The Virgin
“I’m not talking to you, King,” Elle said as she threaded a thin metal pick into what looked like a bicycle lock.
“Pourquoi pas?” he asked, suppressing a smile. He loved her bad moods. They always boded well for a good evening.
“You know why not.” She didn’t look at him, merely focused her entire attention on gently twisting the pick in the lock. She’d been doing this a lot lately, playing with locks, prising them open, learning their secrets. Why? Who knew? Although Kingsley had a theory, one he didn’t want confirmed.
“It was all in good fun,” he said, taking a seat behind her on the striped sofa. She must not be too angry at him for she wore one of his shirts again, a black button-down with the sleeves rolled to her shoulders. Her legs were tantalizingly bare and smooth and he traced a line with his fingertips from her knees to her hips.
“Good fun?” The lock popped open. She shut it again and went to work unlocking it again. “You tied me facedown, spread-eagle to your bed and fucked my ass for half the night without letting me come. Then you disappear for three days. Do you have anything to say to that?”
“You’re welcome?” Kingsley said.
Elle glared at him.
“Don’t pout, mon chaton. I only tied you up and fucked your ass all night to reassert my dominance. You know how it works. And you weren’t complaining at the time.”
“I wasn’t complaining at the time because I assumed at some point you would let me come. That did not happen. Then you disappear, leaving me sore and horny. So don’t even try to butter me up with the French accent and the finger-fucking. It’s not going to work. Shoo. I’m done talking to you.”
“Mais—”
“No buts. And no butts, either. You’re cut off.”
“But...I brought you a present.”
She raised her eyebrow.
“Present? What is it?”
“Come and see.”
“I’m not falling for that line again, King.”
“See and come?”
“Better.”
She set her pick and lock aside. He took her hand and led her from the music room and up to his bedroom.
“You’re smiling,” Elle said, her voice awash with suspicion. “I get nervous when you smile.”
“You shouldn’t be nervous. I should be nervous.”
“Why should you be nervous?” she asked as he opened the door to his bedroom, shut it and locked it behind him.
“Because I’m giving you this.”
He nodded toward the bed and Elle looked down at it.
“What is it?” she asked.
“It’s a riding crop,” Kingsley said. “An antique bone and ebony riding crop. Hand-carved, carved bone handle, two hundred years old. Rare, valuable, vicious. And...”
“And?”
Kingsley picked it up off the bed and presented it to her.
“And yours.”
Elle stared at the crop but didn’t take it.
“For me?”
“Pour vous, mademoiselle.”
“Why are you giving me a riding crop?”
“Why do you think?”
“Because you hate me, and you’re secretly plotting to get Søren to kill me?”
“Non.”
“Because you’re suicidal and you’re secretly plotting to get Søren to kill you?”
“Non.”
“Because you’re masochistic and you want me to beat the shit out of you again?”
“We have a winner. Take it. See how it feels.”
He saw the subtlest tremor in Elle’s hand as she reached out and grasped the crop by the bone and pearl handle. The wood of the crop was black, the handle white.
“This is the most incredible riding crop I’ve ever seen,” she said. “Do I want to know how much it cost?”
“If you sold it you could buy a car,” he said, speaking to her in terms she’d understand. “A small one.”
“This is better than a car.”
“I’m pleased you like it.” He bowed to her. Hopefully, by the end of the night he’d be doing more than bowing. He wanted to kneel at her feet, bury his face in her pussy, service her until she screamed, and then let her thank him for his service by beating him until blood ran down his back.
She looked at it through narrowed eyes, bringing it to her face to study the carvings on the handle. She tested the weight and the balance of it. With a flourish she swished it. He heard the whipping sound it made as it sliced the air in two.
“Do you want to hurt me again?” Kingsley asked.
“Oh, Kingsley,” she said, smiling up at him. “I want to hurt everybody.”
“Start with me.”
Elle looked up at him and once again she was transformed. Gone was the good little girl who sat at Søren’s feet, napping in his lap while her priest wrote out his homily for that Sunday using her back as a desk. Gone was the good little girl who said “Yes, sir” and “If it pleases you, sir” and “I am yours, sir. Do with me what you will, sir.”
It was a bad little girl who looked up at Kingsley and without smiling asked him one very important question.
“Why do you still have your clothes on?”
Kingsley couldn’t help but smile at the memory.
“Was I supposed to take them off?” he asked her.
She took a step back and brought the leather tip of the crop under his chin.