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 atmosphere...at 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.

    “Ahem.”

    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.

    “What?”

    “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.

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