Collection: A Submission Series Story Collection

by Reiss, CD

  “Come.” I moved faster, harder.

  “Jonathan. Oh. Jonathan.” She arched her back, pushing her arms over her, crying out my name. Music, but with half an orchestra.

  Chapter 2

  JONATHAN

  The technician breezed in wearing scrubs and a full suit of medical detachment. She was young and attractive, with no makeup and straight brown hair pulled back in an efficient ponytail. I had the best team in the world, and they treated me like any other patient. I guessed that was what I was paying them for.

  “We’re going in through the arm today,” she said through her mask.

  “That’s what the doctor said.”

  “Are we doing the nitrous?”

  Jesus fucking Christ, save me from the habitual pluralization of experience. “Nope.”

  “It’s going to be uncomfortable.” Her tag said Fran. A bland name. It suited her.

  “We’ll manage.” God, I was cranky.

  Fran moved her tray of sharp things in front of her, and I laid out my arm. My first biopsy had been through the jugular vein. I suspected this would feel less invasive, more like a walk in the park while a tube snaked through my body. The swab was cold on my skin, and I went into meat mode, where I went someplace else in my mind while I was treated like a side of beef.

  “So,” she said, beginning the small talk that preceded painful invasions, “we’re married, I see.” She pointed at my ring. “What are we doing for Valentine’s Day?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “Mister Drazen? Are you okay?”

  I think the word “you,” as opposed to “we,” woke me faster than the real concern in her voice. “Today’s the fourteenth?”

  “Yup,” she said, dicking around with her plastic and metal tinker toys.

  “Shit.”

  “We’re going to the Getty Center. They have this romantic dinner prix fix on the patio. They put candles on the fountain, and they have a really nice string quartet.”

  “Shit,” I repeated. “I forgot.”

  “Oh. Well. Maybe we can still get it together in time? Going in now. We’ll just feel a little pinch.” She got the stent in with barely a nip. Pluralization or no, she was good. She snapped the gloves off. “All done. Doctors will be back in a minute. Do you want the info for the Getty? I don’t think there will be space, but maybe someone cancelled?”

  “Thanks, Fran. I’m good.”

  * * *

  Doctor Solis knew better than to kill me with “we” and “our” or small talk. He wanted me in and out of there as much as I wanted to go, and the two other doctors in the room seemed equally sensitive to Solis’s dominance.

  “Any changes?” he asked, eyes on the monitor, fingers on keys as Doctor Nu slipped the thin tube through the stent. “Still off spicy food?”

  “Hate it.”

  “Too bad. How’s the wind been on your allergies?”

  “I don’t have allergies.” I felt the tube slipping across my shoulder through a vein. It was truly uncomfortable. Not painful, but I had to think hard to keep from clawing through my skin to get the invading thing out.

  “Chart says different.” Dr. Solis checked Dr. Nu’s work and looked at me. “You need to pay attention. Denial is your enemy. Your silly new allergies can turn into an infection you won’t be able to fight. With the drought and the wind, my wife is eating Claritin like candy, even in the middle of February.”

  “Valentine’s Day,” I said more to myself than him.

  “Any plans?” Dr. Solis asked, eyes on the tube, then the screen, then back.

  “We’re in,” Dr. Nu called, one hand on the tube, and I felt it.

  “Indeed,” Solis said. “Breathe, Mister Drazen. Breathe.”

  * * *

  How fast could I pull something together? Something huge. Something the size of my love, my respect, my devotion. It was our first Valentine’s together, and Christmas had been such a disaster that I felt as if I needed to make it up to Monica tenfold. But when I got home from the biopsy, Lil had to help me to the door.

  “Where’s the missus today?” she asked. “Do you need me to get her?”

  “Leave her alone. She’s in the studio.” Lil put me on the couch, and my body wanted to stay there forever.

  “Mister Drazen, I don’t want to pressure you, but I hope you didn’t forget—”

  “I forgot.”

  “I can pick up a dozen roses.”

  “Sure, Lil. Sure. Great idea.”

  She left to do the impossible: find a dozen roses on Valentine’s Day for a man so enervated he couldn’t do it himself.

  “Fuck you,” I whispered to heaven, my first sentiment of ingratitude in two months. “I’m getting over this.”

  My recovery was on track. I had no reason to be so angry, except that I was cheating Monica out of her entitlements, and her number one entitlement was me. From that couch to the stars above, I owed her myself.

  I picked up the phone and called my friend Paul. We spoke briefly, then I closed my eyes for a few hours.

  Chapter 3

  JONATHAN

  I woke with a buildup behind my face and a sneeze.

  They say your heart skips a beat when you sneeze, so when I sneezed four more times, I panicked unreasonably. Then I panicked again when I realized the sun was setting and I was still on the couch.

  “Fuck!”

  On the table next to me were a dozen red roses, beautifully arranged, and an empty card and a pen. Thank God for Lil. I needed to give her more money.

  I picked up my phone. Sneezed again. Multiple texts from Monica.

  —Still here—

  —Will be late—

  —How did the biopsy go?—

  —Great session. Do you want

  dinner with me for Valentine’s?

