Harlotsville Ch 06

(c) Embers

The commotion at the top of the stairs was fast becoming thunderous, vibrating the walls that surrounded Betty.

She could hear the thumps of heavy boots, and the guffaws and hoots of men who sounded nearly as agitated as they were happy. With a biting prescience, the expression "thrown to the wolves" dashed through her mind.

The frameless mattress rumbled underneath Betty's legs. Her rear end hung halfway off its side as she balanced herself with her palms against the floor, bearing down on her grease can.

She'd been sitting this way for nearly an hour, with the can now almost entirely buried in her rectum. Although the rim of her sphincter was already raw from a full day of preparation, she knew the worst was to come.

She looked at her watch. 10:56 pm. Leaning to one side with the can still planted inside of her, she grabbed the gin that Eugenia had left for her, remembering her advice: "It's going to hurt in the morning either way, so you may as well be drunk."

Although Betty had only drank alcohol a handful of times in her life, she did not hesitate to swig liberally from the sour bottle now. It was the closest thing to an anesthetic she could find.

10:59. She pulled herself up from her can, hearing it slide free from her distended port with an echoic "thunk," and put on her glittery eye mask. She then removed her dress, folding it and placing it neatly in the corner.

Now topless, she held her pocket watch at a distance, looking at her dim reflection in its crystal. She barely recognized herself. Her hair had been mostly lopped off, replaced with a jagged shingle bob of Eugenia's design. Her dark purple lipstick looked garish in contrast to her pale skin, making her appear bloodless. And that devilish eye mask...

Suddenly she heard three rapid knocks. This was only kind of knock she had been instructed to answer. She felt faint with fear, but she knew that there was no escape now.

With shaking limbs, she pulled the long rope that lifted the oak latch from the door. Still holding the rope, she then positioned herself as she'd been instructed, with her elbows and knees on the mattress, her head down, and her bottom up high.

"C-come in...big boy," she said with a timid voice, shutting her eyes tight. She heard the door swing open, and then the sound of dramatic panting. The door then slammed shut. She let go of the rope, and the latch fell back into place with a loud thwack.

"Look at me," the man behind her began, sounding manic. "You look at me when I walk in the room, understand? Daddy's going to teach you...he's gonna teach you a lesson..."

Betty turned her head to look back at the man, noticing first that he was rather obese, short, and sweaty. As he hastily began to disrobe, he also revealed himself to be extremely hirsute, with brownish hair sprouting so densely across his chest and arms that it almost resembled a second shirt.

Betty felt sick to her stomach again, but she somehow managed to conjure a smile for her customer, which he responded to with visible enthusiasm.

"That's right. You know you want it, you little tart. Daddy's got what you want..."

Betty wished dearly that the man would stop saying "daddy," mainly because it reminded her if how far away in both body and spirit she was from her real father and his teachings. Even as she tried to justify that she was doing all of this for his sake, the tightness in her nipples and the new wave of wetness forming at her crotch told a different story altogether.

The man pulled his trousers down, then his briefs, kicking them aside as he continued to mumble crude perversities. Betty had never seen a penis before in her life—she'd heard them analogized, described, and even illustrated in a text book, but seeing one up close shocked her.

On a scale, the man's member was quite small, extending only a bit longer than one's middle finger, though it frightened her all the same. Especially because she knew where he intended to put it.

"They call you Butthole Betty, do they?" the man asked, furiously pulling his stubby red penis with his fist.

"Backdoor...Backdoor Betty," she corrected, wondering why she even bothered to. Her name didn't seem to matter. All that mattered was what the man's eyes were focused on. He stared at her big round backside with smoldering eyes.

"Backdoor Betty," the man repeated, further pleased. "That's what daddy calls his girl. You're daddy's girl, aren't you?"

Betty winced and clenched her teeth. "Yes," she said with tight-lipped reluctance.

"That's right," the man said loudly. Without hesitation, the man mounted her, his clammy hands gripping her hips. She lowered her head again, hoping the man didn't want her to keep looking back at him. Thankfully, he now seemed thoroughly distracted by her ample rump.

Feeling the alcohol kick in, she felt inspired to spread her cheeks apart for him, exhibiting her round pink anus. It gaped open about the size of a dollar coin, the interior deep and black.

"Lordy!" the man exclaimed, momentarily entranced by her open portal. "I've never seen a tart open her asshole quite like that. No wonder they call you Backdoor Betty," he said gleefully, diving into her.

