[Siren Everlasting Classic: Erotic Romance, Consensual BDSM, Public Exhibition, Flogging, Spanking, Paddling, Forced-Seduction Role Play, Sex Toys, MF, HEA]
Her Master's Choice
When Shannon Bloomfield hears a rumor that an influential, anonymous food critic is visiting her restaurant, she has no idea it’s the exotic bad-boy Tate Gooding, who holds her fate in his culinary hands. Tate, burned out on the club circuit life and traveling around the U.S. for his guidebook company, wants a deeper, more meaningful relationship with the three-star chef.
Tate instructs Shannon in a thrilling new realm of private—and public—play, pushing her limits with every new scene. Shannon discovers that her inner “Force-Me Queen” is an expert tease, skilled at keeping Tate on the edge.
But a creepy stalker has photos and threatens to expose Tate’s cover and their back alley scenes. Tracking down the culprit brings the couple closer than ever in their power plays, and Shannon learns that breaking out of her comfort zone is an arousing adventure when it’s Her Master’s Choice.
The Good Switch
Natasha Woolf’s delinquent teen son is giving her nothing but headaches. Enter Ari Braverman, politician turned powerful food critic, and she welcomes the help. Ari is a charismatic, cultured silver fox in an expensive business suit, and Natasha wants to restore order to the chaos that has become of her life. Ari’s brand of domination equals security and safety for her.
After a nasty breakup in Washington, D.C., Ari hesitates to accept a new submissive. But he discovers the spitfire restaurant owner has a feisty side that refuses to offer total surrender, and he’s surprised that her rebel play turns him on.
When his old girlfriend Kelly pops up begging to reconcile, Ari sends the ex-sub packing. Kelly worms her way into the graces of politicos supporting his Congressional bid, with deadly intentions for the sub who has taken her place. Natasha must fight tooth and nail to prove she is…The Good Switch.
Her Master's Choice
And then his eyes met hers.
The guitarist’s smoky eyes held a glimmer of acknowledgment, as though they had known each other before. Shannon tried to only briefly engage diners’ glances because she didn’t want to get drawn into long, trivial conversations with them.
This time it was different. She met and held the musician’s warm, sly look. His eyes looked as though lined with kohl, his upper lip under the sparse Latin lover’s moustache full and bowed like a cherub’s. Women would kill for cheekbones like his, and he had a thoughtful, poetic aura as he slightly tilted his head and regarded her.
She had no choice. She had to go to his table and acknowledge that he’d engaged her.
Luckily he was sitting one table down from the commander in chief, who really seemed to be getting off on that hand-cut pasta. The President hadn’t even touched his water glass, he was so intent on rolling the slimy mushrooms around in his mouth. Good.
“Hi,” Shannon said experimentally. It wouldn’t hurt if Reagan saw her chatting it up with diners. In addition to handing out stars for excellence, Hamsun rated each restaurant in slightly lesser categories such as ambience and service. These were notated as one to four fourches, or forks, printed in bold pink if it was exceptional. Shannon had always had a bold pink fork for service. Ambience was never bolded, probably due to her sloppy chalkboard. “How is your meal? I see you selected a glass of Summerhawk cab. That’s my personal favorite, too.” It was. It really was.
He didn’t seem concerned about his meal or his wine. “Are you Shannon Bloomfield?” His voice was deeply resonant, and it occurred to Shannon he could be an actor, too. Actors dressed flamboyantly hip like that sometimes.
“Yes. I am.”
He grinned crookedly. “I was just wondering if I should order the flan.”
Shit! He was referring to that whole Hamsun debacle a year ago—and within earshot of the new rater! Instinctively, Shannon tried to stand between him and the Teflon President, who luckily didn’t seem to have heard. “Oh, that! I personally think we were just having an off day. Every other reviewer gave our flan top rating. We don’t even serve it anymore.”
“But you should keep serving it, to prove that rater wrong.”
Shannon changed the subject. “I see you’re having the grilled squid. That’s our special tonight—we change our menu weekly.” She wanted to make sure Reagan heard that, but he appeared to have his mouth and concentration buried in the lamb with roasted garlic sauce.
The musician disregarded her promotional skills. “Are you married, Shannon?”
What the fuck? What the hell does that have to do with anything? I like self-confident, but this guy is a bit too arrogant for his own good! However, she had to be gracious within earshot of the alleged rater. “No, I’m not. This restaurant is my life. I’d never have time to get married. You know, to some of us who are dedicated to pairing opposing flavors and using ingredients at their absolute peak—”
“You should.” The musician regarded her levelly, utterly fearless and confident. “You’re a stunning woman, but your inner glow would burst forth more freely if you just let loose and allowed yourself to get properly fucked once in awhile.”
