Matinee Across Town

 Matinee Across Town

Story by Lisa and Jack

The Thursday sun pours through Emma’s kitchen windows, warm and golden, catching the dust motes floating in the air. I’m curled on her couch, still feeling the faint echo of Tuesday’s spanking when I sit too long. She’s scrolling on her phone, dark hair falling loose around her shoulders, wearing soft grey shorts and a tank top.

“Want to see a movie?” I ask.

She looks up, raises an eyebrow. “What movie?”

“That new thriller. The one with the redhead.”

Emma taps her screen, squints. “It’s only playing at the Metro.”

The Metro. The rundown theater in the old shopping plaza on the south side. The one with the flickering sign and the parking lot where people loiter. The neighborhood Tom has called a shithole more times than I can count.

“So?” I shrug. “It’s the middle of the day. It’ll be fine.”

“Jack hates that area.”

“Jack’s not here. And Tom’s in Milwaukee. We’re grown women.”

She hesitates, biting her lip. I can see the war in her eyes—the desire for spontaneity, for something that feels just a little bit dangerous.

The back door opens. Jack steps in, still in his work boots, holding a thermos. He’s in his grey coveralls, the top half tied around his waist, his undershirt stretching across his chest. His eyes land on us, immediately suspicious.

“What are you two scheming about?”

“Nothing,” I say too fast.

Emma holds up her phone. “Lisa wants to see a movie. It’s playing at the Metro.”

His jaw tightens. “No way.”

“Jack, it’s the afternoon,” I protest, sitting up straighter. “Broad daylight. We’ll be fine. Tom would let us go.”

“Tom’s not here,” he says, the words flat. “I am. And I’m saying no.”

Frustration flares in my chest. “Come on. Call him. If he says yes, we can go. That’s fair, right?”

Jack studies me for a long moment. Then he pulls out his phone. “Fine. Call him.”

I dial. It rings. Voicemail.

I try again. Rings. Voicemail.

“He’s in a meeting,” I say, the excuse thin even to my own ears. “He’ll call back.”

Jack’s expression doesn’t change. He tucks his phone away. “Then the answer is no. No Metro. Pick another theater or stay home.”

He grabs his lunch bag from the counter. “I have to go. We’ll talk about this tonight.” He points at Emma, then at me. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

The door clicks shut behind him. His truck starts, the rumble fading down the street.

Silence settles over the kitchen.

I look at Emma. “We should go anyway.”

“Lisa…”

“It’s the middle of the day. What’s the worst that could happen?” I lean forward, my voice dropping. “Jack’s at work all day. Tom’s not coming home until Saturday. We’ll be back by three. He’ll never know.”

She chews her thumbnail.

“Emma. Come on. When’s the last time you did something just for fun?”

Her eyes meet mine. I see the shift, the crack in her resolve.

“We need to text him,” she says quietly. “Jack. We need to say Tom agreed.”

“So text him.”

“He’ll know I’m lying.”

“Then I’ll text him.” I pull out my phone. “What’s his number?”

She rattles it off. I type: Hey Jack, Tom said it’s fine. We’re going to the 1:30 showing. Back by 4.

My thumb hovers over send.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” Emma whispers.

I send the text.

The lie sits in my stomach like a stone, but I push it down. It’ll be fine. We’ll be back before anyone notices.

The Metro smells like stale butter and old carpet. There are maybe ten other people in the theater, scattered across the rows. We sit near the middle, our popcorn balanced between us. The previews start. For a little while, it feels like we got away with it.

Thirty minutes in, the lights come on.

Not the movie lights. The house lights. Full, blinding brightness.

A man’s voice blares over the speakers. “Everyone stay calm. We have a situation. Please exit calmly through the emergency doors at the front.”

Emma grabs my arm. “What’s happening?”

“I don’t know.”

People are standing, murmuring, moving toward the exits. Then someone screams. A sharp, piercing sound from the lobby.

Shit.

We’re on our feet, pushing against the flow, heading for the back. The bathroom. The door slams shut behind us, the lock clicking into place.

Emma’s hands are shaking. “Oh god. Oh god, Lisa.”

My own hands tremble as I pull out my phone. I dial Jack.

One ring. Two. Three.

“Lisa?” His voice is sharp, already on edge.

“Jack. Something happened. At the theater. There’s—someone screamed. They’re evacuating. We’re in the bathroom.”

“Are you hurt?”

“No. Not yet. We locked ourselves in.”

He’s already moving, I can hear it in his voice, the shift from anger to action. “Stay there. Lock the door. Don’t open it for anyone but me. I’m on my way.”

The line goes dead.

We huddle in the corner, between the sink and the wall. Emma’s grip on my arm is bruising. The sounds from outside are muffled—shouting, a door slamming, more screams.

Minutes crawl by. Each one feels like an hour.

