Resist (Songs of Submission #6)

Resist (Songs of Submission #6)
C.D. Reiss



Chapter 1.

MONICA

At 11:23 a.m., I turned past the historic fig trees. The gate opened. I pulled the Honda in and parked next to the Jag. I checked my face in the mirror and went up to the porch. I dropped my bag and knocked. Waited. As I was about to knock again, the gate clattered closed. The button for the gate was just behind the front door, so he must have been there. I had no idea how long he’d make me stand outside. Patience was always a part of his game.

The door opened. His hair was brushed back and clean, his face shaved. He wore a tan polo that was tight in the arms, accentuating his hard, smooth biceps. His jeans hung on his hips as though they were made for him. And the motherf*cker had the nerve to wear a belt.

“You’re a sight for sore eyes,” he said. His eyes, however, didn’t look sore at all. He looked as if nothing ever touched him. I had no idea how he did that.

“Are you okay?” I asked. “I was worried.”

“I’m fine. It’s going to be fine.”

I had been waiting to hear that before I dealt with the other issue that had kept me from eating and sleeping for two days. “Then, what the f**k?”

“What the f**k, what?”

I crossed my arms. “What. The. Fuck. Jonathan.”

He put his fingertips on my jaw and slid them to the side of my neck. I sighed at his caress. His thumb brushed my cheek, his pinkie tickling the sensitive part of my throat. I involuntarily tilted my head into him.

“Your safe word?” he said.

“Tange-f*cking-rine. Now explain—”

He grabbed the hair at the back of my head and yanked me to my knees. I lost my breath, the motion was so sharp and hard. I was kneeling in a second, and he flipped his pants open in a few swift moves. His dick was rigid and straight at my lips, glistening with a drop of liquid.

I had told him about that fantasy the night I gave him the list that became a song. He said he wouldn’t fulfill it until I trusted him. I closed my mouth tight.

“Open,” he commanded.

I turned my eyes to him, his c**k in the foreground of my vision. His face bent toward me. He slapped his dick against my lips, twisting my hair. I opened my lips to tell him to f**k himself, but I was unprepared for the ferocity with which he jammed his c**k down my throat. I choked, gagged.

He didn’t stop. He grabbed my hair with his other hand and pivoted me, controlling me, owning me. I felt as if he wanted me off balance and uncomfortable, held up not by my knees, but by the knots of hair in his fists that shifted my head where his c**k wanted. I opened my mouth and throat and let him take me. I made noises there were no letters for. Spit ran down my chin, and when I looked up at him, he gazed back with fierce intensity. He took his dick out of my mouth.

“You f**ked her,” I said.

“No, I didn’t.”

“You lie.”

He pushed me into the house. “Hands and knees.”

I fell, but I scooted myself to standing. I backed away. My breath rasped from the facef*ck I’d just endured. “Say it. You and Jessica.”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“You. Lie.”

He pushed me against the wall, hard. I pushed him away.

“Pick your skirt up” he said.

“Admit it.”

“Pick your skirt up, Monica.”

“Admit it.”

He took my shoulders and twisted me to face the wall, inches from a Mondrian. We had agreed to all of it, more or less, at the hotel in Vancouver. Hours of making that boundary list on the couch, and one scenario we embraced was that sometimes I’d fight him, and I’d use the safe word if shit got too intense or painful Right then, I wanted to f**k him as much as I wanted to resist. I’d longed for him for two days, hovering somewhere between rage and panic.

He yanked up my skirt, pushing me against the wall with his other hand. “What am I admitting?”

“The cops said you hit Jessica with a belt and f**ked her.”

“They lied to get you to talk.”

“Fuck. You.” He moved my panties aside, jammed his fingers in my cunt, and flicked my clit with his pinkie. “First chance you get, you cheat.” I moaned.

“You’re so f**king wet, Monica.” He pulled my hair until my neck was twisted so I could face him. “You wouldn’t be if you believed that.”

“They didn’t pick you up for nothing.”

“What if I did f**k her? You left me.”

The thought made me so angry I flung my arm back and hit him in the face. He threw me over the sideboard, bumping a little bronze sculpture of stacked squares and knocking over a picture of his sisters. His dick pressed against my ass, hard, hot, and ready. One of my shoes fell off.

“They said they had audio,” I cried, face wet with tears. “They have pictures of her ass. It’s welted. You did it. Just say it.”

“It.” He pulled my panties down to mid-thigh.

“You f**ked her.”

“I showed her what she was asking for.” He slid his c**k in me as if he had an engraved invitation, f**king me as though he owned me.

“God, Jonathan,” I cried, tears forming. “Why? Why don’t I mean anything to you?” I didn’t say “no” or “stop” because even though we had a safe word, I knew him. If I told him to stop, he would, and the pounding I was getting was the pounding I wanted.