by CD Reiss
One Year With Him
Jonathan & Monica’s Story
CD Reiss
Flip City Media Inc
Contents
I. Control
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
II. Burn
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
III. Resist
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
One Year With Him - CD Reiss
Formerly Control Burn Resist and Domination
Copyright © 2013
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
All characters are fictional. Any similarities to persons living or dead are the result of coincidence or wish fulfillment.
This book was previously published as Control Burn Resist and Domination. Chapters from Dominance have been added inside the timeline.
Part I
Control
Chapter 1
MONICA
“Get on your knees.”
Even through the phone, I could tell Jonathan was using his dominant voice. I got nervous that I would dampen the expensive panties so badly the protective paper at the crotch would curl and peel off. “Yes, sir.”
Facing the dressing room mirror, I got to my knees. The black garter and stocking I was trying on looked as though it had been taped on me. The black satin belt slung low on my hips held the straps that dropped down my thighs with silver rings.
“How does it look?” he asked.
“I think you’ll like it.”
“How does it make you feel?”
“You really want to know?” I asked.
“I’m sitting in the back of my car, thinking about you. It’s wall-to-wall traffic. So, yes, I want to know how it makes you feel.”
I heard women outside the dressing room door. Their soft conversations and laughter were muffled by the clothing draped around the room, lingerie with bows and clasps and metal rings set into lush satins and elastics. Every piece I’d tried on aroused me, and when he called, the addition of his voice to the mix brought me near tears.
“How do I feel?” I asked. The carpet dug into my knees, and I was goose bumped from the air conditioner, but that wasn’t what he meant. The black satin bra cups were made of two panels that could be moved for access. It felt so comfortable, I didn’t even know I had it on. The curves of the underwear accentuated the length of my pelvis. “I feel like fucking.”
I heard him take a breath. I did enjoy shocking him. “Tuck the phone under your left ear.”
“Done.”
“Done?”
“Done, sir.”
“Put your left hand on the mirror,” he said. “Lean on it.”
“Yes, sir.” My hand spread on the mirror like a starfish. It would leave a mark.
“Put your right hand between your legs.”
“Jonathan…”
“Do it.”
My cunt clenched with anticipation. I stroked lightly through the string of cloth, sucking air between my teeth from the tingle of the touch.
“Get under the fabric,” he said, as if he could see I hadn’t put my fingers on my skin.
“Yes, sir.” The word sir seemed to vibrate not just outward, to him, but inward, down a thick nerve connecting my vocal cords to my core. When I slipped my fingers under the panties, I shuddered.
“You wet?”
“So fucking wet,” I whispered.
“Your legs spread?”
“Yes.”
“Look at yourself in the mirror.”
I did, and I was greeted by a face slack with arousal, flushed with sex. “Yes, sir.” I watched myself submit to him, in that outfit, as if I needed to be more turned on. Outside the door, I heard a throat clear.
“How do you look?” he asked.
“I look like I can’t stay in here much longer without someone coming.”
“You got that right,” he mumbled. Papers shuffled on his side. He was working while telling me to finger myself. A true multitasker. “Stroke your clit and all the way down to that beautiful hole.” I groaned, my cheek caressing the phone. “Keep going. Work your clit. Go around it twice, then over the top.”
I did, and the heavenliness came as much from my own touch as the knowledge I obeyed him. “Oh, Jonathan.”
“Put two fingers in.”
My pussy clenched around my fingers, kissing them, sucking them in. The heel of my hand found my clit as I pushed my fingers in and out.
He whispered, “Tomorrow night, when I see you, I’m going to put my fingers in you and lick you until you beg me to stop. Then I’m going to squeeze your clit with my lips until you come again.”
“I want you.”
“You will have me.”
“May I come?” There was a distinct possibility he’d say no, and I was so far gone, holding off my orgasm would hurt. “Please let me come.” His silence tormented me. “Please, sir.” I smiled a little. I never thought I’d actually want to call a lover sir. But it felt good, and right, and fun.
