Rodney's Nude Humiliation Ch. 06

"Well, alright..."

"I need you to milk me, Mom," he confessed, with a shy smile. "I have to be...milked."

At this age, she thought, they are like young goats.

In a second she was allowing him to lie face up across her lap- she had sensed his urgency- while she masturbated him with Ponds Cold Cream. His groin and its contents were right under her nose and she could smell the fern-like odor of his wild black bush. She noticed the wide pulsing artery up the underside of his banana and the bunching of skin under his glans, the banjo strings of her boy's frenulum. His need was palpable. His face was especially contorted and she asked him what he was thinking about, making her voice ring with idle curiosity. "What's going on in that head of yours?" she asked softly as her palm moved voluptuously up and down.

"Women...watching us..." he rasped, sounding a million miles off.

Women? Watching them? She wondered at the filth that slopped from side to side in mens' minds. Watching...them? She and her son?

Her stroking was making a soft watery sound and she saw his testicles jiggling in their hairy sack. These..."organs of generation" the textbooks called it...so funny...her son's jiggling testicles, displayed on her lap! All this sexual mechanism- clear fluid, erections, self-pleasuring, ejaculation- she reflected, propelled by the gamey notions inside his head.

"What women?"

His eyes opened slightly and revealed a dreamy unfocused stare. He was hypnotised by his fantasy. His reply seemed a long time coming. "Other Mommies," he conceded softly.

Goodness, she thought.

"What Mommies?" she gently asked, probing his fantasies like a surgeon probing a festering wound. There was silence, then he said, "Your friends...from the street...Mrs Jakobson...Mrs Elliot...Samantha's mother..."

Remarkable. Ladies, from the street. Other mothers.

The idea worked its wonder. He tensed and arched his back and sent forth big ropes of semen flying to his forehead and chin, then one that pooled on his sternum. He sighed deeply, looked off at the ceiling. The ceiling- from which Mrs Jakobson, Mrs Eliot and Samantha's Mom had been staring down, spectral figures fading now, like ghosts in the dawn.

She eased him up and guided his drowsy presence to the bathroom. A runnel of sperm slid down his right thigh to his knee. His thick pubic bush was matted. Yes, she thought, I'll get my sewing scissors and give you a good trim, young man, all that hair can't be hygienic when you are spilling fluid all the time.

She told the ladies his behaviour had improved with this regime and her washing duties reduced.

Outside the house five boys, as naked as the day they were born, had fingers on stiff members, felt themselves close to spilling. These Mom's stories were revelations! What they do to their sons! Fuck!

Now they heard the voice of the mother of a boy they all knew, a sportsman, a year behind them when they had been at school.

It was Mrs Ricketson, mother of Rodney. She spoke about her son's acute embarrassment when asked to model his Indian gear for the school musical. She said his equipment was large- here she gestured with both palms and may have inadvertently rendered her son's nine inches closer to 12- but said he seemed worried that his glans was malformed and his testicles hung uncommonly low.

While she made these remarks there was a pronounced hush. Some eyes expanded greedily. Some faces flushed. Mrs Ricketson went on. She described her son's penis head as being like a mushroom, "a large one, a prize winner." And she said that she thought his scrotum was "enormous" and joked that there was no way Miss Cuff's costume would "keep him decent." One woman swallowed, another mother unconsciously licked her lips. Some glances flicked over the art- the petite, tapered tubes dangling from classical goins, the compact testicle sacks, Cupid's twirling overhang. They tried to imagine Mrs Ricketson's boy.

"I remember we were fitting him for his racing briefs- the swim team was off to compete- and he sustained an involuntary enlargement. Yes, 'an erection'..."

She handled the technical language with difficulty. She had overheard her daughter and cousin referring to "Rodney's boner." She recalled her late husband referring to his own "hard on." The locker room language seemed indelicate in the company of scented ladies.

Mrs Reilly nodded to encourage her.

"...there, in the changing booth, with all the girls present. I think he could have fainted with embarrassment. But what do you recommend now...if I catch him..."

"Masturbating? With dirty magazines or lingerie advertisements?" Mrs Reilly helped her out. "Well, it's a matter of what would traumatise him the most, my dear. I've been at your home when he's modelled for you, and, yes, he is bashful. But an extra layer of punishment? Send him to another mother to get his caning. A house with a lot of daughters, a mother with a house full of girls. Or like Mrs Sullivan take photos and fill a bulging album of nude swimming shots and let him know you are sharing them..."

