Chapter 9: The Misadventures of Blondie
At the school like no other, there was one particular student who was humiliated to a degree like no other. I promised in my intro that I would devote a chapter to Blondie's travails, and I must say that his misfortunes—
calamities is probably a more appropriate word—certainly warrant its own chapter.
Blondie and I were in the same graduating class, which meant I had front-row seats to a fair number of his finest (read: most mortifying) moments. Now, most Roosevelt victims see their torment taper off after freshman year, but Blondie was the rare exception. The poor guy was still getting pantsed as a senior. A senior! I know, because I was lucky enough to be there for one of them.
All told, I witnessed Blondie getting stripped—one way or another—about half a dozen times. I know there were more; the stories made the rounds, and I definitely missed a few. In this chapter, I’ll stick mainly to the ones I saw firsthand.
Some of these moments have already been documented elsewhere—either by Blondie himself (on the Web, under
Roosevelt Humiliations) or by his most relentless tormentor, a former student named Felicity (
The Felicity Chronicles). I won’t rehash those in full, but I’ll briefly touch on them to offer an outsider’s perspective.
That said, there’s at least one unforgettable incident I’ve never seen described anywhere—and believe me, I’ll be giving that one the attention it so richly deserves.
Let’s begin, in chronological order, with a few of Blondie’s finest—and most humiliating—moments.
* * * * *
Freshman Year
As fate would have it, Blondie and I shared the same homeroom. And to make that lucky circumstance even sweeter, our homeroom teacher was none other than Miss Farnsworth—yes,
the Miss Farnsworth—who, as readers of these memoirs already know, was quite fond of delving out the occasional humiliation to one of her unfortunate students when the opportunity arose.
It had started out as a perfectly ordinary October morning. That abruptly changed to
extraordinary .
I was already settled at my desk in homeroom when a red-faced, youngish-looking boy entered the room—clad in nothing but a white tee shirt and a pair of tighty-whities. Apparently, a few seniors had taken it upon themselves to “welcome” him to Roosevelt by stripping him down to his down to his underwear. They made him show up to homeroom like that, probably with the threat of taking it even further if he didn't do so.
The atmosphere in the room suddenly changed from boredom to excitement. I remember grinning from ear to ear and feeling the titillation that I get when I witness a boy's humiliation.
And it was about to get better.
Miss Farnsworth walked in and immediately sensed the charged atmosphere among her students. It didn’t take her long to figure out why—Blondie was seated front and center in the first row.
A smile crossed her lips as she looked Blondie up and down. “Stand up,” she said.
Blondie hesitated, then obeyed.
"You have very pretty legs," she said, and we all laughed.
It was true. Blondie’s legs were slender, long, and almost elegant—sleek and smooth enough to belong on a swimsuit model, not a teenage boy. They barely had any hair, if any at all. “Pretty” was definitely the perfect word. Honestly, I wished
I had legs like that. I’m pretty sure Blondie didn’t share that sentiment.
It was true. Blondie’s legs were slender, long, and a little on the elegant side—sleek and smooth like they belonged on a swimsuit model, not a boy. They didn’t seem to have much hair at all, if any. “Pretty” really was the perfect word. Honestly, I wished I had legs like that. I'm pretty sure Blondie didn't feel the same way.
Then Miss Farnsworth glanced out the window. We all followed her gaze, and there they were—Blondie’s corduroys, hoisted up the flagpole, comically flapping in the breeze.
"Those must belong to you," said Miss Farnsworth, stating the obvious.
Blondie muttered something under his breath—something that sounded an awful lot like “fucking genius.” He thought it was under his breath, but he was mistaken. And much to my delight, it gave the depraved teacher a reason to further Blondie's humiliation.
"Take off your shirt," she said, and it was music to my ears.
I don’t think Blondie realized she was serious—he didn’t yet know Miss Farnsworth’s reputation. Neither did I, at that point. But I can tell you this: I was dearly hoping she meant it.
Well, she did.
“Unless you’d prefer I take you over my knee and spank your bare bottom in front of the class,” she added.
A rush of pleasure shot through me when she said that, and the reasons were twofold. First, the image of her delivering a bare-assed spanking was outrageously delicious. And second, it became crystal clear she had no intention of stopping there. She was going to strip the terrified freshman even further—and I’m pretty sure Blondie realized it too.
