Текст книги "The Queen"

Автор книги: Tiffany Reisz

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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 25 страниц)

5

Flogging Lessons

“HARDER,” KINGSLEY SAID. Elle did it harder, hard as she could. “You call that harder?”

She threw the flogger down and turned to Kingsley.

“How do you know how hard I’m hitting when I’m not hitting anyone?” She pointed at the towel on the wall. “That is a bath towel, not a person. No matter how hard I hit it, it’s not going to scream.”

“It’s still hanging on the wall. And if it’s still hanging on the wall—” Kingsley picked up the flogger, threw it once with a practiced snap, and the towel fell to the floor landing in a soft pile at their feet “—you aren’t hitting it hard enough.”

Elle exhaled heavily and scooped the towel off the floor to pin it back in place. They were in Kingsley’s playroom. It boasted a red St. Andrew’s Cross, a leather kneeling bench, two dozen floggers, canes and enough rope to truss up an entire herd of cattle. From the ceiling hung an elegant glass chandelier, which gave the playroom that touch of class everyone expected from the King of the Underground. For the past two weeks Kingsley had brought her here for four hours a day, training her in the various arts of pain. Caning was a breeze. Clamps were a blast. Flogging, however, had proven to be more difficult than it looked.

Once the towel was back in place, Elle held out her hand. Kingsley gave her the black-tailed elk-hide flogger, slapping the handle into her palm.

“I could knock it off with a whip,” she said.

“No whips. No single-tails. You could kill someone with one of those. You get to touch the whip when you’re ready and not a moment sooner.”

“I like whips.”

“Don’t we all, but you’ll use floggers more often than whips. No whipping until you’ve mastered flogging. Then I’ll find you a whip master. Now do it again,” he said, his voice calm and steady. “Make it hurt.”

“I’ll make it hurt.” Elle narrowed her eyes at the towel. “I can make it hurt. Who knows more about pain than the submissive of a sadist?”

“You are not a submissive. You never were.”

“Then what the hell was I doing the past decade of my life, King?”

“Wasting everyone’s time?”

She glared at him. “Look, I want to do this right. I loved topping you. I loved hurting you. But that doesn’t mean I didn’t love submitting, too.”

“You have to let that part of your life go. You aren’t her anymore.”

“I’m still Elle Schreiber. No matter which end of the whip I’m on¸ I’m still Elle Schreiber.”

Kingsley narrowed his eyes at her.

“That’s it.”

“That’s what?”

“You need a new name,” he said.

“What?”

“A new name. A scene name. Everyone already knows you as Eleanor Schreiber. Everyone already knows you as his submissive, his property. But you aren’t his anymore. You need a new name.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. I’ll figure something out.”

“You’re going to give me a new name? Do I get any say in this?”

“You can pick out the font on your business cards after I decide on your new name. Now flog.”

Elle took a few steadying breaths and focused her attention. She could do this. How many times had she been flogged in her life? First time when she was twenty, eight years ago. She’d spent at least one night a week in the company of the most infamous sadist in their vast kink community during all those years. Sometimes two. Two times fifty-two times seven equaled a lot of fucking floggings. And that didn’t include all the ones Kingsley had given her.

With one more heavy breath she placed her feet in position and raised the flogger over her head. With her right hand she held the handle, with her left hand the tips of the tails.

She pulled the tails taut and then let it go with a flick. It was a good hit, a strike right down the middle. And yet, the towel stayed pinned in place.

“Fuck.”

Kingsley gave a low chuckle, and she nearly flogged his French face.

“You’re finding out that being a dominant is more work than you ever imagined, aren’t you?” he asked.

“I need more practice. These floggers are heavier than they look.”

“And you’re a woman and you’re five foot three, and you don’t possess one-tenth of the upper body strength I do.”

“I swim laps.”

“Not enough.”

“Fine. I’ll join a gym.”

