Brokered Submission

by Claire Thompson

  An ice pick of real fear stabbed through Zoë’s innards. “I said my safeword!” she cried. “Let me down this instant. I’ve changed my mind.”

  Her shock deepened when Master Cameron just laughed, the sound harsh and derisive in her ears. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re way overreacting here, silly girl. We haven’t even started yet. You can’t end a scene before it starts. Don’t you know that?” He patted the top of her head. “It’ll be fabulous, I promise.”

  Zoë opened her mouth to shout her protest, but the sound was cut off by a hard hand pressed hard over her lips. “Stop all the fuss. Behave yourself, sub girl. You’re being ridiculous.”

  His hand was removed, and this time Zoë screamed, but almost immediately something hard and foul tasting was shoved between her teeth, cutting off her cry. She tried to expel the rubbery ball pressing her tongue back toward her throat, but found she couldn’t. Master Cameron was behind her, buckling the thing onto the back of her head.

  Zoë’s heart was beating so hard she could feel it knocking against her chest. She felt dizzy with fear and if she hadn’t been held up by the cuffs, she would have fallen. She tried to scream again but only managed to gurgle. Surely if he understood her terror was genuine, he would let her down. He would stop this crazy, terrifying game.

  Safe, sane and consensual. Weren’t those the bywords everyone in the scene lived by? What was happening? How could this asshole not be getting it? She had to try again. “Get this thing off me! Let me down! Buyout, buyout, buyout!” she cried behind the gag, but all that came out was, “Mmmph mmph grggl mmph!”

  “Shh, you don’t need to play these games with me. I get it—you’re the damsel in distress, but I don’t really go for role-play. Anyway, I can see right through you. Just go with it, love. You know what they say”—again the unpleasant laugh—“if you can’t fight it, you might as well lie back and enjoy it.”

  Outraged, Zoë jerked in her chains, but to no avail. She jumped when she felt the light, stinging tap of what must be the cane against her ass. It flew rapidly over her skin and she could hear its clicking, pattering sound moving in syncopated rhythm against the pounding of her heart.

  As new as she was to the scene, Zoë knew what was happening was wrong. She also understood there wasn’t a damn thing she could do about it.

  Okay, okay. Just get through this. You can do this. You can deal. He isn’t really hurting you. It’s some kind of fucked up mind game, but you can handle it. Breathe. Relax. Flow with it. Harness and use the fear, like Dylan taught you.

  “That’s better,” Master Cameron said soothingly. “I can feel you relaxing. I told you it would be fine if you just go with it. Much better. I think I’ll just lock that door to assure our privacy, hmm?”

  Zoë shook her head violently, to no avail. She heard the sound of a lock being turned, and then the clomp of his boots as he returned to her. There was a sudden, whooshing sound and then a searing shock of pain sliced its way through her senses.

  “Fuck!” she screamed against the gag, though it came out more as a phlegmy ugglh. “Buyout! Buyout!” she gargled again, though she no longer held out any hope he would pay attention, or care.

  Another slice of pain cut its away across her ass, followed by yet another on the backs of her thighs. She twisted and jerked in her effort to get away from the cane, and as she moved one of her shoes fell off, leaving her off-balance and forced to stand on tiptoe with one foot.

  Suddenly Zoë remembered the universal safeword sign Dylan had taught her, and she began to clench and unclench her fists furiously above the cuffs, while still struggling to form her safeword with her tongue pressed far back in her mouth.

  “Give in to it, love,” Master Cameron crooned behind her. “You’ll never fly if you don’t spread your wings.”

  The cane continued to whoosh and strike, each cut leaving a fiery line of pain on Zoë’s flesh. Again and again she continued to clench and unclench her fists. Tears were wetting the satin blindfold, and her nose was running, the snot mingling with the drool dripping down her chin. Fear, pain and rage bloomed like an atomic mushroom in her gut, and still the cane came down again, and again, and again.

  Finally Zoë sagged in her cuffs, trying to swallow the saliva pooling in her mouth, praying the nightmare would end soon.

  “That’s it,” the monster behind her urged. “You’re nearly there. I can feel it.”

  Suddenly Zoë’s ears pricked to a sound from across the room. She processed it through her muddled brain, and realized it was the doorknob jiggling. “Mmph!” she cried out desperately.

