Rodney's Nude Humiliation Ch. 06

He was emitting slight choking noises now obviously in some realm of bliss. This was confirmed by a steel-hard pressure she felt on her thigh. Her little boy was erect; oh my God, she thought; she would deal with that later. She returned to his cute hole, hesitated and, then...pressed the entrance firmly. But did not yet enter its hallway. "Oooohhh..." came his incantation. "Ooooohhh, Mommmmy!"

She scooped up more cream and massaged around and around the pouting exit. He was trembling now but with what she took to be bubbling pleasure. She massaged more, stretching the dime-sized vortex. His moan, "Ooooh...Mommmy!" gave the game away. Its tone was different. It implied gratitude for the pleasure she was bringing her son. As if to say, "Ooooh...Mommmy...that's real nice!"

Now was the time to change gears. Almost daintily she applied the lubricant to the silky puckered surface and then drove slowly but insistently into the hot, tight hole with her lubricated index finger. Her finger parted the sides of the passage. This time his expostulation rang loud and urgent: "OHHH! MOMMY!!" His whole body stiffened.

She pushed a little more. Then she felt what she would have described as a flesh quake. His whole body shook. Her index finger probed her son's passageway. He now went completely limp. Then she went further, her finger half way in, the passageway parted. More desperate now, "OHHHHHH!" He seemed close to fainting. She marshalled her strength and inexorably jammed all the way now, finger up to the knucklebone. He gasped, "Ohhhhhhmommymommmymommy!" Desperate, he brought all his youthful muscular strength to bear and tightened, and for a moment she feared her elegant finger would be nipped off. She smartly slapped his right buttock with her free hand. "Relax!" she commanded.

She felt his neat little erection subside on her knee. It was now a small, inoffensive, squashed cocktail sausage. She jammed harder. He groaned. She slightly rotated the finger. Then rotated it in the reverse direction. "Ooooh..." Came his expostulation. "...Mommmmmy!"

She told him that was how to take a boy's temperature and jammed and twisted some more, slowly. She must have reached his prostate; she felt his thing on her knee re-inflate. Small but hard. He was purring, like a kitten. Enough, she thought. She slowly withdrew. He lay like a corpse. "Oh Mommy," he whispered. "Don't...do...that! Pleasssssse!"

Without saying anything she returned to the massage of buttocks and thighs, scooping more dollops of cream, her hands softly circling round and round. All around each smooth buttock. Up and down hairy thighs. Just inside the cleft, from top to bottom- this made him tremble and moan his incantation- then revisiting the perineum, lingering on the scrotum. She seemed to feel him pressing his erection firmly into her thigh. Even moving slightly. Pleasuring himself. He revived, half-whispered, half-gasped his old mantra: "Mommy...Mommy...Mommy."

He was definitely rubbing his petite erection on her thigh, as much as he thought he could get away with.

She had never felt such control.

She now told him to stand up and, when he struggled off her lap to face her naked, guessed immediately what he was trying to shelter. She ordered him to drop his hands. "No, this instant, by your sides!"

As she described the scene all her listeners were transfixed, 30 Moms hearts beating hard. But if they were stimulated think of the naked boys under the breakfront window! Yes, the two with Elvis hairdos and foam from car wash detergent in their pubic bush were now joined by the muscled boy with the blond crew cut who had been cleaning the pool. The two had called him over. "Listen to this!" they had whispered. Soon he was reeling too- a Mom stripping her 18 year old for a spanking! Massaging his bottom! Sticking her creamed finger in his ass! Jesus fuckin' Christ! His bulky, white, circumcised penis inflated, stretched, flattened against his abs.

The three erections poked at the summer sky.

They heard the mother resume.

"He groaned. Then he let his hands drop. His thing jutted out and up. And it was leaking that clear fluid. He was so embarrassed. But I had a good look- I think every mother is curious about her boy's development, and patted the sofa and made him sit down next to me- I spread his T-shirt so he would not soil my upholstery- and insisted he tell me about the new feelings that had come into his life.

"I told him I wanted an honest answer about how often. Oh, several times a day, I'm afraid, was his answer. And he admitted he likes women with large breasts in bras and skimpy underwear. Yes, so unoriginal. He said all other boys did it, as if that were an excuse. Some even did it together. Where I asked? In the showers, he said, at the drive-in, at sleep-overs, on scout camps or school trips. Some seemed incorrigible, searching out other boys all the time. Even those who dated girls looked for opportunities in the showers or away from home. And all the while he was crying and his little thing was hard as a poker."

