Brokered Submission Read online

  “No, Sir,” she found herself replying.

  Once he had gone, it was as if she’d been released from a spell. Unscrewing the cap of the plastic bottle, she drank deeply, nearly finishing the water in one gulp. It was refreshing, but what she really needed was coffee. A habitually early riser, she would have had two cups by now, and her body was pissed off that it hadn’t yet had its quota of caffeine.

  She hauled herself to her feet, reaching back to massage her still-tender bottom as she made her way to the tiny, doorless bathroom. She turned on the water in the shower and faced the sink, regarding herself in the mirror. Her cheeks and throat were flushed, the skin on her chest mottled as if she’d had an orgasm.

  The experience had been more sensual than sexual, in spite of the pain, or perhaps partially because of it. She twisted back to regard her ass in the mirror. The skin was dark red and hot to the touch, a faint hint of bruising on her left cheek. A part of her was deeply shocked by this visual, but another part was drawn to it like a moth to a flame.

  Turning back to face the mirror, she touched the red dog collar at her throat. No question—it had been humiliating when he’d attached that leash and led her by it to the basement. At the same time it had been exciting—a concrete testament of her new, if temporary, status as slave girl.

  The room was filling with steam, recalling her to her task. She reached back behind her head, lifting her heavy hair to get at the Velcro closure. She pulled it open and slid the collar from her neck, placing it on the small counter beside the sink.

  Reaching into the drawer, she found the small pair of very sharp scissors. She gripped a pubic curl between her fingers and carefully snipped it away, dropping the bit of hair into the small trashcan beside the toilet. When she’d trimmed as much as she could, she climbed into the shower stall.

  As she stood beneath the hot spray, she pondered the morning’s events. She’d been frightened at the prospect of the spanking, and had started out gritting her teeth, determined to bear it and get through as best she could. She had held her breath, tensed her body and squeezed her eyes shut in fearful anticipation. As the spanking had intensified, it was like being caught in a series of rough waves at the seashore—each wave nearly drowning her before she could catch and hold her breath for the next one. There came a moment when she nearly gave up, where she almost screamed out the safeword they’d agreed upon.

  Yet somehow Dylan’s deep, soothing voice had penetrated the panic, and the steadying comfort of his other hand on her lower back kept her anchored amid the torrent. Though it hadn’t been a conscious decision, suddenly, instead of fighting the waves, she dove headlong into them. But rather than being sucked completely under, she found herself buoyed up to a place of serenity the likes of which she’d never experienced.

  It wasn’t that he’d stopped spanking her. If anything, he was hitting her harder than a moment before. But the stinging pain shifted into something different. Not pleasure, but something more encompassing and somehow loftier than mere pleasure.

  Her hair washed and conditioned, she reached for the bar of creamy soap, lathering it over her body. She smoothed the sharp razor beneath her arms, following its path with the fingers of her other hand to assure she was completely smooth. There was a small, unopened bottle of baby oil she hadn’t noticed her first time in the shower, and she used this to shave her legs.

  She stared down at her trimmed pubic hair, and again the audacity of the man ordering her to shave her privates assailed her. At the same time, she couldn’t deny the thrumming pulse of desire that emanated from her cunt and radiated outward like fire moving through her blood.

  She moved the razor carefully over her sex, using both baby oil and soap to lubricate the blades’ path over her skin. Just in case, she spread her legs and arched forward, drawing the razor between her ass cheeks. “I can’t believe I’m actually doing this,” she muttered aloud, as she stroked the now-smooth skin with her fingertips, in search of any errant stubble.

  Most of the erotic romance novels she read were more vanilla than spice, but there was one novel in particular she’d read over and over, in which the Dom had shaved his sub girl while she perched on a stool, reaching back behind her to grip the legs of her perch for balance. The guy had purposely aroused his slave girl while he trimmed and shaved her pussy. She had to remain still, even when his fingers moved tantalizingly over her clit and swollen labia. Something about the mix of pleasure and danger—the possibility the Dom might cut his sub if she jerked suddenly—sent a jolt to some secret part of Zoë, a part that until last night she had always dismissed as not worthy of a strong, independent woman.

