Maybe it was the modern Chinese woman inside me, warring with the old-fashioned Chinese-American idea of what our generation were supposed to be like. I was almost forty, yet America labeled people my age as ‘millennials,’ like we had something in common with the teenyboppers born in the late nineties who lived on Instagram.
We’d grown up without the Internet, and we’d had the privilege of establishing our careers before the big financial crisis, yet the older generation were bent on never allowing us to grow up, treating us as though we were twenty years younger. To our parents, we were little fledglings in need of stifling and guidance.
My mother had sent me to a Chinese summer school throughout my teens and all I’d learned was how different real China was from my mother’s idea, which was fixed in time to the exact date when she immigrated to America, and promptly reinforced by the expat community she’d immersed herself in. China had changed so much, I wasn’t sure she would recognize it anymore.
But parents were clingy the world over. Our job was to perpetually disappoint them by leading fulfilling, normal and happy lives on our own terms. And to listen to their scolding with respect and politeness. I bet the younger ‘millennials’ didn’t have to respect their elders the same way.
But my parents’ obsession with my failings was their insecurity, not mine.
Good job, brain , I cheered, as I reached the sign-in table. Teen angst at thirty-eight had distracted me from thinking about the nice British man with the same phone as me. And, apparently, the same mother.
I went through the arrivals’ procedure feeling like I was sinking into a warm bath of comfort and familiarity. I needed to cause some naughtiness at the Castle, and for the next few days, I wasn’t Mary; I was Ella, a mischievous schoolgirl.
My real schooling had been nothing like this, and that was something I loved about this place. It let visitors explore the what-ifs that life had dealt to other people. Only, sexier.
I got my pink wristband and went straight to the chairs where Mistress Hardwick would give her orientation talk. I could probably have found a way to skip it, but as a journalist I generally knew when to shut up and listen. After all, there was no guarantee the Castle was exactly the same as I remembered it. I had been taken apart by divorce lawyers and put back together since then. The Castle had been through something similarly destructive. We needed to get re-acquainted.
Yeesh, first I was angsting over the status of thirtysomethings, and now I was imagining the Castle was an old friend I needed to catch up with.
I was losing it.
Idris
I couldn’t take my eyes off the naughty little mischief-maker who had picked up my phone by mistake. Her black hair was pulled into a low ponytail, and when she walked to the registration table, her body moved as though she were a dancer. Maybe she was .
“Hi! Which program are you here for?”
An overly-friendly perky blonde woman with blue eyes and a plaid miniskirt bounced up to me. For some reason, everything about her was very slightly jarring. I had an instant reaction of dislike.
I eyed her slowly, giving her the inscrutable look that would immediately wrong-foot her.
“You’re in the ageplay program,” I surmised.
“Ohmigosh! Yep. I love your accent, by the way.”
I said nothing. Bit back a few less-than-friendly responses, actually. I hadn’t a clue why Americans thought that their way of speaking was more innate and natural than mine, but I got endlessly confused by people commenting on my voice as though it was something that I’d chosen. What was I supposed to say in response?
It was almost as irritating as those silly Americans who put on fake, painful-to-hear British accents and claimed to know the Queen. I knew I was an outsider. People didn’t need to keep going on about it.
I waited in silence, hoping the bouncy blonde would take the hint.
“So, where’s your girlfriend?” she asked.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I’m here by myself,” she added. Her tone suggested that, were I only to confess my single status, we could have a weekend of unbridled fun together. However, she was already annoying me.
“I wish you all the best with that.” My turn to register. Thank goodness. I got my wristbands—one white, signifying that I was a Dominant, and one blue, signifying my gender identity within the ageplay program—and headed to the orientation, quickly seating myself between two complete strangers to avoid having to be imposed upon by the blonde again.
Glancing around, I tried to spot Ella, but when I saw her sitting two rows away, I didn’t know what to say without coming across as an arsehole, so I remained where I was. Pestering women was terribly rude and I tried to avoid it at all costs.
Ella
After the orientation talk, during which I’d fidgeted a lot with my hot pink wristband, I was sent up to the dormitory with two other girls.
“I’m Priscilla,” the blonde girl said to the redhead. “I love ponies.”
“Jemima. Me too! Do you go riding?”
They started the sort of conversation where they exchanged their entire made-up life stories. I could have butted in and made them include me, but I wasn’t that interested. Honestly, I had to do that enough in real life and right now, I couldn’t be bothered trying to prove myself to two people I’d never see again after this weekend.
Our room had four beds. One was by a window, another was at the end of the room with a big empty space beside it.
“I want the end bed,” Priscilla said to Jemima.
“That works out perfectly, because I want the window!” Jemima replied.
Wow. Was I invisible?
“What about her?” Jemima asked, not addressing me directly.
“Who cares? She probably doesn’t even speak English,” Priscilla said dismissively.
I was a war reporter for the New York Bugle with a master’s degree from Harvard, but whatever.
“Do! You! Want! This! Bed?” Jemima asked loudly and slowly.
