Control (Songs of Submission #4)(16)

“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 snatch. 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 snatch 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 pu**y 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 f**ked 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 ni**les, 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 br**sts. 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.