Friday, July 12, 2013

I'm begging you...

I seem to be fixated these days on the allure of a Dominant men...not that this is unusual for me, being that I write D/s erotica, most of it with sub females and Dominant men. But what is it that they do that is so arousing to me, that I should spend so much time lost in that erotic heaven than happens within my body when I'm caught by their mysterious charms... not even sure that 'charm' is the correct word. I've been revisiting in recent weeks D/s scenes from my books that highlight the masters and doms that have propelled my writing forward. Here's another from Soul Custody...

(Image removed to comply with Google restrictions on nudity)

Excerpt from Soul Custody by Lizbeth Dusseau
Copyright © 2004

I can already feel the rankling sensation in the pit of my stomach the moment I push open Jeremiah’s door. The aroma of coffee is so thick it makes me dizzy. It is my aphrodisiac of the moment; where with one whiff, the simmering heat of sexual need that tantalizes my body becomes so overpowering that I have just one thought in my brain and bones.
Jeremiah is the owner of Jeremiah’s Coffee Bar, one of a dozen narrow fa├žades along the busy street. His shop, like most of the others in this district, is part of an urban renaissance that began several years ago to revitalize a sagging and dispirited downtown that was fast becoming a haven for slum lords, the homeless and seedy thrift shops. Jeremiah’s renovated space looks artistically antique now, rather than squalid. The two-story brick building is a solid structure with the established date of 1872 chiseled into a slab of concrete above the second floor, and beneath that date, faded green lettering states the building’s original purpose, ‘Mercantile’. In the second floor is the loft where Jeremiah lives, in the basement is a makeshift dungeon, an unofficial play space for a small community of shadowy types who occasionally need to act out bondage sex fantasies on neutral ground.

As I swing my ass onto the barstool, Jeremiah notices my smoldering expression with one raised eyebrow. He studies me carefully while polishing glass mugs with a meditatively Zen-like dexterity.

“We’re closed,” he finally says, as if the surly brute were talking to a drunk who just stumbled in off the street.

“The door was open and the sign still on,” I remind him without trying to be flippant. I stare at my burly friend with great affection, while reminding myself why I’m here. The black-haired, beer-bellied, skuzzy, bearded brute cracks bullwhips with the finesse of a painter’s articulate hand. I shake now thinking of the cracker whizzing by my ear infusing the space about me with its high-intensity explosion as the fall splits the air. The thought alone sends a shiver of nervous anticipation up my spine, while afterwards a tingling at the back of my neck remains.

I hear paper rustling behind me and turn around, seeing a light-skinned Black man reading the newspaper at a table near the bar. He stares up briefly, observing the scene for several seconds then turns back to his reading. His face is familiar, but I don’t spend the time trying to remember where I saw him before.

Returning to my sacred mission, I seek Jeremiah’s face with the gaze of a wounded soul with an outstretched hand.

“Is it always this way with you, Hayley? Never gonna get any better?”

“I wish,” I say, with a hint of hope in my voice.

“I got work, you know.”

“But I’m yours, honeybun,” I sweet-talk him, eyelids fluttering as obviously as a Playboy bunny’s.

He chuckles under his breath. He’s thinking something about my sick character he’s not saying. I know how he judges me, how they all judge me. He called me a sport fuck once, but that’s not the truth. I do have moral standards, but I’m just confused, and now an injured bird with tattered wings in need of repair.
I nod in the direction of the Black man. “You want me to kick him out and close up?” I ask.

Jeremiah gives me another few seconds to sweat this one out, before finally saying,   “You can close up, but he’s good to stay.”

What does that mean? “Is he going to join us?” I ask.

He laughs aloud and hits the countertop hard with a glass. I practically jump from my skin. “Leave your clothes in the upstairs hall and get yourself downstairs, slut.”

Unsure, I hesitate. The pokerfaced Black man gives the scene a unique twist, making me oddly afraid. I shouldn’t care. I’ve been naked before strangers more times than I can count. Am I wrong to think he is not as disinterested as he looks with his solemn face stuck in his newspaper?

