Confronting My Demons

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This story is intended for adults only. It contains depictions of forced nudity, spanking, and sexual activity of preteen and young teen children for the purpose of punishment. None of the behaviors in this story should be attempted in real life, as that would be harmful and/or illegal. If you are not of legal age in your community to read or view such material, please leave now.

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Remember the cartoons where someone has an angel on one shoulder and the devil on the other and they take turns whispering in the ear of the person? Well, soon to be twelve year old, Mark reminisces of wrestling with just such temptation. Interesting how things work out.

Confronting My Demons

By, Running Bare

Hi, my name is Mark Wilson. I’d like to share a highlight of my growing up in suburbia. It all took place years ago at the end of my eleventh year. It was the summer between fifth and sixth grade. I guess what spurred the story to begin with is the observation that most of the boys depicted on this site are very timid about being naked and I guess I could easily count myself among them. However, there were some special considerations about my elevated modesty and I wanted to share them.

Mr. Zimmerman was a neighbor in his early thirties at most. My parents insisted on the mister title even though he’d often try to correct them to allow us kids to call him Carl. Mom and Dad were big on respecting adults and he was certainly an adult.

He was always congenial to me and my family. Mom thought the world of the guy and my 8 and 13 year old sisters liked him. Katelyn my middle school sister thought the unmarried guy was a dreamboat and would swoon every time she laid eyes on him.

I was uncomfortable about him. I didn’t like his frequent comments on how “handsome a specimen” I was to my mother. Made me sound like a biology project or something. At eleven as I said, he’d comment over my muscular and “well-sculpted” legs when Mom made me wear shorts. I didn’t like to wear them, but she would force the issue. I mean real men didn’t wear shorts, and especially shorts that were either cut or hemmed six inches above the knee.

We had an above ground pool and whenever I was out there swimming, shirtless of course, he walk over and exchange greetings with me and/or my sisters and mother. Dad wasn’t often there, but if he was Mr. Z would engage him in some conversation or another. Problem was he’d keep staring at me. Even when he was talking to Mom or Dad, his gaze was pretty fixed on me. At eleven I was naive and considered his attention an attempt at being friendly.

At times I’d be within earshot enough to hear him talk to Mom about how good looking a kid I was and each time he saw me with my deepened tan, he’d point out how it was making me even more attractive. He’d even make remarks in front of me about how great it would be if I didn’t have tan lines. Of course, at eleven, it made no sense to me. Mom would agree with him that a consistent tan would be much better. His comments would always be pointed at how much of a lure I’d be on the young girls in a year or two.

Not sure how it happened, but one day he and Mom had discussed allowing him to use me as a photographic subject for some project he was working on. She was more than happy to do so and offered my services without even asking me. I was to go over to Mr. Z’s house in short shorts and a long sleeve button shirt. As she put it, he wants your bare legs to dominate the photos. I was uncomfortable as hell at the intrusion to my utmost modesty. I didn’t like being half naked and now I was going to be immortalized in photographs. But when you’re almost twelve, you don’t have a say in parental decisions and I was forced to comply.

I remember timidly knocking on his door. He was quick to answer. As I stood there he gave me the once over and smiled pleasantly. I was “dressed perfectly” for the session. I was taken down into his finished basement where he’d draped a white sheet from the ceiling. Before me were a stool and a throw rug. There were three bright lights surrounding the “stage”. I was told to “lose the sandals” and I kicked them off. He began by instructing me the same way the portrait photographer did for our family photo. “Put your legs this way”, “hands here”, “look up”, “don’t look at the camera”—you know, the usual. I was a bit uncomfortable as he often rubbed or positioned my bare legs as he wanted them. Just something about his touch signaled more contact than I wanted.

As the session went forward, he had me spread my legs wide apart as I sat on the stool. He put me in various positions on the floor as well. Then he asked me to unbutton my shirt and roll up the sleeves so I would look like an “action ready kid”. I couldn’t imagine how much film he used up, but we stopped at least four times for him to reload his camera.

