Her Shameful Lesson (Shamefully Courted) Read online

  Hank’s words echoed in Jim’s mind. You’ll find yourself back at the authority office—or worse.

  The police station definitely represented worse. Jim looked down at the document in front of him.

  I the undersigned _______, husband/head of household of ________ (offender), promise under penalty of a fine not less than $1,000 or more than $5,000, to discipline the aforementioned offender with an approved means of corporal punishment, and to provide evidence of said discipline within thirty days of the date of my signature.

  “Evidence?” Carly asked suddenly. Jim turned to see that she had addressed the chief—not her husband, and that her face had the same mixed sort of look it had worn several times since he had arrived at the station: half conniving and half alarmed.

  The chief spoke to Jim, rather than to Carly. “Mr. Williams, that’s just a written statement that you can turn in to us by mail.”

  Jim had the distinct impression that the chief had emphasized his name quite firmly, as if in order not only to make it clear to Carly that her husband would call the shots, as far as the police were concerned, but also to draw Jim’s attention to something. Certainly it made him look at his wife, and it allowed him to see something on her face that he might have missed otherwise.

  Triumph, as she looked from the chief to Jim. Then, just for a moment, the tiniest hint of letdown.

  Disappointment.

  Then, finally, when she saw clearly on her husband’s face that she needn’t feel any letdown whatsoever—that Jim Williams fully intended to punish his young bride as she deserved, for shoplifting those lacy panties—wide-eyed fear and red-faced mortification.

  Chapter 4

  Carly’s cheeks blazed like the sun. Her eyes dropped to her lap, then rose again, to look at Jim’s face as he began to fill out the form. She knew she must have misunderstood his expression: when she took another look, he would turn his kind eyes on her, and it would be obvious, like when she had broken the dryer, that nothing serious would come of this horrible mistake.

  Mistake. Yes, she had made a mistake. Carly hadn’t let herself understand that before, and now she felt like she could admit it to Jim. So he definitely wouldn’t go through with whatever it was she had seen in his face, whatever stupid ‘discipline’ the police chief’s form had put in his head.

  He would file the report, which wouldn’t be true, and that would end the matter. Maybe they could write the report together, and giggle over what silly things to say about the ‘discipline.’

  When she saw his face, though, after he had put his name and her name on the document, and moved the pen down to the signature line, Carly saw that his face remained stony. Panic rose in her chest, and she blurted out the words that had seemed so magical in her mind just a moment ago.

  “Jim, I made a mistake.”

  Even as the syllables emerged from Carly’s mouth, she realized that this mistake represented something so serious that the magic admission of guilt wouldn’t change the determination in her husband’s eyes. As he turned to her, the pen poised to sign his name, she added desperately:

  “I’m so sorry.”

  Jim glanced at the police chief. That simple look made a cry of fear rise to Carly’s lips, and she just barely stifled it. When her husband’s eyes returned to her face, though, she felt her hands begin to shake uncontrollably.

  “Not as sorry as you’re going to be, honey,” he said, and turned his attention back to the document, signing it with a kind of grim satisfaction.

  The frustration in Jim’s voice didn’t affect Carly anywhere near as strongly as the note of sadness. She understood instantly: he didn’t want to punish her this way, but he knew he must.

  Words floated to her from somewhere in her deep cultural memory, remembered from some old book or old movie: This is going to hurt me more than it hurts you. To Carly’s horror, as her tummy flipped over at the thought, something else, even worse, happened further down.

  Her eyes went straight to the lacy panties she had for some unfathomable reason tried to steal, and she found herself biting her lip. Unbidden, the memory of her wedding night came back to her, but instead of the old blue little-girl panties, this half-remembered, half-imagined Carly Gradin had on the lacy panties she had stolen.

  Suddenly the tiny kernel of fantasy that had come to her in the intimates store returned. She remembered why she had taken the lacy thong and put it under her shirt. The imagined Carly didn’t have the panties on because she had chosen them—no, her bridegroom had sent her back to change, when he had discovered her little-girl panties.

