Chapter 23
Valerie
The words sent ripples of heat and terror and that darker thing I refused to name radiating outward from my core, spreading through my belly, my thighs, the tight, clenching place between my cheeks that had betrayed me so thoroughly on the couch.
“No,” I breathed. “Chris… sir… please, I can’t… not… not there… please…”
“You watched a video of another woman getting her ass taken by her husband.”
“No!” I cried, desperate for some way to counter his too-logical arguments. “I… I stopped before…”
Chris shook his head. I watched the silhouette of his chin move back and forth in the near darkness with my tummy in my throat.
“Because you climaxed just at the sight of the dildo in Stacy’s ass. Am I wrong, Valerie?”
“Oh, God,” I whispered. I felt a tear leak from my right eye and trickle onto my cheek. “No, sir.”
“You watched it and you came so hard you soaked your panties through. Your cunt has been telling me what you need, Val, even when your mouth won’t. And it’s my job to give it to you.”
I squeezed my eyes shut. Tears leaked from beneath my lashes, hot against my temples. He was right. He was right, and I hated that he was right, and the fact that he was right made my pussy clench with a need so fierce it felt like cruelty.
“That’s tomorrow,” Chris said. His hand lifted from my hip. “Tonight, we’re going to do something different.”
I opened my eyes, blinking in the dimness.
Chris had shifted, settling himself more comfortably on the bed beside me.
He reached over and turned on the bedside lamp—the soft one, the one that cast warm amber light across the quilt and the pillows and my tear-streaked face.
I flinched from the sudden visibility, from the knowledge that he could see everything now: my swollen eyes, my blotchy cheeks, the damp trails my panties had left on my skin.
“Sit up,” he said.
I pushed myself upright, pulling the quilt with me instinctively, clutching it to my chest. Chris let me have that small comfort. He leaned back against the headboard and patted the space beside him.
“Come here.”
I scooted over until I was beside him, the quilt still gathered around me like armor. His arm came around my shoulders, pulling me against his chest. The gesture was so tender, so at odds with the devastating things he’d just promised to do to me tomorrow, that a fresh sob broke from my throat.
“Shh,” he murmured against my hair. “It’s okay. Breathe.”
I breathed. Ragged, hitching breaths that slowly—so slowly—began to even out against the steady rise and fall of his chest.
“Now,” Chris said, when my breathing had calmed enough that I could hear words over the racing beat of my own heart. “You’re going to tell me everything about that video. Every single thing you saw. Every single thing you felt while you watched it.”
My body went rigid against him. “Chris—”
“Everything,” he repeated. “Start from the beginning. What was on the screen when you pressed play?”
I stared at the far wall of our bedroom—at the pretty curtains Chris had hung, at the flowers on the dresser, at all the evidence of a life he was building for us with his own callused hands. My throat felt like it was closing.
“It was… their bedroom,” I whispered. “Stacy and Kevin’s bedroom.”
“What did it look like?”
“Warm. Wood paneling. Lamplight.” I swallowed. “There was a—a bench. In the middle of the room. Like a—it was padded, with leather. Burgundy leather. It had a curve to it, and handles at one end, and little shelves at the other end for… for kneeling on.”
“A discipline bench,” Chris said. His voice was calm, curious, as if we were discussing furniture he might like to build. “What happened next?”
“Stacy came in. She was wearing a white nightgown.” My voice dropped to barely a whisper. “She looked scared.”
“Scared like you look right now?”
The question made my breath catch. “Yes,” I admitted. “Exactly like that.”
“Keep going.”
I told him. Haltingly at first, each word dragged from me like a splinter being pulled from tender flesh.
I told him about Kevin telling Stacy that it was important that her first bottom-fucking be a ceremonial occasion.
About him telling her to undress. About her standing naked before her husband, her hands fighting the urge to cover herself.
About Kevin instructing her to kneel on the bench, to bend over, to take the handles.
“And then?” Chris prompted when I fell silent.
“He told her to… to reach back.” My face was on fire. The quilt had slipped down to my waist and I didn’t even notice until I felt the cool air on my arms through my nightgown. “He told her to spread her… her bottom cheeks. To hold them open.”
“Did she do it?”
“She said she couldn’t. She begged him not to make her.” My voice was barely audible now, each word a confession pulled from someplace deep and raw. “But he told her it was part of her training. That a wife presents her bottom to her husband when he decides to use it.”
Chris’s arm tightened around me. I could feel the tension in his body—the coiled energy of his arousal, even the hardness pressing against his jeans where my hip rested on his thigh. But his voice remained steady.
“And did Stacy spread herself?”
“Yes, sir.” The sir slipped out unbidden, pulled from me by the gravity of what I was confessing. “She did it slowly. Her hands were shaking. The camera… the camera showed…”
“Showed what?”
I squeezed my eyes shut. Behind my lids, the image was as vivid as if the television were still on. “Everything. Her… her anus. It was so small. It looked impossible that anything could…”
My voice broke. I pressed my face against Chris’s chest, feeling his heartbeat strong and steady beneath my cheek.
“What did Kevin do next?” His hand stroked my hair, gentle and patient and relentless.
“He put some… you know, some slippery stuff… on his fingers,” I said into his shirt. “He touched her there. He told her to push out, to bear down. And then he… he put his finger inside her.”
“How did Stacy respond?”
“She shuddered. Her whole body shuddered. But she kept holding herself open, the way he’d told her to.”
