Chapter 12 Victoria
VICTORIA
PLAYLIST: DON’T BLAME ME – TAYLOR SWIFT
Isee her red cheeks and hear the consuming laughter that goes straight into my chest. I cannot tell what made me take her to the most private thing I own. I have never taken anyone to Glenmere. It is my hideout, my safe space, my retreat from the world.
But I want her there. In me is a longing to introduce her to the world she might otherwise never encounter, a world I secretly hope she will fall for. Not my lifestyle, but my world.
Now, watching her not only overcome her fear but let in the feeling of freedom that comes with it, illuminates my heart.
It takes over an hour for the tension to leave her body, and we’re almost at the height of Edinburgh. I do not let go of her hand the entire time. I cannot recall ever holding hands with someone that long—and I am not opposed to it either.
“Look,” I tell her through the headset and pull her hand over to me, pointing down to the illuminated city under us. She leans over as much as the belt allows her.
“Edinburgh,” I say. “Wonderful bookshops and a historic place.”
“I always wanted to go,” she says. “I once read about a wonderful second-hand and antiquarian bookstore. I think it was called McNaughtan’s.”
I smile as I speak to my headset, “Simon, please coordinate a stop in Edinburgh tomorrow afternoon before we head back. We have a bookstore to visit.”
She looks sternly at me and shakes her head, but I simply mouth, ‘One day’.
She rolls her eyes and looks back outside.
Half an hour later, Simon prepares for landing. Beneath us, the grounds are in darkness, except for the house itself and the driveway.
I have been flying with Simon many times now, at night as much as daytime, and he knows Glenmere like no one else, just as we got to know each other over the years.
I usually fly alone, therefore I have the time for some chatting—not today, however.
Today, I simply wish to look at Mia and her emotional rawness.
We land on the Manor grounds, and Simon gives her and me a hand to climb out of the helicopter. I slip him a key from my coat, the one for the guest house.
“Welcome to Glenmere,” I say to Mia, who stares at the brickstone manor house like she is dreaming.
It is beautiful at night. Clear view of the stars, almost no light pollution except for this three-storey brick wall mansion with Victorian windows, lit by only wallwashers.
“Come,” I say, grasping her hand, aiming to walk with her, but she just stands there, wide eyes, a half-smile on her face, lips slightly parted.
Her eyes trail from the house to me to our hands, and she pulls me close and into a heated kiss. Her free hand softly cups my face while the helicopter rotors whirr down into a gentle hum that becomes the peaceful silence of the night in the Scottish Highlands.
A night that could not have been any more perfect.
“Thank you,” she whispers against my lips before she lets go and walks up the pathway leading to the entrance. She turns back to me and laughs before she spins with her arms wide and throws her head back.
I simply watch her. I have seen many people blossom at my events, but what I'm witnessing right now is something entirely different.
When she stops and notices that I watch her instead of following, she wrestles for one second with herself before she grins and curtsies.
I have to admit that I have rarely felt more alive than right this moment.
“Any more of that and I’ll send that video to my friend at the Royal Opera,” I call towards her as I follow her. She giggles.
Gravel crunches underneath our feet as we walk up to the entrance together. When we reach it, I stop for a single moment.
“This here is as personal as it gets,” I tell her. “I have taken no one here, ever. Not even Henry has been here.”
“Why would you take me here?” she asks with wide eyes in total disbelief.
“Because you are special,” I say—and her cheeks blush so beautifully.
I open the door and turn on the lights. The manor might be from a different time, but I had a very special friend, an architect bring it up to the most modern standard there is. Some may call me old, and in some cases, I am, but not when it comes to living standards.
She walks in behind me, her mouth half open by now.
“This is unbelievable,” she whispers as she takes in the entrance hall, her eyes darting in every possible direction.
“Like I am stepping into one of my novels,” she says, and her fingers glide over a wall to the left.
“Wait until you see the library,” I say. “It is quite extensive.”
“There is a library?” she asks and spins around.
“Yes,” I say, “This way, Duchess of Greenwich.”
Her heartfelt laugh hums from the walls into my chest, as she picks up the ball, nods and walks like a proper lady.
I open the library for her, massive double doors that unveil my father's vast book collection.
I set the weekender down, take my coat off, and sit on one of the leather sofas by the windows. During the day, they allow a wonderful view of the grounds.
