Rodney's Nude Humiliation Ch. 10

It was mid-1950s America. It was Mrs Reilly's house- one of the finest in Brewer, Minnesota- on a sunny afternoon. Under the chandelier, below the big oil canvas of naughty Cupid being spanked by Venus, in front of an audience of well-attired ladies smoking cigarettes and shrouded in their perfumes, and schoolgirls excited to be witness, the drama was now reaching its climax.

Four 18 year old boys were stark naked, splayed over their seated mothers' knees, arms and legs akimbo. Mothers' broad hands rained down on their sons' bottoms; their lean, shapely, athletic posteriors. Spank! Spank! Spank! The four nude teenagers were beginning to purr and squeak, soon they were expostulating, "Mmmmmmmm," "Ouch!" and "Aww!" They couldn't help it: Mom's hands were stinging! They were kicking their legs. And their bottoms were turning pink.

One thing above all about this touching and pregnant scene is to be grasped by you, the appalled reader: beneath their Elvis Presley, ducks-tail hair or boy-next-door crew cuts (the teenage style preferences of the mid-1950s) the four boys were naked as the day that they were born. Stark naked. Or you might say, buck naked. Either way, without a stitch. Stripped to the bare, and being humiliated and shamed in front of a bustling, excited room of females, some their own age, some their mothers'.

Crowding in to watch, with looks of prurient awe, were 30 of Brewer's best ladies and 12 of its most curious 18 year old schoolgirls, all eager to get closer. Yes, if they stood closer...the things they could glimpse! Goodness! Look, Rodney Ricketson's legs are splayed as his Mom strikes hard and inside that deep cleft there's a tiny, brown, wrinkled hole winking back at us! Look at the black hair sprouting from little Stevie Lynton's crack! His ass is full of hair! Look, Kerry Fulbright has copped a hard slap from his Mom and rolled onto his side; so his jaunty, slanting erection is on view! And, look, Mark Campbell's big, sprawling ballsack is visible flaring like a half-filled balloon between his muscular thighs! His scrotum is too big and vast and heavy to stay hidden! Like a half-filled balloon between his legs, really!

Standing and oversighting the proceedings were Mrs Reilly in black cocktail dress and pearls and her special friend, Dr Ida Speight, school physician, expert in male adolescent development and Kinsey sex researcher. They were flushed and wide-eyed at the success of the spectacle they had so carefully planned. They urged the four mothers to maintain the pace and firmness.

Splat! Splat! Splat!

Down came the palms on male backsides.

Slap! Slap! Slap!

Sounds of "Owwww!" and "Ouchhhhh!" filled the silence.

Until, all of a sudden, Mrs Reilly and Dr Speight called a halt.

"I think...yes, they're doing it,"opined Dr Speight.

"Yes, noticeable...with all four of them," agreed Mrs Reilly.

The mothers looked up from their boys' crimson bottoms, puzzled.

Dr Speight explained.

To the mothers and the whole room.

"It often happens in a spanking of a nude young male. With over-the-knee spankings...

"...boys will express their pain and anguish by rubbing their stiff organs into their mothers' thighs. They can't stop. The combination of pleasure and pain becomes compelling, until...inevitably...they will ejaculate."

There was a murmur of disgust.

"Ejaculate," repeated Dr Speight, the sex researcher. "Right into their mothers' laps."

"Ugg!"

"How awful!"

"My God!"

Mrs Reilly added, "It was beginning to happen here. All four of the boys were beginning to move their midriffs in rhythm with the slaps. You could see their bottoms moving. Moving rhythmically. They were...masturbating themselves into their mothers' knees."

There was a lowing sound from the women, like that of cows in a stable. There were half suppressed giggles from the girls.

"What I propose is two-fold," said Dr Speight. "First, for our four mothers to switch from palm to hairbrush. That way the boys are going to be too unhappy to spare a thought for desperate little pleasures..."

There were titters.

The four prone boys shuddered. Their Moms' palms were beginning to hurt. But...hairbrushes?

"...and, second, all 12 girls and four women will take hold of the boys by hands and feet. And stretch hard. Really pull away. To stop them moving."

The girls were thrilled.

"So they won't any longer have the freedom to rub themselves into Mommy's thighs."

There was a quick movement of females, some jostling, to take their places as prescribed.

The boys felt wrists and ankles being seized. Tugged.

"Oh, but hold on. One another thing. First the boys will get up and move to another mother. That way...less chance of a kind Mom showing mercy to her own little fella."

There was good natured laughter.

