The Negotiation: A BDSM Romance

by Christina Thacher

  Who the hell was Isabelle Peters and what gave her the idea she was a sub? She had to be the least submissive woman he’d met in years. On top of that, she wanted him as her Dom? He’d heard Mistress Kathryn warning Isabelle that he broke subs’ spirits. And still she wanted to play with him? He shrugged as he strode home. Maybe her choice proved that Isabelle was a masochist, seeking out the Dom most likely to punish her for infractions. If she assumed that about him, she’d be wrong—he tended to ignore bad subs as not worth the effort.

  When he got to his house—a simple brick townhouse less than a mile from The Club—he fixed himself a drink and went to sit in the walled garden. His cock ached, still hard despite the walk home. It was that image of Isabelle on her knees that did it. He recognized it as a coup de théâtre, a dramatic effect that might have nothing to do with a real willingness to submit. Nonetheless, he’d had to restrain a powerful urge to make her suck him off on the spot.

  Sebastian pulled back his hair, tight. Forty-five minutes working over—oh, hell, he’d already forgotten her name—with a tawse and he’d barely felt his cock twitch. Five minutes going toe-to-toe with Isabelle Peters and he had a hard-on that wouldn’t quit.

  He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. The temptation to call a sub and invite her over rose and just as quickly receded. At thirty-three, he was too old for this shit. If he made that phone call, he’d end up taking out his frustrations on some poor quivering sub he didn’t even like. A recipe for disaster.

  This is why he didn’t have a dungeon in his house. He performed better at The Club. At home, with no audience to keep him honest, he risked losing control and letting a scene get out of hand.

  He leaned forward and rested his forehead on his palms. Why had he offered Isabelle a weekend here if she made it through a scene with him? Damned if he knew. Maybe it was the thought of her in his bed—naked with her red hair spread out on the pillows and her white body spread-eagled in complete submission—that drove him.

  A weekend dominating Isabelle Peters. He’d acted like that would be a bad thing, but really? He loved the idea. He could let his inner beast out. She couldn’t object if he took her to her limits, now could she?

  Sebastian slid down in the chair, his head resting uncomfortably on the metal frame and the brick wall behind it. His cock felt like a one-man band, throbbing to some Latin rhythm.

  A delightful fantasy, having Isabelle at his mercy. Unfortunately, she would make a mistake in the scene at The Club. Her head would get in the way. Even knowing Bob had played with her, Sebastian didn’t believe she had what it took to submit for real. She’d get stuck in her own narcissistic shit. They always did.

  Wait a minute. Why not ask Bob?

  Sebastian went up to his office, which occupied nearly the entire third floor. He had three computers collating news items, blog posts and think pieces, neat piles of news feeds and printouts on a desk that wrapped around two and a half walls.

  He grabbed his Bluetooth, found Bob’s home number and hit enter.

  “Hello?” Bob’s wife.

  “Hi, Marjorie. It’s Sebastian D’Alessandro. I’m sorry to call so late. Is Bob in by any chance?”

  “Hold on.”

  When Bob came on, Sebastian said simply, “Isabelle Peters.”

  Bob didn’t respond. Instead, Sebastian could hear his muffled voice saying, “Honey, I need to take this call in the study, okay?”

  A moment later, Bob spoke quietly. “It’s okay. She figures you’re pumping me for information about Illinois politics. She wouldn’t dare eavesdrop.”

  Sebastian rubbed his eyes. “Does she even know about Isabelle?”

  Bob sighed. “They met. Isabelle was a state senator’s campaign manager, so it would have looked odd if we hadn’t traveled in the same circles. But Marjorie doesn’t want to know, so she doesn’t know. I help her maintain her ignorance.”

  Sebastian could never do that, be in a marriage with a vanilla woman. Even the idea made him feel itchy, like his clothes were too tight. “I met Isabelle tonight. In fact, I have the dubious pleasure of being the Dom she wants.”

  Bob’s mocking chuckle rubbed the wrong way. Was Bob laughing at the notion that the lovely Isabelle could want a jerk like Sebastian, or the image of Sebastian trying to handle Isabelle?

