by Emily Tilton
Her eyes, which had narrowed slightly as she took in the brief hesitation in Sam’s own face, went wide again as his features hardened, his chin lowering and his mouth setting itself into a severe line of righteous authority. She cried out at the tightening of his grip on her arm, and then again, louder, as he began to march her from the bathroom.
“No! Please, Sam,” she wailed. “I’m sorry!”
“Not anywhere near as sorry as you’re going to be,” Sam said grimly. After cleaning up in the kitchen, while Mary had gotten ready for what he meant to be her first real session of old-fashioned family discipline, he had prepared things in the bedroom for her whipping. The bedclothes sat on a chair, neatly folded. Atop the bare fitted sheet he had put the firmest of the pillows.
Mary tried to draw back when she saw the pillow there, but Sam pulled her toward the bed without any difficulty, though she shook like a leaf.
“Please, Sam!” she cried. “Please... just... just a spanking?”
Grimly silent, Sam brought her to the edge of the bed. She turned to look at him fearfully over her shoulder, looking so alluring in her white nightgown that he felt his cock leap back to life between his legs. The sight of her turned that way made him remember in a vivid flash just how naughty and sexy Mary had appeared the moment he had opened the bathroom door.
He saw in his mind’s eye how she had craned her neck almost the same way as now, by the bed. He had caught her looking back at herself in the mirror, her hands on her bottom, spreading her little cheeks as if she knew very well what rooting meant, as if she knew exactly what she had coming there in her tight young anus. Mary had looked like a girl who couldn’t keep her curiosity contained but had to see what her husband would see when he got ready to take her final virginity and teach her the ultimate lesson in wifely submission.
“Get over the pillow, Pixy,” Sam growled. “I’m not going to leave you in any doubt tonight about what happens when you lie about what I can see with my own eyes.”
“It’s... it’s my body,” Mary tried in a desperate voice, her face going back and forth now between the pillow in its blue pillowcase and her husband’s steady gaze. “I... I can do what I want with it.”
Sam’s instincts and his brain came into perfect sync, then, as he realized that he had the necessary answer for his wife’s perfectly valid point.
“It’s your body, Pixy,” he said, “but it’s also mine—you gave it to me, at the altar. And you promised to honor me. It’s your body, but I’m not going to let you lie to me about what it needs, and what you need, and make both of us unhappy that way. Now get over the pillow, or I’m going to put you there and hold you down for your whipping.”
A shudder went through Mary’s whole body. When Sam had started speaking, she had turned her face to the bed as if she couldn’t bear to look at him as he delivered the shameful truth to her ears.
“Please,” she whispered. “Please. Please, sir... I don’t want a whipping.”
At the sound of sir, a thrill of erotic fire traveled through Sam’s whole body. His hard cock jumped against his thigh.
“You should have thought of that before you lied, Mary. Maybe next time you’ll make a better choice, and you won’t end up over the pillow with your bare bottom in the air.”
The words drew a tiny sob from Mary. For a moment, she didn’t move, but then, suddenly, she scrambled forward onto the bed, as Sam released his grip on her upper arm. With a deep frown on her face she put herself over the pillow, resting the weight of her upper body on her elbows, face in the covers with her honey-blonde hair all around.
Sam reached out to smooth her hair to the right side of her neck, so that he could see her pink cheek though her eyes were tightly closed.
“Turn your face this way,” he said quietly, though without relinquishing any of the tone of command that he now understood made his wife respond with the respect she had begun to learn for her husband. “I want to see you while I whip you.”
Mary scrunched all her features into a deep pout of mortification, but she turned her cheek so that her face lay toward him, though her eyes remained shut.
“Open your eyes,” Sam commanded, and she obeyed, emitting a little whine from her throat as her hazel orbs opened to look up at him, her lower lip caught between her teeth.
