[English] The Virgin

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When he judged her wet enough, Griffin grabbed her by the shoulder and brought her to a sitting position on her knees. From the speed of the car, Eleanor could tell they were out on the open road. Good. No sudden stops likely on the highway.

“King?” Griffin asked, and Kingsley tossed Griffin a condom. He opened his pants and rolled it on. He was big definitely, but nothing she couldn’t take and everything she wanted to take. When he was ready, Griffin crooked his finger at her, and Eleanor, eager to obey, straddled his legs facing him. She expected him to enter her immediately but instead he kissed her again almost tenderly.

“I’ve wanted to do this since the day I met you,” he whispered.

“No whispering,” Kingsley said, and Griffin rolled his eyes.

“I wanted it, too,” she said, making sure only Griffin could hear her. The hum of the engine and the tires and the face-to-face position awarded them a modicum of privacy. To show Griffin how much she adored him, how much she’d wanted him, she took his erection firmly in her hand and brought it to the entrance of her body. Griffin gripped her by the hips and lowered her down onto him. She stretched open as she settled onto him, sighing as he penetrated her fully.

“It’s only you and me now.” Griffin mouthed the words and she nodded. As she moved on him slowly, relishing the fullness of him inside her, he unbuttoned her shirt and pulled it off her. It might have landed on the floor. She had a feeling, however, that when Griffin threw it, it had landed in Kingsley’s lap. Or on his face. Her bra came off next, just as slowly, just as sensuously. Griffin lifted and kneaded her breasts in his hands as her head fell back in pleasure.

“I was meant to know you,” Griffin whispered to her. “I don’t know why but I was.”

“Maybe we’ll find out why someday,” she said.

He kissed her on the mouth again and said against her lips, “Maybe this is why.”

Griffin slid his hands from her breasts to her shoulders, from her shoulders to her arms, from her arms to her wrists. He held her arms behind her, forcing her to arch her back.

“Ride me,” he said, and she was happy to oblige. With tight movements of her hips, she drove her hips against Griffin while he kissed and licked her nipples. She smiled in victory when her vagina contracted on him and he gasped from the shock of pleasure. But still he held her wrists in his viselike grip even as she pushed them both closer to coming.

Her body burned with the heat of his body and hers. Her arms ached from being held so tightly. And when she thought she couldn’t take it one more minute, Griffin tossed her onto her back and slammed into her with rough and brutal thrusts that left her gasping. Blood surged through her thighs as she spread them wider for him. Her heart thudded in her chest. She contracted her stomach and tilted her hips until he was as deep inside her as any man could go. Finally she shuddered underneath him, as a fierce and forceful climax shook her to the core. Distantly, she was aware of Griffin’s orgasm that he was pushing into her with his last and roughest thrusts.

It was over, done, and yet Griffin remained inside her.

“Not yet,” he said when she wriggled underneath him in discomfort. He had her pinioned to the seat, impaled against it, and she couldn’t move until he did. His eyes met hers and for a second she thought she saw something more than friendship in them, more than passion. But he blinked and it was gone. Griffin pulled out of her and carefully removed the condom.

Kingsley looked at Søren. Søren looked at Kingsley.

Kingsley held up an eight.

Søren held up a seven.

“****,” Griffin said. “I was hoping for at least one nine.”

“You didn’t stick your landing,” Kingsley said. “Work on your dismount.”

“Can you do better?” Griffin asked, sounding skeptical as he wiped himself off with a tissue and zipped his pants back up. It wouldn’t be easy to **** her more thoroughly and enjoyably than Griffin had ****ed her.

“Of course I can,” Kingsley said. He whistled, beckoning her to him. Eleanor crawled off Griffin’s lap and over to Kingsley’s. She waited, kneeling on the floorboard between Kingsley’s knees. He reached down and tapped her under the chin, a signal that required no other words.

She unzipped his trousers and brought her mouth down onto his erection.

“See?” Kingsley said. “Practice makes perfect.”

While she massaged and licked him with her tongue, he ran his fingers through her hair. He lifted the black mass of it, and she felt the flick of a cane on her back and flinched, a carefully controlled flinch. She knew the rules of such a game. She went down on Kingsley while Søren inflicted pain on her in some way, and at no point was she allowed to pass the pain to Kingsley. In other words...no biting.

Søren flicked her with the cane again—the thin plastic cane that licked her skin like a tongue of fire.

Eleanor forced herself to concentrate on Kingsley’s pleasure and ignored her own pain. It was the perfect torture. A few grunts of discomfort was all she allowed herself. And yet the cane came down again and again, a dozen or more times. Finally the caning stopped. Kingsley gripped her by the hair and forced her to look up at him.

“Good girl,” he said in French. Bien fille. She smiled and he cupped her chin, raising her off the floor. He wrapped his arms around her back and unzipped her skirt. Seconds later she was completely naked but for her white strappy high heels. Kingsley inclined his head at the seat. “Arms and knees,” he said, giving her a gentle order. Søren had moved to the other seat and now they had the back bench to themselves. Good, because they needed the room, especially when she moved into position and Kingsley entered her from behind.

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With a few shallow strokes he readied her for full penetration. She did love the way Kingsley ****ed her. He liked taking his time, making her squirm and beg for release. Even now he moved slowly inside her. Long slow thrusts that filled her and filled her and filled her. He slid his hand under her hips and pressed two fingers into her clitoris. Gently he rubbed the swollen knot until she hovered on the edge of another climax.

“Please,” she gasped.

“Come,” he said, granting her permission. She came with a hoarse cry but Kingsley didn’t. He kept pumping into her long after her orgasm had come and gone.

“Show-off,” she heard Griffin say, and she smiled into the cradle of her arms. Kingsley pulled out and dragged her down to her knees again. Once more she took him in her mouth, laving him with her tongue and lips until he came in her mouth, his fingers digging into her shoulders from the intensity of it.