  Finally, Bob calmed down enough to talk. “So you’re calling her last Dom for references? What do you want to know, whether she gets good gas mileage?”

  “Very funny. Just tell me about her.” Sebastian settled into his favorite reading chair. He shifted awkwardly as though he’d forgotten how to relax and be comfortable. In one night, this sub had made him work harder than he had in the month that he’d played exclusively with…oh, what was that one’s name? The brunette?

  Then Bob’s voice brought Sebastian back to the only sub whose name he knew. Isabelle.

  “Smart. Sexy as hell—” Bob sounded like he was describing a dream woman.

  Sebastian stopped him. “I thought you didn’t fuck her.”

  “Doesn’t mean I didn’t want to. Marjorie may not have known why, but our sex life was a thousand times hotter after I’d had a scene with Isabelle.”

  “Okay, go on.” Sebastian closed his eyes. “What’s she like as a sub?”

  “Great. Very responsive, very receptive, very respectful.”

  “Now I know you’re shitting me. She’s the least respectful person I’ve met at The Club,” Sebastian exclaimed.

  “That’s only because you don’t get to meet yourself,” Bob joked. “Personally, I suspect you two will be great together. She’ll keep you on your toes, but when it works, you’ll feel like the Dom to end all Doms.” He paused. “Admit it, don’t the usual subs bore your pants off? Quick to kowtow, eager to please, giving up all their treasures the moment you scowl at them?”

  Sebastian grunted.

  “Isabelle,” Bob continued, “isn’t like that. She requires finesse. Doing a scene with her is like playing a chess game with a grandmaster.”

  Huh. “So you miss her?”

  There was a long silence. Finally Bob said, “I’d give my left nut to have another chance with her. We played together for almost three years, and I don’t think I ever got her to the ultimate place. Close, sure. But never all the way there. If you can do that, man, you really would be the Dom to end all Doms.”

  Chapter Two

  Sebastian didn’t bother stopping at the bar in Roseann’s, the nightclub above The Club. Normally he’d have a single drink—allowed within The Club’s general restriction on alcohol—but he was eager to get downstairs. His mind was fully occupied by the scene he had planned for Isabelle. He held out his hand for the coin stamped with a zero, took it and walked past the men’s room to the stairs to The Club.

  He was early, he knew. Nice thing about working at home was setting his own hours. In this case, it had allowed him to arrive about an hour before things started to get busy.

  He strode through the wine-cellar-like rooms. He found Isabelle curled up on a couch in the very last space. She was working on a laptop. There was no Wi-Fi down here, so she must be writing something.

  “Ms. Peters.”

  “Sir.” She smiled at him with about as much intimacy as she might give a fellow patron at a library.

  Sebastian sat in the opposite corner of the couch. “We need to discuss the scene this evening.”

  She calmly powered down the laptop and slipped it into its case. “Of course. My safe word is ‘duckling.’ My hard limits are bodily fluids, so no blood or urine. I don’t personally enjoy being humiliated, but it’s not a hard limit if the Dom enjoys it.”

  “I don’t.”

  She smiled more warmly. “A point we have in common. That didn’t take as long as I’d feared.”

  Sebastian frowned. “We don’t have to do this scene if you’re afraid.”

  “I’m sorry, I misspoke. I’m not afraid of the scene, or you. I’m happy we agree on something, that’s all.”r />
  “Ms. Peters,” he began.

  “Oh, surely you can call me Isabelle?”

  “Isabelle.” Saying her name out loud lit up his nerve endings like static. Maybe it was the thought of using her name in a command in his bed or up against the tiles in his shower, just before he slammed his cock into her. “What brought you from Chicago to D.C.?”

  “Are you asking me what I do?”

  He cocked his head to one side. “Yes, and whether you’re involved with anyone, and how long you’ve been in D.C. Nearly everyone here is from somewhere else. Tell me your story.”

