Friday, February 13, 2015
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 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