“I know. Awesome night.” Griffin gave a little wistful sigh. “Things went to hell shortly after that though. Nora dumped your priest and then she just disappeared on us. When she came back, everything was different.”
“She came back and started working as a dominatrix, right?” Michael knew a little of Nora’s story. Father S had given him the basics. He’d met Nora when she was fifteen and still just Eleanor. Love at first sight. Training at eighteen. Consummation when she turned twenty. Seven blissful years together before she left him for reasons unknown. Then she came back and joined forces with Kingsley, who turned her into not just a domme, a female dominant, but a dominatrix—a female dominant who charged for her services. A lot.
Griffin lowered his voice as though he was telling a ghost story around a campfire. “When she was a sub, your priest kept her on a pretty short leash. She only ever wore white at the club. And he only let her wear her hair down in private. And almost no makeup, either. She wasn’t allowed to speak unless he gave her express permission.”
Michael tried and failed to picture Nora as Eleanor wearing all white, no makeup, her long, gorgeous wavy black hair pinned up and hidden away. And not talking? Nora silent? So weird.
“The first night she came to The 8th Circle as a dominatrix, I was there,” Griffin said. “You can’t even imagine the shock on everyone’s face when they realized this smoking-hot new dominatrix wearing red leather on Kingsley’s arm was Søren’s ex-submissive. Once they did, it got ugly.”
“Why?” Michael asked, trying to picture the scene.
“They only knew her as a submissive, and there she was all decked out like a domme, trying to be tough. Even the submissives laughed at her.”
“Poor Nora,” Michael said. “What did she do?”
A smile crossed Griffin’s face, a smile that sent a thrill of something down Michael’s spine.
“You know how they say if a guy gets sent to prison and he doesn’t want to become the new bitch, he’s gotta find the biggest guy in the place and beat the hell out of him?”
“Right.” He’d seen movies with that plotline.
“There was this masochist at The 8th Circle named Trent. He was to masochists what Søren is to sadists. His nickname was Unbreakable. Your priest probably could have broken him, but Trent only let women top him. Anyway, Nora goes right up to him and asks him if he wants to play. He said yes and then tried to spit in her face.”
“Holy shit. What happened?”
Griffin laughed, low and throaty, and Michael suddenly felt the need to excuse himself for a few minutes. Instead he grabbed a pillow and covered his lap with it.
“Nora ducked. That woman’s got killer reflexes. She came up and slapped him so hard his nose bled. Then things got really interesting. She broke him. In one night. He safed out, started crying. She sent that big masochistic motherfucker to the hospital. After that, she owned The 8th Circle. No one ever questioned her dominant credentials again.”
Michael looked up at the ceiling. What on earth was he getting into? He didn’t know, but he suddenly couldn’t wait to fall at Nora’s feet and do anything and everything she told him to. Wearing bruises she gave him would be an honor.
Griffin stretched out his long tanned legs and crossed them at the ankles.
“Trent worshipped the ground she walked on after that. We all did,” Griffin said and Michael saw a shadow of something cross Griffin’s eyes. “Except Søren, of course. Those two were at war after that. But only because he wanted her back more than ever.”
“Can you blame him?”
Griffin said nothing at first and Michael saw all the fire and fun momentarily leave Griffin’s face.
“No. I can’t.” The spark came back in Griffin’s eyes. “Anyway, the domme training you is a real, live legend. Cool, right?”
“Very cool,” Michael said. “Can’t wait for tonight.”
“She won’t get you until sunset. She’s all about atmosphere and the mind-fuck. So you’ve got a couple hours. What do you want to do?”
Michael knew exactly what he wanted to do. He moved to the middle of the bed and faced Griffin.
“Tell me more about Nora.”
Michael listened in awe as Griffin regaled him with story after story about Nora’s legendary exploits as a dominatrix. He couldn’t believe some of her clients were so famous, so powerful. It made him feel a little better that so many men the world looked up to were sexual submissives just like him. Time passed so quickly in Griffin’s company that Michael barely noticed the room darkening as the sun sunk lower and lower in the sky. He couldn’t recall ever having so much fun actually talking to somebody. He hated talking. Or thought he hated it. With Griffin, however, things he never thought he’d like—answering personal questions, showing his art off, talking—he discovered he enjoyed. Griffin was a good two or three inches taller than him, had at least forty pounds of pure muscle on him and was a dominant. So why did Michael feel so safe around him?
“So if she ever gets arrested again,” Griffin concluded, “they have to call the paddywagon and get police backup since it’s on her permanent record that she can get out of handcuffs so easily.”
