They played doctor and patient, Betsy in a white lab coat she’d picked up at a yard sale, Dallas in her most respectable street clothes. She felt so dirty doing it in her street clothes. She loved her slut gear, of course, but there was something about being bent over the exam table in a cotton-poly skirt-suit and a pair of drugstore pantyhose. She could almost believe that she was a normal person, could almost feel a twinge of embarrassment at Betsy’s elaborate exam techniques. She felt genuinely unnerved, almost, when Betsy inserted a cold and wet rectal thermometer, or slid in a well-lubed anal speculum and slowly cranked it open to “get a better look,” or told her to undress completely from the waist down and kneel over the basin to receive an enema. She could just about feel the shame and smallness, the dignity stripped, the confidence in the doctor’s professionalism gradually fading into uncertainty and a vague sense that something was wrong. And Betsy came up with the best excuses for the more excessive of her outrages. Experimental equipment, nerve and reflex testing, a serious medical condition that required radical treatment; any of these could justify storing steel probes in a jar of ice water, or pinching Dallas’s thighs with a pair of forceps while making her count to a thousand by sevens, or inserting a metal egg in her vagina and swiping her clitoris from behind with a slender fiberglass rod. Betsy loved this game, and was good at it. She never stretched disbelief to the breaking point, never played doctor in spike-heeled boots or put a ball gag in the patient’s mouth. She sometimes adjusted her trousers a bit too vigorously, or pulled her lab coat down tight against her nipples, but nothing that Dallas would notice with her back turned. Which, of course, it always was.
They played uncle and little girl. Betsy couldn’t handle playing daddy, but she could be the uncle just fine. Sometimes she’d be a good uncle—well, comparatively good, anyway—taking Dallas over her knee for a good, simple, bare-bottomed spanking, a punishment for some childish misdeed. And sometimes she’d be a bad uncle, fondling the bare-bottomed girl after her spanking, caressing her pinkened skin, sneaking a snakey finger between her legs, telling her to be a good girl and do what Uncle said… and getting angry when Dallas started to cry, and spanking her some more. Spanking her harder. Punishing her for crying, and fiddling between her legs while she spanked her even more. That was a good game. They played that one a lot.
They played rapist and victim, in an alley in the middle of nowhere near where Betsy worked. They arranged a time, and Betsy got there late, late enough to get Dallas anxious and pacing, jumpy, jumping out of her skin at the sudden hand over her mouth and the knife at her throat. “Shut up, cunt,” Betsy murmured, as she grabbed Dallas by the hair and wrestled her to the cement wall. “Lean against it. Bend over. Now.” Dallas complied, shaking, pressing her hands to the rough wall, as Betsy yanked her skirt up and sliced open the crotch of her panties. She kicked Dallas’s legs apart; Dallas stumbled, and Betsy’s knife was at her throat again, the other hand groping between Dallas’s legs. “Stick your ass out, cunt,” Betsy snarled, and Dallas obeyed, disoriented, in a well-trained response to her lover’s instructions, in terrified compliance with the knife and the rough hands. She started to cry as she felt Betsy fumble with her fly, felt Betsy’s dick pressing clumsily against her pussy, felt her hole being pushed open, filled up. She felt Betsy’s hips tremble between her thighs, felt the stupid anger in her voice as she let out a stream of crude, repetitive cursing. “Keep your ass stuck out, cunt, bitch, fucking cunthole, I’m sticking it in you, sticking it, fucking you, fuck you all I want, fucking bitch, cunt, fucking your cunt, spread it, spread your hole, your fucking hole, fuckhole, fuckhole, cunt…” Dallas kept crying, kept bending over, kept spreading her legs apart and sticking her ass out, as Betsy used her cunt and came inside her, hard, jerking. They agreed afterwards that it had been a good game, but not one you could play very often. Betsy even meant it, almost.
And sometimes they just played. They played “make Dallas crawl on the floor with a buttplug in her ass and another one in her mouth.” Or “tie Dallas down to the bending table and fuck her mouth with a strap-on dildo.” Or “make Dallas touch her toes a hundred times and smack her on the ass each time.” Or even just “bend Dallas over the bed and fuck her from behind.”
