Текст книги "Breathe"

Автор книги: C. D. Reiss

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Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 4 страниц)

five.

JONATHAN

She just walked out. She even closed the door.

I was torn between the desire to wrestle her down and demand an explanation and the need to just let her walk out so she could cool off. I didn’t know which I wanted and I didn’t know which she needed.

She was in the car before I decided none of that mattered and I had to get her. And it was too late. She screeched out of the driveway and down the hill, and I was left there wondering what the fuck had happened.

All right.

Well.

I knew what had happened.

I’d scared myself.

Sadism is confusing if you’re not a sadist. And if you are, and your personal battle with decency is won or lost in a moment of indulgence, it’s beyond confusing. It’s a war between ten equally-matched nation-states who are willing to fight to the death.

She had been on the bed, naked, on her knees, and ready for me to inflict whatever the fuck I wanted on her. And I was ready. I had a plan or five. I had a boner that was breaking my zipper. I was going to rip her apart until she screamed and cried.

Fuck. She’d been gone ten minutes, I’d paced the floor for nine and a half of them, and the thought of the way she’d looked gave me an erection all over again, because I knew what I had intended to do to her. How I was going to break her.

I had to draw out the pain and tears. I had to bring her to the brink and hurt her as she tipped. The process went from A to B to C, and she’d skipped steps. Crying ahead of cue did two things.

Three things….four…ten—who the fuck even knew how many—factions went to war in my head.

I pulled the chair away from my desk so hard it went across the room, and I snapped up a pencil.

One. You cry when I say, not sooner.

Two. I can hurt you. Your defenses are down. I can go in and really fucking hurt you.

Three. I’m concerned about you. Very concerned.

Four. I want to kill whoever made you cry.

Five. You don’t call the shots.

Six. I wanted to reach into your injured places and destroy you.

Seven. My heart breaks when I see tears on your face.

Eight. What kind of man thinks, “I wonder how far I can take this?”

Nine. Ten. Eleven. They were all the same. She was hurt, and I was concerned and broken, and my dick was the first thing I thought of. I hated myself for it. I wasn’t an emotional sadist, but maybe I was on some level. I pressed my hands to my desk, pencil still woven between my thumb and first finger.

I had to get past the self-loathing. There was nothing there for me. Monica had taught me that I didn’t have to hate myself for what made me happy. My proclivities didn’t keep me from having something real and permanent, unless I let her walk away when she was hurt.

I circled number three. That was where my love was. The rest was fleeting and I’d dealt with it already. I wouldn’t let her go over a little slip.

I slipped the pencil down, and my mind put together four and six.

Four. I want to kill whoever made you cry.

Six. I want to reach into your injured places and destroy you.

Maybe I was the masochist.

six.

MONICA

I was mad. Just steaming mad with little black lines and gritted teeth. I was foot-stomping, fist-clenching, spitting mad.

He always had to call the fucking shots. Safe. Out. Foul. He was umpire, batter, and pitcher. And fuck him. Maybe for once he should take his stinking ego and put it like… over there. Outside the bedroom. Leave it in the driveway or in the trunk of that ridiculously expensive car, because it was getting in the way of my motherfucking needs.

“I’m not mad at him,” I lied to Yvonne. She knew Jonathan was my Dominant, and it made her uncomfortable. I didn’t feel like explaining, yet again, my need to get hurt. “I missed you. Stay out with me. Have the sitter stay a couple of extra hours.”

“Nope,” Yvonne said, her body jerking back and forth with the joystick. Her huge afro moved with her, and her gold mascara glowed in the blue light. She worked three nights a week at a shithole bar on Western Ave that only took cash and gave change in quarters. The walls were lined with eighties video games at fifty cents a pop. Her shift had just ended, and she was getting loose on Galaga.

“It’s on me.”

“Ian’s coming over once I confirm my son’s asleep. And I pay my own sitter.”

“I wasn’t trying to insult you. And who’s Ian?” I felt out of touch. She’d mentioned the name as if I should know, and I didn’t. Too much travel. Too much work.

“He’s the real thing.”

“You didn’t tell me.”

Her spaceship exploded, and she whacked the red ball of the joystick. “I haven’t seen you in three months unless you’re on TMZ or something. So first you tell me what’s eating you, and I’ll tell you who’s eating me.” She waggled her brows.

How was I supposed to explain this? I’m so fucking mad at him because I feel rejected and stupid and fake and Jonathan didn’t hurt me when I asked him to. Breaking me is his responsibility as a husband and he refused and it is not cool.

That wasn’t going to fly.

Her spaceship regenerated, and she was back at the game, her dark skin shining blue from the screen.

“Nothing,” I said. “Maybe hormones.”

“Girl, you got a face from here to Jerusalem, and it’s got Jonathan spray-painted all over it.”

