Friday, June 19, 2015

Into The Dark Wilds...

I've taken a break from blogging over the last couple months, but now with some newly updated novels just released, I'm back to talk about my erotic fiction. There's no better novel to begin with than a story set far into the future, about two women who dared to defy the conventions of the time and make their mark in worlds where sexuality is strictly monitored and women's voices are silenced by those in control. 

Into The Dark Wilds

About the novel:

"In another lifetime I'll return," the bawdy blonde wrote at the close of her blasphemous journal. In that other time, Chloe Duchet pulls that banned volume from the archives of an antique shop and begins to read about Rowena, whose life as a sex slave and prophetess changed the world for a hundred years. Choosing the life of sexual submission, Chloe follows in her mentor's footsteps, seeking the same lusty satisfaction that Rowena knew. In this novel I write about taboos and forbidden lust, of sex kinky clubs and government sanctioned punishment, of a society that lives in its extremes, the dark and light designed never to meet. The pleasure and pain of their incomparable lives, along with the remarkable connection the two women share in their rebellious choices, has made this one of my favorite novels.  
For more information click here

An Excerpt: 

 Along a row of dusty books in the archives of Gatov’s shop, I found the slim volume between a 21st century historical treatise and a book of poetry—Yeats the poet’s name on the spine of the yellowed piece. Pulling out the journal I wanted, the pages of Yeats fell like dry leaves to the bare oak floor. I stooped nervously to pick them up and shove them back into their cloth cover. Replacing the poetry, I tucked the journal under my arm and ambled into the depths of the store, keeping a furtive eye out for anyone who might have followed me. Though that prospect was unlikely, I was still wise to keep my activity a secret. I’d seen this journal once before, that time only capturing a single glance at Rowena’s illicit prose when the book had been waved in front of my curious eyes, denounced as one stepping-stone on society’s pathway to hell. To have found another copy of her journal in my brief lifetime made it seem as if I was predestined to hear her message regardless of the judgment heaped upon it. It’s as though Rowena calls to me from the past, from my grandmother’s generation. I often imagine that she speaks to me alone.

With fingers trembling, I opened the frayed pages afraid that they might turn to dust before I could read the printed words. There in the dark corner of Gatov’s shop I began to read. Sinking down in a corner window seat, where just a shard of sun struck the opening page, I read with exhilarating expectation her first words.

. . . As the 22nd century dawned, I was hawked as “good, used wares” in a Prussian storefront. Flaxen hair, unblemished skin, breasts to pour over for hours, and an ass that will take whatever abuse a master chooses to heap on it both inside and out, so the advertisement for me read.

Boheme bought me for silver, the second time I was sold as a sexual slave. Though perhaps it’s wise to recount when I was first purchased, for it might shed some light on my frame of mind as I enter into this new arrangement . . .

At that time I was bought by Charlie Hustle, when the Agreements were first allowed, when there were still protest marches against slavery, but when slaves like me were beginning to find personal liberty through the collars and chains we’d chosen to wear.

Charlie was loose with me. I was educated at the cocks of thieves and murderers, who would have murdered me if I hadn’t been such a willing slave. There were still so many women on the slave market that had been coerced, blackmailed and quite literally forced into servitude, usually for economic reasons. I suppose I was initially no different from my sister slaves. My benefactor, Ryne, picked me up in a bar, knowing I was ripe for the marketplace, a runaway with easy standards and a fresh though not virgin body. Ryne had no idea where I came from, or that he could be jailed in a heartbeat if the wrong person discovered whose daughter he’d brought into the trade. He didn’t ask questions and I didn’t give him any answers.

Ryne bought me the black dress and the string of pearls I wore when he thrust me on the stage at the auction. The only explanation he gave me was I was on my way out of poverty. “Use yourself well, you’ll be sitting on gold if you’re any good.” I knew I wasn’t poor and I didn’t care about gold. My needs for this life have a much deeper meaning, even if the meaning is still unfolding day to day.

That day, I remember how the lights blinded my eyes, a dozen fixed on me and four other women who walked along the runway, while men beyond the lights decided whether they’d make a purchase, or wait for the next auction and better flesh. I don’t know the fate of the other women since I was led to a private booth where Charlie Hustle waited to inspect me. He asked me to take off the dress. It was a size too small, and I had to struggle with the zipper on the side. There were beads of sweat running down my back, like the pearls that hung between my breasts in front. The room was hot, and Charlie’s eyes only added to that heat. I stood before him in nothing save that fake strand of beads and black ankle boots.

“You’ve had more than one man?” he asked, feeling my crotch—I assume to see if I was still a virgin, which, of course, I was not.

“Yes,” I answered, feeling embarrassed by this exploration, but not ungrateful for the rousing massage.


“Three,” I replied.

“Lovers or just fucks?” he asked.

“One was a lover, the others were not.”

He pressed his fingers to my bum hole. Turning me to the side he pushed me down so I was bent over. He pawed me like meat, shoving several fingers inside my tight rear channel.

“Taken here?” he asked.


“That can be handled. How about your mouth, you suck cock?”

“Once,” I admitted.

“You’ll get used to it. How about trussed?”

“Excuse me?”

“Tied, bound, manacled?”

“No, never.”


“Not for sex.”

“How would you feel about that?” he asked me.

“I don’t know.”

“You like pain?” Seizing a nipple between two fingers he squeezed it, then twisted it until I cried. “You’ll get used to that, too.”

I thought he’d use my ass that afternoon the way he kept probing me there. The sensation was unlike anything I’d ever experienced. I realized then the personal reward that anal sex would bring, though the opening was dry, untested and seriously tight. When he stopped I sighed my relief.

Charlie bought me as a gift for his friends and business associates, not that he didn’t use me himself. Almost every day I brought him off, often with my mouth or in my ass—he broke me in to that. But never in my cunt. All the things he’d asked me about in our interview, bondage, whipping and pain, weren’t his fantasy. He just wanted to be sure I wouldn’t decline his friends their own pleasure. It’s a good thing I liked it rough, those thugs were chilling at times. I was strung up to rafters and flogged, my pussy pelted with shots from leather straps, my limbs bound in a dozen ways, and of course I was sexually used by these men with hungry appetites for the sexually demeaning and grotesque. 

My initial response was shock. My world so far was  pale in its rendition of the sexual act—just open thighs and a thrusting prick and that was all there was to it. I didn’t realize until the day I was first strung up and flogged that I had a sexual response of my own. I have to give the perpetrator credit, he was incredibly astute in the art of discipline and pain, not like many of the others who followed him. He had bulging muscles, which I watched him oil so that they gleamed in the light of the dank cellar where I was tied. I don’t remember his scent. But the smell of leather and burning lamp oil permeated the stonewalled room with such a pungent aroma, I’ll always remember that combination with a sexual jolt.

He used a cat on my flesh, in-between whispered words that cast a spell of darkness about my brain. I found an empty place in me where strange and inexplicable thoughts emerge. As he spoke, speaking to me in words dripping with lust, about how he was going to love me into pleasure, he slowly drew the talons over my anxious skin, delicately. When he finished, he snapped the lashes, letting them strike so deep I cried. Then, with the handle of his tool, he prodded me between my legs, making me dance on the laced strips of leather as though I were dancing on a cock. He shoved it against the opening, as if he expected it to be submerged by my flesh, swallowed whole. But that handle was much too big to penetrate my lady-like orifice.

