Tuesday, December 24, 2013

Friday, December 20, 2013

The Night She Met Her Cowboy

 (Book Cover Image removed to comply with Google restrictions on nudity)

Spent most of my morning trying out new color schemes and styles for this blog. Still haven't made any final decisions, but this is it for now. Lest I not forget the point of what I'm doing, I do have this steamy scene to take us into the weekend. 

May your holiday celebrations be filled with joy and lots of kinky fun! 

From the novel: Poor Little Rich Slut

Feeling the tempestuous night close in around me, I shivered in fear as I walked from my car to the sidewalk. All was black and starless. Clouds swarmed overhead like an angry sea. I didn’t realize that the frenzied wind and turbulent air were merely a backdrop for some godly declaration. It was a bold stroke of genius when, through a sudden opening in that stormy commotion, the full moon appeared like a heavenly emissary and shone brightly into my startled eyes. Was it a blessing or a curse? I couldn’t say. The effect was both beautiful and frightening. Seconds later, the clouds closed in around that brilliant moon, enshrouding the orb inside their gloom again. My body felt something horrific pass through it, then the feeling disappeared as quickly as it came, as quick as that brief glimpse of moon.

    I do believe I had been warned.

    Regardless of my apprehensions, I moved through the inky night to the chain-link fence where the gate stood ajar, my invitation to enter into the eerie world of carnival lights and blinking neon. A gust of air danced loose trash across my path. It swirled then fell to the ground again as soon as the air settled. I stopped to let it pass, then ventured deeper into the amusement park. While ignoring the steady internal dialogue, about why the hell I’d be risking myself in this dilapidated world, the rest of me moved eagerly toward the Carousel where Casey Ingram said he’d meet me. We’d made the date the week before, when I felt particularly reckless and in need of a change.

    I’d taken off on my own that night, after having abandoned my agreement with Garrison Tate—a shameless scoundrel who was both my co-worker and sexual mentor. In a similarly seedy neighborhood as this wretched Carnival one, I popped into a bar, sitting my leather-clad behind on a vinyl barstool and ordered a martini. Was I sleazy enough for the place? I immediately wondered, as I gazed around at my fellow clientele, who sat at the bar and tables, clutching with grimy fingers their bottles of Bud and Pabst Blue Ribbon. They ate stale popcorn by the handful, made wisecracking remarks, then laughed in boisterous gales. Afterwards they settled back to glowering until something gave them cause to regale the bar with laughter again.

    I gave the skuzzy men something to look at for thirty dreadful seconds, during which I deliberately adjusted myself on the stool, wiggling my derriere to attract, not repel their attention. I liked their eyes on me and imagined I could read their thoughts—where scenes of hard-fucking ass-sex seemed to reign among the other dirty things they’d do to me. Pantiless, I felt a quotient of female juices leaking out against my thighs as the effect of that image trickled down through my body. Wiggling my ass again, merely as a way of grinding my pussy deeper into the vinyl stool, I felt a spasm of pure pleasure make my entire crotch heat.

    I probably should have ordered a beer not a martini. But then that made me more watchable, which was exactly what I was after.

    Some moments later, Casey Ingram entered, wearing cowboy boots, roughed-up jeans and a scowl to rival the rest of those I’d grown accustomed to in the previous ten minutes. There was something especially appealing about this guy. I liked his swagger, and behind the facial hair, the scruffy beard and the dark mustache, I made out a handsome face.

    My cowboy sat down a seat away from me at the bar and hovered over a double-shot of whiskey, which he finally downed in one gulp before slamming the glass against the bar. After a big sigh, he turned his head toward me, smiling.

    “Casey Ingram,” he said, his introduction, “and you are?”

    I’m the heiress Eleanor Hutton Rule to the rest of the world. To Casey Ingram, I’m Ellie Barnes.

    “Ellie,” I spat out. “Ellie Barnes.” First time I’d ever used an alias and I rather liked the way it sounded. I liked being someone else.

    “You’re here alone, Ellie Barnes?”

    “That’s right.”

    His eyes combed my body head to toe, seeing the sleek, kittenish look I carefully crafted before leaving home. My hair was smooth, in a blunt pageboy no longer than my shoulders; my lashes were thick with mascara. I wore too much lipstick, too much blush, too much shadow over my eyes—he was certain to think me cheap and easy. I should have worn denim rather than leather to make my seedy look more authentic, I thought in a moment of self-doubt. But then, I don’t think my cowboy noticed that the leather skirt was designer chic, not off the rack. His eyes rested on my chest, settling in for a while to imagine what might be under the tightly stretched, low-cut sweater. I moved toward him invitingly, my cleavage cooperating with the seduction as the flesh jiggled enough to keep the cowboy’s eyes fixed a few more seconds. Finally, his gaze shifted downward, noting the way my hiked-up skirt showed off the lace tops of my stockings and the attaching garters.

    “So, you must be meeting someone?” He finally looked into my eyes.

    “No,” I shook my head.

    “This ain’t the kinda place you just stumble into.”

    “No, I don’t suppose it is. But I needed a drink and it was close.”

    Had I said enough, telegraphed the message sufficiently? Did he have the guts to pick me up? One look at his crotch and I could see that his cock was getting firm.

    He moved to the seat beside me, like he could be intimate now. Then he toyed with a lock of my brunette pageboy and whispered, “You don’t suppose that leaving with me could be what you’re after?”

    I smiled. “I suppose it could be.”

    His snigger played out all over his face, in his eyes and the way his breathing changed, dropping deeper into his crotch, which was what this was all about—two hungry crotches.

    Digging into his pocket, he pulled out a wad of bills and threw a few on the bar, nodding to the bartender. The man polishing shot glasses stared at me judgmentally; he knew what I was doing. Then my cowboy slithered off the seat in my direction, putting his arm around me in one smooth motion. Once on our feet, we moved to the back of the bar and out the steel door into the night.

    The air beyond was fresh, a hint of the salty ocean stinging the nostrils. I picked up the scent of frying food and asphalt and exhaust fumes from a diesel truck.

    I’ll give him credit; he was bluntly honest, asking before he acted: “Do I take the time to court, Ellie, or can we make this quick?”

    “Long as it’s raunchy, quick is fine with me,” I said.

    He smiled, chuckling under his breath, rolling his head a little in amazement. “You know, it’s like a guy doesn’t get it any better than this.”

    “So?” I was waiting, wanting him to make a move, a real move, like slap me against the cement wall, push me flat against the cold surface and fuck me hard, real hard, from behind. But once he got over his amazement, he gathered me to his side again and we hustled through the streets and alleys, taking a maze of twists and turns. Finally, as if he was working up the courage, he stopped on a bridge, an old bridge connecting the industrial neighborhood we just left with the residential slums. He pushed me against the rail and I looked down on the street below, seeing cars and trucks and one big motor home breeze on into the night.

    Moving in behind me with a warm crotch and chest, his hand reached inside my stretchy top and grabbed a tit, two fingers finding a nipple and squeezing hard enough that I let out a little shriek.

    “Might be wise to be quiet here, huh?” he whispered in my ear.

    “You’re right,” I whispered back.

    With his right hand on my breast, the left hand went under my leather skirt, raising it high, showing off the garterbelt and the naked flesh beneath. It might have been quite a sight to see the exhibition, but the night around us was lonely and deserted. “You do smell like something special, Ellie Barnes. Like expensive perfume,” he murmured. His nose nuzzled my neck; his tongue tasted my skin; his lips bit down on my flesh and produced an urgent spasm in my belly.

    Hum… and he could tell expensive perfume from cheap? I noted with a delicate sigh, just before I started to grind my ass back against his groin.

    “I’m wet,” I informed him.

    His hand moved to the succulent valley between my thighs, seeking the entrance to my pussy.

    “You sure are,” he drawled. Such happy admiration!

    His member throbbed against the back of my thigh, and when it was freed from inside his pants, I felt the raw fervent muscle against my naked ass. It started to prod, moving into the cleft between my cheeks, hitting my asshole first—which doesn’t easily give—then searching deeper, lower, for the pulse of my wet pussy.

    Our warm pheromones clashed in the steamy air. It was a night fit for groveling.

    Sliding in, he sighed. I sighed in return, being grateful and happy to have him, happy to know I’d scored a raunchy ride on a night like this—on a night when I needed anonymous more than I needed the merciless probing eyes and cock and heart of Garrison Tate.

    Damn Garrison Tate, anyway! My pestered mind screeched… when the thought of him interrupted the moment. Damn him for meeting me here on this bridge, for finding my mind with his. For getting inside, as if I still wanted him telling me what to do.

    Dammit, Garrison Tate, I’m going to fuck my cowboy,
I silently screamed.

    “Oh, yes baby,” I vented in a quiet voice.    

    “Yeah, you gonna cum, baby,” Casey answered, his voice a breathless growl.

