Griffin in Wonderland
Hard partying trust fun baby Griffin Fiske wakes up after a hard night with a King's boots on his chest and gets an invitation he can't refuse...
The last thing he remembered was the sound of shattering glass. Shattering glass…and then nothing.
Griffin started to open his eyes but the slight influx of light sent searing pain into the back of his skull. So instead he kept them closed tight while he ran an inventory on his body. Everything still seemed to be there—feet, legs, arms, hands, head, the other far more important head…nothing broken. Perhaps just bruised. Although he did feel an unpleasant weight on his chest like something stabbing the very center of it.
Griffin sighed…Twenty-two years old and having chest pains? That can’t be good. Maybe leaving rehab a week early hadn’t been the best idea after all.
Slowly, very slowly, Griffin opened his eyes again and saw the source of his chest pain. A pair of leather riding boots crossed at the ankle rested on the center of his sternum. He stared at the boots a moment and tried to make some sense of them. They seemed to belong to a pair of long male legs in dark grey trousers. And the long male legs seemed to belong to a dark-eyed, olive-skinned man with shoulder-length dark brown hair sitting in a chair and sipping what appeared to be a cup of tea.
“Pardon me for saying this,” the booted man said in a rich French accent as he set his teacup down on the table next to him, “but I think you need a new addiction.”
Griffin rolled into a sitting position as the booted man removed his feet.
“Pardon me for saying this,” Griffin said as he ran his hands through his hair, “but who the fuck are you?”
The booted man crossed one ankle over his knee and gave Griffin a smile. Despite the aching in his brain, Griffin couldn’t help but notice the man’s undeniable handsomeness. Not his type really. When he went for guys, they were usually about his age or younger. This guy appeared about mid-thirties although his clothes looked like they belonged on some duke or earl from two hundred years ago.
“My name is Kingsley Edge. And it is a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance, Monsieur Griffin Fiske. Comment ça va?”
Griffin looked up at him sharply.
“Kingsley Edge?” he repeated, the name sending a fissure of nervousness down his spine.
For a moment Griffin considered asking if he was The Kingsley Edge. But what was the point? In New York there was just the one and only Kingsley Edge—King of the Underground.
“How do you know who I am, Mr. Edge?”
“Call me Kingsley. I think we should be equals, Griffin. Or will be once I’m finished with you. And I know who you are because I own this club. And I’ve been watching you. You broke my mirror, by the way.”
Kingsley nodded toward the bar where only the shattered remains of a mirror and a few thousand broken liquor bottles littered the counter, wall, and floor.
“Shit. I did that?”
Smiling, Kingsley picked up his teacup again and took another sip.
“I’m sorry. I can pay for it.”
Kingsley shook his finger at him.
“You don’t remember how you broke it, do you?” he asked.
Groaning, Griffin slowly got to his feet and collapsed into the chair across from Kingsley.
“Bar fight?” Griffin guessed.
“Something like that. One of the patrons last night started to assault Scarlett. He grabbed her off the stage and shoved his hand into her panties. You took him by the neck and threw him over the bar and into the mirror.”
Griffin’s eyes widened. Now he vaguely remembered the event. He’d come to the Möbius Strip Club with a couple friends last night. As usual he’d gotten wasted as quickly as possible. In his mind he could make out the outline of a beautiful girl with dark red hair dancing on stage in black jackboots and a black thong…and nothing else. And he remembered a scream as some jackass grabbed her ankle and yanked her off the stage. Some kind of animal rage had welled up in him. He’d ripped the girl from that asshole’s hands and dragged him by the neck to a clearing by the bar.
“I punched him first. Didn’t I? Or am I making that up?”
Kingsley grinned again.
“Oh oui. You fractured his jaw. He attempted to return the favor. That’s when you sent him flying. You’re a very strong young man, Griffin.”
“I lift weights.”
“I can tell. I think something else in your system last night might have added to your powers.”
Griffin didn’t answer that. Last thing he needed was his parents or anyone else on the face of the earth learning that his second trip to rehab hadn’t stuck as well as they’d hoped it would.
“Cops coming?” Somewhere in his cell phone Griffin had the number for the family attorney. After all the hell he’d put his family through, he should have that shark’s number tattooed on his forearm.