“No, thanks, but the far corner’s good,” I replied, deciding that having an empty bed between me and the pony club would be great.
Jemima had the decency to look horrified when she heard my voice. “Oh. I’m so sorry. I thought—”
“Yeah, I know. We’re good.” I shrugged dismissively. It wasn’t okay, but I didn’t see why I should have to waste energy putting her at her ease after she messed up. Anyway, I was more inclined to let it go since she was apologetic and clearly embarrassed. Priscilla said nothing for several long seconds.
“So anyway, did you ever see the YouTube video of those British Shetland ponies?” Priscilla asked. I glanced over at her. She’d launched straight back into a conversation with Jemima, who gave me another pained look before turning to Priscilla.
“No, I never saw that,” she replied.
“Oh my God, that reminds me! The hottest guy was in front of me in the line-up, and guess what? When I talked to him, I found out he’s British!”
“Really?” Jemima seemed surprised. “Like, not fake?”
“Who cares? You should hear him say words. I could literally fuck his voice. And even better? He’s in the ageplay program!”
“Like, a schoolboy?” Jemima asked. I wasn’t sure if she was doing it intentionally to annoy Priscilla or if she was just a little confused, but I found myself trying not to laugh.
“No, silly! He’s a Dom. Dom. ” She said the word in a bastardized approximation of British pronunciation. “Dom the Dom .”
I pulled my nightdress and cuddly bear out of my duffle bag and placed them on my pillow, deciding that two beds between mine and Priscilla’s was just about tolerable, but twenty would be ideal. Once I had staked my claim to the bed, I ran a comb through my hair and went downstairs to Wardrobe to get a school uniform.
Idris
I found my room in the west wing, beyond the Nursery and big kids’ playroom. I closed the door and immediately lay back on the extra-spaciou
s bed. The lighting in here was soft but effective, and the scent of warm myrtle reminded me of long-ago Christmases spent at my grandfather’s house in the Cotswolds.
This mattress was perfect. Not too hard, but not too soft. And the thoughtful attachment points around the room would prove useful for any late-night dalliances.
Once I had taken a minute to just be, I investigated the bathroom. It was tasteful and had everything I might need, and several things I most definitely wouldn’t , but someone else might. It was precisely those thoughtful touches that made this place high-end rather than run-of-the-mill.
When my inspection tour was complete, I plugged my mobile phone into the wall—universal plug sockets; another nice touch—and went downstairs to Wardrobe.
There was one other person heading in that direction. I’d recognize that long, sleek ponytail anywhere.
“I don’t have my phone, this time,” I began, trying to be funny but not sure if I’d hit the mark. She looked up at me through beautiful but distant eyes, then she remembered who I was.
“Idris, right?”
“Yes. And you’re Ella.” My eyes flicked to her wrist and saw hot pink. For some reason, that made me far more intrigued than it ought to have done.
“Yeah. Just getting fitted with my school uniform.”
“I’m in the ageplay program, too, although I’m uncertain what sort of costume I’ll be given,” I confessed.
“First time?”
“Yes.”
“They’ll probably give you a three-piece suit, like a real Victorian gentleman,” she decided.
“No ‘dad’ jumper?”
She frowned for a moment. “Sweater!” she said like she’d translated something. I could have kicked myself. I was usually fairly good at using American words to ensure minimal confusion but occasionally things slipped through. She continued, “No, they’re pretty formal. You could request a change if you wanted a ‘dad’ sweater.”
“I’ll do whatever’s normal. When in Rome, and all that.”
She scrutinized me for a moment, as if she wanted to say something, but changed her mind at the last minute and turned to the counter.
“Hi, St. Castle’s, please,” Ella said, as if it were her regular order at the coffee shop.
“Sure. Right this way.” The wardrobe attendant seemed chirpy and full of joy at being able to help a guest. I supposed that’s why they worked here. Plenty of people got their jollies from service submission.
“Ooh, you’re gonna look stunning in a suit,” an older woman enthused, leading me into the wardrobe area, too.
“Thank you.”
“Wait. Are you Scottish?”
“’Fraid not,” I replied. I was actually Welsh, but I rarely told anyone that part.
The assistant snapped her fingers in disappointment. “Pity. I have a kilt that would look devastating with your eye color.”
“The suit will suffice,” I said with a warm smile.
She bustled around in the hanging rails and I took a moment to glance over at Ella. She was deep in conversation and holding a pleated school skirt. I hoped I’d get to see her in it.
“How about this, sir?”
I eyed the dark blue wool mix with approval. “As long as it comes with trousers—pants, I mean—not a kilt.”
“You got it.”
She got out a measuring tape and began sizing me up. I sank into my role as I contemplated what I was going to wear. The suit would do nicely.
The next time I looked up, the sight of Ella in a school uniform took my breath away. The skirt reached two inches above her knees, beneath which long, white socks stretched up her calves to just below the knee. Her flat Alice shoes were fastened with a single slim buckle on either side of her feet.