The shameful boys rose from the laps and, trying to shield erections and groins webbed with sticky, clear fluid, hobbled around until Dr Speight steered them to another mother. They lowered themselves slowly onto a new lap, refusing to look their friend's mother in the eye, appalled at having to press their erections into her thighs.

As the boys settled the women seemed flushed. A different young man's bottom under their nose, a different cock pressing their lap.

And things renewed themselves. This time- hard! Rubbing themselves were they? They would pay! Oh, they would pay!

Rodney jerked at the awful STING on his right upper thigh as Mrs Fulbright brought the hairbrush down with all the force at her command.

"Aaaawwwwwooooohhhh!"

He strained to kick back his legs...strained to roll to his right...to throw his hands back to shield his vulnerable bottom. But four of his female classmates were gripping tight; and weren't they having fun, laughing and exclaiming as the poor boy buckled and stretched, his mouth pulled back like a young colt's! Yes, mouth stretched in agony, like that of the horse in Picasso's Guernica. The girls loved it, and not just because of the close up view they were getting right into his bottom which opened out like a split peach and revealed the wrinkled, pouting cave entrance, or the hint of a capacious, flattened scrotum with what looked like a seam down its middle. They loved it just because it was one of the school's most athletic young males totally nude- they had thrilled to the sight of his blazing red pubic bush, his meaty cock, his low hanging scrotum- and at their mercy!

Splat! Down again, and another big red splotch claimed another part of Rodney's right thigh. He tried to buck and kick but, no, he was pulled tight by his captors. He howled out loud. But, devilishly, Mrs Fulbright, instead of making the rounds, of striking somewhere fresh, chose to hit hard again at the very spots she had just visited.

"Aaaawwwwooooohhhh!"

Rodney yodelled and when his head turned back he caught the broad smirk of one girl holding an ankle, the Doris Day-lookalike, Delcia Forrest, who stared down at his exposed bottom and ran her tongue around her lips. And then looked him right in the eyes. Grinned at him. Licked her lips some more.

Rodney's insides turned to warm water.

Crack! Mrs Lynton brought her brush down on the curve of Mark Campbell's athletic bottom, where glute met left thigh. "Aaaahhh!" And then she struck the same spot. Again. Again. And again. The boy, seeking relief from the concentrated pain, put a mighty effort into rolling sideways, trying to shield the burning thigh from yet another assault, revealing to his tormentors his fleshy, wrinkled, squashed-up genitals.

The girls gripping his legs and arms pulled as if rival tug-of-war teams and the boy's V-shaped body flattened again across Mrs Lynton's knees and she went to work now on the flesh of his cheeks- bare as an egg, or "glabrous" as retired Latin teacher Miss Posser had called them. Mark Campbell, handsome swimmer, V-shaped back and glutes like soccer balls, was reduced to howling wordless complaints louder and louder and louder.

Stevie Lynton, alive to all the thrills of his young exhibitionism, might have been in seventh heaven, lying on Mrs Ricketson's lap, naked as the day that he was born, with three school girls and Mrs Glover pulling at his limbs so hard they parted the skinny cheeks of his little bottom and put his hairy crack on display. Bursts of black hair- at least it shielded the sight of his little pouting hole which would have been hilarious. But...hell! Rodney's mother laid into every part of his buttocks and thighs with such force he was soon emitting a ridiculous loud purring noise making the surrounding females laugh.

And when he found himself trying to rub his petite erection in Mrs Ricketson's lap, for some relief, he heard a girl cry, "Look! Look! He's doing it! Rubbing his cock!" and immediately his four limbs were wrenched hard, so hard he thought legs and arms were being yanked out of their sockets. Dr Speight rebuked him, "Naughty boy, young Stevie. We all saw that! That- rubbing business!" And she was advising Mrs Ricketson to lay in even harder. Without delay Rodney's Mom attacked him- slap, slap, slap!- cursing him under her breath for being the filthy minded little pervert who had brought the "dirty literature" into her house and introduced her son to "filthy thrills!"

Stevie's plight was desperate and he was the first of them to crack. There was the transition from purring to wailing, the heaving of the shoulders and the bursting into tears and the awful begging that broke through the tears. "Please...please...Mrs...Ricketson..." He was crying, blubbering with tears. "Please...I...can't...take...any...more!"

Mrs Ricketson kept up the fusillade. She looked up at to he four cruel females holding onto Stevie's ankles and wrists. "Well, what do you think? Do I stop?"

As one, with broad smiles, they shook their heads.

"They always use that argument. I think he can take it," said Mrs Glover, eyes alight.

