Friday, June 19, 2015

Into The Dark Wilds...

I've taken a break from blogging over the last couple months, but now with some newly updated novels just released, I'm back to talk about my erotic fiction. There's no better novel to begin with than a story set far into the future, about two women who dared to defy the conventions of the time and make their mark in worlds where sexuality is strictly monitored and women's voices are silenced by those in control. 

Into The Dark Wilds

About the novel:

"In another lifetime I'll return," the bawdy blonde wrote at the close of her blasphemous journal. In that other time, Chloe Duchet pulls that banned volume from the archives of an antique shop and begins to read about Rowena, whose life as a sex slave and prophetess changed the world for a hundred years. Choosing the life of sexual submission, Chloe follows in her mentor's footsteps, seeking the same lusty satisfaction that Rowena knew. In this novel I write about taboos and forbidden lust, of sex kinky clubs and government sanctioned punishment, of a society that lives in its extremes, the dark and light designed never to meet. The pleasure and pain of their incomparable lives, along with the remarkable connection the two women share in their rebellious choices, has made this one of my favorite novels.  
For more information click here

An Excerpt: 

 Along a row of dusty books in the archives of Gatov’s shop, I found the slim volume between a 21st century historical treatise and a book of poetry—Yeats the poet’s name on the spine of the yellowed piece. Pulling out the journal I wanted, the pages of Yeats fell like dry leaves to the bare oak floor. I stooped nervously to pick them up and shove them back into their cloth cover. Replacing the poetry, I tucked the journal under my arm and ambled into the depths of the store, keeping a furtive eye out for anyone who might have followed me. Though that prospect was unlikely, I was still wise to keep my activity a secret. I’d seen this journal once before, that time only capturing a single glance at Rowena’s illicit prose when the book had been waved in front of my curious eyes, denounced as one stepping-stone on society’s pathway to hell. To have found another copy of her journal in my brief lifetime made it seem as if I was predestined to hear her message regardless of the judgment heaped upon it. It’s as though Rowena calls to me from the past, from my grandmother’s generation. I often imagine that she speaks to me alone.

With fingers trembling, I opened the frayed pages afraid that they might turn to dust before I could read the printed words. There in the dark corner of Gatov’s shop I began to read. Sinking down in a corner window seat, where just a shard of sun struck the opening page, I read with exhilarating expectation her first words.

. . . As the 22nd century dawned, I was hawked as “good, used wares” in a Prussian storefront. Flaxen hair, unblemished skin, breasts to pour over for hours, and an ass that will take whatever abuse a master chooses to heap on it both inside and out, so the advertisement for me read.

Boheme bought me for silver, the second time I was sold as a sexual slave. Though perhaps it’s wise to recount when I was first purchased, for it might shed some light on my frame of mind as I enter into this new arrangement . . .

At that time I was bought by Charlie Hustle, when the Agreements were first allowed, when there were still protest marches against slavery, but when slaves like me were beginning to find personal liberty through the collars and chains we’d chosen to wear.

Charlie was loose with me. I was educated at the cocks of thieves and murderers, who would have murdered me if I hadn’t been such a willing slave. There were still so many women on the slave market that had been coerced, blackmailed and quite literally forced into servitude, usually for economic reasons. I suppose I was initially no different from my sister slaves. My benefactor, Ryne, picked me up in a bar, knowing I was ripe for the marketplace, a runaway with easy standards and a fresh though not virgin body. Ryne had no idea where I came from, or that he could be jailed in a heartbeat if the wrong person discovered whose daughter he’d brought into the trade. He didn’t ask questions and I didn’t give him any answers.

Ryne bought me the black dress and the string of pearls I wore when he thrust me on the stage at the auction. The only explanation he gave me was I was on my way out of poverty. “Use yourself well, you’ll be sitting on gold if you’re any good.” I knew I wasn’t poor and I didn’t care about gold. My needs for this life have a much deeper meaning, even if the meaning is still unfolding day to day.

That day, I remember how the lights blinded my eyes, a dozen fixed on me and four other women who walked along the runway, while men beyond the lights decided whether they’d make a purchase, or wait for the next auction and better flesh. I don’t know the fate of the other women since I was led to a private booth where Charlie Hustle waited to inspect me. He asked me to take off the dress. It was a size too small, and I had to struggle with the zipper on the side. There were beads of sweat running down my back, like the pearls that hung between my breasts in front. The room was hot, and Charlie’s eyes only added to that heat. I stood before him in nothing save that fake strand of beads and black ankle boots.

