Events take place approximately six months before THE SIREN.
If people didn’t stop touching her, she was going to pull a Britney Spears and shave off all of her hair. During all that craziness with Britney, Sheridan didn’tonce make a single public comment. More commentary was the last thing that poor girl needed. Sheridan understood that better than anyone. A year ago she was proclaimed America’s Sweetheart by a press desperate to prove they didn’t just sell sex and dirty laundry. She still couldn’t believe that being blonde and pretty and not wanting to take her clothes off on T.V. earned her such high stature and just ravenous media attention. America’s Sweetheart...God, if they only knew.
She only had two months until her T.V. show Empire City started shooting again, and she was determined to stay out of the limelight and off Page Six while she on hiatus. But her agent wouldn’t stop booking her for interviews and talk show appearances. Right now she had two hair people and one makeup person in her living room making sure she looked like the natural beauty she was purported to be. An eight-minute spot on New York Tonight shouldn’t take two hours of prep-time. This is why people said actresses were all crazy. Because no one sane would go through with this. Ever.
Sheridan put on her best fake smile, bullshitted her way through the eight minutes and as soon as the camera turned off, she yanked off the mic and wiped off seven layers of lipstick.
“Sher—where are you going?” Preston called out as she stormed down the hallway.
“I need a minute,” she yelled back at her boyfriend. She was grateful for Preston most days, grateful for his calming presence. Although movie star handsome he wasn’t in the fame game like she was. A famous director’s son, he knew how awful the press could be and did everything he could to protect her. But he was clingy and too sweet for his own good. She’d go into bitch mode sometimes and yell at everyone around her and Preston would still, “Sheridan, Honey, Sheridan, Baby” her until she was ready to kill him. If he’d just once got in her face and said, “Shut the fuck up, Sheridan. Nobody cares about you today,” she would not only have shut up immediately, she would have been a much happier person. Why was Mistress Nora the only one who ever told her to shut up and behave herself?
Mistress Nora...Sheridan slammed the door to her bedroom and leaned back against the wall. She closed her eyes and pictured her. The last time she saw her, Nora had been wearing a black suit. Black suit, black shirt, red tie, red suspenders, and a black fedora with a red hat-band. Sheridan remembered how wet she’d gotten just watching as Nora sauntered into her room at the club looking cocksure as any man. Sheridan had never dreamed she’d find a woman so erotic, so hypnotic. In everyday life, she was never attracted to women. But Nora was no ordinary woman. She owned any room she walked into. Men seemed to shrink in her presence, shrink until they were the size of their own cocks. And God, the things Nora did to her during their sessions. She never knew how much pleasure could hurt until Nora, never knew how good pain could feel.
Sheridan pulled out her cell phone and dialed a number. She never programmed the number into her phone. The horror stories about assistants stealing famous phone and selling the numbers had taught her better than that. And there was one number she really didn’t want out on the market.
“Bonjour, cherie,” came Kingsley Edge’s rich French intonations. “Ça va bien?”
“King, you’ve gotta help me. I’m losing my mind here.”
“Pauvre petite fille riche. I would love to help you, but your mistress is out of town. A book signing, je pense.”
“Fuck,” Sheridan said, sighing. She loved talking to Kingsley. She could be as dirty-mouthed around him as she wanted. “I need her.”
Kingsley laughed and Sheridan’s fingers tingled at the sound. Kingsley was only one of two men she’d ever seen around Nora who hadn’t shrunk in her presence. Once Kingsley had even kissed Nora in front of her—Nora had slapped him and they’d made a joke about the good old days. Oh, no, Kingsley and Nora were most definitely equals.
“Perhaps I could be of service to you, ma petite? I find myself with an empty dance card this evening.”
Sheridan closed her eyes tighter. Preston had been really understanding when she’d finally told him what she was. She told him about Nora and the relief that she only played with a woman was so profound it almost made her cry out of sheer love and guilt for him. But she knew if she played with another man, that patience and understanding would be gone, and she’d be alone again. But still...she was what she was and she needed to own it. That’s what Nora told her all the time. Nora told her it was fine if she didn’t want to advertise to the whole world she was a sexual submissive, but she needed to stop being ashamed of who she was in her own private heart. And who she was right now in her own private heart was a woman who needed beaten and fucked. If she couldn’t have Nora, Kingsley would have to do. She pictured Kingsley now as he looked the last time she saw him. God, the suits Kingsley wore...this one had been pure Edwardian erotic. Grey frock coat, embroidered vest, ascot, riding boots.
Kingsley would more than do.
“Okay, King. Yes, God yes. Please. What time?”
“Tonight? Two hours? Bien?”
“Oui,” she breathed. “Très bien.”
She showered, changed clothes, and threw on a coat with a hood. No one in the city lived more audaciously Kingsley Edge. Yet he protected his clients with the fearsome tenacity of his Rottweilers. A reporter got wind once that one of Kingsley’s clients—a high profile human rights attorney—enjoyed wearing women’s clothing and being beaten by a woman dressed as a fifties’ housewife. The night before the reporter the story was set to run, the reporter was kidnapped from her home and chained naked inside her six-year-old’s first grade classroom. No one found her until the teacher and the class poured into the room the next morning. The reporter got the hint—stay out of people’s personal lives if you want the King of the Edge to stay out of yours.
The story never ran.