Mrs Sullivan was there, her album on her lap, ready to share it again, to pass it around to hungry-eyed females. All her friends had stared at its pages. None would decline another viewing. Photos of her son Mark nude and erect, in profile and front on, standing on the blocks ready to dive, striding along the edge of the pool, being hugged by his Aunt Julie while his cock poked back at the camera.

A close up or two that showed the ridge of his perineal raphe dividing his sectoral sac, the wrinkles that ran off in both directions. He seemed particularly horrified that such detail was on view. His sisters showed the album off to friends. His female cousins always got to see it when they visited. Their Negro maid had peeked; she now giggled and looked away whenever she saw him.

These days at home Mark was very subdued.

"Yes, a complete night at home stripped of everything. That's easy and obvious. But...you could go further. Along the lines of what we've just heard. Supervised masturbation for Rodney. Now there's a thought...in the nuddy, stripped of everything, sisters present..."

Outside five nude boys were fingering their pricks desperately, looking like they were in the full throes of a jack-off competition, stories of the nude humiliation of young fellas like themselves, at the hands of Moms and sisters, flooding their minds.

...having women and girls inspect photos of them nude! With erections! Jes...us!

...having their mother clutch their hardons!

...being forced to walk round home without a stitch, in front of all the females!

They wore glassy stares, each gripped by a mental picture from the horror stories being shared inside Mrs Reilly's house- all these monstrous and thrilling scenes: boys forced to peel off clothes, Moms eager to stare at their sons' development, sisters being summoned to point and laugh, a boy nude over a Mommy's lap, the slaps raining down...

Two of them let fly with ropes of white fluid, splashing on Mrs Reilly's drive..Splop! Splop! Within seconds another followed- Splop! Wide pools of hot sperm forming on the ground.

Minds raced...

...the idea of a boy naked on the settee next to a dressed Mom, the fella with a stubborn erection...

...a sister rolling back the sheets, grinning like a she-wolf ...

Another boy exploded, gallons of the stuff appearing to dance in the air in a zig zag fireworks display.

And the thoughts continued to race...

...a bottom spanked as a naked guy leapt and pranced around the living room, his cock and balls flying...

...a boy walking nude to the lounge and sitting, feet crossed and an erection jutting, to watch Perry Como with Mom and sis' laughing at the sight...

...a mother, beautifully dressed, tearing a T shirt off her son over her lap, making him completely naked and plunging her finger deep into his ass!

The last boy shot off his load, the spunk flying all the way to join the suds on the bonnet of Mrs Reilly's 1950 Pontiac Chieftain.

Splop!

Meanwhile, back inside...

Mrs Ricketson frowned, concentrated in thought. What, having heard all this, might she devise for Rodney? There were many options. All delicious.

The afternoon was coming to an end.

Time for a drink.

Soon the ladies were gathered around the pool.

Mrs Reilly's Negro maid mobilised the five naked boys who, pricks dribbling sperm, had quickly returned to their work stations. Stealing a good look at their every inch- she liked the duty- the maid strolled the garden and ordered them one by one to come over to a table with glasses and cocktails, preeminently the fashionable new cocktail of 1955, Gin Daisy. The two tall, skinny boys with Elvis hairdos picked their way across the lawn, hands in front. They still had foam in their pubic hair from cleaning the car. The other three, shyly shuffling across, were plastered with leaves. Some adhered to their buttocks. The red headed boy had a oak leaf sticking from his intergluteal cleft. Each shone with sweat.

The maid said they were to take the glasses and move around the pool, offering them to the ladies.

No, there was no question of them getting dressed. Mrs Reilly would not hear of it, she told them, as they absorbed the news horrified.

They stumbled and shuffled with embarrassment. Especially when, with terror, they glimpsed a smiling neighbour, the Mom of a buddy, a friend of their Mom's.

Soon, crowded in the curtilege of the pool, between her neat hedges and the chlorine-scented water, five nude 18 year old boys began edging through perfumed, sweetly-attired Moms, offering the cocktails. Then the naked fellas returned through the press of women- many of the ladies with the pinched waists, ballooning hips, accented busts of current fashion- to collect more drinks. As they collected the glasses of alcohol they were stared at hard by the Negro maid behind the cloth-covered table. With glasses in both hands there was no question of sheltering privates from her view. From anyone's.

