by Nia Farrell
The Dom smiled. “I am glad that you enjoyed yourself. Eleanor was delighted with how well things went. She would have come this morning, but Adrienne was running a slight fever, and no one would suit but her mother. She hopes to join us for the early afternoon fight when the French take the field.”
Lara had come this morning, eager to see the action. Now she realized how little she knew about how the day would progress. “I hate to ask,” she said, “but will lunch be served here, or will there be rides back to the resort?”
“Both are arranged, depending on your wishes. We have transport readily available—” he motioned to the two vintage cars “—should anyone need to leave, at any time. A phone call will bring one of the limos.”
Sir Piers nodded towards the two canvas wall tents, similar to the ones used by officers at Civil War reenactments. “The catering tent is to the right. Facilities may be found in the tent on the left. Eventually, we shall have permanent facilities here, but time did not allow for adding a water cistern, let alone installing a certified septic system. Once the idea presented itself, no weekend was more appropriate than this one. Thus, we are ‘making do,’ as they say.”
Any further conversation was interrupted by the reappearance of the British squadron, flying in formation, poised for attack.
An air raid signal sounded. German soldiers grabbed their guns and took their places behind the sandbag barriers. The planes came in low, strafing the field. Bursts of blank rounds sounded from the German rifles. Puffs of dirt flew into the air from charges that had been laid earlier. The way that they detonated, it looked like bullets from the planes were hitting the ground.
Meanwhile, the German pilots were scrambling, climbing in their fighters, strapping on goggles, and preparing to start their engines. Five ground crew members each took hold of a propeller and gave it a spin. The radial engines roared to life. Freed of their wheel chocks, the planes headed for the runway.
Dmitry was the last to take off, but his Fokker’s superb climbing ability allowed him to quickly join the others. They flew only far enough to turn and meet the British head on.
From her vantage point, Dmitry and Alex’s planes seemed to be on a collision course. She held her breath and fisted her gloved hands, watching, hoping, trusting that nothing went wrong. At the last minute, the Sopwith Camel pulled up, barely missing the Fokker.
More passes were made. Planes were “disabled.” Billowing trails of blue smoke, the downed German planes landed here. The “crippled” British planes returned to their imaginary base.
Finally, only three were left. Dmitry, Alex, and another British pilot engaged in a stunning display of aerial combat, with all the climbs, rolls, and maneuvers that you’d expect in a big-budget motion picture. Eventually, Dmitry simulated being shot, leaving a trail of smoke as he landed. The two British planes flew off, victorious after their successful raid.
Cheers broke out from the crowd. When the applause had quieted, Sir Piers addressed the spectators who’d come out for the morning battle.
“Thank you,” he said. “What an amazing display! The pilots shall all return shortly and will be joining us. Lunch will be served at eleven thirty, to our reenactors, patrons, staff members, and guests. The next reenactment, scheduled this afternoon at one, will be a German attack on a French airfield. The final battle today at five pm will be a different version of this scenario. Meanwhile, the bar will soon be open in the casino tent, where games of chance, conversation, and play partners may be found for vetted guests who wish to stay the day.”
While they had been watching the combat demonstration, a crew of workers had erected yet another tent, yellow striped with two massive center posts and a roof that would cover a one-ring circus. She guessed that tables, chairs, and equipment were being carried in through a back opening. The casino’s front door flaps were closed.
“I’m afraid that it is off limits to you, my dear,” Sir Piers said, “where you are not approved. Pity, but rules are rules where scenes are concerned.”
“I understand,” she assured him. “But the day is lovely. You’ve provided food, and shelter from the sun. A place to sit and things to see. I’m hoping to get a closer look at the planes, if they’ll let me.”
“I’m certain that can be arranged.” He lowered his voice to a dramatic whisper. “I know people.”
Lara laughed. “I’m sure that you do. Hopefully, he’ll be back soon.”
