I showed up at bankruptcy court a little early for my 8:30 hearing, so as not to be flustered. I’d dressed nicely, business-like, a dark pencil skirt, crisp white blouse, stockings, heels. My long dark hair was in a sensible ponytail. I planned to give the impression of a young woman who wanted to do the right thing, but circumstances had conspired against her, overwhelming her feeble femininity. A girl who was very sorry, your honour. I had a bottle of expensive champagne waiting in the fridge back in my flat to celebrate my new-found financial freedom when I got home.
I checked the list on the corkboard outside the courtroom – there was one woman ahead of me – and I went in and waited at the back. A clerk was reading the list of debts. She was six months behind on her rent, she owed almost ten thousand on a car she’d totalled, and she had ridiculous credit card debt, including expensive clothing shops. I could see her at the front of the small courtroom, her back to the dozen or so members of the audience, facing the judge sitting high on the bench. She was fairly short, and pleasingly plump, with straight blonde hair, and dressed smartly in a business suit with the skirt well below the knee.
“Total debts, your honour, are seventy three thousand, one hundred and twenty seven pounds and sixteen pence,” concluded the clerk.
Silly girl. Anything under fifty grand is a regular, dischargeable bankruptcy, anything over has to be paid for at auction.
She knew what was coming – I could see her shoulders shaking as she held back the tears.
The judge looked over his reading glasses down at her.
“Miss Barker, the evidence before this court is that you have lived well beyond your means, spending frivolously without thought for the hard-working men and women left paying for your excesses. Their losses must be made whole. The remedy the law allows is that you will be taken from this place to the public auction house, and there be sold into slavery for a period of six years.”
She gave a loud sob, and shook her head violently. On either side I saw bailiffs moving toward her.
The judge continued, “The proceeds of your auction will be distributed among your many creditors with any remaining balance being held in trust to help you rebuild your life when you regain your freedom. Proceed!” He banged his gavel.
The two bailiffs took hold of Miss Barker by the shoulders and brought her forward before the judge’s bench. Before she could even react, one of them roughly pulled her jacket off, and the other cuffed her hands behind her back. One then pulled out a pair of scissors of the type paramedics use to cut clothes off injured persons, and quickly cut away her cream-coloured camisole top, while the other pulled down her skirt, leaving her in just her underwear and tights. They turned her toward the audience. Her pretty face was contorted in anguish, tears streaking the mascara down her cheeks. She tried to drop to the floor and curl up in a ball, but they were ready for her, and held her up for our inspection. She had a nice full figure, wide hips, and a curvy belly. I could see her bra held sizable tits. I’m straight, but I couldn’t wait to see them.
Three more snips, and one bailiff yanked the bra away. She squealed and squirmed, and her big tits and belly jiggled deliciously. The taller bailiff grabbed her under the armpits and lifted her off her feet, and the other crouched in front of her, and in one swift, practiced motion, pulled her tights, shoes and panties down and off her, revealing a mass of dark pubes (ha – I knew she wasn’t a natural blonde!). She kicked her legs in a futile attempt to escape, but only succeeded in revealing more of herself to us, and increasing her shame and humiliation. I Idly wondered what it felt like to be stripped bare in public like that, and I had to admit, there was a certain tingle in my crotch at the thought. Maybe something to roleplay with my boyfriend…
The bailiffs tried to walk her toward the door, but she struggled and squirmed, so they had to pick her up, one on each side, one arm around her back, the other holding up her knees, so her legs were spread wide. Despite her wailing, there was a hint of excitement in her eyes, and I definitely saw a sparkle of wetness in the pink between her gaping, furry pussy lips. I thought it would be fun to own a girl like that, if I had the money.
Out the door they took her, and off to slave-processing.
In my early twenties, me and my girlfriends would sometimes go and watch the public parts of the processing, usually just to ogle naked men being measured and tested, but occasionally to gloat over the fate of an acquaintance, or even friend who’d been caught shoplifting and been sentenced to a month or two. There’s nothing quite as satisfying as seeing the girl you caught your boyfriend with being paraded naked and humiliated to the auction block.
