Bethanys First Night In The City

Bethany Mae's flip-flops slapped against the grimy pavement as she hauled her glittery pink suitcase off the Greyhound bus. The city's air hit her like a wall--hot, thick with exhaust and the greasy tang of street food, nothing like the grassy sweetness of her hometown's hayfields. She stood there a moment, mouth agape, blonde ponytail swinging as she tilted her head back to gawk at the neon signs flickering against the dusk. "Lordy, it's like Hollywood!" she squealed, loud enough that a guy selling knockoff sunglasses nearby shot her a look. Her outfit screamed small-town clearance rack: a rhinestone-studded tank top spelling out *PRINCESS*, a denim skirt barely long enough to cover her underwear, and a fake leather purse slung over her shoulder, stuffed with crumpled dollar bills and a half-eaten pack of Starburst.

She didn't notice the stares--never did. At eighteen, Bethany was all sparkle and no sense, a girl who thought the world worked like a rom-com montage. She'd come to the city with a dream of fame--modeling, acting, maybe singing if she could learn a song that wasn't a church hymn. Craigslist had been her guide: "MODELS WANTED: NO EXPERIENCE, JUST VIBES!" and "PAID AUDITIONS: OPEN-MINDED GIRLS WELCOME!" She didn't know what "open-minded" meant, but it sounded like her. She was open to anything if it meant a shot at the spotlight.

The Starlite Inn was her first stop, a budget hotel she'd found online with a listing that promised "cheap rates!!!" and a string of heart emojis. The lobby was a dim cave of peeling wallpaper and buzzing fluorescents, the carpet sticky under her shoes. Behind the counter, a guy named Rick--his name tag said so--barely glanced up from his phone. He had a goatee that looked like it was glued on crooked and a smirk that didn't reach his eyes. "Room for one?" he asked, voice flat, though his gaze lingered on her thighs.

"Just me!" Bethany chirped, digging through her purse for a wad of singles and a crumpled ten. "I'm here to be a star--modeling, mostly, but I ain't picky!" She giggled, twirling her ponytail. Rick slid her a key for Room 108, muttering something about checkout at eleven. She didn't catch the way his eyes flicked to a guy leaning against the wall by the vending machine, or the subtle nod they exchanged. Bethany was too busy imagining her name in lights.

"Thank you kindly!" she called over her shoulder, dragging her suitcase down the hall. The wheels squeaked, and the zipper was already splitting, but she didn't care. This was the start of everything.

Room 108 was a shoebox with a sagging mattress, a TV chained to the dresser, and a carpet stain that might've been coffee--or worse. The air smelled like old cigarettes and regret, but Bethany didn't notice. She kicked off her flip-flops, tossed her purse on the bed, and flopped onto the scratchy comforter, staring at the water-stained ceiling. "This is it," she whispered, her voice trembling with excitement. "Bethany Mae, big-city girl."

Her phone buzzed--a text from her cousin Jenny: *u make it to the city? don't do nothing stupid.* Bethany grinned and typed back: *I'm here!!! Got a fancy hotel and everything!!!* She didn't mention that "fancy" meant a flickering lightbulb and a bathroom door that didn't lock. She wasn't worried about money (she had $43 left) or safety (strangers were just friends she hadn't met). All she cared about was fame, the kind she'd seen on TikTok: girls going from gas stations to red carpets, all because they smiled big and said yes to the right people. Bethany was good at saying yes. Always had been.

Back in her hometown--a nowhere place with one diner, one church, and a gas station that sold warm beer--she'd been the girl everyone knew. Not for smarts, bless her heart, but for her eagerness. She didn't think of it as being taken advantage of. She thought of it as being *wanted*. It started in junior year, behind the old grain silo where the older guys hung out after Friday night football games. They'd park their pickups in a circle, crack open Bud Lights, and call her over from the field where she'd be giggling with her friends. "Bethy, c'mere!" they'd holler, and she'd skip over, her sundress flapping, thrilled to be noticed.

The first time was with Tommy Ray, a linebacker with a buzzcut and a grin like a fox. He'd leaned against his tailgate, jeans unzipped, his 8" cock out, and told her to "show him what she's got." She'd never done anything like that before, but Tommy didn't wait for her to figure it out. He grabbed her ponytail, yanked her head down, and shoved himself into her mouth so fast she gagged, her eyes watering as he thrust without mercy. Her knees scraped the dirt, her jaw ached, and when he finished, he didn't pull back--he held her there, making her swallow while she coughed and sputtered. "Damn, Bethy," he'd laughed, wiping her chin with his thumb. "You're a natural." She'd smiled, cheeks burning, thinking it meant she was special. Why else would he pick her?

After that, it was like a dam broke. Tommy told his friends, and soon half the guys in town knew Bethany was game for anything. By senior year, she was giving blowjobs like they were handshakes--rough, sloppy ones that left her throat raw and her mascara streaked. She didn't mind the roughness; she figured it was just how guys showed they liked her. Like the time Clint, Tommy's cousin, had her in the back of his Chevy after a bonfire. He'd been drinking, his breath sour with whiskey, and he'd pushed her face down so hard she could barely breathe, her nose pressed against his sweaty skin as he rutted into her mouth. When he came, he didn't warn her--just held her there, laughing as she choked and drooled. "Good girl," he'd said, and she'd beamed, wiping her mouth, thinking it was worth it for the praise.