Sheridan grabbed a cab and gave the driver Kingsley’s address. She kept her sunglasses on, her hood pulled up, and her eyes to the floor. Surreptitiously she checked the rearview mirror and saw the cab driver paid no attention to her. He hadn’t recognized her. Relief.
Heavy traffic that night kept them trapped on 5th Avenue for half an hour. Sheridan stared out at the lights of the city and remembered the first time she’d ever encountered Kingsley Edge.
Three years ago...she’d been twenty and starring in a revival of Blue Monday on Broadway. She remembered opening night and how she and the other performers couldn’t stop themselves from peeking out the curtains and seeing what celebrities sat n the audience.
“Holy shit, that’s Kingsley Edge,” Mark Horner had said. Mark, her co-star’s understudy, was as gay as he was gorgeous.
“Who’s that? Is he Hollywood?” Sheridan had squinted at the handsome man in the gorgeous grey suit sitting up in one of the opera boxes.
“Dorothy, you really aren’t in Kansas anymore,” Mark had said, laughing. She was from the Chicago suburbs, hardly Kansas but the hardened New York cast still teased her about her Midwestern upbringing. “Kingsley Edge is the King of Kink in this town. If you’re rich and you want to be spanked, Edge is the man you call. He’s got a whole staff of perverts who’ll do anything to you if you pay them enough. Anything.”
“Anything?” Sheridan asked. “Who’s that with him?”
“That’s Juliette, his secretary. Isn’t it gross?”
“Gross?” Gross would be the last word she’d use to describe the exquisitely beautiful dark-skinned woman next to him. “When did you turn into a racist, Mark?”
“I’m not a racist. Kingsley Edge is French, or half-French, or something like that. Juliette is Haitian.”
“So? Do they not teach world history in Kansas? France raped Haiti. Haiti’s the poorest country on earth because of France and here’s this kinky rich white Frenchman who’s probably got a riding crop in his back pocket, and he’s parading around town with this black Haitian woman who supposedly works for him but is probably his sex slave. Pretty poor taste if you ask me.”
Sheridan had stared at Juliette and watched as she and Kingsley Edge had whispered back and forth to each other. Juliette looked anything like a slave to her. She looked powerful and beautiful and Kingsley smiled at her like she hung the moon.
“She looks happy if you ask me,” Sheridan had said with some envy. She’d be happy too being with a man that well-dressed and handsome with a riding crop in his back pocket. She’d be the happiest woman on Earth.
“Nobody asked you, Kansas. Showtime.”
Sheridan put on a great show that night even though she couldn’t get Kingsley Edge’s face out of her mind. So here in New York all you had to do was make a phone call and you could get beaten and spanked and whatever else you wanted? Maybe he could help her.
After the show, the backstage area had been flooded with the audience big-shots coming back to congratulate the cast. Sheridan had gone crazy trying to find Kingsley Edge or Juliette in the crowd of TV stars and movie stars and politicians. She smiled politely, said thank you humbly, all the while praying she’d get a glimpse of that shoulder length dark brown hair and those dark eyes.
Finally she’d seen Juliette striding down the corridor toward the back exit. Sheridan had broken away from a producer who tried bending her ear about a future in Hollywood. She’d barreled through the crowd and blew out the back door just in time to see Juliette gliding into a silver Rolls Royce. Sheridan had almost lost her courage then, but she knew it was now or never. In her high heels and still in her costume and stage makeup, she’d raced over to the car and knocked on the window. The window slowly rolled down and Sheridan’s heart had leapt at the sight of Kingsley’s face grinning subtly at her.
“Jules? Did you order the ingénue?” Kingsley asked Juliette and Sheridan knew she’d be hearing those words in her dreams.
“Pas moi, monsieur,” Juliette said in a voice that dripped with warm honey. Sheridan wanted to swim naked in it. “She must be here for you.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Edge,” Sheridan had panted. “I just...I don’t know. Can you help me?”
He’d raised an eyebrow and looked her up and down. Her heart sank as the window rolled back up. But as soon as the window shut, the door opened. She saw a pair of long legs in sumptuous dark grey trousers and shoes that must have cost more than the entire set of Blue Monday.
“Bien sûr,” Kingsley has said. “I am quite certain I can.”
She’d looked back at the theater and smiled. Fuck Kansas, she thought, and jumped into the backseat.
That night had changed her life. Kingsley hadn’t touched her, only listened to her. He’d taken her back to his townhouse and sat her down in his opulent sitting room. He’d lit a smattering of candles, given her a glass of sherry, and made her tell him her story.
“My dad,” she began and immediately regretted starting there. Every therapist she’d ever talked to had found of way of blaming her father. But her father wasn’t to blame. Her father was a sweet and loving man who never hurt her in any way. He was her biggest fan and always would be. “My dad was a city councilman. He was away a lot of the time. Just busy, you know, but he’d always call and check in on me. Mom was busy too—country club stuff, friends, philanthropy, all that. I was alone a lot. But Dad had this friend on city council, an attorney. His name was Raymond Harrison but everyone called him Rex. Dad and Rex backed each other up, ganged up against the mayor. He was a little younger than my dad by a couple of years. Handsome too in that old-school drank too much, played too hard sort of way. Divorced, two kids. He wore business suits all the time. The sexiest business suits...”
Kingsley had nodded and told her to go on. And she had not knowing why she trusted this strange man in his strange old-world clothes. But something about Kingsley told her that no matter what she said, he would neither judge nor condemn.
