Friday, May 23, 2014
Almost as fun to watch as it is to be the center of attention...well, maybe!
A quick excerpt from the novel
Scandal For Sale
(click the title for book description and ordering info.)
Last night, I watched from the open door of the sewing room as Eddie—a six-foot three biker with a trim goatee and ponytail—cuffed my friend Jane’s wrists in leather. I massaged mine as he did—remembering. Remembering not the men who cuffed mine, but the experience of going down under myself and discovering my submission. After fixing a blindfold over her eyes, Eddie peeled Jane’s clothes away—like it was an erotic dance, sending pieces flying like sails to the floor, billowing into nothing. Her dark-skinned body shone—she’d doused her skin with oils. I’d seen her just before the Dom arrived. Naked, she looked as though she’d melt into the warm, yellow light of her sixteen flaming candles. I was hypnotized, thinking how lovely it would be to lay my hands on her the way Eddie did; or kiss her cheek the way Eddie’s lips smooched the tender surface.
He had a flare for ropes, winding them around her neck so that I winced—afraid she’d choke. Jane breathed on easily, as the ropes kept circling her bosomy torso on down to her healthy hips and sturdy thighs. He made valleys in her skin, deep fissures, indentations that would last days after. Her breasts stuck out between two confining ropes that bizarrely shaped the orbs into unnatural cones of stiff flesh. At their very tips, the nipples stood on end, turning purple. They’d be sensitive to his touch. When he pinched the little nubs, her body jerked while a silent gasp issued from her mouth.
I was gasping, too, my pussy wanting to be rubbed.
When Eddie finished his intricately designed labor, he thrust her forcefully over the back of a chair. I could see him gaining power having her in his control, and how Jane was relinquishing hers to him. I slid down the slide of surrender with her, wishing I was bound. I remembered once being staked in the dirt of a cellar floor and left. Could she be that meek, that subservient to find herself in the same bereft position?
Eddie toiled again, binding Jane’s body to her living room chair, leaving little room for movement, the slightest wiggle, even the tiniest writhing, to escape the pain of his whips.
As he began to beat her body—her back and ass—I lay back on my sewing room cot, and fingered my slit. Remembering being there, putting myself in Jane’s position, letting the swirling surge of energy work on my hungry hole. It clenched on nothingness, crying for something to fill the gap. I gazed around, my eyes settling on an empty, long-necked beer bottle—which became the cock I needed.
“That’s it, baby,” Eddie encouraged the groaning Jane as his floggers and paddles and braided cat turned her back and ass into a shredded sheet of crimson. I imagined it was me he was egging on, me getting flogged, paddled and whipped. I groaned to myself, the beer bottle doing the trick to take me toward that end. I waited, held off, let the fantasy ebb and flow. I’d made my decision to come with her, to listen to the sound of her breath and the cawing protest that meant nothing, to feel her body rise and fall, feel the ache, the smarting spasms, and the pressing need to let it loose.
Did she feel me, too?
Copyright © 2000 by Lizbeth Dusseau, All rights reserved.