The Art of Control

Chapter 11

Dylan

Inside Isa, I am home. Her passionate words uttered in that silky smooth voice shake me to my core. My purpose in life is clear now – it is to probe her depths, push her limits and consume her soul. There’s no time to think or react and I cum fast and furious in her, my jizz pulsing out of me and filling her as Isa’s ass milks every last drop out of me.

“That feels so good,” Isa moans.

I swiftly pull out of her, flip her onto her back and dive headlong into her golden mound, sucking like a madman. Isa giggles and squeals loudly, her hands fisting in my hair.

“Yes, devour me, Master. Consume me!” she screeches as if she’s read my thoughts.

I stuff my tongue into her and finger her engorged nub, giving her the pleasure that she deserves. Her body starts to tremble, her legs stiffen and I ready myself for the flash flood. I push down on her lower belly and she mewls and claws at my shoulders as she lets herself go. I greedily drink up the prize that is her sweet nectar, wanting more.

Tackling her p-ssy again, I stab my fingers into her and tug at her inner wall forcefully and without mercy.

“Give me more, Isa. I f*cking want more. I want all of it,” I snap at her.

Isa thrashes her head back and forth, her eyes tightly closed, her mouth a half-smile, half-pained expression. She tries to wriggle away from me, but I grip her decadently fleshy hip and pull her back to me.

“I won’t be denied,” I insist.

“No more, Master… no…” she mewls.

“No? You’re not allowed to say no to me. Now give it to me!” I retort loudly.

I move on top of her while I continue to persecute her honey hole. I grab a hold of Isa’s face and shove my tongue inside her mouth viciously, letting up only to catch my breath.

“I won’t be denied, God damn it,” I breathe into her mouth.

“I would never deny you, Master. You own me,” she whines.

“God damn straight, I do. Now cum for me.”

My words compel her and she begins to convulse. I move back down just in time to be sprayed with her delicious gift and I do as she so eagerly demanded, and consume her.

When I’m finished licking Isa clean, I throw myself on the bed next to her and tow her onto my chest, not giving a shit about the pain from the knife wound.

“Happy birthday, my sweet lover.” Isa drowsily murmurs, sleeping finding us both instantly.

Sometime later, I wake to the sound of Isa whimpering my name.

“I can’t lose you, sugar,” she sobs when I gently shake her awake.

“You’re not losing me. I’m right here, love. I’m not going anywhere,” I reassure her.

Isa falls back to sleep but I’m unable to rest anymore. I find Isa’s journal and start reading it again, this time starting where I left off at the beginning.

9/20/03

I haven’t written for over a month. It’s been bad. I can do no right in papa’s eyes. He watches me like a hawk after my stay in the hospital. I think he’s afraid of what I’ll tell people. I long to paint but I can’t steal a moment to myself. I graduate in less than a year. Thank God for that. I’m leaving just as soon as I can. My art teacher offered me a paid tutoring job a few weeks ago. I’m going to take it. I’ll save the money and maybe I can get away. No more time for writing. I have to draw. I NEED to draw.

The painting following the short entry is another stunning yet distressing abstract image that depicts a frightened girl with a man standing just behind her, watching her, his eyes piercing through her.





I put the journal down and caress Isa’s back. As I watch her sleep, I wonder what it is she’s dreaming about. Only good things, I hope. While she rests, I read on.

9/29/03

Today was bearable. Harsh words spoken, but no belt. I can handle the words, just NOT the belt. I tutored my first student today. I made $15 for one hour of instruction. I feel as if that’s too much for what I did, but I’ll take it. I’m $15 closer to being independent. In less than one year, I will have freedom! It’s the light at the end of the tunnel that I’ve been praying for. Yes, today was a good day.

Fifteen measly f*cking dollars. I grew up with wealth at my disposal and when I was the same age as Isa, 16, I had more riches than I knew what to do with. Isa on the other hand was saving her pennies to get away. I’m sickened at the thought of how much money I squandered when she so desperately needed it to be free from the cruelty she was living with.

The image following the journal entry: A long dark tunnel with a glimmer of light at the end of it. I smile at the thought of a happy 16 year old Isa with hope for her future. It’s short-lived when I read the next passage which only contains three dreadful, heartbreaking words.

10/6/03

The belt again.

The image to follow of a screaming girl is horrifying and one I hope to never see her paint again. The rest of the page is scratched out in stark black charcoal pencil; nonsensical, bleak and gloomy doodles randomly scattered throughout the page.