Sir Piers strained his ear, listening. “I do believe that I hear a familiar stutter headed this way. Alex should be here shortly. I must leave soon to check on the situation at home. With luck, I will not return alone. We shall see.”
The German soldiers were already headed for the food tent. The ground crews and pilots followed. Lara sat in one of four folding chairs at a small round table in a shady corner of the space. With tea to drink and a scone to nibble on, she settled in to people watch. It always fascinated her when costumed civilians and military reenactors intermingled. And she loved listening to the reenactors who regaled each other with stories. It truly was like stepping back in time.
Being a single female, sitting alone and therefore perceived as available, she halfway expected to be approached by the men, and possibly some of the women. Introducing herself as a non-vetted performer worked like a charm. Most of these people were here to play.
The only one who seemed to not mind that she couldn’t was Dmitry. But then, she suspected that he looked upon her as a special challenge. He took his time coming over, accepting accolades from the other reenactors and chatting with a few other guests. Helping himself to a plate of late breakfast and a cup of coffee, he headed straight for her.
“I sit here, da?”
Lara managed to not smile. “If that’s a question—May you sit here?—the answer is yes. Yes, you may sit with me.”
Dmitry took the chair to her right. His plate was heavy on protein and lower on carbs. The Russian spiked his coffee with a dash of whatever he was carrying in an antique silver flask. Slipping it back inside his brown leather aviator’s jacket, he flashed an unrepentant grin. “A touch,” he said. “Safe to fly later. Safe to sit now. Tonight, I listen to you. When done, maybe you listen to me. We see.”
“Lara.”
Alex’s voice dashed the flame that Dmitry’s smoldering delivery had ignited inside her, but only for a moment. Alex and Dmitry were rivals in the air, but were they willing to share? She didn’t want to choose between them. She wanted them both, if only for the weekend.
Which brought her to all of the obstacles that must be overcome. She wasn’t vetted. If the men could be talked into a threesome, it would be vanilla sex in Dmitry’s room at the resort, quiet kink at her bed and breakfast, or permission to use the St. Legers’ Dungeon for a full-blown session of kinky fuckery.
She knew what she wanted.
Lara wanted it all.
Chapter Five
“Alex,” Lara chirped, hoping that she managed to sound relatively innocent. So many naughty thoughts were in her head right now, her mind was doing a spin that would have earned her a nine point five at the Winter Olympics. “Won’t you join us?”
Dmitry bristled, but she ignored it. Better to find out now if there was hope for both men tonight. They would have to agree on a number of things—first and foremost, could they play with her together, or would she need to keep them apart?
Alex looked at his plate, at Dmitry, at her. “I believe that I shall. Thank you.” He took the chair to her left, sandwiching her between them.
Delicious.
Alex’s plate was a balance of protein and carbs. He and Dmitry had both taken sausage links and scrambled eggs, but Alex had added hash browns, a biscuit with butter and jelly, and several pieces of fresh fruit. Dmitry had opted for half a biscuit smothered in sausage gravy and no potatoes.
Dmitry seemed to be enjoying the Russian equivalent of Irish coffee. Alex drank milk and nodded approvingly at her tea.
“So, tell m
e,” she said, looking at Alex. “This morning’s combat. From down here, it looked like you two were going to take each other out. When you’re sharing airspace, how close do you get before you pull away?”
He sliced an apologetic glance at Dmitry. “Today, closer than I like. The controls were slow to respond. I’ll check it out before I take her up again.”
Lara took a breath and looked at Dmitry, too. “You didn’t try to avoid him. No evasive action that I saw, anyway.”
Dmitry shrugged as if it were no big deal. “He was close. I wait. He move.”
“Well,” she said, glancing at each man, connecting them with her gaze, “I’ve seen you share airspace. I was wondering if—hoping that?—I might tempt you to share more. Just so you know, I’m not a trained submissive. I’ve never done anything much beyond having my wrists tied, wearing a blindfold, and getting spanked. Pretty vanilla, I know. But I’m willing, if you don’t mind that I’m not vetted. I’m sorry. That limits what we can do on Replay property. I’m going to leave you two to figure it out. Come tonight and hear me sing. After the concert, you can tell me what you want to do.”
