Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 73013 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73013 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
“Rick!” Mandy cried. “Stop! Stop it!”
I put my hand on her ass and squeezed firmly. Mandy gasped, her back arching and her whole body tensing up against my restraining arm and leg.
“This is going to go on as long as it needs to,” I told her. “We can take the next flight if we have to, Dee. Let me know when you’re ready to take your pants and underwear down, and we can start your real punishment.”
I raised my hand and brought it down hard: once, twice, three times, on her upper right thigh, on the same place on her other thigh, and in the center again.
“Oh, no,” Mandy sobbed. “It… hurts…”
I repeated the pattern, just as hard.
“Sir!” she wailed, and I thought I could tell the word had simply ripped itself out of her, against her will. “I’ll… I’ll do it!”
Mandy
Why in the world had I said, “Forget it!” Could it really be because I had said the same bratty thing to Rick the night he wanted to go to his room right after dinner, with his roommates watching us leave and knowing what we would do once the door closed? No—not even knowing, because they assumed of course that Rick and I had sex in there. That I had given it up, like so many girls.
That night had come into my mind just as I uttered the defiant refusal of my husband’s humiliating command to take down my jeans and panties. Along with the memory had come the way I had felt, then: my body’s reaction to Rick’s embarrassing suggestion, and the tone I had heard in his voice—low and urgent.
I had known what he wanted and for a second or two—no more—I had, kind of, wanted it too. But I had also suddenly wanted… no, needed… something more. I didn’t know what that was, then at the table in Rick’s apartment, or here in this horrid private room over his knee. It seemed to have something to do with wanting to be a good girl—but also somehow with needing to be a naughty girl, too.
One thing I had known then and I knew now, to my shame and confusion: Forget it didn’t actually mean no, and it definitely didn’t mean that I wanted Rick to forget it. The hesitation and confusion I had seen in his eyes that night as he had tried to read my expression and to understand my meaning had made my heart sink in my chest. I remembered him taking me home, right after that, because of course I couldn’t say that I hadn’t really meant it, that I wanted to go to his room and cuddle—and maybe even have my fiancé take me further than that.
Take me further than that. Time had frozen into this degrading, irreversible moment. I had said Forget it! but my husband had definitely not forgotten it: he had kept spanking me as I cried and squirmed under his firm hand’s painful teaching.
Then I had told him—no, not just that… I had called him sir, and then told him—I would obey his awful instruction. I had said I would lower my pants and my underwear. And I had implied, I realized to my mortification, my agreement to his humiliating decree. As his wife, yes, he should always punish me on my bare bottom.
Always. Not a one-time thing. Rick intended to use his firm hand on my naughty backside as often as necessary. To teach me obedience.
Obedience. How much obedience? What kind of obedience? My mind raced, going back to the night of the first Forget it over and over despite the terrible reality of the here and now at the airport, on our way, it now seemed impossible to deny, to a town where my husband would teach me to obey him exactly as he wished.
A sob ripped itself out of my chest as I felt his enormous hand return to my bottom again, squeezing the way he had before… firmly, possessively. Again I bucked against his arm over my back and his leg across my knees, my body responding uncontrollably to the unwanted sensation, the way Rick’s fingers moved the denim not just over my butt but also in front.
Unwanted, but… but needed.
Need. For the first time, forced to it by my husband’s dominance, I confronted the terrible idea that I might need something I didn’t want. That I might need something wicked… dark… dirty.
“Don’t,” I sobbed. “Don’t…”
I didn’t know whether I wanted to call him Ricky or sir or you fucking asshole. His hand relaxed, and for a moment an utterly unfamiliar terror went through me, body and soul, that he would take me at my word and stop. Then he squeezed again, and he spoke in a low, soothing voice that at first seemed at odds with the degrading meaning of his words.