Rodney's Nude Humiliation Ch. 12

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Stevie naked at Mrs Lanbourne's.
7.1k words
4.37
34.1k
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Part 12 of the 22 part series

Updated 06/17/2023
Created 06/09/2017
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aaronburr
aaronburr
528 Followers

It was the living room of Mrs Reilly's house, high-ceilinged and richly decorated, a room all the ladies of Brewer longed to visit. The light poured in the tall bay windows, catching the swirl of the women's cigarette smoke. On the wall, in the shadows, one could just make out the oil painting of Venus hauling a nude Cupid over her knees- an 18 year old Cupid, nude and decidedly uncircumcised (and entirely hairless, as it happened); and nineteenth century paintings of nude males romping on beaches or sports fields with dressed females watching. She had bought them from a New York auction house: naked males, clothed females, this was the unifying motif. Chinoiserie vases displayed triumphs of the garden: white roses, hyacinths, Baker's fern.

Flowers, tended and picked by nude young men who worked off their minor police offences around her flower beds and shrubs. Naked...in their birthday suits...in her garden.

Mrs Reilly was seated with her guests. In one hand, a glass of J and B Blended Scotch Whiskey, only slightly diluted; in the other, a cigarette holder with a Camel yielding up a filagree of smoke to join the fug hanging in the room. All the ladies smoked, including Dr Speight who asserted that moderate smoking had health advantages especially in lowering blood pressure. Moreover, she believed, any detrimental effect of smoking could be more than rectified by menthol filter tips, like those in the brands Kool and Salems. Besides, she often argued, most of her doctor friends enjoyed tobacco; in Dr Kinsey's team, just about all of them; she loved and admired Dr Kinsey and the fearlessness of his trailblazing research, especially that on male sexual practices.

But this late afternoon they had been discussing something other than the debate about smoking or memories of Dr Kinsey.

"I think you are right," Mrs Reilly pronounced, after long consideration. "That is, about the shaving- the body hair. The boys' body hair."

Miss Cuff, the school drama teacher, was relieved at her friend's adjudication. She needed support for a proposition as daring as shaving off the body hair of...(gulp!) male students. The very thought made her shudder. With the daring, with the lubriciousness. And Mrs Reilly needed to approve. She had influence with the school board, Mayor Zeldin, Congressman Andresen and Police Chief Malone. She was a friend of Senator Hubert Humphrey's sister. That's why errant young men were delivered here, instructed to work naked in her sprawling garden.

"Good," said Miss Cuff. "Very good."

And with relief and anticipation drew deep on her own Camel, in its long holder, imagining the 18 year old males she had seen at rehearsals in their tiny loin cloths- mere flaps over their groins- flaps which showed off all their pubic hair- imagining them, free of that hair. Just like the Indians they were portraying. She was remembering what she had seen in a side-show tent nearly 20 years ago.

Dr Speight, school doctor and Kinsey sex researcher, nodded her approval and raised her glass to toast the decision. "The right decision. Shave them down there. Verisimilitude. You may get to take Cowgirls and Indian Braves to Broadway."

Mrs Carruthers who designed and sewed the boys' little costumes expressed her approval with a "Humph!" She had seen the problem close-up. Poked her nose into the pubic hair of these shamed, trembling boys. And now Miss Cuff had just persuaded them: off it must come. Maybe she and her Negro maid Yuela could have a role in the execution of the plan.

Right now Yuela was with her friends, Betty and Doris, Mrs Reilly's two Negro maids. The three of them were outside in the garden, looking at the nude white boys. Pointing and giggling while the fellas sweated and worked, stripped to the buff.

Miss Cuff thought it was time for her confession.

In the late 1930s when studying drama at Scripps College she and girlfriends had taken a holiday and driven through the Central Valley of California. They visited a carnival ("Carnivale" it was called on the big entrance sign) run by a charming dwarf everyone called Samson. He wore a shabby, well-worn three piece suit, with snap brim hat. He had kept this Carnivale together through the Depression and the disasters of the Dust Bowl, so that his band of "freaks" and performers stayed alive on baked beans, stew, spinach and mugs of coffee when whole communities had been wiped out, left starving. He befriended the college girls, clearly seemed taken by them and on some instinct steered them to an exhibit which featured Iroquois warriors from "The Wild West."

Two Indian braves appeared on the platform outside the tent. They wore deer skin trousers and their bare torsos glowed golden and athletic. They were "interesting" enough for Miss Cuff and her friends to pay a few dimes for admission. It was a quiet afternoon, the fair virtually deserted and the girls were the only visitors inside the darkened tent.

