Supervised Masturbation of Naughty Sons

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Humiliation Sex  |  House: Stripping and Humiliation

In 1950s America it keeps getting worse for 18 year old males. Punishment involves full nudity, to the delight of old ladies and cheeky sisters.

Brewer's teenage boys were getting caught in the nude. More and more.

It was happening again and again.

They were being exposed stark naked, bare as boards, in their birthday suits...in front of stern disapproving mature ladies...or wickedly curious girls their own age. And they were getting to know the shivery, helpless, panicky feeling on being caught nude in front of fully-dressed females.

There were Johnny Marcello and his classmates subject to full nude medical examinations by Dr Ida Speight- and with the principal's secretary, Miss Assam, forcing her way into the room to get a good stare at the crouching naked fellas, and girls finding every excuse to burst in. Can you imagine how those 18 year old males felt? All their secrets on display? Standing by the wall, lying on the table. Totally stripped off and females staring at them.

And the girls were getting bolder, encouraged by their teacher, Miss Ada Braithwaite, about tip-toeing into the all-nude boys' swim classes in the chlorine-scented basement pool. They were there to cheer from the bleachers when the line of stark naked boys trooped in, to watch the warm-ups while the boys' private parts flew and spun, stand gazing up at the groins of the swimmers poised on the blocks. But they were never happier than when they trapped a blushing boy seated, waiting his turn, and could crowd around him...looking intently at what he tried to shelter in his lap. Catching boys with raging erections was a treat, a privilege, something they giggled and gossiped about behind cupped hands the rest of the day.

And when the Girl Guides hit the woods around Brewer, with its idyllic streams and swim holes, they were intent on finding fellas engaged in that time-honored pastime: skinning dipping. And trapping them nude in the water. While the boys watched horrified the girls would seize their bundled clothes- dungarees, plaid shirts, boxer shorts- and blackmail them into climbing out and parading naked. A line of boys might even be forced to manipulate themselves to a collective splashy climax, emissions sploshing onto grass and rocks, girls applauding. Boys felt their knees wobble at the humiliation- hell, some of the mocking girls lived in their neighbourhood, sat by their side at church and school!

When boys joined Coach Compton by the forest-enclosed lake, protected- they thought- by the dense, scented pines and tangly undergrowth, their nude calisthenics and swimming was assumed to be unobserved. But these days a half dozen girls with binoculars peeped from the arrowwood and bayberry bushes, familiarising themselves with every knob and wrinkle, every pumping vein and burst of body hair, giggling at an involuntary erection, at a boy pissing, at the revelation when a fella bent over to scratch a toe and made his ass cheeks flare to reveal a twinkling, wrinkled, dime-sized circle. These were boys they knew!

Mothers met in Miss Reilly's ornate heritage house for afternoon tea and to discuss nude discipline of sons- this absolutely thrilling subject was really taking hold with Moms- while in the verduous garden youths worked off their criminal misdemeanours tending to lawn and plants, in a state of total nudity, straining to overhear the audacious language of the ladies inside, at once terrified and excited by their shamed condition. Their clothes had been peeled off on arrival, neatly piled in the lady's garage. Miss Reilly's uniformed Negro maids peeped from the porch, curious about what white boys looked like. Soon the boys, still disrobed, would help serve afternoon cocktails in the garden. In glorious states of erection.

And Miss Cuff's production, Cowgirls and Indian Braves, was about to be rehearsed for the first time with the boys wearing their brand new costumes. With what nimble-fingered delicacy Mrs Carruthers the dressmaker and her Negro maid Yuela had taken the measurements of each of the boys, naked and standing on a stool, flushed and trembling with shame. How they had stretched out the process, fussing with the tape, fingers trailing around waists and lingering in groins, pressing the tape measure into their lean young bodies, appearing not to be abashed when the anatomy of the boys responded to the idle tickling and attention in a time-honoured fashion. Then, Mrs Carruthers had the boys slip into the new, much-diminished loin cloths- tiny embroided chamois flaps dangling in front, too short to cover their penis heads or dangling testicles. And certainly not able to cover those erections!

How each boy- up on the stool with a rearing erection- had begged for a larger covering- "Please, Miss, please...it shows...it shows...everything!"- and even for return of a patch at the rear. "Gosh, Miss! There's nothing at the back! They can see all my...my...bottom!" No, these were requests not to be granted. Not by Mrs Carruthers or Yuela. The boys were sent home, to model their new petite costumes, without any rear flaps, for their Moms and sisters. Who were, in every last case, supremely interested in up-close inspections.

Right now a domestic inspection was about to happen in Rodney Ricketson's Buchanan Street home.

The 18 year old boy took a deep nervous breath.

He stood in the hallway, with its runner carpet, its side tables with flowers and the opaque light from the frosted glass of the front door. He stood still, about to turn into the living room where the hum of the bridge party could be heard. A ladies' bridge party. A dozen ladies.

The young man was tall, broad shouldered, obviously a swimmer. His red hair was oiled, and swept back in a fetching flat top.

He was naked, except for a small loin cloth, tiny really, dangling over his groin from a waist band. It covered very little. None of his blazing public hair, or of his low hanging scrotum, little of his wide-girthed penis, not a bit of its plum-shaped head. And apart from the flap, decorated in an Indian design, he wore only moccasins. And a head band with a single feather, ridiculous by any test.

His nerves shook his concave tummy. His nostrils twitched. His eyes blinked, as if to shut out the terrible reality.

Rodney had been told by his Mom to go to his room and change into his new Indian costume and model it for her bridge party. As she delivered this order her guests had stirred in their seats, quickened, flushed with prurient expectation. Their looks had swept over the youth, just in from his latest fitting with Mrs Carruthers. In fact he came in carrying his new costume in a brown paper bag.

His mother had ordered him to pull it out and hold in up so they could all admire it. Dolefully he had reached into the package and hauled it out.

There were shocked ohhs and ahhs.

"Hold it. Right up," his mother ordered.

He complied, party to his own impending humiliation.

"Oh my God! It's teensy weensy!"

The voice was Miss Reynolds'. She was 50 or so, wore a box hat with drooping flower, taught Presbyterian Sunday School at St Andrews, had never seen a naked male.

Indeed the flap was so absolutely tiny it would show...well, everything. Each of them thought this, with a tremor. A tremor of keen anticipation. Certainly Miss Reynolds was feeling strange stirrings. He was, she thought, a very fine looking young man.

Go and put it on and show us, his mother told him. This set off a purring sound from the females, a preparatory burble of self-pleasure. Mrs Harriet Hotspur, mother of six daughters, wedded for 30 years to the one man in her life- owner of parking lots and car yards and Rotarian of note- sighed with expectation. Rodney, she thought, was a very comely boy.

Rodney paused.

If he refused he knew his increasingly cruel Mom would implement a punishment long threatened: of having him spend evenings at home buck naked, with her and his sister and his female cousin who lived with them, even with female visitors calling, like that frightening Mrs Reilly. "Buck naked, all night!" she had threatened; and added, with blazing eyes, "in nothing but your birthday suit." Yes, naked even having dinner, doing the dishes, on the lounge watching Bonanza, bringing his homework for her to check. Without a stitch. Nude, and no doubt erect. In front of them.

