Will against will (M/F story)

 He rubbed his forehead in pure frustration. This wasn't working. He looked up at his girlfriend, as she stood there, facing the corner with her hands on her head. Her entire body was telegraphing her unwillingness to give in.

 

"All you have to do is call her and tell her you're sorry, and this will all be over."

 

"I am not saying sorry," she said calmly.

 

He picked up the hairbrush, patting it against his palm. "You know, you can make this a lot easier on yourself."

 

"I am not saying sorry," she repeated, as calmly as before.

He patted his knee. "Come here." She stepped out of the corner and lowered herself over his lap. Ten hard strokes broke the nervous silence, and he helped her to her feet. “Are you going to call her now?”

 

"I am not saying sorry."

 

He sighed. He loved her with all his heart, but when she had made up her mind, it was hard to make her see reason. He patted his lap again, and she went back into position. This time, he gave her fifteen strokes, just as hard as before. He helped her to her feet, with the same question as before. The answer was predictable: "I am not saying sorry."

 

Frustration was spreading. She didn't resist as he pulled down her jeans, or as he pulled her over his knee again. Fifteen new strokes, these ones lighter, as he knew it would be much more painful without the protection of her jeans. He helped her to her feet, and dried a small tear that had appeared in the corner of her eye. This time, she didn't even wait for him to ask the question. "I am not saying sorry."

 

He pulled down her panties, and this time, he made sure the strokes were as hard as before. He had tried to be reasonable, and it had gotten him nowhere. Fifteen good, hard strokes of solid oak. With her still over his knee, he asked her if she was ready to make the call.

 

"I am not saying sorry."

 

Another fifteen strokes, the hardest yet. Her bottom was pretty red now, and he rubbed it gently. "Are you ready to be reasonable?"

 

The tears were running freely, and her voice was unsteady, but the will was still there. "I am not saying sorry."

 

Thirty hard strokes, and she started gasping and kicking hard after ten. A hundred in total, he thought to himself. He helped her to her feet and handed her the phone. "Call."

 

She threw the phone away. "I am not saying sorry."

 

Back over his knee, and this time, he decided it was going to be his will against hers. He held her hands behind her back so she wouldn't try to protect herself against the brush, and caught both her legs in his so she couldn't kick. He picked up the hairbrush again and told her, "Just let me know when you're ready to give up."

 

Twenty strokes, and she was crying out with every single one. Neither was willing to give up.

 

Forty strokes, and her bottom was redder than he had ever seen it. She wouldn't sit comfortably for a while, and had to be in great pain.

 

She didn't give up at fifty strokes. She didn't give in at a hundred. Finally, after one hundred and thirty-seven hard strokes, she cried out. "I give up!"

 

He lowered the brush. "You'll call her?"

 

"I'll call her, I promise!"

 

He gave her a long hug, and she leaned against his chest while he rubbed the pain out of her bottom. The phone could wait.

 

Twenty minutes later, she was standing with the phone, with jeans and underwear still around her ankles, while was sitting nearby with the brush in his hands; he wouldn't put it past her to call, but don't apologize. Well, if she tried that, he was ready to give her another dose.

 

She put the phone down. Her apology had been accepted. She walked up to him and gave him a hug, and they stood there for a while, in total silence. Finally, she whispered a silent, "Thank you."

 

He kissed her. "Any time."