Read MY TWO DOMS: HOT HARD MENAGE #3 Online
Authors: Erika Masten
MY TWO DOMS: HOT HARD MENAGE #3
MY
TWO DOMS: HOT HARD MENAGE #3
by
Erika
Masten
Copyright © 2011 Erika Masten.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Erika Masten
Published
by Sticky Sweet Books.
This book
contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and
Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. Without
limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication
may be reproduced, stored on, or introduced into a retrieval system, or
transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical,
photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of
both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This
is a work of fiction. Any similarities to actual persons or events are purely
coincidental.
Warning:
Explicit content. Intended for mature readers only. All characters depicted
herein are 18 years or older, and all sexual activities are of a consensual
nature.
This
is a work of erotic fantasy. In real life, please protect yourself and your
lover by always practicing safe sex.
My
Two Doms: Hot Hard Menage #3
Excerpt
From
Excerpt
From
Bad
Boys’ Submissive: Hot Hard Menage #2
MY TWO DOMS: HOT
HARD MENAGE #3
In my defense, it has been a long week, staring at
brain-numbing spreadsheets all day at work and avoiding phone calls and
unannounced visits from my hot-and-cold, on-again off-again ex-boyfriend trying
to get me to talk to him. It’s Friday at last, and I drag myself home and peek
into the mailbox to find a handful of junk mail and a magazine in a plain brown
wrapper. For a few seconds, my mood lightens, and my heart jumps just a little,
and I feel like maybe the world isn’t out to make me completely miserable. I
can see my evening now: one of the food channels on in the background, comfy
tank top and boy shorts, a glass of wine in the air conditioned comfort of my
bedroom, and a little smutty reading to give me good dreams.
With the junk mail stacked on top of the magazine,
all cradled in the crook of my arm, I trudge up the porch steps while reading
the front of the first few envelopes and using one long fingernail to tear the
two circular seals on the magazine wrapper.
Zoe
Baker, you may already be a winner! Are you paying too much for car insurance?
Limited introductory offer!
I keep a small waste basket inside my front
door, under the entry table, for just these occasions. It only takes me a few
seconds to relegate the whole pile of white envelopes to the trash.
Then it’s just me and my illicit reading material. I
take a deep breath of chilled air and shake the layered bangs of my dark
wine-red hair back from my face, let my shoulders hang for a few seconds and
roll my head. Removing a few pins allows my businesslike twist to fall into a
more relaxed ponytail. I should just put the magazine down, fix dinner and do a
couple of chores, and wait until I’m ready to settle in for the night. But it’s
been such a shitty week…
I flip open the brown flap, thinking I’ll just see
what the steamy cover image is and take a look at the titles for this month’s
stories—build a little anticipation. The bright red background is the first
thing that jumps out at me, followed immediately by the busty brunette cover
model decked out in a leather and chain harness teddy with a chain strap pulled
tight between the lips of her shaved slit, against her clit. Her arms are bound
behind her back, forcing her to arch, to thrust up her bare tits in offering.
Even with a red ball gag stretching her mouth open, she still looks like she’s
moaning in ecstasy.
My first thought is that they’ve gone a
lot
more hardcore this month. My second
thought is I’m a little ashamed to admit—even to myself—that I like it, so much
so that my nipples have gone hard in an instant and I can feel dampness seeping
into my cotton panties from my moistening pussy. My last thought is to actually
glance up at the title. Instead of
Domination
Romance
, the strong block letters read
Total
Submission
.
Only then does it occur to me to flip back to the
address block on the plain cover. 108 S. Third Street instead of 106. Matthew
Gibbs, not Zoe Baker. Shit, I opened my next door neighbor’s mail.
I check the seals, hoping maybe I can just fold them
back over the cover. Nope, I didn’t peel them; I tore them. But maybe not all
is lost. Matthew works a few block away from my offices, on the far side of the
Financial District. He usually gets home a few minutes after I do. And his
partner, Noah, always works a little later, trying to squeeze in a few more
veterans waiting to see him at the VA benefits office downtown. Maybe I can
just slip it into their mailbox before they get home. Anyone might have opened
it. It could even have gotten torn during transit, running through sorting
machines, getting stuffed into bags and little postal jeeps.
Of course, it also makes me wonder about Matthew. He
and Noah have been great neighbors, from volunteering their help when I pulled
up in the moving truck, to coaching me through more than a few DIY home
maintenance moments. They had me over for Christmas Eve, and I’ve invited them
for dinner half a dozen times in the last eight months, and not just because
they’ve refrained from telling me what a pest I am. Though they’ve never been
the touchy feely sort in front of me, it’s clear they’re a couple. Why else
would two attractive men in their early thirties with good jobs be living
together? Now, however, flipping through page after page of women bound in
helpless and suggestive slave positions, I’m wondering if Matthew might be
bisexual rather than gay.
Not that it would mean… After all, he and Noah are
still a couple, and nothing says he’d be interested in me, anyway… But…it does
make for some new fantasy material. Considering how badly my last relationship
ended, and my vow to take a year off from dating while I figure out why I keep
picking unfaithful, emotionally unavailable bad boys, the importance of hot
male stock for fantasizing cannot be overstated.
I slip out my front door and glance over at their
porch. Looks quiet. The living room curtains are still drawn. So why, if
they’re not home and I’m hoping no one will see me, am I straightening my loose
black skirt and smoothing the wrinkles from my navy silk blouse? My nipples are
still embarrassingly hard, so I hug the magazine to my chest and stride as
quickly as my high heels will allow along my concrete walk and down the
sidewalk toward the next mailbox.
