Can Miranda Write Her Way Out of This Steamy Sex Affair in This Sultry Series?

Unraveled Together, the third part in Wendy Leigh's erotic BDSM series (collected in one volume as Miranda Unraveled), chronicles the tumultuous love story of a superrich publishing mogul Robert and ghostwriter-turned-erotic-novelist Miranda. The two find themselves struggling to overcome a deep betrayal, but unable to deny the fiery connection that still burns between them. Leigh manages to paint an unflinching portrait of the BDSM relationship, and this series is not for the faint of heart!

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A butler I've never met before shows me into the dining hall.

Robert, imposing in black tie, strides toward me, and I am so mesmerized by how handsome, how dashing he looks that I don't even have time to focus on the other people in the room. All I know is that I want to fling myself into Robert's arms, but as he reaches out, takes my hand in his and kisses it, and butterflies course up and down my body, I know that wouldn't be a good idea.

"Miss Stone," he says to the assembled company.

All the men appear to be captains of industry—older, elegant, and debonair. They all have the glittering, piercing eyes of dominants, and their persuasion is obvious to me, simply because they all exude the identical intensity, the same force field of energy as Robert.

With them, twelve women, all startlingly beautiful and sophisticated. As we sip champagne and nibble caviar canapés, they chat to the men of world affairs, of philosophy, literature. Their vocabulary is extensive, their manners exquisite, but there is something intrinsically subservient about them, in the way in which they hold themselves, and, most of all, in the adoring way in which each one gazes up at the man she is with.

Meanwhile, I say nothing, just as Robert has dictated. At the same time, I can't help wondering what he plans to do with me after dinner, and whether his plans include anyone else currently sipping champagne with us?

Will he allow one of the other men to dominate me? Or—and this terrifies me—will he have one of the other women force me to submit to her? Or even two or three of them at once? I shudder at the thought.

Which of the women we are dining with tonight will he select to dominate me? What will he allow them to do to me? What will I have to do to them? Will they punish me? Humiliate me?

Use me sexually? If so, how much? And how will I ever be able to cope? The women are all beautiful, all desirable, but the thought of being at their disposal both shames and titillates me, and I am terrified that I won't know how to respond, that I'll let myself down and, in the process, let Robert down as well.

Just as I am about to whisper that I need to talk to him, he takes my hand and apologizes to our guests that we have to leave the room. I look up at him wonderingly, but know better than to ask him why.

He pulls me close to him and whispers, "Upstairs to our suite, Miranda. Strip naked, then get on the bed, on all fours."

Looking back, though, I shall never forget the first time Miranda fell to her knees in the dungeon, naked, trembling, but oh so brave and beautiful. But however much she made me almost lose my mind for lust of her, I knew that it was crucial for me to remain in control at all times. So that when she forgot to call me Master, I did what her lapse demanded: I slapped her face.

When I saw the hurt and confusion in her eyes, I felt guilty, but didn't betray my emotions or show any remorse. If I had, I might have broken the spell of the compelling, ever-present Me Tarzan–You Jane BDSM dynamic, which would have been fatal for Miranda's expectations and her ultimate pleasure. Instead, I held out my hand and led her over to the red whipping frame.

In front of it, our eyes met, and I could see that she was turned on but afraid. The tension between both diametrically opposed emotions was working its magic on her, and I felt myself harden as I witnessed it. Then I spread-eagled her in the whipping frame, stretched her to the extreme, so that all of her—her big breasts, her high, round ass, her white skin—were offered up to me and at my mercy.

I applied the whip to her naked body, but with careful restraint. Not for Miranda the hard, biting lashes I administered to the professional submissives in S&M parlors who were paid to take what I dished out to them—to Miranda I gave a whipping that stung, yet was not heavy enough to make her really suffer. She took it all without protest, without resistance, accepting every lash with graceful sensuality and, now and again, an ecstatic moan. Hope started to rise within me that her pleasure at the whipping—and her submission—was completely genuine.

Then I unshackled her and did what I had been longing to do in the first place: I silently called a temporary halt to my role as strict, dominant Master and led her gently, oh so gently, to the bed, placed her on her back, and prized her beautiful legs apart. As I did, I stroked her translucent skin tenderly, and she started to moan in ecstasy, just from that—from the touch of my fingers on her skin and nothing else. My mind reeled from the heaven of being able to pleasure this beautiful, fragile girl with only the tips of my fingers, no fireworks, no whips, no chains, no punishment, just by caressing her skin. I'd never encountered a more responsive woman in my life, and for these few moments, at least, I intended to luxuriate in the joy of eliciting that response so thoroughly and so easily. At the same time, I knew I needed more, much more.

I slid my tongue between her legs and tasted the pure honey of her, the luscious moisture, the unmistakable evidence of her intense arousal, and as I burrowed deeper and deeper inside of her, I felt as if I could stay there for hours, just feeling her wetness, the way her body opened up like a flower to even the faintest strum of my tongue against her clitoris. As I licked and sucked, probing her lips, her c*nt, and she sighed in ecstasy, I experienced the strange sensation that I was drifting away from myself. I was no longer the man I had been, but had morphed into another, a man on the verge of trusting, even surrendering.

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