The Art of Control

Chapter 12

Dylan

Isa smiles weakly and responds, “Thank you, Master.”

Her eyes are still wet from my shitty sarcastic remark. It’s obvious that she’s learned her lesson and I have no doubt that when the time comes, if it ever comes again, she won’t fail me.

She stands and I remove my jacket and wrap it around her shoulders. We walk back to the table where I dress her and seat her in my lap. She wraps her arms around my neck and hides her face.

“Oh, Master, I am truly sorry. You have to know that. Please tell me you forgive me. Your touch is the only one I crave,” she sobs.

“There, there, p-ssycat, what I said was uncalled for. I believe you and I forgive you.”

She looks into my eyes, her face gleaming with joy.

“Do you understand the difference between empowerment and objectification?” I ask, touching the collar around her neck and tugging at it.

“Yes, Master, I do.”

“Explain it to me,” I press.

She pauses, looks me in the eyes and responds, “Sexual empowerment is self-serving. What I did by allowing Anderson to touch me was selfish; I didn’t think about how it would affect you. Objectification is self-sacrificial. What I did tonight by allowing these strangers to touch me was passive and by relenting control, I gave you the satisfaction of punishing me for my selfish act. It’s all a bit confusing really, because I understand the power play and wanting to be objectified, but it’s completely different to be thought of strictly as a sexual object. I love being objectified by you and the predatory look you give me when I undress for you, but tonight, with these strangers and thinking about what I allowed Anderson to do to me, it all just makes me feel disgusted.”

I chuckle at her response. “I thought perhaps you might confuse the two but I see you’ve had plenty of time to figure it out. I don’t enjoy punishing you, Isabel. I really don’t. Not like this. Watching other men put their hands on you was just as much a form of torture for me as it was for you. I want you to know that you’ll never be punished for the same thing twice. We’ll never speak of this incident again, do you understand?”

She nods enthusiastically and buries her face in my neck again, inhaling deeply and sighing.

We say our goodbyes and I profusely thank the manger and Luke for hosting us, giving them both open invitations should they ever visit Denver, and we leave.

The rest of the evening is spent snugglef*cking back in the hotel suite. Wanting to reward Isa for having taken her punishment so well, despite her misgivings, I lavish her with p-ssy worship. I eat her out, gently and slowly, allowing her to enjoy and bask in each of my sensual licks. I do it for damn near an hour, bringing her close to orgasm and then denying her so that her finish will be magnificent. My tongue aches, but the way her body responds to my mouth gives me the inspiration I need to continue on. When she finally reaches the pinnacle of her climax, I’m left with cream-pie all over my face.

I lay back and she climbs atop my rigid and strained cock, and rides me unhurriedly and with purpose. Her body rocks and grinds against me, her silky tight walls contracting around me. Her hands are in her hair, fisting it. She moves them down to her mouth, dipping her fingers in and sucking at them lustfully. Her eyes are tightly closed and she’s in the pleasure zone as her hands then move to her breasts and pinch her nipples. I’m completely hypnotized by the way she touches herself.

“Open your eyes, love. Look at me,” I command.

Her eyes flutter open and dilate widely.

“Play with yourself. I’m close and I want us to cum together,” I instruct.

She moves her left hand down her soft belly to her p-ssy and starts circling her fingers around her glistening *. Gripping her hips, I lift her high on my cock so I can watch her take every inch of me deep into her cunt. I pull her back down bit-by-bit and she whimpers out her approval.

“Christ, you look good taking all of me, p-ssycat,” I tell her, unable to take my eyes off of our slow, methodical f*cking.

Isa’s eyes move down to her p-ssy and she watches intently, mesmerized by the way our bodies fit together so perfectly.

I pull her back up to the head of my shaft and pause, delighting in her juice running down my shaft. Isa grips the base of my dick and strokes me all the way up to her p-ssy, her hand continuing its journey up to her bright pink and inflamed *. She pushes down onto me harder and harder while she pushes her fingers into her p-ssy along with my cock. The sight is completely unraveling me.

“I’m ready. Cum for me,” I grunt.

Her thighs tighten around my waist, she throws her head back and screams out something garbled and we both release. I sit up and pull her into me, hugging her tightly, both of us shuddering from our orgasms.

Isa falls to my side, curls up into me and instantly falls into a deep slumber. Grabbing a towel from the restroom, I clean us both up while she sleeps. I’m exhausted, emotionally and physically, but I’m unable to rest. I watch her for a few minutes, pushing her hair out of her face to get a better look at my sleeping artist.

