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Dressed For Show by Lizbeth Dusseau

 

Dressed For Show by Lizbeth Dusseau

 

Excerpt from Bad Girls & Dangerous Men © 2000 by Lizbeth Dusseau, all rights reserved

 

I wake, feeling the warmth of Bailey’s crotch behind me. His sensuous pulse transmits through my ass into my cunt. I turn, kiss his rough face, the night’s growth of beard, and wait for him to open his eyes, which happens slowly. I inspect him, waiting, wondering what he’s been dreaming, if he dreams. Everyone dreams, but does he remember his? I’ve never asked. Three months, I’m still in awe. He wants me with him every night and every morning when he wakes. Few men says these things aloud. Bailey does.

“Mornin’, sugar,” I say sweetly.

He growls a bit, then smiles.

“It’s early, you don’t have to get up yet,” I tell him.

“What’s the time?”

“Time to fuck,” I giggle, and wiggle on him, nuzzling into his side, smelling the rich flavors of his body—the sour, the sweet, the tart, the aromas of leftover sex from a very good night. I’m still wearing the bondage dress he wove on my body the night before. The knots are still place, including the one just above my clitoris that stimulates it every time I move. My flesh pulses, radiating with need.

There’s an open place where the ropes go through my crotch, open for Bailey’s cock to pass between. As I squirm against him, my hand floats around his scrotum—playfully avoiding a direct assault on his rising organ. I let the momentum build.

In minutes, his whole body is engaged, coming after me as passionately as I go after him. Our lips lock; our tongues reach inside the other’s mouth. My legs scissor to fit the enormity of him inside me. I feel the ropes strain with every movement. My skin’s alive, as animate as another being, tingling, raw, sensitive to even the slightest graze of his palm. I rise on top of him as he rolls over on his back, and begin to hump in the saddle of his hips. Bailey’s cock slides freely inside the messy interior of my vagina. The accumulation of old semen, wet female remains and fresh dew merge to lubricate the ride. He’s fast, and I follow with him, allowing my body to swell and then burst brightly with orgasm, knowing that Bailey’s climax will follow seconds later.

He comes just as my tremors are departing, while I’m left with the prickly remnants and the well-being that floods even my addled head—at least for awhile.

I collapse against him in a languorous faint when the fucking is over, and run my hands absently through his hair. I’m about to say, ‘I love you’, when he suddenly pushes me away and jumps from bed on his way to the bath.

“Sorry, Maddie, morning calls!” he yells to me.

I smile. I’ll mention love later, I think. Now, I’m content to drift.

 

“Hey, sleepy head!” I hear Bailey’s soothing roar knock me from my nap. “You’re due at work by noon.”

“Yes,” I agree.

“You said you had errands?” he asked.

“I do.” I remember that fact with a frown.

“Then I’ll see you later. Noon on the dot,”—he’s always reminding me to be on time. My stellar reputation for tardiness is one small sore spot in an otherwise pleasant relationship.

“What about the ropes?” I ask, staring up at him, realizing that he’s ready for work, while I’m still naked, sweaty and streaked with last night’s come and this morning’s new batch. Still, I have two hours before I have to be at work, plenty of time for what I need to do.

“Leave them on,” he says.

“Under my clothes?”

“Yes. Sponge your crotch and pits, put on a little perfume and wear them the rest of the day.”

“You want me to be miserable?”

“Is it misery?”

Of course, it’s not. I smile. “Maybe, a little…”

“You’ll survive. You need a reminder of who’s in charge, slut.” His eyes twinkle playfully and then he’s gone.

 

***

 

I feel the ribbons of crossed and knotted hemp when I walk. Their feel is comfortable, comforting, stimulating. I hardly slept the night enjoying their sensuous tug and jerk, and I let them titillate me now. This is good. I’ll need to generate a bit of sexual prowess for what I face. It might prevent the scene from getting ugly—I can always hope.

This part of town could scare a thief, but I’ve negotiated it for years. The abandoned businesses and broken houses are familiar to me. I remember when this wasn’t such a trashy place—when fucking in the alleys and back alcoves was sexy fun. I wouldn’t dare do that now.

Scofield’s current address is new—though the building is ancient. Once a factory, then a warehouse, now it’s been cut up into sections with several marginal businesses. At the moment, the whole place looks deserted. I feel an annoying sensation at the back of my neck, and then without warning a pair of hands on me. I get pushed into the alley, and shoved against the wall.

“I see you kept your appointment,” I hear his unmistakable voice.

“What the hell are you doing, Scofield!” I yell.

“Hush!”

“Why? I’m here on my own. You don’t have to act like a jerk even if you are one.”

He angrily pushes my face into the brick.

“Scofield, stop!

“No, you stop!” he seethes behind me. “You shut your mouth and listen. Fight me, Madison, you’ll regret it.”

I regret I ever came here. But I had little choice.

He shoves me through the alley into the backdoor of the building. Why the front door wouldn’t do as well, I don’t understand, but obviously I have no say in the matter. He has my hands behind me. Ah, so much like Bailey in the dark, but this man has no morals, and I’m honestly afraid.

“I have your money, Scofield. There’s no need to get rough,” I tear away from him. I rummage through my purse and pull out the envelope with the five one hundred dollar bills.

Scofield throws it on a paper-strewn desk without looking inside, “It’s not enough.”

The man’s an ass—but an odd one for his underworld of losers, thugs and opportunists. He keeps himself impeccable; wears clean, pressed clothes on a muscled, well-built body. His black hair is trimmed short and his face cleanly shaved. He could almost pass for a business suit professional—without the suit. He’s got the manners and the attitude to deal with bankers and corporate types, but he prefers his riffraff, and making dirty money.

“What do you mean it’s not enough?” I ask him with contempt, trying to hide my concern. This was not what I expected.

“You owe me a whole lot more plus the interest, Maddie.”

“And that’s the payment you asked for,” I snap rudely.

“Yeah. Two months late.”

“You’ll have the rest. You know that.”

There’s movement on the fringes of our conversation. Looking beyond him, I see his goons arising like phantoms out of the gloom of the nasty building. Two I recognize—one of them, Jude, was a lover several years ago. The other two men I’ve never seen before. They don’t belong here, not in their fancy suits and ties looking like lawyers or Wall Street tycoons.

Scofield starts to smirk, but his eyes maintain that deathly serious look I’ve seen before. “I’m not content to wait, Madison.”

“What does that mean?”

“Just a change in the deal. It’ll make it easier on you.”

“I’m just fine with the deal.” If I could back out of the room, I would; but there seems to be no escape.

He shrugs. “But I’m not. And since we’re following my rules, I get my way.”

“What is that?” The adrenalin starts to flow. My nerves are fried. My mouth is dry as desert sand.

“You can help me help my friends here,” he nods to the duo, who look back at me with interest.

Scofield’s hands are all over me as if he has the right to be familiar. He squeezes my ass and I jerk away. He laughs and then starts to roam my back with his palm.

“Ah, interesting.” He’s felt the ropes. “I think we have a readymade slut about to show her true colors. Take off your clothes, Maddie.”

“I will not!” I attempt to withdraw from his oily hands, but I am so outnumbered the whole idea looks foolish. I bolt for the door, and Jude is there to catch me, pull me back and slap my ass.

“Take the clothes off or I tear them off,” he warns.

The two vultures in their slick black suits wait for me to obey, knowing I will, knowing I’m afraid and enjoying every second of my fear.

“Go on, Maddie,” Scofield adds his two cents.

I’m mad. I want to cry. I want to beat my fists against the ass’s chest. Instead, I start to strip, removing my sweatshirt first, and then my pants, until I’m stripped of everything except for Bailey’s ropes, the neat knots and perfect symmetry.

“What a find!” Scofield exclaims. “What did I tell you?” He turns to his friends, whose smiles are wide as a mile and fixed on my pudgy breasts, now distended and unnaturally pushed into conical shapes by the tied rope. It’s a slutty picture, eye candy for the horny and degenerate.

I hear a grinding sound behind me and sense the impending doom. Then my eyes stray upwards following the eyes of my captors, who look with glee as a meat hook descends from the inky black of the ceiling above, then finally stops with a jerk, swinging freely in midair.

“Dammit, Scofield, no!” I plead with him.

“Honey, you’re too good to pass on. Better than I thought. This new boyfriend of yours should be here to watch. I’d bet he’d like the show.”

“No!”

“You want me to call him? Bailey is it? Albert’s brother? What do you think?”

“I think you’d better keep this between you and me.”

“Gee, Maddie,” he smiles wryly, “that’s what I thought, too.” He creeps around me, plunking the ropes like guitar stings. No sound. Not even a thud as they thump my flesh. “Cuff her hands,” he orders Jude.

My ex-boyfriend obeys the man making quick work of his job. Locked in cuffs, I can already feel the blood pulsing in my constricted wrists. The hemp dress starts to itch as I begin to sweat. Tugging on the chain that connects the cuffs, Jude pulls me with him to the center of the room and throws the wrist chain over the meat hook. The motor grinds again from somewhere off stage, and my body is slowly pulled up right as the ugly hook rises.

