Monday, January 26, 2009

Humiliation Girl

I’ve already talked a little bit about my ‘relationship’ with someone I like to call Humiliation Girl (not her real name, but it certainly should be) in the blog. I originally mentioned her way back in my third post, “My BDSM Experience”. I talked about her abrupt disappearance from my incoming email in the first “This Should Be Many Smaller Posts” post.

I spent a couple of paragraphs talking about her again in the ‘Food Play’ section of the “Fetish at Christmastime” post. Then in “Watersports – A Jar of Piss vs. What I’m Actually Into” I described one of the dares that I sent her. A dare that she apparently accomplished, as per her claim in her final email to me, but never actually gave a fully detailed report on. (Tsk.)

I eventually outlined the basic history of our e-mail association in “What Zeitgeist the Clown Did in 2008”. (Some of which I’ll reiterate here for those of you who don’t want to go back and read – or reread if you’re one of my faithful two or three readers – that piece just for the background info.)

I also recently mentioned (“Misconceptions and Context”) having written her a humiliation scenario in which I strip away her femininity – a weird little scenario that ends with HER being humiliated by fucking ME up the ass with a strap-on.

It’s possible that there were other references. The abovementioned are the ones that stand out in my mind.

Throughout the entirety of this blog, after repeated posts in which I simply mention or reference her, I keep meaning to do a post that’s actually about her. At first, I was waiting until our correspondence had progressed further. Once it stopped, I was waiting for it to resume. After I’d given up on her, other topics kept forcing their way into the list ahead of her.

But finally, today’s the day. It’s time to talk about the Humiliation Girl.

How We ‘Met’

Last March, Humiliation Girl (or HG) and her husband (whom I’ll just call “Hubby”) posted a lengthy request on a bunch of different message boards. One of which was on a Yahoo group dedicated to Salem, OR area adult book stores. (Gloryholes, couples booths, and other likely places for anonymous sex.)

HG was described as being 27, 130 lbs, 5’4”. Curly red hair, pale skin, and c-cup breasts.

In that post, they talked about wanting to travel during spring break for swinging activities. Hubby just wanted to watch. HG just wanted to be used like a piece of meat. They asked that people send in descriptions of what they’d do to/with her if they ended up being chosen as playmates during HG and Hubby’s travels. About the acts to be described, they stressed “the more degrading and abusive the better”.

One of the main activities that they were looking to accomplish was fisting. HG wanted to lose her fisting virginity, and her and Hubby thought it would be exciting to have her first time be at the hand (my pun, not theirs) of a stranger.

They included a lengthy list of things that HG was into, or wanted to try. Including humiliation, degradation and abuse. Specifically, she wanted to have sex with “fat, old, or very unattractive partners (a humiliation turn-on for her, take no offense)”. Hubby also mentioned that “Penis size is also not an issue. My wife prefers to be stretched out by big cocks, but also gets off on worshipping tiny little cocks as well (humiliation factor again!)”

I’d never responded to one of these before. But my virginity was acting up that day, and their post had made me really, really horny, so I sent them an email.

I introduced myself, and explained that I was the perfect partner for her if she was into humiliation, and if her humiliation switches got flipped by getting fucked by an older obese man, and having to worship a tiny penis. Plus, still being a virgin meant that if my email convinced her to come out to Oregon, then when I fucked her it meant that she was such a low and filthy thing that she’d be willing to spread her legs and submit her body to someone so vile and disgusting that nobody else would even entertain the notion of having sex with him. .

[No, my self-esteem isn’t so low that I think of myself in those terms, but it fit the humiliation theme, so I ran with it.]

The Corpse Scenario

In that first email to her, in addition to listing a variety of bondage, humiliation, and abuse activities I had in mind, I also included a list of roleplay possibilities. One of which I actually wrote up rather than simply leaving as a one-line list item.

Given that you like being treated like a piece of meat, try this on for size:

You’re a woman who just died in a bathroom, and your body has been discovered by a deranged pervert. I grab you by your ankles and drag your corpse out of the bathroom and into the motel room proper, then start going through your pockets. At first, my intention is really just to loot your body . . . but then I find condoms in your pocket. And only a slut walks around with condoms on her. A slut probably wouldn’t mind if I did more than just loot her corpse.

