Page 32 of Shameful Needs
“Ryan is the one who sent you here,” Master Paul reminded me, his voice maddeningly patient. “And he’s the one who’s going to be very disappointed to learn that his wife tried to run away from her training.”
The words hit me like a slap. Ryan. My husband had given these people permission to do whatever they wanted to me, and I’d just proven that I was exactly the kind of disobedient wifewho needed their harsh methods. What remained of my logical mind tried to poke holes in the obviously crazy idea, but my body responded all the same. The shame of it made my cheeks burn even as my body continued to tremble with adrenaline.
“Please,” I whispered, my voice breaking. “I can’t do this. I can’t tell him about… about that… stuff. It will destroy our marriage.”
Master Paul’s expression softened slightly, and for a moment I thought I saw genuine compassion in his eyes. “Heather, your marriage is already being destroyed by the lies you’ve been telling. The only way to save it is through complete honesty.”
He guided me back toward the whipping bench, his hand still firmly gripping my arm. With his free hand, he picked up the paddle with my name burned into the wood, weighing it thoughtfully in his palm.
“Running away has consequences,” he said simply. “You’ve just earned yourself additional punishment on top of what was already planned.”
My legs felt like water as he positioned me at the back of the leather-covered bench. The red lace lingerie suddenly felt like nothing more than tissue paper, offering no protection from what was about to happen.
“Bend over the bench, Heather,” Master Paul commanded, his voice carrying that absolute authority I’d learned not to resist. “Hands flat on the leather, legs spread.”
I hesitated for just a moment, my last shred of defiance warring with the knowledge that resistance would only make things worse. The paddle in his hand seemed to gleam with menacing purpose, my own name an unwelcome symbol of how thoroughly I belonged to this process now.
With shaking hands, I leaned forward and placed my palms on the cool leather surface.
“Arch your back,” Master Paul said, putting his left hand atop my waist to enforce his words. “Push out that disobedient bottom. Show that you know you’ve earned the lesson you’re about to get.”
With a whine from deep in my throat I complied, my knees wobbling as I felt how mortifyingly the posture displayed my shaven pussy and even my little anus to my trainer, his view only enhanced by the see-through lace. The idea that offering my backside meant I had accepted my correction made my tummy flip and my heart race. Worse, I felt myself clench between my thighs as I pictured Master Paul surveying my sluttily dressed form, ready for his stern discipline.
I was positioned there in that humiliating arch, my heart pounding so hard I could hear it in my ears, when movement caught my eye at the training room door. My blood turned to ice as I saw two figures entering—Dr. Hamelin in his white coat, and beside him, a man in a black robe that I recognized with a jolt of shock and mortification.
Ryan.
My husband stood there in the doorway, his blue eyes taking in the scene before him—me bent over the whipping bench in scandalous red lingerie, my bottom pushed out lewdly, Master Paul standing behind me with that personalized paddle in his hand. The black robe he wore made him look different somehow, more imposing than the gentle man I thought I’d married.
I straightened up immediately, my hands flying to cover my barely concealed breasts as shame flooded through me. “Ryan!” I gasped, my voice cracking with humiliation. “I didn’t know you were… y-you can’t see me like this?—”
“Don’t.” Ryan’s voice cut through my desperate babbling with an authority I’d never heard from him before. The command was sharp, decisive, completely unlike the hesitant man who’d always asked permission for everything. “Don’t coveryourself, Heather. Not your breasts, not your pussy, not your bottom. Never again in my presence.”
I froze, my hands still pressed against the lace covering my chest, staring at him in shock. This wasn’t my gentle husband speaking—this was someone else entirely. Someone who looked at me with eyes that held knowledge and disappointment and something darker that made my stomach flip with recognition.
“I said never again,” Ryan repeated, his voice carrying a steel that sent shivers through my entire body. “Put your hands at your sides.”
My arms fell to my sides as if his words had cut the strings holding them up. I stood there in the revealing lingerie, completely exposed to his gaze, my face burning with shame as I realized he could see everything—the way the red lace displayed rather than concealed, the evidence of my arousal that I couldn’t hide, the guilty flush that covered my skin.
But underneath the mortification was something else, something that terrified me with its intensity. His authoritative tone, the way he commanded rather than requested, the complete confidence in his voice—it sent heat flooding through my core in a way his gentle touches never had. This was what I’d been craving during all those frustrating nights, what my body had been screaming for while I’d faked satisfaction beneath his careful ministrations.
“Good girl,” Ryan said, and the approval in his voice made me tremble. “Master Paul, would you please hold her hands behind her while I take the kind of look at my wife’s body that I should have taken a long time ago?”
I watched in stunned silence as Master Paul moved behind me, his large hands closing around my wrists and drawing them gently, but firmly behind my back. The position thrust my chest forward, making the red lace bra even more revealing, and I feltcompletely helpless as he held me in place for my husband’s inspection.
The moment Ryan’s eyes began to travel over my body, I felt a rush of arousal so intense it nearly buckled my knees. I’d fantasized about it during all those lonely morning showers—being displayed, examined, treated like something that belonged to him completely. But the reality was overwhelming in ways I hadn’t expected.
“Beautiful,” Ryan murmured, stepping closer. His voice held a reverence that made my breath catch, but underneath it was something harder, more possessive. “I should have done this on our wedding night.”
His hands reached out to cup my breasts through the lace, and I gasped at the contact. Unlike his usual tentative touches, these were confident, claiming. His thumbs brushed over my nipples through the sheer fabric, and I couldn’t suppress the moan that escaped my lips.
“So responsive,” he said, his voice thick with discovery. “How could you hide this from me for so long, Heather?”
I tried to shake my head, to deny what my body was so obviously revealing, but Master Paul’s grip on my wrists kept me perfectly positioned for Ryan’s exploration. My husband’s hands moved lower, tracing the curves of my waist, my hips, before settling on the tiny scrap of lace that barely covered my pussy.
“Spread your legs,” Ryan commanded, and the authority in his voice sent another jolt through me.
I obeyed without thinking, my thighs parting as his fingers traced the edge of the thong. When he pressed against the damp fabric, I cried out, my hips bucking involuntarily against his touch.
