In Mrs. Reilly's Garden

This story follows Rodney's Nude Humiliation Cpt 14 and Days of the Raj. If you like CFNM I am sure it will appeal to you.

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In the warming sun of a mid-Western summer, in a grove of Mrs Reilly's garden framed by trellises and rose shrubs, the well-dressed ladies milled about. It was one of the finest gardens in the mid-West and the ladies presented a glamorous sight, there on the immaculate lawns, next to the trimmed hedges and urns of spilling plants. They wore the American fashions of 1957: wide skirts with vivid colours and floral prints some with three quarter length sleeves or sober pencil thin suits by Dior and Coco Chanel. Their perfume filled the air and many wore hats and gloves. They could have stepped from pages of Vogue or The Saturday Evening Post.

Three 18 year old males stood before them, stock-still.

The boys were completely nude.

They were staring straight ahead, trying not to connect with the wide-eyed female stares.

One of the boys, Johnny Marcello, was on the upper rungs of an A-frame ladder with gardening shears, as if caught pruning the roses, looming above the women folk. In this position the underside of his erection- his banana-shaped erection- and his roomy testicles were perfectly displayed for the milling lady folk.

Rickey and Brad, standing by the flower bed, were also erect. Rickey held the handle of a rake, postured like a marine on sentry duty. Brad wore heavy gardening gloves on hands that hung by his blond haunches. Both stood looking straight ahead, like cigar store Indians.

The ladies were fascinated, aroused, tittering.

"Bless me! They're naked as jays! That's Mrs Marcello's boy! Up there on the ladder!"

"Johnny Marcello! Without a stitch! Delivers the groceries! A nice boy..."

"He is in my daughter's class...she says he's so polite...a real young gentleman..but now...just look!"

"He's just so...so naked! Oh...my...goodness!"

"I just remembered- I need to buy bananas!"

Johnny flinched at this reference to his curved penis. Kept his eyes right ahead.

"He's certainly...matured."

"Except..."

"He hasn't..."

"Any hair..."

"Down there..."

Johnny flinched again. He wanted to sing out, Miss Cuff made it happen! For the school musical! She wants us to look like Indians!

"Well, he's made for a photo or two."

"You're so right."

They lifted their cameras. Snap. Snap. Snap. Snap.

Miss Lynda Lindhoff, 47 year old virgin who lived with her aged mother, was right under Johnny's jutting appendage, on tip toes, snapping a picture of the young fella's scrotum. With her up-reaching arms she was holding her camera six inches from his testicles, her 1954 "Ful Vu" Super Ensign in wrinkle black. And talking of wrinkles: she was so close none of the wrinkles on the poor boy's smooth-as-an-egg scrotum would go unrecorded.

Ha ha, she thought, what fun!

Snap, snap snap. That bean bag would loom like a helium-filled balloon in each pic. "Ful Vu" indeed.

And 45 year old Mrs Kathleen Coster, president of Grover Cleveland Parents Association, jostled closer, aiming her 35mm Baldina Rangefinder at the underside of Johnny's rigidified penis stem- at the industrial-strength central artery, the street grids of delicate veins and bunched-up foreskin. No detail would be lost on any of the 16 frames. Snap, snap, snap.

But 60 year old Mrs Wendy Hessmeister, Brewer's librarian, seemed more focused on the profile of Johnny's rod, standing to the side with her 1950 Voitlander Bessa 1. Click! Its collapsible rangefinder poked out at his penis, the sterling German camera becoming erect itself, imitating the boy's own jutting flesh. Snap, snap, snap! What a contrast with her hubby Walter and his tiny, flaccid thing. And what a contrast with Walter's tiny acorn head- this boy's fat penis head, like...like...a prize-winning plum.

"Go ahead, girls. Some artistic shots!"

Mrs Winifred Wiseacre, 43, married to the town's chief Rotarian and insurance salesman, was manoeuvring to peer into Johnny's rear through the lens of her 1954 Bruan Paxette 11 camera. Oh, the shapliness of the curves- his manly buttocks, the groove between thighs and glutes- she thought, indulging her instincts disgracefully, but lamented that the intergluteal cleft was closed to view. Might someone ask him to part his legs, she wondered? Can I get to see his little twinkle hole? Give him an enema- wouldn't that be nice, she thought- didn't I do plenty of that as a nurse in the navy?

A Mom wearing a box hat with feathers was standing before Rickey Fasolt, snapping away with her husband's Bencini Comet. She and the aluminium, mirror-polished camera seemed transfixed by the perky six inch penis bolted into Rickey's groin, with its top-heavy mauve knob, glaring right back at them.