Following the session he handed me a twenty dollar bill and thanked me for my help. He suggested that he wanted to do some outdoor shooting and wondered if I’d help him out with that. Hey, nobody told me about being paid to do this, but the twenty dollar bill went a long way to relieving my original discomfort. I told him he’d have to ask Mom. As over modest as I was about baring my legs and upper torso for such things, money took some of the concern away.

At dinner Mom and Dad inquired as to how the “photo session” went. I told them of the various things I had to do and how he gave me twenty dollars for posing. Mom talked about how proud she was that I was so cooperative about the shorts and things. I mentioned that he wanted to take me to a park and take pictures of me wading in streams, climbing trees and stuff. They didn’t seem to object in the least bit.

At this point I must digress a little and describe how boys like me with body shyness look at things. There is a subtle hypocrisy to it. We don’t like exposure of any kind, but at the same time many of us do long to be humiliated. The session at Mr. Z’s is a good example. I hated having to be what I considered underdressed, but when he asked me to unbutton my shirt I felt a burst of hormonal action. My throat developed a lump in it and my hands trembled as I unbuttoned the shirt. Much to my embarrassment, my penis was quick to rise to the situation. I know Mr. Z had to have seen the tenting, but he was sensitive enough to ignore it. I must confess I liked the feeling of being half naked even though I hated it as well. It was a mix of emotion much the same as those cartoons where there is an angel on one shoulder and a devil on the other and both are whispering in your ear. When you deal with those situations you begin to wonder how something you feel is so wrong can feel so great. I enjoyed the feeling of being forcibly humiliated.

Over the following two weeks, I’d lie in bed and imagine being naked for those photos. I was astute enough to know that wouldn’t happen, but I wondered how it would feel to be completely exposed and subjected to the whims of Mr. Z or worse a more public audience. He’d take photos of my nakedness and sell or give them to others, maybe even to people who knew me, even other kids from my school or the neighborhood. I’d have nothing more to hide. Those thoughts were instant hard-on material. What would it be like to have to be naked in front of clothed others, especially girls? Even worse, what if the others were invited to explore my naked body in any way they felt compelled. Oh well, arousing or not I was secure in my commitment not to allow such a thing to ever become a reality. I loved the feeling such thoughts awakened in me and the feeling of my hand rubbing my stiffened penis.

Before I knew it, Mom approached me about another photo session. She explained that Mr. Z wanted to take me camping for a few days so he could take some more photos. I was completely on board for two reasons, one, I loved the woods, camping and outdoor pursuits, and, two, he probably would pay me for my service. I’d already blown the twenty dollars he gave me for the first session. I was so on board with the idea I didn’t balk at wearing shorts. I’d do what it took.

When we left he’d packed the back seat of his Jeep with all our camping needs—tent, sleeping bags, a cooler filled with drinks and food, his camera equipment and our backpacks. Mom had made me wear some cutoff jeans that she’d cut up to my ass cheeks. I’d be lying if I told you I wasn’t at least a little self-conscious. I mean the leg openings of my Fruit of the Looms were clearly visible at times when I’d bend in certain ways. Being in public in those shorts alone was enough of an incentive for my penis to rise. But the excitement of going camping was strong enough to overcome my self-consciousness.

As I left the house I was told to “mind Mr. Zimmerman. He’s in-charge and I told him to use his belt if he had to.” Nothing unusual for my parents. They told all adults the same thing, even when I’d go to friends’ houses on sleep-overs. Back then parents empowered parents and it wasn’t an idle threat.

It was exciting riding in the CJ-5. It made me feel rugged to be in such a vehicle. I was oblivious to the fact that with the top down and the doors stowed the openness of the vehicle completely left my exposed legs right up to my ass cheeks, within view of people in other cars we passed. As we rode, I did have short bursts of indignation as Mr. Z would reach over and pat or rub my upper leg to make a point in his conversation. I just kept telling myself to be more relaxed. Mom did the same thing when she wanted to make a point.

We stopped for gas about an hour from home. Mr. Z asked me to take off my t-shirt so I could get used to it and get some rays on my back and chest. I didn’t argue. I do remember how cool it was to be riding in the open air and how the sun warmed but the constant breeze of the circulating air kept me comfortable. I felt so invigorated by the opened vehicle, I didn’t even think about being half-naked in public.

