Friday, November 28, 2014

Bound For Pleasure


Bound For Submission

He was one of many who wound me inside their erotic genius,
with the capacity to take my pliant flesh,
and capturing it,
send sensation soaring to limitless finales. 
Stripped
clipped
extremities tied
bound for submission,
to be abused by lust and a constant lover,
used for sex and thrills and rude awakenings,
satiated midnight until noon.

His devices won me.
With dark command,
fragrant body,
unyielding will
and the surprise of pain,
I succumbed to him,
answering his need
with my own.
I am his to control
it is for me to surrender
both of us bound for pleasure. 


Adapted from the novel Bound for Submission by Lizbeth Dusseau

Friday, November 14, 2014

Staked to the Ground

This week, winter swept into the Midwest with a vengeance...we've hardly recuperated from last year's polar vortex. Time to snuggle in with some sexy porn. What better way to beat the early winter blues than a hot BDSM fantasy scene on a warm beach...staked to the ground.
 

Excerpt from my novel:
Undress Her For Dinner

For more information on this novel, click here
 

It was eight pm when JD picked me up at my apartment. I was on the street waiting for him, feeling strangely anxious. It was just our second date, but I felt oddly comfortable using the term boyfriend to define our relationship.

    We drove north away from the city and the suburbs into Wisconsin, to a beach on a pristine lake, which appeared out of nowhere in the middle of the rolling farmland. The shore was lined with trees; a crescent moon glowed off the water. It was beautiful in the dark, a cool almost balmy night for that time of year.

    We hiked to a section of clean beach sand near the water, where JD dropped the blankets he carried, leading me to believe that we would snuggle between them.

    “Take off your clothes,” he told me.

    I stood before him, nervously considering what sounded much like an order.

    “Do it,” his voice, while remaining pleasant, had a terse bite behind it.

    Shuddering with expectation, I immediately grabbed for the hem of my sweatshirt and pulled it up and over my torso. I was naked underneath, a fact that JD noted without comment.

    I stared down, seeing my breasts and their knotted nipples glowing pearly white in the moonlight. My entire being brightened with sexual fire. He would fuck me right there on the sand!

    Oh, but it was not that simple.

    Without needing to be reminded, arousal dictating my next move, I continued taking off my clothes, removing my blue jeans and even the tiny panties that barely covered the small bush of hair at my crotch.

    “Lie down on the sand,” he said.

    I stared into his eyes, mesmerized and confused, but feeling oddly submissive to what seemed more like a demand than a request. I lay down as he asked, feeling a chill make my burning insides quake as the cold from beach sand seeped into my body.

    “Spread your limbs, Natalie.” I loved the way the syllables of my name rolled off his tongue. Small nuances move me. This was one. He owned and controlled me in that moment, and I let him have me because the awesome sensations racing about me cleared out my fears.


    “Have you ever been bound for sex?” he asked.

    “Once,” I admitted, sounding very tentative, “but it was hardly anything.” This was a lie, because I’d been bound dozens of times in the past, but I wanted to feel as if this was the first time.

    “But I doubt you’ve been staked to the ground?” he suggested.

    “No, never.” And this was true. But staked to the ground? My mind chewed on that thought, as nagging doubts about this night and JD surfaced quickly.

    His smile appeared full pure evil, though the playful twinkle in his eye kept me from refusing him.

    This was no ordinary staking. JD used four, two-foot metal stakes, frightening rods that once hammered into the earth could not be budged. Using a heavy mallet, he drove each stake into the sand at the four corners of my body. Then he wound my wrists with thick white cotton rope five times making perfectly neat side-by-side rows. He tied the ends to the three-inch notches at the top each stake. I couldn’t have been more bound, or more powerless to save myself.

    “You’re surprisingly placid,” JD said, as he dropped between my parted thighs, his hand searching the valley between my legs.

    “I don’t know what’s come over me,” I answered him. “I feel so helpless.”

    “You are helpless,” he said. His face was filled with love and devotion I don’t remember feeling from any man, and yet, I’d just been staked to the ground. How could I possibly trust him when I hardly knew him? How could I be sure that he wasn’t one of those clever men who shrewdly seduce women one moment and turn on them viciously the next? How could I have allowed him to bind me, to stake me a deserted beach in the middle of nowhere? I must have trusted him or been so horny that I didn’t care if I died that night.

    As the minutes passed I waited in wonder. My eyes never strayed from his determined expression or his virile body. 

    When he removed his sweatshirt and jeans, he revealed an eight-inch erection that stood out from his nest of black pubic hair like an angry spear. I caught his scent, the dark and musty aroma of his lust. Straddling my body, he crawled forward up my torso until his knees were on either side of my head and his prick touched my lips.

    “Open up,” he said.

    I did so naturally. This was a difficult position for a really good blowjob, but it was perfect for fucking my face, for shoving his penis down my throat, which was exactly what I expected him to do. I was sure that I would gag, as I often do when some guy’s trying a heavy-handed deep throat and I’m not quite sure it’s what I want. Even this time, my gag reflex waited on the sidelines, ready to suddenly clench up the muscles in my throat. But as JD slowly lowered his cock into my mouth, and my lips closed over it, I felt the penetration in a new way. Part of me opened with full acceptance—another first. I knew this was surrender, something I never imagined could be so completely arousing. My belly and crotch ached with every gentle thrusting move he made. His cock impaled me deep into my throat, then slowly withdrew to the tip only to dive down again, deeper and more forcefully.

    “That’s it, girl. Just a little more,” he said quietly, as he worked my mouth. He moved slowly at first with his momentum gaining speed. I could sense he wanted to come this way, in total domination of the moment and me. I wanted that too. Was it the challenge of it? Was it true surrender? I’m not sure. But regardless of my inner motives, I began to suck, with my jaws working his powerful muscle in hopes this would make him climax quickly.

    I suppose it did help. The energy radiating from his lower body washed over me. I felt not like myself, but part of the beach, the earth itself, an orifice and nothing more.

    JD came with his body shaking frantically over me, his cock lunging ever deeper into my throat where he finally deposited his seed. I lapped the retreating organ greedily when he pulled out while still ejaculating copious amounts of cum in my mouth, on my lips and finally the last of his cum hitting my chin.

    Spent, JD slumped exhausted on the sand beside me, while I lay stretched out like a sacrifice, unable to move, or wipe my face, or do anything to bring about the climax my body desired.

    He stared at me, appraising my predicament with amusement. “A really good finale would be for me to get dressed and leave you here,” he said.

    “Oh, but you wouldn’t,” I said with some certainty in my voice.

    “Of course not,” he agreed. “But on the other hand, I’m not done using you. I would think you’d be a bit disappointed if I were.”

    “Yes, I would be,” I answered. I wanted and expected him to pay some attention to my raw, wanting splayed crotch.

    I gazed at his naked body, desirously. I don’t ordinarily think much of most men’s bodies—except for those that are perfectly sculpted by good diet and exercise. But how many of those men do you really get to fuck? Though JD’s body wasn’t one of those perfect ones, he did have an appeal that made me wish he would climb back on me and rub his sinewy muscles against my sweaty skin. The more I mulled that fact, the more my body responded. Yet, there I was desiring him but at his mercy, bound and staked and hardly able to budge an inch inside the tight constraints.

    “Of course, I’ll do anything you want,” I replied. “Don’t have much choice.”

    “That’s what I like about bondage,” he said. “It may reduce my options, but it grants me all the rights.” He was terribly smug and I loved that too.

    Then, as if to rattle me further, he stood up and jogged to the water where he sank in over his head and washed the sweat away. Peering down over the ends of my toes, I could just barely see the subtle splash of water as he swam some distance and out of sight. My heart beat frantically—my mind raced with a hundred what ifs. Just before I panicked and screamed, I spotted his wake, and then his body climbing out of the wet darkness. He returned to me and dried himself on a towel.

    “Damn cold,” he shivered as he vigorously rubbed himself.

    I stared into his eyes, quaking, hot, chilled, confused. “That was a terrible thing to do.” I wanted to cry.

    “You were worried?”

    “Of course I was. What if…”

    “Hush. Think about what you’re feeling, my bound beauty.” He put his toe to my crotch and wiggled it toward the center, raising that familiar sensation of desire.

    He saw it in my eyes as I moved through the emotions of panic, fear and anger to what I wanted from the start.

    Curiously, JD did exactly what I was hoping for. Although the cold water had shriveled his prick and balls into a tiny reflection of his more potent self, I knew that even as powerless as I was, I could take care of that condition. My body heat was on the rise again.   

    Taking the bait, JD dropped down to the sand and straddled my hips. Leaning forward, he rubbed his chest against my chest while covering my lips with kisses. I felt his cock rising between his legs as it rubbed against my lower belly and thighs.

    “You’ll make me cum if you fuck me now,” I murmured.

