Friday, May 3, 2013

About that rant on censorship...

The announcement of that was a bit premature... please stay tuned while I polish up that post. Should be coming NEXT week. In the meantime, for something strictly fun... and sexual, please read the previous post, which is also new... A great weekend to all! Lizbeth

Another kind of surrender . . .

It’s been a busy week, and not an easy one… like standing in front of a firing squad and the bullets keep flying, and I keep dodging. Though it’s not anything I haven’t been through before, or will likely again. But at last it’s Friday, and that ever-elusive spring has sprung in the Midwest. Spring fever has finally caught hold with a vengeance…so I’ll be off gardening, walking in the woods with my best friend, listening to the birds and staring vacantly into the dreamy sky. This is one kind of surrender…

The other kind of surrender is still erotically in my thoughts as well, oh, to be in Dana’s heels for a night (Dana the girl in the excerpt) …

When the heavy metal door of the warehouse slides open, Locksley pulls me in. His impressive presence looms over me—just as the authority in his voice and the power behind his commands and the desire inside his threats all pull me in to his domain. I enter his kingdom whenever I am with him. I fall at his feet. I offer my body, take pain and abuse, humiliation, drinking in all the elements of my kink with exhilarating satisfaction. Whatever he deigns to give me I gratefully receive. I’m owned by him and possessed by my own need for surrender, even under these hateful circumstances.

       He slaps my face, stuns me off my feet and I stumble in the heels, falling to the floor. Looking up I see two other people with us, but with a bright light streaming through a bank of windows behind them, I can’t make out their faces. I nurse my wounded cheek. Although the slap really didn’t hurt that much, it effectively put me in my place.

       “You’ve got a punishment coming from me, slave,” Locksley barks. His blonde wavy hair falls across his forehead in an unmannerly way, but he smoothes it back with an efficient brush of his hand. His features reek of a kingly charm, penetrating eyes; sharp, high cheek bones; a firm jaw that twitches when he’s tense or angry. He could step from the pages of a fashion magazine, or off the wintry slopes of St. Moritz, handsomely tanned and self-assured. He has the air of an Ivy League graduate, the kind to be born with the silver spoon, and he’s my sexual master. I know nothing of his bloodlines or his background. I can only guess, make up possible stories to explain his life, none of which are likely true. He’s probably from a background of itinerant bad boys, lucky to look so perfect.

       All I know for sure is that he’s had the eye of every dutiful sub in the local bdsm scene and I’m the one he Doms, the one he loves to slap around and order to her knees, the one he loves when all the games are over. The one he takes to bed. It’s His ropes I now gladly wear.

       “Yes, sir,” I answer his charge. As usual, the word punishment sets me off. My juices are flowing. I’m practically salivating from the word and the resulting horror I’ll feel. It’s a horror that will take me far from my miserable life into a land where I can abdicate my throne of dubious power. I’m no one, nothing but my body and my sexual response. That’s all I have to be when Locksley punishes me.

       “We’ll take care of personal business later,” he tells his friends, deriding me with the cold scowl on his face. “You can have her now.”

       I’m to be given away. Twice before, Locksley’s made a gift of me to his friends, but that was months ago. I’d hoped that sort of thing was over.

       He walks out and I’m left with the two strangers, a man and woman I assume are husband and wife, although I have no way of knowing this for sure.

As the man steps forward into the light, I see that he’s dressed in a gray suit. His hair is dark and curly, short and neatly trimmed. There’s a haughty glimmer in his eyes as they peer from a flat and otherwise unremarkable face. The woman hovers behind him, but I imagine that will not be for long. Already I sense that she’s the harsher and more punishing of the two. I read this in the subtleties of how she moves, how she stands back critically appraising me, waiting. I want to study her face, but I have no time for that.

       “You will do everything I say,” he tells me. His voice has all the charm of a pretentious civil servant.

       “Yes, sir.” I unthinkingly respond as I’ve been trained. He moves closer still and with one hand reaches down and jerks me to my feet. At the touch of his fingers on my skin, I feel an electrical charge that moves readily to my anxious heart. Fear leaps to my throat.

       He looks annoyed as if I’ve offended him. I’ve never seen the man before, but he seems to know me.

       His soulless black eyes meet mine and hold me in their grip, while he wraps my wrists with rope and tosses the long loose end over an iron bar above us. By his expression, I see he’s satisfied, happy to have bound me. Stepping away, he strolls around in front of me and my eyes follow each step until he finally disappears behind my back.

       His wife moves toward me looking curious and cruel. She wears a navy blue business suit with a wide collar, and four inch heels on her tiny feet. Her eyes are slightly slanted, her skin somewhat sallow. She’s of mixed race, and would appear to have inherited the hard extremes of her blended cultures. Her hair is tied back tightly off her face, hardening her femininity into elegant coldness. Her nose is long and pointed; her lips full. I’m not surprised to see her sleek fingernails polished a glossy red and gleaming like knives.

       While the man grabs for the tail of my zipper, the woman smokes a long slim white cigarette, exhaling in my face. The smoke fills my lungs as the man rips my skirt apart. With the skirt falling to the floor, the rope bondage at my groin is immediately exposed.