    “Oh, yes, I’m gonna cum. Yes! Fuck me!” I was getting too loud. I knew that.

    But my cowboy didn’t care. His warm breath was at my neck, my ear. His wet lips kissed the side of my throat. His hands, his strong, firm, muscled hands squeezed my naked ass cheeks, and his cock worked wonders, rubbing places that make me squeal, make me hot. Yes! He made me need to cum.  

    I started to sweat. Another waft of sexual odors greeted my nostrils. I ground a little harder back against him, grunting now and seething under my breath, “Fuck me, baby, fuck me, fuck me, YES YES HARDER!” More intense, heavier breathing. He was getting into his rhythm and was ready for the explosive end. He gave me one last hard thrust and held my ass to his groin, shooting spasm after spasm after spasm into my quivering hole. Amazingly, he reached around and teased my clitty just enough to trigger the finish in me.

    YES YES YES!  I was screaming—to myself, I think. Although I’m not sure I didn’t announce it to the world.

    Yet no one came running. No sounds echoed off the building and all was quiet once
we stopped. Even the street below the bridge was empty of all traffic.

    I felt negligent afterwards. No Tate to upbraid me for being bad. No punishment. No sweet refuge in the startling pain of a physical rebuke. Something was missing after we righted ourselves and I wiped my crotch on his handkerchief and straightened my clothes. I felt free and sad and guilty, all at the same time. Something was missing, something lost, but these were all silent thoughts I’d never share with an anonymous lover.

    Casey made himself presentable, while both of us filled the awkward moment with a compendium of wistful sighs until we couldn’t sigh anymore. Someone had to say something.

    He spoke first. “You do this often?”

    I stared at him a moment, not knowing what to say. “No, no, not really.” I had my first flustered, self-conscious moment.

    “Any special reason?”

    “Just a bad breakup,” I managed, wishing we didn’t have to make small talk.

    “I see.” He seemed as ready to move on as I was, but added, much to my surprise, “So, I suppose it’s too much to think you’d want to go at it again, huh?”

    Go at it. How quaint, I thought, while I was trying to figure out how to respond.

    “I don’t know. Could it be better than this?” I wondered aloud.

    “Maybe.” He smiled a crooked, charming smile. “I run the machinery at the amusement park and live in the Carousel building. Some women like the added thrill of a wild ride, if you know what I mean?”

    I didn’t know what he meant, not exactly. But the thought of amusement parks and carnival rides, cotton candy and stale popcorn tend to feed the girl in me with unseemly desires. If this Casey Ingram could fulfill my seedy fantasies, then he wasn’t just my cowboy fuck for an evening; he was a man of minor miracles, able to lift me out of my sexual impoverishment like a bold knight.

Tuesday, December 17, 2013


A little hard kink...

The candid confessions of a sex slave, now property of a new owner

Excerpt from Scandal for Sale...

I have been sold.

    My gut grinds as that thought works its way about my mind.

    Judge Perdue and his wife took me to the auction house—I had no idea that such a place existed in the modern world. Whether it was a fa├žade resurrected in a day, or something permanent, I can’t be sure; but the crude room at the top of the aging warehouse looked, smelled and felt authentic… as if hundreds of owned souls had been offered for sale, auctioned, purchased and transferred to their new owners inside the rough surroundings. Approaching the building from the street, a shudder of apprehension ripped through my being as I viewed the abandoned edifice. It looked like the next in line for bulldozers and wrecking balls, rather than a place of commerce. Inside, my quavering body took a scary trek up three flights of stairs and into a holding room just off the main arena. Some putrid smell wafted by my nostrils then disappeared. I looked around at my surroundings, seeing little but filth. No one had bothered to clean the wooden floor, dust the grimy surfaces or clear the stale air with a breath of fresh air from an opened window. All the windows had been boarded—I suppose years ago. A few cracks revealed the daylight outside, but otherwise the auction house belonged to another time, cloaked in darkness. I had only moments to survey the room before a blindfold dropped over my eyes, and I was hastily disrobed and pushed into my cage.

    Inside my blindness, my hands probed the space around me. I was surrounded on four sides, hardly able to move inside the tiny prison. I could stand. I could flex my legs, but I couldn’t turn around. There were noises all around me, and hands that jabbed my flesh. I jumped and shrieked, feeling as if I was being probed with Billy clubs and canes. Someone’s hand pressing at my cunt found the folds slick with juice.

    “Shall I get her off?”

    “Not protocol, Griz.”

    Other anonymous voices bantered back and forth at my expense, while the heavy weight of cutting nipple clamps caused my breasts to sag, and sent angry lines of pain screeching merrily through my body. A crude dildo was thrust into my dry anus.

    “Lube it, Connor,” an exasperated female droned.

    “It’s going in,” Connor answered back. In my imagination, I could see his mouth grinning evilly.

    My head was yanked back against the bars, my hair twisted into a knot, tying it out of the way. Another pair of hands yanked on the clamps, yanked hard enough to pull them off. I screamed.

    A firm hand on my chin shook my anchored head, while a seething voice hissed in my ear, “Maybe you want to be gagged, bitch.”

    From above the din around me, I heard the auctioneer’s call as another slave was on the block and the purchase was being finalized.

    I endured the taunts, the jeers and the crude touch minutes more, then all that ceased. The hands withdrew, my head was freed, and the dildo in my ass was removed. I felt the bars of my cage opening, and a hand pressing down on my right shoulder. “Crawl,” the voice was as dismal as the mood around me.

    A collar was slapped around my throat, tied off tightly at the back of my neck and then attached to a leash. Tugged forward, I made my journey over the dusty floor, grime and soot pressing into my hands and knees. When my head hit wood, I was pulled upright and prodded in the center of my ass with a stick.

    “On your feet.”

    Maneuvering blind is a grueling task. My muscles seemed to fight the move, to creak and groan in protest; but my will prevailed. Once on my feet again, someone yanked my collar from above and I stepped up to the platform, bumping my shins on the high steps.

    Heat came at me from all sides, blistering my skin with fire. Then shouts commenced as the dais turned and my head grew dizzy. My mouth was dry, my palms sweat profusely, but there was nowhere to wipe them except on my naked thighs.

    Some stray hand tugged at my pubic hair. Another yanked the hair on my head. I would have kicked the asshole in the leg, but that would have been a dangerous move. Common sense won out.

    I heard the voices of the barter shouting numbers into the stifling air.

    I teetered, thinking I’d faint; but someone noticed and shoved smelling salts at my nose, “Wake up.”

    “Yes, Sir.” I answered the voice without thinking, seconds later wondering why I’d be so respectful of this ritual, and the men who auctioned me.

    Behind the abuse, the aggravation and my anger, my belly burned with sexual intensity, flaring ferociously as each insult heaped on more humiliation. Thank God, I couldn’t see their faces, couldn’t peer into their eyes, and was too afraid to shout the thoughts that careened around my mind like cawing crows.

    One minute, I was in the midst of this heated battle, wishing I could somehow fly away; the next, I was pushed from behind and stumbling forward into a pair of muscular arms, tossed over meaty shoulders and taken away.

    Caged again, I sat in a different sort of contraption, a metal box with steel bars. Confined, curled up in a ball just to fit insides the tiny space, I waited while the focus turned from me to another slave who’d become the center in this festival of flesh.
“Lift her head.” I heard the words, but made no connection with the voice. My blindfold remained in place.

    A stinging palm slapped me awake. Someone said I’d fainted.

    Once drawn from the cage, a blanket was thrown over my shoulders and a guiding arm encircled my waist. I was taken from the building, helped down three flights of stairs and led into daylight, quickly shoved into the seat of a car—a back seat I presumed. I lay curled in fetal position during the long ride to my final destination.
“Miss Lourdes.”

    It seemed like a century had passed since I was allowed the use of my eyes. Hearing my name, I opened them, finding them trying to focus on a face in front of me—a familiar face, though I couldn’t immediately remember where I’d seen these classically handsome and trustworthy features. Perhaps he just reminded me of someone.

    “Your new home,” he announced. He was sitting on the bed where I lay, and gazed around at the simple but very pleasant surroundings. I glanced toward the window, seeing nothing but sky and suspected that we were on the upper floor of an apartment high-rise.

    “The Greenery Building.” He’d read my thoughts.

    I didn’t recall the building, but that hardly mattered now.

    “I think the auction went rather well.” He was trying to be gracious. “You were lucky you weren’t whipped. Most properties are,” he smiled generously, “but I had all the information I needed without marring the merchandise. I’d rather whip you myself, as risk having your body damaged by some goon who doesn’t know how to punish without scarring.”

