In keeping with the Lesbian theme this week, here's another novel excerpt from my one and only murder mystery, Demise of the Diva. This one is a rough BDSM scene between a Domme and her sub.
About the book: Patrick Penny Investigations – brainchild of intrepid lesbian PIs Leslie Patrick and Robin Penny – takes on a really hot case: the murder of the notorious Diva Felicia Roman. The circumstances of the crime lead the pair on an excursion through the leatherdyke underground, where motives—and desires—run deep. But as Leslie and Robin soon find, every woman harbors her own closely guarded secret.
Excerpt: Demise of the Diva, originally published under the penname Elizabeth Oliver. Copyright (c) 1995, all rights reserved.
After watching her business partner Leslie drive away, Robin drove up town, to a seedier side of the city where there were dank apartments, empty office buildings and a smattering of light industrial factories on their last legs. Discarded paper fluttered in the streets, while upended trash cans cluttered the sidewalks. There was an eerie, lonesome feeling about this part of town; even drug dealers and hookers steered clear, simply because there was no one with money to buy what they offered. A few sad people wandered about on their way from one lonely moment of their lives to another, somewhere in one of the squalid flats above ground level.
The little flat that Robin sought was up three flights, although taking those stairs was like walking into another world, away from the menial one on the street, and far away from her normal fast-paced life. Robin saw from the street that the light was on; Britta was home. She breathed a sigh of relief and began the long trek.
Minutes later, Robin’s knock on the door produced a vague reply, which was enough encouragement to walk on in, even though she wasn’t quite sure what the woman had mumbled. It didn’t really matter, Robin would go in regardless.
Once inside, she looked around the expansive apartment searching for what she wanted. Didn’t take long to feel the sweet sexual warmth rush into her thighs; the moment she smelled the incense burning, her craving ignited—a conditioned response, she supposed, after so many sessions in Britta’s den.
“You look like shit,” the woman said from the fog of smoke around her.
Robin looked up to see the object of her search reclining on a daybed in one corner of the room. “You’ll take me tonight, please?” Robin asked with a hopeful half-smile on her lips.
The woman stared at her as if she was reading a page from the book Robin wrote inside her heart.
“Of course, my little Robbie,” she answered, noting her guest’s thinly disguised distress. “You need it especially hard tonight, perhaps?
The incense was so thick it was beginning to burn her nostrils. She breathed it deeply, thinking there was a trace of cigarette smoke in the vapors, along with the scent of some mystical eastern herbal concoction. She breathed deeply again, letting the smoke soothe her into that other side of her life. The heat between her legs expanded, burning hot and demandingly.
“You should have called first, but I’ll take you,” Britta said curtly. “Sit on the stool.” She pointed to the space in front of her.
Robin spied the familiar piece resting innocently between her and Britta. It was a little round thing; its needlepoint cushion reasonably comfortable, but clearly humbling. The stool was so low that when she sat on it, her legs were above her bottom and naturally spread wide apart. Of course, this was part of Britta’s design; the position required was unabashedly submissive.
Sitting on stool now, however, in jeans, not naked or in a revealing skirt, the position didn’t have quite the right effect. Her cunt would be spread out and exposed if she were dressed properly for a meeting with Mistress Britta.
“Working?” the Domme asked, noting how Robin was dressed.
“Too much for you?”
“I just need to forget everything for a while. An old friend of mine is dead.”
The Domme almost broke out in a tender smile, but like so many things with her, it was too subtle to know if she was exhibiting any affection. The woman remained reclined on her couch, looking like a haughty queen bee. Her strawberry blonde hair was piled on top of her head, although it was starting to fall down in a messy disarray. Maybe it was bedtime and it didn’t matter what she looked like anymore. Britta’s lips were as red as an old brick, and she gave off an ancient scent even though she wasn’t very old. She could be arrogant or kind, depending on the need, but the look she gave Robin now was pure disgust.
“You’ll take off your clothes and find something I’d like to see you wear,” she ordered, waving Robin to a corner of the room, where a massive wardrobe stood with its doors wide open and garments spilling out around the floor.
