by Emily Tilton
As his lovely bride sobbed over his knee, her back heaving under his powerful arm and her struggles growing less as the spanking continued, Sam remembered what had followed the Sex is important slide in New Modesty orientation. “Don’t hesitate to punish her,” the discussion leader had said, “if she needs it, to find real sexual satisfaction.”
That hadn’t made much sense to Sam at the time—he had wondered how any girl could need punishment to feel good—but although the logic of it still eluded him as he disciplined Mary now, he began to see that it might be true. For, as he slowed the rhythm of the forceful swats he gave her warm red backside, he heard a different note come into her whimpers and sobs. The next time he breathed in, he noted a musky scent in the air, one that made him look down at Mary’s polka-dot panties, inside the gray sweats tangled around her feet.
Could he see a dark spot there, from a wet pussy?
“Sam,” she sobbed. “Please, Sam.”
“Are you ready to bend over the bed, Mary?” he asked sternly.
“Oh, God... please, Sam... don’t.” Her voice sounded so piteous that he almost gave in. Love for his kind, slightly impish bride filled his chest. But the instinct raged inside him, even if the anger had subsided. He knew... or, really, he felt that he had to continue: the hardness between his thighs and the justice in his breast wouldn’t allow any other course. He raised his hand and brought it down hard in the middle of her red bottom, and she cried out in pain.
“Are you ready to do as you were told?”
“Yes!” Mary accompanied the monosyllable with a renewed attempt to get off his knee that took Sam a little by surprise. For a moment he held her in place, not quite as tightly as before, letting her begin to move her limbs but easily maintaining the tension that kept her from rising completely.
Instinct, again, had put the idea in his own body, as if the lower parts of him wanted to teach his brain a lesson by drawing a particular response from Mary. Her reaction to feeling his strength anew that way made his cock jump in his boxer-briefs. She cried out, but not in discomfort, and her hips bucked, her legs parting a little and showing him an enticing view of her sparsely furred pussy, peeping out between her legs.
Memories of their wedding night, of wanting to turn on the light so he could see his beautiful bride in her sexy nightgown—so he could look at and taste her virgin pussy and get her ready there before he enjoyed her for the first time, flooded into his mind. He had, his instinct told him now, had too much respect for her modesty. That wouldn’t be the case now.
He took a breath through his nose, and smelled the musky aroma even more strongly. It set his blood afire. Sam felt certain of it now—his modest young bride had gotten horny as he had manhandled her, and as he had given her the old-fashioned discipline she had earned.
Mary for her part had frozen in place when she realized that Sam’s grip hadn’t loosened entirely. A little sound came from her throat that Sam couldn’t interpret—alarm definitely made part of it though. For a moment he wondered if he should—if he even could—say anything. Then instinct took hold, and he took his left arm off her back completely, and moved his right leg so that she could stand.
She got up like a shot and moved to the foot of the bed, awkwardly because in the process she had to kick off her sweats and panties, which she then picked up and threw into the closet. As she bent down there, her palms on the rumpled comforter, she shook like a leaf. She turned her tearstained face to Sam, an expression on her face too complex for him to read.
“Happy now?” she said, in a tone that seemed intended to challenge him and to demonstrate a spanked girl’s sarcastic resentment, but which actually struck Sam as sounding more like a real question.
“Yes, Pixy,” he said softly, rising to stand over her as Mary’s eyes followed his upward trajectory. “I’m happy with the way you’re respecting my wishes, at least.”
She turned her face, her brow deeply creased, as he made his own way slowly around the corner of their king-sized bed. Her old green t-shirt rode up her back a little, and hung down so that Sam got a lovely, alluring view of her sweet little breasts inside it. Slowly he reached out his left hand and put it atop her waist, but he left his right hand hanging at his side.
“What are you going to do?” she asked fearfully, the words coming out in a rush. “Get it over with, please.”
