How simple it would have been to just give in. He wanted her to,
and she wanted to herself. But there was that fire in her belly
that took more than simple giving-in to squelch.
The day was
horribly hot, a pre-summer May, sweltering and unbreathable. She
walked home from the bus stop in a funk, unhappy because
everything had gone wrong that could go wrong. And now she was
more miserable than ever. Her clothes were hot, the sun
was hot, her hair was hot with the sun’s desperate heat beating
down on her head. Everything had gone wrong that could go wrong.
Branson, the
bastard hated her presentation that she’d worked hours to
prefect—yes, it was unique, but he just didn’t understand her
artistic vision; then best friend, Liv, spilled cappuccino on
the brand new $90 lime green dress; and Hilary, her hairdresser,
screwed up her last haircut and perm until it was now a frizzy
mess.
She was in
funk. But worse yet, she let Jordan down, failing to show for
their morning coffee date, which he demanded, just because he
knew she needed a little settling before she went into an
important meeting. Perhaps that was the beginning of her bad
day. Perhaps if she’d not failed to keep that appointment, her
day would have worked out better. Perhaps.
Her body felt
as if it had been beaten with clubs, ravaged by hungry wolves,
her psyche torn apart by those who would never understand her,
least of all Jordan—the perfect—who did everything in his life
right, she sarcastically mused. Same time, she had to believe in
Jordan, he, more than any one could put her back together after
a horrible day like this one.
A half hour later,
after dragging her weary ass in off street, she lay over
Jordan’s lap, his fist, ladened with a kitchen spoon, poised
above her naked ass.
Smack!
Ah! What
pain!
Smack!
The second
blow landed like the first, right on the middle of a plump ass
cheek.
It had taken
one hell of an argument to get her there; he’d been so patient
at first. Kind. Almost loving. Yes, it was loving, the way he
affectionately tried to nurture her with kindness. But she
wouldn’t be nurtured. No. Not today. Never! She pulled out of
his loving arms in a huff, too
angry with herself to be loved.
She wanted
confrontation, conflagration, incineration…heat, anger,
righteous indignation, her pissed-offedness venting out in a
hiss of crude, nasty language, meant for the world, life,
humanity, every last fucking soul, good or bad. The world was
her obstacle, her foe, her vague, inconstant enemy.
Unfortunately,
Jenny vented it all, everything, every last nasty invective
toward the one man who loved and understood her, the one sole
human being who might have been an exception to her
broad-sweeping judgment of the whole of humankind.
“I’m a
miserable designer!” she shouted in desperation. “I know
nothing! I never will! They hate me! They hate my work! I’m
quitting tomorrow, if they don’t fire me first.” She thought a
moment. No. They won’t fire me—I’m putting in my resignation!
That was after she had Jordan’s attention by throwing everything
she was holding in her arms—purse, coat, briefcase, not to
mention the spear-like golf umbrella she’d needed in the morning
to save her hair from a sudden thunderstorm. “I’ll quit, I swear
I will!”
She stomped
around the apartment pissed off, watching, waiting for Jordan to
say something, anything to stop her.
And sure
enough, he did, once he’d finally heard it all. He’d had enough.
So calm, so
cool. “My, you’re certainly asking for it, Jen,” was all he had
to say to set her off again.
“Oh, you think
you know what I need!” she came right back at him.
“Hey, I don’t
know anything about what you need, but I sure as hell know what
you’re going to get,” he said.
He yanked her
hard, really hard, mainly because she was trying to scoot right
past him and lock herself in the bathroom.
With his hand
firmly around her arm, her heart started to pound. Adrenalin
rushed her body like a hot wind. Before she could wrench from
his grasp, he’d upended her over his lap. Damn! He was fast!
She was close
to him now, against his middle, over his lap, her crotch right
up next to his, and his was hot, venting sexual rage and her
unhappiness, and somehow, in the middle of all that, a good deal
of love.
The spoon came
down across her bottom, hard, again and again and again, the
damn thing burning like the fiery flames of hell itself. More,
another and another, hot, hellish damnable, destestable, but
necessary…just to get her out of the self-pitying gloom.
He didn’t say
a word, just kept on hitting again and again until she was
screaming, crying, raging, banging her fists against his legs
and her feet against the nothingness behind her, all the while
looking as if she were dogpaddling in mid-air. Over and over her
words of exclamation, “Stop it, you fucking ass!” until she was
hoarse.
Again, harder
and harder he hit, until she suddenly realized dazedly that it
wasn’t the spoon anymore but just his hand, his flesh, spanking
her old-fashioned style, as if she were a really bratty kid.
Was that
what she was? She thought that for one brief second.
He was
exhausted, she was exhausted, when he finally stopped. But she
was calmer. Much calmer. Spanked. Ass hot, body sweltering.
And with
Jordan’s hand dropping between her thighs, and her thighs
opening hungrily, and her inner self purring, she found heaven
on earth again. To hell with the miserable world when she had
this heaven. Yes, now this was heaven. Heaven.
Amen.
They’d take it
to bed. Minutes would pass in their clench. Their lips would
lock; their hands would explore; his body would penetrate and
hers would not resist.
At the finish,
she’d come, he’d come, and they’d both pass out, exhaustion a
good thing now until she said to him in a voice as sweet as a
sorry child:
“I’m sorry,
hon, it was a really bad day.”
