Rodney's Nude Humiliation

America in 1956 seemed besotted with Peyton Place and the Kinsey Report and the boom in nudist colonies and the theories of Dr Freud. But schoolgirls in the Minnesota city of Brewer were homing in on their own sweet goal: seeing their male classmates stripped to the buff. Their male classmates nude. In their birthday suits.

And more than that, nude- and humiliated. Shamed to the core.

The boys blushing, stammering, shuffling in their shame. Naked as jays, with females looking on, gasping and giggling.

It was a wicked passion of the girls at Grover Cleveland High.

It had been ignited by drama teacher Miss Cuff's musical on cowgirls and Indian braves which the boys were now rehearsing under her gimlet gaze. They were nude apart from those short, narrow flaps attached to elastic bands around their waists, what English teacher Ada Braithwaite referred to as their "teensy weensy loin cloths."

At rehearsal, as they cavorted and pranced and padded around the auditorium, those petite flaps swung sideways and revealed everything. Front and back. Oh, it was embarrassing! Even when the flaps were in place their pubic bush was fully revealed, and that alone was terrible. But their gluteal creases were also on display- those hillocks where upper thighs met buttocks. And also the lower part of their intergluteal clefts- their very cracks- they too were quite uncovered. They were very, very embarrassed 18 year olds.

And that was just the start. Miss Cuff had only to make them stop, stand in line and sing...and it was hilarious! Their 18 year old pricks began, one after the other, reliable as clockwork, to stiffen and stand up, shoving the flaps to one side. This produced gasps and giggles from the females. This was a delicious moment for the teacher, for her lady colleagues and for the privileged girls who had won the right to be present- often by begging to see how a brother was coping. "Oh please, Miss, I want to be able to tell Mom what he looks like!" A girl's presence invariably made boys turn sick when, emerging shyly, they caught her blazing, greedy stares. Oh no, not her! A sister, a sister's friend, the ugly girl up the street!

Teachers beamed, the girl blushed and giggled, the boys reddened close to tears.

Meanwhile Miss Cuff had decreed that the boys looked ridiculous with tan lines, white from waist to mid-thigh, as a result of wearing swim trunks when swimming at the lake or doing the gardening with shirts off. She told them to spend time in their gardens in their Indian gear, getting "a natural all over tan...even without any gear at all." She added this last phrase guardedly, knowing the electric effect it would have. She cunningly included it in her note to mothers. She wrote:

"If boys in this performance present themselves with perfect, deep tans I think we can achieve a verisimilitude to be envied by any other school productions. So I suggest your son spend time in the garden unembumbered by clothing, as if he were swimming at the YMCA or a school swim class, only this time outside soaking up the beneficial rays. I trust you can take relevant steps to protect his modesty but stress nonetheless the need for the all-over tan. If a female neighbour or relative sees things she would not normally, then all I can say is: you cannot make an omelette without breaking eggs. Remember, your son has got to look the part, a Red Indian brave."

Rodney's mother was quick to move. Her interest in her son's participation in Miss Cuff's frolic was cloyingly eager. She decreed that the following afternoon, after school, he switch into his Indian gear, and get out in the sun, and she told him to bring friends home to take advantage of their sprawling backyard. It was certainly big- with its near-derelict outdoor laundry, their old oak tree, the half-hearted attempt at vegetable plantings, the wood shed where Rodney's late father had paddled him and the half-rotted away paling fence that sheltered them from the lane. Beyond the lane, the bakery and car repair of inner city Brewer.

"You and your friends can be playful young Injuns there, soaking up the sun, and nobody will notice," said his mother, making Rodney shrivel.

So here he was the next afternoon with Stevie Lynton and Mark Sullivan stripped down to their cute little flaps and bare feet, tip-toeing through Rodney's house into the back garden. Truth was, his friends had been relieved to join him and strip down at his house. His was the biggest backyard with all those nooks and crannies to shelter in if a female appeared. Besides, as far as Stevie was concerned, being glimpsed by another boy's sister and mother may have been a little bit exciting.

Stevie was a short, hairy nervous little fella, with frightened darting eyes. He featured a truncated, narrow prick. The boy was a side-kick of Rodney's, and similarly aroused by the notion of dressed females looking at males without a stitch.

