some people don't understand that feminism is a discourse, and not a position within a discourse. my position is that women have the right to be just as pervy as men are. 

 i am actually sexually attracted to misogynists and sexists as well as real people, but it's confusing for me sometimes, you know, determining who is who, lol!❤️

but so long as everyone knows i'm a feminist, i don't feel any need to check in again on this issue; feel free to joke about touchy subjects, and even to insult me, or women in general, as much as you want. frankly it makes my pussy leak like a sieve!❤️

this is not fiction.

i am very excited about it! 

i am 37 years old and i have been dreaming about cumming from just being spanked or whipped forever. but never until last monday did it ever actually happen! i'm so happy!

i have a little novelette available on Amazon. it's called Spank Pig Feminist, and i worked very hard on it. in some ways, it makes me sound like a right-winger, but i'm not... i just get aroused by misogyny for some unexplainable reason. if you are curious you can find out more about it, and even purchase it, by following this link:

https://www.amazon.com/author/januaryjosephine

 thank you! i really appreciate your support! btw Furdegree illustrated and designed the front cover❤️❤️❤️

 oh! here is the little "blurb" and "introduction" i wrote for the book:

blurb:

Poor Jessica Highbottom is given a severe dressing-down when she tries to defend her progressive, left leaning values. She seems to have chosen the wrong show, the wrong network, and the wrong group of pundits to debate!

But two of the four men are astute readers of Jessica’s unwitting signals. They push just the right buttons to lure her into a special kind of trap, the kind designed for ladies who cannot help but indulge themselves in everything they know they shouldn’t!

And with every camera focused on her, Jessica finds herself submitting to another kind of dressing-down, one that will pulverize her dignity and strip her of all self-worth, leaving no option but to giddily embrace the devastating punishment she deserves! 

intro:

“Now look at the camera," said Tuckerson. “Look directly into the lens." I looked. “Now spread those sweet thighs as wide as you can. Put your knees up over the arm rests if it’s more comfortable.” I lifted my knees and pulled my legs back, hooking them over the arm rests of my plastic chair and pushing my nasty pussy forward. I could feel my syrupy slit stretching open for the camera. “Now, can you do something extra for me Jessica?” I didn’t answer. Instead, Nathan answered for me “Yes she can.” I flashed on Obama’s 2008 campaign slogan, “Yes We Can,” and another salty tear slipped down my cheek. “Great, fantastic. Now Jessica, I want you to reach down between your legs with both hands and grab your labia, that’s right, grab one meaty lip in each hand. Good girl. Now I want you to spread those lips as wide as you possibly can. We want our television viewers, and of course Donald Trump himself, to really be able to see your inner pink. Perfect, Jessica…. Great job!” I wasn’t making a sound, but the tears were now just streaming down my face. I thought of my women’s studies professor back at NYU. She had meant the world to me. Was she watching this right now? 

in Beth Likes It, chapter 9 actually follows from chapter 7. sorry about that... in a later rewrite, i combined two chapters. that's how it happened. eventually i will repost the entire story with all the best rewrites of everything, but while i am still actively plowing ahead, i think it's better not to get bogged down in non-essential editting tasks.  

One of the effects of being tied to the table with my knees spread was that I could see my poor pudenda. The men had cleaned it with rubbing alcohol but it was bleeding again, from all the tiny punctures.

My entire crotch had been punctured and scraped by the tack-covered bull’s saddle. And my labia, both outer and inner, were in tatters: my poor pussy had taken the brunt of the assault. The oversized thumbtacks had pushed right through and torn my flaps repeatedly as the mechanical bull bucked and jerked.

The saddle had slammed into me and sawed at me relentlessly. And it left my most intimate regions in battered, bloody disarray. 

Now, as I lay on the table, I hoped I was ready to be raped. One man seemed to be stationed to my right, and he held the jug of isopropyl and kept splashing me with it every few minutes, causing me to scream anew at the terrible, all encompassing sting of each splash. He leered at me each time he heard me scream and moan. Another man, who seemed to be a little retarded, moaned sympathetically and wiped me, a little too roughly, after each splash. In fact everyone leered at me as the dirty simpleton toweled my pussy and grinned, and it was not until I noticed this that I realized I was thrusting my pussy up at him to meet his bony hand! 

Now please believe me: I did not want more of this. I did not. But my tortured, bleeding pussy seemed to have a mind of its own! It could not stop grinding up at the man’s bar towel, which was now bloody itself and it reeked of sin. And as if from a distance, I noticed a smile creep across my own sick face, and I found myself leering, perversely back at the men! 

This was the sadist in me. My masochist had been shoved down into the pit of my roiling subconscious, but she was still very much alive in me, pleading guilty on all charges and begging for swift retribution and atonement. But the sadist was in my eyes.

The men looked at me, and I looked at them. Everyone was smiling cruelly. I was grinding my tattered pussy like a stripper against a pole, and the men who did not already have their cocks out were fishing for them. Everyone was erect. Everyone was swollen and stiff and red, including my tiny, damaged clit which was standing at full attention under the ravenous male gaze. I was the prey animal, serving myself up on a plate. I was pornography, even to myself, relishing my own devouring gaze, both staring and being stared at. 

And as the men watched, and as I watched, one glistening droplet of blood, glowing with fresh oxygenation, emerged from the punctured tip of my clitoris, slithering down the puckered underside and into the churning well of shame between my legs.

I could barely breathe. Neither could the men. There was a terrible pause. And then they pounced!

I would have thought they’d have taken turns, formed a queue, elected some officiate to assign tasks. But instead, the dam just burst, and they stormed me!

I was being crushed from all sides, hordes of pumping cocks cramming into me. Men were on top of me sideways shoving their stiff loins into my armpits. My tits were smashed and moshed, then squeezed such that my nipples could be inverted, circumcised cock-heads grinding inwards and forcing my nipples backwards into my breasts. They fucked my bellybutton, my love handles, my ribs. My face and ears were not left virgin. The backs of my knees were popular targets, as were my toes and feet. Each hand was gripped by a man's hand and wrapped like fleshy handkerchiefs around one cock after another, cum splashing up my wrists and arms. Some well-endowed fellow positioned himself to get his penis into my mouth and began furiously pumping my throat, despite every effort to keep that partition sealed, as I am not a fan of having my gag reflex triggered, nor of tasting the resultant bile. I could barely breathe, and down below the blood of my punctured thighs acted as lubricant to allow someone’s enormous fist to skewer its way up into my anus as one heavy man after another climbed aloft and pummeled and pumped my helpless, burn-blistered vaginal canal.

They were not being mean. They were not deliberately torturing me. They were out of control, driven by an inexhaustible need to bury their seed in me. And my stupid, slutty body responded in kind.

I am not saying it didn’t hurt: quite the contrary! And perhaps my brain was reeling from lack of oxygen, or my whore’s hormones had wrestled me into a death-grip, but my bloody, burn-damaged vagina responded wildly and orgasmically to this avalanche of sensation. My clit and pussy and g-spot and ass exploded, thrusting me into a blizzard of sizzling technicolor wires. Electricity was spitting from my pores, I was seeing trailers and echoes and magical serpents writhing, fairies and elves dancing in the corners of my eyes. Everyone’s cum tasted like ambrosia, every convulsion opened a world of delicious psychedelic perverseness, echoing through implications so ghastly and taboo they should forever go unnamed. 

Each pounding cock penetrated to my core. I could feel the personalities of each man as he pushed up into me. I knew I was being impregnated, I don’t know how I knew but I knew, and I could feel myself, in some time-inverted loop of celestial quantum physics, giving birth to a litter of glistening fish-men who swarmed and assaulted me in turn!

This was rape, and this was the animal experience my body and soul had always craved. 

And how could this be, I asked myself agonizingly as the pain resurged and ignited a series of weirder, more disconcerting orgasms. And this second wave was very strange. Yes, these were thrilling too, perhaps more so, but they hit me in places dark and deeply buried, making me feel sick and dirty and more sinister than I ever had before. 

It was all too much, and I started to cry and wail, even as i convulsed in waves of sickening pleasure.

And my mind reeled, thoughts and images swirling uncontrollably: ugly thoughts, distressing images. I thought about my mother getting raped in Europe, cornered by slavic hoods in an alley outside a pivnaya. I thought about the fear of a man on the bus when I was in high school, returning late to get ogled lecherously by a piss-smelling man with a bent face. How I prayed that he would not follow me, would not rise to exit at the same stop I did. But how later I masturbated, cumming on my pillow to thoughts of his dirty hands grabbing me from behind.

And these dark memories were sick enough, but sicker still were the fantasies, and they made me cry harder. And as each man burrowed into me, not caring what I wanted but merely following their animal urges, I realized if they were hungry they would be eating me alive. If this was not rape, it would be cannibalism. And here my swirling fantasms became stranger and more severe.

I was helpless. I was innocent. I was trapped in a malevolent machine. A fucking machine: that’s all the world is, all nature is, genetics and biology and psychology conspiring to ensnare a single target, everything organically arranging itself into one intricate pattern like an incomprehensible spider’s web, the very point and purpose of which is to pin me beneath a group of savage men who will fuck my fertile pussy-hole, and fuck it hard, battering and bursting into me whether I want them to or not. 

Yes, and they will shove it in deep, and they will skewer me with their cocks. And there is nothing I can do about it. I am the hapless victim, suckered into an inescapable trap. Nature’s insatiable maw. The vulnerable, fertile innocent, lured into the center of nature's web, thighs spread wide to welcome the invading hordes.

And as the other men withdrew, spent and sagging, the last man, huge and commanding, stepped up and positioned himself between my legs. Through squinting, tear-stained eyes, I recognized that man. He was fully dressed, nicely dressed, and accompanied by another gentleman of somewhat smaller stature, wearing a gray suit, standing deferentially to his side. The larger man looked at me and nodded, then dropped his pants. His erection was turgid and gleaming, mighty as a tower. It was Ben, my ex-husband. 

“Hi Beth,” he said, matter-of-factly. “You look a little stretched out.” At this, Jarvis giggled, an evil, corrosive twinkle in his bulging eye. “Untie her,” requested Ben, and Jarvis scrambled to it, one or two bystanders assisting with certain knots.

“Turn over,” he commanded once I was free to move. I rolled over on the table. “Raise your behind, you dirty whore.”

I did as he told me, and I arched my back, pushing my belly towards the table to make a more pleasing target. And he was rock hard, but he was not pleased.

“I don’t like sloppy seconds,” Ben announced to the various satiated barflies left buzzing around. The crowd had more or less dispersed.

So instead Ben spanked me. He raised his right hand, holding it flat and ready for a moment as if he were about to put his hand on the Bible, and then, in the simplest and most old-fashioned of gestures, he proceeded to spank his ex-wife’s round, fat, dirty bottom. And for some reason, my heart began to soften, and I began to come down to earth a little bit, a tiny flame of familiar love igniting again in my heart.

Tito’s Bar was trashed, but nothing a good mop and bucket couldn’t fix. The few hanger’s on watched respectfully as Ben’s flat hand swatted me loudly and steadily, the stinging blows slowly escalating into a burn, the burn slowly escalating into another feeling, a feeling that had become very complex for me all of a sudden. Sure it hurt, it hurt more and more with each solid, rigorous swat, but the question I couldn’t seem to answer for myself was, why do I like this so much?

As the men watched and Jarvis wiped the ropes of cum off my face with a clean bar towel, the swats got harder and harder. And my bottom, which must have been cherry-red already, begin to feel like it was swelling up like a balloon. 

And I couldn’t tell if it was actually swelling or if it was my imagination, or a little of both. But it felt like it was puffing up into some massive, cartoon version of a spanked bottom, and I felt like I was becoming all bottom, all buttocks and pudenda, one great big enormous whore’s ass, being spanked, thoroughly and deservingly, by one infinitely competent iron hand. It hurt, it hurt so I could feel nothing else in the universe but the pain of it. I was nothing but a dirty whore’s ass being spanked and spanked. And oh god it really did hurt! But I had no inclination to shy away from the pain. 

I wanted the pain. I wanted all the pain. I wanted anything and everything Ben could give me, my poor suffering ass wanted every tantalizing spank. I wanted this pain, and I wanted all the other pain, too, the pain of being left here alone, of being publicly displayed and ruined forever in my home town, the pain of the mechanical bull and the puncturing tacks making mincemeat of my gusset area and of the tender flesh surrounding, puncturing and ripping my labial lips, my thighs and ass, my pubic mound, my perineum and anus, and finally spearing and ripping the very center of my clitoris.

And as the rhythmic, punishing blows continued to transform my fat fanny into the center of my being, my ex-husband’s firm, disciplinary hand slapping it with merciless but controlled intensity, I reveled in the sensation, I wallowed in it like a pig in mud. 

And wait! I *was* a pig in mud, I suddenly realized! 

Compared to my husband, or really to any of the men in the bar, drunks and flakes as they may be, I really was nothing but a pig in mud. And as I realized this, as the revelation of this truth hit me hard, and everything seemed to fall into place around it, a warm glowing sensation filled my entire body, emanating from my ass and specifically from where Ben’s hand made continual, rigid contact with it. 

His iron hand collided with the immense softness of my fat, piggy ass, my deserving, nasty, slutty ass. And as the blows continued and the terrible pain increased, the glow got warmer and more pleasureful, more powerful. It filled my aching, plundered, damaged vagina with a satisfied glee and readiness, it made my nipples pucker and my lips want to kiss and be kissed. It knocked on the door of my heart and I opened wide to let it in, because this was everything I wanted. I didn’t want anything else. I wanted to be Ben’s spanking pig.

I could feel myself subtly adjusting my position, my legs spreading a little wider and my tummy pushing down against the table, my back arching like a contortionist just to make sure Ben could see my swollen pouting pussy lips glistening between my legs. I wanted him to see me. I wanted him to smell me! But I didn’t want to be too forward about it, I just wanted to make sure he didn’t miss it, that he didn’t overlook the effect his punishment was having on me. I knew he wouldn’t really want to fuck me, he was too good to put his fine penis anywhere near my ruined, tattered, burn-blistered, fucked-out pussy. But I wanted him to know it was on offer. Maybe, at least, as a target?

