Punching Bag (PG-13 for BDSM, discussion of domestic violence)

[jeriendhal]

This story originally appeared on my Patreon page. Please consider supporting me on Patreon to see stories like these at least thirty days in advance of the public.

* * 

The text from Angie was what first got me worrying.

Home late, not hungry, was all it said. 

Angelica was a motorcycle cop. I was used to her coming in late, given her shift hours tended to run long if there was some sort of crisis. But she almost always wanted dinner when she came home. It was part of my job to have it ready for her.

I should explain I guess. After we were married and my dad cut me off (not that I was crying too hard about that) we figured out between her salary and what my mother had left me, we could actually live pretty comfortably even without me holding a job. So to the neighbors I was her house husband. 

Between just Angie and me, I was her slave.

Okay, that sounds worse than it is. You have to understand us to get it. Angie was the daughter of a pair of Cuban exiles, and grew up in a family that was large, loud, and loving. But if you wanted to be heard in a family that big, you had to be a bit pushy, and Angie knew how to push.

Me, my family was small, just me, Mom, and Dad, with Dad being the big businessman Alpha Male and ruler of his home. I learned to do what I was told. When Mom was alive I just figured I just slide behind Dad into the family business. After she died, I came to realize just how much I couldn't stand him or the idea of becoming just like him. But it wasn't until I met Angie in college that I realized I could escape. With her standing behind me (and occasionally shoving me forward) I got the strength to finally tell Dad "No" and get the hell away. I was loved by Angie, and trusted by Angie, so I trusted her enough to take control of me.

So, I followed her rules. Inside the house? I didn't need shoes. Outside the house? Sandals if I was going anywhere. Sandals with socks if it were chilly. Same goes for my shirt, or lack thereof. If I wanted to go anywhere, I either planned with her in advance or I texted Angie and waited for her say so, however long it took her to get back to me.

Sound creepy? Well, for what it was worth we talked it out before agreeing to the rules. Also, the first year of our marriage there had been a nasty scare when I had a seizure, and Angie couldn't find me for three hours after I had collapsed in the street walking home with the groceries. It made her understandably paranoid, and knowing where I was every hour of the day eased her mind while she was at work.

So I made myself a burger for dinner, with another set aside for Angie just in case, despite her message, and waited.

It was past 10pm when I heard the garage door open and Angelica's civilian Harley pull up to the house.  She stomped into the living room, still dressed in her uniform, cycle helmet under her arm, her expression closed off and angry.

"Bad day, hon?" I asked. Then I took a step back as she gave me an absolutely furious look, her dark eyes smouldering. She started to raise a finger in a Shut the fuck up gesture, then caught herself. I watched as she set her helmet down on the coffee table, pulled open the buckle to her gun belt, then proceeded to pull the magazine from her service pistol, and lock it and the gun belt in her gun safe. Whatever her mood when she came through our door, given how much Crazy her job dumped on her, she never did anything about it before she made sure her weapon was locked safely away. 

I opened my mouth to ask her what happened, but she pressed her palm to my bare chest, shoving me against the wall before she grabbed both my wrists in one hand, pinning them above my head before she caught my hair in the fist of her other hand. Then she pressed her lips to mine, invading my mouth as her grip on my hair grew painfully tight, especially since I kept it long enough to go down my back, the way she liked it.

We were both gasping when she finally released my mouth. Before I dared try to talk again she flipped me around, pulling my wrists behind my back as she ratcheted her hinged police cuffs around them, trapping me. Angie then grabbed the bar between the cuffs and frog marched me down the hallway and then down the basement stairs to our "playroom". Okay, mostly it was just a finished basement, if you ignored the "quilt rack" in one corner (which usually had an actual quilt covering it anyway, and the heavy duty "plant hanger" eye bolts drilled into the ceiling. It was underneath one of those that she guided me, pushing me down to my knees before she went over to our "toybox", pulling out a pair of heavily padded suspension cuffs.

I continued to keep my mouth shut as she removed the handcuffs and wrapped the suspension cuffs around my wrists, clipping them together, and then lifting me up by the waist before locking them to the eyebolt. It left me dangling with my toes about three inches off the floor, swaying slightly, as Angie started unbuttoning her uniform blouse, tossing it onto a chair, leaving her topless save for her sports bra. Then reached into the toybox again, pulling out a pair of black leather kickboxing gloves, pulling them over her hands and setting the velcro straps with her teeth.

Oh, crap.

There was a meaty thunk as her fist hit the leather punching bag hanging from the hook to my right. Then Angie spun on heel of her motorcycle boot and kicked hard, following it up by a flurry of blows from her fists, then more kicks, each blow accompanied a primal, deep growl of anger. By the time she had finished ten minutes later, Angelina was panting hard, her dark curly hair hanging over her face, her bronze skin sheened with sweat. The punching bag was still swaying as she stepped over to hug me tightly, the gloves still on her hands. I nuzzled her sweaty hair, feeling the heat of her skin radiate from her, warming me in the chill basement air.

"You okay now?" I asked. Angie's head bobbed, then shook, ambiguous. "What happened?"

"Domestic dispute," she finally said, voice muffled as she buried her face in my chest. "Got the call, but we didn't get there in time. Murder-suicide." Then, after a moment, she added, "There was a baby."

"Fuck." What the hell else could I say?

She finally looked up at me, her face streaked with tears. "I'm sorry."

"For what?" I asked.

"For coming home like this. I was so fucking angry."

"Christ, you're human. If you weren't angry I'd be worried for you."

She looked up at me, her eyes still damp. "Okay, one, I told you about taking the Lord's name in vain. Two, you are my esclavo husband. You do so much for me. You don't deserve me stomping in and scaring the shit out of you. I saw your eyes when I put the gloves on."

I shrugged as best I could given my position. "Okay, yeah, maybe for a second. But do you think I'd stick around if I thought you'd hurt me for real?"

"She did," Angie said. "It wasn't our first call there. They tried to get her into a shelter, but she was too scared to try."

"Angie… Shit, let me down please. I can't talk to you like this." She pulled off her gloves and unhooked me from the ceiling, helping me out of the suspension cuffs. That let me put my arms around her and guide her to the overstuffed couch we kept down there for when we were coming down from a scene. I rested my head on her shoulder as she held me close, laying together. "You are not an abusive spouse, okay?" I told her. "Everything that happens between us is agreed upon. Every time I've ever safeworded you've listened to me. I live like I do with you, because I want to, not because you bullied me into it." 

"I dump too much stuff on you," she said, stroking my hair. 

"I don't get on my bike, drive onto the highway, and deal with all the insanity you do every day. You need to decompress and bitch into an ear that isn't either a fellow cop or your boss, so you don't go crazy. That's what I'm here for."

"You're a felpudo, a doormat," she accused.

"Nah," I said. "Walking over me with your boots on is one of the few things we haven't done."

Angelica made a face at me, trying to hold back the laugh that was coming up as I smiled at her. Then she finally let it out, squeezing me tight into her bosom as she rocked back and forth on the couch. "You fucker," she gasped. "I should walk all over you in these."

"Promises, promises," I said, nuzzling down into her bra.

"Ha!" Angie rolled me over, pinning my wrists as she straddled my body, leaning down to kiss me again. "You're mine, boy," she declared.

I wouldn't have it any other way.

Comments

[unfavorableinstigation]

... Actually pretty healthy, despite appearances! \o/ I like it.

Also, I did catch one typo - "If I wanted to go anywhere, I either planned with her in advance or I texted Angie and waited for her say so, however long it too* her to get back to me."

[jeriendhal]

Thank you, (and fixed the typo)!