CHAPTER 19
Chris
I thought my cock might burst through the front of my work jeans. I’d never been this hard in my entire life. The sight of Valerie sprawled on our couch in that sheer white lingerie, her hand working between her legs under the lacy front of the tiny thong panties while she watched another woman getting disciplined on screen—it seemed like everything I’d been trying to coax out of her, and she’d done it herself. Had my wife finally embraced her needs?
My hands went to my belt, sliding the leather free from the loops with deliberate slowness. The sound made her freeze, her eyes going wide as she registered what I was doing.
“Chris—” Her voice was barely a whisper. “Sir, please?—”
“Don’t move,” I commanded, my voice a little rougher than I’d intended.
But she did move. The fear in her eyes shifted to panic, and suddenly she was scrambling off the couch, trying to run. Thecoffee table tripped her up and she stumbled, but she kept going, making for the hallway.
I caught her before she made it three steps. My arm went around her waist, hauling her back against my chest. She was so small, so light—I lifted her easily despite her struggles.
“No! Please, Chris, don’t whip me! I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please?—”
“You lied to me,” I said, carrying her back to the couch. “You pretended you hadn’t made dinner. And you touched yourself without permission.”
“I’ll be good! Please, sir, I promise I’ll be good?—”
I positioned her at the back of the couch, bending her over it so her lace-covered bottom was raised. The lingerie left almost nothing to the imagination—I could even see the damp evidence of her arousal darkening the white fabric of the gusset.
“Hands in front of you,” I ordered. “Hold onto the cushions and don’t let go. If you try to cover your butt you’ll get much more whipping.”
Her hands gripped the upholstery, her whole body trembling. On the television in front of us, Stacy’s cries filled the room as her husband claimed her pussy. I left it on. Valerie needed to hear it, needed to understand what was coming.
I doubled the belt in my hand and brought it down across her barely covered bottom.
The crack echoed through the room. Valerie yelped, her body jerking forward.
“That’s for lying about dinner,” I said.
Another stroke. Another cry.
“That’s for touching yourself without permission.”
I worked methodically, covering both cheeks with sharp, stinging blows. The thong panties offered no protection—if anything, they seemed to make each lash more intense for Valerie, as if the thin strip between her butt cheeks reminded her how shamefully she had earned this lesson. I could see the welts forming on her sweet bottom atop lingering bruises from her paddling the day before. In my ears, my wife’s sobs mixed with Stacy’s on the television.
After ten strokes, I stopped. I had paddled her hard yesterday, and I knew that the belt wasn’t the most important consequence Valerie needed to receive—and I needed to give. She hung limp over the couch back, crying into the cushions.
I set the belt aside and placed my hand on her burning bottom. She flinched but didn’t pull away.
“I’ve been patient with you,” I said quietly. “I’ve given you time. But you clearly can’t handle the waiting anymore, can you?”
A sob was her only answer.
“Look at you,” I continued, my hand sliding down to cup her through the soaked panties. “You’re dripping wet. You arranged all of this—the lingerie, the video, pretending you hadn’t cooked dinner. You wanted me to catch you.”
“I’m sorry,” she gasped.
“No, you’re not.” I pressed against her clit through the fabric, making her whimper. “You wanted exactly this. You wanted me to lose control and finally take what’s mine.”
My other hand went to my jeans, unfastening them with quick, efficient movements. My cock sprang free, thick and rigid with need.
“It’s time, Valerie,” I said, positioning myself behind her. “Time for your first fucking. And there’s nothing you can do about it.”
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