He had slumped off to his room and changed.

In a few minutes he would present himself.

Before the middle aged ladies.

A dozen of them. Oh, and one girl, Milly Slink. Tall, gangly, flat chested Milly, in his year at Grover Cleveland High, who peered out through Coke bottle glasses and gave the impression of harbouring gamey breath. Right now she hovered behind her seated mother, dear old Mrs Mildred Slink, an ancient friend of his Mom's. The girl's magnified eyes had grown even wider when she saw him hold out the shockingly petite costume. She couldn't believe what was happening.

"Oh goodness, but he'll be so shy," had intervened Mrs Bev Bailey, looking Rodney over. "Don't put him through that, in front of us old dears! And young Milly here as well!"

Mrs Bailey's eyes lingered on Rodney's dungarees-covered midriff.

"Oh, we'll all see him and his friends soon enough, when the performances start," said his mother. "As for Milly, I'm sure she'll be sitting in the front row to watch the boys! So she might as well have a preview."

And Milly had blushed and her eyes had flickered down Rodney's figure, thinking of what the athletic fella would look like dressed in his teensy weensy Indian costume. She had heard about the costumes from other girls at school: they revealed all a boy's secrets. But not only that- they had the extra appeal: rendering a boy totally humiliated. She wanted to see young athletes like Rodney shamed to the marrow.

Milly wanted to see shy Rodney twisting with shame.

She loved the idea of males being humiliated in front of females like her.

Right now, he was hesitating frozen in the hall. He felt the air all over him, felt totally exposed. He knew his penis hung lower than the flap, his balls as well and all his pubic hair was displayed above the band. He had seen himself in front of the full length mirror in his bedroom closet. He felt his prick thickening. They would see it all, see his cock and balls and red pubic hair, but...he desperately did not want an erection. He did not want them to go home to their houses saying they had seen Rodney Ricketson with a hardon. A naughty boy, a filthy minded fella, with a stiff dick.

If he got stiff...hell, where would he look, standing there? How would he look any of them in the eye? With a boner thrusting up?

As he waited he was hearing his mother fill them in on Miss Cuff's new idea for the boys' costumes.

"She is a stickler for historical accuracy and looked up all the records. It seems the youngest braves spent most of the time virtually nude. Oh various kinds of flaps in front but more minimal than is realised. Just a token cover. And nothing behind. Absolutely nothing. Their bottoms entirely exposed. Soooo...after experimenting with the somewhat larger costumes she had Mrs Carruthers run up a new design."

"From what we just saw it must leave little to the imagination."

Old Mrs Morgan's voice quavered with expectation. The widow had not seen a naked male in decades.

"Well, it is realistic," said Mrs Glover. "That's now Indian boys got round. Their bottoms bare."

"Bottoms bare!"

This elderly voice- it may have been Mrs Slink's- seemed to relish the prospect of a bare male bottom.

Then a more cunning, confident voice entered. It was Miss Glome, whose tone carried a hint of heavy smoking. She fondled her pearls as she spoke.

"Oh but I hear some of the young devils got their hopes up. Figured that if they were virtually naked so would the girls. But there are no squaws in the piece. Only cowgirls...and they, I hear, are done up like ninepins. Fully costumed."

There were giggles.

"How embarrassing for the boys," came a murmur.

"And at that age, too, so easily embarrassed," came another.

"Imagine having to put their bottoms on display!"

"And only those little flaps in front! Bad luck if its a windy day!"

"Yes," came his mother's voice, dropping to a whisper. "I understand there will be a scene where the cowgirls come out and catch the braves asleep. Take them prisoner. Then the fun is to really start. Haven't got to that in the rehearsals yet."

"Sounds interesting, Milly?"

It was Mrs Humphrey, aunt of Minnesotta's famous Senator, wearing a fashionable ensemble of midnight blue, keen to involve the only girl there. Her's, too, was a husky smoker's tone.

The girl snuffled, giggled, self-conscious that her keen interest had been detected. Her eyes dilated behind thick lenses.

Meanwhile Mrs Ricketson had grown impatient.

"Where is that boy?"

She raised her voice: "Rodney! Come here this instant!"

He took a deep breath. And stepped into the living room.

He took in the scent: women's perfume ( Max Factor Primitif and Moonlight Mist were favorites), cigarette smoke from their Camels, the pink, cup-shaped American Beauty roses in three Chinoiserie porcelain vases. And another scent circling in the atmosphere; sour and warm, womanly and intimate. He took in the shocked looks of a dozen ladies and one girl, eyes popping at the sight he presented in his tiny flap, feather and moccasins.

Shock- the only word for it.

Shock- made their eyes stand out, as if on stalks! Their jaws fall wide open! They gaped! The females looked like carnival heads, waiting to have little plastic balls shot into their open mouths.

Shock- at the glimpse of this near-naked figure: broad shoulders, tapered waist, his bare flanks and his long, straddling legs! Shock- at seeing an 18 year old boy without clothes- oh forget that flap, it was ridiculous! My dear, they would be able to say to their friends, it sheltered nothing! This fella before them was NUDE! Shock, too- at the glimpse of his blazing pubic curls! Red! Would you believe! And below it..!

As their gazes dropped, shock gave way to prurience.

Mrs Glome hungrily took in the girth of the penis, only the top third of the stem, she guessed, was sheltered behind his dainty, comic flap; and she took in the dangling bag below it, capacious as one of those lady's purses fit for a night at the opera or gala supper, stretched out of shape by the heft of the two balls inside, one lower than its mate. She unconsciously licked her lips.

Other ladies, like Mrs Bev Bailey and Mrs Gloria Smedley, compared Rodney's ample penis and testicles with the more modest equipment of their husbands. Their imaginations raged at the thought of having that wide tube prising at their vaginas! They felt their privates tingle. They stared harder, lurid imaginings galloped. It made him feel so...funny. And he also saw Mrs Tina Grey looking at his groin. She was making her own comparison, with her son who she insisted on inspecting in the shower. Compare to this boy's fat mushroom her George had a mere...acorn! Like his Dad!

Milly gulped. She was seeing a naked male for the first time in her life! What she had seen in art text books was true. That was how the Greek warriors and athletes and gods looked...down there. Only in that department Rodney was larger and that glorious technicolor hair blazing forth above! Better than the marble versions! She stared, mouth watering.

Rodney felt their eyes all over him.

He caught his mother's look. She was intently curious, almost calculating. Almost as if he were weighing something in her mind, as she stared at his genitals. Even weighing the objects themselves, like inspecting meat at the butchers.

But suddenly she- his own mother- was stifling a laugh. His own Mom! Eyes glinting, covering her laughter.

The first phase from the females had been shock. The second prurience, as they had greedily examined the details of his genitals. The third was hilarity as they sized up his humiliation and shame, the absurd picture he presented: stripped...the silly, demeaning flap and the hilarious feather on his head...the ruinous expression on his features...woebegone and defeated.

