American Queen

by Sierra Simone

  This satisfies me, but only a little. “I don’t understand how she can hate you so much, but can still be willing to be flogged by you. Especially if she’s a Domme.”

  “It was a big gesture for her,” he concedes, “although all the Dominants at that club are required to submit to whippings and beatings at least once or twice as part of their training. But as for the why…Morgan and I are unfortunately connected in unique ways that we can’t help or change.” Ash shrugs. “I imagine that as much as she hates me, there was a part of her that felt compelled to offer sympathy or relief. And I think it’s the way she knew best, and she remembered enough about our time together to know it was what I needed, too. We may be enemies out here, but on neutral ground, we respect each other. We have a lot in common, after all.”

  I nod. I think I’m beginning to understand Morgan’s place in Ash’s story, although the understanding does nothing to dull the jabs of envy I feel thinking about them at a club together, knowing they’ve had sex.

  “So have you been flogged as part of your training?” I ask curiously. It’s hard to imagine my tall, muscular soldier bound and chained in place, submitting quietly to whips and paddles.

  “I have had everything done to me that I would want to do to someone else. It’s not safe or fair to do something to another person without knowing exactly what it feels like.” He leans close to my ear. “And everything was a pretty long list, Greer. I hope you’re ready.”

  “God, yes.”

  He pulls back with a smile. “I knew you would be.”

  “And this club—your identity is safe? Morgan can’t go to the press and tell them that you were there? There aren’t pictures floating around?”

  He laughs. “My little political princess. Of course that’s where your mind goes, straight to potential scandal. Yes, my identity was—and is—safe. This club caters to congresspeople, ambassadors, and foreign dignitaries. Their non-disclosure agreements are damning; violate yours and you’ll find yourself ruined in every possible way. Trust me—the man who runs this club is more powerful than I am. And I’m not the first president who’s been a guest there.”

  I make a face, thinking about the previous president, a balding, squat Democrat with wild eyebrows and rumpled suits. “Ugh.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Mr. President,” comes a voice from nearby. We stop dancing and turn to see a tall black woman walking towards us, a silky emerald dress clinging to her slender curves and fluttering around her ankles. The entire room seems to watch her cross the nearly empty dance floor partly because she’s beautiful—dark, dark skin, high cheekbones, natural hair several inches long that bounces as she walks—and partly it’s because she’s Kay Colchester, Ash’s foster sister and his chief of staff. She wouldn’t interrupt our dance unless it was for something crucial.

  “Kay,” Ash says. “What is it?”

  “There’s been military movement along the Carpathian border with Ukraine. No borders have been crossed, but there’s definitely an increase in the number of troops. Our satellite experts only just now picked up on it; it was that well camouflaged, which means this isn’t for show. They’re planning something and they don’t want anyone to know about it.”

  The man I was dancing with disappears, and in his place is someone calm and detached. Coolly powerful. “Where will I be briefed?”

  “The Situation Room. It will be short. Twenty minutes at most.”

  He nods. “After that, I’ll need to speak to our people in Ukraine and Poland. Maybe Slovakia too. I’ll call from the Residence.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll get it arranged.” Kay’s eyes slide over to me, and her businesslike expression opens up. “You must be Greer. I can’t tell you how excited I am that my brother is dating someone.”

  I shake her hand as Ash lets out a huff. “Everyone keeps saying that. It’s not like I’ve been a monster to work with.”

  “Well, let’s just say that I’m glad you have Embry as your whipping boy, or the rest of us would have suffered a lot more.”

  “I only whip him when he asks for it,” Ash says, flashing a smile at me, and I give a shaky smile back, knowing it’s a joke but unable to stop myself from biting my lip at the thought.

  “Anyway,” Kay says with a roll of her eyes at Ash’s answer, “my brother here has been a whole new man this last week. You have to understand, he’s always polite and respectful, never mean. But definitely not chatty. He’s always serious and all about work. However, since last week, I’ve caught him smiling. In front of other people. Even laughing sometimes. And the thousand-yard stare is gone.”

