The Art of Control

Chapter 9

Dylan

With the wrapping removed, I’m faced with an old, red, leather bound journal. I remove the elastic band holding it together and Isa climbs off my lap and moves to the bed, sitting down and watching me carefully. Her hands are still shaky, though I’m not sure why. If it’s just a sketch journal, why is she so nervous to give it to me? She knows I treasure all of her work.

I open the journal. The pages are worn and old, the edges frayed. It’s thick and there are multiple pieces of paper peeking out and other clippings stuffed inside of it.

On the first page, there’s no writing, only the image of a frightened girl. The image is obviously Isa. I look back to her for some kind of explanation of what I’m faced with, but her eyes are on her trembling and knotted hands. I turn the page and read a short paragraph and it all becomes clear, what I’m looking at isn’t just a sketch journal, but a personal journal.

The second page is dated 8/11/03, the day after Isa’s 16 birthday.

I’m told writing my thoughts will help me, but I’m not good with words and I don’t know where to start. The counselor at the hospital gave this journal to me. She was kind, but she doesn’t know my father and if he ever finds this - I only pray papa never finds this. I’m 16 now. My birthday was the same as all the rest. Papa yelled. I cried. He hit me. I thought I would feel different being 16, but I don’t. I feel worse. I feel like there’s no hope or light in this terrible world. Other kids at school seem so happy. I want a life like that. I want my mom back. I want to know what it feels like to be loved. I don’t know what else to write, so I’ll just paint how I feel.





I’m reading Isabel’s life story, when she was old enough to put it down on paper. I don’t even realize I’m crying until one stray tear hits the page. She trusts me enough to share her miserable history with me and all the gory details. She loves me enough to share her fears, hopes and dreams. She loves me completely. I’m choking back tears as I put the journal down and kneel in front of Isa. When she looks at me she looks troubled.

“Oh, sugar, I didn’t mean to upset you,” she says, wiping my wet cheek. “I want you to be happy.”

“I am happy. I’m just surprised. Your gift is so… so… mind-blowing. Why?”

“Because you said you want and need to know everything about me. I’m not good with words, I never have been. You once asked that I keep a journal of where my inspiration comes from but this is as good as it gets. I never told you about it because of all the miserable things written in it, but BDSM has taught me that there are to be no secrets between us and that trust is the most important thing. I planned on giving it to you sooner, but I wanted it to be a gift and that’s the only reason I waited so long. I mean, hell, what do you give the man who has everything?”

Isa’s voice is quiet and her cheeks are flushed bright pink.

“I’ve never read it, Dylan. After each drawing and entry, I never looked back. I couldn’t. I still can’t. You are the first person to read those words and see those images since they were put on paper. I want you to know that I didn’t give this to you for your pity. So please, promise me that when you read it, you won’t feel sorry for me.”

“Isa, I love you. I can’t promise that I won’t feel sorry for your situation when I read it, but I can promise you that I won’t pity you. Maybe we can read it together and talk about how you were feeling when you wrote it.”

Isa looks horrified at my suggestion and shakes her head.

“I’m not quite ready for that. The beginning might be kind of ugly to read, but I promise it gets better,” she smiles.

“Am I in there?”

“Of course you are. That’s where it starts to get good.”

She furrows her eyebrows and looks disconcerted.

“What else is in there?” I ask, reading her thoughts.

“Everything and everyone,” she replies.

Oh, I see. That means all of her past lovers, including Greer, no doubt. I can’t be angry with her for what’s written in her journal. It was her past and I can’t change it anymore than I can change what I’ve done and with whom I’ve done it with. I reach behind her and tug her hair so that she’s looking at me.

“I’ll read those sections with caution.”

She smiles weakly and nods. “Please do, because it’s you that I love and no one else. I didn’t take anything out, Dylan. Everything in that journal is exactly the way it was when I wrote it. I don’t have anything to hide from you.”

“Christ, you’re amazing, Isa, and I love you so damned much.”

“I know you do and I know that I deserve your love. I can’t always admit that to myself, but right now, being here in Paris with you and sharing the things I’ve shared with you the last three nights… I just don’t want this to end.”