Spent and exhausted, she sank to the floor, her head resting on Kingsley’s inner thigh. His fingers curled in her hair and caressed the back of her neck.

Griffin held up a nine.

Søren held up an eight.

“You’re worse than the Russian judge,” Kingsley said, glaring at Søren.

“It wasn’t your best work,” Søren said unapologetically.

Kingsley shook his head. “Armchair critics.”

Eleanor looked up and met Søren’s eyes. They were bright and gleaming, full of secret mirth. He whistled at her, summoning her to his side like a master calling his dog. Griffin vacated the seat next to Søren, and she crawled to her owner, her master, her lover, her heart.

“Your turn, sir?” she asked.

“All turns are my turn.” He slipped a finger between her collar and her throat and pulled her to him.

He kissed her and bit her bottom lip until she tasted a drop of blood. The kiss deepened and before she knew it, Søren had her on her back. He kissed her breasts, her nipples, her stomach and thighs and finally brought this attention to her clitoris. She was sore inside from being ****ed twice already but it took only a few minutes of Søren’s expert ministrations before she was panting and eager to be penetrated again. Søren ignored her pleas and continued to edge her closer to climax before pulling back again, edging her close again and once more pulling back.

“A master,” Kingsley said to Griffin. “Sadism by pleasure is as vicious as sadism by pain.”

“I’m learning this,” Griffin said.

“Don’t learn from him,” Eleanor said between heavy breaths. “I have all the sadists I need already.”

Søren replied by swatting her hard on the outer thigh, hard enough she knew she’d have a bright red handprint there for the next hour at least.

She flinched and Søren chose that moment to rise up over her, push her wrists deep into the seat by her head and enter her with one hard deep thrust. Eagerly she wrapped her legs around his lower back and locked her ankles together. She was so wet for him by now she could feel it dripping out of her and onto the leather.

Her wrists ached under his viciously strong hands. She hoped she would have bruises from them later. Only the other submissives she knew would understand why she wanted bruises, wanted welts, wanted something on her body to remind her of what had been done to her. But she and Søren couldn’t live together, couldn’t spend their days together. They had only a few nights a week, all stolen, and the bruises made a road map to her memory of everything he’d done to her. She’d be reliving this night for weeks...

Griffin and Kingsley were still in the car, of course. But they might as well have been a thousand miles away for all she cared about them. Søren was inside her and she was underneath him and they were the only two people in the world.

“Happy birthday, Little One,” Søren said in her ear between kisses. But she said nothing in reply. She couldn’t speak, lost as she was in his thrusts, in his kisses, in the moment of being used over and over and over again. “It’s only beginning. You’re ours all night...”

All night. Forever. She didn’t care as long as he kept ****ing her like this, as if it was the only thing keeping them alive. She couldn’t stop her hips from meeting his, couldn’t stop taking him deeper and deeper into her. When her orgasm came it was so hard she went silent, her body locked up and she opened her eyes.

****.

* * *

The orgasm from her dream was so strong it had woken her up. Her vaginal muscles were contracting so hard against nothing her eyes watered. She slid her hand into her underwear and rubbed her pulsing clitoris, trying to make the orgasm go on and on.

She collapsed against the sweat-drenched sheets and kicked the blankets off the bed. Her body still buzzed and trembled from the force of her climax. Craziness...she hadn’t orgasmed in her sleep since she was a teenager. But ever since coming to her mother’s convent, it happened once a week at least. It had been a dream, but a dream so vivid it was as if she were there, reliving every moment of her last birthday when Søren had surprised her with that incredible night in Kingsley’s Rolls-Royce. She could still feel Søren inside her. She could still smell Griffin’s soap. She could still taste Kingsley in her mouth.

Elle sat up, found her duffel bag and unzipped it. From the bottom of it she pulled out her collar. She held it in her hands and looked it at. She’d been wearing it the night she lost her virginity to Søren. She’d worn it every night she spent with him and not once since she’d left him. It was the symbol of his ownership of her and despite that, she’d kept it. If she could get rid of it, toss it away, throw it out, then she could be free, completely free.

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But she wasn’t free. The dreams proved that. And she couldn’t get rid of her collar. Not yet. She put it back in her bag and resolved to forget about it. At least this time she didn’t kiss it before putting it away.

The 5:00 a.m. bell rang. She grabbed the blankets off the floor, made her bed and pulled on the thick white terry cloth bathrobe she’d been given her second day here. Even in a house of all women, modesty was to be maintained at all times. No running to the bathroom at night wearing only underwear and a T-shirt. She had to be covered up, neck to toe, every day, at all times.

In the bathroom at the end of the hall, Elle took a quick shower, pulled her hair back in a tight knot and dressed in the black tights, long black skirt and white blouse that had become her uniform here at the abbey. No one would have mistaken her for a nun, but no one from her old life would have recognized her now in such conservative clothing.

Alone in the kitchen, Elle had her usual breakfast of coffee, eggs, fruit and toast. Only on Sunday mornings did the menu change to something more exotic than the breakfast basics. While the sisters were at Lauds, Elle headed to the laundry room where she would spend the next five hours until lunchtime.

Her life at the abbey had been difficult at first. She argued with the more irascible nuns, she’d been unceremoniously tossed out of the kitchen for ruining one too many dishes with her bad cooking and she’d been kicked out of the library for rearranging all the books. Who on earth had decided to put the books in order by title? No one who’d ever worked in a real library or a bookstore would arrange books in such an ass-backward way. She’d worked in a bookstore for years and had even ****ed a librarian. She knew how books worked. But the sisters had their own idea of order and didn’t appreciate any attempts at improvement.