“Non. I’ve taken care of everything. The patron will not press charges for assault against you.”
“I broke his face.”
Kingsley merely shrugged.
“I can be quite persuasive. And I have friends in interesting places. The police did come but your name was not mentioned. By anyone.”
Crossing his arms over his chest, Griffin stared at the remnants of the mirror scattered across the black and white tile floor of New York’s most infamous strip club.
“Thanks for that. Last thing I need is to piss off my parents. Again. If you know who I am you know I can pay for the damage. I can write a check or bring you cash. I’m guessing since you’re you, you prefer cash.”
“I do know who you are,” Kingsley said, standing up and looking down at him. “Your mother is Alexis Fiske, formally Raeburn. Still one of the most beautiful women in the world.”
“She might be an ex-model but she’s still my mother, okay?” Griffin’s stomach turned when men talked about how hot his mom was. Just weird.
“Bien sûr. And your father’s empire…worth at last estimate approximately one billion dollars. Congratulations to him. I hear he was just elected Chairman of the Stock Exchange.”
Kingsley nodded again.
“Haven’t talked to him in a few weeks,” Griffin said, feeling a knot of shame form in his stomach. This total stranger knew more about what his dad was up to than he did. Another sign maybe he shouldn’t have left rehab a week early. “I’ll call.”
“And you, Griffin Randolfe Fiske. Age twenty-two. Left Brown University for your second stint in rehab six weeks ago. Intelligent, very handsome if I may say so, bisexual if the rumors are true, and possibly the most spoiled trust fund baby I’ve ever had the pleasure of watching pass out in one of my clubs.”
Griffin’s face warmed at the insulting and unfortunately true description of himself.
“Guilty. Can I go now?”
“Oui. But I would like to see you again if I may. There’s something I’d like to discuss with you.”
Kingsley reached into an inner pocket of his frock coat. Frock coat? Seriously? And pulled out a card which he handed to Griffin. Blinking, Griffin studied the card. All black with silver lettering, the only words on the card were for an address in Manhattan. He didn’t even see a name—just a little crown symbol with a letter K inside.
“Come by the townhouse tonight. We can discuss possibly finding a new addiction for you,” Kingsley said. “And don’t worry about the mirror. You saved one of my girls from an attacker. I am in your debt.”
Griffin only looked at the card a moment.
“Mais…” Kingsley began, “If you come, come clean and sober. Or don’t come at all, mon frère.”
At that, Kingsley gave an elegant bow and strode from the club and into the New York morning leaving Griffin alone with his hangover and the card.
As he stared at the card he held, Griffin couldn’t help but look at his hand. Blood from the asshole he’d punched out had crusted and dried across his knuckles. On his palm he had a shallow cut, probably from the broken glass. His hand ached horribly. How hard had he hit that guy? Griffin rubbed his right hand with his left but the pain sent a wave of nausea rocking through his body.
He raced behind the bar to the sink, nearly skidding on the broken glass, and threw up last night’s tequila and whatever else was left in his system. He turned on the tap and rinsed the foul taste out of his mouth. With two cupped hands, he splashed his face with the ice-cold water and ran his fingers through his hair.
Rising up he caught a glimpse of himself in one of the shards of mirror still left hanging on the wall. Kingsley called him handsome and he was self-aware enough to know that was a pretty fair estimate of his appearance. His face looked like a male version of his model mother’s—strong cheekbones, full lips, and classical jawline. But under his eyes he spied black circles. A small bruise had welled up on his cheek. His usually perfectly styled black hair now skewed in all directions. Most days people considered him extremely attractive. Right now he looked like shit warmed over.
He had no idea what the one and only Kingsley Edge wanted with him. But he couldn’t really argue with the man.
He really did need a new addiction. All his old ones were about to kill him.
Ten hours of sleep, some real food, and an hour-long shower later, Griffin felt and looked much more like himself. He had no clue how to dress for an evening like this so he just put on his usual “fuck me” uniform of black pants and a pinstripped and untucked black button-down shirt. He got into his Porsche and drove to the address on the card Kingsley had given him. Not bad, Griffin thought, as he handed the keys to a valet and looked up at the house. Three stories at least…white and black, wrought iron gate, a touch of Empire style, he noted. Empire style? Jesus, he must have actually paid attention in one of his Art History classes.
