Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d
Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam
Approved: <usenet-approval@qz.little-neck.ny.us>
X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded <story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us>
X-Story-Submission: <story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us>
Subject: Beth The Compulsive Masturbator 3, by MrSpraycan
From: <mrspraycan.an@edtec.com>
X-Notes: Via EdTec Anon Remail Serv <infos.an@edtec.com>
X-Notes: You MUST Reply to "From" Address Above ONLY!!


Disclaimer:  Adults only, whatever that means wherever you are lucky enough
to be reading this. If you don't like spanking stories, this isn't for you.
Longer disclaimer in Pt.1.
	This item is of fictional nature. All persons and places in it are
imaginary and no resemblance to real or historic characters is intended. No
illicit behavior is endorsed or condoned. Art and/or Entertainment is the
idea.

	'Ironic Eroticist' or 'Filthy Fucker'? You decide.

	*Copyright* is claimed, 1997 by Baton Rouge ThoughtScapes, and for
the author, Mr.Spraycan, who chooses to be 'anon'. For entertainment
purposes only. No commercial use is warranted without permission.  Do not
repost. Store only with this notice intact.



BETH THE COMPULSIVE MASTURBATOR (3/3)


Beth was led into the echoing hallway outside the small waiting room. It
was near the center of the school building, and she could see down several
long corridors radiating to the wings. Every direction she looked, it was
deserted. The school choir had been singing quietly in the hall next door,
something mushy and atonal, and now the tuneless rabble struck up "Onward
Christian Soldiers," Miss Wheatstone's favorite hymn.
	It was another morning assembly humiliation, Beth realized without
any prompting. Yvette opened a small side door, one used by teachers to
access the stage, and led Beth forward, trying not to get in front of her.
Beth felt like she would faint as she was prodded up a short narrow flight
of stairs, and then -- stomach dropping senstation -- through some curtains
into the light. Now she was on stage again, like before. But not in
uniform. Just these horrid, dirty pajama bottoms, with her hands cuffed and
restrained. The hall was packed, but bright lights were directed onto the
stage from above and the sides, so the gathering beyond the footlights was
a dim blur.
	Beth stoods there, half-naked as the assembled group lurched
through another painfully discordant, bombastic school hymn. She thrust out
her stomach, praying her pajama cord would stay fastened. She wished her
nipples weren't so vulgarly, treacherously erect. Then it was prayers, a
string of announcements of class changes, and the headmistress's regular
boring lecture about whatever comes into her mind, mostly adding up to no
more than "work, pray, and keep your panties clean."
	All the while Beth was just standing there, bare-breasted in front
of 500 girls, unannounced, but definitely in the forefront of everyone's
mind.
	Then Heather Wheatstone turned to her, as if she was seeing her for
the first time. "Ah, and here's our friend Miss Higgins," she said quietly.
"I'm sure you all remember her previous appearance quite well. A girl of
very, very dirty habits. Well, as most of you will have been told, she has
totally failed to make amends. That's why she was wearing this absurd
outfit yesterday. But it didn't make her behave any better. No. So, it's my
sad duty to announce that Miss Beth Higgins is to get another spanking,
with her pants down, in front of the whole school. Can we prepare her,
please?"
	In the hall, there was bustling and excitement as the Jewish,
Arabic and girls of other religious denominations excused from assembly
were summoned from the library. They filed in, taking up what little was
left of the space. Lights were turned up to give them time to get seated. A
couple of teachers had been sent along to round up some of the kitchen help
and gardening staff, and the laundry and maintenance people. Now the huge
hall was packed to capacity, and there was an loud buzz of excitement in
the air.
	Beth was not being ignored. She had her hands unlocked, and was
required to take her pajama bottoms off herself, and to give them to the
laundry woman, who had a lot of angry things to say, things that turned
Beth's face purple with shame and made the girls who overhear it shriek
with laughter. There was a big, spontaneous round of applause, jeering and
mocking laughter as she stood there, stark naked, trying to cover her bare
breasts.
	Picture her, just for a moment: The darkened hall, the bright
stage. The dark drapes, the polished wood of the stage. Miss Wheatstone in
her dowdy tweed suit and sensible brogues. Yvette in a plain black dress.
Several other teachers, dressed in dull collegiate style. And Beth, her
naturally pale skin glowing white in the spotlights, her hair a tangled
mess, her blatant exhibition punctuated and highlighted only by her scruffy
triangle of pubic hair, her dark nipples.
	"Legs apart, Beth, and hands on your head," Yvette ordered.
	It was so hard to obey, but Beth closed her eyes, raised her hands
and clasped them behind her neck, and shuffled her feet apart. She
shivered, the tension in her body making her want to just turn and run. But
she knew that she'd never be allowed to flee. Her thighs were visibly
trembling.
	Yvette patted her backside gently: "Open wider, please, cherie.
They want to see your pussy . . ." Right below Beth, in the front row of
the hall, several of the middle-aged black male gardeners were leering
hungrily, looking up at her and licking their lips. Beth did as she was
told, and heard the growls of approval as her lower lips parted and she
showed her innermost secrets.
	Then Yvette and Angela Strabolgi took her by the arms. She was made
to bend over a spanking stool, with her bare ass facing the hall, and her
legs spread wide, showing herself in a totally unladylike fashion. Her
wrists and ankles were firmly strapped to the stool with leather
restraints. A belt was buckled round her waist by Angela, who bent close
and in a whisper teased her: "Oh, Beth! Wasn't showing off your pussy nasty
enough for you? Now I can see your asshole! Isn't that terribly rude of
you?" She was now completely helpless, and exhibited to all. Her broad
white ass was lined with fading welts from the cane, which provoked more
mockery.
	"Wasn't that enough for you?"
	"Stupid bitch!"
	"Give her more this time!"
	"She probably gets off on it!!"
	Miss Wheatstone signaled for some quiet. "You'll recall that Beth
received a dozen strokes with the paddle last time. And she has been
regularly receiving six strokes on the bare backside with a cane. So," to
mounting whispers of delight, "this time she will receive a tenfold
punishment . . ."
	Beth's hoarse "No!" was audible everywhere, and the rest of her
protest was drowned out by a wild cheering and a round of applause.
	"Quiet!" Angela scolded. Yvette slapped a hand over Beth's mouth.
	Miss Wheatstone was adamant. Loudly she proclaimed: "So that's 120
strokes with the senior girl's paddle, and 60 with a cane."
	More excited laughter, murmurs of sheer disbelief.
	Beth was stoic at first, but was soon begging, weeping, shrieking
with outrage. Twenty of the paddle, ten with the cane, alternating.
Heather, Angela, Yvette and Anthea took turns. The assembled girls calmed
down, though there was soon a rush of excitement as it was noticed that
Beth was beginning to drip. There were little sounds of repulsion, jeers,
laughter, as Beth's thighs became visibly sticky, as dribbles of milky goo
started to dangle from her pouting labia, like snot. But there was a
hushed, reverent silence in the room when the beating ended, punctuated by
Beth's deep sobs. There was quite a lot of embarassed shuffling of feet,
deep breathing, nervous looks from one girl to another. This could happen
to them, some were thinking. Seeing this was, well exciting, others were
thinking. 'What a nice bare ass,' others mused. And, 'I'm going to come!' a
few had realized, hoping not to make it too obvious.
	 When Beth's paddling and caning was finally done, the headmistress
stepped forward and bent to inspect her. She murmured to Beth: "Oh, you
little pervert! The state of your vulva! Disgusting!" As a penalty, she
pronounced herself dissatisfied with the stripes on Beth's buttocks, and
ordered another dozen to be given by Anthea, with the blows specifically
directed at the crack of her ass. Yes, she knew or had guessed what they'd
been up to. Beth was shrieking pitifully by the time it was finished. And
then, when she had stopped sobbing, and could speak again, she was
unbuckled and made to stand facing the hall. She was prompted to recite:
"I'm a dirty girl with filthy habits, and a disgrace to the school, and I
promise not to play with myself again."
	She was led, limping, to the matron's office, to have some
treatment for several cuts that were now dripping blood down her legs.