Only then did he put his hands to his belt buckle and begin to unfasten it. Mary cried out at the sight, and her hips bucked suddenly over the pillow, a little jerk that told Sam everything he needed to know about the ambiguity of his wife’s response to family discipline. She closed her eyes for a moment. Then, seeming to remember his order to keep them open, and to fear that her whipping would be more severe if she disobeyed, she gave a little cry and opened them very wide, staring into his face as he pulled the sinuous leather from its loops and doubled it in his fist.
“I’m... I’m so scared,” Mary whispered. For once, to Sam’s surprise, she seemed to be talking utterly from her heart: yes, she obviously felt a good deal of fear about her husband’s belt and about his fixed intention to discipline her as she had so richly deserved—but she seemed to refer to a deeper fright, now.
“I know,” Sam said quietly. “I know, Pixy. I love you so much.”
A sob tore itself from her throat, and she closed her eyes again, then opened them.
“I know,” she breathed.
“You need this,” Sam said, nodding, and Mary’s face crumpled. She chewed fiercely on her lower lip. She gave a tiny nod of her own.
Moving with all the decision he could muster, following the instincts in his chest and his balls, Sam turned his attention to his wife’s pretty backside, raised over the pillow and covered, so delicately and lightly, by her adorable nightgown that it made his heart beat faster with every second that he gazed down on her sweet form. With his left hand, he parted the silky back panels of the baby doll, marveling that he hadn’t seen, on their wedding night, what an exciting way to access his bride’s intimate secrets those sheer curtains provided.
Mary let out a little whimper as she felt him bare her bottom. The fabric fell to either side, to show him her pert young backside, the cheeks like pale pink apples, sweetly rounded and tightly closed by the firmness with which she had kept her knees together as she had gone over the pillow.
On sheer instinct again, Sam put his left hand on her waist, just above the out-curving of her bottom-cheeks, and tapped the doubled leather of his belt against the inside of Mary’s left thigh.
“Knees apart,” he said. “When I whip you, I want to be sure you understand that you’re submitting everything to your husband. You’ll always shave before a whipping, and get dressed in something pretty, just like you are now. Get these knees apart and show me the little pussy you bared for my pleasure.”
He glanced from her backside to her face, and saw her looking at him with so complicated an expression that it tore at his heart. In her red cheeks and her furrowed brow, though, Sam saw enough arousal that he felt sure of what to do next. With his eyes fixed on hers, he raised the belt and brought it down hard across her little bottom.
Mary gave a wordless cry, her body jerking under his hand. Her mouth opened in an O of pain and surprise. Sam lifted the belt and gave her another lash across her still closed thighs.
“Get your knees apart, Mary,” he said. “Your real whipping doesn’t begin until I can see your pussy.”
Her knees trembled violently, and then parted. Sam’s cock leaped in his jeans at his first clear sight of his modest bride without her pussy hair. The erotic fire flared up in him, and without considering any further, he gave Mary what she had earned: turning his attention completely to her naughty backside, he held her down and whipped her hard and fast.
Instantly she began to struggle. Writhing over the pillow, she tried to crawl away, to turn on her side, to throw her hands back to cover herself and ward off her husband’s belt from her reddening bottom. Sam easily kept control of her, though, and kept punishing her, delivering las
h after lash to her bottom and her upper thighs as the crack of the leather echoed off the walls of their bedroom.
Mary screamed and sobbed, begged for mercy, but Sam paid attention only to the color of her backside. She needed a stern lesson, and he gave her one he felt certain she would never forget.
“Are you going... to lie to me... again?” he growled, slowing the pace of the whipping a little and delivering a lash with his belt after each phrase.
“No, sir! No, sir... please! Please, stop... it hurts so much!”
Sam raised the belt and held it aloft. “Of course it hurts, Mary. You were dishonest, and you were disrespectful. You misbehaved like a naughty little girl and so you have to be punished like a naughty little girl.”