That left her alone in the laundry room all day. She washed sheets. She dried sheets. She folded sheets. The next day she did it again. She washed habits. She ironed habits. She folded habits. The next day she did it again. Hardly slave labor, but it certainly didn’t excite her. Then again, no one came to a convent for excitement. She’d come to the convent for the opposite of excitement, and the opposite of excitement was exactly what she’d found here. She had safety. She had peace and quiet. And she hadn’t seen Søren and Kingsley in months.

Elle refilled her coffee mug, put her dishes in the sink and left the kitchen. Once in the laundry room she tried to work up the energy to do something. All she wanted was to go back to bed and sleep until the second coming. Of course, in her theology the second coming had nothing to do with Jesus’s return and everything to do with having another orgasm.

She hopped onto the tile counter by the sink and looked out the window while she drank her coffee. She could see the road from the window, see the front lawn of the abbey and could see the wrought-iron fence that surrounded the convent’s acreage—one hundred twenty in total, give or take a few square feet. All of it from the sides of the abbey to the edge of the farthest field was fenced in in one way or another. The side and back gardens were fenced in by iron. The fields of farmland and well-manicured forest were fenced in with white wood. And the entire abbey was fenced in by the rules. Rule number one—never leave the grounds without permission. Elle didn’t have permission to leave, so here she stayed.

Since she couldn’t leave and didn’t want to, she stared out at the road and watched the occasional car pass on its way to or from town. She saw one now, a blue Audi, but instead of passing by like every other car she’d seen since coming here, it turned into the long abbey driveway. Slowly it crept toward the convent before coming to a gentle stop.

As if on cue, a dozen sisters in their black-and-white habits streamed from the front doors toward the car. Elle had never seen the sisters leave the abbey. They did, of course. Sometimes they had doctors’ appointments or dentists’ appointments or Mother Prioress would visit with someone important in the city who wanted to buy their land or sell them more. But Elle had only heard about sisters leaving, never seen it happen.

The car doors opened and a man got out of the driver’s side, a woman out of the passenger’s. They looked about midforties, married, not terribly interesting. But then the woman opened the back door of the Audi and out stepped a young woman. She had reddish-brown hair sun-streaked with pale gold highlights that reminded Elle of feathers, like the tips of a dove’s wings. Her hair fell in waves down her back. She had flowers in her hair—white flowers. And the long dress she wore was simple and white. The man pulled a small suitcase from the trunk. The woman took the girl’s hand in hers, but only for a moment.

Now the sisters surrounded the trio and quickly pried the young woman from her parents. Yes, of course, they had to be her parents and this girl was entering the order. It didn’t seem right, though. The girl barely looked twenty-one. And what a beauty...a tiny thing who couldn’t have weighed more than a hundred pounds.

“Don’t do it, sweetheart,” Elle whispered. “Get back in the car and drive...”

As if the girl could hear her, she glanced up at the window and squinted. Elle froze. Did the girl see her? Probably. What did it matter? The girl raised her hand and waved at her. Elle didn’t know what to do so she waved back. Mother Prioress turned and glanced up at the window, but Elle had already ducked away from it out of sight. She panted in nervousness and didn’t know why. Nothing but a girl, a beautiful young girl who’d waved at her. Nothing to panic about.

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Still, Elle walked to the other window in the room and peered out.

The sisters had formed two even lines like an honor guard, and the girl was between them walking toward the front door of the convent. Elle knew what would happen next. There would be a ceremony in the main chapel and the girl would be dressed in her habit and veiled. She’d choose a new name—Sister Mary Something—and profess her temporary vows. And by lunch, she’d be a Sister of St. Monica.

Her old life would be over. Even her name would be gone.

Halfway through the line toward the door, the girl stopped, turned around and ran back to the car. She embraced her mother and her father. Poor thing. She must be scared to death, heartbroken, sobbing...

Or was she?

The girl, using her mother as a shield of sorts, glanced up to the window again and stared straight at Elle. And then—and Elle was entirely certain she didn’t imagine it—the girl winked at her.

Elle laughed and shook her head. Then she composed her face. If Mother Prioress had told her one time, she’d told her a thousand times—behave.

She wrenched herself away from the window and promptly resolved to forget she’d seen that beautiful girl and her mysterious wink. After all, she was about to become a nun and nuns had to abide by vows. Vows of obedience and vows of chastity.

Then again, when had a little thing like a vow of chastity ever stopped Elle before?

11

Haiti

THE WOMAN ROSE off the ground and dusted the sand off her knees, brushed the tears off her face.

“Thank you for your help,” she said. “Have a lovely day.”

With that cool dismissal¸ she reached down and picked up a canvas tote bag by its handles, turned around and walked away from him. Kingsley didn’t like that. At all.

“What’s your name?” he asked, jogging to catch up with her.

“Why do you ask?”

“No reason.”

“If you don’t have a reason for wanting to know my name, I don’t have any reason for telling you.”

Kingsley winced. She had him there.

“Sorry. I don’t have reasons for much of what I do. If you asked me why I’m even in Haiti, I couldn’t tell you why.”

“Then I won’t ask,” she said. She started walking off again.

“May I carry your bag for you?” he asked, adjusting his strides to keep up with hers. She had magnificently long legs and walked briskly. “It looks heavy.”

“It is heavy. And no, you may not carry it for me.”

“Would you like me to leave you alone?” he asked, not wanting to admit defeat but willing to admit it if necessary.

She stopped and looked at him. A long studied look. He was grateful he had sunglasses on over his eyes; her gaze was so piercing, so searching, that he almost took a step back away from her.

“No,” she said at last. “You don’t have to leave me alone.”

“Then I’ll walk with you, if you’ll allow it.”

“I will,” she said, and started off walking again. Kingsley walked at her side and readjusted his strategy.

“I’m Kingsley,” he said.

“Are you?”

“I am. That’s my name.”

“Just Kingsley?”