And he did notice. And he shifted the direction of his swings, only slightly. But the effect was that now, instead of landing his blows on the sweetest, plumpest part of my piggy-fatty bottom, the sweet, curvy cheeks right on either side of my dirty anus-hole, Ben was landing each iron downstroke directly on my tattered lips and vulva! And in the warmth of the radiant glow that filled and nourished me, I realized that this was really the exact same part of me, because my vagina was really my ass too, my butt crack and pussy crack were really just one long crack, and my fuckable, dirty anus was just one of the three holes down there… no, four holes! There was my pussy hole, my anus, my pee-hole, and of course my cervix-hole! That’s a hole too! And up top was my mouth hole! It’s really all the same… I’m just a piggy, and these are all just my piggy hole parts. 

He should really use every hole, and punish every hole, I thought in earnest. And I wonder if he could spank other parts of me? He should maybe spank my fat titty-bumps as well… they’d be a good target to spank, if I held them up for him…

Oh and he should spank my face! My fat piggy cheeks are really no different than my ass cheeks! He should spank my face, as hard and as thoroughly as he is doing right now with my rear cheeks, and with my swollen pussy cheeks!

All these thoughts and feelings raged through me as Ben spanked my nasty, damaged pussy from behind. It was night time now, and the bartender was cleaning up. Some of the hanger’s on were helping him, because frankly they all participated in making this big mess. But I realized that I should really be the one cleaning everything up, and I would have insisted except that Ben was still spanking me! Next time I would clean it all up, and I wouldn’t even need a mop for the cum-stains, because really I could clean all this up with my mouth!

I was deeply enjoying the terrible, terrible pain that continued to wash over me with every strike of Ben’s iron palm upon my wounded, ruined pussy, which really would have required medical treatment if I were a human being, but luckily I’m not, I’m just a nasty pig. 

And it’s hard to describe the sensations that were coursing through my body, feelings that were so lush, so vibrant, and so utterly natural. I was so much in love with this man, even if he cared nothing about me. In fact it was even better that he didn’t give a shit about me, because that just made my love for him more pure. I could give myself entirely to him and expect nothing at all in return! How perfect!

And just as I was having these thoughts, and rushing wildly with the warm glowing sensations that were lifting my tortured, beaten pussy towards a very sinister orgasm, Ben spoke.

“What are you?” he. asked. At this, Jarvis looked up, the men in the room looked up, and even the bartender stopped cleaning for a minute to hear Ben talk to his pig.

I didn’t know how to answer. Then I knew.

“I’m a pig,” I said. “I’m a spank-pig.” 

“No,” said Ben. “What are you?”

And then it dawned on me. “I’m a fat-ass,” I said.

“That sounds about right. But what do you mean by that, exactly?”

“I am just a fat ass, just one whole big giant ass for you to spank. And to hurt. I am just one huge ass to spank and hurt. Forever.”

Jarvis leaned back in his chair, overcome by a fit of the giggles. But Ben and I were having a serious conversation.

“Do you really believe that, Beth? Do you really, truly believe that you are nothing but one giant, disgusting, piggy fat ass for men to spank and hurt?”

“Yes, Ben. That is what I am. I know it now. I learned it.”

“You learned this today? From your experience here today?

“Yes, Ben. I learned it today, here. And now 

I know what I am.”

“Well what part of you am I spanking right now, Beth? Is this your ass?” And instead of spanking me he plunged his fist right into my swollen, distended pussy and scratched my cervix hard, with his sharp fingernail! I yelped, but I held still. The glow was even warmer now, and I loved to feel this way. I was flushed with heavenly heat for the love of this man. And now I knew exactly what to say.

“You are hurting my... nasty... wet… ASS!!,” I said. And I believed it. Jarvis guffawed, practically falling out of his chair. 

Ben yanked his hand out of my pussy-ass, leaving it aching and gaping. “What is this?” He asked, reaching beneath me and squeezing my fat breast cruelly.

“It’s my ass, “ I said.

“Turn around and show me,” he said. I turned around and held my titty-ass up for him, using my hands like a push-up bra.

“See,” I said. “You can spank me. You can spank my disgusting, piggy ass.” 

And he resumed his ferocious spanking of me, only harder, and from the other direction.

And then they were setting me down on the tacks. There must have been a sharp point every half an inch, and each one pierced my skin. Twenty or thirty alone for my vulva and crotch; more for each butt cheek, and myriads of others poking every which way, into my belly and thighs. And the men cuffed me to the bull, my wrists to the horns so that I would be forced to lean forward for the entire ride, most of my weight balanced on my poor pussy, making it the primary point of contact for each slamming return; my ankles cuffed with leg-irons around the bull’s belly, so that my thighs would remain clutched to the sides, repeatedly impaling themselves on tacks specially positioned for them.

And then it started.

The bull lurched into action, and I immediately knew I was in trouble. This was one of those authentic, old-fashioned mechanical bulls, intended to throw full-grown cowboys off their saddles with a few wild lurches. The tack-covered wooden saddle immediately thrust up between my spread legs with explosive force, jamming probably twenty or more oversized thumbtacks directly into my engorged, leaking twat, along with dozens of others piercing my thighs and ass. I could feel a few even penetrating my ass-crack. 

But this was not the worst of it: this bull was designed to throw the rider, and, being cuffed in place, I could not be thrown. And the way that it was designed to throw the rider was to thrust vehemently not only up and down, which it did quite fiercely, but also front to back, back to front, and side to side, each with the same insane force. In fact, its signature move was to thrust directly up, into my crotch, and then, at the peak of its thrust, while my poor defenseless pussy was fully embedded with freshly stabbing tacks, it would lurch forward, or backward, or to one side or the other, consequently ripping the half-inch tacks horizontally, right through my delicate girl-flesh. 

Oh god and my legs were spread so wide! And the upward thrusts of the bull were so savage! Each thrust would certainly spear my outer labia in multiple places, dragging it along as it shot out forward or to the side. My outer lips were torn and mangled within the first minutes of the ride, the sadist in me reveling in the absolute horror of what was happening to me; the masochist knowing in her heart of hearts that this excruciating experience was exactly what she deserved; and the crazy, confused libidinal forces starting to respond to the pain as if it were incredible, unworldly pleasure. But another part of me knew I was being damaged. And my outer labial lips were not the only part of me that was being speared and dragged and ripped to shreds by these tacks. 

The upwards thrusts were so savage and my legs were spread so wide that often two or three tacks would catch me right between my spread pussy-lips and jam their way up to catch my inner labia, which had been fried like bacon this very morning, and were essentially twin blisters waiting to be punctured and popped. And popped they were, and the pain sent me into paroxysms of insane pleasure. I was convulsing, experiencing tremors deep enough to trigger the release of both my bladder and my bowels, which I did. I was screaming at the top of my lungs, honking like a car horn in one convulsive scream after another, but the men could see I was now thrusting my distended, bloody vulva in towards the tacks. 

Because I was coming. Just as I had anticipated, the pain of having my damaged inner lips speared and pierced and dragged back to front and front to back was enough to immolate the wall between pain and pleasure, and I could genuinely not tell which was which, I could not distinguish injury from orgasm. Injury was just a more intense kind of orgasm, so far as my nervous system was concerned. 

And just as I was experiencing this terrible, sickening, amazing, perverse and disgusting physical phenomenon erupt from within my spasming belly, the bull slammed up into my crotch once again, right while I was slamming down, and that was when the first tack speared my clit. 

Everything went silent for me, and time slowed to a standstill. My clit had been pierced right through the middle by this thick, raspy-edged tack, the entire shape of which I could feel with amazing precision. It penetrated right at the exact tip, the place on my clit that I actually avoid rubbing directly because it is too sensitive, generally preferring to stroke along the less-sensitive underside. And this particular tack was not actually that sharp: in fact, I could feel a tiny jagged irregularity on its point, almost like a barb, but not bent backwards like the one that keeps a fish hook stuck in the mouth of a fish. This barb went decidedly to the left, or to my left actually, from the barb’s point of view it actually protruded to the right. And that barb made all the difference.

I don’t know whether I was screaming or not, I don’t know what my body was dong, other than orgasming treacherously. Every nerve in my body must have fired at once, every hair on my head must have stood on end. I’m sure a jolt of electricity shot through me and lit me up like a lightbulb, and I’m sure I looked like a cartoon depiction of such, so that everyone in the room could have seen through my suddenly transparent skin and caught a glimpse of my bones. The whole universe had become a predator and I was its ultimate victim. And finally the universe had me exactly where it wanted me, where it had been stalking me for years, and it was biting down like an alligator devouring its willing prey.

And as the bull lurched forward, the tack ripped out of me, scraping the inside of my clitoris with its treacherous, left-facing barb. It scraped me, but it did not rip my clit off, and although every single part of my vulva, my thighs and ass-cheeks, and even my tender anus was punctured and torn and bruised beyond recognition, I was not terribly damaged down there. Or, as one might say, my wounds were only skin deep. The men finally pulled the plug on the bull and splashed my bloody pudenda with isopropyl alcohol, relishing in the way it made me scream, a few of them holding my legs open just to spank my shredded cunt while I screamed at the stinging pleasure.

That's when they hoisted me once again, ass over shoulder, and carried me, still in my bloodied silver miniskirt and heels, into the main room of the bar where there was room enough for all my lust-crazed suitors to gather round, and a table just the right height so they could strap me tightly on my back, knees pulled up and wide asunder, my poor shredded vulva and burn-blistered cunt-hole exposed helplessly to receive the merciless, unrestrained pounding it so richly deserved... The pounding and raping which I, Bethany Jane Cranston of San Carlos, California, so desparately and woefully craved.

I am not fast enough getting out of the car so Jarvis laughs and pulls me by my ankles; the result is that I plop down, ass first in the dusty gravel of the Tito’s parking lot. A few guys are standing around, and as my skirt rides up they catch a glimpse of my red, swollen pussy. Of course none of them could guess what it’s been through this morning. Jarvis and Ben smile at the other men, inviting them over. 

“Get up, Beth!” I am sitting in the dirt by the car on my relatively fat ass, the same masochistic shit-eating grin on my face, the taste of both men’s piss still in my mouth. I can feel the gravel working it’s way into my ass crack. Everyone can see my pussy slit, so I flinchingly reach to cover myself.

“Are you trying to be disobedient, Beth?”

“No” I say, whining like a teenager.

“Then take your hands away.” I do as I’m told, as the men outside the bar, about six or eight of them, gather around. The shit-eating grin returns to my face, and I look up at the men and blush crimson as I slowly remove my hands and uncover my red, wet pussy. They can see that a whip has landed there and left stripes, but they cannot see the real harm hidden on the inside.

“Give us a show, Beth” commands Ben. I spread my legs sheepishly.

“Are you a dirty little whore, Beth?”

“Yes.”

“And what happens to dirty little whores like you, Beth?” 

And all of a sudden it dawned on me what Ben and Jarvis had in mind for me, and the thought made me freeze up, choking for a second. I started to cry a little, but then my sadistic side became interested: I wanted to punish this slut as much as they did!

“Dirty little whores like me?” I asked, catching my breath. I wanted it, but I knew it would hurt beyond my wildest imaginings.

“Yes Bethany, that’s what I asked. WHAT ALWAYS HAPPENS TO DIRTY LITTLE WHORES LIKE YOU?”

Jarvis knelt down, and whispered something in my ear. He said “why don’t you rub your clit a bit Bethy, see if it makes you feel more like letting it all go, letting it all just happen…?”

So I reached down and started to pinch my clit. I couldn’t be tender with it at this moment, I was too emotional, too mad at myself. But at the same time I was smiling through my tears, and the sadistic side of me was in control, and I wanted a pussy to torture. I looked down between my own spread legs, and low and behold, there was just what I wanted, a poor defenseless pussy, easily within reach and utterly trapped with no possible means of escape. There it was: my own dirty, nasty, smelly, needy little pussy. All the men were looking at it. I looked too, and gave it a cruel pinch, digging my fingernails in and really squeezing, which felt intoxicatingly good. 

I started breathing harder, and I started grinding my crotch up towards the men, who were gawking at the spectacle, unsure what was going on or how to feel about it. Everything was intensely awkward. My humiliation felt like a sunburn on my face and chest, and I could feel my armpits sweating. I could smell myself. I pinched again, 

“What are you, Bethany Cranston?” Ben asked, using my real name so these people would all know it. And using my given surname, reminding me that he no longer wanted me to use his. I felt so alone, but it only made it better, because I could fully experience how vulnerable and helpless my disgusting little victim was. Our victim, who would never be able to escape this, never have any control over any of it, ever again. Our helpless, hopeless victim, who was me. Me: My body, my mind, my soul: my wet and needy, red and swollen, fat and disgusting, piggy little pussy. I pinched my distended clit again, and ground my pussy skyward, moaning feverishly for my audience.

“Say it” ordered Ben quietly.

“I’m a pig,” I whispered.

“What kind of pig?”

“A nasty pig.”

“A nasty little pig who’s breath smells like what?”

“Like pee pee” I said in my little girl voice.

“Why does your breath smell like pee pee, Bethany Jane Cranston?”

“Because I am a whore who drinks men’s pee pee.”

“Do you like to drink men’s pee pee?” Ben asked. 

“Yeth” I said, pinching and up-thrusting as the men pulled in closer. The men were staring, aghast, but more than one was starting to chuckle, maliciously. “Men’th pee pee is an aphrodethiac, to me.”

“What a whore,” I heard one of them say, another acknowledging agreement under his breath. 

I was tingling from head to toe with a shame that felt like electricity. I was shivering a little bit, and everything about me that could get wet was getting wetter: I was pouring smelly sweat from my armpits, I was drooling, and of course my pussy was fully lubricating, making it harder to get a grip on my clitoris in order to pinch effectively.

“Does men’s pee pee actually taste good to you, little Bethy? Do you actually like the taste of it?”

“Yeth. I do. I like the tathed of men’th th-trong, thalty pee pee. I like it in my mouth.”

“What else do you like, Bethy. What were you telling me this morning?”

I couldn’t remember, and I just stared at Ben stupidly for a second. 

“You like to be…?” Prompted Ben.

“I like to be thlapped,” I whispered. I whispered quietly, But the men could all hear me. They were leaning in.

