The Dominant Diva

By Deidre Stonewall

Giselle D'Amato is a renowned opera star with a secret life. She likes to dabble in BDSM as a dome. Patrick Murray is a fire station chief with his own secrets. When Patrick saves Giselle from a mugging in Central Park, sparks fly. Giselle has been manipulated by powerful men all her life. She is not about to give up control. What turns her on more than anything is imposing her will on a strong submissive man.
Patrick doesn't know much about BDSM but what he does know turns him off.
Giselle offers Patrick a deal -- six days on a private island where he will submit to all her desires. She's sure once he gets a taste of what she can offer he won't want anything else. Patrick is fearful but decides to take the risk. What happens on the island brings both these characters face-to-face with their deepest fears and the past traumas that have scarred them and made them who they are. There's smoking-hot chemistry between them-- maybe even love -- but can there also be trust and compromise?
The Dominant Diva is a different kind of BDSM novel: it asks fundamental questions about the nature and meaning of love and how the sexual desires and satisfaction of two very different characters can be fulfilled without either one of them giving up their essential beings -- their souls.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: May 22, 2024
• ISBN: 9798350951967

Deidre Stonewall

Deidre Stonewall is the pen name of an established author and journalist.

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The Dominant Diva

©2024 Deidre Stonewall

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

ISBN: 979-8-35095-196-7

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15 – One year later

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Snapshots from the Future

Chapter 1

Giselle D’Amato emerged for her eighth curtain call. Brava, brava, came the shouts from the packed house at the Metropolitan Opera. Once she had lived for such ovations, fed on them, grown strong from them. Now, she felt almost suffocated by this blanket of adulation as if her fans were sucking the life out of her. She had given so much to her public, given and given. What was left for herself? She forced a smile, curtsied, accepted yet another bouquet from yet another adoring admirer, curtsied again – then beckoned the rest of the cast on to the stage. They linked hands and bowed.

Giselle was exhausted, physically and emotionally. Singing the role of Violetta, the passionate but doomed courtesan in Verdi’s La Traviata, was a huge physical and emotional challenge. Full of Verdi’s gorgeous arias, the opera starts with vocal acrobatics but ends with the heroine’s display of dignified and heart-rending simplicity in the face of death. Singing her heart out while dying of consumption night after night was draining to the body and soul. Still, it wasn’t just her voice that filled the $1,000 seats. Giselle was a beautiful woman in her prime and the Met’s marketing department milked her frank sensuality for all its worth. Her costume in the final act consisted of a flimsy camisole that showed most of her thighs and barely covered her magnificent, heaving breasts. Half the city was bedecked with posters of her, plump and curvaceous, writhing on crumpled sheets. There was even a giant display looming over Times Square. Seeing herself magnified to that degree made her feel proud but queasy. And Giselle also felt a visceral dislike for the character she portrayed who sacrificed her life for a man. Yes, the music was glorious but the opera, like most operas, was a product of the patriarchy. As a diva playing the classic roles in grand opera, Giselle reflected, more often that not she wound up dying on the stage, singing with her final breaths. It was up to her to make sure that her heroines retained their dignity and her private life did not imitate her art.

Giselle bowed again, stretched her mouth to form a smile, told herself to look overwhelmed for just a little while longer. God, she needed a huge drink of iced water. The conductor, Arkady Melnikov, joined the cast on stage to accept his applause. The Slimy Slav Giselle called him -- but only to herself, never in anyone’s hearing. She was a diva but he was a dictator. If she wanted to – which she usually did not -- she could make the lives of her dressers, drivers and others who served her miserable. He could make or break careers. Big and burly and probably hairy all over like a bear, he was Vladimir Putin’s favorite maestro, not a man to cross. He took Giselle’s hand in one of his own sweaty mitts. "Nice work malishka, he whispered, his other hand coming around to stroke her butt out of sight of the audience. I think it was your finest performance."

She forced herself to keep her cool, although she’d have liked nothing more than to kick him in the balls. The feel of his hand brought up unpleasant memories which she’d worked hard to suppress. Recently, with the Me Too movement rampant in the arts, she’d wondered what might happen if she stepped out publicly to denounce him as a creep. But the prospect was too risky. For sure, as a big star at the Met, her voice carried some weight. But with the backing of the Russian dictator, he still had far more power than she ever would.

