The air seemed charged as he rose and walked toward her, his gait measured, unhurried. An involuntary shiver rippled through her as moved closer, circling her now with agonizingly slow, methodical steps. Finally, he stopped directly in front of her, leaning in so close it was impossible to see where his body ended and hers began.
He leaned back a little, raised the index finger of his right hand to his mouth, then licked the tip of it and pressed it to her slightly parted lips. Slowly, he traced an imaginary line around them, then moved the finger, its nail just grazing her tender skin, downward, over her bottom lip, bringing it to rest under her chin. Exerting the most minute pressure, he raised her face to his. His expression was purposeful but not unkind. His eyes were alive, blazing, as if they could somehow sear into the very heart of her.
When, finally, he began to speak, his voice was a low, velvety rasp. Under other circumstances she would have teased him about it; pointing out that cigarettes were takng their toll on him, and that he ought to quit. But not now. Now, that voice gripped her, held her, made her quiver in anticipation.
“Do I make unreasonable demands on you?” he asked, tersely.
“No..no, of course not,” she answered, taken aback a little. This was not the line of discourse she had expected, somehow.
“Do I stifle you; withhold my support or enthusiasm for your plans, your dreams?”
“Never. You’ve never done anything like that. You wouldn’t…you…” She was flustered, confused. Where was this going?
“Do you believe that I love you?” He stood there, unflinching–waiting–as if there might actually be a response to this question which wasn’t already burned into his deepest consciousness.
“Yes. Yes. YES!! Of course you do. As I love you,” she said, her voice rising.
“Then why do you deny me the only thing I ask of you?” he snapped.
She took a step back, feeling as if the wind had been knocked out of her. She looked at him, incredulously, her eyes flashing something between disbelief and anger.
“I’ve never…I’ve always…I don’t know what you…I don’t..what do you mean?” The words poured out, collided. She’d always put him first; done anything and everything she could think of to please him. After all they’d been through, how could he say something like that?
He wrapped his arms around her gently, leaning in to press his lips to her ear–warm, moist breath flowing over her tingling skin–then spoke in a barely audible whisper.
“Why won’t you give yourself a break, my darling?”
She stiffened in his arms, and he held her. She struggled a little, as if trying to break free, bolt from from the moment, and still he held her–tightly, tightly–refusing to let go…ever. In his mind’s eye, he could see that fine line; see himself stepping squarely onto and over it. And he didn’t care. He would do anything, risk anything for her…for the love of her.
She buried her face in his shoulder, her eyes welling up with tears, her body shaking violently against his.
“I can’t,” she whispered, her voice a low, heart-rending moan that cut deeply into him, “I just can’t.” And even as the words rolled off her lips, she felt the muscles in her stomach tightening, as if her body were trying to speak, to scream out: “Wrong answer.”
He released his grip on her, just long enough to slip his fingers behind her head and onto the nape of her neck, spreading them upward into her damp, tangled hair. Closing his hand tightly, he urged her to her knees at his feet, his fingers viselike in her auburn mane.
“But you WILL!” he growled, “Now you crawl over to that couch, young lady, and I mean yesterday!”
He let go of her hair and she bent down, extending her arms in front of her–palms flat on the carpet–and began to crawl, her mind racing, his words echoing, over and over, in her mind. He stepped around her and sat heavily on the couch, watching her approach, his eyes set. She stopped at his feet, looking up into his face expectantly.
“There is no ‘can’t’, and there are no excuses. Do you understand?”
She wanted to explain, protest, say something, anything to mitigate what was about to happen. Instead she found herself inexplicably mumuring, “Yes.”
Gripping her under her shoulders, he abruptly hauled her up from the floor and over his lap, her bottom upended, her arms and legs stretched out along the length of the couch. Without warning, his open palm slammed down onto the round, soft cheeks of her ass. She groaned, shifting her weight over his lap, digging her fingernails into the fabric of the couch–but making no move to try and escape.
His hand, its fingertips hardened from years of guitar-playing, came down again–harder this time–raising an instant, fiery red imprint on the tender flesh. She winced and gasped, her back involuntarily arching to expose her stinging bottom to another swat. He obliged, landing the blow just beneath the crease that seperated her asscheeks from her creamy right thigh, then quickly applied a companion smack to the left one.
“I can understand and deal with almost anything,” he said evenly, rubbing the flaming flesh lightly. “But I will not…” He began to punctuate his words with a corresponding series of punishing slaps to her ass and thighs. “…tolerate you hurting yourself…in any way.”
She howled as the spanking resumed. Stinging waves broke over entire body. Nerve endings awoke and screamed their messages of protest to her brain. She bucked and kicked over his lap, trying desperately to escape the blows which kept falling, one on top of the other.
“Please! PLEASE STOP!” she pleaded. “I’ll try…I promise…I really will!”
His reply was to continue to cover her burning skin with searing swats as she struggled and begged; until she felt as if she couldn’t bear another blow. Then, something changed. From deep inside her a sensation began to rise, pushing upward…faster…gathering speed and force as the punishing spanks began to recede to the edges of her awareness. The feeling swelled…filling her…straining against the very core of her being until it could no longer be contained and burst from her in a flood of pent up tears. But these were not tears of pain. They were tears of relief, release and something like pure joy.
He gathered her up and into his arms and she buried her head in his chest, her body racked with uncontrollable sobs. He rocked her gently, holding her to his body, letting her sink into the sublime assurance that she was, and would always be, cherished. Finally, her sobbing subsided and she raised her head to look at him, smilng through tear-stained eyes.
Suddenly, she jumped up from his lap, threw her robe over her shoulders and flew like a silken butterfly over to the desk, deftly scooping up her sketchbook and pencils. At the bottom of the stairs she stopped and turned to him, beaming, unable to hide her obvious delight at the mask of mock shock which hung on his face.
“I got and idea!” she giggled, then vanished up the stairs.
He laughed and collapsed back onto the sofa, settling in comfortably. Experience showed that he could wait for as long as it might take.
