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What if the very thing you crave is that which you most fear?
Ashley is a woman running from her past — and from herself. Ten years of marriage to a man who took his dominance too far has left her scared, but defiant.
Fleeing west is a chance to start over, to rebuild her life, for once fully in control of herself. But inside she suspects it's that control itself that's the real problem.
She doesn't want it. Any of it.
A beautiful resort town in central Washington holds more than a new beginning though. It's also the home of two gorgeous men: the stern, possessive Parker, and the dark, brawny Drake. Can she risk herself again, once more surrendering to the forbidden pleasure of being subject to male desires?
In the arms of not one, but two, strict Dominant men, she might yet find the peace she's looked for all her life. The peace she's only found in the bonds of utter submission — this time as the property of two Doms.
But as she learns more about these mysterious men, will she realize that it's not only her heart at risk?
Publisher's Warning: This novel is suitable for mature readers. 18 and over only!
Themes explored in this MFM Menage include graphic sexual content, intense D/s, spanking, objectification, exhibitionism, and pervasive BDSM activity, and unequal power dynamics. Please do not buy or read this novel if you suspect any of these themes or activities might be offensive to you.
This is a MFM menage BDSM erotic romance. There is no sexual interaction between the males in this story.
Morning sun poured over both of them, warming her skin, her body entwined with, surrounded by Parker’s big body. Still fast asleep, his chest rising and falling slowly, his arm draped possessively over her, a strong hand holding the weight of her breast.
Loathe to deprive herself of the heat of his body, the comfort of his embrace, Ashley knew what her instructions were. She knew the rules. Sunny Sunday morning or not, she had duties to perform, another Master to obey.
Saturdays were for Parker, but Sundays were for Drake.
Extricating herself from Parker’s heavy arm, she pressed her soft lips to his chest, marveling anew at the lean musculature, the barely leashed power in that male body. Moving awakened the pleasant ache of the stripes decorating the curves of her ass, her right hip particularly sore from the way Parker had allowed his strap to “wrap” the night before.
He liked the bruises that were the aftermath of her regular Saturday appointment with his strap — and truth be told, so did she. She took a moment to take in that tall, beautiful male body tangled from the waist down in the white bed sheets, then slipped off the bed, padding her way to the door and down the long, shadowed hallway that the morning light could not reach.
The shower mustn’t be long, for she knew Drake might awaken at any minute — and woe betide the slave girl who wasn’t present when he did.
Fresh, long, dark hair still wet, she put her cuffs on at ankle and wrist, the black leather a firm, comforting reminder of their control of her. Easing the door to Drake’s bedroom open, she found her usual spot; fortunately for her it was squarely within a rectangle of brilliant morning sunshine across the carpet.
Remembering her routine had been difficult at first, and punishments invariably followed when she’d failed, punishments she’d relished and dreaded in equal measure. But now it was as familiar as an old pair of shoes, her instructions, the road map for her life as a slave.
You will be clean for your Master.
You will be awake before your Master.
You will be ready for whatever he wants, whenever he wants.
You will obey.
Crouching on the carpet, she waited. Her breasts brushed against her thighs, the cool morning air, and the moisture evaporating on her skin rendering her long nipples into aching, hard bullets. She adjusted her position, making sure her ass faced him exactly, the twin moons of her buttocks and the slot of her wet, swollen sex the first thing he’d see when he got up.
His breathing was still regular, but she’d heard him stir. Not long now.
The silence made time slow, only the sound of her Master’s breathing and the pounding of her own heart dominating her consciousness. What would he demand? Would he spank her again, even though she was already bruised?
Perhaps he’d work on her breasts, currently unblemished. She imagined herself kneeling, looking up at him as she’d been trained, her tears streaming down her cheeks, wetting her cleavage as his huge hands slapped her breasts back and forth. The hot pain of the smacks, the ache of the marks. She’d cry out as he paused to pinch her nipples, to pull and twist them. His playthings.
If they let her come, it was always a painful, drawn out affair, her pleasure earned at the price of long endurance, abject obedience — and purely at their whim. Often she was deprived of it, and it fired her need to serve, to submit, and to please. Perhaps if she were that much more obedient, that much more pleasing, she’d be granted release, that screaming climax which haunted her dreams.
How often had she tried to sleep, bound, blindfolded, her hands unable to reach the dripping cunt seething between her clenching thighs. How she’d pleaded for that release, that deliverance, as they tormented her further, their hands, their cocks, their words, drawing her down further into that inescapable vortex of lust, pain, and surrender.
Drake, the dark Master of her Sundays, stirred behind her, and as the trembling of her body began, she smiled.
Soon, it would begin again.
“W ho … is that?” Erik moved to stand next to the hulking form of his friend Drake. They had seen the little Honda come bumping up the dirt road of the drive, bottoming out repeatedly in the world’s largest potholes.
Drake grunted something in response, his gaze fixated on the woman talking to their friend Parker at the edge of the drive.
Erik shoved Drake’s huge shoulder. “Dude. Words.”
Drake turned his head, his gaze not leaving the two figures at end of the driveway. “Parker seems to know her.” He shrugged his massive shoulders. “Didn’t say anything to me, though.”
Erik watched the curious conversation. He couldn’t make out a lot, but he could see enough. She was slight, that much was obvious, Parker’s imposing height emphasizing her petite form. She smiled at the always gesticulating Parker, his long-fingered hands continually moving, emphasizing whatever point he was making.
“Tiny little thing,” Drake said, his voice nearly a whisper.
