Chapter 21
Heather
As soon as we walked through the door of our house, Ryan made clear how much had changed.
“Take off your clothes,” he told me. “You’ll be naked most of the time when you’re at home, from now on.”
I stared at him, my heart hammering against my ribs as the reality of what he was saying sank in. This wasn’t a request or a suggestion—it was a command from the man who now owned me completely.
My hands trembled as I reached for the hem of my blouse, the simple cotton fabric suddenly feeling foreign against my fingers.
Just days ago, I’d been his modest wife who insisted on privacy even when changing clothes.
Hours ago, I’d felt grateful to put on the clothes Ryan had brought to the Selecta Solutions facility, for me to come home in: a pink top, a blue skirt, my everyday beige bra and white panties.
Now I was stripping naked in our living room because my husband had decided I no longer deserved the dignity of clothing in my own home.
“All of it,” Ryan said when I hesitated after removing my top, his voice carrying that new authority that made my knees weak. “Bra, skirt, panties. Everything comes off, and you’ll ask permission before putting anything back on.”
I unhooked my bra with shaking fingers, my breasts spilling free as the garment fell to the floor.
The cool air made my nipples harden immediately, and I saw Ryan’s eyes track the movement with obvious satisfaction.
My face burned with shame, but underneath the humiliation was that treasonous heat I could never control.
The skirt pooled around my ankles next, followed by my simple white panties—the modest cotton underwear that felt like a lie now after wearing the red lace lingerie at the facility.
I stood there completely naked in our living room, my arms instinctively moving to cover myself before Ryan’s sharp look stopped me.
“Hands at your sides,” he commanded. “I want to see all of you, whenever I want. Your body belongs to me now, and I’ll look at it as much as I please.”
I let my arms fall, exposing myself completely to his hungry gaze. The way he studied me—not with the gentle appreciation I was used to, but with the possessive assessment of ownership—sent mixed mortification and lust through my core.
“Beautiful,” he murmured, stepping closer to run his hands over my bare skin. “This is how you should have been greeting me every day since our wedding. Naked, available, ready to serve.”
His touch was confident now, claiming, nothing like the hesitant caresses I’d grown accustomed to. When his fingers found my pussy, I gasped at the contact, my hips bucking involuntarily against his hand.
“Already wet,” he observed with satisfaction. “My little ass girl likes being displayed for her husband, doesn’t she?”
The degrading pet name made me whimper, but I couldn’t deny the truth of his words.
Standing naked before him while he remained fully clothed made me feel completely vulnerable, completely owned.
It was exactly what I’d craved during all those frustrating nights when I’d touched myself in the shower.
“Yes, sir,” I whispered, my voice barely audible. “I like it when you look at me.”
“Good,” Ryan said, his fingers continuing their exploration. “Now, since you’ve been home for less than five minutes and you’re already wet, we need to do something to make sure you remember what you are.”
My stomach dropped at his words, even as my body responded with shameful heat to the promise in his voice. Before I could ask what he meant, his strong hands were turning me around, positioning me so I faced the back of our couch.
“Bend over,” he commanded, his palm settling on my lower back to guide me forward. “Hands on the cushions.”
I obeyed without thinking, my body moving of its own accord as I leaned over the familiar furniture.
My bottom rose high in the air while my face came to rest against the soft fabric where we’d watched television together like a normal married couple just days ago.
Now I was naked and bent over it, waiting for my husband to remind me of my place.
“Spread your legs wider,” Ryan said, his voice full of authority. “I want full access to what’s mine.”
I whimpered as I complied, my thighs parting until I felt completely opened to my husband’s gaze.
The cool air moved between my legs, and I knew he could see everything—my dripping pussy, the tight ring of my anus that he’d claimed so thoroughly at the facility.
The memory of how he’d used me there, how he’d made me confess everything while his massive cock stretched me beyond my limits, sent fresh heat flooding through my core.
I felt his warm hands settle on my bottom, his palms spreading my cheeks as he examined me to his obscene satisfaction. The casual way he displayed me, as if my body was simply an object for his inspection, made my face burn with humiliation even as my pussy clenched with need.
“This little hole,” he murmured, his thumb brushing over my anus, “belongs to me now. Doesn’t it, ass girl?”
“Yes, sir,” I gasped, my voice muffled against the couch cushions. The light touch sent electricity through my nervous system, reminding me of how completely he’d dominated me just hours ago.
Without warning, I felt his finger press against my cringing anus, not entering, but simply resting there like a promise. The contact made me shiver, my body instinctively trying to clench against the invasion even as part of me craved it.
“I’m going to put my finger in your ass,” Ryan said matter-of-factly. “To remind you that this part of you—all of you—is mine to use whenever I choose.”
I bit my lip as I felt him begin to push forward, his thick digit working past the tight ring with steady pressure. The burn was immediate and overwhelming, but not entirely unpleasant. My body remembered how to accept this invasion, how to relax and submit to his claiming.
“Oh,” I whimpered as he slid deeper, his finger filling me completely. The sensation was different from his massive cock—more intimate and more personal. This wasn’t about his pleasure, but about establishing his ownership.
“That’s it,” he murmured, beginning to move his finger in and out. “That’s my sweet little hole.”
