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Why the fuck does that matter?the logical voice, caught in the divide between myself and my other self, demanded.
But it did. Blushing even harder to know that the mismatch in her underwear would certainly displease her husband, the bratty bride started to pull down her jeans and only her jeans. I wondered if Rick might even whip me harder because of my failure to dress properly for his pleasure.
A tiny sob burst from my chest at that thought—at the idea itself, but even more at the naturalness with which my mind had come up with it, and the effect the idea of being whipped harder had on me: the little jolt in my hips, the way it made them jerk as I tugged my jeans down over them and dropped them to the floor.
I stayed stooped, clasping my hands in front of my panties, hoping that maybe Rick had just meant he wanted to look atmein my panties, but knowing better.
For his pleasure.The words echoed in my mind.A bride should dress for her husband’s pleasure… so he has something nice to look at when he tells her to take off her clothes… for his pleasure…
“Oh, God,” I whispered, looking up at Rick, seeing in his face that he had thoughts, behind his dark eyes, that matched mine much too perfectly. That he agreed with the distant part of me that had begun for some crazy reason to enjoy my degradation. That my husband understood his rights and responsibilities and meant to make use of the rights and to fulfill the responsibilities, tonight and in the future.
The right to fuck. The responsibility to discipline.
“Step out of them,” Rick said. “Then put your hands behind your head.”
My jaw went slack at the confidence and resolve in his tone, the promise of guidance and dominance. I felt my chest heave with the rapid breaths that surged in and out of my lungs. Even the observant, detached part of me didn’t know how I managed to obey him, with my knees trembling so violently.
I kicked the jeans away with a sob, and I straightened up, with my hands still in front of my lap. I looked into Rick’s eyes one final time, and I—the watching me, the one who understood that I needed this, as shocking as that would have seemed to the Mandy of this morning—saw what the brat in me was looking for: my husband’s steady gaze told me that his hands on his belt buckle were no idle threat.
Yes, he’ll whip me harder if I don’t do exactly as I’m told. He’ll punish me as thoroughly as he chooses, to make sure I understand that I’m the wife and he’s the husband.
With a whimper of fear I raised my hands and clasped them behind my head, feeling with an absurd little blush how disheveled my ponytail had gotten.
I wanted to close my eyes so I couldn’t see Rick’s gaze roaming over my nearly naked body. The detached me wouldn’t allow it: I needed to watch the husband inspect his bride’s charms. I needed to see that he found her bra, her panties, her bare flesh pleasing.
I saw Rick’s eyes move downward over my body. I saw them stop at my chest for a moment, and the blush about my ponytail suddenly bloomed into a scarlet heat. Even the dark desire of my voyeuristic need couldn’t withstand the sheer humiliation. I closed my eyes.
I whispered, “Please, sir. Please… don’t.”
“Don’t what, Dee?” Rick asked very softly.
“Don’t look… don’t look… down.”
In the darkness behind my eyelids I sensed him coming closer.
“Oh, no,” I breathed.
“Do you mean that I shouldn’t look at that wet spot on your adorable panties?” he asked, murmuring the words into my left ear. I felt the warmth of his breath and I heard the affection in his voice despite the crystal clarity of his intention to discipline me and to use my body for his pleasure exactly as he chose. I heaved a sob from deep in my chest as my hips jerked at the wanton clench of my pussy, and my knees wobbled under me.
“Oh, please,” I begged. “Please, sir.”
For the very first time, the observer me made the rest of me understand what thatpleasemeant. As if he could read my mind, Rick said, “Please what, Dee?”
I worked my lips between my teeth as the remaining independent sliver of my personality tried to hold in the knowledge, but my body’s desire seemed to break through that emotional barrier with ease.
“Please touch… please touch me…” My mouth twisted to the side. I couldn’t finish the naughty thought.
“Touch you where?” Rick asked, though I could hear in his voice that he knew very well.
“Down there,” I whispered. “Please?”
I opened my eyes, because I felt like I couldn’t live a second longer without seeing my husband’s face—none of me could… not the girl who couldn’t keep her body’s wicked desires from taking control, not the logical voice who needed to know how Rick had reacted, not the detached voyeur who paradoxically, wantonly hoped to see some kind of degrading disapproval in his eyes.
Most of all, not the brat. The brat wanted to make sure that by giving in to her so-called lord and master, letting him have his way because he had spanked her… and he had put his hands to his belt buckle to make her take off her clothes… and he meant to whip her bare bottom just as long as necessary to make his point… that by yielding to Rick because he had shown so firm a resolution to discipline the brat in me with dominance and with care, I hadn’t given up the chance—the right… theobligation, even—to brat again.
Maybe not tomorrow, but… well, I needed to see on his face, somehow, whether his expression said I should brat again the day after tomorrow, or I should wait another day after that.
Rick had drawn back from me a little, after breathing his last words into my ear. His piercing dark eyes were only three or four inches from mine when I opened my eyes, his big, unbearably handsome face right there in front of me. His eyes had narrowed slightly, and he had a tiny crease between his eyebrows.