Robin rose to her feet and walked to the wardrobe, disrobing quickly. There was just her blouse, bra, jeans and panties to shed, and of course her shoes and socks. Once naked, she felt a chill in the air that gave her goosebumps. A slender woman with gentle curves, Robin’s best assets were her shapely legs, and perky breasts that, though not large, stood out full and round. Her large nipples were frequently so hard they poked shamelessly through almost any garment. Robin knew Britta would admire her, even though she wouldn’t say a word. Still, Robin liked knowing that she pleased her mistress this way.
Reaching inside the mass of clothes inside the wardrobe, Robin pulled out a red leather bustier, thinking Britta would be especially pleased with the choice. She let her mistress see what she’d picked, lowering her eyes submissively while she waited for the woman’s approval.
“That’ll be enough,” Britta said as she watched, focused on every move the blonde woman made.
While in front of the mirror, Robin pulled the two sides of the bustier around her middle so that they nearly met; then she laced them as tightly as she could, feeling an erotic swell inside her loins, as the self-imposed bondage began to have its effect.
“Pull it tighter, Robbie, will you?” Britta called out.
Robin tugged harder, pulling at her breasts so that they were pushed up to the top of the bustier, having nowhere else to go. Her nipples sat just over the edge of the leather, while below, the bustier stopped just past her waist. The soft swell of Robin’s hips and the lovely ‘V’ of her cunt radiated an aura of erotic need, matching what rumbled through her needy body.
“You can sit now,” she was instructed.
“You will have my ass, won’t you?” Robin asked anxiously, as she returned to the needlepoint stool.
“I’ll have what I want,” Britta answered, haughtily. “And then maybe I’ll give you what you need. You are unscheduled tonight, and you know how intrusions piss me off.”
On the stool again, with her legs spread wide, Robin’s cunt was the way the mistress wanted, unprotected and vulnerable, open for her to view. The labia were naturally parted so that Britta could see the deep purple folds of skin and the dark cunt hole. Wisps of blonde hair around the pretty, spread out pussy glistened with female dew.
“Put your arms behind you,” the mistress ordered, “wrists together.”
Finally rising from the lounge, Britta gathered her cuffs and rope from a shelf beside her. She was a large firm woman with massive breasts that swung loosely in front of her, while her hips and crotch moved seductively before Robin’s hungry gaze. Robin could see the woman’s pussy through the filmy purple caftan, a nest of dark thick pubic curls, which Robin remembered well with her face pressed firmly against the warm flesh. It would please her to service the woman again tonight, although she hoped that other things would happen first: what she came for and what she needed most.
The mistress pulled Robin’s arms together tightly as she clamped cuffs around her wrists, and then bound them together with rope. As she sat on the needlepoint stool, Robin’s breasts thrust forward, jiggling erotically. The awkward pose hurt, but it was a good hurt. Plus, it served its intended purpose, reminding the submissive of the humble attitude she must assume inside this flat.
“This is for me,” Britta said, taking a crop from the wall. The long black riding crop ended with a loose leather end of thin tied leather cords. The Mistress raised her arm, and let loose with a dozen biting cuts landing in rapid succession against Robin’s tits. The pain was instantaneous brought Robin to tears. An impassioned groan escaped her lips, which was much more than Britta wanted from her sub. She always demanded quiet, just the sounds of leather and skin during correction—at least at the beginning. How much noise Robin made when the session ended didn’t matter all that much.
“Don’t make me gag you, little Robbie,” Britta purred. “I want to hear the leather when it hits your tits.” She ran the crop along the red lines that now appeared where the skin had once been flawless. Her breasts were marked enough to last for a few days. Robin winced feeling the crop dig into her soft flesh. This poking and prodding hurt as much as the crop hitting her skin. Just for good measure, Britta struck each breast one more time and Robin didn’t utter a sound.
Putting the crop under her arm, the mistress bent down and took each exposed nipple, rolling it between her thumb and index fingers, bearing down and using her sharp fingernails to pierce the flesh. Robin winced at first, then finally squealed when the pain was too much to bear in silence. When Britta let the nipples go, the throbbing sensation that followed was as biting as the pinching, although the pain vanished quickly and Robin breathed a heavy sigh of relief.
