But now it was really hard. Not just harder than she liked—harder than she could take. She tried, but she was only fighting now, just a struggle with no surrender. She pushed herself to take it for one last dreadful minute, and gave up at last. “Stop, David,” she gasped. “It’s too much. Please, God, fuck, stop it right now.”
“I’m so sorry,” she sobbed. “Please, stop. I’ll never do it again, I swear. Just stop. I’m begging you.”
The pain stopped at once. She let out a sigh of relief and shock at the unexpected mercy. But she heard Eileen’s voice, cold and tight, and she began to sob again. She knew she hadn’t stopped it. She had made it worse.
“You obviously don’t understand,” Eileen scolded. “You’re obviously not sorry at all. If you were truly sorry, you wouldn’t try to stop me. You’d understand that I need to punish you for as long as I see fit. You’d understand that a disobedient child can’t decide for herself how much she should be punished. You’d be ashamed of yourself, and you’d welcome this punishment as a chance to cleanse your shame.”
Eileen shook her head sadly. “We obviously need to take this further. Stand up, and take off my belt.
He stopped immediately. He rested his hand on her warm bottom for a long time. He watched her back until it relaxed, listened to her breath until it quieted. Then he spoke, his voice serious and full of sorrow.
“I have to take my belt off now, Sarah. I’m sorry. But it’s time. I have to do this.”
Sarah froze.
Fuck, no, she thought. Please, God. Not the belt.
Eileen cleared her throat. “You disappoint me, Sarah. You’ve never had to be cleansed before. I’d hoped you’d take it better than this. But you obviously have plenty of willfulness left in you. Selfish, childish willfulness. You think you can defy me? You think you know better than me what’s right for you?” Her voice was cracking again. “Think again, Sarah. David, come over here and take off my belt.” She smirked. “You’ve done it often enough, David, you should be good at it by now.”
She held herself perfectly still, terrified, trying to disappear. She heard someone, David she assumed, stand up and move toward her from out of the circle. She felt him fiddle quickly with Eileen’s belt buckle, pull the belt out of her belt loops, fold it up and hand it to her. She heard him move back to his place in the circle without a word. She felt pity for him. She suddenly understood what people meant when they said, “This is going to hurt me more than it hurts you.”
She heard Eileen smack the belt into her open hand, and the sound drove David out of her mind, and drove the fear and paralysis back in.
“Now stand up,” Eileen instructed. “I’m going to stand up as well. When I do, put your hands on the seat of the chair. And then wait. When it begins, you may make as much noise as you like, and you may move your body as much as you like… “—Eileen paused here, and shivered at her own words—“but you may not move your hands from the chair, or your feet from the ground, until I say we’re done.”
She nodded. “I know. It’s okay. I’m ready.”
“All right then. Stand up. Put your hands on the chair. I’m going to stand behind you, and I’m going to beat you with the belt until I’m done.”
She complied.
She was shaking with pain, and with fear. She was weak with shame at the staring eyes upon her, and with anger at the faces behind the eyes. She could barely stand up. But she complied.
She knew there was nothing she could do. Anything she did to try to stop it would just make it worse: would bring on the switch, or the wooden paddle, or the belt until she bled and passed out. The only thing that would stop it was to let it happen.
So she let it happen. She stood up, and bent over, her hands on the chair, her bare, trembling bottom in the air, her cotton drawstring pants crumpled around her ankles, the Tribe of the True Promise sitting in a circle around her, gaping like zombies.
And she let it happen. She glued her hands to the chair and her feet to the floor, letting herself obey the woman who was breathing hard and smacking the belt into her hand to build the suspense. She arched her back to give a prettier target, and waited patiently, passively, for the first blow to land.
And she let herself be beaten with the belt.
She screamed obediently when it landed. And as the blows kept landing, she kept screaming, a gift for the woman who panted behind her like a dog as she gleefully whipped her raw. She screamed and wept, and she wiggled her bottom and jiggled her dangling tits, shaking her flesh like a stripper, letting herself obey the unspoken orders as well as the spoken ones.