“Of course. You like to be slapped in the face. You actually like the feeling of being slapped in the face. The sensation feels good to you.” I nodded slowly, digging my fingernail into my clit, pushing the little nub into my pelvis bone for lack of a good grip.

“You like to be slapped in the face. But that’s not all you told me this morning, is it, Beth? What else do you like?”

Now I remembered. Yes, and this is what I thought he was driving at, and this was scary, because in my present condition, with my vagina full of fresh burn-blisters, this was going to really, really hurt. I couldn’t even fathom how much it would hurt, I could barely think of it without bursting into tears. But I too, wanted this disgusting little pig-slut — who just happened to be me — I too wanted her to experience the worst pain imaginable. I wanted to victimize her! I wanted to pulverize her nasty little twat! I too, was the sadist who wanted — no, needed — to force my helpless, hopeless victim to endure unimaginable tortures! 

“I like…” I said hesitantly… “I like… to be… r a p e d.” I finally got the words out of my mouth. I looked up at the men. Their numbers had grown to at least twelve, and they were all listening intently.

“You like what?” Asked Jarvis, in his Carolina drawl. “What do you like, Bethany?”

“I… Like… to be… r a p e d.” I whispered breathily. I started slamming the middle two fingers in and out of my drenched, steamy pussy. I could feel my tender labia minora, my inner pussy lips which had recently been fried like twin strips of bacon as the boiling vegetable oil poured past them on its way into my upturned cunt-hole, I could feel them screaming for mercy as my fingers violated my opening. I felt like I was being fucked by a cheese grater! But I didn’t want it to stop!

“Do you really like it, Beth Cranston?” Asked Jarvis. “Do you really want all these men to rape you?”

“Yesssssss” I moaned, jamming my fingers in as deep and as painfully as possible.

“You want them all to rape you, one after the other?”

“Ooooh yesssss. Pleathe, oh pleathe yeth, rape my poor little puthy, rape it now oh god…”

“What if they call their friends? Can all their friends come and rape you too?”

“Yeth pleathe, yeth pleathe everyone, pleathe call all your friendth, pleathe tell everyone to come and rape my poor little puthy, oh yeth pleathe just do it! Do it!”

“Oh you little whore” said my ex-husband, Ben. “I think they should rape you with their fists, too, shouldn’t they Bethany? You’d like that, Wouldn’t you, Bethany Jane Cranston?” He was fully erect, and the lust in his voice melded seamlessly with his disgust and anger.

And using my full name was like twisting the knife. This was not a small enough town that these particular men would necessarily know me, but it was a small town, and it happened to be the small town in which I grew up. This is where I went to high school, worked for years at the soda fountain on the main drag. My parents and brothers all still lived here, all their friends lived here. Our church was here, and all my mother’s church friends. Our pastor lived here. My old boss who used to gawk at me when I was 16 years old. My father’s poker friends, who would give me the same looks when he’d call me in to serve them drinks on poker night. This was a small town, and word would get around.

I just moaned. Ben said, “What if they want to rape you with baseball bats, Bethany Jane Cranston? Should they? Should these guys bend you over and roughly rape your poor sweet pussy with something as big and thick and hard as a baseball bat? Would you want them to do that, Bethany Jane Cranston?”

“Yeth.”

I looked at Ben, and I could see the delighted, sadistic, evil expression on his face. And his tone was different too, less angry and more openly sadistic. And this made me happy! Ben wanted me to feel it all, the burn blisters popping and being roughly stretched and scraped and rubbed harshly back and forth by not only penises but fists and baseball bats, the walls of my vaginal canal being scraped raw and bleeding, my little doughnut-shaped cervix being pummeled, the place way up inside me, past my cervix, where only a donkey-dick (or giant dildo) could even reach, the place where I “bottom out” and would feel the stomach-punch from the inside, it too scorched from boiling oil, it would also be slammed and hammered again and again. That’s what he wanted for me, that’s what he needed to make me feel. But there was no anger in it, just insane lust, and I was providing its ultimate fulfillment, and it made me happy! Yes, squirming responsively as I lay there in the gravel, imagining the insane agony I would soon be experiencing, my fingers punishing the opening of my burned, blistery cunt-flesh, staring at Ben’s erection through his pants, I was happy, and what is more I knew I was still in love with him. I wanted to suffer for him, wildly, and to make him come from my ultimate degradation and destruction.

I looked him in the eyes for the first time since before he raped me, I had not been able to meet his gaze since then. And he looked back, unflinchingly. He was fearless, unashamed, absolutely selfish, and perfectly masculine. And something in him caused something in me to respond with everything I had, to offer him everything I had. I was trapped in his gaze, I could not break it, and my mind was gone. But something strange happened, something welled up from deep within me, a demonic urge took hold of my face and twisted my lips into a perverse smile, and I could feel a fire deep in my belly, forcing me to grind my pelvis higher into the air, thrusting my cunt back into my hand as I pinched and scraped at my bleeding clit with my thumb and fingernails. As Ben held my eyes, and as the other men stared from all sides, and as Mr. Jarvis held me by the shoulders massaging my neck, the demonic little girl’s voice rose from my belly to the surface and enunciated the words, in her high-pitched, breathy lisp:

“Ooooh, yeth Daddy. Ooooh yeth, I really do need all these men to rape me. Tell them they can use their fists, too. Tell them they can use their baseball bats. Tell them they can rape my nathty puthy with anything they want.”

“Even if it bleeds?” Asked Ben.

“Yeth. Yeth. Oh, I like it better when it thtarts to bleed. Oh they should just fuck me harder, the more it bleedth. Oh yeth pleathe. Oooh pleathe, I need it to bleed!”

Ben looked up, breaking my gaze and addressing the crowd, which had now grown to about 16 men. “She won’t cum unless you fuck her hard enough. That’s why she is so eager for this. She may scream and cry, but don’t stop until you hear her screaming in orgasm.”

Ben got up and walked out among the men. I could see some money change hands. Jarvis also rose, lowering my head gently into the gravel and dirt. He was somehow involved in the financial transaction. And suddenly both Ben and Mr. Jarvis hopped in our car and drove off! I was there on the dirty ground, my ass-crack full of gravel, and my husband, or rather my ex-husband, had disappeared! 

I was so confused my head hurt, but things did not stop or even slow down. Immediately two huge, burly men stepped towards me and grabbed me, each man pulling one of my feet. My silver heels matched my skirt and top, but I was covered with black dust and tarry gravel, which was hot and sharp to the touch, and a lot of it had worked its way into my butt crack already. But when the men started dragging me by the ankles, one holding each leg and keeping them spread as they pulled me along towards the rear entrance of Tito’s Bar, my poor ass was becoming scraped raw, both of my butt cheeks and the whole area between my two cheeks. And the sharp, tarry gravel was building up in my crack, started to rasp and tear from the scraping. Some of the sharp rocks were finding their way into my anus, and of course some were getting pushed into my vagina, which hurt even more because of the fresh burn blisters.

At first I waved my arms around and tried to get the men to stop, but suddenly as the pain and humiliation sunk in I noticed myself responding, and that perverse, shit-eating grin returned to my face. A fresh-faced college kid was walking beside me and witnessing my predicament, and I just grinned at him and said “my ass is getting scraped up pretty bad… even my butthole.” He looked at me strangely and said, “But you like it, don’t you whore?” And I could not deny this. I felt very worthless, and the thought of how worthless I was made tears well up in my eyes, but I knew that the disgusting, perverted, masochistic whore who just happened to be ‘me’ really did deserve this, and a thousand more horrific punishments besides. From the punisher’s point of view, I absolutely loved it, just like he did, just like everyone present did. There is something absolutely primal about watching a whore get punished, physically hurt and humiliated, that is very satisfying if you are lucky enough to witness it first hand. 

But suddenly a light popped on in my head and I felt a kind of rush of excitement as I realized, not for the first time, that I was lucky to be the whore, the only one there with the female body to punish, because that’s the only way to really know the incalculable affect of this lustful maliciousness. Everyone else was groping in the dark, trying to imagine what all this felt like to me. But I knew both sides, I knew how rough they were being on me, I knew why, I could feel every ounce of their sadistic glee; But also I could feel the results. I could feel the damage to my nerves, to my skin, to my body, and ultimately to my soul and psyche. And that was hard to bare, but it made the sadism even more fulfilling!

Even this crazy schizoid reaction of mine, of dividing into two selves, was part of the damage. The pain and degradation was twisting my psyche into two halves: part of me identifying with the sadists and gleefully embracing the harshest and severest punishments as if they were happening to someone else, while the victim part of me, wracked and twisted in excruciating pain, takes solace only in the narrative that it’s really all my fault, my sin, my just desserts for opening my slutty legs to anyone and everyone who will have me. 

Because of course it is I who invited this, because I am naturally subhuman, an animal, an out of control slut-whore, existing in a realm utterly beyond the reach of forgiveness or mercy. I am disgusting, beyond redemption, and should be treated accordingly.

The sadist in me is wildly enthusiastic, bonding with the men and acting in camaraderie alongside them, our joint goal being the utter destruction of my female parts, and anything else attractive or feminine about me. Destroy anything that provokes our insane lust!

And the masochist in me blames herself, utterly, and offers up her slutty vagina, her ass, her breasts, her soft mouth and every inch of her luscious female body because she believes it is the right thing to do: she absolutely deserves it, for being such a worthless, disgusting slut.

But there is a form of pleasure-seeking here as well, as the ungodly sensations, in a hormonal delirium unfamiliar to most, readily confuse pain with pleasure, and the initiated come to crave, and ultimately need and throw themselves wrecklessly towards any opportunity to experience the insane, irresistible pyrotechnics that can occur when pain and pleasure butt up against each other and combine.

And the physical need, the craving, has become immensely strong in me. Overnight, I have become an addict, totally out of control. 

“You like it because it hurts you,” said the college student, as he walked beside me. I looked up from my position, smiling perversely while being dragged along the ground, scraping my ass cheeks raw.

“Yeth,” I said, my ultra-honest little girls voice popping up again out of nowhere. “I need it becauthe it hurt-th me.”

“You’re so sick!!” He shouted into the crowd, clapping his hands together sharply. “Do you know what they’re going to do to you in there?”

“Um… Aren’t they going to fuck my puthy?”

“Sure, but first…? Don’t you know? Nobody told you?”

But now we were at the back entrance of the bar, and the bigger of the two guys grabbed me by my armpits and stood me up. Then we were in the back room, a sort of storage area, with boxes, equipment, and perhaps a few “entertainment” items that must have had a place in the bar in years long gone. There were pinball and video machines, a pool table on its side, but front and center was a large mechanical bull, looking like it had been pulled out this very morning and dusted off, the power cord stretching across several boxes and plugged, awkwardly, into the wall. It occurred to me that all this had been done solely for my benefit.

And two guys were working on it, standing on either side of the bull’s haunches, gluing something to the wide, wooden saddle, squirting tiny droplets of something onto some sort of small objects. And as the men walked me closer to the bull, I recognized that they were using crazy clue, and that the small objects were actually over-sized thumbtacks and they were gluing them, sharp points facing skyward, all over the saddle of the bull!

“Oh my God!” I said in shocked surprise when I realized what they were gluing. The blond college kid caught my eye and snickered at me. He mouthed the words “But You Like Pain…” and shrugged. I could see he was erect. I looked around and noticed that if he was erect, so was every man in here. I felt like the wind had been knocked out of me, but also, as my “victim” side burst into tears, my “sadist” side grinned like an idiot. And my sore, gravelly pussy started copiously juicing.

One after another, the two bearded men were gluing large thumbtacks onto the bull’s saddle, and there was no need for guesswork as to who was expected to ride the bull. I watched in awe as they slowly and methodically accomplished their task, the crazy glue drying swiftly as they secured each tack. There must have been one hundred large, pointy tacks glued to that wooden approximation of a bull’s saddle, most of them pointing straight up, right in the middle where the gusset region of a lady’s drawers might come to rest as she straddled the saddle. But many as well were located where a lady’s buns may come into contact with them, as she was bounced around wildly, repeatedly lifted from her saddle and slammed back into it as the mechanical bull lurched furiously and unpredictably in its wild ride. And many along the sides too, where a ladie’s inner thighs might make contact with them.

But I had no underwear on. I had no gusset, nor any other material, to protect me from the terrible, extra-large thumbtacks! They would certainly pierce my delicate skin every time the bull lurched, slamming my crotch and backside repeatedly into the tack-covered saddle!

I panicked, and I would have run if I could. I was scared to death, and for a moment I could barely breathe. The two bearded guys announced the completion of their task and stepped away from the bull. And saddle, and thumbtacks. I stared at the results of their work, horrified. The tacks were oversized, decorative, perhaps a full half-inch from base to point. They looked sharp enough to pierce my soft skin, but also much thicker than needles.

But as the other two men, the ones who moments before had been dragging me on my raw ass across the parking lot, lifted me back up, shoulder hight, in an effort to place me butt-first upon the tack-studded saddle, one of their hands happened to brush against my poor, leaking vulva, and it was immediately made apparent to both him, me, and everyone else in the room that this situation excited me immensely. As much as it was bound to hurt, both sadist and victim in me agreed that this was something I desperately wanted. Craved, Needed.

“Guys! Ha Ha! Guys, check this out! She’s sopping wet!” He held up his hand to show the other men, who were streaming into the room to watch the show, his wet hand. But then he and the other guy lifted my ass up and paraded me around, held aloft with my legs splayed and my dirty pussy on show, so that everyone could see exactly how wet I was, which was possibly wetter than I had ever been, for I could literally feel myself dripping. Everyone started laughing at me, and then the blond college kid stood up on the chair and announced “her name is Bethany Jane Cranston, and she likes this!” And he reached up and started gently pinching my nipple. The crowd was hooting and hollering, and I was blushing over my entire body, so deeply humiliated was I at that moment. The college kid said “Don’t you like it, Bethany? Tell the men you like it!” And he gave my nipple a little squeeze, which sent sparks through my entire body.

“Tell them,” he said, smiling at me.

“I like it,” I said. I could barely get the words out, I was so ashamed.

“No, tell them, tell them for real, so they can really hear you, you dumb slut!” 

Oh god I was a dumb slut, I was so dumb. Everyone knew how dumb I was, and how sick and depraved I was to want something like this.

