Bending: Dirty Kinky Stories About Pain, Power, Religion, Unicorns, & More

by Greta Christina

  “Now turn around again,” she commands. “Let me see your dick. Let me see you jerk off.”

  He spins around to face her, jeans around his knees, face flushed, his dick twitching of its own accord. He jams his back up against the wall, licks his hand like a dog, and begins to slide it up and down the shaft of his cock.

  A sudden flash of longing stabs into her cunt, and she whimpers and spreads her legs wider. She opens her pussy lips with her fingers and thrusts her hips toward the glass, frantic and insistent, forcing her hole into the open, trying to show him as much of herself as she can. His eyes widen as they take in her sopping wet cunt; he grips his cock with a trembling hand as she spreads herself apart and furiously rubs her swollen clit. Their eyes connect; they stare intently, flushed, shivering, mouths hanging open, eyes wide. His hand moves faster and faster; a shudder travels through his body, and he bites his lip, throws his head back, and squirts into his hand. She sees his face contort, and she cries out hard, and comes.

  They both take a deep breath and slump backward. Sheila stretches back on the grimy carpet and clamps her thighs around her hand; Henry collapses against the wall, lost in quiet bliss.

  At last he pulls his pants up, takes a handkerchief out of his pocket, and wipes the come off his dick and his hand. Shoving the hanky back in his pocket, he picks up the pad and pen. Thank you thank you thank you, he writes.

  “Jesus,” she gasps. “You’re welcome. Thank you.”

  That was real… right?

  She nods. “Yeah,” she answers. “That was real.”

  The window panel starts to slide down. Henry scrabbles through his pockets and quickly drops another quarter in the slot. The panel slides up again; he spreads his hand and shows her the contents with a sad, wistful smile. One more quarter. He drops it in and shrugs. How much time do we have? he writes.

  “About a minute,” she answers. “A little less, actually. Shit. You’d better get dressed.”

  He pulls his shirt on and quickly zips his pants. So is your name really Chloe? he writes.

  “No,” she replies. “Of course not.”

  What is it really?

  She gives him a long, clear look. Maybe I should make up a fake real name, she thinks. She likes this guy a lot; it’d make him happy to think she’d confided in him. She gazes at the floor, thinks carefully for a moment, then looks back at his face and shakes her head.

  “I’m not going to tell you that,” she says. “I’m sorry.”

  Quite all right, he scribbles. I understand. Thanks for not lying.

  “You’re welcome,” she replies.

  They stare at each other awkwardly, somewhat at a loss for words. “That was wonderful,” she says at last. “Really. You made my day.”

  He kisses his hand and reaches out to touch the glass. The panel drops down, sliding over his hand, clicking shut. “Come back sometime,” she calls into the metal plate. She presses her hands against the window, drained and dazed and a bit forlorn, hoping that he heard her.

  She feels a light touch on her shoulder. “Hey, Chloe,” Tanisha says. “It’s time for your break.” She gives Sheila a light slap on the rump. “Nice show, girl,” she adds. “Hell, you even got me going.”

  “Thanks,” Sheila sighs. “Me, too. Sometimes I really like this job.”

  “I know what you mean, babe,” Tanisha says as Sheila walks off the stage. “I know what you mean.”

  BENDING

  Bending

  She loved being bent over. More than any fiddling that might precede it, more than any fumbling sex act that might follow. The moment of being bent over was like a sex act to Dallas, like foreplay and climax blended into one swooning, too-short moment. A hand on her neck, pressing gently but firmly downward, felt like a tongue on her clit; a voice in her ear, telling her calmly and reasonably to bend over and pull down her pants, felt like a cock in her cunt.

  She always masturbated in that position. She sometimes masturbated by getting in that position and then doing nothing else. She would stand by the arm of her sofa, by the side of the bed, at the edge of the kitchen table; and she would bare her ass, slowly, and slowly bend herself over… and then she would stand there, bent over, hands on her hips or behind the small of her back, thinking. Thinking about what she looked like, thinking about what she felt like. Thinking about the feel of the air on the skin of her exposed ass. Thinking about hands on her thighs, paddles on her bottom, dicks and dildos in her asshole and her cunt. Thinking about what a dirty hungry girl she was. Thinking, until she came.

