by Emily Tilton
Now Quint supposed the conversation had in fact had to do with effective communication. He had just never put two and two together with regard to this particular sort of message delivery—the bottom up, panties down kind.
To be fair to himself, the urge to spank Emily had rarely been very far from his mind during the entire time they had dated. He loved her, but she could too easily get wrapped up in her own desires and bury her essential, caring side under a mountain of little demands and preferences that she sometimes seemed powerless to place under reasonable control. At that meeting with the wedding planner, in fact, the thought of turning his lovely bride over his knee to teach her a lesson in respecting other people’s needs and feelings had taken such a hold over Quint that every time she called him ‘Albright’ he had to suppress the urge to tell her it would be the last time.
It had seemed a fantasy though, and he had maintained in his mind the resolution with which he had entered into this engagement with the woman he loved: he would tolerate the demanding, bratty side of her nature in a way that his father hadn’t with his mother. Quint could see that his mother had made things difficult—really, had driven Skip to leave. He could also see, though, that if Skip had managed to be more tolerant—not indulgent, of course, but relaxed, at least—things might have worked out differently. Quint didn’t think so much of himself and his own powers of rationality that he believed he could foresee everything that would happen in his marriage, but he had thought that by for instance letting Emily call him ‘Albright’ he would lay his course for a harmonious union.
Nor did he think he had been entirely wrong in that idea, even now that he had Emily with her jeans and panties down over his knee, and he could tell from the mineral fragrance of her pussy that this method of communication had begun to have the desired effect. He would need to tolerate her demands, just as she would need to tolerate his sailing every weekend and spending several weeks at sea each year.
But Jason had given him a vital extra part of the equation, in suggesting that he spank his future bride. An end to tolerance had to come eventually, and the boundary needed communicating. That much would have been possible, Quint thought, through a more ordinary kind of messaging, but a second crucial element of Jason’s guidance came into play at that point, because Quint had wanted to dominate Emily since the moment he had first taken her in his arms in a darkened quadrangle.
When they had sex, at first, the urge to be less than a gentleman in bed at times seemed nearly unbearable. His last girlfriend—the only other girl with whom Quint had slept, in fact—had made it clear that she liked domination and rough sex. Giving that up had seemed a little hard to him, with Emily, at first. But he had so much in return: the bride of his dreams, who pleased his mother (most of the time) so much. The girl who had lost her own mother, a woman Quint regarded as an aunt and simply adored, so recently.
Now he looked down at her bare bottom, already very red from the hard spanking he had given her through her jeans, and he thought about all the possibilities. She had already said she would call him ‘Quint.’ Yes, it was a little thing, but the way she had looked at him told him that Jason had spoken no more than the truth, about how beneficial the clear communication of boundaries would be.
She had moaned when she realized that he wasn’t spanking her bare backside as hard as he had spanked her covered one. He had considered: the hairbrush? Not hard, but just to let her know he would discipline her that way as well?
No, he had thought. She’s my future wife, and my sexual partner already. A very different kind of discipline is in order. A reward for taking her spanking reasonably well, for acceding to my wish about my name, for acknowledging her need for punishment. A reward that will make it clear that I can command her body the same way the guy who put his finger up her ass did.
Her initial response to his question about the location of the vibrator of which he had caught only a brief glimpse at the shower sounded like a cross between a sob and a moan.
“I know Heather wasn’t lying, sweetheart. I know it from the way you’re taking your spanking.” He spoke softly, and as he uttered the final words he put two fingers lightly at the place where her adorable pussy-lips peeped out between her upper thighs. She gave a little cry, and as he began to rub there, very gently, the cry changed to a whimper that sounded half happy and half desperate.
“Shh, naughty girl. Shh,” he said. “In a moment, I’m going to let you up, and you’re going to go get the vibrator.”
“Oh, no,” Emily whispered. “Please… please, sir.” Her voice sounded so wonderfully dreamy, so meltingly submissive that Quint felt his already considerable erection swell in his khakis.
