Collection: A Submission Series Story Collection

by Reiss, CD

  “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.

  Chapter 9

  MONICA

  If you’re told you’re fantastic enough times, you start to believe it. And it was becoming a problem. I was at a plateau. I’d found where I belonged and was getting recognition from people with the power to make my dreams happen. It was their job to make sure I was happy and satisfied so that I’d continue working.

  Unfortunately, they were businesspeople. They weren’t artists or fans. They didn’t know shit.

  I could sing like the sound of a car screeching on asphalt, and it didn’t matter to them as long as I made money. “Sell it, don’t smell it” was the rule on the western end of Wilshire. And because I’d been traveling around with Jonathan, no one criticized me. My artist friends were back in LA, and I was too busy to just sit around making work with them. No one told me where I could be better. It was ass kissing time all the time.

  Truth be told, I was really happy coasting. But the thing about coasting is that at some point, the energy goes out of the work, and I would have to push or grind to a halt.

  “Should I wait?” Lil called back to me as she pulled me up to Mrs. Yuan’s warehouse in Boyle Heights.

  “Yeah. I’ll be a second.”

  She put the car in park right in the red zone and opened the back door for me.

  “You probably don’t even have to turn the car off.”

  I could have sent her up for the music. I could have stayed home even, and sent her while I worked on the national anthem in the privacy of my home studio. But I went myself for reasons I couldn’t even tell myself. I wanted to touch where the pain of the day before had been.

  Yep. Pain. On the elevator, I admitted to myself that I’d been hurt, and I’d been hurt because I surrounded myself with businesspeople who didn’t know how to be critical. I hadn’t sat in a studio with a producer and had my ass beaten in two months. I’d gotten soft, and I bruised easily.

  The door to the big white room with the black grand piano was open. I walked in, my shoes echoing. No one was there, but my stupid sheet music was on the piano.

  Behind the door Mrs. Yuan had walked out of, I heard the snipsnap of an Asian language.

  And on the lid over the keys was the black box.

  I put the music back and opened the box.

  A tuning fork isn’t an expensive item, but it was nestled inside velvet as if it were a jewel. I tapped the worn ridge of the piano and listened to the hum of A four forty.

  Singing the note wasn’t something I decided consciously; it was something I did out of compulsion. I had to mimic it. Had to try it again. I couldn’t just let the vibrations hover in the air without matching them.

  I put the bar to my ear and sang it low at first, listening for the wave oscillations I could pick out with stunning accuracy on the viola.

  I heard nothing.

  I tapped the fork again and committed to doing this stupid, pointless thing. I wasn’t trying to prove I could, or that I wasn’t as bad as she thought. I wasn’t trying to get it right even. I was trying to hear what she heard.

  I sang louder. Maybe that was the issue. Maybe I just needed to sing louder to hear it.

  Could have been I was screaming, or singing loud enough for Disney Hall. When the inner door snapped open, my sudden silence fell like an anvil over the room.

  Mrs. Yuan stood in the doorway in a pale blue wrap. The chopsticks in her hair had little fans on them, and her mouth was a straight red slash. “Why do you come in here to torture my ears?”

  She strode into the room, making the seven steps in the time it took me to put the tuning fork back in the box. I snapped it closed when she held out her hand.

  “You got worse. I didn’t think it was possible. What did you do to your throat?”

  Jonathan’s dick had been down it, but I didn’t say that. “Sorry.”

  She took the box. I grabbed my sheet music and walked out. I noticed the molding on the door was red on the white wall, which didn’t matter one bit. Just a simple observation I hadn’t made last time. Why hadn’t I noticed?

  Because the last time I walked out, I’d been looking at the floor. This time, I was looking up, and by the time my hand touched the doorknob, I knew why.

  I turned before opening the door. She was halfway back to the white inner door.

  “Wait,” I said brazenly.

  She didn’t have to wait, of course, and if she didn’t respect me at all, she wouldn’t have.

  But she did. She stopped and turned to me.

