Page 2 of Shameful Needs
I watched my gorgeous husband take a deep breath through his nose, as if he were trying to keep something in check—some scary, aggressive part of him that I had scarcely ever glimpsed before except maybe when I had watched him play basketball with his friends.
“Babe,” he said slowly. “What did I say?”
I swallowed again.
“That we’d talk about it when we get home,” I said meekly, not enjoying at all how the sound of my own soft voice stirred happiness and anger in me simultaneously.
On the way home, clad in sweats Ryan had bought me at the big box store next to the hospital, at first I tried not to think about how I had ended up here. Unfortunately, that made methink about what would happen when we got home, an even less inviting prospect. My mind sought refuge in the past after all—in the stuff I had never been able to tell Ryan.
The dirty, shameful stuff that had led me to the Midwestern town of Scipio, and to Ryan Montgomery, the man who had offered me another chance. Who had said the past didn’t matter, when I had tried to confess to him everything Chad had done to me, and made me do, in the year between my eighteenth and nineteenth birthdays.
Chad. Even thinking his name made my stomach twist with a mixture of shame and unwanted arousal. I stared out the passenger window as Ryan drove us home, trying to push down the memories that always seemed to surface when I felt most vulnerable.
I’d been so young when I met him—barely eighteen, fresh out of high school and working at the mall food court. He’d been twenty-four, confident in a way that made my knees weak. The way he’d looked at me across the pretzel counter, like he could see right through my clothes, had made me feel powerful and terrified at the same time.
“You’re too pretty to be working in a place like this,” he’d said, leaning against the counter with that crooked smile that had made my heart race. “Let me take you somewhere nice.”
What followed had been a year of education I’d never gotten in any classroom. Chad had introduced me to things I’d never imagined—rough hands in my hair, his cock forced so deep down my throat I’d gagged and tears had streamed down my face. He’d praised me for taking it, called me his good girl when I’d let him bend me over his couch and take my ass while his friends watched from the kitchen.
“You love this, don’t you?” he’d whispered in my ear during one of those sessions, his hand wrapped around my throat as hefucked me from behind. “You love being used like the little slut you are.”
And God help me, I had loved it. My body had responded to every degrading word, every rough touch, every moment when he’d made me feel like nothing more than holes for his pleasure. I’d told myself it was love, that the way my pussy got wet when he called me names meant we were meant to be together.
But then he’d disappeared. No explanation, no goodbye—just empty silence where his texts used to be. When I’d shown up at his apartment, his roommate had told me he’d moved to California for work. Hadn’t mentioned me at all.
The desperation that followed had been unlike anything I’d ever experienced. I’d felt hollow, broken, like some essential part of myself had been ripped away. That’s when I’d found the New Modesty Authority’s website, with its promises of structure and purpose for lost young women. Their intake counselor had been so kind, so understanding when I’d sobbed out my story in her office.
“You’re not broken, dear,” she’d said gently. “You just need the right kind of guidance. The kind that comes from love, not exploitation.”
They’d helped me see the difference between what Chad had done to me and what a real marriage could offer. Traditional discipline administered by a loving husband who wanted what was best for me, not degradation from a man who saw me as disposable.
That’s what had brought me to Scipio, to the community mixer where I’d met Ryan. Sweet, gentle Ryan who’d blushed when he’d asked me to dance, who’d opened doors and pulled out chairs and treated me like I was a princess.
Who, here in his truck, looked ahead at the road with a determination that made my tummy flip.
CHAPTER 2
Heather
“Babe,”I said, when we had turned onto our street. “I’m so?—”
“Sir,” Ryan replied, his eyes darting from the road to me for a moment, his brow so dark that it made my heart race and my face get hot.
“What?” I asked, suddenly sure of what he meant, but absolutely not wanting to show it.
“Sir,” he repeated. “From now on, you’ll call mesir.”
The word hit me like a bludgeon, sending heat straight between my legs even as my mind recoiled from what it meant. This wasn’t the hesitant, apologetic Ryan I’d married. This was someone else entirely—someone who made decisions and expected them to be followed.
“Ryan, I—” I started, but the look he gave me made the words die in my throat.
“What did I just say?” His voice was quiet, but there was steel underneath it that I’d never heard before.
My mouth went dry. The training underwear suddenly felt even more restrictive, more present, as if it were broadcasting my body’s treacherous response to his authority. I couldn’t do this. I couldn’t let him see how much his command affected me, how it made me think of things I’d sworn I’d left behind.
“Sir,” I whispered, the word tasting foreign and dangerous on my tongue. “I’m so sorry, sir.”
“Better.” He pulled into our driveway, the truck’s engine ticking as it cooled. “And what are you sorry for, exactly?”
