Coda (Songs of Submission #9)(42)

“Don’t you dare.”

He put his ear between Jonathan’s and baby. “I can’t hear anything. When is he coming?”

“She’s coming in late January. And I’m coming today. I’m still me. Do everything. Don’t make me beg. Or make me beg. Whichever. Just make me.”

He got on his knees and pulled my legs apart. His name was still visible, and Jonathan looked at me everywhere, as if searching for something inside himself, bathing me in the scalding water of his gaze.

He smirked and put his eyes on mine. “I’m thinking. Can I destroy you when you’re carrying my baby?”

“Yes, you can.”

He slapped the inside of my thigh. It stung like hell because it was unexpected. I gasped and bit my lip.

“I’ll decide what I can and can’t do,” he said. “And I’ll decide what you can do. Do you understand?”

“Hurt me,” I whispered.

He slapped the inside of my other thigh, and yes, it hurt. And yes, it was demeaning, and yes, I pulled away. I thought I might come from that alone.

“No more demands, goddess. I have ways to hurt you that aren’t as much fun.” He pulled the red scarf off the arm of the chair. “No talking. No whimpering. No crying. Not a peep out of you. Just yes and no.”

“Yes.” I couldn’t imagine, as he kneeled above me, his knees keeping mine apart, that the word no would exit my lips.

“Put your hands over your head and grab the table leg.”

I did it, stretching to reach the leg of the heavy sideboard.

“I haven’t tied you up since the surgery. You’ve noticed?”

“Yes.”

He leaned over me and wrapped the scarf around my wrists, attaching it to the sideboard as he spoke. “I was nervous. I kept dreaming the heart would leave me. Probably all the talk of rejection going to my head. But I worried that it would happen while you were tied up, and you’d be trapped until someone came.” He leaned back and checked his work by pulling me toward him until my arms were completely extended. “I know it wasn’t sensible. But it was there.” He stood and reached for something in the bag he had been about to take on the plane. His blue book. “You got away with a lot in the meantime.”

“Yes,” I said.

“Open your mouth.” I did, and he put the book in it. “Hold this for me.”

I bit down on the leather. He stepped back, and the book blocked my view of him. I heard the clink of his belt and the rustle of clothes, but I couldn’t see him. I could only see the damn book.

“The rules—and you can tell me what you object to when I take the book out of your mouth—the rules are this. I’m going to do what I want to your body. You’re going to have your safe words. If you worry about the baby for one second, you use them. And if I worry, I’m stopping the scene. It doesn’t matter if those worries make sense. And when you start showing, we’re renegotiating.”

He pulled my legs up and bent my knees until my ass was off the rug, then he took the book out of my mouth. He was naked and perfect from his scar to his huge cock. Lithe and strong. Nimble and taut.

“Yes or no, Monica.” He slapped the book on his palm.

“Yes, sir.”

“Good.” The book landed on my ass with a thwack. I chirped and held my cry. He paused then smacked me again. Paused, letting me feel the delicious sting. “Yesterday, you forgot that I own your orgasms. That means I say how and when you come.” Thwack. “Every time.” Thwack.

“Sorry.”

“You don’t sound sorry.”

“I’m not.”

“You were getting three. Now you’re getting four for lying. Count with me.”

The book landed between my legs, flat on my engorged clit, and I bit back a scream. It hurt, stung, burned in the opening notes, and the echo was pure pleasure.

“How many is that?” he asked.

“One.”

He smacked it again, and I twisted away at the same time as I wanted it again. He straightened me and spread my legs, exposing me to him.

“Count.”

“Two.”

“You okay?” he asked.

“Yes.”

Thwap. Harder than the others. I held back a scream.

“Breathe,” he demanded.

“Three!”

“Last one.”

He did it again, and it hurt bad, but it left a rush of warm, pre-orgasm quiver in its wake. How had I ever lived without that? How had I ever had an orgasm without the counterpoint of pain?

“Four,” I said through my teeth.

He put the book aside and slid his fingers in me. “You’re soaked.” He drew his wet fingers over my clit, and it burned. That burn, not his touch on me, nearly put me over the edge into orgasm. “And you’re close. What am I going to do with you?”

Begging him to f*ck me might cause an indefinite delay as I was told to think about what it meant to make demands out of turn, so I said nothing. He moved his hand over me, setting my soreness on fire.

He leaned over and slid his dick into me. I gasped from the pain and the rawness, which had brought every nerve ending into high alert. I was sensitive at every range of the spectrum, and he was stretching me open, putting his whole length into me. I strained against the ties from the pain and the pleasure.