Humiliation on a Summer Evening

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Humor  |  House: Stripping and Humiliation

Don’t be an audience volunteer for this magic show! Someone will end up naked.

[Posted to the Forced Nudity Archive in 2018]

[Posted to BooksieSilk 2020. Version 1.1, 2021]


Claude Moreau, boy
  [choose the age and appearance based on your own preferences]
Professor Zaubermann, showman
  [A large man, with greying hair, and a goatee]
Miss Mirabelle, stage assistant
Miss Florabelle, stage assistant
  [Pretty young women]


From the wings, I peeked into the auditorium and watched the spectators arrive.  It looked like a good turnout.

My stage name is Professor Zaubermann.  I perform occasional magic shows for children throughout Switzerland.  But I am also a secret operative of the federal government—the SER in Bern  (State Secretariat for Education and Research).  That connection must remain secret, because the taxpayers would not approve of using their money to support my main function—public humiliation of problem children.

Very few people know of this secret.  When a school headmaster has a problem student, he can of course expel the student from the school.  But, short of expulsion, if a headmaster wants to turn the student back to acting in a civil manner, sometimes he appeals to the SER for help.  They may put him in touch with me.

That was what had happened this time.  The headmaster of a school in a medium-size town in the Alps had such a problem student, named Claude Moreau.  Nothing the teachers or the headmaster had done had improved Claude’s behaviour.  So the headmaster had arranged this magic show with me.

The show was staged in an auditorium in the town hall.  Technically, the show was open to the public.  But it had been advertised only at that particular school, and tickets had been sold only there, so almost all of the audience were children from that school, their families, their friends.  And staff from that school.  The headmaster had reported to me that the Moreau family had bought tickets.  So the plan had been set in motion.

The lights in the auditorium were lowered.  A spotlight appeared on the empty stage.  I punched a button on my remote, which set off a puff of smoke.  When it cleared I was standing there in the spotlight.  There was applause.  I wore a black tuxedo, a red-lined cape, and the traditional hat of a medieval alchemist.

I was wearing a wireless microphone.  I began, “Good evening, children.  Good evening, ladies and gentlemen.”

I glanced up to the ceiling.  “And, yes: Good evening, ghosts and spirits of this place.”  The spotlight blinked.  The audience laughed.

“I am Professor Zaubermann.  Tonight I think you will be amazed, flabbergasted, bamboozled.  And, at the end of the show, we have a big surprise.”

Lights on the rest of the stage come up.

“Here,” I waved to the side, “are my assistants, Miss Mirabelle and Miss Florabelle.  If you keep your eyes on them,” I wiggled my fingers in the air, “you won’t see me doing the tricks!”Laughter.  When we perform in the big cities, the assistants wear skimpy outfits.  But when we perform in more remote locations, as we were doing that day, they wear the traditional dress for young ladies of the region; actually, dress that was more common 100 years ago.

I went on from there.  I did magic tricks.  I told jokes.  Frequently, I asked for a volunteer from the audience.  The kids were always eager to be chosen; I used a different method to choose the volunteer each time.

I will not write about the first 45 minutes of the evening, since that was a routine show such as you may have seen yourself.  The magic tricks delighted the children.  Probably the adults were not amazed by the tricks, having seen such things before—but of course, as I intended, the parents were happy when the children were happy.

We came to the last act.  “And now,” I announced, “we have reached the finale of my show.  A big surprise.”  Pause.  “The Pallet of Persephone.”

Mirabelle and Florabelle wheeled the pallet onstage.  It looked like a stretcher, about waist-high, padded in black leather.When they reached centre stage, they circled the pallet around 360 degrees, to show it from all sides.  Then, using foot pedals, they locked the wheels.

“I will require one volunteer for this illusion.”  The children were  eagerly raising their hands and calling out to be chosen.

“Everyone: reach under the front of your seat.  See if there is a card there.”

One boy jumped up holding a card up.  “I have it!”  [To the reader: Please choose his age and appearance based on your own preferences.]

“Claude Moreau,” I said, “you are the volunteer!”

The boy was quickly coming to the front.  “How did you know my name?”

“Claude!” I called back.  “This is a magic show, of course I know your name.”  In fact, Claude was attending the show with family.  Following my instructions, his father had stuck the card under Claude’s seat when he wasn’t looking.

This auditorium was built recently, so it had modern features.  It had a wheelchair ramp at the side connecting the raised stage to the floor of the auditorium.  Claude ran up the ramp.

I made some small talk with the boy.  I guessed the date of his birthday, his favorite video game, and what he had eaten for breakfast.  Claude was amazed.  Most of the audience was, too.  In fact, I had received the information in a note from Claude’s parents just before the show.