“Yes, you will. But you’ll never be as strong as I am, or as strong as he is or as strong as the average healthy man on the street is. This job isn’t about muscle strength. The physical part of dominating someone is the smallest part of it. Your clients will be men, and they will be bigger and stronger than you are. You’ll never outweigh them, and you’ll never be able to beat them at arm wrestling.”

“So...shoot them?” she asked.

Kingsley smiled.

“They want to submit to you. They want you to hurt them. They won’t want to hurt you, because that’s not their nature. They want to be dominated by a woman because they don’t feel alive or sexual or aroused until they’re beaten, used and treated like objects. But if you want that respect, if you want their lips on your boots and their souls at your feet, you have to earn their respect. And you earn it by showing them you aren’t afraid to hurt them. Milady hurts them. You’ll hurt them more. Now do it again.”

She did it again. And again. And again. She did it until her back burned and her muscles screamed and she thought she’d die if she had to lift her arms over her head again. But she did it again, and she didn’t die. She wanted to die, but unfortunately she didn’t get her wish.

After half an hour Elle dropped her arms to her sides. Sweat poured from her forehead and down her back. Her heart pounded and she gulped down an entire bottle of water in a few swallows.

She pulled the towel down—she still hadn’t managed to knock it off the wall—and raised it to her face.

“Why are you doing that?” Kingsley asked.

“Wiping my sweat off? Because I’m sweaty.”

“You have a man in this room. Why not use his clothes to wipe your sweat off?”

“You want me to wipe my gross sweat on one of your Signore Vitale custom-made shirts? You’d kill me.”

“Would I?” he asked.

“I would if someone did that to me.”

Kingsley smiled at her and her stomach tightened in unwanted wanting. Every night she waited for Kingsley to come to her bedroom like he used to do, but not once had he slipped under her covers and whispered sexual orders to her like he had so many times in the past.

“When we were lovers in high school,” he began and she knew who he meant by we, “it was my job to undress him many nights, but his clothes must be folded neatly, precisely, reverently, and then placed on a chair. No mess, no wrinkles. But he...he would strip me naked and drop all my clothes onto the floor. Then he’d walk on them. Not barefoot, either. With his shoes on most of the time. And you know what?” Kingsley asked as he stepped closer to her, close enough she could kiss him if she wanted to.

“What?”

“I worshipped him for it.” Kingsley smiled at her, a Mona Lisa smile that hinted of secrets but didn’t reveal them. “He would sometimes pretend I wasn’t there when I spoke to him...and I worshipped him for it. He would tell me he didn’t want me anymore and then at the moment I was ready to kill myself in despair, he’d smile to show it was all a joke...and I worshipped him for it. I mocked him once for what happened between him and his sister Elizabeth, and you know what he did?”

“I don’t want to know.”

“He blindfolded me, tied me to the cot and made me say my sister’s name over and over again while he gave me the most intense erotic pleasure of my life with his hands and his mouth. When I stopped speaking he stopped pleasuring me. Then he made me say my own sister’s name when I came. And you know what?”

“You worshipped him for it?”

Kingsley nodded.

Point taken. To show Kingsley how thoroughly she’d absorbed her lesson she walked over to where he stood by the St. Andrew’s Cross, his arms folded over his chest. He wore camel-colored breeches and dark brown Hessian riding boots, a snow-white shirt held together at the throat with a gold pin and a dark brown vest with little gold fleurs-de-lis embroidered on it. Kingsley looked magnificent, like a Regency-era fever dream. If Jane Austen had set eyes on Kingsley, she would never have written her genteel comedies of manner.

She would have written porn.

Elle wiped her sweaty forehead off on his shoulder.

“See?” she asked, smiling up at him. “I can be taught.”

He looked down at the wet smudge she’d left on his pristine shirt and back at her.

“I could have you flogged for that.”

“I’m not a submissive anymore, remember?”

“I’m glad you’re starting to realize that,” he said and then lowered his voice to a whisper. “Finally.”

