Warning: This is different from most of my stories and might not be for everyone. The MC has a humiliation and degradation fetish. He encounters three large wrestler dudes who recognize his masochistic tendencies and are willing to play along and give him the night of his life. The MC is completely safe and able to walk away any time he chooses. He simply chooses not to. He gets what he wants.

Humiliating the Security Guard

The lights are on in the Fitness Center. That’s weird. It’s 2:00am and the campus is supposed to be closed. Completely closed. I’ve been a Campus Security Officer here at Davidson College in North Carolina for two months now – this is my first year on the job and it’s October. It’s a crisp autumn evening and strolling around this beautiful campus alone with my thoughts is an easy way to earn a paycheck. But now? I’ve never stumbled upon a potential situation. That is, if you consider someone forgetting to turn some lights off a “situation”. I’m sure that’s all it is.

I am the youngest officer on our team – college aged myself. I can’t afford the lofty tuition at Davidson, so I work here full time and I take online classes at the community college around my work schedule. Working on this campus with all of these kids makes me oddly feel like one of them. A commuter, but one of them nonetheless.

Davidson College is a small college; the student body sits just below the two thousand mark. There are ten of us Security Officers. Each day, three of us are off, three work the first shift, three work the second shift, and since the campus is closed from 10:00pm to 6:00am, only one of us works the overnight shift. We rotate shifts weekly and all this week, I have overnight duty. Alone. I really don’t mind. I’ve always been a loner. A loner by choice because I’ve always felt like I’ve had to hide who I am.

I have a humiliation kink. A fetish, really. I yearn to be dominated, degraded and minimized. I am turned on by being made to feel pathetic and helpless. Embarrassed, ridiculed and emasculated. Being taken advantage of causes me sexual arousal. Cut in front of me in line at the movies nudging and elbowing me around like I’m nothing. Assess me from head to toe and tell me that if I have a problem with it that you’ll send your thirteen year old son to beat me up. Cut me off on the highway, beat me in a game (and cheat while doing it), rig the game against me – I never want to win. I win by losing. I love losing so much that even when my favorite sports teams lose games, I get a little hardon.

Please steal my lunch money, knock my books out of my hands, plagiarize my homework, arm wrestle me into submission, run faster, jump higher, push harder, block all of my shots, slam dunk over me, throw your fastball by me, ace me with your serve, trample me, troll me, pants me, taunt me… I am the soft feather weight weakling on the beach that all of the other guys love to bully – stomp on my sandcastle. Swipe my sneakers right off my feet, tie the laces together and throw them up into the gym rafters. “Out” me in any and every way a person can be outed. No matter how you choose to humiliate me, please do it in front of an audience. The more pointing and laughing, the better. It gives me a raging erection. My penis might be small but it certainly works. It has a mind of its own and it delights in its own inadequacy. It basks in the mocking attention. It might not stand particularly tall, but shame it and it surges in false pride.

A dream of mine is to be targeted by a big, beefy, manly, bully of a TSA Agent at the airport. I want to be selected out of hundreds for examination for no other reason than I am perceived to be a weak, vulnerable, pathetic excuse for a man. I want him to pull me aside and wand me all over. I want him to pretend like he thinks I’m concealing something that I’m not. His suspicion can only be satisfied by a strip search, except he doesn’t pull me into a private room. He strips me right there in front of all of the hundreds of other people. Socks and all, stripped stark naked. Drawing attention from the hundreds – preferably thousands – of surprised spectators. Pointing and laughing at my scrawny body and my stiff little willy. That would be a dream come true.

Understand, I would never shame any characteristic of any other person ever. I am a shame receiver, not a giver. As a matter of fact, on the rare occasions that I’ve met weaker men than myself, what I’ve felt for them is envy and jealousy, not pity or shame. I want all of the world’s shame to be heaped solely on me and me alone. I yearn to be shamed for my own sexual gratification. That’s who I am. I didn’t choose to be like this. I just am. Unlucky me.

But I have to keep my fetish to myself. People wouldn’t understand. It’s way too far out there. I don’t even understand it myself. But it’s also not my fault. I’ve tried ignoring my desires. I’ve tried tamping them down. They don’t go away. It’s simply how I’m wired to be. Since it’s not a choice, how can that be wrong?