“Rex came over one evening...I was fourteen. My dad was out and so was my mom. He was just dropping off papers for my father to read. I let him in the house and took him to my dad’s office. Dad had a great office—big and old-fashioned. Leather chairs, one of those green-shaded bankers lamps—he called it the drinking lamp. A big old desk. Dark paint on the walls. I had tennis practice that day and still had on my white tennis skirt. Tennis lessons, singing lessons, dance lessons—I never had any time for myself except at night.”
“You must have been so...frustrated,” Kingsley had said with a little smile.
“Frustrated...that’s a good word for it. Anyway, Rex must have sensed I was frustrated. I bent over the desk to turn on the lamp and...he touched my thigh. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t want him to touch me...and then he ran his hand a little higher, and I didn’t want him to stop touching me. Rex always flirted with me but in a sweet sort of way. And sometimes I thought things about him that I knew I shouldn’t think. Anyway, he pulled me to him, my back to his chest. He didn’t say anything, just kissed the side of my neck. The big leather armchair was right behind him. He sat in it and pulled me into his lap. Then his kissed me on the mouth. He tasted like whiskey...McCarthy’s. I liked it. I liked it a lot.”
Sheridan kept talking. Kingsley kept listening.
Rex had kissed her long and slow and she couldn’t believe this was happening—her dad’s best friend was kissing her, and she never ever wanted him to stop. Her heart had pounded so hard in her chest that she knew he could feel it against his chest. She thought he was done with her when he forced her up on her feet, but then he’d reached under her pleated tennis skirt and pulled her white panties all the way down. He bent her over his lap then in that huge old armchair. She remembered shivering when he raised her the back of her skirt. Then his big strong hand came down hard on her bottom and she’d cried out more from shock than pain. He’d actually turned her over his knee and spanked her. The second smack had actually hurt but she was still too stunned to even feel it. But then he’d slid his hand between her legs and slipped one finger into her.
“You’re wet, Sheridan,” Rex had said. “Do you know what that means?”
“No.” She remembered shaking her head and feeling her blonde curls hit her cheeks.
“When a woman is wet, that means she wants to be touched inside. That is what you want, isn’t it?”
He’d called her a woman and she’d melted. Everyone treated her like a little girl just because she was fourteen and petite. But she wasn’t a little girl. She read her mother’s romance novels. She knew what sex was, what an orgasm was. Almost every night before she fell asleep, she’d give herself one thinking about Rex or some other man who was tall and strong and told her what to do.
“Yes,” she’d whispered.
Rex had laughed. “I thought so.”
Still face-down over his lap, Sheridan lay there while Rex had moved his finger in and out of her over and over again. Then he’d pushed her legs open a little wider and put in another finger. The second finger had come close to hurting but after a minute or so it felt even better than what she did to herself at night.
“Do you want me to stop, Sheridan?” Rex had asked her.
Sheridan remembered smiling at the hardwood floor. “Promise.”
Rex pulled his fingers out of her then. He’d stood up and pushed her gently forward so her hands were on the arm of the leather chair. Then he raised her leg so her knee rested on the other arm.
She felt him behind her, sensed him opening his pants. She tensed at that moment, thought about asking him to stop. She wanted him inside her but she didn’t want to get pregnant. Then she remembered her father teasing Rex once about his vasectomy, calling him a toy pistol since he only shot blanks. Rex had only laughed and said, “It’s not about the bullets, Stratford. It’s only about the size of the gun and how you aim it.”
Rex opened her with his fingers and pushed in so slowly she’d moaned not from pain but from impatience. He went in deep and stayed there letting her have a few moments to get used to having something that large inside of her. She’d dreamed about losing her virginity before but never had she dreamed about doing it in her father’s office bent over his armchair. She was going to start having more creative dreams after this. Rex started moving in her and she loved how it felt. He’d push in and she’d flinch and gasp with pleasure and then his big strong hand would come down hard on her back upper thigh. Every time she moaned he’d smack her thigh again. He moved slowly inside her at first. She remembered turning her head and looking at their reflection in the glass of the print that hung behind her father’s desk. In the low light the framed print reflected them almost as clearly as a mirror. She saw her skirt flipped up on her back, Rex still fully dressed in his suit...he was buried to the hilt inside her. He slid his hand around her hips and found that spot she rubbed at night before bed. He touched it while making little quick thrusts inside her until she cried out and orgasmed so hard even he seemed surprised by it.
Rex pulled out of her then and she’d turned around to face him. She reached up to wrap her arms around his neck. She just needed to touch him. Her emotions were all over the place; her heart went everywhere. He pulled her close to him, lifted her up, and pushed her against the wall. Instinctively she wrapped her legs around his back and then he was inside her again. This time she was ever wetter—not just from desire but from his semen inside her. He thrust harder this time and gripped her hips in his iron grasp. She felt weightless pinned against the wall, tiny and helpless. She loved feeling like that. She stared at his tie as he kept thrusting and realized then that there was nothing in the world more erotic than men’s clothing. A suit was a disguise. Men wore them to look professional, to look honest and hardworking, but underneath every business suit was a man’s body and a man’s desires.
He took her three times that night in her father’s office. After the wall he’d laid her back on her father’s desk and fucked her a third time. The third time had been the proverbial charm. He hadn’t undressed her, but this time he’d lifted her shirt up to her neck and exposed her young breasts to his hands and mouth. The third time he’d held her down so she could do nothing but squirm underneath him. When she came the third time on the desk, she saw white stars floating in front of her eyes.
