The day after...

(c) Samarel, www.samarelart.com

The day after Thanksgiving...maybe recuperating from a little 'intoxication' of my own (though this time it's mostly too much food, not drink). Just a hot, sexy scene to savor for today. Wishing everyone a Happy Holiday weekend!

Intoxication: In this sizzling scene, Glenna's Dom arranges a hot (and very anal) scene with a muscled black man that this sexy slut can't help but love.

Novel Excerpt:

Walker and I had been going together for nearly nine months, keeping our relationship on an even keel, when Walker’s sexual needs took another unexpected turn.

    He wanted me dancing for him one evening, dressed in something “especially slutty” he told me on the phone.

    “Greet me at the door. Make sure your tits are showing.”

    This sounded good to me. A bedroom tango was exactly what I was up for. Putting a breathless Tina Turner on the sound system, and a red leather miniskirt around my hips, I thought I was ready for the night. I added cheek color, teased my blond hair into a halo of unruly curls, and massaged by breasts with a light, fragrant oil that would glow by candlelight and taste like something sweet and fruity. With five-inch heels on my feet, I strutted before the full-length bathroom mirror making sexual faces at my image, trying some especially naughty poses. Deciding that my clothes were just a bit too scanty, I added a string of pearls that dangled like tiny stars between my breasts.

    The doorbell rang. Who could that be at this hour?

    Turning out the lights in the front of the house, I scooted past the windows in the dark and peered through the peephole. Walker was there, but so was someone else.

    I cracked the door an inch, whispering, “I’m nearly naked.”

    “As you should be,” he said, pushing the door out of my hand with his arm, causing me to stumble back. Following him into the house was a black man, six feet tall, wearing a black skintight T-shirt, covering the kind of muscles I admired on policemen who frequented the sandwich shop in the afternoon. His waist was slim and his hips narrow, and he had one fine round ass I couldn’t wait to squeeze.

    “This is Charlie, Glenna.”

    Do I hold out my hand to shake, or just stand back and let him try to stop looking at my pearls?
   
    “Nice,” he said, referring to what he saw.

    “She’s easy to fuck,” Walker told him.
   
    “What was that?” I asked.
   
    “Easy to fuck, darling,” Walker said running his hands through my golden hair in a gesture quite unlike him. He never called me darling.
   
    “He’s going to fuck me?”

    “That is my plan,” Walker said as if I should have understood this without asking questions.

    “Do I have some say in this?” I wondered aloud.

    “It’s for me, Glenna. I’ll be here.” The natural color of his eyes seemed to alter to a darker hue. “It’s something I want to see and I know you want to experience.”

    How could he be that presumptuous and so right on?

    “Wish you would have asked,” I said.

    “Why, and miss this beautiful objection of yours? Surprises make the most fun.”

    Enough of Walker’s games, my attention turned to Charlie, the white-toothed smile, the prizefighter muscles and the telling bulge inside his pants.

    “Let’s move into the living room, hon,” Walker pushed me by the arm and I almost stumbled again. These terms of endearment were going to make me puke if he kept on, but I was too fascinated by our houseguest to lodge another protest.

    Walker poured three scotch and sodas. I rarely drank but I downed this one in a single gulp, while Charlie sipped his standing, waiting in the middle of the room eyeing me, and Walker did the same from the comfort of his familiar easy chair.

    “What would you like to do to him?” my boyfriend asked.

    I thought a moment, still trying to get comfortable with these two sets of eyes voyeuring my quandary and my naked chest. I didn’t need the body oil to make my skin glow; I was perspiring freely now, while feeling a certain heat in my groin skyrocket up through my belly to my lips.

    “You say we’re going to fuck?” I asked, without turning to Walker, instead focusing my eyes directly on Charlie’s dark chocolate face. He swayed a bit, a sexy sort of come-on I read easily and enjoyed. Walker never made that kind of move. He wasn’t hip, Charlie was.

