[Siren Menage Everlasting: Consensual BDSM Contemporary Menage a Trois Romance, MMF, with MM elements, spanking, exhibitionism, sex toys, HEA]
Seymour Preston and Orson Fraser are the golden boys of the British justice system. They are also lovers, and seriously into BDSM—a closely guarded secret that would ruin their image if it became public knowledge. Athena Hadley, intent upon helping her friend fight an accusation of assault, is determined that Seymour will represent her, and will do whatever it takes to persuade him.
Seymour and Orson think Athena might just add that missing element to their sex games, if they can persuade her to play with them. Athena takes to the lifestyle like a natural, but when a photo of her and Seymour in a compromising position is sent to her phone, she fears that it will wreck his career if released to the media.
Someone doesn’t want Seymour to represent Athena’s friend and will go to almost any lengths to prevent it from happening. But Seymour doesn’t react well to threats, so it’s game on…
Zara Chase is a Siren-exclusive author.
Athena Hadley had occupied the same seat in the gallery of Court One at the Old Bailey for the entire week, watching Seymour Preston weave his magic with a combination of awe and reluctant admiration. Admiration for more than just his skill as a barrister. The man’s commanding presence drew every eye in the courtroom. He oozed machismo and a self-confidence that manifested itself in the way he moved with the lithe grace and coordination of a predatory cat. His cultured, upper-class British accent was sharp enough to cut glass yet somehow brought satin sheets to Athena’s mind. His intellect became increasingly apparent as the trial progressed and he pounced upon the slightest slip made by opposing counsel and witnesses alike. Questioning everything.
The man was the complete package. He had it all.
Athena didn’t want to admire anything about him, or approve of his methods. He was defending a rapist. She reluctantly conceded that everyone deserved a defense, but his profile was so high that it had turned the case into a media circus. Athena assumed he’d only taken it on in order to keep his name in the limelight, never once having assumed that the accused could possibly be…well, falsely accused.
But…well, he had been.
She remained in the deserted gallery long after the not-guilty verdict came in and there was a mad scramble for the doors. The man of the moment had paused in gathering up his documents and glanced up in her direction. Their gazes had briefly clashed. He’d been the first to look away, but there was no triumph in his expression, merely resignation. It was almost as though he wasn’t looking forward to the acclaim, the intense media interest that would await him on the steps of the courthouse. Athena knew that couldn’t possibly be true. Men who looked like Seymour Preston courted publicity.
A complex man, Athena decided, and definitely not one to be underestimated. But, in the light of his victory, where did that leave Athena’s plans? And how would she get anywhere near him, even if she decided still to enlist his help? It wasn’t like at home in the States where a person selected a lawyer and made an appointment to see him or her. In this country things were done differently. Barristers at law, including the elite like Seymour Preston—a Queen’s Counsel—were instructed by solicitors. Ergo, Athena could only get to Seymour through his solicitor, a man called Orson Fraser who’d been in court every day, sitting directly behind the barrister and presumably running interference between him and the accused.
Seymour, she noticed, frequently looked at Orson. Clearly, they were friends as well as professional colleagues. She’d read up on Orson and knew that Seymour took the majority of his instructions from that man, making him the go-to solicitor for those who could afford the best. She also now knew what the online snippets about Orson Fraser had failed to mention. He wasn’t hard on the eye either. With a sweep of light brown hair, clear hazel eyes and designer stubble decorating a strong jaw, he was the stuff of every woman’s fantasy. That wasn’t taking anything away from Seymour. Both men topped six feet, had wide shoulders and strong, muscular bodies as well as that over-confident swagger inherent in successful men with the world at their feet.
It didn’t seem fair.
Athena, whose personal life was a bit of a desert and who couldn’t remember the last time she’d gotten laid, couldn’t afford to be distracted by the men’s physical attributes. So she returned her mind to the problem of getting to Seymour. She didn’t have time to jump through official hoops. She was due to return to the States in a week’s time and needed to get Skylar’s situation sorted before she went. She’d promised. Given assurances she was no longer sure she could deliver on.
She stirred from her seat when the bailiff came in for the third time, a little too anxious to see if she needed help. Athena ran down the front steps just as the reporters were dissipating and knew what she had to do next. Beard the lion in his own lair and see if he had the courage of his…well, convictions. Or success in avoiding conviction, as in this morning’s case.
Orson Fraser lived and worked out of Brighton on the south coast, she knew, and on Fridays she also happened to know that he and Seymour took lunch at a private members club. She was betting that the two men went back to Orson’s pad afterward. She stood a better chance of breaching their defenses there than she did in Seymour’s swanky London chambers where he’d be protected by layers of minions. Mind made up because there didn’t seem to be a viable alternative, she headed for Victoria station and caught the next fast train to Brighton.
A cab took her to the address she’d found for Orson’s abode. It was easy to find because he used part of it for business purposes, seeing potential clients there. Strictly by appointment only, of course, but Athena wasn’t about to allow the fact that she didn’t actually have one stand in her way.
At first she thought the cabbie had taken her to the wrong place. A detached house in several acres of grounds situated behind a high brick wall. Solicitors didn’t get paid that well, did they? Her doubts intensified when she noticed that there was nothing on the outside to indicate that the property was anything other than a private dwelling.
“You sure this is the place?” she asked.
