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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.


“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.”


“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.


 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.


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.

Katerina In Charge by Don Julian Winslow Excerpt

Katerina in Charge by Don Julian Winslow – Paperback & Ebook

Suddenly she felt him tense and straighten up, and she turned to look over her shoulder to see Katerina standing in the doorway — imperious Katerina looking down on them in that characteristic pose of hers: hands on hips, her long tapering torso now encased in the black armor of the tight bustier.  She made an imposing figure, tall legs set apart in a widened stance, shimmering black stockings held in place halfway up her long thighs by the elastic stays, and sleek boots of gleaming leather with wicked stiletto heels.

  In her right gloved hand she held the paddle they had purchased earlier that day, and the ruthless determination of her hard lean features made it clear, that this was no longer a sisterly shopping companion.