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

by Greta Christina

  His cum drips off his hand onto the foul rest stop floor. The man takes his hand and squeezes, smearing the cum onto both their fingers. The man pulls out of his ass, tugs on his hand, turns him around to face him.

  He’s never looked any of these men in the face. He looks at this one now.

  Fuck.

  He knows him. Paul. From his parish. Paul, who he sees at church every Sunday. Paul, whose mother is on the church building committee with his wife Adele. A few years younger than him, solid guy, good looking, everyone always wondered why he didn’t marry. Christ. That’s why his voice sounded familiar. Merciful God, he thinks, please forgive me. Paul seems oblivious to his horror. Paul gives him a wide grin: happy, and unsurprised.

  “I saw your truck pull in,” Paul says. “I recognized it, but I couldn’t believe it was you. I’ve been looking at you for you so long, I never thought—my God. I so need to see you again. Not here. When can we meet? There’s a motel down near the city. A place I know about. They won’t care.”

  He shakes his head. This was bad enough already. He can’t go any further. He can’t go there, to that motel, with this man that he likes, with this man whose name he knows. He can’t be what this man wants him to be. “I’m sorry, Paul. No. I don’t—I’m not a faggot.”

  Every man who has ever fucked him here, who has said anything about it at all, has said that they’re not a faggot. The man who beat his ass with a belt before he fucked him said afterwards that he wasn’t a faggot. Paul strokes his cheek, looks at him with pity and compassion.

  “Yes. You are. You’re a faggot.

  “You are a faggot, Albert. I am a faggot. And I want to see you again. I am a faggot, I am a gay man, and I want to suck your cock, and play with your nipples, and massage your ass until you beg me to fuck you. I want you to tell me every sexy thing you’ve ever thought about, and I want to do it with you. Don’t—Albert, you come here. You must have been coming here for I don’t know how long. You’re a faggot. I’m a faggot. Who cares. When can I see you again?”

  He’d been right.

  This man was dangerous.

  He has just been fucked in the ass, and his pants are still down, and he has no defense against Paul’s words. His armor is gone. The words that Paul is saying go right into the core of his soul.

  He is a faggot.

  He reaches out to grip Paul’s hair by the back of the head. He leans in and kisses him, soft, and deep. He can feel Paul’s surprise, and joy, spring up in the man’s body like a sapling. He clutches Paul close, and presses against him, and their softening cocks rub together along with their tongues. He has been coming to this place, and to places like it, for thirteen years. He has never kissed another man before today.

  He finally breaks away. “Wednesdays,” he says. “I usually come here on Wednesdays. Tell me the name of the motel.”

  SWEET STUFF

  Dear Marla

  To: Marla (marlabird@thistlebooks.com)

  From: Chris (clv@compufix.com)

  Subject: I miss you

  Dear Marla,

  I miss you. The flight went smoothly and my family is relatively sane, except Fran who’s having fits about Mom’s birthday being perfect. I guess I didn’t help matters by calling her Franny-Fat-Fanny, which after thirty-odd years still makes her yell at me. I’m sorry you couldn’t be here to see it.

  This is what I’m thinking about you today. I’m remembering something I read once, about how 95% of sex scenes in movies show the couple having sex for the first time. I don’t know if they meant that number literally or were making it up to make a point. But I realized that I don’t get that. I know all these guys (women too, probably) who get bored doing it with the same person, who need a fresh body every few months or years to keep their attention. But I don’t get it. I’ve never gotten it. It seems so ridiculously obvious to me that sex gets better with time, not worse. It’s like playing the piano. You need to practice, for years. You can’t play the piano for a few months and then quit and switch to the tuba, and then quit that and play the saxophone for a while. Not if you’re going to be really good at it.

