by Emily Tilton
“What are you doing, Pixy?” he asked in a low growl, instinct taking over entirely as he saw her naughty fingers twine in the yellow pussy curls and start to work her clit. “Did I tell you you could touch yourself?”
Mary gave a little cry of shame around his hard penis and ripped her hand away from her pussy. As much as she could, within his grasp, she shook her head even as he kept thrusting his cock into her little mouth, enjoying the velvet sensation of her shameful oral submission.
Sam took her by her honey-blonde hair at the base of her skull and lifted her head from his lap, a little roughly—not so as to hurt her but in order that she feel his strength, as all his instincts, tutored now by his visit to the New Modesty office, told him to do. Mary cried out as he pulled her face back to look up into his, her eyes wide and watering a little from being made to do her lewd duty on the cock.
“I wasn’t!” she said, protesting loudly. “I wasn’t, Sam.”
He understood at a level deeper than words—from Mary’s voice and Mary’s eyes—that he had found a place where they could communicate about her needs without her having to ask for the things that would shame her. He could see in her expression the same kind of challenge she had issued last Sunday when she had pressed herself against the door, daring him to spank her without fully realizing what she did. Now her face seemed to reflect more knowledge—and more defiance—his wife meant to challenge his dominance now. Even though she undoubtedly still feared the consequences, she seemed to understand within herself that she also needed—and even wanted—them.
“That’s it,” Sam growled. “I won’t tolerate any more of this lying. You’re going to go shave your pussy now, and then you’re going to put on the nightgown, and I’m going to whip you and root you on my cock. After that you’ll think twice about pretending you don’t understand that your husband decides how things go in the bedroom.”
Every word that had just come out of his mouth had seemed somehow to flow from the hardness of his cock, which he now took in his left hand to pump its arrogant length as Mary watched in red-faced shame.
“Root me?” she whispered, her voice half indignant and half fearful. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’ll see,” Sam said calmly, still jerking his cock, obeying that primal urge shamelessly in order to demonstrate to his bride that he intended to seek his pleasure as he chose. “Open your mouth, now. I’m going to come inside it before you shave.”
Mary’s eyes darted up to his, then down at his hard penis, and finally back up.
“I wasn’t,” she said. “I don’t do that.”
“Well, from now on you’re going to touch yourself when I tell you to,” he replied. “Put your hand back down there. Show me what a naughty girl does when her husband uses her mouth.”
A shudder went through Mary’s whole body at those words, and she closed her eyes. Her right hand jerked, and Sam watched it make its way back between her thighs. She moaned softly as she began to obey his naughty command, and then Mary opened her mouth and put out her tongue.
Turned on more than he had thought possible by his young bride’s wicked display, he used his right hand to guide her face downward. He put her lips just around the head of his cock, and the little cry Mary emitted at the sensation sent him over the edge into orgasm. His shaft jerked in his hand and he felt himself spurt into the recesses of her mouth.
Mary whimpered and swallowed, and her hand worked feverishly between her legs. Then, to his surprise, her hips jerked and, with his penis still inside her mouth, she cried out with a climax of her own.
Sam lifted her up and held her to him, gently and tenderly, stroking her back as she trembled in his arms. Mary sobbed against his chest.
“Good girl,” he said softly. “That felt very good.”
The words seemed to make her melt even further against him, cling even tighter to his strong shoulders. After a few moments, though, she said, “So?”
Part of Sam felt surprise at the hint of defiance he could hear in Mary’s voice, but more of him now almost expected it.
“So get going. I told you what I want. The things for shaving your pussy are in the bathroom.”
“But...” Mary whispered into his chest, her defiance turned into a plea. “But that’s... I won’t do that. It’s wrong.”
Sam almost smiled, as he recognized the cycle. He moved his right hand down to hold her naked backside, now completely cooled off from the spanking over the chair, through her jeans. Mary gave a little cry at the meaningful squeeze he gave her there.
“It’s not wrong if your husband wants your pussy bare for him. You’re going to have a reminder in your panties...”
Mary wailed and tried violently to pull away, as if the mention of her panties held some special, shameful significance for her, but Sam held her tighter and continued.
“A reminder in your panties that I make the decisions in this house. You already have a whipping and a rooting coming. Don’t make it worse. If you keep talking back, Mary, you’re not going to sit down comfortably for a week.”
Mary’s shudder at the word rooting told him that Andy Wharton had been right about the power of the word.
“I don’t... what... what’s rooting?” she whispered.
“You’re going to find out very soon,” Sam answered. “I can do it gently or I can do it hard, but either way you’re going to get it. So make up your mind to be a good girl, like you just showed me you can be.”
Chapter Eleven
Mary didn’t understand how such an innocent-seeming word could send such fear, and fascination, and helpless arousal shooting through her body.
I’m going to root you on my cock, Sam had said. Her mind reached out in search of an image, then retreated as a hot blush spread across her face.
