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Jack sits in the Bureau car with tinted windows across the street, watching you nervously wave goodbye to Ellen and rush back to the house. You look both ways and still don’t see him. Idiot. A sports car speeds down the street– not a foot away from you! His heart skips a beat. You could have been hurt, or worse. 

He takes off, white-knuckling the steering wheel. How could you? He only has one rule for you, and you’re just breaking it? Day after day, going over to Ellen’s house to do God knows what with God knows who else. 

He parks the car in the garage and smoothes back his hair. He takes the elevator up from the garage to Surveillance. 

“Cutting it close on lunch there, Jack,” a coworker notes. “Too good for the cafeteria?”

“My lady makes a good tuna salad, Frank,” he jokes, trying to hide his grimace. 

At the end of the day, Jack says goodbye to the lingering agents in Surveillance– the ones without wives to get home to, who will probably heat up a TV dinner and fall asleep on the sofa. He casually strolls out to the parking lot. He fishes for his car key in his briefcase and scowls at that little plastic Dialpak hiding inside. He felt like throwing up when he found the thing buried among the powders in your makeup drawer. 

He drives home slowly. He wants to drag it out. He smirks a little at the thought of you tapping your foot anxiously while staring at the clock. Maybe you’ve frantically searched through every drawer trying to find your misplaced contraband. 

He parks in the drive and takes his sweet time walking up the path. He unlocks the door and pushes it open. 

“Honey, I’m home,” he calls.

He grins when he sees you. You do look frightened, but relieved. Your toe is tapping just as he predicted, and your shoes are on. 

“You’re so late,” you coo, walking over to take his coat. “The traffic must have been awful.”

He wants to start off nice. Ease you into this punishment. 

“Your shoes are on,” he states. 

“Hm? Oh. I, um, I was just trying them on with this dress,” you clumsily lie. 

“In the garden?” he adds, pointing to the smudge of dirt on the toe. 

“What?” you play dumb.

He grabs you by the arm and brings you to the kitchen, sitting you at the dining table. The plastic chair wobbles with the force. He kneels down, snatching your heel off your foot and inspecting it. 

“It’s dirty, sweetheart,” he grits through a pained-looking smile. “You went outside,” he accuses.

“J-Jack, I-” he sees the panic on your face setting in, “I’m sorry, Jackie, I’m so sorry, I was just dropping off that Tupperware Ellen had brought over-”

“For thirty minutes?” he barks at you, standing up. 

His hand squeezes your shoe and you watch his face turn red as the vein in his forehead pops out. 

“You… you were watching me?” you whisper in realisation. 

“Why didn’t you call her?” he snarls, his blue eyes wide and crazed. “She could have come and got it herself-”

“Because that sounds insane! Hi Ellen, I know you just live across the street but could you come to me and get your dish? You know they all ask, Jack! ‘Why can’t you leave the house? Why don’t you ever go anywhere without him?’” you shout at him. 

He throws your shoe across the kitchen, striking the clock and making it fall to the ground and shatter. You gasp but before you can complain about the clock being a gift, he’s got you by the arm again, lifting you out of your chair and taking your place. He drapes you over his lap and reaches for the hem of your dress. 

“Jack! Jack, no-!”

Your voice and struggles are both paused by a hard smack on your backside. 

“I’m your husband!” he shouts, spanking you again. “You’re mine, for better or for goddamn worse, and a good wife oughta listen to her husband. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Jack, of course,” you plead. “Yes, of course, please-”

“Be a good girl for me, sweetheart, please?” he says softly, patting your behind gently with that big, warm hand. “I love you so much, honey, I wake up in the night just worried sick about everything out there. You’re so beautiful, there are so many… deviants out there who would want to hurt you.”

“Please, d-don’t-”

He spanks you again, again, and five more times until his hand is rubbing that stinging heat in. You sob, gripping his trousers for something to hold on to. 

“Don’t you ever leave this house again without me,” he barks.

“I won’t, I won't," you bawl, your mascara blurring your vision of the tile in the kitchen.

“I don’t like to hurt you. I don’t like it at all, honey,” his voice slips into that squeaky, desperate tone again. “You can’t leave, baby. You can’t. I’ll just die if anything happens to you, sweetheart. I’ll die.”

