Chapter 18
Valerie
By myself, driving my parents’ car home from Megan’s house to theirs, I tried to sort through my thoughts and feelings.
My bottom still throbbed from the paddling, each bump in the road sending fresh reminders through my punished flesh.
The backless panties shifted with every movement, making me hyperaware of my nakedness beneath my skirt.
What had just happened? I’d watched another woman—a stranger on television—being taken in the most degrading way possible, and I’d come from it. I’d climaxed right there on the couch between our husbands, Megan gasping beside me, while Grace’s cries filled the room.
I tried to organize my thoughts into something coherent. To understand why my body responded the way it did. To figure out what it meant that I’d run away from Chris only to end up more confused than ever.
But the thoughts wouldn’t organize. They kept slipping away, fragmenting into images and sensations I couldn’t process. Chris’s hands on me. The paddle cracking down. Grace’s face as her husband used her bottom with his big, hard penis. The terrible, shameful pleasure that had rolled through me.
After a few minutes, I gave up trying to sort it out. For the last half mile to my parents’ driveway my mind simply went blank.
Then, just as I turned into the driveway, the realization hit me.
I felt, well, okay. It seemed crazy, but I could see that I had given up trying to think it through because a big part of me—the biggest part of me, maybe—trusted Chris to sort it out for me.
To decide what was best. To guide me through this confusion that I couldn’t navigate alone.
The idea of just handing over my wellbeing that way shouldn’t have felt okay.
I should have kept driving—gotten as far away from Parker’s Bluffs as I possibly could, no matter how difficult it would be just to leave my whole life behind.
Instead, the realization brought a strange sense of relief—followed immediately by more confusion.
How could I trust my husband when part of me feared him so much?
When I’d literally run away from him just hours ago?
But… I was making some kind of… progress, I realized with a start. Something had begun to shift inside me, even if I didn’t fully understand it yet. The fact that I could recognize my own trust, even while feeling confused about it, had to mean that something was changing.
I pulled into my parents’ driveway and sat there for a moment, my hands gripping the steering wheel. Chris would be here soon to take me to our new house. Our home. The place where we would live as husband and wife.
The place where he would finally fuck me.
Once he had carried me over the threshold, as I felt certain he would, I would truly belong to him, wouldn’t I?
He had already given me much more time than I thought any other man as dominant as my husband would ever give, now that I understood the realities of a wife’s bedroom duties.
I couldn’t imagine that Mark had given Megan anything like that much time to get used to the idea that a husband gets to fuck his wife whether she likes it or not.
The crude thought sent heat flooding through my body. For the first time, I found I could acknowledge the truth: I wanted it. I wanted him to take me. To claim my virginity. To do all the things he’d been promising to do since our wedding night.
But even as I recognized the desire, I knew I couldn’t tell him.
Some part of me needed to be the modest, bashful bride who paradoxically became a naughty girl when her husband demanded his conjugal rights.
I needed to show Chris that I had a will of my own, and I would earn correction if it meant I could keep my sense of self.
I would earn the kind of hard, dominant sex I’d seen in his eyes he meant to have with his submissive wife. If I just surrendered, if I begged him to take me, it wouldn’t be the same.
I needed to make him do it. To force his hand somehow.
The realization both thrilled and shamed me.
I felt in the very joining of my body to my heart and my mind that I had started down a dark path, full of shadows through which I could nonetheless see my way—hot, red shadows, somehow…
places where I could become both a modest good girl and a dirty little slut for my husband.
Five minutes later, Chris arrived. He took me and my overnight bag to his truck, his hand warm and possessive on the small of my back. The drive to our new house took only fifteen minutes, but the silence felt heavy with unspoken things.
To my surprise, he didn’t mention sex. Didn’t give any commands. Just asked how I was feeling, whether my bottom was still sore, if I wanted to stop for ice cream on the way.
The tenderness confused me more than discipline would have.
