Friday, October 18, 2013

Into Dangerous Waters...


Cover Image: ‘59th Street Station’, © R C Hรถrsche

This has always been one of my favorite scenes, (meaning the novel excerpt... although the cover image to the left is one I love, too) probably because it's such a delicious and powerful fantasy... though NOT one I'd recommend attempting. 

It does makes great reading for a Friday evening at home. And this is Friday, and in Michigan we're heading into wet fall, cozy-up-before-the-fire weekend. Have a good one wherever you are in the world! Lizbeth

Below, the story of what happens when a girl just can't help herself one lonely night...even if it means journeying into dangerous waters. BDSM Erotica.

From Rendezvous With A Stranger...
For information on this novel

It’s the end of another week. Friday. I tell Robby I’ll be staying in the city for the weekend. His words suggest he’s disappointed, but I can hear the pulse of excitement as I give him the news. He can have Chelsea in our bedroom is what he’s thinking. I suppose just for good measure, I should show up anyway and catch them there. I wonder what it would be like to watch her tanned thighs moving with my husband’s cock between them. He’d have her haunches up, ass wagging like a dog. It think he’d fuck her on the floor, the hard pounding variety. I’d juice just watching them perform with her athletic body going on for an hour before she finally gets exhausted. It’s not hard work for Robby, though—he wouldn’t have to get her off. She’d be into multi-orgasmic frenzies all on her own.
I’ll find something as good for myself, but it won’t look the same as their brand of sex.

    The bar’s crowded at four just as work gets out, and at least until six, until the dinner hour when the patrons desert this part of town for better restaurants and better beer. I’ve talked my way through three Bud Lights and am waiting for the fourth when I see the stranger. The tell-tale sign—his ponytail swinging against his back as he leans into the bar. Instinct must tell him that he’s being stared at because he starts to move. Instantly, my body contracts, and I have to turn away, except that I’ve caught his gaze, and he mine. Finally breaking eye-contact, I reach for my purse as though I’m about to leave.

    Suddenly, there’s a hand on my hand as I reach for the floor.

    “Haven’t you ordered another beer?” I hear his voice for the first time. I know it’s him long before my eyes confirm the fact.

    My pulse is rapid, the beating of my heart twice as fast as I remember normal, and I can’t help squirming my crotch against the wooden seat. Looking him in the eye, I start to sit up straight, forgetting my attempt to flee. I couldn’t now if I wanted to with his hand clutching mine.

    “What’s your name?” he asks as he puts all his virile masculinity into the chair across from me.

    “Ellen Laurey,” comes out without thinking, instead of my real name Carolyn Cauthen. I use the name of a poet I met in college before she died in a car accident. I remember Ellen as someone who took chances, just as I know I’m taking one now, allowing this man to apprehend me with his grip of steel.

    I see that his eyes are blue, cornflower dark, looking almost eerie coming from his face. His hand tightening on mine generates heat and tranquility—peace with his gentle caress, and I feel as though I’m sinking into the fabric of his clothes and the scent of him—scotch, cologne and bar smoke—and what appears to be the trace of a smile.

    “So, Ellen Laurey, I’ve seen you haunting this neighborhood before.”

    “Is that a crime?”

    “To stay here past happy hour suggests you’re waiting for someone.”

    How could I tell him that I’m waiting for him?  Maybe he already knows, one of those people with a sixth sense that you bond with instantly, that you can’t let go no matter how dangerous you believe they are.

    His hand moves over mine. “A boyfriend?” he pursues the question.

    “No, I have …” I was about to say husband but I stop myself. “I have nowhere to go.”

    “And nothing to do,” he adds.

    “And nothing to do,” I agree.

    “But you want sex,” he concludes.

    I don’t confess or deny my desire, but we both have this figured. Maybe he’ll ask to go home with me, and I’ll let him, fucking him in my friend Isaac’s bed long into the night, then saying goodbye to him forever sometime before dawn. But no, the stranger has other ideas.

    “I’ll eventually have you in an alley since you enjoy them so much, but you have a choice tonight, the last one you’ll ever have with me. Here in the bar or outside the back door?”

    “You’re going to have sex with me here? Now?” I whisper.

    “You want anything less, Ellen?”

    “No, no.” I’m almost out of breath. “But how did you know?”

    “About the alley?”

    “And me?”

    “I saw you walk into that alley and then leave looking like a different woman. Everything else about you is as obvious as your wet cunt.”

    He’s never let go of my hand, and doesn’t when he rises. I don’t remember telling him where I wanted this first fuck, but I suppose that shouldn’t concern me, the hallway on the way to the restrooms will do. 

