by Trent Evans
“Turn,” he said, his voice thick.
She glanced at him as she obeyed, still holding her arms straight up as she did.
“Stop. Proceed.”
She was profile to him now, her eyes sliding to him, a fresh blush staining her cheeks again. The sweet curve of her belly was well presented in this position, and it made him want to stroke it again, a possessive gesture he indulged in any chance he got. He watched the way her heavy, swaying breasts moved as she stretched, up, up, finally up onto her toes for a moment, her calves twitching.
“I broke the rules on that one,” she murmured, her voice strained.
“How?” Keihl’s mind was already turning over new possibilities, vistas he hadn’t yet discovered. Rules for yoga? And consequences for breaking them?
Settle down, idiot.
“I mean… with this pose,” she said, letting out a sigh of relief as she lowered her heels back to the mat. “Not supposed… to go up on your toes.”
“From now on you are. Fuck the rules.”
The side of a full breast was just visible, and it moved as she giggled. “Unless you make them, right?”
“You’re a quick learner, wifey.”
Watching his naked, sweating, pregnant wife go through the rest of her yoga routine was one of the most erotic things he had ever seen, and the entire time he wondered how the fuck he’d never thought to make her do this before. He’d have done this even before The Game. When she went to her knees and pressed her face to the floor, he made her stop, telling her to point her ass toward him. When she obeyed, her buttocks yawning apart, the dark whorl of her anus clearly visible, he nearly came in his pants.
“Jesus Christ,” he murmured.
“You asked for it,” she said, both tension and satisfaction in her soft voice.
When she rose up again, her bottom pressed to her heels, Keihl was already standing by her side. He had his aching cock out, stroking it as he looked down upon her. She dipped her head, collecting the stray strands of her soaked hair, and retying her ponytail.
“After this, I usually cool down on the tread”—she drew a sharp breath when she saw his cock, her lust-clouded gaze sliding up to his—”I guess I’m done?”
He extended a hand. “You’re coming with me. Now.”
“Thank God.”
This was the hardest part — and the part that aroused her the most. He’d make her stand at attention, shoulders back, “tits out” as he liked to say, not a sound in the room, his keen gaze roaming over every inch of her naked flesh. He’d smooth a palm over the curve of her belly that could no longer be hidden by clothing, fingers playing with the heavy weight of hair he forbid her to cut, the tips of it now reaching halfway down her back.
Standing there silently, fingers laced behind her head, eyes down — that was another new requirement — and waiting. Might he decide to spank her? He no longer needed an excuse. He’d simply declared one day that he might choose to spank her, regardless of whether she’d done something to “deserve” it or not. The spankings weren’t quite as hard as they’d been at the beginning though — she could tell something had changed there too. She wasn’t sure if she loved that, or feared it. What if he stopped spanking her altogether?
It wasn’t always the threat of punishment that would follow one of her (now almost daily) inspections and recording of measurements. Would he bend her over his desk and slide that thick cock between her perpetually swollen labia, plunder her depths while he growled at her to stay quiet, to keep her head down?
Would he make her recite every negative thought or feeling she’d had, every urge to disobey him, every fault she thought she might be guilty of? That was new too, and it was one of the most trying things he ordered her to do. Sometimes she really couldn’t think of anything she’d done “wrong”, per se.
But he’d keep after her, interrogate her, and there always seemed to be something in the end, and then even she’d have to admit — no matter how small it often was — that she should’ve done better. The old Kirsten would have railed at, even been enraged by, such a concept.
That old her wouldn’t recognize the new Kirsten.
These gentle, but thorough, scoldings made her pussy so wet, she’d sometimes clench her thighs tighter together, afraid the shaming evidence of her arousal would trickle down her leg. Why did the feeling of embarrassment, even shame, now turn her on so much? Was it simply because she liked the attention? She hoped it wouldn’t be something so elementary — but then she’d be the first person to admit she didn’t quite understand all of her desires. She felt almost like a shamefaced little girl when he made her recite her list of transgressions, petty and profound. Whether right or wrong though, there was no mistaking the reaction it incited within her. It made her want to please him more, to try harder for him, to somehow strive for his approval — even over the smallest, most inconsequential things. She knew that most of her friends, even Joely, wouldn’t understand it. They’d berate her for allowing herself to be a doormat, for looking to someone else for approval, self-validation. She knew she could try to explain it, try to make them see, but it would be fruitless. Better to just shut up about it.
