Chapter 12: Beth's Affection
Ben decided to alter our living situation now that I was completely devoted to him and his desires.
I was no longer in charge of any household tasks: cooking, cleaning, shopping, all were no longer my responsibility. Instead, Jarvis moved in and the two lived together like college roommates. They indulged in a lot of take-outs, hired a cleaner to handle the chores, and stayed up late, playing cards on the deck and drinking while making loads of noise. Ben even took up smoking.
My capabilities were restricted: I couldn't read, use my computer, speak unless spoken to, make eye contact with either of them, or even the housekeeper, who hailed from Estonia and never acknowledged my existence. I couldn't even use the bathroom without Jarvis taking me outside on a leash every morning to "go potty" in the yard, often in front of our neighbors who kept a watchful eye but never uttered a word. A gossiping couple lived next door and I guess word about my strange bathroom habits had spread throughout town, along with my other recent escapades at Tito's Bar.
Both men decided that I must be given breastfeeding drugs, and Jarvis took control of administering the daily shots, hacking my buttocks with large, throwaway syringes every morning.
Jarvis was intrigued by the condition of my bladder, and he ensured it was perpetually uncomfortable. He made me gulp down cup after cup of coffee, accompanied by an unfathomable amount of incredibly sour lemonade. All that coffee caused me to sweat a lot, and since I was forbidden showers except in rare cases, and deodorant was not on the table, my body started producing a horrifying, unmistakably female odor, which made me smell like a vagina.
And when they observed it and took it into account, they decided to exacerbate the scenario instead of resolving it: they forced me to masturbate for them with a massive, wall-mounted dildo, right on the deck, potentially in view of neighbors. It was challenging to ascertain who might be observing from which window, so my exposure levels remained a mystery.
The giant, chrome-polished phallus, named "Steely Dan" by Ben, was a foolproof way to make me squirt. It all came down to its polished surface and absolute hardness, but also the particular angle and force I was required to slam down on it. And the two men induced me to do it every night, tormenting me mercilessly or debating excruciating tortures they planned to inflict on my intimate parts "soon" or "at some point."
I was perpetually on the verge of peeing during these instances, and maybe for that reason, I reacted intensely to threats and promises of urethral tortures specifically. And these weren't presents as fantasies, but as very real plans, which my owners were constantly working on.
Red-hot pokers, catheters forcing a backflow of intolerable irritants into my bladder, liquids like habanero sauce, poison oak oil, or bee venom were a few of their favorites. Other desired intruders were sturdy, wire bottle brushes; these were planned to be left in my urethra while I went out, potentially sewn in place so I would need to pee through the bristles. At times, they wanted to superglue the pee-hole dildo in place, locking my pee exit and preventing me from peeing altogether. At other times, my pee-hole dildo would be electrified and shock me terribly: a remote-controlled, metallic rod or shocks triggered exclusively by urinating so I had to hold it in for long periods of time, particularly when in public. Scenes of me enduring repeated electric shocks to my urethra while wetting myself in front of an audience were often brought up.
They greatly enjoyed escalating their threats, going progressively crazier as I neared climax, furiously ramming down on the unswerving Steely Dan.
Sometimes they'd throw in wild cards, gross stuff that didn't really appeal to Ben, but with Jarvis, I could never tell. He was a peculiar guy, and it was difficult to gauge whether to take him seriously. He'd taunt me with gruesome scenarios, like making me kneel in the park and smear my face in a pile of fresh dog feces. And even though these images were unsettling to me under normal circumstances - unfortunately mixing my face or mouth with feces were completely unappetizing - they had the effect of pushing me over the edge when I was on the brink of climax.
Every night, they would drive me crazy with their intimidations, tightly gripping onto the Steely and sending me into an climactic state, then forcing me to smear my blatant discharge all over my face, ensuring every inch of my body was covered in the liquid. This was their nightly routine, but by doing this, they were intentionally making me smell unquestionably feminine, causing my greatest phobia to be walking out in public and knowing everyone would recognize the scent. This was the goal for each of them, but Jarvis particularly, who had an insatiable obsession with "the multiple forms of shaming". They decided to drop the physical pain for awhile and focused solely on the uncomfortable threats leading up to my climaxes on the old Steely, all in hopes of heightening my senses and experiencing "the less harsh flavors" Jarvis loved to invent.
