Friday, December 20, 2013

The Night She Met Her Cowboy

 (Book Cover Image removed to comply with Google restrictions on nudity)

Spent most of my morning trying out new color schemes and styles for this blog. Still haven't made any final decisions, but this is it for now. Lest I not forget the point of what I'm doing, I do have this steamy scene to take us into the weekend. 

May your holiday celebrations be filled with joy and lots of kinky fun! 

From the novel: Poor Little Rich Slut

Feeling the tempestuous night close in around me, I shivered in fear as I walked from my car to the sidewalk. All was black and starless. Clouds swarmed overhead like an angry sea. I didn’t realize that the frenzied wind and turbulent air were merely a backdrop for some godly declaration. It was a bold stroke of genius when, through a sudden opening in that stormy commotion, the full moon appeared like a heavenly emissary and shone brightly into my startled eyes. Was it a blessing or a curse? I couldn’t say. The effect was both beautiful and frightening. Seconds later, the clouds closed in around that brilliant moon, enshrouding the orb inside their gloom again. My body felt something horrific pass through it, then the feeling disappeared as quickly as it came, as quick as that brief glimpse of moon.

    I do believe I had been warned.

    Regardless of my apprehensions, I moved through the inky night to the chain-link fence where the gate stood ajar, my invitation to enter into the eerie world of carnival lights and blinking neon. A gust of air danced loose trash across my path. It swirled then fell to the ground again as soon as the air settled. I stopped to let it pass, then ventured deeper into the amusement park. While ignoring the steady internal dialogue, about why the hell I’d be risking myself in this dilapidated world, the rest of me moved eagerly toward the Carousel where Casey Ingram said he’d meet me. We’d made the date the week before, when I felt particularly reckless and in need of a change.

    I’d taken off on my own that night, after having abandoned my agreement with Garrison Tate—a shameless scoundrel who was both my co-worker and sexual mentor. In a similarly seedy neighborhood as this wretched Carnival one, I popped into a bar, sitting my leather-clad behind on a vinyl barstool and ordered a martini. Was I sleazy enough for the place? I immediately wondered, as I gazed around at my fellow clientele, who sat at the bar and tables, clutching with grimy fingers their bottles of Bud and Pabst Blue Ribbon. They ate stale popcorn by the handful, made wisecracking remarks, then laughed in boisterous gales. Afterwards they settled back to glowering until something gave them cause to regale the bar with laughter again.

    I gave the skuzzy men something to look at for thirty dreadful seconds, during which I deliberately adjusted myself on the stool, wiggling my derriere to attract, not repel their attention. I liked their eyes on me and imagined I could read their thoughts—where scenes of hard-fucking ass-sex seemed to reign among the other dirty things they’d do to me. Pantiless, I felt a quotient of female juices leaking out against my thighs as the effect of that image trickled down through my body. Wiggling my ass again, merely as a way of grinding my pussy deeper into the vinyl stool, I felt a spasm of pure pleasure make my entire crotch heat.

    I probably should have ordered a beer not a martini. But then that made me more watchable, which was exactly what I was after.

    Some moments later, Casey Ingram entered, wearing cowboy boots, roughed-up jeans and a scowl to rival the rest of those I’d grown accustomed to in the previous ten minutes. There was something especially appealing about this guy. I liked his swagger, and behind the facial hair, the scruffy beard and the dark mustache, I made out a handsome face.

    My cowboy sat down a seat away from me at the bar and hovered over a double-shot of whiskey, which he finally downed in one gulp before slamming the glass against the bar. After a big sigh, he turned his head toward me, smiling.

    “Casey Ingram,” he said, his introduction, “and you are?”

    I’m the heiress Eleanor Hutton Rule to the rest of the world. To Casey Ingram, I’m Ellie Barnes.

    “Ellie,” I spat out. “Ellie Barnes.” First time I’d ever used an alias and I rather liked the way it sounded. I liked being someone else.

    “You’re here alone, Ellie Barnes?”