Lo and behold, in a matter of moments she was tucking his tee shirt into her desk drawer, and Blondie was standing among us wearing nothing but his tighty-whities.
My juices were flowing as I watched the mortified student slink back toward his seat—only for Miss Farnsworth to stop him cold. “You’ll remain standing for the rest of roll call,” she said. He hesitated, then reluctantly rose. “And face the class, please.”
He turned slowly to face us. Of course, his face was tomato red, and the look on it was exactly what you'd expect in a moment like this: pure misery. His eyes were glued to the floor, and his hands moved instinctively to shield his groin.
“Hands at your sides,” Miss Farnsworth snapped.
At first he didn’t move, but he eventually obeyed. And when he did, of course I immediately checked him out. And what I saw made it all the better.
I giggled (along with many others), since there was not much to check out. There was a small bump from his penis, and his balls didn't fill out the material in any way whatsoever. This only added to my enjoyment, because I knew Blondie's humiliation had to be through the roof.
Eventually, Miss Farnsworth dismissed him to retrieve his pants. But when he asked—almost whimpered—for his shirt, a smirk formed on the corner of her lips. “You may have it when you return with your trousers,” she said.
And off he went, forced to traverse the hallway and venture outside in his tighty-whities. I could hear his bare feet slapping the floor as he made the mad dash down hallway. The mental pictures of Blondie in his tighty-whities that morning still bring a smile to my face.
* * * * *
Sophomore Year
Though I subsequently witnessed several strippings during my freshman year, none of them involved Blondie. I had heard of several instances involving him—one of them in which he was forced to strip naked in the darkened auditorium during the school play! But alas, I wasn’t lucky enough to be there for any of those legendary moments.
However, there was one Blondie episode in the latter half of sophomore year that I did witness firsthand. And it was a doozy.
(Note: Blondie devoted a whole chapter to this scene in his aforementioned
Roosevelt Humiliations.)
Once again, the scene was our ever-eventful homeroom. And of course, Miss Farnsworth was involved.
But this particular incident wouldn’t have happened at all if not for a girl named Brenda. Over the course of our first two years, Brenda—and a few others, including Blondie’s own sister Becky—had gained control over Blondie, and sadistically used that control to humiliate him on several occasions. Blondie, in his foolishness, once attempted to strike back.
His grand plan? He showed up early to homeroom and wrote, in enormous chalk letters on the board: “BRENDA HAS TINY LITTLE TITTIES.”
It was true—Brenda was not well-endowed in the chest department—and when she walked in, everyone giggled at her. When she saw the reason why, she ran up and erased the offensive text. When she walked back to her seat, I could see that her face was bright red.
A few days later, Blondie got cocky. He tried the same maneuver—and this time, Brenda caught him in the act.
From what I heard later—delivered in detail by Brenda herself—she made him drop his pants on the spot. Then, using a pair of scissors, she cut off his underwear. All of it. Then she tied a bright orange piece of yarn around his his dick and balls. When he pulled his pants back up, she used another length of yarn to tie his wrists behind his back.
Then she reached through the fly of his pants, grabbed hold of the yarn, and began leading him down the hallway like a naughty pet. Right out into the courtyard.
She paraded him around the courtyard, in front of the now famous (infamous?) Roosevelt statue. And then, after abundant teasing in front of many delighted eyewitnesses, she yanked his pants down to his ankles, revealing his little bits to all.
God, I wish I’d been there. But what happened after—when they returned to homeroom—more than made up for my missed opportunity.
I was idly scrolling through my phone at my desk when a grinning Brenda walked in. She was pulling on the length of yarn, leading a bare-chested Blondie literally by the balls, as the yarn extended from inside the open fly of his pants. He followed behind her, face burning.
She proceeded to entertain us by parading her humiliated pet back and forth across the front of the room, much to our amusement. His face was beet red, his eyes glued to the floor.
Then she let him put on his shirt and tuck the yarn in his pants before zipping up. She whispered something into his ear and sat down.
The beleaguered Blondie cringed, then reluctantly trudged to the board, picked up the chalk and wrote in giant letters, "BLONDIE HAS A TEENSY WEENSY HAIRLESS LITTLE PEE-PEE."