    He kissed me more. Then ran his tongue down my neck. He teased my underarms with nibbles so sensuous and tentative that I started to thrash about, pulling at the ropes that bound me. I mewled loudly, my excitement on such an edge I was afraid of where it would take me, afraid that I’d tear my limbs from my body with the violent gyrations. But I couldn’t stop.

    “Look at me, Natalie,” JD said sharply. He clutched my chin in his firmly gripping fingers and stared down at me with hard eyes. The tumult of sensation quieted to a dull, but less vicious roar. “You lie still and allow. I’m in charge, not you,” he said quite calmly. “Contain your movement. Let what you feel brew like a great storm.”

    “But I can’t,” I uselessly gasped, as I ineffectively arched my hips toward his.

    He immediately slapped my face, the sound of it ringing down the silent beach. The slap so surprised me that for an instant I felt like a cowed and cornered animal, afraid and worried that I had JD pegged all wrong. At the same time, the heat of the slap radiated outward in another lustful burst of energy that swept my body. I could still feel the imprint of his big hand on my cheek, and then so much more as he began to move on me again. I would lie still this time.

    On orders to contain myself, the physical sensations intensified, swarming like bees inside my body. I wanted to move on him in reply, but didn’t. I rather liked the threat hanging over me and my physical excitement bloomed.  How was this possible?

    From teasing me, JD’s cock grew hard as a colossal staff. Soon, the thing was poking teasingly at my center, like rapping on a door—but not begging. No. JD knew just when he’d thrust himself in me again and he waited, playing that torturous game of cat and mouse, until I found the torment unbearable. Panic rose as strongly as my sexual passion.

    “Please, I can’t anymore,” I beseeched him.

    I wanted him to strike me down again, and he did. He slapped my face for my complaint, and my body quieted for a few minutes as he taunting me with promises. Then when I was most subdued, JD suddenly impaled my cunt and began the relentless fuck to the finish. He didn’t care then that my inner need took over, that I thrashed like a beached fish, or whimpered in anguish. I was cumming. He was cumming. Both of us senseless and uncontrolled. We came until there was nothing left in him and little left in me. Although my spasms kept on even after he pulled out, we were both spent.

    Finished with this scene, JD untied the ropes that bound my arms to the stakes, and one of the ankle restraints—thus, I was still pinned to the beach by that ankle, but free enough to move around.

    I turned on my side and settled inside his arms, comforted by his strength and warmth and kindness, while the brutal sand beneath me reminded me of my submission and the hard heart in JD’s sadistic soul. With my mind now swept of all conscious thought, my receptors opened, able to discern truth without any blind spots to skew my perceptions. I detected a troubling uneasiness in JD. This surprised me. Here I was so content, even after being so roughly taken. Not knowing JD well, and still feeling submissive to his control of me, I chose to simply record my impressions and say nothing about them. This could be nothing at all, or something important. But I’d leave that answer for another time. 


Copyright (c) Lizbeth Dusseau, all rights reserved. May not be used without permission.

Friday, November 7, 2014

The Little Savage and her New Master...

Hot BSDM Erotica...

The set up: The waifish Lisle is a BSDM slave, in need of a new master after her master dies. She falls into the hands of Daniel Broc, a former mercenary who once ran a slave trading operation in the Middle East. Although he’s given up his perverted lifestyle, Lisle stirs up desires in him he can’t quite shake. The two are misfits in polite society, mirror images of the other in their sexual passions. While Daniel resists becoming the girl’s master, he also knows there’s no one more capable of handling this explosive and secretive female. Their tempestuous relationship is fraught with sexual tension, which sends them hurling into the extremes of sex they both love and need.




Excerpt from the novel Little Savage


She didn’t say a word, but if he weren’t mistaken, the curious glint in her eye was intended to seduce him—and if not deliberate, then it was an instinctive response, and entirely in character for this mischievous female. She didn’t bother saying goodnight; and with the provocative smile on her lips communicating her desire—as if she were dropping a trail of sexual breadcrumbs for him to follow—she turned and continued up the stairs, her ass still swaying with a lurid jiggle. He watched until she was out of sight then he returned to his office for a short while and followed her up a half hour later.
   
By the time Daniel mounted the stairs, she was in her room with the door ajar. When he pushed the door a little wider, he could barely see Lisle resting on the bed with the bureau he’d brought down from the third floor still pressed up tightly to its side and blocking his view. Stepping into the room so he could see around the dresser, he found her tucked into the corner, propped up on pillows with her eyes glued to the pages of a romantic novel—the lurid cover gave it away. He nearly smiled. More than once, she’d thrown a book like that against the wall in disgust. He’d heard the distinctive thud coming from her room just days before. When he went to investigate the noise, she looked up unapologetically and announced in a voice thickly laced with scorn: “That’s the worst rubbish I’ve read in a decade!”

    He was mildly amused by her declaration. “Then maybe you should read something else,” he’d said.

    She replied with an emphatic, “I will!” Currently, she had two neatly arranged stacks of paperback novels she inherited from the housekeeper Alice sitting on the floor and rising nearly half way up the wall opposite the bed. She was reading a new one now and already over half way through. When she saw Daniel standing in her room, she looked up in alarm and let the open book slide to the floor.

    “Yes, sir?” Her expression was filled with hopeful expectation.

    Dressed in a thin t-shirt and nothing else, her nipples poked through the fabric like hard little knots and the sight of her made his rising cock stiffen nearly to its full size. Although she often played the timid waif, the Lisle that greeted him now was a sexual siren to rival any woman he’d fucked in years. She exuded a strange mix of childlike innocence and savvy temptress in her appealing eyes. At some point, a colorful brocade paisley bedspread had been added to the bed—another gift from Alice no doubt. The lustrous velveteen was fringed with gold and draped to the floor, all of which added to her beguiling appearance.

    When she pulled back the covers to show her legs and a peek of her naked pussy, she delivered an invitation he didn’t require in order to have her. He could fuck her when he wanted as that would be his right as her self-proclaimed master. However for this occasion, he appreciated the message those bared legs and bared pussy conveyed. If anything about their mealtime conversation changed her feelings toward him, in particular her trust in him as a man and a master, it didn’t show in the deliberate display.

    Accepting this, he gave the small room a quick once over and scowled. Stalking forward he roughly pulled the dresser away from the bed and shoved it back against the wall where it had previously been, effectively destroying her private sanctuary.

    “You need confinement when you sleep, sleep under the stairs. I’ve given you that option, use it, and don’t go changing furniture so I can’t get to you.”

    “Yes, sir,” she replied meekly, though as meek as her response was, he felt a rush of excitement from her feeding his own need.

    Still annoyed by the room’s arrangement, he pulled the bed away from the wall several inches—he needed the space. She watched him carefully, looking like a dazed genie on a magic carpet, as he shoved and tugged the bed until it suited him. Finally satisfied with the arrangement, he opened the bottom drawer of the dresser and was grateful to see that the ropes he put there some time ago were still inside, along with a few other items he might need should the occasion arise—a gag, cuffs, clothespins and a bleached muslin bag with a drawstring tie. Inside it would be a set of three anal dildos of different sizes.

    He squatted down and rummaged through the items, which were not as he left them. “You’ve been through these things?” he asked.

    She didn’t reply right away.

    “Have you?” He persisted.

    “Yes, sir,” she admitted, starting to blush.

    “Yes, I suspect you would,” he responded, not all that kindly.

    He closed the drawer without removing a thing and rose to his feet, still annoyed, his restless energy growing more strident with every second that passed.

    He doused the light, preferring shadows to the bright overhead beaming down on the room, then he moved to the side of the bed and looked down on his trembling victim with his eyes as remote as the stars. She played her part well, had every shivering move, every soulful and wanting expression memorized like lines in a play. She’d been trained for this, and for just one second the brutal mercenary was consumed by a fit of jealous rage toward every man who’d used her nubile body.

    He threw the feeling off as quickly as it arose. “Take off the t-shirt,” he ordered.

    She stared at him, the heat in her ratcheted up a degree or two. He saw that in the way her wide and inquisitive eyes darkened. They’d fucked before but this was new—inside her room, a place no longer private and sacred to her. The room was his and so was she.

    Though she hesitated with the t-shirt, there was not a lick of rebellion in her mood, just fear—the good kind of fear that excites the brain and sends adrenalin soaring through a body hungry for sex. Lust and instinct at last kicked in and she threw off the t-shirt and reclined back against the pillows. Her large eyes drilled him to his core; his eyes did the same to her, though hard and imperious, and enough to make her shiver anew. Her subtle strength impressed him and he watched her longer than he might have a less intriguing female, making metal notes of every subtle shift in her mood.

