One Mississippi...

[MissParadoxical]

He awakens, His body rigid with an undefined dread. The darkness of their chamber swallows the scant light struggling through the curtains, reflecting the tumult of His soul. His breath comes in slow controlled heaves, an echo of *** and His brow is furrowed with the shadows of a damning dream.

"What's wrong?" Her voice, a tentative whisper against the thick, oppressive silence.

"I had a dream…where I…was a hypocrite," He hisses, the words laced with venom and self-contempt. The confession churns His stomach like stink bait slathered across His tongue as it stains the air between them.

She lets the weight of His words settle, a specter of patience in the half light. "I understand," she says, recognizing the depth of His inner turmoil.

His shoulders, once a bastion of strength, now cringe with an unseen burden. He can't seem to shed the invisible chains of disquiet. "I don't feel in control of anything right now," He admits, a growl rumbling from within, the beast of vulnerability baring its fangs.

"One…Mississippi," His voice cuts through the stillness, a harbinger of the tightening noose of His regained command.

Her heart races…it's the beginning of a macabre ritual, a desperate grasp at the threads of authority slipping from His fingers.

The house sings a haunting melody of moans and clicks, each note a spike of adrenaline to her heart. She's under no illusion…He's already piecing together her hiding place. In the rapidly shrinking window of opportunity, she weighs her options…to contort herself into a seemingly impossible space, concealed yet trapped, or to stay unshrouded, granting herself the slim possibility of escape when He descends upon her.

The numbers toll, relentless. Nine Mississippi... Ten Mississippi...

"Ready or not…here come." As He lifts himself, His body responds to the morning's call, undeterred by His internal disquiet. Navigating the house is second nature…her favored haunts are known to Him as well as His own shadow. The space, though limited, cannot quell the thrilling pulse of excitement that revels in the impending chase.

She's nestled into her chosen sanctuary, yet a pang of vulnerability gnaws at her resolve. Meanwhile, He commences his stealthy voyage through their domestic confines, savoring the imminent shock He hopes to deliver. The bathroom yields no quarry, only the sneer of a half-drained shampoo bottle. Then, with a swift motion, He exposes the underbelly of their bed, but His little monstrosity eludes Him there, too.


His search intensifies, the silence of each empty room stoking the flames of His irritation. As His internal tumult rises, He's left with only the garage and the open air beyond as His final stages. Slipping into the garage, He approaches the vehicle, a dormant beast within its lair. His gaze pierces the car window, and there she is, supine on the backseat, her smile smug with victory. The car door, steadfastly locked, her possession of the keys a silent taunt.

His intellect is not to be underestimated, for He's weathered this gambit before. The foresight to secrete a second set of keys in His private alcove is His ace. Mocking her perceived victory with a grin, His exuberance sends chilling ripples down her spine. The rapid click of unlocking doors breaks the silence and before she can react, she's seized by the ankles. Resignation has taught her the futility of struggle, so she surrenders to inertia. Held aloft on His shoulder, her form unresisting, she feels the sting of His hand-once, twice-counting her defeat in Mississippi's slow rhythm.

With each resounding spank, she cannot help but emit a sharp yelp. "Nine Mississippi," He intones, the finality looming. Her voice, a breathy whisper, betrays her turmoil. “I hate you…"

"I know," He replies, His amusement cutting through the air. There's no "ten Mississippi"...instead, He opens the trunk and deposits her within its confines. "Sit... stay," He commands, His tone brooking no argument. The trunk lid descends, sealing her fate. He lays down the law…trigger the emergency release and she'll find herself bereft of pleasure for days on end.

She's encapsulated in the hush of the garage, left to navigate the expanse of her inner thoughts. An eternity seems to ebb and flow within the cramped space, until the toll of fif*** minutes ignites a spark of worry. Her mind races, dissecting His every possible mood…if His spirits were low, she could be facing a lengthy confinement. Distorted by the absence of time, she leans into meditation, seeking equilibrium, interrupted only by the rebellion of a hungry stomach. Her release comes after forty-five minutes, the trunk springing open to His chipper declaration. "GOOD MORNING!" His enthusiasm punctures the veil of her isolation. "Whipped up some omelettes and cleaned the kitchen. Time's up for me, I've got work… Get out," His voice is firm, yet not unkind, as He sets the morning's tone.

Emerging from the darkness of the trunk, her nude form unfurls, leaving Him momentarily confounded. She meets His bewildered gaze with a shrug, her words floating in the air, "I don't know…wishful thinking?" With that, she retreats to the sanctity of the house, while He sets out for His daily labors. Upon reaching His workplace, He unburdens the trunk of His possessions. Her clothes catch his eye, a personal memento. He inhales their scent, a grin curling His lips, a pleasant start to the banality of the day.