Breathe (Songs of Submission #10)(13)

I crossed my arms and leaned my butt on the counter. I felt petulant and immature. I wanted to kick dirt and stick out my tongue.

“You can do this,” he said.

“Fuck you.” I pouted right through the cuss.

“Maybe you need to use the fork before you start next time.”

“I hate that thing.”

“Me too. Where is it?”

I pointed my chin at my bag. “Right in there. Coulda used it, but noooo… Miss Egopants didn’t need it.”

He plucked the box out of my purse. When I’d committed to the process, I’d gotten a little black bracelet box out of a drawer for my fork, just like Mrs. Yuan’s. I wanted to be as reverent as she was. Jonathan removed the fork and tapped it.

The tines hummed.

“It’s too late,” I said. If he made me sing, I would seriously turn into a brat the likes of which…

He put the fork to my lower lip.

“It tickles.” I slapped it away.

He put his hand on my throat and held me still, tapping the fork again. “Hush now.”

His voice left no room for argument. It was a fact. I was hushing. I was submitting. I was letting him do whatever he wanted, because he was my king, and his voice let me know a king was precisely what I needed.

He put the fork to my lower lip. It tickled like mad, and I fought to stay still.

“How long is Darren’s band going to play?”

“Half an hour, forty minutes.”

“Lean back.” He locked the door.

“You know why I failed tonight?” I said.

“Why?” He put the tuning fork in his pocket and pulled up my shirt.

“I got cocky. I practiced just enough to think I had it but not enough to get it right.”

“You’re really hard on yourself. I didn’t know that about you.” He put his hands up my skirt, simultaneously exposing me and drifting over my inner thighs. “You’re either a talentless hack because you have to work on your craft, or you’re a lazy ass because you don’t work hard enough.”

“Maybe I’m both.”

He slid off my underwear. “Sure. You’re a master con artist. Everyone’s fooled. Why aren’t your legs spread? Come on. Let’s work on this position. I have something to propose.”

He picked up my knees and placed my heels on the edge of the counter, then he pulled them apart until I was completely exposed to him. God, his eyes on me made the air between us into a solid mass I could rub up against.

“Shoulder blades together. Good.” Gently, he put his hand under my upper back and pulled it up until my lower back was straight and my tits stuck out. “Put your head back. I want to see that throat. I want to see where the music comes from.”

The top of my head brushed against the mirror. I felt thrust forward. Exposed. Vulnerable. As if I was attacking with my soft underbelly. Only trust made this possible.

“How are you doing?” he asked.

“Fine, sir.”

“I want you to keep your mind between us. What note is this?”

“A.”

He tapped the fork. It hummed to A, and I fought the urge to join it to see if I could match it with my legs spread. But all I was angled to see was the cracked ceiling.

The fork touched my lower lip again before he drew it down to my throat, ever so lightly, so the vibrations wouldn’t stop.

“Don’t answer,” he said. “Let me talk.”

He tapped again and put one of the tines to my nipple, and I stiffened. The sensation was so intense. He shushed me, got me back to center, and put the vibrating fork to my other nipple. The pleasure went right between my legs.

“You trust me,” he said. “And I trust you. What we do, it’s no one’s business. But I think you lose me when you’re running around chasing perfection. I think your mind wanders, and I want to bring you back to me—to us—when you need it.”

Tap.

And the little tingling vibration inside my right knee and coursed upward. The flinching tension of my cunt as he got closer, a recoil couched in desire. He got six inches and tapped again. God, it tickled and sent me wild. I wanted it, and I didn’t. He tapped again. Left side. Wince. Want. Gasp as he got close.

Tap. Circling the tingling vibrations along the outermost part of my lips. I squeaked.

He put his other hand on my throat, covering it. “Let me hear you.”

He tapped the fork, and I hummed in A, my vocal cords safe against his hand as he touched my clit with the fork. I bucked like an animal, and he held me with the safety of his hand.

“I want to feel the note.”

I stayed on A, or as close as anyone could manage with the tines of a tuning fork vibrating against her clit. He worked lightly, or the vibrations would stop, putting it lengthways against me, just enough to get me so close. So close. He tapped again when it stopped and put it against me so lightly it drove me wild.

“Don’t stop,” he said, tapping again. “And don’t come.”

“I can’t I can’t—”

“You can.”

Again with that vibrating piece of metal on me. I was so wet that he only touched the juices flowing from me. The liquid quivered, and my humming broke into a hitch.

He tapped again.