“You’ve had more than one man?” he asked, feeling my crotch—I assume to see if I was still a virgin, which, of course, I was not.

“Yes,” I answered, feeling embarrassed by this exploration, but not ungrateful for the rousing massage.

“Several?”

“Three,” I replied.

“Lovers or just fucks?” he asked.

“One was a lover, the others were not.”

He pressed his fingers to my bum hole. Turning me to the side he pushed me down so I was bent over. He pawed me like meat, shoving several fingers inside my tight rear channel.

“Taken here?” he asked.

“No.”

“That can be handled. How about your mouth, you suck cock?”

“Once,” I admitted.

“You’ll get used to it. How about trussed?”

“Excuse me?”

“Tied, bound, manacled?”

“No, never.”

“Whipped?”

“Not for sex.”

“How would you feel about that?” he asked me.

“I don’t know.”

“You like pain?” Seizing a nipple between two fingers he squeezed it, then twisted it until I cried. “You’ll get used to that, too.”

I thought he’d use my ass that afternoon the way he kept probing me there. The sensation was unlike anything I’d ever experienced. I realized then the personal reward that anal sex would bring, though the opening was dry, untested and seriously tight. When he stopped I sighed my relief.

Charlie bought me as a gift for his friends and business associates, not that he didn’t use me himself. Almost every day I brought him off, often with my mouth or in my ass—he broke me in to that. But never in my cunt. All the things he’d asked me about in our interview, bondage, whipping and pain, weren’t his fantasy. He just wanted to be sure I wouldn’t decline his friends their own pleasure. It’s a good thing I liked it rough, those thugs were chilling at times. I was strung up to rafters and flogged, my pussy pelted with shots from leather straps, my limbs bound in a dozen ways, and of course I was sexually used by these men with hungry appetites for the sexually demeaning and grotesque. 


My initial response was shock. My world so far was  pale in its rendition of the sexual act—just open thighs and a thrusting prick and that was all there was to it. I didn’t realize until the day I was first strung up and flogged that I had a sexual response of my own. I have to give the perpetrator credit, he was incredibly astute in the art of discipline and pain, not like many of the others who followed him. He had bulging muscles, which I watched him oil so that they gleamed in the light of the dank cellar where I was tied. I don’t remember his scent. But the smell of leather and burning lamp oil permeated the stonewalled room with such a pungent aroma, I’ll always remember that combination with a sexual jolt.

He used a cat on my flesh, in-between whispered words that cast a spell of darkness about my brain. I found an empty place in me where strange and inexplicable thoughts emerge. As he spoke, speaking to me in words dripping with lust, about how he was going to love me into pleasure, he slowly drew the talons over my anxious skin, delicately. When he finished, he snapped the lashes, letting them strike so deep I cried. Then, with the handle of his tool, he prodded me between my legs, making me dance on the laced strips of leather as though I were dancing on a cock. He shoved it against the opening, as if he expected it to be submerged by my flesh, swallowed whole. But that handle was much too big to penetrate my lady-like orifice.

Unlike the men who followed him, he took his time. I thought it hours, but had no way to judge. My flesh cried out for more as my body peaked. I didn’t want to go over the edge so quickly because there in my mindless physical bliss, I saw more than stars and fireworks. A blank darkness hit my heart. Like having opened a door to another world, I wanted to walk around in that unreality, wherever in my psyche it resided. But the climax came and died away, and there was just the dank room and the shiny-skinned master awaiting his finale. Untied afterwards and slumping to the floor, I brought his erection into my mouth and savored each drop of semen that spilled out on my lips.

He was the best in my initiation to sexual slavery. The rest who followed did much the same with ropes and whips and cocks, but none with the finesse of this man. My gratitude for his careful attention remains with me for it was the first clue that this occupation would take me to unexpected places.

With his words prompting me, I learned to receive humiliation and pain and find the physical triumph in that. I learned that I was made for this kind of life, when before it had been little more than a kid’s prank. This one dominant man made all the abuse at the hands of Charlie Hustle’s indigent accomplices something that inspired me. I’m sure I wouldn’t have known even half the satisfaction I’ve realized if I hadn’t submitted to those delicious whispers. I’d have never known the first stirrings of that otherworldly dimension floating inside my thoughts.

“Ah! My cherie, feel my heart against you and my groin. Beat with me. Let the pulse overwhelm you. Dive down. Faint. Let me inside you. Beat with me”

Even as I write those words they have the power to woo me to sex and engage my aspirations to greater things than me alone.


