Saturday, August 2, 2008

A Neighborhood in Proper, Chapter One

Chapter One
Enemies Foreign and Domestic


Kennedy stood in the middle of her living room. From the vantage she could see her kitchen, dining room, garden through the sliding glass doors, and the hallway to the rest of her fresh, one story home. She padded barefoot on white carpet through the hallway to find her husband sitting Indian style reading a manual on fixing their washing machine which lay open and gutted beside him. She eased herself down on Rick’s lap and nibbled his ear.

She was cursed for a minx, spanked, and sent off to tend her garden.

She returned to her living room pulling her jeans over a stinging bottom. Kennedy normally enjoyed her rear end. It was full and womanly, Stairmaster honed, and a source of power and pleasure. It had even taken part in a three year operation to fool a truly awesome man into falling in love with her to the victorious proposal of marriage. Many agents played a role, but the butt played its part in the man-nabbing.

Sadly, in times of discipline, a full, womanly bottom only meant more flesh to redden. More bottom meant more neurons. More neurons meant more pain.

On the floor, her aching butt in the air, she put her socks and shoes on, and, rubbing her wounds, obeyed her husband like she told “the preacher” she would.

Spring was new so few weeds yet, making it an enjoyable way to spend a Friday morning. It would have been more enjoyable to grind her husband into the hallway floor with a white bottom, but life is rarely perfect. Kennedy would know, as the ink hadn’t yet dried on her diploma for a Master’s in Philosophy.

Pleasantly warm climate except for the seat of her pants, the roses were red and the violets were blue. They smelled pretty good, too. Across the property line Jessica bathed her bikini clad body with sun and her liver with wine at 9 a.m., which Kennedy judged unwise, as Jessica was an Irish redhead, evolution rendering her utterly defenseless against the ravaging Sun God we mortals know by the name Ra.

‘Try to law talk your way out of a sunburn, lawyer.’ She muttered.

By 11 a.m. Kennedy had mended four broken stems, laid waste to an ant hill, cleansed the field of weeds, buried a half dozen smashed egg shells like in that movie she saw, tilled the soil, and collected several vases of roses whose time had come. Ra must be appeased with youth cut short! Jessica got sunburned and staggered away from her pool to the shade of her home for an undeserved nap.

Dirty, Kennedy decorated her home with flowers; hit the showers; noting, with satisfaction, the clothes washer fixed and operating due to the diligence of her slave male; buttoned herself up in one of Rick’s white business shirts she was supposed to iron but didn’t so it would still smelled like him; and entered her kitchen to prepare lunch.

Rick grabbed her from behind and nibbled her ear, which was unfair because he could do that without fear of a fanny fanning. However, she said nothing because Rick didn’t like the word “unfair”, and often vented his despise on her flank. If Professor Susan Willingham knew the extent to which Kennedy would sell out for the love of a male slave, The Teach never would have awarded the girl an A+ in Women’s Studies. No greater traitor to womankind was Kennedy.

Ah screw ‘em.

Still, he had to be punished for punishing her, so Kennedy pretended to ignore him by leafing through the Yellow Pages.

‘Whatcha doing?’ He liked to ask obvious questions.

‘Preparing lunch. What do you think? Domino’s Pizza or should we support local mom and pop business? The Inzio’s are pretty good.’

‘Female, that refrigerator is stocked. It’s too full. We should use our food before it rots. Cook something. We’ll cook together. You know: bond and crap.’ The nibbling grew a little sharper as his voice grew a little deeper and southern.

‘Can’t.’

‘Why?’ Every hair on her neck felt his breath. It interfered with thinking, as it was calculated to. Kennedy was in danger of unlearning literacy.

‘All the dishes and pots are dirty.’

Rick stopped nibbling. Kennedy, free from the intoxication, ignored this and got back to cooking. She decided to support local business, and reached for the wall phone. Very gently, like the sensitive slave lover with arms the size of tree branches he was, Rick seized her hand, forcing her to put the phone back on its cradle, then turned her around so he could loom down on her by two feet of extra bone length, a craven yet effective method of argument, she thought. Rick had a natural Will to Power. It made Kennedy cling to her mere Will to Life.

‘I thought you said you finished all your chores.’ It was not a question.

‘Yeah.’

Rick’s eyes were brown but somehow not soft. ‘Wouldn’t cleaning dishes be a chore?’ He, with surgeon’s precision, moved some rogue strands of blond hair out of his little wife’s eyes. Now she could not hide, thus she had to attack.

