The Art of Control

Chapter 4

Dylan

Isa won’t look at me and my heart aches for her. I wish she would’ve told me this before we left. She needs to talk to her counselor. Hell, she should’ve talked to her ages ago, but she’s so damned stubborn. I suppose I don’t have any room to talk. Isa has been prodding me to talk to Maggie about what happened to my parents, but there’s no way that’s happening. Not in this lifetime. Confessing everything to Isa was more than I can handle; there’s no way in hell I’m telling a stranger.

She finally looks into my eyes and she looks heartbroken. I hate her father with every ounce of my being for what he’s done to her. I truly hate that sick f*cker and I want him dead.

“Oh, Dylan. Please don’t do that,” Isa whispers.

“What?” I ask, pushing her hair out of her eyes.

“I know that look. You’re thinking of the different ways to make my father pay for what he’s done to me, aren’t you?”

“You do know your husband well.”

She finally musters a smile to my comment. She rises on her knees before me and gingerly sits back on her haunches. She looks perfectly submissive as she watches me in her kneeling position. She still thinks I’m angry with her for not telling me, but I’m far from angry.

“I’m not angry with you,” I reassure her, knowing what she’s thinking.

“You’re not happy with me, either. Are you?”

I can’t lie to her. “No, I’m not. I’m hurt and disappointed that you didn’t tell me this sooner.”

Isabel pouts her mouth and looks down at her knotted hands. “I’d rather you were angry instead. I can’t bear the thought of disappointing you, sugar,” she says softly.

My precious girl. That’s truly what she is; a girl in a woman’s body. She’s never really grown up; her damned father never allowed it. Perhaps that’s why she seeks discipline. The thought upsets me. I need to know her reasons for wanting discipline. She’s told me before, but I want to be reassured that her abusive past isn’t the reason for her need for this lifestyle. I need to be at peace that the things I’m doing to her aren’t making matters worse.

“I’m going to ask you something and I want you to answer me truthfully, Isa.”

“Of course, Sir,” she says. She pushes her shoulders back and sits up straighter, ready for my question.

“What is it about the BDSM lifestyle that appeals to you?”

Isa looks shaken by my question. “Why are you asking me this again?” she asks, unblinking and wide-eyed.

“Just answer me. Is it strictly because of the kinky sex? Or is it because you need the discipline? With what your father has done to you, how can you crave the pain the way you do?”

Isa immediately moves away from me and sits on the edge of the bed, staring forward and silent. Shit. I reach out to her and she pulls away from me.

“Don’t pull away from me, Isabel,” I state, grabbing onto her arm and sitting next to her on the bed.

She continues to sit motionless and quiet. “Damn it, talk to me. What are you feeling right now? ” I demand.

“I feel like I’m being interrogated and accused of something disgusting,” she says softly.

“I didn’t mean to make you feel like that,” I tell her, feeling like hell at her emotional withdrawal. “I really didn’t mean it to sound like that.” I seriously need to learn to control my tone.

Isa stands, grabs a robe and slips it on. She moves to the window and looks out at the view of Paris and touches the glass. “I’m done talking about this. I’m sorry I told you…” she whispers but doesn’t finish her sentence.

“Don’t be sorry. The fact is you should’ve told me sooner, but what’s done is done. I just want you to answer my question,” I say, trying to curb my attitude and not sound intimidating. I move up behind her and turn her to face me but she won’t look at me.

“Come back to me. I didn’t mean to accuse you of anything. It was just a question.”

I tug at her hair, forcing her to look into my eyes.

“It’s a hard question to answer and you can’t expect me to respond so quickly without having time to think about how to reply to it.”

“Fair enough. Now tell me what I can do to make you happy right now, Mistress.”

She looks into my eyes and finally graces me with her smile.

Without a hitch, my Mistress responds. “First, you can shove that magical tongue of yours in my mouth. Then you can shove it in my p-ssy.”

“That’s a delightful idea,” I say, charmed by her unabashed dirty talk.

I tip her head back and give my angel what she wants. I push my tongue past her lips and delve into the depths of her warm mouth. My tongue finds hers and we twist them together. She gently nips at my bottom lip when I pull back and she sucks at my tongue like it’s my cock, and all the blood rushes to my hardening dick. I open her robe and lower myself to my knees and do as my Mistress has instructed, thrusting my tongue into her slit, making her moan out.

