Friday, October 11, 2013

Combustible Matter, BDSM short

And here's another short piece from a slave to her new Master. If last week was "lesbian week", this week it's "Master and slave", the real world kind of Master/slave that arises when Doms and subs get brutally honest about what's really been lurking on the fringes of their lives forever, the kink that's never had a chance to fully flower ... until now. When the right masterful man comes along and recognizes a slave for who she is, this submissive female discovers the place where she's always belonged. Her excitement is beyond her expectations. Both yesterday's short story and this prose poem center on the submissive act of preparing for a visit from her Master.

Combustible Matter

I gotta write about this now because it’s all cluttered inside my head…
About how I shaved myself for him last night,
one side of my crotch to the other
And when I touched my asshole,
I thought of his erection sliding inside
When I touched my virginal cunt
My entire body spasmed

And when in the morning I announce to him the fact that my pussy is smoothly shaved
And pleased with my announcement
he tells me not to touch myself,
not until he sees me,
not until his fingers and his cock and his mouth
let loose the sexual harlot pent up inside this hungry crotch

Living with his orders now
my inner muscles tighten on air
feeling emptiness
and longing
desire, leaping on desire

I’m wet, wet against everything now
the chair
the sheets
the edge of the table
the fender of my car
hell, I’d fuck a lamppost if there was one in front of me
but that would be verboten too
I suppose

Not touch myself?
That seems impossible for a randy slut like me.
Does he know that every time I stop myself from doing
what’s been naturally mine to do forever and always,
that every time I reach for that wet place between my thighs
and stop myself from going further—
because he’s laid this order on me—
that I think of him?
Remember him?
And recall the simple fact that he’s claimed my body as his

It’ll be twenty-five hours of torture until I see him
til I greet him at the door
and lay myself wide open
for this hands,
his cock
his mouth

I can do nothing right now to satisfy this urgent, pressing need in me
Except write
Except pour myself into something useful
and smile as my pussy spasms on the empty air
Remembering him.

July 2013
Copyright, © 2013 by Lizbeth Dusseau, all rights reserved. Unpublished

Thursday, October 10, 2013

BDSM: A Night on the Town

Image: MarishaSha/Shutterstock
used with permission

This little short came out of my personal fantasy land late one evening when my mind kicked off and my muse began to play. In its first incarnation there were many more elements to the story, which would have greatly expanded the narrative. And yet, when I finally took it to the computer, I let those other elements go and focused on this scene alone. No back story. No plot. Just a sexy incident in time remains, of the kind most submissives would not easily forget.

According to her Master's explicit wishes, a devoted slave checks into a cheap hotel and prepares herself for his arrival.

A Night on the Town by Lizbeth Dusseau

 As planned, she arrived in the city by train, the trip just a little over two hours from her home, then took a taxi to the hotel where he’d booked her room. The hotelkeeper must have had some prior knowledge of why she was there because he’d chosen a room on the third floor of his ancient establishment, which he reserved exclusively for rendezvous like hers would be. The privacy it afforded was ideal, under the circumstances. Times were hard in the city and it was rare that even his second floor of ten rooms filled up even on the busiest weekends. The third floor with its threadbare carpet down the hall and furnishings badly in need of an update was perfect for those for whom comfort and luxury were secondary to having a secluded place where unusual noises would not be noticed by the general clientele.

    The aging proprietor opened the room, pointed out the attached bath then smiled at her in a way that suggested he had full knowledge of her purpose in coming to the city that weekend.

    “The room is private. I promised him that. But if you’re a screamer, I’d prefer he used a gag. You tell him that, will you?”

    “Yes, sir,” she politely replied, her head bashfully lowered, as her cheeks turned pink with embarrassment. “But that won’t be necessary, I’m not a screamer.”

    “Yeah, I’ve heard that before.” He eyed her up and down, stripping away her clothes in his mind. She knew the look, and trembled, feeling as if he’d just laid waste her soul and her dignity. “You look like a screamer to me.”

