Page 17 of Shameful Needs
“This is our training room,” Nurse Simmons announced, her voice maintaining that same professional tone. “Where wives learn proper discipline as well as submission techniques.”
At the far end of the room, I saw another woman. She was bent over a padded bench, her wrists and ankles secured with leather cuffs. A man in khakis and a black polo shirt stood behind her, holding what looked like a wooden paddle. As I watched in horror, he brought it down across her bare bottom with a sharp crack that echoed through the room.
The woman cried out, her body jerking against the restraints, but she didn’t try to escape. Instead, she seemed to push her hips back, presenting herself for the next blow.
“No,” I whispered, my hand flying to my mouth. “This is insane. You can’t just… you can’t do this to people.”
“She’s learning to accept correction gracefully,” Nurse Simmons explained, as if we were discussing a cooking class. “It’s an essential skill for any properly trained wife.”
The paddle fell again, and this time the woman’s moan sounded almost… grateful. My stomach churned with a mixture of revulsion and unwanted arousal.
“I think I’ve seen enough,” I said, backing toward the door.
“Just a bit more,” Nurse Simmons said, her hand guiding me firmly forward. “Understanding the full scope of the program will help you adjust more quickly.”
We passed through a set of double doors into a smaller, more intimate space. The lighting was softer here, warmer, and for a moment I almost felt relieved. Then I saw what occupied the center of the room.
A naked woman knelt prostrate on a thick cushion atop a table, her head bent submissively to the table’s surface and her bare backside raised. A man, dressed in the same polo shirt and khakis uniform as the trainer in the previous room, stood behind her. She cried out as his cock, protruding from his fly, moved forcefully in and out of her anus. My face burned with recognition. I’d cried out that same way countless times with Chad, learning to take him deep in my bottom while he praised me for being such a good little ass girl.
“This is the intimacy room, where wives learn sexual submission,” Nurse Simmons explained matter-of-factly. “They’re fundamental skills that many women need to develop or refine.”
The woman’s submission seemed flawless—I could see her back arch further as she took him deeper, her bottom pushing out obediently for the rigid shaft’s brutal invasion. The man’s hands encircled her hips, guiding her movements with the same casual authority I remembered so well.
“I can’t watch this,” I whispered, turning away. But even as I spoke, I could feel moisture gathering between my legs, my body responding to the familiar scene despite my horror.
“Come now,” Nurse Simmons said, leading me toward a final door. “Just one more room, and then we’ll get you settled.”
The dining area was mercifully normal—just tables and chairs, like any cafeteria. But the nurse made certain I couldn’t feel anything comforting about the apparent refuge from humiliation.
“Wives eat in the nude, of course,” she told me. “Meals are served at set times. Breakfast at seven, lunch at noon, dinner at six. The schedule helps maintain structure and routine.”
We left the dining room and walked down another corridor lined with doors. “These are the dormitory rooms,” she said, stopping at one marked with the number seven. “This will be yours. We have room for ten wives at a time, but right now there are only four, including you.”
The room was small, but comfortable—a single bed with clean white linens, a small desk, and a view screen mounted on the wall. Everything was spotless and institutional, but not unpleasant.
“You’ll find an orientation video queued up on the view screen,” Nurse Simmons said, gesturing toward the screen. “I recommend watching it before dinner. It will help you understand what’s expected of you here.”
She paused at the door, her expression softening slightly. “I know this is difficult, Heather. But if you allow yourself to be open to the process, you might find it’s exactly what you need.”
Then she was gone, leaving me alone in the sterile little room. I sat on the edge of the bed, my legs pressed tightly together, trying to process everything I’d seen. The images from the training room and the intimacy room kept flashing through my mind—the woman taking the paddle so obediently, the otherwoman being fucked in the ass while she moaned with what had sounded like pleasure. The way my body had responded to those sights terrified me almost as much as the sights themselves.
Four women, Nurse Simmons had said. Including me. Four women who had been brought here against their will, stripped naked, and subjected to… training. The word felt dirty in my mind, dehumanizing.
I looked around the small room that would be my prison for I had no idea how long. The bed was narrow, but looked comfortable enough. The desk held nothing but a small lamp and a clock. The view screen stared at me from the wall, dark and waiting.
My reflection caught my eye in the black screen, and I flinched. I looked so small sitting there naked, my auburn hair falling around my shoulders, my newly bare pussy visible between my pressed-together thighs. I looked like a child, vulnerable and exposed. Was that intentional? Was that how they wanted me to feel?
I thought about Ryan, probably back home in our kitchen, wondering if he’d made the right choice. Had he watched my examination? The thought made my stomach clench with humiliation and a heat I didn’t want to admit even to myself. What had he thought when he saw me break down and beg Dr. Hamelin to fuck me?
The memory of my own desperate pleading made me want to crawl under the bed and hide. I’d held out for so long, fought so hard against the sensations, and then I’d just… shattered. Begged like a whore for a stranger’s cock while my husband potentially watched through a camera feed.
My hand drifted toward my center almost unconsciously, my body still aching from the denied orgasm. I caught myself and jerked my hand away. They had that sensor inside me now. They could probably monitor everything I did, every response mybody had. There was no privacy, no relief, no escape from their observation.
The orientation video. Nurse Simmons had said I should watch it before dinner. I glanced at the small digital clock on the desk—4:30 p.m. Maybe understanding what they planned to do to me would help me figure out how to survive this.
I walked to the view screen and pressed the power button. The device hummed to life, and text appeared on the screen:Orientation Video—Mandatory Viewing for All New Wives.
I pressed play and settled back on the bed, pulling my knees to my chest in a futile attempt at modesty.