Mrs Humphrey had joined in his mother's giggles and was soon choking on her laughter, her eyes stretched and pig-like. Mrs Glomer's smoker's wheeze was making her double over, tear streaking her rouged cheek, her right hand waving her cigarette holder helpless. Old Mrs Glover covered her mouth, eyes glistening.

The misery of humiliation flooded Rodney's eyes.

Mrs Rita Wrightson held Miss Gloria Sandline by her arm and laughed helplessly into her shoulder, almost crying. "Oh dear, wait till I tell my girls- they know him at school! Poor boy!" And for her part Miss Sandline, in her cats eyes glasses, off-white blouse and wide pleated skirt, who had no experience of men, thought this the funniest thing she had ever seen. Oh God, she thought, that crazy, stupid little flap that covers nothing! And he has to stand there showing us everything he's got! The boy's bush...RED! I never dreamt! And the way...the way...the way that bag is holding those two very visible...balls! Just hilarious- and she sent forth a new volley of shrill jest, like some heyena.

Mrs Sally Ryan just pointed a red-tipped finger nail, it seemed at Rodney's penis, or it would have been his glans itself. Oh she had seen others- her brothers', her cousins', several boyfriends'. None this...fat. It was easy to cover her greed by dissolving in laughter, making a joke of this young man's generous endowment. She laughed on, eyebrows slanting. Pointing her finger.

Even Milly was bursting into laughter, pointing Rodney's way and bending at the waist. "His...flap...his...ridiculous little...flap!" Rodney heard her, and wilted. Her seated mother looked up at her, proud of her daughter's newfound relish in maleness. "Yes, that flap! I agree- he'd be better off without!"

Rodney felt he was being lowered into a hot bath...of shame. He caught Milly's contemptuous, mocking stare. Oh God, he was sinking deeper, into frightful, delicious, all-encompassing humiliation. He wanted to drown in it, especially when he quickly took in all their stares...directed at one part of his anatomy.

He felt his penis filling out. Getting longer. His plum-like glans swelling.

As each female laughed at him, their voices became louder, crueler, less inhibited.

Somehow...his response was a tingle of panicky excitement in his gut...some shoots of a dirty thrilling feeling...all the way down his prick.

His mother brought the females to order by telling him to turn around.

"Gosh, Mom...no...please..."

He shivered.

"Rodney, I want them to appreciate the new costume. Turn around!"

"Mom! No!"

"Rodney, if you don't turn round I'm going to go right over there and pull the whole thing down your legs. And get Milly to help me!"

This threat caused a fission of excitement, not least with Milly who stared at Rodney's equipment all the keener. And noticed movement- his "thing" was getting longer...and thicker! The others were noticing. "Goodness," said one old dear under her breath and seemed to speak for all, as Rodney's penis head jerked, like a snake waking from hibernation. "Goodness gracious!" There was a whisper- it could have come from any of them- "He seems to be getting..."

And trailed off.

The glans, a light mauve in tincture, lifted and separated itself discretely from the Gothic folds of his sac.

"This is getting very, very interesting," murmured Mrs Glover in her deep, smoker's voice.

Better to show them his ass and shield his quickly developing hardon, thought the boy. He turned around.

There was a collective heave of disappointment.

But they settled into respectful silence as they took in the sight of a lithe muscular posterior, decisively divided by a deep intergluteal cleft. It was evenly tanned, golden in tone, as a result of Miss Cuff's direction to stay in the sun and come to resemble Red Indians.

 
 

In fact right now Rodney may have been a captive Cherokee brought back to be inspected by matronly ladies in a museum society.

"Yes, so much nicer, I think, without a rear flap."

There was a murmur of approval with Mrs Ricketson's assessment of her son's appearance.

Although, she added, the old costume hardly covered anything. "When it swayed, you saw all his cleft."

There was a tinkle of giggling.

Rodney wilted. But had, now, a more immediate concern. His penis hardened. Stretched.

Mrs Tina Grey found herself wishing that Mrs Ricketson would make Rodney bend right over and part his buttocks, the way she made her son George do on the pretext of inspecting his cleanliness but, in truth, to humiliate him deeply, getting a touching glimpse of his dime-sized pucker. Which he hated his mother to see. She even poked at it with her index finger.

Mrs Humphrey spoke up, loud enough to be heard by Rodney.

"And Rodney, do you and your friends like the costume they've designed for you?"

The boy was mute.

"Rodney, answer Mrs Humphrey!"

He choked on the answer he thought his mother wanted.

"All right...I guess."

He could hardly say otherwise. Meanwhile his penis had pumped out, hard as a roof beam, parallel to the floor, the useless flap thrust to the left.

Fortunately the ladies, staring at his ass, could not see it.

One of them was talking again.

"There, you see, that's what I think. A bit of embarrassment but in the end they enjoy showing themselves off to females, especially to girls their own age. Like young Milly here."

It was the smokey catch in the voice of Mrs Glover. She continued,"Mrs Riley? Know Mrs Riley? She thinks some boys really relish stripping off. Enjoy showing what they've got. Even if there's a bit of shame along the way."

A general murmur of interest.

Yes, said Rodney's Mom, she knew Mrs Riley's views. Had attended her afternoon teas where her theories of teenage discipline were being discussed, debated, refined. She said she was seriously thinking of applying them- that is, to Rodney, if his behaviour didn't improve, and his grades.

"Oh," said Mrs Bailey, "Were you at Mrs Riley's when she had young men in trouble with the police working off their misbehaviour? I must say, that was a real treat, the time I went."

There was a deep murmur. No woman in Brewer was unaware of the full nude punishments meted out to young males, forced to labor in the verduous Riley garden behind its tall, ivy-clad brick walls. About half had thrilled through her poolside cocktails, drinks being served by youths, buck naked. Males Rodney's age. Legs rubbing the skirts of the mature age women. Quickly becoming obdurately erect.

Mrs Ricketson confirmed that yes, she had witnessed the distinctive punishment for local delinquents. The humiliation of going totally stripped off, in front of women like their mothers, had guaranteed they never offended again. Although there were exceptions.

Milly took a deep breath. She asked, "Does Rodney like wearing his costume, Mrs Ricketson? Does he like showing himself?"

The girl swallowed at her own daring. Enjoyed seeing Rodney

jolt with embarrassment as he absorbed her question.

Rodney's Mom thought about her response. From her position, seated at the far reach of the circle of bridge players, she could see the answer to Milly's question: her son was now sporting an erection, jutting at 45 degrees. None of the others could see it. The expression, "hard as a hat peg" came to mind. And he was disgracefully trailing fluid, from the tip of his penis to the carpet, dangling like a string.

So here they were again. Just like in the fitting room that time or modelling his old costume when Mrs Riley was present, Rodney had once again got himself defiantly stiff, and couldn't help himself. Pathetic really. And deserved punishment for it. Right now he was blushing like a fire hydrant, eyes watering, lower lip trembling uncontrollably. He was fearing the moment when his mother would tell him to turn around. The simplest answer to the mischievous girl's question was simply to ask Rodney do just that, to turn around.

His rigid penis would indict him.

