Terrible Tad 3 to 4

By PatrickNaked

Copyright 2022 by PatrickNaked all rights reserved

Terrible Tad 3: The Hammond Humiliation Society

I have a monster inside me. Everyone does. Good and bad people alike.

The difference between the good and bad is the good keep their monsters chained up inside. The bad let theirs roam free, doing damage to everything and everyone around them.

At thirteen years old, I gave my monster the freedom it craved. I hadn’t yet learned that freedom always comes at a price.

If I kept it perpetually bottled up inside, it became increasingly restless and agitated, growing and looming so large within me that I felt ready to burst. But if I let it loose upon the world around me, that world was a poorer place for it. Sometimes a place I didn’t want to be a part of.

It wasn’t until later in life that I learned there was a third option. I could take my monster out for a walk every now and then. On a leash, restrained, but still as momentarily free as any of us are. I could give the urges inside of me a bit of release and still mitigate the damages I was capable of causing.

At thirteen, I was years from that realization. When the monster was hungry, I let it feed. And it ultimately fed on people I cared about.

Tracie, Ellie, Tad and I formed the little group of friends from our street, Willow Lane. But I was also friends with another larger group comprised of girls from our school. Besides Tracie and Ellie, the other girls in this clique were Barb, Tina, Annette, Patricia, Donna, Monica and Linda. These other girls were all twelve to thirteen years old. I was the eldest by a few months. As with the smaller group from Willow Lane, I had declared myself the leader, and had as yet been unchallenged.

Tad, being a boy, was most definitely not part of this group. As self-obsessed as he was, I doubt he even knew I had other friends besides those on Willow Lane.

Monsters aren’t all the same. They vary from person to person. But the girls in my group had monsters quite similar to my own. I don’t know if it was coincidence that we found each other. Or if we gravitated together through some attraction, a kinship calling silently to its own. Or if all girls had such a beast inside… a product of genetics or a byproduct of common experience.

Our particular collective beast loved the humiliation of boys. Loved hearing of or seeing boys receive their comeuppance for the unpardonable sin of being boys.

Once we realized we all shared a similar interest, we took a vow to supply the group with intimate stories about the males in our lives; brothers, cousins, friends and other boys at school. Stories about the kinds of things that should really remain private. That shouldn't be shared beyond the walls of their homes. Whenever anything happened involving a boy's embarrassment, humiliation, degradation, punishment, shame, mortification, unwilling exposure, or just suffering through their own stupid shenanigans, the girl who uncovered the incident would regale the rest of the group with all the particulars in exquisite detail during ‘story time’.

Our targets were boys and ONLY boys. No girls. Just the thought of a girl being humiliated in any way filled me with rage. A rage so deep and intense it was like I had been the victim myself. Boys were fair game, though. And it was open season all year long.

When we began, the incidents were not of our making. We merely collected and chronicled them and discussed them among ourselves, usually laughing hysterically all the while. We were passive in our appreciation.

But after that one particular Saturday, when Ellie, Tracie and I witnessed Tad being so thoroughly denuded and degraded by my aunt, things changed. A switch was tripped inside me. I felt like a character in a cartoon when a light bulb appeared over her head. My light bulb illuminated paths I had sensed but never seen. Paths that should’ve remained in the dark… unseen and untraveled.

While watching Tad’s debasement, seeing his tears and the raw, unfiltered emotion in his face, I had recognized the dabblings of our little group weren’t enough. Hearing stories of such events was fun. Seeing it firsthand was so much better. But the true, deeper, soul-satisfying pleasure was in engineering these scenarios ourselves. That would be our primary mission. Our monsters could still snack on the tidbits we gathered… the embarrassing incidents related at story time. But the real nourishment was in finding our own victims and personally throwing them into the jaws of the beast.

After that Saturday, our group became more than a loose gathering of like-minded girls. We coalesced into a strategic unit. And we formalized it with a name… The Hammond Humiliation Society.

Had my aunt somehow foreseen the changes within me seeing Tad’s ordeal would induce? I was certain she had arranged our audience when she gave him his backyard bath… and when she had supplied that finishing touch to his bath that I had initially missed in my relative innocence.

I knew boys did that to themselves. At that stage of my life I hadn’t witnessed such a thing personally. But I had heard the whispered, scandalized giggles of other girls when they learned of what boys did with their things. I heard the exclamations of ‘ewwww’ and ‘gross’ when they found out that stuff would squirt out of those things… special stuff that wasn’t pee.

I had also heard that older girls… high school girls… sometimes did that to their boyfriends to stop their pestering for something even more intimate and forbidden. Imagining those scenarios always gave me a squirmy, salacious thrill… and filled my mind with questions. What was it like to see and hold a boy’s thing? To make it squirt? And wasn’t the boy embarrassed? How could he NOT be?

So, boys playing with their things wasn’t a new concept for me, if still a rather nebulous one. And I knew that girls sometimes handled them. But I never would’ve dreamed a woman… a grown woman… would do it. To a boy. It was so alien and out of context that it happened right in front of me and I didn’t see it. It only became clear in retrospect.

And the woman who had done it to Tad, took his thing in hand and made it squirt his special stuff, was my AUNT.


I was becoming more convinced that she had somehow seen a similarity to herself in me… that kinship calling to its own… and had supplied a little nudge to awaken me.

Whatever or whoever was the impetus of that awakening, I knew passivity was no longer sufficient. Not for me. And I suspected it wouldn’t be enough for the other girls once I steered our course down that recently revealed path. And I was correct.

A few days after the backyard bath, I called a meeting and outlined the new game plan. As I spoke, the girls’ smiles became grins, and the grins became so large as to merge into one.

We would still gather stories from outside sources. We’d still keep our ears to the ground, listening for the ‘thud’ of some boy’s dignity dying in the dirt. But we would no longer just settle solely for what came our way, living our lusts vicariously through second-hand accounts. We would also become instigators. It would be much more fulfilling to write the stories ourselves… setting our sights on some cute, unsuspecting boy, then engineering his downfall.

Our targets were boys in general, but if we could bring down one we disliked, the victory was that much sweeter.

Strangely, the sweetest victory of all was when we could humiliate a boy we DID like. We’d wallow in the blissful satisfaction of seeing his cute little face twisted in an agony of embarrassment… agony we had scripted in advance. That seems counter-intuitive, but we told ourselves we weren’t really hurting anyone. No blood was spilt. No lives were lost. We were just having a bit of fun… fun with boy we liked. Where’s the harm in that?

Many of our missions only resulted in fleeting embarrassment for whichever boy found himself our latest victim. He would be exposed before us, and sometimes his other classmates. It could be his body that was exposed, or maybe just his private nasty little habits. In the best cases, it was both.

He would be embarrassed. He would cry. He would be teased by his schoolmates. But in the larger scheme, he would be unscathed. As time moved on, the embarrassments we arranged would blur into all the other ignominious events of childhood.

But skulking at the edges of our playful pastime was a dark truth… a consequence, as yet undefined, waiting for that perfect moment when bad choices and bad luck combined to give it form. That was when we’d learn that some stories don’t have happy endings.

In 1962, we couldn’t see anything beyond our narrowly focused field of view… certainly not the lurking harbinger of unintended results. Would we have stopped if we could’ve somehow looked into the future to see? I’d like to think we would’ve. But the realist in me says we wouldn’t. We were gaining power over the boys in our grasp. Power is a drug. And we were certainly addicts.

This had all started out about a year before the backyard bath… almost by accident. One day, just to fill the space when conversation had lapsed, Monica related a recent incident involving her fifteen year old brother, Carl, and a very large, aggressively crotch-sniffing dog that had him pinned to a tree in a public park. This happened while their family was visiting some out-of-town relatives, so no one else in Hammond knew about the incident.

The Boy in the Invisible Swimsuit - Carl and his sister Monica had just changed to go swimming at a pool in the park down the road from their aunt’s house. Carl wasn’t happy with what he was forced to wear.

As swimming hadn’t been on the agenda when their family planned this visit, no one had brought a swim suit. Monica was able to borrow one from their twelve year old cousin, Francine. But their aunt and uncle had no sons to supply an extra suit for Carl, and everything of his father’s or his uncle’s was far too large for the boy.

Their aunt found a pair of her old shorts that looked like they would fit him. They were made of a very thin, light beige material. Carl was mortified at the prospect of wearing women’s clothes, but everyone assured him that the shorts were not obviously made solely for the female sex. He disagreed, but his desire to go swimming overcame his embarrassment. This desire would be sorely tested before he even left the house.

Carl’s mother had told him to make sure he packed extra underwear for the trip. He had forgotten. She didn’t want his only pair to get wet, so she instructed him to wear his aunt’s shorts only. No underwear underneath. No one would know the difference.

