The Queen

by Tiffany Reisz

  her thighs. He pushed the fabric to the side and found her clitoris. He stroked it carefully, steadily and it swelled under His fingertips, throbbing against them as little bursts of fluid coated her labia and vagina. When He inserted one finger into her, He smiled at how wet He found her.

  “Very good girl,” He whispered as He moved His finger in deeper. She buried her face in the crook of her arm while He fondled her. A second finger joined His first one and He spread them apart inside her to open her up.

  “Thank you, Daddy,” she said, the word rolling easier off her tongue now.

  “Are you ready for bed now?”

  “Ready.”

  He took His fingers out of her, and she scrambled back on her hands and knees. He tossed the quilt and top sheet back, and laid her on the bed. He fluffed the pillow under her head before reaching under her gown and sliding her panties off her legs. He stood at the side of the bed and she stared at the ceiling, but she knew He was unzipping His pants. She opened her legs for Him before He asked her to.

  “That’s my girl.” He covered her body with His and when He pushed her legs open wider, she whimpered but didn’t say a word.

  As wet as she was, He entered her easily, filling her with His full length in a stroke. His hands were on either side of her shoulders, bracing Himself up and over her to keep His weight off her smaller form. In the low light He seemed enormous, as if He would crush her if He lay on top of her. His shadow on the wall looked like a giant’s.

  After a few minutes He paused but only long enough to pull her nightgown down her arms. Her nipples hardened as He uncovered them. When He bent His head to lick them, the deep muscles inside her twitched and throbbed and tightened to the breaking point. Not moving took more effort than moving. Her fingers clutched the sheets. He fed on her embarrassment like food. Tonight’s humiliation was a banquet.

  She closed her eyes and laid her head back on the pillow. An orgasm so strong she felt it all the way up the center of her back and in her thighs tore through her. When her body ceased its shuddering around Him, she closed her eyes. At last He came inside her, His lips pressed to her forehead.

  “You were a very good girl,” He said as His fingertips brushed her cheek, pushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

  “I love you, Daddy.”

  “I love you, too, Little One.”

  He pulled out at last, straightened her nightgown and covered her with the quilt.

  She opened her eyes. “Can I have a glass of water, please?”

  “Of course.” He kissed her on the forehead again and left the room. When He returned a few minutes later, all traces of His exertions were gone. Every button buttoned and every hair back in place. He passed her the glass of water. She took it with both hands and drank from it as He picked up the book off the table.

  “This book is called Jabberwocky,” He said, opening it to the inside cover. “And it’s yours.”

  On the inside she silently read the words “Never forget the lesson of the Jabberwocky. And never forget I love you.” It was signed with an elaborate S with a slash through the heart of it.

  “What’s the lesson of the Jabberwocky?” She looked up at Him with eyes as wide as Alice’s lost in Wonderland.

  “Let’s find out.” He opened the book and in His voice that belonged to a man from another time started to read to her. “‘’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves...’”

  Meanwhile His semen dripped out of her body onto the laughing white moons and the smiling yellow stars.

  * * *

  Elle blinked and a tear landed on the keyboard.

  She read through the story once. Then twice. She remembered the humiliation and the desire. She was aroused, painfully so, and would give anything for release. Her cheeks flushed hot with the sensory memories of her mortification. She could still feel Søren’s semen slick on her thighs. When she wrote her scene, she hadn’t been able to type his name. She could only write “Him,” capital H as if he were God instead of a mere man. Maybe he was a god with a god’s power and a god’s wrath. She had seen both with her own eyes. And he had seen into her soul the way only a god could and had conjured a scene for her designed to touch the most tender spots on her heart, the parts of her that mourned for her lost childhood and the love she’d had for her real father as a little girl. The night her father died, the night she had condemned him to die, she’d declared to Kingsley, “My only father is a priest.” Had Søren seen those words printed on her soul? Was that why he’d put her in the nightgown, made her call him “Daddy”? That wasn’t his kink, his fantasy. It was hers and he used it like a knife. But not a knife like a weapon, a knife like a scalpel, and he’d cut the wounded spot out of her heart with it. Her father hadn’t loved her. Her priest, that Father, did love her and always would. Her father had abandoned her. Her Father never would. Her father had never held her and rocked her and read her stories. But her Father had.

  The memory of that night glowed in her mind like something radioactive; potent, powerful and dangerous. Such a memory could make her forget things she didn’t want to forget, like the sound of an antique riding crop snapping into the three pieces, or ugly words like you are mine.