    His silence and unmoving stance made her doubt herself. He could almost hear her thoughts scream out to him—take me, take me, please take me now! In the midst of that terrible moment, she reflexively reached back and grabbed the metal bedrail above her and opened her thighs. Her breaths were short, her lips parted and he could feel her want attack him, not just in his crotch but in every corner of his horny body. With his eyes turning savage and almost crazed he let the sadist in him rise: the Colonel, the mercenary, the bastard he loved. He unbuckled his pants and let them drop, threw off his shirt, and stepped from the puddle of denim, naked, his muscled body driven by the compelling need to use her hard and leave her wasted. Lisle’s eyes went instantly to his teeming erection with her longing glance giving his cock another serious jolt. On another night she’d be sucking his penis by now, but not this night.

    He fell to her body with his rock hard penis spearing her sex like the blade of a knife. Her cry was pained, but strangely musical in quality and she seemed to adjust her entire body to conform to his. He felt her beneath him, so slight, so small; he could tear her apart in seconds, but that certainly was not his aim. He only wanted to use her. Her surrender was a given, and now with every forceful thrust into her steamy cunt he made clear that his domination of her was indisputable.

    But she was more than passive, more than surrendering. Rather than limply take the drilling he forced on her, she begged for it with every obvious and nuanced response. Her body ignited the instant he impaled her, and she grabbed for him with almost frantic need, kissing him wherever her lips found flesh to kiss—mostly his shoulders and neck, but the frenzy of small kisses also extended to his face and his lips and his chest. Emboldened by her zealous response, he tore at her, groping her body like a madman until the two finally settled into a steady fucking rhythm. Their savage sexual dance rocked her small twin bed until the sound of the groaning springs filled the room with the awful screech. His explosion came quickly, while hers had been ongoing. For several moments locked tight in a violent embrace the two felt like one throbbing orgasm, but then as soon as he filled her grabbing snatch with his cum, he pulled away from her and climbed from the bed.

    “Come lick me clean,” he ordered, as he stood beside her. She popped up quickly and as she expertly licked her pussy juice from his organ, she almost suckled the flagging thing back to life.

    By then, he’d had enough of her. He’d had enough of subs and slaves, and women in general, along with all their complications. The girl brought more complications than most, which continued to trouble him. But he could now use her in the rough way he used women and feel no remorse. That knowledge pleased him.

    For the rest of the night, however, he’d be glad to be by himself in his lonely bed without the thought of complicating females to disturb his sleep.

    “Sleep nude tonight,” he ordered as he was leaving, “I don’t want clothes in the way if I need you later.”

    He knew he wouldn’t be back that night. He was more tired than horny. But she didn’t need to know that. It gave him some satisfaction to know that she’d be sleeping with one ear open just in case he came for her again. Standard form for slaves.


Copyright (c) by Lizbeth Dusseau, all rights reserved. May not be used without permission.

Friday, October 31, 2014

A Well-Punished Natalie, Spanking Erotica

Taken from the short story A Well-Tethered Natalie. This tale combines light bondage and spanking erotica into one sexy story...classic Spanking erotica, and one of many short stories in my collection Big Book of Spanking Stories.  
Check this link for more info on this title.

This excerpt is a little longer than most...but I always thought the build-up for the final spanking payoff to be my favorite part of any spanking tale. The girl's got to earn it and this little brat certainly does... every smack of that leather strap.


The story begins this way...
His cowboy eyes were a little daunting. His grin was even worse. Natalie couldn’t decide if Ethan was a total prick or a little darling, the way he teased her. She was certain of one thing, the man rattled her, so much so, she wasn’t about to let him know it. That would give him far too much power over her. She settled into ignoring him with a passion.

    Unfortunately—or fortunately depending on how you view it—Ethan could read her thoughts. He remembered kissing her in the barn the night of the barbecue. They were alone for the first time, and she looked so inviting. Her ample bosom swelled lusciously when she was out of breath. After he playfully “ran” her into the barn, he watched as she caught her breath, admiring the way her body moved. Leading her into a secluded corner, they kissed. She’d tried to wriggle away with a prim little protestation that he thought was rather cute, but he wrestled with her for a moment, grabbing her smaller hands in his larger ones and pinning them above her head against a post. That was when he felt the most curious rush of passion. She wasn’t exactly relinquishing to him, but she let him kiss her deeply, and responded with equal fervor to his probing tongue.

    “You like being restrained?” he asked, as he backed away.

    She shook her head in disbelief, but he could read the answer in her eyes. She was one hellava feisty woman, the kind he loved to tame. He almost wished he hadn’t let go of her so soon, leaving him to wonder how far she would have gone with her hands pinned in the air.

    She took to ignoring him thereafter, but he wasn’t at all dissuaded. After all, that was what you could expect from a sassy woman like Natalie. It would make his conquest of her even more delightful. He would bide his time, and wait for the perfect opportunity to make his next move.
   
    Natalie was successful in eluding Ethan most of the time. But since saddling and stabling the horses was his duty, there was no way she could avoid him when she wanted to ride her horse, Dancer. Anytime she was around the barns, he flirted with her shamefully, even though as far as she was concerned, she gave him no encouragement. Ethan saw it differently. There was a passionate spark every time they were together, she breathed a little deeper, her cheeks would flush ever so slightly, and she’d avoid direct eye contact because she couldn’t bear to see the truth reflected back to her.
   
    Outside the brewing lust between the two, Ethan had a problem with Natalie’s outrageously independent spirit. The woman thought nothing of riding off for an entire day, to God knows where, without telling a soul where she was going, and when she planned return. They fought about this regularly. Ethan’s orders from his employer, Natalie’s father, were to keep her from going too far from the ranch. The man had long ago given up trying to rein in his often-rebellious daughter, so he’d given the job to his ranch foreman.

    Ethan warned her every time she went out. He always asked where she went, but she’d never say. A half dozen times he went in search of the dark-haired beauty, only to see her riding toward him at some distance, almost as if she could anticipate his search, and was there to taunt him with her return.

    “Don’t you ever get yourself lost, Natalie Martin, because I swear, I’ll tan that round butt of yours with my belt when I find you,” he vowed more than once.

    She snapped back at him with a fiery flash in her brown eyes. “I’d like to see you do that!” She brusquely took off, with Ethan so furious that he wanted to take her pants down and spank her bottom right there on the spot. Being the boss’s daughter, he was quick to rant and rave about her bad behavior, but slow to act on his threats.
   
    One afternoon, after their brief kisses in the barn, Ethan set out to look for her when she wasn’t home by four o’clock. On this occasion, however, Natalie did not come riding in as he expected she would. He rode out in the direction he’d seen her take, hoping that she hadn’t veered off somewhere else – in which case he might never find her. There were clouds overhead, rain threatening. By the time he reached the creek, he realized there’s be a deluge long before he returned to the ranch. He called several times into the strong windy air, but heard no reply. Damn! He hoped she wasn’t so foolish to not respond. That would really piss him off!

    Riding along the creek bank for some minutes, Ethan spotted Dancer on the other side of the rushing water, and waded across to find Natalie sitting on a rock nursing a swollen ankle.
   
    “I’ve had it in the cold water for nearly a half hour, it’s much better,” she said as he approached. No grateful “hello”, no smile, nothing to acknowledge that she was happy to see him. “Just help me on the horse, and I’ll be off.”

    “Let me see it,” Ethan insisted, as he dismounted.

    “Oh, it’s fine. I’ll wrap it when I get home,” she brushed him off.

    “No. I want to see if it’s broken,” he answered sternly. He pushed her back down when she’d started to rise and made her sit while he examined her injury.

    “Ouch!” she gasped at the mere touch of his warm hands.

    “Might be broken,” he said, worriedly.

    “No. It’s not broken,” she snapped, “just help me up and I’ll be fine.”

    Ethan scowled, thinking about what he’d like to do right then, but he knew it was best to get her home as quickly as he could.

    He was thankful that she was a good rider, and that Dancer was a good horse. Despite the pelting rain that soaked them to the skin, they made the trip back without incident.

    “I knew this was going to happen someday,” Ethan scolded, as he helped her from her horse.

    “Don’t start with me,” she said annoyed.

    His eyes narrowed on her severely; his hands holding her firmly by the shoulders. “Don’t start with me! No more running off the way you do, you hear me?” he snapped at her angrily.

    The passion between them rose, fiery, and intensely erotic.

    She attempted to wrench from his grasp. “I’ll do what I damn well please,” she snarled once she finally shook free. “Now help me into the house.”

    Ethan stepped back and eyed the little hellion. “Ah, the little princess needs my help,” he bit off. “I should let you hobble back to the house all by yourself.”

    “And Daddy would fire you if you did!” Natalie charged.

    Ethan shook his head, mocking her with a disdainful smile. “I doubt it. However, I’m gentleman enough to help a lady in distress, even if she’s acting like a bitch.”

    “Don’t you talk to me that way!”

    “As far as I can see, you don’t have much choice but to take it.” His eyes narrowed on her again. “And let me tell you something, Natalie Martin, next time you enter this bar, you’ll have me to reckon with.”