“Why would you think it would?” I ask.

“I just feel like something bad is brewing. It’s my paranoia, I know, but I just can’t stand the thought of losing you. I don’t know what I would do if I lost you the way I lost my mother,” she sniffs.

“Stop that, right now. Nothing is going to happen to me.”

I hug her, holding her close and smothering her. She buries her face in my neck and sighs my name, waking my cock from its slumber.

“I want to be inside of you for my birthday, p-ssycat. I don’t want to leave this room. I want to spend all day long buried in your cunt and to eat and drink nothing but you.”

And so it goes: My 31 birthday is spent with my sweet, loving, sexy wife. She f*cks me into oblivion using every inch of her body to please me - her mouth, her p-ssy, her ass – it all belongs to me and she gives herself over to me freely.

She reminds me over and over, all day long, how she was built solely for my pleasure and how she’ll do anything I want, and proves it when she allows me to tether her and use the quirt that she bought to whip her until she reaches her limit of pain. Her body is welted and red from my punishment and when she recovers, she begs for more.

Isabel belongs to me - all of her - mind, body and soul. I own her completely. I push her to the brink of insanity again when late afternoon arrives, f*cking her hard and making her scream out my name. God, I love that sound; it’s like an angel at sunrise singing praises. My reward for f*cking her so magnificently: Watching her soar to new heights. When I tear off the bandage on Isa’s wrist and see her branded flesh, I orgasm harder than I ever have before. Slowly I float back to earth after my endorphin rush, my head spinning, my dick aching, my muscles sore, and my mouth parched. I cradle my p-ssycat as we both descend back to Earth, our breathing slowing and our hearts beating in unison.

I open my eyes and Isa’s irises are the color of a Colorado sunset in early fall. Her pupils flare and dilate, her velvet tongue slicks her lips and she ravages me yet again. This time, Mistress Isabel ties me down and pushes my limits of pain and pleasure, and I’m the one screaming out her name.

True love, power exchange, contentment and most importantly, trust – have finally graced me with their presence and my life with Isa is complete.

By early evening, our bodies are famished, worn and depleted of cum, and we’re forced to break down and order in something to eat. While we wait for our food, Isa drags herself to the shower. I can barely move from being so oversexed and weak, something I never thought would happen and something I can honestly say has never happened before. I look over at the table and see Isa’s journal and my heart skips a beat. I find the strength to stand and pick it up, and then throw myself back down onto the bed.

Thumbing through it, I scan some of the heartrending images. I flip towards the back of the journal and find a drawing of me sleeping with a caption that reads Serenity; then one of me working at my desk with the caption: Wunderkind. I chuckle at her sense of humor. There’s another of me standing in full business attire with a crop in my hand. The look on my face is indomitable, my eyes piercing. It’s Dominant Dylan. Is that what I look like? The words underneath the drawing: My Master.

Why can’t I be as talented as Isabel? What I wouldn’t give to be able to be as gifted as she is. I have no way of showing her how I feel about her; not like this. I can lavish her with jewelry, homes, cars and exotic trips, but my money has never impressed her and all of the material things I can offer her mean nothing. What can I give to this woman who’s not impressed with worldly trappings and wealth?

Just then, Isa comes out all wet hair and wrapped in a towel. She sees the journal in my hands and gets that nervous look on her face again.

“You look angry,” she says.

“Do I? I’m not. I’m in awe of your brilliant talent.”

She smiles and sits next to me.

“Then why do you look upset?” she asks, kissing the corner of my mouth.

“Because there’s nothing I can give you to show you how much I love and need you.”

“You already have. You married me. You hold me and make me feel safe. You listen to me. You love me. That’s all I need.”

I pull Isa’s towel off and start kissing her when there’s a knock at the door. Damn. Jumping up, I pull some pants on and get our food.

“Let me slip into something pretty for you,” Isa tells me while I set the food out.

She disappears and comes back wearing my favorite pale yellow gown; the one she wore the night she came back from Atlanta; the night her father had beaten her. Isa plants herself on my lap and wraps a napkin around my neck, ties it and proceeds to feed me, taking care to blow on each hot bite. Every couple of bites, she takes a nibble herself. When wine drips down my chin, she promptly licks it off and seals each lick with a kiss and a gentle bite to my bottom lip.

