The laughter and jovial chatter, punctuated by a moan of pleasure here and there from darker corners of Mistress Daphne’s pumpkin carving party receded as the doors closed behind you. What a relief that Mistress Daphne was your friend, and not a humiliatrix; your ego was so fragile after the last week of teasing, torment, and rejection. True, no one wanted to include you in the sex games inspired by the pumpkin carving, and you had to avoid a mean Mistress here and there, but it was still a good time.

It aroused you to be humiliated, but you wanted to turn over a new leaf, and become an Alpha male, at least with your clothes on. The friendly company of a Mistress and other amiable if kinky people was just what the doctor ordered.

You decided you must have taken a wrong turn; the sign above the doors you just passed through said “exit”. But here were another pair in front of you. A different style, from floor to ceiling, with knockers.

“Ah, the exit must be through here.”

But when you went to pull them open, they didn’t budge.

“Not the first time you’ve been rejected, I’m sure.”

The disembodied, sexy feminine voice made you jump. You looked around, but saw no one with you in the darkened vestibule.

“Hello?” you called out.

Silence. You considered turning around to go back the way you came, but then, the sound of distantly approaching footsteps, stilettos clicking on marble from beyond  those double doors reassured you that you must be in the right place after all. The locked doors must have been a security measure. You smiled pleasantly as they swung open to reveal a beautiful woman, wearing festive, if a bit spooky, face makeup. She didn’t exactly return your smile.


All turns in the Haunted Locktober Museum are both wrong, and right.



“I’m looking for the exit.”

“Why didn’t you just come in?”

“Uh. The doors were locked.”

“Huh,” she mused, regarding them casually, dropping her eyes to take note of the fact that there were no nobs, and no locks. Simple push doors.

A bit impatiently, and taken aback by the indifferent greeting, you disrupted her reverie. “Do you work here? I’m looking for the exit.”

She brought her eyes to yours, and let a beat or two pass while she regarded you. You could swear there was derision in her eyes, but you tried to shake off that thought. Lately you’d decided to claim better self-esteem. Of course there were reasons for the lack of it, but you recently decided to fake it til you made it, to keep your insecurities to yourself.

“You can pass through the gallery.”

“Thank you,” you said tersely, trying to muster a touch of indignation. Perhaps she would take the minor rebuke in your tone to heart, and start to be more friendly. An employee, after all. She was beautiful. You could tell that even with the Halloween makeup, and you were sure you’d forgive her attitude quickly if she’d just be friendly. That’s all you ever wanted, was for beautiful women to be nice for a change. You wanted to challenge the idea that every beautiful woman was destined to be a humiliatrix. You just needed to show them you were a normal man, that’s all.

Yes, it would be nice to have a bit of a flirtation with a beautiful woman to top off a very pleasant night at Miss Daphne’s party. Good practice for you, too, to talk amiably and naturally with such a woman. You weren’t a bad-looking guy after all, if a bit undersized in spots, and a pleasant conversation didn’t mean she needed to know what was in your pants. Or wasn’t. Or how it affected your sexuality.


A beautiful guide leads you into sexual humiliation.


As she turned to lead you, she revealed a long, silky back in a dress designed for that purpose. Very sexy, indeed.

“Maybe you’re just weak.”

You jumped.

“What did you say?” You tried to muster your indignant tone once again, but felt your face redden with humiliation at the implication of your physical inferiority.

The woman stopped, and slowly turned to regard you over her shoulder.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“I distinctly heard you say that maybe I was too weak.  To open the doors, right?  I told you, they were locked!”

She didn’t turn around, but continued to gaze at you over her shoulder, a slight smile twitching at the corner of her mouth. Your skin prickled all over, and your face flushed at that familiar look. You were used to women laughing at you, but you thought tonight might be different. Not another humiliatrix, you pleaded silently to the universe.

What’s more, to your intense mortification, you felt your small penis twitching to life. Your hands reflexively came down to cover the little tent that was forming.

“I told you I didn’t say anything. It was probably one of the paintings.”





