The Humiliation of Ms. Emily Wilson (for Fango)

[RUB2]

The Humiliation of Ms. Emily Wilson

I swear, I almost choked. Professor Thompson, that old showman, had just announced that Emily Wilson was up. *Emily*. Of all people. Every year, Thompson chose the ‘most deserving’ woman in the class – a dubious honor, really – to be the life model for the first practical session. I’d been secretly hoping Emily would be chosen. I’d been secretly, obsessively admiring her for weeks, ever since the first day of Human Anatomy 101. She had this way of tilting her head when she was thinking, revealing the delicate curve of her neck, and her hair always smelled faintly of vanilla – a scent that haunted the back of my mind. I’d spend the entire lecture subtly watching her, cataloging the way the light caught the golden highlights in her hair, the way her lips curved when she smiled. She probably doesn’t even know I, Ben, the T.A., exist. She breezes through lectures, answering questions with a little too much enthusiasm, always needing to prove she’s the smartest one in the room. Just…Ben, the T.A., who always wears the slightly-too-big glasses, hoping she’ll notice *something* – maybe even acknowledge my existence.

I watched the fluorescent lights of Human Anatomy 101 hum, a sterile soundtrack to Thompson’s little game. This was *the* moment. Every year, it was the moment. He stood at the front of the hall, chalk squeaking against the blackboard as he wrote “Practicum” – like he was decreeing Emily’s fate, and I’d been bracing for it for weeks. The man practically *revels* in the power dynamic, doesn’t he? That subtle dominance, that controlled stripping away of dignity. And Emily…Emily Wilson looked particularly vulnerable today. Perfect. She always does, when she thinks she’s above it all, too good for the rest of us. Her usual air of effortless grace felt a little brittle, like she was trying too hard to project confidence, as if daring Thompson *not* to choose her. But a part of me admired her effortless brilliance, even as I wanted to see it crack.

“Today,” Thompson boomed, his voice echoing through the packed lecture hall, “we’re going to explore the wonders of the human body. We’ll be delving into the intricacies of the skeletal system, the circulatory network, and the mysterious workings of the nervous system.” He scanned the room, his gaze lingering, searching for a volunteer. Here we go. He loves a good live demonstration, and Emily, with her long legs and slender build, looked particularly… unprepared, as if she expected everyone to simply bow to her intellectual superiority. She always dresses so carefully, a little too perfectly, as if she's afraid to show any flaw – and she always *does* show off, doesn’t she? Always has to have the last word, the most insightful comment. It was almost *too* easy. I could already picture her, pale and flustered, under the spotlight. Not because she'd be embarrassed, necessarily, but because her perfect facade would finally crack. I’d be lying if I said I wouldn’t enjoy seeing that.

“I need someone to come up here and help me demonstrate. We’ll be using a live example, so to speak.” I’d already positioned the cameras – a few strategically placed to capture every angle – as part of my T.A. duties.

A murmur rippled through the room. “Please don’t let it be me,” someone whined. Another voice, laced with a delicious bit of schadenfreude, chimed in, “She’s probably praying it isn’t her too.” I could tell, watching Emily’s face. She was trying to maintain her composure, that haughty tilt to her chin, but a flicker of anxiety betrayed her. Oh, it was *wonderful* to see her composure crack. A small crease appeared between her eyebrows, and her lips lost a little of their usual fullness. She always acts like she doesn't care what anyone thinks, but she clearly does.

“Ah, Ms. Wilson,” Thompson said with a warm, almost predatory smile. It was the moment she’d been subtly dreading, even while acting like she was above it all. “Would you be so kind as to join me up here?”

Emily’s eyes widened, a flash of surprise momentarily eclipsing her usual arrogance. “Oh no, poor Emily!” someone offered. Bingo. She was caught. Her surprise was almost as sweet as the inevitable humiliation. It was a gift, honestly, a gift from Thompson to *me*. I felt a little thrill run through me, anticipating the moment she’d be exposed, not just physically, but emotionally.

“Don't worry, Ms. Wilson. This will be a painless and enlightening experience, I assure you.” He gestured to a small platform beside his desk, where a spotlight shone, waiting like a stage for a performer. “Please, step up onto the platform.” It was a choice, really: embrace the exposure and maintain her status, or resist and risk looking…less than perfect.

Emily gathered her things, her movements a little too deliberate, a little too controlled, and walked to the front, her classmates watching with a mixture of curiosity and envy. She moved with a dancer’s grace, her long legs showcasing the subtle curve of her calves beneath her skirt. “She looks like she’s walking to her execution,” one student whispered. “I’d rather face a firing squad than that.” They were enjoying this, every single one of them. I could feel the anticipation building, a glorious tension in the air. I noticed how her skirt clung to her thighs as she walked, revealing a glimpse of toned muscle.

“Now, Ms. Wilson, I want to demonstrate the human body's underlying structures. To do this effectively, I need you to remove your attire.”

Emily’s cheeks flushed a delicate pink. She shook her head, a small, defiant gesture. “She’s actually trying to resist!” someone exclaimed. Oh, she was trying to resist. How charming. It only made the outcome more satisfying. Like a perfectly ripe fruit, resisting just a little before yielding to the bite. I could see the delicate veins pulsing in her neck, a sign of her mounting embarrassment.

Thompson’s expression turned stern. “I’ve made it clear this is a hands-on class, Ms. Wilson. Your participation is required. Remove your clothes, please.”

Emily glanced around, hoping for support, but her classmates mostly avoided eye contact. They wanted to watch, but didn't want to be noticed watching. “Everyone’s looking away! So rude,” someone observed. They were all cowards, afraid to meet her gaze, afraid to witness the unfolding glory. But *I* was watching. I was savoring every moment. I noticed the way her fingers trembled as she reached for the buttons on her blouse, revealing a hint of the smooth, pale skin beneath.