I was lost in my thoughts when I heard my name called by the clerk, “The next matter before this court, Miss Jennifer Simons.”
I stepped forward to the dock, which was really just a table facing the judge. The bailiffs had retaken their places on each side of the courtroom. I flashed them each a quick smile – they wouldn’t be needed for this case.
“Your Honour,” read the clerk, “Miss Simon appears before the court to beg discharge of debts totalling below fifty thousand pounds. She has no material assets beyond the allowed clothing and personal effects.” Damn right – I made sure to only spend money on having a good time!
He proceeded to read the rather short list of my credit card balances, and confirmed the total owing of forty nine thousand, eight hundred and fifty three pounds. Nice – I’d really done well!
The judge frowned at me. “Miss Simons, it appears you have successfully gamed our legal system, and in effect, stolen nearly fifty thousand pounds from your fellow citizens. Your kind disgust me, but I am left with no choice but to discharge your debt.” He raised his gavel.
There was a sudden banging of a door and a commotion behind me.
“Your honour,” called a reedy voice, “I beg to be heard on this matter!”
I spun around – what the fuck?
A skinny, disheveled-looking middle-aged man in an ill-fitting suit scurried down the aisle waving a sheaf of papers, and stood panting beside me.
The judge frowned at him. “What’s the meaning of this?”
The man collected himself. He passed the papers to the clerk, took a deep breath, and spoke.
“Your honor, the Borough Of Wandsworth has been pursuing a debt incurred by Miss Simons for the past four years.”
“What is the nature of this debt?”
“A parking fine, plus fees and interest.”
“And the total owing?”
“One hundred and fifty four pounds and seventeen pence, Your Honour.”
The judge looked over at the clerk, who’d been looking through the paperwork.
The man looked up. “This appears to be in order, Your Honour.”
A tiny smile played around the judge’s mouth. “And what does this bring the debt to?”
Oh shit.
“Fifty thousand and seven pounds and seventeen pence, Your Honour.”
OH SHIT! OH SHIT!
The judge turned his attention back to me. Suddenly, the bailiffs were at my side.
“Miss Simons, your miscalculation has cost you dearly. Your debts being more than the statutorily-allowed fifty thousand pounds, they are not dischargeable in bankruptcy. Instead, your creditors losses must be made whole. The remedy the law allows is that you will be taken from this place to the public auction house, and there be sold into slavery for a period of six years.”
OH SHIT!
The bailiffs had hold of my shoulders now, waiting for the gavel. I instinctively squirmed, but they had me in a vice-like grip.
I felt the bang, rather than heard it, and before the echo had even died away, I felt myself being dragged forward. There was a tearing of fabric and a pinging of buttons as my blouse was ripped away, and I felt the cold steel as my hands were cuffed behind me. I was too stunned to cry out or resist. The room suddenly felt cold. The shorter bailiff pulled my skirt off. They spun me to face the audience and I suddenly had the ridiculous thought that I was glad I’d worn matching underwear and sexy stockings, followed by the painful thought that my nice bra was about to be ruined, followed by the sobering thought that it wasn’t my bra – I was a slave – I owned nothing, and everything that had been mine would now be sold at one of those pathetic ‘slave remnant’ auctions. There would probably be strangers rummaging through all my things by this evening, going through my makeup, my books, my underwear drawer, my vibrators! And the champagne, oh, what a shame!
The snip of scissors, a yank of fabric, and the sudden cold air on my nipples brought me back to myself. I felt them stiffen, not just because of the air conditioning, but also under the gaze of strangers. I used to love flashing my tits at bars and clubs after I’d done a few shots, and it always made my nipples hard and tingly.
I braced myself for what came next. Strong hands gripped my under the arms and lifted me. Because of my stockings, it was a multi-stage process – first each stocking and shoe, then my panties were yanked off me, leaving my shaved pussy exposed to the room. Minutes ago, I was wondering what this would feel like, fantasizing about having my cunt forcibly bared to strangers. It was scary and humiliating, and I desperately wanted to cover myself, but underneath there was something else, something primal. There was a throbbing in my clit that I couldn’t ignore. I had the urge kick my legs out and show them more.
“One more thing, Miss Simons.”
