The Queen. Tiffany Reisz
and paused when a book in the C’s caught her eye. She pulled it from the shelf and held it in her hand.
Through the Looking-Glass, and What Alice Found There by Lewis Carroll.
Elle had her own copy of this book back at Kingsley’s. Søren had given it to her when she was nineteen. He’d brought the book home with him from Rome. Back then she’d been too young to wonder how a priest under a vow of poverty had gotten the money to pay for such an expensive early edition of this book. When she’d gotten older and had learned to ask more questions, he’d told her that he had a wealthy friend in Rome, a madam of a brothel who’d worked all her life as a dominatrix to European businessmen, royalty and clergy. Whenever he returned to Rome he visited with her. And although Elle had never met his friend Magdalena, Magdalena seemed to know Elle.
Why me? Elle had asked him when Søren admitted the book had been given to him by Magdalena to give to Elle.
Søren had answered, Because a long time ago she looked into my future and saw you. So she says, anyway.
What’s my future? I’ll go through the looking glass?
She says you are like Alice in the Looking-Glass world. First a pawn and then a queen.
Was that what had happened? She’d stepped through a mirror into a world where everything was backward—where she was Kingsley’s domme and not Søren’s slave? Where she was a dominant and not a submissive? Where she was a queen and no longer a little girl?
Elle put the book back on the shelf. No reading right now. No remembering. Queen or not, she had work to do. She took the computer right next to the wall and started cutting. Today’s project was her last project before her book went out on submission with editors. Her agent had told her that her book needed trimming. Less was more and Elle knew she was right. Elle highlighted a scene consigned to the chopping block and hit Delete.
It hurt, of course. She might have winced a little between highlighting and deleting, but it was also empowering. She felt like a god of her own world in a way. She created their reality—what her characters ate and drank and how they lived and loved and fucked and if they did something she didn’t want them to do then all she had to do was...poof...delete...gone...
Just. Like. That.
She wished real life came with a delete key. But if she could change her reality, would she? Maybe. She knew she’d never truly be free of Søren as long as she remembered everything that had happened between them, from their first meeting at Sacred Heart two weeks before her sixteenth birthday to that last awful night when he’d been so angry he’d scared her. But it wasn’t that night that she wanted to be free of. The bad memories gave her the strength to keep following this path. It was all the good nights that held her hostage, her memories of beautiful kink, passionate sex, lying in bed after Søren had spent his pain and passion on her, talking about everything and nothing until she fell asleep against his chest and woke up with her collar locked away in the rosewood box until the next time he would make her his. Too many good memories. They were like links in a chain that bound her to the past.
Why couldn’t she push Delete on those memories and make them go away like she did the scenes in her book that slowed the story down?
Maybe she could.
Elle opened a new blank document on her computer screen and stared at the blinking cursor.
What to write...what to write... What memory did she most want to rid herself of? Which night haunted her more than any other, weighed on her more than any other? Impossible to pick only one, but she had to start somewhere.
She thought of the book again—Through the Looking-Glass. Her favorite part of it had always been the “Jabberwocky” poem, especially when Søren read it to her at night in his poshest and most entertaining English accent. Some evenings he’d read to her before they adjourned to his bedroom for kink and sex and on those nights it was torture to have to sit and wait while he read when all she wanted from him was pain and fucking.
But there were other nights, special nights, private nights she would tell no one about even on pain of death...
A memory hit her so hard in the stomach she almost whimpered aloud. God, it hurt to remember. But wouldn’t it feel good to forget? Not good, but powerful? She could show those memories who was boss. She was god of her own world.
She knew right where to start.
Elle put her fingers to the keys and started to type.
It was a winter’s night in Ordinary Time, but this was no ordinary night.
Ordinary Time
IT WAS A winter’s night in Ordinary Time, but this was no ordinary night.
First of all, He had summoned her to His home and no ordinary night began with such a summons.
Second, it had snowed last night and all the world for as far as she could see had turned white. She inhaled Him, for He smelled like snow and nighttime and chimney smoke in the distance. Only He smelled like both winter and fire at the same time. Only He was so cold and yet could make her burn.
The roads were safe to pass by late afternoon and when the winter evening turned inexorably into the winter night she drove to His home. The snow crunched under her boots as she walked to His door and she paused long enough to gaze up at the black sky, which was so white with stars it was as if the snow had fallen up as well as down.
When she walked through the kitchen door she found a box on the table and that’s when she knew the third reason it would be no ordinary night.
On the box was a card with two words written on it.
“Wear me.”
Elle took the box up the narrow wooden stairs to the bathroom. Inside it she found a nightgown, creamy off-white muslin with lace accents on the innocent puff sleeves. It was a child’s nightgown, not a woman’s.
No.
She closed her eyes as hot tears burned them, scalding her cheeks. Not this. She didn’t want this.
But she did. She did want it but she didn’t want to want it.
And that’s why He’d summoned her here tonight. Because when she wanted something she didn’t want to want, that was when He wanted her the most.
It was her own fault. Two weeks ago she’d been at a private party with Him and their king. A couple had entered the party, a couple she’d never met before—an older man with silver hair, a younger woman with skin fresh as March dew on rosebuds. She’d watched them with interest, watched the older man taking her short pink coat off her as if she were too young to unfasten her own buttons and instead of answering when he asked questions, the younger woman had nodded, wide-eyed and innocent. When they walked she held on to his hand with both of her hands as if she feared the crowd would separate them, and she would never see him again. In a room reserved for the private party they all attended, the older man did the talking and the younger woman clung to his side. When he sat in a chair she sat in his lap, her arms wound round his neck, his large hand absentmindedly rubbing her lower back as if soothing a fussy child. And once he kissed her on the cheek and told her she was being a very good girl. That’s when the younger woman spoke the only three words anyone would hear her speak that night.
Thank you, Daddy.
The king warned her if she kept watching the couple so intently she would be punished for it. One of the rules of such gatherings was “Don’t stare. We’re all freaks here.” But stare she did. The thirtysomething woman transformed herself into a little