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

by Greta Christina

  “It’s good to see you, Donnie,” she said. “You should probably go.”

  The Shame Photos

  Here’s how it begins: a photographer, and a woman in her thirties or early forties. He is a porn photographer who sometimes does other professional work; she is a professional woman who sometimes looks at porn photos. They meet in some business capacity: a conference, or a corporate shoot. They talk. His camera is on the hotel bar next to their untouched drinks.

  “No, it’s not that,” she says. “I like your photos. They’re good. They’re very hot. It’s just…”

  “What?” he says. He’s defensive, a little prickly, and also more than a little curious. Apart from critics, not too many people tell him to his face what they think of his work. Or what, precisely, it is that they want from their porn and are not getting. This could be illuminating.

  “Well,” she says. “You have these lovely photos of these—scenarios. The women licking someone’s shoes, or dressed up like ponies, or what have you. But they always look sort of—posed. The faces are all wrong. They’re too relaxed, too composed. For the things they’re doing—it’s all wrong.”

  “What do you want to see in their faces?”

  She doesn’t hesitate. “I want to see shame.”

  “Say that again.”

  She blushes a little. His voice is friendly and curious, but there’s a hint of command in it, and it shifts her over a bit from feeling like a calm, objective critic into feeling the topic a bit more personally. But she goes on. “I want to see shame. When I look at a photo of a young girl on all fours with a plug in her ass licking her mistress’s boots, I don’t want her to look like a bondage model who’s doing her job. I want her to look like a young girl who’s being humiliated. Like those dirty Japanese comics, but for real. I want her to look frightened, and powerless, and ashamed of herself. I want her to look like she doesn’t want what’s happening, and like she still feels somehow that it’s her fault, and that she deserves it.”

  “Hm,” he says. “Fascinating. Tricky, though. How would you make that happen? Pro models tend not to be ashamed of what they do. And if they’d be ashamed to do something, they just don’t do it. How would you get that look?”

  “Well. You could do a couple of things.” She’s clearly thought about this at length. “You could get pro models, but pay them extra to push their boundaries a little, do the things they don’t normally like to do. Or else… you could go with amateurs. Lifestyle people from the scene. Put out the word that you want to do a book of people pushing their limits, doing things they said they’d never do. Acting out the fantasies they’re embarrassed about. You’re a big enough name in the scene. I bet you’d get plenty of volunteers.”

  “Intriguing.” He means it. His mind is going off in a dozen directions at once, and his dick is starting to throb. “So… what kinds of scenes would you like to see in a book like that?”

  She shrugs. “Oh, the particular scenes don’t matter so much. I mean, of course I have favorites. But that’s… what matters more is that look of shame. That’s what I want to see. You could call it The Shame Photos. I bet you’d sell thousands.”

  He shakes his head. She’s steering the conversation back to what she wants from him, like a commission, and that’s not where he wants to go. He wants to take this on a different path, the path that steers her over the cliff. “No,” he says. “Let me rephrase. If you were to model for a book like that. Hypothetically. What are some of the scenes that you would do. Tell me.”

  Again, that slight note of command in his voice. Again, the grammatical shift, from asking her questions to telling her what to say. Her clit is twitching, and she can feel her self-possession start to crumble under her feet.

  “There are so many…” She’s procrastinating. It’s always hard for her, that top-of-the-rollercoaster moment when she drops her dignity and lets herself fall… and she doesn’t know if she’s ready to do it here, in the hotel bar, with a man she’s known for three hours.

  “Start.”

  Her clit thumps hard. Her clit doesn’t care if she’s ready. She bows her head, and lets herself drop. “Enemas.”

  “Be more specific. What position? What are you wearing? Who else is there?”

  “I’m naked. I’m on all fours, with my knees apart and my ass in the air. The room is empty, walls and a ceiling and a floor: there’s not even a pretense that this is a medical procedure. The person giving me the enema is dressed in plain clothing: no fetish outfits, no medical gear. They’re giving me the enema, and they’re also periodically stopping to fuck me in the ass with the nozzle. My ass is filled with water, and they slide the nozzle in and out. They’re looking down on me with contempt. My face is on the floor, but it’s turned towards the camera, so the camera can see how ashamed I am.”

