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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.
“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.
“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.”
“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.
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