  “Those aren’t the kind of underwear a bride wears on her wedding night,” said the fantasy husband—Jim Williams, but a version of Jim Williams who cared not a whit about a virgin’s innocent hesitation and fears. “Here: go back into the bathroom and put these on. I bought them for you, so that I can enjoy the experience of pulling them down before I fuck that sweet virgin cunt for the first time. The next time you come to bed in panties like the ones you have on, I’ll spank you before I send you to change into something sexy.”

  Carly swallowed so hard, she heard the sound of it come out. Tears sprang to her eyes as she watched Jim put the date on the line next to his signature.

  She had put the panties under her shirt because of the fantasy… because she didn’t want to see them anymore. She had wandered into the store, just to see if there might be something she could surprise Jim with. The memory of the wedding night had made her go to the rack with the lacy, skimpy panties. The picture over the rack, of a young woman in that kind of underwear, had made her face go hot, and then the fantasy had seemed to overwhelm her.

  Carly had thrust the panties under her shirt, because… because she…

  Because I needed them.

  “You’d better take these,” the chief said, as Jim slid the document back across his desk to him.

  Carly’s jaw dropped open, but no sound emerged. The police chief must mean something else. He couldn’t mean…

  “Mrs. Williams can pay for them when she goes in there to apologize. Or…” To Carly’s horror, he turned to her with a little smile on his lips. “Maybe you can persuade Mr. Williams to go with you, Mrs. Williams, and he can pick out some things to go with them.”

  Carly couldn’t look at him. Her eyes had dropped to the evidence bag, which the chief now handed to Jim. She flicked her eyes up to her husband’s face just to see if his expression had relented at all, or if he had any reaction to the chief’s little ‘joke.’ Jim’s face remained stern, though, as he put his arm around Carly’s shoulders and began to guide her away from the desk.

  “Thank you, Chief,” he said. “I’ll have that report in very soon.”

  Carly bit her lip to keep from crying out. She knew that Jim would make her thank the police chief, too, and she didn’t want to hear more of the disapproval in his voice.

  “Thank you, Chief,” she said, as clearly as she could, pretending to herself that her face hadn’t just gone, once again, as hot as an oven.

  “You’re welcome, Mrs. Williams,” the chief said. “I know Mr. Williams will get you back on the straight and narrow without much trouble, even if it means you don’t sit comfortably for a day or two. I’m sure we won’t see you back in here anytime soon.”

  By the time they got home, after a completely silent ride in Jim’s car, he knew exactly what he had to do. As he pulled into the driveway, Carly broke the silence.

  “Jim, I’m—”

  He cut her off. “You’re going to go inside, Carly, and you’re going to go straight to the bedroom. You’re going to take off all your clothes, and—”

  Carly interrupted him, now. “You can’t!”

  “You are going to take off all your clothes,” he said again, making his voice even more stern, “and you are going to put on those panties.” He pointed to the evidence bag that sat on the armrest between the seats. “You’ll be punished in them tonight.”

  A moment before, Carly h
ad seemed ready to scream and yell in protest. At the news that Jim meant to make her put on the sexy underwear that she had apparently coveted so fiercely she had to steal it, however, she went utterly still and silent. Her lips had parted, and her chest heaved with little panting breaths as she gazed at him with round eyes.

  As Jim watched, her forehead creased between her eyebrows, and she took the inside of her lower lip between her teeth and began to chew on it. The color came and went from her adorable cheeks in surges so dramatic that they made Jim think of ocean waves.

  “You… can’t,” she repeated, but in a whisper this time.

  But the expression on her face told him the opposite—and more. Not only could he discipline her with the firm hand the law of their town now expected him to use, but he had to discipline her that way—because she so clearly needed it.