A woman with a Jamaican accent opened the door for him and let him into the palatial entryway. He was about two seconds away from starting to flirt with the beautiful girl when he heard someone whistling a familiar tune.
“I know that song,” Griffin said as Kingsley came whistling down the stairs dressed in an even more elegant suit that he had on that morning. Victorian era maybe?
“Alouette,” Kingsley said as he reached the bottom of the steps. “A French-Canadian children’s song.”
Kingsley headed down a hallway and motioned Griffin to follow.
“Very cute. I think we sang that song in kindergarten.”
“Oui. Tres cute. It’s about killing and plucking a skylark. Have a seat.”
Kingsley gestured to a chair in an exquisite if slightly over-decorated parlor. The man seemed to be allergic to artificial light. The whole place was lit up by dozens of pale yellow taper candles.
“Nice digs you have here.”
“Merci. I’m sure it’s quite small compared to your mother’s home near Guilford.”
“I kind of hate how much you know about me.”
Kingsley poured a glass of what appeared to be sherry for himself. He pointedly offered none to Griffin.
“I know a great deal about you,” Kingsley said as he took a seat on a fainting couch. “It’s in my best interest to know everything I can about the people in my world.”
“That sounds vaguely threatening.” Griffin sat on an armchair across from the couch.
“Pas du tout. I use my knowledge to protect my people. The same way you used your strength to protect Scarlett last night. For example…” Kingsley paused for a sip of his sherry. “In my world there are those whose professions are considered incompatible with their proclivities. One of the male submissives who frequents my clubs is a rabbi.”
“Oui, mon ami. And he is the least of the Underground’s secrets. But if, perhaps, someone wanted to out this man to his congregation or his family, I might have some information that would dissuade that person from the course of action.”
Griffin shivered at the words. Kingsley spoke them casually and they sounded almost musical in his masculine voice tinged with the heady French accent. But no one could mistake the threat of violence and blackmail in the statement.
Kingsley swirled the sherry in his glass.
“Perhaps I had pictures of a handsome young man with a rolled up hundred dollar bill snorting cocaine in the bathroom of a strip club. Such a young man whose family had threatened to cut him off if he was caught using drugs again would very likely keep whatever he saw at my home or at my clubs a secret, wouldn’t he?”
Every muscle in Griffin’s body froze. His heart stopped. His breathing ceased. Ten seconds later it all started up again.
“Yes...I’m sure he would.”
“I would protect you as well, Griffin, if you were to join my coterie. And I do hope you will.”
Sitting carefully back in the chair Griffin studied Kingsley for any signs of humor.
“Join? Join what? How?”
Kingsley smiled at Griffin…a long, slow, insinuating smile. As he smiled, Kingsley’s sculpted fingers danced over the rim of his sherry glass. Griffin had never met a more terrifyingly erotic man in his life. Every move Kingsley made seemed to be designed for seduction. Griffin might have to rethink what sort of guy he considered his type from now on.
“Griffin,” Kingsley began and took another sip of his drink before setting it aside and leaning forward, “I think you have all the makings of an excellent Dominant.”
Griffin’s eyes went wide.
“Dominant? Like whips and chains type Dominant? No, not my thing.”
Kingsley didn’t seem bothered by his answer.
“Have you ever tried it? Dominating someone in the bedroom? A man or a woman?”
“No. I mean, with guys, I always, you know-"
“You’re a top. You don’t have to have to mince words with me.”
Griffin nearly blushed again. He had sex all the time with women and men. Just yesterday he ended up fucking some girl he met standing in line at the bank. But he wasn’t used to talking about it so frankly. Who was this guy?
“Fine. Yeah, with guys I’m a top. But that’s just sex. Not topping topping.”
Kingsley laughed and that warm rich sound had one or two muscles in Griffin’s thighs tightening.
“Perhaps you would like it if you tried it.”
“I don’t know. Seems like a waste of time. Why bother with all the gear and shit? Gets in the way of the fucking.”
Tilting his head to the side, Kingsley seemed to study Griffin.