“I have a last name. Two of them actually. Do you have a name? First? Last? Middle?”

“Yes.”

“Good. If you didn’t have a name I would have given you one. I have extras.”

That got a smile from her. A small one but he’d take what he could get.

“Juliette,” she said. “My name is Juliette.”

“Beautiful name. Do you have a last name?”

“I do.”

When she didn’t volunteer it, he gave up that line of conversation. He needed a new strategy.

“Your French is perfect, by the way.” A compliment usually worked in these situations, Kingsley had found.

“Yours isn’t,” she said. “You must live in America.”

“I do. Haven’t been back to France in years. You can tell?”

“I can tell.”

“Keep speaking your perfect French to me and perhaps my French will improve.”

“I have nothing to say.” She went silent again.

She had nothing to say? Well, ****. Kingsley could have respected that statement, and they could have walked on in silence. But he didn’t like silence, especially not from this woman with her voice and her perfect French. So instead of respecting the silence, he broke it. Dramatically.

“I ****ed an eighteen-year-old girl this morning,” Kingsley said. “And last night, although I was too drunk to remember much of it.”

“Are you still drunk?” She sounded utterly disgusted with him, but at least she was speaking, so disgust was better than nothing.

“Look, I’m not proud of myself. I didn’t mean to **** her. It was an accident.”

“Accident?” she repeated. She had a low voice and everything she said sounded like a secret. “Isn’t that the excuse men use when they do something stupid and don’t want to take full responsibility for it? That sort of accident?”

“She didn’t tell me her age.”

“Did you ask?”

“No...” he admitted.

“How old are you?” she asked.

“Thirty-nine.”

“Old enough to know better.”

“I should. I do. I won’t ever do it again,” he said, hoping to wheedle a smile out of her.

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“I don’t care,” she said. “What you do doesn’t matter to me.”

“I want it to,” he said.

“Why?”

“I want you to like me,” he admitted. “Do you?”

“Not yet. Why do you want me to like you?”

“Because you are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

She stopped and turned to face him.

“That’s a stupid reason to want someone to like you.” She shook her head and walked off again.

Kingsley stared after her a few seconds before catching up with her.

“I know,” he admitted. “But I’m male and feeling eighteen today for some reason.”

“Did that eighteen-year-old girl infect you with her immaturity?”

“I have only myself to blame for this.”

“You’re honest. I can appreciate that at least,” she said, taking long purposeful strides. A woman who didn’t mince or waste time. He liked that about her.

“You like honesty? I can tell you more horrible things about myself if you like. I have a list.”

“I think I have enough to work with here already.” Juliette reached a point where the path forked and she took the fork to the right.

“I’ve made a bad first impression.”

“I’ve seen worse.”

“Can you tell me what I can do to make a better impression?” he asked. “Gifts? Quests? Orders? I can take orders.”

“Priestly orders?”

He glared at her.

“Not those kinds of orders. Order me to do something for you, and I’ll do it to prove my worth.”

Juliette faced him again. She gave a heavy sigh as if he’d found her very last nerve and had stomped on it.

“Take your clothes off,” she said.

“Here?” They were standing on a path near a village and two hundred tourists on a beach.

“Here.”

“If I’m arrested for public indecency, will you get me out of jail?”

“No.”

“You’re serious, aren’t you?”

“If you were serious about me, you’d be naked already.”

Was he serious about her? She was unbearably beautiful, yes. And she’d stoned an obnoxious spoiled white American child. And she seemingly loathed him, which made her all the more intriguing. And if she walked away from him now he’d be wondering about her for the rest of her life.

Kingsley pulled his shirt over his head, kicked his shoes off and dropped his beach-battered khakis to the ground.

To be as naked as humanly possible, he also pushed his sunglasses up to his head so she could see his uncovered eyes.

Juliette didn’t look him up and down. She stared straight into his eyes and ignored every other part of his body, including his semi-erect *****.

“Are you lost?” she asked.

“Completely.”

“I can’t help you find yourself. I can’t help you with anything.”

“I don’t want your help,” he said. “I only want your body.”

Juliette apparently liked that answer. She put her canvas tote bag on the ground. Kingsley glanced down and saw it was full of nothing but rocks. Why would a woman carry a bag of rocks with her?

He would have asked but before he could say a word, she’d stepped forward, put a hand in his hair at the nape of his neck and kissed him.

He kissed her back, greedy for anything and everything he could get from this exquisite mysterious woman. He didn’t ask questions, didn’t ask why she kissed him. He let her kiss him and he kissed her back because there was nothing in the world he’d rather be doing at the moment.

Her lips left his and she took a step back. Kingsley slowly opened his eyes.

“‘Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth; for his love is better than wine...’” Juliette said softly, almost under her breath, but Kingsley heard.

“Song of Solomon,” Kingsley said. Juliette looked at him.

“Put your clothes back on,” she said, and he obeyed quickly before anyone noticed the naked man standing on the beach. “You know the Bible?”

“A little,” he said. “I went to Catholic school. I know the Song of Solomon when I hear it. It was my favorite.”

“Mine, too,” she said, her voice far away as if it had got caught in a wind. “‘I am black but lovely, O daughters of Jerusalem.’”

“‘Like the tents of Kedar, like the curtains of Solomon,’” Kingsley continued the verse. “I like the verse, but it needs improvement.”

“You think you can improve on the Bible?”

“I can. It says ‘I am black but lovely.’ The woman I see is ‘black and lovely.’”

“You’re trying to seduce me.”

“Is it working?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I’m glad I could improve upon my dismal first impression.”

“Come back to this place tomorrow at nine. I’ll give you a chance to make a better impression.”

“Why? Did you see something you liked when I took my clothes off?”

“Yes.”

“What?”

“Desperation,” she said.

“You like desperation?”

Juliette didn’t smile when she answered. She merely picked up her bag of rocks and turned on her heel.

