Sylvia Vasquez and the "little" guard

Stories about boys ending up in compromising situations, preferably naked and embarrassed, as the name suggests.
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sunset
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Sylvia Vasquez and the "little" guard

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She should not have been there, in that tavern, that evening, not after her latest insult to the Duke, publicly criticizing him in front of everyone for his latest law, the taxes, his way of doing things. The Duke had responded with a thin smile and a threatening "This time, Miss Vasquez, your pretty tongue has gone too far!" And with that he had abruptly left the plaza. However, the following day an order was issued: "Arrest the swordswoman Sylvia Vasquez." Word of the arrest warrant had quickly spread throughout the valley, and now among the wanted posters on the bulletin boards of all the Royal Guards was that of the beautiful and dreaded Sylvia: she, the swordswoman who had won the last three tournaments; who was feared and desired by men, and admired and criticized by women; she who, despite repeated invitations to enlist in the King's personal guard, had always refused, preferring her liberty--a liberty that was now in danger.

She should not have been there that evening. She should have stayed away from the village, hidden, at least for a while, but thirst--and in part her pride--had led her to tempt fate and stop by for a quick beer. The worried innkeeper said to her, "What are you doing here? Go away!" while his patrons stared at her, entranced. Still, having finished her beer, it really was time to go--one should never take unnecessary risks. She could return to the stable, get on her horse and get out of town.

The creaking wooden door, the pungent smell of the stable, a caress on the back of the stallion, black as night, who snorted nervously, perhaps from the presence of another horse beside him. "Take it easy, we're leaving now," said Sylvia, trying to calm him.


The sound of boots on the cobblestones of the street, the moonlight illuminating her face, her sword clattering annoyingly against his leg.
For Pedro it was nearing the end of the evening patrol, and with it his day. He could collect his horse and finally go home. It was his first week as a member of the Royal Guard. It really wasn't a job suited to him; he wanted to be a musician, but there was the family tradition--first his grandfather, then his father, both in the Guard, and now he too. He shuffled along with jacket sleeves that were too long for him. His pants, too, were too big, cinched up by the belt buckle. He had not yet had time to go to a seamstress to have the whole uniform altered. He felt both ridiculous and proud at the same time; for the first time in his life, the people of the village could sleep peacefully, now that he was there to protect them.

As soon as he opened the stable door, he heard the neigh of a horse. It wasn't his; it must have been some belated customer of the inn. While his eyes adjusted to the faint light of the lamp hung on the wall, he directed his gaze forward...and his blood ran cold.

No...it's impossible, thought Pedro. That face! He had seen it all day, depicted among the notices posted at the barracks. That thick, red head of hair...that grace at once both fluid and powerful...he had admired them during last year's tournament, and then dreamed of them more than once. Those black leather pants, snug and tight on her body...that red vest...and those unusual eyes, one green and one brown, mesmerizing, gazing at me... How could he not recognize her? Sylvia Vasquez was there in front of him.

His heart began to beat like a drum. The thrill of meeting her, the joy--suddenly gave way to a deep discomfort. He was no longer a little country boy; now he was a guard, and she...she was a wanted woman. With a trembling voice--and surprising courage--he said, "Miss Vasquez, you...you are under arrest."

For Sylvia too, thoughts ran quickly. Damn! I knew that my stop at the tavern was risky. I always trust too much to luck, and now here I am--the Guard has found me. What do I do? Jump into my horse's saddle and escape? Fight?

But...why am I talking about guards? Right now there's only one blocking my way out of the stable, she thought, hoping that others weren't about to arrive. Why am I even talking about A guard? Now that I've had a good look at him, it seems to me he's just a boy playing dress-up, and I think he's even trembling. Perhaps a word or two will be enough to scare him off.

"Good boy--you found me! You've done well, but now step aside because I have to go. I don't want to trample you with my horse." What on earth is he doing? Has he really drawn his sword? On ME? In that case he must be serious--or maybe a little crazy!

Pedro's reply was not long in coming. "Miss Vasquez, I cannot let you go. There is a warrant for your arrest. Please follow me to my barracks."