The corridor is a long one, well past the bar and the few people still milling and drinking, beyond the laughter, guffaws and chuckles and the occasional giggle of a woman. I hear my heels tapping against the wood, seeming to roar inside my head. The stranger guides me with a hand pressed against my back. When we reach the end of the long hall, it makes a sharp left and I feel him push me against the wall ahead of me. With his hand at my neck, my face is mashed against the stucco. First cool, the surface is quickly hot from my breath. I grow dizzy, disoriented by his force and the humiliation. But I don’t want him to stop.

    Ripping up my skirt the stranger grabs for an ass cheek and squeezes hard enough so I feel his nails. I swallow the shriek that’s stuck in my throat. He backs off and I breathe, for an instant feeling fresh air rush into my lungs, although the alcove is quickly stale from our body heat and the fumes of passion rising up from my crotch and his.

    Running fingers over my behind, I sense he’s inspecting me for flaws. There won’t be any on my ass—not yet. Just cream-colored skin, milky, appearing translucent because the glow of light around us is dim, a warm yellow.

    “You’ve been flogged?” he asks.

    “No, never,” I answer. I clench my cheeks tightly.

    I feel a finger on my clit, having reached deeply between my legs. He squeezes and I gasp, my breath is short again.

    “You want that?” he asks. “A well-warmed behind?”

    I nod because I can’t speak. I imagine him sneering at me, but when I look back, I see just the intent look on his face. I can see he’s hot, especially as he withdraws his belt and I glimpse the pouch at his legs growing more robust with each second his eyes feast on my pushed-out behind.

    I think he’s going to whip me with his leather, but find that he has other plans more ingenious. The door to my left opens into a stairwell and he jerks me about, forcing me through. Pulling my hands behind my back he confines them with the belt wrapped three times tightly so they’re out of our way. With the door closing behind us, the light around us vanishes into darkness—not the darkness that eyes become accustomed to, but the dark were there’s no trace of light, where even staring with eyes wide open nothing penetrates the black. We’re flesh to flesh in all this inky darkness.

    My knees hit the stairs and I’m bent forward. My torso rests on the steps above, my face now pressed into a hardwood step that’s covered with broken non-skid rubber, smelling old, like damp clothes and dust. There’s no sound but the sound of my anxious breath.

    I’m all touch and smells, my other senses unnecessary now. His flesh is seething, his heat fusing with mine and with my need. His cock parts my ass cheeks and rubs along the cleft. He reaches out and grabs my hair, which becomes the handle to steady his hold. His first thrust hits bottom so that a leftover shriek escapes.

    “Not a sound,” he whispers in my ear, “unless you want the world out there to see you screwed.”

    Diving back into my body, I’m immersed in sensation—in the driving passion of his cock within me, the painful hand tangling with my hair, and the feel of his chest hot against my back. He slides freely—my cunt wet. I’m swallowing him whole, like he might disappear in me. The pain’s not angry, but mesmerizing, a constant dull roar of sensation that’s hardly dull at all. I take it in, let it play with my fantasies and my fear. This stranger, fucking me like a cheap slut with absent virtue, can have anything I have. And despite all the reasons not to enjoy the assault, I’m preparing to cum. For an instant, the heavens are opening and my body is the new angel exalted, and then I’m back on these rickety saloon stairs getting breached from the rear by a man I’ve never met. That’s enough to have me ecstatic, writhing with a drunken, good-natured willingness. He’s not what I imagined, but something more crude and absolute. This stranger rips the threads of decency from my cloak of honor, slashes through the jungle of self-doubt where I might be mired in shame or guilt. He’s taken those options and tossed them into the murky waters beneath us both. I’m cumming without an ounce of regret, and I won’t repent this night.

    These thrusts, this cock in and out, this wetness flooding together, his and mine mingling, this moment divine. He catches my clit every time he moves. I’m sure I’m screaming, but I know he’ll hold my mouth quiet if I do. I tingle everywhere from pain and the fine-tuned peak of a spasm that builds and builds and builds, until …

    Like it’s raining down on me with fire and water, I tighten on him and hear him gasp, and await his final surge as my cum dwindles quietly away. When he withdraws, I sit on my step and feel his erection at my lips. I wish I had my hands to hold his thick meat, but they remain bound behind me. I open my mouth and his prick is inside without much effort. He fucks my face with his hands in my hair, until he spews. Then the cum is everywhere though I have no idea where it’s landed.