“Now, Claude,” I said.  “Sit up on the pallet.  Turn and put your feet over here at the end, with your ankles in the two slots.”

I closed the ankle stocks and latched it.  Now Claude’s ankles were enclosed in leather-padded cuffs.

“We have to make sure you stay on the pallet during the trick.  We don’t want you falling off and hurting yourself.”

Claude nodded.

“Now lie back, with your neck here in this space.  And put your hands up here.  Your wrists in these spaces.”

I closed the stocks there, as well.  His neck and wrists were snugly enclosed in leather-padded restraints.

“Why does this fit me so well?” the boy asked.

“Silly boy.  This a a magic show!”

The restraints were, indeed, exactly the right size for Claude, keeping him stretched out.  Last week I had gotten the measurements from a teacher in his school, and had the pallet constructed to the exact size needed.  The restraints were made of steel, padded with black leather.  I do not know how the measuring was explained to Claude (maybe measuring for a drama costume or for sports equipment).But, however it was done, I had obtained the exact sizes of his wrists, ankles, and neck, as well as the exact distance from his ankles to his chin.

“Try it, and see if you are firmly in place.” I said.

Claude squirmed around a bit.  “Yes, I am.”

“You cannot pull you hands out?  Or your feet?”

He tried.  “No.”

The pallet was solidly constructed, with a low centre of gravity.  Even if Claude threw his weight to the side, he could not tip it over.

I stepped to the front of the stage.

“Now children,” I said.  “This act has to be kept secret.  We do not want people elsewhere to know about it.  Okay?”

Everyone was nodding.

I had them raise their right hands and repeat after me the solemn promise of secrecy.  So far it has been successful.  I have performed in various places throughout Switzerland, but still what happens is not known to school-kids in the rest of the country.

I walked back and stood behind the pallet, so I could look Claude in the eye.

“Claude Moreau,” I said in a portentous voice.  “This is an intervention.  A humiliation.”

“What?” he said.  He squirmed about, but of course could not escape.  “Let me out.  I un-volunteer!”

“Not yet, Claude.”

I gestured to my assistants.  Miss Mirabelle took one end of the pallet and Miss Florabelle to the other.  They unlocked the wheels, turned the pallet around 360 degrees, just as they had done at the start of the act, then locked the wheels again.  Claude was thrashing about,  but could not get loose.

I began with the accusations.  “You are a bully.”


“You torment other kids both physically and mentally.”

“No, I don’t!”

“And you show disrespect to your teachers...”


“...and to your parents and other adults.”

“How do you know?”

“This is a magic show.  Of course I know.  But in fact this intervention was arranged by your headmaster.  I have approval from more than one teacher.  From your parents.  From the parents of children you bullied.”

Claude was silent now.  He glared at me.

I waved to my assistants.  “If you please.”

The two assistants turned the pallet around 360 degrees again.

Next, as Miss Florabelle and I watched from the side, Miss Mirabelle went behind the pallet.  She grabbed the hem of Claude’s T-shirt.  She pulled it up and up.  Clear to his armpits.  There were some clamps there to keep it in place.  The boy’s torso was now bare.  Miss Florabelle ran her hands down his body, from his neck to his waist; back and forth several times, rubbing and tickling.  Claude hissed and clenched his muscles as she did.  The audience applauded.

Then the two assistants turned the pallet around 360 degrees again.

“We hope to teach you a lesson today, Claude,” I said.  “We hope you will learn to be more respectful and cooperative.”

“Oh, yes,” Claude replied.  “I have learned the lesson.”

“Have you?” I said.  I turned to the audience.

“Children: Do think he has learned a lesson?”

“No!” they shouted.

“How many of you were bullied by Claude?”  Some children raised their hands.  “How many of you were sassed?”  Several of the adults raised their hands.  “I agree.  More humiliation.”  Applause.

“Go ahead,” I said to my assistants.

Miss Mirabelle stood on one side of the pallet, and Miss Florabelle on the other side.  They unbuckled Claude’s belt, unzipped his jeans, then slid them down his legs.  Sometimes the two of them together had to lift his body so that they could do it.  When the jeans were all the way down to his ankles, they attached the clips to keep them there.

Claude’s legs were now bare.  He was wearing some skimpy French-style blue briefs.  Miss Florabelle ran her hand slowly up the inside of Claude’s leg, from his ankle to his crotch.  He squeaked when she reached the top.  She went up and down Claude’s legs several times, squeezing and pinching.

Then the two assistants turned the pallet around 360 degrees again.  The children in the audience were making excited noises.

“Please, Professor Zaubermann, sir,” Claude said quietly.  “I have learned the lesson now.”

“Really?” I said.  I turned to the audience.

“Do think he has learned the lesson?”

