Brokered Submission

by Claire Thompson

  “Six million?” Dylan pursed his lips, his eyes narrowing in thought. He lifted the side of his mouth in a half smile, and there was a sudden fire in his golden-brown eyes as he swept his gaze over Zoë in a way that made her somehow feel naked. She wrapped her arms around her torso and waited.

  “I could get that for you by Tuesday, without question,” he said slowly. The edgy, powerful intensity she’d experienced before when he’d been saying all that crazy stuff about bondage and submission was back in his tone, and in spite of the dire situation, she could feel a steady throb of desire at her core. She wanted this man. More than she’d wanted anyone in a long, long time.

  His eyes boring into hers, Dylan continued, “As I say, I can get the money, but you do understand it will cost you. I plan to exact a very high price.”

  A jumble of confused emotions assailed Zoë at this pronouncement, and the sensual spell of a moment before evaporated in an instant. He was just another banker looking for the next quick buck. Shit. How had she misread him so completely?

  She swallowed her disappointment and told herself this was for the best. She lifted her chin and asked in a businesslike tone, “What are the terms?”

  Dylan didn’t answer immediately. He tilted his head, regarding her in a way that made her feel hot and cold all at once. They were physically close because of the way the barstools were positioned, and she could smell his warm, masculine scent. Unable to resist his magnetic allure, she found herself leaning closer. His eyes were still locked on hers, the fire blazing behind them.

  When he finally spoke, his voice was low and clear, the power beneath it impossible to ignore or resist. “I’m not talking about money. I’m talking about something altogether different.”

  He reached out and ran his finger along her bare arm. His touch sent an electric shiver over her skin, and she was horrified at herself when a small but audible moan came from her lips. She pressed them together and waited, her heart beating suddenly over-fast.

  “I trust your financial acumen, Zoë. I’m willing to invest six million of my own money into this venture of yours. In exchange, you will spend the next forty-eight hours as my sexual slave. You will be confined to my basement dungeon, and you will be subject to my every sensual whim and erotic torture.”

  His hand moved over her arm to her shoulder, his fingers lightly grazing her throat. I live it, he had said. Zoë became aware her mouth had fallen open, but she couldn’t even muster the muscle control to close it. She just stared at him as he continued, “I can see it in your eyes and your body language. You want what I’m offering.”

  His hand moved again, this time his fingers curling lightly around her throat. An involuntary shudder racked her body, and another moan escaped her lips. Christ, who was this man? “And I, in turn,” Dylan continued, “want you, but only on my terms.” He removed his hand and sat back on his stool, his eyes still locked on hers. Her hand fluttered to her bare throat, which felt oddly bereft of his touch. “I will never harm you when you are in my charge. I firmly believe in the concept of safe, sane and consensual as it applies to the BDSM lifestyle, no matter how intense our involvement might become.”

  Dylan turned back to the bar to pick up his beer bottle. Zoë slumped a little, as if she were a marionette and he’d just released her strings. He took a long drink while she struggled desperately to compose herself. She was at once flustered and on fire—something hot and wild had ignited inside her with his words. She had no idea how to put it out, or if she even wanted to. Was he seriously asking her for a weekend of kinky sex in exchange for an investment of such magnitude?

  He leaned closer, so close his lips nearly brushed hers as he whispered, “I can promise you this, Zoë, this will be an experience you will never forget. And one you won’t regret, no matter what else happens, or doesn’t happen, between us.”

  Zoë’s heart was hammering in her chest, and she found it hard to catch her breath. Her eyes fluttered shut in anticipation of his kiss.

  But no kiss came.

  She opened her eyes to find him regarding her with an amused, sardonic smile. “So,” he said. “Do we have a deal?”

  Chapter 2

  Zoë’s mouth worked for a moment, but no words came. He could see the struggle, the resistance and the desire at war within her. Though she couldn’t possibly know the full extent of what she was going to agree to, he was nearly certain she would say yes. And not because of the promise of the cash infusion she would need to save her deal, or at least not solely because of that. He could sense the yearning, the need to find out what it was he was offering, and those feelings outweighed her natural trepidation.

