Control (Page 14)

Control (Songs of Submission #4)(14)
Author: C.D. Reiss

Bringing his tongue back up my abdomen, he landed on my mouth in a kiss. I opened my mouth for him, tasting the mix of cream and sex on his tongue.

“What do you want?” he asked.

“I want you.”

“You have me.”

“I want your dick in me,” I said.


“Please, sir,” I breathed, “any time after right now is good.”

He smiled and kneeled above me, spreading my legs. He dragged his finger up and down my pu**y. My hips hitched, and I flung my knees farther apart, begging for him without a word. With one hand on my kitchen cabinet and another guiding his cock, he slid inside me, pushing in and rocking before pulling out. He closed his eyes and moaned. Seeing him feel pleasure brought my mind and body to the same focus. He thrust inside again, harder that time, and a sound left my lungs even as I tried to remain quiet.

“How do you want it, Monica?”

Could I ask? And how? Wasn’t what I wanted exactly what scared me most?

“I want to please you,” I whispered, telling the truth but avoiding the real answer. My pu**y was almost in charge and doing the talking. As long as I had that last sliver of control, I didn’t have to admit anything.

“You please me,” he said, moving in and out of me in a slow, forceful rhythm. “How can I please you? Say it. Say what you want.”

I was close, on the edge. Stoking a white-hot fire where his dick and my body met, I couldn’t decide what to say. He sped up just a little, and the words came out of me unfiltered before I had a chance to be afraid. “Take me,” I groaned. “Use me.”

It took him one slow thrust to start pounding me, deep and hard. Fast. As though his only goal was to finish. He put a hand on my breast and squeezed it. The backs of my thighs, sore from spanking, ached with each thrust as his skin hit mine. Being under him, trapped, objectified, I lost all fear. With Jonathan, I felt safe. I felt a loss of control so complete, a surrender so honest that it became a luxurious indulgence.

“Jonathan, I’m…” I had no words. He was f**king the air right out of me.

“Go.” He could barely get words out himself. “Yes.”


If he’d told me to be quiet, I wouldn’t have heard the command over my own cry. The wordless sound, not even defined by a vowel, shot up from the base of my spine and out my mouth. I clenched around him, twisting. He held me straight, still beating me with his cock, as I came in a series of explosions that felt like the pounding of a drum hit hard, repeatedly, until it was hot with friction and resistance.

His name left my lips over and over. Jonathan, Jonathan, Jonathan.

He slowed down and fell back into a rhythm. He hadn’t come yet, and I wanted him to. I wanted to own his orgasm the way he’d owned mine.

“Sir,” I said. He put his face close to mine. “Use me for your pleasure. Please. Have me.” God, what had I become? Such a whore that when he smiled at the thought of whatever he intended, I felt a surge of delight at pleasing him.

He kissed me, then reached up to the counter and retrieved a steak knife. I was still out of breath when he cut me from the drawer handle. My hands, however, were still tied together. He looked at me with a devilish grin when he stood up.

“On your knees, little goddess.” I couldn’t with my hands tied, at least not fast enough. He pulled me up by the bicep. My pu**y throbbed, and when I got to a kneeling position, I felt warm fluid drip down my leg. Standing before me, his pu**y-slick c**k in front of my eyes, was my master. He was the ache between my legs, the desire in my belly, the tingle on my skin, the very embodiment of my gratification.

I felt his hand on the back of my head, grabbing a handful of hair and pushing my face forward. I opened my mouth, and he shifted, guiding his wet dick in me. I tasted the sharpness of my snatch on him. Slowly, the length of him went down my throat, and he groaned, tilting his head back in that same position of surrender he had the first time my lips touched his cock. I breathed and took him again, slowly, my tongue coursing him. He jerked out a little, then shoved himself back in, all the way, until my nose touched his stomach. His full, hard shaft filled my mouth. I groaned, vibrating his head.

“Look at me.”

I cast my eyes upward. His face was slack with arousal. I leaned back, still looking at him, letting his c**k slip from my mouth.

“I own you,” he said. He grabbed the back of my head harder, pulling the hair painfully, and pushed back in. His eyes closed a little, and a long breath escaped his lips. “Ah. That’s right. I. Own. You.”

We watched each other as his thrusts got shorter and faster. I had to breathe through my nose and concentrate on not losing him, not looking away, opening up for him totally as he f**ked my mouth.

“Monica,” he whispered. His eyes dropped lower and he whispered again, “Monica, Monica, I’m coming, baby. Take it. Ah.”

I took him deeper, letting him come right down my throat, the base of his c**k pulsing on my lower lip.

“Fuck,” he whispered like a prayer, bending in supplication and release. His eyes closed, and after a final hitch in his breath, he pulled out, the last of his erection slick with spit and sex.

“How you doing, sir?” I was smirking. He’d tied my hands and forced the rhythm, but his orgasm was mine. He reached for the steak knife again, and I held my hands up. Slashing my binding, he bent down to take me in his arms. He lifted me, and I wrapped my legs around him, resting my head on his shoulder. He carried me out of the kitchen as if I was a child.



I don’t know how a man can feel ripped apart and whole at the same time.

Under her covers, on my side, and facing her wasn’t close enough. I twisted my legs in hers, touched her face while she talked, and held her hand on the mattress.

When I’d carried her out of the kitchen, she’d been sticky all down her front. Her braid was a big knot. Her ass cheeks were pink and sore. Her throat was coated in my orgasm.

I took her straight to the bathroom so we could shower. We soaped, and kissed, and laughed, but she was wiped out. Her eyes drooped, and her hands worked over her body lazily. When we’d finished, I put a towel around her and brushed her hair. She insisted on a braid, so I put a loose one down her back, just to get it over with, and carried her to bed.

“I’m sorry about breaking the mood with the plastic bags,” she whispered.

I stroked her cheek. “It’s fine. I don’t want to asphyxiate you, Monica. That’s way past my threshold.”