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

by Greta Christina

  He touches her pussy with one finger. She sobs harder, and the sound is like a hand pulling him in. Across the line. Down. He fingers her for a moment, drinking in the sight from this side of the line for the last time: her helpless body, her disarranged clothing, her pink pussy, her exposed bottom, her cheeks still pink and warm from being beaten for no reason, her body shaking with fear and confusion and uncontrollable tears.

  It draws him in. He forces his cock inside her, and falls.

  Changing the Scene

  He has been incredibly good throughout all of this.

  He is about to stop being good.

  He is about to change the scene.

  When she first came to him, he had been good. He figured out almost immediately what she wanted, but he restrained his usual sarcastic impatience, and gently guided her to her confession. With some self-interest, to be sure; but also with a genuine, if grudging, concern.

  When she finally admitted what she wanted him to do to her, he wanted to comply immediately: to shove her over his desk, to shove her skirt up and her panties down, to punish her bare bottom until she cried. He has known her for years—the last few of those years spent trying to set aside the sordid thoughts he had about her, knowing it was unforgivable for a teacher to even think of a student that way. And now that she was offering herself, now that it was no longer morally repugnant to take advantage of her, he wanted to do it at once, to cruelly violate the young, vulnerable flesh that was being offered to him on a silver platter. But he was good, and while he had to bite his tongue many times, he talked her through her circumstances—the too-early marriage, the well-meaning dolt of a husband, the recent separation—to help her make sure she wasn’t acting rashly, and was making the right decision in coming to him.

  And when she looked at him tearfully after their long conversation and said, “Can we do it now, please?” he wanted nothing more than to grab her by the ear, and drag her over to his desk, and show her exactly what it was she was asking for, and make her sorry she had ever asked. But he was good. He talked her through the negotiation, introduced her to limits and safewords and whatnot. And when they were done talking, he summoned all his self-control, and said, “You should really think about this. If you still want this a few days from now, then we’ll proceed. Are you free a week from today?”

  And then, when she came back a week later, exactly on time, he was very good indeed.

  He is used to unleashing himself. His wife has been receiving his most vicious attentions with transcendent joy for some years now, and he has become unused to holding back. But he knows this girl has never done this before. So he takes it slow. He is firm, as he knows she wants him to be; but he is careful, titrating out the pain and the shame with the hand of a chemist.

  It is important to her that this should be about punishment; that he should be pitiless but fair; that he should be correcting her, and inspiring her to do better. So he counts out her offenses, and marks them on a chalkboard in her line of sight, and erases the marks as he proceeds through her punishments. Offenses against the world, and against him. Her offenses against him are few, but he counts them for much more.

  It is important to her that she be exposed. But she is overcome with sudden shyness when he instructs her to do it, to lift her skirt and lower her undergarments. He generally likes women to expose themselves for him—it makes him feel desired, and powerful—but it soon becomes clear that she can’t. So he does it for her. He only gives her the barest hint of a withering look, and two marks for her disobedience in the “offenses against me” column. One for her skirt, and one for her panties.

  It is important to her that this be a little bit hard. Not too hard, but a little. She wants him to be a little forceful, to make her a little afraid, to make her take a little more than she thinks she wants. So he holds his black rage tightly in check. He limits himself to his hand, and to a wooden ruler at the very end. Her bottom turns bright pink, and then bright red; but it should fade soon, with no bruises. And he keeps his tongue in check: keeping his language harsh but not brutal, his tone biting but not vicious. She has tears in her eyes when he is done, but her pussy is wet, and she seems essentially fine.

  And he lets her come. In fact, he orders her to come, in the exact way she most likes to come. He had asked her about this the week before, and he now instructs her to do it: to stay bent over, and to open her legs, and to use the device that she likes to use on herself, the one he told her to bring. He fondles her sore bum while she does it: keeping her punishment vividly in her consciousness, while not distracting her from the business at hand. She tightens up when she goes over the top, and then she collapses, her long unruly hair tumbling about her, her face glowing as pink as her bottom. She sighs a sigh of deep relief and satisfaction.