I heard his smile as he said, “You may.”
I pressed my whole hand along my wet cleft, feeling everything from the tingle around my pussy to the powerful ache at my clit, back and forth, slowly. My br
eathing got hard and short. I had to keep it down. If I could hear myself, someone else could as well. I closed my eyes and buckled. My hand left the mirror as my back arched, encompassing me in heat from my knees to my waist. I bit my lip to keep from crying out. My hips pumped as pleasure washed over me in impossibly long waves. The phone dropped to the carpet.
Chapter 2
JONATHAN
I heard the phone hit the floor, and her groans fill the room. I looked out the window onto the parking lot otherwise known as the 710 freeway and imagined her touching herself. I imagined her expression, her smell as she writhed on the floor enough to drop the phone, all while wearing some elastic and satin configuration. A shiver went down my spine. I felt connected to her when I commanded and she obeyed. It was as close to touching her as I could get.
“Jonathan?” she whispered.
“How are you feeling?”
“I want to curl up next to you and go to sleep.”
“Have I told you how amazing you are? You please the hell out of me.”
She didn’t answer right away. My little goddess of Echo Park must have been smiling. “Wait until you see the underpants I just made a mess of. They’re gonna please you plenty.”
“Buy everything.”
The next pause wasn’t as pleasant. “I want to talk about this.”
“We can talk tomorrow. I’ll pick you up at five.”
“Are we going to lie in bed and watch the Dodgers lose game six?”
“You’re not supposed to ask a man where he’s taking you.” She grumbled. My goddess was a big baseball fan. She probably thought I hadn’t noticed or had forgotten.
After she’d left the previous morning, when I drifted off to sleep with her humming and stroking my hair, I leaned back in my office chair, looking out the window and thinking of her. Hours later, I called her and asked her on a date.
“A real date?” she’d asked. “Like dinner or a movie or something?”
“I know a nice place. We’ll have some wine. Good food. You know, like people do.” I’d looked out over the Hollywood Hills. I had to see her again. I had an ache for her that phone calls and texts wouldn’t satisfy. It started the minute she left and had grown to uncontrollable levels in the hours since.
“Well, that’s fine and all,” she’d said, “but just so you know, I don’t fuck on the first date.”
I’d been laughing when my assistant came in. I indicated she should sit and took the schedule she offered me. “I need you to get something to wear,” I said into the phone.
“Oh, not again.”
“Again and again. I’m in a meeting.” I looked over my schedule for the next day. “Can I text you?”
“You’re avoiding my refusal.”
“I won’t be late. So be ready. Dressed and ready.”
“Thanks for the clarification.”
“You’re welcome.”
I’d tossed the phone aside, glanced at my schedule, and glanced at Kristin. “I have a meeting with my ex-wife at six thirty?”
“You said to take any meeting she wanted.”
“I did. Cancel the meeting and cancel the standing order. She goes on the schedule like everyone else.” Kristin shook her foot and nodded, her body a barrel of emotional tells. She was so transparent, I had no idea how she’d gotten through Vassar without those bitches eating her alive. “Yes?”
“Are you making your lunch with Eddie tomorrow, or do you want to meet Gerald Deritts from Council 12? He called and had an opening on the mixed-use ordinance.”
“Cancel Eddie.”
“Sheila’s stuck on the 405. She’s added this to the agenda.” She’d handed me a folder.
“Ah, Jessica’s trust,” I’d murmured as I flipped through it. When we got engaged, I set up a trust for her that provided for everything she needed. Though she had taste and social standing, she couldn’t manage a dollar. When we divorced, I’d intended to revoke her benefits, but never had. I’d been such a pussy. I’d told myself she hadn’t taken a dime from me because I needed to believe it. The withdrawals didn’t hurt me, but she’d continued to take money from the trust, and I owned the building her studio was in and didn’t charge her rent. There were other incidentals I’d probably forgotten. “Tell Sheila I want to review all my financial entanglements with my ex-wife. Book that for next week.”