I remove your clothing (possibly taking it off, possibly cutting it off of you). I pocket your panties (souvenir). I play with your tits, and push a finger up inside you. You must have been horny when you died, because you’re still wet. I molest your dead body as you lie there, silent and unmoving.

I put on one of the condoms I found in your pocket, and begin fucking you. All the while narrating what I’m doing, talking to this strange girl’s dead body, and voicing my disbelief that I’m actually fucking a dead girl.

After I’ve cum, I realize that I should probably clean you up before someone finds you and calls the cops. So, I drag you back into the bathroom, and deposit you in the tub. Still feeling depraved (and when else will I ever get this opportunity?) I empty my bladder on you before I start cleaning you up. I piss on your face, your tits, and your pussy. Then I turn the water on and get to work.

I wash you down – removing my piss, cum, and saliva from you. And since dead girls don’t feel anything, there’s no need for me to be gentle. After scrubbing your body with a wet washcloth, I re-wet it, and then stuff it in and pull it out of your pussy a few times. I then leave you naked in the tub, taking your clothing with me for disposal.

At this point, I was really just trying to go for degrading rather than an actual specific fantasy of mine. Sure, with the exception of the necrophilia theme, everything I wrote sounded good to me. And I was amused by the discipline/submission angle of her trying to remain corpse-still throughout the entire sex act.

Anyway, I sent off the email, and waited.

Questionable Honesty

I got an e-mail back from them in April which apologized for not getting back to me sooner (and which read like a form letter – I don’t think they’d gotten back to anybody yet). They explained that they’d missed their arbitrary spring break travel window, but planned to do some traveling over the summer and later on during the year, and would try and do some swinging during that time.

The e-mail also promised that pictures of HG would be forthcoming soon.

When the pictures showed up a month later, they were accompanied by an e-mail from HG, informing me that the situation had changed somewhat. Hubby had changed jobs, and lost his vacation time in the process. So now the plan – with Hubby’s perverted approval – was to send HG traveling alone with a video camera. She’d have her degrading little encounters that she’d handpicked from the e-mail submissions, and videotape them so that Hubby could watch them upon her return to him.

An e-mail or two later, the story was that Hubby had become jealous, and decided that he wouldn’t let her travel on her own to have sex with other men. If she wanted to indulge in her fantasies, Hubby had to be there to watch in person. Although (as HG further stated) Hubby had seemed to have gotten cold feet and changed his mind about the entire swinging thing now, so it might not happen at all.

Had they ever planned to travel the country letting strangers violate and molest HG’s incredibly sexy form? Who knows? I have my doubts. My theory is that it was a test to lure dirty and depraved minds into correspondence with the promise of sex. Then to see which ones liked dishing out the verbal abuse and proposing the humiliating dares enough to stick around even after the potential to fuck her nasty little brains out was yanked away.

There was a part of me that questioned whether or not the whole thing was true from the beginning because, well, it seemed too good to be true. And there’s usually a reason for that.

E-Mails To and From Humiliation Girl

The bulk of our email correspondence was over a three month period (June through August). It started with the email in June that included pictures. [And regarding those pictures, might I just say, GOOD LORD AND BUTTER! HG was one incredibly hot little redhead. The second time I looked at her photos I found myself musing, “I wonder what the chances are of convincing her to dress up like Batgirl?”]

The first thing that she said to me after informing me that Hubby would no longer be traveling with her for her little cross-country sex romps was:

You are one SICK puppy, and I mean that in the best possible way! I would love to hear any of your fantasies, no matter how warped. Maybe we can figure out how to make some of them happen, especially if hubby won't be there to play referee...

I think that she liked what I had written her.

She talked about fisting in that first letter . . . along with the fact that she was interested in permanently stretching her pussy open. She wanted to “permanently gape (her) cunt”. She would go on throughout the course of our correspondence to talk about her fantasy of having her pussy ruined via insertion of large (and too-large) objects.

And thus began our real correspondence.

