Control (Songs of Submission #4)(8)

Aling Mira stood behind me. “I’m sorry to interrupt. You said I should let you know when dinner is ready.”

“Thank you,” Jonathan said. He rattled something off in Tagalog. Aling Mira nodded to each of us and went back to the middle-aged man who stood in a secluded area.

“What did you say?” I asked.

“I thanked her and gave her the rest of the night off.” He put his hand on my back. “I’m perfectly capable of spooning you stew. And I’d like to.”

We strode slowly to a table set with silver and porcelain. On the side table was a full setting with stew in a silver serving bowl. Aling Mira and the man went to a back gate.

“Who’s the guy?”

“Her husband, Danilo. They live in the back house.”

The metal gate clacked behind them, and we were alone in the yard. Jonathan pulled a chair out for me. I stood in front of it, between him and the table. I was ready to sit, but I wanted another kiss. I tilted my face to him, until I felt his breath on my face, and parted my lips.

He reached for me, and I thought he would put his arms around my waist. Instead, he met my lips with his and leaned into me. In one wave of his arm, he yanked the tablecloth, knocking the dishes off the table. They clattered everywhere, smashing and spinning. His weight continued forward, throwing more plates out from under me, until he pinned me to the table.

I opened my legs, wrapping them around him as we kissed. My dress rode up to my waist. I pushed into him. His c**k was so hard, like a tight fist against me. He groaned into my mouth, then pushed his fist of a dick into me again. He fingered under the garter belt, twisting his fingers in it.

“I want you to wear these all the time. Under jeans. To bed when I’m not there. I’ll buy you more. You be who you want when we’re not together, but under your clothes, this is the reminder that you’re mine. Understand?”

“Yes.”

He unbuckled his pants. A shiver went up my spine as I watched him take his dick out. My panties were no more than a damp string at my crotch, and he pushed them out of the way, handling me roughly. His fingertips probed for my soaked opening. He jammed two fingers in me. I cried out in pleasure and spread my legs farther, kicking a bowl and sending it crashing to the ground.

“You’re ready,” he growled, sliding his fingers out and jamming them in all the way. He ran his finger across the front wall of my hole until I felt a shudder I’d never felt. He pushed, stroking, curving his finger over a hard nodule of nerves inside me while pressing the heel of his hand on my clit. I went weak with a radiation of pleasure.

“Do you want it?” he asked.

“Yes, Jonathan. Please, f**k me.” He removed his fingers and lodged his dick in me. “Oh, God,” I said, barely coherent.

He moved above me, his every stroke hitting the mark, bringing breaths of gratification. He put his fingers in my mouth, and I sucked on them, tasting myself. His dick spread me, pushing against my clit, the edge of my opening, and sending shockwaves through me as his thrusts found their rhythm. He removed his fingers and pulled my leg over his shoulder. He went so deep, I cried out. I pushed forward, wanting him inside me, a part of me. I was so close, and as though he could sense it, he slowed down.

“Take it easy, little goddess.”

“Oh, I can’t. I’m going to come.”

“No, wait.”

“I can’t.” I was desperate, on the edge of a cliff, a rope tied to my ankle and a boulder. The boulder was tipping over the edge of the cliff, and I would follow it to the bottom of the crevice.

“‘Invictus.’ Second stanza, Monica.” He leaned over, still moving his hips. “Do it. ‘In the fell clutch of circumstance…’ Slowly and with feeling, or you start over.” His voice was a beacon of control and sense in the chaos of his every stroke, every inch a burning fuse to an explosion.

“You’re joking,” I gasped. “I can’t recite ‘Invictus’ now.”

He leaned down and sucked my nipple, leaving a trail of saliva when he looked up and said, “Do it.”

Oh, God, how could he expect me to recall eighth grade while getting f**ked on a dinner table? I had to stare through the pressure to give in to my orgasm, hold it back to remember. “‘In the fell clutch of circumstance, I have not winced nor cried aloud. Under the bludgeonings of chance.’ Oh f**k, Jonathan…”

He pinned my hands over my head and started on the next line. “‘My head is bloody…’ And no rushing, baby.” His thrusts got faster, deeper, more willed.

I picked up, “‘But unbowed. Beyond this place of wrath and tears, looms the horror of the shade, and yet the menace of the years…’”

“Ah, Monica. Go. Make it.” His face was reddened with effort. He wanted to come too, and that, coupled with his searing thrusts, sent the boulder over the edge.

“‘Finds and shall find me unafraid,’” I cried to the heavens. He moved to the rhythm of the poem as I continued, watching that boulder get smaller in the distance. “‘It matters not how straight the gate, how charged with punishments the scroll.’”

He said the last stanza with me. “‘I am the master of my fate. I am the captain of my soul.’”

“Yes, Monica.”

“Yes!”