by Reiss, CD
“I’m sorry,” I said, putting my hand on his forearm. “You ran… it’s got to be half a mile uphill but...”
He tilted his head, waiting.
“Can I keep it on?” I touched the collar reflexively. “I’m sorry. I changed my mind.”
He laughed. I’d never heard a sound so right.
“Go,” Gary said, guiding me out.
“Go!” Jonathan reiterated.
“Thank you.” I kissed his mouth, tasting salt and feeling the scratch of his upper lip.
He put his hands on my cheeks and lengthened the kiss. “Get out of here, goddess. I’m watching.”
One quick kiss on his cheek, and I stepped past Gary onto the field. The expanse was bigger than I ever imagined possible, the crowd louder, the pressure more intense. Somewhere in Echo Park, a girl with a voice was listening, and I sang for her, so that when her day came, she wouldn’t be afraid.
Chapter 18
MONICA
Jonathan had sent Lil home and driven me home in my car. I closed my eyes when he pulled down our drive, listening to the cracking of pebbles under the tires and the beating rumble of ocean waves.
The crickets around our house were sand-colored with back legs that bent away from their bodies and to the horizon, not toward the sky. They creaked all seasons of the year, as if they wanted to fuck all the time. When Jonathan opened my door, their mating call filled my ears.
We’d skipped the game. We didn’t even have to talk about it. I could see if Fredricks got picked off in tomorrow’s news.
I took his hand and let him help me out. The dim spotlights that dotted the curved walkway were the only illumination.
“We should’ve gotten a place with a porch,” he said, lacing his fingers in mine. Only good stuff had happened on his old porch, back when he’d subtly made sure I didn’t enter his house with my clothes on.
“I miss your craftsman,” I said.
“Me too.” He stopped at the front door and gently put his hand around my throat, feeling the collar. “You were magnificent tonight.”
“Thank you.”
He put the code in the door lock, and it popped open.
“You’re not a fraud,” he said, moving his hand up to my face. “You’re very real.”
With the door open and the promise of a night under him a step away, I turned and parted my lips, letting his finger slide between them. I flicked my tongue along the length of it then took it all in my mouth. With a sharp breath, his own lips parted as I cupped my puckered lips around his finger and slid it out.
“My mouth is yours,” I said. “I have an idea.”
“An idea?”
“I think you’ll like it.”
* * *
I was on my back on the kitchen table. Jonathan had made sure the staff was gone for the night, and once that was cleared up, I’d gotten undressed, down to my black garters, and gotten on the hard, flat surface.
“This idea,” he said, stroking inside my legs and hooking his finger on the crotch of my panties. “I like it already.”
As I pushed myself back until my head hung over the edge of the table, he pulled off my underwear. I let my head drop until I could see through the glass doors to the backyard. The world went upside down. I gripped the sides of the table, so intense was the feeling that I’d fall over.
Jonathan stood beside of me and stroked me from cunt to tits.
“May I have it? Please?” I groaned.
“Have what?”
“Your cock in my mouth. Down my throat. Come down my throat.”
He took out his cock. Magnificent beast, dripping with salty pre-come, and he put it to my tongue to lick off.
He put his fingers on my lips. With a sharp inhale, he shoved his fingers into my mouth. I opened my throat, pressing down the back of my tongue. My throat, the collar was exposed to his eyes, and he touched it with his other hand.
“Open. I’m going to fuck your mouth.”
I did, and he pushed his fingers down. All the way down. The sinews of my neck pushed against the collar, and he groaned when he pulled them out.
“Take it,” he said, putting the tip of his dick to my lips. “Take it all.”
I could only feel it. I felt my body, out and vulnerable, his cock invading my throat. I closed my eyes. He pulled out to let me breathe, and I heaved.
“You all right?” he asked.
“Yes, sir.” I was still facing upside down, collar exposed to the ceiling. I opened up for him, and he guided his dick back in.
“That collar,” he said as he put his length down the throat extended before him. “Fuck. You’re mine.”
He put his hand between my legs as he fucked my face, timing it again so he had three strokes, then I got a breath. His hand pressed against my cunt, gathering fire. I pushed my hips into him, screaming in pleasure against his cock.
He grunted, pulled out. “Breathe!”
It was a command, an order, and I pulled in a breath before he shoved himself back in, invading me, breaking me, leveraging himself with my tits.
“God,” he growled and came in the back of my mouth, marking it.
Sticky in my throat, and salty as he released onto my tongue. Forward again, the last few drops down deep. He released my tits on the last thrust and drew his hands across the collar, pulling on the lock. He gasped and pulled away so I could see him.
“Thank you,” he said. “Thank you.”
I was too full of him to answer.
I lifted my head to get the blood flow back, and he picked me up. He carried me toward the stairs, but we didn’t make it past the living room. He dropped me on the couch and kneeled before me, kissing inside my legs. I ran my fingers through his hair and let his mouth do its work. He didn’t let me come but mounted me when he was ready, fucking me until I stiffened and arched, coming with him, breathing deeply to a shared rhythm.