In fact most Saturday afternoons Stevie was now being made to strip by his two older sisters and their maid, while his mother was out at bridge. Strip and parade and pose and slip on the girls' underwear and, finally, sit spread-legged on the floral sofa- yes, thighs spread wide- and have the girls flash him folded pages of the Scandinavian nudist magazines that the maid had found in his cupboard. The females would watch with grins as their brother became more and more agitated at the black and white pics of boys his age naked with big-busted older women or cheeky confident girls, especially boys with small members like Stevie's...and he would become more and more excited...even start to breath hard, pant a little...till he could not resist pleasuring himself...fingers of his right hand busy at work on his little member...quite the little monkey in the throes of passion...with the females looking on grinning, laughing...and his fingers would work faster at his small, rampant penis...and with some even faster, more urgent, monkey-like rubs he would explode...trails and gobbets of white fluid shooting skyward and falling to spatter all over his tummy and chest, even dangling from his chin.

The three females would fall about, he would slump shamed.

Stevie was coming to dread those Saturday afternoon sessions. Dread them, and long for them. But what a bonus, thought Stevie, to have other sets of female eyes humiliate and shame him. Laughing when they saw his miniscule cock or thick body hair. He shivered all over. Hell, even walking through a strange house, out of Rodney's bedroom and down the hall, in this near-naked state, he was dreaming of being looked at, and laughed at, by females.

As a result Stevie's little penis was at attention, thrusting his flap forward. And that was just the moment when Rodney's mother walked right into them at the back door. My son and his buddies, she thought. Here to get sun tans...in their sweet little loin cloths the ladies have forced them to dress up in! Almost totally naked! Delicious, she thought, just delicious.

"Goodness, what have we here? Three Indian braves...stripped for battle, too!"

Her eyes narrowed as she looked them over.

And she noticed the thust in Stevie's groin, flap sticking out at her.

She would now have fun, she resolved, at their expense.

"Goodness, Stevie, you do seem to be looking forward to the sun!" She made her voice sound June Alyson-sweet. Her tone made him go weak in his tummy.

The boy blushed fire-engine red.

And his insides melted.

Mrs Ricketson is looking at my erection, he thought, seeing me stiff.

She switched her eyes to Mark Sullivan, the school swimming champ, his long, agile physique on display with his burst of glistening black pubic bush flaring above the string. Rodney's mother let her gaze linger on it. The boy saw where her eyes were trained. He blushed and wilted. Then she looked lower. She saw two pigeon eggs in the roomy scrotum dangling below the frontal flap. And she could see a mushroomy penis head, foreskin retracted, below the flap.

His stomach turned, at the notion of the lady's eyes roaming over what was revealed of his cock and balls and pubic hair.

"And Mark, you're not leaving much to the imagination!"

The big athlete looked away, burning red.

She drew on another observation, designed to make the boy shrivel up.

"You're just like the photos," she said, and paused to let it sink in.

Those photos!

"You know, the ones your Mom showed me, of the last swim event?"

Mark clenched his eyes and groaned.

Those photos! The photos his Mom had snapped when he was naked at the swim meet in front of all the town's moms and the aunts and neighbours. Him, standing in his birthday suit. Him, half erect, then with a full-blown boner. Snap. Snap. Snap.

Photos- installed in a family album.

And his damn Mom has shown them to Mrs Ricketson.

"Well, out you go. Two hours of sun left."

She smiled indulgently, standing in the doorway holding open the fly-screen door to let them file past.

As Stevie squeezed by the flap fell to one side, off his stubborn little erection. Mrs Ricketson looked down on his small, hard, circumcised member now exposed. It had a glistening drop of clear fluid on its lips. She smiled broadly. Stevie caught her glance as he passed and struggled to position the flap back in place. He felt a flush through his tummy as he met her mocking and alert eyes: he felt raw shame and a weird thrill.o

Then as Mark manoeuvred out the door his flap moved sideways and, for an instant, she caught sight of a broad, white salami, hanging long but non-aroused. Then the flap fell back into place...but he knew she had glimpsed...everything. The boy gulped, eyes lowered. As he squeezed past his flanks grazed her dress.

"Loved those photos..."