  “I think I’m done,” she says.

  His black rage slips the leash.

  He is about to stop being good.

  He is about to change the scene.

  He stands back and surveys her. “You think we’re done. Do you.”

  His voice has changed. His voice brims over with dismissal and contempt, a sneer in audible form. It’s the voice he used to use in the classroom: the one that made her tremble for seven years, the one that made her wet between her legs for the last three of those years. It’s the voice that says, “Your imperfection, predictable though it is, is a cruel disappointment.” It’s the voice that makes her self-possession crumble: the voice that makes her desperate to please, and unbearably ashamed at not doing so. Her loose, casual sprawl freezes on his desk.

  He continues, the temperature in his voice dropping with every sentence, and the poison in it rising. “You think you can come in here, and flaunt your bare bottom at me, and entice me into spanking you for your own pleasure, and spread your legs in front of me while you whack yourself off… and then walk out the door, with merely a ‘Thank you.’ No, actually, come to think of it. Not with a ‘Thank You.’ ‘I think I’m done.’ Charming. Excellent manners. Very thoughtful.”

  He pries her fingers from the death-grip they have on the far side of the desk, and pins her wrists behind her back. She gasps, taken aback at his surprising strength and the sudden shift in the wind, and he uses her moment of imbalance to seize his opportunity. He has a length of rope in his desk drawer. Her wrists are bound behind her back before she knows it.

  She panics. He is angrier than she has seen him in years, and there is nothing and no-one here to stop his anger from breaking over her. She is essentially helpless. She could probably stand up, if he weren’t standing right behind her with his hips pushing angrily between her thighs. If he stepped away, she might even make it to the door. But it is a long, winding staircase up out of his cellar. With her hands bound behind her back, she would never make it. He would overtake her in seconds.

  “I’ll scream,” she says.

  “Yes,” he drawls. “I expect so.”

  He unlocks the wall cabinet and selects an implement. The crop, he decides. Cruel, but not brutal. Something he doesn’t have to hold back with. Something he can use for as long as he needs to. He paces in front of her, tapping it lightly in his hand.

  “Now,” he says. “Tell me we’re done. Tell me we’re done, and walk out that door.” He gestures to the door with the crop. “And we will be done for good. Or tell me you’re sorry, and we can complete this.”

  She is suddenly ashamed. His voice makes her feel fifteen again: small, trying to be bigger, acutely conscious of her imperfections, deathly afraid of his contempt. She doesn’t know if she’ll ever again find someone to do these things to her. And she feels genuinely bad for her selfishness. The decision is easier than she would have thought; it makes itself in her mind in a moment, and she speaks before it can change.

  “I’m very sorry, sir.”

  The honorific slips in naturally, as if they had never left school. “Fine,” he replies. “That’s a start.”

  He goes to the chalkboard and makes several
marks, on the “offenses against me” side. She blanches. The memory is still vivid of what even one mark on that side of the board has cost her. He snarls at her again. “Do you think that’s fair, young lady? Does that meet with your approval? Is that to your liking?”

  She nods meekly. He shuts his mouth and grips the riding crop: her mind makes itself up again, and again she speaks before she can stop it. “Actually, sir—it’s not fair.”

  Before his rage can explode, she races on. “You haven’t given me enough. I messed up badly. I need to show you how sorry I am. I think you may need to give me some more marks.” She shuts her eyes tight. “Please, sir. Whatever you were planning to give me—please give me more.”

  He looks at her suspiciously. He can’t decide if she’s gaming him to get more smacks out of him. He looks at her face, terrified at what she’s just said, and realizes she’s sincere. She takes this business of learning lessons seriously. She always did. He makes five more curt marks on the board, and moves into place behind her.

  Her bottom has the gently blended pink tinge of a peach. A vicious slash rises up out of it with the first lash of the crop. She screams. As promised. His rage had been cooling a bit, but her scream stirs it again.