Copyright (c) Lizbeth Dusseau, all rights reserved. May not be used without permission. 


Friday, April 24, 2015

Jungle Fever



A fantasy story set in 1920's, in the era of early, silent stag films. The young actress, Violet, posing as an innocent femme fatale...in the middle of a steamy Mexican jungle...knows what she's required to do. But is this savage scene more than the fainting beauty bargained for?

Excerpt from my novel Innocence Defiled
For more information about this novel, check out my Pink Flamingo Website

Violet wasn’t used to bugs and creepy crawly things, exotic birds that screeched at midnight and the darkness of the wind-whipped jungle. The heat was miserable and it took but a few hours after her arrival in Mexico for her to feel the grimy dirt sticking to her flushed skin. Baths were drawn for her morning and night, with water carried from a stream and heated over the fire, but they did little to cleanse away the uncomfortable feeling. An hour after drying off in her tent, she was back to feeling sticky and sour.

       Much to Lionel’s fury, it took three days before the entire cast and the movie crew arrived the Mexican jungle—something about the cargo plane getting held up at the airport by a band of guerillas searching for contraband: i.e. guns. Other than checking the light and the speed of the film, and scouting out the right locations, there was little for the director to do until the entire company had assembled.

       Violet spent the long hours of waiting in her tent reading books. The less time she spent in the jungle the happier she was.

       On the fourth morning, Violet’s hunger pangs drove her quickly from bed. She dressed in haste and emerged from her tent looking for a bite to eat and a fresh cup of coffee. Considering the primitive nature of the campground, the cook, who had flown in with her and Lionel, was able to furnish decent food, in fact better than decent food. Where he found the energy to work in the terrible heat over a hot fire was a mystery to the actress and everyone else.

       As she took a steaming mug of coffee back to her tent, along with a plate of scrambled eggs and fruit, she heard Lionel shouting to his crew. Though she’d paid little attention to the man since arriving at their location, she suspected from his anxious shouts that the rest of the crew had finally arrived.

       “Miss Atherton,” Lionel called to her before she could disappear into her tent.

       She turned around to see him standing some twenty feet away. “Yes, Mister Rains?”        “We’ll have the full crew on site in about thirty minutes. In about an hour, I want you in your costume and ready to go. Florence will be in to fix your hair.”

       “So, today’s the day,” her placid face finally broke a smile while a delightful tickle of excitement raced through her body.

       “Yes, today’s the day,” he confirmed before he took off toward the jungle airstrip.

     

Unlike the previous movie with a simple set in Lionel’s living room, this film was a lot more complicated to produce. As Violet understood the script, she was to imagine herself on a hunting expedition with her husband, through a remote and dangerous jungle. At some point, the party would be raided by an indigenous tribe and, screaming in panic, Violet would be filmed running through the jungle. Eventually she’d be captured and the taking would begin. There were few details in the storyline after that point; scripts for stag films didn’t require much more than a simple plot.

       When the shooting finally began, Violet sensed the mood in the jungle change. Perhaps it was just the passing clouds that for several minutes blocked even the scant sunrays from reaching the jungle floor. Perhaps the general eeriness of the jungle made her edgy. Perhaps it was knowing that her afternoon would be spent in some vulgarly sexual activity. It was difficult to say exactly what gave Violet such a case of nerves, but she certainly had the jitters. When Lionel handed her a shot of whiskey, she didn’t hesitate to gulp it down. Though she hated the taste, the effect was worth the price. In seconds, her head had begun to swim and her nerves were calmed, at least until the liquor wore off.

       “More?” he asked, holding out the bottle.

       “No, that should do the trick.” She flashed the director a smile and then proceeded to follow him through the jungle.

     

The actual movie set was created some distance from the camp set up for the actors and crew. Beside a canvas tent much like the one she’d been sleeping in, Violet was to sit at a collapsible writing table and pretend to be writing letters to friends at home. She was dressed rather strangely for an adventurous expedition of this sort, wearing a long white dress that would have been perfectly appropriate for a summer barbecue in the Hamptons, though it was hardly suitable for the jungle. The filmy gown was, however, perfect for a stag film, which suggested that the point of the movie easily won out over authenticity in costuming. At least the dress was airy and comfortable in the miserable heat, even if Violet felt a little silly, looking as if she’d just stepped out for a casual stroll through a city park. All she needed was a pretty parasol to twirl on her shoulder.