    “That’s right.”

    His eyes combed my body head to toe, seeing the sleek, kittenish look I carefully crafted before leaving home. My hair was smooth, in a blunt pageboy no longer than my shoulders; my lashes were thick with mascara. I wore too much lipstick, too much blush, too much shadow over my eyes—he was certain to think me cheap and easy. I should have worn denim rather than leather to make my seedy look more authentic, I thought in a moment of self-doubt. But then, I don’t think my cowboy noticed that the leather skirt was designer chic, not off the rack. His eyes rested on my chest, settling in for a while to imagine what might be under the tightly stretched, low-cut sweater. I moved toward him invitingly, my cleavage cooperating with the seduction as the flesh jiggled enough to keep the cowboy’s eyes fixed a few more seconds. Finally, his gaze shifted downward, noting the way my hiked-up skirt showed off the lace tops of my stockings and the attaching garters.

    “So, you must be meeting someone?” He finally looked into my eyes.

    “No,” I shook my head.

    “This ain’t the kinda place you just stumble into.”

    “No, I don’t suppose it is. But I needed a drink and it was close.”

    Had I said enough, telegraphed the message sufficiently? Did he have the guts to pick me up? One look at his crotch and I could see that his cock was getting firm.

    He moved to the seat beside me, like he could be intimate now. Then he toyed with a lock of my brunette pageboy and whispered, “You don’t suppose that leaving with me could be what you’re after?”

    I smiled. “I suppose it could be.”

    His snigger played out all over his face, in his eyes and the way his breathing changed, dropping deeper into his crotch, which was what this was all about—two hungry crotches.

    Digging into his pocket, he pulled out a wad of bills and threw a few on the bar, nodding to the bartender. The man polishing shot glasses stared at me judgmentally; he knew what I was doing. Then my cowboy slithered off the seat in my direction, putting his arm around me in one smooth motion. Once on our feet, we moved to the back of the bar and out the steel door into the night.

    The air beyond was fresh, a hint of the salty ocean stinging the nostrils. I picked up the scent of frying food and asphalt and exhaust fumes from a diesel truck.

    I’ll give him credit; he was bluntly honest, asking before he acted: “Do I take the time to court, Ellie, or can we make this quick?”

    “Long as it’s raunchy, quick is fine with me,” I said.

    He smiled, chuckling under his breath, rolling his head a little in amazement. “You know, it’s like a guy doesn’t get it any better than this.”

    “So?” I was waiting, wanting him to make a move, a real move, like slap me against the cement wall, push me flat against the cold surface and fuck me hard, real hard, from behind. But once he got over his amazement, he gathered me to his side again and we hustled through the streets and alleys, taking a maze of twists and turns. Finally, as if he was working up the courage, he stopped on a bridge, an old bridge connecting the industrial neighborhood we just left with the residential slums. He pushed me against the rail and I looked down on the street below, seeing cars and trucks and one big motor home breeze on into the night.

    Moving in behind me with a warm crotch and chest, his hand reached inside my stretchy top and grabbed a tit, two fingers finding a nipple and squeezing hard enough that I let out a little shriek.

    “Might be wise to be quiet here, huh?” he whispered in my ear.

    “You’re right,” I whispered back.

    With his right hand on my breast, the left hand went under my leather skirt, raising it high, showing off the garterbelt and the naked flesh beneath. It might have been quite a sight to see the exhibition, but the night around us was lonely and deserted. “You do smell like something special, Ellie Barnes. Like expensive perfume,” he murmured. His nose nuzzled my neck; his tongue tasted my skin; his lips bit down on my flesh and produced an urgent spasm in my belly.

    Hum… and he could tell expensive perfume from cheap? I noted with a delicate sigh, just before I started to grind my ass back against his groin.

    “I’m wet,” I informed him.

    His hand moved to the succulent valley between my thighs, seeking the entrance to my pussy.

    “You sure are,” he drawled. Such happy admiration!

