The King

“Wait here,” he said to Blaise. She curtsied, and he left her standing in his playroom by the St. Andrew’s cross. She’d worn her best tonight and looked like Rita Hayworth escaped from the silver screen and brought to modern Manhattan. She’d been pouting lately that Kingsley wasn’t paying enough attention to her. Well, she would get all the attention she wanted tonight.

Out in the hall he found Irina waiting for him, pacing the hallway in her black-and-purple leather boots.

“My little girl is growing up,” he said as he took Irina by the hands. She rolled her eyes.

“Can we get started?” she asked. Her Russian accent made everything she said sound vaguely menacing. Dominatrix was the rare profession where this trait gave her an advantage.

“In a hurry?”

“I’ve been waiting for this scene for months. Let me have her.” A sadistic gleam shone in her dark eyes.

“Don’t be too eager. Remember, your clients will be paying for your time. You are the one wanted, desired. You must be aloof. They should feel honored you are giving them your time and attention. They are beneath you. They want to be beneath you. Yes?”

“Yes.” She exhaled heavily.

“Good.” He kissed her quickly on both cheeks. “Now you may have her.”

He followed her into the playroom. Blaise still waited by the flogger rack.

“This is a couples’ session,” Kingsley began, addressing his comment to Irina. “You’ll have a few of these. What’s the first rule about couples’ sessions?”

“The woman books the session,” Irina said. “Not the man.”

“And why is that?”

“So we can cover our asses.”

Kingsley laughed at Irina’s answer.

“Technically that’s true,” he admitted as Blaise covered her mouth to stifle her own laugh. “I’d rather couch it in more chivalrous terms than litigious. Male dominants can be dangerously aggressive. We never want a woman involved in something she doesn’t want to be involved in. So, what will you do in a case like this, Mistress?”

“Step into the hallway, please,” Irina said to him. Kingsley kissed Blaise’s hand, bowed to Irina and walked out. He could guess what they talked about while he was gone. Irina, like the good dominatrix she was, would ask Blaise if she was here of her own free will and fully consenting to this session. Once Blaise assured the Mistress that she was, Irina would ask her a few questions about what she enjoyed in a scene, what sort of pain she liked. Thudding? Stinging? Impact play that left welts and bruises? Bondage? Knowing Blaise, she’d answer “All of the above.”

The door opened and Irina waved him back inside.

“She said you aren’t holding her hostage and forcing her to do kinky things against her will,” Irina said.

“Not tonight. Maybe tomorrow,” Kingsley said, and Blaise winked at him. She’d played his willing victim many a night. She did put up a beautiful fight when they did rape-play. They’d had to establish two sets of safe words because her acting was so good that he hadn’t been able to tell her feigned terror from real terror one night. It might have been the best sex they’d ever had.

“I’m thinking we should give your girl some souvenirs of this night,” Irina said. “What do you think?” She walked a circle around Blaise, looking her up and down. He couldn’t say who looked more alluring tonight—Blaise in her elegant 1940s pencil skirt and blouse or Mistress Irina in her leather corset and boots. They were a sight to behold, both of them. He wished Sam were still with him. He would have loved to tell her about tonight. But she was gone and would stay gone. Five weeks later and he still regretted what had happened. Regretted? No. He’d done the right thing. Mourned. That was the word he needed. Grieved. “Kingsley?”

“Oh, oui, souvenirs,” he said, forcing his mind back to the present. He needed to stay focused for Irina’s sake as much as Blaise’s. “Blaise loves the flogger and the whip.”

“She told me that,” Irina said, gathering Blaise’s hair into her hand and lifting it. She tugged lightly and Blaise’s breath caught in her throat. “Didn’t you?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“Good girl. Kingsley, you should undress your girl for me. Let me see what I have to work with.”

Kingsley went to work taking Blaise’s clothes off. He unbuttoned her blouse, unzipped her skirt, stripped her to her stockings, garters and high heels.

“In a session with a client,” Kingsley said, “you’ll do what before you start the play?”

“Make the client or clients undress,” Irina said.

“And why do we do this?”

“It’s a security measure. We’re making sure our clients aren’t carrying hidden weapons.”

“Very good,” Kingsley said. “You can frisk me if you like.”

“I would, but you’d enjoy that too much,” Irina teased.

When Blaise was naked but for her stockings, he took her wrists in his right hand and raised them, presenting her to Irina like a slave for inspection. He was taller than Blaise by half a foot, and she had to stretch to hold the position.

“Beautiful.” Irina placed a hand on Blaise’s chest. The Mistress caressed her breasts gently, carefully—but only at first. She pinched Blaise’s right nipple then—pinched hard—and Blaise gasped. “Turn her.”