Another Chance

www.spice-books.co.uk

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.

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.