So they enrolled me in a night class.
This wasn't your average geometry class, it was specifically for returning students at a neighborhood college, but as I hadn't taken the first half of the semester, it would be challenging for me to keep up with the work when I really tried. They found it entertaining that I would be sitting in the classroom, faking it through lessons while experiencing other, more drastic humiliations. Since the classroom has an atmosphere where everyone is on their best behavior, the social tension was amplified. To make matters worse, attending every class was mandatory, and I would be forced to face the same judgmental faces again no matter what happened.
So, with my ass smelling of vagina and my bladder about to explode, I entered my first class, sat in the middle of the room, and flipped my skirt to reveal my stinky bottom sitting directly on the chair. To make matters worse, anyone could see my "No Limit Pain Slut" tattooed on my ass if I leaned back, and the tattoo "Rape Me" on my chest was hidden only by a heavy pendant that hung off a choker around my neck. My "Oink" tattoo installed on my forehead was inaccessible by my bangs, so I had to anxiously monitor my hair from moving.
The majority of the students were younger than me, and when they caught a whiff of me, they silently expressed their disgust, mostly through hushed whispers. The two blond girls in trendy sports outfits were a bit louder, seated two rows behind me. They managed to voice their observations and comments without causing too much commotion.
"Is that her?"
"Goodness, does she even shower?"
"Jeez, she doesn't even wash her down-below."
It was a heavily scented air in the classroom as my depraved aroma drifted through the area. The instructor, Mr. Roberts, had tuned his nose at the stench, but he said nothing about it, greeting the class and calling the roster off instead. Uncertain of the alias Jarvis gave me, I didn't reply initially, but the blonde ladies behind me jumped in with their own take, saying, "Vagina Smell!" With the entire class now broke out in laughter, I was compelled to draw attention to myself and responded, "Yeah, here." My face was completely red with embarrassment, my nipples were hardening in awkward bulges on top of my scanty tee, and a puddle was forming on my seat - unsurprisingly, not pee, but the other thing you're thinking about, alongside the danger of needing to pee soon.
"Here I am," I said but sadly, it was still not loud enough for the teacher to hear. Some people managed to catch my quiet admission, and they let out surprised gasps upon realizing it was me. The teacher was trying to locate who had been given such an unfortunate moniker.
"Virginia Snell!" He shouted clearly and forcefully, turning up the volume.
"Here," I said, ensuring everyone in the room would notice me. All eyes were on me in shock.
"That's not her real name," said the Asian girl sitting next to me. "What the hell?!" I heard a whisper from someone else. The class had figured out I was the one who smelled so strongly of feminine fluids, and my "feminine fluid smell" was the topic of discussion right before my namesake was called, "Virginia Snell." Not a single classmate had missed the connection.
"Say it," asked one of the blondes excitedly. I didn't utter a word, so the other blonde answered for me.
"Va. Gi. Na. Smell. How do you think she pronounces it."
The teacher should have stayed out of this childish game. It's not something an average teacher would have participated in. But I didn't realize it then, this particular teacher was a friend of Mr. Jarvis, and his class was selected intentionally to witness and participate in my humiliation.
"I'm sorry," he said. "Excuse me, young lady in the third row," he gazed at me. "Yes, you ma'am. Could you please stand up?"
I stood up, trembling.
"Do you need assistance?"
"What?" I questioned, confused.
"Is Virginia Snell your real name?" he queried, the accusation in his voice escalating.
I knew I was in a tricky situation, a prank I had no knowledge of, no control over. But of course, everyone here could smell me, and they could all conclude that Virginia Snell had to be a joke name. This was some sort of prank, and everybody recognized it. But I was the victim, not the instigator. Or was I? I wanted to lie, but if I did, they would simply scoff and call me out. I couldn't think of a response, so I didn't say anything, just stood there trembling and blushing profusely, my tight blouse revealing my stiffening nipples.
"Step forward," he said, commanding me. I did as requested.
"Face the class," he ordered. I complied.
"Now, be honest. Tell the class your real name."
"Virginia Snell," I said, reluctantly looking at the floor. I felt wobbly and on the verge of collapse.
"No, it's not," said the teacher. "It's impossible. Or almost," he mused. "Let's say the chances of a coincidence of this magnitude are so low as to be negligible."