Shannon was struck mute. The young couple at the next table were, too. They both swiveled their heads, their eyes widening in shock. And, naturally, The Gipper had heard the entire thing, too. Lamb actually fell from his mouth onto his plate, tumbling along with a few peas. His Superman hair gleamed in the romantic candlelight.
Once Shannon determined the musician had actually said what she thought he had, she had to respond politely. Maybe he was from a rival restaurant and wanted to ruin her second chance at regaining her star. She moved her mouth, hoping something halfway mannerly would come out. “Uh. Yes. That probably never hurts anything, now, does it? However, I do date someone. He’s very supportive of my free-form plating and my unique—ah, here he is now.”
Shannon for once bought a break when this guy she’d dated about three times breezed through the doorway. She hadn’t seen Tom Bukowski’s name on the reservation list, yet here he was, happily striding toward her with open arms. He was a chef at another no-starred Berkeley restaurant and he really did nothing for her. She was going to tell Tom she was too busy to date just because they had no chemistry. Tom was definitely “bro zoned.” Men were never interested in being only friends, but he sure did come in handy right now.
The musician looked at Tom with disgust, his upper lip trembling. “I said properly fucked, Shannon.”
Oh my God. Will nothing shut this man up?
The rain had now let off so Tate could toss her Winnie-the-Pooh umbrella to the ground, giving the spectators on their decks a better view. When he dipped and bent his knees, his free hand had slid around the back of her ass. The dress was so tight she could practically feel each fingerprint as he gathered a handful of the slippery rayon fabric. Cold air swirled around her naked butt cheeks, and when the raised ridges of one fingerprint barely tickled her clitoris like a breath of air, she sucked in air and jumped.
“But I know nothing about you,” she whispered. Over Tate’s shoulder she could see two of the three friends on the deck rubbing their crotches lewdly. Pretending she hadn’t seen, she assisted Tate by unzipping her dress nearly to her navel. Her lacey push-up bra amply displayed her average-sized globes, and as she’d hoped, the two eager men on the deck started taking their own dicks out. It made her feel lascivious and obscene, complete strangers getting off on her sex. “I don’t even know where you live, and you probably know where I live.”
“I do not,” Tate murmured. Stalking wasn’t his style. “And you’ll find out where I live the moment you give me a ride home today. Now listen. That couple, that man and woman watching us from their deck. What are they doing?” Tate sucked on her throat some more—he’d probably leave an embarrassing, childish hickey, and Shannon didn’t care. He spread butterfly kisses on the upraised globes of her tits as though trying to distract her while two fingertips now nudged between the swollen lips of her pussy.
“Ah!” she gasped when he found the exact right spot, the money spot on her clit where rubbing and twiddling was always the most effective, when Shannon didn’t have a detachable shower head to toy with. “The couple?” Shannon was shocked to see how brazen the couple was getting. There was probably a direct sight line to at least some parts of the highway, where people stuck in traffic could get a good eyeful of that notorious apartment building.
Tate diddled her clit, making her gasp again. “Yes. Is watching us making them hot?”
“Oh, yesss…The man is behind her, and he’s taken her tits out of her bra and is playing with them.”
“Just playing? Be more descriptive, my pet.”
“He’s twiddling her nipples between his fingers. Her tits are bouncy and round, much bigger than mine. He’s leaning her over the balcony rail as though about to fuck her from behind.”
“Ah, dog-style, one of my favorites.” Tate approved of the man’s choice, and he bent his knees deeper to take a suck of Shannon’s teat now too. Ecstasy shot straight down her abdomen from her nipple to her clit, the blissful feelings mingling right there at her center of passion. “What are those horny men doing? Have they stripped off their pants yet?”
To her surprise, one of them actually had. He had even stepped up on a chair or a box or something because his prick was practically eye-level with one of his buddies. A shudder gripped Shannon’s poor wracked body as she wished they were three gay men. It couldn’t hurt her impending orgasm to watch that baby-faced guy suck off his buddy. But they were just jacking themselves, and it stroked Shannon’s ego as well as her libido to know they were getting off over her. “Yes, one guy’s up on a chair and he’s furiously jacking himself off.”
“Good. I want as many people as possible to find pleasure in my princess. And I think they’ll find more pleasure”—in one fluid movement, with his left hand Tate whipped the trench coat belt from its loops and had twined it around one of her wrists—”in watching a bound woman come to a forced orgasm.”
Shannon smiled when she recalled his Rumpus Room attendance. She trusted him, so there was no issue about refusing, but it was sort of fun to pretend to struggle. “Oh, no,” she said in a girlish voice. “Please, Mr. Gooding. Please don’t tie me up. How will I get away from you if I’m helpless?”
