by Emily Tilton
“Yes, sir,” Mary sobbed. Her hands clutched at her little cheeks, where he had given her such a terrible lesson in honesty and obedience. Each little squeeze seemed to send more heat radiating forward to the pussy he had dominated just a moment ago, but which he meant to ignore, now, in favor of the virgin hole that would provide him with new, forbidden pleasure.
A sob burst from her chest at the thought, mingling such shame and need that Mary suddenly felt herself distant from the scene, observing the humiliating sexual lesson from above. A young bride’s first rooting, she thought, with a strange satisfaction that sent a wave of pleasure through her hips, as if it were happening to someone else.
But at the same time she felt the head of Sam’s penis pressing there, where he had put his thumb a minute ago and made her come and come. She cried out in discomfort at the size and the rigidity of him, but the head of his cock pushed harder, teaching her bottom how it must yield to her husband’s right to use her as he pleased.
Under the fabric of her nightgown, his hand moved gently, slowly, as if he meant to tame her like a wild animal, break her like a young filly.
“Good girl,” he said gently. “That’s it. Let me in. You know you need it. You know you need your husband in here.”
Mary cried out into the sheet, still wet with her tears from the terrible whipping, at the shameful truth of it. She needed rooting. A young bride needs rooting in her new life.
His cock stretched her little hole much too wide. She sobbed as he pushed harder, and then suddenly she seemed to yield in a new, terribly embarrassing way, and she felt the head of his penis come inside. Her cheeks blazed at the lewdness of the sensation, the immodesty of Sam taking her anal virginity as a punishment for her disrespect. She had a hard penis in her little bottom; she would never again be the same innocent girl who had gone to the altar.
Sam gave a little grunt of pleasure. “Oh, that’s tight,” he growled. “That feels so good on my cock.”
But of course, Mary thought as she let out a sob at the terrible feeling of fullness in her smallest place, she would never be that same girl. She had gotten married so that she wouldn’t, hadn’t she?
Sam pushed his hardness in further, and Mary cried out in mingled discomfort and need. It hurt, but she could bear it. What seemed harder to bear was that it made her pussy ache with unsatisfied desire. Her brow furrowed deeply as she tried to grind her clit against the pillow and found it much too soft.
“Now you’re rooted, Mary Hunter,” Sam said. “If you’re a good girl for my cock...”
Suddenly the hand on her back left her, and she felt him reach it under her right hip.
“Oh, God,” she whispered, because she feared what would happen when he did what it seemed he would do. Then she gasped and sobbed, because he had done it, with two fingers on her clit, and Mary came with her husband in her anus for the very first time.
He took his hand away again, though, and stroked her back with it, as the shudders of her orgasm left her. He put his fingers on the band of silky fabric from which the two panels dropped, the flaps he had opened to gain access to her backside for discipline and pleasure.
“All you need to do is ask, before you put on your sweats, Pixy,” he said very gently.
Mary sobbed. It seemed so simple and yet so very hard. Should she have woken him up to ask, on their wedding night? How would that have helped?
Sam’s cock moved in her bottom, and now he had both hands on her back as he began to ride the bottom he had rooted on his hardness. Mary cried out as he fucked her anus for his pleasure, her pussy ignored as he loomed over her, holding her down and enjoying her at his ease.
She should have... she should have...
I should have curled up next to him on the bed, in my nightgown. I should have waited for him to wake up, and... and...
And use me again, in my nightgown.
Just as she thought this simple, terrible thought, she felt Sam’s hand go back down underneath, and at the touch of his fingertips on her clit, even as his penis pushed deeper inside her bottom than it had yet gone, she climaxed, writhing under the domination of his powerful body. She couldn’t stop thinking it, in form after form, and she couldn’t stop coming.
Use his bride. In her white nightgown. Fuck her cunt. Fuck her face. Fuck her young bottom and teach her a lesson. Use her the way a man likes to use his wife. Face down. Bottom up. Riding her rough. Enjoying her in her naughty baby doll.
Rooting her hard.
