Fed Up 1

Night before, they'd went to a movie, and this was the first time they'd done that in a long while. It's too expensive nowadays, and people are too shitty. Too rude. Nobody will stop fucking with their smartphones the whole stupid time. You can't concentrate. It's not worthwhile.

It was a Wednesday night when they went so that time worked out better than usual, just on account of the place being mostly deserted. Something to remember in the future ... The flick they picked was a romcom. 'Cause she liked the guy in it a lot. Her boyfriend kept saying he was a douchebag. He only felt that way obviously because he was jealous of her digging the guy so much. As for the actress in the thing, in some stuff she was real good and other times she wasn't. Her boyfriend said she was hot but not convincing in the role they gave her. Hilary had to agree. In the movie she was supposed to be a hardass cop on an undercover assignment. It wasn't particularly believable. The guy was playing a bounty hunter who busts her by mistake. She has to get away from him without blowing her cover, yadda-yadda-yadda ...

There were a couple pretty steamy parts, slightly more explicit than usual in that kind of movie. Bounty hunter has the girl handcuffed to her bedframe in their motel room while he takes a shower (this is after a big chase scene through a train yard during a thunderstorm) and she tries to pick the lock on the cuffs while he's out of sight with a hairpin (could that work in real life?) and of course the guy comes back in wrapped in a towel just as she gets free, so then they have a big tussle smashing up the place that turns into a hump scene after he uses his towel to tie her down again.

Watching a scene like that with her boyfriend in a theatre they had pretty much all to themselves was actually pretty embarrassing and uncomfortable. They hadn't had any sex in almost a month because of conflicting schedules. They had some that night when they got home after the movie. It didn't turn out very good. At least for Hilary it sure didn't. She had a feeling her boyfriend was thinking about the movie star the whole time. He didn't look her in the eye, and he finished real quick—too quick for her to get to come. She'd been thinking about the male movie star but not in the same way. She didn't try to pretend she was with him. She'd wanted to but didn't let herself, and even if she had, the fantasy wouldn't have paid off. All it would have done was further highlight the deficiencies of her boyfriend's performance.

No surprise, next day she was not in a happy mood. She didn't confront him directly about what happened. She didn't consciously intend to punish him for it, and yet it seemed that was what she ended up doing. Every time she opened her mouth, something mean came out. She couldn't stop doing it. She got shittier and shittier as the day progressed. Not just with him—with everybody. She'd turned into the biggest bitch in the world. It made her mad at herself that she couldn't control it, and of course that anger made her behavior get worse.

Finally her boyfriend got fed up enough to stop putting up with her. That was unusual for him—he'd put up with anything, most of the time. It was hard to fight with him because you couldn't make him fight back. He'd just hunker down and get quiet and look sheepish until you exhausted yourself and laid off of him. Mostly he'd leave you feeling like the guilty one, whether he originally deserved to get screamed at or not. It was an insidious strategy. Probably in the end it was gonna be the thing that made her dump his ass. Probably she should have dumped his ass already a long time back. She still wasn't sure why she hadn't yet.

There really wasn't all that much she liked about the guy. There was nothing terrible about him, looks-wise or personality-wise. He had nothing special going on either. Best you could say, he wasn't as big a doofus as all the other doofuses she'd dated beforehand. A fact which left Hilary with little confidence she could find a better replacement.

That afternoon out of nowhere he suddenly demonstrated a tiny bit of backbone. She was ranting about the stupidity of someone at work and he had the audacity to interrupt her and challenge what she was saying.

"You shouldn't call her a retard. Regardless what she did. It's not cool to use that word anymore."

"You're the Word Police, today? What the fuck difference does it make? She can't hear me anyway. If she could, I'd still tell her she was retarded—'cause that's how she acts, every single day. Like a fucking retard! You don't like hearing me talk that way? Fine, tough guy. What the fuck you gonna do about it?"

"Well, what I oughta do when you act like this—like a goddamn spoiled stuck up brat—is put you across my knee."

She'd snorted coffee out her nose. "Like in your wildest dreams you had half the balls to try some shit like that! Honestly, now you're the retard!"

She was still laughing when he grabbed her arm and pulled her around from the kitchen counter, while with his other hand, he moved a chair from under the dining room table behind him, so he had a place to sit down. The chair legs scraped brutally across the kitchen tile—they left marks.

She didn't stop laughing when he pulled her down over his lap. "Gimme a break," she told him, and went to lift up again. He didn't let her. And to her surprise, she wasn't able to pull loose from his grip. "You better let go of my arm right now, buster. I'm not gonna tell you again."

He didn't respond. Actually he did, just not with words. His response was to pull her pants down. She was wearing khaki capri's, and they were a pair that fit her fairly snug. He made the button bust off them when he forced them off her butt.

"You shit! I'm not kidding anymore! I'm gonna rip your nuts off for that!"

She had on a plaid shirt with a tail—wrinkled but somewhat dressy. He grabbed a fistful of the bottom of it and jerked it up her back to get it out of the way. Since it slipped right back where it was when he let go of it, he tried again, and that time he was more violent. He shoved the back of the shirt all the way over her head. He did that with so much force that the top seams of both sleeves tore—they didn't rip completely. About a third of the way around, she found out later. Would have ruined the collar too if the shirt was buttoned more in the front, only it wasn't.

She screamed—in fury. She was too pissed off at him to get scared. Not even when he ripped down her panties.

"I will never fucking forgive you for this! I swear to God!"