	Some lesson. But do you believe she kept that promise, even for one
day? Fat chance!

	"She's doing it again, I've got proof! Yvette swears she saw her!
We've got to go to the source of the trouble," Angela told Heather.
	"No choice, sweetheart," the headmistress agreed. "I've already
called her stepmother."
	"And?"
	"She says 'do it!'"
	Beth couldn't believe it.
	She had been summoned to the nurse's office. Ostensibly to look at
how the welts on her backside were healing -- very slowly -- but really for
something else, altogether.
 She had sobbed as she was overpowered, strapped to a swivel chair with her
legs spread and raised high, and had her pubic hair methodically snipped
and shaved off. She cried, because she's been fond of it, had viewed it as
a badge of maturity when it first grew, thick and long. Now, she'd look
like a little girl again. They shaved her mons, her lips, round her anus,
pulling and stretching to get all the last hairs with the buzzing electric
razor. A man's safety razor finished the job, exploring the nooks and
crannies they couldn't otherwise reach. Then she was smeared with stinging
depilatory. And finally waxed, and the last vestiges of stubble ripped from
her pubes. "This'll stop your filthy twat from stinking us out," she was
told.
	Oh really? It was dubious, even to Beth.
	But it got worse. She was given a disgusting-smelling vinegar
douche, and then held down so she could be scrubbed almost raw with a floor
brush and plastic pot scourer, and then a huge nylon bristled test tube
brush was used to clean her inside, followed by a flushing out with a cold
water hose.