She left them sitting, speechless. It was a temporary state, she was certain. While she went to look at the airplanes, they were probably stabbing at their breakfasts and dueling with each other for supremacy.
There can be only one…
Maybe.
Maybe not.
Could two Doms be in control? She thought so. She hoped so. One thing was certain. If they wanted her, they’d have to learn to share.
Lara loved looking at the vintage planes, the cars, even the fuel truck. With everyone in period clothing, they could have been filming a movie. After breakfast, the German ground troops changed into French uniforms. The French planes were taken from the hangar. The British planes were parked inside. The hangar doors would be left open until after lunch, just before the next battle. Meanwhile, the men were checking out their machines, making certain that they were safe, fueled, and ready to fly.
The temperature had raised enough, she now carried her coat and sweater. Alex had stripped off his jacket and was working in rolled-up shirt sleeves that revealed hair-dusted, corded forearms. Beige suspenders banded his chest in front and crossed in the back, holding up his pants. He had a wrench in his hand, a smudge of oil near his chin, and a scowl on his face that didn’t improve when he noticed her watching him.
She respected that he was working, and hoped that the scowl was for his plane, not her. Rather than hover on the fringes and possibly distract him, she moved on to look at the other planes. Chatting with the pilots and ground crews, she encouraged them to attend the musical performance tonight.
Lara had just seen the two-seater Bristol Fighter when she felt a presence at her back. Turning, she saw that Alex had cleaned his hands but still had the smudge on his jaw.
She pulled off her gloves and stroked her face, mirroring where his needed attention. “You still have some on you. May I, Sir?”
The honorific made heat flare in his eyes. He took a half step closer, closing the distance between them. “You may,” he rumbled. “But not here. Come.”
Alex held out his hand, and she took it. Sparks flew at his touch, racing up her arm and down her body to ignite a fire in her core. He led her to the furthest of the two antique automobiles, a seven-passenger Pierce Arrow touring car. Built in 1917, it lacked the iconic archer hood ornament that would come later.
Opening the door, he helped her into the back seat and climbed in beside her, closing the door behind them. There was so much more going on here than cleaning a smudge. Her whole body pulsed with promise.
But first things first.
Setting her coat, gloves, and sweater on the seat’s far left side, Lara pulled a linen handkerchief from her purse. Glancing at Alex, she slipped her entire thumb in her mouth to wet it, rubbed it over the dark streak on his face, then wiped it clean with her hankie.
When she went to put the used linen back in her purse, he stopped her. “Leave it out. We’re not through here.”
She did as she was told, wordless in the wake of his command.
He hadn’t given her permission to talk.
“You surprised me,” said Alex. “You surprised both of us. We are still discussing specifics, but one thing has been decided. I go first. Remove your knickers, Miss Eastman.”
Setting her purse and handkerchief on top of her coat, she reached beneath the hem of her skirt, found the waistband of her panties, and lifted her hips enough to pull them to her knees. Reseated, she took them the rest of the way off and held them out in a silent offering.
Alex buried his nose in the crotch and inhale deeply. His visual inspection confirmed that they were wet with her juices.
They had been since before breakfast.
He stuffed them in his pants pocket, all the while keeping his gaze locked on her, his blue eyes assessing, deciding what to do with her, now that he had her.
“I have questions,” he said. “Before anything happens, I need to know some things. Are you a virgin…anywhere?” he added meaningfully.
“No, Sir.” Not that she had a lot of experience with anal, but she’d done it before.
“Have you ever been with a Dominant, someone who controlled everything sexually that happened between you?”
“There were two of them,” she said. “Brothers. It was the most amazing night of my life.”
“Ah.” He angled his head. “Was there double penetration?”