How does one tell your friends that this feeling of being subject to, accountable to, your man speaks to something deep inside you? How do you tell them that it arouses you so much that you think you might do just about anything to please him, to get more of that feeling, that knowledge, of someone caring, and protecting. Someone who expects more of you, and who isn’t afraid to inflict consequences if you fail to meet their standards set out for you. Was it being treated like a child? She supposed that in some instances, it might be perceived that way. Mostly, she just thought of it as discipline — a dark, alluring, incredibly arousing discipline.
Kirsten still had trouble with seeing herself as a capital S “submissive”, but even she’d have to admit, that there was now little difference between what her dynamic with Keihl had evolved into, and what she’d considered the Dominant/submissive relationship. It still didn’t quite feel right, that label. The shoe might not quite fit — but that was changing by the day.
And Keihl was changing too.
“I think we’ll be doing something a little different now,” he said, his voice bringing her out of her reverie. He set the camera down on the desk, scribbling something else in her little book, the hot blush coming unbidden to her face as she imagined what he might be writing down. “You normally go to the gym, correct?”
“I — yes, most of the time. Why?”
“You’ll only go from now on when I instruct you to.” His dark brow raised. “Understand?”
“I don’t… what about my exercise? The OB told me I’m not supposed to change what I was doing pre-pregnancy.”
He fixed her with a glittering gaze. “Oh you won’t be changing what you already do, trust me. You’ll just be doing it under my supervision. Most of the time anyway.”
Oh my God.
“What do you — how?”
She pictured him standing near her at the gym, leering at her, whispering his instructions to her as the surrounding gym goers decided if they should call the cops on him.
“You’ll do it downstairs. We’ve got most of a gym down there already. But it occurs to me that I should have you using it more often. I’d rather have you here, where I can watch you. Just as I promised, remember?” His hand stroked the curves of her hips; they’d already widened slightly— at least his declaration of her measurements indicated so. She remembered dropping her head, her cheeks flaming as he’d chuckled behind her, reading her numbers out loud, making a sound of surprise, his hand patting her bottom as one might pat the flank of a prized thoroughbred.
“What do you think of that, Kirsten?” His lips brushed her shoulder as he moved behind her now. “Tell me.”
“I — I guess I can do that…”
“You guess?”
“I mean, as long as I can do everything.” She mentally went through all
the machines, the routines she did at the gym, trying to think of any reason she couldn’t do them at home. What difference did it make? It was just exercise, right? Still, the prospect had her mind whirling already, another riot of arousal, and confusion erupting within her.
“Well?” His voice had dropped into that warning growl, the timbre of it seeming to vibrate though the core of her body.
“Yes, I can do it. It should… work.”
He hadn’t said it of course, but the meaning was implicit, the knowledge of what he’d have her do perfectly logical, really. Still, the prospect of it had her almost trembling, her belly doing little flip flops, knowing what was coming.
“Good girl,” he murmured, pressing his body to her naked back, making sure she felt the hard length of his erection against her soft, trembling buttocks. “Let’s get started then, shall we?”
Chapter Twenty Two
“Fuck, doesn’t he ever answer his phone?” Kirsten dropped her phone into its cradle, her fingers whirling over her keyboard. Another client she couldn’t seem to reach. The day had gone from bad to worse, two of her biggest accounts backing out on large projects, and giving her zero explanation as to why.
Then her boss, Roger, had called her into his office and informed her that her second largest client had decided to close their account entirely. It was her first time being — literally — called on the carpet. And she didn’t like it one bit. She was his best account rep — he knew it, she knew it, everyone did — but there was no getting around the fact that this day had sucked a whole other level of ass.
“Just one day. Shake it off.” Roger had told her before sending her out of his office with a wave of his hand. She’d get over it, of course, but it sure would’ve been nice if she could end the day with a stiff drink — or ten.
She smoothed a hand over her now obvious belly. “No luck there, girl.”
The clouds broke outside, bright early spring sunshine pouring through the windows, Roger’s admin flying across the floor as fast as her high heels and skin-tight black pencil skirt would allow her, to the windows, drawing down the blinds in fits and starts.
Kirsten’s phone buzzed. She picked it up, but didn’t look at it, instead reading through an e-mail with the latest inscrutable answer from her client. He was still beating around the bush about canceling the project. Something was weird here.
She glanced down at the text on her phone, her typing fingers on her keyboard coming to a halt.
It was a text from Keihl.
She smiled. Maybe her husband had an explanation for this shitty fucking day.
