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.