Rickey shivered, but stayed stock-still, rake in one hand, like a soldier on guard. He kept his blinking eyes straight ahead of him. She snapped her photos just as the first blob of glistening emission emerged from the boy's meatus and trailed the length of his underside, then dangled like a spider web to the grass. The hat-wearing Mom noticed, thought that this boy was getting excited- that dangling trail of moisture confirmed it.

Mrs Sadie Allworth was on her knees in front of Brad, crew cut footballer with a thick, meaty projection as hard as a hammer. Goodness, she might have been at worship before some pagan deity, some god of the phallus. Brad's hands, encased in heavy gardening gloves, were rigid as his sides. And those gloves only made him look more brazenly naked.

Determined not to miss the opportunity the 45 year old mother of three girls pointed her 1953 Kodak Brownie- a simple plastic box camera- right at Brad's groin. Seemed she was trying to capture the zig zag artery that throbbed away on the dorsal side of his erection. Or maybe the scrolled, bunched-up folds of his retracted foreskin. Or perhaps the abundant scrotum, with its gauzy auburn hair.

Brad stood stock still, eyes ahead of him, his Chiclet teeth locked in a rictus of a smile. A trickle of fluid drained from his meatus and trailed to the lawn.

Snap, went the 1953 Kodak Brownie. Snap, snap, snap.

Brad flinched slightly. Blinked. His meaty erection throbbed.

Mrs Emma Hoddie, 67, had relished the spanking display earlier this afternoon. Boy-on-his-back-legs-up was not a position she had used but she could see the advantages it offered. Now she stood looking at Rickey. Facing him head on, as he stood stock-still holding that rake like a sentry at Buckingham Palace. She was a grandmother and a widow and, on the farm, had applied full nude spankings to her two sons, flat on their tummies on their beds; she liked applying chastising slaps with her paddle till all their buttocks and thighs turned a glowing, fire engine red and they had twisted and turned seeking relief. Yes, this had been one of the joys of her widowhood.

In the same position she had required them to suffer a weekly enema. Oh how they wriggled as she had lubricated their little entrances with her ungloved finger, massaging Johnson's Baby Oil into the puckering hole, but if some drained over their pereniums (she was precise about the names of her boys' body parts) and over their ballooning scrotums, that was all very well as there was a fluffy towel to protect her sheets. And it was nice to see their testicle sacs when they got up, shiny as a car bonnet.

How they had raised their heads and gasped protests when she had corkscrewed in the rectal tip of the hose! How their bodies went rigid as they felt themselves filling up with the warm water! "Mom...mommy...it...it...feels...funny!" And she had insisted, "Take it like a cowboy, hon', take it like a man."

She allowed her daughters- there were four- to glimpse these exercises including the enemas. Oh yes indeed, the daughters strained for close-ups of that little procedure. And when after the enema the boys had risen to stumble off to the toilet with one hand sheltering their erections, the other hovering at their bottom hole just in case- hadn't their sisters guffawed behind cupped hands! Their brothers in their birthday suits, shuffling off to the outhouse! Oh...my...god!

Yes, she had applied the discipline right up till her sons left the farm and took their own wives at the age of 23 in one case, 25 in the other. The mystery for her forever after was how the boys had come to look forward to the treatment and reveal stubborn erections as soon as their pants came down.

And how readily in recent years they had offered up their own boys- five strapping grandsons- for working holidays on her farm with explicit requests that she apply "good 'ole frontier discipline" like she had with them. "And don't forget those enemas, Mom- did us a whole world of good," said her eldest. "And let the girls have a good look, teaches them to be mothers," said the younger.

Right now she was surveying Rickey with bulging-eyed pleasure. That swollen-headed erection, she thought, was like the pricks on her own two boys- and her five strapping 18, 19 and 20 year old grandsons. This boy's thing was identical to the Hoddie family cocks: standard size- she guessed a regulation six inches- well-developed purple head, resolute, unapologetic stiffness. Oh, the stiffness of those grandsons when she made 'em stand there in a row, bare as badgers, ready to lie down one at a time for a paddling. Those organs sticking up and out, all in a line, just as this one on Rickey was now. And her own sweet disciplinary policy: their sisters and cousins allowed in the bedroom, staring hard, as if all their Christmases had come at once, superior smiles wreathing their faces.

