The widest part of the plug pressed through, and I cried out in a sharp, broken sound that dissolved into a sob as I felt my anus suddenly close around the narrower neck. My body pulled the plug inside me with a sensation that was shockingly, shamefully intimate. The flared base settled between my cheeks like it belonged there, and I felt the weight of the naughty toy inside me—not large, not painful exactly, but undeniably present. A constant, throbbing reminder that something was inside my bottom. That my husband had put it there.
“Nice,” Chris said, and his voice carried the quiet satisfaction that made my pussy clench and my eyes burn with fresh tears. “Good girl. This is your training plug, Valerie. It’s going to stay right there to start teaching your body to open for me.”
I lay limp over the couch arm. I cried with heaving sobs that came from somewhere so deep inside me I couldn’t havenamed the place. I was crying from the discomfort, yes—the strange, insistent fullness, the way my anus throbbed around the intruder, the burn that pulsed with each heartbeat.
I wept from shame, too, though. Because even with a plug seated in my bottom and my cheeks blazing from thirty strokes of my husband’s beautiful handmade paddle, I could feel the wetness between my legs. My pussy ached. I felt swollen down there, desperate for something I didn’t deserve, because I hadn’t behaved myself.
So I cried from need, too; a need so enormous and all-consuming that it seemed to swallow every other emotion whole. I needed Chris. I needed his cock. I needed him to finish what he’d started, to claim me completely, to make me his in that final way, as mortifying as it seemed.
The need and the shame and the discomfort all braided themselves together in my chest until I couldn’t tell where one ended and the others began.
Chris’s hand left the small of my back. I felt him step away, and the absence of that bit of warmth made me whimper.
“Stand up,” he said.
I pushed myself off the couch arm on shaking arms, my legs nearly buckling as I straightened. The plug shifted inside me with the movement, and I gasped—a high, startled sound—as the sensation sent sparks radiating outward from my bottom. Every motion, no matter how small, caused me to feel it there and reminded me what my husband had done to my most private place.
What my husband is going to do, when he decides the time has come.
“Go stand in the corner,” Chris said. He gestured toward the far corner of the living room, beside the bookshelf he’d built from reclaimed barn wood. “Face the wall. Hands on your head.”
I stared at him, my tear-streaked face crumpling with fresh confusion. The idea of corner time with the plug buried in my butt seemed so much worse than it had at Megan’s house. There I’d told myself that it had only happened to me because Mark liked to impose corner time on his own wife. I had somehow convinced myself that Chris wouldn’t think of doing it to me.
“Now, Valerie.”
I went. Each step felt like a revelation of new sensation. If the plug had felt humiliating when I stood up, the way it shifted and pressed against the narrow passage as I walked seemed even more confusing. I had to bite down on my lower lip to keep from making sounds that would have mortified me even more than I was already. By the time I reached the corner, my thighs were trembling and my breathing had become shallow and rapid.
I pressed my nose close to the wall and raised my hands to rest on the crown of my head, lacing my fingers together the way I felt certain he wanted, from what had happened at Megan’s. I knew how I looked: a bare-breasted, paddle-marked wife standing in the corner with her punished bottom on display, the dark base of a plug just visible between her spread cheeks, her backless training panties framing the whole lewd picture like an obscene portrait.
Training panties… training plug… a naughty wife in training to serve her husband properly.I felt my face twist into a penitent pout of sorrow and helpless submissive need.
Behind me, I heard Chris settle into his armchair. The leather creaked softly under his weight. Then, unbelievably, the television clicked on, and the familiar sounds of a baseball broadcast filled the living room.
A baseball game. My husband had plugged my bottom and put me in the corner and turned on a baseball game.
I stood there, my forehead nearly touching the wall, tears drying in salty tracks on my cheeks, and listened to the announcer call balls and strikes while the plug throbbed inside my anus and my punished cheeks radiated heat into the cool air. Every few seconds my body would shift—an involuntary adjustment of weight from one foot to the other, a subtle clench of my thighs—and the plug would move, and I would feel it everywhere. In my bottom. In my pussy. In the tight, aching tips of my nipples. In the burning, tear-swollen corners of my eyes.
I could hear Chris behind me—the soft clink of a glass, ice against the sides—and I realized he’d poured himself something to drink. He sat in his armchair, watching baseball, sipping a drink, while his wife stood in the corner with a plug in her ass. The casualness of it—the utter normalcy he projected while I trembled and ached and tried not to sob—was perhaps the most devastating thing of all.
Chris was telling me without words that this was how our life would work. That a husband disciplining and preparing his wife’s bottom would become as ordinary as a Wednesday night ballgame. That my punishment, my shame, my desperate arousal had become simply a part of the domestic landscape, as unremarkable to him as the score of the game. Yes, it was a ceremony, but it would be a sort of ordinary ritual; one I would have to accustom myself to undergoing when my husbandwanted to ensure I knew my place and how to make his hard penis feel good.
I didn’t know how long I stood there. Time became elastic, stretching and contracting around the pulse of the plug inside me and the distant crack of the bat meeting ball on the television. Long enough for my arms to begin to ache from holding them up. Long enough for the tears to dry completely. Long enough for the burning in my bottom cheeks to settle from a sharp, stinging blaze into a deep, radiating warmth that seemed to pulse in time with my heartbeat—and with the throb of the plug, and with the shameful, relentless ache of my pussy.
A half-inning, probably. Or maybe a whole one. One of those, because the commercials came on and then Chris’s voice cut through the chatter of an advertisement for truck insurance.
“Valerie.”
I nearly jumped. “Yes, sir?” I asked, turning my frightened eyes over my shoulder to look at him.
“Take the paddle from the coffee table and hang it back up on its hook in the kitchen. Then go to the bedroom. Take the sheet off the bench and fold it neatly. Then get over the bench the way Stacy did in the video and wait for me.” His voice was so calm it could have been giving me directions to the grocery store. “I’ll come in when I feel like using you.”
When I feel like using you. I lowered my trembling arms and turned from the corner, blinking in the lamplight after staring at the wall for so long. Chris sat in his armchair with one ankle crossed over the opposite knee, a glass of something amber in his hand, his robe fallen slightly open at the chest. He looked relaxed. Content. Like a man enjoying his evening.
I walked to the coffee table on unsteady legs, each step making the plug shift and press inside me in ways that drew helpless little sounds from my throat. I bent to pick up the paddle—the beautiful, terrible paddle Chris had made with his own hands—and as my fingers closed around the smooth handle, his voice stopped me.
“Come here.”