“You’re feeling like a poor, pitiful baby tonight, aren’t you, little one?” Britta sweetly crooned. “Stand up.” She stepped back to watch her submissive struggle to rise. It was almost impossible for Robin to pull herself out of the lowly position, without her arms and hands to help her. When she was found her feet, Britta shoved her towards an apparatus at the far end of the room: a waist high beam, which had been covered in leather, and included at least a half dozen places to fasten a submissive to the structure, at the bottom and down the sides.
“Bend over,” Mistress ordered, poking Robin’s side with the riding crop.
As she’d done in past sessions, Robin bent at her waist and placed herself over the beam. Then Britta moved in securing her bottoms-up, leaving the rear cleft exposed. Afraid she might fall, Robin didn’t dare move. She wished that Britta would untie her arms to the apparatus so she could better balance. Although, she would never suggest such a thing.
Then she waited, waited for a long while, an interminable time, nervous, anxious, wanting. She breathed in the scent of sex and fear and undisguised desire and was at last rewarded, as Britta flailed on Robin’s bottom with a dozen strokes from the riding crop. She paused briefly, then delivered another dozen.
As Robin’s bottom began to burn, she squirmed as much as she dared. Even as much as it hurt, she knew the punishment wasn’t yet enough to satisfy the urgent need that brought her here. They were just getting started. Britta chose a flogger next, one made of at least two dozen strands of eighteen-inch long leather, bundled together and woven at one end into a thick handle. The whip could be ruthless or affectionate, but it was always capricious under Britta’s capricious control.
“You want this in the worst way, don’t you, my darling?” Britta said, as she dangled the cool leather against her submissive’s skin. Robin felt the sensation on her back, along her already reddened ass and down her warm thighs. Then in a move Robin didn’t expect, Britta turned the flogger around and pressed the thick handle against Robin’s wet, throbbing pussy, as if she planned to force it inside. The butt end moved against the sub’s nether lips, setting off a series of pleasurable spasms. She wanted more! Although the thick handle wasn’t likely to fit inside her cunt, the resulting massage made her hips shift back and forth to maximize the feeling. She was on her way to orgasm.
But then, Britta abruptly stepped back and critically observed the view of her sub’s behind. Robin was a good sub for her, a well-built woman with physical assets perfect for her needs. Her bottom was well-rounded, the cheeks perfectly shaped, and her cunt seemed larger than some; the cleft full, a rosy color, and beckoning to be punished, no different than the way the rest of Robin’s body cried out to be abused.
Britta landed a number of blows with the flogger against Robin’s back, nearly a dozen landing across her shoulders, then Britta shifted her aim back to the firm, red buttocks.
The blows were softer for a time, and Robin felt her arousal soar. She could have cum in seconds. But this was not enough, not this night. She needed more than an affectionate blissful climax. She needed to be knocked out of her thoughts, driven to a Neverneverland on the wings of this leather instrument. If it flailed her for hours, she’d be happy; she needed a long hard session.
And just as Robin hoped, her mistress was only warming up. Britta soon changed techniques and a stream of fiery blows from the flogger cascaded across Robin’s shoulders again. Then she aimed lower, delivering more hard abuse to Robin’s behind. She made the flogger sing each time it struck, and each time she repeated the beating, Robin was driven deeper into her absent state, the welcoming pain purging her anguish. When the mistress nipped her anal cleft with the flogger’s thin thongs, Robin shrieked, almost losing her balance against the beam as she twisted to the side.
After one particularly vicious blow that almost sent her to the floor, Britta paused long enough to remove the ropes and shackles from Robin’s arms and wrists, retying her subbie’s hands to the bottom of the wooden structure, making it easier to suffer the harder punishment.
Although the repositioning would relieve Robin’s body of the intense strain, it meant a more brutal chastisement. With her own desire redoubling, Britta let loose, delivering a thorough whipping in the tempo of a march, with a beat as steady as feet in measured cadence.
With each blow, Robin lost a piece of herself, flinging her ego back to its source, where she didn’t have to think of anything at all. This was the bliss she was after. Pure sweet fiery pain, then nothing at all. Like spiraling down to the bottom of everything, with nothing to get in the way of her surrender. Only her selflessness remained, rushing over her like an embracing shroud, protecting her, loving her in this sweet abuse.