Kristen had pursed her lips. I could have asked her what was on her mind, but it wasn’t worth a conversation. Her crush was cute when I’d hired her, but it was getting less so. I’d said no, I didn’t want to sleep with her. Further conversation about that, or why I wouldn’t bend over backward to see Jessica anymore, would be unproductive.
After dismissing Kristin, I’d tried to get back to work, but my thoughts were consumed with Monica. In anticipation of our date the next day, I opened an account at Bordelle for her. When I texted her the info, she’d shot back…
—An account? For all the girls?—
—Just opened it. Go. For me.—
The next day, she called me from the dressing room to thank me, and I couldn’t help it. I had to have her, and I did. She got on her knees when I told her to. She slipped easily into play and out again, becoming her witty, intelligent self seamlessly. She wasn’t intimidated by me. She teased and challenged me. She kissed like she meant it, and from the very first night, she enjoyed fucking without reservation or shame.
Monica was, in a word, perfect.
Chapter 3
MONICA
I was bag-laden as I walked to the café. Jonathan had called Bordelle and told them to wrap up everything I’d put in the dressing room. So I went to Nordstrom’s and got my own goddamn dress. I hoped he liked it because it set me back two weeks’ tips, a lot of money for something that would end up draped over the chair on his porch. But I needed to feel right with myself. I accepted him as a dominant in bed, and that worked out very well for us. In the outside world, I was my own woman.
Except for the eight hundred dollars in lingerie.
I rushed to the entrance of Terra Café. Yvonne sat at a patio table with her fourteen-month-old, scooping ice cream out of a cup.
“Girl,” she said as we hugged, “where the hell have you been shopping? And what’s with the shoes?”
I tipped my foot to make the red sole visible. I wore the shoes I’d gotten at Barney’s more often than I should, but letting them sit at the bottom of my closet seemed a crime. Yvonne looked at me sidelong while she scooped ice cream. Her afro was teased to four times the size of her head, her eyes lined with gold, and her lips painted the exact chocolate color of her skin. She was simply gorgeous.
“You like them?” I asked.
“I know what they cost, so I know where you got them. So whether or not I like them depends.”
I sat down and ordered a green tea and a chocolaty cake thing. Aaron, in his striped shirt and overalls, sat with his mouth open. Vanilla ice cream dripped out of the corners of his mouth like he was a dairy vampire.
“I’m sorry about your friend,” she said. “Were you close?”
“She was like a sister to me.” I felt a little hitch in my throat, a sob pushing up from my gut. I swallowed it. I didn’t cry in public. In private, the past few days had been a rush of tears and beaten-back sorrow. “Anyway. It’s fine. I’m dealing with it. Still haven’t cleared out her room. But anyway… how’s school? It’s your last year, right?”
“Tryna get my thesis accepted. Thinking about doing gender instead of race. Something with women’s bodies and politics.”
“Sexual intersections.” My tea came.
“Oh, that’s good.” She scraped the bottom of the cup. “Now, I didn’t ask you to lunch to talk about UCLA.”
“The weather, then?”
“My boss? Your former boss? The hot motherfucker? Six two? Medium build? Reddish brown up top… and down below?”
“Not in front of the baby.”
“I hear he’s a freak.” I spit my tea. “Well,” she co
ntinued, “word gets around. So…” She slithered in her chair. “What. The. Fuck?”
“Yvonne, really. Totally inappropriate.” I looked at her over my cup, wishing for a quick and painless death. I’d known she wanted to ask me about Jonathan, but I didn’t know she was aware of his proclivities.
“He’s really private about who he’s…” She stopped herself. “… who he’s spending time with. But we all saw your picture from the L.A. Mod show in the paper. And it was no secret at your friend’s wake.”
“I don’t know what you’d call us at this point,” I answered. Aaron made a long aaaaaahhh sound of pure delight. He kicked under the table and the silverware bounced. “He’s cute, this baby. You made him?”