“Tell us!” He shouted, and then he started the whole crowd chanting, as he moved his hands like an orchestra conductor and shouted “TELL US, TELL US, TELL US,” The crowd joining in as the two burly men holding me ass up slapped and squeezed my inflamed pussy, showing everyone the obscene, viscous fluid that rubbed off on their hands. The college boy grabbed me by the hair and turned my face towards the crowd and whispered in my ear “You have to tell them now.”

Even though the two men were not rubbing my twat with enough force nor consistency to urge an orgasm out of me, instead just grabbing at my labia now and again to demonstrate my copious secretions, I felt like I was about to come. The humiliation was insidious, and it was making me burst into a sweat, and blush like a turnip. I suddenly remembered a time when I was a little girl when I felt I had been so naughty I wanted to be spanked. And it was so hard to tell my dad. Both what I had done, and what I thought should happen to me as the consequence of my actions, it was almost impossible to open my mouth to tell him. 

I had blocked this memory out until this exact moment, but as it suddenly came rushing back to me I realized that it had happened more than once, that in fact it had happened a lot of times. I was dizzy with this realization, but it freed my tongue, or, to be more precise, it freed the little girl’s tongue, who spoke up, with her whiny little girl’s voice, and with her lisp: 

“My name is Bethany Jane Cranston.” The crowd immediately stifled their murmurings, so they could hear me. “My name is Bethany Jane Cranston, and I grew up in thith town, tho there are people who know me, and who know my parenth. And they will find out about this. They will find out what a dithguthting, depraved little thlut their daughter has become, and so will all their friendth. Everyone will find out. I looked around at the crowd, grinning my depraved grin through genuine tears. 

“And tho will my parenth pastor. And tho will my school principle, and all my teachers from high school, and all my friendth, and my brother’s friendth, and my old boss from Bob’s Ithe Cream. Do any of you recognize me from Bob’s Ithe Cream? I worked there for years… Does anyone recognize me?” There was a gasp from the back of the crowd, but no one spoke. “Yeth, it’s me, Beth, from the thoda fountain. And I have always been a naughty little girl. If you know me, you know that’s true. I have always been a naughty, nath-ty, thlutty little girl. If you knew me in high school, you knew my reputation, and I confeth that every word of it was true. Yeth, the whole football team, many of them up my ath. Anyone who wanted, up my ath. But what you didn’t know was that I wanted to be punished for it. I craved punishment, and not just thpankings like the ones my daddy gave me but thevere punishments, the kinds of things they may have done to adulterers and whores in the Middle Ages or in cowboy times, or the kinds of things you can only find on the internet. I need to be punithed right where it hurts the most: I crave it. I am addicted to it. Even though it hurts so much that that I can’t thtand it, that it makes me cry and thcream and beg for merthy, it is not merthy that I want. I just want more punishment. And if you hurt me hard enough, the strange thing is that it starts to feel good. I mean really good. You’ll see, you will be able to tell from the way I move and the sounds I make: Hurt me hard enough, and I will thtart coming for you. Yeth it’s because I am thuch a whore, even the most wicked, evil, thevere and devilish punishments make me come. They make me come and come and come, and I will not stop coming until the punishment stops. So pleathe, make it last. Hurt me hard, and make it last and last.” I looked around at the crowd, who glared at me, disapprovingly. “I know, I’m sick,” I admitted to them. “I’m disgusting.”

“You got that right!” Shouted someone in the back, followed by murmuring assent. “Give the lady what she fuckin’ wants!” Shouted someone else. They were angry at me for wanting it, I realized, but I could also see their erections threatening to burst out of their pants.

hi everybody❤️

this story i've been working on, "Beth Likes It" is all fiction. below you will find chapter five. the first chapter of "Beth Likes It" is listed as "i've been working on another story" -- in case you can't find it... scroll down in the blog.

i know i'm a sick, sick lady, and i am very embarassed to be fantasizing about stuff this crazy. if you want background information on me (how in hell did i get this fucked up?!), you should scroll down to a blog entry called "my origin story".

also you may want to read "this is a story based on a true experience. it's about half true." that one is about an experience i had as a teenager, and everything in it is true except the violence. the violence is my own fantasy. the Truth or Dare game, and my confessions, and masturbation, is all true, as close as i can remember (which i think is pretty close).

also, feel free to ask me questions... and please, i love your comments and i love all correspondence from other people who seem to have my particular "issues" or who like women who do. i have been incredibly lonesome for years, until just recently i have been behaving very recklessly and getting a lot of attention for it! ❤️

Beth Likes It

(chapter 5) 

Then, with the camera still following me, I signed the papers. With the first signature, I signed my freedom over to my ex-husband, so from now on I would have no more rights than a child or a pet. And with the second signature, I signed away any chance of claiming, ever, that I was not a fully willing participant in any sexual abuse, rape, torture, or injury he may ever, for the rest of my natural life, want to put me through. Even changing my body surgically was entirely his choice, or injecting me with strange drugs to increase my libidinal drive or my sensitivity to the pain or sexual stimulation. Or even giving me to someone else, or to a group of perverted men! Or just selling me! 

I could not breathe, but I lifted my pen, and as I did it I knew I was falling into a trap. I was stepping deliberately into a trap! And I knew I would suffer, continuously, forever. But I signed it, and I smiled viciously as I did it, as I raised my pen and did that horrible thing to myself. I wanted my disgusting, needy, leaky vagina and the rest of my insane, sex-addicted body, along with my stupid, idiotic, depraved mind, to suffer as much as humanly possible. Even more than humanly possible, I wanted my humanity stripped away from me, to be reduced to nothing, lower than an animal, lower than a whore. I would be nothing more than Ben’s ultimate fantasy pussy-slave, his willing victim, his rape-slut, his torture-slut, his sickening, perverted fuck-doll that he could brutalize and destroy every night, just to patch me up and start all over the next morning. And at the end, he could pass me along to the next guy, or group of guys.

“Oh my god,” I thought and I gulped air and squeezed my eyes shut. “Am I really doing this?” But the answer came with an excruciating, crazy tingle, like electricity shooting down my spine. My nipples and my dirty, still pissy twat were on fire, and the shit-eating grin returned to my face, an evil grin, a sadistic grin. I was thrilled to sign this, to lock myself, irrevocably, into the ultimate horror story. I lowered my pen to the page, and although a tiny voice in the back of my mind was still pleading with me not to do it, I signed my full name to the document, my full name, which as Lawyer Jarvis pointed out had recently changed. Ben didn’t want me to continue to use his surname now that we were divorced, so I lifted Jarvis’s fancy fountain pen once again to sign “Bethany Jane Cranston.”  Then I handed the pen, gingerly, back to the strange lawyer with the southern drawl.

Both men were wearing evil grins similar to my own. “How do you feel?” Asked Mr. Jarvis. Ben was still pointing his phone cameral at me. I felt a strange bond with both of them: we were all demonically pleased that we had a slut to punish. Even though I was the slut, I was just as anxious to get started as they were. I had to think for a moment what to say, how to answer the question.

It was my little girl’s voice that came out. “I feel like a very naughty, nasty little girl, who is finally going to get what she deserves.” I was pleased that it was so easy for me to be honest, because even though I was more articulate and sophisticated on the inside, when the little girl voice came out, she always told the truth, and told it in a very direct way. I realized I wanted to speak like that always, from now on, but I knew I didn’t really have any control over it. 

“Well Bethany, what do you suppose it is that you deserve?” Asked the lawyer.

“I am going to be punithed,” I said, lisping a bit on the word “punished.” Ben just stared at me, grinning. I grinned back.

“Why do you need to be punished?” 

“For… touching mythelf.” I admitted. 

“With the corncob?”

“Yeth,” I lisped.

“Hmm,” said Mr. Jarvis, rubbing his chin. “You are not supposed to shove vegetables inside your vagina, are you, Bethany?”

“No. No Mithter, I am not.”

“Then why did you do it?”

“Becauthe I’m a very bad girl, Thur. I can’t control it.”

“Can’t control what?”

“I can’t control my puthy, thur. I needed to put thomething into it. I needed to fuck mythelf with thomething, thomething rough and hard…” I broke into a little moan, and I lifted my ass off the back of my chair and started humping the air, shoving my uncontrollable twat right at the two men, as if to demonstrate.

“You need something in there now, don’t you, Beth?”

“Yeth,” I said, and continued grinding.

“I think your naughty pussy is what deserves punishment most of all. The needy inside of your nasty little pussy. Isn’t that right, Beth?”

“Yeth,” I admitted sheepishly.

“Show us how big it is. Spread your legs and pry your pussy apart, as wide as you can.”

With Ben continuing to point his camera, I did as I was told.

“You are very wet,” said Mr. Jarvis. ‘You are a very disgusting, sick little girl to be aroused by this. I think your little pussy needs to be hurt very badly, deep inside, as a punishment for being such a nasty, perverted little girl. Am I right, Beth? Should we punish the naughty, wet, inside of your pussy? Do you need to be hurt way deep inside, right now?”

“Yeth thur,” I lisped. My voice was high and squeaky, I had no control over it at all. “Yeth thir, pleathe hurt my vewy naughty puthy deep inthide.” I thrust my twat right up at them in a grinding motion, an absurd grin on my face. My craving for punishment, right in the core of my aching need, right where it would hurt the most, was insane. I grinned at them like a clown, and started to cry again, tears streaming out of my eyes. “Pleathe… Pleathe… no merthy. I am a vewy vewy bad girl. I need it, I need it tho bad…” I started sobbing and laughing at the same time.

The men each took an ankle and pulled my legs up behind my shoulders as I slouched down in my chair, pushing my sopping, wet, red vulva up at them. I could smell my own odor, mixed with the piss. Somehow there was rope handy, and my ankles were tied to the top of the chair, above my shoulders on either side of my head.

Ben started heating something up on the stove. Jarvis the lawyer started gently, teasingly rubbing my tender clitoris between his spit-lubed thumb and forefinger. I was already wildly aroused, but Jarvis wanted me teetering on the brink of orgasm, and he knew just how to touch me, just how stiffly and just how gently, and just exactly when to pause for a few seconds to keep me from toppling over the edge. He built me up again and again, getting me closer and closer each time, until I was in near hysterics.

“Are you ready, Bethany?” Asked Ben.

“Oh yeth, yeth pleathe Daddy, I am ready.” I couldn’t seem to speak like a normal person anymore. 

“I am not your fucking Daddy, you little twat.” Ben walked over from the stove, carefully holding a tablespoon full of some liquid. “Hold her open.”

Jarvis spread my pussy lips as wide as they would go, which was pretty wide after my session with the corncob. “Just a sec,” Jarvis said, reaching with his other thumb to ever-so-gently rub my clit, once again. In about eighteen agonizing seconds, he had me again on the absolute brink, teetering over the abyss, gasping and thrusting upwards. Ben held the spoon over my wide open hole. 

“Oh…kay…” said Jarvis. I thrust up at them, starting to uncontrollably squeal through clenched teeth. Jarvis squeezed my clit firmly between thumb and forefinger, sending me into spastic, breathless convulsions, and shouted “Now!”, and right at that very moment, as I toppled into blinding orgasm, Ben delicately emptied his tablespoon of boiling vegetable oil into my upturned vaginal opening.

Nothing touched my clit, or my outer labia, but my inner lips, along with my vaginal canal, my puffy little cervix, and right back past my cervix to the depths of my cunt, were instantly fried. I could feel the blisters forming, I could feel the viscosity spreading to every recess and charring every nerve, I could feel my screams catch in my spasming throat, and I could feel the orgasm reach my fingertips and nipples and make the hair stand up on my head. The pain was beyond measure, it was intense beyond anyone’s power to comprehend. But it did not quash the orgasm, it ignited it!

And oh, it was a terrible sensation!  This was hellfire! I was immersed in flame, in incomprehensible burning explosions of demonically sinful pleasure-pain! 

Suddenly every nerve in my body is erupting, my throat clenching, my screams bursting through my nose, spurts of vomit reaching my mouth and lips, diarrhea and piss soaking the chair I am propped up on. My whole brain goes cross-eyed as my chest heaves with choking, churning sobs. I can’t see, I have no idea where I am, or what I am: for minutes on end I am nothing, I am non-human, consumed by brutal, ecstatic sensation, so exquisite as to be unbearable, so excruciating as to be indistinguishable from orgasmic convulsion! 

Except that it is too much, too intense: as my nerve-endings frizzle out and my fingers and toes droop, I realize this was indeed a punishment. This was murderous punishment, and as Ben and Jarvis pack my cunt with ice, I realized that this was the kind of punishment, the level of severe punishment, that could only be appropriate for a girl like me, for a BAD GIRL who REALLY DESERVES IT. My whole vaginal cavity is aflame with continuous burning sensation, and my head spins with the implications of everything I have experienced, everything I have committed to, everything I have signed. There is truly no way out.

And yet, that very thought, that there is no way out of this, that from now on the deepest and most degrading of humiliations will define my place in the world, the most disturbing and agonizing physical sensations will define my experience of being alive, that this very reality, and the utter inescapability of it, ignites a strange itch within me, that grows as the two men stand me up, walk me over to the bathtub and flush out my vagina with cold water. I am no longer crying, and while the burning is still there, and still incredibly unpleasant, I strangely enjoy being manhandled by these two mean-spirited men. I feel a strange delight in knowing that they get off on torturing me, and that before long other men will have the same opportunity. And as the icy water shoots up my damaged pussy-pipe, splashing the blistery surfaces of my vaginal canal and cervix, my itch becomes more powerful, indeed welling up uncontrollably from within and becoming an intense, irrepressible craving. 

And when Jarvis sits me up in the bathtub so he can more easily reach my mouth with his cock, just so he can urinate into my mouth as if it were a toilet, expecting me to swallow every drop, I actually smile up at him, and at Ben, the same uncontrollable shit-eating grin spreading across my face that had been there when I signed the papers, signed my life away, committing permanently to this new, sub-human life of torture and degradation. There are actually three misogynists, three sadists in this room, I realize; I am just the one blessed with the female body. I too need a pair of titties and a pussy to punish mercilessly. My pleasure too is sadistic, and requires a victim. 