  After what seemed a long time, but he knew was in reality only a few seconds, Zoë nodded. “Yes. Okay. All right, I’ll do it.” She lifted her chin. “But I need proof first. I need to see that you have access to those kinds of funds, and I need to know the money will be there on Tuesday.”

  Dylan nodded, slipping his hand into his pocket to keep from shooting a triumphant fist into the air. He swallowed for the same reason—to buy himself a little time so he didn’t burst out with something stupid like, “All-fucking-right!” Instead, keeping his voice calm, he said soberly, “Fair enough. Let’s go over to my office, and I’ll get things set up.”

  He paid the bar tab, and they stepped out together into the warm summer evening. As they walked the three city blocks to his office building, Zoë told him more about the details and structure of her deal. As she talked, she became increasingly animated and excited, and Dylan understood just how important it was for her not only to close the deal, but to prove to the world and, probably most importantly, to herself, that she had what it took to make it in high finance.

  “I want this more than anything I’ve ever wanted in my life,” she said earnestly. “I’ve been working on this every spare minute for the last six months, and I think I have the downside covered, even if things don’t pan out quite as we hope. You’ll end up making money on this deal, I can almost guarantee it.”

  “I have to admit, Zoë, I’m quite impressed with your financial creativity and clear-minded analysis of the risks and rewards. Yes, it’s a gamble, but what business deal worth doing doesn’t involve some risk? You know what they say”—he shrugged and grinned, thinking of the millions he’d made, and sometimes lost, over his career—”nothing ventured, nothing gained.”

  They arrived at his office building, checked in with the night attendant and glided upward in the large, wood-paneled elevator, neither saying a word as they watched the digital numbers rise. Once in the empty office, he booted up his computer, and Zoë accessed the account information he would need to transfer the promised money. It took about a half hour to complete the various transactions necessary to liquidate the needed funds. Once he was done, Dylan called to Zoë, who had been staring out of the huge glass windows that framed Manhattan’s famous night-lit skyline, to come over to his desk.

  “There it is,” he said, pointing to the scheduled transfer. “All set and ready to go. Once you complete your end of the deal”—he paused, letting his eyes sweep slowly over her face and body, amused and aroused at the faint flush of pink rising to her cheeks—“the money will be sent to your account.”

  Zoë wrapped her arms protectively around herself and bit her lower lip.

  Dylan lifted his brows as he regarded her. “What? Having second thoughts? It’s not too late—you want out”—he offered an exaggerated shrug—“I’m sure you can find the funding elsewhere. The deal is solid. I would hate to think I was forcing you into something you didn’t really want to do.”

  Zoë said nothing, instead continuing to worry her lower lip. Dylan resisted the urge to pull her into his arms and bite that sexy, pouty lip himself. Instead, he added softly, “Forty-eight hours, Zoë. Two uninterrupted days to discover if your secret desires can become reality.” He reached for her shoulders then, and stared deeply into her eyes. “I want it,” he admitted, letting the urgency he fel
t slip into his tone. “I think you want it too.”

  She stared back and finally nodded. “Yes,” she whispered. “Yes, I want it too.”

  They took the elevator down to the parking garage, where Dylan’s silver BMW M5 waited like a gallant steed to carry them home. They stopped first at Zoë’s midtown apartment. He waited out front while she went up to collect her toiletries and do whatever else she needed for her weekend stay. “You won’t need any clothing,” he said, again enjoying the sweet blush his words provoked, “so pack lightly.”

  Once they wove their way out of the crush of city traffic, Dylan made good time. He glanced over at Zoë as he drove along Bronx River Parkway toward his Scarsdale home. She was quiet, her eyes on the road, her hands twisting nervously in her lap. It was after eleven, but he wasn’t the least bit tired, or if he was, the adrenaline kicking around like rocket fuel in his gut wouldn’t let him realize it.

