The Art of Submission (22 page)

“
It’s BDSM, and no Isabel, there’s no
BDSM 101, but there is an orientation of sorts….”

No thanks
. I
don’t want to learn about this sort of thing from people I don’t
know. How awkward would that be? And what’s this about a contract?
What kind of contract is he talking about? Is a contract like that
legal and binding?

“
It’s a consensual contract that
describes exactly what you will and will not do. What kind of
things I expect out of you as my submissive, that sort of
thing.”

He says it so matter-of-factly that it
throws me a bit. He just sounds so
businesslike and cold.
Is that what this is to
him - a business transaction? I don’t like the sounds of
that.

“
What is it, Isabel?”

He seems concerned, but I don’t know
how to say what I’m thinking without sounding forlorn. “It just all
seems so… businesslike. So…
cold
.”

He looks affronted by my question. I guess
he’s the professional dominant master whatever and I should just
shut up and let him do what he knows. I tell him never mind, it’s
fine, he’s the pro. He seems satisfied and we sit quietly the rest
of the way to the airport.

When we get back to the plane, it’s ready for
us and we quickly get on. As I sit down, I see Brody looking me
over and it makes me immediately uncomfortable. I wish he’d just
stop staring at me. Unexpectedly, Dylan squeezes my hand and
instantly I feel better. As my nerves are starting to calm, Dylan
surprises me with a question.

“Isabel, did Brody say or do something to
make you feel uncomfortable?” He asks with narrowed eyes, but a
controlled voice.

Oh no. Please don’t ask that. I don’t want to
cause any problems.

“Tell me, Isabel. And look at me.” He’s
sterner this time in his response.

Why did he ask anyways? Did Brody say
something to him? Is this some kind of test?
Fess up now, Isa.

He asked if we were serious… shit. I’m
sorry. I lied. I told him that lying was never okay and then I lied
to Brody. The conversation with him was awkward and
uncomfortable.
Please don’t be mad Dylan.
Please.

“
Stop, Isabel. You don’t have to
apologize. He shouldn’t have asked you that. I’m not even sure what
lie you’re referring to.”

What does he mean he doesn’t know? Does he
want me to spell it out for him? It was about us being very
serious. He looks baffled by my comment and that in turns baffles
me. What’s going on in that head of his?

“Aren’t we serious, Isabel?” He says in a
soft childlike voice.

Hell, I don’t know.
Are we
? He’s the one who said he only wanted to
be his submissive and nothing more.

“Being my submissive is serious…”

So he doesn't want me to be with anyone
else. That’s okay with me. I don’t want to be with anyone else.
I’ve already told him I wouldn’t, but what about him? Is he going
to be with anyone else?
Oh no.
The look on his face says it all; the rules apply to me, but
not to him.

“
That’s something we can discuss
later.”

Later? Seriously? Why the hell not now?

“Isabel, not now. When I make out the
contract, that’s something we can discuss.” His tone is
unyielding.

Something we can discuss later, my ass.
I don’t get to be with anyone else, but he does? We have to
negotiate
his monogamy? He’d better
be kidding.

He lets out a huge sigh and then the other
shoe drops. “I’ve already told you, I don’t negotiate, Isabel.”

Oh yes, how silly of me to
forget.
Dylan is all businessman and doesn’t
negotiate
. Isn’t that what we’ve
been doing all along regarding my paintings – negotiating a deal?
What kind of BS is he trying to pull anyway? This is absolutely not
going to work for me. I want to be with him, but at what personal
emotional cost to me? I can already see this is going to end in
miserable heartbreak for me.

I’ll look over his damned contract, that’s
fine, but it’s going to be heavily edited and he can either like my
terms or he can go to hell. He came to me. He’s the one who wanted
this deal, not me. Okay, I do want the deal, but it was his idea
about all the rest of this freaky stuff. I’m too tired to think
about this anymore.

