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

by Greta Christina

  After that, things got a little strange.

  She knew that Jack went first, knew it was his hand that moved from her shoulder and snaked down her spine and over her bottom. She knew that his second hand was joining the first, knew he was spreading her cheeks open, carefully examining her asshole, just as if he hadn’t seen it a dozen times before.

  And then… it wasn’t a blur, it was much too clear for a blur, she knew every detail of what happened, but she could never remember later what came when, or in what order. Her libido was like a kid in a candy store, with a fifty-dollar bill and a free afternoon. Everywhere she turned, there was something to do, something to feel, something to pay attention to. Roger’s cock was in her ass now, and if she lost interest in it even for a second, all she had to do was switch her attention, like changing channels, to Ben’s hands gripping her wrists and pressing them into the table, or Cheryl’s voice in her ear telling her how she was going to put Dallas’s picture in the escort ads and pimp her out. Or she’d picture what she looked like, step back in her mind and watch herself get bent over and pinned down and buggered, like she was watching a dirty movie. And five minutes later, there’d be something else to do, to feel, to pay attention to. There was a blindfold over her eyes and her favorite vibrator between her legs, pulled away suddenly as a bamboo cane lashed down like lightning onto her ass; she screamed, and it all happened again, around in a circle: the sweet insistent buzzing between her legs, the quick moment of silence and stillness, the microsecond of blackout pain, the glowing afterburn on her ass, joining with the return of the buzzing on her clit to make her wriggle and whimper. Then the channel changed, and she was on the floor bent over a pile of pillows, her face buried in Jack’s bare feet, breathing in his familiar scent, licking between his toes like they were vulvas. She saw Betsy move behind her, and she arched her back, getting ready for a finger or a paddle or God knows what; but Betsy just stood there watching, and Dallas smiled around Jack’s toes, and writhed her ass for her lover like a peep-show dancer. Then the channel changed again, and a soft, semi-erect dick slipped into Dallas’s mouth—Ben’s, she thought, but she wasn’t sure, she couldn’t see his face, and she was starting to lose track of all the new names. The owner of the dick didn’t pump her or move her head; he simply inserted his dick into her mouth and held it there, filling her mouth, sealing it shut. She sucked on it like a pacifier, like a bottle of whiskey.

  And five minutes later, there’d be something else. There was always something else. Her world had turned into an enormous buffet dinner, elaborately prepared and perpetually restocked, her greed satisfied within moments of her noticing it. The easy stuff, like the bootlicking and the spankings, she gobbled up like potato chips; the hard stuff, like the deep throating and the push-ups and that god-awful stingy thing of Lizzy’s, she shivered over and savored like good, fiery bourbon. At the same time her brain was getting confused, irritated with the effort of assimilating the input and trying to assign it meaning. She was crawling from person to person now, around in a circle again, nose to the floor, knees apart, begging each new person for some new indignity, saying words she had been told to say by the one before; kneeling behind Ben and begging to lick his asshole, begging Roger to ride her like a pony, spreading her asshole in front of Lizzy and begging her to whip it. They complied with her pleas, and she was exposed and humiliated; or they refused her pleas, and she was shamed and defeated. The argument in her body became strident, her brain saying “Enough already, call your fucking safeword”; her libido saying, “Not enough, not nearly enough, not yet.”

  After some amount of time, a practical voice swam to the surface and demanded attention, and she cleared her throat and asked for a pee break. Betsy untied her at once, took the buttplug from her ass, and led her to the bathroom. “Do you just need to pee, or do you need a break?” she asked.

  “Huh?” Dallas mumbled, confused, inarticulate. “I have to pee. Can I pee?”

  “Good,” Betsy said. She guided Dallas into the bathtub. “Hands and knees,” she said. “Wait.” She called out to the living room. “Hey, guys, come on in.” Dallas crumpled, as the group tromped into the bathroom and stood around the tub, watching, waiting. She was tired, she wanted to stop now, she wanted to curl up in the tub and cry herself to sleep. But she could feel another layer under the tears, something that wanted to stay, something that was quiet and soft and wanted to be seen. So she arched her back, and spread her knees so they could see, and peed in the tub, humiliated and peaceful. She was an animal in a zoo, a performer in the back room of a sleazy fucked-up whorehouse, and it didn’t feel like make-believe, it felt real. She finished, kept her legs open, prayed that they would go home and leave her in peace, prayed that they would pet her and soothe her, prayed that one of them would smear an evil hand over her soaked clit. She felt Betsy’s hand on her shoulder, and prayed that she’d keep it there forever.