     The stranger backs away as the darkness surrounds us in its blanket of emptiness. The quiet’s deafening, but if I strain, I can hear the bar sounds coming from down the corridor. I think it’s safe with them that close. As his hand reaches around behind me, I cringe waiting for the death blow to land, but he’s only undoing his belt, and in the darkness I sense he’s putting it back around his pants. Moments later the door opens and my lover starts to walk way.

    “You’re going to leave me here?” I wonder aloud, and he turns around.

    “What more can I do?” he asks.

    He ends it there.

    “Will I see you again?” I ask, anxiously, as he’s almost around the corner and out of sight.

    He turns again and shrugs. I’m left to ponder the answer as his tight ass is the last piece of him to disappear from sight. The stairway isn’t lonely without him, but it’s cooled with the lack of his presence and it seems like more than just his body heat has vanished.

From Rendezvous with a Stranger Copyright © 1997 by Lizbeth Dusseau, all rights reserved

Wednesday, October 16, 2013

I am his. I am his slave.

Once again the theme of Masters and slaves is in the forefront of my thoughts. The current obsession with this topic can be traced to the novel that now consumes most of my time. Many of my novels include Masters and their to acquire them, keep them, and use them from the Master's point of view. For the submissive, the M/s relationship is often about bringing long held fantasies to life, as it is in the case of Marlena of In the Garden of Lust. It's a topic that goes to the heart of the BDSM lifestyle, and to the heart of my own sexual obsession.

From In the Garden of Lust
this excerpt...

Setting the stage: For Marlena, being a submissive to a dominant man is an obsession she cannot ignore. Driven by her haunting need, she seeks out the services of her friend Miriam, a professional Domme who runs a matchmaking service for dominants and submissives. Though Miriam worries that the beautiful 40 year old widow is too inexperienced for the three month arrangement she wants, Lena’s determination wins her over. From Miriam’s files of clients, Marlena chooses a wealthy English actor and lifestyle Master, Benjamin Lyons.

Following the Master’s instructions, Marlena arrives in London wearing nothing but a dress and high heels. She goes directly to a leather shop, where she’s fitted into a locking leather harness that will be her only attire during weeks of training at the master’s country cottage. And she meets him for the first time.


He’s on the other side of the door and I’m panicked. For several seconds, I’m unable to move until, at last, the adrenalin kicks into gear and I finish zipping up the fuchsia dress.

    I’ve seen the master’s picture, in fact, I’ve studied it carefully over last several weeks. I’ve been to bed with it; ran with it in my back pocket; and gazed at it while eating vegetable salads in my kitchen. His visage is so burned inside my cranium that I can bring it to mind with little thought. Still, I step back, momentarily in shock, when I finally open the door and see Benjamin Lyons standing before me in the flesh.

    His powerful energy precedes him. The distinguished Patrician features and firm body reek of the authority I’ve been seeking. But there is so much more about him than his inherent command. His eyes draw me into him with a degree of compassion I had not quite expected of the man, at least not so soon. He could melt me on the spot with his kindness. Although I suspect that with just a small shift in attitude, he could as easily stun me with the hard authority of his role as Master. My heart beats faster still, my loins rush with desire. I’m completely speechless at this jaw-dropping moment.

    “Are you all right, Mrs. Lucci?”

    I see his concern and am embarrassed now.

    “I-I’m, I’m fine.” My cheeks redden until I feel like I’m burning up. “Just nervous…surely you understand that.”

    “Well are you hungry?” he asks.

    “Not at all, sir. But I probably should be.”

    “Well then, let’s go.”

    As we walk through the hotel he places his hand on the small of my back, guiding me, keeping me steady, owning me with the simple gesture. Even this delicate touch is curiously erotic, setting off a wave of desire that causes my sexual body to respond.

    As he guides me through the lobby and onto the street, he launches into a mundane conversation about my trip, the accommodations, the weather. He asks questions I can field without little thought. I suspect he knows exactly how petrified I am; and perhaps how sexually excited as well.

    The street is busy at that hour so little more gets said until he suddenly stops not more than four or five blocks from the hotel, and opens the door leading into a Japanese restaurant. The place is high-end, high tech modern in its sparse Oriental design. Without waiting to be greeted by the maitre’d, Benjamin moves me toward the rear of the establishment with his hand still firmly in charge, resting against my back. When that warm palm falls away, he motions me to sit on one side of a black leather booth while he sits down on the opposite seat. I feel the absence of his hand with a brief wave of despair.