She didn't share it with the ladies but Nora had found it the rarest thing, to be seated on a sofa next to a long, lean youth, in his birthday suit- she in a stylish dress inspired by Grace Kelly, rounded off with nylon stockings and high heels- he, with an erection poking to the ceiling and freely emitting a clear fluid, almost as if that organ, too, were weeping.

He confessed that his penis got "like that" whenever he thought of women in their underwear: nylon mesh petticoats, corsets, pointy bras, silk underpants with lace, suspender belts. Eventually, no matter how hard he tried, he "just had to do it." Yes, sometimes three times a night. With Johnsons Baby Oil or Vaseline. More sobs and he reached for his mother's hand.

She took his sweaty palm reluctantly. She looked down at his penis, no more than three inches at best. She recalled her wedding night surprise in the honeymoon bed as her husband had shyly slid his shorts down to reveal an identical erection: urgent but truncated. She had stared, amazed. On that night she had recalled her brothers' wide "broomstick" lengths, as they grinned and flashed their organs from bathroom towels. Or had let her peek when they and their buddies had skinny-dipped in the pond on their farm, their organs swinging between their thighs.. A boyfriend in the navy who had joked about his "eight inches of cold steel" and pressed its bulge on her whenever they had kissed in the doorway. The stout and jutting erections she had witnessed at the recent swim meet where she had been embarrassed that her boy had been among the smallest.

Her son sat, clutching her hand, displaying a replica of his Dad's organ; goodness, she thought, it was like a bad joke, like some punch line: "...and then she made her son take his pants off, and guess what? Only three inches, just like his father!"

Anyway, she now told the ladies that her son looked so pathetic sitting there with his stubborn, upraised member that she could not help herself but just reached out, with her lubricated fingers, and grasped hold of it. His eyes had popped, with astonishment, with pleasure. For her part- and she did not share this with the ladies- she relished the feel but wished his appendage had been longer- for her pleasure, for his, for his eventual wife's. She moved her fist up and down no more than four times- he sat, eyes clenched shut- before he spurted. It was so...well, funny. When she felt it coming she had gripped tighter, really tight, and...whoosh! His ejaculation shoot through the air like a geyser and hit her chandelier, causing a tinkling. Another emission flew out and drenched his mouth and chin, trailing off to his sternum, and then it just flowed forth, bubbling over, flooding his tummy, webbing his pubic bush.

She couldn't believe it: she had masturbated her teenage athlete son.

Outside the window three nude 18 years stared at one another, mouthing "FUCK!" A mother! A son! She...jacked...him...off! Their own enforced nudity made the narrative they heard all the more poignant. Their erections produced bubbles of moisture from their slits. Hands drifted to pricks.

Mrs Smyth continued.

It became a ritual. He would present himself as soon as he got home from school or sports practice. "Mommy..." (Appallingly he was addicted to this nomenclature, this baby-talk.) "Mommy...I think I need your help..." And she would sigh and say she was busy with dinner but he would look so crestfallen that she would give in and tell him, very well, go and get ready and within minutes his dungarees and penny loafers and button-down shirt would be torn off and he would be naked and erect in his bedroom. She would plant herself on the bed next to him and begin applying the Ponds Cold Cream- the first handful on his little erection would make him go shivery with desire- eyes clenched shut, body tensed. He always came quickly and always shot for the ceiling.

And again- this too started to happen every day- he was soon presenting himself late in the evening asking his mother to scrub his back in the bath or, in his pyjamas, asking his Mom to tuck him in. His sisters giggled as their Mom dutifully went off and they seemed to sense what was happening. One slyly asked him, "Have you got Mom jerking you off? Getting rid of your stuff for you?" The other said, "Oh, isn't that sweet! Mom has to 'milk' our little brother to stop him polluting sheets and pyjamas!" And he just blushed and looked away. He was ashamed and, at the same time proud, to be in trouble for producing so much manly fluid- gallons and gallons of the stuff- his mother had to help him get rid of it. And his sisters knew. In fact he had never felt more like a husky young male animal, any fears about his diminutive prick banished.