    “Yes, that’s what I want,” Walker answered without any hesitation in his voice.

    While thinking of fucking Charlie, I began to dance. By that time, the CD was over and there was nothing but the background noise of a fire truck in the distance, and the sound of the refrigerator icemaker dropping another load of cubes into the basket. My breasts gravitated toward his dark skin, while my lips savored the promise of our first kiss.

    Charlie’s hips began to move with mine, move closer until our breaths crossed and our eyes could stare down the tunnels of green and russet brown in front of our faces. Just dance. Just hip to hip, groin to groin, measure for measure. He must have heard my music, too; his mellow sexy, swaying hips followed my lead as if we’d been practicing for weeks.

    Our fingers touched, lightly tickling. His chest brushed mine. My tiny nipples tightened in reply, feeling both hot and cold: hot like bullets to set his shirt on fire, cold with a chill to send goose bumps down my arms. My lips were in the line of his attack, drawing closer, parting, dispelling breath that smelled of the cinnamon breath mint I’d eaten just before the two arrived—perhaps I psychically knew what was coming and was preparing myself. Charlie’s cologne was something I remembered on another boyfriend, but the scent belonged to him, blending with the natural aroma of his body. Grazing my breasts with his chest, he pressed forward until the soft flesh smashed into his muscles. Reaching around my hips he clutched my ass, drawing my mound tightly against that growing bulge.

    Once he had me thoroughly convinced, I turned to putty, sinking into him, letting his strong hands mold me as he chose. When he flipped me over the back of the couch in front of my boyfriend’s attentive but passionless expression, I heard him struggling out of his pants, the gentle swoosh as they fell to the floor and the clatter of his belt as it hit the hard wood. I wiggled back into his bared upper thighs seeking his meat inside my pussy, grabbing for it with my inner muscles. When he finally took that first significant lunge, the huge thing seemed to explode inside me. I dragged the lovely organ deeper, clenching, spasming, urgently seeking a remedy for this bewildering lust. The action of his fast pistoning penis revved my engines higher still; the RPMs were off the scale. Hands digging into my ass for leverage, his body banged mine, until his dick hit bottom and I screamed. Bodies turning orgasmic, we were reaching a simultaneous end, about to finish what we started when Walker suddenly interrupted.

    “In her ass, Charlie.”

    “Sure thing, boss,” the black man answered as if he expected the order. He quickly lubricated my rear hole with juices drawn from my cunt, then jabbed two fingers in and out of the taut hole to release its tight grip. Unaccustomed to ass fucking, my arousal diminished when I realized what he planned to do with his eagerly fucking prick. Other boyfriends tried and failed—I held on to my fear of being hurt, and Walker thought anal sex too messy—though apparently not too messy for Charlie and me. It didn’t occur to me to object though I was scared. But the man’s miraculous fingers worked my back door with such elegant skill that the determined prodding began to draw a new kind of sensuousness from my body, something that sought a deeper, rawer kind of fuck. My body burst with excitement, my whole crotch engaged. When Charlie pulled his dick from my cunt and pressed its head against my ass, the firm thing slid inside as if it had been there before to scour the basest part of my sexual soul.

    “Oh, you bastard, fuck me!” I roared without any conscious thought to what I was saying. I rattled off another round of four-letter exclamations as the thick cock reamed my behind and I answered back, writhing to get the thing deeper inside.    

    Reaching around, Charlie thrummed my clit…the little devil jumped to life again, while I was
screaming, “FUUUUCKKKK ME!!!! Yes, yes yes, fuck me nasty!”

    Banged into oblivion, every nerve in me tightened like a watch spring. I held on, let the pulse rise to its crescendo and finally die slowly away. I calmed realizing that Charlie had cum, too, that his battered cock was still fixed inside my ass with sexual glue, stuck there to throb and finally dwindle on its own until I let it go. I’d never felt such emptiness as when it finally disappeared.




