Carl was a giant. I was a bird.

He was broad and powerful, twice my size, and I was all bones and angles.

His roar could have shattered windows. His kiss was a butterfly’s wing. His hands, enormous as they were, held a softness I could barely believe.

When he cupped my face, I disappeared into him completely. I felt safe there. Maybe too safe.

The first years went by in a dizzy haze. I could feel the silent envy of my friends. Sometimes they even said it outright. Their boyfriends and husbands were so coarse. And Carl — Carl had a body that could make your head spin. Of course, I was floating. I’d brush off their comments with false modesty, but they were right. Carl cooked me breakfasts. If I was hungover, he made me coffee strong enough to bring me back to life. If the stairs were wet, he mopped them so I wouldn’t slip. He put knives in the drawer blade-side down, so I wouldn’t cut my fingers. At night, he tucked the blanket under me so I wouldn’t get cold.

Even when we made love, he always kept me on top so I wouldn’t be crushed. When I lost myself and wanted to feel that giant cock of his driving deep inside me, when I tried to push down hard, his hands would slow me, gripping my hips.

“Easy, baby. You’ll hurt yourself.”

By the fifth year it had become unbearable. I was having fits of rage. Never at him. How could I ever be angry at him? Instead, I’d lose it over the TV remote, shouting obscenities I’d never use otherwise. And he’d bring me jasmine tea.

“This will calm your nerves, baby.”

Or I’d curse at the damned bathroom faucet that never gave me the right temperature — a hair to the left and it was scalding, a hair to the right and it was freezing. I’d wrestle with it for minutes until I finally smashed the showerhead against the fixture. And he’d wrap me in a towel, carry me out, and quietly install a new one with tools he’d already gone out to buy.

“Don’t worry, love. I bought the best kind. This won’t happen again.”

Then Haley was born. Our daughter. My world changed, of course. And he became a wonderful father. A gentle father. I became a good mother too. Rage was no longer possible. Three, four years passed like that. Then, before I knew it, I was gone, lost behind a thick, gray curtain. I was in a soft prison. Even when I threw myself against the walls, I couldn’t hurt. Everything I felt was muffled, dulled, arriving through that thick padding. Everything was flawless. No adventure, no movement, no thrill. A cage, both physical and emotional. The words of love from my husband — sincere, I knew — became the padded walls of my cell. Sticky, cloying love coated everything. I was an ant fallen into a jar of honey. I couldn’t even struggle. My arms, my legs felt heavy.

And then I broke. Haley was at preschool. Carl was at work. I wasn’t working, of course.

“Don’t wear yourself out, baby. Just lean back and enjoy life. Let me take care of everything.”

That day I was sick of my own numbness. I realized I hadn’t had a real orgasm in years. I’d been faking it. My mind must have been clawing for escape, because suddenly it occurred to me: what if I went on a porn site, just to see? Maybe I could feel something again. Maybe my thighs would ache. But the damned keyboard’s P key wasn’t working. I couldn’t even type in the address.

For once in a lifetime, I had pried open the iron bars of my prison, of my own moral codes, to do something for myself. And the fucking keyboard broke on that day of all days. I snapped. Screaming, I lifted it and slammed it against the desk. Keys flew into the air, a few hitting my face, others tangling in my hair. I raked them out roughly, and before I knew it, I had slapped myself in a fit of quite pathological rage. In my fury I hadn’t held back. My cheek rang. A sharp sting spread fire across my face. And suddenly I was awake.

Because it hurt. It really hurt. My cheek was burning, stinging. My eyes watered.

And it was wonderful. I had felt something. Something sharp, something real. The prison could be as soft as it wanted. I would be the hard one. I looked at my hands. To make sure it wasn’t a dream, I slapped my other cheek with my other hand. This time I was more controlled. The effect wasn’t the same. But it was still good.

Then I heard a sound. Laughter. Outside. For a moment I thought some kid had seen me from the window. I jumped up and spun around. But there was no one.

