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

by Greta Christina

  It moved on. She started asking her lovers to take pictures of her, showing her pussy, spreading herself open. Then she started taking pictures of herself. Then she started putting the pictures on the Internet.

  And then she got the Webcam.

  At first, she was doing it for free. She got a cheapo website. She’d put up a notice when she felt like going on, to give her audience a heads-up. She’d turn the camera on.

  And she’d climb onto the table.

  She would already be naked. This wasn’t about a tease. Her audience didn’t want a tease. They wanted to see her cunt, wide open and ready right now. And she wanted her cunt to be seen, right now. So she would climb onto the table. She would lie on her back and spread her legs. And she would show her pussy.

  In every way she could think of.

  She knew how to give a show. She didn’t just lie back and open her legs. She had a hundred different ways to spread her legs wide and show her pussy. It was all she thought about when she jerked off. And the fact that she now had an audience fired her imagination even more.

  She spread her pussy with her fingers. She spread her pussy with clips, little ones attached to thin chains: she would clip them onto her outer lips, and pull the chains apart, and tug her lips apart to open her hole. She got a series of dildos—clear ones, glass and acrylic, so she could fuck herself and still give an unobstructed view between her legs. She got a sort of sling, a contraption that bound her ankles and anchored behind her neck, and that pulled her feet high and wide in the air. She got on all fours, and raised her ass in the air like a dog in heat, and showed off her pussy from behind.

  She would never just lie there. She would wriggle and moan, play with her tits, put things into her mouth. She would play with her clit until she screamed and came… always careful to keep her fingers high and out of the way, covering up as little as possible, always keeping her hole carefully on display. She would squirm her hips from side to side, or pump her pussy into the air like it was getting fucked by the Holy Spirit.

  And she would talk. She would tell her audience what a dirty girl she was. She would tell them how horny she was, how excited it made her when they looked at her pussy. She would tell them how wet she was, and then put her finger in her pussy to show them. She would beg to be fucked, to be punished, to be spread open even wider.

  She meant every word.

  She got an audience. A big one. Word of Web spread: hundreds, then thousands.

  And she decided: What the hell. She didn’t go to business school for nothing.

  She put out a call for models. She’d need a lot of them to keep the site going 24/7; but she didn’t have to pay that much. The economy sucked, and it was easy work, easier than standard porn. The girls didn’t need to fuck anybody, or memorize lines, or anything like that. All they needed to do was be naked, with their legs spread, live on camera.

  Of course, the more they did, the better. She paid bonuses for girls who drew a big audience, girls with fans and regular viewers. That’s how she kept things interesting, kept the girls from just getting on their backs and flopping their legs open for an hour. She wasn’t just concerned about her business, either. She was concerned about her reputation. She was concerned about keeping her audience. And she liked to watch the show, too. She wanted the show to be hot for her own sake. She was her own best customer.

  So she’d let go of the girls who didn’t do that much… and she’d give bonuses to the ones who did. The girls who spread their legs and told dirty stories. The girls who spread their legs and gave deep-throat blowjobs to dildos. The girls who took requests: who spread their legs, and then did the things their fans had asked them to do in email. The girls who spread their legs and talked about how helpless they were, how anyone who walked in could just take advantage of them. The girls who spread their legs and talked about what sluts they were, how anyone who walked in could count on getting fucked within an inch of their life. The girls who spread their legs and begged to be taken and used. The girls who spread their legs and spanked themselves, on their thighs and on their pussies. She got some of her best show ideas from her girls.

  She lost some viewers when she started to charge money. But most of them loved it. They loved her. They loved what she was doing… and now they didn’t have to wait for her unpredictable appearances. Her rates were reasonable… and now, any time of the day, any day of the week, they could see a girl, live, with her legs spread wide open and every centimeter of her pussy on view.

  And pretty often, that girl was her.