"Oh no! Please, I can't! I really can't!"

But Mrs Ricketson took the advice. She laid in, hard and fast, on yet another circuit of his thighs and buttocks. The howling, tearful boy tried to roll his reddening parts- blazing red- out of her reach. But the female's tugging kept him flattened and stretched.

Stevie was breaking in great, bursting sobs. "No...no...no...ppleeeaassse..."

Meanwhile Mrs Campbell maintained a steady rat-a-tat on the well-shaped bottom of Kerry Fulbright- the cute, handsome fella with long eyelashes and the slanting dick- but, as if in conspiracy with her four helpers, she was not hitting too hard. Not hitting too hard at all. And they were not pulling too tight. As a result, Kerry was allowed to roll to one side when the sting was too much for him, grunting "Ahhh!" Or "Owww!" and expose his long, streamlined, erect penis, slanting to the right and emitting streams of glutinous fluid.

That seemed to please Mrs Campbell and the four girls holding his limbs, as well as the circle of girls and women pressing into watch. In fact mixed in with the scent of perfume and cigarettes was a powerful, intimate odour wafting from wetted (and, in the case of the girls, entirely soaked) panties: the elegance of Kerry's seven incher and its unremitting stiffness were the cause, the inspiration, the stimulant. He has a very nice penis, thought Mrs Campbell, catching another glimpse as the boy rolled again.

But Mrs Reilly closed in. She saw that the females responsible for Kerry were being too humane.

"My dear, you will have to strike harder," she instructed Mrs Campbell. "And the girls to tug harder. This boy- look, see- is still enjoying it."

Kerry's erection stared back, confirming her indictment.

Admonished, the females worked the prone heart-throb with fiercer attention, Mrs Campbell redoubling the force of her strokes- slap, slap, slap with the wooden brush- and the girls now tightly pulling ankles and wrists so Kerry could not rotate, although one twist of his torso confirmed the renewed blasts had shrivelled his erection. Soon he was purring an urgent kitten sound like Stevie; then, begging for mercy, "No, please, Mrs...Ca...Ca...Campbell, it's...really...hurting!"; then pleading he couldn't take any more- all the usual stages- before, shoulders heaving, he was bursting into big, shaking, helpless sobs.

As if that were the signal they needed both Rodney and Mark joined their two friends in breaking out in heart-rending weeping. Two of the biggest athletes in Grover Cleveland High. It was, thought the mothers, pathetic: these sobs. From big athletic boys.

As if according to some memorised script, Rodney and Mark now started using the childlike nomenclature, "Mommy," as in the plea, "Oh please tell her to stop! Mommy...Pleasssse! Tell...her...to...stop! Mommy!" ( from Rodney.) Or "Oh, Mommy, it's hurting...so much! Mommy...ouch! I'm sorry, Mommy, I'm sorry! Tell her...I can't take it! Please, Mommy!" (From Mark.)

The crying became louder and more desperate.

Slapping away, mothers looked questioningly at Mrs Reilly. At Dr Speight. Does this mean we stop, their expressions seemed to ask. On the other hand, they implied, we are enjoying this. Would like to keep it up if we can.

"Keep it up, my dears," said Mrs Reilly. "They're not broken in yet."

"And remember what you caught them at," said Dr Speight. "Mutual masturbation. In a group. Totally stripped off. Enjoying themselves in the nude. Exciting themselves with these..."

Here she brandished the crinkled pages of the Scandinavian nudist magazines, caked by their pooled semen, ejaculated during their now notorious orgy.

"...and making demeaning comments about women and mothers."

In response the mothers brought the brushes down harder, with renewed outrage. And faster. Slap! Slap! Slap!

The four females holding each boy tugged harder.

The four boys were stretched tight as bowstrings. Their bodies immobilised by the girls' stretching.

They howled and moaned and sobbed.

"Ohhh...pleasssse...(sob! choke!)" from Rodney.

"Noo...Mommy...Pleasssse...make her...STOP!" from Stevie.

"Aaawwwwh! (Sob! Sob! Sob!) Pleasssse...I...can't take it!" from Kerry. "Mommy, make her stop!"

"That's it! No...no...please...no more!" from Mark.

All 12 girls, engaged in stretching and pulling their victims, were laughing out loud. Laughing- and having a good look at the boys' reddening, cleft bottoms and every now and then at what lay inside the cleft, and what was sometimes exposed lying underneath, flattened and soft and wrinkled. Yes, it was such fun, and all they had to do was tug at Rodney's ankle all the harder, or yank Kerry's arm, and watch Stevie's hairy, little bottom get still redder or see the tears fall from Mark's clenched-up eyes. And hear them crying like babies and begging for the spanking to stop.