“This is the best birthday I’ve ever had,” I state while I chew on the baked chicken.

“I can’t wait to spend the rest of your birthdays together. And mine. I can’t wait to grow old with you. I just wish…” she stops herself and takes a sip on the wine, but doesn’t continue her sentence.

“You wish what?”

She shakes her head no. “Nothing, sugar. It’s nothing. So what else do you want to do for your birthday?”

“Tell me, Isa. I want to know what you wish for. I want to give you what your heart desires.”

“No, no. Let’s not talk about that. We can save that conversation for another time. I just want to enjoy the rest of the day.”

“Isabel Young, speak,” I say sternly and just as predicted, my disciplinarian tone works its magic.

“I don’t know how to say it without sounding desperate, so just take it for what it is, okay?”

“Yes, yes, just tell me.”

“I just wish we could have a family. I wish I could see…”

“Go on…” I prompt.

“…what our child would look like. Would he or she have your beautiful blue eyes and your strong chin? Or my funny nose and freckles? I just wish…I just wish for the one thing I know I can never have.”

“I didn’t know you felt like this. You’ve never mentioned this before.”

“It’s because it’s pointless and silly to even talk about it.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Yes, it is. I hate that my father took away my ability to be a mother. Oh, Dylan, I don’t want to talk about this anymore. I’m sorry I even brought it up.”

Isa stands up but gives me a weak smile. I hate her f*cking father. I, too, hate that he took away her ability to have a child. I never fancied myself the kind of man who would have a family, but now that I see how much Isa wants a child with me and how much she loves me, I also want the one thing I know we can’t have. I, too, want to know if our child would have my blue eyes or Isa’s amber eyes. I, too, long to know what kind of a beautiful things could come of me and Isa’s mixed DNA.

Isa puts on a happy face for me, but the sadness in her eyes tears at my soul. She asks what else I want for my birthday and I divulge my plans for going to the local BDSM club. I’ve already called the Dark Asylum and had them call ahead for references since we don’t have a membership. The club here in Paris is very obliging and has offered to let us in as visitors. For a hefty fee, of course.

We make good time readying ourselves. I’m told the ride to the club is short and Isa’s nerves start taking over. I’m doing my damnedest to keep my hands to myself, but Isa looks elegant in the halter dress I’ve chosen for her and my horn dog tendencies and perverted thoughts are making it difficult. I finally give in to my urges and slide my hand up her thigh. Isa counters my response by grabbing my dick through my slacks. Our very short-lived fondling scene is abruptly ended when we arrive at the club.

Once inside, I’m pleased to be greeted by an English speaking manager. He gives us a quick tour and tells me how the Dark Asylum had nothing but praises regarding me and Isa. The look and feel is different than that of the Dark Asylum, but really, it’s very much the same and it’s nice to know that BDSM is a universal language that doesn’t need translation.

We make friendly conversation with a few English speaking patrons and Isa eases into submissive form flawlessly. She takes her place at my feet, kneeling gracefully with her wrists locked behind her back and keeping her eyes on me. She’s a vision of perfect submissiveness and I think the members are quite impressed with her. I pet her hair while I talk with a Dom named Luke. He takes a keen interest in Isa and asks if she’s available for scening. It would be interesting to see someone else push Isa’s limits with me in close proximity to guide his hand and to watch Isa’s body language.

“p-ssycat, did you hear the man? Luke wants to scene with you. What do you think?”

Isa’s eyes widen, but she remains perfectly obedient. “Only if it pleases you, Master.”

Even though her answer is a negative response, it’s said in such a lovely and charming way that it makes my loins ache.

“It would please me,” I announce as I continue to play with her golden curls. “Please give us a moment, Luke, while I prepare my pet.”

Luke agrees and goes ahead of us to prepare the equipment.

Isa looks distressed, so I comfort her. “Love, nothing is going to happen that you and I don’t want to happen. I’ll be standing right next to him, guiding him.”