He raised his right hand and watched her take her lower lip between her teeth. He saw her eyes travel downward to his waist, and he saw them get very big as she undoubtedly saw the outline of his erection there. For a moment he wondered how that made her feel—he thought it most likely that Mary Johnson had never even seen a picture of a man’s hard cock before Sam’s had deflowered her a week ago. Nor had she even seen his, then; this view through his boxer-briefs represented the closest his innocent young bride had come to a view of a man’s penis.
Mary’s eyes came back up to Sam’s face, and her nose winkled even as the furrow in her brow got still deeper. Again he wondered if he should say something—about the way she had looked at his cock, about the naughty scent in the air, the dark spot on the panties she had kicked away.
Instead, he brought his hand downward, as her attention turned to that motion and her eyes got even wider, but he didn’t swing his arm swiftly and forcefully as he would have, in order to spank her. Sam moved his right hand slowly, so that his wife could see he didn’t intend to punish her now. Before his fingertips even touched her between her thighs, where her sweet, tender cleft seemed to radiate heat even more than her spanked bottom-cheeks, Mary gave a little cry, and her whole body shuddered. When he did, gently, lay his middle fingers along her pussy lips, and press softly on the wrinkly hood of her clit, the cry came again, louder, she turned her face away, and she tried, with catlike swiftness, to scramble onto the bed and away from him.
Sam, though startled, moved too fast for her, though. He grabbed her right hip with his left hand and brought his own hips against her side to keep her backside in place.
“Oh, no,” Mary whimpered. “Please, Sam... don’t... I don’t want...”
But instinct prevented her husband from doing anything but move his fingertips back a little, to find the answer to the question that had become so very important both to his head and to his heart—not to mention to the hard manhood that now stretched the cotton of his underwear into an almost painful tent. His fingers found so much wetness there, just between her cringing inner lips, that he half-gasped at just how ready for fucking, how needy for cock, his modest bride had gotten while he had disciplined her.
“Nooo,” Mary wailed. “I’m... it’s not... Sam, don’t...” She hung her head so that her shoulder-length honey-blonde hair hung down around her face, and her whole body trembled with what Sam thought must at least have some part of arousal in it.
Her apparent determination to deny her sexual needs, though—and the way it affected his own ability to satisfy his raging desire for the woman he loved, the woman he had married and deflowered—brought the frustration back, rising, it felt to him, from his loins to his chest. He pulled his hand away and began to spank her again, holding her immobile against his lap and covering her ass and her upper thighs with sharp swats. He didn’t spank her as hard because he could tell from Mary’s cries how painful each slap felt on her already punished backside, but he kept it up for long seconds, making it clear when words had failed that things couldn’t go on this way.
“Please! Please, Sam... it hurts so much,” Mary wailed.
“You... need... to... learn,” Sam said, still punishing her but slowing the pace of the spanking now. “To... respect... me.”
Then, to his surprise, his wife said, in a very different voice, a low sob of desperation that also seemed to contain something close to a taunt, “Just do it. Do it. I know you want to.”
Instinct took over completely, then; in his chest and his gut much more than in his head, Sam knew that the way to ensure Mary understood her place in her new home
must involve giving her the full measure of what she had asked for. Keeping her hips close with his left arm, he used his other hand to pull his underwear down, so that his long, hard cock sprang fee and the boxer-briefs dropped to the floor.
Mary must have felt the fabric coming off, felt the bareness of her husband’s most masculine place against her creamy skin and the wiry curls that surrounded Sam’s erection rubbing her flank. She gave a wordless cry of need, her head still hanging low, and she arched her back, trying, it seemed, to push her red bottom up and out, as if to present herself to him for fucking.
Sam stepped a little to the side, his right hand firmly on Mary’s hip now.
