Nude and Erect

They were all hypnotised- the whole watching party of lubricious clothed females and naked boys with hands behind backs sporting erections.

Then another shot flew out, spattering on the tiles half way to Ada. Then a third load drooled out of his meatus, to drain to the tiles. Charlie looked dazed. He slumped back into the clutching arms of his four captors. He had a far away stunned expression. Coach eagerly grappled him from behind and pressed his curved little erection, unseen, into the boy's intergluteal cleft.

At that moment with his stroking Rodney's penis just bubbled, like a water fountain. It didn't shoot for a simple reason- he had masturbated three times that day. There was his regular 3am wake up, regular as clockwork, when he fantasised about stripping for a nurse, his 7.30am wake-up when he slavered over a fantasy about his mother bringing in her friends to see the new shower curtains, the bridge-playing ladies catching him in the nude playing with himself in the bathroom and then, at lunchtime, his retreat to the boys' toilets when he spent 10 minutes imagining a lonely skinny dip in the forest and then being surrounded by girls from his class who, clutching his clothes, tease him out of the water. In each fantasy his penis gets stiff and heightens his shame.

So now Rodney didn't shoot off but just bubbled over, and the sperm trailed to the tiles. Girls near him pointed and gasped. He just stood, hands back behind, looking incredibly shamed and guilty.

Kerry, stirred by the intent looks his tilted cock had been receiving, could not control himself. Eyes shut, he rapidly stroked his erection thinking of what he had seen happen to Charlie, thinking of Rodney bubbling over, thinking of the girls grinning at all the naked boys, thinking of Miss Braithwaite staring right at his penis. Whoosh! He sent his spunk flying high.

And little Stevie, loosing all hope of privacy, gave into the temptation too. Shamed to the limit, with his sisters' friend Sally right by his side, looking right down on him, he just couldn't stop seeking relief from his shame and humiliation. He glued his eyes shut, grabbed his small stiff cock and- WOW- in seconds sent a wad flying forward to splop on the tiles. In his left ear, though, he heard a girl's whisper, "You dirty, dirty little boy. Wait till your sisters hear what you just did!" And he wanted to sink into the floor. A guilty trail of sperm dropped off the tip of his erection, confirming his guilt. "Oh yuk! Look at you! You need your sisters on hand to clear you up!"

Two negro boys stood together and around 15 girls had gravitated to circle them.

Circle them, just as Victorian missionary ladies in flowing crinoline might have advanced on Senegalese warriors, their erections raised in merry welcome or stern warning. Laura Greensleeve, eyes bulging and in a shift that may in fact have been crinoline, could have played the part of young Bible scholar sent to Africa. Laura, who studied art, had not been prepared by Greek or Roman or Renaissance statuary for anything as forthright as Samson's gray-brown erection with its flaming red top. And as for Millicent- at that moment she wanted to glide her eager tongue all around the broomstick prick, as a missionary girl may be subverted by naked brown flesh on her first visit to the tropics. There was not a vein or a contour that she hadn't already memorised.

In this fashion, too, a breathless Leni Riefenstahl must have approached Nubian youth in the Sudan, young men sporting proof positive of their manly instincts. Or a party of women anthropologists from Harvard in pith helmets and jodhpurs may have alighted from jeeps and stepped forward, mesmerised by the projecting flesh of young hillsmen on a hunt, their bold erections beckoning rods for closer examination- for photos, sketches, palpating, weighing, measuring. They might have advanced with prurient awe, as Ada and still more of her girls did right now, on the statuesque Negro boys standing side by side, nude and erect.

As for the boys, they were young men with the normal instincts.

All this activity around them...sperm shooting from classmates and splashing on the floor...the lewd interest of all the females in their anatomy...Miss Ada's smirking, lurid stares...well, Samson's broomstick erection topped by the outrageous red-brown crown just demanded its owner stroke himself. He started hesitantly, eyes shut. Then faster, eyes open catching the ravenous female stares. And then, excited, he moved in a hypnotic fury, determined to bring himself off.

Ada thought she might have been a privileged observer at a tribal rite. This could be the Sahel, the earth parched from drought. A clan of hunter gatherers had gathered for a sacrifice to the gods of fertility. It fell to mothers to nominate sons and they settled on the lustiest of the young studs. He was now required to drop his robe and loin cloth and stand in the sand and spray the famished earth with his seed. In full view of the women, of course, of mother, aunt, sisters, cousins. Certainly Samson' mad self-possessed expression suggested a hereditary instinct of this type.

