StripSearch

Someone requested that I sketch up a quick scenario, and since I thought it was interesting I wrote it up. I hope you all enjoy it.

I first met Doctor William Johnson at a party my company was hosting to celebrate the launch of a series of cyber cafes in Kenya. He was about 60, paunchy, bald, and a little drunk. I overheard one of my colleagues pointing him out, remarking that his medical credentials were “a bit sketchy” but that he “certainly does like putting the local girls up in the stirrups!”

I blushed at the thought of it, and took an instant dislike to him. When he came over to introduce himself, and to hit on me, I quickly shot him down, at least until he made an offer I couldn’t refuse.

“COVID shots can be a bit hard to come by in Kenya,” he noted, making the understatement of the year. “Since you’re on long term assignment, and my clinic is dedicated to help young women of child bearing age, you might be eligible for a new batch of shots I’m getting in on Friday.”

“You have Covid shots? Seriously?” I said, suddenly interested in the inebriated doctor.

“Yes, I do. We open at 9AM. You’ll have to wait in line, and I can’t make any promises, but if you get a place in line you should get a shot before they run out. My clinic is in Bongo. There’s only one road, so you can’t miss it.”

Covid shots are like gold, and needless to say I was anxious to get one. And so it was me, and my best friend Susan, who works in the LA office of my company, went bouncing down the dirt road to Bobo at 5AM on Friday morning, driving the scooter we keep handy for quick jaunts.

We actually saw the women before we saw the clinic. There were about 300 hundred of them, all locals, judging from their closely cropped hair. It was actually difficult to see them, except when the headlight of our scooter hit them directly because their skin was black, and all the women were completely naked.

I also noted that all of the women had numbers written on their asses with some sort of white paint.

We drove to the front of the line, where an older black woman in a nurses uniform regarded us with a stern expression. Susan parked the bike, as I explained our case.

“We’re here for our shots,” I explained. “Is there a line for… Westerners?”

“White people, you mean?” the nurse replied angrily. “No. You take off clothes, and put them in bag,” she said, indicating one of the old burlap grain sacks on the table. Bag has number. I write number on your ass. Then you go wait in line, like all the rest.”

“Why do we have to take our clothes off?” Susan protested. “Aren’t the shots in our arms?”

The woman smiled a cruel, toothless smile. “Doctor says girls your age are dirt sluts. Pussy filled with disease! He has to inspect thoroughly, and delouse, to kill any crotch critters. You want shot, you ride in stirrups first.”

“No way!” I said. “I want to talk to the doctor. I know him. We’re friends.”

“Doctor not here. Doctor not here for hours. He get here 9, sometimes 10 or 11. Depends on when he wakes up. He not wait on you. No special treatment for white girls. Strip! Strip! Everything off!”

I turned to Susan, who much to my surprise, was already down to her bra and panties. “Are you serious?” I said. “I’m not even sure he’s a licensed doctor.”

“It’s worth a shot,” she said, revealing her breasts to the smiling black woman, who was already waiting with her paint brush for her chance to write on Susan’s ass. Susan was a bit of an exhibitionist, and had the body to prove it.

“Snatch bag too, white girl,” she said pointing to her crotch. “Purse and keys, too. I keep everything safe. Then turn around and show me your ass.”

“Are there even 400 shots?” I asked, nervously toying with the button of my white silk blouse.

“Plenty of shots, if you get naked now. Strip, Strip! Everything off! To the skin!” she barked.

The woman had used a white marker on the black girls, but Susan’s number, 379, was painted with a lovely, bold red. Looking over her shoulder, Susan admired her new number. “Nice! You’ll be 380”, she said, smiling at me as I nervously fiddled with the top button of my white silk blouse.

"There were about 300 hundred of them, all locals, judging from their closely cropped hair. "

Since our heroines are going to be treated no differently in line than the "local girls" shouldn't they not only loose their cloths and have their number marked on their white asses but also have their hair sheared short so that they better "blend in" like all the rest of the girls in line? A butch haircut will do wonders for their attitude and may possibly allow them to "make friends" with the other local girls in line! After all the Doctor may be awhile.

Scman493 wrote: ↑Tue Sep 07, 2021 2:13 pm "There were about 300 hundred of them, all locals, judging from their closely cropped hair. "

Since our heroines are going to be treated no differently in line than the "local girls" shouldn't they not only loose their cloths and have their number marked on their white asses but also have their hair sheared short so that they better "blend in" like all the rest of the girls in line? A butch haircut will do wonders for their attitude and may possibly allow them to "make friends" with the other local girls in line! After all the Doctor may be awhile.