“I know I’m a dominant. I know I am.”

“Are you sure?”

“I think I’m sure.”

“Then you aren’t sure. Elle, what we’re doing here... I need all of you for it. Your heart, your soul, your strength, your guts. All of you. If you can’t give me all of you, then you are, yet again, wasting everyone’s time. Now tell me...do you want this? Do you want to be my Queen?”

“I want it.”

“It? What is it you want? Money?”

“Yes,” she admitted without shame. She needed a good job that didn’t take up all her time if she were going to do something with her writing.

“Power?”

“Definitely.”

“Me?” he asked.

“You did say you’d be my first client,” she reminded him.

“I will be.”

“You said I won’t be having sex with my clients.”

“Are you asking me if we’re going to have sex again?”

“Yes,” she said without shame or apology. She wanted him. She knew he wanted her. Why hadn’t they fucked yet?

“Would you like to?”

“Yes.”

“Prove it.”

“Prove it? How?”

“By acting like the domme I know you are. Once you are a domme, I will be your client, and you can do anything you want to me.”

“Anything?”

Kingsley met her eyes and whispered, “Anything.”

“You’re going to regret that.”

“I can’t wait to regret it.”

“This is a test, isn’t it? You’re testing me?”

“Of course I am.”

“And if I pass this test, what do I win?”

“Me.”

“Good prize.”

“When I am done with you,” he said, taking her face in his hands, “there will not be a man in the world who wouldn’t take a bullet to lick your boots.”

“It’s not my boots that need licking right now.”

Kingsley smiled at her, a sensual, mysterious smile. It did not bode well.

“I’ll give you a hint about how to win your prize. Do you know a woman by the name of Theresa Berkley?” he asked.

“If I met her I don’t remember.”

“You’ve never met her. She died in the 1830s. But before she died she worked as a dominatrix. I doubt she used that term, but that’s what she was. She invented a sort of standing table she called a chevelet. It was used to torture men on one side of their bodies while another woman could sexually stimulate them on the other side. We have the freestanding St. Andrew’s Cross for that now, but it was quite an ingenious bit of furniture.”

“Sounds like my kind of girl.”

“A client coming to London wrote a letter to her once requesting a session on her chevelet. These were the conditions he offered. He would pay her ‘a pound sterling for the first blood drawn, two pounds sterling if the blood runs down to my heels, three pounds sterling if my heels are bathed in blood, four pounds sterling if the blood reaches the floor, and five pounds sterling if you succeed in making me lose consciousness.’ His words, chérie.”

“Lose consciousness? Jesus.”

“Don’t be vanilla,” he said. He lowered his voice to a whisper. “We masochists love our beatings. But that’s not the moral of this story.”

“Then what is the moral, King?”

“The moral is that if you want my pounds sterling or any other sort of pounds, you’ll have to earn it.”

Kingsley turned his back on her to leave and without thinking she raised the flogger over her head. She threw it across his back hoping to impress him with one hard hit. But Kingsley turned at the last second and caught the tails in his hand. She’d put the handle strap around her wrist thus making it all too easy for him to yank her to him and shove her back against the wall.

“What the fuck was that?” he demanded, squeezing her wrist to the point of pain. “Don’t put the fucking cord of the fucking flogger on your fucking wrist. That’s how you fucking hang the flogger on the fucking wall. And if you fucking put it on your fucking wrist, someone like me can fucking grab you and fucking fuck you up, you fucking rookie.”

He ripped the flogger off her wrist and tossed it aside.

“King, sorry—”

Kingsley cut off her apology with a hand over her mouth. Elle started, heart racing in pure fear.

“Shut up,” he said. “You fucked up, and you will be disciplined.”

He dragged her bodily to the bed and threw her down onto it. No amount of pushing and fighting could force him off her.

With knees and feet and arms and hands, Kingsley pinned her down to the bed. He had sixty pounds on her at least and was unbelievably strong. Finally she gave up her struggle. She was flat on her back on the bed and going nowhere until Kingsley let her go.

