Page 31 of Shameful Needs
Master Paul’s expression didn’t change. “Put on the lingerie, Heather. Now.”
My hands shook as I lifted the bra, the red lace feeling like sin against my palms. I’d spent my entire adult life in modest white cotton, telling myself that anything else was improper for a good wife. But as I fastened the delicate clasp, I couldn’t deny how the fabric made me feel—feminine, sensual, desired.
The panties were even worse.
The tiny triangle of lace barely covered anything as I pulled the thong up my legs. The narrow strip of fabric settled between my cheeks, like a reminder of how exposed I was, how little separated me from complete nakedness. As I adjusted the delicate straps on my hips, a wave of recognition washed over me that made my stomach clench with shame.
I looked like a whore. The thought hit me with devastating clarity as I caught my reflection in the small mirror mounted on the wall. The red lace against my pale skin, the way the bra pushed up my breasts while revealing more than it concealed, the scandalous cut of the panties that left my bottom completely bare—this was exactly the kind of lingerie worn by the kind of woman I’d always told myself I wasn’t.
But God help me, I loved how it felt.
The admission burned through me like poison. I loved the way the lace caressed my skin, the way the thong made me hyperaware of every movement. I loved how it made my body look—sensual, available, designed for a man’s pleasure. It was everything I’d denied myself, everything I’d convinced Ryan I was too modest to wear.
“Lovely,” Master Paul murmured, his eyes taking in my transformed appearance with obvious approval. “This is how a wife should present herself to her husband. Feminine, alluring, ready to please.”
I wrapped my arms around myself instinctively, trying to hide even though the lingerie revealed more than it concealed. “I feel so… exposed.”
“You feel honest,” he corrected. “For the first time since your wedding night, you look like what you actually are—a woman with sexual needs and desires, who knows she must submit to her husband.”
The words made me flinch, but I couldn’t deny their truth. Standing there in the red lace, I felt more like myself than I had in months of marriage. More like the woman who had knelt eagerly for Chad, who had begged him to use her harder, who had reveled in being treated like exactly what this lingerie proclaimed me to be.
“Come along,” Master Paul said, his hand settling on my lower back as he guided me from the room. The touch sent suchelectricity through the thin lace that I felt my forehead crease at the sensation.
We walked through corridors that had grown dismayingly familiar. The feeling of my bare feet on the cold linoleum seemed commonplace, but I was acutely aware of how the red thong moved between my bottom cheeks with each step. The lingerie made me feel like I was playing dress-up as someone else—someone brazen and sexual and completely unlike the modest wife I’d tried to be, but paradoxically someone else who represented a part of me I had kept concealed.
The training room looked exactly as it had during my tour, but now it felt different. More ominous. The padded benches and restraint equipment seemed to loom larger, to threaten me. Master Paul led me directly to a leather-covered whipping bench in the center of the room.
On top of the bench sat a beautifully wrapped box, maybe two feet long and six inches wide, complete with an elegant bow and a small card. My name was written in flowing script across the front of the card. Instinctively I reached to open it. Inside I found the wordsCompliments of Selecta Solutions.
“Open it,” Master Paul instructed.
My hands trembled as I reached for the package. The wrapping paper felt expensive beneath my fingers. For a moment I had the absurd thought that this could be jewelry, or perfume, or some other normal gift a woman might receive.
I peeled away the paper with shaking fingers, my heart hammering against my ribs. Inside was a polished wooden box, and when I lifted the lid, my breath caught in my throat.
It was a paddle. Beautiful, crafted from what looked like cherry wood, with a long handle and a broad blade. But what made my stomach drop was the elegant script burned into the wood:Heather.
I stared at it in horror, my name mocking me from the gleaming surface. This wasn’t just any implement of punishment—this had been made specifically for me, personalized. A twisted, belated wedding gift.
“This will go home with you when you leave,” Master Paul explained calmly. “For Ryan to use when you need firm discipline. Consider it an early graduation present.”
The reality of what he was saying crashed over me like ice water. This paddle, with my name burned into it like a brand of ownership, would sit in my bedroom at home. Ryan would hold it, would raise it, would bring it down across my backside to punish me whenever he decided I had earned correction. The thought of my huge, kind husband wielding this instrument of discipline made something deep inside me clench with terrified arousal.
But it was too much. All of it—the lingerie, the paddle, the casual way Master Paul spoke about my future submission—it was too overwhelming to process.
I ran.
Without thinking, without planning, I bolted toward the door. My bare feet slapped against the floor as I sprinted across the training room, driven by pure panic. I had to get away, had to escape this place before they broke me completely.
CHAPTER 15
Heather
I madeit perhaps three steps before Master Paul’s hand closed around my upper arm like a steel trap. The grip was firm, but not painful as he spun me around to face him, his brown eyes holding a mixture of disappointment and something that looked almost like pity.
“That was foolish, Heather,” he said calmly, as if my desperate flight had been nothing more than a minor inconvenience. “Running only makes things worse for you.”
I struggled against his hold, my heart still racing from the brief moment of hope that I might actually escape. “Let me go! I want to go home! I want Ryan!”