It was the judge. The bailiffs turned me again. I stood there, my hands cuffed behind me while the judge’s eyes took in my large, perky tits, slim waist, and shaved snatch. I thrust my tits out defiantly.
“Miss Simons, it is apparent that you attempted to take advantage of the bankruptcy laws for your own financial gain. Enslavement is a way for your creditors to be made whole, but this court feels that in your case a punishment is also in order. As such, before your auction, I additionally sentence you to six hours Public Humiliation. He banged the gavel again, and the bailiffs led me away.
Public Humiliation. The words rang in my ears. I hadn’t been to Humiliation Square in years – it was mostly for tourists – but I remembered what went on there. Men and women who had committed offences too minor to warrant full enslavement were put on display, shamefully naked, for the general public to grope and abuse and humiliate. A boy in my second year of college had stolen a policeman’s helmet when he was drunk, and got a day in HS. Me and my friends went along to laugh at his discomfort, naked and tied to a post. I remember he had a bulbous penis, and we’d made jokes about it and dared each other to tug on it. I’d been the bravest, and stroked him until it got hard. He’d been known as “Knobbly knob” for the rest of his time at college. Now I was in for the same treatment.
The bailiffs handed me off to a guard, along with my sentencing paperwork. The guard looked me up and down and grinned. “You’ll be popular – nice shaved twat like that! And those nipples look like they’ll hold a nice clamp.” I didn’t remember anything about clamping last time I visited HS – that didn’t sound good.
He led me through another door, and suddenly we were outdoors, in a small courtyard in the middle of the court complex. The chill morning breeze made me shiver as it stiffened my nipples and whipped around my bare pussy lips. For the first time in years, I missed having pubes.
“Turn around,” ordered the guard. I turned and held out my hands, expecting him to release my cuffs, but instead he quickly pushed a ball gag into my mouth and fastened it behind my head. I grunted in protest, but he just laughed, then banged on the side of a nearby van. The rear doors swung open and he pushed my head down and slapped my arse to encourage me inside. There was another guard in there, sitting on a wooden bench, and he pushed me down onto the bench opposite him.
“Hurry,” said the first guard, “she’s getting six hours in HS, but they still want her on the block by the end of business today.” That was at least something – I’d heard a night spent in the slave pens at the auction house was a most unpleasant thing.
The guard inside with me reached up beside me, getting close enough that I could smell his unpleasant breath, and pulled two canvas straps across my chest, fastening me firmly against the cold metal of the vans walls. He slammed the doors, then banged the wall dividing us from the cab, and the van’s engine rumbled into life, and we pulled away. It was dark in the back, but he pulled out a torch and played it up and down my naked body and watched as my unrestrained tits bounced up and down as the van swayed and lurched through traffic.
“Nice,” he leered, “now spread ‘em and show me your twat.”
Reluctantly, I opened my legs for him. He brought the torch in close between my legs to get a better look.
“Looks juicy,” he said, then pointed the light into my face. I squinted against the glare. “Is it juicy?”
I shook my head – no.
“Well, better check.”
The van lurched, and he braced himself against my right knee with the hand holding the torch, so I could feel the hot lens on my thigh. With his free hand he reached forward for my cunt. Instinctively, I began to close my legs, mortified in the knowledge that he would indeed find me wet, but he slapped them apart again.
“Try that again and I’ll ram this thing right up you, understand?” He growled.
I nodded and opened up again, mumbling “yes” into the gag.
He reached forward again and pushed two fingers up into me. It was such an awful violation, so why did it feel so good when he curled his fingers up and pressed on my g-spot? How many other helpless girls had he done this to? Were his fingers already sticky from the last girl he’d transported before picking me up? His thumb found my clit and circled it roughly. I moaned into my gag, and he laughed cruelly.
“Ha, you sluts are all the same. You get all juiced up when you know you’re going to Humiliation Square.” He pulled his fingers out of me and held them up to his nose, inhaling deeply. “Not bad, a little fishy.”
That really got my hackles up and I glared at him – how dare he?! I always kept my personal hygiene tip-top! There was nothing fishy about my cunt!
He reached forward again and wiped his wet fingers on my left tit, then gave the nipple a sharp tweak.