I never understood how people are selectively proud of things that are not choices or accomplishments, like the size of your dick. It’s not something you work for or earn. It’s heredity or luck of the draw. If some asshole can be proud of his huge dick, why shouldn’t I be proud of my small one? I believe that all fetishes are healthy. Most of us have them; we just either haven’t discovered them yet or won’t admit them to ourselves. The thing is, ignoring them won’t change them. I say, no matter what your fetish is, lean into it. If you like belly buttons, go to the beach. If you like feet, become a podiatrist. Whatever. Surely bottling them up is an unhealthy choice.

Anyway.

I approach the Fitness Center door and find that it’s locked. I have very few tools for my trade. They call us Security Officers, but really, we can’t actually do much. What I have is one month of training, a navy blue uniform, keys to every door, a flashlight and a cell phone. That’s it. No weapons of any kind. If I ever were to encounter any real trouble, I am trained to call the police. They pay me to be a glorified lookout. A weak, unarmed set of eyes and ears. Powerless to provide any real service. Paid to wait for the real men to swoop in, take action and save the day while I remain helpless. Feeble. Incapable. Emasculated. I imagine a big muscly officer three times my size nudging my 5′ 7″ frame away and saying, “Step aside, kid. Pretend time is over. An actual man is here now.” Thinking about it causes a stirring in my crotch.

But I won’t need those manly police tonight simply because some lights were left on. I unlock the door and step inside. Something seems immediately off. I hear people. They’re not talking exactly, they’re…grunting. I take a right and head toward the main fitness room to find that two guys are wrestling on a floormat. They seem to be about my own age – twentyish, though gigantically huge – and they also seem to be encouraging each other. Teaching each other. That’s when I realize that they’re actually teammates practicing and not opponents battling.

I find that I’m riveted watching the show. Something about these two guys… All the grabbing, touching, rolling around… I’m mesmerized. I realize that fifteen minutes have gone by and I haven’t moved a muscle or said a word. Well, that’s not completely true. It’s more a bone than a muscle, but one thing has moved a little. I’m beginning to chub up in my pants. Uncomfortably so.

Being smaller and less athletic than all of the other boys growing up, I was the worst at sports. I loved being the worst. As the weakest, I was picked last every time. Last because I’m useless. The humiliation was wonderful. I always made sure my team was Team Skins, proudly ripping my shirt right off and flaunting my underdeveloped physique. During the game I was inevitably dominated and beaten in humiliatingly spectacular fashion. The locker room after was always my favorite part. I was never shy. Seeing how much bigger than me the other boys were was always exciting, but showing off my inadequacy was thrilling. Even the monitoring coach would snicker on occasion as I shamelessly paraded around.

But nothing more than far too few whispered comments or giggles has ever happened. It was mostly in my head; what I hoped they were all at least thinking. I guess that’s been the case for many aspects of my life. I live more in the fantasies in my head than in actual live experiences.

As I continue to firm up inside of my pants, I shift my hips to make an adjustment. When I do so, my key ring jingles, announcing my presence. Shit.

They stop wrestling and look my way. Seeing my uniform, they realize they’ve been caught. They approach me cautiously, not sure what I might do. They are completely unaware that I actually have so little power and so rarely do anything at all.

The one with the blond hair and blue eyes says, “Um… Hello there.”

I remember that to this point, they assume that I have the authority in this situation here and I clear my throat. “The building is closed,” I say with more confidence than I feel. “The whole campus is closed. You need to head back to your dorms.”

The one with the black hair and the steel grey eyes says, “Sorry. There’s a big quad meet this weekend and we were just trying to get some extra practice time in.”

Blue Eyes adds, “We were pretty much done.” He raises his hands in surrender, “We’re on our way out.”

I make the quick mental assessment that these guys weren’t causing any harm. There’s no evidence of theft or vandalism. They really were just sneaking in some extra practice time. I’ll just let them go. Like anything else was ever an option anyway.

I say, “Well, that’s good timing since I just walked in.”

I jump as two large strong hands clamp down on my shoulders from behind me.

A deep voice says, “He’s lying to you, boys.”

He steers me so we are all deeper in the room. He moves out from behind me and the new guy is just as mammoth as the first two. All three of them stand in a row like linebackers.

This newcomer has brown hair and dark brown eyes. He too is wearing wrestling attire. He continues, “I was on my way back from the restroom and I noticed Mr. Security here watching you two. I stayed back to see what he’d do. Guess what. He watched the show for a good fifteen minutes before his keys gave him away.”

