Loe raamatut: «Another Chance»

Another Chance
Portia Da Costa

www.spice-books.co.uk

The Chance of a Lifetime…Again.

It’s been a long time since Maud Piper has had a lover, particularly one who can give her what she really wants: the masterful hand of a strong, powerful man. The sting of pain that turns into pleasure.

Only Maud’s late fiancé had been able to satisfy her. Not even watching her employers at Blaystock Manor, the Marquis and Marchioness, in their own rough love play brings her the release she longs for—until she is caught in the act by William Graves, the estate’s ruggedly handsome steward. Can he give Maud another chance to experience the pleasure she craves?

The highly anticipated sequel to Portia Da Costa’s Chance of a Lifetime.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter One

I don’t go looking for this. Honestly. But somehow I just keep finding it.

My employers are getting frisky again, and this is the third time I’ve caught them in some kind of flagrante. First it was in the library, then the conservatory, now it’s the kitchen.

“Behave yourself, minx!” the Marquis commands in his stern, cut-glass tones as I hover, hidden out of sight. The Marchioness giggles, and the Marquis goes “tut-tut” then hauls up her voluminous skirts and bares her bottom. She’s naked beneath that beautiful taffeta ball gown, surprise, surprise.

I tremble because it’s easy to imagine myself in her place. I’ve been there, too. Not with the Marquis, of course. He’s an attractive and charismatic man, but it’s all cordial and businesslike with him because he’s got eyes for no woman but the Marchioness. Years ago, though, I played the games they play, with my Jeff, and I can still remember the sweet, hot excitement.

It all comes back to me when I see the Marquis lay his narrow patrician hand lightly across his wife’s rounded bottom, as if calculating the force of his first stroke.

They’ve been out to a county function tonight, hence the evening dress. I’ve been doing the Cinders thing back here at Blaystock Manor, although I’m far from a lowly scullery maid or skivvy. As a very well-paid freelance archivist, I’m a guest in the house for a few weeks, working on the Marquis’s newly discovered collection of rare manuscripts and letters.

“Keep still.”

The Marquis’s voice is soft and affectionate, but warning. His fingers dip into his wife’s cleft in a way that makes me wriggle as helplessly as she does. Useless at obeying him, she shifts about on his lap as if she’s got an electric motor in her pussy, the globes of her beautiful bottom gleaming in the lamplight.

Neither of them seems in the slightest bit bothered about possible discovery. The house is closed to the public at the moment for winter renovations, but there’s still me, and the estate steward and the housekeeper knocking about, so any one of us could catch their high jinks.

Maybe that’s what they want?

When the Marquis lets fly the first slap, I have to touch myself. I can’t help it. I clasp my crotch through several layers of assorted cloth and give it a squeeze. I’m so excited I have to press my other hand against my lips, because if I didn’t I’d moan out loud and they’d catch my high jinks.

Oh, I want that. What she’s getting… I want it so much. The masterful hand of a strong, beautiful man. The sting of pain that turns to pleasure by loving magic.

The Marquis isn’t my type but I can still see the charm in him. He’s too lean, a bit too tall and a bit too bohemian for my taste. I like my men broader and more muscular. Rough hewn. My Jeff was Mr. Perfect for me. Not as lofty and elegant as the Marquis, just a solid, hunky, good-hearted testosterone-heavy soldier. But he was capable of delicious delicacy when I needed it.

Oh, and he could spank. Boy, how he could spank! He was one helluva master, superb with his hands and whatever he could lay those hands on. My bottom trembles inside the cocoon of my knickers and nightgown and dressing gown, a physical echo of the way it used to tingle when he smacked me. It’s bloody freezing here, skulking in the boot room, away from the kitchen fire that warms their Lord and Ladyship, but I’m not regretting my late-night expedition for some cocoa. The hot glow in my pussy is heating me up.

All this is bound to lead to masturbation, but who cares? I’d rather play with myself on a regular basis than dry up into a neutered spinster who’s forgotten about sex. Orgasms and memories keep me young and alive, and the juices flowing.

The smacks go on, and I keep squeezing myself. I’d haul up my nightclothes and stick my hand in my knickers, but turned on as I am, I don’t want to let in the draughts. I darted into the boot room when I heard them approaching, and now my feet are like blocks of ice in my slippers. There’s another door out into the corridor, as well as one leading outside, so I could make an escape. But I know from earlier explorations that they both creak like a strangled weasel when they’re opened.

So I’m stuck here, a prisoner until their Lordships finish their games. It’s worth it though, for a show as good as this.

Despite the Marquis’s loving reprimands, the Marchioness writhes and jerks helplessly on his lap. Good job that ancient kitchen chair is solidly made. I love seeing her over her lover’s knee like that. It was always my favorite pose, too. My clit flutters, remembering all the orgasms I had like that, head down, bottom up.

Even as I think about those climaxes, the Marchioness appears to have one. I’m surprised she’s lasted this long. I never did. The naughty miss has somehow managed to sneak her hand amongst all the net and satin layers of her designer gown and I’ll bet she’s been rubbing herself in time to the spanks for quite a while. I don’t know if the Marquis knows… I suspect he does, he’s that kind of guy… But all of a sudden she lets out a wild and unmistakably joyous squeal.