I feel ill. There are no details and my mind is left to concoct ghastly images of what must’ve happened to the woman I adore. She belonged to me even then. We were worlds apart, but even then, she was mine. She was my future and that son-of-a-bitch was abusing my would-be wife. I want him dead.





I put the journal down and pull Isa close to me, her back to my chest. With my face buried in her hair, I inhale her sweet peach scent.

“I love you, Isabel Maya Young,” I repeat over and over into her ear until she stirs.

She turns to face me, still sleeping, and rests her cheek against my heart.

“Dylan…” she whispers.

I sleep another two hours. The sun coming through the large window wakes me. Isa has already risen so I sit up on the edge of bed, trying to bring everything into focus. She’s kneeling on the floor, completely naked in a presentation pose with her hands behind her back. Her posture is flawlessly straight, her chest pushed forward exhibiting her lush breasts with hardened nipples, her feet tucked gracefully beneath her. Good God, she’s a sight to behold.

“What’s this about?” I ask, wiping the sleep from my eyes.

“I just wanted to thank you for the amazing orgasms you gave me last night. Do I look pleasing to you?”

“You look more than pleasing, love - you look absolutely perfect.”

She beams with joy at my praises, her eyes glowing and her cheeks flushed.

“I have your clothes picked out for you and breakfast is on the way up, Sir. What else can I do for you?” she asks.

I nod towards my pecker and she promptly crawls towards me and takes me into her mouth, but we’re interrupted by room service and Isa gives me a pouty look.

We eat our breakfast and lounge around all morning, talking and basking in each other’s company. Days like this are to be cherished. I dread going back to work and having to be away from her for hours on end. This past week I’ve learned so much about her. She’s embedded in my thoughts, my soul, my very DNA. She invites me into the shower with her, but I want to read more of her journal so I pass on the enticing request. As soon as the bathroom door closes, I open her thoughts.

10/10/03

My body still hurts from the belt, but I tutored again this afternoon. It was good for me. I have almost $100 saved up. Papa hasn’t even noticed the few hours a week that I’m gone, thankfully. My art teacher is being very discrete at my request, though I can’t explain why. I worked with children today. It was wonderful. Their joy for art and their enthusiasm was heartwarming. I forgot all about my horrible existence when I was with them. I hope I can work with them again. I never thought I would say it, but I love children. Who knew?

The drawing on the next page is joyful; a child’s face in watercolor looking curious and excited. Christ, even then Isa’s talent was undeniable.





A depressing realization hits me - she’ll never be a mother. I’m such a selfish prick for never once thinking about the seriousness of Isa’s wanting a family. She desperately wants children and, right now, all I want is to give her what she desires. If there really is a God, why would he deprive her of such a basic and necessary thing – to be a mother? Why does this world have to be so cruel? Hasn’t she endured enough?

Angry, I toss the journal aside and walk towards the window. Isa’s voice can be heard coming from the shower, humming some silly 80’s song as usual. My heart warms but my temper threatens to boil over. Keep it together, Young.

When Isa is finished in the shower, we dress and go out for another afternoon poking around Paris. She’s wearing a sheer white strapless halter dress that looks divine on her, her breasts bouncing in time with her excitement. It’s difficult to concentrate on our surroundings with the way her nipples are teasing me through the delicate fabric, the way her curves are calling to me and the way the diamonds on her collar are glimmering in the sunlight, reminding me that I own her.

A little later, I find a nice spot for her to do some painting on the patio of the hotel pool. The supplies I requested are brought to her and she fervently dives right in. I sit back and enjoy the view of her working her talent onto the canvas. It’s a wicked image, but she pays no mind to the small crowd gathering while they watch her magical hands in creative motion. She’s in her own world, her eyes bright with imagination and her kinky thoughts oozing out onto the canvas. She is beauty and talent personified and I’m one lucky son-of-a-bitch to call her my own.

When she’s finished, she looks it over carefully, scratches her nose, smearing a smudge of burnt umber paint onto her cheek. She looks angelic like this. She puts her paintbrush down and a small amount of applause breaks out, alarming Isa. By her reaction, she didn’t realize she was being watched. She looks nervously at me and sheepishly grins, her cheeks resplendent with embarrassment. Her short little legs move quickly to get to me and she hides her face in my chest.

“Oh, Isa. It’s hard to believe this shy girl in front of me is the same Mistress Isabel. You are truly a switch if I ever met one.”

“Hush, Dylan,” she chastises, narrowing her eyes at me.