He rubbed further down, then even further. Emily gave a whimpering cry as he touched her tiny clit, made a circle there.
“Please don’t make me get the… that.”
Quint pulled his hand away and gave her perfect bottom three sharp smacks. Emily cried out, somehow managing to sound both piteous and wanton.
“I can spank you a good deal harder, sweetheart,” he murmured, and gave her three more smacks, calculated to set her already burning bottom aflame. Her yelps betrayed more discomfort now. “Will you obey me, sweetheart?”
She shook her head, her lovely face moving against her pink comforter. The idea of doing this in her childhood bedroom, of carrying out such naughty discipline here, with her teddy bear right there, intoxicated him and enlarged his erection still further. He spanked her three more times.
“Would you rather I told you to get your hairbrush, Emily?” he asked sternly. “I’m sure I’ll have to spank you with it someday soon, but I think you’d rather obey me now, and learn a different kind of lesson.”
Emily’s response to the word hairbrush was immediate and remarkable. She cried out and struggled over Quint’s thigh, as if trying to escape from the very sound of the thing.
“Oh, yes,” he said softly, returning his hand to stroke her wonderful, bright pink bottom-cheeks gently and holding her completely still in this submissive position. “You’ll be back over my knee soon, Miss Easton, to learn another lesson with your panties down and your bottom up for your hairbrush. A naughty bride can hardly help it, can she?”
“Please,” she whispered. “Please.”
“But wouldn’t you rather learn something else about how your married life will be, tonight? Wouldn’t you rather show me what a freak you are?”
She shuddered, and he kept holding on tight. He rubbed closer and closer to her fragrant, glistening pussy. “Oh, God,” Emily whispered.
“Get up and get the vibrator, Emily,” he said, and took his hand away, released her, helped her stand up with her red face turned toward the floor. She shuffled across the room to the corner, looking adorable with her jeans around her knees. The slight suggestion of bondage aroused him so much that when, frustrated, she moved to pull her pants all the way off, he said, “No, sweetheart, leave them on. Give me the toy and the lube Heather so thoughtfully gave you and get back over my knee.”
Heather had thought to put batteries in it, too, he found when a quiet buzzing greeted his touch at the purple button. The sound made Emily whimper into her comforter, but she lay still over his knee for her new kind of lesson.
The naughty toy’s middle prong, which was shaped more or less like a cock, with a bulbous head that Quint imagined was designed to reach Emily’s g-spot, went easily into her pussy. Emily lifted her head and gave a cry so submissive, so erotic that Quint could hardly believe it had come from his sophisticated fiancée. Her hips bucked, as if she couldn’t help her body’s need for the purple invader, as deep as her future husband wanted to thrust it.
Quint’s cock was as hard as iron as he eased the buzzing shaft inside his bride, and watched the much shorter, narrower back prong approach her adorable wrinkly anus. With his left hand he managed to flip open the top of the little bottle of lube, and squeeze a trickle down between her bottom-cheeks, which drew another whimper f
rom deep in Emily’s chest.
“Shh,” he said very softly, and he pushed further, so that the tip of the back prong pressed gently against her bottom-hole. “Get ready, sweetheart.”
She lowered her head again and gave a sob of pleasure, mingled with discomfort, as Quint lodged the anal probe inside her, so that the front prong—the final one—could reach Emily’s clit at last. Fully impaled, she cried out softly, and then Quint, not completely sure of how the vibrator functioned but certain something beneficial would happen, pressed the button again, and the buzzing got much louder, the white handle shaking almost violently in his hand.
Emily writhed over his knee, screaming with the intensity of the sensation, muffling her mouth as best she could in her comforter. Quint had never seen anything so arousing in his life as his pretty bride humping the wicked toy that filled her golden-haired pussy, her cringing anus, showing him how much she needed him to take charge.