  Or are we skipping?—

  —Where are you?—

  —Please just tell me you’re ok

  or I’m leaving the studio right now—

  The last one had come in minutes before and had probably gotten me to wake up. I tapped a fast response so she wouldn’t panic. She panicked when I didn’t respond, or when I breathed too hard, or slept too much or too little.

  —Just got up—

  —thank you thank you thank you—

  —Let me stretch and we’ll talk

  about tonight—

  —No pressure but I hope it

  involves your cock in my mouth—

  —But if not then ok I love you—

  I sneezed when I smiled. It was the fucking roses. Snot built up behind my face. My sinuses felt as if they would explode. According to my doctors, if the buildup settled in my sinuses or lungs, my suppressed immune system would allow an infection. And like everything else in the goddamn universe, it could kill me. So I threw out the roses.

  Chapter 4

  JONATHAN

  I’d sent Lil to pick up Monica an hour earlier. It was Friday, so traffic from the west side would be brutal. From my vantage point at the Griffith Park Observatory, I could see the city in all its jam-packed glory. Streetlights held their grid, and the car lights along Wilshire crawled. She was there, somewhere, on her way to me.

  I hoped I’d pulled this off as if I’d planned better. Paul, the director of the observatory, had taken me to a stone veranda inaccessible to the public and let in caterers to set up a dinner for two overlooking Los Angeles. I had candles, heat lamps, chafing dishes, everything I could manage for her. Below me, clusters of tourists shifted on well-worn paths, their laughter and voices drifting up to me without meaning. They’d be gone in an hour when the museum closed, and we’d be here, on our perch above the city.

  I’d texted and called, letting Monica know Lil would pick her up, but I hadn’t heard back. Once I told her I was fine, she probably shut the phone off to work. I considered the possibility that she was still in the studio, and would be until the wee hours of the morning, in which case I’d pack up dinner and go home, grateful she’d forgotten
the holiday as well.

  My phone rang.

  “Hi, Lil. Where are you?”

  “She’s gone, sir. Sorry, I’ve been looking, but it turns out she left.”

  “Thanks. Head home. She probably went there.”

  I called my wife, confident I wasn’t disturbing studio time. “Goddess?”

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m at a surprise location. Lil is—”

  “You have to come home,” she said, her voice raspy from a day of abusing it.

  “No, you have to come here.”

  “Jonathan.”

  “Monica.”

  “I spent a week on this.”

  I argued a little more after that, but she’d spent time on whatever it was, whereas I’d thrown something together because a medical technician had reminded me of the date eight hours earlier. I had the staff pack up everything.

  * * *

  Lil had gotten to me quickly. She pulled up to the front but didn’t go past the gate.

  “Can you make it in from here?” she called back to me. “I’m not supposed to go past the gate.”

  “You knew?”

  “Well, no. I just got a call. She thought you’d be napping, but then this whole thing happened instead. Sorry. At least you have the roses I picked up.”

  “Thank you, by the way.”

  “My pleasure.”

  I got out. The gate had a door-sized entry, and I went in that way. All the front lights were out, but Monica had put little paper lights along the drive, and I followed them to the house.

  “The paper lights were going to go down the stairs,” she said. “But they’re fine outside too.”

  She was naked on my porch.

  Our porch.

  “I love what you’re wearing,” I said.

  “My mom got it for me.” She put her hands behind her back.

  Had I thought she was too thin? She was perfect, her skin lit by candles and the moon, her hair falling over her shoulders like a scarf. I got on the step below her and touched her belly.

  “You poor woman,” I said, kissing the space between her breasts. Peaches and honey. Her scent. I rubbed her skin, releasing the smell, and put my tongue on her nipple and sucked. My hands went down her back until I reached her clasped fingers. I took hers in mine.

  “I need you, Jonathan. I had a whole speech prepared. But I forgot it.”

  “I’m sorry you had to wait.”

  “Can you take me? Please.”

  “No pressure?”

  She reached for my crotch, and I let her.

  “Oh, you’re hard.”

  “Very.”

  She pulled me to a chair and sat me down. She got on her knees. Nothing could have pleased me more than her, naked, on my porch, kneeling before me. I put my hands in her hair as she took out my dick. I didn’t like her controlling the situation, but maybe it was the new heart that didn’t find it too offensive. Maybe I’d changed in more ways than one.

  Her mouth was eager, her throat open for an aria. Her hands stayed behind her back. I knew what I would have done before the surgery. I would have jammed her head onto me. I would have gone fast just to make it more difficult for her. I would have been hard and cruel and derived satisfaction from her discomfort. But not that day.

  She looked up at me, letting my dick pop out of her mouth. “Is it okay?”

  “Get up here,” I said. “Straddle me. Let’s give this a go.”

  “Really?”

  “Don’t make me say it twice.”

  She was up in a flash, thighs around me, eager hands around my base. “Fuck, Jonathan. You’re so hard.”

  I put my hands on either side of her face and brought it to mine. “I own you,” I whispered.

