I had never really done this before: touched myself on purpose, seeking pleasure, in the full knowledge of what I was doing. Yesterday, in my bedroom—that had felt like an accident. This, here in the shower… it was so naughty. So wrong.
But my fingers kept moving, finding that sensitive spot Chris knew how to touch. A soft moan escaped my lips before I could stop it.
I thought about his hands on me. His cock in my mouth. The way he’d called me a good girl when I obeyed. The way my body had responded to his dominance, to his discipline, to his use of me.
My fingers moved faster, circling that spot, and I leaned against the shower wall for support. The pleasure was building, that familiar tension coiling tighter and tighter in my core.
I shouldn’t be doing this. I should ask permission. Chris had said wives had to ask permission before touching themselves. But he wouldn’t give me permission, would he? He’d… he’d whip me instead.
I couldn’t stop. Couldn’t make my hand obey. The pleasure was too intense, too overwhelming after everything that had happened.
Just as I felt myself approaching the edge, ready to tip over into orgasm, guilt crashed through me like ice water.
I jerked my hand away, gasping, my whole body trembling with unfulfilled need. Tears mixed with the shower water on my face.
I was so naughty. So terribly naughty. What was Chris doing to me? What was I becoming?
I finished washing quickly, mechanically, trying not to think about the ache between my legs or the way my body still craved release. When I turned off the water and stepped out, I dried myself with shaking hands.
My flannel nightgown lay folded on the counter where I’d left it earlier. I reached for it, grateful for the modest coverage it would provide, but before I could put it on, Chris’s voice came from the other side of the door.
“Valerie? Don’t put on your nightgown.”
I froze, the soft fabric clutched in my hands. “What?”
“You’re going to sleep naked tonight. You need to start getting used to your husband having access to your body whenever I want.”
My heart jumped into my throat. Sleep naked? All night? With nothing between his hands and my body?
“Chris—I mean, sir—please, I?—”
“No arguments,” he said firmly. “Come to bed.”
I stood there for a long moment, staring at my reflection in the mirror. My blonde hair hung damp around my shoulders. My face was flushed. My nipples were hard from the cool air. And when my eyes drifted lower, I could see the evidence of my arousal still glistening between my thighs, even after the shower.
I was so naughty. So shamefully, terribly naughty.
Trembling, I opened the bathroom door and walked into the bedroom. Chris was already in bed, the covers pulled back on my side. He watched me approach, his eyes traveling over my naked body with obvious appreciation.
“Beautiful,” he murmured. “Come here, sweetheart.”
I climbed into bed beside him, hyperaware of every inch of my bare skin against the cool sheets. Chris pulled the covers over us and then his arm came around me, drawing me back against his chest.
I could feel everything. The heat of his body. The hard planes of his chest against my back. His arm across my waist. And lower, pressed against my bottom, I could feel his cock.
It was soft now, but as we lay there, I felt it begin to stir. To harden. To grow thick and rigid against my bare skin.
A whimper escaped my throat.
“Shh,” Chris murmured against my ear. “I’m keeping my word. I won’t fuck you tonight.”
