Harlotsville Ch. 04

For a tool shed, it could have been worse living.

A small bunk had been fashioned out of some shelving. The walls were lined with rumpled, moth-eaten tapestries. The window was sealed tightly shut with grime, but allowed for a fuzzy view of the lakeside.

Stacks of canned goods and jugs of lukewarm water lay scattered around the corners. A wicker chair with a hole cut through its seat rested in an alcove, under which lay a shallow trapdoor latrine.

Betty was unused to sleeping in such an environment. The plank beneath her creaked with even the slightest movements. The linens itched and smelled of mildew. The large cotton ball she'd been provided for a pillow only hurt her neck, so she simply cupped her hands behind her head.

Although still quite tired, she no longer had the nerve to close her eyes; several hours ago, a strange dream had further disrupted an already fitful sleep, waking her so violently that she bumped her head. She was in no mind to revisit it. Given her situation, it just felt altogether too premonitory.

She'd dreamt of two young girls, one blonde and one brunette.

They stood facing one another, their nude bodies partially obscured by a smattering of wild greenery.

Without a word, they clasped each other at the waist. They began kissing, at first awkwardly, then with passion, their lips appearing to move in harmonious tandem.

The synchronicity of the girls' movements then started to appear unnatural and strained. Soon their mouths began fusing together grotesquely. They began to flail their arms in increasing mutual panic. Betty cried out to them, but they could not hear her.

They began clawing at one another, trying to free themselves. The blonde gripped the brunette by the temples and squeezed until her thumbs sunk into her head. Her hands melded into the fleshy cranium like clay.

Soon the two bodies were beginning to become indistinguishable from one another, a writhing mass of skin and hair. Their screams united as they coalesced, and all the while, their kiss seemed to never end...

As Betty now lay awake, she found that fragments of this dream were all too fast to return to her, dancing across the backs her eyelids whenever she dared shut them. Deciding it wasn't worth trying to sleep anymore, she rolled out of her bunk.

She rifled through her purse, finding her pocket watch. Holding it to the nascent light of dawn, she squinted and saw that it was a quarter to 6 am. Since she was an early riser anyway, she began her daily stretches.

Still in her underwear, she fanned her lissome body out on the cold wooden floor. Running through her routine, she payed equal attention to each joint, for she was in no hurry to truly begin her day.

When she was done, she stood up and walked to the window. She could faintly see where the dark blue sky met the black treetops, and she held her eyes there, patiently awaiting her fate.

"Fancy meetin' you here."

Betty gasped and swiveled around, feeling a frosty draft lick her flesh. In her stupor she hadn't even heard the door open. Was she really being summoned so soon?

"H-hi," she softly replied, swiftly turning her eyes away from Eugenia's darkened grin.

"Nice undies," Eugenia said with a snicker. "But they're a bit too dowdy for your new profession. From now on, if you're going to be selling yourself, you have to dress the part. Off with 'em, love. You won't be needing 'em."

Betty paused, then turned her back. In all her years, she'd never known Eugenia to get up this early of her own volition; even back when they were in school, the girl hardly ever came to class on time. Which made the almost giddy eagerness in her voice all the more troubling.

Betty gently placed her watch on the windowsill, and then contorted her arm behind her, unhooking her beige bra. It silently fell to the floor. She then hooked her thumbs under the lining of her plain white bottoms, and tugged them down to her ankles.

"I never get tired of seeing that plump derrière of yours, Betty. You know what I realized it looks like? It looks like an outsize peach, it does. A nice, big, juicy, clingstone..."

"Please, let's just get on with this," Betty interrupted, chagrinned by Eugenia's obsession with that part of her anatomy. She couldn't fathom what made that girl so profoundly vulgar.

She turned again to look at her captor, shielding her smallish breasts with her forearm, and cupping her other hand over her fluffy mound in a vain attempt to conceal herself.

"Oh, I see. Chomping at the bit to take that ripe arse out for a spin on the other side, then? You've always been a go-getter, I suppose. I was going to offer you some proper breakfast, but I see that can wait."

"Wait, I'm hungry—"

"You'll live, dollface," Eugenia said, unslinging the satchel around her shoulder and tossing it on the floor near Betty. "That's your bag now. Your new clothes are in there. Get dressed, I'll wait outside. We gotta lotta work to do."

Eugenia turned, clomping the soles of her dusty boots with intentional noisiness as she walked away. Betty sullenly walked to the potato sack laying half-open on the floor. She lifted it, sifting through its contents. She found a ball of unironed clothes.

Laying the clothes out on the floor, she observed her options. First there was the single black skirt she'd been provided, which was unlike any she'd ever worn. It was sleeveless, fringed and flimsy, with dramatic plunges on either side. It was also ridiculously short, being cut nearly a foot above the knees.

The undergarments were much racier than her usual fare, as well. A single pair of fishnet stockings were provided, suspended by a frilly garter belt. There were also several pairs of semitransparent underwear which, quite tellingly, had zippers running down the backside area. No brassiere had been provided at all.