I can’t help but think about Anderson Hayes. Isa mentioned that her journal contains everything from her past; including every man she’s been with. It’s time to find out what kind of history my precious angel has with this POS Anderson.

I grab Isa’s journal from the nightstand and get comfortable for some before-bedtime-reading. I thumb through the thick book looking for his name. Just past the halfway point, I find his name written on a page.

5/4/09

I met someone today. He seemed very interested in me. He was nice enough, but seemed very arrogant and cocky. Why do I seem to attract those types? He kept putting his hands all over me. I can’t say I didn’t enjoy it, even if he was pushy about it. He asked me out to a club this weekend. Yuck. I hate clubs. I’m just reminded how unattractive I am when I see all those gorgeous women with perfect bodies. No more words. This is him.

The image is spot on for Mr. Hayes save for the now missing flavor-savor.





5/8/09

Just got back from the club with Anderson. What an ass. He paid attention to everyone but me. I seriously give up on men. He’s not even that cute.

5/14/09

Work was dull. I painted last night. It was another naughty image. I seem to be painting more of those lately. Being tied up. I like the idea of it. Does that make me a freak? Anderson stopped by two days in a row. He’s very persistent. Who knows where this will go.

9/22/09

I haven’t written in so long. Where to start? I got a new job at an art gallery! It only pays minimum wage, but it’s wonderful. I’ve been dating Anderson for four months now. He’s not keen on my painting so I have to do it when he’s not home. He says my paintings are smutty and I should be ashamed of myself for creating them. He made me feel like hell about it so I haven’t painted in three weeks. Screw that. I NEED to paint.

Her images were smutty? What an ignorant piece of shit.

10/10/09

Why do I put up with Anderson’s crap? He brought home another woman tonight. He flaunted her in front of me, pointing out all the ‘perfect’ things about her - her small perky breasts, her tiny round ass, and her long, straight auburn hair. She looked uncomfortable and I just stood there and took his insults like an imbecile. I wish I had enough courage to kick him in his dick. This is bad-ass Isa.

The image makes me laugh out loud. It’s Isa making a mean face and fisting her hand in the air. That douche bag had perfection right before his eyes and he had the nerve to parade another woman in front of her? Isa was right; Mr. Hayes was in need of a serious dick-kicking. I read on and his mental and verbal abuse continues for months. Why the hell did she put up with it?

The last entry with his name makes it very clear to me that this Anderson Hayes is going to get more than just an ass-kicking, but a rude awakening, if I ever see him again.

4/20/10

Anderson is gone. He said I wasn’t good enough for him and that he could do better. He’s right and I know it. I have no education, I’m unattractive and I’m pathetic and weak. He drained my bank account before he left. God, I hate him. I haven’t spoken to my father in almost three years and now I have to call him for rent money. I feel sick at the thought. He’ll make me beg for it, too, knowing papa. Good riddance you a*shole, Anderson Hayes. I hope your cheating ass gets crabs and you scratch your useless, tiny pecker off.

Well put, Isa. I too hope he had contracted crabs and scratched his cock off. He verbally and mentally abused her, stole from her, cheated on her and was the reason she had to accept money from her father. And she wanted his touch? That doesn’t make any sense. I need to clarify this.

Leaning over, I shake Isa awake. She looks confused and sits up on her elbow.

“What is it? Are you okay?” she asks concerned.

“Yes, I’m fine. I need to ask you something. I know I said we would never discuss what happened again, but I need to know what your reasoning for wanting Anderson’s touch was. Before you answer, I want you to know that I’m not angry and you won’t be punished for your honesty. Okay?”

Isa furrows her eyebrows and nods. She pauses before answering and then responds, “Because I enjoyed taunting someone who hurt me so badly. I wanted him to see that because someone as powerful and handsome as you chose me, I was good enough. It wasn’t his touch that I craved so much as it was me wanting to tease him with my unavailability and the fact that he would never have me again.”

“Jesus Christ, Isa. Why didn’t you explain that earlier?” I ask, frustrated with her.

“Why? Would it have altered your decision for your choice of punishment?”

“Hell yes, it would have.”

“Then I’m glad I didn’t tell you. I learned a lot tonight, Dylan. No matter what my reasons were, the fact is, I still selfishly allowed another man to touch me and in doing so, I hurt you. For that reason alone, my punishment was fair and just.”

Damn, I love my occasionally dominant, submissive little wife. I pull her close and hug her, squeezing the air out of her lungs.

“My precious angel, my p-ssycat, my love - you’re more than good enough for that worthless a*shole. You’re better than him. He never deserved you. None of them did. Not even me.”

“We deserve each other, my sweet lover,” she whispers back.

