With This Ring, I Thee Bed

by Alison Tyler

  The elevator pulled up short, rocking us on our feet. I gasped and then walked forward like a drunk across the deck of a ship caught on stormy seas. Boyd steadied me, laughing at my instability. “Just come on, Boyd,” I said, getting angry. When he walked I heard the crackle of the Gummi Bear bag in his pocket.

  “What about our babies, Molly?”

  I staggered down the hall. “Nothing! Be quiet.” My fear had turned to annoyance that he simply would not let it go. Didn’t he know that if I said it out loud it would probably come true? Or some stupid superstition like that.

  “Mol!” He was laughing and I heard him running up the hall. A delicious mix of what felt like fear and arousal swirled through my nether bits, making my cheeks flame and my heart beat faster. I jiggled the suite handle. Stupid wedding gown, no pockets for a key! I turned, straining for air, my back against the smooth wooden door. I yelped when Boyd caught me up in his arms, his smile somewhat feral now. “Tell me.”

  “I can’t.” His mouth came down on mine and his tongue pressed hard to my tongue. My knees went wiggly, and Boyd pushed past me with one big forearm and swiped the card key.

  “You will,” he growled, walking me backward. His knees were pushing against the full, imposing skirt of my gown, but I felt it slip between my knees and my cunt went wet for him. God. I wanted to forget my anxiety over the future and just fuck.

  “No. Please. Fuck me. Don’t make love to me, Mr. Loma. Fuck me,” I said against his bottom lip. I meant it, but I was also kind of hoping for a bit of distraction.

  Boyd let out a low sound and walked me back faster, so that I staggered a bit. Then he dropped like a stone, coming up with handfuls of crinoline and satin and fluff. “Tell me.”

  “No,” I breathed. What was he doing?

  Boyd jostled me, so I turned. His hand found my bottom. The panties, the garters, the old-fashioned white stockings I had let him pick out for kicks. His big palm slid warm and sure across my buttocks and I closed my eyes, liking the feel of his hands on me. My husband’s hands on me.

  “Tell me what you’re scared of, Molly. I’m your husband. You need to tell me and I’ll make it not scary anymore.” His teeth found the back of my neck and I shivered. His fingers danced over the edge of my panties, stroked the elastic garters. He slipped a finger under my stocking. I grew wetter with each second that ticked by. With every beat of my heart I wanted him more. Boyd nipped me again and said in a warning tone, “Come on, Molly.”

  “No,” I whispered. “Please just—” That was all I managed, because fire erupted along my flank. My ass blazed with sensation even before I heard the resounding slap.

  “Tell me,” he said in my ear.

  I was gobsmacked. Shocked. Irate! I… “Do that again,” I managed to gasp.

  “You need to tell me.”

  “Please.”

  Boyd laughed. “You have it backwards. You’re supposed to be a brat and I punish you. But you want me to do it. So let’s do it this way. You tell me and I’ll do it again. What about our babies, Mrs. Loma?”

  The stinging pain had warmed my skin and it throbbed, no doubt dull, red and flushed. I dropped my head and my voice. “They’ll be a mess,” I confessed. One big, dark fear released into the quiet bedroom.

  “Oh, baby.” He laughed. And then his hand came down on my other butt cheek and the pleasure that rushed through my pelvis was staggering. Even as the white-hot flashes of pain traveled through my skin, my pussy grew ready for him. I wanted him so badly, but I wasn’t ready yet. Not ready for this new sensation to end.

  I shook my head, held my breath, paid attention to the sinuous pleasure in my cunt. “They’ll be scarred for life, our kids.” Another fear dropped like a little poison seed at his feet.

  “No way, no how,” Boyd said, and cracked hard and fast across the very bottom of my ass, his big blunt fingers landing close to the wet entrance to my body.

  “They’d be on Oprah before their tenth birthday,” I said, sobbing just a little.

  Boyd sat on the bed and pulled me over his lap, all too fast for me to process. Three blows in a row accented his firm tone. “That is crazy.”

  “I’m scared we’ll break them,” I confessed, squirming on his lap.