Beat
This section contains spoilers for Theresa Drazen’s story -
CORRUPTION
You can read now or come back to it later.
Your call.
In the meantime, some context.
Chunks of this bonus epilogue titled Cocky Capo were originally released in 2018’s Cocktales Anthology. I refocused it to Jonathan and Monica and put it in the back of the Complete Submission bundle, where it sat uncomfortably for awhile before I pulled it out and put it here in its new home.
Chapter 1
MONICA
NAPOLI - ITALIA
“Are you nervous?” Theresa asked. I bounced Gabby on my knee. She was fourteen months old and hadn’t started walking yet, preferring a bear crawl instead. She’d been born with the Drazen ginger hair and the Faulkner stubbornness.
“About?” Her question had thrown me. We’d told them we were in Italy on vacation, but Theresa had a way of finding things out. When her husband’s father died and Jonathan found out she was going to Naples, he insisted on a meeting, “just in case.”
I didn’t ask which case he was justing about. I didn’t have to. It would not be spoken aloud.
The waiter took our plates. Antonio and Jonathan had retired to the restaurant patio before coffee. I thought they were just going to get some fresh air, but no. Antonio was smoking and Jonathan was sitting upwind as if anything about that was okay.
“I can tell him to put it out,” Theresa added.
That would go over well. Theresa running to the patio like a harridan on my behalf, knocking the lit cigarette out of her husband’s hand on my behalf. That would be just great. And then, to top it all off, Jonathan would get frustrated with me because, “It doesn’t even matter any more.”
Which it did. It sure as fuck mattered.
“It’s fine.”
“Here.” Theresa held her arms out for Gabrielle. “In case you want to dive through the window.”
I passed the baby over. “He’s so cocky about that heart.” I slid the board book Gabrielle was looking at over to her, but the baby tw
isted and rested her head on Theresa’s shoulder. “He thinks he’s freaking invincible.”
Theresa laid her hand on my daughter’s back.
“Maybe you’re the one who’s nervous,” she said, more rightly than she could even imagine.
“About Jonathan? I’m always nervous.”
We hadn’t told his family. They’d all fly out to be with us. We wanted to do this alone, but somehow I felt like Theresa knew. There was something about his family that tied them so tightly secrets became impossible.
Chapter 2
JONATHAN
“How do you like it?” Antonio asked, releasing a plume of smoke toward the sea. Antonio stood by the railing, upwind, mindful of my transplanted heart.
“It’s like Los Angeles twenty years ago,” I said. “Same weather. Smells like shit.”
“But the people are better.”
“Truth.” I tipped my wine to him and sipped. One glass was all I was supposed to drink, and I savored every drop.
I could get used to southern Italy, except the cigarettes. Every time we walked down the street, someone was smoking. And every time, like goddamn clockwork, Monica pulled me away like a mother hen.
I counted the times. Twelve times yesterday got her twelve swats with my belt last night. My guess? She did it because she liked the punishment. In a few days it wasn’t going to matter.
I glanced through the restaurant’s patio doors. She was watching me. Five times I checked, five times she was watching me and not the baby. That would be five strokes with my hand plus seven with the belt for pulling me away from smoke during the day. She handed the baby to my sister, but she’d still get swatted if she didn’t keep her concern to herself.
I loved my wife’s concern more than I loved punishing her for it.
A waitress brought espresso and Sambuca with curls of lemon peel on the rim.
With the last drag, Antonio stamped the cigarette out and sat across from me. He spoke in Italian, but a little more slowly than normal. I was capable of speaking a few languages, but my fluency wasn’t as good as a native.
“Your daughter is beautiful,” he said, rubbing the lemon on the edge of his cup and dropping it in the saucer. “She’s losing the red hair.”
“If we’re lucky she’ll look like her mother.” He dropped a bit of Sambuca in his cup.
“Salud to that.” He tilted the cup toward me.
“Maybe you’ll have a bunch of redheads.”
He shook his head. “She didn’t tell you?”
“I don’t know what I don’t know, brother.”
“No kids.” He tipped his espresso down, finishing in one gulp.
I was surprised. Theresa had always wanted children. I couldn’t believe she’d marry a man who didn’t.
“I’m not supposed to ask why.”
“Why not?”
“It’s rude.”
“Fucking Americans.”
“Well, we’re in Italy, so I’m asking. Why won’t you let her have kids?”
I tried not to sound angry, but maybe I did.
“Me?” He tented his fingers over his chest. “It’s not me.”
“Then?” I prepared my espresso. “What did you do?”
“Now I know why Americans don’t ask.” He crossed his legs and leaned deep in his chair. “You’re pushy.”
“That’s why we rule the world.”
A shot of a laugh escaped his lungs.
“Mio Dio. Asshole. I should blow smoke at your face just to watch your wife take you out of here by your ear.” He fingered his Zippo as he looked over the railing to the sea, but didn’t light a cigarette. “It was the accident.”
The accident.
My sister had fallen off a second story veranda with an infamous mob boss. Antonio had taken the blame for the boss’s death, but when mafia soldiers started secretly paying tribute to her in the hospital, we all suspected Theresa had done the deed.
