“You think I’m bottoming from the top?”
“Maybe I’m just topping from below.” He kissed her right on the tip of her nose. Typical top. She’d show him who was boss. At least in this scene.
Elle laughed as Griffin yanked off his jeans and, naked, slid into bed next to her. He gathered her in his arms and put her on top of him, his chest to her back. With the padded headboard behind him, Griffin was half sitting up, which made her feel as if she were lying on a human chaise longue. A human chaise longue with a massive erection halfway up her ass. She ground her hips from side to side and in a slow undulating circle.
“Vicious wench,” he said. “If you keep doing that I’m going to come on your back.”
“No, you aren’t.”
“I’m not?”
“You aren’t allowed to come until I’m done coming.”
“You didn’t say that earlier.”
“New rule,” she said. “I make the rules. You follow the rules.”
“In that case, we better get to six fast before I break that rule all over the both of us.”
From inside the briefcase he pulled out a medium-size vibrator, about six inches long and of average thickness. She was already wet from her previous orgasm so it slid into her easily. Griffin put it on its lowest setting and she turned her face to meet his. As he fucked her with the vibrator they kissed again, a long, slow, deep kiss. His one free hand cupped her right breast and squeezed it. He grasped her nipple between his thumb and forefinger, kneading it lightly. Her whole body felt his presence. Her thighs were draped over his thighs, her back rested against his stomach and chest, his arms wrapped around her and his mouth was on her mouth. When she came a second time it was against his lips. The mingling of their breaths as she climaxed was as erotic as the orgasm itself.
Griffin turned the vibrator up to a higher setting and fucked her with it again. The fingers of his free hand massaged her clitoris gently and it wasn’t long before she came a third time with a deep shudder.
After number four he took the vibrator out of her and explored her with his bare hands.
“God, you’re so wet,” he said in her ear and she could hear the strain in his voice, the need. “I can’t stop touching you.”
He pulled her folds wide, spreading her out and pushing two, then three, then four of his fingers into her. With his four fingers inside her, he moved his hand in a spiraling motion, circling in and out, in and out, the spiral widening with every turn and his fingers finding soft spots and muscles inside her she’d forgotten she had.
She could hardly stand it, how good it felt, how open she was, and how much she wanted him. She could barely breathe for it, for the pleasure and the pressure and the slow building toward release. Underneath her Griffin’s hips pushed against her. They were adrift together, moving and rocking and floating above the bed.
“Please come for me. Come on my hand so I can feel every muscle inside you,” he said as he pushed the heel of his palm against her clitoris.
“Deeper,” she said.
“Faster,” she said.
“Harder,” she said.
Griffin did all three and he did them all at once. When she came for her fifth time it was with a cry that sounded to her own ears like pain but her body told her differently. The muscles inside her contracted all around Griffin’s fingers, hard enough he swore in her ear.
“Fuck,” he said, slowly pulling his hand from inside her.
“Good idea.”
“What?”
“Let’s fuck.”
“But that was only number five.”
“What did I say about the rules?” she asked.
“You make the rules.”
“Right. Now I’m changing the rules. I need to fuck you. I’ll die if I don’t.”
“No one ever died from not fucking,” he reminded her.
“Whoever said that was an idiot. Get on your back, head by the footboard. I want to tie you up and use your cock for my own selfish needs. Do you have any objection to that?”
“I—”
“Don’t care. Just do it.”
He just did it.
Her legs wobbled as she stood up and dug through Griffin’s closet for bondage toys. Not in the mood to be fancy, she grabbed a pair of basic rope cuffs, wrapped them around the top bar of the footboard and slipped them onto Griffin’s wrists.
“Condoms?” she asked.
“In the drawer. And between the mattresses. Also in a box under the sofa. There’s some in the bathroom, too. And the kitchen.”
“Is there anywhere in the house you don’t have condoms?”
“The cookie jar. There are actual cookies in there. No. Wait. There are condoms in there, too. I ate all the cookies.”
