On The Run
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This story is based on this illustration by Jay-Em called on the run.
"Apollo Androcles Krawiec," Pandora said, tapping the hairbrush against her palm, "you have exactly three seconds to explain why there’s a $5,000 withdrawal from our joint account marked 'MGM National Harbor Casino.'”
Apollo froze halfway through the kitchen door, his keys still dangling from his fingers. The overhead light caught the sweat at his temples. He hadn’t even taken his shoes off yet. Upstairs, the bedroom window was still open—she been watching for his car. His wife’s full name was Pandora Nausicaa Oved. Her last name meant Tiller in Hebrew; she was German Jewish. He was opposed as his last name meant tailor.
"I walked away ahead," he said, too quickly.
"Five grand up, Pandora. I swear, I left right after."
She didn’t blink. The hairbrush—solid maple, the one she’d bought specifically for this—twitched in her grip.
"We agreed. No more chances after Atlantic City." Her heels clicked against the tile as she stepped closer.
“You *promised* me."
Apollo’s throat worked. He’d always loved how her accent sharpened when she was angry, the way her German vowels bit down on his name. But right now, with the dining room chair already pulled out and waiting, that love felt like a very distant second to the dread pooling in his stomach.
Pandora's fingers closed around Apollo's wrist like a sprung bear trap. He didn't resist—they'd played this scene enough times that his body moved on autopilot, though his pulse still hammered against her grip. The dining room chair creaked as she sat, the maple brush resting across her thighs like a scepter. Apollo's breath hitched when her free hand flicked open his belt with practiced ease, the metallic clink of the buckle hitting tile louder than it had any right to be.
"Tighty whiteys are way better than boxes, honey. They show off the curves of your cute little butt!" she exclaimed, yanking the tight white cotton down to his thighs. The cool air against his exposed skin made him twitch, betraying him instantly. Pandora smirked, running a fingertip along the underside of his shaft—then promptly ignored it, dragging him face-down over her lap with one sharp tug. She also pressed down hard on his waist
“You think I don’t know?" Her whisper was pure acid as the hairbrush’s shadow loomed.
"That rush when the dice hit the felt? The way your pulse jumps watching the roulette wheel?" The first crack of maple against flesh echoed off the kitchen cabinets. Apollo’s scream tore through the house, his fingers clawing at her stockinged calves.
She didn’t wait. Left cheek still flaming, the right one got identical treatment—a precise, brutal symmetry that had him bucking against her grip.
The maple wood cracked down again—left cheek—then right, each impact timed like a metronome gone feral. Apollo’s yelps weren’t performances anymore; they ripped out of him raw between gritted teeth, his toes curling against the rug fibers. Pandora’s rhythm never faltered, her wrist flicking with the precision of a conductor orchestrating his suffering. By the sixth strike, his thighs were shaking. By the ninth, his fingers had torn a thread loose from the rug’s edge.
When the twelfth blow landed—a vicious cross-cheat swing that lit up both buttocks at once—he couldn’t fake stillness anymore. Apollo rolled sideways off her lap with a graceless thud, hissing as his scorched skin met the wool rug. He barely registered the northwest corner’s cold floor vent against his knees before his hands flew back, palms cupping the damaged flesh like he could smother the fire.
Pandora was on her feet before his first frantic rub finished. Her shadow eclipsed him where he knelt—a trembling silhouette framed by the kitchen’s overhead light. The maple brush tapped impatiently against her thigh.
"Get back OVER here this instant!" she hissed, each syllable barbed with the promise of unfinished business.
"Christ, Pan—it *hurts*," Apollo gasped, fingers still pressed to his throbbing backside. His hips shifted instinctively away from her lap, his body betraying him before his mouth could form another excuse. The rug fibers scratched his knees as he knelt there, caught between the cold floor vent and his wife's simmering glare.
Pandora didn't blink, saying, “Good. That means it's working. Now get back over. Unless you want the restraints."
Apollo's throat clicked. He knew that tone—the one she'd used in Atlantic City when he'd tried to duck out of their hotel room bathroom mid-discipline. "Pan, I—"
"One."
The maple brush twirled in her fingers like a baton.
"Two."
His thighs burned where they pressed against the rug.
"Three."
She leaned forward, and he caught the scent of her perfume—bitter orange and gunpowder, the one she wore specifically for these nights.
"Four."
Apollo's fingers dug into his own flaming cheeks. He couldn't move.
