Chapter 13: Brutal Submission
The smell of cheap coffee and toasted bread cut through the lingering scent of sex. Peter stood at the counter, pushing down the lever of his rusty toaster, while Eva sat at the small kitchen table, her chair tilted back on two legs. She wore one of his t-shirts, which hung loosely, gaping at the neck to show the top of her bruises.
He felt her eyes on him as he moved. When he brought the butter dish over, her bare foot snaked out from under the table. Her toes, cold and agile, pressed against the fly of his sweatpants, rubbing slowly over the hardening shape beneath the fabric.
He froze, a jar of jam in his hand.
“Eva…”
“What?” she said, her voice innocent, a smirk playing on her lips. Her toes curled, applying more pressure. “I told you I wasn’t going to behave at your place. You didn’t believe me?”
He believed her now. A hot wave of lust washed through him, dulling the morning fatigue. He stood there, letting her foot work him through the soft cotton, until the toaster popped with a jarring crash. She withdrew her foot with a final, teasing scrape of her toenails.
They ate in a silence thick with anticipation. Every crunch of toast, every sip of coffee felt like a countdown. She watched him over the rim of her mug, her eyes dark and knowing.
“We need groceries,” he said finally, just to say something.
“Fine. I need to shower first.”
She stood, and the t-shirt rode up, giving him a full view of the spectacular damage across her hips and stomach. He stared, his mouth going dry. She caught him looking and deliberately pulled the fabric higher, turning slightly to show the deep purple smudges along her ribs.
“Still looks good on me, doesn’t it?” she said.
He could only nod.
An hour later, they were walking down the sidewalk towards the discount supermarket. The shower had revived her, and she’d rifled through his closet, emerging in a pair of his athletic shorts that were too tight on her and a crop top she’d apparently brought in her own bag. It exposed a four-inch strip of her midriff, putting the central, most violently colored bruises on full display.
“You can’t wear that,” he said, his voice low.
“Why not? It’s just a stomach.”
“Eva, people will stare.”
“Let them stare,” she said, linking her arm with his. Her fingers pressed into a tender spot on his bicep. “Maybe they’ll guess how it got that way. Maybe some guy will get ideas about his girlfriend.” She grinned up at him. “Maybe I want them to stare.”
Inside the fluorescent-lit chaos of the store, he felt hyper-aware of her. She was a magnet for glances—from old women clutching purses, from bored husbands pushing carts, from construction workers in line at the deli counter. She didn’t just ignore them; she seemed to bask in it, her posture straightening, her stomach subtly pushed out.
In the cereal aisle, she leaned close, her breath hot in his ear. “You could push me into this shelf right now. Knock the wind out of me. No one would see behind the boxes.” Her hand slid down and squeezed his ass.
He grabbed a box of cornflakes at random, his face burning. “Stop it.”
By the dairy cooler, she picked up a tub of cream cheese, hefting it in her hand. “This is about two kilos, right? Imagine if you dropped it from up there,” she nodded toward the high shelves, “right onto my gut while I was lying down. Whump. All that weight, concentrated.” She let out a dreamy sigh and put the cheese in the cart.
At the checkout, the bored teenage cashier scanned their items, his eyes repeatedly flicking to Eva’s exposed skin. She caught him looking and winked. The kid fumbled a can of beans. As Peter hurriedly tapped his card, Eva whispered, loud enough for the kid to hear, “Hurry up, baby. I need you to use me as a footstool when we get home.”
They were two blocks from his apartment, cutting through a small, overgrown park, when she suddenly veered off the path, pulling him by the hand toward a dense thicket of rhododendrons.
“Eva, what—”
“Here. Now.” Her voice held no playfulness now, only a sharp need.
She pushed through the scratchy leaves until they were in a small, hidden clearing, shielded from the path and the surrounding buildings. The air was cool and damp. She turned to face him, her back against a thick trunk, her eyes blazing.
“Do it. Right here.”
“Someone will see…”
“No they won’t. And I don’t care if they do. I’ve been aching for it all fucking morning. Watching you get hard over cereal. I need you to hit me.”
Her hands went to the hem of her crop top and yanked it up, baring her stomach completely. The bruises were a lurid map in the dappled green light. She grabbed his right hand, formed it into a fist, and pressed it against the soft, bruised hollow just below her ribs.
“Here. Make me feel it.”
The illicit thrill of it, the public danger, shattered his hesitation. He pulled his arm back and drove his fist into her.
The impact was a deep, wet thud against the quiet park sounds. A sharp gasp ripped from her lips, her body folding slightly around his hand. He hit her again, lower, where the skin was less protected. Her head thumped back against the tree.
“Yeah… fuck, Peter… harder.”
He settled into a rhythm, his punches methodical, each one landing with more force than the last. His knuckles were getting sore, sliding against her sweaty skin. She was breathing in ragged pants, her hands clawing at the bark behind her. Her shorts were damp at the front.
“You like showing this off?” he grunted, landing a mean, digging shot to her side. “You like strangers seeing what I did to you?”
“Yes!” she hissed. “It’s yours. Everyone should see it’s yours.”
He fucked her with his fist, the violence of it twisting into something darker and more possessive. He grabbed a handful of her hair, pulling her head forward, and smashed his mouth against hers. The kiss was all teeth and shared, panting breath. He shoved his free hand down the front of her shorts, his fingers finding her soaking wet and swollen. She cried out against his lips, bucking against his hand.
“Come for me,” he snarled, biting her lower lip. “Come on my hand while I wreck your stomach.”
He pistoned his fingers inside her, rough and urgent, while his other fist continued to punish her midsection, a steady, brutal percussion. Her body seized, a silent scream contorting her features as her orgasm ripped through her, her inner muscles clamping violently around his fingers. He held her up as her legs gave way, keeping her pinned to the tree with his body.
When the tremors subsided, she slumped against him, her forehead on his shoulder. He slowly withdrew his wet hand. They stood there in the green stillness, the only sound their ragged breathing. A dog barked somewhere in the distance.
She finally looked up, her eyes glassy, sated. She tugged her top down. “Okay,” she breathed. “Now we can go home.”
The walk back was silent, charged. The air between them was a live wire. Every step felt like a drumbeat leading to his front door. He fumbled with the keys, his hands unsteady.
The door swung open onto the familiar chaos of his living room.
They barely made it over the threshold. He kicked the door shut with his heel and pushed her back against it. The force knocked a puff of dust from the frame. In the dim afternoon light filtering through the dirty blinds, her face was all challenge, all hunger.