(Sisters Three)
Steampunk, Murder Mystery, Romantic Suspense
Date Published: Oct 20, 2023
London is under attack!
At Allenby Hall the net tightens around Dolly Preston and her gentleman
friend, Pascal Baudelaire. Lies abound. Who can she trust?
The chaos in the heart of the empire requires Agent of the Queen, the
predatory Miss Clayton, to make an ultimatum. The snowstorm ends, and Molly,
caring for the wounded Mr. Allenby, is in for a shocking disappointment as
events reveal the truth behind the Lewellen murder.
While London burns, Polly risks her new relationship with the honourable
Tom Gold by revealing her extreme carnal desires. The three Preston sisters
deal with the threat to their family’s future in their own inimitable
styles, but will they succeed?
EXCERPT
Copyright ©2023 Mikala Ash
I cleared a circle on the fogged glass and peered out at a vast sheet of
white: the snowbound grounds of Allenby Hall. Above the distant ice-shrouded
trees, the pale outline of the sun was visible through thin, leaden clouds.
It was a beautiful scene worthy of any Christmas postcard, but for all that
it was a cruel deceit. The picturesque vista cloaked a deadly reality, for a
fathom of snow entombed the landscape and smothered the helpless creatures
beneath. That was my melancholy state. I felt trapped, unable to extricate
myself from a suffocating fate.
Instead, I should have been happy, or at the very least satisfied. The
fornication, my stock in trade, had been as unrelenting as the snowfall.
Indeed, during the last week all my lusty holes had been filled countless
times over.
“At last,” I murmured. “It has finally
stopped.”
“Come back to bed,” Anthony Jamieson implored.
“It’s too bloody cold to be out. The fire in the hearth has
died, but not the furnace in my heart.” He chuckled at his saucy
wit.
“My heart is incandescent with desire,” added Mathew, not one
to be outdone by his twin brother. “My cock is harder than an oak and
is impatient for your attention. Lying in such a state next to my brother
is, however, unbecoming in a gentleman of my manly nature.”
Though my quim pulsed with lust, I ignored their bantering. The Jamieson
twins, impecunious younger sons, were customers of long standing. Having
found me at Mrs. Q’s bawdy house, they often and enthusiastically
indulged their love of sodomy, my particular speciality, whenever they were
in funds, and were as generous as they could be. They had even invited me to
move from Mrs. Q’s to rooms in the fashionable West End, where I would
be theirs exclusively, their own private whore. My objections had simply
been financial — they would not be able to afford both the rent and the
extra they gave me to pass onto my impoverished Mama and my two half-sisters
Holly and Lolly. My and my full sisters’ goal was to get them out of
the Whitechapel slum in which they lived, and away to the country. Then I
had a flash of inspiration, and suggested the twins invite a third gentlemen
into the scheme to defray the costs.
Anthony interrupted my recollections. “I’m afraid our rampant
displays of lust have scared away your Frenchman, Dolly.”
He referred to that third gentleman, Pascal Baudelaire. He had come into my
life on a search for my sister, Molly, because of her nascent relationship
with an engineer, Mr. Lewellen, who had been brutally murdered. Molly had
stumbled upon the poor man. The fiend James Polk, who had minutes before
found the dying man, watched from the shadows, and had mistakenly believed
Lewellen had told her something as she comforted him in his last moments.
That mistake had set off a tumultuous couple of weeks, replete with gruesome
murders, violent kidnappings, daring robberies, and shootings with a roiling
undercurrent of espionage. Hardly the usual fare of an East End whore or toy
manufacturer, which was Pascal’s family business. He too had shared
our adventure by being kidnapped and losing a finger to the maniac’s
knife.
Pascal also enjoyed the depths of my arse, and I had brought him to Allenby
Hall while I visited my sister who was recovering from that same ordeal. The
twins, friends of Mr. Allenby, had unexpectedly shown up just in time to be
caught by the snowstorm.
With the intention of making the twins’ plan a reality I introduced
Pascal to the joys of group copulation, and the idea of sharing the cost of
the rooms which the Jamiesons proposed. He had been cautious at first but
had soon given himself up to the novelty of enjoying my holes in the company
of others, a new experience for him. He quickly agreed to the proposal so
when he visited London, he could use me with the two Jamiesons, rather than
the untold hundreds who visited me at Mrs. Q’s. His contribution would
allow the twins to finance my plan of relocating Mama. All that planning,
unfortunately, would be for naught. It wouldn’t be possible because of
that bitch, Miss Clayton.
“Though the bed is large, I think Pascal was afraid of accidently
touching my impressive member,” Mathew added with a mischievous
chuckle. “He should realise that I have eyes only for you,
Dolly.”
“I rather think, after our latest debauch,” Anthony mused
drowsily. “He has retreated to his own room to recuperate before Dolly
once again roused him into action. He is an impressive stallion, I must
admit.”
That he was. I sighed, feeling his future departure most keenly. Not from
this bed, but from my life entirely. A surge of guilt rushed though me. I
hadn’t told the twins of the disaster that had befallen me and Pascal
— that he would be soon leaving England, never to return. They would have
to give up the idea, and I would lose any chance of escaping Mrs. Q and
saving Mama.
Our sojourn here in Molly’s employer’s country estate had not
been all fun and games, hugs and kisses and inevitable bedroom antics. Our
stay had been overshadowed by the consequences of the Lewellen murder in
London, and the unexpected appearance of two Agents of the Queen, the
catlike Miss Clayton and her equally predatory Miss Felicity Cressy.
They suspected Pascal of being a foreign agent attempting to steal military
secrets from Mr. Allenby’s factory. Miss Clayton had ordered me to spy
on him, a repellent task which I’d soon whispered to him under the
bedclothes. Despite the cost of ending my dream, I’d begged Pascal to
leave England as soon the snowstorms had relinquished their bitter hold. He
resented the need, having protested his innocence, but had agreed, albeit
reluctantly, that the more distance between him and Miss Clayton the
better.
Feet padded behind me as one of the twins grabbed me by the waist, lifted
my silk bathrobe, and with his feet and knees he pushed my legs apart so his
determined cock could find my semen-filled cunny. Our debauchery had caused
us to run out of Cumberland prophylactics, which meant yet another douche
with Mrs. Q’s secret potion.
He draped a blanket over both our shoulders to keep us warm while he fucked
me. Was it Anthony or Mathew? I couldn’t tell. They were truly
identical in every respect, even to the size of their manly organ. The only
way to tell Mathew from his brother was to insert my finger in his arsehole
while he fucked me. He didn’t enjoy it, while his brother did. Whoever
it was, his thrusts were urgent and powerful, and I soon rested my forehead
against the cold pane and lost myself to his plundering.
About the Author
Aussie Mikala Ash used to be a mild-mannered training & development
consultant by day, and a wild sci-fi and paranormal adventure writer by
night. Now she is a brazen full-time writer and nature photographer who is
concentrating on having among other things, “… bags, and bags
of fun!” Mikala can be found on Facebook and on Twitter.
Publisher on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, and TikTok:
@changelingpress
