The Art of Control

Chapter 14

Dylan

Isa is a damned mess right now. I do my best to clean her and myself up and try to make conversation, but she remains silent. At least the tears have stopped. Christ, I can’t handle seeing her cry. It f*cking kills me.

Back in the social area, Luke voices his concern for Isa, wondering if we worked her over too much and that being the reason she’s ill. I reassure him that’s not the case, but I’m not sure he believes me. Isa politely chimes in, declaring the same.

We say our final goodbyes and make our way back to the hotel. When we reach the lobby, both Isa and I are accosted by French police who want to question me about Anderson’s assault. They separate us to question us in private rooms provided by the hotel. At least they’re civil enough not to haul our asses to the police station.

The man querying me has a very thick accent, but I’m able to make out his questions. He looks over my hands, front and back, noting that there are no scratches or cuts on my knuckles. I feign ignorance and turn the tables by accusing Anderson of stalking Isa, which isn’t a complete lie. The officer, too, finds it odd that an ex-boyfriend would be here in Paris during our honeymoon. I point out a few staff members who were present during our near altercation in the restaurant and he seems satisfied.

When Isa is brought back to me, she looks pale and queasy. She’s a miserable f*cking liar and I can only hope she didn’t sign my arrest warrant.

We wait another half hour, Isa in my arms as we sit quietly in the lobby, waiting for the police to finish questioning staff. To my utter joy, they approach us and apologize, stating that they will be questioning Anderson as to why he’s in Paris, at the same hotel, during our honeymoon. Good. Take that, you piece of shit, Anderson Hayes.

We silently ride the elevator up to our room, Isa never making eye contact. I grab her hand and gently squeeze it and she reciprocates by gripping my hand excruciatingly tight.

Once in the room, she moves to the window and gazes out at the night lights.

“What did you tell them?” I ask, standing directly behind her and looking at her lifeless reflection in the glass.

“Nothing,” she replies blandly.

“What do you mean nothing?”

“I mean - nothing. There was nothing to tell. I was sleeping, remember. I don’t know where you went or what you did; you didn’t tell me. For all I know, you stayed right here in this room. For all I know, Anderson brought that note of his own free will.”

I know how strongly Isa feels about lying and for her to lie to the police like that...

“I love you, p-ssycat,” I breathe into her ear.

“I know you do, Master, and I would do anything to protect you from my father. Anything.” Her voice is shaky but her words are uncompromising and for an ephemeral moment, the staunch look in her burning eyes frightens me. My concentration is broken by my sweltering chest and back and I can only imagine Isa is feeling the same way after our intense scenes tonight. I guide us both into the bathroom where we take a cool shower, letting the water ease our wounds. No words are spoken as we both let the shower water cascade over our skin.

Dried off and back in bed, Isa calls room service for our sorely needed sustenance while I get the Pān-X cream ready. I lubricate her back and thighs liberally with the cream and she does the same for my chest and shoulder blades. We eat our food in silence, my mind racing with all the possible ways I can torture her father and make his death painful. I’m avoiding thinking about my reputation and all the things that are being posted about me, but of course, my curiosity gets the best of me and while Isa sips on her champagne, I Google my name on my phone. F*cking hell. Why did I do that?

Still images taken from various videos of me and Isa are posted on just about every f*cking online website. There’s even a photo of her collared and kneeling at my feet with a leash in my hand. Christ. Now I know what Anderson was referring to. I set my Google alerts to notify me of anything new posted about us and set my phone down. Looking over at Isa, she’s watching me keenly.

“Is it bad?” she asks.

She does know me well. I nod yes, not wanting to voice just how bad it really is. She blinks long and hard, stands and moves towards the balcony.

“Where are you going?” I ask panicked and sitting up on the edge of the bed.

“To get some air,” she answers sullenly.

“I’ll come with you.” I’ll be damned if she’s going out there alone.

Isa turns to look at me with irritation flashing on her face. “I’m just getting some air,” she huffs defensively.

“And I’m just coming with you.”

