(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.
