I'm sorely tempted to do a Princess Bride thing here: "In the history of the world, there have been many great butt-fuckings, but this butt-fucking surpassed them all."
It was indeed unique in our experience because of the leisurely way he went about it. Having me tied to the bed seemed to give Charles a certain freedom to take his time. To my surprise, this freedom resulted in a great deal of attention being paid to arousing me--not, it turned out, for my benefit, but for his own; even better, according to the paradox of submission.
He nuzzled my pussy where it lay, tied over the pillows, his to enjoy. He tormented me with pleasure. He knew my body's language so well now that I had no chance of sneaking an orgasm by him: when he felt my thighs start to clench the way they always do, he suddenly stopped, and drew back his head.
He said, to my cunt, so that I could feel the breath of the words taunting me with the denial of my release, "When I enter your ass, wife, you are going to beg for an orgasm. Indeed, you are going to demonstrate the fullness of your submission in the way you beg for an orgasm. But there will be no orgasm for you until I decide it is time for you to come."
He kissed my clit, so that I gasped, and nearly screamed in frustration.
I felt his fingers, covered with the coolness of the lube, on my anus, then inside my anus. It was not by any means an unfamiliar feeling by this point in our relationship, but the context--being tied to a hotel bed on my actual honeymoon--was utterly new, and perhaps for that reason or perhaps because he was feeling particularly dominant that night (as well he should have been) he seemed to me more peremptory than he ever had before, in the way he readied my bottomhole to receive him.
Also, in the middle of the process of readying my anus for what has over the past ten years or so amounted to our favorite thing, the simple drama of his cock in my ass, he stopped, unexpectedly, and said, "Emily?"
The ground was so new that I didn't even experience the little flash of anger I usually get when Charles breaks the immersion of a scene. I mean, in a real sense, he wasn't breaking the immersion, was he? This scene, this wedding-night, belonged to him, absolutely: in the role of bridegroom, if he decided that the bride he had tied to his bed for pleasurable use should be addressed by her Christian name rather than as "wife" or, better, "whore" or "slut," or, perhaps best, "piece of ass" or "ass-wife," I should, as that piece of ass, feel that his judgment in the matter was absolute, and submit gladly and hornily to being called "Emily" instead.
"Yes, Sir?" I replied.
"Your ass is the most beautiful thing in the whole world." He kissed the right cheek of it, and then the left cheek, and then he kissed in between, and licked. I screamed, and writhed atop the pillows. I was going to. . . but his tongue left me, and I felt his weight shift on the bed. He was adjusting my thighs, moving them closer together, and now he was bestriding me in the position I call by the private name "Cavalier" (I've never known why I made the association of that particular word with what is for me probably the single most erotic human act, from the standpoint of my anal-submissive orientation, but I do imagine that the supporters of Charles I probably did a lot of bottom-ravishing).
"Get that ass up, girl," my husband said, in his most dominant tone, the voice that seems to work a wire running straight from my ears to my pussy. Of course, tied as I was, I couldn't obey him the way I usually did in bed at home, but that was the point--my master was giving me a command he knew I couldn't obey. He yanked my hips up, roughly, and rearranged the pillows under me, to get my bottom to the angle at which he liked to fuck it. "Don't you dare rub that slutty cunt against these pillows, wife," he growled. "Don't think that there won't be time between your butt-fuckings for some good old-fashioned domestic discipline, if you need it."
When he takes my ass at home Charles usually tells me to reach back and hold my bottom-cheeks apart for him, one of those delicious degradations he loves to force on me and I love to undergo, but this time my hands were tied, and thus the hands that opened me so that he might lodge the head of his cock in my most private place were his own. When he did, my head reared back, as if I were a filly being saddled for the first time.
I felt his hand on the back of my head, pushing. "Get that face down in the sheets, you ass-wife. I'm going to teach you to respect my authority if it's the last thing I do." It was the perfect thing to say, and it made me buck backwards against him, taking him in further, even as I obeyed and bowed my face to the bed.
He came in my ass three times that night, between the hours of nine and two. I'm not sure why I'm so proud of that, but I am; I suppose it's really just because of what he had said about my ass being beautiful: being unwilling to untie me before he had yielded every last bit of his most precious bodily fluid into my rectum seemed to confirm the truth of the aesthetic judgment.
The way he had constructed the scene, though, was the real story. It was perfect, as a sacrament. It had drama; it had play; it had build, and suspense--especially the third time, for it didn't feel at all clear--to either one of us, I believe--that he was going to come before his leg-strength gave out and he simply collapsed on top of me. Since my first days of reading Story of O I had wanted to feel what it was like when Sir Stephen used O's anus without regard to her pleasure or even her safety. This was the closest we've ever come, though thank God without the blood-stained towels, which are such a terribly powerful turn-on, but would necessitate a trip to the doctor in real life.
What I really want to memorialize here, though, isn't the three butt-fuckings themselves but the intervals between them: the two periods when I, still unsatisfied in the orgasm department, still tied to the hotel bed, lay waiting to have my ass used again, and he, for once really owning the dominant's role, actually turned on the TV and watched (interval one) Sports Center and (interval two) an old Western. Looking back, it seems completely absurd that I could have found the thought that my new husband was watching TV while waiting for his cock to be ready to fuck my ass again arousing, but I did--so much that during the first interval (I actually fell asleep during the second, which left me refreshed for the high drama of the third butt-fucking) I decided to stage a little scene of my own, by trying to steal an orgasm, rubbing against the pillows and squeezing my thighs. The intention was of course to get caught, so I didn't make much effort to stifle the little "hmm" sounds that always come from my throat when I get close to coming, even when I'm trying to be quiet. I had my eyes closed and my face buried between my upper arms.
"CRACK," I heard and felt at the same time, and gave a full-throated scream (thank God our suite was a bungalow sort of a thing) at the burning pain in my bottom-cheeks.
"Mrs. Smith," said Charles, "I doubt you have forgotten that self-abuse is absolutely forbidden in my house; tonight above all." CRACK! "To be sure, you are a wanton slut," CRACK! (I was wailing, now), "but even so I believe I have the right to expect more modesty from you." CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!The paddle was laid aside, and my cavalier was astride me again. "Oh, God, Emily," he said, as he began to ride my punished bottom to his second triumph over it, "I love you so much."