The van slowed to a stop.
“Here we are,” he said. He opened the door, and I saw we were in some dimly-lit underground space. He leaned forward and gave my tits a good squeeze before unstrapping me and ushering me out of the van. The other guard was there, and then led me to an open area nearby. There was a pair of vertical poles, about four feet high and about six feet apart, within a ten foot circle painted in yellow on the ground. Right in the middle of the circle was a floor drain. Around the base of each pole looped a chain with a plastic ring on the end, and similar chains dangled off the top of the poles. Near the poles, just within the yellow ring, was a small vending machine, like a car park ticket machine. Further away from us, in the semi-darkness, I could see other such setups.
They led me into the center of the ring and stood me between the poles.
“Legs apart,” instructed the driver, “more, more.” I spread as far as I could without losing my balance, and he fastened the plastic rings around my ankles so I couldn’t close my legs up again, then he uncuffed me and chained my wrists to the top of the poles.
The guard who had fingered me went over to the machine and held my paperwork up in front of it. I saw the familiar red of a scanning laser read the barcode on the top. The machine beeped, then there was a loud thunk as it dispensed something. He leaned in and read the glowing screen whilst pulling the dispensed object out of the tray.
“Huh, it says vag only, no anal. Unusual. What did you do, blow the judge?”
He tossed the object to his colleague, “Here, you do the honours.”
The driver went behind me and began groping my bottom, spreading my cheeks wide. I felt something cold and hard pressing against my ring. Surely not! I tried to protest loudly and wriggled helplessly.
“That’s enough!” said the man, sternly, “You should be happy the judge decided to spare you anal humiliation. Now open up and let me plug you.” He pushed harder against my resisting anus.
“Here, Mike, help me with her.”
The finger-guard grabbed me by the shoulders and pulled me forward so I was bent over, but held me up so I didn’t topple forward. The pressure increased, and slowly, steadily, my asshole was penetrated by the cold metal. I screamed into my gag and clenched as tight as I could, but it was useless, and finally, just as the pain became unbearable and I thought it would rip me open, the widest point passed my sphincter and the plug popped into place inside me. I gave a loud groan of relief.
Mike pushed me upright by my tits, and the driver gave me a hard slap on the bottom. “There you go, not so bad,” he laughed. “Now your little pucker is all protected from the nasty tourists!”
Mike pressed a button on the vending machine, and both of them stepped out of the yellow circle and backed away towards their van.
A loud warning klaxon began to sound, like a lorry backing up, and a yellow light on the machine began to flash. Above me I heard a whirring sound, and suddenly the place was filled with sunlight – the ceiling was opening above me into a circle the same size as the one I was chained within. Once it was fully open, I felt the ground begin to move and realized I was standing on a circular lift that slowly rose upward to ground level. Up there, there were people gathered around the hole in the ground, watching the fresh meat come on display. As the lift rose, the poles also got taller, so by the time I was fully at the level of the open Square, my arms were lifted high, leaving me fully spread eagled with nothing hidden from the gawking tourists crowded around the circle to witness the beginning of my six hours of Humiliation.
I heard a man’s voice call out, “Hey John, come get a load of the tits on this one!”
Another voice, “And shaved – nice looking cunt!”
The question, “I wonder if she’s got a nice tight arsehole?” was answered from behind me, “Sorry, mate, she’s plugged!”
There was a disappointed groan. “Why do they do that?” asked a young woman, turning to her companion.
“I heard,” he replied, “that it’s because she’s going to be enslaved after the Humiliation – keeps it fresh for the new owner. They tried restricting the pussies once, but there was nearly a riot in the Square. Here, you want a couple of clamps? My treat.”
She nodded eagerly, and the couple stepped up to the vending machine. He swiped his credit card, made a selection on the screen, and there were two clangs into the tray. She reached in and took out two black items that looked like large clothes pegs. As she came up in front of me, I could see they each had a little display screen reading ‘5:00’. She grinned at me, then took my left nipple between finger and thumb and began pinching and twisting until it was rock hard, then squeezed open the clamp and let it close around me. I squealed in pain, and she giggled. She made toward my other breast, then suddenly turned and handed the clamp to her boyfriend. “Here, you put this one on.”
