Beth Enjoys Chapter 13
During the subsequent week, I carried the scent of a woman's vagina. Despite this, Jarvis had taken additional measures to prevent me from wetting myself in class - he had glued my urethra shut. Furthermore, he had me arrive at class in a state of extreme fullness: I was ordered to consume numerous cups of coffee and drink almost a gallon of his sour lemonade. Additionally, I had not been milked all day, and my engorged breasts were uncomfortably full and swollen.
I entered the classroom five minutes late and found the room overflowing with students. There must have been 15 students who were not present the week before, most of whom were seated behind the last row of desks or to the sides of the desks on the floor, hunching over their books with their backs pressed firmly against the walls. The room lacked any remaining seating.
I stood there uncertainly, wondering what to do next. The class had clearly already began.
"You're late, Smelly Vagina," Mr. Roberts commented. "And you still seem to be neglecting my advice regarding odor. Did you at least bring your homework?"
"No," I muttered in a small voice, feeling a sense of shame for not being prepared. It hadn't occurred to me that we had been assigned homework.
"I see," Mr. Roberts said in a sarcastic tone, his condescension palpable. "But perhaps you are already familiar with the material. You had transferred to this class, didn't you?"
"I, erm, actually I took 'geometry one' at another school," I responded tentatively. I remained near the doorway, thinking about where I should sit. I felt a heightened sense of awareness as everyone in the classroom stared at me, inevitably because of my extravagant attire. I wore a silvery red rayon top and matching mini, and donned high heels of six inches. The combination of these factors had me bouncing on my toes in anticipatory discomfort, a phenomenon my mother had long dubbed "the pee-pee dance."
"So, this is simply a review for you?" Asked Mr. Roberts.
"Uh, I hope so," I answered unsurely.
"Walk over here," Mr. Roberts instructed. "Let's see if you can handle a problem from last week's assignment. That's right, approach the board. Good girl." Mr. Roberts casually slapped my bottom as I moved past him. I turned towards him in surprise at his boldness, as well as the giggling from the new students who had not previously been in attendance. He simply smiled and handed me a piece of chalk. "Write the Pythagorean Theorem on the blackboard."
"Is that not Bethany Cranston?" Asked a male voice from the back of the room, likely one of the new students. My fame had preceded me, and I questioned if these additional students had enrolled in geometry just to witness my embarrassment.
"Yes Brian, that's Bethany," Mr. Roberts confirmed. "But here, we call her Miss Vagina Smell, for obvious reasons." He wrinkled his nose, and the entire class broke out in laughter.
The urge to relieve myself overwhelmed me. I was desperate to think of anything else, but being in the spotlight while coping with my need to pee resulted in my erect nipples. My sheer red rayon top exhibited their arousal, as it clung to my aching breasts. Additionally, the sensitivity of the silky fabric was a source of concern due to the position of my nipples, and I was aware that I lacked a bra - or indeed any undergarments. People's eyes were fixed on my face, which only exacerbated the situation. Furthermore, I could feel my moist vagina.
"She really does smell," Whispered a woman in the background.
"Vagina! Yes you!" Mr. Roberts commanded. "This is a second-semester course, meaning you should remember the Pythagorean Theorem. Since you missed last week's assignment, this portion should be a breeze. Ace this portion, would you?" He waved his yardstick against the desk and addressed me curtly. "You are to write the Pythagorean Theorem on the board."
As I turned toward the board, I was concerned about exposing the lowest part of my bottom. Stepping up to the board, the silky rayon of my short skirt caused it to cling to my buttocks. Subtly squeezing my eyes shut, I attempted to recollect the Pythagorean Theorem. I knew its name, and I was aware that it involved triangles.
I could feel everyone's stares on my behind. They all knew about my crazy antics at Tito's Bar. They surely had heard of my bizarre bathroom habits, getting led by Jarvis on a leash and collar out to our neighbor's yard every morning to pee in front of them. And I had to pee really bad, so bad I couldn't stay still, shifting from one foot to another, even jumping slightly in my high-heeled shoes. And of course, they knew about my mishap in class last week, the disgusting puddle that I had made in my seat!
