Beth Likes It Ch 13

The following week I still smelled like vagina, but Jarvis had taken extra precautions to make sure I didn't wet myself in class: he had super-glued my urethra shut. And of course he had sent me to class in a state of extreme over-fulness: I had been forced to drink many cups of coffee and drink nearly a gallon of his particularly sour lemonade. Additionally, I had not been milked all day, and my lactating breasts were achingly full and swollen.

I arrived at class five minutes late and the class was jam-packed. There must have been 15 students who hadn't been there the week before, most of whom were seated behind the last row of desks, or to each side of the desks, on the floor with their books in their laps and their backs leaning heavily against the walls. There was absolutely nowhere left to sit.

I walked in and just stood there, unsure what to do. Class had clearly already begun.

"You're late, Vagina Smell," said Mr. Roberts. "And it seems you didn't take my advice about the hygiene thing. Did you at least bring your homework?"

"No," I said in a small voice, already feeling ashamed. Somehow I hadn't realized we had been assigned homework. In my memory, homework was rarely assigned on the first day of class.

"I see," said Mr. Roberts, a snarky, condescending tone overtaking him. "But perhaps you are already familiar with the material. You 'tested in' to this class, did you not?"

"I, -- uh, -- actually I took 'geometry one' at another school." I was still standing near the doorway, uncertain where I was supposed to sit. I could feel everyone's eyes on me, which was natural because today I was dressed even more outrageously than last week, in a silky red rayon top and matching mini, and I was already bouncing around on the toes of my six inch heels, "doing the pee-pee dance"as my mother used to call it.

"So this is just a refresher course for you?" Asked Mr. Roberts.

"Um... I hope so," I mumbled uncertainly.

"Come over here," instructed Mr. Roberts. "Let's see if you can handle a problem from last week's assignment. "That's right, approach the board. Good girl." Mr. Roberts gave me a little swat on the fanny as I passed him. I turned towards him involuntarily, surprised that he would be so bold so early in the lesson, and in front of all the new students who had not been here last time. He just smiled at me and handed me a piece of chalk. "Approach the board, Vagina."

"Isn't that Bethany Cranston?" Asked a male voice from the back of the room, obviously one of the new students. My reputation had preceeded me, and I wondered if all these additional students had signed up for geometry just to witness my humiliation.

"Yes Brian, this is Bethany. But in here we call her Miss Vagina Smell, for obvious reasons." He crinkled his nose and the whole class seemed to break out in giggles.

I had to pee so bad I couldn't think about anything else, but being on the spot like this was already making my nipples swell, and it was a problem, because my sheer rayon top was cut in such a way that the fabric would literally dangle from the points of my nipples when erect, not to mention that I could feel the silky fabric sliding against them. Of course I hadn't been allowed a bra... nor panties for that matter. And as the entire class zeroed in on my blushing face and protruding nipples, which jiggled as I shifted my weight from one foot to another, I could feel my stinky twat begin to moisten.

"God she really does smell," I heard a woman in the back say quietly.

"Vagina! Yes you!" Mr. Roberts addressed me tersely. "This is a second semester course, so you should remember the Pythagorean Theorem. I know you missed last weeks assignment, but this part of it should have been pure refresher. Nothing new." He picked up his infamous yardstick and slapped it against the desk. "Can you please write the Pythagorean Theorem on the blackboard?"

I turned towards the board. My skirt, which was also made of clingy, silky red rayon, was so short that I was concerned the lowest inch of my bottom cheeks might be showing. Stepping up to the board I felt their cool silkiness slither against my ass and I knew that I was fully covered, but just barely. Facing the board, I squeezed my eyes shut as hard as I could, willing myself to remember the Pythagorean Theorem. I knew it, I remembered the name of it, I knew it had something to do with triangles.

Everyone was staring at my ass, I could feel it. Everyone had heard of my obscene antics in Tito's Bar. Everyone had probably heard about my outdoor lavatory habits, how each morning I was led by Jarvis on my red leash and collar out to the yard to squat and pee in front of our gossipy neighbors. And I had to pee now, so badly I couldn't stand it, I could absolutely not keep from revealing my state of need by dancing from one foot to the other, even jumping slightly on the balls of my high-heeled shoes. And of course they had heard about my accident last week, the disgusting puddle I had formed right here in class!

"I know this one!" I blurted out.

