Short Story--Smack

Smack

This is the last time. God help me....

She could almost hear the whoosh of his hand through the air as it collided with her ass. The sound disconnected from the pain and seemed eternally separate, both lasting interminably but in different ways.

Smack!

"Do you understand why you're being disciplined?" He allowed his hand to caress her stinging behind softly, exacerbating the pain.

"I haven't done your shirts--"

"Haven't done my shirts, dinner's been late every night this week, the downstairs is a mess...you know all of that. Do you know why I am doing this?"

"Because I deserve it."

"And because God wants you to be a better wife, a happier person. I love you, sweetheart..."

Smack!

She didn't want to whimper, but it escaped her lips anyway. Part of her wanted to stay silent and strong; but she knew the sooner she cried, the sooner it would stop. She could feel her husband's erection on her stomach as she lay prostrate over his lap like a child, a naughty child.

She eased her ass up higher, craving the end, not wanting the anticipation to drive her mad. She wanted it over with so she could burn his goddamned dinner.

But she knew it wasn't the end.

She felt his finger trail down her crease until it tickled the downy hairs between her legs. She swallowed, allowing her legs to spread as her heart beat frantically against her ribs. His finger entered her suddenly and she cried out.

Smack!

She bit her arm, muffling her half cry, half sob.

"You see, it's all about love..."

He mounted her from behind as tears welled up in her eyes. Love...it's about love.

She packed quickly as she heard him singing from the bathroom. He sang the song from Oklahoma. That's another reason to leave. He loved musicals. He would shower and come out to tell her about his day, like she gave a rat's ass. A pang of emotion hit her because she knew deep down she loved him. But the humiliation had to stop. The pain had to stop. And she'd be damned if she was ironing one more fucking shirt.

The suitcase was from her honeymoon. It was a gift from her mother-in-law; white with pink and red flowers covering it, like every dress her mother-in-law owned and wore to church. I'm buying a plain black leather case as soon as I can. Maybe tomorrow. God forgive me, God help me.

She stood with knees quaking and her whisky sour churning in her gut as he stood before her, dripping wet, beautiful, confused.

"Honey, what are you doing?"

"Leaving."

He laughed only for a moment until her eyes told him to stop. He swallowed and blinked rapidly. "I--I don't understand. I--"

"I can't do it anymore."

"But we agreed that this was how we wanted...it to be. God--"

"God has nothing to do with this. You want to make that true, but you can't. Find it in the bible, anywhere, that says what we're doing is good for us, for me."

"Please..." he approached her and stopped, his face miserable and pale. She had backed up a step toward the door. "Honey, we can negotiate. We can stop, we can talk, we can do anything you like, just don't walk out like this."

"Anything I like?"

"Yes, I love you and I thought you loved me." The hurt registered on his face like a small child. She could almost see his mind piecing together where it had gone wrong, what had gone wrong.

She did love him. She did. The plastic handle from her case felt slick as her palms gave up their moisture and her knees wobbled with fear. She gently set the case down and walked toward him. He dropped his towel and stood naked before her, head down. She tilted his chin up to her.

"I can't do it anymore. Do you understand?"

"Okay, anything you want. Anything--" she held her hand up to his quivering lips and let it slide down to his cock. It grew erect with her touch, and he let out a gasp as she gripped him firmly.

"From now on, we're going to share in the household responsibilities."

"I--okay, I don't know how to iron--"

"The cleaners does shirts!" Her voice bounced off of the walls and echoed into the silent room. He nodded his head as his cock grew firmer and sweet, clear liquid eased from the tip.

She turned him around and pressed him against the wall near to the bathroom door. She stroked him as he closed his eyes and mumbled his apologies, his devotion. His words were interrupted as she brought her hand around to his face. His eyes widened as she raised it up--and back.

She expected protest; she expected anger, and all she saw was his eyes clenching shut, body stiff with expectation.

Smack!

He whimpered much sooner than she expected.

(c) Trinity Wolf, 2007