Unlike the men who followed him, he took his time. I thought it hours, but had no way to judge. My flesh cried out for more as my body peaked. I didn’t want to go over the edge so quickly because there in my mindless physical bliss, I saw more than stars and fireworks. A blank darkness hit my heart. Like having opened a door to another world, I wanted to walk around in that unreality, wherever in my psyche it resided. But the climax came and died away, and there was just the dank room and the shiny-skinned master awaiting his finale. Untied afterwards and slumping to the floor, I brought his erection into my mouth and savored each drop of semen that spilled out on my lips.

He was the best in my initiation to sexual slavery. The rest who followed did much the same with ropes and whips and cocks, but none with the finesse of this man. My gratitude for his careful attention remains with me for it was the first clue that this occupation would take me to unexpected places.

With his words prompting me, I learned to receive humiliation and pain and find the physical triumph in that. I learned that I was made for this kind of life, when before it had been little more than a kid’s prank. This one dominant man made all the abuse at the hands of Charlie Hustle’s indigent accomplices something that inspired me. I’m sure I wouldn’t have known even half the satisfaction I’ve realized if I hadn’t submitted to those delicious whispers. I’d have never known the first stirrings of that otherworldly dimension floating inside my thoughts.

“Ah! My cherie, feel my heart against you and my groin. Beat with me. Let the pulse overwhelm you. Dive down. Faint. Let me inside you. Beat with me”

Even as I write those words they have the power to woo me to sex and engage my aspirations to greater things than me alone.

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

Friday, April 24, 2015

Jungle Fever

A fantasy story set in 1920's, in the era of early, silent stag films. The young actress, Violet, posing as an innocent femme the middle of a steamy Mexican jungle...knows what she's required to do. But is this savage scene more than the fainting beauty bargained for?

Excerpt from my novel Innocence Defiled
For more information about this novel, check out my Pink Flamingo Website

Violet wasn’t used to bugs and creepy crawly things, exotic birds that screeched at midnight and the darkness of the wind-whipped jungle. The heat was miserable and it took but a few hours after her arrival in Mexico for her to feel the grimy dirt sticking to her flushed skin. Baths were drawn for her morning and night, with water carried from a stream and heated over the fire, but they did little to cleanse away the uncomfortable feeling. An hour after drying off in her tent, she was back to feeling sticky and sour.

       Much to Lionel’s fury, it took three days before the entire cast and the movie crew arrived the Mexican jungle—something about the cargo plane getting held up at the airport by a band of guerillas searching for contraband: i.e. guns. Other than checking the light and the speed of the film, and scouting out the right locations, there was little for the director to do until the entire company had assembled.

       Violet spent the long hours of waiting in her tent reading books. The less time she spent in the jungle the happier she was.

       On the fourth morning, Violet’s hunger pangs drove her quickly from bed. She dressed in haste and emerged from her tent looking for a bite to eat and a fresh cup of coffee. Considering the primitive nature of the campground, the cook, who had flown in with her and Lionel, was able to furnish decent food, in fact better than decent food. Where he found the energy to work in the terrible heat over a hot fire was a mystery to the actress and everyone else.

       As she took a steaming mug of coffee back to her tent, along with a plate of scrambled eggs and fruit, she heard Lionel shouting to his crew. Though she’d paid little attention to the man since arriving at their location, she suspected from his anxious shouts that the rest of the crew had finally arrived.

       “Miss Atherton,” Lionel called to her before she could disappear into her tent.

       She turned around to see him standing some twenty feet away. “Yes, Mister Rains?”        “We’ll have the full crew on site in about thirty minutes. In about an hour, I want you in your costume and ready to go. Florence will be in to fix your hair.”

       “So, today’s the day,” her placid face finally broke a smile while a delightful tickle of excitement raced through her body.

       “Yes, today’s the day,” he confirmed before he took off toward the jungle airstrip.


Unlike the previous movie with a simple set in Lionel’s living room, this film was a lot more complicated to produce. As Violet understood the script, she was to imagine herself on a hunting expedition with her husband, through a remote and dangerous jungle. At some point, the party would be raided by an indigenous tribe and, screaming in panic, Violet would be filmed running through the jungle. Eventually she’d be captured and the taking would begin. There were few details in the storyline after that point; scripts for stag films didn’t require much more than a simple plot.

       When the shooting finally began, Violet sensed the mood in the jungle change. Perhaps it was just the passing clouds that for several minutes blocked even the scant sunrays from reaching the jungle floor. Perhaps the general eeriness of the jungle made her edgy. Perhaps it was knowing that her afternoon would be spent in some vulgarly sexual activity. It was difficult to say exactly what gave Violet such a case of nerves, but she certainly had the jitters. When Lionel handed her a shot of whiskey, she didn’t hesitate to gulp it down. Though she hated the taste, the effect was worth the price. In seconds, her head had begun to swim and her nerves were calmed, at least until the liquor wore off.

       “More?” he asked, holding out the bottle.

       “No, that should do the trick.” She flashed the director a smile and then proceeded to follow him through the jungle.


The actual movie set was created some distance from the camp set up for the actors and crew. Beside a canvas tent much like the one she’d been sleeping in, Violet was to sit at a collapsible writing table and pretend to be writing letters to friends at home. She was dressed rather strangely for an adventurous expedition of this sort, wearing a long white dress that would have been perfectly appropriate for a summer barbecue in the Hamptons, though it was hardly suitable for the jungle. The filmy gown was, however, perfect for a stag film, which suggested that the point of the movie easily won out over authenticity in costuming. At least the dress was airy and comfortable in the miserable heat, even if Violet felt a little silly, looking as if she’d just stepped out for a casual stroll through a city park. All she needed was a pretty parasol to twirl on her shoulder.

       Florence, who was in charge of costumes, make-up and hair for the entire cast, had earlier entered her tent with a brown wig that was fashioned in a short style, requiring Violet’s blonde hair to be pinned up underneath. The wig was quite tight and uncomfortable, but the director had been quite clear that even in the likely scuffle that would take place during the filming, the wig must stay in place.

       “You’ll probably have a headache before this is finished,” Florence advised her. “But then, what’s a little discomfort for the sake of art, hum?”

       “You call this art?” Violet laughed.

       “Well,” the older woman smirked, “I try to put it in a favorable light, honey. It’s the best we can do.” Florence was a big blowsy woman with over-dyed hair tied up in a messy chignon and way too much make-up. Perhaps her painted look was suitable for a jungle in which garishly colored birds flitted about from tree to tree. Violet had heard through the gossip mill that Florence was a washed up actress. Probably true. But it didn’t matter to the younger actress. Florence didn’t put on airs, or look down on her in judgment the way the rest of the crew often did.

       Although Violet had never actually heard the crude remarks from the male crew members, she saw how they looked at her. She knew there were jokes about her going back and forth amongst the crew, lewd comments behind her back. No doubt, they were speculating about what she’d look like when being taken advantage of… when her clothes were ripped away… and she was accosted by her brute attackers and forced to give up her body for their use. Words of the plot still echoed through her mind, just as Lionel had read them to her from the script.

       So far, she was unsure who would be the perpetrators of the ‘act’ itself, but that was the plan. “There has be a little element of surprise, Miss Atherton,” the director had said when she asked for more specifics. It became hard to escape the feeling that everyone else on the set knew exactly what would happen and with whom, to exactly what extreme degree, while she was left in the dark to worry if she could endure the torrid scene that was demanded.

       Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea, had been repeating in her mind since she first stepped into the jungle. But it was too late to change her mind now. She’d given Lionel her word.