"Oh wonderful, Vagina. I think everyone in this classroom knows the Pythagorean Theorem. It's a very basic formula, and we went over it last semester, as I believe every geometry class in the country probably did. The Pythagorean Theorem is quite definitely first semester material. And it was part of your homework. So I would be quite appreciative if you would go ahead and write it on the board." Mr. Roberts slammed his yardstick on his desk with a loud clack.

"I know it," I said more quietly. I was uncontrollably squeezing my legs together and starting to do these awkward half-squats, up and down, up and down. I looked ridiculous, and I was worried my skirt would be riding up to show off the lower edges of the letters of my rear tattoo.

"Vagina?" he asked.

"Yesss?" I was too embarrassed to face him.

"Do you have to go to the bathroom?"

I didn't know what to say. I had to go worse than ever. I was about to burst, except that I couldn't burst because my urethra was super-glued closed. I couldn't possibly tell him that, so I just stood there, facing the board, trying to focus my attention on the math, which was seeming more like a hopeless task with every passing moment. Crazy shivers were starting to pass through me as my bladder threatened to cramp, or to spasm, or I wasn't quite sure what.

"Bethany Vagina Cranston," the geometry teacher said more loudly, an angry tone creeping into his voice. "I do not want you to pee on the floor."

"I won't," I squeaked. That was the one thing I was sure of, that I was not about to let loose with a stream of urine. Not like last week. Jarvis had made sure of that. But now I was crying, and I was absolutely drawing a blank.

"Good. Good Miss Vagina, I'm glad to hear that. Because I was beginning to think we'd have to change your nickname to 'Puddles.'" The whole class broke out in laughter. "Oh, wait," said Mr. Roberts, and quickly lunged past his desk, grabbing something from behind the filing cabinet.

It was a large pointy cap, very tall, gray except for five white letters arranged vertically down the front of the cap. My eyes were too teared up to read them, but it didn't take a genius to figure out what the letters spelled. He held it up for the class, and they sniggered nervously. "Dunce," I heard the more outspoken of the two sportily dressed blond women say. I recognized her voice from last time: Sharon. "It's a dunce cap."

Mr. Roberts spoke. "You don't actually know the Pythagorean Theorem, do you, Miss Vagina?"

I didn't say anything.

"Well, then please stop holding up the class. I'll give you one last chance." He set down the cap and picked up his yardstick from the desk, swinging it experimentally through the air two handed, like a baseball bat. I could hear it's swishing sound. "I'm gonna assume you've been lying about your qualifications for this class. And that you've been wasting our time, making us wait as you wiggle around for us in front of the chalkboard, without writing anything on it." The class was hushed, except for the two girls, who were giggling. "I think I have adequate reason to believe that you deserve a spanking. And your reputation suggests that spankings are your preferred form of punishment. Is that not so?"

I couldn't say anything, but I couldn't deny it either. This situation was getting to me, and although it was excruciating on one level, on another I was beginning to feel strangely excited by it. Of course I was! In fact, as I was beginning to understand what was happening to me, I felt my coochie overrun and begin to dribble, in fact I could feel the air conditioning against the sudden slippery dampening of my inner thighs.

"Is that not so? Is spanking not your preferred form of punishment?" repeated Mr. Roberts. "You have to say it."

I had heard that phrase before, from Ben: "You have to say it." Ben says that to me all the time. I ran the phrase over again in my mind, wondering how or when Mr. Roberts might have heard it. Oh my God! Suddenly it hit me... Mr. Roberts had been talking with Ben!

"You have to say it," he repeated robotically.

"Okay," I admitted. "Yes. Yes, spanking is my preferred punishment. Please spank me." The class was giggling quietly and my cheeks were as red as crab apples, but if Mr. Roberts was a surrogate for Ben, I was going to obey him. "Yes, I like to be spanked. That's what I like." The whole class broke out in uproarious laughter, but Mr. Roberts shushed them.

"Okay then. At least you are honest. Good girl." Sharon and Nadine, the two sportily dressed blondes who had been seated behind me the previous week, were the only ones still giggling. Everyone else wanted to hear.

Mr. Roberts continued. "I am going to spank you until you have drawn a 'right triangle' on the board. Heaven help you if you cannot remember what a 'right triangle' is. And please, do me a favor and draw the vertical leg shorter than the horizontal leg. You know the difference between 'vertical' and 'horizontal' don't you?"

"Yessss" I whispered.

"I bet you do," spouted Nadine. The class murmured, one boy in the back offering a low wolf whistle.

