The Art of Control (21 page)

“Tell me, Master.”

“I love you, silly girl. You know that,” he answers.

“I love you, as well, but that’s not what I mean. Tell me what’s wrong.”

He snort laughs and shakes his head at me. “Christ, you know me well.” He looks over to Luke and asks him to give us a few moments alone and Luke graciously retreats.

I tentatively sit up, Dylan wrapping a blanket around me and pulling me into his chest.

“Oh, Isa, I wish I didn’t have to say this. The sex videos of us were leaked.”

Oh. My.
God.
“Leaked to whom?” I ask, knowing full well the implications of Dylan’s remark.

“To everyone,” he answer
s, his eyebrows pulled together and biting his bottom lip.

I suddenly
feel nauseous and light-headed, bile rising in my throat quickly.

“Oh, God, Dylan... I’m going to be sick,” I whimper, my mouth salivating profusely.

“Calm your tits, pussycat…” he starts to say, but I’m not fucking joking.
I’m really going to be sick.

“Master,
please…
” I heave out.

Dylan realizes my
pukey predicament and hauls me into his arms and jogs to the bathroom. I’m pressed up against his poor welted chest and still, he carries me like a Viking claiming his virgin bride on their wedding night.

Oh, God, we’re not going to make it in time
. I start to dry heave and before we make it to the restroom, I wretch all over the front of his shirt. Being the absolute gentleman that he is, Dylan doesn’t flinch. Once in the bathroom, he gently sets me down just in time for me to vomit into the toilet, all the while holding my hair back and kneeling next to me.

Everyone?
Why? Who? No, no
… I gag again, my dinner spilling out of me and into the porcelain bowl. I close my eyes tightly not wanting to see the contents of my stomach laid out before me. Gripping the edge of the toilet seat for dear life, Dylan flushes it, banishing my upchuck to the bowels of the sewer.

When I finally catch my breath after my last dry h
eave, I do my best to suck back my tears.

“I
sabel, look at me,” Dylan says decisively, grabbing my chin. “None of this matters. I don’t care what people think…”

Bullshit. H
e can say it, but his eyes echo his true feelings. He’s embarrassed. “Well, you should care. Oh, sugar, your business, your reputation… you should care!” I say loudly.

“Isa…”

“No, just stop…” I cry.

Steadfastly he grabs my shoulders. “No,
you
stop. You may think you know me and I won’t deny that you know me well, but right now, you have no idea what I’m thinking, okay?”

“You can’t lie to me. You can’t. You’re embarrassed, aren’t you? Don’
t lie, Dylan, admit it!”

His mouth twitches, but his denial goes unsaid, proving me right. I hide my face in my hands, disgusted with m
yself for ever putting the man I love in this position.

“Who did it?” I ask.

“Don’t ask me that,” he whispers.

Looking up at him, my vision blurred by tears, I know the answer by the pained and angry expression on his face.
Papa.

“What else aren’t you telling me?” I demand.

Dylan shakes his head but I grab him by his soiled shirt and tug at him, “You promised there would be no secrets, so tell me!”

“The man who stabbed me works for your father,” he says as if irritated with himself for confessing.

“Oh, God,” I blurt out before I dry heave into the toilet again.

This can’t be happening.

Dylan

Isa is a damned mess right now. I do my best to clean her and myself u
p and try to make conversation, but she remains silent. At least the tears have stopped. Christ, I can’t handle seeing her cry. It fucking kills me.

Back in the social area, Luke voices his concern for Isa, wondering if we worked her over too much and that being the reason she’s ill. I reassure him that’s not the case, but I’m not sure he believes me. Isa politely chimes in, declaring the same.

We say our final goodbyes and make our way back to the hotel. When we reach the lobby, both Isa and I are accosted by French police who want to question me about Anderson’s assault. They separate us to question us in private rooms provided by the hotel. At least they’re civil enough not to haul our asses to the police station.

The man
querying me has a very thick accent, but I’m able to make out his questions. He looks over my hands, front and back, noting that there are no scratches or cuts on my knuckles. I feign ignorance and turn the tables by accusing Anderson of stalking Isa, which isn’t a complete lie. The officer, too, finds it odd that an ex-boyfriend would be here in Paris during our honeymoon. I point out a few staff members who were present during our near altercation in the restaurant and he seems satisfied.

When Isa is brought back to me, she looks pa
le and queasy. She’s a miserable fucking liar and I can only hope she didn’t sign my arrest warrant.

We wait another half hour, Isa in my arms as we sit
quietly in the lobby, waiting for the police to finish questioning staff. To my utter joy, they approach us and apologize, stating that they will be questioning Anderson as to why he’s in Paris, at the same hotel, during our honeymoon.
Good.
Take that, you piece of shit, Anderson Hayes.