“This is what is known as a reality check, Elle. Repeat after me,” Kingsley said. “I am a bad dominant.”

A furious growl rose in the back of her throat.

“Say it,” Kingsley said.

“I am a bad dominant.”

“Good dominants do not hit people without their permission. Say it.”

“Good dominants do not hit people without their permission.”

“Are you a good dominant?” he asked.

“I want to be.”

“Let’s find out,” Kingsley said, his face a mask of steely resolve. He might be a masochist, he might be a switch, but right now he was all dom and all terrifying.

Kingsley released one wrist and unzipped her jeans.

“Safe out right now,” he said. “Right fucking now.”

“Or what? You’ll fuck me? Go ahead.”

“You’d like that too much,” he said, pushing his hand into her jeans. “And you haven’t even come close to earning my cock yet.”

He shoved a finger inside her and Elle cried out, not in pain but in pleasure.

“Thought so,” he said.

“What?” She tried squirming away from him but couldn’t move. He had her riveted to the bed.

“You’re dripping wet. So much for being a domme.”

“I haven’t gotten fucked in over a year.”

“That’s your problem, not mine.”

He pulled his hand out of her pants and pushed her onto her stomach. With his mouth at her ear he whispered a warning.

“There’s one man in the world who cares about you more than I do,” Kingsley said. “Just imagine what a man who doesn’t give a fuck about you would do if you fucked up during a session as badly as you fucked up with me.”

“I fucked up,” she said.

“You did.”

“I won’t do it again.”

“We won’t have to have this talk again, will we?”

“No.”

“No what?”

“No, Kingsley.”

“You aren’t going to call me ‘sir’?” he asked, his voice cold but teasing.

“No,” she said.

“And why not?”

“Because I’m not a submissive anymore. I don’t call anyone ‘sir.’”

Kingsley leaned in even closer, pressed his lips to the back of her neck and kissed her.

“Glad you finally are realizing this,” he said. “It’s about fucking time.”

6

A Special Delivery

ALONE IN HER bedroom Elle stripped out of her clothes—her favorite old Pearl Jam concert T-shirt she’d had since 1994 and a ratty pair of cutoff denim shorts. They’d been her comfort clothes, her lazy-day uniform, when she’d lived here at Kingsley’s before she’d gone to the convent. There she’d had to wear black tights and long skirts and buttoned-up blouses. It had been like wearing a costume every day so it should have been nice to wear her own clothes again. Although they didn’t feel like hers. They felt like a different sort of costume. They belonged to Eleanor. His Eleanor. But if she wasn’t his anymore, was she even Eleanor? Kingsley said he would change her name. She almost didn’t care what he changed it to as long as she could be someone who wasn’t Eleanor anymore. Eleanor was tired. Eleanor was scared. Eleanor missed her priest.

For almost an hour she stood under the scalding water and let the heat seep into her sore muscles but no matter how long she stayed under the water, the pain remained. She dried off on plush white towels she wouldn’t have to wash and dry and fold—Kingsley had a housekeeper. It should have felt like heaven, living in luxury again. And yet...

“You fucked up today.”

Elle stepped out of her en suite bathroom to find Kingsley sitting on her bed, boots crossed at the ankle, looking smug and satiated. His collar was open and the vest unbuttoned. While she’d been in the shower he’d been in Juliette. His new lover received the lion’s share of Kingsley’s erotic attentions lately. Elle didn’t blame him. Juliette was easily the most beautiful woman she’d ever seen in her life, and she’d seen her fair share of beautiful women come and go from Kingsley’s bed. Juliette, however, seemed likely to stick around.

“Yes, you mentioned that earlier. I won’t do it again.”

“I know. You’ll make me proud. Eventually.”

