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

by Greta Christina

  He still says nothing. He looks carefully now at her arched back and clenched fists, listens to the change in her voice. He stops, pulls his hand up high, and gives her five hard smacks, very hard, as fast as he can.

  He listens as her cries of outrage subside into gasps. He considers starting again; he considers giving her a comforting pat on her pink bottom; he considers putting his hand between her legs. He’s pretty sure he could do any of these things, and she’d respond. But he’s nervous now, and doesn’t know how far he wants this to go. So he pulls up her panties, carefully, not touching her skin. He pulls her skirt back down over her bottom, and then puts his hands behind his back.

  She scrambles to her feet right away, looks down at the floor, her face red. She mumbles something—“Thank you, Professor,” he thinks—and waits expectantly. “Good,” he says. “That was very good.” She stares at the floor for a moment, then scrambles for her things, mumbles “Thank you” again, and scurries out the door.

  Here’s what happens next. They meet once a week at his house. They don’t discuss it, they don’t make a plan; she just shows up at his door the next week at the same time, as if they had an appointment. She puts down her things, and she tells him about her schoolwork, the week’s successes and failures. He congratulates her on her achievements, and then he analyzes her failures, explaining exactly what she did wrong and why it matters. And then he pats his lap.

  It always has to be a punishment. She can’t simply walk in the door and say, “Okay, let’s get to the spanking.” And neither can he. They can’t quite acknowledge what this is, they find it easier to think of it as instruction, discipline. Anyway, it’s more exciting this way. So he begins to write tests, every week, just for her, tests for her to make mistakes on. She’s a bright girl and she wants to please him; so he has to make the tests hard, hard enough that she’ll miss at least one question and will need to be punished. She takes the tests very seriously, studies hard for them. She does, in fact, become a better student during this time, in all her classes, not just his. And she never misses a question on purpose. She would consider that cheating, and she is a serious student, appalled at the idea of cheating. She’s always excited when he points out her errors and pats his lap; but she’s always a bit disappointed as well, upset at herself for failing, and believing, at least somewhat, that she really is being punished, and that she deserves it.

  As the weeks go by, they become more accustomed to each other. Their rhythm becomes more fluid, the ritual more detailed, the spankings longer and more intense. He begins to talk during the spankings, sometimes lecturing in detail on that week’s failures, sometimes just chanting, “Bad girl! Bad! You can do better! You need discipline! You need to be punished! Punished! Bad!” He knows by now the words that set her off, the ones that make her whimper and arch her bottom in the air—and he knows the ones that make her freeze up. He knows how hard she likes to be spanked… and he knows how hard is just a little harder than she really likes, how hard is hard enough to make her feel that she’s been bad, and is being punished for it.

  As more weeks go by, he begins to ask if she needs any special punishment, something extra to make her pay closer attention. The first time she doesn’t understand what he’s getting at, she says no thank you, Professor, please just punish me. But she gets it later, alone in bed that night; and the next week when he asks again, she has her answer ready. Yes, she says. She fears that his hand isn’t a hard enough tool for serious discipline, doesn’t make her fearful enough or sorry enough for what she’s done. She says she needs to be punished with something harder, something that will make her more afraid to fail, something to really hurt her and make her feel ashamed. He asks her to be specific—he always needs her to ask for it, always needs it spelled out—and she’s learned by now to speak up. She asks him to please spank her with a ruler, wooden or maybe metal, or with his hairbrush. He tells her to fetch his ruler—the hairbrush is too personal for him—and she goes directly to his desk and takes it out of the top drawer. She knows exactly where he keeps it.

  And as still more weeks go by, the special punishments become both more elaborate and more central to the ritual. The bare-bottom over-the-knee hand spankings, once the entire reason for them being there, now become prelude—neither of them will call it foreplay—to the special punishments she asks for each week. She asks him to spank her with a rolled-up newspaper. She asks him to make her say out loud what a bad girl she is while he spanks her. She asks him to make her get on her hands and knees and kiss the floor while he spanks her. She asks him to use the ruler to spank her between her legs. She asks him to keep spanking her until she cries.