    “What does that mean?” Her eyebrows were knit into a fretful frown, as if she might be just the least bit worried.

    “You’ll just have to see,” Ethan advised her, smiling.

    She took a breath, pushed back her rising emotion, and said, in an attempt to be contrite. “Please, help me.”


    A week later, when Natalie finally returned to the stables, she was still hobbling on her sore ankle. In spite of the fact that the ankle had not healed, she needed a good long ride.

    “Don’t worry, I can do this,” she announced to Ethan, thinking that demonstration was the best proof.

    As she lifted herself up on the horse, she could already feel a twinge of pain. She hoped Ethan didn’t notice her wincing.

    “I don’t think you’re ready,” he exclaimed as he watched her turn Dancer toward the open stable door.

    “I most certainly am,” she replied indignantly, and she headed out.

    “If you fall?” he called after her.

    “I never fall!” she said as she looked back.

    “Well you damn well better stay close enough to see the barn. You get any further away, and I’ll live up to my promise.”

    “And what promise is that?” she said, as if she didn’t know.

    “To paddle your bottom.”

    “Only if you can catch me,” she blurted out sassily. Giving Dancer a kick, she took off.

    Natalie was gone nearly an hour, riding like the wind as far as she could, the feeling of freedom a tantalizing reward after days of being cooped up inside nursing her ankle. She didn’t give Ethan’s challenge a second thought, assuming it was just an empty threat. He’d never have the guts. However, unlike her usual excursions, miles into the countryside, she rode out as far as she dared and returned directly, not wanting to incite Ethan too much. Besides, she was still favoring her sore ankle and wasn’t sure she could mount Dancer without some assistance.

    On returning, Natalie drew her horse into the stall and got down gingerly. Her ankle had begun to ache, so she took care not to put too much weight on it. Ethan was nowhere in sight; but having no desire to tangle with him, she hurriedly unsaddled Dancer and prepared to go back in the house.

    Turning around, however, she ran smack into the imperious foreman, his tall muscled frame looming over her with eyes that bore into her with a fiery wrath.

    “You’ve challenged me one to many times, Natalie Martin,” he said, as he grabbed her by the wrist.

    “Let go of me!” she cried, trying unsuccessfully to wrench from his grasp.

    Ethan pulled her toward the tack room, her throbbing ankle throbbing.

    “Damn it stop. This hurts!” she wailed. He turned, gave her fierce stare and then scooped her up in his arms and carried her into the tack room.

    “Please, I’m sorry,” she pleaded, but he was not dissuaded. Setting her down, he pushed her toward the workbench, then rummaged for something in the corner of the room.

    Afraid of what was about to happen, Natalie eyed the door.

    Seeing her sidelong glance, he said, “You try taking off you won’t get anywhere on that ankle and I’ll tie you to this post.”

    The threat only made her more determined to break free; and while his back was turned, she headed toward the back door, retreating as quietly as possible.

    “Ah, so you want to get tied up?” his voice reached out to stop her in her in her tracks. His hand swiftly followed, grabbing her arm. I should have known you couldn’t resist the thought of being bound.”

    In seconds, Ethan had her wrists tied together, wrapped by a soft leather strap. Her arms were strung up above her and attached to the thick wooden post. She squirmed and wriggled and screeched the entire time, but her histrionics had no effect on Ethan’s resolve.

    “If I were you, I’d calm my ass down, or you’ll be hurting that ankle again.” With that, he walked out of the door.

    “Where are you going?” she shouted after him.

    “I’m going to cool down your horse, maybe by then you’ll have cooled down too.”

    Don’t you dare leave me like this,” she yelled. But she’d run out of bargaining power, now helplessly tied to the wooden post. Natalie yelled at him every few minutes, but Ethan was in no hurry to return.
   

    Twenty minutes later, he popped his head in the door, “Calmer now?” he asked.

    Natalie was indeed more subdued, but she was not about to hide her indignation over his treatment of her.

    “You untie me!” she ordered.

    He smiled, his eyes twinkling.

    “This time, I have your father’s permission, so I don’t think you have any right to demand anything.” He stood back looking at her, admiring the fine line of her body. “You look pretty good like that,” he said.

    “Okay, you’ve made your point. Now untie me.”

    “I will,” he said, “after you’ve been punished.”

    Natalie looked back at him, sheepishly trying to elicit some sympathy, but he was far beyond sympathy. Only one thing would soothe his ire.

    To his delight, Ethan found a strap from a tangled mess of tack in the corner of the room. He remembered seeing the ancient looking thing, thinking at the time, that it would be the perfect implement to lay on Natalie’s sassy ass. It had a remarkably welcoming feel, as if it had been used many times for just such disciplinary purposes. Doubling it in his hand, he could easily stand the distance he preferred, and hit his target with a hearty wallop.

    With her arms still secured overhead, Natalie’s fine rear end practically beckoned to be strapped. Encased in tight stretch denim, her firm round buttocks were definitely spankable. This would be a fitting and long awaited just desserts; and with that in mind, he let the strap fly, each strike landing on the center of her ass.

    The captive woman began to wail almost instantly, with spirited protests interspersed with curses befitting the mouth of a sailor. Ethan ignored the senseless chatter and kept on with the punishment. She was going nowhere, his prisoner for as long as he chose. It was about time.

    The strap continued to breeze through the air, landing smack after smack on Natalie’s round behind. Her bottom began to burn from the nasty sting. The gall of him! The sorry bastard would pay, she swore to herself. But as time went on, and more blows landed, she could feel something inside her relent. Like she wanted this. Like she needed it. Like she’d baited him. No, no, no! That wasn’t possible. Determined not to give herself away, she continued her impassioned cries to the very end, sobbing sadly when he laid the strap down.

    “Now, Princess Natalie,” Ethan said, with a haughty air of command, “you can think about this for a while. You have no one to blame but yourself, little girl. Think about that!” and he started to walk away.

    “Ethan please!” she stammered through her tears.

    He turned and faced her. “Oh no, you don’t! Another word out of your mouth and I’ll take down your jeans and give your pretty bare ass a real walloping!” He wasn’t kidding.

    Natalie bit her lip, holding back a bevy of protests. By then her arms were aching, and she wanted nothing more than to get the whole thing over with as soon as possible. Clinging to the post in front of her, she held back her protests as he left her to herself and prayed that he would return and set her free.

    Oddly enough, the longer she waited, the more her body brightened with the strangest feelings of arousal. She pushed back the idea that the punishment had turned her on, in some weird, ungodly way. Dammit! This could not be happening, but her body didn’t lie.

Friday, October 24, 2014

Pagan Dreams, Lesbian BDSM ...



Pagan Dreams... the first of my two lesbian novels. The story focuses on two lusty females taking their sexual desires to the hot extremes of bdsm sex. The novel has been re-released this week with a hot new cover. 
For more information click here.
This week, a sale on all of our lesbian titles.



This excerpt picks up after Cassidy has had her first crotch piercing...


    The day takes a lewd turn, as my impulses take charge of me.  I can tell because I’m looking for some place where my lover Peach and I can hide together and not be seen while we get each other off.  I know that we won’t survive this frenzied sexual heat all the way home.  This time I take the lead, and we duck between two old buildings, into an alley that seems dark, even though the sun is still high in the sky.  The shadows protect us as we find the perfect spot, where a sheltered stairwell appears behind the building as if it were calling to us. It’s cool sitting here on the steps, and deserted enough so we can play in peace.

    Peach likes taking chances like this. I like taking chances when I’m as aroused as I am now.

    She reaches to the hem of my skirt and I feel her hand explore until her fingers are at my cunt door and poking through. 

    “How does the ring feel to you?” I whisper to her as she gently grazes her hand over my new piercing.

    “Oh, not now,” she says.  To my disappointment, she’s suddenly perfectly happy to finger me until my crotch explodes and I buck against her hand.  She always laps my cunt, but not this time. Still it surprises me that she ignores my new jewelry altogether.  I know without her telling me, that she’s waiting for her special present, until we’re home again.  I can only imagine now what she’ll do with it.  I absurdly think of her hanging things from my cunt, making the ring protrude even more, making my labia out of kilter with the other side by attaching something heavy to this ring.  That might please her sense of the bizarre. 

    After I climax, I press my lips against hers and flick my tongue inside her mouth.  My own hand roams about her thighs and she begins to gasp.  Just playing with her body, not even finding exposed skin, I find her alive with a powerful need.  Before I even reach her cunt, her body tenses and she jerks spasmodically for several seconds. It’s a short quick orgasm.  I call them her public orgasms because they happen so quickly. I’m often amazed by her easy performance. When we take our time, she has long rolling endings that I think will never stop.  She swears mine are longer, but we’ve never kept time.

