The Art of Submission (17 page)

He’s so damned persistent. Fine, he can stay,
but I make him look way. I feel ridiculous. I put on my dress and
to my joy, it really does fit, and I don’t look half bad. Who knew?
He zips up my dress, his fingers brushing my skin and sending
little jolts of electricity down my spine. Doesn’t he know the
effect he has on me? He seems oblivious to it.

As I try to reign in my miserably
noncompliant hair, I see him watching me with a little grin on his
face.

“Can I try?” He asks.

He thinks he can do better? Good luck with
that. I’ve been fighting with it my whole life. He laughs at my
comment, but this time I don’t mind so much. I do actually enjoy
hearing him laugh. I hand him a bottle to spray my hair and a comb.
Let’s see if he can pull a Houdini on this mess.

He’s so cute. He’s trying really hard
to make it work. He sprays it down good, then he combs it gently
and then he runs his fingers through it. I get the feeling he’s
done this before, but I stop that thought immediately as I don’t
like the image of him doing this to any other woman. He grabs an
old hair clip from the counter and turns me to face him. I can’t
take my eyes off of him. He’s so focused and it’s so sexy. I want
him to focus on me more… like he was earlier… my God.
That orgasm was unbelievable.

He pins up one side of my hair with the clip
and just when I think he’s finished, he grabs some lip gloss and
paints it on me. Does he have any idea how sensual it feels to have
him pampering me like this? I feel so womanly and wanton right now.
Then he turns me to face the mirror again.

Wow. He’s performed a small miracle on my
hair. I’m quite impressed. He really is a man of many talents. I
feel a tightening near my happy place and I know it’s because of
what he’s done to me. I tell him I think I like him and the things
he does to me and he smiles with his eyes looking warm and
inviting. He looks proud of himself.

“You’d better like me, and please call me
Dylan. I like it when you say my name.”

The way he said that is without a doubt
orgasm inducing sexy.

“Don’t do that, Isabel. You know what it does
to me.”

Damn it. I really have to try and be more
aware of when I play with my hair. Then he grinds himself up
against my backside. Why does he tease me so?

As we head to the living area, he makes
a phone call. I hear something about clean clothes. Yes, he does
need a clean shirt thanks to me. I feel myself flush at the thought
of
why
he needs a clean
one.

I ask him where the club is since I didn’t
know Denver even had such a place. Not that I would know something
like that anyway.

“There is a club here in Denver, but we’re
not going to that one. I’m taking you a club in Chicago.”

Chicago? Right now? Why so far? And how?

“I have a business plane…”

Well of course he does. Oh brother.
Seriously, why can’t we go someplace local? I hate flying – with a
passion. Why doesn’t he want to go to the one that is so close?
He’s hiding something, I can tell. I’m a bad, liar, but I think he
just might be worse.

I tell him I’m afraid of flying, but he
reassures me that his plane and pilot are top notch. I guess
there’s no talking him out of it. I’ll be with Dylan right next to
me, so it can’t be all that bad. I quick grab my new Mary Jane’s
and I’m ready to go.

“Isabel, before we leave, I want to take a
closer look at your paintings.” He says as he moves close to my
bed.

This again? I suppose he can have just a
quick look. After all, as he put it, I did just have his –eh-hem-
cock in my mouth just a short time ago. Then he gives me that goofy
look again.

Since he’s taking advantage of our
agreement, I ask him when I’m getting my paintings back. I think he
was hoping I had forgotten about that.
Not
likely
.

“
Whenever you’d like…”

He has them hanging in his office? Oh dear
Lord, slay me now. Other people looking at them? I just got used to
the idea of Dylan ogling them, and now complete strangers? Why
Dylan, why?

“
Like I said, they make a bold
statement…”

Really? Is that true? I can’t tell this time
if he’s telling the truth or not.

“Why do you doubt me? I’ve haven’t lied to
you yet.”