Someone from the hotel staff cleans up Isa’s painting supplies and takes her amazing piece to our room while we make our way the hotel restaurant. I locate a secluded table with a panorama view of Paris and we settle in. The sun is low in the sky and it’s late afternoon. Isa listens raptly to every word I say while I talk about work and other nonsense, never once taking her tawny eyes off of me. Her attention is solely on me and it’s as if there’s no one else in the world but the two of us.

I excuse myself to use the lavatory and when I return a short time later, there’s a stranger sitting in my seat chatting up Isa. He’s sitting close to her and speaking animatedly. She remains quiet, but I can hear his throaty laughter. Isa converses with him as if she knows who is he and I stand back to watch their verbal exchange. Her body language seems off to me. I can’t put my finger on what it is, but she seems mildly uncomfortable and anxious. The young man is dressed expensively and looks to be about Isa’s age. He’s well-groomed in a metro-sexual sort of way and his black hair is cropped short. Who the hell is this guy?

My temperature starts to rise when I see Isa grace him with her smile. Damn it, that smile belongs to me. When he touches the top of her hand, she quickly pulls it away and places it in her lap. Good girl. But then he dusts his fingertips over her forearm and she leans into him, accepting his touch. So that’s how it is.

I move slowly towards them and the man looks over at me as if he knows who I am. When I arrive at the table, the a*shole remains seated in my chair.

“You’re in my seat,” I tell him, trying to remain cool.

I startle Isa with my arrival and she immediately scoots her chair back and looks up at me guiltily as evidenced by the radiant glow on her cheeks.

“Sir, this is Anderson Hayes.”

Still, the shit stain doesn’t move. His eyes dart up and down my body and his eyebrows go up. “So I finally meet the inscrutable Dylan Young.” His tone is sardonic and the look on his face reflects downright contempt.

I remain silent and eye him warily as he continues to linger in my f*cking chair.

“It’s hard to believe my Isa landed someone so prominent.”

His Isa? What. The. F*ck. I move towards the table, ready to lunge over it and shove my fist down his throat, but Isa quickly grips my fisted hand and caresses it.

“I said, you’re in my seat,” I repeat, this time being less friendly than before.

He arches an eyebrow at me and looks me up and down again as if sizing me up, but still, he remains seated.

“There’s another chair right next to you. Why don’t you grab it?” he nods to the chair next to Isa.

Motherf*cker. Who is this Anderson piece of shit?

“Are you deliberately trying to piss me off?” I snarl. “If I have to repeat myself again, it won’t be with words.”

Isa looks mortified at the power exchange going on between Anderson and me. Anderson snort laughs and puts a hand up in condescending resignation, but as if trying to prove himself, he lays his other hand on Isa’s forearm and I damn near come unglued.

“And take your f*cking hand off my wife.”

Isa stands and her cheeks flush crimson red.

“Sugar, please. Let’s not do this here,” she whispers.

“Don’t,” I say sharply to her with a pinched expression.

Her eyes widen, she looks down at the floor and reaches up to play with her hair.

“F*ck, man, I didn’t mean to cause any problems. I just stopped over to say hi,” Anderson huffs as he stands to leave. “I’ll be in town for the next few days, Isabel. Maybe we can talk later?” he asks, completely ignoring me.

Isa glares at him, appalled at his question and shakes her head no emphatically and sneaks a peek over at me.

“So be it. It was good seeing you – really good. By the way, you look spectacular,” he says as his eyes scan Isa’s body and he licks his lips like a hungry mutt. Motherf*cker.

“It was nice meeting you, too, Mr. Young,” he grunts.

He walks away, leaving me and Isa standing at the table. I take my seat and Isa sinks into her chair. I chug down my brandy and put my glass back down a little too gruffly, making Isa shift uncomfortably.

“I get it. You’re angry,” she announces irritably.

“No, I’m pissed. You know how I feel about you talking to other men, don’t you?”

Isa pulls her eyebrows together in annoyance and answers, “Yes, Sir, but I know him.”

“That’s obvious by the way you were allowing him to manhandle you and his shitty choice of words. My Isa? Who the hell is he and how exactly is it that you know him?”

Isa looks troubled but finally responds after a long pause. “He’s an ex-boyfriend.”

“What the actual f*ck?” That sentiment wasn’t meant to be said out loud but my utter shock prevented me from keeping it in.

“I know. It’s strange that he would be here the same time we are. I haven’t seen him since…”

“Since what? Since the last time the two of you f*cked?”

Isa shoots me a look of impatience and purses her lips at me. “Since we broke up.”