Jeremiah hates being made to wait—especially when he’s doing a female a favor. Scowling, he reaches over the bar and grabs my throat in his large hand, squeezing enough to shake me back to life. “Now!” he says tersely.

“Yes, sir.”   

I practically fall off the stool getting to my feet, and move directly toward the far left corner of the coffee bar where the stairwell to the basement is walled off in a small alcove. It’s not much privacy, but it’s all I have as I slip out of my shoes, then strip away my winter coat, my best red sweater, and my jeans. I left off my underwear when I left my apartment this morning, as if I was beginning the script then in anticipations of the final act now.

I am a fair-skinned blonde with hazel eyes, about five feet six inches tall, pretty average. Right now, my shoulder-length hair is wildly disheveled. I think Jeremiah likes it that way. My breasts hang out, jiggling softly against my chest, nipples responding to the draft of air seeping through the old building. I remember one lover telling me that I have a body made for sex—tight in the right places, but curvaceous where it counts, hips, ass and voluptuous breasts, as good as a 1950’s Playboy pinup when women had flesh enough to hold. I don’t know what makes me think of that lover now since; if I don’t want to make Jeremiah mad, I need to get downstairs.

I don’t know if either man sees me naked, because I won’t look back before I hurry down the rickety staircase, shivering until my teeth chatter. My belly makes a weird jolt as the damp musk hits my nostrils. I think of this subterranean maze as the gateway to hell. In winter, the ancient oil furnace clangs in erratic ear-splitting rhythms, sort of mimics the bad hard metal that plays in the background of most dungeon play. Once hitting bottom, I wind my way in the dark along the narrow stone path toward the punishment room, feeling my way with my hands, mice and spiders surely following in my tentative footsteps. Suddenly, the corridor is awash with a feral glow. Jeremiah turned on the lights, thank God.

For a second I linger, my body hugging the stone bricks. Every nerve ending has come alive, so what I touch feels like fingers grasping to take hold of me. My pussy aches; my belly spasms. My breaths come in ragged gasps, while my mouth is parched with the taste of sex. I keep close to the stone, enjoying its support. And for a moment, my hips gyrate against the scratchy granite, imitating the motions of fucking. The more the rough surface scratches my belly, the more I want it cutting into me. I stop to feel a wave of orgasm that’s been dallying at my sex for days rise up threateningly. I could come right here without Jeremiah’s help, but we’d both be pissed.

Thankfully, my friend abruptly intervenes, grabbing my hair and shaking me from the erotic splendor just before I hit the edge. He thrusts me the rest of the way down the corridor to the Hall of Retribution—the space he so aptly named, where from every angle the tools of punishment hang in ominous array, inert now, but like jackals awaiting prey.

“What a bitch you are!” Jeremiah comments. I see with some relief that he’s alone.

I know my friend resents the way I come into his Coffee Bar: knowing that with a little pussy power, I can always finagle a trip to his dungeon. I don’t recall he’s ever refused me, although I prefer not to think of what it means to have him so easily won—it would destroy the headspace I have so meticulously carved—Jeremiah in charge as I surrender.

He locks my wrists in iron manacles, while my cunt drips its expectation down my inner thighs.

“You’re hurting bad, huh?” he taunts.

He’s noticed. “Rough week,” I say.

“Any particular reason?”

“I saw Daniel Mulray yesterday.”


I’m so glad that I don’t need to explain more. He knows my neurosis, my psychosis, my hysteria, insanity, obsessions and phobias.
He understands silently why I need him now.

I’m bound to the stone wall, arms high, feet wide, and my waist strapped to the cold surface. In seconds, the chilling cold climbs into my belly where it joins the gnawing ache that keeps up a restive residence beside its companion—sexual fervor.

I make the wall my lover as the first talons of Jeremiah’s braided cat slash across my shoulders. My empty, open pussy hungers for each searing shock of pain and clenches taut. He pauses and I jiggle inside the bondage to settle my body and shake out the tiny discomforts. I feel his energy now. I sense his emotions running high, gearing up for the long battle with me. I’ll wear him out before I scream the first, “Stop, please stop!”, which, of course, he’ll refuse to acknowledge.

