Strike 2

"Put your hands on the counter."

I'm still processing what you said when you take a step forward, eyes boring into mine. I immediately slap my palms down on the cold marble, my lower body still defiantly facing you. You give me that smirk, the one that used to precede the word 'pathetic.' Except you don't have to say it now—my mind has been conditioned to fill in the blank.

I open my mouth to protest, but you tell me to raise my hand if I want to speak. I huff them raise my hand. I'm met with a loud crack and a sudden white-hot heat followed by a sharp sting across my cheek. The hand I raised is now holding my face where you smacked me.

"Did I say you could take your hand off the counter?"

I furrow my brow and grit my teeth, a retort on the tip of my tongue. Your eyes move to the hand holding my cheek, then to mine, giving me a pointed look while cocking your eyebrow. I sharply blow air out of my nose in frustration and put my hand back on the counter. The red outline of a handprint begins to bloom on my cheek, a dull throb in tow. This is your favorite game—the one I'm unable to win, the one where no matter which choice I make, I lose. Later on you'll tease about how I could just be a loser, not also a sore one.

You walk toward me and circle behind, out of view. As much as I want to glance over my shoulder, I resist the urge. I don’t want a repeat of lifting my hands off the counter. Anticipation pulses through me, every sense ignited, heightened by your silent presence as you watch me. I jolt when your hand lands on my shoulder. You let out a low laugh as you push my upper body down onto the countertop.

Grabbing the hem of my dress, you pull it up my legs until it gathers at my waist. I’m to be 100% accessible at all times—there’s nothing between you and I, I'm exposed and completely bare. I tense when you put your hand at the small of my back. The other hand begins to trace patterns across my skin, your fingertips grazing softly, leaving goosebumps in their wake. I close my eyes and focus on the movement. I think I make out the spelling of your name, and the word "mine."

The soft caresses pull me into a trance. It’s akin to someone running their hands through your hair—such a light but hypnotic feeling. The very moment I forget myself and you feel me relax through the hand on the small of my back, you strike. Your palm comes down so hard I yelp in pain and immediately try to escape. It’s useless—you pin me to the counter between my shoulder blades. You let three punishing strikes land, each one harder than the last. Tears burst from my eyes and apologies spill from my mouth.

You punish the same area until the pain becomes too much and I reach behind to block the next hit.

"PUT. YOUR. HANDS. ON. THE. FUCKING. COUNTER." Each word punctuated with a resounding smack.

I obey by gripping the other edge of the island, stretching my body to its max, my hips digging into the counter, balancing on my toes. At this point my wails become shrill shrieks. I'm so close to sobbing out the phrase that will make it all stop—the one I swore I wouldn't say, clinging to it like it’s the only part of me still mine. You lust after pushing me to the edge and then over it. You know I hold out because of my pride—I’ll walk the tightest rope rather than give in.

Your assault continues until it seems endless. When you stop, we're both breathing heavily. I swear you can hear my heart hammering in my chest. My face is a mess, wet with tears. My skin is blotchy red and raised. The cool air does nothing to ease the heat emanating. You softly run your hands over your art. I shrink away— even a gentle touch brings pain. You couldn’t care less and squeeze my flesh in response. I hiss but remain where I am.

Your fingers find their way to my slit and run along my entrance. A guttural groan unleashes from you at the evidence of my readiness. You slide two fingers in and run your other hand up my spine to the nape of my neck, grabbing a handful of my hair and pulling my head back. You press your hips into me, stretch your body out on top of mine, and whisper in my ear if I'm ready for my punishment..