And she let herself feel ashamed. She knew that was what Eileen wanted most of all, that Eileen wouldn’t stop until she got it. So she gave it to her.
It wasn’t the right shame, though. Not the shame Eileen was looking for. It wasn’t shame at her blasphemy or disobedience; it wasn’t even shame at being stripped and humiliated and punished on her bare bottom in front of her whole family.
Her shame was that she had let this happen. Her shame was that she was weak and stupid: too stupid to see how bad things were until they had gotten too bad to leave, too weak to pull it together and leave when they did get really bad. Her shame was that she had no power, that she’d given away what little she had, if she’d ever had any at all. Her shame was that she was here—screaming, squirming, wiggling her bare ass like a bitch in heat for the woman who was beating it raw—because she had put herself here.
And her shame was that she had let this happen to her brothers and sisters. She had sat in the circle like they were sitting now, half-petrified, half-leering. She had stared with fear and relief and fascination, as David or Shelley or some other Godforsaken soul pulled down their pants and put their exposed bodies under Eileen’s hands.
She deserved this punishment. She deserved this shame. She sank into it, and let it seep into her muscles and bones, and pulled it up by handfuls to give to Eileen.
It was the wrong shame. But she knew Eileen would never know the difference. Shame was shame to Eileen: the woman was actually moaning now, supposedly with the effort of beating Sarah’s ass at full speed and full strength.
Sarah sank deeper into the pain and the shame, and whimpered louder, and jiggled her tits and ass harder. She splayed open her bent knees to give a glimpse in between them… and Eileen grunted at last, a long series of animal grunts like a pig rooting in a trough, and collapsed to the floor, dropping the belt.
“Praise be to Daddy John,” she cried. “I feel his forgiveness. Do you feel it too, child? Do you know he’s watching? Do you know how happy he is right now? Feel the shame lifted out of your heart. You’re free now.”
She obeyed.
She felt it now: the helplessness she’d been waiting for. She moved like she was in a trance: standing up, waiting for David to move into place behind her, placing her hands on the chair and shifting her feet into position. She waited, patient and afraid, her bare bottom tingling in memory and anticipation.
He struck, and she gasped in shock. Oh, fuck. She’d forgotten how much the belt hurt. So much harder than the hand, and more cold. So much not about human contact; so purely about the cruelty, and the pain.
But she knew she’d asked for this. Literally. Just a few minutes ago. And she knew she needed it. She just couldn’t remember why right now. It hurt too much. The belt cut into her ass, the pain exploding onto her skin like a bomb and then radiating through her flesh into her clit and her cunt. He was hitting her slowly, and hard, letting her feel each blow, giving it time to blossom and fade, giving her time to recover. And time to feel the next one.
She began to cry. Not a yelping cry of protest, but a soft weeping rain of despair, and of giving in.
He kept beating her; close together now, hard and heartless, his teeth gritted with the struggle to finish. Then he dropped the belt to the floor with a clatter, and grabbed her around her waist.
“I said you’re free now.” The woman was smirking conde
scendingly. “That means you can move again. And you can cover yourself.” Her smirk widened into a sneer. “Unless you’d rather stay like that, of course.”
Sarah stood up. She swayed for a moment, from the rush of the blood back to her head, and the flood of relief that she wasn’t willing to trust. She pulled up her pants and fiddled with the strings, finally managing to tie them again. She wobbled back to her place in the circle and sat down, dropping her eyes, avoiding the stares of the circle around her, cringing at the touch of the metal folding chair. Eileen turned away from her. She had already moved on.
“All right,” she said cheerily. “I think we have time for one more cleansing. Let’s look at Daddy’s list…” She peered at the slip of paper. “Ah. David again, I see.” She clucked her tongue. “Such a disappointment. So many times. David, will you ever be truly clean of your shame?”
David stood up casually. “Okay. Sure. Whatever.” Sarah listened for defiance in his voice, but heard only defeat.
She caught his eye. She had to give him something, something to hang on to. And now she knew what. She caught his eye, and nodded her head, just a flicker, barely perceptible even to him.
