Her Marriage Lessons by Emily Tilton – Extended Preview

“Hands on your head,” he growled, and he stepped forward, doubling and winding the black leather around his right fist as he approached.

I tried to turn around, so that I could ward him off at least for a second. All my defiance seemed to turn to terror in an instant. Rick moved too quickly; he thrust his left hand into the waistband of my panties and pulled them upward, so he could keep my bottom in place in what felt like the most degrading way possible.

“Wait!” I yelled. “Ricky! Don’t!”

Suddenly it seemed as if the whole force of what it meant for a young bride to get the belt from her husband had at last reached me. I had long since lost count of the number of times, just in the past hour, I had gone through this crazy, somehow deeply necessary cycle, from yielding to defiance to fear to painful punishment, Still, I craved it—all of me… the brat, the good girl, the observer, the…

Oh, my God. The slut… That was the thing I couldn’t say, the ultimately degrading word Rick meant to whip out of me… and it led to more…

The slut… the whore… the greedy little…

I heard a whistling. I felt a puff of air.

Oh, no.

The sharp sound of the leather across my bottom, across the bare skin exposed by my husband pulling my panties painfully upward to keep me in place. Then, the pain. Just as with his hand, I had a moment’s surprise that the belt didn’t hurt more, and then Rick had whipped me again, the lash going across the first one. Between the building agony of the first fiery trail and the start of the pain from the second one, I knew it did—and it would.

“I’m sorry! Sir… please…” I begged, trying to writhe away and feeling the utter degradation of having my movement confined by Rick’s hold on my panties. My husband’s action cut through my words, a third lash falling across my upper thighs even as I tried to apologize for sassing him. That one hurt a lot more, the pain much more immediate, than the leather’s bite across my bottom. “Oh, God… sir, I’ll…”

He stopped. He stepped back, leaving me cringing, my arms across my chest and my head turned back over my shoulder to look at him. The sting of tears in my eyes made my theatrical pout of protest feel even more dramatic. I gazed into Rick’s resolute face and without even meaning to, I composed my face into a mask of pretended innocence, as if my mean husband had just whipped me for no reason.

“Go ahead,” he said.

For a moment, I hesitated. I hadn’t actually said I would take off my underwear, had I? Could I tell him that I had meant to say I would never strip completely naked for him?

My right hand, unconsciously, had dropped from my chest and gone behind me, even as I had the wild thought. I chewed on my upper lip as my fingertips felt the soreness Rick’s belt had left. I watched his eyes travel down as he observed the little motion, and then rise again, to meet my own gaze, fixed on that handsome face, trying to gauge whether I had any leeway here.

Brat. Slut. Greedy little… The words seemed to play over and over in my mind, making my heart race. I saw Rick smile, very slightly, and the idea came to me suddenly that it gave him pleasure to watch me rub my bottom after a whipping. The terrible thought made me lower my eyes, steal a glance at the belt, still wound around Rick’s right hand.

I closed my eyes, and I felt myself reach both hands behind me to unhook my bra. The slut—she had done that. I kept looking at the belt. The belt didn’t give me any choice, whether I felt like the good girl or the brat or above all the observer, who seemed to take over once again.

That’s it, I said, watching myself remove my pink bra. Take it off, girl. You’re going to get the naked whipping you’ve been asking for, with your disrespect and your refusal to give your husband his rights.

My eyes rose from the terrible leather implement of my training, to look into Rick’s face, as I shrugged the bra off and dropped it onto the bed.

“Turn around,” he said, lowering his chin a little as if to tell me just how seriously he took this moment. “I want to see your breasts.”

I felt my face crumple, my brow creasing and my mouth twisting to the side as a wave of shame crashed through me. My cheeks burned like the sun, and I brought my arms back up, to hold them tight across my chest. I shook my head violently. The slut had vanished, and the good girl returned, at the idea of showing my bare chest to my husband.

“Dee,” Rick said. “You’re going to get used to showing yourself to me naked, or you’re going to find yourself back here over the pillows for a whipping much too often for either of us to be happy.”

A whimpery moan rose from my chest, and just like that the arousal surged—at the thought that my lord and master would bring me back here over and over, until he got his way. The slut, the shameless slut, came out again, and she turned me around. At the same time, somehow, the need between my thighs brought something of the brat to the front, too. I swallowed hard, and I did my best to put a mocking expression on my face, as if Rick were being childish.

