Rodney's Nude Humiliation Ch. 06

Mrs Reilly's Victorian-era house was considered one of the finest in Brewer: made of Kasota, the premier building stone of Minnesota, it featured colonial revival lines with an off-centre tower and Tudor arches.

The attendance at the widow's afternoon tea was big, fully 30 or so ladies, all divorced or widowed Moms. And all so very well-dressed, in their wide floral skirts, short-sleeved knit tops, pinched waistlines with the accented hips and busts of currently fashionable styles, most with gloves, some hats. All were there to see the historic home. But they were there to share information as well. On a subject that made some of them tremble. Made some dampen, in their panties.

It was an exciting subject.

One clue lay in Mrs Reilly's verdurous garden. Sheltered behind ivy clad fences, two 18 year old males worked at clipping and mowing. But...hey! What a contrast with the delightfully dressed ladies inside! They were in their birthday suits, one hundred percent stripped off! Stark naked! Bare as boards!

One was red headed and freckled- freckled all over, red haired, right down to the burst in his groin- the other was mahogany, a Negro boy, grizzled in his groin. As they worked they nervously looked over their shoulders and their private parts flopped, stretched, shrunk again, then reinflated. They were excited by their nudity, and shamed.

But it was all their fault. Picked up for drunkenness, or bad driving, boys in Brewer might be delivered by Sergeant Malone to Mrs Rilley's household and ordered to work off their offences under her command. "Keep the lady happy, and this will go no further," was the police command. "Not even your folks will know."

Her orders about clothing, or rather the lack of it, brooked no disagreement. She stood before them, arms outstretched for clothes. Sorry, that's all of them, all your clothes. That's right, everything, thank you. She watched eagle-eyed as the underwear slithered down and was handed over by the blushing boys quickly manoeuvring to cup their genitals.

Closer to the house another young athlete, naked as the day that he was born, swept leaves from the tiled borders of Mrs Reilly's pool. He was heavily muscled, a body builder, with a blond crew cut. He might be viewed from the windows of her upper stories. Something made his bulky circumcised penis swell; maybe the excitement of being glimpsed- he had caught views through the shrubs of the Moms arriving out front, skirts billowing. Some he knew as neighbours.

And in Mrs Reilly's driveway two tall, slender boys scrubbed her 1950 Pontiac Chieftain. Yes, they too were arrestingly nude, top to toe. They both had swept back, ducks-tail, Elvis hair styles. And somehow the oiled, shaped hair made them seem even more blazingly bare. More buck-naked. Any lady peering from the living room would have seen their cleft buttocks and their half-erect cocks: one with a tapering foreskin, a long overhang, and the other shorter and wrinkled but connected to fat, low-hanging testicles.

As they hosed down the bonnet and polished the windows, the boys could hear the ladies talk, smell the wafting smoke of their cigarettes through the fly-screens of the windows, hear the clink of their iced tea. The fellas shuddered, cocks poking parallel to the ground.

In the house a painting which hung above the marble fireplace also gave a clue to the theme of the meeting of Moms. It was a a flamboyant painting of the goddess Venus. She was pulling over her knee her son Cupid, a somewhat mature Cupid, decisively uncircumcised. A few Moms were beginning to feel an affinity with the Roman goddess of love and beauty. A beautiful Venus, able to spank a wilful male child, with his buttocks offered like a sacrifice on her knees.

They were ready to embrace this role, some already had.

They had been invited by Mrs O'Reilly to share information on new approaches to discipline of teenage sons. America was obsessed with juvenile delinquents, the menace of rock and roll, sex in the backs of cars, falling church attendance and rising divorce rates. Moms had been divorced, others widowed or just abandoned. All had sons 18 or older. All found the subject of discipline a tantalising one.

Discipline in the nude, was the essence of the new approach. This enthusiasm had been set off by the daring production at Grover Cleveland High with 18 year old boys romping around with only a short, narrow flap hanging over their groins (usually flopping to left or right and exposing everything) and, now- her latest modification- nothing behind. Not even a narrow flap to cover their bottoms. Miss Cuff's musical on the theme of Cowgirls and Indian Braves was in permanent rehearsal and a lot of Brewer's females had seen some of it, or had sons model this flimsiest of costumes at home while twisting and shuffling with shame, in the living room in front of family and friends.

