother walked in to wake him for school when he was doing it under the sheets “at a million miles an hour.” Oh god, was he embarrassed! Recently his aunt walked in when he was doing it in the shower and he didn’t see her looking for a long time, “as he jacked away.” That was awful, he had told her, and he hadn’t been able to look her in the eyes again.

She had said it must be hard for a boy, what with constant erections and getting excited by pictures of women and all that white stuff to get rid of. And, picking up his testicle sac and holding it in her palm and juggling it, she had added it must be funny to have this between your legs, flopping around when you ran. And he had giggled and said he knew they must be kinda funny to females. He had helped show her the outline of the things inside- like marbles, he said- and let her finger them- “But don’t squeeze! Boys hate that!”- while his penis had risen again and they had a good laugh about that, until one thing had led to another and she had him tug back his legs, holding them behind the knees so she could inspect the area under his testicles, and while neither would have recognised the word “perineum” it was the next territory she had come to explore.

And had the noun “raphe” been entered in a vocabulary test neither would have had the faintest about that term either; nonetheless it had been the slightly brown raised line running to his bottom hole that she ticklingly traced…like a prospector following a ridge line to a half-hidden mine shaft, which had brought them to the point where Carl was raising his bottom skywards and she was shaving and teasing his most intimate spot.

In his elevated spiritual state, in his primal bliss, Carl was now the eternal boy in the caring hands of a sweet young mother, all reservations about Karen Strawbridge and her freckles and cats eyes glasses erased from his mind.

“Will you give me back my loin cloth?” He asked, head cradled, in a dreamy, far-off voice, sounding as if he didn’t really care and, as long as she accompanied him, would cheerfully walk back to the changeroom naked.

She stopped the tickling around his bottom hole.

“You get it back if you’re a good, little boy,” she replied. “And do everything I say.”

Whether the noise he made was exhalation or gurgle might be debated.

“Well, will you? Do everything I say?”

“Yes, Karen.”

And there was no doubt he would.

“And have you got a boner now, Carl, or just a chubbie?”

They both giggled.

He shyly confessed he had a boner, a hardon.

There was silence. She ran the razor lightly in his cleft, over his hole.

“Can you do my shaving in future?”

“Would you like me to?”

“Yes, Karen.”

“Very much?”

“Oh yes, Karen…VERY much!”

She, too, felt a warmth in her inner being, perhaps a fraction of his.

“Come on silly boy, get up.”

Sitting on the edge of the table, Carl shyly revealed his jutting erection. It was slimed with pre-ejaculatory fluid.

“Goodness you’re right. That’s not just a chubbie!”

They laughed.

“Look at it. Your little tentpole! Oh, who’s a silly boy? A real little tentpole!”

And she mussed his hair.

The reddish glans, with smiling slit, stared back at them.

“Well go on, do it…”

She lifted his hand for him and steered it to its goal.

“…do it, Carl, do it for me.”

Shyly, he began the movement.

He looked up at her, tear ducts activated, so that his boyish chuckles might easily have been half-cry.

Quickly the up and down movement brought him to glazed, far-off state.

Karen mussed the blond locks and kept her hand there.

Teaching boys to be gentle men, indeed.

The End.

 

 

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