Shannon didn’t know until much later that she was instinctively enacting “rebel play,” a scene where the bottom pretends to resist the top. They would revisit that scene often. Tate didn’t miss one beat with his fingertips against her bulging clit as he expertly bound her wrists using only one hand. The knot wasn’t the tightest, but she couldn’t escape without a lot of struggle. And every time she struggled, her tits bounced nicely. “Isn’t helpless the point, young missy? I want you helpless. I want you spread-eagled with wrists and ankles bound, your mouth gagged so you can’t protest.”
“Oh, Lord, no!” The innocent little girl that Shannon had suddenly become didn’t want her most intimate parts displayed to strangers, especially since that guy on the chair looked on the verge of—”Oh, God! That disgusting boy up there is ejaculating over the side of the deck! His friend is slapping him on the ass congratulating him. It’s absolutely disgusting.” So disgusting, in fact, that Shannon wriggled her hips even faster to encourage Tate to speed up his twiddling against her clit.
“And the couple? Has the husband mounted her yet?”
“Yes, it seems like he has. His hips are pumping into her. He’s squeezing her bare tits and she has a blissful look on her face. Oh, Mr. Gooding, this is too, too shameful! How dare you expose my breasts to strangers?”
Tate held the tip of his nose to hers. “It gives them pleasure, and it gives me pleasure. And I think it gives you pleasure too, you little minx.” And he dove down to suckle on her nipple again.
The Good Switch
So she talked with the president of the food bank for a while, in between mingling with other guests, patrons, and entertainers. She was so vastly irritated when she was needed in the kitchen that she told Carlos to keep an eye out for Ari Braverman, “the lawyer from the other day.” She was aware she was practically ripping her sous chef’s head off for asking what was actually an important question about the rabbit. They were heatedly discussing how to properly fry the sage leaves when the harried Carlos stuck his head into the kitchen and motioned impatiently for her.
Chaos. I don’t need any more chaos in my life.
“Okay,” Natasha told the sous chef, suddenly eager to get out of there. “Frying it like that is perfect. Good job.” And just like that, she washed her hands of the entire sage issue and sped back to the dining room. She was temporarily waylaid by a group of Jane Dough’s wine tasting club members, but she cut it short and sped on. Then some moron from City Hall wanted to yammer at her about the wine selection. She tried to gently tell him to see her sommelier. She couldn’t be expected to know everything about everything, after all.
Then she saw Ari out of the corner of her eye. Who could miss that exquisitely tailored suit, the cultured tilt of his head, the broad, squared shoulders? Even in a room where about half of the men wore suits, Ari stood out as though a spotlight shone on him. Maybe it was just Natasha’s unrequited feelings for him, but she literally stumbled on her words in mid-sentence.
“My sommelier David selected some kosher wines—uh.” Did I just say “uh”? Am I standing here frozen like a statue? Yes, Bob Thornton is staring oddly at me. Her heart racing, her palms sweating, Natasha looked back at Bob but could only muster a ridiculous grimace.
“Kosher wines?” said Bob. “Well, that sounds just dandy.”
It was not just Natasha’s imagination that Mr. Braverman’s gaze was fixated on her, too. It was as though everyone around them milling and chattering turned to soft focus, fading into the fringes of her awareness. Ari, pausing with a wine glass in his hand, became sharper. The easygoing smile seemed to melt just for her, and even Bob Thornton from Public Works seemed to fall through a trap door in the floor.
“Excuse me,” Natasha said vaguely, much too quietly to be heard, and rudely walked toward Ari.
Yes, he was welcoming her with that wide, gleaming smile. He had a dignified elegance, and Natasha wasn’t even ashamed in the slightest that she’d fantasized about sitting on his face. It was true—Ari had that “just fucked” look that softened his well-groomed features, as though Natasha were the only person in the room he wanted to speak with.
As though she were of the utmost importance, the pinnacle of all his interest, the—
Oh, dear God. Those people he’s with. I know them. They’re from The Sandbox.
Abruptly, the smile fell from Natasha’s face. Unbidden, her body made a hard right down another aisle of tables. Her blurry, stinging eyes saw a table full of people congratulating her on something or other, but she just smiled and waved. Smile and wave, and keep walking to your office.
She successfully passed the table of happy people, but near the hostess stand again Moe intercepted her. “Say, Tasha, hate to bother you, but can you find out when they’re going to be able to start serving the green bean salad? I think people are getting hungry and they sure are hitting up the wine awful fast…”
Moe said some more stuff that sounded like blah blah blah while Natasha tried to breathe. The people milling around Ari were clearly friends or at least acquaintances of his. The one tall platinum blonde woman who had her hand on Ari’s shoulder was even collared, as Natasha had been collared to Emmanuel. Natasha knew the women and the two dominant men as being patrons of The Sandbox because they often discussed it freely, as though it were some kind of art association or community theater. The Sandbox was a local bondage club where—well, Natasha didn’t know much about it, having never dared to venture there, being a responsible businessperson and all that. Was that woman collared to Ari?