His eyebrows are furrowed and he acts
as if it’s completely absurd for anyone to doubt him. What does he
mean by
- yet
? Does that mean
he plans on lying to me?

“I don’t plan on it, but sometimes, a lie is
better than the harsh truth, Isabel.” He says matter-of-factly.

That’s a lame answer. I’d rather hear the
harsh truth than a lie any day. Doesn’t he know it’s never okay to
lie? Suddenly I reminded about the lies I’ve told over the past few
days, like the one about having dinner with friends. After I
admonish him for the second time today, he again has that childish
pouty look. I guess maybe I shouldn’t point fingers.

He just shrugs and heads straight for
my paintings and I don’t try to stop him. He looks genuinely
interested in them. He’s kneeling at the head of my bed and he’s
close – really close – to them. What does he think he’s going to
see that close up? A secret message inscribed or a watermark? He’s
scanning them intently. He even touches them. He’s so beautiful
right now, so focused. He
really
does like them. I can’t believe it. I wonder though, is it
just the subject matter, the pure naughtiness of the images that he
likes, or does he really like the technique and my interpretation
of it?

“
What kind of process did you use on
this one?” He asks as he squinting and touching the
painting.

I guess that answers my questions. He’s
like a curious child discovering a new pet. He runs his finger
along the painting and I feel a pang of arousal deep within.
I
wish I were that painting right
now.
I tell him what it is and he seems satisfied with
my answer and I go back to daydreaming about him and his fingers,
and what I want him to do with them. Then he looks over at me and
catches me red-handed ogling over him.

“What is it Isabel?”

Good Lord - can’t he see how turned on I am
right now? How does he do this to me? I tell him it’s nothing and
we should just go.

When we’re finally on the road to some small
airport, I’m once again daydreaming about everything that’s
happened today and about all the different emotions this man has
awakened in me. I can’t believe the way he made me feel when he
found my as of yet undiscovered G-spot. I never knew it could feel
like that. Damn, have I been missing out. I can hardly wait to see
what dreams and paintings will materialize from that
experience.

I feel him squeeze my knee and there’s that
electricity again. Does it feel the same for him when I touch him?
“I wish I understood you.” I whisper.

Why did I say that out loud? As soon as
it came out, I wanted to retract it immediately. It sounded
so…
desperate
. He obviously
sensed how desperate it sounded because he immediately pulled his
hand away from me and looked away, like he was repulsed.

“Isabel, I want you to understand what our
arrangement will be.”

Oh no – here we go.

“I want you to be my submissive. That’s
all…”

There it is
.
Rejection wrapped up in a pretty box with a big red bow. Why the
hell is he telling me this? I know what he
really
wants.

“Do you?” He asks.

Of course, I do. I’m not completely naïve and
stupid. He wants the only thing men want from me; sex. And worse
yet, he wants my paintings, too. Who was I kidding to think he
really wanted me for anything else? I feel my temperature rising
from anger; anger at myself for being so juvenile. I vaguely feel
him pull the car over.

“Isabel, look at me.”

For what? So he can continue to remind me how
inadequate I am? He’s just like Greer; he wants to fuck me and take
my paintings, too. “You know, for disliking Greer….”

Damned missing brain-mouth filter. I can feel
his anger without even having to look at him.

“
Don’t
ever
, and I mean
EVER
compare me to that motherfucker again. Do
you understand?”

He’s not yelling, but his voice is low and
harsh which is even worse than yelling because it’s the kind of
voice that manifests just before a complete meltdown.

“So you
don’t
just want my paintings and to fuck me?” I
ask him.

He sits there silently just staring at
me. Well, there’s my answer. That
is
all he wants. Why did I ask? To hell with
this. If that’s what he wants, then that’s what he gets. He can
fuck me. Why not? That’s all I’m apparently good for. Are we going
to sit here all afternoon or are we going to this club I ask
him.

“
I don’t think so. I’m taking you home.
I don’t think this is going to work after all.”