When he turned and walked back to his seat, the laughter was deafening. His face was crimson, and my delight was off the charts.
And just when it seemed like Blondie couldn’t possibly sink any lower, the diabolical Miss Farnsworth walked in. She immediately saw what was written on her board. She looked at Blondie and smiled.
I knew there would be no stopping her. I think I licked my lips in anticipation.
"Mr. Haggerty," she said. "Would you care to explain who is responsible for this?"
After hesitating, Blondie admitted it was him.
"Are you familiar with the concept of shame clothing?" she asked him.
I sat up straighter in my chair, eager for events to unfold. Then I nearly choked on my own saliva when she reached into her desk and pulled out a black, lacy bra.
"Would you please remove your shirt and come up here?" she said.
Blondie was soon bare-chested again. Counting his topless entrance with Brenda earlier, this made the third time he’d been stripped from the waist up in homeroom—which, for the record, is exactly three more times than anyone else. Poor, poor Blondie. I loved it!
She turned the miserable boy to face us and went to work with her “shame clothing.” In moments, the bra was snugly fastened around his chest, and the result was absolutely comical. When she quipped that she kept the A-cup handy for her flat-chested girls, the room exploded with laughter—and Blondie’s face turned scarlet.
But Miss Farnsworth wasn’t done. She looked him up and down and appeared deep in thought. I couldn't wait to see what she had in mind.
“As I recall,” she said, “the last time I had to discipline you, you weren't wearing pants, and you were showing off some
very pretty legs. I think, since you’re already standing here on display in such a pretty bra, it would be quite appropriate—and entertaining, I might add—for you to put your pretty
legs on display, also.”
I was getting excited, thinking he'd have to expose his tighty-whities again. I was not aware at the time that Brenda had cut off his underpants earlier that morning.
He whispered something to Miss Farnsworth, who smiled devilishly and said, "Why aren't you wearing any underpants?"
I gasped, and remember being disappointed, because I thought for sure that under the circumstances she wouldn't make him drop his pants.
But I had badly underestimated Miss Farnsworth’s appetite for humiliation. She was intent on doing just that—probably even more so, since he was naked underneath. She reached for his belt (Blondie had turned around to face her, imploring her to let him keep his pants up). He instinctively grabbed her wrists. That earned him a sharp reprimand, and he quickly let go.
Without hesitation, Miss Farnsworth unbuckled his belt, yanked open the front of his pants, and tugged them down to his ankles. A collective gasp swept through the classroom, followed by gleeful laughter. I, for one, drank in the very pleasant sight of his cute little bare ass—and yes, his pretty legs.
To compound Blondie's ignominious plight, there was the matter of the bright orange yarn Brenda had so mischievously tied earlier—still dangling down from his privates. Miss Farnsworth shook her head, called him a pervert, and told him to put his hands (which were clasped over his genitals) on his hips. Again he begged, but she was not to be denied.
When he pulled his hands away she grinned and said, "You poor dear," which drew considerable laughter.
Then she made him read out loud what was on the board. "Blondie has a teensy weensy hairless little pee-pee," he said with a cracking voice.
"Indeed you do," she said, and we all laughed harder.
I dearly wanted to see for myself—I hadn't yet had the opportunity to see his little dick—but I doubted I’d be that lucky. Once again, I underestimated the wickedness of Miss Farnsworth.
She told him to turn around and face his classmates. After considerable hemming and hawing, he did so, and I have to say that I was basking in the sight, and in Blondie's humiliation. I savored every mortifying second.
Indeed, the writing on the board was accurate. He had a little pee-pee, and there was not a hair to be found. Now, even if he had a bigger dick with hair, his humiliation would still have been quite profound. But for a 15-year-old boy to stand there like that with his hairless little bits on full display? Oh, my goodness!
And as if that weren’t enough, Miss Farnsworth added the final flourish. Still wearing the bra, pants around his ankles, Blondie was made to sing
I Feel Pretty from West Side Story.
Blondie's humiliation was complete, and I had another wonderful memory to add to my ever-growing collection of memories.
* * * * *
Senior Year
If Blondie had any luck at all, the progression into his senior year would have marked the end of his strippings and humiliations. His usual tormentors—though I heard they toyed with him a bit over the summer—had pretty much exhausted their ways of humiliating the boy, and truth be told—I got this from Brenda—after three years of tormenting Blondie, it just wasn't as exciting for them as it used to be.