Isa’s nails graze my scalp and she breathes out her answer to my question.

“You want to know what it is about this lifestyle that appeals to me? It’s this: My sexuality. It’s the only thing I feel like I have complete control of. You’ve given that to me, Dylan. Since the moment we’ve been together, I feel like my sexual identity is my own. I have the power to say when and how much. Yes, I do need the discipline; there’s no denying it, but not for the reasons that you think. I need it because I need order in my life and for things to make sense and have logic. I need a feeling of purpose. And yes, I need and crave the pain too, but not for the reasons that you think,” she continues.

I pause and look up at her, waiting for the rest of her answer.

“Did I tell you to stop?” she says firmly, tugging at my hair, so I continue licking her slick silken folds and nibble her swollen *. I close my eyes and listen to her seductively enchanting voice tell me what I need to hear.

“I like the pain because it makes me feel alive. But more importantly, I surrender to the pain because it pleases my Master and I know he enjoys giving it to me and that he needs to give it to me in order for him to feel content. That, Dylan, is what appeals to me about BDSM. Pleasing you, my Master, owner and husband, and cherishing you for the Dominant that you are, and feeling a sense of pride in the pleasure and joy that I give to you when I’m obedient and things are perfect and just the way you want them to be. BDSM gives me that sense of purpose and that purpose is to submit to you completely and to accept your gift of submission to me.”

My heart swells and I feel like imploding with desire. Isa is without a doubt a submissive at heart. No one’s words have ever been spoken so sincerely to me or affected me so deeply. Looking up into her eyes, she’s watching me intensely. I stand and pull her to me.

“Please don’t question my intentions, sugar. I promise you that my reasons for wanting and needing this are noble and pure of heart.”

“Then please don’t keep things from me, Isabel. Because you’ve given me the gift of your submission, I am accountable for your well-being at all times. I love you and I want to take care of you. I need to take care of you. It gives me a sense of purpose, too, and the only way I can do that is for you to be honest with me regarding your needs. Thank you for your answer. It’s proven to me that you’re truly the one for me. The only one for me.”

Isa reaches between my legs and grips me.

“I want to pleasure you. May I?” she asks obediently.

“Not yet. I want to take you somewhere tonight.” I hope that what I have planned will be everything I’ve fantasized it would be.

Isa and I finally unpack and I pick something out for her to wear. A short skirt should do nicely for this evening. Something with easy access. She’s sorting through different tourist brochures while I pick out my clothes as well. After taking a quick shower, I instruct her to get dressed and make sure to wear one of her corsets underneath her fitted shirt. When I’m done washing up, I find Isa standing in front of the bathroom mirror with her skirt lifted, her panties pulled down, inspecting her welted ass. It looks magnificent under the bright lights.

“Nice work, Young,” she praises me. “You have quite a talent for spanking.”

Yes, I do. Feeling proud of myself, I grin like an idiot. Isa turns to face me, grinning widely at me in the same idiotic way. The two of us are quite a pair.

Isa struggles to put her corset on, her large tits oozing out the top as she tries to stuff them into the satin fabric and tie it at the same time. I stand back and watch her fight with her large bosom before finally giving in to assist her by pulling it tightly. I place my foot on her ass and pull back hard on the strings, making her catch her breath. She looks f*cking amazing in these things and it’s become a ritual I’ve grown to love.

I get dressed hurriedly, barely able to contain my excitement for what I have planned.

We get a cab and Isa gives the driver the directions that I’ve written down. Watching her mouth speak a foreign language is mesmerizing. The way her mouth forms the words and the sight of her tongue caressing each syllable is hypnotic. I was never fond of the French language, but the way Isa wields each consonant makes me want to f*ck her mouth until she speaks fluent gibberish.

We drive for several minutes in silence. The streets get darker and dirtier as we head into the lower levels of Paris. The atmosphere changes the farther we drive and before long, we see prostitutes on the corners of the streets. The avenue we’re on is soon lined with sex shops, strip clubs and bars. Isa looks at me questioningly and I kiss the top of her hand, not answering her unspoken question.