It was three hours later that we left the highway and began following the “unbeaten paths” to find a campsite. There were a lot of possibilities on the shore of the small lake he’d taken us to.

We found a site and set up camp. And, as I wrestled with tent supports he kept clicking away. Then down to the lake for a quick swim and more photos. He suggested I might be more comfortable shedding the denim shorts, but I wasn’t going to go that far. In the way of pushing the issue it was brought to my attention I could swim in my underwear and still be covered. That still wouldn’t do—too much exposure. It was then I began wondering about his long term intentions for me. But, I put those thoughts to rest believing his suggestion I could keep my underwear on as him being sensitive to my modesty.

After the swim he sent me to the tent to change into dry clothing. He stayed outside while I did that. Another pair of short shorts and a dry pair of underwear felt pretty good. I debated putting on a t-shirt, but felt a bit more comfortable with the level of exposure I’d achieved and left it off. When I came out he was lighting a campfire.

The evening was chilly and I asked if I could put on a shirt. He agreed it would be a good idea. More photos were taken of me around the campfire. He went the whole way with marshmallows and hot dogs cooked on a stick. He would occasionally prompt me to vary the position of my legs or head and coached facial expressions. The rest were relatively candid.

We turned in early. I think we were both exhausted. He entered the tent and stripped to his boxers, unzipped his sleeping bag and slid in. I was excited about sleeping in a sleeping bag and followed suit. I stripped to my briefs and entered my bag. Zipped it up and felt quite secure. We chatted about the activities we were going to do the following day and I drifted off lulled by his discourse and the croaking frogs.

I awoke to morning sunlight filtering through the translucent roof of the tent. Mr. Z was out fixing breakfast. As I lay there a feeling of horniness I’d never felt before hit me. The temptation was to treat my host to an unbridled look at my boyhood. The devil angel won by suggesting humiliation would make me feel a sense of arousal I’d never experienced before. It would be a way I could humiliate myself, and, at the same time provide me an element of denial. I unzipped sleeping bag and pushed my underwear down, inched the two halves of the bag apart allowing my hard penis to stick out the side of the bag fully exposing myself. Now, I just had to wait for Mr. Z to return to the tent, he’d think I was asleep and unaware of my vulnerability. I wondered if he would take advantage of the situation to feel my boyhood, but I didn’t care. In fact, there was a strange desire that he would.

Who was this kid? I was completely beside myself wondering how such a body shy boy could put himself in such a precarious position. No one besides my father had such access to viewing my penis in the last two years. But there it was in its four inch glory sticking out above my plum sized scrotum from the opening of the sleeping bag.

I waited patiently for Mr. Z to reenter the tent so he could take in the sight. In anticipation I separated the top and lower sections a bit more and bent my right leg at the knee to ensure a prominent presentation. My penis got harder so did my breathing. The rhythm of my heart quickened as I continued to pretend I was slumbering. It wasn’t much of a wait until I heard the zipper opening the net on the tent door. Momentarily, I considered reneging with a sudden sleep like shift to bring the two halves of the sleeping bag back together, but I didn’t. I just lay there exposed and feigning sleeping.

I wondered whether Mr. Z would see my vulnerability and feel my penis and scrotum. I was conflicted hoping he would, but didn’t want him to at the same time. He fumbled with his bags. It sounded like he wasn’t even aware of my exposure. Momentarily, there was a flash which was unmistakably that of his camera, then another and another. Still pretending to be sleeping I shifted and actually flipped the top of the sleeping bag to the side giving a fuller view of my entire naked body and the flashes continued. Strangely, the very thought I was fully exposed and being photographed was punishing but rewarding at the same time. Go figure. Then I opened my eyes and faked being surprised at the situation and quickly fumbled to cover my body. On the outside my faked embarrassment was meant to disguise my internal gratification for having humiliated myself on my terms. Mr. Z just smiled and told me to get dressed and come out for breakfast.

