The Slap
Scene One
Bar, late night. Rain slicks the windows. She's at the corner, tall glass of something neat, legs crossed like a throne. You walk in like you own the air.
She catches your glance but doesn't hold it. Too proud. Too used to weak men falling at her feet, giving her the illusion of power. You let her live in that illusion--for a minute.
You sit one stool over. Not close. Not far. Just enough to feel your presence when she breathes.
"You look like the type who's used to winning arguments," you say, without looking at her.
A pause. She smirks. "Only because I do."
"Ever been wrong?" you ask, turning to face her fully. Calm. Collected.
She laughs, slow and mocking. "Not that I recall."
"Let's change that."
You hold her stare a beat too long. She looks away first. Just for a second. But it's there. A flicker of shift. She covers it with another drink.
"I bet you like games," she says, tilting her head. "But you're not ready for mine."
"I don't play games," you say. "I end them."
She raises an eyebrow, amused. "That supposed to impress me?"
"No. It's supposed to warn you."
The air thickens. Her smile falters, unsure for the first time. Still, she won't give ground. She leans in, her perfume brushing your senses, her fingers sliding your drink closer.
"You're cute. But you wouldn't know what to do with someone like me."
That is when you do it.
Not hard. Not brutal.
But clean. Direct.
A slap across her face--sharp enough to sting. Sharp enough to silence the bar in her head.
She freezes. Her mouth slightly open. Not in fear. Not in pain. In disbelief.
You lean close, voice lower now. "That's where it starts."
She stares at you, cheeks flushed--half rage, half something else she won't admit.
"You have two choices," you whisper. "Walk out of here pretending you're still in control. Or follow me, and find out what it's like when you're not."
Her breath catches. Her pride wants to walk. But her body doesn't move.
The Slap
Scene Two: The Walk & the Room
She doesn't speak. Just grabs her clutch with one hand, the side of her face still tingling with the echo of your palm. There's a storm behind her eyes now--not outrage, not tears. Curiosity mixed with a pulse she can't quite slow down.
You don't offer your hand. You don't ask again. You just turn and start walking.
She follows.
Not because you told her to.
Because she wants to see how far this will go.
βΈ»
Elevator -- Silent Ascent
You stand shoulder to shoulder. She leans slightly into you, not touching, but drawn. The metallic hum of the elevator gives the moment a sterile stillness. Then--
your hand gently brushes hers. A soft graze.
A complete contrast to what happened before.
She looks up at you, confused by the duality.
You don't speak.
You let silence dominate.
Because that, too, is power.
βΈ»
Hotel Room -- The Threshold
Click.
Door opens.
You step aside and let her enter first. The room is dark, moody. One lamp near the window glows low, like a stage light waiting for the show to begin.
She walks in slow, every step quieter than the last. She stops near the bed, her back to you.
You close the door. Lock it. Slow. Loud.
You let that sound settle into her chest.
"You sure?" you ask, voice soft again.
She nods, not turning around.
You walk up behind her. Close enough for her to feel the heat from your chest.
But you don't touch her--not yet.
"I'm not here to play with your pride," you say. "I'm here to break it."
Then--your hand grips her chin and turns her to face you.
Another slap.
This one harder. Sharper.
She gasps, but doesn't pull away.
"I said it starts here," you remind her.
Your fingers brush her cheek where it's already pink. And then you do something she didn't expect--
You kiss it.
Soft. Slow. The complete opposite of the violence.
It confuses her. Wrecks her center.
"I'll be kind when I want to," you say against her skin, "and cruel when you need it."
Her knees buckle just slightly. You catch her by the waist, steadying her like a dance partner who never misses the beat.
The Slap
Scene Three: The Shift
You lower her gently onto the bed--no commands, no force. Just presence. She obeys, not because she must, but because she wants to feel more of this--whatever this is you've stirred in her.
She's breathing deeper now. Slower. Her mask has fallen off.
She's not the queen anymore.
She's herself.
And she's looking at you like you're the only person who's ever seen her.
You crawl up over her--not with weight, but with intention. Your fingertips trace the redness you left on her cheek. A quiet apology without words. Then you drag them down her neck, over her collarbone, where her pulse beats wildly beneath soft skin.
"Now you listen," you whisper, mouth just above hers. "From this point on, everything I do to you--everything I take, everything I give--is because you asked for it."
She closes her eyes. Her lips part. And you don't kiss her yet.
Instead, your hands roam--slow, sensual exploration. Fingertips over fabric, teasing the hem of her blouse. You don't rip it. You unfasten it slowly, like unwrapping something sacred.
Each button reveals more of her--bare skin, rising breath, vulnerability cloaked in heat.
She reaches for you. But you gently pin her wrists above her head. Not rough. Just enough to say: Not yet.
Your lips finally touch hers.
And it's not a kiss.
It's a claim.
Warm, deliberate, and deep--pulling a gasp from her throat and a shiver from her spine. Her body arches beneath you, not in resistance, but need.
You release her wrists and let her touch you now--run her fingers through your hair, along your jaw, down your chest. Her touch is trembling. Not with fear. With surrender.
The clothes fall away like dead weight.
Now it's skin on skin--warmth, breath, connection.
No more games. No more slaps. Just slow, intimate tension.
Hands moving. Mouth exploring.
Not to conquer, but to ignite.
You don't rush.
You savor.
And in that quiet, intimate haze, she realizes something she's never admitted out loud:
Power never felt like this.
The Slap
Scene Four: The Serious Shift
Her breath is ragged now. She's beneath you, legs wrapped, body trembling--not from hesitation, but from everything you've drawn out of her. That high-and-mighty persona is gone. It melted under your mouth, your hands, your control.
And now...
Now she looks up at you with a new kind of fire.
Not defiance.
Not submission.
Something shared.
You lock eyes. No more teasing. No more testing.
Now it's the real moment.
You move against her with a new rhythm--measured but unrelenting. Each thrust of your hips a statement. A deeper push. A claiming.
The bed creaks with the weight of intention, not chaos.
Your hands are on her hips--holding, guiding, demanding.
Her nails rake down your back, anchoring herself in something she never knew she needed.
No words now. Just sound. Breath. Skin.
And everything that was left unsaid in the bar. In the elevator. In the quiet before the slap.
She moans--and it's not a moan of pleasure alone.
It's a release.
Like she's been holding her breath for years. Like no one's ever reached her like this.
You lean in, mouth brushing her ear.
"You feel that?" you murmur.
She nods, unable to form words.
"That's real. That's now."
And you don't stop.
You drive her into the mattress with slow, grinding power.
Focused. Intentional. Serious.
She cries out your name--no pride left, no walls.
Just heat.
Connection.
And the beautiful ruin of her old self.
When the end comes, it's not wild.
It's full.
Like falling and being caught at the same time.
And in the silence that follows, as your body eases down beside her, she turns to you and whispers--
