Chapter 20
Valerie
Chris finally pulled out of me, and I felt the loss immediately. My legs trembled as he helped me stand, then swept me into his arms. I buried my face against his chest, unable to meet his eyes as he carried me to our bedroom.
He cleaned me gently with a warm washcloth, his touch tender despite the roughness of what he had just done to me. I whimpered at the soreness he had left. To my mortification even that discomfort brought the flutter in my tummy that I had already come to associate with my helplessly wanton nature.
I almost asked Chris if he wanted to fuck me again, hard though his huge cock had been on my no-longer-virgin pussy. I couldn’t bring myself to admit that desire, though. I clung to him, instead, as he held me, stroking my hair, murmuring that I was a good girl, that he was proud of me.
I fell asleep in his arms, my body sore and fulfilled in ways I’d never imagined.
The next morning, Chris woke me with gentle kisses. My whole body ached—my bottom from the whipping, my pussy from being taken so thoroughly. But beneath the soreness, I felt something else. A strange contentment, like a puzzle piece had finally clicked into place.
“How are you feeling?” he asked, his fingers tracing my cheek.
“Sore,” I admitted, my face warming. “But… okay.”
He smiled. “Good. I need to get to work, but I’ll be home for dinner.”
I made him breakfast—eggs and toast, nothing fancy—and kissed him goodbye at the door. After he left, I stood in our kitchen, looking around at our home. Our home. Where I was his wife. Where he’d finally claimed me completely.
The day passed in a pleasant blur. I cleaned, did laundry, planned dinner. Being a housewife felt natural, comforting even. I hummed as I worked, my mind drifting to thoughts of Chris coming home to me.
Then my phone buzzed with a text.
Leak at the property. Going to be late tonight. Don’t wait up. I’ll grab a burger for dinner. Love you.
My stomach sank with disappointment. I’d been looking forward to seeing him, to… well, to what might happen after dinner. But of course he had to work. That was part of being a supportive wife, wasn’t it?
I ate leftovers for dinner, alone. I cleaned up the kitchen, and found myself standing in the living room with nothing to do. The television stared at me from across the room.
I shouldn’t. I absolutely shouldn’t.
But I picked up the remote before I could stop myself. The interface loaded, and my breath caught when I saw the featured stream on the Her Secret Garden channel of New Modesty Blue.
Stacy’s First Bottom-Fucking.
The title sent a jolt through my entire body.
My pussy clenched at the memory of watching Stacy the previous afternoon—when Chris had caught me.
Heat flooded my face as I imagined what this video would show.
Stacy’s husband positioning her, spreading her cheeks, pushing his cock into that forbidden place.
The place Chris had promised to claim, too: the most private place on my body.
My finger hovered over the play button. I could almost feel it already—his hands on my hips, the head of his cock pressing against my anus, the burn as he pushed inside.
Would he use the bolster like Jacob had with Grace?
Would he make me spread my cheeks the way he had yesterday, after he had paddled me?
A sob caught in my throat. I pressed the power button, watching the screen go dark.
No. I can’t. Not after what had happened last time. Chris had been so patient with me, so loving after taking my virginity. I couldn’t betray that trust again.
But the images wouldn’t leave my mind. As I moved through my evening routine, all I could think about was what would happen when Chris decided it was time. When he bent me over and claimed that last part of me.
Will it hurt?
Of course it would hurt. I had to push down another sob.
I realized I had put my hand behind me, touching my bottom through my skirt as if to defend the little button between my cheeks—but also as if to remind myself how exciting it felt to have a hand there, even if it was my own and not my husband’s much firmer, more demanding one.
I kept my hand there for a moment. I moved it. I squeezed a little, as my forehead creased hard at the sensation.
Would I come from anal, like Grace had in that video?
The thought made my thighs clench together. I pulled my hand away, my cheeks flaring with heat.
Before bed, I stood in our bathroom, staring at my reflection. I should just put on my nightgown and go to sleep. But my body ached in ways I needed to understand. It was responsible to check, wasn’t it? To make sure I was healing properly after losing my virginity?
With trembling fingers, I took off my clothes.
I hung up my dress and my slip. I put my bra in my underwear drawer.
Trying not to think about it, I pulled my panties down and stepped out of them.
I held my breath as I tossed them into the laundry, not wanting to know if any of that now-familiar naughty scent had lingered in the gusset.
I put my back to the full-length mirror in the walk-in closet, chewing on my lower lip as I turned to look over my shoulder.
The bruises on my bottom had darkened since this morning—purple and blue marks from Chris’s belt, overlapping the fading welts from my paddling at Megan’s house.
I took a little step backward so that I could see them better in the mirror, and something warm bloomed in my chest.
Pride. I felt proud of these marks. Proud that I’d taken my punishment. Proud that I’d finally given myself to my husband completely.
But beneath the pride, the too-familiar heat pulsed between my legs. I squeezed my thighs together, trying to ignore it, but it only grew stronger. My nipples had gone hard, and I could feel the dampness gathering.
I needed to check. Just to make sure everything was okay down there.
I grabbed my hand mirror from the top of the dresser and carried it to our bed. My face burned as I lay back and positioned the mirror between my raised legs—almost the same posture Chris had made me occupy the second night of our honeymoon, before he had made me…
I swallowed hard as I remembered licking my husband’s puckered anus, while here and now I gazed into the mirror.