Chapter Fourteen
When Sam’s orgasm approached, rushing toward him like a freight train made of pistons and steel wheels and diesel-electric lightning bolts of pleasure, he did his best to restrain his deep, urgent thrusts in his young wife’s well-whipped bottom. The sounds she made, though—the wild, desperate, and yet somehow also submissive sobs and screams Mary let out as she came with his hard cock in her little bottom, her hands obediently on her cheeks to spread them wide for the penis—drove him on to root her very deeply, to teach her this shameful lesson as thoroughly as he could.
He looked down and saw his rigid shaft surging in and out as he fucked her virgin anus with one hand under her to control her pleasure and the other firmly on her hip to let him thrust as he liked. He watched her fingers clutch at her little cheeks with tiny jerking motions and felt the wisdom of this way of disciplining a wayward bride. The opening of her own bottom for the lewd use of her husband’s manhood might not be part of the most traditional regime of training a wife, but he could already see how effectively it had begun to cure Mary of her disobedience.
His lap came up against her bottom now, and against those slender fingers, so deeply did he fill her tight rear passage. The sensation of her warm cheeks, still pink from his belt, pert and round against his loins made him grunt with pleasure. Her narrow tunnel, lubed for his enjoyment, clung to his cock as he thrust in and out, and her bottom moved with tiny jerks as he thrust into it, as if she wanted to have him even deeper despite the discomfort it meant, the shameful fullness.
“Please, sir... please...” Mary moaned. “I’ll be a good girl.”
Those submissive words brought on Sam’s climax at last. Still rubbing her clit firmly with his right hand, his whole body went rigid, and he held himself in at full length, breathing hard as he felt his cock spurt his seed deep inside his wife’s punished backside. Mary’s bottom clenched on his shaft, and she gave a sob of ambiguous pleasure as she felt the fulfillment of his mastery.
“There you go,” Sam grunted as the spasms of ecstasy started to fade from his muscles. “From now on, you’ll know what a naughty girl gets in this house, so you’d better try your best to be good for me. Otherwise you’ll end up right back here for another rooting.”
He accompanied these words with a more tender caress of her clit, his right hand still there under her hip, holding her pussy possessively even as his still-hard penis in her bottom reminded her that her husband meant to use her in every place he could seek his pleasure.
“Yes, sir,” Mary whispered to the sheet. To Sam’s joy, she wriggled a little over the pillow, then, sending an aftershock of pleasure through his frame. “Sir?”
“Yes, Pixy?” Sam asked, even more surprised by the kittenish tone in his wife’s voice than he had been by her saucy little wriggle.
“Did my... my bottom feel good?”
“So good,” Sam said softly. “It’s a wonderful bottom.”
Mary giggled. “And... and I can, you know, cover it up...”
Sam frowned, not sure what she meant as her words trailed off in evident confusion, or perhaps embarrassment. He pulled his cock gently out of her anus, and Mary emitted a whimper in response. To his surprise, he felt himself begin to stiffen again at the sight of her hands on her well-whipped, deeply fucked bottom, rubbing now as if to soothe away the lingering soreness her husband’s just discipline had left there.
He took her wrists in his hands, on an instinctual whim. Mary stiffened, as if afraid she
had misbehaved in rubbing her poor little cheeks, and Sam might start whipping her again. But he moved her arms around to her front with the practiced ease of a fitness teacher, as she turned her face over her shoulder to look at him with troubled eyes.
“I’ll rub your bottom, Pixy,” he said, smiling, and Mary’s features transformed themselves into a hesitant smile. “It’s mine, now.”
“Okay,” she said, her brow furrowing again. She took her lower lip between her teeth for a moment as she regarded him over her forearm, then she whispered, “Sir.”
As he put his right hand gently on her backside, Sam looked down at the sweet young bride over the pillow for a stern lesson she had now received. The pretty white nightgown looked so sexy, parted for her punishment, falling to either side but still gracing her little body, adorning her as a bride for her husband, that it nearly took his breath away.
