Brokered Submission (11 page)

“Do you have a black cocktail dress and black heels at your apartment?”

Zoë nodded. “Of course.”

“We’ll stop by your place, then, and you can change.”

~*~

“Master Dylan, a pleasure to see you, Sir. Two for dinner?” Sara, one of The Vault’s staff slaves, smiled at Dylan. He glanced at Zoë, who stood beside him looking a little flustered and a lot gorgeous in her slinky black dress, red slave collar and fuck-me high heels. Zoë’s eyes were on Sara, who wore the staff slave uniform of a black leather collar with matching cuffs around her wrists and ankles, her only other clothing a satin thong of the skimpiest variety. She was a pretty girl, save for skin pitted with acne scars. Her hair was long and very blond, her body slender. Silver barbells pierced both nipples, with a matching piercing in her belly button.

“Yes, Sara. Thank you.” Sara led them into the small but pleasantly appointed dining room of the converted hotel. There were three other couples already seated, some eating dinner, some sipping glasses of wine, heads close in conversation. Mistress Sylvia, an imposing Dominatrix dressed in a full-length black gown, sat at a table. Her partner, Gene, knelt on the floor beside her, wearing nothing but a cock cage locked around his privates, his mouth open as his Mistress fed him from a large piece of chocolate cake.

“Oh,” Zoë murmured softly as they passed the couple. Dylan was holding her hand, and he gave it a reassuring squeeze. In the short time they’d spent together, Zoë was teaching him to see the beauty and intensity of D/s with fresh eyes. Tonight would be another facet of that experience. Aware the scene could sometimes be a little overwhelming, he made a silent promise to assure her introduction was a positive one.

Sara led them to a table close to the large archway that opened into the main dungeon. Dylan pulled out the chair that gave Zoë an unobstructed view of the action. He sat across from her and ordered a bottle of wine. Once Sara had gone, he put his hand over Zoë’s. She was staring through the archway, beyond which several scenes were already in play. At his touch, she turned to look at Dylan, and he locked eyes with her, a rush of dominance surging through him like a hit of cocaine.

“I want to continue your training while we’re here. Is that acceptable to you, Zoë?”

Her eyes widened, her hand moving up to touch her slave collar. “Yes, Sir,” she breathed. He hadn’t permitted her to wear a bra, and he could see the alluring curve of her nipples against the silky fabric of her dress.

“Excellent. Stand up and remove your panties. Place them on the table between us.”

Zoë’s eyes darted around the room. “Right here?” she whispered.

“Zoë,” Dylan said, adding a note of sternness to his tone. “Do as you’re told.”

She swallowed visibly, but pushed her chair back from the table and stood. Again glancing nervously around the room, she reached beneath her clinging dress and dragged her panties down her slender, bare legs. She dropped a hand to the table for balance as she stepped out of the underwear. Her face flushing a rosy hue, she set the bit of silk and lace on the table as instructed.

Sara approached at that moment with a bottle of Cabernet and two glasses. If she noticed the panties lying in the center of the table, she gave no indication. She expertly uncorked the wine and poured a small amount in Dylan’s glass. He tasted it, nodded to her and watched as she filled both glasses.

The restaurant had no menu, but offered three specials each night. Sara recited them and Dylan chose the Porterhouse steak with sautéed mushrooms. Zoë, still blushing, rallied enough to order the rosemary chicken with wild rice. When Sara had again retreated, Dylan said, “Tell me what you see beyond the archway. Describe the scenes to me.” He kept his eyes on her face.

She licked her lips nervously. “There’s a woman with her dress undone and hanging down at the waist,” she said, speaking so softly Dylan had to lean forward to hear her. “She’s got clamps on her nipples, except they look different than what you used on me.” Zoë hugged herself, covering her breasts in what Dylan guessed was an unconscious gesture.

It had been incredibly hot when he’d tied Zoë’s hands behind her back while she knelt naked on his bedroom floor waiting to receive his cock. Her sweet, breathy gasp of pain when he’d clipped the alligator clamps on her nipples had been music to his sadistic ears. Though he’d wanted to hold out for as long as possible, when her mouth closed over his cock, he was a goner, barely managing to hold back his orgasm for more than a few minutes before giving in to her incredibly sensual, skilled ministrations.

