Control (Songs of Submission #4)(15)

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 pu**y. 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 f**k 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 pu**y, 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 snatch 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.