  “Of course. Why are you there?”

  “I’m there because I have to be. That’s always why I’m there. Not because I’m being punished, though. Because I made a bad mistake and let people have power over me. Like I’m being blackmailed, or fell in with the wrong crowd, or something. I’m powerless, but it’s still my fault.”

  “Good. Thank you. Tell me another.”

  Now that she’s begun, it’s easier to go on. Falling has become easier than not falling. “I’m in a brothel. Victorian, I think: the girls are all in corsets and bloomers, the men are in suits. I lost a bet, or made the madame angry or something, so they’re going to make me do the things I always refused to do. They’re going to make me get whipped, and then get fucked in the ass. The madame makes a game of it. She puts me on display at a special party: puts me on a stage with my skirt pulled up and my bloomers pulled down, talks me up to the crowd. Then she takes me from customer to customer, and makes me show them my bottom and beg them to whip me and bugger me. It’s obvious that I’m frightened, and some of the men are put off by that… but some are excited by it. She gets a good price.

  “She goes into the room with me while it happens. She holds my wrists while he puts the money on the nightstand. She bends me over the bed and holds me down, while he pulls up my skirt and pulls down my knickers. He’s made me cover myself again, so he can have the pleasure of exposing me for himself. It frightens me, and it fills me with shame. I’ve shown my bare bottom before, dozens of times, but never like this, never so helplessly, never so totally at the mercy of someone who’s going to show me none. She holds me down, while he whips me, cruelly, brutally, and then forces his cock into my ass. I scream and cry and beg him to stop, he has to know that I don’t want this, but that just makes him do it harder. He likes it that he’s hurting me, that he’s making me cry. There’s a photographer in the room, a pornographer who pays the madame to let him photograph the whores, and he takes dozens of pictures of me while I’m being held down by the madame and my ass is being whipped and raped.”

  “Jesus,” he says. “Fuck. More.”

  “Yes.” The next one drops into place as smoothly as a moving part on an assembly line, and she doesn’t even consider not telling him. “My pants are being pulled down, forced down, by a gang of three or four men. Young men, college age maybe. I’m struggling, but they’re stronger than me, it’s not even hard for them. One of them has my hands, one of them has grabbed me around the waist and is groping my tits, two of them have my legs and are unbuckling my belt and pulling down my pants. I’m struggling, but they’re laughing at me. I don’t know what they’re going to do to me.”

  “Are you screaming for help?”

  “Yes. I’m screaming and struggling. But we’re in an abandoned warehouse or something. Nobody can hear me. I’m struggling, and I’m helpless, and they’re laughing.”

  “What do they do?”

  “I don’t know. It doesn’t get that far. All I think about is the four of them ganging up on me and pulling down my pants.”

  “Think about it,” he insists. “You said you don’t know what they’re going to do to you. What are you afraid they’re
going to do? How are they going to shame you? Tell me.”

  She shivers. She’s never gone there. She doesn’t want to go there. But she’s been telling these stories, and now she’s in that place, where it feels like she doesn’t have any choice, where it feels like she has to expose and humiliate herself when she’s told to. She opens that door in her mind, and answers without hesitation, letting the words tumble out as the images pop in. “Probably they take turns fucking me in the ass. All of them, one after the other, while the others hold me down. Pin my hands down to the floor, and force my legs apart and pin them down. Force their cocks hard into my asshole, while I cry and beg them to stop. Maybe they tie my hands behind my back when they do it, or whip me with my belt. Maybe they wrestle me onto my hands and knees and force their cocks into my mouth, pull my hair and hold my head in place so they can get deep down my throat, with my pants still pulled down around my knees. And there’s another one there with a camera, and he takes pictures. They force my ass cheeks apart, so he can take pictures of my asshole. And they force my head to face the camera, so everyone will know who it is. Who I am.”