The cab pulls up to the night club that is our destination and we step out into the cool Paris night. Isa tucks herself into the crook of my arm and holds on to me by my waist. I pay the driver and when I look at Isa, she’s watching me keenly, but not asking any questions. As I lead her inside, my hard-on starts to build.

“Come inside, love,” I say, guiding her by the hand. “See what I did there? Come inside?”

Isa simply smiles and rolls her stunning amber eyes at me.

***

Isabel

The club is seedy and dark, as is the neighborhood. The music is loud and thumping and there are bodies intertwined and moving seductively on the dance floor. The lighting is dim and the smell and mist of cigarette smoke fills the air. Walking deeper into the crowded bar, the odor of sex, sweat and booze overwhelms me. I scan the room quickly while holding onto Dylan for dear life.

Off in the corner there are bodies seemingly swaying to the music. When the flash of the strobe lights hit their faces, I can see their orgasmic expressions and it becomes obvious to me that several of the couples are f*cking. There’s a girl pinned on a wall by a man as he thrusts violently into her. What kind of club is this? No one seems to mind the sex being had in every nook and cranny of the establishment, and the din of conversation is heard underneath the blaring electronica.

Dylan guides me to a barstool and I seat myself while he orders me a dirty martini and a vodka tonic for himself. He drinks it quickly and keeps his eyes on me while I sip at my drink and continue to look around the room. I become fixated on a couple sitting at one of the tables only a few feet from us. The woman is feasting on her date’s dick in broad view of everyone as if she’s eating dinner at a social gathering. My face flushes with excitement and unexpectedly my p-ssy starts to throb. I glance at Dylan to see if he’s noticed and, of course, he has. He smiles deviously at me and licks his lips. His eyes are lusty and desire is seeping from every pore in his body. He takes my drink out of my hand and sets it on the bar alongside his.

Leaning into my ear, he whispers, “I’m going to have you here in front of all these people, Isa. I want everyone here to see how exquisite you look when you’re being f*cked and what an obedient little wife you are when you swallow my cum.”

My stomach quivers with uneasiness.

“Answer me,” he says.

“I didn’t realize that was a question,” I reply.

“It wasn’t,” he smiles, leaning into my mouth and licking my bottom lip.

I try to lean forward to nibble his tongue, but he pulls back and runs his hands up the insides of my thighs and pulls me off the stool. He kneels in front of me, reaches underneath my skirt and slips my panties off. Several people look over and I giggle nervously. He stands, slips my lingerie into his jeans pocket and kisses my forehead. Lifting me back onto the stool, he slides my skirt up while he unbuckles his belt and unbuttons his jeans. My breathing and heart rate become rapid, my eyes scanning the room anxiously.

“Tsk, tsk, Isabel. Eyes on me,” Dylan tells me, guiding me by my chin to make eye contact.

He pulls his hardened dick out of his pants and strokes it firmly with one hand and with the other, he licks his fingers and inserts them into me.

“Spread wide for me,” he orders and I lean back against the bar and open my legs for him. This feels so dirty. I close my eyes, not wanting to see the judgmental foreign eyes on me but Dylan won’t allow it.

“I told you to watch me, Isa. I won’t say it again,” Dylan scolds.

My eyes instinctively pop open to my Master’s command and I focus on his cock as he continues to stroke himself. I sense people around us shifting as several bodies hover and watch our performance. Dylan continues to ease his fingers in and out of me while his thumb presses down on my *, making me squirm. When I’m sufficiently wet, he pulls his fingers out and sucks my juices off of them. Resting his hand on my lower tummy, he slowly guides the head of his dick into me. He eases into me and rhythmically starts f*cking me at a painstakingly slow pace, teasing me and giving everyone around us a good show. I grip the sides of the stool, trying to withhold my urge to moan out for fear of embarrassment. Dylan doesn’t seem to mind at all and his grunts can be heard through the music as he slowly grinds himself into me. He pulls his cock all the way out, only to push it back in, filling me completely. The feeling of the ridge of his head meeting my entrance, only to be forcefully pushed back in makes me wet beyond belief and my juices trickle down my inner thigh.