You can’t even speak anymore. You’re overwhelmed by the broken glass and his rage and the heat between your legs– you realise suddenly that his hand is between your legs. 

“Oh, honey,” he purrs. “I knew you liked this.”

“No-”

“No, no, I knew it. You love it when I put you in your place, sweetheart. You’re such a good girl for me,” he breathes, his fingers skimming over the soaked-through gusset of your nylon panties. 

Despite your best efforts, you moan.

“I know what you need, honey.”

Your stomach drops.

“You need a baby.”

“No, no, I don’t want a baby, J-Jack, stop it, no-”

He lifts you up and pushes you over the dining table. 

“You’ll look so perfect with a baby. You’ll have something to worry about right here at home. No reason to leave, no reason to go over to anyone’s house. They can come here and help you with our little angel,” he explains. 

He’s giddy like a schoolboy, fumbling to unbuckle his belt and unzip his trousers.

“Jack- can I- y-your fingers first, please,” you beg in a choked sob.

“Ellen’s such a stupid whore, isn’t she?” he ignores your request, seething behind you. “Putting all these goddamn… ideas in your head, like you’re some kind of bra-burning college student. You’re not!”

He pushes you down and rips your panties down your legs, lining up with your soaking cunt. He drags the tip of his cock through your folds and pushes in slowly. You cry out, clawing at the table.

“Don’t scratch up the table, baby, we haven’t had dinner,” he snarls, leaning over you.

He lifts your hair and kisses the nape of your neck, inhaling deeply.

“Your shampoo smells so nice,” he murmurs. “I gotta give you a little baby. And maybe we don’t stop at one.”

You bawl, trying to wriggle out from under him. His large hand plants on your back, pinning your body to the table. Finally sheathed inside, he twitches, nudging your cervix. 

“J-Jack,” you croak. “Plea-”

Before you can finish begging, he pulls out until only the tip is in you and slams back in. He’s punishing you with this. It’s hardly even pleasurable for him, the way he pumps in and out of you like an animal. His hand fists into the skirt of your dress, using it to yank your hips back to meet his thrusts. The zipper on his trousers pinches into your thigh each time he drives home. 

“You’re my wife, my wife. You didn’t choose any of those other fucking morons in class, you chose me. Me! God, honey, you just make me so damn angry sometimes! I don’t want to yell at you!” he tries to hold back the rage shaking through his justifications.

You wish you could deny your body, but the warmth gathering in your tummy is hard to ignore. You’re cold and lonely all day in your empty house. 

Maybe it would be better to have a kid. You’d have someone to take care of, to keep you company and play with. And once the first went off to school, you could have another on the way. 

Jack watches the crease between your brows smooth out. 

“That’s it, baby,” he coos, holding you gentler. “That’s my girl. Lemme take away all that worry. Lemme give you a baby, sweetheart.”

“Yes, Jack,” you breathe, arching your back and allowing him to sneak his hand under you.

His fingers rub tight circles around your clit. He’s precise and quick. You’ve been married for long enough that he knows how to take you apart like he does his firearm. 

“There she is, c’mon. Don’t cry, sweetie. Don’t cry, this is a good thing,” he lies, trying to comfort you and coax you into an orgasm. “I know babies take better if the mama cums… cum for me, sweetie, be good for once today, please.”

You shatter in his hands, and he takes his time picking up your pieces. Kissing away tears, smoothing his hand over your shoulder. 

“Fuck, baby. Feel so good. I’m so clo-se…”

All the sweet words in the world have you in a deep spell— only taken out by the familiar sensation of his warm cum filling you up.

“Atta girl, hon. Love you so much.”

He gives you one last swat on the backside and pulls out. His fingers immediately plug the hole. 

“We’ll just stay here for a while… until it has time to take. And then we can have dinner.” 

He kisses your cheek. 

“I love you, baby.”

“I love you too, Jack,” you whisper, stuck under his thumb like you always are. 

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Lion looks away as you push him against the wall. You quickly lock the front door of your shared apartment, then grab his face and turn his head back.

“Look at me,” you growl at him. “I can’t believe you would do that to me!”

