Chapter 2
Heather
“Babe,” I said, when we had turned onto our street. “I’m so—”
“Sir,” Ryan replied, his eyes darting from the road to me for a moment, his brow so dark that it made my heart race and my face get hot.
“What?” I asked, suddenly sure of what he meant, but absolutely not wanting to show it.
“Sir,” he repeated. “From now on, you’ll call me sir.”
The word hit me like a bludgeon, sending heat straight between my legs even as my mind recoiled from what it meant. This wasn’t the hesitant, apologetic Ryan I’d married. This was someone else entirely—someone who made decisions and expected them to be followed.
“Ryan, I—” I started, but the look he gave me made the words die in my throat.
“What did I just say?” His voice was quiet, but there was steel underneath it that I’d never heard before.
My mouth went dry. The training underwear suddenly felt even more restrictive, more present, as if it were broadcasting my body’s treacherous response to his authority.
I couldn’t do this. I couldn’t let him see how much his command affected me, how it made me think of things I’d sworn I’d left behind.
“Sir,” I whispered, the word tasting foreign and dangerous on my tongue. “I’m so sorry, sir.”
“Better.” He pulled into our driveway, the truck’s engine ticking as it cooled. “And what are you sorry for, exactly?”
This was it—the moment I could tell him the truth about the accident, about why I’d really been driving angry, about the phone. But the lies felt safer, more familiar than the vulnerability of confession.
“For… for crashing the car, sir. For not being more careful.” I kept my eyes down, playing the part of the contrite wife even as my heart hammered against my ribs.
Ryan was quiet for a long moment. When he finally spoke, his voice carried a certainty that made my stomach drop.
“We’ll see about that.” He looked at me directly. “Go inside. Living room. Stand in the middle of the rug with your hands on top of your head and your eyes down. Wait for me there.”
The casual authority in his tone made my breath catch.
This wasn’t a request—it was a command, delivered with the kind of confidence I’d never seen from him before.
Part of me wanted to argue, to push back against this new version of my husband, but a larger part—the part I’d been trying so hard to suppress—wanted nothing more than to obey.
“Yes, sir,” I heard myself say, and climbed out of the truck on shaking legs.
The walk to the front door felt like miles.
My legs shook with each step, and I found myself desperately trying to think of anything except what was about to happen.
Whatever Ryan had learned from that NMA counselor, whatever he was planning to do, I couldn’t let it involve the kind of discipline they promoted.
The bare-bottom spankings, the ritual humiliation—I couldn’t.
I wouldn’t think about why the very idea made panic rise in my throat, why my body’s response to the thought terrified me more than the punishment itself.
Inside, I moved to the living room like I was walking underwater.
The familiar space looked different somehow—the leather couch where we watched movies, the coffee table I’d failed to dust properly so many times, the Persian rug Ryan’s mother had given us as a wedding gift.
Now it felt like a stage set for something I wasn’t ready for.
I positioned myself in the center of the rug, raising my hands to clasp behind my head.
The position thrust my breasts forward in the training bra, and I felt heat flood my cheeks as I stared down at the intricate patterns beneath my feet.
My training panties were already damp, clinging to me in ways that made my shame complete.
Ryan’s footsteps echoed in the hallway, slow and deliberate. When he entered the room, I could feel his presence like a physical weight, though I kept my eyes fixed downward as instructed.
“The car has a data system,” he said without preamble. “It records everything—speed, braking, steering input.” His voice was matter-of-fact, almost conversational. “It also records when the driver is distracted. When they’re looking at their phone instead of the road.”
My heart stopped. The lie I’d built so carefully crumbled in an instant, leaving me exposed and trembling.
“There was no little girl, was there, Heather?”
“Sir, I—”
“Answer me.”
The command cut through my desperate scrambling for another excuse. “No, sir,” I whispered. “There wasn’t.”
“You were texting. Going fifty in a residential zone because you were angry about the training underwear, and you were too busy with your phone to pay attention to where you were going.”
Each word landed like a physical blow. He knew. He knew everything, and I was standing here like a fool, caught in my own web of lies.
“Look at me.”
I raised my eyes reluctantly, meeting his gaze. The Ryan I saw there was still my husband, but transformed. The gentle uncertainty was gone, replaced by something that made my knees weak.
“Why have you been avoiding sex with me?”
The question came out of nowhere, hitting me like a slap. My mouth opened and closed uselessly as my mind raced. It was true—I had been avoiding intimacy, finding excuses, feigning sleep. But how could I explain why?
“I… I haven’t been—”
“Don’t lie to me again, Heather. There’s another data system I should tell you about: the one in this house, provided by the NMA.”
A wave of terror crashed over me as I realized what he was about to say. The shower. Oh, God, the shower. My daily ritual of relief, the only way I could function in this perfect little life we’d built. They’d been watching. Recording.
“I can explain,” I blurted out, the words tumbling over each other in my desperation. “Sir, I can explain, it’s not—”
But I couldn’t explain. How could I tell him that every morning I stood under the hot spray and thought about things that would horrify him? That I touched myself while imagining scenarios that had nothing to do with the gentle, loving husband he was trying to be?
The fantasy from yesterday morning flooded back unbidden—Ryan’s hands rough on my hips, bending me over the bar at the country club while my so-called friends watched.
