“Not yet,” Chris growled, and he buried himself to the hilt.
I wailed. The fullness was staggering—his cock seated completely inside my bottom, his muscular lap pressed against my fingers on my paddled cheeks, the heat of his body blanketing mine. I could feel him everywhere: in my anus, in my belly, in the trembling muscles of my thighs, in the tears that streamed freely down my face and pooled on the burgundy leather.
“Hands on the handles, now,” he commanded. With a whimper of fear and shame I obeyed, grasping the smooth wood and squeezing it tight to try to distract me from the discomfort in my impaled backside.
Then he began to fuck me.
Hard. Not like the slow, ceremonial preparation of the plug, but rather with the clear intent to claim my bottom as his own. He took what belonged to him as my husband, using the full force of his body. His hips snapped against my burning cheeks. His cock drove into my bottom with deep, punishing strokes that joltedme forward on the bench with each thrust. I clung to the handles as an anchor against the overwhelming force of him.
“Please!” I screamed. The word tore from me with every thrust, a rhythmic, desperate litany. “Please, sir… oh… it hurts… it’s so big… please… I can’t… I need… oh, God, please let me come?—”
It hurt. It hurt in a way that was entirely different from the paddle—deeper, more intimate, a burning stretch that pulsed with each stroke. But the hurt was also shot through with something else, something dark and electric and devastating, and the two sensations together—pain and pleasure woven so tightly I couldn’t separate them—had pushed me to the very edge of an orgasm so enormous I could feel it gathering like a storm in every cell of my body.
Chris’s hands tightened on my hips. His thrusts grew harder, faster, each one driving a cry from my throat that I couldn’t have silenced if I’d tried. The sounds filling our bedroom were obscene: the wet, rhythmic slap of his hips against my bottom, my own broken screaming, the creak of the bench beneath our combined weight, the low, strained groans that Chris made with each deep stroke.
“Tell me what you are,” Chris said through gritted teeth, his cock buried deep inside my ass. “Say it.”
“I’m… I’m a naughty wife—” I sobbed, my face pressed against the leather, my fingers white-knuckled on the handles.
“Who gets what?”
“Who gets it… who gets it in the… in the ass…” The words came out shattered, broken by sobs and gasps and the relentless impact of his body against mine. “I’m a naughty wife who getsit in the ass, sir… I’m your naughty wife who gets fucked in the ass!”
“Come,” Chris commanded, and the single word detonated inside me like a bomb.
The orgasm hit with a violence that made it impossible to think. It was nothing like the orgasm on the couch, nothing like the ones Chris had given me with his fingers or his cock in my pussy. This came from everywhere at once—from my clit, from my anus clenching around his shaft, from my empty pussy convulsing in sympathy, from the burning cheeks of my paddled bottom, from somewhere deep in my chest where submission and surrender and love had fused into a single, incandescent point of light.
I screamed. I screamed until my voice broke, until the sound became a ragged, airless wail, my body arching against the bench, my anus gripping Chris’s cock in rhythmic, pulsing contractions that I couldn’t control and didn’t want to. Wave after wave crashed through me, each one more devastating than the last, and I felt myself dissolving. Every wall I’d ever built, every modest nightgown and cotton panty and rigid propriety I’d hidden behind, crumbling into nothing beneath the force of what my husband was doing to my body.
Chris thrust deep one final time and held himself there, buried completely in my punished bottom. I felt him come, his hot cock pulsing inside me, filling me, claiming the last unclaimed territory of my body with a groan that sounded like it had been torn from somewhere as deep and raw as the place my own screams had come from. His hands gripped my hips hard enough to leave bruises, his body rigid against mine, and for a long, suspended moment we were locked together—husband and wife, joined in the most intimate way two bodies couldbe joined, his cock throbbing inside my ass while my orgasm continued to ripple through me in diminishing aftershocks.
