Trinkets

by Lizbeth Dusseau

  Miles viewed the voluptuous curves of Tessa’s torso, her breasts and nipples bulging against the thin fabric of the sheer, silky turtleneck. Her golden hair was shining, falling softly past her shoulders. He saw her as he saw her in the club that first night: bright, fresh and willing to be molded. She hadn’t changed much, except that she was less flighty, less drawn to men with half her depth, more willing to acknowledge her more flagrant, abusive desires. She was more confident, he thought, more earthbound goddess than airy sprite.

  “Let’s find out tonight what you have to do,” he finally said, pushing away from the table and rising to his feet. A hand dropped down to caress her shoulder. Then, he leaned down and kissed her on the mouth, his tongue reaching in to penetrate her deeper than the surface of her lips.

  “Tonight . . .” he said as he turned away letting the word drop like some magical mantra into the magical air of morning.

  She waited for him, curling up in an overstuffed chair, her feet tucked under her, her three-inch patent pumps remaining on the floor. She was in one of a half-dozen places she could have chosen in the ridiculously monstrous house. She wondered as she roamed though it, why he bothered with the massive stone fortress, living alone the way he did. Maybe it was a family home, maybe it was the eccentric artist that demanded this space to create. Then again, he created most of his work in the garret, or so she thought.

  Tessa had dressed two hours before, and waiting was a miserable business. If only he’d told her when he’d be home; but he omitted a lot of details when he spoke with her at breakfast. She had to improvise. The turtleneck and tiny skirt he’d left for her in her room weren’t right by evening; so she took liberties, thumbing through the closet in her room for something that reflected the way she felt about the approaching night with Miles.

  She was looking for elegance, finding a black cotton sheath, cut low in the back and front. Made of a stretchy Lycra fabric, it clung like second skin to artful curves of her body.

  She paraded around the house in the dress, matching pumps, and make-up that she discovered in the bathroom. Between one and five, she must have changed her look ten times, experimenting like a teenager with the dazzling colors on her cheeks and eyes. A dozen faces from Damien’s Ball returned to her memory. Leather bitches, soft submissives . . . androgynous, sexual, animal-like faces of some Master’s sexual vision.

  Still, she didn’t know what Miles’ vision for her was, and what he wanted that night.

  Finally deciding on the black sheath, and the usual “Tessa Cotille” make-up, she then threw her hair into flouncy pile atop her head, and descended the staircase to wait for her master.

  “You seem to be sleeping now, most anytime I find you.”

  “What?” She pulled up inside the enormous chair, unaware of how utterly seductive she looked to him.

  “Come here,” he said, holding out his hand and drawing her into his arms. “Lick my lips,” he said.

  Her tongue obeyed, making excursions about his lips and mouth, tasting his flesh, smelling the earthy aroma of his body.

  “Let me see you.” He pushed her further from him, and waited. “Raise your skirt.”

  With inchworm tugs, she raised the sheath, higher, and higher still on her thighs, until it was pleated at her hips, the skin of her cunt peeking from below.

  He licked his middle finger and held it for her to see, then stepped forward and poked it between her cunt lips, straight as an arrow into her vagina. She jerked against him, issuing a soft moan. He pumped her for several seconds, then withdrew the finger.

  With a firm hand on either side of her, he pushed the black sheath up and over her head, throwing it to the floor.

  She was naked, he was clothed; it was the way he wanted her.

  He pulled her hands behind her back, pinning them at waist level, and held them there with one hand. With the other hand he slapped her. First her breasts, then her cunt.

  “Ooo, ah, ah,” she breathed evenly, trying to absorb the sensation, but her body was sore everywhere. “Ah, Miles, please.”

  “Shush. Lick my lips,” he ordered.

  He offered her his lips to satisfy. The tracing of her tongue across his mouth had always sent him into paroxysms, heated spasms of energy that stiffened his dick.

  They were eye to eye: his pleasure in her mouth-to-mouth attentiveness: hers in the slaps, each rude sting making her cunt twitch, the inside of her vagina throb. He rapped her pussy several times in a row at unmeasured intervals. Like Chinese water torture, she didn’t know when he would strike it again. He snickered diabolically, his eyes darkening as he retreated into an animalistic state of base satisfaction.