“Why bother…that is a very good question.” Kingsley paused and momentarily gazed at a candle burning on the table at Griffin’s left. The fire from the candle flickered and danced in Kingsley’s dark eyes. “You are a wealthy man, Griffin Fiske. Perhaps even more so than I am. And you’ve had scores of lovers. Perhaps even more than I do.”
Griffin highly doubted that last part.
“But,” Kingsley continued, “I have something you do not.”
“Yeah, and what’s that?” Griffin asked. “A better tailor?”
Kingsley gave a low laugh.
“Power, Griffin. You, young man, are at the mercy of your addictions and impulses. All the money in the world can’t buy you the sort of power I have. And I am not talking about the power to blackmail someone or to buy their loyalty.”
“I threw a guy over a bar and into a mirror last night. That’s not power?”
“That is violence, which is a sort of power. But the kind I have is far headier, far more beautiful, and so much more...addictive than the power to hurt someone against their will. I have the power to hurt someone with their permission. Comprende?”
Griffin shook his head.
“Not at all.”
“Then perhaps I shall have to show you.”
Kingsley stood up and together they left the candlelit front parlor and continued down a shadowy hall illuminated only by wall sconces.
“Where are we going?” Griffin asked, nervous excitement gnawing at his stomach. He hadn’t felt this alive in years. He’d been such a hard partier for so long that he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt anything like a real adrenalin rush, one not created by the artificial chemicals he sometimes ingested.
“I want you to meet a friend of mine. I think you will like her.”
At the end of the hall they paused in the open doorway of another parlor—a smaller, more intimate one. Griffin nearly swore audibly when he saw the inhabitants of the room. The girl didn’t shock him except maybe with her beauty. A little thing, she had wavy black hair and wore a white skirt, white corset, and something around her neck. Not quite a necklace, it looked more like a white dog collar. She sat at a small table across from a man wearing black. The man had been the one who’d nearly set Griffin to swearing. Handsome in a severe sort of way, the man wore all black apart from a square of white at his neck. A chessboard sat between him and the girl. The girl turned her head and grinned broadly at Kingsley and Griffin suddenly had a little trouble breathing.
The man who was apparently a priest leaned back in his chair and raised an eyebrow at Kingsley in a manner both condescending and familiar.
“Pardon moi, mon ami,” Kingsley said to the blond priest. “Might I borrow your pet for a few minutes? S’il vous plait?”
“Oui. Emmanez. Elle perd le match sur le but a nouveau,” said the priest in what sounded like flawless French to Griffin. He wasn’t quite fluent but he understood most of the sentence--Yes, take her. She is losing the game on purpose. Again.
“Elle?” Kingsley said and crooked his finger at the girl. “Viens ici.”
The girl stood up and leaned across the chessboard to give the blond priest a quick kiss on the mouth. He whispered something to her against her lips, something that made her smile. She whispered something back to him and he nodded his approval.
“Thirty minutes,” the priest said. “Be a good girl for Kingsley, Eleanor.”
“Yes, Sir.” The girl, Eleanor came to Kingsley and curtsied.
Kingsley patted the girl on the cheek and started up a set of back steps. Griffin and Eleanor followed, and Griffin noticed the girl casting as many curious glances at him as he did at her.
“I’m Griffin,” he said to her. “Griffin Fiske.” Usually he never told people his last name. Too many people in town knew he had money the second he said it. But for some reason he wanted to impress this girl.
“Griffin. Cool name. You must have played lacrosse.”
He laughed softly. Smart girl. Knew her preppy rich kids when she saw them.
“You don’t look like an Eleanor,” he whispered, not sure why he felt the need to keep his voice low.
“I hate my name. Change it for me,” she whispered back and grinned at him. She had a gorgeous grin, wide and fearless and every time she smiled, some dangerous kind of light sparked in her eyes like struck flint.
“How about just Nor? Or Nora? It’s sexier.”
She nodded. “I like it. I’ll go to the courthouse tomorrow and get it changed. If Blondie says it’s okay, of course.”
“Blondie? The priest downstairs?”
“Uh-huh. He makes the decisions. All of them.”
“He’s...a priest? Like a real priest?”
“He is. Hot, right?”
“Very. But you know Catholic priests aren’t supposed to have sex with drop-dead gorgeous girls like you.”