  She never asks him to fuck her. He never does.

  The end of the semester draws near, and both of them are a bit at a loss. She has one more year before she graduates, and no more classes with him. She starts asking about her final exam; her questions are anxious, restless. He’s pretty sure he knows what she wants. With some regret he begins crafting her final. He spends every spare moment on it. He knows it has to be perfect.

  She comes to his house for the final, wearing the same short skirt and simple blouse and white panties she wore for their first lesson. He hands her the test, and she takes it without a word and begins immediately, working fiercely and steadily like a buzz saw. When she finishes, she hands it back and waits silently, tapping her fingers on her knee.

  It’s perfect, he says at last. No mistakes.

  They both sit still, somewhat taken aback, sitting quietly together in the empty space that has just opened up. He guessed exactly right, this is what she wanted. But neither of them had thought about what to do next.

  So, he says. No punishment today. You get punished for making mistakes. What do you get when you’re perfect? Do you get a reward?

  She doesn’t know what to say. She’d imagined in detail how the test would go; a serious challenge, just barely within her abilities. She’d imagined her struggle to get through it, the rush of pride when he told her she was perfect. But she hadn’t thought any further than that.

  A reward, she says.

  She could ask him to kiss her. She could ask him to fuck her. She could ask him to spend the afternoon feeding her tea and cakes and telling her how much he admired her. She could ask him to take off her shirt and play with her nipples, could tell him exactly how she wanted him to do it, and then she could make him get on his knees on the floor in front of her and lick her pussy. She could ask to sit in his lap, the lap she’s been bent over so many times, and have him stroke her hair and tell her what a good girl she was. She could ask him to make her masturbate, make her lie back and spread her legs and show him how she did it, and then make her turn over onto her belly and keep masturbating, while he punished her hard on her bottom for doing it. She could ask him to give her all her special punishments over again, one after the other until she’s weeping and raw, and then pin her down over his desk and push his cock into her ass. She could ask him to make the decision, to take the initiative, to for fuck’s sake, just this once, not make her come to him. She could ask him to take her over his knee, and pull up her skirt and pull down her panties, and spank her bare bottom with his hand one more time.

  I’m getting all A’s this semester, she says. Every class. I think I’m going to make the Dean’s list. And I got a special summer internship, a really good one. She tells him the professor she’s interning with, and he’s impressed, and a little jealous. That’s great news, he says. I’m really pleased to hear it.

  A reward, she says. I don’t know. Let me think about it. She gathers her things, says, “Thank you, Professor,” in a clear voice, and quietly leaves, shutting the door behind her.

  Dixie’s Girl-Toy Gets Spanked for the First Time

  She is doing it to please Dixie.

  She would do anything to please Dixie.

  She is in Dixie’s apartment. She is getting ready to pull down her panties and be spanked by a lover, for the first time i
n her life.

  It’s going to be videotaped. The video is going to be sold.

  Dixie is there with her, of course. So are two camera guys. A lighting guy. A sound guy. A couple of gofers. The director. Another actress, for some reason.

  She doesn’t want to do this. She is frightened, and embarrassed.

  But Dixie wants this.

  So she is doing it.

  She met Dixie at a party about four months ago. A real live porno star. A beautiful one. And one who liked girls. It took her the whole party to work up the nerve to say “Hi.”

  Dixie looked her up and down. Dixie said “Hi” back.

  And she was lost.

  Dixie was her first lesbian lover, just about. Dixie was older. Dixie was more experienced. Dixie was famous. Dixie was so beautiful, it hurt to look at her.

  So she was lost. She was like a puppy with a distracted, not very nice mistress. Ecstatic when she got praise and attention; anxious and desperate to please when she was ignored or snapped at. She came over when Dixie called. She stayed away when Dixie didn’t have time. She rolled on her back and spread her legs when Dixie was horny.

