Lady Victorias Secret Surrender

**Author's Note.**

Here's my attempt at a kinky power exchange story. We all know us Brits basically invented the whole disciplined at boarding school thing, right?

I wanted to explore what happens when class structures get flipped on their head behind closed doors. Like the proper aristocratic lady who's always bossing everyone around but secretly fantasizes about being dominated. And the working class Irish guy who's sick of being pushed around by toffs but finds it hot when a posh woman begs him to take control.

Problematic? Fuck yeah. But real attraction isn't politically correct.

---

The Riding Crop

Liam's POV

I'll never forget that day at the hunt. Pishin' down rain, typical English misery, me and the other protesters standin' in mud while these posh cunts on horses rode around us like lords of the manor. Which they were, I suppose.

Then I saw her.

Sittin' high on a black horse lookin' down her nose at the world. Lady Victoria Harrington-Wells, I'd later learn. Mid-forties but fit as fuck. Not some skinny model type, but a real woman with curves and strength. Expensive ridin' gear that screamed old money.

When our eyes met, somethin' sparked. Not just the usual hatred I feel for her type. Somethin' darker, like.

Hadn't planned to run when the police moved in. But when I saw an openin' to that old stone barn, I took it. Never thought she'd follow.

But she bloody did.

"I know you're in here," she called out. Christ, that voice. Like cut glass and private schools. Like someone who's never heard 'no' in her life. "Did you really think I wouldn't follow?"

I stepped out, heart hammerin' but face hard. "Countin' on it, actually," I said, lettin' my Cookstown accent come through thick. Wanted her to hear the difference between us.

She looked me over like I was shite on her boot. Takin' in my charity shop jacket, mud-caked boots. "You've cost me today," she said. "That wasn't just some jolly weekend hunt. I had business connections there."

"Fuck your business," I took a step closer. "More ways to keep killin' animals? More rich bastards decidin' how the rest of us live?" Another step. "Where I come from,

Lady Muck

, your type has been steppin' on throats long enough."

Somethin' flashed in her eyes when I called her Lady Muck. Not just offense.

Hunger

.

"You know nothing about me," she said, voice quiet but tight with tension.

"I know enough," I circled her slowly, like prey. "I know you're used to givin' orders. To havin' everyone jump when you speak. To always, always bein' in control." I paused, watchin' her face. "But I wonder what happens when that control is... taken away."

She stared at me, mask slippin'. "That's absurd," she said, but her voice trembled.

I moved closer. Close enough to smell her expensive perfume, to see her pulse quicken at her throat. "Is it? I bet someone like you, who has to make every fuckin' decision, sometimes fantasizes about someone else takin' charge. Someone who doesn't give a shite about your title or your money. Someone who sees right through you."

Thunder crashed outside. Rain hammered the roof like it was tryin' to get in.

"You know nothing," she repeated, but she hadn't moved an inch. The door was right there. She could walk out anytime.

"Then why are you still here?" I asked, now close enough that I could feel the heat from her body. "Your fancy friends are gone. Hunt's over. Yet here you are, alone with someone you'd cross the street to avoid in London."

I saw it in her eyes then.

Desire. Fear. Excitement.

"I've got a proposition," I said, voice low. "While we're trapped by this storm, we switch places. You, who always commands, will obey. Me, who's told what to do my whole fuckin' life, will give the orders."

"That's ridiculous," she said, but her face flushed.

"Is it? So why haven't you left?" I looked at her throat. Could see her pulse going like mad above her silk scarf. "Why's your heart racing?"

Her hand went to her neck automatically. "You're being absurd."

"Prove it. Walk away."

But instead she asked, "What exactly would this... involve?" Her posh accent slipped a bit.

I couldn't help smiling. "Rules. Boundaries. A safeword so you've got an escape hatch. You say 'freedom' anytime, everything stops."

"Like an emergency brake," she said.

"Exactly."

"And why would I do this?" she asked, steadier now.

"Because you're curious. Because for once you might want to find out what it's like to not be responsible for every fucking thing."

I watched her thinking about it. Risk versus curiosity.

"Take your gloves off," I said.

She raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"

"Something simple to start. Take your riding gloves off."