Eleanor...Nora...whoever she was laughed and Griffin discovered her laugh was even sexier than Kingsley’s--low and throaty and Griffin had a sudden vision of pushing her against the wall, slipping his hand under her skirt, and becoming her clitoris’s new best friend.
“The rules don’t apply in Wonderland. Like it here so far?”
“This is Wonderland?” Griffin asked, glancing around the well-appointed hallway. “Does that make you Alice?”
“Nope, you’re Alice, Newbie,” she said.
Once more Griffin looked her up and down taking in her killer curves incased all in white.
“Guess you’re the White Rabbit then,” he said, deciding then and there he’d follow her little tail anywhere.
“Non. I’m the White Rabbit.” Kingsley opened the door. “She’s the Jabberwocky.”
Eleanor playfully bared her teeth at him right before disappearing into the room.
Was he really in Wonderland? Griffin asked himself. Or Hell?
Griffin entered the room after them and froze in his tracks.
“Oh holy shit,” Griffin breathed as he gazed around the room. He’d expected a bedroom and in the middle of the room he did see a wrought-iron four-poster bed draped in red and black silk sheets. But this was no bedroom. Along the walls of the room hung floggers and whips, canes and paddles. He’d heard of places like this but never guessed such a posh Manhattan townhouse had its own dungeon.
The three of them stood in silence a moment. Griffin got the feeling Kingsley and Eleanor were enjoying his wide-eyed astonishment. No one made a sound until Kingsley raised his hand and snapped his fingers in Eleanor’s ear. At that she turned to Kingsley and stood in front of him with her eyes lowered.
“Griffin, you asked me why bother with all of this. Allow me to show you. I may, at some point, need your assistance.”
Assistance? With that gorgeous girl?
“Yeah, sure. Anything you want as long as she’s fine with it.”
Kingsley laughed and cupped Eleanor’s chin.
“She’s fine with whatever I tell her to be fine with. Isn’t that so?”
Eleanor nodded into his hand.
“Très bien. Now undress mais...” Kingsley looked down. On her feet Eleanor wore knee-high boots almost identical to his except in white leather instead of black. “Leave the boots on.”
Immediately Eleanor raised her hands to the top of her breasts and began unhooking her corset. As soon as it hit the floor her sheer white blouse came next and she shed her skirt and white panties with perfunctory quickness. Griffin had seen a lot of naked women in his day but rarely one with such a naturally beautiful body. Full breasts, rounds hips, and no shame--the holy trinity of perfection in a woman.
Kingsley seemed to think so as well. He stepped up to Eleanor and laid a kiss on her neck where it met her shoulder as he slipped his jacket off and let it join her clothes on the floor. He spoke an order to her in French, and she moved to the end of the bed.
For a minute or two Kingsley whistled Alouette again while he strolled the perimeter of the room examining the various items hanging from the walls or laying on tables. Griffin had heard stories about Kingsley Edge. The man was something of a legend in New York. Everyone knew he ran a stable of the sexiest kinksters money could buy. And Kingsley himself easily ranked as one of the more attractive men Griffin had ever laid eyes on. In his riding boots, fitted trousers, white shirt, and embroidered vest, he looked like something off the cover of one of those stupid romance novels he saw in airport bookstores. But he doubted the men in those books ever did the sort of stuff Kingsley was supposedly into.
Kingsley picked up some sort of black rope thing that looked only about two feet long and a wicked looking flogger with long leather thongs and heart-shaped knots at the end. After tossing the flogger on the bed, Kingsley stood behind Eleanor and took her wrists in his hands. Over the end of her right wrist he hooked the end of the black rope.
“These are rope cuffs,” Kingsley explained as tossed the rope over the top bar of the four-poster bed. “Like a Chinese finger puzzle. The more Eleanor struggles, the tighter they’ll fit on her wrists.”
He cuffed her left wrist and Eleanor now stood with her arms high over her head and secured to the bed. As Kingsley took the flogger off the bed, Eleanor turned her face to Griffin, smiled at him, and yanked down on the cuffs, tightening them on her wrists of her own volition.