Pandora sighed through her nose, then snatched his left ear between thumb and forefinger. The pinch sent lightning down his spine—not pain, not exactly, but the electric humiliation of being led upstairs by his ear like a misbehaving schoolboy. Her heels clicked against each step in a mocking rhythm.
The closet door creaked. Apollo knew these sounds—the rustle of leather belts sliding free from hangers, the whisper of silk-lined restraints she'd bought after the Atlantic City incident. Four belts today. Last time it had been three.
"Downstairs," she murmured, guiding him back by the same ear, her grip just shy of painful. The chair waited where they'd left it, but now Pandora straddled it backwards, her skirt riding up enough to reveal the tops of her stockings. Apollo's mouth went dry.
"Over."
When he hesitated, she looped a belt around his wrist and yanked. The sudden pull sent him stumbling across her lap, his hips knocking against the chair's edge. The first belt cinched tight around his right wrist, the buckle cold against his pulse point as she latched it to the chair leg. Apollo jerked instinctively, but Pandora merely clicked her tongue—that same disappointed sound she'd made when he'd tried to sneak back into their Atlantic City suite at dawn.
The second belt caught his left wrist mid-flail. She didn't rush, threading the leather through the chair's back slat with the precision of someone who'd practiced this in the mirror. Apollo's breath came in shallow bursts now, his forearms twitching against the restraints. He knew better than to test them; she'd used Italian bridle leather last time, the kind that didn't stretch no matter how hard you pulled.
Her knee nudged his ankles apart—just enough to slide the third belt beneath his left calf. The leather whispered against his skin as she drew it taut, the buckle clicking shut with finality. Apollo's toes curled against the floorboards. He could still feel the ghost of her stocking seam where it had brushed his thigh earlier, that fleeting warmth swallowed by the cold pressure of the belt.
The fourth one went around his right ankle—not tight enough to cut circulation, just enough to keep him from kicking. Pandora paused to admire her handiwork: Apollo bent taut over her lap, wrists and ankles secured with belts that creaked faintly when he tested them. She traced the welted stripes crossing his backside with the tip of the maple brush, savoring his flinch.
“Now that I’ve made sure you’re not going anywhere, we can get back to business!”
The maple brush whistled through the air and landed dead-center with a crack that made Apollo's entire body jerk against the restraints. Pandora didn't pause—her wrist snapped forward again, then again, each impact timed like a stopwatch. Left cheek. Right. Upper thigh. Lower curve. Never the same spot twice. Apollo's breathing turned jagged by the twentieth stroke, his fingers scrabbling uselessly against the chair legs. The belts held.
The hairbrush rose and fell with relentless precision—left, right, center, upper thigh—until Apollo lost count somewhere around the hundredth stroke. His wrists strained against the belts, the leather creaking with each jerk of his body, but Pandora’s rhythm never wavered. By the time the two-hundred-and-eighty-eighth strike landed—a vicious diagonal slash that overlapped every previous welt—his screams had dissolved into ragged, wet gasps. The brush clattered onto the floor, its maple surface glistening with a sheen of sweat. Pandora exhaled, rolling her shoulders as she glanced at the oven clock. Five minutes exactly.
"If I ever catch you near a casino again," she hissed, raising the maple brush high, "it'll be ten minutes. Six hundred strokes. Until your backside is swollen purple as a plum,” she warned her husband in a strict no-nonsense tone of voice.
"Curtain rods make excellent impromptu switches," Pandora murmured against Apollo's ear, her breath hot on his damp neck. His thighs tensed under her lap, the involuntary twitch making the leather belts creak.
"Perfect for naughty boys who can't stay in position."
Apollo's head whipped around so fast his neck popped. The terror in his widened pupils reflected the overhead light—and Pandora's smirk. "Pan—"
"But I won't. Lucky you. Corner," Pandora commanded, snapping her fingers toward the northwest dining room corner— Matching the same corner he had fled to on the rug.
"Five minutes. Get the circulation back in those legs before you think about sitting again." She tilted her chin toward his throbbing backside with a pointed glance.
"And if I catch those hands anywhere near your cheeks, darling, I *will* whack that sexy ass of yours with the curtain rod.”
"Honey, I swear not to rub my bottom, and I’ll never even look at casinos again!”
"Good boy," Pandora murmured, her smirk softening into something dangerously close to affection. Her palm landed on Apollo's scorched backside with a light pat—just enough to make him hiss through clenched teeth—before she strode toward the kitchen.