His cock recovered still further at the mere sight of her there, and he felt a smile break out on his face. His hardness seemed a full complement to the way Mary had had climax after climax under his hands and cock—as if to indicate that the sexual chemistry between them, when he dominated her properly, would prove very hard to contain, or even to measure. When he put his hand on her little bottom and began to rub, and she whimpered at the sensation and wriggled over the pillow, his hardness leapt against his thigh, already springing nearly to full erection at the wicked sensation of touching her intimate places as he pleased.
“It’s a wonderful bottom?” Mary whispered, gazing at him with the same slightly troubled, slightly dreamy expression.
“Mm-hmm,” Sam said, rubbing a little more firmly and coming further down and further in so that his penitent bride emitted a little whine from between her pursed lips.
“I...” she started again. “I covered it up... on our wedding night.”
Sam nodded, still rubbing, his fingers coming very close to her shaven pussy. He thought he might understand now what she wanted to talk about—and to resolve.
“You covered up this pussy, too, didn’t you?” he asked in a gently mocking voice, and he touched her there, so that she squirmed over the pillow, and moaned with renewed need of her own. “So I had to make you shave it for me, didn’t I?”
Mary nodded, the crease in her forehead growing very deep. “Yes, sir,” she breathed.
Her hazel eyes seemed to beseech him for something she couldn’t have named if he had demanded if of her, as he claimed her with his strong hand. She rode his fingers shamelessly now, her lips parted and her breath coming in tiny gasps. Her face begged him for so many different things that he could hardly sort them out: for more pleasure, for more discipline, but also—Sam realized with a little leap in his chest—for wisdom. Could he figure out what she meant, about covering herself?
He remembered what she had tried to say before: and I can, you know, cover it up? Suddenly it made sense, because it connected to what he had said about her sweats. It all came back to that: to her nightgown, and her sweats, and... he felt with a flash of certainty—to her panties. Hadn’t she responded almost violently to him saying that shaving her pussy would give her a reminder in her panties of his authority?
Sam slowed the rhythm of his hand between her legs, and Mary looked at him beseechingly, moving her bottom as if to plead for a return of the more urgent, more satisfying caress.
“You may wear what you like, to sleep in,” he said slowly. Mary’s eyes opened wider, and her lips, which had closed when he had stopped driving her toward a climax, opened again. On her face he could see that his words had satisfied something deep inside her—but not completely. He continued, putting more weight behind his words and at the same time working her more firmly between her thighs, so that she whimpered with submissive pleasure as he spoke. “But you have to ask my permission, like I said, before you cover up your pussy and your bottom. That applies to your panties, too. You’re going to be wearing panties a lot less often, from now on.”
Mary bit her lip as she moved shamelessly over the pillow, her cheeks bright pink and her pussy flowing into Sam’s hand.
“Tomorrow we’re going to go to the lingerie store, to pick you out some other things to wear to bed, and some bras and panties for you to wear and for me to take off when it’s time to fuck.”
“Oh, God,” Mary moaned. “No, please... I can’t... you can’t...”
But her body told a very different story. She closed her eyes and she pushed out her bottom, and Sam could tell—having now seen his modest bride climax so lasciviously and so many times—that he had brought her very close to another orgasm with this instinctive wisdom.
He took his hand away, and Mary cried out, her eyes flying open again to look at him with an almost cartoonish expression of beseeching.
“Stand up, Pixy,” he said sternly. “I want to look at you in your wedding night baby doll.”
Mary shuddered, her fists clenching on the fitted sheet. For a moment Sam thought he might have to threaten her with the belt again. Then, to his delight, he watched her wriggle her adorable backside just a bit, as if she were giving herself a reminder of what had befallen her the last time she had pretended her husband didn’t know what she needed. He thought he could see in the movement of her mouth, the way she drew her lips between her teeth, that the tiny squirm of her bottom had brought evidence to her body and her mind that Sam had rooted her once—though perhaps not for all—in her new life as his submissive bride.