  “I love you too.” She hitched herself up, until the head of my dick was at her opening and her hands were on the back of the chair. “Are you ready?”

  “Yes.”

  I put downward pressure on my hands, and gingerly and slowly, she lowered herself onto me. She was wet and tight, and when she pulled up, the sensation of being pleasurably sucked overwhelmed me. I groaned. She slid down then up again. We kissed, breathed on each other’s faces, and kissed again.

  I put my thumb on her clit, stroking up and down as she moved against me. In my life, I came when I wanted to and not a minute before. I listened for any number of physical signs so I knew when to hold back. One of them was my heart rate. So when the buildup in my groin happened without a feeling in my chest, I missed the opportunity to catch myself.

  “I’m sorry,” I moaned. “I’m coming.”

  “Come for me.”

  She moved faster. I wasn’t in control. My body was betraying me. I had to give it up again. I came so hard I called her name to heaven.

  Then I sneezed.

  “Bless you.”

  “Tha—”

  Sneeze.

  “Bless—”

  Sneeze.

  “How many more you got?”

  I shrugged behind my hand. Sneeze.

  She got off me. “Let me get you a tissue.”

  She was up and through the front door before I could tell her I had a hankie. Then I knew what was causing the sneezing. I got up and stood in the doorway.

  The living room was bedecked in roses.

  She trotted down the stairs, still naked, carrying a box of tissues. “You were supposed to see this first. But I wasn’t about to say no on the porch.”

  Sneeze.

  She handed me the box.

  “Monica, I’m—” Sneeze. I waved at a cluster of yellow roses. “Why the yellow?”

  “There’s a red rose for every day I’ve known you. A yellow for every day you were in the hospital. And one white.” She swallowed hard, and her mouth screwed up to one side. “For the day I thought you died.” Her eyes went wet.

  I successfully held back a sneeze.

  “I know what you think,” she said. “I know you’re worried about the recovery. And our sex life. You think you’re hiding it and being all strong, but I see it. I wanted to let you know—well, before I seduced you—that it didn’t matter. It takes what it takes. I’ll wait forever for you. Every day, I’m glad you’re alive.”

  “My goddess. I’m so sorry.” I kissed her before she could protest, then I sneezed again. “We have to get rid of the roses, but first, I’m taking you upstairs. I’m fucking you as much as you deserve.”

  “You’re dressed up.” She stepped back and looked me up and down as if she was seeing me for the first time. “Where were you when you called?”

  “Not telling. It’s the idea for your birthday dinner now.”

  “I ruined your Valentine’s dinner.”

  “I’m throwing your roses out.”

  “We suck at this.”

  I sneezed and took her upstairs to fuck her as much as she deserved.

  Love Note

  This little tidbit was written for the FILTHY audio anthology. It has not been released into text until now.

  Love Note

  My Goddess,

  I’m not angry.

  Anger is the response of a man without power, and we both know that when the door is closed I am never in a position to be angry. Never. We’ve made agreements, and when you breach those agreements it’s my responsibility to discipline you in a way that’s satisfying for both of us. You know as well as I do that your infractions are as well-planned as my punishments.

  When you’re performing in front of an audience of a dozen or thousands, you’re presenting your face for them, but underneath what they see, I own you. I own every inch of your skin. Whatever touches it is the same as my hands on you. The fabric between your legs is a stand-in until I can get my hands and mouth on your cunt. It’s ours. When I know it’s there, I know I’m between you and the strangers looking at you. They want their hands where I am.

  For this reason, we agreed on certain things.

  You shop at Bordelle. You call me from the dressing room, a
nd touch whatever parts of your body I tell you to. You buy what you like, and then, without question, you wear it when you are singing on stage. It’s our connection and it’s not to be broken by cheap cotton garbage. Not because the garter was “scratchy” or the bra was “uncomfortable.” It should be. That’s the reminder that I own your senses. It’s the point.

  Maybe you’ve been on tour too long. Maybe you forgot. Do you want the benefit of the doubt? I’ll give it if you demand it, as always. But even over the phone I could hear the provocation in your voice. You were daring me to punish you.

  So—unless you need to tap out and call tangerine—we’re going to rectify this in two steps.

  When you receive this, get yourself behind a locked door. You may be between Tokyo and Singapore. You may have to excuse yourself from lunch. I don’t care. Find a bathroom stall. Just make sure you’re safe and do it without argument.

  Set your phone timer to two minutes. Take your pants down to your knees, and your underpants four inches above. Bend over. You can lean on whatever is available with one hand. The other hand goes over your cunt, which will be wet. With your thumb and index finger, pinch your clit and say my name. Those are my fingers loving you. Then put three fingers inside, all the way, and say it again. That’s my cock, worshiping you.

  Repeat that for two minutes, until the timer goes off.

  You are not to come. Your orgasms are mine. Your throb and your ache are mine. Your dissatisfaction is a reminder that I’m the only one who can calm your body.

  After the timer goes of, mark the inside of your thigh as mine. In Beijing, you made a bruise for me and it was beautiful. So I’ll let you choose the mark again.