There was a velvet choker with a big bronze bell on it, which she found curious and particularly disconcerting. The sequined venetian mask provided deepened her distaste even further. The heels given were a size too small for her, their design tacky and workaday, but that was her only option outside of going barefoot.

The other accessories were purely ornamental—a feather-netted headband; some cheap beaded necklaces, clunky enough to all but hide her crucifix; a dark purple scarf too thin to provide any actual warmth. She threw on every item with an increasing feeling of despair.

Once she was fully dressed, she felt more naked than before. She stepped out of the shed and into a wide open yard swarming with mosquitos.

"I never thought I'd live to see the maidenly Betty Ann Arbach stumblin' out of a toolshed, looking like a common street tart," Eugenia said loudly from some yards away.

Betty looked up, seeing the girl standing in the doorway of a ramshackle house resting on a shelf of dried mud and uncut stones. Discarded junk was densely strewn around it. Some objects appeared heavily singed. Betty only vaguely recognized the house at first, and its memory might have evaded her completely were it not for its context.

She'd visited this house only once many years ago, under circumstances she could no longer recall, though it looked much more run-down now. She could see the ill effects of time, weather and neglect across its battered wooden surface, and imagined the inside was even sadder.

"C'mon over here," Eugenia said, summoning her with the curl of a finger.

Betty ambled forth in her heels, her long legs wobbling. The wind picked up almost on cue, sending a long frigid gust that blew her skirt up high enough to expose her underwear entirely. Goosebumps rose on her skin.

As she drew closer, she noticed Eugenia was even more casually dressed than usual, unflatteringly so—a seemingly improvised dress made of undyed canvas hung about the girl's top-heavy figure like a sandwich board. Her choppy blonde hair was matted together in clumps, and she was barefoot.

She also carried a tin can which Betty could easily imagine was a pauper's donation cup, though she quickly recalled last night's conversation regarding the alternative uses of cans, and her heart again skipped.

Shaking her head as if to ward off her most bizarre thoughts, Betty composed herself and began to walk. She balanced herself against the ground, almost stumbling several times. Eventually, with some effort, she joined Eugenia on the back porch.

The ragged young girl before her pointed to a gravestone planted in a recess nearby. It was squat and blank, severely weatherbeaten, and slightly tilted. Its most prominent feature was the three-foot cross that sat atop it. Betty began to hyperventilate.

"What...what are you on about?" she asked Eugenia.

"I found that layin' around near a morgue a few months ago. Thought it looked pretty."

"You...must be joking."

"Not joking at all. Anyway, I figure every fit bird needs a perch. So that's going to be yours until lunch time," Eugenia said.

"I-I don't understand."

Eugenia dropped the tin can on the ground and punted it across the grass over to Betty. She then reached into a sleeve-pouch and pulled out a can opener, tossing it at Betty's feet.

"It's simple. See, that's your very first can of cooking grease. It's for your bum, of course. Should last you a few days down at the Easy Hole. It's good to start smaller they say, and the tip o' that stone cross is a mite less thick than your can. So we're going to start you sittin' on that, and then after lunch..."

"What?! No! Absolutely not!" Betty yelled, her fingers desperately pawing at the mess of beads around her neck as she tried to locate the small gold crucifix hidden among them.

Finding it, she squeezed it so tightly that it pricked her fingers. She gripped it ever tighter, nearly drawing blood, as if to do some small penance for the sin she was sinking ever deeper into.

"I thought you'd say that," Eugenia said. "Which is why I'm glad we still have some o' these lovely birches around. Y'see, their branches make lovely switches. And lucky for you, I've been whittling a few down to perfection on my spare time. Just a hobby of mine."

"What in the world?!"

"Why so surprised? You'll remember I've always had a thing for whips," Eugenia said with a laugh. "It'll leave a clean lash, this one. I promise," she said, lifting a very long cord from the ground which Betty had neglected to notice amidst all the other junk and foliage scattered about.

Betty screamed, losing her balance and falling to the ground. Eugenia walked to her quickly, dangling the switch in her hand.

"I don't know what kind of wisdom they imparted to you at that fancy college, but I hope you're not dumb enough to try and run. Even if you had the world's finest cleats, you couldn't outrun me and you know it," she said with a grin.

Betty knew she was right. Her own soft, pampered legs were no match for those sinewy columns Eugenia had built up. And even if she could escape, where would she run? She no longer remembered the layout of the area, and it had always been rather desolate.

"Now I'm only going to ask you this once. D'ya need to shit first?"

"What?!"

"You heard me. You're going to be corking your bumhole for a long time, so you might want to shit first. But it's up to you."

"Goodness! Eugenia, this isn't necessary! A-and it's disgusting! I can't even believe that you would—"

"Last call, love. I'd do it if I were you. Otherwise you better get your cute rump over there and start greasin' it up good. If you don't, I might have to ruin those perfect ivory legs of yours."

Eugenia raised her makeshift whip behind her head, her eyes falling on her target. "Now answer my question."

