4 and 3.5 Stars for The Mistress of Thornfield by Zac Blue – @mugwumppress #FF #Bi #bisexual #Erotic #Short

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Title: The Mistress of Thornfield
Author Name: Zac Blue
Publication Date & Length: November 28, 2014 – 12k

Synopsis

The nineteen-year-old maid knew the unspoken rules of Victorian society but broke them anyway, unleashing a dark curse upon Thornfield Hall. 

Rochester has fled, leaving Grace alone with her mad mistress and the consequences of their transgressions. Now the young maid must attempt to conquer the darkness that her flawed plan to cuckold her master has loosed upon Thornfield.

 A dark sexuality has been awakened in the bisexual mistress of Thornfield.

Bertha Rochester has tasted temptation and wants more. Her innocence destroyed, the dark beauty has come into her own as mistress of Thornfield. Grace watches helpless as Bertha fills the household with strong, brutal men who are as willing to commit murder as participate in an orgy if their mistress demands it.

Grace’s only ally is an enigmatic gypsy with secrets of her own.

The voluptuous Madame Magenta appears at Thornfield with a dire warning, and Grace must decide if she can be trusted. The attraction between the two bisexual women, however, cannot be denied and distrust soon gives way to passion. The maid and the gypsy, both outcasts in Victorian society, devise a plan to save Thornfield and its tormented master from the growing madness of his estranged wife.

The depths of Mrs. Rochester’s dark desires, however, will not become apparent until Grace stumbles upon her mistress’s darkest orgy yet.

Review

FourStars

This book is a definitely continuation of the previous book. I wish it had rehashed what happened with Mr. Rochester at the end of the book a bit more to help me remember it better, but overall, the story line from book 1 to book 2 was continued and explained. I do not, however, suggest reading this book without reading the first beforehand.

Once again, Zac Blue has wowed me with the writing. This book has quite a bit more plot in it than the first one, and I really enjoyed seeing where the story was going to potentially go. I loved the introduction of Magda. It was a character that fit perfectly with Grace and helped move the plot along, and really was just very well done. In a short period of time, Magda was well-rounded and damn hot. The connection Magda had with Grace is one of the sincerest  connections/relationships in the entire series thus far.

I’m definitely waiting for the next installment to see how the situation is resolved. The complications Blue has thrown into the mix have definitely created an intense problem waiting to be resolved in some fiery heat, I’m sure. This book is a great read, and it’s definitely on my re-read list.

~AJ

ThreeandHalfStars

This is the second novella in the erotic Jane Eyre-based series. I have to admit, I liked this one less than the last one. The charm has worn off a little. However, it seems as though that might have been intentional for the purposes of the narrative.

I’m honestly not sure how I feel about the weird sex-magic part. The idea that women having and enjoying sex they choose as “demonic” has long been a part of cultures that oppress women. I’m a little uncomfortable with seeing it expressed so baldly, especially given that it seems Grace is being punished for introducing Mrs. Rochester to “demon sex.” I’ll reserve judgment, however, until I read the conclusion of the story.

The story is short, and I was able to read it quickly. I’m looking forward to seeing how the whole thing draws to its conclusion.

I give it 3.5 stars.

Amy

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Excerpt

Mrs. Rochester, as Grace now thought of her, was different, becoming something else, a half-formed creature still determining its own form. Grace knew that her bluebird was gone. The innocent flutter had left her lips to be replaced by a sharp, greedy peck. The nervous tongue was now assured and spoke with a knowledge beyond that which Grace had taught it.

Grace did not say anything. She just fell back into the routine of attendance at Mrs. Rochester’s side and in her bed.

Three shadows danced across the wall, swaying and merging into one.

Lucas was on his knees, his hard cock deep inside Grace’s cunt and Grace, her arse high to allow him to push even deeper, had her face buried between Mrs. Rochester’s legs, lips sucking and tongue probing her pussy with each thrust of Lucas’s cock.

Of all the men she had fucked at Thornfield, it was the quiet Lucas that served Grace best, because he was in love. He loved Grace with an uncomplicated devotion and a fury that meant he pounded her as hard as she could stand and, when she had taught him, as long as she needed. Right now, fucking and coming were all that made sense; she did both as often as possible.

“Devour this flesh,” moaned Mrs. Rochester as Grace sucked hard and let her tongue push against the throb in time with each pound of her own cunt. Her face was buried between her lover’s legs, eyes closed. She did not want to look at Mrs. Rochester.

Then a strong hand was in Grace’s long red hair, pulling her up. Grace screwed her eyes tightly shut, hoping it would be mistaken for ecstasy.

“Grace.”

Just one word in that new, dark, liquid voice and Grace was staring up at her.

Mrs. Rochester’s eyes, black and burning like newly fired coals. This thing she was becoming rising like a phoenix from the fire that Grace herself had ignited. The darkest of passions and need.

