Rodney's Nude Humiliation

Fortunately his Mom had not got round to making Rodney pose at home with those little straps, the posing straps sewn by the coach's mom. Not even with that new, tiny swim brief. They seemed to have vanished into his Mom's deep bedroom cupboard, firmly off limits to her son. This was the good news: no posing for the females. But Rodney began hearing strange rumours very soon after those remarks by his mother in the car headed home from his fitting at Logan's. Very strange rumours.

One night in the weights room at Brewer Y his swim team buddy Kerry Fulbright told Rodney that his Mom and many of her friends had started attending those mothers' club meetings at Mrs Reilly's. Kerry said they were being pumped with new ideas about discipline for their sons. "New ways of keeping us in line," whispered Kerry. "Physical discipline...spanking...and..."

His voice trailed off.

"...other stuff."

He then heaved his next set of dumbbell presses with 40 pounds in each hand.

Three boys at school reported with fearful, hurt expressions that their mothers had recently punished them- punished them nude. Yeah, that's right, they said, with ALL their clothes stripped from them. For one fella- a gangly boy who wore glasses- it had been the old problem of starched semen on his pyjamas- his pyjamas that were suddenly subject to a maternal inspection. In no time his mother had stripped him right there in his bedroom with its model planes and ice hockey sticks and hauled him over her lap- she, seated on his bed, and very eager to use her palm and a hairbrush. She had never used them before, and he felt sure someone had planted the idea; she seemed ferociously resolved to spank her naked son.

It had been a savage spanking and when it was over he had executed a "spanking dance" rubbing his bottom- even, he admitted, getting half stiff before her gaze. At the end she had kept him naked, forcing him to look over his shoulder at his blazing glutes and thighs in the bedroom mirror and making him promise, as he stood naked before her, to exercise self-restraint. "Just try, son, just try!" with an accusing look at his erection.

For another of Rodney's buddies it had been failure to get home by 10pm. So at 10.35 he- a short fella with snub nose and long eyelashes- had been forced to divest his clothes right there in the living room trembling with embarrassment, carefully piling each layer on the sofa, boxer shorts last, and cower naked for a lecture, with sisters looking on giggling, before he was told to bend over with hands gripping ankles, baring his tail (how he hated that, in front of his sisters!) to be slapped by his tennis-playing mother's ferocious palm while he yelped and danced with pain. He said his sisters' eyes had been fired up. Especially as he was kept in the corner- facing outwards as it happened and, yes, getting a hardon- as they had watched Jack Parr and swiped glances between the TV and his direction. "It's...cute," he heard one of his sisters whisper to the other directing a gaze at his erection which Rodney knew from the showers was short, punchy and neatly circumcised. And the other sister had nodded vigorously, eyes locked on his midriff.

A third boy, a basketball player proud of his abs and biceps was surprised by his Mom while he lay in the bath about to launch a leisurely masturbation among his lewd thoughts and the soap suds. Angrily, she forced him to stand up and display his bottom for an assault with a table tennis paddle. Why? The last bad report? Stashed girlie magazines? Bullying of a female cousin? His offence was never made clear but, given his cousin was on hand to witness his humiliation from the doorway, the last was, in his considered view, the most likely.

"Hell, being wet made it really sting. But shit," he complained to his pals. "It was the first time she'd seen me like that since I was tiny. She saw...everything. Yep, all of it. Kinda hurts ya feelings..."

Rodney thought of his own experience in the fitting booth and hearing the females talk about his erection. It had hurt his feelings for sure.

"...and that cousin keeps grinning. Reckon she saw it all too."

As Rodney was absorbing these shocking case studies rumours began to spread that the school's 18 year olds would perform their school medicals with Dr Speight in a condition of complete clothing deprivation. The rumour had started with the principal's secretary, the stern faced Miss Assam; she hated boys and knew everything that happened at Grover Cleveland High. Boys discussed the forthcoming medicals in hushed tones, gathered in groups in corridors. In its wake another rumour emerged: that senior girls would be recruited to help the examinations, help the doctor. With a clipboard? A stethoscope or thermometer? With rubber gloves? Boys shivered at the possibilities.

After school Stevie Lynton, Mark Campbell and Rodney were walking up Franklin Street, headed to Pop's Soda Fountain when Stevie hit them with a still more sensational revelation.

