up.
“No one can see you.” He slapped my ass.
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you believe me?”
“I want to.”
He swatted me with the rattan switch, lightly, as if testing. Then he did it harder. It was no thicker than a pinky, and that second time, it made a whipping sound before it landed with a crack . Then he did it a little harder.
I sucked in my breath.
“How is that?” he asked.
“Good, sir.”
He cracked it again, at the topmost fleshy part of my ass. The sting was incredible, searing me. I felt as if my flesh was opening. Then he did it again, an inch or so below the last stroke. I let out an mmm sound, biting my lips. And he did it again. There was a rhythm to it, a slow build as he worked his way down to my knees, searing pain leaving blossoming pleasure in its wake. Two taps to aim, one to awaken the skin, and one to make me scream in pain, and it went thwap thwap thwap THWAP. thwap thwap thwap THWAP. thwap thwap thwap THWAP.
***
In the little studio in the guest house, the piano keys went tap tap tap TAP. tap tap tap TAP as I searched for the notes. I shifted in my seat. Jonathan had given my ass and thighs plenty of aftercare, but I wouldn’t be comfortable for a couple of days. I’d think of him and his mastery of me whenever I sat or walked, which was the point.
I had only a few hours, and I was slow. Slow with words and clunky with melody. I missed Gabby. She made things work in minutes. I’d write a poem to the snap of my fingers, and she would tap out the rhythm and embellish it until we had a song. Not every song was good, but at least I knew what I was dealing with before ten minutes had passed.
But by myself, I had a hard time. I thought the work was good in the end, but I wasn’t producing well under pressure. I didn’t even know what the song was about, except time.
Ten years. It had been impossible to talk about that length of time without impaling myself on it. It was so far off, and tomorrow. It was a lie, because it could be so much more if he took care of himself and played by the rules. Even after his heart gave out, if the doctors saw he ate right and took his medicine, he’d get another heart if it came available. It had been done. And was it really ten? Because there was a very healthy guy in Wyoming who had had his for a record-breaking twenty-five years, and there were new advances in anti-rejection meds every day and and and… .
None of that would matter if he was dead. So I’d planned for that eventuality by girding myself, day after day. It would hurt. I would be in the hospital again, crying over him, alone, vulnerable, and scared. A shaft of ice already stabbed my spine whenever I passed Sequoia Hospital, and the knowledge that one day soon, I would go back for the same reason froze me in panic.
All I did was pray for him. The first six months of our marriage had been one big prayer without end, amen.
I couldn’t get control of it by running or staying, and he wanted children. Children. I’d lost my father, and it had crushed me. But Jonathan wanted to have children and disappear when the oldest was nine. Or eight. Or who even knew. Left with a hopeless mother who had lost the love of her life. No amount of money could cure that.
And now, six months later, with his breath in my ear and his sexual dominance reestablished, was anything solved? No. Nothing was. But God damn if I was going to sing him a birthday song about a house because it was the only thing we could agree on.
He was better than that.
We were better than that.
I had a few hours to write him a new song. Not about how much time we had. Not about all our failings, but about what we meant to each other. About how fulfilling and worthwhile those ten years could be, if I stopped squinting into the distance at the end of them.
Tap tap tap TAP. tap tap tap TAP.
chapter 11.
JONATHAN
J ogging. Herbal tea. Rabbit food. Jesus Christ, how had I survived six months without making my wife beg for mercy?
“No one can see you.” He slapped my ass.
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you believe me?”
“I want to.”
He swatted me with the rattan switch, lightly, as if testing. Then he did it harder. It was no thicker than a pinky, and that second time, it made a whipping sound before it landed with a crack . Then he did it a little harder.
I sucked in my breath.
“How is that?” he asked.
“Good, sir.”
He cracked it again, at the topmost fleshy part of my ass. The sting was incredible, searing me. I felt as if my flesh was opening. Then he did it again, an inch or so below the last stroke. I let out an mmm sound, biting my lips. And he did it again. There was a rhythm to it, a slow build as he worked his way down to my knees, searing pain leaving blossoming pleasure in its wake. Two taps to aim, one to awaken the skin, and one to make me scream in pain, and it went thwap thwap thwap THWAP. thwap thwap thwap THWAP. thwap thwap thwap THWAP.
***
In the little studio in the guest house, the piano keys went tap tap tap TAP. tap tap tap TAP as I searched for the notes. I shifted in my seat. Jonathan had given my ass and thighs plenty of aftercare, but I wouldn’t be comfortable for a couple of days. I’d think of him and his mastery of me whenever I sat or walked, which was the point.
I had only a few hours, and I was slow. Slow with words and clunky with melody. I missed Gabby. She made things work in minutes. I’d write a poem to the snap of my fingers, and she would tap out the rhythm and embellish it until we had a song. Not every song was good, but at least I knew what I was dealing with before ten minutes had passed.
But by myself, I had a hard time. I thought the work was good in the end, but I wasn’t producing well under pressure. I didn’t even know what the song was about, except time.
Ten years. It had been impossible to talk about that length of time without impaling myself on it. It was so far off, and tomorrow. It was a lie, because it could be so much more if he took care of himself and played by the rules. Even after his heart gave out, if the doctors saw he ate right and took his medicine, he’d get another heart if it came available. It had been done. And was it really ten? Because there was a very healthy guy in Wyoming who had had his for a record-breaking twenty-five years, and there were new advances in anti-rejection meds every day and and and… .
None of that would matter if he was dead. So I’d planned for that eventuality by girding myself, day after day. It would hurt. I would be in the hospital again, crying over him, alone, vulnerable, and scared. A shaft of ice already stabbed my spine whenever I passed Sequoia Hospital, and the knowledge that one day soon, I would go back for the same reason froze me in panic.
All I did was pray for him. The first six months of our marriage had been one big prayer without end, amen.
I couldn’t get control of it by running or staying, and he wanted children. Children. I’d lost my father, and it had crushed me. But Jonathan wanted to have children and disappear when the oldest was nine. Or eight. Or who even knew. Left with a hopeless mother who had lost the love of her life. No amount of money could cure that.
And now, six months later, with his breath in my ear and his sexual dominance reestablished, was anything solved? No. Nothing was. But God damn if I was going to sing him a birthday song about a house because it was the only thing we could agree on.
He was better than that.
We were better than that.
I had a few hours to write him a new song. Not about how much time we had. Not about all our failings, but about what we meant to each other. About how fulfilling and worthwhile those ten years could be, if I stopped squinting into the distance at the end of them.
Tap tap tap TAP. tap tap tap TAP.
chapter 11.
JONATHAN
J ogging. Herbal tea. Rabbit food. Jesus Christ, how had I survived six months without making my wife beg for mercy?
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