Grace felt every muscle tighten. Those deep inside her strangled Lucas’s cock and he let out a long, hard moan and, as he had been taught, pulled back and came on her arse.

No! It was too soon!

But Lucas was already retreating into the shadows. He knew that his time was over as much as he knew that he had not satisfied his mistress. The fact that she had not come was bad enough. The hateful cramp of unfulfilled passion would linger but eventually fall away. But now she was alone with Mrs. Rochester and, since the pretty little bluebird had flown, these were the moments that she longed to escape as Lucas had done, into silent shadows.

“Make me scream, Grace.” Mrs. Rochester, the bluebird that even tasted differently. The honeysuckle sweetness had become a mix of dark spices in her mouth. It was something that in all her years Grace had never encountered. Something dark inside Grace, which she had long trapped and jailed, responded to this taste and it drove her on, her own pleasure forgotten, the taste driving her tongue deep inside.

Mrs. Rochester pushed her hips upward, spread her legs wider. Grace rose up a little so that her tongue could slide down almost vertically into the wet cunt. She felt muscles tighten around her tongue like a hand round her throat. She pushed deeper and the moans began to rise and twist. Her lips pressed hard against the soft folds; her hands slid beneath and grabbed Mrs. Rochester’s round peach arse, pulling her higher.

“Grace! Grace, I am coming! I am becoming!” Mrs. Rochester’s words slipped into something that was insanity, a mixture of half words and inventions as she bucked once, twice and then with a scratching scream came hard against Grace’s mouth.

The scream seemed to thrash around the room like a trapped bird and finally silenced, leaving the soft, satisfied whimpers of Mrs. Rochester.

They were entwined on the bed, damp with sweat and spent desire. Mrs. Rochester played with Grace’s long red hair and locked her eyes onto hers. Grace felt the cramp in her stomach that came when her own pleasures and needs were left unsatisfied.

“He will return, Grace.” Mrs. Rochester did not need to mention her husband by name.

It was the conversation Grace had been dreading but had known would come. Grace had a gnawing certainty that somehow Mrs. Rochester had knowledge of what had happened between her and her husband, although she had never addressed it directly, not that any wronged wife ever did. Such indiscretions were commonplace and ladies did not recognise the baser instincts of their gentlemen and the women they exercised them with. As long as they did not attempt to exercise them with their ladies, the situation would probably carry on for eternity.

“I will protect you, my blue . . .” Grace stropped as she looked into the eyes that studied her.

“I know you are devoted to my protection, Grace. I know your plan, that you kept so close to your breast. To seed me with Lucas’s child and ward off Rochester with the threat of a wailing bastard on his doorstep.”

The plan had not accounted for the Rochester seed that was now inside her, that had taken root. That, unlike the others, she wanted to keep, wanted to grow and nourish inside her.

“But that seed is dead, Grace.”

The heat rose in Grace’s body, blooming dark on her cheeks. Which seed? Did this new thing that was Mrs. Rochester have “the sight?” Did her dark wells see into Grace’s troubled thoughts and pluck out this child that was inside her?

“The seed that Lucas planted in me lived for a few days. But that night when you confronted my husband and he assaulted you, my poor sweet Grace, that night the seed died inside me. I felt it, Grace.”

The heat was gone and an ice flow took Grace’s blood and flesh. The relief that Mrs. Rochester knew not of her own encounter, or at least did not mention it, was consumed by the words and the knowledge that nothing could live inside this woman that used to be her bluebird. That used to love her with such sweet moans.

“He will have to be killed, Grace. I think you know that. If I am to live, he must die.” Mrs. Rochester took Grace’s face between her hands, a new strength in those dainty fingers, as if she could crush Grace between them. “Grace, you are the clever one. You must make a new plan, one that will set me free. Will you do that, Grace?” Mrs. Rochester’s dusky eyes were round and large and Grace could not escape them.

~*~

It was dark when Grace found herself back in the library where Mr. Rochester had come inside her and made her moan and buck and orgasm like she had never before.

Now the room was a twilight place, a soft moon outside threw silver across the carpet where he had fucked her. Her cunt ached. She did not recognise herself in the sliver of window that the curtains had not been drawn against. She had lost control. She had lost her bluebird and lost him.

The rage began to rise in her; it bathed the ache between her legs and, as it often did, her anger brought the clarity she needed.

She slowly shed her clothes, standing naked in the library. Where he had received her, where he had taken her. Now she would take what she wanted. Without the complications of others, that primal power that came from control of yourself.

Her hands moved to her small, round breasts, found the nipples begging to be pinched and rolled. She made them stand hard and pink and then pinched them red. The pain was hers; she controlled it. She let out a gasp of pleasure.

