Risk (BDSM Dominant submissive Romance): Everything to lose. Everything to gain. Read online

  Shaking her head to dispel her reverie, she called for a cab. At shortly after seven, arriving at the gallery, she checked her coat and entered the large exhibit room, already half filled with patrons. Picking up a brochure from the table near the door, she scanned it. A photo of Bruno Pasquale and the name of the exhibit – EROS – claimed the first page. The next couple of pages contained photos of his art.

  Surveying the room, there was a group of people gathered around a dark, serious, young man. That was Pasquale. She walked over, edging herself closer to him. He was just finishing a remark to a woman who peered adoringly at him behind a mask of make-up. She seized her opportunity, introducing herself and telling him she’d be writing a piece about his art for Weekly News, while deftly handing him her business card. Bruno smiled at her and promised to call her office Monday to arrange a meeting.

  Other people crowded in, interrupted, asking questions and making comments to the artist. She stepped back and sauntered to the first painting.

  The setting and mood of the painting was darkly shadowed, as if the time of day were twilight. Her eyes were drawn to the central object, a young man secured to an ‘X’ shaped cross, barbed wire around his hands and feet. Red welts tinged with droplets of blood adorned his slender body, and his head lolled off to the side as if he were dead or unconscious. A woman, enveloped in a long dark robe caressed his cheek with an outstretched hand. In her other hand was a whip. The pain the young man suffered was evident; he had been whipped to the point of fainting. Yet, there was tenderness in the woman’s hand. The juxtaposition of pain and tenderness was puzzling. Obviously, the robed woman had caused the man's pain, but the expression and gesture Pasquale captured was one of tenderness… and was the man's expression that of fear? Or yearning? It was hard to tell.

  She moved along to the next painting. Again, the overall mood was expressed in the dark palette the artist employed. Set in a dungeon, a woman, wearing only a leather collar, knelt on the floor. The collar was secured with a chain, bolted into a limestone wall. Her hands were tied in front of her and she held them aloft, as if pleading to some unseen subject. Her eyes looked yearningly to that same source; tears ran in rivulets down her cheeks. Like the young man in the previous work, this subject's body showed red stripes and bruises. She glanced at the title card posted next to the canvas: "Please Sir, I Want Some More". What is THAT all about? This woman wants more punishment?

  She was about to wander to the third painting, when her eye was drawn to a large painting of a nude woman. She turned and drew nearer to the painting for a better look. A voluptuous woman was kneeling, her back criss-crossed with red welts, descending to the round globes of her bottom. With forehead touching the floor and outstretched arms lying on the earth, she prostrated herself in front of robed figures. Deep cowls shielded their faces as they looked down upon the woman. The quality of Pasquale’s work was good. She was moved by the naked vulnerability of the model in the painting. What would it be like to kneel, nude, and vulnerable to the will of the robed men. There was a twinge of excitement in her lower belly. What the heck…?

  But what about her erotic dream last night? But this stuff on the wall is too much. Isn't it?

  “It's a sensual painting isn't it? The artist has captured the sexual power exchange.”

  She jerked, startled from her fantasy by the deep masculine voice. She turned quickly and found herself looking at the blue lapels of a sports jacket. She gazed upward into dark, brown eyes carrying a hint of amusement, white teeth showing slightly through lips that curled in a slight smile.

  Her cheeks became warm. Had this handsome guy sensed her arousal, stirred by the painting? He was standing close to her, but not inside her space. Oh my God, he was good looking. He was a good head or more taller than she- at least six feet tall. Brown wavy hair and trimmed beard, in his early thirties?

  She gulped and managed a reply. “Yes, but maybe it’s religious, as in the scourging of a saint? St. Catherine?”

  “Yeah, that’s one way of looking at it. But here...” His hand swept up towards the painting, accidentally brushing her arm. “You see the robes of the men...look at how the robes fall. On this one, this one and here.” He glanced quickly at her and back to the painting. “Maybe not saints but satyrs. They’re uplifted, but not spiritually.”