  His darkest rages are rarely chaotic. They are all about control: tight, vicious control, laced with sarcasm and an intense desire to hurt as deeply as possible. He lays the lashes in neat, parallel lines across her bottom. He does it in a rhythm, letting each lash blossom onto her skin and into her brain, letting the full rise of the pain and the ebb of the afterburn flow through her body, before he strikes again. He lays the hard stripes all the way down her bottom, and then down the backs of her thighs.

  He does it again, filling in the spaces between the marks.

  And then again. Twice as many this time. Filling in the spaces between the old marks and the new.

  Her screams have fused together into a long animal wail, much the way her welts are fusing into one bright red inflammation. Much the way his arousal has fused into his rage. He lashes her across the old marks now, and his cock rises as the welts rise up higher. He is being careful now to place the blows at random, so she can’t predict where they will land next, so each stroke lands like it’s coming out of nowhere. Her wailing and her tears run through his veins like Viagra.

  He stops. He wipes one mark off the board.

  And he begins to rebuke her again, in that cutting voice that makes her want to hide in a closet and cry until she dies; a voice that makes her wish he’d start whipping her again, if only he’d stop saying these things.

  “You think this is all about you. You think this is all about your naughty little fantasies of getting spanked on your bottom. You think you can dangle yourself in front of me, and get me to give you what you want, and then walk off without a care. You think you’re special, like you’re the only girl in England who likes to get her bum smacked. Like there aren’t a thousand other girls hungry for the same bloody thing. Like your need to get it trumps everything. You are beyond selfish.”

  He unbuttons his trousers and takes out his cock. “I have wanted to fuck you for years. I am going to fuck you now. This is what I want. I am going to take it from you. Get ready.”

  He forces himself hard into her cunt. It takes no effort: she is sobbing, but she is also sopping wet. He almost wishes she weren’t; he wants it to be hard for her, wants to hurt her inside as well as out. But it also makes him feel cruel in a different way, a way he likes better. He likes that he can whip her viciously, and berate her cruelly, and make her pussy wet doing it. It makes him feel desired, and powerful. He draws it out as long as he can, jabbing, thrusting in deep, hoping to make her sore, hoping to make her wish he’d stop so he can keep going anyway. She grimaces—maybe from the marks still blooming on her ass, maybe from his cock forcing itself inside her—and he takes a handful of her tangled hair, and twists it cruelly, and comes.

  She is still crying. The crop is on the desk by his hand. He picks it up, and knocks over the chalkboard. “I’d wipe all the marks off,” he says, “but I don’t feel like moving just now. I’ll do it in a bit. Consider them gone.”

  He unties her hands, and she drops to her knees and embraces him around his waist. “I’m really sorry,” she says, still sniffling. “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. I really wanted you to fuck me. I was just feeling good, and I was thoughtless. I’m sorry.”

  Not many people in his life have said they didn’t mean to hurt him. His wife, and their lover. His best friend. His oldest friend, before things went so wrong. The last tatters of his rage and hurt dissipate. He kneels down next to her, and rests his hand on her bottom, lightly, gingerly. He knows better than to apologize. “Checking,” he says. “Was that too much?”

  She shakes her head, laughing, wiping her wet face with the back of her hand. “Fuck, no. That was… I mean, it was…. Okay, not so much what I expected. But no. Not too much. Just right.”

  When he first met his wife, when they spent that first bizarre night together, she said that sex with him was like being hit by an intelligent hurricane: it rearranged all the furniture, and she had to figure out where everything was and how it all fit together now that he was here. He can see that he has already begun rearranging his own furniture, just a bit, to make room for this young woman. Not for long, probably: she is only twenty-two, new to the world in many ways. She’ll discover soon that he is far from the only person who will do these things to her; that England is full of lovely young men who will happily wallop her bottom as hard as she likes. But for now, she is here is in his arms: beautiful, brilliant, needing attention, apparently wanting the rather distinctive attention that he has to give. She seems to be one of those rare people who sees him as he is, and likes him anyway. He hopes the feeling outlasts this affair. There are not many people in his life whom he likes. He seems to like her.

