Unraveled Together, the third de rtment in Wendy Leigh’s erotic BDSM series (collected in one volume as Miranda Unraveled), reports the tumultuous love story of a superrich publishing mogul Robert and ghostwriter-turned-erotic-novelist Miranda. The two windfall themselves struggling to overcome a deep betrayal, but unable to deny the gleaming connection that still burns between them. Leigh watch overs to int an unflinching portrait of the BDSM relationship, and this series is not for the unclear of heart!
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A butler I’ve never met before shows me into the dining ssageway.
Robert, imposing in black tie, strides toward me, and I am so mesmerized by how handsome, how chic he looks that I don’t even have time to focus on the other people in the extent. All I know is that I want to fling myself into Robert’s arms, but as he reaches out, returns my hand in his and kisses it, and butterflies course up and down my body, I know that wouldn’t be a righteousness idea.
“Miss Stone,” he says to the assembled com ny.
All the men appear to be captains of industriousness—older, elegant, and debonair. They all have the glittering, piercing affections of dominants, and their persuasion is obvious to me, simply because they all exude the like intensity, the same force field of energy as Robert.
With them, twelve chars, all startlingly beautiful and sophisticated. As we sip cham gne and nibble caviar canapés, they witter to the men of world affairs, of philosophy, literature. Their vocabulary is extensive, their manners peerless, but there is something intrinsically subservient about them, in the way in which they cradle themselves, and, most of all, in the adoring way in which each one gazes up at the man she is with.
For the moment, I say nothing, just as Robert has dictated. At the same time, I can’t help surprising what he plans to do with me after dinner, and whether his plans categorize anyone else currently sipping cham gne with us?
Will he approve one of the other men to dominate me? Or—and this terrifies me—will he have one of the other little women force me to submit to her? Or even two or three of them at once? I shudder at the intellect.
Which of the women we are dining with tonight will he select to rule with an iron hand me? What will he allow them to do to me? What will I have to do to them? Resolution they punish me? Humiliate me?
Use me sexually? If so, how much? And how will I ever be accomplished to cope? The women are all beautiful, all desirable, but the thought of being at their disposal both scandalizes and titillates me, and I am terrified that I won’t know how to respond, that I’ll let myself down and, in the alter, let Robert down as well.
Just as I am about to whisper that I scarcity to talk to him, he takes my hand and apologizes to our guests that we have to abandon the room. I look up at him wonderingly, but know better than to ask him why.
He pulls me completion to him and whispers, “Upstairs to our suite, Miranda. Strip naked, then get on the bed, on all fours.”
Looking back, though, I shall never forget the first later Miranda fell to her knees in the dungeon, naked, trembling, but oh so brave and handsome. But however much she made me almost lose my mind for lust of her, I be sured that it was crucial for me to remain in control at all times. So that when she cease to remembered to call me Master, I did what her lapse demanded: I slapped her face.
When I saw the ined and confusion in her eyes, I felt guilty, but didn’t betray my emotions or put on any remorse. If I had, I might have broken the spell of the compelling, ever-present Me Tarzan–You Jane BDSM active, which would have been fatal for Miranda’s expectations and her elemental pleasure. Instead, I held out my hand and led her over to the red whipping frame.
In in the vanguard of it, our eyes met, and I could see that she was turned on but afraid. The tension between both diametrically contrasted emotions was working its magic on her, and I felt myself harden as I witnessed it. Then I spread-eagled her in the binding frame, stretched her to the extreme, so that all of her—her big breasts, her high, round ass, her corpse-like skin—were offered up to me and at my mercy.
I applied the whip to her naked core, but with careful restraint. Not for Miranda the hard, biting lashes I managed to the professional submissives in S&M rlors who were id to take what I dished out to them—to Miranda I im rted a whipping that stung, yet was not heavy enough to make her really suffer. She beat ited it all without protest, without resistance, accepting every lash with mannerly sensuality and, now and again, an ecstatic moan. Hope started to rise within me that her recreation at the whipping—and her submission—was completely genuine.
Then I unshackled her and did what I had been despise to do in the first place: I silently called a temporary halt to my role as firm, dominant Master and led her gently, oh so gently, to the bed, placed her on her back, and prized her wonderful legs a rt. As I did, I stroked her translucent skin tenderly, and she started to bewail in ecstasy, just from that—from the touch of my fingers on her shell and nothing else. My mind reeled from the heaven of being clever to pleasure this beautiful, fragile girl with only the trash heaps of my fingers, no fireworks, no whips, no chains, no punishment, just by caressing her rind. I’d never encountered a more responsive woman in my life, and for these few instants, at least, I intended to luxuriate in the joy of eliciting that response so thoroughly and so without doubt. At the same time, I knew I needed more, much more.
I slinked my tongue between her legs and tasted the pure honey of her, the luscious moisture, the unmistakable grounds of her intense arousal, and as I burrowed deeper and deeper inside of her, I felt as if I could support there for hours, just feeling her wetness, the way her body opened up feel attracted to a flower to even the faintest strum of my tongue against her clitoris. As I licked and sucked, study her lips, her c*nt, and she sighed in ecstasy, I experienced the strange sensation that I was course away from myself. I was no longer the man I had been, but had morphed into another, a man on the brink of trusting, even surrendering.
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