  When I’m going down on you, for example. (What a nice example.) There’s a spot, I don’t know how to describe where it is, it’s on the right side of your nub, kind of high up at the top. When I’m licking you, if you’re tensing up and I can tell you’re ready to come but don’t want to yet, if I lick that spot you kind of relax. and go to this other place, this place that’s blissful and peaceful and sort of like an orgasm but not one. All that shark-like forward motion stops, for both of us, and it’s like sitting still for a moment in the woods. Until I move, over to one of your serious hot spots, just a millimeter down is all it takes, and you start squirming again.

  And those hot spots, for another example. When we were first going out, I’d stumble on one and you’d jump out of your skin, and I’d think, Aha! Money in the bank. And I’d zero in on it and make you crazy for about ten seconds, and then a second later you’d get kind of numb and irritable, and we’d be back to square one. Now I know. It is like money in the bank, but I can’t spend it all right away or it’ll be gone. I know I need to tease it, court it, circle around it, pass my tongue over it for just a quarter of a second and then move away. I know I need to get you worked up, missing it, wanting it, before I come back to it again, for half a second this time, just a couple of hard flicks with the tip of my tongue before I slip off again. I know I can’t zero in on it until you’re making your final run. And I know that once I do start zeroing in, once you’ve got your momentum going, I absolutely can’t stop.

  I didn’t know any of this seven years ago. I didn’t know a lot of it four years ago. And if I’d dropped you after six months for someone with different colored hair or a different bra size, I’d never have found out. It’s an awful thought. I can’t stand thinking about it.

  It’s not like I know things, so now I can go down on you the right way, the same way, every time. It’s like, I know things, so I can mix them up, play with them, shuffle the deck in a different way. I can creep up on a hot spot slow and steady like a glacier, or I can flick at it and flick away and then flick back again, or I can dance around it all night and drive you crazy, make you wonder if I’m ever going to get there. I can run my fingers up and down your lips, or use my fingers to spread you apart and open you up so your clit can’t get away, or put one inside you for that sensory overload thing that makes you so twitchy. I can press your thighs apart and hold them there, firmly and just a little roughly, like a manly-but-sensitive hero in a romance novel; or I can stroke them on the inside with the tips of my fingers, a light brushing, almost subliminal, adding a bit of background and complexity to the picture I’m drawing on your pussy with my tongue.

  It’s always new. Always a different mix. The time we did it at Dinosaur National Park, giggling and trying to stay quiet and bumping into the tent poles. That time we called in sick and spent the day in bed together, ordering take-out and watching videos and having sex all day. The night before my father’s funeral. Last night before you drove me to the airport. Every time is different.

  And that’s just going down on you.

  Anyway, it’s a moving target. You change, I change. Our bodies, our thoughts, our desires. The minute I think I know you, you come up with some dirty new idea, or remember some dirty old idea that’s been in the back of your mind for years and now can’t wait another second. And I’m dying of curiosity. I can’t wait to find out whatever new thing it is I’m going to learn seven years from now, or three months from now, or a week from now when I get home.

  All of which is a long-winded way to say that I love you, and I miss you, and I wish you were here to try all this long-winded theory with in person. I’ll call you tonight. I’ll write again in a day or two. I’ll see you in a week. Keep the hot spots burning.

  Love,

  Chris

  Doing It Over

  I was seventeen years old the first time tha
t a lover hit me on the ass and asked me if I liked it.

  Well, okay, he wasn’t a lover. He was really just some guy I’d picked up on the street; just some guy I’d smiled at, who smiled back and bought me ice cream and took me home. Just some guy I’d fucked and fucked and fucked, for hours and hours, in every position we could think of, until the skin of his dick was rubbed raw and I could barely walk. It doesn’t matter who he was. What matters is what I said when he hit me on the ass and asked me if I liked it.

  What I said was No.

  No, I don’t want to do that, I lied. I’m not into that.

  He backed off immediately. I’m not into that stuff either, he lied.

  And I spent the rest of that night, and all the rest of the nights we spent together, thinking to myself: Tell him you changed your mind. Tell him you want to try it. You know he really wants to; you know he’ll do it if you ask him. Go ahead. Ask him. I spent the rest of that night, and all the rest of the nights we spent together, trying to find the courage to change my mind…and failing.