“That’s it,” he said, in a voice that sounded strange to him—a tone that came from the same place of primal urge that had told him he had to punish his disrespectful bride. He took his cock in his left hand and rubbed its head up and down her exposed pussy lips, then pressed it a little deeper, where her closed thighs just kept him from touching her clit with the tip of his hard shaft. “Show me your whole pussy, Mary. Spread your knees and push out your ass for your husband to fuck you. Show me what you need.”
“Oh, God,” Mary moaned. “I... I can’t... please...”
Sam stepped back, and his wife gave a little whimper. He moved to her left side again, very quickly, and took hold of her hip with his left hand while he brought his right back. He spanked her, hard.
“Are you going to do as you’re told?” he demanded, as she yelped pitifully.
“Yes!” She shuffled her feet apart and arched her back again, more fully. “Please... please don’t spank me anymore.”
Chapter Five
Mary felt her husband move back behind her, felt him change the grip of his hands again, just as he had a moment before, when she had felt his penis hard against her hip, and then felt it starting to push inside her. She had no choice, now, he had made that perfectly clear: he would spank her, and keep spanking her, unless she let him have his way, and put his penis inside her and have sex the way men liked to do.
When she had asked herself, as she had over and over every day for the past week, why she didn’t want to have sex with her husband, the only answer her heart and mind could provide took the form of an image. Them, in the kitchen: Mary in her sweats and t-shirt, Sam in his running clothes.
Mary’s hand raised to ward him off playfully. Her admonishing words: No sweaty tigers.
Sam’s face darkening, her tummy flipping... then, nothing: the powerfully muscled, sweaty man controlling himself, smiling, going toward the bathroom to take a shower.
Now, because she had avoided him—because she had lied to him, so that she wouldn’t have to let him have sex with her—the sweats had come off for a terrible spanking. Under the t-shirt she felt his right hand move, cupping her breasts, pinching her nipples as if to assert his ownership of those helplessly stiff peaks even as he made clear that he knew how shamefully turned on Mary had gotten as he had punished her.
At the same time, further down, where the sweats and the polka-dot panties she had gotten so wet no longer protected her once-fucked pussy, he moved the head of his thing up and down gently. Mary cried out with need, sure suddenly that Sam understood everything, that he meant her to understand that from now on she would get what she had coming whether she wanted it or not.
Her bottom felt so terribly warm, and her pussy ached. She moaned at the teasing sensation there, trying to present herself even more fully, since she had no choice, since her husband wanted to fuck his bride and he understood how wet she got when he took her in hand properly.
The gentleness ceased, suddenly, and she felt his hardness invade her, his hands move, one to her hip and the other to her shoulder. She cried out loud, and she felt what she knew could only be the first orgasm of her life overwhelm her. The word pleasure barely seemed adequate for how it felt, for the way it made her life luminous, for the way it filled her body with love for her husband.
The climax made her shudder and scream, and Mary found herself somehow shaping the scream, too—instinctively voicing it in a way that made the pleasure more intense. She couldn’t help it, because her need was so great: she screamed as if she didn’t like it, didn’t like having her husband’s hard penis inside her, even though every fiber of her being craved it more with every hard thrust he gave.
The scream brought on a struggle, too; Mary tried to move her body in the iron grip of Sam’s hands, as if to escape the pounding of his strong lap against her spanked backside. Sam grunted, the sound animalistic and angry. He held her in place and fucked her harder, and she came again—and then again and again, screaming and sobbing as if she wished he would stop though every part of her, body, mind, and heart wanted nothing more from life at that moment than to have her handsome, hard-bodied husband use her pussy for his pleasure as long as he chose.
Those climaxes made her struggle even more, because the feeling of tension—the sensation she had discovered when he had pulled her away from the door, and had become so shamefully intense over his lap—seemed to make the ecstasy much greater. She reared back and twisted her torso, almost as if she meant to push Sam away.
His reaction sent a thrill of fear through her that somehow also made her come again. His hands gripped her even tighter, and he growled, “You’re going to stay right where you are until I come inside you, Mary. You’re my wife and you’re having a fucking after your punishment. I don’t care if you like it.”