    His member throbbed against the back of my thigh, and when it was freed from inside his pants, I felt the raw fervent muscle against my naked ass. It started to prod, moving into the cleft between my cheeks, hitting my asshole first—which doesn’t easily give—then searching deeper, lower, for the pulse of my wet pussy.

    Our warm pheromones clashed in the steamy air. It was a night fit for groveling.

    Sliding in, he sighed. I sighed in return, being grateful and happy to have him, happy to know I’d scored a raunchy ride on a night like this—on a night when I needed anonymous more than I needed the merciless probing eyes and cock and heart of Garrison Tate.

    Damn Garrison Tate, anyway! My pestered mind screeched… when the thought of him interrupted the moment. Damn him for meeting me here on this bridge, for finding my mind with his. For getting inside, as if I still wanted him telling me what to do.

    Dammit, Garrison Tate, I’m going to fuck my cowboy,
I silently screamed.

    “Oh, yes baby,” I vented in a quiet voice.    

    “Yeah, you gonna cum, baby,” Casey answered, his voice a breathless growl.

    “Oh, yes, I’m gonna cum. Yes! Fuck me!” I was getting too loud. I knew that.

    But my cowboy didn’t care. His warm breath was at my neck, my ear. His wet lips kissed the side of my throat. His hands, his strong, firm, muscled hands squeezed my naked ass cheeks, and his cock worked wonders, rubbing places that make me squeal, make me hot. Yes! He made me need to cum.  

    I started to sweat. Another waft of sexual odors greeted my nostrils. I ground a little harder back against him, grunting now and seething under my breath, “Fuck me, baby, fuck me, fuck me, YES YES HARDER!” More intense, heavier breathing. He was getting into his rhythm and was ready for the explosive end. He gave me one last hard thrust and held my ass to his groin, shooting spasm after spasm after spasm into my quivering hole. Amazingly, he reached around and teased my clitty just enough to trigger the finish in me.

    YES YES YES!  I was screaming—to myself, I think. Although I’m not sure I didn’t announce it to the world.

    Yet no one came running. No sounds echoed off the building and all was quiet once
we stopped. Even the street below the bridge was empty of all traffic.

    I felt negligent afterwards. No Tate to upbraid me for being bad. No punishment. No sweet refuge in the startling pain of a physical rebuke. Something was missing after we righted ourselves and I wiped my crotch on his handkerchief and straightened my clothes. I felt free and sad and guilty, all at the same time. Something was missing, something lost, but these were all silent thoughts I’d never share with an anonymous lover.

    Casey made himself presentable, while both of us filled the awkward moment with a compendium of wistful sighs until we couldn’t sigh anymore. Someone had to say something.

    He spoke first. “You do this often?”

    I stared at him a moment, not knowing what to say. “No, no, not really.” I had my first flustered, self-conscious moment.

    “Any special reason?”

    “Just a bad breakup,” I managed, wishing we didn’t have to make small talk.

    “I see.” He seemed as ready to move on as I was, but added, much to my surprise, “So, I suppose it’s too much to think you’d want to go at it again, huh?”

    Go at it. How quaint, I thought, while I was trying to figure out how to respond.

    “I don’t know. Could it be better than this?” I wondered aloud.

    “Maybe.” He smiled a crooked, charming smile. “I run the machinery at the amusement park and live in the Carousel building. Some women like the added thrill of a wild ride, if you know what I mean?”

    I didn’t know what he meant, not exactly. But the thought of amusement parks and carnival rides, cotton candy and stale popcorn tend to feed the girl in me with unseemly desires. If this Casey Ingram could fulfill my seedy fantasies, then he wasn’t just my cowboy fuck for an evening; he was a man of minor miracles, able to lift me out of my sexual impoverishment like a bold knight.

Tuesday, December 17, 2013


A little hard kink...

The candid confessions of a sex slave, now property of a new owner

Excerpt from Scandal for Sale...

I have been sold.

    My gut grinds as that thought works its way about my mind.