Then, unforeseen by me, he retrieved his yardstick, resting against the filing cabinet near his desk, and gave me a single, sharp whack on my behind, right through my somewhat skimpy mini-skirt. I let out a harsh yelp followed by a whine.
He smiled at the class and then challenged me with a fierce glare.
"Do you dislike being pranked, Miss Fishy?"
That's when it struck me - the geometry teacher, Mr. Roberts, was part of the setup! He was colluding with Mr. Jarvis! My mind raced with terrifying visions of what might happen, and I feared for the worst. But if my pussy had been damp before, now it was so wet I felt it grinding against the air. Mr. Roberts, the geometry teacher, was in on it!
I glanced at the expressions of around thirty young individuals, all directly eyeing me, although not all seemed amused.
"This is my geometry class," he said. "This isn't a prank. I don't know who told you to do this, but even as a joke, you're being extremely disrespectful." He once again forcefully swung the yardstick at my posterior. I observed that numerous male students in the room were trying to conceal their erections.
"I don't like you," he announced, and he struck the yardstick against the back of my upper thighs. "You think you can make a spectacle of my class?!" he exclaimed, and again struck the yardstick into the same location, precisely under the hem of my revealing skirt, which barely extended beyond the voluminous cheeks of my rear. I could visualize the purplish burn underpinning my rear tattoo, as if the phrase "No Limit Pain Slut" required additional emphasis.
"Inform us your real name, mademoiselle. Tell us right now!" His imperious tone was steadfast, but I had no way of saying anything.
Therefore, he surveyed the class, and locked eyes with one of the vocal blonde females, those sitting behind my now vacant seat. "Sharon, what should we call our provoking co-mate here?"
A noticeably wide smile spread across Sharon's face and she rose. "Va. Gi. Na. Scents!" She enunciated distinctly.
"Excellent," remarked the math teacher. "Excellent. Class, do you all concur with Sharon? Is 'Vagina Smell' an appropriate moniker for this obnoxious prankster, since she declines to share her genuine name..."
I could observe heads moving in agreement and a few affirmative murmurs from the class.
"Come on, relax, class. None of you are in trouble. Speak up. What should we dub this revolting vagina?"
Sharon and her companion started cackling maliciously, and soon the whole class joined in. The teacher was prompting them, and within a minute, Sharon began a chant that was rapidly gaining popularity:
"Va-gi-na Scents! Va-gi-na Scents! Va-gi-na Scents!" Entirely the class was soon chanting, and the teacher, gesticulating rhythmically, encouraged them to continue as he moved to the rear of my skirt. I leaped, fearful that he would see my posterior tattoo, but more afraid that he would disclose it to the whole audience. And as I stood there trembling, he maneuvered behind me and read it aloud softly, so none could likely hear except me and him.
"Hold this up," he instructed me. "Hold it with both hands. Don't set it down."
I wavered on the balls of my feet and sealed my legs as tightly as I could, to prevent myself from urinating. Raising my skirt and baring my nude cheeks to display my grotesquely provocative tattoo, along with this action, implied that I couldn't insert my hands between my legs to restrain my pee if the demand intensified.
"Va-gi-na Scents! Va-gi-na Scents! Va-gi-na Scents!" The entire class chanted, cheering and roaring as Mr. Roberts began to strike my rounded, reddening buttocks rhythmically with the business end of his yardstick, emphasizing every second syllable with an horrifying slap. He was aiming directly at my tattoo, which coincidentally was inscribed across both cheeks, on the plumpest, pudgiest portion of my expansive derriere. Ass and tattoo were both facing away from the audience and toward the chalkboard, thus only Mr. Roberts could perceive what it said. I absorbed the impact, allowing the sensation of being swatted to envelop me, reminiscent of Ben's comfortingly commanding palm slapping me. Within this tumult of conflicting sensations, there existed a luminous aspect of perverted pleasure.
I was aware of the welts forming and the delightful arousal spreading within me, surging through me and filling my milk-engorged breasts with their own distinct need. I had been lactating frequently over the past few weeks, and I was aware of my sadistic response. The imminent rush of oxytocin could potentially induce my letdown reflex, comparable to a mother's breast leaking when her baby cries. I simply let myself succumb to it, my blushing face notwithstanding, as the class witnessed me being spanked and witnessed something even more villainous, even more unsettlingly depraved.