“But you promised you would never make me be with another man,” she says softly.

“What do you think is going to happen here? I’m not asking you to have sex with this man. You’re only participating in a scene, p-ssycat. Look at me.”

She reluctantly looks up at me and I lean down and kiss her. “I would never let another person hurt you and I most certainly would never share your body in the most intimate way. Now tell me you understand that.”

“Yes, Sir, I understand,” she answers, looking relieved.

“I know I don’t have to remind you - safe, sane and consensual, right? All the rules that apply back home apply here. Okay? I’ll keep a very close eye on your body language to ensure that nothing gets out of hand. And you always have your safewords, too.” I keep my voice smooth and controlled, trying to ease her anxiety.

Her eyes soften and she nods in agreement. “Yes, Master. Let’s show these Parisians how Americans rock BDSM,” she says with a wicked gleam in her eyes.

Hell yes.

***

Isabel

Dylan helps me up from the floor and my mind starts spinning. He looks excited at the prospect of another man doling out punishment and though I’m not entirely convinced that I’ll enjoy this, I’m willing to give it a try if it pleases Dylan. I trust Dylan implicitly and I know he would never allow anything that I wouldn’t like.

We approach Luke who is adjusting a suspension rig down to my height level. He’s a tall and lean man with dark blonde hair that hangs in his eyes and he looks to be about Dylan’s age or a little older. He’s quite handsome in his own way, but his penetrating green eyes reveal his deviant nature. He picks up a bullwhip and I hear myself gasp. I mean holy ludicrousness … a motherf*cking bullwhip? I blush at my own inner dialogue and I’m grateful Dylan didn’t hear my flagrant use of the F-bomb.

I look to Dylan and he appears just as distressed as I feel. Luke assures him that he’s a master of the bullwhip and the manager joins in to tell us of Luke’s vast experience. What the hell ever. Vast experience my chafed ass. I hear whisperings and mumblings, and then Dylan nods his head in acceptance. Okay then. I guess I’m getting the bull whipped out of me. I take in a deep breath and let it out. I can do this. Hell, Dylan has put me through the ringer with the cat o’nine, surely a bullwhip won’t be so different. Who the hell am I kidding? I start to fidget and Dylan tenderly grabs my hand and kisses the top of it.

He proceeds to undress me and I’m left standing under the rig with just my corset and panties. Moving behind me, Dylan loosens my corset strings, unlacing the top half and exposing my back. He steps aside while Luke takes over and brings the bar down, cuffing my wrists in place.

Standing in front of me, Luke peers into my eyes and smiles wickedly. “We use the standard safewords here, little dove. Nothing fancy, just yellow and red if things get too intense for you. The one thing I must insist on is that you not move. It’s imperative. Nod if you understand,” he says in a thick Parisian accent.

Nodding my understanding, I inhale deeply, taking in his unique scent of expensive cologne with an undertone of sweat. I inhale deeply once more through my nose and blow out the air slowly through my mouth in an attempt to contain my nerves. I watch his hands as they move expertly and unhurriedly. He then kneels down and cuffs my ankles to the spreader bar, adjusting the width to a comfortable position. I keep my eyes on him, but I feel Dylan’s heated gaze on me so I look over to him. He’s watching me protectively and standing just within earshot. When I’m sufficiently bound, Luke stands and runs his hands through my hair and pushes it out of my eyes. Dylan visibly winces and clenches his jaw. Knowing how possessive and jealous Dylan is, I’m surprised that he’s allowing this or that he even agreed to the suggestion of it. Maybe this is a test. Maybe I wasn’t supposed to agree to it? But I didn’t really agree to it, Dylan talked me into it. Okay, now I’m just being paranoid.

I take a deep breath and blow it out again, along with my anxiety. When I feel the rig being pulled up into position, I close my eyes and submerge myself. Music comes on and I slow my breathing and heartbeat. Yes - I can do this.

