Brokered Submission (8 page)

“Zoë, you’re fighting the flogger. You’re resisting.”

“It hurts!” she cried, as he delivered a hot stroke to the backs of her thighs.

“It’s meant to,” he reminded her between lashes. “The pain is the entryway to where you need to go, to where you’ve always longed to go. Give in to it, Zoë. Let it wrap you in its arms.”

He hit her harder. She twisted at the last second, which caused the tips of the flogger to wrap cruelly around her hip. Dylan, who believed in experiencing everything he gave to his subs, well knew how painful those leather tips could be when slamming against bone with sonic speed. “Stay in position,” he admonished. “Show me your grace.”

He flogged her ass with rhythmic, steady blows. She was panting, small mewling whimpers pushed out between breaths. She was taking a pretty intense flogging, especially for her first time out, but Dylan sensed it wasn’t yet time to stop.

As happened when he was doing it right, he could almost feel the strokes as if he were on the receiving end of the flogger. Her emotions—the fear, the desire, the passion, the need—were all moving over and through him as if they belonged to him. As a dominant friend had once said when trying to explain the sensation—it was like flying a kite in rough winds. She was the kite, and it was up to him to skillfully manage the spool and line, to not only keep her aloft, but to help her soar.

Her yelps and whimpers had subsided into deep, guttural moans, and her head had fallen forward on her chest. She was close, but not there yet.
A little more, a little harder
—
you can do it
, he rooted silently, not wanting to distract her with words.

He whipped her steadily, the flogger flying over her skin from thigh to shoulder and back again. He focused again on her ass, which was now a deep cherry red. She was a natural, already so close to that powerful, sacred place that some subs took years to find.

Suddenly she grunted and jerked, as if coming out of a dream, and he felt the serenity subside like a wave falling back from the shore. “No,” she moaned. “No. I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.” She began to twist and dance again, fighting the flogger once more.

“It hurts, it hurts, it hurts!” she whined, her voice edging toward panic.

“Fuck,” Dylan muttered in frustration, angry not at her, but at himself. He had pushed too hard, too fast. He had wanted this too much. He ached to continue, to force her through sheer will to let go, but he knew from long experience that the moment was gone. He needed to back off and let her recover.

Slowly, he eased the flogger’s stroke until the leather was once again only brushing her skin. Zoë was sagging against her cuffs. He moved to face her. Her eyes were closed. She opened them when he touched the handle of the whip once more to her lips. “Kiss the whip to show your thanks,” he ordered.

She obeyed.

Reaching up, he quickly released the clips that held her cuffs, catching her arms as they fell forward. She leaned heavily against him as he guided her toward her bed. Fantasies of making love to her while she was still cradled in the arms of a submissive flying experience receded with each step. He hadn’t yet earned the privilege. He would just have to try harder.

~*~

Zoë lay on her stomach on the bed. Dylan sat beside her. His hands felt good as he massaged her hot, stinging skin with a soothing lotion. She’d been terrified at the thought of the flogging, even more scared than she’d been of the spanking. Ironically, the spanking hurt more. Or no, that wasn’t precisely accurate. The spanking packed more of a wallop than the flogger—Dylan’s hard palm crashing down again and again against her ass. The flogger had been more sensual, if that was the right word, the leather like a lover’s kiss, at least at first.

Those initial gentle strokes had lulled her into a false sense of security, the slow buildup easing her into accepting more and more, until suddenly she slipped over the edge of pleasure into a stinging, biting pain that radiated from shoulder to thigh. She’d wanted to take it, to embrace it, as Dylan had urged, even though she wasn’t really sure what he meant. She wanted to prove to him, and to herself, that she could do this—she could handle whatever he meted out.

She had a sense she’d been close to something more—something somehow profound, but whatever it was, it had slipped away. For the second time since she’d agreed to their bizarre arrangement, she’d nearly shouted out her safeword. He’d stopped literally within seconds of her opening her mouth. She sensed his disappointment, and this upset her more than she cared to admit.

I’ll do better
, she silently promised herself, and him, even as she wondered why it mattered.

“You did great, Zoë,” Dylan said, making her wonder for a second if she’d actually spoken aloud. “You really are a natural, perhaps even more so than I suspected. In fact, if I hadn’t been so eager and pushed you too fast, I do believe you might even have flown. You’re really something, you know that?”