Yes, she said. Tonight. She’d said No before. She was weak, and frightened. But now she knew. Now she was free. Now she was ready to leave.
“It’s over,” he said. “It’s all over.”
She crumpled to the floor, and he crumpled with her, holding her around the shoulders as tightly as he could. She leaned into his thin chest, cried like the newly widowed, and pushed her hand between her legs. He held her as she made herself come. She came fast and hard, frantically flicking her clit with her finger, clenching his hand with her other fist, still weeping onto his shoulder.
Her tears dissipated with her shudders, and she relaxed at last, curling up on the floor with her head in his lap. He stroked her hair, watched her back until it relaxed, listened to her breath until it quieted. She spoke at last. “Okay,” she said. “Thank you.”
“That was okay?”
“Yeah.”
“I didn’t push it too far?”
“No. It was perfect. You pushed it just far enough.”
“And you’re okay now.”
She patted his hand. “Yeah. I’m back. Thanks.”
He squeezed her hand, and kissed it. Then he reached back to pick up the belt, and handed the belt to her.
She nodded. “Right. How far do you want to go this time?”
The Rest Stop
He pulls his pickup truck into the rest stop. It’s one in the morning on a weeknight. The rest stop isn’t a happenstance place where he’s stopping to catch some sleep before moving on. It’s his destination.
Nobody else is there yet. But another truck that had been behind him on the highway pulls in after him. He ducks his head, prays to God for forgiveness, then flashes his lights. A specific sequence of shorts and longs, signaling what he’s here for: signaling generally, and then more particularly, what he’s here for. A sequence he now knows intimately. A sequence he sometimes has nightmares about.
The truck behind him flashes back.
He gets out of his truck, goes into the men’s room, walks over to the metal sink. He bends over it, braces himself with his hands. He waits. He tries to pretend that he isn’t here for what he’s here for; that he’s just pulling over at a rest stop to wash his face, and that what’s about to happen will be a shock, nothing he planned for, against his will. The fact that he has inserted lube into his asshole with a syringe makes this pretense impossible. He waits.
The man walks in behind him.
He shudders, more in fear than anticipation. He knows that the man could be dangerous. Bad things—worse than what he’s already doing—could happen. Bad things have already happened. He’s been hurt: some of these men are rough, rougher than he likes. He’s been torn, before he learned about the lube. He’s had his wallet stolen. One guy took off his belt and beat his ass with it before he fucked him. The guy must have gotten his signals wrong; or maybe he just didn’t care, maybe the guy was a genuine psycho. He stood there, bent over at the sink, and took it. He hadn’t been belted since he was a kid, it hurt like the fires of Judgment, tears poured down his face as the belt landed on his ass again and again, and he gripped the sink tighter and gritted his teeth and let it happen. The man finally pushed his cock into him, and the burning pain on the skin of his ass felt clean, like it balanced out the sinful shame of the hard cock he’d invited inside. He felt like he deserved it. He felt like maybe God would have mercy on him on Judgment Day, if He remembered the welts that were on his ass when this man’s cock was pushing inside it.
He never used to get off on pain and shame. As sick as he was, as sick as he knows this thing is, that was never his sickness. But now, after years of getting fucked too hard in rest stop bathrooms, his body has been trained. The shame he feels about his lusts, and the repulsive places he goes to fulfill them, and the disgraceful, sometimes painful things he lets happen to him, are now hopelessly tangled up with the lust itself. The night that he got beaten with the belt, he went on the Internet afterward, and looked up the headlight code for “beat me first.” He hasn’t used it yet, but he always thinks about it.
This man, tonight, now comes up behind him. The man sets a hand on his shoulder—warm, weirdly reassuring. Then the hands come around his waist, and undo his belt, and pull down his trousers and his shorts. He feels the familiar throb in his cock, and the familiar shame, as his ass and his cock are exposed, and this thing he’s doing becomes unmistakably what it is. He spread his legs and waits. The man clears his throat.