But Mrs Ricketson was caught- caught in a conflict of disloyalties. Keenly she wanted to see her son humiliated. Oh yes, she knew she was being cruel to him: yet she, too, had her half-hidden desires and erotic urges. Seeing her own awkward teenage boy subject to full nude punishment in front of females was a thrill for her, a kink, a quirk- call it what you will. Yes, she conceded to herself, it was something she day-dreamed about, dwelt on when she pleasured herself under the blankets or in the bath. It, yes, got her, a divorced mother, extremely excited. Extremely.

She couldn't think of a swifter, more devastating game than making him present his erection right now, making him stand close and put it on inspection. Have her dozen bridge-players lean in and breath all over it; render him faint and tearful, with questions about what makes him erect, his circumcision status, whether his foreskin pulls back easily. 

There would be five minutes of conversation back and forwards about the fact of his pre-ejaculatory fluid- goodness, his penis was now as damp as a sapling glistening with morning dew.

Inevitably one of the mature ladies- oh, yes, she could see this happening, certainly Bev Bailey or Sally Glover- would ask permission to handle it. She could see their painted finger nails reaching eagerly while her boy trembled. Leaning in so close, they would be exhaling their cigarette smoke all over its proud length. Yes, with what lubricious awe would they feel its sculpt glans, its splendid girth, its drooping sack. And, God, the interest that this Milly would take in it, peering through those inch-thick specs! I could, if I wanted, invite the girl to juggle his testicles, see the balls jiggle. How she would love that. Mrs Ricketson looked at Milly and thought she could see a trail of spittle on the girl's chin: Jesus, she was drooling at what she saw of her son's cleft and shapely backside! Down below she would be as damp as a duck.

On the other hand, why should the old girls and this ferociously unattractive maiden be vouchsafed this pleasure? What had they done to deserve it? They had never let her inspect their own sons. And when it came to her son's penis- so fleshy, so stalwart- why should she share it? Those wide pumping ventral and dorsal veins belonged to her, and the smaller zig zag ones. All hers- every inch of the broad white beam of the stem. And the mushroomy head, let alone the drooping, dragging capaciousness of his scrotal sack and its twinned contents.

They belonged to her son, and to her, as his doting if stern Mom.

No, my friends, another time. But not today.

"Oh, I think Rodney's like any of them. Alternately ashamed and...yet, I think, proud. Certainly, Milly, we're all coming to the view the only punishment for young males involves some element of nudity. Nudity in the presence of females. As I imagine you will discover when you have your own sons..."

Sadly Milly saw only diminishing prospects of procreation. Which was why right now, her panties were sopping as she participated in the nude humiliation of Rodney Ricketson.

Except...

His mother suddenly pronounced he had to get to his room. He had to start homework and, relieved beyond belief, hands in front of his groin, Rodney instantly vaulted around the corner into the hallway, taking off like a young gazelle fleeing wolverine predators.

Only Miss Reynolds and Mrs Bailey caught a tantalising glimpse of a fleshy projection, being pressed back into his groin with desperate hands.

In his bedroom he breathed easy at his narrow escape.

And back to the door, jacked off quickly with the faces of the females dancing in his mind. Their fiendish eyes, mocking laughs, pointed fingers.

His mother treated him kindly that night. There was no hint of him modelling in front of his sister or cousin or going around the house nude. She had saved him from acute humiliation, seemed proud of her benignity. She tousled his red hair and laughed at him for being concerned his styled flat top had been disturbed.

The next day after school Rodney was dawdling home, with Stevie Lynton, Kerry Fulbright and Mark Campbell. He was telling them about the inspection. He described how he had stood there in the tiny flap, how he felt their eyes all over his exposed cock, how viciously they laughed, how he couldn't help getting stiff. 

Walking alongside his pals, telling them this story- about Milly Slink's stares, about the shameful inadequacy of the flap, about presenting his bare ass- he couldn't avoid noticing a bulge spring up in Stevie's fly, and a broader jutting in Mark's trouser leg. Kerry's elegant six inch prick famously slanted to the right; his bulge jerked sideways to his pocket. Like him, they were alternately panicked and thrilled. 

The boys said they expected to be inspected at home in their new costumes soon. Mark already suffered his Mom showing family and friends the photo album crammed with pics of him at nude swim meets, with many shots of him erect or half erect up on the blocks or walking by the pool, even close-ups of his prick and balls. "Even our Negro maid gets to look," he lamented. "They'll make me pose in that loin cloth anytime. Oh, and they'll include her."

"That magazine store in St Paul? One I told you about..? "

It was on First Street, where Stevie went to buy mainly Scandinavian nudist magazines, kept under the counter by the shifty-eyed, whiskey-breathing owner. Stevie admitted to being addicted to this literature, especially since he had been discovered by the maid masturbating over the magazines. The maid had told his two sisters. And his sisters, every Saturday with their mother out at bridge, now forced him to strip off. Then they ordered him to "play with himself," the lubricious black and white pictures spread on the coffee table. The girls got excited watching their kid brother reached a noisy, splashy climax, confirming Stevie in exciting notions of being nude in the company of fully dressed females.

"...well, I went there Saturday, and I've got some new ones."

He gestured at his school bag.

The eyes of Rodney, Kerry and Mark swam with prurient interest.

Rodney calculated.

"My sister and cousin are away at camp. Mom is in Cathage at an auction, won't be back till six..."

They had paused on Pierce Street, outside the Parkway Motel. Mark was getting more aroused. His penis now poked out at the front of his loose fitting flannels. A passing mother, pushing a pram, stared hard. He placed his battered brief case over it. He swallowed, determined.

"We can go to your place."

"Yeah, let's," said Kerry.

Resolved, they marched through Brewer's oak and elm-lined streets as briskly as Marine recruits. They allowed Rodney to unlock the front door of his home- excitingly dark and silent- and followed him down the hallway into his bedroom, with its sporting trophies, pennants and model planes. Without pause Stevie produced half a dozen magazines from his bag, like a magician producing pigeons. The covers showed big busted middle age women under the mastheads: Sundial, Naked Life and Nature People. 

Four obdurate erections immediately stabbed at the front of the boys' pants.

"My favorite! Look!"

Stevie opened Sundial at a full page pic of a woman the age of their Moms shoulder to shoulder with a teenage boy. The woman, beaming wolfishly, was curled and coiffed as if just out of a hair salon. It made her nudity the more brazen: her balloon bosoms hanging low with outsize aureole that could have been drawn with crayon and a tangled rainforest of black pubic hair under a broad swathe of belly. She seemed set to devour the slender, frightened-looking kid with his auburn curls and freckled face and shoulders, looking wholesome as fresh milk, or like an extra just off the set of Leave It To Beaver. His pubic bush was a third that of the woman's and from it hung a stubby penis, its glans invisible under tapered overhang. His cock was cute as a button, certainly she seemed to think so.

"She's an aunt, or sumthin'?" questioned Mark.

"Mother?" speculated Rodney, his bulge jolting.

"Got a dirty mind, looking him over," was Kerry's view.

"Looks embarrassed, don't he?" said Stevie, rubbing his trouser front.

"I'd say. You'd be too. She's looking right at it! Thinking that's a nice little prick!"

"Yeeeeah," said Rodney. "Real embarrassed...like I was...in front of that bridge party, stripped off...12 of 'em lookin' me over, just like she's lookin' at him."