It wasn't just blowjobs. The guys got bolder, and Bethany, eager to keep them smiling, went along. One night, after a kegger at the quarry, Clint had pulled her behind a rusted tractor and told her to "try something different." He'd bent her over, yanked her shorts down, and taken her ass from behind, rough and fast. When he was done, he'd turned her around, still panting, and told her to "clean him up." She'd blinked, confused, until he guided her head to his softening cock, still slick from being inside her anus. The smell was sharp, musky, and the taste made her stomach lurch, but he'd groaned so loud when her tongue touched him that she kept going, licking every inch while he petted her hair and called her "perfect." She didn't love it--her cheeks burned with shame--but she loved how happy it made him. Wasn't that what mattered? Making people feel good?

Then there was the rimming. It started with Bobby, a mechanic who'd fixed her mama's car for free. He'd caught her alone at the gas station one night, offered her a ride, and ended up parking by the creek. "Wanna make me feel real special?" he'd asked, spreading his legs mid-blowjob in the driver's seat. He'd guided her confused face down, past his balls, to the hairy, sweaty skin of his asshole. She'd froze, her nose wrinkling at the smell, but he'd coaxed her, saying it'd be their secret, that she'd be his favorite if she did it. So she did--tentative licks at first, then deeper as he moaned and gripped her hair. It felt wrong, dirty, but his praise was like honey: "Ain't nobody better than you, Bethy." After that, she did it for others too--Tommy, Clint, even a guy she barely knew at a party. Each time, she told herself it was okay because they wanted it, and she wanted them to like her.

The public stuff was worse, though she didn't see it that way. At the county fair, a group of guys had dared her to flash the Tilt-a-Whirl operator for free tickets. She'd giggled, yanked her shirt up, and bounced on her toes as they cheered, her bare chest catching the carnival lights. The operator, a grizzled man with missing teeth, had winked and let her ride all night. Another time, at a barn party, they'd bet her a six-pack she couldn't streak across the field in just her panties. She'd done it, tripping over dirt clods, her skin prickling in the cool air as they hooted and filmed her on their phones. The videos spread--Snapchat, group chats, even to kids at school. Her mama screamed at her, called her a disgrace, but Bethany just shrugged. "They're just having fun," she'd said, believing it. "I don't mind."

In her head, it all made sense. She wasn't forced--not really. Nobody held a gun to her head. She could've said no, but why would she? Saying yes got her attention, got her liked. The guys weren't mean, not in her eyes. They laughed with her, bought her sodas, told her she was pretty. Sure, sometimes it hurt--like when Tommy slapped her face mid-blowjob to "keep her focused," or when Clint made her drink his piss in the woods "as a joke" and she gagged on the bitter warmth--but that was just part of it, wasn't it? Love wasn't always soft. She'd learned that from her mama's boyfriends, from the way men yelled and grabbed and took what they wanted. Bethany figured she was giving them what they needed, and in return, she got to feel wanted. It was a fair trade.

Now, in Room 108, she peeled off her clothes without thinking, a habit from home where she'd strip down after a long day to "let her skin breathe." Naked, she sprawled on the bed, scrolling through her phone for more casting calls. "EXTRAS NEEDED: FUN ATMOSPHERE!" one said. She didn't know what "extras" meant, but it sounded exciting. She was halfway through typing a reply when a knock at the door made her jump.

"Who's there?" she called, sitting up, not bothering to cover herself. Modesty wasn't her thing--back home, she'd skinny-dip in the creek with whoever asked, thinking it was just "being free."

"Yo, it's Mike," a guy's voice answered. "Saw you in the lobby. Rick said you're new, figured I'd say what's up."

Bethany's face split into a grin. Friends already? She bounced off the bed, her bare feet slapping the carpet, and flung the door open without a second thought. Mike stood there, mid-twenties, with a backward cap and a vape pen tucked behind his ear. Behind him was another guy, taller, with a scruffy beard and a beer can sweating in his hand. Both froze, eyes widening at the sight of her--buck naked, blonde hair spilling over her shoulders, her body soft and unguarded.

"Hi!" she chirped, oblivious to their stares. "I'm Bethany Mae! Y'all wanna come in? I got, like, some candy if you're hungry!" She stepped back, gesturing to the bed where her open suitcase spilled out glittery thongs and a bag of Skittles.

Mike recovered first, his grin turning sharp. "Candy, huh? You're real friendly, ain't you?" He stepped inside, his buddy following, the door clicking shut behind them.

Bethany didn't notice the way their eyes roamed, or how Mike's hand brushed his pocket like he was checking for something. She was too busy thinking how nice it was to meet people so soon. Back home, she'd won folks over with her smile and her willingness to do anything. The city couldn't be that different, could it?

"Tell us about you, Bethany Mae," Mike said, dropping onto the bed, his sneakers still on. "What's a girl like you doing all alone in a place like this?"

She giggled, plopping cross-legged on the floor, her nakedness forgotten. "Oh, I'm here to be famous! Modeling, acting, maybe some music videos if I'm lucky!" She launched into a story about home, about the "photo shoots" she'd done in barns and backseats, about how she'd learned to make guys happy and how it always felt like a step toward something bigger. Her voice bubbled with pride, her eyes bright, as if every humiliating act was a badge of honor.

Mike listened, his smile growing, his questions sharper with every word she said. Bethany didn't see the danger. She never had. All she saw was a chance to be liked, and that was enough.