She finished up her e-mail and clicked send while she waited for his reply. When it came, she dropped her phone onto her keyboard with a jarring bang.
“Shit.” She grabbed for it as it slid, clattering over the keys, and snagged the phone just before it toppled to the floor.
Soft chuckling could be heard from a couple cubicles over.
Oh shit. Here we go.
She texted it, but she was already walking toward the hall, knowing the chances of him relenting after giving her an order were slightly less likely than the Sun not rising in the morning. It was a new strictness in him that she loved, even as she struggled with it, her innate defiance always threatening to get her into trouble.
And causing trouble always earned her two things: consequences — delicious and sometimes painful consequences — and yet another mark in her little leather book.
Her mouth went dry, her nipples hardening into pebbles as she read his reply
Her fingers whirled over the phone’s screen.
She hoped her quick, obedient reply might spare her. It was a fool’s hope.
Kirsten winced, her buttocks clenching, knowing what was to come.
One of the bathroom door’s hinges squeaked as she shouldered it open, one of the lab techs slipping past her in the opposite direction.
As she walked down the row of stalls, she silently thanked God they all appeared to be empty. The stall door clanged shut behind her and she lowered the lid on the commode, sitting on it, crouched over her phone. Then, for the moment at least, the place was still, only the buzz and flicker of one of the overhead fluorescent fixtures to keep her company. She texted him back, waiting with a pounding heart and held breath for his reply.
She couldn’t tell if she was turned on or a little scared. Maybe some of both.
The phone vibrated in her hand, the sound jarring in the silent bathroom.
She swallowed, hard.
She put a hand over one eye, as if she could hide from the embarrassment, the mortification at the fact that his words already had her panties soaking.
Awakening to the sounds of him dressing that morning, dawn’s light just starting to brighten the sky outside, Kirsten had watched him button his shirt, the fitted black one that accentuated the width of Keihl’s powerful shoulders. Sitting up in their bed, she’d let the comforter slip down, exposing her naked breasts to his glittering gaze as he pulled his belt on, the tight shirt showing off a bulge of biceps as he buckled it. Feigning a stretch, she’d arched her back, catching his eye.
Within seconds, she’d been crouched on her knees, her breasts pressed to the mattress at his growled order, her bottom up, throbbing pussy wet, ready.
Then she’d heard his low curse, and the sound of his zipper going back up.
“I’m late, Kirsten. Be a good girl.”
He’d left with a quick caress of her bottom, and a kiss to her hip.
The phone buzzed again, the incoming text snapping her back to the present, her fingers squeezing one of her hard, incredibly sensitive nipples through the fabric of her blouse. Her now prominent, ever erect nipples were only partially hidden by her bra. That had been another of Keihl’s dictates — no padded bras. Her breasts had already grown a cup size larger, and he’d been very specific with her when she’d told him she needed new bras. Sexy lingerie only — and he had to approve it ahead of time before she bought it. He’d even once threatened to prohibit her from wearing a bra at all, but he hadn’t actually pushed things quite that far.
Yet.
Kirsten reluctantly released her aching nipple and pulled up the text on her phone.
Kirsten sighed, her clit feeling like it was swollen to twice its size.
Fuck.
This was going to be… impossible. She didn’t think she’d ever been as horny as she was the past month. Joely had hinted at what second trimester might hold, but Kirsten, not exactly one to suffer from low libido, well, ever, had hoped she’d be one of the “lucky” ones who didn’t experience a marked
change in sex drive.
Once again, she was out of luck. Just thinking of how she’d acted that morning — like a total whore — had her shuddering with mortification.
You’re like a bitch in heat.
“If the shoe fits,” Kirsten whispered, shaking her head.
She had to get hold of herself. She was a grown, professional, mature woman — acting like a hormonal teenager. No matter how good it might feel, it needed to stop. At least at work. Could she control herself that long? Yes, she could do it — but Keihl was going to have his hands full when she got home each day. Was it possible to fuck your husband to death?
She heard the squeak of the hinge at the door, and she hunched further over, as if whoever it was might see what she were up to in that lonely stall. One of the other stall doors slammed, and Kirsten jumped, holding a hand to her mouth.
Oh my God.
The hiss of urine from the next stall made her wince.
She’d already raised her ass off the lid, hiking her skirt up, her face burning hot. Almost as hot as the throbbing of her sex. Her hand muffled her gasp as her bare buttocks pressed to the cold lid of the toilet.