Coda (Songs of Submission #9)(52)

“Jonathan, we’re in church.” I shut out the white noise of the church, the ministrations of the bellicose bishop in his sixties, and the rustlings of the choir.

“This is just a building,” Jonathan said so low I could barely hear him. “Worship is later. I’m going to tie your legs over your head with that pretty veil, and I’m going to beat and f*ck you so hard the words, ‘Oh, God,’ are going to summon the heavenly host.”

His words went right between my legs. We stood at the altar as people talked about us, as a service was said in our honor.

I didn’t know if there was a mic somewhere that could pick us up, so I turned and spoke directly in his ear, my breath to him, my vocal chords disengaged. A butterfly couldn’t hear me. “I’m singing later. Be gentle with my throat.”

His hand twitched. I was expected to know he was aware of all my needs, including my need to sit at a meeting, walk in front of people, or sing. He knew when to be gentle and when to score my skin because he was inside every part of my life, and any lack of trust warranted a delicious spanking.

“Good thing you don’t sing with your ass,” he whispered back.

I spit out a nervous laugh that every mic caught, and Jonathan’s smile broke into a chuckle. The bishop looked at us, and the congregation stared. I waved and curtsied.

The bishop looked motioned us front and center.

David held out the red pillow with our rings. They’d been designed as tight coils, like key rings, to remind us of our first wedding rings and the circumstances they’d been given under. But they were gold, and they fit right, which would be a nice change. Jonathan and I positioned ourselves across from each other, and he took the smaller ring.

The bishop cleared his throat. “Mister Drazen, repeat after me. I, Jonathan Drazen—”

“I, Jonathan Drazen,”

“Take thee, Monica Faulkner—”

“Take thee, Monica Faulkner.” Jonathan was smiling, the ring hovering over my finger, and I could practically hear the gears in his head turning.

“To be my wedded wife,” the bishop said.

“To be my wedded wife,” Jonathan said before he turned to the bishop. “You know we memorized this, right?”

“That would be the first time in my forty years of officiating weddings.”

Laughter floated up from the congregation, and I put my head down to stifle a big giggle.

“We thought it was kind of important,” Jonathan said.

“Get on with it then.”

“Where were we?”

“Having and holding,” the bishop said.

“Thank you,” Jonathan squeezed my hand and continued. “… to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do us part.” He dropped his voice, as if expressing seriousness, but also to create a web of intimacy around the words. “I own you. Like the sky owns the stars. You are mine.” He slipped the gold key ring on my finger.

“You memorize yours too?” the bishop asked, looking at me over his half-moon glasses.

“Yes.” I picked up the ring. “You ready, Drazen?”

“Yes.”

“I, Monica Faulkner, take thee, Jonathan Drazen, to be my wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love, cherish, and to obey till death. Your name is written on my heart.”

I heard the murmurs. Jonathan and I had kept the word obey in my vows because we knew what we meant. He was my master in the bedroom, and I obeyed his commands. We knew the limitations between us, and these were our vows. We neither explained nor excused them.

And thus, both standing on our own two feet, before God and our families, with the news media waiting outside, we were wed.

chapter 38.

JONATHAN

She was most kinetic in stasis. With her energy contained by my will and her desire to please me, she was a sizzling box of energy, and the longer I kept her there, naked and still, the closer to her skin her arousal came.

She stayed still for me, the streets of Paris below, on the first night of our honeymoon, her nipples hard in the chilled air. I was behind her, which was all she knew. She didn’t know when I’d move or what I was doing. I could hear her heartbeat, and her breath, which she tried to keep even but failed.

She was mine. I owned this body, this heart. I wanted to put my fingers and tongue inside her, my cock, everywhere all at once. Every act of ownership felt incomplete to the totality of my love. I’d married her for the second time only a day before, and I’d marry her a hundred times more, but our bond was in our consummation. I was hers, and she was mine, and we only came close to the expression of the depth of it when I broke her patience, her resolve, her expectations, soothed her heart, and broke her again.

I came around her, fully dressed, to watch her naked body as it shifted, to watch her eyes try to stay focused ahead. She was so good, objectifying herself for me, becoming an owned thing so we could play the games that were an expression of our deeper truth. She owned me. I was an object for her pleasure.

I sat in the chair in front of her and brushed my fingertips across her breasts. She shuddered. My plan was to get her on her knees and take her throat, then it could go one of three ways, with every step leading to a new game plan, depending on her level of obedience. Every plan led up to the both of us quivering together. But as I ran my fingers from her breasts to her belly, something changed.