  Betsy rinsed her off, gently led her out of the tub, placed her on her knees on the floor, and then bent her over the toilet with a snap. Dallas drew a sharp moaning breath as Betsy grabbed her hair and wrapped it firmly around her hand. She could feel Betsy gesture with her other hand, could feel Jack coming up behind her, crawling between her knees, pressing his hard-on against the crack of her ass. Betsy held her there for a long minute, poised, savoring the moment. “Feel it,” she murmured in Dallas’s ear. “Feel it. This. Right now.” Dallas shivered. She felt her knees grinding into the cold tile, her breasts shoved awkwardly against the rim of the toilet, the head of Jack’s dick trembling at her asshole, Betsy’s hand gripping her hair at the back of her head, her face hovering just above the toilet bowl. She was wide awake now. She held very still, seeing, feeling, listening. “Now,” she heard Betsy say.

  The hand on the back of her neck jerked down, pushing her head under the water, as Jack’s dick pressed against her asshole and pushed its way inside. Her body fought hard against Betsy’s hand, jerking and struggling, while she bucked back against Jack, arching her back, begging him with her body to fuck her harder. He took her hips in his hands and shoved into her, and Betsy yanked her head up out of the toilet and slapped her across her soaking wet face. Their eyes met. Dallas felt the joy radiating out of her face, saw it mirrored in Betsy’s crazy eyes. Betsy shivered and dunked her again, and Dallas felt herself sinking into her body, her mind darting from the water in her nose to her scraped and sore knees, to the sweet, nasty stroking inside her delighted asshole, to her wet tangled hair, to the panic in her lungs, to the sudden gasp of air and the cracking of Betsy’s hand across her drenched face. She could feel herself disappearing into her asshole, as Jack yanked his dick all the way out and slowly pushed it in again; then she was pulled abruptly back into her brain, as Betsy forced her head deep into the water and held it there with a shaking hand. The three of them came together, Jack shivering as he pressed a last stroke deep inside Dallas’s asshole, Dallas screaming with Betsy as she dissolved into her lover’s cruel hand and her friend’s throbbing cock, Betsy feeling her orgasm on the palm of her hand as she screamed and delivered the final smack.

  They all held very still for a long moment, peaceful, drifting, lost in the dark. They came back to life slowly, somewhat reluctantly, at the sound of applause. They had forgotten that the others were in the room.

  There was a picnic dinner on Dallas’s bed that evening, all seven of them, Dallas lying naked facedown in the middle, the others sitting cross-legged around her in various stages of undress. They ate cold chicken and apples and chocolate chips, and drank seltzer or beer, and congratulated themselves and one another on a job well done. Dallas was introduced again to her new friends, and she lazily began to sort them out a bit more clearly. Roger was the slender, blond, nerdy-cute one, who had fucked her in the ass again and again. Ben was the one with the curly black hair and the crude hands; she thought his dick was the stubby, veiny one, but it had gone soft now, so she couldn’t be sure. Lizzy was the brunette with the strong arm and th
e boots and the scary, scary toys, and Cheryl had the red hair and the gravelly voice and the really fucked-up imagination. They all smiled at her now, and petted her, and stroked her with feathers and fur, and Jack got some sort of soothing gel out of the fridge and rubbed it onto her bottom, and she drifted off into a hazy half sleep while they ate and chatted around her. She woke as they were kissing her good-bye. Jack was the last to leave. “Call me,” he said. “Let’s talk soon.”

  She nodded. “I promise,” she said. She fell back asleep to the sound of her friends being politely shooed out the door. She half woke in the middle of the night. Betsy had maneuvered the blankets out from under her and had tucked her in.