“I like that we have something in common.”

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12

Upstate New York

ELLE REMOVED A load of sheets from the dryer as soon as the cycle ended. As quickly as she could, she folded them before a single wrinkle could set in. Ten sheets in three minutes. If folding laundry had been a sport, Elle would be on a box of Wheaties by now.

How had it come to this? Elle wondered, as she stacked the sheets in a neat pile on the counter. Once upon a time she’d been the most well-known submissive in Kingsley’s grand and infamous court of Manhattan kinksters. If she wasn’t tied to Søren’s bed, she was on Kingsley’s arm somewhere—at a club, at a party, at his home where he hosted the rich and the infamous. On a regular basis she’d enjoyed erotic beatings, threesomes with Søren and Kingsley and enough notoriety to get her into any club in town.

And now here she was, spending her days doing laundry for a convent. And the most excitement she had was timing herself every day to see if she could beat her previous record. She reminded herself the lack of excitement was exactly why she’d come here. No men allowed. No men meant no Kingsley and no Søren and no temptation to misbehave. Of course she couldn’t avoid misbehaving entirely. With so many rules it was impossible to not break one or two. But her sins were venial—she stayed up after everyone was supposed to go to bed, went to the library after lights-out, stole the occasional extra dessert from the fridge when no one was looking. She masturbated too, which was considered a sin here. Elle didn’t consider it a sin. She considered it an act of self-preservation.

The buzzer on the washer sounded and Elle removed the wet sheets and threw them in the dryer. She’d washed the sheets, she’d dry the sheets, she’d fold the sheets. And in a week, she’d do it again. She’d wash habits, dry habits, hang up the habits on their fancy wooden hangers. And in a week, she’d do it again. Fifty women under one roof made laundry an endless eternal chore.

“Sisyphus, Sisyphus.” Elle sighed after starting the dryer. “I feel your pain.”

“Who’s Sisyphus?”

Elle looked toward the door and saw a nun standing there, one she hadn’t seen before. But no, she had seen her before.

“It’s you,” Elle said.

“Is it?” The nun looked down at herself. “You’re right. It is me.”

“Sorry. You’re the girl I saw entering the order last week. Right?”

“Yes, and you’re the ghost.”

“I’m the what?”

“I saw you standing in the window. They said the only people in the abbey were nuns and you obviously weren’t a nun so I assumed you were a ghost. And you work in the laundry room with all these white sheets, which are very ghostly. So...are you a ghost?”

“No, I’m not a ghost,” Elle said slowly, as if talking to someone very young or slightly off her rocker, and this girl seemed to be both.

“Which is exactly what a ghost would say, isn’t it?”

The young nun looked at Elle expectantly. She batted her eyelashes and Elle noticed the girl’s baby blue eyes.

“I don’t know,” Elle said with a sigh. “Maybe I am a ghost.”

“Thought so,” she said.

“Can I help you with something?” Elle asked, ready to end this conversation as soon as possible so she could get back to work, back to being a ghost.

“You can tell me more about Sisyphus. Is he also a ghost?”

“Sisyphus, the mythological figure. The guy who had to roll a stone up a hill for eternity. Laundry is the ultimate Sisyphean task—clean, dirty, wash, rinse, dry, repeat ad infinitum.”

“You know what would help?” the young nun said in her light and airy tone. “Nudism.”

Elle stared at her.

“You are a weird nun,” Elle said.

“I know. Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. You’ll fit right in with all the other weird nuns here.”

“You think we’re all weird?”

“If you met a homeless person on the street who claimed to be the bride of Jesus Christ, what would you say to her?”

“I’d ask her if her husband was a good kisser.”

Elle did something she hadn’t done in so long she couldn’t remember the last time she’d done it.

She laughed.

“Wow,” the nun said. “Good laugh. Do it again.”

“I can’t laugh on command.”

“I’ll have to keep saying crazy stuff then and hope for the best. I’m Kyrie, by the way. What’s your name?”

“It’s Elle. And you’re not Kyrie. You’re Sister Mary Whatever.”

“Sister Mary George.”

“George?”

“He slayed a dragon. How cool is that?”

“Can I call you Sister George?” Elle asked.

“Call me Kyrie.”

“I’m not supposed to,” Elle said.

“I won’t tell.”

“Okay then, Kyrie. What can I do for you?”

“Sister Agnes told me to come see you. I have a boo-boo.”

“A boo-boo?” Elle repeated. “Are we talking about a small injury or a tiny bear?”

“Neither.” Kyrie held up her arm. “I spilled candle wax on my habit. Can you get it out?”

Elle examined the stain. It was about the size of a half-dollar and right in the middle of her sleeve.

“Hold still,” she ordered Kyrie, and pulled a knife out of the utility drawer.

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“It’s only a stain. I don’t think you have to kill me for it,” Kyrie said.

“I have no choice. Stain on the habit is punishable by death. Now don’t move.”

Kyrie closed her eyes and braced herself dramatically. Elle shook her head, sighed and scraped the candle wax off her sleeve.

“Is it over?” Kyrie asked, popping one eye open. “Am I dead? Is this Heaven?”

“This is Purgatory.”

“I’m in Purgatory? Well, crap.” Kyrie sighed. “Mom told me this would happen if I didn’t stop touching myself.”

Elle stared at her.

“Go on,” Kyrie said. “You know you want to laugh. And I know I want to hear you laugh.”

“I’m not going to laugh. I’m going to iron your sleeve. Come here.”

“Iron my sleeve? But I’m wearing my sleeve.”

“Don’t panic. I’ve done this before.” Elle heated up the iron and pulled out a few sheets of white blotting paper. She pointed to the ironing board and Kyrie rested her arm on it.

“This doesn’t seem safe,” Kyrie said. “Maybe I should take the habit off.”

