Brokered Submission (4 page)

She gasped against his mouth, instinctively struggling to pull away, but his hands and mouth held her firmly in place. Her nipple continued to throb as his fingers drifted down her torso, moving over her belly to her sex, which was hot and swollen between her legs. She moaned against his mouth as he slipped a large, hard finger into her wet cunt, his palm pressing against her aching clit.

His kiss, his masterful touch, the wine, the whole crazy situation—it all combined to pull her completely out of herself. He stroked, teased and kissed her until she lost all sense of time, space and even consciousness. She became pure sensation, and she gave herself wholly to the experience.

Her body began to buck and spasm, her hips rising from the mattress as she ground wantonly against Dylan’s powerful hand. She heard her own piercing keen of pleasure, but she was too far gone to do anything whatsoever about it. When his touch was finally withdrawn, she fell back against the bed, utterly spent, gasping for breath, her heart pounding, her entire body thrumming from perhaps the most powerful orgasm she’d ever experienced.

After a while, she had no idea how long, she finally managed to open her eyes. Dylan was regarding her with a bemused smile, his eyes glowing with a powerful inner fire that at once thrilled and frightened her. “That one was free,” he said. “Going forward, you’ll need to remember rule number three, which is that for duration of our time together, I own your body and your orgasms. You will never touch yourself without permission, and you will not come until I tell you to.”

He pointed to a small gray plastic case with a glass eye that was installed high in a corner of the room. “That’s a closed-circuit camera that encompasses the entire room. It’s both for safety and for surveillance, so I’ll know if you misbehave, little girl.” He pressed his open palm gently against her bare mons, his touch sending a shuddering aftershock through her frame.

Leaning over her, he kissed the tip of her nose. “Now, get some rest.” He pushed himself to his feet and stood, staring down at her. “You may use the bathroom and wash up.” He nodded toward her overnight bag, which he’d dropped just inside the door. “I’ll be down bright and early, so I would recommend you go straight to sleep.”

He walked to the door and stopped, turning back toward her. “Welcome to paradise, slave girl. Just watch out for snakes.” With that, he exited the room and closed the door.

She heard the sound of the deadbolt being slipped into place, and then the room was plunged into darkness. She lay there awhile in a kind of dazed stupor. As her eyes adjusted, she realized there was in fact light coming from the bathroom, which reminded her she needed to pee.

Rolling from the bed, she stood and moved toward the light. The bathroom was small, with barely room for a toilet, sink and shower stall. There was a large nightlight plugged into an outlet over the sink, and it was enough to see by. She lowered herself to the toilet.

She had forgotten to get her overnight bag, but was too exhausted to got get it. She would brush her teeth and shower in the morning. Now all she wanted to do was pass out into oblivion. There was too much—way too much—to process tonight. Her brain had short-circuited from the overload of sensation, and it was all she could do to remain conscious. She splashed water on her face and left the bathroom.

She sank down onto the bed and reached for the coverlet. Before she even had it all the way up, she was asleep.

Zoë opened her eyes and stared for several seconds at the cement ceiling overhead. As her brain clicked on, she sat bolt upright, seeking the new source of light in the windowless room. It was coming from the bathroom, but it wasn’t the yellow glow of the nightlight. Curious, she slid her legs over the side of the bed and made her way to the bathroom.

There was a small window placed high along the wall that she hadn’t noticed the night before. Closing the lid of the toilet, she climbed onto it to get a better view. She could see a finely-kept lawn at eye-level, and the base of several fat, old tree trunks in the distance. Between them she could glimpse patches of pink and gold sky. The clock in her head informed her it was somewhere close to five in the morning, but she didn’t feel in the least tired. There was too much adrenaline zinging through her system to even contemplate the thought of going back to sleep.

She used the toilet and then retrieved her overnight bag. As she brushed her teeth, she pondered the surreal nature of her situation. She had willingly consigned herself to be this man’s sex slave for the next two days. A small part of her mind was attempting to admonish her over her foolish willingness to put herself into another’s hands so completely, but the greater part of her was excited at the chance to surrender to something she had never thought would be more than an idle sexual fantasy tucked away at the back of her brain.

