The Art of Control (12 page)

Sony
a is already sleeping in my bed when I arrive and I undress and lie next to her. She awakens and turns to look at me. Her hair is down and hanging in her eyes. The way the moonlight hits her face in the darkened room takes me by surprise as I’m flooded with memories of my amazing wife, Serena, whom I lost to leukemia, and her last days with me. I quickly turn on my other side and away from Sonya’s piercing gray eyes.

“Sawyer, w
hatever secrets you’re keeping won’t scare me away,” she says hugging me close to her.

I lay motionless. “Goodnight, doll,” I tell her.

“Goodnight, honey buns. Sweet dreams,” she says teasingly as she squeezes my ass.

She’s trying to draw me out and it’s working. My dick trembles
thinking about being inside of her. I’m tired, but Sonya’s touch is irresistible. I turn back around to face her and her eyes gleam with lust,
lust for me
. A woman hasn’t looked at me like that in such a long time, I enjoy the moment for as long as I can.

“You make me feel like a
woman again,” she whispers, her words heartfelt and earnest.

“You make me feel again,” I confess.

The love we make is impassioned and ends much too quickly. My stamina left me years ago but hopefully being with a woman again, I can work up to lasting longer than ten minutes.

“My apologies Lady
Sonya for being so speedy,” I apologize as we both lay on our backs, breathless.

Her laugh is deep and
sexy. “I’m thankful for it. Five minutes is more than enough. Wait…
no
. I take that back. Five minutes is good enough for now. We can work our way up to lasting longer. Anyway, the way you just made me feel, it could’ve lasted five seconds and I’d still be glowing like the metal on the edge of a knife.”

“Meatloaf?”
I ask.

“You know that song?” she asks surprised.

“It’s one of my favorites.”

“I’m aging myself by quoting lyrics like that,” she says, sitting up on the edge of the bed and drinking a bottle of water.

“Then I’m aging myself as well. Anyway, you’re only 43. I wish you’d stop making yourself sound so old. Although, according to Isabel, you’re a cougar.”

Sonya
chokes on the water and laughs happily. “Did she really say that? Oh, that Isabel. She’s a sassy little thing.”

She hands me the bottle and I finish off the last little bit of water in it. Her comment makes me think about the email with the code word
knife.

Sonya
falls asleep and my mind wanders to what action I will take regarding
Simons.
That bastard tried to kill my boss. Even worse than that – he attempted to kill my
best
friend
and for that,
he will pay.

***

Isabel

T
he last three days have been pure bliss I think to myself as I jump out of bed. The days were spent wandering the streets of Paris, the nights spent getting occasionally whipped and when the time called for it, being gently fucked vanilla with a twist style. But it was the late nights spent confessing the things my father did to me that has brought Dylan and me closer together. It’s been cathartic; more so than I thought it would be.  Dylan doesn’t judge me and he listens quietly, offering me words of comfort and holding me, immersing me in feelings of security and safety. I think maybe he missed his calling as a counselor.

Playf
ul Dylan has come out in full force and it’s a joy to see him laugh without restraint and completely let loose. His new form of torture on me: Tickling me to the point of damn near pissing myself. I’ve tried to tell him that shit’s not funny and it’s all fun and games until someone gets kneed in the balls, but he’s relentless in his quest to make me laugh uncontrollably. It’s both heartwarming and adorably annoying.

I wake with purpose and before Dylan
. He’s sleeping peacefully after our nightly confessional. It ran into the wee hours of the morning, but he didn’t complain once. I quietly call down to room service to have them bring up the birthday cake I ordered. While I wait for the cake, I find Dylan’s gift and pick something pretty to wear for him. As I’m sitting relieving my bladder, I peruse the pictures on my phone from our photo session three nights ago. I’m definitely having these printed and framed. My handiwork on Dylan’s body was sensational and I can’t help but pat myself on the back. He posed like a pro and didn’t once balk at my snapping photos of his decorated demigod body. My favorite picture: Dylan standing in dominant pose wearing the blindfold with his hands bound in front of him, and his head thrown back. I could rub one off to that image over and over.

I pry myself from the images
, dress myself and wait by the door. When I hear the knock, I open it quickly.