Claude responded “Yes, yes” very loudly, but the “No, no” from the auditorium was louder.

“Should there be more humiliation?”  Cheers.

I walked around behind the pallet.  I pretended to ponder.  “What can I do?”  The children were shouting out suggestions.  I pretended not to understand.  They shouted louder.

The bulge in the front of Claude’s tight briefs was right there in front of me.  “Oh!” I said.  “You mean this?”

I grabbed the bulge with my hand.  Claude cried out, “Aah!”

The audience cheered.

“You want to see what’s in here?” I asked, kneading and rubbing in an exaggerated manner.

They cheered louder.  I kept squeezing and prodding Claude’s ‘equipment’ as I waited for the noise to subside.  Claude was begging me to stop.

Then I quickly whisked Claude’s briefs down to his shins.  His privates were now in the spotlight.  Applause and whistles.

I was surprised to see that Claude’s zizi was circumcised.  Circumcision is unusual in Switzerland.  Of course, after tonight his classmates will know that—and a lot more—about him.

Claude was shouting and thrashing about.  But of course he could not get loose.

My two assistants turned the pallet around 360 degrees again.  The children were making lots of noise, some jumping up and down.

“You know, Claude,” I said, as he continued to shout and squirm.  “When you wiggle about, and when your privates move this way and that, it just attracts more attention to your zizi.”  But I doubt he could hear me over the noise.

Now it was my turn to do some feeling and tickling.  The “hands on” portion of the show.

The best thing is: I have permission—even encouragement.  From Claude’s parents.  From his teachers.  From his headmaster.  From the three gendarmes of the local constabulary.  From the town burgermeister.  From the magistrate of the district court.  All of them were here in the audience, approving (even encouraging) my actions.  The village priest in the back corner was nodding.

I held my hands up.  The auditorium quieted.  I raised two fingers on my right hand, then slowly moved them down.  I smiled broadly; I wiggled by eyebrows.  I carefully touched Claude’s bare sac de noix.  There was a distinct reaction: both from Claude squealing, and from the auditorium talking and whistling.

I tickled the sac.  In response, it  tightened itself.  Now, in the spotlight, everyone could clearly see how large (or, in this case, how small) Claude's noix really were.

I held my hands up again.  I raised two fingers on my left hand, then slowly moved them down.  I carefully touched Claude’s bare zizi.  Again, both the boy and the audience reacted.With the two fingers, I gently held the zizi up, perpendicular to his body.  Now, in the spotlight, everyone could clearly see how long (or, in this case, how short) Claude's zizi really was.

A side note: From the scientific literature, and from my own personal experience, I can tell you that Claude’s private parts were of a typical size for his age.  But psychologists tell us that most boys that age believe theirs are on the small side.  And those in the audience, seeing Claude’s parts now, with nothing to compare them to, were also likely to think them small.

I ran the fingers of both my hands around Claude’s intimate parts.  His sac.  The shaft of his zizi—all sides.  Even the naked acorn on the end.  (I love my work!)  There was considerable noise from the audience.  Perhaps a few tears ran down from Claude’s eyes.

I stepped back and beckoned.

My two assistants unlocked the wheels.  They wheeled the pallet across the stage, down the ramp, and across the front of the auditorium.  The lights in the auditorium came up.  Mirabelle and Florabelle wheeled the pallet slowly down the centre aisle.  Very slowly.

Many of the children were standing up, trying to see as much as possible of Claude’s naked body.  He was still squirming and shouting.  

Finally, Claude was taken through the rear door into the vestibule outside.

When things got quieter I made my closing remarks.  “Thank you for attending the show.  Our volunteer, Claude Moreau, will be on display in the vestibule for a while yet.”

I heard a yowl in the vestibule.  There were loudspeakers out there, so Claude had heard me.

“Anyone, who wants to, will be able to see him again.  Maybe you can even get close enough for touching!”

A louder yowl.  Some of the children were already racing out the back of the auditorium.

I pay Miss Mirabelle and Miss Florabelle quite a large stipend: not because of their help in the magic show, but because of what they were doing now.  They had the training and expertise to prevent Claude from being physically injured by over-eager voyeurs or grabbing gropers.

“Another note of interest,” I continued to the half-empty auditorium.  “You all heard the announcement before the show that photography was not allowed in the auditorium.  That restriction does not apply in the vestibule.”

Lights on the stage were lowered.  The remaining spectators began leaving.

Even from here, I could hear shrieks in the vestibule.  Yes, young Claude was surely learning his lesson!



Submitted: May 11, 2020

© Copyright 2021 Alpenhorn. All rights reserved.

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Callum white

Brilliant story, loved that

Mon, May 11th, 2020 5:04pm

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