    The sex makes me languid as we ride home in the heat. But my body has not been satisfied.  My greatest pleasure is knowing we’ll spend the rest of the day and most of the next in bed together. I couldn’t have planned it better, even though I’m still angry that she takes such bold steps with me. 

    “Was there some reason for the choice of rings. It seems so deliberate?”

    “I have petals, you have the rose,” she answers.

    “Is that symbolic?” I wonder aloud.

    “Perhaps,” she answers guardedly. 

    “Sometimes I don’t know what to make of you,” I tell her.

    She chuckles. “You’re too cautious, you think too much,” she replies.  She’s said this so often I’m sick of hearing those words, even when she’s right.
   
    I drag Peach into bed when we get home. Familiar territory and I’m even more bold. It doesn’t have the same thrill as a semi-public place, but there’s a lot more possibility inside our four safe walls.  

    I’m lying back on the bed with Peach between my legs, my eyes staring up at her. I catch her expression when she finds the ring on my cunt.  Like a kid opening a birthday present, her eyes are wide with glee.  Then her tongue playfully flicks the funny thing.  I’m gasping, realizing that I need more and more and more.  She pulls at the ring just a little; but it’s sore, and I wince.  She takes my naked labia into her mouth and sucks it hard.  Then she sucks my clit, and it burns; the pressure she uses hurts, though it nonetheless arouses me even more.  These are just preliminaries.  She would like it rough tonight; and I’d like it that way too, except I’m careful with my tiny wound.

    Three fingers press their way into my sloshy gate. I squeeze them as hard as I can, seeing her smile, seeing infinite pleasure written in her expression. I close my eyes and imagine even more, more jewelry, more fingers, more women. My imagination takes off into a crude flight of extremes, tricking my body into thinking that I’ve disappeared into a world of carnal creation where nothing but sensation matters.

    I cum.

    This long wave of pleasure grabs me deeper than I’ve been grabbed in some time.  Peach touches heaven with her skillful disregard to form.  She breaks rules well, when I don’t.  And now I’m grateful for every slap and pinch and bite, as the last waves of climax finally break on my cunt’s soft shores.

    I give her everything she desires thereafter, with my hands and tongue.  Her body rises and falls, riding a crest of waves that seem as unending as the ocean itself.  I watch her firm strong thighs when they clench; I see the rose petals move as if they are waving in the breeze.  She looks like raw lust, a bawdy obscene whore.  (I imagine she’ll like my appraisal of her when she hears it.) 

    I often think, that though I have the corner on shadowy sexual fantasy, she has the daring essence to see it materialize.  Times like this, she scares me. 

    She finishes, and we’re spent, at least until midnight, or whenever, when our bodies are aroused again.



This novel is available from Pink Flamingo Publications and the Erotic Book Network, along with ebook sites throughout the internet.

Copyright (c) Lizbeth Dusseau, all rights reserved.

Alone with the Master

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

Part Two from Carly on Her Knees

Continuing Carly's adventures in Paris. First it was the dungeon scene, and now she's alone with a new dominant master, ready to be his slave...


A single, quivering light burned through the darkness of Haverleigh’s hotel room. Just enough for virtual strangers coupling in the dark, where the mystery and impulse of their meeting could be sustained. No jarring lights, no conversation to burst the erotic mood that swam around them.

    Haverleigh sat back in an easy chair and observed his prize while she stood waiting in the shadows. “Take off your clothes for me, Carly. Start with the boots, then the jeans.”

    “May I sit down?” she asked.

    “No. I want you to stand so I can see you,” he replied, in a tone that implied she either obey the order or leave. “The boots and jeans,” he said again.

    She began—the biting lip, the unseen blush and an awkward dance to pull off the thigh-high boots with nothing to help her keep her balance. Each article tossed in a heap beside her was a triumph of will. The boots and jeans removed, she was left with the sweater and hat, waiting for instructions.

    “Let me see your tits,” he said.

    She lifted her sweater above her chest and without his asking pulled it over her head in a single movement.

    “My, my, you girls are more eager every year.” She could see the glint of his white teeth as he spoke; little else was visible in the dark but layers of breathing shadows. She wanted to rub herself, she was that hot. Play with her nipples. Stuff fingers in her pussy. Eager, yes she was eager, despite all the reasons she might have to fear the man. And now his haughty remark only amplified feelings of shame that welled up inside her and urged her to run. What was she doing here? What kind of slut had she become to turn herself into Byron Haverleigh’s newest bauble? What dark forces had he unleashed that drove her into this perilous place? Strangely enough, her lover Tyler was not even a passing thought.

    “On your knees,” he said before she could act on her profound disgrace. Without thinking, she dropped down and crawled toward him until she was at his parted thighs. “You want to suck so bad that you can taste it,” he mocked her while shoving fingers in her mouth. “Is that it? Or do you want something more? You want to be beaten like Sashe, isn’t that right?”

    Still sucking his finger, she looked into his barely visible eyes, wanting, hungering. He could obviously read her mind—so let him read.

    “Yes, beaten. I saw you move against the wall. I saw the craving in your eyes. I know what you want, and if I’m guessing right, you’ve been hearing stories. Rumors abound about me. You think I’m not aware of that? You think I really care? You think that I haven’t been stalked by a dozen women before you? That I don’t know why you want inside my bed?”

    “I don’t think anything like that,” she swore to him.

    “No? Really?” he scowled and grabbed her by the hair. “You lie, girl.”

    “No, sir. I’m driven by a desire to submit.” Though the line might have come straight from her lesbian lover Dana’s playbook, there was no trickery in the remark. It was as natural as rain upon her skin, as common as breathing for a submissive female. Of course Dana was right to assign her to this man—though she would never admit that to her. What Haverleigh meant to her was personal and she was definitely here for herself. Screw Dana’s plans. Carly understood better than ever how much she was hard-wired for submission; how much she relished the terror and fantasy that controlled her now.

    “And the club gave you that desire?”

    “No. My life does that on its own.”

    “Then you’re the real deal. The bonafide subbie. A little slave girl, is that it?”

    “If that’s what you want from me?”

    He laughed, letting go her hair, thrusting Carly back on her heels. “Either you’re very practiced in the jargon, or you’re real. I suppose it’s for me to figure out the truth.”

    She offered him no reply.

    “Well, sub Carly, let’s see just how far you’re willing to go for your desires. There’s a bag in the corner of the room,” he motioned behind him with a nod of his head. “You can’t see it now, but you’ll find it once you head that way. Open the zipper. Take out the quirt on top and bring it to me in your mouth. And do it fast. I hate to be kept waiting.”

    Disappearing into the inky darkness only raised her anxiety another notch. The thrumming in her crotch had turned it raw and wet, the spontaneous orgasms firing off almost made her moan. Still, she kept to the task, finding the leather bag open, not closed and the quirt as he said, sticking out of the top, as if it had been waiting for her to snatch it away.

    “Get going!” he jumped on her impatiently when she moved too slowly. Then she scampered back to him with the quirt in her mouth, the handle dangling from one side, the business end at the other.

    The implement hardly seemed formidable at first glance: the long straight shaft and the delicate fall were a graceful weapon. But it struck with a brutal snap, and as Haverleigh leaned back in his chair and thwacked her flesh—breasts, thighs, belly, wherever the quirt could reach—she took the punishment with hardly a moan—although had he enough light to see by, the pain she suffered would have been evident on her face.

    “Too heavy?”

    “No, sir.”

    “All right then.” His enthusiasm was gathering.

    Rising to his feet, Haverleigh strode to the side of the room and turned on a lamp that bathed the room in a soft, yellow glow.

    “C’mere,” he ordered as he moved to a more open space in the luxurious hotel suite. The gold, the glimmer, the schmaltzy glitz of the room was sickening to her eyes; all that luster wasted on her simpler sense of taste. But that was beside the point when the glamour of the man and his wealth was forgotten amid the desire for pain that had suddenly risen up with a vengeance in her hungering body.

    She arrived at his feet and waited for his next comment. “Ass up, subbie!” he ordered.

    Carly dropped her head and shoulders to the floor raising her ass high and wide. The sharp blows that followed nicked her skin, caught meanly against her pussy when they struck the center of her sex, and burned her ass cheeks when they hit soft pliant flesh. Lost. She was lost, sensation building on sensation, each new pain absorbed into her body and setting off a new grinding, pleasurable spasm.

    The cadence went on for several minutes until Carly was overcome and collapsed to her side.

    “Get up!” he barked

    She rose back to position, trembling and fearful, though her arousal seemed to soar even further.

    “That was a stupid thing to do, subbie,” Haverleigh snapped, as he peeled off another dozen cuts in fast succession. “I give you pleasure, but maybe it’s punishment you want.”

    “No, sir, no! I’m so sorry, please.”

    “You can beg, girl, but I’ll do exactly what I want. You clear on that?”

    “Yes, sir.”

