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He has three hands to hold me down with, in addition to the one that will punish me. One holds me by the back of the head. Another pins my right arm to the center of my back. The third snugs my hip against his stomach, and the fourth comes down across my ass in a hard slap that makes me scream. It’s not that he’s hit me terribly hard, it’s that the shock of the slap unleashes everything I’ve been holding in.
From that first slap, I wail. He doesn’t stop. If he is concerned at the oddity of the intensity of my reaction, he doesn’t show it. He just keeps me where he wants me and paints my ass with a fraction of the pain I deserve. I don’t fight. I don’t struggle. There’s no point anyway. If he doesn’t want to let me go, then he is not going to let me go. I am here for as long as he decides I should be.
I start to sob as the heat flashes through me, big, hot tears running down my cheeks. Still he spanks me with those stern slaps that catch the lower part of my cheeks, right where I would sit. This is the kind of spanking that has no erotic heat. This is the kind of spanking that is just designed to punish a bad girl who deserves it.
I know I deserve it. I find myself arching my hips up so every time his big palm lands it catches even more of my bare, naked skin. This might be the last time he touches me, ever.
“I told you that you were mine,” he says. “Did you not understand what that meant? It means you don’t run from me, you don’t hide from me, and you absolutely do not disappear for a week and let me think you are dead.”
A flurry of hot, harsh slaps punctuate that sentence, driving a crescendo of heat, shame and soreness that takes my sobbing tears and turns them into absolute howls of contrition.
He stops. He sits me up on his lap, and he brushes stray hair out of my face so that his ruby red gaze can bore into mine with a piercing expression that makes me almost certain he knows already.
“Shhh,” he soothes me, even as my ass feels like molten lava trapped beneath tight skin. “Shh, it’s okay. I still love you. You’re okay. You were in trouble, but you're okay.”
“Not okay!” I sob out, struggling to get myself under control. He has broken down all my reserves and left me at the mercy of my emotions. How am I supposed to keep lying to us both like this?
“This isn’t like you,” he says. “You fight everything tooth and nail. Something happened,” he says. “Tell me what.”
His voice is low and comforting. He uses one of his thumbs to brush tears from my cheek and waits, patiently. I feel my mouth open. I feel words start to form. I don’t feel like I am in control of them, or of myself. When I pulled the trigger, I did something irredeemable. What happens next is inevitable.
“No,” I say, surprising myself with my ability to keep my secret even when I don’t think I can anymore. “I can’t tell you. It’s too bad.”
He shifts slightly, resettling me on his lap. The small motion reignites the heat in my ass, reminding me of his dominance and soon to be disappointment. “Whatever it is, it cannot be that bad.”
But it is that bad. I’d rather push him away than have him discover what I did and hate me. That’s probably selfish. No, not probably, definitely. I should tell him, and then he’d know. He could move on with his life.
“Sally,” he says, using my name. Usually that word ignites a response of disgust and rebellion from me. This time it makes me start weeping as the confession tumbles out of me of its own accord.
“I killed him.”
“What?”
“He killed a police officer. I found him a second time, and he got hold of me, so I shot him.” It sounds blunt when I say it that way, but blunt is the only way to confess. I’ve seen criminals explain things this way before, with the same level of apparent detachment. It never occurred to me their stomachs might be swirling with guilt. It’s absolutely fucked up how different the inside and outside of a person can be at the same time.
“Alright, so hate me now, or revenge kill me, whatever,” I say.
There is a long pause. The worst possible of all things: silence.
Is he going to kill me for revenge? Am I going to be another mutilated moth victim? I brace myself for the end I am sure I probably deserve.
“I’m sorry,” he says softly.
I close my eyes, thinking he’s apologizing for what he is about to do to me.
“Just make it quick,” I mumble. “I did that for him.”
“Christ,” Justice swears. “I’m not going to kill you. What kind of monster do you think I am?”
I open my eyes and look into his monstrous face, his eyes, his antennae, the all-too-human nose and mouth, hard jaw, the handsomeness and the monstrousness blended together in a predatory chimera.
“The kind to avenge a fallen brother?”
That’s the kind of monster I am. That’s what I did. Without thinking.
He draws in a deep breath and lets out a sad sigh. “I said I am sorry because I should have killed him myself. Instead, I let the job fall to you. You did what had to be done, and you did it at the expense of your moral code and, I suspect, your sanity. That burden should never have fallen on your shoulders. I know you were under pressure to catch the responsible party. I knew that human lives were at stake. I failed you. You did nothing wrong.”
“You’re not angry with me?”