It was one simple, next step to punish boys in the nude. Thrillingly, all the Moms were experimenting with it, or preparing to.

In fact while two Negro maids served apple sponge and coffee cake, several ladies had competed to tell stories of full nude punishment. For example, Gloria Smyth told about her surly 19 year old freshman son, Gordon, with his lack of interest in sport or girls and his shockingly bad grades in his engineering course at St Paul Tech. His bad skin was another source of irritation; the acne and pimples hinted at secret masturbatory rites.

Her suspicions were confirmed when arriving home, on some mother's instinct, she had tip-toed along the corridor and without warning opened the door to his bedroom. Her son looked up, horrified, naked and "playing with himself." There was a page from The Star Tribune devoted to a lingerie advertisement spread over his bed: line drawings of willowy women in conical bras, lace-fringed panties, elaborate suspenders. He had just had his bath, obviously chosen to stay in the nude, assumed he was safe with his mother not coming home till late. A jar of Brylcreem sat on the bed, his right hand shone with its contents. So did his penis, sticking up hard from his groin. The glans gleamed. His responses were notoriously slow- his sister called him "Stupid"- and true to form, he was too shocked to cover up. He gaped up at his Mom. She looked into his lap.

In a righteous fury she had seized him by an ear and marched him out of his bedroom, his erection bouncing and pointing the way, right into their living room. She said that he was clearly ashamed at having his "little boy's things" glimpsed by his mother- his penis might have been five inches, though thickish. A carbon copy, as it happened of his Dad's. He begged to be spared being seen by his older sister. A somewhat cheeky girl, and good looking unlike her brother, she was expected home any moment from the typing pool.

His mother ignored this plea, told him to stick out his bottom. He hesitated, then obliged, poking back his skinny white buttocks in a coy gesture recalling a pin-up's pose. "More!" she instructed, and he thrust further back, looking now quite silly. She sensed her power and only just suppressed a smile. She looked at her naked son, his bottom stuck out, like a soubrette in a musical, fear and shame dancing in his eyes. Damn the little brat, she thought! She raised her hand...and struck hard.

To see him prance and pirouette, wailing and begging, as her spanks found their marks was more high comedy. She noticed that his erection quickly subsided as the pain intensified and she said she made it as painful as possible, reddening his bottom and thighs as he danced in a circle, uttering "Owww!" and "Ouch!" She quickly realised the fun of full nude punishment of an errant and something of the resentment of a divorced mother, abandoned by a womanising husband, fed her fury. Her son's crimson posterior, his flying penis, his juggling hairy scrotum seemed to indict him.

When she was exhausted she had made him stand in a corner, facing outwards, hands behind. Facing outward- he groaned at this order. But she not only ignored his protest, she went for the kill: she cruelly told him to keep his arms at his sides. She even used the age-old mothers' lie, "What? You think anyone's interested in looking at you?" As it happened, after a quarter of an hour, his sister had been delighted when she walked in the front door- and most assuredly was interested in looking at him. Very intently. Peering in at his groin real close. A budding young woman, confined all day in the typing pool, does not often get to see a stark naked college boy brother. With a red posterior to boot.

"But that's not the end of it, is it my dear?" asked Mrs Reilly, presiding at this gathering like a duchess, fingering her pearls. "You kept him in that state of undress all evening, I understand." And she looked around at her audience to make sure they absorbed this exemplary behaviour. Fingering her pearls, or faux pearls, as she presided.

Yes, Gloria had explained, naked all night, in front of them both. "And he became aroused during that experience?"

Oh yes, Gloria had confirmed with a smile, especially when they watched a fashion show. "It was so funny- to see him stiffening at the sight of glamorous models. Still, even then, we wouldn't let him cover up. He had to sit there knowing we could see everything."

Then there was the day Gloria had come home early- she now told this story- and there was Gordon stark naked in the living room, on the stool, with a hand on his erection moving up and down, looking doleful. His sister stood over him, with a cruel smile. She had apparently taken to ordering her brother to undress and "play with himself." Truth was, she was enchanted by the sight of him ejaculating. The grunting, the clenched eyes and, then, the explosion which might reach his face, his shoulder, his chest. He had resisted, complained, then obliged. Even...just possibly, had come to relish the submissiveness, the nudity under his sister's gaze. Apparently, as soon as he hauled his underwear down he was stubbornly stiff.