“Probably clover clamps,” he suggested. “We’ll try those when you’ve had a little more experience. They can be rather intense.”

Zoë reached for her glass, looking adorably flustered as she sipped her wine.

“Go on,” Dylan urged. “What else do you see?”

Zoë set down her glass and returned her focus to the dungeon. “There are two men, one on either side of her. She’s bound to one of those X crosses. They’re, um, they’re whipping her breasts.” Dylan could hear the whisper of leather against skin. Zoë hissed in sympathy, rocking slightly in her seat.

There was the distinctive sound of a woman’s cry of pain, and Zoë gasped, “Oh! One of the guys flicked her nipple and the clamp flew off.” The woman screamed again. “Oh my god! He did it to the other one!” Zoë hugged herself tighter, her teeth worrying her lower lip, her eyes glued to the scene. “Okay, phew. They’re removing the wrist cuffs. Oh, one of the guys is helping her off the cross. Aw, they’re kissing and people are clapping.” She looked at Dylan, flashing a relieved, beautiful smile in his direction.

Sara reappeared with two glasses of ice water, followed by Matt, another of the staff slaves, who carried a tray bearing their dinners. Matt, like Sara, was essentially naked, save for the black leather codpiece covering his package. Matt, who belonged to one of the club’s owners, was tall and muscular, his body shaven smooth. He had lettering tattooed on either deltoid—
Hank’s
on the right,
Boy Toy
on the left.

They set the food on the table. Sara refilled their glasses and inquired if Dylan needed anything further, still ignoring Zoë’s black lacy panties resting on the white tablecloth. Dylan tucked into the delicious, perfectly cooked steak with gusto. Zoë, he noticed after a moment, was barely picking at her food. “Is it okay?” he asked solicitously. “If you don’t like it, we can order something else.”

“No, it’s delicious,” Zoë said hastily. She smiled shyly. “I don’t know. I just don’t seem to have much of an appetite right now. There’s so much to take in.”

Dylan nodded. “So there is. It’s hard to remember that newness—that sense of discovery and awe when you first put your toe in the waters of a BDSM lifestyle. I’m jealous of you in a way—everything is shiny new and filled with potential.”

He picked up her panties and brought them to his face, inhaling her sweet, delicate scent as she looked down at the table, obviously embarrassed. He tucked the panties under his thigh and reached across the small table to lift her chin. He looked into her eyes and said gently, “You don’t need to be shy with me, Zoë. And you don’t need to be shy here at The Vault. Everyone here
gets
it. This isn’t a tourist club for gawkers who think it’s trendy to pay a cover charge to get into some sleazy S&M theme club down in the city. This is a members-only safe place where people come together to explore and share their love of the lifestyle.”

They watched in silence a moment as Sara preceded Master Tom, who was followed by his two slave girls, both of whom were completely naked, their legs chained together so they were forced to hobble in tandem behind him. Tom settled at a nearby table, the two women kneeling on the floor side-by-side next to him.

Zoë turned back to Dylan. “I have to say, I feel, I don’t know”—she shrugged, her eyes sliding back to the threesome—“intrigued by all this, but kind of out of my ken. Everyone seems so relaxed, so comfortable.” She waved her hand in a vague way around the room. “I don’t know if I could ever get used to being so vulnerable, so
exposed
, in front of strangers like that.”

Dylan stroked her soft cheek with two fingers. “First, let me say this. In the short time we’ve been together, you’ve pleased me tremendously. You should know, there’s no right or wrong here, as long as you do your best and give of yourself with honesty and grace, which I believe you have done, and then some.”

Zoë smiled at this praise. “Thank you, Sir,” she said with such simple submissive grace that Dylan’s heart clutched hard in his chest.

“Answer me this,” he said, forcing himself to keep his focus. “If on Friday morning someone had told you you’d spend the day in some guy’s BDSM dungeon doing the things we did, and that not only would you handle it, but you’d
revel
in it, would you have believed them?”

Zoë laughed, shaking her head. “No way, José! I can barely believe it myself.”

Dylan nodded. “Exactly my point. But here’s the thing—you were open to the experience. You didn’t shut down and close yourself off from your feelings or reactions. You gave it, and me, a chance. That’s what we’re doing tonight. I don’t expect you to strip and walk into that dungeon and climb up on that cross. I don’t plan to force you into anything you’re not one hundred percent ready to do. It will be your call, Zoë.”

