Rodney's Nude Humiliation

(Last chapter got a very enthusiastic response from readers. That encouraged me. So here, faster than you may have expected, is the next one. The Rodney series now boasts more characters than War and Peace. CFNM erotica emerges as literature and this series is beginning to be studied and taught in universities. I'm sure you will enjoy it. I think it sizzles. In preparation you might reread Rodney series Chapter 12, about Stevie naked at Mrs Lanbourne's. All characters are over 18).

Jimmy Fraser offers himself to Mrs Lanbourne.

Since that day at Mrs Lanbourne's poor Jimmy Fraser could think of nothing else. The boy was tall, gaunt, with the most elaborate Elvis haircut in Grover Cleveland High. He played basketball and worked out with his buddies at the lake, and swam in the Y pool.

But...did it really happen? It was like a dream. Did he really spend an afternoon with Stevie Lynton stark naked at this lady's gracious home, with its Chinoiserie vases and fresh flowers, its rich rugs and the Persian cat Hermes? With a circle of girls from schools outside Brewer who had visited to check out all the stories they had heard about nude male punishments? Sitting there, with Steve, both fellas totally nude, eating cake and drinking tea, totally stripped at the lady's command?

The answer was yes, Jimmy had done just that.

And, more, he had not been the same since.

Normal stuff with girls no longer appealed to him. Not pert breasts, back seat bingo, sock hops or soda counters, him being in charge.

No way. All he could think of was Mrs Lanbourne, her gracious wise eyes, her lustrous complexion, her elegant nose, the whiff of perfumes and creams and expensive soaps. He wanted to be at her command, as he had been that afternoon. Her in charge.

Her spacious home with walnut furniture, Bakers fern and white roses in Chinoiserie vases, silver and chandeliers, was so unlike anything he had ever seen. Jimmy's dad was a driver for Black Eye Meats, his mother sat watching daytime quiz shows eating doughnuts, her hair in curlers. They lived on the edge of town, there were car bodies in their yard.

That he might become Mrs Lanbourne's boy was now Jimmy's obsession. Kept nude by her. Doing housework with a frilly apron and nothing else. Being shown nudist magazines, as she did with Stevie getting him pathetically excited at pics of 18 year olds surrounded by melon breasted older women with tangles of pubic hair. Being forced to appear naked when she had parties of school girls or older female friends, showing off his fat cock and balls. His hairy chest and abs, his abundance of hair in his groin, on his balls. Being forced to display his body to them.

Being shamed.

That afternoon!

The girls had sat there in their tartan skirts or floral dresses, so demure and polite. Some Doris Day lookalikes, others pudgy with hands like bakers' rolls. Others gaunt, with freckles and plaited hair.

From the start of the visit their eyes had sneaked looks- some shy, some sly- at his lap, with its cock and its hallmark dorsal artery on the stem and popping veins, its snout emerging from ruffled skin and then retracting again like a curious pet. They couldn't escape his lounging scrotum with the two avocado pears inside. And all that hair- a pelt of long back fur over his chest and abs so thick that the nipples could barely be seen and his bellybutton not at all.

Oh, they had started sneaking looks. Then became bolder, letting their eyes linger longer- satisfying their curiosity about his foreskin or scrotum. Finally, they just stared...and stared...and stared.

The girls also felt tingling when he talked, that rumbling baritone voice that thrilled females when he sung in school concerts. Its bass notes made their tummies go all fluttery. And that gigantic Adams apple jerking around.

There were very sodden panties.

Then Mrs Lanbourne had invited him and Stevie to stand and show off their "male characteristics"- foreskin in his case (little brown circumcision band in Stevie's) their glans- his plushy, Stevie's petite- their frenulums, penile undersides, ballsacs, perineums (bending over) and the next step had been the jiggle juggle game with a spatula and wooden ruler which sometimes had the boys dancing on the spot, going "Oh...ugh...ouch!" and been so funny for the girls and even made the lovely lady smile to herself.

Later Milly Slink had been allowed to take him to the bathroom and shave him with a Phillips razor which prickled him all over especially in his armpits and intergluteal cleft.

But he was sure Mrs Lanbourne would let him grow his body hair again, fleecier than before. And make a feature of it when she showed him off, or sat with him alone, playing with his cock or bathed him in her scented bathroom.