"About midway up the vertical leg, draw a lower case 'a'. And about midway along the horizontal leg draw a 'b'. And draw a 'c' along the hypotenuse."

"What?" I asked. I couldn't quite remember what a "hypotenuse" was, but he didn't acknowledge my question.

"Raise your skirt," he said. "I need an unobstructed target. You can just tuck the hem of the skirt into its waistband."

He was asking me to reveal my tattoo. He knew what he was doing, because he had seen it last week. And last week, he had given me a choice whether to reveal my real name to the class, so everyone would know that I was the nasty slut from Tito's Bar, *or* I could let them see my tattoo. But this time there was no choice involved. Everyone was just going to see it.

I was conflicted, and part of me wanted to run out the door, to run far away, far as possible from this horribly debasing situation. But of course part of me wanted all this, part of me wanted nothing more than to be seen, even by these arrogant young college students who would barely know what to make of me. They would be disgusted, but some of them would also be excited. Some of them were already becoming erect.

And of course, as was the point of this particular tattoo, they would all be *permitted* to hurt me. And that thought took my breath away. And for one tiny moment I forgot how badly I needed to pee.

I reached back and raised the hem of my skirt. I swear I could hear the whole class gasp, as they read my "label":

NO LIMIT PAIN PIG

"Pig is right," I heard Sharon say to Nadine. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed our mild-mannered math teacher beginning to wave his hand, rhythmically. He was playing the part of an orchestra conductor, just as he had last week. The blondes were the first to catch on, chanting in rhythm, "Va-Gi-Na Smell! Va-Gi-Na Smell! Va-Gi-Na Smell!"

Then the other students who remembered this from the week before started chanting, followed by the newbies as everyone realized what was happening and decided they wanted to be part of it. Especially if I, Beth Cranston the incorrigible town slut, the sick-in-the-head NO LIMITS PAIN PIG, was inviting them.

"Va-Gi-Na Smell! Va-Gi-Na Smell! Va-Gi-Na Smell!" shouted the whole class, as Mr. Roberts began laying into my bare bottom with his sturdy yardstick. As the class chanted, our math teacher kept time with his ferocious swats.

I didn't move until he had swatted me at least fifteen times. For some reason spanking has a very hypnotic effect on me, and I can't explain it but although it stings like sitting on a beehive, I can barely seem to get enough of the sensation. I always remember Ben's iron hand coming down on me, and I am always reminded that my whole body, my whole being, is really nothing more than one giant, swollen ass, even my pussy and my breasts, and even the cheeks of my face are all meant for slapping and spanking, anywhere, any time and by anyone who feels the inclination. I am truly nothing more than an ass for men to hurt, as Ben has made me realize so clearly.

So it was very hard for me to pull my mind back to the present and make the drawing that Mr. Roberts had instructed me to make on the chalkboard.

The chalk he had handed me was blue, and I kept dropping it on the floor. Each time I bent over to reach it I could feel my wet pussy poking out between my legs, and of course Mr. Roberts would aim directly for my puckered little twat. But I straightened back up each time and continued my drawing.

Finally I was done. My ass was red and swollen like a beach ball, and I could feel my skin stretched tightly over my pudgy cheeks. My pussy was churning and grinding against the air, and my bladder felt like it had also been spanked. I looked over at the teacher, and he caught my eye and glanced over at the board.

"Did I do it right?" I asked breathlessly.

"Of course not, you sick little clown," and he turned me to face the class. "Can anyone tell Vagina Stink here what she did wrong?"

The whole class burst out laughing. "That's an isosceles triangle, not a right triangle!" squealed Sharon, several students parroting her in their mirth. "What a retard," I heard one of the boys say from the back. "What a total fuckin' retard."

Mr. Roberts picked the dunce cap off the desk and gingerly placed it on my head. As the class sniggered and whispered horrible things about me, he held up a large eraser from the ledge of the chalkboard and held it in front of my mouth. I realized what he wanted me to do so I did it, I opened my mouth as wide as I could so he could shove the chalky eraser inside, and I clutched it there in my teeth, pressing my knees together as the urge to pee swelled up in me again. Then he led me up to a high stool at the edge of the chalkboard and had me climb up into it. "Spread your legs," he whispered into my ear.

And I did.

And the entire class was staring openly at my sopping wet pussy, as I sat there with the chalky, thick eraser stuffed in my mouth and the tall, pointy dunce cap perched on me like an obscene crown. And I realized that I loved this.