“How long did you date him?”

“About a year.”

He was with Isa longer than I’ve been with her. They have history. I cringe at the thought.

“Tell me something: If you know how I feel about you talking to other men, do you have any idea how it makes me feel that you allowed another man to touch you? Let alone an ex-lover?” I whisper yell at her.

Isa scans my face and opens her mouth to say something, but stops herself. A moment later she replies. “I didn’t think about that,” she states sorrowfully.

“No? How would you feel if I had been approached by an ex-girlfriend and I let her put her hands all over me?” I snap.

“I would be hurt and angry,” she says quietly as she touches her wedding ring.

“To say the least, Isabel. With your temper, you’d be just a little more than hurt and angry. You’d be stark raving pissed, throwing a tantrum, and I’d be lucky if I didn’t end up with my dinner in my lap.”

“Like the tantrum you’re throwing right now?” she asks sarcastically.

Oh, hell no. I hold my tongue from verbally lashing her and countdown slowly from ten. I look away, not wanting to lose my temper in a public place. I get to two when Isa chimes in.

“I’m sorry…”

“For what?” I cut in. “For willfully disobeying my wishes with your inability to tell your ex-boyfriend to keep his f*cking hands off of you or for disrespecting me with your sarcasm?”

She sighs loudly and shakes her head. “I didn’t willfully disobey your wishes, Sir; I mindlessly disobeyed them.” She looks repentant, but my anger subsides only slightly. Mindlessly is f*cking right.

“But you’re right - I did disrespect you with my sarcasm and for that I’m truly sorry,” she glowers.

“Of course I’m right,” I huff.

“Are you going to punish me?” she asks, reaching out to me.

“Do you think you need to be punished?” I respond, raising my eyebrows at her.

“Only if it pleases you, Sir,” she replies, running her fingers along the top of my hand.

“It never pleases me to punish willful disobedience, Isabel. Having to punish you for that sort of thing means I’ve failed to communicate what it is I expect out of you. It means I’m failing you as a Dom if you don’t understand what my wants and needs are, and I hate failing at anything.”

I pull my hand away from her and Isa looks disheartened. “Oh, sugar, don’t say that. You’re such a wonderful Dom. You’re not failing at anything. I’m the one who failed you tonight by letting Anderson touch me and getting mouthy with you.”

“I’m glad you understand that,” I grumble, abhorring the vision of her perfect mouth saying his name.

“What will my punishment be?” she asks gloomily.

“I haven’t thought that far in advance. I’m still too livid. Let’s just finish our meal and go back to the room.”

An ex-boyfriend here in Paris? On our honeymoon? Something smells rotten in Denmark. My sixth sense has been on high-alert ever since the faux mugging several days ago, now this f*cking unwanted drama? I thought Isa and I had moved past all of this bullshit.

Isa is still pouting as she picks at her food, obviously sulking about her upcoming punishment.

“Why did that a*shole say he was here?” I ask.

“He said he took a new job recently and he’s taking a training class,” she replies without looking at me.

“Don’t you think it’s a little odd that your ex-lover just happens to be in Paris during our honeymoon and staying at the same hotel?”

“I wish you would stop calling him that and yes, I think it’s very odd. Even more strange is how overfriendly he was.”

“What do you mean by that?” I ask, putting my fork down.

Isa shrugs and sits silently.

“Look at me, Isabel, and tell me what you meant.”

Isa finally answers, but she still refuses to make eye contact. “He was just never that friendly with me or very nice. His enthusiasm to see me seemed very fake.”

It might have something to do with the fact that Isa is now unobtainable. I know his type. He likes the thrill of the hunt. Hell, I used to be the same way to a certain degree. Now that his former lover is off limits, he wants her. Douchebag, motherf*cker.

Shit. Here we go. My snarky alter ego rears his ugly head. “Was he a good lover?”

Isa drops her fork on the plate loudly, startled and visibly incensed by my question. “Again with this line of questioning? What was it you told me a few nights ago? I’ll tell you the truth, but only if you think you can handle it.”

My competitiveness itches just beneath the surface. “So he was a good lover? Is that what you’re saying? Was he better than me?” I ask, sounding more troubled than irritated.

“I was only trying to make a point, but I guess that backfired. No, he wasn’t a good lover. In fact, he was horrible in the sack just like all of my past lovers were. He never lasted more than a few minutes, he was severely lacking in his oral skills, he knew nothing about foreplay, he had no idea what a G-spot was, and…”

Jesus Christ, I didn’t expect her to go on about it.