    She watched the room key disappear into his pocket. Seeing her observe the move so closely, he said, “The man said you weren’t to lock the door. I’m just making sure.” With that he turned and left her alone.

    She watched the door close, and then stood in numbed repose for nearly sixty seconds as she tried to calm her anxious nerves. Then, suddenly realizing that she didn’t have much time – to wash her hair and bathe, and shave herself clean of every hair on her body below the neck – she shook herself awake and briskly moved toward the bathroom.

Later, when she was done in the bath, she stood before the mirror and swept her hair back into a bun at the back of her head. She applied the usual make-up, something light – he didn’t want her made up like a tramp, even though some would call her that if they knew how she would spend her weekend. Still staring into the mirror, she picked up the steel and leather collar he’d given her some months before, and opened it wide enough to slip around her throat. The collar circled her neck as if it were the only place that it belonged. Meanwhile a shudder of desire darted through her body and finally settled into a throbbing in her crotch. She could already see that her pussy was wet, but he’d forbade her to touch herself after she shaved, so despite the clawing desire to press her fingers to her cunt and get off, she restrained herself. Checking the clock, she knew she was living on borrowed time, he could enter the room at any moment and she would not be ready for him.

    Would he punish her then or make her wait until later – after a long time had gone by during which her anxiety would have grown so desperate she would be begging to be whipped?

    But she wouldn’t be punished. He was not there yet. All she had to do was kneel before the unlocked door and wait for him to appear.

She heard the doorknob jiggle and the creaky hinges as the door opened, then felt his footfall depress the carpet before her hidden eyes. She was crouched as ordered, bowed like the slave she was, his offering, his slave, his concubine, his trampy whore until he finally sent her away. After he’d used her.

    “Let me see you, slut.” He barked the order and she pulled from the crouch, rising up on her knees, spreading them wide, lacing her fingers together behind her neck, elbows wide, breasts thrusting forward for his inspection. She kept her head high but her eyes submissively lowered.

    She waited, trembled as he walked around her with his leather belt dangling from his hand.  When he’d extracted it from his pants she had no idea, but it was in his fist now, threatening any sense of calm she might have briefly enjoyed in seconds of relief after he walked in the door. She sensed nothing ominous in his demeanor, but he was known to be deceiving, capable of hiding intentions and emotions behind an inscrutable reserve.

    “You want this, slave?” He held the belt to her face, to her nostrils so she could smell the fragrant leather. She knew he meant to beat her and beat her hard.

    “Yes, Master,” she said without hesitation.

    She sensed him smile, a smile as evil as his dark heart, when his darker needs arose. She lifted her gaze enough to see his face dim further, his eyes smolder and his smile disappear into a lusty scowl. Before her eyes his crotch was bursting with a hard erection pushing against the fabric of his pants. She could smell his pheromones and feel the throbbing of his body inside her own. “First things first, you dirty whore,” he glowered darkly, and he stepped forward. “Now, slut.”

    Quickly, her hands flew to his pants, unbuttoning them at the waist, drawing down the zipper, and with some effort extracting his stiff cock from inside. He backed her off before she could cover the organ with her mouth, and looking down, slapped her face with his open palm. She wanted more of that – she loved the sting of his smack, being the slavish slut who enjoyed such things. Instead of granting her wish, his hand grabbed for her hair and he shoved her face into his warm groin. Her mouth opened and she swallowed his erection deeply before she backed off slightly and began the work of pleasuring him in earnest. By the time the hour was over, her mouth would have serviced both his ass – with a burrowing tongue – and his cock until the cum she couldn’t swallow fast enough was spilling out on her lips and down her chin.

    Only then would he beat her ass.
    Only after that would he dress his slave in the demure black dress he’d brought with him and take her out on the town.

Copyright, © 2013 by Lizbeth Dusseau, all rights reserved. Unpublished