It was, as they say, all good.
“So is there anything you want?” Betsy asked. They were lying sprawled in Betsy’s rumpled bed, in a nest of dildos and lube bottles, piled-up pillows and dirty magazines. Dallas was idly playing with the inside of Betsy’s thigh.
“You mean a specific thing we haven’t done yet?” Dallas replied. “Well… there’s this thing I saw in a video once, a scene in a bathroom, this guy bends a girl over the toilet and dunks her head into it while he—”
“Oh yes.” Betsy nodded vigorously. “Yes. I’ve seen that video. Definitely. Anytime. But that’s not exactly… I mean, is there anything you want? Bigger than that.” She took Dallas’s hand and held it on her belly. “Sometimes you seem, not unhappy, but… restless. Like there’s something you’ve forgotten. Is there something you want? Other than just the next scene?”
Dallas pondered. “Maybe,” she said. “Can I think about it?”
She thought about it. Thought about it all that night, and the next morning. Thought about it on the bus to work, on her coffee break, her lunch break, her second coffee break. Thought about it on the bus ride home. Thought about it the next day, and the next, and the one after that.
What did she want?
It wasn’t a scene. She could think of scenes from here to Texas and back without breaking a sweat. Scenes weren’t hard to think of. But Betsy was right, there was something she wanted that was bigger than a scene. Something she’d never quite gotten from a scene, not even the good ones, not even the amazing ones. Even the scenes that left her blind and gasping, also left her… she didn’t know what. She spent the better part of an afternoon doing some tedious filing and thinking about what, exactly. Not unhappy, not dissatisfied, but…
Unfinished. That was it. It dawned on her on the bus ride home. She felt unfinished. Hungry still. Like she’d had a huge meal, with chicken and potatoes and two slices of pie, and was still staring at the pie thinking that a third slice might be nice. And for all her sex-positive, slut-positive, I-am-woman-watch-me-fuck attitude, she still thought her hosts would think she was greedy if she asked for that third piece of pie. And not without reason. Some of her hosts had thought she was greedy for wanting the first one.
But Betsy was different. She knew Betsy wanted her to have all the pie she wanted. She knew Betsy would happily bake her an entire pie, and feed it to her with a silver fork on bone china, and then bake her another if she was still hungry for more. And she knew Betsy would get off on it. She knew her lust was safe.
The next time she saw Betsy, she kissed her hello and said, “Yes. There is.”
“I’m sorry, babyface,” Betsy said. “Non-sequitur alert. What?”
“Your question,” Dallas answered, rolling her eyes. “The one you asked me the last time you saw me.” She settled into her seat, told the waiter that she wanted water now and a glass of the house red with dinner, folded her hands on the table, and said, “This is it. I want to do it until I’m done. I want you to bend me over and do me, until I’m ready to stop.”
“Okay,” Betsy said. “Sure. Why not?”
Dallas shook her head. “No. I mean it. Until I’m done. Like, done done. I mean… don’t take this the wrong way, most of the time when we stop I’m fine, we always stop at a good place. But I could also keep going. I want you to bend me over and do me until that isn’t true. I want to keep doing it until I really, really, don’t want to do it anymore. Can’t do it anymore. I want to feel… like, even for just a few hours… like I’ve had enough.”
“Wow,” Betsy said. “Okay. Sure. Should we set aside a weekend?”
“No,” Dallas said. “We should set aside a week.”
Betsy looked at Dallas. “Oh,” she said. “Oh. Give me a min
ute.”
Dallas nodded and got up to use the bathroom, rinsing her face and fixing her lipstick and generally killing time. Betsy continued to scowl at the spot on the table, her chin in her hand. She was still staring when Dallas came back. Finally she spoke. “No.”
Dallas’s face fell. “No?”
“No. We should set aside two weeks. One won’t be enough. We’ll feel rushed. I want to do this right.”
“What if it we’re not done in two weeks?” Dallas asked. It was Friday evening, and Betsy had met her after work, their last day of work before their vacation.
“We’ll quit our jobs,” Betsy replied. Dallas wasn’t sure if she was kidding.
And so they had their second interlude.
