Friday, November 15, 2013

Until he came into her life...

She lived a vanilla life until Jon Rush invaded her life with his ropes and crop and collar and his unusual way to reach an ecstatic state of pleasure. 

I've been happily, busily writing my latest novel...time is short, my deadline approaching fast, but there's always time to share a hot D/s scene... this one from Sophie & Maureen, a novel written when photographers still used real cameras and developed their prints in dark rooms. 

An excerpt from Sophie & Maureen a sensuous tale sexual surrender as the naive and impressionable Sophie falls under the spell of the mysterious Jon Rush, and she eventually disappears into San Francisco's sexual underground. 

Monday  with the photographer Martin and Jon Rush...

She wore the silver dress with the silver heels on Monday, striding into the open space of the studio like she had no fear of anything—though Jon Rush took care of that quickly.

    He was there waiting for her once she was dressed—he hadn’t been when she arrived.

    “Good afternoon,” she said politely approaching him.

    He paid her little mind.

    “Afternoon, Sophie,” he rattled off and turned his back on her, talking to Martin about lights and pulleys, in language that didn’t have any meaning for an extraneous model standing alone in the center of the room with nothing around her.

    When he turned back, Jon Rush seemed to have forgotten that she’d been there all along; and looking her over with a cursory indifference, he strode to the side table and grabbed the collar.

    “We don’t start until you have this on,” he said. “It wastes my time to wait.”

    His impatience was surprising. Had she done something wrong? Or was he having a bad day?

    Pushing the leather into her palm, he waited for her, annoyed by the wasted minutes it took to have the collar around her throat and buckled unseen from behind.

    “The leather needs to be worn, warmed with body heat and it will go on easier,” he told her.
    She smiled, nervously wondering if he was suggesting that she wear it all day long to break it in.

    Once the leather encircled her neck, he reached out and tugged it as though it needed adjusting—then letting it settle where it had naturally fit before he began. His brusque demeanor scared her, then too—there was little about the man that didn’t send dark chills running up her spine.

    Pushing her two feet sideways, he reached above to pull down a maze of leather and chains that stunned her eyes once she realized its intended purpose.

    “Have you been cuffed?”

    “No, I haven’t,” she answered.

    “Then you have something to look forward to,” he said as he pulled a pair of thick leather cuffs from a bag at the side of the room. Buckling each around one of Sophie’s slim wrists, he then drew her hands above her head and fixed them to either end of a foot wide bar that hung on two hefty chains. Her shoulders high above her head drew the skirt up so it skimmed her ass. In the front, the material tickled the edges of her labia, teasing her clit, stroking her hair, turning frayed nerve endings raw.

    Jon Rush circled her as he had the Friday before when she was on her knees in the silver dress, ass pressed to her heels, hands clasped behind her back. He used the cane again, this time, lifting the edges of her skirt, and teasing a thin line along the outside of her thigh all the way down to her calf where he tapped her lightly. Martin took pictures, seeing pose after pose appear like a stage play before his eyes. Her helplessness intrigued him as much as it was sexually arousing. 

   She would have preferred not to communicate her arousal so clearly, but the signs of it were already beginning to appear between her legs. She felt a drop of liquid heat sliding down the inside of her thigh. Each trip her tormentor made around her body seemed to increase the anxious flood of desire collecting as dew within her crotch. The heaviness in her was so profound, she thought her whole cunt would drop to the floor.

    When he drew the sharp-tipped end of the cane down the crack of her ass, she gasped, her breath so heavily engaged that he backed off and smiled his first real smile of the day.

    “Not only are you physically perfect for this job, Sophie, you have the temperament of a slut to accompany it. I imagine your boyfriend will be happy with the results today.” His words leaped out at her from behind like the tendrils of a deep-sea creature taking hold on the unsuspecting swimmer. Waltzing around to her front, he then mocked her with a sadistic grin, making sure she could see how much he seemed to loathe her at that moment.

    He ran the cane over her legs, tapping it lightly, but with so little force that it felt like feathers against her skin. She responded with her breathing more labored, the dew at her legs almost frothy.

    “Give me a close up here,” he ordered Martin. Standing in front of her, Jon Rush pressed the tip of the cane inside her labia, then at one side, jabbed the thing with a steady pressure into the plump flesh of a throbbing side, opening her cunt for the camera’s eye. She refused to look down, knowing without seeing that he was exposing her clitoris, the bud twice its normal size now engorged with blood.

    “I’m going to rap your flesh lightly with the cane, Sophie. It shouldn’t hurt, but it will leave some red impression on the skin that Martin can pick up with the camera. Let me know if I hit too hard.”

    He began at the front of her thighs, giving them a constant staccato of gentle cuts. The repetition seemed nearly sensuous until one particular strike seemed fueled with an angry bite.


    “Too hard?” he asked.

    She breathed deeply and relaxed. “No, not really.”

    “Don’t joke with me now, Sophie, this is serious business,” he said scolding like a mother hen. “Only if I hit too hard.”

    He moved behind her, where her ass cheeks were nearly bare, the cane coming down lightly at the base of her bottom and then lower along her thighs. He began with the same methodically repeated strikes, but increased the tempo and intensity until she began to feel an obvious sting on the skin. The heat of it moved from the surface deep into the tissue of her flesh.

    Her breathing deepened, her body adjusting to the rising sensation. “I want the quality of your skin to appear raw,” he said.

    She cringed, hearing his plans.

    “Don’t worry,” he offered noting her fear. “It will fade by the end of the day.”

    The strikes were coming on quickly now, each one biting, but none were so hard that she couldn’t bear another. When he let loose with one that snapped a mean streak of fire across her ass, she yelped, and the torture was over at last.

    “You did very well, Sophie, for a first time. And how does it feel?” His one hand was running its way over the flesh of her ass—Martin clicking shots of this massage in steady succession. He moved around the scene like a preying animal about to pounce.

    “Hot, sir,” Sophie replied.

    “It feels hot.” Jon cupped one cheek and gave it a good squeeze just as Martin was capturing that image. In front, Jon's hand moved to her snatch, boring between the folds of flesh. “And you’re aroused,” he noted the obvious.

    Her cunt tightened involuntarily on his meandering fingers while Sophie worried that his continued play would provoke her climax. Before she embarrassed herself, however, he was undoing the chain and stroking the soreness from her arms and shoulders. The tension eased, her heart stopped racing like a renegade wind and the sexual roar started to fade.

    Returning to the dressing room, Sophie pulled the silver slip dress over her head and stared at the red lines on her thighs. Running her fingers over the marred skin, another trickle of sex juice escaped the pulsing portal. A gentle pulse of desire began again. The raw was beautiful, the texture only lightly injured and the color quickly faded as she let the picture of herself assault her eyes. Her belly clenched, while her insides hungered for a cock to satisfy what gnawed at her so crudely.

    Once Jon left the studio, Martin didn’t wait for Sophie to pull him into the dressing room. He was on her before she finished inspecting her body for signs of significant wounds. They ground each other into the miserably prickly divan, scorching the skin of Sophie’s backside until she wasn’t sure if the burns remaining were from the crude way he screwed her, or lasting remnants of Jon Rush’s cane.

    They fucked in virtual silence. Except for panting groans, a deep-throated scream when Martin ejaculated, and Sophie sighing at the undulating climax, they didn’t share one single word.

From Sophie & Maureen (c) Copyright 1999 by Lizbeth Dusseau, all rights reserved.