My pussy throbs, the whole of my sex feels liquid and squishy. I’m on tiptoe, straining, trying to stretch myself enough keep a hold on the ground.

“Stop!” Scofield orders the unseen man in control. I jerk as the pulley ceases to climb just before my toes are lifted from the cement. My body lengthens with the hemp cutting into my skin in several places, while my tormentor admires the look of me and assaults me with his sickening smile. “Trust me, hon, this won’t take long at all. A little debasement just for sport never hurt a slut like you.” He delights in his mocking observations. “In fact, we know you like it. Why else would your beau be dressing you so stylishly?” He twangs the ropes again and I wince. “Pretty. You always were so pretty with that mop of red hair.” He lays his hand on my cheek pretending to enjoy its softness. His hand is warm, his words cunning but effective. Behind me, Jude gives off sex with a pulsing crotch I can feel without seeing it. Soon my body will betray me and I’ll hate it for its lust.

I’m loving Bailey now, not these thugs and voyeurs. God help me!

Scofield backs away, Jude’s energy retreats, and the two suits on the sidelines step forward.

“Let’s put the mask over her face before we start,” one says—the tall one with the hefty body and the greased black hair. I’m thinking Mafia—his swarthy complexion suggests a mobster, but he talks smoothly with an educated ring in his voice.

The second fellow, smaller and more slender than the talking one, seems even more professional than his friend. His walk is elegant. In another world, he might be charming. I don’t understand their game, how two so civilized men could be playing these chilling games in this rancid warehouse office.

The mask slips over my face—one made of feathers intended to cover my eyes and nose but leave my mouth free. Two eyeholes allow me to see through the blur of feathers, and my nostrils are free to breathe. I’m not masked for torture but to disguise who I am.

I see why now, when a video camera appears to record the session. A black-market film is the obvious conclusion.

The two suits step back, the big one taking off his coat, and rolling up the sleeves of his white dress shirt. His cufflinks gleam—for several seconds, the two gold ornaments reflect the morning sun as it filters though the grimy windows overhead. The smaller man operates the camera, while I’m accosted by the other. The bold, impressive man stares into my eyes. His are remote, disconnected from the feeling man who owns them. I anticipate his cruelty.

While I watch, he fits a slick leather glove over his left hand and thrusts that hand between my legs. The camera rolls, recording every move and gasp I make. He finds me wet. All the leftovers from sex with Bailey not washed away this morning appear on his leather-covered hand as he withdraws it from my crotch. After showing me the sticky find, he returns to tug, to poke, to thrust his fingers in my cunt and bumhole, to jerk me so my body thrashes loosely. My feet lift off the ground and I’m forced to hold my weight with my strained shoulders. He stops and my feet settle down, touching concrete again.

He starts to smack my ass, landing blow after blow with his leather hand. I’m gasping, moaning, though the punishment doesn’t hurt that much until he changes implements and begins to slap me with a spanking tawse. The split end piece is like others I’ve seen before. Maybe it came from Jude’s store of sex toys. This one stings. It whaps my ass and thighs, then as this suited gentlemen strolls around my body, whaps the front of my thighs and right across my pubic mound. I try holding back my cries, but when he slaps me repeatedly on my pussy, I have to cry. But even letting out a decent wail there is no mercy. He keeps on until I’m thrashing senselessly, twisting like a sail out of control.

He stops and I faint for several seconds before coming to when he lays his palm across my face—not angrily, but enough to wake me.

“Lift her off the ground,” he orders.

The engine grinds again, the meat hook rises higher until my feet dangle uselessly.

“Oh, gawd no!” I moan, believing that I won’t be able to stand the suspension much longer.

“Do as I say, and I’ll let you down,” this cruel man tells me.

His leather hand returns to my cunt and my legs naturally widen to accommodate him. As he thrusts fingers in both my holes and begins to fuck me, I sense my sexual body roar awakened like an angry tiger. I’m battered back and forth, while using the strength of the man’s arm to take the heavy weight off my shoulders. I begin to come, spasming, letting my ravished body speak. While the camera whirs before me, I follow their orders, play their game as if I wanted it this way.

I’m sated and sore when I’m finally released. The men in suits have disappeared. The camera’s gone. Jude left along with the friend who worked the pulley. It’s just Scofield and me in the mangy office warehouse. I’m on the floor, trying to gather my wits and some strength.

“I always thought it a plus that your skin never marks,” Scofield says, while observing that most of the red on my ass and thighs has disappeared. “You won’t have to explain yourself to your boyfriend.”

“Oh, go away!” I hiss.

“Don’t you want to know how much I’m knocking off your debt?”

“As if I believed you would?”

“Honest, darling. Between the proceeds from that video tape and the cash they gave me for the pleasure of abusing you, you’ve paid your debt.”

“Like I believe you,” I groan.

“Hey, honey, trust me.” He’s all smiles. “Hell, you got off too. What more could a slut ask for?”

I’m suspicious, but I’m not about to argue. I split the warehouse as quickly as I can.

I’m late for work and Bailey won’t be happy—but that’s another debt to make amends for and I’ll have to think about that one later.

 

 

 

I’ve Been Sold! by Lizbeth Dusseau

I’ve Been Sold from Scandal for Sale © 2005 by Lizbeth Dusseau, all rights reserved

May 7 th

I have been sold.

My gut grinds as that thought works its way about my mind.

Judge Perdue and his wife took me to the auction house—I had no idea that such a place existed in the modern world. Whether it was a façade resurrected in a day, or something permanent, I can’t be sure; but the crude room at the top of the aging warehouse looked, smelled and felt authentic… as if hundreds of owned souls had been offered for sale, auctioned, purchased and transferred to their new owners inside the rough surroundings. Approaching the building from the street, a shudder of apprehension ripped through my being as I viewed the abandoned edifice. It looked like the next in line for bulldozers and wrecking balls, rather then a place of commerce. Inside, my quavering body took a scary trek up three flights of stairs and into a holding room just off the main arena. Some putrid smell wafted by my nostrils then disappeared. I looked around at my surroundings, seeing little but filth. No one had bothered to clean the wooden floor, dust the grimy surfaces or clear the stale air with a breath of fresh air from an opened window. All the windows had been boarded—I suppose years ago. A few cracks revealed the daylight outside, but otherwise the auction house belonged to another time, cloaked in darkness. I had only moments to survey the room before a blindfold dropped over my eyes, and I was hastily disrobed and pushed into my cage.

Inside my blindness, my hands probed the space around me. I was surrounded on four sides, hardly able to move inside the tiny prison. I could stand. I could flex my legs, but I couldn’t turn around. There were noises all around me, and hands that jabbed my flesh. I jumped and shrieked, feeling as if I was being probed with Billy clubs and canes. Someone’s hand pressing at my cunt found the folds slick with juice.

“Shall I get her off?”

“Not protocol, Griz.”

Other anonymous voices bantered back and forth at my expense, while the heavy weight of cutting nipple clamps caused my breasts to sag, and sent angry lines of pain screeching merrily through my body. A crude dildo was thrust into my dry anus.

“Lube it, Connor,” an exasperated female droned.

“It’s going in,” Connor answered back. In my imagination, I could see his mouth grinning evilly.

My head was yanked back against the bars, my hair twisted into a knot, tying it out of the way. Another pair of hands yanked on the clamps, yanked hard enough to pull them off. I screamed.

A firm hand on my chin shook my anchored head, while a seething voice hissed in my ear, “Maybe you want to be gagged, bitch.”

From above the din around me, I heard the auctioneer’s call as another slave was on the block, and the purchase was being finalized.

I endured the taunts, the jeers and the crude touch minutes more, then all that ceased. The hands withdrew, my head was freed, and the dildo in my ass was removed. I felt the bars of my cage opening, and a hand pressing down on my right shoulder. “Crawl,” the voice was as dismal as the mood around me.

A collar was slapped around my throat, tied off tightly at the back of my neck and then attached to a leash. Tugged forward, I made my journey over the dusty floor, grime and soot pressing into my hands and knees. When my head hit wood, I was pulled upright and prodded in the center of my ass with a stick.

“On your feet.”

Maneuvering blind is a grueling task. My muscles seemed to fight the move, to creak and groan in protest; but my will prevailed. Once on my feet again, someone yanked my collar from above and I stepped up to the platform, bumping my shins on the high steps.

Heat came at me from all sides, blistering my skin with fire. Then shouts commenced as the dais turned and my head grew dizzy. My mouth was dry, my palms sweat profusely, but there was nowhere to wipe them except on my naked thighs.

Some stray hand tugged at my pubic hair. Another yanked the hair on my head. I would have kicked the asshole in the leg, but that would have been a dangerous move. Common sense won out.

I heard the voices of the barter shouting numbers into the stifling air.

I teetered, thinking I’d faint; but someone noticed and shoved smelling salts at my nose, “Wake up.”

“Yes, Sir.” I answered the voice without thinking, seconds later wondering why I’d be so respectful of this ritual, and the men who auctioned me.

