by CD Reiss
I put my headphones back on and leaned into the window. The announcer was going on about pitch counts and men on base, and I heard the guys in the gondola doing much the same. The Yanks were up. Men on first and third. One out. Harvey Rodriguez was on deck.
Larry cut the engine, and the noise reduced. “We’re gonna hover until a commercial, then fire it up again.”
Jonathan put his lips to my ear. “Rodriguez is a lefty. They’re going for a double play. Watch the infield.” The shortstop and third baseman took two steps toward first. “They step toward right field because a lefty pulls that way, and forward to get the ball on the jump so they can pop it to second on the force play. And they’re playing it a little forward because there’s a guy on third who can go for the steal on a wild pitch or a sac fly.”
“But what if the fly is shallow? They’ll miss it, and it’ll be a mess. The outfield just came in a little, too. I mean, Rodriguez barely has to work to sac a guy in.”
“You take your chances. They’re down by two, so if a guy strolls home on a sac fly, it’s a bummer, but there’s not much difference in the middle of the game between being down two and down three. There’s more to gain with the double play.”
Rodriguez walked. Bases were loaded. Some moments in a ball game were more important than others. They weren’t the grand slams or the fat, bobbling errors at shortstop. They were the bases-loaded, one-man-out moments where either someone scored or someone was stopped dead. They were unpredictable, uncontrollable, and oftentimes silent as death. Like the one extra foul ball that would have been a third strike. Or the pitcher catching the line drive that would have sent a man or two home. Or a walk to load the bases.
“I can’t watch.” I covered my eyes. I couldn’t see anything from up there anyway. I just saw dots move around and heard the broadcast. But Jonathan reached from behind me and took my wrists, pulling them down.
“Come on. Play with me. Don’t bail.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, joking on his use of the word play. The infield moved way in, practically to where the dirt met the grass, and Jonathan’s arms tightened. His hands, now warm, draped over my crossed forearms. “I know they’re playing in to catch the guy at home plate if they have to,” I said.
“Yes.” He kissed my neck once, twice, three times, each one softer than the one before. Each lingered longer than the last. I tingled all over, and it took all my self-control to keep from bending my head back and leaning into him. I would have looked exactly like what I was: a woman in heat.
We were interrupted by the crack of a bat through the headphones we’d taken off. The white flowers scuttled across the lawn. The shortstop fielded the ball, got it to second, and then Val Renault, an unimposing fielder known for his hitting, got the ball out of his hand and to first quickly and accurately enough to complete the double play.
Inning over.
An hour and a half later, the game ended with the Dodgers winning by a run and forcing a seventh game. The six passengers on the gondola erupted at the last out. We high-fived and cheered and headed back to Carson.
Chapter 8
MONICA
I was a little wobbly getting off the gondola, but Jonathan put his arm around me and pulled me close as we went back to the bike. We thanked the employees we passed as they got the blimp back into place with ropes and pulleys. If their attitudes were any indication, managing a tire company’s blimp was the most gratifying job in the world.
We approached the bike holding hands. “Thank you,” I said. “That was probably in my top five dates ever.”
“Top five?”
“Top four, maybe.”
He faced me. “What?”
I shrugged. “It was a compliment.”
He pressed his lips between his teeth. Before I could decide if he was suppressing rage or laughter, he ducked and thrust forward, throwing me over his shoulder. I squealed and kicked, bouncing as he ran. He pushed me against the side of the metal shed with a clang, pressing my shoulders to the wall.
“Name your top three. I’ll beat them.”
“With what?” I asked.
“I’ll take you to the fucking moon and have you back in time for bed.”
“Oh, Jonathan. The moon? Really?” I rolled my eyes.
He just smiled, all teeth and joy. “You’re getting such a spanking tonight.”
“Kiss me first,” I said. “Maybe you’ll get in the top three.”
