The Dommes of Ballingal: Kristin
Ballingal. An Island in the middle of a Loch. Where women rule, and hearts are saved—or broken.
I love the sound of the ladies of the loch. There are six of them. Kristin's is the first story to be told.
Kristin McCrory would never in a million years have thought her ex-husband would show up on Ballingal and profess his need to sub for her. Flynn is the ultimate stubborn Alpha male, and his refusal to even discuss her need to be in charge had already cost them their marriage. That, and his apparent need to seek out the most dangerous place to report on in his work as a television documentary reporter.
However, the Flynn she knew is not the Flynn who stands before her now. This Flynn is a broken man and she can’t just turn him away. As an Empath and mind reader, Kristin can sense his emotional and physical pain. It means Kristin feels even more drawn to the man she loves, and their connection is as strong as ever.
Love is worth fighting for after all, and Flynn finds new strength in his submission.
“Bring those, please.” She didn’t wait to see if he would do as she said, but turned her back on him and began to walk like a ship in full sail back up the path toward the cluster of stone buildings a few hundred yards up the hill. The dozen or so other visitors scattered in various directions as Flynn slung his bag over his shoulders, picked up the boxes, and walked three strides behind her.
Is this welcome to a sub’s paradise? Fuck that for a game of soldiers, or subs. I might say I’ll sub, but there’s subbing and subbing.
“There isn’t, you know.” Kristin had stopped and turned toward him. Flynn missed bumping into her by inches.
“Eh?” He rocked back on his heels and held on to the boxes for grim death. It wouldn’t be a very auspicious start to drop them.
“There’s just subbing where I’m concerned. One way.” She paused and ran one long pillar-box-red fingernail over his cheek. “My way.” She turned and carried on walking.
Flynn shook his head. Either he’d been talking out loud or she was a mind reader. Hadn’t he discovered in his research that really there were as many ways of kink as there were people?
“Mind reader,” Kristin called over her shoulder. “And I’m not other people.”
Fuck, and if you’re reading this be warned, Mrs. McCrory. Sub to you I may be, doormat I won’t.
There was no answer. So it was selective thought reading then?
“No, I chose not to answer.” Kristin stopped outside a bright yellow door, with baskets of spring flowers on either side of the porch. “You’ll submit to me and in my way, or you won’t, Flynn. The choice is yours. We’ll discuss it later. Here’s Nicole’s place.”
He blinked and raised his eyebrows. What was he supposed to say to that? “Very nice.”
Kristin dropped the post sack a few inches from his toes. He was glad he had sturdy shoes on, and he didn’t flinch.
“I hope you think so. It’s the bed and breakfast—guest house. Where, I assume you have a booking?”
Flynn shook his head. He loved the way her eyes glittered, and her fingers twitched. Green eyes, red hair, and a temper to match. Oh so stereotypical, and great fun to light the flare and watch the sparks fly. He was adept, or he amended to himself, had been, adept at ducking.
“A very nice lady called Justine told me it was full and I’d be stopping with you.”
Her mouth dropped open and Flynn grinned. It wasn’t often he had ever been able to surprise her. “Didn’t you know?” he asked in as innocent a voice as he could muster.
“No I did not.”
If she could conjure up frost, he reckoned he’d have frostbite, or icicles on his dick.
“And you are not stopping with me.”
Flynn put the boxes down, very carefully. He felt as if he was about to walk on eggshells. “I’ve paid my dues, surely? Three years I’ve given us. Now I’m ready.”
“You’ve given us?” Her tone was incredulous and her dark eyebrows disappeared under the carroty red fringe of her hair. The two colors should have seemed incongruous, but Flynn hardly noticed. She’d dyed her eyebrows and eyelashes ever since he’d met her.
“Given us?” Her voice rose. “Get real and open your tight little mind, Flynn. You’ve given me fuck all, except heartache. I vowed when you walked away I wouldn’t cry one single sodding tear. And you know?” She poked him in the chest. The look in her eyes made it clear she would have preferred to use a knife, not her finger. “I didn’t. Not one.”
A lump wedged in Flynn’s throat. She hadn’t been upset? He’d gone on a misery-fest for a month, and eventually been dragged out of his bed by his Director. Was it all a mistake? Should he turn round and sit on the jetty until the boat came back? No, no not that. I need her.
“You know why, Flynn?” She poked him once more, and the pain hit his heart and shattered it into tiny pieces of guilt.
He shook his head, scared if he spoke his voice would break as well as his heart.
“I’ll tell you then, shall I? Because I shed fucking millions, that’s why. I was a mess, and if it hadn’t been for Justine, god knows where I’d be now.”
It might be horrible news, and he did feel awful, but deep inside, Flynn had a tiny glimmer of hope. Maybe, just maybe, something could rise out of the ashes of their relationship?
Flynn swallowed. “You’re—” He cleared his throat to try and make his cotton wool tongue work. “You’re too strong to do anything silly.”
She curtsied mockingly. “I’m glad you realize that, Flynn. Because if you’re serious about subbing to me, we’ve got a lot to talk about.”
Well what can I say?
I'm growing old disgracefully and loving it.
Dh and I live on the edge of a Scottish forest, and rattle around in a house much too big for us.
Our kids have grown up and flown the nest, but roll back up when they want to take a deep breath and smell the daisies so to speak.
I write in my study, which overlooks the garden and the lane. I'm often seen procrastinating, by checking out the wild life, looking—only looking—at the ironing basket and assuring tourists that indeed, I'm not the bed and breakfast. That would mean cooking fried eggs without breaking the yolks, and disturbing the dust bunnies as they procreate under the beds. Not to be thought of.
Being able to do what I love, and knowing people get pleasure from my writing is fantastic. Long may it last.