  What an extraordinary opportunity. The whole concept of taking an innocent—a total neophyte in the world of BDSM—and introducing her to its dark pleasures and infinite intensity, had completely taken him over since it had leaped full-blown into his brain at the bar. Zoë was a blank slate with the potential, he sensed, to become a masterpiece of erotic submission and grace. She had no preconceived notions, no negative experience to undo.

  He slowed as he exited the highway and wended his way through the large, tree-lined streets of his quiet neighborhood. He pulled into his driveway and pressed the garage door remote on the visor. He eased the car into its space, turned off the engine, and turned to face his lovely, willing captive. She was still staring straight ahead, her hands now clenched into fists on either thigh.

  “You all right?” Dylan touched Zoë’s shoulder, and she flinched.

  “Hey, it’s all good, you know?” he said gently. She said nothing. “Zoë, look at me.” Slowly she turned her head in his direction, her dark eyes wide, her lower lip caught between her teeth. Dylan stroked her cheek. “Listen to me, Zoë. It’s not too late to turn around and forget this whole thing.” Dylan could barely admit to himself how much her response mattered. He waited a beat, but she still said nothing.

  He took her hand, and she didn’t pull away. She stared down at their hands, as if tracing the lines in her mind. “I’m going to ask you something, Zoë, and I want you to answer honestly.”

  Zoë looked up again. “What?” she whispered.

  “Something happened between us back at the bar. I know you have no experience with BDSM and the power of erotic submission, but I sensed something in you—a direct and immediate response, even yearning, for the potential of what I’m offering you this weekend. The Dom in me connected on a gut level to the sub in you. Even if this business deal didn’t exist, I find I want—no, let me go even further—I need to explore your submissive potential with you. This is an amazing opportunity for us both—a full forty-eight hours with no outside distractions, no other commitments, and none of the usual emotional complications of a new relationship to navigate in the process. It will just be you and me—no pretense, no artifice, no games. Even without the promise of investment money, I sense that, on some level, you want this as much as I do. Am I wrong?”

  The world stood still as he waited for her answer.

  “No,” she said at last in a low but clear voice. “You’re not wrong. Something happened back in the bar when you were saying those things to me. At first I thought you were just trying to shock me, but even if that were the case, the words somehow bypassed my brain and went right to my”—she broke off, her cheeks reddening. She laughed nervously and tossed back her hair—”my body. Or not even just my body, but my…”

  “Your soul,” Dylan provided, forcing himself to stay calm and centered, sensing this was the moment they would seal the deal, or it would fall to pieces.

  “Yes,” she whispered, and then louder, “Yes.”

  Just to be absolutely sure, Dylan reiterated, “Then you’re prepared to honor the terms of our agreement? You will submit to me fully for the duration of this weekend? You agree to be my sexual submissive, to accept, endure and embrace my training, and to trust I will keep you safe from harm, but know I will push every erotic and sensual boundary you possess?”

  Zoë drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. She nodded. “I do.”

  “You need to understand that once you step out of this car, your will is no longer your own. For the duration of the weekend, I will decide when you sleep, when you eat, when you use the bathroom, when you receive pleasure and when you endure pain. You will be directed, controlled, sexually used, bound, erotically tortured, and exhaustively trained in the art of submission.”

  Zoë had stopped twisting her hands. They rested easily on her lap, and while he could feel her excitement and the tension of expectation, he could sense her determination. All the marks of a true sub were plain on her face and in her bearing. She was born to this, even if she didn’t know it yet.

  Her words bore out his belief. “Yes. I agree to the terms.”

  Dylan barely acknowledged to himself the relief that flooded through his being at her pronouncement. “Good,” he said. “Then it begins. Now.”

  Zoë started to reach for the door handle, but Dylan said, “Wait. Before we go in, I want to go over a few rules and regulations.” She let her hand fall away and turned once more to regard him. “First of all,” he continued, “slave girls don’t wear clothing in my house. That means you will strip here in the garage. You can leave your clothes in the car, and I’ll collect them for you later.”

