Chapter 18: The other side
Eva lay on the floor for a long time, the rise and fall of her battered stomach the only sign of life. The humming of the fluorescent light was the only sound. Peter watched her, his own adrenaline ebbing, leaving a hollow, buzzing quiet in its place. He saw the intricate map he’d made on her skin—blooming purples, deep reds, the perfect imprint of his foot on her flank. He had done that. He had reduced this powerful, terrifying woman to this shuddering, beautiful wreck.
Finally, she rolled onto her side with a low groan, pushing herself up to her hands and knees. She stayed there for a moment, head hanging, strings of dark hair sticking to her damp cheeks. When she looked up at him, her smile was ragged but real.
“Fuck,” she breathed, the word thick and satisfied. “That was a good one.” She climbed slowly to her feet, wincing as she straightened. She pressed a hand to her middle, probing the damage with a clinical fascination. “You’re learning. You stopped asking if I was okay.”
“Are you?” The question was out before he could stop it, a ghost of his old self.
She laughed, a wet, pained sound. “I’m perfect. I’m full of you and your fists. It’s exactly what I wanted.” She took a step and stumbled, catching herself on the edge of his desk. An empty energy drink can rattled to the floor. “Just need a minute. Your turn.”
“My turn?”
“To choose. What do you want to do?” She leaned back against the desk, her arms crossed over her ruined abdomen. Her gaze was a challenge. “Anything. It’s your fantasy, Peter. Not the videos’. Yours.”
He looked at her. Really looked. The powerful curve of her shoulders, the taper of her waist, the defiant set of her jaw. And her ass. Round, high, sculpted by countless squats and deadlifts, barely contained by her black shorts. He’d been so focused on her stomach, her ability to take the punches, that he’d almost missed it. But now, seeing her lean against the desk, it was all he could see.
“Your ass,” he said, his voice rough. “I really like your ass.”
Eva’s smirk returned. “Thank you. It’s a good ass.”
“Can I…?” He gestured vaguely with his foot.
“Trample it? Of course you can.” She didn’t move from the desk. “Tell me how.”
“I want you on your stomach. I want to walk on your back, and… and stand on it. On your ass.”
A low, approving hum vibrated in her throat. “I like the weight there too. It crushes the air out, pins me down. It’s good.” She pushed off the desk and, with careful movements, lowered herself face-first onto the carpet. She arranged her arms by her sides, turned her head to the side, and took a deep, settling breath. “I’m ready.”
Peter approached her prone form. From this angle, she was a landscape of muscle and tension. The broad planes of her back tapered to her waist, then flared out again into the glorious, rounded swell of her glutes. The fabric of her shorts stretched taut.
He placed a tentative foot between her shoulder blades. The heat of her body seeped through his sock. He applied pressure. Eva exhaled, a long, slow release of air that sank her deeper into the carpet. He stepped up, bringing his other foot to join the first. He stood fully on her back, his weight balanced.
He could feel the ridge of her spine, the firm knots of muscle alongside it. He walked, one slow step at a time, down the length of her. His feet found the dip of her waist, then the rise of her hips. He paused there, feeling the solid architecture of her pelvis bear his weight. Then he stepped down.
His soles landed on the firm, expansive curves of her ass. He settled his weight. The flesh gave, then held, a dense, resilient cushion. Eva moaned, the sound muffled by the carpet. “Yes,” she grunted. “Feels so… heavy.”
He began to shift his weight from foot to foot, a slow, grinding rhythm. He rocked forward onto the balls of his feet, driving his weight into the crest of each cheek, then back onto his heels. He walked in place, a deliberate, punishing march on the most private part of her.
“Fuck, Peter,” she gasped, her hands curling into fists. “It’s so deep.”
Encouraged, he lifted one foot and brought it down stampingly hard on the center of her right buttock. The impact jolted through her whole body. He did it again with the other foot. A rhythm began—stamp, shift, stamp—a crude, dominant cadence. He could see the tension in her shoulders, the way her toes curled against the floor. She was pushing up against him, meeting each stamp with a defiant flex of her glutes.
His cock was hard again, a dull, persistent ache. He wanted more. “Bridge,” he heard himself say.
Eva turned her head, her cheek pressed flat. “What?”
“Make a bridge. On your hands and feet. Belly up.”
Understanding flickered in her eyes, mixed with a flash of apprehension he hadn’t seen before. This was different. This was vulnerable. “Okay,” she said, and there was a new note in her voice—a thin thread of excitement at the unknown. “Help me up.”
He stepped off her. She moved slowly, every motion careful. She got to her hands and knees, then, with a tremendous effort, pushed her hips toward the ceiling, coming up into a high, arching bridge. Her body formed a tense, inverted U. Her head dropped back, her hair brushing the floor. Her stomach, a brutalized canvas of bruises, was now stretched taut, the muscles elongated and exposed. She couldn’t clench, couldn't protect herself. It was a plate of tenderized meat offered to the sky.
“Fuck me,” Peter whispered, awed by the surrender of it.
“It’s… harder like this,” Eva panted, her arms and legs beginning to tremble almost immediately. “No abs to brace. All the weight goes right into my guts. Do it.”
He approached her sideways. The curve of her belly was a ramp. He placed a foot on her lower abdomen, just above her pubic bone. Her whole structure wobbled. A sharp gasp escaped her.
“Hold it,” he commanded, the word foreign and powerful on his tongue.
He stepped up, bringing his other foot to join the first. He was standing on her, his full weight borne by the stretched, bruised skin and muscle of her belly. Her bridge sank several inches, a shuddering groan tearing from her lips. Her arms and legs shook violently with the strain of holding the position against his mass. He could feel the incredible tension in her frame, the vibrating wire of her body trying not to snap.
He looked down between his feet. Her face was upside down, eyes squeezed shut, mouth open in a ragged O of effort and ecstasy. The position pushed her shorts and top out of the way; he could see the delicate lines of her hip bones, the dark shadow between her legs.
The raw exposure of it, her complete physical offering, shattered the last of his restraint. He fumbled with the drawstring of his sweats, freeing his erection, which stood thick and angry-red. He spat into his hand, slicking himself.
“I’m going to fuck you,” he said, his voice low. “Just like this.”
Eva’s eyes flew open, wide and wild. “Yes. Please. Do it.”