But much to Blondie's misfortune, there was a new kid on the block. Her name was Felicity, and she was a force to be reckoned with. She was the younger sister of one of Blondie’s original tormentors, and she’d apparently been invited to one of his “episodes” the summer before. Apparently she enjoyed herself quite a bit. Her appetite for humiliation was whetted, and from that moment on, she was hooked.
Felicity arrived at Roosevelt as a freshman that fall, the same time Blondie was limping into his senior year. She became quite the terror (with the help of a few friends), and it wasn't long before she developed a circle of victims. All but one of them were freshmen—a poor kid she called Johnny Boy was a common patsy—and, you guessed it, the exception would be the one and only Blondie. Evidently she possessed some incriminating, very embarrassing video footage from her experience with Blondie that summer night. And much to Blondie's bad fortune, though Felicity had plenty of freshmen students under her thumb, Blondie seemed to be her favorite target.
I was sitting in homeroom before it started when Brenda started chatting me up. She informed me of Blondie's experience that occurred on the previous day. The longer she spoke, the more wide-eyed and agape I became. Evidently, just the day before, Felicity had cornered Blondie at his locker—and before all was said and done, he was stark naked.
And here's the kicker: Before she let him get dressed, she gave him a list of instructions. She told him that when he got home that day he was to shave his body completely hairless, and he was to keep it that way from that day forward. I guess he had finally grown pubic hair, and according to Brenda, Felicity took hold of a tuft of it and said, "This has to go, too. I like my boys to be smooth all over." I mean, couldn't you just die?
Anyway, legs, arms, underarms—everything! Plus, Blondie was now required to wear short shorts—very short, Felicity insisted, warning that if the hems got anywhere near mid-thigh, they were coming off. He also had to wear tight, short-sleeved tees to show off his new silky-smooth arms. No socks—“so people can admire those pretty legs.” And my personal favorite: He had to go back to wearing tighty-whities. Apparently he’d made the switch to boxers at some point, but Felicity decreed that since his body wasn’t “mature enough” to warrant such grown-up underwear, he’d need to stick with the kind little boys wear. She said that he'll look like a 10-year-old boy down there with his hairless little bits, so tighty-whities are much more appropriate.
Don't you just love it? Oh, I'm so sorry I missed that scene!
Blondie hadn’t arrived yet, and I was starting to watch the door with rising anticipation. "Do you think he will do it? Or did it?" I asked Brenda.
Brenda smirked. “Oh, I’m thinking yes. If you’d seen him with Felicity yesterday, you’d know how terrified he is of her. As he should be.” She giggled.
"I can't wait to see. And I
so wish I had been there yesterday."
“Oh, you would’ve loved it,” Brenda said. "After telling him what he had to do, she made him repeat everything back to her before she’d let him get dressed.”
“Oh my goodness!”
“Yup. She goes, ‘Tell me why you’re not allowed to wear boxer shorts.’ And he says, ‘Because I haven’t earned it?’ It was so funny! So she said, 'Yes, and tell me why you haven't earned it. He stammered like crazy and finally said, ‘Because I haven’t matured enough?’”
I gasped, grinning. "Oh, my goodness!" I said again.
“I know, right? And then she goes, ‘In what way have you not matured?’ And he couldn’t even answer, so she goes, ‘Is it because you have little boy bits?’ And the poor thing just mumbled, ‘Yes.’ So of course, she made him say it.”
“He said it? Out loud?”
“Oh, yeah. He goes, ‘I have little boy bits.’ And then Felicity asks, ‘After tonight, what embarrassing feature will your little boy bits have?’ He whispers, ‘They’ll have no hair.’”
I covered my mouth, laughing. "Oh my God, this is too much!"
“And Felicity goes, ‘That’s right! You’ll have bald little boy bits!’”
"Oh, that's hilarious!" I said.
"And then..."
Right then, the star of our conversation entered the room. He was moving fast, clearly hoping to get to his seat unnoticed—but I was able to take in his attire: very short shorts, a short, tight tee shirt—there was skin exposed above his shorts—and an extremely red face, which turned even redder when he heard a wolf whistle coming from the back of the room.
