The Art of Submission (2 page)

I’m in and out of the shower quickly and
change into a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt. It’s still warm out,
with fall still a good month away, but I like sweatshirts because
they hide my hideous curves. I glance quickly in the mirror, and as
usual, my hair is uncompromising in my attempts to tame it and I
give up. I look myself over critically. Who am I going to impress
anyway? No one, so I leave.

I make my way down the street in front of my
apartment building and catch a bus to the studio. I’m dropped off
about a block away from the gallery, which works out perfectly and
ensures that Mr. Greer won’t see me. I slowly make my way over and
across the street from the festivities. Wow. It’s impressive. I
have to give it to Mr. Greer and Monica for making it one hell of a
show. Limousines, large pricey SUV’s and a few exotic sports cars
line the street near the gallery. There are several people milling
around near the main entrance, including security and some
photographers. I can see inside through the large glass front
windows, and the view is just as impressive inside as it is out
front.

I head across the street, just in front
of the gallery. I peer inside the large windows I see beautiful
flawless trophy wives and girlfriends - and a few mistresses, I’m
sure - all dressed to the nines. Handsome men are everywhere in
their finest attire, and a few even more than handsome men,
including…
the Dylan Young
.
He made it on the guest list?
Very
nice.
Even out here, I can see his amazing blue eyes
that are contrasted by his dark hair. He’s visually stunning, in a
nontraditional way. He’s tallish and his physique is just slightly
built. He’s wearing a dark grey tailored suit, the jacket
unbuttoned and open, showing a white shirt and silver tie
underneath.
Damn he looks delicious. I
wonder what he tastes like.
He has one hand in the
pocket of his jacket, the other massaging the back of his neck. He
looks irritated and bored.
I could cure
his boredom
, I naughtily think to myself. I quickly
pull myself back to reality and realize that I stand gawking and
daydreaming about him like some kind of weirdo stalker.

I quickly make my way around the side of the
gallery and around to the back entrance. I’m feeling very nervous
about this. I hope Mr. Greer doesn’t see me. He’ll chastise me for
sure. I almost turn around to leave out my nervousness, but decide
instead to just go inside. It’s dark in the back office and I can
faintly hear voices and mellow music coming from the main area. I
make my way around to the side room where the less known artist’s
paintings are.

I stop when I hear voices coming from that
room; mainly Mr. Greer’s. He sounds irritated about something.
What, I wonder? I love to irritate him, so I’m enjoying the audio
show. I can’t quite make out what the topic of conversation is, but
it sounds like he’s talking about a shy eccentric artist. I wonder
who that is. I don’t remember there being any paintings of
particular interest in that room. Strange.

I decide to head to the back office where I
came in at and bide my time until I can no longer hear Mr. Greer’s
voice. I wait about 10 minutes or so when the voices finally stop.
I head out towards that area again, but then I hear shuffling, like
paintings being moved around. I wait again; this time about 15
minutes.

Finally I make my way out to the room
when it’s quieted down. I immediately go the wall where my
paintings
should b
e, but
they’re not. I don’t get it. I saw him hanging them up when I left.
They were right here. The wall now stands empty; a blank white wall
staring at me, mocking me. Where did they go? I scan all the other
paintings, the few that are in that area, but I don’t see
them.
They’re gone.

I feel myself starting to panic. Did someone
buy them? Surely not. This area was closed off from the show. I
want to run and find Mr. Greer and ask him immediately where he put
them. Perhaps he decided they weren’t good enough for even the
not-so-relevant section. That’s it. He’s taken them down because of
their perverse nature. But where then did he put them? It’s late
and I can’t risk getting caught. I’ll ask him in the morning.

Back home, I’m in bed, my mind drifting, my
thoughts taking a turn to the dark side like they do every night. I
drift off to sleep thinking about wrist cuffs, rope, and the sound
of a snapping whip…they’re like a sweet lullaby to me...