Her thoughts turned instead to the other thing... the thing he wanted her to do, down there, for him. Was it a punishment? To have her grownup hair taken away, because she had lied to her husband? Mary felt her brow crease deeply, and she tried to push that idea away, too, but she saw herself in the mirror in the sexy white nightgown, and then she seemed to feel the comfortable softness and stretchiness of her green t-shirt and her sweats and her polka-dot panties.
Sam had learned, somewhere, a secret that Mary herself hadn’t even known she had kept from him. Mrs. Grabano had said in Wellness more than once, when the class had covered wifely hygiene, that a young bride should be responsive to her husband’s preferences for her grooming and what she wore. Mary’s secret lay in how her heart and mind and body had reacted, every time Mrs. Grabano had said that.
She felt Sam’s arms relaxing around her, his hands turning her. Mary let out a little whimper. She already had a whipping coming. She had to do what he said, or... the other thing, the rooting... Sam would do it... hard.
The whimper became a sob as she looked back over her shoulder at his handsome face, his still clothed form. Her eyes traveled downward to where his cock, not as long and hard but still frightening in its simple, arrogant presence outside his jeans, lolled between his legs, glistening with her saliva. She had knelt, naked, and sucked her husband’s penis—he had held her face and fucked her mouth, and climaxed and made her swallow his seed. A mixture of pride and shame too complicated and contradictory to think through filled her mind.
“I’ll clean up in here and get the dishes in the dishwasher,” Sam said. “You go do as I’ve told you.”
He had one hand on her bare bottom and the other on her shoulder, and he squeezed her little cheeks as he pushed her away, as if to tell her again that she had a whipping coming. Mary Johnson Hunter would have the belt across her bare butt whenever she misbehaved, from now on—beginning tonight.
Mary’s face crumpled, and she fled from between Sam’s legs and from the dining room, because she had no alternative, no other way to escape the knowledge that her new married life held so much shame for her.
He had bought a pink clipper, a razor, and a special lotio
n, all part—Mary saw with a thrill of mortification—of Selecta’s Corporation’s For the Bride line of products. They sat on the gleaming counter in the master bathroom. She opened the box then held the clipper and read the beginning of the paper insert she found inside, two spots of blazing heat springing to life in her cheeks.
To get yourself as smooth as you can be, for those intimate moments, start by trimming the hair carefully with the For the Bride clipper, then patiently going over the area with a For the Bride razor. You’ll love how he looks at you, when the time comes for him to uncover your sweet secrets.
My sweet secrets, Mary thought as she sat down at the edge of the tub, trying to think of anything but what Sam had... demanded? No, he hadn’t demanded this, really—he had just made it clear that if Mary wanted to stay married to him, she would need to obey,
She held the battery-powered clipper in her hand and she looked down at the place her husband had decided to claim for himself.
How did it differ from a demand? Well, because... because Mary herself...
As she pressed the button on the clipper and it buzzed to life in her hand, she looked in the mirror, across the bathroom, for the first time since she had entered. She saw the nude young woman, sent to this tiled room to prepare herself for her husband’s pleasure: pretty little breasts and pretty little pussy covered in loose golden curls.
She heard Sam in the kitchen, the plates chiming against each other as he cleaned up dinner.
No dessert... for a while... because... because he’s going to...
Whipping. And... rooting...
Mary reached the clipper down, and she took her lower lip between her teeth as she touched the buzzing blade to her skin, at the crease between her right thigh and the tender triangle of her pussy. She gave a whimpering cry as she saw the curls begin to fall away.
It didn’t take very long—that seemed shameful all by itself, that in two minutes all her golden hair lay on the bathmat. With a deep frown, Mary even stood up and ran the clippers between her bottom-cheeks, thinking about rooting and refusing to consider it as a real proposition—Sam had just decided to scare her with some silly notion... he would make her stand in place, or something.
The razor took longer, and made her frown even more at the sensation and the shameful need it awakened. She had to stand at the sink to clean the razor, and she had to keep herself from looking in the mirror because now Mary Hunter really didn’t have any more grownup hair between her thighs. She really would have a reminder in her panties that her husband had made a decision concerning her private parts, and enforced that decision with his firm hand on her wayward bottom.
But somehow Mary had managed not to notice, until now, when she cried out softly at the novel feeling of the washcloth between her legs, that Sam had put her white wedding-night nightgown, neatly folded, at the end of the counter. For a moment she stared at it, as if it were a venomous snake... or, no—a constrictor, that would slither across the counter and enwrap her in its coils.
She put out her hand to touch the silky fabric, wondering how she had managed to put the naughty thing on, two weeks ago, when the idea of marital lovemaking had seemed simple: you put on something nice and got into bed, then your husband came in and took your virginity. After that, according to the understanding Mary had thought she had gained in Wellness class, he did it in the dark once or twice a week.
What you wore didn’t really matter. It hadn’t featured in any of Mary’s thoughts about sex, anyway. In the dark, under the covers, you could just pull down your sweats, she supposed now in the bathroom what she had supposed then, when she had told the doctor she understood what sex meant for a virgin bride. You could pull down your sweats under the sheets, then fish them out and put them on again afterward.
