Monica (2 page)

It was as if I hadn’t seen the length of her neck in months, nor the delicacy of her wrists. I knew every inch of her skin, every curve of her body, yet, that day, when she’d said
no
to me, I anticipated the prospect of showing her why that wasn’t going to wash any longer with no little delight.

I went back into the hall, closing the engineering room door behind me.

MONICA

His scent cut through the dank musk of the studio before the sound of the door closing reached my ears.

“Hi,” I said without looking up from my notes. “Can we meet with those guys? Jerry wants to lay out a plan for Wednesday.”

His fingertips grazed the back of my neck, and I shuddered, closing my eyes halfway.

“No,” he whispered.

“I’ll meet you at home later, if you want.”

“Stand up.”

I looked up. He stood over me, hand at the back of my neck, face broaching no arguments. I don’t know what my expression said, but my mind went utterly dark for a second.

I stood, reaching for my bag.

He gently took it from me and laid it back down. I started to object but didn’t get past the first syllable before he had his fingers to my lips.

“Unbutton your shirt,” he said. We gazed deeply at each other for longer than usual, and I knew even before my fingers touched my shirt, that he wasn’t interested in a standard, sweet, encounter.

He brushed his thumb over my lips, across my jaw, and lodged it under my chin, forcing me to look at the dusty fluorescent lights.

I undid my buttons in a businesslike fashion while he spoke.

“I haven’t told you this in a long time, so I want to remind you. You are mine. Any time. Any place. Without questions. You get on your knees when I say. You spread your legs when I say. You open your mouth and take whatever I put in it. Do you understand?”

He must have felt me swallow against the heel of his hand. He was back. I didn’t know when or how, but this wasn’t sick Jonathan getting pissed at his handful of pills. This wasn’t the guy who let me top him, or the man who made love to me fearfully and gently. That man was a good husband. Difficult, because he felt like his body wasn’t his own, but a good life mate by any standard.

For as long as I’d been married, I hadn’t felt safe.

Until then, staring at the ceiling, unprepared to hear the voice of my king again. Then, my insides vibrated like a piano string and I shut my eyes tight against tears.

“Yes, sir,” I said.

“Pull your pants down.”

I worried about the door. Was it open? And the door to the engineering room. Anyone could walk in.

This was a simple matter of trust, which I’d forgotten how to do.
Trust him. You’re safe with him
.

I opened my pants and wiggled them down. I wore lace and garter, which felt scratchy and uncomfortable under jeans, but I wore it because I promised I would, even if I’d promised a different man.

He slipped his finger under the straps. His touch had gone electric, exactly right, like when we first met. I felt it through layers of skin and muscle, to my bones.

“All the way off.”

I stepped out of my pants.

“Why are you crying, goddess?”

“I don’t know.”

“What’s your safe word?”

I blurted a laugh to the ceiling. “Fuck. I forgot.”

“Do you want a new one?” He slid his finger under my bra, pushing it up, releasing my breasts. The nipples were hard candies, ready for him.

“Yes, sir.”

“Your choice.”

“
Invictus
.”

He pinched a nipple and pulled it to the point of delicious pain. “Out of the night that covers me, black as the pit from pole to pole, I thank whatever gods may be, for my unconquerable soul.”

“Jonathan…” His name was a prayer.

“Turn around.”

I faced the piano, putting my back to him. He slid his hand over my neck and around my shirt collar, pulling it down my arms, drawing his hands over my skin.

“I’m going to ask you something,” he said, pulling my long sleeves halfway off. He twisted the sleeves around my arms, wrapping them around and tying them tightly at the elbows.

His pause long enough for me to say, “sir?”

“Are you happy?” he asked. I heard the distinct clack of his belt buckle.

I didn’t answer. He slid his belt out of his pants with a
whook
.

“I asked you a question.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Is that the answer?” He gripped the back of my neck

“It’s confirmation that I heard you.”

With a sharp push, he pinned my face to the shiny black of the piano.

“Are you happy?” he repeated.

“Can you be more specific?”

“Sure.” With a thwack that was as hard as it was unexpected, he slapped my ass with his belt. I screamed.

“Too hard?”

