Chapter 14: Bigger impact
The slam of the door echoed in the cramped hallway. Dust motes danced in the slanted light from the living room. Eva’s back was against the wood, her chest rising and falling rapidly, her eyes locked on his. The frantic energy from the park was still there, but it had changed, deepened into something focused and expectant.
She reached out and pulled his t-shirt up, running her palms over the damp skin of his stomach. “Your heart’s going crazy,” she murmured, pressing her ear to his chest. Then she looked up, a sly, knowing tilt to her mouth. “Let’s try something new.”
He swallowed. “New?”
She pushed past him, walking into the center of the living room. Then she simply lay down, arms at her sides, staring at the ceiling.
“Come here.”
He stood over her, looking down at the landscape of her body. The crop top was rucked up, the shorts low on her hips. The bruises from his fists in the park were fresh blooms over the older, yellowing ones.
“What am I doing?”
“You’re going to jump,” she said, her voice calm, instructional. “On my stomach. Both feet. From right there.” She pointed to a spot on the carpet beside her hips.
A cold thrill, sharp as a blade, cut through his arousal. This was it. The core of the fantasy he’d watched flickering on a screen for years. The real, prone body of a woman, inviting his full weight onto her most vulnerable part. His mouth went dry.
“I… I could hurt you. Really hurt you.”
“That’s the idea, Peter.” She turned her head to look at him. Her expression was serene, almost meditative. “I’m ready. I’m built for it. Start from the floor. Just a small hop.”
He toed off his sneakers. His socks were damp with sweat. He stood where she indicated, his toes nearly brushing her side. He looked down at her belly, at the slight, unconscious tremble of her muscles. He bunched his own, feeling the absurdity and the terrifying gravity of the moment.
He hopped.
It was a timid, stiff-legged thing, maybe six inches off the ground. He landed with both feet squarely on her midsection, his knees bent to absorb the shock.
The air left her lungs in a controlled, whistling puff. Hooof. Her body pressed down into the carpet, then rebounded slightly. Her face tightened for a fraction of a second, then relaxed into a smile.
“See?” she gasped, the word breathless. “Nothing. That’s a warm-up. Now from the couch.”
He stepped off her, his heart hammering against his ribs. She didn’t move, just lay there breathing deliberately, preparing. He climbed onto the sunken cushions of his sofa. The seat was level with his calves. He turned, looking down at the target.
“Eva…”
“Do it. Don’t think.”
He stepped off the couch.
The drop was less than two feet, but the momentum was greater. He landed with more force, his heels digging in slightly before his arches settled on the firm, elastic plane of her abdomen.
A louder, grunting cough exploded from her. Her legs jerked, her feet scraping against the carpet. Her hands flew up, not to push him off, but to grab his ankles, holding his feet in place on her body. He could feel everything—the hard ridge of her pelvic bone under his left heel, the soft, vulnerable hollow just below her ribs under his right. He could feel the violent churn of her guts, the frantic pulse of an artery beneath her skin.
“Fuck,” she rasped, her eyes squeezed shut. “Yeah. That’s it. Feel that?”
He did. He felt her absolute surrender, the total trust in her capacity to take it. A hot, possessive pride flooded him. He shifted his weight, rocking forward onto the balls of his feet, increasing the pressure.
She moaned, a deep, guttural sound of pleasure-pain. Her grip on his ankles tightened.
“Okay,” she said after a moment, patting his leg. “Okay. Off. Next. The dining chair.”
The wooden chair from his kitchen table was next. It put him about three feet above her. The geometry of it felt obscene. He stood on the seat, looking down at her splayed form. She had pulled her top off completely now. Her breasts were flattened by gravity, her stomach a taut, bruised plate. She nodded, her jaw set.
He jumped.
This time, the impact was a heavy, definitive thump that shook the floor. The sound was wetter, deeper. Her whole body convulsed, a violent shudder that traveled up through his own legs. A sharp, bitten-off cry escaped her. For a second, she couldn’t breathe at all; her mouth opened in a silent, strained O, her face flushing red. He stood perfectly still, balanced on her, watching the struggle play out across her features. The pain was real, intense, a living thing between them.