Elle smiled at him and then dropped the towel. Kingsley didn’t blink or say a word at her sudden nudity. He’d seen her naked before, but she noted his eyes narrowing as she walked past him. Not a look of ardor at all. He appraised her as she dressed in black panties, a black bra, a denim skirt that hugged her curves and a low-cut shirt.

“You’ve gained weight¸” he said.

“Six pounds since coming back from the convent. If you’d had to eat convent food for a year, you’d go a little nuts with New York–style pizza, too. I promise I won’t gain any more.”

“Don’t lose the weight. We’ll turn it into muscle.”

“Don’t lose the weight? Those are the sexiest four words anyone has ever said to me.”

“Money money money money.”

“Those are the other four sexiest words anyone’s ever said to me.”

“I didn’t come to seduce you. I came to invite you to a party. Not quite an invitation. Attendance is mandatory.”

“What sort of party?”

“The sort of party Milady will attend. We need to see her in action.”

“You said nobody could know I was back yet.”

“They won’t know. You’ll be in disguise. I don’t want you leaving the house between now and then, either.”

“Sure. Of course. Whatever you say, boss.” She added the “boss” at the end more sarcastically than she meant.

“Don’t get pissy at me because you fucked up,” he said, wagging his finger at her.

“I’m not pissy because I fucked up.”

“What is it?”

She sighed. “This is harder than I thought it would be.”

“Being a domme?” he asked.

“Not being a sub.”

“Not being his sub, you mean.”

She nodded. Reluctantly.

“You need to face him,” he said. “The longer you wait the harder it will be. You’ve been back two weeks. It’s time.”

“I’ll go talk to him. Soon. I promise.”

“Not today. I don’t want anyone knowing you’re back yet. No going out. Anywhere.”

“Fine. I’ll be good. Happy?”

“Good, chérie, is the last thing I want you to be.”

He chucked her under the chin and left. A few minutes later Elle heard a soft knock on her bedroom door, which meant it wasn’t Kingsley returning. He never bothered knocking.

Elle opened the door.

“Juliette,” was all Elle could say. Beautiful, glorious, magnificent Juliette. Even Elle got a little tongue-tied around Kingsley’s consort.

“Calliope brought in the mail. There’s something for you.”

“For me?” She held out her hand and Juliette passed her a thick manila envelope.

“C’est pour toi.”

“Thanks.” She tossed it in a drawer.

“You aren’t going to open it?” Juliette asked, her hands lifting gracefully in a question.

“I’ll open it later.”

“It’s from a literary agency,” Juliette said.

“Yeah, I know who it’s from.”

“I didn’t tell monsieur you received any mail today.”

Elle smiled, relieved. “Thank you for that.”

“For years, I lived with a man who monitored any mail I received. I had no privacy. It was...unpleasant. You should have your privacy. But I think it’s wonderful you’re receiving mail from a literary agency if it means what I think it means.”

“It means I wrote a book. But please don’t tell.”

“Something tells me the subject will not come up. I keep monsieur on other topics,” she said with a sly smile.

Elle liked Juliette. It didn’t take long for her to decide this was the perfect woman for Kingsley. She had a backbone of iron and a love of submission that made her the ideal consort for their king. Since Elle did like her so much she had to say what she said next or she wouldn’t be able to look Juliette in the eyes much longer.

“Juliette, you do know Kingsley and I used to sleep together, right?”

“He told me, oui.” Juliette seemed entirely unperturbed by the fact.

“And we’ll probably be sleeping together again in the near future.”

“He keeps me abreast of these sorts of things.”

These sorts of things? Probably the tamest euphemism Elle had yet heard for Kingsley’s sex life.

“You’re fine with that?”

She nodded her head regally. Everything Juliette did or said looked or sounded regal. If Elle wanted to be a queen she would do well to emulate Juliette.

“He told me what he was and what he needs. I would never deny him what he needs.”

“Some people don’t like the thought of sharing.”

