Camp humiliation
By DaVID the kid.
High school boys encounter rich girls from private school at camp.

The group of us arrived at Summer Camp that year full of hope, joy, and 
mischief. Mostly the joy was predicated on the mischief we would cause, 
directed of course toward our favorite target – the girl’s camp on the other 
side of the hill. As usual we would find the most clever and exquisite ways 
to torment them. 

There were about twenty-five of us boys all tenth and ninth graders in the 
camp that year. Five of us shared a cabin, Greg, Alan, Glen, Mahmut, and 
myself. They just called me “Kid” in place of my real name, a nickname 
that caught fire in my high school, a kind of badge I’d earned for the 
lavish and wild practical jokes I devised. My crowning achievement was 
the punch bowl at the school dance. Greg, Mahmut, and myself had 
skillfully added an extra bowl to the refreshment table. In schools nobody 
notices when stuff is brought. It’s only when you take something that they 
keep an eye out. 

During the dance, the three of us managed to hide ourselves under the 
tablecloth. We were then able to reach up through an opening between the 
leaves of the table. The punch bowl we had brought had a false bottom, a 
rubber boot. We made sure to fill the bowl with punch and dry ice, so gobs 
of steam would whaffe out. We also submerged one of those huge dead 
crabs you can buy in the meat section. Suddenly, during a break in the 
music, we pushed the crab up out of the punch via the boot in the bottom 
of the bowl. It must have been an ominous sight to watch that crab rise out 
of the punch mist with its pincers poised to attack. Keep in mind, many of 
our fellow student had already drank from the bowl. The scream of a 
hundred girls in the school auditorium was like a symphony to us. It took 
only minutes for the teachers and the principal to pull us out. Still it had 
been worth the detention we got, and I had become an over night hero 
among the school. 
Needless to say when we arrived at camp, I was looking for few more 
notches on my gun belt, and what better way than to torment the girls over 
the hill.

The first free moment we had, the five of us made a foray through the 
forest and to the top of the hill. Camouflaged by the trees, we spied down 
on our victims through a pair of binoculars. Strange, we did not recognize 
the occupants of the girl’s camp. Normally, it would be a group of high 
school girls from our area. But these were younger girls, from some 
private school. We could tell this by the bobby socks and short checkered 
dresses.  
“Look at that banner,” Mahmut said in his very British accent.
We all looked at the pedant hanging in the middle of the camp compound 
below the American flag. Unlike any normal school banner it looked 
professional, like those used by professional sports teams.
“It’s Chatworth,” Greg said, “it’s a private school, a very expensive 
middle school. They’re kids, a bunch of rich little brats. Let’s go.”
“No!” I commanded. “All the more reason to do our dirty.”
“We’re talking sixth through eighth grade here, dude,” Greg said. 
“They’re little kids down there. If we do anything to hurt them, their 
parents have major bank. Do you know how much it costs to go to 
Chatworth.”
“There’s a girl down there,” said Alan, “whose the daughter of a 
Billionaire and a famous model.”
“Good,” I said. “It’s time to show the rich and famous they’re on our turf 
now.”
Reluctantly my friends followed my lead. The rest of the day was spent 
gathering information and preparing our first attack. Carefully, we 
observed the girls. Most looked very young and very small. I didn’t want 
to admit it to my friends, but I felt my penis getting hard, looking at their 
bobby socks and short checkered skirts. These outfits had a way of 
extenuating the girl’s legs and thighs, and even though most of these girls 
were sixth and seven graders their legs were well developed. Young girls 
usually get these “super legs” by the time their in fifth grade. 
Alan pointed Tara stinson out to us, daughter of well know model and 
actress Sarah Stinson and some rich business guru. For a moment, the five 
of us had to stop and catch our breath. In many ways, she was like a little 
copy of her mother, a perfect looking little blond princess whose seventh 
grade body had perfect curves and proportions, almost like she’d been 
made in some doll factory. 
“Wow” we all agreed.
The longer we observed, the more we understood the nature of our quarry 
and the power balance in the rich girl’s camp. Basically, Tara walked 
around giving orders to everyone, including some of the adult camp 
counselors. Several girls followed her around, forming a kind of entourage 
around their little princess. This fired me up all the more to teach these 
haughty little brats a lesson. One girl in particular really ticked me off, a 
very cute little red head who appeared to be Tara’s number one lieutenant, 
acting even as her enforcer. This seemed strange to me for this girl was 
inches less than five feet tall.
Other girls caught our attention as well. There was this beautiful English 
girl, who wore a turtleneck beneath her school uniform. We could hear her 
deep British accent all the way from the hilltop. There was also this small 
Romanian girl we recognized from the TV. She was a world class 
gymnast, who became a U.S. citizen just to join our Olympic gymnastics 
team. One girl who definitely stood out was this powerful little Japanese 
girl. She was no taller than five feet, yet we could see the bulges in her leg 
muscles.

