Brokered Submission (13 page)

Dylan nodded. “I’d heard something about that. It would be fun for Zoë and me to pick out a whip together.”

Louis whistled, shaking his head. “Already picking out whips. I better tell Jill to put a rush on those wedding invitations.”

“Uh huh,” Dylan replied sarcastically.

“Seriously, though,” Louis continued, “We could meet for dinner and a little dungeon action. You know Jill—she’ll immediately take Zoë under her wing and show her the ropes.” Louis chuckled at his pun.

Dylan nodded thoughtfully. The idea of bringing Zoë into the fold was appealing. It made their fledgling relationship that much more real. Jill was a good egg, and a good friend for Zoë to have in the scene. She made it a personal mission to welcome all submissive newbies, both male and female, into The Vault. She’d even organized a submissive support group through the club.

Louis set down his empty bottle, reached into his pocket and dropped a twenty on the table. “Seven o’clock work for you?”

“That sounds perfect. I’ll check with Zoë and let you know.”

~*~

“Hi, Daddy.” Zoë clutched her phone in excitement. Finally she’d done something all on her own, something big, and even Anton Phillip Stamos III wouldn’t be able to poke holes in this one.

“Zoë. I’ll get your mother.”

“No, wait. I called to talk to you.”

There was a beat, and then, “Is everything all right, young lady?” His tone made her suddenly feel sixteen again, her heart in her mouth as she tried to figure out a way to tell her father she’d backed her new car into a pole.

Shaking away the feeling, she said brightly, “Everything’s fine, Daddy. Better than fine. I just brokered my first solo deal. A ten million dollar capital venture funding for a small tech firm.”

“What do they sell?”

“Nothing yet. But they’re on the cusp of developing the technology that’s going to revolutionize mobile battery life. The money is to continue the research and development.”

“Sounds awfully vague. Risky, too.”

“There’s some risk, certainly,” Zoë admitted, managing to keep her voice calm and level. “The risk is defined and assessed, and the funds are priced accordingly.”

“What are the terms? What stage of development has the company’s product reached? What is the current and projected valuation and performance in terms of sales, earnings and dividends?”

Zoë, who could recite this information in her sleep, after having lived and breathed the deal for months, began to discuss the specifics of the deal. It felt good to finally have her dad treat her as an equal.

Her father listened, harrumphed, and then launched into more questions, peppering them at Zoë as if she were on a witness stand, accused of murder. “To what extent have their budget and projections been substantiated? What’s the pre-money versus the post-money valuation? What’s your fee? What are the pro-rata rights?”

A headache began to bloom behind Zoë’s eyes as she tried to explain and defend a deal she’d felt until this phone call to be iron clad.

When she finally sputtered to a frustrated halt, her father intoned, “I don’t know, Zoë. It doesn’t sound to me as if you’ve really thought this through completely. Your brother would never take this kind of risk.”

And there it was.

Anton Phillip Stamos IV—the exalted can-do-no-wrong son who went from Wharton School of Business directly to Goldman Sachs, and earned more in a year than she had earned in a decade.
He
wouldn’t have structured the deal this way.
He
wouldn’t even have considered it. Therefore, it must be bad.

“Can’t you just say congratulations?” She heard the whine in her voice, and silently cursed herself.

Her father cleared his throat. “Congratulations, Zoë,” he said, his tone formal. “I only hope you don’t come to regret it.”

“Thanks, Dad. I really appreciate your support,” she said, not bothering to hide the sarcasm. “Is Mom there?”

When she’d hung up with her mom, Zoë laughed to herself. What the hell had she expected? Just because
she
was different, what made her think her father would have changed?

And then it hit her with the force of a physical blow. She didn’t need his approval to be happy. She had done something big, something that mattered, and it wasn’t just about making money—she had helped secure funding for a company she really believed in, and she had done it on her own. Yes, it was a risk, but what was life without risk?

She picked up her phone again. She wanted to talk to Dylan. She wanted to see him. She wanted him to share her joy. She could trust Dylan Hart. In the brief time they’d spent together, he’d proven that again and again.

She typed out a quick text.
Hi. I miss you.

Almost instantly, her phone buzzed in response and the words scrolled across her screen.
Me too. I’m at my office pretending to work, but all I seem to be able to do lately is think of you.
I’m so glad you texted. I was going insane “giving you space”.