  “I dreamed my whole life of singing Dodger Stadium,” I said. “I grew up in Echo Park, and I could hear everything. Sometimes I dreamed I’d be a seventh inning act, God Bless America and all, and sometimes it was a whole concert, when I was feeling really ambitious. But this? I heard someone sing the national anthem eighty days a year, and they were always bad. Always. Even when they were good, between the sound system and the octave changes, the national anthem always sounds bad in a stadium. It’s a capella, and it’s like I’m naked. Everything’s against the performer. And I can’t bear the thought of not being the best. Which is why I had such a hard time yesterday.”

  She folded her hands in front of her, still holding the black box, tilted her head, and said nothing for too long. “Everyone is bad, then?”

  “Whitney Houston,” I said. “She was great. But she used weird phrasing.”

  “You are not Whitney Houston.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  More silence. It hung at the perfect key for a new start.

  “Can I come back?” I said. “I have two weeks. It’s not enough time to find perfection, but maybe I can get closer?”

  She stepped forward. “You have nothing to do for two weeks but tone your voice. Nothing. You will think in scales. You will be silent unless you are singing. You will repeat repeat repeat. At home and with me to the point where your voice is tired, but not over that line.”

  “Yes.”

  “For two weeks, I own you. Is that clear?”

  “Yes.”

  “Now.” She straightened herself when I thought she couldn’t get any straighter. “I have twenty-one minutes to spare. Would you like to start?”

  In my gratitude and relief, I had no other answer but, “Yes.”

  Chapter 10

  MONICA

  I bounced into the house. Jonathan was in his running gear, finishing up a puke-colored protein shake. I kissed his cheek and rinsed out the blender pitcher.

  “What took you so long?” he asked.

  “She gave me homework, and we set up a schedule for the week.”

  “So there’s hope for you?”

  “Apparently not, but she’s martyring herself for my sake.”

  He pressed himself to me, pinning my hands behind me. “I’ll make you sing.”

  “We need to talk about this for a minute.”

  He let me go, and I turned to him. He pressed himself against me.

  “Okay,”
he said, picking up my shirt. Jesus, he had such a one-track mind. I tried to pull it down, but he shooed my hands away and yanked my bra up over my breasts. “Talk.”

  “I have to protect my throat for the next two weeks.”

  “Wear a scarf.”

  He bent down and kissed my breasts, licking the nipples until they were hard. I dug my fingers in his hair. God, he knew how to use his mouth.

  “The inside,” I said. “Warm tea with honey. Soothing food.” He took a good, hard suck, and my back arched toward him. “Not dick.” I groaned it, because I wanted the dick. I wanted it a lot.

  He knelt in front of me and unbuttoned my pants. “Two weeks, no oral. You’ll make it up to me.”

  “I can’t scream either.”

  “Happy to gag you if you want.” He wiggled down my pants.

  “And crying. I can’t have too much gunk in my throat.”

  He stopped trying to wedge me out of my clothes and looked up at me. “Anything else?”

  “I see her when she has time. She owns me, she said.”

  “She what?”

  “It’s a figure of speech.”

  He stood, putting his finger in my face as if about to make a point. Stopped. Raised it again. Pressed his lips into a line. Looked away.

  “You’re not threatened by a voice coach, are you?”

  That did it. Whatever indecision had been interrupting the flow of his thoughts was driven away by my pure snottiness.

  “Bend over the sink. I’ll show you who owns what around here.”

  Chapter 11

  JONATHAN

  I didn’t know if she said someone else owned her to annoy me or to prepare me for the coming weeks, because once I’d had her over the counter, she kissed me, cleaned herself off, and started.

  Scales.

  All fucking day and night.

  Monica’s voice went straight from her throat to my higher self. Its vibrations were coded to the wavelengths of my heart.

  But scales? All the fucking time? No words. No melody. Just up up up up and down down down down. Do re mi fa so la ti do without the cheerful little animals and sunshine. Or, more specifically, without a point.