Paint it red

"I'm ready. I think I'm ready," Nick announces half-way out of the door. 

    "Oh. What, today?" Izzie's eyes go wide, and he can't read, is it out of excitement or something else. Dropping the bomb and leaving suddenly doesn't look like a good idea. He closes the door and steps back in. 

    "I don't know, what, today no good?" 

    "If you say today, it's today. What time?" she asks, like setting up a time for a business meeting. 

    "When I come back? Iz, are you ok?" he probes with caution. 

    "I'm getting my ass whipped tonight, of course, I'm not ok," she bites her lip. 

    "That.. that's not exactly the reaction I expected." 

    "What did you expect? That I would jump for joy?" she lashes out again. 

    "Kind of. You've been grilling me to do it for so long." 

    "Not long enough." 

    "No? What do you want, Iz?" 

    "Beside world peace?" She turns away to hide the rollercoaster of emotions. "You didn't scream 'language'." 

    "I don't scream. When?" 

    "I said 'ass', you didn't say anything." 

    "Iz, what are we doing?" both hands are buried in his hair. 

    She saw a modern sculpture in a gallery once, a mighty lion, its taut body ripped in a powerless silent roar of grief or despair. That's what Nick was now, a wounded animal, and she couldn't help him, he had to step up himself, had to take the damn plunge, to call it. 

    "No! No wiggling out of it," she launches into a new brazen tirade. "If you said today, then so be it. After you come back tonight, so be it. If you say, every Friday before bedtime, so be it. If I'm yelling at you like this, that's an extra trip to the couch, right there and then." 

    "Which couch?" he asks just to break her monologue. 

    "That couch," an angry finger points in the direction of the couch. "Bare bottom, paint it red. No discussion."

    He nods absent-mindedly, no discussion, that's the key, that's what she wants. He sheds off his suit jacket without looking at her. He fumbles with the cuffs, then decides to leave them be and just pulls the sleeves up as far as they go. In the corner of his eye he sees her gulp and drop her head. 

    He gestures to the couch with his chin, and that's enough to send her in motion to get over and ready. For the first time, to lower her panties in front of him, not for sex. 

    She holds her breath through a few hard no-swing swats, knowing that this barrage won't go on for long, few seconds, and his near-zero pain tolerance will take over. 

    "How will you shake hands? At least, use your left hand," she pleads. 

    "Don't tell me what to do,"  he grits through his teeth, and yet, he switches the sides to deliver a few with his left hand. 

    "You can't use your hands. Use your belt."

    "Shush!" He collapses with a yelp next to her, cradling both hands and almost crying out of frustration. Her bum is the slightest shade of pink, and he saw the pictures, when she said red, she meant red, crimson red. 

    "Nicky, you're killing yourself." In an attempt of a hug, she pulls his head to rest on her shoulder, but he brushes off her hand. 

    "You don't say." He reaches for the inside pocket of his suit jacket and gobbles up two of his painkiller pills. "That was a downpayment for tonight." He pats her bum and gets up on his feet. "I'll call you later." 

    "Nicky?"

    "What?!"

    "Thank you." 

    "Oh please, spare me." 

To be continued