    I still couldn’t put a name to his face, but I knew it well. The deep, rich, summer tan, the sincere, inquisitive eyes, the perfectly sculpted forehead, cheeks and jaw. A jaw with a purpose. This man was created for the modern day aristocracy—a politician, an actor… no, he was on the news—how could I have missed that face! He was the Channel 9 anchor for the six o’clock news, and now the owner of a female slave.

    “Andy Kerrigan,” he introduced himself, “you’re S. R. Lourdes.”

    I nodded.

    “And this is where you live.” He pushed to his feet and strolled away from the bed to the windows, where an intense blue sky framed his silhouette. “Twelve stories high in my apartment. It’s as good a place for a slave to dwell as any I can think of.” His deep baritone was unmistakable. My crotch was getting wet, wondering how he’d look without his clothes. “I do plan to make some alterations.” I wasn’t sure what he meant. He turned back to me. “I have particular fantasies that have me quite intrigued. I’m told you’re moldable, so we’ll see. I am a bit of a sadist, but then your previous owner was, too.” A quick smile, and he continued with his monologue. “I’m sure that my streak of villainy will be no more difficult to handle than what you have handled before.” He sounded as if he was reading from a teleprompter.

    “Will I have my personal belongings?” I timidly asked.

    The question surprised him. He thought a moment, speaking extemporaneously this time, “Yes. There were a couple of boxes that accompanied you here. You can get them from the storeroom later today.”

    He seemed amenable to questions so I continued, “How will I serve you?”

    “I am working on that. I have a few ideas, but I don’t like to plan anything too far in advance. The element of surprise excites me. Hopefully it will excite you too.”
I was able to retrieve this diary from a sad-looking box of personal effects that Mrs. Perdue had gathered for me. Other than a few clothes, which at the moment it seems I won’t be wearing, there is little more that I cared to keep. Thankfully, Ma’am always respected my diary, and never asked to read it. I hope that Andy Kerrigan will grant me this much privacy. I don’t know how I can live without my words to comfort me—or worse yet, have them read and tampered with. The thought grates at my every nerve.

Copyright (c) Lizbeth Dusseau, all rights reserved

Tuesday, December 10, 2013

Off to the frozen north...

Hiding out in the middle of nowhere...in a tiny cabin, editing a very a slutty, sensuous, kinky novel, when not doing research...

Friday, December 6, 2013

Another afternoon of pain...

 (Image removed to comply with Google restrictions on nudity)

S&M lovers meet ... tight bondage, a whip...don't need much else on this lazy afternoon.

An excerpt from Carly On Her Knees

The garret is in Paris, where inside against the yellow paint the shadows of leaves dance, creating an imprint in her mind that will never fade—of this particular moment, and these four walls, and the hungry eroticism that drove them to this tryst.

    James, her lover, smokes as he circles her bound nakedness. He’s stripped to the waist, his firm muscles flexing proudly; a cigarette between the fingers of one hand, in his other a finely made whip. Using the tail-end of the rope that bound her wrists, he’d tied her arms to a beam above her head—how convenient it was to find a garret with an accommodation for his sexual fetish. Though her pheromones have been on the rise for nearly a half hour, her lithe body is only now covered with a thin layer of perspiration.

    Her body is slender, her skin pale, her breasts small mounds that set up proudly in the humid air. Her long flaxen hair trails down her back, while her shaved mons is slick with erotic juices leaking from her sex.

    The discomfort of the awkward pose is allayed by a fantasy of capture, torture and sexual release that has been playing inside her mind since he called her earlier that day. Although she currently has doubts about their future together, she was quick to accept his invitation—the physical rhythms in her body had been waiting for an invite to come her way. On days she feels the need for kinky sex, she waits, psychically begging her lover to feel the passion that throbs so hotly in her horny body. Some women would ‘take matters into their own hands’ and contact him. But not Carly. Never has she wanted to be the instigator of such a scene since the role she plays is unequivocally submissive.

    Most days she goes without her raunchy needs satisfied. Today she got lucky.


    Her lover lunges with the whip so suddenly that she lets out a scream beyond the panty gag he stuffed inside her mouth. She grimaces, wrenching painfully, maybe more than normal; this one struck on her tender side where the skin is fragile and easily wounded.

    “Getting soft on me?” he ridicules her plight.

    Her eyes shoot open, then soften into a miserable expression that will only make him chide her more.

    “You’d think if you didn’t like our afternoons together that you’d quit coming, Carly.”

    If she had the ability to answer, she might tell him something like: ‘It’s not about liking or disliking the activity of being tortured; it’s about knowing what I need.’ And this she needs. She’s not the kind of girl who moons over ‘the why’ behind her kinky obsessions. They satisfy her, what more does she need to know?

    They satisfy James Battles, too. He’s the sadist she’s been visiting for well over a year of torturous sex games.

    For a moment, he teasingly rakes her flesh with his nails, while the smoke from his burning cigarette winds its way inside her nostrils. She breathes deep, wishing she could take a drag, then she spirals down through layers of uncertainty to the core of her fantasy: capture, torture, sexual release.

    Each snap of the whip landing on her skin generates another sharp pain and another lurching and garbled cry. She lunges forward, only to be pulled back by her tethered wrists. He’s flailing on her harder now, in quick bursts of blows, cuts that erratically batter her with a pain so angry that she wishes she could let out the full intensity of her anguish in one long shrieking scream. Though that means of emotional release has been denied her, she’ll suffer through this torture because she knows what ecstasy lies on the other end of her torment. She goes inside, settles her mind on the fierce sensation, and locates the throbbing responses in her hungry crotch. Just that one focused thought and the entirety of her body seems to explode in a physical orgasm that is not so much located in her sex as her entire body. She spasms hard, cruelly, her groin jutting into the room with the hope that her lover will notice the blatant come-hither.

    Of course he notices her every move, all the body language, all the silent clues she imparts to him in her gagged state.

    True to form, he takes his time, drawing her out on a knife blade of uncertainty, through the wondering, wishing, begging stages of hopefulness. He increases the force of the beating then waits until she adjusts before taking her even deeper into the pain. As he’s done a dozen times, in a dozen trysts past, he takes her to the hard edges of her endurance, and by some skillful knowledge, or just bum luck, he knows exactly when to stop.

    He draws in close, and again with careful fingers titillates her body with his touch, making a teasing journey with his hand until he reaches her pulsating crotch.

    He fingers her slit lightly. “Is this what you want?”

    She nods vigorously. “Uh huh.”

    His fingers move deeper and she seizes up.

    “Too soft?” he asks, already knowing that what she desires is his hard erection in her steamy hole.

    “Uh huh,” now weeping with frustration as her desire soars.

    He continues to smile and strut and smoke his cigarette, gloating over his mastery of her body and this incredible moment. He’s her Dom, her master, her lord and savior, and still he’s content to mock her with her own suffering.

    “It’s not my style to make this easy on you, slave,” he says. “But of course you know that…” he chuckles darkly, “and still you sign on for another afternoon of pain.” As he so delicately toys with the wet folds of her sex, her face twists into a horrible grimace. “Is this really so bad?” he mocks. “I mean, you’re practically coming.”

    Of course, I’m practically coming—and not just practically! She’d scream if she could. A spontaneous series of spasms continues through her lower body, but coming on air and delicate fingers is not what she desires most.

    “Maybe you’d rather have this,” he says. He steps back and drops his pants, unveiling a hard erection jutting from his hairy crotch.

    Her eyes light longingly on the hefty organ, while her gagged mouth salivates on the sopping gag.

    “Feast on that, Carly,” he sneers, while he struts and smokes before her lust-filled eyes. Finally, he moves in once more and teases her pussy with his fingers until she’s beside herself with want, jerking like a battered sail writhing on the wind. His rigid cock brushes against her thigh and she lurches forward. His hand moves deeper into her crotch and the inner spasms become stronger.

    “You know, I should make you wait,” he delivers another taunt to make her whine. “Or maybe better than that, I should deny you the pleasure you are such a slave to. How would that be? Send you home without the end you seek? Maybe break you of this nasty obsession?” He thinks again. “Of course, should I do that, and break this terrible obsession of yours, I’d have to find another slavey female like you. They’re hardly a dime a dozen, especially a well-seasoned one like you.” He sighs plaintively, then with a sneer of satisfaction, he pulls in tight against her groin with his raging hard-on sliding between her wet labia. With one sharp thrust forward he sinks himself into her grasping portal. “Ah yes!” He lays his hand against the side of her face. “For such a well-fucked female, you have one tight cunt.”

    They have a shared goal; though from this point, any intimacy is left to drift while they go in search of the physical satiation that brought them to this moment.

Friday, November 29, 2013

The day after...

(c) Samarel, www.samarelart.com

The day after Thanksgiving...maybe recuperating from a little 'intoxication' of my own (though this time it's mostly too much food, not drink). Just a hot, sexy scene to savor for today. Wishing everyone a Happy Holiday weekend!