After fishing around for my underwear at the bottom of my bag, I pulled them up and flipped the cover off once again. My skimpy shorts were sitting on top of my backpack and I slid them on. I didn’t bother with the shirt and went out to a cheerful greeting and a plate of bacon and scrambled eggs on the picnic table. He asked if I slept well, but not a word of my exposure was mentioned.

We spent the day hiking and kicking around the woods. The bulk of our afternoon was spent at the lake. Mr. Z was behind the viewfinder for pretty much the whole day. I continued to wonder where all that film was coming from as he must have shot ten or fifteen rolls on the first full day.

Frankly, I was perplexed. I was wrong in my estimation that my host would have wanted to physically assault my naked body, but he seemed content to just snap a few photographs. He didn’t even bring up the subject of my nudity until that evening. As we turned in he mentioned that I was perfectly free to sleep nude if I wanted to. It wasn’t an order but a matter of giving me permission. I’d guessed it was from what he observed that morning. I didn’t respond.

But on second thought I actually took up the offer just for the thrill of sleeping nude and kicked off my underwear once I was in the bag. I considered a similar show the following morning, but thought doing so might give away the fact I was purposely exposing myself. I continued to try to figure out why I was so willing to tease him while really harboring a very puritanical level of modesty.

After breakfast, I was told to go to the tent and remove my underwear. I was to go “commando” for the remainder of the outing as he didn’t want me getting a rash from wearing “all that wet clothing” should I have the opportunity for wading and/or swimming. I was a bit concerned that my shorts were so short I might be exposing more than I was comfortable with, but he was an adult and I was compelled to follow his whims. I went into the tent and took off my underwear. I felt embarrassed and naughty at the same time. The denim shorts felt a bit scratchy on my skin, but I figured I’d get used to it. I was also asked to keep my shirt off for the day. He wanted to take photos and he wanted me “as natural” as possible. My sandals were okay, but he told me there’d be times he’d ask me to shed those.

Our first activity was at an area of many rock formations. He wanted photos of me climbing the rocks. He said my legs were really attractive and the various positions they would take as I climbed would be aesthetically pleasing to the viewer. Everyone liked seeing muscular little boy legs. That really made me self-conscious. I hated shorts for the exposure they gave to begin with and he was highlighting that. I was a bit resentful, but I had no choice.

On a few occasions he posed me. Always legs spread and sometimes he hike up one of the already too short inseams of the shorts until I was sure my scrotum was visible. On those occasions he felt it necessary to adjust the position of my legs, he’d always firmly grab my upper thigh with his fingers literally inches from accessing my penis and scrotum, but he never went that far. I again had mixed feelings about such an eventuality. Funny I guess. I took his avoidance of sliding his hands to cop a passing brush against my boyhood as a signal that my genitals didn’t measure up. But, that feeling was mixed with the concern my peter would be peeking out from beneath my shorts. I wondered which is it? Eventually, the possible tease of such poses made my erotic juices flow again and I found the possibility of violating my body sensitivity arousing. Yep, my phallus tented my shorts and I was afraid it would eventually poke out from under the hem.

To say I wasn’t expecting eventually to be naked would have been a lie. More than once, I mulled over in my head what my reaction would be should that happen. How would I handle it if Mr. Z just said, “Take off the shorts now”? It didn’t happen.

After returning to the campsite tired from a day on the rocks, Mr. Z and I prepared our usual dinner—hot dogs on a stick, beans and a dessert of charred marshmallows. Hey, I’m not complaining. Nothing there an eleven year old didn’t like.

As I thrust my impaled dog over the fire he made a strange request. He asked me to unbutton the top of my cutoffs and unzip them to the top of my penis. He wanted to take some pictures that spoke to the innocence of young boys. I took pause. Was he on the way to making me pose naked? My first impulse was to fight the request. The very thought of doing that was offensive to me in many ways. What if one of the other campers happened by? He read the pause properly and reassured me I didn’t have to show my penis, just unzip to the top of it. The kid who slept naked and treated this guy to a full view on the first morning had a sudden rush of modesty. I stalled not wanting to go that far. He coaxed me and I complied. I still remember the feel of his adjustments as he separated each side of the zipper. My penis was hard as a rock. After five or six clicks on his camera he told me I could zip up. What is it with this guy? He has had me available on many situations and refused to even fake and accidental touch. I was then sure he wasn’t likely to be attracted to my private parts. It was both a relief, and, to me, a rejection. How could it be? I longed to be embarrassed and humiliated, but at the same time I didn’t.