Dreaming of her, and what she might do with him, drove him to jerk off five times a day. Even to dash from English class to a cubicle in the boys' toilet to work up a fantasy about her taking him nude over her knee as Stevie had said she did with him, and spanking his sit spot till he felt a powerful buzz right around his balls and bottom hole, which Stevie said meant you never wanted her to stop, with her also bouncing him with her knee...so good, you wanted it to continue for ever and those "atta boy" slaps that kept you sticking your bottom in the air for more until...

Until? Stevie never spelt it out. He didn't have to.

And when it was over he would half laugh, half cry with her and her lady friends ruffling his hair or patting his red bottom, and teasing him about how sensitive his testicles were.

It was all Jimmy could think about, day and night. It forced him to go to the toilets in the Y change room in the middle of PE and jack off in a stall, dreaming of her attentions and loving punishments and sweet humiliations. To be her submissive boy, was all he wanted, displacing Stevie.

Until one afternoon, home alone after basketball practice, he took the deepest breath he'd ever taken and dialed the number "Brewer 659" and with his tummy churning and his famous baritone quaking said, "Mrs Lanbourne, it's Jimmy Fraser. Good afternoon, ma'm. I'm ringing to...to...to...thank you for having me the other day and I'm hoping very much..."

He had written down this speech and was reading from his exercise book.

"...that I may call by this afternoon and present you with a bunch of flowers..."

He froze.

Then finished.

"...by way of sincere appreciation. Thank you ma'm."

In five minutes- oiled hair combed into place and his dad's Old Spice splashed on his neck- he was pedalling his Schwinn bike to Mrs Lanbourne's home in Harrison Street where he dismounted in a jumble and was ringing her front door bell and, stomach on fire, as she drew open the door, looking into her deep brown eyes- so knowing, so caring- and accepting her invitation to enter and take tea, and also a slice of apple crumble, and they had the home to themselves- her women friends in the committee of Soroptimist International just departed.

Neither he nor she noticed that the promised flowers had not materialised.

She was saying, "This is Hermes, my Persian cat..."

The cat looked at him warily. Recalling his ample cock? His hairy torso?

"...remember, from your last visit?"

Her mention of that occasion made him redden. She had seen every inch of him. The artery down his cock. The hair in his crack. He shivered at the thought.

But she just ignored his sweet, shy blushes and said, "So many of my friends deplore modern teenagers but not me. I love your fashions. Look at you..."

He blushed again.

"Your Elvis hair. So black...so shiny..."

He blushed deeper.

"...so beautifully shaped. You must tell me your hairdresser."

He lapsed into a goofy, boyish pose, eyes cast downwards, a slight embarrassed shuffle.

"Lovely casual clothing. Your shirt with the buttoned pockets in front. Sleeves rolled up to show off your upper arms- such biceps! My! White T shirt underneath, visible at the neck. Jeans- but pressed to be so crisp, drawn tight across your midriff. Your loafers..."

Which made his nervousness fall away, and liberated him to gush his deepest desires.

"Mrs Lanbourne...last time I was here? With those girls?"

"Yes, Jimmy?"

"It...was so..."

"Yes?"

"I mean...not them...but you..."

"Yes, you enjoyed it. I could tell."

He was perplexed. How could she tell he had...loved it? He had been so shy about it, being naked and all that.

He continued, his baritone cracking, his Adam's apple aflutter.

"I loved it...."

Now he had to press on.

"...all of it. Like, not having any clothes...in front of them...but...mostly...you. Nude...with you. It made me go shivery...feel...funny. And..."

He was determined to get it all out. He spoke fast now.

"...and the things you made me do...making me obey...oh, yes Mrs Lanbourne...oh, yes...I loved obeying you...and the game...even when it hurt...hurt my testicles..."

He chose the genteel word. She smiled, at the boy being a young gentleman to please her.

"...and Stevie told me about the things you do with him and I wonder if..."

Nothing here appeared to upset her.

"...he told me...about...spanking...over your knee..."

He blurted it out.

"So you would like me to spank you, Jimmy?"

He trembled all over, like a fever victim.

"Oh, yes...yes...yes, Mrs Lanbourne. Oh please..."

The pores of her beautiful skin oozed sympathy for his male plight, his adolescent yearning. His yearning for a mother...a wise older lady...who loved him, faults and all. And would give him spankings, over her knee. But full of affection.

"Can we do it? I mean, I dream about..."

He came to a halt.

Her lustrous skin assumed the slightest flush, her eyes filmed with a hint of...some feeling hard to identify.

"I always punished Stevie naked. Entirely naked. That nudity is a symbol of the male's submission, you know that don't you?"

