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

by Greta Christina

  Dallas sniffled, and nodded, and burrowed her face into the pillow to get back to sleep. She woke one more time to feel Betsy sigh and get out of bed; she immediately flipped over and buried her face in the pillow. She raised her ass a few inches, screamed two muffled screams, and then nodded quietly and shivered herself to sleep.

  Day Two:

  Dallas slept late that morning, and Betsy was already up and dressed when she woke. “Morning, cupcake,” Betsy said. “You up?” Dallas nodded sleepily. “Okay, then,” Betsy said. “Let’s go.”

  She started rummaging in Dallas’s closet, pulling out an assortment of outfits and laying them out on the bed. “Let’s start with this,” she said, and handed Dallas the flippy black skirt, the black lace panties, and the push-up bra. Dallas dressed in a hurry, and stood still while Betsy looked her up and down. “Lovely,” Betsy said. “Damn.”

  She led Dallas to the end of the blue sofa. “Let’s start here,” she said. She pressed Dallas between her shoulder blades, bending her over the sofa’s wide, generously padded arm. This was one of Dallas’s favorite places; it felt impetuous and slutty, and at the same time completely comfortable. She pressed against the upholstery with a sweet familiarity. Betsy took her time, pressing her down slowly with one hand while she pulled up Dallas’s skirt and pulled down her panties with the other. She held Dallas there for a long moment. Then she spoke. “Alright. Now straighten up and cover yourself.”

  Dallas flinched, startled and disappointed. What the hell, she thought. That was such a good beginning. Did I do something wrong? Where is she going with this? She hitched up her panties and let her skirt fall back down, staring at the floor with a puzzled frown. Betsy took her hand, gave a reassuring squeeze, and led her over to her kitchen table. She suddenly squeezed harder, twisted Dallas’s arm behind her back, and gave her a hard shove, snapping her over the table. She jerked Dallas’s skirt up and her panties down, then grabbed her other arm, pinning them both behind her back. Dallas sighed, and struggled against Betsy’s grip, trying to arch her back and raise her ass in the air. Betsy dug her fingers in and pressed down harder, tightening the grip on Dallas’s wrists and pressing them into the small of her back. Then she let go, suddenly. “Pull up your pants, and stand up,” she said.

  Dallas complied, more confused than before. She followed, bewildered, as Betsy led her back into the living room and stood her in front of the leather armchair. “Kneel in front of it,” she said. “Bend over it. Pull your skirt up and your panties down, and then rest your hands on the cushion.”

  Dallas smiled. She was starting to get it. The moment of being bent over, the few seconds in which she moved from standing tall to lowering her head and offering her ass, those few seconds felt like the Assumption of Mary into Heaven. And they never lasted long enough. As passionate as she was about the position of being bent over, and all the things that could be done to her there, her obsession with the act of being bent over was even more overwhelming. And she had never once gotten enough of it. But now Betsy was going to give her that moment, over and over again. Dallas knelt in front of the armchair, submissive, grateful, and very slowly began to bend over into the seat. She pressed her breasts into the leather and began to pull up her skirt, sliding the hem of the silky material over her thighs and slowly up to her waist, vividly aware of how she looked. She knew that the contours of her bottom were visible through her lace panties, temptingly revealed and at the same time coyly concealed. She stretched and arched, and felt her flesh swell against the thin fabric. She hitched her thumbs into the waistband of her panties and began to slide them down, paying careful attention to every inch of skin she exposed to her lover. When she had pulled her panties all the way down to her thighs, she placed her hands on the cushion, rested her face between them, and waited peacefully.

  Betsy watched her quietly for a moment, then spoke. “Okay. Get up. Let’s try a costume change. The hot pants, I think.”