“There’s enough fabric in your sleeve to make a mini-dress. I won’t get near your skin, I promise.”

Elle placed the blotting paper on the red stain the candle wax had left behind. She pressed the tip of her iron over the stain, replaced the blotting paper and did it again. While she ironed she studied Kyrie out of the corner of her eye. Her novice’s white habit covered every inch of her but her face and her hands. But she was still undeniably beautiful with her wide eyes and long lashes, her delicate lips and suntanned skin. Elle forced herself to focus on her task.

“Voilà,” Elle said, lifting the iron. “Though your sleeves are like scarlet, they shall be white as snow.”

Kyrie held up her sleeve, now devoid of any sign of a stain.

“Rad. How did you do that?”

“The blotting paper sucks up the dye,” Elle said.

“Do they teach you tricks like this in laundry school?”

“I didn’t go to laundry school.”

“Where did you learn how to get candle wax stains off fabric?” Kyrie asked, touching the now-pristine sleeve.

“Little skill I picked up a few years ago,” she said. “I’ve had more than my fair share of candle wax accidents.”

“Did you work at a church? I’m guessing candle wax accidents are an occupational hazard there.”

“No.” Elle shook her head. “I suppose you could say my candle wax stains were a recreational hazard.”

“What sort of recreation uses candles?”

“Nothing,” Elle said. “I was joking. You’re done. Boo-boo is healed.”

“You’re trying to get rid of me,” Kyrie said.

“Don’t take it personally. I’m not allowed to distract you sisters from your prayer and your work.”

“You aren’t bothering me by talking to me,” Kyrie said with a smile. “I promise. I don’t need to be anywhere for a while. We can talk. I’d like to talk.”

Elle looked up at the ceiling and sighed.

“Someone told you about me, didn’t they?” she asked.

Kyrie blushed—guilty as charged. “Well...sort of.”

“Sort of,” Elle repeated. “May I ask what they told you about me?”

“Oh...” Kyrie shrugged. In her voluminous pure white habit, Kyrie’s shrug looked like a bird adjusting its wings. “This and that.”

“What specifically, might I ask?”

“If you must know, no one was gossiping. I asked someone about you. You know, since I thought you were a ghost. I didn’t think anyone but sisters were allowed in the abbey. They said an exception was made for you because of extraordinary circumstances nonrelated to noncorporealness.”

“Extraordinary circumstances. That’s one way to put it,” Elle said.

“Have you ever thought about how weird the word ‘extraordinary’ is? It means not ordinary but if something is extra ordinary wouldn’t you assume it was very ordinary? Super ordinary?”

“Extra is a Latin prefix meaning ‘outside.’ If something is extra—it means it’s outside. Extra ordinary means outside the ordinary.”

“Wow.” Kyrie’s blue eyes widened. “You are really smart.”

“Genius IQ, and I’m working in a laundry at a convent.”

“How extra ordinary of you.”

“Are you done talking to me yet?” Elle asked, hoping the answer was yes.

“Oh no. We’ve just gotten started here. I want to know what your extraordinary circumstances are.”

“You really don’t,” Elle said as she started the washer. She pulled a wrinkled tablecloth from a basket and lined it up on her ironing board.

“Why don’t I?”

Elle looked up from her ironing.

“You’re a nun.”

“I am?” Kyrie repeated. She looked down at herself as if noticing the habit for the first time. “Oh, you’re right. I am. You were saying?”

“You’re trying to make me laugh again.”

“You have a really awesome laugh, Elle.”

“It’s not going to work. I checked my sense of humor at the door when I came here,” Elle said, picking up her iron again.

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“Do I at least get points for trying to make you laugh?” Kyrie asked, looking wide-eyed and hopeful.

“Two.”

“Two what?”

“I’m giving you two points for trying to make me laugh.”

“How many points do I need to win?”

“What game are we playing?” Elle asked, turning the steam up on her iron. She had a wrinkle that would not give.

“The ‘Let’s Be Friends’ game.”

“I don’t need any friends.”

“We all need friends,” Kyrie said. “We’d go crazy without friends.”

“You’re already crazy,” Elle reminded her. “And so am I.”

“Is it true you’re hiding from your abusive boyfriend?” Kyrie asked, and Elle stood up straight and stared Kyrie down. Daniel might have had The Ouch, but long ago Elle had perfected her own scary stare she used on the other submissives in Kingsley’s circle. The second one of them crossed a line, stepped out of bounds, or even worse, in Elle’s opinion, whined, she gave that Sub a stare so intense it had inspired tears. She gave Kyrie that same stare now.

“Are you a virgin?” Elle asked.

“What?” Kyrie blinked at her in confusion.

“If we’re having a personal conversation, it’s going to be two-sided. Are you a virgin?”

“Yes,” Kyrie said.

“I thought so.”

“What does that mean?” Kyrie demanded.

“It means that you are innocent. You have never let yourself be ***ually vulnerable to someone. Since you are a virgin you cannot begin to imagine what my life was like before I came here. We will be speaking entirely different languages. I could tell you the truth about who I am and what brought me here and none of it will make any sense to you.”

“How do you know that?”

“How do you think I knew how to get candle wax off your habit?” Elle asked.

“I don’t know. You said it was, what? A recreational hazard. Recreation means play. You used to play with candle wax.”

“I did. Any guesses how or why?”

“Not really. Candle wax doesn’t seem all that fun.”

“You don’t run with the same crowd that I do then. Used to run with,” she corrected.

“Sounds like an interesting crowd. The candle wax gang.”

“We were. I guess.” Elle sighed and folded her now-perfectly flat tablecloth.

“Do you miss it? Your old life?” Kyrie walked around her ironing board and pulled herself up onto the counter. Her feet, shod in black old lady shoes, kicked against the doors. Without the habit, Kyrie would look like a bored teenage girl sitting on a kitchen counter.

