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)
When Rick left the back of the thong lying across my right bottom-cheek, and did spank me, even though he had just clearly said he didn’t intend to spank me, I cried out. I became the detached observer. I said to myself, See what naughty brats get?
Rick said, in that thick growl that I knew meant his cock had gotten hard at the sight of my bottom in the lacy thong, “I mean, I can spank you if you want, Dee—if you decide to be bratty about giving me my rights, and you forget…”
I cried out again, because instead of another spank he had accompanied these words with putting both hands on my backside, one on each side, fingers low down, on my upper thighs and my still-sore cheeks, and he had started to spread me open.
“…to call…”
“Oh, no,” I whimpered, shame and need filling my whole body at the humiliating sensation.
“…me…”
He pulled the two parts of my rear end apart, and I knew he could see the most degrading view of me, his naughty wife, over his knee for discipline.
“… sir.”
“Sir,” I sobbed. “Oh… please…”
That please had no ambiguity at all, as far as I was concerned. That please meant, please, sir, make me come the way only you know how to make me come, and teach me to please you so that I’ll be allowed to come so much, and so hard, that what seemed crazy before will seem utterly right.
It already seemed utterly right, though. Right to resist, and to play the brat, because that was, deep down, who I was. Right to have my reluctance and my defiance overcome by my dominant husband, because that was who Rick was.
He kept holding me open, with my naughty panties laid aside across my whipped bottom cheek. Over his knee, where I belonged. He kept squeezing, so gently and yet so dominantly, so tantalizingly. His fingers held me so close to where I needed them, and yet so far away, too.
“Please what, Dee?” he asked me, his tone as gentle as his fingers. “Tell me what you need.”
I had known precisely what it had meant when I said it. I still knew that, but…
But I couldn’t say it: the good girl part of me couldn’t admit it and the brat part of me didn’t want to admit it. The voyeuristic observer didn’t want me to say it, because…
Because you need firm discipline, Amanda Williams. And you know you’re going to get it, when you’re over your husband’s knee.
I let the brat have her way. “Nothing,” I said. “This is… I mean, you can…”
I didn’t even get to say forget it again before Rick responded. His right hand rose from my backside. I thought he would spank me again, on that cheek, but instead I felt his fingers return, wet with what had to be his saliva. They didn’t go where I wanted them. They went where I didn’t want them instead—the tiny hole where he had made it much too clear he intended to take my final virginity tonight.
I cried out, and squirmed hard. Rick kept his left hand on my ass, still holding me shamefully open, while using the rest of that arm to hold me in place over his thigh, my chest against the mattress. I struggled under his restraint, feeling the thrilling way my husband’s superior strength communicated his dominance to my weaker muscles as they tensed against it. I probably could have wriggled my way out from under his arm, but my realization about all this being right, though, stopped me from really trying to get away. I didn’t have to tell Rick about that realization, though, did I?
Two wet fingers, on the little ring, rubbing firmly.
“Oh, God,” I sobbed. “Ricky… sir…”
One finger inside me, making circles, stretching me out. Training me. Preparing me.
“Please… I want to…”
Two fingers inside. It hurt a little, just a little, and it felt shamefully, darkly good.
“Oh, God… sir…”
A third finger, pressing in.
“Oh, no… oh, please… please can I… can I…”
“You were rude, weren’t you, Dee?” my husband asked me in a low, soothing voice. “Maybe she’s not as nice as you’d like her to be, but that’s not an excuse.”
I hadn’t really understood until that moment that old-fashioned discipline as practiced in Rocky Falls didn’t actually confine itself to the wholly traditional dimension of firm hands on bare bottoms, belts, and paddles. The essence of old-fashioned, as far as our new home—for I couldn’t deny it anymore, could I?—was concerned, lay in an older husband caring for his younger wife.
Caring for her, and as an essential part of that care, disciplining her as he saw fit—in whatever way he saw fit, whether with his belt or with three fingers in her virginal anus.
“No, sir,” I sobbed, as he stretched my poor bottom-hole much too wide. “I was rude. I’m… I’m sorry.”