Meanwhile his mother got more familiar with her son's apparatus than she had ever been with his father's, getting to know the cone-shaped glans, every crinkle in his stretched frenulum, each vein on his penis stem, the bubbles on his ball sack, as she pumped him conscientiously twice a day, sitting on the edge of his bed or the bath, and mopped him up after. Or three times a day- because on several occasions after erupting he asked her to do it again, immediately. He was especially prideful, it seemed, of being able to produce a second big spurt which made his mother shake her head and mutter, "Goodness gracious." He would fall back on his bed, the gluey stuff all over his belly and chest, grinning.

She drew the line at one of his requests, however. He sat spread-legged on his bed, entirely nude, as her hand, greasy with cold cream, reached for his eager, upright penis. "Mommy..?" There he went again, the silly infantilism. "Mommy..?"

What was it, she asked?

And it turned out that he wanted to be taken over her knees and have her repeat the anal intrusion of their first time together. "Can you take my temperature...down there? Like that time?" was the stuttering way he put it. She was shocked at the direction of his desires and the reminder of how wayward she herself had been. She ruled it out and he was soon lost in masturbatory bliss as her lubricated palm and fingers worked their magic on his adolescent erection.

Hanging on every word of the Moms, the redhead and the Negro youth, covered in sweat and spattered with leaves, had joined their mates. The five boys had looks of astonishment, as they stared at one another, unable to believe what they were hearing: mature ladies...like their own Moms...making their 18 year old boys strip off! Fellas like us! And...jacking them off! Moms!

Without thinking about it, they were fondling their erections.

There was another voice.

Mrs Wedermeyer was now saying that only the previous month she had confronted her son, Ronnie, with the extra washing he was causing her, soiled pyjamas every day and splotched sheets. On one occasion his nocturnal shifting had not only stained but torn a sheet. Even the mattress had stains. He had been very abashed, especially as she had made the accusation at the breakfast table and his two sisters had begun to giggle. He was, however, in no position to deny anything- she had his damp, telltale pyjama pants in her arms. "If you can't help it, at least do it properly," she had said, with disgust.

Her next step was to visit his bedroom at night after his bath and watch him dry off and then have him lie on the bed. She had been surprised by the wild burst of his pubic hair and the way his curved white member, about five inches long, bending inwards, had instantly sprung to life. It was broad, so wide that the glans at its end looked small, stretched across the broad beam of his fat white appendage.

He had been very shy.

"Well, go on," she had told him. "Just like you do it when you are on your own." Still, he had hesitated, lying there paralysed, blushing and looking at the ceiling as if for instruction. She had moved in and tousled his hair and said, "Oh come on, you silly boy. It's not what you do. It's doing it in secret that's the naughtiest thing. No secrets between a boy and his Mom..." And she had lifted a hand and placed it right on his penis and gave it a little push. He had clenched his eyes and...started.

He had a look of intense concentration as his small hand moved up and down. Her own hand moved from his hair to his ear and chin, lightly stroking and tickling. What was he playing with in his mind, she wondered. Girls at school with their pert breasts? Girls at the swimming pool with their long bare legs? She moved her red finger nails to her son's wide orange nipple, flicking it and, daringly, giving it a squeeze. She let her fingers play on his tummy, felt his abdomen tighten and move as he strained at his masturbation...

...he frowned intently, he clenched...and then with a tensing of his whole body, an arching of his back...shot forth a healthy spurt of white fluid that flew over his head and splotched on the bed head, another that splashed into the jugular notch at the bottom of his neck making it resemble a iced pond in winter and a third that flooded his tummy and filled his navel.

The tart, fresh smell of his semen abruptly reached her nostrils.

He mastered his breath and dared to open his eyes. He had the dazed look of a performer who had just been fired from a cannon. She lent and pecked him on the cheek and said, "That's how we'll do it in future. No secrets from Mommy, no bad magazines...and none of those dirty pyjamas or sheets. Oh, you were making such a MESS!" His eyes came back into focus and he smiled up and her and nodded his agreement.

She went to the bathroom and came back with a damp towel and mopped him up. Unseen his two sisters huddled and giggled up the corridor, manoeuvred for a glimpse. He twitched when his Mom handled his subsided penis. "Ow, it's sensitive," he whispered. "That's the problem, you naughty boy," she said. "Your thing is sensitive and you want to play with it like all boys your age." He muttered his apologies. She helped him up and held his pyjama pants apart to assist him. As he stepped in his slightly inflated penis hung inches from her face. Dressed, he put his arm around her and kissed her goodnight.