I told her that I had a fantasy about having a woman cum mule for me (sucking my condom covered cock until I came, then after removing the condom and tying it shut so nothing leaked out, swallowing my still-protected load, condom and all). She told me that the scenario did absolutely nothing for her at all. But that if it turned me on, she’d be willing to do it for me if/when we got together anyway. (There were a lot of things that she’d agree to do because it got her off knowing that the action turned me on, despite the particular action not arousing her at all.)

It also came up in conversation that – and I almost fell out of my chair when I read this – she used to go to sci-fi conventions . . . dressed as Batgirl!

Following a reference to strap-ons, I spun this little scenario:

I make a little speech about how woman are great. About how God made them to be creators, about how nature formed them as the Goddess archetype, or whatever. I go on about how I respect and adore women, and so on. But then I look down at the woman I’m talking to, and I say, “Except, of course, for you.” I then go on to tell her how nobody as worthless as her could be considered a real woman, and by claiming to be, she’s insulting all of womankind. My ranting and verbal humiliation of her continues until I tell her that she’s not even worthy of possessing a vagina. She needs to strap on a fake cock over it, like putting a fresh coat of paint over some ugly graffiti. Then I tell her that it’s not even enough to make her a man. Because men are allowed to make love to women. No, what she needs to become . . . is a faggot. A dirty little cock-sucking, ass-fucking queer. Which is how I can be bend over with a woman sodomizing me with a strap-on, and still be the dominant one in the scenario. And after she’s done (or once I’ve had enough), then she can get on her knees and suck my cock.

(Yes, some of that could probably be construed as hate-speech toward homosexuals. No, it’s not the sort of thing that I’d say outside of this sort of scenario. I’m calling her – and her alone – a faggot and a queer in this new fantasy male persona as a means of degrading her, per her desires.)

Later on, after getting more information about things she’s into (like medical/gyno fetish), I refined the above scenario for her:

First comes the diagnosis, while I’ll make with an uncapped marker in my hand. “Not deserving of being a real woman” gets inscribed across your forehead. “Doesn’t Deserve a Pair of Tits” gets written on the appropriate place. “Not Worthy Of Having Vagina” scrawled on your leg, with an arrow pointing at your dirty pink hole.

We get rid of your breasts first. Squash down your pathetic c-cups and bind them tight to your body with saran wrap. Make you as flat-chested as we can. Then comes the cunt. What do we do with that, I wonder? Finger you one last time, of course. Play with your clit. But not all the way to orgasm. The doctor might take you close, but when your waves of pleasure approach, we pull out and write “Hasn’t Earned the Female Orgasm” on you. When you looked at the tray of surgical instruments, were you a little frightened? Were you wondering what the needles and fishing line were for? Do you figure it out as I pinch your inner labia shut? Can you imagine what it feels like when I push the needle through one side of one of your pussy lips, only to re-emerge on the other side of the other one? Can you feel the sterilized fishing line being pulled slowly through the sensitive flesh of your labia? Can you imagine it happening over and over as I stitch your cunt shut?

And even with the hole sewn shut, it’s still obvious that it was once there, once open for business. We can’t have that. Which explains why the next sound you hear is a strip of duct tape being torn off the roll. We have to cover up all evidence that you were once – laughingly – a female.

Then we attach your new strap-on prosthetic faggot-ness. And initiate you into the ways of faggot-hood. You have to buttfuck your doctor, like the queer that you are. Then get down on your knees and give your first faggot blowjob.

Popular culture tells us that if a man could suck his own cock, he’d never leave the house. Well, I think it’s time to show you that you never have to leave the house. Because the next step is to unstrap your dick, and make you suck on it. How does it taste? Like the inside of my ass? Excellent.

Maybe I’ll even undo your surgery. Remove the ‘bandages’. (Duct tape hurts when it’s ripped off of flesh. Do I care? No.) Unstitch your cunt. Discover how wet this whole procedure has made you. (Sick. Sick. Sick.) Then ram your faggot’s cock into your freshly reopened cunt. (Am I giving you a urinary tract infection by spreading bacteria from my ass to your cunt? Probably. Do I care? No.)

You’re wet right now, aren’t you? I don’t mean the ‘you’ in the above scenario, tortured, belittled, degraded, and then fucked with a dirty dildo in both mouth and twat. I mean the you that just read that whole thing. Most women, upon reading the above scenario, would just feel ill. (And actually, few of them would have read the whole thing through to the end.) But you . . . your pussy is all wet, and your nipples are hard. Aren’t they?

