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

by Greta Christina

  She thinks he’s a bad idea. She thinks she doesn’t love him. She thinks that if she loved him, she wouldn’t feel so dirty all the time. She thinks that if she loved him, she’d think about his eyes, his lips, even his cock, at least sometimes. She thinks that if she loved him, she wouldn’t be spending every spare moment thinking about his hands.

  She thinks about his hands. And finds her own hand knocking at his door.

  Elephant Walk

  “Yo! Anybody down here?”

  Abby jumped up off the sofa at the booming voice. She thought she was alone in the house, and she’d been planning a lazy afternoon, drinking diet soda and watching soaps in the rec room. The first day of the last lazy summer before college. She planned to make the most of it.

  But here was her big brother’s best friend, lumbering down the stairs and hollering. She jumped up, and sat down again, and stretched out on the sofa, trying to act casual.

  Donnie.

  Oh, God.

  Donnie poked his head into the rec room from the bottom of the stairs. “Hey, Squirt. Is Josh around?” He was taller even than she remembered, and more muscled. And cuter. If that was, like, even possible. He was wearing big loose shorts, and sneakers with no socks, and a short-sleeved baseball shirt unbuttoned and flopping open. He was staring at her with that dumb, big-mouthed grin, and she crossed her legs, then uncrossed them, then crossed them the other way.

  “No,” she said. “Josh’s flight got delayed, he won’t be here ‘til tomorrow.” She stopped for a second, then blurted out, “And my parents are gone, too.”

  Why the hell did I say that, she cringed. He doesn’t care. God, I sound like an idiot. She waited for him to holler, “Okay, cool, thanks,” over his shoulder as he pounded back up the stairs and out of her life again.

  But instead he stared at her blankly for another second, like he’d just realized she was there… then lumbered into the rec room and flopped onto the faded Barcalounger. He took a gulp of her soda. “Really. Cool. So, Squirt, you’re looking good. How’s with you?”

  He was actually talking to her. Like she wasn’t just Josh’s kid sister. Almost like he knew she existed. Which he hadn’t for, like, eight years. And he said she looked good. She was suddenly self-conscious of her little sundress, the skinny straps that kept slipping off her shoulders, the thin fabric you could almost see through in the sun. She pulled her legs up under her, trying to relax, and said, “Oh, you know. Pretty good. Graduation was yesterday, so done with that, thank God. Now I just wanna chill out before, you know, college and stuff…”

  “Yeah? Where you going?”

  “Berkeley.”

  His eyes widened. “Really? Damn. You must be a brain. I had no idea.”

  “No—it’s not—I’m not —” God, why had she said that? Now he was going to think she was stuck-up or something. She tried again. “I mean, I know Berkeley’s all, it seems like, but it’s really not —”

  “Hey, it’s okay,” he laughed. “It’s cool to be a brain. You’ll probably make a million dollars.” He took another gulp of her soda. “So, God, it’s been a million years since I saw you. A year and a half, or what? You must be, like, two feet taller. You were such a little shrimp back then.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Late bloomer. Whatever.” She hated thinking about that. Last in her class to get her period, last to get breasts, last to get everything. “I’m sick of hearing about it, if you want to know.”

  “I bet you are. Hey, Squirt, come here a sec”… and he reached out to the sofa, grabbed her hand, and pulled her into his lap.

  She froze. He was acting all casual, like having his friend’s kid sister sit on his lap was something they did all the time. But it was completely weird. She’d known him almost ten years, and she hadn’t sat in his lap once. She’d have remembered. She sat perfectly still, her brain focused on the place where her back was touching his chest, and where the backs of her bare thighs were pressing against his legs.

  But he was all casual, asking her all these questions like this was normal—“So what are you going to major in? Science, or English, or what? What made you wanna go to Berkeley?” He was even sort of listening to the answers, and she tried to pull her head together and not sound like a total idiot. “Any of your old friends going up there? God, remember how me and Josh used to give you kids so much shit? Hey, you still ticklish?”