She spoke in a half breath. He turned away, wanting to die.

Then her son squeezed past her, folds of scrotum on either side of the narrow flap, one ball sagging below it. And the glans, too, was visible, foreskin rolled back to reveal its fat, spongy glory. And curly red pubic hair was sticking out above the flap like a special badge of shame.

He saw his mother's eyes widen, a faint smile on her lips, as she took it all in.

As they trooped into the outdoors she stood studying their exposed buttocks with the back flaps- so short, so inadequate- swinging left and right as they walked the path past the old laundry and beyond. They were raising their legs high, hoofing it like colts, as they trod on the spiky grass. How vulnerable, she thought. And how touching that when we order them out of their clothes they obediently strip down for us, get totally naked, even with sisters looking on, with teachers, with female neighbours. How sweet that they are accepting our authority- that of Miss Cuff, of Mrs Carruthers and her maid, of mothers like me.

It must chill them, she thought, to have us see their genitals- these bashful 18 year olds, virginal boys who sing in the church, play wholesome sport, hold females in esteem. Even romanticise their female teaches, like her own son with his ridiculous crush on Miss Braithwaite, his English teacher. They never dream that we females, too, have lurid thoughts, fantasies, desires.

She looked at their rears as they walked into the deep backyard. Delicious, those cracks on display! How beautiful, the male bottom. What did Mrs Reilly call it? Yes, the "intergluteal cleft." That of Mark seemed especially deep. Stevie's sharp little bottom was dusted with black hair. Her son's was taut, clenching and unclenching as he walked.

They know I'm watching, she thought, their stark naked posteriors on display. Goodness, they must be embarrassed. How sweet that we've reduced them to this state, accepting this total humiliation. Even, when ordered, obediently offering those same bottoms up for spankings. But going naked was the way sons should be treated, doing penance for their fathers' sins, learning humility.

This was how so many of the mothers of Brewer were doing things these days. Stimulated by the nudity of Miss Cuff's show many households were making enforced nudity more and more the rule and 18 year old males were discovering who was in charge. And sweetly obeying.

The boom in nude punishment for young males was what the three fellas were talking about, standing in the sun between the old laundry and the paling fence, out of sight of the kitchen window and back porch and Rodney's Mom.

Stevie told them how he'd been caught by their maid, "you know..." And here he made the universal jerking-off gesture. The others groaned. It was every boy's fear, this business of getting sprung, with mothers and sisters. He said that ever since that embarrassment he had been made to peel off all his clothes for the maid and his sisters. If he didn't they'd report him to his mother for masturbating in their lounge room and report the secret stash of nudist magazines he kept in the bottom of the cupboard beneath old issues of Popular Mechanics.

He answered his friends' eager questions, about being made to strip off slowly in front of the maid and his sisters and hand over items of clothing until he was stark naked and they cooed "ooh" and "ahh" and made him walk round the house and forced him to wear an apron or ladies' underwear for their amusement. About a game where he was a patient and lay on his bed and had them inspect him, them playing at being nurses and a female doctor. Spanking games where he went over their laps and they competed to give his bottom a rosy glow and make him howl and beg them to stop.

About having to sit spread-legged on the floral sofa in the wainscoted living room with its porcelain lamps and flowers while they flashed his dirty magazines at him- all the pages with turned-down corners and got him excited...

Here Stevie noticed that both Rodney and Mark were swelling under their flaps. No, Rodney's penis had just shoved his flap aside and stuck forward parallel to the ground. Fluid was bubbling out the slit.

Then Mark told his horror story. It had started with the last big swim day at school to which the coach had invited every competing boy's Mom. Aunt, Grandmoms too.

"What? And...you swam nude?"

"In front of them?"

"Yeah, that's what the fucking bastard ordered- we swim as normal, he said, you know the rule, 'Boys will swim unembumbered by swimming costumes at all times.' At least there were no girls, it being school hours. But..."

On the day the competing boys had showered and been marshalled in their change room by Coach Compton. A body builder and, they thought, a secret nudist, he presented his own powerful physique naked whenever possible, seemed to relish it. Under his flattened peroxide blond hair his body was shaven, his groin and armpits bare, freakishly so. Suntanned all over, even "down there" and on his ass.