After he had changed, Monica heard him complaining about the lack of underwear to his mother in a whisper he thought couldn’t be overheard, “I can’t go out in public like this. These shorts are so flimsy, when I walk, my… you know… my… thing… moves around. It’s really obvious. Let me wear my underwear too, please. They’ll dry out in no time. Pleeeeease.” Carl’s face, already red with embarrassment at having to bring up this subject, turned an even deeper red as he said that word ‘thing’. No boy wants to mention his thing to his mother.

Their mother had chided the boy, “Stop being ridiculous. No one is going to be looking at you there. You can always stay at the house with us boring old adults while Monica and Francine have fun if you want.”

Carl’s desire to go swimming once again trumped his embarrassment, so he accompanied his sister and cousin to the park. It was just three blocks from the house, so the the kids were allowed to walk there on their own.

Monica, now aware of his misgivings, had done what their mother had said no one would do, and had secretly looked at Carl’s crotch as he walked. She could indeed see that his thing, which was actually quite large for his age, was swaying and jostling around inside the shorts. She whispered this observation to their cousin. Carl’s situation was a constant source of amusement for the two girls for the rest of the day.

Carl’s embarrassment intensified at the pool. When he would get out of the water, it was obvious these shorts weren’t designed to be swimwear. The thin fabric not only turned semi-transparent when wet, it would mold itself to his body in an additionally revealing way. In the back, it would adhere to his bottom, even following the curves deep into the cleft between his buttocks. The shape of his bottom couldn’t have been more obvious to any onlookers if he had been completely naked.

Even worse, in the front, the wet fabric adhered to his penis and even his scrotum. His shaft and circumcised head were explicitly outlined. His balls were just as obvious. And when he moved, everything would swing back and forth. The poor boy was constantly pulling the fabric away from his genitals and out from between his buttocks, all the while looking around fearfully to see if anyone noticed. Monica and their cousin certainly did. And they helpfully pointed out the boy’s predicament to the other kids at the pool who hadn’t already seen it for themselves. Soon, every girl and boy in attendance was as knowledgeable of Carl’s anatomy beneath his suit as they were of his bare torso and legs above and below it.

Monica hadn’t seen her brother naked in many years. Francine never had. Now neither needed to. It was all right there, as on display as if he were wearing no shorts at all. The light beige color of the fabric, already very close to Carl’s skin tone, and it’s semi-transparency combined to make him look entirely naked.

Finally able to withstand the looks and the laughing no more, Carl begged the two girls to finish swimming so they could leave. He looked so miserable they took pity on him and agreed.

The three youngsters retired to the grassy area of the park. They sat beneath a tree and talked, giving Carl’s invisible shorts time to dry into opacity before the walk home. To Carl’s continued discomfort, the talk was all about those shorts and what they had revealed. Monica, unable to resist, even said she had wondered for a while if Carl had any hair between his legs yet. That question was now answered by his bush being as clearly visible as the rest of him.

The kids had been instructed to be back for lunch, and that time was almost at hand. Carl’s shorts were finally dry and decent, if still obviously made with a woman in mind.

It was when they got up to leave that the large, aggressively crotch-sniffing dog made its appearance. It came loping up, dragging a leash behind it. Without preamble, it shoved its nose into the aforementioned area. Carl let out a startled scream and backpedaled into the tree behind him. The dog followed as closely as if its nose were surgically attached to the boy’s privates.

Carl placed both hands on the dog’s enormous head hand tried to push it away. The dog didn’t budge, just continued digging his snout into the terrified boy’s crotch.

The inquisitive canine snuffled and snorted, pushing Carl’s boy parts all about in its investigation. Even though the fabric was now dry, it’s thin, flimsy nature made everything happening beneath it quite obvious.

Carl, terrified and mortified, began to cry. He couldn’t help it. He began begging, “Please, please stop. Please!” The single-minded dog ignored his pleas and continued its avid exploration.

The two girls looked on, almost as afraid as Carl himself. But they were also captivated by a horrified fascination. The day, already so unusual, had taken a turn into the surreal.

A small crowd of adults and children had gathered in a semi-circle, drawn by Carl’s cries. No one knew quite what to do. They were afraid that any attempt to extricate the boy would anger the dog. At that point, it was only interested in snuffling Carl’s tantalizing boy parts, for whatever reason dogs do that kind of thing. But intervention might cause its mood to change, and no one wanted to see it leave carrying those parts in its teeth.

The dog’s owner finally arrived, breathless from chasing it across the park. He kept pulling on its leash and yelling at it to “Heel, Bruiser! Damnit, HEEL!” All to no avail. Bruiser was a dog on a mission and would not be dissuaded.

Carl had a general fear of large dogs, and of this one in particular as its teeth were so close to his most sensitive area. But even with this double dose of fear, as the dog kept nosing his crotch, those boy parts couldn’t help but respond to all of the physical stimulation. He was fifteen years old, after all.

Throughout the morning, due to the revealing nature of the shorts, Carl had been hyper-aware of his penis. It’s never wise for an adolescent boy to think about that part of his anatomy, for to do so will eventually awaken it. Because of this, it had been attempting to arise all morning, as Monica and Francine could attest from their surveillance. They had witnessed it slightly stiffen a number of times. It was especially obvious when Carl’s trunks were wet and clingy.

But the boy had managed each time to quell its arousal, and it would soften again, much to the girls’ disappointment.

But Bruiser’s ministrations tipped the scales. Now everyone in that crowd witnessed the bulge growing in the boy’s trunks. Within moments, the thing that had been preying on Carl’s mind all morning was standing at full salute.

A dog sniffing his balls in front of his sister, his female cousin, and an ever-growing crowd of onlookers would be embarrassing enough. But now, while it did so, his thing was fully, unmistakably erect.

Carl made the mistake of thinking it couldn’t possibly get worse. Fate took that challenge and ran with it.

The boy’s look of terror mixed with humiliation suddenly changed to one of bemusement. Then realization. And finally became an expression of pure horror.

He only had time to cry out, “Nooooooo!” before a wet spot began spreading outward from the tip of his tent. His fingers dug into the bark of the tree on either side of his body. His back arched alarmingly. His eyes clenched shut. He cried out again, a long wordless sound that seemed almost to be one of intense pain. But his face displayed the opposite. It expressed pure ecstasy.

This was Carl’s first ejaculation not brought on my his own hand. The sex center of his brain didn’t know or care that a dog was responsible. It just knew this climax wasn’t the result of Carl’s self-manipulation. That alone made the orgasm more intense than any before. But in addition, the morning’s anxieties and embarrassments had built up to an unbearable pressure that was explosive when it was finally released along with his semen. The boy was overwhelmed by waves of pure rapture.

Oblivious of the onlookers, he pumped his hips forward involuntarily a few times into Bruiser’s face. Bruiser whined and backed away. That crotch was doing something weird and he wanted no part of it anymore.

When the pressure of Bruiser’s nose departed, Carl unconsciously grabbed himself through his shorts and pumped more fluid into them. With no large dog obscuring the view, what the boy was experiencing became obvious to anyone who had somehow previously remained unaware.

Once the boy had purged himself, he nearly collapsed. Only the tree held him up. As he slowly realized what he had just done in full view of the crowd, shock and shame gradually displaced the look of joyous abandon his face had previously displayed. He looked tearfully down at the still spreading stain, then back up at the silent, shocked crowd.

The wet area was large. It was made more obvious by the otherwise light color of the shorts. Some of his stuff hadn’t just saturated the fabric, but had spurted completely through so the viscous fluid ran down the outside. The stuff on the inside began to drip and run down his bare legs. Carl’s very public orgasm had been a forceful and copious one.

Even though the still whining Bruiser was now seeking comfort in his owner’s arms, Carl hadn’t moved. He was still clutching the bark of the tree he leaned against, too weak to stand on his own. He panted like the dog that had caused his public shame. More drops fell from his shorts to spatter his legs and feet.

A little girl asked her mother, “Did he pee in his pants, Mommy?” The mother replied, “That’s not pee, dear. I’ll tell you what it is in about twenty years.”

Once Carl recovered enough strength to move, he turned away from the crowd and buried his face in his hands. His crying had never abated since it first began, and now it became more pronounced. His body was wracked with huge sobs.

A couple of the fathers in the crowd took pity on the boy and led him away from the multitude of eyes. They took him back to the pool’s shower room to get him cleaned up.

When Monica and Francine started to accompany them, one of the men said, “Y’all go on, now. Don’t you think the boy’s been embarrassed enough?”