In addition to the undeniable sexual attraction she felt both toward the man and what he offered, Zoë thrilled to a challenge. She was determined to face and conquer this as she had every challenge in her life.

Glancing into the mirror over the sink, she whispered fiercely, “Bring it on, Hart,” even as her stomach did an uncomfortable loop-de-loop of nervous anticipation.

She rummaged in her bag and silently cursed herself when she realized she’d forgotten her shampoo and conditioner. As she turned on the water, she was both gratified and disconcerted to see that the shower already contained these items, along with a fresh bar of soap and a disposable razor. How many women before her had stayed in this basement dungeon, and for how long?

She stood beneath the shower’s spray, her face lifted to its warmth as the water splashed over her. The electric lights suddenly blazed on, startling her enough to make her gasp in surprise. She heard the scrape of the deadbolt turning.

“Zoë? Where are you?”

She heard his footsteps and a moment later Dylan appeared in the doorway of the bathroom. She grabbed for the towel, confused and disoriented by his sudden appearance.

“Give me that towel. Step out of the shower and lift your arms over your head.”

“Excuse me? I’m not done. I barely started.”

“I said get out.” His tone and the look on his face left no room for argument. Alarmed, Zoë held out the towel and stepped hastily from of the shower.

“Arms over your head,” he repeated as he took the towel from her.

Blushing, flustered and annoyed to have been interrupted, Zoë nevertheless did as she was told. Dylan used the towel, his touch surprisingly gentle as he buffed and dried her body and hair. “I must not have been clear last night, or perhaps you just weren’t paying attention. For the duration of the weekend, I decide when you eat, sleep, use the toilet, and yes, when you shower as well. You will have the opportunity to groom later. First I have a few other things in mind for you.”

Zoë followed Dylan out of the small bathroom, wrapping her arms nervously around her body as she walked.

Dylan stopped in the center of the room and regarded her. “Drop your arms,” he ordered. “You must never hide your body from me.”

Zoë dropped her arms and regarded the man she’d willingly accepted as her “Master” for the weekend. His dark blond hair curled damply around his ears—so he’d permitted
himself
to shower, while denying her. He was dressed in blue running shorts, his torso and feet bare. The sculpted muscles of his chest and abdomen reinforced her initial thought of him as a bull in a ring. The guy was ripped, pure and simple. Zoë realized she was staring, and abruptly shifted her gaze to his face.

If he’d noticed her ogling his body, thankfully he gave no indication. “Put your hands behind your head and lace your fingers at your neck, like this.” Dylan demonstrated, and Zoë copied his movements, her nipples tingling to erection as he watched her.

“Good. Now, feet shoulder-width apart.” He paused a beat while she obeyed, and then continued, “I call that the at-attention position. When I tell you to stand at attention, this is what I expect. You will remain in that position until given permission to move. Got it?”

Zoë nodded. The position made her feel even more naked than she had a moment before, if such a thing were possible.

“What?” Dylan snapped. “I didn’t hear you.”

“Yes, Sir,” Zoë quickly replied, startled by the sudden brusqueness in his tone.

“Better,” he said, his tone again gentle.

He walked toward a rack of scary-looking whips set against the wall. Hanks of neatly coiled rope and lengths of thick, sturdy chain hung on the wall above. Dylan selected a long-handled riding crop from the rack. Turning to face her, he added, “From this moment forward, I will correct you for that kind of slip-up. I find a quick smack of the riding crop to be more effective than words.” He smacked the leather flap at the end of the crop suddenly against his own thigh.

The thwacking sound startled Zoë into saying, “Oh!” She pressed her lips quickly together, hoping the sound wouldn’t be regarded as a “slip-up” in need of “correction.” Dylan arched an eyebrow and tapped his thigh once more with the crop, but that was all.

Zoë gave herself a stern reminder to keep quiet unless spoken to, and to remain in position at all costs, not just because he’d told her she must, but as a matter of pride. She would totally ace this BDSM challenge and save her venture capital deal in the process.

“I gathered from our conversation last night that you know next to nothing about BDSM,” Dylan said, “so I’m going to start at the beginning. Granted, we’ll move far more quickly than we might if we had more time.”

He pointed toward the large X-shaped cross. “Do you know what that is?”

