Control (Page 12)

Control (Songs of Submission #4)(12)
Author: C.D. Reiss

“Hello,” came a voice. Jonathan let my arms go and looked around. It was one of the guys who had wrestled the blimp to the ground. “We’re closing up here.”

“Thanks,” Jonathan said without a hint of embarrassment or shame. He popped my helmet off the bike and handed it to me. A smile spread across his face like an uncontrollable oil spill. I took the helmet with the same grin.

The ride home passed with few words. I just rested against him with my hand under his shirt, feeling his warmth. I didn’t stroke or caress him at eighty miles an hour, though the temptation was distracting.

He pulled the bike into my driveway. It was midnight, or close to it, and I was sore all over. “You coming in?” I asked, looping his finger in mine. He yanked me to him.

“We playing? Or am I just throwing you down and f**king you?”

Both options held appeal. Something hot and sweaty before an utter collapse into oblivion would be nice, and I’d be fresh and bright in the morning for work. But when he said “playing,” I felt wetness condense between my legs, and a shiver went up my spine. I let my finger drop from his and put my arms to my sides. I wanted to be under his control, under his dominance, under him. I wanted to forget myself in him and to forget the shame of wanting it so badly.

“I’d like to play again,” I said, then added, “Sir.”

“Up to the porch with you then, and wait for me.” When I turned around to go, he slapped my ass hard. I gasped and strode up the steps.

Jonathan dismounted and, instead of coming right up the porch, stood on the sidewalk. He looked up at the house, then crossed the street and did the same. He jogged back and came past my chain-link fence. “You’re wide open to the street.”


“It means you have to keep your clothes on until we get inside.”

My street, partly because of the hill and partly because of the neighborhood, was dead at night. If two people passed between midnight and eight in the morning, it would be a newsworthy event. I had the feeling it didn’t matter. He stared at me, calculating. I knew that look. He was constructing the game. He faced the street and me, feet planted on my porch, and said, “Step over here, my little goddess.”

I did it, heart pounding with anticipation. My back faced the street.

“Unbutton your jeans.”

I popped them.

“Unzip, please.”

I did, showing my garter belt and the tops of my new, already-christened lingerie. He stroked my stomach, his finger grazing the top of the lace.

“Touch yourself.”

He watched my hand go down my pants. Between the sweet, secret caresses in the blimp, and the bike ride home, I was ready for him. I shuddered when my fingers found my swollen, soaked pu**y. I buckled with pleasure, and he held my chin.

“Stand up.” He put upward pressure on my chin, forcing my spine straight and my view upward. “How wet are you?”

“Very wet, sir.”

“What would you like me to do about it?”

“I want you to f**k me, please.”

“Hold up your hand.”

I slid my hand out of my pants and held it up. The moisture on my fingers glistened. He kissed the tips of my fingers, then put them in his mouth. I gasped as he slid his tongue over them, sucking everything off. His lips might as well have been on my pu**y, and I almost buckled again.

“You’re delicious,” he said.

“Thank you.”

“Now, do you remember your ready position?”

“Yes, sir.” I wondered how many more times I could call him sir without spontaneously coming.

“And your safeword?”

“Tangerine, sir.”

“Go inside, get undressed, and wait for me in ready position. Be in any room you want. I’ll find you.” A smirk played at his mouth. “You have sixty seconds, and you’d better be ready.”

I unlocked my door and entered the house. Where to go? I wanted to participate in the game. Surprise him. Make him earn it. So the bedroom was the first place I dismissed. The bathroom was in no condition. That was out. The living room had a nice soft couch, and I could be ready on the coffee table. That would be kind of cool, but the living room was right at the front door, and where was the fun if he practically tripped on me as he walked in?

I undressed as I walked through the house, dropping my shirt in the hamper and kicking my shoes into a corner. No. I retrieved the shoes.

I turned on hall lights and all the warm, indirect lamps. He preferred that kind of lighting, if his house and office were any indication. I’d yanked my pants off and slipped my shoes back on by the time I heard the screen door creak.

I crouched on the kitchen floor, behind the counter, knees and cheek on the linoleum, my hands between my legs until they touched my ankles. I had a wonderful view of under the counter. Not sexy. I turned my face to the kitchen table. Better.

I heard Jonathan close the front door, then his feet on the living room floor, down the hall, to the bedroom, where I wasn’t. His smell permeated the air almost immediately, and I drank it in, waiting, my snatch high, a beacon of arousal.

His footsteps got closer. “The kitchen. Little goddess, you are beautiful.” His boots came in my field of vision. “The kitchen,” he repeated pensively. The refrigerator door opened and its light soaked the room. “What do you eat?”

“I eat at work. They feed us. And I order food out.”

He grumbled. From his angle, I couldn’t see him, but I felt the sting of his displeasure nonetheless. He closed the fridge, and the room was again lit by the two hallways on each side. He whistled, and though at first I didn’t recognize the tune, it came to me at the chorus. “Under My Skin,” the song I’d sung the night he surprised me at Frontage.

I heard some clacking and banging, a drawer opening, and the crumple of plastic bags. My heart seized. Plastic bags? Maybe something had been in them that he was managing? Or maybe he was moving something out of the way? Or filling one?

I simply couldn’t see without getting out of position, and though I was overtaken by panic, I wasn’t ready to give up on the game yet. But the panic wasn’t fun. “Jonathan?”

A pause, then, “Monica?”

“You’re not going to put a bag over my head, are you?”

Another pause. He came into my field of vision, looking into my face from six feet above. “Never.”

I immediately relaxed. “Thank you, sir.”

I realized, from the change in my throat’s vibrations, that as much as Jonathan had a dominant voice, I had a submissive one. I used softly articulated hard consonants and breathy, aspirated vowels. I felt silly, suddenly, in such a position on the kitchen floor, ass up in stiletto heels, hands to my ankles, while my fully dressed kinda-boyfriend dicked around with the stuff in my kitchen. I knew the break in mood was my fault, but I couldn’t have tolerated another second of being afraid.