Sure, it will be difficult to sleep with my twat full of blisters, but I could not be more deserving. Oh yes, that is the final truth of it. And as I open my mouth, grinning like a toilet, to receive Ben’s pee pee as well as Jarvis’s, I realize that I am lucky to be in this position, lucky to be on the receiving end of all this, because I am the only one who can truly know the effect of our mercilessness, who can experience first hand the impact of our cruel and sadistic acts!

I choke on my final gulps of tart and salty man-pee as they pull me out of the bathtub and dress me in a silver miniskirt so short it barely covers my shaven, red vulva. You can see the scars from my whipping earlier, all over my ass, legs, and inner thighs, the most severe welts disappearing under my skirt. But the real damage, the blistering oil-burns, are hidden inside me, and although I am stumbling in an exhausted stupor and barely able to walk at all due to the pain between my legs, Ben and Jarvis somehow stretch a matching silver bikini top over my melon-sized breasts and throw me into the car, matching silver heels somehow buckled onto my feet. No panties. We are on our way to Tito’s bar!

The bar, full of rough men! Where people know me, or at least know me as “the bar slut”!

And although I am in so much pain between my legs I can barely breathe, somehow the thought of people seeing me like this makes me blush anew. And makes me want to be touched “down there”, even though I know it will hurt! 

part 4 of my long, not yet finished, story. this is all fiction, not to be confused with much of my autobiographical writing in here. also, the first chapter of this has the header "i've been working on another story" in case you're having trouble finding it. thank you for reading, and comments are greatly appreciated!

 Beth Likes It

(chapter 4) 

The man wore a suit and held a briefcase, which he set on the kitchen table and opened. The two men were talking… I could hear them but I couldn’t understand them. It was as if they were adults and I actually was a little girl, a toddler incapable of understanding adult conversation. The two men were talking seriously, looking at papers. And then they were looking up at me. Ben must have made a joke, because the two men suddenly began laughing. I smiled too, even though I knew they were laughing at me. Then Ben motioned me over.

I slowly toddled over to them where they were sitting at the kitchen table, trying to hold in my pee as best I could. I was obviously squirming a bit, dancing from one foot to the other. I thought I understood Ben to say, “let’s see how long she can hold it,” but I wasn’t sure, it was as though I was in a dream, all I really knew was that they were laughing at me again, and that the weirdness of the situation, the humiliation and the infantile reaction of having my feelings hurt, my face involuntarily pouting behind my pacifier, made me desperately want to grind my pussy against something. I could not contain my sexual need, I could not still it. And at the same time, despite my best efforts to clutch and clench the gateway closed, perhaps just the first thimbleful of pee began to leak out. 

And as I stood there grinding my diapered pelvis up at the two, formally dressed men, Ben interrupted his own derisive chuckling to say “Beth, this is my attorney, Stanley Jarvis. He is here to take care of our divorce settlement, and any other papers we may wish to write up.” He looked me squarely in the eye, as if he was talking to a fellow adult. But he wasn’t.” I looked down at the table, where Mr. Jarvis was shoving a stack of papers towards me, indicating where I was supposed to sign. Suddenly, the reality hit me like a bomb going off in my stomach, and I burst into tears. The pacifier flew out of my mouth and I clutched at it with both hands but I missed, and it bounced down on the table, getting ruby-red lipstick right on the legal papers I was supposed to sign! The men just stood there staring at me… I was sobbing, and blushing from head to toe: I must have been red as a beet. And my nipples were hard as twin diamonds.

It was insane: The two men stared at me as I sobbed through a shit-eating grin that I could also not suppress, because the embarrassment was causing me to grin uncontrollably, even as the word “divorce” made me sob hysterically. I wished I were dead, but at the same time I was overloaded with pleasure: the shame of it all, the extreme shameful dirtiness of what I was irreversibly becoming, triggered a demonic lust in me that I had no control over. I stood there grinding my depraved, diapered cunt up at the lawyer while he sneered at me, his utter derision triggering even deeper feelings of insane sexual need… And it was not exactly a need for fucking, I suddenly realized: it was a need for punishment! 

I could recognize, in that instant, that what I desperately wanted was not sex… but injury! My pussy craved more than friction, it craved destruction! My whole body was tingling with insane, self-directed wrathful neediness! My nipples, my anus, even the bottoms of my feet were tingling, as if they were being tickled by electricity! 

And right there, in front of the two men, I peed on myself. I had my diaper-covered vulva thrust forward towards the disgusted lawyer, as I had been grinding my pelvis towards him, but I stopped mid-grind and my pee came out, uncontrollably, soaking through my diaper. The two men watched as the yellow spot grew from the size of a dime to a silver dollar to the whole sopping gusset, and then trickled down my legs onto the floor. 

I stopped crying. As the men watched, I picked up the pacifier and put it back in my mouth. Then I picked up the pen and signed the papers.

“You just signed every dime you had over to me,” said Ben. I sobbed. “Even my inheritance?” I asked.

“Yes, dumbshit. Every penny.” A flood of fresh tears trickled down my cheeks and soaked my teddy bear t-shirt. But I couldn’t stop grinning, and I again started grinding my needy twat at the two fully dressed men. My panting was shallow, like a dog in heat. I thought about the dunce cap that lay waiting for me in the other room, how appropriate it was that I should wear something like that.

“I think we need to get you changed,” said Ben. The lawyer moved the papers - I was now no longer Ben’s wife - and Big Ben picked my relatively tiny body up off the floor and set me onto my back on the kitchen table. “We’ll have to wash this later.”

“See why she can’t be my wife?” Said Ben to the lawyer as they spread my legs and removed my diaper. “I get it,” said Mr. Jarvis. “She’s a whore, not a wife. And she’s a depraved one at that. There was a girl like this in my high school in Minnesota. We called her Anal Annie because everyone used to fuck her up the ass. Then she’d clean the shit off our dicks with her tongue, and say “yummy yum.” But really she’d do anything. One night we hung her out of her brother’s bedroom window, by her ankles, just for a lark. And we only let her up when she agreed to sit on a cactus. I mean sit down on it, with it going up into her skanky hoo ha. That was a big fat cactus, with scary little clusters of spines. And we made her do it. And she was shivering and quaking and burbling, with snot running down her face… but she was smiling too, like this girl. We pushed her all the way down onto it. It must have hurt like hell, tearing up the insides of her vagina. But then she looked up at all us guys, and her two brothers Marty and Brian, and she got the glassy look in her eyes… HA! Same as your girl! Same exact look, I’ll be damned… And she stared up at us, and she started fucking it! 

“No way” said Ben. 

“Yes she did!” Said the lawyer. “She started fucking it, right in front of us. Spines and all. And she was really grinding herself down on it, too… and she started moaning and groaning… she was having an orgasm, right there in front of us. Right there, fucking the cactus, blood everywhere. It was insane.” The lawyer looked right at me. “And she was in school the very next day, too. Nope, you really don’t have to be too gentle with these things,” and he gave my pussy a little swat. “Don’t have to be too gentle. No honey. We don’t need us to be too gentle with gals like you, do we, honey bunch?”

Ben looked at me and said “Do we?”

I really didn’t know what was happening to me. I was no longer Ben’s wife. I could not get my mind around that, and everything else was deeply confusing, I was too confused, I could not answer the question. So I said nothing. They laughed at me. Then I had a question for them: “What am I?”

They both burst out laughing. “You’re a whore, Beth!” The lawyer stuck two fingers up my piss-soaked twat, digging them up and pressing hard into my g-spot, which was literally about to burst with pent-up need. I moaned, deeply, in response. “You’re a fuck-pig” said my now ex-husband. Your a dirty, disgusting fuck-pig who loves to be raped!” He stepped up beside me and slapped me across the face, hard. “Now let me ask you something, Beth?” I looked up at him. “Does getting slapped in the face feel good?” I was shocked to admit it, even to myself, but the answer was yes. It felt totally appropriate, given my new social status as a sub-human fuck-pig whore, but it also felt physically good. It tingled in a deliciously sexy way. I felt very strange and queasy about that… the implications were dizzying… but it was true.

Ben slapped me again. “Doesn’t that feel good, Beth?” It was a hard blow to even realize this fact about myself, it was almost too much. But telling Ben, who didn’t love me anymore, at all, and was not bound to take care of me or anything by marital ties… This was all too much. But he slapped me again, harder, and on the other cheek, backhanded. “I just want to know Beth, how does it feel, physically? Does it feel good to you to be slapped?” Then he slapped me again, front handed, but REALLY HARD!

And it was a little hard on my jaw, but the stinging, flaming hot sensation on my left cheek felt incredibly good. It was breathtaking. I wanted more! 

“Yes, Daddy,” I managed to croak between gasps. “My face… really… likes it when you slap me. Especially when you slap me very hard,” I whispered. 

“AH HO HO HO!!” Laughed Mr. Jarvis, lurching back, nearly falling over with laughter. “SHE’S a ONE! She’s a one of them, one of the Whore Fuck-bags, one of the gals like ol’ Anal Annie! HA HA! You got a live one here, pard’ner!” Mr. Jarvis was beside himself with glee…

“Yeah, obviously, yes,” said Ben, not laughing. “Now maybe we should think about those other papers you were telling me about.”

Mr. Jarvis got a serious look on his face, and reopened his briefcase. “Yes, good idea. You are probably right about that. Let’s see.” He pulled out a sheaf of papers, setting them down on the table, right beside my leg. He was still standing between my spread legs, which were still wet with terrible smelling pee, not to mention my copious, pheromone-infused “natural lubricant”.

“Okay. Here we are. I would recommend you have her sign this. This makes her your ward. She will no longer have any legal power over her own decisions, she will be declared “Unfit by reason of mental deficiency,” which is pretty much the case, right? Basically, you both just have to sign this once, and then your little whore no longer has the right to make any decisions for herself, ever. She can’t enter into a contract, she can’t rent an apartment, she can’t get a driver’s license without your say-so. You’ll have to sign for any medical work she needs… and any medical work you want her to have, including plastic surgery, is up to you: you don’t need her consent for that. It’s a lot like the relationship between parent and child, except that since you were married up until now, it’s understood that you have a sexual relationship. In Beth’s case, you can think of her more like a “pet”, if you don’t prefer the word “Child”. I mean, I imagine she will be wearing a leash, at least sometimes… Am I right?! Jarvis chuckled.

“You bet she will” said Ben matter-of-factly.

“Hmm… But if I hurt her… I mean really hurt her… or if she gets damaged by others under my watch (or even while I am watching)…?”

“Oh, are you worried you might be charged with child abuse or some equivalent?” 

“Or animal cruelty,” said Ben, and they both sniggered.

“Right. Well, no. But we have to do that with a separate document, and we should actually do that part of it before she signs her rights away.” Ben nodded his head slowly. I was terrified by all of this, but it was turning me on so much I was hyperventilating. The thought of giving my life away, all my rights, so there was no turning back… OH MY GOD. I could not stop lifting my pussy off the table and humping the air, even though the thrusts were totally humiliating and unsatisfying. I was so on edge, so needful… I knew I would sign anything… I wanted to sign it, I wanted to put myself, permanently, in the hands of this man, this man whose only concern was whether he’d be held responsible if he damaged me, or if he willingly allowed others to damage me… Finally I burst out with a question… it actually came out like an embarrassed little squeak, but I asked “Can I please touch myself?”

“HAHAHA HA HA HA HA HO HO HO oh my god of course you would ask that, you ridiculous peice of filth!!!!” Jarvis was doubled over laughing. Ben just said “no you may not,” but Jarvis actually corrected him and said, “Well, just a minute. As it so happens, there is a good reason why it might be appropriate for her to touch herself in a couple of minutes. Ben, do you have a camcorder, or some sort of video recorder?”

“I have my phone,” said Ben.

“Oh right, of course… maybe we should move her over to the couch.”

“But you haven’t changed me yet,” I whined.

“That’s okay. Bring a towel.”

I grabbed a kitchen towel and they sat me down on the couch, on the towel. They wanted me to read the document out loud, on camera. They wanted me to keep my legs spread while I read the document. I was allowed to play with myself, but I had to wait to cum until they said so. They held the words up for me, which were printed large so I could see from a few feet away, but I had to wear my glasses. It felt so good to play with myself, but I wanted something to put inside me, so Ben grabbed a cob of corn from the fridge. What I really wanted was for someone to hurt me, but still, this was a very interesting situation, and as I read the document to the camera and realized all the implications, I got extremely excited and started bouncing up and down on the corn cob, over the towel of course so as not to mess up Ben’s beautiful couch.

The Document read as follows:

“I am Bethany Jane Cranston, former wife of Benjamin Bradley. I live with my former husband in his home at 327 Alvarez Way, San Carlos, CA 95807. Although I am no longer Ben’s wife, we are still sexual partners, and I am making this statement, and signing this document, for the purpose of making it clear to anyone who may at any point be concerned, that I am a consenting partner in all sexual and sex-adjacent acts that I may engage in with Ben, or engage in with others at Ben’s instruction. 

The two of us have a consensual Dominant/submissive relationship when it comes to sex, and I like to play the submissive role. At times, Ben may appear to be bossing me around or forcing me to do things that I am unwilling or reluctant to do, but I am just play-acting, my reluctance or unwillingness is feigned, and in truth I am very excited and eager to participate in any and all of the sexual and sexually adjacent activities Ben prescribes for me. I am happily committed to following Ben’s instructions to the letter.”

As I read the document to the camera, and thought about what the existence of such a document might mean to me, and to the way my life was likely to go from this point forward, I could not restrain myself but to lean back enough to get a good angle to shove that fat corn cob well up into my swollen, dripping red cunt-hole and give it a thorough pounding. The camera caught me shoving the cob deeply, in and out, in and out, fiercely and rigorously as I stumbled my way through the document.

“I further want it to be understood that Ben likes to cause me physical discomfort, as well as pain. I know that it is unusual, but I find the experience of pain and physical torture, in a sexual context, to be extremely exciting, and I should also be considered a willing and enthusiastic participant in any sort of physical punishments or tortures Ben inflicts upon me, or any sort of uncomfortable, or even agonizing situations Ben forces me to endure. So far as I am concerned, it is even better if I am tied up or otherwise bound during my torture sessions, and it is best of all if the pain is so intense that I cannot help but scream and cry and beg for the punishment to stop. Such begging should be taken to mean just the opposite of what I am actually saying: for instance, if I beg for my torturer to stop whipping me, it should be understood that what I really want is for my torturer to whip me much harder, or in a more sensitive place. If I beg for my torturer to stop burning me with candle wax, I am certainly hoping that I will be burned directly with the candle flames instead.”