The laughter was mine.

---

When I calmed down, I cried. I thought I was going crazy. But looking back now, I realize I was actually starting to heal. That slap had truly woken me up. Until that moment, I hadn't even understood that I was in that velvet prison. But that ringing, that sting, had become undeniable indicators of what the problem was. I wanted to feel. Not something specific, just anything. My life had turned into a sensory deprivation tank, and I hadn't noticed. While Carl protected me from everything, he had also protected me from anything exciting. Ten years of this life had become ingrained, it had become my character. I was finished. It was impossible for me to feel again. That's why I cried.

Then I gathered the keyboard, and texted Carl to buy a new one on his way home. I wrote that I dropped it while cleaning and then accidentally stepped on it.

"I keep telling you, baby, don't bother with cleaning, the cleaning lady comes twice a week anyway."

Then, of course, he had to protect me from myself as well.

"Anyway, baby, if cleaning relaxes you, do it, but be careful. I'll get a new keyboard. A sturdy one."

The evening was spent with Haley. She was still good for me. But good in the way a tranquilizer is good. By making everything else seem insignificant. Of course, when Carl came home and looked at my face, he understood that I had been crying. He immediately hugged me. He was so soft, but I still felt like I was suffocating.

"Oh baby, did you cry all day over a keyboard?"

That night I was very restless. I was drifting in that depressive space between sleep and wakefulness. Then, half-conscious, I got up and went to the bathroom. In the mirror, looking into my own eyes, I slapped myself. Hard. The sound startled me. Afraid that Carl would hear, I delivered the second one more carefully. Then I went to bed and slept wonderfully.

In the morning, Carl kissed me softly.

"You have no intention of waking up, do you? I'll prepare your breakfast and leave, you can leave Haley to me."

I smiled. A genuine smile. Not because Carl would handle things. But because I had slept wonderfully. Finally. After years.

And so began my obsession with slapping. For about a week, I slapped myself whenever I felt the urge. But of course, these dark waters were not like normal waters. Once the ripples started, they didn't stop. On the contrary, they pulled you in. Deeper.

So, one day, I gathered the hems of my robe up to my hips. I was sitting on the edge of the bed. I never liked my legs much. I had chosen them as the culprits for my short stature. I spread my legs. The excitement of what I was about to do was greater than the pleasure of our lovemaking for the past two years. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and hit my own left leg, on the inside of my thigh.

"AHHHHH!"

One. Heat: two. Ache: one.

The skin went tight as a drumhead; a bright, needled sting ran up my hip before it settled into a throb.

It was incredible. Such a pure sting. Such a sensitive area. I opened my eyes and looked. The red mark of my hand stood out on my white skin. I hit it again, this time with my eyes open, in the same place, on the stinging spot.

Two. Heat: three. Ache: two.

My breath caught, my thighs closed reflexively, and, in the middle of my legs, right inside me, I felt a pang. A wetness. Warm.

I was aroused. The sounds I made when we made love came out of my mouth. From my throat. I started keeping score without deciding to. And I hit again, this time my other thigh.

SLAP!

Again.

SLAP!

I could feel my flesh tremble. The vibrations traveled up to my ass, then curved up and entered me. There was a ringing in my ears. A fire was climbing up my neck.

Like making love for the first time.

And I hit, again and again. When my thighs felt like they were tearing from the pain, I started hitting my face. I was dizzy, I was sweating, and my pussy was definitely on fire. I could feel my panties were soaked. My hips started to move back and forth on the bed, I was looking for friction. I climbed onto the bed and took the pillow between my legs.

Even the soft surface of the pillow hurt me. Flame upon flame, upon flame was building on my thighs. I plunged my hand into my panties, my clit had become extremely sensitive, I pushed my fingers inside so it would be in my palm. With my free hand, I tried to hit my thighs, but it was hard to rub against the pillow, finger myself, and hit my thighs at the same time.