Behind the abuse, the aggravation and my anger, my belly burned with sexual intensity, flaring ferociously as each insult heaped on more humiliation. Thank God, I couldn’t see their faces, couldn’t peer into their eyes, and was too afraid to shout the thoughts that careened around my mind like cawing crows.

One minute, I was in the midst of this heated battle, wishing I could somehow fly away; the next, I was pushed from behind and stumbling forward into a pair of muscular arms, tossed over meaty shoulders and taken away.

Caged again, I sat in a different sort of contraption, a metal box with steel bars. Confined, curled up in a ball just to fit insides the tiny space, I waited while the focus turned from me to another slave who’d become the center in this festival of flesh.

 

“Lift her head.” I heard the words, but made no connection with the voice. My blindfold remained in place.

A stinging palm slapped me awake. Someone said I’d fainted.

Once drawn from the cage, a blanket was thrown over my shoulders and a guiding arm encircled my waist. I was taken from the building, helped down three flights of stairs and led into daylight, quickly shoved into the seat of a car—a back seat I presumed. I lay curled in fetal position during the long ride to my final destination.

 

“Miss Lourdes.”

It seemed like a century had passed since I was allowed the use of my eyes. Hearing my name, I opened them, finding them trying to focus on a face in front of me—a familiar face, though I couldn’t immediately remember where I’d seen these classically handsome and trustworthy features. Perhaps he just reminded me of someone.

“Your new home,” he announced. He was sitting on the bed where I lay, and gazed around at the simple but very pleasant surroundings. I glanced toward the window, seeing nothing but sky and suspected that we were on the upper floor of an apartment high-rise.

“The Greenery Building.” He’d read my thoughts.

I didn’t recall the building, but that hardly mattered now.

“I think the auction went rather well.” He was trying to be gracious. “You were lucky you weren’t whipped. Most properties are,” he smiled generously, “but I had all the information I needed without marring the merchandise. I’d rather whip you myself, as risk having your body damaged by some goon who doesn’t now how to punish without scarring.”

I still couldn’t put a name to his face, but I knew it well. The deep, rich, summer tan, the sincere, inquisitive eyes, the perfectly sculpted forehead, cheeks and jaw. A jaw with a purpose. This man was created for the modern day aristocracy—a politician, an actor… no, he was on the news—how could I have missed that face! He was the Channel 9 anchor for the six o’clock news, and now the owner of a female slave.

“Andy Kerrigan,” he introduced himself, “you’re S. R. Lourdes.”

I nodded.

“And this is where you live.” He pushed to his feet and strolled away from the bed to the windows, where an intense blue sky framed his silhouette. “Twelve stories high in my apartment. It’s as good a place for a slave to dwell as any I can think of.” His deep baritone was unmistakable. My crotch was getting wet, wondering how he’d look without his clothes. “I do plan to make some alterations.” I wasn’t sure what he meant. He turned back to me. “I have particular fantasies that have me quite intrigued. I’m told you’re moldable, so we’ll see. I am a bit of a sadist, but then your previous owner was, too.” A quick smile, and he continued with his monologue. “I’m sure that my streak of villainy will be no more difficult to handle than what you have handled before.” He sounded as if he was reading from a teleprompter.

“Will I have my personal belongings?” I timidly asked.

The question surprised him. He thought a moment, speaking extemporaneously this time, “Yes. There were a couple of boxes that accompanied you here. You can get them from the storeroom later today.”

He seemed amenable to questions so I continued, “How will I serve you?”

“I am working on that. I have a few ideas, but I don’t like to plan anything too far in advance. The element of surprise excites me. Hopefully it will excite you too.”

 

I was able to retrieve this diary from a sad-looking box of personal effects that Mrs. Perdue had gathered for me. Other than a few clothes, which at the moment it seems I won’t be wearing, there is little more that I cared to keep. Thankfully, Ma’am always respected my diary, and never asked to read it. I hope that Andy Kerrigan will grant me this much privacy. I don’t know how I can live without my words to comfort me—or worse yet, have them read and tampered with. The thought grates at my every nerve.

 

May 26 th

I’m very busy, hardly able to breathe. I am a slave here. Cook, housekeeper, accountant (I HATE this the most), dishwasher, seamstress, laundress. This apartment is enormous, master bedroom, three additional bedrooms, a living room, dining room, kitchen, study, TV room, salon, and slave quarters, just off the laundry room. So much—too much—for a bachelor and his slave.

My hands are raw from scrubbing floors—the old fashioned way. Andy loves the look of me naked on my hands and knees. He often pelts my ass with his belt as I try to work, which becomes terrifying and frustrating both. If I cringe or show the least bit of annoyance, his anger flares. I’m going to have to watch this owner more carefully than I did the Judge. He seems much more moody and volatile.

The benefits of Andy Kerrigan, however, may weigh in his favor. My groin seems to churn sexually whenever he’s around. Even his impulsive moods seem to heighten my arousal. There’s some mysterious chemistry between us that makes me forget his faults. His frequent slights increase the sexual tension and the tease. I seem to be obsessed by him, as if I were thirteen again. I remember feeling this way toward the Judge, for a time; but the dynamics were much different than I’m feeling now. He doesn’t have the same authoritarian manner as Judge Perdue; instead, a youthful, arrogant vigor that quickens my entire being when he’s near.

Andy can be very terribly conventional about some matters. While he can give me a good stinging wallop with a paddle or spanker, his idea of sex is, so far, very straight, even romantic. We make love in a very traditional sense.

Nearly every night when he returns after his last news broadcast, he comes to my room. No bondage, no restraints, or clamps, or gags, or leather. We make love.

Last night, he kissed me, ran his hands down through my hair, loving pulling it until I felt the tingle exhilarate every nerve, renew a long forgotten excitement. I realize that my lust is more than the gnawing ache of dark passion, spurred by my deep sexual fantasies.

He touches me tenderly.

I came on his hand, as his fingers teased their way about the delicate, roused slips of skin. When my pussy tightened hard on the probing digits, his hand was swathed in juice. Coating his cock with my cream, I opened my thighs for the thrust of his organ, finding the hefty thing filling the throbbing channel. I had not been taken so passionately in all my nights with Judge Perdue. Though the Judge’s routine mimicked the efforts of my new owner, Andy Kerrigan causes my entire body to quake deep, to feel reckless, abandoned. All control, all form seems to disappear when we are traveling toward our sexual ends. He wants me as fully aroused as he is; and I am. There is nothing automatic in my movements—our nights together turn me into the blushing schoolgirl in the morning when I serve him breakfast.

The chastity laces that the Judge found so necessary—Andy discarded them the first night, telling me that he wouldn’t be needing them. The tiny rings remain.

Last night, he studied my cunt carefully, making plans. He keeps saying that he has ideas in mind, but so far, we’re just frantically, passionately enjoying each other’s physical company.

spakig

 June 20 th

We’ve started to talk more—which is a dicey business. But I do get bored with so much housework and very little mental stimulation. Newspapers, books, even the TV is locked in Andy’s study, far from my reach. My world is so carefully circumscribed that I almost leap on him when I have the chance and I think it’s safe to talk. There are rewards. And punishments for failures—if I read his mood wrong and pressure him. Occasionally, like this afternoon, our communication touches me intimately.

He told me about Leanne—his wife of six years. She died of cancer several years ago. He’s on several committees for cancer research, generously offering his smile and his name to money raising efforts. But these do little to appease the never-ending ache in his heart. Frankly, I think his heart turned to stone. Even my being here does little to open it. I imagine he’d have to open the deep wound of abandonment before he can love again, and for a man like Andy Kerrigan, that would be impossible.

He is a lonely man, locked inside a made-up world, vain about his appearance, particular about his clothes. Everything about him must be flawless when he leaves for work; even though he has dressers at the studio where they tidy him into perfection. I’m expected to take care of the details at home.

This morning, he flew into a rage when he discovered that I forgot to press the cuff of his pale blue shirt. Not that he couldn’t have substituted it for one of a half dozen other pale, blue dress shirts; this one failed him, and so had I.

He bellowed at me to come. I did, running from the kitchen.

As I entered the bedroom, I saw the danger inside and shrunk back. He held a doubled leather belt in his hand, the offending shirtsleeve rolled to his elbow, his eyes heartlessly burning cold. I would have run, but I had nowhere to go and my legs proved to be solidly fixed to the oak floor.

“I DEMAND PERFECTION,” he slowly enunciated each word so I wouldn’t miss his meaning. “This sloppy workmanship stinks, you hear?”

“What workmanship?”

He glared at me as if I should understand without his telling me, and finally explained, “I’ve fired three housekeepers because they couldn’t put a pressed cuff on a cotton shirt. Need I explain more?”

“No, sir, I’m sorry. I’ll fix it right away.”

“No, you’ll get your ass blistered. Then maybe you’ll remember.”

There was no winning a battle of words with Andy Kerrigan. Besides, he didn’t give me time to try.