    Judge Perdue and his wife took me to the auction house—I had no idea that such a place existed in the modern world. Whether it was a fa├žade resurrected in a day, or something permanent, I can’t be sure; but the crude room at the top of the aging warehouse looked, smelled and felt authentic… as if hundreds of owned souls had been offered for sale, auctioned, purchased and transferred to their new owners inside the rough surroundings. Approaching the building from the street, a shudder of apprehension ripped through my being as I viewed the abandoned edifice. It looked like the next in line for bulldozers and wrecking balls, rather than a place of commerce. Inside, my quavering body took a scary trek up three flights of stairs and into a holding room just off the main arena. Some putrid smell wafted by my nostrils then disappeared. I looked around at my surroundings, seeing little but filth. No one had bothered to clean the wooden floor, dust the grimy surfaces or clear the stale air with a breath of fresh air from an opened window. All the windows had been boarded—I suppose years ago. A few cracks revealed the daylight outside, but otherwise the auction house belonged to another time, cloaked in darkness. I had only moments to survey the room before a blindfold dropped over my eyes, and I was hastily disrobed and pushed into my cage.

    Inside my blindness, my hands probed the space around me. I was surrounded on four sides, hardly able to move inside the tiny prison. I could stand. I could flex my legs, but I couldn’t turn around. There were noises all around me, and hands that jabbed my flesh. I jumped and shrieked, feeling as if I was being probed with Billy clubs and canes. Someone’s hand pressing at my cunt found the folds slick with juice.

    “Shall I get her off?”

    “Not protocol, Griz.”

    Other anonymous voices bantered back and forth at my expense, while the heavy weight of cutting nipple clamps caused my breasts to sag, and sent angry lines of pain screeching merrily through my body. A crude dildo was thrust into my dry anus.

    “Lube it, Connor,” an exasperated female droned.

    “It’s going in,” Connor answered back. In my imagination, I could see his mouth grinning evilly.

    My head was yanked back against the bars, my hair twisted into a knot, tying it out of the way. Another pair of hands yanked on the clamps, yanked hard enough to pull them off. I screamed.

    A firm hand on my chin shook my anchored head, while a seething voice hissed in my ear, “Maybe you want to be gagged, bitch.”

    From above the din around me, I heard the auctioneer’s call as another slave was on the block and the purchase was being finalized.

    I endured the taunts, the jeers and the crude touch minutes more, then all that ceased. The hands withdrew, my head was freed, and the dildo in my ass was removed. I felt the bars of my cage opening, and a hand pressing down on my right shoulder. “Crawl,” the voice was as dismal as the mood around me.

    A collar was slapped around my throat, tied off tightly at the back of my neck and then attached to a leash. Tugged forward, I made my journey over the dusty floor, grime and soot pressing into my hands and knees. When my head hit wood, I was pulled upright and prodded in the center of my ass with a stick.

    “On your feet.”

    Maneuvering blind is a grueling task. My muscles seemed to fight the move, to creak and groan in protest; but my will prevailed. Once on my feet again, someone yanked my collar from above and I stepped up to the platform, bumping my shins on the high steps.

    Heat came at me from all sides, blistering my skin with fire. Then shouts commenced as the dais turned and my head grew dizzy. My mouth was dry, my palms sweat profusely, but there was nowhere to wipe them except on my naked thighs.

    Some stray hand tugged at my pubic hair. Another yanked the hair on my head. I would have kicked the asshole in the leg, but that would have been a dangerous move. Common sense won out.

    I heard the voices of the barter shouting numbers into the stifling air.

    I teetered, thinking I’d faint; but someone noticed and shoved smelling salts at my nose, “Wake up.”

    “Yes, Sir.” I answered the voice without thinking, seconds later wondering why I’d be so respectful of this ritual, and the men who auctioned me.

    Behind the abuse, the aggravation and my anger, my belly burned with sexual intensity, flaring ferociously as each insult heaped on more humiliation. Thank God, I couldn’t see their faces, couldn’t peer into their eyes, and was too afraid to shout the thoughts that careened around my mind like cawing crows.

