Rodney's Nude Humiliation Ch. 02

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Hell! He's nude in a fitting booth!
4.3k words
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Part 2 of the 22 part series

Updated 06/17/2023
Created 06/09/2017
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aaronburr
aaronburr
531 Followers

Rodney was quaking, in that little change booth, Miss Newbold before him, his socks and moccasins discarded. And his fingers shook as he loosened the buttons on his shirt.

He was being made to strip. In front of this sales lady with the long nose, glasses, black dress.

He shook as he fumbled.

All his funny feelings flooded back.

Those secret thoughts about being forced to strip before females. Like stripping for a doctor and the awful, thrilling panic he knew would seize him when she told him to go behind the screen and take all his clothes off. "Including your underpants," she would add, with a glint in her eye. That was a fantasy but yes, he and other boys had seen the faces of those "old ducks" peering in through the glass at the YMCA baths and how curious and lewd they had looked and, for a long time after, Rodney had excited himself under the sheets at night thinking of their superior smiles as, fully clothed, they had watched the boys fully nude. The recollection worked magic on him every time, a desperate, heart-beating panic and a thrill that gripped his whole body.

"Goodness you're clumsy..."

He was fumbling with buttons.

"Here, let me," said Miss Newbold as the third button defeated the best efforts of his quaking fingers. Then she was quickly unfastening right down his shirt front till it opened up and she shook him out of it and hung it from a hook. Like a mother undressing her boy.

Rodney shivered with the thought that his torso was suddenly nude before the lady- that he'd exposed his largish pink nipples which were standing erect and the light trickle of fine red hair from belly button to belt. Intimate details, that a boy did not want a lady like her, or Miss Braithwaite at school, to ever glimpse.

His blood-hardened member kept his trouser front distended.

"I'll help with that."

Gulp! With his belt buckle!

Miss Newbold reached for his snake skin belt, looking right in the direction of the forward thrusting bulge in his flies. She loosened the buckle.

For Rodney time froze.

And in a flush stories flooded into his head, stories from his friend, Stevie Lynton, short, dark and hairy who had riveted Rodney with tales of his piano teacher, Mrs Gradgrind. Yes, a raw-boned lady, with a man's head, and powerful arms and big hands- his piano teacher who had, gradually, at her lessons asserted her right to smack errant boys on their trouser bottoms with a ruler; then, at a following lesson, make them bend over for a hairbrush smacking- yes, Stevie told him, all her teenage male students had gone through these stages- and then at the next lesson, when once again their performance disappointed, made boys lie over her knee for a painful slapping with the sole of her slipper.

Eventually her despair at their failure to capture Chopin nocturnes would make her haul their trousers down, and force them to lie over her stout knees for a hard spanking with her broad palm, hair brush or slipper; then at the next lesson- terrIfyingly- she would peel off their underpants as well, and by the seventh or eighth lesson have her 18 year olds stripped to the buff. "Down to your birthday suit, mister, that's right those underpants right off this instant!" for the rest of the lesson. That meant a boy being naked as a jay while seated on the stool before the piano, sometimes with penis uncoiled and pointing at the ceiling. Stark naked, until the over-the-knee spanking that ended the lesson, and still nude (and red bottomed) when her daughters arrived home from their jobs as town librarian and grade school teacher. Stevie told him that it was shameful to be caught stark naked at the piano and to have to hobble across the room bottom blazing, collecting his abandoned clothes under the watching eyes of Mrs Gragrind's beaming daughters.

And hearing this from Stevie, Rodney has gulped and his stomach had turned with excitement and he had longed for those exquisite moments vouchsafed his buddy, although another part of his mind suspected that Stevie was afflicted with the same fervid fantasies as he, and may have been confecting these delicious stories. Either way they always had Rodney, in his shorts, hard as a hammer and bubbling away like a water fountain.

And now...

...in this booth...

...confirming that the darkest, deepest desire of some females was to winkle 18 year old fellas out of every stitch of their clothing...

...Miss Newbold was shaking free the waist of his dungarees...

...so that they loosened, and slowly...

...oh, shameful moment...

...slithered down his legs, his shaking legs...

...and revealed his erection forcing out the front of his boxer shorts...

...that formidable, hammer-hard bulge.

Indeed she stepped back to look him over. Lingering on that bulge.

"Step out of your trousers."

He looked dumb.

"Come on, Rodney. They're in a mess around your ankles."