Now I raise my hands, “Look, guys, no one’s in trouble here. Let’s all just move on.”

Brown Eyes says, “We’re not in any trouble, but I think you just might be.”

My semi erection from watching the wrestling practice is beginning to become not so semi. The thought of me being in trouble makes a tingle run up my spine. These guys are huge. What could they want to do to me? Most of the humiliation I have actually experienced has been verbal with only occasional (and harmless) bumps and shoves. Physical domination has only happened in my wildest fantasies.

Grey Eyes looks me up and down, head to toe and I visibly shiver. And get stiffer.

He says, “We can do whatever we want and you are powerless to stop us.”

I love that word: Powerless. And Grey Eyes is right. It’s practically in my job description. I love the feeling of being powerless and with this job, I actually get to be.

“It’s not like you’re armed.” He looks to his companions, “They don’t give security guards weapons, do they?”

Blue Eyes shrugs, “Let’s find out.”

He places just an index finger on my sternum and pushes me against the wall behind me. He holds his finger there and I know he can feel my heart pounding. A flush rolls through my whole body. This is by far the most exciting thing that’s ever actually happened to me. My biggest fear is that I won’t be interesting enough to hold their attention. If they were to just walk away, that would be devastating.

The shortest of these three guys is a good seven inches taller than me. Their legs are like six tree trunks, Their biceps are triple the circumference of mine. I already feel humiliated and nothing has really happened yet. Just being close to these massive dudes is emasculating. And I love it. They reek of testosterone.

My arousal continues.

Brown Eyes orders me, “Hands up, legs spread apart.”

All pretense of me being the authority is completely gone, and that’s fine with me. I swallow and raise my arms. I feel the need to be compliant. I love being compliant. Helpless. A victim. A weak, little man. He begins a cursory pat-down that starts at my shoulders and continues down to my ankles. His hands rolling down the length of my body has brought me close to full erection. He finds my cell phone in my back pocket, removes it and tosses it on the floormat. Now I couldn’t call for help if I wanted to. Good. He unclips my flashlight from my belt and drops that on the mat too.

He tells his cohorts, “No weapons. He’s like a mall cop. He’s Mall Cop Tom.”

They all laugh. These big men laughing at me makes my rock hard dick twitch.

At my hiring, I was given two uniform shirts. A short sleeve button down for warmer days and a sweatshirt for cooler days. It’s late October and I’ve opted for the sweatshirt today. It came with “Tom” stitched over the left breast. My name is not Tom but the office didn’t care. It was the smallest shirt they had in stock and it fit my diminutive frame. I know “Mall Cop” is meant to be an insult. I mentally beg them to keep the insults coming.

As Brown Eyes is turning away from me, he says to his friends, “He’s no threat. Let’s bounce.” He says to me, “Get out of here, Tom. Continue on with your pretend safety patrol.” He squeezes my nonexistent bicep and shakes his head, “Keep us all safe from big bad guys.” He laughs and begins to leave.

That can’t be it. No. What about the trouble I’m in? I clear my throat, “I’m gonna need your names. I am reporting all of you.” It’s all I can think to say to get their attention back on me.

“What the fuck did you say?” As Brown Eyes turns back, he’s still kneeling and his elbow incidentally bumps into my protrusion. His eyes bulge in surprise. Nothing so firm is supposed to be in that location. He looks down at my bump. A grin slowly spreads across his face. Bingo! I am no longer boring.

“Hey boys,” His grin widens. “I spoke to soon. Mall Cop Tom is indeed packing a weapon. He has a nightstick.” They don’t seem to want to leave now.

Grey Eyes asks, “What do you mean?”

Brown Eyes points to my tentpole. “It’s a concealed weapon.”

They all laugh again. I close my eyes and revel in the knowledge that I am the source of their laughter. They know it’s hard but they don’t yet know its small. If they don’t make this discovery on their own, I’ll be forced to tell them myself. Hopefully I’ll get to show them.

Brown Eyes says, “Looks like we gave him a boner. He must have really been enjoying the show while you two were wrestling. Either that or he enjoyed the pat-down.”

Blue Eyes steps up close enough for me to feel the heat radiating around him. “You like watching? You like guys touching other guys? Or guys touching you?” He tentatively reaches for the bump in my pants and gives my handlebar a little poke. His finger might as well have been a taser. “Oh, yeah,” he smiles. “You like it.”

