Submit (Page 24)

Submit (Songs of Submission #3)(24)
Author: C.D. Reiss

“There it is. That beautiful voice.”

I felt the pressure on the mattress as he took off his pants. I couldn’t see what he was doing, but those seconds of anticipation were rewarded when I felt his c**k against the raw skin of my ass. He pushed it down along the slick wetness of my crack, and it slipped in as if meant to be there.

“Jonathan,” was the only word I had as I felt him glide so slowly into me. He felt better than he ever had, smoother, silken almost, and I groaned, using the vocal cords that never could or would have damaged my life.

He dug his fingers into my waist and pushed himself deep, hard. A grunt left his lips. He took me, owned me, used me, and I was going to come right there with my back to him.

“No,” I said. “Not like this.”

He stopped and laid himself along the length of my back. “How do you want it?”

“Be sweet,” I whispered.

“I need to hear your voice.”

“Make love to me,” I said, more embarrassed to ask for that than to beg for a hard f**k. But after the spanking, I needed his arms around me, his face in my neck, his breath in my ear.

He undid the belt that held my arms in one motion and turned me around. When I was on my back and my ankles were in the air, he pulled my jeans off the rest of the way. His dick never left me. Once I saw his face, I knew something had just happened between us. The rigidity in his eyes was gone, replaced by a mask of longing, and the openness to reveal it. He kissed me as I wrapped my legs around him. We moved together, and the urgency in my snatch turned into a fire. He put his hands on my cheeks.

“Look at me.”

I took him in, all of him. We slid against each other, his c**k rubbing my sensitive, reddened lips while he pressed my clit against his belly.

“Oh.” I had not another syllable.

“Look at me when you come.” He rocked back and forth, drawing his dick out just enough so my sore pu**y felt the pain and pleasure of him thrusting back in.

I took his hair in my hands, bringing his face to mine, as I spread my legs as far as they’d go. My pu**y became a bag of marbles dropped on the floor, as it opened and the feeling spread all over me, across the floor, and into the corners. Ice-cold and white-hot at the same time, to my toes in undulating waves, I pressed myself against him and screamed as the marbles reversed themselves and landed everywhere his dick touched me. Nowhere else. I couldn’t feel another thing, hear another thing, not even my own cries as I came, my cunt clenching him over and over.

I was looking right at him, but I couldn’t see a thing past my own pleasure or hear him over my own screams.

When I finally opened my eyes, his face had drooped, and his eyes closed, and he said, “Ah, no,” as he jerked into me like a reflex.

I felt close to him, tuned together, breathing in sync. He would tell me what happened when he was sixteen. He’d tell me about Westonwood Acres, and I promised myself I wouldn’t care. We were bound.

“I’m sorry, Monica.” He pulled out of me, and from the way it felt and the slew of liquid that followed, I knew we had a problem.

“You weren’t wearing a condom?”

“I was going to put one on, but when you asked me to flip you, I thought I had another minute. But you came and then—”

“Jesus Christ.”

“We’ll handle it, whatever happens.”

“This is not about you keeping me and a baby in a nice lifestyle, Jonathan.” I felt shrieky. That moment between us had been so short before it was broken, and I already felt withdrawal pangs. “How many women have you been with?”

He straightened his arms, separating himself further. “I’m always careful.”

“How is that supposed to help me sleep at night?”


I pushed him off me and rushed into the bathroom, closing the door behind me. Alone. Finally. I could think about what the f**k I was doing. Crazy. It was all crazy. I turned on the shower and leaned against the door, sliding down to the floor.

I was involved with a womanizing slut who got over his wife fifteen minutes ago, who just spanked me because he thought I was ball-gag submissive, and who had spent time in a mental institution. Was I f**king nuts? Kevin was more stable.

I stripped off my T-shirt and bra and stepped into the shower. I’d worried about that diamond. I didn’t even give a shit anymore. That thing was going back in the box and getting sent back to his doorstep. I couldn’t return it personally. I couldn’t let my knees get weak for that controlling, irresponsible, manipulative motherfucker.

A vision of him came to me, at the club the second time, when I was so worried about Jessica. I saw him straight and tall in his suit and tie, ginger hair finger-brushed back, and that slip of a smile when he spotted me, because the smile I felt in my heart when I saw him was ten times the size of the one on my face.

I turned up the heat on the water, cleaning between my legs as if that was going to do a damn thing. But I had to get him out. The scent of him, the taste, every cell of his had to be gone. Of course, the problem was that I wasn’t involved with him. I wasn’t dating him. I wasn’t casually f**king him.

I was falling in love with him.

And when I realized that, I felt the warmth of peace because I knew what I was contending with, and my choice was clear. Stay with him, love him, and deal with the consequences, or end it with the commitment to make sure it stayed ended.

When I got out of the shower, I hadn’t made a decision.

Jonathan was gone.


I sat in the Echo Park Family Clinic, checking my phone. I tapped at the letters, considering a message to him, but with nothing to say about what I wanted from him, how could I show him the disrespect of a message? And with no word from him, maybe he was going to make my decision for me.

Darren texted:

—Are we cleaning Gabby’s room?—

Lately, he and I only discussed practical matters. I thought that would be okay for a while. Eventually, we’d have to discuss what had happened.

—Can we do later in the week?—


—BTW I got my voice back—


—I want to use one of Gs comps. I’ll credit her as author so the estate gets the royalties—

There was a long pause after that, then:

—You’re a good and honest person with an incredible right hook—

“Monica Faulkner,” called the Hispanic woman behind the desk. She wore pink scrubs and slippers. I stepped forward as she took a triplicate paper from a sleeve. “Okay, you had a dose of postinor for emergency contraception and a depo-provera shot. Sign here. Did the doctor give you a date to return for another shot?”