“You’re not a little girl anymore. You’re not even a teenager anymore. What do you think is happening?”
She looked down at the money, at Kingsley in her bed. First Lady of the Underground?
“It’s going to happen soon, isn’t it? Like really soon? Me and Søren?”
Kingsley only gave her an enigmatic smile.
“Open the last box.”
She picked up the smallest box and removed the lid. Inside on a blanket of black silk lay a single silver key.
“What’s the key to?”
Kingsley scooted close to her and put his mouth at her ear. She hated when he got this close to her, hated how much she liked it.
“It’s the key to the kingdom.”
“Which kingdom?”
“Mine.”
“What do I do with it?”
“You’ll find out.”
Kingsley crawled off her bed and pulled on his jacket.
“The car is picking you up today at three,” he said, and when she attempted to object he raised his hand to silence her. “You’re the collared submissive of the most venerated man in the Underground. He owns you now. Your opinion is no longer the overriding factor in the decisions that affect you. Sam will pick you up tomorrow. You will do what you are told and you will like it. Tu comprends?”
Eleanor glared at him through narrowed eyes.
“Je comprend.”
“Your French is improving. Now let’s work on your attitude.”
“King, you’re like the big brother I never had. And never wanted.”
Kingsley opened her bedroom door.
“Don’t worry, chérie,” he said in his most infuriating French accent, “someday you’ll have me. We both know you already want me.”
“I don’t want this money.” She held up the envelope. “I didn’t earn it.”
“No,” he agreed almost solemnly. “But believe me, in his bed, you will.”
She tossed a pillow at his retreating back and he slammed the door behind him. Kingsley might have a point about her being an unsubmissive submissive. Not that she’d admit that to him. She collapsed back into bed and tried not to think about the money, the key and the shopping trip. How much more would her life change once she and Søren were lovers and a real couple?
Her alarm went off at 8:30 a.m. and Eleanor dragged herself out of bed. She didn’t have her first class until ten o’clock, but she had to take her birth control pill at the same time every day. As soon as Søren had declared he couldn’t wait much longer, she’d gone into planning mode—planning not to get knocked up. She focused on that aspect of going on birth control, the “I am not going to get pregnant” part. If she thought about the “Søren is never going to have children” part she might have had second thoughts.
She managed to give psych class at least half her attention even with her ass still smarting from Kingsley’s spankings. They were studying the Stanford prison experiments—the infamous study where Philip Zimbardo created a fake prison in the basement of a classroom building and filled it with volunteer guards and volunteer prisoners. Fascinating how quickly people took on the roles that they were assigned. Even in a fake prison, it took only one day for the guards to start abusing the prisoners and the prisoners to sink into rebellion or depression. The guards and prisoners internalized their roles so quickly that they had to call off the experiment after only six days. Some of the guards, heretofore normal university students, turned into sadists with the prisoners. The word sadist had gotten her attention.
She wondered if stuff like this happened in the BDSM community that Kingsley ruled. Did the dominants dominate because they’d taken on that role? Did the submissives submit for the same reason? Which came first? The submissive or the submission? Maybe she would write her term paper on role-play in BDSM. What if someone put a flogger in her hand, pointed her at a submissive and was told to discipline her? She would, of course. And she’d enjoy it, although she knew she was a submissive, not a dominant. Had to be a submissive, right? She loved sitting at Søren’s feet, obeying his orders, getting disciplined by him, and dreamed of the night when he’d beat her the first time. Still … if someone did put a flogger in her hand, she wouldn’t complain.
The Rolls-Royce pulled up in front of her dorm promptly at three. She’d hoped to find Søren waiting for her, or at least Kingsley. Sam, even? A night with Sam would make a grand birthday. But only a note and a box waited for her in the backseat.
The tag on the box read Open Me.
She opened the box and pulled out a stopwatch.
A stopwatch?
She picked up the note. On the envelope it said, Do not open until you are sitting in Q31.
What the absolute f**k? Q31?
She tucked the watch into her coat pocket. The car dropped her in front of a concert hall. Concert hall?
She found seat Q31 in the balcony. She sat and pulled the stopwatch and the note from her pocket. Down on the stage, an orchestra tuned up while the conductor flipped through some sheet music. Wincing at the discord coming from the stage, she opened the note and started to read.
Happy birthday, Little One. I have two gifts for you on this most blessed of days. First, look down onto the stage. This is one of the orchestras I play with when they need a pianist. In exchange for my services, they’ve kindly agreed to play a specifically chosen piece for you on your birthday.
The piece will begin as soon as the orchestra is tuned. When the conductor raises his baton, start the stopwatch. Listen to the music, but pay attention to the watch. My first gift to you is this—shortly after the five-minute mark (five minutes and eight seconds if the orchestra stays in time) you will know what I felt the moment I saw you the first time. I’m not as gifted as you at expressing my feelings with words. Perhaps the music will say what I can’t.