His Blushing Bride

by Emily Tilton

  “Some girls,” the Wellness instructor had said, “get a little carried away, and do it every day.”

  Something in Mary had known that if she tried it, she would be one of those girls—the ones who get carried away. So she never had. Even when she had looked at herself in the mirror, in her white wedding-night baby doll nightgown, and she had lifted the front of it and frowned a little at the sight of her golden curls there and the pink hint of her pussy nestled among them. Even when she had felt like she could almost put her hand there, to see what it would feel like to Sam, when he raised the nightgown, as he would when he came to bed to deflower his bride, and touched his new property for the first time.

  So when she had thrust her hand down there, to feel herself, to make herself feel good, while she had to serve her husband’s hard penis on her knees, and a jolt of pleasure had shaken her whole body, and she had sucked all the more tenderly and respectfully at the wickedness in her mouth, Mary had lied. Mrs. Grabano’s words had felt so true: she would get carried away, and she would play with herself all the time, if she admitted she was that kind of girl.

  Now, though, Sam knew. He had known all day, Mary understood now. Maybe he had known before, without being sure what to do about it—what to do about having the kind of wife who needed... Mary’s mind pulled back, and, still looking at her husband’s hard cock, she gave a tiny whimper as she reached to the sheer, silky hem of the nightgown and drew it up so that he could see her needy little pussy.

  The kind of wife who needs whipping and rooting.

  Her hips jerked with a clench of her pussy, and the whole region between waist and knees seemed to feel it, from the warmth of her sternly punished bottom-cheeks to the ache in her neglected pussy to the unfamiliar feeling in her newly deflowered anus, thoroughly used and fully enjoyed by the mastering shaft in her husband’s moving hand.

  “Now touch yourself,” he growled. “Play with your little pussy.”

  No panties under her nightgown, so nothing to stop her from putting her hand there, as she kept looking at the massive cock with which Sam had opened all her virgin places for his pleasure. Now she tried to raise her eyes from its length, its uprightness, but she found she couldn’t. She sobbed with need and she put her left hand between her thighs, and then she moaned because the need only got more and more as she began to rub her clit, up and down, harder and harder.

  No panties. Panties, sweats, and soft t-shirts only when I have permission. Sam’s hand, moving up and down his hard shaft. Her hand, showing her husband how naughty she could be, how much naughtier he had made her when he had commanded her to shave her pussy for him, and to put on her baby doll nightgown.

  When he had put her over the pillow for bare-bottom discipline... for bottom fucking... for hand riding... for coming and coming and coming.

  “Oh, God,” she whispered, feeling her face crumple into a pout of lewd desire. “I’m going to...”

  But suddenly Sam’s hand left his cock, and Mary felt her eyes go wide as he took her wrist into it, and pulled her hand away from her pussy.

  “Good girl,” he said. “Let’s take a shower.”

  Mary felt a smile break out on her face despite the ache between her thighs. She raised her eyes to his, her lower lip caught between her teeth. She nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  It would be nice to get clean. Not that she really felt dirty, exactly, but the idea of warm water washing over them seemed heavenly. And to be completely naked, both of them, close together in the shower stall, seemed so naughty and yet so nice... so right, really—especially if Sam said it was right for a girl who had just had her bottom fucked to take a shower with the man who had used her that way.

  “Put your hands over your head,” Sam said in a gentle, daddy-ish voice that Mary didn’t think she had ever heard from his mouth before. “I’ll take your nightgown off.”

  As she obeyed, the little smile that had broken out on her face at his tone became a frown as she thought of something. Hands raised high and Sam’s fingers already grasping the fabric of the baby doll, raising it up to expose her bare pussy and her little bottom, she whispered, “After?”

  “What, Pixy?” Sam asked, holding the nightgown just above her breasts and looking into her eyes with a soft, inquisitive smile.

  “After the shower... what... what am I going to—I mean, what am I allowed...”

  His smile widened. “What are you going to put on, after the shower? You may wear whatever you want, Mary.”

  “Panties? And sweats?” she whispered. Suddenly it seemed essential to her, for all of this to work, that she be permitted to put on her polka-dot panties and cover them up with the gray sweats.

  Sam nodded. “Yes, Pixy. But I’m going to fuck you in the shower, in case you’re wondering, and I’m going to take down your panties in the morning, to fuck you again.”

  Mary drew in a gasping little breath at the way her pussy clenched and her hips jerked, almost violently, at her husband’s words and the change in his tone of voice, from kind and gentle to stern and commanding in an instant. A tiny rebellious voice, a part of her mind still struggling against the needs in her heart and lower down, urged her to resist, to tell Sam no, that if he thought he could simply declare to her whether and when she would furnish her vagina, panties down for his enjoyment he had another think coming. Another part of her mind brought into her imagination the pillow on the bed, the terrible whipping Sam had given her for her disobedience.

  He’ll whip me again if I say no, that part said, and it hurt so much. He’ll root me on his cock again, and that was so shameful.

  Looking into Sam’s eyes, her lip caught in her teeth, Mary let out a little whine as she felt another helpless contraction between her legs. Her brow creased, because it was true, but it didn’t represent the whole truth. She knew that her husband would discipline her, painfully and shamefully, but not because he wanted his way—well, not only because he wanted his way.

  “Yes, sir,” she whispered, and Sam pulled the nightgown up over her head and off her, to drop it in a silken heap on the blue fitted sheet.

  They stood there for a moment, looking into each other’s eyes, and Mary wondered, with a wishful pang, if she could ever tell her husband what he meant to her, love and peace and joy and even freedom.

  She must have had a troubled expression on her face at the thought, for Sam reached out his right hand to stroke her cheek with the back of his knuckles.

  For a moment Mary worried that he might apologize, or show some other sign of hesitation, but when he spoke, the words seemed to fill her with light, and the sudden conviction that maybe she didn’t need to tell him all of it, because he already understood so much.

  “It’s going to be alright,” he said. “I know what you need, now.”

  “Yes, sir,” Mary whispered.

  Hand in hand, naked together, they walked to the shower.

  They washed each other completely, first. Mary giggled as Sam’s soapy hands roamed over her breasts, her pussy, and the naughty valley between her whipped, still sore bottom-cheeks. She took her lip in her teeth as he guided her hands to his hard cock and made her clean it after his pleasure in her anus.

  Then, with the water pouring over their bodies, he turned her and bent her over until she leaned her elbows on the wall of the shower enclosure. His hand in front, between her thighs, soaped her pussy again, and she cried out at the skillful way he prepared her. Then she felt his knees, bent on either side of hers, and she felt the head of his penis right where she needed it most.

  Sam gave a grunt of pleasure and Mary screamed, coming almost as soon as she felt him begin to move inside her. She spread her wet hands on the slick surface, worried for a moment that she might fall, but her husband’s powerful frame held her up against the wall of the shower and his hips drove into her backside as he kept fucking her.

  As she reached climax after climax on his pounding cock, and her body seemed to become jelly, to melt into the warm water as her
husband enjoyed her pussy, her mind seemed to wander in new, sexy directions. She closed her eyes and thought of lacy panties, and polka-dot panties. Of strong hands taking them down, pulling them aside. She even thought of gray sweats and old green t-shirts, of a girl who probably wouldn’t wear them again, even when she had permission—unless of course she had a need, or even a whim, to feel rooted in her life as the wife of a man who knew how to make her happy.

  The End

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