  He sees that she is still wet down there. “Would you like to come again?” he asks, as if he’s offering her a cocktail.

  She nods, and reaches a tentative hand towards her cunt. “May I?”

  He moves her hand aside, and reaches between her legs. “Allow me.”

  UNICORNS AND RAINBOWS

  The Unicorn and the Rainbow

  Frank the unicorn walked into the bar. Midnight, pissing rain, and the grime on the neon-garish windows streaked down the glass like a whore’s mascara. The unicorn staggered across the floor and slammed his hoof on the bar. “Jack. Double shot.”

  The bartender eyed him. Sizing up how drunk he was already, how much of a pain in the ass it would be to 86 him, whether or not he gave a damn. He shrugged, and poured the double shot. In a sop to his not-quite-dead sense of responsibility, he plonked a glass of water next to it. The unicorn glared at the water like it had been dredged from the toilet. “What. The fuck. Is that.”

  A voice shimmered from the end of the bar. “Rough night?”

  The unicorn glared in the direction of the voice. A rainbow was draped on a barstool, his hot colors crossed elegantly over his cool ones at the bottom, all seven of his tendrils waving gracefully, if a bit unsteadily, at the top.

  The unicorn snorted. “What the fuck business is it of yours how rough a night I’m having?”

  “I could make it my business. And I like it rough.”

  The rainbow sidled over to the unicorn and ordered another vodka. “So. How old was she? Twelve? Thirteen? Who’d she throw you over for?”

  The unicorn’s ivory face turned dead white. “How… how did you…”

  The rainbow shrugged. “Oh, please. It’s all over your face. So who was it? A boy band? A sitcom star? Some twerp from American Idol? It must have been bad. You look like you’ve been in every bar from here to Middle Earth.”

  An ugly flush of rage flashed into the unicorn’s face, and for a second, the rainbow thought he might get punched in the gut. Then the unicorn collapsed onto the bar. A single, silvery tear trickled down his face.

  “That act
or. The one in the vampire movies. Robert something. She—she tore down all my posters. Scraped my stickers off her desk. She even threw out her trapper keeper. Now this moody undead wanna-be is all over her bedroom, and it’s like I never existed.”

  The rainbow patted him on the shoulder. “That’s not so bad, pal. There’s dignity in a vampire. You could do worse. Hey, my last one threw me over for Justin Bieber.”

  The unicorn flinched. “What do you mean—your last one?”

  “Sweetie,” the rainbow chuckled grimly, “I’ve been dropped for every teen idol since 1965. David Cassidy, Corey Feldman, Hanson… hell, I even got dumped for Ringo Starr. And that was after the Beatles broke up. Please. Don’t tell me this is your first.”

  The rainbow glanced at the unicorn’s stricken face. “Oh. Fuck. If I’d known… Look, pal. You gotta learn to take these things lightly. That’s how the game is played. They love you like a mental patient, they can’t get enough of you, you’re their entire world… and right when they’re hitting puberty and it’s starting to get interesting, they drop you like a hot rock, for whatever non-threatening boy the teen idol machinery is pumping out this week. That’s how it goes. Did you really think it was going to last? Would you even want that?” The rainbow shuddered. “Imagine a forty-seven year old woman who’s into unicorns. I’ve been down that road. Believe me, you’re better off. Ride the ride, get off when it ends, have a drink or twelve, get back in line and strap yourself in again. It’s not a bad life. And there are… consolations.”

  The rainbow downed his drink. “Come on. Back alley. I said I liked it rough. You’re having a bad night? Take it out on me. Pretend I’m Ashley or Brianna or whatever the fuck her name was. Smack me around; call me a treacherous whore; fuck me six ways from Sunday like you could never fuck her. It’ll make you feel better. Trust me.” A few beads of purple sweat rose up on the rainbow’s forehead as he spoke, putting the lie to his casual tone, and a faint smell of lavender filtered into the dank room. The unicorn glowered… and then grabbed the rainbow by his red tendril, and dragged him out the side door.