	And did that work? No. A day or two later, Yvette caught her,
slimy-handed, in a bathroom. On her hands and knees, rubbing.

	"Back to the source of all your evil behavior," Angela said,
picking up the leather belt. Beth was trussed and strapped on a table, her
legs and arms tied under her, her hips propped up on cushions, her thighs
pulled wide. It was quite clear to her why, and she was pleading feebly.
How feebly? Well, try being persuasive with your mouth crammed full of
someone's dirty underwear. Angela was the first, but there were four or
five others there to help her. Beth's pudendum was birched, paddled and
caned until it was livid, bruised, as sore as her backside. Then, after a
break to let her recover slightly, even more so.

	They'd almost given up on gadgets, after the failure of the
chastity belt. But one of the Arab girls' mothers thought this would help.
There were smiles of secret amusement a few days later as Beth was shown
The Claw, and fell to her knees pleading to be spared it. Well, it's always
good to ask for mercy.
	You never know.
	Beth didn't enjoy her night clamped in The Claw at all. The device
was a screw clamp with sharp serrated teeth to squeeze her labia shut, like
a huge beartrap configured to seize a women genitals in a vice-like grip.
Poor Beth. She was quickly numbed, but she dribbled so much, she was glued
to it next morning, and had to be unstuck with soap and steaming hot water.

	Her stepmother had called and suggested it, they said: peer
pressure. A feeble idea, at the best of times. If two or three vicious,
whip-wielding punishers can't impress you, what will? Beth was told that a
new phase of Loss of Uniform Privilege had been mandated. Since by then,
she had become used to pajama bottoms only, she wasn't greatly worried.
	It turned out that what they had in mind was total nudity,
beginning with gym class one morning. The class had stood sniggering as
Beth was made to hand over her vest and shorts, then her socks and gym
shoes. They found it amusing to see her leaping and climbing, her breasts
bouncing, making unladylike displays of her vulva on the parallel bars,
leaping over the vaulting horse. The gym class ended with a one-mile run
round the playing fields. And Beth went out, naked like that, in the
freezing rain. Sneezing, shivering, she had been one of the first back. She
was handed over with the teachers' blessing: handed over to be mocked and
spanked by her own classmates, who dragged her with them to the showers.
She hoped they'd treat this idea with disdain. But she was quite wrong. It
seemed they'd grown tired of Beth, her constant center-of-attention
behavior, her kinkiness, her exhibitionism, her constant wanking, tired of
'that smell.'
	Because, no sooner had the doors shut than they had attacked her
like wild beasts. Her hair was pulled, her arms were twisted, she was
punched and kicked, slapped and scratched, beaten to the floor, and spat
on. They were meaner that the teachers would dare to be. She had her
nipples twisted, her tits slapped, her labia pulled, everything pinched and
prodded. Belts and gym shoes were produced, and they began to spank and
pummel her. She was suddenly grateful to have had her pudendum shaved
earlier: One girl said: "We'd have ripped it out with our bare hands, you
little scumbag . . ." She was pissed on, trampled underfoot, half-drowned
in a tub of cold water.

	Even when she crawled out of the shower room long after on her
hands and knees, black and blue, covered in scratches and teethmarks,
striped all over, sobbing pitifully and dripping snot all over herself, no
one was really convinced Beth had reformed. So, Phase Five of the Uniform
Privilege program was proclaimed.
	Ordained this time not by the teachers, or Beth's vicious
stepmother. No, the classmates got to decide this time. Deciding that
nothing else had really worked, Beth was going to be kept nude and chained
(or cuffed) day and night, for a week, and then taken like that to a social
at the neighboring boy's school that weekend. The thought of this mean and
vicious punishment had Heather and Angela changing their panties about four
times a day. What would the boys think? More important, what would they do?
	One of Beth's roommates had shrugged when asked: "Shit. Who cares
what they think? And they'll do what we say, if they know what's good for
them. Fuck her, of course!"
	Another had laughed: "You nuts? They can do what we won't let 'em
do with us, of course! She can suck them off, let them stick their dicks in
her asshole."
	And a third: "We pooled some pocket money together and bought a big
carton of condoms from the pharmacy in town, so I guess it's pretty obvious
what she'll be doing, huh? Getting herself well and truly fucked . . ."

