Chapter 3
Valerie
I understood. That had been the reward. The pleasure the brochure promised. The thing that happened when a girl obeyed her husband.
But I couldn’t admit it. Couldn’t acknowledge what had just happened.
“You need to go,” I said, my voice shaking. “So I can get dressed.”
“Valerie—”
“Please, Chris… I mean… sir.” I couldn’t look at him. “Just… go. I’ll put on the lingerie. I promise. But you need to leave now.”
For a moment I thought he might refuse. Might insist on staying, on making me acknowledge what he had done to me. But then he lifted his leg from across my knees and helped me up gently.
I stood on trembling legs, my jeans and panties still bunched around my ankles, my bottom burning from the spanking. I couldn’t meet his eyes as I pulled up my clothes with shaking hands.
Chris looked down at me for a long moment, his jaw tight. I could see the frustration in his eyes—the desire to push this, to make me talk about what had just happened. But after what felt like an eternity, he just nodded.
“We’ll talk about this later,” he said quietly. “Tonight.”
Then he turned and left, closing the door behind him with a soft click that somehow felt more final than if he’d slammed it.
I stood there trembling, my hands still fumbling with the button of my jeans. My bottom throbbed with heat. Between my legs, I was so wet I could feel it soaking through my panties.
I needed to get dressed. The photographer would be here soon. I had promised Chris—promised a man whom I apparently must call sir from this point forward—that I would put on the lingerie.
With shaking hands, I stripped off my clothes. My t-shirt. My jeans. My panties, terribly damp with the evidence of what I’d been doing when my fiancé had caught me. My bra.
I tried not to look at the full-length mirror on the back of my closet door. I really tried. But my eyes were drawn there against my will.
My reflection stared back at me—naked, flushed, my blonde hair mussed from struggling over Chris’s lap. My small breasts with their pink nipples, still hard from… whatever that was.
Arousal, I guessed, feeling heat return to my cheeks. They called it arousal, didn’t they? Then I swallowed hard as I thought of another word, simpler but somehow more accurate: need.
My eyes drifted further down, to the flat stomach I took so much pride in. And lower…
Oh, God.
My pussy looked so different without any hair.
I had refused to look at it since that mortifying day at the salon.
I was completely bare and exposed down there, just the way the horrid aesthetician had left it.
Smooth and innocent, the brochure had said.
I could see everything—even a hint of the pink folds of my inner lips, still glistening with wetness.
Still slightly swollen, it appeared, from what Chris had done with his fingers.
The thought of Chris looking at me like this tonight—seeing me completely naked, examining my bare pussy, touching it again—made my tummy flip. Made that terrible warmth start building between my thighs all over again.
No. No, I couldn’t let this happen. I had to get dressed. Had to focus on the wedding.
I turned away from the mirror and grabbed the lingerie from the bed, putting it on as quickly and mechanically as I could. The lacy white bra… the demi-cups that barely covered my nipples.
The tiny, lacy panties that felt like nothing against my still-sensitized skin, with the thong back that stirred sensations between my spanked cheeks that I tried hard not to acknowledge.
The garter belt. The stockings, one at a time, my fingers fumbling with the clips.
I had just finished when the door opened and Megan swept back in, carrying a silk dressing gown.
She stopped just inside the doorway, her nose wrinkling slightly as she sniffed the air. Her eyes met mine, and I saw the question there. But she said nothing about the scent.
I blushed so hot I thought I might actually burst into flame.
Because I could smell it too—an unmistakable musk that I knew must have come from my pussy, when I had touched it, and even more strongly when my bridegroom had.
The evidence of my naughtiness, and then of what Chris had done to me over his knee.
“Here,” Megan said softly, bringing the dressing gown to me. “Let’s get this on you.”
She helped me into it, her hands gentle as she tied the sash. I could feel her wanting to ask. Wanting to say something about the spanking she must have heard through the door. About whatever she could smell in this room.
But she held herself back, her lips pressed together in a tight line.
