Chapter 17
Valerie
They continued like that, Chris paddling me while Mark gave advice like they were discussing home improvement. My bottom felt like it was on fire, each swat building on the last until I was sobbing uncontrollably.
Somewhere around swat fifteen, I became aware of something else beneath the pain. The heat between my legs was growing stronger. My pussy throbbed with each impact, my body responding exactly the way Mark had described.
Each swat brought a cry, and then a sob, but I also felt my hips moving. I had begun to try to lift my bottom a little as if to meet the paddle. I realized that something deep inside me wanted to show Chris that I had accepted his decision to punish me.
“Twenty, sir,” I cried, as confusion filled me at the mortifying, but also strangely attractive idea. I thought my heart might break from the confusion of it all—the pain, the shame, the terrible arousal that I couldn’t deny.
“That’s enough,” Chris said. “Twenty for your first paddling, same as your friend. If you try anything like this again, though, you’ll be in much bigger trouble, Valerie. I’m going to make a paddle for our home just like this one.”
Relief and shame flooded through me in what seemed like equal parts.
“Corner time for you too. Go stand next to Megan,” Chris commanded. “Hands on your head. Face the wall.”
I scrambled up on shaking legs, my bottom blazing with fire. Each step toward the corner where Megan stood sent fresh waves of pain through my punished flesh. I positioned myself beside her, raised my hands to my head, and turned to face the wall.
Standing like this—naked except for those obscene panties, my bottom on fire and fully displayed—felt like the ultimate humiliation. I could hear Chris and Mark settling onto the couch behind us.
“Look at those red asses,” Mark said conversationally, as if discussing the weather. “Two well-disciplined wives. Val’s butt is so cute, too. You’re a lucky man.”
“The panties really do frame it nicely,” Chris agreed. “I can see exactly what you mean about the backless design. She’s going to get it there very soon.”
I squeezed my eyes shut, my face burning even hotter than my bottom. They were sitting there, looking at me, discussing my punished bottom and what would befall me in the bedroom like I was a painting in a gallery.
“I’m a lucky man myself,” Mark said. “Megan’s ass is just as sweet, and I’ve been training her long enough now that after a paddling she’s ready to thank me properly.”
“How often do you discipline her?” Chris asked, his tone genuinely curious.
“Depends on the week. Sometimes once, sometimes three or four times. She’s a good girl at heart, but she has a stubborn streak that needs regular correction.”
From beside me, I heard Megan make a small sound—something between a whimper and a moan. I risked a tiny glance sideways and saw that her face was scarlet, tears still streaming down her cheeks. But her eyes… there was something in her eyes that looked like the same terrible confusion I felt.
The arousal hadn’t gone away. Even standing here in shame, even with my bottom throbbing, I could feel the wetness between my legs. The lace of my panties was soaked.
“I noticed Valerie’s panties are quite wet,” Mark said, and I wanted to die. “That’s a very good sign. It means her body is accepting what her mind is still fighting.”
“Mrs. Chen mentioned that,” Chris replied. “She said Valerie’s biometric readings showed an extremely high submissive response. That the shame actually intensifies her arousal.”
“Megan’s the same way,” Mark said. “The more embarrassed she is, the wetter she gets. It’s why I make her do corner time like this—it keeps her in that state of arousal while also teaching her humility.”
I heard the couch creak as one of them shifted position.
“I’m a little hesitant to mention this,” Mark continued, “but there’s something else that’s really helped with Megan’s training.”
“What’s that?” Chris asked.
“New Modesty Blue. It’s a special channel that’s provided as basic cable to all approved households. Watching it together helped Megan understand that her responses were normal. That other New Modesty girls struggle with the same things.”
I heard the interest in Chris’s voice. “Really?”
“Let me show you,” Mark said. I heard him move to the television, heard the click of the remote.
“Both of you girls,” Mark commanded. “Come here and sit on the couch between us.”
My legs trembled as I lowered my hands from my head. Beside me, Megan moved too, both of us shuffling away from the wall with our burning bottoms still on full display.
The couch seemed impossibly far away. Each step sent jolts of pain through my punished flesh, but worse was the acute awareness of how exposed I was. The men could see everything—my red bottom, the soaked panties clinging to me, the way my thighs were slick with my own wetness.