Rex had pulled out of her and left her on the desk. He ordered her to stay where she was and she had. He left the office and came back in less than a minute with a glass of water for her and a wet washcloth. He pulled her into a sitting position, straightened her clothes, and made her drink the water while he spread open her legs and wiped the little bit of blood off her.
She remembered how he’d smiled at her then and told her he was very proud of her. Proud of her...she’d never forget him saying, “Good girl. I’m very proud of you” like he was her father and she’d won a tennis match or something.
“Don’t go,” she’d said when he started to leave.
Rex had smiled at her then. “Don’t worry, Sheridan. I’ll be back.”
He’d kept his promise. He and her dad were such good friends that he always knew when her father had a meeting and wouldn’t be home. At least once every week Rex would come over and find Sheridan at home in the big empty house. He always had a good excuse to come by—important papers to drop off, a book he had to return. And always Rex had taken Sheridan into her father’s office, bent her over his knee, spanked her until her skin turned red and raw, and then fucked her until she almost cried from pleasure. And always before he left, he’d kiss her quick and tell her he was proud of her. Two and a half years into the affair he’d finally let her come to his house one day after school. That day he’d taken her to his bedroom—so big and so masculine, everything dark wood and navy—and he’d tied her up and hit her harder than he ever had before. He’d pulled out a real wooden paddle and used it on her. Then he’d stripped her completely naked and flogged her back, bottom, and thighs with his belt. He’d started to undress at one point and she begged him to stop.
“The suit, leave it on, please. I love your suits.”
He’d smiled at her and kept his clothes on even as he rammed into her for a solid half hour. Sixteen-years-old and she was tied down and writhing underneath a man old enough to be her father.
But then things had started happening. A commercial she’d done for a Chicago company had been picked up for national release. She’d gotten an agent and another commercial. The summer she turned seventeen she’d gone to New York and gotten a small part in a Broadway musical. She never got to see Rex anymore, never got to see anyone anymore but casting directors and other actors and singers. Then she’d met Brannon, a hot young TV star, at an audition and it was lust at first sight. They’d flirted so much in the waiting room that she’d blown the audition just from sheer distraction. She’d gone over to his apartment that night thrilled that she was now eighteen and could do whatever she wanted. Brannon had kissed her socks off the second she was in his door. But then they’d gotten to the bedroom and he’d undressed her and undressed himself. She lay underneath him in bed while he thrust into her. She felt inert, lifeless. He hadn’t hit her, hadn’t held her down, hadn’t made her feel small or helpless or dirty or weak or...He hadn’t made her feel anything.
“I don’t feel anything,” she told Kingsley. “I haven’t felt anything with anyone since Rex. I fantasize constantly about the stuff he used to do to me. I only orgasm with myself and only when I’m thinking about him. I don’t even miss him, not as a person. Just what we did together. What’s wrong with me?”
Kingsley had smiled at her. She’d asked that question five times to five different therapists—men and woman. What’s wrong with me? Two had said “post traumatic stress disorder” brought on my childhood sexual trauma. Bullshit. One had diagnosed depression. Also bullshit. Another had diagnosed frigidity. Definitely bullshit. Another thought she had a dangerous fetish that would probably require behavioral modification to cure. Bullshit—all of it.
“Nothing,” Kingsley had said and Sheridan had looked up sharply at him. That was a new answer. “There is nothing at all wrong with you, ma petite. Rien. You are a submissive and possibly a masochist. You had a powerful sexual experience early on with a powerful man and there is nothing wrong with wanting to feel that again. You need to be dominated in the bedroom and subjected to discipline. I can help you with that.”
She’d sat in silence for a few minutes on Kingsley’s elegant sofa. She felt something cold on wet on her face and realized she was crying. Nothing was wrong with her? Nothing?
“But there’s this thing—men’s clothing. I can’t get turned on unless I’m with a guy wearing a suit. That is a fetish, right?” she asked, afraid of the answer.
“Oui. But a fetish is nothing to be afraid of. A fetish can be the pet you feed or the beast that eats you. We’ll feed your pet until it’s tamed.”
“Thank you,” she’d whispered to Kingsley and Kingsley had only patted her on the knee.
“De rien, cherie. I’ll send you home now. Tomorrow we’ll discuss finding you someone to play with. I think I know exactly who you need...”
Exactly who she needed was Nora Sutherlin, the most famous dominatrix in the city. Some even said the world. Nora was more than a dominatrix—she was a brand name. People shelled out thousands of dollars for just an hour or two of her time for the same reason rich bitches paid five grand for a purse just because it said Hermès on the label. But Sheridan had quickly discovered that Nora was worth every penny. She’d been shocked Kingsley had suggested a female Dominant, but after their first session together, Sheridan knew Nora was perfect for her. Nora had a woman’s understanding of how the female body and psyche worked as well as a total willingness to play with all of Sheridan’s fetishes. And she wore the most beautiful suits Sheridan had ever seen. Plus, since she was a woman, Sheridan could relax completely and not worry about getting raped during a scene or severely injured. She felt so safe with Nora, so sexy and wicked. And even though Nora was her height and had only about twenty pounds—all muscle and curves—on her, she felt tiny with Nora and so helpless. Nora always called her “Little Miss” during their sessions. Little Miss...she got wet just thinking the words.
