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Free Humiliation Stories
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She lies forward over the sodomy stool, feeling its hard surface beneath her, listening to him at her rear, preparing her behind for chastisement. Behind her, methodically opening the flaps of the humiliation gown he’s made her put on, exposing the seat of her pantied bottom to the mirrored walls of the punishment room.
She looks straight ahead as he opens the gown to reveal her behind, her red strapped cheeks clenched tight underneath the sheer white punishment panties he’s exposed. She looks at the mirror in front of her, wondering who’s behind it, looking out at her. Who can see her there in that humiliating posture; already disgraced, with the greatest part of the mortification still to come.
He has the humiliation gown completely opened now, and he pauses to admire the view. Then tells her in a loud voice to reach back and pull her panties down below her buttocks. And then, after she’s done so, after she’s felt him strip her panties off entirely, to move her hands up to spread her cheeks and reveal everything between them.
She complies, knowing that the watchers behind the mirrored wall that faces her backside are enjoying the scene, enjoying her humiliation as she bends forward, her gown opened, her behind displayed. That’s why he’s invited them there, for their enjoyment and her shame. Corrective humiliation, he always calls it; and its effects on her are so drastic that she shudders even when all he does is say the words.
She bends forward, staring at the glass in front of her, at the watchers she presumes are behind it. She’ll never know who they are, how many have come – if indeed there are any there at all. But it doesn’t matter; even if the viewing areas behind the four mirrored walls of punishment room she’s in are empty, her mind tells her that they’re full.
Her mind tells her she’s being watched, and her senses conspire with that conclusion. Her ears prick whenever he stands still for a moment, seeking to hear the hear the telltale sounds of the people behind the two-way mirrors that circle the room. The sound of a throat being cleared? Of a sigh of pleasure as her behind is revealed, the humiliation gown opened, the punishment panties pulled down and off, allowing her to separate her legs wider, spread her cheeks further, present herself with her rectum completely exposed?
Or is it a faint cluck of disapproval at the fact that she’s been allowed to wear panties at all.
She keeps her face tilted up to the mirrored wall in front of her, her eyes towards the glass as she’s been taught, trying not to close them as she puts her hands back to her underpants, drawing them down to expose herself to the people behind the mirror at her rear. Keeps her eyes fixed forward as she feels him removing the panties, as she feels him spreading her legs further, exposing everything between them to the unseen eyes behind the glass.
He had her change into the punishment panties early – earlier than usual – and so it’s a relief to get them down finally, for the thick coating of Vicks he smeared in the seat before having her step into them has stung her strapped behind for several hours.
Vicks in the seat of her panties, stinging her behind. In traditional English correction, salted fat was applied across the red scorched bottomcheeks of a schoolgirl in the final stages of punishment in the headmaster’s study. Salted fat, to make the bottom burn; salted fat, after the strapping, while the girl sobbed over the stool. Salted fat on a strapped schoolgirl bottom, before the sodomy that, from the accounts she’s read, were a regular part of the pedagogical punishments of those long-gone times. Salted fat rubbed into the schoolgirl’s scorched bottom to further increase the sting before her rounded cheeks were spread, her tight anus Vaselined and then penetrated. The headmaster behind her thrusting forward, driving the culprit towards the opened window before her with each entry of the rigid organ into her bowels, with each entry between her martyred cheeks.
Driving the poor girl forward towards the opened window, inching forward with each penetration of her bared behind until, finally, she comes to rest with her face at the sill, her nose pressed to the glass, seeing the freedom outside as her behind is repeatedly impaled by her chastiser’s Vaselined cock.
The girl’s nose to the window, much as her nose is near the mirrored walls of the room. Her eyes to the glass, near the eyes on the other side, looking in.
She’s no schoolgirl, but, like those unfortunate young women of that earlier place and time, early that morning she too had her posterior bared for application of the punishment strap.