  Day Four:

  Dallas woke at six in the morning, Betsy’s sleeping hand resting on her ass. She lay awake for several minutes, holding very still. Then she removed Betsy’s hand and turned over onto her side. When Betsy stirred, she shook her. “Pretzel,” she said.

  “Hmrph?” mumbled Betsy, still asleep.

  “Pretzel,” Dallas repeated. “I’m done. I’ve had enough. Safeword.” She snuggled against Betsy’s wakening body. “Mmmmm,” she purred. “Thank you so much. That was… mmmmmm. My God.” She went back to sleep almost immediately, slept for hours, dreamed of clouds and food.

  Betsy lay awake, staring at the ceiling. She stared for an hour or so. She read her book for a bit. She stared at the ceiling some more. She finally got back to sleep at about nine, and dreamed that someone was throwing slippers at her window.

  They both woke at about noon.

  “How are you doing?” Betsy asked.

  “Fine,” Dallas beamed. “Amazing. Just… wow. Can’t explain, really.” She pummeled Betsy lightly on the shoulder. “So what do you want to do today? We don’t have anything planned. You wanna see a matinee or something? Do some shopping? Drive to Vegas? Throw paintballs at cigarette billboards?”

  “I don’t know,” Betsy said hazily. “I’m not really here yet. Listen… do you want to… like, talk, or something? That was pretty intense. Do you want to talk about it?”

  “Not really,” Dallas replied. “I know it was a lot, but I actually feel fine. Relaxed, happy, not in any immediate need of processing. Mostly in immediate need of breakfast.”

  “Alright,” Betsy said. She shrugged. “I guess you were right the first time. We didn’t need two weeks after all.”

  “Nonsense,” Dallas chirped. “It’s good we had the time. It would have sucked, if we thought we had a deadline coming up. We would have felt rushed.” She gave Betsy a loud, smacking kiss and bounced out of bed. “So, breakfast? Then what?”

  They were waiting in line for the movie when Dallas did a double take. “Oh,” she said. “God. Delayed reaction. I’m sorry. Do you want to talk about it?”

  Betsy fiddled with her wristwatch. “That’s okay,” she said. “I mean, eventually, yes. But it doesn’t have to be today. If you wanna see big special effects and stuff blowing up today, that’s fine with me. You earned it. Ten times over.”

  “Aww,” Dallas said. “That’s sweet. But honestly, it’s okay. If there’s something else you’d rather do, I’m fine with that. I’m happy with pretty much anything right now.”

  She meant it, too. For the next several days, Dallas felt unusually calm, at peace with herself and the world. Her usual driving impatience had slipped off, and she was stopping in the middle of the sidewalk to look at trees, or sniff the fire in a nearby fireplace, or just notice that she was alive, here, in this place and time. People would smile at her as she passed, and she’d realize that she had been smiling, without knowing it, at nothing in particular. She was starting to get what those Zen idiots were talking about. She would stop in the middle of mundane events—shopping, reading, sorting laundry—and be filled with the immensity of the moment, the clear understanding that infinity and eternity were present in this minuscule sliver that was her life. Her thoughts wandered, curious and unhurried: food, dancing, illness, gardens, biology, conflict, death. Her thoughts visited these places, and were untroubled.

  Except about sex.

  It wasn’t that her thoughts about sex were troubled. She just wasn’t having many of them. Not in the usual way. She wasn’t having masturbation fantasies, or fantasies that urged her to hurry off someplace where they could become masturbation fantasies. She wasn’t really having fantasies of any kind. She was definitely thinking about sex at least some of the time, contemplating, philosophizing, reminiscing. She thought a lot about the last few days, and she smiled at the memories, which were lovely, salty and sweet, vastly entertaining. But the memories didn’t drive her to the nearest private place to shove her hand down her pants. She would recall them happily, and then move on to the next thought.

  For a bit. This was Dallas, after all. After a few days of calm, Zen-like, desire-free bliss, her clit began to wake up, stretch, shove off the blankets, and think about what it wanted to do that day. She was home alone when it started to twitch. The feeling was familiar and comforting, and with something of a sense of relief, she went over to her bed, bent over, pulled down her pants, and let her mind wander. She was a whore in an alley, bent over a garbage can with her skirt pulled up, a clumsy dick in her ass and a fifty-dollar bill in her mouth. She was in that damned mall on her hands and knees, scrabbling for her scattered belongings with her short skirt riding up over her panties. She was in a dingy basement tied to a rusty bed, spread-eagled on her back with a gag in her mouth, while a gang of fraternity boys lined up to —

  She stopped. On her back? What the hell was that?

