The couch seemed impossibly far away. Each step sent jolts of pain through my punished flesh, but worse was the acute awareness of how exposed I was. The men could see everything—my red bottom, the soaked panties clinging to me, the way my thighs were slick with my own wetness.
Chris patted the cushion between himself and Mark. “Right here, Valerie.”
I sat gingerly, wincing as my tender bottom made contact with the fabric. Megan settled on my other side, her hip pressed against mine. Chris’s arm went around my shoulders, pulling me against him. On Megan’s side, Mark did the same to her.
The television flickered to life, and my breath caught.
A young woman appeared on screen—blonde, pretty, probably only a year or two older than me. She stood in a bedroom that looked similar to the one Chris had redone for us in our new house, her face flushed and tearstained. A man stood before her, arms crossed.
“Grace,” the man’s voice came through clearly, firm but not shouting. “Your gossiping has to stop. Mrs. Jones told me you spent the entire quilting circle spreading rumors about Lucy Henderson. That’s not acceptable behavior for a New Modesty wife.”
Grace’s lower lip trembled. “I’m sorry, Jacob… I mean… sir. I didn’t mean?—”
“You didn’t mean to undermine another family’s reputation? You didn’t mean to violate the trust of your community?” He shook his head. “Take off your clothes. All of them. You have a lesson to learn.”
My stomach clenched. I wanted to look away, but I couldn’t. Grace’s fingers went to the buttons of her dress with visible reluctance, but she obeyed. The dress fell away, then her slip, then her bra. Finally, she stepped out of white cotton panties exactly like the ones I always wore.
Well… always… until my wedding day.Now it seemed like I wore the naughty things husbands made their wives wear to train them for the bedroom. I felt my forehead crease as I glanced down at the lacy front of my horrid underwear, and felt my sore bottom squirm against the leather of the couch.
“On the bed,” Grace’s husband commanded. “Over the bolster.”
A cylindrical leather-covered cushion sat in the center of the bed. Grace climbed up and positioned herself over it, her bottom raised high, her face pressed into the bedding. The position left nothing to the imagination—to my dismay, the camera zoomed in.
The director, I guessed, wanted to show how fully everything was displayed, just as Megan and I had been displayed over the arm of the couch before our own husbands paddled us. Grace’s bare pussy and even her tiny anus appeared much too clearly on the screen, mortifyingly enlarged and so vividly depicted that I had to bite my lip to keep from whimpering.
I heard Megan let out a little gasp as, on the screen, the girl’s pussy visibly clenched. I could see glistening evidence of Grace’s need there, too. Part of me tried to find it reassuring that they would show this on a New Modesty-sponsored channel—the rest of me just felt shamefully aroused and thoroughly confused.
“Look at that,” Chris said, with a note of appreciation that made me think I would spontaneously combust from shame.
“Yup,” Mark agreed. “Seems like Grace is a lot like our girls.”
The camera pulled back to show Jacob removing his belt. The leather slid through the loops with a sound that made me flinch.
“Ten lashes,” he said. “And you’re going to count them and thank me for each one.”
He stood over his naked, prostrate wife, doubling the belt and wrapping it around his fist. The look in his eyes reminded me of what Chris’s face looked like when he decided to punish me: a mixture of responsibility, affection, and the masculine hunger that made my tummy quiver.
Husbandsliketo whip their wives, I suddenly realized, my eyes going wide.But good husbands… like Jacob… like Mark… like Chris… Good husbands only do it when their wives need it.
The belt whistled through the air and cracked across Grace’s bottom. She cried out, her whole body jerking. Megan and I both let out little whimpers of sympathy as the red mark bloomed across the pretty bottom of the girl on the screen.
“One! Thank you, sir!”
Another stroke. Another cry.
“Two! Thank you, sir!”
I couldn’t breathe. The scene unfolding on the screen was horrifying, but it was also much too familiar. Grace’s tears, her submission, the way her husband wielded his authority—it was exactly what had just happened to me and Megan.
Chris’s hand slid down from my shoulder to cup my bare breast. I gasped, but his grip tightened slightly in warning. On my other side, I could see Mark’s hand doing the same to Megan, inside her dress.
On screen, Grace had reached seven strokes. Her bottom was striped with red welts, her voice breaking on each count. But between her raised thighs, I could see the unmistakable gleam of wetness.
She was aroused. Just like me.
“Ten! Thank you, sir!”
Jacob set the belt aside and reached for something on the nightstand. A bottle. He squeezed clear gel onto his fingers, andmy heart hammered as I started to realize what was about to happen.