Was she afraid? I wondered suddenly. Afraid that Mark would spank her if she gossiped about what Chris had done to me? That he would punish her for interfering in another man’s handling of his bride?
The thought made me clench involuntarily down there, a fresh wave of shameful heat pulsing through my core.
What was wrong with me? Why did thinking about Megan being spanked by her husband make me feel this way?
Had Chris changed something inside me when he made me come over his knee? Broken something? Fixed something?
I tried to tell myself that was what had happened—that before today I had been normal, and now Chris had done something to me that made my body react this way to thoughts of submission and punishment.
But deep down, in a place I didn’t want to look, I knew that wasn’t true.
Deep down, I knew I was simply having to confront something I had refused to confront before. Something that had always been there, waiting.
“Should I send in the makeup and hair consultant?” Megan asked, her voice carefully neutral. “And the photographer?”
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
“Actually,” Megan said quickly, glancing around my room, “on second thought, let’s do all that in the guest room. More space for everyone.”
More space. That was the excuse she gave. But I knew the real reason.
My room smelled of… of naughtiness. What I had done, and what had been done to me. Of my submission. Of the pleasure my future husband wrung from my body as reward for my obedience—though it had felt more like punishment for my disobedience.
The rest of the time before the wedding passed in a blur. Megan led me to the guest room where the makeup artist fussed over my tearstained face, applying foundation and powder until my skin looked smooth as satin in the mirror.
The hair consultant pinned and re-pinned my blonde locks into an elegant up-do, weaving in tiny white flowers. The photographer snapped picture after picture—me in the dressing gown, me with my bridesmaids, me with my mother who looked at me with such pride I wanted to cry all over again.
There was too much to do, too many people talking at me, asking me questions, adjusting my dress, my veil, my bouquet. I didn’t have time to think about what had happened in my room. About Chris’s hand between my legs. About the way my body had responded.
I didn’t have time to be anxious.
Not until I stood at the back of the church, my arm linked through my father’s, and the organ began to play.
Then, as I took my first step down the aisle, I became suddenly, intensely aware of the tiny lace panties under my wedding dress. Of the smooth, bare skin beneath them. Of the way the delicate fabric pressed against my still-sensitive flesh with every step.
I could feel it all—the thong nestled between my bottom cheeks, the lace covering my waxed pussy, the knowledge that tonight Chris would see it all, touch it all, claim it all.
My face burned under my veil as I walked past rows of guests, all of them smiling at the—yes, absolutely—blushing bride. If only they knew what I was thinking. What I was feeling.
Then I saw Chris waiting for me at the altar, and my breath caught.
He looked so handsome in his tuxedo, his broad shoulders filling out the jacket perfectly, his dark hair neatly combed, his blue eyes fixed on me with an intensity that made my knees weak.
When he smiled at me—that gentle, loving smile that had made me fall for him in the first place—I felt something shift in my chest.
This was Chris. My Chris. The man I loved.
And then the moment passed, and everything sped up again.
The ceremony became a whirlwind of words I barely heard, vows I repeated automatically, a kiss that was chaste and brief but still made my heart race.
The reception was even worse—a blur of congratulations and toasts and cake-cutting and dancing, all of it passing too quickly and yet not quickly enough.
Again, there was no time to worry about what awaited me later.
Not until Chris took my hand and led me toward the elevators, and everyone cheered and threw rice, and I realized with a jolt of pure terror that we were going upstairs. To our room. To our bridal suite.
To our wedding night.
Chris carried me across the threshold, and I clung to his neck, breathing in his familiar scent—soap and aftershave and the perhaps-imagined but very comforting hint of wood shavings.
He set me down gently on my feet in front of a large armchair, and I stood there trembling as he moved to the small bar in the corner.
The beautiful room had wallpaper of cream and gold. Through the bedroom door I glimpsed a massive bed that I then tried very hard not to look at. Soft lighting. Rose petals scattered across the duvet. A bottle of champagne chilling in a bucket.