Zoë followed the trajectory of his finger with her gaze. From her reading, she was pretty sure she was seeing an actual St. Andrew’s cross but she wasn’t about to admit the level of her knowledge, academic or otherwise. “It’s a cross of some kind...Sir.” How strange it felt to call this man who was of her own generation, a colleague she’d worked with as an equal, “Sir”. And yet, as odd as it was to admit, each time she said the word, it sent a jolt of excitement directly to her cunt. She eyed the cuffs dangling from the corners of the cross, adding, “It’s a restraining device.”

Dylan nodded. “Correct. It’s called a St. Andrew’s cross. You’ll see one in most BDSM dungeons. It’s ideal for quick, thorough restraint. It’s handy when you don’t have the ability to suspend your slave from the ceiling.”

He pointed upward, and Zoë experienced a small shock and another jolt to her cunt as she took in the large eyebolts screwed into the thick support beam. Her imagination instantly placed her beneath it, her arms stretched taut overhead by ropes secured to the eyebolts, her body spread and exposed for whatever diabolical torture this man might devise for her. A shudder moved through her frame at the image, and Dylan’s lips curled into a cruel, sensual smile, his gold-flecked eyes glittering as if he, too, were imagining her there.

Still holding the riding crop, Dylan strode to the whip rack and selected an ominous-looking black whip with a long, wicked tail. He flicked it suddenly, and the resulting sonic crack startled Zoë to such an extent that she dropped her arms from their position behind her head, her right hand instinctively flying up to cover her mouth.

Dylan regarded her with a shake of his head. “Bad girl.” He strode to her in a few quick strides. Before she could react, the riding crop smacked against her bare ass three times in quick, stinging succession.

She yelped in outraged surprise and jumped away. “Hey! What’re you doing?” she demanded, the words leaping out of her mouth before she could stop them. “Oh!” she blurted. “I’m sorry, Sir!” Hastily she resumed the at-attention position, her face hot with humiliation, her bottom tingling painfully from the crop.

Dylan regarded her for several silent moments while she struggled to regain her composure. “Why did I correct you, Zoë?” he finally said.

The heat in Zoë’s face intensified, but she knew she had to reply. “Because I fell out of position, Sir,” she forced herself to say, surprised how difficult it was to admit failure. “And I spoke out of turn.”

“Will it happen again?”

“No, Sir.”

“Good girl.” He moved closer, so close she could smell the soap on his freshly-washed skin. “Tell me, Zoë,” he said softly. “Have you ever been restrained? Cuffed with your arms overhead, completely vulnerable and defenseless?”

Another shudder moved through Zoë’s frame, and she swallowed hard as she struggled to collect herself. “No, Sir.” Her eyes slid involuntarily toward the back wall where the rope and chain hung, waiting.

Dylan followed her gaze, and a slow, sensual smile lifted his lips. The smile recalled to her the kiss of the night before—his mouth claiming hers as his fingers roamed her body. Her heart was beating fast, and the pulse of it throbbed at her clit.

As if privy to her secret desires, Dylan slowly shook his head. “Not yet, Zoë. You aren’t yet ready for that level of restraint.”

The surge of relief at this pronouncement was nearly overcome by a strange disappointment. Stunned at her own reaction, but nearly powerless against it, Zoë had to press her lips together once more to keep from blurting, “
Yes, I am so ready
,” like some petulant child being denied a privilege. She stood silently, confusion roiling through her.

Dylan reached into his pocket and pulled out a silky black sash. He held it in one hand, running his fingers along the length of it with his other. The gesture was sensual in the extreme. “Have you ever been blindfolded, Zoë?”

“No, Sir,” she managed to reply, her eyes fixed on his thick, blunt fingers stroking the sash.

“As our first exercise,” Dylan said as he moved to stand behind her, “we’re going to play a game you may remember from your childhood. It’s called Trust.” He tapped her interlaced hands lightly, adding, “Drop your arms to your sides for this exercise.”

Zoë obeyed, relieved to lower her arms, which had been starting to ache.

“In the game called Trust, one person stands behind the other”—as he spoke, he brought the sash around her head, securing it over her eyes and tying it behind her—“with his arms out. The one in front falls backward, trusting the other to catch her before she crashes to the floor. Are you familiar with the game, Zoë?”