She rolls her eyes at me and I pull her to face me. “Is that how it is? You can disrespect me with your eye roll but I get flogged for doing it to you?”

She suddenly looks contrite as if she’d forgotten about the last time she punished me for rolling my eyes at her.

“Sorry, Master. It won’t happen again.”

We make our way out onto the terrace perched high above Paris. The view is stunning, the air crisp and the breeze light. Isa leans against the railing, looking over the edge precariously and then stepping back and closing her eyes tightly. She backs up until she meets my chest and I hug her close.

“I really do hate heights,” she says softly. “I’m so sorry that I’m an embarrassment to you,” she sniffs.

What the f*ck? I spin her around and grip her shoulders firmly. “You are not an embarrassment. The situation of our private sex life and fetishes being on display is what’s embarrassing, Isa. And to be completely honest, I’m not even embarrassed about the world knowing what it is I’m really about, it’s just the fact that the videos are so explicit. I don’t need the world seeing how beautiful you look being f*cked or how passionate you are when I make you orgasm. It’s no one’s business but ours and the people we choose to see it at the club. Do you understand the difference?”

She shrugs and stares at the ground.

“Tell me you know the difference, Isabel,” I demand.

“This is all my fault,” she whimpers.

“How the hell is this your fault? Why do you always feel the need to take the blame for things you have no control over? The blame for this situation falls on your father’s and Cassie’s shoulders alone.”

“Well if that isn’t the pot calling the kettle black,” she says looking up at me flabbergasted.

“What do you mean?” I ask, baffled by her statement.

“You continue to take the blame for what happened to your parents when you had no control over it,” she exclaims.

“That’s different. I was the reason it happened,” I grouse.

“No, it’s not different. You may have started the ball rolling, but you had no control over what happened after that. There’s nothing, Dylan, nothing you could’ve done to stop it, either.”

How the f*ck did this end up about me?

“This isn’t about me…”

“Of course not, it never is. It’s always me, me, me and my problems and issues. I’m tired of it. I’m tired of feeling helpless and out of control. I’m sick of this bullshit!” she yells. “You have enough money; can’t you buy us a condo on the moon or something? No one can bother us there and you can attend all your work meetings via satellite and I can paint the stars to my heart’s content.”

The look on her face is serious and she’s waiting for my response as if I could really pull it off.

“If I could, I would, and I promise that if the possibility ever becomes real, I’ll do it.”

She smiles, her eyes tearing up as she hugs my neck, tiptoeing and leaning into me.

“I believe you would.”

We go to bed early, holding each other and making conversation about anything and everything except the white elephant in the room. Isa falls asleep before I do, and I reach for her journal. Needing an ego boost, I flip towards the back to read about myself.

8/10/12

Another birthday come and gone. I’m a quarter of a century old. How depressing. I haven’t accomplished jack, I have no relationship to speak of, and I work a menial job under a boss who won’t keep his hands off of me. I’m so stupid for letting him have his way with me. NEVER AGAIN. My birthday gift? He came over and practically demanded to “borrow” my paintings. I suppose it will be the only time my art is hung on a gallery wall so I shouldn’t complain too much. I wish I were going to the gallery show.

8/15/12

Just got back from the gallery. My paintings are gone! I guess Mr. G decided not to use them after all. What a spectacle the show was. Gorgeous women and men everywhere. What a dream. One dreamy specimen in particular was in attendance. The Dylan Young. Sweet baby Jesus to get my mouth around that package.

I inwardly laugh. So I guess she found me attractive. Nice work, Young.

8/16/12

My paintings were sold. I can’t freakin’ believe it. I hate Mr. G!! Dylan Young paid $20K for them! That man must be insane. Apparently he has more looks than brains and too much money for his own good. I thought he knew his art work. I’m getting them back, damn it. They belong to me. That a*shole had no right selling them.

Ouch. My inflated ego retreats. The image sketched is of angry Isa with fist in the air again. This seems to be a theme.

