Shameful Needs – Shamefully Courted Read Online Emily Tilton

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I established routines that reinforced her new role. Meals were prepared and served naked except for her apron. Dinner was consumed with her kneeling beside my chair. Housework was done completely nude while I supervised, correcting her posture or rewarding good behavior with intimate touches. Evenings were spent with her mouth servicing me while I watched television or read, her naked body a constant reminder of my ownership.

The changes in her were remarkable. A hesitant, calculating look that I now realized had always lurked behind her green eyes disappeared entirely, replaced by genuine eagerness to serve. She stopped flinching when I gave commands, stopped hesitating before obeying. Most telling of all, she stopped faking her responses completely.

“Oh, God, Ryan,” she sobbed on Friday night as I took her against our bedroom wall, her legs wrapped around my waist while I drove into her with relentless authority. “I never knew… I never knew it could feel like this.”

Neither had I. The woman writhing in my arms, begging me to use her harder, was nothing like the passive wife who’d lain beneath me in the dark.

So I was surprised when my phone beeped with a text from Mrs. Chen, exactly a week after I had brought Heather home, and my first day back at work.

Heather

In the shower, the first morning Ryan went back to work, I told myself I was doing everything I could to keep my hand from lingering between my thighs and my bottom cheeks when I washed and shaved my pussy, then carefully cleaned my anus.

Yes, I acknowledged to myself, this is difficult. You have to keep yourself nice and clean and bare for your husband, though.

For a little while I thought that admonishment would work. I tried to keep myself from thinking about how Ryan hadn’t had time to fuck me before he left for work. I thought instead about how long and hard he had taken me the day before.

That was, I quickly realized, a mistake. A big mistake.

A flash of heat shot through me as I remembered how he’d bent me over the kitchen counter after lunch, his hands gripping my hips while he claimed my bottom with the roughness he used so often with me these days. The way he’d growled my name, called me his perfect little ass girl while he used me exactly as I craved, but would, it seemed, always be too ashamed to ask for⁠—

My hips jerked. My fingers had somehow found their way to my clit without my conscious permission.

“No,” I whispered to myself, yanking my hand away. “You’re not allowed.”

But the damage was already done. My body had begun to awaken, responding to the memories with that familiar, helpless arousal that Ryan had learned to control so perfectly. I could feel myself growing wet, my pussy clenching with need as images flooded my mind—his massive cock stretching me, the plug keeping me constantly aware of my submission before and after he took me, the way he’d made me moan “Thank you, sir,” over and over while I came around him.

I tried to focus on washing my hair, on the mundane task of shampooing and conditioning, but my mind kept drifting back to yesterday afternoon. How he’d made me kneel between his legs while he worked on his laptop, my mouth servicing him lazily while he typed emails. The casual way he’d used me while conducting business, as if my eager tongue was simply another vehicle for his pleasure.

My hand drifted south again, almost of its own accord.

This time I didn’t stop it.

Ryan had given me strict guidelines about touching myself—I wasn’t allowed to seek my own pleasure without his permission. My body belonged to him now, to use as he saw fit. But he wasn’t here, and the ache between my thighs was becoming unbearable.

Just a little, I told myself. Just enough to take the edge off.

My fingers found my swollen clit, and I gasped at the contact, then coughed to conceal it. They had an audio feed somewhere in the bathroom—they had caught me before, but that was before I knew they could listen, and tell Ryan what I was doing when he was at work. The hot water cascaded over my naked body as I bit my lip to keep myself quiet, and began to stroke myself with desperate need, my other hand braced against the shower wall for support. I was terrified that the mic, wherever it was, would pick up something that they could forward to Ryan, and he would learn what I was doing.

But God, it felt so good. After a week of having my pleasure completely controlled by my husband, the forbidden nature of touching myself made it even more intense. I could feel my orgasm building with shameful speed, my body responding to the illicit stimulation with desperate hunger.


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