Slightly intoxicated and feeling a little dreamy, Violet sat at the fold-up table on cue and began writing a letter to her cousin in Indiana. Whether it would ever be mailed was not the point, she needed to get in the mood of the scene, and this was one way she could do that and concentrate her energy at the same time.

       In the distance, she heard Rains shouting out directions, then the approach of the camera team, and several others moved in fast. Though her anxiety was mounting, she kept her focus, knowing that the commotion was extraneous noise that would never be part of the film. Suddenly jerked by the arm, Violet was pulled from the chair and immediately landed in the dust. Three huge men, one of them very black and almost naked, stood over her while Lionel and crew moved in and filmed the expressions on their faces. For several seconds the camera focused directly on Violet’s terrified eyes. Her mouth was open in a silent scream.

       As soon as the director gave the word, the black man jerked her from the ground and threw her over his shoulder, carrying her off through the trees. He ran barefoot through the jungle for about thirty seconds, then in another scripted move, Violet flailed wildly until she finally fell from his arms to the ground. According to the script, and a little prior instruction from Lionel, she scrambled to her feet and took off deep into the jungle, knowing that her attackers were close at her heels. She followed a marked trail that Lionel had forced her to memorize during several run-throughs of the scene. But disoriented from liquor and a mild case of hysteria brought on by the emotions in play, she soon forgot the markers and was flailing blindly through thick stands of tall bamboo and tropical vines. Her face was scratched; her red high heels muddy; and her anxious heart beat at a panicked rate. Caught in a tangle of thorny branches, the white dress tore in several places, turning dingy when dragged across the dirt.

       Behind her, the trailing assailants—no longer actors in her mind but primal beasts—moved at a frenzied pace, Rains directing, while cameramen hauling their equipment raced along beside them.

       As directed, Violet continued to stumble through the undergrowth in a blind panic. She stared back several times in her race against the elements, then suddenly found herself smashed against an enormous tree. By the time she was able to pull free of the viney vegetation clinging to the tree trunk, the men were on her and Rains was shouting, “Do it now! Take her!”

       Working like madmen possessed by the devil, the native black man and two muscled Caucasians had her bound to the tree with thick sisal rope, her arms, her legs and her torso fixed in place so she could barely move a muscle. She stared back into the camera, alarmed and anxious, crying out loud: “Please don’t, please, please let me go. Anything you want, please don’t hurt me…” over and over, tears streaming from her eyes and down her face.

       Their hands were large and powerful, their thick palms enough to cover an ass cheek with a single smack, or grab for a breast and maul it till it ached. The first act in the exhilarating scene began with violent smacks against her flesh, the ripping away of the pretty white gown, and the boorish crudeness of the men mauling their bounty. Her naked body emerged from the encounter pale and beautiful against the background of the lush green flora. Thick rope defined her struggle, while the tattered ruins of the white dress clung to the undergrowth like distant memories of a better time in a better place.

       Act Two began with Violet’s assailants first feel of her pretty snatch, fingers diving deep between her thighs and inching toward the holy home they intended to violate. There was no civility employed in their exploration, not one but several fingers jammed their way into her back door. The ruthless way they pinched her nether lips and the bud between them made her worry how much damage would be done before the scene was over.

       “That’s it… that’s it…” the sound of an animated Rains could be heard through the crazed commotion like a voice from a distant dream in Violet’s mind. “Yes, that’s it…nasty…mean…as vile as you dare…

       Her body shrieked, warnings of danger tearing through her. Shrill screams ripped from her throat. This was going farther, faster than she ever dreamed. Three men…three men! How could this ever work!

       Please, please… don’t make me do this…” she spoke sincerely now, but the director was far too involved to stop the action and no one would take her pleas seriously.

       When the cameramen finally moved in closer, Act Three began. The men moved forward with their assault, discarding the rope that circled her torso so her body could be more easily manipulated.

       Her ass was gripped by two powerful hands and pulled back from the safety of the thick tree trunk. She was no longer standing upright, but bent over with her hands and arms still tied to the tree. Her rear cheeks were mauled for several minutes more, then they were roughly jerked apart. To film the scene up close, one cameraman was on the ground shooting the action of the two crotches from pointblank range. Violet’s sex-lips dripped with pussy juice; the thick pink cock was poised to strike; then the rude shove knocked her back against the tree.

       Despite all prior anticipation, the sudden shock of the impalement stunned the frazzled actress. She wept more forcefully, grimaced in a way the camera loved, and then began to moan in an especially provocative manner—sounds that would be recorded only by her attackers and those who watched—those who understood that demure little Violet Atherton was only half-acting, and only moderately horrified. The rest of her experienced the scene as a shameless slut. Soon as that big cock began to move in her, the urgent force of the copulation stirred all the wonderful feelings that had surged through her weeks ago when she was taken on Lionel’s living room set. Every forceful shove forward by the brute behind her sent another violent rush of erotic pleasure to the far reaches of her aroused body.

       She’d been well-primed, as if Lionel knew exactly what he was doing, exactly what was needed to raise the sexual being behind Violet’s modest exterior. The liquor made the rough stuff go down a little easier and the fucking part she easily enjoyed. The combination of the setting, the men and the innocent girl created such explosive images that, just as it had been during her ‘screen test’, those watching were too amazed to voice a thought.

The moneyman behind the production wanted it all, all of it first rate sex, and that is exactly what the movie man intended to deliver to his client.

         That's exactly what he got. Their not so innocent actress was particularly suited for the role.

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

Friday, April 3, 2015

Forever haunted by his love...

In the genre of BDSM erotica, stories arise from many varied places, moods and worlds, from contemporary to historical to science fiction to fantasy. Some stories are deeply rooted in the current protocols of the BDSM lifestyle, which is what many readers look for, in particular, those identifying with the lifestyle itself. And then there are other story lines, as in most of my own BDSM erotica, that toss the kind of caution and rules found in the lifestyle aside and dive deep into the darkest sexual fantasies, into worlds where slaves and submission are part of the culture created in the writer's mind. Reality is suspended for a time while readers are taken into realms they only travel in fantasy. My novel 21 Sins is such a story...about a lifetime slave who will lose her master and must make a choice (in this made-up world) between becoming another man's slave or becoming a free woman. 

Here's the opening scene from 21 Sins... a scene of urgency, savagery and tenderness that is part of the life of this master and his slave. More information about the novel can be found here: click this link


“My beautiful girl,” he whispers in her ear. She clings to the tall, decaying trunk of a dead aspen, where once in a long ago summer, small green leaves quaked, shivering in the airy mountain breeze. She shivers in a similar way, a tremor that starts at the top of her mop-like hair and travels through her firm, naked flesh, becoming more than subtle as it passes through her rounded bare behind. The flesh there is opulent; it’s natural color a pearly hue, sometimes a blush of pink, occasionally bluish when she shivers from the cold. At this moment, however, the color of that rounded, quaking ass has deepened to an angry red. She has been beaten. Even now, as he whispers in her ear as tenderly as a lover would, she feels the hot fire of punishment on her skin. It warms her body and will eventually soothe her spirit in the same way his simple words soothe her.

She sighs, expelling a cleansing breath of air as the pain in her body begins to dwindle.

“Our days are numbered, just a handful remains,” he tells her. “We have to relish every second.”

“No, sir, you’ll not go!”

“I have no choice, my darling.”

“But without you…” she starts, her voice full of urgency.

“Hush,” he stops her. “Without me you’ll remain who you are, guided by those who come after me. They will take you on a different journey, but they will love you, too.”

