The Art of Control (14 page)

Dylan
draws me close and kisses the top of my head.

“Okay, fine, but only because you asked so nicely.
Now let’s get this over with. Ask what you will.”

“I want to know about t
he time you killed a man,” I state cautiously, hoping Dylan doesn’t go off the deep end with my probing question.

He sighs loudly and moves away from me and props himself up on one elbow. His eyebrows are pulled in and his mouth
is puckered in an irritated scowl.

“Isabel, why do you ask about things you don’t really want to know about?”

“I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t.”

“Christ, killing a man isn’t something I’m proud of.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not ashamed of it either because I did what was asked of me in the line of duty, okay? He was a criminal and I was defending my life.”

My interest is piqued. “What do you mean? He tried to kill you? How many times has something like that happened to you?” I ask, mortified at the thought of Dylan being in danger.

“Whoa, whoa, slow down. One question at a time there, Barbara Walters,” he laughs.

It’s good to see his mood is shifting for the better, but I want answers, damn it.

“Yes, he tried to kill me.  Honestly, it’s happened more times than seems feasibly possible. Let’s see…” he trails off. He looks up to the ceiling and starts silently counting.

“
Good God, Dylan. It happened that many times?”

“Well, yes. I’ve been knifed once not including the other night, shot once… no wait, shot twice counting you…”

He just had to bring that up, didn’t he?

“…a
lmost hit by a car, attacked with an aluminum bat by a lover’s husband…”

“
You slept with a married woman?” I ask, appalled.

“Yes, but in my defense, she didn’t tell me she was married. Where was I? Oh, yeah,
head locked to near suffocation, beaten to within an inch of my life in a nasty barroom brawl in Manila after too much tequila. Fortunately for me Sawyer was there to save my drunken ass,” he says with a deep chuckle as if recalling the memory.

Holy
celestial intervention, I can’t listen to anymore. “Just stop. I can’t stand to hear anymore.
Who are you
?”

“
Your Master and you asked,” he laughs a little too wholeheartedly.

“I know I did, but I wasn’t expecting to hear that you’ve
almost died a bazillion times and that you slept with a married woman. You’re horrible. Holy insanity, that shit’s just crazy. Being hurt all those times? My poor Master. I think I’m going to be sick,” I sigh as nausea sweeps over me.

“
Isa, my sweet angel, what delicate language coming out of such a heavenly mouth. Now calm your tits, pussycat. I’m here with you now and that’s all that matters.”

Suddenly feeling emotional at the thought of losing Dylan, I burst into tears and hide myself in his neck.

“I can’t lose you!” I overdramatically shriek out.

“Christ, love, you’re no
t losing me. Hush now,” he murmurs in my ear.

“I can’t
lose you like I did my mother…”

“Stop talking like that,” Dylan cuts in. “I mean it. You’re completely overreacting,” he says evenly.

Yes, I suppose I am, but that foreboding sense of doom is prickling at my nerves again. I would rather die than see Dylan harmed in any way. No - I can’t lose him, too.
I can’t.

“Isa, enough of this
talk. My birthday isn’t quite over and I want to spend the last remaining minutes of it pounding this tight ass of yours,” he exclaims as he grips my ass.

M
y dearest, filthy, horny husband is insatiable and I won’t deny him the pleasure he seeks and deserves.

“Take me anyway you want me, Master,” I whisper.

“Oh, I intend to. On your stomach,” he says firmly.

I move o
nto my tummy and he licks down my spine to the crevice of my ass. Squeezing my cheeks, he bites into my hip bone, his erection jutting into my upper thigh.

“I want it, Isa.”

Dylan’s voice is deep and raspy, and there’s no denying my Dom is now present and fully in control. He jerks my wrists behind my back and pins them there while he lubes my puckered entrance with his saliva. With his free hand, he slips a finger inside of me, loosening me up, and then two - in and out, slow and sensual. Dylan removes his fingers and rests his dick on my ass, poking the head in ever so gently. I wince and contract down when he pushes deeper.

“C
ompose yourself, pussycat, I’m going deep.”

Dylan shif
ts his body and his thick member stretches me to accommodate all of him. I take a deep breath and blow it out slowly, letting my whole body go limp.

“That’s it, l
et me fuck this tight hole,” Dylan pants.

He pounds deeper and harder, picking
up his rhythm. Letting go of my wrists, he moves a hand underneath me and encircles my tender bundle of nerves.

“Don’t move your hands, l
eave them right where they are and turn around and look at me. I want to see those unforgettable eyes watch me take you.”

I crank my head to the side and watch intently, keeping my eyes
not on my own body, but on my Master. He’s completely in the dominant zone as he works himself in and out of me. His expert fingers flick at my clit sending sparks of heat throughout my lower belly. With his other hand, he cups his ballsack, drawing them up. The vision of him is mouth-watering and art inspiring.

