Modern Fairy Tale

by Proby, Kristen

  “But you don’t need to be jealous,” he finishes, straightening up again. “It was a very long time ago. We haven’t had sex in fourteen years.”

  I’m about to exhale with relief when he admits, “But we have been sexual together since then.”

  There’s that jealousy knifing between my ribs again. “And when was the last time you were ‘sexual’ together?”

  His eyes find mine in the dim light of the dining room, green and intensely apologetic. “A month ago.”

  “A month ago?” I repeat. I want to rip myself out of his arms, I want to storm away, but I can’t, I can’t, I can’t. There are too many eyes watching, too many reputations at stake, and besides, I don’t get to have any claim on Ash’s sexual history. Any claim on what he did before we kissed at St. Thomas Becket.

  Ash holds me tighter, leaning his head in close. Goddamn him for being so fucking handsome right now, all chiseled planes and full lips. It makes it impossible for me to pull away, to ignore him.

  “After Jenny died,” he says in a low voice, “I was in a bad place. The cancer came on so fast—she was diagnosed and then two weeks later she was dead—and there was no time to grieve or to process and there was still this campaign to run. This campaign I didn’t even want to run any longer. After the funeral, I felt like an imposter in my own life. Like I’d woken up in another man’s body. I didn’t see myself in the mirror. I couldn’t hear my own voice. I would be fastening my cufflinks and then realize I didn’t recognize my own hands. They felt like puppet hands. Like some sort of clever wooden machine and not flesh and blood.”

  It’s the first time he’s really talked about Jenny to me, and my heart is rupturing for him, for that Ash of last year who felt so alien and adrift. I squeeze his neck and he sighs into it, as if the gesture comforts him.

  “Morgan and I had encountered each other countless times since that week we were together. She’s my best friend’s stepsister and a powerful senator on the Armed Services Committee…our worlds collided a lot. And a week after Jenny died, our worlds collided again. Merlin had coaxed me back on the campaign trail, a stump speech in Virginia—it should have been easy. A message I’d been touting for a year in a state that loves the military. And I fucked it up. I stumbled and stuttered, and it was fine that time—everyone was so eager to give me the grieving husband pass—but it wouldn’t be fine for long. And I knew it, I knew if I couldn’t get my shit together, I would lose, no matter how many pictures were tweeted of me laying roses on Jenny’s grave.

  “I went home that night planning to get drunk. And I decided the next day I’d call Merlin and tell him it was over. I would withdraw. It had been a pipe dream anyway, to run on a third party ticket, and there was no way I could win like this. Like…a shell. A ghost.”

  “But you didn’t call him,” I murmur. “What changed your mind?”

  His eyes are pinned to mine. “Morgan.”

  Ugh. Knife. Ribs. Ugly, jealous pain.

  “She showed up at my door that night. We hadn’t exchanged civil words in fourteen years, and yet there she was. ‘I know what you need,’ was all she said. And then she took me to a place she goes to here in town. A sex club.”

  A sex club?

  He pauses his story to smile at my stunned expression. “For a self-admitted submissive, angel, you seem pretty shocked by the idea.”

  “No, no,” I rush to downplay my surprise. “That’s totally cool. I’m sure lots of people do that and go places like that and stuff…” I stop babbling, realizing how ridiculous I sound.

  A small laugh. “It’s easy to forget,” he says, “how young you are. How little experience you have. It’s okay to be shocked. Just…I want you to understand what I was going through then. Why it all happened the way it did.”

  He takes a deep breath to continue. “I’d known for a long time that my tastes in bed ran a little…extreme. It had always been there, I suppose, but the war—” he closes his eyes for a moment and then opens them again “—the war made it necessary. It grew and grew and became impossible to ignore, a need that felt like fire in my veins, and I couldn’t douse the flames of it. I couldn’t cut it out of me, no matter how hard I tried. And I tried. With Jenny, I tried for years. She wasn’t like you, Greer, not in the least. She loved me so much and wanted to please me, but I could see her wincing whenever I accidentally got too rough, could see how unresponsive her body was to anything other than tenderness. I loved her, Greer. I gave her tenderness, as best as I could, and then after she fell asleep at night, I’d lie awake and think of you.” A shadow crosses his face. “I’m not proud of that. But it was like the more I tried to fight it, the stronger the need became, the more elaborate the fantasies grew. I’d think about venting my frustration on you. All the things I couldn’t do to my wife—in my mind, I did a thousand times to you. Bit you, spanked you, ropes, whips, lube. And in my fantasies, you’d thank me. Covered in welts and my cum, with makeup smeared on your face, you’d thank me. And then I’d fuck you again.”

  “Jesus Christ, Ash,” I say, my breath coming fast.

  “Too much?” he asks, brow furrowed with concern.

  “Can we leave the dinner? I want you to do all that to me right now.”

  A little pinch at my waist. “Behave. I’m confessing to you what a terrible husband I was to Jenny, and if you’re smart, you’ll rethink attaching yourself to me.”

  “Did you ever hurt Jenny or do anything without her consent?”

  “No.”

  “Did you do your best to love her and take care of her?”

  He closes his eyes. “Yes.”

  “Then I’m not rethinking anything,” I assure him, stroking the side of his neck. “You should have been honest with her, and I don’t think it’s right that you fantasized about me so much while you were married to her. But given the circumstances, it’s forgivable, and not something I think will happen between us.”

  “Fuck no, it won’t,” Ash says softly, and God, that filthy word on his tongue. My nipples pull into tight buds at the sound of it.

  “So what happened when Morgan brought you to this sex club? After years of denying yourself the kind of sex you needed?”

  “First things first, Greer. I didn’t have sex at the club that night. I haven’t had sex with a woman since Jenny died. You’ll be my first.”

  A flutter of relief, of flattered excitement.

  “But yes, the club was where I was able to dominate openly for the first time. Morgan introduced me to experienced Dominants who showed me how to exert control and inflict pain safely, and then I was able to meet submissives there who wanted control and pain from me. That first night though, I hadn’t met anyone else yet. We got to the club, and right there in the open, Morgan stripped naked and put a flogger in my hand.”

  “What happened then? Did you hit her?”

  “Yes, I hit her.” He smiles ruefully at me. “I was hard after three strikes. After five, I could remember the sound of my own voice. And after ten, the hands that held the flogger were my own hands again. I was back in my body. Somehow.”

  “But you didn’t have sex?”

  A look of fierce distaste, so fast and fleeting I almost wonder if I imagined it. “It was the dominating, not the woman, that got me hard. I didn’t touch her, and if I hadn’t been so fucked up from Jenny’s death, I never would have allowed it to go that far in the first place. I dropped the flogger and called a cab home, left her naked in that room. And when I called her the next day, I told her I wouldn’t touch her again, but that I needed to come back. Which suited her well enough—she’d rather be on the other side of the flogger—and since then, I’ve been to the club many times with her, but never like the first time. We never touched again, via whips or otherwise.”

  This satisfies me, but only a little. “I don’t understand how she can hate you so much but 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 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 in place, submitting quietly to whips and paddles.

  “I have had everything done to me that I would want to do to someone else. I didn’t think it was safe or fair to do something to another person without knowing exactly what it would feel 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 any 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.

  Chapter Nineteen

  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 at 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 p
ocket. 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.