My panties stuck to me; the pillow’s cotton went slick and noisy under me. I ground the seam against my clit and curled my fingers, burying my knuckles so the heel of my palm could rub. The wet sound shocked me—proof I was awake.

I hit my chest.

It was different—sharper than thigh or face. My breast lit up, too sensitive for anything but a breath; the nipple peaked hard against my palm, pain tightening into a clean ribbon of pleasure. Breast: one. Heat: four. Ache: five.

I hit once more, and I came instantly.

My body folded in half. A scream tore from my throat - no - from deeper, maybe from my womb. My legs were shaking uncontrollably, my face was burning, and the breasts I had slapped was stinging. My pussy was clenching and unclenching around my fingers inside, a lava-hot liquid was flowing into my palm.

"Gooood!! Ohhh my goood!!"

I cried, of course. From happiness. From the absurdity of it all. From the situation I found myself in.

Then I must have fallen asleep. In the evening, I woke up when Haley's school bus arrived.

I was as hungry as a wolf, and as alive as a hungry wolf. I was back among the living.

---

That orgasm kept me calm for three days. On the fourth day, I was getting a bit restless because it was Saturday, and Saturdays were our lovemaking nights. The thought of going back and forth on my husband in a lame imitation after that perfect orgasm felt very unsettling. I was thinking I would just do another long and nice slapping session the next day to relieve myself. But in the evening, as we sat at the dinner table, an idea popped into my head. While Carl was complaining about the mistakes his idiot colleague at work made, I was forming my plan. I disappeared for a moment while clearing the table, leaving him to load the dishwasher so he wouldn't notice. I needed to go up, grab something from the bedroom, and take it down to the guest bathroom.

I was going to win my husband back tonight. Not with a rough fuck, of course. I couldn't expect something like that from Carl. But I had a way to feel him. Just like with the pillow.

After Haley fell asleep and the crappy show we were watching ended, I leaned into Carl's ear.

"Baby, I'm feeling a little extra full of love tonight. Will you go warm up the bed? I'll just tidy up here and be right there."

Of course, the idea of warming the bed so his delicate wife wouldn't be cold was a task my Carl would proudly fulfill. He went upstairs with brisk steps. I was sure the thought of warming the bed excited him more than sex itself. Two months ago, I would have fumed at this, but now, I was smiling.

I went into the guest bathroom. I got completely naked. Biting my lips to keep from screaming, I got to work. I started slapping myself. My face. My breasts, but most importantly, my thighs. Then, I opened the bathroom cabinet. The thing I had taken from the bedroom was there. One of Carl's leather belts.

I thumbed the buckle. Cold leather, dark smell. I turned the lock and listened—for the dishwasher’s hum, for Haley’s door quiet as a held breath.

I folded the belt in my hand. I had never tried this before, but I needed quick results tonight.

I held my breath and struck my thigh with the belt. It hurt so much I almost peed myself. But the sweet ache that followed was worth everything.

For a second I went still, palms on my thighs, feeling the welt rise, the heat collect under the skin like a small animal.

The belt’s edge kissed dangerously high, close enough that heat pooled between my lips. I counted the ache like a prayer.

Where the edge landed, the welt’s ridge felt glass-slick; any touch there was nettles.

The marks from the belt were visible. I was flying with pleasure. That pure energy, which first came as pain that made me jump where I stood, was turning into a debt of pleasure paid to my body in installments. For a moment, I wanted to forget all about Carl and just whip myself until I came. But the goal tonight wasn't an orgasm. The goal was to be able to reach a real orgasm on my husband's cock.

Before leaving, I also hit my ass a few times. And my breasts, once each. My breasts were too sensitive, so I didn't want to hit them more than once and lose myself.

I went up to the second floor. As I entered the bedroom, I hit the switch on the wall and turned off the light. I didn't want Carl to see the marks on my body.

"Baby?" he said, surprised.

"My love," I said, my voice trembling. I placed the belt on the nightstand and climbed into bed.