"I know this one!" I exclaimed.
"Excellent, Vagina," Mr. Roberts replied. "I think everyone in this classroom knows the Pythagorean Theorem." He slammed his yardstick on his desk with a loud clap. "It's a very basic formula, and we covered it last semester. It's a fundamental concept in geometry, and I'm certain every geometry class in the country has gone over it." He glanced at me. "You have it in your homework too. So, please write it on the board."
"I know it," I replied, still nervously shifting my weight. I was worried my skirt might show off the bottom part of my rear tattoo.
"Vagina?" he asked.
"Yeah?" I winced, not wanting to meet his eyes.
"Do you need to use the bathroom?" he questioned.
I didn't respond. My bladder was dangerous close to bursting, but my urethra was super-glued shut. I was beyond embarrassed.
"Bethany Vagina Cranston." He raised his voice. "I do not want you peeing on the floor."
"I won't." I croaked. I was absolutely overwhelmed and couldn't pretend to write the math on the board. But I couldn't speak either.
"Good." He paused. "I'm glad to hear that - I was beginning to imagine we'd need to change your nickname to 'Puddles.'" The class chuckled nervously. "Hey, wait a sec." Mr. Roberts swiftly moved to a filing cabinet behind his desk, grabbing something hidden from sight. "What's this?" he asked, holding up a pointy cap with five white letters on the front. I struggled to read them in my watery eyes. He revealed it to the class. "A dunce cap." Sharon, the sporty blond girl with her friend, giggled. "What does the cap say?"
"Dunce," Sharon answered.
"Mr. Roberts, is this what you wear on fools?" asked another student. My heart raced as we all stared at the gray cap with white letters.
"You don't actually know the Pythagorean Theorem, do you, Miss Vagina?" he asked, not putting the cap back on the cabinet, holding it up for everyone to see. I could hear the snickers in the class.
I had nothing to say.
"Well then," he continued, putting the cap to the side. "Considering you've wasted our time with your silly wiggles in front of the chalkboard, and possibly lied about your qualifications for this class, I believe you deserve a punishment." He lifted the yardstick over his head, swinging it through the air. "I think I have ample cause to spank you, and your reputation suggests that that would be your preferred form of discipline."
I was so flustered I couldn't say anything. This was getting to me, and despite the excruciating feeling, I was beginning to get oddly aroused. In fact, I could feel my coochie pulsing, wetting my thighs.
"Is that not so? Is spanking your preferred form of punishment?" he asked, urging for a response. I couldn't deny it, not now. Ben often said, "You have to say it." I thought about him in this moment, wondering how Mr. Roberts had heard this phrase. Suddenly it clicked - Mr. Roberts was friends with Ben.
He reminded me, "You need to confess it."
"Alright," I conceded. "Yes. Yes, spanking is my preferred discipline. Please spank me." The class was quietly snickering, and my cheeks were as red as tomatoes, but if Mr. Roberts was standing in for Ben, I would follow his orders. "Yes, I like being spanked. It's what I like." The class erupted in uncontrollable laughter, but Mr. Roberts silenced them.
"Good," he said. "At least you're honest. Good girl." Only Sharon and Nadine, the two athletically dressed blondes seated behind me the previous week, continued making comments. "Mr. Roberts, I'm still not sure how you have time to be her personal jock, with all the kids in this class. It's like a full-time job for you."
Mr. Roberts paused and frowned at them. "I am going to spank you until you can draw a 'right triangle' on the board. And please remember, a 'right triangle' has its vertical leg shorter than the horizontal leg. Do you understand the difference between 'vertical' and 'horizontal'?"
"Yes," I mumbled.
"I'm sure you do," Nadine quipped.The class murmured its agreement, and another student in the back voiced his support by whistling.
"Raise your skirt," Mr. Roberts continued. "I need unrestricted access. Just tuck the hem of your skirt into your waistband."