We silently ride the elevator up to our room, Isa never making
eye contact. I grab her hand and gently squeeze it and she reciprocates by gripping my hand excruciatingly tight.

Once in the room, she moves to the window and
gazes out at the night lights.

“What did you tell them?” I ask, standing directly behind her and looking at her
lifeless reflection in the glass.

“Nothing,” she replies blandly.

“What do you mean
nothing
?”

“I
mean -
nothing.
There was nothing to tell. I was sleeping, remember. I don’t know where you went or what you did; you didn’t tell me. For all I know, you stayed right here in this room. For all I know, Anderson brought that note of his own free will.”

I know how strongly Isa feels about lying and for her to lie to the police like that...

“I love you, pussycat,” I breathe into her ear.

“I know you do, Master, and I would do anything to protect you from my father.
Anything.
” Her voice is shaky but her words are uncompromising and for an ephemeral moment, the staunch look in her burning eyes frightens me. My concentration is broken by my sweltering chest and back and I can only imagine Isa is feeling the same way after our intense scenes tonight. I guide us both into the bathroom where we take a cool shower, letting the water ease our wounds. No words are spoken as we both let the shower water cascade over our skin.

Dried off and back in bed, Isa calls room service for our sorely needed sustenance while I get the
Pān-X cream ready. I lubricate her back and thighs liberally with the cream and she does the same for my chest and shoulder blades. We eat our food in silence, my mind racing with all the possible ways I can torture her father and make his death painful. I’m avoiding thinking about my reputation and all the things that are being posted about me, but of course, my curiosity gets the best of me and while Isa sips on her champagne, I Google my name on my phone.
Fucking hell
. Why did I do that?

Still images taken from various vide
os of me and Isa are posted on just about every fucking online website. There’s even a photo of her collared and kneeling at my feet with a leash in my hand.
Christ.
Now I know what Anderson was referring to. I set my Google alerts to notify me of anything new posted about us and set my phone down. Looking over at Isa, she’s watching me keenly.

“Is it bad?” she asks.

She does know me well. I nod
yes,
not wanting to voice just how bad it really is. She blinks long and hard, stands and moves towards the balcony.

“Where are you going?” I ask panicked
and sitting up on the edge of the bed.

“To get some air,” she answers sullenly.

“I’ll come with you.”
I’ll be damned if she’s going out there alone.

Isa turns to look at me with irritation flashing on her face. “I’m
just
getting some air,” she huffs defensively.

“And I’m
just
coming with you.”

She rolls her eyes at me and I pull her to face me. “Is that how it is? You can disrespect me with your eye roll but I get flogged for doing it to you?”

She suddenly looks contrite as if she’d forgotten about the last time she punished me for rolling my eyes at her.

“Sorry, Master. It won’t happen again.”

We make our way out onto the terrace perched high above Paris. The view is stunning, the air crisp and the breeze light. Isa leans against the railing, looking over the edge precariously and then stepping back and closing her eyes tightly. She backs up until she meets my chest and I hug her close.

“I really do hate heights,” she says softly. “I’m so sorry that I’m an embarrassment to you,” she sniffs.

What the fuck?
I spin her around and grip her shoulders firmly. “You
are not
an embarrassment. The situation of our private sex life and fetishes being on display is what’s embarrassing, Isa. And to be completely honest, I’m not even embarrassed about the world knowing what it is I’m really about, it’s just the fact that the videos are so explicit. I don’t need the world seeing how beautiful you look being fucked or how passionate you are when I make you orgasm. It’s no one’s business but ours and the people we choose to see it at the club. Do you understand the difference?”

She shrugs and stares at the ground.

“Tell me you know the difference, Isabel,” I demand.

“This is
all my fault,” she whimpers.

“How the hell is
this your fault? Why do you always feel the need to take the blame for things you have no control over? The blame for this situation falls on your father’s and Cassie’s shoulders alone.”

“Well if that isn’t the pot calling the kettle black,” she says looking up at me
flabbergasted.

“What do you mean?”
I ask, baffled by her statement.

“You continue to take the blame for what happened to your parents when you had
no control over it,” she exclaims.

“That’s different. I was the reason it happened,”
I grouse.

“No, it’
s not different. You may have started the ball rolling, but you had no control over what happened after that. There’s nothing, Dylan,
nothing
you could’ve done to stop it, either.”

How the fuck did this end up about me?

“This isn’t about me…”

“
Of course not, it never is. It’s always me, me, me and my problems and issues. I’m tired of it. I’m tired of feeling helpless and out of control. I’m sick of this bullshit!” she yells. “You have enough money; can’t you buy us a condo on the moon or something? No one can bother us there and you can attend all your work meetings via satellite and I can paint the stars to my heart’s content.”

