Submit (Page 29)

Submit (Songs of Submission #3)(29)
Author: C.D. Reiss

“Not scared, but I feel exposed.”

He kissed my ass, using his tongue along my cheeks. My snatch twitched in anticipation. But he stood up. I heard fabric shifting behind me and his movements, but I didn’t look. When he came into my field of vision, he was wearing sweatpants.

“Stay there,” he said. “Don’t move.”

“Where are you going?”

“You don’t get to ask questions. You get to wait.”

And he left me there, butt up, bedroom door open behind me. I wasn’t scared, but I should have been. My ass tingled. Was he getting something to spank me with? Some rough tether? Cuffs? Hooks? Yes, I thought I should be terrified, but all I could think about was how much I wanted him to come back and f**k the living shit out of me.

I heard clicks and steps from downstairs, then nothing.

Your ass is out to a psychopath.

You don’t know that. He could have been in the institution for anything.

At sixteen? Drugs. Suicide. Depression.


I heard him on the creaky wood stairs, then his feet padding down the hall, then I smelled his sawdust scent.

“Very good.” His voice was close behind me. “When I tell you to go upstairs and be ready, this is what I mean, okay?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How was it? Waiting?”

“Not my favorite. But also kind of good because I just stewed, wondering what you were going to do to me.”

He stroked my ass, letting his fingertips brush the crack, inside the cleft, touching where I was wettest. “It turns me on knowing you’re up here doing what I tell you.” He put both palms on my cheeks. I felt something in his right hand.

He put his mouth on me, and I groaned when he kissed between my legs. He flicked his tongue over my clit. I bucked a little. I knew I wasn’t close, but I felt as though I could come from a warm breeze.

He moved me onto my back. He had a length of brown leather twine in his right hand. It might have made a fringed bag or a shoelace, but long. He looked at me clinically again, as if I were a problem to solve, then he went back to my eyes. “You ready?”

“The anticipation is killing me.”

“Me too.” He took my left wrist and placed it against my left knee, then looped a length of leather around them, making a figure eight, binding them together. “Too tight?”


He knotted it off, then picked up my back while he ran the rest of the spool under me. He pulled, playing with the length until my tied knee and wrist were splayed. “I want to say,” he said as he placed my right wrist and right knee together, “If you say stop, it’s good enough for me, but we might want to set a safeword.” He spread my legs to get the right length under my back and tied my right side together, letting the rest of the loop drop off the edge of the bed.

“Tangerine,” I said.


“I doubt you can keep doing whatever it is you’re doing if I say tangerine.”

“Fine, wiseass.” He leaned over me and kissed my lips so sweetly I wanted to put my arms and legs around him, but I couldn’t.

He got off the bed and looked at me. I couldn’t close or lower my legs, nor could I move my arms. A trickle of wetness dripped down my crack, and the discomfort of it was exquisite. He bent over and kissed between my br**sts, dragging his tongue across, to my nipple, sucking it gently. “I’m listening,” he whispered. “I’m listening to your breathing, your heartbeat. I’m listening to your skin on the sheets. If you need something, just say it. I’m all ears.”

“I’ll let you know.”

“In words.” He sucked the other nipple, which was hard and tight. He pressed his lips around it and pulled.

“I’ll say, ‘Get the f**k off me and untie me, you animal,’ but not when you do that. That’s good.”

“And this?” He kissed down circling my diamond crusted navel and down to my left thigh. He ran his tongue over my snatch to the other thigh.

“That needs a safeword.”

He licked my clit with the pointy part of his tongue. “What should it be?” he asked before licking again, then giving it a light suck.

“Oh, God.”

“‘Oh, God’ it is.” He got on top of me, his dick just touching my exposed pu**y.

He kissed me. I moved my hips against him, and he shifted away, keeping the head at the entrance to my vagina, waiting. He watched me gasp as he pushed a little. He must have felt the way I closed in around him, as if I’d suck him into me.

“Please,” I said. “Please f**k me. Sir, please.”

He slid his c**k inside me so slowly it felt ten feet long. Inch by inch, skin to skin, soft against slick, until he hit the end, and he pressed against me, rocking while my clit exploded. Then he pulled out just as slowly, and the feeling was devastating sharp in the pleasure of its loss. The heightened torment continued as he slid in again, and I couldn’t grab him or move. All the other stuff was dress rehearsal for the control he took as he tortured me with the measured, unhurried thrusts and slow rocks of him against my clit.

“Jonathan, Jonathan, Jonathan….” I forgot to call him sir or anything else but his name.

He sped up, dropping onto me, a splayed thing, open, bound, servile, utterly compliant mass of nerve endings and clutching, wet flesh. His movements turned to pounding, slamming f**king that brought me close enough to cry out.

He slowed, straightening his arms above me and changing the rotation so I felt his cock, but not enough to stimulate me to orgasm.

“No,” I said in a voice so desperate I was shocked to hear it.

“Easy, Monica.”


“You’re mine. Your orgasms are mine. Your pleasure is mine to give.”

I wanted to rail at him. I wanted to demand it. But not only would that not get me what I wanted, it wasn’t how I wanted it to go down. I wanted to be fully compliant. “Yes, sir.” Saying it calmed me.

“Breathe slowly.”

I did as I was told.

He moved against me, gradually, as before. “Look at me.”

I did, seeing the sweat on his brow and the pleasure in his face. That pleasure brought me the greatest satisfaction. I had done that. I gave him what he was giving me.

As if sensing my thoughts, he leaned down and kissed me. “Will you come for me?” he asked, his voice low and growling.

“Yes, it’s yours.”

“Mine,” he whispered.