Masturbation Monday: A bit of naughtiness from Sophie Mouette’s Possessed, Undressed, and In a Mess

Mondays are tough. But we can rejoice in Masturbation Monday, a sexy blog hop that brings you explicit scenes about particularly private interludes. It’s a great way to ditch the back-to-work blues. The blog hop, I mean, not masturbating. Although that works too… I just don’t recommend doing it in the office.  (If you have an office where that’s okay, you’re either self-employed, or I want to use your workplace in some future book.)

The following is a scene from Possessed,Undressed, and In a Mess by my alter ego Sophie Mouette. Our heroine, hotelier Angela, is attracted to her new handyman Tyler, so she’s been having all kinds of wild fantasies. That would be enough to get her hot and bothered. But during a seance, she gets possessed by the original owner of the Victorian mansion she’s converted into a hotel. Far from being the stereotypical repressed Victorian woman, Minerva was a free love advocate who’s definitely glad to have a body, even a borrowed, temporary one, and is hot for Tyler herself. And she wants desperately to convey an important piece of information to Angela, but can only make contact when Angela’s on the verge of orgasm.

This makes Angela’s efforts to relieve her sexual tension a little too interesting!

With a sigh, Angela shut her bedroom door. It resisted, the wood not fitting neatly into the frame, but a punt from her hip and it snicked closed.

Finally, she could stop being in control. She’d give anything to flop down on her old futon on its rickety frame and pass out.

She knew that just wasn’t going to be an option. She was just too wired—and just too horny.

She and Kari had used bedrooms in the hotel when they were renovating, but once Angelika opened for business, they’d chosen to vacate to ensure all the rooms could be moneymakers. The little gardener’s cottage out back was a decent-enough alternative: two bedrooms barely big enough to house a bed each, a miniscule bathroom, and a combination living/dining room with a postage-stamp-sized kitchen tucked in the corner.

They’d sunk every spare cent they had into the hotel, so the cottage was a hodgepodge of college relics, mismatched dishware, and furniture that didn’t fit in the hotel, including a hideous, aqua, nubbly polyester sofa that they’d tossed an antique candlewick bedspread over.

The bedspread had only a couple of small holes in it.

The shower spat hot water only when it felt so inclined (thank goodness for owners’ access to the spa) and thanks to some hole they’d never been able to locate, they often shared said shower with an indignant tree frog.

Kari had gotten excited when the tree frog moved it, saying it must be a totem, since frogs signified good luck, opportunities, and renewal, like the renewal Angelika had undergone.

Angela had nothing against wildlife; she just preferred it outdoors.

They hoped to have enough disposable income to fix the heating before next winter. And maybe an electrical system that didn’t buzz them when they touched a faucet at the same time as reaching for the light switch.

Or that rotted-through patch in the hardwood floor, artfully covered by a piece of plywood, a threadbare Deco rug, and a battered wrought iron plant stand from the 1950s.

It was a place to sleep, to retreat to when needed. The hotel, though, was home…the home Angela had never had.

She’d been so tempted to drag that bottle of Laphroaig back with her, but she needed to be awake and alert tomorrow. She was also loath to release herself from her corset and trappings just yet, if only because that sensual confinement could add so much to her pleasure.

But she needed to fall into bed as soon as possible—and, she suspected, it wouldn’t take her long to achieve release and then blissful unconsciousness. The trappings weren’t necessary. They were like the difference between a quickie and a…longie: sometimes you took what you could get, and it was still pretty damn satisfying.

Still, she couldn’t resist making the disrobing part of the process, rather than shucking the outfit and tossing it in the corner. (Okay, she would never toss the exquisite Victorian costume anywhere, but still.) If she could take the time to undress, she could take a few extra moments to do it properly.

The fantasy was easy to conjure. Tyler, of course. She’d been watching his hands: they were large, strong, capable. A worker’s hands, but not overly rough. Nails trimmed and clean. Fingers equally at home wielding a wrench or typing on a keyboard…or coaxing pleasure from a woman’s body.

He’d take his time with the tiny buttons that ran from cleavage to waistline. He’d pluck each one from its corresponding loop, murmuring in appreciation as each parting revealed another sliver of pale silk chemise and pale slice of flesh.

Not just murmuring. Tyler, she guessed, was a vocal man. Sure of himself, sure of his needs and desires, sure of his abilities when it came to sex. God knew he had the voice to go with that. He was like a male Siren.

Part of it was the confidence, obviously. He knew exactly how his words affected a women—he made that clear by following up with those sultry, bedroom blue eyes that held the wickedest promises she’d ever seen.

You couldn’t trust some men’s promises. Angela already trusted Tyler’s.

Her corset laced up the back for proper fitting, but hooks down the front allowed for easy removal. Still, she took it nice and slow.

One hook at a time, savoring how the comfortable, erotic confinement lessened, just a little. Her cleavage diminished, yes, but her breasts eased to their natural shape—and her nipples, previously and constantly hard against the rigid garment, peaked even tighter in the cool air.

She sucked in her breath at the sensation. She hadn’t even touched them, and they were already begging.

She’d probably be begging by this point, although she wouldn’t make it so obvious. She’d make breathy suggestions, arch her back to make her breasts more prominent, available. A blatant invitation to feast.

Tyler would laugh softly, she suspected. Went along with that wickedness. He’d accept the invitation…but on his own terms.

He’d cup his palms around the fullest part of her breasts, fingers caressing the curving sides. He’d heft them, ever so slightly; they’d still be on display, but on his display.

She’d bite her lip to keep herself from pleading aloud. She’d turn that into a coy look, up from beneath her lashes, playing the game, pretending she was letting him have control.

By the time he’d brush his thumbs lightly across her nipples, she’d be so ready that the flare of desire would make her knees buckle.

Of course she was mimicking what she imagined, and her legs did wobble at the thrill of need.

Screw slow. She popped the rest of the hooks, and with shaking hands folded the corset over the discarded dress and chemise on the straight chair by the bed. In her mind she could hear Tyler laughing, but at the same time she could see his gaze flare in intensity, taking in her mostly naked form as she sprawled across the not-very-comfortable (but-it-was-fine-for-now) futon.

She left on the split drawers, the sheer silken stockings. He’d like that.

She liked it, too. Liked sliding her hand up along the silk against her thigh before dipping her fingers between. She knew she was already wet, already thrumming with arousal.

“Taste yourself,” he’d say, bringing his fingers to her lips so she could suck on them, making desire flare in his dark blue eyes. Or maybe he’d taste them himself, in preparation.

Screw it. She licked her fingers, shuddered at the scent, and went down for the kill. After everything that had happened tonight, after how on edge she’d been for so long, it would take only a few seconds to find blessed release.

One hand tweaking a nipple, one flicking against her clit, and—

—a buzzing rose in her mind—but she assumed it was just lust—but then—

Thank goodness…far too long.

It wasn’t Tyler’s imagined voice in her head, no matter how much she wanted it to be.

It was feminine. It was Minerva.

Angela snapped.

There was no pitching over the crest into sweet relief.

There was no illusion of being in control anymore.

The scream she let out wasn’t of release, but of pure frustration laced with a healthy dollop of completely freaking out.

 

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Amazon / Amazon Kindle / Barnes & Noble / Kobo /Smashwords

More sexy #MasturbationMonday links here: http://masturbationmonday.kaylalords.com/masturbation-monday-week-2/

 

 

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