  “Shit,” Master Cameron muttered behind her.

  “Open the door,” a deep, masculine voice called from the other side of the door. “Now.”

  There was the sound of a key turning, and then the door opening. Zoë heard raised voices, Master Cameron’s in protest, another man with anger, and then Jill’s voice rising in a wail. “Zoë!”

  Relief hurtled through Zoë’s consciousness and at the same time the tight grip she’d been keeping on her sanity ebbed away. Sudden bursts of white light mushroomed behind her eyelids, and all sound in the room was drowned out by a persistent ringing in her ears. The world tilted on its axis, and Zoë slid down, down and down into a deep, dark and silent place.

  Chapter 11

  Buyout. Buyout. Buyout!

  Zoë’s eyes flew open, the word still echoing in her ears. Blue eyes were peering into her face. For several seconds she stared into those eyes with zero recognition. She had no idea where she was or what was happening.

  The eyes moved back so Zoë could focus on the face, which broke into a smile of relief. It was Jill Sutton. “Oh, thank god. She’s coming out of it. Are you okay, honey? You gave us quite a scare.”

  Zoë lay on her stomach, her head cradled in her arms. She lifted her head to see Jill sitting beside her. Something touched Zoë’s back and she twisted around to see a man holding a tube of something in one hand. He had a stethoscope around his neck, which looked incongruous against his black leather vest. Zoë shifted her gaze back to Jill in confusion. “What? Who?”

  “It’s okay, honey.” Jill patted her soothingly. “Michael is a medical doctor. He’s just making sure you’re all right.”

  Zoë wrinkled her forehead as she tried to concentrate through a fog of confusion. Why was she lying on this bed surrounded by these people? How had she come to be here? A feeling of terrible danger clung to her senses like the sticky mesh of a spider’s web, and yet Jill was smiling at her, her expression calm and reassuring.

  A firm hand pressed at her shoulder, pushing her gently back to the mattress. “Lie still a moment longer, please, Zoë.” Michael’s voice was deep, his tone kind. “You fainted and were out for several minutes. It might take a few moments to orient yourself. Take it easy. Just rest while I finish treating your back.”

  “My back? What happened…” Zoë trailed off, memory suddenly returning in a gush, the whole horrible scene with Master Cameron dumping into her mind like a bucket of sewage. “Oh,” she whispered. “Oh my god.”

  Michael continued applying salve to her back, his touch soothing the fiery sting of welts that had come awake along with her return to consciousness. He patted her shoulder. “There, now. There is some bleeding where he broke the skin, but I don’t think there will be any scarring. Do you think you can sit up now?”

  Zoë nodded. Michael and Jill both reached supportively for her as she struggled into an upright position. Jill draped a silk kimono-type robe over Zoë’s shoulders and helped her slip her arms into it. Though the sense of imminent danger had dissipated, as Zoë wrapped the garment around herself, she realized her hands were shaking.

  Michael handed her a bottle of water, which she accepted with thanks. The cool water was refreshing, and her mind began to clear as the doctor did a quick check of her vital signs and questioned her as to her physical and mental state of mind.

  Finally satisfied, he turned to Jill. “O
kay, she’s going to be fine after a little decompression and debriefing. I’ll leave her in your capable hands.” He frowned as he added, “I want to go see what’s up with Master Cameron. He’s got a hell of a lot of explaining to do.”

  Michael left the room, closing the door softly behind him. Zoë realized there were two more people in the room. Betty was sitting in wingback chair opposite the sofa. She leaned forward. “That was a bad scene that prick put you through,” she said darkly.

  Angela sat on the carpet beside the daybed, leaning against it. She reached up and touched Zoë’s knee, shaking her head in sympathetic agreement.

  Zoë realized she was trembling, and she wiped the tears trickling down her cheeks with surprise. “I don’t cry,” she announced, aware she was telling herself more than these three women who were all staring at her so intently. “I haven’t cried since I was five years old.”

  Jill put her arms around Zoë and murmured softly, “It’s okay, baby. Everyone cries.”

