by Emily Tilton
Mary blushed, though she couldn’t think why—she had received so many compliments about her cooking, after all. Something about eating in the dining room, about the note... about Sam himself, maybe, though it seemed her fears that he would want to talk about that didn’t seem to have come true.
“Let me get dessert,” she said, starting to rise.
“No,” Sam said simply, reaching out and taking her hand to hold her in her seat. “We can have dessert later.”
“What?” Mary said, the blush from his compliment about the steak suddenly growing much warmer, and verifying that, yes, it had to do with Sam’s commanding, assured manner.
She looked into his face, her eyes wide and, she hoped, a little skeptical or even scornful. Sam’s blue gaze smoldered back at her: Mary didn’t know what else she could call it. His expression made her heart jump.
“Pixy, I’m not going to tolerate that kind of answering back anymore,” he said in a level, matter-of-fact voice that seemed to have a greater effect on Mary than any angry tone would have.
“Answering back?” she tried, definitely hearing the scorn in her words, now, and finding her heart had begun to race as she followed what she began to see must be a doomed path.
Sam didn’t answer for a long moment, but instead kept looking into her eyes, his enormous hand still holding hers atop the polished oak of the dining room table.
When he spoke at last, his words made the fingers of Mary’s other hand curl where they rested on the knee of her everyday jeans and brought a deep crease to her brow. “I want you to go get into the nightgown you wore on our wedding night, Mary.”
She found that her chin had begun to move from side to side before she even formed any conscious intention to refuse. The words to deny her husband’s outrageous request came soon enough, though.
“You’re kidding, right?”
The smolder in his blue eyes became something much more, for a moment; harder and fiercer and hotter. Mary’s lips parted and her breath became ragged as she saw again the beginnings of her husband losing his temper. To her dismay, she responded down below as well, and the heat mounted back to her cheeks as she realized it.
What’s wrong with me? Am I actually trying to make him mad?
She expected him to stand up, to take her by the arm, to... to put her over one of the dining room chairs, maybe, and...
But Sam remained seated, and the wrath in his eyes faded a little.
“I’m not kidding, Pixy.”
For an instant, Mary had felt a horrible flash of disappointment, when she realized he didn’t mean to get up and haul her out of her chair. Now, however, that emotion disappeared completely, because his even tone, his control over his temper, struck her suddenly as more powerful even than his white-hot rage.
In his eyes, she saw something that made her tummy flip and her heart jump. He would discipline her, but he would do it in the manner he chose, rather than the one his wife forced upon him. Something had changed in him, Mary realized.
“I don’t understand,” she whispered, though of course, at some level, she did.
“I’m going to fuck you, now, Mary,” Sam said. “I’m going to fuck you the way I want to fuck you. That’s all you need to know. Now go get into your nightgown.”
“But...” Her mind raced desperately through things she could do, things she could say, seeking any word or action that could keep her from thinking about the effect of his calm but brutal dominance on her body. “I said we could forget all about that. I don’t know what you think forget means, but...”
Mary realized she had begun nearly to babble in her attempt to escape from the clarity of her husband’s wishes, his caveman desires. She tried to rise again, then felt her eyes go wide as he held her in place with his strong hand.
“Last chance, Pixy,” he said, his voice lower in pitch, almost a growl. “You can get into the nightgown with a sore backside or without one, but nothing that’s going to happen now is optional for you.”
Mary’s lips parted and she drew a sharp breath. She felt her forehead crease in mortification at the way his shameful words sent a thrill through her whole body, radiating from her pussy into her hips and down her legs, stiffening her nipples into her bra.
“You can’t,” she said, cheeks reddening still further at the way the words sounded to her ears more like a whimper.
Sam’s response came so quickly that it made her freeze up: she had thought she could still try to run away, that maybe he would loosen his grip as he moved to reposition her for whatever caveman act he had planned, but before she could even try to twist her hand from his, he had come out of his chair enough to seize her around the waist.
“Stop!” Mary cried, but she could tell that unlike the first time, when he had lost his temper, her husband had a plan for how to discipline her, and nothing she could say or do would interfere with it. That thought made her sob again as, between her legs, a contraction sent another lightning bolt of shameful need through her.
She struggled, pushed against him, banged into the table and almost knocked over her chair.
Sam held her firmly but not painfully, moving her away from the table so that nothing got broken. He bent her over the chair, his left hand holding her in place. Her head hung a few inches from the floor and her arms seemed useless to ward him off.
“What are you doing?” Mary yelled, twisting her face over her shoulder.
“You know what I’m doing, Mary,” he growled, and then he started to spank the upraised seat of her jeans in a slow, steady rhythm. She cried out at the sting, but the humiliation affected her much more strongly—the sound of his big hand on her bottom, her position over the dining room chair.
“Stop... please, Sam. Please, stop. I’ll... okay, I’ll put on the nightgown!” Mary still had no idea how she felt about her husband’s abrupt command to don the garment that had somehow caused such turmoil in her mind and in their marriage. To get him to stop spanking her seemed paramount, though: maybe she could play for time, or even simply leave the house and not come back, once he had let her up.
