Cover Image: ‘59th Street Station’, © R C Hörsche
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?”
“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