Lawyer Jarvis held up a new page for me to read to the camera, and I took a moment to glance down at the next words I was expected to say, words that would erase forever any claim I might make that what Ben decided to do to me was non-consensual. I felt very dizzy, deep within. I felt an empty space inside my head where a cautious, intelligent, self-preservational brain should be. I was hyperventilating just enough to keep me dizzy and vacant, and I could not stop, and I could not turn back from this precarious ledge: instead I dove right into the abyss.

“In fact, this document which I am about to sign, and this video which I am having our lawyer make to reinforce and prove my enthusiastic willingness to enter into this arrangement with my ex husband, should now and forever be considered the last word in the matter. I am hereby relinquishing any future right to modify this arrangement in any way, ever, and anything I say or write to the contrary at any future date should be considered play-acting on my part, and count for absolutely nothing, legally. In fact, If I do not continuously cry, beg, rage and plead for Ben and/or his authorized proxies to stop torturing and humiliating me, then they are probably not punishing me with the level of severity that I both need and truly desire, and they should certainly be encouraged to ramp up the viciousness of their treatment of me.”

I was forcing the end of the corncob as deep as it would go, and pounding my cervix with every fierce thrust as I grunted each line of the contract around my irrepressible little squeals. I was about to cum, but there was one more paragraph, and as I glanced down at it a wave of terror swept through me, making me sweat from every pore. But somehow, this only amplified my lust-fueled, masochistic frenzy, and even as a strange, electric, and weirdly painful orgasm began to make me shudder deeply,  I was still able to croak the words clearly enough that they would be understandable in the video:

“To be clear, it is my deepest wish that Ben, along with anyone he authorizes at any time, feel absolutely free to do anything at all to me that they choose. This would of course include bodily injury, both accidental and purposeful, and I will be disappointed if some of Ben and his cohorts’ tortures and punishments do not occasionally put me in the hospital. Furthermore, if Ben (or proxy) chooses to inject me with drugs to modify my behaviors and/or increase the intensity of my experiences, I should be considered a willing subject for such experiments. And if Ben, or anyone acting upon his permission, wishes to modify my body in any way medically possible, either through the various standard enhancements available through plastic surgery or by any other means, either medically approved, experimental, or DIY, it should be understood that despite any objections I may articulate at any future date, that I should nevertheless be considered an enthusiastic participant, a willing victim, and that this document should be considered the final word on the matter, as it should be for anything and everything Ben ever wants or needs to put me through. Forever.” 

My brain was exploding, and I began openly sobbing as I read these words, but now I was fucking my gushing twat up towards the thick, buttery corn-cob, as I slammed it repeatedly into myself, trying to jam it up into the swollen doughnut of my cervix. I didn’t know what to make of any of it, but I could absolutely not stop myself.

“And if Ben should someday grow tired of me and chose to transfer possession of my disgusting and needy female body to anyone, or to any group of individuals he may deem sadistic enough to make proper use of me, or to simply sell me randomly to the highest bidder, I hereby declare that I will happily abide by Ben’s wishes, and thenceforth regard my new Dominant partner or partners as permanent, authorized stand-ins for Ben. And I will therefore, with my full and enthusiastic consent, and despite anything I may say or write to the contrary, comply wholly with everything and anything my new Dominants wish to do to me or demand of me. Forever, or until this arrangement is once again transferred to another party or group, or until the day that I die.”

The phone-camera continued pointing at me, and I looked directly into it as the slow, shuddering orgasm begin to take over my abdomen, as if the low smoldering was finally bursting into flame. With no words left to try and utter, I began to emit a quavering moan, which rose into a series of grunts which sounded like a pig being roasted alive. And the grunts became sobs, and the sobs became screams which echoed off the walls, but still I did not break my gaze into the eye of the camera. I was shoving that cob of corn into my poor twat as hard and as fast as I could, pounding the pointy edge of it into the swollen doughnut-hole of my cervix as my whole body quaked and spasmed around it. And as I masturbated violently in front of these two disgusted, angry, and wickedly delighted men, my head exploded with a million horrible and detailed images of what my new life would become. And I realized that this strange series of events, along with my desperately needy cunt and my clearly psychologically sick, insane responsiveness to sexual abuse, had led me into a trap. And I would never be able to escape from this trap. I was doomed. And as this realization hit me, that I had somehow stumbled or been lured into this irreversible, inescapable situation, and that I was to be permanently stripped of all humanity and turned into some craven cartoon-version of the worst elements of mens’ sickest and most misogynistic sexual fantasies, and that my own craven responsiveness to it, my undeniable physical responsiveness to it, was to be documented and made public for all to see, struck me with a profound clarity that took my breath away. And for a moment, I actually stopped breathing, but I never took my eyes away from the camera lens on the back of Ben’s phone. I could see all the men who would witness me, witness my willing commitment to utter subjugation and debasement, witness my enthusiastic embrace of limitless physical torture. I could see them seeing me. And in my breathless moment of clarity, I realized that it was indeed the real me they were seeing. It was the “me” that I had been forced to suppress all my life, and that my own self-hatred was more than a little distraction that I had picked up along the way, it was my true nature. I hated myself, I hated myself with a fury and wrath that knew no bounds, and that my insane masochism was actually a gleeful sadism, the perfect satisfaction of which could only be realized by directing this pulverizing, rapacious fire towards myself, to make of my own female body the ultimate, dehumanized victim. I smiled at the camera as my orgasm bloomed from within, my whole body shivering as if I were freezing cold. And as I fucked myself mercilessly with the cob of corn, I wished it were a cactus. 

same... this is the longer story i've been working on, and it's pure fiction. i really, really appreciate the support i've been getting for this stuff! i get very worked up while writing this, and i edge and stuff, even in public (at the cafe) but very subtly...

 Beth Likes It

(chapter 3) 

They were all whore’s clothes: miniskirts, garter belts, fishnet stockings, push-up brassieres and the rest, but they were excruciatingly tacky. They were combined with little girl’s clothes somehow, and each outfit was truly cringe-worthy. He made me try them on, one at a time, and parade around for him.

A teddy bear t-shirt way too small to stuff my breasts into, paired with a yellow stretch skirt that didn’t cover my big ass, worn with Mary Jane’s and socks with little hearts sewn into them, panties with the phrase “Daddy’s li’l girl” printed across my swollen pookie. 

Ultra-tight lycra shorts that gave me ridiculous camel-toe and had the words “Spank-a-Holic” printed in fire-engine red across my behind.

A tube top with an iron-on print of hands groping my breasts. Another with the word “Slut” in bold letters across my titties. Another with little holes for my nipples to poke through.

There were schoolgirl uniforms, a “Dunce” cap, bunny ears and tail, a pair of plastic lips that I held in my mouth to make me look like a blow-up sex doll ready to be mouth-fucked.

There were hand-cuffs and shackles, a striped prisoners’ uniform, bikini tops and bottoms that were too skimpy and too tight to fit without creasing my breasts or digging way up into my crack, front and back. 

Even the colors were ridiculous: hot pinks, nasty yellows, shiny blacks and ruby reds. 

Most outfits showed more of me than was appropriate or even legal. If my “little girl” panties weren’t showing, my bare bottom was. If my nipples weren’t peeking through, there were targets printed on my breasts. If my legs weren’t bare from ankle to kooch, they were covered in fetish stockings or leather straps, or shackled with a clanking metal chain.

I knew Ben was going to take me out dressed in these clothes, because I now had no others. I knew I was going to look insane, like the disturbing male sex fantasy of some perverted loner… Or were these fantasies more common than I thought? Would men be sickened by these suggestive costumes, implying underage girls, captive sex-slaves, bimbo whores and degraded, filthy prostitutes… or would they be aroused by them? Would they take one look at me and stiffen in their jeans, unable to contain the rabid, unbridled lusts that my disturbing get-up provoked in them?

Would they understand that these were costumes? Or would they believe that before them stood a leashed and collared sex-slave, or a Catholic schoolgirl who’s skirt was so short she could not hide the fact that she’d lost her panties? Or a hooker so retarded she couldn’t color-coordinate her slut-wear? Or a crazy lady, high on some terrible hormonal imbalance, looking desperately to be abused, molested, and raped?

Because that is what I was going to look like in these clothes when Ben decided to parade me around in public. Would we go back to Tito’s bar? Would he parade me down Main Street in broad daylight? And as this terrible thought dawned on me, the realization struck, like a punch in the gut, that this was now going to be who I am, publicly, from now until eternity. There would be no escape. There would be no living this down. And the thought that this is what Ben wanted for me, this is how much he hates me, and that this is ALL he wants for me, my utter wreckage and sexual dehumanization, began to ring in my head like a fire alarm. I was in danger! But deep inside, I wanted to be burned alive by this fire… deep inside, I hated me, too. If I could not be the object of Ben’s love, I would instead become the object of his lust-infused rage.

I could feel his disgusted, condescending gaze on me as he made me put on a pair of diapers. Next, a pink child-size t-shirt that did not reach my belly-button. It stretched obscenely to accommodate my oversized breasts. This followed by a pair of shiny pink Crocs. 

My fresh whip-marks were plainly visible, red stripes down the backs of my thighs, the fiercer, redder lashes disappearing beneath the folds of my diaper. An obscene, adult-sized pacifier was the coupe-de-gras, it’s dangling baby-blue handle protruding from my mouth, smeared with just enough cherry-red lipstick to suggest blood.

He had me put my blonde hair in pig-tails, and the slightly out-of-proportion plumpness of my “booty” and breasts, embarrassing in the best of settings, made me look utterly indecent in this horrifying, sexualized baby costume.

Was he going to make me go out in this? The thought sent shudders down my spine, and yet, although I wanted to crawl into a hole and die, I also knew I would silently, voicelessly submit to it. As I would to all my costumes, to any humiliating situations Ben forced me into. I would not be able to resist his calm command, even knowing that I could never win his approval, that everything I did to please and obey him just made him think the worse of me, just convinced him more certainly that I was creepy beyond measure, sick beyond repair, and not worth saving.

Especially as he knew, just from looking at me, that I enjoyed this. I could feel his stare as my blush descended from my cheeks to my neck to my breasts, and my nipples hardened like miniature corks about to pop out of their obscene Champaign bottles, cutting holes in the fabric of my little-girls’ stretchy t-shirt. He could just as well sense how I was leaking like a spigot down below: good thing I was wearing diapers! And even as this very thought popped into my head, I could hear Ben chuckle. He had had the same thought at the same time! He could read my mind, I believed for one second.

But no: more accurately, we were linked. Locked together in a psychic battle, with me forever loosing to his mastery, ever yielding to him, offering everything, my body, my sexuality, my dignity, my sanity, my physical well-being, my free agency, my very status as a human being. I had become an animal for him, and it wasn’t enough: it would never be enough, he would always want more ravishment from me, a deeper raping, a further level of despoilment. And I would always yield it to him, and what is more I’d demonstrate, for him and others, the putrid evidence of my needy, perverse responsiveness. I’d show him openly, along with any others he might care to show, my own orgasmic thrill in the act of being ravished and destroyed!

And right at that moment, I realized I desperately had to pee. I could not contain it; I was about to burst. Again, it was a good thing I was wearing diapers.

But then, to my utter surprise and horror, the doorbell rang, and Ben, ever so casually, got up to answer it. I was standing in the living room in my whore-diapers, teetering on the brink of orgasm but truly on the edge of wetting myself, and suddenly there was a man at the door, and Ben was letting him in! 

this is the longish story i've been working on. i posted the first part of this earlier in this blog, under the heading "i've been working on another story". that was chapter one, this is chapter two. this is all pure fiction! unlike some of my best stuff, none of this has anything to do with my real life... but i'm a wanna be writer, so... i hope you guys like it❤️

 Beth Likes It

(chapter 2) 

When I awoke, it was early in the morning, but Ben was already up, and he had a fire burning in the fireplace downstairs. “Get your clothes out of the closet,” he said. “And get ‘em out of the drawers too. Get everything.”

I was still in my lingerie nighty, which was torn from the rough fucking and whipping he had given me last night, so I just decided not to change, and just to do what he told me to do. So I ran back upstairs and grabbed everything I owned off the hangars in the closet. There were a lot of clothes, and I just threw them on the bed, and I was able to carry about half of them downstairs in one load. I could see what Ben was doing, he was preparing the fireplace to burn my clothes. But I at least expected him to go through them first!

Instead, Ben just looked at me and said “Well, put ‘em in there. Throw ‘em in the fire. All of ‘em. Do it!” He stood there pointing with his little black shovel. I could barely believe it. 

“Um… Are you sure?” I asked him. Ben made pretty good money as a heating and ventilation specialist, but it wasn’t going to be easy to replace my entire wardrobe. 

“Start with those” he said, and pointed at my most expensive jackets. I started to cry.

“Do it,” said Ben, and I bent over to pick up my nicest, fur-lined coat. It was mostly soft, brushed leather on the outside, and I think we had spent close to four hundred dollars on it last Christmas. He stared at me as I picked it up, crying softly, and put it in the fire. 

“Now that one,” he said, pointing at my favorite long green silk dress. I did not have occasion to wear it regularly, as it was too fancy to wear even to an upscale restaurant… It was basically only for special occasions. But I knew I looked great in it, and I knew he liked me in it. But as I picked it up, I cast a glance back at him and I could see a strange and sadistic grin on his face, and his eyes were intense and glowing, drilling holes in me as I moved. All I had on was a ripped, translucent frilly teddy, originally from Victoria’s Secret, but it was no longer new since I wore it almost every night to bed, and especially since last night when he ripped it as he fucked and whipped my poor tender bottom from behind. 

“Ben…?” I looked at him pleadingly, hoping he would relent. “Can we talk about this?”

“Beth. You stupid, nasty slut. Do you think everything is just going to be the same? Is that what you think?”

“I know. I know. I’m sorry, Ben.” I started to cry openly as I continued to throw one item after another into the flames.

“The thing is, what are you, Beth? What are you? Are you my wife?”