  “Do as I said, Carly,” Jim said in a level voice. “You know you have a spanking coming, and I bet you know I have to whip your backside, too. Stealing is a serious, serious thing. Don’t make it worse.”

  Carly’s eyes went even wider for a moment, and then she let out a sob. She looked so forlorn there on the car seat that Jim obeyed his strongest instinct—his love for his beautiful wife. He gathered her into his arms and held her for long seconds, the only sound in the car her frightened sobs against his chest.

  She resisted his embrace at first, but then with a little whimper her body yielded, and she seemed to give herself up to him in a way he didn’t think she ever had before. Especially since their wedding night, hugs between them had seemed fleeting to Jim, as if their twice-a-week morning sex had somehow driven them apart a little, physically speaking, rather than bringing them together.

  “Please?” Carly whispered at last.

  “Get going, honey,” he replied in a growl, beginning to release her from the hug. She quailed in his arms, though, and he gave her a final squeeze, and kissed the top of her head before he finally ended the embrace, sensing that she had started to consider whether she might use his tenderness against him. “Don’t make me drag you inside and strip you naked myself. If I have to do that, you’ll get another whipping tomorrow for disobedience.”

  That thought seemed to take Carly by surprise, as if Jim’s words had made her understand for the first time that her husband didn’t just mean to carry out the will of the police, but had ideas of his own about family discipline. She stared at him with a slack jaw, apparently struck dumb.

  Jim lowered his chin. “Last chance,” he said softly.

  Carly grabbed the plastic bag from between them with a terribly ambiguous little cry that might have been fear, might have been anger, and might have been something else—something that made Jim frown with a bit of puzzlement. As she got out of the car and walked to the front door of their comfortable New-Modesty-subsidized three-bedroom home, holding the bag as if it were something toxic, he thought back to the husband-to-be orientation.

  “Not every New Modesty girl gets turned on by family discipline,” the instructor had told them. “But more of them do than you probably expect. If you do have to punish your wife, be alert for the signs. She probably won’t want you to know, out of embarrassment, and if you do notice it it’s your choice to make something of it or not. Let’s be clear: family discipline isn’t about sex—it’s about loving correction and guidance. But if that correction leads in, let’s say, certain other directions for both of you, it can be rewarding. Just something to think about.”

  Jim had thought about it, more really than he considered conducive to his comfort. He had managed to put those ideas away, though, when it turned out Carly was the kind of bride who wore simple cotton panties to bed on her wedding night—then dutifully left off her panties altogether for their regular marital sex.

  Carly had never refused him, of course, and she closed her eyes and moved her hips compliantly as the cock entered her. She made soft, submissive noises as her husband thrust inside her pretty, excitingly smooth pussy until he had fully taken his pleasure there. But Jim fully intended to demand more in the bedroom from now on.

  Like the blowjob the instructor had joked about, for example. Sitting in the car after Carly had got out, Jim frowned, remembering. He had taken it as a joke, the idea that he could demand that his bride go down on him, on their wedding night. Had the instructor really meant his words in jest, though?

  Jim knew that New Modesty marriages, even beyond their old-fashioned discipline aspect, were supposed to be husband-led in every way. The orientation hadn’t gone into any detail on that matter, of course, out of respect for the couples’ privacy. But hadn’t there been some mention of resources available online at the New Modesty Authority?

  Jim pulled his handheld out of his pocket and thumbed it on. It took only a second or two to find the page he needed—and wished he’d found before he and Carly had tied the knot.

  NM Marriage Academy: how to train a submissive bride.

  Chapter 5

  Carly threw the clear plastic bag down on the bed. In the dim light from the hall, she couldn’t even see what it contained. For a moment, she tried to deny—in her head, at least—that any of this had happened.

  That’s just a plastic bag. Sitting on the bed. Jim is going to come into the house, and this will all have been a strange, shameful dream.

  Shameful.

  A sob rose in Carly’s throat as she reached a hand out to the bag. She touched it, lying there, and although she still couldn’t see past its slightly reflective surface, she could feel, with her fingertips, that the plastic held something soft—a little ridge of fabric.