  Betsy didn’t even bother pulling Dallas’s hot pants down. She just bent her over the back of the faded maroon love seat, then made her stand up and do it again, watching the curve of her cheeks bulge out from the bottom of the cheap shiny fabric. She made Dallas stand up and do it again, this time kneeling on the floor to bend over the coffee table. Then another costume change: she put Dallas in the plaid skirt and knee socks, and bent her over the computer table, stern and severe. Then over the ottoman, sweet and nasty. Over the blue sofa again, this time in a long full skirt and no panties, with a good five minutes to pull the skirt all the way up. Dallas was getting dizzy. The slow rhythm of being bent over and straightened up, bent over and straightened up, made her feel like she was getting fucked; but instead of each stroke lasting a few seconds, each of these strokes lasted a minute or more, and the whole thing was taking hours. She felt like she was being fucked, not in her cunt or her ass, but in her brain, and in her bones and muscles. Betsy raised the bending table up to its highest height and bent Dallas over it, her jeans and cotton panties pulled down to her ankles. She made Dallas get up, lowered the table an inch, and did it all again. Another inch, and then again. And again, until Dallas had been bent over her beloved table at every possible angle. Dallas was weak with gratitude.

  When the table was at its lowest point, Betsy held Dallas over it for a long minute, letting Dallas linger on her precious magic object, letting her feel it at its most humbling angle. She then pulled her up abruptly and dressed her in a tight black ultra-short minidress, white lace panties, and black pumps. She dug a large handbag out of Dallas’s closet, and started filling it with junk: lipsticks, compacts, condoms, keys to old apartments, loads and loads of loose change. She zipped it shut and handed it to Dallas.

  “We’re taking this show on the road,” she said. “We’re going to the mall. When we’re there, I’m going to give you a signal, and you’re going to drop this handbag and bend over to pick it up. You’re going to keep your legs straight and bend at the waist, unless I tell you otherwise. You’re going to do it as slowly as you can without it looking suspicious, and you’re going to straighten up slowly. And you’re going to do it as many times as I tell you.”

  Dallas’s stomach dropped through her shoes. Her wobbly-kneed gratitude blew away like a candy wrapper, rapidly replaced by stubbornness and fear. She did not want to do this. She not want to do this. As much as she loved giving it up, she was something of a control freak about it, and this felt out of control, the real and scary kind, not a rollercoaster but a car wreck.

  She shook her head firmly. “I don’t want to,” she said.

  “I know,” Betsy replied. “Let’s go.”

  “Please. No. I really, really, do not want to do this.”

  “I hear you,” Betsy said. “You really do not want to do this. Now let’s get going. You can take a minute if you want, but unless you’re calling your safeword, let’s go.”

  Dallas was silent on the short drive to the mall. She was alarmed to the point of passivity, and disappointed and pissed in the bargain. Just a few minutes ago she had been relaxed and high and totally sunk into her body, and now she was clenching her fingers and grinding her teeth. She looked over at Betsy, who was driving calmly if a bit too quickly, smirking at the road like it was telling her a dirty joke. It occurred to Dallas that Betsy was getting off on her discomfort, and she hunched her shoulders and glared out the window in dramatic despair.

  Betsy patted her knee. “Remember our first date, honey?” she asked.

  Dallas nodded, and continued to glower out the window.

  “Remember that thing you said, about liking to do things you don’t like?”

  Dallas looked at Betsy suspiciously, and nodded again.

  “So quit sulking,” Betsy said. “Get into it. Submit to my all-powerful will, or something. Revel in the depths to which you will sink to satisfy my debauched whims. And do it fast. We’re here.”

  Dallas lowered her eyes and nodded. Her irritation ebbed off a bit, leaving room for a clean
, simple fear. They pulled into the parking lot, and Betsy kissed Dallas’s hand. “You’re on,” she said.

  They walked into the mall, Dallas willing herself to put one foot in front of the other, stiff and self-conscious, her gaze darting around her and then returning to Betsy’s hands. They wandered for a bit, Betsy giving Dallas time to adjust and settle in, or perhaps giving her time to get even more wound up. They were in front of the shoe store when Betsy gave her signal, a discreet hand gesture, and stepped back a few feet. Dallas closed her eyes, and dropped her handbag.

  She was completely conscious of her body. She knew how her calves looked in the black pumps, how her thighs looked disappearing up into the short black dress. She hung on to this anxious self-awareness, used it to remember Betsy’s precise instructions and force herself into them. She kept her legs stiff, arched her back as she bent over like she was at a yoga class. She could feel her tight dress riding up. She knew that her panties were peeping out from under the hem, the curves and shadows of the bottom of her ass clearly visible through the white lace. She picked up the handbag and stood up slowly, keeping her back arched on the way back up, waiting until she was upright to pull at the hem of her dress. It was over in less than a minute.

