It’s
time for another Sizzling Sunday! Today I’ve got a long excerpt
from my taboo erotic romance Miranda’s Masks.
Miranda, the heroine, working on her doctoral dissertation in
literature, on the topic of Victorian erotica. I guess it’s not
surprising she’d have a dream like this!
* * * *
She
dreamed, coherently, lucidly, knowing that she dreamed. She stood
before a tall oval mirror, outfitted in full Victorian costume—lace
cravat at her high-buttoned neck and lace at her wrists, fitted
cuirass waist of fine gray gabardine, gathered overskirt of the same
and underskirt of flounced gray silk. Her jet locks were piled high
on her head in elaborate swirls and rolls. Garnets set in gold
dangled from her earlobes, and a matching brooch adorned her throat.
She was holding her breath, it seemed. After a moment, she recognized
this pressure as the embrace of her corset, encasing her flesh in a
manner that was oddly comforting. She moved slightly, watching her
skirts sway gracefully, noting how the gaslight made her jewels
sparkle.
“Shall
I help you to undress, Mistress?” The voice was familiar, though
the inflection was not. Miranda turned to see her roommate Lucy,
dressed as a lady’s maid, with a starched white collar and apron
and matching cap atop her blonde curls. The girl’s expression was
demure and respectful, but Miranda caught a hint of mischievous
gaiety underneath the proper demeanor.
“Yes,
please, Lucy, if you would be so kind.”
“With
pleasure, Mistress,” she replied. She began unfastening the dozens
of buttons along Miranda’s spine, until the fitted top hung loose
from Miranda’s shoulders. Then, coming round to face her mistress,
Lucy took hold of the long, tight sleeves and pulled the garment off.
Next came the main skirt, which was tied around her waist, then the
bustle and underskirt.
As
the maid worked, Miranda noticed, she allowed her hands to linger
slightly on her mistress’ body—an apparently accidental brush of
fingertips across Miranda’s breast—a tracing of her hipline while
removing a petticoat—a bare palm on the bare flesh of Miranda’s
back as her corset was unlaced. Miranda was sure that these brief
touches were deliberate, and meant to inflame her senses.
And
so they did. When she stood, finally, wearing only her chemise,
drawers and stockings, Miranda noted in the mirror the nubs of her
taut nipples, pushing through the fine cotton, the flush on her
cheeks, the way her chest rose and fell with her heightened
breathing. She could feel the growing tension in her sex, wound like
a coiling spring, pressing for release. A warm golden aura emanated
from her form, pulsing and flickering like a candle’s flame. The
rest of the room grew indistinct.
In
the mirror, her eyes met those of the saucy maid, who stared back,
boldly provocative, abandoning all pretence of propriety. “And now
your hair, ma’am?”
“Yes,
Lucy.” The maid removed pins and combs, and Miranda’s raven locks
tumbled down over her bare shoulders. Lucy’s fingers trailed
lightly down the side of Miranda’s neck, along her collarbone, then
into the hollow between her breasts. Miranda felt the tension in her
sex wind tighter.
The
dream’s richness of detail, the vividness of sensation, amazed her.
The delicate fabric of her undergarments draped loosely on her frame,
semi-transparent. Miranda could detect the shadow of her black pubic
curls through the cloth. Lightly, she touched herself there, with one
finger, and shivered as sparks travelled up her spine. With her other
hand, she cupped her breast, pushing it up and outwards so that the
chemise was stretched tight and she could see, like a dark ghost, the
rosy halo around her nipple. Lucy watched all the while, her blue
eyes sparkling with her own lust.
“You
are a very naughty girl, Lucy,” she said finally. “I’m not sure
what I should do with you.”
“Leave
that to us, Madame.” Miranda was startled by a masculine voice,
coming from somewhere behind her. She whirled round to find herself
confronted by five men in riding clothes, complete with top hats and
high, shiny boots. They wore masks, not dominos but flesh-colored
contrivances that covered the whole upper half of their faces,
leaving only mouth and chin visible.
Her
boudoir had unaccountably metamorphosed into a library or study, full
of shadows, polished wood and dark leather. A fire burned on a hearth
to her right, framed by two oversized chairs.
Directly
in front of her, behind the phalanx of masked men, stood a heavy
table of carved mahogany. Miranda had a vague impression of glazed
floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, statues on corner pedestals, windows
shrouded in folds of burgundy velvet.
The
man in the middle spoke again. His voice was hauntingly familiar,
though he was as anonymous as the other gentlemen who flanked him.
