The Silent Treatment

"We're going home, now." He gripped her arm and drug his newlywed wife away from the good-looking man she was having a conversation with. By the way she giggled every time he spoke to her, the way she twirled her hair around her finger, the way her faced flushed, her husband knew it was more than chitchat. She was ready to defend her right to a little flirtation. But she said nothing as she reluctantly followed. She gave everyone who looked their way a small, innocent smile. The humiliation of being dragged away triggered her temper. As soon as they were in the car, she would let him have it.

His hand was still fastened to her arm as he towed her through the crowd and out to the street. He opened the passenger car door and looked her up and down. He brushed her skirt up a few inches and sighed in disgust. She looked down at mini-skirt that barely covered her and the v-neck shirt that exposed an indecent amount of cleavage. Something a whore would wear. Her anger dissipated, and she bit her lip. Married for six months and giving other men attention. Disgraceful.

He kept his eyes on the road and his white knuckled hands stuck to the steering wheel. His silence was unbearable. Every few minutes, she would open her mouth. Nothing came out. She wasn't sure what she could say that wouldn't get her into more trouble.

As he parked in their driveway, she clutched her purse to her chest, waiting for him to open her door. He did while looking the other way. She hung her head and stepped out of the car.

He unlocked the front door and pushed it open for her. She set her purse down just inside the door and stood in the entryway, waiting for him to chastise her. Her trembling hands were folded in front of the skirt. Her auburn hair hid her humbled face. The chances of her being able to sit comfortably the next day were unlikely. She knew that for certain.

The keys fell onto the table with a loud clank that startled her. He yanked his wife by her wrist and led her upstairs to their bedroom. There wasn't any of the usual yelling and lecturing. As much as she hated being screamed at, she wanted to hear his displeasure with her. She wanted him to tell her how disappointed he was. Or for him to say something, anything. No words came out of her mouth either. His rage was enough to keep her speechless.

In the doorway, he flipped the switch to brighten the dusk-lit room. He walked her to the end of the bed and released her wrist. She stood facing the bed, frozen and overwhelmed with guesses of what he would do next. Two slightly flattened pillows were stacked in front of her. She stayed immobilized and gulped. The scene reminded her of that one time, that one incident, that one long "talk" between the dreaded cane and her bottom.

With a hand on her back, he firmly pushed his paralyzed wife over the pillows propping her hips up a few inches. The skirt rode up her upper thighs, exposing the white lace covering her cunt. Luckily, she hadn't a need to bend over in her skimpy outfit earlier that evening. But her dignity was destroyed by showing up at the party dressed as a slut. No one was fooled that the skirt was acceptable attire for a married woman.

Her hands gripped the sides of the bed. She heard the closet door open, some shuffling, and the latch of her toy chest open. There was rattling and thumping as he rummaged through the vibrators and dildos. She wasn't sure what he was searching for or why he was searching for anything in her toy chest when she was about to be punished.

She heard him walking toward her. Four silky, black ties dropped in front of her face. He untangled one and wrapped it around her right wrist. With a few simple knots, he secured her arm to the bottom of the bed. She watched curiously at her arm as the other was taken hostage and bound in the same way. She lightly strained against the ties then shook her arms violently when she found that there was no way out. It became clear what his intentions were. Another soft but durable tie looped around her left ankle. She yelped as he kicked her legs open and shoved her tied leg to the corner of the bed, quickly fastening it to the post. Her other leg suffered the same treatment. With each limb spread out and fixed to the bed, she whimpered and tensed, hoping for an escape. The appeal of bondage was lost in her fear of not being in control.

He laid the wimpy cane above her head. She turned her face to the front, staring at her fate. The door closed. There were no sounds of movement anywhere. She turned her head side to side, looking for him. She whispered his name. No response. She blew her hair out of her face and studied the implement a few inches in front of her until her eyes crossed. Taking deep breaths to control the panic, she turned her face to the side. Her hair tickled her lips. She stopped the annoyance by rubbing her face into the bed and blowing the strands away from her.

Her body relaxed as she accepted her predicament. As minutes passed, the dead air became unsettling. Idiotic thoughts of him leaving her there forever became terrifying. Pissing herself was another worry. He not being in the house at all made her panic. She heard nothing coming from the other rooms. No TV or the hum of other electronics. No evidence of anyone shuffling about. She desperately waited to hear the doorknob turn.

She glanced back at the menacing object a few inches from her nose. The intensity of the fear grew as she realized she would be restrained for the caning. He had never tied her up for a spanking before. She liked the privilege of squirming a little or using her hand to block the blows. Moaning, she buried her face back into the comforter. There was the option of begging him to release her. She searched for the words that could change his mind.

As she practiced her plea in whispers, the door opened. Her mouth opened ready to ask for her freedom. The knife he showed her cut her off. She quivered at the sharp, five inch blade. Too frightened to speak, she squeezed her eyes shut and prayed that he wouldn't cut her up in little pieces.

She felt him pull her skirt and heard fabric ripping. He slid the damaged clothing out from underneath her. She shuddered, ready to cry. Butchering her favorite skirt was punishment enough. But he didn't stop there. He carefully maneuvered the knife around her trembling body, cutting through the seams of the bright, blue shirt. He snatched the pieces of the garment off her back. Tears formed at the corners of her eyes. She sniffled and winced at the coldness of the blade pressed at her hip. The expensive matching bra and panty set was next. He pulled the white lace away from her ass, snipped the straps of her bra, and made one last incision to the back. He piled the mutilated outfit in front of her. She sobbed, thinking that he couldn't be any crueler.