The cool canvas interior was welcome after the dusty heat. A few flies buzzed. The dirge-like organ sounded outside, grinding out its sad repertoire of carnival tunes. Samson cleared his throat and puffed a cheroot.

The girls waited.

Miss Cuff gazed off into the distance and shared her recollection.

"Four Indians entered. We guessed they were 19 or 20. They were strikingly well-proportioned and handsome with long black hair falling to their shoulders but shy, as native people often are, and couldn't look us in the eyes. The trousers the two had worn earlier had been replaced with loin cloths. All us girls were thrilled by the unexpected male nudity, the grace of these young men. Their sculpted shoulders...the corded muscles in their forearms...their big brown nipples, like medallions on their chests. The flaps of their loin cloths were long, and they wore them front and back- nothing like what we have designed here in Brewer..."

And she smiled at Mrs Carruthers who, in turn, toasted her with her whiskey.

"...but it did leave their thighs exposed on the sides. Muscled like colt's, and as they strolled back and forwards behind the rope we caught glimpses of their long, straddling legs and, as their flaps moved, other body parts as well. Just hints. We were frisky young things and each of us was giggling as the boys executed a half-hearted war dance and their long flaps swung some more and it was clear that they wore nothing underneath...no jockstraps, for example."

There were smiles. Jockstraps! What a hoot that had been!

"I felt bold enough to tell their leader that we girls were used to seeing men swim naked at college (I didn't tell him we had removed loose bricks in the wall between our change room and the pool!) and I suggested they might dance without the encumbrance of loin cloths. They looked surprised and embarrassed until little Samson suggested we offer a tip of a dollar and said, "Whaddabout it, Injuns, these young ladies wanna see yas without ya flaps. What say we earn a bitta cash here?" Anyway, he was clearly the boss. Within seconds they were easing down their loin cloths and standing nude, hands by their sides. A bit bashful. And after we got used to their natural beauty- goodness, we were swooning!- what we noticed was they had no body hair! Their copper-toned groins were entirely smooth! It made...everything stand out. The anatomical detail..."

Miss Cuff said she had a friend who taught in the Anthropology Department of Berkley, one of the top five schools in the country. His name was Kermit Schmidlap, now an esteemed professor. He told her that adult Iroquois in their natural state were near hairless. But they carefully scraped off what fluffs appeared on their groins or under their arms, using a turtle shell.

Kermit was an old "sissy" and seemed to have researched the subject with a suspicious interest, living on a reservation and taking a lively interest in the warriors, following them on their hunts, swimming with them in mountain lakes and at night sharing a blanket around a fire. "Certainly, my dear, their scrotums feature not a single hair, entirely glabrous. Tonsured testicles! Renders them unbelievably sensitive!"

Mr Carruthers slapped her knees. "Tonsured testicles!"

"Which we must replicate!" said Mrs Reilly. "With our dear boys. Shave off their fluff, their wiry fur. Scrotums as smooth as eggs! We must be true to life, Indian life."

"They'll hate it, of course. The loss of manhood," said Miss Cuff.

"All the more reason," said Mrs Reilly, grinning like a crocodile.

Which left the question: how and where would it be done, the shaving of the 18 year olds?

Dr Speight had an idea. "Mobilise the girls! I expect to recruit many for careers in medicine. That young Milly Slink for example- she talks about becoming an army or navy nurse. Very taken with the idea of helping to examine recruits- military medicals are very thorough. She's drooling at the thought, quite literally."

Mrs Reilly endorsed the notion of involving the girls.

"Pick, say, Rodney or Mark or that sweet Johnny Marcello. Have the girls practice on him and we can supervise. Trimming with sewing scissors, working up a lather, whisking the curls off with a razor. Then very, very carefully closing in and shaving off every last hair. The scrotums would be challenging..."

"Oh, but with practice. Remember, 'tonsured testicles' on young Indians."

"Start tomorrow then. You have that examination room at the school."

"Start tomorrow."

"But right now, let's see how the young men are going in the garden."

"Yes, of course, but first, finish the story about the naked braves. In the side-show tent, all those years ago..."

"Yes...did they sport...you know...'tonsured testicles?'"

Three women leant forward, indecently curious, to hear Miss Cuff talk about what happened at the fairground back in the 1930s.

But right now, in another part of Brewer...

The first thing Stevie Lynton noticed on his visits was the smell.

