C Reiss - Sing

“What’s this gonna cost me?”

“Everything.”

“Worth it.”

We are in your house. The living room. I’m naked from the waist up, and you’re in jeans and a polo shirt. You’re looking at me like you want to eat me alive, but you’re not. Yet. You’re waiting. You’re thinking. You’re constructing the next minutes of my life like a movie director blocks a scene.

You tell me to take my pants off, and I do. You watch. You like my body. The way my breasts hang when I bend over to release my feet. My ass when I bend at the waist.

When I step out of my jeans fully, you step toward me in your bare feet. I look nervous. You tell me to stop my hands from twitching, and when I cast my eyes down and say ‘yes, sir’ you can feel the power surge in you, that everything’s under control. Everything’s going to be all right, unless it’s not. What you have planned can go terribly wrong. The worry bothers you.

You ask me my safeword, and I tell you to shut up and fuck me.

‘Oh Goddess,’ you say. Then you take the hair at the back of my neck and pull until I’m looking at the ceiling. My lips part, and I sigh.

‘Say it. Or you can put those jeans back on and go home.’

I mouth the word tangerine, but don’t use my voice.

You look down at me and you say, ‘say it.’

I whisper it so softly you can barely hear it.

You spin me around and shove me into the kitchen. I start to turn back to you but you bend me over the butcher block. You are sharp and violent, and when you see me cringe, your dick gets hard. You want to see me scream. You need it.

You.

Need.

It.

Your dick is out, a throbbing piece of meat aimed between my legs. There’s wetness emanating from me. It would slide in so easy. You’d be sucked into my cunt so fast and you’d forget everything.

‘Say it or you go home.’ You feel me quiver under you. You think you might just have me put my jeans on and leave. That would be the right punishment for making you uneasy. You slap my ass, and I yelp as if I didn’t expect it. Your hand stings, and you’re poised to do it again, when I speak up.

‘Tangerine.’

The word is barely out of my mouth and you’re fucking me, pressing my cheek to the butcher block. Thrust after thrust...you know you’re pushing the countertop against the sensitive part of my hip. I’m yours to hurt, and you know it. The things on the counter rattle as you fuck me. Salt and pepper grinders. A canister of utensils. Fancy bottles of condiments. You pull my ass cheeks apart with your free hand so you can go deeper, gripping hard enough to bruise, watching how your fingers indent my skin. My feet come off the floor, you’re pounding me so hard. I gasp and grunt.

You take a bottle of olive oil and smack it against the edge of the counter, breaking the neck. I’m startled, but you push my head down hard. The glass is everywhere. Oil splashes on the floor.

You run your hand down my back as you fuck me. The broken bottle is in your other hand. Slowly, you pour it on my back. You rub it all over me, then pour more, until a river of it falls into the crack of my ass, and you feel it on your cock. You pull it out, then slide it in again. Hard. Once. Twice. Olive oil coats us. You slap my butt again and again. I cry out in pleasure, your name on my lips.

Then without breaking your rhythm, you jam your cock in my ass.

I scream.

You’re halfway in and you feel two things at once. You are incredibly aroused. Aroused enough to lose control. One second more. But there’s also the worry that in losing control you’ll hurt me.

You ask me how I am.

I say through my teeth, ‘Is that all you got, Drazen?’

My face is red. My fingers are clutching the edge of the butcher block. You put the bottle down and take my jaw in your hand, turning it until I’m facing you, and you bend until you’re so close you can smell green tea on my breath.

Then you push the rest of the way into me, the skin of your dick sliding against the olive oil, stretching me without friction as a barrier.

I grunt. You know it hurts, you see it in my eyes. But you don’t stop. You whisper words of encouragement, pulling out, then slamming into me. We’re mouth to mouth as I whimper and you fuck my ass. Sliding in and out with the olive oil. Balls deep. I’m tight. You’re getting squeezed. I’m getting ripped apart.

But my whimpering is turning into gasps and moans. I’m looking at you now with something besides agony. You go faster, pounding. Pushing deeper with every stroke.

You pull me up, until we’re both standing. You slide your hand across my breasts and down my stomach. There’s oil everywhere. Your fingers go between my legs. They find my clit right away. Soaking. It’s hard to the touch. When you circle it, you slow your thrusts. You slip it over, reaching for my hole. Then drag four fingers over my clit. You do this over and over, until I beg.

‘Let me come. Please.’

You want me to come while you’re in my ass. You want me to want it after it hurts me. That’s the victory, to have us both love my pain.

I’m whispering ‘please’ repeatedly, like a chant. Your fingers move in the same circles. You have me at the edge. You own me. ‘Please, please, please, please.’

You say, ‘Come.”

I thrust my hips into you, burying you in me. There’s a moment of nothing, then you feel my orgasm on your dick, pulsing around you. Gripping you. Milking your cock until the fullness in you is too much to bear, and you have to let it go. You slam into me and come. You lose control, forgetting your hand is gripping my cunt. You bite my shoulder, and I scream for the second time. You lose yourself. You forget everything.

JONATHAN

I feel her.

We speak. I want to possess her, but I can’t find the strength to move my arms. I smell her canned peaches scent and hear the warm caramel of her voice. I answer her in short sentences, because I feel like I gulped a handful of driveway and forgot how to swallow.