Elle laughed so hard she had to rest her head on his chest for a minute.
“You’re ridiculous and sexy and ridiculously sexy,” she said, meeting his eyes.
“I know.”
“I’m going to fuck you now.”
“Thank you.”
She reached into the bedside table for a condom.
“Wait,” Griffin said, lifting his head. “Not those. The ones under the mattress.”
Elle raised her eyebrow and slid her hand between the mattress and the bed frame. She pulled out a sheaf of condoms.
“Your favorites?” she asked.
“Lambskin,” he said. “Love them. I got tested last month, and you haven’t been with a guy in a year and, you know, they’re roomier. You can’t use them for anal so I save them for only the most special pussies.”
“My pussy and I are honored.”
Elle straddled Griffin’s hips, took his cock in her hand and guided it to the entrance of her body. She sunk down slowly onto it, relishing every inch. Already she was bathed in sweat but as Griffin entered her fully the temperature in the room rose ten degrees. Or maybe that was her body temperature rising. Didn’t matter. They were both slick with sweat and burning up for each other. When she leaned closer to him, he lifted his head and captured a nipple in his mouth, sucking it deeply, and she felt the pull of pleasure all the way into her stomach. Elle gripped the bar of the footboard over Griffin’s head and used it to steady herself as she rode him. She pushed against him and his back arched. She did it again. His eyes closed and his lips parted.
“You’re enjoying this,” she said, rocking into him again.
He nodded, biting his own lip, a gesture she found innocently erotic.
“I was afraid,” he said.
“Of what?” She touched his face.
“Of never seeing you again.”
“You don’t have to be afraid. I’m not going anywhere. Not with you inside me.”
“Thank you, Mistress.”
Elle stopped moving.
“What?” Griffin looked at her, his eyes open again.
“You called me Mistress.”
“I did. Did you like that?”
“Say it again.”
“Yes, Mistress... Mistress... Mistress... My beautiful Mistress Nor.”
And the more he said it, the more she wanted him to say it. And when he came it was with the word on his lips.
She laughed and Griffin whispered, “What? What is it?”
“Mistress Nor. I like the sound of that.”
9
Mistress Nora
ELLE ATTEMPTED TO creep back into Kingsley’s town house under cover of night. A few years ago she might have succeeded in her sneaking but that was before Kingsley acquired his “children.”
Four black Rottweilers—the children in question—bounded down the stairs, galloping toward her in a hail of paws and ears and tails and tongues. She ended up flat on her back beneath them with four wet noses in her face. Kingsley’s dogs—Brutus, Dominic, Sadie and Max—were reportedly vicious attack dogs. Anyone who knew them, however, quickly discovered that although they, like their owner, were capable of killing if necessary, in general they were lovers, not fighters.
&
nbsp; “Brutus, stop it,” she said as Brutus, the alpha of the bunch, stuck his nose between her thighs. “Jabberwocky.”
“They don’t respond well to safe words,” Kingsley said from the top of the stairs.
“Jesus Christ,” she said, petting and pushing the dogs away at the same time. “Why couldn’t you be a cat person?”
“There’s enough pussy in this house as it is.” Kingsley started down the steps toward her. He was dressed but disheveled, looking like a well-fucked rogue. Apparently she and Kingsley had both had a nice evening. Finally he whistled, calling the dogs off her. They whimpered but obeyed their master although it was obvious they were not done with the lickings and the pettings.
“Where’s Calliope?” Elle pulled herself off the floor and brushed herself off. “I thought they slept with her.”
“They do. But she’s on a date.”
Elle walked past him heading up to her room.
“Guess we’re all getting lucky tonight,” she said.
Kingsley grabbed her arm as she tried to pass him, stopping her on the stairs. “Griffin?”
“Yup.”
“He wasn’t supposed to tell you he was watching you,” Kingsley said.
“He didn’t tell me. I caught him in the act. He’d make a terrible CIA agent.”
Kingsley sighed heavily. “I’ll kill him.”