We decided we would go with the toads as our first line of attack, unleash 
a whole bag of them into Tara and her entourage’s bunk house. This 
always scared the girls off. 
We pulled off our little scheme perfectly and went back to our cabin to 
laugh about it before bedtime. 
“To think,” Alan laughed. “We actually pulled this off against her all 
powerful majesty, Tara Stinson.”
“She’s just a little girl,” Greg said. “You speak of her like she’s already as 
famous as her mother.”
“She just about is,” Alan said. “She’s been on TV several times. She’s 
considered one of the best equestrian competitors for her age in the 
country.”
“That’s because her rich parents can buy her the best horse the and best 
training,” I said.
“She’s really good,” Alan said. “You can tell she’s an athlete.”
“Well hopefully she’s quite learned a lesson in humility by this time,” 
Mahmut said.
We laughed and went to bed.  

We awoke to the splash of water in our faces. None other than princess 
Tara herself stood in the doorway, surrounded by five of her lieutenants, 
all of them holding empty buckets. She looked even more impressive from 
close up, her feet planted there so haughty and spread legged, and the 
anger that smouldered from her that moment made her even more 
beautiful. She stood no taller than 5-2 and still was an imposing figure 
with her perfectly cropped blond hair and elfishly perfect features that 
seemed such a paradox to her athletic body. I shivered as I noticed the 
sensuous tone of her white skin, the way it curved upward into strong wide 
thighs. She achieved that perfect balance young girls often achieve 
between female sensuality and tomboy athleticism. I felt my penis going 
crazy. The other girls around her were also very angry looking and 
beautiful, especially the little red head, who stood no higher than 4-10, yet 
with legs even more developed than Tara’s. A few of them looked young 
enough to be sixth graders. 
“Funny little stunt,” Tara said in a commanding voice. “Putting toads in 
our Cabin! How immature.”
I looked at the red head again with her large arrogant lips. She returned 
my stare with the kind of pouty snarl girls are good at.  Translation: 
“Don’t even look at me, you loser.”