       Florence, who was in charge of costumes, make-up and hair for the entire cast, had earlier entered her tent with a brown wig that was fashioned in a short style, requiring Violet’s blonde hair to be pinned up underneath. The wig was quite tight and uncomfortable, but the director had been quite clear that even in the likely scuffle that would take place during the filming, the wig must stay in place.

       “You’ll probably have a headache before this is finished,” Florence advised her. “But then, what’s a little discomfort for the sake of art, hum?”

       “You call this art?” Violet laughed.

       “Well,” the older woman smirked, “I try to put it in a favorable light, honey. It’s the best we can do.” Florence was a big blowsy woman with over-dyed hair tied up in a messy chignon and way too much make-up. Perhaps her painted look was suitable for a jungle in which garishly colored birds flitted about from tree to tree. Violet had heard through the gossip mill that Florence was a washed up actress. Probably true. But it didn’t matter to the younger actress. Florence didn’t put on airs, or look down on her in judgment the way the rest of the crew often did.

       Although Violet had never actually heard the crude remarks from the male crew members, she saw how they looked at her. She knew there were jokes about her going back and forth amongst the crew, lewd comments behind her back. No doubt, they were speculating about what she’d look like when being taken advantage of… when her clothes were ripped away… and she was accosted by her brute attackers and forced to give up her body for their use. Words of the plot still echoed through her mind, just as Lionel had read them to her from the script.

       So far, she was unsure who would be the perpetrators of the ‘act’ itself, but that was the plan. “There has be a little element of surprise, Miss Atherton,” the director had said when she asked for more specifics. It became hard to escape the feeling that everyone else on the set knew exactly what would happen and with whom, to exactly what extreme degree, while she was left in the dark to worry if she could endure the torrid scene that was demanded.

       Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea, had been repeating in her mind since she first stepped into the jungle. But it was too late to change her mind now. She’d given Lionel her word.


Slightly intoxicated and feeling a little dreamy, Violet sat at the fold-up table on cue and began writing a letter to her cousin in Indiana. Whether it would ever be mailed was not the point, she needed to get in the mood of the scene, and this was one way she could do that and concentrate her energy at the same time.

       In the distance, she heard Rains shouting out directions, then the approach of the camera team, and several others moved in fast. Though her anxiety was mounting, she kept her focus, knowing that the commotion was extraneous noise that would never be part of the film. Suddenly jerked by the arm, Violet was pulled from the chair and immediately landed in the dust. Three huge men, one of them very black and almost naked, stood over her while Lionel and crew moved in and filmed the expressions on their faces. For several seconds the camera focused directly on Violet’s terrified eyes. Her mouth was open in a silent scream.

       As soon as the director gave the word, the black man jerked her from the ground and threw her over his shoulder, carrying her off through the trees. He ran barefoot through the jungle for about thirty seconds, then in another scripted move, Violet flailed wildly until she finally fell from his arms to the ground. According to the script, and a little prior instruction from Lionel, she scrambled to her feet and took off deep into the jungle, knowing that her attackers were close at her heels. She followed a marked trail that Lionel had forced her to memorize during several run-throughs of the scene. But disoriented from liquor and a mild case of hysteria brought on by the emotions in play, she soon forgot the markers and was flailing blindly through thick stands of tall bamboo and tropical vines. Her face was scratched; her red high heels muddy; and her anxious heart beat at a panicked rate. Caught in a tangle of thorny branches, the white dress tore in several places, turning dingy when dragged across the dirt.

       Behind her, the trailing assailants—no longer actors in her mind but primal beasts—moved at a frenzied pace, Rains directing, while cameramen hauling their equipment raced along beside them.

       As directed, Violet continued to stumble through the undergrowth in a blind panic. She stared back several times in her race against the elements, then suddenly found herself smashed against an enormous tree. By the time she was able to pull free of the viney vegetation clinging to the tree trunk, the men were on her and Rains was shouting, “Do it now! Take her!”

       Working like madmen possessed by the devil, the native black man and two muscled Caucasians had her bound to the tree with thick sisal rope, her arms, her legs and her torso fixed in place so she could barely move a muscle. She stared back into the camera, alarmed and anxious, crying out loud: “Please don’t, please, please let me go. Anything you want, please don’t hurt me…” over and over, tears streaming from her eyes and down her face.