He lets go of his balls and w
ith his left hand, he wipes the sweat that has beaded up on his forehead with the front of his hand, revealing the tattoo seared into his flesh.
He’s mine.
My God, this man really belongs to me. I’m well aware that he doesn’t want me talking during sex, but I can’t resist myself.

“I love you so much, Master.”

Dylan takes his eyes off my ass and stares into my eyes, his intense gaze fierce and unwavering. He clenches his jaw and narrows his eyes and I think for a moment that I’ll pay the price for disobeying his wishes, but instead he leans down onto me and bites my shoulder blade, making me moan out loudly.

“Say it
again, pussycat - tell me you love me; tell me I’m the only one,” he whines into my ear.

“I love you, Master. You’re the only one I want. You’re the only one I need.
I love you.
Take me. Own me. Devour me.”

Dylan

Inside Isa, I am home. Her passionate words uttered in that silky smooth voice shake me to
my core. My purpose in life is clear now – it is to probe her depths, push her limits and consume her soul. There’s no time to think or react and I cum fast and furious in her, my jizz pulsing out of me and filling her as Isa’s ass milks every last drop out of me.

“That feels so
good,” Isa moans.

I swiftly pull out
of her, flip her onto her back and dive headlong into her golden mound, sucking like a madman. Isa giggles and squeals loudly, her hands fisting in my hair.

“Yes, devour me, Master. Consume me!” she
screeches as if she’s read my thoughts.

I stuff
my tongue into her and finger her engorged nub, giving her the pleasure that she deserves. Her body starts to tremble, her legs stiffen and I ready myself for the flash flood. I push down on her lower belly and she mewls and claws at my shoulders as she lets herself go. I greedily drink up the prize that is her sweet nectar, wanting more.

Tackling
her pussy again, I stab my fingers into her and tug at her inner wall forcefully and without mercy.

“Give me more, Isa.
I fucking want more.
I want all of it,” I snap at her.

Isa thrashes her head back and forth, her eyes tightly closed, her mouth a half-smile, half-pained expression.
She tries to wriggle away from me, but I grip her decadently fleshy hip and pull her back to me.

“I won’t be denied,”
I insist.

“No
more, Master… no…” she whines.

“
No?
You’re not allowed to say
no
to me. Now give it to me!” I retort loudly.

I move on top of her while I continue to persecute her honey hole. I gr
ab a hold of Isa’s face and shove my tongue inside her mouth viciously, letting up only to catch my breath.

“I won’t be denied, God damn it,” I breathe into her mouth.

“I would never deny you, Master. You own me,” she whines.

“God damn straight, I do.
Now cum for me.”

My wo
rds compel her and she begins to convulse. I move back down just in time to be sprayed with her delicious gift and I do as she so eagerly demanded, and consume her.

When I’m finished
licking Isa clean, I throw myself on the bed next to her and tow her onto my chest, not giving a shit about the pain from the knife wound.

“Happy birth
day, my sweet lover.” Isa drowsily murmurs, sleep finding us both instantly.

Sometime later,
I wake to the sound of Isa whimpering my name.

“I can’t lose you, sugar,” she sobs when
I gently shake her awake.

“You’re not losing me. I’m right here, love. I’m not going anywhere,” I reassure her.

Isa falls back to sleep but I’m unable to rest anymore. I find Isa’s journal and start reading it again, this time starting where I left off at the beginning.

9/20/
03

I haven’t written for over a month. It’s been bad. I can do no right in papa’s eyes.
He watches me like a hawk after my stay in the hospital. I think he’s afraid of what I’ll tell people. I long to paint but I can’t steal a moment to myself. I graduate in less than a year. Thank God for that. I’m leaving just as soon as I can. My art teacher offered me a paid tutoring job a few weeks ago. I’m going to take it. I’ll save the money and maybe I can get away. No more time for writing. I have to draw. I NEED to draw.

The painting
following the short entry is another stunning yet distressing abstract image that depicts a frightened girl with a man standing just behind her, watching her, his eyes piercing through her.

I put the journal down and caress Isa’s back. As I watch her sleep, I wonder what it is she’s dreaming about. Only good things, I hope. While she rests, I read on.

9/29/03

Today was bearable. Harsh words spoken, but no belt. I can handle the words, just NOT the belt. I tutored my first student today. I made $15 for one hour of instruction. I feel as if that’s too much for what I did, but I’ll take it. I’m $15 closer to being independent. In less than one year, I will have freedom! It’s the light at the end of the tunnel that I’ve been praying for. Yes, today was a good day.

Fifteen measly fucking dollars.
I grew up with wealth at my disposal and when I was the same age as Isa, 16, I had more riches than I knew what to do with. Isa on the other hand was saving her pennies to get away. I’m sickened at the thought of how much money I squandered when she so desperately needed it to be free from the cruelty she was living with.