  He slapped her cunt harder still.

  “Please don’t, I hate it,” she moaned.

  “You lie.”

  He slapped her face, hard enough for her head to jerk to the side. “You like this, too, don’t you?” When she didn’t reply, he slapped her again. “Tell me.”

  “I love it. I hate it, but I love it.”

  “Don’t qualify the truth, bitch, you love it, it makes you frantic.” He teased her. Several times his hand came down to her shivering mound and stopped. Without thinking once, she squealed.

  He chuckled.

  Then, his hand slapped her with a resounding smack.

  “Oh, gawd,” she retorted quietly, her body doing a simple shimmy, while her cunt seemed to melt from within.

  He felt her between her legs where it was sticky and wet and her clitoris was hard. His fingers rubbed the bud, and she felt a savage stirring emanating everywhere.

  “I want to cum,” she told him. Her body was bursting with pent-up, locked away, repressed sexual fever. Her belly burned hot, swelling, as if she had a reservoir inside ready to spill.

  “Ah! Not yet,” he said sharply.

  He pushed her from him. “Grab that dress, and run upstairs, third room on the left.” His room.

  Tessa stared at him and turned to pick up the black sheath. Bent over, he smacked her ass with the palm of his hand. She tried pulling away and he grabbed her by the waist, paddling her rear end with a least two dozens smacks.

  “Ouch, damn it hurts, please, Miles, no!” He ignored her mournful pleas, spanking her even more fiercely. He loved the rising stain on her ass and only finished when it was blushing top to bottom. Finally, he released her.

  “Now you can go,” he said.

  She hesitated, looking into his icy hot eyes.

  “Go, go, run,” he ordered, looking as if he were shooing a cat away.

  She bolted, hastening naked across the foyer and up the stairs. He followed for a few feet, whacking her rear, until he was certain that she was on her way.

  “And don’t turn on the lights,” he called to her, as she reached the top of the stairs.

  She heard him as she hurried to the third room on the left. Opening the door, she breathed again. He hadn’t followed her; she could catch her breath, though he’d be there soon. She could have orgasmed in an instant, but didn’t dare touch her screaming pussy. She sat on the bed, nervously scooting to the pillows, resting her back against the headboard, with her knees bent, her moist sex showing where it rested on the bed.

  Miles entered with a candle in his hand, a long taper with a flame dancing. He stared at her from the same dark devilish place he’d been downstairs. This wasn’t romance, this was sex. She remembered that gladly. He was taking her deeper than she’d been before, even though the trappings of sadomasochism were absent. It didn’t matter. She was aroused and frightened.

  Walking toward her, he stared at her some seconds.

  “Play with your pussy,” he ordered.

  “But I’ll come.”

  “Don’t come, not until I tell you,” he warned.

  She leaned back, opened her thighs, and with a hand between her legs, she slid her fingers to the side of her hard bud, in just the right place.

  “Put a finger in your ass,” he said.

  Another finger fo
und her asshole and pushed at the entrance.

  “Deeper,” he demanded. The candle lit his face so he looked like the devil. “Deeper in your ass, two fingers.”

  She let the fingers penetrate further inside and her ass was wanting more. He was there with lube when it was too dry so she could slip further inside with as much of her hand as she could fit in her awkward self-rape. She fell to her side and used both hands to accomplish the task.

  He stood over her watching. Having thrown off his pants, he was stroking his stiff erection, moving closer still, the candle leaning out over her. She looked up to see a bubble of hot melted wax at the cradle beneath the flame, ready to spill over the edge.

  Another mind game, more torture. The anticipation ripped through her as if the wax had already struck the mark. She was panting from the fire in her pussy and the awaited burn.

  When the hot wax spilled, it splashed on to her hip and dripped down her belly to her shaved mound. She rolled on her back.

  “Yeeeach!” Her body sizzled. “Please no…” Her eyes flickered in the candle’s light, as if she were a demon whore rising from a darkened cavern.

  Hot wax spilled again. Her well-attended cleft ground into the bed sheets in reply. She drew breath through her teeth, hissing.