They moved around distributing drinks and the boys felt the eyes of the mothers on them. The Mom's wide skirts grazed and caressed the boys' furry legs. Every now and then long-fingered hands flicked over the boys' asses and played over their chests.

Each of them got an erection.

Their cocks arched or jutted from their groins, at full stretch.

Mrs Madelaine Maidenhead looked at Jimmy with his greased, swept-back hair, standing naked in front of her, shuffling with shame and handing her a drink. He was her local garage mechanic! He had tended her Buick Roadmaster Convertible, in summer never wearing a shirt under his bibbed overalls. As a result, behind her cats eyes sunglasses with their flared edges, she had been able to admire the fat artery in his white biceps, the pink nipple ringed with spidery black hairs glimpsed through the edge of his denim.

And now! Jimmy was in front of her without a stitch! Utterly bare! An unblemished white torso and a concave abdomen with a line of hair running from his navel. And a hard penis pointing up at her, with a wide blue dorsal vein, pink-tipped, with fat, clearly outlined testicles in his low-hanging ballsack.

Mrs Maidenhead stared. Yes, a low-hanging scrotum, fat balls, a big blue vein. She gulped hungrily. Jimmy blushed beetroot.

Three ladies found themselves approached by a bashful YMCA swimmer with flat auburn hair brushed forward. He was shyly offering drinks. He sported large medallion-type nipples on wide pectorals. He was stuttering an apology for splashing the cocktails. Three sets of eyes were admiring the well-shaped crown on the end of a white rod at full stand, rising from dark curls. They could see all the underside of his penis, including a "fabulous" central ventral vein. His testicles were bunched and held forward. He felt their stares, backed off, stumbling, but his cock jerked up to reach its maximum length. It emitted a bubble of clear fluid.

Roger, the lanky red head, covered in freckles, felt REAL goofy when he had to shuffle over to two friends of his mother's. Hell! Shit! Fuck! They were looking him all over! They would- shit! the shame! the shame!- see his red pubic hair! "Well, thank you, Roger, that's real nice of you," drawled Mrs Solomon in her blue-on-white polka dots, under her funny floral hat, not for a second lifting her greedy eyes from his groin. From his bush of red hair- yes, fascinating to his Mom's friends- his white rod curved out, a downward tilting banana, capped with a pink glans featuring a prominent slit. A slit like a smile. His eyes were lowered, taking in the lady's peep-toe shoes, red painted nails.

"Why, you do look strong and fit," opined Mrs Bendicks, a tall, skinny 50 year old with several sons of her own, wearing black and white stripes, a square hat with a geranium and white gloves to the elbows. "Your mother must be real proud." Her eyes, too, were fastened on the boy's shamefully bent penis. He gulped, reddened, shuffled off, knew he was now displaying his Mom's friends his red-freckled ass while he passed another four women who gazed fascinated at his erection.

The Nergo maid took a keen interest in young Samson

Douglas as she handed him his brimming cocktails. Her look seemed to indict him for letting their people down, for not being seen at Baptist worship, for being stark naked in front of white ladies. Perhaps for sporting a brown penis that stood out, stiff and high, putting its underside with wide artery on disgraceful display. Its red tip, tugging out of his foreskin, pointed right at her, seemed to accuse her. For his part, he was frozen with shame and humiliation: nude, before a black mother, with his penis pointing boldly right at her. Now he would have to take glasses to those white women, and let them see their first negro prick! A brown one with a red tip, and pubic hair that was short and grizzled.

Crammed into the curtilege of the pool ringed by hedges, the naked boys rubbed up against the skirts of the ladies, breathed in their perfumes...their perfumes, and perhaps another womanly smell as well. As they served drinks- the ladies now onto their second, even tossing back a third- all five boys felt their bottoms being patted and stroked. Even a glans being fondled- after all, they were sticking out and up, on offer. Testicles being tickled.

Each sported a blood-hardened erection.

As the boy with the blond crew cut and body builder physique served Mrs Smyth and two of her friends- hatted and pomaded for this visit to Mr Reilly's- he felt one hand on his lower back, resting, and another play over his abs. He had the finest physique of any of the boys: small pert brown nipples on his bulging chest, his stomach criss-crossed with horizontal indentations and a deep one running verticle, biceps that inflated like a football as he held the drinks. And his penis! Standing at full stretch it pulsed, with a clear bubble of moisture at the tip. It throbbed.