“You’re really going to get it for dumping that water on us,” Greg said, 
rising up from his bunk. And even though he was a little on the skinny 
side, Greg stood a good 5-10 and weighed a 140 pounds. 
“I would love to fight you babies,” Tara said. “But that will get us all 
kicked out of camp. Are you boys afraid of little friendly competition?”
“What kind of competition?” I spoke for the group.
“Let’s have a little volley ball game. Ten of us Chatworth girls against you 
poor public school boys. The team that loses must become the obedient 
servants of the winner for the next week. That means you poor boys will 
simply get to do what you’re suited for.”
“Volley ball, how wimpy,” Greg said.
We knew we would look weak if we backed down, so we agreed to the 
terms, found some more guys in a couple of the other cabins, and played 
the thing out. Everyone in both camps had caught wind of the game, and 
our match with the Chatworth girls became a spectator event. What we 
didn’t know is that Chatworth was known for it’s champion volleyball 
program. No one ever paid attention to stuff like that on the middle-school 
level. The ten girls easy beat us in two straight games with incredible 
serves, spikes, and teamwork. We could no longer deny that Tara, the red 
head, and the Japanese girl were great athletes.
“It wasn’t’ fair,” I protested to Tara. I felt myself trembling just getting in 
her face. “We didn’t know that you guys had a background as a volleyball 
team.”
Tara laughed, “Oh the big strong boys are going to welch on the bet. I 
knew it.”
“Come on!” Greg said. “Lets have a football game. You little bitches will 
get your asses kicked.”
“We don’t play football,” Tara said, “So, it would be equally unfair. If you 
high school boys have the guts for it, why don’t we have a tug of war.”
“Perfect,” Greg said. “Lets do it now.”
“One condition,” Tara said. “It must be equal weight against equal 
weight.”
We stole a scale from the camp infirmary and did the math. We decided it 
would be seven boys at an average weight of 130 pounds against 10 girls 
at an average of 91 pounds. High school math had some valve after all. 
We decided to do the tug on different sides of a small pond, the losing side 
suffering of the humiliation of a dunking. The ten girls included Tara, the 
fiery read head, whose name I learned was Karen, and the Japanese girl, 
who served as the anchor.  We made sure to get the seven biggest, 
strongest boys on the team, which included Greg and me. We pulled with 
all of our strength but the girls were going nowhere. Their lower center of 
gravity held like an anchor, and when we had pulled ourselves out, their 
powerful legs marched backwards, in unison, like a well-oiled machine. 
Helplessly, we were pulled into the pond. Mahmut and I were in the front 
and the first to get dunked. Greg, of course, was the anchor and didn’t 
suffer that humiliation. That did not stop him from protesting.
“No way,” he said to Tara, “you knew you would have an advantage in 
numbers. It wasn’t fair.”
She shook her head, laughing, “you stupid boys agreed to it.”
“Too bad!” Greg said, taking over the role as leader. “We’re not paying 
up. It wasn’t fair and you can’t make us.”
Suddenly the fiery-red head, Karen, walked right up to Greg and grabbed 
him by the collar, almost shaking him off his feet.
“I knew you boys would welch again. You’re such weasels.”
I had learned that Karen was actually a sixth grader. The little brat already 
thought she owned the world because she was Tara’s friend.
Tara separated the two of them.
“Since you boys are so lame, it’s time to challenge you to a game of what 
we call ‘complete humiliation.’”
“Complete humiliation?” We spoke the question in a chorus.
In wonder, all of us stopped and let princess Tara explain the rules of this 
game. I have to admit, I had never heard of anything so bizarre in my life. 
Among both camps we found seven large eight man tents. These were 
normally used for long hikes, which took more than a day. The tents 
would be set up in a general area near each other, but most importantly, 
we would set them up on soft ground. The tents would then be filled with 
several precut lengths of rope and duck tape and shoe laces among other 
items. The object of the competition was to have a line of girls and a line 
of boys. From the front of the line, a Chatworth girl and a boy from our 
camp would enter one of the tents together. They would not be allowed to 
leave the tent until they completely subdued their opponet. This was more 
than submission or pin wrestling. To win this, you had to completely 
overpower the other party to point you tied them up. You then must 
emerge from the tent carrying your tied up opponent. The easy way of 
course would be a simple fireman’s carry. In several cases, this would 
come down to a long battle of attrition. This is why several tents were 
needed to keep the event moving along. 
Greg speaking for all of us gladly agreed to the rules with one stipulation.  
He wanted to be able to choose the girl each of us would get to subdue. 
Everyone knew he wanted Tara in the worst way. Tara agreed. The 
competition would be set up for tomorrow.
That night we could not sleep, able to do nothing but talk about this 
bizarre turn of events.
“I can’t believe we’re going to do this,” Allan said. “Have a wrestling 
tournament with a bunch of teeny boppers.”
“This is crazy,” I admitted. “These little rich girls have beaten us at every 
turn. Tomorrow is our day to salvage some dignity.”
“In my country, women know their place,” Mahmut said. “It is time we 
taught these girls that this is a male’s world.
“I know who I will choose. There is a British girl among the Chatworth 
camp. She did not play volleyball or participate in the tug-of-war. She is 
very slender and arrogant about her model figure. It will be fun to break 
her.”
“Why her, Mahmut?” Alan asked.
“Because her people oppressed mine back in India. You don’t know how 
much fun I will have breaking this little British girl. I hear she has some 
royal blood in her. She is a sixth grader and very skinny. It will be fun to 
break her little English butt.”
“You’re kinda on the thin side yourself,” Greg said. 
It was true. Though Mahmut was a good 5-7 tall, he weighed a mere 110. 
“That is why I’m choosing this skinny brit,” he said.
“I think I will choose that little bitch, Karen,” I said, “I want to see if she 
is as tough as she acts.”
“You’re tough,” Greg chided me. “That girl is about 85 pounds to your 
130. Come on, Kid, next to me you’re the biggest kid in camp. Take a 
bigger girl.”
“What about you taking Tara, Greg? We’re talking 105 pounds versus a 
140.”
“Kid, you know and I know that we need to shut Tara down or it’s a 
hollow victory. I ‘m the man to do it.”
“I think I will take that Japanese girl who was a really good volley ball 
player,” Glen said. “Mahmut hates brits. As a Philippino, I can’t stand 
Japanese. They think they are so superior.”
“You mean the little Jap bitch, who anchored their tug of war?” asked 
Alan. “Did you see the legs on that girl. You’re the same size as her, dude. 
If there is any match we have a chance of losing, it will be that one.”
“I don’t care,” Glen said, “I want to kick her Japanese butt.”