“How can you say that, when you don’t know?” she looks up pleadingly, whispering her objection. “When you won’t be here?” Tears form in the corner of her eyes, threateningly—no different from any other day for the last six months of his illness.

“No crying, love,” he softly reprimands. “The end will be on us quickly enough.” She sees the pain in his eyes and how the bright bold color of dominion fades a little more each day. He walks with a cane now, though he still has the fresh exterior of a young and robust man. And for the moment he is with her, feeling the wildness of her sexual spirit unleashed by his brutal whip, he is more alive than in his grave.

“The day will come when my tears won’t stop,” she says, with a degree of haughty self-assurance she rarely shows—though it is essential to her make-up, essential for the life she leads. Will, determination and self-control are replete in her complicated personality, just as her desire to suffer, to surrender, to please, and to be this man’s humble slave forever have defined her.

Sadly, there will be no ‘forever’ for these two.

When he touches her flaming ass with the palm of his hand, the paradox she lives and breathes each day nags at her again. Her master is cruel, a proud sadist in love with the act of beating her, turning her skin into ribbons of red wounds, and watching her writhe under the weight of his floggers and the sting of his whips. Even the way he binds her causes pain, as her wrists are wrapped with thick sisal, which cuts into her tender skin the more she struggles at the whipping post. The cruel elements of nature collide with her this day, as a sharp wind castigates her tormented flesh. She has no idea which sensation to feel as so many batter her body.

Now that the whipping has ended, the paradox begins in earnest. Her lover, her master, discards his pompous cruelty in favor of genteel kindness. He kisses her ear, massages her wounded ass, and takes the steamy heat pouring from her crotch and turns it into a climactic surge of orgasmic bliss. She whimpers as she begins to come on his loving hand. She caws and mews. Her body bucks against the post, scratching her pure white breasts on the splintered wood. Yet, she doesn’t care anymore with this climax crashing through her like an angry tiger crashing through the jungle. Her head thrashes back and forth and her lips part as her cries fly aloft like seagulls into the air. Her eyes have brightened into an eerie glow. Then for several seconds, they roll back into their sockets as the ecstasy takes her deeper. Her master’s hand, lodged purposefully between her legs, is flooded by her wetness, bathed in her juices. He holds his fingers to her lips and makes her lick them clean. She cannot resist his touch, disobey or disappoint him.

He’s pleased. “Such a good girl you are. Such a survivor.”

He talks this way a lot these days… how she is a survivor of her life and every fate that has tried to slap her down. Fate brought her to him. Now fate will take him away from her, but she will remain intact, able to go on being the woman she has become. He is preparing her for his end and her new beginning.

When he removes her from the whipping post, she falls to her knees in the mud—a product of last night’s rain across the valley. He snaps the collar and leash around her neck and leads her to a fallen tree, which becomes their makeshift bed. Tying her—arms stretched above her head, her legs wide open—with her wounded backside against the scratchy bark, the pain in her shoulders and ass returns. But he cares little about her comfort; a chameleon to the very end, his sadistic, self-serving desire returns. He straddles the tree trunk between her open thighs and removes his thick erection from his pants. Impaling her in one swift thrust, he begins his last vigorous taking of the slut he’s created. She cries again, and grunts like a common whore, as he stabs her cunt repeatedly. Then she comes one more time as her master takes his pleasure. For an angry, despondent man this is the only joy he knows now. He will savor it to the finish, until the last burst of excitement, the last trickle, the last gasp, the last spasm finally quits his body, and he is done.

“Thank you,” he silently whispers as he peers into her hooded gaze.  

She stares back at him, forever haunted, forever wounded by his love. 

Copyright (c) 2005 by Lizbeth Dusseau, all rights reserved. May not be used without permission.

Friday, March 27, 2015

Sexy spanking romance...

From the novel...
Off of the Beaten Path... 
this sexy spanking scene, for lovers of strong-willed bratty women and the men who take them in hand. 

About the novel:  Spanking Romance. A fiercely independent bush pilot, Ashley, meets her match in Jess Barrow at a research station in the midst of a South American jungle. Jess refuses to let the strong-willed woman ride roughshod over him. He's quick to take Ashley over his lap for a good sound paddling. In a story that takes them out of the jungle and back to civilization, their future seems perpetually ‘up in the air’, but the taste of leather and a bare hand on Ashley's bottom keeps their relationship hot, happy and under control! Available from Pink Flamingo Publications


“My place or yours?” Ashley asked, with a sensuous lilt in her voice.

    Jess was practically rock hard between his legs all ready, just looking at her did it to him every time. “I don’t have a place to stay yet, remember? I guess it will have to be yours.”

    They strolled through the quaint village after dinner on their way to the small house she kept. She was hardly ever in the place, but she kept it like home with enough personal things to make it feel like one. The front porch had attracted her from the start, since she loved front porches. And when she wasn’t playing bush pilot to remote locations, dead tired or working on the plane, she was rocking in a chair she managed to bring from Caracas on one of her trips to the city.

    As she and Jess reached the house, there was an electric chemistry passing back and forth, something so unseen, but so seemingly tangible, it was a surprise that they couldn’t touch it. Just inside the doorway of her house, Jess had his hand on Ashley’s rear, the other hand reaching for her face, so he could lean down and kiss her. The kiss was warm and moist with their tongues making tenuous explorations. Getting to know each other in a new setting like this, it seemed odd to Ashley having him right there in her house. A shiver, something almost imperceptible raced through her. Had he seen it? She wanted to roll all over her bed with him, but for the first time since she could remember, she found herself deferring to a man, to Jess, letting him lead while she followed. It was appropriate and she didn’t know why, but for some reason she knew it was the way it should be with them.

    “You going to stay right here and make love to me?” she asked. They hadn’t budged from the doorway.

    “We’ll get to other places, you’re just going to have to be patient. I have some other things in mind before we get to bed.”

    “Oh, and what are they?” she asked.

    Jess pulled away from the attentive kisses. “I thought I’d start with you over my lap, let you really know how I feel about this flight up river you have planned.”

    “Oh, no you don’t,” Ashley said pulling further away. She was instantly angry, and suddenly bolted to the far side of the room. “We weren’t going to discuss it,” she reminded him of their previous agreement.

    “Oh, I’m discussing nothing, I’m just offering my opinion. Since you like spanking so much, I thought I’d give you my opinion right across your butt.”

    “Okay! That’s enough!” she charged in nastily. She was about to disappear into the bedroom, when Jess quickly made his way to her and hauled her back.
    “I think it’s time you started to realize that there are people in this world that care about you.”

    “Well you have a fine way of showing it,” she snapped.

    “Frankly, I think this is exactly what you want me to do.”

    “You ass!” she roared. Before she knew what to make of it, Jess pulled her by the arm into the bedroom. He went through her closet, looking for something in particular, finally pulling a brown leather belt from a hook on the wall.

    “This should do,” he said, grasping it firmly in his free hand.

    He led a wriggling Ashley to the bed, sat down and pulled her over his knee.

    “Dammit, Jess!” she shouted.

    If it made her feel better to swear like sailor, that was okay with him, he wasn’t about to stop.

    “You have no cause!” she wailed again.

    “I suppose I don’t, but it’s time someone got through to you, and I guess I’m the one that’s going to do it. Even if this doesn’t stop this foolish trek of yours, at least you’ll know someone cares enough to warn you!”

    As he raised Ashley dress, she squirmed vigorously against his lap pushing the skirt back in place. That only made him hold her more tightly with his arm firmly grasping her around her waist. Just for good measure, he pinned her hands against her back.