"Oh yes, Mrs Lanbourne. That's how I want to do it!"

"Do you want me to unbutton you, Jimmy?"

"Mrs Lanbourne, I...will...do...anything..."

She thought of his lean physique, like a young Indian warrior. The weaponry in his groin. The body hair, which surely must be allowed to grow back, thicker than before.

"No limits, Jimmy?"

Her question, as she asked it, may even have shocked her.

But not as much as his prompt reply.

"No limits, Mrs Lanbourne."

"You're my boy, Jimmy."

She reached for the top button on his short sleeved shirt.

Mrs Reilly and her Cupids

Mrs Reilly's Victorian-era house was considered the finest in Brewer: made of Kasota, the premier building stone of Minnesota, it featured colonial revival lines with an off-centre tower and Tudor arches. In her vast mansion, set in verdurous gardens where young men in trouble with the police worked off their offences, Mrs Reilly had often stood, cigarette holder between lips, glass of Scotch in hand, admiring her over-the-fireplace painting of Venus. Venus, the goddess of love, with Cupid drawn across her knees, exquisite bottom on display. It was an adolescent Cupid, 18 at least, with a dainty uncut cylinder lolling in his hairless groin. His bottom cheeks about to be smitten.

The lady of the manor saw herself as Venus, her rule here dedicated to cultivation of Eros and his values. Venus in charge.

And now she had recruited her cupids.

Today they were all on duty.

How? How had she managed to recruit these slender boys to go nude in her corridors, pert bottoms inviting her attention, neat little cocks swinging daintily?

She had made her list after the small penis humiliation party and had her agents approach the boys one by one.

With blond crew cut Timmy Townsend it was the promise that he would be paired with the Negro boy Samson who drove Mrs Reilly's car. Sleepovers and nude swims in back garden pools would surely follow, the black boy and his cute little white boy admirer, Timmy's fantasy. Timmy was in love with Samson and agreed at once.

With Carl Harlson, broad shouldered, tow-haired young Viking, it was the threat that he would be delivered to former navy nurse Mrs Claverback for a medical examination, at the order of Dr Speight. That is, if he didn't do service at Mrs Reilly's. When he still demurred it was the threat that Mrs Guelf's photos might be more broadly circulated. He surrendered.

With little Stevie Lynton, now shaved of his preposterous black body hair, it was the guarantee that each visit would have him sneered at by girls or condescended to by mothers, on account of his pint sized penis. Yes, guaranteed humiliation. This sent his tummy tingling and his cock rising. Please, could he work for Mrs Reilly?

The school had three boys who resembled Carlton Carpenter, the funny Hollywood star and former vaudevillian who sang Abba Dabba Honeymoon for MGM. The three were each beanpole thin, basketball devotees. Also goofy cute. But each was shamed, by cocks that ran to a mere three inches.

Suffering this humiliation, were the tallest boy in school Eddy Barrett, a boy called Davey and Gilles Sutherland.

Each with a three inch secret mocking his tall athletic physique.

Eddie was the first to be recruited, suborned by Dr Speight saying if he served on demand at Mrs Reilly's he would not suffer a medical exam with girls from his class, and even his sister, serving the doctor as trainer nurses. Bingo! Done deal! He was in!

Davey was told his end of year exams would be guaranteed. That solved college admission. Humiliating nudity was the price. Easy. He would learn to enjoy it. The first time would be the hardest, he reasoned. Then, women and girls having seen your secret, it wouldn't matter.

And, most cunning of all was the recruitment of Gilles who was told he would be paired for assignments at Mrs Reilly's with...Rodney Ricketson. With Rodney, his pin-up? You bet. His maths teacher Miss Drinkwater had noticed his rapt attention when Rodney had stood nude before the class, a dreamy gleam in his eyes focused on Rodney, giving away his secret longings. She had reported her suspicions.

The offer of working by Rodney's side in the Reilly estate was a dream come true for Gilles. Both of them, Gilles thought, in their birthday suits.

Alwyn Goodwin had been examined by Dr Speight who reported that his penis now exceeded four inches due to a growth spurt and, told this, Mrs Reilly had firmly ruled out a Cupid role.

She wanted to be served by dainty-dicked, pert bottomed Cupids.

She wanted to sight their sweet glutes in her corridors, on her staircase, in her garden, little cocks swinging in their groins.