I wanted to say “Yes”, or “I want to be”, or “I hope so”, but none of those answers seemed right. They seemed dishonest, and although I desperately wanted some sort of answer like that to be true, for there to be some way, or something I could say, some right answer that could make things go back to normal, I just couldn’t think of anything. Nothing that was at all true, even to me. I couldn’t even look at him, and I couldn’t seem to swallow the huge lump in my throat.

“You can’t be my wife anymore, Beth. You know that, right?”

“Yes,” I sobbed. “I know.”

“I cannot have a whore for a wife.”

“I know. I am too… too…” I broke off, unable to say it.

“You are too disgusting, Beth. You are too depraved.”

He was so right, it felt like a punch in the stomach. 

And I wanted to be punched in the stomach, all of a sudden. I wanted to be hurt. I picked up three more dresses from the floor where I had dumped them, three of my favorites, and I threw all three of them into the fire at once. Then I turned towards him, and lifted the front of my nighty.

“You are right, Ben.” My pussy was wet as a mop, red and drooling “See?” 

I thrust it out for him. I wanted him to know how this whole situation really made me feel. I couldn’t find the words, but I wanted him to know. My clitoris was peeking through the folds at the top of my vulva, all swollen red, glistening with moisture. He stared at me as I gyrated, grinding my pelvis up at him uncontrollably. I was smiling through my tears. “See Daddy?”

He stared at me for a long time. Then he asked, “Do you like being raped?”

My face instantly flamed hot with insane shame. I felt like I was sinking into a hole. But also, I was tingling all over, my skin felt like it was aflame with need. “Yes,” I said. “I like it.” I could hear the sound of the words coming out of my mouth, and they sounded a little funny. They felt true, absolutely true, and that was important to me, that was the most important thing. I could not stand to lie to Ben. But the way I was talking was a bit funny. I realized I was lisping just a little bit, and my voice was just a little more breathy and high-pitched than usual. It struck me suddenly that I sounded like a little girl. “Yes sir,” I said, unable to look at him. “Yes sir, I very much like it. My little pussy… likes… (I I started panting)… to be raped.”

“Go get the rest of your clothes,” said Ben. And I found myself bounding up the stairs giddily, and emptying my drawers in a heap onto the floor, throwing myself onto the pile and grabbing an enormous load, too many to carry, but trying anyway, bounding down the stairs with them, dropping underwear and socks along the way. I ran up to Ben and said “Is this good?” And when he nodded I wheeled around and heaved a tremendous armful into the fire. My pussy was throbbing, and I was filled with embarrassing glee. I had to pee, but I felt like I didn’t have time, and as I bounded back up the stairs I worried a little about what would happen if I peed on myself right in front of Ben. Then I had a strange thought: what if my needing to be fucked so hard, to be raped so hard, to be punished so hard, what if all this was really just a need to go to the bathroom? It was a crazy thought, and followed by another one: did I want to go pee in front of the guys at the bar? My mind was racing: did I want to be punched in the bladder, so that my pee would squirt out everywhere? Did I want to be punched in the pussy? Would I cum from being punched there? What if Ben could get his whole huge fist up into my pussy, and punch me inside? Would I be damaged? Would I cum? Would I have a squirting orgasm? 

I thought I would, maybe. I had squirted only once, ever, but I knew that if Ben fist-fucked me roughly, if he held me down and punch-fucked me with his huge balled-up fist, that I would squirt again. The thought made me very excited, overwhelmingly so. I couldn’t think straight.

I was back downstairs, and throwing all my bras and panties into the fire. I could feel Ben’s disgusted eyes on my ass as I excitedly destroyed my entire wardrobe. I ran back upstairs to grab the last of my clothes, and a thought struck me like a lightening bolt: I should burn my nighty too! I should burn everything for him. I should have nothing left to wear!

And that’s what I did. I threw in my shoes, every pair, along with the last few items, my last fuzzy sweater, my last pair of panties. I ran up to the mouth of the fire and peered into it. It was like the pit of hell, and I was excited by it, I briefly thought of jumping into it along with my last garments. I turned towards Ben and slithered out of my nighty, and wiggled my hips like a stripper as I tossed it into the flames. Then the strangest words came out of my mouth. I looked at Ben’s knees ( I still could not meet his eyes), and once again, in my strange new little girl’s voice, I said “Thank you Daddy.”

Then I suddenly felt so small, and so ashamed I could barely breathe. I could feel Ben stare at me in utter disgust. 

“I am not your ‘Daddy,’ you perverted little twat.” His words were like a punch in the face. I didn’t know what to do, how to escape this horrible shame. It was too much for me. I started to cry and hyperventilate at the same time, and I choked and couldn’t stop coughing. I fell on the floor, and I suddenly realized I needed to pee so bad that I probably would be unable to make it to the bathroom, I was probably about to have an accident, right in front of Ben.

“I really have to pee!” I yelped, groaning and clutching my crotch with both hands as I squirmed, naked, in front of the fireplace. 

“You are sick” said Ben. I watched him as he stood up, removing his leather belt from the loops of his jeans. He walked over to me, towering above me. I watched him lift his arm above his head, holding the belt so it dangled behind him. I was in a fetal position with my hands between my legs. A disjointed thought flashed through my mind, a realization that I now did not own any clothes. What kind a woman does not own any clothes? Then the belt came down. 

Ben didn’t care where it landed. He was repulsed by me, he was angry, he wanted to hurt me, and he did not hold back.

But to me, the lashes felt like kisses from God. I don’t know how else to explain it. They felt cleansing. They felt horribly painful, but also deeply satisfying, like scratching an insane itch. And the strokes that bit especially deep were like orgasms in and of themselves. Yes, I am sure I orgasmed, repeatedly, from the whipping. At a certain point I had peed all over myself, I was rolling around in it, and I remember splaying my thighs for the whip, thrusting up for it, and as Ben slashed my wide-open vulva with stroke after vicious downstroke, I believe he tore right into the flesh of my inner lips. I believe something blistered and split, layers of skin were torn and shredded, and that somehow the injurious depth of those insane, angry strikes threw me into a state of orgasmic overload so intense that I eventually went into convulsions, and he had to stop for fear of causing a seizure.

But when Ben realized that I had not bitten my tongue off, and that my heart was still beating and I was still breathing, he left me in my own pool of piss and blood. And when he came home, he had picked out a whole new wardrobe for me. 

okay guys, i am going to admit up front that this is a somewhat fictionalized account of what happened to me friday afternoon, even though it is basically true with only slight embellishments. what happened is true, but the way it happened is compacted here, with some scenes dropped and others combined to keep it from being way too long. sorry if i am being too selective, but i recently heard that truman capote said “never let the truth get in the way of a good story” and from a writer’s point of view that makes perfect sense. and i am trying to be a better writer.

Back to Work

(Part 2)

on the top floor the carpet was different and the trim on the doors and stuff was polished wood and it looked expensive. the halls were wider too. i walked to the left, turned a corner, and as per instruction let myself into a large conference room with a polished wooden table in the middle. there were six men sitting around the table, and when i entered they all looked up at me and stopped talking.

i stood there in my whore outfit and blushed… then i recognized one of the men. it was mickey, the guy who sits directly across from me on the opposite side of the partition, next to kung foo panda. he is also the guy who takes me into the men’t bathroom. he is also a sadist, and he knee’d me between my legs as hard as he could, again and again… that was a very special experience for me. and yesterday he and some of his friends tied me to a toilet and peed all over me, then one guy after another fucked me for a long time, and they all peed on me, even in my mouth. i had to take the bus home absolutely saturated with piss (i was pretty sure i’d have been kicked off bart).

there was mickey, sitting directly to the left of the big boss. I knew who the big boss was, because he was wearing an italian suit and he was older than everyone else, and he was smoking cigarettes inside! mickey bore a striking resemblance to him… they both had distinctly sunken chins, with little dimples in the middle.

everyone was sitting, so i took one step towards a chair and pulled it out from the table to take a seat.

“no jan.” said a tall lanky guy with glasses and curly hair. “you may not sit on these chairs.” i glanced down and noticed that the seats were brushed suede, and I realized that the men could all smell my pussy. they didn’t want me to leak pussy juice all over their office furniture. i couldn’t blame them, but if i was already blushing i’m sure i turned two shades darker red. i didn’t do or say anything.

the big boss, with his gray hair and fancy brown cigarettes, took a look at a sheet of paper before him, adjusting his glasses. “january josephine cunis” he said slowly and looked up at me. “but people call you jj for short… is that right?”

“yes sir,” i squeaked.

“january, i know not everyone would, but i have to agree with my son here: i think you are quite pretty.” i felt embarrassed, but also a little excited that he thought so. “in fact, i can see why mickey and his friends like to take you into the men’s toilets and fuck your ass.”

somebody dropped his coffee cup and made a loud clacking on the table, and there was a bit of other shuffling around for a second, but things quieted right down when the boss cleared his throat. “do you like being ass-fucked, january?”

i stumbled verbally, and choked a little bit.

“it’s a simple question, ms. cunis. answer it. i want to know if you enjoy being ass-fucked by my son here, and by his friends…?”

my embarrassment started to turn into a deeper form of humiliation, and i could feel my pussy start to respond. “yes sir. yes i like it.”

“there now, was that so hard, jan?”

“no sir.”

“and tell me, do you like being tied to a toilet and peed on?”

i began to feel dizzy, and i could barely speak out loud, but this man had a kind of authority about him that everyone respected, and he was asking me a direct question. i didn’t know how to lie to him. i felt so naked and so vulnerable, and everyone was staring at me, and i had to say something. “yes sir,” i said. i like being tied to a toilet and peed on.”

Iiwas as red as a beet now. and of course i was fully lubricating, and you could probably have used my nipples to cut glass, but i held myself upright and did not shy away from the boss. i didn’t know why i thought this was possible, but i wanted him to like me.

“jan, aside from your comumbulating in the men’t toilets, you also are in the habit of looking at pornography at you desk. is that not true?

“yes sir” I had to admit.

“and you realize this is specifically against the rules?”

“yes sir, i do. i can’t help it…”

jan, it’s not just that you browse porno at you desktop and rub off to it, it’s also the kind of porno you have been looking at.” his voice got very quiet, and he stared right at me. “eric!” the boss snapped his finger and eric, the lanky curly haired guy with glasses, jumped to attention. “do you have the remote?”

eric responded a little too quickly, but when he spoke it was in a casual tone of voice. eric knew it was not him that was in trouble. “i have it right here, sir.”

“cue up the pictures.” 

eric pressed a button on the remote and a screen automatically lowered behind mickey and the big boss. they moved over to make way for it, and the other men scrambled to make room for them. in a moment everyone was situated in front of the screen.

“ms. cunis, eric and josh seem to have come across some extraordinary pictures on line. are you familiar with this picture?”

eric clicked a button and a full size version of this picture appeared on the screen:

https://www.imagefap.com/photo/1828833102/?pgid=&gid=12039168&page=0

“do you recognize this drawing, ms. cunis?”

this was a nightmare. but of course my telltale pussy began throbbing beneath my tiny red skirt.  “yes sir,” i had to admit.

“in what context do you recognize it, ms. cunis?”

i choked, unable to answer the question for the overpowering shame of it.

“tell us, january. i am an impatient man.”

“sorry sir. i r... recognize the drawing because i found it on line… and i downloaded it… and i decided to include it in one of my imagefap galleries.”

“and you did this so that you cold look at it again later?”

“yes sir.”

“and so that other people could look at it?”

“yes sir. so the other people could look at it too.”

“were you hoping the people who looked at it would masturbate while they looked?”

“yessss sir. i did. i was hoping men would masturbate while they looked at the drawings in my collection.”

“Do you masturbate while you look at these drawings?”

“yesssss. yessss i do. i masturbate while looking at these….”

“get up on the table, jan.”

i was terrified, but i climbed up on the table just like the big boss told me to do. 

“just kneel, jan. kneel and face the screen, so you can view the photos too. that’s perfect, almost. just spread your legs a little. that’s right, you’re absolutely perfect, january josephine cunis.”

i could feel my pussy cream starting to drip onto the surface of the table. i wanted to grind my pelvis into the flat surface, but i wasn’t limber enough to do that.

“do you recognize this drawing, jan?” eric clicked the remote, and the image disappeared and was replaced by this:

https://www.imagefap.com/photo/1828833102/?pgid=&gid=12039168&page=0#1

the room was silent. the men took a moment to take in the picture on the screen, and then one by one they began turning their eyes towards me, a disturbing, hungry gleam beginning to appear on their faces.

“this is your rub picture, isn’t it jan?”

“yessss… oooh it is. yes it is, it’s my rub picture.”

“would you like to rub yourself now, january josephine? are you yearning to touch your dripping wet pussy?”

oooh yessss sirrrr. oooh yes I am.”

“go ahead, jan. no one is stopping you.”

so i reached up and underneath my skirt, and began pushing my fingers into my vagina. i could fit two in easily while using my thumb to pinch my clit. i could smell myself, and of course so could all the men. i began to grind my pussy into my hand.

“next, eric,” said the big boss. and eric clicked his clicker, advancing the series to the next pic:

https://www.imagefap.com/photo/1828833102/?pgid=&gid=12039168&page=0#2

“do you want to be whipped like this, jan? whipped so brutally on your breasts…?”

“yesssss. oooh yessss, i do. i.. i want to be whipped on my breasts…” i was hyperventilating, and panting, and shoving my fingers in and out quickly and with force while the men looked up at the screen and then back at me.

“next.” eric knew what to do. i knew what was coming, and i couldn’t wait:

https://www.imagefap.com/photo/1828833102/?pgid=&gid=12039168&page=0#3

i could hear the men in the room starting to pant and squirm in their seats. i loved this particular picture, the way the whip bites into the fatty meet of her helpless ass, squishing it into little ridges of ass-fat, like rolling hills. i have ass-fat too, and i could almost feel the bite of that whip on my own ass. i let out a moan and started to rub my clit between both syrupy fingers, just using my thumb to dig into the nub and squeeze.

“you like to masturbate while you look at pictures like this, don’t you jan?”

“yes i do. oooh god, oh god yes, yes i do.”

“how about this one?” eric took his cue and advanced to the next picture:

https://www.imagefap.com/photo/1828833102/?pgid=&gid=12039168&page=0#3

i let out a little yelp when i saw it. this one was my personal favorite, at least of the whipping drawings. i dug my fingers back into myself, sinking them to the knuckle.

