“You disobeyed me,” he said. “Again. What happens to disobedient wives?”
“Please,” I whimpered. “Please, not again?—”
But his hand was already coming down on my wet bottom. The spanking was worse on wet skin—sharper, stinging more intensely. I cried out, my hands gripping the edge of the tub.
“This spanking doesn’t stop,” Chris said, his hand rising and falling in steady rhythm, “until you make yourself come. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” I sobbed. “Yes, sir.”
“Then do it. Touch your pussy and make yourself orgasm while I spank you.”
With a sob of shame, I reached down between my legs. My fingers found that slick, swollen place, and I began to rub.
The combination was overwhelming—the sharp sting of his hand on my bottom, the pleasure building between my legs, the humiliation of what I was doing.
It only took seconds.
The orgasm crashed through me violently, making me cry out and collapse forward over the edge of the tub. My whole body shook as waves of pleasure rolled through me, more intense even than this afternoon because of the spanking, because of my own fingers, because of the shame.
When it ended, I was sobbing uncontrollably.
Chris’s arms came around me, trying to pull me into a hug, but I couldn’t bear it. Couldn’t bear his touch, his comfort, the gentleness that made everything worse somehow.
I scrambled out of the tub, water streaming from my body, and ran from the tub toward the door of the bathroom.