  A spark of pleasure seared through her when his hand had touched her arm. Her eyes followed to where he was pointing and widened. Oh my! He’s right. Those monks are standing at attention under those robes. She turned and looked at him. His eyes had narrowed and he was grinning at her embarrassment.

  “I’m Craig Forsyth. May I get you a drink Ms...?”

  “Jessica Rogers, nice to meet you. Yes, thank you, I’d love a glass of champagne. This, sexual power exchange, I’ve never heard the term. ” She smiled, noting his strong jaw line and olive complexion. Perfect.

  “I’ll get our drinks and tell you when I get back.” He turned and walked away.

  She watched him as he weaved his way through the crowd. His movements were graceful and from the drape of his jacket, he must exercise on a regular basis. Hmm..broad shoulders, confident stride. Interesting… He took two glasses from the waiter and turned. She held his gaze, the crowd fading into the background, as he returned with the drinks.

  He handed her the champagne flute and raised his glass, looking into her eyes over the rim.”A toast. To Bruno Pasquale and his art. And to a chance meeting with a beautiful woman.”

  “I’ll drink to that.” She raised her glass to gently clink his.

  “But it really isn’t a chance meeting. I’m being paid to be here.”

  “Oh? You work for the gallery?”

  “No. I’m a journalist at Weekly News. I cover arts and entertainment.”

  He went stock still and peered at her for a moment in silence.

  "R.L. Rogers?"

  She nodded.

  "Oh…get your portrait redone, Jessica. Your hair's different now, much longer and prettier."

  Wow! Not only does he know my byline, but he’s familiar enough with it to recognize my picture!

  "Your work is quirky," he said. "There were a couple of articles you wrote that I was surprised they printed, to tell you the truth."

  "Oh?"

  "Are you kidding? I can only imagine the flack you got during the Film Festival when you ranted about A-list star salary levels." He gave a short laugh. "You defended them! Yes, quirky."

  She smiled up at him. He DID know her work! "You should have seen how many invitations I got to the parties after writing that one! I went from wheedling my boss for two or three parties, to now when he comes to me, asking for a share of my personal initiations! But star power does influence a film's bottom line."

  "Sure; no arguments here. More women will go see Johnny Depp than Woody Allen. Although I can’t understand women’s fixation on Depp."

  She smirked. "It's a chick thing."

  "I guess." He sighed, "The mystery of a woman's heart knows no end."

  "That was pretty good, make it up yourself?"

  "Nahhh… stole it. But why I should pay six bucks for a two dollar chocolate bar to watch Depp swashbuckle, is still beyond me."

  There’s not a lot of chocolate bars in this man's history- I wonder if he has a six pack.’ "Ohhh… I'm more of a buttered popcorn girl."

  "I'm going to be a gentleman and leave that one alone," A sly smile and dark eyes met her eyes.

  The silence hung between them for a beat or two.

  Gentleman with a dirty mind…I like that!

  “And you, Craig? You’re an art buff? Or do you come here to meet women?”

  “Hmm…not a bad gig, but no. I’m an author. My editor pressed me into coming here tonight. I think he worries about me. I’m a little too reclusive sometimes, work too hard. I think he’s afraid I’ll move to a cabin in the woods and become a hermit.”

  “You're a writer?"

  He nodded, "Yes, mostly free lance. I have a re
gular gig with a couple of periodicals, though."

  "Oh? Which ones?"

  "The Globe, National Post.”

  "Ahhh! That's why you look familiar too!" She leaned closer. "I've read some of your work. It's pretty good."

  "Thanks, Jessica. It's always nice to hear I'm good at my craft." His smile widened.

  She held up a finger “My turn for a toast. Again, to Bruno Pasquale. I’m happy to review his art, while getting paid for it." She gestured to the painting with her champagne glass. "It's been an uplifting experience." Did I just say that out loud? What’s in this champagne?

  He was just taking a sip and had to put his hand to his mouth as a chuckle and champagne both threatened to burst forth. When he looked at her, his eyes were bright above a small smile. “Ahh… but we digressed from what I was going to talk to you about! Back to the subject at hand, lovely lady....the sexual power exchange."

