Monica (Songs of Submission #7.5)(3)

I slipped into the engineering room and looked at her through the window.

She sat at the keyboard, scribbling something onto a notebook, then considering the keys again, back straight, neck as long and white as a swan’s, ebony hair braised and twisted to the top of her head. A goddess. She’d waited. I don’t know what would have happened with us if she hadn’t.

The engineering booth was empty and dark, and I watched her like a movie. I saw her bite a fingernail. Close her eyes. Tap a finger, then suddenly burst out with a word in one long note. It was you. She hit three keys, then three different keys, sang the word again, in a different register, and wrote it down.

It was as if I hadn’t seen the length of her neck in months, nor the delicacy of her wrists. I knew every inch of her skin, every curve of her body, yet, that day, when she’d said no to me, I anticipated the prospect of showing her why that wasn’t going to wash any longer with no little delight.

I went back into the hall, closing the engineering room door behind me.

MONICA

His scent cut through the dank musk of the studio before the sound of the door closing reached my ears.

“Hi,” I said without looking up from my notes. “Can we meet with those guys? Jerry wants to lay out a plan for Wednesday.”

His fingertips grazed the back of my neck, and I shuddered, closing my eyes halfway.

“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 don’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 from me 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 sick Jonathan getting 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. Difficult, because he felt like his body wasn’t his own, but a good life mate by any standard.

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. Then, 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 garter, which felt scratchy and uncomfortable under jeans, but I wore it because I 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, 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, releasing my br**sts. The ni**les 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 hand over my neck and around my shirt collar, pulling it down my arms, 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 around and tying them tightly at the elbows.

His pause 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 of the piano.