She might well need a rooting every week, he reflected, her husband’s hardness in her most private place as she held her burning rear cheeks open for his thrusting. He certainly wouldn’t mind. Now, though, Mary did as he had told her: she got off the pillow, a little shakily, and climbed to her feet to stand by the bed, her eyes downcast and her face pink.
The lamp on the bedside table shone behind her and illuminated her body in the sheer baby doll so excitingly that Sam found himself pumping his cock in his left hand at the sight without even thinking about it. Mary’s eyes went wide, and she drew a little gasping breath at the sight.
“What are you doing?” she asked, as if she couldn’t keep herself from asking the impertinent question. Her eyes traveled up to his, and she bit her lip when she saw the expression on his face, which Sam thought must be one of naked hunger to enjoy his wife again. “Sir?” Mary added, and that made him smile.
“I’m jerking off, Mary,” he said frankly. “I get to do that when I want. You look so sexy in that nightgown that I can’t help it. Put your hand down and rub your pussy for me. You’re allowed to do that when I give you permission. You have to do it when I tell you to.”
“Oh,” Mary breathed, her eyes going down again to Sam’s hard cock. “I...” She looked down at her right hand, hovering in front of the sheer skirt of the nightgown, through which Sam could see the naughty outline of her shaven pussy’s tender cleft.
“Lift up the nightgown,” Sam commanded, his voice growing more stern. “Show me. Then you’ll touch yourself.”
“But...” Mary whispered. “But I don’t have panties on, sir.” Her eyes met his once again, and he saw her smile, just a tiny bit, and Sam knew it must mean she trusted him at last.
“Of course you don’t have panties on, Pixy,” he said, his voice sounding rough and thick with arousal in his ears. “You’re not allowed to wear panties when your husband disciplines you. Now get that nightgown up before I put you across my knee.”
Chapter Fifteen
Part of it seemed so silly, but that part felt wonderful, too. Mary could hardly believe she had just said the thing about not having panties on. Yes: of course she didn’t have panties on—wasn’t that more or less what this was all about?
Somehow, though, the beginnings of real understanding between her and her huge, dominant, scary, wonderful husband made it make a kind of sense that went beyond regular logic. Mary wanted to say to Sam that Mrs. Grabano had made it clear to the girls of New Modesty High that good girls wear panties. For hygiene. For m
odesty.
She needed Sam to know that if a good girl married a stern, masterful man, it would take a little while before she could get used to his lewd, wicked preferences. A good girl might put on a naughty white nightgown for her wedding night without knowing exactly what it would mean—to her bridegroom or even to herself. She might not be completely comfortable with how it made her feel, especially at first, and she might even want to take it off after her new husband claimed her virginity.
Mary looked up into Sam’s blue eyes and saw love there, along with the stern authority that made her heart jump and her tummy flip over.
In a good way. Yes, in a good way: she didn’t have any doubt about that now, even after he had whipped her so hard with his belt for lying to him.
Over and over. I lied to him over and over—not just in my words but with my actions. For a moment her heart quailed as she thought about the biggest lie of all, the one on Sunday when she had pretended that no, he couldn’t trust the evidence of his senses, and, no, she hadn’t felt so much pleasure as he fucked her after the spanking that she didn’t think she could be a modest girl ever again afterward.
I lied to him over and over, and so he whipped me over and over, like I deserved. Then... then he rooted me. He made me take his hardness so deep, in the wrong place.
Mary could see in his face that her husband would never again hesitate to discipline her, as shamefully and as painfully as necessary to teach her his lessons. It made the modest part of her burn with mortification even as the wanton part of her shuddered with need.
She looked down to the wicked place she seemed unable to keep her eyes off even though she could never keep them there for long. She saw Sam’s hand move along the rigid length of his penis, pleasuring himself. Arrogantly he showed her what a man could do with his cock, to make himself feel good, when he didn’t feel like fucking his wife.
The memory of the dining room, of putting her hand down between her thighs as he made her give oral sex for the first time, came back suddenly, and now she felt a strange, unexpected surge of gratitude to Sam for giving her permission to do the naughty thing Mrs. Grabano had somehow managed to brand as wicked even as she told her pupils that it was healthy.