done it any time, and he knew it. We were married in the eyes of the law, but to us and the world, today was the day. Now came the name change. Now we called each other husband and wife in public.
“Take your hair down,” he said.
I smirked. “I don’t think we have time.”
“I won’t wait.”
He’d left that operating room a different person. You don’t just walk away from a heart transplant and continue as before. He was confused about who he was, vulnerable, testy, physically weak, and overly cautious. He was also sexually vanilla, which I tried to accept. I didn’t think it would last, but with each passing day, I feared my kinky Jonathan would never return. I stood by him, helping him manage his recovery. We agreed our marriage wasn’t genuine because of the circumstances surrounding it, but we never suggested our love was anything but real. He bought a house in the Hollywood Hills, and we moved into it. Two years, we said. If we could be together two years, we’d get married for real.
I inhaled deeply and put my hands in my hair, lifting my arms out of the way. He slowly unzipped the back of my dress, touching my spine as he went.
Six months after the transplant, Jonathan roared back like a lion. As if overnight, he became more aggressive, more demanding, more kinky, more dominant than he’d ever been. A year later, he got me an engagement ring of my own, a round canary diamond. He’d gotten on one knee all over again, and I realized the reason he’d been so much more sexually ferocious was because he was happy.
I unpinned my hair, leaving in the one, pencil-thin braid I’d demanded, and as it fell over my back, my dress slipped off.
“You are magnificent,” he said, twisting my hair in his finger. We faced the mirror, him in a blue shirt and tie he’d changed into after the reception, and I, bare-breasted up top, and in white lace garter down below. “All day, I wanted you.”
“I am yours.”
“Apparently not, Ms.
“Yes, sir.” I cast my eyes down, submitting completely, and put my hands behind my back. Already a rush of fluid surged between my legs. I was going to sing at Darren’s encore, and help his career, but damn if I had to be late, I was going to be late. Jonathan wasn’t half as busy as me. He’d sold a bunch of assets, more than I could count, and started the Drazen Foundation for Arts Education. It took up about as much time out of his week as a typical DMV job. My co-chair duties took up a few minutes in the morning, usually tied to the bed.
My husband clamped my arms together, hard enough to make me gasp, and wrapped his tie around the elbows.
“Look at yourself,” he said, pulling my hair back until my head faced forward. Tying my arms at the elbows had the effect of jutting my tits forward. The nipples were tight and erect. The garter had tiny blue bows at the suspenders, my “something blue” for the occasion. “What you see, is mine. Do we understand each other?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I don’t think you do.” He held me at the bicep and said, “Step out.”
I stepped out of my wedding gown and he led me to the couch, placing me so my head was over the arm, my arms draped below, and my lower back was on the seat. He opened my legs and unsnapped the crotch of the garter, then he stood back and observed his handiwork.
I’d really thought he was dead. When those three doctors came out, I wasn’t ready for them to say everything was fine. After what I’d been through, bottling it all up to keep enough control to kill Paulie Patalano, I lost it. They really had needed a third doctor to call security. And Declan thought he’d played the funniest joke on me. Shitty hobby, as Margie said. When I explained it to Jonathan, he cut his father out all over again, but the transplant had put Declan back in the good graces of the rest of the family.
With my pussy on display, tits sticking out and my head facing the ceiling, I saw Jonathan in my peripheral vision, picking up a cup of fast food-approved carbonated beverage. He peeled the plastic top off, straw and all, and peeked inside.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” he said. “What’s the world coming to?” He shook the cup. I heard the contents swish around. Crushed ice. Bane of my husband’s existence.
He put it down and picked something off my makeup table. Then he came to the couch, pants open, dick out, kneeling between my legs with a tube of lipstick jammed between his teeth like a cigar. He pulled it out, leaving the cap in his jaw. He spit it to the floor like a watermelon seed.
“I’m going to write something down so you remember it, Goddess. Because I know you’re busy being a superstar, and you forget.”
He put the stage-red lipstick to my left breast and dragged it across, then between them, then moved it over the right.
He was writing on me.
Carefully, he wrote on my rib cage, wearing the lipstick down to nothing. When he was done, he checked his handiwork. I glanced as far as I could to the mirror and saw what was written on me.
MRS. DRAZEN
Jonathan crouched over me, smiling, then put a hand on the arm of the couch, leaning over me. “Got it?”
“Yes, sir,” I whispered, tilting my hips so that his erection touched my wetness. He moved slightly until the head of his dick touched my opening just enough for me to ache for it.
“Those crowds out there, they don’t own you. I do. I marked you with my name. This is who you are now.” He moved so his dick rubbed my clit ever so slightly. I jerked to feel more of him.
“No no,” he said. “Don’t make me pull up the extension cords and tie you down tighter. I’m not done explaining.” He put his face to my cheek, and ran his open mouth along my jaw. “The name is your bond to me. It’s your collar.”
“I’m sorry, I—“
“Shh. Tell me who you are.”
“Mrs. Drazen.”
His cock pushed into me, sliding in with no resistance, every surface of my body a firing bed of sensation. All the way, until his body slammed against my clit, moved, and pulled out.
“Who are you?”
“Your wife.”
He went in again, harder. Then again, grunting with the effort. He fucked the breath right out of me, then stopped.
“What’s your name?”
“Oh, Jonathan.”
“Nope. That’s
“Mrs. Drazen.”
He slammed into me. “I don’t think you believe it.”
“My name is—“
He fucked me for real then, putting a hand on either side of my head and taking my cunt repeatedly. He pressed his face to mine, rocking. I was close, so close he could sense it, and as was his way, he slowed down, dangling me over an ocean.
And I let him, because he owned me.
“Look at me.”
I did. His hips stroked me, stretching me, the friction between us a white heat. I was so close. I could feel the undertow of my orgasm on my legs. I wanted to get pulled under, I wanted to drown in it, but he was holding me back, a life vest I didn’t want.
“What’s your name?”
I gasped a few times, lost in the sensation between my legs. “I forget.”
“Perfect.”
He moved once, twice, three times, and I exploded, sucked down by the undertow, pulled out to the neverending sea, clenching against him like my body wanted to break him and fit the whole of him inside me.
