All of which means that now, she has something new to feel guilty about.
So even as her old guilt is being demolished by Sister Catherine’s blistering justice, new guilt is building up behind it. And so she has to keep coming back. For weeks, months. Perhaps for years. She doesn’t know yet where this is going, or how it will end.
Penitence as planned obsolescence. Penitence as a fraudulent physician who makes his patients sick so he can keep treating them. Penitence as a perpetual motion machine.
The storm finally breaks. Sister Catherine has beaten Mary Elizabeth through her screams, through her hysteria, through her frantic clawing and pounding on the desk. She has beaten Mary Elizabeth until hellish red welts rose up out of her backside, and has then echoed those marks on the backs of her thighs, and has then repeated the theme of merciless justice, with variations, back on her backside again.
But she seems to have received an invisible signal, and has finally set down the cane, and is standing behind Mary, considering. Mary tries to catch her breath, clutching the far side of the desk, feeling the criss-cross of welts rising up out of her flesh like an alphabet of scarlet letters, advertising her shame to the world. She tries to catch her breath, tries to feel relief at the brief respite. She tries not to feel dread. She tries not to feel the other things she feels when she thinks about this. The scripted part, the familiar part, is over. The unknown part is coming up.
“And now,” Sister Catherine says, “we will move on.”
Her voice has changed. The solemn voice of disappointment and censure is gone, and has become gleefully sinister. The voice of the Wicked Witch crowing over her beautiful wickedness. The voice that speaks, not of justice, but of malice. The voice that Mary replays in her head when she touches herself.
Mary is beginning to think that Sister Catherine has figured out the truth. Or has figured out something that’s close to the truth. The standard punishments have been growing more severe; the improvised punishments have been growing more… imaginative. In recent months, Mary has had to lie on her back with her legs parted, and say ten Hail Marys while Sister Catherine whipped her between her legs. She has had to lie face down on the floor and lick Sister Catherine’s shoes, with her skirt still raised and her drawers removed and her legs opened wide, while Sister Catherine flicked her between the cheeks of her backside with something slim and vicious, and told her this was where bad girls had to be punished. She has had to put her body into positions of indignity and gross obscenity, and has then had to beg Sister Catherine to chastise her again in each new position. She has had to drink two quarts of water, and then let Sister Catherine cane her again until she wet herself. She has had to administer fellatio to this… thing, an object shaped like a phallus but with an image of Christ on the cross molded on the surface in relief. She had to flick the tip of her tongue rapidly up and down Christ’s body, and tell him how sorry she was for being wicked and adding to his suffering, and then thrust the profane object deep down her throat… while Sister Catherine traced the welts on her backside with a sharp fingernail, and murmured a stream of obscenities into her ear.
She has allowed all of it to happen.
Because she knows what she did.
She never did any of it herself. But she knew. She had even, on a few occasions, been in the room when the incidents began. And been ordered out of the room before they were completed. Twice, she had been ordered to assist: to pin down a pair of struggling hands, or hold her hand over a screaming mouth, while the incidents happened from behind. Those were two of the times she was asked to leave the room: times she knew that the incidents were going to continue, and were going to get worse, after she left.
She had known. She had even seen it, some of it. And she hadn’t tried to stop it, or told anybody about it.
So this seems like justice.
“Stay in place,” Sister Catherine says. “We’re going to move forward now.”
Mary hears stirring behind her. She tries not to imagine what is happening, what is being prepared for her. Then she feels it. Something hard, and cold, and slippery, being pressed against the opening between her legs.
Mary freezes.
Over the weeks and months, Sister Catherine has done unspeakable things to her. She has trespassed almost every law of human decency that Mary could imagine, and many that Mary had never known existed. But she has always stayed within the boundaries of the house rules, and the law. Mary can’t find her voice, but she shakes her head fiercely. No. Not this. Sister Catherine stops, and speaks.
