Page 3 of Shameful Needs
This was it—the moment I could tell him the truth about the accident, about why I’d really been driving angry, about the phone. But the lies felt safer, more familiar than the vulnerability of confession.
“For… for crashing the car, sir. For not being more careful.” I kept my eyes down, playing the part of the contrite wife even as my heart hammered against my ribs.
Ryan was quiet for a long moment. When he finally spoke, his voice carried a certainty that made my stomach drop.
“We’ll see about that.” He looked at me directly. “Go inside. Living room. Stand in the middle of the rug with your hands on top of your head and your eyes down. Wait for me there.”
The casual authority in his tone made my breath catch. This wasn’t a request—it was a command, delivered with the kind of confidence I’d never seen from him before. Part of me wanted to argue, to push back against this new version of my husband, but a larger part—the part I’d been trying so hard to suppress—wanted nothing more than to obey.
“Yes, sir,” I heard myself say, and climbed out of the truck on shaking legs.
The walk to the front door felt like miles. My legs shook with each step, and I found myself desperately trying to think of anything except what was about to happen. Whatever Ryan had learned from that NMA counselor, whatever he was planning todo, I couldn’t let it involve the kind of discipline they promoted. The bare-bottom spankings, the ritual humiliation—I couldn’t. I wouldn’t think about why the very idea made panic rise in my throat, why my body’s response to the thought terrified me more than the punishment itself.
Inside, I moved to the living room like I was walking underwater. The familiar space looked different somehow—the leather couch where we watched movies, the coffee table I’d failed to dust properly so many times, the Persian rug Ryan’s mother had given us as a wedding gift. Now it felt like a stage set for something I wasn’t ready for.
I positioned myself in the center of the rug, raising my hands to clasp behind my head. The position thrust my breasts forward in the training bra, and I felt heat flood my cheeks as I stared down at the intricate patterns beneath my feet. My training panties were already damp, clinging to me in ways that made my shame complete.
Ryan’s footsteps echoed in the hallway, slow and deliberate. When he entered the room, I could feel his presence like a physical weight, though I kept my eyes fixed downward as instructed.
“The car has a data system,” he said without preamble. “It records everything—speed, braking, steering input.” His voice was matter-of-fact, almost conversational. “It also records when the driver is distracted. When they’re looking at their phone instead of the road.”
My heart stopped. The lie I’d built so carefully crumbled in an instant, leaving me exposed and trembling.
“There was no little girl, was there, Heather?”
“Sir, I?—”
“Answer me.”
The command cut through my desperate scrambling for another excuse. “No, sir,” I whispered. “There wasn’t.”
“You were texting. Going fifty in a residential zone because you were angry about the training underwear, and you were too busy with your phone to pay attention to where you were going.”
Each word landed like a physical blow. He knew. He knew everything, and I was standing here like a fool, caught in my own web of lies.
“Look at me.”
I raised my eyes reluctantly, meeting his gaze. The Ryan I saw there was still my husband, but transformed. The gentle uncertainty was gone, replaced by something that made my knees weak.
“Why have you been avoiding sex with me?”
The question came out of nowhere, hitting me like a slap. My mouth opened and closed uselessly as my mind raced. It was true—I had been avoiding intimacy, finding excuses, feigning sleep. But how could I explain why?
“I… I haven’t been?—”
“Don’t lie to me again, Heather. There’s another data system I should tell you about: the one in this house, provided by the NMA.”
A wave of terror crashed over me as I realized what he was about to say.The shower. Oh, God, the shower. My daily ritual of relief, the only way I could function in this perfect little life we’d built. They’d been watching. Recording.
“I can explain,” I blurted out, the words tumbling over each other in my desperation. “Sir, I can explain, it’s not?—”
But I couldn’t explain. How could I tell him that every morning I stood under the hot spray and thought about things that would horrify him? That I touched myself while imagining scenarios that had nothing to do with the gentle, loving husband he was trying to be?
The fantasy from yesterday morning flooded back unbidden—Ryan’s hands rough on my hips, bending me over the barat the country club while my so-called friends watched. His voice harsh in my ear, calling me names that would make the real Ryan blush, taking my ass while I begged him to stop, to continue, to let everyone see what a slut I really was.
“Explain what, exactly?” Ryan’s voice cut through my spiraling thoughts. “What do you think about when you’re in there, Heather? What makes you come so hard you have to bite your hand to keep from screaming?”
The blood drained from my face. He knew. He knew everything.
