Chapter 6
Valerie
“Valerie—” Chris called after me, but I didn’t stop.
I grabbed a towel from the bar and wrapped it around myself, barely aware of what I was doing.
I concentrated on tucking the corner of the towel securely, so it wouldn’t fall down, until my heart rate had slowed a little.
Then, trying to make my breathing even and to curve my mouth into a sweet smile, I turned back to Chris, who stood looking at me with a slightly frustrated, but mostly bewildered expression on his face.
“It’s late,” I said, doing my best to sound like a bride who had her wedding night completely under control. “Can we go to bed? You haven’t seen my nightgown! I think you’ll like it.”
I could see Chris trying to figure out what to do. His jaw worked, and his eyes searched my face with an intensity that made my stomach flutter. For a long moment I thought he might refuse—might insist on continuing what we’d started in the bath, on pushing me further tonight.
But finally he sighed and ran a hand through his wet hair. “Okay,” he said quietly. “Go get your nightgown on.”
Relief flooded through me so powerfully my knees nearly buckled. “Why don’t you go drink your whisky?” I suggested, trying to keep my voice light and normal. “I’ll just be a minute.”
He looked at me for another long moment, then nodded and walked past me into the main room.
I watched him go, unable to tear my eyes away from his naked body—the broad shoulders, the muscular back, the firm curves of his backside.
And lower, between his legs, his cock still jutting out partially hard from his body.
I forced myself to look away, my face burning. Such naughty thoughts. I shouldn’t be staring at my husband’s… his cock like that. Shouldn’t be feeling that terrible warmth building between my legs again just from looking at it.
I hurried to where my suitcase sat on the luggage rack and unzipped it with shaking hands. The peach baby doll nightgown lay folded on top, tissue paper crinkling as I lifted it out. Beneath it, wrapped in more tissue, were the matching panties—sheer lace that would hide absolutely nothing.
I stared at them for a moment, then shook my head firmly. No. The nightgown itself was already so revealing, so terribly naughty with its sheer fabric and plunging neckline. I couldn’t bear to wear those panties too.
Instead, I dug deeper into my suitcase until I found a pair of my regular cotton panties—white, modest, the kind I’d worn since I was a girl. They would provide at least some coverage, some small protection from Chris’s eyes.
I dropped the towel and quickly pulled on the cotton panties, then slipped the baby doll nightgown over my head. The fabric whispered against my skin, so light and delicate it barely felt like I was wearing anything at all. When I glanced at myself in the mirror, I gasped.
The peach color made my skin glow. The sheer fabric revealed the curves of my breasts, my nipples clearly visible through the delicate material.
The hem barely reached the tops of my thighs.
I looked… I looked like the kind of girl my mother had warned me I would turn into if I didn’t fight against my ‘waywardness.’
But at least the white cotton panties provided some modesty. They looked a bit silly under the fancy nightgown, I supposed, but they made me feel slightly less exposed.
Taking a deep breath, I walked out into the main room.
Chris stood by the window, a glass of amber liquid in his hand, looking out at the city lights below.
He’d put on a pair of black boxer briefs, but nothing else.
The lamplight caught the planes and valleys of his muscular back, the strong lines of his arms and shoulders. My breath caught in my throat.
He was so beautiful. So perfectly, overwhelmingly masculine. The sight of him made something ache deep in my chest—something that wasn’t just fear or shame, but a longing so intense it nearly brought tears to my eyes.
And then my gaze drifted lower, to where the fabric of his boxers stretched across his butt cheeks.
My eyes went to his reflection in the window.
I tried to look somewhere, anywhere else, but I had caught a glimpse the outline of his cock through the thin material.
Still semi-hard. Still thick and intimidating even in its partially softened state.
I felt my fascination with that part of his body growing, felt my eyes drawn to it against my will.
How could I be so curious about something that terrified me?
How could I want to look at it, to understand it, when the thought of what he wanted to do to me with it tomorrow night made me want to cry?
Such terribly naughty thoughts. I was being so naughty, so wayward, staring at my husband’s cock like this. Good girls didn’t think about such things. Good wives didn’t—
“Chris?” I called out softly, interrupting my own spiraling thoughts.
He turned, and when his eyes found me, his entire expression softened. A smile spread across his face—that gentle, loving smile that had made me fall for him in the first place.
“Sweetheart,” he breathed. “You look beautiful.”
I walked toward him on trembling legs, my bare feet silent on the plush carpet. When I reached him, his arms came around me, pulling me against his chest. I melted into his embrace, feeling safe for the first time since we’d come upstairs.
“I love the nightgown,” he murmured into my hair. Then his hands slid down to my hips, and I felt him pause. “But we’re going to need to talk about your underwear choice.”
My heart jumped into my throat. Oh, God. He’d noticed the cotton panties. He was going to make me take them off, going to make me put on the sheer lace ones instead, or maybe wear nothing at all—
But instead of saying anything more, Chris just took my hand and led me toward the bedroom. “Come on. Let’s get some sleep. It’s been a long day.”