  She would have done anything to please Dixie.

  What happened was her own fault, really. That’s what she told herself after. Dixie almost never asked her about herself, almost never asked what she liked or what she fantasized about. So when Dixie asked her what kind of pornos she liked, she got too excited, and said too much. “I like to watch… well… are you sure this is okay? I’ve never told anyone this. Okay, this is embarrassing, but—I like to watch spanking videos. I’m not saying I’d ever want to do that stuff myself,” she added, too quickly, “but since you asked what I like to look at… well, that’s it. Just to look at.”

  Dixie laughed. A boisterous laugh, friendly even, with only a hint of contempt. “You mean you’ve never been spanked? You’re a spanking virgin? Jesus, how old are you again? That’s right. I keep forgetting how young you are. But… Jesus. Never?”

  So now she felt doubly ashamed. Ashamed of liking to look at spanking pornos… and ashamed of being so young and stupid that she’d never even been spanked before.

  “Hey, we all gotta start somewhere,” Dixie went on. “Tell me, what kind of spanking pornos do you like to see? We can do something with this, I bet.”

  She had no idea what Dixie meant by that. But for once, it sounded like Dixie was going to do something for her. Was Dixie going to watch spanking pornos with her? Was Dixie going to take her to one of those parties or private shows she’d heard about, and let her watch somebody get spanked? Was Dixie—she couldn’t dare think about this, it was too tantalizing and too terrifying to think about for more than a few seconds—was Dixie going to spank her herself?

  So she told. Her face getting redder and redder, she told Dixie the kinds of spanking pornos she liked to watch. The ones where a young girl gets spanked by an older woman: a teacher, a nun, a school principal, her mother. The ones where the girl gets spanked in front of her friends, or her sisters, or in front of the class. The ones where she gets spanked by hand, and then with something else: not with the leather SM toys, but with something ordinary, a hairbrush, or a yardstick. Not the ones where the girl is sassy and talks back, but the ones where she’s scared. The ones where she’s ashamed. The ones where she cries.

  Dixie smiled. Dixie told her, “Roll over onto your back,” and Dixie fucked her. Dixie fingered her clit and fucked her pussy, talking to her the whole time about spanking, and about helplessness, and about shame. She came hard, struggling, squirming away from the words in her ears and the pictures in her mind, and at the last moment clutching to hold on to them. She came, and she collapsed into a soft heap, and she gazed at Dixie in a gauzy blur of adoration. Maybe Dixie really did love her after all. Maybe this would be all right.

  Dixie didn’t call for two weeks. Hysterical, freaked, convinced she’d driven her beautiful porn star away with her neediness and her sick desires, she waited for Dixie to call. She waited… and after two weeks, Dixie showed up at her apartment unannounced.

  “Okay. It’s all set. My producer says they can definitely do something with this. Dixie’s girl-toy gets spanked for the first time. Watch as Dixie turns the young girl’s virgin bottom bright red. They can definitely market that. You’re so young and fresh, people like that, and they love to watch cherries get popped. With spanking vids especially. If you look all scared and innocent, they love that, and the pro spanking models can never quite pull it off.”

  Her stomach dropped through her cunt. Dixie wanted to spank her. And she wanted to do it for one of her videos. Dixie wanted to give her her first spanking… but she wanted to do it on camera, so she could sell it, so any guy who wanted to could jerk off to it.

  Her voice shriveled up in her throat. But her dismay must have shown on her face, and Dixie snorted in contempt.

  “Jesus. I thought you were cool. I didn’t know you were such a pussy. Okay, fine. If you don’t want to hang, we don’t have to hang. Whatever.”

  She was frozen. She couldn’t say anything. Not Yes. But definitely not No. She had two impossible, unacceptable choices: being spanked and humiliated in front of strangers on video, or losing Dixie.

  She nodded.