Oh, Jesus have pity, no. A talker. Usually all this takes place in total silence. But some of them like to talk. They tell him what a slut he is; they ask him how he likes their big cocks in his pussyhole; they tell him fantasies about the disgusting perverted things they want to do to him. He desperately wishes they wouldn’t. He feels like he has no defense against their words: his armor is down, he is bent over a men’s room sink in a filthy rest stop with his pants pulled down, getting fucked in the ass or about to get fucked, and whatever they say goes right into the core of his soul.
The man speaks.
“God, I want you.
“You are so fucking hot, do you know that? Such a tight little ass, and such tight wiry legs, and those gorgeous hands. You are amazing. I want you so much. I can’t wait to fuck you.”
The words are painful. The man’s admiration makes him flinch, more than any filthy fantasies he’s had to listen to. The words make him feel like… he doesn’t want to think about what they make him feel like. The voice is faintly familiar. Someone from local TV or radio, maybe. It wouldn’t be the first time. The voice goes on.
“I love how dirty this is, don’t you? I love that all over the world, men are having dirty fantasies about this, and here we are actually doing it. It’s so fucking hot.”
He feels the hands on him again. On his bare ass, squeezing and fondling; he braces himself and spreads his legs wider. But then the hands wander: down to caress his thighs, up and over to rub his shoulders, pulling his shirt up to play with his nipples and fondle his chest.
He hates it when they do this. It makes him feel… he doesn’t want to think about it. Like a faggot. The word jumps into his mind, and won’t be pushed back. He despises it, he struggles against it. But this man’s hands are hard to resist: strong, callused, and at the same time intelligent and curious: exploring his body, seeking out his hot spots, lingering when they find a good one and then teasing away to search for another. He shudders. He normally just stands still and silent and lets himself get fucked; but he can’t help it, he begins to moan, and to squirm. God help him, he wants this so much.
“God, I want you,” the man says. “Say it.”
He shakes his head. He can’t. He’ll come here, he’ll flash the lights, he’ll bend over the sink and offer his ass to be fucked. But he can’t say out loud that he wants it. If he does,
he’ll be lost.
The man’s fingers toy at the opening of his asshole: teasing, lingering, making him squirm and buck. “Come on. Say it.”
He feels like he’s drowning. He clutches on to the last shreds of his soul, keeping him afloat. The man’s fingers are circling his asshole, widening the rip in his life raft, pulling him down. He struggles, and sinks.
“Please,” he says. “Yes. I want you.”
A finger goes in, not even an inch, then pulls out again. “You want me to what. Say it. Tell me what you want me to do.”
His mouth is dry. “I want you to fuck me.”
The finger goes in deeper. A second one joins it. “Say it again. Keep talking. Tell me that you want me. Tell me what you want me to do.”
He’s falling now, and the momentum of his fall makes every word come easier. “Please,” he says. “Please keep fingering me. And then… fuck me in the ass. Please slide your hard cock into my asshole. God, I want your cock in me so much. Please fuck me, make me come with your cock deep inside me.” All the words he could never say out loud, all the words he could barely stand to think, he says now to this man. He knows the words are dirty, but they pour out of him like a firehose of clean water clearing out a sewer pipe. The man fingers him, and then slides his cock in: gentle, and nasty. The words gushing out of him begin to mix with moans, and gibberish.
He reaches down as he babbles, and grips his cock. He never does this. He always waits for the other guy to jerk him off; or he waits for the guy to leave, and jerks himself off in the toilet, alone. But now he licks his hand and strokes his cock, still begging out loud for the fucking that he’s getting, matching his rhythm to the cock stroking inside him. The guy starts to talk again. “Yeah, that’s right. Jerk yourself off while I fuck you. That’s good. That is so right. God, I can feel you squeezing around me. God, that’s…” They are both gibbering now, talking over each other, their words and grunts overlapping, intertwining. He feels the man straining, and then coming, the careful seductive rhythm switching to a hard frenzy deep inside him. It triggers a blown fuse in his brain. His moans rise in pitch to a wail of despair, and he comes into his hand, the man’s cock still inside his ass.
Bending: Dirty Kinky Stories About Pain, Power, Religion, Unicorns, & More Page 11