I scrutinized his legs and arms, and sure enough, there was not a hair to be found. I was pretty sure there was also no hair anywhere inside his shorts, and that he was almost certainly wearing his tighty-whities.
A few days later I would have the distinct pleasure of seeing for myself.
* * * * *
After that morning, I’ll admit—I became a bit of a stalker. Any chance I had to follow Blondie around, I took it. I was hoping to catch another of Felicity’s delicious little encounters with him. And one afternoon, just as the lunch period began, I got my wish.
By the way—this is the event I mentioned earlier, the one I’ve never seen described anywhere else. I was so lucky to witness it firsthand—and as you'll see, actually play a part in it!
Blondie was walking alone down the hallway when she appeared—seemingly out of nowhere. She greeted him cheerfully, and I could tell she was enjoying the frightened look on his face every bit as much as I was.
She took his arm. He resisted. But of course, Felicity would get her way. She steered him straight into the girls’ bathroom.
Naturally, I had to follow. I wasn’t about to miss out on whatever Felicity had in mind for him. And I had a feeling there would at
least be a tighty-whities sighting.
The bathroom was fairly spacious, and there were already about a dozen girls inside—more trickling in behind me. At first, a few gasped at the sight of a boy entering, but that quickly gave way to amusement when they saw his smooth legs, his sheepish expression, and the freshman girl leading him like she owned him.
Felicity stopped near the sinks, still holding his arm, then turned him to face the crowd. “You shouldn’t have resisted, Blondie,” she said matter-of-factly. "You'll have to be punished now."
“Please,” he stammered, “I...I didn't want to go in the...it's the girls’
bathroom."
“Yes it is,” Felicity agreed. "And you have such pretty, girly legs," she continued, playing to the growing crowd. "So you should feel right at home." She glanced at his shorts. “All I wanted to do was check and make sure you were wearing the tighty-whities like I told you to.”
The sound of giggling girls echoed throughout the room, and the sense of anticipation was palpable. I, for one, could feel my pulse quickening, as I eagerly took in the unfolding scene.
“I am wearing them!” he blurted. “Here—look.”
He hooked his fingers into the waistband of his shorts and yanked upward, revealing what definitely looked like the waist band of a pair of tighty-whities. But I had a feeling that wouldn’t be enough for her. And, thankfully, I was right.
"Oh, we need to have a better look than
that," Felicity said as she reached for the snap at the top of his shorts.
"Please, Fel...please, not here...please, can I...can I show you in private?" begged Blondie. His eyes darted around nervously—and for a moment, they locked on mine, which I really enjoyed. I gave him my best coquettish smile.
Felicity wasn’t moved. "I don't think so. You lost your chance at privacy when you tried to defy me,” she said calmly as she pulled down his zipper.
Blondie didn’t dare resist when Felicity stepped behind him—positioning herself, no doubt, to give us all a perfect view (much to my delight!)—and took hold of both sides of his shorts.
“Are you ready to show everyone your tighty-whities?” she teased, pausing for dramatic effect.
"Please...no..." he whispered.
I loved how he pleaded for mercy. I mean, he had to know that Felicity was going to expose his tighty-whities to us. But that didn't stop him from begging, which demonstrated how desperate he was. That's why, for me, his begging only added to my enjoyment of his ongoing humiliation.
Felicity drew things out even longer, letting go of his shorts and lifting his shirt instead, baring his stomach. She held it up to his chest and smiled.
"Now we'll get a nice, unobstructed view of your little tighty-whities when your shorts come down," she said.
I was really enjoying her commentary. She had a gift for staging the moment—setting up the scene just right for maximum humiliation. And the way she exposed his belly? That was a nice touch. The newly bared skin was not only tantalizing—it served as the perfect bit of foreshadowing for what we all knew was coming.
Again she put her hands on the tops of his shorts...and again she let go. This time she turned to the rest of us.
"Would anyone like to do the honors?" she asked.
My hand shot up before I even realized I’d moved it. “I’ll do it!”
Felicity turned, smiling, and gestured with an open palm. “He’s all yours.”
I was very excited about my good fortune, and I wanted to make the most of it. I stepped in front of Blondie, made eye contact, smiled, and stuck out my hand. Though we had been in the same homeroom all three years, we'd never really spoken, mainly because Blondie was a bit on the shy side.