“That’s not going to be enough, now,” Sam said, punctuating his words with hard spanks to her upper thighs.
“Ow! What does that mean?”
He stopped spanking her, and Mary remembered suddenly what had happened on Sunday, when she had bent over the bed and instead of continuing to punish her, he had...
Sam’s hand came down on her denim-clad bottom, but gently. He cupped her right cheek, moved his fingers down the seam between her thighs. Mary tried desperately to keep her terrible reaction to herself, but when he held her whole backside in his huge hand, squeezed her there, she couldn’t hold it in: she moaned low, her head hanging down and her back arching over the seat of the chair.
“You’re going to get up, and you’re going to take off all your clothes for me, here in the dining room,” Sam said gently.
“No... please,” Mary whimpered.
The pressure from his left hand, atop her waist, increased. His soothing, fondling right hand departed. Mary gave a little cry even before the spank came, and the sting of it was so great that she cried out again. Then Sam kept spanking her at a much faster rhythm than before, and even with the denim and her polka-dot panties it started to hurt. She writhed over the chair, more forcefully than she had before, when she had still thought she could just get up and either put on the nightgown or walk away. The idea of taking off her clothes in the dining room made it all seem so much more shameful; what had gotten into Sam?
“Any time, Mary,” he growled now, still spanking hard and fast.
“Ow! I... I can’t!” Mary sobbed.
“Yes, you can,” he responded, stopping the punishment for the moment. “You know you can. You know you have to.”
I have to.
She felt his left hand ease its pressure. She saw Sam’s running shoes take a step back. Turning her tearstained face, she watched him sit down in his own chair.
�
��Now get up and take off your clothes, Pixy,” he said, meeting her eyes. “I haven’t even started to punish you for lying about dinner last night.”
Chapter Eight
Mary’s reddened eyes went wide.
“I was busy,” she protested. She scrambled up from the chair to her feet and stood, looking so beautiful in her confusion and vulnerability that it made Sam’s heart ache. “I’m sorry I didn’t make dinner for you, but—”
“Pixy,” he interrupted as gently as he could, “you didn’t say you were sorry, in the note in the fridge, but if you want to tell me you really did get too busy to make dinner, we can stop this right here. We’ll need to figure out what comes next for us...”
Mary had clenched her fists in front of her chest, and her face wore an expression of pitiful distress.
“Please don’t make me take my clothes off,” she said. “Yes... yes, I... I lied.”
Sam had felt reasonably certain since the moment he arrived home that Andy’s advice had been very sound. Now he thought he could tell beyond any doubt—even though Mary might continue to demonstrate a depth of conflict among her mind, her heart, and her pussy that could keep him guessing from moment to moment.
“You need to be punished, Mary,” he said gently. “You know that. And I’m the one who decides how that happens. Take off your clothes.”
“But why?” Mary asked. He saw in her eyes, for the first time, a real plea to understand and maybe even a real belief that Sam might know something about her needs that she didn’t know.
“Because I’m pretty sure that you and I are facing a challenge we didn’t expect, but one that I think I’ll be able to get us through.” He smiled, and the smile, or his words, made Mary bite her lip as she stood next to the chair over which her husband had just spanked her. “Come here, Pixy.”
He spread his knees so that she could come, on uncertain feet, to stand between them, looking down at him with her hands at her sides. He took those little hands, now, in his big ones. Mary trembled, a shiver traveling through her whole body. Looking into her eyes, Sam spoke very gently.
“Sex is important.”
Mary flinched, her brow creasing deeply, and she looked down at his hands as if trying to decide whether to attempt escape.
“I know that,” she said, her tone seeming even in the brief sentence to waver between dismissiveness and apprehension. “Do you think I don’t know that?”
“No,” Sam said, keeping his voice level and finding he had no difficulty pressing down the slight stirrings of his temper that Mary’s resistance raised. “I’m saying it because I want you to know that for me this doesn’t just have to do with what feels good, or even with traditional gender roles.”
Mary frowned even more deeply, but she looked up and met his eyes again. “I don’t understand,” she whispered.
“Like I said before, you don’t have to understand.”
Mary’s eyes went wide, and then to Sam’s surprise she uttered a tiny whimper from deep in her chest as a tremor went through her. She did try to pull her hands away, then, but Sam tightened his grip and held her fast. Mary moaned, a sound so lewd and naughty that Sam’s cock leaped in his jeans.
“So...” she said in an adorable, tiny voice, her eyes going down again to their interlocked hands, and her lips pursing with anxious curiosity. “So... what? What’s going to... to happen... now?”
Sam smiled, feeling his heart fill with confidence in their love for the first time maybe even since their wedding. He could do this, he knew, and it would work—thanks especially to one fascinating, plainspoken Andy Wharton and to the New Modesty.
“I have to punish you thoroughly. You know that.”
Mary gave a little cry of protest and once again tried to jerk her hands away. When Sam held them in place, her palms gripped firmly between his strong thumbs and his index fingers, she raised her fearful eyes to his.
“You do?” she asked very softly.
“You know I do. You lied, but more than that I have to discipline you properly for the way you’ve been treating me—and even though I thought I should hold back because it was all about sex, it turns out that I got that wrong. I’m not going to make that mistake anymore.”
