Page 1 of Shameful Needs
CHAPTER 1
Heather
Partof me knew I shouldn’t be driving when I was so fucking angry. But the rest of me just wanted to get home and get the fuck out of this horrible training underwear. Ryan was at work, so he wouldn’t know. I could calm myself down, play with myself in the shower to soothe away the anger into a quick orgasm, then put the training underwear back on to welcome him home the way he liked. Even if I had turned out to be pretty much worthless at household chores like cleaning and laundry, I knew Ryan loved it when I looked nice and handed him a drink as he came through the door after a hard day at the construction site.
I pressed harder on the accelerator, my face burning as I remembered yesterday evening. Ryan had been standing by the kitchen counter, holding the awful garment in his hands like it might bite him. His voice had been so quiet when he’d explained what the New Modesty Authority website suggested, how wives who couldn’t manage their household duties sometimes needed ‘gentle reminders’ of their role.
“I think… I think maybe we should try this, Heather,” he’d said, not quite meeting my eyes. “Just for a day. To help you remember.”
God, the way my body had responded to that moment of authority—even as hesitant as it was—had been mortifying. I’d actually felt myself getting wet as he’d fumbled through the explanation, his cheeks flushed with embarrassment. But then I’d seen how his hands were shaking slightly, how he kept apologizing even as he asked me to put it on, and the spell had broken. How was I supposed to feel properly disciplined when he seemed more uncomfortable with the whole thing than I was?
At the grocery store this morning, I’d been hyperaware of every other woman in the aisles. Did Mrs. Patterson from down the street know what I was wearing under my sundress? Could the young mother with the screaming toddler somehow sense that I was being punished like a child myself? I’d caught myself walking differently, standing straighter, as if the constant reminder between my legs might somehow show on my face.
The speedometer crept past forty-five in the thirty-five zone, but I didn’t care. All I wanted was to get home and tear the damn things off, to prove to myself that I still had some control over my own body.
The worst part had been putting it on this morning. I’d stood in front of our bedroom mirror, staring at how the snug fabric clung to every curve, how it seemed designed to draw attention to the auburn curls between my legs that Ryan had never asked me to remove. The New Modesty Authority recommended that wives keep themselves bare down there—I’d read it in the pamphlets they’d sent after our wedding—but Ryan had never brought it up. Maybe he was too embarrassed, or maybe he actually liked me this way. Either way, the training underwear made those curls impossible to ignore, framing them like some kind of perverted display.
And the bra—God, the bra had been even worse. It pushed my breasts up and forward in a way that made me feel like I was presenting myself for inspection. At breakfast, I’d caught Ryan’s eyes drifting down repeatedly, his face flushing each time he realized I’d noticed. He’d tried to make normal conversation about his day, but I could see the effect the sight of me was having on him, could see him struggling between his natural gentleness and whatever new resolve the NMA materials had given him.
My phone buzzed against the passenger seat. A text from Salon Verde: “Confirming your appointment tomorrow at two p.m. with Jessica. Reply YES to confirm or call to reschedule.”
Perfect. At least I could get my hair done, maybe feel a little more like myself again. I reached for the phone, thumb hovering over the keyboard as I tried to type while keeping one eye on the road.
“Y-E-S,” I tapped out, then looked up just in time to see the telephone pole rushing toward my windshield.
The impact threw me forward against the seatbelt, my phone flying somewhere into the wreckage as metal screamed and glass exploded around me. Then everything went black.
I woke up in the hospital. The first thing I saw was Ryan’s face, handsome, serious, caring. The love that filled my heart and radiated out into my sore limbs brought first an irresistible happiness that I had somehow found this man I didn’t deserve, and then, an instant later, shame at how shitty a wife I had been to him so far.
“Hey,” he said softly, his blue eyes searching my face. “How are you feeling?”
I tried to sit up, wincing as pain shot through my ribs. “I’m okay, I think. What happened? How long was I out?”
“About two hours. The paramedics said you might have a concussion, but the CT scan came back clear.” His hand foundmine, fingers intertwining gently. “Heather, what happened out there? The police said you hit that pole going nearly fifty in a residential zone.”
The lie came automatically, self-preservation kicking in before I could think. “I thought… I think I… I… I saw a kid… a little girl… run into the street. I swerved and lost control.” I looked up at him with what I hoped were appropriately frightened eyes. “I’m so sorry about the car, Ryan. I know we can’t afford?—”
“Forget the car.” His voice was firmer than I expected, cutting through my practiced apology. “Cars can be replaced. You can’t.”
But there was something different in his tone, something that made my stomach flutter with the same mixture of distressing arousal and unease I’d felt the night before. His thumb traced over my knuckles, and I became suddenly, acutely aware that I was still wearing the training underwear beneath the thin hospital gown someone had replaced my probably ruined dress with. The accident hadn’t changed that humiliating fact.
“The thing is,” he continued, his voice dropping lower, “I spoke with someone from the New Modesty Authority while you were unconscious. They have a counselor here, Mrs. Chen. She asked me some questions about… about how things have been at home.”
My heart began to race. “What kind of questions?”
“About whether you’ve been struggling with your responsibilities. About whether I’ve been providing adequate guidance.” His eyes met mine directly now, and I saw something there I’d never seen before—a quiet resolution that made my breath catch. “I told her the truth, Heather. About the housework, about how I’ve been too gentle with you, about howwe both know you need more structure than I’ve been giving you.”
“Ryan—”
“She made some recommendations. We’re going to discuss them when we get home, after the doctor clears you for discharge.” He squeezed my hand, but it felt less like comfort and more like a promise.
“But…” I protested, my heart starting to beat wildly. “It was… it was totally an accident. It didn’t have anything to do with… that stuff.”
Something in Ryan’s face told me I wasn’t standing on firm ground with my lie—that he suspected I might be trying to get out of responsibility for totaling the car. I swallowed hard.
“We’ll talk about it when we get home,” he said.
“But…” I felt much too much happening in my mind, my heart, and my body even to begin to find words for it—even if Iwantedto find words for it, of which I felt by no means sure. Worse, Ryan’s eyes now definitely seemed to have a warning in them. “But…” I repeated, “what are you… I mean… what are you going to do?”
