And yes, the pain. The pain, though, is not what she’d imagined. It is both easier and harder than she’d expected. It’s like a roller coaster: terrifying when it comes over the peaks, dizzying when it swoops down through the valleys. But surprisingly, the pain is not the point. The pain, clearly, is the means to an end. The pain is there to make her feel helpless. The pain is there because it isn’t a spanking without it. The pain is there to wake her up, to keep her awake and paying attention during every second of her humiliation. The pain is there to drive her humiliation deep into her body. That—the shame—is the point. The pain, she can grit her teeth and endure. The shame, she just has to feel.
She keeps thinking that the shame can’t get any harder. And then Dixie does something new, and the volume gets turned up. When she switches from her hand to the hairbrush. When she pulls up Cherry’s blouse and pulls down her bra to expose her breasts. When she puts her hands on Cherry’s legs to spread her thighs apart. When she starts spanking Cherry again, this time with her breasts bare and her legs spread wide. When she puts her hands down between Cherry’s thighs, to spread her cunt lips apart. When the camera comes in close to look at her bright red bottom and her spread-open pussy. When the other camera comes in close to look at her bared breasts, and then her face. She starts to cry, something else she wasn’t going to do, and the camera drinks up her tears.
She feels something hard and cool between her legs. Dixie has pulled out a vibrator, from under the cushion or something, and is pressing it against Cherry’s clit and turning it on. No, Cherry thinks. No. She can’t do this to me. She can’t do all this, and then make me come on camera, too. Dixie moves the vibrator in little figure eights, the way Cherry had done that time Dixie made her show how she masturbated. It takes no time. In a few seconds, she is coming, sobbing, her legs spread wide, her bright red spanked bottom humping up in the air like a dog in heat.
The shakes keep going through her: she squirms away from them, and at the last moment clutches to hold on to them. Finally, she is finished. She realizes that the room around her is completely silent. She stays in place. She doesn’t know what to do next; she’s not ready yet to face what her life will be after this. She stays over Dixie’s lap with her legs spread, silent except for her hard breathing, and waits for instructions. The director says, “Cut.” She waits.
“Jesus, kid. You’re a natural.”
She twists up to look at Dixie. Dixie is looking at her with a new expression. Respect? No, not quite. Close, though. Dixie is looking at her as if she had value. As if she was worth something. Not respect. But almost.
“Jesus fuck, this is going to be hot. We’re going to sell a zillion. We might even win awards. We have to do this again. Hell, I want to do it again right now. And we have to find some other cherries to pop. Have you ever taken it in the ass?”
No.
She can’t.
She thinks about lying, saying “Yes” to throw Dixie off the scent. She shakes her head. No. She has never taken it in the ass.
“Good. We’ll do that next time. Cherry Bottoms, Dixie’s girl-toy, gets fucked in the ass for the first time. See her virgin ass violated as she begs for it to stop and then begs for more. Vince, you can sell that, can’t you? Great. Let’s set it up. And you… I can’t wait to get you home. I have big plans for you.”
She sees now what her life will be. She has no power to steer it in another direction. She nods. Yes.
What She’s Not Telling Him
Their arrangement is, in theory, completely consensual. Safewords, and limits, and all the usual stuff.
What she’s not telling him is that, the moment he orders her in for a punishment, all of that stuff disappears. The moment he tells her that she must be punished—no, even before that, the moment he gets the gleam in his eye that prophecies a punishment—her submission takes over her mind, and her safeword and limits and understanding that she has consented to this are obliterated. What she’s not telling him is that, for her, the game of sadistic master and frightened obedient slavegirl is real, and is becoming more real with each passing week.
In their arrangement, he always initiates the punishments, and she never refuses. It’s an arrangement she’d asked for, early on. It’s an arrangement he agreed to, with fascination and eagerness, but with more than a bit of trepidation. It’s an arrangement he thinks is a potential minefield. So he agreed to it only on condition that she absolutely promise to safeword if she needs to, that she promise to tell him immediately if he’s being too hard or too cruel.
