Page 7 of Shameful Needs
Officer Martinez took a step forward, his hand moving to something on his belt. “Ma’am, we can do this the easy way or the hard way. Your choice.”
The room felt like it was spinning. I looked wildly around, but there was nowhere to go. The window was too high, and I’d never make it past the officer to get through the door. My suitcase sat half-packed on the bed, a pathetic reminder of my failed escape attempt.
“Ryan,” I said, trying to put all of my heart into my voice, all of my love and desperation. “Please don’t do this. Just let me go. Please.”
But when I looked at his face, I still didn’t see the confusion or guilt I’d expected. Instead, I saw that steadiness again, andsuddenly it made my knees weak—his quiet certainty that this was the right thing to do, that with a little professional help we could work through our problems and learn to communicate properly.
That look broke something inside me. He really believed this would help us. He had no idea what he was doing to me, what memories this was stirring up, what doors he was opening that I’d fought so hard to keep closed.
I broke down sobbing, my legs giving out as I slumped against the wall. “Please,” I whispered through my tears. “Please don’t make me do this.”
Officer Martinez moved forward, pulling something from his belt. Handcuffs. The metal caught the light as he approached, and I felt the last of my resistance crumble.
“I’m sorry it has to work this way,” I heard Ryan say from the doorway, his voice so firm it drew a whimper from my chest. “I really am sorry, babe, but I think this is what you need.”
The officer’s hands were surprisingly gentle as he helped me to my feet and turned me around. The metal was cold against my wrists as he secured them behind my back, and I found myself staring at the pale yellow walls of our bedroom, memorizing every detail as if I might never see them again. The framed photo of our wedding day on the dresser. The book I’d been reading, still open to page forty-three on the nightstand. The indent in Ryan’s pillow where his head had rested just this morning when everything had still been normal.
Officer Martinez guided me toward the door, his grip firm but not painful. My legs felt disconnected from my body, moving without my conscious direction.
“Where are you taking me?” I asked as we started down the stairs, my voice sounding hollow and strange.
“To a Selecta Solutions facility,” Mrs. Chen replied from behind us. “It’s a comfortable environment where you’ll receive the support you need to work through these issues.”
The front door stood open, and beyond it I could see a white van parked in our driveway. The red SELECTA logo on the side seemed to pulse in my peripheral vision, corporate and threatening. Our neighbors’ houses looked so normal, so peaceful. Mrs. Patterson was watering her garden next door, apparently oblivious to the drama unfolding twenty feet away.
“The program typically lasts a few days,” Mrs. Chen continued as we walked toward the van. “Your husband will visit you at appropriate times, and he’ll be kept informed of your progress.”
Officer Martinez opened the van’s rear door, revealing a bench seat with built-in restraints. The casual efficiency of it all made my stomach turn. This wasn’t some one-off emergency intervention—this was a system, a process they’d clearly used before.
“Ryan,” I said, turning to look at him one last time. “I don’t understand. Why are you doing this to me?”
He stepped closer, his blue eyes soft with what looked like genuine concern. “Because I love you,” he said simply. “And because I think you’re in pain, and I don’t know how to help you any other way.”
The sincerity in his voice was almost worse than anger would have been. He really believed this was an act of love, not betrayal.
Officer Martinez helped me into the van, securing additional restraints around my waist and ankles. The bench was surprisingly comfortable, upholstered in soft gray fabric that felt expensive. Through the tinted windows, I watched Ryan and Mrs. Chen talking in low voices on our front porch.
“There are some preferences you’ll need to indicate online regarding Heather’s training program,” I heard Mrs. Chen say. “As soon as you fill those out, our staff can begin working with her.”
Training program. The words sent a chill down my spine. This wasn’t just couples therapy. Between my thighs, I felt a treasonous warmth that drew a sob of humiliation from my chest. Chad had said that, sometimes—that he wanted to train me to be his perfect little fuck toy.
Never,I swore to myself. Even if… even if this had something to do with that…
Never.
CHAPTER 4
Ryan
The van pulledout of our driveway, and I stood there watching until it disappeared around the corner. A little to my surprise, after what had just gone down, my hands were steady as I got my phone out of my pocket, Mrs. Chen’s business card already feeling worn from the strength of my grip on it over the past hour or so.
I walked back into the house, the silence hitting me like a physical weight. Heather’s training underwear still lay crumpled on the living room floor where she’d kicked them off, and I found myself staring at them with a mixture of arousal and uncertainty that made my heart beat faster. Had I done the right thing? The certainty I’d felt in the moment had faded a bit.
The laptop sat open on the kitchen table, and I pulled up the Selecta Solutions portal. The preferences form was surprisingly to-the-point.
As a husband,you have complete control over your wife’s training at Selecta Solutions. We do have severalrecommendations that may strike you at first as unexpected and unusual, and we emphasize that our training programs are based on decades of meticulously collected and carefully analyzed data from the submissive women Selecta and the Institute have helped find happiness.
Submissive.The word sent a jolt through me—one that went straight to my cock, reminding me of how hard I had gotten while spanking Heather. Could I have gotten this so wrong for so long? Surely Heather didn’t have any interest in such things, let aloneneedthem—her angry reaction to the training underwear, when I’d tried to put my foot down the day before, proved that. Didn’t it?