He took my hands and yanked them over my head, then kissed me. Or to be more accurate, he attacked me with his body. He pinned my hands hard and pushed his cock against me, grinding his lips against mine. His tongue filled me without finesse, as if he was fucking my mouth. I pushed myself against him in a rhythm until I groaned. I had to have him. He pushed back against me as if trying to get me, through our clothes, to beg for him.
“Hello,” came a voice. Jonathan let my arms go and looked around. It was one of the guys who had wrestled the blimp to the ground. “We’re closing up here.”
“Thanks,” Jonathan said without a hint of embarrassment or shame. He popped my helmet off the bike and handed it to me. A smile spread across his face like an uncontrollable oil spill. I took the helmet with the same grin.
The ride home passed with few words. I just rested against him with my hand under his shirt, feeling his warmth. I didn’t stroke or caress him at eighty miles an hour, though the temptation was distracting.
He pulled the bike into my driveway. It was midnight, or close to it, and I was sore all over. “You coming in?” I asked, looping his finger in mine. He yanked me to him.
“We playing? Or am I just throwing you down and fucking you?”
Both options held appeal. Something hot and sweaty before an utter collapse into oblivion would be nice, and I’d be fresh and bright in the morning for work. But when he said “playing,” I felt wetness condense between my legs, and a shiver went up my spine. I let my finger drop from his and put my arms to my sides. I wanted to be under his control, under his dominance, under him. I wanted to forget myself in him and to forget the shame of wanting it so badly.
“I’d like to play again,” I said, then added, “Sir.”
“Up to the porch with you then, and wait for me.” When I turned around to go, he slapped my ass hard. I gasped and strode up the steps.
Jonathan dismounted and, instead of coming right up the porch, stood on the sidewalk. He looked up at the house, then crossed the street and did the same. He jogged back and came past my chain-link fence. “You’re wide open to the street.”
“Sir?”
“It means you have to keep your clothes on until we get inside.”
My street, partly because of the hill and partly because of the neighborhood, was dead at night. If two people passed between midnight and eight in the morning, it would be a newsworthy event. I had the feeling it didn’t matter. He stared at me, calculating. I knew that look. He was constructing the game. He faced the street and me, feet planted on my porch, and said, “Step over here, my little goddess.”
I did it, heart pounding with anticipation. My back faced the street.
“Unbutton your jeans.”
I popped them.
“Unzip, please.”
I did, showing my garter belt and the tops of my new, already-christened lingerie. He stroked my stomach, his finger grazing the top of the lace.
“Touch yourself.”
He watched my hand go down my pants. Between the sweet, secret caresses in the blimp, and the bike ride home, I was ready for him. I shuddered when my fingers found my swollen, soaked pussy. I buckled with pleasure, and he held my chin.
“Stand up.” He put upward pressure on my chin, forcing my spine straight and my view upward. “How wet are you?”
“Very wet, sir.”
“What would you like me to do about it?”
“I want you to fuck me, please.”
“Hold up your hand.”
I slid my hand out of my pants and
held it up. The moisture on my fingers glistened. He kissed the tips of my fingers, then put them in his mouth. I gasped as he slid his tongue over them, sucking everything off. His lips might as well have been on my pussy, and I almost buckled again.
“You’re delicious,” he said.
“Thank you.”
“Now, do you remember your ready position?”
“Yes, sir.” I wondered how many more times I could call him sir without spontaneously coming.
“And your safeword?”
“Tangerine, sir.”
“Go inside, get undressed, and wait for me in ready position. Be in any room you want. I’ll find you.” A smirk played at his mouth. “You have sixty seconds, and you’d better be ready.”
I unlocked my door and entered the house. Where to go? I wanted to participate in the game. Surprise him. Make him earn it. So the bedroom was the first place I dismissed. The bathroom was in no condition. That was out. The living room had a nice soft couch, and I could be ready on the coffee table. That would be kind of cool, but the living room was right at the front door, and where was the fun if he practically tripped on me as he walked in?
I undressed as I walked through the house, dropping my shirt in the hamper and kicking my shoes into a corner. No. I retrieved the shoes.
