The Keys of Serravalle

Clause Three: the Slave consents to be touched, displayed, directed, restrained, punished and used by any Host or Guest, at any time, in any room.

Samantha reads it twice. Then she signs.

Six women. Twelve guests. One medieval castle in the Tuscan hills, with a long weekend and a rule that no one is ever really off duty. Over the weekend the women are shared and strapped down, bent over banquet tables, led on leashes through moonlit courtyards and handed from lap to lap. They are never asked, because they already said yes in writing. They kneel when a hand points at the floor. They open when a hand says here.

Samantha is Lot Nine, and everybody wants a turn.

But she belongs first to Marissa, who watches everything and misses nothing, and who has given her one rule that none of the guests can touch: You may not come unless your eyes are on mine. So Samantha is used all weekend, wet, shaking and desperate, and still waiting for permission. Every hand, every mouth and every dare pulls her closer to the one woman who is not allowed to play.

Collars. Rope. Wine-dark banquets. Games that turn into punishments, and punishments that turn into something much harder to name. A castle that has kept its secrets for a thousand years, and the one woman who might finally make it share them.

The Keys of Serravalle is a steamy, slow-burn BDSM romance of surrender and control, with free use, public scenes, bondage, orgasm denial and a heart beneath the filth.

For adult readers (18+). Contains explicit consensual BDSM and sexual content. All characters are adults.

A Lot Nine novel. Start with Lot Nine if you haven’t read it yet.