She promised.
She lied.
For her, the moment her punishment begins, all of her ability to say “No” vanishes.
And that is exactly as she wants it.
Early on in their relationship, after a punishment, he would ask her to give him feedback. Was that too hard? Too fast? Were the things I said too cruel? He would check in after a punishment, or even once or twice during. She soon asked him to please not do that. She says it spoils the mood if he checks in during a punishment; spoils the memory of it if he checks in after. She says he can trust her, that she’ll tell him if there’s a problem. She tells him that if she doesn’t say anything, he can trust that it’s all okay with her.
She’s lying. She wants it to be too hard. She wants him to do things that are not okay with her. She wants it to be out of her control. He’s asked her to tell him if he ever punished her too hard. What she’s not telling him is that he has punished her too hard, many times.
So this is what it feels like now.
He gets the gleam in his eye. The spark of the idea. And no matter what she’s doing—emptying the dishwasher, reading a magazine, surfing the Internet—her sense of herself as a capable adult in the modern world slips off like a costume. He scolds her, and degrades her, and punishes her… and she feels like a naughty frightened child. Like a disobedient teenager. Like a lowly servant girl on a remote estate. Like a whore in a white slavery brothel.
And when he does sexual things to her, during, or after—when he makes her pose and show off her body, or makes her masturbate for him, or tickles her clit in between strokes of a beating, or simply pushes his cock into her cunt—she feels like she is being raped. She feels like her body is being forced onto display, like her pleasure is being forced out of her body, like his cock is being forced inside her against her will.
He is changing. He used to be a regular kinky guy. He liked to spank girls—who doesn’t? He liked to order girls around—big deal. He liked for girls to pretend to be his sex slave—who wouldn’t want that? He liked some things a little harder and freakier than most kinky guys, other things a little less hard and freaky. He was well within acceptable limits.
But in response to her complete acceptance of whatever he doles out, he has been changing. He’s human, not invulnerable to temptation. People say they wouldn’t really want a willing and perfectly compliant sex slave, someone to do their every bidding and never ask for anything. They say that the slave girl/ slave boy thing is a nice fantasy at best; that what they truly want is a partner to share their desires together, someone whose arousal they can enjoy as much as their own. Blah, blah, blah. But who, when presented with a willing and compliant and undemanding slave girl or slave boy, would actually turn it away? Very few, she thinks. Certainly not this one.
And who, when presented with the compliant slave, not as a temporary treat but a daily reality, a constantly available presence, would not explore the outer reaches of that compliance, and take further advantage of it with each passing week?
Again: very few, she thinks. Certainly not this one.
So he has been changing. He has been pushing harder, of course: that was to be expected. And he is becoming more cruel. His passion is becoming more brutal; his imagination is becoming more sinister. He used to spank her with the usual array of implements: hairbrushes, paddles, etc.; now, he devotes hours of time and thought to finding and inventing freshly vicious implements to beat her with. He used
to order her into poses that were sexy and showed off her body; now, he orders her into poses that are degrading and show off her helplessness. He used to slide his lubed fingers one by one into her asshole after a spanking, to prepare the way for his cock; now, he whips her ass until it’s welted and red, and immediately forces his lubed cock into her asshole, and pushes harder when she whimpers and cries.
At first, he was exploring the outer regions of his own desires and fantasies, enjoying the luxury of getting every desire fulfilled immediately, no matter how extreme or how trite. Lately, however, it seems as if he’s been exploring, not the things that he wants, but the things that she doesn’t want: searching for the things that frighten or humiliate her, and taking his pleasure that way. He has made her take pictures of herself, in the poses and costumes he knows she finds most degrading, and has made her post them on the Internet. He has taken her to a sex party, and led her naked on a leash around all the rooms, and then put her on her knees in the center of the main room with a sign around her neck saying, “Fuck Any Hole.” He has put an ad for her on the Internet personals, offering her services as a blowjob slave, and has gone with her to her assignations, making sure only that she is properly on her knees before he closes the door on her.