The image following the journal entry
: A long dark tunnel with a glimmer of light at the end of it. I smile at the thought of a happy 16 year old Isa with hope for her future. It’s short-lived when I read the next passage which only contains three dreadful, heartbreaking words.

10/6/03

The belt again.

The
image to follow of a screaming girl is horrifying and one I hope to never see her paint again. The rest of the page is scratched out in stark black charcoal pencil; nonsensical, bleak and gloomy doodles randomly scattered throughout the page.

I fe
el ill. There are no details and my mind is left to concoct ghastly images of what must’ve happened to the woman I adore.  She belonged to me even then. We were worlds apart, but even then, she was mine. She was my future and that son-of-a-bitch was abusing my would-be wife.
I want him dead.

I put the journal down and pull Isa clos
e to me, her back to my chest. With my face buried in her hair, I inhale her sweet peach scent.

“I love you,
Isabel Maya Young,” I repeat over and over into her ear until she stirs.

She turns to face me, still sleeping
, and rests her cheek against my heart.

“Dylan…” she whispers
.

I sleep another two hours. The sun coming through the large windo
w wakes me. Isa has already risen so I sit up on the edge of bed, trying to bring everything into focus. She’s kneeling on the floor, completely naked in a presentation pose with her hands behind her back. Her posture is flawlessly straight, her chest pushed forward exhibiting her lush breasts with hardened nipples, her feet tucked gracefully beneath her. Good God, she’s a sight to behold.

“What’s this about?” I ask, wiping the sleep from my eyes.

“I just wanted to thank you for the amazing orgasms you gave me last night. Do I look pleasing to you?”

“You
look more than pleasing, love - you look absolutely
perfect.
”

She beams with joy at my praises, her eyes glowing and her cheeks flushed.

“I have your clothes picked out for you and breakfast is on the way up, Sir. What else can I do for you?” she asks.

I nod towards my pecker and she promptly crawls towards me and takes me into her mouth, but we’re interrupted by room service and Isa gives me a pouty look.

We eat our breakfast and lounge around all morning, talking and basking in each other’s company. Days like this are to be cherished. I dread going back to work and having to be away from her for hours on end. This past week I’ve learned so much about her. She’s embedded in my thoughts, my soul, my very DNA. She invites me
into the shower with her, but I want to read more of her journal so I pass on the enticing request. As soon as the bathroom door closes, I open her thoughts.

10/10/03

My body still hurts from the belt, but I tutored again this afternoon. It was good for me. I have almost $100 saved up. Papa hasn’t even noticed the few hours a week that I’m gone, thankfully. My art teacher is being very discrete at my request, though I can’t explain why. I worked with children today. It was wonderful. Their joy for art and their enthusiasm was heartwarming. I forgot all about my horrible existence when I was with them. I hope I can work with them again. I never thought I would say it, but I love children. Who knew?

The drawing on the next page is joyful; a child’s face in watercolor looking curious and excited. Christ,
even then Isa’s talent was undeniable.

A depressing
realization hits me - she’ll never be a mother. I’m such a selfish prick for never once thinking about the seriousness of Isa’s wanting a family. She desperately wants children and, right now, all I want is to give her what she desires. If there really is a God, why would he deprive her of such a basic and necessary thing – to be a mother? Why does this world have to be so cruel? Hasn’t she endured enough?

Angry, I toss the journal aside and walk towards the window. Isa’s voice can be heard coming from the shower, humming some silly 80’s song
as usual. My heart warms but my temper threatens to boil over.
Keep it together, Young.

When Isa is finished in the shower,
we dress and go out for another afternoon poking around Paris. She’s wearing a sheer white strapless halter dress that looks divine on her, her breasts bouncing in time with her excitement. It’s difficult to concentrate on our surroundings with the way her nipples are teasing me through the delicate fabric, the way her curves are calling to me and the way the diamonds on her collar are glimmering in the sunlight, reminding me that I own her.

A little later, I find a nice spot for her to do some painting on the patio of the hotel pool. The supplies I requested are brought to her and she fervently dives right in. I sit back and enjoy the view of her
working her talent onto the canvas. It’s a wicked image, but she pays no mind to the small crowd gathering while they watch her magical hands in creative motion. She’s in her own world, her eyes bright with imagination and her kinky thoughts oozing out onto the canvas. She is beauty and talent personified and I’m one lucky son-of-a-bitch to call her my own.

When she’s finished, she looks it over carefully, scratches her nose, smearing a smudge of burnt umber paint
onto her cheek. She looks angelic like this. She puts her paintbrush down and a small amount of applause breaks out, alarming Isa. By her reaction, she didn’t realize she was being watched. She looks nervously at me and sheepishly grins, her cheeks resplendent with embarrassment. Her short little legs move quickly to get to me and she hides her face in my chest.