He was asking me to uncover my tattoo. He knew what he was doing, as he'd seen it last week. And that week, he had granted me the option to reveal my real name to the class, so everyone could know that I was the degenerate from Tito's Bar, or I could expose my tattoo. But this time there was no choice involved. Everyone would see it.
I was indecisive, and a part of me wished to run out the door, as far away from this degrading scene as possible. But there was another part of me that desired this, desperate to be seen, even by these egotistical college students who wouldn't understand who I truly was. Several of them would be disgusted, while others would experience excitement. Some of them were even starting to get aroused.
And of course, the purpose of the tattoo was for these young men to physically harm me. This idea thrilled me. And for a fleeting moment, I even forgot about the urgent need to go to the bathroom.
I raised the hem of my skirt, and all the students gasped at the sight of my "label":
NO LIMIT PAIN PIG
"Pig is right," Sharon said to Nadine. Then, I noticed our mousy math teacher starting to wave his hand in a rhythmic manner. He was conducting the class, just as he had done last week. The blondes were the first to catch on, chanting in time, "Va-Gi-Na Smell! Va-Gi-Na Smell! Va-Gi-Na Smell!"
Next, the other students who remembered that from the previous week started chanting, followed by the new students, now that they understood what was happening. Everybody wanted to be part of it.
"Va-Gi-Na Smell! Va-Gi-Na Smell! Va-Gi-Na Smell!" shouted the whole class, as Mr. Roberts started spanking my bared bottom with his sturdy yardstick. Our math teacher kept the beat with his furious strikes.
It was challenging for me to focus as he spanked me at least fifteen times. It's surprising that despite the stinging sensation, I craved even more of it. I always remember Ben's iron hand hitting me, and I've realized that my entire body, my entire being, is just one big, swollen ass, even my pussy and breasts, and even the cheeks of my face are meant to be slapped and spanked, by anyone who feels the urge. I'm nothing more than an ass meant to be hurt.
I struggled to refocus my mind and make the drawing that Mr. Roberts had instructed me to on the chalkboard.
The chalk in his hand was blue, and I repeatedly dropped it on the floor. Each time I bent over to retrieve it, my wet pussy became more visible. And, of course, Mr. Roberts would strike my puckered little pussy with each opportunity. But I stood back up each time and continued my drawing.
At last, I was done. My behind was the color of a blown-up beach ball and my skin felt as if it was being stretched taut over my plump cheeks. My fanny was churning and rubbing against the air, and my bladder felt like it had been given a spanking. I peered over at the teacher and noticed his gaze shift to the board.
"Did I do it right?" I panted.
"Of course not, you silly simpleton," he replied, directing me to face the class. "Can any of you morons tell Vagina Stink what she failed to accomplish?"
The entire class erupted in laughter. "It's an isosceles triangle, not a right triangle!" Sharon shouted, followed by more students repeating her in their amusement. "Idiot!" I heard one of the boys exclaim from the back. "What a complete idiot."
Mr. Roberts took the dunce cap off the desk and placed it gently on my head. With the class cackling and whispering vile things about me, he grabbed an enormous eraser from the chalkboard ledge and placed it in front of my mouth. I understood his request and complied by opening my mouth as wide as possible so he could ram the chalky eraser inside, holding it in place by clenching my knees together as the need to pee once again overtook me. Afterwards, he guided me onto a tall stool positioned at the edge of the chalkboard. "Spread 'em wide!" he murmured into my ear.
And I did.
Everyone in the room stared right at my throbbing nethers, with my mouth filled with a large chalky eraser and my ridiculous dunce cap set upon my head. To my delight, I loved this.
I craved this more than anything, more than being spanked. In reality, being smacked and spanked was crucial, but this experience was so marvelously stimulating that I could not even compare. Being spanked until my backside was engulfed in flames, then being seated on this high stool, with the entire class scrutinizing my weeping groin, my flaming cheeks, and my empty, worthless head filled with nothing but lewd desires, devoid of any academic knowledge like the Pythagorean Theory. I was unworthy of learning, I was a clown, I was a fool, I was a dunce.
