Beth Enjoys Chapter 9
One of the consequences of being bound to the table with my knees apart was that I could witness my damaged private parts. The guys had cleaned them with rubbing alcohol, but they were bleeding once again due to all the minute perforations.
My entire groin area had been punctured and rubbed by the tack-covered bull's saddle: my inner thighs, my butt cheeks, the crevice between them, including my delicate anus, and even my smooth, hairless pubic mound had all been pounded and scraped as the mechanical bull jerked and bucked. Naturally, my labia didn't escape either: my legs were spread so far apart that my vagina had endured the brunt of the onslaught, and both my outer and inner lips were in desperate need of at least ointment, salve, bandaging, and perhaps even a trip to the doctor. Even my tiny clitoris had been punctured by a well-placed tack. I would heal, just as I would recover from having been doused with a teaspoonful of hot oil earlier that day, but at the moment, my most intimate areas were in a bloody mess.
The agony was immense, but the display was astonishing. And despite my fatigue and ongoing suffering, I could feel my nipples harden and my tattered pussy become moist once again.
I knew I was prepared to be raped. The calculating sadist in me knew it, and so did the masochistic little slut.
A deep shiver of expectation made my teeth chatter as the guys nervously discussed and moved about. One man appeared 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 yet again at the unbearable sting of each splash. He smirked at me each time he heard me scream and moan. Another man, who seemed to be a little slow, moaned in sympathy and wiped me, but too roughly, after each douse. In fact, everyone leered at me as the slow-witted moron wiped my pussy and laughed. And it was not until I noted their leering eyes that I realized I was putting on a show, pushing my bleeding pussy up at the slow thinker to meet his rough towel and hand!
Now, understand, I did not want this to continue. With the intensity of my pain, even the gentlest touch increased it. But my ruined vagina seemed to have a mind of its own! It wouldn't stop wriggling up against the man's rough towel, which was now bloodied and smelled of perversion. And as if in a trance, I found myself leering back at the guys!
This was the sadist in me. The masochist was also cosseted by this dreadful situation, she was still very much present in me, pleading innocence yet begging for swift punishment and purification. But the sadist was in control.
The men stared at me, and I returned their gaze. Everybody was smirking cruelly. I was gyrating my ruined pussy like a stripper against a pole, and the guys who didn't yet have their cocks out were searching for them. All of them were erect. All of them were swollen and stiff and red, including my pint-sized, injured clit, which was standing at attention under the avaricious male gaze. I was the prey animal, offering myself up for consumption. I was pornography, even to myself, wallowing in my own consuming gaze, both watching and being watched.
And as the men watched, and as I watched, a single drop of blood, freshly oxygenated, emerged from the perforated tip of my clitoris, slithering down the puckered underside and into the churning sea of shame between my legs.
I had difficulty breathing. Neither could the guys. There was a heart-stopping pause. And then they pounced!
I was being squished from all directions, swarms of throbbing penises pushing into me. Men were on top of me, perched sideways and thrusting their erect penises into my armpits. My breasts were being squeezed and crushed, to the point where my nipples could be inverted and basically circumcised. Cock-heads were grinding against me, forcing my nipples back into my chest. They fucked my belly button, my love handles, my ribs. My face and ears were not spared. The insides of my knees were popular targets, as were my toes and feet. Each hand was grabbed by a man's hand and enclosed like fleshy handkerchiefs around one penis after another, cum spraying up my wrists and arms. One well-endowed fellow positioned himself to breach my mouth with his penis and began furiously humping my throat, regardless of my attempts to keep that space closed. I'm not a fan of my gag reflex being triggered, nor of tasting the resulting bile, but I couldn't prevent him. I could barely breathe. Below that, the blood from my punctured thighs served as lubricant to permit someone's enormous fist to pierce its way into my anus as one heavy man after another climbed on and slammed and pumped my helpless, burn-blistered vaginal canal.
These guys weren't being unkind. They weren't deliberately torturing me. They were out of control, driven by an unending need to embed their seed in me. And my stupid, sluttish body reacted in kind.
I'm not saying it didn't hurt: quite the opposite! And possibly my brain was reeling from a lack of oxygen, or my whore's hormones had me in a choking grip, but my bloody, burn-damaged vagina responded lustfully and orgasmically to this deluge of sensation. My clit, pussy, G-spot, and ass exploded, plunging me into a blizzard of sizzling, technicolor wires. Electricity was spurting out of my pores, I was seeing glimpses of trails, echoes, and magical serpents writhing, fairies, and elves prancing in the corners of my eyes. Each man's cum tasted like nectar, with every quivering spasm revealing a realm of delectable, perverse bewilderment, spiraling through implications so revolting and taboo they should never be spoken.
Each intruding penis penetrated all the way to my core. I could feel the personalities of each man as he plunged into me. I knew I was being impregnated, I don't know how I knew but I did, and I could feel myself, in some convoluted, time-warped celestial quantum physics, giving birth to a litter of glistening fish-men who swarmed and ravished me in turn!