He lifted the cane from the pile. Without a warning to how many she would be receiving, he aimed the length of cane across her bottom. As soon as she felt it lifted away from her, she clenched. She heard the swish and cried out as it struck her. She mentally counted the first stroke. Another swish. Another yell. She tallied the second hit. After the third, she gave up on counting and buried her face in the sheets to muffle her screams. He slowly paced the strikes, leaving stripes going down her ass.

Five well placed stinging welts marked her bottom, with two on each of the back of her thighs.

She stayed clenched until she heard shuffling in the closet. Her muscles relaxed as she waited for him to untie her. Then, he would hold her while she finished crying in his arms. But the bedroom door closed. Her crying stalled. She strained to hear him moving. The only sound was her unsteady breathing.

The weeping continued as the pain dulled. As the sobs subsided, she savored the burning. It was a pain she craved that made her pussy swollen and throbbing. She became addicted to the sensation, the only reason she agreed to the thrashings. The aftermath left her euphoric and ready.

She groaned as she became wetter. She wanted him and only him. No other man could hurt her in such a way that would turn her on. Not even that one stranger at the party. Her hips searched for something to grind her clit against.

The door finally opened. She jutted her hips upward to give him a glimpse of her glistening pussy. One leg was freed and soon the other was too. He unknotted the tie from the bed but kept her wrist bound. He held the end of the tie like a leash and walked around the back of her. Using one hand, he undid the other knot and brought the ends together. He gripped the ties and yanked upwards, forcing her to stand.

She stumbled to balance herself with the swift jerking of his ad hoc leash. He tugged on the restraints and led her to the closet. Just in front of the door, he secured her wrists to a hanging bar from the ceiling. Only twice was she hooked up to it before, both times for a little rougher than normal play. She looked up her stretched arms to the bar then back to him. His grim face worried her.

He walked hurriedly to the bed and kneeled at his side. When he stood, he had a black plastic bag in his hand. He dumped the contents on the bed and tossed it to the floor. The bag looked unfamiliar; she wondered how long it stayed under the bed. He picked up an object at each of its ends. The small chain swung between his hands.

Her breathing turned into short gasps. He remembered the fantasies she briefly shared with him before they married. Her pussy moistened in anticipation. She was ready for the pain. She was ready to prove to herself that she could handle it.

He bowed before her and caught her left tit in his teeth. It became swollen and hard as he nibbled and sucked. She moaned and watched the red rubber-tipped clamp pinch her. The initial pain of the nipping of the clamp caused her to grunt. As it subsided to an ache, the other nipple was pinched. She winced and glanced down at her abused tits. Her swollen cunt threatened to drip. She smiled with pride that she handled the pain. There was no reward for her accomplishment. Just a glare. The smile died as were hopes that he had gotten over his anger.

He tapped the chain to test its hold. Satisfied, he returned to the bed for the next item. She saw what was in his hand and shook her head. The ball gag slipped through her lips. He secured it at the back of her head. Gags were not in her fantasies. They looked humiliating and uncomfortable. Both of those feelings she experienced at the moment. With her head down, she peeked at him through the strands of hair hiding her face. The hard gaze made her look away.

He went back for the last object and lightly slapped it against the bed twice. She screeched a protest through her gag and begged him for mercy with her teary eyes. Her head lowered when she read the disappointment in his face. With the handle of the whip, he nudged her head back up. He brushed her hair back and stood to the side. The strands of the whip caressed her breasts, lightly catching on the chain. His arm lifted up high. He swung.

The bite of the tails forced a scream out of her. Carefully, he pulled it back and switched sides. He struck the other breast. Tears streamed down her face. He slid the whip in between her thighs. With a whimper, she spread her legs obediently. He stood with his back to her and flicked his wrist backwards. The spread of the lashes hit her thighs and pussy, while wrapping underneath her to her backside. Her legs clamped shut. He went around her and teased the back of her thighs. Each thigh suffered a solid strike from the leather strands.

Then she felt the strands run across her welted behind. Her body shook with sobs. Three slow lashes landed across her ass. He pulled her hair over her shoulders to the front. He stroked her naked back and tilted her head down. She squeezed her eyes shut. Five hard rapid licks to her back left her screaming and hysterical. The fight was gone from her. She fell limp against her bindings.

The whip hit the floor with a soft thud. He removed the gag and tossed it too. She pursed and bit her lips as he unclamped her nipples. The chain fell from his hands. He freed her wrists. Her arms fell around his neck. She buried her face in his chest. He petted her and stroked her bruising back. His fingers grazed her marked ass, then trailed to the front. With one finger, he massaged her clit and felt her shudder. He tested her; her juices were spread around her lips about to run down her thighs.

He guided her to the bed. She inhaled sharply and arched her back as it made contact with the sheets. He took off the tear-stained shirt and quickly shed the rest of his clothing revealing his already stiff cock. Her back and ass rested against the bed. The dulling pain fueled her arousal. She offered him her moist pussy; he buried himself into her.

Her spent body appreciated his gentleness. He maintained a slow rhythm easily slipping in and out, proof that his love was a budding painslut. She closed her eyes and wrapped her hands around his biceps. The dense muscle she held onto reminded her of his strength. He was strong enough to kill and strong enough to stop her from breaking his heart. Her disciplined body was evidence of his love for her. The thought made her cry out and jerk. She held on, breathing hard and sighing deep. Her arms fell over her head. He quickened his pace, and within seconds thrust one last time.

She meekly smiled up at him. He smiled back and kissed her forehead. As he rolled away, her eyelids fluttered, then closed. The aching comforted her as she fell asleep.