“That’s amazing. Does Father S—” Michael started but a knock on the door interrupted his question. He turned around and saw Griffin’s British butler standing in the doorway.
“She came back and started working as a dominatrix, right?” Michael knew a little of Nora’s story. Father S had given him the basics. He’d met Nora when she was fifteen and still just Eleanor. Love at first sight. Training at eighteen. Consummation when she turned twenty. Seven blissful years together before she left him for reasons unknown. Then she came back and joined forces with Kingsley, who turned her into not just a domme, a female dominant, but a dominatrix—a female dominant who charged for her services. A lot.
Griffin lowered his voice as though he was telling a ghost story around a campfire. “When she was a sub, your priest kept her on a pretty short leash. She only ever wore white at the club. And he only let her wear her hair down in private. And almost no makeup, either. She wasn’t allowed to speak unless he gave her express permission.”
Michael tried and failed to picture Nora as Eleanor wearing all white, no makeup, her long, gorgeous wavy black hair pinned up and hidden away. And not talking? Nora silent? So weird.
“The first night she came to The 8th Circle as a dominatrix, I was there,” Griffin said. “You can’t even imagine the shock on everyone’s face when they realized this smoking-hot new dominatrix wearing red leather on Kingsley’s arm was Søren’s ex-submissive. Once they did, it got ugly.”
“Why?” Michael asked, trying to picture the scene.
“They only knew her as a submissive, and there she was all decked out like a domme, trying to be tough. Even the submissives laughed at her.”
“Poor Nora,” Michael said. “What did she do?”
A smile crossed Griffin’s face, a smile that sent a thrill of something down Michael’s spine.
“You know how they say if a guy gets sent to prison and he doesn’t want to become the new bitch, he’s gotta find the biggest guy in the place and beat the hell out of him?”
“Right.” He’d seen movies with that plotline.
“There was this masochist at The 8th Circle named Trent. He was to masochists what Søren is to sadists. His nickname was Unbreakable. Your priest probably could have broken him, but Trent only let women top him. Anyway, Nora goes right up to him and asks him if he wants to play. He said yes and then tried to spit in her face.”
“Holy shit. What happened?”
Griffin laughed, low and throaty, and Michael suddenly felt the need to excuse himself for a few minutes. Instead he grabbed a pillow and covered his lap with it.
“Nora ducked. That woman’s got killer reflexes. She came up and slapped him so hard his nose bled. Then things got really interesting. She broke him. In one night. He safed out, started crying. She sent that big masochistic motherfucker to the hospital. After that, she owned The 8th Circle. No one ever questioned her dominant credentials again.”
Michael looked up at the ceiling. What on earth was he getting into? He didn’t know, but he suddenly couldn’t wait to fall at Nora’s feet and do anything and everything she told him to. Wearing bruises she gave him would be an honor.
Griffin stretched out his long tanned legs and crossed them at the ankles.
“Trent worshipped the ground she walked on after that. We all did,” Griffin said and Michael saw a shadow of something cross Griffin’s eyes. “Except Søren, of course. Those two were at war after that. But only because he wanted her back more than ever.”
“Can you blame him?”
Griffin said nothing at first and Michael saw all the fire and fun momentarily leave Griffin’s face.
“No. I can’t.” The spark came back in Griffin’s eyes. “Anyway, the domme training you is a real, live legend. Cool, right?”
“Very cool,” Michael said. “Can’t wait for tonight.”
“She won’t get you until sunset. She’s all about atmosphere and the mind-fuck. So you’ve got a couple hours. What do you want to do?”
Michael knew exactly what he wanted to do. He moved to the middle of the bed and faced Griffin.
“Tell me more about Nora.”
Michael listened in awe as Griffin regaled him with story after story about Nora’s legendary exploits as a dominatrix. He couldn’t believe some of her clients were so famous, so powerful. It made him feel a little better that so many men the world looked up to were sexual submissives just like him. Time passed so quickly in Griffin’s company that Michael barely noticed the room darkening as the sun sunk lower and lower in the sky. He couldn’t recall ever having so much fun actually talking to somebody. He hated talking. Or thought he hated it. With Griffin, however, things he never thought he’d like—answering personal questions, showing his art off, talking—he discovered he enjoyed. Griffin was a good two or three inches taller than him, had at least forty pounds of pure muscle on him and was a dominant. So why did Michael feel so safe around him?
“So if she ever gets arrested again,” Griffin concluded, “they have to call the paddywagon and get police backup since it’s on her permanent record that she can get out of handcuffs so easily.”
“That’s amazing. Does Father S—” Michael started but a knock on the door interrupted his question. He turned around and saw Griffin’s British butler standing in the doorway.