“…his dick was miniscule compared to your colossal cock, okay? So, no, he wasn’t better than you. No one was,” she says curtly, picking her fork back up and shoving a piece of chicken into her mouth.

Isa’s definitely getting her ass paddled for that little outburst. She slumps in her chair and chews her food tetchily.

“Sit up, Isabel. You know I hate it when you slouch like that. It’s unbecoming of your beautiful figure.”

Isa glares at me through her long lashes and narrows her eyes at me, but she promptly sits up straight and pushes her shoulders back.

“Thank you. Now let’s go upstairs so you can receive your punishment.”

Isa’s defiance instantly melts away and she resumes her pouting. If I weren’t still so irritated, I’d laugh out loud at her sudden change in demeanor.

Back in the room, I instruct Isa on what to do.

“Present yourself for punishment.”

Isa undresses herself and kneels on the floor, her bottom lip practically dragging on the floor from pouting. She spreads her knees widely, places her head down with her forehead touching the floor, and her hands and arms spread forward in front of her as if praising me. I circle around her, deciding what to do next. I seat myself on the bed and watch her for a good 15 minutes, giving her time to reflect on what she’s done to deserve punishment. Her breathing becomes rapid when she hears the sound of my voice.

“Why did you allow your ex-boyfriend to touch you?” I ask, wanting to hear her reasons before I fully decide on her sentence.

After a long silent minute, and with her head still lowered, she speaks. “I enjoyed teasing him.”

“Go on,” I tell her, sensing that she’s holding something back.

“I relished in his touch and flaunting my married self to him. It was just me wanting my ego stroked,” she whispers, obviously ashamed at her admission.

I’m shocked by her candid admission. My stroking of her ego and constant lavishing of love and adoration isn’t enough that she needs it from another man? My submission to her isn’t enough that she feels it necessary to flaunt herself in front of an ex-lover? Her words cut me to the bone. She wants another man’s touch, does she? I know how to fix that. I sigh loudly and Isa stiffens up.

“Over my knee.”

Isa picks herself up and moves towards me, never making eye contact. She lowers herself across my knee and I brace her with one of my legs over hers and my arm across her upper back.

“This is for your outburst and your disrespectful sarcasm.”

I lay my hand across her bare buttocks in one swift motion.

“Count it out, Isabel” I tell her, knowing she detests having to do this, but right now I want strict protocol followed. She hesitates for only a moment and I reach back and tug her hair, compelling her to respond.

“One,” she sulks.

I bring my hand down again.

“Two…”

Again, harder.

“Three…” Isa whimpers.

I give her 20 wallops in all and Isa counts out every last one. Her ass is bright red and heated, and her face matches the same vibrant hue.

“Stand up and face me,” I order.

Isa sniffs back tears and stands in front of me. I guide her by the chin to look into my eyes.

“As for your ego needing to be stroked by another man, you’ll experience a punishment of a different kind for that.”

***

Isabel

My punishment isn’t over? Holy spank fest. Why didn’t I just push Anderson’s hand away? Because I enjoyed taunting him, that’s why. I took pleasure in flaunting my unavailability to someone who so miserably hurt me. Yes, I liked his touch, knowing that he wanted me and he couldn’t have me. Now look what it got me. Dylan is obviously hurt by my actions and I can’t blame him. I would be wounded, too, if he had allowed an ex-girlfriend to touch him in such a manner. Maybe if I just try to smooth things over, he’ll forget whatever reprimand he has planned.

“Sugar, I’m sorry…”

“Isabel, don’t. I mean it. Your feminine charms won’t work on me right now. Get dressed while I make a phone call,” he gripes, walking out of the room and into the small living room suite.

After getting my dress on, I mope into the bathroom to make myself presentable. My bottom is blazing and tender. I dig out the PānX cream but decide against using it without Dylan’s permission first.

I carry the tube into the living area and stand before Dylan while he talks on the phone.

“Yes, I would appreciate that a great deal. Definitely. I have every intention of going through with it. No, there won’t be any problems. Isa knows her place and will be fully compliant...”

What on earth is he talking about and to whom?

“Set it up. And again, I’m grateful for your assistance with this matter. What time? Yes, we’ll see you then.”

He hangs up, stands and moves past me without making eye contact or addressing me.

Catching up with him, I stand in front of him again. He looks at me irritably and finally acknowledges my presence.

“What is it, Isabel?”

He wields my name like a weapon when he’s cross with me and it’s both fearsome and electrifying.