Then a knock. Three sharp taps.

“Lisa. Emma. Open up.”

Jack’s voice. I fumble with the lock, yank the door open. He’s standing there, breathing hard, his eyes scanning us both. He looks us over once, twice, satisfying himself we’re whole.

“Let’s go.”

He leads us through the back hallway, out a service door into the alley. His truck is idling at the edge of the lot. We climb in without a word. The engine rumbles as he pulls away, tires crunching over gravel.

The drive is silent.

Not the comfortable kind of silent. The kind that’s heavy, full of unspoken things. His knuckles are white on the steering wheel. His jaw is set so tight I can see the muscle jumping.

Emma stares out her window. I stare at the back of his head.

No one speaks.

He pulls into his driveway, the garage door rumbles up, and he drives in. The door closes behind us, sealing us in. Kills the engine.

“Inside. Now.”

His voice is flat. Controlled. That’s worse than yelling.

We follow him through the mudroom, into the kitchen, into the living room. He doesn’t turn on the lights. The afternoon sun filters through the blinds, casting long stripes across the floor.

He stands in the center of the room, arms crossed.

“What the hell were you two thinking?”

Emma’s lip quivers. “Jack, I’m sorry—”

“Sorry doesn’t cut it.” His eyes land on me. “You. You put her up to this. Didn’t you?”

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.

“I told you no. I told you it wasn’t safe. And you lied. To me. To Tom.”

My phone buzzes in my pocket. I don’t need to look. I know it’s Tom.

Jack holds up his own phone. “Tom texted me. Asked how the movie was. I told him I didn’t know what he was talking about. Imagine his surprise.”

The stone in my stomach sinks lower.

“You girls are in serious trouble.”

He walks to the hallway closet. Opens the door. Reaches to the top shelf. When he turns, he’s holding the oak hairbrush. It’s darker than the one at our house. Older. Heavier. The handle is worn smooth from use.

My throat goes dry.

“Pants off. Panties off. Both of you. Now.”

Emma’s face goes white. Her hands fumble at the waistband of her shorts. I watch her push them down, along with her lace panties, until they pool at her ankles. She steps out of them, bare from the waist down.

My turn. My fingers aren’t working right. The button on my jeans resists, then gives. The zipper is loud in the quiet room. I push them down, along with my cotton panties, and step out.

The air is cool on my skin. Exposed. Vulnerable.

“Corner. Both of you. Hands on your heads.”

We shuffle to the corner, side by side. The wallpaper is a faded floral pattern. I press my nose to it, my fingers laced on top of my head. The position arches my back, pushes my bare bottom out into the room.

I can hear him moving behind me. The scrape of the chair across the floor. The heavy thump as he sets it down.

“Emma. Come here.”

Her footsteps are hesitant. I hear her stop in front of him.

“Tell me what happened.”

Her voice is small. “We… we wanted to see the movie. Lisa said Tom would let us. We couldn’t reach him. So she texted you and said he said yes. But he didn’t. We lied.”

“You lied to me. You put yourself in danger. You put Lisa in danger. You knew the rule.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I’m so sorry.”

“Sorry is going to get you a very red bottom. Over my knee.”

I hear the rustle of fabric, the soft sound of her positioning herself over his lap. The creak of the chair as she settles.

“This is going to hurt,” he says. “And you’re going to take every stroke.”

THWACK.

The brush connects with flesh. Emma gasps, a sharp intake of air.

THWACK.

A whimper.

THWACK.

A cry.

THWACK.

A sob.

She starts counting through tears. “One… two… three…”

He doesn’t stop. The brush falls again and again, each stroke punctuated by her choked voice. By seven, she’s sobbing openly. By ten, she’s begging.

“Please, Jack, please, I’ll never do it again—”

THWACK.

“—I promise, please—”

THWACK.

“—it hurts so much—”

THWACK.

He doesn’t stop. The strokes land on her thighs now, the sensitive skin where her bottom meets her legs. Her cries pitch higher, more desperate.

“That’s for lying,” he says, his voice cold. “And this is for the danger you put yourself in.”

THWACK. THWACK. THWACK.

Three rapid strokes. She screams.

The sound of her sobbing fills the room. I stand in the corner, my hands still on my head, my heart hammering. Every cry makes me flinch. Every THWACK makes my stomach clench.

I’m next.

“Up,” he says. “Corner. Hands on your head.”

I hear her shuffle past me. I don’t turn. I can’t. I stare at the wallpaper, at the faded roses, at the tiny pattern repeating over and over.

“Lisa. Get over here.”

My legs are weak. I turn slowly, my feet carrying me across the room. The hardwood is cool under my soles. As I pass Emma, I see her bottom.

It’s a mess. Deep red, almost purple in places, with darker marks on her upper thighs. She’s trembling, her face pressed to the wall, tears streaming down her cheeks.