This was rape, and this was the raunchy, primal experience my body and spirit had always yearned for.
And how could it be, I wondered agonizingly as the pain resurfaced and sparked a cacophony of even weirder and more unsettling orgasms. And these were enjoyable too, perhaps even more so, but they struck me in places obscure and deeply burrowed, making me feel vile and inglorious and more sinister and unsettling than I'd ever been before.
It was all becoming a lot, and I began to cry and bellow, even as I convulsed in waves of sickening ecstasy.
My mind was in a spin, fantasies and thoughts whizzing out of control: unsightly thoughts, disturbing images. I pondered on my mom getting violated in Europe, trapped by Slavic thugs in a back alley outside a tavern. I pondered on the fear I felt in high school when a man on a bus followed me, set to inspect me lewdly up close. I was fervently praying he wouldn't follow me, wouldn't rise to exit at the same stop I did. And later, I masturbated, cumming onto my pillow as I fantasized about his grimy digits grabbing me from behind.
And these dark dreams were bad enough, but even worse were the fantasies, and they made me cry even louder. And as each man plunged into me, not giving a damn about my desires, I realized if they were hungry, they would be devouring me alive. If this wasn't rape, it would be cannibalism. And as my whirling fantasies became weirder and creepier, some unsettling aspects stood out even more.
I was powerless. I was pure. I was locked in a malicious device. A fucking machine: that's all the world is, all nature is, genes, biology, and psychology colluding to ensnare a specific target. Everything organizing itself into one elaborate design for the sole purpose of pitting me under an army of lecherous males, who would viciously fuck my eager pussy-hole. And there was nothing I could do to avert it. Nature's insatiable muzzle would win. The helpless, pure virgin, lured into the center of the web, her thighs spread wide to welcome the marauding hordes.
When the other men had left, completely exhausted and worn out, the final man, strong and assertive, stepped forward and placed himself between my legs. Blurrily squinting through my tear-stained eyes, I identified this man. He was fully clothed and dressed nicely, accompanied by another man in a gray suit who stood submissively next to him. The larger man looked at me and nodded before dropping his pants. His erection was massive and glistening, like a fortress. It was Ben, my ex-husband.
"Hey, Beth," he said nonchalantly. "Looks like you've had a lot of fun." Jarvis chuckled maliciously, his eyes glinting. "Untie her," Ben instructed, and quickly Jarvis set to it, with a couple of others helping with some of the knots.
"Turn over," he ordered once I was free to move. I flipped over on the table. "Lift your ass, dirty slut."
I did as I was told, arching my back and pushing my belly towards the table to make a sexier target out of my ass. He was rock hard but clearly not satisfied.
"I don't like second helpings," Ben bluntly announced to the remaining drunks lingering around. Most of the crowd had left.
So instead, Ben spanked me. He lifted his right hand and prepared to slap me, in the most straightforward and classic of motions. Then, he began spanking his ex-wife's plump, round, dirty bottom. As I watched the scene unfold, a small part of me yearned for the familiar love from the past.
Tito's Bar was in disarray, but it would be easily cleaned with some mopping and a bucket of water. The bystanders watched attentively as Ben's hand smacked me louder and louder, turning the initial sting into a burn, which then morphed into a more complex sensation. Despite the pain, I didn't resist. I was a dirty whore's ass being spanked, and I wanted all the pain Ben could deliver.
Jarvis wiped the ropes of cum off my face with a clean towel, and the blows grew increasingly severe. As my bottom turned bright red, I wondered if it was actually swelling due to the intense spanking, or a combination of my imagination and physical sensations. The pain hurt a lot, but it was a good kind of hurt that overwhelms everything else.
Ben spanked me until I focused on the pain and my role as nothing more than a whore's ass being punished mercilessly. I craved the pain of being ignored and humiliated, the pain of being exposed publicly in my hometown, the mechanical bull and the tacks piercing my gusset area, the delicate skin around my labia, my thighs, ass, pubic mound, and anus, and lastly the violence directed to my clitoris.
As the rhythmic, merciless slaps realigned my focus to take all the pain Ben could give me, his hand continued to punish my ass with vigor. And I splashed around in the agony, immersing myself in it like a pig in mud.
Yet in the midst of the realignment, profound epiphanies struck me. Was this just metaphor? Was I actually a pig in mud? Was I subhuman? With the truth striking me hard, realizing that compared to men like my husband or any of the drunks from the bar, I was nothing but a pig in mud, a feeling of warmth spread throughout my entire body, centered on my immobilized rear, where Ben's relentless spanking pounded.
His strong hand smacked into the enormous softness of my chubby, filthy bottom, a well-deserved, dirty, slutty bottom. The pain grew worse with each hit, and the warm glow intensified, bringing me even greater pleasure. It filled my bruised, violated, degraded vagina with joy and an eagerness to submit, causing my nipples to tighten and my lips to crave a kiss. It beat on the door of my heart and I eagerly opened it, knowing this was exactly what I wanted. I desired nothing else. I wished to be Ben's spanking pig.