Day One:
“Starting now, all you are is your body,” Betsy said as she bent Dallas over the bending table and inserted a medium-size buttplug. It was Saturday, late morning. They had woken and showered about twenty minutes earlier. “Just your body, from your waist to your knees. Your ass, and your pussy, and your thighs. You’re here for me to use when I feel like it; when I don’t feel like it, you’re still here. You’re like the vibrator in the drawer, or a porno video. Get used to it.”
She laid her hand between Dallas’s shoulder blades, held it there for a moment, then let go. “If you have to stretch, or eat or drink, or use the bathroom, you can get up and do it, but I want you back here as soon as you’re done. If your legs and back need a break, you can lie facedown on the bed for a while, but come back to the table as soon as you can.” She drew her fingers across Dallas’s lips like she was sealing a Ziploc bag. “Don’t ask me for permission, just do it. I’m not going to gag you, so I’ll trust you to gag yourself. I don’t want to hear your voice. Your voice isn’t relevant. Your voice doesn’t exist. Until I speak to you again.” She took a cloth out of a drawer and draped it over the back of Dallas’s head. “Now stay.”
Betsy patted Dallas on the behind and left her there while she puttered around the apartment: watching TV, reading magazines, surfing the Web. Every now and then she’d go over to Dallas, take the buttplug out, and put things in her asshole: toys, fingers, dildos of various sizes. Casually, without much in the way of intent; no sweet slow seduction, no pounding toward the finish line. Just things in her ass, there, and then not there. For five minutes, or ten, or thirty… poking and prodding and swirling around, then removed and the buttplug replaced, and then Dallas would be left by herself over the bending table. Or Betsy would keep the buttplug in and put things in Dallas’s cunt. Toys, fingers. She’d stick in her strap-on and hold it still, press it inside Dallas’s pussy for a bit, and then remove it. None of it was at a slow pace; it generally happened slowly, but in the strictest sense it wasn’t a pace at all. It wasn’t really fucking. It was penetration. And then it would end, as abruptly as it started, and Betsy would be gone from the room.
As the mood struck her, Betsy would go to Dallas and do things; as the mood passed, she’d wander off. Dallas could smell her own breath under the cloth, could feel a light breeze stirring her naked skin. She could hear the TV in the other room, and Betsy laughing and popping open a soda. Then Betsy would return, and there would be more things in her pussy, or her asshole. Every half hour, or ten minutes, or hour. Dallas wasn’t sure anymore. She was beginning to lose track of time. The windows were shut, the drapes pulled tight. She took a pee break and glanced at the clock in the bathroom. Betsy had taken it down.
The cloth over her head and shoulders made Dallas intensely conscious of her ass. Not that she wasn’t always conscious of her ass, but having her vision gone made it easier to picture what she looked like, the cloth not just hiding her head but putting the bottom half of her body in the spotlight. Like a diamond ring in one of those boxes, the jewel framed and displayed in velvet, the ring itself buried underneath, functional but not very interesting. She couldn’t help but be turned on. She was naked and bent over and her lover was in the next room planning God knows what, so getting turned on was almost inevitable. But her arousal was frustrating. Nothing was being done about it. She was beginning to get that maybe nothing would be done about it. This was about getting Betsy off: her own desire, like her voice, was irrelevant. Only her body mattered, from her belly to her knees. And when Betsy was leaving her alone, like she was doing now, like she had done for a while now, her skin tingled, impatient, hungry, sad. Her mind started drifting away from her head and down below her belly, paying meticulous attention to her ass and her pussy and her thighs, which were getting antsy and edging toward frantic in their demands for attention.
She came back to earth for a minute as her knees started demanding attention as well, and she lay facedown on the bed, the cloth draped over her head, to give herself a break. Except that it wasn’t a break. Betsy came in and started fiddling with her clit from behind, spreading Dallas’s thighs apart, holding her lips open with one hand while she fingered her with the other. Dallas sighed with relief and pathetic gratitude as her mind raced back into her brain and her pussy gobbled up the sensation like it was starving. The relief and gratitude didn’t last. Within a minute, she was gritting her teeth and balling her hands into angry fists, as Betsy twiddled idly with her clit like she was twanging a jaw harp, steady and unchanging, too fast and hard for Dallas to ignore, too soft and slow for her to come. Dallas pressed her face into the mattress and ground her teeth so she wouldn’t whimper out loud, and Betsy took Dallas’s pussy lips in her fingers and spread them apart, studying her, like she was checking the turkey to see if it was done. She examined Dallas’s clit for a minute or so, then left the room to watch the rest of the ball game. Dallas squeezed her eyes shut tight and her pussy tighter, clenched her anus around the buttplug, then steadied herself and walked back to the bending table. I am a vibrator in a drawer, she said to herself. I am a porno video. I don’t want anything. She bent over the table and tried to make herself believe it.