Sylvia hesitated. What should I do? She felt a strange mixture of sensations. I usually never doubt my decisions. I certainly can't allow myself to be arrested. I have to escape. But faced with a silly boy playing at being a guard? I don't want to fight with him, I don’t want to trample him with my horse. But I have to act quickly, before others arrive...

"For the last time, Miss, follow me to the barracks. The night guards will be there. They will take you into custody and I will be able to call it a day. I'm sorry, I don't want to do this, but it is my duty."

Ah...so you're alone! Sylvia's eyes sparkled at the revelation.

A flash...and Sylvia's Toledo Salamanca is drawn. A thunderbolt...and in two steps she draws near the boy. A lunge...the boy's sword falls to the ground, and his hand bleeds.

"Ahh!" cried Pedro, with a shocked glance at his injured hand and fallen sword. It had all happened so quickly.

He should not have let himself be disarmed so easily, thought Pedro. He wasn't paying attention, damn it!

She saw him bend over to pick up his fallen blade.

"Leave it on the ground," she said. "And don't worry about your hand; it's only a scratch. Besides, you fought well; you can tell your comrades about it with pride. Now step aside," she said, with growing impatience.

But no sooner had she turned back to her horse when she heard him say, "Stop! You are under arrest!" Sylvia turned and saw him still there, standing motionless as before, his bloody right hand once again holding his sword. "You just caught me by surprise," Pedro insisted stubbornly.

Her first reaction was admiration for the boy's courage and doggedness. Her second, however, was one of annoyance. I'm beginning to lose patience--as well as time--and besides, who gave him permission to address me so disrespectfully?

"For the last time, let me pass!" Sylvia said more decisively. But he didn't move. "Very well. As you wish," she hissed.

More quick dance steps, the point of her sword drawing curves in the air, the blade slashing hand, belt, buttons. Sounds of tearing cloth. Legs suddenly exposed.

As before, everything happened in an instant, Pedro's blade again falling on the straw, blood again dripping from his hand. He gawked at his bare legs and exposed underpants. How was it possible? His shredded pants had fallen down around his boots.

Raising his eyes he saw her looking at his white underwear, amused No one except his mother had ever seen him like this. How would he explain his ruined pants back in the barracks?

"Now, please listen to me. Leave your sword where it is. I have enjoyed your little show, but it's late and I really must go," Sylvia remarked with amusement.

A fierce rage rose within Pedro, and as she turned again to climb onto her horse, the humiliation he had suffered was more than he could bear. "Whore..." he muttered.

His voice was faint, but loud enough to be heard by Sylvia, who turned again, the look in her eyes no longer merely amused, annoyed, or irritated, but flashing with rage. Pedro belatedly realized that he had made a mistake--perhaps a fatal one.

"What did you call me?" Sylvia asked icily. Nobody can call me that. Nobody! Neither my sword nor my body has ever been for sale!

Now Sylvia stared furiously at the boy, so young, but already so contemptuous of women. Usually, at times like this, her blade would have sprung into action with a will, it would have washed away the shame of the insult with blood. This time, however, she had to restrain herself.

Although...to see him like that, trembling in fear of the consequences of his words, trying to pull up his pants with one hand...while with the other he again reached for his sword...

An idea took shape in Sylvia's mind. No blood, but a wound just as deep--to his pride. She would end up embarrassing him in any case. Sylvia's eyes remained hard, but the corners of her mouth stretched in a sinister smile.


"I told you not to touch the sword again," Sylvia reiterated.

Her peremptory tone left no doubts about her mood, so Pedro, knowing that now he really was risking his life, left the sword on the ground.

"Your pants, too...leave them down," Sylvia added.

The boy looked up, staring her in the eyes. What does she have in mind? I don't want to die like this...in this condition!

"Actually, I've changed my mind," said Sylvia. "Take them off."

"What?" asked Pedro, horrified.

"Do I have to explain to you how to take off your pants?"

"Why do I have to take them off?"

"Because I'm telling you to," said Sylvia pointedly.