I subtly shifted my position, spreading my legs a bit more and pushing my stomach against the table. I wanted to make sure Ben saw my swollen, dripping pussy. I didn't want to seem too eager, but I needed him to notice how his strike affected me. I knew he wouldn't want to fuck me, considering how damaged and oppressive my pussy was. But I hoped he might use it as a target.
Ben observed what I'd done and slightly altered his course. Now, he was landing each powerful blow straight on my vulva and swollen lips, directly above my filthy asshole. This realization filled me with a sense of purpose, realizing that my vagina and my asshole shared the same space. My vagina was simply another part of my ass. My tight, stretchable, tarnished, ravaged butt crack and genitals were actually one continuous crack, and my penetrable, dirty anus had a twin set underneath. There was my vaginal hole, my anal hole, my urinary hole, and of course, my cervical hole. And what about my mouth hole? It was all the same—I was purely an ass for Ben and also for Jarvis and the weary gentlemen at Tito's Bar. But it wasn't just a mere utterance, it was a tangible truth resonating within me.
I couldn't help but consider other ways Ben might spank me. Should he smack my jiggly bosom as well? If I pushed them up, they'd make perfect targets. And my cheeks? He should hit them as hard as he was spanking my ass. Why not? And my face? It's as round and plump as my ass cheeks. If he spanked my face with the same intensity as my ass, it would be just as suitable a target.
My thoughts surged as Ben spanked my ravaged butt. Night had fallen, and the bartender was cleaning up. Some of the other customers helped him out, but I recognized that this was my responsibility. However, Ben's relentless spanking stopped me from getting up. When Ben finally stops, I'll be the one cleaning it up, even licking up the semen stains, because I can clean his bar with nothing but my mouth!
Thoughts swirled in my mind, soaring with the painful, delightful sensations that demolished my tormented ass. I realized that I was indeed an animal that needed taming and utilized my degraded body for my master's pleasure. My entire identity dissolved into one entity: a raunchy, dirty ass.
How could I express my feelings? I wanted to service every hole, urging Ben to punish everything inside me. And who knew whether he could spank other places on my body? He could even spank my tits. I yearned to present my breasts to him.
"Should I spank your face that way?" he suddenly asked, and Jarvis, the room's occupants, and the bartender turned to see what Ben was talking about. Obediently, I gaped at his question. I hesitated, not knowing how to answer, then finally understood.
"I'm a pig," I admitted, but he didn't respond. Knowing that wasn't the answer he wanted, I tried again, "I'm a pig."
No reaction. "A spoiled brat?"
"No," Ben said. "You need to try again. What are you?"
Then it clicked. "I'm a chunky one," I said. "I'm a big ol' butt." I felt joy, but it was a strange feeling, a terrible feeling, and all of a sudden, tears ran down my face.
"That sounds fitting," he said. "But what do you mean by that?"
"I'm just a big, chunky butt, just one big ol' butt for you to spank and hurt. I'm just one giant butt to spank and hurt. Forever." The truth had come out, and it was enormous, even to comprehend. My tears dried up: I couldn't pity myself anymore. What is is what is.
Jarvis cracked up, laughing uncontrollably. But Ben and I were having a serious talk.
"Do you really believe that, Beth? Do you honestly, sincerely believe that you're nothing but one massive, disgusting, porky butt for men to spank and hurt?"
"Yes, Ben. That's what I am. I know it now. I realized it."
"Does this realization come from today's experience?"
"Yes, Ben. I discovered it today, right here. Now I'm aware of what I am."
"What particular part of you am I spanking now, Beth? Is this your butt?" Instead of spanking me, he pushed his fist into my swollen, protruding vagina and scratched my cervix strongly, with his sharp fingernail! I cried out, but I stayed still. The radiance seemed even warmer now, and I adored feeling this way. I was flushed with divine warmth for the love of this man, and for the reality we found together.
"You're causing pain to... my... filthy... wet... BUTT!!" I exclaimed. And I believed it. I realized it. In my heart, I knew that I was nothing but one, immense, bloated butt.
Jarvis burst into laughter, nearly falling out of his chair.
Ben withdrew his hand from my vagina-butt, leaving it sore and open. "What's this?" He asked, slipping his hand under me and twisting my left breast ruthlessly.
"It's... it's my butt," I murmured. He released me and swiveled around to grasp my face, slapping my right cheek, hard.
"And this?"
"It's my butt, too," I said. "My face is the butt I show people all the time." I stared into the eyes of my handsome, ex-husband. Our gazes met and held.
"I'm a butt-face," I whispered.
"And where should I spank you, Beth?" he asked.
And I turned the other cheek.
"You can spank me on my face. You can spank my disgusting, swollen butt-face."
And he resumed his ferocious spanking of me, only more intense, and from the opposite angle.
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