    “Stop it!” she shouted.

    He pulled up her dress again to reveal a pair of pale blue panties underneath. Yanking them down with his right hand, he worked the tight cotton garment to the bottom of her rear, revealing the two luscious mounds of flesh he loved so well. He could think of nothing better than to make them blush wild red. Maybe then she’d get the point!

    Picking up the belt, he doubled it into the perfect tool for punishment; and with a passionate smack, he laid the first of what would be many brisk smacks across the struggling blonde’s bottom cheeks.

    “No, damn you!” she wailed.

    Ignoring her cries, and her attempts to wriggle away, he laid the belt across her bottom three times.

    “Stop it!” she demanded – as if that would dissuade him.

    Jess paused to watch the red imprint of four lines red appear on the surface of her skin. He laid another two against her bottom, seeing the tantalizing jiggle of her cheeks arouse him with their rosy appearance.

    “Ouch, stop, this hurts,” she exploded again.

    He continued on, having decided that his belt was a most effective weapon against the rear of a bratty woman. With another several smacks, one right over top of the other in the center of her posterior, she wailed louder than ever. She kicked her feet and tried desperately to loosen his grip. Nothing worked.

    “Jess, I hate you!” she screamed.

    Though Ashley was like a mad woman gone berserk, it was curious that she wasn’t more effective with her fervent rally. As determined as she seemed to be, it was a wonder that she couldn’t have propelled herself off Jess’s lap. Made him wonder if she really wanted to bolt or just wanted to put on a good show.   

    She wiggled and squirmed, but didn’t get away. She howled with each new smack as if he was killing her. And the truth was, this was hardly more cruel than the hand spanking he’d given her the week before.    

    Again she cried, “Stop it, now! You fuckin ass!” Though the quality of her protest had changed. She’d begun to sob. Tears flowed down her cheeks, and her legs no longer kicked as hard as before. “Oh, please, Jess,” she pleaded, now sounding so mournful that he was almost moved to stop. But he didn’t. She might have been changing her tune, but he wanted to be sure that he got the message.

    By then, her bottom was red top to bottom. The crimson on her cheeks looked raw and splotchy, and few rough spots looked as though they might show up on her bottom hours after the spanking was over.

    “Oh, Please!” There was clearly something in the spitfire Ashley that had relented, and Jess began to ease up. Her emotions were much less fierce, and it seemed as if in some way, she’d worked something out over his lap, in-between the pain of the belt’s hearty whacks.

    “Had enough?” he asked, finally dropping the leather to the floor. Ashley collapsed against him exhausted. Though even in the middle of her exhaustion, there was the most terrific feeling surging though her reluctant body.

    The two pulled up on the bed together, Ashley letting Jess hold her, as much a triumph for him as spanking her. She usually refrained from too much simple intimacy, but this time she seemed content. They remained silent for a time, while she let out her last sobs, and Jess let himself bask in the closeness of her beautiful body.

Friday, February 27, 2015

Man With The Leash

Some years ago, while doing some investigative research at a ‘vanilla’ sex club, my husband and I observed a remarkable scene of sexual submission. After all the many BDSM scene related experiences I have witnessed or been involved with since, this amazing incident remains one of the most stunning examples of true dominance and submission that I have ever witnessed.
Man With The Leash by Lizbeth Dusseau
Copyright © 2003, all rights reserved, may not be used without permission

He moved with urgent purpose through the smoky nightclub, leaving a wake of mystery and wonder, dropping hints of the unusual scene about to knock this vanilla sex club on its ear. Though he dressed simply, in pressed slacks and starched open-collared shirt, his mannerisms made one think of arrogant executives wielding power: the chiseled jaw, the darting eyes, the shameless ego. Jaws dropped—at least figuratively—as his girl, a surrendering plain-faced brunette, moved with him, behind him, collared and tethered to a leash, exhibiting a behavioral abnormality rarely seen in any world but theirs.

    In charge for one astounding hour, the man had his stage, his audience in rapt attention and his actress under his command. While he aimed for a particular end, an explicit need only he understood, she was the embodiment of sensuous resignation, diverting her eyes, except when he demanded that she look directly at him. She was dressed as simply as the man who held the leash, wearing a slim black skirt, a dark tee-shirt that buttoned up the front, and black, leather boots that fit tight around her ankles. Her brunette hair was blunt cut and shoulder length. And while flat-chested, her hard nipples strained the fabric of her shirt, revealing a basic, almost boyish beauty in her simple look. Her passive face would be hard to remember, difficult to pick out in a crowd, but her aura was not likely forgotten by anyone in the club that night, as garish overstatement gave way to an exhibition of unpretentious surrender.

    The pair moved effortlessly through the crowd toward the center of the main lounge, where the atmosphere of erotic expectation was thick and unsettling. Those present were primed for sex, for a night of hedonistic abandon, and yet, their sexual anticipation hid behind casual postures, teasing glances and nervous negotiations that eventually, as the night wore on, would become less timid and more direct. In truth, liquor did a lot to loosen inhibitions in this sex club, something the startling newcomers would do with their exhibition alone.

    Indifferent to the bodies milling around him, the man with the leash shoved his collared chattel forward to a tiny dance stage and whispered in her ear commands only she could hear. Dropping the tether, he backed off and, along with a crowd of growing admirers, watched as she lifted her tee-shirt and mindlessly massaged her tiny tits. Her eyes never strayed from a spot at his feet, as she pulled her nipples brutally and bit her lip when the pain darted downward to her groin.

    “Move on,” he prompted her with some impatience.

    Her cue, she lifted her skirt, exhibiting thick tan legs and a bare shaved pussy, already glossy with a layer of moisture.

    Then, as if her performance was not enough, the man moved in close, whispering again. The girl immediately dropped to her hands and knees as he stepped back and focused critically on every exacting move she made, and nothing else—as if the two were alone in the room and the rest of the world had disappeared, and there were not thirty pairs of eyes witnessing in horrific wonder. He watched her as she raised her skirt above her tight ass, as she massaged the cheeks with her hand and ran her fingers down the crevice, drawing the wetness from her pussy toward the tight rosette of her anus. She tucked her chin to her chest, hiding her face, along with the lust in her eyes and her parted panting sensuous lips. Faceless, she was her body and nothing more—his body to command.

    Her willingness advanced his plan. Inspired, he crouched beside her, picked up the leash and held it in his fist. While she continued her play, he jerked the chain, annoyingly tugging at the collar and her neck. Tiny, sensuous gasps escaped her lips, but there was not a word of protest. She wouldn’t dare. Burying his free hand in her hair, he grabbed the brown locks and twisted them inside his gripping fingers.

    “Tell me you want more,” he whispered, so that only she and those close by could hear.

    “More,” she instantly answered him in a soft pleading shudder.

    “Tell me ‘harder,’” he insisted.

    “Harder, sir,” she answered.

    He sneered derisively, dismissively, “I should just leave you here and let them take your sorry ass.” Giving her head one last brutal shake, he then let go, pushed off and rose to his feet. He hung onto the leash with his one hand and tugged. “This way.” Pulling her from one subservient act to the next, he led her toward the tables where a dazzling blonde in a pink silk slip sipped rum and coke.

    “Do you mind?” he asked the woman.

    The blonde looked up at him amazed but clearly intrigued. Then with a mischievous smile, she nodded and raised the slip to her knees, opening her thighs in welcome.

