Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 64452 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 322(@200wpm)___ 258(@250wpm)___ 215(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64452 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 322(@200wpm)___ 258(@250wpm)___ 215(@300wpm)
“That’s why you faked it with me,” he said, and I could hear the hurt in his voice now, the pain I’d caused with my lies. “Every time we made love, you were thinking about him. Wishing I would flip you over and take your ass like he did.”
I couldn’t deny it. The truth was too obvious, too devastating to argue against. “I’m sorry,” I sobbed. “I’m so sorry.”
CHAPTER 17
Ryan
I set the paddle down and walked around to the front of the bench where my gorgeous wife lay, clad in the sexy red lingerie, the lacy thong stretched around her spread knees where I had left it before turning her ass an almost-matching vibrant shade of red. Heather’s tear-streaked face was a mess of smeared makeup and raw emotion, but underneath all that pain and humiliation, I could see something else. Something that made my chest tighten with a jumbled mixture of love, anger, and arousal.
Relief.
She was relieved to have finally told me the truth. After months of lies, months of faking orgasms and denying me parts of herself she’d freely given to another man, the burden of deception had finally been lifted from her shoulders. The knowledge should have made me feel better, but instead it just stoked the fire of my anger.
“Look at me, Heather,” I commanded, my voice carrying the new authority I’d never used with her before this afternoon, but which had quickly demonstrated its usefulness.
Her green eyes met mine, and I saw myself reflected in them—not the gentle, hesitant husband she thought she’d married, but someone harder. Someone who’d been pushed too far and was finally pushing back.
“The boyfriend you gave your ass to,” I said, letting the name hang in the air between us. “Tell me more about him.”
She flinched as if I’d struck her. “Please, Ryan… sir. You know everything now. Isn’t that enough?”
“No.” I reached down and cupped her chin, forcing her to maintain eye contact. “You’ve been lying to me for our entire marriage. Pretending to be someone you weren’t. I want to know exactly who my wife really is.”
Her breathing was ragged, her body still trembling from the paddling. But I could see the way her pupils dilated when I touched her face, the way she struggled against the restraints to press her thighs together. Even now, even in pain and shame, her body was responding to my dominance.
“He was older, sir,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “Twenty-eight when I was eighteen. He said I needed to learn, that I was too innocent for my own good.”
“And you let him teach you.” It wasn’t a question.
“I… yes, sir.” Her cheeks flushed deeper. “I loved it. I loved the way he took control, the way he didn’t ask permission for anything. He made me feel…”
“Feel what?”
“Desired. Used. Like I was exactly what he needed.” The words tumbled out in a rush, as if she couldn’t hold them back any longer. “He called me his little ass girl, and I… God help me, I liked it.”
The confession hit me with stunning force. My modest wife, whom I’d treated with such careful respect, had spent a year being degraded and used by another man. As his obedient ass girl. And she’d loved every minute of it.
“Is that what I should call you?” I asked, my voice dangerously quiet. “My little ass girl?”
Her entire body shuddered at the words, and I saw her pussy clench visibly. The response was immediate and undeniable—this was what she craved, what she’d been denying herself and me for months.
“I don’t know,” she sobbed. “I… maybe, sir?”
Heather
“Alright,” Ryan said, his voice full of a degrading sarcasm that set my nervous system alight even as my mind recoiled. “Congratulations, Heather. You’re my ass girl now. And when I claim your asshole you’re going to forget all about your ex.”
The words sent a jolt of electricity straight through my core, and I couldn’t suppress the whimper that escaped my lips. Hearing those degrading words from Ryan’s mouth—my kind, respectful husband—made something deep inside me, deeper than anything in my body, seem to clench with shameful arousal.
“I can see that you like that,” he observed, his voice taking on a detached tone that reminded me of Master Paul. “Your body really doesn’t lie, does it, Heather?”
I shook my head frantically, tears still streaming down my cheeks. “I don’t want to like it,” I sobbed. “I tried so hard to be different for you, to be the kind of wife I thought you deserved.”
“The kind of wife I deserved,” Ryan repeated, his hand still cupping my chin. “You mean the kind who lies about what she needs? Who fakes orgasms and denies her husband the pleasures she owes him?”
His words cut deep, but I couldn’t argue with them. That was exactly what I’d done—created a false version of myself that I thought would make him happy, while secretly craving the very things I’d told him were off limits.