He strode three steps forward, grabbed my forearm, jerked me to him and hustled me to a chair by the window, where he sat down and I went over his lap. His leather belt pelted my ass in a frantic reign of smacks, delivered without mercy until I was sobbing and shaking. As quickly as the contest began, it was over, I was pushed to the floor and forced to stare upwards into his eyes for a final, thorough scolding.

“I live in a critical world where there is no room for dust on my jacket, a wrinkled cuff, a spot of spinach in my teeth, a single hair out of place. You live in that world, too. Don’t forget. One jot out of place, I’m doomed. Don’t doom me, or you doom your own existence.”

“Yes, Sir,” I spit back automatically.

“Good.”

He considered me more.

“I was thinking of allowing you clothes, but after this stunt, I think it’s best to keep you naked for awhile longer. Slave is no mere word in this household. It defines you. Get rid of any notions otherwise about your existence here. You’re here to serve me, to make me look good, to keep me sexually satisfied and take the edge off my long-standing resentment against the world. Have I made myself clear?”

“Perfectly, Sir.” Without question, equivocation, hesitation, ambiguity. I was clear. And clearly afraid of him.

***

My owner is truly a strange fellow. When Andy got home tonight, he made love to me as kindly as he ever has, with more tenderness, affection, kisses and caring. If he moves back and forth from loving me one minute, to blatant disregard for me the next, I do the same with him, from loving to loathing to fearing.

The Phone Call

The Phone Call by Lizbeth Dusseau

Excerpt from The Scandalous Demise of Lily Lake (c) 2006, all rights reserved

When Lily sank her hands into the loamy garden dirt, she felt the earth come up to greet her, drawing her in to its steady vibration and giving her a sense of peace she rarely felt now. Gardening was her one solace, and it might have soothed her into a peaceful evening had she not felt the need to bring along the phone—in case Patrick called from Tokyo. She’d missed two of his calls in the last week and refused to miss another one. But she unwisely forgot that there might be other callers who could disturb the calm now washing through her like a miracle tonic.

The phone did ring, jarring her bones with the clattering sound—right in the midst of planting zinnias. She trembled with uncertainty hoping to connect with a husband who had been all too distant in the last few months. She wanted, needed, to reconnect with him. But it was not Patrick’s voice on the other end, but the caller who she least wanted to hear from.

“Tonight, Ms. Lake.” His firm tone was unmistakable. Strange how that boyish voice could penetrate her with such intensity that it dampened her panties with wet desire.

She gasped miserably—perhaps he didn’t hear that. “Oh no, please, not tonight.” Her heart bled miserably and her body clenched up cold as stone.

“Tonight, seven o’clock,” he came right back in the same even tone, then the phone clicked off.

 

Two hours later, she stood at the doorway of a dimly lit living room wearing the hooded, latex cat-suit the boy had bought for her months before. A plain UPS package had arrived with all that daring sensuous black, clinging to white tissue paper stuffed inside the box. She couldn’t touch the latex without trembling, without feeling a shiver of fear overtake all her senses. She’d breathed in her fear, almost colliding with the sofa, suddenly dizzy and disoriented realizing what was meant by the gift.

Now, having poured herself into the latex once again, it settled all too comfortably against her skin. A tight hood covered her face, and the boy—she called him a boy, though he was certainly very much a man at twenty-two—was there with her, at her side, whispering in her ear, close, so very close.

“You’re one sexy broad, Ms. Lake,” he purred. There was a smirk in his voice, if not on his lips.

“It’s demeaning,” she returned.

“But you’re perfectly hidden, perfectly masked.” He traced a line down her spine. “You know these people?”

“Some.”
“I thought so, right in your own neighborhood.”

“I wish I could leave.” The catsuit was crotchless front and back, and there were cutouts for her breasts that made them stick out absurdly. The hood had four holes: one for her mouth, one for her nose, none for her ears and two for her eyes. She hated the way it made her look.

“But don’t you like taking chances? Doesn’t it turn you on?” After the hand on her ass dropped between her legs, his fingers digging deeper, wiggling like little fishes against the hot, wet flesh, he offered this: “You’re juicy.”

“I know I am,” she said.

She felt the orgasm on her already, and she was just standing in the doorway. They hadn’t even officially arrived. The people in front of her were no more than a blur, as the hood caused her vision to alter in imperceptible ways and she knew that she wasn’t seeing things right, not exactly as they were meant to be seen. The hood and the oppressively heating latex made her go deep inside herself.

The boy withdrew his hand and pushed her forward into the crowd of distorted faces. Their  misshapen bodies parted on her approach, surrounding the evening’s subject with eager appetites. Her arms were lifted high above her head and secured with chains that fit into the shiny high-tech cuffs that circled her wrists. The rivets and bolts gleamed like sterling silver.

Her body had been broken down to its pertinent body parts where the skintight latex didn’t cover her real flesh; her breasts, her ass and her bared pussy with not a single silky hair remaining, gleamed white against the black backdrop. Her ass protruded from behind like two porcelain globes, shining brilliantly, screaming invitations to the crowd, ‘Beat me! Make me hot and red and welted!’ Her upper back was exposed too, although the punishment it would take would be insignificant compared to the punishment her ass and breasts and crotch would suffer.

The chains above her clanked when she shifted her weight. Then the real hurt began as little whips and crops and canes etched a painting of woeful hurt into the unblemished skin. She yelped under her breath and began to whimper like a mad dog, twisting, jerking, frenetic and uncontrolled.

Meanwhile, the boy watched from the sidelines, thinking of Ms. Lake trying so hard to be prim when she was teaching him English eight years prior, at that stuffy Northeastern boarding school. ‘Little teacher’ they all called her because they were young and she was pretty, modest and vulnerable. Boys are cruel in their teens…but just dreamers with unformed ideas of sex. Sex took strange and perverse permutations in their minds. But now at twenty-two those adolescent daydreams were being made real. Thank God for the Internet that took away the shame in perversity, that freed the mind to ride the dark absurdities like this. Pandora’s Box was never as open as now. He thought all this while watching Ms. Lake dancing with her exposed white flesh turning flaming shades of scarlet before his eyes.

The action got a little rougher when someone screwed alligator clamps on her protruding purplish nipples. He watched as every muscle in her delirious frame clenched up taut and steely as a tuned piano string.

She feigned a scream, opening her mouth, stretching the latex that framed it, though not a sound issued forth for all the effort.

“She’s sopping,” a voice chimed in, while its owner’s hand was in her crotch, fondling her to another peak of pained pleasure.

The invading digits felt slick and cool in contrast to her hot and throbbing cunt, and even beyond her latex-covered ears, she could hear the sound of her sloshing, sucking pussy juices. The burning feeling at the opening of her vagina soon became intense, as the hand forced its way deeper, demanding she open wider. She’d heard of this before, fisting; but didn’t think that shoving it into her hole from below was the right way to do it. Not by the book, according to Hoyle, or what was safe and sane. Even so, she wriggled involuntarily on that heated hand, which like the blade of a knife cut deeply into her body in an attempt to carve out more space than her pussy had to offer anything so large.

“I can’t!” she wanted to scream, but she had no voice; all the sound was trapped inside her throat. The fist plunged in all the way, doing what at first seemed impossible with guileless ease. The anonymous invader had a small hand capable of making the impossible possible.

So tight, so goddam tight! The world around her spun like a top and she was weeping, shamed and glorified by the inner image of herself. Her need to come grew stronger with every thrust of the impaling hand. While being fisted, she was still being whipped with erratic, blistering blows, until everyone could hear her garbled hiss and see her body shudder, her back arching as her muscles strained.

The blows from the sadists’ weapons, and the thrusts of the impaler’s hand went on for several more minutes until she was wasted, flopping around like a ragdoll and moaning with discontent.

A quiet moment followed as all parties withdrew from her, as weapons were put away, and the hand inside her slurped from her dripping pussy hole and left her gaping.

The boy on the sidelines sauntered forward, putting his hand on her roughed up ass, and asked in a terse whisper right where her ears were covered by the hood, “You come?”

She wasn’t ready to talk at first. Instead, her head fell to his shoulder seeking approval – or affection.

“Say it!” came out as a rebuke and she shot up straight as an arrow.

“Yes, sir.”

“Yes… well, then thank me, bitch. This is a rare treat.” He wanted to say ‘teacher’ but he promised. Not in public.

“Thank you, sir, for allowing me to come.”

“Louder!” and he cracked his hand against her ass.

“Thank you, sir, for allowing me to come!” she tried a little harder.

“Can you hear her?” he asked the crowd.

A murmur of no’s swept through the room.

“Again,” and again he cracked his hand against her bare ass.

“Thank you, sir, for allowing me to come!” This time her voice rose up clearly, and he finally backed away.

The chains that tethered her to the ceiling were unhooked and she tumbled to the floor with her flaming ass raised high.

“Around the room!” he ordered her like a dog, sending her on to lap seven dicks and one wet pussy.

She worked her way on hands and knees, closing off all conscious thought in order to fend off the barbs and the humiliation that was heaped on her. Dicks plunged into the mouth hole of the latex hood, just another body part, a receptacle for sexual use. Nothing more.

