A BDSM Erotic Romance.
After a two week vacation, I'm diving back into the erotic world, in particular inspired by this novel written some years again.
I've just completed an update of this title...and discovered some wonderful Master/slave scenes; this is one of my favorites. A submissive woman, a Master, his whip and her surrender...
Need more info? Click the book title above.
Lana’s next most challenging moments came in suspension bondage, one of Diva’s favorite tortures, and one, despite Lana’s careful protests, Diva insisted on. The thought of hanging by her ankles—or wrists—brought images of Medieval torture chambers to Lana’s mind, which was always a bit more fertile that her Masters’ and her Mistresses’. She could see herself screaming, her arms—or legs—stretched to impossible degrees. Her fear only redoubled when she found out who would lead her on this journey into the macabre.
Returning for a reprise, the Dominant Critical (his scene name) brought an expertise in a kink that many other masters thought was too dangerous, or too involved to bother with. But Critical attacked his assignment with a vengeance, perhaps revenge was on his mind. This little upstart subbie had bolted their previous scene far too soon. He’d wanted her back since that evening two weeks before. Diva knew her charge would have to face the man again…he was really quite harmless in Diva’s estimation, just intense and rightfully demanding of the tasks he performed with a submissive.
Lana discovered later that it was Critical who Diva had in mind for her long-term training, a fact that would have surely sent her fleeing the scene fast early on. She was afraid of him, at the same time lured by the ease in which he moved through life. He was inarguably the consummate Dominant, the epitome of Master, deriving his aptitude for command from natural sources. He didn’t have to try or even train himself for the role. In fact, it was no role at all, no game; being the master bloomed from his character. A man of substance, with a wide, impressive girth, a healthy head of hair and eyes that flash with both cruelty and compassion, Critical was adored by some, respected by most, but regularly shunned by those with weak dispositions or prone to vacillating with regard to their sexual intentions.
That night he wore his dress Kimono. The silky black flowed heavily, like a wave on a determined sea, lapping about his ankles restlessly. It opened above the waist, displaying his impressive chest. The Japanese symbol for ‘spirit’ was embroidered on the robe at the nape of the neck in ivory thread. To Lana, he looked like the hours before dawn when the sky is a molten black.
Critical was a direct and forward man, but he was often the showman of the dungeon, working his way through scenes like a painter applying the brush strokes to an oil painting. Given his choice of attire, it seemed only appropriate that Lana was bound in an intricate Japanese rope dress. The garment of hemp and knots began at her neck and continued around her hips and groin, settling her into the spirit of containment long before the Master began the dreaded suspension. She was almost in tears from the minute Critical laid his hand on her, while at the same time she was shaking in nervous sexual anticipation, her crotch about to explode.
With the rope dress complete, her large, proud breasts were tightly bound, making the flesh protrude inelegantly in an eye-grabbing picture. Lana’s nipples looked like tiny daggers jutting from the centers of her bound orbs. With each movement, the strain of hemp against skin resulted in a fiery, pleasurable shot of energy attacking her groin. But despite the pleasure she derived from the bondage, her eyes pleaded for mercy.
“You’re doing fine,” he scolded her with a whisper. There was a crowd gathering to watch, and Critical didn’t like a submissive who was ready to squeal in protest before the real torture began. “Don’t make me punish you before we get started,” he whispered again. She felt the purpose in his hot breath, the way it caressed her neck and cheek and ear.
“Yes, sir,” she faintly replied, taking a moment to look into his eyes. She basked in their glow. The reflection of candles flickered in the dark irises. And his heavy body exuded such power that she felt plugged into the earth through him. Less nervous, she allowed herself to be led to the center of the dungeon space where the apparatus for suspension dangled, ominously.
“On your knees,” he ordered.
She bowed quickly, and felt the tingling sensation through the top of her head where his hand kindly tousled her hair.
“Now on your back, flat out,” he further instructed.
Opening herself before him, before her watching Mistress and the curious crowd that formed, she reclined as ordered, exposing herself—a woman of flesh and rope—ready and willing. Lana’s tears stopped.