       Their hands were large and powerful, their thick palms enough to cover an ass cheek with a single smack, or grab for a breast and maul it till it ached. The first act in the exhilarating scene began with violent smacks against her flesh, the ripping away of the pretty white gown, and the boorish crudeness of the men mauling their bounty. Her naked body emerged from the encounter pale and beautiful against the background of the lush green flora. Thick rope defined her struggle, while the tattered ruins of the white dress clung to the undergrowth like distant memories of a better time in a better place.

       Act Two began with Violet’s assailants first feel of her pretty snatch, fingers diving deep between her thighs and inching toward the holy home they intended to violate. There was no civility employed in their exploration, not one but several fingers jammed their way into her back door. The ruthless way they pinched her nether lips and the bud between them made her worry how much damage would be done before the scene was over.

       “That’s it… that’s it…” the sound of an animated Rains could be heard through the crazed commotion like a voice from a distant dream in Violet’s mind. “Yes, that’s it…nasty…mean…as vile as you dare…

       Her body shrieked, warnings of danger tearing through her. Shrill screams ripped from her throat. This was going farther, faster than she ever dreamed. Three men…three men! How could this ever work!

       Please, please… don’t make me do this…” she spoke sincerely now, but the director was far too involved to stop the action and no one would take her pleas seriously.

       When the cameramen finally moved in closer, Act Three began. The men moved forward with their assault, discarding the rope that circled her torso so her body could be more easily manipulated.

       Her ass was gripped by two powerful hands and pulled back from the safety of the thick tree trunk. She was no longer standing upright, but bent over with her hands and arms still tied to the tree. Her rear cheeks were mauled for several minutes more, then they were roughly jerked apart. To film the scene up close, one cameraman was on the ground shooting the action of the two crotches from pointblank range. Violet’s sex-lips dripped with pussy juice; the thick pink cock was poised to strike; then the rude shove knocked her back against the tree.

       Despite all prior anticipation, the sudden shock of the impalement stunned the frazzled actress. She wept more forcefully, grimaced in a way the camera loved, and then began to moan in an especially provocative manner—sounds that would be recorded only by her attackers and those who watched—those who understood that demure little Violet Atherton was only half-acting, and only moderately horrified. The rest of her experienced the scene as a shameless slut. Soon as that big cock began to move in her, the urgent force of the copulation stirred all the wonderful feelings that had surged through her weeks ago when she was taken on Lionel’s living room set. Every forceful shove forward by the brute behind her sent another violent rush of erotic pleasure to the far reaches of her aroused body.

       She’d been well-primed, as if Lionel knew exactly what he was doing, exactly what was needed to raise the sexual being behind Violet’s modest exterior. The liquor made the rough stuff go down a little easier and the fucking part she easily enjoyed. The combination of the setting, the men and the innocent girl created such explosive images that, just as it had been during her ‘screen test’, those watching were too amazed to voice a thought.
     

The moneyman behind the production wanted it all, all of it first rate sex, and that is exactly what the movie man intended to deliver to his client.

         That's exactly what he got. Their not so innocent actress was particularly suited for the role.


(c) Copyright by Lizbeth Dusseau. All rights reserved. May not be used without permission.


Friday, April 3, 2015

Forever haunted by his love...

In the genre of BDSM erotica, stories arise from many varied places, moods and worlds, from contemporary to historical to science fiction to fantasy. Some stories are deeply rooted in the current protocols of the BDSM lifestyle, which is what many readers look for, in particular, those identifying with the lifestyle itself. And then there are other story lines, as in most of my own BDSM erotica, that toss the kind of caution and rules found in the lifestyle aside and dive deep into the darkest sexual fantasies, into worlds where slaves and submission are part of the culture created in the writer's mind. Reality is suspended for a time while readers are taken into realms they only travel in fantasy. My novel 21 Sins is such a story...about a lifetime slave who will lose her master and must make a choice (in this made-up world) between becoming another man's slave or becoming a free woman. 

Here's the opening scene from 21 Sins... a scene of urgency, savagery and tenderness that is part of the life of this master and his slave. More information about the novel can be found here: click this link

Excerpt

“My beautiful girl,” he whispers in her ear. She clings to the tall, decaying trunk of a dead aspen, where once in a long ago summer, small green leaves quaked, shivering in the airy mountain breeze. She shivers in a similar way, a tremor that starts at the top of her mop-like hair and travels through her firm, naked flesh, becoming more than subtle as it passes through her rounded bare behind. The flesh there is opulent; it’s natural color a pearly hue, sometimes a blush of pink, occasionally bluish when she shivers from the cold. At this moment, however, the color of that rounded, quaking ass has deepened to an angry red. She has been beaten. Even now, as he whispers in her ear as tenderly as a lover would, she feels the hot fire of punishment on her skin. It warms her body and will eventually soothe her spirit in the same way his simple words soothe her.