“What? What mistake?” Mary’s eyes had gotten even rounder and now she sounded like a person desperate to understand though she knows she won’t like what she finds out.
“Not seeing that because of who we are, both of us, I should have punished you for getting into your sweats on our wedding night.”
Mary’s whole body shook, and she started to crumple to the floor, eyes closed. Sam held her up and gathered her to him, holding her close with his head against her chest, loving the way her frame seemed to yield to his embrace. She was wearing a light blue cotton top and he could feel her bralette through it, and the enticing little mounds of her breasts.
“But...” she protested weakly from above him. “But you fell asleep!”
Gradually Sam drew Mary away from him, to stand again between his knees with her hands at her sides. He reached out and took the bottom of her shirt into his fingers. Mary started when she understood what he meant to do.
“I’m sorry I fell asleep,” he said gently, “but that didn’t excuse what you did. You’re a New Modesty girl. You learned in school that a girl on her wedding night presents herself in a way that she thinks will please her husband, even more than in the rest of their lives together. You may not even know why you chose to ignore that, but I think I do: you got into your sweats because you wanted me to tell you...”
“Oh, no,” Mary said, because Sam had begun to lift the blue cotton slowly over her tummy.
“...that you had to get back into the nightgown, because...”
“Oh, no,” she whispered again, as he exposed her plain ivory but still rather adorable bralette. As he continued telling her his theory of what had happened on their wedding night, he held the top above her breastbone with his left hand while with his right he fondled first one little breast and then the other, rousing each nipple with his thumb as he spoke.
“...I wanted to fuck my new wife again, but this time the way she really needed.”
Mary’s forehead creased deeply and she closed her eyes. At her sides, her hands made little fists and then relaxed again.
“It’s not true,” she whispered.
Just a day ago, Sam thought, he would probably have tried to figure out exactly what she meant, and he would have worried that he would misinterpret the clear evidence of her body. Now he understood that for all intents and purposes, right now It’s not true actually meant It’s true.
“Put your arms up,” he said, injecting a little sharpness into his tone.
Mary whimpered through her nose and obeyed, so that Sam could pull her top off and drop it to the floor. Then he put his fingers under the elastic edge of the bralette. She whimpered again, louder, and her chin moved gently back and forth in a soft, silent no. Her face had become such an exaggerated mask of woe that Sam felt certain his wife must have in her mind’s eye some fantasy of compulsion far, far beyond anything he might intend: Mary’s expression would, he thought, suit an innocent slave girl brought to the bed of a Roman emperor, or a college girl made to undress for a compulsory ‘extra credit’ session with her professor.
He pulled the bralette up and over her head, then dropped it on top of the shirt.
“Put your hands on your head, Pixy,” he said, using the same slightly stern voice. “Open your eyes.”
With a little whine she obeyed both commands, looking back at him with a new expression, curiosity mingled with fear.
“Please...” Mary whispered. “I’ll be good, sir.”
Sam felt his own eyes widen a little as a smile came to his lips.
“Yes,” he agreed. “You will.” With his hands resting on his thighs he surveyed the devastatingly sexy sight of his nineteen-year-old bride topless in the dining room, little breasts perfectly presented over her flat tummy. He l
et his eyes roam from her pink face to the waistband of her tight jeans.
“Don’t?” Mary said very softly. “Please.”
Sam raised his eyes to hers again.
“I’ll look at you as much as I want, Mary, from now on. Another mistake I made on our wedding night was leaving the light off. It will be on when I fuck you in the future. Especially tonight.”
Mary closed her eyes and breathed, “Oh, God.”
“Now take a step back and strip off your jeans and panties.”
Her hands rose from her head and she looked around at the room, at the empty plates on the table.
“Yes, in the dining room,” Sam said. “If I decide I want to fuck you here, just like I spanked you here, I’m going to do it.”
Mary’s face crumpled again. “Oh, no.”
On a whim brought to his mind by the dominant instinct whose guidance Sam had begun to trust, he put his hands up to her breasts and took them into his grasp, rubbing his thumbs over her tiny nipples. Mary shuddered and cried out, looking into his eyes with what seemed to him uncontrollable arousal, mingled with regret that he had found out her secret.
“I know what you need, Pixy,” Sam growled. “Take off your pants and your underwear and maybe I’ll touch you down there. Maybe I’ll even put my cock where it belongs.”
“Oh, God,” Mary breathed, her hands balling into fists. “Don’t.”
But Sam moved his right hand around her back and pulled her even closer, so that he could lean forward in the dining chair and flick his tongue against the nipple of her right breast as he squeezed it in his left hand. Mary gasped, and then cried out as he bit the delicious little bud very lightly.
Then Sam’s instinct told him exactly what had to come next. His bride needed to know that just as she had no say in whether she would feel his discipline across her young backside, she had no choice as to the pleasure her husband would force upon her body. He pulled his head back so that he could look into her eyes again, and he spoke softly.
“Take off your pants, Pixy, and get a fucking, or I’ll take them off and you’ll only get a whipping.”