Submit (Songs of Submission #3)(32)

I dug around my bag and found a pencil. I leaned the pad against the steering wheel and crossed out some things. It was probably wildly incomplete, but a starting point.

What if he collars me? Slaps me? Spanks me? Bites me? Fucks me in the ass? Whips me? Hurts me? Displays me? Gags me? Blindfolds me? Shares me? Humiliates me? Ties me down? Makes me bleed? Fucks me up? Chocks my mouth open. Pulls my hair. Fucks my face. Calls me whore. Tells me to lick the floor. Destroys me. Makes me hate myself. Turns me into an animal.

My remaining list didn’t leave him with much room to maneuver, but I didn’t see any of the crossed-out stuff as negotiable. The front door opened, casting a brighter light on my paper. Jonathan stepped out and went to the edge of the porch. Clutching my little pad, I got out of the car.

He leaned over the railing. “I thought you’d passed out in there.” His hand gripped the railing, and in the light, each vein, each bone, each hair came to life as I imagined it on my body.

“I’m fine.” I went up the porch steps as I’d done twice before, more guarded than the first time and more turned on than the second. He stood to the side of the door, waiting for me to pass. I didn’t.

“You’re not coming in?” he asked.

“I want to say something first.”

He leaned in the entryway. “Okay.”

I had words. I had plenty of words, but they all ran together and made no sense. I handed him the pad. He glanced at me, then down at it. I’d never felt so naked in front of him, even fully clothed in pants and long sleeves. He was looking at my limits. I couldn’t imagine anything more intimate. I felt tingly heat all over my chest and cheeks when he glanced back up at me.

“You forgot to cross off anal sex.”

“I tried it once. Didn’t like it. If you’re better at it, I’ll have another crack.” I paused. “No pun intended.”

He pulled his lips between his teeth. I blinked hard twice, but that was as far as we got before we started laughing. The joke was terrible, but the release of tension turned what should have been a groaner in to a belly laugh. He tried to look at the list again, but started laughing, which made me unable to stop, and we were both wiping tears before he reached for me. I took his hand.

“Your list is good,” he said.

“Really? It seemed like I didn’t leave much.”

“Monica, this should be fun. If we’re not having fun, we’re doing it wrong.” He looked at our clasped hands and softened. “The other day, I said everything in the worst way possible. I like playing, and I know how to do it safely, but I haven’t made a lifestyle out of it. I wasn’t out looking for a submissive, and I haven’t set hooks in the ceilings.”

“So no dungeon?”

“The Historical Society wouldn’t allow it,” he joked.

“Oh please, you could buy and sell the Historical Society.”

I tilted my head up, and he took the signal, kissing me. He wrapped his arms around my shoulders and pulled me close. “Jessica was the last woman I cared about that I discussed this with, and it didn’t go well. None of it did. I was scared you’d run away.”

“And I did.”

“Sure as f**k you did. I was pretty upset.”

“You didn’t seem upset.”

“I have a rich inner life, but that’s where it stays.”

“Really? Nobody gets in?” I slipped my arms around his waist.

“Can you live with that?” He puts his hands on my cheeks and kissed me. His stubble scraped my face, a rough counterpoint the softness of his lips and the slickness of his tongue.

“No. Not for long.”

“I’d like to see how long.” He kissed me in earnest, pressing his body to mine. He felt good. Delicious. Warm and supple with his hands on my back and his open mouth on mine.

I could have kissed him for hours, but I didn’t have the luxury. I kept my body close to his while moving my mouth away. “I need a test night. Like a trial run. To see if I’m scared.”

“Boo.” He dragged his lips down my neck and pushed his hands up my shirt.

“I mean it.”

“Okay. You just smell perfect. And also...” He pulled far enough away to look into my eyes. “I’m blocked. I have everything I want from you, and I can’t think of anything to do. I have too many options.”

I pushed him away, smiling. “You’re supposed to stand in the doorway and tell me to get undressed.”

He laughed and stood framed in the warm light of the open door. He looked me up and down. I’d come from the meeting in tight jeans, boots, and a woven long-sleeved shirt with a daunting number of buttons.

“That outfit’s bulletproof,” he said.

“Sorry.” I started unbuttoning the shirt.

“No,” he said, his smile an infectious disease spreading all over his face. “Stop. Let’s start over. Come up the steps.”

He slipped into the house and closed the door behind him. Okay. He wanted to start over in the right frame of mind. I went down the porch steps and back up slowly. I knocked on the door and stepped back, clearing my throat. It seemed like two full minutes before the door opened, and he was there again, wearing the same shirt and linen pants, in his sock feet, smile in dormancy, but there at the corners of his mouth.