“There’s a certain technique to giving a good thorough flogging,” Kingsley said as he took two steps back from Eleanor’s naked body. “When administering a long, sustained beating it is best to start out soft to desensitize the skin. We don’t have that sort of time tonight as our Eleanor is merely on loan. So we shan’t bother with the niceties. Eleanor tends to get bored by niceties anyway. Don’t you, chérie?”
“Oui, Mon-” The rest of her sentence was cut off by Kingsley bring the flogger down hard on her back. She flinched and Griffin flinched with her. Redness erupted all over her pale skin between her shoulderblades. Kingsley struck again and Eleanor flinched again. He wielded the flogger with casual power and it whirled nimbly in his hands. The flogging obviously hurt as Eleanor winced and gasped. But at no point did she say “stop” or “no” or make any sort of protest.
After a few minutes the flogging ceased. Kingsley left Eleanor panting through her pain as he hung the flogger back on the wall and returned with a riding crop. He spun it in his right hand as deftly as a baton twirler before letting it slide through his fingers. He caught the crop by the handle and raised it.
“Wait, Kingsley...” Griffin said but Kingsley ignored him and brought the crop down hard in the center of Eleanor’s back. He landed five hard strikes down her back from her shoulders to her hips before stopping and tossing the crop aside.
“Now...” Kingsley raised his hand and crooked his finger at Griffin. With some reluctance Griffin crossed the room to where Kingsley stood behind Eleanor. “Let me show you something.”
Kingsley tapped Eleanor’s thigh and she obediently lifted it, resting her foot on the bed. Griffin inhaled sharply as the angle of her leg opened her body to his view. Blood started pooling in his hips.
“Your hand,” Kingsley said and Griffin held it out to him. Kingsley took Griffin’s hand and brought it between Eleanor’s thighs. “Feel.”
Griffin looked at Kingsley and the Frenchman nodded his encouragement. Eleanor made no protest so Griffin rested his fingers gently at the entrance of her body.
“Oh God...” He’d rarely felt such heat emanating from a woman before. He pushed in more and felt her incredible warm wetness. Nothing could stop him from sinking three fingers into her all the way to the third knuckle on his hand. Now extremely aroused, Griffin couldn’t stop imagining replacing his fingers with his cock inside her, ramming it deep and hard. A woman like this obviously enjoyed pain, enjoyed being used and God, he would use her up until she could barely breathe, barely see, barely speak except to say his name.
Griffin moved his hand in her slowly, went deeper, pulled out a little before pushing back in again. Through the veil of the black hair that had fallen in her face, Eleanor gazed up at Griffin. Their eyes met and suddenly Kingsley disappeared, the room disappeared, the world disappeared and it was only him and Eleanor in the whole universe. Then he discovered she didn’t have black eyes like he’d previously thought. They were green, dark green and full of wild mischief. He pulled his hand forward into her g-spot until he felt the edge of her pubic bone and her pulse beating against his fingers. Her eyes closed and her head fell back. Every cent he had, every cent his family had...he’d give it all away just to feel her come on his hand.
“Lovely, isn’t it?” Kingsley said, forcing Griffin back to reality. “You ask why bother? Feel that heat on your hand, that wetness, and know she could be yours for the taking. She could be at your feet serving you, living as your property. Her body would be yours to take whenever you desired. Anyone has the power to hurt someone. Take a gun, take a knife, take your impressive fists into the street. Beat them, I dare you, and see how long it takes before they beg you to stop. But I promise you won’t feel the satisfaction I do right now...Eleanor? Do you want to stop?”
“Non, Monsieur. Never stop...”
“I hurt her. I beat her. And she tells me not to stop. Now that, Griffin, is power.” Kingsley kissed Eleanor again on the shoulder. The kiss turned into a bite. “Pardon me, but now I think I need to fuck her.”
It nearly killed Griffin to pull his hand out of her, but he wasn’t about to argue with Kingsley. Eleanor lowered her leg to the floor as Kingsley turned her toward him. Griffin knew he probably shouldn’t be watching this but he couldn’t look away as Kingsley opened his pants and rolled a condom onto one of the most impressive cocks he’d seen in his day. Kingsley grasped Eleanor’s hips, raised her up, and lowered her onto him. Eleanor wrapped her white-booted calves around Kingsley’s back and arched her hips.