Mrs Smyth, who had entertained the gathering with tales of her son Gordon's supervised masturbation, boldly put out her hand and played with his prick, lightly running her fingers up and down its neck, relishing the length and thickness, and thinking, with a dreamy faraway look, "A real man's penis!"

His name was Brad, and most afternoons when he finished work in the cannery he would drive to the cabin in the woods at the far reach of Lake Wilson and drape a blanket over the only window and straighten out an old, stained mattress. Then he would wait for one of half a dozen mothers, mothers of his friends- as it happened- booked into visit him there. These mature-age ladies in their 40s or 50s would strip in a flash, their big, loose breasts flopping out of their bras, needing to get back to dinner and children, and join him in emphatic and juicy sex. He liked going at them doggy style, even barking like an Alsatian as he fucked a crouching mother and played at being her "big, ole doggie."

Or letting one of them pretend to be his slave and lick his asshole: "C'on, get into it, girl, tongue right up that hole!" As he let his own tongue roam a particularly foamy cunt, he thought, "I play basketball with the fella who came out of this space!" And he pleasured his buddy's Mom all the harder.

Right now he stood, rooted to the spot. Outrageously Nora Goodwin who had reported on her son Alwyn and his three inch erection, shifted her hand from Brad's lower back to cup his balls. She breathed with difficulty as she weighed and fondled his scrotal sack. Then she had joined Mrs Smyth in fingering Brad's stem. Their companion began to ruffle the young man's pubic locks- he found the tickling delicious.

Mrs Goodwin and Mrs Smyth, who knew their own son's three and five inches so very intimately, kept savouring another boy's manhood, big manhood. It was so...long! So...thick! They liked the assertive vein that grew out of his balls and ran halfway up the stem in a zig zag and the smaller one that took over and completed the journey to just under his broad corona. Ah, that carved edge! The whole glans was so grandly sculpted! Carved and sloping, it seemed to fill their palms as they grasped it, one after the other. Oh, this...wonderful...huge prick! Their sons' short, stubby ones were doomed to disappoint from now on.

Under his blond crew cut, Brad stood transfixed, eyes half closed. Drifting, dreaming as three hands worked their magic. He would get this Mrs Smyth on his list, and Mrs Goodwin, both of whom he knew from his neighbourhood, allow them to book in to meet him at the shack by the lake. One day a week. Or even...each of these ladies, at the same time.

He was close to exploding.

Meanwhile Mrs Lucy Barnfileld, dressed like TV's June Cleaver, right down to the pearls, had spirited Roger, the rangy freckled redhead, away from the pool and into a nook where she quickly took the boy's head in her hands and plunged her tongue right between his lips. His banana-bend seven inch penis sprouting from red pubic bush had already been at full stretch. As she massaged the inside of his mouth with her tongue she held onto his penis stem with both hands. Squeezed hard. "Do you know you've got a leaf sticking out of your ass?" she asked him. When he jerked she said, "No, it's cute! I'm gonna take it out! Turn round!"

Back by the pool Mrs Reilly surveyed the perfect romantic comedy being enacted all around her, "midsummer madness" she called it. But suddenly...a real flurry. Women converging, elbowing one another. She thought: "What's the fuss there, by the edge? Must be seven of the women...somewhat excited by the looks of it. Ah, I see. The Nergo boy...Samson Douglas. They've caught him...got him surrounded...asking him questions...and looking at that penis. Standing tall, it is. God! I can see the veins from here. Mahogany. With that hilarious red tip emerging from the folds! Now they've got hands all over him...love that grizzled pubic hair, they do...and hands on it! Feeling up that prick! I would think the smell of their soaked panties emerging from their dresses must be enough to overpower him...they must be reeking like the Fulton Fish Market!"

Suddenly her view of Samson and his admirers was blocked.

A tall, skinny boy with Elvis Presley hair faced her, his penis hard and jutting at a textbook 45 degree angle, with a pretty little overhang of skin. He was shyly offering her a drink. He was blushing fire engine red.

She stared at his groin.

Oh cute! Very cute: the bulge of his glans under the foreskin, the network of fine blue veins on white shaft, the bunched-up ball sack with its animal fur. She sighed. She reached for the drink.

She took a sip and glanced around. All her friends were engaged. Busy, in fumes of alcohol and desire.