"Or me," offered Mark. "Having my bitch of a mother show the girls that album with about 30 pics of me nude, at the swim meet. And she shows it to aunts and neighbours and cousins. Spreads it out for them. Then with me in the room looks me in the eye as if to say, hope you feel shamed, they're all looking at you nude."

Stevie was mesmerised by the magazine and the photo of the lady and the slightly-built 18 year old.

"Totally stripped off. In his birthday suit. Looks like his family forced him to go nudist. And she's closed in to..."

"To check him out!" 

"Fuck! Wouldn't you want to drop dead?"

With that Mark, gazing hypnotised at the picture, started unbuckling his belt. Stevie had already undone his and loosened his waist and was pushing his trousers down his legs, revealing the tenting in his white underwear. Kerry's jeans and underpants were at his ankles in a flash; his elegant penis leant to the side, eager for attention. Moisture glistened on its tip.

"And look this over!" ordered Rodney. He held Naked Life open at a page that showed a thin young fella hauling himself from a pool being surrounded by frisky girls and a hefty matron, her melon breasts sagging to her waist. She grinned like a crocodile, her bulbous eyes greedily focused on the wet male's petite uncut penis and whispy pubic hairs. Victorious in the pool, he was now exposed and looked abashed at the females moving in on him.

"Look, he's new too, forced to go with his family, and all the fuckin' dames want to get close to see his prick."

"And he hates it. Look at his eyes!"

It was too much for Rodney who hauled his khakis off and stepped out of them, clawed his boxers off too, throwing them over his shoulder. He was fully naked, feeling his nine inch erection, totally consumed in the humiliation of nudist youth.

Another picture fired them. It showed a family troupe. Father had a meaty figure and a short, slender, circumcised dick; his teenage son too, was small- a sliver of a tube in front of a petite, hairless globe. Mother and daughters, a couple of frolicsome female cousins, too, it seemed, posed beaming: each had an hour glass figure, showing off their perky, bouncy tits. Behind this line-up a tall athlete stepped out in profile oblivious to the family, a pythonesque penis tumbling the length of his thighs, stopping near his knees.

"Fuuuuuuuck!" snorted Stevie. "What do the women folk think when they see that guy go past! How humiliating for Daddy...for their brother! Bet he gets teased! 'Our brother's got the smallest prick in the nudist camp!' You can hear them! Or they might say, 'Mom, how come Daddy's pee-wee is like a little boy's. Not big like that man's there?' Humiliating!"

He had quickly unbuttoned his blue, button-down shirt and flung it aside. His buddies followed, ripping at the pages all the while. They were soon a hundred percent stripped off. In their birthday suits.

"Fuck! Look at this!"

Mark had found a picture of a boy lying on his tummy on sand, his freckled face looking up helpless, desperate. Five cheeky girls and women were standing like hunters who had bagged game. One playful teenage girl- vaginal lips smiling through golden pubic curls- was planting her foot on his left buttock.

"Fuck! The bitches have got him trapped. Trapped!"

"You can see he's panicking- he doesn't want them to see his stuff," said Kerry. "But the bitches have got him! Trapped!"

Mark was jerking furiously now, tumbling out the words: "...yeah, trapped! That's like they do with us...here in Brewer...trapped when we're swimming nude...trapped when we're in those loin cloths...trapped at those school medicals...trapped naked...when they're dressed..! They all love it!"

"Yeeeeah!" breathed Stevie, heavily. "Moms, teachers, sisters...fuckin' maids...they all love it, trapping us...nude!"

His fist devoured his stiff little penis.

"Imagine how...I feel...when my sisters and their friends...get to see the swimming shots of me...totally nude...in the family album...they see everything..."

Mark was burbling his complaint.

Naked, they fell to their knees, jacking off at the magazines spread over the bed cover.

Rodney was jerking desperately, eyes glued to a picture of a long lean suntanned boy, seated outside a hut, back to the camera. In front of him towered a wide-hipped, big-breasted Mom in straw hat grinning as she looked right into his lap. That boy, too, seemed trapped.

The image was making Rodney swoon.

"Or in those fuckin' loin cloths...those flaps...even worse...making us show our pricks and balls...turn around...and show the fuckin' bitches our asses!"

Rodney threw his left arm around Stevie's shoulder, and Stevie around Mark's, pals seeking comfort. For his part Mark reached down and cupped Kerry's balls, gave them a gentle tug with his left hand, while continuing to quickly pleasure himself with his right. They were buddies, college freshmen or new Marine recruits in a circle jerk off.

Spurred by the photos the four were approaching climax.

And just outside the bedroom, Mrs Ricketson, home early from Carthage where her auction had been cancelled, having on some instinct tip-toed down the corridor, was seeing everything. The mirror on the half-open door of the bedroom cupboard projected the bacchanalia into her line of vision while she remained out of sight. And Rodney's Mom was hearing every foul, sick word.

Her first thought: how correct her good friend Mrs Reilly was about teenage boys. Yes, dear Mrs Reilly. The richest widow in Brewer with her priceless heritage home in its gorgeous walled garden, who chain smoked and declared cigarettes good for mental processes, who sipped a watered Scotch throughout the day, who travelled the world ceaselessly collecting information about customs and practices that would make one's hair stand on end.

And who paid Police Commissioner O'Mallory a fat donation to his favorite charity to have young male delinquents work off their crimes, naked in her garden.

And who convened afternoon teas of lady friends to talk about nude punishment of their sons.

And- this was the salient point- who had insisted that it was every mother's duty to supervise (even, she had said, "assist") her son's masturbation because boys could not resist their compulsions and would do it anyway. In fact left unsupervised boys recruited pornographic literature and their own schoolmates to help. Why, look at the scene before her! Orchestrated by her son, cunningly, because he no doubt calculated she would be at Cathage till dinner time. The four boys frenzied like spider monkeys! Stripped entirely nude- her son's bedroom a mess of underwear and shirts. Babbling filth about mothers, about nudity! Gripping one another by the shoulders to heighten their paroxysms and devouring the filth on the pages of those lurid magazines! Images of women like her! 

And she, only yesterday, had been so nurturing of her son. So maternal, protecting him from full-bodied exploration from that room of old crones.

This was how he repaid his own mother.

Her resolve was quick. Her plan clear.

First, to arrest them in their activity and hold them naked with magazines displayed until each of their mothers had been summoned. Second, to have those mothers join her in a good old fashioned spanking. Oh, a hard spanking. Indeed to have each mother spank the others' boys, getting to relish close-up the nakedness of the other sons- a veritable festival of hairbrush, leather belt and palm-delivered chastisement. Over the knee mother-style, and with boys standing hands on heads, or standing bent, bottoms projected backwards, or lying on the bed legs raised and bottom tilted: every technique and position, until they had these naked males howling. Really howling. Third, to march them off to Mrs Reilly's next afternoon tea where, in front of 30 so so ladies, they could suffer some more punishment and be professionally eased into a new mother-centric punishment regime. That included supervised or, if they liked, "assisted" masturbation.

 
 

In fact right now Rodney may have been a captive Cherokee brought back to be inspected by matronly ladies in a museum society.