Athena gasped when Orson led her into their playroom. The blood-red walls glowed in the light of dozens of candles, classical music played softly from hidden speakers and the array of whips and floggers lining the walls must have made her think of a torture chamber. Only difference, Orson could have told her, was that the kinds of torture she was likely to endure in this room resulted in unimaginable pleasure. He could have told her how much each of the floggers hurt, but decided not to spook her. Besides, he couldn’t speak now unless Seymour gave him leave. She eyed the huge circular bed in the center of the room and seemed reassured by it. Then her gaze fell upon Seymour, once again in his judge’s regalia, seated at his bench.
“Why is the accused late?” he demanded.
“My apologies, your honor. She tried to escape, and it was necessary to re-apprehend her.”
“Cuff her and bring her before the bench.”
Athena’s eyes glistened with fascination as Orson ordered her to place her hands behind her back, where he cuffed them in place. Then he attached a leash to her collar and tugged her toward the bench.
“Kneel before the judge,” he said, falling to his knees beside her and bowing his head.
“You are accused of trespassing on private property and intruding upon a private sex session,” Seymour’s deep voice intoned. “How do you plead?”
“Guilty, your honor,” Athena replied, catching on immediately.
“Do you have anything to say before I pass sentence?”
“Yes, your honor. I couldn’t look away on account of I’ve never seen two such huge cocks before.”
“Not good enough. The court sentences you to twelve lashes with a light flogger. Punishment to be carried out immediately. Arrange her over the bench, bailiff.”
“Yes, your honor.”
Orson tugged her to her knees and made her walk toward the bench on them. Once there he pulled her to her feet and pushed her torso down on the leather surface. “Spread your legs wide,” he ordered, handing the flogger to Seymour with a courtly bow. Seymour, completely in character, didn’t acknowledge the gesture.
“Prepare yourself,” he said assertively, resting the thongs of the flogger that Orson knew would do little more than tickle on her cute buttocks. Anticipation was the thing and this particular implement was an excellent choice to get her accustomed to anticipating chastisements without actually inflicting too much pain. He lifted the flogger and twirled it above his head, causing the thongs to crack through the air with a hiss. “Count with me, prisoner.”
“One,” Athena said breathlessly as the thongs made contact.
She barely flinched but panted and was already drenched in perspiration. Orson noticed juice trickling down her inner thigh. Oh boy! He shared a forbidden yet admiring glance with Seymour, reckoning he’d be let off for breaking the rules, given that this was such an extraordinary situation. Athena was the first female, the first person other than Seymour or Orson, to step foot inside this room. She was such a natural that Orson already knew they’d have a tough time letting her out of it again.
He and Seymour hadn’t had an opportunity to discuss the potential problem they’d created for themselves by breaking their own hard and fast rule and including a total stranger in their sex games. But he’d bet his all that Seymour had considered the ramifications before inviting her to stay. The question was, would her tenure here be permanent? Was she their significant other? The one they’d been hoping to find for so long. It seemed unlikely. She was set to return to the States and presumably had a life and career awaiting her there. Perhaps that’s why Seymour had let her join in the fun, knowing that she’d soon be thousands of miles away and that there was little or nothing she could do to damage their reputations from such a distance.
Fuck their reputations! Orson had been granted the privilege of sinking his cock into Athena’s tight cunt and the remaining week before she returned to America wasn’t nearly long enough for them both to explore her limits. With a sigh of regret, he reminded himself to live for the here and now, rather than dreading something that hadn’t happened yet. He returned his attention to the action. They’d reached the fourth strike and Seymour was putting more effort into it.
“The prisoner has permission to turn her head to the left and watch herself being punished in the mirror,” Seymour intoned.
Athena did so, and this time could see the flogger as Seymour laid it into her arse. So too could Orson. Or more to the point, he could see Seymour in his wig and open gown, erection jerking up his belly, as he put considerable force behind the punishment. Perspiration trickled down his forehead from beneath his wig. Orson was usually the one taking the punishments, wasn’t allowed to look in the mirrors, so hadn’t actually seen Seymour in full flow before. The carnal anticipation, the glistening exhilaration that formed the bedrock of his expression as he concentrated his total focus on the task in hand, caused spikes of lust and an answering thrill to course through Orson’s body. Seymour was in the zone, exorcising his demons by proving something to Athena about her base needs.
“Twelve,” Athena and Seymour intoned together.
“Has the prisoner learned her lesson?”
“Yes, m’lord,” Athena gasped, eyes gleaming with expectation as she glanced up at Orson.
Her backside was striped a delicate shade of pink. Seymour hadn’t whipped her hard enough to leave welts but there were still obvious signs of the intoxicating punishment she’d just taken. The juices were trickling from her pussy more freely than ever. Seymour ran a large, capable hand across her buttocks, cool and soothing. His gentle touch, Orson had good reason to know, was a universal cure-all. He snapped his fingers at Orson, who scuttled to fetch balm. He unscrewed the lid and passed the pot to Seymour, who applied it liberally across Athena’s backside, rubbing it in more thoroughly than was strictly necessary. Returning the pot to Orson, he nodded toward the lube. Orson fetched it and handed it to Seymour, who applied it to a couple of fingers, and ran them down the crack in Athena’s backside. She immediately tensed up, which earned her a sharp slap on the side of the thigh.
“Do not deny me access,” Seymour said sternly.