8/17/12

I met HIM today. I went to his office to demand my paintings back but I couldn’t get a meeting. God, he’s so much more beautiful in person than he is in pictures. He came to work but thankfully he didn’t recognize me. I want him. Damn me for going to his office! I’ll definitely have good dreams tonight.

She looked up pictures of me? Nice. My ego is puffing up again.

8/18/12

Mr. Young inspired a very naughty image last night. Not much else to say. I’m never getting my paintings back. He called me and made me feel worthless. He’s just another arrogant a-hole who has to point out the obvious about me. I should’ve bought him a dildo with his own money and told him to go f*ck himself with it instead of just buying groceries.

Is that how I made her feel? Jesus. I reach over to her and touch her cheek, feeling like hell for having spoken to her the way I did, but I can’t help to chuckle at her comment. I wonder how I would’ve reacted had she done that. I probably would’ve flipped out and spanked her or threatened to do so. Oh, wait - I did that and everything that came after was what set our whole future into motion. It’s strange to think how much I’ve changed in such a short period of time. I wonder which naughty image I inspired.

I wake in the early morning, angry with myself for having fallen asleep and not reading more. It was just starting to get good, too. Isa is already in the shower and all of our bags are neatly packed and waiting by the door. My good little sub always pleases me in the most subtle of things she does.

I sneak into the shower and pull her to me hoping for some morning nookie, but she seems put off. I suppose I can’t completely blame her with everything that’s happened. Her back is still raw so I gently wash it for her. My body, too, still aches painfully. The shower loosens my muscles and I feel a bit more limber afterwards. Our usual routine of caring for our battle scars ensues post shower and we dress unceremoniously.

When we reach the lobby, Isa’s painting is wrapped neatly and waiting for us. We go through the usual foreign protocol and luggage searches at the airport and meet up with Carson who looks a combination of exhausted and sex-drunk.

“I take it you had a winning time this last week?” I laugh.

“That’s an understatement. Damn, Mr. Young. Thank you for hiring me. Seriously, thank you.”

We board the plane after an hour of waiting in the terminal and finally depart for our long journey back home. Once in the air, I make my way into the cockpit and talk to Carson about everything that’s transpired on our short vacation, preparing him for the shit storm that will be waiting for us when we get back home. He looks irate and disgusted, mirroring my feelings.

Isa sleeps most of the long flight and I check my Google alerts activity. My stomach churns at the crap being spewed about us. They don’t even know us. Though, there are many forum posts defending our lifestyle which makes me feel only mildly better. There are even professionals backing us up, including psychologists, feminists, and a few celebrities saying that what we’re doing isn’t wrong in the least. Of course, there are the jackasses who insist we’re both sick and need help. In my personal opinion, it’s those people who deny their sexuality that need the help, not people like me and Isa. We’re living out our fantasies with each other, we’re not hurting anyone and it’s completely consensual. Why can’t the world understand that? F*ck anyone who has the nerve to judge the way we decide to love each other.

I wake several hours later to the sound of Carson’s voice stating we’ll be landing soon and that Denver got a bit of bad weather overnight. Isa is looking out the window nervously and smiles over at me when she sees I’ve awakened. I look past her to see a white dusting of snow on the runway and lean over and kiss Isa’s cheek.

We start our descent gazing at each other. She closes her eyes tightly as the wheels of the jet touch the ground. Knowing she hates this part, I reach over and squeeze her hand. She opens her eyes and watches my mouth languorously and I mouth I love you.

Suddenly the jet starts to skitter and slide sideways. Isa looks frantic and sits upright, looking out the window. There’s ice on the runway and it’s not unusual for this to happen.

“It’s okay, Isa. We’ve hit just a little ice on the tarmac. Calm your tits…” I start to say, but I feel the jet sliding more and when I look out the window again, we’re veering dangerously close to the edge of the runway. When I hear a loud pop and crack, I know that something is seriously wrong. Carson can be heard calling over the headphones to air traffic control. His voice remains calm and steady, but my nerves are on edge.