‘I meant I finished all exigent chores. Give me my hand back so I can provide my husband with a fine Italian meal.’ He looked down on her, an infinitely patient smile on his face, and serious brown eyes. He did not release her hand.

‘Jennifer Felicity nee Kruger Thompson, do you want to work or be a house frau?’

‘I told you when I graduated,’ she said, poking him in his chest just above her eye level. ‘I’m a house fraulein. Frau makes me sound dumpy. Come on! I’ll do the dishes tomorrow. Dishes are not exigent like a fire. Or shoe sale.’

‘Tell that to the roaches.’ Kennedy shivered. ‘Hey, we’re not far from swampland. Roaches will come and they will breed and lay eggs in every crevice and—‘

‘Stop!’ She hugged her husband for strength.

‘Come on.’ Rick put his arm on Kennedy’s lower back to lead her to what she assumed would be make-up sex. His hand through his shirt she wore on her lower back had the effect of a mommy cat biting and lifting the back of her kitten’s neck—paralysis. Kennedy’s mind still worked, and knowing her ability to impose her will on the world was checked and mated, she so resigned herself to pleasure that would make the hedonists of yore lime green with envy, the lowest of all emotions, the unmoved mover of all “evil”, though Kennedy preferred the word “un-actualized obsessive thought patterns” over "evil" as it had fewer connotations for the tenured popinjays to carp on and cavil.

Oh Pleasure!, my husband tosses me to you.

Instead, he stopped short in the living room, moved the armless antique chair she grew less and less fond of, and removed his belt.

‘Hey! I already got a spanking today. You can’t just—‘

‘Spankings are not vitamins, sweat heart. They’re taken as needed.’ He sat down, doubled over his leather weapon of sting, and waited. She met his eyes at level with a casual face to hide the excitement – that belt stung like Death onto Dying, her reserves of power to appeal and hide behind an Active Intellect had been wasted on growing inedible plants, and her bottom was already injured to boot. Her blood pressure warred against her mind. Her center did not hold.

Attack sentiment, the untermenschs’ weakness, the tale to wag the dog, the opium of the masses. ‘Well—‘ she mewled. ‘You know, eating pizza with our hands from the box, no plates, would be nostalgia for my college days. Wouldn’t that be fun?’

‘Your college days ended two weeks ago. You’re twenty-five. That’s not nostalgia. That’s immaturity. A few years from now we’ll be nostalgic and eat pizza without plates and drink wine from a box out of paper cups. Agreed?’ Kennedy had no answer. ‘Come on. Over my knee and get your spanking like a good girl.’ Grrr… he could make it a little more melodramatic to sooth her ego. Suffering a whipping, for example, is about one whole universe more dignified than taking a spanking.

‘Yes, sir.’ More unpleasantness. She could get a job, she knew. She even rejected offers, and not just from the local collage -- but damn it, she didn’t want a job. She liked to read in her pajamas at noon. She liked napping after sending her husband-slave off to gather resources for her suburban castle. She liked being worshiped for herself, not her status. But the fuckers at the bank had to complicate things. Stupid materialists…

Thus, her husband was her lord and master in the transient brutish world by Marxist economic reality and student loans. At least it was contract theory and not by divine right. Rawls and Locke were cold comfort against Hobbes, but there were none better. She bent over his knee, lifted his shirt she wore to bare her twenty-five year old ass (already red and sore), and grasped the chair’s legs with both hands with her tightest clasp. She set her face. ‘Ready for my re-education, sir.’

Play it cool, girl, that’s how you’ll get through this. Be cool, calm, and collected.

SWISH/ZING SWISH/ZING SWISH/ZING

Two months before the current leathering, Kennedy found herself in a similar position, facing the same belt with the same butt. She lost that fight too. The memory was fuzzy, but it had something to do with her duel responsibility of turning her thesis in on time and playing XBox. She tried to explain to her recently married lord and master that spankings, even disciplinary ones, should merely be symbolic (i.e., an act of submission and mea culpa and “all that noise”). Humiliation and token pain were all that was needed to admit her inferior position in the household’s decision making process. Thus, light smacking was all that was needed to complete the ritual of spousal correction.

Simple logic.

Rick, an engineer, rejected the smart talk nonsense. If Rick were an architect, Kennedy mused while popping and seizing during her punishment, she’d enjoy the ancient art of sitting more.