Warmth moved through her body at his praise, the feeling she’d somehow failed replaced with a sense of accomplishment and hope. “Thank you,” she said, her mouth lifting into a smile. “I’ve read about that concept—flying. It’s a kind of endorphin release, right? Like a runner’s high.”

“You’ve read about it, huh?” Dylan countered. “So you know a bit more about BDSM than you’ve led me to believe?”

Zoë’s face heated. She was glad he couldn’t see her blush. “Well, yeah, I guess so,” she admitted. “I mean, it’s just fiction. I like to read erotic romances and sometimes they lean a little toward bondage and stuff like that.”

She was relieved when Dylan didn’t press the issue. “Flying,” he elaborated, “
is
kind of a like a runner’s high, physiologically speaking, but there’s so much more to it. How do I explain it?” He paused, no doubt gathering his thoughts, and then continued. “I’ve heard it described by subs as a descent into fire and then a rising into the heavens. I know that sounds rather vague, but it does seem to be the process—moving through something really difficult and intense into something sublime. Maybe it’s like a rocket when it’s burning its way through the atmosphere and then the sudden break into outer space—into this vast, profound place of utter peace. As a Dom, when I’m truly connected to what’s going on, I feel transported along with the sub into a kind of altered state, and the experience is truly breathtaking.”

“It sounds amazing,” Zoë said, a surge of longing moving through her.

“It is,” Dylan replied softly. “And you shall have it.” He released the hairclip and tugged at the elastic, pulling her hair gently free of its ponytail. He shifted his focus to her shoulders, massaging away the last vestiges of tension she didn’t know she was still carrying. “I promise.”

She must have fallen asleep, because when she opened her eyes, Dylan was still there, but a tray with a glass and a plate of cookies had magically appeared beside her. Dylan smiled at her. “You dozed off. I decided to get you some refreshment.”

He lifted the glass from the tray. “I know you take your hot coffee black, and I also know you like your caffeine,” he grinned, “but I want you properly hydrated for the rest of the day’s events, so I decided to make you a nice big glass of iced coffee instead. I added a little sugar and a touch of cream. If you don’t like it, I’ll get you some water.” He handed her the glass.

Zoë lifted herself to a sitting position as she eyed the cold drink skeptically. She was thirsty, and she reached for the glass. “Thank you.” She never took sugar in her coffee, not because she didn’t like it, but because of a lifetime of watching her weight and denying herself anything that might add unnecessary calories to her diet. And milk just plain made her gag. She avoided it at all costs. But Dylan was watching her expectantly, clearly pleased with himself, and she had to admit she quite enjoyed the novel experience of having someone wait on her.

Closing her eyes, prepared to find the coffee nauseatingly sweet and disgustingly milky, she sipped. She sipped again, and then took a big gulp. The coffee was strong, lightly sweetened, and stunningly delicious, the cream taking off that slight bitter edge that coffee always left on the back of her tongue. “That’s good...Sir,” she enthused, suddenly aware she’d forgotten to use the appellation during the flogging.

“Glad you like it. Have a cookie.” Dylan reached for the plate and handed her a fat golden-brown cookie dusted with powdered sugar. Though she’d eaten a much larger breakfast than she was accustomed to only a while before, her mouth watered in eager anticipation.

Carbs, sugar, fat—cookies never featured in Zoë’s regime, but neither did spending the weekend in a BDSM dungeon, so what the hell, why not? It smelled wonderful—the aromas of ginger, butter and molasses taking her back to childhood. Zoë bit into the soft, chewy cookie. “Mmm,” she moaned, her mouth still full of cookie. “This is so good.” It had to be homemade. “Did you bake this?” She couldn’t stop eating it.

“Me?” Dylan shook his head with a laugh. “I wish I could take the credit, but no, my housekeeper, Adrianna, made them. She’s always trying to fatten me up. When she leaves for the weekend, she’s prepared enough meals, cookies and cakes to feed an army. I usually end up taking most of the treats to work just to get them out of the house.”

Zoë finished the cookie and greedily gobbled the second one as well, surreptitiously eying the plate to see if somehow she’d missed a third one. She resisted the urge to press the few remaining crumbs on the plate with her finger, and instead finished the delicious iced coffee.