Chris patted the cushion between himself and Mark. “Right here, Valerie.”
I sat gingerly, wincing as my tender bottom made contact with the fabric. Megan settled on my other side, her hip pressed against mine. Chris’s arm went around my shoulders, pulling me against him. On Megan’s side, Mark did the same to her.
The television flickered to life, and my breath caught.
A young woman appeared on screen—blonde, pretty, probably only a year or two older than me. She stood in a bedroom that looked similar to the one Chris had redone for us in our new house, her face flushed and tearstained. A man stood before her, arms crossed.
“Grace,” the man’s voice came through clearly, firm but not shouting. “Your gossiping has to stop. Mrs. Jones told me you spent the entire quilting circle spreading rumors about Lucy Henderson. That’s not acceptable behavior for a New Modesty wife.”
Grace’s lower lip trembled. “I’m sorry, Jacob… I mean… sir. I didn’t mean—”
“You didn’t mean to undermine another family’s reputation? You didn’t mean to violate the trust of your community?” He shook his head. “Take off your clothes. All of them. You have a lesson to learn.”
My stomach clenched. I wanted to look away, but I couldn’t. Grace’s fingers went to the buttons of her dress with visible reluctance, but she obeyed. The dress fell away, then her slip, then her bra. Finally, she stepped out of white cotton panties exactly like the ones I always wore.
Well… always… until my wedding day. Now it seemed like I wore the naughty things husbands made their wives wear to train them for the bedroom. I felt my forehead crease as I glanced down at the lacy front of my horrid underwear, and felt my sore bottom squirm against the leather of the couch.
“On the bed,” Grace’s husband commanded. “Over the bolster.”
A cylindrical leather-covered cushion sat in the center of the bed. Grace climbed up and positioned herself over it, her bottom raised high, her face pressed into the bedding. The position left nothing to the imagination—to my dismay, the camera zoomed in.
The director, I guessed, wanted to show how fully everything was displayed, just as Megan and I had been displayed over the arm of the couch before our own husbands paddled us.
Grace’s bare pussy and even her tiny anus appeared much too clearly on the screen, mortifyingly enlarged and so vividly depicted that I had to bite my lip to keep from whimpering.
I heard Megan let out a little gasp as, on the screen, the girl’s pussy visibly clenched.
I could see glistening evidence of Grace’s need there, too.
Part of me tried to find it reassuring that they would show this on a New Modesty-sponsored channel—the rest of me just felt shamefully aroused and thoroughly confused.
“Look at that,” Chris said, with a note of appreciation that made me think I would spontaneously combust from shame.
“Yup,” Mark agreed. “Seems like Grace is a lot like our girls.”
The camera pulled back to show Jacob removing his belt. The leather slid through the loops with a sound that made me flinch.
“Ten lashes,” he said. “And you’re going to count them and thank me for each one.”
He stood over his naked, prostrate wife, doubling the belt and wrapping it around his fist. The look in his eyes reminded me of what Chris’s face looked like when he decided to punish me: a mixture of responsibility, affection, and the masculine hunger that made my tummy quiver.
Husbands like to whip their wives, I suddenly realized, my eyes going wide. But good husbands… like Jacob… like Mark… like Chris… Good husbands only do it when their wives need it.
The belt whistled through the air and cracked across Grace’s bottom. She cried out, her whole body jerking. Megan and I both let out little whimpers of sympathy as the red mark bloomed across the pretty bottom of the girl on the screen.
“One! Thank you, sir!”
Another stroke. Another cry.
“Two! Thank you, sir!”
I couldn’t breathe. The scene unfolding on the screen was horrifying, but it was also much too familiar. Grace’s tears, her submission, the way her husband wielded his authority—it was exactly what had just happened to me and Megan.
Chris’s hand slid down from my shoulder to cup my bare breast. I gasped, but his grip tightened slightly in warning. On my other side, I could see Mark’s hand doing the same to Megan, inside her dress.
On screen, Grace had reached seven strokes. Her bottom was striped with red welts, her voice breaking on each count. But between her raised thighs, I could see the unmistakable gleam of wetness.
She was aroused. Just like me.
“Ten! Thank you, sir!”