Intoxication: In this sizzling scene, Glenna's Dom arranges a hot (and very anal) scene with a muscled black man that this sexy slut can't help but love.

Novel Excerpt:

Walker and I had been going together for nearly nine months, keeping our relationship on an even keel, when Walker’s sexual needs took another unexpected turn.

    He wanted me dancing for him one evening, dressed in something “especially slutty” he told me on the phone.

    “Greet me at the door. Make sure your tits are showing.”

    This sounded good to me. A bedroom tango was exactly what I was up for. Putting a breathless Tina Turner on the sound system, and a red leather miniskirt around my hips, I thought I was ready for the night. I added cheek color, teased my blond hair into a halo of unruly curls, and massaged by breasts with a light, fragrant oil that would glow by candlelight and taste like something sweet and fruity. With five-inch heels on my feet, I strutted before the full-length bathroom mirror making sexual faces at my image, trying some especially naughty poses. Deciding that my clothes were just a bit too scanty, I added a string of pearls that dangled like tiny stars between my breasts.

    The doorbell rang. Who could that be at this hour?

    Turning out the lights in the front of the house, I scooted past the windows in the dark and peered through the peephole. Walker was there, but so was someone else.

    I cracked the door an inch, whispering, “I’m nearly naked.”

    “As you should be,” he said, pushing the door out of my hand with his arm, causing me to stumble back. Following him into the house was a black man, six feet tall, wearing a black skintight T-shirt, covering the kind of muscles I admired on policemen who frequented the sandwich shop in the afternoon. His waist was slim and his hips narrow, and he had one fine round ass I couldn’t wait to squeeze.

    “This is Charlie, Glenna.”

    Do I hold out my hand to shake, or just stand back and let him try to stop looking at my pearls?
    “Nice,” he said, referring to what he saw.

    “She’s easy to fuck,” Walker told him.
    “What was that?” I asked.
    “Easy to fuck, darling,” Walker said running his hands through my golden hair in a gesture quite unlike him. He never called me darling.
    “He’s going to fuck me?”

    “That is my plan,” Walker said as if I should have understood this without asking questions.

    “Do I have some say in this?” I wondered aloud.

    “It’s for me, Glenna. I’ll be here.” The natural color of his eyes seemed to alter to a darker hue. “It’s something I want to see and I know you want to experience.”

    How could he be that presumptuous and so right on?

    “Wish you would have asked,” I said.

    “Why, and miss this beautiful objection of yours? Surprises make the most fun.”

    Enough of Walker’s games, my attention turned to Charlie, the white-toothed smile, the prizefighter muscles and the telling bulge inside his pants.

    “Let’s move into the living room, hon,” Walker pushed me by the arm and I almost stumbled again. These terms of endearment were going to make me puke if he kept on, but I was too fascinated by our houseguest to lodge another protest.

    Walker poured three scotch and sodas. I rarely drank but I downed this one in a single gulp, while Charlie sipped his standing, waiting in the middle of the room eyeing me, and Walker did the same from the comfort of his familiar easy chair.

    “What would you like to do to him?” my boyfriend asked.

    I thought a moment, still trying to get comfortable with these two sets of eyes voyeuring my quandary and my naked chest. I didn’t need the body oil to make my skin glow; I was perspiring freely now, while feeling a certain heat in my groin skyrocket up through my belly to my lips.

    “You say we’re going to fuck?” I asked, without turning to Walker, instead focusing my eyes directly on Charlie’s dark chocolate face. He swayed a bit, a sexy sort of come-on I read easily and enjoyed. Walker never made that kind of move. He wasn’t hip, Charlie was.

    “Yes, that’s what I want,” Walker answered without any hesitation in his voice.

    While thinking of fucking Charlie, I began to dance. By that time, the CD was over and there was nothing but the background noise of a fire truck in the distance, and the sound of the refrigerator icemaker dropping another load of cubes into the basket. My breasts gravitated toward his dark skin, while my lips savored the promise of our first kiss.

    Charlie’s hips began to move with mine, move closer until our breaths crossed and our eyes could stare down the tunnels of green and russet brown in front of our faces. Just dance. Just hip to hip, groin to groin, measure for measure. He must have heard my music, too; his mellow sexy, swaying hips followed my lead as if we’d been practicing for weeks.

    Our fingers touched, lightly tickling. His chest brushed mine. My tiny nipples tightened in reply, feeling both hot and cold: hot like bullets to set his shirt on fire, cold with a chill to send goose bumps down my arms. My lips were in the line of his attack, drawing closer, parting, dispelling breath that smelled of the cinnamon breath mint I’d eaten just before the two arrived—perhaps I psychically knew what was coming and was preparing myself. Charlie’s cologne was something I remembered on another boyfriend, but the scent belonged to him, blending with the natural aroma of his body. Grazing my breasts with his chest, he pressed forward until the soft flesh smashed into his muscles. Reaching around my hips he clutched my ass, drawing my mound tightly against that growing bulge.

    Once he had me thoroughly convinced, I turned to putty, sinking into him, letting his strong hands mold me as he chose. When he flipped me over the back of the couch in front of my boyfriend’s attentive but passionless expression, I heard him struggling out of his pants, the gentle swoosh as they fell to the floor and the clatter of his belt as it hit the hard wood. I wiggled back into his bared upper thighs seeking his meat inside my pussy, grabbing for it with my inner muscles. When he finally took that first significant lunge, the huge thing seemed to explode inside me. I dragged the lovely organ deeper, clenching, spasming, urgently seeking a remedy for this bewildering lust. The action of his fast pistoning penis revved my engines higher still; the RPMs were off the scale. Hands digging into my ass for leverage, his body banged mine, until his dick hit bottom and I screamed. Bodies turning orgasmic, we were reaching a simultaneous end, about to finish what we started when Walker suddenly interrupted.

    “In her ass, Charlie.”

    “Sure thing, boss,” the black man answered as if he expected the order. He quickly lubricated my rear hole with juices drawn from my cunt, then jabbed two fingers in and out of the taut hole to release its tight grip. Unaccustomed to ass fucking, my arousal diminished when I realized what he planned to do with his eagerly fucking prick. Other boyfriends tried and failed—I held on to my fear of being hurt, and Walker thought anal sex too messy—though apparently not too messy for Charlie and me. It didn’t occur to me to object though I was scared. But the man’s miraculous fingers worked my back door with such elegant skill that the determined prodding began to draw a new kind of sensuousness from my body, something that sought a deeper, rawer kind of fuck. My body burst with excitement, my whole crotch engaged. When Charlie pulled his dick from my cunt and pressed its head against my ass, the firm thing slid inside as if it had been there before to scour the basest part of my sexual soul.

    “Oh, you bastard, fuck me!” I roared without any conscious thought to what I was saying. I rattled off another round of four-letter exclamations as the thick cock reamed my behind and I answered back, writhing to get the thing deeper inside.    

    Reaching around, Charlie thrummed my clit…the little devil jumped to life again, while I was
screaming, “FUUUUCKKKK ME!!!! Yes, yes yes, fuck me nasty!”

    Banged into oblivion, every nerve in me tightened like a watch spring. I held on, let the pulse rise to its crescendo and finally die slowly away. I calmed realizing that Charlie had cum, too, that his battered cock was still fixed inside my ass with sexual glue, stuck there to throb and finally dwindle on its own until I let it go. I’d never felt such emptiness as when it finally disappeared.

Copyright (c) 2000 by Lizbeth Dusseau, all rights reserved

Friday, November 22, 2013

I've been reading this novel in the last couple of weeks ... my late evening entertainment. Revisiting my novels, sometimes years after they were first written, I rediscover favorite scenes and enjoy them anew. This is one. Another excerpt from Sophie & Maureen that dates all the way back to 1999.

About this scene: Her best friend Sophie has disappeared, and Maureen is desperate to find her. She seeks out the help of the mysterious Jon Rush, who agrees to take her into the San Francisco leather underground where Sophie has found a life she loves. To see her friend again, Maureen will need to give herself to Jon in a daring act of submission. And here is how it begins... 


Jon Rush didn’t ring the bell but knocked firmly on the hardwood door. Maureen answered. 

    Moving past her without bothering to be formally greeted, he swiftly perused her apartment, opening doors, peeking in closets with the air of a detective used to inspecting property for significant clues. Apparently, he wanted to know her better, but he refused to explain his purpose. Maureen stood shivering and nervous in the center of the carpet next to the sofa—where she could reach out and support herself. 

    “Turn out the lights,” Jon ordered when he returned to her living room, moving with the same adroit speed he used for his investigation. After dousing the lights, she was left in the dark—forced to get used to the black around her while there were still glaring circles of light before her stunned eyes.

    He was behind her with his hand clamped over her mouth.

    “Close your eyes.”

    She felt his chest at her back—warm, intimately caressing her with its heat.

