‘She would stand by the arm of her sofa, by the side of the bed, at the edge of the kitchen table; and she would bare her ass, slowly, and slowly bend herself over… and then she would stand there, bent over, hands on her hips or behind the small of her back, thinking. Thinking about what she looked like, thinking about what she felt like. Thinking about the feel of the air on the skin of her exposed ass.’
– Bending: Dirty Kinky Stories About Pain, Power, Religion, Unicorns, & More by Greta Christina
I wear heels all the time, except on night shifts and when running, which means that my hamstrings and Achilles’ tendons have become really quite short.
This has an unexpected bonus.
This means that when I bend over, my protesting muscles and tendons have to extend that little bit further than perhaps they should, elongating and tightening to support my bend.
And, damn, that creates a delicious stretch up the back of my legs, connecting my ankles all the way to my arse.
The more I bend, the deeper the pull. The more I push back into it, the higher I lift my arse, the more I arch my back, the better the stretch.
It makes me feel like I’m ready. Like I’m tight and strong. Like I’m showing off.
I bend over a lot, and I’m never entirely certain if it’s because that is the most convenient way to stand or if I just want to enjoy the bend.
I bend over to speak to patients in their bed rather than tower over them, I bend over to write on desks when I can’t (won’t?) find a chair, I bend over the counter and lean on my elbows to read recipes when baking, I bend over to look out of low windows, I bend over when I just don’t feel like standing up straight.
And I might bend over for you if you ask me to…