He brought the leather down again, hard, and Mary’s bottom surged, clenching and unclenching as if she rode on a seat of fire. Sam had a sexy view of her bare pussy and even her little anus as she squirmed, wailing and sobbing, “Sir... sir, please. I’ll never... I’ll never lie.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” Sam said grimly. He dropped the belt on the bed and reached into his pocket for the little bottle he had put there. “Now reach your hands back and spread your butt-cheeks for me. I’m going to root your bottom on my cock and fuck you there to teach you to obey me.”
Chapter Thirteen
Mary closed her eyes tightly and buried her face in the blue fitted sheet, tasting the salt from the tears with which she had made a wet spot the size of a paperback book. She didn’t care if Sam whipped her more for not looking at him. Her whole body seemed ablaze with shame and discomfort, far more at his words even than from the terrible thrashing she had just received on her bare bottom.
She felt her face scrunch up into a mask of woe as she seemed to hear Mrs. Grabano in Wellness class touch ever so lightly on the matter of a husband’s disciplinary rights. “Girls, if you misbehave seriously, I’m afraid that the New Modesty program specifically encourages husbands to punish their wives in some very embarrassing ways—ways that may make you wish he stuck to an old-fashioned hiding. What can happen to a girl’s backside when her conduct becomes a real problem, I’m afraid, is less old-fashioned and a good deal more intimate.”
That word... that shameful word, its meaning now revealed. Root. Mary’s cheeks felt like they had caught fire despite the tears still rolling down them. How could he want to do that, in her most private, most secret place? How could he think he had the right to put his hard penis there, and enjoy her in that terrible way while she must lie over the pillow, whipped bottom raised, and take it?
But she knew. The word told her, its four simple letters burning in her mind: root. From now on, Mary Hunter would be rooted in her new home. Her young bottom would learn to receive what her husband bestowed, when she had shown disrespect or had disobeyed him. Sam meant to train his bride as she had demonstrated she needed, with his firm hand and his heavy belt and his hard cock.
“Do as you’re told, Mary,” he growled from behind her. “Or I’m going to keep whipping you until you do. And look at me, right now, like I told you to do.”
Mary bit her lip. Let him whip her more. Her bottom and her thighs hurt so much, but she could never give him the satisfaction of knowing he had conquered her, could she? He could see her shaven pussy, couldn’t he? He had made her spread her knees to give him that lewd view of his wife’s newly bare slit. Let him fuck her there if he pleased, shamefully from behind the way she knew he liked to do. That would show her power over him, wouldn’t it?
The thought made her pussy clench, to her mortification, and her hips move over the pillow. She emitted a low sob as she felt how the terrible warmth of the whipping had started to make its way forward, the same way the discomfort from the spanking last Sunday had done.
She heard something small drop to the bed behind her, near where Sam had dropped the belt. What? What was it? In her mind, for some reason, she saw a little bottle of the kind you saw under the counter at the pharmacy, and her cheeks blazed.
Mary didn’t have time to consider that possibility though, because Sam tightened his left hand’s grip on her waist and started to spank her hard with his right. Atop the sting from his belt, each spank of his enormous hand—three of them, right in the middle of her bottom—made her scream in agony.
“Look at me,” he said, and she couldn’t help it: she turned her face to look at him over her forearm where it rested on the fitted sheet.
Sam gazed steadily back at her, his face stern and his eyes hard but somehow also kind. That expression made Mary’s brow furrow as a new flow of tears came from her eyes.
He knows what I need better than I do. The idea pressed itself on Mary’s mind more forcefully than ever before. Why wouldn’t he just do it? Why couldn’t he just fuck her, the way he had on Sunday, and maybe not apologize afterward?
She saw his right hand come down again, but this time he made her cry out in a very different way. He rubbed her bottom gently, his fingers making a circle on her right cheek and then on her left.
“Oh, please... Sam... sir... please,” she moaned, as she watched his eyes flick to her backside, to see the naughty thing he did, and then back to her face. “Please... I don’t want to do that. Please... in my... my... pussy? I don’t want... that.”
“I know you don’t want it in your bottom, Pixy. But you’re being punished, now. You need to learn your lesson.”