    “Listen to everything I tell you and don’t make a sound. For the next hour you are mine. If you want to hear from your friend again, you’ll give yourself to me—you don’t obey and Sophie Russo will be no more than a fond memory.”

    Maureen’s heart was beating fast and her stomach clenched, but more important than those anxious responses was the sexual one between her thighs. There was a pressing, passionate hunger there. She drew in a breath of air and smelled his cologne—something expensive he’d purchased in a men’s boutique—and the aroma of his sweat and the smell of mint and coffee on his breath. The mystique of the man could not be countered by her fear of what he’d done to Sophie, or her determination not to be taken in by his schemes. With every breath, she felt the force of him working through her as though she was becoming part of him.

    He pulled her hands behind her, clasping them in his large and steady grip, and then whispered in her ear. His words bombarded her brain, leaving her unable to think.

    “You’re not the kind of woman who trusts easily, Maureen Duvall, but you will trust me. I’m going to hurt you tonight in a very special way. I’m going to take you into a pain you’ve never felt and then bring you back. You are safe, but you are mine. You will feel, and cry, and wish you were anywhere but here; but once I’m gone you will enjoy the ecstasy of having been freed of everything except the physical sensation of carnal lust.”

    Reaching around her hips, he grabbed her pubis mound in his firm palm and held on tightly, letting his ruthless massage become painful. “Your crotch will be hotter than you’ve ever felt it—and wet with your juices streaming from your cunt. You’ll beg to be entered, but left with the sad and sorry emptiness that comes with being only half-satiated.” He shook her crotch in his tight-fisted grasp and then let it go. The constriction had been so severe she could feel her blood rushing back to fill the empty veins. Shoving her through the familiar spaces of her living room, she was so turned around she couldn’t tell where she was with eyes closed—not until he thrust her over the back of the couch. He tugged her arms wide, wrapping her wrists with rope. Then pulling the rope taut, he bound them to the forward legs of the couch so she could hardly move. Her head dropped loosely downward, the cotton fabric feeling cool against her hot cheek.

    Behind her now, Jon Rush stretched her legs as widely as her arms were stretched, tying her ankles accordingly to the feet of the couch. She lay immobile, eyes closed, her ass vulnerable, but for her clothes.

    “Open your eyes now and let me see your face,” he ordered as he moved to the front of the couch.

    She turned toward him and gazed upward into his eyes, though her eyes snapped shut momentarily seeing the glint of the knife he held in his hand. “No! Please.”

    He laughed. “It’s too late not to trust me, Maureen. Much too late for that.” His menacing smile made her throat constrict as though she was squelching a scream. “Are you sure your worries over your friend are worth this kind of fear? Or maybe you are secretly interested in this treatment for yourself? Maybe even now you’re wet. Let’s see.”

    He strolled around behind her one more time where his hand moved between her widespread legs, reaching underneath.

    She gasped breathlessly.

    “Oh, my, you are scared now.” He chuckled darkly and moved to her ass, slipping the knife inside her jeans and drawing it up so the fabric ripped revealing a gaping gash. She jumped in terror—expecting her skin to tear as easily as her jeans.

    “I wouldn’t try to twist away,” he advised. “This knife is sharp.”

    She felt the knife slip in again, deeper inside her pants and down her left thigh. He pulled up with another hearty slice, the blade ripping her pant leg wide open. In brusque fashion, he continued stripping her jeans away, pulling the fabric, cutting with sharp fast slashes. She could only see his shadows in the darkness against the wall, moving with amazing speed while her body jerked and snapped inside the ropes. She held her breath and tensed as he was about to rip another pathway in her jeans, then breathed more easily when the blade was drawn back.

    Without a stitch on her bare backside, he felt her crotch again and sought its warmth with his hand, feeling its wetness with fingers probing the doorway of her vagina. She trembled, knowing what her body was giving away in perfume and sweat and signs of arousal.

    “What a fine slut you are, Miss Duvall,” he mocked her. “What a fine slut. To find your fears arouse you is a very good sign. Let’s see how long it takes to make you cum like this.”

    He continued his playful movements, coating her labia with her own cream, then tenderly running a finger along the slit against her clitoris, until she breathed in, clenching and bearing down into an orgasmic swell. His fingers were like lips, so adroitly bringing her to the edge of really getting off. She could feel the end like a bitter thirst inside her mouth about to be quenched.

    When he suddenly stopped, she cried, “Nooooo, please.”

    “Ah, your silence has been so sweet, let’s not ruin the mood with lots of jabbering.”

    She moaned as though that would change his mind about her orgasm. But he had other things in mind and was not about to let her climax. Anything short of that seemed to be in his plans.

    With his hand on her ass, he began playfully slapping the skin, warming the surface without causing a hint of pain. The sensations increased with the pleasure unfolding in her anxious groin, until he picked up speed, spanking her with sharp mean slaps, one over the top of the last. Her flesh began to sting, but she didn’t revolt.

    “You like abuse?” he asked when he paused.

    “You have me, please, I want to cum.”

    “Ooo, for a woman of your steel it must be difficult to be so vulnerable.” He seemed amused. Strolling around her, he finally dropped down in a chair a few feet away—so close that when she opened her eyes, she could see his body as a dark shadow in the chair before her. When he moved just right, his face caught the light from some outside source seeping through the window. She could note his expression and the variance between a smug look and one that was wholly sinister. The startling reality of her predicament seemed to her an absurd dream—as though she skipped through several scenes in her life that might have built to this moment of utter exposure.

    Maureen said nothing, knowing that any attempt to reason with the man was useless. She had agreed to this treatment and could do nothing but survive—then too, what was there to survive? Though the heat in her crotch had subsided, it left an ache in her belly that went all the way to her knees, and climbed toward her breasts, toward her thighs and her toes and shoulders, making everything burn inside and out. She desired to be touched, even slapped and whipped if that was what it took. She couldn’t have been more aroused. Each second of waiting only made the wild sensations fly more freely seeking something—whatever that something was. Orgasm, yes. But it was more than that.

    “Is this what you want for your life? Is this the vision you have of yourself? A submissive one, one that gives, and knows that in such giving there is pleasure to be gained? It’s a cosmic sort of thing. The demands are great, and so too are the rewards. But are they right for you?”

    Was she to answer?

    “You realize that you’re quite beautiful like this. And even more beautiful from the rear, your pussy splayed like a whore’s. I’d like you to shave it clean of any hair, for you to wear skirts so I can get to your crotch whenever I want. Nothing should hamper my use of your body, not your clothes, your rules, your feelings about me, or your inbred haughtiness. I told Sophie that it is best not to think. I give you the same advice. If you struggle to make sense of it, you’re wasting your time because it won’t ever be a rational thing. Sex isn’t rational, nor is pleasure, or desire or sensation. But it breathes with life and that is its virtue. It defies all measures to make it noble or moral. Sensation cannot be contained so easily. It has its own will—truly a mind of its own, if it has a mind at all. Pleasure is a formless thing, something subjective. It seems illusory, but you know it when you feel it—like you know it now, Maureen Duvall. Then it is very real, the most alive, real thing there is.”

    He stopped and snickered. She could just barely make out the subtle line of his lips as they curled on the ends into his devious smile. “Is that what you’re feeling now? Is that what you’re fighting perhaps? Do you hate me? Do you want me back? Can you be honest about this ordeal?” He shot off the questions so fast she couldn’t think of the answers that quickly. Her mind was spinning and her body began to ache from the position. Her crotch was turning cold. She could feel the uncomfortable strain of the ropes cutting into her ankles and wrists.

    Jon Rush rose from his seat and returned to her ass; and what had seemed to fall away in sensation instantly reappeared with the caress of his fingers against her skin. She shimmied under that exquisite gentleness. “You want this badly, don’t you?”

    “Yes,” she whispered.

    “Call me, sir,” he said haughtily.

    “I want this, sir,” she relented though her mind was screaming no.

    “Not easy for you, is it?”

    “No,” she said, adding, “sir” a second later as an afterthought.

    “But it’s what it takes to please me and earn your ticket to my world—Sophie’s world. You’ll have to compromise yourself, Maureen, and do it convincingly, so convincingly that everyone who sees you understands that you are burning with the desire to be sexually used.”

    He placed a finger in her cunt, and moved it around as if he were stirring a cup of lukewarm coffee—though this was not lukewarm but hot. He pinched her clit and her body jumped.

    “Nice move, Duvall,” he purred wryly. “Now, if you want to see Sophie, if you want to get off this way, you’ll be at my beck and call. Then, we’ll see if you’ve earned the right to have what you want.”

    He moved swiftly to undo the ropes on her ankles and wrists. The blood seemed to move inside her body again. As he pulled her to her feet, she could sense it flood her system, warming everything that had turned cold.