For the first time you’d had the presence of mind to look at the walls. Suddenly it felt as if they were pressing in around you in the long, narrow, high-ceilinged room. Hanging from them were dozens and dozens of paintings of women. They all seemed to have scorn in their eyes and a smile on their lips.

What a peculiar collection! All clearly from the 17th, 18th, or 19th centuries, based on the styles, but all their subjects, you would swear, were looking right down at you.

“Some people hear them talk. Some people say this gallery is haunted. Or maybe enchanted is a better word.”

She continued her leisurely stroll in front of you. My, she did have a sexy body. So captivating that it distracted you from fully absorbing the curious thing she just said. Her hips undulated gracefully in the form-fitting, floor length black dress with the plunging back. Thoughts of body worship didn’t help the condition of your dicklette, but they entered your mind momentarily just the same.


Your voice trembled, and you cleared your throat to try to steady it as you trotted a few steps to try to catch up with her. You let yourself fall back a step or two when you saw the distaste in her eyes as you attempted to walk beside her. She could have shouted, “Get away from Me, loser!” and you wouldn’t have taken the message any more clearly. A natural humiliatrix, clearly. But you were undeterred, and continued to attempt to make conversation. Alpha males don’t pussy down with the slightest pressure, after all.


Humiliatrix in Oils


“Has anyone ever said that the paintings seem to be looking at them?”

You flinched at a disembodied giggle. Your eyes darted up, sure you could pinpoint which of the paintings it was. You glared at it, and felt foolish for doing so.

“Yes. Usually men.”

“Usually losers.” A ghostly voice said from the wall across the room, followed by a louder chorus of giggles from the others.

“Stop it!” you shouted, before you could control yourself. Your body trembled, and your little penis strained against your fly.

None of your therapists could ever get to the bottom of why being humiliated by women made you feel so ashamed and so aroused at the same time. The last one, Dr. Rachel, suggested that you simply accept it, but you were determined to be like real men.

Your guide stopped once again, and slowly turned to look over her shoulder. This time, there was no mistaking her sadistic grin. Her humiliatrix gaze slowly traveled from your reddened face down your unremarkable body (have to get back in the gym, you told yourself) to your hands cupped in front of your erection, and then just as slowly back up to rest on your face again.

“Stop laughing at me!” you cried, tears filling your eyes.

“I’m not laughing. Get ahold of yourself.”

She resumed her steady, sexy walk before you.

“Didn’t you hear that?” you warbled, straining to do as she instructed and get yourself under control.

“No,” she said in a monotone, without turning again.


Pleading for Mercy


“I can’t help it! I have a condition!” You whimpered, trying to explain the erection she obviously knew you were unsuccessfully trying to hide.

“Pervert!” hissed a two dimensional 18th Century ingénue behind you.

“Please stop!” You sniveled.

This time you knew it was your guide who laughed, because you could see her shoulders shake. The pressure in your pants was getting unbearable. You gave the little tent a furtive rub to try to soothe it, but it only made things worse. It surged painfully against your zipper. “Oh god,”

“Why don’t you just take it out and rub it, if you’re so horny,” sneered a haughty 19th century debutante. “Scared to show us how small it is, compulsive cock stroker?”

“You can’t call something that small a cock,” another opined.

“Shut up!” You cried. “It’s not small!”

Another chorus of laughter cascaded down on you from the walls like blows. You were so aroused, disoriented, and humiliated that you couldn’t be bothered to care anymore that your host heard you. After all, somehow you’d begun to believe that she knew exactly what was happening, and enjoyed it. Neither did you realize that your hand was tugging your little tent furiously, mindlessly gooning the way a compulsive thumb-sucker indulges under stress.

“I feel like we’ve been walking forever! Where is this exit, anyway?” you said frantically.

“Yes,” she languidly replied, “this room tends to have that effect.”

You noticed that she didn’t answer your question. A shiver of deeper foreboding went through you. And truly, as if in a funhouse, it seemed that the longer you walked, the further away the door at the other end of the gallery became.


The Humiliatrix Leading you Deeper into Humiliation


“Rub your little penis,” came a singsong from somewhere.