His voice comes over the loud speaker and my heart drops and I damn near have a coronary.

“Young, I think we lost a tire. It’s definitely not ice. I have everything under control.”

His voice is controlled but I can see his movements in the cockpit and his tone doesn’t match his actions. Isa squeezes my hand tighter, sits back, closes her eyes and starts praying out loud.

Holy f*ck. It’s when I smell smoke that I feel real panic and fear set in.

“Carson! What the hell is going on?” I yell up to him.

He doesn’t answer and just keeps a steady hand on the steerage.

“I’ve got it under control. I’m going to open the door, Young. As soon as we stop, you and Isa get the f*ck out!” he yells back.

Isa’s eyes pop open and she starts to hyperventilate.

“Dylan, I love you. If we don’t…”

“Stop!” I yell at her, cutting her off. “Everything is fine, love. I just want you to move fast, okay?”

She nods frantically, her eyes welling up and glossing over. Her face goes from pale to green and I’m sure I look as scared shitless as she does. There’s a crackling sound and the cabin starts to fill with smoke. Suddenly the door flies open and off its hinges and the smoke is sucked out and the cabin fills with cold air. The sound of the jet engines is deafening. We start to slide sideways and when I look at Isa, her hair is a mess and blowing all around her face, and everything in the cabin is being thrown around. She puts her head between her knees and I follow her lead.

The tires screech and squeal loudly and we jerk forward as the plane comes to a grinding halt. I don’t wait for further instructions. I unbuckle myself and Isa double time, reach over and pull her towards the door.

“Get your ass out, Carson!” I scream to him.

The jet engines are starting to wind down but the cabin fills up again with black smoke. We all start to choke and cough, and I pull the latch for the emergency exit slide. It hisses noisily and fills within seconds and I push Isa out and follow behind her. Only seconds later, Carson comes barreling down, too.

The wind is frigid and none of us are wearing coats. The snow and north wind are blowing fiercely and I tug Isa as we all three run down the tarmac towards the emergency vehicle headed towards us. We make it about 100 yards when a loud boom and hiss can be heard in the distance. When I look back, Mustang Sally is completely engulfed in flames. The heat that follows whooshes past us and knocks us all to our knees.

Jesus Christ.

***

Isabel

Dylan jerks me up and pushes me into the emergency vehicle. My head aches. I think I hit it on something, but it all happened so fast, I can’t be sure. I’m shaking from the cold and from the adrenaline rush. Dylan looks me over quickly and then kisses my forehead, and I notice blood running down his forehead. He must’ve gotten hit, too. He and Carson start talking loudly at each other and start trying to figure out what’s just happened. Dylan quiets down momentarily and his language becomes garbled and he looks dazed.

As we speed away from Mustang Sally, I watch her burn down in flames. I never much liked her, but still, she got us here safely before she died. I close my eyes, lean my head back, and listen to the sound of my pounding heart.

I can’t take this anymore. I just need some peace. Wanting to fly away and not think about Sally or my father anymore, I lean my head back and close my eyes. I look down from above as my body floats up, up and away. Dylan’s mouth is moving, but no sound can be heard. I float further up into the bright sunlight. Snow is whipping around me and my mother is just in sight.

You’re okay, angel. Everything is okay now. I told you I would see you again.

She’s beckoning me to come closer to her. I see Dylan sitting next to me in the vehicle, far, far below. He squeezes my hand, but I don’t feel it. I just want all this drama to end. I just want to soar away with my mother forever. Dylan will be fine without me. He’ll be fine…

I hear my name… soft and whispered. It’s Dylan’s voice, but I just keep drifting further away. I love you, Dylan… you’ll be fine without me…

“Isa!”

I’m shaken hard and reality hits me like a jolt of electricity, hot and searing through my head. My ears are ringing and I can’t focus.

“Isa! Wake up!”

It’s Dylan’s voice, but it sounds different. Something warm runs down my neck and trickles down my spine.