Then he bent forward. His chest pressed against my back, his weight settling over me, his breath hot and ragged against my shoulder. I felt his lips press against the nape of my neck—a kiss so gentle, so incongruously tender after the brutality of what he’d just done, that it broke something open inside me and I began to cry again. Not the desperate, broken sobs of punishment or denial, but quieter tears. The kind that comes when something enormous has happened and your body doesn’t know how else to process it.
“Good girl,” Chris murmured against my skin. “My good, good girl.”
He eased out of me slowly—so slowly—and even that careful withdrawal made me gasp at the strange, hollow sensation of my body releasing him. I felt empty in a way that seemed like both relief and loss. My anus throbbed. I felt sore, tender, and unmistakably used. I could feel the warm trickle of his release beginning to slip from me.
I couldn’t move. My arms had gone to jelly, my legs trembled on the kneeling shelves, and every muscle in my body felt wrung out like a dishcloth. I lay draped over the bench, boneless and weeping softly, my face pressed into the leather that was now damp with my tears and my breath.
Chris’s arms slid beneath me and turned me over. His right arm went under my knees, his left around my back. He lifted me from the bench as if I weighed nothing, cradling me against his bare chest, my head lolling against his shoulder, my body curling into him with the instinctive trust of a child being carried to bed. The plug lay abandoned somewhere on the bed, the lubricantforgotten, the whole careful arrangement of the ceremony dissolving behind us as he carried me down the hallway to the bathroom.
He managed the door and the light and the shower faucet one-handed, holding me against him with the other arm, and I marveled dimly at the strength in him—the carpenter’s body that could hoist lumber and frame walls and carry his trembling, freshly claimed wife as if she were made of paper and air.
The water was warm when he stepped under it with me still in his arms. It cascaded over us both—over my tear-streaked face, over the tender, blazing skin of my bottom, over the places where Chris’s seed was still slipping from me in warm, shameful trickles that the water carried away. I pressed my face into the curve of his neck and let the shower wash everything clean—the tears, the lubricant, the salt of sweat and arousal, the evidence of what we’d done on that beautiful, terrible bench.
Chris set me on my feet but kept one arm around my waist, steadying me against the tile wall while the water ran over us. My legs shook so badly I couldn’t have stood without him. He reached for the soap and began to wash me with the same methodical tenderness he brought to everything. His hands moved over my shoulders, my arms, my breasts, handling me with a gentleness that made my chest ache after the ferocity of what those same hands had done twenty minutes ago.
When his soapy fingers reached my bottom, I hissed and flinched. The paddled flesh was exquisitely tender—every touch registered as a bright, stinging reminder—and deeper, between my cheeks, I was sore in a way I’d never been sore before. A raw, intimate ache that throbbed with each heartbeat and made me acutely aware of the fact that my husband’s cock had been insideme there. That he had come inside me there. That I had begged him to let me come while he did it.
“Easy,” Chris murmured, his hands going feather-light. He washed my cheeks, and then between them, with a care that bordered on reverence. He made gentle circles around the tender, used opening, rinsing away the lubricant and the evidence of his claiming with warm water and the softest touch his callused fingers could manage. I whimpered against his shoulder, not from pain exactly, but from the overwhelming tenderness of being cared for in the very place he’d just conquered.
He washed my hair, too. His fingers worked the shampoo through the damp tangles with slow, patient strokes, his thumbs pressing into the base of my skull in a way that made my eyes flutter closed. I stood there under the spray, boneless and trembling, while my husband washed every trace of the evening from my body.
He rinsed himself quickly, efficiently—the way men do, I thought dimly, all business—and then he turned off the water and wrapped me in the biggest towel we owned. He dried me the way you’d dry something precious, patting rather than rubbing, especially careful around my bottom where even the soft terrycloth made me wince.
“Can you walk?” he asked.
“I think so,” I said, though my voice came out thin and uncertain. My legs felt like they belonged to a newborn foal. Chris kept his arm around my waist as he guided me to the bedroom, where he eased the new nightgown—the sheer, gossamer one—over my head. The fabric settled against my skin like a whisper, and I felt my nipples tighten against the nearlytransparent cotton. No panties. He didn’t offer any, and I didn’t ask.
