The Art of Submission

Ella Dominguez

Copyright Ella Dominguez 2012

Published at Smashwords

Smashwords License Statement

This ebook is licensed for your personal
enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other
people. If you would like to share this book with another person,
please purchase an additional copy for each reader. If you’re
reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased
for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and
purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard word of
this author.

To my husband for all his inspiration and his
patience with me.

To my daughter for her wonderful sense of
humor and her patience with me.

I would like to thank the following
people:

To Nicole and J.G. for proofing and helping
make sense of my thoughts.

To M.P. for her candid confessions about her
experiences and for doing the first read through.

To all of my family and friends for their
love and support.

Thank you to Lesa Kendrick for allowing me to
use her wonderful poem.

Thank you to Rebekka Ivàcson for allowing me
to use her beautiful artwork for my cover and throughout the
book.

Cover work by
corrinaparrbooks.wordpress.com

Sample consensual contract from
http://bdsm-whatitisallabout.blogspot.com

Bondage Among Other
Things
by Lesa Kendrick

I lie on your bed

Wearing not a stitch of clothing

Waiting… anticipating…

Alone

And waiting… wondering…

I moan

You dance into the room

Your clothing drops to your feet

My heart skips a beat

As you walk closer

Licking your lips

As though I am the treat

You wish to eat

“Please” I beg

“Kiss me, touch me.”

You take your feather whip

Teasing… tantalizing

My flesh.

I am going up in flames

Wanting… waiting…

Wishing

You mouth leaves a fiery path

Upon my rosebud skin.

Sweeping down, kissing everywhere

Until I drag you in.

“Don’t stop!!!”

“Please, NEVER stop!”

I surrender, giving in…

I am left there trembling when

You begin again.

Dylan

Another dull day followed by another dull
night. Despite the fact that I need a good fucking, I’m thankful I
didn’t bring a date so I can get the hell out of here.

Why the fuck did I agree to go to this
gallery show anyway?
I hate these
things.
I prefer viewing art at my own leisure. Oh
yeah, that’s right, it’s for charity - it’s good for my ‘public
image.’ I’m surrounded by uninteresting, pretentious assholes who
know nothing about art and like flashing their cash. If I hear one
more reference to Monet, I swear to fucking Almighty I’m going to
lose it.

All the floral prints and bullshit
happy images are too much and I can feel the bile rising in my
throat.
I have to get out of here
now
.

I start casually wandering around the gallery
trying to inch my way towards the door to make my hasty getaway and
hopefully avoid the photographers. In my anxiousness to get out, I
momentarily get turned around and find myself in a dark corner of
the gallery. As I turn to get my bearings, I’m confronted by three
medium-sized canvases hanging inconspicuously on a darkened
wall.

I stop dead in my tracks. What am I
looking at? My eyes scan them furiously. The colors are dark, deep
shades of reds, blacks and gray, with occasional hues of dark blue
scattered throughout. The subject matter is stunning … erotic, dark
and sinful. I feel my balls ache for the sound of a snapping whip
as I gaze upon them. The images are fragmented, but
I get it
. Who painted these windows
into the depths of my soul? My eyes dart down to the corner to see
the artist’s name. “Isa” is all that’s scribbled for a signature.
Who is he? I’ve never heard of him, and if I know anything, I know
my art. An unknown local artist no doubt.

A creeping sense of paranoia floods
over me.
He’s seen my dreams… he knows my
past
. Of course, that’s ridiculous and I know it. I
can’t pull myself away from the paintings when an unannounced sandy
blond-haired gallery representative stealthily approaches and
interrupts my thoughts and makes me jump.

“My apologies for startling you Mr. Young.
You seem to have lost your way, let me show you back to the main
area,” he says in an accent I can’t quite place.

He’s right; I did lose my way, but fuck that.
There’s no way in hell I’m looking at that crap again. “Thank you,
but I’d much rather look at these paintings,” I say blandly.

He looks shocked. His eyes jump from me, to
the paintings, and then back again. I ignore his expression. “Who
is the artist who painted these?”

“Artist?” He pauses, still shocked at my
interest in them. “I wouldn’t say the person who painted these is
an ‘artist’ per se.”

Could he be more condescending? I doubt it.
What the fuck does he mean by that anyway? He starts to look
nervous, and it must be from the cold hard stare I’ve thrust upon
him.

I break the silence, “So tell me a
little about the
artist
, is
he local?” I say, ignoring his comment. He seems to be at a loss
for words with my persistence.

Avoiding the term artist, he answers,
“No,
he’s
not local. The
person who painted these is very shy, different, and…”

He trails off, and I finish his sentence for
him, “Eccentric?”

“A bit,” he states.

Yes, there’s that word. I’ve been accused
myself of being as much, so that description means nothing to
me.

“And very difficult to get
a hold of
,” he says as an afterthought, but I think he
means something entirely different by the look in his eyes. He
chimes up again, almost apologetically, “I only placed these here
to take up space. We had an unexpected sale today and I needed to
fill the wall.”

His explanation is lame, but right now I
don’t care. I just want these paintings in my possession. “Speaking
of unexpected sales, I’d like to purchase these.”