“You wicked girl,” her husband growls, a pure smile of adoration on his face. She can’t see it but I bet she knows it’s there, “If you can’t behave yourself, I’m going to have to try something else to tame you.”

What? Oh…what? His belt? That wooden spoon? What?

With no further ado, he tips her off his lap, even though she’s still squeaking and wriggling and coming. He catches her deftly in his arms and in a rustle of taffeta and to the accompaniment of her vocalizations, he drapes her facedown across the broad kitchen table. Looks like we’re both heading for a prolonged session. Her getting a sound thrashing with a belt or spoon, and me compelled to pull up my nightdress despite the Arctic temperatures and my almost-numb feet. My pussy is aching now, with a hard, grinding need, and since Her Ladyship’s orgasm, I’m finding it hard to wait for mine.

But, after just a couple of lazy, heavy slaps across her naked bottom cheeks, the Marquis takes a step back and begins to unfasten his trousers. A moment later his long, aristocratic cock is out, and I’ve just enough time to admire it before he’s pushing it into his wife’s pussy from behind.

Oh, I like that, too! It’s always been my favorite position and the source of my best ever climaxes. Over the back of an armchair, across a bed, doggie-fashion…and even across a table, just like this.

They go at it furiously, like a pair of lordly ermines, gasping and moaning. Under the cover of their happy chorus, I edge forward an inch or two and surreptitiously start to tweak my nightclothes upward.

And then I freeze. Again.

As if I really have been encased in ice.

There’s someone here in the boot room with me.

Slowly, slowly, I turn my head, wondering why it’s taken me so long to notice. As the wild congress across the table picks up speed, I blink, and in the heart of the deep shadow in the corner of the room, a deeper shadow forms into the shape of a man.

A man who rises silently from the old settle that sits against the wall and moves toward me on the noiseless feet of stealth. In the slice of light from the kitchen, I see his face.

It’s William Graves, the estate steward. I have no idea how he could remain so completely undetected all this time, but he must have been watching me for as long, if not longer, than I’ve been watching the Marquis and Marchioness, because I never heard either of the other doors out of here squeak.

A younger, flightier woman than me might freak out at this stage, and give us both away to our noble employers. But I’m forty something and pretty unflappable as a rule, so I just stare back at Graves, challenging him to do something.

But he’s a rock. Just feet away in the darkness, he eyeballs me unwaveringly, his face a neutral canvas, blank of emotion. He doesn’t move a muscle. He barely breathes.

And I suddenly remember that I’m frozen in the act of sliding up the skirt of my nightgown. Even as I let it fall back into place, William Graves darts forward soundlessly, catches the hem in his hand and draws it back up again, completing the action that I’d begun.

Now I’m much less steady. Spooked both by his strangeness and the phenomenal way he moves. I’ve only known one man in my life who could move like that. My Jeff, my late fiance. He was in Special Forces, and solid and stocky as he was, he could glide like the proverbial panther, as noiseless and deadly as if he didn’t touch the ground.

William Graves slides around behind me, drawing up my nightgown and pressing his hand against my belly through my knickers. His audacity makes me feel weak, makes me feel thrilled and helpless, held aloft by only the rock of strength, his body close behind me. Unlike the Marquis, he is my type, and I slump against him, biting my lip when I feel his cock hard and insistent against my bottom. He doesn’t have my temporary employer’s elegant height, but he more than makes up for it in sheer muscle power and colossal male presence. Built like the proverbial shed, he must work out for hours with massive weights.

Unable to feast my eyes on him, I focus on the scene before me, even though part of me sees quite a different coupling. Another man and woman, a pair far more prosaically dressed than the beautiful aristocrats in their luxurious finery.

Against a tall hunk of a man in dark working clothes leans a woman in her dressing gown. She’s middle-aged, but she’s looked after herself. Her long auburn hair is plaited. It needs the help of L’Oréal but not by much, and it’s thick and shiny. Beneath her voluminous nightdress, her body is tight and trim.

But it’s what these two are doing that makes me wriggle.

He’s lifted her skirt and is reaching into her knickers. And she’s letting him.

“Oh Christian…oh God, yes! Touch my clit! Touch my clit!” The Marchioness is the one in control now. She’s spread over the table, but she’s calling the shots. Her husband obediently rummages amongst the skirts of her gorgeous gown, and, adjusting their position, apparently finds her sweet spot.

Just as William Graves finds mine.

His hand is huge, and it stretches the cotton of the shabby, third-best knickers that I sleep in. A thick, but breathtakingly precise finger wiggles its way through my pubic hair, parts my labia and finds my clitoris. I press my fist against my lips as he begins to rub me. He seems to be timing his strokes to his Lordship’s thrusts, the sneaky devil.

Oh, but this is delicious! Just what I’ve been wanting for ages. Just what I need. I love bringing myself off but this is something else. Who cares if William Graves is a stranger? He’s big and strong and warm, human and sharing.