    “Nice ass, Maureen,” he said as he gave her bottom two swift swats. “After I’m gone, look at the imprint of my hand in the mirror. See if you like the look of it. It certainly won’t be the last time your ass will redden for me.” He waltzed away into the pitch-black hallway where she couldn’t see him. He was so quiet she wondered for a minute if all that blackness had swallowed him whole. “Not one hesitation, Maureen Duvall. If you want to find Sophie in Sophie’s world you’ll have to walk the path with me.”

From Sophie & Maureen (c) Copyright 1999 by Lizbeth Dusseau, all rights reserved.

Sex isn't rational...

Sex isn’t rational, nor is pleasure, or desire or sensation. But it breathes with life and that is its virtue. It defies all measures to make it noble or moral. Sensation cannot be contained so easily. It has its own will—truly a mind of its own, if it has a mind at all. Pleasure is a formless thing, something subjective. It seems illusory, but you know it when you feel it. Then it is very real, the most alive, real thing there is.”

From the Lizbeth novel Sophie & Maureen

I stumbled on the above while reading the novel from which it came last night. For ten years this quote appeared on the front page of the Pink Flamingo website – a statement about sexuality that still rings true for me. When that version of the PF site disappeared, this small excerpt disappeared too. I knew it was came from one of my novels, but which one? I had no idea, until last night.

The larger scene from which this small piece was taken, will be the subject of my next post. 

The image is by Tasmanian photographer Tony Ryan, whose erotic images graced the Pink Flamingo website for many years.

Friday, November 15, 2013

Until he came into her life...

She lived a vanilla life until Jon Rush invaded her life with his ropes and crop and collar and his unusual way to reach an ecstatic state of pleasure. 

I've been happily, busily writing my latest novel...time is short, my deadline approaching fast, but there's always time to share a hot D/s scene... this one from Sophie & Maureen, a novel written when photographers still used real cameras and developed their prints in dark rooms. 

An excerpt from Sophie & Maureen a sensuous tale sexual surrender as the naive and impressionable Sophie falls under the spell of the mysterious Jon Rush, and she eventually disappears into San Francisco's sexual underground. 

Monday  with the photographer Martin and Jon Rush...

She wore the silver dress with the silver heels on Monday, striding into the open space of the studio like she had no fear of anything—though Jon Rush took care of that quickly.

    He was there waiting for her once she was dressed—he hadn’t been when she arrived.

    “Good afternoon,” she said politely approaching him.

    He paid her little mind.

    “Afternoon, Sophie,” he rattled off and turned his back on her, talking to Martin about lights and pulleys, in language that didn’t have any meaning for an extraneous model standing alone in the center of the room with nothing around her.

    When he turned back, Jon Rush seemed to have forgotten that she’d been there all along; and looking her over with a cursory indifference, he strode to the side table and grabbed the collar.

    “We don’t start until you have this on,” he said. “It wastes my time to wait.”

    His impatience was surprising. Had she done something wrong? Or was he having a bad day?

    Pushing the leather into her palm, he waited for her, annoyed by the wasted minutes it took to have the collar around her throat and buckled unseen from behind.

    “The leather needs to be worn, warmed with body heat and it will go on easier,” he told her.
    She smiled, nervously wondering if he was suggesting that she wear it all day long to break it in.

    Once the leather encircled her neck, he reached out and tugged it as though it needed adjusting—then letting it settle where it had naturally fit before he began. His brusque demeanor scared her, then too—there was little about the man that didn’t send dark chills running up her spine.

    Pushing her two feet sideways, he reached above to pull down a maze of leather and chains that stunned her eyes once she realized its intended purpose.

    “Have you been cuffed?”

    “No, I haven’t,” she answered.

    “Then you have something to look forward to,” he said as he pulled a pair of thick leather cuffs from a bag at the side of the room. Buckling each around one of Sophie’s slim wrists, he then drew her hands above her head and fixed them to either end of a foot wide bar that hung on two hefty chains. Her shoulders high above her head drew the skirt up so it skimmed her ass. In the front, the material tickled the edges of her labia, teasing her clit, stroking her hair, turning frayed nerve endings raw.

    Jon Rush circled her as he had the Friday before when she was on her knees in the silver dress, ass pressed to her heels, hands clasped behind her back. He used the cane again, this time, lifting the edges of her skirt, and teasing a thin line along the outside of her thigh all the way down to her calf where he tapped her lightly. Martin took pictures, seeing pose after pose appear like a stage play before his eyes. Her helplessness intrigued him as much as it was sexually arousing. 

   She would have preferred not to communicate her arousal so clearly, but the signs of it were already beginning to appear between her legs. She felt a drop of liquid heat sliding down the inside of her thigh. Each trip her tormentor made around her body seemed to increase the anxious flood of desire collecting as dew within her crotch. The heaviness in her was so profound, she thought her whole cunt would drop to the floor.

    When he drew the sharp-tipped end of the cane down the crack of her ass, she gasped, her breath so heavily engaged that he backed off and smiled his first real smile of the day.

    “Not only are you physically perfect for this job, Sophie, you have the temperament of a slut to accompany it. I imagine your boyfriend will be happy with the results today.” His words leaped out at her from behind like the tendrils of a deep-sea creature taking hold on the unsuspecting swimmer. Waltzing around to her front, he then mocked her with a sadistic grin, making sure she could see how much he seemed to loathe her at that moment.

    He ran the cane over her legs, tapping it lightly, but with so little force that it felt like feathers against her skin. She responded with her breathing more labored, the dew at her legs almost frothy.

    “Give me a close up here,” he ordered Martin. Standing in front of her, Jon Rush pressed the tip of the cane inside her labia, then at one side, jabbed the thing with a steady pressure into the plump flesh of a throbbing side, opening her cunt for the camera’s eye. She refused to look down, knowing without seeing that he was exposing her clitoris, the bud twice its normal size now engorged with blood.

    “I’m going to rap your flesh lightly with the cane, Sophie. It shouldn’t hurt, but it will leave some red impression on the skin that Martin can pick up with the camera. Let me know if I hit too hard.”

    He began at the front of her thighs, giving them a constant staccato of gentle cuts. The repetition seemed nearly sensuous until one particular strike seemed fueled with an angry bite.


    “Too hard?” he asked.

    She breathed deeply and relaxed. “No, not really.”

    “Don’t joke with me now, Sophie, this is serious business,” he said scolding like a mother hen. “Only if I hit too hard.”

    He moved behind her, where her ass cheeks were nearly bare, the cane coming down lightly at the base of her bottom and then lower along her thighs. He began with the same methodically repeated strikes, but increased the tempo and intensity until she began to feel an obvious sting on the skin. The heat of it moved from the surface deep into the tissue of her flesh.

    Her breathing deepened, her body adjusting to the rising sensation. “I want the quality of your skin to appear raw,” he said.

    She cringed, hearing his plans.

    “Don’t worry,” he offered noting her fear. “It will fade by the end of the day.”

    The strikes were coming on quickly now, each one biting, but none were so hard that she couldn’t bear another. When he let loose with one that snapped a mean streak of fire across her ass, she yelped, and the torture was over at last.

    “You did very well, Sophie, for a first time. And how does it feel?” His one hand was running its way over the flesh of her ass—Martin clicking shots of this massage in steady succession. He moved around the scene like a preying animal about to pounce.

    “Hot, sir,” Sophie replied.

    “It feels hot.” Jon cupped one cheek and gave it a good squeeze just as Martin was capturing that image. In front, Jon's hand moved to her snatch, boring between the folds of flesh. “And you’re aroused,” he noted the obvious.

    Her cunt tightened involuntarily on his meandering fingers while Sophie worried that his continued play would provoke her climax. Before she embarrassed herself, however, he was undoing the chain and stroking the soreness from her arms and shoulders. The tension eased, her heart stopped racing like a renegade wind and the sexual roar started to fade.

    Returning to the dressing room, Sophie pulled the silver slip dress over her head and stared at the red lines on her thighs. Running her fingers over the marred skin, another trickle of sex juice escaped the pulsing portal. A gentle pulse of desire began again. The raw was beautiful, the texture only lightly injured and the color quickly faded as she let the picture of herself assault her eyes. Her belly clenched, while her insides hungered for a cock to satisfy what gnawed at her so crudely.

    Once Jon left the studio, Martin didn’t wait for Sophie to pull him into the dressing room. He was on her before she finished inspecting her body for signs of significant wounds. They ground each other into the miserably prickly divan, scorching the skin of Sophie’s backside until she wasn’t sure if the burns remaining were from the crude way he screwed her, or lasting remnants of Jon Rush’s cane.

    They fucked in virtual silence. Except for panting groans, a deep-throated scream when Martin ejaculated, and Sophie sighing at the undulating climax, they didn’t share one single word.