Copyright (c) 2000 by Lizbeth Dusseau, all rights reserved

I've been reading this novel in the last couple of weeks ... my late evening entertainment. Revisiting my novels, sometimes years after they were first written, I rediscover favorite scenes and enjoy them anew. This is one. Another excerpt from Sophie & Maureen that dates all the way back to 1999.

About this scene: Her best friend Sophie has disappeared, and Maureen is desperate to find her. She seeks out the help of the mysterious Jon Rush, who agrees to take her into the San Francisco leather underground where Sophie has found a life she loves. To see her friend again, Maureen will need to give herself to Jon in a daring act of submission. And here is how it begins... 
 
Excerpt:
Jon Rush didn’t ring the bell but knocked firmly on the hardwood door. Maureen answered. 

    Moving past her without bothering to be formally greeted, he swiftly perused her apartment, opening doors, peeking in closets with the air of a detective used to inspecting property for significant clues. Apparently, he wanted to know her better, but he refused to explain his purpose. Maureen stood shivering and nervous in the center of the carpet next to the sofa—where she could reach out and support herself. 

    “Turn out the lights,” Jon ordered when he returned to her living room, moving with the same adroit speed he used for his investigation. After dousing the lights, she was left in the dark—forced to get used to the black around her while there were still glaring circles of light before her stunned eyes.

    He was behind her with his hand clamped over her mouth.

    “Close your eyes.”

    She felt his chest at her back—warm, intimately caressing her with its heat.

    “Listen to everything I tell you and don’t make a sound. For the next hour you are mine. If you want to hear from your friend again, you’ll give yourself to me—you don’t obey and Sophie Russo will be no more than a fond memory.”

    Maureen’s heart was beating fast and her stomach clenched, but more important than those anxious responses was the sexual one between her thighs. There was a pressing, passionate hunger there. She drew in a breath of air and smelled his cologne—something expensive he’d purchased in a men’s boutique—and the aroma of his sweat and the smell of mint and coffee on his breath. The mystique of the man could not be countered by her fear of what he’d done to Sophie, or her determination not to be taken in by his schemes. With every breath, she felt the force of him working through her as though she was becoming part of him.

    He pulled her hands behind her, clasping them in his large and steady grip, and then whispered in her ear. His words bombarded her brain, leaving her unable to think.

    “You’re not the kind of woman who trusts easily, Maureen Duvall, but you will trust me. I’m going to hurt you tonight in a very special way. I’m going to take you into a pain you’ve never felt and then bring you back. You are safe, but you are mine. You will feel, and cry, and wish you were anywhere but here; but once I’m gone you will enjoy the ecstasy of having been freed of everything except the physical sensation of carnal lust.”

    Reaching around her hips, he grabbed her pubis mound in his firm palm and held on tightly, letting his ruthless massage become painful. “Your crotch will be hotter than you’ve ever felt it—and wet with your juices streaming from your cunt. You’ll beg to be entered, but left with the sad and sorry emptiness that comes with being only half-satiated.” He shook her crotch in his tight-fisted grasp and then let it go. The constriction had been so severe she could feel her blood rushing back to fill the empty veins. Shoving her through the familiar spaces of her living room, she was so turned around she couldn’t tell where she was with eyes closed—not until he thrust her over the back of the couch. He tugged her arms wide, wrapping her wrists with rope. Then pulling the rope taut, he bound them to the forward legs of the couch so she could hardly move. Her head dropped loosely downward, the cotton fabric feeling cool against her hot cheek.

    Behind her now, Jon Rush stretched her legs as widely as her arms were stretched, tying her ankles accordingly to the feet of the couch. She lay immobile, eyes closed, her ass vulnerable, but for her clothes.

    “Open your eyes now and let me see your face,” he ordered as he moved to the front of the couch.

    She turned toward him and gazed upward into his eyes, though her eyes snapped shut momentarily seeing the glint of the knife he held in his hand. “No! Please.”