"You know Mrs Reilly's house? The mansion? With the big garden? Really big? Well, this week she has guys working in it- cutting hedges and pulling weeds and trimming the roses- totally fuckin' nude!"

Rodney and Mark stood stock still. "Whaddd?"

"Yeah! Guys a bit older than us, in trouble with the cops. Sergeant Malone brings them to her, and her maids strip 'em and that's the way they work off their fines. A special deal, between her and the cops. Can you fuckin' believe that? Yeah, every afternoon and she's there checking on them...with her maids...and, of course, the guys get stiff just like we would!"

"Ya gotta be kiddin!"

"No, it's true. And wanna hear something worse? When our mothers meet at her house? Well, after the meeting they get to tour the garden! Even have drinks there...with the nude guys forced to serve them! Our moms! Yours' and mine! Seeing these nude fellas, fellas who drive trucks and work at gas stations in trouble with the cops- including Negro guys! Nude and stiff!"

The boys reeled. Negro guys? Local fellas? Stiff, in front of their Moms? So that's how these ideas were being hatched.

Something was changing, in Brewer.

The school started rehearsing months in advance for the end of year musical. It was the obsession of drama teacher Miss Cuff: a big brassy production called Cowgirls and Indian Braves, a pastiche with athletics, dance, poetry reading. With her sassy glasses and blue stockings it was clear the flamboyant teacher saw herself as a real bohemian. Her big circular earings were a hallmark and she had once been seen out of school smoking a cigarette in an elegant long holder. She may have aspired one day to graduate herself to the world of theatre. To Broadway or off-Broadway. Girls loved her, boys feared her. Something about her made the boys, kinda...shrivel. But all knew it would be part of their school assessment. They had to take her seriously.

So the rehearsals went on, twice a week with the whole cast and some smaller sessions. On one occasion Rodney was required to stand in a a circle of 10 girls sitting on the floor and recite part of The Song of Hiawatha. Of course, being gawky, shy and awkward he felt foolish, standing there facing their whispers and smirks.

His terror was getting an erection, or even a half erection, while standing up in front of them. His penis, with its thick head, could not be concealed if it stiffened and poked forward. It would force a big "tent" in the front of his pants. On this occasion he was spared an involuntary erection but not an unpleasant surprise.

"Miss, when do we get our costumes?" one of the girls asked.

"I'm working on the designs right now," Miss Cuff replied.

"I know what cowgirls wear. But what will the boys look like?" another girl wanted to know.

"Well, what Indian braves always wore. Nicely decorated loin cloths...made out of animal skin."

Rodney reddened and looked at the floor.

There was a thoughtful silence.

"Just that? Nothing else?"

"Just moccasins and head band. And a neat little loin cloth. Like a real young Indian fighter."

They were silent...all looking intently at the poor boy's midriff and...imagining. He kept looking at the floor, his face crimson.

Then a girl asked, thoughtfully, "Will they wear underpants?"

There were some subdued giggles.

Miss Cuff dismissed the notion. "Have you ever see an Indian brave wearing boxer shorts...under his animal skin flaps and his waistband? Don't be ridiculous. Our boys will want to look the real thing. Won't you Rodney?"

He nodded glumly, still looking down because he couldn't look any girls in the eye after this conversation. The rehearsal continued.

Flaps? Just flaps in front and back? Wasn't a loin cloth a kinda...a kinda little apron that might more or less cover a fella's front? But if you just had a flap there, dangling from a waistband, wouldn't those girls see everything? Especially if he was leaping around and dancing on the stage? And if his cock started stretching! Jeepers! Started to lift up, even a little! An apron would be bad enough. A flap would just get shoved aside by his stubborn cock with its swollen head!

Then one day Gloria, an attractive well-developed blond Rodney liked, spoke to him across the aisle. "Hey, Rodney! You seen Miss Cuff's designs for what we're going to be wearing?"

And she pulled out a couple of roneoed pages. There was a sketch of a girl in a cowgirl suit, the skirt with pleats, a bow and lace. She had boots, hat, gloves. And on another page there was an artist's sketch of a male wearing an Indian brave costume: just a string waistband and a narrow flap- a real narrow flap- hanging in front, no more than a few inches wide and very short. Tiny! Incapable of providing any modesty. But worse! The sketch, like some prim, old fashioned medical text, showed a curved, undefined object hanging below the flap. It might have been the bottom of a scrotum. Or the tip of a fat penis. Either way it was revealed between his legs.