Kennedy didn’t like to make noise during her punishments, but this particular utilization of a husband’s pants lifter forced the young wife to make a real effort to keep quite. She bit her lip and grimaced and bounced her soft back-end and curled her fingers -- but she didn’t make a sound. She didn’t want the big oaf, patient and loving and giving as he was, to have the satisfaction. And of course he would enjoy her squeals. He was a male, and a male, by nature, enjoys the triumph of domination. He didn’t get drunk and beat her. Kennedy would have killed him long ago if he were that sort. He only spanked her for avoidable cause, and though he was thorough with the scorching of her bottom meat, he never approached within a million miles anything anyone with any sense would call a beating – he was a good man, not merely a male. And a good man slave at that, but that didn’t mean she had to give him pleasure equal to her suffering.

The spankings stung like the very dickens, and should therefore not be reinforced by positive feedback (yelling, begging, and mewling) in accords of the laws of behaviorism.

Normally she simply kept her eyes straight and accepted the pain, but this time, after lick twenty, with no end in sight, she went with the Buddhists and concentrated on her breathing and the nothingness of bliss and wringing her toes while her body bounced and her teeth clinched to a grand total of thirty-nine zingers. Forty save one. She thought it a bit Biblical, but spare the rod…

Five seconds went by without a zap of pain. Breathing hard, she took in reality and realized that her right hand had grabbed Rick’s ankle. She looked at her hand in amazement, and sniffed. Why should she seek support from her punisher? She made a mental note to write that question down later.

Kennedy stood up and rubbed herself, across her back the back of her husband’s shirt rising and falling (like Chinese yin/yang theory of empire) with the petulant act of self-amelioration. She rubbed deep. There was no point hiding it. Rick, still sitting, looped his belt for it’s secondary duty of keeping his pants up. Kennedy looked down at her feet and focused her mind on her blazing rump, making faces of annoyance as her fingers attempted to heal her wounds—but Kennedy was no Hollywood Scientologist, so her cheeks continued to sting.

She wasn’t mad. She knew she should be, but at the same time, she knew she shouldn’t. It was a practical reality that somebody had to be in charge. This was not a nation of free peoples: it was a home that needed harmony. Thus, someone needed to be corrected and accept punishment with grace; as a loving act. Otherwise there would be civil war, and nobody wins a civil war.

But one sacred and unspankable right was the freedom of speech. Kennedy knew Rick would die before spanking her for speaking her mind. He would not live in such a world.

‘I admit I should have washed the dishes and that I was childish in my defense, and I deserved a spanking, but that was a bit rough.’

‘I’ve given you harder. Much hard. And I noticed you didn’t make a sound.’ Rick said as he stood up and hugged her. Ha! She knew stoicism would eat at him.

‘I shouldn’t be punished more because I’m tough as nails.’ Tough words aside, she buried herself into her man. ‘That belt hurts.’

‘Tough guy, you decide if you’re spanked, and you decide how hard. A brat spanks a brat.’ Oh the philosopher was he! ‘Now go do the dishes. I have errands to run. We’ll eat a late lunch. Then we’ll enjoy the day together. We’ll hold off your third spanking till bedtime.’

‘Third spanking!?’

‘Five minutes with my hand for the five shirts you didn’t iron.’

‘Oh damn it!’

Finger in the face. ‘My girl doesn’t curse.’

‘No, sir. Your girl doesn’t curse.’ Cursing wasn’t really speech, as it was just barking out emotion without thought or reason, but damn it, Kennedy thought: I like cursing.

-----

Kennedy, bearer of all of mankind’s wisdom, wore only an apron as she washed the dishes. The air was cool on her back, backside, and legs, which is just what she needed. Also she felt like shocking her husband when he got home.

‘So we both got tanned today.’

‘Ai! Jesus, Jessica! I’m too young to have an heart attack!’

‘But not too old for a spanking it would seem.’ Jessica, in her red two piece bathing suit, closed the sliding door and took a seat at the island desk in the kitchen. She eased herself down on the stool like she’d gotten the lecture by leather Kennedy got. Kennedy could still feel the stripes across her bottom without the use of her hands. She took some satisfaction that the sun god Ra spanked Jessica as well, in His own way, and over the entirety of Jessica’s body.

However, Kennedy doubted the giant fusion reaction was as thorough as Rick.

‘That is none of your…’

‘Please! I saw the whole thing. The first rule of kinky fun is to close the drapes, you sexpot. Say, he really worked you over. Look at that sizzling rump roast!’

‘It wasn’t kinky fun. He disciplined his wife, that’s all. Someday, when you marry, you’ll understand---‘

‘Ha!’

