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Author: LolaLane
Title: Cupcakes
The smile didn’t go past his mouth now; his eyes were cautionary. She
would have to stop right now, this instant. She turned back to her
cupcake batter and continued blending, promising herself that the next
words out of her mouth would be How was your day today? or something as
equally innocuous. Jay knew she was upset; he loathed having to work a
Saturday as much as she hated having him gone. He leaned back against
the counter, crossing his arms over his chest and watching her work.
“Those sure look good,” he said, nodding his head toward the cooling
rows of chocolate cakes. Of course they do, she thought, if you were
ever home, you’d know this. “Who said they were for you?” she snipped.
His eyes flashed and he grabbed her stirring hand, raising it from the
bowl. “You’d better watch that smart mouth of yours,” his voice was
glacial, “or I’m going to find a better use for this spatula.” He
squeezed her wrist briskly, and then licked the batter that was
trickling sloppily off the end of the spatula. He dropped her hand and
grinned at her, wickedly. Michelle knew she was on the thinnest shaving
of ice and said nothing in return. Jay hummed pleasantly as he made his
way into the living room, plopped down on the couch and kicked his
tennis shoes up onto the coffee table. Okay, she thought, it’s not his
fault. I mean he is a total pushover when it comes to these work things,
but it is his job, right? “Right,” she agreed with herself, and shoved
the trays into the oven. Putting on her most syrupy sweet voice, she
called, “So how was your day today, my dearest little
pumpkin-pie-lobster-face-spring-roll-of-adoration?” “Pumpkin roll of
adoration?” he called back with a voice full of amusement. “Yes, it’s
the latest in terms of endearment. Do you like it?” “Of course, puddin’
pants,” he returned, as she stuck her head out the kitchen door. She
hated that name. It was the one her Uncle Jake called her. The rest of
the family thought it was so cute how angry she got when Jake called her
puddin’ pants, that it just stuck. She had screamed, pleaded and begged,
but she had had that name at home until she was seventeen. Someone had
told Jay at the wedding shower and he brought it out for special
occasions. She seethed. “Yes, well. I thought I would test it out on you
and if it went over, I’d try it on all my other husbands,” she retorted,
sulkily. “Hmm, you must realize how very, very close you are to a great
deal of pain. Now,” he continued, with a sugary note of warning, “Why
don’t you just go back to your cupcakes, missy, reconsider this
attitude, and come out when you are feeling more inclined toward
pleasantries.” “Why don’t you—,” she began, ducking back into the
kitchen when she saw him look at her sharply. “What was that?” he
barked, leaning up onto his knees. “Nothing,” she replied, and breathed
a short sigh of relief when he nodded and sat back into the cushions.
“Can I bring you anything?” she inquired, delicately. “I dunno…beer
maybe?” he called, turning on the television and flipping to the History
Channel. “I’m on it,” she returned, trying to get a hold of herself.
Okay, okay. What’s wrong with you? Behave, she commanded her brain. Her
brain got it but her mouth just wasn’t cooperating, and she knew her ass
would pay the price. She grabbed two beers out of the fridge and a bag
of pretzels from the pantry. She poured the pretzels into a bowl,
frosted two cupcakes and set the whole mess on a tray. Jay couldn’t help
but admire her attempt at resolve, and how adorable she looked in her
black apron, dusted with cake mix. She always made a huge mess when she
was cooking; he figured she had to have used at least every single cup,
spoon, bowl, and knife in the kitchen on these cupcakes. She set the
tray on the coffee table and sat down on the couch. He looked her over
as she crossed her legs underneath herself and rested her elbows on her
knees. “What are we watching?” she asked, picking up a pretzel and
popping one into her pretty mouth. He leaned forward and opened the
beers. “Um, it’s on tanks, I think,” he said, passing her a bottle.
