[Officelover]

I didn't mean I would end it right away! Believe me, this story will continue. I just don't want to make it something years in the making. You'll get some good entries, don't worry.

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The people began poking and prodding at me, suddenly boorishly interested in my body. All of the people of the marketplace were interested in me equally, not just the men. The women giggled as they poked at my exposed skin. Most folks just touched me in few places—gave me a pinch, a poke, a prod—and walked away. Not one of them said a word to me.
The female librarian tried, maybe a little too boisterously, to get them to torture me. I think she scared them away. They didn’t leave me alone after that, but they came more hesitantly. It wasn’t until I saw a class of maybe twenty five ten-year-olds approach me that I knew my fate was sealed. Their teacher, a young, idealistic-looking woman, stood in front of me, and said, “Class, this is the Child.”
A few of them looked nervous and attempted to hide. A few of them tried to look tough and glared dully at me. “If you don’t mind,” the male librarian said, “I’d like to say a few words.” Their teacher smiled and motioned for him to go ahead. “It’s all right,” he said to the nervous ones, “there’s nothing to be afraid of. Hopefully, this will be a fun experience for you. There really is no better feeling in the world than coming home from a day of volunteering to help your community. Plus, the work isn’t too hard.”
Approaching me, he continued, “As your teacher said, this is the Child. Some of you might have heard rumors about it. Don’t worry; there’s nothing to be afraid of. It may be bad, but it can’t hurt you. We won’t let it hurt you. Your parents have to volunteer to fight this creature. They do so because they want nothing more in the whole world than to protect you. But today, we think it might be a good idea for you to learn how to protect yourself, because one day you’ll have children of your own that you have to fight for.”
One precocious girl shot her hand in the air and asked, “But how do we fight the Child?”
“All you have to do, little one,” the female librarian said, stepping forward, “is make it cry. If you can make it cry, it is said we will have a good harvest and a happy society.”
“If you can make it cry, it will be weakened,” the man added.
“Watch this,” the woman said. She found a stick on the ground, and starting whipping it against my ass. I couldn’t see her, but I could feel that stick. Of course I’d never been spanked as a child. My butt had never hurt so badly. She didn’t wait between strokes, either. She did a demonstration of twenty, in probably less than a minute. The children didn’t know how to react at first, but by the time I was howling in pain and my eyes were moistened, they were laughing hard at me.
“See, wasn’t that fun?” The woman said.
The children all cheered, and many of them asked if they could try it. Who was she to say no, of course? Five or six of the more courageous ones used the stick on me, most of them with less effectiveness than she did. One of them, the last one, really hurt me though. He was the one with the bright idea to move to a different part of my body besides the ass. First he hit my back. Then he moved in front of me, looked me directly in the eye, squeezed my tits that were hanging in front of me, and started whipping those with the stick.
He got a lot of high-fives after he broke the stick on me.
The librarians were impressed; the children had gotten some real tears out of me, and my ass was completely sore. “I think you have the idea, children,” the male librarian said, “and I want you to run wild with her for the next couple of hours. Use your imagination. Anything is possible. Your rule of thumb is this: don’t kill her, or she’ll haunt you and possess you. You wouldn’t want that. But believe me, there’s a lot you can do without her dying.”
The woman whispered in his ear. He said, “I almost forgot. Your goal is to make her look as ridiculous as possible by the end of the day. Notice how she’s already dirty? One of your classmates already took the initiative to rub poop all over her.”
The kids all started laughing at that.
“Go wild,” their teacher said.
That they did. They did not excel in pain; children aren’t strong enough, or coordinated enough to do that much physical damage. I’m not going to say I was in top-notch condition after they were through with me. I’ve suffered much worse physical torture sessions, but that was maybe the first time that the goal was to make me hurt. And they accomplished that. They made me hurt.
The children used whatever sticks they could find. They also slapped me, attempted to punch me, and they were quite good at kicking the shit out of me.
But for the most part, they were quite satisfied to focus on their task: to make me look as ridiculous as possible. The first thing they did was pick up mud, just like their friend had done, and rub it over me. They seemed to enjoy the mud, as all children do, and enjoyed lathering my back and butt with it. It was actually kind of refreshing, having a nice cool sensation after the stinging of the sticks.
Soon, they had the idea to go around to different shops and ask for their trash. They ended up with a lot of good things to humiliate me with. First, they had rotten fruit and vegetables. They used the classic rotten tomatoes routine on me, lobbing them while taunting me. A few of them squeezed the stinking juices onto my face and what was left of my hair.
One girl stuck an apple with a worm in it in my mouth, and called me a piggy. When I spit it out, she threw it hard at my face. She had yanked the worm out, and she opened my mouth for me, and plopped it in.
The male librarian said to me, “I’ll have more people rape you if you don’t chew it up.” So I did. What was I supposed to do? Some of the children were content to only throw the rotten fruit at me. Others filled my holes with various rotting vegetables. A bendy carrot got shoved up my vagina, until the boys didn’t think it was big enough, and a cucumber was put in its stead. A black banana got pushed up my asshole.
That was around the time they discovered that the old chicken-keeper had a whole crate of week-old eggs he was willing to give up. Smiling, he said to the class’ teacher, “anything for the kids.”
The ‘kids’ proceeded to smash them in my face, leaving trails of yolk clouding my eyes. They made a game out of hitting my cunt with them. If one broke in my pussy, they would get a point. I think they got fifteen points in total.
That sulfuric smell was awful.
They died down for a while after that, focusing on hitting me and other things like that, until someone got the idea to get rotten meat from the butchers, who were just going to throw it out anyway. They rubbed bloated fish on my vagina. They rubbed the beef the flies wouldn’t touch all over my breasts. They threw the corpses at me. The worst part was, they force-fed me some of the meat, uncooked and spoilt. I felt like vomiting right there. I did, eventually vomit, and some bright kid cupped his hands underneath me, and dumped it all over my head. He wiped his hands off on my tits.
From that day forward I was a vegetarian. No matter how hungry I was, I would never eat animals, because there was no real difference in eating a savage beast and those tormentors.
The fact that they then flung their own poop at me certainly helped me make the connection.