  Turning off the shower, she reached for the towel Dylan had dried her with earlier that morning. Bending over, she twisted it around her head and stood, the terrycloth turban in place. She reached for the second towel and wrapped it around her body as she stepped out of the stall.

  Rummaging in her overnight bag, Zoë retrieved her birth control pills. Pressing out the day’s dose, she swallowed it with the last of the water in the bottle he’d given her. She removed the towel from her head and draped it over the towel rack.

  She combed out her wet hair and tucked it behind her ears. Reaching for the collar, she secured it once more around her throat, making it a little tighter than Dylan had done the night before. As odd as it was to admit, she quite liked its snug feel around her neck. No—like wasn’t the right word. It was as if the collar belonged there—as if without even knowing it, she’d been somehow bare without it—not her body so much as her soul. She looped a finger through the O-ring, thinking about its purpose.

  She took the packet of thick, black elastic hair ties from the drawer. As she pulled her hair back and twisted an elastic into place behind her head, the second towel fell from her body.

  Her eyes were drawn to her shaved pubis. She touched the area, running her fingers over the newly denuded flesh. Her clit gave a pulsing throb as she imagined standing at attention in the other room beneath Dylan’s scrutiny.

  She briefly considered masturbating just to take the edge off, Dylan’s assertion that her body belonged to him for the weekend notwithstanding, but realized she had no idea when he might return. She didn’t want to still be fumbling around in the bathroom when he came back to the room.

  She made it into position just in time. As the deadbolt turned, she laced her fingers behind her head and arched her back, keenly aware of how this made her breasts thrust prominently forward. She spread her legs to shoulder-width, and felt a faint stir of air over her bare mons.

  Using his shoulder against the door, Dylan entered the room with a large serving tray in his hands. The smell of bacon and fresh coffee assailed her nostrils, and Zoë had to swallow to keep from choking on the saliva that filled her mouth. Dylan did something on the side of the large tray that caused an attached metal stand to be released. He set the tray carefully on its stand near Zoë, and she saw a large plate heaped with scrambled eggs and half a dozen pieces of crisp bacon. Two large white ceramic mugs of coffee steamed beside the plate, one with cream, and one black.

  They’d shared many cups of coffee while putting together their merger deal, and Zoë was gratified to see Dylan remembered she took hers black. The rich aroma of the brewed coffee beans was nearly too much for her. She had to forcibly restrain herself from falling out of position so she could grab the mug and take a long, restorative drink.

  Dylan added insult to injury by picking up his mug and sipping it as he regarded her, his eyes lingering on her pubis before slowly moving to her face. “Nice,” he finally said, taking another sip while her coffee cooled on the TV tray.

  A tiny mewl of frustration pushed itself past her lips. Dylan smiled. “Is there a problem, Zoë?”

  “Coffee,” she muttered, and then remembered to add, “Sir. May I please have some coffee?”

  “You may.”

  Dylan set his mug on the tray and reached for hers. Zoë started to reach gratefully for
it, but was stopped by his sharp command. “Remain in position. I did not tell you to move out of position.”

  “But,” Zoë began, confused. “You said—”

  “I said you may have some coffee. I will hold the mug for you. You will remain in position.”

  Frustration, annoyance and need for the caffeine warred inside her, along with, if she were completely honest, another feeling—a strange, visceral thrill to be subjected to such complete and total control.

  “Yes, Sir,” she finally said, her eyes fixed on the coffee.

  Dylan held the mug to her lips. The ceramic rim was cool, but the coffee was still hot. He tipped it carefully, and she sucked greedily at the strong brew. It was delicious. He let her sip for several long, lovely seconds before withdrawing the mug.

  Turning back to the tray, he selected a piece of bacon and held it close to her mouth. “Hungry?”

  The caffeine had kick-started her appetite. “Ravenous...Sir,” she said, her stomach growling in accompanying agreement.