“Who does this part of you belong to?” he asked, moving the buzzing vibrator inside her for emphasis.
“You, sir. Oh, God…”
“Come for me, now, sweetheart. Let me make you feel good. That’s it. That’s it, good girl. You got spanked, didn’t you, but now you’re forgiven. Come for me, Emily.”
She came, and came again. Quint wondered, for just a moment, if rewarding her this way were how every dominant husband would handle the situation. Certainly if she acted up again, he wouldn’t hesitate to take her panties down for the hairbrush, just as he had promised. But she had just been spanked for the very first time, and Quint wanted her to associate his firm hand both with punishment and with pleasure.
Nor of course would his raging cock allow him to miss the opportunity of enjoying the sexual side of marital discipline. When at last he pulled the shameful toy from his bride’s soaking pussy and her glistening anus, he said, “Get up and bend over the chair, Emily. Take the vibrator and hold it against your clit. I’m going to fuck you now.”
Chapter Eleven
The rehearsal, the afternoon of June fifth, went very well until its last five minutes. Georgia had even made one of the old-fashioned, quaint rehearsal bouquets from a paper plate and the ribbons off shower presents, as Maria had suggested, and Emily had teared up and hugged her sister when presented with it.
Reverend Sweetser, who would celebrate the marriage at the massive, splendid high altar of Trinity Church, was a family history and genealogy buff. He revealed himself as a distant cousin of both Emily and Quint, though on different sides of his family tree. He also revealed that Emily and Quint were themselves (much more) distant cousins, as would be practically everyone at the wedding.
“I’m fourth cousin once removed to Quint,” he said as the wedding party, along with the adorable ring bearers and flower girls, first gathered in front of the altar, “and fifth cousin twice removed to Emily. Emily and Quint are eighth cousins. Sometimes it seems like the Puritans were as limited in their social horizons as the royal families of Europe, but really it’s because there weren’t that many of them, and there were fewer who lived long enough to have big families.”
He beamed out from under craggy gray eyebrows, every inch the American imitation of an English vicar. “When you add to that the natural tendency for like to fall in love with like, as has happened here in the Puritans’ city on a hill with you, Emily, and you, Quint, it’s hardly as shocking as it always seems.”
Maria, standing respectfully behind the priest and to the side, dwarfed by the white and green marble height of the altar, found Jason, himself standing a few paces behind Emily and her five bridesmaids. She found him looking right back at her. He winked, and she felt her cheeks get hot for no reason at all that she wanted to think about. She knew exactly what the wink meant, though: You and I are probably the only people here who aren’t related to everybody else. Maria, great-granddaughter of proud North End immigrants and daughter of two Sicilians four generations later. Jason, who famously came from the wrong side of the tracks in rural Alabama.
Maria hadn’t intentionally kept her distance from him since the shower, and what she hadn’t been able to help doing afterward thinking about the spanking and possible future discipline sessions. She had simply been busy with three other weddings; the word had gotten around, thanks to Priscilla, that Maria Sali deserved the praise heaped on her by Heather.
She had emailed Jason for approval on payments for Emily’s gown and the food and drink for the after-party, and he had replied promptly. She had signed herself, “Very truly yours,” and he had responded with “Warmly,” which had indeed warmed her face as she wondered whether he meant her to think of the warming he had given her bottom. She felt sure, though, that he didn’t, and there had been no opportunity to see whether it might be otherwise, or whether she could find out what had happened in the aftermath of the disastrous shower.
Looking at Emily and Quint, standing in position in front of Reverend Sweetser, she wondered if she could detect a certain chemistry between them that she had thought strained at the first meeting in March, and had seemed almost broken after the shower in April. Maria hadn’t seen Quint at all in the intervening weeks, since her business lay almost exclusively with the bride. She had given her stamp of approval to the men’s formal wear via a picture taken by Priscilla. No one but the bride would be even looking at the groom’s dinner jacket.