Holy interruption. Just leave me be. Can’t you see I’m trying to sleep? I say the words, but my mouth doesn’t move. I just want to see my mother again. Where did she go? Mama?

Seeing the frightened look on Dylan’s face hits me like a ton of bricks and I rouse completely. Just as I sit up, Dylan’s eyes gloss over. He tries to say something, but only more nonsensical words come flowing out. Suddenly, his eyes roll back in his head, he throws his head back and his body convulses violently. Oh, God, he’s having a seizure. I look to Carson for help but he looks confused and scared. I scream at Dylan that everything is alright and that I love him. God, I can’t lose him. I can’t!

I hold onto Dylan tightly, trying to keep his head from jerking and protecting his neck. I wad his tie into his mouth, hoping he won’t bite his tongue, but his teeth catch the tip of my index finger and he damn near takes it off. I pull my hand back, ignoring the pain in my head and digit.

The vehicle finally stops and there’s an ambulance waiting. They quickly whisk my Master away, poking and prodding him. I try to latch onto him but I’m cruelly dragged away as medical personnel invade my personal space. Before I know it, I’m in a neck brace and Dylan is gone.

My vision gets blurry and unwelcome sleep finds me. To my relief, I don’t dream and when I awaken, Sonya is sitting next to me, holding my hand. I attempt to sit up but she quickly pushes me back down gently.

“No, dear. You need to stay lying down. You have a concussion.”

“Where’s Dylan?” I sob.

“He’s resting, too,” she answers but she doesn’t look me in the eyes.

“Where? I want to see him,” I insist.

“Isabel, you can’t. Not just this moment,” she insists.

F*ck that. “I want my Master,” I order.

Sonya looks confused by my terminology.

“Dylan. I want Dylan. My Master,” I clarify so she knows it’s not the concussion talking and that I am, in fact, in full control of my faculties.

Just then, a doctor arrives and starts cranking all sorts of medical jargon that goes in one ear and out the other. All I want to know is if Dylan is okay and can I see him. I’m seriously about to get all Domme up in here if this dingleberry in a white coat doesn’t start listening to me.

“Take me to see my husband now or there’s going to be an ass-whooping of epic proportions and I swear to everything unholy you’ll be the one wearing a neck brace when I’m done,” I state forcefully.

His eyes bulge and he steps away from me and Sonya looks thoroughly taken aback at my behavior but I don’t give two shits.

“There’s no need for violence, Mrs. Young. I’ll get someone to help you.”

“Thank you,” I counter politely. He blinks rapidly and shakes his head at me.

When I enter Dylan’s room, he’s surrounded by two nurses whispering over him, wires, and tubes jutting out of his arms and hands and machines on both sides of the bed. What the Christ?

My nurse helps me over to his side and the other two RN’s look me over critically. No doubt they’ve seen the videos. To my surprise, one of them courteously smiles at me and rubs my back while speaking kind words to me. The other, however, puckers her mouth at me and scans me head to toe. I don’t have time for her judgmental bullshit.

I push past her and stand next to Dylan. Sawyer and the doctor who was talking to me come into the room. When Sawyer sees me, his eyes warm and he comes to my side and hugs me.

“Isabel, it’s good to see you’re okay. What the hell happened?”

“I don’t know, the jet went wonky. We thought we hit ice, but there was so much smoke and fire,” I answer, hugging him back and hiding my face in his chest. I stay hidden for several minutes, not wanting to face the horrible reality of what’s happening when I feel warm hands from behind me as I become sandwiched between Sawyer’s and Sonya’s bodies. It’s calming and I suddenly start crying, wondering if this is how it feels to be loved by two kind and concerned parents. We stay like that for what seems like forever, neither of them letting go of me and their mingled clean and musky scents soothing me entirely.

Dr. Dingleberry finally chimes in and informs me of the horrible news that Dylan’s has suffered a brain injury and he’s in a coma. I don’t hear the rest as my ears start ringing loudly, spots invade my vision and I become light-headed. Dear Lord, I’m losing him. I’m losing my husband.