  A memory such as this could make her crawl back to him. The day she’d first seen him when she’d been fifteen, she’d felt a golden cord tied around her heart pulling her toward him. Even now she felt the cord, felt the pull. The cord tightened around her heart leaving her breathless with pain and wanting.

  She didn’t want to go back to him.

  She didn’t want to go back to him.

  God, she wanted to go back to him.

  If she went back to him it would all be for nothing—leaving, the year at the convent, swallowing her pride to beg Kingsley for a job, the plan to turn her into the Queen of the Underground. She’d have to give it all up to go back to him. He’d ordered her to stay away from Kingsley. He’d ordered her not to top Kingsley. He’d ordered her to marry him.

  Would he order her to do all that again if she went back to him?

  She couldn’t take that chance.

  Elle highlighted every single word in the document, every word she’d just written.

  She hit Delete.

  Poof. It was gone.

  Just like that.

  Elle smiled although it had hurt.

  Daddy’s little girl was all grown-up now.

  Slightly shaking, Elle got up out of her chair, logged off the computer and walked back to the stacks, searching for a book, any book, anything to take her mind off what she’d just written, what she’d just done. She felt freer now. Stronger. Lighter but emptier in a way. But that’s what she wanted, wasn’t it?

  From the shelf in front of her she pulled out a book, an Agatha Christie mystery she’d always meant to read. She wasn’t quite in the mood for a mystery right now. She needed something else...but what? When she put it back on the shelf she saw a pair of eyes staring at her from between the books.

  Familiar eyes.

  Without thinking, Elle shoved the books on the shelf to the side and there he was, staring at her like a goddamn creeping creeper.

  “Griffin Randolfe Fiske, what the fuck—”

  “Um...sorry. Also, hi, Nor.” He put his hand through the gap in the shelves and waved, calling her Nor like he always had. He hated “Eleanor,” thought it sounded too prissy and prim. Prissy? No wonder Søren had liked the name so much. “Missed you. Welcome home.”

  “Jesus H. Christ.” She rolled her eyes, walked around the end of the stacks and found him in the next aisle over looking as sheepish and self-conscious as a six-foot-tall, two-hundred-pound weightlifter with a trust fund as well-endowed as he was could look. He was dressed in his usual uniform of stylishly ripped jeans and a heather-gray fitted T-shirt. He’d grown a beard since she’d last seen him. No, not quite a beard but more than a five-o’clock shadow. “What the hell are you doing here? Are you following me?” she whispered, but loudly.

  “
Um...maybe.”

  “No more ums. Use your words.”

  “Yes. I’m following you.”

  “Care to tell me why you’re following me?”

  “King told me to.”

  “King told you to follow me?”

  “Yes, if you left the house, which you did. He’s trying to keep you safe.”

  “Safe from who?”

  “Yourself, I think.”

  Of course he was. Kingsley knew her, knew she’d be tempted to go back to Søren. Somehow he’d cajoled Griffin into saving her from herself. Well, as plans went it wasn’t the worst one she’d heard.

  “And you couldn’t say, ‘Hi, long time no see’? You had to follow me?”

  “King told me not to tell you I was around.”

  “Why not?”

  “Um...”

  “What is it, Griffin Fiske?” She crossed her arms over her chest and glowered at him, domme-style.

  “King said if you saw me, you’d probably jump me, and if we’re fucking I won’t be able to do my job of keeping an eye on you if we’re having sex since I do most of my thinking with my cock.”

  “King thinks that although I haven’t seen you in over a year, I will jump your bones the first chance I get and then you won’t be able to follow me because I’ll know you’re there? That’s the situation? That’s why you’re stalking me?”

  “Well...yeah.” Even with the beard, Griffin looked terribly young and innocent, and she had a feeling he’d grown the beard so he’d look less terribly young and innocent. Caught red-handed. Shamefaced. Slightly embarrassed. Utterly adorable. And Griffin looked at her as if Christmas came early this year, and he’d been a very good boy.

  Merry Christmas.

  “Well, you want to know something?” she asked.

  “What?”

  “King was right.”

  She dropped her backpack and crooked her finger. In an instant Griffin was in her arms, pressing her back into the bookcases. He kissed her hard, and she kissed him back harder. So hard. Everything was hard. The kiss and Griffin’s cock and how much she wanted it inside her.

  “Did you miss me?” she asked into his lips.

  “So much,” he breathed as his hands scored her back and clasped her tight to his chest.

  “How much?” She raised her chin to give him access to her neck. She needed neck kisses. She needed all the kisses.