    He glared down at her quivering body and her red-streaked ass, then abruptly reached down and pulled her up by the hair.

    “Your cunt as good as your ass for taking pain?”

    She stared at him blankly, shaking her head. “I don’t know.”

    “Well, let’s see. In the next room. On the bed.”


***

Copyright (c) Lizbeth Dusseau, all rights reserved. May not be used without permission

Friday, October 17, 2014

Entering the dungeon...

A hot dungeon scene at a Paris club, as Carly watches her master play with another sexy submissive. First of two parts.

Part One From Carly On Her Knees


La Plus Sombre Terre—The Darker Earth—a sequestered club in the heart of the Paris nightlife, advanced on Carly like a dream, the smoke so thick, the music so rooted and seductive that she could sense without bothering to open her eyes what kind of club she entered on the arm of Byron Haverleigh.

    “Don’t let it be said that I didn’t give you a good time,” he whispered in her ear as they crossed over the threshold into the teaming sexual environment. Her eyes and ears were assaulted by the sights and sounds; even the smells were pungent enough to lure her forward. She could almost taste the sex. Haverleigh was already wearing a mask, she was not. That this actually disguised his identity was not clear to her since the man’s distinguishing essence seemed written in every gesture, every movement of his body, even in the air that surrounded him. And Carly was on his arm like she belonged there.

    “What is this place?” she innocently whispered, even though she needed no more clues than the sound of cracking whips and female cries screeching above the din of music and low conversation to know the purpose of the club. They moved through a thick crowd of people, some masked, some not, with Carly’s eyes darting from place to place.

    “A dungeon, Carly,” he answered. “Whips. Chains. Pain. Screaming females. That sort of thing. Are you ready to run?”

    “No, not yet. I haven’t really seen a thing.”

    She saw his smile, his amusement. Far as she knew, he had no clue that she’d set him up—well, sort of set him up. But wasn’t that how it was supposed to be? She’d become his pet according to Dana’s instructions; from that point she’d follow his lead. The control was his.

    In a room, far from the cadence of minor chords coming from the band’s guitars, a girl was tied to a wall of vertical bamboo poles, her breasts and pussy poking through the spaces between them, vulnerable to the attack from a whip-wielding master. He artfully cracked the leather against her exposed flesh, leaving her skin red and raw, the girl’s head thrown back in the ecstasy of extreme arousal.

    Haverleigh let go of Carly’s arm and after exchanging glances with the master, he was handed the whip. With a nod to Carly he moved forward toward the writhing victim.

    “Aw, Sashe,” his voice was low and gravelly. Reaching between the bamboo he had her by the neck. “Come back to me, girl.” He shook her hard and the girl woke up from the pain-induced stupor to rest her eyes on him.

    “You have a problem with what’s been done to you?”

    “No, master.”

    “But you’re trembling.”

    “I’m scared, master.”

    “Scared of me?”

    “Yes, master.”

    Carly witnessed her tremor, the fear and lust contained in her heavily-lidded eyes.

    “Then tell me you don’t want more and I’ll leave right now,” Haverleigh told the girl.

    A moment of panic swept her face and she replied with a frantic, “No, no,” shaking her head as much as she could with her body tethered to the stakes. “Don’t leave me!”

    Haverleigh reached low between the bars this time and grabbed her ass. “Simon has had your tits and cunt. But what about your nasty ass,” he said as he squeezed until she shrieked.

    “Please, master, beat me!” Her cry whispered and needy.

    Haverleigh walked around the bamboo wall to the opening at the far end, then moved to the space behind the bound girl where he began to lay the whip against her back and ass. The shrieks and screams came on again, while Carly watched in mesmerized wonder. She’d seen this scene before; she’d been victim to similar ones when tortured by her lover James, but this was not the same kind of rote demonstration she’d experienced.

    The girl’s body and Haverleigh’s cadence of strikes needed no preliminary warm-ups to have them in the throes of a powerful back and forth between master and slave. In fact, the two seemed like one from the start; as if this was an old relationship and they were simply continuing what had already begun some time ago.

    Already Carly could feel the pulse of desire take hold in her lower regions. With liquor flowing through her veins, her inhibitions loosened until she was unable to disguise the seductive movements of her groin as she pressed her ass against the wall behind her. Even without rope, she was as immobilized as the girl tied to the bamboo wall. Carly’s mind leapt forward, imagining that the forceful energy of Haverleigh’s immutable control held her in place. She could hear his commands inside her head, feel his breath on her neck, and that distinct whisper of air that shocked the skin just before the whip reached out to mark its target. Her flesh was not the flesh that suffered the callous blows, but she felt the impact just the same, every jolt from the girl registering in her own physical form. All cogent thought seemed to vanish into the well of her natural desire for such shocking pain. Maybe once or twice with James she’d gone this deep, but never in such an atmosphere, with a watching audience hanging on to every invigorating moment. That she was not the center of this spectacle, the one on whom all eyes were focused filled her with envy. If it were she suffering on that rigid bamboo, she would be flying in the same realm of sensation as the lucky girl.

    Was it envy written in her reflexive movements? On her lips or in her eyes? Could her panting breaths be noticed, or the hunger in her body detected? Not once did she see Haverleigh’s attention waver from the bamboo girl. Did he even remember that she was there? His intent, his focus was solely on the savagely coming female writhing erotically against the bamboo poles. When he moved to her side and placed his hand against her ass, his whispering was unheard by the curious audience. But when he finally pulled back and returned the whip to its owner, there was a smile broadening on his face and a playful malevolence in his eyes.

    With his task finished, he moved directly to Carly’s side and pulled her toward him, his arm going around her waist in a gesture of ownership, though he made no comment as they moved back through the club toward the entrance.

    He doffed the mask at the door and tossed it in a garbage can, then led Carly to the street.

    “That’s it?” she asked, when they were yards away from La Plus Sombre Terre, headed back from where they came.

    “So, you wanted to stay?”

    “No, no, I suppose not,” she replied, though she really would have loved to have stayed and taken the girl’s place on that wall of pain.

    “I thought we’d find a place to fuck, if that’s all right with you,” he said.

    An instant of unimagined pleasure raced down her spine; a physical reaction he was sure to have felt when he was holding her so closely. “That is what you had in mind, isn’t it?” They hadn’t missed a step as they walked in the misty Paris night. He hadn’t looked at her, nor she at him, but they seemed as joined at the hip as any couple in love.

    Carly really didn’t know what to say in response to his direct question, but it was not conversation Byron Haverleigh wanted, just her body and its savage need. 



Part two, Carly's turn next time!

Copyright (c) Lizbeth Dusseau, all rights reserved.

This novel is available in Paperback and Ebook from Pink Flamingo Publications and The Erotic Book Network, as well as ebooks sites throughout the Internet

Friday, October 10, 2014

On her knees in the shower...

This sexy slut toys with submission in this "steamy" scene from my novel:


An Innocent Obsession

Steam billows from the bath, rolling like warm mist off the ocean. Leaning against the doorframe, I stare through the shower stall at Alan’s body whitened by the fog. Rivers of water run down the glass, and down his thighs, and through the thick, dark hair on his chest and legs. Savoring his tight ass—like rounds of grapefruit I could pluck—my body quickens.

    If he knew I was here, he’d invite me in.

    So certain of that fact, I wander on tiptoe across the emerald-green tiles, inviting myself inside his shower. The door squeaks and he turns around, startled. Then his smile brightens as he sees the water soaking through my tee shirt. The sexy truth appears from beneath that clean, plain white. My broad aureoles bear lazy nipples at their centers—the buds tiny and teasable. These mounds look as though they are made of white cotton suspended on air inside my translucent shirt, floating toward him begging. I beg for what I want, wondering if he’ll accept the seduction or send me away. This is only the second time I’ve sneaked into his apartment and I worry that he’ll be mad.

    With his scrotum in my fingers, I move the liquid sac across my palm as I stare into his brown eyes looking for approval. His cock begins to harden, throbbing rapidly to an erection, and then he tears away my nylon shorts, letting them drop like a wet rag to the shower floor. So, now he has my crotch in his hand, like I have his in mine—though his hand grabs while mine caresses. I don’t need more approval than that. Alan’s other hand squeezes my ass until I feel a painful, pleasurable surge of satisfaction, and slipping from his grasp, I drop to my knees, water falling from overhead like raindrops to drench everything still dry.

    “Good bitch,” he says hissing, a hand running through my wet curls. I like him talking nasty, hearing the edge in his voice, as though he were demanding I serve him like a slave. I do this on instinct, the experience a natural one, as if my life were meant to be understood on my knees, gazing upward.

    Now, my eyes rest on the organ beating at my face, as the swollen spear sticks up straight, pointing somewhere skyward. Wiggling into his crotch, his night musk lingers in the air about my nostrils and I breathe in its mysteries—he hasn’t yet washed the fragrance away.