She longed to take Rickey aside and give him some of that same ole' fashioned farm boy discipline. She steadied her camera at his groin and saw him flinch. Yes, I'd make him tremble a lot more if I had him on the farm for a day. After a paddling I'd give him an enema too, prise the nozzle into his little, oiled-up hole. Make him wriggle away and gasp at the intrusion.

In the meantime, she raised the camera: snap, snap, snap!

All knew that tomorrow those photos would be developed at Mrs Donovan's Photo Shop and Drycleaners on Chestnut Street, where they would be studied by her and her three daughters. Those young women would file photos of their favourite boys. Then the owners would call and collect their photos in neat little packets marked Donovan's Photos, Brewer. Or they might have them developed at Mrs Guelf's whose two daughters were, pound for pound, as excited by the notion of nude boys as any girl in the school, or any of their mothers.

The mature ladies with their pics from either developer would ogle them as soon as they got into cars, or home in their bedrooms, and they would be stored in shoe boxes, shown to friends, taken to coffee klatches, swapped like playing cards, secreted in purses and hidden under underwear in cupboards.

The three boys in the garden knew their images were being captured, were terrified...but thrilled by the idea. As their stiffness confirmed.

Mrs Reilly, stood back smoking a Camel through a long ivory cigarette holder, her eyes narrowing behind her cats-eyes sun glasses as she savoured the three naked youths. Nice pricks, she thought, savouring the Old English language. And she liked the pre-ejaculatory fluid flowing freely. Cowper's fluid, it was called. She wore a smile of quite satisfaction as she assessed this piece of theatre which she had painstakingly planned.

Yes, in her own verdurous garden, with mothers and teachers and professional ladies of the town of Brewer- ladies she had invited. Insisting they bring cameras. These young males stripped in the garage by her two Negro maids, the boys delivered to her home by the local police chief she had bribed. All her doing, all reflections of her peculiar and, yes- she knew it- her half-insane genius.

The earlier scene of spanking and supervised masturbation played out in her living room had caused her panties- her salmon-coloured, Parisian panties with pink bows and the cutest embroided opening in the groin- to be somewhat drenched, to be perfumed with that telltale sour and intimate fragrance. In fact the globules of her personal jelly were forcing their way through that tailored opening in the panties and rendering fragrant her perma-girdle.

She couldn't help it- anymore than the naked males could help their excitement- and nothing excited Mrs Reilly more than young males being humiliated, forced into nudity and exhibited like this.

She saw the fear and the excitement in Johnny's eyes, the good looking, Italianate boy from a strict Catholic family, undergoing a trauma- and an epiphany, as up on that ladder he was assumed- like the Virgin in the great canvas of Titian in the Friary of Venice- assumed, into heaven, lifted to paradise. "The Assumption of the Virgin" it was called, Mary being lifted above the apostles- Mrs Reilly travelled on the Queen Mary across the Atlantic to Europe every spring and knew its artistic treasures- as Johnny, on top of the A-frame, might be rising beyond this world too, being borne into an exhibitionist heaven, a paradise where males went nude and were gawked at by girls and ladies, cruel and lascivious and dressed.

Clearly, she could tell, he was horrified but also thrilled to be putting himself on display. Perhaps, thought Mrs Reilly, to be relishing it for the first time, like a pilgrim arriving at his holy destination. Every few seconds she saw him catch the gaze of one of the ladies- friends of his mother's, mothers of his friends'- and see their dancing eyes on his privates. Mrs Reilly saw him tremble and his penis jolt and throb. Soon, she thought, he may very likely explode.

She drew on her Camel.

Imagine the thrill for a young male as he exposes a generously proportioned penis...and, goodness, one with a banana-bend! And showing off the balloon of his testicles. With his privates totally shaven. Now ladies were moving behind him to dilate on the view of his bottom; so he was also aware he was showing off the curve of his buttocks, seen from below! As if he were saying to these mature age women, the ages of his own Mom and his grandmother, look, this is me, these are my most secret parts- the curved stem, the mauve hat, the big sack, the ass cheeks. Look me over, ladies and make me tremble and emit some more pre-cum.

Imagine the thrill for the boy, thought Mrs Reilly, and expelled a filagree of smoke into the summer air.

Mrs Reilly's two maids, Doris and Dorothy, arrived with trays bearing three brimming glasses of milk, Minnesota milk freshly squeezed from the teats of local cows, to refresh the young males. Very evocative were the glasses of full-cream fluid, given the view of jutting erections and rounded scrotums: no lady missed the symbolism as the glasses were handed by the giggling Negresses to the naked boys and obediently gulped down, one after the other.

