Nude Humiliation of Young Viking

"...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.