“Hi Blondie,” I said. “I’m Michelle.”
“Hi, Blondie,” I said. “I’m Michelle.”
Blondie miserably reciprocated with a half-hearted handshake. Just for the hell of it, I leaned in and kissed his profusely blushing cheek. I still remember how warm his skin felt against my lips.
I crouched down, took one last look at his anxious expression, and said, “Showtime.” Then, without hesitation, I grasped his waistband and tugged his shorts down to his ankles in one smooth, leisurely motion.
Cheers erupted around me, but I barely heard them. My attention was fixed on the sight before me: pale upper thighs, smooth and hairless...and, of course, the pristine white cotton of his tighty-whities, clinging to him snugly. I suppose I got a small taste of what Felicity must feel—the humiliation that I had generated for the poor boy was intoxicating. It was an exquisite moment for me, and I still savor it to this day.
I stepped back to survey the wonderful scene, and to let the expert take over.
“Thank you, Michelle,” said Felicity. “That was well done.”
She turned to Blondie, now bent slightly forward, hands desperately clasped over his front. I was enjoying his body language, and his shame.
Felicity crouched at his feet and tapped his leg. “Step out, please.” He did, and she removed his shorts, then his shoes. “I want you barefoot while I strip you to your tighty-whities,” she said.
She then stood behind him and took hold of his shirt tail. "Arms up, please. Tighty-whities only for you." Blondie hesitated, was about to say something, but then he just submitted. “Higher. Hold them up nice and high.” Blondie complied.
Naturally, our eyes all dropped to his crotch. There wasn’t much to see.
Giggle.
Felicity took her time pulling off his shirt, especially once she revealed his smooth underarms, which I found very intriguing. I remember thinking how humiliating it must have been for him, a 17-year-old boy forced to keep his legs and underarms all smooth at a 13-year-old girl's behest. Then to have to expose that to us, all stretched out like that—in the girls’ bathroom, no less—gosh, I can only
try to imagine how mortified he was. Even with that in mind, I was dearly hoping for more.
"I wonder if he has any hair inside those underpants?" giggled one of the onlookers.
"I doubt it," said another, and everyone laughed.
The shirt finally came off, and Blondie’s hands flew back to his groin. That wouldn’t last.
“Blondie,” Felicity said, “we can’t get the full effect of your tighty-whities presentation when you’re covering your little bits.” He stayed frozen. “Let’s keep your hands on your head from now on and away from your little boy bits. I think everyone would find that very pleasing.”
Blondie slowly, miserably, raised his hands to his head. Felicity was right: I found that very pleasing.
“That’s my good boy,” Felicity purred, walking a slow circle around him. She trailed her fingers up and down his sides as she passed, clearly enjoying herself. "You look so delectable." When she reached the front again, she placed her hands on his hips. "Do you know how you can become even
more delectable?" she asked.
Oh, be still my heart! Tell me this is going where I hope it is going!
Blondie must have been thinking what I was thinking also, because his eyes grew as big as saucers.
"Oh, I think you
do," said Felicity. "Can you tell me, Blondie?" She put her hands on his hips. "Can you tell me how we can make you even more delectable?"
"Please, I...I don't know," he stammered.
"But I think you
do, sweetie.” She slid her hands into the back of his underwear and gently felt up his bum. "And I want you to tell me."
Blondie was between the proverbial rock and a hard place. He knew exactly what Felicity wanted him to say, and he didn't want to even
say it, much less
do it. But if he didn't answer—or, to take it a step further, answer
correctly—then somehow she would make matters even worse for him.
Is that even possible?
"I…by...by pulling down my underpants?" Blondie finally squeaked out, his voice barely above a whisper.
A chorus of delighted giggles erupted around the room.
"Good, Blondie!" exclaimed Felicity as she took her hands out of his tighty-whities and clapped her hands together with glee. “You’re definitely on the right track. But see, there are degrees of delectability.”
She paced slowly in front of him as she spoke, adding to the drama. “For instance,” she continued, “right now, standing here in front of all these girls—so embarrassed, so exposed in your tighty-whities, with those pretty, hairless legs on display—I’d say your delectability level is a solid eight on a scale from one to ten.”
Blondie looked like he might become ill.