“Don’t kill him. I need him alive if I’m going to keep tying him up and fucking his brains out.”
Kingsley narrowed his eyes at her. “But Griffin’s a dominant.”
“So?”
“You topped him?”
“I did.”
“You topped a top.”
“I’ve topped you,” she said.
“I’m a masochist. Griffin isn’t.”
“Griffin’s barely twenty-three and couldn’t scare someone if he wore a suit made out of knives. He’s a puppy, King. It’s pretty easy to top a puppy when you’ve already topped a...” She looked down at Brutus sitting at Kingsley’s heels. “A Rottweiler.”
Kingsley cocked his eyebrow at that. Probably the first time in his life a woman had ever likened the inestimable Kingsley Edge to a dog.
“You enjoyed it with Griffin?”
“As much as he did. So...a lot.”
“My office. Now.”
“Now? I’m so tired,” she said. “I came like eight times today. I need to put an ice pack on my pussy.”
“Ice later. Talk now. Go.”
Elle went. The fantasy of owning her own house was growing stronger every day. Wouldn’t it be lovely to return home from a day of debauchery to an empty house? Or if not an empty house, a house devoid of her boss. She wouldn’t have to answer questions about where she went and what she did and with whom she did it. Someday...once she got her money. Not money, she corrected. A lot of fucking money.
Since Kingsley would be the source of her getting “a lot of fucking money” she dutifully trudged up to his office and sat gingerly in the chair opposite his desk. Next time she took a year off cock, she’d pick a guy with a much smaller penis to help with her reentry into the world of PIV intercourse.
“I have good news,” Kingsley said. He sat on the edge of his desk in front of her.
“I like good news.”
“Milady will be at the party we’re attending tomorrow night.”
“Good,” Elle said. “Can’t wait for the beat and greet.”
“You think you’re ready to go out again? Be around our people?”
“He won’t be there, will he?”
“No.”
“Good.”
“But eventually you will have to see him again. You need to prepare yourself for that. If you saw him right now, could you handle it?”
Elle paused before answering. Finally she spoke.
“While we were having sex, Griffin called me something. He called me Mistress. Mistress Nor.”
“You liked that?” Kingsley asked.
“I loved it.” She heard the heat in her own voice, the emotion betrayed, and she quickly worked to cover it. “I don’t want to go back to being Eleanor. I want to be Mistress Nor.”
“Nor?”
“Griffin hates the name ‘Eleanor.’ He just started calling me Nor one day and that’s what he calls me. Then he called me Mistress Nor, and when he called me Mistress Nor, it was like I heard my real name for the first time.”
“There is a queen named Noor. Queen of Jordan. Beautiful woman. Brilliant and accomplished. I send her roses on her birthday. It’s a good name for a queen but perhaps not a dominatrix. Nor. Rhymes with whore. Can’t have that, can we?”
“No, I guess not.”
Kingsley leaned over and took her chin in his hand. He looked at her, looked into her eyes, at her face, looked like a man aiming for a target. Where was the bull’s-eye?
“Nora.”
The name sounded elegant with his accent. Strong, sophisticated. Not her name and yet there was her name buried inside it. Those three letters—Eleanor, Nor, Nora...it was her and yet it wasn’t.
“I like it,” she said.
“Mistress Nora. Yes...parfait.”
“It is.”
“Mistress Nora,” he said again. “Nora, la Maîtresse. Son Maîtresse.”
“Votre Maîtresse,” she said, completing the conjugation. The Mistress. His Mistress. Your Mistress.
“Oui,” he said. “Ma Maîtresse.”
My Mistress.
“Mistress Nora,” she said, rolling the name around her mouth and loving the way it tasted—sweet and spiked like Christmas punch.
“What’s my name?” Nora asked.
“Mistress Nora.”
“Who am I?
“Mistress Nora.”
“Who will be Queen of the Underground?”
Kingsley smiled. “Mistress Nora.”
“Fuck yes, I will,” Nora said, beaming.
Nora.
That was her name.