I clenched my fists, and then I forced my arms down. For a moment I held my hands in front of my pussy, where I could feel that the gusset still lay askew, and the cleft of my private lips was still visible among the light curls. Then I moved them to my hips, because, the brat thought, who cares… he would just make me take my hands away from there as well.

Rick’s eyes moved downward to get their fill of my little B-cup breasts. A surge of blood rushed to my cheeks as my husband licked his lips at the sight, as if he had just promised himself the leisurely enjoyment of his bride’s sweet young tits.

He raised his gaze and looked into my eyes.

“Offer them to me,” he said, his voice clear and firm. “Put your hands underneath and offer me your pretty breasts.”

My jaw went slack.

Slut. He wants you to… to do that. The thing he said. I could see it in my mind’s eye, but I couldn’t even seem to repeat the words to myself, my husband’s filthy words.

If Rick could say… say what he had just said, what else could he say? He hadn’t even said any dirty words, had he? He had said breasts… not tits or… or jugs… not that my little, peach-like breasts could ever be called jugs…

My breath came rapidly between my parted lips. The observer seemed to have moved even further away from my actual physical body. She noted that I was clearly trying with this mental babble more than anything to avoid thinking about something else, something the observer thought I would have to pay attention to eventually.

The way my pussy had responded, when Rick had told me to offer him my pretty breasts.

I let out a sob, and I obeyed him, because I didn’t have a choice. I raised my hands and I cupped the little mounds. I gasped at the sensation, another clench seizing hold of my needy sheath, where my husband’s fingers had just proven to me how thoroughly I would belong to him from now on—if he could keep me in line.

I looked into his eyes and saw him smile with satisfaction—and with further hunger. I had done my best to keep from covering my nipples, but at the sight of that wolfish look I couldn’t help it, I moved my fingers to try to shield the tiny pink buds from his gaze.

“No,” Rick said simply. “Show me.”

They felt so stiff under my fingers, and the obviousness of the need I had tried so hard to deny and push back sent another blush to my cheeks. I moved my hands, hearing a whimper come from my chest, and I saw Rick’s eyes go downward to take in the sight he obviously enjoyed very much.

My brow creased as I thought about how strictly I had refused to let anyone—even my fiancé and then my just-married husband—see my private places. I had blushed when I thought Rick might have gotten a glimpse of my bra strap under the collar of my shirt. Why would I deny the man who loved me and wanted to take care of me the simple pleasure of looking at my body?

Slut, the observer whispered. You denied him that because you knew, deep down, that you’re a dirty little slut with a needy little hole.

I tried to keep my eyes on Rick’s face, but at the thought of how my pussy had welcomed my husband’s probing fingers I found that my gaze had gone down to the lap of his jeans. I saw a bulge, along Rick’s leg, and the sight of it made me close my mouth at last and swallow hard.

I had seen it, on our wedding night, and I had felt for a mortifying moment that I wanted to see it more… closer… that I wanted my new husband to make me look at it, and make me… I didn’t even really know what, except that he would command me to do things only dirty girls did.

“Take off your panties,” I heard him say, then, and my eyes went sideways to his right hand, and the belt wound around it, and with a little sob I felt my hands go from my breasts downward to the elastic waistband of my green polka-dot panties. I kept looking at the belt, because when I looked at the leather coiled around my husband’s big, strong fist I knew I didn’t have any choice at all: good girl or brat, filthy slut or innocent bride, Rick had taken all of me in hand and had demonstrated today that he meant to train me as a dutiful wife.

My panties came down slowly and clumsily, because my fingers had grown very clumsy with the trembling the sight of the belt sent through my whole body. How could he whip me even more, after he had spanked me and then taken the belt to my almost bare backside just a moment ago? A shred of reason inside my head tried to find some way to persuade him not to finish the punishment he had planned—not tonight, at least.

I held my panties just below my hipbones, so that he would know I meant to obey him, and I looked up from the horrid belt into his face again.

“What if…” I started. I saw a dark look of frustration appear in his eyes. “Sir,” I added quickly, “sir… what if we just, you know, had, you know, sex tonight? I’m…”

I could see in Rick’s face that this desperate ploy to appease his righteous anger had not the slightest chance of succeeding. I continued, though, not quite giving up hope.

“I’m… you know, I’m ready to… to do that… more than… before.”

I watched my husband take a deep breath through his nose, his nostrils flaring slightly as to my amazement I could see him getting his temper under control.

“Get those panties all the way off, Mandy,” he said, his voice severe. “I’m going to fuck you tonight after I whip you, as I’m sure you know very well. You’re going to learn to please me in every way a woman can please her husband, tonight. If you’re a good girl for your whipping, you’ll be allowed to come some more. If not, I’m going to make sure you understand that fucking isn’t optional for you, even when you haven’t earned an orgasm.”

