CHAPTER 21
Valerie
The remote felt heavy in my hand. The television flickered to life, and there was Her Secret Garden, with its elegant script and soft lighting. The featured stream sat right at the top, exactly where it had been last night.
Stacy’s First Bottom-Fucking.
Stacy herself was the subject of the preview image, in three-quarters profile, wearing a little white nightgown. Her eyes were wide, her cheeks flushed. She had her hands behind her, protecting her backside in a way that sent heat flaring to my own face.
My thumb found the play button before my brain could intervene.
The video opened on her marital bedroom. I recognized it immediately from the previous episode—warm wood paneling, soft lamplight, a large bed with crisp white sheets. But tonight something new stood in the center of the room: a padded bench,narrow and waist-high, covered in burgundy leather. It had a slight curve to its surface. It had handles at one end and little padded, upholstered shelves at the other, for someone to kneel on.
My breath caught. I knew, with a certainty that seemed to come from somewhere deep in my bones, exactly what that bench was for.
Stacy appeared from the left side of the frame. She wore that white nightgown—not really modest, because it ended above her knee and it was sheer enough to show the shape of her breasts, but definitely innocent-looking. Appropriate for a young bride about to lose her final virginity. Her dark hair was loose around her shoulders and her face was crimson, her eyes wide with what I recognized immediately as the same toxic blend of terror and arousal that lived inside me.
Her husband Kevin stood beside the bench. He was fully dressed in a button-down shirt and slacks, his sleeves rolled to his forearms. The contrast between his composure and Stacy’s obvious distress made something twist in my stomach.
“Come here, Stacy,” Kevin said. His voice was calm, almost gentle, but there was iron underneath it.
Stacy took a step forward, then stopped. Her hands twisted in the fabric of her nightgown. “Kevin… sir… do we have to do it tonight? I thought maybe?—”
“We’ve discussed this.” He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. “You’ve been my wife for three weeks now. I’ve taken your pussy’s virginity and I’ve trained your mouth. It’s time to take my pleasure in your bottom.”
A sound escaped Stacy’s throat—the same helpless whimper I’d made so many times. I pressed my hand flat against my stomach, feeling the muscles quiver beneath my fingers.
“Take off your nightgown,” Kevin instructed. “Fold it and set it on the chair.”
Stacy’s hands trembled as she obeyed. The nightgown came up over her head, revealing a body much like mine—small-breasted, slender, pale. Underneath she wore plain pink cotton panties. Nothing else.
“Panties too.”
A sob. Then her thumbs hooked into the waistband and she pushed them down, stepping out of them with the careful, shaking movements of a girl who knew she had no choice. She folded them atop her nightgown and stood naked before her husband, her arms very obviously fighting her brain’s urge to cover herself.
“Good girl,” Kevin said. “Now come stand beside the bench.”
Stacy moved to it on unsteady legs. Kevin circled her slowly, his eyes traveling over her body with open appreciation. When he stopped behind her, his hand came up to rest on the small of her back.
“Kneel on the knee rests,” he said. “Then bend over. Lay your stomach on the leather. Take the handles in your hands for now.”
I watched Stacy lower herself onto the bench. The curve of the padding lifted her hips, tilting her bottom upward. Her small breasts pressed against the leather on the other side, and herarms extended forward until she could take hold of the polished wooden handles.
The camera moved, and I saw what Kevin saw. Stacy’s bottom, pale and round and completely vulnerable. Between her parted thighs, I could see the pink of her pussy—and above it, the tight, puckered rosebud of her anus.
My hand had moved between my legs without my permission. I jerked it away, pressing it flat against the couch cushion.
I’m just watching. I’m not touching myself. That’s different.
Kevin opened a drawer in the nightstand and withdrew several items, which the camera showed in close-up. He laid them on the bed where Stacy could see them if she turned her head. A tube of lubricant. A slim white thing, perhaps five inches long and not much thicker than a finger. And beside it, a larger one—flesh-colored, with a flared base, much closer in size to what I imagined a man’s erect penis would look like entering that tiny opening.
“Oh, God,” Stacy whispered, her eyes locked on the implements. “Oh, God, Kevin, please?—”
“These are dildos, Stacy,” he told her. Something about the word made my tummy flip. I didn’t think I’d ever heard it before, but it seemed to come freighted with lewd meaning. “Sometimes I’ll use them in your pussy, and sometimes I’ll use them in your anus, to help you learn to give me my way. This is how a husband prepares his wife’s bottom.”
Kevin seemed to speak not just to Stacy but to the camera—to me, I realized with a lurch. This was educational. This was meant to teach wives like me what to expect.
“In our town,” he continued, “husbands make sure their wives’ first anal sex is ceremonial. A wife needs to understand the significance of what’s happening. She needs to feel the ritual of it—the preparation, the opening, the claiming.”
