Rodney's Nude Humiliation Ch. 10

His whole body stiffened with fear.

"Mom?"

He swung towards Mrs Ricketson, seeking her intervention.

Milly advanced with her towel. Shaking with anticipation...and something else. Some nameless emotion. Beneath her nervousness, a determination fierce and hard.

The boy went rigid.

"Mom?"

Mrs Ricketson sat prim and unmoved.

The girl now stood before Rodney. She could smell the tart, antiseptic odour of his boy's emissions. She looked into his groin, with its red curls. The still-swollen glans stared up at her, smiled with its broad slit. The skin of the frenulum hung loose, like a jowl on the serpent-like penis. She swallowed...with greed. A trail of saliva ran down her chin. Her thighs were sopping. She could smell her own pungent, piscine aroma.

The towel stretched between her shaking hands. She reached forward...to Rodney's groin.

He gasped with fear.

"Mom? Mom? Mom?"

Outside the open windows the events had attracted an unseen audience.

The boys working off their punishment in Mrs Reilly's garden had been drawn to place a plank between two metal-legged work horses. They had quietly climbed up to look unobserved at the afternoon's delights unfolding in the ornate living room. They had stared, riveted at the ritual humiliation of Rodney and his friends, faces pressed to the fly screens, unseen by the females who were focused on the stripping and spanking and supervised masturbation.

If anyone had entered the verdurous garden they would have seen seven young males, totally naked, standing on this plank peering into Mrs Reilly's living room window. And very aroused by what they were seeing.

There was body-builder Brad with his blond crew cut who had been forced to work in Mrs Reilly's garden for months now (in the garden and, let it be said, every now and then, in the divorcee's bedroom.) Yes, Brad with his bulky uncircumcised penis and its assertive vein, zig zagging its broad white length. There was Samson Douglas the mahogany-toned Negro youth fresh from Lowdnes County, Alabama, with his grizzled pubic curls sprouting dark brown erection with its bright red glans. A year out of school both fellas were now addicted to these special summer afternoons when, after working buck naked, they served drinks in her garden to Mrs Reilly's female guests. They would be petted and stroked by the ladies and be adopted as favourites by many.

And standing on the plank with them were the three boys seduced that very day in the garden by four cheeky school girls. Their eyes were bulging at the drawn-out humiliation they were watching- the woeful fate of naked boys at the hands of dressed females. Already the tall, broken-nosed fella, with his stick-out Adam's apple and greasy Elvis haircut too big for his skinny body, was maniacally jerking his little dick, his low-hanging balls swinging wide, his eyes wide as saucers as he saw Delcia Forrest, who had sucked him off, bend low to examine Rodney Ricketson's fat erection. Jeepers, she was inches from it! This Doris Day-lookalike loved cock!

His two buddies, the short guys, one with a disproportionately large member himself, were on tiptoes straining at the window. Christ almighty! These poor guys in the house! They were sitting on sofas...being jerked off...by their Moms! The two boys boiled with excitement. They clutched their rigid members and pulled themselves.

And Ricky Fafner and Teddy Fasolt were up there as well, their perky cocks out and up and their hands busy on them, eyes bulging at the whole saga of boys being stripped, taunted and teased, spanked naked over ladies' laps and inspected by girls and ladies...jeepers! It was a frigging, raging freak show in there! Holy cow, they were now being jerked off by their Moms!

Ricky and Teddy had soap bubbles in their pubic bush from cleaning Miss Reilly's Buick Roadmaster Convertible. For an hour this afternoon the arriving women and girls had paused in the driveway to study their nude bodies as the boys had washed and polished the vehicle, for the most part sporting their funny erections: Ricky's springy six incher with its heavy mauve head, Teddy's upwardly curved with its flattened coolie's hat of a glans- what Mrs Reilly thought was a prick worthy of Harpo Marx, designed by an off-duty animator for a buck's night gag.

The boys' excitement had built, having been stared at by the bulging eyes of 30 ladies and 12 girls- their stiffies on display, and their asses too, when they twisted to shield themselves. So with all that humiliation, all that titillation, when they saw the four boys on the sofas explode with sky-high ejaculations, they themselves shot their loads. Splop! Splop! Splop! Sending their ropey emissions to slap at the gray, rusticated stone work of the Minessotta heritage house.

The other five boys followed, backs arched, groins thrust forward, pricks in hand. Big healthy young mens' loads, splattered against the side of the house. "Ahhhhh!" groaned Samson. "Grrrrrrr!" expostulated Brad. And their cannonades flew out.

The boys thought they were unwatched.

Imagined no one was looking.

They were mistaken.

Standing in the foliage of the verdurous garden were three ladies. Yes, in this wilderness of mirrors- this sexual oasis of Brewer- nothing was what it seemed and the watchers were themselves being watched. The female sex were organised like a secret army, like the Gestapo or the CIA.

Three imposing, authoritative ladies stood in the perforated shade of the elms, hidden by sculpted shrubs, watching transfixed. Like secret agents.

They stood watching the jiggling bottoms of the masturbating young men, each naked as the day he had been born. Jiggling glutes, then clenched glutes, as the youths, bouncing on the plank suspended between the two work horses, let fly their loads of teenage sperm, splashing against the brickwork.

The ladies were Miss Cuff, drama teacher of Grover Cleveland High and director of the musical Cowgirls and Indian Braves, wearing her cat's eye glasses and trademark blue stockings under her faintly Bohemian linen dress with wide floral design; Mrs Carruthers, the dressmaker who fitted the boys for the tinier and tinier loin cloths, with her trademark glasses dangling at her ample breasts; and her Negress maid, Yuela, in black dress and starched, white pinafore.

They were devotees, priestesses sanctified to their own ideal, at once aesthetic and mystical, their own hallowed, pulsating work of art, as noble if you like as Michelangelo's Sistine ceiling or Monet's haystacks but a living ideal: nothing less than the anointed mission of exquisitely humiliating young men by having them sacerdotally and solemnly strip in the presence of females, young and old. To the notion of dressed females and undressed males, the males stripped of every inch of clothing, and hence every notion of self-respect and power. In the presence of women and girls.

Facing the bouncing rears of these seven naked fellas the women committed themselves again to their holy calling, to the glorious, tingling moment when, for example, a stark naked 18 year old posed on a stool and the three of them drew out the pleasure of fitting him out with a loin cloth while he begged to have the door closed, begged to be fitted behind a screen, begged for a bigger covering and tried to hide- always the sweetest moment- an awkward, insistent teenage erection.

Ah, sweet moment indeed.

And they had been invited- nay, summoned- to Miss Reilly's to discuss, when her present celebrations were concluded, an extra humiliation for naked young men.

Ah Brewer! They might have sung. Ah, Midwest summer days!

Ah, naked young fellas!

Ah, life!