  Finally. I wondered when that would come up again…

  He gestured to the painting. "At a glance, the woman appears supplicant, a submissive woman who’s been whipped, as you can see from the red marks on her back and behind. These robed men have punished her. They dominate her. Let’s call her the sub and these men the Doms, okay? She allows herself to be controlled, dominated by another. As long as the Dom has earned her trust and respect, she gives away her power over herself. Why, you may wonder, would she willingly be controlled, whipped in this example – what does she get out of it? It could be-"

  "What the hell COULD she get out of it? Doesn't sound like much fun to me."

  "Let me finish please. It could be any one of a bunch of things."

  "Such as?"

  He held up one finger, "She might be doing it because her Dom asked her to, and to please her Dom is important to her. She wants to show him how important He is," He held up a second finger, "She might have hang-ups about sex, and needs to be restrained and controlled in order for her to let go."

  "Tied up to let go? Now there’s a conundrum."

  Still holding up two fingers, he continued, "Well…if she's tied up, restrained, and then has a wild sexual encounter, in her mind it's not really her fault. And since she surrendered control, she’s able to enjoy unbridled sexual release."

  "Hmmm… sounds like sexual assault to me!" This was some weird stuff.

  "No. She says her safe word, and everything stops. Here's the real paradox in BDSM, Jessica…" He paused.

  "Okay, I'll bite, Craig. What's the paradox?"

  "Because the sub can safe word out, she actually holds the power. If she utters her safe word, the entire 'scene' stops. Not slows down, STOPS. Period."

  "What's a safe word?" Wait, the girl who's tied up can get out of that whenever she wants to? “Wait a minute… hmmm.”

  "I'll get there soon. There's something else about the relationship that's just as important. And again, it shows how much power the submissive has."

  "Go on." She glanced up and down at him. He seems to...No, he DOES know a lot about this stuff.

  He continued. "The Dominant has an obligation to the Submissive. He must be trustworthy and must devote all of his attention to the needs and yearnings of his submissive. He knows she wants to be controlled, possibly whipped; experiencing heightened sexual pleasure because of the pain. He doesn't take it too far. He must read her body and mind. So the Dom surrenders his own sexual satisfaction in his devotion and care to his submissive. He gives. She takes. She gives of herself. He takes and heightens the experience, asking her to give more. She wants to give and demands in her submission, more. It becomes a circle.”

  This was perplexing. “It seems the two are on the edge of a sexual experience, but do they end up having sex? How do you know so much about all of this?”

  He stepped back, put his hands in his pockets and tilted his head, removing some of their physical proximity. “If you’d like me to answer those two questions, there’s a price to pay.”

  She turned quickly, smiled and looked wide eyed at him. "Oh? Will you take a check?"

  “How about you join me for dinner? Let's get out of here so we can talk.”

  Her smile widened. Thank goodness the conversation would continue. This was by far the most exotic interchange she’d ever had in an art gallery. Now he's asking me out to dinner? Yay!

  “Okay, I'll have dinner with you; this is pretty interesting." Maybe I should throw a little demure in now? "I mean, it's research for my article of course."

  "Great! Then you get the check."

  "What? You just asked me!" Her cheeks became warm. How’d he do that?

  "I'm just ribbing you." When he laughed he looked almost boyish.

  "I mean, uhhh… I've never talked to anyone about this stuff, let alone a fellow journalist.” Now her neck was getting warm.

  “Then, my pretty colleague– let's make like a banana and split.”

  A banana and split? That was so corny and unexpected it was funny.

  Seeing her wry smile, he said, “Sorry. Not sure where that came from. I guess I’m happy you agreed to have dinner with me?"

  She smiled and led the way to the coat check, aware that he was probably eying her figure as she walked before him. His hand rose to shield her from an accidental bump and now she felt it sliding from her waist to the curve of her hip.

  Again there was a jolt at his touch. In front of the painting, I was a bit turned on talking about women being submissive, and now his hand on my hip. I like it; but we only met ten minutes ago… Am I ovulating or something?

  “Hey Craig! I read your article in the Times! Pretty interesting stuff. You’re becoming quite a regular columnist with them. Congratulations,” one of the other guests called out to Craig as they were working their way through the crowd.