  She took a deep breath. That wasn’t so bad. She was still here, still breathing. She looked around anxiously; she thought she saw a couple of guys hastily look away, but she couldn’t be sure.

  Betsy strolled over to her and guided her down the promenade. “That was delightful,” she whispered in her ear. “A lovely beginning.” She stopped in front of the record store, stepped back, and gave the signal again.

  The second time was a little easier for Dallas. The third time a little easier still, and the fourth. Her body was falling into its new habit, obeying her a bit more smoothly. And it was also getting harder each time. As her body relaxed, she could feel what it was feeling more clearly, and she was increasingly conscious of where she was, and who, and why. She was exposing herself to the world, inviting complete strangers to look at her ass and see her true nature, and it was for real, not a masturbation fantasy, not a game at a sex party. It was excruciating… and it was why she was here, not just here in the mall, but here in the world. Each time she bent over, each time she forced herself to ignore her instincts and obey her lover, she felt a warm rush swelling high inside her belly. She dropped her purse again at Betsy’s signal, and let the resistance and humiliation engulf her.

  It was just getting easier for Betsy. Betsy stayed alert and self-contained, keeping her breath even and her hands in her pockets. She repeated her signal every five or ten minutes, sometimes watching Dallas as her skirt rode up over her panties, sometimes watching the shoppers as they stared at her girl. She thought that mall security might be onto them when she kept seeing the same guard over again, but when she saw the glassy look in his eyes and his gaze hovering around Dallas’s midsection, she stopped worrying about it. She could see Dallas blush as she bent over in front of the pretzel stand, and felt her own pussy tighten in her jeans. She strode over to Dallas and took her by the arm.

  “Now unzip your purse,” Betsy commanded. “Dig around in it, fix your lipstick or something. Don’t zip it again.” Dallas complied, puzzled, and Betsy continued. “The next time I signal you, drop the purse. Be sure to drop it upside down, so the stuff gets scattered all over the floor. Then get on your hands and knees to pick it up. Keep your knees apart, and keep your back arched, and wiggle your hips as you crawl. And take your time. I want you on the floor for a good two minutes at least.”

  Dallas stared at her in dismay and disbelief. She started to speak, saw the resolve and the greed on Betsy’s face, and closed her mouth. Her dismay deepened when Betsy stopped in front of the busy sports bar, stepped back several yards, and gave the signal.

  Dallas took a deep breath, and upended her handbag onto the floor. She saw the keys and condoms scatter a good twenty feet away, and cringed, and dropped to her hands and knees. She tried to block out the mall, the bar, the sound of footsteps and the fountain, but blocking out the world just made her that much more conscious of herself, her body. She could feel her dress riding up as she crawled and squirmed, not just showing a tantalizing glimpse of her panties and the bottom of her butt, but slowly riding up over her hips. She desperately wanted to yank it down, to snap her legs together, to give herself some reprieve from the free show she was giving. She could feel the hem of her dress inching up over the curve of her ass, her cheeks pressing into the lace, and she knew that her ass was on display, not naked but as good as naked, in some ways better than naked. Her pussy was wet, and the panties were thin, and she was convinced that the dampness was showing through. She felt that if she pulled her dress up to her waist and her panties down to her knees, she couldn’t be offering a clearer invitation. She could see the shoppers and the barflies out of the corner of her eye as she crawled, some glancing at her and then jerking their gaze away in embarrassment, some glancing away and then peeking back surreptitiously, some staring as openly as they could get away with, eyes wide open, disbelieving in their luck. She looked up at Betsy, and saw her face, greedy, breathing hard. She could see that Betsy wasn’t done yet. She deliberately knocked the condoms across the floor; she scrabbled after them, and saw Betsy shudder.

