Beth Lies It

I panicked, and I would have run if I could. I was scared to death, and for a moment I could barely breathe. The two bearded guys announced the completion of their task and stepped away from the bull. And saddle, and thumbtacks. I stared at the results of their work, horrified. The tacks were oversized, decorative, perhaps a full half-inch from base to point. They looked sharp enough to pierce my soft skin, but also much thicker than needles.

But as the other two men, the ones who moments before had been dragging me on my raw ass across the parking lot, lifted me back up, shoulder height, in an effort to place me butt-first upon the tack-studded saddle, one of their hands happened to brush against my poor, leaking vulva, and it was immediately made apparent to both him, me, and everyone else in the room that this situation excited me immensely. As much as it was bound to hurt, both sadist and victim in me agreed that this was something I desperately wanted. Or maybe not wanted... but needed.

"Guys! Ha Ha! Guys, check this out! She's sopping wet!" He held up his hand to show the other men, who were streaming into the room to watch the show, his wet hand. But then he and the other guy lifted my ass up and paraded me around, held aloft with my legs splayed and my dirty red pussy on show, so that everyone could see exactly how wet I was, which was possibly wetter than I had ever been, for I could literally feel myself dripping. Everyone started laughing at me, and then the blond college kid stood up on the chair and announced "her name is Bethany Jane Cranston, and she likes this!" And he reached up and started gently pinching my nipple. The crowd was hooting and hollering, and I was blushing over my entire body, so deeply humiliated was I at that moment. The college kid said "Don't you like it, Bethany? Tell the men you like it!" And he gave my nipple a little squeeze, which sent sparks through my entire body.

"Tell them," he said, smiling at me.

"I like it," I said. I could barely get the words out, I was so ashamed.

"No, tell them, tell them for real, so they can really hear you, you dumb slut!"

Oh god I was a dumb slut, I was so dumb. Everyone knew how dumb I was, and how sick and depraved I was to want something like this.

"Tell us!" He shouted, and then he started the whole crowd chanting, as he moved his hands like an orchestra conductor and shouted "TELL US, TELL US, TELL US," The crowd joining in as the two burly men holding me ass up slapped and squeezed my inflamed pussy, showing everyone the obscene, viscous fluid that rubbed off on their hands. The college boy grabbed me by the hair and turned my face towards the crowd and whispered in my ear "You have to tell them now."

Even though the two men were not rubbing my twat with enough force nor consistency to urge an orgasm out of me, instead just grabbing at my labia now and again to demonstrate my copious secretions, I felt like I was about to come. The humiliation was insidious, and it was making me burst into a sweat, and blush like a turnip. I suddenly remembered a time when I was a little girl when I felt I had been so naughty I wanted to be spanked. And it was so hard to tell my dad. Both what I had done, and what I thought should happen to me as the consequence of my actions, it was almost impossible to open my mouth to tell him.

I had blocked this memory out until this exact moment, but as it suddenly came rushing back to me I realized that it had happened more than once, that in fact it had happened a lot of times. I was dizzy with this realization, but it freed my tongue, or, to be more precise, it freed the little girl's tongue, who spoke up, with her whiny little girl's voice, and with her lisp:

"My name is Bethany Jane Cranston." The crowd immediately stifled their murmurings, so they could hear me. "My name is Bethany Jane Cranston, and I grew up in this town, so there are people who know me, and who know my parents. And they will find out about this. They will find out what a disgusting, depraved little slut their daughter has become, and so will all their friends. And my friends, and my brothers' friends. Everyone will find out. I looked around at the crowd, grinning my depraved grin through genuine tears.

"I know, I'm sick," I admitted to them. "I'm disgusting." One tear dripped down my cheek, while my lips curled up in a huge, perverted smile. I felt like a clown.

"You got that right!" Shouted someone in the back, followed by murmuring assent. "Give the lady what she fuckin' wants!" Shouted someone else. They were angry at me for wanting it, I realized, but I could also see their erections threatening to burst out of their pants.

And then they were setting me down on the tacks. There must have been a sharp point every half an inch, and each one pierced my skin. Twenty or thirty alone for my vulva and crotch; more for each butt cheek, and myriads of others poking every which way, into my belly and thighs. And the men cuffed me to the bull, my wrists to the horns so that I would be forced to lean forward for the entire ride, most of my weight balanced on my poor pussy, making it the primary point of contact for each slamming return; my ankles cuffed with leg-irons around the bull's belly, so that my thighs would remain clutched to the sides, repeatedly impaling themselves on tacks specially positioned for them.

And then it started.