This story is based on this illustration by Jay-Em called on the run.
"Apollo Androcles Krawiec," Pandora said, tapping the hairbrush against her palm, "you have exactly three seconds to explain why there’s a $5,000 withdrawal from our joint account marked 'MGM National Harbor Casino.'”
Apollo froze halfway through the kitchen door, his keys still dangling from his fingers. The overhead light caught the sweat at his temples. He hadn’t even taken his shoes off yet. Upstairs, the bedroom window was still open—she been watching for his car. His wife’s full name was Pandora Nausicaa Oved. Her last name meant Tiller in Hebrew; she was German Jewish. He was opposed as his last name meant tailor.
"I walked away ahead," he said, too quickly.
"Five grand up, Pandora. I swear, I left right after."
She didn’t blink. The hairbrush—solid maple, the one she’d bought specifically for this—twitched in her grip.
"We agreed. No more chances after Atlantic City." Her heels clicked against the tile as she stepped closer.
“You *promised* me."
Apollo’s throat worked. He’d always loved how her accent sharpened when she was angry, the way her German vowels bit down on his name. But right now, with the dining room chair already pulled out and waiting, that love felt like a very distant second to the dread pooling in his stomach.
Pandora's fingers closed around Apollo's wrist like a sprung bear trap. He didn't resist—they'd played this scene enough times that his body moved on autopilot, though his pulse still hammered against her grip. The dining room chair creaked as she sat, the maple brush resting across her thighs like a scepter. Apollo's breath hitched when her free hand flicked open his belt with practiced ease, the metallic clink of the buckle hitting tile louder than it had any right to be.
"Tighty whiteys are way better than boxes, honey. They show off the curves of your cute little butt!" she exclaimed, yanking the tight white cotton down to his thighs. The cool air against his exposed skin made him twitch, betraying him instantly. Pandora smirked, running a fingertip along the underside of his shaft—then promptly ignored it, dragging him face-down over her lap with one sharp tug. She also pressed down hard on his waist
“You think I don’t know?" Her whisper was pure acid as the hairbrush’s shadow loomed.
"That rush when the dice hit the felt? The way your pulse jumps watching the roulette wheel?" The first crack of maple against flesh echoed off the kitchen cabinets. Apollo’s scream tore through the house, his fingers clawing at her stockinged calves.
She didn’t wait. Left cheek still flaming, the right one got identical treatment—a precise, brutal symmetry that had him bucking against her grip.
The maple wood cracked down again—left cheek—then right, each impact timed like a metronome gone feral. Apollo’s yelps weren’t performances anymore; they ripped out of him raw between gritted teeth, his toes curling against the rug fibers. Pandora’s rhythm never faltered, her wrist flicking with the precision of a conductor orchestrating his suffering. By the sixth strike, his thighs were shaking. By the ninth, his fingers had torn a thread loose from the rug’s edge.
When the twelfth blow landed—a vicious cross-cheat swing that lit up both buttocks at once—he couldn’t fake stillness anymore. Apollo rolled sideways off her lap with a graceless thud, hissing as his scorched skin met the wool rug. He barely registered the northwest corner’s cold floor vent against his knees before his hands flew back, palms cupping the damaged flesh like he could smother the fire.
Pandora was on her feet before his first frantic rub finished. Her shadow eclipsed him where he knelt—a trembling silhouette framed by the kitchen’s overhead light. The maple brush tapped impatiently against her thigh.
"Get back OVER here this instant!" she hissed, each syllable barbed with the promise of unfinished business.
"Christ, Pan—it *hurts*," Apollo gasped, fingers still pressed to his throbbing backside. His hips shifted instinctively away from her lap, his body betraying him before his mouth could form another excuse. The rug fibers scratched his knees as he knelt there, caught between the cold floor vent and his wife's simmering glare.
Pandora didn't blink, saying, “Good. That means it's working. Now get back over. Unless you want the restraints."
Apollo's throat clicked. He knew that tone—the one she'd used in Atlantic City when he'd tried to duck out of their hotel room bathroom mid-discipline. "Pan, I—"
"One."
The maple brush twirled in her fingers like a baton.
"Two."
His thighs burned where they pressed against the rug.
"Three."
She leaned forward, and he caught the scent of her perfume—bitter orange and gunpowder, the one she wore specifically for these nights.
"Four."
Apollo's fingers dug into his own flaming cheeks. He couldn't move.
