Rodney was quaking, in that little change booth, Miss Newbold before him, his socks and moccasins discarded. And his fingers shook as he loosened the buttons on his shirt.
He was being made to strip. In front of this sales lady with the long nose, glasses, black dress.
He shook as he fumbled.
All his funny feelings flooded back.
Those secret thoughts about being forced to strip before females. Like stripping for a doctor and the awful, thrilling panic he knew would seize him when she told him to go behind the screen and take all his clothes off. "Including your underpants," she would add, with a glint in her eye. That was a fantasy but yes, he and other boys had seen the faces of those "old ducks" peering in through the glass at the YMCA baths and how curious and lewd they had looked and, for a long time after, Rodney had excited himself under the sheets at night thinking of their superior smiles as, fully clothed, they had watched the boys fully nude. The recollection worked magic on him every time, a desperate, heart-beating panic and a thrill that gripped his whole body.
"Goodness you're clumsy..."
He was fumbling with buttons.
"Here, let me," said Miss Newbold as the third button defeated the best efforts of his quaking fingers. Then she was quickly unfastening right down his shirt front till it opened up and she shook him out of it and hung it from a hook. Like a mother undressing her boy.
Rodney shivered with the thought that his torso was suddenly nude before the lady- that he'd exposed his largish pink nipples which were standing erect and the light trickle of fine red hair from belly button to belt. Intimate details, that a boy did not want a lady like her, or Miss Braithwaite at school, to ever glimpse.
His blood-hardened member kept his trouser front distended.
"I'll help with that."
Gulp! With his belt buckle!
Miss Newbold reached for his snake skin belt, looking right in the direction of the forward thrusting bulge in his flies. She loosened the buckle.
For Rodney time froze.
And in a flush stories flooded into his head, stories from his friend, Stevie Lynton, short, dark and hairy who had riveted Rodney with tales of his piano teacher, Mrs Gradgrind. Yes, a raw-boned lady, with a man's head, and powerful arms and big hands- his piano teacher who had, gradually, at her lessons asserted her right to smack errant boys on their trouser bottoms with a ruler; then, at a following lesson, make them bend over for a hairbrush smacking- yes, Stevie told him, all her teenage male students had gone through these stages- and then at the next lesson, when once again their performance disappointed, made boys lie over her knee for a painful slapping with the sole of her slipper.
Eventually her despair at their failure to capture Chopin nocturnes would make her haul their trousers down, and force them to lie over her stout knees for a hard spanking with her broad palm, hair brush or slipper; then at the next lesson- terrIfyingly- she would peel off their underpants as well, and by the seventh or eighth lesson have her 18 year olds stripped to the buff. "Down to your birthday suit, mister, that's right those underpants right off this instant!" for the rest of the lesson. That meant a boy being naked as a jay while seated on the stool before the piano, sometimes with penis uncoiled and pointing at the ceiling. Stark naked, until the over-the-knee spanking that ended the lesson, and still nude (and red bottomed) when her daughters arrived home from their jobs as town librarian and grade school teacher. Stevie told him that it was shameful to be caught stark naked at the piano and to have to hobble across the room bottom blazing, collecting his abandoned clothes under the watching eyes of Mrs Gragrind's beaming daughters.
And hearing this from Stevie, Rodney has gulped and his stomach had turned with excitement and he had longed for those exquisite moments vouchsafed his buddy, although another part of his mind suspected that Stevie was afflicted with the same fervid fantasies as he, and may have been confecting these delicious stories. Either way they always had Rodney, in his shorts, hard as a hammer and bubbling away like a water fountain.
And now...
...in this booth...
...confirming that the darkest, deepest desire of some females was to winkle 18 year old fellas out of every stitch of their clothing...
...Miss Newbold was shaking free the waist of his dungarees...
...so that they loosened, and slowly...
...oh, shameful moment...
...slithered down his legs, his shaking legs...
...and revealed his erection forcing out the front of his boxer shorts...
...that formidable, hammer-hard bulge.
Indeed she stepped back to look him over. Lingering on that bulge.
"Step out of your trousers."
He looked dumb.
"Come on, Rodney. They're in a mess around your ankles."
Obediently he stumbled out of them and Miss Newbold whisked them off to hang from a clothes hook.
Rodney stood nude except for his boxers- tented in front.
Now she was all business.
"Stand up on that stool and let me take your waist and hip..."
And she produced a tape measure from her pocket.
He seemed frozen.
"Go on."
He thought, if I'm up there my boner's going to be poking her right in the face. But there was nothing to do but mount the stool.
He squished his eyes shut.
She said, "Now..."
He feared the worst.
"...let's measure your waist and hips."
She was breezy.
He felt her hands on his waist, with the tape between her fingers.
But she stopped.
"Oh, I forgot. To make an accurate measure I've got to do what I've done with all the other boys. Which is..."
Rodney's tummy flipped at what was coming.
"...slip you out of those funny old boxer shorts."
"Buuuu..."
His objection strangled in his throat.
But his nemesis had gained some experience in recent days.
With the half dozen members of the swimming team Miss Newbold had succeeded each and every time: that is, at stripping them buck naked.