"No! No, I don't need to...do that!" Betty said, unsure of her answer. She hadn't emptied her bowels since yesterday morning, though she was fairly certain she had no mind to do that voluntarily in this sordid environment.

"Suit yourself," Eugenia said, waving the switch in the direction of the grease can. "Anyway, since you're probably tighter than a bull hitch up there, I recommend slatherin' as much oil as you can. You'll notice there's a zipper on the behind of your undies, so just zip 'em down, pop the can and poke away. You got thirty seconds."

"Thirty seconds?!" Betty yelled.

Eugenia tapped her foot on the ground. "Now it's twenty eight," she replied, yawning affectedly.

Betty scrambled to her knees, unzipping the backside of her underwear hastily. She grabbed the opener and punctured the can's lid. A bit of the viscous amber liquid inside spilled out onto the ground, smelling raw and fatty. Betty held her breath, then poured a liberal amount of the grease into her palm.

"Twenty, nineteen, eighteen..."

Closing her eyes, Betty cupped her slippery hand against the exposed crack of her bottom, but hesitated a moment.

"Wait, Eugenia...how do I do this?" she asked on her knees.

"Real simple. Remember when we used to finger paint together?"

Betty grimaced. "Uh. Y-yes..."

"It's like finger painting, only the canvas is the inside of your shitty arsehole. Now pop a finger or two up there and slick it good, Betty, because I'm still counting. Fifteen, fourteen..."

Mortified, Betty buried her head in the grass and began to swipe the cooking grease up and down the long crack of her bottom.

Her internal floodgates then slowly began to open, the crotch of her trampy underwear moistening rapidly, her small nipples tightening into pebbles. Her anus began to spasm, almost hungrily, winking of its own volition.

"Ten, nine, eight..."

Finally, Betty ventured to push her index finger inward. Her sphincter constricted defensively. Unnerved by her unforgiving time constraint, she pushed again with double the force, finding this measure incredibly uncomfortable yet necessary.

"Ugh!" she let out, her forearm tensing as her finger finally snuck past her airtight pucker. It slid up to the second knuckle and then halted.

At first she felt that familiar burn, but this time it was coupled with an electric shiver that shot up her spine and made her arch her back involuntarily.

Unexpectedly, she let out a moan. It was barely audible, but it startled her.

For whatever reason, the sensation of her finger traveling up her rear end was now providing her with an uncommon degree of pleasure—something which she hadn't anticipated in the slightest, but which now also deeply confused her. The darkly euphoric feeling seemed to grow more immense with each passing second.

Another moan thoughtlessly escaped her lips, this one louder and more full-throated. She heard Eugenia laugh at her from above, and felt deeply ashamed. Yet despite this, she could not account for her movements and actions now, which seemed almost instinctive.

Her emotions began to gray, and her principles—whatever they truly were—began to fade with each sneaking inch of her own trembling digit.

Remembering that the point of this was to coat herself, she tried to wiggle her finger around, at first finding its movement restricted by the virginal tautness of her ring. As she slid it deeper upward, however, it began to corkscrew more freely around in the broader confines of her humid rectum.

Groaning louder, she pushed her middle finger between her squirming index and the slick knot of her anus. She let out a small yelp, her eyes tearing.

This relatively quick movement didn't give her body time to adjust to the increased volume plying her hole, and so it caused her pain. But it was an oddly attractive pain, and again she found it to be necessary pain as well, so she kept her two fingers planted side by side in the snug confines of her dirty tunnel.

She remained there, panting like mad, streaking her slippery fingertips around her anus until the countdown reached completion. Her entire body quaked.

"Three, two, and we're done," Eugenia said with an amused smile on her face. "My word, Betty. The way you were caterwauling just now, I almost forgot who you were."

Betty stayed hunched over, then weakly pulled her fingers free. Her rim felt agitated and tender, yet it continued to wink rapidly.

"Now up with you," Eugenia ordered. Betty lifted herself, taking her can with her. Eugenia nudged her forward with a push, and she stood before the gravestone. She felt her heels sink into the surrounding mud, and heard parasitic insects zipping around her, attracted to her fresh scent.

"I'll be holding on to this for you for a bit," Eugenia said, taking the can from her and pouring an extra ounce of grease on the spade-like head of the large cross. Betty watched the liquid drip down the stone crucifix and shivered.

Viewed abstractly, the cross looked larger to Betty than it ever would have if she were not in this position; its flat end was roughly the width of her wrist, and despite its edges having been smoothed from erosion, its shape would still quite literally be like fitting a square peg in a round hole. But it was what she had to do.

Betty turned. She planted her hands on either side of the cool limestone behind her.

She felt the support that the arms of the cross gave as her palms pressed down on them, realizing that it could easily support her weight. And then she felt Eugenia's thick fingers pat her on the head, running through her flowing dark hair as she leaned back.

The cold stone grazed her twitching anus.

As she sat down upon the cross, she felt it nestle roughly between her plump buttocks, parting them widely as it deepened.

And then, feeling the uncompromising stone wedge itself under the weight of her own body, she cried out in exquisite agony.

To be continued...