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