He gave my right nipple a firm tweak, but seemed to change his mind at the last moment. “You know,” he said with a wicked grin, “I’m going to see if she likes to be clamped in your favourite spot.” He crouched down in front of me and began feeling my pussy lips.
She blushed and laughed, “Steve, you’re terrible!” There was a ripple of laughter from other spectators around the circle. He tugged one of my lips outward, and clamped it tightly. I groaned, a mixture of pain and shameful pleasure.
I looked down at the clamp on my tit and saw the display now read ‘4:35’ and realized it was counting down the five minutes he’d paid for. By ‘1:40’ my nipple and pussy lip had gone numb, and the young couple had lost interest in me and walked away, but there was still a large crowd watching my discomfort, lots of them pointing phones at me. Some were even taking selfies with me! At zero, the clamp fell off my nipple, then shortly thereafter, off my pussy. The rush of blood back was even more painful than the initial clamping, and I wished I could have soothed myself with my fingers, but here I was, helpless.
A uniformed guard picked up the clamps and deposited them into a slot on the side of the machine. “Who’s next?” He asked.
A middle-aged man swiped his card and made a selection. Nothing dispensed, and instead he spent the next three minutes fondling my breasts. He was surprisingly skillful, sometimes stroking and caressing tenderly, sometimes groping and pinching and tugging. By the time the buzzer sounded to end his turn, my nipples could have cut glass and I was moaning for more. I swear there was pussy juice running down my leg.
Next up was a young woman in all black goth gear and dark purple hair. She spent five minutes with her fingers up inside me, groping around like a bull in a china shop. While she fumbled around, frankly embarrassing herself more than me, I took the time to look around Humiliation Square. It was a fine example of an eighteenth century London square, with sumptuous townhomes around it. The center, where there would originally have been a manicured garden, had been converted to the open plaza I was currently on display on. There were about a dozen other stations like the one I was shackled in, mostly displaying women, but there were a few men, with small crowds gathered around each one. I idly wondered whether the experience was worse for men or women, and decided women, unless the man had a particularly small cock. Goth-girl finally finished. I hoped she’d gotten more out of the experience than I had. It’s rare that my pussy is drier after being fingered than before, and it was a good thing I was gagged, or I might have said something very unkind about her fingering technique.
On the other side of the square, I saw a man holding up a furled red umbrella, with a group of about a dozen tourists following him like so many ducklings. They wended their way around the square until they ended up in front of me. The guide looked me up and down. “She’ll do,” he said, mostly to himself, “nice and firm.”
He turned to the group and, referring to an electronic tablet he held, said, “this young woman has been sentenced to six hours for financial crimes, and will then be sold into slavery to make up for the money she stole from hard-working citizens.” There were some theatrical boos from the group. He continued, “as part of the tour, you all have the opportunity to join in her Humiliation.”
At this point he swiped a card in the vending machine, then gestured toward me. “Five minutes – have fun!”
They all crowded around me, and within seconds there were hands all over me – squeezing my tits, pinching my nipples, groping my bottom and tugging on the plug, and of course lots of fingers in my pussy. They talked about me as if I couldn’t hear them.
“So firm!”
“Such a juicy slut!”
“Surprisingly tight for a whore.”
“Shame her bottom’s plugged.”
“I wonder if we could rent one like this for the evening? I’ll ask the hotel concierge.”
It was supremely humiliating, being treated like a slab of meat for everyone’s enjoyment, but also incredibly arousing. Whenever I tried to focus on what one hand was doing, like caressing my throat, or tugging on a nipple, or tickling my earlobe, another sensation would override it, like a delicious squeeze on my clit, or a firm finger on my g-spot. Someone nearly managed to pull the plug out of me, and I almost came.
The timer buzzed, and they all retreated behind the line.
“I have one more surprise treat for you,” said the guide, “remember the tickets I gave you all earlier?” He tapped the screen of his tablet, and large numbers flashed by, then slowed down like a digital roulette wheel, finally settling on number 17.
“Seventeen! Who has seventeen?”