“Good girl,” Chris murmured, and I didn’t know if he meant Stacy or me, but the words sent a pulse of warmth through my belly regardless. “What came after the finger?”
“The… the dildo.” The word felt illicit in my mouth, forbidden and thrilling at once. “The small one first. It was white, and slim. About as thick as a finger but longer. He coated it with lubricant and he… he pushed it inside her.”
“Inside her ass.”
“Yes, sir. Inside her… inside her ass.” I could feel my panties—the fresh pair I’d put on before bed—growing damp again.
Just from talking about it. Just from saying the words out loud to my husband while his arm held me close and his erection pressed against my hip.
“She cried out. But then he started to move it, in and out, slowly, and she… her sounds changed. They weren’t just pain anymore. ”
“She started to like it.”
It wasn’t a question, but I answered anyway. “Yes.”
“Did that surprise you?”
I thought about it. Thought about the way Stacy’s hips had begun to rock, the way her protests had dissolved into breathless, keening sounds.
“No,” I admitted, and the honesty of it shocked me.
“No, it didn’t surprise me. Because I… because when Mrs. Chen talked about…
about girls like me, and their relationship to their bottoms, I… ”
My words trailed off. My face was so hot I thought my tears might evaporate on contact.
“You knew,” Chris said softly. “Some part of you already knew.”
I nodded against his chest, a tiny, defeated motion.
“Tell me about the bigger dildo.”
A shudder ran through me. “It was flesh-colored. The size of… it looked like…” I swallowed so hard it hurt. “It looked like a real penis. Kevin said it was almost the size of his… of his cock. He said he wanted her to get used to the feeling.”
“Did he put it in her?”
“Yes. Slowly. She begged him not to, but he… he just kept pushing it in. The camera showed everything. How her… how her anus stretched around it. How it disappeared inside her, inch by inch.”
“And what were you doing while you watched this, Valerie?”
The question hit me like a physical blow. I tried to pull away from him, but his arm held me firmly against his side.
“Answer me.”
“I was touching myself,” I whispered. “Both… both hands.”
“Both hands.” There was something in his voice, not surprise, but a sharpening of attention. “Tell me where.”
“My right hand was… was between my legs. On my… on my clit. Through my panties.” Each word felt like stripping off a layer of skin. “And my left hand was… It was… you know…”
My voice fell to a whisper as my cheeks burned.
“…behind me.”
The room seemed to contract around us. Chris’s breathing had changed, just slightly—deeper, more deliberate.
“Behind you where?”
A sob tore from my throat. “On my… on my bottom. On my… my anus.” The word came out strangled, barely formed. “I was touching my anus through my panties while I watched Kevin put the dildo in Stacy’s bottom and I came… I came so hard, Chris, I couldn’t stop, I couldn’t—”
“Shh.” His hand cupped the back of my head, holding me against his chest while I wept.
We stayed like that for a long time—long enough that my sobs subsided into hiccupping little breaths, long enough that the tears dried tacky on my cheeks.
Chris’s hand never stopped moving through my hair, slow and rhythmic, and I could feel the patience in him like a physical thing, like the steadiness of the house he’d built around us.
“I need you to tell me something else,” he said finally, his voice low against the top of my head. “What part of it aroused you the most?”
The question sent a bolt of fresh shame through me. I shook my head against his chest.
“Val.” His hand stilled in my hair. “What part?”
“I can’t—”
“You can. You already told me the hardest parts. This is just one more truth.” His hand resumed its stroking, but I felt his other hand move—felt it settle on my knee, on top of the quilt, warm and heavy. “Was it when Kevin put his finger in her?”
“No,” I whispered. “I mean… that was… but it wasn’t the part that—”
“Was it the dildo?”
“It was…” I pressed my lips together, trying to organize the chaos in my head. Chris’s hand slid from my knee to my thigh, slipped under the quilt, moving with a slowness that felt deliberate. Purposeful. “It was the way he did it. The… the ceremony of it.”
“Tell me what you mean.”
His hand gathered the hem of my nightgown under the quilt. I felt the fabric shifting against my legs, being drawn upward, and my breath stuttered.
“The bench,” I said, my voice thin and strange.
“How he had it set up in the middle of the room, like… like it was an altar or something. And the way he laid out all the… the implements… on the bed where she could see them. Like he wanted her to understand every single thing that was going to happen to her bottom before it happened.”
“Mm-hmm.” I felt Chris’s hand on my bare thigh, the roughness of his carpenter’s calluses against my skin, and a whimper caught in my throat. His hand traveled upward, pushing the nightgown ahead of it, bunching the modest white cotton around my waist.
“Keep talking,” he said.
“He… he made her kneel on the bench. Made her take the handles. And then he told her to reach back and… and spread herself. That was…” My voice cracked as Chris’s fingers traced the waistband of my panties, dipping just beneath the elastic.
“That was when I started to feel it. Really feel it. Because he wasn’t just…
he wasn’t just doing something to her. He was making her participate. Making her offer herself to him.”
Chris’s hand slid fully into my panties. I gasped as his fingers found me; the slick, swollen evidence that even recounting this was enough to undo me. His middle finger parted the folds of my inner lips and settled against my clit with unerring precision, as if he’d memorized the map of my body.
“Go on,” he murmured.
“Chris… oh, God…” My hips jerked involuntarily against his hand. “I can’t think when you—”
“Yes, you can. Tell me about the ceremony. What else made it feel significant?”