She taps my arm as she describes what I’m going to do to her. I think, even in my state, I get hard, because it’s an epic fuck from her sweet mouth. I don’t even know if she notices it, but with that tapping finger, she’s keeping a rhythm as she tells the story, and I strain to listen as unconsciousness tries to invade again. I hear her words, but what I feel when she talks about me hurting her, is the connection created when her pain turns to pleasure, and she is under me, a piece of the world I control completely, for a moment in time.

“You’re good at this,” I said. “I’m taking mental notes.”

“When did the doctor say you could enslave me again?”

“As soon as I was up to it.”

“I predict, day after tomorrow.”

“You’re selling me short.”

“I’ll be at your service tomorrow, if you want. But you’re in here for five days, and you need to be alone tonight.”

I grumbled deep in my throat. She was right, of course. The drugs hadn’t even worn off. I had no idea how I was going to feel about sex once the pain kicked in, all I knew was, I wanted to be inside her.

“Go sleep in your bed tonight, then.”

“If I’m up at 3am, I’ll think of you.” She stood straight and got her bag. “Actually, if I’m awake any time, I’ll think of you.”

She leaned down to kiss me, and I touched her lips.

MONICA

On my way out, a song hit me. I ran into the cafeteria to write it down. I texted Lil and asked her to meet me out front in fifteen minutes and got myself tea.

I’d been in that fucking hospital forever. What looked sparkling clean in every corner the first day, looked dingy, dirty, and worthless on day four. I could spot the black scratches on the pink cafeteria tabletops instantly and the little dust bombs sticking to the legs of the chairs. I hated the tea. It was too hot, the Styrofoam on my tongue made the liquid acerbic, and Jonathan was sick. I hated the greasy eggs and potatoes. Hated the stink of vinegar that seemed to be on everything. I hated being kicked out of Jonathan’s room because there were too many people in it.

But on the day of the surgery, the cafeteria sparkled again. The Christmas lights were the most cheerful shades, the tinsel and garland festive and joyous, and the fake tree in the corner, with toys for sick kids under it, made my heart swell with pride for human generosity.

My god, what do you get a man like Jonathan for Christmas?

I got into the chair I always sat in and took out my little notebook and clicky pencil. Everything about this had sucked, but I was writing. A lot. I didn’t even know if half of them were songs, or opera, or part of something so much bigger, but I couldn’t stop the verses or the tapping of my foot as I laid them down. In the days I’d been at the hospital, waiting for the hours I could see Jonathan, my tea usually went cold before I gulped it down.

I moved the Notice of Public Auction to the front of my notebook, so it wouldn’t be in my way, and began writing. Another Styrofoam cup appeared at my side when I was still neck deep in a song about an imaginary ass-fuck that was disguised as a poem about something else entirely. I looked up at a man, six foot four, sixties in a movie-star kind of way. He smiled at me.

“We meet again.”

“I’m sorry?”

He held out his hand, and I knew that even though I didn’t know him, I did.

“My daughter told me my son’s girlfriend was often down here. I thought it might be you.”

J. Declan. Shit. Jonathan wouldn’t like me here. And just when I was getting used to that hateful table.

I shook his hand briefly, then stood. “Yeah. I was just going.”

He sat down. “Looks like you were in the middle of something. Can you just ignore me? There are no other seats.”

I looked around. Every other table was full. I was a single person taking up a four-seater. In the middle of writing, I hadn’t even noticed.

“I’ll make room for the rest of the family.”

He laughed to himself. A silent chuckle. No more than a breath.

“What?”

“If my boy is the sun, I’m Pluto. Smallest. Farthest. Still in orbit, however. Have you seen him?”

“Yes.”

“How does he seem?”

“The same.”

“And his mood?”

“Hard to tell through the wisecracks.”

He nodded, looking into the cafeteria. Kids screamed. Mothers yelled. A mop slapped against the edge of a yellow bucket. To our right, a man wept while a much younger woman comforted him. I glanced at Declan. He looked far away, and I felt sorry for him.

“You should talk to him,” I said as I stood up. I hadn’t seen the outside world in too many hours, and Lil would be outside in a red zone in four minutes.

“I should.” He said in such a way as to imply that he would if it were an option. I wanted to say more, but I remembered what Jonathan had told me, and what Margie had said about his shitty hobbies, so I excused myself and went home to try and manage my life.

MONICA

It was night by the time the Bentley made its way slowly down my hill. I’d called Debbie from the back to let her know Jonathan was okay, and told her if any shifts opened up I’d fill in. Then left a message with Darren, who had offered me the moon and stars, the food in his kitchen, the gas in his car and the surface area of his shoulder, should I need it. But unless I asked for something specific, or called during an unpredictable sliver of time, he was unavailable. I had no idea what he was doing, but when I did catch him long enough to ask after him, his “fines” and “greats” seemed sincere. So I left him alone.

“What time you going in tomorrow, Miss?” asked Lil as she opened the back door for me.

“I’m hoping for an afternoon shift,” I said. “Can I call you?”

“I expect you to.” She stepped aside as I got out. “I mean it. I don’t mean to be disrespectful, but it’s my job to drive. I don’t want to hear about you taking the bus again.”

She slammed the door.