And next to him coal-black Tom Wilson had one image in his mind's eye: Miss Braithwaite staring right at his penis and balls and, he divined, his unique kinky pubic curls. He shuddered at the picture. A blond woman, older then he, slavering with lust over his coal black muscles, and one coal black muscle in particular...

TOM'S STORY

In the formal Savannah garden surrounding an elegant four story apartment of white brick, in the height of summer, two black men worked, clinging when they could to the stippled shade of the great oak and the pear trees. They dug at soil that nurtured passion flower, the Cherokee Rose and Rosebud orchids, other marvellous plants. They tended to geometric boxwood hedges and plants. Shade or no shade it was hot work and they sweated, naked except for their denim overalls.

One of the two negros was Tom Wilson, just turned 18. This was his holiday job, six months before this scene at the school pool, before his family had escaped white racism and fled to the north. His senior was Clement, a tall, statuesque black man in his 30s with the shape of a circus strongman. He toiled away in the garden with his shirt off and his overalls rolled down to slender hips, magnificent chiselled torso bare. He told Tom to do the same. Go shirtless, overalls almost slipping off. The boy hesitated. Indecent surely, the apartment building full of white matrons? Every one occupied by an armed services' widow, the widows of generals and colonels, admirals and captains.

Clement laughed, leaning on his shove. "Listen, Tom boy. Those ladies want to watch us nekked. They're lookin right now."

And with that he dropped the shovel and turned to face the rear of the apartment block with its 20 or so windows. Theatrically he loosened the pants and shucked himself out of them. They slithered down his legs to his heels. He wore no underwear. His penis was black and brown-tipped and uncircumcised, the biggest Tom had ever seen. Clement aimed it at the flower bed and let fly a bold trajectory of yellow urine, drilling the flowers. He ordered Tom to do the same. Uncertainly the boy obeyed.

Out of the corner of his mouth Clement told him that he could see the curtains shifting, the blinds bending. Tom looked up and his friend was right. A whole apartment block of reclusive white widows was peeping at them. While he pissed away Clement said black men normally had to avoid white women like the plague. Georgia had anti-miscegenation statutes. But the exception was "rich widow ladies." They missed their husbands and knew they were too old to get another. They had lost their inhibitions. All their lives in the South they had thought about sex with black men. Now they had the chance.

His flow had finished and he shook his pythonesque penis dry but was in no hurry to haul his overalls up again. He lingered, effectively nude. Tom was still peeing and, out of the corner of one eye, noticed at a fourth story window a curtain shift, a nose appear from the darkness and vanish again. On the first floor two slats of a blind parted.

Clement told him there was a tradition here, that the black gardeners were on call, to "service" the old widows. It was the city's best kept secret. He had been inducted by the building supervisor who had taken him on. He had now been at it for a decade and there was no way he could satisfy the demand. The building was full of females in their 60s and 70s desperate for pleasuring, thinking of nothing but being worked by a black man, as they sipped iced tea in their sweet-smelling apartments. You could not enter the foyer without being pulled into a door by an eager wrinkled arm. They wanted a buck naked young black man in their apartments and sometimes they required no more than that, just being naked. Others made you work for it. But the tips..! And the gifts! He would increase his meagre salary 10 times. Work the gardens all morning and the widows in the afternoon.

"They don't talk. They don't complain. There are no jealous husbands. They can't get pregnant."

Tom shook himself dry and saw movement at other windows. He went to pull up his pants but Clemens stopped him. "Naw, fella, sun your black prick a bit longer. It's...good advertising."

And while they stood naked, the sun on their shimmering black bodies, Clemens told him about the 70 year old- "a real beauty of a woman," widow of an airforce commander- who made him strip and walk around her apartment "bare as a board," even sit down at the kitchen table "in the raw" and be fed by her, until finally she went down on her knees and sucked and chewed him, "my prick all sweaty and pissy from a day in the garden" until he filled her mouth with cum. She always swallowed, believed negro cum good for her complexion, "a vitamin cocktail" she said. She kept her fine clothes on all the time.