Again, he looks shocked. Doesn’t this
ostentatious bastard have any other expressions?

“But... these aren’t for sale.” He
stutters. “I’m sure I can find something more appealing to your
tastes Mr. Young, if you’d like to follow me this way.” He says as
he turns away from the paintings
.

What the fuck does he know about my
tastes?
These are right up my alley you
douche bag
. I almost voice that sentiment, but my
‘public image’ once again pops into my head and I
refrain.

“
I’m not interested in anything else in
your gallery. I want
these
.
How much?” I state more forcefully as I narrow my eyes at
him.

Oh, he does have other expressions; now
he looks irritated. Welcome to my world you pompous ass. I stand
staring at him, uncompromising, and wait for an answer. He finally
breaks and gives me a price. I get the impression he thinks he’s
given me a price so ridiculous that I’ll balk at the sale or try to
negotiate
. I don’t do negotiation.
Quite frankly, what he’s asking is chump change for these
fascinating pieces and I would’ve paid double what he’s asked.
Without hesitation I agree to his price and reach into my back
pocket to fish out my credit card and it’s back; his look of utter
shock. I have to stop myself from laughing out loud at his
ridiculousness.

As we’re finishing up the sale, I start to
ask about a delivery and time, and decide instead I want to take
them home immediately myself, not wanting to wait another day or
two. I’m told this isn’t the usual protocol, but I’m not asking,
and I tell him that I’ll have my driver pull around front and pick
them up in a few minutes. Not surprisingly, the dealer looks
shocked once more.

Back home, I carry my precious cargo inside
and cautiously place them on a large side table in my office, until
I can get around to hanging them later. Once again, I find myself
lost in the paintings. My eyes carefully scanning each canvas,
every square inch, making sure I haven’t missed something. I
finally pry myself away from them, realizing it’s late and I still
need to shower.

In the shower, I’m left alone with my
crude thoughts and memories of my darker days. Good old days, if
you will; at least, good for me. The BDSM club I used to
frequent;
most
of my
submissives; my dungeon with all my tools of sweet torture; impact
play…
Yes.
Those were good
days, indeed. Fuck I miss it. But that life is over for me now. Not
by my choice, unfortunately, but nonetheless, it’s over, and it’s
pointless to dwell on it.

I can’t sleep. Images of the paintings keep
seeping into my thoughts. It’s a little after 2 a.m. and I find
myself in my office, yet again, gazing at the paintings. Wrist
cuffs on delicate hands, rope bound ankles; and a submissive pose;
that’s all that the images amount to, really. The last one, the
girl in the picture - who is she? A model no doubt. Again, I wonder
who the artist is and how he knows my deepest darkest thoughts. He
must be into the BD lifestyle as well. Only someone who was into
BDSM as heavily as I was could paint images like this. It’s the
only thing that makes any sense.

I try rearranging them, shuffling them
around, trying to figure out their meaning, if there is any.
Finally giving up, I place one on the floor, while the other two
are still left on the side table and turn to leave. I glance back
for one last look before trying to get back to sleep, and then I
see it. The paintings are three pieces of an unfinished puzzle.
Now…. where and how do I get the other pieces? I need the other
pieces…. for my own sanity
, I need
them.

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

Isabel

Another monotonous day followed by
another uneventful night. I wish so badly I had been invited to the
charity gallery show tonight, but I’m not anyone important, so
there was no chance of that happening. Just to see those wonderful
paintings
by real artists
and
all those beautiful people... now that would be heavenly. Oh well,
there’s no point in dwelling on it.

Maybe I’ll paint tonight. I can’t
believe I was so stupid to let Mr. Greer talk me into borrowing my
paintings. Well, he didn’t exactly talk me into it; it was more
like he
insisted
on it. Even
threatened me. Seriously? What’s with this guy?
Like I don’t know
. He wants in my panties…
a
gain
. No thanks. The thought
repulses me. Once was
more than
enough for me. The memory of him in my apartment, on
me,
in
me, comes unwelcome to
my mind and I shudder. As much as I miss sex, however boring it’s
been, I’ll just stick with finger banging myself before I let
anything that stupid happen again. I can’t think about that and I
push the memory to the back of my mind.

I’m going to demand my paintings back
tomorrow.
Or maybe ask nicely.
I just want them back, damn it. They’re mine and they’re too
personal for anyone to see. What would people think of them anyway?
That I’m some kind of freak, that’s what. And deep down, I know
they’re right. I mean, I would never ask anyone to put pages of
their diary up for show and tell; how dare Mr. Greer expect me to
put my paintings out there. That’s what they are to me, personal
journal pages; my deepest darkest thoughts; my filthy fantasy life
played out on canvas. It’s my own fault; I never should’ve let him
come over to my place. If he hadn’t come over or more to the point,
insisted on coming over, he never would’ve seen them and I wouldn’t
be in this predicament.

Maybe I’ll just make an innocent
appearance at the show tonight; make like I forgot something like
my wallet. Then I can sneak a peek at where Mr. Insistent put my
paintings. I might as well enjoy it since it will be the one and
only time my paintings will
EVER
be in a gallery. Yes. It sounds like a plan.