“But I thought it was the Dom who was in charge?” Zoë queried.

“The Dom is in charge, yes, but ultimately it’s the sub who calls the shots. It’s that whole concept of a consensual exchange of power. As soon as you withdraw consent, on whatever level, for whatever reason, that’s a game changer. Now, some folks get into it a little deeper—a Master/slave relationship might remove some of the consent, or rather, it’s agreed upon that the slave gives up his or her right to refuse, but even then, it’s a kind of fiction, if you will. The underlying consent of the basic tenets of the relationship still remains.” He shrugged. “Who knows, you and I might eventually want the added intensity of a Master/slave connection, or we might not. But the bottom line is, it’s about what
we
want, as a couple, same as in a vanilla relationship.”

“Relationship?” A corner of Zoë’s mouth quirked into a half smile. “I agreed to a weekend, but here we are talking about next week, next month…?”

Dylan swallowed hard, keenly aware how very much this mattered to him. What had started out as a kind of lark—a bet with himself regarding Zoë’s submissive potential and his ability to expose and nurture it—had turned into something much more, and more quickly than he could have imagined. Several snappy retorts leaped into his brain, but he shook them away. Now wasn’t the time to prove how clever he could be. He would lay it out there, and let the chips fall where they may.

He stared into Zoë’s luminous, dark eyes. “I won’t presume to speak for you, but I will tell you this—I’m thirty-three years old, Zoë. I’ve been in several serious relationships, though it’s been a while since I put my heart out there. Like you, I work a lot of hours on the day job, but I’m coming to realize that isn’t the be-all and end-all. I want to focus more on what really matters in my life.”

He put his hand over hers. “I saw something in you and it spoke to me. I took a chance, but I never dreamed our connection would be so instant and so complete. I’m not saying we should get married tomorrow”—he gave a small, self-conscious laugh, but Zoë’s intense, receptive expression gave him courage to continue—“but I want more than just to complete the terms of some bet, and I hope I’m not being presumptuous to think you want more, too. I guess what I’m saying is, yes—let’s go crazy and use the R word.”

Zoë said nothing for a long moment. Then she placed her second hand over his, the light pressure of her fingers sending warmth through his body. “Let’s do,” she said, an impish grin lighting her face. “Let’s go crazy.” Then she laughed. Dylan felt as if his heart had suddenly sprouted wings, and he laughed with her.

He pointed to her plate. “Maybe you want to eat a little something before we venture into the dungeon?”

She looked down at the untouched food on her plate and then back up at him as she reached for her fork. “Wow, I just realized I’m
starving
.”

After Sara cleared away the remains of their dinner, Dylan fixed Zoë with a dark, sexy look. “Shall we, sub girl?”

Zoë glanced through the archway to the dungeon beyond. “Yes, Sir,” she whispered, pushing back her chair.

At the first scene station Dylan took her to, a naked man hung upside down by his ankles, his head only inches from the floor. While a second man secured the sub’s wrists behind his back, a woman held a penis-shaped gag to his lips. He opened his mouth wide. She slid the phallus in and buckled the straps around his head.

The woman picked up a small wicker basket from the ground nearby and held it toward the male Dom. He reached in and took a handful of clothespins. She did likewise, and set the basket down again.

Several more people had gathered to watch the scene, all standing a respectful distance from the station, all silent. With quick, practiced hands, the pair attached clothespins to the suspended man’s scrotum, penis and nipples, the wooden pins fanning out in tight circles. Zoë could almost feel the pinch as the spring-tightened tips closed over delicate flesh, but the bound, gagged man seemed to accept the torture with a calm stoicism.

Once they were satisfied with their handiwork, the pair each produced a short-handled single tail whip. Zoë drew in a sharp, sudden breath of shock when the male Dom flicked his whip in the direction of the clothespins ringing the sub’s right nipple. One of the pins flew off, leaving a dark, angry mark in its place. The sub jerked in his restraints and issued a strangled cry of pain. Unable to control her reaction, Zoë found herself yelping softly along with him.

Dylan’s arm came around her shoulders. “Remember,” he whispered into her hair, “this is fully consensual.” Zoë nodded, but leaned gratefully against him, unable to look away.