BadBoysSubBlankEditionHTML by Erika Masten

BAD
BOYS’ SUBMISSIVE: HOT HARD MENAGE #2
     
    by
    Erika Masten
     
     
    Copyright © 2011 Erika Masten .
    ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
     
     
    Erika Masten
    [email protected]
    http://erikamasten.com
     
     
    Published
by Sticky Sweet Books.   This book contains material protected under International and Federal
Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material
is prohibited. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no
part of this publication may be reproduced, stored on, or introduced into a
retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic,
mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written
permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
     
    This
is a work of fiction. Any similarities to actual persons or events are purely
coincidental.
     
    Warning:
Explicit content. Intended for mature readers only. All characters depicted herein are 18 years or older, and all sexual activities are of a consensual nature.
     
    This
is a work of erotic fantasy. In real life, please protect yourself and your
lover by always practicing safe sex.
     
     
    TABLE
OF CONTENTS
     
    Bad
Boys’ Submissive: Hot Hard Menage #2
     
    Excerpt
From
    Taken:
Dominated #1
     
    Excerpt
From
    Dominated
By Brothers: Hot Hard Menage #1
     
     
    BAD
BOYS’ SUBMISSIVE: HOT HARD MENAGE #2
     
    Hot
day. I’d be better off inside, but I can only take being
stuffed into this diner for so many hours at a time. When the customers clear
out after lunch, and I’ve finished clearing piles of dishes and scrubbing
smeared ketchup and dried gravy off the tables, I call back to Nora in the
storeroom that I’m taking my break.
    “Sure thing, sweetie,”
she shouts back in her whiskey-rough voice. She calls everyone sweetie. I’ve
wondered if it’s a convenient way of avoiding having to remember a town’s worth
of names. Thinking back, I can’t ever remember her calling me Trina.
    I toss my apron down by
the coffee pot and dig around under the counter behind the glass pitchers and
extra napkin holders, where I hide my camera. It’s not cheap, one of the few
nice things I have from my time living up north and going to art school while I
worked for an ad agency, before my sister manipulated me into moving back to
this nowhere town to take care of Dad after he got sick.
    Outside, the air smells
of dust and hot asphalt, but there’s a light wind picking up, promising a
cooler evening. I’m wearing just my sneakers and denim shorts and a blue
button-front work shirt tied under my ribcage, so the breeze feels nice against
my skin. Crossing the quiet downtown street, I roll my stiff shoulders and pull
out the band that’s holding my hair in a high ponytail, then shake out the long, coffee-brown strands.
    I pause at the curb and
hold up my camera to check my view of the new display in the thrift shop Mrs.
Conley runs. She has an artistic flare that can turn something as uninspiring
as knick knacks and threadbare jackets into an eye-catching arrangement pretty
enough to make a person forget how depressing is to have to shop in a
secondhand store. Today it’s rows and rows of used shoes, bright women’s pumps
and sandals, vixen heels and pink bedroom slippers with faux fur, mixed with an
occasional pair of men’s black or brown dress shoes that were probably
someone’s pride and joy at their first dance or their brother’s wedding.
    After snapping a few
shots, I lower my camera and take a couple steps forward to look closely at a
pair of dark red 60’s patent leather pumps, the kind with the sharply pointed
toe. They remind me of a pair my mother had. She gave them to me, despite my
sister’s protest, when I was in high school. I can’t help smiling at the
thought of all the hours of dancing those shoes have seen, and the hours they
have yet to see.
    Which
leads my wandering mind to…Austin Sully. Another thought
that brings a smile to my