"The lights?"

"I want to do it in the dark tonight," I said, "to use my imagination."

“Hmm, new moves in the bedroom,” he said, and I could tell from the change in his voice that he was smiling. As I climbed on top of him, his hands cupped my ass, soft as always. They paused.

“Are you okay?” he whispered, and for once his breath snagged.

“Yes,” I whispered back, a nod he could feel under his hands.

But my ass wasn't as it always was. I had given each cheek a good four or five strikes with the belt. They were now covered in raw, hypersensitive skin. Even his softness bit.

His palm dragged over a welt and I flinched—sweet, but a clean bite that made me hold my breath before I took more.

At last, something in him answered me.

My legs were spread around his pelvis. The points of contact were burning. And I started to move back and forth. Even the slightest friction was setting my body ablaze.

The hard lip of a welt found bone; I shifted my weight, breath catching, and rode the bright ache.

I kissed him and slid my lips down to his chest. I had discovered this got him hard very quickly. In his mind, he was probably imagining me continuing downwards and sucking him. But just as he never did that to me, he had always stopped me whenever I tried. It wasn't something a noble beauty like me should do.

What would he say if he saw how I had slapped myself downstairs, whipping my thighs and ass with his belt? Would he slap me?

I wish.

I didn’t need more slaps tonight. My stomach and thighs already ached with heat, and I slid his cock into me, wet since downstairs. He filled me in a deep, slow stretch; a wet sound rose and I chased it, grinding my clit against his pubic bone. My legs spread around his pelvis. Every point of contact was heat. I angled my hips so a welt lay between us, a bright line I could ride.

When I pressed down, the welt pinched between bone and skin; a deep throb answered the surface burn.

I started to move. Even the slightest friction set my body ablaze.

"Aahhhhh Carllll I'm burning..."

"My dear wife, you're truly full of love this evening, even your body is so warm."

Of course, I tried to speed up, and of course, Carl grabbed my hips to slow me down. But I had marked my hips. His touch sent a painful spasm through my body.

"My love? Did you come?"

"No... N...Not yet, a little more..."

"Easy, baby, you'll hurt yourself."

"Carl... please shut up and just keep going. Like this. Yes. Deep."

I found a rhythm that wouldn't spook Carl and fed my aching skin. I tightened around him; a quick, feral thought: next time, a few on my pussy too. Then, near the peak, I drove down hard twice, and the pain lifted me over the edge.

I fell into an orgasm just like our first time making love. My pussy was tightening and contracting, triggering Carl's own release. One of my hands, clawed, was squeezing my own breast, my nails hard enough to leave marks. My calves, thighs, ass, and stomach were being torn apart in the grip of a violent spasm, trembling uncontrollably.

"Ahhh Carl, fuck me—just like that!" I managed. I wanted him sure I was enjoying this, wanted him hungrier next time.

“But you'll be sore all over tomorrow, my love,” he said, his voice dreamy. Clearly, he had also experienced a stronger orgasm than usual.

I finally collapsed on top of him. I moaned when my aching breasts were squeezed between us, but he must have attributed the contractions from the pain to my orgasm settling down, as he didn't comment.

The leather’s dark scent still clung to my skin; his breath warmed my neck; the heat settled low and heavy.

At last I had my husband back. Inside me he felt like a man again; his careful hands on my ass felt like claws drawing me closer.

In the dark I listened to his breathing lengthen. On the nightstand the belt cooled. Under the sheet the marks hummed. I counted them the way a child counts beads: left thigh, five; right thigh, five; ass, eight; breast, one. Heat: nine. Ache: seven. Next time, two more on the inside.

I fell asleep just like that. Luckily, I woke up before him in the morning and could wrap myself in the sheet, so he wouldn't see the marks on my body.

In the shower the next day, the water found the welts first; I hissed, then smiled without meaning to.

Under the red, a bruise was blooming purple-blue, tender as fruit.