    He doesn’t smell clean, and I wonder where he was last night. And who he was with? Is that another woman’s perfume I sense, or did he just jack-off to porn? I smile thinking all these things, then swallow that smile as I swallow his cock. With my lips opening, the head glides inside. Drawing back the skin with my hand, my fingers slide along the stalk, moving up and down, while my tongue laps away the last of the salt and sweet cum I taste there. 

    He purrs hungrily as an animal would, winding his hands through my hair and pressing himself deeper down my throat. He’s anxious, wanting me as much as I want him.

    We get to rocking inside this slippery stall, so hard he finally takes his hands away and grabs for the sides while I work the climax from him. Does he really understand how well I manage him? He thinks he’s in control, but I know better. So what if I have to do this from my knees, and listen to his crude conclusions about my soul when we’re not having sex.

    I know he thinks I’m a whore, though he doesn’t have the guts to say so. It wouldn’t matter to me. I know what I am. Whore doesn’t fit, but the slut word does. I’d never take cash for what I do; if I can’t enjoy screwing my men without money then they aren’t worth my time.

    In the center of this driving rainstorm of water, I taste something sweet; and although it quickly drowns away, there is the fresh sexual scent of him as he begins to erupt. I let the cum spurt down my throat, pulling it inside me as though I need it to live. I know my survival hinges on this. Hummm, sweet cream. Like I could nurse at this erection all day long. Were that so, I’d find one man and stick with him. But since the anatomy of my life doesn’t work that way, I keep moving from one man to the next.

    “Get on the bed and stay on your knees,” he says while slapping my water-soaked face. Impishly crawling from the shower stall, I inch my way along the emerald tile and the dark carpet covering his bedroom floor. Scampering like a puppy to the top of his mattress, I wait, heinie waving like a red flag; cunt and everything else about me dripping wet. When he comes to me, ambling slowly from the bathroom toweling his face, I know he’s admiring my ripe flesh, almost wishing he hadn’t cum so soon. He would have liked poking that rod deep in my belly, shooting himself to the ends of the channel as though he were making babies. I’m surprised he even bothers with me now; once Alan’s had his fix, he rarely spends the time required to get me off.

    Today, I’m lucky. He presses his hand at my snatch and begins to play. I know I don’t have long, but I only need a few quick moments until I’m far from the planet, mindlessly ecstatic. My randy home bursts. The muscles in me crunch down wishing for meat, but are content with a few deft fingers. I squeeze, bear down, squeeze more, and clench with my half-loaded pussy, while my ass grinds on air. His thumb moves higher, pressing at my anus. It’s too much to hope that this will be some drawn out venture. It’s come and gone in less than sixty seconds, but well worth that swaggering journey across his emerald tile.

    “So, did I leave my door unlocked?” he asks.

    “Un-huh,” I answer as I pull off my wet tee shirt and sit naked on his bed.

    “What are you going to do about your clothes?”

    “Borrow yours,” I conclude. “Or stay here long enough to use the dryer.”

    “Can’t. I have a meeting in…” he consults the clock on nightstand, “in twenty minutes, Clarise.”

    “Then a tee shirt and shorts will do.” Alan’s slim enough that we can share clothes; though, I’m sure it won’t be a habit—not with this man.

    He stares warily my way.

    “Come on, hon, I can’t go out of here like this,” I whine a bit.

    “I think you look just fine,” he tells me smirking.

    “Of course you would.”

    I wait as he searches through his dresser and pulls out what I need. Blue nylon running shorts and a tee shirt from the Boston Marathon, 2005—faded but wearable. Might even improve my image.

    “So, were you planning to seduce me, or was this an accident?” he asks.

    “Sort of planning.”

    “Horny?”

    “Of course, and I thought of you first.” I lie, and he probably knows this, but we’re not worried about that sort of thing. Lovers like us always lie. I think the ego stays intact better that way. I was actually thinking of Joseph this morning when I woke up, but he’s away on business for a week and I can never see him this early. Stockbrokers wait until the last bell sounds for sex. I have been hungering for him lately—more than the others, and I don’t understand why. He’s aloof, inconstant and sometimes brusque, while I treat him like royalty. Anyway, Alan, the book editor, had to do. He’s rarely ready for work before ten. Too bad he has a morning meeting or we might have done it right and spent an hour in bed.

    “You know, you really are a submissive slut,” he tells me, again, for the hundredth time.

    “Submissive? Right. In your dreams, Alan
,” I spit out sarcastically.

    He laughs at me. “Someday, you'll have the courage to let me show you what that means.”

    I smile flippantly as I sashay out the door. Behind the smile, I feel that subtle something that always arises when he talks to me about submission. No man can make me submit!  I’d like to tell him...but then, I'm starting to wonder if that that’s still true. I really do enjoy myself on my knees.


Copyright Lizbeth Dusseau, all rights reserved. May not be used without permission. 

Friday, October 3, 2014

Another orgasmic joyride with you

Image licensed from Shutterstock

This prose poem...the submissive in me speaking to the Master in my life...


Back At It Again



Two thirteen in the afternoon and I’m licking copious amounts of girl cum from my fingers after another explosive orgasm



thinking of all the spasming instants when our bodies touched

and my physical energy fired off

like a lightning bolt striking high between my legs…



Like when in the park my hands reached out for yours and yours for mine

like two lost souls finding something to hold on to…

or the first kiss in that same place, when our lips met and the tremors began

and have continued every time our lips have met since



Or on the porch in that first hour, when kneeling between your spread thighs,

naked and in cuffs, going down on your erection, you squeezed me

with your powerful muscles tight against my body

and I shuddered at the wonder of this new feeling,

the first time I felt owned by someone other than myself – by you.



And in the bedroom that same day,

going down in the most intimate of sexual service between your legs,

when I began wriggling my hot crotch against the sheets

aroused and spasming in sensuous surrender,

having found a place of sexual heaven for you and a new aphrodisiac for me



Then later when you held my ass in your steely grip,

as if staking your claim to my body, riveting yourself to the woman I am,

And you maintained that I’m a slave without an ounce of doubt,

and a new door suddenly opened in me with an erotic thunderbolt



I could go on with how you hold my arms bound behind me

Smack me with your leather belt

Speak to me as my owner,

Insist I call you master – as a good slave will

(And I am, Master, your good slave)



Each stellar instant is just a moment of memory,

but it comes with an electric charge

that hits me in the sexual middle of me, and as soon as I think of it,

I’m back at it again reveling in the lust that rises wildly within,

as it takes me on another orgasmic joyride with you at the center.

Copyright (c) 2014 by Lizbeth Dusseau, all rights reserved

Friday, September 26, 2014

A litte necessary discipline


Back to my literary roots today with a bit of domestic discipline between a sassy wife and her cowboy husband in this sizzling spanking tale.
Image licensed from Shutterstock

The Confessions of a Sassy Wife
Spanking Short Story

Part One

    Half of me despised him the day we were married, the other half was passionately in love. I must say, we’ve had a most unusual love affair.

    A month before our wedding day, Rys Montgomery showed up at the ranch, a ne’er do well cowboy with a tight ass, plenty of muscle and rugged good looks. Seeing his bleached hair tossed by the June wind made me shudder with interest. It was the first hot day of summer and he needed a job. My dad needed a man to break horses, so he was hired. Daddy didn’t like him but he was desperate for a decent cowboy, with all the stallions pawing dangerously in the paddock.

    He did warn me first thing after he hired Rys, with his finger wagging in my face, “Stay away from him, Blair. He’s trouble.”

    I gave Daddy my patented smile, deciding that I’d do as I pleased with Rys Montgomery, or with any other man I met for that matter. Frankly, I didn’t think I’d like Rys in the first place. However, seeing that finger in my face, I decided to take another look. If it would piss daddy off, I was game.
 

Unfortunately, I didn’t like Rys much better getting to know him—the way he treated me. I’d been breaking horses on my daddy’s ranch for years, and considered myself an excellent horsewoman. To have this haughty bastard treating me like an incompetent damsel pissed me off. If I hadn’t fallen off that horse and broken my wrist, he’d have never been hired.

    Still, for all his haughtiness, he had a helluva sexy swagger. He was quite a sight to look at and his smile could make up for a lot of faults. We settled into a gentle war of wills, a tiff or two on the side, but mostly we ignored each other. He thought I was a peevish brat and I didn’t change my mind that he was an egotistical jerk.

    The day I suddenly found myself in bed with him was clearly a jolt to my sense of order. We’d been tussling with words over the ‘right’ way to break the chestnut stallion, suddenly words flying so fast we could hardly spit them out, and then like a textbook romance we were fighting to get our clothes off and scramble upstairs to his bunk. It was a wordless fuck, lots of grunts and groans and the most terrific cum I’d had in months … maybe a year.