She gasped as she felt the man effortlessly slip through her rear port. With a laugh he began prodding her anus with his squat prick, his flabby hips ramming into her vigorously.

After an initial twinge of discomfort, an oddly pleasurable sensation began blossoming in her bottom. Soon she found that each successive jab brought tiny shards of shameful pleasure, surging up her rectum like electric shocks.

"D-don't stop, please don't stop," she blurted tipsily.

"You're daddy's favorite," the man grunted, grabbing her doughy thighs so tightly that they nearly bruised. "Tell daddy he's your favorite!" the man commanded, smacking her bottom as he continued to bore her anus.

"Y-you're my...favorite, daddy! Pack your...daughter proper! G-give it to me straight up the wazoo!" she let out, slurring her words slightly.

She gripped his penis with her ring tightly. The man immediately ejaculated inside of her with a roar, then fell to her side on the mattress, breathing heavily. His eyes were rolled back.

A few moments later, the man had dressed himself back up. He did not speak, nor did he look at her. Huffing, he reached into his pocketbook and thew a wad of dollar bills at her, then lifted the latch with his hands and left the room.

Betty could smell his rancid, alcohol-soaked sweat lingering on her body. She drunkenly gathered the money and tucked it away in a pouch under the mattress. She then took a few more hefty swigs of gin, and lay flat on her stomach.

The room started to subtly spin. She could not think of anything but preparing for her next encounter now. There wasn't time to think of anything else. The next knock was only seconds away. And when it came, she pulled herself back up and positioned herself as before.

Three knocks. She reached out, pulling the rope again to unlock the door. She looked back, her voice now adopting her role as full-heartedly as she could, and she mouthed the words:

"Hi there, big boy..."

The next few hours became a blur of flesh and fluid, moans and curses. By closing time, nearly every man in the pub had made use of Betty's martyred anus. Yet now in her drunkenness, she couldn't recall most any of them.

A few men who had presented themselves early enough in the night managed to stand out—there was the lanky bald fellow who claimed to be a prize fighter; there was the hideous fogey with the bent penis who paid extra to have her twice in a row; there was the fast-talking Irish grease monkey who repeatedly offered in vain to buy her in full for a sum of one hundred dollars.

Ultimately, she knew she would not remember any of them tomorrow. All she would feel was the aftermath of their collective visitation.

The room continued to swirl around her as she lay dazed on the mattress, guzzling the dregs of her bottle in the hopes of staving off the residual hellfire building in her abused rectum. And then she heard the final knock of the evening.

One, two, three.

The knock had an unusual insistency and force to it that alarmed her, even in her dizzied state. With bleary eyes, she struggled up to her knees, crawling across the sex-stained mattress to the hanging rope in the corner. Weakly, she tugged it down.

The man who walked in was accompanied by Eugenia. He was extremely tall and lean, roughly in his early 50′s, and had a complexion the shade of gunstock. He smoked a fragrant cigar and his wide-brimmed hat cast a shadow over his rugged brow.

"We're already settled up, so she's all yours, sailor," Eugenia said to the man, rubbing his toned arm. She walked past Betty, reaching under the mattress and grabbing the pouch of money underneath it.

Flipping through the dollar bills with a squint, Eugenia summoned her limited arithmetic skills to tally Betty's spoils. Finally sure of the sum, she grinned.

"Well, well, Backdoor Betty. I'd say tonight was a great success. Includin' this fine chap who is going to have a last go at you, we've already made $465 off your sweet arse. You're just about halfway to freedom, I'd say. Give or take."

Betty said nothing. She merely wheezed and straightened her eye mask. Eugenia laughed to herself, then walked back to the door.

"Oh, and Betty, one note about this last john of yours. His name's Cleese, an' he's an...old friend o' mine, so give him a good ride. Think you'll find 'im a bit challenging, but at least he weren't yer first," she added.

Betty found something strange about the way the man looked at her, but she was too stuporous to conclude anything meaningful, so she just nodded. Eugenia left the two of them, closing the door behind her.

Cleese took his time. He untied his leather shoes with the casualness of someone preparing for a dip in the pool.

He unhurriedly stripped the socks from his feet and unbuttoned his white dress shirt. He gently placed his hat upon the previously unused rack in the corner.