The mistress paused for a time, only to have Robin sway her forgotten rear as a reminder that she wanted more. Starting in again, Britta increased the tempo and the hurt, until Robin quickly slipped back into her beloved sub-space. The stops and starts became as rhythmical as the blows. As the cruel flogger danced across her bottom, she urged her mistress on, and the hard beating did not stop until a brilliant rash of red stripes were etched deeply into Robin’s flesh. To Britta’s credit, there was not a drop of blood; she could be a prudent mistress if she so chose to be.
When Britta finally stopped, Robin’s mind was blank and free of thought, quiet and at peace.
Pressing her hand against the molten valley between Robin’s legs, Britta gently massaged the steamy flesh, while listening her subbie’s moans of pleasure. For a time the woman alternated her loving caresses with vicious slaps to the sub’s sensitive cunt lips. Then she suddenly shoved the flogger’s handle into Robin’s vagina, and instigated a hard climax. Her victim’s inner muscles tightened around the violating handle, as if she were trying to seize every feeling and hold on to it forever.
When at last Britta removed the flogger, Robin came back to life, almost choking on the smoggy incense. It burned her throat like a good drug.
Robin remained bound for some time while Britta watched the red color fade away and her backside pale. There were marks that would remain for several days, and bruises rising underneath the skin. Britta knew that Robbie would think of her mistress when she saw them and that pleased her.
It had been a pleasing scene for Britta; she’d orgasmed before she let Robbie have her climax. She’d felt the rush inside her body in the middle of the last cadence of blows—the ones aimed right on the center of Robbie’s scarlet cheeks. Hearing her submissive scream when she brutally lit into the tender flesh set off an exhilarating orgasm. Even as the whipping continued, the powerful spasms came on her in waves that passed through her body with a beautiful fierceness – as much a psychological high as it was physical. Robbie had always been good for this kind of erotic experience.
After the scene was over, Robin didn’t say a word as she dressed. She and her Mistress never talked once a session was complete—an unwritten rule. In truth, Robin had nothing to say to the woman, her actions spoke more loudly than her words ever could.
She left the apartment ready to face her life again.
It was midnight in the real world. The street was hazy with fog and a harsh orange light that was uncomfortable on Robin’s eyes. Even so, her mind was clear, and her body was at peace. She’d be able to sleep, and then meet her partner Leslie in the morning.
Friday, October 4, 2013
Wednesday, October 2, 2013
I have often included lesbian sexuality as part of my basically heterosexual novels. It's been a great way (and most often the only way) for me to enjoy my bisexuality...even though real time is always much better than fantasy! When I first began writing erotica, I was still timid about much of my awakening sexuality, in particular my attraction to women, which I had avidly shunned. When, as an eighteen year old (in the latter part of the 60s), I fell in love with a woman just after I graduated from high school I was stunned and afraid. Despite a major cultural shift on sexuality during the 1960s, the effect of that had not 'trickled down' to my real world. Homosexuality was still a dirty little secret no one shared. That sweet affair of the heart during freshman year was strictly non-sexual, in great part because I wouldn't allow myself the freedom to be in bed with another woman. My inability to accept the eroticism that grew naturally from our love, eventually drove her away, and me into avoiding that part of myself until the late 80s when I finally forced myself to confront the entirety of my sexual nature.
During the early 90s I wrote two strictly lesbian novels, both of which I still enjoy reading from time to time. Here's a clip from the opening chapter of Pagan Dreams, the firsts of these novels. In my Friday blog post there will be a much kinkier lesbian scene excerpted from Demise of the Diva.
And a big thanks to my long time internet friend from Australia, photo artist Tony Ryan for allowing me to use his sexy-beautiful image for the cover of this novel. I wish I could lead you to his remarkable website, but as of this writing, he has seemed to disappear from Internet-land, which makes me a little sad.
Excerpt from Pagan Dreams, Copyright (c) 1999, Lizbeth Dusseau, all rights reserved.