Mary gave a little sob, and then that sound became a long moan because Sam moved his hand to her pussy, and he made her feel, between her legs, what it meant to have a husband who knew his rights and would use them. He put two fingers on the shaven hood of her clit, and he gripped her firmly. He put his thumb on her anus and she cried out as he pressed there to tell her without words that her little hole belonged to him and he would do with it as he pleased—especially if he could teach her to be a good girl that way.
Did she want it in her bottom, after all? Mary moved over the pillow, in response to Sam’s rough caress, positively starting to ache now, between her legs. She knew that she wanted—no, needed—her husband inside her. Not the respectful way he had deflowered her on their wedding night. No, the brutal way he had taken her on Sunday after the spanking, every thrust a message about his authority and her subservience.
Not in my bottom, though. Please, not in my bottom.
But she found her hands going back behind her, because she wanted to feel them on her whipped cheeks. She took the little globes in her hands, so warm from her husband’s belt, and she cried out because the jolt of pleasure that went through her midsection almost made her climax all on its own. Her face now resting on the sheet and her hands behind her, she rode Sam’s hand lewdly, desperately.
“Please... oh, please,” she whispered, watching him focus entirely on her backside. “Please, sir. I’ll be good.”
He turned his attention back to her face, and she saw him smile at the same time she felt him squeeze her pussy hard, and drive his thumb into her bottom-hole so firmly that Mary felt like an object, like a six-pack of beer picked up casually by a working man’s strong hand. She came, looking into his eyes, crying out, jerking and writhing over the pillow where her husband had put her for discipline and enjoyment. The silky nightgown fluttered around her hands in her struggling, as she clutched her well-whipped backside and showed Sam the naughty, wrinkly little hole where he meant to use his bride for his pleasure and her training in submission.
Still smiling into her eyes, he used his huge hand to make Mary come again. He pushed his thumb even further into her bottom-hole, and she realized that at some point he had covered it with the lubricant men use when they decide to fuck an anus. She sobbed at the thought, bucking against Sam’s hand and impaling herself still further on the lewd digit he imposed on her, for her misconduct.
Two of his other fingers, thick and strong, moved down from her clit so that he could enter her pussy with them. He pressed into her vagina urgently and finger-fucked her hard while his thumb in he
r bottom invaded her even deeper.
Mary screamed, and came again, her mouth open and gasping, her eyes wide and her tears forgotten. Sam’s smile seemed hungrier with every passing second as he bent her to his will and saw how his modest bride responded to his utter dominance. Mary watched his left hand move out toward her, felt it come to rest on the back of her head and twine its fingers in her hair.
She came again, at that feeling of control as much as at the rough treatment Sam gave her between her legs and her bottom-cheeks. Casually he pushed her face into the sheet as he taught her how it would be from now on, how Mary would go over the pillow for a lesson when he decided she needed it, how he would decide what happened to her body when the time came for a whipping and a rooting.
Mary cried out again, at the departure of her husband’s commanding hands. Sam took them away, as if he meant her to understand that he would dominate her not only with pleasure and pain but also with its absence. She lost sight of him for a moment, and then she felt his weight move the bed, and she couldn’t suppress a cry of alarm as her huge, naked husband got up behind her, and she felt his massive, hairy thighs at either side of her own.
“Oh, no,” she whispered. “Please. I’ll be good.” Somehow those words had acquired an almost talismanic power in Mary’s mind. If she kept repeating them, she had found, something in her could respond to Sam without so much fear. With a little whimper she felt herself react down below to the submission in her mind even as she felt her husband’s long, hard penis between the bottom-cheeks she held open for her shameful discipline. She whispered one more word, the best and yet the most embarrassing one of all: “Sir.”
“Will you, Pixy?” Sam asked, his voice a low growl that made her heart jump. One of his hands stroked her back where the parted panels of the baby doll nightgown left it bare, working his fingers up under the place the sheer fabric still covered her, across her shoulder blades.