I followed him in a daze of relief and confusion. He pulled back the covers and climbed into the massive bed, then held out his hand to me. I took it and let him draw me down beside him.
The sheets were cool and soft against my skin. Chris pulled me close, arranging me so my head rested on his chest, his arm around my shoulders. His other hand stroked my hair gently.
“Sleep now,” he whispered. “We’ll talk more tomorrow.”
I closed my eyes, listening to the steady beat of his heart beneath my ear. The warmth of his body, the gentleness of his touch, the safety of his arms around me—it all worked together to pull me down into sleep despite my racing thoughts.
I dreamed.
In the dream, I stood before a massive stone castle, its towers reaching up into a stormy sky. Two stern-faced women in black dresses took me by the arms and led me inside, through corridors lit by flickering torches.
“Another reluctant bride,” one of them said with satisfaction. “She’ll learn.”
They brought me to a chamber deep in the castle’s heart. A bed dominated the room—not soft and inviting like a normal bed, but hard and intimidating, with leather restraints attached to each corner.
“Strip,” one of the women commanded.
I obeyed, my hands shaking as I removed my clothes. When I was naked, they pushed me onto the bed on my back and began fastening the restraints around my wrists and ankles, spreading me wide and helpless.
Then he entered.
Chris—but not Chris. He wore a black leather mask that covered the upper half of his face, and nothing else.
His body looked magnificent in the torchlight.
His sharply defined muscles positively gleamed, in some way that could only happen in a dream.
His cock jutted out from his body, fully erect, impossibly large.
I knew it was him despite the mask. I would know my husband anywhere.
He held a whip—long and black, the leather braided and cruel-looking. My heart hammered with terror as he approached the bed.
“Please,” I whimpered. “Please don’t—”
The whip cracked across my breasts, and I screamed. Pain bloomed hot and sharp, followed immediately by a shameful pulse of pleasure between my legs.
Again and again the whip fell, striping my breasts, my belly, my thighs. Each lash hurt worse than the last, but each lash also sent that terrible pleasure spiraling higher.
“Beg me,” Chris commanded. “Beg me to fuck you.”
“No,” I sobbed, even as my hips lifted off the bed, seeking something, needing something.
The whip came down on my pussy, and I shrieked. The pain was exquisite, unbearable, and the pleasure that followed made me see stars.
“Beg me,” he said again.
“Please,” I heard myself whimper. “Please fuck me.”
“Fuck you where?”
“My… my cunt.” The word felt foreign and filthy on my tongue. I didn’t even know where I had heard it before, but I knew what it meant, somehow. “Please fuck my cunt.”
“And?”
Oh, God. He wanted me to say it. To beg for that too.
“My… my asshole.” I was crying now, shame and need warring inside me. “Please fuck my asshole. Please fuck my cunt. Please, sir, please use me however you want—”
Chris moved between my spread legs, his cock pressing against the untried entrance. I felt him begin to push inside, felt my body stretching impossibly around his thickness—
I woke with a gasp.
For a moment I didn’t know where I was. The hotel room was dark except for a sliver of light from the bathroom. Chris’s arm was still around me, his breathing deep and even.
And between my legs, I was soaked.
Horror washed over me as I realized what had happened. My pussy had gotten so wet from that dream—that terrible, shameful dream—that it had soaked completely through my cotton panties. I could feel the dampness against my thighs, could smell the unmistakable scent of my arousal.
My face burned with humiliation even in the darkness. What kind of girl had such dreams? What kind of wife got so wet from imagining her husband whipping her and forcing her to beg to be fucked in her… in her… cunt and her asshole?
The words from the dream echoed in my head, making me feel sick with shame. I barely even knew what the c-word meant—I had only heard it whispered once by one of the naughtier girls at school. But in my dream I had used it. Had begged to have my cunt fucked.
I couldn’t lie here next to Chris anymore. Couldn’t risk him waking up and discovering what I’d done, what my body had done while I slept.
Moving as carefully as I could, I slipped out from under his arm and out of the bed. He stirred slightly but didn’t wake. I stood there for a moment, looking down at him in the dim light—my husband, who in just a few hours would take me to the mountain resort where he had promised to fuck me.
Where he would put his cock inside my pussy and make me his wife in truth.
The thought made my soaked vagina clench, and I had to bite my lip to keep from whimpering.
I turned away and began gathering my things, packing them back into my suitcase as quietly as I could.
We needed to leave soon anyway, to make the drive to the resort.
Better to be ready when Chris woke up. Better to be busy and productive rather than lying in bed thinking about dreams and wetness and the terrible things my body seemed to want.
I found a fresh pair of panties in my suitcase—another modest white cotton pair—and slipped into the bathroom to change. When I pulled down the soaked ones, I couldn’t help looking at them, at the evidence of my shameful arousal.
Tonight, I thought as I dropped them into my dirty laundry bag and pulled on the fresh pair. Tonight Chris would see me get this wet. He would know what his touch did to my body. He would know exactly how naughty I really was underneath all my protests and fear.
The thought made me want to cry and made my pussy clench with need at the same time.