She wanted to see them buff naked tripping across her living rooms with arms of fresh flowers, hauling around a vacuum cleaner to tend her rugs, idling on her front steps waiting to greet visitors. She wanted them running her baths, prancing around on household errands for her Negro maids, serving cocktails.

Always totally nude, of course.

She wanted to administer sweet spankings to their precious bottoms, like the Venus in her living room painting. Mother and son affairs, for fellas who never got that attention to their bottom cheeks at home. But who longed for it.

While muscle men worked in her verdurous garden- with floppy thick appendages between their thighs- she wanted, in her house, boys of a different character. There in her fragrant interiors she wanted 18 year olds who were cherubs, munchkins, striplings.

Right now one of the 18 year old boychicks, Gilles, was secretly leading Rodney up the great staircase, with its polished wood carved rails and stain glass window, into the gloomy reaches of the upper floors. Rodney had been doing time in the garden, ordered there by his mom who valued her invitations to social events at the mansion. He was, of course, naked as a jay.

Gilles, on duty in his Cupid role, and naked too, was charged with ordering Mrs Reilly's huge library.

"I get to see all her literature. Literature- if that's what you call it. Anyway, it's sensational. She's in the garden and working the pool. You can slip in. C'on- follow me."

So spindly Gilles led the way up the stairs. As he followed, Rodney could see right inside his tight little ass. Against his will Rodney found himself thinking his bottom was well rounded, with its two compact buns...cute in fact. He saw Gille's pinkish butthole flash at him with each step. Didn't someone say, a hole is a hole? Rodney found himself thinking of the stories that, in prison, guys sharing cells took comfort where they found it...there was a lot of cornholing...

...but he threw the thought from his mind.

The stairs narrowed on the third floor. It was windowless and becoming darker. The ancestors' portraits made the atmosphere Plantagenet and sinister. His imagination roaming, Rodney thought, it would make a great movie- a guy mounting steps like these, and a crazed murderer coming out of nowhere and stabbing him to death.

As the boy in front of him started taking two steps at a time his cleft kept flaring and Rodney again saw Gilles' twinkle hole. But not of any dick swaying in front. Rodney felt his own dick swinging at his thighs, hanging low, and yet Gilles, a step ahead of him, had nothing dangling between his legs. How could these Cupid fellas ever get satisfaction with such meagre equipment? He resolved to ask Stevie.

They were both breathing heavily when they reached attic level where a thick oak door, heavy keys in the lock, stood ajar.

"Her secret library," said Gilles panting with excitement. He entered the gloom and Rodney noticed his little cock was pointing parallel to the floor. Gilles quickly drew a velvet curtain aside, flooding the space with afternoon sunlight.

The light revealed their male nudity, incongruously set amid solemn glass fronted, mahogany book cases. The muscled fella with his red hair in a crew cut and heavy genitals, the long rangy guy with a little dick pointing out from his groin. Both shaven, Rodney for the musical, Gilles to work in this house as a Cupid. Not a single pubic curl between them.

Nude guys, together. No body else present.

They both felt the exposure, the frisson, a tingle of excitement. For a few seconds they stood looking at one another.

Then Gilles swung around to whisk several velvet covered books off a console.

"Feast your eyes on...these!" he said theatrically, dropping them on a circular table. He took a seat.

"Sit here..."

And he drew the second chair close to his so that their elbows touched as he opened the first volume.

The book was French, and devoted to fine-line illustrations that showed tender young males in every form of bondage to powerful females. Here one sweet-faced young man was being manhandled by three women who had opened his fly and revealed his long, narrow erection. In the next one, he had been stripped completely and was being led by one woman to service another lying naked on a four poster bed.

Gilles plunged into another volume and shoved under Rodney's nose a cartoon showing a young man, naked and behind bars, and a lady in 1920s clothing reaching through the cage to grip his long erection with one set of fingers and squeeze a nipple with the other. Another showed a male tied to a bench taking lashings on his buttocks from three 18 year old schoolgirls. He seemed to be relishing it.

Gilles' three inches had risen to 45 degrees at the intimacy with Rodney. He was willing his friend to see his hard on. For his part Rodney took one glance at the male humiliation on the pages and...

...was on fire.

All the works were by a French artist of the 1920s, Bernard Montorgueil.

They sent a jolt right through Rodney's guts. He was suddenly breathing heavily.

As his nine inches hardened, he was scoping an illustration of a handsome young man on a bench tied down, naked. A lady in her underwear had placed a cheeky cap with pom poms on his erection. In the second drawing she was sitting astride him, riding his penis, brandishing a whip.