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Aware of his gaze on her, Kelsey set down her mug and lowered her eyes submissively, as she knew he liked, waiting for the command to kneel at his feet.
Instead, to her surprise, he said, “I was thinking maybe it’s time we started our own blog. James’ Obedient Wife. That has a nice ring to it. I’m thinking we would post a photograph of you, too, to draw interest. Not your face of course,” he said quickly. “I’m thinking maybe one of that delectable ass of yours, whipped to a nice cherry red. That would please me. What do you think?”
Kelsey swallowed, searching in her mind for the trick in the question. She didn’t want to have a picture of her naked body posted on the internet, but she also understood he wasn’t asking if she agreed or not to his plans, but rather, how she felt about what was going to happen, with or without her consent. She didn’t want a spanking either, or a whipping.
Answer truthfully. Always answer truthfully, as a good wife should. I’ll know when you’re lying, Kelsey. A husband always knows.
The scary thing was, he usually did know.
But not always.
She’d been getting better at keeping her feelings more tightly coiled deep inside her, hidden behind a mask of serene obedience. When she succeeded, he rewarded her with hot coffee, food, warm baths and orgasms. Lots of orgasms.
When she failed, however, the punishments were swift and severe.
“I—I don’t want a whipping, sir. I’ve been a good girl. Haven’t I?”
“Up until this moment, yes,” he agreed pleasantly, though she didn’t like the sudden cruel curve of his smile, or the glint in his eye. “But good girls don’t state their opinions about whether they want whippings or not. Surely you know that by now, wife?”
Kelsey’s gut clenched and she bit her lower lip. Fuck. When he started calling her wife, she was usually in trouble. “Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir,” she said quickly.
James stood, and she saw the erection tenting his shorts. He shook his head, making a “tsking” sound. “You had been doing so well, but you forgot one of the prime rules of wifely submission. A wife doesn’t voice what she does or does not want. She asks what would please her husband, and no more.” He frowned, though his cock continued to strain at his shorts.
“Go on,” he insisted, “tell me. What would the proper response have been to my question?”
Kelsey felt tears pricking her eyelids. Damn it, she should have known the answer—why had she fucked it up? “If—if it pleases you, sir, then it pleases me.”
James reached for her arm and jerked her up from the chair. “That’s better. You’re mouthing the words at least, though it’s clear it’s not yet a part of your psyche. I’ll just have to work harder.” He walked toward the door, pulling her along with him. “Come on. Punishment time.”
He led her to the center of the living room and stopped, still gripping her arm. “I guess that’s what comes of sparing the rod,” he said with an exaggerated sigh. “An article I read recently said a husband should discipline his wife daily, as a constant reminder that she is cherished. It shows he cares enough to take her in hand. It said men often make the mistake of being too soft on their wives, and then the woman doesn’t trust or understand the true extent of her husband’s natural authority, or his duty to exert total control. I’ve been remiss. I think we’ll rectify that today, Kelsey. Stand under the beam and raise your arms over your head.”
The large, open living room that comprised most of the cabin’s space had thick exposed wooden support beams suspended below the cathedral ceiling. Early in their stay James had thrown sturdy ropes over the center beam, where they had remained, a constant warning.
Something about being bound by the wrists by that rough, scratchy rope, arms spread wide and pulled taut so she was forced on tiptoe, made Kelsey feel more vulnerable and frightened than any other kind of punishment. There was no way to hide, no way to shield any part of her body from his switch, his whip or his hand.
Kelsey shivered with fear as James removed her cuffs so he could tie the rope directly around her wrists. She knew from experience the ropes would burn and chafe her skin if she wriggled too much. He adjusted the ropes, pulling at them until she was forced onto her toes. He left the room a moment. When he returned, he was naked, his cock jutting hard and thick from his body, the whip in his hand.
He’d only used the whip twice before, and she been marked afterwards each time, though no more so than from a hard spanking. But something about the whip itself frightened her in a way she couldn’t quite articulate. Maybe it was because the person wielding it had no direct contact of skin on skin, as with a spanking, and so it became a less personal, more removed kind of interaction. How could James insist he cherished her while wielding a whip? It didn’t make sense to her, not even within the framework of the obedient wife.