“No, sir.” It was. A fierce burn was settling where he’d hit me, and I already wanted more. I wanted him to tear me apart. In the second, the breath’s worth of time it took for my body to register pain, I cracked. I didn’t want to go to dinner with Jerry and the guys and I didn’t want to go home. I wanted to hurt, and hurt deep. I wanted to feel pain, and safety, and surrender; to lose myself and my own will. I’d forgotten how much I needed it, but like a woman waking from a dreamless sleep, the reality of who I was came back to me. I swore I wouldn’t say my safe word until I was near death.

“Behave, then, before I gag you.” He whacked me again, and again. I grunted, but didn’t cry out, even when he hit the sensitive area at the backs of my thighs.

“Now,” his breath rasped with effort. “Tell me, goddess, are you happy?” his last stroke was so hard it felt like a blowtorch on my ass. He took the hair on the back of my head in his fist and brought his face close to mine. “To avoid misunderstandings. Are you
happily married
?”

I swallowed.

He put his belt down in front of my face and squeezed my ass. The pain was overwhelming. I could barely see through it, nor could I form words past the gushing arousal between my legs.

“Answer me,” he said. “And the truth. Are you happy?”

He was foggy through my tears, but his voice was clear enough to focus on.

“No,” I said. “I’m not.”

As much as I broke down into tears and hitched sobs, he seemed unfazed by the news. As if he’d already known. And as if he didn’t give a shit about my happiness. He brought his hand over my burning cheeks, lacing a finger in the crack, down to my opening.

I was soaked. Dripping. Gushing readiness for him. I wished he’d asked me for the truth after he fucked me, because how could he now? I tell him I’m miserable and expect a body-ripping, passionate screw? Crazy, magical thinking.

He slipped a finger inside me. I’d fucked him a few hundred times in the past six months, but that finger cruelly jamming into me, with the palm laying against my scalding ass, was the best thing I’d had in half a year.

“Thank you for telling me the truth,” he said. “But you’re wet. And crying.”

“I’m sorry, sir.”

“Poor goddess.” He pulled his finger out and slipped it to the hard nodule of my clit. My eyes shut. My mouth opened. My cunt was awake with anticipation as he continued. “Even in love, you need pain.”

“I love you,” I whispered.

He drew his hand back and slapped my ass with full force. I bit back a cry. “Don’t talk,” he growled. “There’s been wholly too much talking between us.”

I nodded.

He folded the belt in two and said, “Open your mouth.” When I did, he put the belt in it. “Bite.”

I bit the leather. It was still warm from hitting me. Had he ever been this cruel and hard? Had he ever been this
dominant
? I couldn’t remember. I couldn’t think.

Then Jonathan put his hands on my hips, and let his cock touch where I was wet. I bit the belt as if I wanted to swallow it. He didn’t ask for permission to jam his dick into me in one fell stroke, making me grunt into the tanned skin. He didn’t ask if my happiness was required. He just fucked me. He fucked me like I wasn’t even there, slapping himself against my burning ass cheeks, a frame of pain for the pleasure between my legs. He pulled my cheeks apart, stretching them, pain everywhere, and drove into me with everything he had, using me mercilessly. I lost myself in him, in the hurt, the rising tide of my emotions. I’d told him I was unhappy, and the weight of the misery fell off me, leaving an empty place for him to fill with his cock and his searing belt.

I grunted with every thrust. It was coming. The rush of pleasure. My grunts turned to squeals, and he slowed to barely moving.

“I didn’t say you could come.”

I hadn’t had to ask permission for an orgasm in six months. I hadn’t even thought of it.

He removed the belt.

“I’m sorry, sir,” I gasped. “May I come?”

“When?”

“Now?” I paused for a hitched breath. “And later, if it pleases you.”

“No.” He slowed, letting me feel every inch of him. He opened my cheeks again, right where my legs met my ass and I was red and sore, getting his whole length in.

I choked out a half sob, half moan.

“No,” he said, slapping my ass. “The answer is still no.”

“I don’t think I can stop it.”

He pulled out. I gasped. But as much as I expected him to continue fucking me, I didn’t expect what he did next, quickly guiding himself to my asshole and mercilessly pushing forward.

“No!” I shouted.

He yanked my head back by the hair. “What?”