“It isn’t sharing. Not to me. He is one man when he’s with you. Another man when he’s with me. It’s clear you care for the man who he is with you. I care for the man who he is when he’s with me.”

“He loves pain when he’s with me. I’ll send him back to you covered in whip marks and bruises, cuts and welts. I left a lot of burns on him last year. You should be prepared for that. I mean that literally. Keep the medicine cabinet well stocked. He hates doctors. You’ll have to handle first aid.”

“I will be prepared. In truth, I couldn’t watch while he’s being hurt, but I admit I enjoy the thought of tending to his wounds after...”

“That’s a kink, you know. Comforting someone after a hard scene. Usually it’s the person who did the hurting who handles the cleanup, but I’ve known kinky people whose favorite thing to do was dress the wounds of masochists after a beating. Aftercare can be very intense, very intimate.” Søren had always taken good care of her after the beatings. Washing her wounds, cleaning her cuts, kissing her boo-boos away. Those were her favorite moments, when he put her back together after tearing her apart. “It’s like playing doctor or naughty nurse.”

“I would look good in a nurse’s costume, wouldn’t I?”

“You would look good in a brown paper bag.”

Juliette smiled, a smile so steamy it could have fogged the windows in a parked car.

“You break him down,” Juliette said, pointing at Elle. “And I—” she pointed at herself “—I will build him up so he’ll be ready when you break him again. Between the two of us he should be a very happy man. It’s a good plan, non?”

“A very good plan, yes. So you think we can be friends?” Elle asked. “No jealousy? No awkwardness?”

“Jealousy is a sign of insecurity. He adores me,” Juliette said, sounding almost affronted by the very suggestion Kingsley would ever choose another woman over her. Veritable madness. “And I am never awkward.”

“I can believe that. Thank you for this.” Elle swallowed hard, suddenly on the verge of tears and not knowing why. A tiny kindness from a woman she barely knew and...tears? This wasn’t like her. Not at all.

Juliette gave her a long searching look.

“You miss him,” Juliette said. “Your lover?”

“I shouldn’t,” Elle said. “I left him.”

“I miss mine, and I hated him.”

“I hate my ex, too.”

Juliette raised a finger, shook her head. “Elle, you do not know hate the way I know hate,” and Elle believed her. “Starting a new life isn’t easy. Not even for me and I have wanted this new life all my life.”

“I hate crying,” Elle said. “Seems...weak. I’m usually stronger than this.”

“It’s not weak. I cry, too, and I’m not weak. If I feel weak because I’m crying I remind myself of one true thing.”

“What’s that?” Elle asked.

“This is a new life I’m living. I am reborn. And all babies cry when they’re born.”

Elle smiled and knew she’d remember that one true thing all her life. Being born hurt. So did being reborn.

Juliette left her alone and the second she was gone, Elle locked her bedroom door and tore open the envelope. A handwritten note lay on top of a rubber-banded bundle of papers. Her book printed out with edit notes.

“Elle,” the note read, “Loved it, loved it, loved it. I’ve made some notes in the margins. I found a couple scenes to cut but most changes are minor. I’d love to have it back by next Friday.”

The note was signed by her new agent. Kingsley had ordered her to stay in the house. Elle did not follow men’s orders anymore. So she stuffed the book into a backpack, threw on a hat and headed out into the city.

Coming back to Manhattan had been harder than Elle had anticipated. Even now, two weeks after she’d returned, the noise of the city had kept her on edge. Life in the convent had been so quiet. She’d fallen asleep at night to the sound of soft breezes and chirping crickets. With nothing but Kyrie to distract her, she’d been able to write her book quickly. Yet another reason to make as much money as she could as fast as she could. A quiet house of her own where she could write in peace. That was the dream...

But first, she’d need her own damn computer. Sneaking to the library to work on her book was hardly ideal. She didn’t put it past Kingsley to chain her to the bed. He’d done it to Juliette, after all.