An excited woman, maybe in her sixties, pushed to the front waving her ticket.
“Congratulations Molly!” cheered the guide, “you get the honour of giving her six of the best!”
With this, he twisted the handle of his umbrella and pulled out a long, thin cane and handed it to Molly. She looked me in the eye and grinned, fingering the cane, then walked around behind me. I’d never heard of caning being part of the Humiliation, and I tried to protest through my gag.
“What’s that?” asked the guide, cupping his ear to me mockingly, “Oh, Molly, she says she likes it really hard!”
The group laughed uproariously at my predicament, and I braced myself.
There was a loud swish and a ‘crack’, and a terrible burning sensation across my bottom. I screamed into the gag. The tour group cheered.
Through my welling tears I could see other people around notice and come over to enjoy the spectacle.
‘Crack!’
I screamed again. The crowd was growing, cheering each blow. My bottom was on fire.
By blow four I was sobbing, then she landed blow five across the top of my thighs, and I screamed even louder. Only one to go!
But she stopped, and walked back in front. She handed the cane to the guide.
“Colin,” she said, “you’ve been such a wonderful guide for us today, I’d like you to take the last one.” There was a ripple of appreciative applause as he smiled and thanked her.
He walked back behind me, and I braced – he was much bigger and stronger than her, and this could be really bad. He caressed my bottom with his hand, running his fingers along what I was sure were very bright red lines.
“Maybe not the bottom,” he mused, walking back in front of me. He ran the tip of the cane up my inner thigh, and pressed it up between my pussy lips. “Maybe here?” he asked his audience. I instinctively stood on tiptoe, trying to pull my vulnerable lips away from the cruel cane. There was general laughter, but a few women winced the way I’ve seen men do when a buddy gets hit in the balls.
He raised the cane to my chest and let it swish back and forth, expertly hitting my tender nipples, no matter how I squirmed. “How about a nice red line across her tits?” More laughter.
“Here’s a nice little trick,” he said, and laid the cane across my breasts, resting on my nipples. He pressed them against the cane with his thumbs and began to rotate the cane slowly upward, pulling my nipples up and twisting them around the cane. I shrieked and writhed in pain, trying to pull away, but the restraints held me at his mercy. The crowd roared with laughter.
Finally he let go. “Who’d like to soothe her with their mouth?” Lots of hands went up, and he picked two volunteers, a man and a woman, who wasted no time closing their lips around my throbbing nipples, licking and sucking until the pain subsided a little. The throbbing in my cunt increased massively, though. I closed my eyes and basked in the feeling, but was suddenly brought back to reality by him laying the cane hard across my sore buttocks for the final stroke.
His audience applauded as the guide slid the cruel cane back into its hiding place in his umbrella, then he led them away, and I was left alone, still with an unsatisfied tingle between my legs.
A few minutes passed by without anyone molesting me – I’d noticed a few more victims had been raised up into the square around me, so I was no longer the newest sensation.
Over in the distance, I heard a musical tinkling sound, and a bright light started flashing on top of one of the other vending machines. An excited buzz spread among the crowd, and people rushed over there, quickly blocking my view. I wondered what new humiliation that girl was suffering. After a few more seconds, there was a huge roar of jubilation, but I couldn’t tell why. This happened a few times during the day at various stations. Sometimes it was accompanied by a booming voice through a loudspeaker, but I could never make out what it said.
The sun was pretty high in the sky by now, and I wondered what time it was, but I had no way of finding out. There was no clock on the tower of the only church in the square, and it was not like I could ask anyone the time.
A small electric van trundled across the square to me and parked right in front of me. A middle-aged man in scrubs climbed out, a stethoscope around his neck. He stepped right up close to me and peered into my eyes.
“I’m just here to check up on you. Are you holding up ok?”
I nodded meekly. The ordeal was pretty awful, but after all, that’s what I was here for, so there was no point in complaining.
He shone a bright light into each eye, then pressed his stethoscope onto my chest above my right breast. Then he went behind me. First I felt him check the placement of my buttplug, then, (oh bliss!) he rubbed some cold cream on the welts across my bottom and thighs. I could have kissed him as he gently rubbed it in!
