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)
It didn’t matter, though, because the long fingers went deeper between my thighs and all thought seemed to fly away completely. The belt, and its menacing but also cool and almost soothing buckle, rested against the shameful valley of my bottom. Rick’s fingers reached all the way to the place where I needed them so badly and rubbed up and down very softly.
“I’m a slut,” I sobbed. “I’m a bratty little slut.”
The hand went away, and I cried out in fear, sure that Rick would start whipping me again. The observer said severely, it’s what you deserve, for all the naughtiness in your hot, wet cunt. I gasped as the terrible word echoed in my mind.
To my distress I found myself pushing up my bottom as much as I could in that humiliating position over the pillows. Despite myself I tried with a mortifying little movement of my hips to offer my already soundly whipped cheeks for discipline.
You offered your breasts for your lord and master’s inspection, said a voice inside me. It’s time you offered your bottom and your pussy, too… for inspection, for discipline, for… pleasure.
His pleasure. Not yours.
Just as I thought that word… just as I realized that in my own mind I had just put my husband’s pleasure ahead of mine… I also realized that a nanosecond earlier I had heard the clink of Rick’s belt buckle off to the side. Not above me, or behind me, but… on the bed.
Then, while I was still trying to puzzle out what had happened and what would happen next, Rick’s huge hand returned, but without the belt.
Oh, no.
My whole body bucked. My husband’s fingers and thumb had gripped me, down there, at what felt like the paradoxical center of the burning agony Rick’s belt had made of my whole backside. My whole pussy, my clit and my sensitive inner lips and the needy hole of my vagina, all within the grasp of his fingers. And… his thumb… there.
He pressed firmly with the ball of his thumb, right on the little flower.
I let out a terrible moan that would certainly have told him he had married a bratty little slut even if he hadn’t drawn the words out of me with the flashing, fiery leather.
“All of this,” my husband growled. “All of it belongs to me.”
His thumb pushed even harder at the tiny ring of my anus. To my horror, my whole lower body spasmed as an irresistible wave of pleasure ripped through what felt like my entire nervous system. Again I pushed with my hips, feeling a new blush come to my face as I understood that my limbs were desperate to imitate the motions of sex—even though I had lain completely still under Rick on our wedding night.
Before you understood your bridegroom would master you as a man should master a bratty, slutty bride like you.
My bottom pressed against Rick’s possessing, claiming hand. The heat in my cheeks rose to furnace level as I felt the tight aperture of my little hole impaled on my husband’s invading thumb. He held my most intimate parts so firmly, so resolutely and yet so casually; something about the terrible frankness of that grip told me that the degrading pleasure it forced on me represented only a very small part of the point.
No: this had to do with possession, and Rick confirmed that idea. He bent over me, his mouth at my ear, and he squeezed my pussy, driving his thumb deeper in my bottom-hole, as he whispered:
“Do you understand, Amanda Williams?”
“Oh, God,” I moaned. “Yes… yes, sir.”
Amanda Williams. Mrs. Williams. And the old-fashioned way… the way I somehow felt sure would be in evidence tomorrow, at the country club… Mrs. Richard Williams.
I belonged to him: all of me, and most of all the most shameful part, the part in his hand.
Was the whipping over? Had Rick decided to show me mercy after all?
No, the observer said, as a wave of forced pleasure went through me, as his thumb’s shameful invasion of my bottom worked a little deeper into me as a reminder of my misdeeds. This isn’t mercy… it’s… guidance?
How could it be guidance? How could a man’s thumb up my ass represent leadership?
His other hand, the one he had used on my back to keep me in place during my whipping, took gentle hold of my throat. I heard a little wailing cry come from my chest at the half-alarming, half-arousing sensation. It seemed to complete his hands’ possession of me: my private parts, where Rick meant to take his pleasure, lay within his grasp, but with that grip on my throat I felt every bit of me had become the private property of my husband.
“Good girl,” Rick murmured into my ear. “Are you ready for your fucking?”
I bit my lip, suddenly terribly aware of my facedown posture over the pillows, my hands’ hold on the headboard, the softness of the comforter against my cheek. How could I say it? Neither the good girl nor the brat could say that… the good girl could never admit it and the brat never would.