  So now I want a second chance. I want to tell the story the way I wish it had come out. I want to do it over.

  • • •

  He smacks me on the ass. Quite lightly, really. “Do you like that?” he asks.

  I stiffen. The temperature in my stomach drops about fifteen degrees. I don’t even think about my answer; it comes out like a reflex, like kicking when the doctor hits your knee in just the right spot.

  “No,” I answer coldly. “I’m not into that.”

  He backs off immediately. “I’m not into that stuff either,” he says.

  I know he’s lying. I know he’s just trying to save face. He doesn’t want me to think he’s a pervert who’s into weird shit like that. He doesn’t want me not to like him; he doesn’t want me to stop fucking him. But I know he wants to do it. This is my chance. After all these years, after all those hours I spent thinking and thinking and thinking about it, this is my chance to actually try it. And I just blew it.

  He rubs my lower back for a moment, easing some of the tension out of me and some of the trust back in, then runs his hands down the backs of my thighs and opens my legs. He wets his fingers with his mouth and slides them over my clit and into my cunt, over my clit and into my cunt. It feels really good; I arch my back and move my hips in circles and make little groaning noises. But I’m not really thinking about his fingers between my legs. I’m thinking about his hand on my ass. And I’m so scared I can’t speak.

  • • •

  Wait a minute. Do I want this to be about fear? That’s what it was about the first time. If I’m going to re-tell this, maybe I should do it without the fear.

  • • •

  He smacks me on the ass. Quite lightly, really. It startles me; it tingles, wakes me up. My entire attention is focused on the imprint of his hand on my skin.

  “Do you like that?” he asks.

  “Mmmmm,” I say. “I think so. Why don’t you do it again?”

  • • •

  No. That doesn’t work at all. It’s false, unnatural. It doesn’t make sense for me not to be afraid. Let me try again.

  • • •

  He smacks me on the ass. Quite lightly, really. “Do you like that?” he asks.

  I stiffen, and don’t even think about my answer. “No,” I answer coldly. “I’m not into that.”

  He backs off immediately. “I’m not into that stuff either,” he says hastily.

  He rubs my back for a moment, then runs his hands down my thighs and opens my legs. He wets his fingers and slides them over my clit and into my cunt. But I’m not thinking about his fingers between my legs. I’m not even paying attention. All my attention, all my sensation, is focused on the imprint of his hand on my skin. And I’m so scared I can’t speak.

  What is it I’m afraid of? It isn’t him; we’ve been fucking for hours, and he hasn’t done one thing that I didn’t want him to do, and he’s stopped on a dime every time I’ve said No.

  “Wait a minute,” I say. “I think…” I shut my lips tight over my teeth.

  • • •

  Jesus. This is harder than I thought. I’m finding it almost impossible to imagine it. Having the courage to try this at seventeen? I’d have had to have been a completely different person.

  But that’s why I find this so compelling. It’s why I can’t forget this story, why I want so badly to tell it over and have it come out right. It isn’t just a missed opportunity for a spanking: God knows I’ve had enough of those in my lifetime. It isn’t that one spanking that I want. It’s all the others that could have come after it. It’s the missed years, the years I spent from seventeen to twenty-five wondering and wishing and trying to get up the nerve to ask someone else. It’s being the person I’d be now if I’d spent those years knowing I was a pervert instead of being scared to death that I might be; being the person I’d be now if I hadn’t spent eight years hoping that someone else would hit me while they fucked me, and trying to screw up the courage to say so.

  • • •

  I’m not thinking about his fingers between my legs. I can’t even pay attention to that. All I’m thinking about is his hand on my ass. All my attention, all my sensation, is focused on the imprint of his hand on my skin. All I can think about is the leftover tingling on that one spot, the sharp feeling that’s fading out of my body even as it’s expanding inside my head. And I’m so scared I can’t even speak.