“Do you think this is unfair?” she sneers. “Really? Given your crimes, given the things that you did—and the things that you failed to do—do you really and truly consider this an unfair punishment?”
The guilt rises up in Mary’s belly. The old guilt, the one that has yet to be broken into pieces, the one that sits like a glacier in her heart. She shakes her head again. No. She cannot say that this is unfair. It is a violation, it is a breach of trust, it is a flagrant abuse of an unspoken but clearly understood agreement. But it is not unjust. It is entirely, perfectly just.
She begins to cry as the object is pushed into her vagina.
It is certainly not how she had imagined her first time. For years, of course, she thought she would never have a first time; since she left the convent, she has begun to imagine the possibility. But this is not how she imagined it: bent over a desk, her clothes in disarray, her bare backside marked with vicious welts, weeping in pain and shame. It is entirely just. She lets the justice fill her, lets herself feel the enormity of her guilt, and the completely appropriate justice of what is happening to her. The object is hard and smooth, like plastic: it hurt when it first went in, but now it slides smoothly in and out, with no resistance.
“This is what happens to bad girls,” Sister Catherine says through gritted teeth. “Bad girls have to let things be put inside them. Bad girls have to let themselves be touched in bad places, in ways they don’t like. Bad girls have to let their bodies be invaded and used by people who have power over them.” Her voice has changed again. It is no longer solemn and punitive, nor is it gleefully sinister. It is a voice of quiet, carefully controlled rage. The object twists inside Mary at a savage angle. She flinches, and screams. She doesn’t protest. She digs her fingers into the edge of the desk, and keeps as still as she can, and holds herself in place for her punishment.
“And bad girls,” Sister Catherine says, “have to be made to feel things they don’t want to feel.” She slides the object out of Mary’s vagina, and begins stroking her clitoris with it. Mary is aghast. She feels the way she did the time Sister Catherine made her drink the water and then beat her until she peed. She feels like she is going to burst, like she can’t possibly allow herself do what she knows she will inevitably have to do. The object pushes back into her vagina, filling her anew with helplessness and humiliation; it then slides out and over her clitoris again, filling her with a different helplessness and humiliation, as she bucks her hips and rubs herself desperately against the object. The last strut on her self-control collapses, and the dam breaks. Her climax is forced into her body, and she receives it with shame and a desperate hope for forgiveness, as if her orgasm were the cane beating her backside, or the plastic object being pushed inside her.
Sister Catherine keeps swirling the object in slow circles on Mary’s clitoris, until every last shudder has been forced out of Mary’s body. She holds it in place for a minute longer, making Mary continue to feel it as she returns to reality. Then she sets it on the desk, and rests her hand on the small of Mary’s back.
“I’m sorry I had to do that,” she says. “But you had to learn.” She always says this at the end of a punishment. She usually says it snarkily, the cruel voice pretending to be punitive. This time, she sounds like she means it.
“I know,” Mary replies. “I am so sorry. You have no idea—I am so sorry. Please forgive me.”
Catherine shakes her head. “It’s not u
p to me to forgive. It’s my job to make you feel repentance. Forgiveness is up to somebody else.”
Mary nods, and wipes her eyes with the back of her hand. They stay in place for a long time, quietly. Finally Catherine pulls Mary’s underwear back up, and pulls her skirt back down.
“So, I’ll see you again next month? So we can continue your discipline?” Normally, Sister Catherine issues these words as a statement. A command, even. I’ll see you again next month, so we can continue your discipline. This time, she asks, a bit tentatively.
Mary stays silent, praying for guidance. She is now more uncertain than ever about where this is going, or how it will end. This is taking a strange direction, a disturbing direction, leading to places she’s frightened of, and to people she’s not sure she wants to meet… or to become.
But she knows she’s not finished.
“Yes, Sister,” she says, as she always does. “I’ll be here when you say, to accept whatever discipline you consider necessary.” She says the words “whatever discipline” with unusual emphasis.