A woman’s voice is singing in French about a lost love and how her heart has been ripped in two. Her voice is sultry and smooth. I open my eyes to see Luke circling around me, his eyes moving up and down my body. He adopts the same dominant stance that Dylan does as he reaches for the fearsome bullwhip. I should be afraid, but I’m not. I’m excited and nervous, and aroused, too, but I’m not afraid. Dylan is close by; close enough that I can smell his delicious masculine scent when a draft moves past him and it makes me feel safe. I keep my eyes on the whip as Luke circles it around on the floor, the swishing sound hypnotic and entrancing.

Luke disappears behind me when I abruptly hear the air break and the crack of the whip. I brace myself for the worst, but I’m met with a warm sensation on my back as the leather licks my skin softly. The sweet feeling is felt two more times before Luke moves in front of me. His eyes are fully dilated and his thin lips parted.

“How was that, little dove? Would you like more?” he asks, running his thumb across my bottom lip.

“Yes, more please,” I request.

Luke grins seductively at me and casually moves behind me again. I close my eyes and let the music wash over me as the heat in my p-ssy radiates to my core. The crack of the whip is low and dull this time, but the feeling is more pronounced than before and I resist jerking from the change in intensity. It feels amazing and like nothing I can compare it to.

Four more snaps on my back and upper thighs and I start to feel the endorphins building in my body. They start in my toes and slowly work their way up my thighs and linger there, waiting for more enticement from the divine sensation of the whip to urge them forward.

Luke whispers in my ear from behind me, “More?”

His hot breath is like an inferno and my p-ssy pulsates in anticipation of his expertly skilled hands wielding his chosen tool of torture against my body. I try to coax my mouth to move, but because of the trance-like state I’m in, it refuses to cooperate.

Dylan reads my mind and body, and answers for me in a low, thick with desire voice, “Yes, she wants more.”

God, yes, I want more. I want it all. I want the whip to caress every part of my body and for Dylan to watch me take every last strike of the leather like I was born to be here, suspended in mid-air and under complete submission. Luke steps away from me and the warmth of his body leaves me as a cool chill of air takes his place. Hot, strong hands are on my face and I know the familiar touch without having to open my eyes.

“You look divine right now, p-ssycat,” Dylan purrs as he leans into my ear.

Standing in front of me, my Master’s tongue strokes my cheek, and his hands hold me steady as I take the next series of whips like a champion. The last two strikes are even more painful than before and my body begins to shake. I can’t bring myself to open my eyes. My cunt is throbbing and I’m frustratingly close to release.

“A little more, my love. You’re almost there,” my Master lovingly encourages. “More, Luke, my angel is almost ready to soar. Give her what she desires.”

The endorphins have made their way up to my core and begin to pulsate in my belly and chest. Dylan’s fingers slip inside of me as Luke gives me everything he has, holding nothing back. Dylan smashes his mouth on mine as I begin to pant, his tongue invading my mouth. His arousal is palpable as he kisses and fingers me voraciously.

One, then two harsh whips sweep across my shoulder blades and my head feels like it’s going to explode as the adrenaline rushes to my brain. My back is on fire and the feeling is so intense, sinful and forbidden that my mind reels. Dylan’s fingers keep persecuting me, tugging at me, his breathing labored with excitement… and with the third lashing, I scream out and cum without warning.

My body convulses and I float far, far away into deep subspace. The cool chill of post orgasm settles in my lower belly and it’s soon replaced by the warmth that follows. I don’t want to come down from this high. I spread my wings and fly around my safe haven, my happy place, my home away from home…

Soft, distant voices break through my dream state.

“Isa, come back to me, my precious angel.”

“Little dove, come back…”

No, I want to stay here for just a few minutes longer.

“Does she always orgasm like this?”

“Yes, don’t worry. She always comes back to me.”

Oh, Dylan, of course I always come back – I love you. I will my eyes to open and they reluctantly obey my command. When everything comes into focus, I see Dylan and Luke watching me closely. I’m cradled in Dylan’s arms in a soft blanket and Luke is running his hands through my hair.

“Oh, how I love to watch you fly,” Dylan breathes into my ear.

“Welcome back, little dove. You had me worried,” Luke coos.

Still unable to speak, I smile, letting my two Doms know that I’m okay and at this moment in time, all is right in my world.