Woke that morning with a start, hearing his voice, the cold calmness of it, and all that portended. Woke, dressed, and glumly followed him into his study, where he led her to the old wooden school desk he kept there, made her look at it and endure his lecture as he stripped her panties down. And then, as she pleaded with him, bent her forward over the hard wood, her behind up, her panties neatly arranged below her buttocks to leave her sex and anus bared to his view while he got the strap, while he applied it.
And then, when her kicks and cries and pleas for mercy told her chastiser she could bear no more, she waited like that, buttocks raised and spread. Waited for the application of requisite unguent to the seat of her punishment panties and, inevitably, her strap-scorched flesh. Times change, she thinks, but whether Vicks or salt applied to a punished posterior, the effects are much the same.
As she pulls the punishment panties down, she feels the sudden relief of the cold air of the room blowing across her behind, the relief of the sudden absence of the Vicks in the seat of the underpants against chastised flesh. She knows her bottom glows bright red and shiny before the eyes of the watchers; still, she’ll take the mortification of having it exposed to the pain that the panties brings.
And so she lies there, over the stool, her behind bared, the panties down to her knees, her humiliation gown spread open. Waiting, knowing what’s coming next, anticipating it as much as she despises the feelings that the anticipation bring.
He begins the lecture, idly playing with the lace trim on the gown, with the dainty ties in back that she sewed by hand. The gown was her idea, a feminine variation of the plain hospital jonny he once favored; but she had found too late that the lace trim and other delicate adornments only made the basic function of the gown all the more apparent. Humiliation, pure and simply, the humiliation of having to show your behind, of being unable to conceal it. Of wearing a garment designed solely for exposure and accessibility; purposes that no amount of lace or dainty decoration can alter or abate.
He lectures, and the watchers – if they’re there – stare at her behind through the opened gown, at her white cheeks, at the deep crevice between them, at the occasional glimpses of her fear-clenched rectum that her motions over the stool reveal.
His voice rises and falls, but she can’t focus on what he’s saying; she’s too caught up in the humiliation of being observed. Too caught up in the idea of the eyes on her – caught up in it even though the reality of the watchers is unclear.
She’s imagining herself in their position, anonymous behind the mirrors, witnessing her punishment. She imagines staring at the face first, the culprit’s face – her face. Leaning forward to the glass to stare into the eyes, the pupils dilated, the cheeks shot through with shame. Viewing the behind, the cheeks forced apart by the position over the stool, the anus visible, the pussy beneath all too shamefully exposed. She would masturbate if she were watching; are they doing that now?
Consumed with this thought, she wishes her hands were free to rub herself, but he’s told her not to move them. Still, she is able to shift her hips slightly, feeling the hard surface of the stool rubbing her sex as she does so. No substitute for her hands, but the best she can do in the circumstances.
She hopes he doesn’t notice her motions; the penalty for masturbation during correction is a thick coating of Vicks between her legs during the session, and a bare-bottom paddling over his lap every night for the next week.
Holding a ginger suppository high in her bowels as the paddle crimsons her buttocks.
He’s done with the preliminaries now, and its time for the spanking. The first spanking, she corrects herself, the one she’ll get with her bowels empty. The second, of course, will be longer, stretching from the moment he opens the clamp on the enema bag up to the point 10 or 15 minutes later when he finally allows her to sit on the potty chair to expel. The third, during sodomy; the fourth, immediately afterwards, although, once he’s spent, the discipline is usually half-hearted.
She tries not to think about the spankings, and especially about the potty chair and the humiliation she’ll endure when he seats her on it. Her bared red bottom all too visible to the audience, its most menial functions on display for their pleasure and her mortification.
His cock, presented to her mouth as her bottom performs. That though, at least, is almost comforting.
He’s picked up a second strap from the table to his side, longer than the one he’d used in the morning; the instrument of the reformatory, heavy leather that will leave bands of pain across her already burning behind. It descends down without warning, a loud report as it meets the white flesh of her bared buttocks, and the eyes behind mirrors judge the severity of the instrument from the sudden stiffening of the culprit over the stool.
