Tied And Humiliated

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Tied And Humiliated
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Posted by
crawfish

on 2003-12-27 21:41:25
Posted by
mandy44fun

on 2007-05-11 20:47:31
Posted by
McKinsey

on 2007-05-29 13:35:58
Posted by
johnney

on 2007-09-12 05:28:10
Posted by
JackMcCann

on 2008-01-08 00:16:51
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This is a better poll than most. Some desintegrate into shouting matches. I've posted this experience on one of the tied up polls describing my brothers and me capturing and terrorizing boys my age or younger.
My brothers provided the muscle as they were big and athletic. I was the tormentress. We devised a capture the flag game that was very elaborate and always involved stipping our prisoners and subjecting them to mild torture with a strong dose of humiliation. Most of our victims played along willingly and were boys my age (11-13) or slightly younger.
Eventually we'd recruit one or two boys to our side if we liked them and they earned our respect. I eventually brought in another girl to help with my part. Once a boy was captured, my brothers would turn him over to me and Karen. Then we'd tell him what we were going to do to him, take him down into a root cellar we called our "dungeon" and strip him to his underpanties. Then we'd bring him up to be tickled, spanked, and tied up by us and my brothers. Occasionally, we'd blindfold our boy and take him out to the road and expose him in just his underoos or white briefs. We had to be careful about that as we could catch holy hell if the neighbors reported us.
This went on for 2-3 years, even in the winter we so enjoyed it. I think I probably "did" a dozen boys, maybe 15 this way. Some were repeats. Most enjoyed it I think, though there were tears and plenty of humiliation for all of us to revel in. As we lived in a neighborhood where a lot of grandkids and nephews came visiting for the summer, we had a good supply of victims.
My friend Karen and I used to talk about this a lot and plot capturing boys that we wanted 1) to see in their underpants and 2) to witness them crying when we started to do things to them. If the boy cried, it was more exciting. I remember one repeat favorite who would start crying as soon as we took him down in the dungeon. Most were passive and if they got mad, my brothers would remind them they agreed to play the game, knew they could get stripped if captured and that something worse, like getting beat up, might happen if they didn't cooperate with us girls or cussed at us. It was pretty hard for a boy to not become emotional and humiliated when there were 3-4 boys and us two girls working them over. I learned boys could have erections easily and unpredictably.
My older brother quit the game when he became a junior in high school, and we stopped the year I became a freshman. It was fun while it lasted and Karen I still ahare notes on those days.
One incident though, kind of soured us that last summer we played. We'd captured an older boy who I liked and thought was cute. First, we put him through the dungeon and everything seemed all right. We tied him to a tree wearing just his skimpy briefs and began interrogating him, asking if he had ever been stripped by a girl, if he'd ever been this embarrassed before, if he played with himself, if he was afraid of what else we were going to do to him in the way of torture. Karen could be pretty intimidating with her interrogation and examination, more so than me. She paid special attention to any boys showing arousal, and when this one did, she stared asking him if he was going to $%!@. Within the minute, we all watched stunned as his orgasm began and throughly wet the front of his briefs. This had never happened with the younger kids. Then, when he told us through his tears that we were cruel, it bothered me as I thought this boy might like me in high school and this spoiled it. I kind of mended my ways after that and the game became history. pat "crawfish" crawford at patcrawford2003@yahoo.com
I especially love the look on their
faces when they realize that they are about to get stripped.
I've been stripped by girls and although it was many years ago it's something i will never forget.
When i was no more than ten, my oldest sister and a group of her friends, a couple of which she still knows, found it highly amusing to stand me on the kitchen worktop and strip me naked. I remember shaking uncontrollably with fright and embarrassment, but it didn't stop them pulling, prodding and laughing at me.
From my own experience the guy is most humiliated by being stripped naked, spanked, and having fingers or other things stuck up his butt by his female tormentors. Guys think their butts, especially their hole, are private, and they hate it when girls use his butt for their fun. Especially a dildo.
Being made to dress up in girls' clothes and stuff like that is child's play by comparison.

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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.

Stories from days past, you can find masterposts for series here about older stories, you can also post your favorite older stories here as well, be sure to credit the author.
danddbard wrote:
Stripped And Humiliated in school by danddbard

My name is Collette. I am 19 years old, have brown, frizzy hair, a little overweight, and have 32 c sized boobs. During high school, I got a part time job working as a librarian’s assistant at a local middle school. My job was to shelve books and help the kids find whatever books they were looking for. It was pretty fun at times, but one day at the beginning of my second year working there, everything changed.

A teacher brought her eight grade class in to look for books for a research project, and I was there to help some of the kids find books on the subject they were researching. At one point, 3 boys (chase, john and Adam) came up to me and asked if I could help them find a book about bats. I took them to a section near the back of the library where we had all of our scientific books on animals. The library was very big for the school, so I needed to use a ladder to get to the top of the shelves to get them some books they could use.

Unfortunately, I happened to be wearing a skirt that day, and when I looked down, the boys were taking pictures up my skirt with their phones. I was really angry with them and I told them to delete the pictures. Adam said “I don’t think we will. You can’t make us”. That pissed me off royally, and I grabbed their phones out of their hands and ended up hurting one of them by twisting his arm too much. Instead of leaving, which I thought they would do, they said that they would tell the teacher that I hurt them. I didn’t want that to happen. I didn’t want to lose my job, or worse, have assault charges filed against me. I begged them not to and said that I would do anything for them to not tell. That got their attention.

“Alright, we won’t tell the teacher”, said chase, “but you need to do anything we say”

“Fine, I will, just please don’t tell her” I begged.

“Ok then, lift up your skirt”, said Adam. “I want to see your panties”

“No way”, I said “I won’t do that. I’m in public”

“You said anything we wanted. This is what we want. Or we could just leave right now.”

“No please” I said. “I’ll do it. Just don’t tell anyone”.

Reluctantly, I slowly lifted up my dress for the boys. I was wearing black and white stripped panties that day. Not my most revealing pair, but I was still red as I showed it to them.
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