Coda (Songs of Submission #9)(34)

“Go back inside.”

I turned the tablet and looked at him in his dying-daylight rectangle. He was looking directly into the lens, which was right above the screen, and though the mic was tiny and tinny, I knew I was hearing his dominant voice.

“Put the tablet on the desk so I can see you.”

I leaned it against the lamp. Seeing him inside that rectangle with our backyard behind him was somehow ridiculous. In the top right corner of the screen, a small box showed what he saw as I stood there. My face was off screen. I was only visible from neck to knees.

“Take your clothes off,” he said casually yet firmly, as if asking me to pass the salt. As if it was no more than a courtesy to ask for what should be available to him without question.

I pulled my T-shirt over my head and watched myself take off my bra. My breasts bounced out, and I saw my hard nipples in the screen. Jonathan was impassive, tapping his thumbs together as if keeping a rhythm. I peeled off my pants, down to the lace thong I wore for him in his absence. I let him see it for a second, but he twisted his hand at the wrist in a “get on with it” motion. I got my thong off and stood before the tablet, naked neck to knees.

“Are you wet?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Check for me.”

I put my hand between my legs. I saw it slipping down my belly in the screen, saw the way my knees bent a little when I spread my legs to accept my fingers.

“I’m wet,” I said.

“Put your fingers in your mouth. And let me see.”

I bent to look at him, lips puckered around my fingers, tongue curled around them. The pungent, sordid, sexy taste of my cunt filled my mouth. His eyes warmed with arousal.

“Go get the pen,” he said.

I plucked it off the desk and showed him.

“Put the pen in your mouth. Get the desk chair. Sit in it, and put your feet on the desk. I want to see your beautiful cunt.”

I wheeled the chair over, placing it in front of the desk. He waited, fingers laced together on the iPad screen. He was casual and intense at the same time, as if he didn’t have to worry about me doing what he asked. He was just going to wait.

I put my feet up on the desk, exposing myself to him. I could see myself on the little corner of the screen, the soft part of me, the place where I was split in two, the fold of sensation between the smooth mass of skin, and I was shocked by the sight of it.

“That’s mine,” he said. “You understand, my wife, that everything I see there is mine?”

“Yes.”

“You’re wet, and that’s mine too. No matter where you are, I own your cunt.”

“It’s yours. It’s only for you. It’s so wet for you.”

“Mark it,” he said.

It took me a second to understand, even with the Sharpie in my teeth. Then, seeing my thighs against the wet flesh between them, I knew what he meant. I popped the base free of the cap and leaned over, pressing the pen tip to my left inner thigh. I glanced up at him.

He gave a slight shake of his head. “You start on your right, at the knee.”

I switched and pulled the skin to make it taut for the marker. Like his fingers, the Sharpie was firm and purposeful; like his tongue, it was damp and warm.

“Wherever you are,” he said low and steady as I wrote his name, knee to crotch, “I own you. I own your filthy mouth. I own your dirty mind. When you get wet thinking about f*cking, it’s mine. Every drop from you. I own your every thought. You are my property.”

I looked back at him. My breath was short. When I saw myself, the flesh between my legs was now exposed, wet, and swollen. “Jonathan’s” marked my inner thigh, and a bolt of pleasure ran through me.

“This is crazy,” I gasped. “I’m going to come.”

“Not until you finish the other side.”

“Okay.” I didn’t know if I would make it.

“No touching.”

What was I supposed to put on the other side? I couldn’t think. I glanced at him. A shadow of a smirk crossed his lips.

I started with the letter “P” a few inches from my center, the pen tip becoming him, his body, his intention, his attention. The tingling was a wall of sensation as I spelled “Property” down my leg. As I put the leg on the Y, the pressure had built up so much, I knew I didn’t have long.

“Look at yourself,” he said.

“I’ll come if I do.”

“No, you won’t. Not until I say.”

But I didn’t. I just looked at the marks between my legs. I was owned. Property. Without desire or ambition, a slave without responsibility or longing. Free.

“Look, Monica,” he said sternly, and I looked.

Jonathan’s Property.

“Yes,” I said, flooded with a tsunami of an orgasm that pushed at the walls of my control. “You own me. I am your subject.” I could barely speak through the throb. “You are my master.”

“I’m going to put my cock inside you, everywhere, and I’m not going to ask first. You’re going to spread your legs and submit yourself. Your mouth. Your cunt. Your tight little ass. I’m going to hurt you. I’m going to crack you open and suck you dry.”

“Oh, god, when you talk like that.” Every word rushed me to orgasm, but like the door at the end of the hall in a movie, it got closer and farther at the same time. Juice dripped over my ass. How long would he do this? “I am yours,” I said, because I wanted to say, “Let me come.”