  His large hands smoothed over the flesh of my bottom. They kept time with my pulse and I felt like one big heartbeat. It throbbed in my breast, my ears, my cunt, my ass. I squirmed on his lap, feeling his hard-on press the bodice of my dress. I wiggled some more to feel it again. It was for me, that hard-on.

  “No more. You’re wrong about all of it, babe. We will be awesome. My blushing bride.” He laughed, touching my hot, smacked skin. “Don’t be scared,” he said. He pushed a finger into me, slow and soft. Sank into me one millimeter at a time, so that I stopped breathing so I could pay attention.

  “How can you know?” I yelped. Then I moaned and pushed back to meet his probing fingers. He added a second and stretched me, making my pussy slippery and primed.

  “Because I believe in us.”

  “We’ll wreck them. Oh my God! I fall down all the time. And you! You can’t pick your socks up. And—” Crack, crack, crack!

  I wiggled again, gasping. Boyd’s hard cock rubbed my left breast and I closed my eyes, biting my lip. “Stop, Molly.”

  “I drink too much coffee and you eat way too much meat! They’ll be little high-strung carnivores right out of the womb.”

  Three more blows and I felt his hips arch up as if he was thrusting. Here we were, me in my gown, him in his tux, in our hotel room because our flight didn’t leave until morning. Here we were in some swirling column of fear, arousal and spanking. “Boyd!” I yelped.

  “We are not going to mess up our kid, Molly. You are very creative, I am very strong. We both are very smart.”

  “I burn oven mitts because I forget to take them out of the oven.”

  Crack, crack, crack! “That’s a matter of common sense, not intelligence. So, we just don’t let you use the oven when I’m not home.”

  “You wash all the clothes together and turn all the whites pink!”

  Crack, crack, crack! “So he’ll wear pink clothes. Real men wear pink.” Boyd growled. His fingers thrust into me faster and I bucked my hips, riding his fingers.

  “Oh, Boyd,” I said, hanging my head so all the blood rushed into my face. It still didn’t feel as fiery and tender as my bottom.

  “Can you be done with that now, Molly? No more.” He rolled me to the bed and set about getting my dress off.

  “I should have changed, like every other bride.” He was patiently undoing dozens of cloth-covered buttons.

  “Shh, I like it. It’s like opening a present that will last forever.” Boyd slid a finger beneath my bodice and stroked each nipple. I was dizzy with wanting him and the constant thumping reminder of my spanking. I squirmed, growing impatient for him. For his cock.

  “Do them faster,” I said. I squirmed some more and Boyd pulled my bodice down gently so that my breasts popped free of the bustier and then breached the barrier of my white gown. My nipples stood up like two ripe, perfect berries and he took one in his mouth.

  “Patience. You need patience. We’re going to get started on that family. We have a lot of messing around to do, so we need to get cracking on them babies.” He let the West Virginia twang creep into his voice and I giggled.

  “Stop torturing me.”

  He abandoned the buttons and pushed up the enormous skirt. “I’m going to fuck you now, Mrs. Loma, future mother of my emotionally stunted children. In your dress. In your stocking. If you have any objections,” he said, his voice husky and filled with want and humor, “speak now or forever hold your peace.”

  I spread my legs for him, watching his big brown eyes on me. I had never loved him more. My heart beat faster and my ass thumped in time. When he ripped my panties on each side and whisked them away, I managed to gurgle, “Keep those for the scrapbook!”

  He laughed. He was out of his tux in reco
rd time as I watched, loving his hard, tan thighs, loving his hard cock, loving all of him more than I ever had in my entire life. “I want a whole passel of kids with you,” he declared. “We can lead them all onto the Doctor Phil set and they can tell the world how their mother sings too loud and off-key.”

  “Boyd!” I swatted his arm as he kneed my legs apart to get me wider. Put his hard cock to me and rubbed my soaking wet slit until I arched up, impatient and demanding.

  “We’ll tell the world about the time you forgot to take off your socks and got in the shower.” He thrust into me quickly and I grabbed his shoulders, bit him hard.

  “Oh, God, Boyd.” I laughed, feeling no breath at all in my lungs as he started to move.

