“How did we get in here?” I ask.
“You crawled,” she says. “On this leash.” And she grasps a chain from the nightstand next to her.
I flush, horrified.
“I have never seen anything comparable,” she says. “I have also never taken anyone into my bed,” she adds. “I think I can get used to it.”
I laugh away what she just said, because I don’t know how to answer it.
“Let us have breakfast,” she says and gets up, wrapping herself in a silk morning robe.
“Can I shower first?” I ask.
“Say please,” she says smugly.
I get onto my knees at the foot of the bed, my thighs slightly parted, with my eyes locked down.
“May I please shower first, Mistress?”
There is a moment of silence where my heart pounds so loud I fear it might be heard in the entirety of London.
Her fingers lift my chin.
“You may, Princess,” she says, her mouth tugged into a wide grin. “But no touching yourself. I am laying out clothes for you.”
She lets go of me, and I stare after her.
Lying out clothes for me.
Did she really just say that?
I somehow feel like a little girl with her mommy picking out clothes for her, and the worst thing about it is that I like it. I don’t have to give it one more thought. I can go shower and enjoy it without a single thought about what I am going to wear or how I look.
And so I do.
When I am done, I dry myself, wrap my hair in a towel and return to the bedroom.
Victoria looks at me in my towel. She is already dressed, with her hair done and makeup on.
How the hell did she do that in such a short time?
“Dry your hair,” she says, “And come back naked.”
I just do it. No thinking. Just doing it.
My hair is a wild, fluttery mane when I come back out, the towel around my body falling to the ground.
“Put that on,” she says, handing me clothes, and while I do, she gets a hairbrush from the bathroom.
She has gotten something very fitting for me, the bra, the pants, the pullover, everything feels like it was made for me, and I secretly think that she organised it last night when I apparently was somewhere between total ecstasy and passed out.
“Kneel on the bed, back to me,” she orders me, and I do.
She brushes through my hair, and I can’t believe this is really happening.
“We need to do something about this hair,” she says. “I’ll have my stylist and hairdresser come over tomorrow.”
“I need to get back to my cats,” I say.