This pain feeds my pulsing sex. I dance around the orgasm for a time, supremely content to have Jeremiah back off to quell the urgency, only to drive on again with this wicked cat o’ nine tails. I feel his blows all over my body, my back and shoulders, my thighs, my calves, my ass. Oh, how my ass burns!

Harder, I want it harder!

He reads my thoughts, responding to the dictator in my brain who directs this show. The master becomes the servant, not the reverse; all good subs believe that’s true. It’s part of our game. I only know for sure how grateful I am that Jeremiah knows when to lay it on hard, and when to say enough’s enough.

Once I’m swimming though a sea of endorphins, it no longer matters what Jeremiah does to me. I feel my hard won satisfaction reigning down like something fresh, like petals of flowers, or the smell of dew come morning. He attacks me from behind, stroking my raw flesh with his fat fingers, feeling his way between my legs to the wetness drooling from the mouth of my vagina.

He splashes his weapon over my shoulder, and I smell the scent of leather sexuality. The falls hang down, tickling my breasts and the peaked nipples that have been chafed by the jagged stone.

“You ain’t seen nothin’ yet, sweetheart. Not yet,” he threatens in a melodiously gruff voice; a poor Bogart imitation, but I love it. He speaks from his rumbling groin, which now wriggles in against my bruised ass. He bites my neck, gnawing it for a time, then starts a trek of bites and kisses down my back, as I smother the sounds of my satisfaction with a bitten lip. His hands maul my flesh as if it were dough; his inner heat pours out through his hands. They burn me now as hotly as his spray of stinging leather once burned my skin.

He makes the ache far worse, bringing it to desperate straits that will take frantic turns before this torture ends. After all, he has me bound. I’m at his mercy. I asked for this, all of it, even the part that I didn’t script and can’t say I care for. I fight with him, hoping that he’ll allow my body to cum and end the tease, even as I realize now that he’s in this scene for himself as much as me.

I know he’ll fuck my ass before the night ends.

After he mauls my backside with hands that clutch and squeeze and wring my flesh, he finally reaches to my breasts with the same urgent passion, their tender flesh throbbing with anticipation.

“Oh, my gawd, Jerrrrr….” I lie back against his big chest and open my mouth. He fills it with fingers before I scream. “Do me hard, yes, yes…” My words are nothing but gibberish, as if he’s stuffed my mouth with a gag.

I suddenly feel the chains give way, and the strap around my waist loosened. He’s setting me free, my first impression, which is swiftly corrected by the truth. I’m only being freed in order to be turned face forward where the tender part of me can be subjected to the worst pain. I’ll be openly vulnerable to a rash of possibilities that will scare away my endorphin-laden bliss. I only wanted him to fuck me. I sense now he won’t.

Maybe he’s teaching me a lesson.

Once I’m bound against his wall with my ass pressed into the stone, he turns my mind in somersaults once again. He grabs a thick lock of my blonde hair in his hand and zeroes in on me with his smoldering brown eyes flashing cold and stark as a primordial wind. Only then do I smell the ripe virility of his bared crotch. Feeling the harsh missile jutting from his pelvis, I know where it’s aimed. Not my ass tonight. He reaches outward to my manacled hands and holds them in his palms, then thrusts forward impaling me on his rod. Simultaneously, his mouth lands on my lips, and he pries them apart with his tongue.

He fucks hard, like he’d rape, if he were that sort of man. I feel each jab of his erection burrow a little deeper inside my cavity. My fear soon falls away and my body responds. I squeeze his muscle with mine to draw his seed inside me. I’m grunting hard, while my back breaks with the pounding thrusts. Then I start to scream from my belly outward as the climax rips my mind away and takes my body on a long spasming ride.

I hear Jeremiah groaning as the pussy-fuck ends. He finally withdraws from my cunt and pulls away, leaving a pool of our juices on the concrete floor. Exhausted, he slumps to a nearby stool while I still dangle in his chains.

The iron manacles seem to cut my skin—which I only notice now that the demon had been purged from my troubled psyche.

When Jeremiah finally pulls himself to standing and zips his pants, he starts toward the doorway of his Hall of Retribution without looking back.