Lara felt her cheeks warm. “Yes, Sir.”
“And you find yourself wishing to repeat the experience.”
“No,” she said softly. “I want to be with you and with Dmitry. You know, the idea of having you both has taken me by surprise, too. I’m pretty particular about my partners. I’d rather do it alone than put myself at risk by having mindless sex with a stranger. I don’t rush into relationships, and I tend to stay friends with my exes. Except for the cowboys, I’ve only ever been with one man at a time. With both of you being in the lifestyle, I was guessing that you might be more open to the idea of sharing me. Sex doesn’t have to include double penetration, but to be honest, I was kind of hoping for it.”
Alex’s nostrils flared. He rubbed his jaw, then reached for the buttons on his fly. She watched, mesmerized, as the fabric parted, and the length of throbbing flesh strained against the fabric of his shirt.
“Show me,” he growled. “Lift that skirt and show me how you do it.”
Oh, dear. He wanted to watch her get off. Without her magic wand, this might take a while.
She caught her hem and raised it, exposing the neatly trimmed copper curls to his view. Sliding her fingers south, she parted her folds, found her clit, and coaxed it from its hood. Circling and teasing it, she pushed one, then two fingers into her pussy and started fucking herself.
Alex grabbed his shirt, shoved it out of the way, pushed down the top of his boxers, and freed his cock. Eight glorious inches of turgid flesh rose thick and straight as a strut. Wrapping his fingers around it, he cupped his testes and began stroking his length.
Lara licked her lips and bit the bottom one. She moaned, frustrated that he wasn’t going to share his cock with her. Two fingers were a piss poor substitute for man meat.
She pumped harder, her brow furrowed with effort. He stroked longer, twisting his wrist and swirling his fingers around his crown, squeezing out precum until it was ready to drip.
“What do you need?” he rasped. His labored breaths signaled that he was close.
“I don’t know,” she keened, panting with effort. “With my wand, I’d have come five times and squirted by now.”
Still stroking himself with his left hand, he reached with his other and added one of his fingers to hers. The extra fullness was incredible, but still not enough.
“Remove your hand and let me,” he grated.
Thank God.
Without her fingers in the way, he pushed in a second finger, pumpin
g fiercely, then curled them to hit her G-spot. Two more strokes and she orgasmed, her juices drenching his hand.
“Your kerchief,” he said. Lara snatched it from the seat and thrust it at him. Sliding his fingers free of her box, he grabbed the square of linen and wrapped it around the head of his cock, just in time.
She loved watching his face—hooded eyes, jaw clenching, nostrils flared, harsh breaths soughing from between his teeth while he jacked into the cloth. And he didn’t come just a little bit. His load was so big, her hankie was hard-pressed to hold it.
In the afterglow of her own climax, the sight of his left her speechless. “Thank you,” she finally managed.
Alex folded the linen to help contain the mess and licked her juices from his fingers. “Thank you,” he returned, crooking a grin. “Pity that you’re not vetted. Perhaps tonight, somewhere offsite, we can see about making you squirt.”
Tonight. Tonight. Tonight…
The promise in his voice would echo the rest of the day.
Chapter Six
Lara ate lunch with Alex and Dmitry, who seemed to enjoy baiting each other as much as teasing her. But at least they were getting along. She’d been afraid that she was asking too much from them.
Alex narrated the early afternoon battle for her, watching from the ground when Dmitry and the Germans flew against the French planes recreating the Escadrille de Lafayette.
He had been at one event where they’d actually brought in lion cubs to portray Whiskey and Soda, the original squadron’s mascots. Piers had wanted to, despite the objections raised by his wife and her friends. The question was ultimately decided by Replay’s attorney and its insurance agent. The risk of having the animals wasn’t worth padding the already-hefty expense of the added coverage required for the event.
When the one o’clock reenactment was finished, Lara was ready for a cold drink in the shade. Alex took her arm and headed for the casino.