 

Ab

 

He insisted on following her inside her house, where Lily tore at the latex as soon as she was inside the front door. The lights were still off, while the hazy glow from the yard lights turned everything a grainy black and white. She tore back the hood and tugged the latex off her shoulders, down her torso, peeling the catsuit away from her sweaty skin, hating every moment of it, even as her condemning juices trickled down her thighs.

“No, Andrew! It’s not ever going to happen again. Never!” She shook out her brown hair vehemently.

His big collegiate, frat-boy grin beamed back at her from the charming boyish face.

“Sure, it will. Next time I ring your number.”
“No, Andrew, no! This is the last time.”

He shook his head, still smiling. “Why, teach? When you’re enjoying it so much?”

The taste of his prick and his copious cum still soured her mouth, and she could smell on her face the remnants he left when, while they were driving home, he insisted she go down on him. She finished the blowjob just as they pulled into her driveway.

“I don’t want to enjoy that anymore. I don’t like myself anymore. I just can’t.”

“Oh, you say that now.” He stroked her hair over and over, his fingers as electric as ever, sparking little twinges of orgasm, making her pussy ache for him inside the pulsing channel. “But there’s always tomorrow and next week and the week after that.”

“I mean it, Andrew. I do.”

He saw from the glare in her eyes that she was serious, and his face turned cold, his charm vanished, and his features hardened into the chiseled beauty of a cruel and wintry landscape.

“You’ll do as you’re told, Ms. Lake,” he said, evenly, while he clenched his fist inside her hair. His voice cut, as he emphasized every syllable and his ‘s’ hissed snakelike.

“No, please…” she shook her head as she backed away from him. “I can’t. I can’t anymore. I’m so ashamed.”

“Then live with it. You fight me? I will expose your terrible secrets to the world.”

“You wouldn’t…”

“Just imagine the newspaper stories…” he strolled away, casually stuffing his hands inside his pockets, then turned back, “… how about it? English teacher, socialite, gossip columnist, the beautiful wife of Patrick Thornton-Wynn, caught screwing the Blaisedale Country Club perverts. Sounds like a story to me.”

“Andrew, you wouldn’t dare. You couldn’t—”

“Don’t try me.”

“Andrew, please, can’t this be enough?”

He raised his pretty frat-boy brows and smirked. “No, Ms. Lake, it’s not enough for me.”

“But you wouldn’t tell any one …” She cocked her head, sweetly now.

“What do you think, huh? Wouldn’t the rag sheets have the scoop to die for? I wonder how much they’d pay.” He shook his head as the pleasant vision filled his thoughts. “How could I possibly pass up the opportunity? I mean if you keep being my bitch, teach…Ms. fuckin’ Lily Lake, well, that’s something else.” Casting her one last lurid smile, he shrugged her off and sauntered toward the door, while she stood naked in her living room and watched him leave.

The Barefoot Girl by Lizbeth Dusseau

The Barefoot Girl
From Crimes & Lovers by Lizbeth Dusseau © Copyright, all rights reserved

 

In a land beyond time, in another world, in a country of castles and kingdoms, of slave queens and noble whores, a barefoot girl with the virtue of an angel stood shivering before an audience of thieves, and traders, gawking noblemen and their ladies, her future ripped asunder, irrevocably altered by a foolish whim.

 

Torches blazed serving as fire-spewing heralds to the evil done in the counting house dungeon. The theatre had not yet begun this night, and the chaotic company chattered like magpies. Gossips whispered tales into the shocked ears of the unknowing. Gamblers laid their last illegal bets on outcomes, and under the table, money was exchanged that would not be taxed by Lord Nor’s magistrates. Under other tables, whores took cocks in their mouths for pleasure, while roving hands lifted the skirts of rich harlots and gentle ladies, their asses fondled in plain sight. Breasts were bared for the eyes of ogling men, nipples were pinched and squealing women blushed to have their wares displayed so lewdly. Two, three, even four rounds of ale had been poured into tankards held by outstretched hands. And the drunkenness that followed only lifted the last shreds of decency in this teaming mass of uncivilized humanity.

The master tradesman beat his gavel for nearly ten minutes before the barbarous assembly finally took their seats to gape at the spectacle about to be performed before them. And yet, none desired to miss this brutal ravagement. It was, after all, what they’d come to see. The laying waste of an innocent maid, a mere breath of spring, one of the earth’s fair flowers, just as she was about to bloom, was an act so repulsively vile, so cruelly treacherous, and yet so deliciously pleasing as to make it a ritual that warranted its repetition. For twenty years without exception, in the spring of the year, the rite launched the legal bartering season. Lord Nor blessed this act of graceless savagery to appease his restless masses after a bitter winter, even though he’d not attended the ceremony in several years. He was superstitious, and often feared these ravaged maids were strangely magical with the power to upset the steady waters of his kingdom. With that in mind, he was often away at war or hunting—those activities twin pleasures he pursued with as much relish as this throng in the counting house dungeon relished the moment about to explode before their eyes.

The barefoot girl was already on stage. Her hands were chained behind her, her head held proudly high, though the fear in her eyes was alarming. She quaked beneath the thin frock that covered her slight form. With torches flaming behind her, the outline of her fair body could be seen in silhouette. Her breasts were yet slight, surprising perhaps, since she was of the right age, eighteen. Many previous girls were much more well-endowed than this one. Ah, but her body was delightfully curvaceous, her hips well-rounded, her waist slim and her nipples were curiously large, the two generous buds poking through the sheer fabric of her attire. Her pale red hair was tangled in wild locks that dangled across her face. Though she tried to fling them back, tossing her head, she was hardly successful. But how that hair gleamed in the light of the flickering orange flames—as though a part of this innocent lamb was as savage as the company she faced. The pale scared eyes peering out from behind that hair looked panic struck. She stood frozen with fear, though her heart beating hotly in her chest. Perhaps she’d fought when she was captured. The spit and fire would be expected and enjoyed. Such moments bred all kinds of speculation.

 

In the clamoring crowd with necks straining to get a better view, one pair of womanly eyes looked on, with both the lust of her fellows, and the sheepishness of the tender flower before her—thinking back in time.

 

The master tradesman pounded the gavel again, irritated. This year’s assembly was especially rude.

“Shall we give the maid a reprieve, or will you nasty folk hold your tongues,” he roared.

There were a thousand shushes around the room, the agitation subsiding for a moment, though it would only be brief for the way it still brewed just underneath the surface of their collective quiet. The master snarled and then sneered, though it was unclear for whom that sneer was meant—the girl or the audience.

“You have another, my fine folk,” he addressed the crowd, “plucked from the teaming streets, a babe, a mere child, a virtuous innocent. Shall we celebrate her purity?”  The master posed the question seriously and the crowd murmured, stirred, but yet silent. “Or shall we rip her virtue from her and make her an offering to lust?”  The crowd roared, hands pounded the tables and boots hit hard against the floor. It took another ten minutes of the master’s hard hitting gavel to calm them again.

“So be it!” he roared as he smashed the heavy hammer into the block of wood.

The crowd roared again, but quieted on its own as three men advanced on the fainting beauty from behind. One stood at each side, dressed only in trousers, their brawny muscles had been oiled and gleamed like the maid’s lustrous tresses. Their hair was loose, falling around their shoulders. Their faces had been freshly shaved. The third man stood behind her, with his bald head oiled and gleaming as dearly as the chests of the two men at her side. He wore a leather vest and leather britches with a laced codpiece, and boots polished to a shine. His dire expression was meant to capture the eyes of the audience. The girl gazed side to side, but she did not see the man behind her or his menacing grimace. Yet, she could feel his hands enclose her bound ones and hold them tightly.

“She is your prize,” the master shouted, “how would you have her?”

A thunderous clamor began, “Bare her breasts!”  And the boots pounded the floor again as the throng cheered.

“Whip her,” other voices shouted from the sidelines.

“Strip her!  Make her dance!”

The whole room rocked wildly. Bets were placed on how long it would take to de-virginize this appointed damsel.

While the bald man held the maiden’s hands, one of the men at her side, grabbed the bodice of her dress and ripped the garment to her waist, exposing the delicate breasts to the teaming air and the eyes of the entire theatre.

Tears steamed down her flushed cheeks as she tried to look away. The bald man’s free hand massaged her breasts from behind. His lips descended to the crook of her neck and the barefoot girl shuddered.

“The whip, the whip, the whip,” the crowd roared and one of the bare-chested brutes withdrew the dreadful implement from the belt around his waist.

“Against the cross!” The crowd knew each act of this ghastly play, each scene, each line by heart.

Hearing the crowd’s commands the three men complied. The bald man released the girl’s hands, and then turning her about, shoved her toward the two crossed beams of wood that had been pushed into the center of the make-shift dais. The three, binding her wrists to the ends of the cross, and her feet to the massive beams below, immobilized her. One of the long-haired pair would begin with the whip against her back. She was to be flogged with force—and finesse. For these spectacles it was not wise to deplete the maiden in the first minutes. She would have to last some time to satisfy this expectant crowd. And she’d have to fight, to scream, to suffer and then to be pleased. Not one step in the thrilling process could be missed or wasted.