"Aw, Mom!" the girl insisted, "Gordon's like all of them. He's gonna do it but in secret, when he's under the blankets or in the bathroom. We should make him do it right in front of us so he doesn't resort to dirty pictures of women in their underwear. Or worse, do it with other boys. They get together in 'jerk off circles' and help one another!"

Gordon's look, sitting on the stool, confirmed that he was guilty as charged. His penis rose from his lap, entirely rigid. He did not try to shield it. He wore a hang dog look.

And so, this mother reported to her friends, she now insisted that every evening before he went to bed her son present himself in the living room and slip out of his boxer shorts and masturbate for her and his sister. Yes, it was tough discipline. But he had never been better behaved and his grades were improving. He had started to go to the Y and had enrolled in hockey. Recently he had asked a girl to the sock hop, a very plain girl as it happened. Even his skin had cleared up.

As for these living room exercises he was losing his shyness. He yielded up the pooled semen on his belly as an offering to the females, proud of what he had produced. He seemed honored when they "ooohed" and "aaahed" over his white emissions. At night he strolled in to sit with them and watch The Perry Como Show stark naked, sitting down with his arms over the back of the sofa, feet crossed and an erection jutting from his groin. The two females had laughed heartily; the boy had grinned.

His sister then took it on herself each morning to visit Gordon's bedroom and, grinning like a she-wolf, swiftly roll down the sheets. Gordon, with a show of reluctance, would untie his pyjamas and slip them to his ankles. He was always stiff. His sister would reach down to "milk" him, sometimes teasing him about stains on his pyjamas or sheets, on how "hard" he was and how much fluid was already "leaking." She told him, "That's your pre-ejaculatory fluid." And told him he was a naughty little boy to produce so much of it. He smiled, proud. His explosion was quick to come. His emission shot high, filled his sister's fist, overflowed everywhere.

"Mom, it's to stop him getting up to mischief at school during the day!" she said. Truth was, she loved the sight of his stiff penis, and the feel of its rubbery hardness, and the sight and smell of the globs that glued her fingers. And her mother watched from the doorway and admired her daughter's nurse-like efficiency. A few swift strokes and Gordon's body was arching off the mattress and trails of the stuff were flying. Once the emission was so voluminous it matted his sleep-tousled hair. The two women laughed heartily at that and the boy assumed an "aw shucks" expression as he felt at the mess.

His mother told the ladies, "He admitted to me that there were boys in his college organising themselves into Saturday night 'jerk off circles.' Even talk about 'stag movies' with women who look like famous Hollywood stars. He says the boys strip completely naked and sit next to each other cheering on the actors and helping one another masturbate. But he promises that he'll never get involved. He says he doesn't have to sneak around to look at underwear advertisements. All the same I've got to pinch myself! To think- in our household we resort to supervised masturbation- because the alternative is so foul!"

Ladies tittered. They thought of the male erection, at once sinister and absurd. Eyes drifted to the art work. There were statuettes of Greek athletes- without any leaves over their genitals, more than one Mom noted with satisfaction.

They thought of their own sons.

Meanwhile outside, under the projecting bay window of Mrs Reilly's living room, two stark naked boys lifted their ears to catch every word of this conversation, wide-eyed with shock, full of lubricious wonder. An observer, especially a girl, might have found the sight comical: the boys were tall and lean, with their oiled Elvis hairdos making them look all the more naked; and with gobbets of car wash foam in their pubic bush. Both had erections springing from their groins, stimulated as they were by the ladies' filthy images- of spanking a naked son...of nude punishment of a fella their age...by his Mom and sister! And of supervised masturbation, for Chrissakes!

What would these ladies talk about next?

They listened hypnotised, cocks straining.

Now they recognised Mrs Reilly's voice.

"Sigmund Freud called masturbation the universal addiction," she was opining. "It is certainly true of boys in Brewer and there's a case for taking it in hand- as mothers. Mothers asserting control of the phenomenon. If it's to happen, better it be under our control."

Mrs Nora Goodwin said that was her experience. Her son, Alwyn, played basketball and swam. "Some of you may have seen him at the swim meet?" Indeed several ladies nodded. They could recall vividly the lean, rangy youngster with a stubbornly stiff but remarkably small member. A few had sat in his row in the bleachers. They had had his bottom- lean and clenched with fear- placed in their faces as he had negotiated his way past them, to go down and present himself on the blocks.