  Placing the candle on a table behind him, Miles drew a small whip from a drawer. “Open your legs and remove your hand.” He meant the hand that played with her cunt. She was getting too close. This cum would take forever, if he could manage it.

  He cut her between her legs where the bruises and healing cuts were still visible. She didn’t like it, but it was in her loins too deep for her to resist too avidly. She mostly moaned protests which she expected him to ignore, and he did.

  Her inner thighs were red again, and there were red marks rising on her belly and along the tender, shaved skin. The lashes made her howl. And though her agony was great, the pain transformed itself, so that she was begging for more, not for him to stop.

  Seeing her excitement, Miles descended to the bed, throwing her legs over his shoulders and penetrating her cunt. Leaning against her, her legs ached. Yet her pussy, so deeply penetrated, wanted him inside her deeper still, as far as he could go. She was orgasmic, pelvis thrusting into his; but when she was too close to climax, he changed positions. Rolling her over on top of him, she screwed his cock with a squeezing pussy.

  “Fuck me, bitch.” He remained still, while she did dances on the shaft. Pulling in and out, gently, wildly, while her muscles pulsed and pulled. She wanted to intoxicate him with her seductive massage, so that he’d be overcome and ram the blessed rod straight through the ceiling of her interior.

  Yet, he was determined to make her play, to stall the finish as long as he could. It was another torture for loins that wanted only fast, hard driving, reckless fucking.

  With his erection still inside her, he pulled himself up, Tessa sitting on his cock, moving gently for a sweet moment of softer screwing. They hugged naked torsos, her breasts, her nipples, her jewelry pressed against his hairy chest—the cushion of her pierced and yielding flesh an affirmation that she was his.

  Falling down on their sides, they almost spilled into laughter, but there was another round of going subterranean yet to traverse.

  He turned her on her side, with her bottom pressed into his groin behind her, where she lay in the cradle of his arms, held tight by his unyielding strength. She sucked his finger in her mouth, like she would his cock, if it were offered. But now instead, his cock was poised at her anus, planning to push inside.

  She felt his hand first, fingering her anus, where her own fingers had played; then the driving organ pressed against her sphincter and shoved. She raised one leg to make his journey easier.

  He was in.

  He moved slowly at first, as she gasped feeling ripples of pain—sharp, shooting, violating pain coursing through her. It seemed no matter how many times she’d been taken in the ass, it was a testy process getting used to the assault. The ripples eased. And then, as always, the crudest sensations became electrifying to her, in ways that made no sense, except that she knew she craved his cock in her ass. It was her pleasure to satisfy him, to have him as deep inside her as he could go, cumming with her taut muscles milking him dry.

  Thoughts swam through her brain. She couldn’t see him. She couldn’t look in his eyes. She could hardly play with herself, or him with her. In this position of captive surrender there was nothing but the feel of cock in ass to focus on. There was no hardened penis pressing at her face, or pussy there for her to suck, diverting her attention, or whips or paddles or lusty master/slave talk; just his arms, Miles dark, hairy, muscled arms, holding her tightly to him, as he moved at will inside her body’s deep recesses.

  She was yielding, opening wider, letting more than just his cock inside her. There was a steady stream of power nestling in. She felt as if she were melting into his body heat, into his flesh, so that there were no spaces between them, just Tessa, a open vessel: submissive, acquiescent, reduced.

  He picked up speed up and rammed her with barbarous jolts, while she gasped, feeling as if there were supernovas bursting inside her, flares igniting fires from cunt to head and toes and back again. All in the space of seconds, minutes, maybe hours.

  He pressed against her with cock spewing, as if it could really pump her full. Then he withdrew dripping sperm. She groveled between his legs, lapping the remainders with her tongue, until he pulled her up and gently, firmly slapped her face.

  “Cum now,” he demanded. His fingers toyed with her.

  She strained to comply, not quite at a peak, too many discordant harmonies singing every which way, all clamoring to find the common melody of her body’s natural peaking rhythms.

  She fought with herself to find the edge.