Protein-rich cow's milk. For the sprouting, mid-western youngsters.

Teddy's left a milk moustache decorating his upper lip. Not a few of the mothers smiled as they saw it, reflecting what a cute, naughty, naked boy they were viewing and some thought of their own sons. They wished they might daub it off, playfully strike his bottom. Even cup his tight little ball sack and waggle a rebuking finger under his nose.

And then a little procession- almost sacerdotal- reached the alcove.

There was Dr Speight, half moon glasses dangling to her broad bosom, looking very pleased with herself.

There was Mrs Gladys Hotchkiss, powerfully built secretary from Brewer's Sleep-Tite Pyjama plant, eyes dancing with excitement behind her wire-frames.

There was tall, elegant Mrs Moira Dockweiler, in her cinch-waist, polka-dotted skirt. She was still flushed from the public spanking she had given her boy.

And there was Homer himself, poor Homer, who they had allowed to assume socks and loafers but not another item of clothing. He was being kept in his birthday suit.

He was being made to pay a big price for being discovered by his mother with a lewd magazine.

Under his heavy, piled Elvis hair he was bean-pole thin. His narrow chest wore a mat of tangled black hair which he was surely ashamed showing off to all these females.

He was marched along by the three women as Amazon warriors might have brought back to their camp a boy captured from a defeated army; say, an army cadet or bugle boy who they had stripped of uniform and khaki underwear and were now leading off into a cruel feminine captivity.

His Adam's apple bounced as he swallowed and blinked nervously. His mother steered him, her hand gently placed on his lower back. On the other side Dr Speight gripped his upper arm. His cock with its flattened dish-like head and wrinkled stem, wobbled half erect in front of him, wanting to stiffen again but bewildered and frightened. Mrs Hotchkiss followed, eyeing his posterior red from the spanking.

"Well, here we are," said the doctor. "As your can see, Homer, you are not the only young fella being punished today."

Homer gulped with horror as he took in the scene of three nude males, and the swarm of ladies with cameras milling around, peering and pointing...and giggling...and aiming their viewfinders...and snapping away.

"Oh here's the other young fella, ladies," declared Emma Hoddie. "Another subject for our art photography!"

Ladies grouped in front of him, already aiming cameras.

His mother beamed. Homer shot his hands over his genitals and half-bent over to shield himself.

Photos, he thought, oh no!

"Homer! Don't be ridiculous! All these ladies have already seen everything you've got! Stand up straight! And hands by your sides!"

His mother was firm.

The young man, a slow, goofy young fella, had nothing to do but obey. He stood tall, and hesitatingly moved his broad veiny hands to hang at his sides. This revealed the loose-skinned stem and the dish-shaped glans of his penis, reddened by his recent masturbation before the ladies in Mrs Reilly's living room. It was beginning to shrivel.

"And..."

His mother had another suggestion.

"...go climb that ladder with the other boy so they can all see you!"

Whhhhhhat? Get up there on that ladder?

"Mooooom! Pllleeeeease!"

Tears welled.

His voice skidded like a little boy's.

"Noooo...Mummy...no!"

"Turn around and show me your rear young man!"

He did. It still blazed red.

"If you want to avoid another spanking..."

Her hand was raised. She let her words hang.

Ladies giggled.

Homer shuffled forward.

Ladies parted.

He could feel their eyes all over him.

He climbed the ladder to stand a few rungs below Johnny.

Ladies regrouped to point their cameras.

At this moment two young ladies, girls from Johnny's school- oh, he nearly fell from the ladder when he saw them- appeared in the grove. They were Ena Wertheimer and Cecily Axehead. They had missed out on the school rehearsals of Cowgirls and Indian Braves. They had never been summoned to one of the boys' medicals. They had never been recruited for the shavings. Nor been invited to watch boys swim nude.

Oh, they had heard whisperings of these things from other girls. They were ravenously curious. Seemed, however, they might always miss out. They might grow up to be spinsters. Truth was neither got taken on dates.

They had not seen a naked boy.

Then the invitation had arrived from Mrs Reilly, to join one of her garden parties.

So they stood now and their eyes popped greedily- very greedily- as they took in the scene.

Johnny Marcello...up there on the A-frame...without a stitch! The handsome boy from their school, the athlete with the Italian good looks.

And he saw them stare. Stare right at his midriff and its bold, jutting erection. It seemed for a moment that his hands, even holding the shears, were going to drop to cover his genitals but he thought better...and exposed himself again: his curved erection rearing above the throng.