Instead, she beamed up at him and hissed, Me too, Arkady, me too. He removed his hand. This was a game they played – except it wasn’t quite a game, was it? She tolerated it because she had to. She knew the rules of the game; knew from bitter personal experience that men took what they thought they could get away with – and sometimes more. Not that Arkady ever did that. He knew where the line was. He’d been careful to limit his actions to little touches, tiny unwanted caresses that made her flesh crawl. Micro-aggressions, one might say. He’d never demanded or even requested sex. She half-wished he would. Then, she’d go to war and have his head, Putin or no Putin. Until then, she was keeping her powder dry. But every time he touched her, she made a note in her journal. If he ever did cross the line, she’d make the entire list public. The curtain swished closed.

Giselle sighed. She ought to be happy. Another triumph at the Met. But all she felt was deep fatigue. And there was a persistent tickle at the back of her throat. She’d had it for a couple of weeks. To her own ultra-perceptive ear, her top notes had been a little off tonight – a little strained. Nobody else seemed to have noticed, judging by the applause that showed no signs of stopping any time soon.

Melnikoff nudged her forward. One more curtain call little Giselle. Your public demands you yet again. The curtain swished open and she stepped forward, trying to enjoy the moment, her arms so full of flowers she could hardly keep hold of them all. The male lead, Adriano Menotti, sweating profusely, took her hand as if it belonged to the Pope and kissed it. Bella Bella, he whispered reverently.

Usually, Giselle didn’t allow men to touch her, certainly without permission. She was the one to do the touching, the grabbing, the flogging, the whipping and the fucking. In a world still mostly controlled by men, when it came to the bedroom or the club, she was always the one in control. But she made an exception for Menotti. Plump and pleasant despite his persistent garlic breath, he was was harmless. Blessed with the purest tenor since Parvarotti, he’d been making goo-goo eyes at a young male member of the chorus for the past two weeks. He’d sung beautifully, as ever. His problem wasn’t the sweetness of his voice. It was his acting. He had trouble convincing the audience he had what it took to make someone like Giselle fall desperately in love with him. Only a true alpha could do that and she hadn’t found one yet who was up to the task. Truth was, she’d given up looking.

The applause finally showed signs of slackening. Giselle was dying to get off stage and back to her dressing room. That thing in her throat -- maybe it was an allergy, or a slight cold – or maybe it was something more serious. She knew she should get it checked out – but she was scared. An opera singer’s voice was such a delicate instrument. Any little thing could throw it off. Too much use, too much strain, not enough rest, not warming up properly, not breathing correctly, even poor posture. Thank heaven Giselle had a clear month ahead with nothing on her calendar. She’d rest the voice and see if the problem went away. No need to panic yet. The curtain swung closed in front of her. Cast members embraced. Her stage assistant, Daniel, arrived. Away from the lights, Giselle was shivering.

Here mistress, Daniel said softly so that no-one could hear, placing a soft cape around her shoulders. Such a sweet boy. She’d used him repeatedly in the year he’d been with her to relax after a performance. There was nothing like whipping or caning or best of all pegging a biddable boy to relieve the stress. The feel of rippling male muscles submitting as she invaded his body and made him her bitch– there was nothing like it. But lately, she’d lost interest. Where was the challenge? Giselle got off by overwhelming and dominating strong men, men who could easily break her in half yet chose to submit or were forced to by her superior mental strength. She relished the battle of wills – as long as she came out on top. Daniel wasn’t strong enough to hold her interest. He’d offered little to no resistance and lately he turned into just another fuck toy presenting his ass for her to whip, slap and violate. He was a masochist. Somehow his body processed pain and humiliation turned it into pleasure. So by whipping him and fucking him, she was only giving him what he wanted, without getting back in return what she wanted. All of which meant, his time with her was coming to an end. He wasn’t the first and he wouldn’t be the last.

As usual, there was a long line of opera devotees wanting to visit her in her dressing room to play tribute and bask in her reflected glory. Some were major donors to the opera who had to be kept happy and should not be turned away. But tonight, Giselle didn’t have the energy or the patience. She shut the door. No visits tonight. I’m not feeling well, coming down with something, she told Daniel. Chauncy Wellstone, the company CEO in charge of fundraising wouldn’t be happy. Well screw him. After sellouts night after night, he was in no position to complain.

Can I serve in any way mistress? Daniel simpered.

No, not tonight. Go home. Call me tomorrow. I’ll let you know if I need anything.

Daniel was too experienced a submissive to show anything on his face, though she knew he was disappointed. He’d been looking forward to her ravaging her ass once again. As you wish mistress, he said.