  It was right between her legs, where his fingers prodded and his hand tugged nastily at her labia. He spanked her, slapped her, drove her toward her end—though the end did not come in his time frame. He pushed her hands away, and punished her pubis with more slaps and pokes and pinches.

  They were groin to groin now, face to face, her body tense, his relaxed. His control held her captive, as if she was just another piece of him, and he wouldn’t settle for her fretful, headstrong attempts to regain control. “Cum bitch now,” he ordered. He pinched her clitoris, while her hand rubbed, and knowing she was about to orgasm, he pushed her hands away and rubbed himself.

  “Ah, ah, ah, ah yes… ” Her face contorted, a silent scream issuing from her open mouth. Whimpers followed, as waves of pleasure rolled through her, enveloping them both in a cocoon of electric unseen energy. Tangible to touch, invisible to the eye.

  “It’s never happened like that before,” she said, in a quiet thereafter the next morning when they were in his lush conservatory, surrounded by the fragrant green. She was sitting on his lap. She felt the warmed skin of her bottom with her hand, where he’d just spanked her. It was punishment, just the beginning of punishment. He informed her of that, said she “deserved it” for exposing her cunt in the club three nights before without permission. She thought he was half-kidding, just an excuse to redden her oh-so tender flesh again. But he was serious.

  “What’s never happened like that before?” he asked.

  “Last night, it defies description,” she said. It was something that she thought about for hours after he had fallen asleep next to her. “Everything that’s happened before, with everyone else—the cameras, Martine, Damien, all the bitchy ladies—it was never like it was last night. And still, I can’t describe it.”

  “You belong to me, maybe that’s the difference.”

  “But I’ve belonged to you before.”

  He shook his head no. “You belonged to your imagination, and every dime-store sex novel you could lay your hands on, and every rumor of abusive lust fulfilled in alleys and anonymous beds. I gave you that,” he said, “and a good deal more. But last night, we gave each other something else.”

&nbs
p; His expressive eyes were noncommittal, neither flashing darkly or brimming with affection—just wholly sincere.

  She understood and said no more. Some things are impossible to define. She decided that, and so had he. She might have sought that perfect definition, the way to say it in words, but words didn’t work here. Only feelings mattered. How could she put into words what passed between them, the ebb and flow of eroticism, submission, succumbing, that abused her, filled her, and brought her such peace. No, it wasn’t necessary to define, even if it were possible.

  “I belong to you,” she affirmed, as his hand reached inside her blouse and fondled her breast, and played with the stud that pierced her there.

  More Erotic Fiction by Lizbeth Dusseau

  JOCELYN’S REBELLION

  A Desperate Liberty – With Jocelyn Killian’s high-profile consulting business taking a sudden nose dive, the sassy redhead turns into one rebellious lady, running away with her scoundrel lover from the past, Ian. While Jocelyn’s on her impetuous erotic ride through Europe, her husband, Reggie, turns to another submissive woman, and it looks as if the dominant/submissive “match made in heaven” is forever doomed. Only their dear friend, the irrepressible Alexandra, holds out any hope that their uncommon relationship can survive. In this wild tale, it’s not just Jocelyn rebelling, but the sensuously submissive Alexandra who once again pays for her lusty excursions in infidelity. She too wonders if her perpetually rocky romance with her husband, Will, can survive. This novel would not be complete without plenty of spanking, bondage, anal sex a host of graphic dominant/submissive sexual encounters to ignite the reader’s wickedly naughty fantasies.

  IN CHAINS

  A ruthless scoundrel, an affectionate lover, and an inventive sexual master, Billy Fitzgerald seeks not just a wife, but a woman daring enough to choose sexual servitude. Fresh out of college, Kirsten Cates falls into his masterful hands, accompanying him on a tour of Europe. Billy agrees to love her, marry her and sexually dominant her, making this romantic submissive believe that all she has ever desired is about to come true. This story is seen through the eyes of Kirsten, Billy, and their friends, including Tony Fynn—a maverick filmmaker who intends to break Billy’s fierce grip on Kirsten’s body and soul. This intense and honest look at masters and slaves includes bondage, discipline, slave training, spanking (including fem/fem spanking), chains, dungeons, female bisexuality and anal eroticism.