In her next e-mail, she confirmed that yes, it made her pussy get wet and her nipples get hard. And best (?) of all: “and the part about giving me a urinary tract infection and not caring sent me over the edge!!”

She asked me to amp up the verbal abuse. And to start giving her orders and/or dares to perform.

Lowly Crawling Thing Wants Verbal Abuse, It Gets Verbal Abuse

So I started telling her how stupid and worthless she was. Calling her a pile of human garbage, and all the usual stuff. Verbal abuse 101. She was a fucking bitch, she was a dirty cunt, she was a stupid whore.

She’d talked about my e-mails making her so hot that she had to masturbate. My references to her masturbating went from “did you finger yourself?” to “did you shove your nasty little fingers up your slimy fuckhole and pound yourself until you came?”

The salutations on the e-mails had gone from ‘Dear HG,’ to ‘Bitch,’. But then one day, instead of calling her bitch, I opened up an email with: ‘Gooey Hole,’

She liked that. I don’t think that I used her name again after that. And I tried not to use the same replacement twice.

Gooey Hole, Pissbucket, Snatch-Squatch, Slimetrail, Jism-Drizzled Cunt Face, Fuckbreath, Fraidy-Cunt, Disgusting Thing Scraped Off Of The Bottom Of a Shoe, Cuntlet, Slutling, Brain-Sick Whore, Cunt-Flavored Fingerbanger, Day Old Jism-Filled Donut, Worthless Slice of Slut, Snotbubble, Slutmuffin, Assortment of Fuckholes, Cockstorage, Little Obscenity, Urinal Cake, Dogtwat, and so on and so forth. I lost count of the number of times I read “I just LOVE the things you call me!!” in her e-mails back to me.

[Had our correspondence continued, I would have gotten a mailing address for her sometime before Christmas. I’d have either cajoled her home address out of her, or convinced her to get a post office box. Then I would have had a shirt printed up for her as a Christmas present. The shirt would have been completely covered in a pattern of “Hello, My Name Is” sticker images, each one with a scribbled in name for her. The greatest hits from the Gooey Hole, Pissbucket, etc. list, along with new ones for the occasion. Alas, it was not to be.]


I gave a lot of thought to giving her dares to perform. I started making a list. But eventually I found the one that screamed out “Me first!”, and so this is what I told her:

Wear a top that covers you completely, but allows easy access to flash your breasts (by either lifting your shirt or pulling down on your neckline). Wear a skirt (nothing super short). No bra. No panties. Then go out to some places. Liquor store or mini-mart would be good choices. Maybe hit a few bars. Shopping mall if you’re extra daring. Make a trip to a sex shop. Maybe hit the local comic shop on a Wednesday when it’s crowded with horny fanboys (all fanboys are horny fanboys) after the new comics. What then? Simple. If anyone asks to see your tits or your pussy, show them. Pull up shirt, hike up skirt, whatever. Now, you might be asking yourself what makes me think that someone make such a bold request. It’s because you will also have taken a marker and written “Ask to see my tits” on your forehead. And “ask to see my pussy” on your tits (making sure that this second line of text is completely hidden by your top.) So, let’s make this official, shall we? I DARE YOU TO DO THIS.

She’d already given me a sad, sad story about how she had no safe way to take dirty pictures, since her home computer was broken and she couldn’t use the computer at work to transfer images off of her digital camera. (And yes, there were dares in mind to challenge, but we never got to them.)

The second dare I gave her was this:

Put your dildo in your purse, then treat yourself to lunch. (Not a ‘family’ place with lots of kids at the tables). Go to a restaurant, or a café, or whatever, go in, sit down alone, and order. Once you’ve ordered, take the dildo out of your purse, and practice your oral sex skills on it. Right there in full public view of everybody. Continue this until your food comes, at which point you wipe it dry with a napkin, and put it back in your purse. [For ‘bonus points’, after you’ve paid the check, take your dildo back out of your purse, and walk to the ladies’ room, toy in hand. Enter a stall, and fuck yourself with it. If you still haven’t completed your first dare when you’re doing this, I’ll allow an exception to your ‘won’t orgasm until after completing first dare’ rule. Bang your nasty little slash with that fake rubber cock until you cum. When you’re done, wash it clean at the sink, dry it, and return it to your purse.]