“Jeremiah, do you suppose…” I start to remind him that I’m still hanging and hurting in these cuffs and chains.

He turns. “What? Let you down?”

“Please, sir,” I implore him.

“Oh, beg me more,” he snidely urges as he faces me again.

“I am begging you,” I say with some emotion. My face is filled with utter woe. “Please.”

He slowly saunters back to me and starts undoing the bondage. “Not that you deserve it,” he says.

“No, no, I never do,” I agree. “But you know I’m grateful.”

“Sure.” I sense some cynicism. He’s been this way since he found out about Rocco and his growing bitterness has me worried. I consider Jeremiah my best friend. Perhaps my only friend.

When he has me freed of all encumbrances, he smacks my butt saying, “Get out of here, Hayley. I’m tired and ready for sleep.”

Without his consent, I turn long enough to give him a wet kiss on his mouth, then I fly up the stairs, afraid he’ll smack my ass the whole way if I stay too close.

Thursday, July 11, 2013

There's something about France...

...that gets under the skin, inside the heart, and definitely works on the senses, all five at once. I imagine it's that way wherever you go in the world, even whatever place you call home. 

I was lucky enough to spend the first two weeks of June this year traveling on an art tour through France. All of it from the food to the vigorous pace to the sights and experiences was an exhilarating celebration that will stay with me forever, and likely affect my erotic writing for a long time to come. Reflecting back on the trip now, looking over the pictures and bringing back a host of memories, I am grateful that I chose France for my 'coming out party', following a long year of grief and rugged change. For those who aren't looking for a travel diary from this blog, that's okay, please skip on to the kinky writing. I expect to have weekly posts of my impressions of France, but you need not worry, I'll be posting plenty of erotica, too.

The trip began... after a harrowing experience with Charles de Gaulle airport on the first Sunday in June, (there's nothing you can do but charge right in and hope you're heading in the right direction), I arrived by bus in the charming town of Rouen, northwest of Paris. We stayed in the historical center of Rouen, where the cobblestone streets of this ancient village cut into the feet, into the bones and just walking is a tricky adventure. I quickly learned that a trip back in time like this one requires a lot of endurance, perhaps reminiscent of the kind of endurance required of life centuries ago.  

I fell in love with French food at a tiny cafe along this street...and French women that same night, the first moment I beheld the sight of the female with the short white/blonde hair sitting directly adjacent to our table. I was mesmerized by her grace and style, something I'd see often  throughout the trip. French women, of almost any age, exude an essence about them that was remarkably alluring. The blonde, who for the purposes of this blog, I named Justine will probably show up as a character in a future erotic novel.

The theme of the tour was the art of the 19th c. Impressionists painters (Monet, Renoir, Degas, Pisarro and so many others). The first day we traveled by tram through historical Rouen, driving by the square where Joan of Arc was burned at the stake and, for the first of many times during our stay there passed by the Rouen Cathedral, experiencing the infinite array of shadows playing across the facade of this Gothic church. The cathedral became the subject of numerous Monet paintings as the shifting light of the passing day changed its appearance.


We visited the marketplace, a regular feature of every small village we traveled to throughout France. The open air markets arrive around dawn (I'm only guessing because I wasn't up that early) and closed in the early afternoon. Everything from fruit and vegetables, to flowers, pottery, scarves, household wares and imported clothes. This was the place to shop...not everything in France is expensive. A silk scarf for 10 euro. Couldn't beat the price. I bought six.

I regret that there wasn't more time spent in Rouen and that jetlag and aching feet prevented me from seeing more of this unique town. I realized in these first days of the tour that my eyes and ears, my body and brain could only take in so much. Some things were left undone, like the time to sit at the site where Joan of Arc was burned, and imagine what it would have been like in the square that day ... if that were even possible. As quaint and pretty as Rouen is, there was a dark side of history lived there. The lives of most of its residents were not filled with the kind of wonder and excitement that I experienced in my brief four days.

The afternoon of that first day was spent at Monet's in Gardens at Giverny, which deserve a post all their own, but not before I indulge my BDSM fans with a hot dungeon scene in my Friday post tomorrow. Stand by.