“Good,” Catherine says. She walks in front of Mary, still bent over the desk. She hands Mary a business card and puts her fingers over her lips.
“This is my home number,” she murmurs under her breath. “Meet me there next week.”
Mary nods, her face still wet. She fingers the card like a rosary. “Yes, Catherine. I’ll go wherever you say.”
Deprogramming
“How far do you want to go this time?”
“A little farther than last time.”
“Last time we got almost to the belt. Are you sure you want to go farther? I don’t think we can go farther without getting into the belt.”
She nodded. “I know. It’s okay. I don’t want to, you know, go all the way with the belt. But I think I’d like to get started on it.”
“You think.” He took her hand. “You need to be more certain than that.”
“Sorry.” She took a deep breath. “Yes. I want to start on the belt today.”
He let go of her hand and sat back, his arms folded across his belly like he was warding off a blow. “All right. So tell me that you want to do this.”
“I…. Jesus, David, do I need to say this every time?”
“I need to hear it. Sarah… please. This is fucked up enough as it is. I can’t do it if—“
She touched his knee. “Okay. It’s okay.” She folded her hands neatly in her lap, and spoke again..
“I want to do this. I am choosing to do this. And I know that I can stop it, any time I need to.”
“And why do you want to do it?”
“I want to deal with what happened. I want to feel like I have some control over it. I want to move on.” Her practiced voice began to wobble. “And… I want to get off. God help me, but this gets me off.”
“Yeah, I know.” He grinned weakly. “Me too. Fucked up, isn’t it? Let’s get started.”
He stood up.
Eileen stood up. “Let’s get started. Today’s therapy group is now in session. Let the cleansing begin, in his holy name.” She consulted a slip of paper. “Today we begin with the cleansing of Sarah. Sarah, please come to the center of the circle.”
Sarah shivered. She’d known this was probably coming today. But knowing didn’t help. Knowing didn’t stop it from happening. She gritted her teeth, stood up from her metal folding chair, and walked to the center of the silent room, not knowing anything else she could do. She clenched her hands in front of her belly and waited.
“Sarah. You stand before the Tribe of the True Promise, your true family now and forever. And today you stand a failure. You have failed your father, Daddy John, and you have failed your family. You have spoken heresy, words against the teachings of Daddy John. You have mocked the teachings of Daddy John, in the hearing of your brothers and sisters. And you have pursued an unsanctioned erotic relationship, attempting to deceive Daddy John, without whom no true love is possible. Come forward for your punishment, and be cleansed of your shame.”
The circle murmured. They’re excited, Sarah thought bitterly. They can’t wait. She felt a flash of anger, followed by an afterburn of shame. She’d been in the circle herself, twitching with anxious excitement as one of her brothers or sisters stepped forward to be punished. This whole thing is fucked up, she thought. Including me. Maybe I do deserve this.
She stepped forward to Eileen, who took her hands gently. “You have been shamed by Daddy John, and by me in his name,” Eileen said. “Now you must shame yourself. Lower your trousers, and expose your body to your family, as Daddy John has exposed your sin.”
“Pull down your pants,” he said. “Your shame has been revealed. Now it’s time to reveal your body,”
She unzipped her jeans and pulled them down with her panties, as quickly as she could, trying not to think about it. This was the worst part, she thought.
No, on second thought, it wasn’t. But it was the hardest part. After this, it was out of her hands. Once she got past this, she didn’t have to do anything, or decide anything—except whether to let it keep happening.
David sat down on the hard chair. “Now bend over my knee,” he said. “You’ve acted like an irresponsible child, and you’re going to be punished like a child.” He paused. “You know I love you, right?”
She fumbled with the knot in her rough cotton drawstring pants, and let them fall to the floor, bowing her head. She wasn’t wearing underwear. Daddy John said underwear was a sin. The murmuring of the circle grew louder: less anxious, more excited. She blushed and squeezed her eyes shut tight, feeling their eyes on her naked bottom. They’re all going to watch, she thought, and none of them is going to stop it. They’re all too relieved that it’s not them this time. They’re just going to watch the show.
