by CD Reiss
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 w
ink. 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.
He drew the can, its sharp edge, and his warm, rough tongue inside my thigh. I was a throbbing, swollen hot mess by the time he put the can down and placed the tip of his tongue between my legs. He moved slowly up and down my slit, a tease that left me gasping, thrusting, pulling against the plastic bags binding me.
Bringing his tongue back up my abdomen, he landed on my mouth in a kiss. I opened my mouth for him, tasting the mix of cream and sex on his tongue.
“What do you want?” he asked.
“I want you.”
“You have me.”
“I want your dick in me,” I said.
“When?”
“Please, sir,” I breathed, “any time after right now is good.”
He smiled and kneeled above me, spreading my legs. He dragged his finger up and down my pussy. My hips hitched, and I flung my knees farther apart, begging for him without a word. With one hand on my kitchen cabinet and another guiding his cock, he slid inside me, pushing in and rocking before pulling out. He closed his eyes and moaned. Seeing him feel pleasure brought my mind and body to the same focus. He thrust inside again, harder that time, and a sound left my lungs even as I tried to remain quiet.
“How do you want it, Monica?”
Could I ask? And how? Wasn’t what I wanted exactly what scared me most?
“I want to please you,” I whispered, telling the truth but avoiding the real answer. My pussy was almost in charge and doing the talking. As long as I had that last sliver of control, I didn’t have to admit anything.
“You please me,” he said, moving in and out of me in a slow, forceful rhythm. “How can I please you? Say it. Say what you want.”
I was close, on the edge. Stoking a white-hot fire where his dick and my body met, I couldn’t decide what to say. He sped up just a little, and the words came out of me unfiltered before I had a chance to be afraid. “Take me,” I groaned. “Use me.”
It took him one slow thrust to start pounding me, deep and hard. Fast. As though his only goal was to finish. He put a hand on my breast and squeezed it. The backs of my thighs, sore from spanking, ached with each thrust as his skin hit mine. Being under him, trapped, objectified, I lost all fear. With Jonathan, I felt safe. I felt a loss of control so complete, a surrender so honest that it became a luxurious indulgence.
“Jonathan, I’m...” I had no words. He was fucking the air right out of me.
“Go.” He could barely get words out himself. “Yes.”
“Oh...”
If he’d told me to be quiet, I wouldn’t have heard the command over my own cry. The wordless sound, not even defined by a vowel, shot up from the base of my spine and out my mouth. I clenched around him, twisting. He held me straight, still beating me with his cock, as I came in a series of explosions that felt like the pounding of a drum hit hard, repeatedly, until it was hot with friction and resistance.
His name left my lips over and over. Jonathan, Jonathan, Jonathan.
He slowed down and fell back into a rhythm. He hadn’t come yet, and I wanted him to. I wanted to own his orgasm the way he’d owned mine.
“Sir,” I said. He put his face close to mine. “Use me for your pleasure. Please. Have me.” God, what had I become? Such a whore that when he smiled at the thought of whatever he intended, I felt a surge of delight at pleasing him.
He kissed me, then reached up to the counter and retrieved a steak knife. I was still out of breath when he cut me from the drawer handle. My hands, however, were still tied together. He looked at me with a devilish grin when he stood up.
“On your knees, little goddess.” I couldn’t with my hands tied, at least not fast enough. He pulled me up by the bicep. My pussy throbbed, and when I got to a kneeling position, I felt warm fluid drip down my leg. Standing before me, his pussy-slick cock in front of my eyes, was my master. He was the ache between my legs, the desire in my belly, the tingle on my skin, the very embodiment of my gratification.
I felt his hand on the back of my head, grabbing a handful of hair and pushing my face forward. I opened my mouth, and he shifted, guiding his wet dick in me. I tasted the sharpness of my sex on him. Slowly, the length of him went down my throat, and he groaned, tilting his head back in that same position of surrender he had the first time my lips touched his cock. I breathed and took him again, slowly, my tongue coursing him. He jerked out a little, then shoved himself back in, all the way, until my nose touched his stomach. His full, hard shaft filled my mouth. I groaned, vibrating his head.
“Look at me.”