She sighs, expelling a cleansing breath of air as the pain in her body begins to dwindle.

“Our days are numbered, just a handful remains,” he tells her. “We have to relish every second.”

“No, sir, you’ll not go!”

“I have no choice, my darling.”

“But without you…” she starts, her voice full of urgency.

“Hush,” he stops her. “Without me you’ll remain who you are, guided by those who come after me. They will take you on a different journey, but they will love you, too.”

“How can you say that, when you don’t know?” she looks up pleadingly, whispering her objection. “When you won’t be here?” Tears form in the corner of her eyes, threateningly—no different from any other day for the last six months of his illness.

“No crying, love,” he softly reprimands. “The end will be on us quickly enough.” She sees the pain in his eyes and how the bright bold color of dominion fades a little more each day. He walks with a cane now, though he still has the fresh exterior of a young and robust man. And for the moment he is with her, feeling the wildness of her sexual spirit unleashed by his brutal whip, he is more alive than in his grave.

“The day will come when my tears won’t stop,” she says, with a degree of haughty self-assurance she rarely shows—though it is essential to her make-up, essential for the life she leads. Will, determination and self-control are replete in her complicated personality, just as her desire to suffer, to surrender, to please, and to be this man’s humble slave forever have defined her.

Sadly, there will be no ‘forever’ for these two.

When he touches her flaming ass with the palm of his hand, the paradox she lives and breathes each day nags at her again. Her master is cruel, a proud sadist in love with the act of beating her, turning her skin into ribbons of red wounds, and watching her writhe under the weight of his floggers and the sting of his whips. Even the way he binds her causes pain, as her wrists are wrapped with thick sisal, which cuts into her tender skin the more she struggles at the whipping post. The cruel elements of nature collide with her this day, as a sharp wind castigates her tormented flesh. She has no idea which sensation to feel as so many batter her body.

Now that the whipping has ended, the paradox begins in earnest. Her lover, her master, discards his pompous cruelty in favor of genteel kindness. He kisses her ear, massages her wounded ass, and takes the steamy heat pouring from her crotch and turns it into a climactic surge of orgasmic bliss. She whimpers as she begins to come on his loving hand. She caws and mews. Her body bucks against the post, scratching her pure white breasts on the splintered wood. Yet, she doesn’t care anymore with this climax crashing through her like an angry tiger crashing through the jungle. Her head thrashes back and forth and her lips part as her cries fly aloft like seagulls into the air. Her eyes have brightened into an eerie glow. Then for several seconds, they roll back into their sockets as the ecstasy takes her deeper. Her master’s hand, lodged purposefully between her legs, is flooded by her wetness, bathed in her juices. He holds his fingers to her lips and makes her lick them clean. She cannot resist his touch, disobey or disappoint him.

He’s pleased. “Such a good girl you are. Such a survivor.”

He talks this way a lot these days… how she is a survivor of her life and every fate that has tried to slap her down. Fate brought her to him. Now fate will take him away from her, but she will remain intact, able to go on being the woman she has become. He is preparing her for his end and her new beginning.

When he removes her from the whipping post, she falls to her knees in the mud—a product of last night’s rain across the valley. He snaps the collar and leash around her neck and leads her to a fallen tree, which becomes their makeshift bed. Tying her—arms stretched above her head, her legs wide open—with her wounded backside against the scratchy bark, the pain in her shoulders and ass returns. But he cares little about her comfort; a chameleon to the very end, his sadistic, self-serving desire returns. He straddles the tree trunk between her open thighs and removes his thick erection from his pants. Impaling her in one swift thrust, he begins his last vigorous taking of the slut he’s created. She cries again, and grunts like a common whore, as he stabs her cunt repeatedly. Then she comes one more time as her master takes his pleasure. For an angry, despondent man this is the only joy he knows now. He will savor it to the finish, until the last burst of excitement, the last trickle, the last gasp, the last spasm finally quits his body, and he is done.

“Thank you,” he silently whispers as he peers into her hooded gaze.  

She stares back at him, forever haunted, forever wounded by his love. 


Copyright (c) 2005 by Lizbeth Dusseau, all rights reserved. May not be used without permission.