From Sophie & Maureen (c) Copyright 1999 by Lizbeth Dusseau, all rights reserved.

Saturday, November 9, 2013

Indoctrination ... one wicked wet dream

from Bad Girls & Dangerous Men

A fantasy for when nothing will do but raw, rough, sexy hot and wicked. Been fun revisiting this novel after such a long time. It's one to get your juices flowing if you're in to BDSM. 

About the Book: Madison’s life is a string of bad boys and rough lovers, until she falls in love with her demanding, gentle, controlling boss, Bailey. His brand of S&M is just what she needs and life should be perfect with this real man and nasty sexual master. However, an outstanding debt to a devious loan shark, Scofield, turns dangerous when, to help her pay off her debt, she’s taken off the street and secretly filmed while made to perform lewd sex acts and S&M tricks for wealthy gentlemen.

Novel excerpt...

I remain barefoot in my summery dress. The colors are blue and green, soft and shimmering  like gazing into the sky through trees that flutter in the breeze. The hem skims my legs, tickling, and the neckline plunges deep in front hinting clearly at the abundance of my breasts. My hands are tied again, while I’m still in the vestibule. There’s nowhere to go, no window, two locked doors on either side of the small space and a tiny gaslight burning at the wall. Other than a hard bench to sit on, there’s nothing else in the room but cabinets I cannot open. They grey-haired man donned his robe, took my note to Bailey, and left me to myself, no further explanations, suggestions or commands.

    I wait at least an hour. Interminable. Uncomfortable. My ass aches from the bench. My legs still feel weak when I stand. When the door suddenly opens, I’m leaning against the paneled wall, eyes closed, trying to sleep.

    “It’s time for your indoctrination,” the man tells me. He holds out his hand, but of course, I can’t take it. It’s just as well.

    My cell connects to a sort of indoor amphitheater with several graduated rows of seats circling a dais at least twelve feet below the upper rim. The entire room is paneled in the same dark and dreary wood that decorates the entry, the ballroom and the vestibule I just exited. Gazing dazedly into the scene before me, I see each seat is filled by one of my many captors, the members in a club of sadists all wearing brown cloaks around their shoulders, over their dressy suits, but open down the front. Their business is solemn and the mood grim, although there is a gut wrenching swirling energy about the scene that no one can dismiss.

    I swallow hard, holding back my tears, forcing my fear to subside. But the more steps I take into the pit, the more I realize how momentous these moments could be. This is not another of Scofield’s plots. He’s a scam artist. Perhaps he led these men to me, but they would never make him a member. These are heavyweights in their worlds. I know. I know them by the power they exude now.

    At the dais, I’m told to circle before the room.

    I raise my eyes to the company and slowly step in place turning, greeting every eye I can find. If they are going to have me, abuse me, use me, whatever their scheme, they will know the woman they are dealing with, they’ll know my strength—what strength I have left. When the circle is complete, I’m again staring into the grey-haired man’s smooth cool eyes. But he backs away, his presentation of me is over. A second later, I can’t distinguish him from the others.

    Randomly, two, three, four at a time, the men descend on me, using their hands to inspect my body. They tear away the neckline of my dress, pulling out my tits, pinching my nipples, and then putting them back inside the dress again. Other hands reach up under my skirt, toy with my pubis, tug my labia, insert fingers in my cunt and ass. Their probing of my anus makes me screech—the entrance is dry and unyielding. They work wordlessly, purposefully, having done this before and knowing what they are looking for. At least a dozen men maul me, then disappear, blending back into the crowd. I’m surprised that I’m still clothed, disheveled yes, but still wearing the summery dress, the only significant color in the room. I feel like a battered crocus rising out of the drab winter ground.

    I hear some murmuring in the seats of the theatre, men discussing my attributes, I guess. When I’m assaulted again, the skirt of my dress is lifted away and held by unseen hands behind me, while in front of me, kneeling, one of my anonymous captors carefully smears my labia, inner and outer, my clitoris and the soft tissue around it with a heavily scented, spicy concoction. The pungent odor stuns my nostrils, but more unnervingly, my skin warms. The devilish stuff stings, turning my already randy crotch hot. The hand applying the potion continues to fiddle with my privates. I can’t stand still, my body gyrates, twists. I bite my lip, feel the heat inspire new tears of pain. The man in back changes places with the one in front. While my dress is held out of the way, my anal cleft is pried apart and the stinging stuff is rubbed around my anus, and just inside the tight rosette.

    “Oh! Please….” I plead under my breath. No one hears, or hearing, cares to listen.

    My dress is untied and discarded, my hands raised to a bar above me and attached with cuffs. My feet are spread wide and fixed to either end of a spreader bar.

    “Speak to us!” a voice shouts.

    I don’t know what he means.

    “Speak!” he insists.

    “Speak!” another voice repeats the order.

    “I don’t know what you want!” I sob, defiantly.


    “Tell me what you want!” I shout. My entire crotch is on fire. I can think of nothing to say. I’m not even angry now. I just want this to end, but I already know these men are hardly through with me.

    Other men attack my cunt and ass. They bring dildos on sticks that are shoved into both orifices at least eight inches deep.

    “Dance, slut!” they order me.

    Dance? How? I can hardly move.

    “Dance!” They are furious with me.

    I try. My ass wriggles, but there is very little range of motion. These dildos have spread the fiery potion deep into my entrails and my cunt. My groin becomes an inferno, fire and flame leaping and contorting inside out. Beside this poisonous stimulant, my body demands release in the only way it knows. The spasms are fierce, banging me from left to right, jerking the bars so I think my flesh will tear. I scream…and as my mouth opens I remember what the grey man said about my ungagged mouth, how the men will relish the sound of my pain.
    There’s movement in the theatre around me, bodies restless with sexual urgency.

    When the climax finally moves on, my crotch is still afire, but the raw wildness is gone. I shrink back inside myself, my body calm and waiting.

    Two naked women come to me, slithering next to my side with their hands spreading a soothing cream everywhere. The burning in my crotch slackens, and I’m relieved. For a short while I drift with them as their breasts and legs move over me. Then they fall away, disappearing beyond my field of vision. My ankles are removed from the bar, my feet stand firmly on the dais, and then the dais begins to move upward, as the platform I stand on rises up from the floor. I slump to my knees, finding myself on an altar. My arms are still fastened overhead, but the stretch is less vicious now.

    “Speak slut!” they are after me again.

    I’m almost instantly in tears. I don’t know what they want.


    “Tell me, please.”

    “Your cooperation is not necessary for the next step in your indoctrination. But it would be advantageous.” Here is the grey man again, speaking from the audience. I can’t see his face, but I know his voice. “Do you accept what we make of you?”

    “And what is that?” I find the words to ask.

    “Our sexual possession.”

    “What does that mean?”

    “That we own you.”

    “How can you own me?” I turn around, still not seeing the man with the voice.

    “By entering your mind, taking over your thoughts, manipulating your body as we just did, forcing you to reply any way that pleases us. You will get used to it. You will adapt. Soon, you will know no other life. Your body belongs to this collective group. You will wear our mark and live imprisoned for life inside the rule of our private law.”

    “How can I agree to that?” I ask from inside my confusion, trying not to argue, just to ask. The voice doesn’t like the question.

    “How?” he snaps angrily. “Your instantaneous agreement should come rolling off your tongue without a second’s thought. Joshua!”

    It’s the only name I’ve heard since I was abducted.

    I know his name but not who he is, only that he controls me now, lowering the dais into the floor. I’m standing again, my arms stretched high overhead and the tortures resume. More of the burning potion is generously applied to my nether regions and then poured over my back and breasts, everywhere. My skin heats, my crotch grows hot again. I feel first the slight bite of a whip applied to my backside, then as the attacker moves around, I’m stung with the snapping fall from my tits to my knees. I jerk, twist angrily, and as a cat ‘o nine tails rips my body in tandem with the whip, the resulting welts burn far deeper than skin.

    “Nooooooooooooooooo!” I’m screaming again. 

    The world falls away for a time as my endorphins become engaged. I see glimpses of something beautiful all around me, but then the pain crashes through my brain and my body will not settle.

    When everything suddenly falls silent and the whips and cats stop, there is the voice again, speaking. “How many times do we need to repeat the treatment, Madison. Give in now,” he sputters. He’s close, behind me, I can feel his spit hit my back. “You can be certain that you’ll spend a peaceful night,” he’s becoming calmer.

    My gut wrenches. I’m stuck inside their cruel game with no way out.

    “You have me!” I sob. “Whatever you want, take it!”

    A long empty silence follows until he speaks again, “Good, very good.” He sounds so civil.