  He pressed his lips to my hair, fucking me hard so that we slid slowly across the duvet on the satin of my dress. “We’ll tell America how you burned the green beans that time and then set the pot on the counter and burned the counter to boot!”

  “I thought the counter was heat safe.” I whimpered. I was going to come. His hard length filled me and his wet skin kissed my clit with each thrust. I hooked my legs around him and he touched my face. Kissed me.

  “I’ll tell them how you bought me women’s underpants once. And they were purple.”

  “They said boxer briefs and they were royal-blue.” I giggled, my cunt tight to the point of blissful agony. I thrust up so he could fill me more. All the way. Take me over. I wanted to not know where I began and he ended.

  “They said boy shorts and the color was Royale.”

  “Apples and oranges.”

  “No. Ladies’ panties.”

  “Baby,” I said, coming. The orgasm swelled in me, until I felt hot and cold and perfect. My welted skin, marked by him, kept time with my racing heart, and it was one more perfect point of joy in my body.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I came.”

  “I know. I liked it.” He put his hands under my ass and angled me just so. His cock brushed the perfect place then. As good as the other place had been, this was better. His fingers plucked at my bruised flesh and I felt another orgasm inching toward me. “And I want you to do it again,” he said in my ear.

  I kissed him. Kissed him for every stupid thing he had teased me about. For the spanking and for knowing just how to push me. For fucking me and loving me and marrying me and all of it. When I had kissed him as hard as I could, I kissed him harder.

  “Jesus, Molly,” he said, and pinched me once, hard on the ass. His breath rushed over my ear as he came, small gasps that sounded like prayers coming out of his mouth. I followed right behind, with another small, perfectly sweet orgasm rolling in to fill the void left by the first one.

  “I love you.”

  “I love you, too, Mommy Dearest.” His laughter against my throat was the most beautiful thing I had ever heard.

  “Was that better than Gummi Bears?” he teased from the far side of the room.

  “Way better than bears,” I said, feeling somewhat calm for the first time in what felt like months.

  Boyd hung the dress up as I studied myself in the mirror. My bottom was flushed red and pink with a fingerprint visible, part of a palm print. A welt here, a purple streak there. I pushed and probed, relishing each sweet bite of pain. He came up behind me and hugged me, staring at my eyes in the mirror. “Come on, wife.” He pulled me from my reflection toward the bed.

  “What?” I teased.

  “We’re having a whole brood. We have to get a move on making them.” He kissed my shoulder, cupped my breasts.

  “Mmm. What if I say no?”

  Crack!

  “I was just asking,” I said, and let him pull me to the bed.

  Anniversary Waltz

  Portia Da Costa

  Oh my giddy aunt, I didn’t realize I’d spent quite that much! I knew there was that new dress for the Spencers’ party. And the garden furniture. And the replacement items for the dinner service. And my Day of Beauty at Cleo’s Spa… Oh God, how could I not work out how much all that would add up to?

  I’m in for it now. And on our wedding anniversary, too. Maybe I should hide the statement? Pretend it got lost or hope that in the fond glow of this special day, my dear husband won’t even think about it? But that won’t work. Julian’s nothing if not meticulous, and he knows the statement always comes on this day of the month. And even if I don’t show it to him, he’ll check it online, anyway.

  My heart thumps. My stomach feels all fluttery. I feel weird in a million different ways. And not all of them unpleasant. In fact some of them are quite pleasant indeed, and I feel more wicked because of that than any amount of overspending.

  I can already see Julian’s expression in my mind. Cool. Stern. But with that look in his eyes. That strange twinkle that not even his aura of displeasure can hide. I’ve let him down again, moneywise, despite all my pledges and promises to keep my self-indulgence under control. But he knows me so well. He was probably anticipating that I’d fail…yet again.

  I’d better prepare for that, as well as our quiet celebration dinner, for our anniversary. My hand shakes as I leave the statement on his desk. There’s no way that that I can sidestep him looking at it. And the damning total might as well be printed in inch-high letters of flaming red.

  The house is very, very quiet. I could hear the proverbial pin drop as I stand in my dressing room, deliberating over suitable clothing. All around me there’s a sense of an ominous brooding readiness. It seems to press down on my skin, activating secret trigger points of excitement. I’m shuddering and Julian hasn’t even seen the statement yet. I’m quivering in my plain white cotton underwear.