As he spoke these terrible words his hips kept driving hard, his rigid penis flashing swiftly back and forth inside Mary’s poor little vagina, which began to feel sore from the size and power of her husband’s manhood. He had opened her so gently there, on their wedding night, and used her pussy in so traditional a way. The thought made her whimper as she pictured herself bending over now with Sam behind her, riding hard. Her bottom was red because she had disrespected her husband, and his hardness was inside her to teach her the most important lesson a bride can learn—to please the man to whom she belongs.
She sobbed at the image in her mind’s eye. “Please, Sam... please, don’t...” She meant, she supposed, Please don’t stop, but she sobbed again as she realized she also meant Please don’t fuck me, because the thought of it made the need inside her and the pleasure that answered that need so much greater.
I’m a good girl. I’ll be a good girl, the kind who doesn’t have to have a fucking after her husband spanks her. Please don’t fuck me, sir. I promise to be good.
Mary came again, thinking these shameful thoughts, screaming and sobbing at them and loving Sam so very, very much for letting her think them even as his magnificent cock brought her such overwhelming pleasure.
He cried out behind her and above her, his rhythm suddenly uneven. She gasped as she felt his cock pulse inside her with the spurting of his seed. Sam held himself in deep, so deep that it made her sob with even more of the need for him, with regret, even, that he had climaxed and her second, much more successful fuck had come to a close.
Then, to her confusion and terror, Sam said, “Oh, my God, Mary... I’m so sorry.”
He pulled out of her, and he seemed about to try to help her stand up, perhaps so that he could take her into his arms. In that instant, Mary knew that she could reassure her husband that everything he had done had been fine—better than fine... much, much better than fine.
But the word sorry, somehow, had twisted things back up inside her in a way she had foolishly thought only a few moments before they couldn’t get twisted again. Waves of heat that seemed just as great as the lingering warmth of the spanking in her rear end crashed upward into her neck and her face—shame so great at what she had let her husband do, the way she had let him see her get aroused that way, that all the pleasure in her body evaporated.
She twisted away, and now Sam let her go. Mary scrambled up the bed and then off the side of it closest to the door. This time she opened it, turning back as she did so to look at him with an expression she
carefully arranged into contempt.
“I’m going to take a shower,” she said. Sam stood there, naked, looking at her, his kind eyes so apologetic that it made her heart ache even as her mind piled scorn on him for his brutish behavior. She kept her gaze above his chest; she had no intention, now, after his apology, of ever seeing what he had below his taut abs. “We can forget this ever happened, if you want. Just don’t try anything like it again.”
* * *
Over the next few days, Mary definitely tried to forget all about it, and it seemed to her like Sam did the same. She stopped trying to avoid him so much, because it didn’t seem like she stood in any danger of him trying to get close to her. Part of her cried out for his arms around her, yes, but he had work at the gym, and he stayed there late now.
Mary made dinner and left it in the refrigerator, after she got home from the office job the New Modesty authority had found for her after high school. She had meant to quit when the time came to raise a family, but maybe that wasn’t going to happen now?
It was fine. Mary knew she had surrendered something she had supposed she would have, in her marriage, but the price of keeping it seemed impossible to pay. Once or twice she found her mind flashing back to the moment after Sam had apologized, when the universe had presented the bill, with the price—tell your husband what you need—on the bottom line. Her thoughts turned away again, immediately, each time: how could you talk about that with a man, let alone with her husband? That stuff Mrs. Grabano covered in Wellness class, with the obvious implication that once you had taken that course you didn’t have to think about any of it ever again.
And Mary, clearly, had ensured that she wouldn’t: We can forget this ever happened. Sam would never try anything like that again. She saw him in the morning, and they kissed with pursed lips after his run and his shower, before he left for the gym. Sometimes she almost asked him to hug her, but she found she couldn’t bring herself to say anything to him but, “Have a good day. Love you.”
