Two Sirs, with Love [McQueen Was My Valley 4] (Siren Publishing Ménage Everlasting)

by Karen Mercury

  “Play with her? Have a session? Yes. She’s promised her sisters she will be discreet, but I guess my offer was just too good to turn down.” The smile slid from Ian’s face as he probably realized he shouldn’t be discussing a lady like this with an utter stranger.

  Victor was familiar with that look. He seemed to have a face that people liked to confide in. Maybe it was the whole superhero thing. He had even cultivated a Van Dyke beard and ’stache when he’d found out Tony Stark did such a thing. “Well. I must say, you’re the luckiest man I’ve met in weeks. Months. She’s a juicy tomato.”

  Perhaps because he felt he’d said too much, Ian cleared his throat and frowned. “So you’re tracking down this insidious, evil smuggler of wild animals?”

  “It’s not such a matter of tracking him down—Perry seems to have his address—it’s more a matter of catching him in the act. It’s not illegal to own exotic animals, just to sell them or their body parts for profit.” Victor rubbed his hands together with glee. “I think a good old-fashioned sting operation is in order. Haven’t had one of those in a long time.”

  “It must be the air around this high desert. Everyone doing new things. I could offer my assistance. I’m the CFO of Hawkeye, the company that employs Rowan O’Shea and those other manly bastards in there. I know a bit about surveillance, and I won’t be nearly as busy as Perry in the next few weeks. And if the hog-and-dog guy is your main suspect, I know a bit about hunting. Travelled a good deal of the Cairngorms with my father shooting grouse.”

  “That’s a good thought.” It actually was a good thought. And he could at least live vicariously through Ian by listening to his descriptions of his bondage sessions with the delicious Mistress Felicity. Or—an even more enticing thought—Felicity would allow Victor to join in. “We could figure out where he's selling these animals and nail him that way.”

  “Undercover work, eh? That could be amusing.”

  “Excellent. I have a few leads and one of them might be this Todd Beard asshole. I just hate this guy already for making me chase down an ostrich.”

  As if it heard itself being maligned, the ostrich whanged the steel bars of the cage with its powerful foot. Ian jumped, but Victor just scowled.

  Ian asked, “Are you staying at the lodge? I know Perry’s got one of those roomier cabins he’s been sharing with Rowan and Sasha until their house is built.”

  “Well, that’s the thing. I just arrived and the front desk told me they’re booked. Apparently the rooms are chock full with the tiaras and feather boas of this transvestite convention.”

  “I think it’s a female impersonator convention. I think there’s a difference.”

  “Is that so?” Victor was amused that this conservative financial guy would be well-versed on the subject of transvestites.

  “Yes, I believe the drag queens are doing it mostly for financial gain. It’s more of an occupation than a hobby. They take it dead serious, but dress like you and I the rest of the time. And yes, before you ask.” Ian’s dazzling smile nearly had Victor falling for him. “I worked with one. We’d go see him perform after work. A certified public accountant by day—”

  “Judy Garland by night,” marveled Victor.

  “And he had a loving wife and kids. Some are gay, of course.”

  “Well. The things you learn in the middle of nowhere.” Victor instantly liked this fellow, and was starting to feel the pangs of jealousy that he’d soon be blazing off to experience the exquisite punishment of Mistress Felicity.

  “Stay in my room. I won’t be using it ’til much later.” Ian winked. “Room one-oh-nine. Got two queen beds. Ask Cass Cameron for an extra card key.” Ian fairly skipped over to a rented sedan. Victor didn’t blame him. He’d be skipping, too, if he had a luscious tigress like Felicity waiting for him. Damn! If that ostrich hadn’t run down that side street and knocked over all those trash cans, Victor would’ve been ten minutes earlier. And he might’ve nabbed the Domme himself.

  “If anyone asks”—Ian waved from the other side of the parking lot—“tell them I went to get some heartburn medicine.”

  Victor nodded and waved back. Medical issues always shut people up real fast.

  He turned to go inside, to find this Cass Cameron. If he couldn’t be with Ian and Felicity, he could party while waiting for Gary to take that damned ostrich off his hands. Being out in the field or lecturing on the road were the only things he did since his divorce. His ex-wife Judith was right. He was a stick in the mud who lived to work. There were other things in life than studying African gerenuks.