The third dare I gave her was the ‘empty your full bladder in a check-out line at Wal*Mart while buying adult diapers’ dare I discussed in the “Watersports – A Jar of Piss vs. What I’m Actually Into” post.

And after she was bratty to me in one of her e-mails, I also ordered her to do 24 jumping jacks – naked and outside – with a pinecone inserted into her vagina.

Her final e-mail to me included the following paragraph:

I actually have completed 2 of my dares; peed my pants at Walmart and hit the comic stores (almost DID get arrested) and did the pine cone punishment as well, but have not had the opportunity to write those in the detail that you deserve, but I will. I know my problems are none of your concern, and will accept any punishment for the delay.

There were more dares to come. Like I said, I had a list. Some of which I thought up just for her, others I stripped out of unwritten porn stories I had rattling around in the back of my head.

I was going to have her sit barefoot in a number of public places with a TIPS jar and suck on her toes. Maybe rub her crotch through her jeans and moan. But mainly just drool and slurp on her wiggly little toes in the hopes of attracting fetishists with loose change. She’d have to keep this up from place to place over a period of time until she’d collected a set dollar amount.

I was going to have her go to a jogging track and run eight laps. With a clothing adjustment at the end of each one. After finishing lap #01, she’d remove her top and stow it in her backpack. The conclusion of lap #02 would see her shorts or sweatpants come off. After jogging lap #03 in just bra and panties (and shoes and socks, of course – I’m not going to make her jog laps on a track barefoot), she moves onto lap #04 topless. And when finished with lap #04, removes her panties. After running lap #05 naked from the ankles-on-up, she gets to reverse the process, getting dressed lap-by-lap.

I thought about having her call in sick one day, then send herself flowers to her workplace – with a card signed by a male name NOT Hubby. How nosy are HG’s co-workers, I wonder? The card included with the flowers wouldn’t be sexually explicit, but very suggestive. Thanking her for last night, and making vague promises about ‘what he’d do to her’ next time he passed through town.

One of my favorites – Dare her to walk into the produce department of her local grocery store, and pick out some cucumbers. Spend time doing it. Measuring girth with her fingers, and stroking each until she found some nice smooth ones. Once she’d done that, the next step was to go up to the produce clerk and start asking questions. ‘Are these cucumbers pesticide free? I’m just concerned because I’ve got sensitive skin, and I don’t want to get irritated down there when I penetrate myself with them . . .’ and similar WTF? inquiries.

Of course, once we’d gotten her photography issues straightened out, I also wanted some images of her masturbating with a banana – in front of a banana display at a grocery store.

Another good photo dare involved having her go to a print shop and getting nude photos of herself transferred onto iron-on paper, then taking those to a t-shirt printing place and having them make her a t-shirt. Full frontal nudity of herself on the front of the shirt, image of her naked from behind on the back. Then put the shirt on and spend a certain amount of time at the mall shopping.

My favorite dare would have involved her going into a Postal Express, or similar non-USPS mailing outlet. Buying a padded mailer, writing my mailing address on the front, then proceeding to mail me a pair of her panties. Specifically, the pair she happens to be wearing at the time. Under pants, not a skirt. Meaning she’d have to strip from the waist down to get at them. Re-dress, then package them and mail them off. (Flee the store, red-faced.)

At Christmastime I was toying with the idea of sending her to a college dorm, where she’d go door to door collecting semen for the Damnation Army. [That one needed some work yet, but at the time I gave up on developing these, Christmas was still far away.]

Who’s Next?

Before HG, I’d never really given a lot of thought to erotic humiliation. Or nudity/sex dares, for that matter. Now it appeals to me.

Now I see these women whose FetLife profiles include a notation of interest in Humiliation, and I think, “Hmm . . .”

I want my next ‘Humiliation Girl’ to be an in-person Humiliation Girl, rather than an all-the-way across-the-country only-via-email Humiliation Girl.

And I want her soon. I’m taking applications now, if anyone’s interested.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

I like how your mind works.