  Now she was grinning. “All right. I’ll assume you’ve Googled me and learned that I’m a political consultant. Specifically, I work with political campaigns on their statistical analyses and sampling.”

  “I would imagine you run up against campaign managers who want the numbers to say what they want to hear.”

  Isabelle laughed. It was a lovely sound and it reminded him of the previous night when her laugh had pierced his concentration as he played with what’s-her-name’s ass.

  “I don’t work for those people,” she assured him. “I work with the campaigns that want to know what Nate Silver is going to say two days later in the Times.”

  “So you’re a statistician. That’s how you know Mistress Kathryn?”

  “We met in grad school, yes.”

  “Did you know back then that you had this—” Sebastian swept an arm around to indicate The Club, or maybe just BDSM generally. “—in common?”

  “Not right away. We were study-buddies at first. But you know how it is. Girl-talk leads to chatting about boyfriends, and more intimate subjects. She told me she liked men to submit to her. I told her I like to submit to men. That cemented our friendship right there.”

  His lips flexed at the image of two grad students discussing their kink instead of their chi-square tests.

  Then he sobered. “We should discuss this evening’s scene.”

  “I thought we had? Or do you need more protocol from me?” She slid gracefully to her knees, rested her hands on her thighs and waited.

  Sebastian stared at her. Like magic, she now conveyed complete respect and submission. His cock stiffened immediately at the sight of her downcast eyes and patient posture. If he told her to get him off with her mouth alone, he had no doubt she’d find a way to open his fly, free his cock and get the job done.

  Great. Now he was rock hard and throbbing. He might not like her, but he definitely desired her.

  “Do you agree to serve me for the entire scene?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “You will not be gagged. I do not want you to scream. Can you manage that control?”

  “Yes, Sir.” She sounded confident, but not in a boastful way. How she could be that assured with a new Dom, he had no clue.

  “And, of course, you won’t come until I give you permission.”

  “I understand, Sir.”

  He stood up. “Let’s go, then.”

  She hesitated for a split second, so brief that if he hadn’t been staring at her he might not have caught it. Whatever caused it, though, evaporated immediately and she rose gracefully, her feet apart and her hands behind her back.

  “Wait,” he said. He walked over to her.

  She wore a red silk dress that should have clashed with her hair but didn’t. The cut of the dress was very simple, with a high neck and almost no fabric at her shoulders. Alongside her breasts, the silk draped under the arms, giving him easy access. He reached in on both sides, closing his hands on her braless tits. They were full and warm. Her nipples were already beaded, but he pinched them and used the roughness of his thumbs to draw them out. If he’d had some water handy, he would have soaked the fabric of her dress so that everyone could see how aroused she was.

  He pulled up the skirt. “No panties. Good girl.”

  “Thank you, Sir.”

  She was right to feel proud of herself. She’d dressed with a Dom’s need for contact in mind. Another sub would have put on some garter belt and frilly stockings, all of which would have had to come off.

  He held the skirt up with one hand and ran the other palm along her thigh, straight up until his thumb was at her clit. She was aroused as well. He looked down. She had a small tuft of auburn curls just above her cleft. “Very neat.”

  “Thank you, Sir.”

  Her eyes were still downcast. “Look at me.” Those magnificent green eyes met his. He craved this connection with her, although he couldn’t have said why. She was impossible as a sub, but there was something about her that woke him up.

  She was gorgeous. She hid behind her beauty the way he hid behind his reputation as an asshole. Right now, though, he felt like he was seeing the real Isabelle. Vulnerability lit her mossy green eyes from deep down.

  His thumb was sliding lightly along her delicate folds and slick channels. Not to torque her toward climax but learning her. Sensing what pleased her. He wanted to find her down-deep place, to reach beneath her mask of beauty.

  Her eyes widened and her lips, a lovely warm pink that appeared to owe little to lipstick, opened slightly. She licked them with the tip of her tongue.

  He bent as if to kiss her. Her eyelids dropped a bit, perhaps because she was tracking the progress of his mouth. But something about her hooded eyes sparked his suspicions. Maybe she really was a calculating bitch. Just like maybe he really was a bastard.