As the plane starts to take off, he has
the gall to reach over and try to hold my hand.
No thanks
. I’ve had enough emotional ups and
downs today. I just need a nap.

Luckily I didn’t dream during my nap on
the plane. The flight was quick, just over an hour and a half. When
I wake, I find a pillow beneath my head. Did he put that there? How
polite of him considering that he wants to sex me, keep my
paintings, and continue to sex other women. Yes,
really
fucking
polite
.

As we get off the plane he asks me several
seemingly concerned questions, like did I sleep okay? Am I feeling
okay? Yes and yes. I don’t give him anything else. I was hoping the
nap would ease some of my crabbiness, but it hasn’t.

The drive back to my apartment is unbearably
silent. I sit pouting and feeling sorry for myself the entire way
home. Why can’t I be stronger? After everything I’ve been through,
why must I be so pathetic? He must have sensed that in me from the
beginning, and now he’s going to take advantage of my weakness like
all the other men in my life have; my father, my ex-lovers, and
Greer. Just add Dylan to the list, too.

He parks the car and I don’t wait for him to
open the door for me. I don’t need his phony chivalry.

“
Isabel, wait. I’ll walk you up.” He
calls after me.

I flatly reply that he doesn’t have to walk
me up. I’d rather he didn’t. I’ll just talk to him later. I need
time to think. As I head towards my building, I hear his car door
close and before I can get inside my building, he’s standing next
to me. I already told him this is fine. Can’t he take a hint?

“Isabel, wait. I want to come up.” He says
and I could be wrong, but he sounds unsettled.

Why does he want to come up? No - that’s a
bad idea. If it’s a contract he wants, then it’s a contract he’ll
get. I kiss him brusquely and tell him good night. I can’t get
inside my building quick enough. Once inside, I don’t look back and
head straight for my apartment.

The moment I get inside my doorway, I
feel the tears threaten to break free, but I forbid them. I slump
onto my bed, still fully clothed and just lay there staring at the
darkened ceiling. The things I saw tonight were so unlike anything
I’ve ever seen and he wants to take me there, to that place within
the deepest darkest recesses of my imagination. Why can’t I just
accept his offer for what it is? Why do I feel like I need his love
or
any
man’s love for that
matter? I’ve lived without love this long, why does it have to be
different now?

Life has always been unfair to me and I
shouldn’t have expected any different with this man. He’s no knight
in shining armor; no savior on a white horse. I’ll never find that
and it’s high time I accept it. This man is as good as it’s going
to get for me. Let him write up his contract and then we can begin
our ‘business arrangement.’

If he’s not willing to concede anything
to me, I decide, here and now, he’ll get what he wants. Sex and sex
only. He wants me to be his submissive? Then fine, but he’s going
to do his fair share of submissiveness as well
.
He wants to be with other women, fine, but I,
too, will have the same option to be with other men if I so
choose.

I’ll write off this experience as
personal growth development, and when I’m done learning what I can
from him, I’m moving on.
Let my personal
growth begin.

Dylan

Finally at home after a long exhausting day,
I sit down to draw up a contract for Isabel. This can’t wait until
tomorrow. I probably won’t get any sleep tonight anyway thinking
about today’s events, so I might as well put this time to good use.
It’s been a while since I’ve written out a consensual contract, but
I was right, it’s just like riding a bike. Instead of the usual
contract, though, I decide it better to write a new kind; one that
doesn’t involve the usual debauchery and depravity that my usual
contracts contain since I don’t want to completely scare Isabel
away. We’ll just start with the basics and work our way up to that
kind of thing later.

I also need to include the things I asked for
before regarding her artwork. It is after all, the reason I’m
sitting here even considering any of this.

Prevalent on my mind is how to broach the
subject of my expectations of her candidness regarding our
arrangement. I got lazy with Erika and because of that, I ended up
in an attempted blackmailing debacle that almost cost me my public
image and threatened my company’s standing. I’d like to think that
Isabel isn’t the kind of person who would go running to the press
with this sort of information, but I’ve obviously been a bad judge
of character before, and I’m not eager to find out the hard way
again. If my lawyers caught wind of my newly planned sexual
exploitation, they’d probably drop me from their client list, so
I’ll just keep this little arrangement with Isabel on the down
low.

