Authors: Raven McAllan
“My house is nearest.” He spoke as Berry rounded the corner into the square. “Are we agreeable? Handyside will take your equipage to your groom for you.”
“I thank you. A splendid idea.” Berry drew up outside Ran’s house with a flourish and jumped down to hand his reins to the groom who came running before turning to Hermione. “My turn, I believe,” he was saying as Ran gave swift orders to his man.
As they trod slowly up the stairs, the men flanking Hermione, Ran felt his anxiety must be palpable. So much was dependent on the next few hours.
“The study, I think,” he said briefly as they were admitted. He gave his orders for refreshments and then not to be disturbed. “We are not at home.”
His butler bowed, betraying by not a flicker his feelings on such edicts.
Ran ushered Hermione into the cozy, book-lined room, Berry following. He saw Hermione take in the comfortable, oversized couch, the view from the window into an enclosed, private courtyard, the deep wine-colored furnishings that complemented the room. And the somewhat unusual-looking chair ensconced in one corner, its back low and angled, its arms well padded, and the attached, cushioned footstool. His gaze rested on Berry, who knew as well as he, the myriad of ways the chair could be utilized. Both followed her gaze as it moved from it, only to flicker back to it again. He saw the amused smile that came to Berry’s face—mirrored, he was sure, on his own—when she licked her lips nervously.
Or with excitement?
Time, he hoped, would tell.
“Pray, my love, take a seat. Perchance, first, tell us what you know of Ivo Daranton’s track?” He watched as once more her eyes skittered to the chair before she sat primly on the long brocade couch, her knees together, her ankles properly covered. Or so it seemed. With a wicked glint in her eye, she moved one leg slightly, so very briefly a shapely leg was displayed through a cunning slit in her gown before being hidden. One of her very appreciated affectations, he thought, enjoying the brief view.
A knock on the door heralded the housekeeper with refreshments. It was if they were exhibiting a tableau, so still they all sat, until with a reiteration regarding their privacy, they were left alone.
“So—” Berry waited until they all had a drink. “The track?”
“Oh.” She laughed. “Merely that I, along with Arabella Dunsmuir and Serena Saltsey, spent one very pleasurable afternoon trying out its possibilities. I wondered whether I should build one at Anscome? Its ability to produce the most breathtaking climax as the movement of the carriage over the cobbles is truly amazing. You must try it as some point.”
Minx, she sat, oh-so-decorously with a saucy smile playing around her lips. Never would he have thought so much could be conveyed from a facial expression at the same time.
“Perhaps if you decide favorably, we may all try it. Now I must ask, what is your decision, Hermione? You know what we want and how.”
“Refresh my memory. Spell it out to the last letter, my lords.” Her eyes were full of mischief. “For a decision such as this, affecting all our lives, is too important to be misconstrued.”
She was correct there. With an almost telepathic message, he knew Berry was willing to continue in the most graphic terms imaginable. He sat back to listen, enjoy, and become aroused. Lud, he had on one memorable occasion come by listening to that hypnotic voice alone.
“Should you so choose, my love, in essence you are ours and we yours alone, admitting no others to our minds, our bodies, or our souls. We can be any two of three together, and the third may look on and be pleasured by the sight alone. It may be, on occasion, we are as one—all three together in whichever way pleases us. Even to be two at a time when all three together is not possible, this is acceptable…with the proviso that all of that glorious coupling will be described, in minute detail, to whosoever is not lucky enough to be there at the time. We will always be sure we all know of the others’ actions and have the opportunity to enjoy through speech, if not actions or as voyeur.”
“And,” Ran interpolated, “if we so choose that to kiss and tell to whoever is unable to participate is the answer, we must be true, open, and honest in our narrative. For, I fear, that on occasion that may well be me, and the thought of being told in graphic detail of your activity will spur me on to a swift and safe homecoming.”
Hermione nodded. “I understand that. But”—and once again that sultry, full-of-promise smile lurked around her mouth—”I wish to be, er, reminded of what our activities could embrace. For instance, you mentioned a daisy chain…?”
Ran watched, inwardly chuckling, as Berry laughed out loud.
“Oh, yes, my love, we will daisy chain. Cock, cock, cunt, and hands. Also any which way we choose be it physically possible. We have so many delicious orifices to fill. And with so many ways available, we will need a lifetime to discover them all.” He looked across at Ran, who took up his cue.
“I see you noticed my chair? Imported from the Orient. It is a fucking chair. Designed for three—to give ease of access and spectacular climaxes. With its own head and knee rests, fucking hole, and restraints. We will take great delight in showing you how it can be used for our delectation—”
Hermione interjected swiftly. “
If
I choose to be one of three.”
He bowed his head. “But, of course, my dear. We will do naught you do not feel ready for, nor introduce the amazing and versatile toys we have at our command until you feel happy about the use of them. We have carved and creative objects designed to give you the greatest pleasure, in your cunt, your arse, wherever our cocks are not. We have ones for you to use in us, and so much more. There are delights and excitements galore for us to explore. So what say you?”
Her head went to one side. The air in the room was still, waiting for this one, most important answer.
“Well, to answer in order: I have a chair which serves me very well when neither of you choose to visit me. Your carved objects are, I presume, dildos.” She paused, obviously waiting for an answer. She received two nods and two reluctant chuckles. Truly, a pearl above any price, but still she had not answered the most important question of all.
“So?” he prompted. Pray, she was not thinking to say, “snuff.”
“So,” she parroted. “I have my own dildos, one for my pussy, one for my arse. Neither as magnificent as either of you, but more than adequate to fill me when needed. So the question is…am I to be satisfied with second best—no throbbing cocks, no thrill of hot, wet, hard bodies entwined and exhorting each to higher and greater delights? Having to tie my own legs to my chair to keep me wide and wanting that hardness inside me? I wonder, my lords, which will I choose? Truly there is no competition is there.”
She paused and laughed and beckoned them toward her. They leaned forward to hear her decision…
“Oh, my loves!”
Biography
Ever since I won not one but two Cadbury “Where does chocolate come from?” competitions in primary school, I was convinced one day I would write a book. Lots of books.
My parents encouraged me. My schoolteachers despaired of me. (Evidently reading a story in your math class was not acceptable, even if you had finished the assignment!) Flowery. Romantic. Not factual. All leveled at me and all true. Hey, I loved weaving stories about anything and anyone.
So what happened to my grand ideas? Life got in the way—as it does.
A couple of truly awful manuscripts were sent off and duly—and rightfully—rejected. I gave up on my dreams.
More years later than I’m prepared to disclose (hey, a woman has to have some secrets!), I realized I’d been writing as I thought I should, not as I could. It was my “eureka” moment.
I dusted off my almost nonexistent typing skills and decided now was my chance. With more than a little coercion from my lovely crit group, Up and Coming Writers, I got typing. The ideas came fast and furious, and here I am, a published author.
Married to my own hero (how cheesy is that?) after a couple of failed hero attempts, we live on the edge of a Scottish forest with two cats, three children, and a daughter-in-law as frequent visitors. And now two grandkids. Lucky or what?
I write on my laptop in my study, watching the birds on the bird table, the strange, big, black, fluffy, I’m-pretending-to-be-a-bird cat, sitting on it and trying to convince the many real birds he is invisible, occasionally seeing deer and a red squirrel moving past. I am privileged.
As a noncloset romantic, sometimes neurotic, and lover of words, I so enjoy getting involved with my hero and heroines. I hope you do too.