    When it was finished, we lay on our backs side by side – me trying to come to grips with the fact that I’d just fucked a man I practically despised – and suddenly, he let loose with the most startling proposition I’d ever been offered.

    “Let’s get married,” he said.

    “What?” I thought he was joking.

    “Let’s get married.”

    “Whose universe are you living in?” I answered sarcastically.

    “The one where people that love each other get married,” he stated flatly.

    “You think sex is love, you’re wrong,” I snapped. I almost laughed in his face.

    “We have all we need – great passion. You can’t say our exchanges aren’t filled with uproar and heat.”

    “You think great passion is enough to build a life on?”

    I turned over so I could look in his face, see if he was just pulling my leg. He wasn’t.

    “Some of the best marriages are built on less than that.”

    He stared at me, the gritty style, the winsome smile, the philandering twinkle in his soft brown eyes.”

    “Besides, I’m completely in love with your hair,” he said running his hand along the smooth black surface. And your face.”

    “You like my face?” What a sweet compliment.

    “I guess a poet would say you have alabaster skin.” I could tell he wasn’t used to sentiment, that’s why this was so especially endearing. He was obviously being honest, which made me wonder if he was more of a person than I believed him to be.
    “You really are serious about getting married, aren’t you?”
 

    He smiled, not the snicker I was used to, but a genuine smile.                                                                                           ***


    Daddy hit the roof when we told him the news. I thought he was going to break something seeing us hand in hand, the marriage certificate on his desk.   

    “Of all the idiotic things you’ve ever done, girl … I ought to horsewhip you. And you too.” He glared at my new husband. There was that finger again, waving in Rys’s face this time. “I swear, you don’t take care of her, you run off, you get mean and start drinking like your kind do, I’ll horsewhip you too, before I kill you!”

    “Mr. Trabor, Blair’s my wife,” Rys replied quite calmly. “I will take care of her.”

    Seeing my father’s face was one of the prettiest pictures I’d ever seen. The old coot didn’t know what to say. He had no choice but to welcome my husband into his house, and nothing could make me happier! 

    My father had been brutal, not ever physically, but his emotional power over me was something I needed to shake. Marrying Rys in defiance of his wishes was just the act I needed to declare my freedom from the tyrant. Some of my friends told me I should just leave the ranch, but I love it too much, the horses, the open land, and my place in this tough world. No, getting married was a good accommodation.

    It wasn’t until a few weeks later, after our initial honeymoon was over that I began to wonder if I shouldn’t have been more careful picking the man to mock my father. Living with Rys had certain challenges. If it weren’t for great sex, and the fact that my father would chortle meanly in my face, I would have kicked him out after the second week.

    First, there was his obstinate streak. As soon as we went back to work following a brief post-wedding hiatus, Rys started to get pretty nasty about my taming horses. Said it was too dangerous. I bristled instantly at that judgment and we argued about it often. The war eventually led to the second challenge my new husband posed, one that hit me out of the blue. I never would have guessed that my life could take such an amazing turn.

    We’d been sparring for three days about breaking Brassy, a young colt that liked to buck and rear. His temperament was one of the worst either of us had ever seen, but he was a beautiful horse and would bring a handsome price once he let someone sit in the saddle and ride. Regardless of Brassy’s nasty nature, I was quite sure I could handle the animal. After all, he was still small, and to me, not as tough as many of horses I’d worked.

    “You’re not going to take this one, Blair,” Rys told me, giving me this stern, ‘I’m not budging an inch’ kind of look. “Your arm's just healed; you’re going to break something else.”

    I stared at him as a saucy malcontent, something malicious from my tongue about to spew, but then I stopped. Rather than piss him off with utter defiance, I decided on another tactic that I thought would get what I wanted, just in a different way. Exiting the stable, not another word said, I told him I’d make him lunch and he seemed pleased I relented.

    Later, after Rys had eaten—while he was still jawing with another ranch hand—I slipped out the back door and returned to the stable to start working the colt. The young animal was wild, but manageable, at least a first. With a little coaxing, I almost had him in bridle and bit. However, when the sound of a truck in the yard made the animal rear back, I scrambled to get away from his descending forefeet. Slipping on a puddle of water, I scurried to avoid the enraged Brassy. I’m afraid I shrieked in fright. By the time I got to the paddock fence Rys was on the other side, while I was on my hands and knees looking at his muddy boots.

    “What the hell, Blair,” he roared. He leaned in over the fence and pulled me to my feet. Not stopping there, he drew me over the fence with a jerk so powerful that it shocked me. Dragging me to the stable in short order, I was flung over a sawhorse having my ass spanked like a naughty brat. I kicked and shouted and tried to wench away from him, but he managed to keep one arm firmly grasping me so I couldn’t break free.

    “Don’t you ever do anything like that again, do you hear me?” he roared.

    “Take your hands off me, you bastard!” I shouted back.

    “Oh, I’ll spank you as long as I think you need it.” The palm of his hand came down so fast I was beginning to feel a burn through my jeans. The more it hit, the more I struggled, the more Rys gripped me tightly. “You defy me like that again, I’ll take off my belt and thrash you!”

    “Just you try!” I threatened, even though I had little to back up that challenge. He had me handily under his control. He pinned me with his left hand, while his mean right hand just kept slapping my buttocks. There was nothing I was going to do about it but submit. He kept on for several minutes. Once he thought I’d had enough—perhaps because I’d stopped fighting him so much, I was getting awfully tired—he finally stopped and let me up.

    My face must have been as flushed as my ass was underneath my pants. He held me still, but not as firmly, and looked down at me with a glare I hadn’t seen since before we were married.

    “You hear me, Blair Montgomery, you’ll work the horses I tell you to work, and you won’t challenge me again.”

    I was stunned. Another time, another place, I would have spit in his face, but I was too dazed to offer him one decent protest. Not to mention the fact that I was weirdly aroused by the whole ordeal.

    “You understand me?” he asked, just to be sure.

    “Yeah, I guess I do, but …” I said weakly.

    “But what? You think a husband doesn’t have a right to punish his wife?”

    Of course, I was thinking that, but oddly that wasn’t my question.

    “Is this something I can count on?” I wondered aloud.

    “You bet it is. We’ll do just fine, Blair, if you subdue this willful streak in you. You don’t, I’ll deal with it just like this. And trust me, your ass will be bare next time. I’ll give you something that will really hurt.”

    “What’s going on here?” I heard my father’s voice. Brushing my hair from my face, I looked up flustered, seeing him standing in the stable door.

    “Nothing’s going on, sir,” Rys answered.

    Surprisingly, that seemed to be enough of an answer for the man and he turned and walked away.
   
    When it came to taming horses and women, Rys seemed to have a similar ability. He certainly had me in his control. I’d never considered myself a shrinking violet, but I was totally dumbfounded by the spanking and what it did to the image of my marriage and my husband. I suppose I figured that I could control Rys, just like I controlled every other man in my life. But that day changed everything. To my chagrin, I found myself being much more careful around my husband, a little more respectful. Though there were times that I could hardly hold my tongue, I made more of an effort to do so and keep the peace between us.

    I remember the night after that first spanking, when we were together in bed. It seemed as if we’d upped the ante in our already steamy sex life. My body quaked with desire far beyond anything I’d experienced with Rys before. I was as wild as that stallion, and with Rys’s hand clutching me where he spanked my ass, bringing back the memory of the pain he inflicted, I thought the fierce orgasm would never end. I wasn’t sure what was happening to me, but that that moment I was feeling too my pleasure to object. I know Rys noticed, but we didn’t say a word about that amazing fuck.
   
    Spanking wasn’t mentioned for at least three days, until I’d become a little more used to the idea and not so embarrassed. We were sitting at lunch, eating our meal casually when I finally mentioned that alarming moment.

    “I still can’t believe you did that,” I said, not bothering to tell him what I was referring to.

    “Can’t believe what?” he asked.

    “That you did that, you know … in the stable, when I tried breaking Brassy.”

    A smile broke out on Rys’s face. “You can’t even say the word, can you?” Seeing his expression I regretted having broached the subject. “Yes, you got spanked, didn’t you?” He deliberately emphasized the word.

    Yeah, I was rattled by it. “So, how come?” I asked.

    “Because I love you. And because I was so worried about you taking chances with no one around, I’ve never been so pissed.” He looked like he was getting pissed again.

    “And that’s how you show love?” I ventured again.

    “One of the many ways, Mrs. Montgomery. Face it, you married an old-fashioned guy, and for better or worse, you have me just the way I am. You’re not going to change me, likely any more than I’m going to change you. But I will give you a piece of my mind and a piece of my belt, if you screw up again.”

    His expression was tough, his eyes were focused and clear, and it was clear to me that he meant every word he said. I’d better face the truth now as fight it.

Part Two coming soon!

From my Spanking story collection, Cowgirls & Angels. Copyright 1998 ©  by Lizbeth Dusseau, all rights reserved.