"Yes, so much nicer, I think, without a rear flap."

There was a murmur of approval with Mrs Ricketson's assessment of her son's appearance.

Although, she added, the old costume hardly covered anything. "When it swayed, you saw all his cleft."

There was a tinkle of giggling.

Rodney wilted. But had, now, a more immediate concern. His penis hardened. Stretched.

Mrs Tina Grey found herself wishing that Mrs Ricketson would make Rodney bend right over and part his buttocks, the way she made her son George do on the pretext of inspecting his cleanliness but, in truth, to humiliate him deeply, getting a touching glimpse of his dime-sized pucker. Which he hated his mother to see. She even poked at it with her index finger.

Mrs Humphrey spoke up, loud enough to be heard by Rodney.

"And Rodney, do you and your friends like the costume they've designed for you?"

The boy was mute.

"Rodney, answer Mrs Humphrey!"

He choked on the answer he thought his mother wanted.

"All right...I guess."

He could hardly say otherwise. Meanwhile his penis had pumped out, hard as a roof beam, parallel to the floor, the useless flap thrust to the left.

Fortunately the ladies, staring at his ass, could not see it.

One of them was talking again.

"There, you see, that's what I think. A bit of embarrassment but in the end they enjoy showing themselves off to females, especially to girls their own age. Like young Milly here."

It was the smokey catch in the voice of Mrs Glover. She continued,"Mrs Riley? Know Mrs Riley? She thinks some boys really relish stripping off. Enjoy showing what they've got. Even if there's a bit of shame along the way."

A general murmur of interest.

Yes, said Rodney's Mom, she knew Mrs Riley's views. Had attended her afternoon teas where her theories of teenage discipline were being discussed, debated, refined. She said she was seriously thinking of applying them- that is, to Rodney, if his behaviour didn't improve, and his grades.

"Oh," said Mrs Bailey, "Were you at Mrs Riley's when she had young men in trouble with the police working off their misbehaviour? I must say, that was a real treat, the time I went."

There was a deep murmur. No woman in Brewer was unaware of the full nude punishments meted out to young males, forced to labor in the verduous Riley garden behind its tall, ivy-clad brick walls. About half had thrilled through her poolside cocktails, drinks being served by youths, buck naked. Males Rodney's age. Legs rubbing the skirts of the mature age women. Quickly becoming obdurately erect.

Mrs Ricketson confirmed that yes, she had witnessed the distinctive punishment for local delinquents. The humiliation of going totally stripped off, in front of women like their mothers, had guaranteed they never offended again. Although there were exceptions.

Milly took a deep breath. She asked, "Does Rodney like wearing his costume, Mrs Ricketson? Does he like showing himself?"

The girl swallowed at her own daring. Enjoyed seeing Rodney

jolt with embarrassment as he absorbed her question.

Rodney's Mom thought about her response. From her position, seated at the far reach of the circle of bridge players, she could see the answer to Milly's question: her son was now sporting an erection, jutting at 45 degrees. None of the others could see it. The expression, "hard as a hat peg" came to mind. And he was disgracefully trailing fluid, from the tip of his penis to the carpet, dangling like a string.

So here they were again. Just like in the fitting room that time or modelling his old costume when Mrs Riley was present, Rodney had once again got himself defiantly stiff, and couldn't help himself. Pathetic really. And deserved punishment for it. Right now he was blushing like a fire hydrant, eyes watering, lower lip trembling uncontrollably. He was fearing the moment when his mother would tell him to turn around. The simplest answer to the mischievous girl's question was simply to ask Rodney do just that, to turn around.

His rigid penis would indict him.

But Mrs Ricketson was caught- caught in a conflict of disloyalties. Keenly she wanted to see her son humiliated. Oh yes, she knew she was being cruel to him: yet she, too, had her half-hidden desires and erotic urges. Seeing her own awkward teenage boy subject to full nude punishment in front of females was a thrill for her, a kink, a quirk- call it what you will. Yes, she conceded to herself, it was something she day-dreamed about, dwelt on when she pleasured herself under the blankets or in the bath. It, yes, got her, a divorced mother, extremely excited. Extremely.

She couldn't think of a swifter, more devastating game than making him present his erection right now, making him stand close and put it on inspection. Have her dozen bridge-players lean in and breath all over it; render him faint and tearful, with questions about what makes him erect, his circumcision status, whether his foreskin pulls back easily. 

There would be five minutes of conversation back and forwards about the fact of his pre-ejaculatory fluid- goodness, his penis was now as damp as a sapling glistening with morning dew.

Inevitably one of the mature ladies- oh, yes, she could see this happening, certainly Bev Bailey or Sally Glover- would ask permission to handle it. She could see their painted finger nails reaching eagerly while her boy trembled. Leaning in so close, they would be exhaling their cigarette smoke all over its proud length. Yes, with what lubricious awe would they feel its sculpt glans, its splendid girth, its drooping sack. And, God, the interest that this Milly would take in it, peering through those inch-thick specs! I could, if I wanted, invite the girl to juggle his testicles, see the balls jiggle. How she would love that. Mrs Ricketson looked at Milly and thought she could see a trail of spittle on the girl's chin: Jesus, she was drooling at what she saw of her son's cleft and shapely backside! Down below she would be as damp as a duck.

On the other hand, why should the old girls and this ferociously unattractive maiden be vouchsafed this pleasure? What had they done to deserve it? They had never let her inspect their own sons. And when it came to her son's penis- so fleshy, so stalwart- why should she share it? Those wide pumping ventral and dorsal veins belonged to her, and the smaller zig zag ones. All hers- every inch of the broad white beam of the stem. And the mushroomy head, let alone the drooping, dragging capaciousness of his scrotal sack and its twinned contents.

They belonged to her son, and to her, as his doting if stern Mom.

No, my friends, another time. But not today.

"Oh, I think Rodney's like any of them. Alternately ashamed and...yet, I think, proud. Certainly, Milly, we're all coming to the view the only punishment for young males involves some element of nudity. Nudity in the presence of females. As I imagine you will discover when you have your own sons..."

Sadly Milly saw only diminishing prospects of procreation. Which was why right now, her panties were sopping as she participated in the nude humiliation of Rodney Ricketson.

Except...

His mother suddenly pronounced he had to get to his room. He had to start homework and, relieved beyond belief, hands in front of his groin, Rodney instantly vaulted around the corner into the hallway, taking off like a young gazelle fleeing wolverine predators.

Only Miss Reynolds and Mrs Bailey caught a tantalising glimpse of a fleshy projection, being pressed back into his groin with desperate hands.

In his bedroom he breathed easy at his narrow escape.

And back to the door, jacked off quickly with the faces of the females dancing in his mind. Their fiendish eyes, mocking laughs, pointed fingers.

His mother treated him kindly that night. There was no hint of him modelling in front of his sister or cousin or going around the house nude. She had saved him from acute humiliation, seemed proud of her benignity. She tousled his red hair and laughed at him for being concerned his styled flat top had been disturbed.