A smile split Zoë’s face.
You’re in the city?

Yep. I could be there in fifteen. Then you won't have to miss me anymore.

Yes, please, Sir.

“Wow,” Zoë enthused, looking at herself in the three-way mirror of the small, upscale BDSM boutique dressing room. “It’s gorgeous, though now I get why Victorian women were always fainting.” Madam Lucy, the proprietress, had spent fifteen minutes lacing Zoë into the impossibly tight but otherwise surprisingly comfortable crimson leather corset. Zoë’s figure was compressed at the waist by restrictive bone stays, her breasts forced up like two plump peaches, the bodice of the corset cut so low the tops of her nipples were showing.

Zoë was mildly embarrassed to be so scantily and sexily clad in front of a stranger, but Madam Lucy was wearing something equally revealing—a low-cut outfit that clung to her voluptuous and obviously naked form beneath the sheer, lacy gown. The boutique was by appointment only, and Dylan had clearly been there before, as Madam Lucy greeted him with such effusive affection it would have made Zoë jealous, if Lucy weren’t old enough to be Dylan’s mother.

Dylan’s eyes moved hungrily over Zoë’s body, the approval clear in his expression. “It will be perfect for your debut tomorrow night at The Vault.”

“My…what?” Zoë asked faintly, tottering suddenly on matching red stiletto heels Madam Lucy had added to the ensemble. When Dylan had said he wanted to get her something sexy in celebration of the successful funding of her tech company, she’d imagined some lingerie to be enjoyed in the privacy of Dylan’s bedroom and dungeon. The sudden awareness he planned for her to wear this skimpy thing in public cast the outfit in a new light. She twisted back to regard Dylan directly, her arms crossing protectively over her nearly bare breasts.

“My good friends, Louis and Jill Sutton, will be there,” Dylan said. “We can join them for dinner, and then there’s going to be a demonstration by this Australian whip guy. Jill has volunteered to be his subject. She’s what Louis fondly calls a pain slut—she can take quite an intense whipping. It’s really something to see.”

The devious smile lifting Dylan’s lips belied his casual tone. “Then I thought it might be fun for us to engage in a scene of our own. Nothing too intense—a little light bondage, maybe a flogging—just a taste of public submission to give you a more, uh, personal experience of the club scene.”

Zoë turned back to the mirror, regarding herself with this new information in mind. The thought of a public scene engendered what was becoming a familiar conflict of emotions since she’d stepped into Dylan Hart’s dungeon—fear and desire balanced on either side of the D/s scale.

Dylan came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her, resting his chin lightly on her shoulder as he stared into the reflection of her eyes in the mirror. “It’s not a request,” he said softly, though she could feel the quiet power beneath his words. “It’s my desire to offer the gift of your submission to my friends in the scene. That would please me, sub girl. Would it please you?”

She could feel his erection hard against her lower back as he held her. He dipped his head and brushed the bare skin of her shoulder with his lips, his arms tight around her.

And just like that, the scale tipped.

“Yes, Sir,” she said with conviction, though her heart was fluttering like a bird. “It would please me.”

~*~

Zoë twisted back her head to look at Dylan as he removed the wrap from her shoulders. Her dark eyes were wide with both trepidation and anticipation. He smiled encouragingly, hoping she was as proud of herself as he was of her. She was stunning in the dark red leather corset, which molded perfectly to her slender but curvaceous form. Her silky stockings rose to mid-thigh, revealing swaths of tan, smooth skin just waiting to be marked with a whip. He’d permitted panties, though he silently reserved the right to remove them during their planned scene—he hadn’t yet decided.

They’d continued her submissive training during the course of the week, both stealing as much time as they could from their day jobs, neither worrying overmuch about sleep or lack thereof. Dylan was looking forward to the weekend, during which he planned to turn off his cell phone and computer, and insist she do the same.

As Jenna, a staff slave who served as hostess when Sara wasn’t available, led them into the dining room, Dylan spied Louis and Jill, both of whom were waving in their direction. Dylan made the introductions. Jill, a statuesque blonde, reached to take Zoë’s hands in hers. “What a pleasure to meet you, Zoë. You’re even lovelier than Dylan claimed.” Jill’s smile was warm and sincere, and Zoë smiled back, visibly relaxing as she settled into her chair.