Something out of the corner of my eye catches my attention and I make the mistake of glancing over. There’s a ghostly white man with a shock of blonde hair standing not far behind Dylan who is watching intently as he strokes his erection through his pants. I quickly look up at Dylan and feel like bolting from the bar, screaming from humiliation. Dylan senses my apprehension and grabs my hips as if to stop me from running. His stance shifts and he rises up on his tiptoes as he pulls me in to him. He thrusts hard, hitting my G-spot. The jolt of electricity takes me by surprise and I unwillingly whimper. When I do, more people look over and our audience widens.

The attractive couple who was feasting on each other walks over and joins the crowd watching us. They start fondling and groping each other unabashedly and my arousal piques. I’m torn between feeling self-conscious and turned on. All of these eyes are on us and it would seem no one is judging us after all. As a matter of fact, they all appear to be turned on by what they see. I feel so wanton right now.

The music momentarily pauses as one song changes to another and in that brief moment of silence, the sloppy wet sounds of our f*cking can be heard, along with Dylan’s moaning. He adjusts his posture again and pushes my legs apart even wider, completely exposing me to the crowd.

“Play with yourself,” he mutters just as another song comes overhead.

I move my hand to my * and start circling my fingers around and tapping at it. I’m so aroused right now I fear what kind of flood will break loose when I get my release. Dylan angles his pelvis upward and drives into me harder with each thrust as my finish approaches. I pinch my swollen bundle of nerves, the cascade of heat and coolness burning in my loins. Closing my eyes, I get my release and scream out as I cum, soaking both Dylan and me.

A man’s voice to the right of Dylan also moans out, f*ck in French, while I sit quivering on the barstool.

Dylan grabs my hand and suckles my wet fingers. “On your knees,” he orders.

Dylan completely owns me and everyone here is witness to the power he exerts over me. Still trembling from my orgasm, I lower myself as gracefully as I can to the floor and I do as I’m told and stroke him hard. I run my tongue from the base of his sack up his shaft while looking into his eyes. My tongue ring hits the head of his dick and he grunts loudly and jerks. Pushing my hair out of my face, he holds it back as he guides my head up and down, occasionally forcing my head down abruptly and gagging me. Flicking and fluttering my tongue lightly over his frenulum, I hear Dylan hiss through his teeth in delight.

Dylan throws his head back and grips my hair tighter. “Yes, that’s it. F*ck me with that beautiful mouth,” he mumbles.

I close my eyes tightly and concentrate on my breathing and the sounds around us. I open my throat to his shaft as he pushes deeper into my mouth. There are hushed voices and French mutterings, some of which I can make out. I hear the words she’s beautiful and all of my previous self-consciousness dissolves as I gratify my husband. I love him and want nothing more than to please him, and I want everyone here to see how perfect we are for each other.

The distinct pulsing of Dylan’s cock can be felt as he starts to cum, but he pulls away from my mouth and I open wide and wait for his delicious gift. He jacks off into my mouth and spews a line of obscenities as I drink him up. As I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, he leans down and tilts my chin up.

“Dire mercie maître,” he tells me.

I guess he knows a little French after all. Like a good submissive, I obey his order and thank him. “Mercie, maître.”

Dylan helps me up from my knees and I quickly finish my drink while he puts himself back together. The people around us dissipate and find their next source of sexual entertainment, and I just want to get the hell out of Dodge. I practically drag Dylan out of the bar and he stops me just before we hit the doors.

“Aren’t you missing something?”

I turn to face him, not sure what he’s talking about. Pulling my panties out of his pocket, he waves them teasingly in front of me. I reach out to grab them and he pulls them just out of my reach and smiles stupidly at me. I reach for them again and he raises them above my head, taunting me with them. Oh, this is ridiculous. I narrow my eyes at him and he chuckles while he dangles and jiggles them above my head.

“Are you going to give them to me or not?” I ask.

“They’re right here. Just take them,” he teases.

I reach for them one last time and he switches hands on me and laughs loudly. Several people standing nearby start to laugh along and I lose patience with him.

“You’re so juvenile sometimes,” I say, walking out the door.

Dylan swiftly catches up and grabs my arm.

“Okay, fine. Here, take them,” he chuckles, holding them out to me at arm level.

I stand motionless, giving him stink eye.