The cab finally pulled in at Kingsley’s. Sheridan instructed him to pull to the side entrance. She tipped him generously and waited until the cab was gone before she rang the bell. Juliette answered with a dark-eyed smile and led Sheridan upstairs to the second floor. She’d been to private parties at Kingsley’s before, but she never ceased to be impressed by the elegant townhouse with its tile and marble floors and expensive art. Her uptown apartment which had cost her seven figures paled in comparison to Kingsley’s house. She smiled as she passed a Rothko on the wall—maybe she was in the wrong line of work.
Sheridan couldn’t wait to see what Kingsley was wearing. Her most powerful fetish was men’s clothing, specifically business suits. She’d never seen Kingsley in any suit that was remotely businesslike, however. He always wore Victorian suits, Edwardian, sometimes even Regency. He looked like a romance novel hero but behaved like a rake. His worst qualities were by far his best qualities.
Juliette brought her to a room three doors down from Kingsley’s private bedroom. She’d never been in his bedroom before but Nora had told her it was a sight to behold. But this room she was familiar with—Kingsley’s favorite playroom. She’d had a few sessions with Nora in here before and the room held nothing but delicious memories. Juliette opened the door for her and Sheridan said a genuine thank you. Juliette might work for Kingsley but she intimidated her even more than Kingsley did. Sheridan was the TV star and Juliette was just the secretary but it never once occurred to her to be anything less than completely deferential to Kingsley’s right hand. There were only two ways to get on Kingsley Edge’s bad side—try to expose one of his clients and breathe wrong in Juliette’s direction. Sheridan had no desire to do either.
Nervously Sheridan entered the playroom and looked around. She stood alone in the dimly lit room. Only one lamp was on—a banker’s lamp with a green shade. A bed waited in the center of the room with a wrought iron bed-frame. A bed perfectly built for bondage—the bars of the headboard and the footboard were tailor-made for tying someone to them. Sheridan and Kingsley hadn’t talked about sex. She needed an orgasm but she could easily have one of those without intercourse as long as punishment and discipline were involved. Kingsley knew her safe word—McCarthy’s, the whiskey brand Rex always preferred—so if he started pushing her for sex, she could always safe out.
Sheridan walked to the bed when she saw something white draped across it. She peered down and her breath caught in her throat. A white tennis outfit—a pleated skirt with a little white tank top. Kingsley...that devil. The banker’s lamp, the tennis outfit. He was recreating the night she lost her virginity to Rex.
She didn’t have to ask what to do. She stripped out of her clothes and pulled on the skirt and tank top. Kingsley had even supplied white cotton panties and white tennis shoes and anklet socks in her size. She just finished tying her shoelaces when the door opened. She looked up and her heart fell down.
“Oh my God,” she breathed.
For the first time since meeting him, Kingsley was wearing a suit that was pure modern Armani chic. A black suit jacket with three buttons...black tie, not a cravat, but a real tie in a Windsor knot, crisp white shirt with French cuffs, black trousers, black shoes like gleamed like black water. He pulled his long hair back in a neat ponytail. In the suit with his hair tamed, he looked like a roguish Wall Street trader on his way to a business dinner at Le Bernardin.
Forget the safe word. And forget Preston. Tonight Kingsley Edge would fuck her.
“Bonsoir, Monsieur,” Sheridan said as Kingsley strode toward her.
“It is indeed, Mademoiselle.”
Sheridan kept her eyes lowered as Nora had taught her. She knew Nora had been a submissive once, the submissive just as she was now the Dominatrix. Kingsley had told her Nora’s story one night. Poetry had been written about Nora, Kingsley had said. Her beauty, her submissiveness, and her love for her owner had been legendary in their tight-knit underground community. Kingsley had whispered the tale to her one night as Søren, Nora’s former lover, played piano for a few of them in the music room. Before she knew it, tears streamed down her face in quiet rivulets at the thought of the pain Nora must have suffered leaving the only man she had ever or would ever belong to. From that night on, Sheridan stopped obeying Nora out of submission and started obeying her out of love.
Once Sheridan learned that Nora had been a submissive, she had begged her to teach her all the secrets. Nora had taught her how to stand, to kneel, how to keep her eyes lowered, when to speak, when to be silent. Sheridan loved the rules, the decorum and the protocol of their S&M community. Knowing she couldn’t meet Kingsley eyes until he signaled she could was even sexier than looking into those dark and dangerous depths.
“You look lovely in white, ma petite. It suits you.”
“Thank you, Sir.”
“Et moi?” he asked, tapping her under her chin so she could look at him.
Sheridan smiled. Kingsley was notoriously vain. Of course, he had every reason to be.
“You look amazing, Sir,” she said and meant every word.
“Would you like me beat you and fuck you tonight, my little ingénue?”
She heard Kingsley’s laugh a little.
Kingsley really had listened to every word of her story that night she jumped into his limo—listened and remembered.
“Promise,” she said.
“Such a wicked girl with such an innocent face...perhaps I can beat the wickedness out of you. Perhaps not. Mais...it is worth a try, no?”
“Worth a try, yes,” she said, staring at his shoes. “Sir.”
Kingsley reached out and laid a hand on her throat. She felt her pulse beating against his fingers. His hand roamed up to her face and his thumb traced her lips before pushing gently into her mouth. He pulled his thumb out and stepped away from her. He sat on the bed and leaned back on his hands. She turned to face him and he smiled at her. He tapped his lap and she knew exactly what to do.