And it’s happening more often. She wasn’t sure that would happen: she had been worried that the charm would fade with time, that she would be reduced to bringing him dinner every night and sucking his cock once a week.
But it’s not. It’s the exact opposite.
He is doing things to keep her in a constant state of humiliation and servitude. He is making her strip naked the moment she walks in the door, and is making her remain naked as long as she is inside. He has ordered her to put clamps on her nipples for five minutes every hour, and has set the alarm on her phone to remind her to do it. He spanks her at least a little bit every morning, before they go to work. He hurts and humiliates her at least a little bit every night, before they go to sleep.
He is working to keep her in a state of constant readiness, and constant awareness of her subservience. But these things are working on him as well, keeping him in a state of constant arousal, and a constant awareness of his control over her, and an increasing assumption that this control is his by right.
What’s more: He is beginning to forget the few limits she’d set early on. He has forgotten, for instance, that she had said “No” to enemas. When he led her on all fours into the bathroom and began to fill the bag, she was flooded with wordless terror, unable to speak or even shake her head. When he slid the nozzle into her and began to fill her up, she felt something break inside her heart: the one thing she couldn’t tolerate, and it was being forced inside her anyway. When he put a plug in her ass and gave her a vibrator and made her masturbate face down on the bathroom floor with her ass full of water, she came harder than she’d come in months, weeping, coming apart on the cold tile.
Afterwards, he said, “That was amazing. We’ll be doing that again soon.” The knowledge that she will have to do that again, that it could happen at any time: it fills her with a paralyzed panic, a helplessness that she can never escape from, that she is constantly conscious of, every hour of every day.
Which is exactly what she’s been looking for.
She’s not quite sure why. She isn’t introspective in that way. Maybe she thinks she deserves it. Maybe she thinks this is how the world is supposed to be. Maybe this is just what she gets off on, and it doesn’t get her off right unless it’s complete.
His punishments are absurdly out of proportion to whatever charges he’s trumped up against her. But they are not out of proportion, she thinks, to the real crime: the crime of her deception, the crime of her concealment. She has not quite been able to forget that she engineered all this. In fact, she feels guilty for it, and receives her punishments with greater penitence and acceptance because of it.
But she is trying to forget. She is trying to close that last loophole, to seal off the last exit, to wrap her degradation around her like a blanket and shut out the world.
“There are spots on the wine glasses,” he tells her tonight. “Put on the stilettos with the locking ankle straps, and go down to the basement, and get on your hands and knees on the floor, and pull your ass cheeks apart with your hands. I’m going to start by whipping your asshole.” She is terrified of him whipping her asshole. Her asshole clenches, and she obeys. She strips, and locks the shoes into place, and descends naked and hobbled into the darkened basement.
Breasts
This is the scenario. Her blouse is pulled down, and her bra, to just under her breasts. It exposes her breasts, and pushes them up.
Her hands are pulled or tied behind her back: partly to immobilize her, but partly just to get her hands out of the way. And to pull her shoulders up and back, displaying her breasts to better advantage. Her head is also being pulled back, by a firm hand pulling her hair: also to get it out of the way, and also to display her breasts more effectively. This is being done, not by her tormentor, but by his friends. His assistants. Or, as she’s been calling them in her mind, his henchmen. Like the henchmen of the villains in Batman: faceless, interchangeable, the unthinking hands of their evil master.
Her tormentor is playing with her nipples. He pinches her nipples to make them sore; he then flicks a finger back and forth across one nipple, rapidly, firmly, like a tongue across a clit. Then the other. And then the cycle begins again. The more sore her nipples get, the more sensitive they get to his touch. It is both arousing and intensely frustrating. The sensation is enough to turn her on, and to keep her turned on indefinitely—without being enough to get her off.
Her attention is being forcibly directed to her breasts. So she is not just feeling them. She is thinking about them.