“You’re not even looking at me.”

“I got peripheral vision for this shit.” She held two fingers in a V and pointed them at me with one hand while her other hand worked the joystick.

The fact that she wasn’t looking at me made it easier to broach the subject.

“I have needs,” I said.

“Yeah.” She threaded a needle between bombs, jacking the stick back and forth.

“And he’s responsible for them.”

“Yeah.”

“And I can’t sing. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Star-Spangled-Fucking-Banner, and I can’t find the notes.”

Boom. She lost her spaceship. Game over. She slapped the console and turned to me. “Did you ever hear Whitney Houston’s version? Holy hell, I get tears in my eyes.”

I imagined gold mascara running down her dark-skinned cheeks.

“She eased up on the phrasing,” I said defensively. “I have to do it the hard way.”

She smirked. “Oh, so you’re that good, huh? Hardest song in the world shouldn’t be anything for Mrs. Perfectopants.”

She’d nailed me. I mean, right to the matte black wall. She’d caught my ego midair and held it still so I could see it twitching in her palm.

“I’ll beat you at Galaga.” I changed the subject like a real pro.

“Girl, you got nothing on me.”

“Right here. Right now.”

“One game, then I have to go home to the boy.”

Galaga was something I was perfectly comfortable losing at. I would play my heart out and take my lumps and not even care. I reached into my bag for two quarters and saw my phone in the pocket, lit up like a Christmas tree.

Jonathan.

The sight of his name was like a little empty place in my chest. I still felt rejected. I still felt like a fraud in every aspect of my life. And I was still mad, because there were so many things I couldn’t bear to lose at, and he was one of them.

“You playing or what?” Yvonne asked after she’d put her money in and hit the two-player button.

“Phone’s almost out of juice.” I slipped it back into my bag. “Tell me about this Ian person.”

“I don’t want to distract you.”

“Distract me. I’m going to lose anyway.”

The game started with a wheep whoop erp erp, and my feelings of unworthiness and rage got stuffed away for later.

seven.

MONICA

When I got home, it was dark outside. I walked through the empty house, and found him on the back deck, reading with his feet braced on the table in front of him and his sleeves rolled up to reveal his magnificent forearms.

“Hi,” I said.

He put down his book.

“I’m sorry,” I continued. “I was being a baby. I trust you. You know how to keep me safe, even from what I want.”

“I’m a little torn about apologizing myself. I didn’t feel comfortable, but I have a responsibility to give you what you need.”

“You wouldn’t make me do something I wasn’t comfortable with.”

“Yes, I would.”

“Yeah,” I said ruefully.

“If you told me what you were bawling about, that might help.”

“It’s embarrassing.”

He laughed. Motherfucker. It wasn’t even a chuckle but a real laugh, as if I’d told a whopper of a joke.

“What’s so funny?” I asked.

“I tie you up and beat your ass raw until you beg me to fuck you. I can’t even imagine what this big embarrassing thing is.”

I took a deep breath and sat across from him, my knees pressed together, elbows on them as if I was trying to defend my heart by curling into a ball. “It’s not embarrassing because it’s embarrassing. It’s embarrassing because of my reaction to it.”

“Tell me how you’re reacting, then tell me the thing.”

I nodded, unscrambling the words in my head, tapping my fingertips together. “I’m acting like a fucking egomaniac. Like I’m perfect. Like I have this fragile shell around myself and someone comes and, like, taps on it—doesn’t even break it—just threatens it the slightest bit, and I fall apart. Not just that—I asked them to come tap on it. But I didn’t really want them to. I just wanted them to admire my shell and say how wonderful it was.”

“I’m assuming this has to do with music?”

“Yes.” I sniffed, feeling broken all over again. “Mrs. Yuan. I don’t even know her first name. But she pointed out that I suck real bad. I don’t think I’m perfect. But I do. I must if I run away the first time someone tells me what I already know. Like they looked at me and recognized what everyone else couldn’t see. That I’m terrible. That I’m a liar. That I fooled everyone into thinking I have talent. And I started to believe my own lies, and I’m, like, goddamnit, why did I believe me? I feel—” Here was where I really started choking on my own spit. I couldn’t slow the crying down long enough to finish the sentence.

Jonathan reached for me, but I pushed him away.

“I feel worthless.” The last word squeaked out.

Jonathan pulled one of those monogrammed hankies out of his pocket and snapped it open. I smiled then sobbed again.

He put the hankie up to my nose. “Blow.”

I laughed and cried at the same time.

“Just blow it out, Monica.”

I blew. He squeezed my nose and rocked it back and forth.

“Hey!” I said, sounding as if I had a cold.

He pulled me to him by my nose. “I love you. And if I tell you you’re not worthless, you won’t believe me.”

He took the hankie away and balled it up on the table. His lashes glowed amber in the patio light, and the mating calls of the crickets suddenly sounded sexy as hell.