  Something cracked in Zoë’s chest at these words, and the floodgates opened. She buried her face helplessly in Jill’s warm, strong embrace. “It’s okay, baby,” Jill crooned again. “It’s all okay. Crying is good. Let it out. Let it go.” She stroked Zoë’s hair. Ugly, noisy sobs wracked her body, yanked from somewhere deep inside. Zoë felt as if sorrow was being dredged from deep in her bones.

  Her tears finally spent, she lifted her head, exhausted but oddly peaceful. She took the handful of tissues Jill held out to her and wiped her face, finally turning to the others with an embarrassed smile. “You guys must think I’m such a baby.”

  “A baby?” Angela said, the indignation clear in her tone. “Are you kidding? After what happened? The bastard should be shot!”

  “Where is he?” Zoë asked. “Where is Ma—” She stopped herself. He didn’t deserve the title. “Where is that bastard, Cameron?”

  “Hank and Louis are questioning him,” Jill said. “He broke all kinds of rules with what went on in there. They don’t take that kind of stuff lightly here at The Vault. That guy’s in big trouble, and not just with you.”

  “Dylan,” Zoë said suddenly, the need to see him, to be held in his arms nearly overwhelming her. She looked around for her purse. She saw it sitting atop her gown, which was neatly folded on a sideboard that ran the length of one wall. “I need to call Dylan.”

  “Louis called him right away,” Jill said, patting her hand. “He cut his meeting short. He’s on his way back now.”

  “He’s heading back to New York? Now?” Zoë absorbed this, relief warring with guilt. She knew how important closing this deal was for him.

  As if reading her mind, Jill said, “Don’t worry about his business dealings, Zoë. Whatever he was doing, you’re more important. Louis would do the same thing in a heartbeat. It’s what love is about, honey. Being there for the person you love. There is no higher priority.”

  “We’re new,” Zoë said by way of explanation to the other two women. “We haven’t really used that word yet—the L word.” She almost managed a grin.

  “Trust me, honey,” Jill said emphatically. “I’ve known Dylan a long time, and the boy is smitten. The L word, as you call it, might as well be plastered on his forehead and branded on his butt. Subs may be the ones who are ‘owned’”—she drew air quotes around the word—“but you already own Dylan’s heart. I guarantee it.”

  Zoë found she was smiling, Jill’s words like a salve on the emotional wound caused by Cameron’s betrayal. “Meanwhile,” Jill continued, “though this isn’t the introduction any of us would have wanted, welcome to the Sub Club.”

  “Welcome,” Betty and Angela echoed.

  Betty reached for something by her chair, and held up a bottle. “Care for a shot of the good stuff? This is an excellent Cognac I’ve been saving for a special occasion. Now that Dr. Michael gave his okay, it’s time for some real medicine.” She grinned.

  “Absolutely,” Zoë said, surprised to find she could laugh. Angela went to the sideboard and returned with four glasses. Betty poured several fingers of brandy into a glass and handed it to Zoë, and then poured some for each of the others.

  When they all had a glass, Jill lifted hers in a toast and the others followed suit. “To the newest member of the Sub Club. Welcome, Zoë.”

  They all drank. The brandy was a fine one, and Zoë savored the first sip on her tongue. It tasted smoky and a little sweet. She sipped again, and the burn felt good as it bloomed in her chest. The small, cozy room, she finally noticed, was softly lit with indirect lighting. Flames flickered on a series of tall, fat candles on a nearby table, the smell of melting wax, lavender and chamomile scenting the air.

  She leaned back carefully against the sofa, the welts marking her back and ass still tender and stinging. “Man,” she said. “I feel like I’ve been run over with a steamroller.” She took another sip of the fortifying brandy.

  “You were, in a way,” Jill said, her tone serious. “Your trust was violated. That’s a real kick in the gut, no matter how you look at it. If you feel up to it, tell us what happened, honey.”

  Before answering, Zoë asked, “How did you know to come find me?”

  “Master Kyle and I were done with my scene, and I was wondering where you were, so I went looking. When I found the door to the small dungeon was locked, I knocked, but there was no answer. Something didn’t feel right to me, so I went and got Michael. He was in the office and we looked at the security monitor and saw what was happening. It was clear you were making the universal safeword hand signal, and equally clear he wasn’t paying attention.”

  “You never saw anybody run so fast,” Angela interjected. “The two of them took off like they were shot out of a cannon.”

  “Security monitor?” Zoë asked, not following.