“May I?” I ask politely, holding the cream out to him.

He raises his eyebrows at me ironically and snorts. Then his eyebrows pinch together and he responds, “Do you think you deserve to use that right now?”

Well, I guess I got my answer.

“No, Sir, I guess not.”

“You guess not?”

Ugh. I’m in deep doo-doo with Dylan. I hate feeling like an errant child. “No, Sir. I don’t deserve to use it.”

The next few hours are spent being ostracized by the man I cherish and love. I bide my time in the living room, reading the newspaper while he busies himself in the bedroom.

Why did I let that a*shole touch me? I’ve hated Anderson since the day he broke up with me. Hell, who am I kidding? I hated him long before that. Damn my ego. Seriously, what the hell is he doing here anyway? A training class, my spanked and welted ass. He doesn’t have any kind of formal education so what kind of high-paying job could he procure that would send him to Paris? And that clothing - he’s never dressed so expensively before. Or shown me so much attention either. To hell with this. I’m going crazy thinking about all this nonsense. This is my honeymoon, damn it. I should be getting my vag pounded not my ass punished. Damn alter ego. Damn it to hell.

“Isabel?” Dylan calls out to me.

I find Dylan to see what he wants and he looks dazzling. He’s wearing a pitch black, pin-striped Armani suit with a black silk shirt underneath and solid black neck tie. With his dark hair, the only bits of color in his ensemble are his sparkling blue eyes and the dusting of gray hair at his temples. Ms. Kitty aches to be filled seeing him look so impressive.

On the bed, he’s laid out an outfit for me to wear. It’s not something I recognize and I don’t even remember him packing it for me. It’s a sweet little cornflower blue mini dress with a wide satin ribbon bow around the waist. It’s beautiful and the color matches Dylan’s eyes perfectly.

“Where did this come from?” I timidly ask.

Dylan doesn’t respond and goes about ignoring me. He really does know how to make me feel his wrath.

He seats himself in the chair near the window and rests his hands on his thighs.

“Dress for me,” he states flatly.

I unclothe myself slowly, giving Dylan a show. I notice that he purposely neglected to provide me with panties and a bra. Stepping into the tight dress, I shimmy it up and over my bare bottom, then ease it up further and tuck my breasts in. I pull the thin spaghetti straps over my shoulders and stand in front of Dylan so he can zip the back up. He nonchalantly brushes his fingertips up my spine as he drags the zipper up slowly. My body weakens with his touch and my knees are dangerously close to buckling. I yearn to be in his arms and in his forgiving graces.

I face him and kneel down between his legs, hoping he’ll allow me to gratify him.

“Please, Sir, may I?” I ask, stroking him through his pants. His expression remains stoic, but he unbuckles his belt, opens his pants and pulls his dick out.

He’s already mildly rigid and after several long, slow licks, he becomes fully erect. Dylan folds his arms across his chest, continuing to penalize me by not allowing me the pleasure of his touch. I engulf him, going down his cock inch-by-inch slowly, and drawing my mouth back at the same leisurely pace.

“Are you intentionally trying to aggravate me?” Dylan asks, his voice deep and harsh.

“No, Sir,” I respond, but the truth is, I want to punish him with my drawn-out oral f*cking for ignoring me. I look into his eyes and he has an eyebrow arched at me as if he’s read my deceitful thoughts.

“Do it the way I like it or don’t do it at all.”

Dylan’s voice and tone are clipped and his eyes are narrowed at me. He’s already livid with my juvenile actions from earlier; I sure as hell don’t need to antagonize him any further and inflame the situation, especially not knowing what he has planned for my punishment later.

I immediately pick up the pace and tighten my grip. Moving my mouth up and down his thickness, he shifts in the chair and opens his legs further, a low rumble escaping from his throat as he thrusts into my jaws. I want to be in his good graces so I f*ck him with my mouth like I’m a hooker at a dick sucking contest, vying for the national championship, solid gold cock trophy.

I jerk him hard and fast, nibbling and sucking his sack and lapping at the precum that has settled on the tip of his shaft. Then I circle my tongue all the way around the ridge of his cock and quickly flick his frenulum. Dylan’s body stiffens when I glide my piercing over the tip and dip my tongue into his hole, and he grunts loudly. Then I do it all over again, this time with even more fervor than before.

I deep throat him, slobbering all over myself and his cock. I groan out, really getting into it and deliberately gagging myself. My eyes meet Dylan’s and he looks completely unraveled by my methodical and calculated dick sucking. His arms are no longer crossed, but being the stubborn ass that he is, his hands are in his hair, fisting it, denying me his touch.