My husband turns 31 today and it’s our first birthday together. It’s a special day and I want him to feel
treasured and appreciated. I set out the breakfast and cake, light the candles and climb in bed next to him. Rubbing his back, I touch his lightly frosted hair, running my fingers through it. I plant a kiss on his cheek and he smiles, but his eyes remain closed.

“Wake up, birthday boy,” I
murmur in his ear.

His grin widens and he yawns loudly and stretches out like a lion after waking from a long nap. His stunning blue eyes open and move up and down my body.

“You’re already dressed? How long have you been awake?”

“
Not long. I have something for you.”

He reaches down and under my dress and digs his fingers into my pussy.

“This is all I want for my birthday,” he says, pouncing on me before I have a chance to object.

“Dylan, please…”

“There’s no need to beg for it,” he tells me, laughing at his own joke.

I pry myself out from under
him and drag him out of bed. Standing him up, I cover his eyes and guide him over to the small table. The candles are starting to burn out and I remove my hands.

“Happy birthda
y, my sweet lover.”

I walk around to face him to see the look on his face.
His smile is so big, his eyes are squinting and I can almost see every tooth in his head. It’s quite a sight. He looks like a child; happy and playful. Grabbing me brusquely, he kisses me forcefully.

“Thank you.
No one has gotten me a birthday cake since…” he trails off and I know his response before he says it - s
ince his parents.

He quickly put
s on some flannel pants and sits front and center before his cake. When I get my phone ready to snap pictures, he tries to wave me away.

“
Don’t be shy. I want to mark this special occasion,” I say, taking a few photos anyway. He rolls his eyes and shakes his head
no
, but his enormous smile remains plastered on his face.

“That’s a lot of candles, old man. Think you have enough wind in you to blow them all out?
”

Dylan huffs, “You can always help me since you’re so full of hot air.” 

He pulls me over and onto his lap and I whisper the birthday song into his ear. The grin on his face is one like I’ve never seen and I can’t help but grin in response. He watches the candles flicker, the flame reflecting in his pale blue eyes. When I’m done singing, he and I inhale deeply and we blow them out together. As the last candle dies out, he closes his eyes, his smile fades and he silently makes his wish.

“Did you wish for something good
?” I ask him.

His eyes open and he nods
yes.
Dylan dips his finger into the cake and rubs the frosting on my nose, and then licks his finger clean.

“French vanilla
with a twist. You thought of everything, didn’t you?”

I wipe my nose and he buries his tongue in my mouth, holding my face firmly. When he’s done, I reach over to his gift that is wrapped in simple brown
Kraft paper and tied with twine. I’m nervous about giving it to him. I’ve been working on it for so long and it’s so personal to me… I just hope he likes it.

I
hold it in my shaking hands, close my eyes tightly, take a deep breath and hold it out to him.

“Breathe, Isa,” Dylan sighs
as he gingerly takes it from me.

When I open my eyes, he looks confused.

“Why are you afraid to give this to me?” he asks.

“I just want you to love it.”

“You know I’ll love anything you give me,” he declares.

“I know
, but I want you to
really
love it. It means so much to me.”

Dylan hesi
tates and eyes the package curiously. My anxiousness is getting the best of me. He unties the twine slowly, torturing me with his casualness. Then he delicately begins to remove the paper.

“Just open it already,
I can’t take the suspense,” I snap at him, tear the package open and toss the paper to the floor.

“I thought patience was a virtue?” he laughs with gusto.

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, t
here’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
th
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 s
tory, 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 kn
ow 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 in
side of you for my birthday, pussycat. 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: M
y 31
st
birthday is spent with my sweet, loving, sexy wife. She fucks me into oblivion using every inch of her body to please me - her mouth, her pussy, 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, fucking 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 fucking 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 pussycat 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 l
ove, power exchange, contentment and most importantly,
trust
– have finally graced me with their presence and my life with Isa is complete.

By early eveni
ng, 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.

T
humbing 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 wa
nt 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, j
ust tell me.”

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

“Go on…” I prompt.

“…w
hat 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 abi
lity 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 fucking 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 offer
ed 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.