“Feel how your body opens for me,” Kevin was saying, his voice low and instructive. “This is what your little bottom was made for, Stacy. Every part of you belongs to your husband.”
He pulled the dildo almost all the way out, and the camera showed Stacy’s anus gaping slightly before he pushed it back in—all the way this time, until only the flared base protruded from between her spread cheeks. Stacy wailed, but her hips had begun to move. She was rocking back against the dildo, meeting his thrusts with tiny, involuntary movements that betrayed the same terrible need I felt consuming me.
My other hand—my left hand—had drifted behind me. I was sitting on the edge of the couch now, leaning forward, and I twisted up onto my hip so my fingers could find the cleft of my bottom through my skirt and panties. The touch sent a bolt of something electric through my core. I pressed harder, my fingertip finding the little pucker of my anus even through two layers of fabric.
Oh, no. Oh, God, no.This was so much worse than just touching my pussy. This was—this was the place Chris had promised to claim. The place I’d dreamed about, where I’d imagined his cock pushing inside me. And now I was touching it myself, rubbing my finger in small circles over that forbidden button while my other hand worked desperately at my clit.
I’m such a dirty girl, I thought, and the shame of it—the absolute, scorching mortification—only made the pleasure spike higher. I pressed my finger more firmly against my anus, feeling it give slightly even through the cotton, and a moan tore from my throat that sounded exactly like the sounds Stacy was making on screen.
Kevin had established a steady rhythm now, fucking Stacy’s bottom with the dildo in long, deep strokes. Her protests had dissolved entirely into breathless, keening cries that rose and fell with each thrust. Her pussy was visibly dripping, a thin strand ofarousal connecting her swollen lips, and the camera lingered on this evidence of her shameful need.
“You’re going to come from having your bottom fucked,” Kevin observed, a note of satisfaction in his voice. “Aren’t you, Stacy?”
“No—please—I can’t—I’m not—” But her hips told a different story, pushing back hungrily against the dildo.
“Lying wives get extra punishment,” Kevin warned, and he angled the dildo slightly, pressing it deeper. Stacy screamed—not in pain, but in the kind of helpless, overwhelmed pleasure I recognized from my own body’s betrayals.
My fingers moved faster. Both hands working at me—the right one rubbing frantic circles on my clit through my soaked panties, the left one pressing and circling against my anus. The dual sensation was unlike anything I’d ever felt. Every nerve ending in my body seemed to converge on those two points, building and building toward something enormous.
On screen, Kevin pulled the dildo out entirely. Stacy’s anus gaped, open and vulnerable, and the sight of it—that intimate, too-open little aperture—pushed me past the point of no return.
The orgasm exploded through me with a violence that made me cry out loud in our empty house. My body arched off the couch, my fingers pressing hard against my clit and my anus simultaneously as wave after wave of devastating pleasure crashed through me. I felt my panties flood with fresh wetness, felt the cotton grow hot and soaking against my convulsing flesh. My thighs clamped together around my hand as I rode it out, sobbing with the intensity of it, my vision going white at the edges.
On the television, Kevin was unfastening his belt. Stacy lay limp over the bench, her spread cheeks still held in her own trembling fingers, waiting for the final claiming.
I grabbed the remote and turned it off.
The silence that followed was deafening. I sat there on the couch, my chest heaving, my hands still between my legs and behind me, the evidence of what I’d done cooling against my skin. The room felt too bright, too real. The pleasure was already fading, replaced by something cold and awful that settled in my stomach like a stone.
I had touched myself without permission. I had watched another woman being trained in her most private place and I had—I had played with my own anus. I had rubbed that shameful little opening and come from it, like the dirty, wanton slut Chris had called me.
Tears spilled down my cheeks. I pulled my hands away from my body as if they belonged to someone else—someone filthy, someone I didn’t want to know. The wetness on my fingers made me shudder with revulsion.
“Oh, God,” I whispered to the empty room. “Oh, God, what is wrong with me?”
I stood on legs that could barely hold me. My panties squelched against me as I moved—soaked completely through, the cotton so saturated that I could feel dampness on my inner thighs, on the backs of my legs where I’d pressed against my bottom. The evidence of my depravity was undeniable, physical, impossible to pretend away.
I went to the bedroom in a daze. I peeled off my dress first and put it on the bed, then—with a whimper of shame—I pushed myruined panties down my legs and stepped out of them. I held them at arm’s length, not wanting to look at them but unable to stop myself. The white cotton was translucent in places, darkened to near-gray with the wetness I’d produced while touching my forbidden places and watching a woman get her bottom prepared for her husband’s cock.
I carried them to the laundry room and dropped them into the hamper, burying them beneath a towel as if hiding the evidence could undo what I’d done. My hands shook as I closed the hamper lid.
The shower was so hot it turned my skin pink. I stood under the spray with my eyes squeezed shut, letting the water cascade over my body, willing it to wash away the shame. I scrubbed myself everywhere—my face, my breasts, between my legs, and especially behind me, where my treacherous fingers had found such wicked pleasure. I scrubbed until my skin stung, until I was sure every trace of my arousal had been sluiced down the drain.
But I couldn’t scrub the memory. Couldn’t wash away the knowledge of how I must have looked, sprawled on that couch with both hands working at myself. Couldn’t erase the sound I’d made when I came—that raw, animal cry that had filled our living room, the home Chris had lovingly renovated for us.
I turned off the water and toweled myself dry with mechanical movements. In the bedroom, I pulled open my dresser drawer and selected the most conservative nightgown I owned—the long-sleeved white cotton one that buttoned all the way to my throat. I put on fresh panties too, the fullest-cut pair I had, the ones that covered everything. As if modesty in my sleepwear could somehow atone for the immodesty of what I’d done on the couch.
The bed was cold without Chris. I pulled the quilt up to my chin and lay on my side, curling into a tight ball. My body still hummed with the aftereffects of that devastating orgasm, little tremors running through my muscles, my nipples still sensitive against the cotton of my nightgown.
I squeezed my eyes shut. In the morning, Chris would be here, next to me. He’d kiss me. He’d ask about my evening. And I would have to look into his eyes and not tell him what I’d done. The lie of omission sat heavy in my chest, right alongside the memory of the last time I’d lied—and the belt that had followed.
But I couldn’t tell him. I couldn’t say the words:I watched Stacy get her bottom opened with a dildo and I touched my anus and came in my panties like a filthy little slut.The sentence existed in my mind, fully formed and devastating, and I knew that if Chris ever heard it, whatever shred of dignity I still possessed would be gone forever.
Sleep came slowly, reluctantly, like it didn’t want to be associated with someone as shameful as me. I lay there for what felt like hours, listening to the quiet house, feeling the phantom echo of my own fingers against that forbidden place. Every time I started to drift off, a fresh wave of mortification would jolt me awake—a flash of Stacy’s spread cheeks, of Kevin’s dildo disappearing into her, of my own hand pressed against the seat of my dress, against my bottom, against my virgin anus.
Eventually, exhaustion won. My body was wrung out—from the orgasm, from the crying, from the relentless cycle of shame and arousal that had consumed my entire evening. My thoughts grew fuzzy, my muscles finally unclenching, my breathing evening out until oblivion took me.