My eyes had gone very wide, and my mouth hung open again. My breath came in short pants.

“You… you…” I managed to say. I wanted to say can’t, but Rick’s eyes said that he could and he would. The degrading words he had used and the sheer dominance of what he had said seemed to echo through my whole body.

“Now, Mandy,” he said. “Panties down. It’s time for you to be naked for your husband.”

For a moment I just stared at him, simply astonished by his absolute lack of hesitation in talking to me in that humiliating way. His eyes seemed to hold a crystalline certainty that he had understood me correctly and completely.

I realized with a new surge of shame that I had, indeed, revealed all of myself to him in the way I—not just my body, I found I had to confess to myself, but all of me—had responded when he had pulled aside my panties and claimed me with his hand. I had come under his probing fingers again and again. With his dominant touch he had demonstrated just how wanton and needy a girl he had married.

I had refused to say the filthy words in my head, the ones that would tell him how very right he was. Rick knew, though, what they were. He knew his bride, even if I pretended otherwise: he had married a bratty little slut, and he would whip her and fuck her just as he liked. She—I—needed to submit to my lord and master as much as he needed to guide me… to have me… to own me.

Panties down. From now on, when Rick told me to take off my panties, I would have to obey. If I didn’t…

My eyes went back to the belt, and the frozen moment of inaction came to an end. The force of Rick’s words and the sheer physicality of his body looming over mine made me strip the cotton tangle of my polka-dot panties down past my knees and step out of them. A little whimper emerged from my chest as I felt how exposed the awkward movement of undressing left me. I turned a little to try to keep Rick from seeing everything—even the most shameful place of all, the tiny flower between my bottom cheeks.

Only at that moment, as I thought about that embarrassing little aperture, did I start to think about the most alarming thing Rick had said. In every way a woman can please her husband. Surely he hadn’t meant… that? Maybe he intended to ask me to use my mouth on him…

Ask? the observer wondered sarcastically. Hasn’t your husband made it clear that he’s not going to ask for a blowjob? You’ll suck his penis or you’ll get the belt, from now on, you filthy little slut.

An electric shock of arousal jolted through my limbs. I bit my lip as I straightened up, turning back to Rick, hoping to scan his face for signs that he hadn’t meant his words the way it had just occurred to me he might have.

But he had begun to move around the corner of the bed to my right. For a moment I didn’t understand as I watched him reach for the pillows and take two of them from the head. My hands went to my chest and my lap to cover myself, wondering if I would be disciplined for hiding my private parts but unable to keep myself from the modest gesture.

Rick piled the pillows in the middle of the bed, on the left side. I pushed down a little sob of fear and shame as I realized why, at the same moment he looked up at me.

“Go ahead and lie down over the pillows,” he said, narrowing his eyes a little, clearly in response to seeing me with my hands over my breasts and pussy. “I’m going to tan your hide for lying to me.”

My face, as if it just hadn’t gotten the message that Rick had no intention of relenting, twisted into a final plea for mercy. I could feel my chin tremble cartoonishly with alarm.

“Please, sir,” I whispered. “Please… I’m sorry I… I lied?”

“Not as sorry as you’re going to be,” Rick said grimly, pointing to the pillows with his left hand as he raised the belt in his right.

I gave a cry of terror, hardly believing my husband had actually said those stereotypical words of old-fashioned discipline—and mortified by the hip-jerking spasm between my thighs at the sound of his dominance. I let my frightened body have its irrational way: I clambered onto the bed, conscious of my nakedness with every move and trying to crawl so as to keep my nipples, my pussy, and the valley between my bottom cheeks all as hidden as possible.

Absurd… so absurd, the observing part of me said. Do you really think you can somehow keep your modesty? Why do you want to keep your modesty? With your husband, the man who has every right to see all of you, whenever he wants? When he’s just made it clear he will look at every part of you, and make you look at every part of him?

I didn’t know, but the observer had a ready answer.

You’re a filthy little slut, Mrs. Amanda Williams. You’re pretending to be trying to keep your modesty, because really you want to distract your husband with your needy little cunt.

I gasped at the terrible thought, which accompanied my last few hurried movements toward and over the piled pillows. With a sob I threw myself atop them, a hot blush spreading into my face at the way the soft but quite high heap raised my backside.