The degrading words sent a jolt straight through me, and I couldn’t suppress the moan that escaped my lips. My body was responding to his finger with shameful eagerness, my hips pushing back against the invasion despite my mortification.
“Actually,” Ryan said, his finger stilling inside me, “Selecta Solutions sent you home with a souvenir. Something to help you remember your training.”
My blood turned to ice at his words. “What do you mean?” I whispered, though I dreaded the answer.
I heard him moving behind me, his finger still buried in my bottom as he reached for something. When I craned my neck to look back, I saw him holding a small velvet box that I hadn’t noticed him carrying into the house.
“They want to make sure you don’t forget what you learned,” he said, opening the box with his free hand. “So they’ve given you something to wear.”
Inside the box, nestled in black silk, was a metal butt plug. It was beautiful in a terrible way—polished steel with an elegant flared base set with what looked like a real emerald. The sight of it made my stomach clench with recognition and shameful arousal.
“No,” I whimpered, my voice breaking. “Please, Ryan, I don’t need that. I’ll remember everything, I promise.”
“Will you?” he asked, his voice carrying that dangerous calm that meant he’d already made his decision. “Because just this morning you were still lying to me about who you really are. I think you need a constant reminder of your place.”
I felt his finger withdraw from my anus, leaving me feeling empty and exposed. The cool air against my stretched opening made me shiver as I heard him removing the plug from its velvet housing.
“This will stay in until bedtime,” Ryan informed me matter-of-factly. “Every time you move, every time you sit, you’ll remember that you’re my ass girl. That your body belongs to me completely.”
I tried to clench my bottom shut, some instinctive part of me rebelling against this final claiming. But Ryan’s hand settled firmly on my lower back, holding me in position as I felt the cool metal pressing against my tender opening.
“Relax,” he commanded sternly. “Fighting it will only make it worse.”
The plug was much larger than his finger, and I gasped as he began to work it inside me. The metal was cold and unyielding, nothing like the warm flesh I’d grown accustomed to. I bit my lip hard enough to taste blood as he pushed it deeper, my body stretching to accommodate the intrusion.
“Please,” I sobbed, my hands gripping the couch cushions desperately. “Please, sir… I can’t—”
“Of course you can,” Ryan said firmly, continuing to press the plug forward. “Your body was made for this, Heather. Made to be filled and used by your husband. You took my cock just this afternoon.”
I cried out as the widest part of the plug passed the tight ring and settled into place, the flared base nestling against my bottom as my body clenched helplessly around the cold metal.
The sensation was overwhelming—not just the physical invasion, but the psychological weight of what it represented.
I was plugged, marked, claimed in the most intimate way possible.
“Perfect,” Ryan murmured, his hand stroking my burning cheeks possessively. “Now you look like what you are—my properly prepared ass girl.”
I sobbed against the couch cushions, my entire body trembling as I tried to adjust to the foreign presence inside me. Every tiny movement sent jolts of sensation through my core, reminding me of my complete submission to my husband’s will.
“Stand up,” he commanded, and I struggled to obey on shaking legs. The plug shifted with every movement, making me gasp as I straightened. “Good. Now put on your apron and make dinner.”
My eyes widened in shock. He wanted me to cook? Like this? Naked except for an apron, with a metal plug buried in my bottom?
“Sir,” I whispered, my voice cracking. “Please… not with this thing inside me?”
“Don’t talk back, ass girl,” Ryan said firmly. “The apron is hanging in the kitchen where it always is. You’ll cook for me properly from now on—naked, plugged, and grateful for the opportunity to serve.”
I walked toward the kitchen on unsteady legs, each step sending the plug deeper, making me whimper with the constant reminder of my submission.
The simple white apron hung on its usual hook, and I tied it around my waist with trembling fingers.
The thin cotton barely covered my breasts and left my bottom completely exposed, the jeweled base of the plug, I felt sure, catching the light and sparkling as Ryan watched me.
As I stood at the counter considering what to prepare, something strange happened.
Despite the overwhelming sensations coursing through my body, I found myself actually focusing on the meal in a way I never had before.
I wanted to please Ryan, wanted to show him I could be the kind of wife he deserved.
Not the lying, deceptive woman I’d been, but someone worthy of his dominance.
I chose chicken Marsala—his favorite dish that I’d always made carelessly before, more concerned with getting it over with than making it special.
But now I found myself pounding the chicken carefully, seasoning the breasts with extra care, taking time to properly brown them before adding the wine and mushrooms. Every movement sent jolts through my plugged bottom, but instead of distracting me, it seemed to focus my attention on the task at hand.
I’d managed to overcook the angel hair pasta Ryan liked with the chicken every time, but tonight nothing was good enough except perfection.
I took the pasta out and drained it right on schedule.
I tasted and adjusted the seasoning in the Marsala sauce, added herbs with careful consideration, plated everything with an attention to presentation I’d never shown.
When everything was ready, I carried the plates into the dining room, my heart racing with nervous anticipation.
But when I entered the dining room, my breath caught in my throat.
Ryan had moved my chair away from the table entirely, pushing it against the far wall where it sat like an abandoned piece of furniture.
“Put the food on the table,” he said without looking up from his phone, his voice carrying that casual authority that made my stomach flutter. “Then kneel next to my chair.”