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; Ishould have known and acted accordingly. So I add, “Would you like me to give you two words?”