The next day we told the camp counselors we were working together with 
the Chatworth girls to clean the tents. They left as us alone and let us settle 
our issues during free time. Every boy in our camp was more than willing 
to participate, after all, how tough could it be to tie up a bunch of sixth and 
seventh grade girls. 
For some reason, I felt myself trembling when we lined up against the 
Chatworth girls. I looked across the line at small Karen. She had a wicked 
smile on her face. Her read hair cropped low like a beautiful version of 
Pippy longstockings, an omen that scared me. Like Tara her beauty was a 
weapon. The good thing was that the two of us were to the back of line, so 
I would get to see what happened with the others. I had to admit my 
curiosity was killing me. 
The first two opponents to enter the tents were the Japanese girl and Glen. 
They disappeared into the tent flaps, and all we could from the outside was 
the tent bouncing around from their movements. Whatever could be 
happening inside was beyond any of us. Soon Alan and the Romanian 
gymnast entered followed by Tara and Greg. It was not long until all seven 
tents were filled and bouncing with movement. No one knew what was 
happening. 
Then I felt my stomach drop as the Japanese girl emerged with Glen 
thrown over her shoulder like a sack of grain, completely tied up and 
helpless. I felt myself trembling just watching this. It got worse. The 
gymnast soon emerged from her tent with Alan tied up and gagged. He 
tried saying something to us but it was useless. He was completely 
helpless, folded over the shoulder of a girl half his size. 
I could not believe what I was seeing. Then I realized that dam gymnast 
was a world class athlete, and we all knew the Japanese girl was very 
powerful. These were isolated incidents. It would not continue to go like 
this. 
Then another small sixth grade girl emerged with a much bigger tenth 
grade boy. Again the boy was tied up and gagged. The line of girls 
cheered as this little girl walked arrogantly with the packaged boy over her 
shoulder. 
I felt myself going numb watching this. It got worse when the British girl 
emerged with Mahmut, struggling and squirming over her shoulder. And it 
did not matter how hard he squirmed or how skinny she seemed. He was 
helpless and completely tied up and defeated like the others. He must have 
squirmed for a good twenty yards then his body went limp, as if accepting 
complete and utter defeat at the hands of the aristocratic English girl.
 I could not believe what I was watching. I felt myself trembling 
uncontrollably. Then of course Tara emerged from her tent with Greg. 
Like Mahmut he struggled and squirmed. He could not except the defeat 
he had been dealt. But it did not matter, he was completely in her control, 
folded over her shoulder, his hands tied behind his back, his ankles 
wrapped in duck tape, a gag over his mouth. Of course, the girls cheered 
Tara. . 

Karen and me finally entered an open tent. 
I had to admit any confidence I had had poured out of me. How were these 
girls doing it? How had they defeated every boy? If nothing else, I was 
curious as to how this little brat, Karen, was going to defeat me. 