    “Please her,” the man with the leash crisply ordered his brunette.

    The girl moved with caution but deliberately, stopping inside the V of the blonde’s legs. Rising to her knees, she ran her palms along the silk-covered thighs and the curve of the tart’s lush hips, upward to her breasts, where she lovingly grasped both and gently kneaded the plush cushions she found inside her hands.

    “That’s what real tits should feel like,” the man above her chided her own inadequate equipment.

    A tremor of regret passed across the brunette’s face as she heard him speak, yet she continued to pleasure the lovely blonde, scooting further inside the woman’s legs. Drawing the heavy breasts from inside the silk, she suckled the abundant flesh with parted lips, then wetted the pretty nipples with her tongue and blew warm air to make them knot as tightly as her own small buds.

    “Oh, honey, you can do that more,” the woman purred, while reaching out to gratefully stroked the brunette’s hair. Her eyes glimmered darkly. “And lower,” she urged in a voice simmering and erotic.

    The girl hesitated just long enough for the man in command to give the leash an impatient tug. Continuing now with determination, her hands caressed their way down the pink silk until they moved inside and underneath. As if she were opening a Valentine gift, the brunette carefully pulled up the slip, uncovering a plush snatch of pale pink skin and a neatly trimmed triangle of wispy blonde curls. Her head moved down into the redolent valley, with her lips and tongue leading her again. While holding the outer labia open with her fingers, she explored with her mouth until with a sudden and urgent abandon, she began frantically flicking the hood of the blonde’s blood-swollen clit.

    It would seem that a hundred soft sighs were heard in hushed sequence around the humid, smoky room. No one dared move but the girl on the floor, whose head bobbed lithely on the pink crotch, and the woman who owned that crotch, whose languid body responded in undulating orgasmic swells.

    “Ah, yesssss,” she softly hissed, as her head fell back against the chair. When her trembling body started to climax, she grabbed the side of the chair with one hand and the brunette’s hair with the other.

    The girl hung on to the pink, cumming pussy despite the wildly erratic movements, her face glistening, smeared with female juices.

    Once the woman’s tremors subsided, she slumped back in the chair, almost fainting. Seeing her satisfied expression, the man with the leash jerked his girl back to him, reclaiming her complete attention. After pulling her to her feet, he led her toward the back of the club, as though he sought a more private location. Even so, a motivated crowd of voyeurs followed them hoping the show would continue.

    The couple stood now face to face, just inches apart and chest to chest. Although they were nearly the same height, his energy persisted in towering over her, nearly consuming her as if she was a part of him, little more than an extension of his unyielding will, a playground for his schemes. No different than the scene before, their private conversation became a public show. That was what he wanted.

    “What do you deserve?” he asked her, with his sharp eyes riveted on her scared ones.

    “Nothing,” she sincerely answered.    

    He let go the leash and grabbed her neck, clutching it inside a claw-like grip. His other hand reached for the top of her shirt and with an abruptness that stunned the audience and his chattel, he ripped the two sides open. She swooned with awe and fright. He then laid her down against the flat surface of an empty lounge table and began pinching her nipples with a biting firmness that had to hurt. Her eyes remained closed but the pain still registered across her face in a worried grimace.

    The man leaned in, hissing in her ear. “Play with your pussy til you come.”

    While he continued to squeeze her nipples, the brunette reached for her crotch and began to roam the wet slit. Knowing exactly what to do to get off, her fingers massaged around the bud of her clitoris with painstaking precision. She performed with some urgency, sensing that the man in charge of her would not allow a leisurely masturbation.

    In speechless wonder, the audience observed her slick shiny folds expand before their eyes, and how her clitoris seemed to bloom and her vaginal muscles pulsed in readiness as she worked herself to a climactic frenzy. The air in the room seemed to rise ten degrees, a collective force that fed off her lust. She strained as the man above her crushed her nipples between his fingers and twisted.

    “Open your eyes,” he whispered gruffly.

                Her eyes fluttered wide, staring dazedly into his surly expression. He seemed to have climbed inside her head where he read her thoughts. He watched her jerk, struggling with the pain that by then must have been a constant stimulation. Though whether that pain was welcome was not exactly clear. It was, nevertheless, endured, because that was what she did.

    “Come, or I’ll pull your hand away,” he ordered in seething tones.

    She shook her head back and forth, her face wincing as if in protest. “Please,” she begged.

    “No, come now,” he insisted giving her nipples another angry squeeze. This last jarring pain tripped a switch in her brain and body.

    Her fingers flew, her body strained. She arched her back with every muscle going taut. Something wild swept through her, and yet the restraint was obvious. Whether the crowd made her shy or the man who mastered her every move restricted her pleasure by some unspoken rule, no one would know. The result was the same. The girl remained under his power, controlled even in her moment of rapture. She was left spent but hardly satiated at the finish.

    He gave the girl no time to recover. While her body still spasmed, he pulled her to her feet. His one hand moved to her crotch, diving into the liquid that bathed his fingers. Then he raised his cum-soaked digits to her lips and she, without instruction, licked them one by one. Her eyes remained nearly closed, her dreamy reverie apparent. A moment later, she slumped to her knees, bowing her head and hanging on to the man’s legs in affectionate gratitude. She looked up, eyes beseeching him. She wanted inside his pants, a hope everyone shared. It only seemed right after everything else that happened that night.

    But he pushed her off with a sweep of his hand.

    “I should find one fat prick to take your ass and another to fill your mouth.”

    That would have worked too, the crowd would agree.

    She seemed languished with desire hearing his rough words.

    “But not tonight,” he said as he wound his hand through her hair and scowled.  “You’ve already had more than you deserve.”
That said, the performance ended. He dropped the leash in her lap and turned away, leaving the brunette to scramble to her feet and follow him to the front of the club. Her shirt was still unbuttoned, the tips of her small breasts just barely hidden inside the flimsy cotton. Still collared, leashed and humbly acquiescent, she followed him into the desert night.

    The air in the sex club buzzed as the simmering erotic heat began to boil. Horny spectators resumed their quest for sexual satisfaction and negotiations were swiftly made. Couples disappeared into private rooms while other fucked in the public lounges. No one quite understood what they had seen that night. Days later, some would doubt it ever happened. But no one would forget. As the remembrance of that strange play between the yielding brunette and the man with the leash lingered on, it would continue to lure and beguile the voyeurs in that hour of mystery, causing them to wonder about themselves, what might be missing in their sexual passion, what hidden lust might lie dormant, waiting.

Friday, February 13, 2015

Part Two of "The Seduction Begins"

From my BDSM novel, House of Slaves

For Part One of this story, and more info on the book, read my previous post below

In Part Two...
The seduction that began in the bar turns into a blistering hot D/s scene in the sexy atmosphere of an old hotel.

Later in the evening…

The hotel is old, smelling of roses past their prime and fine woodwork. Distinguished. Elite. The place is a little shabby, it too is past its prime, but pleasingly quaint, and to her relief, dimly, erotically lit.

    The walls absorb the lies she carries with her. They allow her secrets and will bury them with the secrets of all the late night rendezvous that have gone before hers.

    The lights are low in the fourth floor room. The carpet is plush, the chairs deep and the mattress high and welcoming.

He sinks down in the comfort of an old armchair and unbuttons another button on his shirt.

    “How rough do you want it, Sarah?” he asks.

    She stands before him mesmerized, and without batting an eye says: “Sometimes very rough, sir.” She regrets calling him sir; it conveys too much, but it’s out of her mouth before she thinks.

