The Queen

“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.