Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 64452 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 322(@200wpm)___ 258(@250wpm)___ 215(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64452 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 322(@200wpm)___ 258(@250wpm)___ 215(@300wpm)
What followed had been a year of education I’d never gotten in any classroom. Chad had introduced me to things I’d never imagined—rough hands in my hair, his cock forced so deep down my throat I’d gagged and tears had streamed down my face. He’d praised me for taking it, called me his good girl when I’d let him bend me over his couch and take my ass while his friends watched from the kitchen.
“You love this, don’t you?” he’d whispered in my ear during one of those sessions, his hand wrapped around my throat as he fucked me from behind. “You love being used like the little slut you are.”
And God help me, I had loved it. My body had responded to every degrading word, every rough touch, every moment when he’d made me feel like nothing more than holes for his pleasure. I’d told myself it was love, that the way my pussy got wet when he called me names meant we were meant to be together.
But then he’d disappeared. No explanation, no goodbye—just empty silence where his texts used to be. When I’d shown up at his apartment, his roommate had told me he’d moved to California for work. Hadn’t mentioned me at all.
The desperation that followed had been unlike anything I’d ever experienced. I’d felt hollow, broken, like some essential part of myself had been ripped away. That’s when I’d found the New Modesty Authority’s website, with its promises of structure and purpose for lost young women. Their intake counselor had been so kind, so understanding when I’d sobbed out my story in her office.
“You’re not broken, dear,” she’d said gently. “You just need the right kind of guidance. The kind that comes from love, not exploitation.”
They’d helped me see the difference between what Chad had done to me and what a real marriage could offer. Traditional discipline administered by a loving husband who wanted what was best for me, not degradation from a man who saw me as disposable.
That’s what had brought me to Scipio, to the community mixer where I’d met Ryan. Sweet, gentle Ryan who’d blushed when he’d asked me to dance, who’d opened doors and pulled out chairs and treated me like I was a princess.
Who, here in his truck, looked ahead at the road with a determination that made my tummy flip.
CHAPTER 2
Heather
“Babe,” I said, when we had turned onto our street. “I’m so—”
“Sir,” Ryan replied, his eyes darting from the road to me for a moment, his brow so dark that it made my heart race and my face get hot.
“What?” I asked, suddenly sure of what he meant, but absolutely not wanting to show it.
“Sir,” he repeated. “From now on, you’ll call me sir.”
The word hit me like a bludgeon, sending heat straight between my legs even as my mind recoiled from what it meant. This wasn’t the hesitant, apologetic Ryan I’d married. This was someone else entirely—someone who made decisions and expected them to be followed.
“Ryan, I—” I started, but the look he gave me made the words die in my throat.
“What did I just say?” His voice was quiet, but there was steel underneath it that I’d never heard before.
My mouth went dry. The training underwear suddenly felt even more restrictive, more present, as if it were broadcasting my body’s treacherous response to his authority. I couldn’t do this. I couldn’t let him see how much his command affected me, how it made me think of things I’d sworn I’d left behind.
“Sir,” I whispered, the word tasting foreign and dangerous on my tongue. “I’m so sorry, sir.”
“Better.” He pulled into our driveway, the truck’s engine ticking as it cooled. “And what are you sorry for, exactly?”
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.