On nervous feet, Sheridan walked to the bed. She crawled over Kingsley’s lap and rested her stomach on his thighs. She sighed with pleasure as his hand slid up and down the back of her legs. His fingers moved slowly gently...his touch so light it almost tickled. When he raised the back of her skirt, she tensed. He must have felt the sudden knot in her stomach because he took his hand away from her for a moment.
“I know your safe word, cherie. Be afraid if you so desire but never be afraid of me. Comprende?”
“Oui, Monsieur.” She did understand. She was always a little afraid when she let her secret side out to play. But she could trust Kingsley. He would no more rape her or injure her than Nora would.
Kingsley’s hand rested on her thigh again. He traced a path to her panties. He caressed her through the cotton and she panted at the memories of Rex’s hand on her skin. But Rex had taken off her panties that night before he’d touched her. She waited.
She tensed again as Kingsley began sliding her underwear off her hips and down her thighs. He pulled them off so slowly she shivered. He laid the white cotton panties on the center of her back and now it was his warm bare hand resting on her warm bare bottom. He pulled his hand back and brought it down hard. She gasped at the ferocity of the strike. Nora could hit hard but no woman could ever hit quite as hard as a man, especially one as strong as Kingsley. Again his hand came down and she yelped. Yelped—there was no other word for the embarrassing sound that came out of her with each impact. After half-a-dozen shockingly hard swats, Kingsley stopped abruptly. She sensed him leaning forward and felt his mouth caressing her burning flesh. A low moan escaped the back of her throat. Not even her own boyfriend ever kissed her here.
Kingsley pulled back and pushed her legs open a few inches. His hand slipped between her thighs and he slid one finger into her.
“He’s right...you are wet, Sheridan.”
Kingsley’s finger moved in all directions inside her. He went deep before pulling out and tracing the entrance to her body before pushing back inside again and making spiraling circles that opened her wider. He explored inside her, found secret places, deep corners that he pushed into until she flinched. If he didn’t stop touching her like this, she was going to come right on his finger.
“Up,” he ordered.
Sheridan stood up and waited with her eyes lowered as Kingsley came to his feet. He stood behind her and positioned her next to the bed. He bent her over so both hands were on the bed before he raised her left leg and put her knee on the mattress. It wasn’t a leather armchair like in her father’s office, but it was the same position. And Kingsley was behind her now opening his pants and putting on a condom. She took short shallow breaths to calm herself. This was what she wanted. This was who she was. She prayed Preston would understand that someday.
The tip of Kingsley’s cock now waited at the entrance to her body. He paused and she knew he was giving her time to safe out if she wanted. But although she wanted to want to stop...she didn’t want to stop. He pushed in slowly filling her one inch at a time. When he was fully embedded in her, he slapped her hard on her upper thigh. She gasped and contracted around him at the same time. He thrust and slapped again. With meticulous thrusts he moved inside her. She couldn’t believe in three years since meeting, this was the first time she and Kingsley had ever had sex. She’d wanted to, thought about it...but Kingsley, Juliette told her once, stopping sleeping with women younger than twenty-six once he turned forty. She was thrilled he would make an exception for her tonight.
Her thigh was on fire but the hottest fire was in the pit of her stomach. Kingsley brought his hand around her and found her clitoris. Now with short sharp thrusts he pushed into her again and again. Sheridan’s head dropped, her back bent, and she came hard with a guttural groan.
As soon as her climax faded, Kingsley’s slid out of her. He pulled her up, turned her around, and with shocking speed and strength pushed her against the wall, lifted her off the floor, and impaled himself in her again. She knew he hadn’t come while she’d been bent over the bed. That time had been for her. But this time, as his hips pumped hard into her, endlessly into her, she knew he fucked her only for himself.
As he thrust into her, she stared at the Windsor knot of his tie. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and bit down hard on the knot as she came a second time. Kingsley thrust even harder now, harder even than Rex ever thrust into her. It almost hurt but she never even considered asking him to slow down or stop. Preston made love to her like she was made of glass. He barely touched her and she barely felt anything. She didn’t mind the pain Kingsley gave her. The pain meant she was at least feeling something.
With a final thrust, Kingsley pushed in deep and came hard, gasping in her ear. Sheridan’s stomach clenched with desire. Even his gasps and moans had a French accent.
He lowered her down to the floor and let her breathe a few moments while he disposed of the condom. Her eyes closed, she leaned back against the wall, her hands pressing into her stomach. When she opened her eyes, Kingsley was standing in front of her. He unbuttoned the three buttons of his jacket and she saw black leather encircling his waist. With nimble fingers, he unbuckled his belt and pulled it off.
“Oh, God,” she breathed. She loved the belt. The only thing more erotic to her than men’s clothing was being beaten by an article of men’s clothing.
“Just ‘Sir’ will do,” Kingsley said. She laughed a little.
Kingsley reached out and grabbed her by the arm. He dragged her to the bed like a naughty child and nearly threw her across it. He pulled her by the ankles back to him and forced her to stand bent over the bed. He flipped her skirt up again and brought the belt down hard on her upper thighs. A bright light of pain flared in front of her eyes. In seared through her all the way to her feet and settled in her hips. Nora had taught her how to deal with pain this intense, how to breathe in it, breathe it out, swallow it whole and enjoy the burn the whole way down. She did it now as Kingsley brutalized her with his belt. She knew she’d be covered in welts and bruises tomorrow from her back to her knees. Already she relished the idea of staying in bed all day tomorrow recovering and masturbating. She’d tell Preston she had cramps and wanted to be left alone. Worked every time.