Boys were nervous about his invitations to work out with him in the basement gym in his Elm Street home, one boy at a time, where he always insisted he and his student dress only in "posing straps." Only Buddy Holland returned for subsequent visits. Even he said it was embarrassing when the Coach's old Mom interrupted their workouts with a tray of milk or a body builder's snack of grilled liver.

Right now Coach told them they were not to be ashamed of their bodies but to emulate the athletes of Ancient Greece who competed naked in front of their mothers. He said that their mothers had brought them into the world naked. They've seen you in "the nudie" a thousand times.

"Nothing you've got hanging down there they haven't inspected and scrubbed and powdered."

The coach, who standing there nude himself, was going to be there in front of the ladies in the same condition. His small tapered, uncut penis had begun to stretch.

One boy grumbled that their bodies had changed since then. Another boy lamented that mothers were one thing but his had brought the next door neighbour who was "an old bitch." Another boy growled that his mother had brought his aunt. Mark was in that position precisely- his Mom had recruited Mrs Harris from up the street and his Aunt Julie who had come to town from St Paul just for this- but he stayed locked in resentful silence.

In any case the coach rejected all complaints, organised them in two queues and gave them the order to start walking in two lines out into the pool area, with its bleachers full of mature age females. The ladies' excited talking filled the air, had grown more raucous as the wait went on. It filled each boy with terror.

Mark had been placed by the coach in the very front of the line of boys to walk down the left side of the pool, as if the coach relished having ladies view the boy's broad, white bratwurst with its puckering foreskin and balls dragging low.

Mark took a deep breath and, on Coach's instruction, stepped out into the chlorine-scented interior with the shimmering green water of the pool, the subaqueous light, the crowded bleachers.

Row after row of mature age ladies stopped talking.

Nothing prepared Mark for those stares and "ohhhhh"s. The ladies started nudging one another, whispering and pointing at the boys as the two lines, one on each side of the pool, walked past. Then one ancient gray-haired Grandmom loudly opined, "Mother of God, all these boys are bare as boards!" And set off waves of laughter as ladies echoed her old fashioned, "bare as boards!" It just made boys go weak at the knees, reminding them of the exposed state.

Every family group was equipped with a camera and there was constant flashing, like at a fashion parade or Academy Awards. Seeing their sons, Moms would wave and call out their names. The boys would look around teary eyed with shame. Or just stare terrified straight ahead and pretend they didn't hear.

Terrified of meeting the eyes of his own Mom, Aunt Julie and neighbour Mrs Harris, Mark focused straight at the end of the pool.

And he walked, naked as the day that he was born. Without a stitch. He had never felt such humiliation, he told Stevie and Rodney, the three boys standing there in the sheltered backyard, in their Indian gear, the sun gently tanning their exposed flesh.

He told them that as he walked he felt his penis swinging sideways like the long pendulum in the waist of a grandfather clock. He was self conscious about being an uncut oddity. These staring excited women would be curious about his twisted, puckering foreskin, about him not having a streamlined helmet head like the other nude sons. He felt their stares. He was also very, very scared about getting stiff. In fact, felt a slight swelling.

When they got to the end Coach briskly had eight of them ascend the blocks. Right up, in view of everyone. Go on, fellas, get moving. And hands at your sides, please! He ordered another eight to wait their turn, behind them, hands at their backs, legs spread. Yes, men, behind your backs! And the rest he ordered to go and sit in the front rows of the bleachers.

In other words to walk right up to the glaring ladies, find seats in front of them and plant their nude bottoms in them. This was gonna be terrible, Mark knew it.

But it quickly got worse.

He and his friends shuffled across to the women. They let their hands kinda hover in front but knew they were not hiding much. Just managing to look goofy and bashful. Then he noticed his Mom and Aunt Julie and Mrs Harris waving from their seats four rows back, big smiles on their faces, pointing to a vacant seat next to Mrs Harris and calling, "Up here, Mark!" and "Come back here, son!" and "Sit with your fans!"

What? "Sit with your fans!" Gotta be kidding!

Mark shook his head and gestured to the front row seat he was about to take, next to his blushing friends and knew that by using his right arm to gesture he had exposed one half of his dangling genitals. He blushed more deeply and was about to take his front row seat...