I cherished every moment as Mr. Roberts concluded his lecture on geometry, engaging each and every student, while they also couldn't help but observe my flushed face, my peaky nipples peeking through my pinup-style blouse, and the voluptuous treasure between my legs.
However, the moment of elation was short-lived. At first, an all-encompassing warmth enveloped my pubic region, as he "touched on wuzzle to thatch" as my mother put it. Then the heat originating from my bladder became apparent.
And the jabs emanating from my bladder seemed less random and more targeted, morphing into intense and agonizing spasms. They were electrifying, exhilarating, and made me itch for a good thrashing with a custom Bass Whacker on my vulva. I felt like someone was drilling my urethra with a cattle prod and it ached so magnificently that I felt like passing out as my eyes rolled to the back of my head.
Finally, Mr. Roberts realized what was transpiring and I had already toppled off the stool and landed on his desk. Several lads lifted me onto the teacher's desk, and one of them inquired as to the cause of my distress. I mumbled "I need to pee." However, nobody was snickering, and Mr. Roberts, shocked by the situation, backed away from me. But Nadine, who had found such hilarity in my previous humiliation, suddenly had a flash of comprehension in her eyes, and she inquired, "is it super glue?"
"Yeah," I responded with a squeak, and she rummaged through her purse, finding a partially used bottle of nail polish remover. "This is acetone!" She exclaimed. "This will remove the adhesive!" Mr. Roberts tried to stop them, but the girls didn't listen. I think one of the girls' boyfriends even had to hold him back.
Nadine removed the cap and held my puffy, dripping vagina open. Somehow Sharon had also managed to get a Q-tip, and she doused the cotton swab with acetone before shoving it forcefully into my sticky pee hole. She had to insert and remove the Q-tip multiple times, dipping it back into the acetone in between, trying to unstick my urethra while Nadine and her boyfriends wrestled with my limbs.
Nothing had ever hurt so much, not the savage whippings, not the scorching oil, not even the mechanical bull when the sharp thumbtack pricked my clit.
However, it did the trick. Sharon pushed, twisted, and sawed the acetone-soaked Q-tip through the gluey blockage of my sealed urethral opening, and then everything broke loose.
My pee gushed out like a geyser, flying straight up into the air in powerful spurts and raining back down on Sharon and Nadine, wetting all three of us. I felt so relieved I couldn't speak. I was incredibly grateful, but I was also incredibly embarrassed. I was afraid they would be disgusted with me, loathing me for ruining their moment of victory with urine. I was sure they would regret saving me from this injury, and the thought made me weep as I lay on the math teacher's wooden desk. The boys were still holding me down, and I didn't want to escape; I simply wanted to apologize. My bladder had finally stopped spasming, and I believed it had escaped unscathed. But I acknowledged that I had been close to serious harm, like a burst bladder or kidney rupture or some other unspecified internal injury. The acetone burned terribly, but even through my tears and sobbing, a small part of me enjoyed the pain, and another part of me wished they would punish my vagina by pouring the remaining bottle of acetone down it. I certainly deserved it.
But instead, they were rinsing me with bottled water. And instead of being angry, they were sharing a laugh.
I had no part in this, other than being the initiator. They didn't want me in their celebration or their revelry or their continuing silliness.
I was irrelevant to them because I was so different. I was a nobody who had entered the realm of the odd and creepy, and they wanted nothing to do with me, not even for a second.
But where my own Masters had abandoned me, ignored my suffering, and pushed me further than my body could handle, these two college cheerleaders had saved my life. It was quieter, more reserved Nadine who gently rubbed my swollen clitoris.
As no one was watching, she looked me in the eyes and increased the pressure on my small clit. Although the acetone burned fiercely "from my sex to my hair", or maybe because of this burning, I wanted to rub against her hand and finally have an orgasm.
But she wouldn't let me.