The Art of Domination (21 page)

Dylan walks me over to the cro
ss and shackles my wrists and ankles in place, never saying a word. He walks over to the stereo and turns on another song which I’ve never heard. It’s techno sounding and not at all like the usual music that he listens to. He must sense my apprehension and he wants to drown out the sounds coming from the other room. I love how he’s always in my head like that.

The beat is rhythmic, thumping
, and spellbinding. I close my eyes and let the music wash over me.

“Keep your eyes closed like t
hat, Isabel,” Dylan breathes in my ear and bites my lobe sharply. I hiss through my teeth at the pain. I feel bites all across my chest, down my breasts, my nipples and on my belly. Then soft wet licks down and across my thighs and one last lick slicked teasingly through my slit and just at the tip of my clit. I quiver and goose bumps make their way across my belly and arms, making my hair on my arms stand on end.

“We don’t
have much time right now, but I want to try something,” Dylan tells me as he stands and whispers in my ear. “Don’t be afraid. Now open your eyes.”

I open my eyes and Dylan has moved to t
he tallboy dresser and is getting something out. He has a knife in one hand and something liquid in the other.
What in the name of high heaven?
He dips the knife into the liquid and pulls out a lighter.  Next, he goes to the small sink in the corner and wets a towel and lays it down on the floor next to me. When he comes back, he lights the knife on fire and walks towards me.

I feel my apprehension building and my muscles tighten. He runs the knife across my belly gently and the heat sets me on edge. It’s hot and I can smell something chemical.
Slowly, he runs the flaming knife over my upper arms. Just when I start to relax, he glides the knife a little deeper over the top of my breasts. It doesn’t cut me, but it skims my skin just enough that the heat and the pain take me by surprise. I close my eyes, but Dylan orders me to open them again.

“I want you see what’s coming, Isa. Keep your eyes open.”
 

He holds the knife over my tummy again and this
time I can really feel the flame and the blade. He slides the blade over my skin again, this time cutting it ever so slightly. I recoil from the pain and he immediately licks the small bit of blood that drips down. Watching him do this to me is intense, especially knowing that there are people within ear shot if I were to scream out. I bite my bottom lip and tense up.

Dylan is completely in the
Dom zone and me, I’m in my subspace. The music sweeps over me again, the soft thumping beat pulsating in my pussy. I feel my juices run down my thighs as I continue to watch Dylan run the knife over various parts of my body and lick me. He does it one last time on my inner thigh, running the heated knife just near the crease of my thigh by my pussy. He cuts me there, too, and again, he licks at the blood that pools there.
Oh my God.
The feeling is powerful.  Dylan looks up at me as he slips his tongue inside me and the look in his eyes is one of pure desire and lust.

He wraps the knife in the wet towel and douses the flame. He stands up and leans into me, with his elbows on ei
ther side of my head and pushes his cock slowly into me. His movements are in time with the music, each rhythmic thrust in beat with the bass. Dylan’s mouth is near my ear and his hot breath is ragged and quick. He moans my name as he swivels his hips around and around, teasing and tormenting me with his slow concentrated fucking as he pushes deep into me, filling me completely.

I’m sweating from the heat that Dyla
n is emitting and our bodies slide against each other. My wrists ache from me wrenching on the restraints, as do my ankles, and my back is chaffed from being pressed into the hard wood of the cross.

“Oh, Isa…” he
moans out deep and sexy.

He bites m
y earlobe and neck and the intense pain sends me over the edge. I cum and I scream out, throwing caution to the wind and forgetting all about the men in the other room.

Dylan continues to plunge into me over and over again, faster and harder with each driving force and finally, he cums too. 
He stays inside of me while he catches his breath and I lean into his neck and lick him in the crook of his ear. He giggles softly and shifts from the tickling sensation. He slips out of me and looks at me, his searing blue eyes watching me intently.

“
I love you completely.” His confession is so absolutely earnest that my heart skips a beat.

Dylan unshackles me and
wraps me in a soft blanket and lays me on the bondage bed. He takes my hair down and runs his fingers through it. His gentle caressing touches relax me. After holding me for a few moments, he kisses me tenderly.

“Why me?” I ask out of the blue.

He looks down at me bewildered.

“Why me and not someone else, Dylan? What was so special about me that made you want to marry me?”

Without hesitation he answers, “Because of your complete sincerity and honesty. Because you trusted me enough to allow me to be your Dom, even though you knew nothing about me and my past. Because of your amazing talent that you share with me.”

Allowed him to be my Dom?
“I had no choice but to let you be my Dom. You were the one who allowed me to be your sub, Dylan.”

He smiles sweetly at me. “You have it all backwards, love.”

I’m too tired to try and decipher his man-code.

“Re
st here for a bit,” he tells me as he gets off the bed.

“Back to the goon squad?”
I ask him and he laughs.

He gets dressed and excuses himself.
While I lay resting, I hear voices in the dining room.

As I drift in and out of sleep, I wonder how long it will be before I get to be in control again. I’ve been taking mental notes of the things Dylan is doing to me and the way he acts. I want so badly to be in control of myself and my emotions, the way he is. I also want more than anything to be in complete control of him. Not all of the time, but sometimes. He’ll look spectacular on the cross. He hasn’t allowed that yet, but when all is said and done and Domme Isa comes out to play, he’ll be shackled there, too.