  “Ash smiles all the time,” I say, looking up at him.

  “When I’m with you,” he says, his voice warm. He leans in and I expect a kiss on the cheek, but instead he kisses my neck and I have to keep my knees from failing. I hear murmurs around us on the dance floor, and I can only imagine how many cell phone pictures were just snapped of the President with his lips on my neck.

  But I can tell he doesn’t care. He presses his forehead against mine and speaks quietly so Kay can’t hear him. “I have to go to the Situation Room now. And there will be some work to do after that.”

  “I can leave,” I offer. “I know you said we’d spend time together after the dinner, but—”

  “Stay,” he says. “I want you to stay.”

  “And wait for you?”

  “God, yes.” There’s something rough around the edges of his voice. “Will you?”

  “Yes,” I whisper.

  “I’ll have Belvedere take you back to the Residence, and I’m going to text you instructions. Have your phone ready.”

  “I will.”

  “That’s my good girl.” Another kiss on my neck, and he’s already turning away. He and Kay sweep out, and I see Embry’s tall frame as he follows them.

  I take a deep breath, and with all the dignity I can muster among the crowd of curious onlookers, go to search for Belvedere.

  19

  Even though I can find my own way back upstairs, I’m grateful for Belvedere’s presence as he wards off guests and journalists and steers me expertly through the crowd.

  “So how was your first official event?” Belvedere asks as we finally make it to the stairs.

  I think of Morgan Leffey and Ash’s story about the club. “It was illuminating.”

  He seems to know exactly what I’m referring to. “I am sorry about Senator Leffey. If I’d known sooner, I would have had her moved. But the social secretary knows now, and it won’t happen again.”

  I put my hand on his arm as we climb up. “There’s no need for that. I can handle her, especially now that I know who she is and how she’ll act.”

  “Just be careful,” Belvedere says. His thick hipster glasses do nothing to hide his worried expression. “Senator Leffey is a dangerous enemy to have.”

  “She’s not my enemy,” I object. “Just because we are two women with connections to the same man doesn’t mean we have to hate each other.”

  “That’s very socially enlightened of you, but it’s not only up to you, you know. It’s up to Leffey too. And she has a history of cutting down anything or anyone in her path.”

  “I’m not in her path,” I say with a certainty I don’t feel. “How could I be? I’m not a political rival, I pose no threat to her.”

  We reach the top of the stairs, and Belvedere looks at me. “I think you pose more threats than you realize.” And it sounds so much like Merlin’s curse that I have to remind myself to relax. Why is everyone convinced that I’m dangerous?

  “I don’t want to pose any threats,” I say. “I’m not going to do anything to hurt Senator Leffey. I just want to be with Ash.”

  His worry softens into affection. “I know. And I’ll do everything I can to help.” He glances his watch. “But right now, I should get down there and wait for the President to finish his briefing. Do you have everything you need?”

  I wave him away. “I’m a big girl, I’ll
be fine on my own.”

  He gives my elbow a squeeze, and then he’s trotting down the stairs, taking them two at a time, his floppy brown hair moving with each step. It’s then that my phone gives a buzz in my dress pocket. And then another. And then another.

  I pull it out as I walk down the hallway. It’s Ash, and my stomach flips over when I see the first message.

  Get undressed.

  You’re allowed five minutes to freshen up and prepare yourself however you need

  and then I want you wearing nothing but one of my button-down shirts.

  I see the three little dots appear and then disappear, and I wonder where he is right now. In the Situation Room? Looking at satellite photographs of troop movements while he types out exactly how he wants to find me when he gets done?

  you will kneel on the floor in the middle of the room, hands behind your back, eyes down, and wait for me

  and when I get there, we are in scene. You are only allowed to refer to me as Sir or Mr. President. Understood?

