Breathe (Songs of Submission #10)(14)

“I can’t,” I said. “I can’t not come.”

“Keep humming. You look stunning. You sound perfect. You’re going to come until you can’t breathe, but not until I say.”

He put it on me again. I was on fire. I existed between my legs and below my chin. If I stopped humming, I’d come, and if I came, I’d stop humming. That note, which was probably off by a lot, was the only thing keeping me from exploding.

The vibration in the fork tapered to nothing, and I prayed he wouldn’t tap it again.

“Close your eyes,” he said, putting the fork down. “No shouting. We don’t want to strain that voice.”

I did, thankful for the relief to my aching clit. He was going to let me come, he had to. I was throbbing to the breaking point.

“I only expect you to wear this in our personal space,” he continued. “And I should discuss it with you, but I want you to feel it, not react to the sight of it. Do you trust me?”

I swallowed. Did I? “Yes.”

I dropped the sir because he needed to know I wasn’t saying it in a scene. I trusted him in all things.

He put his hand on my throat again, then behind me. I felt a tightening then a click.

“Hey.” I stiffened.

He pushed me back down, putting his beautiful face close to mine, a groan escaping his lips. “This”—he ran his thumb along the edge of the collar—“is magnificent.”

“Jonathan.” I wanted to explain why I hated it, but I didn’t have a real explanation.

He stepped back, pulled me off the counter, and turned me, putting my back to his chest.

“Look at it,” he whispered in my ear.

I did as he asked. It was silver chain mail, an inch and a half wide, with a tiny lock in the front. He pushed my hair out of the way and ran his fingers over it, tugging on a ring at the back of my neck. Standing with my clothes askew and my * still on fire, I felt like a possession. His possession.

“I don’t know.”

With a slight push to my shoulders, he said, “Put your hands on the counter. I’m going to f*ck you until you know.”

I leaned down, and he yanked my head back by the hair.

“Look at it. Do you know what that does to me? I’m so f*cking turned on right now, I’m blind. I own you. I can see how I own you. You’re wearing my collar. Fuck.”

He picked up my skirt. I groaned when he put his hand on my ass then slapped it hard. The pain, the arousal, and the sight of the collar put me in a place of acceptance that was lower than low and higher than high.

He undid his pants, removing that spectacular, powerful cock. I put my ass up, and he slapped it again.

“Thank you,” I gasped.

He got a finger around the ring and pulled with just enough pressure to make me feel him. I must have stiffened.

“After opening day, I won’t be so gentle with the ring. Now, open up for me.”

He spanked me again, letting the ring go. I grabbed my ass cheeks and pulled them apart. He guided himself into my soaked * then slammed forward. I grunted.

“Hush,” he said. “Not a sound out of you. Just take it like a good girl.”

He got the rest of the way in, and my mouth opened, but nothing came out. I became nothing but a vessel for his pleasure. He moved me where he wanted me, pounding me, and I was slick and receptive.

“Look, Monica.” He pulled my hair and jerked me to nearly standing. “Look at yourself.” His hand went around my hips, and he wedged his fingers between my legs. “I put that collar on you. You’re my property.”

As he uttered it, I lost myself. Keeping my eyes open became difficult. His cock battered me, his eyes soothed me, and his collar debased me into a space so submissive, I couldn’t remember my name.

“You ready to come, Monica?” he growled.

I made a little noise. My mouth was open. My eyes half closed.

“Fuck. You are so hot. Come with me. Give it to me.” He slammed me. “Give me everything.”

With his permission, I exploded into a soundless howl. Thighs tightening, fingers curling. He gripped my ass so tight it hurt, prolonging the orgasm with the pain, intensifying it. He thrust into me so hard I thought I’d break and all my pleasure would spill out.

He growled as if he were trying to wedge his whole body into mine. He was coming, and hard. A sound came from me as if pushed out, because I was flooded with a new warmth, a second-tier climax that burst from the inside. Soul to skin and back again.

“Oh, God,” I whispered, because it wasn’t stopping. “Oh god, oh god, oh god. I’m still… I’m still…”

And tears, and blackness, and the places where I was sore. After three thrusts that jerked upward as if he was making a point, he stopped. In the mirror, I saw him panting, my collar, my submission leaking away, and regular life coming back to replace it.

Jonathan ran his hands down my back then back up, gently turning me to face him. He looked barely conscious himself.

“Thank you,” he said. “You’re a goddess.”

He said it without irony or condescension. As if he was stating a fact.

“The collar,” I said.

“Yes?”

“Bedroom only?”

“To start.”

Outside, the band stopped.