I see her standing by the stacks in the old library. I’m surprised to see that she actually showed up. I usually don’t arrange dates this way. But I was obsessed. I watched her every day for two weeks. She was doing research, and so was I; though after two weeks I confess I was doing more research on her than on my American Poets thesis.
My obsessions drive me to such things. In a mad impulse I finally peeked in the front of her opened notebook when she was off to the bathroom. I was looking for a name, maybe a phone number. That was three days ago, and that night, I called her.
“Yeah sure, I remember you,” she said, when I described myself. “You’re the one with the gigantic blue eyes and the soft blonde hair. You were sitting at my table.”
I’m excited that she remembered me at all. I feel so stupid, flustered like some school kid. I’ve never felt quite this way about a woman. I knew I liked women, but never like this, never with an obsession that made me follow her around, steal her name from her notebook, and find out where she lives and with whom (no one, I was glad to discover). Would she still be meeting me if she knew to what lengths I’d gone to feel close to her? My God, I was certain that if I didn’t have some consummation to this heated insanity, I’d soon be stalking her nightly, peeking in her window, stealing flowers from her flower bedecked porch.
Seeing her now in front of the stacks, perusing some enormous art book that looks too big for her, I’m tingling all over, especially between my legs. That place gives me away; it leads me running around after phantom lovers like a child with a first crush. But Peach is no phantom.
I call her Peach when I see her dressed in this peach colored tee-shirt dress. It’s nearly ankle length, but she might as well be wearing nothing the way her body seems to climb out on top of it. Her ass, which is turned toward me, is one of the pert round kinds. I see the hint of her cleft as an indentation in the material. I know when she turns around, that her pendulous breasts will be pressed against the fabric erotically, her tiny nipples poking through the cloth. I know this because other tee shirts I’ve seen on her do exactly that.
“Good evening,” I say, trying not to scare her. Approaching people from behind can be risky, so I take it slowly.
She doesn’t miss a beat, turning around as if she senses that I am there. And exactly what I want – there’s a smile is beaming on her face, her bright cheeks glowing. And yes, there are her breasts with the conforming fabric of her dress showing off the subtle curves and her nipples indenting the fabric.
“Cassidy,” she says, in a voice that floats to my ears like Mozart. She gives off warmth like perfume. I can smell her scent, a fresh scrubbed soapy scent, kissed with the trace of some sweet hand cream. It’s been hot, so there’s a musky sweaty fragrance too, on her skin and mine.
“Hey Peach, I’m glad you came,” I reply.
She doesn’t balk, not even when I call her Peach. Her name is Samantha Clarisse Sykes. It’s much too much a name for her; she’s much simpler than that.
“I liked your invitation,” she says.
“Not too bold?”
“Honest,” she replies, “telling me you’ve been having erotic thoughts of me, I know that’s a bold thing for you to say. You’re really very shy, aren’t you?”
I giggle a little.
She takes my hand and pulls me deeper into the stacks. We wind our way into the maze of tall metal shelves into the bowels of this ancient place, searching for some privacy.
She touches my breasts first. Her hand is like a feather. I’m shivering. I can feel her touch in the top of my head underneath my hair, and at my shoulders, they’re trembling, and of course, between my legs. But it’s not enough that it’s there, it’s everywhere that shivers.
I lean forward, instinct leading me, and touch her offered lips with mine.
“Ooooo, I am in love,” she says.
I can’t believe that she’s saying this to me. How can she love me when we’ve just met? Then, how can I love her when I don’t even know her? Has she been feeling anything that I’ve felt, could I be that lucky?
She kisses back, and then there are a dozen more little kisses while she leans into my body, pressing herself against me and fondling me more.
I think I’m going to swoon until she laughs that lilting, approving laugh. She seems to know my trepidation and my joy, and tries to put me at ease with her hands. They are all over me. One hand breaches the bottom of my shirt, lifting it so she can fondle skin to skin.
“I don’t understand this, Peach, why I love you like this,” I tell her. I figure I need some kind of explanation.
“Shush,” she puts a finger to my mouth and smiles. We kiss again. And I take liberties with her body. My hands were poised for minutes, then finally after she shushes me I have the courage to touch her, really touch her.