Dylan stood and took the empty glass from her. He placed it on the tray beside the plate, and set the tray on the floor against the wall. Looking down at Zoë, he said, “Okay, break is over. Time for the next exercise. Do you need to use the bathroom?”

As soon as he said it, she realized she had to pee, and she nodded. “Yes, Sir.”

“Do you need to move your bowels?”

Zoë was embarrassed by such a direct and personal question. “Um, no...Sir. I just, uh, need to pee.” She started to rise to head for the bathroom, but Dylan put a restraining hand on her shoulder.

“Stay where you are. Lie back down on the bed, face down. I have to get a few things.”

Confused, Zoë did as she was told, curious as to what Dylan had up his sleeve. She watched him stride across the room toward the wall with the whips, rope and chain. He stopped in front of the tall bureau and pulled open a lower drawer.

He returned to the bed carrying a small serving tray on which he’d placed several items. He sat beside her, placing the tray at the foot of the mattress. He picked up one of a series of what appeared to be oddly shaped dildos. It tapered to a rounded point not much bigger than a finger, widening along its length to a flared base. It was wrapped in clear plastic. He held it closer for her inspection. “Do you know what this is?”

Zoë swallowed, pretty sure from her reading that she knew what it was, but not wanting to hazard a guess. “I’m not exactly sure.”

“It’s called an anal plug. This is the smallest size, so we’ll start with this one.” He held up two others, each bigger than the last. Zoë stared in horror, and instinctively reached back to cover her bottom with her hands.

Dylan smiled, though his gold-flecked eyes were hooded. “Don’t cover yourself, Zoë. A trained sub would be punished for that.”

Zoë forced herself to lower her arms to her sides. Her heart was beating fast. Though she’d had anal sex with a few boyfriends in order to please them, it wasn’t her favorite activity. “What?” Dylan said, cocking his head. “Tell me what you’re thinking as you look at these plugs. Don’t hold back. I want to know exactly what’s going through your mind right now.”

Zoë stared back, wondering if he
really
wanted to know the many, many things tumbling through her brain at that moment, nary a submissive thought among them. He regarded her with a somber, intent gaze. Okay, why not? He’d asked for it. So damn it, she would tell him.

“I’m thinking I most emphatically do
not
like foreign objects stuck inside me. I’m wondering how you’d like it if I shoved some hard piece of rubber up your ass, especially when you had to pee like a racehorse. I’m curious what kind of power trip you’re on, to think I’ll just go along with this. I’m wondering if this weekend is worth the six million after all.”

As she spoke, his mouth quirked into a smile, which, by the time she was done, had spread into a broad grin. She knew she had gone too far, but it felt good to just get it out there. After all, he had asked.

“You done?” he asked, still grinning.

She lifted her chin. “Yes...Sir,” she finally remembered to add. She stiffened, waiting for the flash of anger, the hard words, the promised punishment.

Instead, to her surprise, he said in a calm voice, “Thank you, Zoë, for that honest reply.” He placed a comforting hand on her back. “You should know as we move forward, when I ask you to tell me what you’re thinking, I really mean it. And I will never be angry or punish you for sharing your feelings.” How did the guy get into her head like that? It was unnerving.

He continued, “That said, I understand you’re frightened at the thought of this thing”—he held up the smallest of the plugs once more—”being inserted in your ass. You’re afraid it’s going to hurt. You’re afraid you will lose control. I get it that it’s embarrassing, even humiliating, from your perspective at this moment.”

“Yes,” Zoë agreed, relieved he understood. Some things were just beyond the realm of reasonable expectation, their agreement notwithstanding. She was glad he got it. She would go pee, and they could move on to whatever diabolical “exercise” was next on his list.

She started to lift herself on her elbows, but Dylan’s hand stayed firmly on her back. “I didn’t tell you to get up,” he said. “Stay as you are.” He pressed her back down onto the bed.

Confused, Zoë didn’t resist. Dylan pulled the plastic wrapper from the anal plug and reached for the tube of lubricant. “Wait—what?” she exclaimed, refusing to believe what seemed to be happening. “But I told you—”

“You expressed your feelings. And that’s a good thing. I listened and took what you said into consideration. Now we move forward. Get up on your hands and knees and stick out that pretty ass. I would advise you to relax as much as possible. It’ll hurt less that way.”