It’s a very Victorian correction: the reformatory strap; an errant young lady over a discipline stool; a strict older man administering the full correction to her exposed behind. In that situation, of course, the watchers would have been other teachers, there to witness the culprit receiving her comeuppance. Or, equally as likely, other students, waiting to undergo the same treatment, knees knocking as they stand watching, skirts pinned up, knickers drawn down, contemplating their own fates. Two or three other girls, perhaps, two or three more bottoms to be dealt with. Two or three more pairs of bare white cheeks waiting for the application of the strap across them, for the insertion of the Vaselined nozzle between them when the Headmaster washes out their spanked behinds.
And, that night, three or four tearful penitents bent over the ends of adjacent beds in their dorm room with their pajamas lowered, for the forced and forceful application of the headmaster’s stiff cock between their red cheeks and into their greased virginal bowels. One by one, as they squirm and cry and plead for mercy, promising, one after another, to be good. The kicking legs and futile promises ending only with the loud injection of sperm deep into each girl’s red tensing posterior.
Put to bed like that, pajamas down, each behind still Vaselined, each behind full of sperm. She knows this will be her fate, sperm in her backside to conclude the session, sperm in backside when she’s led from the room, still in the humiliation gown.
Sperm, deep in backside when she’s taken home and put to bed. Waiting for him to come in and lie with her, rub her, give her release.
Sperm in her backside, after the spankings, after the enemas, after the potty chair. She’s excited by this thought. Knows she’s wet between her legs, knows she’s aroused, despite the pain the strapping brings her.
The discipline that evening is longer than usual.

The subject of petticoat punishment, when naughty boys are dressed as
girls as a punishment, strikes a chord with me, because it brings back to me
what I can only describe as the petticoat punishment I had to endure when I
was at primary school in England during the 1950's. From time to time I have
heard this form of punishment referred to as 'cruel and unusual' in the
United States, and is, I believe, illegal there today. What a pity. The term
'cruel and unusual punishment' is a concept that only seems to exist in the
United States, and frankly, one that we in England regard as oversensitive.
Yet another difference between our two cultures I suppose.
Humiliation amongst one's peers as a robust form of punishment was widely
used and approved of in the United Kingdom when I was at primary school, as
a salutary (and in my case) most effective method of bringing naughty
children into line with no deleterious side effects whatsoever. And
certainly less physically painful than the cane on the backside for boys, or
a tawse (a Scottish strap) smartly applied on the outstretched hand for
girls.
However, my school's headmistress, Miss Wareham, was vehemently opposed
to corporal punishment, and forbade its use. That may sound lenient, but her
alternative was to any boy far worse than a short sharp application of the
cane on his backside. Miss Wareham preferred humiliation as a punishment,
and a list of her inventive penalties for misbehaviour were pinned up on
every notice board so that there could be no plea of ignorance if you were
caught committing some misdemeanour or other. As I recollect, the list of
penalties went something like this:
Talking or being disruptive in class : The culprit had a baby's dummy
stuck in their mouth, and had to keep it there for the rest of the lesson.
Bullying or impertinence to a teacher : Girls had to wear a baby's
bonnet for a day. Boys had two bows of hair ribbon tied in their hair for a
day.
Swearing : Being a fairly strict Catholic school, swearing was
regarded as blasphemy, and the ultimate sin. It therefore earned you the
severest of punishments, and one that we dreaded. If we swore, the
headmistress used to contact our parents to obtain their approval to apply
it. Unfortunately for us, our parents (including my mother) almost always
approved.
And the punishment? Girls had to spent an entire day wearing a baby frock
and bonnet with appropriately babyish white ankle socks and a pair of black
patent strap shoes. A range of various made to measure size baby dresses
were kept for the purpose. Boys had to spend the day wearing the girl's
school uniform with ribbons tied in their hair.
What made it even worse was that the humiliating outfit was delivered to
our home the day before, so that our mothers would dress us in our
punishment dress first thing in the morning, make us go to school in it, and
ensure that we kept it on until bedtime at the end of the day. The outfit
was then collected the following morning.