“Now...if we were to do what you just suggested—and thank you so much for that—if your little underpants were pulled down to your knees? Mmm, I'd put your delectability level at a solid nine. And it would answer a burning question one of your admirers asked earlier—namely, if you have any hair on your little bits."
The girls giggled again, and I felt my cheeks flush with anticipation.
“
But!” Felicity held up a finger, theatrically. “Let’s say we took it even further. We don’t stop at your knees—we pull your tighty-whities
aaaall the way down those silky-smooth legs, and right off your feet.” She paused, locking eyes with Blondie. He looked absolutely miserable, and I don't think I could have been more excited. “If we did that, Blondie...what would you be?”
"Um...um..."
“Come on,” she coaxed. “Say it. What would you be?”
“A...a ten?” he offered, timidly.
She laughed. “Well, yes. Your delectability level would be a ten. But you wouldn’t be wearing any clothes. So you’d be...?”
“N-naked?” he whispered.
Oh, I loved it!
“Yes!” Felicity beamed. "You'd be
naked! And yes, your level of delectability would be a perfect ten!"
She paused to let that sink in, then continued. “Tell you what,” she said, spinning to face the audience. “Let’s take a vote.”
She held up her hand. “Simple show of hands. Who here would like Blondie to keep his tighty-whities on?”
Predictably, no hands went up.
“Anyone? No? Okay, then. Who would like to see his tighty-whities pulled down to his knees?”
One hand shot up quickly, but she then withdrew it when she realized there was another, more enticing option.
“And finally…” Felicity’s voice rose with dramatic flair. “Who would like to see Blondie’s tighty-whities removed completely—in which case he’d be...?” She extended her palm toward us.
“NAKED!” we shouted in unison, hands thrust high into the air.
The atmosphere was electric. Felicity was putting on an amazing performance, and it was a stimulating buildup to what was becoming a foregone conclusion. I can tell you, she really had me worked up.
“Well, I guess the people have spoken,” Felicity said, turning back to Blondie. “And apparently, they want you to be naked.” She paused and smiled at the hapless Blondie. "Are you ready to be naked?"
“No!” he cried out. Please, I'm begging you! Don't...don't do this! Not here!"
I was amazed—and more than a little turned on—that he was still begging. Surely he knew it was hopeless. But the pleading only made it better.
“Oh, Blondie,” Felicity purred, “don’t be such a tease. Look how excited your audience is. And they all want you to be naked. You wouldn’t want to disappoint all these lovely girls, would you?”
There was no response from Blondie this time, as he finally seemed to be resigned to his ignominious fate.
“No, I didn’t think so,” said Felicity.
Then she turned away from him and spoke casually, as if discussing the weather. “Now then, let’s see. How shall we go about relieving you of your undies?” She tapped a finger on her lips. “I'll let you take a moment to mentally prepare yourself for your soon-to-be nakedness while I think this over. Oh, and no matter what, you're not to cover up. If you dare move your hands from your head, there will be consequences."
Blondie said nothing. He looked like he might faint.
Felicity turned back to us with a twinkle in her eye. “So...there are a few options. Option one: We could pull down his tighty-whities very slowly—bit by bit—for a nice, tantalizing unveiling. I’m sure it would be delightful for us, and no doubt rather agonizing for him."
Giggles rippled across the bathroom. I could barely contain my own excitement.
"Another option," Felicity mused, "would be to just grab his tighty-whities like this..." She casually stepped behind Blondie. "And yank them down really fast...like this."
Before anyone could blink, she hooked her fingers into the waistband, and to the surprise of all (especially Blondie!), she zealously yanked downward. One second they were snug around his hips; the next, they were pooled around his feet.
Blondie was blindsided. For a heartbeat he stood there in stunned silence, not yet processing what had just happened. Only when Felicity crouched down and tugged the undies free from around his ankles did reality snap into place: He was standing completely, utterly naked in the middle of the girls’ bathroom, on display for a gleeful, all-female audience.
Amazingly—and much to my appreciation—Blondie didn’t move his hands from atop his head, just as Felicity had ordered.