Absolutely fucking magnificent.
What else can I say about my wife? She looks peaceful as I head out of the dungeon and back to the dining room. Everyone is finished eating and sitting around the table still talking about the good old days. I inwardly laugh when I see how ludicrous they all look reliving the past.
Goon squad, indeed.
When I approach them, Sawyer eyes me from head-to-toe and then rolls his eyes at me as he smiles accusingly.
Shit. Can he tell?

“Nice hair,” h
e comments.

I gues
s I have just-got-laid hair going on. I run my hands through my way-too-fucking-long mane and try to contain it.
I seriously need a haircut. 
I give him my fuck-off look and he laughs with gusto. Sawyer is beginning to act the like the big brother I never wanted.

Okay, e
nough fun and games.
Back to business.

I
go back into the office and I pull up my files on Isa’s father while Sawyer and the others stay in the dining room and work in there. I’ve taken over this task while Sawyer works on finding out who called and threatened Isa. The gallery show is only a few days away and I can’t risk Isa being put in danger.

I want to know who the hell
is making my life a nightmare and who told Isa’s father about my investigation. And how the hell did they know about that? Someone has obviously been probing around in my work files. Is there a mole in my office who’s feeding this person information?

I bring up my
employee profiles and start tracking and tracing all users of our computer system, far and wide. I don’t see anything unusual and get frustrated after a good hour. Next I bring up Isa’s father’s profile and the police record of her mothers’ car accident. I want to see what it is that Sawyer finds suspicious. It’s not long before I see what he’s talking about.

She was in a car accident
but because of the way her body was positioned and the nature of her wounds, it’s very unlikely she was even driving when she died. Despite this, her death was still ruled accidental and no real police investigation was opened up.

He has
money; a lot of it. I wonder who the hell he bribed to keep that door shut. When I see just how much the villainous Emilio Ibanez is really worth, I’m surprised and, frankly, shocked that Isa doesn’t act like a spoiled rich girl. This man’s wealth rival’s my own, but you’d never know that Isa grew up around that kind of wealth by the way she acts. I guess he kept her under his thumb so well, she never had a chance to spread her wings and really enjoy her well-to-do lifestyle. The thought pisses me off.

I find a picture and newspaper article about her mothers’ ac
cident. Her mother was born in Brazil and was stunning like Isabel. Their resemblance to one another is undeniable.  Her mother was petite like Isa and they share the same facial features and fair skin. My heart aches for Isa. She never had a chance to know her mother and she thinks that her mother abandoned her. I highly doubt that and I suspect there’s more going on with that than even I know.
Yet.

Another hour into my search on Mr. Ibanez, I find another
police file from years earlier when Isa was only a small child. It’s a report regarding domestic abuse and was filed by her mother. But again, it was never followed up on and later dropped by her mother. I can’t imagine what Isa was witness to as a child and then to go through the kind of abuse that asshole submitted her to?

I continue on the depressing quest of Isa’s
past and pull up files on her past medical history. I’ve been meaning to do this and I’ve just put it off. I feel a bit torn about doing it behind her back like this, but she still remains somewhat hesitant to talk about everything she went through. I guess I shouldn’t be a hypocrite, considering everything I’ve held back from her. Here we are, married now, and we’re still learning about each other. Five months to know someone really is no time at all when I think about it.

I find school records for Isa and multiple notes and reports on concerns about her mental stability and issues of depression. Also, questions of child abuse. R
eport after report is filed by the school nurse of bruises and Isa being distant when questioned about them.
What the fuck?
Why wasn’t Child Services ever contacted? Again, I suspect it had something to do with her father’s money. Isa went to a private school, one of the best, and I’m sure they wouldn’t want their precious name sullied by one of their main financial contributors being outted as a child abuser. How convenient for Mr. Ibanez to sit on the board of education where his abused daughter attends.

Then I find something from a local hospital and I
instantly feel sickened.  Isa was admitted to a psychiatric institute for a brief period of time when she was 16 for depression and suicidal ideation.  She was not deemed to be truly suicidal, but, rather, this was a cry for help
. My God
. My life was golden compared to hers. I shut the computer down and walk away from it, not being able to tolerate reading any more.

I sometimes wish I didn’t have the knowledge to find that kind of information. My life would be so much easier
if I didn’t. My parents would still be alive, too, if not for that ability.
Fuck.
I wonder if Isa told her counselor about her suicidal ideas? She’s never mentioned any of that to me, but I can’t blame her. It’s not something I would be eager to share with anyone either. She’ll tell me when she’s ready.

I walk into the dungeon and Isa is just starting to stir. I sit next to her and run my fingers through her hair. She opens her eyes and smiles at me and I just want to hold her and tell her everything I’ve found out about her. I don’t because I don’t want to force a confession out of her.

“What’s wrong?” she asks with her uncanny ability to read my thoughts.

“Nothing,
I’m just frustrated.”

“We’ll work it out. Have you heard from that
beeotch?”

“No. No
t since you ripped her a new asshole,” I say smiling at her.

“Good. I have half a mind to…” she trails off.

“To what?”

She blushes then nods
no.

“What? Tell me?” I prod her.

“Nothing. I just hate that woman. I hate what she did to you and what she’s done to us. But most of all, I hate that she knows more about you than I do,” she replies sadly.

“But I belong
to you,” I remind her.

“I know. But it still doesn’t change the facts.”

She’s right and I know it. Erika does know more about me than Isa does. I hate that, too. Not wanting to think about that, I change the subject.

“I have a new phone for you. I’m keeping your old one in case the woman or you
r father calls again. I have it in the office.”