The Mistress had a dirty little secret.  A woman like her had plenty, sure, but this was the one that caught Dude by surprise.  For someone so dominant in every aspect of her life, she didn’t really broadcast that she liked to be roughed up… Really roughed up.

When she told him one night after a few drinks, he thought it was a trick.  Like she was daring him to put his hands on her to see what happened.  He laughed it off with a shake of his head, but she didn’t laugh with him.

“What?  What’s so funny?”

Dude froze mid-chuckle.  His eyes scanned her body language.  Frown on her face, brows furrowed, arms folded in front of her chest…  She was serious.  Hell no.

“You’re insane,” he said, losing all mirth.  “Forget it.  I’m not laying my damn hands on you.”

She glared at him.  She was pouting.  Honest to God pouting because he wouldn’t slap the shit out of her and slam her around.  He didn’t entertain it.  He wasn’t going to act on some drunken request and have her wake up hungover with bruises the size of Texas.  It wasn’t his place to unpack why she felt so strong about it, and she wouldn’t step foot in front of a therapist unless they were on their knees for her.  He figured she’d forget about it when she sobered up.

… She didn’t.

The bitch pouted for days after that.  She hardly had anything to say to him.  She didn’t reciprocate any of his advances, just laid there like a knot on a log…  All because he wouldn’t beat her black and blue, because he wouldn’t roleplay that he was pissed and taking it out on her.  He’d never seen her so petulant.  It was really starting to get frustrating.

Dude never claimed to be a good man.  His moral standing was lying down.  He’d hit others before… Hell, stabbed and shot people, too.  He wasn’t some white knight that would never raise a hand to a woman under any circumstances.  If she really wanted to play that game, he wasn’t above it.

He waited for her in her trailer when she got home from work about four days into the silent treatment. 

“There you are,” he said when she stepped in the door.  She looked over, seeing him with his feet propped up on the coffee table, then walked right to the kitchen and opened the fridge.

“Not gonna speak?” he asked, watching her carefully.  She grabbed something out of the freezer and walked it over to the microwave.  He had no choice but to put an end to this shit.  The butt of his cigarette was smashed in the ash tray, that he slammed down on the table as he stood to his feet.  She flinched at the sound, but didn’t turn to investigate.  Her back was turned to him when he reached her.  Right after the film was off the top of her TV dinner and she was putting it inside of the microwave, he grabbed a fistful of her hair and yanked her back.

“Ow, fuck!” she yelped.  She instantly dropped the tray and reached to hold her scalp.  His hold on her didn’t loosen.  He instead pinned her against the cabinets, pressing her against the countertop.

“I was talking to you,” growled Dude in her ear.  “You can’t speak?”

“Had nothing to say, so get the fuck off me,” she said and bucked back.

He stumbled backwards.  She was stronger than she looked, but not stronger than him.  When she turned to face him, his hand came right across her cheek.  The thwack of palm striking skin rung through the trailer.  The way she froze and looked up at him scared the shit out of him.  Those wide eyes didn’t look like they belonged to her as she stood with her jaw dropped and fingers touching the tender skin.  He had to admit, he had a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach when he saw her like that.  Guilt was beginning to creep in, until he noticed how her breath hitched.

“That what you wanted?” he asked, raising his hand again.  “To piss me off to the point I snap?”

He was poised to strike, but he held it and searched her face for some sign that he hadn’t fucked up the whole dynamic they had going on.  She must have sensed his hesitation, because a nod followed.  It was subtle, brief… He would’ve missed it if he blinked.  Still, it was definitely there.  He could have breathed a sigh of relief if he wasn’t dedicated to playing the part for her dumbass benefit.  His hand swung across her face again, same cheek.  She tried to brace herself against the counter, but he wasn’t having any of that.  He gripped her by her ponytail again and swung her around to bend her over it instead.  One hand kept her down, the other raised to pop her ass. 

“Congrats, honey!” said Dude.  The pet name was uttered with distain.  “You got your way.  You always fucking do, don’t you?”

Palm swatting those vinyl shorts of hers made an interesting sound, and his hand tried to stick to the material when he pulled it back.  Her back arched from the touch, so he spanked her again.  A sharp intake of air followed.

“The fuck is wrong with you?”

Another smack.  God, the way that ass jiggled from impact made his tip drip.  He had to do it again.  She cried out in pain that time, though he could hear the undertone of pleasure.

“Oh, shut that shit up,” he said and gave her one more for good measure.  “Like I don’t see your thighs clamped together.”