This was another kind of training, I realized. Teaching me that my body belonged to him even when we were apart. That I couldn’t seek pleasure without his permission, no matter how desperately I needed it.
Distantly, the realization enraged me. Part of me wanted to rebel, to touch myself just to prove I still had control over my own body.
To my horror, though, the thought that my virgin vagina belonged to a strong man who would decide when to open it on his cock only made me wetter.
I lay there for what seemed hours, unable to sleep, my body wound tight with unfulfilled need. Every time I started to drift off, another wave of arousal would crash through me, jolting me awake. I thought about Chris’s hands on me. His cock in my mouth. The way he’d made me display myself, hold my knees up and spread while he inspected me.
The way he’d called me a good girl when I obeyed.
By morning I was exhausted and desperate, my panties and even my pajama bottoms damp with evidence of my arousal. I showered and dressed, trying to compose myself before facing my parents at breakfast.
“You look tired, honey,” my mom said, studying my face with concern. “Didn’t you sleep well?”
“Just adjusting to being back,” I lied, forcing a smile. “I’m fine.”
The morning dragged by endlessly. I helped my mom with laundry, tried to read a book, watched the clock creep toward lunchtime when Chris would come pick me up.
By eleven o’clock, my anxiety had reached a fever pitch. I kept picturing our new home—the bedroom Chris had prepared for us, the bed where he would finally do what he’d been promising to do since our wedding night. My pussy clenched at the thought, a mixture of fear and that shameful arousal I couldn’t suppress.
I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t go home with him and let him fuck me. Not today. Not yet.
“Mom,” I called out, my voice too high and tight. “I need to run an errand. I’ll be back before Chris gets here.”
“Okay, honey,” she replied from the kitchen, not questioning me.
I grabbed my purse and practically ran to my car. My hands shook as I started the engine, but I knew exactly where I was going. The New Modesty Authority office was only ten minutes away.
Mrs. Chen would help me. She had to. She was a professional, someone who understood what brides went through. Maybe she could talk to Chris, convince him to give me more time. Maybe she could explain that I wasn’t ready yet, that I needed?—
What did I need? I didn’t even know anymore.
The New Modesty Authority building was a modest two-story structure on Main Street. I’d been here twice before—once for my initial assessment, and once for a pre-wedding counseling session. Both times I’d left feeling confused and overwhelmed by the discussions of marital duties and submission that hadn’t quite told me what I felt like I really needed to know.
Now I burst through the front door like I was fleeing a fire.
The receptionist looked up in surprise. “Mrs. Pelletier? Do you have an appointment?”
“I need to see Mrs. Chen,” I said breathlessly. “Please. It’s urgent.”
The receptionist studied my face for a moment, then picked up the phone. After a brief conversation, she nodded. “Mrs. Chen can see you now. You remember where her office is?”
I nodded and hurried down the hallway, my heels clicking on the polished floor. Mrs. Chen’s door was open, and she sat behind her desk, her silver-streaked black hair pulled back in that same sleek style I remembered. She looked up as I entered, her expression calm and professional.
“Valerie,” she said, gesturing to the chair across from her. “Please, sit down.”
I sank into the chair, my hands twisting together in my lap. “I don’t know what to do,” I blurted out. “Chris is coming to pick me up in an hour and I know what’s going to happen and I can’t—I just can’t?—”
“Take a breath,” Mrs. Chen said quietly. “Tell me what’s happening.”
The words tumbled out of me in a rush. Not everything—I couldn’t bring myself to describe the specific things Chris had made me do—but enough. That I was terrified of having sex, now that I understood what the mysterious word meant. In my mind, even as I said ‘having sex,’ the real words—Chris’s words—spoke themselves like a sentence of doom:being fucked by my husband. Taking my bridegroom’s cock in my untried little cunt.
I told Mrs. Chen that my body responded to things my mind couldn’t accept. That I felt like I was going crazy with the conflict between the marital rights I knew I must give my husband and what I feared.
Mrs. Chen listened without interruption, her dark eyes never leaving my face. When I finally fell silent, she turned to the monitor on her desk and typed a few words on her keyboard.
“I’m just going to take a look at your file,” she said, her eyes glancing over to meet mine before returning to her screen.
She scrolled through it slowly, her expression thoughtful. “Your biometric readings were quite remarkable,” she said finally. “Ninety-seventh percentile for submissive response. That means your body is hardwired to respond to dominance and discipline in ways that many women simply don’t experience.”