I felt his hand come down on my back, just above my tailbone, his big, open palm and his long fingers pressing firmly. I heard a little whimper come from my throat at the sensation, at its message of mastery and possession.

“Please,” I whispered—not to my husband, almost, but simply to the universe—without having any idea, in that moment, what I wanted.

Rick knew, though, even if part of me didn’t want it to be true. I felt him lay the horrible leather of his jeans belt across both cheeks of my bottom.

“Get ready, Dee,” he said sternly, and then he started to whip me.

I screamed and cried from the very beginning. I had thought I might be the kind of brat who did everything in her power to stay strong when receiving the just reward of her misbehavior. I wasn’t.

I didn’t even know where I had gotten the notion that girls like that existed—wives who refused to let the tears flow when their beloved husbands punished them for disrespecting a loving man’s rightful authority and neglecting their marital duties. Maybe I had imagined it, based on movies about prisoners and that kind of thing—spies holding up under interrogation?

As soon as Rick started to bring the belt down across my bottom, I knew I wouldn’t be like that. My lord and master broke my resistance, if I had any left, with the first three or four lashes of his thick leather belt. He held me down over the pillows with his left hand and he whipped me hard and fast. He started with my bottom, and then he moved down to my thighs, making all too clear his intent to teach me a lesson I would never forget.

Make a proper start, a voice in my head said, the words somehow making their way through the haze of agony. Rick had decided to give us a new beginning, the beginning he clearly thought he should have made on our wedding night, or the next morning, when I had lied about how sore my pussy was.

A new storm of sobs burst from my throat at that thought… about how I had lied to my husband so many times. The terrible burning heat in my whole bare backside, the stripes of fire Rick laid across it, seemed to declare with each lash how defiant and bratty a bride I had been, how careless with my husband’s needs and feelings.

The observer, to my distress, seemed to have gone away. Something about the fiery pain of the whipping had brought me fully into my body again—though at the worst possible time. My bottom hurt so much.

“Please,” I sobbed. “Please, sir… Ricky… I’m sorry.”

The belt flashed down, over and over. I screamed, wondering with a hot blush whether the neighbors could hear—then realizing that if they could, they would certainly approve of a wronged older husband disciplining his young bride.

I started to struggle. My arms lay out in front of me, my hands almost to the sturdy slats of the beautiful hardwood headboard. I tried to push up onto my elbows and my knees. I tried to roll to the side, desperate for some respite from the belt’s horrible, steady attention to my butt-cheeks and upper thighs.

Rick kept whipping me. He landed a hard lash on the side of my thigh. I screamed with the agony of it.

He stopped for a moment.

“Get back in position,” he growled. “Reach out and take hold of the headboard. You’re getting extra for trying to get away.”

That terrible news made me struggle even harder for a moment. I managed to push against the pillows and writhe from under his left hand. I curled myself up into a sitting position and looked up at Rick, hoping I might see any sign of mercy.

He stood over me, the belt wrapped around his right hand, its doubled length resting on the palm of his left. He had no mercy in his eyes.

“What did you almost say, a little while ago?” he asked sternly. “Get back over the pillows, and tell me what kind of girl you really are, and I’ll finish your whipping quickly. Then we can get to what we both really need.”

I felt the tears rolling down my cheeks as I gazed into my gorgeous, wise husband’s face. My bottom and my upper thighs blazed like Rick had made me sit on a fire. I couldn’t bear it anymore.

He’ll make you, said the observer, and I realized she had come back, and I could step out of myself that way again. He’s begun as he means to go on. He’ll always make you obey, you bratty little slut.

My limbs began to move. I sobbed from deep in my chest as I followed my husband’s instruction. I got back over the pillows. I reached for the headboard. The smooth wood of the slats felt almost comforting in my grip. I wondered if Rocky Falls headboards were designed for wives to hold onto while they learned their old-fashioned lessons.

Rick’s left hand came back down on my back. The belt returned, too, but not with a lash. Instead, my husband rubbed it in a gentle circle low down on my bottom.

Oh, no.

“What are you, Dee?” he asked in a low voice. “It’s time to be honest with your husband.”

I shook my head. The belt rose. I gave a whimper of fear as a shudder passed through my whole body.

“No, please…” I whined, but my husband’s justice came down hard, right where he had rubbed just a moment before.

I cried out at the renewal of the terrible fire there. I felt certain Rick would whip me again, just as quickly and steadily as he had delivered each horrid lash at the start of my punishment.

Instead, I felt his fingers, and a little of the cool metal of the silver buckle. I felt the tips of his middle fingers press in that same dismayingly complicated spot.

