The Fifty-Dollar Lesson

By Nathayle

I went to bed, a little drunk, knowing I shouldn't have done it.

Slept in the next morning. Got up around 10 and dragged myself into the shower. Pulled on panties and a nice loose t-shirt, brushed my hair out, and went to see what kind of cereal I had in the kitchen.

Ben was standing in the living room, waiting for me. I stopped short, startled.

“Where is it?” he asked, arms crossed, tattoo of the Hawaiian Islands sloping over the muscles in his forearm. I knew what he was talking about, but played dumb.

Or, maybe I wasn't playing. Let's be honest, if I'd been smart I wouldn't have done it in the first place.

“Where's what,” I asked. Then, trying to look angry: “What are you doing in here?”

He threw a key at the coffee table – it bounced onto the floor. Oh, right. He had a key.

“You know damn well what, Nat,” he said, voice louder. “Everybody knew you had it. Susie saw you throw it. Where is it?” He was right in front of me now, finger jabbing at me.

Susie. That bitch.

“Oh, Susie saw me,” I said sarcastically. “You boinking her, too?”

He looked surprised, but just for a second. “What's that supposed to mean?”

“Julie, you butthead. That's what it means. She left you a message about the great time she had with you last weekend. Last weekend, remember, asshole? When you called me to break up?” I let my voice get a little shrieky.

Now you know how I got here, with this hulking wannabe ultimate fighter sticking a finger between my boobs. He broke up with me over the phone. We saw each other again last night, in a group. I needed to call a cab and somebody put a phone into my hand. It was Ben's. I ignored the call that came in, but noticed the name – Julie. Listened to the message, and figured it out.

So I took threw his brand new flip-phone with digital camera and voice activation as hard as I could. Heard it hit pavement. And then I left.

“You listened to my messages?” Ben asked.

“Just get the hell out of here and be thankful I didn't know where your car was, you jerk,” I said, trying to push him toward the door.

He grabbed my wrist, squeezed. “You little bitch,” he said. “You're gonna pay for that phone.”

I'm no pushover. I work out. I row. And I'll wrestle and spar with whoever wants a go. That's one of the reasons I started dating Ben in the first place. And I wasn't going to have him putting his hands on me.

“Let go,” I spat, throwing my right fist at his chin.

It connected. Not bad, but not enough. He kept my wrist and grabbed my shoulder, too, wrenching me around and catching me in a bear hug from behind.

He had me good. Both my arms were useless, partially crossed, trapped. His two big arms wrapped around me and squeezed – not a crushing bear hug, but enough to keep me still.

Still, I tried to head butt him. No go. My head was against his chest.

“Tough little bitch, right?” Ben said. He shoved me to my knees, then to the floor, lowering himself with me to keep his bear hug on. Once my legs were straight out behind me, he leaned back, pulling me into a backbreaker.

On TV, this looks totally fake. In my living room, it wasn't. I gasped at the pain, thrashed with my head.

“Ben, you're hurting me,” I whimpered. Yeah, I'm really tough. Ben's eight inches taller, a hundred pounds heavier, and benches 325. If he was serious about fighting, I didn't have a prayer, and suddenly worried that he might really hurt me.

“You owe me two hundred fifty bucks, bitch,” he said into my ear. “This is only about a dollar's worth.” He let go, pitching me onto my face and dropping his knee onto my shoulder blades. No chance of rolling away.

“Tell you what,” he said. “Make you a deal.” He pulled my face up by the hair. “I'm gonna teach you a lesson worth about fifty bucks, then you can just come up with the rest.” He bounced my face off the carpet. Then his knee disappeared.

One hand grabbed me by the hair, the other grabbed the back of my shirt, and pulled. I came to my feet.

I knew I only had a couple of chances – had to go for his groin, or his shins, or his eyes – get the hell out of here. In hindsight, I suppose I should have screamed. I just didn't believe he would really beat me up. It didn't quite compute.

All my rational thought was for nothing, though. Once on my feet, I swung a blind haymaker, even though I was half-turned away from him and he still had control of my head. I hit something – probably his shoulder – and then he drove a fist into my stomach.

Whooof. I dropped to my knees, his fist still holding my hair. He began to lift me again.