“C’mon, we promise we won’t laugh,” said a voice, already bubbling with mirth. Every time you heard one, you whipped your head around to try to identify the offending, flat face, but all remained frozen in time.

“Let us see it,” came from across the room. “We get so little entertainment in here!” followed by a braying guffaw.

It was then that your guide stopped, and turned fully to face you. Somehow the two of you were only in the exact center of the gallery, and the door on the other side seemed miles away.

“You know we won’t let you leave until you make your offering.”

Terror gripped you with the final realization that your guide did know exactly what was happening to you, despite the fact that you’d long suspected it.

“What offering,” you cried desperately, your fingers doing the dance of the chronic masturbator at your fly and you powerless to stop it.

“You heard them.  They want to see your little penis. They want to see you use the two fingers you need to make it squirt.”

Another chorus of laughter from the walls. This time, you could see them move, and your knees buckled a bit with horror. Fans fluttered, alabaster hands lifted teacups to rosy lips, brooches were fondled, and all with faces peering intently and pointedly at your predicament.

“What the hell is this place?”


Humiliatrix Hall Revealed


“This gallery is only visible to those who belong here,” your humiliatrix guide sneered. “The minute you tried to open the doors with your puny arms, we were alerted that some amusement was in the offing.”

“But I don’t belong here! I’m not a beta male anymore! I’m an Alpha! Or I will be!” You shook your fist with frustration, all while your other hand never stopped strumming down below.

“Clearly that’s not true. Or you’d never have found us in the first place. Now show it. Or we’ll never let you leave.”

“No! Please!”

“Come come, good sir. Show us thy pin,” a Renaissance lady insisted, adjusting her veil to your left.

And the chorus of the historical humiliatrix exploded at deafening volume, faces seeming to lean from the canvas, making you feel smaller and smaller beneath them. The floor receded, the ceiling rose, and your guide posed before you like a sardonic statue, beautiful, cold, scornful, and amused.

“Rub it!”

“Pull it out!”

“Let us see it in the pathetic flesh!”

“Are thy testicles similarly small?”

“Show us, flapdoodle!”

And more, until, sobbing, you found yourself fumbling open your zipper, beyond which your little peg barely showed when revealed. The chorus changed to howls of laughter. Pointing fingers penetrated into the three-dimensional space as you pulled your pants and underwear to your knees.

You realized that they were telling you the truth, that the only escape was to surrender to their commands, even though you knew that there was no true escape from the humiliatrix.

The humiliatrix lives in the mind.

Dr. Rachel was right; you had no hope but surrender.


At last, release, but no relief.


You squeezed your eyes shut and rubbed furiously, still for some reason trying to hide the fact of what a pleasure it was to do so. The closer you got to orgasm, the louder the chorus of laughs became, now joined distinctly by the throaty giggle of your guide. You did your best to ignore them, jiggling faster and faster, feeling your little balls tighten.

Finally, as the deafening cacophony reached a crescendo, you exploded, panting. Rope after rope of cum shot out and rolled down your hand, and you dropped to your knees in defeat.

Instantly, the world was silent. You opened your eyes to find yourself in a disused hallway, cluttered with empty wooden boxes and straw stuffing and dusty artifacts. To your right was another door with a dully glowing “exit” sign above it. The green seemed sinister as you got to your feet.

Looking around, little penis still throbbing, fingers sticky, pants still down around your ankles, you saw no sign of the tall wooden doors or any other evidence of the humiliatrix hell you’d just endured. No one would believe you if you mentioned it. You would not have believed it yourself, if not for the barely audible giggle that in just that moment floated to you on the stale air.

You scurried to the door in terror, lest that debauched gallery claim you once again, pulling your pants up and hitting the door into the night.

Or so you thought.


Catch your breath and visit Miss Kellie’s blog on the 19th for the next stop on Our Halloween Blog Train! Will there be thrills, chills, or spills? Only by reading will you find out!

If you’re just now hopping on the train, go back to the beginning and let Miss Constance punch your ticket for the entire journey!

Thank you for joining Me, playmates. And have a happy, safe, securely cock-locked Halloween!


Goddess Rachel, Halloween Humiliatrix