“Oh, no,” I breathed. “Please, sir.”

“Spread your legs, Mandy,” he commanded.

A flash of ambivalence gripped my mind, a circuit of doubt seeming to travel among all the different girls inside me, but the raging, ambiguous fire in my bottom, my thighs, between my thighs, rocketing through my whole body, overcame all hesitation in a split second. I gave a mewling little whimper as I felt my legs obey my lord and master’s order. My knees slid apart, and my face got hot as I imagined what Rick could see, with my backside obediently raised and poised over the pillows.

It didn’t matter, though, because the long fingers went deeper between my thighs and all thought seemed to fly away completely. The belt, and its menacing but also cool and almost soothing buckle, rested against the shameful valley of my bottom. Rick’s fingers reached all the way to the place where I needed them so badly and rubbed up and down very softly.

“I’m a slut,” I sobbed. “I’m a bratty little slut.”

The hand went away, and I cried out in fear, sure that Rick would start whipping me again. The observer said severely, it’s what you deserve, for all the naughtiness in your hot, wet cunt. I gasped as the terrible word echoed in my mind.

To my distress I found myself pushing up my bottom as much as I could in that humiliating position over the pillows. Despite myself I tried with a mortifying little movement of my hips to offer my already soundly whipped cheeks for discipline.

You offered your breasts for your lord and master’s inspection, said a voice inside me. It’s time you offered your bottom and your pussy, too… for inspection, for discipline, for… pleasure.

His pleasure. Not yours.

Just as I thought that word… just as I realized that in my own mind I had just put my husband’s pleasure ahead of mine… I also realized that a nanosecond earlier I had heard the clink of Rick’s belt buckle off to the side. Not above me, or behind me, but… on the bed.

Then, while I was still trying to puzzle out what had happened and what would happen next, Rick’s huge hand returned, but without the belt.

Oh, no.

My whole body bucked. My husband’s fingers and thumb had gripped me, down there, at what felt like the paradoxical center of the burning agony Rick’s belt had made of my whole backside. My whole pussy, my clit and my sensitive inner lips and the needy hole of my vagina, all within the grasp of his fingers. And… his thumb… there.

He pressed firmly with the ball of his thumb, right on the little flower.

I let out a terrible moan that would certainly have told him he had married a bratty little slut even if he hadn’t drawn the words out of me with the flashing, fiery leather.

“All of this,” my husband growled. “All of it belongs to me.”

His thumb pushed even harder at the tiny ring of my anus. To my horror, my whole lower body spasmed as an irresistible wave of pleasure ripped through what felt like my entire nervous system. Again I pushed with my hips, feeling a new blush come to my face as I understood that my limbs were desperate to imitate the motions of sex—even though I had lain completely still under Rick on our wedding night.

Before you understood your bridegroom would master you as a man should master a bratty, slutty bride like you.

My bottom pressed against Rick’s possessing, claiming hand. The heat in my cheeks rose to furnace level as I felt the tight aperture of my little hole impaled on my husband’s invading thumb. He held my most intimate parts so firmly, so resolutely and yet so casually; something about the terrible frankness of that grip told me that the degrading pleasure it forced on me represented only a very small part of the point.

No: this had to do with possession, and Rick confirmed that idea. He bent over me, his mouth at my ear, and he squeezed my pussy, driving his thumb deeper in my bottom-hole, as he whispered:

“Do you understand, Amanda Williams?”

“Oh, God,” I moaned. “Yes… yes, sir.”

Amanda Williams. Mrs. Williams. And the old-fashioned way… the way I somehow felt sure would be in evidence tomorrow, at the country club… Mrs. Richard Williams.

I belonged to him: all of me, and most of all the most shameful part, the part in his hand.

Was the whipping over? Had Rick decided to show me mercy after all?

No, the observer said, as a wave of forced pleasure went through me, as his thumb’s shameful invasion of my bottom worked a little deeper into me as a reminder of my misdeeds. This isn’t mercy… it’s… guidance?

How could it be guidance? How could a man’s thumb up my ass represent leadership?

His other hand, the one he had used on my back to keep me in place during my whipping, took gentle hold of my throat. I heard a little wailing cry come from my chest at the half-alarming, half-arousing sensation. It seemed to complete his hands’ possession of me: my private parts, where Rick meant to take his pleasure, lay within his grasp, but with that grip on my throat I felt every bit of me had become the private property of my husband.

“Good girl,” Rick murmured into my ear. “Are you ready for your fucking?”

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