Raising each foot in turn, Critical fastened sturdy leather cuffs around her ankles, enough to support her body weight for this first time experience. Lana shivered, with her nervousness returning as the steel ropes that fastened to her ankle cuffs drew her feet and legs into the air—higher and higher, far above her head. Little by little, her body lifted off the stone floor, until she was dangling from the ceiling, her head a good foot above the ground, her crotch in position for torture with her cuffed legs spread wide apart. Adding to her fear and the stringent bondage, Critical cuffed her wrists and stretched her arms as wide as her legs were wide, and bound them loosely to eyebolts in the floor. Her body could still move considerably, but her hands were safely out of his way. Her vulnerability could not have been more complete.
To Lana’s surprise, the suspension was less grueling than she imagined. For a time she free-floated on the air. Her head filled with blood so she felt drunk. The torture began seconds later when the showman, Critical, began to flog her with an artful scheme, circling her body delivering stroke after stroke of leather against her wavering form. He would settle into a sensuous rhythm as the lashes caressed her flesh. She fell back swooning with pleasure, but then without warning, Critical would smack her directly between the legs with the full force of his flogger. She continued the erratic jerking motion, then settled as he resumed a kinder flogging.
Laying the flogger down, Critical moved on, pinching the lips of her labia with clamps, squeezing flesh until a half dozen tiny rivers of pain swirled from the source where the clamps cut. He eased her slowly into the moment, giving her time to absorb the shock of each clamp, until she could take no more without losing concentration and drowning in the pain. She teetered at that critical edge between bliss and agony, afraid any second she’d lose the feeling of subspace that was strong now.
Then drifting for a time, peace gathered around her like a blanket, Critical could do nothing to shake that—at least until he shocked her with the single tail, as its tiny tip snapped dangerously close to the clamps. Was he trying to snap them off? The nerves in her body opened wide; she knew she wanted more, and more. For the first time, practicing the extremes of sexual arousal, she came. As the single tail flicked lightly against her flesh, against her bound breasts and stretched back and quivering thighs, her insides set off a timely revolt. The clawing climax was a desperate one. Her body twisted in its place, the rope cut her skin and the bite of the clamps grew harsher each second they remained, but nothing could stop the physical joy throbbing through her body.
At last, he shook her cunt reminding her how he owned her in that precious moment; then he ripped off the clamps, and her body jetted deeper into subspace.
The frenzy over, he eased her down, and the crowd began to move on elsewhere. They were left alone with Diva.
“You are a natural,” she heard Diva’s voice speak with a sigh of longing – was she referring to Lana or the Master?
Exhaustion made her weak.
Critical stood over her now, the hem of his kimono lightly tickling the edges of her body. She gazed upwards into the faces of her Mistress and this Master, then without instruction moved to her knees and bowed at their feet in humble gratitude.
Copyright © 2001 by Lizbeth Dusseau, all rights reserved. May not be used without permission.
By day, Lana Desmond is in charge of acquisitions for a major museum, by night she submits to dominant men and sexual masters. Once a nubile innocent... her world has transformed. In scenes of pain, degradation and bondage, her private obsession comes alive while she carefully guards this tawdry secret.
The ambitious Lana has every reason to despise her arch business rival, the unseen and mysterious Ellery Graham and his agent, Jordan Lucas. But as the war for several valuable paintings heats up, so does the sexual chemistry between Jordan and Lana until they take it to bed, screwing like minks in a downtown fleabag hotel. Risking everything, their one afternoon of unbridled sex turns into a hot affair and covert rendezvous, where their real lives fall away, lust-filled passions rule, and the novice to S&M, Jordon, soon learns that his lover thrives on sexual submission.
In the real world the battle still rages: Jordan has a sassy, spanking-loving fiancé to please, and Lana's torn between her secret lover, her long term companion, the gentle Armando, and a long string of exacting, ruthless masters in the art of S&M. But when her newest master, Allegro, finds his way deep into her submissive soul, the delicate balance of her love-life threatens to tumble. And who is this master, really? Where did he come from? And why is it so important for him to spirit her from her life into his private domain?