They told the man their relation to Carl, and he let them continue. The strange procession drew a lot of stares. Carl’s crying tapered off and he lapsed into a glassy-eyed stupor, seemingly unaware of himself or his surroundings.

The girls waited outside the shower room listening to the men trying to coax the boy out of the shorts and into the shower. From the sound of it, they finally had to undress and bathe him themselves. One man told the other, “You take care of HIM and I’ll rinse the splooge out of his shorts. Jeez, it must’ve been a month since he jerked it. There must be a pint of the stuff here.”

The other replied, “Sometimes I wish I was a kid again. Then days like today remind me of now horrible it all actually was.”

From the yelps and yowls Carl made, the shower was apparently a very cold one. The exasperated man ordered Carl to “Hold still! Stop fighting me. You’ve got this stuff everywhere.”

The frigid water served to not only to wash off his sticky ejaculate but to also jolt him out of his fugue.

After they got Carl back into his splooge-free but now wet, clingy and semi-transparent shorts, both men saw how naked the boy looked and agreed this would never do. One commented, “Jeez, kid. I can see as much as I saw in the shower. Who let you out of the house like this?”

One of the men came out of the shower room and beckoned to Monica. “You’re his sister, right?” Monica nodded. He gave her the rolled up shorts and said, “Come with me to where my wife and kid are having a picnic. My son has already changed out of his swim suit. I’m going to donate it to your brother. He can’t go out in public like that.”

When Monica returned with the swim suit, Francine informed her the other man had to leave. “He said when you got back to just take Carl the suit. There’s no one else in the shower room.”

The showers had an open doorway with a short partition a few feet inside that served as a privacy shield for the men and boys within. To enter, one went to the left or right around the partition. Monica considered going to the end and throwing the swim suit in without looking. But then she thought of all the trouble Carl had caused that day and how they had to cut their swim time short because of him. She told Francine, “Come on. Let’s do as we’re told. We’re taking the suit to him.”

Francine squeaked, “Me, too?” Monica nodded, smiling. Francine smiled back.

Deciding she should give her brother at least a little warning, Monica called out, “We’re coming in. You better hide what you don’t want us to see.”

Carl screamed, “No, you can’t come in! It’s all open in here. There’s nowhere to cover up!”

The two girls were rounding the edge of the partition before he completed his last sentence. Carl obviously hadn’t thought two girls would dare violate the sanctity of the men’s showers. He was standing naked in the middle of the small, brightly lit room, not even using his hands as cover for his boy parts. When he saw Monica and Francine, he yelped and belatedly rectified that. But they had already seen what he was now trying to hide. It wasn’t that much different than what they had seen through the invisible shorts.

Monica looked around the room. She was amazed at the differences from the men’s showers and the women’s. She had briefly gone into the women’s side earlier to use the toilet. It was all very nice and private… separate shower stalls with opaque curtains and toilet stalls with doors.

But, as Carl had said, the men’s side was completely open. A row of dripping shower heads protruded from the wall to the left. There were no individual stalls or curtains. A couple of long wooden benches lined the wall opposite of the doorway. A series of hooks to hang clothes were in the wall itself above the benches. To the right she saw what astonished her the most. Three urinals and two toilets were lined up no more than two feet apart. Not only did the men have to shower shoulder to shoulder, they had to poop next to each other right out in the open where everyone could see. And after they pooped in full view, they had to WIPE. Oh, my GOD.

She had never seen a women’s restroom or shower room designed with such disregard for the privacy of its users. Why was the men’s this way?

Monica slowly became aware of an insistent sound. An annoying one. As she tore her eyes away from that line of inexplicably public toilets, she realized the sound was Carl. She looked to see him red-faced from anger as much as embarrassment, cupping one hand between his legs while stretching the other out for the swim suit she still held. “What are you doing?” he was yelling. From his demeanor, it wasn’t the first or even the second time. “Give me the suit and get OUT!”

Oops. That was most definitely the wrong tone of voice. Monica coolly told him, “Sure, big brother. But first, drop your hands… both of them… so Francine can get a good look. She doesn’t have a brother, so the poor girl has never seen what boys look like.” She didn’t mention that due to his rather immodest attire that day, the poor girl had more than made up for that deprivation.

Carl’s eyes widened in outrage. “No WAY!”

Monica replied, “Fine. We’ll just stand here and wait. And you can just stand there butt naked. Pretty soon, someone else is going to come in to change or take a shower.” Or a poop right out in the open, she thought to herself with horror. “Then Francine and I will have to leave. And we’ll be taking the swim suit with us.” Carl’s eyes widened further.

“But don’t worry,” she assured him. “We’ll leave it by the edge of the pool That’s only, what… twenty feet or so away? You might actually make it there and back before TOO many people see you.”

Carl knew his sister. He knew she wasn’t bluffing. He slowly dropped both hands to his sides and looked up to the ceiling. Francine squealed. Even after all she had seen at the pool, at the tree, and right there in that shower room when they first walked in… she was still delighted to be granted such access to a boy’s body. She and Monica both took in every detail. Francine actually reached out and touched his thing with a forefinger. Carl gritted his teeth.

Sadly, there was too great a chance of someone else entering the showers, so Monica called a halt. She gave Carl the swim suit, which he hurriedly slipped into. They all managed to leave without anyone noticing two girls had been on the wrong side of the showers.

Carl refused to speak on the walk back to the house. The girls thought he was pouting. He was actually afraid if he opened his mouth, another anguished sob would escape and he’d start crying all over again.

But at the front door, he took the chance. He turned to the others and plaintively said, “Don’t tell Mom and Dad. Please.”

They didn’t. But Monica did tell US.

The story was exciting. We all loved seeing Carl in school the next day and secretly knowing of his practically naked display at the pool, his fully naked display in the shower room, and… of course… that shameful interspecies incident. It was then we decided to make this kind of thing the mission statement of our little circle of friends. We had found our purpose.

Growing up is fraught with indignities, so there was rarely a shortage of these stories to share. If there were times when any other anecdotes were slow to come, the continual Tales of Tad were sure to fill the gaps. With his many misdeeds and misadventures, he was the protagonist in a large percentage of these accounts. Only some of them included the nudity of his bare bottom spankings, but all were entertaining.

Over time, we learned LOTS of intimate details about the boys around us. That boy used to wet the bed. That boy still does. That boy still gets spankings at seventeen years old. That boy’s father caught him inserting the lubricated handle of a one of dad’s screwdrivers into an unsanctioned orifice. His father threw out the entire toolbox.

To acquire many of these stories, we had only to look to our own families, as with Monica’s brother, Carl. For others, we put feelers out, traded favors for intel, listened to all the gossip, eavesdropped on every conversation around us. We recruited some of our group’s little sisters and some of their friends as stringers to supply us with tantalizing tidbits. Many stories came to us just through the act of sitting in a stall in the school restroom listening to the tittering conversations of other girls while they preened at the mirror.

I loved knowing all of this stuff. And I admit that if any boys knew about me the kinds of things I knew about them, I’d be outraged and enraged. I’d demand to know how this had happened. Who was revealing such private details of my life in such a gross violation of my privacy. I never considered the hypocrisy of this. If I had, it wouldn’t have bothered me. I wasn’t subject to the rules that governed others. I made my own.

Annette was our chronicler. She wrote down all ‘when, what, where, who, how, and whys’ in a large notebook. But she did more than just record the basic information. She fleshed out all the data so there were people on the page and not just scrawls of ink. She looked through the actions and words to the thoughts and emotions that drove them. She filled in the blanks when necessary, extrapolating from the available data. She was the reason we had a book of stories and not just a spreadsheet of facts.

Sometimes, we’d go back to the source to uncover extra details with which to flesh out the story. Such as when Monica later demanded Carl tell her everything he was thinking and feeling during the incident at the park. She had only to threaten telling their parents how their darling boy had sex with a dog to make him grumpily disclose all.

That year, our group amassed a lot more intimate information than we could’ve dreamed possible. It turned out that it was all just waiting there to be taken, like fruit to be plucked from a tree. If you looked, there were boys everywhere getting caught with their pants down, both figuratively and literally.

After a while, though, this wasn’t enough. We had all been secretly craving more, but each girl thought she was the only one, so never spoke up. Tad’s Saturday at my aunt’s, and my announcement of our new direction, brought all those urges out into the open.

That’s when things got a little… uglier. We began to use what we learned from our various sources to create new, more exciting stories. Stories we could witness first hand as they happened. We were not above a little blackmail to achieve this. Nothing drastic. Just something like, "Hey kid, show us what you got and we won't tell everyone you still sleep with a teddy bear." Or, "We know your whole family walked in on you whacking your weenie. Show us your technique and no one else has to know." It was an equitable trade. We got a little entertainment in an otherwise boring town, and the boy had the peace of mind from knowing his shameful secrets would remain solely with us and wouldn't become the topic of the day in the school cafeteria.