And so it went, every evening. Usually she would enter and he would be impatiently displaying himself on the bed, his penis stiff. Sometimes she had him sit naked in his chair at his desk, as if preparing for homework, and she would instruct him to start. He seemed to find the act of sitting down naked at his desk very exciting. She stood by his side, tousling his hair and tickling his ribs, while he earnestly set to work on his erection. And, always, when he came there was that fresh, tart smell in her nostrils, his half-ashamed, half-proud expression on his face, that tell-tale porridge webbed on his tummy, his chest, his face.

On the next Saturday, when he did not appear for breakfast, she went to his bedroom to ask if he was feeling sick. He asked her to shut the door and come over to the bed. He rolled down the sheet to show his stiff penis poking from the pyjama fly. She noticed how ruby-coloured was its bellend. "Mom...sometimes...I need...to do it..."

And he stumbled out that once a day no longer worked, especially on weekends, and she had told him he was a silly boy and she needed to get on with breakfast and, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, she reached down and manipulated him to a swift climax and left him to clean himself. He came down with a big smile and gave his mother a kiss and beamed at his sisters. A wide, happy smile.

"Mom, are you milking Ronny?" asked Sally, his older sister. And the other, Cathy, collapsed in giggles. His mother told them to mind their tongues. For his part Ronny, in post-coital bliss, couldn't care less. And, in any case, "milking" was a delicious term. It made him feel masculine, grown up, a producer of this flowing white stuff that had to be milked by a female- as it happened, by his Mom.

Other times in this bold spirit he was he was to insist that once a day was not enough. Watching daytime TV- the program Strike It Rich was a favorite- he looked down at a bulge in his jeans and said despairingly, "Hey Mom! Look..." She could not help smiling indulgently. And in a moment he had slithered his pants and undies to his ankles and, with his Mom by his side with a loving arm around his shoulder, he was jerking off slower than ever, enjoying every second, with eyes shut and a dreamy expression. It takes him off into another world, she found herself reflecting, I wonder what it is.

She squeezed him to her.

After his big, boyish ejaculation- the forest-fresh smell of his sperm reaching her nostrils- she had said, "Now that does you for today, honey!" But he'd objected, playful but insistent that his allowance was twice a day. All the boys at school knew that. Twice- at least. More on weekends, they all knew that! "Oh, away with you! Dirty-minded fella!" she had scoffed.

But that night he was nude in his chair, eyes tightly shuttered, working away on his thick five inches, his glans stretched to the limit to accommodate the fat stem of his prick, with Mom standing behind massaging his shoulders, bending to tweak a nipple, listening to the quiet flip-flop noise of skin on skin. He came in a spasm, with a hearty gasp, spattered his chest, shoulders and tummy. She had to go the bathroom for a wet towel. When she came in he looked up and grinned.

He asked for, and was granted, these "specials" on other occasions as well. Several times during a Sunday when he was at home cramming for an exam- after all, she said to herself, it relieved his nerves. Or after his bath and before dressing in his rented tux for a school formal. This, she thought, might prevent embarrassing erections when he was waltzing with some perfumed young lady with pointed breasts. Sometimes he would beg her to perform the task but she rationed this as a reward for when he was really good. Mostly she would watch while he did it, leaning in to stroke his torso. Tickling, to excite him more. But on his birthday she produced a bottle of Ponds' cold cream with the ties and socks she brought into his bedroom. His pyjama pants were rolled down in a jiffy and his penis stood out and up hard as metal. And when she applied a fistful of the delicious oil-in-water combination he nearly fainted into the mattress with pleasure.

Once when the sisters were away at camp he emerged in the living room in his birthday suit, without a trace of shame and totally erect. His penis curved up and back so its tip touched his abdomen. She could see all its ventral side, on display. She thought he looked a young Marine eagerly roaming an Okinawa brothel. He approached her in a beseeching mood. The veins in his penis stem looked blue as irises in the afternoon light filtering through the Venetian blinds. The tip was tinged with purple. He confessed that his mind was racing with dirty thoughts- he certainly looked demon possessed- and asked for his mother's help. He was in no mood to put things off till evening.