After eating we walked the twenty feet or so to the lake. He had his camera. I wondered why as the sun was about to set, and the light level wouldn’t support photography, but what would a kid like me know. As I splashed and swam he encouraged me and took a short series of pictures.

As I left the water he told me to go into the tent and put on some dry shorts. “But you won’t need underpants.” So I didn’t put any on.

As we chatted he told me we would be returning to the rock formation the following morning to take some more photos. And back we went the following day.

It started out to be pretty much the same as the day before. One difference is he had me climb a tree or two to show a boyhood activity we all can identify with. During a lull to sip on a bottle of water, I felt a strong level of horniness overtake me. The bad angel was whispering for me to get fully naked for the session. My heart quickened and I could feel rush of warmth in my face as I pondered what my “bad angel” was negotiating. His temptation was to remind me of how good the feeling was two mornings prior when I exposed myself. I then, for some reason, choked out and invitation to Mr. Z. “If you want, I can take off my shorts and let you take pictures of me playing naked?”

Immediately I questioned myself. Where in the hell did that come from? Did I just really say that?

His startled expression was reflected in his questioning eyes. He was definitely uncertain that he heard me right. In fact, he asked me to repeat my offer.

Somewhat shaky and scared, with a quivering voice, I quickly let out the invitation again choking nervously on every word.

He told me that I really didn’t have to do that, but if I wanted to I could. Oh, the adult version of making sure there was an avenue of deniability.

I stood up, pried off my sandals and walked over to him. I thrust my hips forward inviting his assistance. He unbuttoned and lowered my shorts to my ankles. My penis was stiff and pointed directly at his eyes as I lifted my feet one at a time to complete the removal.

What came to mind was “Holy shit! What’s happening here?” He didn’t touch my penis or scrotum. He just put one hand on the sides of each butt cheek and held me firmly. Looking directly into my eyes, he again asked if I was sure that I wanted him to take pictures of me naked. I forced out an “I don’t care if you do.”

The rest of the day I was to be naked as the day I was born. The only physical contact he made never included my genitals. I wanted him to at least brush against my penis with his hand, but I wasn’t going to invite that. I didn’t want him to think I was weird.

Talk about burning up the film containers. I’ll bet he took a thousand photos of me in all kinds of positions and activities. It was evident the bulk of his interest was in frontal shots. He actually said people liked seeing young boys’ penises as they played.

Following the session at the rocks, I reached for my shorts. That spurred the first move on his part in which he showed interest in my nakedness. He told me he wanted me to stay bare as we hiked back to the tent. He wanted more shots of me in the woods and some of me swimming naked. I was aroused by the probability I might be seen by other people as we made our way back to the campsite. At the same time I was very concerned that might really happen. All the way down the trail my boner was hard as a rock. It swayed left and right with each step I took. I was extremely vigilant in my concern to avoid meeting someone else on the trails, but we passed no one. I was conflicted again. Relieved we weren’t confronted by strangers, but disappointed at the same time. What’s with that?

Mr. Z was to later tell me he was disappointed I hadn’t been exposed to others. He wanted to “share my beauty” with them. He said it would make a statement that boys my age shouldn’t be straddled by the prudish nonsense of adults. And, him parading me around naked would be a direct affront to that nonsense. Imagining me being the only naked person in a gathering was definitely embarrassing and humiliating, but it also brought some curious desires to mind. I’m still glad we didn’t bump into anyone else, though.

More photos were taken at the campsite. I was told never to cover my penis or scrotum. He repeated those were what made the photographs interesting. Then we went off to the lake.