Looking around the room, he took notice of the large quantity of cigarettes littered about the floor, and seemingly in response, he dashed his cigar, carefully placing the stub in the wastebasket.

In silence, he dressed down until only his briefs remained. Betty's eyed widened as his crotch came plainly into view. Even through the white cotton cloth of the man's underwear, she could see that he was uncommonly endowed, and she now had real experience to measure it against. She decided to try and make this go as quickly as possible.

She grabbed her can of cooking grease and reapplied her lube with three greasy fingers. Then, getting back down on her knees and elbows, she stuck her round bottom in the air and swayed it back and forth. "Come n' get it, baby," she said, reaching back to pull her cheeks apart.

"Ugh," Cleese grunted, turning up his nose.

"Whass'...what's th' matter?" Betty asked, looking back at him in confusion.

"Looks like they did a real number on you," Cleese said with concentrated acridity. "That stinkin' asshole of yours looks like an open sewer."

"Wh-what...?"

"It's wide enough to drive a horse and buggy through, that's what. You sure you're good for another lay?"

Betty was taken aback by the contempt in the man's voice, as well as embarrassed by his observation, but her lack of sobriety smoothed it over enough for her to stay focused.

"I'm...I'm good, baby. I'll jazz you good, promise..." she said, weakly flexing her slack, sloppy anus. The man grumbled under his breath, then pulled down his underwear.

Betty eyed the man's dusky, pensile member with legitimate worry. Pulled free from his briefs, it swung almost halfway down his leg, looking very much like a fully-grown aubergine in shape, length and girth. Making matters more troubling, it was not yet even erect.

Betty remembered Eugenia's harrowing encounter with a "lout with a monstrous prick" and wondered if this were the man she spoke of. Could Eugenia be that sadistic as to subject Betty to the same fate as her? Or was this yet a different man of such punishing substance? Betty could not tell, and thinking about it any more deeply only made her headache worse.

"That's right, baby. Cram my caboose with that jumbo cock," Betty said with ragged vocal chords.

"I see. They put you to to talking a lot of whore jive, huh? How old are you, anyway?"

"Uh...twenty-three on Tuesday," Betty mumbled earnestly.

"I see. Well you're a real filthy girl for your age, ain't ya? A real tart," The man said, tugging at his massive penis.

"Y-yes," she said, wiggling her plump bottom. "C-Cornhole me good, baby. I need that big prick straight up my backside."

Hearing this, Cleese's penis swelled to nearly double the size in a matter of seconds, becoming so thick that his grip could no longer fully encircle its circumference. Betty remained spread open on the mattress, beholding the rapid tumescence of Cleese's root with sustained concern.

"C'mon boy, pound my rumble seat...proper," Betty added, hoping that her unfamiliarity with the parlance of her new profession wasn't becoming too obvious.

When he was fully erect—which created the effect of a man with a bludgeoning instrument rising between his legs—He came and stood above her. As he yanked his shaft, Betty could hear the rhythmic slapping of his foreskin as it rolled over his bulbous knob.

"So, Backdoor Betty. You only take it up the keister, eh? Any reason for that?" the man said with slight suspicion. Although the eyeholes of her mask limited her plane of vision, Betty managed to turn her head to look back at him. When their eyes met, she again found something about the way he looked at her peculiar.

"Eu didn't tell you? I'm a virgin," she admitted with a hiccup. "But juss 'cause you can't drop it in that slot doesn't mean we can't have a good time..."

"Huh. Twenty two years old and still a 'virgin', eh? What's your real name?" The man asked interrogatively. His penis was now so stiff that the veins across its swarthy surface stood out in sharp, shiny relief.

"Wha? Thass' my real name, silly," Betty replied with a nervous laugh. "Now come on, pack my...my poop chute!"

"Ugh. Wretched wastrel," the man growled, pouncing on her. He grabbed her around the ribs and dove forward, pressing his fleshy root squarely into the dark, greasy ravine between her buttocks. At first, her body tensed, unable to accommodate this abrupt introduction.

With a careless jab of Cleese's hips, however, the head of his penis caved her rubbery sphincter inward, and with yet another, bypassed it completely. Betty cried out in severe pain; even the hours of training did not prepare her for an object of this size.

"Oh God, sweetie, please, slow down—"

"Shut your pie hole and open your corn hole," he said, smacking her left rear cheek with savage force. The ear-piercing crack resonated throughout the small room, as did the second, and the third, as the man repeatedly spanked her.