    One minute, I was in the midst of this heated battle, wishing I could somehow fly away; the next, I was pushed from behind and stumbling forward into a pair of muscular arms, tossed over meaty shoulders and taken away.

    Caged again, I sat in a different sort of contraption, a metal box with steel bars. Confined, curled up in a ball just to fit insides the tiny space, I waited while the focus turned from me to another slave who’d become the center in this festival of flesh.
“Lift her head.” I heard the words, but made no connection with the voice. My blindfold remained in place.

    A stinging palm slapped me awake. Someone said I’d fainted.

    Once drawn from the cage, a blanket was thrown over my shoulders and a guiding arm encircled my waist. I was taken from the building, helped down three flights of stairs and led into daylight, quickly shoved into the seat of a car—a back seat I presumed. I lay curled in fetal position during the long ride to my final destination.
“Miss Lourdes.”

    It seemed like a century had passed since I was allowed the use of my eyes. Hearing my name, I opened them, finding them trying to focus on a face in front of me—a familiar face, though I couldn’t immediately remember where I’d seen these classically handsome and trustworthy features. Perhaps he just reminded me of someone.

    “Your new home,” he announced. He was sitting on the bed where I lay, and gazed around at the simple but very pleasant surroundings. I glanced toward the window, seeing nothing but sky and suspected that we were on the upper floor of an apartment high-rise.

    “The Greenery Building.” He’d read my thoughts.

    I didn’t recall the building, but that hardly mattered now.

    “I think the auction went rather well.” He was trying to be gracious. “You were lucky you weren’t whipped. Most properties are,” he smiled generously, “but I had all the information I needed without marring the merchandise. I’d rather whip you myself, as risk having your body damaged by some goon who doesn’t know how to punish without scarring.”

    I still couldn’t put a name to his face, but I knew it well. The deep, rich, summer tan, the sincere, inquisitive eyes, the perfectly sculpted forehead, cheeks and jaw. A jaw with a purpose. This man was created for the modern day aristocracy—a politician, an actor… no, he was on the news—how could I have missed that face! He was the Channel 9 anchor for the six o’clock news, and now the owner of a female slave.

    “Andy Kerrigan,” he introduced himself, “you’re S. R. Lourdes.”

    I nodded.

    “And this is where you live.” He pushed to his feet and strolled away from the bed to the windows, where an intense blue sky framed his silhouette. “Twelve stories high in my apartment. It’s as good a place for a slave to dwell as any I can think of.” His deep baritone was unmistakable. My crotch was getting wet, wondering how he’d look without his clothes. “I do plan to make some alterations.” I wasn’t sure what he meant. He turned back to me. “I have particular fantasies that have me quite intrigued. I’m told you’re moldable, so we’ll see. I am a bit of a sadist, but then your previous owner was, too.” A quick smile, and he continued with his monologue. “I’m sure that my streak of villainy will be no more difficult to handle than what you have handled before.” He sounded as if he was reading from a teleprompter.

    “Will I have my personal belongings?” I timidly asked.

    The question surprised him. He thought a moment, speaking extemporaneously this time, “Yes. There were a couple of boxes that accompanied you here. You can get them from the storeroom later today.”

    He seemed amenable to questions so I continued, “How will I serve you?”

    “I am working on that. I have a few ideas, but I don’t like to plan anything too far in advance. The element of surprise excites me. Hopefully it will excite you too.”
I was able to retrieve this diary from a sad-looking box of personal effects that Mrs. Perdue had gathered for me. Other than a few clothes, which at the moment it seems I won’t be wearing, there is little more that I cared to keep. Thankfully, Ma’am always respected my diary, and never asked to read it. I hope that Andy Kerrigan will grant me this much privacy. I don’t know how I can live without my words to comfort me—or worse yet, have them read and tampered with. The thought grates at my every nerve.

Copyright (c) Lizbeth Dusseau, all rights reserved