The Art of Submission (3 page)

“
You know all sales are a private
matter, Ms. Ibanez. Consider yourself lucky that some poor fool who
doesn’t know his art from his asshole thought your paintings were
worth anything. It won’t happen again,
I’m
sure
.”

And with that, he dismisses me. I wish
he wouldn’t talk to me like that. He can be such a prick sometimes.
I hate his condescending and dismissive tone.
Truly hate it.
It reminds me of my father’s tone
when he told me I’d never be an artist and that I should find
a
real
job.

After much pouting and sulking on my part, I
go out to deliver some brochures to local businesses. It’s good to
get out of there. I’m still so angry and the fresh air is doing me
good.

It’s late in the day when I get back to the
office and mostly everyone is gone. I get back to my desk and find
an envelope there for me. I open it, wondering what it could be.
I’m surprised to find it’s a check, but my surprise quickly changes
as I’m completely shocked when I see the amount. $4625 after taxes!
I round the number and try to do some quick math in my head. The
gallery normally takes a 50% cut, but since last night was a
charitable event, 75% of the original sale was given to charity….
So my paintings brought in… how much? Come on brain… don’t fail me
now. God I hate being so bad at math. I finally give up and break
out a calculator.

He charged $20,000 for my paintings? Is
he absurd? I feel light headed and slightly nauseous at the
thought. Some poor fool got duped. Mr. Greer has finally gone too
far. What a gross abuse of his position as a serious art dealer.
I’ve lost what
very
little
respect I had for him. I feel a pang of guilt for letting my
submissive nature give into Mr. Greer’s bullying, and allowing my
paintings to be put out there. Now someone is $20,000
poorer.

Now I’m seriously livid. Not only have
my very personal thoughts been exposed, but sold to the highest
bidder. I feel so cheap. Though, in all reality, I need the money.
I could pay my rent and bills for at least four months on this
little windfall and not have to rely on my father’s unwelcome
charity.
More like guilt
money
. I can even afford to buy more art
supplies.

Feeling both disgusted and invigorated
by my new found money, I think to myself, maybe I
should
find a real job - something
that actually pays more than minimum wage. The thought of not
working and being around art though is, frankly, depressing. Even
for all the bullying and ogling Mr. Greer subjects me to, I love my
job at Studio 210, however menial it may be.

Now I’m on a mission: Find out who
bought my paintings and try to get them back. I’ll beg, borrow or
steal them back if I have to. Perhaps the person who bought them
did so because they’re wealthy beyond reason and had nothing better
to do with their money. Perhaps I can give them the money I have
earned and offer to make payments to them for the
rest
. Based on what? My good looks?
Ha! That’s a joke. Perhaps they’ll take one look at me, feel
sorry for me and give them back. Perhaps, perhaps… I can perhaps
all day. I quickly realize this is getting me nowhere. It’s time
for some action, so I get on with it.

I cautiously make my way to Mr. Greer’s
office, making sure to not be seen, and find the purchase order.
The name on the receipt stuns me.
The
Dylan Young. Just reading the name puts my
mind and sex drive into a tailspin. He’s so handsome and smart, why
on earth would he be interested in
my
paintings? Surely he knows his art. From what
I’ve read about him, he’s quite the art collector, among other
things. Maybe he has a liking for that particular…
subject matter
. Feeling my cheeks
flush at the thought, I push it to the back of my mind.

So he’s not some poor fool who doesn’t
know his artwork from his asshole after all, is he Mr. Greer? Why
does he like to berate me so? Is it because I won’t sleep with him
again? He’s handsome enough in his own way, and he can have anyone
of the staff members here, man or woman, and he knows it. So why
me? Well, it’s never going to happen again.
Ever.
He’s not my type. I like my men dominant,
but not overbearing and verbally abusive.
And I prefer a man who doesn’t get me drunk to seduce
me.

So now that I know who bought them, now
what? I have to meet him in person. Plead with him for my paintings
back. Surely he’s a reasonable man - notwithstanding his taste in
my artwork and having paid so much for it. Tomorrow then. I will go
to his office and demand a meeting with him.
Or ask nicely
.

Back at home, I can’t keep my mind off
the subject of Dylan Young. I get online and search images of him.
Wow. He really is quite handsome. In a nontraditional way, that is.
His eyes are the most amazing blue; like the color of a clear blue
sky. There’s even a close up of him and I can almost make out a
starburst pattern within his irises, or is that just a camera
flare? It looks like he’s had quite an impressive string of
girlfriends, including a few Denver socialites. Of course, they’re
all tall, drop-dead gorgeous with dark hair and legs that go on
forever
. And bodies to die for.
Why couldn’t I have been blessed like that genetically? Life
is so unfair sometimes.

I eat my unappealing dinner and head to bed.
Tomorrow I will get my paintings back, I vow to myself. My mind
wanders and images of Dylan Young fill my subconscious as I drift
off to sleep.

Blue eyes gazing darkly at me; Dylan Young’s
mouth beckoning me. I’m kneeling in front of him, wrist cuffs on,
ankle cuffs fastened…. Deep reds, grays, dark blues and blacks
swirl all around me like smoke… his mouth brushing against my skin
and then he sinks his teeth into me.

I wake up
wet.
I really have to stop this and channel my
energies more appropriately I tell myself, so I head to my ‘art
room’ that’s really just a glorified walk-in closet. It’s only 3:15
in the morning and I have to be up in a few hours, but I have to
put these images down on canvas before they fade from my
memory.

I feverishly start painting, trying not
to lose the images that invaded my dreams just moments ago. The
painting is coming along nicely.
Very
nicely
. It seems that Dylan Young has inspired some of
my best work yet. Who knew?