We drift off like that, hugging each other close, her heart beating against my chest and lulling me to sleep.

I wake early in the morning to the sound of Isa crying in her sleep again. Her cheeks are wet and her breathing is labored.

“Isa, baby girl, it’s just a dream,” I breathe into her ear.

“Don’t you touch me!” she screams and leaps up. Her eyes are wide and fearful, but she’s still sleeping.

“Isabel Young, wake up,” I say firmly.

“You killed my mother, you bastard. How could you? How could you!” she yells.

F*cking hell. I sit stock-still, not wanting to frighten her anymore than she already is.

“Isa, angel, you’re dreaming.”

“I can’t even be a mother because of you. I can’t even give my husband a child,” she cries.

Tears are flowing down her pale cheeks, leaving a wet trail in their wake. Christ Almighty. I can’t bear to see her hurting so badly.

I move quickly and surround her with my arms. She tries to fight me off, kicking, screaming and scratching at me. She’s so much stronger than I thought and then I recall what she did to Alex. Yes, my little angel is a fighter. We wrestle on the bed as she continues to verbally assault what she thinks is her father.

“Get off of me! I’ll kill you for what you did to mama! I hate you!” she hollers through clenched teeth.

“Isabel!’ I say loudly.

Her movements cease as quickly as they began and she curls into the fetal position.

“Please, papa, not the belt, please… I promise I’ll be good. I promise I won’t tell anyone what you’ve done…”

My own tears pour out of me. Damn it all to hell. I will have her father’s head on a plate if it’s the last thing I do. I swear to Christ I will see that man’s blood on my hands.

I lay my body on top of hers and coo into her ear for nearly 10 minutes before her breathing finally slows and her body relaxes.

I roll off of her and lay breathless, my body aching from her fierce struggling. Tasting my own blood, I realize that Isa’s fist caught my mouth and I go into the bathroom to inspect it. My body is covered in scratches and lacerations and my face doesn’t look any better. My lip is cut and my right eye is bloodshot. I made it out easy compared to Alex.

The sun is coming up but I decide to let Isa rest. Deciding to do a little shopping for my pet, I scribble a note to let her know where I’m going.

I locate an exclusive jewelry store that specializes in kinky fetish items. Luckily for me, they have an English speaking representative and they’re able to give me just what I want. I have the items lavishly wrapped and head to a leather shop for another gift. It’s several hours later before I make it back to the hotel.

In the lobby, I’m greeted by friendly personnel who let me know that Isa is in the hotel restaurant eating brunch. I make my way in and I’ll be f*cked if Anderson Hayes isn’t standing next to the table conversing with Isa. Counting down from ten, I attempt to rein in my temper. I stand just out of sight and eavesdrop.

“Seriously, Anderson, get lost,” Isa snaps.

“Why the hostility? Is it because of your overbearing husband?”

“Don’t you dare talk about Dylan like that. I got my ass in a sling yesterday because of you and I don’t plan on letting him down again.”

“Well aren’t you the pleasing little wife,” Anderson huffs as he moves closer.

Isa scoots her chair back in response.

“Yes, I am pleasing to him and only him.”

Well, I’ll be damned. I should probably step in at this point, but I’m so proud of Isa and I’m enjoying the show so much, I decide to watch for a few minutes longer.

“Why the hell are you here, anyway?” she grumbles.

“I already told you, I started a new job. It might interest you to know who I’m working for now.”

“I could care less…” she starts, but Anderson cuts her off.

“You should care, you little cock-tease. Look at you, all decked out in designer clothes and a rock the size of a grapefruit on your finger. You must be f*cking old moneybags real good to have earned that.”

Motherf*cker. I damn near lunge forward, but Isa beats me to the punch.

She swiftly stands and plants her hand across his cheek hard. The look on his face is f*cking priceless and I bite my lip to stop from howling with laughter. I’ve been on the receiving end of that and as much as I deplore the shit bag, I can’t help but feel just a twinge of sympathy for his stupid ass. For a moment he looks enraged, but he quickly composes himself.

“Now is that any way to treat a member of your family?”

What the f*ck?

Isa mirrors my response, “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“You heard me. Family. I work for your father, now, so in a way, that makes me part of your clan. It was mighty kind of dear old dad to call me up and offer me this job, don’t you think?” he chuckles.

Isa looks stunned and she has the same deer in headlights look that she had when the reporter accosted her outside the hospital.

“My father sent you here?” she asks softly.

“Yes. He called it training. It seems he has a bone to pick with your husband and he thought I could help in that regard. He knew about your honeymoon plans and thought I could add a little ambience to your romantic setting. Sort of like throwing a monkey wrench into the plans. You get my drift?”

