Free My Three Masters by Juniper Bell Page A

merest beginning. Open your
legs.”
    Yes! Yes, he was going to pleasure me again, right here in
the woods of Sweetbriar. It was wrong and wickedly indiscreet and I ought to
deny him, but some part of me must have recognized my master, because no matter
how my mind might try to protest, it thrilled me to obey him.
    He latched his mouth to my bosom again, flipped my skirt up
and put his warm hand on the upper part of my thigh. It burned through my
drawers. I moved restlessly, seeking the hand that brought me to raw, craving
life.
    He drew deeply on my breast, wresting a broken cry from me.
    “Please, please,” I begged, for what, I knew not. I writhed
against his mouth, which continued to torment me wickedly.
    And slowly, his hand inched closer to the beating heart of
my desire. I held my breath. The whole world seemed to slow to a crawl,
magnifying everything a thousandfold. A thrush rustled the underbrush nearby.
Water rushed over moss-covered rocks. Sun beat down on my face and my exposed
bosom. And when his exploring hand found the slit in my drawers, sneaked inside
and touched that one particular spot, the tiny nubbin of flesh that made me
pant in the night, I sucked in my breath and the world sped up to a frantic
rush.
    Everything spun around me in a wild whirl. He rubbed
delicately at first, toying with me like a cat with its prey, long, slow,
maddening strokes. When it was just me, I thrust my hand down my drawers and
did my business. I had no time for slow, nor any inclination that it might be
more pleasurable. And I wasn’t sure it was. I hated him for his slowness. I
wrenched my hands from his grasp and beat on his shoulder.
    He laughed and pinched my flesh between his finger. Oh it
hurt, and yet it didn’t. Pleasure soared like the wild flight of an eagle.
    “Who’s the master here?” he asked, his mouth hot against my
neck, then took my nipple between his teeth. Oh the marvelous, bittersweet
sensation, like a shriek of the skin.
    “You,” I gasped. “You.”
    “Then put your hands back. Now,” he ordered as I hesitated.
As if by their own will, my hands flew above my head, wrists crossed.
    He licked the nipple that he’d just bitten, long, soothing
strokes like a mother cat with her kitten. I groaned long and hard and shifted
impatiently against his hand. I knew I wasn’t supposed to, but my control went
only so far. He said nothing, only cupped my mound in his hand and rubbed,
hard, harder, slipping a finger inside me, inside my most private area,
where heat and wetness awaited him. My passage clung to his probing hand. I
tightened my muscles around it, willing it to be what I needed. It wasn’t—I
wanted something bigger, something harder, something that would obliterate my
every thought.
    I knew where it was. My salvation lay between his legs, a
thick bulge covered in nankeen riding breeches. As if he knew what I wanted, he
ground his hidden member against my mound. I pushed back, blind with desire.
The fabric of his breeches rubbed against my clitoris, oh God, my tender,
sensitized, voracious clitoris. I wanted more, more, I wanted something inside
me, I wanted something to break me open and shatter me. I whimpered pitifully
and thrashed my head from side to side.
    He scraped his teeth against my nipple, moved his taunting
hips just so, and a conflagration burst within me. Wild waves of feeling
cascaded over me, sparkling as a waterfall in the sun. I arched into the air,
matching the pressure of his thickened member. He pumped against me, working me
until my last shred of dignity was gone amid a flurry of shouts and pleadings
and thrusts of my body.
    I cared not. All that mattered to me was the ecstasy ripping
me apart, body and soul. Miranda Brown would never have allowed anything like
this to happen. Miranda Brown was no more.
    In her place lay simple Miranda, the wanton, begging servant
to my master, the Marquis de Beaumont. A woman who craved pleasure, who felt no
more shame, held no more