Griffin groaned audibly as Kingsley started thrusting into Eleanor’s wet body. His movements were precise and controlled, hard but not without impressive restraint. Eleanor’s arms still hung above her head from the bed-frame and she used the bonds to lift herself and take more of Kingsley into her. Her breathing turned fast and desperate as Kingsley slipped a hand between their bodies and rubbed her clitoris. With a lusty cry, Eleanor came, her hips bucking into Kingsley’s. Griffin waited for Kingsley to start thrusting faster chasing his own orgasm. But instead he pulled out and untied one of Eleanor’s wrists.
“Bed,” he ordered. “On your stomach.”
Quickly Eleanor obeyed, lying prone across the black and red sheets. Kingsley bound her wrists to the headboard and each ankle to the bedposts. From a bedside table he pulled out a bottle of lube. As wet as Eleanor was, the lube could only mean one thing. Kingsley knelt between her wide-open thighs and with two wet fingers pushed into her. She buried her head into the bed and moaned. Kingsley pulled his fingers out and inch by torturously slow inch pushed his cock into her.
With long controlled thrusts, Kingsley moved in and out of her. Griffin had more than a threesomes under his belt but he’d never just stood in a room and watched a Frenchman beat and fuck a beautiful black-haired girl up the ass. He could get used to this.
Kingsley raised a hand and snapped his fingers at Griffin.
“Assistance, s’il vous plait,” Kingsley said and Griffin came to the side of the bed. “If you would see to her.”
Kingsley’s left hand grasped the back of Eleanor’s neck while his right hand tapped her hip. Eleanor raised her hip high enough that Griffin could slide his hand under her. He found her clitoris and began rubbing the swollen knot with two fingers. Kingsley’s thrusts grew harder and faster. Griffin envied Kingsley. He’d never done anal with a woman before. No girl would ever let him once they saw how big he was. Either that or they were only used his size as an excuse to chicken out. But Eleanor clearly enjoyed it. Who was this girl who belonged to a priest, got used by a king, and seemed to be having more fun than anyone? He didn’t know but he decided right then and there he had to find out.
Eleanor pulled on her restraints as Griffin moved his fingers harder against her clitoris. Kingsley’s hand dug deeper into the soft skin at the base of her neck and Eleanor cried out again as she came once more. With a few more near-brutal thrusts, Kingsley slammed into her and climaxed with a quiet shudder.
Griffin gently pulled his hand away and stood up again. Kingsley pulled out of her, disposed of the condom and straightened his clothes. He untied Eleanor and rolled her over into his arms. Even straining his ears, Griffin couldn’t make out a single word Kingsley whispered to Eleanor. But whatever he said made her happy as she smiled broadly at him and kissed him on the cheek. He gave her a sharp little slap on her shapely bottom as she got off the bed and wriggled back into her clothes.
Eleanor stopped at the door and looked back at Griffin.
“Nice to meet you, Griffin. Thanks for the hand. Hope I get to return the favor someday. Later, King.”
With one last smile she left them alone in the room. Griffin sagged against the wall and knew he was more turned on than he’d ever been in his entire life.
“Enjoy the show?” Kingsley asked.
“You fucked her and she came and you didn’t.” Griffin still hadn’t gotten over that impressive performance at the end of the bed. “That would kill me.”
Kingsley merely shrugged and walked toward Griffin.
“It does take practice…self-control. I could teach you how if you like.”
“Are all the women in the Underground like her?”
Kingsley took another step forward.
“Find out for yourself.”
“Was that...” Griffin glanced pointedly at the end of the bed, the floggers on the wall, the riding crop on the floor, “as fun as it looked?”
Kingsley gave him a slow, seductive smile as he took one final step forward until their faces were only inches apart.
“More,” Kingsley breathed the word into Griffin’s ear and every nerve in Griffin’s body tingled to life. No drink, no drug, no chemical had ever made him feel as alive as the last thirty minutes with Kingsley and that amazing girl had.
Griffin took a deep breath.
“Okay...you got me. I’m in.”
Kingsley reached behind Griffin and locked the door. In stereotypical French fashion, Kingsley dropped a kiss on each of Griffin’s cheeks. But a third kiss he pressed onto Griffin’s lips.
“Welcome to Wonderland.”