“Yes and no,” Elle said. “I miss parts of it.”

“What do you miss?” Kyrie asked.

Elle looked her straight in the eyes.

“***.”

She hoped that would finally shut Kyrie up.

“Is it as much fun as it sounds?” Kyrie asked.

“Oh my God, I can’t get rid of you, can I?” Elle asked, ready to break a window and run for it if necessary.

“You can’t.” Kyrie grinned ear to ear. “I haven’t had this much fun since I came here. You are really grumpy, and I like it. Say something grumpy to me again.”

“You must be a masochist.”

“A what?”

“A masochist. Someone who takes pleasure from pain and humiliation.”

“Well...I did join a convent.”

“Good point,” Elle conceded. “Look, you seem very nice.”

“I am very nice. I am the nicest person I know.”

“You’re a real Polly-****ing-Anna, aren’t you?”

“I am. Also, Polly ****ing Anna would make a great name for a lesbian porno.”

Elle glared at her.

“Oh, scary face,” Kyrie said.

“Stop,” Elle said. “Please, just stop what you’re doing here.”

“What am I doing?” Kyrie asked, still smiling.

“You are clearly a girl on a mission to make friends with the poor abused little laundress who ran away from her big bad boyfriend. I don’t know if your priest told you to do it or Mother Prioress or my own mother even, but I don’t care. I don’t need a buddy. I don’t need a friend. I don’t need your pity. I don’t need anything you have to give me. I’m fine.”

Kyrie’s smile faded and it was as if the sun had set five hours early.

“My oldest sister’s husband beat her to death,” Kyrie said. “Two years ago. They had a three-year-old little girl who watched the whole thing happen.”

Elle felt the bottom of her stomach drop out of her like a trap door had opened under her and everything but her body fell through.

“Kyrie...I’m sorry.”

“Someone told me you’d run away from your boyfriend who used to beat you,” Kyrie said. “If that’s true then I wanted to say I’m happy you got away from him before he killed you. I really miss my sister.”

Elle reached down and pulled a fistful of white linen napkins from the basket.

“I’m very sorry about your sister. If it makes you feel any better at all, my situation is nothing like hers was. I’m not here because I had an abusive boyfriend. I left him for other reasons. It’s...it’s complicated.”

“So, he never hit you?”

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“I told you...it’s complicated.”

“So he did hit you.”

“Complicated.”

“He was married? When women are with married guys and they don’t want to admit he’s married, they say it’s complicated. I saw that on TV.”

“My life is not a TV show,” Elle said. “My life is—”

“Complicated. Got it.”

“I’m not trying to be mean or grumpy or bitchy,” Elle said. “I don’t want to talk about why I’m here, and I shouldn’t have to.”

“Okay, you’re right. I get it.”

“You don’t, but that’s okay. Trust me. I’m doing you a favor. You seem like you really enjoy being a nun. I don’t want to say or do anything to make you have second thoughts about the Catholic Church.”

“Oh, I have lots of second thoughts about the Catholic Church. Third and fourth thoughts even. My sister’s priest told her to stay with her husband because divorce is a sin. He suggested counseling. If she left him, she’d probably still be alive. Why do we ask marriage advice from men not allowed to get married? That’s my second thought about the Catholic Church.”

“A good second thought.”

“Third thought,” Kyrie said, holding up three fingers. “Why can’t women be priests? Doesn’t it say there is no man nor woman in Christ Jesus?”

“Yes. The book of Galatians 3:28,” Elle said.

“If that’s true, then there’s no reason women can’t be priests.”

“There is a reason. The Catholic Church hates women.”

“Hate is a strong word, Elle.”

“Did you know that if a Catholic priest is caught molesting a child, he’s put into therapy and moved to another parish. Meanwhile, if a woman has an abortion she’s—”

“Excommunicated.”

“Not just excommunicated. Latea sententiae—automatically excommunicated,” Elle said. “The act itself causes the excommunication. Your brother-in-law who beat your sister to death wouldn’t even get excommunicated for what he did to her. There’s a nice fourth and fifth thought about the Catholic Church for you.”

“I know you said something really profound and worth thinking about, but all I heard was you speaking Latin there for a second and it was really awesome.”

“Oh my God, you’re certifiable.”

“I’m sorry. Sort of. But you’re right, lots of thoughts,” Kyrie agreed. She folded her arms over her stomach.

“And here you are, one of them. A nun. Despite all your second, third and fourth thoughts, you still joined the ranks.”

“You know, American nuns drive the pope crazy. We’re all liberal and revolutionary, and we hold property in common and that makes everyone think we’re communists. Which most of us are. At least socialists. God forbid everybody gets enough food and water and nobody gets to be a billionaire until everyone gets dinner every single day, right?”

“Pissing off the pope is a good reason to be a nun. Maybe the only good reason.”

“There are other good reasons.”

“There are?” Elle asked. “What are they?”

“Free fancy outfits,” Kyrie said. “Three square meals a day. A girl who knows Latin to do your laundry for you.”

“I only know a tiny bit of Latin. And don’t get used to the laundry servicing,” Elle said. “Once I leave here, one of you lovely ladies will take over laundry duty again. Maybe even you.”

“Leave? Why would you leave?” Kyrie sounded horrified by the very idea.

“I can’t stay here forever.”

“You could if you joined.”

“I’m not joining a religious order. Especially not this one.”

“Why not?”

“No men allowed.”

“You like men?”

“Love men. They’re my favorite people when they’re behaving.”

“I like women,” Kyrie said.

“Then you’ve come to the right place. Women galore. Lucky you.” Elle ironed a crease into the napkin, folded it and ironed it again.

“When are you planning on leaving here?” Kyrie asked.

“I don’t know. As soon as I can figure out what do to with my life.”

“Any ideas?”

