Lesbian Humiliation

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Lesbian Humiliation
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.


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Even WWE has somehow managed to get it right (once) and make a compelling storyline out of lesbian issues.
For whatever reason, one of the most prevalent male fantasies in modern culture is seeing two women engage in a sexual experience together. Given that the entire point of being a lesbian is that a woman has no romantic interest in men, this seems a little counterintuitive, and yet in the world of popular culture, semantics like these are a little bit less important.
Thanks to a certain sports entertainment impresario being one of the men who buys into this fantasy even more so than most, World Wrestling Entertainment and other professional wrestling companies have been especially guilty of turning their employees into lesbians simply to titillate a crowd. Were McMahon or any other promoter able to handle LGBT characters with the proper respect and care, maybe a storyline like this could actually entertain an audience in a non-sexual way.
Unfortunately, it seems like whenever they try to make a woman’s gimmick that she’s in love with another female, the result is horribly offensive to real lesbians, let alone any viewers who happen to live within the bounds of good taste. That said, on very rare occasions, even WWE has somehow managed to get it right and make a compelling storyline out of lesbian issues. Either way, if you happen to be one of those people who just want to be enticed by the imagery, there will be plenty of that, as well. Keep reading to learn about 15 lesbian moments in pro wrestling that made our jaws drop, in more ways than one.
It feels appropriate to kick off this list with one of the main reasons people believe WWE will never handle lesbian issues properly. Back in 2002, ratings were sagging something fierce after the exits of “Stone Cold” Steve Austin, The Rock, Mick Foley, and plenty of other stars who personified why the Attitude Era was so popular. Rather than attempt to establish a newer, younger talent as a superstar worthy of replacing those legendary names, Raw General Manager Eric Bischoff went the lowest common denominator route and offered HLA—“Hot Lesbian Action.” On September 9 th , two actresses who were clearly not actual lesbians were lead to the ring where they awkwardly pretended to kiss one another, for all of about three minutes. At that point, Bischoff had 3 Minute Warning attack the poor ladies, making sure absolutely everybody was offended by what went down that night.
It’s bad enough when WWE uses entirely fake lesbian couplings in their storylines, so it should go without saying it becomes a whole lot worse when they use the tried to force the idea of a real one. That said, depending on how one feels about reality television in general, the idea may well be business as usual. If it isn’t clear by now, we’re talking about one of the plotlines on Total Divas , the series documenting the real life of several female superstars. In seasons 3 and 5, this included Rosa Mendes, and she also appeared as a guest or recurring character in 2, 4, and 6. Also, since 2014, Mendes has been openly bisexual, a fact that has come up on the show more than once when cameras were running and she may have had too much to drink. First, Mendes kissed a shocked Natalya Neidhart, and then…
Vince McMahon probably just about lost his mind at the news Rosa Mendes was openly bisexual, and when Paige revealed the same thing, it’s almost easy to picture him doing whatever it took to pair the two together onscreen and off. Obviously, it isn’t too hard getting women who work together to spend time together, and so cameras caught Paige and Mendes hanging out on many occasions. Eventually, just as had happened with Mendes and Natalya Neidhart, this included a moment where Mendes drunkenly came on to Paige with a passionate kiss on Total Divas . Also just as had happened the first time, Paige calmly pushed Mendes away and said she didn’t reciprocate those kinds of feelings. Regardless of this demure reaction, WWE and Total Divas other producers used the moment as often as they could in advertising, trying to milk it for whatever it was worth.
Mostly because of how patently offensive it was on every level, most WWE fans have all too clear memories of Billy Gunn and Chuck Palumbo’s homoerotic tag team and subsequent fake gay wedding. What most people probably forget is that something just as horribly offensive was taking place behind the scenes involving the ladies. First thing first, on the February 7, 2002 episode of SmackDown , the then-relatively new Billy and Chuck challenged Stacy Keibler and Torrie Wilson to a pose-off. Sexually suggestive poses ensued, including the ladies crawling all over one another, and the crowd responded by naming them the winners by a wide majority. The catch is that the exact same segment was filmed weeks earlier with Trish Stratus, who found it extremely out of character for her and didn’t want to be involved. As punishment for refusing the role, Stratus soon lost the WWE Women’s Championship.
You got to hand it to Total Nonstop Action, Impact Wrestling, or whatever it is they call themselves these days. Whenever WWE or most other wrestling companies try lesbian angles, it feels cliché and kind of pointless, not to mention completely inaccurate to anyone who actually understands LGBT culture, as this list has repeatedly reminded. In the one incident where TNA tried, on the other hand, they decided to get extremely weird with it. It all started when then five time former Knockout’s Champion Angelina Love began seeing Winter, who WWE fans might recognize as Katie Lea, popping up in mirrors and giving her advice while making sensuous poses and gestures. Part of why it worked is that any lesbian undertones were kept subtle, merely relegated to errant glances as Winter and Love formed a championship winning tag team.
Having been involved in one of the greatest LGBT storylines of all time, which this list will soon cover, one might hope that Mickie James would be a little bit more sensitive about the subject than some others. On the contrary, her character has been extremely flippant about her sexual orientation, having used lesbian tendencies as an attack more than once. It worked in that famous feud this list will cover later, but when James randomly planted a kiss on Melina before pinning her at Survivor Series 2007. The moment came in a 10-woman tag match featuring most of the women in the company. It was bad e
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