Jacob set the belt aside and reached for something on the nightstand. A bottle. He squeezed clear gel onto his fingers, and my heart hammered as I started to realize what was about to happen.
“You know what comes next,” Jacob said, his hand moving between Grace’s raised cheeks. “Some gossips get their mouths washed out with soap, but in our household, wives who gossip get reminded of their place.”
His fingers worked at her most private opening, spreading the lubricant into the tiny pucker of her bottom hole. Grace whimpered into the bedding, her hands fisting the sheets.
Chris’s fingers found my nipple, pinching gently. The sensation shot straight to my core, where the terrible heat continued to build despite my mortification.
Jacob had his clothes off. My breathing had started to come in tiny puffs in and out of my nose as I saw his huge, hard penis and remembered how Chris had trained me to serve his even bigger one.
Jacob climbed onto the bed. He positioned himself behind Grace, kneeling over her, straddling her thighs.
A mortifying close-up showed his cock, much larger than life, its plum-like head pressed against Grace’s anus. Then the rigid phallus pushed forward, and Grace’s cry filled the room.
“Please,” Grace sobbed. “Please, Jacob, I’m sorry—”
“I know you are,” he said, his voice almost gentle as he began to move. “And this is how you learn to be better.”
I should have been revolted. I should have demanded Mark turn it off.
But as the camera angle moved from Jacob’s penis in Grace’s bottom to a close-up of Grace’s face, turned to the side, I couldn’t stop watching—in her eyes I saw the pain, yes, but also something else.
A kind of surrender that looked almost like relief.
As if some part of her needed this lewd form of correction, needed to be taken this way.
Mark’s hand left Megan’s breast and slid down her stomach, disappearing between her thighs. She made a small sound, her head falling back against the couch.
Chris’s hand followed suit, cupping me through the soaked lace of my panties. His fingers pressed against me, finding the swollen, sensitive bundle of nerves that made me gasp.
“Watch,” Chris murmured in my ear. “Watch how Grace accepts what she needs.”
On screen, Jacob’s movements had become rhythmic, purposeful. Grace’s cries had shifted from protests to something else—small, breathy sounds that spoke of more than just pain.
“That’s it,” Jacob said. “Good girl. Take it all in this sweet little butt.”
Chris’s fingers worked against me, circling and pressing through the wet lace. Beside me, Megan’s breathing had become ragged, her hips moving slightly against Mark’s hand.
Grace’s husband gripped her hips harder, his own breathing growing labored. “Tell me what you are,” he commanded.
“I’m a little slut,” Grace gasped, to my shock. My pussy clenched on Chris’s probing fingers.
“And what do slutty wives need?”
“Discipline. Guidance. To be—” Her voice broke. “To be taken.”
The word sent a shock through me. Taken. That was what this was. What Grace needed. What Megan needed, judging by the way she was trembling beside me.
What I needed. Am I a slutty wife?
Chris’s fingers moved faster, and I felt myself climbing toward something inevitable. On screen, Grace’s whole body had gone taut, her cries reaching a crescendo. Jacob thrust deep and held there, his own growl of satisfaction mixing with her keening wail.
The pressure inside me built and built until I thought I might shatter. Beside me, Megan’s breathing had become desperate little pants.
Then Grace came, her whole body convulsing, and something inside me broke open.
The orgasm crashed through me with terrifying intensity, pleasure and shame mixing until I couldn’t tell them apart.
I heard Megan cry out at the same moment, both of us climaxing together while our husbands’ hands worked us through it.
When it finally subsided, I was sobbing against Chris’s chest, my body still trembling with aftershocks. On screen, Jacob was gently helping Grace up, murmuring praise and comfort.
“Good girl,” he was saying. “Such a good girl. You took your punishment beautifully.”
And Grace was smiling through her tears, clinging to him like he’d given her something precious instead of taking her in the most humiliating way possible.
Chris tilted my face up, forcing me to meet his eyes. “Do you understand now?” he asked softly. “Do you see that what you need isn’t wrong? That other wives struggle with the same desires?”
I knew how I had to answer. I couldn’t let myself in for more punishment. I knew I had to lie.
“Yes, sir,” I answered, trying to put a smile on my face.
Was that a lie, though? asked that voice inside me—the one I had no intention of listening to.