Great idea. Ask, and you shall receive!

"Come on, Princess, show us what you got," Susan said. "I stripped, and you can too. Let's not forget who has the keys to the scooter."

"HAD the keys to the scooter," I said, glancing at the bag that now contained all of Susan's possessions.

"The points is, the only way home is at the end of the line," she said. "Your clothes are in the way."

Nervously, I began unbuttoning my blouse as Susan urged me on. "Come on, it's not that bad! You're the one who is always preaching about imperialism, and colonialism, and how we need to understand the plight of the native women. Well, here's you golden chance to put yourself in THEIR shoes, and get treated just like they do, with the white man making you spread your legs to get the medicine you need. Sweet justice, the way you're taking over the whole infrastructure down here."

"We're providing fiber," I protested. "I'm helping."

"Just like I'm helping you strip naked so the doctor can have a little lookie-loo. Damn, girl, white silk blouse, khakis, and boots. Could you look anymore colonial? You're dressed Jane from some Tarzan movie."

"She dressed like native soon!" the black woman cackled, as she greedily stuffed my pants and shirt into the burlap sack.

"Come on, panties too," Susan urged. "Let's see that little monkey muff. I've always wondered if you were a natural blonde."

"I am," I protested.

"Prove it," she challenged.

Susan let out a slow playful whistle as I revealed my golden triangle.

"Pretty, like straw," the black woman said, laughing as I blushed.

Spinning me around Susan slapped me on the ass. "Come on, end of the line, Princess" she said, marching me forward. The sooner we get our place in line, the sooner we can get dressed and out of this dump."

The women, not used to seeing naked white women walking down the street, laughed and pointed at us, talking in their native gibberish tongues. The few words I did understand, I didn't like. The journey wasn't as quick as Susan or I would have liked, but we weren't used to walking barefoot on a road with such sharp pebbles. But at last we reached out place at the end of the long line, where we would have to wait patiently for the great white "doctor" to descend from the heavens and give us naked, gibbering native girls are shots.

After a few minutes the commotion died down, and we waited silently at the end of the line. After 45 minutes, it wasn't the end, as many girls came after us, all black, all nude.

The sun began to break over the horizon. "Suns coming," one of the black girls said to me. "Not good. Sun brings the village men, and the soldiers."

The local militia groups were not nice, and the local men were not known for treating women with dignity respect. We were white, and American, but we were also naked, and outside of our corporate bubble, and it wasn't exactly like we had a passport to flash. But I had a more immediate problem as one of the older woman ran her fingers through my long blonde hair.

"I sell hair, make wig," she suggested. "Blonde hair fetch good price. How much, white girl?"

"My hair is not for sale!" I said, jerking away from her. But another native girl started running her fingers through my hair, and then another, and soon several of the black girls were holding my struggling arms.

"Come on, it will be fun!" Susan said. "Part of our African adventure. Can you shave me, too?" she asked, indicating her own shorter black locks.

The woman who had taken our clothes was only to happy to loan them the battery powered sheers the good doctor kept for shaving women's most intimate places.

"Stop squirming, or they'll cut you!" Susan said.

"Okay, but not too much," I pleaded, looking around at the smiling black women around me, their heads covered in nothing but stubble.

The laughing black woman ran the clippers from the back of my neck directly down the center of my head. My tears and hair fell together in a gigantic clump onto my bare feet.

"Oops!" Susan said, laughing heartily.

https://www.whats4eats.com/files/countr ... 61-4x3.jpg

You are awesome. Now you've added a few more details which in turn leads my imagination in other deviant directions and further humiliations for our formerly superior and oh so stupid white girls. Thank you for writing. It made my day.

Awesome! So good that the picture gives us an idea of what she is having done to her!

I liked it. I am not a fan of shaving their heads as I find that unattractive, but still liked the story overall. In my head, I would just edit it to cutting her hair shorter.

A similar idea that I like is cutting their hair to shoulder length/short for girls so as to not allow the slave collar to be covered.

Have to agree with Survivior that bald hair isn't my cup of tea but when you do then total. But the story in general becomes more and more a great one. Love to read every snippet.
Kisses Kaddy

Thank you all for the lovely comments and inspiration. Off on vacation for a week, so if I don't reply to you, it's because I'm not online!

I agree that a totally bald women is not really attractive, but that is not the point of my suggestion. I was seeking to enhance their humiliation and embarrassment by having their hair cut to a short stubble like the girls in the picture. It has been my experience that women and especially priviledged, educated and professional white women are proud and very vain about their hair and its removal to make them no different than the common women of the region has to be humiliating for them. For me ... humiliation = erotic stimulation. Really love how so many readers and authors on this site have such great imaginations.