  Now that she didn’t have a day job, she could do this whenever she wanted. And she wanted to a lot. Her girls mostly liked the work, but they did gripe that the boss lady always took the primo time slots. She’d even bump them from the schedule when she got the itch: pay them off, tell them, “Thanks, you can go home, I got this one. “ And she would strip down, then and there, and climb up onto her table. She never bothered with costumes: she liked the girls who did, as long as they didn’t cover up anything important. But she never did herself. She only ever wanted to be naked.

  She’s thought about expanding her show a little, branching out into some new areas. She’s thought about playing out some scenarios: doctor’s exams, alien probes, that sort of thing. She’s thought about getting an actual cameraman: someone who could move around, do closeups, zoom in between her legs at crucial moments. She’s thought about getting some of her girls to hold her down and spread her open: pin her hands and shoulders to the table, push her thighs apart, get their fingers in there and force her pussy into the open. She likes that idea: hands all over her body, all there to pin her like a butterfly in a case and put her hole on display like a flower. A dozen or more hands obsessively devoted to her exposure.

  But she’s not sure. All that could turn this into just another porno site. Plus all that would call for acting… and she hates the bad acting in porno videos. She wants to keep this special. And she wants to keep it real.

  Besides, she wants to keep a few things on reserve. She’s already taken this pretty far, almost as far as she can. She wants a little something left, something she’s still covered up. She doesn’t want to open all her presents at once. She wants to keep a few wrapped up, so she can open them later.

  So right now, she’s not going to do that. Right now, she’s just going to climb up onto her table. It’s Saturday night, her biggest night, and she has a big show planned: two full hours, with toys, and yoga poses, and special requests, and a dirty story to tell that she’s been jerking off to all week. She lies back, and spreads her legs, and starts the show.

  A Live One

  What an asshole, Sheila thinks as she plays with her pussy. He’s been popping quarters into the booth like they were rock candy. A smile wouldn’t cost anything extra.

  She smiles down at the customer through the glass, a sugary, seductive smile full of bubble and promise. He responds with a blank stare, the same blank stare he’s been giving her for the last five minutes. His face is flat and listless, a cheap cement statue of a gloomy frog, with a faint trickle of hostility leaking through the stone set of his mouth.

  She sighs and spins around, giving up, turning her face away. She sticks her butt in the window, bends at the waist, and runs her hand slowly over her ass. The fucking brick-wall men, she thinks. I’ve never understood why they come here. I mean, I can give them the sight of a dancing naked woman, but I can’t give them the joy of watching a naked woman dance. Don’t they get that they have to bring that themselves?

  She licks her forefinger and runs it up and down her pussy as she gyrates her hips to the thumping music. She catches Tanisha’s eye and gives her the contemptuous look she can’t give the customer. Tanisha rolls her eyes, gives a quick nod of sympathy, and turns back to Danielle. The younger girl is sprawled over Tanisha’s lap; she squirms and rolls her hips dramatically, putting on an extravagant show for the two drunken sailors in the corner booth. Tanisha scowls ferociously and slaps Dan
ielle’s tight, round rump; Danielle gives a theatrical squeal of pain and fear and wriggles in delight.

  I like a girl who enjoys her work, Sheila smiles to herself. She knows these two: they’ll be doing the real thing later on. They love faking the guys out, but they never do it for real for money.

  She hears the window panel slide down behind her, and glances over her shoulder. Yup, he’s gone. What a tragic loss to the human race. She arches her back, aching from bending over, and looks around dutifully for a new customer.

  Sure enough, just as she finishes stretching, the panel in the other corner booth slides up. She glances at Lorelei, who’s busily spreading her pussy for a middle-aged man with a briefcase in one hand and his dick in the other. Guess the new one’s mine, Sheila concludes. Conscientious as always, she shimmies over, squats in front of the guy, and smiles. “Hi,” she hollers over the deafening synth-pop din. “I’m Chloe.”

  In response, he pulls a pad and pen out of his pocket and begins scribbling. He holds it up to the window and smiles back. Hi Chloe, it reads. I’m Henry.

  Her eyebrows shoot up, surprised and impressed. Smart guy, she thinks. Inventive. And he actually wants to talk to me. Maybe this will be a live one.