  Dallas was still on her hands and knees when Betsy raced over to her and helped her up. “Let’s go,” Betsy said, oblivious to the furtive crowd that had gathered, or maybe just not caring what they thought. She grabbed Dallas by the elbow, hastily led her out of the mall, and drove them back to Dallas’s place like a bat out of hell. She slammed the door shut behind them and shoved Dallas forward onto the hallway floor; Dallas was practiced in catching a fall by now, and she scrambled into position, knees and face on the floor, back arched, thighs spread. Betsy dropped her keys and lunged. She grabbed Dallas’s pussy and began mauling her, pinching her clit, grabbing her lips in a handful and squeezing like a vise, shoving her fingers inside her sopping hole for a few quick jabs and then smearing her juices onto her lips. They both came within minutes, Dallas whimpering and licking the floor, Betsy jabbering an incoherent stream of dirty talk.

  That night Dallas awoke with a jerk, thinking she’d turned over onto her side again. Startled and sleepy, she realized that she was on her belly and that Betsy was caressing her ass. “Go back to sleep if you like,” Betsy said. “I’m just going to use you for a minute here.” Dallas lay still, half asleep, as Betsy straddled her ass and started idly masturbating. Dallas pushed her ass up to reach her lover, but Betsy shook her head and pressed her hand into the small of Dallas’s back. “Stay put,” she said. Dallas was wide awake by now, but she held very still, stifling her moans and keeping her squirming in check, as Betsy ground her pussy into Dallas’s ass, and fingered her own clit, and made herself come.

  Day Three:

  Dallas slept like a rock that night, a rock with strange, intense dreams. Betsy shook her awake, much earlier than Dallas was ready for, and led her, sleepy and protesting, to the shower. “In,” she said. “Elbows and knees. Face away from the faucet.” Dallas complied. She was still groggy, and the blast of warm water did little to wake her up. Betsy’s soapy hands on her body were soothing, the shower massager was comforting and familiar even as Betsy directed it away from her torso and focused it between her legs. Dallas had dreamed about sex all night, dreamed that she was bending over the toilet at her office and masturbating, dreamed that her ass was being spread open by invisible hands and fucked by an invisible cock, and now she had a soapy hand on her breasts and a steady thrumming of water on her clit and her asshole. It didn’t seem all that different. She noticed Betsy eyeing her watch, filed it in the things-that-will-probably-make-sense-later file, and forgot about it. She opened her legs wider to the spray of water, and came like you come in a wet dream.

  Betsy handed Dallas a towel and hustled her out to the bending table, tapping her fingers as Dallas dried off and bent herself over. She pulle
d a chair up next to the table, and sat, and waited. Dallas waited with her, still a bit sleepy, puzzled but patient, happy to be bent over the magic table, wondering idly what was coming next.

  The doorbell rang.

  Dallas woke up, very suddenly, very thoroughly.

  Betsy bounded to her feet and gave Dallas a reassuring pat on the butt. “Back in a sec,” she said. Dallas froze, anything but reassured, as she heard the front door open and a clatter of voices and feet pour in. “You better have coffee, Betsy,” one of the voices said. “Only you would schedule a gang bang for ten A.M. on a Monday.” Dallas stayed frozen, all her senses on high alert. She kept her eyes focused straight ahead, her ears tuned to the murmuring in the kitchen. She heard a familiar voice among the chatter. “Hey, pumpkin,” Jack said.

  Dallas relaxed. Jack was here. She’d be okay. She smiled up at him as he took her chin in his hand. “It’s good to see you, pie chart,” he said. “It’s been ages. Sheesh, you get a good piece of tail and you disappear off the planet. You never call, you never write…”

  Dallas propped herself up on her elbows. “I know. I suck. How’ve you been? How’s Bobby?” She peered over her shoulder, stealing her first anxious look at the group in the kitchen. “Is he here?”

  “Nah. You know Bobby and girls. He’s hopeless. If he saw a naked pussy, he’d probably die of shock. He said to say hi, though.”

  He stroked her hair as they chatted, and her breathing started returning to normal. He rested his hand on her shoulder as Betsy led the group in from the kitchen, and he pressed firmly as Dallas tensed up again. “Okay,” Betsy said. “Everybody ready? Let’s have some introductions.” She quickly paraded the small group in front of Dallas’s widening eyes. “Dallas, this is Roger, Ben, Lizzy, and Cheryl. Jack you already know. They’re going to beat you and fuck you. Jack, you’re already there, why don’t you start us off?”