Eileen sat down back on the hard chair. “Now bend over my knee,” she said. “You’ve acted like an irresponsible child, and we have to punish you like a child. Daddy John loves you, and his punishment is a blessing. Now get over my knee.”
The last sentence came out with a bite, a sharp detour from Eileen’s usual soothing drone. Sarah had seen the results of that bite: the mass of bruises left on Jenny, and David, and little Shelley, Jesus, barely fifteen. She knew the gleeful cruelty behind that bite, slipping out through the cracks of the stern-but-loving mother routine. She was furious at the lie, and terrified at the truth behind it. She was powerless to do anything about either one.
She obeyed. There was nothing else she could do. She bent over Eileen’s sturdy lap, praying to God, the one she no longer believed in, to let her leave her body and shut it all out.
“I know,” Sarah said. “I love you too.” She bent over his lap. His legs were thin and wiry, like a bird’s. Breakable. She found it comforting.
Eileen rolled up her sleeves with a flourish. Someone in the circle whimpered, and immediately went silent. Eileen spoke. “My hand is the hand of Daddy John. You know Daddy’s watching, don’t you? He’s always watching. Feel his hand on your body, and feel the pain of his disappointment.”
It came down hard, sharp and hard like a sudden hailstorm. Sarah began screaming with the first blow, and kept screaming as the blows kept coming. She screamed with rage at Eileen and the lie of the loving mother; at Daddy John and the lie of the all-knowing father; at the trembling circle around her and the lie of the supportive family. She screamed at herself, for believing it for so long, for getting suckered into it in the first place. She screamed at her helplessness, her inability to make anything turn out different, ever. She screamed at her nonexistent God, for saying “No” to her prayers yet again, for making her stay in her body, making her feel the pain pounding down on her bare ass, and the malicious pleasure driving it, and the pathetic indignity it was forcing her to feel. The circle around her shifted in their seats, agitated and uncomfortable, as her screams rose in pitch from rage and protest to a panicked shriek.
And the blows kept coming, hard and fast and inescapable. She kept
thinking it was going to stop, it had to stop, there was no way she could stand it if it kept coming, and it kept coming. It didn’t matter if she could stand it or not.
“It’s coming now,” he said. “You’re going to feel my hand, and my hand is going to punish you. It’s going to hurt.”
His first blow was light and gentle, almost a massage, she could barely feel it. She arched her back, welcoming it in: grateful for the gentleness now, grateful for the terrible pain she knew was coming, grateful for the sweet, gradual slide he was going to use to take her from here to there.
He began to turn up the heat, just a little, and she squirmed in anticipation. Her clit began to twitch, and she felt a familiar flutter of shame deep in her stomach. She got so excited when they did this. It was so fucked-up. She squirmed her hips harder, unnerved as always when the excitement began, trying to stave it off for just a moment more; but her squirming made her clit twitch harder, and she gave in with a gasp, and pushed her cunt hard against David’s thigh, and let herself drop.
Her screams turned into sobs, weak and terrified. She squirmed hard, frantically trying to escape, to get just a little relief. She could hear the circle around her breathing harder; she knew she was giving them a show, screaming and crying and wiggling her bare backside like a whore. But she couldn’t help it. She was helpless. She was without help.
It was getting harder now. And harder still. Harder than she really wanted; but of course, that was what she wanted. She wanted to feel helpless, to let herself go in the hands of someone she could trust.
She sank into the rhythm: fighting and giving in, fighting and giving in, surrendering to each new level of pain and surprising herself with how good it felt once she let it. Her clit was throbbing, demanding attention, and its hunger filled her consciousness.
Bending: Dirty Kinky Stories About Pain, Power, Religion, Unicorns, & More Page 10