She cupped her breasts and let her mouth dribble down on them. She began to squeeze and tease in this new liquidity, knowing that further wetness was developing between her legs; it was rising, drowning the hurt and the ache that lay there. The ache for control, for her bluebird and for him. But none of that mattered now. All that mattered was her pleasure.

She let her hands move across her stomach. Her palms rested flat for a moment. Waiting for a movement that was impossible at such a short interval after planting, but waiting anyway.

Then her hands moved on. One slid to her tight, little arse, stroking it with fingernails to the fore. Tapping out her desire with fingers. The other found the hood of her clit and for a moment she let her palm rest on it, feeling the throb increasing, the twitch that she herself had put there. The itch that was hers alone to scratch.

Thumb and forefinger took the flesh between them, rolling and pinching. Her moans were getting louder, but she knew she would not be disturbed. The servants all knew her moans, and that if they were not invited to join they should keep out. She was still the mistress of fucking in this place, but she heard the whispers. She saw the way they looked to her when she commanded them and the second look they now gave to Mrs. Rochester.

Damn! She felt the ache rising again. Damn!

No! This was her moment. This was her cunt, her house, her fucking life. She pinched the hood hard and let out a yelp; the wetness increased, and she sank to the floor, spreading her legs wide.

She let two fingers tease the contours of her cunt lips. Her other hand teased her tight arsehole. It was not a route she often struck, but this was needed. All that ache had to be engulfed by pleasure so overwhelming that when she came it would be banished as if an errant child dispatched to a boarding school.

Her fingernails found the folds of her lips and played them back and forth. Grace let herself moan loudly.

“Fuck me.” Her words to herself alone.

She pushed two expert fingers inside her wet cunt, tightening herself around them, knowing that such a grip would not bring a premature end as it did with so many useless men. But not with him. He drove past that. Where was he this night? What had his words meant?

“No,” she snarled.

Fingers pushing inside her cunt now, legs wide, crooked, hips up and meeting each movement.

The heat rose from her; the sweat coated her tight, young body as her fingers controlled every inch of her. Sliding in her cunt, pushing to that spot, so long ago found, so often missed by others, her true centre, pushing harder, moans loud, breath ragged.

She felt the familiar shiver, but it was deeper, rising in a wave that she felt might never end. Her fingers drove her body to arch and writhe, made her scream loudly.

She stopped dead. Pulled the fingers from herself. Breathing hard, heart pumping her full of want. This was hers. She could have everything; she was the mistress of this place and of herself and this was denial. She licked the pleasure from her fingers and returned them to the tease. There was no ache. There was only need and satisfaction that were both at her fingertips.

She looked up at that sliver of glass and saw herself again. Nothing would cloud her; there was no haze. She was Grace Poole, and whatever darkness inhabited this place would be conquered or controlled as she saw fit.

Fingers inside again, slowly relocating the rhythm, pushing slow and deep.

Yes!

Hard slamming now, screaming at the gates of heaven and hell, waves rising through her, moans and curses spitting from her as she bucked hard as the orgasm swept through her like a spark through kindling.

She came hard and loud. She still fingered herself, wanting more, without any thought, just the brutal need that was the essence of her being. She came again and shook like a creature possessed, heart exploding, mouth uttering gasps and moans and, after several minutes, the softest whimpers of satisfaction.

After many minutes of recovery, where she enjoyed the diminishing of the shivers that had possessed her flesh, she dressed and sat in his chair. She was filled with purpose. The ache would return, she had little doubt of that, but she would control it. She would control everything. Mrs. Rochester, Lucas, all those who had served her and given her pleasure would be hers again.

When she left the library, she heard raised voices at the main entrance. Mrs. Fairfax and the butler were arguing with a third, unknown person. A woman with a gravely voice that rose above theirs.

Fairfax saw Grace and rushed toward her.

“Such an affair! Miss Grace, there is a mad woman without.” Fairfax was red in her cheeks.

“Then turf her from the grounds.” Grace had no time for such trivial matters.

“Where is Grace Poole?” The gravel voice.

Grace was startled but in control; this was her house.

“Let her in.”

A gypsy swathed in dark colours, veiled and hidden, pushed past the butler. There was nothing but her eyes to be seen.

“How do you know of me?” demanded Grace.

“I know many things. Of darkness and of light, of pasts and of futures. I know what you have unleashed upon the world, Grace Poole.”

AuthorBio

Zachary Bluebird III lives in the burnt out ruin of his imagination after his crazy ex-wife tried to set it on fire. She may still be running round on the third floor of his psyche somewhere. He writes erotica with a literary twist that sometimes gets very twisted. He is a slave to the Mugwump ethos of banging it hard. He has lots of headaches and sore thumbs, but wouldn’t have it any other way.

SocialLinks

Facebook: www.facebook.com/zacbluebird
www.facebook.com/mugwumppress
Twitter: @mugwumppress
Website: www.mugwumppress.com/bluebird

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