  “Good girl,” Dixie said. “It’s all set up at my apartment. Let’s go. Oh, you need to pick a porno name. And don’t make it your first pet and the first street you lived on. That’s lame. You know what, never mind. I’ll pick one for you. How about: Cherry Bottoms. Don’t worry about lines or script, just nod or shake your head when I talk to you. And make as much noise as you can. It’s better if you make noise.”

  So Cherry Bottoms is in Dixie’s apartment, about to get spanked for the first time, while a small crowd watches. She is dressed like a little girl, Britney Spears style. Dixie is dressed like a sexy June Cleaver. The end table next to the sofa has a neat set of household implements lined up: a hairbrush, a ruler, a wooden spoon. She is about to lose her spanking virginity, and she is selling it to her lover’s porno producer. She is about to do the thing she has obsessed about with mortification and hunger for years, and she is about to do it with a camera—make that two cameras—capturing every moment, tying her to it so she can never escape.

  They have started. Dixie is sitting on the sofa, scolding her for watching spanking videos on the Internet. She is naming all the ones Cherry told her about, and describing them in detail. Cherry squirms and blushes bright red. She could barely bring herself to tell Dixie about those. She doesn’t want the whole world knowing about them. She’s confused: usually in the vids they spank the girl for something stupid and made-up; but Dixie, apparently, wants to spank her for something real, something she’s really ashamed of. Dixie asks her if she’s ever been spanked before: she can’t muster words, but she shakes her head vehemently. No. She never has. She knows this is just feeding the virgin-popping freaks, and it makes her queasy, but she knows Dixie wants the truth. No. She has never been spanked before today.

  She is acutely conscious of all the eyes on her, and is feeling that consciousness multiplied by all the eyes that will be watching this video, down the weeks, and months, and years. Dixie has just told her to pull up her skirt and pull down her panties, and she is doing it, slowly. She is feeling like she will never be able to pull them back up again. She is picturing all the bright red bottoms of all the girls in all the spanking videos she’s ever watched. She is feeling like she will be walking around for the rest of her life with her skirt pulled up, and her panties pulled down, and her bright red freshly-spanked bottom on display: on the street, at the grocery store, in the clubs, everywhere, for everyone to see. She pulls down her panties slowly, hanging on to her last shred of dignity for as long as she can.

  Her bottom is now bare. One camera is moving freely, ready to watch her whole body, and her breasts, and her face. The other is positioned behind her, to get a continuing close view of her exposed bottom. Dixie takes her by the hand, a
nd pulls her down over her lap. It feels like she’s been pushed off a cliff. She clings to the familiar sofa pillow, and presses herself against Dixie’s thighs.

  She’d been planning to be silent. Her one little piece of defiance. But Dixie’s hand comes down on her bare bottom. Her first spank. The years of humiliated hunger come down in that spank, and the years of humiliated exposure ahead of her, and Cherry screams out. She screams in fear and shame and pointless protest, and squirms her ass frantically away from Dixie’s hand. She’d been planning to hold still, too. That’s not going to happen either. She knows now: she is going to give them a show. She doesn’t want to, she hates herself for it, but she can’t help it. She is going to wriggle and scream. She is wriggling and screaming now, while her porn star lover spanks her bare bottom on camera. She can’t stop it.

  Her long fantasies of helplessness and fear and shame, and her immediate reality of helplessness and fear and shame, are fusing in her head. In her mind’s eye she sees herself: an amateur spanking model bent over a porn star’s lap, screaming and protesting and wiggling her bare bottom as it turns from pale to pink. Dixie’s girl-toy gets spanked for the first time. The image humiliates her further, and she squirms harder to escape from it; but instead of providing relief, her squirming cranks the image into sharp, vivid focus. She is soon in a perfect storm, a perpetual motion machine: humiliated at her own humiliation, afraid of her own fear, made helpless by her own helplessness. Dixie keeps talking about how bad she is, how dirty, how she got herself into this position, how she deserves to be punished hard on her bare bottom for watching those filthy perverted spanking videos. She believes every word of it.