“Not yet. I don’t have a lot of job skills. Working in a laundry for the rest of my life doesn’t hold much appeal.”

“I don’t blame you. Did you go to college?”

“NYU.”

“Did you graduate?”

“I did. English degree. See what I mean about no job skills?”

Kyrie laughed. “You can’t do anything else?”

“I give good blow jobs. I’ll leave the convent and become a prostitute.”

“I bet I’d suck at blowing. It seems hard.”

Elle looked up and glared at Kyrie.

“Did you make a dick joke?” Elle asked.

“I did!” Kyrie applauded herself. “I’m not sure if I’ve ever done that before. How many points do I get?”

“One point.”

“Only one? Hmm...that means I have three points. How many points would it take for you to tell me why you’re here?”

Elle sighed heavily. “I don’t know. Lots of them.”

“How about twenty-five? That’s how you win a match in volleyball. I played volleyball. I’m crazy good at volleyball.”

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“Why am I not surprised you played volleyball?”

Kyrie looked her in the eyes. “That’s a lesbian joke, isn’t it?”

“It might be.”

“I liked it. I give you two points.”

“How many points to get you to leave?” Elle asked.

“You,” Kyrie said, pointing at her. “You are a curmudgeon.”

“One point for use of curmudgeon.”

“Awesome. Now I have four points. Twenty-five of them and I get your story. Okay?”

“Fine. If you get to twenty-five points, I’ll tell you why I’m here. You’ll probably regret asking.”

“I’m sure I will. Looking forward to regretting it.”

“You can go away and leave me alone now,” Elle said. “I really do have work to do, and you are seriously distracting me.”

“I’m leaving. But I’m going to bug you until I get all twenty-five points.”

“You’re going to have to do better than a lame dick joke. I’m a tough grader, and I was telling better dick jokes than you when I was in middle school. Step up your game, okay?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Kyrie said, giving her a little salute and hopping down off the counter. “I’ll see you later tonight. You finish your work. I’ll figure out what you can do with your life.”

“Oh, you’re going to figure that out for me?”

“I am.”

“Good. One less thing for me to worry about,” Elle said, picking up another napkin, a napkin that would be used at dinner tonight, soiled on some elderly nun’s mouth, and returned tonight to be rewashed, redried, reironed and reused. Until the end of time.

“I’ll catch you later,” Kyrie said, heading for the door. “Happy ironing, Elle.”

“Hey, Kyrie?” Elle called out. Kyrie stopped and turned around.

“What?”

“I meant it. Mother Prioress really doesn’t want me bothering you all. If she finds out we’re talking too much, she might not let me stay, and I don’t have anywhere else to go.”

“I wouldn’t tell anybody we talked,” Kyrie said. “Your secrets you won’t tell me are safe with me. Mainly because you won’t tell them to me.”

“Thank you. Mother Prioress doesn’t really want me here. She’s doing my mom a favor.”

“If it makes you feel better,” Kyrie said from the doorway, “I want you here.”

The words, so simple and kind, hit Elle like a high ocean wave and pulled her under like a riptide. They carried her down deep under the surface and it took a few seconds before she hit open air again.

“Elle? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she said. “It’s just...what you said—I said the exact same thing to my priest ten years ago.”

“You said ‘I want you here’ to your priest? Why?”

“Why?” Elle said, smiling. “Because I was fifteen and he was nice to me, and I would have done or said anything to make him happy.”

“Oh,” Kyrie said, nodding. “That’s funny.”

“Why is that funny?” Elle asked, meeting Kyrie’s eyes. They were the strangest color of blue—like a spring morning so bright it hurt to look at it.

“That’s the same reason I said it.”

13

Haiti

KINGSLEY WAS OUT of his element. Back in Manhattan if he met a woman he wanted to pursue, he’d find out everything he could about her and use that information to his advantage. If they were in Manhattan he’d know who Juliette was, her last name, where she came from, who she ate with, worked with and slept with. But he wasn’t in Manhattan. He was in Haiti, and he had no idea who this woman was or what she wanted with him.

And he certainly had no idea what to expect tonight. He wasn’t even certain Juliette would show up. Maybe it was a test, like making him strip naked on the beach. Asking him to take his clothes off hadn’t been much of a test. He’d take his clothes off anywhere, anytime and for nearly any reason. Especially when asked nicely. It was getting him to put his clothes back on afterward that was the real challenge.

Speaking of clothes...Kingsley looked himself up and down. He’d debated about what to wear for his second meeting with Juliette and decided to dress in a slightly cleaner version of his usual Haitian uniform of sun-bleached khakis and white button-down shirt. It was the beach, after all. He hadn’t packed any of his suits and ties and boots. The freedom of going incognito was intoxicating. Right now, as far as Juliette knew, he was nothing more than a French-American refugee, who’d come to Haiti for an inexpensive vacation. Something about Juliette, the way she talked, the way she looked at him, made him think his money and power wouldn’t impress her. What would impress her, he didn’t know. But he would find out what it was, and he would do it even if it meant getting naked in public again.

Especially if it meant getting naked in public again.

The sun had barely set by the time he made it back to the fork in the path where Juliette had said to meet her. He waited for a few minutes, and then a few minutes more. He told himself he wouldn’t wait another minute. And then another minute would pass and still he’d be there. Finally at nine-thirty he gave up and walked away. One minute later he un-gave up and walked back.

And there she was, wearing a scarlet red dress and holding a set of keys in her hand. He knew he should say something, anything. Perhaps “you’re late” would be a good start to the conversation. But he had no words. The dress she wore had a deep V-neck that stopped at the center of her chest. She had full and firm breasts, which the dress did nothing to disguise and everything to display. The wind blew a cool evening breeze on them and caught her skirt in its fingers. He saw a flash of her strong thighs, both shapely and muscular. And he saw something else too, something that made him smile.