Not Elle like her friends called her.
Not Ellie like her mother called her.
Not Eleanor, which Søren called her in public.
Not even Little One, which he called her in private.
And not Nor because that wasn’t quite right.
Nora.
Mistress Nora.
“Mistress Fucking Nora,” she said aloud.
“Well, Mistress Fucking Nora,” Kingsley said, “if you’re going to be queen, you’ll need a throne room. I’ll start working on your dungeon tomorrow.”
“Finally.”
“Go, get some rest. We’ll start fresh tomorrow.”
“Do I get to play with the whip?”
“You can’t even flog a towel off the wall. Now go to bed. There’s a naughty Haitian submissive in my bed who will be wondering where my cock has gone to. Sleep well.”
“I plan to.” She stood up. When she’d sat down she’d still been Elle. When she stood up she was Nora. Mistress Nora.
She headed to Kingsley’s office door.
“You really topped Griffin?” he asked.
“I did. Like a boss,” she said, laughing. “But don’t be too impressed. Like I said, he’s a puppy.”
“You were gone for a year. So was I. Tessa told me that while we were gone, Griffin became one of the most sought-after doms in the club. He’s brutal when he wants to be. When we were gone, he wanted to be. Tessa had bruises for two weeks after a session with him—inside and out. He’s made grown men bleed, and he’s not even a sadist. He says he does it for ‘shits and giggles.’ If Griffin seems like a puppy to you, it’s because you’re a tiger.”
Nora narrowed her eyes at him and raised her hand in a claw. “Rawr.”
Kingsley laughed. “Go to bed.”
“Yes, Master.”
“Goodnight, Mistress.”
“Mistress... I could get used to that.”
Truth was, she was already used to it.
She walked out of his office intending to go straight to her
bedroom. She’d take a long bath, sleep for twelve hours, eat all the food for breakfast...
But she didn’t make it to her bedroom. She stopped at Kingsley’s playroom first. Inside she turned on the light and walked around gazing at the array of BDSM toys hanging on the wall. He had ten floggers of various sizes and materials hanging on evenly spaced hooks—red floggers, blue floggers, black, brown, elk-hide, cowhide, deer-hide, vinyl and vicious rubber floggers. He had canes, too, over a dozen of them. Tiny little white ones that burned like a bee sting on sensitive skin. Large rattan canes that could put a full-grown man in the hospital if wielded with too much force.
When she came to the crops, she smiled. Oh, yes, these were her favorite. Something about a riding crop. The feel of it, the balance, the elegance. Riding crops were designed for humans to use on horses, for striking thick skin and driving a ton of pure muscle. Perhaps that’s why she loved the crop so much. Kingsley had told her a dominatrix would never be physically stronger than the men she topped. It wasn’t about physical strength. It was about control, about taking command over a beast bigger and stronger but with a will that could be bent, a drive that could be directed, power that could be restrained, channeled, dominated.
Nora reached out and took a particular riding crop off a brass hook. It was red, bloodred, and about two feet long. A shorter crop had less give to it. It hurt more than one with more swish in its swing. She knew this instinctively, not from her few weeks as a dominant, but her years as a submissive. She’d long been on the receiving end of a riding crop. How good and right it felt to wield it by the handle.
She spun it in her hand like a baton. She hadn’t twirled a baton since she was a little girl pretending to be a majorette, but it all came back to her. Pure muscle memory. It danced lightly over her fingers as she turned it. Testing out the old skills she walked the perimeter of the room, twirling it in her hand as she walked. A few times she almost lost it, but she caught it and soon the rhythm was hers again.
Her own dungeon. She would have a room like this soon enough. All the toys she could ever want. A dream come true. A dark and decadent dream. A secret dream like playing Daddy’s girl with Søren. She’d had the dream of being a domme all her life. She remembered sexual fantasies from long before she’d met Søren. When she was fourteen, she’d snuck into an R-rated movie and saw her first sex scene with a woman on top. That fantasy had given her some of her earliest orgasms.
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