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

by Greta Christina

  I can’t see her face. This is not a problem. This is more than not a problem. This is part of the point.

  I can hear her crying. This is also not a problem. This is also part of the point.

  She is there willingly. She is crying, she is suffering, but she is holding herself in place. When she jerks her ass away from the blows, she quickly puts herself back in place. She wants to be good. She wants approval and praise for taking her punishment like a good girl; or else she’s afraid of the things that will happen if she’s bad.

  She is being beaten. With a hand, in preparation for the hairbrush; with a hairbrush, in preparation for the belt. With the belt.

  She is writhing and squirming as she cries. She is squirming in response to the pain. And because she is aroused. And because she knows that the man who is beating her will get off on it.

  The man who is beating her can see her excitement as well as her pain. He continues to beat her. He is happy to see her aroused; but he wants to take her past her arousal, into a place of pure suffering. And into a place of giving in. A place, not just of obedience and compliance, but of a humiliated awareness of her place, and a servile acceptance of it.

  Yes, he plans to fuck her. Yes, he wants her pussy wet and open. But when he fucks her, he wants it to be about him. Not about her; not about her desire, or her pleasure. He wants it to be about his cock, sliding into her acquiescent cunt. About his fucked-up need to fuck a woman who’s crying and suffering and still holding herself in place. Still putting herself on display. Still making herself available. Still, after everything, placing her ass and her thighs and her spread-open pussy above her head, and above her heart.

  Her cries are changing now. The man who is beating her has moved beyond the careful titration of erotic pain, and has become purely cruel: the beating is steady, and relentless, and has no end in sight. But she is no longer crying in protest. She is crying in sorrow. She is suffering, and she is giving in. She jerks her body away from the hardest blows, and then puts herself back into place, making herself available for more.

  The man who is beating her beats her for a while longer. He drives her sorrow and defeat deep into her body, whipping it into a lather of humiliation and drinking it in like a cocktail.

  And then, belt still in hand, he unzips his fly, and presses his cock against her wet, open, humiliated, acquiescent pussy.

  She is still crying.

  Yes. He plans to fuck her.

  He is fucking her now.

  Inspired by a short video found on the Internet.

  This Isn’t Right

  She’d moved in with Uncle Mike when she was sixteen. Her mom had finally died, her dad had been AWOL for years. She barely knew Uncle Mike—when her dad took off, he’d stopped coming around.

  It probably wasn’t such a good idea: a sixteen-year-old girl moving in with a single man who barely knew her, a man she hadn’t even seen in eight years. Child Services didn’t love it. But he was Shelley’s only living relative who wasn’t missing or in jail, what choice did they have. And it turned out, she and Mike got on well. He was a stand-up guy, smart and responsible, not like his brother; she was a smart girl, going places. Everyone figured it’d be okay.

  And nobody thought it’d be for more than a couple years. Everyone figured Shelley would get her own place after high school: get a job, or go off to college. But she stayed, and went to college in town. This way, she explained, she only had to work a few hours a week. She could concentrate on her studies. And besides, she and Uncle Mike got along.

  This thing between them. It had been there from almost the first. They would sit next to each other on the sofa, watching TV, and the space between them was filled with electrical current. They were more conscious of each other’s bodies than if he’d had his arm draped around her or she’d been sitting on his lap. When one of them would get up and then sit back down again, they would sit closer, or farther apart, and both took careful note of which it was, and would try to figure out what it meant.

  She knew what she was thinking, but could never be sure what he was. It was the same for him. She would take a step forward—modeling a new dress and asking him what he thought of it, or dressing in a halter and hot pants to work in the garden—and he would flinch away. But then, he would touch her waist to get around her in the kitchen, or hug her a little extra tight before saying goodnight, and she would be the one flinching. She is more frisky, usually, flirting more easily with the idea; he is more reserved, far more uneasy… but in his rare moments of being the one to move, he also seems more serious.

  After it happened, she never was sure how he got the idea that what he did would be okay. He must have looked at her browser history, seen the video site she’d been watching. The site that her friend had sent around as a joke. She had laughed along with everyone else, and then watched it every night since: fascinated, and with growing recognition. Endless versions of the same theme: girls, and their bare bottoms, and hands or hairbrushes or things that were worse. Usually being done by older men. In the ones she kept watching, anyway. In the ones she kept coming back to, again and again. After it happened, when she thought about it, it made her shiver: the thought of Mike watching the videos she’d been touching herself to. Like she was being stalked; like his dick was following a trail of breadcrumbs to her door.

  But it was his car that started it. She’d known not to take it out without permission, but she really thought he’d never find out. Of course she’d dented it. He was really angry. Or at least, he seemed really angry. His car had a dozen dents in it already, but he seemed seriously angry over this one.

  “I’m really sorry,” she said. “I’ll pay to get it fixed.”

  “That is not the point.” They were sitting next to each other on the sofa. She was wearing short gym shorts, and a thin tank top that clung to her chest. The current between their bodies should have been diffused by their argument and their anger. It wasn’t. It was turned up.

