Page 60 of American Queen (New Camelot Trilogy 1)
“Just be careful,” Belvedere says. His thick hipster glasses do nothing to hide his worried expression. “Senator Leffey is a dangerous enemy to have.”
“She’s not my enemy,” I object. “Just because we are two women with connections to the same man doesn’t mean we have to hate each other.”
“That’s very socially enlightened of you, but it’s not only up to you, you know. It’s up to Leffey too. And she has a history of cutting down anything or anyone in her path.”
“I’m not in her path,” I say with a certainty I don’t feel. “How could I be? I’m not a political rival, I pose no threat to her.”
We reach the top of the stairs, and Belvedere looks at me. “I think you pose more threats than you realize.” And it sounds so much like Merlin’s curse that I have to remind myself to relax. Why is everyone convinced that I’m dangerous?
“I don’t want to pose any threats,” I say. “I’m not going to do anything to hurt Senator Leffey. I just want to be with Ash.”
His worry softens into affection. “I know. And I’ll do everything I can to help.” He glances his watch. “But right now, I should get down there and wait for the President to finish his briefing. Do you have everything you need?”
I wave him away. “I’m a big girl, I’ll
be fine on my own.”
He gives my elbow a squeeze, and then he’s trotting down the stairs, taking them two at a time, his floppy brown hair moving with each step. It’s then that my phone gives a buzz in my dress pocket. And then another. And then another.
I pull it out as I walk down the hallway. It’s Ash, and my stomach flips over when I see the first message.
Get undressed.
You’re allowed five minutes to freshen up and prepare yourself however you need
and then I want you wearing nothing but one of my button-down shirts.
I see the three little dots appear and then disappear, and I wonder where he is right now. In the Situation Room? Looking at satellite photographs of troop movements while he types out exactly how he wants to find me when he gets done?
you will kneel on the floor in the middle of the room, hands behind your back, eyes down, and wait for me
and when I get there, we are in scene. You are only allowed to refer to me as Sir or Mr. President. Understood?
I’m already kicking off my heels as I answer. Yes, Sir.
There’s another pause, then: good girl.
I have a little trouble unzipping my dress, but I finally manage to peel off the layers of silk and tulle and wriggle out of my thong and strapless bra, laying out the clothes in the dressing room so they’re out of sight. And then I brush my teeth and use the restroom, hunt down one of Ash’s shirts, and by the time my five minutes are up, I’m kneeling on the carpet, shirt buttoned and sleeves rolled up. I put my hands behind my back, grabbing each forearm with the opposite hand like I’ve seen submissives do on Tumblr, and tilt my face to the floor.
It’s almost immediately uncomfortable. The carpet presses into my knees with hundreds of fibrous little twists, and the muscles in my arms strain with the ache of holding them in such an unfamiliar position. A thousand million itches spring up on my skin, and every tiny sensation—thirst, the slightly-too-cool air of the room, the faint hunger left over from my half-eaten dinner—is magnified and made all consuming. I can’t use my phone to distract myself, I can’t even use my eyes to distract myself, there’s nothing between me and being inside my own body. No other person, no other thoughts. No work or family or friends or responsibilities—there’s only me and one directive: to wait.
And so I wait, trying not to twitch with the agony of it. I’m used to keeping my mind and body busy, used to filling any empty time with grading or preparing lectures or research for my book, and this is almost worse torture than anything else I can think of, to keep my body still and wait.
Without a clock or my phone, time seems to stretch and warp, and I have no idea how long I’ve been kneeling in this silent room—minutes or hours or years—and I have the creeping sense of loneliness that comes with silence and stillness. How long would I have to kneel here? Surely, Ash wouldn’t expect me to wait longer than a few minutes? Surely he wouldn’t want me to ache and itch and feel crazy with the pressure of my own thoughts?
Except I know that’s exactly what he does want.
Control. My submission flavored by discomfort, by my desire to please him.
And I do want to please him, so badly.
And with that realization, the position becomes easier to hold, the stillness easier to bear. There’s purpose in it now, a reason, and the reason is Ash, the only reason I ever want. I think of him as my knees whine at the press of the carpet, as my mouth gets drier, as goose bumps erupt over my skin at the chilly air of the room. I dismiss each sensation as it arises, my thoughts shrinking down to Ash and the low fire kindling deep in my core, and eventually everything else does fade away, leaving behind a distilled version of myself. A version that waits.
I’m floating in place like this when the door to Ash’s bedroom finally, finally opens, and I don’t look up, but I do eagerly watch those shiny dress shoes as he walks in. And then stop breathing when a second pair of shoes follows.
That second pair freezes in mid-stride, as if their owner is arrested by the sight of me kneeling on the floor with my arms behind my back and my nipples poking through the thin fabric of a man’s shirt.
The door shuts and then Ash is squatting down in front of me. “You may lift your head now, angel.”