His voice harsh in my ear, calling me names that would make the real Ryan blush, taking my ass while I begged him to stop, to continue, to let everyone see what a slut I really was.
“Explain what, exactly?” Ryan’s voice cut through my spiraling thoughts. “What do you think about when you’re in there, Heather? What makes you come so hard you have to bite your hand to keep from screaming?”
The blood drained from my face. He knew. He knew everything.
“Tell me what you fantasize about.”
“I can’t.” The words came out as barely a whisper. “Sir, please, I can’t.”
“You can, and you will.”
“No.” I shook my head frantically, still staring at the floor. “I won’t. I can’t tell you that.”
Ryan was quiet for a long moment. Then I heard him move, settling onto the couch with a soft exhale.
“Come here.”
My feet moved before my brain could engage, carrying me the few steps to where he sat. His hands were gentle but firm as he guided me across his lap, positioning me so my hips rested over his thighs.
“Since you won’t tell me,” he said, his palm resting lightly on my lower back, “maybe this will help you find your voice.”
The first slap landed across my ass with a sharp crack that made me gasp. Even through the thick sweatpants, I could feel the heat blooming across my skin.
“Ryan—sir—please—” I didn’t know why I hadn’t started to struggle yet.
I didn’t want to think about it. Something inside me wanted it to happen, maybe just out of guilt about the car—the feeling that I should have to pay some price for my stupidity and my carelessness.
For the moment the rest of me had apparently decided just to let it happen.
Another slap, harder this time. “What do you think about?”
“I can’t—” The third slap cut off my protest, and I bit my lip to keep from crying out.
He established a rhythm, his hand falling in measured strokes across my backside. The sweatpants provided some cushioning, but I could feel each impact sending waves of sensation through my body. Worse, I could feel myself getting wetter, my treasonous body responding exactly the way it shouldn’t.
“These need to come down,” Ryan said, his fingers finding the waistband of my sweatpants.
“No,” I whispered, but my body betrayed me, lifting slightly to make it easier for him to slide the fabric down over my hips. The cool air hit my skin, and I was acutely aware of how the training underwear clung to me, displaying me in ways that made my cheeks burn.
His hand came down again, the sharp crack echoing through the room. Without the buffer of the sweatpants, the sting was immediate and intense, radiating across my skin in surges that made me squirm against his lap.
“Better,” he murmured, his voice thick with something I’d never heard before. “Now, what do you think about in the shower?”
“I don’t—” Another slap cut me off, and I couldn’t suppress the small cry that escaped my lips.
“Don’t lie to me.” His hand rubbed the spot he’d just struck, the gentle touch somehow more overwhelming than the pain. “Tell me what makes you so desperate you can’t wait for your husband.”
The spanking continued, each stroke building on the last until my entire backside felt like it was on fire. I gripped the couch cushions, trying to focus on anything except the way my body was responding, the way each impact sent jolts of sensation straight to my core.
“These are soaked,” Ryan said suddenly, his fingers tracing the edge of my training underwear. “Jesus, Heather, you’re completely wet.”
Shame flooded through me as he hooked his fingers in the waistband and slowly pulled the panties down, exposing me completely. I felt his sharp intake of breath as he saw the evidence of my arousal, the way my body had betrayed every protest I’d made.
“I don’t understand,” he said, his voice softer now, confused. “If this is what you want, why won’t you tell me? Why do you keep running from me?”
His hand came down again, skin against skin this time, and I couldn’t hold back the moan that escaped. The sound horrified me, revealing everything I’d been trying to hide.
“I don’t know what the problem is,” Ryan continued, his palm resting against my heated flesh, “but I’m going to do everything I can to figure it out.”
“It’s not—I’m not—” I stammered, unable to form a coherent thought. “Sir, please, I’m not aroused, I’m just—”
“You’re just what?” His hand moved lower, fingers trailing along my inner thigh. “Just so wet you’re dripping onto my pants?”
I squeezed my eyes shut, refusing to acknowledge what my body was doing, what it was begging for. “I don’t fantasize about anything,” I lied desperately. “I think about… about grocery lists and laundry and—”
“Liar.” His fingers found my center, and I gasped at the contact. “Tell me what you really think about.”
“I can’t—” I gasped as his fingers circled my clit, sending shockwaves through my entire body. The spanking had stopped, but this was so much worse. So much more dangerous.
“You’re going to come for me,” Ryan said, his voice low and commanding in a way that made my toes curl. “And then you’re going to tell me exactly what you think about when you touch yourself.”
His fingers worked me with a skill I hadn’t known he possessed, finding every sensitive spot with maddening precision. I could feel his erection pressing hard against my stomach, could hear the change in his breathing as he watched me fall apart under his touch.
“That’s it,” he murmured as I began to tremble. “Let go, Heather. Show me what you really want.”
And God help me, I wanted to. I wanted to beg him to flip me over and fuck me right there on the couch.
I wanted to tell him about every filthy fantasy that had haunted my showers, every degrading scenario that made me come so hard I saw stars.
I wanted him to use me, to take me, to make me his in ways that would horrify the good girl I was supposed to be.
But I couldn’t. I couldn’t be that person again.
“Stop,” I gasped, my whole body shaking as I fought against the pleasure building inside me. “Sir, please, you have to stop.”