“Ben,” I croaked. “I can pay…”

And then he threw me – took my hair in both hands and swung me – across the room. I bounced off the far side of the coffee table, and landed on the floor.

I hadn't caught my breath back yet, quite, and the pain in my scalp and my shoulder – took me a moment to recover, before I could try and get to my feet. That was too long. I saw the coffee table slide away, and he was over me again.

He picked me up and shoved me onto the couch. Holding me by the neck, he began punching with his right hand – glancing blows, because my arms and my legs were in the way, but hard punches still, on my chest and my side. Whenever he got any kind of opening he would punch again. And again.

Then he aimed one at my face. My hands went up, and he pulled back, grabbed my arm and heaved it over my head, dragging me onto my side.

He put a knee on my other arm and threw another right fist into my stomach. I let out some kind of squeak, buried my face in the cushion and pulled my knees up as far as I could. That protected my tummy, but not my chest: he pounded me there two, three, four times, landing them on my boobs and on my ribs.

Then he stood and pulled me until my shoulders hung off the couch. I tried to roll onto the floor, but he pushed his knee onto my pelvis and, still holding my wrist, he pinned my legs, too.

I was completely exposed. Even my shirt had fallen away, leaving several inches of skin between it and my underwear.

“What are we up to,” he asked me. “About five bucks?” And he punched me in the belly. Once, twice, three times in succession.

The good news was I could use my own ab muscles now, at least a little. The bad news was: he knew that.

“Let's see how much you can take,” he said, and pulled himself straighter to drive his punches harder.

He punched me again. Something like a “fooph” came out of my mouth. He punched me again, harder than the first time. And then again.

I was gritting my teeth, resisting as much as I could. I could tell when he was about to punch, so I could tense up at the right time. He figured that out, though, and began to punch faster. One, two, three, four, five. Not as hard, but hard enough. Every second, another punch. Again, and again, and another, and another. Punch. And punch. And punch again.

I hoofed, and pwoofed, and whimpered every time. I had no time to rest, no time to breathe.

Then he stopped holding back, and drove his fist hard into my stomach. The hardest yet. I wasn't ready. It drove past my muscles. Tried to scream but didn't have any air. My legs convulsed, twisted, and he let me fall to the floor.

I tried to curl up, which seemed to make it worse. I stretched my body out – that was better, but I could see Ben's feet right near me. I curled up again.

“Ben, please,” I said in a tiny voice, as soon as I could.

“Y'know, I've actually fantasized about this,” Ben said. “About beating you up. Always wondered what it would be like to beat up a girl.” He reached for me. I squeaked, grabbed his arms, tried to scoot away. But there was nowhere to go.

Up I went, pushing and slapping against his chest and face. He hardly noticed. He shoved me against the wall and started pulling my shirt back up: I grabbed it, pushed down.

“No, no,” he said, and slapped me, open handed, across the nose. Again, and I let go to protect my face.

The shirt came up, over my head. My arms were stuck inside it for just a second, and that's when he unloaded on my tummy again. His fist drove in, my butt hit the wall, and then I hit the floor. My shirt stayed in his other hand.

I was just lying there, groaning pitifully. He let me do that for, I dunno. Maybe a minute. Then he grabbed me by the hair again and pulled.

I wasn't moving this time. The pain in my head wasn't worth it: the pain in my stomach was worse. But he didn't take dead weight for an answer. He took my neck in his other hand, and lifted. Up I went again, and back against the wall.

I was trying to hold him away, and trying to cover my breasts at the same time. Stupid, I know. He slapped the side of my head, then jabbed me in the side, then just grabbed both my hands and pinned them against the wall.

“You've got a nice body, Nat,” he said, looking down at me. “Small tits, though. That's why I went with Jules, you know. She's got great tits.”

He took both my wrists in one big hand, then pinched my nipple and twisted. I squealed – I don't mind it during sex, but this is a little different. I pulled one hand out and pushed his hand away, squirming to the side.

He pushed me back again, lifted my hand again and this time slapped my breast with a loud smack.

God, how I wanted to hit him. Pull out handfuls of his hair. Stick my nail in his eye.

But I could barely stand up. I had nothing left.