    But he moves on swiftly. “Take off the coat.”

    She gulps visibly, nervous but driven. It’s just a sash, a simple sash, and with it untied, the coat easily falls away to disclose the sinful revelation of her errant panties and everything that is Sarah plainly exposed.

    He stares at her crotch, deliberately, his eyes gliding right over the wealth of her generous breasts and the lovely curve of her slim waist and shapely hips.

    “I don’t remember making an exception for your panties,” he says coldly. “I suppose I should just walk out the door and assume that you were toying with me. I thought I was clear as glass.”

    “You were, sir. I’m sorry.”

    “But you refuse me?”

    “No, sir, I was petrified.”

    “And you’re petrified now?”

    She hesitates. “Sort of, maybe, but not as much.”

    “Come closer, Sarah.”

    He’s stern and gentle and unwavering, and she trembles at the sound of his curt voice. She obeys him, inching forward until she’s right in front of him, so close that she can smell his breath and feel the drum beat of energy he exudes.

    She feels his hands on her hips, his fingers sliding deftly under the waistband of her panties, and the firm assurance he uses to draw them down to uncover the last of her secrets. Her trembling deepens as he gazes at the neatly shaped ‘V’ with its soft curls and the pink valley between, shining now with juices seeping onto her flushed skin.

    Her panties fall to the floor.

    “Pick them up,” the stranger says.

    She backs up a step, feeling wobbly and faint, but manages to bend down and pluck the featherweight lace from the floor. She holds out her hand to show him what she found, and with her apprehensions mounting, she relinquishes the bit of fabric and watches as the stranger pockets them in his pants.

    “Now on your knees and crawl,” he orders.

    “Crawl where?”

    “Crawl where I can see you,” his voice like a bitter wind.

    She drops to her knees and moves slowly in a circle in front of him, her hands and knees sinking into the thick plum-colored carpet. Crawling demeans her in his eyes, but she doesn’t feel as demeaned as she feels strangely aroused. By the time she returns to him, his zipper is already down. With little effort, she takes his throbbing erection into her mouth and lovingly laves the fragrant skin. The moist sweet scent of an aroused man wafts into her nose, sustaining the deviant pleasure in serving him.

    He leans back and sighs as her blowjob continues, as her mouth covers his organ, and her lips slide down the shaft drawing him deeper, deeper, deeper into her body.

    When he suddenly pushes her back, she fears she’s failed him.

    “You had to make me do this, didn’t you, Sarah?”

    Do what?     Punish her for the panties.

    He pulls them from his pocket, holding the smelly lace in front of her nose.

    “Open your mouth,” he says and when she does, he shoves the cloth inside. Rising from the chair, he lifts her by the arm and pushes her to the bed. “Ass high, Sarah. And no screaming, even if this hurts.”

    Of course, it’s going to hurt. Punishment hurts. And this one hurts especially. He only had a few rules and already she’s broken a very simple one. She watches him only long enough to see him draw the belt from his pants. But as he takes aim, her eyes close, and her fists clench and her ass cheeks tense.

    Smack! He delivers his message with powerful force, then repeats the action again and again and again. The hits come on fast, in a fury that leaves her breathless. She groans beneath the lashing belt, squirming in pain, writhing miserably but remaining in place. She should be frightened of this man’s power over her mind and body, and yet she craves every hurtful smack on her soft ass cheeks. She dwells now in a land where retribution like this will absolve her, cleanse her and make all things right. For all the fear and trembling, all the hurt and pain, she will not alter what fate blessed her with this night. She will take all the stranger metes out because he’s justified in what he does; she’s earned every blow.

    But then his energy shifts.

    She can feel the change coming over him as he drifts away from righteous indignation back to arousal, to pleasure, to sex. The belt suddenly disappears, and the sex comes on her strong, plunged deep into her valley, into her pussy, into her core. He grabs her ass cheeks in his fists as he fucks her from behind, using her, taking her, being brutal to the very end when his fucking cock at last explodes, shooting rivers of his essence deep into her body.

    She explodes too, becoming as thoughtless and self-absorbed as he is in the end, out for her pleasure, her satisfaction, her needs satisfied. As much as she’s given to him, she wants for herself in return.

    They collapse to the bed exhausted and he pulls the panties from her mouth. She gasps gratefully.

    “I might let you dress when you leave here, Sarah. But you’ll leave the panties in the room.”

    “Yes, sir,” she weakly returns.

    They lay silently, letting their thoughts swim, and a bevy of questions and feelings slide away, as the real world finally comes back to them. Reality hits her hard: what she’s done; what an easy lay she is; what an easy surrender her stranger won from her. Lies. Regret. Guilt. Pile on.

    “I really have to go,” she suddenly, nervously, jumps from the bed.

    “So quickly, Sarah?” he asks, quite kindly. Not even a hint of the exploitive tyrant he took such pleasure in becoming minutes ago obscures his amiable spirit.

    “Yes, really. I shouldn’t be here in the first place.”

    He snickers knowingly then rises from the bed to find his clothes.

    When did he shed them? she wonders, as she looks up and stares at his firm body. Fucking feels like eons ago. Her ass may be sore later but she feels none of the punishment now – as if the fucking and punishment never happened and their time together was no more than a dream.
    She dresses quickly in the rumpled clothes she pulls from her handbag.
    She wants to run from the room and pretend the affair never happened, but when she looks up, he’s standing in front of the door, blocking her exit. Coolly. Casually. Handsomely. A quiet concern on his face.

    “So what’s your name, Sarah, your whole name?” he asks earnestly.

    “Sarah Strathorn.” She runs her hand through her messed up hair. She’s trying to compose herself, though she’s about to cry.

    “Martin Finch.” He pulls his business card from his pocket and stuffs it in her hand.

(c) Copyright 2007, by Lizbeth Dusseau, all rights reserved

Friday, February 6, 2015

The Seduction Begins...

The flirtation...the drama...the mystery...the magic in that first chance meeting, and the beginning of my novel House of Slaves...

About the book:
Sarah Strathorn thought she had the perfect Dominant submissive relationship with her husband, Alexander, until he turned his home into a house of submissives. He's a wealthy and powerful businessman who rules his world, and his wife, with an iron fist. Now, Sarah must compete with a bevy of beautiful female acquisitions, including Chloe who seems to have captured Alexander's heart as much as his sexually dominant desires.

Angry with this sudden change, Sarah strikes out on her own. She becomes the submissive lover to a renowned playwright, then, filled with sexual guilt, she lets a casual acquaintance with a mysterious and domineering stranger turn into a torrid night of reprisal, punishment and sex.

For more information about this novel click this link

Excerpt from House of Slaves
Part One 

A note to readers: obviously, this was written prior to the ban on smoking in public restaurants. Sadly, there's nothing like a smoky bar to generate a sensual least in print.

 A night not fit for man nor beast…driving rain, a fickle wind, and lies that chase her down the street. Looking for a place to hide, she stumbles into the close confines of teeming patrons in the neighborhood bar, swallowed whole by its anonymous humanity. She breathes a sigh of relief, just briefly, before being jostled toward the back, through the sweat, the smoke, the beer and booze, the loud talk and louder laughter. Everything clouds her senses, everything fogs her brain.

    No place to stand or sit or find a drink, until spotting an empty seat in the last booth, she finally lands with a thud on the hard wood seat.

    “A double Scotch, no ice, please,” she calls to an indifferent waitress, three feet off. The saucy redhead turns around flipping her ponytail and glaring.