“you really like this one, don’t you jan.”

“ooooh yessss. ooooh yes, yes sir. i really like it… god help me!”

“how about this?” eric clicked:

https://www.imagefap.com/photo/1828833102/?pgid=&gid=12039168&page=0#5

i was starting to cum. i was right on the edge of the precipice…

“JAN! STOP!!” shouted the boss. “take your hand out from beneath your skirt and put it behind your back.” 

surprised and shocked, i reflexively followed his directions. i put both of my hands behind my back, and crossed them as if someone were about to tie them together.

but instead of bondage, someone switched the lights on and the guys helped me down from the table.

i’m sorry jan, i don’t think you are the right kind of girl for this job.  But it would be a shame to fire you, wouldn’t it, jan?

i was not able to follow this turn of the conversation. i was still out of breath, still yearning for orgasm, still hyperventilating. 

everyone looked at me. i was unsteady on my feet. both of my hands were dripping wet with my secretions, and i didn’t have anywhere to wipe them. the lights were bright, and everyone looked exactly like they did before my little show, except me. 

“earth to jan? can you hear me, jan?” i looked up and nodded, trying to pull things back together.

“jan, you are not going to be able to work in the main office anymore. i don’t want you to distract the other workers… at least not while they are trying to work.”

“am i fired?” i asked, looking up at this man, this boss man with his fancy brown cigarettes which he was apparently allowed to smoke in the board room. he was old, but i realized i was immensely attracted to him, i couldn’t help it. i wanted him to fuck me and whip me at the same time.  god i was still so excited but i needed to calm myself down, at least enough to understand what was going on… what was he talking about?

“you don’t want to be fired, do you, jan?”

no sir! please don’t fire me, sir!” i looked up at him and started to cry.

“jan jan jan. i can’t have you working in the room with all the normal people. you are not a normal person, are you, jan?”

“no sir” i answered instinctively. 

“no you are not normal. far from it. i don’t think you could be normal if you took lessons!” everyone chuckled at this, but then shut up when the boss cleared his throat. “jan, you need an appropriate job. and i’d like it if you could keep working here, on the premises… i think many of my employees might like having you around.” he turned towards mickey. “you like having jj around, don’t you son?”

“yep” said mickey simply. young as he was, there was an air of authority around mickey, too.

“and you guys might like having a girl like jan thrown into the mix, wouldn’t you?” he looked around, and everyone murmured their agreement. “a girl like this might lighten the mood occasionally, don’t you think?” 

eric responded, “oh yeah, I do think she’d lighten the mood.”

“there you go. so you see, jan stays. but not in her present job. that’s where you come in!” and he pointed at a middle aged fat guy with thick black eyebrows and a combover. “jan, meet your new boss. jan, this is charlie… he works for the owner of this building. charlie handles maintenance and janitorial services for the entire place. you will be working for him.”

charlie smiled, and i was happy i was not going to lose my job, but i was confused.

“what kind of job would be right for a girl like you?” pondered the big boss. “hmm…” he shook his head for a moment. “oh, i know!” he said, as if a light bulb had just sparked for him.  “jan, you like toilets, don’t you? especially men’s toilets?”

i didn’t know what to say…i was suddenly getting an uneasy feeling about this, but at the same time my pussy started lubing up again.

“jan… you really like toilets, don’t you?” i couldn’t think of anything more embarrassing to have to admit, but somehow i was responding very sexually to this line of inquiry, and as my face started to redden, my naughty little pussy started to drip again. “don’t you like toilets?”

“yes sir,” i admitted sheepishly.

“especially men’t toilets?”

“oh yes. men’t toilets. i like men’t toilets,” i said, beginning to blush in earnest now. this was a humiliation of another flavor, but i liked it as well.

“wonderful. it’s settled then. charlie, i want you to hire jan here as a sort of a janitor… or, i guess they call them sanitary engineers nowadays, or something like that. anyway, i think jan is going to specialize: she is going to be your men’s bathroom specialist. she will be cleaning every toilet on each and every floor our company inhabits in this building, charlie. from the main bathroom on the office floor, to the engineers hub with their — ugh — unusually disgusting bathroom, to the nice little private toilets up here on the executive suite. jan will clean them all, daily!”

“doesn’t that sound perfect for you, jan?”

i couldn’t speak. i had never felt so low, so subhuman… and right in front of a group of intelligent, important men! i could feel my stomach sink to the floor, and suddenly i realized i desperately had to go to the bathroom myself! i started to sweat.

“don’t worry jan, we’ve already had the lawyers prepare papers for you. just a few nondisclosure agreements, a few waivers, and a bulletproof binding contract, renewable at our discretion (not yours). since you’ll be working for charlie and not the company, we won’t have to bother human resources about any of this! you’re not our responsibility, because you won’t be part of our company!” 

“and don’t worry charlie. if jan doesn’t carry out her job to your satisfaction, she can always be punished. I mean, think of it… if you run low on cleaning supplies, jan is the kind of girl who can, if need be, clean out the men’s urinals with her mouth, couldn’t she. couldn’t you, january josephine?”

i was devastated, mortified, humiliated beyond words. i couldn’t believe this was even happening. but my whole body was tingling, my nerves lighting up like a christmas tree… i felt like one raw, quivering, exposed hormone. i couldn’t differentiate having to pee from desperately needing to cum, and i was pretty sure i was about to do both, right where i stood. i realized i was bouncing from one knee to the other rapidly, letting everyone know that i had to go to the bathroom.

“JAN! get it together, christ. i asked you a question.”

“i’m sorry sir… could you, um, say it again?”

“yes, january josephine cunis. charlie needs to know if you would be willing to clean out the men’s urinals with your mouth. is that something you’d be willing to do?”

i couldn’t help it. i reached both of my hands under my skirt and between my legs, and i grasped my pussy with them as tight as i could, trying desperately to keep from wetting myself all over the fancy carpet. but as i began to leak, i realized that this was not just pee that needed to explode out of me, this was worse. so as the pee splashed all over my stockings, my shoes, and the fancy patch of carpet between my legs, i furiously began to rub and whack my frantically inflamed vulva as hard as i could. and as my vulva, g-spot, vaginal canal, urethra and bladder exploded into one depraved, blood-curdling orgasm, i fell on my knees and looked up at the old boss with his fancy cigarettes, and at my new boss with his thick black eyebrows and combover, and i said, “thank you sir. of course i will clean the men’s urinals with my mouth as part of my new job. that would be perfect for me.”

this is what happened yesterday or at least the first part of it. as i told a lot of you guys, i had a very exhausting day yesterday, but it turns out they want me to keep my job... sort of!

i got back from lunch a little after 1pm yesterday, and just as i thought, the boss wanted to see me in his office. i was terrified… i was certain I was about to be fired, because word had quickly spread about how i’d been conducting myself around the office lately, not to mention the reoccurring events in the men’s bathroom, which seemed to be attracting more and more participants every day. 

not to mention my newly exposed imagefap galleries, and the identifying pictures of me in the topmost gallery, and the fact that i am not supposed to be on line during work hours (unless it’s work related), and the fact that I am definitely not supposed to be visiting porn sites on my work computer at all, and that my face can be clearly seen on my imagefap site, and my pseudonym *wetapril* has been “corrected” to reveal my real name *jan cunis*. 

so I walked into dave’s office expecting to be read the riot act and fired on the spot. and just to humiliate me further, one of my Masters from imagefap had instructed me to dress like a street prostitute this morning. and yes, although i was vey worried about losing my job, the dread and humiliation of this situation was affecting me exactly as it usually does, and i was fully lubricating. which as you know produces a very recognizable odor of dirty sex. i mean, my wet vagina smells exactly like anyone else’s wet vagina, only more so… maybe much more so… and when I am not wearing panties you can definitely smell me from across the room.

and dave’s nose did visibly crinkle as I stepped into the interrogation chamber, and he stared at me for a long minute. maybe three minutes, as I stood right inside his doorway, hoping to to be asked to be seated or something.

“come over here,” Dave said. so I walked over and stood in front of his desk. 

and I stood there, dressed in my whore outfit, blushing harder with every breath I took. I could definitely smell myself, and I was wearing a totally “not safe for work” outfit: cherry red patent leather stilettos, matching tiny leather mini (no panties), black gartered stockings, and a black bra with huge holes cut out for the nipples, covered by a whispy, transparent shawl/wrap which did almost nothing to make my nipples, which were painted cherry red with lipstick to match my shoes and mini, look anything less than obscene.

dave stared at me uncomfortably, until he asked, “what the hell is going on, jan?”

and I was tongue-tied for another few minutes, as I sputtered and teared up a little bit, and my nipples hardened as my boss dave, who had trained me and explained to me all the protocols of this office, and had been a mentor figure to me for a long time, sat there and watched me turn red as a beet, as my nipples hardened into stiff little points and my copious secretions started dripping down my legs.

“never mind jan, i already know what’s going on. i just wanted to know if you had a better explanation of it all than the explanations i keep hearing from your colleagues.”

“umm…” i said, finally trailing off with a half-hearted shrug. I literally had no idea what to say… what could I say?

“well jan, whatever it is you think you are going through, or whatever game you are playing with your online buddies or whatever, at the end of the day you are disrupting the workplace.” He looked at me with his aristocratic cheeks and strong jaw line, and I missed the days when we had been friendlier with each other. “and if it were up to me I would fire you.”

I struggled to take it all in for a moment, and i wasn’t quite understanding something about the sentence he had just uttered… wasn’t it his decision whether to fire me? I started to articulate a question to that effect, but he stopped me.

“turn around,” he commanded. “that’s right, full circle.” dizzy with embarrassment, i did what Dave told me to do. “jan, are you wearing any panties?”

“no Sir.”

“have you been masturbating at your workstation?”

“Yes. Yes Sir”

“wow. right at your workstation.” dave leaned over the desk and wrote something down. jan, have you been looking at bondage porn there too…? have you been looking at bondage pornography and masturbaing at your desk, while everyone else is working…?

“yes sir. I’m sorry, Sir”

“APOLOGY NOT ACCEPTED!!!” he suddenly screamed, slapping his palm to his desk to make a loud crack, not unlike a judge’s gavel. another awkward silence followed. dave looked back at his stack of papers.

“and what exactly has been happening in the men’s bathroom these last few days… huh? tell me, jan… please, please… please just try to make me understand…”

“well… ummm…” and suddenly i burst into tears. “I’m sorry dave. i’m so sorry, i can’t help it… i can’t resist, it’s… it’s too good, i just can’t… i can’t say “no” anymore. I try but i just can’t help it…” i tried to look up at him but i couldn’t take the severity of his gaze, I just ended up staring back at the floor, quietly weeping and sniveling, until dave said, “bullshit. of course you can help it.”

finally i braced myself and looked deliberately up at dave's face, just to hopefully beg him with my eyes to give me a second chance, or to at least forgive me on some level, or something. actually i’m not sure what i wanted from him… my ass felt huge and my breasts felt swollen with milk, and for one strange moment I felt like i was in a mother goose rhyme. i felt like a waddling duck standing there in front of him, and i couldn’t hide anywhere, there was nowhere to hide, nothing to hide behind. and at that moment i remembered the way God had seen me, seeing into my mind, right through all the nonsense i had been feeding myself about sex addiction and the whole bit, knowing that of course, of course i had all the strength i needed to get myself under control, to pay penance and repent… god had given me all the strength I needed to stop this at any time…  the only problem was that, well, I really didn’t want to, i selfishly preffered not to, i was too deliciously fixated on the guilty pleasures of the flesh, on the shameful transgressions of sin. or was it really just transgression for transgression’s sake? it was apparent to me that dave could see through me just like God could. And for some reason, that very fact made it all the more thrilling to be shamed by him.

“you are so disgusting” said dave, pushing my nose into it. His tone was unforgiving, his masculine face stern and unrelenting. i was so devastated by this situation… dave, my former mentor and the guy who had hired and trained me here at my first real job, a man who i admired and genuinely looked up to, was now cornering me, making me admit that i was choosing all this, that i was much more than just a weak-willed slut giving into the desires of a few rowdy guys. instead, i was the cause of all this, that if anything, the guys were giving in to my depraved and masochistic fantasies. and as i stood before him, fully realizing the implications of all of this, realizing in full illumination what a person like dave must think about a person like me, some kind of damm broke inside my body and a torrent of smelly fluid gushed down my legs, bathing my inner thighs. had i just squirted, for the first time ever? 

whatever it was that happened, i was sure dave noticed. he could not help but to have noticed the smell, and as the pussy cream saturated and dampened the tops of my gartered stockings, i could see his eyes focus right on that area of my anatomy and grow wide.

and that is when i finally thought of something to say. “shouldn’t i be punished?” i suggested meekly.

“yes wet april,” snarled dave, revealing that he’d been looking at my imagefap profile. “BUT I DON’T KNOW HOW TO PUNISH A GIRL WHO LIKES IT!!” again he slammed his hand down on the table with a gavel’s crack. “i mean jan, how are you supposed to punish someone who likes to be punished, huh?  what am I supposed to do, shove a lit torch up your pussy?” that last part he whispered, as if he couldn’t bare saying it out loud, even if it it bore no reflection on him.

and that’s when my face turned crimson red, and I could feel something strange take ahold of me, something i hadn’t felt in a very, very long time. and without my even controlling it, a strange heat blossomed from within my belly, and my voice said “yes dave. you should punish me by shoving a lit torch into my vagina. do you want me to spread my legs wide open, so you can do that?”

and the scariest thing was that in that moment, in that room, i truly meant it. i was ready. 

but dave broke the spell, slamming his hand down on his desk one more time, and said, “no you sickening, perverted bimbo! If it were up to me, i’d fire you immediately. IMMEDIATELY! but unfortunately it’s not up to me. this one’s totally out of my hands.”

and with that, he gave me a suite number that anyone could recognize as on the top floor of our building, and he said “they’re waiting for you already. Better get your nasty ass up there before they change their minds.” 

and he shooed me out of the room, not waiting until after the door closed to dial his phone. “she’s coming,” i heard him say right as i slipped out. and i was on my way to the elevators, but beyond that i had no idea what to expect.

Part Two coming soon!