Chapter 8
Valerie
My whole body went hot and cold at once.
“See that fallen log?” He gestured to a thick trunk lying across the path ahead. “Go bend over it.”
“Chris, please—”
“I said bend over it. Or I can make you, and then the punishment will be twice as long.”
My feet moved without my conscious permission, carrying me to the log. My hands trembled as I leaned forward, bracing myself against the rough bark.
“All the way,” Chris commanded. “Lay your chest flat on the log.”
I obeyed, the bark scratching through my shirt as I lowered myself down. The position left my bottom raised high, vulnerable and exposed.
I heard Chris move behind me. Heard a sound I thought must be a knife being unsheathed.
Oh, God. What was he going to do?
There was a sharp crack, and I turned my head to see him cutting a thin branch from a nearby tree. He stripped the leaves from it methodically, creating a long, flexible switch.
“Chris… sir… no, please—”
“Be quiet.” He moved behind me again. “I’m going to take your jeans down now.”
I felt his hands at my waist, his fingers hooking into the waistband of my jeans. The button popped open and then he was pulling them down, the denim sliding over my hips, down my thighs, bunching at my knees.
The cool mountain air hit my legs and I squeezed my eyes shut, my face burning with humiliation. At least I still had my panties. At least—
“Please,” I gasped, feeling his fingers at the waistband of my underwear. “Please don’t take down my panties. Please, Chris, I’m begging you—”
“I have to take down your panties, Valerie.” His voice was maddeningly calm. “A wife always gets it on the bare bottom. You should get used to that.”
“Please—”
But he was already pulling them down, exposing me completely. I felt the fabric slide over my bottom cheeks, felt the air against my most private places, and a sob tore from my throat.
“Interesting,” Chris said quietly, and I heard him step back slightly. I knew he was looking at me. Inspecting me. Seeing everything. “You have a very strong reaction to being bared and inspected, don’t you?”
I couldn’t answer. I couldn’t admit that he was right, that having him look at my exposed bottom and pussy made something clench deep inside me, made that terrible heat bloom between my legs.
“I can tell,” he continued, “so don’t bother lying. I think I’m going to have to do this frequently. Bare you and inspect you regularly, to train you to be the wife I’m entitled to. The wife who doesn’t lie to her husband or run away from him.”
Oh, God. He was going to make this a regular thing. Make me bend over and pull down my panties and let him look at me whenever he decided I needed it.
The thought made my pussy clench and I bit my lip hard, trying not to whimper.
“Stay exactly like that,” Chris commanded. “Don’t move.”
The anticipation was almost worse than the punishment itself.
I lay there bent over the log, my jeans and panties around my knees, my bottom completely bare to the mountain air and my husband’s eyes.
Birds sang in the trees above us. Somewhere in the distance I could hear the spring burbling.
Anyone could come down this trail and see me like this.
The mortification felt overwhelming, but the arousal it brought seemed much worse.
Finally I heard the crunch of Chris’s boots again. Then I heard the whistle of the switch cutting through the air as he tested it.
“You’re going to count each stroke,” he said. “If you lose count, we start over. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir,” I whispered.
The first lash came without further warning. The thin switch bit into my bottom with a sharp, burning pain that was nothing like his hand had been. I cried out, my whole body jerking.
“Count,” Chris said firmly.
“One,” I sobbed.
The second stroke landed just below the first. The pain was worse now, building on itself.
“Two.”
By the fifth stroke I was crying openly, my hands gripping the rough bark of the log so hard I could feel splinters digging into my palms. The switch found new places each time, painting lines of fire across my bottom and the tops of my thighs.
“Six,” I gasped.
“Seven.”
“Eight.”
The ninth stroke landed right across the sensitive crease where my bottom met my thighs and I shrieked, my hips bucking involuntarily.
“Nine,” I managed to choke out.
Three more. I could endure three more.
“Ten.”
“Eleven.”
The twelfth and final stroke was the hardest yet, and I felt something break inside me as I cried out the number. Not just pain but surrender. Complete and utter submission to my husband’s will.
The switch clattered to the ground. For a moment there was only silence except for my ragged breathing and quiet sobs.
Then I felt Chris’s hand on my burning bottom, rubbing gently. The touch should have brought relief, but instead it made everything worse, made me more aware of the pain, of how exposed I was, of how utterly under his control.
His hand moved lower, between my legs, and I gasped as his fingers found my pussy.
“You’re very wet,” he said. To my distress, I could hear the satisfaction in his voice. “Soaking wet, actually.”
The humiliation of having him feel my arousal, of knowing he could tell how much my body had responded to the punishment, made me want to die.
“You don’t deserve a reward, though,” Chris continued, his fingers still touching me there, making me squirm and whimper.
“You need to learn to be a good girl for your husband if you want the reward nature put inside your little pussy… the one obedient wives get for pleasing their husband’s cock…
for not making a fuss when their husbands decide it’s time to fuck them. ”
I whimpered as much at his terrible words as at the movement of his fingers. Then those fingers withdrew, and I whimpered in helpless frustration as I heard him step back.
“Stand up,” he commanded. “We’re going back to the main trail now.”