Sometimes, if a boy was really good looking and we could waylay him alone, we’d have a photo shoot. Ellie would bring out the Polaroid that had first proved its value with the photos of Tad’s bare body. We amassed many, many more photos that year. And they were much more detailed than the ones of Tad, because with these we had full control. We weren’t sequestered behind glass like that day at my aunt’s house. We could now get up close and personal. And these photos were very personal, indeed. We documented every square inch of our victims’ bodies. Sometimes it took multiple girls to hold a boy down and pose him in certain ways to accomplish this.

If those boys had realized that resisting just made it all that much more satisfying, they might’ve fought less just to deprive us of some of our enjoyment.

We’d often takes bets on whether one of the younger victims had matured enough to produce his boy stuff. Once all the bets were in, we’d either make him provide the proof himself, or we’d take matters into our own hands. Sometimes we’d do both, multiple times just to be sure, leaving him spent and exhausted. And very, very humiliated.

I, for one, had come a long way from the girl who hadn’t even recognized what my aunt was doing to Tad.

Not all of the stories we acquired were juicy enough to be blackmail material. But enough were that we were entertained by a little coerced nudity, and more, for a long while to come.

We had a special type. We didn’t go after the jocks, the boys who strutted around wanting everyone to admire their muscled physiques. We had tried a couple of them. Since they were bigger and more muscular than other boys, we had to get them drunk on purloined beer. They became even more crude and loutish than usual. One threw up. Both passed out. We got them undressed and took some photos, but the whole escapade left us unsatisfied. No more jocks.

What we liked were the cute, unassuming boys who were usually bashful about their bodies. When those bodies were revealed, quite against their will, their humiliation was so much more acute than what could be elicited from a boy who was overly proud of what he had and wanted everyone to notice.

We would stalk our target for days to learn his habits. To learn when best to catch him alone and isolated… in the woods around our town, at his house when no one else was home. When we found the optimum time and place, we would overpower him to show our superior strength in numbers. We wouldn’t hurt him. We wanted to inflict emotional anguish, not physical pain. Once we demonstrated our superiority, we would give him a choice: undress or be undressed.

Some boys were so immediately intimidated, they took option one. We were denied the entertainment of pulling their clothes off ourselves, but there’s still a singular thrill at making someone disrobe against their will. It demonstrates a psychological superiority, which can be more devastating to the victim than brute, physical force.

Most of the boys though, tried to run, thereby choosing option two. They all lost their clothes in the end. It helped that we usually chose smaller boys. Boys who were similar in size and physique to Tad. Or younger boys, who were smaller just by their age.

Once we had them naked and Ellie had taken a few photos, we could usually persuade them to be a little more cooperative. We only had to tell them that one of our number could leave with those photos and show them to whoever she pleased. Most boys tended to become more docile and compliant at that point. Resentful, angry, scared, humiliated, tearful… but docile and compliant nonetheless.

Some, though, continued to struggle. And that, as previously mentioned, was it’s own kind of fun.

We never would’ve followed through on our threat to show the photos to others. That would expose us as much as it did the boys, just in a different way. But THEY didn’t know it was a bluff, so the threat was a very effective tool.

I especially enjoyed when we could catch a boy at home alone in his own bedroom… his home turf. We’d knock at the door, usually the back so as not to draw attention to ourselves on the street. When the boy opened the door, we’d force our way in. He’d usually be too stunned by such an unexpected move to even try to resist. Not that resistance ever helped. We were a force of ten girls, sometimes two or three more if we brought along some younger sisters.

In these cases, we not only got to engage in all the usual pleasures, but we’d go through everything in his room too… all his private belongings.

We’d raid his underwear drawer and scatter them about the room. On some lucky days, the boy would have a jock strap in his drawer. The first time we found one, many of the girls had never even heard of that strange article of under-apparel. When we forced the embarrassed boy to model it for us, there were howls of laughter at the conflicting combination of coverage and exposure.

Sometimes, under his mattress, we’d find girlie magazines showing as much female flesh as the law allowed. A couple of boys had ‘physique’ magazines full of muscled young men striking classic poses. These boys were more distressed than any of the others at our discovery. We made them mimic the models in their magazines, though neither were nearly as muscular as the men they liked to look at.

We once found the sock a boy had quite recently masterbated into. It was still full of his fluid. When it reached the point in the proceedings where he was required to repeat that act for us, we let him use his special sock so he wouldn’t feel so awkward.

Some of the boys we captured, in their house or out, were too young to know what was required of them when that special time came. For these, we showed our altruistic side and educated them in the ways of blossoming boyhood. They still cried, the ungrateful little brats.

If a boy was really, really, especially cute, we wanted his exposure to be more public. We were a very generous group of girls, and we didn’t want to monopolize the fun. We were always willing to share.

Sometimes we’d leave him naked in the middle of the woods. Sometimes in town. Then it was down to following and watching from a short distance away as he tried to make it home unseen. We always gave the same warning. If he was caught, he was to say that a group of bullies, boys he didn’t know, had stolen his clothes and left him to fend for himself. This was an easy command for our victims to follow. None of them wanted to admit that a bunch of GIRLS had done this to them.

But the best public denuding of all was at school. Who better to share a boy’s unwillingly naked body with than his schoolmates?

In these cases we couldn’t use our previously mentioned tactics. We couldn’t blackmail him out of his clothes in the middle of the schoolyard. We couldn’t tackle him and remove his clothes by force.

We had a number of ways of engineering a boy’s exposure. Some methods were tailored to the individual. Some were more generalized. If we could think of nothing else, there was always Plan C. This involved the two jocks we had nude photos of. In some of those photos we had posed their unconscious bodies in ways that suggested they were much more than mere friends.

I knew there were boys who liked boys, such as the two with the physique magazines, but at that point in my life I was a little unclear on what they did with each other.

Luckily, Linda was much more knowledgeable in this area due to overhearing a raging argument between her father and his brother. The brother… her uncle… had recently been arrested for such activities. The argument got so graphic in detail that she now knew which part of one boy to put in the mouth of the other. And how to arrange one boy atop the other to simulate something I had thought only men and women did… using a different hole.

Ellie used her photographic magic to make the boys look both aware and enthused.

This being Texas in 1962, these photos wouldn’t just be the cause of embarrassment for the boys involved. Their lives would be ruined, just as her uncle’s had been.

As I said, things got uglier.

Because of these photos, the jocks could always be persuaded to help us in our endeavors. They merely had to do what their type was known to do on occasion anyway… grab our target out of the boys shower after gym class and toss him, wet and naked, out into the crowded school hallway. Then, of course, they would bar the door against reentry.

We would be there to watch, along with dozens of other students, as the hysterical naked boy screamed and cried and beat on the locker room door. Sometimes, someone from within would eventually take pity and let him back in. Sometimes, he had to run through the crowd, all the way down the hall with his boy parts flopping, out the door and around the building to the back door of the gym. And sometimes, he would find that entry barred to him also.

One boy had slipped and fallen in his mad dash for the exit. His slick, soapy body had slid about thirty feet down the hall, pinwheeling the whole way. He only came to rest only after sliding into a herd of cheerleaders, bringing them all down like bowling pins.

Some of the even more unfortunate victims remained naked for quite a while, with a growing crowd of onlookers following them around the schoolyard as they desperately tried to find cover. The fun usually ended with the intervention of a teacher.

A sizable portion of the bashful boy’s schoolmates would see his body in its entirety. And they would see him crying, which made it better. And wet and soapy, which made it even better still.

Ellie would always be on hand to surreptitiously snap a few photos.

We didn’t resort to this method often. If it happened on a regular basis, it could lose some of its effectiveness. If naked boys in the hallway became too commonplace, it might become less embarrassing for our victims. Not by much, I’m sure. But I wanted them to feel the maximum humiliation possible.

The jocks who did our dirty work, both football players, never got in trouble for these pranks. In most Texas towns, high school football players could do no wrong (homosexual acts aside). They probably could’ve tossed just the boy’s decapitated head out the door, and still faced no repercussions. Each time it was all chalked up to boys being boys. No real harm done.

We never got in trouble either, of course. The jocks knew what would happen if they revealed that we were the actual masterminds.

We also made the two jocks provide us with detailed accounts about happenings in the locker room. Any conversations that might prove useful to us. Incidents such as when a boy attained an unfortunate erection in the showers. This happened more than I would’ve thought. It wasn’t necessarily the sign of a same sex attraction. It was as likely just a hormonal adolescent boy with no control over when those hormones were dumped by the gallon into his system, provoking such reactions. Being naked under a warm, steamy shower spray probably didn’t help.