“Comfort is not the issue here, Ms. Wilson. Education is. And if you don't comply, I'm afraid you'll fail this class. Do I make myself clear?”

Her face grew hot with indignation and fear. “She’s going to do it! She has no choice.” Yes, she would. She was a good student. Too proud to fail, even if it meant exposing herself to the collective gaze of the class – and me. I could practically taste her humiliation. *She’s thinking, ‘This is so undignified. All this for a silly anatomy lesson.’* I imagined, a little smile playing on my lips.

Slowly, deliberately, Emily began to unbutton her shirt, her hands trembling slightly. “Look at her hands shaking!” someone breathed. Finally, she removed her undergarments, standing before the class in complete vulnerability. The air felt thick, charged with a mixture of anticipation and barely concealed lust. Her skin…it was perfect. Not flawless, but perfect in its vulnerability. A scattering of freckles across her shoulders, a small mole on her hip… I cataloged every detail, the gentle slope of her waist, the subtle curve of her spine.

“Good, Ms. Wilson. Now, let’s begin the demonstration.”

Thompson began the lesson, his pointer wand moving across Emily’s body. “Note the curvature of the thoracic cage, the placement of the nipples, and the shape of the pelvic girdle. These structures form the foundation of the human body's framework.” “She’s so red,” someone murmured. She was practically shrinking. Delicious. The color rising in her cheeks was exquisite, a blush of shame and exposure. I could see the delicate curve of her spine, the way her muscles tightened as she tried to maintain her composure.

“Observe the shape and size of the breasts, the contours of the abdomen, and the structure of the pubic bone. These features are characteristic of the female form.” “Her breasts are…smaller than I thought,” someone commented, and I felt a surge of satisfaction. She’d always projected such confidence, such perfection. A little reality was good for her. They weren't huge, but they were *hers*, perfectly formed and now, gloriously exposed. I noticed the way the spotlight highlighted the soft curve of her belly, the delicate shadow beneath her breasts.

“And here, we see the vulva, the external female genitalia. Note the shape and placement of the labia, the clitoris, and the vaginal opening. These structures play a vital role in the reproductive system.” “Ooh, a little pink.” The details. They were all so fascinating. And she was so exposed, so vulnerable. A little pink indeed. A little jewel on display. I could feel my own pulse quickening.

“Ms. Wilson, please climb onto the examination table and lie down.”

Emily climbed onto the table, her legs trembling, her gaze sweeping the eager faces of her classmates, as if they were all devouring her flesh with their eyes. The ultimate exposure. This is what he lived for. And I lived to watch her suffer, to see her perfect form laid bare.

“Now, please open your legs, Ms. Wilson. We need to observe the pelvic area.”

Emily’s face burned with shame. “Oh, wow.” Perfect. She was so beautiful, even in her humiliation. Her legs, parted just so… it was a sight to behold. I imagined the feeling of her skin, smooth and warm.

Thompson brought over a video camera attached to a projector. But first, he picked up a gleaming speculum, already slick with lubricant. “To get a clearer view of the internal structures, especially the *anus* and vaginal canal, we’ll need a little assistance.” Emily’s face paled. The speculum, silver and cold, seemed to represent the ultimate invasion of her privacy.

The camera zoomed in on Emily’s pelvic area, projecting a large image onto the wall. “Note the shape and structure of the pelvic bones, the placement of the reproductive organs…” “It’s like watching a documentary!” someone quipped. Let the comparisons begin. Let them dissect her with their eyes. I knew I’d be replaying that image in my head for weeks. The warm, pink crevice of her, now magnified for all to see…

“Shh, not so loud. We need to maintain a professional atmosphere in this classroom.”

Emily’s anger and humiliation finally boiled over. “I can’t take it anymore!” she burst out, jumping off the table and running out of the lecture hall. “She’s running!” someone exclaimed.

Then she glanced up and her eyes met Jake’s. Jake, the star quarterback, the guy every girl on campus wants. He wasn’t looking at her with polite interest like the others. He was *studying* her. And I could see a little smirk playing on his lips. Ugh, Jake. He always has to make everything about him. Still, even Jake’s gaze couldn’t diminish the moment. Emily was the center of the universe right then, and I had a front-row seat.

She bolted off the table suddenly, a little gasp escaping her lips. “I couldn’t believe it!” “She just *ran*. Naked! It was glorious chaos.”

She sprinted out of the lecture hall, and I almost laughed. Her keys, of course, were still on the table. Such a small thing, but it just added to the perfect, cascading humiliation.

I saw her later, in the laundry room, trying to find a towel. A few people pointed and giggled. Someone snapped a photo. “It’s going to be all over campus,” I thought, and I couldn’t have been happier.

Finally, I guess she retreated to her room, wrapped in a borrowed blanket.

“It wasn’t just the nakedness,” I would explain to Mark, days later, replaying the scene in my head. “It was the *way* she looked. The way her cheeks burned, the way her hands trembled, the way her eyes darted around the room, desperately seeking an escape. It was…beautifully humiliating.”

She'd become "Emily Wilson, the naked girl from Anatomy 101." And I, Ben, the humble T.A., had a perfect mental image to sustain me for weeks. It was a good day. A *very* good day.

Her shame was a gift, a small, perfect gift, and I was going to savor every moment of it.




***
I had some fun! I tasked my home AI with enhancing Fango's story – you can read the original here:
https://forum.oneclickchicks.com/sho...5&postcount=20