Chapter 28 #2
I went. Each step felt like a revelation of new sensation.
If the plug had felt humiliating when I stood up, the way it shifted and pressed against the narrow passage as I walked seemed even more confusing.
I had to bite down on my lower lip to keep from making sounds that would have mortified me even more than I was already.
By the time I reached the corner, my thighs were trembling and my breathing had become shallow and rapid.
I pressed my nose close to the wall and raised my hands to rest on the crown of my head, lacing my fingers together the way I felt certain he wanted, from what had happened at Megan’s.
I knew how I looked: a bare-breasted, paddle-marked wife standing in the corner with her punished bottom on display, the dark base of a plug just visible between her spread cheeks, her backless training panties framing the whole lewd picture like an obscene portrait.
Training panties… training plug… a naughty wife in training to serve her husband properly. I felt my face twist into a penitent pout of sorrow and helpless submissive need.
Behind me, I heard Chris settle into his armchair. The leather creaked softly under his weight. Then, unbelievably, the television clicked on, and the familiar sounds of a baseball broadcast filled the living room.
A baseball game. My husband had plugged my bottom and put me in the corner and turned on a baseball game.
I stood there, my forehead nearly touching the wall, tears drying in salty tracks on my cheeks, and listened to the announcer call balls and strikes while the plug throbbed inside my anus and my punished cheeks radiated heat into the cool air.
Every few seconds my body would shift—an involuntary adjustment of weight from one foot to the other, a subtle clench of my thighs—and the plug would move, and I would feel it everywhere.
In my bottom. In my pussy. In the tight, aching tips of my nipples.
In the burning, tear-swollen corners of my eyes.
I could hear Chris behind me—the soft clink of a glass, ice against the sides—and I realized he’d poured himself something to drink.
He sat in his armchair, watching baseball, sipping a drink, while his wife stood in the corner with a plug in her ass.
The casualness of it—the utter normalcy he projected while I trembled and ached and tried not to sob—was perhaps the most devastating thing of all.
Chris was telling me without words that this was how our life would work.
That a husband disciplining and preparing his wife’s bottom would become as ordinary as a Wednesday night ballgame.
That my punishment, my shame, my desperate arousal had become simply a part of the domestic landscape, as unremarkable to him as the score of the game.
Yes, it was a ceremony, but it would be a sort of ordinary ritual; one I would have to accustom myself to undergoing when my husband wanted to ensure I knew my place and how to make his hard penis feel good.
I didn’t know how long I stood there. Time became elastic, stretching and contracting around the pulse of the plug inside me and the distant crack of the bat meeting ball on the television.
Long enough for my arms to begin to ache from holding them up.
Long enough for the tears to dry completely.
Long enough for the burning in my bottom cheeks to settle from a sharp, stinging blaze into a deep, radiating warmth that seemed to pulse in time with my heartbeat—and with the throb of the plug, and with the shameful, relentless ache of my pussy.
A half-inning, probably. Or maybe a whole one. One of those, because the commercials came on and then Chris’s voice cut through the chatter of an advertisement for truck insurance.
“Valerie.”
I nearly jumped. “Yes, sir?” I asked, turning my frightened eyes over my shoulder to look at him.
“Take the paddle from the coffee table and hang it back up on its hook in the kitchen. Then go to the bedroom. Take the sheet off the bench and fold it neatly. Then get over the bench the way Stacy did in the video and wait for me.” His voice was so calm it could have been giving me directions to the grocery store.
“I’ll come in when I feel like using you. ”
When I feel like using you. I lowered my trembling arms and turned from the corner, blinking in the lamplight after staring at the wall for so long.
Chris sat in his armchair with one ankle crossed over the opposite knee, a glass of something amber in his hand, his robe fallen slightly open at the chest. He looked relaxed.
Content. Like a man enjoying his evening.
I walked to the coffee table on unsteady legs, each step making the plug shift and press inside me in ways that drew helpless little sounds from my throat.
I bent to pick up the paddle—the beautiful, terrible paddle Chris had made with his own hands—and as my fingers closed around the smooth handle, his voice stopped me.
“Come here.”