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.