  She screamed even before his hands touched her belly. His hands jabbed and darted around her waist: she shrieked hysterically and tried to pull away, but he grabbed her around the waist and held her on his lap, tightening his grip with one hand as he made her scream and writhe with the other. “It’s the Tickle Police!” he hollered. “You can’t escape!”

  It was almost normal, in a weird way. Donnie and Josh used to do this all the time: when they weren’t totally ignoring her they were tormenting her, and the Tickle Police used to bust in on her and her friends all the time. But it was normal in an awful way. She hated being tickled; it seriously freaked her out. And it was totally embarrassing, too. She could feel her dress pulling up as she jerked around on his lap, screaming and trying to get away from his hands, and she thought she could feel his dick starting to get hard underneath her. Now she was embarrassed for him—she knew that guys hated walking around with their hard-ons—but he kept tickling her, even faster, and she struggled wildly, in a panic to get her belly away from his hands, crossing her legs tight and praying that she wouldn’t pee her pants.

  He stopped, out of the blue, and she collapsed and gasped for breath. “Jesus, Donnie,” she panted. “What the hell.”

  “Oh, come on, Squirt,” he joshed. “I’m just fooling around. For old time’s sake. Hey, remember Elephant Walk?”

  He stood up suddenly, dumping her out of his lap and onto the floor. He jumped up to stand behind her, and lurched over, plopping his hands on the floor in front of her. “Come on, Squirt,” he coaxed. “Don’t tell me you forgot Elephant Walk? Get up on my hands and feet, and let’s go!”

  This was weird, too. But in a completely different way. Elephant Walk was actually something they’d done before, a game her family used to play. The grownups and older kids would lumber around on their hands and feet, pretending to be elephants, and the little kids would put their feet and hands on the grownups’ and get marched around the room. She’d done it a hundred times. She’d probably even done it with Donnie.

  But this was different. She wasn’t five now, she was eighteen, and it was weird. She scrambled up and put her hands and feet on his like he wanted her to, but she could barely fit underneath him, and his body pressed awkwardly against her back. She tried to curl up away from him, but she couldn’t do it and keep her balance, and when he took the first step she stumbled and fell, pulling them both down in a heap.

  He didn’t get up right away. He stayed on top of her for a minute, breathing hard and crushing her into the carpet. Oh, my God, she thought, I hurt him, what if he messed up his knee again and can’t play. But he sprang back into position and pulled her back up. “Come on, Squirt, that’s not how you do it. Legs out, trunks in a row, let’s go for a walk like the elephants go!”

  She could feel his hips shifting against her bottom as he marched her around the rec room. She was totally embarrassed—on top of everything else, she could feel her short dress starting to ride up over her panties. And now she was pretty sure he did have a hard-on. She didn’t want to embarrass him, she kept trying to wiggle away from it, but she couldn’t do it and keep from falling, and the wiggling just made her dress ride up more. So she tried to hold herself as still as she could, and let him march her around the room, around the sofa and the card table and the ice hockey game. He lumbered them over to the Barcalounger, reared up his hands with hers on top of them, and slammed their hands into the cracked leatherette seat. “And, the finish line!” he crowed. “The crowd goes wild!”

  She lay there gasping, trying to catch her breath, waiting for him to jump up and make some dumb joke. B
ut he just stayed there, pressing her into the seat cushion, dramatically gasping for breath himself. She was suddenly aware of how big he was: he surrounded her, his chest pressing into her back, his massive thighs pressing her legs together, his hard thing pressing lightly against her bottom. He stayed on top of her for a minute, catching his breath. And then he started tickling her again.

  But not like before.

  It wasn’t even tickling, really. It was slower, and lighter, and not as frantic. It made her wiggle and squirm like she was being tickled, but it didn’t make her shriek and fight. It felt good. Weird, and hard to keep still, but good. And she still couldn’t believe he was really here, hanging around just to horse around with her. She wiggled against him and pressed her back hard into his chest, like she was fighting back from his tickles, but really wanting to give his hands more room to move… and wanting to get him to stay.