The flogging began gently, and the maid’s fair-skinned back jerked softly with each blow of the three-taloned leathers that hit the tender surface. As though teasing the audience that wanted the full force of the whip laid on, these first strikes were more like caressing love-play than invigorating cuts that would send shocks of pain through her body. Yet, as the leather played with her undulating shoulders, the cries for more force rose throughout the close confines and began a chant that the whip-wielding brute heeded. Laying on the talons with a crescendoing fervor, he made the barefoot girl shriek. Her cries, both sad and anguished seemed as loud as those of the hundred men and women in the theatre who demanded this beating. As the intensity mounted, so too did the lust of the audience. Seeing her striped back take on the color of a setting sun inspired more brutality, and then the next phase of the girl’s torture.

“Bare her body!”

“Thrash her ass!”

“Her cunt, her cunt, her cunt!” Even the women in the audience screamed.

The flogging ceased and the three men descended on the limp child, pulling her from the cross. The master tradesman rose to the podium again as the girl was brought around to face the crowd. She tugged at their confining hands, an angry spirit in her rising. The crowd went mad.

“Let’s see her fight!”

“Let her kick!”

“Impale her ass!”

The roar was deafening.

 

From the second tier of spectators, a woman’s eyes swam with tears, even as she cheered with the others. Those around her jabbed her with their elbows and shouted in her ear about the assets of this poor young maid. She smiled and cried inside, at the same time her salty tears stung her eyes.

 

The master tradesman banged his gavel once again, and once again the wild crowd subdued its incessant demands, heeding the man’s booming voice.

“You have your offering gentle people. She stands before you the sacrifice of spring. There are dozens more slaves awaiting your inspection, would you not have compassion on this one, let her be free, auction this beauty with the others?”

“No!” the shout rose in an instant.

The gavel hammered again and the crowd squelched its cries.

“Then you shall have her,” the master informed them. “Make her naked,” he said turning to the three who held the girl captive.

“NO!” she shrieked. “Please.” Her wail was breathtaking and pitiable. She had no clue to the trial that awaited, and yet, she rightly feared the worst.

“Let her plead,” some rabble rouser in the front row barked.

“Let her beg us,” another chided with glee.

The master turned to the barefoot girl and she looked at him with anger and sorrow both mixing with her tears.

“Ah, master, please!” she whimpered so that hardly anyone could hear her, though the audience could see she was desperate. “Please.”

The master looked on as the girl and crowd played two sides of a jarring song in a dissonant counterpoint. He was persuaded by both. Though he was not an inconsiderate man, he was more a man of expediency and self-interest. He took his eyes off the barefoot girl, and with a sneering glance to the crowd turned to her three attendants and gave the order.

“Strip her naked!”

The crowd went wild. Officials with staffs moved before the dais to block an onslaught of zealots from charging forward. The girl shook with fear.

“Take your seats!” the master ordered the crowd with the gavel hammering the block. “Or I shall have her removed!”

Quiet reigned for a time, the audience reduced to hushed and passionate whispers as they watched with anticipation.

While the two long-haired attendants held the struggling girl’s body by her arms, the bald-headed man stepped around her and placed his hand at the waist of her dress. Then with a fierce tug, he ripped the cloth into shreds, leaving it to settle at her feet, as he exposed her nether regions for the eyes of the audience.

More tears streamed down her face. She trembled, tried wearily to jerk away, but knew her fate was written. Her perspiring thighs quaked while the curls of her pubis took on a lovely rose-brown hue, glistening with female dew, leaving some to believe she was aroused. The bald man stepped to one side of her and sunk to his knees so that most of the audience could see the full disclosing. After prying open her thighs with his hands, he parted the pubis so the pink skin and bud of her clitoris could be seen by those in the first several rows.

The girl blushed, but not so anyone would notice, save perhaps the woman in the second tier, who could read the young beauty’s expression as though it were her own.

“Rip her free!” the crowd began to chant.

“Let the blood spill!”

“Give her to us!”

They were driving for the end, perhaps too quickly, but that was to be expected. It had been a hard winter in Nor’s kingdom, and his minions needed relief. They needed the spectacle of this sacrifice and perhaps even more they needed what would happen in the hours afterwards when the auction of slaves would proceed. The good master tradesman knew them well, he knew that the timing must be precisely right. He knew the time for plucking this flower from the bed of virginity was now. And he gave them their most desired wish. “Pass lots and take her to the stone!” he announced. Then he swept from the podium and waited in the wings while the ravagement proceeded.

The girl struggled with every ounce of strength she had, trying to wrest herself from the grasp of the two long-haired men. Yet, their strength was too much for her and they pulled her to the stone bench in the center of the dais.

While she struggled, the bald man made the rounds of the room with an earthen vessel filled with stone tiles. Each man in the room drew a tile from inside until three had pulled out the marked stones that gave them the right to plunder this girl’s virtue.

With the girl laid back on the cruel granite bed, her thighs were spread wide by her two attendants and her hands clutched tightly overhead, secured in the fist of the bald-headed man. Prepared for the violation, the three lucky men descended on her. As the first stepped forward, he stood some moments looking into the girl’s frightened eyes. Banging his erection against her pubis, he watched as her eyes filled with tears, but he was too aroused to be moved to sympathy.

“Please no,” she murmured softly, but he could not hear her for the noise of the crowd cheering him on. Then, too overcome by lust to draw out the moment any longer, he plunged his erection deep into her unspoiled vagina, and the crowd thundered to hear her anguished cry rise as if it was going heavenward.

The girl thrashed about in anger and lust. The pain present, but not foremost in her thoughts, she seemed on a strange precipice between revolt and sensuous joy. Her body deceived her. And even her cries were not the screams of a maiden being tortured. The longer the hefty cock pummeled her insides, the more she seemed to relinquish to the incessant probing. Her attacker held off his climax for some time, which only added to the amazing spectacle of raped victim and the rapist finding some common ground within her body. Though she might have spat on him when he withdrew from her and moved to her face, she licked the depleted stalk almost lovingly.

Her next assailant was poised for her mouth as well, coming forward almost before the first was finished. Mounting the granite slab, he straddled her chest so his organ could be taken by her open mouth. He drove it deeply, forcing his way inside beyond her moaning cries and her attempt to gag and spit him out. He implored her to give him entrance, to suck the hot rod with lips and fondle it with her tongue. Though she resisted to the end, he was not displeased with her, and she not as disgusted as any witness would think. The more she got used to the taste of a manhood in her mouth, the more this too was less vile. When the climax finally came and he spilled his seed about her face, she looked at him without contempt, unconsciously licking her lips of his residue. She was lost to herself, vacant and depleted, wary and yielding, yet strangely satisfied.

 

The woman in the second tier recognized the look because she could recall the feeling in herself.

 

With the third man descending on the withering maiden, the crowd began its rumbling again. Cries for the final justice resounded off the walls. It was time to complete this ritual and time to move on. The agitation in the room grew strong. The master tradesman was tempted to return to his gavel, but he remained on the sidelines watching the proceedings carefully, lest they become too tumultuous as they had several years ago when the victim did not survive the sacrifice.

This crowd was, however, immediately deterred by the man with the marker. He was a roguish, blackguard from some territory beyond Illusia. His dress was peculiar, marked by a gold threaded cloak that covered most of his hefty form, and skin the color of freshly turned earth. There was just a fuzz of hair at his chin, while his head was as bald as the man that held the maiden’s hands. As he approached the barefoot girl, she whimpered seeing the blackest of eyes peering at her.

“Give her to me,” he said with a power of command that her captors could not ignore. He’d removed his cloak, handing it to a young man that attended him. Reaching the girl’s loins he took her hips in his hands while her attendants freed her. Then with a gentleness uncommon at such rituals, he turned her about, drawing her knees under her.

“You shall take her ass?” one long-haired man whispered to him.

“So, I shall,” he agreed, though first he brought the girl’s nether crack to his face and ate of it as though he was eating exotic fruit, and drank of it as though it was fine wine. His tongue probed both orifices and the girl began panting and cooing. It no longer seemed to matter that this indignity was being witnessed by an attentive company that would never forget the look they saw on her face.

The more she took this pleasure, the louder she cried. Her body bucked freely against his face. He had his fingers in her vagina and his tongue at her nether hole when she cried the loudest. Then, at the moment when her body wrenched wildly with orgasm, he pushed her down, grabbed hold of her sides and planted his erection beyond the mellowed sphincter, deep into her ass. He stretched her wide and made her full. But she rode him without the pain that might have marked this violation. Though she screamed in reply, only the woman in the second tier guessed the girl’s state of mind. Sharp pleasured spasms ripped wildly through the maid’s ass until the black man’s climax broke free as did her own.

Auctioned! by Lizbeth Dusseau

Auctioned!