For a moment, I thought she'd tell me to go fuck myself. Then slowly, deliberately, she pulled each finger of her leather gloves, revealing pale hands with manicured nails. I watched her register the feeling of cool air against skin that had been covered.

"Now the crop," I demanded.

Her hand tightened around the riding crop she'd brought in. Worn leather, probably worth more than I made in a month.

"This is absurd," she repeated, voice weaker.

"Is it? Hand it over. Give up your symbol of control."

Her pulse was visible at her throat now. She stared at my outstretched hand, at the protest scars across my knuckles. Then she placed her crop in my palm. Our fingers touched and she actually shivered.

"Good girl," I said, the condescension deliberate, watching her reaction. Her eyes flashed with anger, but underneath it, something else.

Excitement.

"Turn around," I ordered.

"Why should I?" she challenged, but her body was already responding.

"Because I fucking told you to," I said simply. "But remember your word if you're scared."

That did it. Pride made her turn, back stiff with tension. She wasn't used to not seeing what was coming next. I moved behind her, close enough that she could feel my breath on her neck.

"Take off your jacket," I said against her ear.

Her hands went to the buttons of her fancy jacket. "This cost--"

"I don't give a shite what it cost," I cut her off. "Take it off. Now."

She undid each button precisely and took the jacket off. Underneath was a white shirt that probably cost as much as I make in a week.

"Now," I whispered close to her ear, "your jodhpurs."

Her breath caught. "I hardly think--"

"That's exactly it," I cut her off. "Don't think. Don't calculate. Just feel."

Her hands went to the waistband of her riding pants, hesitating.

"They'll be useful," I added. "For a proper English disciplining. Six of the best, like you lot say in those fancy schools."

I saw her shiver at that. She unfastened her jodhpurs and pushed them down. What I saw nearly made me choke. Instead of normal underwear she was wearing sheer nude tights. Nothing under them. Just bare skin visible through the expensive nylon.

"Jesus," I breathed, my accent thickening with surprise. "Didn't expect that."

The tights hugged her like a second skin. With no knickers underneath and clearly waxed smooth, I could see everything.

"Disappointed?" she asked, a bit of her confidence coming back when she saw my shock.

"Opposite," I managed, my voice going deeper. "Expected conservative knickers from someone like you."

I walked over to where her horse's gear was hanging. "These will work better than the jodhpurs," I said, picking up the reins. The leather was smooth and expensive in my hands.

Something changed in her eyes. Like she was enjoying surprising me.

"There's a lot you don't know about me," she said boldly.

"Show me," I challenged, facing her again, the crop now tucked in my belt.

Something reckless lit up in her face.

"Unbutton my shirt," she said, suddenly taking charge again. "But slowly."

My eyebrows went up at her sudden command, but I played along. I started unbuttoning her tailored shirt. As each button came undone, I saw more of her pale skin and then something completely unexpected: a black leather harness crossing her torso, framing her tits in a way no proper underwear would.

"Fucking hell," I whispered, my fingers stopping on the next button.

Her eyes sparkled with triumph at my reaction, showing me this secret self she kept hidden under her proper exterior. The harness was serious gear, not some fashion thing.

"Lady Victoria doesn't exist in here," she told me, her voice low and dangerous. "There's only Victoria, and she knows exactly what she wants."

"And what does Victoria want?" I asked, my voice rough too.

Without hesitating she put her arms behind her back, wrists crossed. "To let go. Completely."

I stepped closer, feeling her heat without quite touching. Then I wrapped the leather reins around her wrists, making sure they were secure but not hurting.

"Too tight?" I asked.

"No," she said.

"Good. Remember your word."

She nodded. I touched her shoulder, turning her to face me again.

"Now," I said quietly, picking up the riding crop, "we begin." I tapped it against my palm, making a sharp sound in the quiet barn. "Bend over that bale. Bottoms up, as you English say."

The command sent a visible wave through her. She moved to the old hay bale and bent over as instructed, the nylon of her tights stretching tight across her exposed arse.

"Wait," I said, softening my voice. "Something's missing."

I reached for her discarded jacket and found the silk scarf she'd worn earlier. Deep red, obviously expensive.

"Someone who controls everything she sees," I said, approaching with the scarf stretched between my hands, "might enjoy experiencing the world differently."

"A blindfold?" she asked, her voice catching.