  So what is it I’m so afraid of? It isn’t him; he hasn’t done one thing I didn’t want him to do, and he’s stopped on a dime every time I’ve said No.

  So I guess what I’m afraid of is…well, what if I like it? What if I like it a lot? What if I like it even better than I like fucking? What sort of person does that make me, anyway? What if I’m the sort of person who thinks about getting hurt every time she plays with herself, who thinks about getting her face slapped and her arms pinned to the bed every time she gets fucked? What if I’m the sort of person who actually likes feeling sore and raw and barely able to walk after she’s been fucking all night? What if I’m the sort of person who gets slapped on the ass when she’s fucking and can’t think about anything else?

  But I already know that. It’s too late now. I am that sort of person.

  So…

  “Wait a minute,” I say.

  He slides his fingers out of my cunt at once. “What is it, baby?” he asks, his voice smooth and sweet like custard. “Are you too sore? Do you want me to do something else?”

  I shake my head. “It isn’t that.”

  He strokes the insides of my thighs, gently, patiently, seductively. “Mmm hmmm?” he prompts.

  Just say it, I think. All you have to do is say it.

  “When you—you know, hit me on my ass, a minute ago?”

  He draws a sharp breath, wary, tense, hopeful. “Yeah?”

  I close my eyes, breathe, open them again. “I think…” I shut my lips tight over my teeth.

  “Yeah?”

  I shudder, and breathe again. “I think… I think I wanna try that.”

  • • •

  Okay. There we go. Much better.

  • • •

  I shudder, and breathe again. “I think… I think I wanna try that.”

  He sucks in his breath, an inward hiss, almost a gasp. “I thought you said you weren’t into that.”

  Defensive and uncomfortable, I snap my legs together. “I know what I said,” I answer. “I just… I dunno. Forget it. Forget I said anything.”

  He strokes my butt and the backs of my thighs. “Hey, it’s okay,” he says smoothly. “Yeah, sure. I’m into it. I mean… I could be into it. Sure. Let’s do it.”

  I look at him over my shoulder and narrow my eyes. “I thought you said you weren’t into that stuff.”

  “Well, so did you, baby,” he retorts, the pitch of his voice rising like a penny whistle. “You said you didn’t want to do it. I don’t get you. What do you want, anyway?”

>   “I know what I said,” I snap…

  • • •

  Ah, shit. This is going nowhere. We could spend all night doing this.

  • • •

  I shudder, and breathe again. “I think… I think I wanna try that.”

  He sucks in his breath sharply. “I thought you said you weren’t into that.”

  Defensive and uncomfortable, I wrap my arms around my chest and start stroking my shoulders. “I know what I said,” I answer. “I just… I dunno. I was spooked. I don’t know what I want.”

  He strokes my butt and the backs of my thighs. “Hey, it’s okay,” he says. “Yeah, sure. I’m into it. I mean… I might be into it. You wanna do it, you don’t wanna do it? Whatever. Just tell me. If you wanna do it… you know, I could do it. If you want to.”

  “Well,” I gulp, “I think… yeah. Sure. Let’s try it.

  He slaps me on the ass again. Same spot. Just a wee bit harder this time. “How’s that?”

  I draw a deep, shuddering breath, and relax. My legs fall open an inch wider. A drop of come—mine, or his, I’m not sure—leaks out of my sore, swollen cunthole and trickles down over my clit.

  “That’s good,” I say. “Yeah. I think I like that.” I let out a deep sigh, and stretch out my arms above my head, and arch my back for the next blow.

  Open

  When it started, it seemed pretty reasonable. Manageable.

  It’s still manageable. Just in a different way now.

  It started as something she liked to do in bed, with her lovers. A simple request: “Spread me open.”

  She wanted her pussy lips spread wide apart. As wide as they could go. Or she wanted to be asked—or be told—to spread her lips apart herself. She wanted to open herself, or be opened… and she wanted to be looked at. To be seen.