Then there was a sketch showing the rear view. It showed an even shorter flap. It left on view the curve of the bottom and the lower part of the crack. Yes, totally revealed! Hell, thought Rodney, it reveals the crack! Reveals the crack- for girls and female teachers to look at and laugh at! And the artist, probably Miss Cuff, had used cross-hatching to indicate the curve of the glutes. Shit! It got worse! Look between the legs...between the slightly parted thighs there was a curved, shilouetted object- it could only be one thing, position considered, a rear view of the boy's testicle sack!

Why did she have to put in these details- so unnecessary and, distributed to the girls and mothers, so humiliating to the boys?

He reddened and his eyes watered with anxiety.

No wonder Gloria was grinning.

"Nice, hey? Let's see, it gives measurements here. That thing in front...that flap...it's two to three inches wide...wow! Small, heh? And it says, four to six inches long. But...this is interesting...it says, the fitting process will enable adjustments depending on 'a boy's personal characteristics.' That's a funny phrase..."

She paused and looked into his eyes.

"I wonder what Miss Cuff means by that? Personal characteristics?"

She looked at Rodney for a reaction.

"Do you think they will make your flaps bigger?"

He blushed and swallowed.

"Or smaller?"

Her look made him feel nude already.

"Gee! Either way we expect to be seeing a lot more of you!"

And she chuckled, looking him right in the eye. Rodney got the sense that she relished making him turn red.

"Hey, don't blush," she said. "Your boys get so...modest!"

He shrivelled.

That afternoon in the privacy of his bedroom he stripped and took a ruler and pressed it to his privates. He blanched. The proposed measurement would afford him no protection worthy of the name. Every other boy in the class- for word of the drawing with its measurement had spread fast- was doing the same. And, like Rodney, sinking into despair- and immediately jacking off with fast and furious motions, sending spunk dancing in the air, the only relief from the terror of the impending public humiliation. Under their covers Rodney and each of his classmates repeated panicky masturbation throughout the night, soiling sheets and staining pyjamas.

At the next rehearsal Miss Cuff handed out appointment slips for visits to the town's dressmaker and costume designer, Mrs Carruthers. That was why Rodney found himself walking gloomily up Elm Street after school, to a two floor whiteboard home with a neat garden. A sign read: Mrs Una Carruthers- Sewing Dress Design Theatrical Costumes.

As he approached the porch he noticed a big gathering of females in one of the front rooms. Closer, he saw that they were girls from his class- this made his tummy turn over- helping one another try on their costumes. A middle aged lady- he guessed Mrs Carruthers- was kneeling with pins between her lips, adjusting Janice Gooley's pleats.

He knocked. A couple of girls flattened their faces at the glass. One of them squealed. "Oh, my God! It's Rodney Ricketson...here for his fitting!" He heard laughter.

Mrs Carruthers opened the door. She thanked him for being on time unlike some of the other boys who had come for fittings. She explained she had to finish the girls' dresses but "Yuela" would tend to him and led him down the corridor.

As he slouched past Rodney carefully avoided glancing into the front room. He had butterflies raging in his tummy. How do you take measurements for...a string waistband and an animal skin flap? Would he have to...undress? All the way? Anything, he guessed, was possible if Miss Cuff had laid down the requirements. Miss Cuff was unsympathetic to males, he had decided. How else could she had come up with that shocking design that had so tittilated Gloria? So terrified him.

Yuela was Miss Carruthers' Negro maid, broad bosomed in a black dress. A black dress- a maid's dress- with a stiff starched white apron. It looked as stiff as cardboard. She was perhaps in her early 20s. She had rather thick lips and dark darting eyes. "I'll leave you with Yuela for your measurements and be back to help with your fitting," said Mrs Carruthers.

The boy and the maid were in the sewing room, a wide room with sewing-related clutter everywhere. There was indeed a big window, curtains wide open, looking out on the side porch. A wooden stool stood in the centre of the room and there were two tables, with sewing machines and material and patterns all over. There were tape measures, he noticed with apprehension. There was a full length mirror in a mahogany frame.

"Alright..." said Yuela.

Rodney noticed her eyes seemed to be dancing. She seemed excited.