Obediently he stumbled out of them and Miss Newbold whisked them off to hang from a clothes hook.

Rodney stood nude except for his boxers- tented in front.

Now she was all business.

"Stand up on that stool and let me take your waist and hip..."

And she produced a tape measure from her pocket.

He seemed frozen.

"Go on."

He thought, if I'm up there my boner's going to be poking her right in the face. But there was nothing to do but mount the stool.

He squished his eyes shut.

She said, "Now..."

He feared the worst.

"...let's measure your waist and hips."

She was breezy.

He felt her hands on his waist, with the tape between her fingers.

But she stopped.

"Oh, I forgot. To make an accurate measure I've got to do what I've done with all the other boys. Which is..."

Rodney's tummy flipped at what was coming.

"...slip you out of those funny old boxer shorts."

"Buuuu..."

His objection strangled in his throat.

But his nemesis had gained some experience in recent days.

With the half dozen members of the swimming team Miss Newbold had succeeded each and every time: that is, at stripping them buck naked.

Take, for example, two of the boys from Grover Cleveland High swimming team: Mark Campbell and Stevie Lynton. She had seen in a flash they had been handicapped with erections, twitching away in their boxers; Mark's big and bold, Stevie's punchy and petite, both, she thought, pathetically excited at the prospect of being measured by a woman for a swimsuit. With these boys, on their separate visits, the sales lady, eager to see the excited apparatuses without delay, had ordered them up on the stool and, without the slightest warning, she had whisked the shorts down to their ankles- their startled looks had to be seen to be believed- on both occasions, making the boys nearly leap in the air and gasp and clutch their hands over their groins.

With two others she had used perhaps an even more shaming approach. She had gently commanded each boy on his visit to remove his shorts himself. To divest himself...of his last shred of dignity. She had then watched as, balanced on the stool, Danny Bristol and Charlie Hodgson had struggled with the shame...slowly...reluctantly...tugging down one side at a time, blushing when their timberlines came into view, blushing more violently when they revealed the upper penis stems, then the rest of the penis, exposing themselves totally naked before this lady.

It was sweet when, boxers at their ankles, they had looked up plaintively into her eyes, totally compromised- as if for approval. As if saying, "Is this what you wanted, dear Miss Newbold, me without a stitch...naked as the day I was born...nude before your eyes? And what can I do next to make you pleased?"

Submissive. And nude.

In her bed at night, Miss Newbold would fondly and fervently remember those moments. Exquisite.

With two others, Carl Harlson and Danny Maitland, she had tried a still more exquisite shame. Noticing that on their arrivals in the fitting booths each had been trembling with worse than usual embarrassment she had allowed them, up on the stool, to turn their backs. They had been pathetically relieved. "Thank you, Miss Newbold," Carl had gushed, in a breaking voice, eyelids fluttering, grateful for this concession to his modesty. Imagining that his front would not be glimpsed. Danny had just breathed a sigh of relief, imagining, too, that the lady wouldn't get to see his genitals, that the fitting would be with him nude but facing the wall. She had- with each of them- edged their boxers down, ever so slowly, standing behind, enjoying the close-ups of their cleft bottoms. Enjoying- in fact, hardly the word. But pitifully they noticed, as the boxers were drawn down from behind, that they were facing a mirror that put everything on display- in their cases, two vulnerably small cocks nestling on boy-size globes encased in the obligatory gauze. Peering from behind their naked bodies, she had stared- right into that mirror. Her eyes were unblinking and merciless, glaring at the glass, and her lips- it seemed- curled with derision.

Each boy- possessor of a modest apparatus- had wilted at that look.

Armed with this recent history of male unbreeching, the sales lady faced Rodney Ricketson.

Blushing under his spray of freckles, she knew he was going to be a pushover.

Her tape measure discarded for the moment, she pinched the elastic band on both sides of his waist and gave it a little jounce. To test its flexibility.

Oh god!

He grimaced, eyes clenched.

She's...

...gonna...

...pull them...

...down!

But she was stretching it out.

She jounced the elastic some more. Up and down. Getting ready, and teasing her captive.

Then to accommodate his jutting erection she tugged the waistband out in front. Didn't lower it. Just pulled it frontwards, opening a wide gap. And held it there.

He felt the cool air on his genitals.

Still, she delayed the ultimate unveiling.

"Oh, I forgot to ask. Did you like the posing straps?"

