The sheets were cool and soft against my skin. Chris pulled me close, arranging me so my head rested on his chest, his arm around my shoulders. His other hand stroked my hair gently.
“Sleep now,” he whispered. “We’ll talk more tomorrow.”
I closed my eyes, listening to the steady beat of his heart beneath my ear. The warmth of his body, the gentleness of his touch, the safety of his arms around me—it all worked together to pull me down into sleep despite my racing thoughts.
I dreamed.
In the dream, I stood before a massive stone castle, its towers reaching up into a stormy sky. Two stern-faced women in black dresses took me by the arms and led me inside, through corridors lit by flickering torches.
“Another reluctant bride,” one of them said with satisfaction. “She’ll learn.”
They brought me to a chamber deep in the castle’s heart. A bed dominated the room—not soft and inviting like a normal bed, but hard and intimidating, with leather restraints attached to each corner.
“Strip,” one of the women commanded.
I obeyed, my hands shaking as I removed my clothes. When I was naked, they pushed me onto the bed on my back and began fastening the restraints around my wrists and ankles, spreading me wide and helpless.
Then he entered.
Chris—but not Chris. He wore a black leather mask that covered the upper half of his face, and nothing else. His body looked magnificent in the torchlight. His sharply defined muscles positively gleamed, in some way that could only happen in a dream. His cock jutted out from his body, fully erect, impossibly large.
I knew it was him despite the mask. I would know my husband anywhere.
He held a whip—long and black, the leather braided and cruel-looking. My heart hammered with terror as he approached the bed.
“Please,” I whimpered. “Please don’t?—”
The whip cracked across my breasts, and I screamed. Pain bloomed hot and sharp, followed immediately by a shameful pulse of pleasure between my legs.
Again and again the whip fell, striping my breasts, my belly, my thighs. Each lash hurt worse than the last, but each lash also sent that terrible pleasure spiraling higher.
“Beg me,” Chris commanded. “Beg me to fuck you.”
“No,” I sobbed, even as my hips lifted off the bed, seeking something, needing something.
The whip came down on my pussy, and I shrieked. The pain was exquisite, unbearable, and the pleasure that followed made me see stars.
“Beg me,” he said again.
“Please,” I heard myself whimper. “Please fuck me.”
“Fuck you where?”
“My… my cunt.” The word felt foreign and filthy on my tongue. I didn’t even know where I had heard it before, but I knew what it meant, somehow. “Please fuck my cunt.”
“And?”
Oh, God. He wanted me to say it. To beg for that too.
“My… my asshole.” I was crying now, shame and need warring inside me. “Please fuck my asshole. Please fuck my cunt. Please, sir, please use me however you want?—”
Chris moved between my spread legs, his cock pressing against the untried entrance. I felt him begin to push inside, felt my body stretching impossibly around his thickness?—
I woke with a gasp.
For a moment I didn’t know where I was. The hotel room was dark except for a sliver of light from the bathroom. Chris’s arm was still around me, his breathing deep and even.
And between my legs, I was soaked.