In the end it didn’t matter whether the unfortunately timed erection was due to arousal at the sight of the naked boys he shared the shower with, or internal sabotage by treacherous glandular activity… the result was the same for us. We had new material for story time. And sometimes we could use this knowledge as leverage for future stories.

We had additional access to the boys locker room through a spy hole in the wall, but I’ll have more on that later.

The two jocks weren’t the only male spies we had at our disposal. We acquired a couple of subservient Scouts… one Cub Scout and one Boy Scout… to be spies in their respective organizations. They provided a wealth of stories from scout camps. Like the boy who was stripped by his bunkmates, then tied to a tree right outside the nearby Girl Scout camp one morning. What the girls did with him when he was discovered. How long they took doing it. How one of the girls had her own Polaroid. How ALL the girls now had pictures of him. There were many such tales.

Our procurement of spies within the Scouting community made a couple of good stories on their own.




Terrible Tad 4: A Scouting Story

Once we started scouting for Scouts to use as spies, we first had to stake out their meeting locations. Then we spent about two weeks identifying and stalking the boys to and from the meetings, to and from school, in and around school, from school to home. We learned their habits. When best to catch them alone.

There was a lot of debate over which boys were the best candidates. There were a lot of factors to weigh, but one requirement for the job was more crucial than all the rest combined… the candidates had to be really, really cute.

There was a daunting collection of possibilities. Almost all of the Scouts had their own allure. Maybe it was the uniform. But we finally managed to whittle the competition down to the two winners.

First, we got our Cub. His name was Asher. He had a slight build and his light brown hair was cut in the ‘flattop’ style that was popular with boys at the time.

Recruiting him proved an unusual episode for us.

At ten years old, he was younger and smaller than the Boy Scout, therefore easier to intimidate. Too easy, as it turned out. We caught him as he walked home from school. He was cutting through a section of woods, as he always did, when we nabbed him.

After bundling him off to a secluded clearing deeper in the woods, we informed him that we were going to strip him naked and take photographs of him. If he didn’t agree to become our spy in the Cub Scouts, we would disseminate those photos to every girl in his class. If he didn’t want every girl he knew, and many more he didn’t, to know what every square inch of his body looked like in close-up detail, complete cooperation was in his best interests.

Asher, it seemed, he was an overly timid boy. Just stating our plans scared him so badly that he peed in his pants.

He looked down at himself in shock as the growing wetness drenched his crotch, then began spreading down his pants legs. His little bladder seemed to hold more than was humanly possible. The river of pee continued until his pants, socks and tennis shoes were completely drenched.

Midway through the deluge he finally reacted by grabbing his little spigot through the moist fabric of his pants to try and turn it off. But squeeze as he might, that raging river would not be denied. And squeezing a penis mid-urination looked to be quite painful. He had to just stand there helplessly and let it run its course. He stood there for a while.

When the flood became a trickle, then finally ceased, we waited for the next inevitable river… this one being comprised of mortified tears. The boy didn’t disappoint us.

“What am I gonna do?” he wailed in anguish. He looked to us for guidance… the girls who had just abducted and threatened him into his current soggy state.

We like embarrassing boys, and we had certainly succeeded with this one. But this time, for some reason, we all took pity on the poor thing, something we couldn’t normally be accused of doing. He was just so pathetic. We uncharacteristically couldn’t bring ourselves to further torment the little guy. That he and his pants were absolutely nasty with pee may have been a contributing factor.

I beckoned him over to me. He slowly, reluctantly came towards me, his eyes filled with trepidation. His tennis shoes made slurpy, squelchy noises as he walked.

I told him, “It may not feel like, but today is your lucky day. We’re not going to engage in our usual fun and games. And believe me, you wouldn’t like our idea of fun. You’ve already heard what we had planned. And that can often be just the beginning. So… you can either agree to be our spy right now, or we can go back to Plan A… the fun and games. With photos. And you’ll end up being our spy anyway.”

He hastily, emphatically agreed. I warned him what would happen if he reneged on his promise, then let him scamper away with his modesty intact, if not his dignity. I had to be careful with that warning. He had already peed. I shuddered to think what another scare might produce.

Before he left, I suggested he go ‘accidentally’ fall in a nearby pond to obscure the reason behind his sodden pants. I doubted this subterfuge would fool his mother. Pond water probably wouldn’t erase all evidence of pee. He was sure to have a tense and humiliating encounter in the laundry room when he got home. But his overall wetness should disguise his situation to passersby till he got there.

I learned later he hadn’t escaped a full body exposure before a group of females that day, after all. I made him supply me with every intimate detail. Another story for our collection. And a rather good one, at that.

His mother, on seeing him through the window arriving at the front door completely soaked, had ordered him around to the back. There, he had to remove all his sodden clothes under her watchful eye, fearing the whole time that one or more of the neighbors would see him from the houses that surrounded his open and extremely small backyard. There were a number of kids around his age that lived nearby. If any of them saw him having to strip naked for his mother, he’d be ridiculed at school forevermore.

As it turned out, someone had. He didn’t find that out till the next day at school. A girl from his class, Beth, lived directly behind his house. She happened to be looking out her window when he slogged around to his back door. She watched his mother order him to undress. The poor girl almost forgot to breathe as he slowly, reluctantly began to peel off his sodden clothing.

She thought surely his mother would leave him the modesty of his underpants. It was broad daylight and anyone could see, as she well knew. But after much pleading and several apprehensive glances around himself, the boy slid his underwear down and stepped out of them. Not only was he now fully naked, but he was the first boy she had ever seen in that state. And as she was apparently a favorite of Lady Luck, her first naked boy was one she had been smitten with from the first moment she saw him (clothed) a year before when her family moved to Hammond.

Being a very shy girl, she had never even spoken to him in that time, despite being in his class and living the length of a tiny backyard away. But after witnessing him having to strip under the angry supervision of his mother, after seeing his embarrassment and obvious fear that someone might do what she was doing, after seeing her first wiener and it being attached to a boy she really liked… she discovered a seed of courage deep within and felt it take root.

Her shyness had always kept her at a distance in social situations. She always felt too awkward and intimidated to approach anyone, so the few friends she had were the ones who had taken the initiative themselves. But she realized she now had this unfortunate boy at a disadvantage. She was seeing him fully naked with everything brightly illuminated under the merciless sun. Now, having the upper hand… a position she had never occupied before… she was determined to play that hand through. She would approach him the next day at school. She would pleasantly introduce herself, then inform him of all she had seen the day before. She would tell him he had nothing to worry about. She would never embarrass him further by telling anyone else about it. She wouldn’t do that to a ‘friend’. And they WERE friends, weren’t they?

While Beth considered and resolved to take this unprecedented action, she had been treated to another three or four minutes of the profoundly naked Asher as his mother wagged her finger and reprimanded him. She felt sorry for him. He looked on the verge of tears, and kept casting increasingly terrified glances around the neighborhood so full of potential witnesses. But she felt sure he could withstand another five or ten minutes of scolding if his mother would only oblige and supply it.

Lady Luck granted her five. Beth made every second of those minutes count. She suffered from eyestrain later in the evening from going so long without blinking.

Once released from his mother’s wrath, the boy turned and scampered through the back door. Beth watched his very cute little bottom as it disappeared into the house.

She wondered and worried that her resolve wouldn’t hold steady through the next day. She amazed herself when it never flagged. She had truly found her core of strength. She cornered our little Cub at lunch time the next day and told him of all she saw and all she thought. She was very open and forthright in her presentation. She held nothing back. After all, with what she had seen the day before, it was only fair. He certainly had no secrets from HER.

Asher acquiesced to her implied demand of friendship just as he had given in to our stipulations the day before. The poor boy was losing what little autonomy a ten year old was allowed to have.

And worse, the malicious mechanizations of fate weren’t through with him on that day. Even after being captured and impressed into spy duty, and being spied on himself by Beth, the most humiliating experience was yet to come.

When his mother’s neverending lecture finally ended, she ordered him into the house while she gathered up his wet clothing. Asher ran through the back door to what he thought was safety from prying eyes. What he found instead was a living room packed with members of his mother’s bridge club. All female. And all a bit tipsy from too many trips to his parent’s well stocked liquor cabinet.

He was forced to stop and exchange pleasantries with each and every one of them, just as though everything he had wasn’t on full display. There were only a couple of comments addressing his state, and they amounted to an amused ‘Boys are so silly. No modesty at all’.