Mia is consumed by the books. My eyes linger on her wonderful bottom as she stretches to reach for a book in one of the upper shelves.
She opens it and holds it up to her face to scent it. I have never seen anyone with her devotion to books before.
“Which one is it?” I ask.
“Dumas,” she says. “Count of Monte Cristo—yep, first English edition from 1846.”
“You can read that tomorrow,” I say. “Right now, I want you to come here, kneel between my legs.”
She glances at me with the book hiding her face, only her eyes peering over it at me.
I draw up an eyebrow.
“You know you don’t have to,” I say, because I figured by now she needs reassurance every step of the way. “But I would like you to.”
She lowers the book, closes it and places it onto the black wooden table between us.
She slowly takes off her coat and places it carefully onto the armrest of the sofa to my right.
Only then does she walk over to me. She sinks onto her knees, between my open legs, rests her hands palms up on her thighs, and her eyes wander down to the floor.
“Such a good little girl you are,” I say, and brush over her hair—I am testing the waters. Her face becomes red in an instant.
“Would you like me to teach you what good girls do to please their mistress?” I ask.
She nods, eyes locked to the floor. My core awakens at the mere sight of her.
“First of all, good girls do whatever they’re told to do. You have been really good today, and therefore you will get a reward,” I say.
She bites her bottom lip, and I add praise kink to the list of her traits.
“Secondly, good girls say “please, Mistress” when they want something; and “thank you, Mistress” whenever they get something, do you understand?”
“I do, thank you, Mistress,” she says, and a fire is lit in my core.
“Thirdly, really good girls use their safe words when a boundary is crossed instead of trying to please their Mistress. I am only pleased within the boundaries of total consent. Tell me two words, one for a warning that tells me we are close to reaching a boundary, and a second that tells me there is a hard limit.”
She shifts in front of me. Decision making—I got distracted; I should have known and acted accordingly. So I add, “Would you like me to give you two words?”
“Yes, please, Mistress.”
My mouth tugs into a smirk. She is exquisite.
“Soft limit, Goblin. Hard limit, Dragon,” I say, it's the first thing that comes to my mind, because I know she likes to read fantasy books. It will be something she can easily remember. “Repeat.”
“Soft limit, Goblin. Hard limit, Dragon,” she says.
“Good,” I say as I take my neckerchief off and fold it into a small band. I lean forward to blindfold her with it, well aware of how close my breasts are to her face.
As I make the second knot, I take in the scent of her hair for a moment. Lavender and vanilla—when I let go, I do so with a soft brush over her cheek. It is the anchor I set for her to return to that earlier state of liberation.
She needs a moment to calm down and sit with the unknown to get accustomed to it.
I lean back and watch her shift, tense, breathe heavier and finally calm down.
Only then do I get up. I walk over to the weekender bag, open it with a loud zip. She is supposed to hear and guess. It is all about the game of anticipation.
I take the leather handcuffs and a flogger from it. I have no equipment here because I never bring anyone here, so I had to plan for every scenario in advance.
I walk back to her and throw everything onto the leather sofa. She flinches from the sounds.
I sit down on the sofa again.
“Arms up.”
She lifts them hesitantly. I let my hands wander carefully around her waist, keeping myself from grasping lower to her wonderfully round arse.
I push her pullover up and throw it onto the floor. “You may take the arms down,” I say, and they shoot down in front of her belly.
“No hiding,” I tell her. “Hands on the thighs. I wish to see you.”
She does so very, very slowly. I see her fists clench.
“Do you remember your safe words?” I ask.
“Yes, I do, Goblin and Dragon, Mistress.”
“Good,” I say, and I take in her naked form. She wears a very basic bra, and I already know what I will get her next.
I take the flogger and caress it over her shoulder, down to her chest. The leather is cold, and she has no idea what I hold in my hand, so she is twitching slightly from the sensation.
I repeat the same movement several times on each shoulder until she relaxes them.
“How does that feel for you?” I ask.
“Unusual, but good,” she says.
“I’m using a flogger. It is made from leather and can be used more softly, like this—“ I brush over her shoulder again. “Or more forcefully, like this—” I slap it a little harsher at her side and ribcage.
She gasps slightly and shifts.
“Does it still feel good?”
“Yes,” she says.
I knew it.
“Stand up,” I say, harsher. And she gets up immediately. Such a pleasure to watch.
“Show me your wrists,” I say, and she holds them up.