Based on the novel Shadows of a Painted Lady by Lizbeth Dusseau © Copyright 2002. All rights reserved. May not be used without the permission of the author.

 

The house was freshly painted, the garden tended neatly—though it could use a little more imagination. It had been some years since Haliday House had last seen occupants—sometime in the middle 1940’s when it was a sanatorium. Its current owner was a distant nephew of the original Haliday. He found the house in disrepair, though his imagination sprouted wings when he saw the raw material of his fantasies appearing so beautifully before his eyes.

The secret society to which he belonged needed places as intriguing and austere as this one to give their purposes a place to flourish. It was the end of the 20th century, and yet, this Haliday maintained the etiquette of bygone times while practicing arcane sexual mores. Small gatherings were held for the lustily inclined, for those disposed to the darker pursuits of the sexual psyche. They practiced wit and gentility by day and sadomasochism in the evening hours, turning submissive women into slaves—at least for a day or two, or when they were under the roof of the newly renovated Victorian House. It was a gracious place, white framed and trimmed with green to match its fertile lawn. Clubs like this one were hard to find—especially in the Midwest. The lovely ‘lady’ had become a haven for those who knew that their sexual practices would be shunned by the current fashion of politics and social thought. However, those who came to Haliday House parties liked being unusual, since that made their soirees jump with sexual magic.

 

“Chelsea!” Master Haliday’s voice split molecules into pieces in the sultry, heated air. It cut in timbre through a half-dozen conversations, startling a sleepy crowd of Haliday guests awake.

“Yes, sir,” I awoke from my own languid stupor to the thrill of that voice.

“I need you now.”

I gulped visibly and bit my lip as I stared at Sir Haliday from the parlor floor in wonder. All afternoon my fears had been on edge, my tummy—one minute clenched, the next overpowered by suggestion. Every atom seemed to speak to a longing I could not shake. What was it happening all around me? Was I being paranoid to think that there were eyes trained on me specifically? I loved the attention, but this time I was afraid.

Scrambling to my feet, I almost stumbled in heels too high for me to walk in. My thighs were already weak, feeling like pillars that might at any second crumble into dust beneath me. The polished hardwood floor was slick, which made the few steps I negotiated toward the man more chancy. But I managed.

The room began to fill with Masters, while their submissives, either peeking into the parlor door or clinging to their masters’ sides, looked as perplexed as I was. They were as unknowing as I was. Some looked longingly; others trembled with fright, perhaps mentally putting themselves in my tall high heels. I was struggling. I’m sure everyone could see that.

The Masters stood in a ring around the room, a few choosing to take their seats. They looked a bit like vultures. I looked for my master, Nathan, not finding him. Perhaps I sought his comforting glance, but then he’d set this affair in motion. His expression would be as determined and grim as all the other masters’ were.

Thankfully, Sir Haliday ordered me to stand facing the wall. Once there, I spontaneously closed my eyes.

Where was Nathan now, I wondered? I couldn’t make out his presence in the room. The commotion was too intense; and the power of authority coming toward me was so immense that the stares were indistinguishable one from another. Normally, I knew when my Master was watching me. Now, he seemed to meld with the others.

A dozen angry beasts seemed to be battling inside my trembling frame.

Sir Haliday stood with me, just off my right shoulder. Grabbing a leather hood from his own submissive, he covered my head, effectively walling me away from all the sights and sounds around me. I found it difficult to breathe—and that breath, hot and labored inside the stiff, confining hood. With one deep breath, I tried to relax, but my thighs were like jelly and my pussy felt as though it were a runaway train. My guts were tightening as I bottled the emotions of fear and thrill inside—afraid they’d splash all over me in tears or laughter. I wanted to giggle and I wanted to cry.

The cries felt like relief, perhaps the laughter, too.

“This piece of property belongs to Master Nathan Bastian,” Sir Haliday announced. “He’ll be selling her to the highest bidder. I’d suggest an inspection first.” He jerked my arm. “Turn around.” He roughly turned me so that I stood before my audience face forward. I felt strangely dehumanized. But for the purposes of a slave auction that was appropriate—it was the body and its use that was important in these matters.

“Take off your clothes,” Haliday ordered.

“Yes, sir.”

“I didn’t call for you to speak,” he rudely jerked me so I’d get his message clearly.

Silently, I said, I’m sorry.

Obeying the command, I inched my long dress up my legs, at first, moving too rapidly for the pleasure of Sir Haliday who acted as the auctioneer.

“Slower,” he ordered.

I let the hem drop several inches then started over, moving slowly, taking my time, as though this were a striptease for the sport of arousal. Perhaps it would serve that function for a few horny Doms. And yet, I’m sure in these formal surroundings, their cocks would remain contained inside the trousers of their evening suits. They were a stodgy Old World crowd who relished displays like this one for every bit of sadistic pleasure they could glean from the humiliation of a slave.

Taking my time, I hiked my skirt carefully to avoid more criticism. If being auctioned made me afraid, being imperfect tore my insides into shreds. Slaves were valued for their ability to perform such things under pressure and with poise. I could not let my earlier faltering destroy me now.

The skirt reached my hips, which were encircled by a black garterbelt. The lacy fabric stretched across my undulating abdomen, while four long garters held a pair of silky stockings in their clasps. My sexual arousal bloomed as I realized that the eyes of my audience were focused there. A small black panty covered the truly important parts, where between my thighs a beautiful bush of blonde curls protected the inner folds of my sex. Should I be inspected, they would have found me sopping wet.

Moving slower still, I drew the dress along my torso, finally pulling it over my breasts. I was naked underneath, braless. Even sightless, I knew that my nipples had hardened and poked through the fabric of my dress. With the air hitting the bare nubs, they stiffened further, like so many times, standing at attention, pink and proud, begging for a pair of lips to tease them. That, of course, was what they were for. To seduce. To suck. To stimulate the regions down below in preparation for fucking.

Finally, drawing the dress off over my head, I tossed it to my side, while almost stumbling on my fear-weakened legs. I determinedly tried to right myself, only accomplishing the feat with the help of my auctioneer’s firm grip.

“Take off those underclothes,” he tore at me, “you don’t deserve to wear them. I’m sure your owner will want them back for his next slave!”

Unnerved by his cruelty, I cried more earnestly behind the mask—which only made me thankful that I was wearing it. Surely, Sir Haliday would heap more ridicule on me if he knew that my eyes were burning with tears of embarrassment.

I stepped from my heels. Then, unhooking my garterbelt, the tiny garment drooped until I could push the stockings down my thighs and over my feet.

Just as I was about to remove my panties, Sir Haliday stopped me. “Is there a submissive who’d like to remove this last article of slave clothing and present it to her master?”

Filling the anxious second, a woman scampered forward on her knees and pulled the panties down in what felt like a loving, longing, sisterly gesture.

Naked, there was nothing to protect me now.

“She’s used goods, gentlemen. Perhaps you’d like to see if she’ll be of any value.”

I could feel Sir Haliday back away. I stood alone, quaking from the Master’s mockery. As if a hoard of feasting tigers was descending on my body, I was pawed by hands, inspected, probed and poked. Several pairs of fingers stabbed my cunt, almost fucking me, but waiting for me to make some sensuous response. It was impossible not to react with at least some degree of natural delight. After all, I am a masochist who thrives on such abuse.

They slapped my breasts, tugged at my nipples until I was tempted to shriek. I held in the feeling of pain, taking a long deep breath and focusing on what that pain contrived in my fondled crotch.

“Bend over!” the auctioneer ordered pressing a firm hand on my back. “And spread your cheeks.” My body was hot with this new humiliation. But I tentatively obeyed him, placing my hands on my bottom. “Yes, slave, let them see your anus,” he encouraged.

Taking an ass cheek in each hand, I firmly grabbed the flesh and pulled the two apart. The horrific degradation hit me with a cruel blow; at the same time, sweeping me with a rush of sexual excitement unlike anything I’d ever known.

Sir Haliday then pulled me upright and the intense inspection continued with fingers probing my intimate places. One long thin digit entered my ass with a sharp bite. It must have been a woman’s finger, I thought to myself, with its polished nail jabbing me like the blade of a knife. Either Mistress Jane or Mistress Victoria, I decided. Although I figured it was Mistress Jane; Mistress Victoria was too haughty to fool with ‘used goods’.

With a second rude jab at my anus, a pained ‘ouch’ threatened at my lips, but I kept quiet. The inspection couldn’t last forever.

“Crouch!” Sir Haliday barked.

I hesitated.

“Yes, down!” He pushed my shoulders with his steely hand.

In the humbling squat, my pussy was spread wide open for every eye to see the truth glistening there in an obvious display of my slutty arousal. Did I have no shame? I wondered to myself.

“Hold up those breasts,” he blared.

I pushed my fair breasts into a cleavage, while trying to adjust to the awkward pose. My ankles ached so that I could hardly stand the position. My nerves faltered. I wanted to tell them how much this hurt, that I couldn’t tolerate the pain.

“Let the bids begin,” the auctioneer finally bellowed. And thankfully, he pulled me to my floundering feet.

