A Bdsm-Hea Romance: Tales From a Long Island Dungeon: The Jason Flood Chronicles (en Inglés)
Reseña del libro "A Bdsm-Hea Romance: Tales From a Long Island Dungeon: The Jason Flood Chronicles (en Inglés)"
I had returned to Jason Flood’s Long Island Mansion—and to the basement “dungeon” beneath. Perhaps not fair to call it that, really: it was dark if Jason wanted it dark; it was in no way “dank”; it rather more resembled a clean, somewhat Spartan—though well equipped—rec room, a windowless space in which he doled out to me, in carefully calibrated portions and ratios, an intoxicating blend of pleasure and pain, fear and gratitude, stress and relief, in which he fed my deepest needs, those no other man had ever come close to understanding, never mind addressing or satisfying. Genevieve had corrected me when I called her a servant—wondering aloud at the strong egalitarian strands that seemed to bond her to Jason, the fierce mutual loyalty they displayed for each other. “I serve my lover,” she had said, with quiet authority—while stroking my hair, and pinching my nipples. No choice, I suppose, other than to call her my lover as well. But—Jason Flood having put the question of exclusivity on the table: something to which he was ready to commit, something for the three of us to mull carefully—the word that Genevieve used, referring to the prospect of a more stable ongoing relationship was even deeper and more complicated: We would become family, she had told me. And should we wish to marry?“Yes,” she’d said, preempting me softly, with the slightest hint of a mocking smile. “You will have to ask me for his hand.” The man I had accepted as my Master was her sensitive little boy, the delicacy of his feelings—perhaps as well, the suspect nature of his judgement—requiring the loving supervisory attention of a woman . . . in his employ? Her hand gentle on the back of my head, Genevieve brought my face up to hers; eyes dewy but steadily focused on my own, she gently kissed, licked, and nipped at my lips; reaching between us, she ran her thumb down one breast, pincered and pinched the nipple, then did the same to the other breast, thumb and forefinger sliding a little further, to grasp one of the fine gold rings with which Jason had personally pierced my nipples, giving a quick tug and twist before letting go. The brief, sharp, searing, pain triggered an immediate swell and throb in my clit, and I heard myself half-gasp, half-moan. “If I were to give my consent,” she whispered against my lips, “I would be ceding the greater measure of my authority to you.” I nodded at this tentatively. “I would have to be convinced,” she said, voice going a little melancholy, “that both of you would be safe in each other’s care.” “Of course,” I had warbled in gratitude. “Of course.”
