CHAPTER 30
Valerie
A wail tore from my throat.Don’t come. With his cock buried in my pussy and a plug in my bottom and thirty strokes of the paddle still burning on my cheeks…Don’t come. It felt impossible. It felt like the cruelest thing he’d ever asked of me.
I tried. I bit down on the leather cushion, tasting the tang of it, and tried to think of anything—grocery lists, laundry detergent, alphabetizing the cookbooks in the pantry—but Chris’s cock kept thrusting, hitting some spot deep inside me that made sparks cascade through my pelvis, and his hands kept squeezing my punished bottom, kneading the tender, heated flesh with a deliberateness clearly designed to remind me how naughty I had been, and how thoroughly my husband had corrected me.
“Feel that?” he asked, digging his thumbs into the welted curves of my cheeks. The pain was sharp and bright and it collided with the pleasure in a way that made me sob. “That’s what happens to dirty girls who touch themselves without permission. That’swhat happens to misbehaving little wives who play with their asses while watching other women get fucked in the bottom.”
“Yes, sir,” I gasped, my voice broken and reedy. “I’m… I’m a naughty, dirty girl, sir…”
“You are.” He squeezed harder, and I screamed into the leather. “And naughty, dirty girls get their husbands’ cocks in their asses.”
He pulled out of my pussy, and the emptiness felt staggering; a hollow ache that made my inner muscles clench around nothing, grasping obscenely for what had been taken away. I heard him exhale slowly behind me, as if to steady himself… ready himself to use me properly. Then his fingers found the base of the plug.
“Bear down,” he said. “Push it out for me.”
I bore down, the way he’d taught me, the way Kevin had taught Stacy. I felt the plug begin to move. The widest part stretched my anus from the inside as it emerged, and I whimpered at the burn of it, the strange, intimate sensation of my body releasing something it had held for so long. Chris’s fingers guided it, easing the plug free with a slowness that made every millimeter register in my nerve endings.
The plug came free with a soft, wet, utterly mortifying sound, and my anus clenched shut around empty air. I felt devastatingly open—hollowed out, loosened, my body betraying the evidence of its preparation.
“Now reach back,” Chris said. “Spread your cheeks for me. Hold yourself open. Show me what belongs to me.”
Those words. He had said them before… I couldn’t even remember how many times. It had become a true ritual, a real ceremony.
My hands released the handles. The wood left warm imprints on my palms as I brought them back—reaching behind me, my shoulders pressing harder against the leather, my cheek turning to rest flat against the burgundy surface. My fingers found the hot, swollen, tender globes, sore from my awful new paddle, and I pulled them apart.
The act of it made me feel dizzy.The act of spreading myself open for my husband yet again in that terrible, intimate way. I had described it to Chris last night, trembling against his chest, trying to explain why watching Stacy do this same thing had made me come so hard I’d soaked through my panties. The ceremony of it, I’d said. The way Kevin made her participate.
Already tonight Chris had made me do it once, for the plug… my training plug. Each time, though… each time I felt the openness of my training panties and knew I had to make myself even more open, unless I wanted my husband to whip me or paddle me or spank me… every time I understood it more deeply in my body and not just my mind.
This wasn’t merely something being done to me. This was something I had to do—submitting, offering, presenting. My own hands held my own cheeks apart, exposing the most private, most shameful opening on my body to the man who stood behind me. I could feel the cool air against my loosened anus, could feel the slickness of the lubricant, could feel how open I was after the plug had done its work. And I had to hold myself that way. I had to show Chris that I accepted his right to fuck my bottom.
It felt like the most profound act of submission I had yet performed. More than kneeling. More than counting paddle strokes. More than sucking his cock or wearing the training panties or standing in the corner. Because I could endure all those things passively—a wife could close her eyes and let them happen to her. But this required my hands. My choice. My muscles working to hold myself spread while my husband looked at the place he was about to claim.
I offered him my anus, presenting it to him the way I had presented myself at the altar—willingly, tremblingly, with full knowledge that she will belong to her husband from that moment on.To have… to hold… to use… to enjoy… to fuck.
A sob tore through me—deep and ragged and so full of feeling that I couldn’t have named a single emotion in it if I’d tried. Gratitude and terror and shame and love and need, all braided together into something that transcended any one of them.
“Thank you,” I gasped, my voice wrecked and barely audible against the leather. “Thank you for making me do this, sir. Thank you for making me… for making me show you… over and over… thank you for not letting me hide from it?—”
The words dissolved into sobs, but I kept my cheeks spread. My fingers trembled against my own punished flesh, but they held. I held myself open for him because he had taught me to, because he had patiently, relentlessly, lovingly brought me to this place where I could offer the last part of myself that I’d been hoarding behind cotton panties and modest nightgowns and a lifetime of pretending I didn’t need exactly this.
I felt the broad, slick head of his cock settle against my anus. The heat of it. The weight. The impossible size of it pressedagainst that small, loosened opening, and every nerve in my body seemed to fire at once.
“You’re being a very good girl, Valerie,” Chris said. “This is a sweet little ass.” His voice—rough, but so full of tenderness that it cracked something open inside me—was the last thing I heard before he pushed forward.
The head breached my bottom’s tiny flower, and I screamed.
Not the sharp, startled scream of the plug’s entry. This was deeper—pulled from some primal place, from the very center of my body where pain and pleasure had long since stopped being separate things. His cock was thicker than the plug, thicker than anything that had ever been inside me there, and the stretch was enormous—a burning, splitting fullness that radiated outward from my anus in concentric waves of sensation so intense my vision fractured into white.
Chris didn’t stop. He pushed deeper, inch by inch, punishing me for my disobedience and my dishonesty with the sheer size of his manhood. His hands found my hips, gripping them with a fierceness that made me wonder if his own control might finally, beautifully fray.
I felt him slide past the ring of muscle that had fought so hard to keep him out, felt the shaft of his cock filling me in a way that seemed to rearrange my insides, and the sound I made was not a scream anymore but something lower, something guttural, something that came from the animal part of me that had been waiting for this since the first time he’d spanked me on our wedding day.
“Oh, God… oh, fuck… Chris…” The obscenity burst from me without thought, without shame, and I barely recognized myown voice. “Please, sir… please, I need to come… please let me come?—”
He had barely got his rigid penis inside my smallest hole and I had already started to beg. The arousal that had built all evening—through the paddle, through the plug, through the corner time and the face-fucking and the dominant thrusting in my pussy—had reached a critical mass that I couldn’t contain. My clit throbbed against the curved leather of the bench, my pussy clenched around nothing, and every nerve ending in my bottom seemed to be connected directly to the desperate, coiling heat in my core.