“Indeed, Madame, you have been acting most improperly yourself. I
expect that my friends and I need to teach you a lesson as well.”
A
frisson of fear shook her, followed almost immediately by a surge of
arousal. “Lucy, remove her chemise and knickers. Leave on the
stockings.”
Gleefully,
Lucy obeyed. Miranda felt helpless, somehow, to speak up or object.
The common dream-sensation of being rooted to the spot, unable to
flee, held her in thrall. Now she stood nude in front of them,
blushing with the knowledge that her nipples were visibly erect and
that a careful observer would note traces of moisture on her thighs.
The
spokesman continued. His companions remained mute. “You are very
lovely, Madame, and very depraved.” He turned to one of his
assistants, handing him a silk handkerchief. “Blindfold her. It
will heighten her shame, and her arousal, to be unable to tell which
of us is abusing her.”
The
designated gentleman, slightly shorter than the spokesman, followed
instructions. He circled behind Miranda, and she closed her eyes in
anticipation. Instead of silk caressing her eyelids, however, she
felt rough hands on her breasts, pinching and pulling. This hurt, and
yet caused the fires in her sex to flare even higher.
After
a moment, the man behind her resumed his task. She felt cool silk
against her face, then a sharp tug as the knot was tied. All was
blackness as she was led toward the table.
Yet,
this was a dream, and dreams are fundamentally visual. Thus, even
though Miranda experienced the deprivation of sight, and the
intensification of her other senses, she also found herself looking
on the scene from the outside, like a disembodied presence, or
perhaps, the scene’s director.
Two
of the men lifted her onto the polished mahogany surface and
positioned her there, on her back, near one end of the table. They
bent her legs at the knee and spread her thighs, so that her sex was
open and exposed to all of them. Though she did not struggle, two men
took hold of her ankles as if to restrain her. She felt motion and
warmth there, between her thighs, and when the leader spoke again,
she could tell he was very close.
“You
are in our power, Madame You are clearly guilty and deserve
punishment. And yet you are obviously, shamefully, wet with perverse
desire.” He ran one finger swiftly through her folds, from back to
front, ending with a sharp flick to her clit. She squirmed
uncontrollably. Then he held the finger below her nostrils, forcing
her to breathe her own sharp, musky scent. “You are wanton, Madame,
and should be whipped.”
Miranda
smelled leather, and felt a light touch running down the inside of
her thigh. His riding crop—she was certain. At one level she was
terrified. She wanted to protest that she was innocent—though she
knew she was not—to beg for mercy. Yet she was silent, seething
with passive lust, secretly inviting him to torment her, to mark her,
to use his power over her. Her body shuddered, half in fear and half
in frustration.
The
unseen man laughed a little. “However, I am feeling merciful, and
so the only rod you will suffer tonight will be made of flesh.” He
paused for two beats. “Starting with mine.” And with no
preparation or warning, he plunged a rock-hard dick into her depths.
Miranda
screamed, with surprise, pain and pleasure, so mingled that she felt
her senses swimming. He rode her with a fury that left her no
respite. With each stroke, it seemed that his cock grew thicker and
longer, so that she feared she would burst. Now her other eyes were
closed, and all she knew was sensation in the dark, sensation so
acute that she thought she would faint.
Meanwhile
she smelled man-scent and sensed another cock above her, prodding her
lips open. Obedient, hungry, she sucked this new cock into her mouth
even as her cunt swallowed the first.
There
was an explosion between her legs, a flood of cum washing out of her
as she was left empty. But only for a moment; another cock slammed
into her, taking up where the first had left off, stretching and
filling her till she would have cried out, had not her mouth also
been full of male flesh.
The
owner of the cock in her mouth pulled out, though she sucked hard,
trying to hold onto him. A loud grunt issued from his throat, then
semen splattered her face. She licked her lips. The strange, acrid
taste made her want more, more of anything they were willing to give
her.
“You
dirty girl, you like that, don’t you?” It was the leader, close
to her ear. “You would like us to come in your mouth, on your tits,
in your cunt, in your ass. Wouldn’t you?”
Miranda
still could not speak, but she nodded. It was true, all true. She
would give them anything they wanted, these strangers. She craved
their touch, their caress, their abuse.
Buy
Links
Barnes
&
Noble
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https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/mirandas-masks-lisabet-sarai/1127499525?ean=2940158774584
Smashwords:
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/760225
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http://www.excessica.com/books/index.php?main_page=product_info&cPath=25&products_id=1339