The look on her face is serious and she’s waiting for my response as if I could really pull it off. 

“If I could, I would, and I promise that if the possibility ever becomes real, I’ll do it.”

She
smiles, her eyes tearing up as she hugs my neck, tiptoeing and leaning into me.

“I believe you would.”

We go to bed early, holding each other and making conversation about anything and everything except the white elephant in the room. Isa falls asleep before I do, and I reach for her journal. Needing an ego boost, I flip towards the back to read about myself.

8/10/12

Another birthday come and gone. I’m a quarter of a century old. How depressing. I haven’t accomplished jack, I have no relationship to speak of, and I work a menial job under a boss who won’t keep his hands off of me. I’m so stupid for letting him have his way with me. NEVER AGAIN. My birthday gift? He came over and practically demanded to “borrow” my paintings. I suppose it will be the only time my art is hung on a gallery wall so I shouldn’t complain too much. I wish I were going to the gallery show.

8/15/12

Just got back from the gallery. My paintings are gone! I guess Mr. G decided not to use them after all. What a spectacle the show was. Gorgeous women and men everywhere. What a dream. One dreamy specimen in particular was in attendance. The Dylan Young. Sweet baby Jesus to get my mouth around that package.

I inwardly laugh. So I guess she found me attractive. Nice work, Young.

8/16/12

My paintings were sold. I can’t
freakin’ believe it. I hate Mr. G!! Dylan Young paid $20K for them! That man must be insane. Apparently he has more looks than brains and too much money for his own good. I thought he knew his art work. I’m getting them back, damn it. They belong to me. That asshole had no right selling them.

Ouch. My inflated ego retreats. The image sketched is of angry Isa with fist in
the air again. This seems to be a theme.

8/17/12

I met HIM today. I went to his office to demand my paintings back but I couldn’t get a meeting. God, he’s so much more beautiful in person than he is in pictures. He came to work but thankfully he didn’t recognize me. I want him. Damn me for going to his office! I’ll definitely have good dreams tonight.

She looked up pictures of me? Nice. My ego is puffing up again.

8/18/12

Mr. Young inspired a very naughty image last night. Not much else to say. I’m never getting my paintings back. He called me and made me feel worthless. He’s just another arrogant a-hole who has to point out the obvious about me. I should’ve bought him a dildo with his own money and told him to go fuck himself with it instead of just buying groceries.

Is that how I made her feel? Jesus. I reach over to her and touch her cheek,
feeling like hell for having spoken to her the way I did, but I can’t help to chuckle at her comment. I wonder how I would’ve reacted had she done that. I probably would’ve flipped out and spanked her or threatened to do so. Oh, wait - I did that and everything that came after was what set our whole future into motion. It’s strange to think how much I’ve changed in such a short period of time. I wonder which naughty image I inspired.

I wake
in the early morning, angry with myself for having fallen asleep and not reading more. It was just starting to get good, too. Isa is already in the shower and all of our bags are neatly packed and waiting by the door. My good little sub always pleases me in the most subtle of things she does.

I
sneak into the shower and pull her to me hoping for some morning nookie, but she seems put off. I suppose I can’t completely blame her with everything that’s happened. Her back is still raw so I gently wash it for her. My body, too, still aches painfully. The shower loosens my muscles and I feel a bit more limber afterwards. Our usual routine of caring for our battle scars ensues post shower and we dress unceremoniously.

When we reach the lobby, Isa’s painting is wrapped neatly and waiting for us. We go through the usual foreign protocol and luggage searches at the airport and meet up with Carson who looks a combination of exhausted and sex-drunk.

“I take it you had a winning time this last week?” I laugh.

“That’s an understatement. Damn, Mr. Young. Thank you for hiring me. Seriously,
thank you
.”

We board the plane after an hour
of waiting in the terminal and finally depart for our long journey back home. Once in the air, I make my way into the cockpit and talk to Carson about everything that’s transpired on our short vacation, preparing him for the shit storm that will be waiting for us when we get back home. He looks irate and disgusted, mirroring my feelings.

Isa sleeps most of the long flight and I check my Google alerts activity. My stomach churns at the crap being spewed about us. They don’t even know us. Though, there are many forum posts defending our lifestyle which makes me feel only mildly better. There are even professionals backing us up, including psychologists, feminists, and a few celebrities saying that what we’re doing isn’
t wrong in the least. Of course, there are the jackasses who insist we’re both sick and need help. In my personal opinion, it’s those people who deny their sexuality that need the help, not people like me and Isa. We’re living out our fantasies with each other, we’re not hurting anyone and it’s completely consensual. Why can’t the world understand that
?
Fuck anyone who has the nerve to judge the way we decide to love each other.