Following that we returned to the campsite. It was then he gently took me into his lap with my legs straddling his. I was facing outward. He embraced my upper torso with a firm hug and told me how great it was to share time with me. His hands rubbed up and down my upper legs. My penis straightened out. There was momentary contact with my hardened appendage and ball sack almost as a passing rub. I liked it, and wanted more. His hands returned to my legs almost as if he was retreating from the error of what I’m sure he wanted me to think was “accidental” genital contact. Shortly his touch returned to my erection and was decidedly not “accidental”. He fumbled around manipulating my testicles within their purse. Momentarily he returned to my legs almost as if he wanted me to think his attention to my boyhood was completely unconscious, but at the same time legitimate. I didn’t care. I liked it.

He must have anticipated my apprehension. He asked if it bothered me when he touched my penis. Said he wouldn’t do that if I felt it was inappropriate. I know I was supposed to say it did, but I didn’t. Instead I said, “No, you can touch me there, I liked it.” That unbridled him to concentrate almost solely on fondling my goods. My head was spinning wondering why this was supposed to be wrong. I could have sat there all night letting him stimulate my appendage. After a half hour or so, he slapped my hip and said he needed to turn in.

We went to the tent and zipped ourselves in our sleeping bags and that was the end of that. The following morning we packed up and went home. I purposely didn’t put underwear on and was wearing a pair of those wide legged cotton athletic shorts. You know the ones with the elastic waistband. For some reason things had changed for me a little bit. I didn’t really care if my bird flew the coop. I enjoyed the horniness I felt at the possibility of someone along the way getting teased by a sneak peek would spur that arousing humiliation I was seeking. I wanted my flashes of exposure to invite Mr. Z to trespass on that turf any time he was so inclined. I wondered if I’d been cured of my modesty problem. Wouldn’t that make Mom and Dad happy?

When we arrived home Mom and my sisters met us in Mr. Z’s driveway. Dad followed shortly after. Mom definitely noticed my attire and commented with praise. I don’t think neither she nor Dad was aware of me being commando. She was just happy to see my obvious lack of concern over being shirtless and wearing those short shorts I’d avoided in recent years.

I guess it was a week later that the entire family was invited to Mr. Z’s to dinner. When we entered he had a screen set up in his living room and a projector sitting on a small table ten or fifteen feet away. There were folding chairs for all of us. Unexpectedly for me, Mr. Zimmerman was about to put on an hour long slide show of our trip. I panicked. Was he going to include the nude shots? No, he wouldn’t do that. Not without some kind of warning. Would he chance Mom and Dad’s rath? Would they really be upset? No, he wouldn’t show those.

After the slides of me setting up the damned tent, he clicked to a slide of me stretching naked in the sleeping bag that first morning. It was my first look at the circumcised knob about to explode at the tip of my erection. I think the remark Mr. Z made was how surprised he was that I chose to sleep nude. Both Mom and Dad shared his surprise. My sisters were giggling at the photo. Mom asked if she could get a print of that one.

On he went. Slide after slide. Then we got to day three. You remember the day that I was nude all day. After the first three naked slides my Dad asked how he was able to get me naked for the shoot. He told the truth. “I didn’t ask. He offered.” The look I got from both parents was that of, “Oh, really?” Mom said she’d have to extend an invitation for me to spend more time naked at home. My sisters were in a constant state of giggles talking about my “thing sticking up all the time”.

Following the show Mom provided Mr. Z with a list of the slides she wanted enlarged prints of. Most were of me naked. My older sister wanted an eight by ten of me naked in the sleeping bag because my legs spread the way they were gave a clear view of my boy parts. She made it clear she wanted to share the image with her friends. What the hell? Dad gave her request the green light and offered one to my younger sister as well.

It was clear that my parents were happy that my modesty guard was dropped. In fact, they gave Mr. Z permission to take me on other trips and to make me pose nude in his basement studio if he wished. He outlined his desire to take some of me naked around clothed people and suggested some sessions in the presence of other kids. I wasn’t sure I was ready for that, but my sisters were.

We did return to the wooded area for another weekend session that winter. I went willingly. I also experienced another dichotomy. When you’re naked in the snow and the temperature is below freezing, that eroticism kind of keeps you warmer than you think.

(End of File)