Dylan

I wake up feeling refreshed. It must have
been the outstanding dreams that invaded my sleep and the lingering
images from the club. I can’t wait to get to work and ogle my wall
candy. I seriously need to find out more about the artist and see
if he has any other paintings available.

My first meeting isn’t until mid morning so I
take my time getting to work. When I arrive, Cassie’s flustered as
usual and batting her lashes at me furiously. Can’t she take a
hint? I’m not interested. Granted she is my type, one encounter
with her was enough thank you. I never should’ve hired her after
that mistake, but what’s done is done.

After a few meetings, I’m once again ogling
my new purchase. I’m close to them again, finger fucking them like
yesterday. Fucking hell I’m pathetic. I need to find a new honey
hole and fast. My private moment of arousal and self-chastisement
are rudely interrupted by Cassie.

“An Isabel Ibanez is here to see
you,
without an appointment
,
and she’s quite insistent.”

Who? I don’t know anyone by that name. A
reporter no doubt. Fuck that. I’ve given them too much information
as it is. I’m short with my response back, “No. I don’t know anyone
by that name.”

I settle back in to get started on some
overdue paperwork. A few minutes pass by and Cassie is now in my
office with a note in her hand.

“I’m sorry to interrupt you Mr. Young,
but the young lady that was just here was
very
insistent on me giving this to you,” she
says anxiously.

I look up at her and give her my patented
‘really?’ stare. “Fine. Give it to me and see yourself out,” I say
irritably. Damned intrusive reporters. I quickly scan the note:

Mr. Young,

I wanted to thank you in
person for purchasing my paintings, and I just wanted to ensure
that they have found a suitable and adequate home.

-Isa

Isa? What the hell? Isabel is
Isa
? What was her last name…?
A
woman
painted them? A
flurry of thoughts cross my mind. I buzz Cassie.

“Let Isabel in immediately,” I say, the tone
of my voice betraying my anxiousness. There’s a pause.

“She’s already left, sir. The elevator just
departed.”

Shit. I quickly call down to security,
“Herman, there should be a young lady getting off the elevator any
moment, her name is Isabel. Please keep her there with you until I
come down. Give me a few minutes and I’ll be right there.”

He responds, “Will do, Mr. Young.”

I move quickly as I make my way towards
the elevator. Cassie and Summer, the other receptionist, share a
look of pure shock at seeing me move so quickly. Cassie stands and
starts to ask me something, but I don’t stop to respond. On my way
down in the elevator, my mind is filled with questions and I’m
still reeling at the revelation that Isa is a woman. What does she
look like? I imagine she has dark hair and that she’s tall, leggy,
and slender. Is she into BDSM? She must be to create such
fantastically wicked paintings. Just the thought is turning me on.
I wonder if she’s a Domme or a submissive.
I hope she’s a sub.
What did she mean by a
suitable and adequate home? This is ridiculous. Just stay calm. I’m
acting like a teenager before prom for fuck’s sake.

The elevator doors open and I see Herman, but
he looks confused and apologetic and there’s no Isabel to be seen.
He points towards the revolving doors and all I get is a glimpse of
a disheveled, very blond young lady making her way quickly out the
doors. I call out to her, but she’s gone.

“What happened?” I impatiently ask Herman and
all he can say is, “She ran.”

Damn. What did she say her last name was?
I’ll have to ask Cassie. I have to meet this woman. She didn’t look
tall or slender either, though it was hard to tell what her body
type looked like under that oversized jacket she was wearing. And
that hair; what a mess.

I’m back at the receptionist’s desk and
asking what Isabel’s last name is. Cassie is at a loss because she
didn’t write it down. What the hell do I pay her for? She looks
embarrassed as I let out a very audible sigh of disapproval. I sulk
back to my office and scan the note again, hoping for new insight,
but it offers me no new revelations; not even a contact number.

I pick up the phone and buzz Cassie. “Get me
the number for Studio 210.”

I’ll call that jackass of an art
dealer, what was his name again? Better yet, I’ll go there and beat
the information out of him if I have to. Why the hell was he so
evasive the other night and why the fuck did he lead me to believe
the artist was a man? He said the artist, or non-artist according
to him, was difficult to get a hold of. Apparently that was a lie
because she came to me on her own
.
She.
I still have to get used to that idea since I had
it in my mind it was a man who painted these beauties. What time is
it?

I buzz Cassie again, “Reschedule my last
meeting. I’m leaving.”

On the drive over to Studio 210, I
wonder what kind of woman could paint such wicked images. What
other paintings does she have? The rest of the puzzle, no
doubt.
I must have them
. Why
did she run? After all, she was the one who came to see me in the
first place. And what gives with the creepy art dealer. I didn’t
like him from the get go. One word comes to mind to describe
him,
smarmy
.

I’m finally at the studio and now it’s time
to get down to business with this fucker.

He seems shocked to see me; no surprise
there. I make quick business of my reason for being there. “I want
to know about the
artist
whose paintings I bought.”

He looks at me bugged eyed and confused. He
doesn’t know what to say, so I make it easy for him. “A name. I
want a name. Is that too difficult for you to understand?”

His condescending response: “Isa.”

No shit.
This
asshole is really starting to piss me off. I’m not backing down. “I
figured that much since that’s what’s clearly on the painting.” My
eyes narrow at him, my voice low, and oozing with sarcasm and
contempt. Now he looks apologetic.
Damn
straight
.

“
The artist wishes to remain
anonymous,” he quietly answers.

Fucking liar.
Just when I think I’m going to seriously lose it, I see the
douche bag known as Stephan Greer nervously glance over towards the
doorway. I look over and immediately know it’s her –
Isabel -
by the telltale messy blond
hair on her head, and it’s very clear to me now, this is the girl
in the painting.