  He likes me to look nice, look sexy, a bit daring sometimes. But on occasions like this it’s old-fashioned sobriety all the way. The quiet, obedient, sensible wife act. Not me, really, but it’s performance, a game, a challenge. Smooth cotton lies against the skin of my breasts and bottom, cool and tantalizing as I run my finger along the rail, flicking the hangers, pondering the outfits on them. The suitable ones are all at one end, not worn often, or out of the house. I pull out a very good, cream-colored vintage skirt. It’s long, elegant and knife-pleated. Perfect. One of my husband’s favorites. And with it a white rayon blouse, softly tied at the neck.

  Sensible. Demure…

  Submissive.

  Yes…

  I twirl before the mirror, letting the pleats spin out in a last wild whirl of frivolity. As they settle back into place, I’m just as he’ll want me. Dressed to fill the bill. The big, fat, credit card bill. My head goes light, still floating as I study my reflection, and see myself as Julian will see me. Smoothing my fingers over the stuff of my blouse, I image they’re his fingers, and they’re assessing the layers beneath. The firm bra holding my breasts in a custodial grip. The prim top of my old-fashioned full slip. No skimpy plunge-front underwired confections for my Julian tonight, nothing transparent, nothing abbreviated. It’s all sturdily made. I lift my skirt and check… My knickers fit smoothly, but not too tightly, untrimmed, full cut, no nonsense. My garters and stocking seams are straight as arrows, superneat. My heart flutters again and my hands flutter, too, at my throat, the perfect fantasy good little Fifties housewife.

  Trying to calm myself, I comb my hair, touch a little bit of rosy color to my lips.

  Later, Julian arrives, kisses me fondly and hands me an exquisite bouquet of flowers. Which obviously I don’t deserve, given my irresponsible extravagance. He eyes me with that hawklike look of his. He knows. I don’t have to say a thing.

  When he goes to change for dinner, I hear the snick of his study door first, and I’m holding my chest again, as if I could stop my heart bouncing. The statement is sitting there, in the center of the blotter on his desk, and he’ll read it, since he never leaves important matters unattended.

  Dinner is delicious, though I do say so myself, and Julian praises me for this domestic virtue at least. Our chat is light, amenable, comfortable in a way. We’ve had s
ufficient anniversaries for them not to be quite such a big deal these days. But he doesn’t mention the statement or its horrendous total. We don’t settle our differences and our difficulties over the dinner table.

  But as he rises from his seat, he gives me a long, assessing look.

  “Shall I see you in five minutes then?” For just a split second, his tongue sweeps out and licks his chiseled lower lip. “Or do you wish to wait until another day, given that it’s our anniversary?” His handsome face is straight, benign, composed, but in his blue eyes there’s a demon happily dancing.

  “I’d prefer not to wait, dear, if you don’t mind.” My voice is as level as his, and steady, but in my chest the butterflies whirl and flutter, and my lower belly is all heavy, wild turmoil. He nods and I watch his retreating back, my hands clenched in my lap, knuckles white with the effort of keeping them there and avoiding doing other things.

  I love that he’s so cool and imperturbable. No screeching destructive rows for us, no seesaws of resentment, then easy reconciliation, or long angry silences. We do things a different way. An orderly, quiet, civilized, almost stately way. And when we do get uncivilized, it’s all the more delicious….

  Not that I’m feeling stately, quiet or calm now. I look normal, hopefully, but my pulse is racing as if I’ve been whirling again, pirouetting. And my crotch, oh my crotch is hot and moist. Part of me really does not want this appointment in Julian’s study in five minutes time. But most of me is counting the seconds, wishing them done and past so I can race up there. To him.

  In my bathroom, I give in to the shakes, grabbing on to the side of the basin as I hunker down on the toilet, trying to relieve myself. Best go now, rather than need to later.

  I must be serene, I must be quiet, I must behave; that’s my mantra as I step into a fresh pair of knickers and smooth them up over my hips and tummy. The others were sticky with excitement….