  Like luscious ladies with hourglass figures who would whip you until you came.

  Chapter Four

  This wasn’t quite how Ian had envisioned a bondage session.

  Mistress Felicity had no whip, but that was understandable. She could have hardly come to Utah with a whip in her suitcase.

  She had said she didn’t leave scars and did very little single-tails work, so this was obviously an entirely different sort of play from that depicted on television. One that Ian was completely open-minded to.

  She had answered the door to her suite clad in a white robe of the sort found in hotel rooms. Other than the fact that she’d changed into teetering, tan stiletto heels, nothing about the scene seemed unusual. It was a beautiful suite, one of the best in the lodge apparently. An end unit with a two-story-tall living space, it probably would have had a panoramic view of the snowy sandstone spires and pinnacles that crowded Prism Canyon a hundred yards or so away. But Felicity had the curtains closed to prevent any peeping hikers or stray Carol Channings from observing their encounter.

  She did not smile, and she immediately led Ian to a tall barstool placed near a kitchen countertop. Standing was not an option, and Ian sat his butt down. She circled the stool imperiously, looking him up and down as though she’d never seen him before, running what looked like a long ostrich feather though the O she had made of her thumb and forefinger. Not daring to move, Ian’s eyes went from side to side, scanning the room to see what other implements she had laid out. He made himself dizzy straining to see what looked like a coil of clothesline and a pile of clothespins laid out on the counter. Clothespins? Well, what had he expected? The ostrich feather calmed him some, but he was starting to suspect he was in over his head.

  “Now,” she said in a firm tone, her eyes narrowed, “this mewling, sniveling, bottom-feeding slave I see before me is going to tell Mistress Felicity his innermost desires.” While standing behind him, she leaned in and breathed on his bare neck. The hairs on his nape prickled and his nipples erected. But in the next second he was yanked out of the pleasurable sensation when she jerked on his tie, snapping his neck.

  Ian dared to say, “I should tell you my innermost desires? So you can refuse to do them?”

  She stood in front of him now, slithering the tie’s knot undone one-handed. Her lush lips smiled as though surprised at his impertinence. “Never, ever try and second-guess me, slave. I may deny you, I may grant you. It all depends upon my mood.”

  “Yes, Mistress.” Ian gulped as Felicity continued strutting around him, unwinding the tie from his neck and tossing it on the counter. Now her nimble fingers started undoing the buttons of his starched shirt’s collar and his penis actually began to throb inside his boxer briefs. Shifting uncomfortably, he tried to cover the bulging erection with his forearm, knowing it was pointless. She had such a sharp eye for everything, and she was experienced in this. “My innermost desires are to be helpless at the hands of a beautiful Dominatrix such as yourself. I thought it involved inflicting pain, but you seem to tell me it doesn’t.”

  “I am the Über Domme,” she agreed pleasantly, tickling his bare throat with the feather while slipping his shirt buttons undone. “And you have fantasized about being bound, whipped, had your cock in a vise, being lashed to a cross?”

  “Yes. I think it all stems from an…” Ian hesitated as Felicity tore his shirt from his torso. He was normally proud
of his physique, working out as often as he did. But under Mistress Felicity’s discerning appraisal, he knew his skin was rather pale. Tanning was just not done these days, and how often did one have an excuse to be outdoors shirtless? It would make him look like a twit if he jogged around DC shirtless.

  “A what?”

  “Ow!” Ian wasn’t prepared for her to tweak his nipple harshly like that. He forced himself to sit up straight. He alone had gotten himself into this situation.

  “A what?” she snapped.

  His voice came all in a rush. “An incident when I was about eighteen!” He had obsessed on the incident constantly in the past twenty-six years, masturbating often to it. But when Felicity stopped before him and posed dramatically with one hip cocked and one hand on her robe belt, it was like the incident had never occurred. It was as though nothing had ever occurred before this moment. She posed with her carrot-red hair piled high on her head, tendrils escaping from the coiffure and slithering over her white terrycloth shoulders. Even covered in the thick terrycloth, it was easy to tell her breasts were of an incredible proportion.