  “Yeah,” Betty added, “Michael and Hank keep security cameras in every scene room as a safety precaution. Occasionally scenes go a little haywire, though I’m not aware of anything like this ever having happened before.”

  “Me neither,” Jill agreed. “You would think Master Cameron would know better, surely.” She shook her head, consternation on her face. “I just don’t get it. I had such a great scene with him on stage. How could things have gone so wrong?”

  “No witnesses,” Angela suggested darkly. “At least, he didn’t realize there were any. He must have figured he could do whatever the fuck he wanted. Some so-called Masters are really just bullies in Doms’ clothing.”

  “Was he just clueless,” Betty asked Zoë, “or was there actual bad intent?”

  Zoë thought about it before answering, going over the bizarre, frightening events in her head. “At first I thought he just wasn’t getting it, and maybe I was to blame because I’m new to the scene, and wasn’t entirely sure what I was doing. But then I said my safeword. I said it over and over, and he didn’t give a shit. He laughed at me.” She shuddered as the horrible memories came tumbling back in all-too-vivid detail, tears springing again to her eyes.

  Jill put her arm comfortingly around Zoë. “You don’t have to talk about it yet, honey, if you aren’t ready.”

  Zoë shook her head resolutely and angrily blinked away the tears. “No. It’s okay. Fuck him. He’s not going to hijack my wonderful experience with BDSM. No way am I going to let the son of a bitch do that to me.”

  “You go, girl!” Angela cried enthusiastically, and the other two women laughed and clapped their approval.

  Zoë smiled wanly. Then she steeled herself, and told them exactly what had happened. The women’s faces darkened as she spoke, each of them hanging on every word. Instead of feeling weakened by the telling, Zoë felt empowered. It was good to be heard.

  When she was done, Angela picked up a pretty brass bowl from the end table beside her chair and handed it to Jill, who in turn handed it to Zoë. The bowl was etched with symbols and designs, a small wooden dowel resting inside it.

  She looked up at the women. “What’s this?”


  “It’s a Tibetan singing bowl,” Jill explained. “Run the dowel around the rim of the bowl. It makes a pretty sound.”

  Zoë picked up the dowel, not entirely sure what she was doing. She rubbed the side of the dowel along the perimeter of the bowl and a small, bell-like sound emanated from it. “Oh,” she said softly as the sound grew stronger. “Am I doing that?”

  “You are,” Jill confirmed.

  “The bowls are used for meditation, deep relaxation and holistic healing,” Betty explained. “We use it in the Sub Club as a kind of repository for negative shit.”

  “Yeah,” Angela continued, leaning forward, “now that you’ve shared the bad scene in a safe place, you can let go of it. Just put it right in the bowl and let the music wipe it away.” She mimed dropping something into the bowl and then rubbed her hands together for emphasis. “Done. Gone.”

  Zoë continued stroking the rim of the bowl with the dowel. She quite liked the concept of a “repository for negative shit.” Closing her eyes, she envisioned dropping the whole nasty, terrifying scene, and Master Cameron along with it, into the bowl, and then letting the contents blow away on the air of its pure, sweet sound.

  Finally she dropped the dowel softly into the bowl, letting the last of the music die away. She looked up at the women, all of whom were watching her with kind, attentive smiles. She felt light, the terrible weight of what had happened somehow lifted from her psyche.

  “Thank you,” she said simply to her new friends.

  “You’re welcome,” they replied in unison.

  Then they all laughed, Zoë along with them.

  ~*~

  Dylan raised his hand to pound on The Vault’s main door and was startled when it opened before his fist could come into contact with the wood. Louis and Michael stood just inside. “Where is she?” Dylan demanded, stumbling inside. “And where’s that bastard son of a bitch asshole whip maker?”

  He realized he was clenching his left hand into a fist at his side, his right hand clutching his briefcase. He was still dressed in his suit slacks and dress shirt, his tie loosened at his throat, his jacket slung over his arm. Fortunately, the meeting had gone smoothly, and was nearly at its conclusion when the call had come through from Louis. Normally he wouldn’t have taken a personal call during a business meeting, but he knew Louis wouldn’t be calling just to chat—not when Dylan had charged him with keeping an eye on Zoë that evening and seeing her safely home.