  He let the skirt drop. “Get your things. We’re in the big room tonight.”

  * * *

  Isabelle followed Sebastian until they got to the only room with an actual stage. Someday she’d know these rooms intimately, but for now they remained a jumble in her head. It was like someone had punched doorways between adjacent basements on either side and in back. It must take up nearly a quarter of the block, all of it underground.

  A dozen people mingled in the large room. Sebastian ignored them. From his performance the night before, Isabelle knew he was well aware of the audience. He just acted as though they didn’t exist.

  “Strip.” His voice was pitched for her ears only.

  She’d anticipated that. Her dress opened at the side of her waist, so she needed no help. She draped it over a chair just offstage, leaving her shoes tucked under the seat. She walked back to Sebastian and knelt, her hands behind her back.

  He brought out three lengths of a silky black rope and placed them on the floor near her knees. She stared at them, which had to be why he’d placed them just there. So she could stare and speculate what the ropes were for.

  “Stand.”

  She stood, her feet apart.

  Sebastian unwrapped the first hank of rope, letting the coils fall to the floor but keeping a doubled length in his hands. He stepped behind her.

  She heard the slither of the rope and the “ooh” of the audience in swift succession. Then the rope wrapped around her wrists and the roar of blood rushing through her ears blocked out all other noise. She felt the rope come under her arms and across her chest above her breasts, back under her arms and around again. She could just see the rope. Four widths lined up perfectly, a wide black swath below her collar bone.

  He continued to wrap her, knot the ropes together, wrap, tug, and move on to another part of her body. Her nipples were painfully hard but he hadn’t touched them. Her cunt was sopping wet. She wasn’t helpless—she was too good a submissive to have lost track of her options—but she was completely in Sebastian’s control. Which was very controlled indeed.

  She felt her feet leave the ground a split second before she heard the audience gasp in unison. He hoisted her about three feet off the ground. She relaxed her muscles and let her body feel the skill in the rope cradle he’d created. Her legs were parted and bent at the knee. Her arms were a few inches away from her back. She probably looked like a skydiver in free fall. She felt like an angel, able to fly.

  Sebastian tugged her hair into a loose coil that he draped over her left shoulder, away from the
audience. He reached around from her left side, his right hand dipping underneath her torso. When both hands were in place, he used his thumbs and fingers to tweak and twist her nipples. She imagined them swelling, darkening to a deep coral, which would show up so dramatically against her white skin and his black silk rope.

  He wasn’t just making her tits aesthetically pleasing. It was like she could read his mind. He wanted her hot and aching for release. His fingernails scraped against her, arousing pain and pleasure both. She melted even further into the gravity of his ropes. Her clit was throbbing, eager and hungry for his touch. He made her entire body want more.

  Still, this was a contest—a bullfight or a boxing match—and there could be only one winner. Either she was the perfect sub—which he didn’t think she could be—or he could somehow make her lose her cool. Isabelle guessed the challenge would be to control her orgasm. To take all the pleasure he could throw at her, let it torque her arousal but never push her over the edge. He might not allow her to come at all. She had to be prepared for that.

  Her nipples flamed into exquisite pain when he tightened some clamps on them. She could hear the tinkling of bells, a grotesquely delicate noise accompanying the inferno of pain and desire focused on her tits.

  She used her breathing to carry away the sensations. She was floating on a warm sea, untroubled by the fire Sebastian was stoking.

  She felt him step away. In a moment, he was back with some lube and a butt plug. She tolerated him inserting it, but she knew he’d use the fullness later on. He stepped away again, then came back—this time with a butterfly vibrator that went over her clit. No wonder he hadn’t tied the rope so a knot would press against her clit. He had other plans for torturing her there.

  The butterfly revved into life, as did the butt plug. Isabelle could feel sweat on her forehead and under her arms, tiny rivulets struggling to cool her off.

  I’m lying on a calm sea. The water is taking away all pleasure, all pain, all tension. I do not need to orgasm. I will enjoy these sensations without letting them control me.