  “That is not the point,” he repeated. “The point is that you acted recklessly. The point is that you treated me with disrespect. The point is that you were selfish, and didn’t consider my feelings.” His voice was rising in pitch. He’d never seemed to care about the car that much.

  “Oh, come on,” she coaxed. “Don’t be mad.” She rested her hand on his knee.

  And he grabbed her around the wrist, and pulled her body down across his lap. Without hesitating, without apparently thinking, he smacked her hard on her bottom.

  And everything changed, as if a hand had wiped the scene.

  And the new scene is alien, and overwhelming. The shock, as her body makes contact with his, and as the current running through the empty space between them suddenly shorts out. The rush of adult sexuality and female power, confusingly blended with the feeling of childishness, and frightened, embarrassed, guilty childishness at that. The memory of all the videos she’s been watching: all the bare bottoms, all the hands and paddles and everything else raining down in righteous fury, the pinkness or redness or worse, the wriggling, the tears, the bare pussies peering out from under the bare bottoms. The vivid consciousness that this is the thing she has been wanting, and has not been able to think about wanting, and it is happening, right now. The drop into helplessness, like she has been dropped into a swimming pool and doesn’t know how to swim. The acute, shamed awareness that this is her uncle, and that whatever this is, it isn’t right.

  She needs time: to adjust, to find her feet. But she isn’t getting it. His hand is coming down on her bottom, it’s coming down hard, and it isn’t stopping. The confusion of feelings is overwhelming her body: she freezes to try to get a grip on it, squirms to try to shake it off. But his hand keeps coming down, and every spank on her bottom wipes out reality anew, and shakes her grip loose.

  And it hurts. Somehow, with all the videos she’s watched, with all the times she’s imagined this with her hand between her legs, it hadn’t occurred to her that it would really hurt. Her sho
rts and her panties are thin, they don’t give her much protection, and his hands are big, and strong, and calloused. She cries out. “I’m sorry. Please. I’m so sorry.”

  He stops, as abruptly as he started.

  “This isn’t right,” he says.

  She drops her head, in relief, and disappointment, and terror over what’s to come next. Of course this isn’t right. But they’ve stopped now. Maybe they can pretend that it wasn’t that bad: just an angry uncle punishing his niece, just a little inappropriately for her age.

  “This isn’t right,” he says again. “I can’t do it hard enough like this.”

  Her shorts are flimsy, with an elastic waist. He pulls them down, and her panties, getting them over her bottom in one quick yank, and then tugging them roughly down past her thighs.

  She freezes. The confusion, the shock, the feeling of being a sexual woman, the feeling of being a scared and guilty little girl, the helplessness… the volume on all of it turns up. He looks at her body. She feels him looking.

  And he begins again.

  His bare hand is now making contact with her bare skin, completing the circuit with each sharp blow. She had been confused before, but now she is crystal clear, and the clarity sharpens with each hard spank of his hand on her naked bottom. Her shorts and her panties are down near her knees, and now he spanks her thighs, too. His rhythm is steady, like a hammer or a piston: but the spanks on her thighs seem harder, and angrier, and they make her squirm hard and cry out in shame. He twines his other hand in her hair, twisting his fingers with each blow on her bottom. He’s trying to keep her in place, she thinks; but it feels like a caress, pulsing in her hair and stroking on the back of her neck.

  And he starts talking. “Tell me you’ve been bad.” he says. “Tell me you’re sorry. Tell me you need me to punish you. Tell me you need me to spank your bare bottom. Say thank you for pulling down your shorts and your panties and spanking you hard on your naked bottom.”

  She repeats the litany he’s giving her, even as he shifts away from talk of punishment and regret, and more and more into talk about her body and her nakedness. She repeats his words, and every sentence makes her more conscious of her exposure. Every sentence makes her hyper-conscious of her position: sprawled half-naked across his lap for a spanking, childishly humiliated, and at the same time pornographically sexual. Every sentence feels like her shorts and panties are being pulled down all over again. “I’m so sorry,” she says. “Please spank my bare bottom even harder. Please punish my bare bottom until it’s bright red. Please keep on spanking my naked bottom and my naked thighs, as hard as you have to to make me learn my lesson. Please punish my naked bottom hard, Uncle Mike.”

  He stops, again out of nowhere. He rests his hand on her ass, then yanks it back as if he’s been burned.

  “Go to your room,” he says, his voice shaking. “We’ll take care of this later.”

  She clambers to her feet. They both look down at her naked pussy, on clear display for the first time, and she hastily pulls her shorts back up. “I’m so sorry,” she whispers. She bolts into her room without a word, and slams the door.

  She looks around her disordered teenage room in a panic, and starts to frantically tidy her dressing table. What a mess. She is such a slob. She must be such a pain to live with. After a few minutes, she’s cleared off a space. She sets her hairbrush in the middle of the space.

  She puts a pillow on the floor, kneels down by the side of her bed, and folds her hands to pray. She hasn’t prayed since she was eight. She’s not even sure she believes in God anymore. The bed is small, made for a child, really. When she kneels beside it, it only comes up to her waist.