"Mrs Carruthers needs yo' to take down all your clothes..."

Those words: "Take down all your clothes." There was something Appalachian about the expression.

Rodney thought of hillbilly boys being stripped in pine forests or swamps, by cunning freckle-faced girls, something out of Li'l Abner.

The boy went weak at his knees. His stomach was turning over. His eyes were drowning in fear. Totally naked...in front of a Negro maid! And later Mrs Carruthers! With girls lurking in the house eager to glimpse him! No! No! No! He...would...not...strip...off!

Then he thought of Miss Cuff. The teacher was terrifying. He thought of his mother and how she would react if she heard he had revolted. And the refined punishments she was capable of concocting- with his sister and cousin. God, that day in the changing booth showed what she was capable of. There was the hovering threat of being forced into those posing straps from Logan's. Or that tiny swim suit, and made to model for them.

He stuttered out a request.

"Can you..."

His plea hung in the air.

Yuela smiled. They always had one request, she thought. Could they keep their underpants on? Could she please close the curtains? Could she turn her back, go out of the room? One desperate 18 year old had begged, close to tears, for a screen! And the answer- she had been coached by her mistress- was always the same. She was to look the frightened male right in the eye and, with a hint of a smile...slowly shake her head. As slow as she could manage, and the little smile was important as she did it.

"Can you...close the door?" he squeaked.

This time she took pity- he was a nice nervous boy- and she liked the idea of being alone with him...alone with him naked. Outta all his clothes. She swung around and closed the door.

"I'll take your clothes," she said, standing right in front of him. So close he could smell her soap. And...something else. An intimate smell. A woman's smell.

With quaking fingers he picked at his buttons. Half way down his shirt front began to part. He stole a glance- and saw to his terror Yuela was staring at his exposed white flesh. She seemed deeply interested. He slowly hauled his shirt tails out.

His heart was thumping. His legs shook and his knees knocked together. His insides turned to water. He felt terrified, and strangely, deeply warm all around the lining of his stomach. It was a funny feeling. It was horrible...and oddly thrilling at the same time.

He peeled off his shirt. She reached out and he gave it to her. He was now half nude. This strange woman could feast her eyes on his naked torso, his pink stick-out nipples, the fuse of red hair running from his belly button into his pants.

"Shoes and socks."

He struggled with his left foot and fell back on the stool. Struggled again and drew off a shoe and sock. The air filled with smell of warm leather and wool as he exposed big boney feet.

He rose again. He sneaked a look from under his downcast brows. She caught his eye. He read her look. It was a command. She did not have to utter a word. It was- for any boy- the most frightening order in the language.

Her look said one thing: take...down...your...trousers.

He unbuckled the belt and unbuttoned the trousers, blushing even redder. He loosened the waist and the trousers started to sag. Soon, he thought, she would be examining me naked as the day that I was born, bare as a board, stripped to the buff. She would stand there just looking me over. The shame curdled in his tummy and the trousers slithered down his legs.

He stepped out and handed them over.

He stood in his worn, frayed boxers.

Again her glance told him what to do next.

But Rodney, head down, had frozen.

Her voice was just above a whisper.

She now pronounced the order. He looked at her, grimacing, on the point of bawling like a child. This desperate look was his final plea.

"Down," she repeated softly.

He could not face her. He swung his body, turning his back to her at a three quarter angle, facing the big windows. He bent slowly. He eased his shorts down his thighs and over his knees. In doing so he shamefully exposed his bottom, his deeply cleft bottom, like a youngster shyly undressing for a bath under the watchful gaze of a governess or nurse. His bottom was now on display looking very vulnerable but at least he had kept his front averted.

Without looking he stuck his arm back and handed the pants over.

"Thank you. Now wait and I'm gonna be right back..."

She paused, cruelly.

"...to...measure you up."

She let it sink in, sounded like she was grinning.

She left. With the shameful bundle of his clothes. Leaving him standing there. In the buff.

The afternoon sunlight poured in the window from the porch. A car purred up Elm Street. The conversation between Mrs Carruthers and the girls drifted from the front room. Apart from this, silence reigned.

Rodney's thoughts stirred.

He found himself thinking of Yuela's maid's apron: white against her black uniform, stiff with starch, looking hard as cardboard. Thoughts of the apron were getting him...aroused.