After two solid hours of intense
concentration writing a suitable contract for a fledgling
submissive, my day is finally over. As I leave my office, I look
down the hallway towards my dungeon and decide to finally venture
in. I grab the key from my desk and slowly approach the door. I’m
nervous. Why? This used to be my place of solace. I unlock the
padlock and slowly head in.

I flick the lights on and I’m welcomed home
by the site of an oversized bondage bed that’s been stripped clean
of any sheets. The rest of the furniture and toys are all covered
by white sheets, as if they have been laid to rest, and in a sense
they were. The room is dusty and the once sweet pungent aroma of
oil and leather are now replaced by stale air. It saddens me to see
my dungeon in such a neglectful state. Who will I get to clean this
place up? My submissives used to do all the cleaning in here
before.

An idea hits me: This will be Isabel’s
initiation. We can clean this room together and make it our own.
It’s a new beginning for her as well as me, so it only seems
appropriate.

I’m exhausted. It’s well after 2 a.m. and I
need to sleep.

Dylan…. I want you…take me now on the cross.
I want to be with you. Don’t stop… you feel so good… why do you
want other women, Dylan? Aren’t I enough for you? Is any one woman
enough for you?

I wake to the sound of the alarm.
Morning has come too early and I feel hung over from exhaustion.
What the fuck was that dream about? Isabel, of course. It started
out nice, but then it ended unpleasantly. Does she really think I
want other women? I didn’t exactly dispel her fears last night, so
maybe she does.
Shit.
I just
need to sleep a little more. I call the office and leave a message
for Cassie that I’ll be in late and to reschedule my first
appointment.

Having gotten to sleep an extra hour
and a half really helped. I feel a bit more energized, especially
after breakfast and rereading the contract. Considering I was so
tired and half out of my mind with exhaustion, I didn’t do too
badly on it. There are just a few more revisions to make and it’ll
be ready to present to my little artist. I like the sound of
that.
My. Little. Artist.
I
need to put a clause in the contract about watching her paint
before I forget. That’s something I’m not willing to compromise
on.

As I get off the elevators at work,
Cassie and Summer look surprised to see me and jump up to get me
coffee. They quiz me on my health and ask what happened to my lip.
Jesus.
I’m fine.
I’ve been
late before, why the fanfare? I shrug them off and head straight to
my office.

I’m greeted by the site of Isabel’s stunning
artwork on my wall. I’ll never get tired of looking it. I walk over
and study the self-portrait she painted, the one of her in a
submissive pose. It’s fascinating; as is she. I wonder what
inspired this particular painting and whom she was being submissive
with. I don’t like where my thoughts are headed. Its jealousy
again, I think, and the thought of her with anyone else heats my
blood. Speaking of which, I need to talk to Brody about his
inappropriate behavior and comments towards Isabel.

I wonder how Isabel is doing this
morning. I wonder how she got to work. She doesn’t have a car that
I know of.
Holy fuck
- she’s
not using public transportation, is she? That would be completely
unacceptable. I need to clarify what exactly her transportation
is.

I hope she’s having a good day at work.
Work.
Isabel’s work.
Studio
210. Greer.
Fuck
. She has to
see that asshole every day. I have to
think
about her seeing that asshole every day. I
go over and immediately log into my computer and start doing a
background check on him.

He’s just slightly older than me and it turns
out he’s originally from Birmingham, but has lived in the US for
over 10 years. That must be the accent I couldn’t place. Graduate
of Chicago Art Institute. Married twice, divorced twice, no kids.
He’s worked for several art galleries, including a few big names,
but overall, nothing of great interest. I guess I was hoping for a
big red flag with the word douche bag on it. I already know that’s
true, so it makes no difference I guess.