She is thinking about how dirty breasts are.
She is thinking about how, in our male-dominated/ visual-image-obsessed/etc. culture, breasts are primarily not a source of pleasure for women, but an object of desire for men. She is thinking about how, in our etc. culture, they are there to be looked at and admired. She is thinking about how, when they are touched, they are touched not for the pleasure of the woman’s breasts, but for the pleasure of the man’s hands.
This is the sort of thing that pisses her off in her normal life. And it is the sort of thing that—when her hands are pinned behind her back, when her head is pulled back by her hair, when her blouse and her bra have been pulled down to expose her bare breasts, when her breasts are being toyed with and mauled—sends her into a beautifully vicious circle of excitement and shame.
And she is thinking about how breasts are always on display. She is thinking about how they can never be hidden: they are always in front, leading the way, poking out through T-shirts and sweaters and screaming to the world, “Here I am!” She is thinking about, after all this is over today and she walks home in the cooling evening, how conscious she will be of her breasts.
He is turning up the heat now. He has gone from pinching to twisting: sharp, cruel twists with purely vicious intent. He is squeezing her breasts, mauling them, groping them like a frat boy. He is slapping them, hard, and it feels like he’s slapping her face.
The pain starts to be too much. Her moans shade up into shrieks and screams, and her tormentor gestures to one of his henchmen and has her gagged. Normally he likes to hear her scream; but the point of this particular exercise is that it’s about his enjoyment of her breasts, and not about her pleasure or pain. So he has a gag forced into her mouth: so as not to be distracted by the sounds she’s making, or by what she might be feeling, or by who she, you know, is.
This has the effect, not only of concentrating his attention onto her breasts, but of concentrating her own. Without the ability to vent, both her pleasure and her pain are amplified. Instead of being let out into the afternoon air, the noises she would be making seem to be channeled down through her throat, and down into her chest, and out into her nipples. Where they are trapped.
He is trying to reduce her: to strip away everything about her that is not a sexual object, everything that is not the sexual body part he’s currently getting off on. It’s working. In much of her day to day life, she has long, tortured conversations with herself about the nature of identity, and who and what she is. Is she her thoughts? Is she her feelings? Is she her memories? Is she her actions? But at the moment, she has no such doubts. At the moment, she is none of these things. She is her breasts. That is all.
She knows what he’s leading up to. He’s going to fuck her between her breasts. She doesn’t know how, exactly. Will he force her onto her knees? Onto her back? Will he oil her breasts and push them together himself… or have one of his henchmen do it? Will he continue to grope and torture her breasts while he fucks them? Will he put clamps on them, so the torment can continue without further assistance from him? Or will he just fuck them: ignoring her breasts’ arousal and suffering, simply using them as a pleasantly soft, pleasantly firm source of friction?
And what then? Will he turn her over to his henchmen, directing them to keep her pinned so they can each jerk off on her breasts in turn? Will he let her masturbate at the end of it all, with his cum and the cum of his henchmen drying on her breasts as she frantically rubs between her legs, shamed and shameless? Or will he come, and smear his cum over her breasts in one last act of debasement, and then politely request that she cover herself up and leave out the side door?
She doesn’t know. He’s not there yet. She doubts that he’s even close. He’s gestured to one of his henchmen, who is bringing him a set of nipple clamps, the ones with the weights you add on one by one. Her breasts can already feel them in advance: pendulous with the weight, the intermittent pain morphing into a constant, increasingly sharp ache. It’s going to be a long afternoon.
Footstool
A naked woman is kneeling on a wide footstool or a low table. Her hands are on the floor in front of her; her knees are spread wide. It is not a position of grace or beauty. It is an awkward position. It is a position with one purpose: to place her ass, and her thighs, and her spread-open pussy, on display. To make them available. To place them above her head, and above her heart. Where they belong.
Bending: Dirty Kinky Stories About Pain, Power, Religion, Unicorns, & More Page 6