Before bed, I stood in our bathroom, staring at my reflection. I should just put on my nightgown and go to sleep. But my body ached in ways I needed to understand. It was responsible to check, wasn’t it? To make sure I was healing properly after losing my virginity?
With trembling fingers, I took off my clothes. I hung up my dress and my slip. I put my bra in my underwear drawer. Trying not to think about it, I pulled my panties down and stepped out of them. I held my breath as I tossed them into the laundry, not wanting to know if any of that now-familiar naughty scent had lingered in the gusset.
I put my back to the full-length mirror in the walk-in closet, chewing on my lower lip as I turned to look over my shoulder. The bruises on my bottom had darkened since this morning—purple and blue marks from Chris’s belt, overlapping the fading welts from my paddling at Megan’s house. I took a little step backward so that I could see them better in the mirror, and something warm bloomed in my chest.
Pride. I felt proud of these marks. Proud that I’d taken my punishment. Proud that I’d finally given myself to my husband completely.
But beneath the pride, the too-familiar heat pulsed between my legs. I squeezed my thighs together, trying to ignore it, but it only grew stronger. My nipples had gone hard, and I could feel the dampness gathering.
I needed to check. Just to make sure everything was okay down there.
I grabbed my hand mirror from the top of the dresser and carried it to our bed. My face burned as I lay back and positioned the mirror between my raised legs—almost the same posture Chris had made me occupy the second night of our honeymoon, before he had made me…
I swallowed hard as I remembered licking my husband’s puckered anus, while here and now I gazed into the mirror. The reflection showed my bare, smooth pussy—pink and a little swollen, I could see. The lips seemed slightly parted, today, after Chris had claimed me with his rigid manhood, as if his use last night had changed me there forever.
Gingerly, I touched myself, probing the entrance Chris had enjoyed so thoroughly. A sharp twinge of soreness made me wince, but it wasn’t unbearable. Just a reminder of what he’d done to me. Of how his cock had stretched me, filled me, made me his.
My breathing quickened. I explored more, my fingers sliding through my wetness. In the mirror, I could see my bottom, too; the bruises I had earned for my misbehavior, given with such authority by my husband’s firm hand. My pussy felt different, more open. The soreness was there, yes, but so was something else. An ache that had nothing to do with healing and everything to do with need.
I was terribly aroused. Again. Already. Even though my body was still recovering from being fucked for the first time, I wanted more.
The realization made tears prick at my eyes. What was wrong with me? Normal wives didn’t feel this way, did they? They didn’t get wet from looking at their own bruises, didn’t ache to be taken again before they’d even finished healing.
I thought about texting Chris. Asking for permission to touch myself properly, to ease this terrible need. My phone sat on the nightstand, just a few feet away.
But I couldn’t. The thought of typing those words—of admitting how desperately I needed to come—made me want to die from embarrassment. What would I even say? “Please, sir, can I masturbate because looking at the marks you left on my bottom made me wet”?
No. Absolutely not.
I forced myself to get up, to put the mirror away. I pulled on my modest white cotton panties and the long nightgown that covered everything. As if the fabric could somehow contain the shameful desires coursing through me.
In bed, I lay on my back, staring at the ceiling. I tried not to think about Chris. Tried not to picture his cock, thick and hard,the way it had looked just before he’d taken my virginity, when he’d made me suck it to get him ready to fuck. The way it had felt pushing inside me, claiming me, making me scream.
My hands drifted down toward my body before I caught myself. I jerked them back up, clasping them together in front of me like I was praying. If I didn’t hold them, I knew I’d touch myself. I knew I’d give in to the ache pulsing between my legs.
Sleep eventually claimed me, pulling me down into dreams, into realms I couldn’t control. Dark, hot rooms where Chris positioned me over a bolster atop a canopied bed, his hands spreading my cheeks. Dreams where I felt his cock pressing against my anus, heard him telling me to relax, to take it, to be a good girl.
Dreams where I begged him to fuck my bottom, using the dirty words he’d made me say. Dreams where he rode my virgin backside like a cowboy atop his steed, each brutal thrust of his huge manhood making me scream with helpless pleasure and abject agony. I came from it, my body convulsing as he claimed that last forbidden place.
I woke gasping, my panties soaked through yet again, my whole body trembling with unfulfilled need. Chris was beside me, fast asleep. I practically sprang out of bed so that I could change my underwear and get started on breakfast before he woke.
“Delicious, Val,” he said as he finished his eggs. “Remember that I’ve got guys’ night tonight. I’m really sorry about that, but I promise tomorrow I’ll be home early and we can watch a movie or play a game—your choice.”
“That sounds wonderful,” I said, trying to keep the disappointment from my voice. I smiled at him across the table, the good wife seeing her husband off. “Have fun tonight.”
He stood up and came around the table, smiling down at me. Then he bent, reached, and kissed me—long and deep, his hand cupping the back of my neck in that possessive way that made my knees go weak. Then he was gone.
The house felt enormous without him. I cleaned up breakfast, wiped down the counters, started a load of laundry. Normal, wholesome tasks that a good wife performed. I told myself I would stay busy. I would not think about the television. I would not think about Stacy.
By noon I had reorganized the pantry, scrubbed the bathroom, and alphabetized our small collection of cookbooks. By two o’clock I had baked a batch of chocolate chip cookies and written a grocery list. By four o’clock I had run out of things to do.
The remote sat on the coffee table where I’d left it last night, after I’d managed to turn the television off. It seemed to pulse with a dark gravity, pulling at me from across the room.
Stacy’s First Bottom-Fucking.
The title floated through my mind unbidden, and my pussy clenched so hard I had to grip the kitchen counter. I pressed my thighs together, feeling the fabric of the modest panties shift against my sensitive flesh.
I wouldn’t. I absolutely, categorically would not.