  She tucks her legs under her like a cheesecake model and runs an exploring hand over her torso. “So, Henry, you come here often?”

  He writes furiously for a minute and holds the pad up again. Yes, it says. That’s why I brought this. I know it’s too loud in there for you to hear me…

  He flips to another page and scribbles some more. But I want to be able to talk. This is the best I could come up with.

  He reaches into his pocket and drops a handful of quarters into the slot. She ducks her head and blushes; she knows she should know better, but she’s always a little surprised when guys drop their money just to look at her. She licks her finger and runs it over her nipple, pinching it lightly. “So, you like me?”

  Yes, he writes. You seem…friendly.

  She leans back, spreads her pussy lips open for a teasing moment, then lets them close again. “I try,” she answers. “So what would you like to talk about?”

  You, he writes.

  “Sure thing,” she smiles. “What would you like to know?”

  He thinks for a moment, then scribbles again. What part of your body do you like best?

  Her eyebrows shoot up again. “Interesting question. No one’s asked me that before.”

  Really? Nobody?

  “Well, nobody in here, anyway,” she shrugs. “But to answer your question, I’d have to say…my ass. I like my ass a lot. Would you like to see it?”

  He scribbles hastily. Sure I’d like to see your ass…

  He flips to a new page. But I want to see your face too.

  “You got it, bub,” she says cheerfully. She leaps to her feet, spins around, flops over at the waist, and gapes at him between her legs. “How’s this?” she grins.

  He laughs and shakes his head. That’s really silly, he writes.

  “You’re right,” she answers. “I never understood that one either. Okay… let’s try this.”

  She gets on her hands and knees, putting her body in profile. She gives him a smoky look over her shoulder, tousles her hair, and growls. Tiger woman, she thinks. Queen of the jungle. She shifts her leg to show him her soft, round ass, arches her back, and grinds her hips in slow circles. “How’s that?” she asks.

  Much better, he writes. So what do you like doing with your ass, Chloe?

  She doesn’t hesitate. “I like to get it fucked,” she replies crudely.

  Show me.

  She puts her finger in her mouth and draws it out slowly, getting it nice and wet. An unexpected shudder goes through her body as she raises her eyes to meet his. His gaze trails down her back like gentle fingers, and she squirms and wriggles, pleased and flattered and oddly bashful. She reaches back with one hand, opens her asscheeks invitingly, and runs her wet finger up and down the crack. He gazes back at her face, solemn and anxious; she gives him a small, coy smile and waits.

  Please?

  She grins and licks her lips. She wets her finger again, teases her crack for a moment, then slowly slides her finger into her asshole.

  A sudden rush of warmth and pleasure rolls into her head. She moans and slumps and closes her eyes, almost against her will, as she slowly pumps her finger into her ass. A small, tight spot in her throat begins to dissolve, melts down into her breasts and stomach; she bucks her hips up hard, bites her lip, and begins to whimper quietly. Her ass clenches tight around her finger, pulling it in deeper.

  She opens her eyes suddenly, remembering where she is, and gives Henry a wild, intent look. His hands are pressed against the glass, clutching the notebook; his eyes are open wide, shining with lechery and delight. She shoves a second finger into her asshole and begins to fuck herself in earnest, hard and crude and a little rough, just the way she likes it. Her asshole grabs her fingers like a vise, demanding and insistent. She moans louder, throws her head back, and lets out a sharp little cry of bliss.

  She collapses onto the floor, panting dramatically. She rolls onto her back, pulls out her fingers, and surreptitiously wipes them on the grimy carpet. “Oh, my god,” she whispers.

  He takes a deep breath and pulls away from the glass. Jesus, he writes. Thank you. That was wonderful.

  She stretches out and props herself up on her elbow. “You’re welcome,” she says.

  Was it real? he writes.

  “Mmmmmm,” she murmurs. “You bet.”

  Really?

  She hesitates. “Well…yeah,” she says uncomfortably. “More or less. I mean, it felt good. Felt real good, actually. But no, I didn’t come, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  He smiles, nods, and writes for a long moment. Thanks for being honest. I appreciate that.

