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!