  It was the tension that rendered Ian imbecilic. The uncertainty, the unbearable anticipation of what might happen next, was like a caveman’s club to his skull. Suddenly the encounter with his brother’s girlfriend had never happened.

  “What?” she cooed. “What happened when you were eighteen?”

  It was clear she wouldn’t proceed with the unveiling until Ian spilled the beans. He had to shake his head to clear it, and focused his eyes on the fireplace. “My older brother’s girlfriend. She caught me spying—peering—peeping—“ Suddenly, he didn’t know the right word.

  Felicity giggled girlishly. “Peeping? You? Such an upstanding upper crust British boy? What was she doing that was so intriguing?”

  Felicity stalked back to the counter and plucked up the length of clothesline. Standing behind him, she mashed her warm chest to his shoulder blades and squirmed. It would be the utmost faux pas for him to try and touch her, so he gripped his knees and squeezed his eyes shut while his dick pulsated inside his trousers. Felicity forcibly yanked one of his hands around to the small of his back. He felt the silky clothesline winding expertly around his wrist, and knew he had no choice but to confess.

  “She caught me peering around the open bathroom door as she showered,” he gasped.

  His other wrist was bound now, and Felicity yanked on the line, hard. “And? You watched her towel herself off?”

  “I watched her masturbate in the shower!”

  Although Ian couldn’t see her, he could tell Felicity was trying to hold in laughter as she performed some intricate sailor’s knot between his wrists. His chest was thrust out, his head tossed back like a dead deer hanging on a pole. He was completely and utterly at her mercy. And with a forbidden thrill, he realized he was loving every moment of it.

  Her breath—or the ostrich plume—feathered his neck. “Did you watch her come? Or did she catch you before she came?” A sly hand snaked around his chest, tickling his pectoral, making his erection twitch. Was it possible to have an orgasm without one’s cock being directly stimulated? That seemed to be her goal.

  “She caught me before she came, which is why I think she was so angry.” Ian knew if he didn’t keep telling the story, Felicity would withhold her teasing, so he kept blathering. He had never told anyone this story, not even Rowan, God forbid. “I was petrified stock-still, and she shrieked at me as she threw on some clothes. She called me a degenerate pervert and a hazard to society. Then she took her bathrobe belt”—the irony of this didn’t escape Ian—”and bound my hands, like you just did, behind my back. She pulled and yanked me like a stubborn mule out of the house.”

  For this part of his story, he was rewarded with clothespins clamped to his nipples. He hissed in air, surprised at how much they hurt. But shock swiftly turned to pleasure when she diddled the pins and arousal shot through his abdomen directly to his cock.

  “Where did she haul you to?” she purred.

  “The alley next to our house,” Ian gasped. “There was an alley where the carriage house was in the old days. I could have easily overpowered her, but I think I was so damned shocked at being caught that—ah!”

  It was Felicity’s fault that he couldn’t speak for a few seconds. She had come around to his front and had finally bared a shoulder to him. Standing sideways with one hand running down her thigh, she bared her lifted shoulder. With half-lidded eyes, she looked as though she wanted to eat him. Slowly, salaciously, she lowered the entire terry sleeve, revealing a thin strip of skin-colored fabric clinging to her shoulder. Then one uplifted, shapely boob, covered in the same skintight fabric that seemed to contain thousands of glimmering beads. “And?”

  “And—ah—and I guess she tied the ends of the bathrobe belt around some sort of pipe, had me backed up against the side of the house. A few neighborhood kids gathered, and she took one of their belts.” Ian had never been this aroused in his entire life, not even when the events he described had been taking place. Mistress Felicity lowered the other terrycloth shoulder now, slowly slithering out of the white robe to display how she was seemingly sewn into the jaw-droppingly tight, flesh-colored dress. Only a woman with the utmost self-confidence could have worn that dress, and she wore it like a second skin. Her enormous breasts swayed as she shimmied out of the robe.

  “And? What did she do with the belt?”

  “And in front of these stupid twits, she lowered my trousers. The worst part was, I still had this embarrassing hard-on and it popped up like a bloody candy cane. Well, she whipped my knob good and proper with that leather belt.”

  “Did you like it?” Felicity whispered, and the robe fell to the carpet. Ian imagined he could see the wide areolas of her nipples through the fabric that seemed composed of skin and beads. Hugging her curves, it draped nearly to the floor, capped off by the tan stiletto heels that he now realized completed the ensemble.