    “There’s an extra twenty if I can get it now, right now…” she looks up smiling meekly. Her body is slender, but womanly. Desire clings to it like the rain clinging to her dress and coat.

    The waitress eyes her critically through her scraggly bangs, finally shrugging, “What the heck,” she turns around and disappears.


    The sound of a man purposefully clearing his throat makes the windblown blonde turn toward the wall. She is not alone!

    “Oh, my. I’m sorry!” Her eyebrows furrow miserably. “There just wasn’t anywhere else to go, and my feet are killing me…I thought the booth was empty…” she rattles on, flustered and annoyed.

    “Well then, you can stay,” he calmly allays the anxious woman. Maybe a tad condescending, but his smile is genuine. “I’m Martin.”

    “Thanks, really. Thanks. I’m Sarah.” She settles in a bit. But after quickly apprising her host, she almost rather he kick her out. The smooth-talking darkly handsome type make her nervous, and though she’s used to men like this, she has reason to be frightened of their motives. The fact that he speaks with a British accent only complicates the issue.

    Reaching into her purse, she pulls out her last Marlboro Light. But before the lighter reaches the tip of her cigarette, the man reaches out and plucks it from between her fingers.


    “Can’t stand the smoke,” he explains.

    But the bar is filled with smoke, which she would hasten to point out, but she’s too aghast to think of anything to say.

    “My table, my rules,” he adds.

    Something about the authority behind the comment makes her blush, chagrinned now. She sits back in awe, while that first flutter of desire calls up feelings she hadn’t expected to feel, not here, not now. How easily captured. How easily charmed. She observes him more carefully. He’s all about precision. A starched shirt, neat manicure, even a simple gold pinky ring with a black stone on his right hand. He wears no tie, obviously having dressed down for the early evening.

    “So what is Sarah hiding from on a night like this?” he asks, just casual banter.

    “Hiding?” Her blush deepens.

    “Ah, so, I’m right.” He looks amused.

    “Right about what?”

    “Sorry, if I sound presumptuous, but you look like a woman with a lot of regret.”

    “Yes. Well. Am I all that different from any other woman?”

    The waitress appears and slaps the double Scotch on the table successfully killing his reply. She takes a sip of her drink, then a generous gulp, feeling the liquor burn all the way down her throat. The alcohol works fast. Within a minute’s time, the last hard edges of reality slip away. Even the stranger’s cold clear eyes begin to blur before her and she sees little but the warm smile on his lips below.

    “So, what else do I look like to you?” she asks. The liquor starts to speak, giving rise to a natural compulsion for toying with men like this one. Her flustered fright and lost look have been replaced by something more sultry, even a little wicked.

    “I see a flirt, an unrepentant tease who likes to pay for the privilege.”

    Her mind swims a little too much. “I have no idea what that means.”

    “Sure you do.” He laughs easily, then bluntly says: “You look like you want to get laid.”

    “Geez.” She shakes her head, embarrassed but titillated. “You sure don’t waste any time. Are you always so blunt when you’re on the prowl?”

    “I’m sorry. It’s just an observation, that’s all. As pleasant as that idea might be, when I finish my beer, I’m going home to bed, to sleep. The table’s yours.”

    “Ah! So I can smoke all I want,” she teases.

    “Yes, you can smoke all you want.”

    The teasing twinkle in his eye makes her want him. But he is too cool, too pretty to be what she needs. She likes her men as rough as she likes her sex.

    Light-headed and horny, she keeps probing for the fun of it, because she can’t help herself. Freedom like this is hard to come by in her life. “But if you were available…”

    “You want an honest answer?”

    She likes the way he looks at her; the way he paints every expression with untainted sincerity. He’s the worst kind of man, the most dangerous, the kind that can have her heart tidily wrapped up with a bow before she understands that he’s just stringing her along.

    “Why not? I’m tired and lonely and all ears,” she says with a heavy sigh. “I mean, this is all just hypothetical anyway, since you’ve ruled out a sordid tryst. So, if you were available…?”

    He sits back looking amused. “You’d have to be a special kind of woman to interest me.”

    “And…what kind of woman is that?”

    “I was divorced fifteen years ago and have been a bachelor ever since. I’m not an easy man to love, nor is sex particularly easy for the women I bed. I’m not sure you want to pry any further.”

    “Oh, but now you have me really interested…” She bats her lashes. It’s the drink talking now, and she knows this. Otherwise she’d never be so bold with a stranger.

    “Interested? I’m not so sure,” he’s still smiling, but now in a cagey sort of way. “When it comes to women and sex, I don’t compromise on what I want. I can be rude, abusive, bordering on sadistic. The woman who wants me better be prepared to surrender. If I have to work through her resistance, I will. But I’ve never backed down from a good battle, and I’ve never lost a battle that I wanted to win….” Seeing how her eyes widen, he stops. “You look surprised.”

    “I am.” But not in the way he figures.

    “Oh, it gets worse,” he warns. “I’ve been known to slap a woman if she’s earned it. I’ve spanked, humiliated, and hogtied petulant bitches until they are ready to behave. But I expect the woman I sleep with to want that, and love me for my unyielding demands. Relationships are on my terms; they fit into my schedule to suit my needs. I wouldn’t bother with anything else.”

    By the time he gets to the slapping part, she’s as uneasy as a leaf clinging to its branch in an autumn breeze. He’s not so sweet now, so perfect, so polished. But a man with harder edges emerging from inside the carefully starched clothes.

    “What, cat got your tongue?”

    “You’re not much of a romantic, are you?” she says a little dazedly. She’s practically panting, breathless, hungry with desire. All this is unspoken, though he certainly knows this turns her on.

    “It’s all in the eye of the beholder, Sarah. If I get my needs met, well, then I can be tender.” His voice, his face, his delivery softens now. “I can hold a woman when she needs to cry, I can listen for hours to her tall tales. And I’m more than willing to sit down to candlelight dinners.” He lets that sink in, and adds at last: “Well, now that you know who I am and what I want, maybe it’s time you moved on to the real conquest of your night.”

    She jumps on that. “Conquest? You think that’s the reason I’m here?”

    “You deny it? It’s what you planned in the back of your mind. You’ve had a bad day, and right now you’ve got a look on your beautiful face that takes men to bed.”

    She smiles, clearly befuddled. “Well, just certain men,” she needs to clarify, though she denies nothing. Her ears are burning, her heart strained like a bowstring.

    “Certain men? What does that mean? Men like me, perhaps?”

    He drills her so hard with that remark that her cheeks redden instantly. “Maybe,” she flirts back. Her voice is soft, appealing and seductive. “But you’re unavailable, and if I were a sensible woman I’d go home and snuggle in with a good book.” All she can do now is snuggle into the hardwood seat, her body billowing beyond its skin, breasts jiggling under cashmere, cleavage drawing the eye of men who slyly watch from the sidelines, even as Martin, the sexy stranger, keeps his eyes firmly fixated on her face.

    “But you won’t go home. Because you’re not about doing the sensible thing.” 

    Now his voice has lowered to that mysterious baritone that turns her pussy wet. Men have dropped that veil of darkness over her too many times not to feel it coming and welcome the sensuous feeling it engenders.

    “But this is all still hypothetical, isn’t it?” she reminds him.

    “That’s right. Nothing’s changed.”

    “But if, hypothetically,” her mind wanders on, “you wanted me, and you were available…how would you seduce me?” …

Part Two next week

Copyright (c) 2007 by Lizbeth Dusseau, all rights reserved. May not be used without permission.