I’ve heard enough. I drop the bag of gifts to the floor and march towards the table, grabbing the little prick by the collar.

“You listen to me, you worthless shit stain, you make yourself scarce and find another hotel to stay at. If I see you come near Isa again, I’ll involve the police and trust me when I say you don’t want to involve yourself with the French police. They don’t put up with this kind of shit here like they do back in the states.”

Anderson jerks away from me and smoothes his jacket collar down and laughs sardonically at me.

“Mr. Ibanez was right; you really think you can snap your fingers and everyone will fall at your feet, don’t you? He sent a message, and this goes for the both of you, forget about what happened to Isa’s mother, call off your dogs and watch your f*cking backs. Oh, and another thing: If I had known you were a kinky little slut who liked to be lead around by a collar, Isabel, I would have kept you around longer,” he whisper yells.

Isa’s face blanches and I leap forward to knock his f*cking teeth in, but he slips from my grip and stomps away before I have the chance.

My heart is racing and Isa crumples into the chair next to her, staring at her hands and knotting them together.

Picking up the bag of gifts, I move next to her and touch her hair.

“How could he know that?”

“Know what?” I ask.

“About us being kinky. How could he know that?”

“He was just making a lewd remark, Isa. He was talking out of his ass, that’s all,” I try to reassure her, but I have a creeping feeling that he knows something. I take Isa by the hand, lead her back towards the elevator and leave her for a moment to ask to speak with the hotel staff.

When we’re back in the room, Isa begins pacing the room, fidgeting with her hair, clicking her tongue ring and twirling her wedding ring around her finger. I seat myself at the table and watch her, allowing her the indulgence of letting her frustration out whatever way she finds necessary. When it all comes to a head and I think she’s going to implode, I pull her over to me and sit her down in my lap. She hides her face in my neck without saying a word.

I run my fingers through her hair and after a few minutes, her body relaxes and her breathing slows.

“Isa, my precious angel, everything is going to be fine,” I murmur in her ear.

“No, it’s not. He’ll never leave us alone. Never. How could he do such a miserable thing? Hasn’t he done enough? Now he has to ruin our honeymoon, too? What did I do to make him hate me so much?” she chokes.

“He’s angry with me right now, not you. Me, Isa. He’s angry and afraid of what’s coming out about your mother’s death. He’s terrified that he’ll have to pay the consequences for his actions.”

“You have to leave him alone, Dylan. He’ll hurt you,” she begins to sob.

“That’s exactly what he wants. He’s always gotten his way by scaring and threatening people - but not me. I’ll be damned if his empty threats will change the course of my action.”

Isa sits back and looks alarmed. Grabbing my face firmly, she pleads with me, “Don’t be stubborn, sugar. Please, don’t. He’ll kill me if he thinks it will hurt you or worse yet, he’ll kill you.”

“He can sure as hell try,” I say, but Isa’s palm sweeps across my cheek, leaving a fiery trail in its path.

“Don’t you ever tempt fate!” she yells at me.

The sheer terror in her eyes shakes me. I crush her with my arms and she momentarily tries to fight me off, but soon gives up and hugs me tightly. Lifting her into my arms, I carry her to the bed and lie her down in it. She looks up at me and touches my mildly swollen lip and eye.

“What happened?” she asks, bewildered.

“You had a bad dream.”

Her eyes tear up again. “I did that to you? I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be. It looks worse than it feels. You’re a little fighter, love,” I tell her proudly.

My attempt at kidding goes unappreciated and Isa looks cheerless.

“Rest, my precious angel. All this emotional BS takes its toll on you. You look exhausted.”

Lying down next to her, she cuddles up close to me.

“Sing to me, Master,” Isa requests with a look on her face that makes me unable to deny her.

I sing the first song that comes to mind, Adele, Set Fire to the Rain. Isa’s eyes burn the color of wildfire and her fingers move over my mouth. When I’m finished singing, she smiles sweetly.

“No man has ever sung to me before,” she says quietly just before she closes her eyes and drifts off to sleep.

I wait a good ten minutes and listen closely to her breathing. When it deepens, I slip on my dark grey tweed, double-breasted coat, pulling the collar up high, shielding my face. Next, I grab a pair of dark socks and my room key and leave with a very specific plan in mind.

I try to call Sawyer on my way to Anderson’s room, but there’s no answer. Mildly irritated with his lack of taking my call, I make my way to the stairwell, paying careful mind to avoid the security cameras as I take the stairs down to his level.