    We are met by a waiter pouring water into tall goblets. Then Benjamin orders a long string of items without bothering to look at the menu, or ask me what I’d like. At the moment, I really don’t care what I eat. I study him further as he speaks. Everything he does comes with a degree of confidence I feel from few men, as if he owns the world—or certainly everything associated with him. The waiter bows curtly and smiles, then moves away, while I’m still trying to keep my jaw from dropping in awe. He’s done little to settle my ragged nerves, but everything possible to send my lust frantically careening forward to our first time in bed—although I have no promise we’ll ever get to that point.

    “Your accommodations adequate?”

    “Oh yes, very nice. Although I’ve hardly had a chance to enjoy the room. I was lying down when you called.”

    “Jetlag will affect you for a few days, but you’ll work through it.”

    “Yes, sir.”

    “And the harness? Dooley tells me there was some reluctance to put it on.”

    Blushing again, “I was nervous, sir. Just stepped off the plane and the harness was so completely unexpected. I guess I panicked when Mr. Dooley told me to strip. But I-I did adjust.”

    There’s a bit of a sly smile on his lips—I think. Although I have no idea what he’s thinking; he’s very difficult to read.

    “Do you tend to panic when you’re given an order?”

    “I don’t know. I’ve never thought about it. Maybe when I’m under stress?”

    “And you’re panicked now?”

    “It comes in waves.”

    “When you realize what a daring thing it is you’ve done?”

    “Yes, sir. Something like that.” He sees me wringing my sweaty palms. Just nerves, I know. When I catch myself, I try to stop, but nothing seems to ease my nervous agitation. I’m cognizant enough to realize the importance of this extraordinary moment, one fraught with desire, expectation, apprehension and fear. And yet it’s wildly erotic, too. The delicious feelings flowing through me come on in huge swells rising up through my entire body. I taste the lust on my tongue, feel the yearning through my fingertips. Has he any idea what he’s done to me?    

    It would be so much easier if we could skip the preliminaries and go straight to the bedroom, which I know won’t happen. Nor would it be what I came here for. I wonder if Miriam was right, that I’m not meant for the life that awaits me. Maybe what I really need is just a good man to love me.

    “But you’re also aroused,” Benjamin interrupts my mental madness. It’s clearly not a question, so I just bow my head and blush again. Something’s got to break the tension; I can hardly stand myself.

    The server arrives with enough food to cover the entire table, and Benjamin busies himself for several minutes dishing up sushi, steak and vegetables, listing as he does the items he’s putting on my plate. Then he sets the plate in front of me and dishes up his own. I politely wait until he takes the first bite before I take a bite of my own.

    The silence is killing me, but I have no clue what to say and am thankful when he finally offers up another question for me to chew on.

    “Tell me about the harness.”

    “Tell you about the harness?” I wouldn’t know where to begin.

    “Yes, tell me about the harness.” He sounds annoyed.

    My hands immediately go to my lap as if I can think better with them there. I can’t seem to focus on my food and speak at the same time. This seems like a particularly submissive act, but then, I’m in a particularly submissive mood. I wiggle a bit remembering how the harness confines me, how with every small movement, I can feel it binding against me at some point, underneath my arm, around my middle, along my inner thighs, across my breasts. The tug is inevitable, and erotic. The plunge into the abyss of submission inevitable as well.

    “Well, let’s see…at first, I found it so tight that all I could think of was ripping it off. I might have if it hadn’t been locked on.” I smile nervously, my cheeks warming. “But since we’ve been here, I’ve almost forgotten that I’m wearing it. I feel it tug when I move, but little more than that. Perhaps it won’t be as invasive as I think.”

    I can see he has his doubts. “And perhaps it will be as invasive as you fear.”

    “Yes, you might be right,” I concede. All he had to do was call attention to the harness and the damn thing seems to have tightened as if someone were screwing it to my flesh.

    “But let’s forget first impressions, Marlena. Go a little deeper… think about the harness, think what it says about you and what it tells you about me.”

    He dips sushi in the dark brown sauce, pops it in his mouth, then sits back waiting for my reply.

    I try very hard, though it takes some time for my thoughts to gel, for me to find something intelligent to say. Even then, I’m not sure I’m making any sense. “I’ve never felt quite so constricted, maybe a better word would be contained ? I suppose that sounds a little silly, but it’s as if you have your hands on me, it’s you holding me so tightly.”

    “And how does that feel?”

    “Well…” I can’t stop the bashful blush.

    “Go on, spit it out.”

    “It feels… um…amazingly… e-erotic.”

    “You’re hot now?” His steely blue eyes drill me.



    “I’m sure I am.”

    “But you don’t know for sure. Let’s not guess. Find out.”