She stammered, “You’ve never…brought anyone here?”
“Never,” was all he’d say, and he reached behind a ceramic pot that sat on top of the low wall. “The Sandbox people told me where to get these cuffs and other…things.”
Nipple clamps. Natasha was in her element with that implement, and she looked down with interest as Ari slid the tweezer clamps onto her nipples with surgical precision. His gaze flickered back and forth from her face to her nipple, then back to her face. No doubt he was gauging her reaction to the varying tension of the clamps. She writhed, gritting her teeth and arching her neck, and he must have liked what he saw, for he left the clamps tight.
He sat back between her thighs to regard her with amusement. She snarled through her clenched teeth, snorting and bucking like a caged feline. “Do it, you bastard,” she seethed, like an actress in an exorcism movie.
Ari drew himself up. “Whoa, whoa! Who holds all the cards around here, young missy? I don’t think you’re in any position to issue orders. This deserves punishment.” Magically, from behind the same pot Ari revealed a pair of scissors, and with one snip he easily did away with the strip of panty shielding her pussy.
He admired the view while she undulated her spine mightily, like the swells of a stormy ocean. She just wanted him to touch her! Make me come, you bastard! Fuck me in the mouth or pussy! Just do something! Stop teasing me! But she knew this was part of clit torture, and she shouldn’t have been surprised when he swished several fingers quickly over her extended, swollen clit. Of course she jumped about a foot in the air and had to clench her jaw so tightly it hurt. Again and again he swiped his fingers, just enough to set her utterly on edge.
She could have safeworded, of course. She could have even crawled up the side of the wall and leaped over it. She could have brought her bound hands around her front and diddled herself into ecstasy. But this was part of the game, remaining at his beck and call, and Natasha loved it. Every time he brushed the flats of his fingers across her throbbing clitoris she cried out involuntarily and writhed even more furiously. She was trying to kiss the sky with her cunt, shaking and shimmying every time he so much as brushed his hand anywhere near her pussy. Yet he kept it soft enough to guarantee she’d never be able to come.
She shouted through her clenched teeth. “Ari...” Her warning tone did nothing to speed up his toying with her. Her pussy’s inner walls clutched at nothing hollowly, and her helplessness only heightened the anticipation. Would he turn her over his knee, like he had in her office? Would he lightly stroke her cunt, or would he choose the more severe option?
“You’ve got a lovely pussy,” he said now. He smiled, so relaxed, while she just wanted to scream and tear his—or her own—hair out! He gave her clit three or four serious, sensuous strokes of the thumb. Ten more of those and she would’ve been crashing into the heavens with a thunderous orgasm. But Ari seemed to know this. Even more casually now, he removed his tie slowly. “I think I came up with the right word for you. Firecracker. I can just tell that when I allow you to come you’ll just explode. You’re like a live wire, just crackling with electricity. You love being played with, don’t you?”
Natasha did explode then. “Ari! Will you hurry the fuck up?” She knew this would gain her more punishment, but it would probably be the sort she liked.
She was right. Again he frowned, twining his necktie around his knuckles. He tensed the silk between his hands, uncaring if he was ruining the Italian material. “You’re just a fresh, saucy little lady, aren’t you? I’m going to have to do something about that mouth on you.” And with one fluid motion, he kneeled over Natasha and whipped the tie around the back of her skull. A few simple knots and she was completely gagged. She whinnied like a horse and thrashed her head back and forth, but he had expertly prevented her from notifying his neighbors of their games.
Once more he reached behind the pot and withdrew what looked like a little riding crop. Aha. She was familiar with this item, too. It was a “flapper,” a combination of a flogger and a crop, with four leather falls that could be teased lightly or thwacked. Natasha fell silent and stopped writhing with anticipation of what might come next. She panted through her nostrils, her eyes burning.
There it was—the arrogant, smoldering flash in his eyes. She’d known it was there from the stories she’d heard about the trauma room, the brass balls, the ambitious barracuda. He claimed he’d mellowed out, but she didn’t think anyone ever lost that drive, that determination, that quest for power. His eyes narrowed and he slapped her labia with the flapper. It made a sharp crack there in the still courtyard air.
“You need to remember your place, woman.” Thwack. Again and again he slapped her, in such a precise way that every slap got her juices flowing even more. Smack. Not too hard, and definitely not too soft, Ari flogged her pussy in exactly the right manner. Every smack brought her higher and higher up the cliff. He continued the teasing, the torture he’d started with his fingers, only now he upped the ante. He smacked her pussy loudly and now he reached out and diddled her constrained nipple. That was when she screamed.