He would lean his Schwinn New World bike against the brick wall of Mrs Lanbourne's house on Harrison Street and ring her bell, heart pounding. She would admit him, sweetly smiling and would close the door. He would stand on the Astrakhan rug in her hallway, seeing his reflection in a neoclassical giltwood mirror. Now, as on each occasion, his heart beat hard, his eyelids fluttered with tension.

And an urgent, pulsing erection tented the flies of his khaki dungarees. Lowering her glance, she observed it. Smiled slightly.

And, as on every one of these now-frequent visits, he breathed in the scents of Mrs Lanbourne's house. He loved the smell.

The smell of walnut furniture and wax floor polish. The fragrance of the flowers plucked from her small but verdurous garden: pale pink carnations and white roses and Bakers' fern. Apple pie or cheese cake warming in the kitchen. Mrs Lanbourne's own sultry scents- powders, creams and perfumes- and the scents of her expensive, tailored clothes as she lowered herself, knelt before him in the hallway, and this gracious 40ish lady, this mother and community leader (Catholic Mother of Central Minnesota 1951, awarded by Cardinal Spellman) with her elegant long nose and lambent brown eyes and lustrous complexion, began to slowly draw off his loafers, unfasten and loosen his belt and, thrillingly, with a practised hand that made him tremble, unbutton his flies- oh, her touch, her gentle pressure!- and open his trousers and slither them down.

How slowly...with what liturgical care...with what gentle sideways tugs...she then drew down his briefs.

Down, an inch a time, all the way to his ankles.

To languish there, in a pool of shame.

And with what maternal love her lambent brown eyes looked up, eventually...after taking in other sights...into his own watery eyes.

Throughout, he shook with a nameless emotion.

Today he stood before her, here in the hallway of one of Brewer's most refined houses- so much more tasteful than the nouveau, vulgar display of Stevie's own home, he thought- now standing buck naked. In his birthday suit.

The only sounds were the meowing of Hermes, the household's long-haired Himalayan cat watching them from the end of the corridor, the ticking of the grandfather clock and the purr of a delivery van two streets off.

She folded his clothes and laid them on the lion-backed 1900 hall chair.

Turning, and appraising him, she would say, "How nice, Stevie, to see your manly penis again..."

Its three inches stood rigid at 45 degrees, pulsating.

"And your neat little scrotal sac..."

He blushed.

"...and your young man's sap rising...goodness! Those hormones of yours!"

His meatus was emitting a thick stream of pre-ejaculate. Indeed it trickled forth, trailing to the black fur of his thighs and calves. He was embarrassed his excitement was so obvious.

"...and your hairy chest. My own little cave man! My, oh my!"

He blushed deeper, looked down at the wavy pelt as if to confirm his reputation as the most hirsute of Grover Cleveland's 18 year olds. Incongruous on one so boyish.

"Come," and she took him by the hand. "I have a treat today."

A treat?

She led him to the living room. Hermes, the Himalayan cat, was serene in Stevie's company. He strode after them, with large, elegant steps, looking up at the naked boy. Stevie was his favorite guest.

A treat?

Like the beautiful romantic spankings, different from the malevolent spankings he received at home, that saw him positioned over her fragrant knees, head drooping to the floor and the world upside down, while his skinny rear was spanked by hand or hairbrush or paddle. Rendering Stevie helpless, desperate. And which then guaranteed him an hour of cuddling and kissing, climaxing in a massage, again over her lap. And then being turned over and swiftly and expertly masturbated by this loving, tender older lady with such soulful brown eyes and thrillingly long, aristocratic nose.

Or like the occasion when the massage was extended, drawn out. Around and around his bottom, and then up into his intergluteal cleft, worked her delicate hand. While he hung there, gasping and choking with pleasure. And with infinite care and long preparation her forefinger (by now her hand was encased in plastic glove) penetrated his bottom hole- so delicately- and probed and teased and tickled and explored his inside, twisting this way and that, while he hung over her knees, gurgling with strange sensations, lying prone, penis flowing with Cowper's fluid. Gurgle, gurgle, gurgle: oh, he loved these new, powerful sensations.

After, seated on her lap, she had applied the cream to his stiff, slimy penis- and he had exploded with quantities of his teenage cum he had never before produced, flying out, onto his face and his shoulders. There was even a generous load of "seminal fluid" left over for her girls to extract when they came home from work and started tickling and rough-housing the naked boy while their mother prepared pie and coffee or milk and cookies in the kitchen.