  I’m already kicking off my heels as I answer. Yes, Sir.

  There’s another pause, then: good girl.

  I have a little trouble unzipping my dress, but I finally manage to peel off the layers of silk and tulle and wriggle out of my thong and strapless bra, laying out the clothes in the dressing room so they’re out of sight. And then I brush my teeth and use the restroom, hunt down one of Ash’s shirts, and by the time my five minutes are up, I’m kneeling on the carpet, shirt buttoned and sleeves rolled up. I put my hands behind my back, grabbing each forearm with the opposite hand like I’ve seen submissives do on Tumblr, and tilt my face to the floor.

  It’s almost immediately uncomfortable. The carpet presses into my knees with hundreds of fibrous little twists, and the muscles in my arms strain with the ache of holding them in such an unfamiliar position. A thousand million itches spring up on my skin, and every tiny sensation—thirst, the slightly-too-cool air of the room, the faint hunger left over from my half-eaten dinner—is magnified and made all consuming. I can’t use my phone to distract myself, I can’t even use my eyes to distract myself, there’s nothing between me and being inside my own body. No other person, no other thoughts. No work or family or friends or responsibilities—there’s only me and one directive: to wait.

  And so I wait, trying not to twitch with the agony of it. I’m used to keeping my mind and body busy, used to filling any empty time with grading or preparing lectures or research for my book, and this is almost worse torture than anything else I can think of, to keep my body still and wait.

  Without a clock or my phone, time seems to stretch and warp, and I have no idea how long I’ve been kneeling in this silent room—minutes or hours or years—and I have the creeping sense of loneliness that comes with silence and stillness. How long would I have to kneel here? Surely, Ash wouldn’t expect me to wait longer than a few minutes? Surely he wouldn’t want me to ache and itch and feel crazy with the pressure of my own thoughts?

  Except I know that’s exactly what he does want.

  Control. My submission flavored by discomfort, by my desire to please him.

  And I do want to please him, so badly.

  And with that realization, the position becomes easier to hold, the stillness easier to bear. There’s purpose in it now, a reason, and the reason is Ash, the only reason I ever want. I think of him as my knees whine at the press of the carpet, as my mouth gets drier, as goose bumps erupt over my skin at the chilly air of the room. I dismiss each sensation as it arises, my thoughts shrinking down to Ash and the low fire kindling deep in my core, and eventually everything else does fade away, leaving behind a distilled version of myself. A version that waits.

  I’m floating in place like this when the door to Ash’s bedroom finally, finally opens, and I don’t look up, but I do eagerly watch those shiny dress shoes as he walks in. And then stop breathing when a second pair of shoes follows.

  That second pair freezes in mid-stride, as if their owner is arrested by the sight of me kneeling on the floor with my arms behind my back and my nipples poking through the thin fabric of a man’s shirt.

  The door shuts and then Ash is squatting down in front of me. “You may lift your head now, angel.”

  I look up at him, at the man who has changed not at all over the minutes we’ve been apart even though I feel like an entirely different person. But then my eyes move past him to Embry, and I feel nothing but blind panic. Panic at being so exposed in front of him. Panic that mirrors the panic on his own face, the speed of his breathing as he looks at me and looks at me and looks at me.

  “I hope you trusted me,” Ash says. “And I hope you knew that I’d keep you safe while you submitted to me. I made sure no one else came up here while you waited.”

  I tear my stare away from Embry. “But you brought someone else with you. Sir,” I add at the last minute.

  Ash nods. “We have a couple phone calls to make, but I can make them from here. I didn’t want to leave you alone a second longer, but I also wanted Embry close by while I talked to our people near Carpathia.”

  “I can leave,” I say. I plead. “Or I can go wait somewhere else while you call.”

  Don’t make me be like this in front of Embry. I’m too weak to hide how much I’ll like it.

  “No,” Ash says. “I want you to stay.”