Then air rushed back into her, a sucking, ragged gasp. Tears welled in the corners of her eyes, but the smile was back, wild and triumphant.
“Holy shit,” she wheezed. “Your… full weight. Fuck me.” Her hands slid from his ankles up to his calves, her fingers digging into his muscle. “You like that? Standing on me? Really on me?”
“Yes.” The word was a crack in his voice. He was painfully hard, his erection straining against his pants. He loved it. He loved the view from here, the power, the intimate violence of his soles molding her flesh. He loved her suffering for him.
“One more,” she choked out. “The table. Do it.”
The coffee table was low, but solid. It added another eight inches. From here, it looked like a precipice. She was arranging herself beneath him, drawing her knees up slightly, bracing. Her stomach was a mess of color, a canvas he was defiling with his footprints.
He didn’t hesitate. The fear was gone, burned away by a raging need to see how much she could take, to claim this completely. He bent his knees and launched himself upward, just a little, before dropping.
The landing was catastrophic.
A sound like a sack of wet grain hitting concrete slammed through the room. Her body jackknifed, her head and heels coming off the floor for an instant before she collapsed back, boneless. A guttural, animalistic groan was torn from her throat, long and ragged. He stumbled, almost losing his balance as her form yielded drastically beneath him. He looked down, horrified and electrified.
Her face was contorted, slick with sweat and tears. She was gagging, dry heaving, her abdominals in a continuous, agonized spasm around the intrusion of his feet. She couldn’t speak. She could only pat the air weakly with one hand.
He scrambled off her, dropping to his knees beside her head. “Eva! Jesus, Eva, are you—”
Her hand shot out and grabbed a fistful of his hair, pulling his face down to hers. Her breath was hot and sour. “That,” she spat, her voice a shredded whisper, “was fucking perfect.”
She pulled him into a desperate, biting kiss. Then her other hand fumbled with the button of his jeans, yanking them and his boxers down in one frantic motion. His cock sprang free, thick and throbbing. She pushed him onto his back beside her and rolled on top, straddling his hips, but instead of taking him inside her, she leaned forward, bracing her hands on his chest.
Her stomach, a wreck of pressure marks and swelling, hung inches from his face.
“Punch me,” she demanded, her eyes glazed with pain and lust. “Punch me right now, and I’ll suck you off.”
The filth of the proposition sent a shock through his system. He didn’t hesitate. He balled his right hand and drove it up into her solar plexus.
The force lifted her slightly on her knees. She choked, spat a thread of saliva onto his chest, and then sank down, taking his entire length into her mouth in one slick, punishing slide.
He cried out, his back arching. The sensations were too much—the coiling, wet heat of her throat, the view of her destroyed midsection quivering above him, the raw power in his aching fist. He hit her again, a hard, short jab to the side of her belly.
She gagged around him, the convulsion of her throat milking his shaft exquisitely. She began to move, bobbing her head in a rough, messy rhythm, her nose buried in his pubic hair. Each time he punched, she would grunt, her throat would constrict, and her pace would stutter, creating a brutal, perfect syncopation.
“You’re a fucking dream,” he groaned, pistoning his hips up to meet her. “Your stomach… it’s so fucking wrecked… for me.”
She hummed in agreement, the vibration traveling straight to his core. He was losing control, his fingers tangling in her hair. He fucked her mouth in earnest now, his thrusts becoming erratic. He slammed his fist into her one last time, a final, possessive claim on her body.
She took it, and the climax erupted from him, a raw shout torn from his throat as he emptied himself in deep, pulsing jets down her willing throat. She swallowed convulsively, taking every drop, until he was spent, collapsing back onto the carpet.
She crawled up his body, winced as her stomach dragged across his hips, and laid her head on his chest. They were both gasping, slick with sweat, surrounded by the familiar, sordid mess of his life. The room smelled of sex, pain, and dust.
Her fingers traced the new, livid footprints on her skin. “Told you,” she whispered, her voice hoarse and utterly satisfied. “Something new.”