Jessica was only three years older than Kennedy. They shared that special relationship that few knew. On the one hand, they didn’t like each other and openly professed it. On the other hand, they were the same generation and raised in sophisticated Blue States finding themselves freshly planted in an alien, small southern town; and they were neighbors, so they didn’t have much choice but be completely open with each other. Kennedy had never intended to divulge her humiliating matrimonial regime, but she shrugged the disclosure off. Time moved forward, and no truth, no matter how great and embarrassing, made public, can harm a soul as much as a the smallest lie. Kennedy made a note in her mind to write that down later. And improve the wording.

Besides, it’s better to get spanked raw by a Rick than to not have a Rick, so Kennedy considered herself ahead and Jessica behind, even if Kennedy’s behind throbbed. Hell, she thought. What good is having a woman’s body if it didn’t throb? Her mind worked on a treaties…

‘Anyway, what’s with you? You’re fidgeting like I would if I sat down, which I admit I wont be doing for a couple of days, so don’t joke about it.’

‘Sunburn. I’m not here for your charming discourse. I’m not even here to make fun of you for getting spanked like a bad little girl fifty years ago, though I am enjoying it. Look at those cute red cheeks!’

‘Stop it, or I’ll poison one of your trees.’

‘Ohhhh… I’d just have to tell your daddy, oops I mean husband, and he’d take you in hand and… hey, do you think he’d let me watch? You know, watch you get the tanning you deserve? In the same room, not through your windows like I normally do while drinking a martini. After all, it’s my tree you killed. Well, half of the tree belongs to the bank. That’d be fun: the whole committee of old male bankers watching you get spanked for a devaluation of immovable property. Rick will stop and they’ll check their actuaries and say, “Hmmm… thirty-two minutes and twelve seconds corner time should even the account.”’

Kennedy washed dishes and spoke through clenched teeth. ‘Presumably you are here for a reason…’ “You goddamn bloodsucking lawyer” she left that last out as implied. ‘I know you envy my ass. Yours is tight, sure, but we’re living in a J Lo era, so your little Veronica Lake sitter isn’t giving the men what they need, is it?’

‘Please. I walk into a bar, point the guy of my whimsy, and that’s it.’ Kennedy would have mocked her boasting, but, sadly, she had seen Jessica do that very thing a month ago when Rick forced her to have a Girls Night Out with the neighborhood women. Rick had a political bent. ‘Like I said, we both got tanned today. There’s a scorched spot on my back I can’t reach. Be a dear?’ Jessica held up a can of cream. Probably made from the eyes of baby seals or Carebears.

Kennedy removed her plastic gloves with a flop of water, kept her back to her foe, folded her arms, and glared out the window over her sink.

‘No. I refuse. A line must be drawn.’

‘Pretty please?’ The lawyer batted her eyes, but Kennedy refused to see those eyes like a sap jury was forced to. ‘OK! What do you want?’

‘I want you to have sympathy for my recent bout with my husband’s belt. And I want it to be good.’

Jessica sighed. She stood up, shook herself loose, and breathed in and out heavy. Then exploded.

‘Oh, poor baby!’ Jessica rushed like Kennedy was her only child that just fell off a bike. She fell to her knees and inspected the boo-boo. ‘Let me see. Ohhhhhh… men are such brutes! We’re you terribly naughty?’

‘Yes. Well, not terribly naughty. Sufficiently naughty.’

‘Perhaps you did need a little tap on the rear; I suppose we farer sex all do from time to time. But this is cruel and unusual!’ Jessica padded Kennedy’s roasted rump as if to heal it like a scientologist—but she wasn’t an Hollywood actor either. ‘Perhaps not unusual for you, but certainly cruel. Poor little blond headed elf! I should think four or five licks would have been enough to put a smart, good girl like you on notice. Isn’t that how they do it in England? Six of the best? More than necessary for such a good girl like you. The impropriety!’

‘I was thinking the same thing.’ Kennedy looked over her shoulder at Jessica, on her knees, gleefully making a fool of herself, going on and on. Kennedy didn’t like her, but damn it, you have to respect a good actress. Besides, Jessica was funny, and funny goes a long way. ‘Since you seem to like living in the medieval ages, perhaps we should call a midwife? Or snake charmer?’

‘Stop, stop. Stop before I like you. Turn around.’

Triumphant, Jessica bounced to her feet and bent over the kitchen island. The redhead’s lithe body was, indeed, red. She was covered in cream except for that damned spot on the back your own hands can’t reach, necessitating the hands of another. That spot is likely the strongest agent keeping society together.