  “Ah,” Ian gasped, suddenly extremely thirsty. Felicity stooped and managed to pick up the robe belt without bending her knees. Quite a feat. “Well, yes, I bloody well liked it! Of course I bloody well liked it, that’s the whole shame of it all! There were all these bloody twits standing around, street kids older than me, kids who didn’t go to my school—”

  “Lowbrows? Watching her strap your big, fat cock?”

  How does Felicity know I have a big, fat cock? Ian wished she would strap his big, fat cock right now. “Well, yes! She kept strapping me while all these goons stood there. She yelled things like ‘this’ll teach you to spy on girls taking showers!’ and ‘look! He’s got a stiffy! He’s got a stiffy from watching me shower!’”

  Again taking him by surprise, Mistress Felicity swiveled her way between his outspread thighs and leaned so close to him he had to bend backward. Her ample boobs mashed against his bare chest, and her spicy honey-tea scent wafted through his hair. She smashed her pubic mound—separated by only a layer of brilliant crystals—against his bulging erection and ground against him lasciviously. “Well?” she whispered against his mouth. “Was it true? Did you have a stiffy from watching her shower?”

  “No,” Ian whispered back. “I had a stiffy from her strapping me.”

  Felicity gasped, although Ian knew she could hardly have been shocked at something that routine and everyday. And then she kissed him.

  Were Dommes supposed to kiss a submissive? It was a full, open-mouthed kiss, surprisingly soft but very deep. Felicity lapped at the bottom of his dry tongue, and he drank up her moisture. Her pouty, full lips smacked with delight as she kissed him, and no sooner had he started to get the rhythm of the kiss than he nearly jumped off the stool.

  Her little white hands with their shiny crimson nails were squeezing his cock and balls.

  “Ah!” He detached from her with a loud cry. His center of gravity was somewhere in his right shoulder and he nearly pitched off the stool.

  Felicity kept him pinioned there wi
th the force of her hips. Her eyes shone down into his as she expertly massaged his shaft. She must have known he was that close to coming. She pressed her thumb firmly against the channel that ran the underside of his prick, but her other hand continued fondling his full ball sac. “What did the other boys do while she strapped your cock, Ian?”

  Ian. She called me Ian. What happened to “sniveling, bottom-feeding slave”? Placing his bound hands behind his tailbone on the stool’s seat, Ian steadied himself enough to thrust his throbbing cock into the Dominatrix’s fist.

  “The other boys,” he hissed evilly, “took out their cocks and wanked off.”

  Chapter Five

  Felicity hadn’t counted upon the ferocity of Ian’s kink.

  Her entire plan had been to practice a particular form of orgasm control upon him. She was an expert at edging, keeping a man at the perfect zenith of orgasm, not allowing him to topple over the cliff. She usually accomplished this with toys but today she had somehow skipped over all the “pervertibles” she had scoured from the lodge’s kitchen and went right to grabbing this CFO’s prick in her fist.

  Was it his story that had her temporarily losing control? The fact that she knew every word of it was the truth? She had heard men tell doozies in her time—not a single story was even worth repeating, they were so bogus—things cribbed out of old Penthouse Forum letters, which were already cheesy pieces of fiction. But picturing a young, innocent Ian being strapped about the cock and balls while tied to a pipe, well…Felicity had temporarily lost it. And she never lost it.

  She had scored this Marilyn Monroe dress from a fellow walking the opposite way down the hallway as she scurried to her suite. The idea struck her on a whim when she’d noted the distinctive style of Harry Loomis’s Marilyn wig. He probably had the dress from The Seven Year Itch somewhere around, she reasoned. But he had something even better—Marilyn’s “Happy Birthday, Mr. President” dress. And Felicity was just big-boned enough to pull it off. She’d rented it from Harry, of course, after convincing him she was the lodge owner’s sister. It didn’t hurt that Doug Ostrovsky had loped by to verify this—apparently his suite was next door to hers. Since she didn’t want anyone at the Triple Play to know she was practicing her kink, she pretended that she was trying to sell the female impersonator the dress. Harry Loomis understood when she winked knowingly at him, and Doug was none the wiser.