But definatly can't await the guys and the military guys come out to them all. Then with the shaved hair they for sure think they are just caramel natives.

Have a great holiday

Even if the doctor only spends 1 minute per woman, they'll be out there at least 6 hours after he arrives. My guess is he'll probably spend a lot longer than that examining the more attractive ones. Those ladies are probably going to be standing in line well into the night. An entire day in the blazing sun, near the equator? Those pale white women are going to get a horrible sunburn. That's legitimately dangerous.

Perhaps the women from town will have some kind of local remedy, a natural sunblock made from native plant roots or something of that nature. Spreading the dark brown mixture all over the white girls' bodies (including their newly-bald heads) would not only protect them from the sun, but it could also make them less likely to stand out when the men and the soldiers come around. The women would just have to make sure it gets into every little crevice to make sure.

Of course what the white girls don't know is that leaving that gunk on you long enough (especially with the sun baking it in) can cause it to dye the skin a much darker color. The more sun you receive, the darker you get, and the longer it lasts. I'm sure their level of exposure won't leave them looking like the local girls for more than a couple of months, however that will make it impossible for them to leave the country, considering they no longer look anything like their passport photos.

And of course, they'll have to go through it all again when it's time for the second dose of the vaccine.

Scman493 wrote: ↑Fri Sep 10, 2021 11:48 am I agree that a totally bald women is not really attractive, but that is not the point of my suggestion. I was seeking to enhance their humiliation and embarrassment by having their hair cut to a short stubble like the girls in the picture. It has been my experience that women and especially priviledged, educated and professional white women are proud and very vain about their hair and its removal to make them no different than the common women of the region has to be humiliating for them. For me ... humiliation = erotic stimulation. Really love how so many readers and authors on this site have such great imaginations.

I don't believe that one has to come at the cost of the other. For example, in a story called "Babysitter to Babysat" where a professional career woman babysits her boss's troublesome daughter finds herself tricked into dressing as a schoolgirl and taking her place for the day she has her professional haircut ruined in an act of humiliation without making her ugly.

Excerpt from "Babysitter to Babysat":

“Almost perfect!” Nicole replied with that same intensity. “Come on. Let’s get that makeup off you and get you some more appropriate jewellery.”

She grabbed me by the wrist and whisked me over to a seat in front of a makeup mirror. I wondered why she was in such a hurry. There Nicole took out a cloth and some Noxema. Before I could protest my face was being scrubbed clean of my expensive and tastefully applied lipstick, blush, eyeliner and mascara. As I blinked my eyes when the scrubbing was finished, I noticed how disheveled I looked in the mirror. Not my usual self at all.

Nicole quickly applied some other makeup - but only pink blush and some cherry flavored lip gloss. Far less sophisticated than I was used to. She also clasped a tiny gold chain with a heart shaped pendant around my neck, as well as giving me some friendship bracelets to replace my designer watch. She whirled me around, facing me away from the mirror before I had a chance to look, and examined me with that same intensity. I realized I was feeling less and less confident around this girl, and tried to gather my composure by staring at the floor, rather than looking her in the eye. “I think just the hair is left.” Nicole remarked.

But as I started to protest, she simply ignored me and began unpinning and brushing out my hair from its carefully coifed professional style, into a shoulder length simpler one. I swallowed up my protest, hoping to get this over with as quickly as possible now, and was surprised by two quick SNIPS from scissors, giving me girlish bangs.

“Hey!” I objected. “That was an expensive hairstyle!”

Nicole didn’t even bother to reply. I was beginning to feel somewhat like she was intentionally treating me like a child, and I was trying not to let it get to me. She rummaged a bit in a drawer, and came back with a plain white tie. With deft movements she fashioned my hair into a ponytail, holding the longer hair out of my face and emphasizing the bangs even more. With a surprisingly strong tug, she pulled me to my feet and whirled me around to face the mirror.

I gasped at the image reflected. My hand flew to my mouth to cover up my open-jawed shock. I looked nothing like myself at all. Staring back from the mirror at me was a real 16-year-old girl. Not just some adult playing dress up. She seemed awkward and embarrassed. But the taller, older girl standing behind her – who seemed 4 or 5 years her senior, seemed very pleased and extremely confident.

I suddenly felt trapped and exposed. Standing there in a schoolgirl uniform, I found myself actually envying the more mature, even more womanly clothing Nicole wore. I felt a growing sensation of being suddenly different and excluded from the entire adult world. I felt a sudden desperation to escape – to tear off these clothes, and put my own back on.