I want those damned hands on me. I need his hands on me. I lick and suck my index and middle finger, lubricating them well. Without warning, I push them into his rectum gently and seek out his prostate. He jumps in the chair and practically shrieks at the sensation.

“F*cking hell,” he pants out.

My fingers find what they’re looking for and I caress it and finger it slowly, not wanting to get kneed in the face. At long last, Dylan’s hands grip my shoulders and the skin-to-skin contact makes my p-ssy throb. He tangles his fists into my hair with both hands and guides my head up and down, plunging deep into my throat.

“You need a good face f*cking, you little brat,” he grouses irritably and out of breath.

Did he really just call me a brat? My feelings are instantly hurt and my ego retreats and weeps in the shadows. Within the BDSM community, that term is usually applied to a submissive who acts up in order to attract attention is considered a form of topping from the bottom. Ugh. Was I was being a brat by allowing another man to touch me? Was I topping from the bottom by teasing Dylan with my slow oral teasing just moments ago? I’ve never thought of myself that way, but, yes, I was being a brat. God, I hate it when he’s so absolutely right.

Embarrassed by my failures as a submissive, I allow Dylan the satisfaction of viciously face f*cking me and I take it like a champ. Just before he cums, he pulls out, cups a hand and strokes off into his palm, depriving me the gift of his essence. I sit back on my haunches and inwardly sob while he washes his hands in the bathroom.

Remaining on my knees, I wait for Dylan’s command. He walks past me and into the living area without so much as a word or a glance. He’s never been this mad before. Never. I remain on my knees until it is time to leave. Dylan helps me up from the floor and takes my hand out of politeness as we get on the elevator. I squeeze his hand hoping for some sign of my loving and gentle husband but I get nothing in response, only a slight twitch of his mouth. After a short cab ride, we end up back at the BDSM club and I’m left to wonder what kind of retribution Dylan has planned for me. I wouldn’t mind having another go at the bullwhip, but I doubt pleasuring me is what my Dom has in mind.

As soon as we enter the club, we’re greeted by the manager and Luke. Neither of them acknowledges my presence and I can only assume that Dylan has told them of my bratty behavior and they’re not pleased with me either.

Dylan walks me over to a staged area where there are three other women. It’s easy to see that one of them is in the same predicament as I am because she looks as miserable as I feel. The other two, however, look eager and excited about whatever is planned. I sure as hell wish someone would enlighten me about the whole situation.

Dylan steps behind me and starts to unzip my dress and my heart rate spikes. He slips the straps down over my shoulders and leans into my ear as the dress pools at my feet, leaving me standing completely nude.

“You like being touched by other men? Then tonight I’ll give your ego its fill. Tonight you’ll be objectified. Maybe next time a man puts his hands on you, you’ll think twice before you let your ego win over reason. Maybe next time you’ll remember your place as my submissive and more importantly, your place as my wife. There’s a fine line between sexual empowerment and objectification, Isabel. I hope tonight you learn what that difference is.”

I want to cry and lash out. I don’t want to be objectified! Damn my ego! I spin around to face Dylan to try and plead with him. “Dylan, sugar, my sweet lover, please…”

He swiftly covers my mouth with his entire hand and grabs my hair at the nape of my neck with his other and pulls me close.

“Your punishment has been decided so don’t you dare disrespect me with your bratty mouth; not now, not here. You address me as Master, do you understand? You have no idea how you made me feel by telling me that you craved another man’s touch.”

The look on Dylan’s face isn’t one of rage, but rather one of deep hurt and my eyes well up at seeing his ego and heart so injured by my thoughtless actions. Seeing him like this, I push my apprehension and pride aside and decide to put my big girl panties on and take my punishment like the submissive I know I should be, and most importantly, the submissive that Dylan deserves.

Hanging my head in shame, Dylan removes his hand from my mouth.

“Yes, Master, as you wish.”

With my words, Dylan looks only mildly satisfied. He turns me back around and places his hand on the small of my back and walks me towards the middle of the staged area. The Doms of the other women guide their women as well.

Softly and without anger, Dylan instructs me on what to do.

“Kneel in the waiting position.”

I lower myself to my knees with my legs spread wide, my hands resting on my thighs, palms up. This position shows my willingness to serve and the position of my hands with palms up also signals that there is no aggression or resistance on my part. Normally I would be looking straight forward, but Dylan directs me to do differently.