	She never made it to that personal Calvary, though. On the first
night of Nude Week, she was aching to do herself. Laying on her mattress,
face down, humping slowly, waiting for it to get quiet enough for her to
get busy on her pussy. She was yearning for it, her clitoris throbbing. But
she didn't have to wait.
	 Why? A rescue mission? No, not quite.
	Enough of the younger girls she'd showered with had been intrigued
by her recent punishment. And bitterly jealous that the older girls had
been allowed to rough her up. They wanted to have the same privileges.
	So, around 2am, a group of about ten of them came, snuck in quietly
and got her, bodily carrying her off to the most remote set of showers,
locking doors carefully behind them. They tied her to a chair, then wanted
to see her wank, to ask her questions, to hear her talk about fucking,
licking. Seemingly innocent, they were very horny, curious young girls.
Then, they wanted to touch and smell, put fingers in here, and there . . .
It was going to escalate into pain and shame, she knew. But for now! Oh oh
oh . . . ecstasy! And then, while they were busy playing with her, rubbing
her off,  being very rough about it, in stormed Miss Wheatstone, to find
this shocking orgy underway.
	As she'd always feared, Beth had indeed corrupted the rest . . .
So, no matter how much personal pleasure it might give her to carry on
tormenting Beth, she had to let her go. If word of this got out, hundreds
of thousands of dollars' worth of tuition fees were at stake, simple as
that. And, she knew from previous indiscretions, younger girls blabber
terribly . . .

	But it wasn't quite over for Beth. The next morning, at dawn, she
was released from her detention. She'd been locked in a cupboard, wrists
and ankles bound. She was marched naked right around the school, greeted at
every step by mocking faces.
	Then, taken to the assembly hall. Not for a ritual humiliation this
time.
	No, this time Miss Wheatstone and Angela Strabolgi organized and
led her through a thorough public birching and flogging. She hung by her
wrists from a chain, feet barely touching the ground, on a tall framework,
some theatrical prop rescued from the Dramatic Society attic.
	Helpless. And they lay into her. Not just her backside, either. Her
back. Her belly, her thighs. Her breasts. Straps and crops, whips and
canes, birches and knotted ropes. Gagged, she could only weep. They kept on
till she looked sore enough -- striped, bruised, welted -- to satisfy
Heather and Angela's intense feelings. After all, it was their last chance,
and they were also angry at themselves, and so at her, for spoiling their
unfolding plans for future torments. So their session turned into a full
morning's work, and Beth suffered terribly.
	Finally, with a few good slaps round the face, Miss Wheatstone told
her: "You're a worthless slut, and there's no more we can do for you here.
This is the end, Beth. Expulsion. Take your smelly cunt somewhere else and
rub it."

	All through, knowing it couldn't be any worse, Beth was defiant,
actively excited by the attention. It hurt. But she was dripping, just
aching to get on with more masturbation. She throbbed, burned at the
thought of being made so notorious, so much the center of everyone's
thoughts.

	One teacher was dubious about the value of all this punishment. The
caning specialist, Anthea Jones. So when Beth was finally let go from her
ordeal, she was the one who got the job of driving the naked, bleeding,
sobbing, hogtied girl to the train station.
	Beth had been told she would only get her ridiculous 'clown' outfit
with its demeaning slogans to wear on the journey, and that her other
clothes would be shipped.
	Her rather fragrant mattress was going to be taken out and
ceremonially burned that night.
	Beth feared that she was in for a terrible whipping from her
stepmother, for letting it get so out of control that they had gone to the
extreme of expelling her. Why couldn't she have seduced one of these women,
or whatever? she would be asked.
	At the train station, while Beth slowly dressed in the ladies'
room, Anthea got on the phone. First, to her stepmother. Next, to some
friends. She interceded and recommended her captive for a better, more
liberal school nearby, which happily was one with lower fees. One she
planned to go to herself, for various reasons. One day, when the right job
came open. With her stepmother's approval, and a credit card number,
arrangements were quickly made, as they so easily are when money is flying.
Just a simple, 'go there and we'll take care of the details later.'
	Did it turn out to be "happily ever after" for self-centered,
self-abusing bratty Beth, then? Well, I suppose it depends on how you look
at it.
	Her stepmother didn't get told at first -- remember her prohibition
against lesbianism? Well, at least anything like that not involving her!
But, the new school was one where masturbation was not only tolerated, but
actively encouraged under some circumstances. And one when lesbian
seductions were -- still are! -- the order of the day: Yes, we're talking
about the notorious Santa Felicia of The Rosary, known the length and
breadth of New England as Sta. Fistfuckers. Dike Heaven. Or Hell, depending
on your polarity.

/ends]

	A sequel remains possible, if I hear some reader interest!

	If you want to talk to the author, in a virtual sense of the word,
send e-mail to <mrspraycan.an@edtec.com>. You'll possibly get a reply,
depending on content.







-- 
Story Submission: <story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us>
Newsgroup FAQ: <URL:http://www.netusa.net/~eli/erotica/assm/faq.html>
Archive site: <URL:http://www.netusa.net/~eli/erotica/assm/> (Not pretty yet)