My eyelids flickered as droplets of crystalline tears slid down my face, rendering me vulnerable as the students re-labeled me with my sickening, dehumanizing moniker. Mr. Roberts continued to slap my buttocks in sync with their chants, "Vagina Smell! Vagina Smell!" I realized that he could be administering these merciless blows and for such a prolonged length due to my tattoo. The words "No Limit Pain Pig" were neither discreet nor ambiguous.
With intense pain infused into every part of my backside, my vaginal area was set ablaze. My breasts became engorged, and milk began gushing out of them. Gravity took over and caused the milk to seep through my thin outfit, making it see-through. The fluid traveled downwards to my wet area.
In that moment, I experienced a torturous desire to climax amongst the jeering and derisive faces. I struggled to keep myself in control but the fiery swats radiated outward to my abdomen and caused me to involuntarily gyrate. It appeared as if I was a canine humping an invisible master's leg.
The onlookers noticed. They could see the tears running down my face yet they also witnessed me enjoying it.
However, something else unexpectedly occurred. To climax, I needed friction but couldn't allow myself to reach for my skirt. Yet, I couldn't keep myself from orgasming either. My lack of control was apparent as I released my bladder's contents while seated. My shoes filled with urine, and a large, circular, yellow puddle slowly spread across the classroom's polished hardwood floor.
When I would have thought the situation couldn't escalate further, the students rose from their seats to avoid stepping into the puddle. The room fell silent after Mr. Roberts ceased hitting me and returned the yardstick to the filing cabinet.
Mr. Roberts stood up and, addressing the entire class, announced, "Welcome to Geometry, Semester Two. I apologize for the sudden disturbance during the roll call, but it seems we have a new student in here who might need some discipline. Yet, as long as she can handle the work and scores well on tests, we can tolerate her random infractions. And clean up after herself"
He gestured to the urine puddle that extended from my red, heels - closed-toed, unfortunately - which grew increasingly soaked in the fluid. My feet and stockings were completely saturated.
"Anyway, can anyone estimate the diameter of Vagina Smell's... um... stinky yellow puddle? It's difficult to assess, I know. But is there anyone skilled at carpentry?
One of the students at the back called out, "About five feet."
Mr. Roberts smiled, "That's about right. Now, if the radius is five feet, what would be the circumference of Vagina Smell's..." He paused for a moment, "...um...circle of stinky pee-pee?" I nodded. "Alright. What is the formula for circumference?"
The blonde girl named Sharon stood at attention, "Two and a half feet." She added.
"Correct!" Mr. Roberts responded, offering her a salute. He then turned towards me.
"Vagina, do you remember how to calculate the circumference of a circle?"
Despite my embarrassment, I couldn't hide my ignorance. "No," was all I could say.
"Radius multiplied by pi and times two," he wrote on the board next to the formula for diameter. He then faced me, "Vagina Smell... Let's see how good you are at geometry."
The formula: circumference = 2πr (r denotes the radius)
Couldn't I be excused from answering a math question, right now? Everyone in the class was staring at me. I was still holding up the back of my frail skirt to reveal my bare bottom, and my feet were submerged in twin baths filled with my own pee. I felt like I might know the answer to this one... "I think it's... um... isn't it Pi squared... um... times the radius? Or something?"
Mr. Roberts looked at me with a raised eyebrow. "This is a simple problem, Vagina. Do you need an extension?"
"Can I not do it in my head?" I asked with a sad expression.
"No... I think not. If you promise to clean up well during the break, I'm willing to let you use the chalkboard like a regular person." There was laughter from the back of the classroom, and the blonde athletes chortled. "Do you promise?"
"Yes..."
"All right, but keep your skirt hiked up. You can use one hand to keep it raised, or even wrap it around your waist. But please keep it elevated. I'm still punishing you for lying about your name."
I was at a loss. I couldn't let them see my "No Limits Pain Pig" tattoo.
So I decided to confess. They were going to find out regardless, I figured. "I'm actually Bethany Jane Cranston," I confessed, and the room quickly filled with animated chatter.
Unsurprisingly, the gossip had reached more people than I'd thought.
Read also:
- Criminally-Tuned Rhythm Chapter 1
- Treehouse Chapter 4
- Catastrophic Envy: Femdom's Perspective (Part 2)
- Rose and Gephard in Their Sanctuary (Part 7)
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