Monica (Songs of Submission #7.5)(4)

“Are you happy?” he repeated.

“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 was settling where he’d hit me, and I already wanted more. I wanted him to tear me apart. In the second, 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 deep. I wanted to feel pain, and safety, and surrender; to lose myself and my own will. I’d forgotten how much I needed it, 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 took the hair on the back of my head in his fist 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.

“Answer me,” he said. “And the truth. Are you happy?”

He was foggy through my tears, but his voice was clear enough to focus on.

“No,” I said. “I’m not.”

As much as I broke down into tears and hitched sobs, he seemed unfazed by the news. As if he’d already known. And as if he didn’t give a shit about my happiness. He brought his hand over my burning cheeks, lacing a finger in the crack, down to my opening.

I was soaked. Dripping. Gushing readiness for him. I wished he’d asked me for the truth after he f**ked me, because how could he now? I tell him I’m miserable and expect a body-ripping, passionate screw? Crazy, magical thinking.

He slipped a finger inside me. I’d f**ked him a few hundred times in the past six months, but that finger cruelly jamming into me, with the palm laying against my scalding ass, was the best thing I’d had in half a year.

“Thank you for telling me the truth,” he said. “But you’re wet. And crying.”

“I’m sorry, sir.”

“Poor goddess.” He pulled his finger out and slipped it to the hard nodule of my clit. My eyes shut. My mouth opened. My cunt was awake with anticipation as he continued. “Even in love, you need pain.”

“I love you,” I whispered.

He drew his hand back and slapped my ass with full force. I bit back a cry. “Don’t talk,” he growled. “There’s been wholly too much talking between us.”

I nodded.

He folded the belt in two and said, “Open your mouth.” When I did, he put the belt in it. “Bite.”

I bit the leather. It was still warm from hitting me. Had he ever been this cruel and hard? Had he ever been this dominant? I couldn’t remember. I couldn’t think.

Then Jonathan put his hands on my hips, and let his c**k touch where I was wet. I bit the belt as if I wanted to swallow it. He didn’t ask for permission to jam his dick into me in one fell stroke, making me grunt into the tanned skin. He didn’t ask if my happiness was required. He just f**ked me. He f**ked me like I wasn’t even there, slapping himself against my burning ass cheeks, a frame of pain for the pleasure between my legs. He pulled my cheeks apart, stretching them, pain everywhere, and drove into me with everything he had, using me mercilessly. I lost myself in him, in the hurt, the rising tide of my emotions. I’d told him I was unhappy, and the weight of the misery fell off me, leaving an empty place for him to fill with his c**k and his searing belt.

I grunted with every thrust. It was coming. The rush of pleasure. My grunts turned to squeals, and he slowed to barely moving.

“I didn’t say you could come.”

I hadn’t had to ask permission for an orgasm in six months. I hadn’t even thought of it.

He removed the belt.

“I’m sorry, sir,” I gasped. “May I come?”

“When?”

“Now?” I paused for a hitched breath. “And later, if it pleases you.”

“No.” He slowed, letting me feel every inch of him. He opened my cheeks again, right where my legs met my ass and I was red and sore, getting his whole length in.

I choked out a half sob, half moan.

“No,” he said, slapping my ass. “The answer is still no.”

“I don’t think I can stop it.”

He pulled out. I gasped. But as much as I expected him to continue f**king me, I didn’t expect what he did next, quickly guiding himself to my ass**le and mercilessly pushing forward.

“No!” I shouted.

He yanked my head back by the hair. “What?”

I couldn’t repeat it. Safeword or no, he’d stop. “Nothing.”

He pushed the rest of his c**k in my ass without preamble, my soft weeping turned into face-soaking sobs. “God, oh God it hurts.”