It seemed absurd, because surely it should be the paddling I had coming that should bring my refusal. But the idea of bestowing a reverent kiss on the surface of the horrid thing felt impossible.
“Kiss it,” Chris repeated. “If you refuse again, you’ll get ten more swats.”
“Oh, God,” I breathed. My hips jerked in the most shameful possible way, as my pussy clenched at the sound of the threat. I pursed my lips. A little whine made them hum as I bent to press them against the smooth, warm wood.
“Good girl,” Chris said, lowering the paddle and gripping its handle in his enormous right hand. “Now go ahead and lay yourself over the arm of the couch for your punishment.”
The words were so simple. So quiet.
I walked to the couch on legs that barely held me. Its arm was broad and firm—Chris had reupholstered it himself, I remembered distantly, with dense foam and sturdy fabric. The perfect height for a small young woman to bend over. The perfect height for her husband to stand behind her and swing a paddle.
I draped myself across it, and the position immediately felt devastatingly familiar. My torso folded over the arm, my bare breasts pressing against the cushion on the other side, my feet barely touching the floor. Behind me, my bottom rose into the air—completely exposed by the backless panties.
To my distress, I could see it from above, somehow, in my feverish imagination: both cheeks round and bare and pale in the lamplight, offered up to my husband and his handmade paddle like a sacrifice on an altar.Myhandmade paddle, a gift from the man who would discipline me with it whenever I misbehaved.
I heard the soft pad of Chris’s bare feet on the hardwood floor as he approached. Then I felt the cool, sanded face of my paddle rest against my right cheek—just resting there, letting me feelits weight, its breadth, the silky smoothness of the wood he’d shaped with such care.
“Thirty,” Chris said. “For touching yourself without permission, for lying about it, and for peeking when I told you not to. Count them, and thank me for each one.”
The paddle drew back. The air shifted. Then it connected.
The crack split the quiet of our living room like a gunshot, and the pain arrived a half-second later—a deep, blooming heat that spread across my right cheek and sank into the muscle beneath. I gasped, my fingers clawing at the couch cushion.
“One,” I managed. “Thank you, sir.”
The second stroke landed on my left cheek, and this time I cried out—a sharp, involuntary yelp that I tried to swallow and couldn’t. The paddle was different from the Selecta-standard one at Megan’s house. Heavier. The impact went deeper, a thudding warmth that seemed to reach all the way to my bones.
“Two! Thank you, sir!”
Chris worked methodically, alternating cheeks with a steady, unhurried rhythm that told me he could do this all night if he needed to. Each stroke built on the last, layering heat upon heat until my entire bottom felt like it was glowing. By five I was crying. By ten I was sobbing openly, tears dripping onto the couch cushion, my hips squirming involuntarily with each impact even though I knew—Iknew—that squirming would only make it worse.
“Eleven! Th-thank you, sir!”
The paddle fell again. And again. The sound of it—that sharp, wooden crack followed by the meaty sensation of impact againstmy bare flesh—filled the room and seemed to echo off the walls. Between strokes, I could hear my own ragged breathing, my hitching sobs, and beneath them the shameful wet sound of my arousal betraying me. Because I was aroused. Despite the pain—because of the pain—my pussy had gone slick and swollen, the lace panel of my training panties growing damp against my pussy.
“Twenty! Thank you, sir! Please… oh, God… please?—”
“Please what?” Chris asked, his voice steady as stone. The paddle rested against my burning cheek again, letting me feel its weight as a reminder.
“I don’t know,” I sobbed, and it was the truest thing I’d said all evening. “It hurts so much, sir.”
“Of course it does,” Chris replied. “This is what happens to naughty wives.”
The last ten strokes came harder. I screamed at twenty-three, bit down on the cushion for twenty-eight, and simply wailed through twenty-nine and thirty, my whole body shaking, my bottom a throbbing inferno of heat and pain and that dark, terrible pleasure that lived in the space between the two.
“Thirty,” I sobbed. “Thank you, sir.”
The paddle withdrew. I lay there draped over the couch arm, crying into the cushion, my punished bottom blazing in the cool air. I heard Chris set the horrid thing down on the coffee table. Then his hand—warm, dry, impossibly gentle after the brutality of what he’d just done—came to rest on the small of my back.
“Stay right there,” he said.
His footsteps moved away. I heard a zipper somewhere—the hallway closet?—and then he returned. Something touched the couch cushion beside my face, and I turned my tear-streaked head to see what he’d placed there.
A butt plug. I knew that was what it was, without having any idea how. Maybe a friend had shown me a picture at school once. I had learned enough about myself over the past week to understand that my mind had pushed down a lot of naughty things into the hot, dark depths I had pretended weren’t there.
It was smaller than I’d expected, though—definitely smaller than the flesh-colored dildo Kevin had used on Stacy, thank God—but unmistakable in its shape. Tapered at the tip, widening to a bulge in the middle, then narrowing again before the flared base. It was made of smooth, black silicone, and beside it sat a small tube of clear lubricant.
My stomach dropped. My anus clenched—a fierce, involuntary contraction that seemed to communicate directly with my throbbing, paddled cheeks. I stared at the plug with wide, wet eyes, and a sound left me that was half sob, half moan.
“This is going to help prepare your anus,” Chris said behind me. His voice was calm, instructional—the same tone Kevin had used with Stacy. The same ceremonial steadiness. “Your bottom needs to learn to open for something big before I take it with my cock.”