I cast my eyes upward. His face was slack with arousal. I leaned back, still looking at him, letting his cock slip from my mouth.
“I own you,” he said. He grabbed the back of my head harder, pulling the hair painfully, and pushed back in. His eyes closed a little, and a long breath escaped his lips. “Ah. That’s right. I. Own. You.”
We watched each other as his thrusts got shorter and faster. I had to breathe through my nose and concentrate on not losing him, not looking away, opening up for him totally as he fucked my mouth.
“Monica,” he whispered. His eyes dropped lower and he whispered again, “Monica, Monica, I’m coming, baby. Take it. Ah.”
I took him deeper, letting him come right down my throat, the base of his cock pulsing on my lower lip.
“Fuck,” he whispered like a prayer, bending in supplication and release. His eyes closed, and after a final hitch in his breath, he pulled out, the last of his erection slick with spit and sex.
“How you doing, sir?” I was smirking. He’d tied my hands and forced the rhythm, but his orgasm was mine. He reached for the steak knife again, and I held my hands up. Slashing my binding, he bent down to take me in his arms. He lifted me, and I wrapped my legs around him, resting my head on his shoulder. He carried me out of the kitchen as if I was a child.
nine
JONATHAN
I don’t know how a man can feel ripped apart and whole at the same time.
Under her covers, on my side, and facing her wasn’t close enough. I twisted my legs in hers, touched her face while she talked, and held her hand on the mattress.
When I’d carried her out of the kitchen, she’d been sticky all down her front. Her braid was a big knot. Her ass cheeks were pink and sore. Her throat was coated in my orgasm.
I took her straight to the bathroom so we could shower. We soaped, and kissed, and laughed, but she was wiped out. Her eyes drooped, and her hands worked over her body lazily. When we’d finished, I put a towel around her and brushed her hair. She insisted on a braid, so I put a loose one down her back, just to get it over with, and carried her to bed.
“I’m sorry about breaking the mood with the plastic bags,” she whispered.
I stroked her cheek. “It’s fine. I don’t want to asphyxiate you, Monica. That’s way past my threshold.”
“I was scared.”
“I know. And I don’t want you to be scared, either.”
“I should have put that on the list.”
“We’ll make a new list.” I touched her forehead and drew my fingers down, forcing her eyes closed.
“You’re my king, Jonathan.”
She’d opened her eyes, but they looked heavy. I kissed them over and over, eyelids, cheek, nose, lips, eyelids again, forcing them closed over and over. When her eyes stayed closed, I knew she was asleep, and I could rest.
But I didn’t. I replayed the night in my head while looking out her window. Dogs barked. A police siren faded into range, then out. She hummed a little in her sleep, then stopped. She’d thought I was going to choke her. She’d thought I was going to put a plastic bag over her head until her body seized up. For thrills.
Obviously, she didn’t trust me yet. It would take time and patience. I hadn’t given either to a woman since Jessica because I gave her too much. My relationship with Monica could only go one place. Me, exposed to her, raw at the edges, breaking down at a shareholder meeting. Crying like—
I couldn’t let myself finish that thought.
In the dead of night, when everyone else slept, was when it happened. I’d never been much of a sleeper, maxing out at four hours a night by the time I’d finished adolescence. Having business in Asia helped. I could make calls and send emails. Taking a lot of women to bed helped with the voices a little, but the dead-of-night hours were still spent alone. Then it took over.
It was my father’s voice. The voice told me that the things I had done wrong were irreversible. My mistakes were yokes I could either break under or become strong enough to pull, but they could not be shaken. Marrying Jessica, which I had convinced myself was the only right thing I’d done, sat front and center. I’d screwed it up by trying to get her to fit into my sexual fantasies. If I’d stayed silent, just done things her way, I could have been happy. In the dead of night, the regret of putting my desires above love split me, gutted me, dragged me into despair. Come morning, the voice slumbered. The torment played on an infinite loop until I dreaded the sun’s dip below the skyline.
The voice was quiet that night, just a hum of warning. I could be that man again very easily. It was no harder than tripping on a bump in the sidewalk or cutting myself shaving, a slip in concentration long enough to lose control. I could fall off the tightrope to either side if I blinked at the wrong time.