I couldn’t repeat it. Safeword or no, he’d stop. “Nothing.”

He pushed the rest of his cock in my ass without preamble, my soft weeping turned into face-soaking sobs. “God, oh God it hurts.”

“Pain is the point, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Your ass is mine, whether I warn you or not. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

He yanked my hair again, pulling back until I faced him. “Yes, what?”

“Yes, sir.”

The first few strokes were murder. I felt torn apart, ripped from the inside. We’d done some gentle, well-lubricated anal in the past few months. But not like this. Not as a beating.

“You’ve been a bitch, goddess. That’s over. From now on, you step when I say walk. You eat when I feed you. You come when I allow it. If I so much as look at your knees, you get on them and open your fucking mouth.”

I grunted. He reached around me and put his palm to my throat. He pulled me back, and though I felt like I was falling, I trusted him and put weight on my aching legs, shifting back. He sat on the piano bench, and with my back to his front and his cock in my ass, I sat into him.

“Spread your legs.” Not giving me a chance to even obey, he yanked my legs apart, squeezing my ass cheeks together, tightening me around his cock. I bit back a cry of pain. “All the way. I want your cunt out.”

I spread my knees, on tiptoes to the floor, fighting for balance. My elbows were still tied behind my back, and when it looked like I’d fall, he pulled me upright.

“Reach back,” he said. “Spread those gorgeous cheeks apart.”

I did, fighting the constraints of my knotted shirt, cursing the stinging skin on my ass as much as I blessed it.

“Now, come down, all the way. All the way. That’s it. Bury me in you.” He reached around and slipped his middle finger in my cunt, gathering wetness, and dragging it to my clit. “You’re not coming until I say. And you’re going to hold back by concentrating on one thing, and one thing only.”

“What, sir?” I groaned, the pleasure in my clit pushing against the pain behind it.

“Pleasing me. So. Fuck. And fuck hard. Go.”

I moved up his length, and back down, his shaft sliding against my anus, friction hot against the dry muscle.

“Faster.”

His cock beat my insides, shredded me, while his fingers took my hole three at a time and the heel of his hand kept a constant pressure on my clit.

“Come on, goddess. I’m not pleased.”

I grabbed my cheeks wider, slammed down on him harder, knees aching, arms on fire, ass beyond pain. Yet the pleasure between my legs grew, pressing against the agony and winning.

“That’s good,” he growled. “Very good.”

“Thank you.” I gasped, relieved, relaxed now because he was content. I heard his breaths getting shorter. I was close, but I didn’t care. I wanted him to have what he wanted. I wanted him to be satisfied. I beat down on his cock, mindless of what I was doing to myself.

“I’m going to come,” he said.

“Thank you,” I squeaked, more tears streaming.

“Come with me.”

“Yes. Oh, yes.”

He grunted, but it was more than a grunt, and in the second before I lost myself in pleasure I noted how vocal he was. More than ever. He released, truly, fully, losing control, pulling my hair until I thought he’d tear it out. I was washed away in it, the pleasure of his hand on my clit, the torture in my ass as my orgasm clenched it around his cock in an undulating rhythm. I came forever, lost in it, in him, his satisfaction, in the pain. I was gone, my identity washed away in complete submission to his pleasure and his will; without ambition or desire of my own, simply enslaved, caged, collared. Nothing. No one. Not a feeling of dissatisfaction in my belly, only humility and a feeling of complete, overwhelming gratitude.

“Goddess?” he whispered when I stopped twitching.

I tried to answer, but I was blubbering. I took a few breaths to calm down. “Yes, sir?”

“Are you okay?”

“Thank you.”

He untied me. I put my aching arms on my knees and he pushed me gently forward, his dick slipping out of my ass. I sucked in a breath.

He pulled me into his lap and kissed the tears running down my cheeks. I held him and wept fully. The emotional release poured out of me as he rubbed my back and kissed my face and neck. My awareness of the world around me, my body, the chair, the room, the building, the time of day, was brought about by the softness of his lips and the way he whispered my name,
goddess, goddess, goddess.

“I haven’t been what you need,” he said softly.

“You couldn’t be. I understand.”

“That’s over now.”

“Thank you.”