“Just take them,” he says still smiling boyishly.

I sneak my hand up slowly and yank them out of his grip and he howls with laughter. I’m glad he’s so amused. I suddenly feel the urge to wrap my frilly pink skivvies over the top of his head and go running down the street, mooning all of the French hookers. That’ll get a laugh out of him.

I look from left to right and when I think no one is looking, I quickly slip my panties back on and smooth my skirt down over my thighs.

Dylan abruptly pulls me into his arms and buries his face in my neck.

“Thank you,” he breathes into my ear.

“For what?”

“I’ve always fantasized about f*cking you in public, so thank you for that. You were perfect.” He leans down to me, his mouth closing in on mine.

“Like I had a choice?” I ask.

He shrugs his shoulders and grins, “You always have a choice, Isa, even if we make believe that you don’t.”

Oh, my dear, sweet husband. He does know the words that get me all aflutter. I kiss him back and we stay lip-locked for several minutes in the middle of the sidewalk.

“I thought you didn’t know how to speak French,” I say, remembering his order of say thank you, Master.

“I know what I need to know,” he tells me mischievously.

When we’re done publicly groping each other, we decide to get something to eat, but there’s no cab to be seen and I suspect it’s because of the sleazy part of town we’re in. We decide to walk up the block to see if we can find a ride there. On our walk, we pass several sex shops and Dylan points out some very interesting items.

“There was no mention of this place in those tourist brochures,” I tell Dylan and he nods and chuckles at my remark.

There’s a strip club not far from the bar we were at and I peek in. I’ve never actually been inside of a strip club and I’m curious. Dylan gets a look of enthusiasm at the prospect of getting a lap dance in front of me, but I’ve had more than enough public indecency for one night. Anyway, I’m not keen on some stranger rubbing her nasty snatch all up on my Dom’s junk. The only furry muff in his face will be mine, thank you very much.

As we walk further, Dylan starts looking behind us and gets uncomfortable. He grabs my hand and tugs me close to him when I stop to look inside another club window.

“Don’t stray, Isa,” he tells me sternly.

What’s eating him?

We walk a bit further and when the traffic dies down and the people on the street become scarce, Dylan gets a wild look in his eye.

“Someone’s following us,” he says as he spins around.

Peering in the direction that he’s looking, I don’t see anyone. “You’re just being paranoid,” I say to him and he gives me a dirty look. He grips my hand tighter and drags me towards a busier street. I’m double stepping behind him to catch up, but it’s difficult because of the size of the heels I’m wearing. I pull him to a stop so I can reach down to take them off. Just as I start to get them off, I hear quick footsteps approaching us.

“F*ck,” Dylan grouses.

I stand upright and Dylan shoves me behind him, making me practically fall onto my butt. There’s a man’s voice yelling, but I can’t see him because Dylan is blocking me with his body. Dylan pushes me back farther and it’s then that I see a man wielding a knife at Dylan.

Dear God. I feel sickened and scared as hell. I freeze in my spot as the man starts swinging the knife. Dylan moves back with each swiping movement and I’m amazed at his agility and gracefulness. The man swings the knife again and I could swear that it makes contact, but Dylan doesn’t flinch. Dylan’s lithe body and nimble hands move hastily and he somehow manages to get the knife out of the man’s hands, though I’m not quite sure how. It all happens so fast. Dylan throws the knife out of reach and I hear the man grunt when Dylan punches him in the jaw.

Holy fighting ninja skills, my husband is a bad ass. The sound of Dylan’s fist hitting the man’s face makes me cringe and reminds of when Cassie hit me with the gun. I bring my hands up to my ears, not wanting to hear that God awful sound again. Dylan punches the man square in his diaphragm and he falls to the ground, wheezing and gasping for air. Dylan kicks him in the stomach, but the assailant quickly picks himself up and runs in the opposite direction.

What the hell just happened? I run to Dylan who is standing motionless and out of breath. He turns to me and looks me over.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

“Yes. Did he hurt you?” I ask, checking him over as well. The street is dark and Dylan appears to be fine, but when I touch his chest, it feels wet. When I look down at my hand, it’s covered in Dylan’s blood.

“Oh, Dylan!” I shriek out. I can’t lose him. I just can’t.