  A softer song comes on the jukebox, a sweet, slow-dance love song with a low female voice. So, do you like working here? Henry writes.

  The lie springs to Sheila’s lips, the automatic lie hammered into her by months of unspoken training. She gives him a long, serious look, closes her lips tight, looks around to make sure nobody is listening, and speaks.

  “Well… here’s the deal,” she murmurs, as softly as she can and still have him hear her, as loudly as she can without being overheard.

  “Yeah, I do like it. The money’s good, and the hours are flexible. I don’t have to work forty hours to pay the rent, so I have time to do my own stuff. And the dancing itself is fun. I like to dance and I like my body… and I like sex, I like being sexy.” He grins and waggles his eyebrows. “And the other women are amazing. They’re smart and sexy and funny, and they really take care of each other. I just love them to pieces.”

  But… he writes.

  It all comes out in a rush. “The fucking men,” she says bitterly. “They want it all spoon-fed to them. Pussy and pleasure and all the rest of it. They think sex should be like TV, but with hotter babes and no commercials. They just wanna sit back and suck it down like baby birds. They don’t smile, they don’t say ‘Hi,’ they don’t say ‘Thank you’ or ‘You’re pretty’ or even ‘Nice tits, baby.’ They just stare like dead fish. Not all of them… but a fuck of a lot of them.” She takes a deep breath, startled by her own anger.

  He nods. Men are assholes, he scribbles.

  She laughs heartily, her bitterness broken for the moment. “Thank you,” she says. “So… what would you like to see now? Anything special?”

  What would you like? he writes.

  She chuckles. “Why don’t you take your clothes off and dance for me,” she jokes. “Just for a change.”

  He scribbles seriously for a long minute. Okay. But I’d better warn you, I’m not a very good dancer.

  He sets the pad on the bench, runs his hand through his hair, and slowly begins to undress. She stretches out like a cat and watches in awe, amazed that he took her seriously.

  He unbuttons his shirt, slowly, caressi
ng his chest as he uncovers it bit by bit. She plays with her own body in response, moving her hand in slow circles over her belly as he strips off his shirt and shows her his thin chest. He begins to roll his torso in slow, hesitant, snakelike ripples. She can smell herself, the sharp, salty smell her pussy gives off when it wants something really badly. She watches hungrily as he runs his hands over his chest and slides them down over his hips. He begins to rub his dick through his jeans, and she draws a sudden, ragged breath. Her pulse beats hard inside her clit; she shoves her hand between her thighs and squeezes tight.

  Suddenly he stops dancing and snatches up the pad and pen. I feel silly, he writes. I feel like a dork.

  She shakes her head, baffled. “You shouldn’t,” she replies. “You look great. I’m getting totally wet watching you.” She stares meaningfully at his crotch. “Now show me more.”

  He drops the pad and pen, slumps against the wall, hooks his thumb into his waistband, and gives her a moody, smoldering stare like a model for designer jeans. She laughs and nods approvingly. He begins to move again, squirming and writhing against the wall. Slowly, teasingly, he unbuckles his belt, unzips his fly, and tugs his swollen dick out of his pants and into the open air. He cradles it in his hand and gives her a wide-open look, proud and fearful and eager for approval.

  She ogles his cock and licks her lips, drinking in his eagerness like water. “Very pretty,” she says. “Very nice indeed. But I wanna see more. Turn around and pull them all the way down. Show me your ass.”

  He complies immediately: turns to face the wall, arches his back, and slowly pulls his jeans down over his slim hips. She whistles appreciatively as the fabric drops down to his thighs and his bare ass is revealed. He blushes bright red, presses his hands against the wall, and bends over to give her a better look. She stares intently at his smooth, tight ass, relishing his exposure, sucking in the view like a starving woman. Her clit thumps hard, demanding attention, and she begins to caress it in earnest, moving her finger in slow, tight circles. I love a boy who does what I tell him, she thinks.