The dais rises as three men approach me. I look around at their faces, one Latino, one black, one lily white. They throw off their robes, rip away their fancy clothes, and present themselves naked. Each is buff, gleaming from sweat with the natural oils of sexual arousal reeking from their bodies. Their cocks are stiff, rising from nests of thick dark hair. In front, behind and to my side, they jump to the apron of the raised alter, a step inches below the platform where I sit. One by one, they stuff their thick meat into my mouth and expect me to suck. If only I didn’t see their faces first. They are no longer anonymous and so I hate the taste of them.

    Regardless, I have no choice. I suck, cover their skin with my spit, and run my tongue around the grooves of their cock heads. They gaze down at me arrogantly, while I up gaze into their eyes with a practiced look of surrender. I’ve done this before. Perhaps I even feel surrendered to them now. I can’t honestly compute what I feel. I am numb, going through motions from my past that are familiar. The sex is rote, the action predictable and automatic as if there is a pornographic movie playing inside my head to lead me. For a while, I move from one cock to another, then the action switches—I can almost hear the whirring of an unseen camera just off to the left. My arms are freed, but I have no time to massage the ache away. I’m straddling the black man on this alter. His sleek body draws me into his muscled chest while he thrusts his big meat in my cunt. From behind, fingers prod my anus. I know what’s coming next. I gear up for the expected, as two, then three, then four fingers jut into the channel and make room. I find it difficult to believe that all this flesh will fit in me. But my body has no problem. It’s only my brain that thinks this is impossible. I learn the truth when the white man’s cock impales me, and the two men compete for space, for equal time and attention. Jarred by their erratic rhythms, I find there is no harmony between them, and I feel as if I’m being torn apart.

    My head’s jerked back by a stocky hand winding through my hair. My mouth’s impaled with the Latino version of testosterone power forcing its way inside. I gag. Sputter. Then relax and let him in.

    I have to drift. I can’t think. I’m triply fucked… maybe even happy for it, being so full makes me forget. Forgetting is easy, a listless, endless, numbing thing. I’ve come too much to come again. My body is bound by its own limits, unwilling to release for anyone’s pleasure, including mine. They don’t care. My men are selfish, each one demanding more, expecting that I can pay attention to all three of them at once. I do my best, probably do a half-assed job, but they aren’t complaining. My eyes open and close. I get glimpses of the room around me, as naked women crawl from cock to cock in front of the theatre seats, giving pleasure; and the men without a woman jack off inside their hands.

    I am the New Age Marilyn Chambers sucking, fucking cock behind the fawn-colored door leading to gross debasement.

    I’d like to think I’m something special, but I know I’m just another misbegotten girl, lost inside her life, vulnerable and open to attack. Just my luck! It is strange to find myself musing on these things as I complete the main act of their ritual play. But it’s comforting to know that the bottom line of my debasement is the same old thing, the same old need to get off, jack off, fuck. I suspect they’ll turn into harmless lambs once they’re spent.

    It’s really a great game…if it is game. The idea that they are seriously considering me as their newest initiate sex slave sort of worries me. But they’re coming now, spilling seed everywhere inside me, on my roughed up skin, in my hair, wherever they like—after all, I’m theirs.

Friday, November 8, 2013

Face Off! Andie Gets Punished...

I couldn't resist this hot little Spanking scene...

To set the stage: When 18 year old Andie is found whipping her own ass in her grandfather's barn, her friend, Zooey, is as surprised and turned-on as the embarrassed Andie. Zooey takes over, using the birch whips on Andie's ass, quickly turning the occasion into one that has them both cumming in the steamy heat of that hot summer night. Though Andie begs Zooey to keep quiet, her irrepressible friend soon spills the nasty secret to Andie's best friend Harper and boyfriend, Billy. Suddenly, the awkward, once painfully shy, farm girl has a Master in charge of her life and two cunning Mistresses on the sidelines, happy to attend the amazing show that Billy makes of her. When she's ordered to surrender, there's nothing this girl won't do for the sexual thrill.
Andie’s first taste of Billy’s belt came shortly after that defining fuck in the barn, the day they were in his Jeep, heading out of town toward the lake. He and Harper were in the front seats of the open Wrangler. It was decided that Zooey and Andie would sit in the small bench seat in the back.

 From my novel The Summer of Andie's Shame


“You’re going naked,” Billy told Andie when they picked her up at the farm and drove out of the yard. He stopped the Jeep not far from the spot where Andie had masturbated just days before, and pulled into the brush, well off the road. “Get undressed right now.”

    “But I can’t do that, Billy. Someone will see!” Andie protested her voice cracking painfully.

    “On these back roads? I don’t think so. Go on, take off your clothes,” he said, while turning around in his seat and leveling her with a piercing stare.


    Billy’s hand went for his belt. Andie could tell even from the back seat what the move implied.

    “Oh, please.”

    “You gave us your word, Andie. Remember our agreement?” Harper said. She was directly in front of her and had to turn in her seat to see her friend’s face. “Don’t disappoint me.”

    Andie didn’t move. She sat in the back of the Jeep, while Billy waited for her to do as ordered.

    “Do it, Sissy.” His voice had a threatening urgency that made her shudder.

    When she didn’t move, he finally opened the door, stepped out and moved around to her side of the Jeep, where he leaned on the open window frame with lips pursed and an odd air of amusement in his expression.

    “I could blister your ass, take off your clothes myself and leave you here. You want that?” he proposed.

    She still didn’t respond.

    This was a first class face off that continued for several interminable minutes, until a fed-up Billy finally hoisted Andie from the car as if she was a six-year-old kid and carried her into the woods under his arm.

    The move shocked the terrified girl. Her mind raced out of control wondering how far he would go. This summer had suddenly descended into a decadent indulgence of sexual appetites and power games…Zooey’s, hers, and now Billy’s and Harper’s. But where Andie had once envisioned Billy as Harper’s sidekick, the idea of him as an occasionally useful afterthought changed in her mind once she felt his powerful force move through her again.

    The prickly undergrowth of the woods scratched at Andie’s bare arms and legs, until Billy finally stopped in an open space some fifteen feet off the road and out of sight. Even Harper and Zooey who waited in the Jeep wouldn’t be able to see.

    Billy’s plan was firmly set. He quickly found a place to raise his leg and securely rest his boot, then he shoved Andie over the hard muscle of his thigh, lifting her sundress over her ass and surveying his target. The two mounds of soft flesh were still marred a bit from a previous spanking Zooey had given her, but they were healed enough to take another right over top.

    Drawing his belt from his jeans, he doubled the leather in his right hand and began smacking Andie’s ass with forceful strokes, hitting her without letting up, covering every square inch of her soft behind and the tender places at the base of her ass, until she was squirming and jerking, cawing hysterically for him to stop. She wailed like crazy almost from the outset, which surprised him. Since the girl knew how to take a good strapping without a fuss—so he’d been told—he decided that her cries were a sign of real distress and she’d had enough. Stopping, he added a few well-chosen words to punctuate the punishment.

    “You going to defy me, Andie Forrest? You going to break your promises to me the first day?” he queried her in a rough voice, still holding her in place, the belt still poised to strike again.

    “No, sir,” Andie immediately answered. Her bottom felt like hell. Zooey’s punishment certainly packed a punch, but it was nothing like the firestorm of pain Billy rained on her.

    “You’re sure?” He gave her another rough smack across the center of her stinging cheeks.

    “Yes, yes, sir. I’m sure,” she gulped back tears.

    “Then take off your dress.” He pulled her off his knee, stood her back on her feet and waited for her to follow the instruction.

    Andie stood up, shivering to the bone, despite the fact that the day was warm with hardly a chill breeze in the summer air. The two nights prior had been beset with dreams and her waking mind had been awash with a thousand thoughts that never settled. This was Billy—not Harper, not Zooey—and the desire in her body was more rampant than she’d ever felt. This wasn’t right, or was it? Was it right to question what was happening to her? Should she confess the feelings that haunted her? Harper and Billy would probably say no, just do as she was told.

    She waited too long to act and Billy threatened again. “Do I need to start over?” She looked down, seeing the leather clenched tightly in his fist. 

    “No, sir.” She began to disrobe…an easy task since she wore just the sundress for anyone of her owners’ easy access to the body they now owned by her consent.

    She shrugged the thin material off her shoulders and caught it before it reached the ground and stepped out, leaving herself completely naked. A subtle breeze made goosebumps break out over her skin and her nipples shrivel into knots.

    Billy smirked in that sexual way he had that made her so ill at ease. Then he shook his head and took her by the hand, leading her back through the woods to the car. He her lifted into the seat where she slunk down to hide.

    “You won’t be defying me again, will you?”

    “No, sir,” she confirmed.

    Zooey giggled next to her, while Harper smirked, smugly triumphant.

    Billy climbed in, gunned the engine and took off for the lake, driving purposely toward the private end on a deserted road leading to a secluded beach where they wouldn’t be disturbed. 

Copyright (c) by Lizbeth Dusseau, all rights reserved, cannot be used without permission