Until finally it did.

And the boys were ordered to get up.

And not on any count to rub their bottoms or thighs.

Or to cover their fronts.

But with hands behind their heads to allow mothers and girls to inspect the damage.

They struggled off laps. They were still crying, blubbering like babies with the pain nerving out of their upper legs and glutes; they were wobbling on their feet, reluctantly locking fingers behind their heads, ashamed at showing off their collapsed, mottled, shrunken genitals, webbed with trails of guilty fluid.

Bending and twisting to look at their bottoms, the females were exhausting every cliche of post-spanking commentary.

"My! Is your naughty little bottom red!"

"Goodness! I bet that rear end of yours really hurts!"

"Well, here's a boy who won't enjoy sitting down for some time soon!"

"I think it'll be a long time before you do anything that naughty again! Wow! That looks sore!"

It was very humiliating for the four boys, each with eye lashes stuck together and tears wet on their cheeks, especially when it was a girl from their class who leant in close to look them in the eye or twisted to peer at their rear.

"Does that hurt? There? Oh go on, tell us, don't be shy!"

There was no alternative for the boys- standing there, hands locked behind their necks, totally nude- but to answer them in strained, croaky voices.

"Yes...yes, it hurts...real bad. OUCH! No, don't touch! Ouch!"

But touching was what the girls were interested in. Touching. Poking. Stroking. Exploring with wandering, tickling fingers, around the curves of buttocks and up and down thighs, even flicking a hand between their thighs or a finger into that crack and all the way darting glances at the boys' terrified eyes and at their groins with their shrivelled pricks, mottled and creased.

The capacious ball bags of Rodney and Mark were now hanging low and loose with their prizes displayed inside- and the girls were mightily diverted by the spectacle- how lucky that Rodney and Mark had such voluminous scrotums and large balls inside them, with a silly seam sewn right down its middle. By contrast Kerry's was a modest globe, Stevie's wired in dense black foliage behind his cocktail sausage of a penis. Both nice but...girls were being persuaded that big balls on a young man were a treat.

Mrs Gwen Skite had edged schoolgirls aside and was stroking Rodney's globes while he stood, hands behind his head, everything he possessed on display. The lady, in her boxy suit and her blouse with pussy-cat bow, was glancing at his groin: at his blazing red curls, huge balls and the sculptural grandeur of his glans.

She could not take her eyes off his equipment.

"Rodney Ricketson, what a disappointing boy you have been. Now tell me, after that spanking- goodness, its red, I bet it hurts- tell me you are not going to do dirty-minded things with your friends again. We expected better of a nice, church-going fella like Rodney Ricketson."

And Rodney had no alternative- hands locked behind his neck, on total nude display, Mrs Skite stroking his bottom and staring intently at his groin- to say lamely, "I'm sorry, Mrs Skite, we won't be...I...won't...be...doing that again."

Her cigarette smoke and sultry perfume and another smell- one the boy associated with female underwear in bathroom baskets- enveloped Rodney. Through the pain, a stinging like severe sunburn, her circling fingers felt nice.

He began to melt inside.

"Because, Rodney, none of we Moms would want our daughters- and as you know, I have three- to go out with boys who get excited by...you know, taking their clothes off...getting stripped...in front of females."

Rodney nodded dolefully, tears reappearing. He knew her daughters. He felt more shamed than ever.

"I looked at those magazines that got you and your friends so hot and bothered..."

Rodney blushed, at having his disgraceful impulses again discussed.

"...and they all seem to be about boys, about males, going around naked...vulnerable...in front of girls their own age but very often mature women..."

Rodney felt an excitement spread from his flaming, tender bottom into his groin.

"...getting...looked at, nude..."

He shivered. The idea- the old idea- excited the boy. Yes, getting looked at nude! Humiliated. Embarrassed. Like...at the swimming costume fitting. Or wearing that Indian loin cloth. Being measured by Mrs Carruthers and her maid. Being inspected by his mother and her friends. It was always terrible. But, thinking about it later, it was really exciting.

He felt a jolt in his penis.

Like being at the swim meet, naked with all those mothers watching. Or having his shorts jerked down in front of all of them, here, today. By his Mom! And being ordered to take his jockstrap off, with every one of them watching. Talking about these things with his friends. Hearing how it excited them too. That's what had happened with the four of them and those magazines. They had got so excited by these thrilling pictures.