Beth Likes It Ch. 06

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.

"Yes" 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?"

"Yes. 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 slapped," 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. Please, oh please yes, rape my poor little pussy, rape it now oh god..."

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

"Yeth pleathe, yes please everyone, please call all your friends, pleathe tell everyone to come and rape my poor little puthy, oh yes please 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, yes Daddy. Ooooh yessss, 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 nasty pussy with anything they want."

"Even if it bleeds?" Asked Ben.

"Yeth. Yeth. Oh, I like it better when it starts to bleed. Oh they should just fuck me harder, the more it bleeds. Oh yeth pleathe. Oooh yeth Daddy, I need to be fucked so hard my poor little puthy rips open and bleeds!"