His mother said that he had recently acquired the habit of masturbating. She had found evidence on his pyjamas, "hard as lacquer" with his emissions, and discovered under his bed, embedded among copies of Sports Illustrated, half a dozen magazines with titles like Brief, Modern Man, Frolic and Stare. They were full of photos of women in their underwear, with big cleavages, in provocative poses. This had disgusted her, this revelation of adult desire in her son.

She had lost her temper- Stare and Frolic in her hand, full of provocative smiles and cleavages- and told him to hand over his trousers and underpants. "How dare you object to being stripped! You seem to like women going naked!" This was like a slap across the cheeks and he started to unbuckle. Loosened, he pushed down the dungarees. Trousers slithered to ankles. He paused. "Well?" she insisted. He gulped and put his hands on his elastic. Slowly the boxer shorts descended. Slightly bent forward he contrived to have his white T shirt shelter his genitals.

She made him wait in the living room in nothing but this T shirt, sheltering his groin. She checked on him a few times, half smiling at the sight of long white legs, at the hands desperately clamped over his privates. She continued to upbraid him. "A magazine called Frolic! With these pictures!" she taunted him. "Some Modern Man you are!"

She was wearing an exquisite hour-glass dress, a discrete floral print, with three-quarter length sleeves. She took him over her lap. She had given him the spanking of his life, "all over, bottom and legs, not missing any available space." His T shirt had ridden up to his shoulders and with no effort she had tugged it off, rendering him totally bare, shocked and doubly shamed. He had howled his heart out, twisted and turned, regardless of what he exposed.

Now his long athlete's body looked acutely vulnerable, over her lap, like an offering. She thrashed away all the harder. His buttocks and thighs were turned red in splotches. Soon, evenly red.

He kept twisting, almost rolling over, giving her a view of his penis and testicles, squashed and bunched up, his balls jiggling in clear outline in their petite sack. These sex organs looked so little-boyish, vulnerable.

He begged her to stop, the word "Mommy" gushed out. She was shocked to hear the infantilism. "Plllleassse, Mommy!" She had never heard him use it before. It had always been an adult, business-like,"Hi, Mom!" Again and again, "Ooooh, Mommy! Plllleassse, stop!" Or, more desperate, "Ooooh, Mommy, no, no, no!" As her angry palm rained down, harder and harder, he was reduced to a repeated, gasped, sobbed,"Mommy...Mommy...Mommy!"

She sensed that he had been hauled across some mental border. He was lifting and tilting his blazing bottom now. More at the soreness of her palm than out of any sympathy she finally rested. She had then applied Ponds Cold Cream. She lingered over this, scooping up generous dollops from the jar and very slowly spreading it into every inch of bruised skin, slowly, very slowly and gently, as if ironing a prized dress, gazing down tenderly on the object before her.

She seemed to take special care with the crease between his thighs and buttocks, greasing the uppermost thighs...and then pressing firmly into the mounds of the glutes, the little hillocks. This attention squeezed out a barely audible, "Ohhh...Mommy." His voice was tinged with shock. Encouraged, she trespassed on the borders of decency, attending now to the apex where inner thighs met the cleft of his buttocks. He gasped, his body tensed.

She moved slowly, massaged persistently, and like a confident surgeon used both hands and prised him apart to look inside his cleft at the sphincter. "Ohhhhh," he moaned. The hole resembled a pink tea rose. From its circumference, like the rays of a sunburst, bronze hairs reflected the overhead light, flaring out from the pucker. She kept his cleft parted, allowed him to absorb the humiliation that his most intimate spot was being exposed. The humiliation- and the fear that she might find him unclean. She heard a desperate, barely audible, "Mom...mmy...!" She maintained the tension, let him wonder. She thought he must almost feel her gaze burrowing into him. She thought he must be melting with shame, to have his mother inspecting his bottom hole.

Then she diverted. She pressed her finger between his legs- yes, right between them- along his perineal rafe- she could feel this intimate ridge line- moving two fingers now, massaging- this was outrageous, she thought- between anus and testicles, pressing on till her finger located a tuft of hair and felt his tight little scrotum and then- for long minutes- felt all around what she assumed would be his most deliriously sensitive zone. Pressing firmly.