We’re leaning against the stacks of books: the tall, fat, musty medical library where no one ever goes. I’m glad we have this privacy because she feels free to raise my shirt enough to view my breasts with her eyes, not just her hands.
“You have such creamy white skin,” she admires me with a hint of adoration I would have expected on a first date. I want to tell her that I find her dark tanned skin perfection – my pale skin always seems uneven and flawed.
She presses her mouth into my breasts and kisses them all over. She sucks the soft flesh. Sucks hard, so I know that there will be a hickey there when she’s done. I couldn’t ask for more.
My hands reach around her so I can find her ass, that perky round one, with the melon globes of tight flesh that lightly bounce against the dress. When I squeeze the cheeks, I can feel her thighs tense, her breath becoming short and excited. I pull the dress higher, aiming for the soft skin underneath. We’re wrapped together, pressed tightly. Her hands rove at will. Mine do the same. We’re both wet rivers between our legs. Our hands travel into those moist valleys where undiscovered clits are laid bare, and once virgin pussies become places to violate again.
“Cassidy, right there,” she instructs me, as my hands find her special spot. I drop to my knees, I want to see it, tongue it, watch it burst. Her cunt is dark, a silky bush of hair covers plump brown labia and I spread her wide to find the hard bud of her clitoris. It’s become a hard throbbing finger.
It only takes a few gentle sweeps of my tongue to discover what she likes best, what makes her throw her head back in a passionate stupor. She grabs my hair to keep her balance. She could easily tumble to the floor, but I keep her balanced. I want her to remember only that this was the most exquisite orgasm she’s ever had.
Her cries are nearly inaudible, but to me they are like an ocean roaring with waves of fervent bliss that crash at my ears.
She claws my hair.
Her body tenses.
I eagerly work her clit with my tongue while my fingers move into her moist cunt, seeking out her g-spot. As I listen to her gasp with pleasure, her tight channel grabs for my fingers and squeezes down against them. Sharp spasms follow, ones that ripple through her in a seemingly unending stream. My hands and face are covered with the sweet, salty taste of her juices while my nostrils fill with the fragrant musky scent of her.
When her climax finally passes, Peach slips down against the bookshelf until she’s on the floor beside me. Her legs are open, her cunt exposed. She almost looks as if she’s airing out. The sweet contentment written on her face is still filled with lusty, although I know she is at peace. If this is all she ever gives me, this will be enough. I couldn’t want anything more than to see the love obsession of my life this happily satisfied.
She opens her eyes. There’s a cute smile on her face.
“You don’t think you’re getting away from me, you slut,” she says. No one has ever called me slut. I like the name.
She reaches in and begins to paw my thighs, though they’re covered by my jeans; I admit I wasn’t as well prepared as she. Nonetheless, she’s not stopping.
“Here? A little risky, isn’t it?” I say.
“Hey, you little tramp, I took the risk and so shall you, even if you do get caught with your pants down.” She’s adamant, unbuttoning the waist, undoing the zipper, and then pulling firmly on my jeans until they’re at my ankles. She leans over, lays me down and begins to plant her mouth on my needy clit. She knows exactly what to do to have my hips writhing against her face.
She licks me with a gentle but experienced tongue.
It won’t take long, and it doesn’t.
With her hands climbing all over my thighs and reaching inside my shirt to my tits, she brings me off, raises me up, tears me in two. My entire body is gasping, letting go, struggling to let free all three weeks’ worth of piled up lust.
I’m afraid I’m too loud, but for at least twenty seconds, I couldn’t give a damn who hears.
When the orgasm finally passes we both collapse in an abbreviated hug. Then she rests her head against my belly until I become too scared of being so exposed in a public building.
“You don’t mind my calling you Peach?” I ask.
“No, I like it. Almost as much as I like you,” she says. “This was a good idea you had.”
This is where I’m most afraid. What if it’s only been a lark for her and nothing more? God please, I promise to be good, if that is not the case, I silently pray.
“I want to see you again,” I tell her.
“God, I hope so,” she replies, “but can we do it someplace besides this library, my God this floor is too hard!”
We pick each other up laughing, and walk out arm in arm.
That is, after I’m zipped and buttoned again.