Humiliated Lesbian

⚡ ALL INFORMATION CLICK HERE 👈🏻👈🏻👈🏻

Humiliated Lesbian
If playback doesn't begin shortly, try restarting your device.
Videos you watch may be added to the TV's watch history and influence TV recommendations. To avoid this, cancel and sign in to YouTube on your computer.
An error occurred while retrieving sharing information. Please try again later.
0:02 / 0:36 • Watch full video Live

Yes, There Are More Stories — mrstrict1@aol.com
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 greatest mistake you could make, when you got a fetish like mine, is trying to hide it.

I've been married to Cynthia for 5 years, and I've never found the courage to tell her about my thing. At first I was thinking something like 'come on buddy, it's weird, this girl could be the right one, don't make her run away'. Now, on the other hand, I worry about her reaction: after all this time, you think you know any little secret about the person you're married to. And when you find out there's something else? How do you take it? In short, we're really happy together, but if I was a little bolder, we may be even better.

Cynthia is 34, like me. She's pretty, cheerful and damn sexy. She's about 5'5'', brunette, long curly hair and dark-eyed, dark complexion, she has nice boobs (size 3 full) and even better butt, first thing I noted when I met her, at a volley friendly mixed match organized by our mutual friends. She had obviosuly athletic shoes on, but I've decided anyway, without seeing her feet, she would be the woman of my life. Feeling immediately kicked in, shortly after we started to hang out, and today we're here. I can still remember the first time I've seen (and touched) her feet: after a date, she invited me up to her house. We were a little tipsy: she let me sit on the sofa and after she kicked her ankle boots out she placed her legs with stockings on over my thighs. "Ohhh, my feet hurt so bad!", she exclaimed removing her stockings and touching the ball of her foot. "Would you give me a little massage? If you're good at this I swear I'll marry you", she added laughing. I grabbed her 5,5 size feet. Not gonna lie: my wife's feet are simply divine. Soft, meaty, right length toes and two irresistible big toes. I don't know why I tried to conceal my thing, the fact is that I just made a good (very good) massage to her feet. Later, I didn't look for other opportunities to go deeper. Of course, after cohabitation and marriage, I had much more chances, like some foot scene watching a movie together or Cynthia putting her feet on my face to make me smell 'em, but always as a joke. Sometimes I caress and kiss 'em, but just as lovely gesture for a wife.

Last month I heard Cynthia talking on her phone locked in the bathroom, laughing: she seemed amused. When she got out, still smiling, I asked who was.
"Steve, tomorrow we got guests for dinner". What? We usually talk about things we're gonna do. I was a little surprised but I just asked who would come. "Do you remember Johnny? Well, he's in town, he told me he'd like to see me after all this time, so I invited him to dinner. Oh, he's happy to see you too, of course...". Obviously I remembered Johnny: he was a Cynthia's youth friend. She has always sworn they've been nothing more than friends, but I had my doubts. Howewer, he's long since living in UK for job (he's a claimed engineer) and much time has gone by. "Ok honey, no problem, tomorrow I'll go to buy groceries".

The next day Cynthia spent several hours cooking her speciality and fixing up the house. Johnny came at 7:30 PM: it's summer, so he was wearing a sand-colored linen shirt and white linen trousers. He's a little shorter than me (about 5'8'') but I have to say he's a good-looking man, with his tanned skin and his medium-length black hair. That night, Cynthia was radiant and irresistibile: she was wearing a clear floral dress and easy flip-flops. I noticed she had just white-painted her toenails. We spent a good time together, just like good old friends, eating, chatting and drinking a very good white wine, brought by Johnny. My wife and her friend were tipsy, for sure more than me. Maybe this is the cause of what would happen shortly after.

We sat on the sofa, always drinking wine. I had to go to the bathroom, so I left 'em alone for a few minutes. When I came back in the living room, at first from a distance I heard Cynthia laughing, then I saw this scene: my wife laying on the sofa with her legs on Johnny's and her feet in his hands. He was giving her a foot massage. When they saw me, while Cynthia suddenly changed her facial expression, Johnny remained calm. "Oh, Steve, you don't mind if I asked Johnny a little foot massage, right? I've spent the whole day standing and now I'm exhausted". "Besides", added Johnny, laughing, "when we were kids I used to do it so many times!". Cynthia started again to laugh. I was feeling confused as never before. Maybe I had to get angry: yes, they have been drinking a lot, but who cares? Another man was touching an intimate (very, very intimate, to me) part of my wife's body. But, I don't know how to say it, I was finding that scene so intriguing. I chose to stay calm, sitting on a nearby little sofa, looking at 'em. Meanwhile, Johnny was keeping his job on: he alternated Cynthia's left and right foot in his hands. My wife seemed totally chilled out: actually, Johnny' hands knew very well her feet. After about ten minutes of massaging, Johnny moved to next level: he put Cynthia's feet to his face and started to kiss her soles and toes. "Mmmhhh they're soft as ever but smell has changed", he said, "now they smell of...a mature married woman! Eheheh!". "You stupid!", replied Cynthia kicking his face, for fun, laughing even louder. She looked at me, perhaps trying to catch my thoughts. She could think I was finding it a pretty normal, maybe a little malicious game she was doing with her youth friend. After all, to her husband feet could be a normal (indeed a little disgusting) body's part. The truth is I was having a war inside me: my pride was saying to stop 'em and beat the crap out of that guy; my cock, already erected, was saying it was all so fuckin' hot, for some damn reason. So I let 'em keep on, to see where they would get.

Johnny was already without brakes. I could hear him moaning while he was starting to lick Cynthia's soles and suck her horny toes. She was looking a little embarassed yet she let him do that. Indeed, she began to breath heavier, just like when we dry hump. "Oh, Johnny, take it easy", she tried to say, with little breath, "My husband's just here...". He stopped. He looked at me. "I now he's here. What's the problem? We're just messing around!. Do you mind Steve?". A mental healthy person would reply getting up and punching his face like a beast. But I just didn't know what to say. I didn't want to look like an asshole, but I wanted they would go on. So I just shrugged and said: "Well, if it's ok for Cynthia...no problem."

But as you can imagine, the scene has a development: while Johnny was starting again to kiss, lick and worship my wife's feet, Cynthia's right foot dropped and touched unintentionally (?) Johnny's family jewells. "Oh my God, what was that?", she asked her, opening her eyes wide. "You know what it is", he answered, taking down his trousers, "you know him!". My wife's friend pulled out of his pants a huge (I mean, huge) cock. "Have you missed him? Do you remember him like this?". Enough is enough. What pissed me off so bad was, not so much he pulled out his dick in front of my wife, shaking it ahead of her face, but above all the fact Cynthia lied me shamelessly. Before, not only he used to give her foot massages, but they used to fuck as hell. I was getting so angry with her. I got up and tapped Johnny's shoulder: "Now I think you're out of line". "Keep calm honey", tried to say a very embarrassed Cynthia. But in her eyes I was seeing not only awkwardness, but a genuine excitement, "we're just playing...maybe it was the wine". "Oh, come on man", replied Johnny, now more aggressive, "you know your wife goes crazy for this big boy, and you're no match". I was being humiliated in front of my wife. But even at that moment, my cock was up. Maybe this is the definition of cuckold , I thought. Completely dazed for my wife's eyes a
Besstiality Porn
Pure Porn
Impregnation Incest Porn