“If you never sang another note, I’d still love you,” he said.

“I know and—”

“Shh.” He held up his hand then held mine. “That being said, your voice is what I fell in love with before I fell in love with the woman behind it.”

“So you say.”

“And your body. I liked that.”

“Yeah, well—”

“And your moxie.”

“My moxie? How old are you, grampa?”

His eyes glittered green with amusement, and his hands found their way between my knees. He yanked my knees open with a swiftness that made me gasp.

“Tonight, I’m going to hurt you. I’m going to make you beg for mercy. I’m going to break you down so hard so you don’t have to be broken down over this bullshit. I’m the only one who gets to make you cry.”

“God, yes.”

“What’s your safe word?”

“Tangerine.”

He leaned back and crossed his ankle over his knee. After looking me over for a second, he picked up his book and opened it. “Go into the bedroom. When I get there, you’d better be ready.”

eight.

MONICA

He made me wait.

He always made me wait when he was serious, and the longer I waited, the more serious he was. I thought, as I waited on the bed with my cheek on the bedspread and my ass in the air, that he was making me wait longer than ever. The anticipation made the backs of my legs tingle. I wanted to touch myself. At first I thought I’d just see how wet I was, but he’d know and he’d punish me by not letting me come.

He said nothing when he finally entered the room. He stood by me. I couldn’t see him. I could only feel his presence, hear his breath, sense his intentions.

He laid his hand on my lower back and pressed down. It was the standard correction. My ass was never high enough.

“Thank you,” I said.

He stood and undid his belt. “Thank me later. Get on your back and open your legs. Knees up. I want to see that cunt.”

I did it. He positioned himself at the foot of the bed, where I could see him between my legs. Half-open shirt and cock-strained trousers. Belt looped in his right hand. Watch and wedding ring on his left.

I almost came just looking at him. When he reached over and pulled my legs apart wider, I lost myself in a rush of sensation.

“Did you just come?” he asked.

“I’m sorry.”

He shook his head. “You’re going to hurt for that.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Open your mouth.” I did, and he put the belt in it.

“You know I don’t do toys,” he said, running his hands over the length of my inner thigh, engaging just enough nail to wake up my skin. “Toys are for children. But sometimes I have to make allowances for safety.” He sat on the bed next to me and held up an oddly-shaped glass bulb about two inches long. “Do you know what this is?”

“Yes. It’s a butt plug,” I said around the belt, and it sounded like a series of grunts.

“I don’t want to be gentle, but I don’t want to harm you either. This is the solution. And I can’t makeshift one out of stuff around the house because I don’t want to take you to the hospital when something breaks inside you.”

He took out the belt. I had enough time to lick my lips before he grabbed my cheeks, forcing my mouth open, and put the butt plug in my mouth.

“Get that wet for me.”

I rolled my tongue around the slick glass. It pressed my tongue to the bottom of my mouth. I puckered my lips around the narrow part, sucking until the flat stopper pressed against my lips like a pacifier.

Jonathan went back to the foot of the bed and looped the belt back up. I held my legs open with my hands.

“Now, first. The original issue. You’re mine. When you let someone else get to you, you deny me my ownership. That is not acceptable.” He tapped my inner thigh with the belt. “I own you. I can get inside you. I can hurt you. I own your pain. No one else.”

The first thwack to my inner thigh came without warning, and it was as hard as he’d ever hit me. I screamed into the glass bulb and rolled.

“On your back, Monica. Take your medicine.”

I rolled back and gingerly spread my legs. He whacked the other side. I screamed again, and tears rolled down my face.

He waited, ever patient, until I got back to center. He yanked my legs apart. “Don’t roll again. You stay on your back, and you show me what’s mine—only mine—to hurt.”

I spread my knees, biting the thin part of the plug. The places he’d whacked still stung. Even when he put two fingers inside me, the pain didn’t go away. It just moved up a level to a layer of pleasure, and I groaned into the plug when he twisted his fingers inside me.

“You’re fucking soaked.”

He ran his fingers over my clit twice, and I almost came again.

“Oh no, goddess. You still need to be punished for that.”

He stepped back, and I braced myself for what was to come. His face was deep in concentration and arousal, lids hooded, lips apart slightly. His pleasure was mine as much as mine was his.

On that realization, he pulled his arm back and rained three strikes on my left thigh. When I screamed and twisted, he pulled me back, spreading my legs and giving me three on the right.

I couldn’t see him through my tears. He pulled the plug out of my mouth, leaving a trail of cry-spit between us. He made nothing of my sobbing. He owned it. If he didn’t want me to cry, I wouldn’t be crying.

“Open your ass for me.”

I put my hands over my ass and pulled the cheeks apart. He pulled me open with his fingers, looked at what he had to work with, and pressed the plug against my ass.