  The furnishings that crowded Dallas’s apartment would be a dead giveaway to anyone who knew what to look for. Sofas and armchairs with wide, firm backs and arms; tables and dressers that were all waist height; a small but varied collection of hairbrushes, vintage and modern. A padded table she had had made for her, its height easily adjustable so her head and torso could be raised or lowered as the mood required. It could pass for a sewing or card table. She called it the bending table. She tried not to use it too often, for fear of using up all the magic.

  It was hard sometimes. She saw a video once, where a man bent a woman over a toilet and shoved her head in it while he fucked her in the ass. She thought she would pass out. She watched the scene ten times, pale, wet between her legs, a shaking hand on the remote. She watched it ten times, and then took the video back to the rental place and never watched it again. It made her stomach hurt, the thought that this act had happened—literally, physically, factually happened—to someone who wasn’t her.

  She did have lovers. Many of them over the years. Dozens if you counted them all, more if you counted very carefully. More than one of these lovers had accused Dallas of being a black hole, an accusation she felt was deeply unfair, not to mention inaccurate. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to give anything. She simply felt that what she did have to give was sufficient. Her pain, her submission, her ass in the air presented like a jewel on a satin pillow, her willingness to do almost anything a person could do in that position… Dallas felt that all of this was a tremendous gift. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to give anything. It was that she had yet to find a lover who wanted what she had to give. She found this tremendously annoying. Hurtful, too, for sure, and frustrating at times to the point of despair, but mostly just annoying as hell.

  And the accusation—“You only like to do one thing”—completely baffled her. It wasn’t one thing, she argued to herself on her way home from a particularly frustrating squabble. It wasn’t one thing, any more than so-called regular sex was one thing. Being bent over was a whole field of things, an entire genus, with a zillion details that could vary. Wriggling and weeping versus serene submission; being gently guided to the edge of the bed versus being shoved onto the floor; jeans and cotton panties yanked down to her knees versus a flimsy skirt slowly pulled up to reveal her sluttily un-pantied bottom… these were distinct sex acts, obviously and self-evidently, as different as, say, intercourse and oral sex seemed to be for the rest of the world. The portion of the world that she’d been fucking, anyway.

  Certain details about her lovers didn’t much matter to her. Male, female, neither or both, any of these were fine. Age, race, height, weight, occupation or lack thereof, smoking habits, voting habits, all those things that kept showing up in the personal ads; none of them made much difference to Dallas. Lately, it was beginning to make less and less difference whether she even found them attractive. It was beginning to matter only whether they were willing.

  For example.

  There was Daria, the photographer. Daria loved seducing people into taking things a little too far, loved getting them to sign the release and then leading them, step by gentle step, from a tasteful, soft-focus nude session into something she’d have to take to Amsterdam to get published. She loved the blush, the not-so-reluctant reluctance, the shame and relief on her subjects’ faces at being exposed at last. She was good, and she got what she wanted a lot. And God knows she got good pictures out
of Dallas. She got a whole book’s worth of pictures out of Dallas, a book she’d have been hard-pressed to get published even in Amsterdam. But she never got the blush. She had Dallas doing things that almost made her own bad self blush, and she talked to Dallas in a low voice about how many people were going to see these pictures and know her dirty secret, and through it all Dallas just smiled, a beatific half-smile like she was gazing on the face of the Holy Virgin. Daria even got out the video camera, a last resort if there ever was one, and she told Dallas about all the filthy leering perverts she was going to sell the tape to on the Internet, and Dallas just spread her asshole wider, and smiled wider. Daria did finally get the photos published, some of them anyway, and she sent Dallas five copies of the book, and Dallas sent back a very sweet thank-you note with an order for ten more copies at the 20 percent discount agreed on in their contract.

