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.  
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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.

“Several?”

“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.

“No.”

“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.”

“Whipped?”

“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.