Finally she was free. An hour later, Giselle slipped out of the theater. Thankfully, the paparazzi had gone. She’d called her driver for a ride home – but suddenly the thought of her massive, empty Upper East Side apartment seemed too depressing. Her personal chef and nutritionist, Pierre, would have laid out a light repast for her. Champagne would be cooling in the ice bucket. Her masseur, Lars, on call day and night, was just a text away as was Maya, her yoga instructor. Her personal trainer, Russell, was scheduled for noon the next day. Her publicist Ryan had lined up an interview with the New Yorker and then made sure the following 30 days were blank. Her personal finance guy, Spencer, had informed her that she was now worth $50 million and counting. Her scheduler and personal assistant Joan was awaiting instructions for what she wanted to do and where she wanted to go for the next four weeks. Perhaps a villa on a private Caribbean island for a week? She had an open invitation from billionaire opera fan Richard Fleming to use his place and he’d even offered up his private jet to get her there and back. Unfortunately I can’t be there myself, he said. But the place is all yours if you want it.

With all these people to serve her, why was she so lonely? Why did her life feel so impersonal, so colorless? For some reason, her mind went to her parents and siblings back in Ohio where she’d grown up as Gail Adams. She thought about them seldom and rarely saw them any more. It was better that way. When they did meet, they had nothing to say to each other. They knew nothing of her life as a singer. They’d never understood her, never accepted her amazing talent, never made the slightest effort to do so. Her elder brother was a car mechanic, her younger sister a beautician. They lived humdrum lives in modest homes, surviving from paycheck to paycheck. Heck, the clothes she was wearing tonight probably cost more than both of them made in a month. So why was she the one who felt so rejected, and why, after all these years, did it still hurt so much?

It was solely thanks to a wonderful high school music teacher, Mr. Groves, that her musical gift came to light. Mr. Groves, approaching the end of a long career, heard her voice and knew she was something special. It was he who found her a singing coach and pushed her to apply to Julliard. And then, it was goodbye Ohio, hello world.

Giselle was glad she’d left all that behind – but sometimes she did regret not having a single person in her life who truly put her first unless she paid them to. The one man she’d entrusted her heart to had abused her, physically and emotionally. When she’d finally freed herself from him, she made herself a solemn promise – never again. Never again would she open herself to hurt; never again would she show any hint of vulnerability. Never again would she love or allow herself to be loved. Love only led to rejection and rejection was the worst kind of pain there was.

With these melancholy thoughts spinning in her head, Giselle didn’t want to go home. She briefly considered dropping into Black Ties and Tails – the exclusive BDSM club on Second Avenue where she held a life membership. It was housed in several stories of a converted warehouse with most of the really hardcore activities taking place in the basement dungeon three levels underground. Most of its members, whether dominants or submissives, belonged to the one percent of the one percent and were as fanatical about their privacy as she was. Membership was granted only after an exhaustive background check and with the recommendation of two existing members. Discretion was guaranteed but Giselle took no chances and always wore a mask covering her entire face while there. She had a collection in various colors and always had one in her bag in case she wanted to pay an unscheduled visit. Her wardrobe of dominatrix gear – red and black latex for the most part – she kept in a locker on the premises. The club provided toys and aids to fit all tastes – as well as instruments of pain and pleasure. Perhaps she could blow off steam with a willing sub. It had worked for her so many times before and there was never a shortage of takers for her particular form of dominance. But for some reason, that too didn’t excite her tonight. She was so goddammed tired – so burnt out. And those boy-men who flocked around her hoping to get whipped or fucked whenever she appeared? Where was the challenge in that? Giselle had been fantasizing recently about a different kind of man – a working man with rough hands and muscles built on the job rather than in the gym. A wild mustang of a man to bend to her will, a stallion who would fight her all the way before he allowed himself to be tamed. Of course, the club was far too pricy and exclusive to attract that kind of man. Where did you meet that kind of man? They probably fell off trees back in Ohio – but here? Giselle had no idea.

Pulling a scarf out of her handbag and wrapping it around her neck against the chill night air, Giselle looked up at the sky. It was a clear, crisp night and there was a full moon, impossibly large and bright even against the light pollution of the world’s mightiest city. Taking a breath, Giselle decided to do something she had never, ever done after a performance. She decided to walk home across Central Park.

Chapter 2

Patrick Murray, captain of Rescue Unit One of the New York City Fire Department, had just finished a four-day rotation. There was an arsonist afoot who’d been setting annoying little blazes for the past few weeks. He started small but was clearly getting more ambitious. Tonight, he’d gone after a warehouse on Second Avenue. Fortunately the fire had been discovered before it really seriously caught hold and had been extinguished fairly easily without having to call out extra units. Bored with staying in the station all the time, Patrick had gone to the scene to help with the action.

