It had lingered in his head for months. Never really taking shape in any plan, but just gestating in his imagination.
“You should make me cry one day,” she had said.
He had raised an eyebrow, pondered the thought, but said nothing.
The day it came up again, they were sitting on the couch on a quiet Sunday morning. Breakfast had been had. They were cuddling under a blanket, waiting for the sun to warm up the room.
The television buzzed in the distance, but he was smiling down at her, her head in his lap. It was good. It might have even been perfect.
When she got up to put the dishes away, her bare bottom passed by, and he had to spank it. A playful swat, nothing more. She held her bottom and screamed in mock pain. Then they were wrestling on the couch. He was in a t-shirt and boxers, and she was naked. She always seemed to be naked in his apartment.
They wrestled and kissed and giggled, and somehow she ended up over his knee.
She wiggled and writhed and giggled and pouted as he held her down. He was a lot stronger than she was. Sometimes he forgot that. When he spanked her again, he did it solidly. His eyes were hard when she looked at him again, and he had that half-smile that sort of wasn’t a smile at all.
Her wide eyes got wider. There were a lot of facets in that head of his, a lot of roles. This was one she didn’t play with that much anymore. She hardly even knew it, actually.
She wiggled out off his lap, and he grabbed her, roughly, pulled her by her arm onto the couch, and pinned her down. He spanked her ass and the tops of her legs, and when she moved around, he spread her legs and spanked the insides of her thighs.
Her “ows” and “nos” went unheard. He spanked her harder until she freed herself and ran to the bed, diving under the blankets. She looked like a scared little girl hiding from monsters.
When he got up off the couch, he wasn’t smiling. His head was cocked a little to one side, and he was staring right at her. His normal self couldn’t make her cry. He had to be meaner. With every step towards the bed, he was getting there.
He opened the door next to the bed where he kept his things. Leather things hung on a row of hooks. She had the blanket pulled up so that only her eyes were peaking out. He took the belt down and laid it on the foot of the bed, then he grabbed the edge of the blanket and ripped it off of her.
She let out a little scream and pulled at the sheets to cover herself, but those went flying too. She clutched a pillow, and he grabbed that and threw it across the room. Then another pillow, another, even the fitted sheets, it went on and on until she was cowering on a bare mattress.
He stood over her, picking up the belt, and glowered. For a moment, he saw it in her eyes, that she wanted to stand up to him, but she was tired from trying to hold on to the sheets and blankets and scared and so wet and turned on it made her dizzy.
When the belt hit the tender flesh under her breasts, she yelped and went to cover her tits. When the leather tongue snapped at the smoothness just above her sex, her hands quickly went down to protect that. It went like that, back and forth, he kept hitting her, and she kept trying to cover the spots with her hands. Finally, she grabbed the belt.
His jaw was set, and he pried each of her fingers off the belt and pushed her back on the bed. He pushed her arms to one side and held them both down with one hand, and as she struggled, he alternately slapped her ass, then her pussy, then her breasts with the belt until she was frantic, trying to move anywhere to get away from the blows. She was practically hyperventilating.
She wiggled out of his grasp again and tried to catch the belt again, but couldn’t. She tried to protect herself in vain, but he was too strong and too fast. She started flailing about, unsure where the blows were coming from, confused by the pain. Finally, not knowing what else to do, she slapped him across the face, hard, anything to stop him.
He threw the belt across the room and grabbed her wrists and shook her. “You want to fucking hit back? Is that what you want to do?”
He threw her down on the bed hard, turned her on her side, and smacked her ass with the full force of his hand five times hard and fast. She tried to move away, but he held her down, forcing her into the mattress in a wrestler’s grip.
She suddenly jumped hard against him and gulped at the air, and the sobs came. All the strength disappeared from him when he saw her face. The tears pouring down as she weakly beat at his chest once.
The sobs were coming harder as she crawled into his arms and curled up into a ball. He kissed her face over and over, her lips, her cheeks wet with hot tears. She sobbed and sobbed, crying like a dam that was let open.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he whispered over and over again between kisses.
When she finally started to calm down, she pulled him on top of her, and they kissed as he held her, and she shook her head.
“Don’t ever be sorry.”
This was a line they crossed together. It was important to each of them in different ways. He could have pushed, after taking her over the threshold, and let the tears be a starting point. Maybe he would some other time, but for now, it was all they could do.