Sing

CHAPTER 30.

MONICA

He was still sleeping when I got back. I sat in the chair by his bed and looked at his hand in the light of the moon and the little light-up Christmas tree on his nightstand. The fingers were set in a relaxed curl, veins and light hair, the keyring wedding band half falling off. I knew those hands. They were strong. They were his instruments. I couldn’t see past his elbows, but I knew the rest of him. I read it like a book. The velvet of his skin. His scent when his cologne’s worn off. The warmth of his touch, its perfect pressure on me. The tones and cadences of his voice, rising and falling; clipped to command, breathy to soothe, chopped fine to laugh. I put my palm on his cheek, in my mind, and his eyes close for a second before he turns his head and kisses my hand, my wrist, the inside of my forearm, stubble scratching, lips awakening, tongue taunting, fingers closed on my wrist like a vise. I feel bound, secure, safe, my tingling body is an exploding cage of sin.

He is before me, dressed in his business clothes, and I am naked. We are in the hotel room where he spanked me the first time, the night I tried to hide my navel from him, and he gave me my voice back. He’d told me to be naked, and this is how I imagine it would have gone if I had been obedient.

He tells me to put my hands behind my back, then kicks my legs open. He tells me that he won’t fuck me until he hears my voice, and I whisper my doubts that it will work. He smirks in that way he does, and runs his fingertips across my shoulder, then down my chest to my nipple, which he strokes until it’s hard, bending it down, then circling it.

He switches the light on and turns me toward the windows.

It’s night, we’re on a high floor and Los Angeles is covered in a blanket of lights. I can see myself, naked, reflected in the windows, a ghost over the city.

“Put your hands on the glass,” he says. I do. The basin is spread before me, a checkerboard of pinpricks, exactly as Mondrian had envisioned, squares of light, blinking signs of life to a haze in the distance. Above it all, my body, leaning into the window, stretched across miles of Los Angeles, bent at the waist as if I was about to fuck it.

“Anything that sounds like ‘no’ or ‘stop’ is effective. But you have to say it.”

He draws his palm across my ass in a hard slap. At that point, he hadn’t spanked me yet, so my surprise overwhelmed the arousal. I was immediately angry and defensive.

“You have to use your voice. Do you understand?”

He puts his left hand on my rib cage, fingertips brushing my breast, and slapped me again.

I am not surprised the second time, nor am I angry. The raw tingle is arousing enough, as is the stroke and grab that follow. But what really arouses me is letting him do it. I submitted to it, making myself beneath him, under his command and control. I want it. I want every sting, every brush of his fingers against my sensitive skin. He slaps the back of my thighs and I gasp.

“Monica, was that you?” he asks. I see him in the window, just behind me, his dark suit nearly invisible against the night city. I want him to take me, use me, fuck me like a whore.

He reaches between my legs and jams two fingers in my cunt. My knees nearly buckle under the weight of my arousal.

“You’re wet.”

“Yes,” I whisper.

“You want me to fuck you?” He slaps my ass again, hard.

“Yes, please,” I reply in breaths.

“Say it.”

I can’t. I can’t engage my vocal cords. I can’t make sounds. My voice kills people, I am convinced of it.

He takes his belt off and loops it once.

“You don’t know the power you have,” he says, and then whacks me with the belt. God, it hurts. I am more aware of the presence and place of my cunt. I can feel it hanging between the raw singe of my ass cheeks. It’s heavy, bloated, engorged with desire. He hits me again, lower, the leather kissing my wet opening.

“Say it.”

“Please fuck me.”

“With your voice.”

Whack.

The sting is definite, lingering, burning as if I’d sat on a hot stove.

“You don’t know the power you have,” he hits me repeatedly on the word power, until my ass is on fire and my clit is so engorged the belt touches it when it snaps, and I scream.

“Monica, was that you?” He’s breathless himself.

I can’t make the noise again until he drops the belt and slaps my cunt twice, hard and fast, and the sting, then the rush of pleasure pulled one long vowel sound from my throat.

“There it is. That beautiful voice.”

Behind me, he takes his cock out and places it at my opening.

“Say it.”

“Fuck me. Fuck me please.” The air from my lungs vibrates my vocal cords, and I can hear myself cry out as he rams into me. His hips touch my raw behind, making me feel every thrust as pleasure and pain, filling the spectrum of sensations, every thought, every cell, every warp of my soul feeling him move inside me.

He pulls me up. My hands leave the cold glass, and I stand again, draped over the city, Jonathan fucking me from behind. I see him in the window, and he knows what I’m looking at, my giant self over the basin, and he whispers in my ear.

“You’re not the same woman I met. You have control.” I realize I’m hearing him say it the way he said it to me the yesterday, when he was trying to convince me to cut that EP. That same weak, enervated voice that I’d infused with muscle in my mind. I had stolen it and pasted it into the scene like a collage.

His fingers slip between my legs. I am sopping for him, my clit a hard knob under his touch, and I watch my own face in the window as I open my mouth the yell with pleasure as he whispers in my ear.

“You don’t know your own power.”

I put my head by his shoulder and fell asleep for a few hours.