The arsonist seemed to be focusing his efforts on a few blocks of the city but so far the police hadn’t managed to track him down. He seemed to have some hidden purpose – but Patrick hadn’t yet figured it out. Video cameras kept getting tantalizing little glimpses – but no clear image. CCTV coverage was spotty in that neighborhood. That made Patrick worried. One of these days, if the dipshit wasn’t caught and neutralized, what started as a little blaze would turn into a big one that would put lives at risk.

Still stinking of smoke, Patrick decided to clear his head and breath some fresh night air by taking a walk across the park before heading back to his Greenpoint apartment in Brooklyn. He’d been lucky to get the place before gentrification set in. Only five years ago, the neighborhood had been iffy with a decades-old Polish community barely hanging on; now it was breaking out in hot new restaurants and bars and attracting hipster types. He entered the park, carrying a tool box he’d taken from work. He’d promised to swing by his mom’s place in the Bronx next day to fix a leaky faucet. There was always something to do there -- Patrick suspected his mom deliberately broke stuff herself so she could call him to fix them. If only he could fix their relationship as easily as he fixed the plumbing. He knew their love for each other was strong but there were issues from his past they couldn’t seem to get past. Issues he couldn’t entirely get past either, although he’d found a way to manage them.

Then, after that, he was looking a two glorious weeks of freedom. He could catch up on his sleep and he’d also be attending his sister Catherine’s graduation at Brooklyn College, a proud moment for the entire Murray clan.

A glorious full moon cast a silver sheen on the trees and bushes. Patrick found himself humming a folk tune he’d been messing around with on his guitar. He was pleasantly weary but thought he might allow himself a small whiskey from one of his special single malt bottles once he got home before turning in. It would have been nice to have another warm body to snuggle up to – but he’d almost given up hope of finding one, or at least the right own. He’d come to believe he was too damaged.

Patrick was so far into his thoughts that the sound of screaming didn’t immediately register. But then he heard it again -- Help, please someone – and then angry male voices yelling from behind a rock. Someone was in trouble. Without stopping to think, Patrick broke into a run and came into a small clearing – a secluded corner sheltered on all sides by vegetation. Two males were grappling with a woman, trying to steal her bag. One stood behind her trying to restrain her; the other was maybe a foot or two in front of her brandishing a knife. The woman had more balls than sense. She was struggling trying to kick the one holding her, a skinny-looking runt with a ski mask hiding his features although Patrick could see from his bare hands that he was white. The woman was putting up a good fight.

Help, she screamed again in a piercing voice.

Shut the fuck up, the knife guy growled coming even closer. Aint no need from no-one to get hurt. Let go of the goddamed bag. The second one made the mistake of putting a hand over her mouth. She immediately bit down. Motherfucker, he howled, then spun her around and backhanded her. Luckily she’d moved her head slightly and he only landed a glancing blow. Still, she let out a shriek of pain and fear.

Patrick thought about shouting at the punks to lay off – but what good would that do? It risked putting the woman in even more danger – and possibly also himself. He couldn’t see if they had guns. Just the knife was bad enough. Now that he was closer, he could see they seemed awfully young – no more than 16 or 17. That made them even more unpredictable and dangerous. One or both of them might panic and do something really stupid. They hadn’t spotted him yet; didn’t realize he was there. Quietly, he set down the tool box, opened it and extracted a heavy wrench. He’d been a pretty decent pitcher back in the day; almost good enough for the minors. He took careful aim at the kid with the knife, knowing he couldn’t afford to miss. Exhaling gently, he steadied himself and let fly. The wrench flew true, end over end, and hit the kid on the back of the head with an audible crack. Instantly he keeled over and was on the ground. The other one looked around, shocked. Before he could react, Patrick dashed up and grabbed the knife off the ground.

Let her go, he growled at the kid. Let her go and get the fuck out of here before someone really gets hurt.

The kid looked confused. For a moment, it seemed like he might take Patrick on.

The fire chief advanced, waving the knife. Don’t be as asshole. Don’t ruin your life.

The woman stood in astonished silence. You really don’t want to mess with me, Patrick said softly. You can still get the fuck away, no harm no foul. I won’t stop you or your idiot friend.

The kid gave him another look, then turned tail and fled.

Patrick turned his attention to the second one picking up his wrench just in case. The kid lay on the ground groaning, half conscious, eyes closed. He had a nice egg on the back of his head but he didn’t seem to be bleeding and was breathing steadily. Patrick checked his pulse. Seemed normal.

He’ll live. Let’s get out of here before he wakes up and I have to bop him again. He stretched out a beefy mitt to the woman, who seemed to have taken all of this incredibly calmly given the circumstances. She hesitated but a second, then clasped her small, delicate hand in his big one. He felt a jolt of something running all way up his arm. What the fuck was that? This way, he