Resist (Songs of Submission #6)(25)

“Sit still. Let me get some ice.” I stepped to the freezer where Gabby and I had kept compresses for fingers and arms that ached after hours of practice.

“Why don’t you just take me to bed?” he said as I put compresses on his neck and arm.

“Not a bad idea. Get up.”

We walked to the bedroom, and I propped him up on pillows, happy that I’d changed the sheets. His arm was getting stiffer, and by the time I’d set up the compresses, he could barely move it at all.

“Guess who’s not driving tonight,” I said, holding out my hand. “Give me your keys so I can put your car in the driveway. There’s alternate side parking tomorrow.”

“I can afford a ticket.”

“But if the car blocking the sweeper in the morning is my guest’s, Roger across the street puts all the garbage in my front yard. He did it with Darren, like, a hundred times.”

He reached into his right pocket and pulled out his key. “You need to move to a better neighborhood.”

“I know what you’re thinking”—I swiped the key—“and forget it. I’m not a kept woman.”

“We’ll see about that.”

I pocketed the key and went to my bathroom. Stepping onto the toilet, I reached the top of the vanity where I kept bottles of pills hidden from Gabby: painkillers I’d been prescribed for an extracted tooth, muscle relaxants for painful menstruation, and Xanax a friend had given me for a short bout of insomnia. I took them to Jonathan, who was dicking with his phone with his good hand.

“I have painkillers.”

“Why? You in pain without me?”

“Let me get you some water.”

“Monica”—he looked me with dead seriousness—“no painkillers.”

I put the bottle of Oxycontin on the dresser. “How about some Tylenol and a muscle relaxant?”

“Deal.”

I took the bottles to the kitchen, and as I poured a glass of water, I considered what I had in front of me, what I wanted to do, and what was keeping me from doing it. As I poured the pills in my hand, I reconsidered then went back to the bedroom. “All right. This is the Tylenol. This is the muscle relaxant. Go.”

He popped them in his mouth and swallowed, then drank the water. “You’re a good nurse.”

I put my knee on the bed and swung myself to a straddling position. “I’m not done nursing you.” I undid his pants.

“Oh, really? What nursing school is this?”

I pulled out his dick. It was half hard already, and when I kissed it, it stood at full attention. “I have no clever answer.” I licked the length of his shaft with the flat of my tongue.

“Hell is freezing over,” he groaned, putting his right hand on my head and running his fingers in my hair. I opened my mouth and let him put pressure on the back of my head, slowly pushing his c**k into my mouth, past my tongue, and down my throat. He kept the pressure, and I breathed calmly through my nose, my eyes locked on his. When he eased up, I drew my head back, sucking him on the way out. He sighed, and a look of pure, relaxed pleasure overcame his face. A line of saliva connected my mouth to his cock. I licked my lips.

“You never let me use my hands,” I said.

He blinked, as if thinking about all the times his dick was in my mouth, counting off instances and places. “Total oversight on my part.”

“You like control.”

“Guilty as charged.”

“Let me have you,” I said. “Give yourself to me.”

“Submission’s not fun for me.”

Hands behind my back, I took him again, all the way down, tasting sharp sweat and a drop of salt as I sucked him on the way out. “Let me please you, sir. Let me give you my best.”

“When you put it that way...”

I placed one hand at the base of his cock, and with the other, I cupped his sack. I took him completely, trying to keep submission on my mind and in my attitude as I controlled what he felt. The pace was mine. The intensity was mine. When he put his hands on me, it was with affection, not control, and when he came, filling my throat and closing his eyes, I maintained that attitude of gratitude and abdication, licking him clean.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

“How is your arm?” It hung at his side, unused during the whole episode.

“Feels stiff but okay.” His eyelids drooped as he watched me. He stroked my hair and cheek, and I kissed his fingers.

I kneeled and pulled him gently from the waist. “If you scoot down, I’ll rearrange the compresses.”

He did. I put a pillow under his head, elevated the sore arm, put him under the blankets, and drew them up. I shut the light and curled up next to him. Seconds later, his breathing slowed, and I slipped away.

Chapter 21.

—I went home—

The content of Jessica’s text didn’t surprise me. The fact that she’d bothered to send it did. She was desperate for contact.

Jonathan’s car was parked right out front. I’d never actually driven a Jaguar, but as soon as I turned the key, I understood the difference between it and my Civic. It was smooth everywhere. The seams didn’t rattle. No crumbs were in the corners, as if one simply ate more neatly, or not at all, in such a car. It went from park to drive as if by the power of thought, and the dashboard lights didn’t glare or ask me to read them. They existed to be understood in a hueless grey and whispered information urgently. Half full. Forty thousand RPM. Seventy-five miles per hour.