Wine was ordered and poured, and entrees chosen. Small talk about careers ensued for a few minutes and then Jill, predictably, turned the conversation to the upcoming whip demonstration. “Louis has volunteered me for the main scene,” she said confidingly to Zoë. “This guy they have visiting from Australia, Master Cameron, he’s like one of the premier whip makers in the world! I’ve heard through the grapevine he’s a stern taskmaster—very old school ‘slaves should be seen and not heard’ intense.” She wrapped her arms over her small breasts, which were visible beneath the sheer, silvery fabric of the clinging, sleeveless dress she wore, and shuddered dramatically. “I’m so nervous I could pop!”

Dylan met Louis’ eye at this proclamation. Louis grinned conspiratorially. Jill never missed a chance to scene at the club, and the more public the venue, the better.

Zoë asked, “How long have you been coming to The Vault?”

“Since its inception, about eight years ago.” Jill glanced at her husband. “Right, Louis?”

Louis nodded. “Yep. We’re founding members. One of the owners, Michael Nowicki, and I go way back. We met in med school and discovered our shared fetish for all things BDSM quite by accident when we ran into each other at one of those sleazy underground clubs that used to proliferate in the city back in the pre-AIDs days. Michael had a dream all the way back then to create a safe, clean, welcoming environment for folks like us, but, as he says, life got in the way for a decade or two.”

As if summoned by the conversation, Michael, a short, wiry guy with curly gray hair and smiling blue eyes, approached their table. “Hey, buddy!” he exclaimed, clapping Louis on the back. “Nice to see you and your lovely bride.” Turning to Jill, he added, “You ready to get up on the stage and give us a good show tonight, slave girl? I hear Master Cameron’s brought a dragon tail just for the occasion.”

“Oooooh,” Jill breathed, bringing her hands to her face, her round, hazel eyes opening wide with pretended fear that didn’t hide the lust just beneath it. She glanced around the dining room. “Where is this famous Master we’ve heard so much about?”

“He’s back in the lounge setting up his gear for sale,” Michael said. “I hope you guys brought your wallets. His stuff ain’t cheap.” He grinned, his gaze turning now to Dylan and Zoë. “Good evening, Dylan. A pleasure to see you again, Zoë.” His eyes moved appreciatively over Zoë’s corseted form. “I hope we get to see
more
of you tonight—perhaps at a scene station, hmm?”

Zoë looked down at the table, her cheeks flushing slightly, and then glanced at Dylan. He smiled, placing his hand on her arm and giving it a gentle squeeze as he addressed Michael. “That’s the plan. My sub girl is ready and eager to make her scene debut at The Vault, aren’t you, Zoë?”

Zoë swallowed, drew in a breath and lifted her chin in that charming way she had when mustering her courage. “Yes, Sir,” she said, her voice low but clear.

~*~

A large space had been cleared on one side of the main dungeon and folding chairs were set in rows in front of a portable stage erected against the wall. Shortly after the meal was over, Jill had left the dining room to meet Master Cameron and discuss the scene. Apparently this guy was a big deal, as every seat was already occupied, with more people standing in groups behind and around the limited seating area. They sat in the front row, Zoë between Louis and Dylan.

Hank was on the stage with Matt. They were setting up a steel frame X cross toward the center back of the stage. There was a long folding table nearby with several ominous looking black leather whips laid out one alongside the other.

The preparations apparently completed, Matt stepped down the small set of stairs to the right of the stage while Hank moved forward toward a microphone stand. He tapped the live mic and the room immediately quieted. “Good evening, fellow perverts,” he said, his words greeted with laughter and a smattering of applause. “Tonight we have a real treat in store for you. Master Cameron of whip making fame has flown across the world to personally demonstrate a new line of bullwhips and dragon tails he’s created for serious players in the scene. Master Louis has graciously offered the services of his slave girl, Jill, to serve as the subject, or rather, the object, of Master Cameron’s considerable skills.”

Hank glanced to the side of the stage and Zoë, following his gaze, saw Jill standing there, alongside a tall, broad-shouldered man with long, dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, his chiseled features movie-star handsome. The BDSM uniform she’d come to expect at the club—black leather pants and vest with no shirt beneath—molded perfectly to his muscular form. He radiated power and authority, as if he were Master not only of the woman beside him, but of everyone in the room, Zoë included.