  “Oh…Jim. Hi, nice to see you. Thanks! Enjoy the exhibit!” He turned to acknowledge his acquaintance, yet still moved behind her to the coat check.

  Looking over her shoulder to him, she asked, "The Times? Which one? The Podunk Times? The Hayseed Times? Some sort of blog or something?"

  "Smartass." There was a gentle swat on her rear. "That's The New York Times to you, young lady!"

  "Oh the easy life of a freelance stringer!" She’d ignore the playful swat, although in the context, maybe it was a sign of things to come? He writes for The Grey Lady as well? Buddy, where have you been all my life? Okay. Slow down girl; there’ll be plenty of time for that later.

  They retrieved their coats and went outside to Cumberland Street. It was a chilly spring evening with an edgy wind nipping their faces. He scanned the street looking for a taxi and threw his arm around her, drawing her close, to shield her from the wind

  On the cab ride to the restaurant, they sat close together.

  "Well," he said, "I guess we have to do the ‘First Date Getting To Know You’ out of the way, huh?"

  Date? This is a date? Yes! Thank you Date gods!

  "Well… how about we change it up a little bit?"

  "What do you mean?"

  What the heck do I mean? I want to get back to the sexy stuff, that's what I mean!’ "Ummm… neither of us are kids anymore; so how about we limit the ‘Getting To Know You’ stuff?" Because then maybe we can have other dates, and fill that stuff in!

  He arched an eyebrow. "Okay then. What do you propose?"

  "We each get to ask three questions about the other, and that's it."

  "Just three, huh?"

  Yeah. I'll find out if he's really single, then ask about his education, and see how he built his career. That'll be enough for a first date, "Yes, three and three only." She looked at him with a trace of smugness.

  "Well, okay then. You go first," he said.

  "Fine. Are you single?"

  "What?"

  "Are you married, or living with someone? Or seeing someone right now?"

  "Oh."

  "Well?" Damn. I guess he's not single. Rats.

  "Well, your answers are no, no, and no. My turn!"

  "Wait!"

/>   "You asked three questions, I answered, and now it's my turn! It's your rules after all."

  "But… but…" Oh God, he has the cutest smile! Damn him! Arrrgh. She sighed. Busted. "Okay. Fire away."

  He looked over at her and took a deep breath.

  "Where'd you go to University? Are you single? And what is the name of the scent you're wearing- it's delightful."

  Her heart sunk a little. He could have gotten just a little risqué, couldn't he? But then again he’s a gentleman. And considering the topic of conversation at the gallery, he could have really gone overboard and asked me about my sex life or something. No doubt about it- he let me off the hook.

  She smiled. "Queen's University, I grew up in the same city. Yes I'm single, and it's called Passion."

  "Passion."

  "That's right. Passion."

  "I see." The silence between them as their eyes played Truth or Dare was broken by the taxi pulling up in front of the restaurant. He paid the driver, and held her hand as she emerged from the cab. When they went inside, he secured a booth in a quiet nook of the dining room.

  The waiter appeared asking for their drink order and outlining the specials. Craig ordered wine and the house special, looking inquisitively at her. She smiled and nodded. After the waiter left, he reached for her hand and raised it to his lips.

  Ah, he's going to kiss my hand, how sweet. Her heart pounded. However, he turned her hand so that his lips kissed her palm; a kiss that insinuated itself into the realm of intimacy. My palm? Her breath caught in her throat and a spark kindled her tinderbox.

  As the waiter brought wine to their table, for the second time that evening, her response surprised her. Here I am out on a dinner date with a guy I just met- who am I kidding, with a pickup- and now he's kissing my hand? My open hand? What the hell is with me tonight? If this had happened a week ago, I would have slapped him into next week! This was something straight out of an Anias Nin story or something.

  And it was sexy as hell.

  "Oh what the hell," she whispered softly. She would allow this to play itself out. Her Tinderbox was doing cartwheels.

  With lips parted slightly and eyes drinking in his sensual smile she cooed, “Mmm, that was lovely. I've never had anyone do that to me. I liked it.”