“History is awesome,” she said, sardonically; she grinned at the look on
his face. She just knew he was about to launch into one of his tedious
and ultimately boring speeches about the value of both knowing and
respecting our past. But, he would not be baited today. Instead, he
asked, “Will I be cleaning up that lovely mess you’ve made for yourself
in there?” “Why of course, my dear husband,” she disclosed with a
dimpled smile. She scooted closer to him, wrapping her hands around his
neck and kissing him with a mouth full of pretzels. She giggled and he
felt relieved. He loved her for better or worse, but today seemed to
have been heading for one of those worse days. He pulled her close and
handed her his beer to wash down her pretzels. She took it, obligingly
and swilled half of it, grinning as his eyes got wider. “Hey! Save some
for me, you little piggy pants,” he scolded her. Piggy pants?!? She
glared at him and tilted her head back, swallowing more. She nearly
finished it. Shaking his head, he leaned in for another kiss; seeing her
chance, she shook the bottle and sprayed him with beer. “God damn it,
Michelle,” he shouted, pushing her away and trying to simultaneously
stand and cradle the dripping beer with his shirt. He dashed to the
kitchen and shook the tee out over the sink. “Is every fucking towel in
this house dirty?” he demanded, fuming as he rubbed chocolate battered
towel into his favorite tee. She peeped her head around the door. What
in the world had she been thinking? Her eyes widened as he angrily
stripped off the shirt and started to run it under the tap. “God damn
it,” he cursed, as he now tried to rub the chocolate from the shirt.
“Here,” she tried to take the shirt from him, “Lemme help.” He glowered
at her and threw the shirt into the sink. He advanced on her with a
scathing look in his eye. She backed away. “It was only a little beer,”
she stammered, “because of the name. W-why did you have to c-call me
that?” “Are you seriously trying to blame me for this?” he proceeded
toward her icily. How come she couldn’t just shut up? How come she had
to keep pushing back? How had she gotten herself here, and with that
look on his face? She backed into the wall, hugging herself. He was
inches from her now and she shut her eyes tightly. “Answer me, damn it,”
he warned, grabbing the top of her arm. “N-no, I’m not blaming you,” she
murmured, turning her face away. She could smell the beer on him, his
neck, his hair. He braced his other arm on the wall and leaned down to
her face. “What the hell were you thinking,” he whispered. When she
didn’t answer, he punched the wall next to her. She could feel the whole
house shake. “Look at me,” he grabbed her face with one hand and tilted
it upward. She blinked and found him locked furiously on her eyes. “I
dunn-nnoo…,” she began, starting to tremble. He looked away, still
clutching her jaw tightly, contemplating the situation. He knew he was
still so angry; he would just scare the life out of her. He let go and
turned, buying some time. “Get into the dining room,” he began, without
another glance in her direction. She hadn’t seen him this upset in a
while. How could she have been so stupid? This is not how she wanted
their day together to be. He walked to the sink and turned on the
faucet. “J-Jay?” she risked. “Get into the living room,” he continued,
coldly, “Remove your jeans and bend over the table. You will wait there
until I am ready to deal with this.” She hesitated, still following his
moves with her eyes. Maybe if… “If you would, instead, wish for me to
deal with it right now, I can promise you that it will be a great deal
more painful,” he turned and she saw how serious he was. He returned to
silently soaking dishes and she headed for the dining table, twisting
her hair. She could hear the tiny clink, clink of dishes and the water
rushing out of the taps. With a peek back at the kitchen door, she began
unbuttoning her jeans. The room was generally a very agreeable place to
be; she painted in the sunny corner, she tended the plants along the
windowsill, Jay had built the beautiful oak side board and the very
table where she would now find punishment. Her eyes skittered
immediately away from it. Though a plush, red Indian carpet stretched
over the hard wood floors and the sun was beating down through the open
shutters, she felt a chill. Perhaps it was her feelings of guilt—more
likely it was that she was now wearing only a blue blouse, a short black
apron and lacy panties. She wished she had opted for something more
durable. Like another pair of pants, she thought. She moved aside a
chair and leaned over the table, finding it deliciously warm; if she
didn’t know what was coming, she may have enjoyed sunning herself over
this resilient length of weathered wood. Her hair was long and fell all
around her; the dark strands soaked up sunshine instantly. She tucked
her arms against her torso and tried to ignore how perfectly her apron
curtained her backside. Her feet were flat but fidgety and so they
danced back and forth, nervously ticking time away. She waited. He was
loading the dishwasher, angrily and cups were bouncing out of their
slots each time he threw the next one in. He growled to himself. He
dipped the spatula in the soapy water, scrubbing it clean of batter and
carefully considering it. They had three, a high-end set they had gotten
as a wedding gift from some relative. This was the medium sized one;
she’d managed not to use the largest one yet, though how, he thought
glancing around at the three loads of dirties, I do not know. He went to
the pantry, pulled down the box and removed the largest spatula. It was
roughly the size of a CD case. “Withstands heat of up to four hundred
degrees,” he read off the box, leaving the utensil out on the edge of
the counter, “Good because I’m going to be heating something up.” He
might have laughed if he weren’t still so angry. He gave the spatula a
testing smack against his palm and nodded at the thick SLAP it made. Jay
entered the dining room in his jeans and bare feet. She knew how
handsome—and frightening—he would look so she didn’t have to turn. He
knew that she would obey him and was not surprised to find her upturned
on the table, although he made a mental note of how appealing this
position could be for later usage. “Get those off, too,” he said,
pointing at her panties. She nodded, quickly pushing them down her legs
and kicking them off. “Hold on the other side of the table,” he
instructed, moving behind her. “I c-can’t reach it,” she stammered,
stretching her hands toward it but falling a bit short. “Yes, you can.