When we pulled up to the house—the charming two-story farmhouse with a wraparound porch that I hadn’t seen since Chris had started remodeling it—my breath caught. It was beautiful. Chris had been working on it for months, and now it was ready for us.
He took my hand as we walked up the front steps. “Let me show you what I’ve done.”
The tour should have been romantic. Chris had clearly put so much thought into every detail—the kitchen renovated with modern appliances but maintaining the home’s vintage charm, the living room with its stone fireplace, the guest bedroom painted in soft colors.
But all I could think about was sex. In the kitchen, I pictured him bending me over the counter to fuck me from behind. In the living room, I imagined being taken on the rug in front of the fireplace. The dining table made me think of being spread across it, my legs held wide.
By the time we reached the master bedroom, I could barely breathe. The bed was enormous, covered in a soft quilt. Chris had hung curtains, arranged furniture, even put fresh flowers on the dresser.
“What do you think?” he asked, watching my face.
“It’s perfect,” I managed, though my voice sounded strange to my own ears.
We ate dinner together—sandwiches Chris had picked up—and then it was bedtime. I waited for the commands to start. For him to tell me to undress, to display myself, to prepare for what was coming.
Instead, he just kissed my forehead. “You must be exhausted. Get ready for bed.”
I went to the enormous walk-in closet where Chris had carefully arranged all my clothes. My fingers trailed over hangers, touching fabrics without really seeing them.
I stood there for what felt like forever, my mind spinning.
What should I wear? The peach nightgown and panties Chris had given me and then done such dirty things to me in?
The mortifying backless panties I still had on?
Something that would provoke him, make him finally take what he’d been promising?
My hand hovered over the sheer nightgown, then pulled back. Too obvious. Too much like begging.
Instead, I reached for the most modest nightgown I owned—white cotton that fell to my ankles, with long sleeves and a high neck. And underneath, my usual white cotton panties. The kind that covered everything, the kind I’d worn before my wedding.
My heart hammered as I changed into them. This would do it. This would make him angry. He’d see my modest nightgown and those innocent panties and his jaw would tighten with that look I’d come to recognize. The look that meant I was in trouble.
The scenario played out in my imagination as I pulled the nightgown over my head. He would make me take it off slowly, humiliating me with each button I unfastened. Then he’d bend me over his knee right there in our bedroom, pull down my panties, and spank me until I was sobbing.
My pussy clenched at the thought. Heat flooded between my legs.
No, he wouldn’t just spank me. He’d make me put on the backless panties again—the ones that left me completely exposed. Then he’d position me over a bolster like Grace in the video. I’d feel the leather against my belly, my bottom raised high, everything on display.
And then he’d take me there. In my bottom, just like Jacob had done to Grace. I’d feel his cock pushing into that tight, forbidden place, claiming me in the most degrading way possible. Making me understand that every part of me belonged to him.
Only after that would he finally take my real virginity. Only after he’d used my bottom would he push into my pussy and make me his wife completely.
I was trembling when I returned to the bedroom, my panties already damp with shameful arousal. My face burned as I approached the bed where Chris waited.
He looked up and smiled. “You look comfortable.”
I stood there, waiting for the storm. Waiting for him to tell me to take off the modest nightgown, to punish me for choosing such innocent garments.
Instead, he just pulled back the covers. “Come to bed, sweetheart.”
My stomach dropped. That was it? No anger? No commands?
I climbed in beside him, disappointment and confusion warring in my chest. His arm came around me, pulling me close against his chest. The position was tender, comforting—not at all what I’d expected.
“I’m going back to work tomorrow,” he said, his voice quiet. “The job across town. Should be done in a few days, but I’ll make it home for dinner each night.”
“Oh.” I swallowed hard. “I’ll… I’ll have dinner ready for you.”
“That would be nice.” He pressed a kiss to my hair. “I think you’re going to love being a wife, Val. Taking care of our home together.”
I lay there in his arms, my body still thrumming with unfulfilled need, my mind racing. What was happening? Why wasn’t he taking me with his hard manhood? Why wasn’t he even acknowledging the modest nightgown I’d worn specifically to provoke him?