When I arrive at his door, I wrap the socks around my hands, making sure to pad my knuckles. After knocking twice, I step away from the peep hole. Being the untrained idiot that he is, Anderson answers the door without a second thought. As soon as the door cracks open, I push my way quickly into the room, catching the a*shole by surprise.

He stumbles backwards and has a look of complete fear and shock on his face. I move hastily, not allowing him time to think or react. Still trying to get his footing, I punch him in his diaphragm, knocking the wind out of him. Shoving him onto the bed, I leap on top of him, pinning his body beneath me and pummeling his smug face with a barrage of punches.

“This is for putting your hands on my wife,” I snarl at him.

He shrieks in a high-pitched womanly voice and throws the most pitiful weak punches back at me. When he starts wailing like the little bitch that he is, I climb off of him and stand over him, my heart beating wildly in my chest and my breathing ragged. He covers his face with his hands and begins to weep. What the f*ck? What kind of a grown man bawls like this after getting his ass kicked? I’ve had my ass beaten plenty of times and I never thought about crying like this pansy-ass.

“Show some dignity, you dickhole,” I bark at him.

He’s even more of a f*cktard than I thought. Christ, his incessant whining is getting on my last motherf*cking nerve.

“You stole from my wife, you cheated on her, you flaunted other women in front of her and you made her feel less than worthy of you. You’re lucky you’re still alive, you worthless pile of shit,” I say loudly.

I move towards him ready to pound his ass again but he flinches, covers his face with his arms and cries, “Please, no more!”

F*ck that. I strike him one last time in the mouth, effectively shattering his bottom lip into a bloody mess. “That’s for calling Isa a slut, you p-ssy.”

He holds his hands over his mouth, his eyes bugging out of his head, and his expensive Valentino suit ruined and covered in his own blood.

“You tell me everything Isa’s father told you and I mean everything, and when we’re done here, you’re going to write Isa a letter of apology for your shitty ass behavior and a check for the money you stole from her. Do you f*cking understand?”

***

Isabel

I wake to the sound of Dylan entering the room. My eyes are blurred and my thoughts are groggy. The sound of the restroom sink can be heard with an overabundance of splashing. While I wait for him to come back out, I remember what Anderson said about my father sending him to act as a monkey wrench in my and Dylan’s honeymoon plans. What a cruel SOB. Why the hell can’t he just leave us alone?

Holy assault and battery, Dylan’s poor face. I can’t believe I did that to him. I’ve been putting off talking to Maggie, but it’s inevitable at this point. Dylan is taking an excessively long time so I go into the bathroom to find him hanging a wet pair of black socks on the towel rack to dry. What a strange thing to be doing.

He looks over at me, surprised to see me watching him. He quickly looks away and dries his hands.

“Did you rest well?” he asks.

“Not really. What are you doing with those?”

He turns to face me but doesn’t answer right away as if mulling over how to respond.

“They were dirty, so I washed them.”

Dylan is seriously the worst friggin’ liar on the face of this planet.

“Would you care to elaborate?” I ask, putting my hands on my hips.

“No, not really, and please don’t ask,” he counters, trying to push past me.

I hold my hand out and stop him. “Dylan…”

“Isabel, please. I don’t want to lie so just trust me on this.”

I’m too emotionally exhausted to fight or argue with him right now. I do trust Dylan. He’ll tell me when he’s ready. He pulls me to the bed and sits me down in his lap as he plays with my hair. Resting my head on his shoulder I involuntarily start crying. I’m not even sure why.

“Talk to me,” he coos.

“I just want some control. I’m just so tired of all this drama,” I sniff.

“Maybe this will help you feel a little better,” he replies cryptically, getting off the bed and digging into his coat pocket.

He pulls out a piece of paper and hands it to me. What I’m looking at is a letter from Anderson. It’s a hand-written apology for all the things he did to me. Inside the folded piece of paper is a check for $1,500 with a description that reads return of funds plus interest. There’s no way in hell that Anderson did this of his own free will. No way in hell. I look up at Dylan dubiously and knit my eyebrows together at him.

“What did you do?”

Dylan’s cheeks flush, his eyebrows go up, his eyes widen and he throws his hands up in protest, but all the while, smiling proudly.

“Something that should’ve been done a long time ago.”

“Dylan Nathaniel Young...”

“What? He deserved much worse than what I gave him. Tell me something: What did you ever see in that little p-ssy?” he chuckles, standing up and moving towards the table to get his phone.

“I honestly don’t remember,” I answer.

Spying several bags of goodies, I move towards them, but Dylan swipes them and places them just out of my reach. He holds up a finger in a just one minute gesture while he talks on the phone.