"Trust needs more than words," I replied.

She hesitated only briefly before nodding. I placed the silk over her eyes, tying it behind her head.

"Now," I said quietly, "we really begin."

I moved the crop through the air, making that distinctive sound. Victoria stood still, breathing shallow. Without sight she couldn't prepare herself.

"When I strike, you'll count out loud," I instructed. "After each number you'll say 'Thank you, sir.' Got it?"

"Yes," Victoria replied, her voice tight with anticipation.

"Yes what?" I pressed.

She hesitated, decades of being in charge fighting with her current position. "Yes... sir," she finally said, the formal address clearly unfamiliar to her.

"Good girl," I said, deliberately thickening my accent. "Now let's start your proper English discipline."

I brought the crop down without warning, firm enough to make an impression through the thin material of her tights but not to really hurt. She gasped and I watched the sensation spread from where I'd struck.

Silence stretched between us.

"I'm waiting," I prompted.

"One," Victoria whispered. "Thank you, sir."

"Louder," I commanded. "Like you're bossing around those bankers in London."

"One," she repeated, stronger now. "Thank you, sir."

"Better," I murmured and saw how the praise affected her. The second strike followed immediately, slightly harder than the first.

"Two," she counted more quickly. "Thank you, sir."

With each stroke she responded more intensely, not just to the physical feeling but to the ritual itself. The counting became almost meditative, the "Thank you, sir" a deeper surrender. Those posh tights added something special, the sheer material warming against her skin, creating this unique friction that seemed to intensify everything.

"Five," she gasped as the crop landed more firmly. "Thank you, sir."

I could see her body responding in ways that clearly surprised her. Each carefully measured strike awakened something, creating waves that left her trembling, her body visibly turned on.

"What are you feeling?" I asked after the seventh stroke.

"I don't..." she began then stopped. "Alive," she admitted. "More present than I've felt in bloody ages."

I stroked gently where I'd struck moments before. "That's what freedom feels like," I said quietly. "Being fully in your body. In the moment."

"Let's continue," I said, my own voice rough with restrained desire. "Ten more. Count them properly, Lady Muck."

The nickname sent a visible jolt of excitement through her body. The class mockery became part of our play, highlighting the taboo nature of what we were doing.

As we went on I watched her surrender more completely with each number, each formal "Thank you, sir." The ritual stripped away her defenses layer by layer, leaving her raw and honest in a way she'd probably never allowed herself to be.

"Fifteen," she called out, no longer hiding how this was affecting her. "Thank you, sir."

By the final stroke she was transformed, her perfect composure completely gone, her body responding without reservation.

"Twenty," she breathed, her voice breaking. "Thank you, sir."

I moved to the bindings at her wrists, loosening the leather reins completely. As circulation returned I massaged her wrists gently.

"Stand up straight now," I said, supporting her as she rose on unsteady legs.

She swayed slightly. I steadied her shoulders, then moved to the silk covering her eyes.

"Can I?" I asked, fingers resting on the knot.

She nodded and I slowly removed the blindfold. She blinked as the dim light returned, her eyes adjusting. The world seemed different to her, I could see it in her face, the way she looked around like she was seeing everything fresh.

"How do you feel?" I asked.

She considered the question, searching for honesty. "Undone," she answered finally. "In the best possible way."

I cupped her cheek, brushing my thumb over her lower lip. "That's just the beginning," I promised. "If you want more."

"I do," she whispered, the simple admission clearly daring for someone like her.

Lightning flashed through the broken roof, lighting up our faces. In that flash we both saw the real desire reflected in each other's eyes, a connection that went beyond the circumstances of our meeting.

Slowly, deliberately, I closed the distance between us. My hands framed her face with tenderness that contrasted with the authority I'd just exercised. This mix of strength and gentleness awakened something primal in her, I could see it in her eyes.

"No going back from this," I murmured, giving her one final chance to retreat.

In response she leaned forward and pressed her lips to mine. The kiss began tentatively but quickly blazed into something urgent and consuming. Years of restraint dissolved between us.

"I want..." she began, then hesitated, the words clearly unfamiliar.

"Tell me," I demanded, gripping her wrists above her head. "Say exactly what you want."

Victoria Harrington-Wells, who clearly spent her life telling others what to do, found herself voicing desires she'd probably never spoken aloud.