Life without society—solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, short, and annoying because that spot on the center of the human back above and below the reach of our hands itches.

Kennedy got the cream and got to work while Jessica twaddled on. ‘Must be nice, only getting burned where you can reach. What cold cream do you use after you compliantly bend over as I do now but for you--Hey,’ an happy idea flew into the vixen’s head. She tapped the structure she leaned over. ‘Rick ever bend you over this… what is this thing I’m over called?’

‘It’s a kitchen island. It separates the kitchen from the living room without interrupting the flow as a wall does; and yes, I’ve been spanked over it. Laugh it up.’

‘You must like getting spanked, it’s all you can think about. I was asking if Rick ever, you know, took you over it.’

I’ll get you, sophist lawyer, and your little rhetorical tricks, too!

‘That,’ Jessica screeched as Kennedy accidentally rubbed a burn too hard. Jessica bit her lip, cutting off the screech, and tensed, but kept her submissive position. ‘Is none of your business. And yes, five times. And counting. Hey, you’re not going to tell anyone, are you?’

‘What, that you make love in the kitchen? I think all couples do eventually.’

‘No! No. About, you know, how Rick, you know, is traditional.’

‘You mean that spanking Rick bares your spanking bottom for good spankings whenever you need a sound spanking? Spankspankspank. Bah. Who would I tell? You don't have any friends. Hey, thanks for the rub. You’d better get back to those dishes or poppa will take you to the woodshed again. And please, by all means, keep the drapes open. Watching your glutes bounce up and down is better than satellite TV. And free.’

‘Grrrrrrrr…..’ Kennedy reveled in negative thoughts for a few moments; however, negative thoughts were the cobbles used to construct the path to the Dark Side. Kennedy thought about how, should she ever get sun burned on the back, she need only snap her fingers, and her husband would rub her down and tell her how brilliant in mind and body she was while he did it. Jessica, the fool, had to beg her neighbor.

Kennedy was, though sore-of-behind, ahead.

------

Dishes done, Kennedy ironed her brutish husbands shirts in their bedroom. They smelled like him, so they offered a good distraction from her still searing backside and wounded pride. She did, every few minutes, give her cheeks a rub. ‘I understand, you’re hurt. Stop burning already!’ But they continued to burn. ‘You’re being excessive! I’ll behave, body, I’ll behave next time! Or run.’

She even ironed her man’s shirt that she dutifully lifted to accept her man’s butt-bruising brand of justice. So she disrobed and put on a purple g-string and one of her husband’s purple and gold college football T-shirts that ran halfway down her thigh. If she were big, just once, she’d spank him. Not out of revenge, not even to stop her spankings. The spankings worked. She’d rather get it over with than be lectured for hours, which is how the lovable Rick abused his wife before he acted like a big tough man and launched her over his knee for a good old fashion conflict resolution. Spankings hurt ass, but lectures suck ass, and sucking is ten times worse.

Not to mention guilt. It’s hard to feel guilty after a spanking.

But if she could spank him (just once!) maybe he’d know it really only took four or five licks to get the point across. Hell, even Jessica pretended to know that. Of course, then how would she know she was tough as nails? She might grow soft. Complacent. Un-actualized, content to ignore the lack of evidence of limits to her being. Stay in the cave with shadow puppets. Dull of mind, like a cow or Kafkaesque bureaucrat. ‘Hmmm… this is tricky.’

‘JFK! I’m home. Attend me!’

She squinted her eyes, glaring down the hallway to the living room. She could give him the cold shoulder, but then he could give her a the warm bottom. The brilliant thing about this kind of relationship is that it forces emotional engagement. She absolutely had to go in that kitchen, but she absolutely wanted to make him suffer. A little. Enough.

Damn it: a dilemma.

Kennedy had been a content 18th century wife, happily washing dishes with a throbbing behind until Jessica piqued her ire. Kennedy was fluent in French and German. Had read Kant and Heidegger and Descartes in their own language (except for Latin). She was strong of body, smart, and accomplished, yet she couldn’t think of a better way to keep tranquility in her home but bend over her huge husband’s knee and bite her lip for an embarrassing (and bare-ass-ing) spanking. It was so simple and time tested. The modern magazines were insipid. Women get spanked, men spank, and that’s how we all live together. It worked the other way around, of course, but Kennedy couldn’t be the boss in this world. The real world was vicious and constant, requiring a focus and resolve that Kennedy didn’t want or even understand. Rick did. He was a fortified tower in the face of the enemy, born by woman, and better than any wall constructed by men. Kennedy thought, again, that she needed Rick to reign.