  She stops. She’s not sure that’s it. This image is intense, it’s making her squirm, but she’s not sure it’s right. She stops, and starts again. “Or maybe… maybe they just pull down my pants. And just look. And maybe touch my bare ass, just lightly, just enough so I’m aware of it. Maybe this isn’t about gang rape. Maybe this is just about forcing my pants down. Forcing my bare bottom on display, for them to look at against my will, for as long as they want. And taking pictures. They take pictures of themselves pulling my pants down and exposing my ass and spreading my asshole apart, while I struggle and try to stop them. They take pictures of my bare ass, and my face.”

  He can see the picture in his mind. He’s framing the shots while she talks, and his hard cock is getting harder, like it always does when he’s framing a new photo set. “That’s good. That’s really good. Tell me another one.”

  She doesn’t want to be telling him this in the hotel bar. She wants to tell him this someplace where they can do something about it. She wants to tell him this on her knees. She wants him to tell her to act out the scenes she’s describing: to strip naked and raise her ass in the air for the imaginary enema, to dress up like a Victorian whore and give her ass to the imaginary customer, to pull her pants down while she struggles against the imaginary assailants. She wants him to tell her to spread her asscheeks wide open for his camera, her own hands standing in for the hands of the men humiliating her. She has a hundred of these stories. She could spend a week telling them. She could spend a lifetime acting them out.

  She knows now where this is going. In the back of her mind, she is already calculating what she’ll have to do if it happens. How she’ll keep her job when the book comes out. If she can’t, what job she could get instead. Maybe she could work for one of the fetish publishers. They could use a good marketing exec.

  She shakes her head. “Please,” she says. “Not here. Please don’t make me tell you here.”

  He’s startled at her refusal. Then he looks at her face—pink cheeks, bowed head, pleading eyes—and he gets it. He can be a bit thick about these things sometimes, but he gets it. It’s not a refusal. It’s an invitation.

  His studio is too far. An hour from here. Much too far.

  “Get a room,” he tells her. “A suite, here in this hotel. Here’s my card, it has my cel number on it. As soon as you get to the room, text me. And don’t do anything else. Just sit on a chair, and fold your hands in your lap, and wait.”

  He sees the shift in her face: the drop to the next level, from the humiliating acknowledgment of her fantasies to the humiliating need to make them real. He picks up his camera, and snaps a photo of her face. He knows it probably won’t come out—the lighting in the bar is all wrong—but he wants to seize the moment. He wants to do this, and he wants to start now.

  She flinches from the snap of the camera. “Go,” he says. She stands up straight and strides out of the bar. She looks back at him, and at the revolving doors to the street outside, and walks to the registration desk. “I need a suite for the night.”

  FORCE, POWER, AND MESSED-UP CONSENT

  This Week

  Here’s what it is this week. A girl, a college student, is being spanked by her college professor. She’s young, nineteen or twenty, young enough to be in college, but old enough to have some sexual knowledge. He’s older, of course, probably in his forties, dressed casually but with dignity, a trim beard with a hint of gray. She is dressed, not in the schoolgirl outfit of porn cliché, but in regular modern clothing that merely implies the schoolgirl look: a short skirt with a flare, a simple blouse, white panties. The white panties are important. She is bent over his lap with her skirt pulled up and her panties pulled down, and he is spanking her with his hand.

  Here’s how they got there. I think of the girl as the instigator of the scenario. I think of her sitting in this man’s class: admiring him, becoming excited by his ideas and his authority and his ease with his body. I think of her feeling flustered in his presence: not stupid, but young, and acutely self-conscious of her youth and her limitations. And I imagine these feelings coalescing into the simple image in her mind, the lap and the bare bottom and the hand coming down again and again. I think of her, not coolly deciding to act on her thoughts, but doing it impulsively, not even entirely consciously; just coming to him after classes for help and advice, putting herself in his path, waiting to see what happens next.