I pushed myself up on trembling legs, reaching automatically for my jeans.
“No,” Chris said sharply. “Leave them where they are.”
I looked at him in horror, understanding what he meant. “Chris, please—”
“You’re going to walk back to the main trail with your jeans and panties around your knees. So you remember what happens when you lie to me and try to run away.”
“I can’t,” I whispered. “Someone might see—”
“Then you’d better hope no one comes down this trail.” His expression was implacable. “Start walking.”
I took a step, then another. The jeans and panties hobbled my movement, forcing me to take tiny, shuffling steps.
My bottom burned with every movement, the welts from the switch throbbing in time with my heartbeat.
And between my legs, I could sense that shameful wetness that proved how much my body had responded to being punished.
I thought I might actually die of shame and arousal. The two feelings twisted together until I couldn’t separate them, couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.
Chris walked behind me, close enough that I knew he was watching my bare bottom as I shuffled forward. Watching the way my cheeks moved with each awkward step. Probably seeing the wetness glistening on my thighs.
The walk back to the trail felt like it took forever. Every sound made me freeze in terror, certain someone was about to round the bend and see me like this. But we were alone in the forest, just me and my husband and my burning bottom and my shameful need.
When we finally reached the fork where the trails met, Chris allowed me to pull up my panties and jeans. My fingers shook so badly I could barely manage the button.
“Look at me,” he said quietly.
I raised my eyes to his, expecting to see anger or disappointment. But what I saw instead was something darker. Something hungry.
“I’m entitled to fuck you exactly as I please,” Chris said, his voice low and steady. “And I want you to remember that.”
My breath caught. The hunger in his eyes made my knees weak.
“But,” he continued, and I saw something soften slightly in his expression, “I understand you’re having trouble with the idea. So I’ve decided to train you in a more gradual way than a husband usually trains his bride.”
Relief and dread warred inside me. Trains… like a pet? And… more gradual? What did that mean?
“I’m going to begin by training your mouth,” he said. “Getting you used to serving a man’s penis. Tonight you’re going to thank me properly for disciplining you.”
My stomach dropped. Training my mouth? Serving his… his penis?
“What do you mean?” I whispered, though part of me already knew. Part of me understood exactly what he meant, even as my mind desperately tried to reject it.
“Keep walking,” Chris said, gesturing down the trail toward the resort. “After dinner you’ll have a wife-training session.”
I stumbled forward on trembling legs, my mind racing. Training my mouth. What else could that possibly mean except… except putting his cock in my mouth? The thought made me feel faint. That huge, thick thing I’d seen last night—he wanted me to let him put it in my mouth?
No. No, it had to mean something else. Maybe he just wanted me to kiss it again, like I’d done through his briefs last night. That had been embarrassing enough, but at least it was something I could endure.
But as we walked back through the forest, my bottom still burning from the switch, I couldn’t shake the image from my mind. Chris’s cock—hard and swollen and impossibly large—pushing past my lips. Into my mouth. Down my throat.
I tried to tell myself I was being ridiculous. That couldn’t be what he meant. It was too awful, too degrading. Surely husbands didn’t make their wives do such things.
But I remembered the brochure. Your husband will introduce you to your bedroom duties. You must be prepared for your husband to impose his will on your body in whatever way he chooses.
Whatever way he chooses.
By the time we reached the cabin, my heart was pounding so hard I thought I might be sick. Chris suggested we clean up and rest before dinner, and I nodded mutely, grateful for the reprieve.
The afternoon passed in a blur of anxiety. I showered, changed into a modest dress, tried to read a book but couldn’t focus on a single word. All I could think about was what awaited me after dinner.
Dinner itself seemed like torture. The resort restaurant was beautiful—rustic and charming, with a view of the mountains through floor-to-ceiling windows.
The food was probably delicious, but I could barely taste it.
I pushed the salmon around my plate while Chris ate with apparent calm, occasionally making pleasant conversation about the scenery or asking if I was enjoying my meal.
How could he be so normal when he knew what was coming? When he’d promised to train my mouth?
Finally—too soon—the meal was over. Chris paid the bill and stood, offering me his hand. I took it on shaking legs and let him lead me back to our cabin.
The door closed behind us with a soft click that sounded like a death knell.
“Take off all your clothes,” Chris said quietly.
My hands went to the buttons of my dress. They trembled so badly I could barely unfasten them. One by one, the buttons came free. I let the dress slide to the floor, then reached behind me to unhook my bra.
Chris watched me with that same hungry expression from the trail. When I was down to just my panties, I hesitated.
“Everything,” he reminded me.
I pushed them down and stepped out of them, standing completely naked before my husband. The cool air of the cabin made my nipples harden, made me acutely aware of every inch of exposed skin.
Chris circled behind me, and I heard his sharp intake of breath.
“Your bottom looks so sweet with those marks on it,” he murmured. “The welts from the switch are still nicely raised. Still red.”
His hand traced one of the lines and I gasped at the sting. But underneath the pain was that shameful heat again, building between my legs.
“Go kneel in the middle of the room,” Chris commanded. “You’re going to watch me undress.”