old habits

A sharp slap echoes through the room. It’s his, white and clean, with a ceiling so high it gives the room the impression of being big. (It isn’t.) He’s sitting on the couch. It’s old and comfortable. She is draped over his lap, wearing just a t-shirt that might as well be his, with how loose it is on her delicate frame. His hand lands on the back of her thigh this time.

Her breathing is deep and controlled. His is much quicker; his excitement is poking her in the ribcage. Those are the only noises filling the seemingly-spacious room, along with the impact of his hand on her bare skin.

He strikes her several times in a quick succession, and she draws in a ragged sigh, writhes across his lap. His grip on her side tightens. He delivers more pointed smacks over her buttcheeks. The sting of the impact gets worse and worse, and she whines in the back of her throat, tries to wriggle out of his reach, but to no avail. He’s twice as big as her and his hold on her waist is not budging. He knows better, anyway.

She wonders, through the pain, whether she feels guilty about asking him to hurt her like this again. She didn’t have much choice, anyway, as there’s only so many people she could come to for it. But this isn’t who they are anymore. (This being his hard dick making itself known by digging into her ribs and her own arousal beginning to be uncomfortable.) But still, it is familiar and that makes her feel comfortable and safe. And that’s all that matters. Right?

It isn’t until several minutes later that she asks him to stop. She speaks in a low, calm voice. Her face is turned to him now and he can see the tears caught in her thick eyelashes, but she’s not really crying. His hand stills on her backside. He feels the heat of her reddened buttocks in his palm, bows down to press chaste kisses on each one. She giggles. He smiles into her skin.

“Thank you,” she says with a small smile, later.

He nods in acknowledgement. He’s still sitting on the couch but there is a book in his lap now, instead of her warm body. She is dressed, the blush of her cheeks gone. She winces when she settles on the couch next to him.

They sit in silence for a while, the only sound in the room being the rustling of the pages. Her mind is pleasantly void of worry.

“I wonder,” he says a little later, “what the poet meant by this.”

His index finger slides across the passage in question.

She looks up at him with a grin. “You tell me, you’re a poet.”

There’s a chuckle and then their shoulders collide as he draws her closer to his side.

“I didn’t know you were funny.”

“You never paid attention.”

She’s smiling at him, wild, pleased at the banter, the lightness of the exchange. In that moment, the echo of who she was - who they both were - a year ago thrums through her entire being. She shakes it off with another smile and stands up from the couch. Those days and those feelings are both long gone.

“Anyway, I’m outta here. See you.”