He suffered a seemingly endless string of questions… how was school? Was he finally into sports? What was he going to do for the summer? Did he have a girlfriend yet? (titter, titter). When he was finally able to excuse himself, he turned to run down the hall, thereby showing everyone the bare backside that went with the front.

But he was stopped again, this time by his mother as she angrily entered the room. She had ascertained from an inspection of his discarded and somewhat yellowed clothing the true reason for the wetness. Rather than taking him aside in private, she addressed the room at large, saying, “My SON wet his pants. Can you believe it?”

As he stood there naked and quite miserably mortified, the room at large actually came to his defense, if still in the dismissive way of before. “He’s a boy. They get easily distracted and run out of time.” Translation: You can’t expect someone without a brain to think.

Mom told the group to help themselves to even more gin from the bar while she took the boy by the arm to the bathroom. She made him stand in the tub while she soaped him thoroughly. The other women, after making their drinks, crowded into the room to converse with his mother will she worked. As there was a naked boy being lathered just two feet away, the conversation centered on their own sons and similar circumstances. Our little Cub learned a LOT about his friends that day, though few of the stories he heard were more embarrassing than what he was currently enduring. We learned it all from him later.

With the story of Beth the spy, all the tales of errant sons the moms of the bridge club supplied, and his own personal experience, he was proving quite useful on his first day of servitude. Young Asher was a veritable goldmine. We had chosen well.

While his mother scrubbed him thoroughly with a wash cloth, one lady looked directly at the soapy boy parts hanging in view and told his mother, with no small amount of pity in her voice, “I can tell by the size of his little tallywacker that you haven’t had to deal with a boy in puberty, yet.” There was a general murmuring of agreement and commiseration.

Now they were ALL looking. His mother had already warned him of dire consequences if he didn’t stop trying to cover himself, so he had to stand there and endure their scrutiny. This was worse than in the living room. At least there they had only taken in his general, overall nakedness. Now that the conversation was about male genitalia, all eyes were locked on the local representation of the topic of discussion.

Despite being married, his mother was ignorant of most things male. Though she was obviously acquainted with her husband’s penis, (the naked proof was standing right there in the tub), she knew nothing about that particular alien appendage in general. She only knew that her son had one, too, if quite a bit smaller. She knew it grew with age, but was surprised to learn the growth would accelerate alarmingly in adolescence. She had also observed it stiffen as her husband’s did… sometimes as she bathed the boy when he was younger… sometimes when she awakened him in the morning and it tented his pajama bottoms. He was always quick to turn away with a “Mommmmm.” She had walked into his bedroom only a few days ago, while he was getting ready for his bath, to find him naked and hard. He was staring down at his stiff little tallywacker in consternation, seemingly as ignorant of why it did such things as she was. She was correct in that assumption.

As she explained all of this to the assemblage, she had to stop more than once to tell her son to remove his hands from over his ears.

The other ladies assured her that this just happened randomly in a boy her son’s age. It was just one of those things peculiar to boys. Soon, though, the reasons behind those erections would change. Then, the true trials of motherhood would begin.

Her husband had told her nothing about what to expect when their son got older. She welcomed the advice of her friends who had already suffered through this or were currently dealing with that stage of a boy’s development. It turned out she wasn’t the only one. A few other mothers were as unknowledgeable, and likewise craved enlightenment. 1962 could well have been the Dark Ages.

The lady who had first pointed out his tallywacker, apparently the utmost expert of the group, ventured in closer to point out how his scrotum hugged his body, explaining that his testicles would later ‘drop’, meaning they would grow and hang down lower. And, of corse, his penis would become much larger than the puny thing currently on display. Asher didn’t even know enough about his puny thing to be offended by this remark.

Then the hair would begin to grow. Above his penis… she pointed out the spot. Under his arms… she took his wrist and lifted his arm all the way up to exhibit the currently bare armpit. And eventually hair would sprout on his scrotum… he quickly backed out of range before she could lift anything to indicate that area. All those bare spaces were just waiting for a fertilizing dose of hormones to grow their crop of hair.

As the self-appointed instructor continued, everyone gathered in closer. Our Cub became a visual instruction aid for a very long and comprehensive course on pre-pubescent boys.

Even as they so used him, they talked as though he wasn’t in the room. He had become an object. A thing to be studied. He closed his eyes and thought that what we had planned for him in the woods really couldn’t have been worse.

The lesson had been such a success that the ladies all mutually decided on future classes to observe and learn from his development as he progressed into puberty. He really, really hoped that was just the gin talking. We would learn later it was not.

Like his mother, he had learned a lot about what to expect in the coming years. It sounded like a horror show. He was NEVER going to masterbate. It sounded messy and disgusting. And wet dreams? He’d use rubber bands or duct tape to insure no such nasty nighttime leakages occurred. Then there were the mood swings and the pimples. What had he done to deserve this?

In the coming months, our little spy proved quite anxious to please. He actually seemed grateful to us for some reason. I think he credited our group with introducing him to Beth. Their coerced friendship had soon transformed into the real thing. She DID occasionally insist on a repeat of the performance that had brought them together. In the seclusion of her room, not his back doorstep. She was always quite rigorous in her inspections. He was never comfortable with this. In fact, he was extremely embarrassed. Between Beth and the bridge club, too many females had unfettered access to his naked body.

Asher was always breathless with excitement when he brought a new story to us. He was all smiles, bouncy as a puppy. He remained enthusiastic even as we grilled him for more details, uncovering minutiae he hadn’t known he knew.

It wasn’t that he took vindictive pleasure in supplying us with embarrassing or incriminating information on his fellow Cub Scouts. He didn’t even seem to connect what he told us with the possible uses we could put it to, even though he was well aware of our inclinations and activities. Even the incidents that weren’t blackmail material, only being suitable for a titillating tale at story time, were still a betrayal. His friends’ mortifying misfortunes were, through him, known intimately to a gaggle of girls, who took great pleasure in them.

I think he was just a pure innocent. Despite his own experience with us, he was unable to imagine someone so using and abusing another person for such wicked, personal satisfaction. It was a game to him, one with no more consequence than any other frivolous childhood fun.

I did wonder what he looked like naked. I envied Beth and that bridge club. Maybe one day I’d approach him alone and see if I could persuade him to undress for me. I’d do it in a nice, unintimidating way. With his eagerness to please, it shouldn’t be hard to do.

As for our Boy Scout, his name was Kayden. Once he had been successfully blackmailed into servitude, he was as sullen and defiant as Asher was eager.

We had all seen him around school, a few talked to him occasionally, but none of us really knew him all that well. All I knew was that I always looked when I passed him in the hall. He was quite the cutie.

He was thirteen years old, but still not much taller than our little Cub. I liked catching boys before they experienced a growth spurt. Being taller gave the girls that much more of a psychological edge over our captives.

With his short white-blond hair, he reminded me a bit of Tad. I wondered later if that had influenced me as I deftly steered the vote for his acquisition.

We ambushed him, as we had the Cub, in our friendly and useful woods. It was a Saturday morning around ten o’clock. He was walking down a trail, seemingly in no hurry to be anywhere. Communing with nature like a good little Scout.

A number of our group, including me, materialized out of the trees on either side of the trail a few yards ahead of him. We began walking towards him. He stopped and offered a tentative smile, saying “Uhh… hi?” His greeting sounded unsure. He seemed to already sense some bad intent on our part.

None of us responded. We just kept marching towards him with a definite determination. He became visibly nervous. He held up a hand and said, “Well, see y’all later.” He turned to go back the other direction, but stopped when he saw the rest of our group standing silently in the trail barring the way. This second squad began marching towards him.

Now he looked scared. Something was going on. And he was alone and outnumbered. He turned back but stopped and made a little yelp. Our first group was already right there. I was in the center, and he actually bumped into me. The rest of the girls arrived immediately behind him.

We crowded around him, an encompassing wall of girls. We left him no personal space. He stammered, “What… what do you want?”

I leaned down with my face barely an inch from his. He tried to back up, but the barricade of bodies behind him prevented it. “What we want,” I answered, “Is a spy. But first, we want to have a little fun. You like fun, don’t you?”

From the look on his face, he already seemed to know that our idea of fun and his were mutually incompatible.

We easily overpowered him and began marching him off to our clearing. He kept asking, “What are you going to do to me?” We didn’t answer. He would find out soon enough.

When we arrived at our little clearing, we surrounded him again. He had lapsed into silence. He wasn’t going to ask again. He, too, realized he would find out all too soon. Frightened as he was, he still glared directly at me, having ascertained that I was the leader of this band of ruffians. Probably because I was the only one who had spoken, thus far.