    He laughed. “It’s too late not to trust me, Maureen. Much too late for that.” His menacing smile made her throat constrict as though she was squelching a scream. “Are you sure your worries over your friend are worth this kind of fear? Or maybe you are secretly interested in this treatment for yourself? Maybe even now you’re wet. Let’s see.”

    He strolled around behind her one more time where his hand moved between her widespread legs, reaching underneath.

    She gasped breathlessly.

    “Oh, my, you are scared now.” He chuckled darkly and moved to her ass, slipping the knife inside her jeans and drawing it up so the fabric ripped revealing a gaping gash. She jumped in terror—expecting her skin to tear as easily as her jeans.

    “I wouldn’t try to twist away,” he advised. “This knife is sharp.”

    She felt the knife slip in again, deeper inside her pants and down her left thigh. He pulled up with another hearty slice, the blade ripping her pant leg wide open. In brusque fashion, he continued stripping her jeans away, pulling the fabric, cutting with sharp fast slashes. She could only see his shadows in the darkness against the wall, moving with amazing speed while her body jerked and snapped inside the ropes. She held her breath and tensed as he was about to rip another pathway in her jeans, then breathed more easily when the blade was drawn back.

    Without a stitch on her bare backside, he felt her crotch again and sought its warmth with his hand, feeling its wetness with fingers probing the doorway of her vagina. She trembled, knowing what her body was giving away in perfume and sweat and signs of arousal.

    “What a fine slut you are, Miss Duvall,” he mocked her. “What a fine slut. To find your fears arouse you is a very good sign. Let’s see how long it takes to make you cum like this.”

    He continued his playful movements, coating her labia with her own cream, then tenderly running a finger along the slit against her clitoris, until she breathed in, clenching and bearing down into an orgasmic swell. His fingers were like lips, so adroitly bringing her to the edge of really getting off. She could feel the end like a bitter thirst inside her mouth about to be quenched.

    When he suddenly stopped, she cried, “Nooooo, please.”

    “Ah, your silence has been so sweet, let’s not ruin the mood with lots of jabbering.”

    She moaned as though that would change his mind about her orgasm. But he had other things in mind and was not about to let her climax. Anything short of that seemed to be in his plans.

    With his hand on her ass, he began playfully slapping the skin, warming the surface without causing a hint of pain. The sensations increased with the pleasure unfolding in her anxious groin, until he picked up speed, spanking her with sharp mean slaps, one over the top of the last. Her flesh began to sting, but she didn’t revolt.

    “You like abuse?” he asked when he paused.

    “You have me, please, I want to cum.”

    “Ooo, for a woman of your steel it must be difficult to be so vulnerable.” He seemed amused. Strolling around her, he finally dropped down in a chair a few feet away—so close that when she opened her eyes, she could see his body as a dark shadow in the chair before her. When he moved just right, his face caught the light from some outside source seeping through the window. She could note his expression and the variance between a smug look and one that was wholly sinister. The startling reality of her predicament seemed to her an absurd dream—as though she skipped through several scenes in her life that might have built to this moment of utter exposure.

    Maureen said nothing, knowing that any attempt to reason with the man was useless. She had agreed to this treatment and could do nothing but survive—then too, what was there to survive? Though the heat in her crotch had subsided, it left an ache in her belly that went all the way to her knees, and climbed toward her breasts, toward her thighs and her toes and shoulders, making everything burn inside and out. She desired to be touched, even slapped and whipped if that was what it took. She couldn’t have been more aroused. Each second of waiting only made the wild sensations fly more freely seeking something—whatever that something was. Orgasm, yes. But it was more than that.

    “Is this what you want for your life? Is this the vision you have of yourself? A submissive one, one that gives, and knows that in such giving there is pleasure to be gained? It’s a cosmic sort of thing. The demands are great, and so too are the rewards. But are they right for you?”

    Was she to answer?