In front of me again he asked, “better?”. I nodded gratefully, trying to express my thanks with just my eyes.
He pulled on some rubber gloves. “I’m going to quickly check to make sure no-one has put anything inside you – they do that sometimes.” He slipped two fingers up inside me, but it felt medical, not like being groped. He nodded to himself, satisfied that there was nothing untoward.
He reached into the cab of the van and pulled out a water bottle with a long flexible nozzle. He fed the nozzle past the side of the ball gag into my mouth and squeezed. Oh, wonderful cool water! I drank deeply, quickly emptying the bottle. Finally he lifted a large container with a spray wand out of the van. “Sunscreen,” he explained as he sprayed my whole body, “eyes closed!” Once he’d covered me entirely, even between the legs, he carefully wiped my eyes with a tissue so I could open them again. I gave him another ‘thank you’ look and he smiled kindly.
“I’ll be back in a few hours,” he said, then climbed back into the van and drove off.
The commotion at the other station had died down by now, and I was getting more interest. Over the next two hours I was groped, fingered, pinched and clamped numerous times.
There were lots more comments. The ones from men were mostly complimentary about my breasts and vagina, and bragging about what they’d like to do to me – the phrase ‘destroy that pussy’ came up surprisingly often, but the women were much harsher. Words like ‘whore’, ‘bitch’ and ‘slut’ were common, and several expressed the opinion that it was good that a slut like me that was used to using ‘that body’ to get whatever I wanted from men was finally getting her comeuppance.
One creepy-looking woman paid her money, then used her time to viciously twist my nipples whilst hissing “repent, whore!” into my ear.
One young man managed to pull my buttplug clean out, and ran away with it, laughing, and a guard had to be summoned to push a new one into me. That drew quite a crowd as I squirmed and moaned. The guard had to grab me hard by the crotch to push me back as he forced it in to me.
A group of young men decided it would be fun to see me come, so they took turns using their paid time to finger me and stroke my clit. By the fifth guy my clit was getting sore, but I managed to hold them off. It was close, but none of them quite had the skill needed, and they left angry, calling me a frigid bitch. Of course it’s never the man’s fault when a woman can’t come… I scored that as a win – I’d denied them the satisfaction. I was determined no-one would see me come here in public.
Noon came and went, along with another visit from my guardian angel and another bottle of water. About thirty minutes after that I felt an urgent pressure on my bladder. Oh shit! That’s why there was a drain under me! No, I couldn’t, that would be too much humiliation, even for Humiliation Square!
I held it in tightly for another hour, in increasing pain. Whenever someone had their fingers inside me, it was all I could do not to piss all over their hand, but finally some leaked out on a young woman who was particularly vigorous with her finger-fucking. She jumped up and gleefully waved her wet hand in the air. “This one’s ready!” she yelled, and ran over to the vending machine and punched a button. The musical tinkling sound I’d heard earlier began to play, and a bright light flashed on top of the machine. A large and excited crowd many rows deep quickly formed around my circle, many holding up cellphones. Oh god!
The pressure on my bladder was getting unbearable. “Piss, piss!” yelled the young woman at me, still waving her wet hand, and the crowd quickly picked up the refrain.
“Piss! Piss! Piss!” They chanted, “Piss! Piss!”
Oh, I knew Humiliation Square would be bad, but oh my god…
“Piss! Piss! Piss!” They chanted.
I couldn’t have held it any longer if I’d wanted to, so I gave in. First a little trickle ran down my leg, then the flood gates opened and a hot stream of piss gushed out past my flapping pussy lips. The crowd roared in delight, many still yelling “Piss! Piss!” The young woman was beside herself with glee. She ran up to me and grabbed my tits, yelling, “I got you, bitch, I got you!”
Finally the torrent reduced to a stream, then a trickle, then a few lone drips, and stopped. The relief in my bladder was an almost religious experience, almost completely overwhelming the shame and embarrassment. Almost. I wondered if this was the peak experience of HS.
She put her hand back to my cunt, seeming to revel in the wetness, stroking and pressing to get every last drop out of me, but when there was no more, she abruptly lost interest and walked away. The rest of the crowd also melted away fairly quickly, except for one last guy who paid for five minutes fondling my tits, and then even he was gone. I still drew interested glances and comments, but I went a full fifteen minutes without being touched. I took the time to take stock of my body.