I could see that spark of defiance in him. I would have to snuff that out. I looked forward to it.

Kayden was actually in his little scout uniform at the time, complete with kerchief and leg-baring shorts. He had been returning from an early morning meeting. He looked so cute in that outfit that we just had to remove it from him.

Four girls to hold him. Two to remove his clothing. Ellie to take the requisite photos. The others just stood back and watched the show. We stripped him slowly, so we could savor the removal of each item of his fancy uniform. We savored even more his reaction, that look of growing desperation at his increasing nakedness. The horrible, unbearable knowledge that he would soon be fully naked before a bunch of girls. They would see everything. His wiener. His balls. His bottom. The totality of his body bared to his abusers. And like so many before him, he couldn’t help but cry.

When his white briefs were the last to go, he held onto them as though to life itself. It took two more of us to separate him from that last scrap of modesty. And scraps were all that was left of the underpants as they ripped and shredded while we wrenched them from his body. We didn’t even have to pull them down his legs and over his feet as we usually did. They tore apart and came off of him right at hip level.

While we stripped him, we had to stuff his kerchief into his mouth to stifle his cries for help. He gagged and choked, but still let loose one muffled scream after another.

He was a scrappy boy. He had twice almost wriggled free as we pulled his clothes off. I liked a good contest of boy against girls, but he finally succeeded in annoying me. There’s a limit to what I would tolerate, and he had surpassed it. Once we got him naked, I pulled the kerchief out of his mouth and replaced it with the tattered rags of his underwear.

We were finally able to convince him of the need for silence. The usual threat accomplished this… the photos Ellie had just taken showing everything, including closeups of his wiener and ballsack… the promise that more girls would see those photos if he didn’t show a little more cooperation. Girls in his class. Girls he knew. I had the threat memorized at that point and could recite it by rote.

Even after he vigorously nodded affirmation that he would be quiet, I let him chew on his underwear for a while longer. And I mean actually chew. I told him they weren’t coming out till they were completely soaked through with saliva.

With girls still holding his bare arms out on either side, he began to masticate his briefs, gagging and drooling all the while. When his underwear looked to be thoroughly soaked, I gingerly extracted them from his mouth, releasing more drool as I did so.

He proved he still had some spirit in him by glaring at me angrily and yelling, “That was GROSS!” I decided I kind of liked the boy, irritating as he was. I used his shirt to wipe the drool from his chin like he was a baby.

We next made him stand with his hands on his head like I had seen my aunt make Tad do. We circled around him, looking at him from all sides. Despite the heat of the day, he trembled. And the tears continued to slide down his cheeks. He gazed off into the distance with his eyes unfocused. He refused to look at or acknowledge his tormentors. That was fine. Soon he would have no choice. And we would refuse to acknowledge his pleas for mercy.

His body proved to be as cute as his face. He had a nice looking bottom I couldn’t wait to squeeze. And his wiener was much as I imagined it would be. Not huge, but not tiny. He was circumcised, so the head was exposed. There was a time when I couldn’t decide if I liked my boys circumcised or natural. I finally resolved that I liked both for their own attributes. I liked seeing an exposed head as with Kayden’s. But a foreskin was fun to play with, too. And it gave me an extra space to invade that circumcised boys didn’t have.

He had no hair between his legs. I hadn’t expected him to.

After we had all appraised his body, playtime began in earnest.

We had chosen to nab him early in the day so we had a lot of time to spend with him. He cried almost the whole time… sometimes openly, sometimes with just a silent tear or two sliding down his cheek. Despite that, he remained defiant through all the demeaning things we made him do, all the degrading poses we made him assume.

He would glower directly at me every chance he got. He was telling me that we could debase and humiliate him, but we could never fully break him. I accepted that challenge.

As Ellie took her photos, we made him look at each and every one so he could see what we saw. He was especially distraught at the closeups showing his butt cheeks spread wide revealing his bottomhole between them. For some of those shots, we had made him lay on his back while we pulled his knees up to his chest. For others, we made him assume a position on his hands and knees, with his head down on the grass and his bottom up in the air. Except for the most extreme closeups, Ellie made sure to get his ballsack in the picture along with his hole.

Although I’ve seen a few bottomholes that were cute little puckers, such as this boy’s, on the whole they don’t appeal to me much, considering what passes through them. But a boy’s reaction to having his exposed to us GIRLS appeals to me a LOT. They always think having their wieners revealed to us is the worst thing ever. But then comes the butt cheek spread. They learn there could always be something worse.

We were teaching these boys valuable life lessons.

I picked up the latest photo, one of the more bottomhole-revealing ones. As I held it in front of his face, he cried, “Why are you doing this to me?” I thought our obvious enjoyment made the answer quite apparent.

After Ellie photographed the entirety of the boy’s body, we all began to explore every inch it by hand. We made him lie on his back. Then we swooped down upon him like a flock of vultures. He had eight to ten sets of hands groping and feeling him at any given moment. This went on for quite a while.

We didn’t immediately handle his privates. We touched everything else first. We started at the top, running our fingers through his hair. We played with his ears. We took turns wiggling his nose. We moved on to his chest and toyed with his nipples.

We found out his armpits were very ticklish, so we made him put his hands behind his head, exposing those tender areas. We concentrated our attention there for a while. We had to hold him down to do it. He laughed hysterically and cursed us with words no Scout should even know. He writhed and squirmed so much that Tracie, being the heaviest girl in our group, had to straddle his torso to anchor him.

I took note of the language he used. I don’t like when boys mistreat girls, even if only verbally. He did himself no favors with that mouth. I considered stuffing it with his slobbery underwear again.

When we tired of his armpits, we rubbed his tummy. We fingered his belly button. That got an involuntary giggle from him, but he immediately clamped his mouth shut and refused to repeat it. We ran our hands up and down his arms and legs, feeling the smooth texture of his skin. We played with his feet and toes. When we discovered his feet were even more ticklish than his armpits, we held his legs down and tickled him mercilessly for a long, LONG time. He screamed himself hoarse with uncontrollable laughter, crying and begging us to stop the whole time.

When the other girls took pity on him and decided he had had enough, I reminded them of his earlier coarse language. We began again, this time tickling his feet and his armpits simultaneously. It took four girls to hold his legs down, one to straddle his torso again and one to hold down each arm. The rest of us attacked his tickle spots with a renewed zeal. We would takes turns restraining and tickling so everyone got to play.

Restraining was its own kind of fun. It was exerting physical dominance over the victim. It was demonstrating superiority. It was telling the boy that he was male, but he was NOT the boss.

After a few minutes of this renewed bout of tickling, the boy lost control of his bladder. His legs were spread very wide by the girls holding them down, so he mostly only hosed down the grass between them. But he was thrashing around so much that some of the stream arced left and right, splashing his legs and two of the unfortunate restrainers. Barb caught the worst of it. She screamed, “He peed on me! The nasty little snot peed on me!” There was a brief intermission while the girls tried to clean themselves. I wiped the pee off the boy’s legs with his saliva soaked underwear. From the look on his face, his loss of bladder control may have been the most humiliating thing that happened to him thus far.

His weak bladder also proved he had more in common with our little Cub than just scouting.

I was surprised to find I enjoyed watching the pee streaming out of his wiener. I decided that forced urination would become part of our future repertoire. But I’d make sure we all stayed well out of range.

Our tickle torture resumed. His screaming laughter became shrill, ear piercing shrieks. I finally did have to gag him again. I started to use his sodden briefs, now wet with more than just his saliva, but Tracie put her hand lightly on my arm after I picked them up. She said nothing, but the look she gave me was a definite ‘no’. I used his kerchief instead.

I was instantly glad Tracie was there to curb my uglier impulses. I could go too far at times. She had saved me, and therefore some hapless boy, more than once.

Even restrained, he was so out of control, with his head whipping back and forth, we had to watch that he didn’t swallow his kerchief.

We eventually tired of the tickling. His muffled shrieks had become repetitious. I pulled the gag out of his mouth.

He lay there gasping, dragging in deep, ragged breaths and making moaning noises with every exhalation. He had begun to sweat profusely. I placed my hand on his slick chest. I could feel his heart hammering away at his rib cage. I hoped we wouldn’t be responsible for a thirteen year old’s premature heart attack.

We all took a well needed break. Tickle torture can be an exhausting ordeal for everyone involved. While we relaxed, I looked at the boy’s face. Resentment burned in his eyes as he glared back at me. I could tell he wanted to use some more choice words, but he feared a third session of tickling, one he might not survive. He was still panting so heavily that he probably couldn’t have spoken anyway.

After we had sufficiently recovered, it was on to the last unexplored region… his private parts.