There was the occasion when she walked him buck naked into the living room to confront five neatly dressed girls. Hell! He knew them from church and school! They were dressed to the nine pins, sitting on her lounge chairs, balancing cups of tea, playing with Hermes, the shaggy white haired cat. Their eyes had widened with surprise and pleasure; he had panicked like the classic embarrassed naked boy: he buckled and bent over and sheltered himself and, pressing hands to groin, manoeuvred his trembling form behind an arm chair.

He had been cajoled and persuaded by Mrs Lanbourne to come out and, still sheltering his groin, turn his back and hobble to the piano. He felt them staring at his bottom, heard suppressed giggles. He had to sit and play the Moonlight Sonata. Naked as a jay. Hermes leapt up on the stool and sat beside him, appearing to study the music.

Later he had had to join them, seated as another member of the tea party, his little erection on display sticking out of his lap as he balanced tea things and the girls eyeing it while conversation roamed over school and church until their hostess said it would be nice it the girls could learn about "all this sex business over which there has been such a fuss- Peyton Place and Lady Chatterly's Lover and the Kinsey Report" and perhaps Stevie could stand up and let "us all get a proper look."

So he had had to do the rounds while each girl got to see his genitals close up and Mrs Lanbourne briefed them on the male organ, on erections and the scrotum and its contents and pre-ejaculate (or Cowper's fluid) and even suggested that, one by one, the girls handle Stevie's equipment or "Stevie's organ," as she put it, to appreciate the firmness of the trunk- trunk, such a humorous word for something so short and slender- and the softness of the glans. "Glans"- he always thought of it as a helmet or head. She told them not worry about getting their hands wet because they could wash up in the bathroom when they finished, something which made Stevie feel all the more a dirty and disgusting boy. Already one or two of the girls had turned their noses up in disgust at the look and smell- a scent like damp ferns- of Stevie's groin and its contents.

Mrs Lanbourne introduced them to the "juggle jiggle" game which had taken off in Brewer. One by one, girls had got to bounce Stevie's scrotum in their palms- gentle little slaps- and for each of them it was absolutely the first time they had touched a scrotum. Oh, how they thrilled to the task! Stevie looked transported, eyes clenched, penis drooling away- even into their palms. Until inevitably a slap became too energetic and the boy doubled over. This caused great amusement, even as their hostess cautioned them about the sensitivity of the testicles and Stevie did a funny little tap dance, wincing. The girls agreed they would have to be more restrained. But goodness- they had never played a game as funny as this!

They discussed how much they looked forward to playing "juggle...jiggle" with brothers and cousins.

"Juggle the scrotum...to see the testicles jiggle!" rehearsed one of them, careful to get words right.

"No, juggle the beanbag...to see the balls jiggle!" corrected another, an earthier girl, to much merriment from the other giglets and a shaking of the head by Mrs Lanbourne. "Beanbag! Balls!" Really, these girls!

The game ended when suddenly, while having his testicles bounced, he ejaculated violently in three large convulsive dollops, all into the lap of his current partner, a bespectacled young lady in a sailor suit, who shrieked at the ropes of silver fluid splopping onto her dress. The boy stood, swaying, with the guilty, abashed look of someone who had suddenly vomited in a city street. For her part the girl giggled nervously as she surveyed the glutinous mess in her lap, the pleats of her white skirt gluing.

On other occasions he would play the piano naked for one or two of Mrs Lanbourne's friends, Hermes the cat joining him on the stool, appearing as always to be reading the music with him. Then he would serve them tea, sometimes wearing one of her frilly aprons but not always. Once she had him model at a lingerie party, wearing ladies' intimate garments, all of which ended up soiled, it must be said. Certainly lace and silk pulled over his hips or lowered over his head seemed to induce a faraway and distracted look in Stevie's eyes and double the production of fluid. "Just look at that!" exclaimed one young, unmarried lady, when a pair of white lace panties were eased down Stevie's thighs, revealing a trail of sticky fluid running from his meatus to the crotch which was sopping wet.

Anyway it caused much amusement among the ladies and led, as night follows day, to the moment when Mrs Lanbourne seated him at a dining room chair in the middle of the circle of visitors. Then she encouraged the heated boy to exorcise his demons. He set to work, eyes excited, his hand moving urgently on his little organ, like one of the chimps in Minnesota Zoo. Whoosh! He exploded! Ladies gasped. Mrs Lanbourne moved in with a wet towel to mop up. The fresh, tart smell of his deposits wafted to the nostrils of her visitors.

aaronburr
aaronburr
528 Followers