    “You realize that you’re quite beautiful like this. And even more beautiful from the rear, your pussy splayed like a whore’s. I’d like you to shave it clean of any hair, for you to wear skirts so I can get to your crotch whenever I want. Nothing should hamper my use of your body, not your clothes, your rules, your feelings about me, or your inbred haughtiness. I told Sophie that it is best not to think. I give you the same advice. If you struggle to make sense of it, you’re wasting your time because it won’t ever be a rational thing. Sex isn’t rational, nor is pleasure, or desire or sensation. But it breathes with life and that is its virtue. It defies all measures to make it noble or moral. Sensation cannot be contained so easily. It has its own will—truly a mind of its own, if it has a mind at all. Pleasure is a formless thing, something subjective. It seems illusory, but you know it when you feel it—like you know it now, Maureen Duvall. Then it is very real, the most alive, real thing there is.”

    He stopped and snickered. She could just barely make out the subtle line of his lips as they curled on the ends into his devious smile. “Is that what you’re feeling now? Is that what you’re fighting perhaps? Do you hate me? Do you want me back? Can you be honest about this ordeal?” He shot off the questions so fast she couldn’t think of the answers that quickly. Her mind was spinning and her body began to ache from the position. Her crotch was turning cold. She could feel the uncomfortable strain of the ropes cutting into her ankles and wrists.

    Jon Rush rose from his seat and returned to her ass; and what had seemed to fall away in sensation instantly reappeared with the caress of his fingers against her skin. She shimmied under that exquisite gentleness. “You want this badly, don’t you?”

    “Yes,” she whispered.

    “Call me, sir,” he said haughtily.

    “I want this, sir,” she relented though her mind was screaming no.

    “Not easy for you, is it?”

    “No,” she said, adding, “sir” a second later as an afterthought.

    “But it’s what it takes to please me and earn your ticket to my world—Sophie’s world. You’ll have to compromise yourself, Maureen, and do it convincingly, so convincingly that everyone who sees you understands that you are burning with the desire to be sexually used.”

    He placed a finger in her cunt, and moved it around as if he were stirring a cup of lukewarm coffee—though this was not lukewarm but hot. He pinched her clit and her body jumped.

    “Nice move, Duvall,” he purred wryly. “Now, if you want to see Sophie, if you want to get off this way, you’ll be at my beck and call. Then, we’ll see if you’ve earned the right to have what you want.”

    He moved swiftly to undo the ropes on her ankles and wrists. The blood seemed to move inside her body again. As he pulled her to her feet, she could sense it flood her system, warming everything that had turned cold.

    “Nice ass, Maureen,” he said as he gave her bottom two swift swats. “After I’m gone, look at the imprint of my hand in the mirror. See if you like the look of it. It certainly won’t be the last time your ass will redden for me.” He waltzed away into the pitch-black hallway where she couldn’t see him. He was so quiet she wondered for a minute if all that blackness had swallowed him whole. “Not one hesitation, Maureen Duvall. If you want to find Sophie in Sophie’s world you’ll have to walk the path with me.”


From Sophie & Maureen (c) Copyright 1999 by Lizbeth Dusseau, all rights reserved.

Sex isn't rational...

Sex isn’t rational, nor is pleasure, or desire or sensation. But it breathes with life and that is its virtue. It defies all measures to make it noble or moral. Sensation cannot be contained so easily. It has its own will—truly a mind of its own, if it has a mind at all. Pleasure is a formless thing, something subjective. It seems illusory, but you know it when you feel it. Then it is very real, the most alive, real thing there is.”

From the Lizbeth novel Sophie & Maureen

I stumbled on the above while reading the novel from which it came last night. For ten years this quote appeared on the front page of the Pink Flamingo website – a statement about sexuality that still rings true for me. When that version of the PF site disappeared, this small excerpt disappeared too. I knew it was came from one of my novels, but which one? I had no idea, until last night.

The larger scene from which this small piece was taken, will be the subject of my next post. 

The image is by Tasmanian photographer Tony Ryan, whose erotic images graced the Pink Flamingo website for many years.