The next day after school Rodney was dawdling home, with Stevie Lynton, Kerry Fulbright and Mark Campbell. He was telling them about the inspection. He described how he had stood there in the tiny flap, how he felt their eyes all over his exposed cock, how viciously they laughed, how he couldn't help getting stiff. 

Walking alongside his pals, telling them this story- about Milly Slink's stares, about the shameful inadequacy of the flap, about presenting his bare ass- he couldn't avoid noticing a bulge spring up in Stevie's fly, and a broader jutting in Mark's trouser leg. Kerry's elegant six inch prick famously slanted to the right; his bulge jerked sideways to his pocket. Like him, they were alternately panicked and thrilled. 

The boys said they expected to be inspected at home in their new costumes soon. Mark already suffered his Mom showing family and friends the photo album crammed with pics of him at nude swim meets, with many shots of him erect or half erect up on the blocks or walking by the pool, even close-ups of his prick and balls. "Even our Negro maid gets to look," he lamented. "They'll make me pose in that loin cloth anytime. Oh, and they'll include her."

"That magazine store in St Paul? One I told you about..? "

It was on First Street, where Stevie went to buy mainly Scandinavian nudist magazines, kept under the counter by the shifty-eyed, whiskey-breathing owner. Stevie admitted to being addicted to this literature, especially since he had been discovered by the maid masturbating over the magazines. The maid had told his two sisters. And his sisters, every Saturday with their mother out at bridge, now forced him to strip off. Then they ordered him to "play with himself," the lubricious black and white pictures spread on the coffee table. The girls got excited watching their kid brother reached a noisy, splashy climax, confirming Stevie in exciting notions of being nude in the company of fully dressed females.

"...well, I went there Saturday, and I've got some new ones."

He gestured at his school bag.

The eyes of Rodney, Kerry and Mark swam with prurient interest.

Rodney calculated.

"My sister and cousin are away at camp. Mom is in Cathage at an auction, won't be back till six..."

They had paused on Pierce Street, outside the Parkway Motel. Mark was getting more aroused. His penis now poked out at the front of his loose fitting flannels. A passing mother, pushing a pram, stared hard. He placed his battered brief case over it. He swallowed, determined.

"We can go to your place."

"Yeah, let's," said Kerry.

Resolved, they marched through Brewer's oak and elm-lined streets as briskly as Marine recruits. They allowed Rodney to unlock the front door of his home- excitingly dark and silent- and followed him down the hallway into his bedroom, with its sporting trophies, pennants and model planes. Without pause Stevie produced half a dozen magazines from his bag, like a magician producing pigeons. The covers showed big busted middle age women under the mastheads: Sundial, Naked Life and Nature People. 

Four obdurate erections immediately stabbed at the front of the boys' pants.

"My favorite! Look!"

Stevie opened Sundial at a full page pic of a woman the age of their Moms shoulder to shoulder with a teenage boy. The woman, beaming wolfishly, was curled and coiffed as if just out of a hair salon. It made her nudity the more brazen: her balloon bosoms hanging low with outsize aureole that could have been drawn with crayon and a tangled rainforest of black pubic hair under a broad swathe of belly. She seemed set to devour the slender, frightened-looking kid with his auburn curls and freckled face and shoulders, looking wholesome as fresh milk, or like an extra just off the set of Leave It To Beaver. His pubic bush was a third that of the woman's and from it hung a stubby penis, its glans invisible under tapered overhang. His cock was cute as a button, certainly she seemed to think so.

"She's an aunt, or sumthin'?" questioned Mark.

"Mother?" speculated Rodney, his bulge jolting.

"Got a dirty mind, looking him over," was Kerry's view.

"Looks embarrassed, don't he?" said Stevie, rubbing his trouser front.

"I'd say. You'd be too. She's looking right at it! Thinking that's a nice little prick!"

"Yeeeeah," said Rodney. "Real embarrassed...like I was...in front of that bridge party, stripped off...12 of 'em lookin' me over, just like she's lookin' at him."

"Or me," offered Mark. "Having my bitch of a mother show the girls that album with about 30 pics of me nude, at the swim meet. And she shows it to aunts and neighbours and cousins. Spreads it out for them. Then with me in the room looks me in the eye as if to say, hope you feel shamed, they're all looking at you nude."

Stevie was mesmerised by the magazine and the photo of the lady and the slightly-built 18 year old.

"Totally stripped off. In his birthday suit. Looks like his family forced him to go nudist. And she's closed in to..."

"To check him out!" 

"Fuck! Wouldn't you want to drop dead?"

With that Mark, gazing hypnotised at the picture, started unbuckling his belt. Stevie had already undone his and loosened his waist and was pushing his trousers down his legs, revealing the tenting in his white underwear. Kerry's jeans and underpants were at his ankles in a flash; his elegant penis leant to the side, eager for attention. Moisture glistened on its tip.

"And look this over!" ordered Rodney. He held Naked Life open at a page that showed a thin young fella hauling himself from a pool being surrounded by frisky girls and a hefty matron, her melon breasts sagging to her waist. She grinned like a crocodile, her bulbous eyes greedily focused on the wet male's petite uncut penis and whispy pubic hairs. Victorious in the pool, he was now exposed and looked abashed at the females moving in on him.

"Look, he's new too, forced to go with his family, and all the fuckin' dames want to get close to see his prick."

"And he hates it. Look at his eyes!"

It was too much for Rodney who hauled his khakis off and stepped out of them, clawed his boxers off too, throwing them over his shoulder. He was fully naked, feeling his nine inch erection, totally consumed in the humiliation of nudist youth.

Another picture fired them. It showed a family troupe. Father had a meaty figure and a short, slender, circumcised dick; his teenage son too, was small- a sliver of a tube in front of a petite, hairless globe. Mother and daughters, a couple of frolicsome female cousins, too, it seemed, posed beaming: each had an hour glass figure, showing off their perky, bouncy tits. Behind this line-up a tall athlete stepped out in profile oblivious to the family, a pythonesque penis tumbling the length of his thighs, stopping near his knees.

"Fuuuuuuuck!" snorted Stevie. "What do the women folk think when they see that guy go past! How humiliating for Daddy...for their brother! Bet he gets teased! 'Our brother's got the smallest prick in the nudist camp!' You can hear them! Or they might say, 'Mom, how come Daddy's pee-wee is like a little boy's. Not big like that man's there?' Humiliating!"

He had quickly unbuttoned his blue, button-down shirt and flung it aside. His buddies followed, ripping at the pages all the while. They were soon a hundred percent stripped off. In their birthday suits.

"Fuck! Look at this!"

Mark had found a picture of a boy lying on his tummy on sand, his freckled face looking up helpless, desperate. Five cheeky girls and women were standing like hunters who had bagged game. One playful teenage girl- vaginal lips smiling through golden pubic curls- was planting her foot on his left buttock.

"Fuck! The bitches have got him trapped. Trapped!"

"You can see he's panicking- he doesn't want them to see his stuff," said Kerry. "But the bitches have got him! Trapped!"

Mark was jerking furiously now, tumbling out the words: "...yeah, trapped! That's like they do with us...here in Brewer...trapped when we're swimming nude...trapped when we're in those loin cloths...trapped at those school medicals...trapped naked...when they're dressed..! They all love it!"