On your wedding night, maybe, you wore something special—something like this sheer baby doll nightgown with lace at the bodice that the model online looked so naughty wearing. Mary remembered the look on her face, that redheaded model, gazing back out of the screen of her laptop. The model’s lips had been slightly pursed, and Mary had for some reason developed the sudden idea that the model’s husband had just called from the bedroom to tell his bride to hurry up.
Her face got hot as she picked the thing up. So little... so transparent. Mary had only had the resolution to look at herself for a split second, the first and only time she had put the nightgown on before. As she dropped it over her head, now, with a shiver, she rediscovered a wicked thing about it that she hadn’t even realized before donning it two weeks ago, on her wedding night: the back of the nightgown comprised two interleaved panels of diaphanous fabric that met at the small of Mary’s back, so that as she moved she felt how easily a husband’s hands could find their way inside his wife’s nightwear and roam all over her body, from her bottom to her breasts to her almost virgin pussy.
At the sight of herself in the nightgown, Mary almost turned away from the mirror and fled into the bedroom. She felt a sudden urge to get it all over with, whatever it would be, and then to think about whether she just needed to leave Sam, or if they could work out some kind of sexless arrangement for a few years.
But her eyes traveled up and down her white-clad form, and with a rush of heat to her cheeks she saw how her husband would be able to tell immediately that Mary had obeyed his lewd command to shave herself between her legs. She could see right through the nightgown, and she could even see the cleft of her pussy down there, pink and tender, forbidden the protection of panties and ready for a man’s big, hard penis.
Feeling hypnotized, she turned around and looked over her shoulder. Without even wanting to, she bent a little at waist and knees, then put her hands back to part the fabric, to pull its two panels wide and expose her pert little bottom. She felt her face crumple as she thought of what Sam had promised.
You already have a whipping and a rooting coming.
She cried out, because at the thought and at the sight, standing there with her bottom bared, bent as if to offer it to Sam for the discipline she had earned, her pussy had clenched so hard that her knees felt wobbly.
“Pixy?” Sam called from the bedroom. “Time to come out.”
Mary met her own eyes in the mirror, and she found herself pursing her lips like the model in the online catalog. She didn’t look naughty the way the redheaded girl had looked naughty, though: Mary saw not mischief in her hazel eyes but sheer need—the girl showing the mirror her bare bottom couldn’t admit it even to her husband, but her wanton nature made her disrespect him, made her lie to him in the hope, only half-conscious, that he would know how to use his firm hand to take what he wanted and to shape her as he chose.
To train his bride to please him, her master, even when he had to punish her. Even when he had to whip her on the bare bottom to teach her how to be a good wife.
Even when he has to...
Mary’s eyes went down to her bottom again. Her hands, still holding the silky fabric, clutched her little cheeks now. The feeling of the fabric there made her shiver, but when she realized that her fingers were parting the two round halves of her backside, so that she could feel the cool air move over her most private place, a sob of fear and arousal burst from her chest.
Even when he has to root me on his hardness.
“Mary, don’t make me come in there to get you,” she heard Sam say from just outside the door. She froze, on the point of straightening up and turning toward the sound, but before she could do either he had opened the door and he stood looking at his wanton bride displaying her bottom to the mirror.
“What are you doing, Pixy?” he asked, in a voice full of knowledge and the threat of discipline.
What choice did Mary have? She dropped the fabric of the nightgown and let go of her bottom-cheeks. She straightened up and turned to her husband.
“Nothing,” she said defiantly. She gestured to her body, clad in the white nightgown. “I hope you’re happy now.”
Chapter Twelve
Fo
r a moment Sam had once again to struggle against his temper. Something about Mary’s expression—the petulant, disdainful crease between her eyebrows, maybe—seemed so precisely designed to provoke him that a fire ignited in his chest before he could even think through what he beheld.
He spoke, and moved, before he had gotten that flame under control: two steps into the bathroom carried him to within a few inches of Mary, whose face had become a wide-eyed mask of fear. He had his right hand on her left arm, just above the elbow, holding her so roughly that she gave a little cry.
“It seems like I can’t get you to stop lying to me, Mary. But at least I can make you pay for it.”
The way Mary’s lips parted, and the sound of her sharp intake of breath, followed by a little sob that seemed to mingle penitence with helpless arousal, all helped subdue the blaze in Sam’s chest, then. His brain kicked in at last, and he thought he understood better than he had yet exactly what went on between husband and wife in these moments.
She does provoke me, he realized with wonder. She’s scared of it, and she knows she shouldn’t—but she can’t help herself, because...
Because she needs it so bad.
For a moment, still holding her elbow tight and looking down into her frightened, needy face, sympathy rose up to quell the fire that flickered through his torso, the muscles of his arms. He almost made the mistake of letting her go, of apologizing the way he had done the previous Sunday.
He could see in Mary’s eyes that she had noticed his moment of hesitation, and he could see a different sort of fear begin to take hold—a real fear... that Sam didn’t actually understand, that he couldn’t actually give her what she needed.
That nanosecond of doubt, though, banished any danger that Sam would ever again fail to trust his instincts, at least where his sex life with his lovely, sexy, modest new bride was concerned. Mary would get precisely what she had earned.