    “You mean like…”

    “I mean open your thighs and finger your pussy.” His tone strikes a harder edge and I shudder. Then, as awkward as it is, I raise the dress enough so I can open my thighs and reach in for the evidence he wants. When I bring my fingers out gleaming with juices he nods, then returns to his meal, while I sit and watch. My stomach is too nervous to even try another bite of food.

    He finally stares up, and sees me not eating.

    “If you’re not hungry, then play with yourself. You probably need the relief more than you do food.”

    “Really? Here?” I protest—without really wanting to.

    “Yes. Masturbate for me.”

    Oh fuck! I stare at the busy waiters moving deftly through the restaurant delivering meals, taking orders, coming out to refill water glasses, and I wonder how I can obey the order without being noticed. Benjamin, meanwhile, follows my every glance. He must see the gears turning in my mind, the stops and starts, the misgivings, the desire to flee, then the desire to relent, pass through me until I’m utterly frozen unable to do a darn thing.

    “Perhaps I need to make the demand more difficult…” he suggests as he casually pops another sushi in his mouth.

    “No sir!” The threat is enough to get me moving, for my legs to fall open one more time and my hand slip into the wet folds of my pussy. As soon I lay a finger on my clit, I feel the tension rise up and an orgasm surface as if it’s been waiting all this time for me to act. If only I’d masturbated in the hotel room rather than trying unsuccessfully to sleep—although at the time, I had no idea I’d be making this command performance at dinner. Although I try to be discreet, I feel as if I’m laying myself open to the entire restaurant of sushi eating diners. However, after little more than a minute of furtive play, I’m too far gone to stop the impending climax; I simply don’t care who sees or how I look. Although I maintain some degree of propriety, I realize how my body quakes as the orgasm suddenly thunders into a pleasure-filled ride on my hand. I hear the gasp of breath, the enormous sigh. I sense my head rock a bit, then with the last tremors still moving through me, I primly right myself and come back to the world, to Benjamin Lyons and his steady gaze, which, at that moment, is as compassionate as it was when I opened my hotel room door.

    “Better?” he asks.

    “I think so.” He casts me a doubtful look. “Yes, I’m very much better. I am.” A degree of agitation has drained away. My heart is not beating so fast, and the queasy feeling in my stomach that has been with me all day seems to have eased.

    I worry about what he’ll demand of me next, but then he starts up an innocuous conversation about art and theatre that diverts us from the more prickly subject of harnesses, masters and slavery. Good sport that I am, I politely pick at my food until Benjamin calls an end to the meal, pays the check and we leave the restaurant.

    He leads me back to my room with the same claiming gesture of ownership he used earlier in the evening. Once we are at my door, the tension in me starts to build again. Will he leave now or accompany me inside? So many unknowns stretch out before me, and I’m trembling so much that I simply can’t fit the key in the lock.

    “Forget that for now, Marlena,” his voice suddenly overrides my efforts. I stop and am about to turn when I feel his forceful hand shoving me into the closed door. With his other hand he lifts the back of my dress and I feel the draft of air against my naked skin. For a moment, he fingers the harness straps he’s exposed, then his exploration shifts to the crack of my ass, with his hand running deftly down the center, sliding over my sensitive anus then moving deeper into my cleft where he finds my pussy leaking sex juice down my leg. A few thrusts of his hand into my vagina and I begin to spasm again, losing myself for a moment until I become aware that my master is directly behind me, pressing his erection in the opening his hand just vacated. I cling to the door as the forceful thrusts beat against my back. His cock is like a strong drink, this feeling intoxicating. I have no mind, no will of my own, and not an ounce of modesty. I think nothing of the fact that we’re in an unguarded hotel corridor, well within the view of anyone who emerges from the elevator or one of the other rooms that line the hallway.

    Still we fuck. As if we’ve been waiting for this… not for weeks but years. As if this kind of desperate urgency prevails over propriety, over the threat of being discovered.

    Is he desperate, too, or just showing me who’s in control?

    I sense when he’s about to ejaculate and bear down—nothing wrong with making a good first impression. Although he emits a few significant grunts to break the silent sounds of the impromptu sex, I can tell when he’s about to come by the changing tension in his powerful body. Oppressive. Dark. Needy. Exhilarating. I’m swept up and held by that power as our shared climax crashes through our bodies, as he slams me into the door, again and again and again. I’m alarmed by that forceful power, even though I feel myself bending to that power, yielding to its demands.

    I am his. I am his slave. I can ask for nothing better than this of my summer.

This excerpt is copyrighted, (c) 2009, all rights reserved.