“Luke, I’m glad I caught you. Isa and I will be paying one last visit to the club this evening before our departure. Can you accommodate us? Uh-huh. Great. Again, thank you. We’ll see you later.”

After hanging up, he walks towards me, pulls me into his arms. Holding my face, he asks, “What is the one thing you want right now? If you could have anything and I don’t mean material things.”

“You already know what I want – control.”

“I just wanted to hear you say it,” he smiles. “I bought you something to wear tonight to the club.”

He reaches over to one of the large bags and pulls out a short, black, button-up leather romper with short sleeves. It comes with a wide black belt and another thinner belt with arm slings to fit over the shoulder. It reminds me of a greaser girl outfit. The collar is undersized and stands up.

I quickly get undressed, wanting to try on my new duds. Dylan seats himself comfortably in the chair for the show. Getting down to my skivvies, I look to Dylan for instructions.

“Remove them,” he simply states.

Completely naked, I pull the romper on, taking note that the back side has a large square pocket buttoned opening which reminds of a child’s full body PJ outfit. I giggle at it and Dylan wiggles his eyebrows up and down suggestively.

“Easy access,” he explains.

The leather feels smooth against my bare skin and squeaks against it when I pull it snug over my bottom. I button the romper up, stuffing my oversized tits into the top. I place the wide belt on and then carefully look over the thinner belt, not quite sure how it works. Dylan motions me over and helps me secure and adjust the straps over my shoulders and then buckles the strap just underneath my breasts. He reaches for another bag and pulls out a pair of spiked heels that look killer. They’re much saucier than anything he’s ever picked for me before, being about five inches in height. I could really hurt someone with the spikes on the back of the heels if I were to put my mind to it. Anderson briefly pops into my head and I think how wonderfully these little spikes would work at deflating his fat ego. I sit on the bed and slip them on. When I stand, I’m a little wobbly on them but soon find my balance. I prance around the room trying them out and getting my footing. God damn, I feel sexy right now. I walk over to the full-length mirror and I don’t even recognize myself.

Dylan moves behind me and pulls my hair into a high pony, slicking back all the loose strands. When he’s finished, he walks me into the bathroom and pampers me even more by putting my makeup on, first with eye shadow, then mascara and eyeliner, then painting a thick layer of fire-engine red lipstick on my mouth.

When he turns me to face my image in the mirror, I’m shocked.

“What’s new p-ssycat?” he purrs in my ear playfully, knowing how much I love that song.

Dylan slowly lowers himself behind me, unbuttons the seat of my shorts exposing my ass and buries his face in me. I push my butt out, giving him full access. His fingers find their way into me while his expert tongue slips inside my ass.

“I love you, Mistress,” he mumbles out.

Gripping the edge of the counter, I watch myself in the mirror. I’m so aroused and turned on at my own image being taken by my Master, my sub and my husband, my finish comes far too quickly. My legs begin to quiver and Dylan reads my body like a book and he reaches his hand in front of me as I drench his palm. Turning around and leaning back against the counter for support, I watch with love as Dylan licks his hand clean.

“God I love the way you taste,” he growls, looking up at me.

Wobbly, I walk back to the bed and lay down, gathering my wits while Dylan dresses himself. Again, he picks out a delicious ensemble showing off his impeccable fashion sense. His package is nicely fitted into his slacks and I can’t take my eyes off of it. Dylan stands motionless as I daydream about him. When I stare up at him, he’s smiling devilishly at me.

“Do I look pleasing to you?” he asks, stroking himself through his pants.

“Yes, Sir,” I answer.

“Play with yourself while I finish getting dressed, but don’t cum,” he dictates.

I unbutton my outfit and slide my hand inside and work my still tender *. Dylan pays no mind to my activities as I continue to pleasure myself and watch his every movement. He’s so self-assured and confident the way he moves, gliding around the room casually, every step deliberate and no movement wasted frivolously. He puts on his cuff links, the platinum glinting in the light. His Ambre Topkapi cologne scent wafts past my nose, the bergamot, cinnamon and cardamom tickling my senses. I mewl thinking about his tongue inside of me only moments ago. Dylan keeps his eyes on his links, but a smile steals onto his face.

He finishes dressing, reaches down and pulls my hand out of my romper, yanking me up and off the bed. He licks my fingers clean and then puts me back together.

“I have something very special planned for you and me tonight,” he states mysteriously.