The bull lurched into action, and I immediately knew I was in trouble. This was one of those authentic, old-fashioned mechanical bulls, intended to throw full-grown cowboys off their saddles with a few wild lurches. The tack-covered wooden saddle immediately thrust up between my spread legs with explosive force, jamming probably twenty or more oversized thumbtacks directly into my engorged, leaking twat, along with dozens of others piercing my thighs and ass. I could feel a few even penetrating my ass-crack.

But this was not the worst of it: this bull was designed to throw the rider, and, being cuffed in place, I could not be thrown. And the way that it was designed to throw the rider was to thrust vehemently not only up and down, which it did quite fiercely, but also front to back, back to front, and side to side, each with the same insane force. In fact, its signature move was to thrust directly up, into my crotch, and then, at the peak of its thrust, while my poor defenseless pussy was fully embedded with freshly stabbing tacks, it would lurch forward, or backward, or to one side or the other, consequently ripping the half-inch tacks horizontally, right through my delicate girl-flesh.

Oh god and my legs were spread so wide! And the upward thrusts of the bull were so savage! Each thrust would certainly spear my outer labia in multiple places, dragging it along as it shot out forward or to the side. My outer lips were torn and mangled within the first minutes of the ride, the sadist in me reveling in the absolute horror of what was happening to me; the masochist knowing in her heart of hearts that this excruciating experience was exactly what she deserved; and the crazy, confused libidinal forces starting to respond to the pain as if it were incredible, unworldly pleasure. But another part of me knew I was being damaged. And my outer labial lips were not the only part of me that was being speared and dragged and ripped to shreds by these tacks.

The upwards thrusts were so savage and my legs were spread so wide that often two or three tacks would catch me right between my spread pussy-lips and jam their way up to catch my inner labia, which had been fried like bacon this very morning, and were essentially twin blisters waiting to be punctured and popped. And popped they were, and the pain sent me into paroxysms of insane pleasure. I was convulsing, experiencing tremors deep enough to trigger the release of both my bladder and my bowels, which I did. I was screaming at the top of my lungs, honking like a car horn in one convulsive scream after another, but the men could see I was now thrusting my distended, bloody vulva in towards the tacks.

Because I was coming. Just as I had anticipated, the pain of having my damaged inner lips speared and pierced and dragged back to front and front to back was enough to immolate the wall between pain and pleasure, and I could genuinely not tell which was which, I could not distinguish injury from orgasm. Injury was just a more intense kind of orgasm, so far as my nervous system was concerned.

And just as I was experiencing this terrible, sickening, amazing, perverse and disgusting physical phenomenon erupt from within my spasming belly, the bull slammed up into my crotch once again, right while I was slamming down, and that was when the first tack speared my clit.

Everything went silent for me, and time slowed to a standstill. My clit had been pierced right through the middle by this thick, raspy-edged tack, the entire shape of which I could feel with amazing precision. It penetrated right at the exact tip, the place on my clit that I actually avoid rubbing directly because it is too sensitive, generally preferring to stroke along the less-sensitive underside. And this particular tack was not actually that sharp: in fact, I could feel a tiny jagged irregularity on its point, almost like a barb, but not bent backwards like the one that keeps a fish hook stuck in the mouth of a fish. This barb went decidedly to the left, or to my left actually, from the barb's point of view it actually protruded to the right. And that barb made all the difference.

I don't know whether I was screaming or not, I don't know what my body was dong, other than orgasming treacherously. Every nerve in my body must have fired at once, every hair on my head must have stood on end. I'm sure a jolt of electricity shot through me and lit me up like a lightbulb, and I'm sure I looked like a cartoon depiction of such, so that everyone in the room could have seen through my suddenly transparent skin and caught a glimpse of my bones. The whole universe had become a predator and I was its ultimate victim. And finally the universe had me exactly where it wanted me, where it had been stalking me for years, and it was biting down like an alligator devouring its willing prey.

And as the bull lurched forward, the tack ripped out of me, scraping the inside of my clitoris with its treacherous, left-facing barb. It scraped me, but it did not rip my clit off, and although every single part of my vulva, my thighs and ass-cheeks, and even my tender anus was punctured and torn and bruised beyond recognition, I was not terribly damaged down there. Or, as one might say, my wounds were only skin deep. The men finally pulled the plug on the bull and splashed my bloody pudenda with isopropyl alcohol, relishing in the way it made me scream, a few of them holding my legs open just to spank my shredded cunt while I screamed at the stinging pleasure.

That's when they hoisted me once again, ass over shoulder, and carried me, still in my bloodied silver miniskirt and heels, into the main room of the bar where there was room enough for all my lust-crazed suitors to gather round, and a table just the right height so they could strap me tightly on my back, knees pulled up and wide asunder, my poor shredded vulva and burn-blistered cunt-hole exposed helplessly to receive the merciless, unrestrained pounding it so richly deserved... The pounding and raping which I, Bethany Jane Cranston of Sonora, California, so desperately and woefully craved.