       “How gloriously evil,” the woman speaks, sounding both haughty and envious. I think she would trade places with me enjoying such a bold sexual exhibition. She stares into my eyes now with a menacing look that makes me shiver as profoundly as the gleaming knife her husband holds. The man walks about me, taunting me with the weapon, then he steps to my side.


       With the thin sharp blade he slices the sheer fabric of my blouse like tissue. A cold dampness blows across my naked breasts. My nipples tighten, becoming erect and proud, as if I’m enjoying this terrifying treatment. Already, I can feel my body betray me as my crotch begins to dampen with arousal.


       The man is intrigued by the rope dress and how it slices my body into strange triangular patterns. His fingers trace the lines of the knotted cord. Then he pulls at the bindings so they cut ever-deeper into my flesh.

       “You prevent me from having what I want,” he says, as he runs his hand over the intricate tying job Locksley did about my crotch.

       Hearing what he has to say, I silently seethe. How could I prevent him from having what he wants? But then, isn’t that the irony of my predicament? A submissive will be blamed even for those things that are beyond their control.

       The man slides the thin blade between my skin and the rope, and turns the knife outward. Bearing down, he makes a quick, determined movement and the knife slices through the binding. Again and again he slashes at the rope until it is no more than a tangle of useless, frayed hemp.

       My cunt is free now for him to use.

       Prying my labia apart with his fat fingers, he releases the musty scent of my perfume. It hits my nostrils and I breathe it in, languishing in my own feral pheromones. My resistance is waning and my fear tempers as the sexual heat in me expands.

       His fingers brush along my swelling clitoris. I suck breath in again, sharply, moving my hips while my cunt shamelessly seeks his touch.

       A snide sneer crosses his face as his hand withdraws and slaps my pussy hard, repeatedly, until it hurts and the look of lust on my face is replaced with a pained grimace.

       The sadist pours from his being, but his wife, the evil twin, accosts me, pushing the man aside like an Amazon queen and does what he cannot do with his hand alone. She holds a quirt in her manicured fist that works my nether regions with two snapping tongues of leather.

       My head falls back as I search myself for that place inside me where pain and desire collide. I know there is nowhere else for me to go now. Each stinging smack of the woman’s tool jars my poor pussy with more stinging torment. I breathe evenly, filling my lungs with the aroma of her expensive perfume and the murky smells of this old warehouse. I begin to disconnect with the pain and a flood of passion sweeps my body. Wave upon wave assaults my senses and I struggle to keep up with its relentless power. Any second I expect the sting of the quirt to knock me back to the reality of hurt and fear. But I hang on, riding wave after wave of pleasure until I can feel the orgasm lift me beyond her ability to hurt me.

       “I think she’s cumming,” I hear a voice from beyond me.

       I don’t wait for permission, which could be an egregious error on my part, but I can’t stop myself now.

       Like a steady surf pounding through my body, the climax crashes within.  My mouth opens and I deliver up a pained cry.

       See how she writhes, like a spastic snake!

       See how she suffers!

       Their words swarm around me, but they are meaningless to me now.

       “She’ll be good for the party,” is the first thing I completely comprehend when I finally return to the reality of my predicament.

       As I do, I watch the woman snap a latex glove over her slim hand. She moves in close again, burrowing her hand in my wet crotch. Another several spasms make my pussy jolt while riding her probing hand. She seems pleased with whatever she determines about my cunt. Is this some test?

       She then moves behind me and probes my rear. I half expect her whole hand to slip inside, but then she suddenly withdraws it.

       “Give me the probe,” she orders the man.

       I can’t see the device she uses, but I feel every bit of force exerted in my ass. A thick dildo of some sort moves deep within my bowels and my entire rectum feels as if it will explode.

       Again the sudden withdrawal of the rod shocks my system. I’m left to assume that this is just the start of this pair’s cruelty and this afternoon has only been an examination to see if I’m worthy for more of their cruel games. There will be a party to expose me further, where Locksley will give me away again. I hate the thought of being used like this—when all I want of my master is a man to love, a man who will steer me in the right direction and love me back. But even as I still dangle from this warehouse ceiling, I know that I will surrender to my master’s will. If it’s a party where I’ll perform next, then that is what I’ll do. I’ve taken a vow to obey him and will do as he orders. Obviously, this sort of wicked exhibition pleases the wicked sadist my master harbors in his soul and that should please me too.

       “Too bad about the ropes,” the man chides me. “But I imagine you’ll survive without them.” He looks down. “And the clothes. I suppose, Chiani,” he speaks to his wife, “we’ll have to find something for her to wear.”

       “Your coat,” the woman quickly decides. Then she reaches up on tiptoe and grabs the end of the rope that tethers me to the bar. I suddenly realize how much it has cut into my wrists. The ache is mean, leaving my hands feeling numb and useless—I can’t wait for her to unbind me. When she does the nerves tingle as they dance with life again.

       I look on the ground and see my blouse in tatters. The zipper on the leather skirt is broken—Locksley will not be happy.

       To exit the building I’ll wear the man’s gray suit coat and nothing else.

From A Master for a Desperate Slave by Lizbeth  Dusseau © 2004, all rights reserved.