The fitting of Emily’s gown and the selection of the bridesmaids’ dresses had been a different, much more difficult, story, of course. But rather to Maria’s surprise Emily had behaved herself rather well even when two of her bridesmaids said flat out that they hated the shade of red the bride had chosen.
The rehearsal proceeded. “Everything three times, please,” Reverend Sweetser said. “Once for you, once for me, and once for your guests tomorrow.” Maria had never worked with a priest who had such a polished shtick for a rehearsal, and she started to relax as she watched the three flower girls, on the third try, come down the aisle at precisely the correct pace, scattering pretend petals from pretend baskets and giggling the whole way. She looked around the front of the cavernous church, which would still only be half full even with the enormous guest list that included a Supreme Court justice.
“Then the mumbo jumbo,” said the priest. “Then the vows. And…” his eyes twinkled at Emily, and Maria could tell he was about to go into another phase of his shtick, “…you wanted me to put obey back in, did you, Emily?”
Everyone else laughed, but Emily turned a shade of red so bright that even Reverend Sweetser seemed taken aback. The bride’s eyes had gone straight to Quint’s, and though Quint was chuckling he gazed right back at her, with an apparent meaning that Maria hoped she was the only one who understood, besides Emily. Maria felt her own face getting hot. He spanked her. He definitely spanked her after the shower.
“Anyway,” the priest continued, clearly not a man ever fully nonplussed by anything that could happen in a church. “I’ll give you your vows in little chunks. It always works better that way. “I, Emily… take you, Albright…”
Quint winced at his real name, and to Maria’s surprise the wince, or the sound of the name, which Maria had noticed Emily had stopped using for her fiancé in recent weeks, seemed to make the bride’s eyes go narrow.
“…to be my wife…” Reverend Sweetser went on, taking no notice of the couple’s odd facial reactions. But Maria could suddenly tell that for some reason trouble was brewing. This line was obviously supposed to produce a laugh, and the bridesmaids and ushers, and especially the ring bearers and flower girls, obliged, but Emily and Quint’s eyes had locked, now, and they weren’t smiling.
The priest, frowning slightly, said, “Anyway, that’s—”
“Reverend,” Emily said, interrupting him without looking in his direction, keeping her gaze fixed on her bridegroom’s face. “I’d like you to give us our vows in longer phrases, please.”
“Well, as I said, Emily,” Reverend Sweetser said, looking a little confus
ed, “it really does work better—”
Now Emily did turn to the priest, but Maria could tell that even in this change of attention she meant to defy Quint, somehow, though for no reason that Maria could see, or conceive of.
“Longer phrases are more elegant,” she said decisively.
“Well, I suppose I could do that,” Reverend Sweetser said doubtfully. Maria knew from long experience that he was right to doubt. The impression that would inevitably be created by Emily or Quint stumbling over the long phrases and having to be corrected would be so much worse than the slight inelegance of the shorter ones that the matter didn’t even bear consideration.
“Please use the shorter phrases, Reverend,” Quint said, looking at him with a pleasant smile.
“You can have the shorter ones if you want, Albright,” Emily said. She had clearly meant her tone to be playful, but only—Maria felt certain—as a way of covering over her apparently real determination to have her way.
Maria’s own eyes widened, as did Jason’s, she saw with a quick glance, while Quint’s narrowed. Emily gave a forced laugh. The uncomfortable moment lingered, then, thankfully, passed.
“That’s fine. That’s fine,” said Reverend Sweetser, making a note in his binder. “Alright, after that it’s just the blessing: remember that it’s right hand in right hand, and I’ll wrap my stole around them, et cetera, et cetera.” He recovered his shtick quickly, and went on with it. “Then, the, you know…” he lowered his voice, leaned forward, and spoke in a stage whisper, “…kiss.”
The ring bearers and flower girls found this delightful, dissolving into giggles. Emily and Quint’s body language had changed, though, as they followed the instructions and clasped their hands together, and the tension between them seemed almost palpable.