I thought I understood. Chris was giving me space. Time to process everything that had happened—the paddling at Megan’s house, watching that video, the confusion swirling inside me. Part of me felt grateful for his patience, his understanding.
But another part—a growing, insistent part—felt frustrated. Desperate, even.
I was going to have to do something. Figure out what was going on in my husband’s head. And more important, I needed to finally get my virginity taken. Because this waiting, this anticipation, had begun to drive me absolutely crazy.
The next day passed in a strange haze. Chris left for work early, kissing me goodbye at the door. I spent the morning exploring our new house more thoroughly, trying to make it feel like home. But my mind kept drifting to the same dark places.
By late afternoon, I’d made a spaghetti Bolognese—Chris’s favorite, with homemade sauce and fresh bread. The kitchen smelled amazing as I set the table, checking the clock. He’d be home any minute.
Then something changed inside me. A strange, reckless impulse.
I went to the kitchen and hid the dinner. Covered the pot, put it in the oven on warm, cleared the table as if I’d never prepared anything at all.
My heart pounded as I walked to the living room. My hands trembled as I picked up the remote. I felt like I was moving through water, watching myself from outside my body as I navigated to the New Modesty Blue channel.
The interface loaded, showing various streams. I scrolled until I found one called ‘Her Secret Garden.’ The description read: Real discipline for real infractions. Tonight: Stacy learns from Kevin what happens to wives who lie.
I clicked it.
The stream opened on a bedroom similar to ours. A young woman with dark hair stood before her husband, her face streaked with tears.
“You lied to me about where you went today,” the man—Kevin—said, his voice hard. “You told me you were at the grocery store, but Mrs. Patterson saw you at the mall. With another man.”
“It wasn’t like that!” Stacy sobbed. “He’s just a friend from college, we were just talking—”
“You lied, Stacy. And wives who lie get punished.”
Something hot and dark unfurled in my chest. My breathing became shallow.
I walked to our bedroom like I was in a trance. I opened the drawer where I’d hidden my bridal lingerie—the sheer white set with the tiny lace panties and matching bra that left nothing to the imagination. The underwear that I had refused to get into on my wedding day.
I’m being such a dirty girl, I thought as I stripped off my modest clothes. Such a naughty, dirty girl.
But I couldn’t stop. I pulled on the lingerie, feeling the sheer fabric against my skin. In the mirror, I looked exactly like what I was—a wife trying to seduce her husband into taking her.
I returned to the living room and settled back on the couch. On screen, Stacy’s husband had her bent over the bed, her skirt raised, her panties pulled down. His belt whistled through the air.
My hand drifted between my legs, finding the damp lace there. I pressed against myself, feeling that familiar heat building.
Stacy was counting, the way good girls did when their husbands corrected them. “Seven, sir! Thank you, sir!”
My fingers moved faster, circling and pressing. On screen, Kevin set aside his belt and began unfastening his pants.
“You’re going to learn what happens to lying wives,” he said.
I heard the front door open. Chris’s keys hit the table in the entryway with a loud jingle.
But I couldn’t stop. My fingers kept moving, my eyes fixed on the screen where Stacy’s husband was climbing onto the bed behind her.
“Valerie?” Chris’s voice came from the hallway. “I’m home. Something smells good—”
He appeared in the doorway of the living room.
His eyes went wide as he took in the scene. Me on the couch in my bridal lingerie, my hand between my legs, the television showing another woman about to be taken by her husband.
For a long moment, neither of us moved.
Then Chris’s expression shifted. The surprise faded, replaced by something darker. Something hungry and stern at the same time.
“What do you think you’re doing, Valerie?” His voice was quiet. Dangerous.
My hand froze. My pussy clenched around nothing, my whole body trembling with fear and need and anticipation.
“I…” My voice came out as barely a whisper. “I’m sorry, sir. I couldn’t help it.”