  There was Jack. That was good for a while. Jack liked a lot of different things, but he was happy to oblige Dallas as long as she was happy to oblige him back. It was pretty damn fun, actually; he knew where she lived, so he could keep her on the hook for hours, groveling on the floor begging for his cock, smacking herself in the pussy and calling herself a cheap whore, bound on her back with his Jockeys in her mouth while he jerked off in her face and told her what a good girl she was. As long as he held out the promise of bending her over and doing things to her from behind, she’d do just about anything for him, and do it with a song in her heart. But he knew her heart wasn’t in it. He knew that all she really wanted was the bending-over part, and someone who craved it as much as she did. And he didn’t. It was perfectly fine, but he didn’t have that sort of dedication to the one fetish. His fetish was variety. And ultimately, what he wanted was someone who wanted him, someone desperate for his particular cock, his Jockeys in their mouth, someone who wasn’t just lending him their mouth as a trade-off for his hands on their ass. So the two of them broke it off. They were still friends, though, and they still did it sometimes, when her ads were running dry and his boyfriend had other plans.

  There was B.J., a butch top who’d call herself that to anyone who would listen. She loved having cute girls bend over for her, loved to beat them until they cried prettily and begged her to stop. But Dallas never would. Oh, she’d cry alright; she’d cry and whimper, scream and wriggle, yank frantically against her ropes or beat her fists on the bed. But she never asked B.J. to stop. Not once. B.J. would beat her until the welts ran together; but when she dropped the belt and sneered, “Had enough?” Dallas would inevitably draw a breath and say, “No, sir. I can take more.” Like it was a fucking gift or something. B.J. didn’t think it was a fucking gift. She thought it was a challenge, or a mockery even. The last time Dallas said it, B.J. shrugged in disgust, tossed her paddle into her bag, and said “Fine. You win.” She picked up her bag and her motorcycle jacket without another word, while Dallas stayed in position, bent over with one foot on the floor and the other splayed out on the bed, looking over her shoulder with a puzzled expression. B.J. gave Dallas one last withering look and slammed out the front door—and hovered in the hallway, waiting for Dallas to run out and call after her. She stayed long enough to hear Dallas make herself come, quickly and loudly. She didn’t stay long enough to hear Dallas pick up the phone and call Jack for a lengthy gripe-fest about asshole tricks who thought sex was a competition.

  There was Jeffrey—Jeff, Jeffrey, he didn’t care—who met her through her ad online. He couldn’t believe his luck; they’d been talking in the coffee shop for maybe five minutes when she looked him up and down and said calmly, “So if I take you back to my place now, will you bend me over and fuck me in the ass?” At first he thought it was a scam, thought her boyfriend would jump out from behind her door and mug him or something; but she sighed impatiently and said, “Fine. Your place, my place. A motel. Whatever,” and he dropped a twenty on the coffee shop table and took her to a motel down the block. And then he really couldn’t believe his luck. The door shut behind them, and she tossed her purse in the corner, jerked up her skirt, flopped over the dresser, spread her ass cheeks apart with her hands, and started begging him to stick it in. She didn’t have to beg him twice. He scrambled out of his pants, shoved a condom onto his dick, and hastily guided himself into her open, gentle asshole. He fucked her slow and sweet until she squirmed and bucked and whimpered for him to fuck her hard and fast, and then he slammed her, five or six good slams before he came. But then she started getting weird on him. She stayed bent over the dresser even after he pulled out, and she started talking about him putting things into her ass. She had some things in her purse, she said. When he went silent she started sweet-talking, saying they could do it anywhere he wanted, on the floor, against the wall, in the bathroom over the toilet seat. Her voice trembled a bit when she mentioned the toilet seat. When he stayed silent, she looked abashed, said she knew she was hard to deal with sometimes, said she could see why he might be angry, said if he felt like he had to punish her she’d understand. At which point he remembered an urgent appointment, scrambled back into his pants, and made the most graceful thirty-second exit he could muster. He wasn’t sure, but he thought he saw her reaching for her purse as he closed the door.

  There was Betsy.

  Betsy saw Dallas’s ad on the Net. She liked how direct it was, blunt, stripped down to the firm core of the advertiser’s need. (This was after months of ad-writing trial and error, but Betsy didn’t know that at the time.) The ad read simply, “I want you to bend me over and do things to me from behind. I don’t want to do anything else. If you want to do that too, let’s talk.”

  Betsy wanted to do that, too. They talked.

  “Do you like bending over?” Betsy asked. “Or do you like being bent over? These distinctions are important.” It was a weekday afternoon, and the café was empty except for a somber-looking student with a stack of physics books and the pink-haired girl behind the counter.

  Dallas considered the question. “Both,” she replied. “Mostly the second. But both are good.”