I turned on hall lights and all the warm, indirect lamps. He preferred that kind of lighting, if his house and office were any indication. I’d yanked my pants off and slipped my shoes back on by the time I heard the screen door creak.
I crouched on the kitchen floor, behind the counter, knees and cheek on the linoleum, my hands between my legs until they touched my ankles. I had a wonderful view of under the counter. Not sexy. I turned my face to the kitchen table. Better.
I heard Jonathan close the front door, then his feet on the living room floor, down the hall, to the bedroom, where I wasn’t. His smell permeated the air almost immediately, and I drank it in, waiting, my cunt high, a beacon of arousal.
His footsteps got closer. “The kitchen. Little goddess, you are beautiful.” His boots came in my field of vision. “The kitchen,” he repeated pensively. The refrigerator door opened and its light soaked the room. “What do you eat?”
“I eat at work. They feed us. And I order food out.”
He grumbled. From his angle, I couldn’t see him, but I felt the sting of his displeasure nonetheless. He closed the fridge, and the room was again lit by the two hallways on each side. He whistled, and though at first I didn’t recognize the tune, it came to me at the chorus. “Under My Skin,” the song I’d sung the night he surprised me at Frontage.
I heard some clacking and banging, a drawer opening, and the crumple of plastic bags. My heart seized. Plastic bags? Maybe something had been in them that he was managing? Or maybe he was moving something out of the way? Or filling one?
I simply couldn’t see without getting out of position, and though I was overtaken by panic, I wasn’t ready to give up on the game yet. But the panic wasn’t fun. “Jonathan?”
A pause, then, “Monica?”
“You’re not going to put a bag over my head, are you?”
Another pause. He came into my field of vision, looking into my face from six feet above. “Never.”
I immediately relaxed. “Thank you, sir.”
I realized, from the change in my throat’s vibrations, that as much as Jonathan had a dominant voice, I had a submissive one. I used softly articulated hard consonants and breathy, aspirated vowels. I felt silly, suddenly, in such a position on the kitchen floor, ass up in stiletto heels, hands to my ankles, while my fully dressed kinda-boyfriend dicked around with the stuff in my kitchen. I knew the break in mood was my fault, but I couldn’t have tolerated another second of being afraid.
His boots came in my field of vision again. They were brown, to match his jacket, and ridiculously sexy with his jeans. “Let’s talk about ready position.” He kneeled at my side and stroked my back and ass, letting his fingertips graze the crack. “This…” He slapped my ass and I gasped in surprise. “This is not ready position.” He spanked me again. My cheek erupted in heat and tingles, which he exacerbated by stroking where he’d hit. “Up.” He spanked the lower part, where meat met thigh. I straightened my legs. “More.” I thought he would slap me, but he stroked instead, eliciting a groan that turned into a cry when he spanked me hard.
I jerked my hips up, not because I wanted him to stop spanking me, but because I wanted to do it right. My twat was fully in the air over an arched back. My breath heaved. I saw him at the edge of my vision, kneeling beside me in his long-sleeve shirt and suit slacks, his hand on my ass and pulling away for another slap that felt like a leather belt. The air left my lungs, leaving pleasure in the wake of the pain.
“The point of this,” he said, “is that you are completely ready for me. I should be able to see your cunt is wet. Got it?”
“Yes, sir.”
He ran a finger down my back, to my crack, and to my cleft, circling my clit before going back up again. “If you’re crouched, I can’t see it.”
I couldn’t form words.
“I’m sorry, Monica, I didn’t hear you.” He slapped the backs of my thighs, right at my pussy. It stung, and then pleasure blossomed like a thousand flowers.
“Yes.”
He spanked me there again. “Sorry?”
I cried out.
“Shh. Behave.”
“Yes,” I gasped.
“Yes what?”
I knew that game. If I wanted him to continue, and I did, I knew how to do it. “Just yes.”