We couldn’t fondle him en masse like we could the rest of his body. His boy parts weren’t small for his age, maybe even above average, but his age was still only thirteen years. Not enough time for most boys to grow a huge wiener. Two sets of hands at a time were about the extent of what we could reasonably use.

So, two girls would fondle his wiener and ballsack while the others would either anchor his arms and legs to prevent escape or return their attention to exploring other areas of his body. Those other areas could be almost as fun to touch as long as the touch was unwanted.

As before, we would take turns so everyone got to handle him in every way possible.

Most boys had attained an embarrassing, unwanted erection long before this point. Just stroking any part of their naked bodies would bring it on. For a few, just being naked in front of a bunch of girls could produce it before the touching even began. And they would always look down at themselves in horror as their bodies betrayed them. Their stiffened wieners standing out before them made them feel twice as naked as just the nudity alone. They were well and truly EXPOSED.

If a boy had still managed to control his wiener, once we began massaging his genitals, the cause was lost. The male organ was hardwired to react to such stimulation.

From there, it was only a few short minutes, sometimes only seconds, till they experienced the ultimate degradation. A stiffened wiener wasn’t the worst self-betrayal. Their boy stuff squirting from its tip held that honor. That was the moment when the boy was OURS. We owned him.

But this annoying little Boy Scout was still successfully resisting. I’d watch his wiener as it began to slightly stiffen in the girls’ hands. Almost imperceptibly. But he would grit his teeth and clench his eyes shut, and it would grow no further. This happened over and over, no matter which girls were handling him. His wiener remained maddeningly soft.

And to further madden me, each time he would successfully arrest his erection, he would look directly at me. The humiliation in his eyes would be mitigated by a small glint of triumph. He was still in an agony of humiliation. His face showed me this. His tears showed me this. But every time he made his thing remain soft, it was a victory that bolstered the self-esteem we were trying to tear down.

This was intolerable.

I told the other girls to move aside, then spread his legs wider and hold them there. I knelt down between them. There was a leg on either side of me and his still soft wiener and ballsack in front. I began a technique I had only gotten to try on two previous boys. It not only made both of them instantly hard, but one had even begun squirting his stuff without me ever touching his wiener. I was going to see if this stubborn boy was susceptible.

I placed my hands on top of his legs, just above the knees. I applied a slight pressure, then slowly moved my hands up his legs. His sweaty skin allowed my hands to glide easily. Smoothly. When I reached halfway to his groin, I moved my thumbs down into his inner thighs. He had been intentionally looking away till that moment. Now, his head snapped around and he looked at me with his mouth slightly open. I saw a glimmer of fear in his eyes. He had felt something, probably something new. And he had an inkling that it was something he wouldn’t be able to resist.

I slid my hands further up his legs, my thumbs pressing in just slightly harder. When I reached his groin, my thumbs slid between his ballsack and his legs, up to the point where the legs branched from his torso. It was a very private area. My fingers lay flat on either side of his still flaccid boyhood.

I slid my thumbs around, feeling how his skin changed as it transitioned from his ballsack to his legs. I began to gently prod his sack, feeling the resilience of his balls.

As I started slowly sliding my hands back down to his knees, Kayden breathed a quiet, “Oh…”

I began to repeat the maneuver. He looked at me again and pleaded in a small voice, “No, no. Please.” He had discovered something he liked. Really liked. But this, perversely, was not a good time for something good. It could only be used against him.

He tried to get up, but the girls held him down.

His wiener had already started to rise. Just a bit. He gritted his teeth and said through clenched jaws, “No no no no nooo…” But this time it wasn’t listening to him.

The girls who had been engaged in their own explorations stopped and gathered around to watch. They knew the signs. They were as aware as the boy was of what was about to happen. Sometimes, when a boy was younger and still ignorant of all the sensations his body could experience, we girls were MORE aware of what was coming. Knowing more about a boy’s body than he knew himself was true power.

When my thumbs nestled into his crotch the second time, they made little circular motions into the sides of his ballsack. He moaned. As I began the return trip, I swiveled my hands around so my forefingers lightly brushed the sides of his wiener. Just barely touching it before moving back towards his knees.

The other girls had previously fondled and groped and stroked it, all to no effect. But a slight pressure to his sensitive inner thighs, a gentle nudge to his balls, and a light, feathery touch to his boyhood was all that was needed. His wiener stiffened and rose further.

He closed his eyes and turned his head. He knew his defeat was moments away.

A watery fluid started to drip from his pee hole. This wasn’t the real stuff. I had learned that boys produced this in preparation for the big event. They called it precum. Not every boy had enough to leak out of him. Our Scout did, though. It trickled onto his belly, pooling under his slowly stiffening wiener.

Three more circuits was all it took to make that wiener fully awaken to stretch and stand at attention. From my vantage point between his legs, I could now see the underside of it, from the crease in the head that led up into his pee hole to where his balls hung in their sack from its base. The girls applauded.

Now I hooked my thumbs under his sack and placed a forefinger on either side of his stiffened shaft. As I massaged the back of his balls, I slid my fingers lightly up and down his thing. I wasn’t even masterbating him. Just rubbing the sides of it gently, barely touching it. Up and down. Up and down. He moaned again. It became a long, low series of moans.

He stopped straining against the girls who held him down. He just lay there experiencing the touch. I nodded to them that they could release him. He wasn’t going anywhere. By giving in to that itchy, urgent feeling between his legs, he had made himself our prisoner. The desire for culmination held him more securely than we could.

After about three minutes of this gentle stroking, he suddenly opened his eyes with alarm. Rising halfway up on his elbows, he looked at the assembled group imploringly. “Don’t watch me do it. Please. Don’t watch it!”

Even if we had been so inclined as to respect his plea, he had waited to late to voice it. As the last word left his lips, his whole body stiffened as he squirted out the first long stream of his stuff. It landed on his stomach and chest. It even went as far as his neck and the lower half of his face.

That last word segued into a long moan of pure pleasure and anguish. I would bet I was delivering this boy into the most intensely, deliriously exquisite sensation of his young life. But that pleasure was also his failure. It meant his body was now mine. HE was mine.

I wrapped my hand fully around his thing now, and pumped it vigorously. More stuff squirted out. Two, three more times. After it subsided, I continued to squeeze and stroke his slowly softening thing. More stuff dribbled out of it, but with none of the force from before. This was just the dregs left behind in his shaft.

I managed to coax one last drop out to the edge of his pee hole. I wiped it away with his damp underwear. Now that garment held a triad of the boy’s fluids.

I continued to hold and squeeze his now soft and shriveled thing. The little fleshy tube was mine to do with as I pleased, after all. I leaned in to inspect it closely. I held it in both hands and used the tips of my thumbs to trace the ridge around its head, then pull down to open up his pee hole. I moved in so close my eye was within an inch of it. Pulling the hole open a bit more, I looked within at the wet, pink sides of the inner tube. I liked the intimacy of not just seeing and holding his most private part, but gazing down into it, even if only for an eighth of an inch or so. I could now say I knew this boy inside and out.

His eyes had been closed since that first burst of boystuff, but now he opened them halfway to watch me play with my newly acquired toy. I looked back and gave him a big, wicked, teeth-baring grin. He looked away.

Patricia was gazing with contempt at the strings and splatters of stuff all over his torso and face. “Little boys certainly DO make a mess, don’t they?” There was a general snickering. Our little Scout moaned, but it wasn’t one of pleasure this time. It was one of pure shame. He had disgraced himself before his captors. Even more so than when he had uncontrollably let loose that stream of pee. This time it was his own base desires that proved his undoing.

Our Scout closed his eyes so as not to see us. He lay there and breathed heavily, recovering from his ecstatic ordeal. Soon his breathing changed and he looked to be asleep. We let him rest. Round two was coming soon. We still had his bottom to play with. Then we’d move to his front again and see how much stuff he could produce the second time. We’d do it till we pumped him dry. And at least one more time after that, just to be sure.

This was but one of the many times I had let my monster loose, free and unfettered, to do damage upon the world. Eventually I would realize the true harm it caused when it sank its teeth into the tender flesh of the boys it craved.

Years later, when I looked back on that day and so many others, I knew what I had done. I and all my friends. I knew the word for it. The very ugly word for an uglier deed.

All I can say is that I eventually became a better person. I began letting my monster out less often, and kept it restrained when I did. I even managed to suppress it completely for many, many years. It would still stir within me. But it was stirring in its sleep.

Then, much later in life, after decades of slumber, the monster woke. I felt a cold twist of fear when it rose up to look through my eyes again. But, surprising as it’s return was, a bigger surprise immediately followed. The monster had changed.