  Now. I imagine her going to his house after a test, a test on which she had done fine but could have done better. She goes to his house, dressed only somewhat on purpose in the short skirt and simple blouse and white panties. She goes to his house, apparently upset about her less-than-ideal test score, telling him that she clearly needs more help. She works herself into an agitation, a frustration about her academic performance that even she half-believes. At the same time, she’s deliberately, or semi-deliberately, being provocative, displaying her body, putting herself in poses both seductive and submissive. She talks about how lazy she is, how little self-discipline she has, how she needs external discipline to succeed—and she drops something on the floor and turns away from him to pick it up. She says she can’t achieve her best unless she fears being punished, says a B+ grade isn’t enough punishment to drive her to excel—and she bends over his desk to examine a knick-knack on the far side. She uses the word “punishment” again and again, and she keeps finding ways and reasons to turn away from him and bend over.

  He’s not an idiot. He’s an adult, a middle-aged man of the world, and he can see what she wants. He wants it too; she’s a lovely girl, she makes him feel powerful and wise, and the thought of bending her over his lap makes his dick twitch. At the same time, he’s not an idiot. He knows how much trouble he could get into if he’s guessing wrong, or for that matter if he’s guessing right. So he’s careful. He asks her if she wants his help, if she wants him to provide this external motivation she’s missing, to give her the punishment she needs when she fails to reach her potential. She breathes a deep breath of relief and excitement, says yes, please, can he help her. He asks again: are you sure you want this discipline, are you sure you want to be punished for not doing your best, are you sure you want me to do it. She begins to pace around the room, agitated and anxious, saying yes, yes please, that’s why she came here, this is what she wants.

  He looks at her face, steadily, until she stops pacing and looks at him back. They’re no longer speaking in code.

  Do you want this, he says. Do you want me to punish you.

  She nods. She can’t say it out loud.

  Alright, he says. Come here.

  She walks over and stands next to him. He pats his lap; he can’t say the words either, and he needs her to make the gesture on her own. She stares at his lap, and at his hands, and she awkwardly kneels on the floor and crawls over his knees.

  He’s done this before. Not
often, but more than once, and he knows what he’s doing. He pulls up her skirt, not slow and sexy, not rough and impatient, but deliberate, matter-of-fact, getting the job done. He waits for her breathing to relax, then puts his hands on her waist and pulls down her panties. He moves a bit slower this time, but his manner is not teasing or sensual; the slowness is methodical, patient, done with calm authority. He looks at her bare bottom, listens to her breath, waits.

  He doesn’t caress her—this isn’t about that—but he does rest his hand on her bottom. She flinches, then realizes that he hasn’t started yet, and tries to relax. He waits again. And then he begins to spank her.

  His first blow is a real one. Not extreme, but she knows right away that she’s being spanked. He waits, and delivers another blow, exactly the same. And then he begins to spank her in earnest. The spanking is slow, she can feel it each time his hand strikes her bottom. She begins to squirm; she’s embarrassed now, self-conscious about what she’s doing and how she must look, a grown woman being punished on her bare bottom like a child. And it hurts, it’s hard now and it hurts, she wasn’t expecting that. But she can’t bring herself to say anything, she’d feel like a fool just quitting in the middle… and now it’s lighter, and she thinks she can take it a little longer.

  He says nothing. He concentrates on the spanking, watches her body, listens to her breathe. His cock is getting hard, it’s telling him to squeeze her tits and then spank her as hard as he can; but he ignores it, tells it to be content with her warmth and her wriggling, and he centers his attention on just how hard he’s spanking her, and what exactly she’s doing about it.

  She’s squirming harder now. She feels how warm her bottom is getting, she can picture how pink it must be by now. She’s getting agitated, and confused. The hard ones make her flinch and curl up—but the light ones give her time to think, and to feel: how small she is, and how flustered; her fear of the next really hard one; her uneasy frustration when the hard ones stop; her excitement; her shame at being excited; her hips wriggling against his lap. A good hard one comes down out of nowhere, and she cries out in relief and arches her back.