“I’m so-rry-”

“You embarrassed me in front of all of our friends!” you shout. 

At the nice dinner you had gone out to with his manager and agent, Lion had mentioned offhandedly that his real dream was always to open a laundromat. You saw red, and before you could stop him from talking he alluded to retiring soon.

“I-I meant it though, I don’t wanna box an-anymore,” he whines, his eyes not facing you.

You dig your nails into his cheeks. 

“Fuck, ow! Why do you care s-so much?” he asks you, his voice wobbling with incoming tears.

“Why do I- are you fucking stupid, Lion?” 

You know exactly what to do. The same card you pull every time, the one that gets him to kiss your feet and beg for forgiveness.

You sniffle, storming away from him. 

“No, baby, d-don’t cry,” he urges you.

You hold your eyes wide open for a second, fanning air into them. You feel the sting of them drying up and the slow welling of water at the bottom. You blink, letting two small tears collect your mascara and drip little black lines down your cheeks. 

Lion watches you turn around and face him, feeling heat in his stomach when he sees your teary-eyed pout. This always happens. The moment you get sniffly or start to tear up, he feels dizzy. Something about you crying just makes him so horny. He’s desperate to stop your tears– or at least turn them into tears of pleasure. 

“I’m sorry,” he coos quickly, rushing over to try and hug you. 

You push him away, shaking your head.

“I don’t believe you,” you spit as you fake cry.

“I-I mean it! Please, baby-”

Your hand moves from his face to his forehead, pushing him down onto his knees.

“Prove it, Lion,” you huff out, blinking your eyes to let a fat tear fall onto his forehead. 

It streaks down the middle of his face, leaving a trail of black speckles in its path. 

“Wh- prove it?” he questions quietly. 

You feel his arms hugging around your legs, his cheek pressing to your bare thigh. Your eyes go wide at the press of his hardening cock against your shin. 

“You are such a sick little freak, Lion!” you accuse him, the tears flowing freely now. “You always do this! Every time I’m c-crying because you won’t listen to me I see you getting fucking hard-”

“No, no, it’s b-because you look so pretty! You look so pretty, baby, that’s why! I wouldn’t- I don’t-”

“Ugh! You’re such a liar!” you shout.

You really have to try not to smirk. He’s just so damn easy. 

He hugs your legs closer and you try to squirm away. Your heel grazes his cock in his trousers and he groans. 

“Lion,” you complain. “Move!”

“Please, please, I’m sorry,” he begs you. “I’m so sorry, baby, please,” he cries. “I-I’m drunk, I wasn’t thinking straight…”

He rocks his hips against your heeled foot, chanting apologies to the hem of your dress. He kisses the tops of your thighs as your dress rides up. Your false squirming continues, but you have to cover your face to hide your grin. 

Lion lets his legs spread wider, his hot breath fanning over your thighs. He continues to apologise, the words becoming more broken and desperate with every drag of his clothed cock over the straps of your heels. Your movement doesn’t help, sporadically pushing and sliding your foot against him. Your dress rides up– he’s been pushing it with his hands– so far that your lacy panties are on display. He kisses over your cunt, licking the fabric over your folds until it’s stuck to you with his spit and your want. 

“I’m sorry, baby, t-tell me you forgive me, say you forgive me, please, please,” he sobs, shaking on the floor below you.

“You’re so stupid,” you snarl at him. “You don’t even know how great of an athlete you are. You’re the best boxer I’ve ever seen, Lion-”

“Stop, stop, j-just say you forgive me,” he pleads, humping your leg faster now.

“Everyone else out there is a little boy playfighting and you’re like… you’re like a fucking tiger,” you gush, curling your hand in his hair. “You would give that up? For what? To wash other people’s clothes?”

“Please,” he whimpers, looking up at you with tears in his eyes. “I’m not quitting, I won’t quit, I promise.”

You lean down and tug on his hair.

“I forgive you.”

He gasps for air, jerking against you as he cums in his trousers, making a mess of his nice boxer briefs. He slumps against your leg and you feel his tears dripping down your thigh. 

“Get those in the machine, since you wanna do laundry so bad,” you snark, shoving him back with your hand on his forehead.