William was sulking.
The problem was that his mum wouldn’t perform Artistic Striptease in school assembly and he was being teased by his friends.
“Your mum’s a coward,” they cried, repeating the words over and over until their chorus resembled a monastic chant.
“She’s a coward ... Hey! William! Your mum’s a coward...”
Each of them took a pristine envelope containing a white feather and in a ceremony that resembled a monastic ritual they presented their feathers to William demanding that he hand them to his mother.
They could have presented the feathers to William’s mother themselves because she was their school’s headmistress, but this would have resulted in inciting her ire.
She was well known for her ire.
Her ire would have meant a rap on the knuckles with a ruler, followed by a lengthy lecture, followed by detention, followed by a note to their parents; followed by ignominy and no supper. Therefore, it was better to present the envelopes to William and let him take the brunt of his mother’s ire. He, of course, was mortified with their gift, but not because he was fearful of his mother, because he wasn’t; but because he didn’t understand why she wouldn’t strip for the boys.
It was what women did, wasn’t it? They were sex objects, weren’t they? It was why God had made them with breasts and pussies and legs and asses.
Every morning William’s mother stood in front of the entire school population in school assembly wearing her black teacher’s gown and with her day book in her hand and her rattan cane lodged under her arm, and following the obligatory hymn and a prayer and an extended warning about the dangers of sexual abstinence, she would introduce the designated mothers to the stage and would encourage and discuss their stripteases. It was her role to ensure there was suitable strip friendly music available, an appropriate wardrobe and plenty of props.
And she always complimented mothers when it was appropriate to do so, and she presented prizes for the best stripteases; and she frequently arranged for boys from the fourth form photography club to use long telescopic lenses to take intrusive close-up pictures that would later be posted on the school web-site – including some that would go in the section entitled ‘gynaecological instruction material’. These pictures were posted for the boy’s sexual education with William’s mother’s blessing, yet she had a son who was a pupil at the school, and she refused to participate in the worthy striptease tradition herself.
Why not? William didn’t get it, and he felt humiliated to have her as a mother. Therefore, this day he walked home slowly and down-spirited, kicking an empty beer tin languidly down the long dusty road, knowing that he must deliver the twelve white feathers at the earliest opportunity or face losing honour amongst his friends.
How could his mother refuse to do what other mothers did so impeccably?
Ginger’s mum had put on a spectacular show despite being old, fat and clinically obese. Henry’s mum had been eight months pregnant and had done it to proper stripper music despite having milk-laden udders and saucer-sized nipples that bounced around on her enormous lump.
And what of Mark’s mum? She was a pensioner – a touch over forty two years of age – and she’d made the year seven boys giggle in horror as she’d danced on the stage having undressed with vim and gusto, hiring professional clobber from a back street lingerie shop including heart shaped pasties, colourful tassels and a strapless bottom that she’d glued to her doodah. The applause had been spontaneous and ecstatic to the extent that she’d given a big, raucous encore, ripping off her fragment with a bold theatrical flourish and opening her legs so that Gregory Smythe – whose birthday it was - could be consternated and overwhelmed by her wet glistening pearl.
What a sight! What a scene!
What a drama!
And then there was Douglas’s stepmom who was twenty six years of age and looked more like Douglas’s sister than his stepmom. She worked as a genuine bone fide stripper at the Naked Angel Lap Dancing Club where she earned a great deal of money, and where she’d met Douglas’s very rich dad only two years previously, and even now they were married she took Douglas to work sometimes when the child minder was ill. He would sit at the back of the club and focus on completing his homework - or so Douglas’s stepmom explained. Her only stipulations were that he didn’t make it too obvious that he was ogling the girls, because he did ogle the girls, and that he didn’t beg anyone for lap dances – except on Tuesday and Wednesday when it was quiet – and he must stay away from the alcoholic beverages.
Anyway she performed a dirty, uncompromising bump and grind and did it close up, giving two of the tenth form science nerds their own personal lap dance that produced trouser lumps and wet stains and an uncomfortable and embarrassing queue for the toilets.
Everyone had been wonderfully and melodramatically agog!
“It’s not fair,” William bleated, having kicked his rusty beer-can all the way from the school gates to the vegetable plot at the back of Dorinda Lane’s garden where he discovered that she was crouched on her knees in the soil with a jam jar beside her that she was filling with worms. “You would do it wouldn’t you, Dorinda?” he fussed, positioning himself on an upturned barrel so that he could see down her school blouse to the lace of her bra and the bulge of her tits. “Why aren’t mothers like other people? ... like you, for instance. I bet you’ll strip for your kids when you’re married and have children.”
Dorinda was a girl with red curly hair, freckles and a loud rosy complexion that accompanied her big bonnie tits, but it was her tits and not her freckles that boys noticed. She fell backwards into the soil with her legs apart and she lazily wiped her brow and extracted a worm with a dirty thumb and forefinger and dropped it into her jar. Dorinda was a fourteen year old girl, but she was a tom boy at heart and so she understood what it was that boys wanted, and she liked to please them. As a tom boy she had a passion for pulling wings from butterflies and legs from spiders, and dropping ants into acid and dropping salt onto slugs. She liked to mess about with cars and chemicals, and get dirt on her clothes, and if a boy could go down to the creek and get naked and go skinny dipping with his mates, why couldn’t she?
She saw things as boys did, and she was one of them.
“Of course, William,” she murmured breathlessly, jiggling her tits with unanticipated exhibitionist excitement. “It’s a mother’s duty to come to the school when she’s invited and to strip naked in her son’s school assembly. Everyone knows that.”
William sighed and locked his maternally directed displeasure into an unsightly frown and he arranged his head so that it was supported by his hand which made him look wise, ancient and intrepidly masculine.
Or so he hoped.
It also helped him get a better view down Dorinda’s blouse, which had been white before she’d managed to spot it with soil, and it hadn’t been ironed, or if it had, Dorinda had creased it. He saw that the top of her breasts were a hazy soft pink, and that her bra plunged at the centre.
“Everybody’s mother has done it,” William moaned, fixing the image of Dorinda’s bosom into his indelible memory where it would stay forever. He paused. “Even puny Alan Saddington’s mum has done it. She was so frightened that she wouldn’t leave the house until Mr. Yates the milkman worked his magic and brought her to school dressed as a school girl wearing a gym slip, stockings and pig tails. He then dressed in a headmaster’s gown like my mum’s and brandished a cane and told her that she was getting six on the bare, and if she dallied about removing her clothes the number would be doubled. Well, it was doubled and doubled again, and doubled a few times after that. She got so many strokes on the bare that she had more tramlines than Blackpool has on its promenade. No one thought she was going to break and take off her clothes, but she did.
She whimpered and then she stripped naked and did everything Mr. Yates said she must do. He persuaded her to prance about on the stage and to open her legs and even to fuck herself with the back of a hair brush, and afterwards, she got down on her knees and sucked more man juice out of Mr. Yates’ cock than he had milk on his milk float, and Ginger was at the front and he says she was wet and he’s sure that she came.”
William paused, reflecting that his mum would look pretty sexy if her ass was made to resemble the tramlines on Blackpool’s promenade. He imagined her standing on the school stage with her panties around her ankles and Mr Yates alongside, and him making her bend across a chair so that her legs were eighteen inches apart and her pussy was open, with everything on show, and that’s how Mr Yates would cane her, and his mother would cry and the tears would roll bountifully down her cheeks as the strokes reigned upon her ass.
Would she cum? Would she climax?
“Are you alright, William?” Dorinda asked. “Is something the matter?”
.... There is more of this story ...