Do it,” he commanded. He watched her pull herself farther over his
table, her toes now just skimming the carpet and her head tilted back.
She looked miserable, just as he was expecting. There was no lecture, no
warm-up, no promising petting. He just began, furiously. It took her
several slaps to realize that he was using that damned kitchen spatula
furiously over her backside. She breathed in sharply as it fell over and
over; he spanked her angrily, raining the spatula over the same delicate
skin, just above her thighs, on her thighs. She shrieked much earlier
than he expected; there was great howling and twisting until she caught
one sharp slap to her hip. He paused and waited for her to roll back to
her belly, before launching anew into her spoilt skin. She was crying;
one of her hands strayed from the table edge. She tucked her head into
this arm and sobbed. Unable to withstand much more, she covered her
backside and pleaded. “Ple-please,” she panted through tears, “Wait! I
c-can’t.” He stopped and let her choking breath even out. He leaned
against the wall, arms crossed, still gripping the spatula very tightly.
He surveyed her bottom; it was a deep pulpy-plum red, blotchy and
bruised. He liked the spatula and made a second mental note. Her apron
was still in place, but her shirt was riding up. She whimpered as she
felt how hot her bottom had become; in fact, she felt hot all over. Her
tummy was warm from the table, her face from crying, her hair from the
sun, her backside and thighs were blistering. She looked at him through
damp lashes and silently begged for it to be over. He shook his head and
she saw in the thin line of his lips that they were not finished yet.
She turned back around and leaned up on her elbows, dropping her head in
her hands. “I don’t know why you do these kinds of things,” he said,
palming her hips and tugging her back so that her feet easily rested on
the floor again. She groaned as his fingers dug into her bruises.
“Spread your legs,” he instructed. She looked up sharply and turned to
face him, wailing immediately. “Now damn it,” he roared, slapping her
solidly with one large hand. “Owwwchh,” she breathed, opening her legs.
“Wider,” he snapped, only nodding when her feet were shoulder length
apart. He grabbed her left mound in his left hand and slapped the
spatula heatedly onto the only white skin left on her rear. She gasped
and kicked her legs. He held her down and continued to batter her inner
thighs. She was a puddle of heaving sobs when he was finished with her.
He tossed the spatula onto the table and headed back into the kitchen.
She cried for awhile, unable to stand or close her legs. He returned
with a clean, wet towel. “I found one,” he said, gently. She winced when
he placed it on her backside. He walked around the table, pulled out a
chair and sat across from her. He looked at her sternly, but said
nothing. She raised herself onto her elbows, her dark hair stuck to her
cheeks with tears. She looked back at him, anxiously. “A-ar…Are you
still mad?” she asked, her voice shaking. He glanced down into his
hands, looked out the window and then back to her. “Why do you do things
like that…say things like that?” he asked her. She shrugged. “Sometimes
I can’t help it,” she looked away now too, “Sometimes, I don’t know.” He
nodded and kissed her forehead, “I know, baby. I’m not mad. I’m not
going to put up with it, though. You know?” Michelle could feel the
fresh bruises. “Yeah,” she said, smiling a little, “I know.” He grinned.
“How about a cupcake?” he said, taking her hand.
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