  She shook her head and started again. She was in a dingy basement, bent over a rusty bed, her hands tied and a gag in her mouth, while the fraternity boys lined up. There, that was better. She moved on. She was a teenage Catholic schoolgirl bending over the Mother Superior’s desk, pulling down her panties with hesitant hands. She was an exam subject in a cold white room, naked and shivering, flat on her back on a metal table —

  She stopped again. Her hands jerked away from her clit like they’d been burned.

  She’d had disturbing thoughts pop up in her fantasies before. Faces that she didn’t want to think about that way—her boss, her mother, some of her more obnoxious exes—would occasionally slip into the stream of images that ran through her brain when she jerked off. It happened. She didn’t like it, but she was used to it, and she could generally shake off the images and move on to more comforting thoughts. But this… This was weird. Not weird, like walking up to your house at night and suddenly finding it unfamiliar. Weird, like walking up to your house at night and suddenly finding it gone.

  She started again. She was on her back —

  To hell with it. Something fucked up was going on, and she didn’t want to deal with it. She stood up, jerked up her pants, stalked into the living room, and flipped on the TV.

  The next day she was prepared. She pulled on a leather garter belt with black lace stockings and cowboy boots and no underwear, and a short tight black dress over it all. She cranked the bending table to its lowest point, to raise her ass up as high over her head as she could. She grabbed her vibrator, and her favorite hairbrushes, and a bottle of lube, and a series of buttplugs of various sizes, and plonked them all down within easy reach. She snapped herself over the bending table, pushed in the first buttplug, and started fantasizing.

  She started with an old favorite. She was a prostitute at a party, hired as the evening’s entertainment, bent over a crate on the dining room table, ready to take on the crowd one by one. The non-fantasy Dallas reached for the vibrator and shoved it between her legs. She was in no mood for teasy buildups—she wanted to come, now. The host at her fantasy party climbed up on the table and unzipped his fly… but then the party crowd rushed the table, they yanked the crate out from under her and flipped her onto her back, forcing her legs apart and straddling her face…

  Dammit, dammit, dammit. No. She gritted her teeth. Maybe if she switched fantasies—something newer, les
s of a chestnut. Okay. She was at the leather street fair with Betsy, bent over with her hands pressed against a wall, with a sign Betsy had draped around her neck saying FREE TO ANYONE. A tall, ropy woman came over, said hi to Betsy, and with no introduction started smacking Dallas on the ass. She spun Dallas around, then pulled out a small flogger and aimed it at Dallas’s breasts…

  Dammit to fucking hell. Dallas jammed the vibrator hard against her clit. She squeezed her asshole tight around the buttplug, squeezed her eyes shut, and concentrated. Betsy and the tall ropy woman dragged her over to a nearby picnic table, bent her over it, and started smacking her ass. The real Dallas shoved her pelvis against the vibrator and focused grimly on the imaginary blows pounding her bottom. The tall woman suddenly grabbed Dallas by the hair and snarled in her ear. “On your back and spread your legs, slut—“

  Oh, fuck it, Dallas thought. Fine. I’ll just do it, this once. Whatever it is that’s going on here, I’ll see what it’s about, and I’ll get it over with.

  She took a firmer grip on the vibrator and let the fantasy go where it wanted. Betsy and the tall ropy woman at the street fair hauled Dallas over to a picnic table and shoved her on her back. “Spread your legs, cunt,” the tall woman snarled. “Spread them in front of all these people.” The stranger pulled out a small flogger and aimed it between Dallas’s legs…

  Dallas came, hard, crying out. Her asshole clenched in spasms, her fingers gripped the vibrator until they hurt. She shivered, and came again, her fingers slippery from her juices, her mind filled with the image of her spread thighs and her open pussy, the strange woman whipping her between her legs, the crowd of strangers looking on. She shivered, and came again.