The Art of Submission (8 page)

“
I don’t know what you’re playing at
Mr. Young, but I thought we were here to discuss a deal about my
paintings, not my pathetic personal life,” she snaps.

Whoa… little miss submissive has left the
building. This is someone completely different now. Very
interesting. I wonder what’s so pathetic about her personal
life.

“So you’re no longer sleeping with him?” I
continue probing, despite her outburst.

She lets out a loud sigh and rolls her eyes
at me. “No. I’m not still sleeping with him. I told you it happened
only once.” She sounds irritated and exasperated.

“Then why did I see him coming out of your
building this afternoon?” I ask.

Her frustration with my line of questioning
turns to fear. “Did he see you?” Her voice is barely audible
again.

“No, he didn’t,” I reassure her and I see her
visibly relax with my answer. What is she so afraid of? What has he
done to her?

“Look, Mr. Young. If we’re not going to
discuss my paintings, then I’m leaving.” She says in a resigned
tone. She stands up and turns towards the door.

Is she serious? She’s
leaving
? I don’t think so. I stand
in response.

“Isabel, sit down.” I say strictly. My alter
ego has made his appearance.

She stands frozen staring at me, her
eyes blinking rapidly. Her breathing suddenly becomes shallow and
quick. Slowly her left hand comes up and she starts twirling a
strand of her hair between her fingers, all the while staring at my
mouth. She sits and looks up at me apologetically.
Fuck
.
Me.
It takes every ounce of self-restraint I
have not to fuck her into oblivion right there on the floor of that
tiny café. Just then the waitress comes back to get our
orders.

“Give us a few more minutes,” I say without
taking my eyes off of Isabel. The waitress just stands there
staring at me. I finally look over at her, raise my eyebrows at her
and give her my patented ‘really?’ stare. She takes the hint and
leaves. I sit back down. I can’t take this anymore. I’m just going
to say it.

“Isabel, I want to make a deal with
you. I want to see the rest of your paintings… all of them. Not
just the paintings you have now, but all of your future paintings
as well. I want to be allowed time to study them and appreciate
them. I want to know where your inspiration comes from.
And I want to watch you paint.
If
you can agree to that, then I’ll
give
you back the paintings that I
purchased.”

She opens her mouth to say something but I
cut her off.

“I’m not finished. There’s one more
thing; and this is the big thing.
I want
you
.” Shit. I said it. She’s not saying anything. Her
amber eyes are just piercing through me. What is she thinking right
now? I’d give anything to know what she’s thinking right
now.
Anything
… She just sits
blinking rapidly at me, in silence. She looks stunned and I can’t
tell if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.

“You want
me
?” She asks astonished.

“I want you in more ways that you can
imagine.” I reply.

“Even knowing that I’ve slept with Mr.
Greer?”

Fuck Greer
. I
don’t care who she’s been with. Okay, I
do
care, but it doesn’t make me want her any
less. “Yes. I don’t like it, and the thought pisses me off beyond
belief, but it doesn’t make me want you any less.”

She looks taken aback by my statement, and I
can’t help but think how fragile she looks when she’s caught off
guard.

“That’s a lot for a girl to take in, Mr.
Young, but your proposal seems very… umm… one-sided, considering
it’s only three paintings that I want back,” she says in her shy
voice.

I smile a little at her response. She’s
right; I can’t argue with that. “Yes, I suppose it is, but you did
say they meant a lot to you. Have you changed your mind?”

“Of course
not, it’s just that… uh, what you’re asking for is a lot. My
paintings are very private, Mr. Young, and I’m not sure I’m willing
to share
all
of them with
you, even at the cost of not getting my others back.” She sounds
unsure of herself and her eyes are downcast.

“And the thought of someone watching me
while I paint?
No, no
… I
couldn’t allow that. And what does it matter where my inspiration
comes from? Where does anyone’s inspiration come from? It
just….
comes
.” Her voice is
shaky.

I haven’t even told her the scandalous way I
want to have her yet, and she’s already hesitant. Maybe this was a
huge mistake. She probably doesn’t have a clue about BDSM and am I
really willing to devote so much time trying to teach her? Shit.
Maybe I didn’t think this through enough. I want her, but at what
personal cost? I should back out now and leave without a second
thought.

“Maybe coming to see you was a mistake,
Isabel. I thought you really wanted your paintings back, but now
I’m not so sure you really meant that. I’m sorry that we can’t come
to an agreement. I’ll take you home now.”

“Wait…that’s it? You’re not willing to
negotiate a little on those terms at all?
They seem so strict
.” She’s in panic mode and
she sounds frantic.

Yes, I like
strict
. I stare back blankly at her. I don’t know what
she wants me to say. I’ve never been good at negotiating. I want
what I want. The look on her face right tells me that she might be
reconsidering my proposal now
. Maybe I
will get my way after all.
I’ll just stick with it
then and play hard to get.

“I don’t negotiate, Isabel.”

I stand up and gesture her towards the
door. Her eyes gloss over and I think she’s going to cry.
Fuck. Don’t cry.
I can’t handle that
sentimental bullshit. Instead, she stands up abruptly and heads
towards the door.
What?
That’s not what I was expecting. She walks quickly ahead of
me and out the door. I meet her outside the café and she’s
nervously looking up and down the street. I try and lead her back
to my car, but she’s having none of it.

“I can walk home from here. It’s not far and
I could use the fresh air.” She says petulantly.

What the hell?
I don’t think so
. This conversation isn’t over
until
I
say it’s
over.

“Get in the car, Isabel,” I say strictly. It
seemed to work the last time. She looks at me with wide eyes like
before, but this time she doesn’t look apologetic, she looks
defiant.

