“You lied to me.”
“I was embarrassed?—”
“You lied to me, Valerie.” His voice was still low, still controlled, but there was no give in it. “After I explicitly told you how important honesty is to me.”
His face hardened yet more. The last trace of warmth disappeared from his eyes, replaced by something that made my stomach clench with fear. This wasn’t my patient, understanding husband anymore. This was the man who’d held me down and whipped me on a trail, who’d made me call him sir, who’d put his finger inside my bottom while I came.
“Please,” I whispered, leaning forward so no one else could hear. My hands twisted together in my lap. “Please don’t punish me. I’m sorry. I was just so ashamed, I didn’t know what to say?—”
“We’ll talk about it when we get back to the cabin.” His voice was flat. Final.
“Chris—”
“Finish your dinner, Valerie.”
The words cut off any further protest. I sat back, my appetite completely gone, my throat tight with unshed tears. The food on my plate might as well have been cardboard. I forced myself totake a few more bites, acutely aware of Chris’s silence beside me, of the rigid set of his shoulders.
He paid the bill without looking at me. Held the door open as we left the restaurant. His hand on the small of my back as we walked back to our cabin felt like a brand—a reminder of his authority, of what awaited me.
The path back to the cabin took forever and no time at all. My mind raced with terrible possibilities. Would he use his belt? A newly cut switch? Something worse? The whipping on the trail had been awful, but at least it had been quick. What if he decided I needed a longer, harder punishment for lying?
My pussy still throbbed. Even through my fear, my body hadn’t stopped responding to what had happened on the horse. The combination made me feel sick with shame. What kind of person got aroused from being punished? From being afraid?
Chris unlocked the cabin door. His hand closed around my elbow—not painfully, but firmly. Possessively. He guided me into the entry.
The door clicked shut behind us with an ominous finality.
“Go get into your peach nightgown,” he said, “with the matching panties. Now.”
I stumbled toward the bedroom, my legs barely holding me up. My hands shook as I opened my suitcase and pulled out the peach nightgown—the one I’d worn on our wedding night. The sheer fabric whispered through my fingers, impossibly delicate. Beneath it, wrapped in tissue paper, were the matching panties. The ones I’d refused to wear that first night, choosing modest cotton instead.
This time I had no choice.
I stripped off my sundress and underwear with trembling fingers, then pulled the tiny lace panties up my legs. They were so small, so revealing—barely more than a scrap of fabric that left my bottom almost completely exposed. The thong nestled between my cheeks, and I couldn’t help remembering how Chris had looked at me the last time I’d worn something like this. How he’d touched me. Used me.
The nightgown came next. It fell to just below my hips, the sheer peach fabric doing almost nothing to hide my body. My nipples were clearly visible through the delicate material, hard from fear and that shameful arousal that still hadn’t faded.
I caught sight of myself in the mirror and felt tears prick at my eyes. I looked like exactly what I was—a wife about to be disciplined by her husband. Dressed in lingerie meant to please him, to remind me of my place.
Taking a shaky breath, I walked back out to the living room.