  Zoë opened her mouth as if to protest. Dylan shook his head. “Shh, no talking. That’s the second rule. Slave girls do not speak unless asked a direct question. When you do speak, you will address me as Sir. For the duration of the weekend, I am not Dylan. I am Sir to you. Is that understood?”

  Again there was a long pause. Zoë’s cheeks were still flushed and her eyes were fever-bright. “Yes, Sir,” she finally said, her low sultry voice and the import of her words sending a jolt of hot desire directly to his cock.

  ~*~

  I can’t believe I’m doing this, I can’t believe I’m doing this.

  Even as these words looped endlessly through her mind, Zoë slipped off her shoes. It being summer, she wore no stockings, and the cement floor was cool beneath her bare feet. Dylan stood nearby, watching her as she undressed, his expression implacable, save for the spark of lust and power in his golden-brown eyes.

  When she was down to her bra and panties, she hesitated, her gut clenching with nerves. It wasn’t that she was shy about her body, but it felt so inequitable to be stripping naked for this virtual stranger while he stood there, her overnight bag in his hand, watching her every move.

  Dylan cocked an eyebrow, waiting. Blowing out a breath, Zoë reached back and unhooked her bra, letting it fall forward on her arms. He didn’t look away as she pulled down her panties and stepped carefully out of them. She laid her things on the car seat and closed the door, standing uncertainly in front of the man who would dictate her every move for the next two days.

  It was as if he had stepped out of an erotic romance novel, brought to life by her secret, barely acknowledged longing for something more. But those were just dark, sexy words on a page designed to fuel her fantasies when she masturbated late at night, alone in her bed and in search of release. This was no fantasy, and Dylan was no paper hero. He was flesh and blood—a real man with his own agenda.

  I can’t believe I’m doing this, I can’t believe I’m doing this.

  And yet, if she were totally honest with herself, she wanted to do it. And not just to secure the investment funds. He was right, though she had no idea how he knew—his words and promises had resonated, connecting to something bright and fierce at the core of her being.

  Dylan punched numbers into a keypad on the door. He turned the knob and flicked on the light. They stepped into a large kitchen equipped with the expected stainless steel appliances, granite coun
tertops and ceramic-tiled flooring. Dylan led her to a bar and directed that she sit. She perched on the edge of the barstool and wrapped her arms around herself.

  “Are you cold?” Dylan asked, regarding her. “I can raise the thermostat.”

  She shook her head. “No, I’m good…Sir,” she added after a moment.

  He smiled and moved to the refrigerator. He took out a bottle of white wine and placed it on the counter. Opening a cabinet door, he removed two crystal wine glasses, which he set beside the bottle.

  Extracting the cork, he poured wine into each glass and turned toward her, both glasses in his hands. He held one out to her, and Zoë took it gratefully, in need of a bit of liquid courage. She drank the fruity, crisp wine in two gulps. Dylan lifted an eyebrow and held out the bottle. He’d barely sipped from his own glass. “A little more?”

  “Yes, please…Sir,” Zoë said, offering her empty glass. He filled it again, and this time she sipped more slowly. Dylan took some things out of the refrigerator as she sipped, and in a moment he placed a plate of sliced cheese and crackers before her. Zoë realized she was hungry, the pizza they’d all shared at the bar hours before now a distant memory.

  She ate a few of the crackers topped with cheese and had more of the wine. It was surreal in the extreme to be sitting there naked as a jaybird in this man’s kitchen. The quiet but persistent mantra of incredulity at what she had committed herself to spooled in a continuous loop through her brain: I can’t believe I’m doing this, I can’t believe I’m doing this.

  Finally Dylan said, “It’s time, Zoë. Your submission begins now. Stand up with your arms at your sides.”

  Zoë’s heart instantly kicked into high gear and her legs wobbled a little as she stood from the barstool. In for a penny, in for a pound, she reminded herself.