Chris poured himself a whisky and set it on the table beside the armchair. Then he came to stand behind me.
I felt his hands in my hair first, finding the pins that held my up-do in place. One by one, he removed them with careful fingers, and my blonde hair tumbled down around my shoulders. His lips brushed my ear, sending a shiver through me.
“You looked so beautiful today,” he murmured, his breath warm against my skin.
His mouth moved to my neck, kissing along the sensitive curve where it met my shoulder. I gasped, my head tilting to give him better access without my conscious permission. Heat bloomed wherever his lips touched, spreading through my body like wildfire.
His hands found the hooks at the back of my dress—dozens of them, running from my neck to my waist. He unfastened them slowly, one at a time, kissing each inch of skin as he exposed it.
“I love you so much, Valerie,” he whispered against my spine. “My beautiful wife.”
Wife. The word made my stomach flip. I was his wife now. Truly his.
When the last hook came free, Chris stepped back. I watched him move to the armchair. The leather creaked as he sat down. He was so tall that his eyes only had to rise a little from level to meet mine, even with my heels on.
“Take off your dress,” he said quietly. “Slowly.”
My hands shook as I reached for the shoulders of my gown. This was it. The first thing from the brochure. Your husband will tell you to undress.
I let the heavy fabric slide down my arms, over my hips, pooling at my feet in a cloud of white silk and lace. I stepped out of it carefully, my legs trembling so badly I thought I might fall.
I stood before my husband in the white lingerie my mother and Megan had chosen. The bra that offered support without really covering anything. The tiny lace panties—the thong that left my bottom almost completely bare. The garter belt and stockings.
“Come here,” Chris said.
I took a step forward. Then another. Until I stood directly in front of him, close enough that my knees almost touched his.
“Closer.”
I moved forward until I was standing between his knees, and he spread them wider to accommodate me.
Then he looked at me.
The brochure spoke in my head again. Your husband will wish to inspect you.
His eyes traveled slowly over my body, taking in every detail. The way the lace stretched across my small breasts. The curve of my waist above the garter belt. The pale skin of my thighs above the stockings.
And then, most intently, the tiny triangle of lace that covered my pussy.
I let out a little gasp as, wordlessly, he reached his hands out to my hips and turned me, so that he could see the thong that disappeared between my bottom cheeks—the little round globes that he had spanked so hard that afternoon, to teach me my first lesson in obedience.
When he finished turning me all the way around I saw that his eyes had narrowed. I bit my lip, feeling my heart jump as I realized what I could see in my bridegroom’s gaze.
Hunger.
“Kneel down,” he said.
“What?” I asked, swallowing hard. “I mean… what… sir? Why—”
Chris interrupted me. “Because I said so.”
I blinked at him. He hadn’t spoken the dominant, arrogant words in what felt like a mean, let alone an abusive way. He had said them matter-of-factly, with the clear expectation that he need say nothing more.
Of course he needn’t, I thought, trying to hold back a whimper. He showed me this afternoon what will happen if I disobey an instruction he gives me.
My right hand went instinctively behind me, as if to defend my bottom from further discipline. I had no choice, did I? The brochure had made it all perfectly clear.
My heart hammered against my ribs as I sank to my knees between his legs, the carpet soft beneath me. This position felt even more vulnerable than standing had been. I was looking up at him now, and he was looking down at me, and there was no mistaking the dynamic between us.
Husband and wife. Dominant and submissive. Man and woman.
“I’m going to teach you about the differences between men and women, now,” Chris said, his voice low and steady. “Do you understand?”
The brochure’s fifth point. Your husband will instruct you about the differences between men and women.
“Yes, sir,” I whispered.
His hand reached out and cupped my cheek, his thumb brushing over my lips. The tenderness of the gesture made my eyes sting with tears.
“The first thing you need to understand,” he said, “is that men’s bodies are built differently than women’s. We have different needs. Different drives.”
His other hand moved to his belt.