She reached the library but didn’t go into the computer lab yet. First she walked through the stacks, as she always did, seeking inspiration. The convent library had “uplifting” or “religious” literature in its small library and not a single novel. But here she found Jane Austen, George Eliot, Henry Miller and her beloved Anaïs Nin. She walked the stacks and paused when a book in the C’s caught her eye. She pulled it from the shelf and held it in her hand.

Through the Looking-Glass, and What Alice Found There by Lewis Carroll.

Elle had her own copy of this book back at Kingsley’s. Søren had given it to her when she was nineteen. He’d brought the book home with him from Rome. Back then she’d been too young to wonder how a priest under a vow of poverty had gotten the money to pay for such an expensive early edition of this book. When she’d gotten older and had learned to ask more questions, he’d told her that he had a wealthy friend in Rome, a madam of a brothel who’d worked all her life as a dominatrix to European businessmen, royalty and clergy. Whenever he returned to Rome he visited with her. And although Elle had never met his friend Magdalena, Magdalena seemed to know Elle.

Why me? Elle had asked him when Søren admitted the book had been given to him by Magdalena to give to Elle.

Søren had answered, Because a long time ago she looked into my future and saw you. So she says, anyway.

What’s my future? I’ll go through the looking glass?

She says you are like Alice in the Looking-Glass world. First a pawn and then a queen.

Was that what had happened? She’d stepped through a mirror into a world where everything was backward—where she was Kingsley’s domme and not Søren’s slave? Where she was a dominant and not a submissive? Where she was a queen and no longer a little girl?

Elle put the book back on the shelf. No reading right now. No remembering. Queen or not, she had work to do. She took the computer right next to the wall and started cutting. Today’s project was her last project before her book went out on submission with editors. Her agent had told her that her book needed trimming. Less was more and Elle knew she was right. Elle highlighted a scene consigned to the chopping block and hit Delete.

It hurt, of course. She might have winced a little between highlighting and deleting, but it was also empowering. She felt like a god of her own world in a way. She created their reality—what her characters ate and drank and how they lived and loved and fucked and if they did something she didn’t want them to do then all she had to do was...poof...delete...gone...

Just. Like. That.

She wished real life came with a delete key. But if she could change her reality, would she? Maybe. She knew she’d never truly be free of Søren as long as she remembered everything that had happened between them, from their first meeting at Sacred Heart two weeks before her sixteenth birthday to that last awful night when he’d been so angry he’d scared her. But it wasn’t that night that she wanted to be free of. The bad memories gave her the strength to keep following this path. It was all the good nights that held her hostage, her memories of beautiful kink, passionate sex, lying in bed after Søren had spent his pain and passion on her, talking about everything and nothing until she fell asleep against his chest and woke up with her collar locked away in the rosewood box until the next time he would make her his. Too many good memories. They were like links in a chain that bound her to the past.

Why couldn’t she push Delete on those memories and make them go away like she did the scenes in her book that slowed the story down?

Maybe she could.

Elle opened a new blank document on her computer screen and stared at the blinking cursor.

What to write...what to write... What memory did she most want to rid herself of? Which night haunted her more than any other, weighed on her more than any other? Impossible to pick only one, but she had to start somewhere.

She thought of the book again—Through the Looking-Glass. Her favorite part of it had always been the “Jabberwocky” poem, especially when Søren read it to her at night in his poshest and most entertaining English accent. Some evenings he’d read to her before they adjourned to his bedroom for kink and sex and on those nights it was torture to have to sit and wait while he read when all she wanted from him was pain and fucking.

But there were other nights, special nights, private nights she would tell no one about even on pain of death...

A memory hit her so hard in the stomach she almost whimpered aloud. God, it hurt to remember. But wouldn’t it feel good to forget? Not good, but powerful? She could show those memories who was boss. She was god of her own world.

She knew right where to start.

Elle put her fingers to the keys and started to type.

It was a winter’s night in Ordinary Time, but this was no ordinary night.