I wake with a start. I’m wet with sweat
and cum. I’ve just had an orgasm in my sleep.
At least I think it was an orgasm.
I wouldn’t
exactly know what one feels like, unfortunately. My sexual
experience is very limited, and even worse; it’s all been dull,
unexciting and non-orgasmic. Whatever that was, it was
nice
. I gently rub my wrists, my
vivid dream slowly slipping from my memory.

Dylan

Morning has come too soon, and I’m
still thinking about the paintings as I get ready for work. Another
impossibly dull day is planned ahead of me; meeting upon endless
meeting discussing the same crap as last week. I decide to break up
the monotony of my day by bringing my newly acquired artwork with
me to work. I plan on hanging them in my office for all to
see.
Yes
. I’m sure that will
go over well
.
I can hardly
wait to see all those uptight asshole’s faces when they get a
glimpse of these wicked beauties. Maybe the images will pry open
their unimaginative closed minds. Even they can’t be immune to the
eroticism portrayed on the canvases, however subtle it may
be.
I can hardly
wait
.

My day is going quite well, indeed. The
reactions to the art are even more entertaining than I had hoped
for. Everyone who has been in my office and caught a glimpse of the
paintings seems…
uncomfortable
. During several meetings, some
even had a difficult time focusing on the topics at hand, their
eyes casually floating back to the paintings time and time again. I
love it. No one, however, has said anything or asked about the art.
It just goes to prove that I truly work with a bunch of
pussies.

During one of my breaks between
meetings, I find myself lost in the paintings again. I walk over to
get up close and personal with them, like they’re a long lost
lover. The paint is textured and thick in some areas, smooth in
others. The paint even glistens in the light as if it’s
wet.
I reach out to touch it with
the brief thought that it will smudge if I do, though I know it’s
dry. I run my fingertips across the smooth and rigid textures, my
senses coming alive and I’m reminded of the feeling of a perfectly
swollen G-spot. I start to grow hard as my mind wanders…. Oh this
is absurd.
It’s a fucking painting, you
moron.
I seriously need to get laid.
And
not by those boring vanilla women I’ve been wasting my time
with.

The rest of my day is the same old
bullshit and doesn’t end soon enough. On my way home, I casually
drive past my old BDSM hang out, longing to go in and watch a few
scenes. Of course, I can’t
because of
Erika
. I know she still frequents the place and I
don’t want to risk a scene of a nonsexual nature taking place with
her.
Fuck her.

I drive around the lot looking for her car,
but it’s nowhere to be seen and I decide to venture in. It’s been
damn near two years since I’ve been in here and if it weren’t for
those paintings, I wouldn’t even be considering doing this.

I park and make my way in. The familiar
sounds and smells invade my senses and I immediately get aroused.
Yes - the snap of leather, the scent of musky oil and sex...
Relax, there big boy.
I’m trying to
keep my dick in check so I’m not walking around with a massive hard
on and looking like a complete jackass. I make my way to the social
area and there are a few familiar patrons who greet me and ask
about my long absence. I just make something up and try not to
reveal too much. I’m surprised they don’t already know, considering
Erika is still a regular here and she has a big fucking mouth.
Maybe my threat of exposing her as a blackmailing, money hungry
bitch actually worked and she kept her non-cock sucking yap
shut.

I make my way back to one of the
playrooms and casually stand at the back of the small crowd. I’m
watching a fetish scene involving two smoking hot brunettes with a
strap-on. While the submissive beauty takes a big rubber dick in
her ass, I daydream about filling her other hole.
Fuck yes I’ve missed
this
.

What the fuck am I
doing?
I vowed to myself to give this lifestyle up and
I’ve been doing so well. I need to get the hell out of here before
things go too far and I end up participating in a scene
tonight.

I almost make it out the door when I’m
approached by an overly tanned woman who’s wearing nothing but a
thong and a leather bustier. She’s wearing her black hair in a bob
and she smells like some kind of fruity perfume that I’m not fond
of.

