Her bottom was red, and his hand was high in the air.
He wasspankingher.
I’d heard of such things only in passing and vague references in the books I’d procured in my work as museum curator. I’d brushed them aside, simply noting that it was a barbaric practice that couples occasionally dabbled in long ago. I’d only read about it. I’d never seen it.
Not likethis.
I expected her to look angry in the picture, but she didn’t. She looked like she was enjoying herself. Her legs were parted, and the picture was high enough quality that I could see that her thighs were wet.
I swallowed hard.
The second picture was her standing in the corner once more, but her backside was bright red. She was looking back at the person taking the picture. Her lower lip was protruding in a soft pout and her cheeks were damp with tears.
Was she sad? Contrite?Punished?
My own pussy pulsed, and I blanched, pressing my thighs together in mortification at the unexpected feeling. I looked around, but no one was there. Only when I felt sufficiently alone did I turn back to look at the final picture.
She was on her hands and knees on the bed, her bottom cheeks marked with red rectangular lines. Next to her was a folded-up belt and I guessed that the marks on her pale skin were probably from that. His hand was squeezing her right cheek. Everything between her thighs was exposed, from her pussy to the tight little hole of her bottom, but that wasn’t the worst of it.
A man’s seed was dripping down her leg. Not from her pussy, but from her asshole. She was looking back over her shoulder, her eyes glassy, but she wasn’t sad.
In fact, there was a hint of a very satisfied smirk on her face.
Like she hadenjoyedherself.
Like she hadwantedit.
I slammed the book shut, trying to reconcile with what I’d seen. I sat there on the floor for a long time before I opened the album to that last page again. I stared at the image of her over her husband’s knee, the way she was reaching down to clutch at his ankle, like she wanted to hold on.
This was supposed to be barbaric, right? Abusive?
This picture showed none of that. There was love and adoration in his eyes as he stared down at her, his hand high in the air while her bottom arched up to receive his punishment.
I slipped my hand into the sleeve and pulled out that single picture. I flipped it over and bit my lip when I saw that there was writing on the back.
Our wedding night. May 31, 2007.
I brushed my fingers lightly over the writing. There was nothing that indicated a name or a place, but when I flipped it back over there was only a feeling.
Love.
My core tightened inexplicably at the sight of such an intimate experience, and I couldn’t help but imagine how I would feel if I was put in such a position. Would it hurt? Would I like it?
I stared at her round bottom cheeks and the pinkness enveloping them.
My clit throbbed a bit in response.
A sudden knock at the door made the air surge out of my lungs in one long rush. I closed the book as carefully as I could.
“One moment!” I called out. I sounded guilty. My voice was shaking, and I hoped whoever was outside my door hadn’t caught onto that. As quickly as I could, I rearranged the contents of the crate and pulled the cover over the top. Hastily, I took a seat at my desk, taking a second to place my hand over my frantically beating heart. I took one more moment to catch my breath before I called out once more.
“Come in!”
The door swung open, and a man strode inside.
No. To call him a man would have been an understatement.
A more accurate term would have been a beast.