  A very little ridge.

  Carly’s blue cotton briefs, her little-girl panties, as she could never stop thinking of them, were not by any means made from a lot of material. The panties she had tried to steal, though, comprised—she felt sure—less than half of that quantity, and they were made almost completely of see-through lace.

  If a young wife received a command from her husband, to take off her panties in a public place and to give them to him… because he meant to whip her little bottom with his belt, for attempted shoplifting…

  Balled up, even in Carly’s little hand, Carly’s little-girl underwear could be concealed very easily; no one had to know that a modest girl had had to take her panties off, because her husband had ordered her to do that. These lacy panties, the ones Carly took from the plastic bag now with trembling hands, would vanish even more invisibly into a man’s big hand. In either case, a girl in a skirt could probably get her underwear off without anyone noticing and hand them to her husband, blushing but without utter humiliation.

  But if that husband looked at the panties, inspected them…

  Standing there in the semi-darkness of their bedroom, Carly couldn’t suppress a little whimper of mortification at the terrible little fantasy of Jim, in the intimates store perhaps, commanding a change of underwear—perhaps commanding a degrading fashion show where he decided how he liked his bride to look best, down there where he liked to enjoy himself with his huge, hard manhood. She put one hand down to the gusset of her jeans, she pressed hard on the seam there, and she cried out as she felt herself dampen the blue cotton panties the same way she had, in the intimates store, just at her first sight of the ones she had in her other hand now.

  Not even letting herself think about what she did, Carly put the panties back down atop the bag. She unfastened the waistband of her jeans, and she pulled them down—tore them down, really—to just above her knees. She put her right hand between her legs, over the warm, damp surface of the soft cotton, rubbing frantically at the place that so desperately needed attention. She bent down, so that she could lean on the bed with her left elbow and touch the lacy panties with her left hand.

  Carly Gradin Williams had never masturbated. At college, girls were explicitly allowed to pleasure themselves in their rooms with the door closed—and they weren’t allowed to close their doors except between lights out at nine p.m. and morning bell at s
even a.m., which on weekends became eleven p.m. and ten a.m.

  In her Your Changing Body class, the instructor had told the first years that masturbation was a normal part of the sexual development of some girls, and not of others. The important thing for a New Modesty girl to know lay in how self-pleasure related to the sexual relationship she could expect with her husband.

  “Once you’re married,” the modestly dressed professor had said, “you’ll want to ask his permission, and he’ll probably make rules for you, if he allows you to touch yourself at all in a sexual way, when he’s not present.”

  One of the rumors Carly had heard, about corporal punishment at New Modesty Central, had concerned a girl caught masturbating in the afternoon, in her dorm room. The rumor said that she had gotten the paddle from the dorm matron, naked over the end of her bed, until she had peed herself from the agony.

  Carly had never believed that one, but as she remembered it now her whole body went hot, and the aching tingle she had felt there, between her legs, where her fingers now rubbed so frantically, grew so powerful and so demanding that she cried out. The sensation, even through the cotton panties, became too intense for her; she had to move her fingers further down, to feel what that part felt like—the part where Jim took his pleasure twice a week, the part where the professor had said he might punish her for touching without permission.

  She found the gusset of the blue little-girl panties not damp… no, not damp… but soaking. The feeling of her wanton need, the way her fingertips positively slid across the slick surface of the once-demure fabric, the way those fingertips could pull the panties inside and find her smooth pussy so hot and open and ready… it made Carly cry out again, made her move back to her clit to rub even more urgently, left her at the brink of something she had never, ever felt before.

  Her husband had told her to get into the lacy panties she had tried to steal. She looked at them on the bed, in the light from the hall. She rubbed the pretty flowered mesh with the fingertips of her left hand, while her right did the terribly naughty thing between her legs. Jim had said… her big, strong husband had said…