We entered the tent, the floor still littered with all kinds of rope and duck 
tape. Someone was going to be tied up here. 

More than anything, I had this incredible curiosity. Pin wrestling was one 
thing; but tying up an opponent against their will took an incredible 
advantage in skill and technique.

We began to circle each other in the tent. I towered over this little girl’s 
four foot ten frame. I stood a good 5 -8 and outweighed her by about 45 
pounds. No way I was going to lose. 

Still, her legs had incredible strength and definition like many young girls. 
I knew there was more power in those legs than all of my male body. 
Then she did something that surprised me. She dropped down on her butt 
and wrapped her legs around my ankle. The move caught me completely 
unawares, and she managed to catch both my ankles. She wrapped both 
her arms and legs around my legs in a vise-like grip. I felt my legs 
completely trapped by the power of her legs. It was incredibly easy for her 
to topple me. I was forced to turn and use both my hands to break my fall. 
She stood up behind me with both my ankles trapped in her powerful legs. 
I could not describe the feeling. Her legs felt so soft yet so strong, and she 
had complete control of me at that moment. She picked up a roll of duck 
tape and easily wrapped it around my trapped ankles. 
“Your such a lame jerk. Don’t you boys understand how stupid you are.”
I struggled and squirmed but could not keep her from tying up my ankles. 

Suddenly, she gave my feet a jerk and pulled me backward so I had to 
catch myself with my hands again. Before I knew it, she was sitting 
crossways across my back. Not having the use of my legs, I pushed up 
with my arms, and she used this opportunity to catch one of my arms with 
both of her hands. She forcefully pulled it behind me and twisted it 
painfully behind my back. I cried out in agony. 

“Shut up, baby, there’s nothing you can do.” 

Working methodically, she wrapped up my trapped arm with her legs and 
swiveled around to catch my other arm with her free hands. I fought hard 
to keep her from doing this.

“Stop squirming, Jerk, it’s useless to struggle.”

I struggled and squirmed but could not keep her from forcing both of my 
arms behind my back where she easily tied them with a piece of rope. She 
had done it. I was completely helpless. She stood over me haughtily and 
kicked me violently in the stomach.

“Jerk, I knew I would win.”

“Please, don’t hurt me,” I begged. “I know I am beaten.”

“Shut up, Jerk. It’s a little late to start begging now.”
She gave me several short swift kicks in the stomach.

“Jerk, Jerk, Jerk,” she taunted.

“I’m sorry for the way I acted. I was so jealous of you girls. Deep down I 
knew how superior you are. Please don’t hurt me.”

She reached down and grabbed my penis. The pain was incredible, and I 
realized I had developed a very large hard-on. 

“Look what we have here,” she laughed. “A tenth grade boy getting boner 
from a sixth grade girl.”

“You like me!” she said with a taunting smile. “You like me and you 
know I’m better than you.”

“Yes,” I admitted, in incredible pain. “You are better and there’s nothing I 
can do about it.”

She loosened her grip on my penis but held it tight enough to simulate a 
contracting vagina. I think it surprised even her when I cummed, gooing 
my pants.  I couldn’t stop it. It flowed out of me like this terrible weight 
being taken from my shoulders. All my arrogance and pride flowed with 
it, leaving me with this strange blissful humility. I cried out and went limp, 
completely broken and defeated.

“How gross!” she said, feeling the wetness of my pants “Boys are so 
gross.”

“Please!” I moaned, “I couldn’t help it. You’re so beautiful and  
incredible. I know I’m nothing but a stupid geek to you.”

Suddenly, she became very gentle. Placing duck tape over my mouth, she 
kissed me on the side of my cheek. 

“You will make the perfect slave for me,” she said. “Maybe I’ll keep you 
as my boyfriend.” 

She grabbed me by the hair and painfully pulled me to my feet, “get up, 
boyfriend.”

With some effort, she hoisted my much taller body over her shoulder and 
carried me out of the tent, displaying her trophy for all to see. I did not 
struggle like the others. It was completely pointless, and it’s the one 
metaphor I’ve taken into my adult life when it comes to dealing with the 
female gender. . . . . It’s useless to struggle.