  Dylan smiled again, and held the meat to her lips. Zoë bit it and chewed, thinking nothing had ever tasted so good. He allowed her to eat the entire piece, and followed it with more coffee. He ate a piece himself, and then scooped up a forkful of scrambled eggs, cooked slightly wet, just the way she liked them. An explosion of buttery pleasure filled her mouth as she took the offered food. More coffee, more bacon, more eggs, until at last Zoë shook her head, her tummy full.

  Dylan finished what was left on the plate, and then sipped from his mug, once more silently regarding her. She stared back at him, both confused and aroused. No one had fed her in her memory, though she assumed her mother must have when she was a small child.

  Certainly she had never had to stand at attention, hands behind her head, butt-naked and shaved smooth, while the man who had just spanked her ass fed her bacon and eggs. If someone had told her just a day before she would be in this position, she would have scoffed and laughed, dismissing the prospect as not only absurd, but as demeaning to her as a woman and a person. Yet she felt anything but demeaned. She felt sexy, exotic, and as if she were perched on the edge of something both dangerous and exhilarating.

  Dylan lifted the tray with its now empty plate and mugs and set it alongside the wall by the door. Returning to Zoë, he said, “Time for inspection.” He stood close to her, so close her inclination was either to kiss him or to step back. She did neither.

  He ran his fingers lightly under her arms and she giggled a little, instinctively pulling away. “Remain still and quiet,” Dylan said, his voice calm but firm. Zoë stiffened and bit her lip in her effort to comply.

  Mercifully he stopped tickling her, moving his hands down her sides as if sculpting her form with his touch. He crouched in front of her, his face only inches from her body. “Arch your hips forward and spread your legs wider,” he commanded. “Show me that cunt.”

  A wave of heat washed over Zoë’s face, but she forced herself to comply. Six million dollars, she reminded the part of her brain that still resisted what was happening.

  To her dismay, Dylan reached into his shorts pocket and brought out a small flashlight. Leaning closer, he flicked it on, directing the beam over her spread pussy. He ran his fingers lightly over her labia, moving in a tantalizing circle over and around her clit. She couldn’t stop the groan of pure lust that emanated from the back of her throat as he pressed two thick fingers into her wetness.

  “Control yourself,” he said in the same calm but firm voice, no trace of emotion in his tone. Flustered and chagrined, she struggled to obey, using every ounce of willpower to keep her hips from thrusting lewdly forward to force his fingers deeper inside. Instead she focused on the burn in her arm muscles from holding the unaccustomed position for so long.

  He withdrew his hand and held it up for her to see. The heat in her face intensified as she saw evidence of her arousal glistening on his fingers. He brought his wet fingers to his nose, closed his eyes and inhaled as if smelling a bouquet of flowers, a look of pure rapture moving over his features.

  Zoë glanced quickly away, not sure if he was making fun of her, fervently wishing the inspection were over. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched him walk back toward a tall bureau beside the whip rack. His back to her, he pulled open a draw. She couldn’t see what he was doing, but when he turned around, she saw he had pulled a disposable surgical glove over his right hand. He returned to stand in front of her. Zoë swallowed hard as she took in the tube of lubricant he held in his other hand.

  “Turn around, bend over and grab your ankles,” he said. “I’m going to inspect your asshole.”

  Zoë didn’t react right away. Her body had frozen in place. Six million dollars, she reminded herself. Dylan was regarding her with an amused expression, one eyebrow cocked, as if waiting, even expecting, her to refuse.

  Accepting the silent challenge, Zoë dropped her arms, which tingled as the blood rushed back into them. Turning, she bent forward and gripped her ankles, glad he couldn’t see her face, which was now on fire.

  She jumped a little when his fingertip moved lightly along the cleft of her ass, but managed to keep hold of her ankles. His finger was withdrawn, but a moment later cold lubricant was smeared over her asshole. Stiffening, she gripped her ankles tighter.

  He moved closer behind her, reaching around her bent body with one arm to steady her as he pushed his finger gently but insistently past the tight ring of muscle at her entrance. “You’re very tight,” he observed, his tone clinical. He pushed the finger deeper inside her. “Are you an anal virgin?”