The short answer was ‘discomfort’ – my wrists and ankles ached from being shackled, my thighs were sore from standing spreadeagled for hours, my bottom still burned from the caning, my arsehole still remembered the indignity of having the plug forced in, and of course my tits and pussy throbbed from the constant rough attention.
The electric van pulled up again. The kind man checked me over again, and wiped the remaining piss off my twat and legs, then he looked at me sadly. “Sorry dear,” he said, “time for your grand finale.”
He pulled a long device out of the van. It was like a microphone stand, except the base was thicker, and instead of a microphone, there was a large dildo on the top! He placed it in front of me, then pressed a button on the vending machine. The tinkling music and flashing light started again, and an expectant crowd quickly gathered. A hush settled, and then a loud recorded voice spoke from the vending machine.
“Ladies and gentlemen, honoured guests, the woman displayed in shame before you has nearly completed her sentence here in Humiliation Square. There only remains the final, ultimate humiliation. You will all now witness her surrender her body to the throes of orgasm for your pleasure. May the shame of this ordeal remain with her always as a reminder of her obligation to society. You are all encouraged to film and share the event to social media. Her name is Jennifer Simons.” Oh god! These videos would haunt me for the rest of my life! Every prospective employer, lover, business associate I ever have would see this shame and humiliation!
In front of me was a wall of camera lenses, and the internet watched as the man crouched before me, tilted the stand, and placed the tip of the dildo between my pussy lips. He then slid the base until it was directly below me, thus pushing the dildo up into my cunt. I must have been taller than the last victim, as he then made an adjustment that pushed it further inside, until the fake balls pressed against my lips. He then retrieved another device from the van. It was a small black box with straps hanging off it, which he proceeded to wrap around my waist and the top of my thighs, so that the box pressed firmly against my clit. The crowd watched patiently, filming.
Satisfied that it was securely in place, he pressed another button on the vending machine. The dildo slowly withdrew from my snatch, almost all the way out, then back in, over and over. It must have been slightly bulbous at the front near the base, because each stroke ended pressing on my g-spot. The box on my clit began to vibrate gently.
The recorded voice spoke again. “Watch as she succumbs to the phallus filling her. You will notice her breath quicken, and a pleasant pink blush spread across her face and chest.” The crowd murmured in agreement.
The thrusting of the dildo became faster, and the clit stimulation harder. I began to moan, and I knew it would win.
There were comments from the crowd.
“Damn, she’s horny!”
“What I wouldn’t give to swap places with that machine!”
“God, she’s a randy little slut!”
“Look how slick the dildo is with her juices already.”
“Think she’ll squirt?”
I heard two clangs from the vending machine. What now? A young man and woman stepped up to me long enough to attach two vibrating clamps to my rock hard, tingling nipples. Oh fuck, that felt good. I let out a deep groan, and there was a gentle ripple of laughter.
“Come on babe, ride that cock!”
“Imagine a cock in your backside too!”
I did. I imagined the buttplug was a big man roughly fucking me from behind, and the ball gag was a cock fucking my little rosebud mouth.
The dildo was pounding in and out now, almost lifting me off my feet. My entire body was tingling, and the vibrator was buzzing so hard I could hear it, and on the end of my bouncing tits, my nipples felt like they were on fire.
My vision began to blur, my breaths became short pants, and my legs were quivering. A huge orgasm was spreading from my clit, out to the tips of my fingers and toes, waves of hot and cold washing over me. I was twisting my body, riding that hard plastic cock towards the cliff-tops, and then suddenly, I was over, free falling, my stomach lurching, my cunt clenching, and I think I peed a little. My mind went completely blank, and my knees gave way, so that when I came to, I was hanging painfully from my wrists, impaled on the dildo that had stopped pounding, and was just gently rising and falling.
I also realized I was in semi-darkness – the lift was lowering me down below ground again.
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/ngk1j4/over_my_limit_fmfm_humiliationpublicpain
Excellent writing. Can’t wait for part 2!