  They stayed that way a while, his hands wandering up and down her belly, her back squirming against his chest. He drifted up for a moment to the bottom of her breasts, and she gasped and jerked away, and pressed her breasts into the seat cushion. He slipped his hands back down to her belly at once, and she immediately regretted her reflex. Why the hell did I do that, she thought. He’s going to think I don’t like him. He’s going to get bored and take off. But he stayed where he was, and he kept his hands wandering around on her belly, and she wiggled again, backing her breasts away from the chair this time, trying to give him the hint that it was okay to try again. His hands inched back up to her breasts: she gasped again, but stayed resolutely in place, and his hands moved all the way onto her breasts, tickling lightly, his hips pushing lightly against her backside in a slow, almost imperceptible rhythm.

  Oh, my God. She was making out with Donnie Willis.

  She’d made out before. She’d gotten to second base, and even third for a minute or two. But it was always with a guy she’d been dating, or had dated a couple of times anyway, and they were always kissing and stuff while they were doing it. This time she wasn’t kissing him. She couldn’t even see his face. It felt dirty, like one of those Victorian stories in that book her friend Donna had passed around. It felt dirty like that, and even sort of scary.

  But Donnie was so familiar. And he was so cute. And he was so—he was Donnie. She was actually making out with Donnie Willis. Donnie Willis was touching her breasts and rubbing his thing against her, and okay, he wasn’t kissing her, but so what. She couldn’t believe he even wanted to talk to her. Okay, so this was weird, but it was also pretty cool. Okay.

  Her hips were wiggling now, brushing back and forth against his thing as he tickle-touched her breasts. His fingers brushed across her nipples: she jerked back against his hips, and he pinned her legs together hard with his massive thighs, squeezing firmly against her small body. Then he jerked his legs apart, and her own legs, which had been wriggling against their confinement, sprang open.

  He pushed his knees between her legs at once, pressing hers even farther apart. She gasped as she felt his knees push in between hers, but he settled back in and went back to tickling her breasts as if nothing weird had happened. His thing was rubbing between her legs now, just through his thin shorts and her panties. Her panties felt wet, and the horrified thought flashed through her mind: Oh, God, maybe I did pee my pants. She held perfectly still, praying that he wouldn’t notice.

  He didn’t seem to notice. His hands wandered away from her breasts and down to her bare thighs, tickle-touching up and down the backs of her legs. She was trying to keep still, but her bottom kept twitching up towards him when he touched her inside her thighs, and he kept touching her there again and again. Then he tugged at the hem of the short dress that was riding up over her hips, and pulled it up to her waist.

  And it hit her, like a hundred doors in her head all slamming open at once.

  They weren’t making out. They were going to Do It. She was going to do it, for the first time. Right now. And it wasn’t with a boyfriend at the end of a date—it was here, in the middle of the afternoon, doing it from behind on the Barcalounger in her rec room.

  With Donnie Willis.

  His hands were tickle-touching her bottom now, through her panties, slowly, like he was waiting to see what she’d do about it. She did nothing—she held perfectly still, frozen, letting him do it—and he moved his hand down between her legs and began touching her there, up and down, through her panties. She held still and buried her face in the Barcalounger. She couldn’t believe this was happening, after all these years of wishing for it so hard it hurt, and it was so totally not the way she’d imagined it, not like this, all casual and out of nowhere and bent over the Barcalounger with her dress pulled up. But his fingers felt so good between her legs and she didn’t want him to stop… and it was Donnie Willis, and she didn’t want him to go.