I loved it more than anything, more than being spanked even. No... not more... in fact being spanked, and spanked hard had to be part of it, but this was even more wonderfully devastating, to be spanked until my ass was on fire and then perched up here on the high stool, a whole room full of beautiful, judgmental young students staring at my leaking twat, my blushing face, and my empty, inane head filled with nothing but perverted longing, nothing remotely useful like the Pythagorean Theorem. I was too daft for that, too daft for college in general... the teacher was right about me, I was, in fact, stupid. I was a clown. I was an imbecile. I was a dunce, and I absolutely deserved to be treated this way.

I felt wonderful as Mr. Roberts continued preaching to the smart kids about geometry. Everyone was listening and understanding every word he said, while simultaneously finding time to glance over and stare at me, at my red flushed face, my pert nipples making twin tents of my flimsy red top, and glancing down between my legs which I held as wide as I possibly could so that everyone could see how disgustingly, drippingly wet all this was making me.

But it didn't last. At first I felt a wonderful fire enveloping my entire pubic area, "from wuzzle to thatch" as my mother used to say. But then it became obvious the heat was originating in my bladder, which had become rock hard, and I could feel it start to tremble.

And the general trembling of my rock-hard bladder became less generalized and more specific, and the trembling became acutely painful as tiny sparks started flying every which way, tiny horrifying spasms that were beyond anything I had ever felt. They were amazing, they were intoxicating, and they made me want to be slapped with a wonder bar right on my swollen cooch. I felt like someone was fucking my pee-hole with a cattle prod, and it hurt so exquisitely my eyes rolled back in my head, and I started bouncing up and down on my stool. My bladder was spasming wildly, and by the time Mr. Roberts noticed I had already fallen off of my stool onto the floor.

Several boys were lifting me onto Mr. Roberts' desk, and someone was asking me what was wrong, and somehow I sputtered out the message that I needed to pee. But no one was laughing now, and Mr. Roberts was saying, "pee? just pee! it's okay!" And Sharon was gently massaging my spasming bladder.

"I can't" I said, and Nadine brought her face really close and asked tenderly, "why not? Why can't you pee?" And somehow I communicated to her that my urethra had been sealed with superglue.

"Oh you disgusting pig!" Shouted Mr. Roberts, taking several steps back and excusing himself from the situation. But Nadine understood it to be a medical emergency and did not back away, and Sharon, the very one who had delighted so intensely in my outlandish humiliation, suddenly got a bright look in her eyes, and asked "is it super-glue?"

"Uh-huh," I squeaked, and she dived into her purse, coming up with a half-empty bottle of nail-polish remover. "This is acetone!" She said. "This will un-stick her!" Mr. Roberts looked back at us and said "Wait!" But the girls weren't listening to him, and I think one of their football playing boyfriends actually held him back.

Nadine twisted the cap off and held my swollen, runny twat wide open. Somehow Sharon had also come up with a Q-tip, and she drenched the cotton swab with acetone and shoved it, full-force, into my gluey little pee hole. She had to work it several times, pouring and re-submerging the Q-tip in acetone, shoving it and sawing it in and out of my my flaming hot pee-hole while Nadine and her boyfriends grappled with my arms and legs, trying to keep me still.

Nothing had ever hurt so much, not the brutal whippings, not the hot oil, not even the mechanical bull when the barbed thumbtack had pierced my clit.

But it worked. Sharon pushed and twisted and sawed the acetone-drenched Q-tip right through the gluey blockage of my sealed urethral opening, and all at once the damn broke wide open.

Pee went streaming out like a geyser, spraying straight up into the air in fountainous bursts and raining back down on Sharon and Nadine's heads, soaking all three of us. I felt so relieved I couldn't speak. I was immensely grateful, but I was so embarrassed I couldn't articulate my thanks, and now I had covered both of them with pee. I started crying, thinking they would be mad at me, that they would be more than disgusted with me, they would really hate me. I thought they would regret having saved me from this injury, and the thought made me sob as I lay there on the math teacher's oaken desk. The boys were still holding me down, and I didn't want to escape I just wanted to apologize. My bladder had entirely stopped spasming, and I was sure it remained undamaged, but I knew I had had a close call, perhaps a very close call. The Acetone was burning like crazy, but somehow, even through my tears and sobbing, a tiny part of me was enjoying the sensation, and a tiny part of me wished they would punish my wayward pussy by pouring the rest of the bottle down my snatch. I certainly deserved it.