Moving my gaze higher, I took in the white shirt, crisply starched, and the tie, which was fastened with a neat knot. The blazer—jacket, I corrected myself—came to slightly lower than where I imagined her panties ended. A school crest was embroidered on the right-hand pocket and it even had a little motto beneath it.
“Stunning,” I breathed. She looked up for a moment, and I was uncertain which of us was more surprised that I’d passed comment. She giggled and looked away demurely.
She was so adorable, I could just snuggle her up.
“Sir? Hello? Sir?”
The wardrobe assistant brought me back to the task at hand.
“Terribly sorry,” I muttered.
“Did you want a detachable starched collar or a button-down shirt?” She held up two options. One had no buttons down the front, and was intended to be pulled over the head. A collar would be attached separately.
Those were the real old-fashioned shirts, before T.M. Lewin invented what he’d called the coat-fastening shirt at the turn of the twentieth century. I only knew this from reading a bankruptcy article about T.M. Lewin in the Financial Times recently.
It would be intriguing to try one of the old sort, but I preferred the idea of being able to unfasten the buttons at will. Plus, the detachable collar looked like a nuisance and a half.
“Button-down, please,” I decided. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d spent so long deliberating over which shirt to wear. It was her. Ella. It had to be. She was getting under my skin and I needed to remember that she wasn’t my submissive, nor was she necessarily interested in me.
I glanced back over and saw she was sitting in front of a mirror, while a stylist chatted and ran a comb through Ella’s hair.
It seemed this weekend would be a constant sequence of bumping into her and restraining myself from flirting.
Ella
That night, after lights-out, I got pretty fed up of the constant whisper-whisper-whisper of the two girls in my dorm. When they finally fell silent, I lay wide awake, flat on my back, and seriously pissed.
They had mostly ignored me all evening. I could handle that, but what I couldn’t handle was the bitchy attitudes. Every look Priscilla shot my way was a silent judgment.
How dare I not be descended from bees or wasps or whatever it was they called it.
Then there was the fact they’d spent about eight years in the bathroom. I had a feeling neither of them had ever been to a real boarding school, like I had, every summer on the outskirts of Shanghai between ages eleven and eighteen. In a real dorm, it was just rude to spend more than ten minutes at a time in the bathroom. Especially since they’d used up all the toilet paper, and I’d had to wander down the corridor with my eyeballs floating, in search of more.
I had to get back at them. As it happened, I’d brought some plastic spiders with me, which I’d intended to drop in Mr. Collins’ desk drawer during class time if I didn’t manage to earn a stiff caning by other means. Now, I was formulating a better plan for my little toys.
I just had to wait for the morning.
Chapter 2
Ella
W hen I first opened my eyes in the morning, I wondered about forgetting my plan, but the two mean girls had set up camp in the bathroom again.
I was so glad I hadn’t left my toothbrush in there. I needed the restroom so bad, I couldn’t wait for Priscilla to decide her hair was done. Instead, I sneaked across the corridor and tapped on the first door I came to.
It opened within a few seconds and I did a double-take. It was him. Idris. And I was half-falling out of my nightgown and standing five feet too close with my morning breath. The universe hated me. I wanted to flee.
But I was desperate.
“Sorry to bother you, but could I use your bathroom, pretty please? I swear I’ll owe you the hugest favor!” I pleaded, doing my patented super-cute puppy dog eyes. The same ones I turned on my editor, earlier in my career, when I wanted to cover a story they weren’t sure I could handle.
“Go for it,” he replied, holding the door wider. I hurried in and closed the bathroom door behind me before falling on the toilet and making an instinctive sigh of deep relief that echoed embarrassingly loudly through the room.
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br /> After thoroughly brushing my teeth and taking the quickest shower, I toweled off and put my nightdress back on.
“Thank you,” I said, putting my hands together and making a mock-bow of deference.
“Think nothing of it. Now, go and dress for breakfast; you don’t want to be late.”
Normally, when a dominant man told me what to do without my explicit consent, I told him to piss off, but there was something about him that made me nod weakly.
“Yes, sir,” I replied, before hurrying back to my bed, to put my uniform on.
Idris
The moment I gave her an instruction, I regretted it. Far be it from me to give orders to a woman who wasn’t my submissive and hadn’t consented to my dominance. I was about to apologize when she nodded and agreed. She was gone before I could put my foot in it again.
It was curious that she hadn’t been able to use her own bathroom. I mused on this as I checked my pocket watch—part of the costume I’d been given—and stepped out of my room. To my chagrin, I came face-to-face with the irritating blonde, and she seemed to have multiplied, because there was now a redhead at her side, and they were both bombarding me with inane questions as I made my way down to breakfast.
I surmised their room was Ella’s, too, and the mystery of why she’d needed to borrow my bathroom began to solve itself as I choked a little on the excessive hairspray both girls had used to keep their matching curls in place.
I made it to the food, and thankfully managed to lose the two girls in a crowd. I had found a friendly lady in the Rainbow Room last night and spent a fun session dominating her, but I wasn’t moved to seek her out again. My thoughts kept returning to Ella. But she was in the St. Castle’s program, under the watchful care of Mr. Collins.
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