Even while chiding
myself for acting like an oversexed teenager, I’m already thinking naughty
thoughts about Matthew, about his broad chest and beefy arms, about what it
would be like to feel him tying me up and touching me. His voice is deep,
controlled, but with a humorous, inviting quality to it. What would he sound
like telling me to kneel and suck his cock like a good little sex slave? That
I’m his to do with as he pleases? That my proper place is legs spread, ready to
service him? God, I’m making myself shiver.
Matthew has that
mixture of rugged fitness and quiet, intense charm I’ve seen before—and been so
attracted to—in military men. Noah and he have only been out of the service for
three or four years, after joining at eighteen and putting in twelve years
each. Oh my, the military fantasies I could have. The commanding officer
disciplining the disobedient recruit. The officer interrogating his prisoner of
war.
“There’s my favorite
redhead.”
I freeze at the sound
of a voice I recognize too easily. He’s caught me with my hand in mid-air,
reaching for the door of his mailbox. No avoiding him now.
Hoping I’m not blushing
a deeper read than my own hair, I spin on my heels to face Matthew, where he’s
leaning on a post at the top of his porch steps.
“Oh, there you are. I
didn’t realize you were home.”
Or I would
have hidden in my house until dark.
“Did they mix up our
mail again?” he asks, and I let out a strained chuckle and nod.
The relaxed smile on
Matthew’s tanned face says he doesn’t suspect how badly I’ve embarrassed us
both. I don’t see how he can look so graceful draped like that, hands in the
pockets of his black pants, meaty arms bared by his chest-hugging white polo
shirt. Thank god for casual Fridays. The man is built like a brick wall—wide,
hard, rough, unbreakable.
My heels clack too
loudly for my comfort as I reluctantly navigate the winding stone walk up to
his porch. Matthew comes down the steps to meet me, gentleman that he is.
I hesitate a second,
avoiding his dark eyes and focusing instead on his pale, full lips, surrounded
by a light brown mustache and beard that are more like heavy stubble and too
damn sexy by half. “I’m sorry, Matthew. I accidentally opened it,” I blurt as I
hand him the magazine and hurry to fold my arms over my chest, to hide the
telltale points of my peaked nipples. Nice, Zoe. So much for trying to claim it
got torn open in transit.
My gaze shifts down to
his large hands and long, deft fingers as he flips back the cover to see what
magazine it is.
“Ah,” he says. It’s a
clipped, surprised sound. “Well, thanks for bringing it over, Zoe.”
He does sound
embarrassed, which is just breaking my heart. I gulp a deep breath and force
myself to look him in the eye. “I don’t mind,” I insist. “You’ve had to bring
your share of misplaced Cosmo and Vogue magazines to me.” With shock, I realize
I’m gesturing with wide motions as I talk, a old nervous habit of mine. Before
I know it, Matthew’s gaze has slipped down my flushed face and neck to my tits
and the rigid nipples showing him just how arousing I found the magazine. While
I babble on, his grin gets wider, but he graciously looks away.
When I pause for a
breath, Matthew motions toward his front door with his head. “Let’s get out of
the heat. Come in for a cold drink.”
Both crestfallen that I
tattled on myself so obviously and relieved that he’s handling the situation
with humor and his usual affable demeanor, I sigh and nod and follow him into
his quaint little white two-story with its slate blue door. In the cool, dim
kitchen, all stylish white and black, I pop up onto one of the stools at the
island counter and try not to melt into a puddle of depression over my
graceless behavior. Matthew rustles through the huge black fridge, then grabs a
glass from the cupboard. I distract myself by staring at his muscular back and
firm ass.
Instead of a soda or
lemonade, he sets a glass of chilled chardonnay down on the white tile in front
of me.
“Bless you,” I sigh out
and down a third of the glass before I can contain myself.
Matthew leans against
the counter beside me, all six-foot-three of him towering over me. “Looks like
someone had a long week.”
I hurry to swallow the
wine in my mouth. “Between the audit at work and my ex, definitely.”
“He’s still bothering
you? You know, Noah and I could have a word with him the next time he shows
up.”
And I know they would,
if I asked. Shit, why are all the good ones taken or gay, or both?
Still, I shake my head
and wave the suggestion away. “He’ll get bored, eventually, and go off to
torment some other woman with an unfortunate affinity for domineering,
belittling, unfaithful assholes.”
Matthew perks his brow
and smirks, dark eyes twinkling. Yeah, I know I have a flair with ranting. The
wine isn’t helping. The first glass is already gone, and he pours me another.
I’d like to say the
wine made me do it, but I’m not that much of a lightweight. It’s that Matthew
is so near, and so tall, and I can still see that damn magazine cover in my
head.
“So, can I ask you a
personal question?” I don’t wait for him to respond. “That magazine… Are you
bi?” I don’t look at him until the words are out of my mouth. Then it’s just a
nervous upward glance. His confused expression draws me in, and we connect for
longer than I had intended.
Matthew tilts his head
of sable hair, still cropped military length. “That’s an odd question. What
would make you ask that?”
There it is, the flush
of heat over my cheeks for asking an uncomfortable personal question. “Well…” I
hesitate, playing with my wineglass, until Matthew leans into my field of
vision, looking amused. “It’s just that the magazine only had photos of women,
so…”