  “No...Sir,” Zoë managed between clenched teeth.

  “Good,” he said cryptically.

  His ungloved hand was curled around her hip to hold her in position. He slid it down between her legs, and when his fingers skimmed her labia, a shudder went through her loins and her legs felt suddenly weak.

  With his hard body pressed against hers from behind, he pushed a second gooey, gloved finger into her ass, his other hand strumming over her cunt. She began to tremble against him, losing her grip on her ankles, held upright only by his strong arms.

  “Oh,” she moaned. “Oh, oh, oh,” the single syllable keeping time to his moving hands, which were turning her to liquid fire.

  She was teetering on the edge of an orgasm, and desperate for the release. A welcome, dark twist of pleasure emanated from her core, and she groaned again, her body pulsating to his perfect touch.

  All at once, he let her go—the fingers withdrawn from her ass, his supporting arm falling away, his perfect touch yanked from her throbbing, sopping cunt.

  She stumbled forward, her hands flying out as she struggled to keep upright. “What? Wait, why?” she cried, frustration at the aborted climax rising like bile in her throat. She whirled around to face Dylan.

  He was calmly pulling the lubricated glove from his fingers. He met her wild stare with a calm, amused gaze. “You nearly came, didn’t you, Zoë?”

  Well, duh.

  “Why did you stop? I was so close!” The words tumbled out before she could stop them.

  His look darkened, the half smile falling away. Zoë brought her arms around her torso, chagrined and confused. Her cunt was pulsing with need, her limbs trembling. She wanted to hit him. She wanted to scream. Damn it, she wanted to come!

  “You forgot one of the rules, Zoë. That body is mine for the weekend, not yours. You are not to come unless or until I give you explicit permission. You’re lucky I stopped when I did, little girl. If you’d gone all the way without asking, I would have had to punish you.” He shook his head. “Clearly, you have very little self-control. One of the goals of a properly trained submissive is to control her own impulses—to subvert her immediate gratification in deference to her Master’s wishes.”

  Several retorts rose to Zoë’s lips, but she bit them back. Dylan was watching her. “What?” he said. “You have permission to speak freely for the moment. Tell me what just went through your
mind.”

  Zoë pushed through the jumble of confusing emotions that were making it hard to think clearly. She wasn’t used to being so off-balance with a man. She had always prided herself on being the one in control, both professionally and personally. Damn Dylan Hart—since last night she had felt like she was walking through a fun house, the floor of her confidence tipping crazily beneath her feet, the walls of her experience at odd angles with what she thought she knew. “I’m not a submissive,” she insisted, though the words rang hollow in her own ears. “I’m here as part of a deal, an agreement, nothing more.”

  Dylan regarded her silently for several beats. She stared back at him defiantly. “Nothing more?” he finally said in a quiet voice. When Zoë didn’t respond, he continued, “So you’re telling me you’re here strictly to fulfill the terms of a financial obligation? Your reaction to the spanking, your reaction just now to the inspection—these were, what? Just you being polite?”

  He lifted his fingers to his nose, his eyes fixed on her face as he made a show of inhaling the scent of her arousal. Zoë looked away, embarrassed and confused. Dylan’s voice was low and hypnotic, and though she kept her head averted, she found herself hanging on every word. “So the idea of being suspended from that beam overhead—your wrists cuffed and secured, forced onto tiptoe by the tight pull of the rope and leather—holds no allure for you? You’re indifferent to the possibility of standing naked and bound, unable to anticipate or avoid the next stroke of my whip?”

  Zoë forgot to breathe.

  Dylan moved closer. He reached for her shoulders, forcing her to face him. He stared down into her eyes. “I accept that you’re here under unusual conditions, Zoë. I agree you entered into this agreement without full understanding of what I can offer you, or what I plan to take. But to say you’re not submissive, to pretend you’re here only to fulfill an obligation in order to further your career...” He trailed off, and dipped his head toward hers.