Finally the pain stopped as Kingsley dropped the belt on the bed by her head. She looked at it and resisted the urge to reach out and stroke the expensive leather. Kingsley rolled her over onto her back and straddled her at her hips. He ran his hands over her arms, shoulders, and breasts. She panted as he slipped a finger under the straps of the white tennis tank top.
“This dress...it does quite a bit for you. You wore it more than once with him, yes?”
“Yes, Sir. I had tennis lessons on Tuesdays and Mom and Dad always had meetings on Tuesdays. Rex came over a lot of Tuesdays.” She remembered waking up on Tuesday mornings already aroused simply by what day of the week it was.
“What else did he do to you while you wore your tennis clothes?”
Sheridan blushed. What hadn’t Rex done to her while she was in her little white tennis skirt and tank top? He’d spanked her and slapped her. He’d fucked her in every possible position. He’d even taken her anally once bent over her father’s desk. He’d gone down on her, made her go down on him, took pictures of her, filmed them together...
In halting words and with much blushing, she told Kingsley about that one Tuesday night when Rex had found out that her parents would be gone until very late. He’d come over and without even saying a word to her first, fucked her from behind while he slid his hands under her tank top and pinched and caressed her nipples. She came hard and he came even harder, filling her fifteen-year-old body with his semen. He’d pulled out of her then and sat in her father’s armchair across from the desk. He’d made her stand just in front of him, the back of her legs against the hard wood of the desk.
Sheridan told the whole story, every humiliating detail, and Kingsley listened.
“Your friend, he was an inspired ephebophile, wasn’t he?”
Sheridan laughed. “He was, yes, Sir.”
“I rarely countenance taking a girl so young, but I must say I do approve of his methods.”
Kingsley left her laying on her back on the bed. She stared up at the ceiling and wondered if Kingsley was actually planning on doing what she thought he was. She looked up when Kingsley brought a chair over and sat it before the end of the bed. He snapped his fingers and pointed to the floor in front of the wrought-iron footboard. Sheridan walked over to where he’d pointed and stood in submissive silence. She was less than an arm’s length away from where Kingsley sat in his chair.
“He made you hold your skirt up?” Kingsley asked.
“Do it for me now.”
Sheridan took a deep breath and then lifted the front of her tennis skirt. Just as Rex had that night, Kingsley reached out and pushed her legs open a few inches. And also as Rex had done, Kingsley inserted a vibrator into her. Suddenly she turned fifteen-years-old again, not quite believing Rex had put an object in her. He turned it on and her whole body had jolted with the shock and pleasure. He’d ordered her to hold her skirt up so he could watch it in her. She remembered gripping the fabric in the knot of her fist as she pressed her hand hard into her stomach. Her hips twitched and undulated as Kingsley moved the vibrator inside her, in and out of her. Sheridan tensed and came with a gasp. But just like Rex, Kingsley didn’t pull the vibrator out. He left it in and kept moving it in her.
“How many times did he make you come?” Kingsley asked.
“Three, Sir,” Sheridan said, gasping. She remembered this feeling—the pleasure that turned to pain before turning back into pleasure. She gritted her teeth and breathed hard.
“Relax, Sheridan,” Kingsley ordered.
“Trying, Sir.” She sucked in air and leaned her full weight against the bed frame. She pushed her hips out and the discomfort began to change back to pleasure. Kingsley reached for her leg and put her foot up onto his thigh. He pulled the vibrator out to tease her clitoris with it before pushing it back into her again. With one hand still holding the front of her skirt up, Sheridan put her other hand on Kingsley’s shoulder to steady herself. She felt so open in this position. Kingsley moved the vibrator in circles and pushed it hard into the front wall of her vagina. Sheridan came again, flinching so hard Kingsley laughed at her.
“That was two, cherie. Shall we meet his record? Or beat it?”
“If we beat it, I might not survive, Sir.”
Kingsley shrugged. “There are worse ways to die.”
Sheridan closed her eyes and began her deep breathing again. There was only one part of the day when she wasn’t thinking about sex and that was those few seconds right after having an orgasm. She was living those few seconds right now. She felt sore and spent, just like she had that night with Rex. But he hadn’t let up and he was an amateur compared to Kingsley. Again she waited for the pain to turn back to pleasure. Memories of Nora flooded her mind. Nora did this to her too, tortured her with pleasure. Nora used toys on her all the time, but it was her dextrous fingers that brought her the most pleasure. Nora knew every secret of her body and how to touch and tease her until she nearly fainted from the ferocity of her orgasms. And since Nora was petite like she was, Nora could fit her whole hand into her, something Preston with his scruples wouldn’t do and something Kingsley with his very large strong hands couldn’t do.
Thinking of Nora wrist deep in her was all it took to bring her body back to bliss. She gripped Kingsley’s shoulder—relishing even as she orgasmed the rich feel of the fabric—and came with a desperate gasp.
Sheridan panted with relief when Kingsley finally pulled the vibrator out of her. He dropped it onto the floor and picked up her limp body, slinging her over his shoulder. He carried her to the bed and threw her down flat on her back. He left her on the bed while he walked to the wall and grabbed a knotted length of silk rope. Returning to the bed he quickly and efficiently tied her legs up and open at the knees. He cuffed her wrists and bound them to the headboard.
He pushed her skirt up again and shoved three fingers in her.
“Mon Dieu,” he said, nearly laughing the words. “You’re soaking my sheets, Sheridan.”