The reflection showed my bare, smooth pussy—pink and a little swollen, I could see.
The lips seemed slightly parted, today, after Chris had claimed me with his rigid manhood, as if his use last night had changed me there forever.
Gingerly, I touched myself, probing the entrance Chris had enjoyed so thoroughly. A sharp twinge of soreness made me wince, but it wasn’t unbearable. Just a reminder of what he’d done to me. Of how his cock had stretched me, filled me, made me his.
My breathing quickened. I explored more, my fingers sliding through my wetness.
In the mirror, I could see my bottom, too; the bruises I had earned for my misbehavior, given with such authority by my husband’s firm hand.
My pussy felt different, more open. The soreness was there, yes, but so was something else.
An ache that had nothing to do with healing and everything to do with need.
I was terribly aroused. Again. Already. Even though my body was still recovering from being fucked for the first time, I wanted more.
The realization made tears prick at my eyes. What was wrong with me? Normal wives didn’t feel this way, did they? They didn’t get wet from looking at their own bruises, didn’t ache to be taken again before they’d even finished healing.
I thought about texting Chris. Asking for permission to touch myself properly, to ease this terrible need. My phone sat on the nightstand, just a few feet away.
But I couldn’t. The thought of typing those words—of admitting how desperately I needed to come—made me want to die from embarrassment. What would I even say? “Please, sir, can I masturbate because looking at the marks you left on my bottom made me wet”?
No. Absolutely not.
I forced myself to get up, to put the mirror away. I pulled on my modest white cotton panties and the long nightgown that covered everything. As if the fabric could somehow contain the shameful desires coursing through me.
In bed, I lay on my back, staring at the ceiling.
I tried not to think about Chris. Tried not to picture his cock, thick and hard, the way it had looked just before he’d taken my virginity, when he’d made me suck it to get him ready to fuck.
The way it had felt pushing inside me, claiming me, making me scream.
My hands drifted down toward my body before I caught myself. I jerked them back up, clasping them together in front of me like I was praying. If I didn’t hold them, I knew I’d touch myself. I knew I’d give in to the ache pulsing between my legs.
Sleep eventually claimed me, pulling me down into dreams, into realms I couldn’t control.
Dark, hot rooms where Chris positioned me over a bolster atop a canopied bed, his hands spreading my cheeks.
Dreams where I felt his cock pressing against my anus, heard him telling me to relax, to take it, to be a good girl.
Dreams where I begged him to fuck my bottom, using the dirty words he’d made me say.
Dreams where he rode my virgin backside like a cowboy atop his steed, each brutal thrust of his huge manhood making me scream with helpless pleasure and abject agony.
I came from it, my body convulsing as he claimed that last forbidden place.
I woke gasping, my panties soaked through yet again, my whole body trembling with unfulfilled need. Chris was beside me, fast asleep. I practically sprang out of bed so that I could change my underwear and get started on breakfast before he woke.
“Delicious, Val,” he said as he finished his eggs. “Remember that I’ve got guys’ night tonight. I’m really sorry about that, but I promise tomorrow I’ll be home early and we can watch a movie or play a game—your choice.”
“That sounds wonderful,” I said, trying to keep the disappointment from my voice. I smiled at him across the table, the good wife seeing her husband off. “Have fun tonight.”
He stood up and came around the table, smiling down at me. Then he bent, reached, and kissed me—long and deep, his hand cupping the back of my neck in that possessive way that made my knees go weak. Then he was gone.
The house felt enormous without him. I cleaned up breakfast, wiped down the counters, started a load of laundry. Normal, wholesome tasks that a good wife performed. I told myself I would stay busy. I would not think about the television. I would not think about Stacy.
By noon I had reorganized the pantry, scrubbed the bathroom, and alphabetized our small collection of cookbooks. By two o’clock I had baked a batch of chocolate chip cookies and written a grocery list. By four o’clock I had run out of things to do.
The remote sat on the coffee table where I’d left it last night, after I’d managed to turn the television off. It seemed to pulse with a dark gravity, pulling at me from across the room.
Stacy’s First Bottom-Fucking.
The title floated through my mind unbidden, and my pussy clenched so hard I had to grip the kitchen counter. I pressed my thighs together, feeling the fabric of the modest panties shift against my sensitive flesh.
I wouldn’t. I absolutely, categorically would not.
I went to the living room and sat on the couch with a thriller novel I’d been meaning to start. I read the same paragraph four times without absorbing a single word. My eyes kept drifting to the dark screen of the television.
What would it show? Would Stacy’s husband prepare her the way Jacob had prepared Grace—with lubricant and gentle fingers? Or would it be something rougher, more punishing? Would Stacy cry? Would she beg?
Would she come?
I squeezed the book so hard the spine creaked.
Chris won’t be home until late, whispered the treacherous voice inside me. He’ll never know.
But he’d known last time. He’d walked in and caught me red-handed, my fingers between my legs, the television blazing with another woman’s submission. The memory should have been enough to stop me. Instead, it sent a fresh wave of heat flooding through my core.
I set the book down. My hands were shaking.
“Just to see what it is,” I whispered to the empty room. “I won’t touch myself. I’ll just… look.”