"But..." Pedro stuttered. However, Sylvia's look allowed no reply. Pedro bent over, his heart pounding, and with hands made clumsy by his wound and his anxiety, he tried to pull off his pants, nearly falling.

"It will be easier if you take your boots off first," Sylvia pointed out.

He glanced at her again. Her eyes were still implacable. Defeated, he bent over and took off his boots, and then his pants.

"Your socks... Come on! The ground isn't cold," said Sylvia, not yet satisfied.

In fact, the warm floor of the stable, covered in soft straw, felt good on his bare feet.

"Now, your jacket."

"No." The boy's last defense, his jacket, even though once again a bit too big, was still the symbol of what he had become--but was it really what he wanted to be? In any case, he didn't want to die without it.

"I'm not repeating it a third time--take off your jacket!"

Buttons, buckles, the rustle of cloth... The horses, curious, watching the scene. And soon the royal guard stood there wearing only his shirt and underwear, defenseless.

"Nice shirt...but now we'll see how much you guards exercise in the barracks. You know, a guard has to have strong pectoral muscles, but you really don't look to me like you're at the top of your class in physical exercises. Let me check. Take it off!"

Again Pedro hesitated. Why is she doing this? Does she want to humiliate me before killing me? Without my shirt I'll be left in my underpants in front of a woman. And not just any woman...in front of Sylvia Vasquez! His heart thundered, his cheeks were hot and surely red, and... No, it couldn't be...a sensation...there where it shouldn't be...not at a time like this!

"Well? Will you take it off by yourself? Or do I have to tear it to shreds with my sword?"

Once again buttons, cloth falling on the ground. Then he was left standing there, petrified.

Only now did Sylvia's eyes once again reveal a look of amusement; her anger was fading. Before her there was no longer a powerful guard, but just a little boy in his underpants, visibly agitated--and not just that! But this was not enough; the lesson had to be completed.

"Well, just as I thought. You really don't have a physique suited to being a guard," Sylvia said, taunting him.

"One last thing," Sylvia said. She moved a step closer, and with the tip of her blade pointed at the boy's underpants.

Pedro's eyes followed the tip of her sword, then he looked up, pleadingly. Sylvia's raised eyebrows left no doubt about her next request.

"It's time to show me if you at least have some hidden...endowments. Come on--get naked!"

"No...please..."

"I don't have any more time to play with you, little boy. I have to go, but first your underpants will join the rest of your clothes, either removed by your hands, or cut off by my sword. I recommend the first choice; the second is dangerous for what--judging by what I seem to glimpse--is your meager manhood.

Two trembling hands approached the hem of the underpants; they grabbed them and quickly pulled them down. Then...laughter, sudden and resounding.

"And you...really...you thought about fighting a duel with me...with THAT little sword??"

Pedro's eyes were lowered, his face reddening with shame over the most inopportune erection of his life. His hand moved quickly to cover his private parts.

"Not feeling so sure of yourself anymore, are you? Like this...completely naked!" said Sylvia, underlining his predicament with words that were both gratuitous and malicious. Why doesn't she get it over with and kill me? Pedro wondered.

"Now turn around...hands against the wall." Watching him closely, while Pedro turned to face the wall, Sylvia remarked, "I do however admit that you have a nice butt--firm and round." To die like this, thought Pedro, without even looking the executioner in the face!

The sounds of clothing--his?--being stuffed into saddlebags. Boots coming closer, and then...a sharp pain in his right butt cheek. Not a wound, but a slap with the flat of her sword. Then the neighing of the horse.

"Ciao, little boy. You made me lose time, and at first my temper too, but in the end it was amusing to meet you and become acquainted with you...all of you."

Again her laughter. The sound of the stable door opening, hooves treading on the floor. Finally the courage to turn around, and the final image: the powerful back of a black horse racing along at the gallop, and a mane of red hair, flying freely in the night wind. The same wind that now sweetly caressed his naked body.

At that moment, Pedro could not know that one day he would meet her again; that sometime in the future, having once again given up the clothing of the King's Guard, he would become Pedro the outlaw; and that he would fight for freedom, in the Rebellion, at the side of Captain Sylvia Vasquez.

But that is another story...
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