She blushed again but knew it was true. She could hear how wet she was as he turned his hand in her. She could feel it on her thighs. In less than an hour Kingsley had inflicted five orgasms on her. Of course she was soaking wet.
With his free hand Kingsley pushed her white tank top up to her neck, exposing her breasts. She felt suddenly shy. Women were judged by their breasts more than any other part of their body. She’d always refused to do nude scenes in every play and every television show she’d ever been in and not just because she didn’t want to have to deal with make-up artists trying to paint over her bruises, but because she didn’t want someone judging her for something that has so little to do with her talent.
She looked up at Kingsley who was staring down at her with a question in his eyes.
“I’m sorry, Sir,” she said. “I know I’m not very impressive in this area.”
Her petite stature didn’t just affect her height—she was also nothing but an A-cup. Nora was far more voluptuous than she as was Juliette and nearly every other woman in their community. She’d thought about getting implants but Nora had talked her out of them telling her that implants could reduce her pleasure and what she felt was far more important than what she had. She wasn’t shy around Nora though. Nora was a woman and understood body insecurity. But Kingsley was all man.
“Ma petite, you have some of the most beautiful breasts I have ever seen,” Kingsley said, running his hand over them gently. “Elegant even. And as you know, I am a connoisseur of women.”
She swallowed and smiled. Kingsley bent and took a nipple into his mouth. She sighed and arched up. His other hand still moved inside her, prodding her back to pleasure again. His mouth trailed from one breast to the other. He flicked her nipples with his tongue, sucked lightly on the sensitive tips, before covering her entire petite breast with his whole mouth before sitting up again.
Kingsley opened his pants and pulled himself out. He pushed slowly into her and she moaned softly as he penetrated her. Gripping her hips as Rex had that night on her father’s desk, Kingsley thrust into her. Using his thumbs, he massaged her clitoris with stunning expertise. She watched him surreptitiously as he let himself go inside her. He was so handsome in his suit, so masculine. She wondered what he looked like under his clothes, under the suit. What did his broad chest look like under the white shirt? She’d heard he had old bullet wounds that she was dying to see. What did his shoulders look like? Were they as broad as his suits made them seem? He could do amazing things with his powerful hips. Were they as sexy underneath his perfectly fitted trousers as she imagined they were? Suddenly she realized there was a part of her that wanted to see Kingsley naked. This was something new. She had a fetish, a fetish for men’s clothing. She never wanted to see men naked...but now...
“Sir, please,” she begged.
“Tell me, cherie. What is it you want?”
“You. Take your shirt off, please.”
“That is very dangerous, ma petite. Women fall in love with me when I take my shirt off.”
She laughed a little and shook her head. “Please, Sir. I just need to see you.”
He stopped thrusting but stayed inside her. He pulled off the jacket, yanked off the black tie, and unbuttoned his cuffs. The sight of him with his hands to his wrists nearly made her come again. He unbuttoned the shirt and slowly slid it off his shoulders and tossed it to the floor. Sheridan stared at his chest while he began to move slowly inside her again. He really did have a beautiful body, especially for a man in his mid-forties. His arms so muscular, his stomach taut and hard, his chest broad...the only flaw was no flaw at all. She counted six scars on him—the bullet entry wounds. She’d heard that less than half of the bullet wounds came from his years in the French Foreign Legion. The other wounds were supposedly the work of a vengeful husband.
She realized suddenly she loved looking at his male body. Even without the shirt, the suit jacket, the tie he was still profoundly attractive. Kingsley kept thrusting. He leaned over her so his body was closer to her. She raised her head and kissed the center of his chest. After the kiss she couldn’t believe she’d done it. Even Preston she’d made keep his clothes on during sex, only letting him undress when it was time to sleep. Her fetish wouldn’t allow her to become aroused around naked men. But Kingsley was half-naked and she couldn’t take her eyes off him.
Sheridan felt a knot of need forming in her stomach again. The knot tightened around her and lifted her. She pulled against her wrist restraints, arched her back, and climaxed hard enough it made Kingsley swear softly in French. He thrust a few more times, gripped her thighs with bruising strength, and came.
Still inside her he reached above her head and untied her wrists.
“Touch me,” he ordered.
Sheridan reached out and laid her hands on his biceps. She ran her hands up and down his arms, across his chest and down his flat stomach. She let her fingers linger on the old scars before moving onto his ribcage, his collarbone...
“I can’t believe it,” she said. “I didn’t think I would ever want to do this.”
“A fetish can be a beautiful prison,” Kingsley said, gently caressing her cheek. “It can give you one pleasure while denying you so many others. It is good you can do this...your sexuality is starting to open up again..”
Kingsley untied her legs and pulled out of her. He straightened her clothes and left her sitting on the side of the bed. He came back to her with a glass of water. She smiled up at him before she took a drink. He spread her legs wide while she drank and with a warm wet cloth, washed her own fluid off her. He took the glass away from her and cupped her chin in his hands.
“Good girl,” he said and she heard Kingsley’s voice and the retreating echo of Rex’s. “I’m very proud of you.”
Sheridan leaned forward and rested her cheek against Kingsley’s warm hard stomach. She wanted to fall asleep against his naked body and wake up wrapped in his naked arms...she’d never wanted that before with any man. She wanted it now. Maybe Kingsley had been right three years ago. Maybe there really wasn’t anything wrong with her.
“I’m proud of me too.”