The reaction from the rest of us was instantaneous. Shrieks, howls, and gleeful laughter echoed through the room as we gawked at the mortified, red-faced boy on display. I had last seen his bared goodies back in our sophomore year in Miss Farnsworth's homeroom class. As my eyes scanned his flushed, naked frame, I couldn’t help but smirk. Not much had changed. His dick was still on the small side—maybe just a tad bigger than it was then—but, amusingly, still hairless. Totally smooth.
Of course, thanks to Brenda, I knew he’d started growing body hair—and that, as of a few days ago (at Felicity’s behest), he was required to stay completely hairless. Judging by the comments, not everybody in the room was aware of that tidbit.
"A little wee-wee with no hair!" laughed one girl.
"Poor little freshman baby," chimed another.
"No, he's a senior," someone shouted out (okay, it was me; I couldn't resist). "He's in my homeroom."
A stunned gasp swept through the room. "Oh, my God, are you serious? No way! How old is he?" asked a girl.
“He’s seventeen,” Felicity announced with a wicked grin, setting off another round of howls.
"Oh my God, he's seventeen with a hairless little weenie like that?" a girl behind me shrieked. "Oh, you poor little boy—how
embarrassing!”
Embarrassing didn’t even begin to cover it. He looked like he might pass out from shame. It had to be absolutely excruciating for him to be standing there in the girls’ bathroom, stripped naked with his undersized, hairless genitals on full display for an all-female audience that was delighting in his humiliation. His face was positively glowing, and seemed to flush brighter with every biting comment from the energized girls.
Once the laughter died down, Felicity turned the screws a little tighter. "Are they right, Blondie?" she asked. "Is it embarrassing to be 17-years-old and have hairless little bits?" Blondie stared straight down at the floor, and did not respond. “Answer me,” she repeated, her voice firmer now.
"Yes," said Blondie softly.
“Yes what?” she pressed, enjoying every moment.
"It's...it's embarrassing to have...to be seventeen and have lit...hairless little bits," he admitted, his voice breaking slightly.
Laughter rang throughout, and Blondie was about as miserable as one could imagine.
But Felicity had one last debasement for the most unfortunate teen. Still smiling, she bent down, gathered up all his clothes—notably leaving his tighty-whities draped over one of the stall doors—and strolled toward the exit.
She paused at the doorway. “You can put your tighty-whities back on in, oh, three minutes,” she said. "I'll leave the rest of your clothes at your locker. And don't you
ever try to resist me again." She wasn't done. "During those three minutes, you are to keep repeating these words: 'I'm completely naked, and I'm
so embarrassed, because everyone is staring at my bald little boy bits."
I almost choked on my own saliva.
“Let me hear you say it,” she added.
"I'm na...completely naked, and I'm embarrassed because..."
“Wait!” Felicity interrupted. “You’re
so embarrassed. Try again.”
"I'm so...I'm completely naked, and I'm
so embarrassed because...because everyone is staring at my...my bald little boy bits."
“Excellent!” Felicity crowed, loud enough to rise above our cackling. “Now keep saying it. For three full minutes.”
"Maybe he can walk around for us while he says it?" I called out. I couldn't help myself. I really wanted to see him walk around naked.
“What a fun idea!” Felicity replied, clearly delighted. “Blondie, walk back and forth across the bathroom for everybody while you say it. For three minutes. Keep your hands on your head. Can someone set a timer?”
The girl next to me paused her recording long enough to set one up.
“Okay,” said Felicity, checking the time. “Three minutes. Starting...now. Start walking.”
And walk he did. For the next three minutes, we were thoroughly entertained by the extraordinary spectacle of the naked teen parading back and forth, hands on his head, reciting his humiliating mantra over and over again: “I’m completely naked, and I’m so embarrassed because everyone is staring at my bald little boy bits...”
His voice was soft and miserable, but loud enough for everyone to hear—and we made sure he knew we were paying attention. His humiliation was off the charts. I genuinely don’t know if it’s humanly possible for a face to be redder than Blondie’s was right then.
When the timer finally went off, Blondie made a beeline for his tighty-whities and yanked them on in nothing flat. The rest of his clothes were gone, of course—Felicity had vanished with them.
I followed him out of the bathroom and watched gleefully as Blondie scampered the length of the hallway in his tighty-whities to rescue his clothes.
That fabulous vision, along with everything that transpired in the bathroom that day, played a major role in inspiring me to write these memoirs.