“Do you remember me?” She asks.

I wish I did, but I don’t and I apologize to
her for my lapse in memory.

“You scened with me several years ago, when I
was a submissive in training.” She tells me.

Okay. I still don’t remember her. I’ve scened
with a lot of different women and unless they were exceptionally
skilled at something, they’ve faded from my memory. She sees that I
still don’t recognize her and she continues.

“The thing I remember most about you -
was
this
,” she says as she
grips my cock through my pants. My dick immediately jumps to
attention at her touch.
Shit. Keep it
together, Young
. She looks down at my hard cock and
smiles from ear-to-ear.

“Mmm, yes. It’s just as big as I remember.
May I, Sir?” She says as she licks her lips and moves in for the
kill.

Sir.
Damn I
miss being called that, but
no;
this is not going to happen. Even as much as I want it
to,
no.

She’s very persistent and continues
stroking me, waiting for my answer.
Fucking hell
. Who am I to turn down a good cock
suck? I give her permission to pleasure me and we excuse ourselves
to a private room. When we’re finished, I know exactly why I didn’t
remember her. Shit, if it wasn’t for the rough skull fucking I gave
her and the visions of my paintings; I would’ve never shot my load
down her worthless throat. I have yet to meet someone who exceeds
in oral skills, so I guess it was wishful thinking on my part that
it would be worth my while. She gives me her number and I make my
way out.

When I finally make it out of the club, my
self-castigation begins. What the fuck was I thinking going there
tonight? Why is it so hard to give all this up? It’s strange how
there’s a 12-step program for just about everything except
this.

I finally make it home and venture past my
dungeon, standing outside the locked door, yearning to go in. No
damn it. I should’ve never gone to the club tonight. I vow to
myself it won’t happen again and I call it a night. Sweet images
fill my mind as I drift off to sleep.

The snap of a whip… the smell of sweat and
sex… the squeak of leather underneath flesh. The sound of a woman’s
voice squealing from sweet torture… yes. Dark hair…long legs spread
wide…I’ll give it to you my sub… just the way you want it… the way
you deserve it…

**********************

Isabel

The next morning at work, I make my way
immediately to Mr. Greer’s office. He’s sitting at his desk talking
with Monica, our event coordinator amongst other things, who is
sitting in the chair in front of his desk. As usual she’s
impeccably dressed and her long brown hair is immaculately coiffed.
I think they’re discussing last night’s take for the charity
fundraiser. They both look up at me with the usual disapproval I’ve
become accustomed to; no doubt because I’m not beautiful enough for
them. I can’t say as I blame them, they’ve just spent several hours
the previous night with Denver’s most elite and eye-pleasing
crowd.

I quickly and nervously ask, “When can I have
my paintings back, Mr. Greer?” I didn’t mean that to be a question,
so I rephrase, “I mean I’d like them back today, please.”

He looks at me completely emotionless and
simply states, “They’ve been sold.”

I think my look mirrors Monica’s as we both
look dumbfounded and horrified. I’m stunned into silence and can’t
even manage a word out before he says, “I’ll cut you a check today
of your profits.”

Profits? What? I don’t want the damned money.
I want my paintings back! Of course, my mouth betrays me and all I
can muster out is, “Yes, sir.”

I’m heartbroken and sullen. He said
they wouldn’t sell; I assumed they wouldn’t sell. He said I’m not
talented; I’m
not
talented. I
don’t understand. Who would buy them? With all the beautiful
paintings at the show last night….
mine
sold? Now self-pity turns to rage. I want
my precious paintings back. With clenched fists and my heart
pounding, I march back to Mr. Greer’s office.

“
Who bought them?” I ask, with my tone
being harsher than even I expected. He looks shocked and irritated
at my audacity and I have to admit, I’m quite pleased with myself
at the moment.