Coda (Songs of Submission #9)(5)

“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 didn’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 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 the sick Jonathan who got 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. He was difficult, because he felt as if his body wasn’t his own, but a good life mate by any standard.

But 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. 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 garters, which felt scratchy and uncomfortable under jeans, but I wore them because I’d 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, down 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 and releasing my breasts. My 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 hands over my neck and under my shirt collar, pulling the shirt down my arms and 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 and tying them tightly at the elbows.

He paused 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 piano. “Are you happy?”

“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 settled where he’d hit me, and I already wanted more. I wanted him to tear me apart. In 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 deeply. I wanted to feel pain, and safety, and surrender; to lose myself and my will. I’d forgotten how much I needed that, 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 fisted the hair on the back of my head 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.