Oh hell no! Again? Seriously…
again
? Who the hell does this man
think he is toying with my emotions all damned day? I’ve never met
anyone so temperamental and frustrating in my entire life. I can’t
take this anymore. He thinks he can play with me like
that?

I tell him how it is. Damn straight. If he
thinks for one single solitary minute he’s not giving back my
paintings after what he put me through today he can kiss my ever
lovin’ booty. And he’s taking me to that damned SBDM club and I
don’t want to hear another word out of his lying mouth.

Wow. That felt good. And there’s one more
thing since I’m on a roll… I think he’s the one who needs to be
spanked. How does he like that?

He just sits there stunned by my total lack
of restraint and before I can even decipher the emotions I’m
feeling, I assault him. I’m ravaging him, kissing him violently,
pulling at his hair and biting his lip. He moans loudly and I don’t
care; I want to punish him right now. I move to his neck and tear
open the top of his shirt so I can bite him there too. I grab at
his pants, gripping his hardness. I want him to feel the same
frustration I’m feeling right now; hot, bothered, and angry… and
then I pull away. I want him to feel rejected, too.

“You’re right. Just take me home.” I tell him
coldly.

He sits quietly for a moment, his breathing
ragged. Finally it slows down and he quiets.

“So you think I have a big dick, huh? Just so
you know, it’s called BDSM, not SBDM.”

What? That’s all he has to say to me? For the
love of Pete….

When I look at him he starts laughing, and
it’s so infectious I can’t help but laugh a little with him,
because I know he’s not laughing at me – he’s laughing at the
ridiculousness of this situation. His eyes are closed and he’s
smiling from ear to ear. God he looks amazing like this.

Then he stops laughing and solemnly says,
“I’m nothing like Greer, Isabel.” His voice isn’t angry anymore,
but it sounds almost – sad.

Why did I say that? I really need to
learn to control my temper, but this man - I’ve never been so
frustrated –
ever
. I know
he’s nothing like Greer.
I know he’s
not.
How could I even compare him to that ass? Even if
all he wants is to fuck me and have my paintings… I’d be
flattered.

“Please stop using that language. Anyway,
that’s not the only thing I want. I’m just not ready for…”

No, he doesn’t have to explain himself
to me. Whatever he wants is fine with me. I beg him to take me to
the club. I want to go. I
want
to be his submissive. I want him anyway I can get
him.

Dylan

What is this woman doing to me? We’re not
even officially an item yet and I’ve been through an emotional
roller-coaster ride to rival any married couple. She wants to get
to the club so badly, but does she really know what she’s in for?
What BDSM really means?

We sit quietly the rest of the drive to
the airfield. I know she regrets what she said about Greer, but it
still sticks in my craw. If only she were my submissive already,
she would’ve felt the snap of the crop full force.
I like the thought of
that
.

She has quite a temper. I’m still
reeling from her forceful kiss. I’ve been with sexually aggressive
women before, but it was nothing like that. Isabel isn’t
aggressive, she’s a predator. She sneaks up on you, and then takes
you by surprise. If I’ve gauged her reaction correctly, I don’t
think she knew she had it in her. I like that I can bring it out of
her.
Or do I?

What was it she said? I was the one who
needed to be spanked? I need to clarify that statement with her.
“So what was this about me needing to be spanked?”

I surprise her with the question and
she looks dumbfounded.
Contrite,
much
?

“Well, umm… you do.” Her voice is quiet, but
determined.

What? That’s the not response I
expected at all.
Contrite… not so
much.
Interesting. She really did mean it. I look over
at her and she’s trying to gauge my reaction. Hell, I don’t even
know what my reaction should be. Again, we sit in silence the rest
of the trip.

I reach over and squeeze her knee to reassure
her, and to reassure myself, that we’re doing the right thing and
that we belong together. She doesn’t flinch and she doesn’t look at
me. I can’t tell if she’s still angry or hurt from our previous
words.