  She hears a knock on the door, and hears the door open behind her. Usually he knocks and then waits. She hears him standing behind her. She can almost hear him getting ready to apologize, trying to get out the words he’s been rehearsing for the last ten minutes. She reaches back, and pulls her shorts and her panties back down.

  She folds her hands in front of her again, and bows her head, and parts her legs, just a little. “I’m so sorry,” she says again.

  The door to her bedroom closes behind them.

  For No Reason

  There’s always been a reason.

  There was the reason for the first time, of course. The big one, the one he first punished her for, the one that could still ruin her life if he told anybody. The one that keeps her coming back, that keeps her from telling anybody what he’s been doing.

  But even after that, he always gave a reason. A rule broken, a deadline missed, a word spoken without respect. He would call her into his office. He would scowl. He would remind her of the broken rule, the missed deadline, the disrespect. And then—then and only then—he would tell her, “Pull up your skirt, and pull down your panties, and bend over my desk. I have to punish you now.”

  She has almost been getting used to it. At first, and for a long time, these sessions terrified her, made her squirm with shame. But lately, she has been baring her bottom and bending over his desk, not with fear, but with resignation. Even a hint of boredom. Even the slightest shadow of contempt.

  This is not okay with him. He needs her to feel afraid. To feel helpless. To feel that all her moorings have been cut, and that she is in his hands. He needs her to feel that the only sure things in her world are him, and his hands, and his desk that is supporting her, and his implements that he chooses to use on her.

  He knows that what he is about to do is dangerous. Immoral, of course, but also risky: risky not just to his reputation and livelihood, that’s a given, but risky also to his mental stability. He knows he is crossing a bad line, into a bad place. He knows he will never be able to think of himself the same way again. He will never again be able to think of himself as a fair and concerned authority, if somewhat harsh and unconventional. After this, he will have to call himself what he is.

  But he needs this, and he is going to do it anyway.

  Today, he calls her into his office. He scowls at her. And then he tells her, “Pull up your skirt, and pull down your panties, and bend over my desk.”

  There’s just a hint of a shrug in her shoulders. “Why? What am I being punished for? Sir?” she adds.

  He was right about the boredom, apparently, and the contempt. He is doing this just in time. He takes the plunge without hesitation.

  “There is no reason,” he says. “You’re not being punished for anything. Now. Pull up your skirt, and pull down your panties, and bend over my desk.”

  She stares at him, confused, and wary. “I don’t understand.”

  “What don’t you understand? I’m telling you to do something. Do it.”

  “Why?”

  He might as well tell her. It’s not like she can do anything about it. He is crossing the line, and he is going to take her with him. “I’m doing this because I can. I’m doing this because I choose to do it. And you are going to do it because I tell you to. Because I have the authority, and you do not. Now. Show me your bare bottom, and bend over.”

  She is frightened, for the first time in a while. She is off-balance, uncertain of the new rules, not understanding what’s happening, or what’s going to happen next. So out of habit, and not knowing what else she can do, she obeys. She ducks her head and turns away from him… and she exposes herself to him, hitching up her skirt and pulling her panties down over her bare bottom. For the first time in a little while, she does it with shyness and reluctance, and a fear that seems genuine and fresh. She bends over the desk, and she clutches the other side of it, her hands trembling.

  Perfect.

  He has her where he wants her, and how he wants her, and he is going to make the most of it. He is going to be cruel. Usually when he spanks her, he is hard, and fast, and punitive. It’s brutal, but it’s over fast. This time, he wants to take his time. He wants her to feel every blow. He doesn’t want her to brace herself against a barrage of blows. He wants every smack of his hand to build on the oth
er, so she feels each of them, and all of them at once.

  He smacks his hand down hard onto her white, bare bottom. And then he waits, lets it sink in, before he smacks her again. He spanks her hard, but he spanks her slowly. He lets her squirm, and he watches her squirm, and he waits until the squirming stops before he smacks her again.

  And this time, he lets his hand linger, just for a moment, on her trembling bottom, watching the white shading into pink, and feeling the cool skin turn to warm. He’s never done that before. He is doing it now.

  She is beginning to cry. She hasn’t cried for him in a long time. It inflames him. He lets himself go harder, the cruelty of the slow beating cascading into the cruelty of a relentless one. And he lets himself go further, the light lingering of his hand after a blow shading into a caress. And then into a grope.

  He sees her naked pussy peeping out from between the bright pink cheeks of her bottom. Taunting him. Beckoning him. He has never done anything about it before. Nothing, except wait until she left his office and shut the door to leave him in privacy. Nothing, except call her back into his office, week after week, to get another glimpse.

  He’s gone this far. He might as well. It’s not like she can do anything about it. He is crossing the line, and he is taking her with him.

  He silently unzips his trousers, and pulls out his cock. He comes up closer behind her, and puts his hand on her pink, warm, inviting bottom. He squeezes, a long, lascivious grope. “Open your legs,” he tells her.

  She is still crying. She is frightened, she is confused, she is ashamed. She is clinging to his desk like it’s the one sure thing in the world. And slowly, like a pair of iron gates leading to a bright mansion on a hill, she opens her legs.