He slapped me again, landing enough of his hand on my cunt to make me bite back another cry. “Monica, is there something you want?”
“Do it again, please.” I don’t know how I made words out of gasps, but I did.
He did. And then again, harder, and the sharper the pain, the more exquisite the pleasure. My ass must have been red by the third slap, but my pussy wanted more. He stroked me in between, to accentuate the tingle of pain, then held back his slaps until I thought I’d die with anticipation. When they landed, everything between my legs bloomed to pleasure. I thought I’d be overwhelmed with it, consumed, but he stopped, moved behind me, and took a cheek in each palm. He kissed my ass all over, softly, creating little stings of sore pain with his lips. He spread my cheeks apart while his thumbs stroked the sopping crack between.
“How do you feel, little goddess?”
“Beautiful.”
“Good.” He grabbed a handful of my hair and gently pulled me to a kneeling position. He came around to face me and got on his knees, a ball of plastic bags in his fist. “Your wrists.”
I put them out. The plastic bags had been stretched and knotted together at the handles. When he touched me to tie my hands together, I felt arousal and relief. His touch was sure and gentle, his voice humming an old Sinatra tune that would always make me think of him.
When my wrists were bound, he eased me back, pulled my arms over my head, and looped my plastic binds to a drawer handle. He leaned over me, working the knot. So close, I breathed him in through his shirt. That smell mixed with the scent of getting tied up and fucked became the smell of complete release, of an orchestra connected by the simple movements of a skilled conductor. When he was done, he drew his hands down my arms, to my rib cage, thumbs stroking my nipples, and stretched me out across the floor until my arms were straight.
“Perfect,” he said, more to himself than me. He pulled up my knees and spread them until they were to either side of my breasts. He leaned back and looked at his work. I saw his erection straining his pants, and I wanted to reach out and touch it. I was tied, and being stretched out added to the sensation of being exposed.
Jonathan pulled his shirt off, and I wanted to touch him even more. I wanted to run my fingers through his chest hair, to his belly, and follow the line of hair to his cock. When he pulled his pants off, it popped out, that wonderful thing. I hoped he’d stick it in my mouth.
I wanted to eat it, take it down my throat with my hands tied to a drawer handle. I wanted to watch him come from below him, to see him throw his head back in surrender.
He picked up something off the counter before kneeling between my legs.
“Goddess, this has been done so many times before, it’s almost boring.” He held up a can of whipped cream. “You and I are too good for it. But it’s two weeks from its expiration date, and we need to talk about the contents of your refrigerator.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Open up.”
I opened my mouth, and he squirted some in. He kissed me before I could swallow. The cream mixed between our tongues and dripped down my chin. Still kissing me, he put the cold can on my nipple, sending shivers of pleasure down my body. He pulled away and kneeled between my legs. He squirted each nipple, topping me like a cake, the can making a kkkkkkt sound. He licked it off, then sucked each nipple, biting at the end. I gasped and threw my legs up higher. Pulling himself up, he regarded the can.
“This tip is interesting, actually,” he said.
“Only you would find it interesting.”
He placed the tip of the dispenser at my sternum, the pointed tooth digging into my skin. “Excuse me?”
“Only you, sir.” I tried not to smile and wink. We didn’t need to break the mood twice in one session.
The can had a pointed, plastic tip that made the whipped cream come out in a striated tube. When placed against the sensitive skin of the chest and abdomen, and slowly dragged while dispensing product, it created more than a sweet, decorative texture. It scratched, opening up the nerve endings so that when the cold whipped cream hit it, the sensation radiated out. Cold. Soft. More so than just cream on skin. Something multiplied by an order of magnitude. When he followed it with his mouth, the result was delicious for us both. He turned the coldness warm, and with the textured top of his tongue, he made the softness rough.
Jonathan dragged the can below my jeweled navel to the tip of my cleft, his tongue right behind. The anticipation made me gasp, which turned into a little squeal. “Shh, now. Be good,” he said softly.