Sir Haliday helped me balance as the bidding commenced… twenty-five, fifty, a hundred… During the bidding Sir Haliday smacked my ass at intervals, reminding me to stand up straight. I did my best, but I was quaking like a leaf in spring. Confusion filled my mind—who would bid and who would buy? Was Nathan really serious about the sale? Was this really happening? And then finally, silence. A loud, premeditated silence screamed all around me.

“That’s it, we have a buyer,” Sir Haliday suddenly announced. He grabbed my arm so hard that I was sure that bruises would remain. “I’ll take your purchase to the dungeon where you can abuse her as you wish. Although, it’s customary to invite the attentions of the other Masters to break your chattel in; is that what you want?” I presume he was asking my new owner.

I couldn’t see him but I could feel the way his lust and savagery ripped another masochistic thrill through my teaming body. I can only guess that he agreed.

Pushed from the room, I was roughly handled as I made my way to the cellar stairs guided by Sir Haliday’s commanding hands. As I decided those precarious stairs, I could feel a firm hand on my ass, another with fingernails sinking into my shoulder.

 

“Suspend her!” the order came quickly once we were in the dungeon. Sir Haliday backed away and two hands grabbed for my wrists, placing them in tight cuffs and drawing them above my head, high enough so that I had to stand on tiptoe from the stretch.

The first hands on my body grabbed either side of my waist—they were not Nathan’s. He’d not purchased me. Nathan’s hands would be warm; these were cool.

After positioning me the way he wanted, I was suddenly attacked, struck by a rain of strikes from paddles and leather spankers, which made me jump erratically with every blow that smacked my cheeks. I contained the need to cry, remembering the submissive requirement with every bit of strength I could summon.

My front and backsides were flogged in a simultaneous rhythm that had me jerking wildly and unable to follow the path of any strike to an erotic end. The pain grew rich, but complicated. I began to sweat, my eyes fill with tears again. These, however, were not tears of grief or horror, but tears of relief. Relief washed through me, bewilderingly so. Though I was in the middle of this new owner’s insidious wrath, from somewhere outside the act, I could feel Nathan standing over the proceedings, directing the scene as if it was a play and I was on stage.

I was abused, but loved, delivered into subspace by a dozen hands extended by whips and paddles to bite and smack and revel in the resulting pain… told not in the expression on my hooded face, but in my body that jerked like a frenetic puppet.

Other hands and other implements were tenderer. There was no bite, no sting as fur and feathers tickled my roughed skin and bruised flesh.

After my stint suspended, I was taken down and thrust against the St. Andrews’s Cross, bound at my ankles and my wrists. A single tail whip flogged at the dangerous territory along the inside of my thighs, where every strike produced a shrill but silent cry from my muted lips.

The aroma of perfume suddenly reached my nostrils. Moments later, some gentle lady with fur covering her hand stroked me between the cuts that burned. Cuts from the single tail continued to mark my back with small wounds I’d remember lovingly when my ordeal was over.

Ah! yessssssss, I was content to think without speaking. “More!” my body screamed.

Finally pulled from the cross, I was taken to a spanking bench, laid face up where the torture increased. My breasts and cunt were not as accustomed to abuse as my well worked ass and wanting shoulders. Every strike against my pubic mound worked its way in pain far beyond the point of impact. Yet, every strike against my front side was altered with the feel of someone’s sensuous hand gliding kindly over the damage. A soothing bath of textures took what pained me grievously and transformed it into another experience of being loved.

Rocked inside this strange cradle of love, I remained helpless, lost and grateful… what more could I ask of life than to give me this kind of satisfaction? I could go on forever…

“Your new master wants you to himself,” Sir Haliday suddenly announced in that same bold voice of authority. Reality boldly rode back in my mind on a gallant stead, and jerked me awake.

I trembled then, afraid of the face of my owner, yet knowing I would serve whatever man appeared to me. The bodies in attendance drifted off, like specters walking through a foggy night. They quit me, leaving me in the cold. Even Sir Haliday disappeared… I almost missed him…

The laces on the hood were loosened. Then a firm hand pulled me upright and to my feet. I was prepared to see the features of my new Master’s face, what strength, what purpose he’d employ. A lot can be learned about an owner in that first meeting…

The hood started to wiggle free, inching up over my chin… I could hardly breathe when I awakened.

“Open your eyes.” I heard a hushed and familiar voice.

Obeying the command, my eyes fluttered open to see the face of my owner—my husband… Nathan.

“Oh, my! It was you,” I whispered, staring upward into his beautiful face.

The smile, so generous and rich, melted all my remaining fears with love.

Falling to his chest, he held me tight to him and his beating heart. He stroked away my tears, engulfed me in his love.

       It was you! I smiled to myself.

I wanted to wilt at his feet in service to him as his slave. But he didn’t ask that of me now.

All in good time, I thought, as he led me from the dungeon, into the cellar, then up the stairs. All in good time.

Shackles and Cuffs by Lizbeth Dusseau

Shackles and Cuffs…

Excerpt from the novel Spontaneous Combustion by Lizbeth Dusseau,

© Copyright, 2014, all rights reserved. Ebook

I never thought much about shackles, though I’ve always loved that word – shackles. Better than ‘cuffs’ which doesn’t have that Old World feeling about it that shackles do. There’s something romantic in that word that makes me think of them fondly – reason unknown. And yet, it’s not the word I’ll use today when talking about my recent experience with my master. While shackles sound romantic, cuffs is a no-nonsense kind of word. And since he’s a no nonsense kind of master, I’ll call them cuffs for now.

The name doesn’t matter, it’s what he does with them that counts.

When he first talked about putting me in cuffs, I worried that my thin wrists would slip through the bands, as they often do with most wrist restraints. He was unfazed by my concern, and I soon saw why. He already had the issue covered; these cuffs were adjustable and could fit tightly around my small wrists with no room left to slip my hands from their confining grasp. How clever of him to understand the versatility of his choice when he ordered them – must have been years ago.

He’s a practical man, cuffs for any occasion, any slave. And now me, like I’m another in a long line of submissive females taken in by his unique authoritative charm.

Let me not forget to mention the ankle cuffs of the same design as those for my wrists, these just slightly larger. I feel doubly bound with hands and feet both locked in leather. The minute I put them on, I become aware how fully tethered I could be were I to be lashed to a tree, tethered to a cross or laid out on a bed with my body spread wide, and every part of me vulnerable to the master’s plans. I’ve never wanted this. Oh, maybe in a fantasy or two or three, perhaps. But those fantasies took place in real dungeons, with dark lords, despicable brutes masquerading as country gentlemen, or urban financial warriors with enough cash to have women panting, ready to be their sexy chattel when they take a break from work and need a place to slake their pent-up lust.

But never in a real time, real life sexual relationship with a man on top and me, a lifestyle submissive below, has this cuffed and shackled reality been something that particularly turned me on. It’s never been part of my kinky DNA. At least that’s what I thought not more than a few months ago.

Now’s different. Now cuffs are part of my reality, a permanent fixture in the master’s bag of tricks. I’ve had to reconsider a lot of pet beliefs about myself since being introduced to this man.

I’ve been turned into a play toy, my body naked – yes, of course, I’m naked. Is there anything other than a naked slave? Shackled, fettered, retrained, restricted, any of the adjectives will do since all of them take me down a rung to something elemental inside myself. A place behind a door, a secret passageway, a realm so obscure in me that until this master entered my life, I never knew it existed. I’m dizzy with the splendid truth that there are still mysterious places left in me to explore.

The experience is more than I expected. The locks clatter when I move, and the weight of them is not something that I can dismiss. The look of them, the feel, the sound, the smell of them, takes me into an altered state of arousal without his saying a word.

Once fitted properly, their noisy clatter works on my mind with every rash or subtle movement, with every jiggle, with every time a heavy lock hits hard against my flesh. Heat rises inside my crotch. Desire creeps into me from every angle.

I never imagined myself shackled for sex, that something so uniquely in tune with the strange set of sexual practices that, in general, I embrace, would become a regular routine with me. I always figured that cuffs were the province of those lifestylers more driven by the symbols of their kink than I have been. Never seemed all that important to me. And yet, I know that when our first sex date was over, and I had his permission to remove the cuffs, my mind instantly rebelled. I didn’t want them gone; and for several seconds, I couldn’t fathom what my life would be like without them, their smell, the feel, the heavy, awkward weight. Damn! It is uncanny what they do to me!

In his absence tonight, I took them out of hiding according to his orders, gently fondled the stiff leather and the hardness of the steel. I drank in the pungent aroma that I love then listened as the metal clattered when I put them on. The memories of our first hours together ran through my brain, all sexually charged. They collided inside my sex where it was wet, hot, wanting. I know he’s preparing me for this next arrival, when I imagine that the sex will once again stir up more unrestrained passion. Ah, but there’s a method in this master’s madness. I know that when I put them on, I’ll feel as I did that first time, and as I did tonight, that I have arrived in the place where I belong.

Oh! Why do I make so much of them? I shake my head in wonder. They’re just a toy… END