Control (Page 7)

Control (Songs of Submission #4)(7)
Author: C.D. Reiss

“I want you to wear these all the time. Under jeans. To bed when I’m not there. I’ll buy you more. You be who you want when we’re not together, but under your clothes, this is the reminder that you’re mine. Understand?”


He unbuckled his pants. A shiver went up my spine as I watched him take his dick out. My panties were no more than a damp string at my crotch, and he pushed them out of the way, handling me roughly. His fingertips probed for my soaked opening. He jammed two fingers in me. I cried out in pleasure and spread my legs farther, kicking a bowl and sending it crashing to the ground.

“You’re ready,” he growled, sliding his fingers out and jamming them in all the way. He ran his finger across the front wall of my hole until I felt a shudder I’d never felt. He pushed, stroking, curving his finger over a hard nodule of nerves inside me while pressing the heel of his hand on my clit. I went weak with a radiation of pleasure.

“Do you want it?” he asked.

“Yes, Jonathan. Please, f**k me.” He removed his fingers and lodged his dick in me. “Oh, God,” I said, barely coherent.

He moved above me, his every stroke hitting the mark, bringing breaths of gratification. He put his fingers in my mouth, and I sucked on them, tasting myself. His dick spread me, pushing against my clit, the edge of my opening, and sending shockwaves through me as his thrusts found their rhythm. He removed his fingers and pulled my leg over his shoulder. He went so deep, I cried out. I pushed forward, wanting him inside me, a part of me. I was so close, and as though he could sense it, he slowed down.

“Take it easy, little goddess.”

“Oh, I can’t. I’m going to come.”

“No, wait.”

“I can’t.” I was desperate, on the edge of a cliff, a rope tied to my ankle and a boulder. The boulder was tipping over the edge of the cliff, and I would follow it to the bottom of the crevice.

“‘Invictus.’ Second stanza, Monica.” He leaned over, still moving his hips. “Do it. ‘In the fell clutch of circumstance…’ Slowly and with feeling, or you start over.” His voice was a beacon of control and sense in the chaos of his every stroke, every inch a burning fuse to an explosion.

“You’re joking,” I gasped. “I can’t recite ‘Invictus’ now.”

He leaned down and sucked my nipple, leaving a trail of saliva when he looked up and said, “Do it.”

Oh, God, how could he expect me to recall eighth grade while getting f**ked on a dinner table? I had to stare through the pressure to give in to my orgasm, hold it back to remember. “‘In the fell clutch of circumstance, I have not winced nor cried aloud. Under the bludgeonings of chance.’ Oh f**k, Jonathan…”

He pinned my hands over my head and started on the next line. “‘My head is bloody…’ And no rushing, baby.” His thrusts got faster, deeper, more willed.

I picked up, “‘But unbowed. Beyond this place of wrath and tears, looms the horror of the shade, and yet the menace of the years…’”

“Ah, Monica. Go. Make it.” His face was reddened with effort. He wanted to come too, and that, coupled with his searing thrusts, sent the boulder over the edge.

“‘Finds and shall find me unafraid,’” I cried to the heavens. He moved to the rhythm of the poem as I continued, watching that boulder get smaller in the distance. “‘It matters not how straight the gate, how charged with punishments the scroll.’”

He said the last stanza with me. “‘I am the master of my fate. I am the captain of my soul.’”

“Yes, Monica.”


I was dragged off the cliff first. I cried out his name as I fell into a chasm of blackness and tingling lights. I clenched my thighs around him. My arms wanted to flail, but he had them tight as my pu**y ignited, clutching for him, pulsing for him to be deeper. The orgasm came from deep inside, undulating up my spine and down the backs of my thighs. I lost myself in it.

I heard him grunt, miles away, then moan into a snarl of satisfaction. I gasped as he tightened above me, the base of his c**k pulsing as he came. His eyes squeezed shut and his arms bent as he let go of my wrists and fell on top of me.

We twitched together, spent, still breathing in the rhythm of a poem.



I’ll cop to having plenty of sex, much of it of the “wild” variety. I’ll admit I have memories that would beat most men’s imaginations. I’ll tell you I’ve had beautiful women do exactly as I tell them and we’ve gotten off on the control. But that? That was a new classification of f**king.

“Jonathan?” she whispered from under me. Her uttering my name brought me to my senses. I pulled my face out of her neck and kissed her collarbone.


“Are you all right?”

“No,” I said.


I put my nose to hers. “Joking.” My shifted weight made my c**k drop out of her.

“Ah,” she moaned as if she’d miss it. “I should use the bathroom.”

“I’ll set up dinner in the kitchen.”

She smiled, and my world went on fire. “Let’s eat it this time.”

I got off her and she sat up. Her hair was falling out of her braid and the hem of her dress was bunched around her waist. One shoe had fallen off. I found it and slipped it back onto her foot, then helped her off the table.

“Thank you,” she said.

“My pleasure.” I kissed her because I had no choice. When she walked toward the house, I touched her neck as if I needed to tether her to me for another second. I brought the stuff on the sideboard into the kitchen and set the table. I had a handful of silverware and stopped myself.

Fork on the left, spoon above.

Or if it was a soup spoon, did it go on the right?

If she noticed I’d done it wrong, she’d tease me. I’d like that enough to throw her across the table again, which was not what I wanted to do. We didn’t have all night, and I wanted to actually share a meal with her. I put the spoons on the right and set the tureen between the bowls.

I liked her. She was great. Outstanding. Gorgeous and smart. All those words seemed cheap, though. My rejection of them alarmed me, because they weren’t good enough. I was losing control, and I needed to figure out why.

The lack of a condom was definitely something, but only part of the story. The fact that we were far enough along to feel each other’s skin spoke volumes. Her looks were something also. She was beautiful, but not my type. I usually went for blondes, so maybe not. Her singing that night at Frontage ticked it up a few notches for me, but I had f**ked other artists since Jessica. Monica was honest, real, and honorable. Those were commodities I didn’t see every day, and those were words worthy of her, but those qualities didn’t seduce the mind or calm the heart the way she did.