We leave for the club, the whole way, Dylan lavishing me with kisses and praises. What did I do to deserve this kind man? Nothing; I did absolutely nothing, yet here I am, in Paris, being loved on by one of the most handsome and powerful men in the world. Why me? With all of my flaws and issues, and with my father who is making our lives a living hell – why me? Dylan deserves someone better, someone who can give him a family and an heir to his fortune, someone who doesn’t…

“Isabel Young, you stop that right now,” Dylan states firmly, grabbing my face and shaking it.

“Oh, Sir…” I sniff.

“I mean it, p-ssycat, stop. I don’t want anyone else. I know everything that’s happened is hard to move past, I know. But dwelling on it isn’t going to change the facts. You are who you are because of your past and that includes what your father did to you. I wouldn’t have you any other way. I love you for who you are right now, right at this moment. I know you feel like you don’t have any control over things, Isa, but no one can have control all of the time. Not even me,” he breathes into my ear and hugging me tightly just as we arrive at the club.

Inside the club, Luke greets me and he has an air about him that’s unusual. I can’t place my finger on it, but he treats me with more respect than before and even addresses me differently, as if I’m an equal. He leads me and Dylan over to the suspension rig where I received my whipping and Dylan proceeds to undress himself.

Luke gathers his preferred tool and adjusts the rig while I stand frozen, not sure what’s going on. I approach Dylan and kneel at his feet, feeling confused and out of place. He smiles sweetly at me, his eyes warm and full of love. He reaches his hand down and pulls me up.

“There will be no kneeling in front of me tonight, Mistress Isabel. You told me you wanted control, so tonight I’ll give you control. Complete control. It might not be enough, but hopefully it will be enough for now. All I can ask is that you take it for what it’s worth, embrace the feeling however fleeting it may be, and be gentle with my ego in front of this crowd.”

Dylan’s words stun me. He’s allowing me to scene with him and be in control? He’s never allowed anything like this before. I only take control in the privacy of our own dungeon. Knowing that he takes his role as a Dom very seriously, I’ve never had the courage to even ask for such a thing. He strips down to his snug briefs and backs up to the suspension rig where Luke takes over and locks his wrists and ankles into place. A small crowd is gathering, but Dylan’s look remains stoic as he keeps his eyes on me. I can only imagine what he’s thinking right now.

It all makes sense now, the way Dylan dressed me and how Luke is treating me differently right now is because I’m not a submissive in their eyes; I’m a Domme. Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath in to steady my nerves and drown out the sounds of the people gathering around.

“Little dove, it’s time to show us what you’re made of,” Luke whispers.

I open my eyes and let the feeling of power wash over me as he guides me around behind Dylan. My God he looks glorious suspended like this. I run my fingertips down his spine and he arches his back to my touch, his breathing quickening.

Luke hands me the bullwhip and I look over at him questioningly. I don’t have any idea how to wield this massive thing and I don’t want to hurt my sweet lover. My apprehension soon melts when Luke takes my hand and guides my movements.

“Just let your body relax and flow with me,” he states.

We walk around so that we’re facing Dylan. Luke is directly behind me, his hand over mine as he twirls the whip on the floor. He moves close behind me, pulling me to him by my waist as he guides my hand and the whip.

“You are an extension of me, little dove, and the whip is an extension of us. Learn my movements. Feel the blood coursing through my veins and my heart beating in my chest. Match your breathing with mine and above all else, focus.”

I do as I’m told and we move in unison, testing out the whip, snapping it in mid-air, the crackling sound almost deafening. I look into Dylan’s eyes and he looks at peace, the corners of his mouth upturned in a sexy smirk as he watches me, his eyes burning like flaming blue torches. How can he trust me so much? How can he allow this?

“Focus, little dove. Your body isn’t relaxed,” Luke says sternly in my ear. Again, I tightly close my eyes and listen to Luke’s breathing, matching mine to his. I concentrate on the feeling of his heart beating against my shoulder blade and try to slow my rapidly beating heart in rhythm with his.

“That’s it, you’ve got it. Now it’s time to bring this crowd to their knees and to show them that you’re not only a perfect submissive, but a bravura Dominatrix. Are you ready?”

“Yes, Master Luke,” I answer out of habit. When I speak the words, I immediately feel Luke’s erection press into my lower back.

“Forgive me, it’s a natural response to a natural submissive’s response,” he softly apologizes. “Please call me only Luke otherwise I will be the one having difficulty focusing.”

Suppressing my embarrassment I answer, “Yes, Luke.”