“Everyone’s tiny compared to you, Mack.”
Erik liked to call Drake ‘Mack’. As in Mack truck. It perfectly summed up the hulking, unstoppable size of the man. That and Drake hated it. A nice bonus.
“Shut it, dick,” Drake growled. But Erik could see his heart wasn’t in it. The big man was distracted by something.
Not that Erik blamed him. There was something about how she stood there, her eyes never leaving Parker, not looking around, no impatient darting glances. Attentive.
It spoke to a man like Drake. Though the evasive, affable Parker would be adept at hiding it, Erik was pretty sure Parker could see it too.
The porch creaked as Drake shifted his weight, crossing his arms over his broad chest. The white tee shirt he was wearing stressed at the bulge of the muscles of his back and shoulders.
“You ever see her around? I don’t recognize the car,” Erik said, shaking his head, his shoulder length blond hair moving.
It was an older dark blue Honda Accord, maybe seven or eight years old. The gray front wheel covers were darkened with accumulated brake dust.
Not safe, girl.
She clasped her arms across her black knit sweater. A self-protective gesture, belying her open, friendly expression. Erik wanted to see what was behind those arms, what that sweater hid from his gaze. He wanted to know what was making her uneasy.
“Parker seems to know her,” Drake repeated. He turned and walked into the house, throwing one more glance at the pair before disappearing through the front door.
Erik was surprised at his friend’s reaction. Drake was an observer, noticing everything, but rarely remarking on it. When he did say something though, it was usually something important. It was a quality Erik appreciated — most of the time (it didn’t make Drake much of a conversationalist). Not that it mattered with Parker around, though. He talked enough for both of them.
But this had the taciturn Drake watching. Intently.
* * *
Ashley ran her fingers through the blond-streaked sable of her hair. She craned her head up to look in the rear view mirror.
Shit. Her roots were showing again.
“Why do you even care, Ash?” she said to herself, pulling the car onto Hwy 97. It was a bit of a drive still to get to Wenatchee, and her thoughts always wandered as the road followed the meandering of the Columbia River on the drive south.
Parker McCready was shown as the owner on the listing. He’d been the one who’d placed the ad for the guest house. She’d first seen the listing as a sale, but had noticed the “open to the right renter” clause too. You didn’t miss those little, potentially deal-breaking, details in real estate. Not if you wanted to stay in real estate — especially in this shit economy.
‘Open to the right renter’. Well, she was pretty sure she fit the bill there. No friends, no money, brand new to the area. She’d practically be a shut-in. The perfect renter, right?
She barked a harsh laugh. Trying too hard.
The house was fine — it would be the perfect place for her, really. He was the problem.
She would admit to reading her fair share of trashy romance novels. Okay, fine, it was mostly smut. She was a big girl, so she could do what she wanted.
But he had them.
Sure he was tall, well-dressed — at least by North Central Washington standards — and charming. Yes, he was all of that. But normally that didn’t matter to her. One thing mattered.
Oh damn, he had them.
He smiled, he joked, he grinned. But those surface emotions were a façade, an affectation. Those emotions didn’t reach those eyes. No sir, they didn’t.
Cruel eyes. The kind that watched you as you cried, took in your pain. Eager to watch.
The kind of eyes that made her soak her panties.
She’d stood there as Parker explained to her what the house offered. How he’d be around to help any time she needed something. Any time at all, he’d said. He’d motioned to the two men standing on the porch of the large, low slung ranch that was on the same land as the advertised guest house.
One of the men was lanky, athletic, with a long shock of blond hair. A younger guy — too young for her, at least from what she could see at a distance. The other man, was … huge. A mountain. All dark glowering looks and bulging biceps.
Parker’s grip as he’d shaken her hand was sure, a little harder than most men shook hands nowadays. She loved a man who wasn’t afraid he’d hurt a woman. She liked men who realized that a woman was tougher than she looked, that he wasn’t going to break her. Well, maybe not quite.
Ahem. Been reading too many of those books.
An eighteen-wheeler rocketed past in the oncoming lane, its turbulence buffeting her little Honda.
“Dammit.” She grabbed the steering wheel with both hands, keeping the car from going squirrelly on her. She’d been daydreaming, and the highway was not the best place to be doing that unless you were planning on becoming a hood ornament for a Peterbilt.
She’d moved to the Chelan area to get away. Away from him. She’d needed something, anything new. She’d remembered visited the area once right after college, and thought it breathtaking. The Chelan-Stehekin ferry cutting through the mirrored surface of Lake Chelan. The mountains rising sharply from either shore resembling the look of a Norwegian fjord. Gorgeous.
There were practical reasons, too. She worked as a realtor, but specialized in high-end properties. North central Washington was one of the few areas that seemed to have largely weathered the storm of the housing collapse (those rich folks still loved their real estate). From the awe-inspiring grandeur of the Methow valley, the untouched Cascades that surrounded Winthrop, to the trendy (and very touristy) Leavenworth, the region was still going strong — and managing to stay under the radar for the most part. Staying under the radar suited her just fine.
So here she was.
Then he — they — had to be at that house.
Ashley just wanted a quiet place to retreat to. Somewhere she could go to peel off the realtor’s manufactured confidence and charm. Somewhere she could go to cry, to sob out the jagged pain and hurt. To just be … her. No complications. A place to recover and pick up the pieces. To start over.
“Well, shit. That’s out the door.”
Her lips curved into the tiniest of smiles as she said it.