She was repeating these words like a mantra when the pain started. Betsy was apparently getting bored, and instead of sticking her fingers into Dallas’s pussy on her way to the kitchen, now she’d slap Dallas’s ass. Or she’d stop for a few moments and beat it with a spatula, or a ruler, or something hastily grabbed out of the toy chest. No buildup, and no cooldown, just a hard stroke, or a series of hard strokes, on the way to somewhere else. Dallas had no idea what was next, or when, or if. It could be the smack of a hairbrush, wide and flat, landing again and again. Five minutes later it could be the crop, whistling out of nowhere, lashing into her thigh once and then disappearing. Half an hour later it could be the open hand. Or fingers, pinching, mean little pinches on the sorest spots. It might get mixed up with other stuff, a finger tickling her clit while a hairbrush struck her on one thigh, or a few strokes with the strap-on between blows of the belt. Or it wouldn’t, it would be pure, free of distraction. There would be pain, or penetration, or fondling, and then not. Just nothing. Just an empty pussy, and a filled-up asshole, and a naked ass. Dallas began to lose track of things other than time.
When Betsy finally spoke, Dallas jumped. “Okay,” Betsy said. “I think we’re done with that for now. You should stand up and stretch, move around a little, before we move on.” She took the cloth off of Dallas’s head, and Dallas creaked up and looked around. Betsy had turned the light on. It was dusk.
That night, they watched Star Trek while they ate like they always did. Dallas lay on her belly on the floor and ate from a tray, the nightgown Betsy had put on her pulled up around her waist. Betsy sat on the sofa. After dinner, she had Dallas lie across her lap, and gave her a long, gentle spanking, soft tapping slaps, almost a massage, while they watched a movie on TV. She slipped a vibrator onto her lap just under Dallas’s hips, and Dallas rubbed against it frantically, and came, and came, and came.
They went to bed early that night. Dallas curled up on her side to drift off, and Betsy shook her. “No,” she said. “I want you to sleep on your front.”
Dallas sta
red at her, confused. “Huh?”
“I want you to sleep on your front,” Betsy repeated. “I want your ass in the air, even when you’re asleep. If I wake up in the night and want a fondle or a dry hump, I’m going to want it right away.” She pressed Dallas’s shoulder down. “So turn over.”
Dallas flipped onto her belly. The skin of her ass was still sore and tingly, her asshole was still open and tender, and she was very conscious of the feel of it as she burrowed her face into the pillow. She went to sleep almost immediately; she slept solid, dreamed a strange dream, turned onto her side in her sleep. Betsy climbed out of bed at once. She removed the cane from the closet, shook Dallas awake, and pressed her onto her belly. “You get one now,” she said calmly. “If you do it again, you’ll get two. A third time…”
Still half drowsy, Dallas felt the cane lash onto her bewildered ass, like a tree branch in a nighttime storm. She screamed politely into her pillow and didn’t complain, but when it was over, she looked over her shoulder with hurt and puzzlement and something that wasn’t quite tears, and Betsy relented. “Look,” she explained. “I’m not mad. I’m not punishing you. I know you can’t control what you do when you’re asleep. I’m just… training you. You wanted to be bent over or facedown all the time, and I’m training your body to do that.” She smiled, a lizard smile, unrelenting again. “And I’m giving myself a hard-on. It gives me a hard-on to wake up in the night and see your ass in the air, and it gives me a hard-on to beat you if it’s not. So deal. This is what you wanted. If you don’t want it—”
Bending: Dirty Kinky Stories About Pain, Power, Religion, Unicorns, & More Page 15