"I want you to fuck me," she said, the crude word shocking coming from her posh mouth. "Hard. I want to feel your cock everywhere. I want to forget who I bloody am just for a little while."

My eyes widened at her bluntness. "Christ," I breathed. "Turn around. Hands against the wall."

She obeyed immediately, placing her palms flat against the cool stone. The leather harness creaked slightly as she moved.

I moved behind her, tracing the leather straps of the harness, following them across her back, around her waist. My hands moved lower, appreciating the sheer nylon still covering her legs and arse.

"Please," she whispered, another word that probably rarely left her lips in genuine need.

"Please what?" I asked, my breath against her ear.

"Please... sir," she managed, the formality now something transcendent between us.

My hands moved lower, finding her cunt soaking wet through the tights. With deliberate care I hooked my fingers into the fabric and created a small tear, the sound of ripping nylon startlingly erotic. The careful destruction of such an expensive garment sent another visible thrill through her.

I fumbled briefly with my own clothes, then pressed my cock firmly against her.

"You sure?" I asked, my voice tight with restraint.

"Absolutely certain," she replied, pushing back against me.

When I finally entered her it felt like fucking heaven. So tight and hot and wet. Victoria braced herself against the stone wall, each thrust driving her further from the woman she had been hours ago and closer to someone new, someone free. The nylon tights, now partially torn but still largely intact, added an unexpectedly erotic dimension.

"Fuck me harder," she demanded, shocking me with her directness. "I need it harder."

I gripped her hips tightly, driving into her with more force. Just when she seemed unable to bear any more, I found exactly the right spot with my fingers and I felt her cunt clench around my cock as she came, her entire body tensing then releasing in pulses that seemed endless.

"Bloody fucking hell," she cried out, the coarse words shocking and delicious from her cultured mouth. Her voice echoed in the ancient barn, all pretense of restraint abandoned. Behind her my rhythm faltered then intensified as I followed her into release, a stream of Irish curses falling from my lips.

We remained joined, breathless, as weak sunlight began to filter through the breaks in the clouds outside. The world we would eventually have to return to seemed very distant, its rules suddenly meaningless.

"Victoria," I whispered against her ear, "this changes everything."

She held me closer and I knew she felt it too. The woman who had entered this barn would not be the same one who left it. Lady Victoria Harrington-Wells had been transformed, not just by the shagging but by the freedom she'd discovered in surrender.

As we slowly began to separate, to reassemble ourselves into the people the outside world expected, I caught her watching me with a tenderness that surprised me.

"What happens now?" I asked, suddenly feeling younger than my twenty-three years.

Victoria considered the question as she carefully refastened her shirt, covering the leather harness that would remain her secret. The torn tights presented a problem, she'd need spare clothes before rejoining civilization.

"Now," she said slowly, "we go back to our separate worlds. But not unchanged."

My face fell slightly at what sounded like dismissal, disappointment crossing my features before I could hide it.

"And then," Victoria continued, reaching out to touch my face with unexpected tenderness, "same time next week? I believe there's much more for us to explore together."

A slow smile spread across my face. "Same time, same place," I agreed. "I'll bring the riding crop."

Victoria's cheeks flushed with anticipation, a schoolgirl blush that probably hadn't appeared there in decades. "And I," she said with newfound boldness, "shall bring a few surprises of my own."

"More tights?" I asked, my fingers brushing against her thigh where the torn nylon still clung to her skin.

"Perhaps," she said with a small smile. "Or perhaps something even more depraved."

"There's something else," I said as she prepared to leave. "I've been thinking about what you said about connections. Maybe we could talk about that too next time."

Victoria paused, intrigued. "You mean my work?"

"I mean the people you know. The influence you have." I held her gaze seriously. "There might be ways to channel that influence that would surprise you."

"A political alliance as well as a physical one?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Why not? We both want to change things, just through different methods."

Victoria considered me thoughtfully. "Next week then. For multiple forms of negotiation."

As she stepped out of the barn into the freshly washed countryside, her riding crop tucked under her arm and her composure outwardly restored, I knew she carried something precious, the knowledge that beneath her perfectly controlled exterior existed a woman capable of surrender, of passion, of authentic connection. And maybe most surprisingly, of change.