My mouth’s moving a lot faster than my brain, the urgency, the resolve, the doggedness, fuse, and spark, and I hear myself yelling, “You are! You’reexactlythe same. You over-promise and under-deliver. That’s what you do.”
“Elliot.” Until this moment, I had no idea my name could be a full sentence, but it can be. You’ll have to take my word on that. His index finger is extended and pointed at me again. “This is a warning. The first and last one you’ll get from me.”
“A warning? Awarning? See? You’reexactlylike everyone else!”
From there, things go vague. I’m not entirely sure how it happens, but I suddenly find myself upended, bent at the waist, with an incredibly close-up view of the tabletop. There’s a big, heavy hand on the scruff of my neck, pining me in place, and another on the waistband at the back of my jeans. That hand, the one on my waistband, clenches into a fist, pulling the denim so snuggly against me that it wedges itself into my crack and drags me onto my toes. My heart races and my Adam’s apple rides up and down.
“Is this what you want, Elliot?”
I don’t answer, mainly because I swear to God, I don’t know what to say. Maybe I am trying to make him mad. Maybe I am trying to provoke him. If the forceful rush of blood to my cock is anything to go by, maybe I’ve been trying to provoke people my entire life without realizing I’m doing it.
Maybe I’ve been hoping for this very reaction.
I suddenly start to feel all too aware of how close my lips are to the solid French oak table surface, and it throws me. The humiliation of my position hits me, and I do what I always do when I’m backed into a corner.
I lash out.
“Yes,” I hiss.
I’m onto him. I have his number. He doesn’t have what it takes to do what he’s threatening. I think this is his game. It must be. I think he gets a kick out of feeling like he’s a big man, but it’s an act. I’m calling his bluff.
He’s going to look like a real ass when he lets me up from the table and has to apologize for his actions. Can’t wait to see his face when it happens. Might call my dad and tell him about it. Let’s see if he still thinks Stuart is so fucking wonderful after this.
“All right.” His voice is soft and controlled, and as he says it, his grip on my waistband tightens, pulling the fly and seam of my jeans snuggly against my balls and shaft. “Since you can’t seem to behave like a responsible adult, I’m going to spank your bottom like a bad little boy.”
A terrible, terrible sound leaves me. It’s a thin, simpering squeak that would be very hard to explain if someone questioned me about it. Fortunately, I manage to get myself under control in time to change it into something a little more dignified. “Fiiiine!”
My heart slams against my ribcage and I feel like I can’t breathe. Every time I blink, my focus lands and blurs on a different hand-painted tile behind the sink.
I suck in a huge gulp of air and hold my breath until my lungs burn and I settle.
Chill,I tell myself.Just chill.
Honestly, I don’t know what I’m getting so worked up about. He’s not going to do it. The man is full of shit. He’s up to his eyeballs chock full of shit, that’s what he is.
He’s not going to do it.
Bet you ten dollars he won’t.
You know what. I’ll bet you a hundred.
Oof…shit!
The first slap lands solidly on my left cheek, followed almost immediately by one on my right. He slaps my ass this way and that. Right cheek, right cheek, and then left.
Oh Jesus Christ.
I was wrong.
I was really, really wrong.
Before I have time to react, the entire dining room is reverberating with the steady sound of a meaty palm dispensing no-nonsense discipline. I find myself jostled forward, nose to the table, hands scrabbling for something to hold on to. I clamp my lips shut as the crisp sting from each blow starts to last longer and merge into the next one. The seat of my pants starts to feel decidedly warm. It’s an unbearable warmth, completely unfamiliar, and at the same time, it feels like something I know. Something I deserve. It feels like something I’ve been waiting for, something I’ve been expecting without realizing I was expecting it. It burns me, making me feel hot and too tight all over.
My thoughts race, jumbled and incoherent, darting so fast and so wildly that I don’t have time to decipher them. Each swat is decisive and lands with the type of precision that’s earned. The type of precision that comes from having done this many, many times before.
Oh Jesus.
I’m not living with a psycho. I’m living with an old-school pervert.