He sensed that and, after slapping my tits a few more times, he let me cover myself with both arms and threw one more punch into my stomach. I lost an enormous hoooof with that one, and hit the floor again.

“Okay, Nat, I guess that's about fifty bucks,” he said. “You come up with the rest, you hear me?”

Once I heard the door slam behind him, I forced myself up and locked it. Slid the chain on, too. Fell to the floor, against the wall. Looked around.

He'd taken the key with him.

Ben

I got to Nat's apartment, not quite in the same blind rage I'd been in last night, but mad enough to break the door down. I would have, too, if she'd had the chain on like I always told her to.

But she didn't: just the deadbolt, and I still had my key. Stupid girl.

Walking in, I could hear the shower just turning off, so I waited. She came out a few minutes later, wearing a blue t-shirt and bare legs. She stopped short, surprised, and I thought a little scared. I crossed my arms. I always look bigger when I cross my arms.

“Where is it,” I asked.

It took her a second to figure out how to lie. “Where's what?” she asked. Then she tried to get tough. “What are you doing in here?”

I threw the key onto the coffee table. It bounced onto the floor.

“You know damn well what, Nat,” I started to yell, and got right up in her face. I could see her getting a little scared, but trying to hide it. “Everybody knew you had it. Susie saw you throw it. Where is it?”

Suddenly she had some composure.

“Oh, Susie saw me,” she said. “You boinking her, too?”

What? “What's that supposed to mean?”

“Julie, you butthead. That's what it means,” her voice rose, both in pitch and volume. “She left you a message about the great time she had with you last weekend. Last weekend, remember, asshole? When you called me to break up?”

Yeah, you dumb bitch, I broke up with you so I could go out with her. I broke up with you.

Hey, wait a minute…

“You listened to my messages?” I asked.

That's when she started to shove me. “Just get the hell out of here and be thankful I didn't know where your car was, you jerk.”

I grabbed her wrist, angrier than ever. “You little bitch,” I said. “You're gonna pay for that phone.”

And then she punched me.

It wasn't the hardest I'd ever been hit, but it was up there. A solid shot, right across my chin. If I hadn't been holding her other arm, if she'd been able to use her body, she might have knocked me over.

Tough little girl, Natalie is. Likes to fight. Or, she likes to play fight. There's a pretty big difference.

I spun her around and pulled her in, pinning her arms. I squeezed, lifted her off the floor a little. She was trying to head butt me, but she was too low. Couldn't reach my jaw.

“Tough little bitch, right?” I said. I shoved her down to her knees, making sure to keep a tight hold on her at the same time. Then I lowered her all the way to the floor, and by leaning my own body back, I pulled her into a backbreaker.

Just like bending a pencil against a table.

She started to gasp. “Ben, you're hurting me,” she said in this pitiful little voice.

You should've thought of that before, stupid. “You owe me two hundred fifty bucks, bitch,” I said. Then I had an idea. “This is only about a dollar's worth.” I let her fall to the floor, then pinned her with my knee in her back.

“Tell you what,” I said. “Make you a deal.” I grabbed a handful of her hair and pulled her head back – sort of a mini-backbreaker. I got down real close, talked right into her ear.

“I'm gonna teach you a lesson worth about fifty bucks, then you can just come up with the rest.” I pushed her head down – her face hit the carpet – and stood up.

Gotta be careful, here, I warned myself. Don't get her bloody.

I grabbed her by the hair and the shirt and pulled her up – she came to her feet pretty easy, which should have clued me in that she was going to try something. Lucky for me, it wasn't much. She swung wildly, hitting me in the shoulder and leaving herself wide open for me to punch her, hard, in the stomach.

Her feet lifted off the floor a little, and she dropped to her knees. I let her fall but kept hold of her hair.

“Ben,” she said, out of breath. “I can pay…”

Shut up. I grabbed a second handful of hair and yanked her up, then swung her, flinging her onto the coffee table. She hit with her shoulder – that must've hurt – and rolled onto the floor.

No, sweetheart, you're not hiding from me. I dragged her coffee table out of the way and grabbed her again, this time by the head. Sat her on the couch and punched her in the stomach again.

She was trying to fend me off. It was kind of cute, really. She had her arms straight out, pushing and slapping at me, and her knees up, trying to use her feet to push me away. This is what I mean by the difference between play and real. On the sparring mat, this chick knows just what to do. But here she is in a real fight, and she's acting like a school girl.