“How you doing, goddess?”

“Okay,” I sobbed.

“Do you remember your safe word?” He pushed in the plug. It was wider than it looked, and my asshole stretched.

“Ah! Hurts!”

“Safe word?”

“Tangerine and fuck you.”

“Breathe, brat,” he said, jamming it in. He pulled it out so the widest part stretched me.

I breathed, and he stroked my clit slowly then kissed it. My body relaxed when his lips touched me, and when his tongue flicked my clit, my back arched with pleasure.

The plug slid in and stayed.

“Legs down. Get on all fours. Let me see.”

When I pressed my legs together, I felt the welts. They were shockingly painful, yet I felt a rush of happiness and well-being when they stung.

Behind me, I heard the rustle of clothing. He was getting naked. Bless him. Bless him, bless him, he was going to fuck me. I closed my eyes and let the wash of contentment run through my veins.

He ran his hands through my hair, grabbed a fistful, and twisted my head toward him. He looked at my face, as if checking on me. Satisfied, he got a knee on the bed.

“Open your mouth. It gets fucked first.”

I opened up. I had no choice. I wanted nothing more than his cock in my throat, and I took it. All of it, looking up at him. He pushed all the way down, pumping my face five times before pulling out so I could breathe.

“Safe word? You got it?”

“I know it,” I said then opened my mouth for him.

He gripped my hair hard. “Good.”

He shoved my face onto his cock and fucked my throat, pulled away long enough for me to breathe or safe out, then fucked my mouth again. I was panting when he finally stopped.

“Good girl. Would you like to come?”

“Yes, please.”

“I’m going to punish you for the first time you came. Are you ready?”

“Yes.”

He pushed me onto my back and opened my legs. He slid his hand between them, rubbing me with four fingers, then he slid them inside.

“Oh, God.”

The next thing was a surprise. The slap right on my cunt was painful and sharp, making me scream. It blossomed into a hint of pleasure.

“You get three. That was one. Count.” He slapped it.

“Two.”

Again, and hard.

My back arched, and I cried out. “Three!”

“You’re so fucking good,” he growled, moving his hands over me. “Look at me. I love you. Come now.”

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. Not when he stroked me like that. I’d been bursting before he even touched me, so on his third stroke, my ass clenched and the pain of the welts disappeared as I came into his hand.

I came off the high when he pulled the plug out of my ass. I gasped.

He reached for his night table drawer and got out a washcloth and lubricant. The plug went into the washcloth, and the lube went all over my ass. I put my hands in his hair and turned to my side. He got up on his knees and put my right leg over his right shoulder.

“You ready?” he asked.

“Yes, please. Do it hard. Make it hurt.”

He did, thrusting his huge cock into my ass in two strokes. It stretched me to the point of pain just the way I liked, but the pain didn’t have the same sharpness I felt when he fucked it without a plug. I was full. Too full. Breaking softly around his cock.

“How is that?” he asked, leaning over my bent leg to kiss my cheek.

“Fuck. So good. So fucking… my God.”

His hips moved faster, deeper, pushing into my ass. He flicked my clit, and even though I’d just come, the rising tide of another orgasm filled me.

He put his face to my cheek and owned me, breathing hard in my ear. His right arm was looped under my right leg, and he flicked my clit. Not one part of my body wasn’t aware of his presence.

I owned him. I made this beautiful man gasp in my ear. His pleasure was mine, and my pain was his.

“Hurt me, Jonathan. Hurt—”

He pinched my clit, and I screamed. Pain drove through me, and the orgasm was so powerful, such a braid of sensation from both ends of the spectrum, that I nearly lost consciousness. My ass clenched, pulsing around him.

“Yes. That.” He grunted and thrust deep, then stilled in his release.

When he took the last gasp, I rolled onto my back, and he slid his dick out of me.

“You’re amazing,” he said, kissing my face. His cheeks were rough, and I enjoyed the scratchy sensation. “Literally. You amaze me. How good you are.”

“I love you.”

“I adore you.” One last peck on the lips, and he stood, holding out his hand. “Let me take care of you.”

***

After the shower, he sat me on the cold marble vanity and had me spread my legs with my heels on the edge of the counter. The welts inside my thighs were an angry red, and looking at them made me want to get fucked again.

“I did a number on you,” Jonathan said, rubbing a soothing cream over them. His touch was firm and gentle, healing and arousing.

“I needed it.”

“You going back for coaching?”

“No,” I said. “I think I burned that bridge. I can just practice. I’ll get it.”

He slid two fingers inside me, and I pushed into them.

“You’ll get it.”

“Oh, say can you see…” I groaned.

“I was saving your cunt for last.”

“Take it.”

He carried me into the bedroom and made love to me, healed me, brought me back to center. No one could hurt me with this man at my side.