“He let you go to London alone? Unprotected? With no money?”
“Yes—and no. I had money from my mother. Settled on me by her family. That is how I began my business.”
But I do not want to keep speaking of the past. The past depresses me.
And I can feel that Alfred is hard again.
More than anything, I want to reassert my dominance. Even more now that I am reminded of who I once was here—in Trescott.
And I have an idea of how I might do so.
I stand up and walk to my bureau.
“What are you doing?”
“You will see.”
There I find what I am looking for—a small bottle of oil.
I bring it to the bed.
“Take off your smalls.”
He looks up at me—and I see dismay and desire in equal measure.
“We’ve relaxed enough, Alfred.”
He obeys.
I let a small amount of oil leak into my hand. And then I begin to coat his cock in it, swirling my fingers up from the shaft to the head.
“Christ,” he swears when I repeat the motion. “What is that?”
“Oil. For sexual purposes. Did you not read of it in your green book?”
He shakes his head, and I stroke him.
“Many enjoy it,” I clarify.
“I can understand why,” he murmurs and then grabs my hand. “I’ll spend. It feels too good.”
“Not yet.”
I stop stroking him and move to my knees. Then without looking at him, I mount him but in reverse.
“Annabelle,” he says, his breath catching. “Are we—are you going to bed me like this?”
I don’t answer. I just move.
“Oh my God,” he groans. “Fuck.”
He brings a hand to my arse and kneads the flesh there. A shiver runs through me.
“Do you understand, Alfred,” I say, as if he is not affecting me, as if I am only doing this forhisedification, “that the whole world is about to know that you are mine?”
He has both his hands on my hips now, but he is not in control. I am.
“Yes,” he gasps. “The whole world will know that I am your whore.”