She almost got away from him. Kicking, twisting and whiplashing her whole body, she almost got the chair they were on to topple backwards, and shimmied her arm from his hand. He grabbed her hair instead—and then trapped her legs with one of his. She clawed at his hand and his forearm behind her head—drawing blood with her fingernails. That made him swear. "Bitch! Shit! Fuck! Jesus!" It never made him let go. Both her shoes flew off her feet, because of all her crazy kicks. One knocked over the floor lamp in the living room.

"You're only making it worse for yourself," he pronounced.

He walloped her bare bottom again and again and again and again. She couldn't escape it and she couldn't stop him. She was beaten. In both senses of the word, Hilary was beaten.

"Ahhaahh! Fuck! Fuck you! Uhhaahuuh! Uhhgghhnn!"

Despite these exclamations, and the feverish kicks of her feet in the air behind her, there was never much pain, not like she thought there would be when it started ... Her buttcheeks stung worse between slaps than when his hand landed on her. In fact the slaps—the moments of impact, thunderous as each one was—they seemed to make the stinging stop dead for a split second, and then come back reinvigorated. If he had spanked her a lot more, hitting harder and with a faster pace, she would probably hardly have felt it. Because there wouldn't be any space left for the stinging to fit in. He knew better than that. Gave her a good few seconds after each slap, waiting to hit her again until the stinging started to fade. She wasn't sure how he could time it as good as he did—he had a knack.

It was another separate sensation that had the majority of her attention, during the entire experience. Vertigo, like on a rollercoaster. A suction inside her. In her tummy. The picture in her head was a vortex, a whirlpool. A black hole in deep space—inner space, rather than outer space. It was turning her inside out. Each time she was spanked, the hole got bigger and spun faster and sucked harder. Gobbled up more of her guts and more of her spirit. Already it seemed like there shouldn't be anything left of her. Everything she had was completely gone, gobbled up. It didn't matter, the suction wouldn't stop. It would go on and on as long as the spanking did.

She wasn't the same person anymore. That vortex had erased them and left somebody else in the spot they'd been occupying across her boyfriend's lap.

Hilary didn't struggle anymore. She didn't scream. She didn't cry. She didn't cuss. She felt sleepy and warm. She felt peaceful. Not happy, not unhappy either—it was like happiness didn't matter. Those were petty, trivial emotions and she was beyond both of them.

"This is what you get!" her boyfriend announced, sounding very far away, "If you act like a brat! This is what you get!"

"Okay," she said, "Okay." She felt proud of her boyfriend—she'd never felt that way about him before—and she felt grateful to him—she'd never felt that for him, either, not like this. He had finally managed to impress her, was the thing. And to surprise her. She hadn't imagined he could do that. She hadn't imagined anybody could.

This was a humbling experience. Deeply, genuinely humbling.

"Say you're sorry!" her boyfriend commanded, "Say you're fucking sorry!"

"I'm sorry," she said meekly, "I'm so sorry. I won't be a brat no more, I promise."

She realized her boyfriend had a boner. She could feel the bulge beneath her. She felt it swell more when she apologized. She wasn't pissed about it. She wanted to be—she tried to be. She couldn't manage it. Her pussy had got wet. Maybe it had been wet already or maybe it just happened right that second when she felt his boner. She couldn't tell for sure, she couldn't decide. Either way, it was wet now and it was also burning inside, and twitching. It wanted his cock inside it. Her pussy wanted to feel that really bad. And thinking it over, Hilary didn't disagree with the notion.

She moaned. "Ohh. Oh God. Oh."

He slid a fingertip over the crease of her pussy, testing it for seepage. He found plenty there.

"Don't tease me like that," she said, "Please."

"I'm not teasing," he answered.

He stood her up and then got to his feet himself. She looked at him and he looked at her and both of them blushed. Then he made her turn around and lean over the kitchen table. Her pants and underwear were still bunched together around her calves. Her shirt was bunched around her arms. He flicked open the clip of her bra between her shoulder blades, and her breasts dropped loose—it sent a fresh quiver of excitement through her, though the bra did not fall away from them completely because of its shoulder straps. Then she heard him unbuckle his belt and unzip his fly. She looked over her shoulder at him and at his cock. She watched him slide it into her, and moaned again the same as she had a moment ago.

The moan turned to a yelp when he thrust all the way in and his pelvis smacked against her scorched bottom. Whole time he fucked her from behind that way, it felt like he was still spanking her while he did it. That didn't distract her from or inhibit the pleasure like she feared it might. Her stinging ass contrasted quite nicely—quite powerfully, in fact—with everything else he made her feel inside her pussy and, indeed, throughout the rest of her body as the sensations surged and spread to completion.

In the next several days she would have to spend a large portion of them puzzling about what had happened that afternoon and what it meant. What her boyfriend had done to her was abusive—borderline, at the very least. It had, irrefutably, turned her on. The wrongness of it, maybe, more than anything else. She let him fuck her afterward and had the best orgasm of her life up to that point. She never thought of herself as the kind of girl that was drawn to bossy, take-charge kind of men. Instead in all her relationships, she preferred to run things. She was always the one who wore the proverbial pants. Now a guy had pulled those pants down and spanked her like a naughty schoolgirl, and it made her cream for him. This was a distressing turn of events. The only thing that made the humiliation endurable (just barely) was the sexual payoff.

More scary and more crucial a question than why it occurred, or how: was this a one time event? Or was she gonna need more of the same kind of treatment?

Those questions were gonna need answered eventually.

There was only one sure way to find those answers.

Next time she was supposed to meet the guy, she was deliberately forty-five minutes late. "Where were you?" he demanded, "I was worried."

She sneered at him. "You wanna make a big deal out of it?"

He grinned. Just for a second, then he deadened his features to look stern. He folded his arms and tapped one foot ...

She stuck her tongue out at him.