"Yeeeeah!" breathed Stevie, heavily. "Moms, teachers, sisters...fuckin' maids...they all love it, trapping us...nude!"

His fist devoured his stiff little penis.

"Imagine how...I feel...when my sisters and their friends...get to see the swimming shots of me...totally nude...in the family album...they see everything..."

Mark was burbling his complaint.

Naked, they fell to their knees, jacking off at the magazines spread over the bed cover.

Rodney was jerking desperately, eyes glued to a picture of a long lean suntanned boy, seated outside a hut, back to the camera. In front of him towered a wide-hipped, big-breasted Mom in straw hat grinning as she looked right into his lap. That boy, too, seemed trapped.

The image was making Rodney swoon.

"Or in those fuckin' loin cloths...those flaps...even worse...making us show our pricks and balls...turn around...and show the fuckin' bitches our asses!"

Rodney threw his left arm around Stevie's shoulder, and Stevie around Mark's, pals seeking comfort. For his part Mark reached down and cupped Kerry's balls, gave them a gentle tug with his left hand, while continuing to quickly pleasure himself with his right. They were buddies, college freshmen or new Marine recruits in a circle jerk off.

Spurred by the photos the four were approaching climax.

And just outside the bedroom, Mrs Ricketson, home early from Carthage where her auction had been cancelled, having on some instinct tip-toed down the corridor, was seeing everything. The mirror on the half-open door of the bedroom cupboard projected the bacchanalia into her line of vision while she remained out of sight. And Rodney's Mom was hearing every foul, sick word.

Her first thought: how correct her good friend Mrs Reilly was about teenage boys. Yes, dear Mrs Reilly. The richest widow in Brewer with her priceless heritage home in its gorgeous walled garden, who chain smoked and declared cigarettes good for mental processes, who sipped a watered Scotch throughout the day, who travelled the world ceaselessly collecting information about customs and practices that would make one's hair stand on end.

And who paid Police Commissioner O'Mallory a fat donation to his favorite charity to have young male delinquents work off their crimes, naked in her garden.

And who convened afternoon teas of lady friends to talk about nude punishment of their sons.

And- this was the salient point- who had insisted that it was every mother's duty to supervise (even, she had said, "assist") her son's masturbation because boys could not resist their compulsions and would do it anyway. In fact left unsupervised boys recruited pornographic literature and their own schoolmates to help. Why, look at the scene before her! Orchestrated by her son, cunningly, because he no doubt calculated she would be at Cathage till dinner time. The four boys frenzied like spider monkeys! Stripped entirely nude- her son's bedroom a mess of underwear and shirts. Babbling filth about mothers, about nudity! Gripping one another by the shoulders to heighten their paroxysms and devouring the filth on the pages of those lurid magazines! Images of women like her! 

And she, only yesterday, had been so nurturing of her son. So maternal, protecting him from full-bodied exploration from that room of old crones.

This was how he repaid his own mother.

Her resolve was quick. Her plan clear.

First, to arrest them in their activity and hold them naked with magazines displayed until each of their mothers had been summoned. Second, to have those mothers join her in a good old fashioned spanking. Oh, a hard spanking. Indeed to have each mother spank the others' boys, getting to relish close-up the nakedness of the other sons- a veritable festival of hairbrush, leather belt and palm-delivered chastisement. Over the knee mother-style, and with boys standing hands on heads, or standing bent, bottoms projected backwards, or lying on the bed legs raised and bottom tilted: every technique and position, until they had these naked males howling. Really howling. Third, to march them off to Mrs Reilly's next afternoon tea where, in front of 30 so so ladies, they could suffer some more punishment and be professionally eased into a new mother-centric punishment regime. That included supervised or, if they liked, "assisted" masturbation.

 
 

Ggggggrrrrrrrrrrrr!"

The mirror reflected her own son and Kerry Fulbright clenching their faces, throwing their heads back.

"Aaaaahhhhhhh!"

Little Stevie- "little" in every sense she could see- was bent over. Rodney was pulling him close by the shoulder. Hugging him while both of them continued to maul their pricks.

"God! God!"

Kerry gasped it out.

"God! God!"

He looked like he was bursting- and Mark Campbell was reaching and grasping Kerry's testicles- even as Stevie with his free arm tightened his hold on Mark's shoulders. Linked like this, they presented an image of bonded male prisoners: it made Mrs Ricketson think vaguely of ancient Greeks or of Michelangelo.

Stevie was the first to explode. A thick rope of semen shot from his erection, seemed to freeze in the air and sploshed onto the shiny pages of Sundial. Two more cannonades followed to splash on the magazine, the photo of naked youth and matron dissolving under a puddle of boyish white fluid. Kerry shot off next, a powerful ejaculation- veering as expected to the right- splashing on Mark's upper arm. The rest overflowed in Kerry's hand, flooding through his clenched fingers. 

Mark shot off his load, spraying it onto three magazines, drenching embarrassed naked boys, frolicsome maids, predatory Moms.

The three gasped for breath.

"What a mess!" sighed Kerry, slumped, his rigid penis still draining into his palm.

Rodney was cumming.

"Gggggrrrrrrr..."

His head twisted and his bulging eyes took in...his mother, reflected in the cupboard mirror, advancing to fill the pushed-open door!

WHAT? 

YES HIS MOTHER!

FUCK!

"MOM!"

And he shot off!

His first torrent flew high, paused mid-air and then slopped onto the photo of the youth, naked from the pool being menaced by grinning matron.

"GOSH! MOM!"

He kept jerking- he could not stop- under his mother's savage gaze.

His next bolt discharged, and joined Stevie's deposit, drowning the image of freckled-faced, Leave To Beaver, boy-next-door and the prowling lady with grand aureoles on melon breasts.

Mrs Ricketson now fully entered the room. Stood over the kneeling, naked boys. The three who had ejaculated froze with horror, their brimming fingers gluey, and sticky with their offences, their erections still draining fluid. But Rodney's fist continued pleasuring his nine inches. Desperate, panicking.

"OOOOH MOM! NO! MOM!"

Rodney shot off again, a spurt into the air, that landed with a splash on the black and white image of a happy family group with small-dicked father and son and striding donkey-dicked Adonis lurking behind. Splash! 

Hands on the nipped waist of her fashionable broad floral patterned skirt Mrs Ricketson glared at the tangle of male limbs and the guilty rearing cocks. She saw the gooey emissions, filling their fists, and Kerry's deposit running down Mark's upper arm. Her son's broad-beamed penis was still draining the white fluid. On his bed, the nudist magazines were a soggy disaster, the pooled semen of four males congealing on each page.

She looked into the shamed, shocked faces, furtive and terrified. She breathed in the scent of mint-fresh, adolescent semen flavouring the air. Those grunted references to Moms and bitches still seemed to echo in the room.

"Yes, gentlemen, what a mess. What a mess indeed."

She looked around her.

"It is a mess. All your doing. And you will pay mightily for it."

She reflected a moment.

"Being trapped seems to excite you. Well, you are certainly trapped now!"

 
 

 


Submitted: March 02, 2022

© Copyright 2022 Aaron Burr. All rights reserved.

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