  He pushed his erection against her.

  “This much.”

  When he kissed her ear she could feel the scruff of not quite a beard but more than a five-o’clock shadow tickling her neck. She wanted this, didn’t she? Wasn’t this what she’d been waiting for, what she’d been aching for since she’d come back to Kingsley’s? A male body, strong arms...power? Right? And Griffin kissed masterfully. He could dominate with a kiss alone by setting the pace, holding her where he wanted her, keeping her captive and mute with his tongue in her mouth so that she couldn’t raise a word of objection.

  But.

  It wasn’t quite right.

  Something was missing, and she knew she needed it if this were to go further than one good kiss.

  “Please...” Griffin growled in her ear. She loved to hear him beg.

  “Please, what?”

  “I have to fuck you.”

  “No one has to fuck me. You want to fuck me. Going without sex never killed anybody.”

  “But why take that chance?”

  Elle reached down between their bodies and pressed her hand into his cock through his jeans. Already erect, Griffin stiffened even more in surprise and what must have been a modicum of discomfort.

  Elle laughed softly and the sound of it surprised her. It was an arrogant, throaty laugh that sounded foreign to her own ears. Kingsley laughed like that while he mocked a trussed-up submissive when she squirmed or begged for mercy. It was a dominant’s laugh. A queen’s laugh.

  She unbuttoned his jeans. Hidden in such a faraway corner of the stacks, she felt it was safe to touch him. If they got kicked out of the library for fooling around? Well, it wouldn’t be the first time.

  “You did miss me, didn’t you?”

  He put his mouth at her ear. “I still think about that night, your birthday. When we were in the Rolls and—”

  “I remember.”

  “Fucking you...watching King and Søren fuck you... Jesus, I’ve known gay guys who didn’t love cock as much as you do.”

  “They don’t know what they’re missing.”

  “But you do,” Griffin said, tilting his pelvis forward to push his cock against her hand.

  “I do want it. But on my terms.”

  “What are your terms?” Griffin asked. She had a feeling he’d agree to anything at this point, including but not limited to committing felonies. Or, at the very least, a series of misdemeanors.

  Elle looked up and met his eyes. He was so much taller than her but she didn’t care. She had his attention.

  “I am not a submissive anymore, and I will not be treated like one. I kiss you. You do not kiss me. I top you. You do not top me. If you can play by these rules, we can play. If not? Game over.”

  Griffin closed his eyes. He’d grabbed on to the bookshelves on either side of her arms, and gripped them as hard as she gripped him.

  She slid her hand down his cock and wrapped all five fingers around the base, squeezing, holding, waiting. Griffin’s hips pulsed against her hand, fucking her fingers until he could fuck other parts of her.

  “If you let me top you, we can fuck. Deal?” she asked.

  The slightest cry or maybe it was a whimper escaped his lips. His eyes were shut tight as if he were in pain or in pleasure or in both. Didn’t matter to her except he better make up his mind fast before he ejaculated all over The Collected Novels of Willa Cather.

  “No pain?” he asked. Griffin was no coward, but he was a recovering drug abuser. When he was in pain he wanted drugs to ease the pain. Even one strong painkiller could send him backsliding into the hard stuff again.

  “No pain. I promise. Only other sorts of torture.”

  “Fun torture?”

  “There is no other kind of torture when you’re with me.”

  Griffin took a shuddering breath as she ran her hand up and down his cock again.

  “Deal.”

  A smile crossed Elle’s face, and she wasn’t sure if she’d ever smiled like that before, as if she were nothing but smile.

  “Good boy.”

  8

  Seven

  THEY TOOK A cab to his new place in Chelsea where Griffin had moved three months ago. Inside the apartment he tossed the keys into a silver bowl and locked the door behind them. He offered a tour of the new digs but she declined. All she wanted to see was the bedroom and the bedroom did not disappoint. His bed was a king-size, low to the ground and minimalist. Black frame—padded black leather headboard, metal slatted footboard. The headboard was for cushioning the head during rough sex. The footboard was for bondage. She gave Griffin credit—the kid could decorate like a motherfucker. The coverlet and sheets were black, red and white. Apart from the bed he had nothing much else in his room except for a black leather Chesterfield sofa, the sort of sofa one fucked on if one were the sort to fuck on sofas, which Griffin was.

  Elle stood facing the bed. Behind her, Griffin locked the door and came up to her. He wrapped his arms around her and kissed the side of her neck.

  “I’m all yours,” he whispered.

  “I have to tell you something.”

  “Anything.”