But now Jessica knew! And Kennedy felt stupid!

But oh was a spanking a good way to get her husband in the mood. It didn’t do much for her sadly, but at least it got some of the clothes off.

But it was so freaking humiliating! And Jessica knew! This is insane! How can no world view make me happy, and yet I am?

‘Feminism wasn’t about men and women. It was about women and women, and women lost.’ Kennedy said it as a revelation, to herself, but would have to think it over before knowing what it meant. She needed to write that down, when she got a chance. ‘Wait… didn’t I need to write something else down? It had something to do with…. shit.’

Still, her husband had to be dealt with. It was a time for war.

‘I’m ironing. If I don’t finish ironing, I’ll get flogged to death by this tyrant troll king that thinks violence is a perfectly healthy form of expression. And Nietzschean ubermensch that he is, he obeys only his will, pronounced “vill”, taking vhatever he vants with no morality, no reason; just vill to power. I’m his slave, hamstrung by my own Enlightenment based ethics. I am Belgium, he is Germany. I must do as I’m told or suffer the tortures of the damn, sir. Tortures of the damned.’

‘Female! Stop quoting A Clockwork Orange! The tyrant troll king beckons, and you shall heed!’ Rick used his highfalutin voice when he wanted to make her laugh. Tricky bastard. Wasn’t working this time. Nope, she told herself as she turned the iron off and padded to the kitchen. I will, she thought, do whatever he told me, and be passive-aggressive as a designated driver.

Kennedy got her mind right: No laughing. No smiling. Just obedience to my slave-boy lover. Mindless, selfless foot kissing with no backbone at all.

It will kill him.

She would have said ‘Yes, me Lord’ but she was being passive- aggressive, so she just said “I'm on my way.” She padded to the living room. ‘Oh.’ That armless chair again. She’d hoped that her dear husband would forget about the cruel third spanking for forgetting to iron his shirts, or at the very least give her hinie some time to heal. ‘Yes, Rick? Do you want something?’

She stood by the chair, for some reason next to the kitchen island instead of the middle of the room where he usually spanked her, pulled up her husband’s “GEAUX TIGERS!!” shirt, and awaited her fate. The belt? His hand? The brush? Something new and weird for his amusement, like knotted TV cables? He had said a five minute hand spanking, but she didn’t hold him to it. She put her mind to the idea that he could justly spank her anyway he wanted, anytime he wanted, for any effable reason, F-it. She must be a dull slave to cause her master pain. Then she’d get even, because he hated that crap. He has no defense, so she shall win.

How did she always get amazed at how big he was, she thought. Big shapely slab of iron. He sat down, a towel over his shoulder, and pulled her down. But he did it wrong. She ended up with her thighs on top of his, her bare butt hanging over the side where the cool air soothed. She clutched his chest on instinct. Had he forgotten how to punish? No, for him that’d be like forgetting how to golf. Was he going to spank her lap? No! That would be an evil… un-actualized.

Rick reached over the wife sitting confused on his lap, and put an Inzio box of pizza on her lap. He opened it. Pepperoni, extra sauce, and pineapple. Rick hated pineapple on his pizza. Kennedy, however, adored it. Rick, with his big hard cruel hands, pulled two slices out, closed the box, and used the top as a plate even though his wife slaved to clean all the dishes in his hearth.

He picked up one piece, blew on it, and offered his female a bite.

Kennedy glared at him, but she wasn’t as good an actress as Jessica. She poked him in the chest thrice.

‘This-isn’t-fair.’

‘I don’t want to be fair. I want to win.’

Kennedy bit into the offered pizza, and schemed her revenge. He’d still spank her, and properly whack some noise loose from her because five minutes meant one whole a hellacious amount of spanking, and yeah he probably would have a lot of fun smacking his wife’s butt, but after the punishment, ohmanafter, she’d grind him into jelly with sex. He’d won this battle. Decisively. But the war wasn’t over. She’d break him in bed. Yeah that would show him.

Go ahead, Kennedy thought. Feed me and make me feel special and force me to laugh and be happy because you’re so freaking nice to me I have no defense. The worm will sometime turn, and I’ll have my revenge.

‘What about napkins?’ Kennedy had sauce on her thumb.

‘I’m you napkin. Cleaning up your messes.’ Rick mouthed her thumb, and sucked and made noises like a hungry dog, and Kennedy laughed so loud she would have fallen to the floor if Rick didn’t hold her up.

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