She was cheerful and sing-song.

He unclenched his eyes.

What could he say?

"Errrr...dunno..."

"Don't know? Oh, I think all you males secretly like them. Just like we females like bright colours and lace work on our underwear...goodness, I know I shouldn't say that. Mentioning ladies' frilly underwear...to a young man...I know boys can find that very...very..."

And she searched for the word. She stared at the projection in the boxers.

"...disturbing."

She jounced the elastic waistband some more, holding it out in front, as if to communicate that she held him in her power and could reduce him to shuddering shame any second.

"Yes," she said, cheerfully jiggling the stretched waistband. "It's pretty clear to me that males like our products out there...the tight stretching Latex...the Side-Lacers...and that new Speedo. And you know, I think those posing straps are going to be very popular..."

Oh hell, lamented Rodney with eyes clenched, she's clutching the waistband...she's teasing me with the jiggling...any minute for sure, she's gonna wrench them down...and my dick's gonna be right in her face...any minute, I'm gonna be totally nude on this stool...

And then in a higher pitch, she asked, "And how would you feel, Rodney, modelling one of those posing straps for your mother and sisters, showing off your swimmer's physique? Say, the white linen? Very sweet, I thought. The teensie one in camouflage design? Goodness, that one would be...revealing..."

Here she jiggled the stretched waistband in her fingers even more vigorously- it made him tremble, thinking any moment the boxers would be hauled down- and she prattled on.

"...or the nicest one of all, the one in girly pink..."

He shuddered. She had read his mind!

"...the pink one? To wear for pics with your buddies out at the lake...or...showing off at home? Maybe like with the Campbell family, you could get to model for your Mom's bridge club..."

He gasped! His buddy had never told him!

"The pink ones? To show off for the ladies? But you did...like...them?"

He felt he had to confess.

"Umm...kinda..."

His face twisted with shame. He had confessed that he like the pink posing strap.

She closed in.

"You'd like to get around in them?"

"Guess..." He stumbled out the answer. "Guess so..."

"The pink ones?"

"Yeah...I think...dunno...maybe..."

Oh, the shameful admission.

"...but...not with girls!" He quickly added.

"Ah, modest...a modest boy."

And, as if to punish him, she whisked his shorts all the way to his ankles. It happened in one swift movement. It was brutal.

Leaving him bare as a board.

Standing on the stool in front of her.

Naked as a jay.

"Oh...golly...Miss Newbold..."

It was all he could say, up on the stool, boxers in a shameful muddle at his feet.

Rodney wanted to die.

He had never been more embarrassed, not even when ladies saw him at the pool. Miss Newbold was...so...close!

His penis wIth its outsize head reared in her face as if he were a duty cop waving a nightstick at a street offender.

He shuddered all over. He was in...his birthday suit.

That awful term, birthday suit.

"And now..."

Her eyes were on his nightstick. Perhaps, he thought, she thinks the head on my prick is freakishly big. Or is it my balls- too heavy, too low.

"...let's take those measurements."

And her long narrow fingers were threading her tape measure through his fine red pubic curls, between his erection and his abs, around his waist to join above his backward thrusting glutes.

"Ah," she said. "The right size. These will fit you, Rodney. Tight, to be sure..."

The captive boy stood like a statue, rigid in every sense.

"...but let's measure your hips to make sure."

And hell! She was doing it again, measuring him around the middle...just lower!

Her hands scummaged around the broad base of his penis.

Her elbow grazed his penis stem.

Her fingers met above his bottom, a little finger dangling into his cleft.

Her close-up breath tickled his fat glans.

"Yes, that's the right size. Now it's just a matter of trying them on!"

She held the Speedos up. Tiny.

"Let's step off the stool and pull them up." And she helped him down, his weighty erection wobbling out in front.

He took the swimsuit and bent to fit his big, boney feet into it. He then hauled them up his legs, so tight when the material reached his thighs. And then..?

He tugged at it.

He wasn't loose enough to stretch over the jutting projection. His erection was in the way.

"Goodness, can't stretch?" She sounded as sympathetic as movie star June Allyson.

Wildly, Rodney thought of Leave it to Beaver, of the boy Beaver Cleaver and his mom and whether she would ever help The Beaver in a fix like this: a teenage stiffie not able to cram into a swimsuit.

He made a show of tugging the waist again.

There was no way it could be stretched out and up to take in the erection. Defiantly the arrogant bludgeon-like rod refused to be accommodated.