“I’d rather not, Mr. Young,” she says as she
narrows her eyes at me.

Here we go again; it’s Little Miss
Sassy Panties. This girl needs to be seriously disciplined. She
turns away from me and starts walking back towards her apartment.
Did she really just turn her back to me?
What the fuck
? Just then I get a look at her
fine ass. How did I miss that before? And now I wonder how she
would look bent over my knee, her perfectly round ass pinking up
under a paddle.
She’d look contrite then,
wouldn’t she
?

Well, this plan backfired,
didn’t it jackass?
Fucking stubborn woman. I am not
going to chase her.
I am NOT going to
chase her.
Damn it.
No.
I am. NOT. Going. To. Chase. Her.

So what do I do? I get in my
overly-flashy-for-this-neighborhood car and fucking chase her.
Where did my balls go? I used to have a pair. Oh yes, now I
remember; that snitch of an ex-submissive cut them off. Fuck that
cunt and her big mouth. I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for her
threats of exposing my ‘alternative lifestyle’ and attempts at
blackmailing me.

I pull alongside the pouting beauty,
roll down the passenger side window and try and plead with her.
“
Please
get in the car,
Isabel.” I’m trying my best not to sound sarcastic, but failing
miserably. If there’s anything I hate, it’s saying
please
. She doesn’t even look over
at me.

“Get in the fucking car, Isabel.” I say
it louder this time, thinking maybe she didn’t hear me, but there’s
still no response from her, except that now she’s picked up her
pace. Now I’m seriously pissed.
Fuck
this.

“Get in this motherfucking car NOW or so help
me Almighty, I’ll pull over right here, put you over my knee and
spank the hellion right out of you!” Now I’m yelling and I know
damn well she heard me this time.

Three erotic paintings by Isa - $20K;
chasing said artist in Benz SLS Coupe - $195K; the look on her face
right at this moment - PRICELESS.

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

Isabel

I cry myself to sleep after my horrible phone
conversation with Mr. Young. My dreams are tortured and I get no
rest at all. Even worse, I don’t even get any painting inspiration
from my dreams. I reluctantly get out of bed and shower myself. I’m
not even hungry, despite not having eaten breakfast and it being
well past lunchtime.

I keep replaying the conversation over
and over in my mind. I had no idea he could be such a jerk.
That tone
. What gives? But that
voice. Wow. That was something else. The way he said my name… it
was unexpected and
ooh so
nice
. I could soak my panties just thinking about the
way it rolled off his tongue. Wait…
no
. I’m supposed to be pissed at him.

Who the hell does he think he is
anyway? I mean, sure he’s wealthy and sort of well known, but that
doesn’t mean anything to me and it certainly doesn’t give him the
right to call me without invitation and then castigate me. I mean,
hell, did he really have to point out the obvious about my not
being able to afford to buy them back? That hurt.
That really hurt
.

I can’t think about this anymore. I need to
get some fresh air. Maybe I’ll buy myself something with my
ill-gotten booty and partake in some retail therapy. I might as
well spend it since I can’t use it to get my paintings back. I
should’ve just told the uppity Mr. Young to keep his money and
shove it up his manhole. Better yet - I’ll buy him a dildo with his
own money, send it to him, and tell him to go fuck himself. That’s
actually a great idea, and I smile for the first time today
thinking about it.

Well, my shopping spree turned out to be a
bust. I couldn’t bring myself to buy anything of any consequence
except for some groceries. I really did consider the dildo idea,
but my good manners got the better of me.

I wonder what his message said. I probably
shouldn’t have deleted it. I don’t know why I’m even torturing
myself about it, it’s a done deal. Since I’m in the self-torturing
kind of mood, I might as well continue down this path. I get online
and Google him once more.

Damn; he really is a fine specimen of
man. I wonder what other information I can find out about him. I
scroll down the page and there are several interviews with him from
various local sources and one from
Fast
Company
.

He was a teenager hacker who started
working for the NSA at a young age despite having no college
degree. Interesting. He’s 30 years old and has never been married.
He started an up and coming business six years ago that provides
security on a national level for many small businesses and leading
corporations, including a few government agencies.
Well
lah di
da
. It doesn’t say much about his personal life,
except that both his parents died when he was age 14 and he was
emancipated a few years thereafter.
How
sad
. Then there are pages upon pages of pictures of
him with
skinny
, leggy
brunettes – and I catch myself feeling bitter about his choice in
women. I wonder what he has against short women.

The rest of my day is a complete waste… as
usual. Another Saturday has come and gone. I’m lonely. I should get
a pet; a cat maybe. I’ve never had a pet. My father wouldn’t allow
one in his precious house. Heaven forbid an animal shed an ounce of
fur on his imported Egyptian furniture. Hell, I would’ve even been
happy with a fish. Well, he was like an old cold fish himself, but
I don’t think that really counts.

Speaking of
father dearest
, I haven’t heard from him in a
few months. I still have the monthly guilt money that he sent; the
check still sitting un-cashed in my desk drawer. Now that I have
some of my own money, I may just send it back to him. Wouldn’t that
go over well? I’d love to see the look on his face if I did that.
My luck, he’d probably stroke out or something and then what would
I do? I’d end up having to take care of him and wipe his ass. No
thanks.
Nice, Isa
. Don’t be
so cruel
.
And why shouldn’t I
be
?
He was cruel…
and
abusive.
I can’t
think about that and push it to the back of my mind.

I end up watching television the rest
of the night, though not really watching it, and mostly daydreaming
about Mr. Young. I finish off the last little bit of wine that
Greer brought over the last time he was here… the night we…
yuck
… I can’t think about that. Off
to bed I go.