Pandora sighed through her nose, then snatched his left ear between thumb and forefinger. The pinch sent lightning down his spine—not pain, not exactly, but the electric humiliation of being led upstairs by his ear like a misbehaving schoolboy. Her heels clicked against each step in a mocking rhythm.
The closet door creaked. Apollo knew these sounds—the rustle of leather belts sliding free from hangers, the whisper of silk-lined restraints she'd bought after the Atlantic City incident. Four belts today. Last time it had been three.
"Downstairs," she murmured, guiding him back by the same ear, her grip just shy of painful. The chair waited where they'd left it, but now Pandora straddled it backwards, her skirt riding up enough to reveal the tops of her stockings. Apollo's mouth went dry.
"Over."
When he hesitated, she looped a belt around his wrist and yanked. The sudden pull sent him stumbling across her lap, his hips knocking against the chair's edge. The first belt cinched tight around his right wrist, the buckle cold against his pulse point as she latched it to the chair leg. Apollo jerked instinctively, but Pandora merely clicked her tongue—that same disappointed sound she'd made when he'd tried to sneak back into their Atlantic City suite at dawn.
The second belt caught his left wrist mid-flail. She didn't rush, threading the leather through the chair's back slat with the precision of someone who'd practiced this in the mirror. Apollo's breath came in shallow bursts now, his forearms twitching against the restraints. He knew better than to test them; she'd used Italian bridle leather last time, the kind that didn't stretch no matter how hard you pulled.
Her knee nudged his ankles apart—just enough to slide the third belt beneath his left calf. The leather whispered against his skin as she drew it taut, the buckle clicking shut with finality. Apollo's toes curled against the floorboards. He could still feel the ghost of her stocking seam where it had brushed his thigh earlier, that fleeting warmth swallowed by the cold pressure of the belt.
The fourth one went around his right ankle—not tight enough to cut circulation, just enough to keep him from kicking. Pandora paused to admire her handiwork: Apollo bent taut over her lap, wrists and ankles secured with belts that creaked faintly when he tested them. She traced the welted stripes crossing his backside with the tip of the maple brush, savoring his flinch.
“Now that I’ve made sure you’re not going anywhere, we can get back to business!”
The maple brush whistled through the air and landed dead-center with a crack that made Apollo's entire body jerk against the restraints. Pandora didn't pause—her wrist snapped forward again, then again, each impact timed like a stopwatch. Left cheek. Right. Upper thigh. Lower curve. Never the same spot twice. Apollo's breathing turned jagged by the twentieth stroke, his fingers scrabbling uselessly against the chair legs. The belts held.
The hairbrush rose and fell with relentless precision—left, right, center, upper thigh—until Apollo lost count somewhere around the hundredth stroke. His wrists strained against the belts, the leather creaking with each jerk of his body, but Pandora’s rhythm never wavered. By the time the two-hundred-and-eighty-eighth strike landed—a vicious diagonal slash that overlapped every previous welt—his screams had dissolved into ragged, wet gasps. The brush clattered onto the floor, its maple surface glistening with a sheen of sweat. Pandora exhaled, rolling her shoulders as she glanced at the oven clock. Five minutes exactly.
"If I ever catch you near a casino again," she hissed, raising the maple brush high, "it'll be ten minutes. Six hundred strokes. Until your backside is swollen purple as a plum,” she warned her husband in a strict no-nonsense tone of voice.
"Curtain rods make excellent impromptu switches," Pandora murmured against Apollo's ear, her breath hot on his damp neck. His thighs tensed under her lap, the involuntary twitch making the leather belts creak.
"Perfect for naughty boys who can't stay in position."
Apollo's head whipped around so fast his neck popped. The terror in his widened pupils reflected the overhead light—and Pandora's smirk. "Pan—"
"But I won't. Lucky you. Corner," Pandora commanded, snapping her fingers toward the northwest dining room corner— Matching the same corner he had fled to on the rug.
"Five minutes. Get the circulation back in those legs before you think about sitting again." She tilted her chin toward his throbbing backside with a pointed glance.
"And if I catch those hands anywhere near your cheeks, darling, I *will* whack that sexy ass of yours with the curtain rod.”
"Honey, I swear not to rub my bottom, and I’ll never even look at casinos again!”
"Good boy," Pandora murmured, her smirk softening into something dangerously close to affection. Her palm landed on Apollo's scorched backside with a light pat—just enough to make him hiss through clenched teeth—before she strode toward the kitchen.
31-35, M