Jack is sitting in the straight-backed chair. The brush is in his hand. He looks at me, his expression unreadable.

“When I’m done with you, your bottom is going to look just like Emma’s.”

I stop in front of him. My voice is shaky. “Jack, please. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

“Come here.”

I step closer. He grabs my wrist and pulls me down, roughly, across his lap. The position is familiar now, but it feels different. The anticipation is worse than the act.

“This was your idea,” he says, his voice low in my ear. “You put her up to it. You told her to lie. You’re the reason she’s crying in the corner right now.”

Before I can answer—

THWACK.

The first stroke lands on my left cheek. The pain is immediate, explosive, a white-hot brand that steals my breath. I scream—a raw, guttural sound I don’t recognize.

THWACK.

The second lands on my right cheek. Two perfect red ovals bloom across my skin. I grip his jeans, my knuckles white, tears already streaming down my face.

He doesn’t pause. The brush falls again and again, alternating cheeks, setting fire to my bottom. I kick and squirm, but his arm is an iron band around my waist.

“You think you can lie to me? Put yourself and Emma in danger?”

THWACK. THWACK. THWACK.

“You think you can do whatever you want when Tom’s not here?”

THWACK. THWACK.

“You will think twice before you pull anything like this again.”

The brush lands on my thighs, the sensitive skin just below my bottom. I howl, bucking against his grip. The pain is overwhelming, a relentless blaze that consumes every thought.

“Please,” I sob. “Please, Jack, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—”

THWACK.

“Please, it hurts, I’ll be good, I promise—”

THWACK. THWACK.

He doesn’t stop until my backside is a blazing inferno. My voice is hoarse from crying. My body is limp, spent, trembling over his knee.

He lets me lie there for a moment, catching my breath. Then his hand rests on my back, not unkindly.

“Up. Corner. Next to Emma.”

I push myself up on shaky legs. The movement makes the pain flare. I shuffle to the corner, positioning myself beside Emma. My nose finds the wallpaper. My hands find my head.

I can feel her warmth next to me. I can hear her sniffles. We stand there, side by side, bare and broken, our bottoms on fire.

The sound of a camera click.

Shit.

He’s taking pictures. Verification for Tom.

“Don’t move.”

Another click. Then the sound of him typing. The soft whoosh of a sent message.

My phone buzzes. Then buzzes again.

“Tom,” Jack says, his voice flat. “He says he’s about twenty minutes from home.”

My heart lurches. Twenty minutes? He was supposed to be in Milwaukee until Saturday.

Jack’s footsteps approach. He stops behind us. “He’s coming here. You’re going to stand in this corner until he arrives. Then you’re going to face him. And you’re going to tell him exactly what you did.”

My stomach churns. Tears still leak from my eyes.

The minutes crawl by. Each one is measured by the throbbing in my backside, the ache in my legs, the shame of my position.

The doorbell rings.

I hear Jack’s footsteps cross the room. The creak of the front door opening.

“Tom. Come in.”

I don’t turn. I can’t. I stare at the wallpaper, at the faded roses, at the tiny pattern repeating over and over.

“Well,” Tom’s voice, from behind me. Calm. Controlled. “Looks like you two had quite an afternoon.”

The sound of his footsteps. He’s walking toward us. I feel his presence, close, warm.

“Turn around. Both of you.”

I turn slowly. Emma turns beside me.

Tom is standing three feet away. He’s still in his travel clothes—a button-down shirt, sleeves rolled up, his tie loose. He looks tired. And angry.

His eyes rake over us. The bare skin. The red, welted bottoms. The tear-streaked faces.

He lets out a long breath.

“Jack filled me in on the details. The lie. The theater. The robbery.” His voice is low. “You could have been hurt. Both of you.”

I can’t meet his eyes. I stare at his shoes.

“Look at me, Lisa.”

I force my gaze up.

“What do you have to say for yourself?”

My voice is a croak. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have lied. I shouldn’t have put Emma in danger. I was stupid.”

“You were,” he agrees. “But you already paid for that part.” He gestures at my reddened bottom. “That doesn’t mean we’re done talking.”

He looks at both of us. “You’re going to stand here for another ten minutes. Then you’re going to get dressed. And then we’re going to sit down and have a real conversation about trust.”

He turns to Jack. “You got pictures?”

Jack holds out his phone. Tom takes it, scrolls through. A low whistle escapes him.

“You didn’t hold back.”

“They earned it.”

Tom hands the phone back. “No argument here.”

He looks at me. There’s no softness in his eyes. Just disappointment.

Jack looks at Emma and says, “Get your bottom in the bedroom, you are getting a second round with the hair brush.” Emma, crying, just nods and heads to the bedroom. 

Tom says, “Good idea” grabs my upper arm and says "Let's go home!”