Page 35 of His to Enjoy
“Grace.” Just my name, but the way he said it made warmth pool low in my belly. “How’s the assignment coming along?”
“I’ve finished the first two episodes,” I said, shifting on the sofa and immediately regretting it as the belt pressed against my swollen clit. “I’m working on the wedding night footage now.”
“Excellent. I’ve been reviewing your clips. Very compelling work.” A pause. “How are you managing with the belt?”
My face burned. Of course he’d ask directly. “It’s… challenging, sir.”
“I imagine it is. Your biometrics show you’ve been highly aroused for the past thirty-six hours.” His voice held that hintof amusement that made me want to hide. “Have you been touching yourself through the belt?”
“No!” The denial came out too quickly, too desperately. “I mean… I’ve tried sitting different ways, but I haven’t been trying to stimulate myself. I know you’d know if I did.”
“Good girl.” Those two words made my whole body clench. “I’m pleased with your restraint. In fact, I think you deserve a reward.”
“A reward?” My voice cracked with hope. Would he unlock the belt? Let me find relief?
“I’m going to order dinner in for you tonight. My apartment, seven o’clock. Wear something nice—not office attire. Something you’d wear on a date.”
A date? My mind reeled. “I… yes, sir. Thank you.”
“Oh, and Grace? You’ll still be wearing the belt, of course. Just the belt underneath, with some of the thigh-high stockings in your lingerie drawer.”
“Yes, sir,” I whispered, and he ended the call without another word.
I stared at my phone for a long moment after he hung up, my heart racing. Dinner at his apartment. Something nice to wear. The implications made my tummy flip with nervous excitement even as the belt seemed to tighten around me, a reminder that this wouldn’t be a normal date by any stretch of the imagination.
I forced myself back to work on theWedding Nightfootage, but concentration was impossible now. Every scene of Leah’s wedding night defloration, every cry as Brian claimed her virginity, seemed to blur together with thoughts of what mighthappen at Scott’s apartment. Would he finally release me from this torment? Or would he find new ways to test my submission?
The final scene ofWedding Nightbegan playing on my tablet, and my breath caught in my throat. Leah laid on her stomach across the marital bed, still wearing her white wedding lingerie—a delicate lace teddy that Brian had pulled aside rather than removed. Her face was buried in a pillow, muffling her sobs from the intensity of already having her virginity taken in the missionary position just minutes before.
Brian knelt behind her, spreading her cheeks with his large hands to expose her tiny pink hole. The camera captured everything in merciless detail—the way she clenched reflexively, the sheen of lubricant he’d already applied, the slight gape from the training plugs she’d been wearing in preparation for this moment.
“This is important, Leah,” Brian said, his voice gentle but firm as he positioned himself. “I want us to have children soon—two or three at least. But we need time to enjoy our marriage first, to establish our dynamic properly.”
I found myself leaning forward, unable to look away even as my body ached with desperate need against the belt’s confinement. Brian pressed forward slowly, and Leah’s muffled scream made my own bottom clench in sympathy.
“So for the first year,” Brian continued, working himself deeper into his bride’s virgin bottom, “I’ll be finishing here most of the time when we make love. It’s the responsible thing to do.”
The casual way he discussed it, as if using his wife’s ass was simply practical birth control, made my face burn. But it was Leah’s response that truly undid me—the way she pushed backslightly, accepting him deeper despite her obvious discomfort, whimpering “Yes, sir” into the pillow.
“Good girl,” Brian praised, beginning to move with slow, deliberate strokes. “This is what marriage means, Leah. Complete submission to your husband’s needs and decisions.”
I pressed my thighs together uselessly as I watched him establish a rhythm, his hands gripping her hips as he impaled her thoroughly. The camera alternated between close-ups of the penetration and Leah’s tearstained face, capturing both the physical act and its emotional impact.
“Every morning before work,” Brian said conversationally, never breaking his rhythm, “and every night before bed. Sometimes during lunch if I can get home. You’ll learn to stay ready for me.”
My fingers gripped the tablet so tightly I thought it might crack. The thought of that frequency, that casual ownership of a wife’s most private place, made my whole body throb with a need I couldn’t satisfy. When Brian finally finished, burying himself deep in Leah’s bottom with a growl of satisfaction, I had to bite my lip hard to keep from crying out myself.
I tried to formulate some captions, but the sheer degradation, and the arousal it brought between my thighs, combined with the knowledge that I would be seeing Scott this evening, defeated me. I simply couldn’t think straight.
By five-thirty, I gave up pretending to work. I saved my progress and went to my closet, standing before it in just the horrid belt that had become my strange uniform these past two days. Something nice. Something I’d wear on a date. The problem was most of my wardrobe consisted of either New Modesty-appropriate clothing or the office attire Scott had specifically said not to wear.
My fingers traced over the hangers until they found a dress I’d almost forgotten about—a deep burgundy wrap dress that Jacob had bought me for our first anniversary but had never let me wear, saying it was too revealing. The fabric was soft and clingy, the neckline lower than anything I’d worn since joining the New Modesty program, the hem hitting mid-thigh. It was the kind of dress that suggested sophistication rather than innocence.
I pulled it on carefully, the silk whispering against my skin. The wrap style accommodated the belt without showing its outline too obviously, though I knew Scott would be able to tell. Looking in the mirror, I hardly recognized myself. Without panties, with just the belt beneath, I felt naked despite being dressed. The burgundy brought out the flush that seemed permanently painted across my cheeks these days.
I found the thigh-high stockings Scott had referred to, in the back of the drawer: black, with lace—of course—at their elastic tops. A pair of black heels made my stocking-clad legs look longer, more elegant. My hands shook as I applied a touch of makeup—nothing dramatic, just enough to make my eyes look bigger, my lips fuller. I left my hair down, the waves falling past my shoulders in a way that felt almost wanton after so many years of severe up-dos.
The shuttle ride to Scott’s building felt endless. Every bump in the road made the belt shift against me, and I had to grip the seat to keep from whimpering. Other passengers glanced at me occasionally—a young woman dressed for a date, heading to the expensive part of town—and I wondered if they could sense my desperation, if they could tell that beneath my sophisticateddress I was locked in leather, dripping with need I couldn’t satisfy.