He looked up at Miss Newbold and shook his head, close to tears.

"Rodney, do you think you could make your...your business...your thing...go down?" Her tone was infinitely helpful.

He joined her in looking down at his penis.

Its stubborn rigidity answered her question.

Suddenly there was a voice at the curtain of the fitting booth.

"Miss Newbold, can I help?"

It was the voice of snub-nosed Emma Blackburn, Rodney's classmate who worked in Logan's as sales assistant after school.

For a moment the prospect hung in the balance: that Miss Newbold might allow Emma to enter the fitting booth and join her in fussing over the naked boy, with his swimsuit stuck at his upper thighs, his penis blocking the way.

Rodney desperate, gestured that no way did he want Emma Blackburn admitted.

"No Emma, it's fine," said Miss Newbold, tilting her head to the curtain. "But why don't you go and invite this boy's Mom and the two girls to come here and see Rodney's new swimsuit...that is, just as soon as he can get it on."

Rodney saw her smile indulgently.

"I'll do that," breezed Emma from beyond the curtain. "He's in my class and I want to see him, too."

As Emma moved off, she called out over her shoulder, "Hi Rodney Ricketson. Wanna be the first girl to see you in the new outfit! Be back in a jiff!"

Now the sales lady looked at Rodney and his embarrassment

"Well, just what are we going to do with you, young man?"

He looked glum. And worried- his Mom, his sister and his cousin were on the way.

"Pleeeease Miss Newbold, don't let them see me."

"So you can't make it go down?"

She seemed genuine in her sympathy. She stared at the offending organ, so obstinately hard and extended.

He just shook his head. Knew it was futile to try.

"Do you think the new swimwear got you aroused?"

He looked perplexed. Yes, he thought, it did...and being surrounded by females...and by his own thoughts which had an effect, especially the thoughts about being nude in front of dressed women.

He shrugged and now looked close to tears.

"Kinda..."

She put a consoling hand on his shoulder.

"Well, it sometimes happens. With boys your age. Perhaps you need to get used to the new swimwear..."

She pointed to the Speedos stretching between his upper thighs.

"...those, and the Lacers and the elegant posing straps sewn by our own Mrs Compton, the coach's mom. You've seen them for the first time and I can understand I guess that you find them stimulating. Some of your school swim team buddies have had the same response. Again, just like ladies and girls loving their silk underwear and the laces and ribbons in soft colours. Maybe if you wore the swimwear around the home, for example- you would get used to them. And putting them on wouldn't have this effect..."

She gestured to the erection.

"...so when your mother comes I'll suggest that. Tell her to have you wear these small, tight swimming briefs - the delightful posing straps as well- around the house."

"But please...don't let them look at me now."

He gushed out this desperate plea.

She told him not to worry but to peel the trunks off and get dressed.

From beyond the curtain there was the sound of a delegation of females.

As Rodney struggled to reach his boxers Miss Newbold deftly exited and whisked the curtain closed behind her. Rodney seized his boxers and hauled them up in record time.

As he tottered to his trousers on the hanger he heard the sales lady in a lowered, confidential tone talk to his family.

He caught every few words.

"...can't have him model after all...a problem...yes, he's very embarrassed..."

Oh hell, she's not gonna tell them about my erection, he begged to some unseen deity. Not my sister and my cousin...and that damn Emma Blackburn. Not about my hardon, please!

He leant close to the curtain while he did up his flies.

"...sometimes happens...other boys too...their age...by the costumes apparently...the colors, material, slimness...has this effect..."

There was a pause.

"So, he can't model for us?"

It was his awful cousin.

Miss Newbold resumed, still hushed but determined to be understood.

"Rodney can't show himself in the Speedos because he is suffering an erection."

The terrible indictment hung in the air.

"I'm afraid it is very obvious. And it won't..."

Rodney swooned.

"Oh don't, Miss Newbold, don't!" he prayed.

"...it won't..."

She was searching for a verb.

"...won't...subside. It won't go down."

There was stunned silence.

Miss Newbold lowered her voice again, to a murmuring confidential tone like a surgeon talking to a family about a sick relative.

"Rodney's erection won't allow him to fit into the swimming trunks."

There was a solemn silence.

Then there was a choked-off splutter from the girls.

His sister then asked, "Mom, what's an erection?"

aaronburr
aaronburr
531 Followers
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