“Lower your head and keep your eyes to the floor. I don’t want you looking at anyone or anything tonight. I also better not hear so much as a sigh out of you. No sounds, no seeing, no movement. Nod if you understand.”

I nod.

“I want to make it very clear that what’s planned for you tonight shouldn’t necessitate the use of a safeword; however, you know I would never deny your use of one if you should feel like you need to use it.”

My Master is stern, firm and unwavering when it comes to punishment, but he is also reasonable and caring.

Dylan steps away from me and out of my vision and I’m left alone to listen to the sound of my own heartbeat, the soft music in the background and foreign voices – some speaking French, some English. A few minutes later, Luke’s loud voice booms over the gathering crowd. “Welcome everyone. We have something a little different planned for tonight. It seems we have a few submissives who have forgotten their training, and a few who are just here to play. We present four beautiful and charming women for your pleasure to touch and use as you see fit. There will be no penetration allowed with the little blonde American, however, feel free to objectify her in any other way you please. So, without further delay, we present our version of human art.” He then repeats the same phrase in French. There’s thunderous applause and what seems like dozens of people swarm the staging area. Hands are felt all over my body, warm touches – some gentle, some fierce and needy.

A stranger kneels behind me and from the sweet aromatic scent, it’s a woman.

“So you were a bad girl, were you?” she asks in a very heavy accent, so heavy, in fact, I’m almost unable to understand her. “It’s too bad I can’t f*ck you my pretty little quiche. You seem like you need a good f*cking. Do you?”

Her hands are all over me, caressing my back, pinching my ass, petting my hair, and then reaching around and squeezing my breasts and tweaking my nipples. I hold very still and focus on my beating heart when I suddenly feel her mouth on my neck, sucking at me. Her tongue licks the crook of my ear, making my body hair stand on end and hardening my nipples further. I’ve never been touched by a woman like this and the unfamiliar touches aren’t altogether unwelcome. Squeezing my thighs together trying to hide my impending and awkward arousal, I sneak a peek up and Dylan is watching me intently. He narrows his eyes at me and clenches his jaw and I immediately cast my gaze back down.

I look to my right side and one of the other women on display is kneeling doggy-style and being used as a footstool. She looks thrilled as a man’s feet are resting on her back and another man is kneeling behind her and lapping at her p-ssy. The other submissive who is being punished like me, is laying flat on a table with food placed all over her body. Various people are plucking off appetizers, playing with her nipples and poking their fingers into her slit to taste her. My wedding night comes to mind and I recall being used as a table as Dylan ate food off of me. That was much more appealing than what she’s going through. I wonder what she did that was so shameful to be objectified.

I’m not able to see the fourth player in our group of human art, but whatever is going on with her, it sounds pleasurable as substantiated by her orgasmic moans.

Not far off, I hear Dylan’s deep voice. I fight the urge to look up, not wanting to be chastised for my lack of compliance. He comes closer, so close in fact that I can smell him.

“Look up, Isabel. Show everyone those exquisite eyes,” he orders.

I raise my head to see more than two dozen people milling around, conversing, ogling and fondling the human art. I scan the room quickly, but my curiosity is interrupted.

“Focus, Isabel,” Dylan snaps. “Eyes on me.”

He backs away from me, his eyes never leaving me, and seats himself at a table with another gentleman Dom and his submissive. More people move towards me, two men and another woman. They each take their turn at trying to capture my attention and make me move, but I resist and concentrate solely on my husband. He’s watching me keenly, his crystal blue eyes not revealing any emotion. One of the strange men before me leans down into me, ghosting his fingertips over my shoulder and down to my hip. He squeezes it seductively, but Dylan’s impassive look remains unwavering.

How can he watch other men touch me like this? He threw a fit when Anderson simply touched my arm. I hate all of these men gaping at my barren and exposed body and laying their filthy hands all over me. I get it, I want to scream at Dylan. I understand the difference between sexual empowerment and objectification, okay?

Dylan’s eyebrows go up as if he’s in my head. He walks slowly towards me and kneels down in front of me.

“There’s no disguising your emotions, p-ssycat. Your eyes tell me everything I need to know.”

Do they? I blink several times and he smiles wickedly at me.

“Have you had your fill of objectification yet or does your ego want more stroking? Perhaps I should have invited Anderson Hayes to the festivities to satiate your need.”

Ouch. That hurt. I fight the urge to cry from Dylan’s harsh words.

Dylan’s expression changes from that of sarcastic to apologetic. “Stand. Your punishment is complete.”

Thank you, thank you, thank you!