Page 10 of Something Has To Give

Her smirk only grew. “Whatever makes you feel better, sweetheart.”

He wasn’t laughing now. “Why, you little—”

He flung her over, scrambling until he was on top and she was flat on the floor. He grabbed her arm, hooking his around her hips and before she could do more than yell, he flipped her onto her stomach. Already her hands and feet were scrambling to get moving again, but that all ended when he sat on her.

“Umph!” she grunted.

He caught her left ankle when she tried to kick him, and the only reason she didn’t land the rubber heel of her right sneakeracross his temple was because he pinned her left leg down hard across her right thigh. Every kick thereafter was blocked by her own shin.

“You are a piece of work,” he panted, holding her down.

“And you’re a piece of sh—” She broke off with a shriek when he stabbed his hand under her belly and began fumbling with the fastenings of her pants.

“No!” she bellowed, trying to grind down on his hand, but the pain of being squashed against the linoleum was nothing compared to the satisfaction he felt when he got her jeans open. She threw herself back into another kicking, screaming fit, but he only pressed down harder across the back of her other thigh and waited for her to exhaust herself. He hooked his free hand in the back of her jeans and made good use of both their awkward positions. Every time her bottom heaved up, he shoved to get her jeans down far enough to bare the seat of his target.

“You just don’t know when to stop,” he panted, shaking his head in amazement.

She only screamed louder and flailed harder, clawing and hitting at his shins and feet, her little bottom bouncing up and down in lewd humping motions. It was all the leverage she could manage and he let her take it, right up until he got her jeans bunched uselessly around her mid-thighs. It was then that he noticed, admiringly, what he’d been too pissed offlast nightto notice last night—she was wearing Maydeen’s underwear… the faded scarlet ones, French-cut to ride high up on her thighs and with only just enough fabric in back to cover the absolute summits of both buttocks. Suddenly he spotted something amid all the plastic cups and fallen pots and utensils on the floor. It was the wooden handle of a flat spatula protruding through the mess.

Quint had to reach, but he managed to hook it with his fingertips and drag it close enough to grab.

“Don’t you dare!” she screeched, and then screeched again because he not onlydiddare, he dared with a vengeance.

He grabbed the back of her panties, hauling them up between her buttocks to bare the pale swells of both tense nether cheeks. Amazing, for all that he had blistered her last night, there wasn’t a sign of it now. Her bottom was just as smooth and as white as it could be—the perfect canvas to paint now in all the brightest shades of repentance and regret.

“Baby,” Quint said with a tsk of feigned dismay, “Daddy’s going to show you a whole ‘nother world.”

Elsie cursed and screamed, but Quint saved his breath. He let the spatula do his talking for him and damn if it wasn’t a chatty little thing.

* * * * *

Elsie sucked air into her lungs and promptly howled it all out again. He was spanking her again! And it hurt! It hurt like the devil, blazing up under her skin in bursts so fierce and hot she could have sworn she was being scalded by fire. But it wasn’t a fire. It was Rydecker and some silly little, anything-but-harmless cooking utensil! How many times had she scrambled eggs with that stupid thing? How many times had she washed it, dried it, and put it back in the crock by the stove? The very crock she’d lobbed at his head, only to have him duck; the wrong one broke and now she was paying the price. And it was more than she could bear, but he wasn’t stopping. Tears filled her eyes. She fought to hold them back, but she didn’t know how much longer she could—why wasn’t he stopping?!—and it was ridiculous, because she could feel how hard he was spanking her and it wasn’t very hard at all! He was barely putting any force behind the raining onslaught of downward arm-swings, and yet it hurt so much!

She couldn’t bear it! She burst into wailing tears, bawling with her cheek pressed hot against the kitchen floor and her wholebottom scalding under the snap-snap-thwap of a spatula that wasn’t stopping. Had no intention of stopping. Would never stop again. Not until he did what he’d threatened to do that morning and make her wish she’d been born without any bottom at all.

Well, he was succeeding. She wished that now. She wished it with all her heart. She’d scream it if she could, if she thought it would make any difference at all, but she didn’t. All she could do was lie there under him, while the spatula bit every inch of her bottom, and she cried.

For some reason, Rydecker stopped spanking her. She had no idea why. It certainly wasn’t because she had kicked him off. By the end there, she had lain too exhausted and defeated to move.

She didn’t think it was because her tears had moved him, either; he’d let her cry for what felt like years before the spatula ceased its attack.

She sobbed, broken and unmoving while he let go of her underwear first, then pulled her jeans up, the coarse denim scraping up over her raw skin. It hugged her swollen bottom, and suddenly she wasn’t just sitting on a stove, she was broiling in the oven. All she could feel when he picked her up off the floor was the hot, pulsing, wounded throb of her nether cheeks baking in her jeans.

“You’ve killed me!” she sobbed, swiping and then slapping to get the tears off her face. He might have brought her to the point of bawling like a child, but she’d be damned if she let him watch them fall.

“No, I haven’t.”

He was still laughing at her. She could hear it in his voice.

Bursting into tears all over again, Elsie grabbed her pants and tried to walk away, but he caught her arm and pulled her back to him. She tried to punch him then, needing to hurt him at least a little bit for what he’d done to her, but he hooked his arm around her neck and shoulders and pulled her into him. She sluggedat him, but there was less force behind it and it didn’t seem to bother him anyway.

Elsie held her bottom. For some inexplicable reason, Rydecker held her.

This wasn’t giving up; it was just giving in a little bit. For both of them.

It didn’t mean anything.

They didn’t even like each other. She might even go so far as to say she hated Rydecker.

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