Take, for example, two of the boys from Grover Cleveland High swimming team: Mark Campbell and Stevie Lynton. She had seen in a flash they had been handicapped with erections, twitching away in their boxers; Mark's big and bold, Stevie's punchy and petite, both, she thought, pathetically excited at the prospect of being measured by a woman for a swimsuit. With these boys, on their separate visits, the sales lady, eager to see the excited apparatuses without delay, had ordered them up on the stool and, without the slightest warning, she had whisked the shorts down to their ankles- their startled looks had to be seen to be believed- on both occasions, making the boys nearly leap in the air and gasp and clutch their hands over their groins.
With two others she had used perhaps an even more shaming approach. She had gently commanded each boy on his visit to remove his shorts himself. To divest himself...of his last shred of dignity. She had then watched as, balanced on the stool, Danny Bristol and Charlie Hodgson had struggled with the shame...slowly...reluctantly...tugging down one side at a time, blushing when their timberlines came into view, blushing more violently when they revealed the upper penis stems, then the rest of the penis, exposing themselves totally naked before this lady.
It was sweet when, boxers at their ankles, they had looked up plaintively into her eyes, totally compromised- as if for approval. As if saying, "Is this what you wanted, dear Miss Newbold, me without a stitch...naked as the day I was born...nude before your eyes? And what can I do next to make you pleased?"
Submissive. And nude.
In her bed at night, Miss Newbold would fondly and fervently remember those moments. Exquisite.
With two others, Carl Harlson and Danny Maitland, she had tried a still more exquisite shame. Noticing that on their arrivals in the fitting booths each had been trembling with worse than usual embarrassment she had allowed them, up on the stool, to turn their backs. They had been pathetically relieved. "Thank you, Miss Newbold," Carl had gushed, in a breaking voice, eyelids fluttering, grateful for this concession to his modesty. Imagining that his front would not be glimpsed. Danny had just breathed a sigh of relief, imagining, too, that the lady wouldn't get to see his genitals, that the fitting would be with him nude but facing the wall. She had- with each of them- edged their boxers down, ever so slowly, standing behind, enjoying the close-ups of their cleft bottoms. Enjoying- in fact, hardly the word. But pitifully they noticed, as the boxers were drawn down from behind, that they were facing a mirror that put everything on display- in their cases, two vulnerably small cocks nestling on boy-size globes encased in the obligatory gauze. Peering from behind their naked bodies, she had stared- right into that mirror. Her eyes were unblinking and merciless, glaring at the glass, and her lips- it seemed- curled with derision.
Each boy- possessor of a modest apparatus- had wilted at that look.
Armed with this recent history of male unbreeching, the sales lady faced Rodney Ricketson.
Blushing under his spray of freckles, she knew he was going to be a pushover.
Her tape measure discarded for the moment, she pinched the elastic band on both sides of his waist and gave it a little jounce. To test its flexibility.
Oh god!
He grimaced, eyes clenched.
She's...
...gonna...
...pull them...
...down!
But she was stretching it out.
She jounced the elastic some more. Up and down. Getting ready, and teasing her captive.
Then to accommodate his jutting erection she tugged the waistband out in front. Didn't lower it. Just pulled it frontwards, opening a wide gap. And held it there.
He felt the cool air on his genitals.
Still, she delayed the ultimate unveiling.
"Oh, I forgot to ask. Did you like the posing straps?"
She was cheerful and sing-song.
He unclenched his eyes.
What could he say?
"Errrr...dunno..."
"Don't know? Oh, I think all you males secretly like them. Just like we females like bright colours and lace work on our underwear...goodness, I know I shouldn't say that. Mentioning ladies' frilly underwear...to a young man...I know boys can find that very...very..."
And she searched for the word. She stared at the projection in the boxers.
"...disturbing."
She jounced the elastic waistband some more, holding it out in front, as if to communicate that she held him in her power and could reduce him to shuddering shame any second.
"Yes," she said, cheerfully jiggling the stretched waistband. "It's pretty clear to me that males like our products out there...the tight stretching Latex...the Side-Lacers...and that new Speedo. And you know, I think those posing straps are going to be very popular..."
Oh hell, lamented Rodney with eyes clenched, she's clutching the waistband...she's teasing me with the jiggling...any minute for sure, she's gonna wrench them down...and my dick's gonna be right in her face...any minute, I'm gonna be totally nude on this stool...
And then in a higher pitch, she asked, "And how would you feel, Rodney, modelling one of those posing straps for your mother and sisters, showing off your swimmer's physique? Say, the white linen? Very sweet, I thought. The teensie one in camouflage design? Goodness, that one would be...revealing..."
Here she jiggled the stretched waistband in her fingers even more vigorously- it made him tremble, thinking any moment the boxers would be hauled down- and she prattled on.
"...or the nicest one of all, the one in girly pink..."
He shuddered. She had read his mind!
"...the pink one? To wear for pics with your buddies out at the lake...or...showing off at home? Maybe like with the Campbell family, you could get to model for your Mom's bridge club..."
He gasped! His buddy had never told him!
"The pink ones? To show off for the ladies? But you did...like...them?"
He felt he had to confess.
"Umm...kinda..."
His face twisted with shame. He had confessed that he like the pink posing strap.
She closed in.
"You'd like to get around in them?"
"Guess..." He stumbled out the answer. "Guess so..."