I earned a dose of this most unpalatable experience one morning as a
result of taking the Lord's name in vain. It was silly of me really, and in
a way I more or less deserved it, if only because of my sheer stupidity. I'd
been giggling as I read a comic under my desk during class. Suddenly our
teacher Miss Markham stopped in mid sentence, and strode up to me. She told
me to hand over the comic, and as I did so, she said 'Very well Jimmy, it's
the dummy for you.' That's when I made my fatal mistake. I unthinkingly
swore, and at that she became furious. She looked at me and said 'How
dare you swear at me! It seems that something considerably more salutary
is required I think. I'm reporting this to Miss Wareham with the
recommendation that she applies the severest of punishments. And I think you
know what that is. She will inform your mother of her decision
tomorrow. That is all for now.'
She walked briskly back to the front of the class and continued with the
lesson, while I trembled in trepidation at the thought of having to undergo
what any boy would regard as the ultimate humiliation. Several of the girls
looked at me and tittered, as they relished the thought of me being dressed
as one of them for the day, and I blushed crimson.
True to her word, Miss Markham reported me to the headmistress Miss
Wareham, and I was duly summoned to her office at lunchtime the next day. I
stood before her, dreading what I knew was to be my fate, and I was right.
'Now then young man' she said grimly, 'It seems that you've committed not
one, but three offences. All at the same time. One, you were misbehaving in
class. Two, you were grossly impertinent to Miss Markham, and three, most
importantly, you swore at her in the process. You know what the punishment
for that is, don't you?'
'Yes Miss Wareham' I said quietly, trying to look as contrite as
possible. Didn't do me any good though.
'To…to have to wear the girl's school uniform for a day.'
'That's right' she said with a grim smile, 'I've already telephoned your
mother, and she's in full agreement that you should be punished. Miss
Markham will therefore deliver a girl's uniform in your size to your mother
this evening, and she will dress you tomorrow morning in accordance with our
instructions. Do you have anything further to say?' I could think of
nothing, and simply nodded my head in the negative.
'Very well' she said, 'You may go. In the morning you are to report to me
before assembly for inspection. Is that understood?'
'Yes Miss Wareham' I said miserably, and she told me I could go.
That afternoon I was continuously stared at by the other children, and
felt utterly wretched as I contemplated the next day. It was impossible for
me to concentrate on my lessons, and I passed the afternoon almost in a
trance.
When school ended that afternoon, one of the girls giggled and said to me
'See you tomorrow, little girl !' and the others burst out laughing. I
blushed and ran nearly all the way home, eager to get away from their
merciless teasing.
My reception when I reached home was icy. Mum was obviously very angry at
being let down by my behaviour, and showed no sympathy as she told me that
she would ensure that I would be immaculately dressed in my girl's school
uniform the next day.
Shortly after tea, Miss Markham delivered the uniform and explained
exactly what was required with Mum. Unfortunately, my mother seemed to be in
full agreement with her, and I dreaded what the next day would bring. Miss
Markham added that she would take me to school, and Mum would collect me
after school to ensure that I didn't get lost. There was to be no escape
from my fate.
That evening I couldn't think of anything else as I sat in the lounge
miserably watching television, and decided to go to bed instead. Mum told me
that she was going to get me up earlier than usual the next morning, so that
I could take a bath before she turned me into a sweet little schoolgirl.
With that hideous prospect dominating my thoughts, I went to bed. Mum had
already hung the all to familiar girl's school uniform dress on the door of
my wardrobe and laid out the other items on a chair ready for the morning. I
lay there in bed trying to read a book, but couldn't concentrate as I
frequently glanced at the dress hanging there as if it was lying in wait to
envelop me I its humiliating grasp. Eventually, and Mum came in to say
goodnight and put my light out, and I lay there in the dark, tossing and
turning as I tried to drive all thoughts of the next day out of my mind. It
took me a long time to get to sleep.
True to her word, my mother woke me up earlier than usual the next
morning, and after I'd taken a bath I padded back down the landing to my
bedroom where she was waiting to dress me. She'd laid everything out on the
bed in readiness, and I recoiled as I looked at the familiar uniform worn by
every girl in my school. I shuddered to think of the
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