While Clements spoke Tom's teenage penis rose to point at the sky, rigid. There was a more excited flurry at several of the windows, curtains jerked aside, blinds bent. Widows were watching. This excited the boy more. White women...were googling at his dick!

And then Clements told him about the widow of a naval commander who, at 65, was too "dried out" to have regular sex but insisted that he fuck her up the ass, using half a jar of cold cream to help ease his gargantuan penis "up her crack." Clemens said she "goes mad" for it and cries out that she is being taken "by a slave man" and "being fucked by a black stallion." She likes plantation fantasies, squeals out to her mother that "one of the nigger hands is having his way with her."

He told Tom- chuckling as he gazed idly at the boy's bold erection- that this widow told him her husband, one of the nation's leading warriors, had a baby prick and was impotent anyway and seemed to hanker after handsome young officers or bare chested ratings. Visiting his quarters at base she once caught him on his knees sucking the dick of his Philippino orderly. Now, her hero husband dead and buried, she loves having her face pressed into her pillow while her ass is ploughed by a prick, she says, three times longer than her husband's. In gratitude, Clement added in lowered voice, she had once slobbered at his ass hole for the better part of 30 minutes.

"Only other time I had that was lying on my tummy at the edge of the river back home. Been swimming and I was bare-assed. Prick pressed into the hot earth. Our horse Cheyenne stumped over and started lickin me like I was rock-salt. That horse nosed my ass and I darn well spread my legs so that big rough tongue could lick my hole. Even lifted my thighs to let it get in closer. Horse darn nipped my cheeks but the pleasure was more than the pain. Fucked the grass I did, darn well furrowed the dirt with this cock of mine, while Cheyenne ate away into my rear. Horse liked the taste. Well, so did that lady. That widow's tongue was nearly as good as mah horse's."

That afternoon Clements knocked on the door of a third floor apartment. It instantly opened and the older man handed the shaking youngster over to Mrs Gwendolyn Parchment, a flint-faced lady with sparkling blue eyes that matched her flashing earrings. Under her pulled-back gray-blond hair she was as fine and dainty as bone-China, dressed in floral silks, deliciously perfumed, alert and possessed.

"Why you are very welcome in my home, young man," she said as the door closed on Tom's mentor. She clearly meant it. She announced she was 75 and the widow of one of "our country's great men" and declared boldly she loved the negro people of the south especially the strong young men with their laborer's arms and shoulders.

Tom fell in love with her at once.

She told him she had admired him in the garden and would like him to take all his clothes off so he could be more comfortable.

"And candidly," she announced without a blush, eyes flashing, "I would like to see you buck naked."

Her eyes shone into his.

He was honored. Honoured, to obey.

He pulled his shoulder straps down and took hold of the waist of his overalls. He paused, looked at her. She nodded, smiling at his decorum. He began to ease them down...to his knees...then all the way to his dusty boots. Then he stepped out of them, his shimmering coal-black body presented itself in his shabby, sweat and piss-stained shorts. His hands swung nervously, he looked for guidance. Again she nodded. Yes, take them off too. He reached for the elastic, paused and shyly jerked the dirty shorts down...and stepped out of them.

He stood naked, as if on the slave blocks.

That she was hotly interested could not be denied. Her alert old eyes swallowed up his nudity. When she had finished her devouring inspection she asked him to sit on her Chippendale reproduction sofa and wriggle out of his boots. Struggling out of his putrid socks he was aware of his pungent odour, produced by work in the blinding Savannah sun and tropical humidity. A strong musty, gamey scent from armpits, groin and ass. She didn't seem to mind...because she...Tom was astonished...sat down...right next to him!

Old lady and nude negro youth.

His penis stretched, rose, stood at attention. As if jerked up by an invisible string.

Mrs Parchment watched it while continuing to talk. She told him her family history as old people do, said her Boston forebears had been supporters of Frederick Douglass and William Lloyd Garrison, the anti-slavery cause. They befriended negro people and worshipped with them. She was speaking fast, not seeming to care whether Tom absorbed it. She told him about missing her husband, the general, a wonderful leader who cared for all his men negro and white and recommended desegregation of the army to President Truman. She spoke about life in bases across the country, mainly in the South where she- a young wife from New England- thrilled to see black recruits, black laborers, black house servants and orderlies.