  “Over furniture? Over the knee? Hands and knees?”

  “Yes,” Dallas replied. Betsy waited, but Dallas seemed to think she’d answered the question, so Betsy went on. “Is there anything you particularly like having done to you once you’re bent over?”

  Dallas laughed and blushed, at herself and at the absurdity of the question. “Oh, one or two things. How much time have you got?”

  “Give me the Cliff Notes version,” Betsy smiled. “We can go over details later.”

  “The Cliff Notes. Well. Pain. Fucking, ass and cunt. Submission. Humiliation. Exhibition. Violation. Power and control stuff. Ummm… I think that’s most of it. I’m sure I’m missing something—”

  “Okay, I get the picture,” Betsy said. “What about punishment? Did you forget punishment?”

  “Well,” Dallas said. “Punishment. Well, sure, punishment is fine. But you asked what I ‘specially liked, and that’s not really on the list. It’s…” She grinned. “It’s just a little hard to make myself buy it. No matter how much it hurts. If I’m bent over and getting done, it’s kind of hard to convince myself that I’m there because I’ve done something wrong. But if you want to punish me, if that’s something you really like, I can get into it. Do you?”

  “I do,” Betsy answered. “It’s not, like, the only thing, but at least sometimes. So what about—is there anything you don’t like having done to you once you’re bent over?”

  Dallas smiled. Mona Lisa with a canary in her mouth. “Not that I’ve found yet.”

  She thought for a moment and went on, a bit more human. “I mean. Of course there are things I don’t like. But it… I know this sounds like it doesn’t make sense, but I like things that I don’t like. Being made to do things I don’t like. The more I don’t like it, sometimes, the better it is. It feels more…”

  She trailed off, dissatisfied with her explanation. But Betsy was nodding before Dallas had finished. “Yes. What you s
aid. It definitely feels—more.”

  They both drifted off into private reverie, Betsy contemplating her tea and a smudge on the table, Dallas gazing at a parking meter just outside the café window. Betsy pulled out first. “Limits?” she asked.

  “The usual, I guess. No scars, no trips to the hospital. Nothing permanent. Let’s see… no animals or kids. Nothing in public that could get us thrown in jail. I strongly prefer no shit play or Nazi stuff, but if that’s crucial to you, I’ll deal.”

  “The usual.”

  “Yeah. You know, the stuff most people don’t like.” Dallas paused. “Does that sound okay?”

  Betsy nodded judiciously, trying to play it cool. “Sure. That sounds okay.”

  “Just okay?” Dallas asked with a flutter of her lashes, and Betsy gave up and cracked a grin. “Okay, fine,” she replied. “It sounds more than okay. It sounds like I’ve found the Lost City of Gold. Where the hell did you come from, anyway?”

  Dallas smiled, more canary than Mona Lisa this time. “Thanks.”

  They both paused, eyes linked, awkward. “So,” Betsy said. “Yes or no? Or maybe?”

  “Yes.”

  Betsy refrained from pumping her fist in victory. “Now, or later?”

  Dallas smiled wider. “Yes.”

  So they had their idyllic interlude. All of it in soft focus, lit with an amber light at a flattering angle, with music by Burt Bacharach playing in the background.

  They played teacher and student, Betsy in glasses and a dark grey dress, Dallas in navy blue knee socks and a plaid skirt, standing and pouting while Betsy scolded her for inattention and poor study habits. The first time they played, the first time Betsy instructed her to bend over and pull down her panties, Dallas felt a hard thump in her clit, and she had to think hard and remind herself about the game to keep from grinning. She bent over the makeshift desk and pulled her white panties down to her thighs, slowly, making a show of shyness and reluctance. The words “bending over and pulling down my panties” rolled through her mind like the sound of a river. She savored the words, the moment, the image of the scene that she had in her mind, while Betsy smacked her bottom with a thick wooden ruler and made her recite the multiplication tables. When Dallas made a mistake, Betsy got out the metal ruler—one stroke, hard, for each mistake she had made so far—then returned to the wooden ruler for a steady, rhythmic smacking, while Dallas sniffled and started over from the beginning. Dallas liked this game—the fifth time they played it as much as the first, although in a different way. She loved how easy it was to make it go on. All she had to do was forget what nine times eight was.