  He pushed his hand inside her panties then, and she gasped as his fingers touched her flesh. He started tickling her there right away, flicking back and forth up over her pee-hole while he tugged at her panties with the other hand. He couldn’t get them down, she wiggled and tried to help him but her legs were spread too wide, so he took his finger away from her pee-hole and pulled at her panties hard with both hands. She felt a sharp snap of elastic against her thigh, and felt the torn fabric slip to the floor. She whimpered, embarrassed that he could see everything now—her naked butt, and down between her legs where she was all wet, and everything.

  She started feeling like she had to pee again. His fingers were rubbing up high near her pee-hole, and it felt hard and urgent down there. A weird hard shiver went through her, starting in her pee-hole and making her whole body twitch, and she clenched her fists tightly and squealed into the seat of the chair, trying to muffle the sound.

  He stopped touching her and pulled back. Oh, God, she thought. What did I do. I did something wrong. He reached into his pocket: she could hear something rustling, like a candy wrapper being opened, and the light dawned. Thank God, she thought. I didn’t screw up. Then: Thank God he has a condom. Then: Fuck. I totally would have let him do this without one. What is wrong with me.

  He fumbled with himself for a moment, then pushed his hips against her. He had pulled down his shorts, and the touch of his naked skin against hers was like a slap in the face. He rubbed his thing between her legs for a moment, and then start jabbing it against her, trying to find his way in. She tried to open her legs wider, trying to help him, but she was pinned against the chair and couldn’t move. All she could do was hold still and let him do it. He kept jabbing his thing between her legs, grunting and sweating and poking his thing up and down. And then it pushed in.

  It hurt. She yelped and yanked her head up, and he grabbed her breasts and squeezed them, and pushed in a little more. She was being stretched too hard, pulled apart, like that time her gym teacher made her do the splits all the way even though she said it was hurting. She tried to hold still and relax, but he pushed in a little more, and she flinched in his arms and began to squirm. He gasped, and squeezed her breasts hard, and shoved her torso hard into the seat cushion with his full weight on top of her, pushing her breasts hard into his hands, and pushing himself inside her.

  She couldn’t move at all now. He was going in and out of her: the pain was starting to pass, and she tried to push back against him, or wiggle her hips, or something—but she was pinned down against the chair, and her legs and hips were pinned up against it, and she couldn’t do anything. All she could do was feel his thing sliding in and out of her, and his sweaty chest sliding around against her back, and her breasts being flattened against his hands. She didn’t know what she was supposed to do, or if she was supposed to be doing anything. He was grunting, and doing it faster, and in her head she kept saying: I am having sex. With Donnie Willis. Donnie Willis is having sex with me.

  Donnie Willis is fucking me.

  He grunted loudly then, and shoved his hips hard against her, pushing himself in deeper and holding it. It hurt again, just for a
moment, and she squealed into the seat cushion, hoping he didn’t hear her. She didn’t think he did: he just moaned extra-loud, and jabbed into her sharply five or six times, and shivered, and went limp.

  He slumped on top of her, breathing deeply. She was wide awake. She was intensely conscious of the dripping between her legs, the sweat pooling behind her knees, the shag carpet scraping her shins and the tops of her feet, the ticking of the clock over the card table. His body was draped heavily across hers, pressing her face into the cracked leatherette, and she struggled to get her breath. She wondered if he had fallen asleep. She wondered what this all meant: if he’d liked it, if he thought she was pretty, if she’d see him again, if he was her boyfriend now. At last he shook himself. “Holy shit,” he said. “That was… Jesus.”

  He pulled out of her, and wadded up the condom into her torn panties, and shoved them into his pocket. “Listen, Squirt… your brother doesn’t have to know about this, right? He’d be all… I don’t know. Let’s keep this between us, okay?”

  Oh. So that’s what it meant.

  “Sure,” she said. “Okay. It’s cool. Whatever.”

  He slid up his shorts and stood up. “Hey, listen,” he said. “You going to be around for the summer? You wanna give me your cel number? Shoot me a text, the next time your folks aren’t around?”

  She pulled her sundress back down over her hips, and curled up into the Barcalounger. She picked up her soda can and rattled it. It was empty.