"All so tall, so strong, with such manly deep voices. It was always a thrill to see them with their shirts off. When my husband was away I persuaded our man that, with the blinds pulled down and the maid sent off, he could serve me nude. Yes, gloriously naked in our house, all day..."

She let the thought trail off.

While she talked her eyes wandered around his groin. At this stirring, unique moment in his life he had never been more proud of the long stoutness of his hardon, of the voluminous furrowed sac below it. His prick may not been as grand as Clement's but he had noticed- maybe, watching by the window, she had noticed as well- his balls were vaster. He felt her beady eyes all over. "You have a very big vein...there," she complimented him. "And your penis has a very well developed head. But above all, your sac is, I think, extraordinary. Extraordinary." He thrilled to her interest, he melted in her close company.

She proposed that he walk with her around her home.

He padded softly by her side, his fetid smell flavouring the space around them, past an antique harp and a table of silver-famed family photos, to the vast window embrasure full of plants: white water lilies, periwinkles, hydrangeas, half a dozen species of fern. She wanted to tell him about each one, as he stood, attached to his adamant erection. She spoke about her long-stemmed Pride of Barbados and lasciviously stroked its stem, up and down, while looking transfixed at his black up-standing rod. Feeling the plant's stem, looking at his. Her fine, thin fingers moved firmly up the stalk...while she focused on his upstanding penis...up and down the stem of the flower...her eyes up and down his cock...as if her fingers were on it, around his corona, across the glans, tickling the frenulum, up and down the stem of the penis, her fingernails along the groves of his sac. As she stroked the stem of the flower it was as if she were stroking him.

He shuddered and his erection pulsed and throbbed. A dribble of fluid appeared at the tip. While she continued to stroke the stem of the flower.

A long tropical frond touched his shoulder, flowers seemed to burst around him. He stood among the potted plants and ferns.

The whole effect was Congolese.

She didn't touch him, not even as his bold rod pointed out from his kinky hair- pointed at her, as they faced one another and got brilliantly reflected in the countless mirrors as she took him around her quarters, into the bathroom, all pink in the latest style, through the kitchen and even into her bedroom, opening drawers and cupboards to show him treasured clothes. She told him young men deserve an afternoon nap and directed him to a four poster bed draped with a chinoiserie-style English chintz. She pulled back her sheets inviting him to lie between them. He protested, claiming he was all dirty but she insisted, she said, he must nap while she fixed him something wholesome to eat.

He lay in her soft sheets, not daring to slumber, not knowing what to think, but wanting the afternoon to continue forever and wanted to give her whatever she wanted.

After half an hour she tiptoed to the bed and gently drew back the covers. He felt that his strong pungent odour must assault her nostrils. Her porcelain features registered nothing except intent interest in his now-slack penis asleep in his groin, the folds of his testicles even more capacious, like a small black woolly blanket. She invited him back to the bathroom where she suggested he might wish to relieve himself. He was shy but, when it came, it came in a thick, forceful torrent that had her watching worshipfully. She suggested that he dry himself and for the first time in his life, a boy from homes where torn newsprint served in outhouses, he experienced toilet paper.

They sat at the same side of kitchen table where, facing one another, she spooned apple pie and ice cream and fed it to his lips. The loving attention made his penis rise again which she clearly noticed with her lively eyes. "Oh, I do like that vein," she said sweetly. And he astonished himself by replying, "Thank you." The pie was the most delicious thing he had ever eaten and, again, while spooning it to his lips, she kept up her lovely cadenced conversation. For Tom this was heaven.

So when she steered him back to the sofa to drink his glass of milk he felt a tingle of anxiety. She would surely touch him, kiss him...and the magic of this hour would dissolve. But no. The nude youth sat by the ancient lady's side carefully sipping his milk while she chattered on. She had started talking about her admiration for John Foster Dulles, her views on Presbyterianism- so strong in the state- and her own Unitarianism imported from New England, the joy of living in a small city and the quaintness of Savannah and the pride of its old families and, again, her admiration for the " inherent dignity and grace of negro manhood." She said she had watched as he and Clement worked in the garden. If she could make the rules she would require the staff to work without clothes, "as God made you, gloriously naked, and as your forebears walked round Africa."