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Mandy
Why in the world had I said, “Forget it!” Could it really be because I had said the same bratty thing to Rick the night he wanted to go to his room right after dinner, with his roommates watching us leave and knowing what we would do once the door closed? No—not even knowing, because they assumed of course that Rick and I had sex in there. That I had given it up, like so many girls.
That night had come into my mind just as I uttered the defiant refusal of my husband’s humiliating command to take down my jeans and panties. Along with the memory had come the way I had felt, then: my body’s reaction to Rick’s embarrassing suggestion, and the tone I had heard in his voice—low and urgent.
I had known what he wanted and for a second or two—no more—I had, kind of, wanted it too. But I had also suddenly wanted… no,needed… something more. I didn’t know what that was, then at the table in Rick’s apartment, or here in this horrid private room over his knee. It seemed to have something to do with wanting to be a good girl—but also somehow with needing to be a naughty girl, too.
One thing I had known then and I knew now, to my shame and confusion:Forget itdidn’t actually meanno, and it definitely didn’t mean that I wanted Rick to forget it. The hesitation and confusion I had seen in his eyes that night as he had tried to read my expression and to understand my meaning had made my heart sink in my chest. I remembered him taking me home, right after that, because of course I couldn’t say that I hadn’t really meant it, that I wanted to go to his room and cuddle—and maybe even have my fiancé take me further than that.
Take me further than that.Time had frozen into this degrading, irreversible moment. I had saidForget it!but my husband had definitely not forgotten it: he had kept spanking me as I cried and squirmed under his firm hand’s painful teaching.
Then I had told him—no, not just that… I had called himsir,and then told him—I would obey his awful instruction. I had said I would lower my pants and my underwear. And I had implied, I realized to my mortification, my agreement to his humiliating decree. As his wife, yes, he should always punish me on my bare bottom.
Always.Not a one-time thing. Rick intended to use his firm hand on my naughty backside as often as necessary. To teach me obedience.
Obedience.How much obedience? Whatkindof obedience? My mind raced, going back to the night of the firstForget itover and over despite the terrible reality of the here and now at the airport, on our way, it now seemed impossible to deny, to a town where my husband would teach me to obey him exactly as he wished.
A sob ripped itself out of my chest as I felt his enormous hand return to my bottom again, squeezing the way he had before… firmly, possessively. Again I bucked against his arm over my back and his leg across my knees, my body responding uncontrollably to the unwanted sensation, the way Rick’s fingers moved the denim not just over my butt but also in front.
Unwanted, but… butneeded.
Need.For the first time, forced to it by my husband’s dominance, I confronted the terrible idea that I might need something I didn’t want. That I might need something wicked… dark… dirty.
“Don’t,” I sobbed. “Don’t…”
I didn’t know whether I wanted to call himRickyorsiroryou fucking asshole.His hand relaxed, and for a moment an utterly unfamiliar terror went through me, body and soul, that he would take me at my word and stop. Then he squeezed again, and he spoke in a low, soothing voice that at first seemed at odds with the degrading meaning of his words.
“From now on, Dee, I’m going to touch you however I want, whenever I want, wherever I want. I know it’s going to be hard for you, but you’re my wife, and we’re going to try it my way at least for the next few days. Then you can call it quits if you want.”
As he spoke, his hand on my bottom moved further down between my legs. To my horror, my hips responded of their own accord. They moved within the very narrow range his arm and his leg allowed. They pushed my spanked bottom into his possessive palm. They told him that despite my modest upbringing and despite my refusal to let him deflower me before marriage—despite my denying him more lovemaking than our wedding night—his young bride’s body craved…something.
I felt the warmth of my sore butt-cheeks seep into the place where my husband had opened me with his hardness, where he had taken his pleasure despite my youth and my innocence. I whimpered at the terrible conflict inside me, between want and need, modesty and wantonness. I had the sudden fear that if his fingers kept moving, there might be a wet spot on my panties when I took them down.
“Now,” Rick said, his voice stern. “Lower these jeans, Mandy. It’s time for you to learn your lesson.”
I didn’t know whether he intended his caressing hand to have the effect it did—to make it more attractive to me to take my punishment rather than let him see how badly my body needed things a good girl should never need. Whether he did mean it or not, my fear of Rick seeing a wet spot on my panties overrode everything else. My husband must not understand, I resolved. He must never know that he had awakened in his bride the dark ideas that had flooded my mind—the ones that had started to arrive the moment Heather Franklin had earned her own trip to a private room for a marriage lesson, and didn’t seem to be letting up.
“Yes, sir,” I sobbed. I started to move my hands to my waist, and Rick loosened his grip to let me obey him.
A chime sounded from somewhere near the ceiling.
“Mr. Williams,” said Miss Perth’s voice. “I’m sorry to disturb you, but you’ve got fifteen minutes before you need to board your flight.”
CHAPTER11
Mandy
We boarded the plane in silence. I tried to keep my face impassive, but when Rick put his hand on my ass and gave it a significant squeeze as we walked down the jetway, I felt a blush flood my cheeks. Knowing that the pretty flight attendant, just about my age, who welcomed us onto the plane, saw it—and watching her eyes go downward to take in the way my older husband had shown his dominance over his young bride—made me frown very deeply.
“Right here,” Rick said from behind me. To my astonishment, he indicated two enormous, leather-covered seats only two rows down from the cockpit. I looked at the row he had pointed to, and realized that I had somehow managed not to notice until now that we were in first class.
“Really?” I asked, even though I didn’t mean to contradict him, as contradictory as I felt about him and about our marriage, at that moment. My voice sounded harsh to me, though, almost scornful—as if I did indeed intend to question his authority.
A little thrill of fear went through me at the thought. My right hand went reflexively behind me, in a motion that to my distress seemed to have quickly become second nature. Rick had taken his own hand off my backside as we had begun to walk down the plane’s aisle single file. The ghost of the sensation of having it there—and the soreness in my butt from my first trip over my husband’s knee—made me turn to look over my shoulder in a mixture of anxiety with the emotion I had resolved not to name, or even acknowledge.
“Really,” Rick confirmed, tilting his head and raising his eyebrows slightly, as if he were inclined to overlook my apparent scorn, but wanted to make certain I knew his patience wouldn’t go on forever.
