Beth Likes It Ch 07

Ben looked up, breaking my gaze and addressing the crowd, which had now grown to about 16 men. "She won't cum unless you fuck her hard enough. That's why she is so eager for this. She may scream and cry, but don't stop until you hear her screaming in orgasm."

Ben got up and walked out among the men. I could see some money change hands. Jarvis also rose, lowering my head gently into the gravel and dirt. He was somehow involved in the financial transaction. And suddenly both Ben and Mr. Jarvis hopped in our car and drove off! I was there on the dirty ground, my ass-crack full of gravel, and my husband, or rather my ex-husband, had disappeared!

I was so confused my head hurt, but things did not stop or even slow down. Immediately two huge, burly men stepped towards me and grabbed me, each man pulling one of my feet. My silver heels matched my skirt and top, but I was covered with black dust and tarry gravel, which was hot and sharp to the touch, and a lot of it had worked its way into my butt crack already. But when the men started dragging me by the ankles, one holding each leg and keeping them spread as they pulled me along towards the rear entrance of Tito's Bar, my poor ass was becoming scraped raw, both of my butt cheeks and the whole area between my two cheeks. And the sharp, tarry gravel was building up in my crack, started to rasp and tear from the scraping. Some of the sharp rocks were finding their way into my anus, and of course some were getting pushed into my vagina, which hurt even more because of the fresh burn blisters.

At first I waved my arms around and tried to get the men to stop, but suddenly as the pain and humiliation sunk in I noticed myself responding, and that perverse, shit-eating grin returned to my face. A fresh-faced college kid was walking beside me and witnessing my predicament, and I just grinned at him and said "my ass is getting scraped up pretty bad... even my butthole." He looked at me strangely and said, "But you like it, don't you whore?" And I could not deny this. I felt very worthless, and the thought of how worthless I was made tears well up in my eyes, but I knew that the disgusting, perverted, masochistic whore who just happened to be 'me' really did deserve this, and a thousand more horrific punishments besides. From the punisher's point of view, I absolutely loved it, just like he did, just like everyone present did. There is something absolutely primal about watching a whore get punished, physically hurt and humiliated, that is very satisfying if you are lucky enough to witness it first hand.

But suddenly a light popped on in my head and I felt a kind of rush of excitement as I realized, not for the first time, that I was lucky to be the whore, the only one there with the female body to punish, because that's the only way to really know the incalculable affect of this lustful maliciousness. Everyone else was groping in the dark, trying to imagine what all this felt like to me. But I knew both sides, I knew how rough they were being on me, I knew why, I could feel every ounce of their sadistic glee; But also I could feel the results. I could feel the damage to my nerves, to my skin, to my body, and ultimately to my soul and psyche. And that was hard to bare, but it made the sadism even more fulfilling!

Even this crazy schizoid reaction of mine, of dividing into two selves, was part of the damage. The pain and degradation was twisting my psyche into two halves: part of me identifying with the sadists and gleefully embracing the harshest and severest punishments as if they were happening to someone else, while the victim part of me, wracked and twisted in excruciating pain, takes solace only in the narrative that it's really all my fault, my sin, my just desserts for opening my slutty legs to anyone and everyone who will have me.

Because of course it is I who invited this, because I am naturally subhuman, an animal, an out of control slut-whore, existing in a realm utterly beyond the reach of forgiveness or mercy. I am disgusting, beyond redemption, and should be treated accordingly.

The sadist in me is wildly enthusiastic, bonding with the men and acting in camaraderie alongside them, our joint goal being the utter destruction of my female parts, and anything else attractive or feminine about me. Destroy anything that provokes our insane lust!

And the masochist in me blames herself, utterly, and offers up her slutty vagina, her ass, her breasts, her soft mouth and every inch of her luscious female body because she believes it is the right thing to do: she absolutely deserves it, for being such a worthless, disgusting slut.

But there is a form of pleasure-seeking here as well, as the ungodly sensations, in a hormonal delirium unfamiliar to most, readily confuse pain with pleasure, and the initiated come to crave, and ultimately need and throw themselves recklessly towards any opportunity to experience the insane, irresistible pyrotechnics that can occur when pain and pleasure butt up against each other and combine.

And the physical need, the craving, has become immensely strong in me. Overnight, I have become an addict, totally out of control.

"You like it because it hurts you," said the college student, as he walked beside me. I looked up from my position, smiling perversely while being dragged along the ground, scraping my ass cheeks raw.

"Yeth," I said, my ultra-honest little girls voice popping up again out of nowhere. "I need it becauthe it hurt-th me."

"You're so sick!!" He shouted into the crowd, clapping his hands together sharply. "Do you know what they're going to do to you in there?"

"Um... Aren't they going to fuck my pussy?"

"Sure, but first...? Don't you know? Nobody told you?"

But now we were at the back entrance of the bar, and the bigger of the two guys grabbed me by my armpits and stood me up. Then we were in the back room, a sort of storage area, with boxes, equipment, and perhaps a few "entertainment" items that must have had a place in the bar in years long gone. There were pinball and video machines, a pool table on its side, but front and center was a large mechanical bull, looking like it had been pulled out this very morning and dusted off, the power cord stretching across several boxes and plugged, awkwardly, into the wall. It occurred to me that all this had been done solely for my benefit.

And two guys were working on it, standing on either side of the bull's haunches, gluing something to the wide, wooden saddle, squirting tiny droplets of something onto some sort of small objects. And as the men walked me closer to the bull, I recognized that they were using crazy clue, and that the small objects were actually over-sized thumbtacks and they were gluing them, sharp points facing skyward, all over the saddle of the bull!

"Oh my God!" I said in shocked surprise when I realized what they were gluing. The blond college kid caught my eye and snickered at me. He mouthed the words "But You Like Pain..." and shrugged. I could see he was erect. I looked around and noticed that if he was erect, so was every man in here. I felt like the wind had been knocked out of me, but also, as my "victim" side burst into tears, my "sadist" side grinned like an idiot. And my sore, gravelly pussy started copiously juicing.

One after another, the two bearded men were gluing large thumbtacks onto the bull's saddle, and there was no need for guesswork as to who was expected to ride the bull. I watched in awe as they slowly and methodically accomplished their task, the crazy glue drying swiftly as they secured each tack. There must have been one hundred large, pointy tacks glued to that wooden approximation of a bull's saddle, most of them pointing straight up, right in the middle where the gusset region of a lady's drawers might come to rest as she straddled the saddle. But many as well were located where a lady's buns may come into contact with them, as she was bounced around wildly, repeatedly lifted from her saddle and slammed back into it as the mechanical bull lurched furiously and unpredictably in its wild ride. And many along the sides too, where a lady's inner thighs might make contact with them.

But I had no underwear on. I had no gusset, nor any other material, to protect me from the terrible, extra-large thumbtacks! They would certainly pierce my delicate skin every time the bull lurched, slamming my crotch and backside repeatedly into the tack-covered saddle!