Antonio put Sambuca in his espresso cup and drained it.
“She can’t have children,” he said. “A shard of hip bone punctured her…” he paused, pointing to his own stomach. “You know.”
“Uterus?”
“Fucking Americans. Yes.” He poured more Sambuca. Between the sugar and the alcohol content, he was going to pickle his brain. “They took it out.” I hailed the waitress.
“Can you get this guy an aperitif?”
“Limoncello,” he cut in. “And Pellegrino for the American.”
When the waitress was gone I leaned forward, putting my elbows on my knees.
“You could—”
“Basta. I don’t want to adopt. No surrogates. It’s children as God intended or nothing. I give my life to my Theresa. That’s the end of it. Let’s talk about calcio or something normal.”
Calico was futbol and I wasn’t interested. I looked through the patio doors at Monica and Theresa. Gabby slept on my sister’s shoulder as Monica handed her a napkin to wipe away tears. My sister had always wanted children, and here we were with our beautiful daughter. Life was a cruel master, spitefully giving the right gifts to the wrong people.
Like me.
I’d been given a family I was probably going to have to leave, while Antonio and Theresa would spend their lives without.
Fuck life.
* * *
Gabby was sleeping across the hotel hall with her nanny.
I was naked from the waist up.
My wife was naked with a belt in her teeth, bent over the footboard with her wrists tied to the rails and her ankles tied to the bed’s legs. She had a pillow under her abdomen so the bar didn’t dig into her. The only discomfort she should feel should come from me.
The red patches on her ass were hot to the touch. She’d taken the swats from my hand like a champ, and when I slid my fingers into her seam she was soaking wet.
“Now,” I said. “You pulled me away from cigarette smoke seven times and reminded me to take my meds an hour before I was supposed to. That’s eight.”
She looked around and grunted an objection. The belt in her teeth was wet with spit. I took it out.
“That’s totally not fair! There was a time change from Prague.”
“Nine, then.”
She rolled her eyes at me. I never punished her for that because it didn’t bother me. But she was getting used to pain, and nine would barely make a dent in her defenses.
“You know what?” I said, tapping her red bottom gently with the loop of the belt. “Let’s make it an even dozen. Count.”
I brought the belt down on the soft, raw skin of her ass. When she buckled, my balls throbbed.
“One,” she said.
Damn, she was perfect. She fit right into my life. I hit her in the back of the thighs.
“Two.” She was trying to sound bored, but a hot pink mark rose where the belt had been.
“Oh, Goddess, you’re such a brat.” Across the ass, where her cunt was blossoming, I tried to hurt her free of boredom.
“Three.” Clenched teeth. Another across the same spot. “Four,” she grunted. I stroked her ass, feeling the rising swells of skin, then slid two fingers deep inside her.
“Italy agrees with you.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Eight more.”
She counted three strokes as they came in fast succession, yelping “seven.”
“Why was my sister crying?”
She paused for too long, so I gave her one on the back of her thighs.
“Eight. There were two kids squatting in Antonio’s dad’s place. She was sad.”
Coupled with the conversation I’d had with Antonio, I could imagine she was. I could get the rest of the story later.
Swat.
“Nine.” Her tone was almost relieved, as if she’d arrived at a destination. But I hadn’t. My breathing was labored and my arm was weak. Fuck this arm. Fuck the enervation that gripped me when I gave my wife what she needed.
Swat.
“Ten.”
“Okay.”
I never knew if she forgot out of brattiness or if she was so deep in subspace she had limited syllables.
“Okay, what?” I touched her sore, friction-heated skin and she jumped.
“Okay, Sir.”
Pulling her cheek away, I inspected the tight pucker of her ass.
“Three more. A baker’s dozen.”
I brought the belt down and she counted to thirteen.
Leaning close to her, I kissed a tear from her cheek.
“You are absolutely perfect.”
She smiled and mouthed, “so are you.”
“Do you want to use your safeword?”
“No, thank you.”
Standing behind her, I ran my hand over her back, assessing what I could do and what my body would refuse. Fuck this shit.
“I’m going to take your ass. Are you ready?”
“Yes.”
I put the belt by her lips. “Open.”
She opened her mouth and clamped onto the leather.
Behind her, I ran my fingers over her cunt, gathering moisture to spread over her ass, tucking a finger inside to stretch her.
I wet my cock on her seam, and she groaned when I pushed in for a single stroke. I pinched her clit between thumb and crooked finger.
“You ready?”
She nodded.
Slowly, gently, I pressed my cock to her anus, watching it give for me. Changing from a peck on the cheek to a gaping, open mouth. I knew her. I knew how slow to go. I knew how to minimize the pain and maximize the pleasure. How she liked her clit touched, how powerful her orgasms were when I was in her ass, and how it pulsed around me when she came.
I left everything inside her.
“Jesus Christ,” I said into her back. “This never gets old.”
She made a mm sound, and I took the belt from her teeth. “Hang on.”