Stupid.

I was punching her in the stomach, and the side, and sometimes in the chest, whenever I saw an opening. Not great punches – couldn't really get a good one off, what with her arms and legs all over the place. Then she caught me in the chin again with her foot, and enough was enough. I almost hit her in the face, then thought better of it. Grabbed her arm instead, and pushed her onto her side.

Holding one arm, I pinned her other arm with my knee. That also gave me better leverage to hit her again – smack, right in the soft part of her belly. Nice and hard.

She squeaked and pulled her knees up, so I punched her in the chest, instead. Again, hitting her tit, and then punched down onto her ribs. Good shots, but I really wanted to hit her in the belly.

So I got off her to try and pin her legs down. She slid a little: her shoulders were hanging off the couch, her head nearly on the floor, but her legs up in the air. I pinned her hand against her chest, then put my knee across her thighs and leaned on them, pinning her legs down.

This was nice. Her shirt had fallen up, so her belly was exposed. Smooth skin, with just a hint of the muscles underneath. This was going to be fun.

“What are we up to, about five bucks?” I asked her, and then punched her, right on her belly button.

She let out this cute little whoof. So I did it again. And then I punched her again.

This was starting to turn me on.

She was tensing her stomach just before I hit her, so I changed things up a little. Instead of waiting between punches, I just kept hitting her. Punch, punch, punch, punch, punch. Same place. Right below her belly button.

“Let's see how much you can take,” I said. She was keeping her muscles taut, but she couldn't keep it up forever. I hit her again, and again, and again. And again. Bam, bam, bam. Smack, smack, smack. My fist slapping against her skin. Over, and over, and another punch, and another punch.

I must've hit her twenty times like that. Not as hard as I could, but hard. She was getting tired, whimpering, almost starting to cry. So then I let one go – hit her hard. Drove my fist into her, right above the panty line.

She made some kind of strangled noise, and kicked her legs so hard she shook loose from my pin. I let her fall onto the floor. She was convulsing, it looked like. Pulling her legs in, then stretching out, then curling up again. Writhing around on the floor.

“Ben, please,” I heard her say.

“Y'know, I've actually fantasized about this,” I said. “About beating you up. Always wondered what it would be like to beat up a girl.” I reached for her again, picked her up by the hair and the shirt, and dragged her over to the wall. Stood her up against it and pulled her shirt up, so I could punch her on the skin again.

She fought me on that, tried to push her shirt down. So I slapped her on the nose. That'll hurt, even when you're as out of it as she was. I slapped her again, and her arms went up to her head. Then I wrenched her shirt up, hard, over her tits, and punched her in the stomach.

Leaned into it pretty good. She collapsed onto the floor – a little wriggling ball. Mostly naked, now, since her shirt had come off in my hand.

I dropped it, and watched her groan for a minute. Too bad, I thought, all of a sudden. She sure is sexy. Slim. Muscular. Liked to wrestle with me, even though she knew I'd be in control.

But, oh well. I took her by the hair again – awfully considerate of girls to have so much hair for us to grab – and hauled her up.

She was trying to push me with one hand and cover her tits with the other. I slapped her once, then took both her hands and banged them up against the wall, put them together so I could hold both with one of mine. Spent a second admiring her.

“You've got a nice body, Nat,” I said. Then I couldn't resist the dig. “Small tits, though. That's why I went with Jules, you know. She's got great tits.” Nat's always been a little sensitive about that.

Then I took her nipple and twisted it. Hard.

She screamed, and got her hands away from me. I grabbed them again, put them back, and slapped her tit. Same one. Did it again right away when she didn't try to pull away again. Then again. Then I let her hands go and unloaded another punch to her belly.

She woofed with a little strangled squeal at the end of it. Hit the floor again and I figured enough's enough.

“Okay, Nat, I guess that's about fifty bucks,” I said. “You come up with the rest, you hear me?” Something shiny caught my eye – the key. On a whim, I scooped it up on my way out the door.

Sure, she might learn her lesson and start locking the chain. But maybe not. And if she doesn't pay, up, well, I'll pay her another visit.