She began to shriek in torment as he bottom went beet red. She felt the greater half of his penis slide up painfully deep, stretching the walls of her inflamed canal.

With another charge of his hips, Cleese buried the full extent of his large member inside of her, and he began to pummel the bend of her colon. Betty found this absolutely agonizing; it was truly unlike any sensation she had ever experienced, and it was a pain that simply could not be masked with alcohol.

She began shrieking like a dying animal, tears streaming down from under her eye mask. The battery deep within her back-tunnel grew to a heated pace, pushing the limit of her bowels almost to breaking.

He brutally sodomized the poor girl in this wanton manner for several long minutes, ceaselessly and with sadistic vigor. Soon her reddening rear bounced freely against his sweaty testicles.

Loud, squishy flatulence then began to escape her slackening sphincter with each perforation. Uncontrollable expulsions of anal gas quickly rose to Cleese's nostrils, and he wretched.

"My lord. Farting, now? What's next? Can you help it?"

"Oh God, mm, 'm ss...sorry—" Betty blurted, feeling acid well up in her stomach.

"Jesus, you're a wreck," Cleese spouted as he rocked her back and forth beneath him. "Eh, it doesn't matter. I'm going to finish now before you surprise me with anything else. Now snap your asshole, Backdoor Betty. I'm ready to blow."

Betty tried her best to squeeze her hole, finding her ring of muscle unresponsive, and her attempts only created louder flatus. "I said, snap your asshole, girl!" Cleese ordered, thwacking her ivory bottom again with an open palm.

She cried out, frustrated with her inability to accommodate his wishes and hasten this ordeal. She prayed to God under her breath, pleading dearly for this to be over.

For some reason, the man suddenly slowed his movements and became very quiet. Halting completely, he began to grumble to himself. It appeared that he was distracted by something.

She opened her mouth to dirty talk him some more, but she caught the man's face out the corner of her eye again.

He was staring at the crucifix dangling amidst the beads around her neck. There was a smoldering look behind his eyes as he focused on it, and Betty felt a new kind of fear.

"You whore..." he began, the hands on her thighs now trembling. "You dirty, filthy..."

The man grabbed her gold necklace and tore it off. Shocked, she turned around to face him.

"How dare you wear this," he said with flickering lips. "How dare you..."

In that moment, something inside of the man switched. Before Betty could react, he struck her in the face with the back of his hand. The blow landed with restrained force, but it was enough to send her rolling off the mattress and to the cold floor.

In a flash, he was on top of her again. He wrestled her flat, holding her at the wrists and bearing his weight down upon her, and then flipped her over on her stomach. She could not believe what was happening.

"A godless tramp like you doesn't deserve to wear the cross," the man yelled. Betty struggled, flailing her legs screaming for help. She called Eugenia's name, over and over, but no one came.

"No one will help you!" the man said with a maniacal grin. "No one..."

He pinned her until she exhausted what little energy she had, and then he grabbed the cross, pressing it deep between her tensing cheeks. She bleated, twisting and writhing as she felt grubby fingers stuff the necklace up her twitching anus.

"Now to shove this cross so deep up your ass that you'll always have Jesus in your heart," Cleese said with a quivering laugh that Betty would not soon forget.

He plunged back into her, his penis splitting her thick rump in half as it slid through her distended ring. He then resumed his rapid-fire assault on her bowels with increased enthusiasm.

The excessive alcohol in Betty's system was also having its way with her, and she suddenly felt another wave of acid build up in her gut. As it quickly rose upward, she realized that she was about to throw up. As the man continuously packed her rectum, she heaved, vomiting all over the floor.

He pushed her head down into the putrid puddle, smearing her shiny dark hair in the hot yellow muck, then her face. He began mumbling what sounded like jumbled words of prayer, and finally he shook with that degree of intensity Betty knew meant he was about to orgasm.

"Lord please forgive me...Lord please forgive me..." the man repeated over and over in a long monotone blurt. Finally he erupted in Betty's swollen rectal cavity, shooting a hefty load of hot semen up into her colonic depths.

She twisted, scraping her forehead on the rough wooden floor, and her eye mask came askew. With another squirm, Betty managed to pull herself from under him, but this also sent her mask flying completely off of her face. She tried to stand, stumbling about the room in confusion, before falling back down a few feet away.