  “Ash…” Embry says from behind him, his face pale. “We can call first thing tomorrow morning. There’s no need for me to intrude—” His voice breaks off as Ash runs a finger up my thigh to my pussy and carefully slides it inside of me. Despite the deep unease at Embry’s presence, my deprived body responds immediately, and I try to push myself down onto the finger, squirming for more contact and more friction.

  “So wet,” Ash murmurs.

  Embry makes a strangled noise from his place by the door.

  Ash withdraws his finger and places it in my mouth for me to suck clean, which I do without question, lust overriding my better sense, the better sense that tells me there’s no way I can do any of this in front of Embry. It will hurt me and it will hurt him, and then Ash will see why it hurts us, and then he’ll be hurt.

  Ash wipes his hand on his tuxedo jacket and stands up. “Embry, we’ll use the phone by the sofa,” he says, gesturing to the two small sofas next to the television. “If you want to have a seat.”

  Embry looks at Ash and then looks to me. I feel the ghost of his hips between my thighs, the slickness of blood on my skin, his blindly passionate kisses that consumed us both with their single-minded want. My body keens for him, just as it’s keening for Ash, aching for one or both of them to the point that I can’t even identify how I actually feel any longer. There’s only the need. The want.

  “Embry,” Ash says. “The sofa, please.”

  Embry steps over to Ash, studiously keeping his gaze away from me on the floor. “Are you sure this is what you want?” he asks Ash quietly.

  Ash gets closer to him, angling his body so that I can’t see Embry any longer, and leans in to speak in his ear. I can’t hear what he says, but I see Embry’s posture tense up, see his hand flex and clench, as if he’s keeping himself from doing something violent. Except when Ash pulls back, the look on Embry’s face isn’t violence. I don’t know what it is, but it makes me shiver and makes the memory of his body against mine all the stronger.

  Without another word, Embry goes to the sofa and sits, his face unreadable, his posture strangely easy. As if he’s done this before.

  Has he?

  Have they?

  Ash watches him, facing away from me with his hands in his pockets. His shoulders are relaxed, and his stride is full of unconscious power as he walks to the opposite sofa and sits, crossing his legs. His long, skillful fingers set to work tugging his bow tie free, and as he’s pulling at the fabric, he gives me a dismissive glance. “Crawl to me,” he says.

  His voice is offhand, his expression coolly indifferent, but all I feel is swelling desperation. Thi
s is something I’ve fantasized about for years, and he knows it, he has that letter memorized. So why dangle this in front of me when I obviously can’t do it? I can’t crawl in front of Embry; the overt submission and humiliation makes the act so undeniably sexual that it feels unfaithful to do it in front of anyone else.

  But if Ash is asking me to do it…then does that make it right?

  “Crawl, Greer,” Ash says, impatiently this time.

  I find my voice. “But Sir, Embry is here—”

  “He’s Mr. Vice President to you right now,” Ash interrupts.

  “Sir, Mr. Vice President is here,” I correct myself. “He’ll see me.”

  “And?”

  I don’t know how to answer that. It is its own explanation, there is no and. Embry is here and he’ll see me, and I’ll see him seeing me, and everything we’ve tried to keep suppressed the last week will surface.

  “Why are you doing this?” I whisper.

  Ash locks gazes with me. “Because I want to,” he answers simply.

  “But—”

  “No buts, Greer. Do you have something you’d like to say to me?”

  The safe word. He means the safe word.

  I search his face and find no trace of irritation or anger, and I know that he’s giving me the option to end things right now, no questions asked, no wounded feelings or resentment. He’s trusting me, I think, trusting me to vocalize my needs. To advocate for my boundaries. And that’s the heart of this, isn’t it? I trust him with control and he trusts me with my voice. I trust him to stop when I ask him to stop, and he trusts me to say stop before I’m hurt. His control means nothing without my consent, and my consent is meaningless if I don’t trust the man I’m giving it to.