Brown Eyes demands again, “Arms up! All the way!”

My arms were still up, but they had been bent at the elbows. Now I straighten them. I feel my sweatshirt ride up higher and the cool air of the gym hits my skin above my waistband.

Blue Eyes makes a b-line. He pokes at my exposed strip of pale smooth abdomen and I giggle. He says, “You’re a little soft in the middle, aren’t you?”

Pathetically so. I nod eagerly. “Soft and weak.”

“Oh, I see,” he grins. “That’s how you like it.”

I blink. “I don’t work out.”

“How are you supposed to keep our student body safe? You look like you’re the one who needs protecting. How old are you?”

“Twenty,” I gulp.

He chuckles, “Me too. Except I can fit you in my pocket.” He pokes at my muscle-free abdomen and I giggle like the Pilsbury Dough Boy. “Do you even have muscles? And what do you weigh? 125?”

Grey Eyes says, “He probably doesn’t even set off automatic doors.”

Manhandling me, exposing my vulnerable soft middle, mocking my useless muscles, suggesting I need protecting, telling me I can’t do my job… All this degradation and humiliation has me turned on more than I’ve ever been turned on in my life. My boner is raging. Questioning my manhood makes my erection throb. My little guy might have a mind of his own, but he loves being called inadequate as much as the rest of me does. It makes him stand proud.

Blue Eyes’ hand goes back to my tummy and he swipes a finger across the delicate smooth skin. My knees fold as I bark out a laugh. I am super sensitive. One finger swipe and I melt in a puddle.

As Grey Eyes helps me back to a standing position, Blue Eyes states the obvious, “He sure is ticklish.” He sticks his index finger in my half-inch deep belly button and I laugh and crumble again. No one has ever touched me in the belly button before and it gave me a funny feeling. A feeling that crossed the line between tickling and sexual. It felt dangerous. Wonderfully dangerous.

Grey Eyes says, “He’s kind of cute too.”

Brown Eyes says, “You know, we owe it to our fellow classmates to toughen this guy up some. He’s responsible for our student body’s safety and he’s ridiculously weak and sensitive.”

His singsong voice tells me he’s thinking he’s about to have some fun. And I’m about to be the source of the fun. I hope so. Oh, please, please, please explore just how sensitive I am. Maneuver me at your whim. Examine me thoroughly everywhere. I will not resist. I will gladly be completely at your mercy.

These three dudes are in tight tank tops, tight shorts and wrestling shoes. Two of them are still sweaty and flushed from the exertion of their practice. I can smell their sweat. I can smell the intoxicating musky funk of man. My dick grows stiffer still.

“How do we toughen up someone so weak?” asks Blue Eyes.

YES!!! I’m weak! I’m nothing! My face flushes and my cock surges.

Brown Eyes says, “We already know he likes to watch. Maybe he’ll like participating even more.”

I lick my lips. My arms are still up and beginning to tire, but I keep them in place because I hope that the ongoing view of my smooth vulnerable belly inspires them to do things to me. It works because Grey Eyes swirls a finger around my navel again. That funny feeling returns. Synapses between my belly button, my dick and my brain are firing on all circuits.

He asks, “What do you mean?”

Brown Eyes grins maniacally, “There are only three of us. One of us has had to sit out while the other two practice. Mall Cop Tom evens us up. Now we all have a workout partner.”

Blue Eyes grins too, “Okay. But we have to take turns. You have to share our new little buddy here.”

Brown Eyes nods, “We’ll pass him around like a joint.”

~~

I am 50% scared shitless and 50% excited about the thought of these masculine guys manhandling me. I’m not sure why, but I get the feeling these big dudes won’t hurt me.

Play with me? Yes.

Embarrass me? Definitely.

Keep me captive for the night and humiliate me over and over? I sure hope so.

But I don’t feel like I’m in serious danger.

The first thing they decide is that I am not properly dressed for a workout.

“Those khaki pants and high-tops… No way. Even the sweatshirt isn’t ideal,” says Grey Eyes.

Blue Eyes shrugs, “The solution is obvious. We have to strip him.”

Another option would be me voluntarily undressing, but being stripped sounds like more fun. Is it wrong that I want to be stripped? I’m still trying to decide when Brown Eyes, in one fluid (and impressive) motion, pulls my sweatshirt right off. My scrawny upper body is on full display in all of its delicate feeble glory. I do not shy away from their staring eyes.