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Authors: Ella Dominguez

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BOOK: The Art of Redemption
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A Glimpse into The Art of Submission

Dylan

Another dull day followed by another dull night. Despite the fact that I need a good fucking, I’m thankful I didn’t bring a date so I can get the hell out of here.

Why the fuck did I agree to go to this gallery show anyway?
I hate these things.
I prefer viewing art at my own leisure. Oh yeah, that’s right, it’s for charity - it’s good for my ‘public image.’ I’m surrounded by uninteresting, pretentious assholes who know nothing about art and like flashing their cash. If I hear one more reference to Monet, I swear to fucking Almighty I’m going to lose it.

All the
floral prints and bullshit happy images are too much and I can feel the bile rising in my throat.
I have to get out of here now
.

I start casually wandering around the gallery trying to inch my way towards the door to make my hasty getaway and hopefully avoid the photographers.
In my anxiousness to get out, I momentarily get turned around and find myself in a dark corner of the gallery. As I turn to get my bearings, I’m confronted by three medium-sized canvases hanging inconspicuously on a darkened wall.

I stop dead in my tracks. What am I looking at? My eyes scan them furiously. The colors are dark, deep shades of reds, blacks and gray, with occasional hues of dark blue scattered throughout. The subject matter is
stunning - erotic, dark and sinful. I feel my balls ache for the sound of a snapping whip as I gaze upon them. The images are fragmented, but
I get it
. Who painted these windows into the depths of my soul? My eyes dart down to the corner to see the artist’s name. “Isa” is all that’s scribbled for a signature.

 

Isabel

Another monotonous day followed by another uneventful night. I wish so badly I had been invited to the charity gallery show tonight, but I’m not anyone important so there was no chance of that happening. Just to see those wonderful paintings
by real artists
and all those beautiful people, now that would be heavenly. Oh well, there’s no point in dwelling on it.

Maybe I’ll paint tonight. I can’t believe I was so stupid as to let Mr. Greer talk me into borrowing my paintings. Well, he didn’t exactly talk me into it; it was more like he
insisted
on it. Even threatened me. Seriously? What’s with this guy?
As if I don’t know
. He wants in my panties… a
gain
. No thanks. The thought repulses me. Once was
more than
enough for me. The memory of him in my apartment, on me,
in
me, comes unwelcome to my mind and I shudder. As much as I miss sex, however boring it’s been, I’ll just stick with finger banging myself before I let anything that stupid happen again.

I can’t think about that and I push the memory to the back of my mind.

I’m going to demand my paintings back tomorrow.
Or maybe ask nicely.
I just want them back, damn it. They’re mine and they’re too personal for anyone to see. What would people think of them anyway? That I’m some kind of freak, that’s what. And deep down, I know they’re right. How dare Mr. Greer expect me to put my paintings out there. I mean, I would never ask anyone to put pages of their diary up for show and tell. That’s what they are to me, personal journal pages; my deepest darkest thoughts; my filthy fantasy life played out on canvas. It’s my own fault. I never should’ve let him come over to my place. If he hadn’t come over, or more to the point, insisted on coming over, he never would’ve seen them and I wouldn’t be in this predicament.

Maybe I’ll just make an innocent appearance at the show tonight; make like I forgot something like my wallet. Then I can sneak a peek at where Mr. Insistent put my paintings. I might as well enjoy it since it will be the one and only time my paintings will
ever
be in a gallery. Yes. It sounds like a plan.

I’m in and out of the shower quickly and change into a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt. It’s still warm out, with fall still a good month away, but I like sweatshirts because they hide my hideous curves. I glance quickly in the mirror and as usual, my hair is uncompromising in my attempts to tame it and I give up. I look myself over critically. Who am I going to impress anyway? No one, so I leave.

I make my way down the street in front of my apartment building and catch a bus to the studio. I’m dropped off about a block away from the gallery, which works out perfectly and ensures that Mr. Greer won’t see me. I slowly make my way over and across the street from the festivities. Wow. It’s impressive. I have to give it to Mr. Greer and Monica for making it one hell of a show. Limousines, large pricey SUV’s and a few exotic sports cars line the street near the gallery. There are several people milling around near the main entrance, including security and some photographers. I can see inside through the large glass front windows, and the view is just as impressive inside as it is out front.

I head across the street, just in front of the gallery. When I peer inside the large windows, I see beautiful, flawless trophy wives and girlfriends - and a few mistresses, I’m sure - all dressed to the nines. Handsome men in their finest attire are everywhere, and a few even more than handsome, including
the Dylan Young
.

 

Pimpin’ Time

 

Books by Ella Dominguez:

 

The Art of Redemption (The Art of D/s, #0.5)

The Art of Submission (The Art of D/s, #1)

The Art of Domination (The Art of D/s, #2)

The Art of Control (The Art of D/s, #3)

The Art of D/s Trilogy

This Love’s Not for Sale

Becoming Sir

Hard Candy for Christmas

Tempered by Fire: Angel Bound, #1

Grace Street (Chapter 8, #1)

Continental Breakfast (Continental Affair, #1)

Continental Beginnings (Continental Affair, #2)

 

For upcoming works, find Ella @

 

www.elladominguez.blogspot.com

www.facebook.com/theartofsubmission

www.Goodreads.com

www.bondagebunnypub.com

www.silkensheetsandseduction.wordpress.com

 

BOOK: The Art of Redemption
5.78Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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