“Let us begin,” he says. Dylan closes his eyes, readying himself for the initial stroke and without hesitation, Luke brings the whip up and lays it across my beautiful husband’s chest. Not wanting to hurt Dylan, I let my arms go completely lax so that it’s Luke’s movements that cast the first strike. Dylan winces but remains surprisingly still. When he opens his eyes, I see pure affection reflected in them. I know what he’s feeling – fearful yet aroused and astonished that the first strike wasn’t as painful as he had anticipated. I envy his position right now and wish I were on the receiving end of the intimidating leather implement.

“What are you thinking about, little dove?” Luke asks as if penetrating my thoughts.

How is it that all Doms can do that? “The bullwhip calls to me and I wish I were the one being whipped right now. I yearn for the feeling of the leather against my skin again and to submit to it,” I confess.

“Why do you say such things to me? Have you no idea what they do to me?” he asks, grinding his rigidness into my bottom.

I take a deep breath and blow it out, and focus on Dylan and not the lusty sound of Luke’s voice lingering in my ear and the feeling of his unwelcome cock pressed into me.

“Focus, Luke. Again,” I state sternly, letting Mistress Isabel take over and putting Luke back in his place.

“Yes, Mistress,” he replies, backing off.

Enough of this. I am powerful. Right here, at this moment, I am the one in control. Even though Luke is guiding me, I am the one holding the whip. One wrong movement from me and Luke’s strong hands can’t stop me. We step back and lay the whip across Dylan’s chest again with solid unyielding strokes, the sound of the leather reverberating in the small staged area. Dylan’s stiff member can be seen through his briefs giving away his arousal and excitement, in turn making my p-ssy pulse with need. My heart begins to beat rapidly out of sync with Luke’s.

Doing as Dylan instructed, I allow myself to embrace the control that he has granted me and I submerge myself in the scene. Everything and everyone except Dylan and I fades away, including Luke. It’s my turn to take over as I move behind Dylan, guiding Luke. With Luke’s hand still firmly over mine, I bring the whip up and lightly flick Dylan’s back, his wrists wrenching against the restraints. The sound of the metal clinking, the chains overhead jangling and his rapid breathing are spellbinding and I feel my own wetness run down my inner thigh. Too mesmerized by the beautiful tiger stripes I’ve lashed onto his back and shoulders, I lose count of the number of whips we’ve laid across Dylan’s body. I move around to the front again so I can see the brilliant man before me and his eyes widen as I bring the bullwhip up again, careful to aim the leather away from his knife wound, and flit the cowhide across his heart, marking my territory. He looks so compliant and vulnerable, so trusting of me, it takes every bit of strength I have not to ravish him. He moans out and throws his head back, his muscles tensing and contracting. It’s then that I realize Luke is standing several feet behind me. I was the one in control of my movements for the last several lashings. It was all me. I really was in control.

Dylan’s cock is rock hard and I drop the whip to the floor, the loud thud echoing through the room and fall to my knees, tearing at his briefs and shredding them and throwing them to the side. I go down on him, opening my throat and pulling him all the way into my mouth by his hips. I pull away from him and jerk him off and wrap my mouth around him again, but when I feel his shaft pulsate in my mouth, I stop just shy of letting him climax. I stand and bite into the tender and salty flesh above his heart, drawing blood. A slow crimson river runs down his chest and pools in his navel. I slither my tongue slowly down the trail of blood and dip my tongue in his belly button, lapping up my sweet lover’s DNA and relishing in the forbidden taste.

Circling my tongue around in his navel making sure to get every last drop of his sanguine tapas, I look up at him. His eyes are smoldering as he watches me with the most heated look to ever grace his gorgeous face. His mouth is parted and he’s panting wildly, his tongue poking out to slick his upper lip. I want that tongue. I quickly rise to my feet and grab his face, trying to snatch his tongue before it disappears back into his mouth.

“Give it to me.”

I breathe my demand into his mouth and he instinctively pushes his tongue past my lips and caresses the roof of my mouth. I suck at it maniacally and he thrusts his hips forward.

I lower myself again and take him into my mouth, giving him the release that he has earned. A few short moments later, Dylan grunts loudly and the thick, warm saltiness of his essence runs down the back of my throat.

I wrap my arms around Dylan’s neck and latch onto him, not wanting to let go of this wonderful, compassionate and bighearted man who is my husband.

“I love you and no one else matters in this world but you,” I repeat over and over while Luke unshackles him. As soon as his hands are freed he lifts me into his arms, despite his weakness and exhaustion, and he holds me tightly.

“Thank you for surrendering to me, Master,” I coo into his ear. Luke reaches down and loosens his ankles and we stumble to the resting area where we wrap our limbs around each other. Luke places a blanket over the both of us, shielding our eyes from the light and we kiss under the darkness of the soft cover, our hearts beating in harmony.